Abused and orphaned as a young child, I spend a lot of energy pondering the question of identity. But equally important is the question "Why am I the way that I am?".
For much of my teenage years I was driven by spite. Everything was experienced through a filter of hurt, anger and jealousy. Over time the hurt slides into numbness. Anger alienates and becomes irrelevant. Jealousy doesn't go away so easily. Jealousy easily masks itself as any number of seemingly justifiable biases.
For decades I had no idea that I was jealous. Jealousy like any negative emotion, will grow like cancer. In my case I have found that an inability to recognize and address that jealousy has prevented me from healing and overcoming nearly every wound I have ever suffered. Part of my survival has been to mask wounds and to redirect anger. In a sense, I had to lie to myself about what I was feeling or why so that I could cope and get through each day. As an adult, trying to untangle this mess has been a monumental feat.
Working through my emotions, finding healing and moving forward has meant that I have had to confront, and in many cases relive the trauma I have been put through. Sexual assaults; the death of my mother; being ostrecised from my church community; being abandoned repeatedly by my father; physical abuse and witnessing my siblings be abused and assaulted. There is so much guilt and shame in all of it.
Everything that happened, all that remains is what is in my head. No one else cares. It doesn't matter to anyone else. What haunts my head, the only evidence of it that remains is words. All my emotions and mental filters, those are just more words. What use are words that no one is willing to read or hear?
At one point I thought religion had saved me. I thought god had taken it all away. But the emotions and mental filters were still there. The 'scars' are still there. Religion is just more words. Scripture, god, just words. All of it is empty and meaningless. I am sincerely happy for all who find healing and comfort in god or religion but I am equally perplexed.
The wounds wont ever be undone. They are part of me. This is an essential understanding to moving forward.
Being heard was the foundation on which healing has really, truly begun. Having someone to listen to everything I felt like I needed to say, who would not judge, minimize or excuse anything was absolutely critical. Being heard is humanizing. After being dehumanized, it is such a wonderful gift to be humanized. Simply listening to what another person wants to tell you can be one of the most compassionate things we will ever do.
Few people can really stomach hearing me tell my story. I am fortunate that I am finally at a place in my life that I have people around me who will listen to me, and even if they can not understand will not lose patience with me. They are encouraging and supportive. They will endure the discomfort of listening to me.
I am beginning to be able to let go of guilt and shame for things I had no control over. It makes it easier for me to accept responsibility for the things I am responsible for and change.
I was the way I was because of what happened to me. I am the way I am now because I have begun to find healing and I am able to have some control of myself and my life.
...Best Avoided
My past is part of who I am, in much the same way that my limbs are part of me, but much more like a limb that is missing. It is part of my identity like my name and lineage. But it is something that has always been hidden or camouflaged. It is uncouth to talk about. I talk about it and it makes people terribly uncomfortable.
My past is a wound. My past is partially resolved at best. I have wrestled and struggled with past my whole life. I struggle with anger and rage. I make people terribly uncomfortable.
Despite my best efforts, I have not ever had many friends, and those friends don't get very close. The more people get to know me, the more they tend to become distant till there is no connection. I have been told countless times that I am too intense.
Part of my struggle with identity is the result of rejecting the identity that I feel, the identity that others have given me or projected onto me. I have come to a point in which I will not allow anyone else to determine my identity. What I believe or know is often in conflict with what I feel. Sometimes what I feel overpowers what I know or believe. Others have wounded me, they altered what I believe about myself. I have wounded myself. I have done wrong, done bad things to good people. Forgiveness is hard. Forgiving myself is hardest.
What do I do with this other part of myself? I am the child that was not wanted. I am a scared little boy who has not completely gotten over the loss of my mother or being abandoned by my father. I am the child that was sexually assaulted over and over. I am the bed wetter. I am the kid that all the others laughed at. I am the kid that was beaten and humiliated. Is it possible to stop being these things. These things can not ever be undone. I do not ever stop feeling these things, remembering these things, reliving these things. These wounds keep getting reopened. How do I move past this?
My first spouse started cheating on me three months into the marriage. My second spouse was unable and unwilling to accept me, love me, or value me. I only ever disappointed her. My children either can not or will not forgive me for ending that marriage.
For the last four years I have not been able to hold a job for more than four months.
There is a pattern here and I am the common denominator. Logic insists there is something wrong with me.
I have not claimed innocence or perfection. But I don't know how to fix myself. I don't know where to find the answers.
There is not much anyone can do for me. There are not many interested in trying. Me, my story, are things best avoided.
My past is a wound. My past is partially resolved at best. I have wrestled and struggled with past my whole life. I struggle with anger and rage. I make people terribly uncomfortable.
Despite my best efforts, I have not ever had many friends, and those friends don't get very close. The more people get to know me, the more they tend to become distant till there is no connection. I have been told countless times that I am too intense.
Part of my struggle with identity is the result of rejecting the identity that I feel, the identity that others have given me or projected onto me. I have come to a point in which I will not allow anyone else to determine my identity. What I believe or know is often in conflict with what I feel. Sometimes what I feel overpowers what I know or believe. Others have wounded me, they altered what I believe about myself. I have wounded myself. I have done wrong, done bad things to good people. Forgiveness is hard. Forgiving myself is hardest.
What do I do with this other part of myself? I am the child that was not wanted. I am a scared little boy who has not completely gotten over the loss of my mother or being abandoned by my father. I am the child that was sexually assaulted over and over. I am the bed wetter. I am the kid that all the others laughed at. I am the kid that was beaten and humiliated. Is it possible to stop being these things. These things can not ever be undone. I do not ever stop feeling these things, remembering these things, reliving these things. These wounds keep getting reopened. How do I move past this?
My first spouse started cheating on me three months into the marriage. My second spouse was unable and unwilling to accept me, love me, or value me. I only ever disappointed her. My children either can not or will not forgive me for ending that marriage.
For the last four years I have not been able to hold a job for more than four months.
There is a pattern here and I am the common denominator. Logic insists there is something wrong with me.
I have not claimed innocence or perfection. But I don't know how to fix myself. I don't know where to find the answers.
There is not much anyone can do for me. There are not many interested in trying. Me, my story, are things best avoided.
Signs
Humans have looked for meaning and signs to guide them on their paths for ions. I suspect this is more true in the abstract sense than in the literal. Long before men had created any place to go they were wandering the planet, trying to derive meaning from the world around them.
My mother was a devout Christian. It made a huge formative impression on me and even though I have lost my faith in orthodox Christian belief twice there has always been an unrelenting need for me to find meaning. I have looked, studied, analyzed, searched, dug, and reached for meaning where ever I might find it. I have studied multiple religions. I still search for meaning.
And at this point you can laugh if you want too. You can think what you will but somewhere, somehow I began to fixate on the number 3, triangles and pyramids. They have become path markers in the same way road signs have. I have numerous examples to more than adequately justify my trust in this. I do not know of 3 being a reliable marker to anyone. I am okay with that.
At key points in my life something 3 sided, something common, suddenly jumps out at me. Most commonly it is stones. As a child with no toys, rocks and dirt were always my 'go-to' entertainment.
Yesterday I found a three sided stone next to a tree. It was a good shade tree under a sun that was quickly becoming blisteringly bright and hot. I was traveling on my bicycle, I had just set out from where I was, and my rear tire went flat. This shade tree was a bit of an oasis. The stone jumped out at me.
Like all abstract signs applied to a practical world there is much to be gained or lost in the interpretation and application. I am gifted with friends whose light of wisdom shines brightest in their understanding of the abstract. This is good for me, I am good and recognizing signs but not always the best at interpreting the signs.
Yesterday all my plans and hopes for coming out of the valley that I am trying to climb out of came unraveled.
With help I understand that the sign is not confirming that I made a right or wrong decision, it is a reminder to keep moving. To not quit. Do not give up.
My mother was a devout Christian. It made a huge formative impression on me and even though I have lost my faith in orthodox Christian belief twice there has always been an unrelenting need for me to find meaning. I have looked, studied, analyzed, searched, dug, and reached for meaning where ever I might find it. I have studied multiple religions. I still search for meaning.
And at this point you can laugh if you want too. You can think what you will but somewhere, somehow I began to fixate on the number 3, triangles and pyramids. They have become path markers in the same way road signs have. I have numerous examples to more than adequately justify my trust in this. I do not know of 3 being a reliable marker to anyone. I am okay with that.
At key points in my life something 3 sided, something common, suddenly jumps out at me. Most commonly it is stones. As a child with no toys, rocks and dirt were always my 'go-to' entertainment.
Yesterday I found a three sided stone next to a tree. It was a good shade tree under a sun that was quickly becoming blisteringly bright and hot. I was traveling on my bicycle, I had just set out from where I was, and my rear tire went flat. This shade tree was a bit of an oasis. The stone jumped out at me.
Like all abstract signs applied to a practical world there is much to be gained or lost in the interpretation and application. I am gifted with friends whose light of wisdom shines brightest in their understanding of the abstract. This is good for me, I am good and recognizing signs but not always the best at interpreting the signs.
Yesterday all my plans and hopes for coming out of the valley that I am trying to climb out of came unraveled.
With help I understand that the sign is not confirming that I made a right or wrong decision, it is a reminder to keep moving. To not quit. Do not give up.
Oh Joy
Joy was the mother of my sisters friend.
Joy seemed like a sane, normal person. A good person. She was a single mother of three and seemed to have a reasonably happy family. When my dad and Joy got together, it seemed to me that we would maybe become a reasonably normal, happy family too.
I was so very wrong.
It was just a few short months ago that Dawn had broke her hand on my face. Joy liked me in the beginning. My dad could be found most of the time, though he still didn't come home to our house. My brother and sister and I were together again. Everyone was reasonably happy on the surface. It seemed like things were improving. In hind sight it was a brief pause in the grand finale that would be the end of my family.
Connie and her friend introduced Joy and my dad shortly after the start of school year. By mid fall we were all floating back and forth between our house and Joy's apartment, just a few blocks away. We were all together for Thanksgiving and it was the first whole family holiday since my mom had passed.
Christmas came and for the first time since the onset of my mother's illness I felt genuine excitement and anticipation for Christmas beyond hope for a present. I felt sort of normal for the first time in a long time.
Christmas morning there were many presents under the tree, more than I had personally ever seen under a tree that I had a connection to. It was wonderful. But as the presents were unwrapped is was evident that there was a bit of a let-down for me. They were not bad presents. I wasn't rude. It's just that I had outgrown an interest in the things that had been given to me. I made an effort to be polite but it was clear. As I remember it, I was not the only one who was not adequately overjoyed with the presents because Joy lost her shit. It started with snide remarks but quickly escalated to full on yelling. Then screaming back and forth from various people besides joy. Then the Christmas tree took flight across the room, smashing into the window. Play time was apparently over.
Joy's eruptions had occurred, but not ever anything like that. Like so many other situations, this became the new normal. My father was not one to let a train wreck get in the way of romance and in a short time we had moved into a house together. We moved again a few months later a few blocks over and then other members of her family and their friends all moved in with us. Then some time later her ex husband moved in with us.
There were many traumatic events in this house that stay with me to this day. On this occasion the youngest of her two sons was jealous of me for stealing his older brothers attention. I had irked Joy and like an old familiar tune, that boy played his mother. Among the many atrocities he lamented was smoking. I was just about to turn 11 years old. I had lit a cigarette once, puffed, choked and put it out. It happened long before any of them had come around but I had told the brother about it. According to them I was stealing them from the gas station and smoking about a pack a day. Also, according to their story, I was harassing them to join me in smoking.
I was summoned to the living room where everyone sat staring at me. I learned of the accusations as I learned of my conviction. My punishment was that I was to smoke a pack of cigars. I tried to smoke one but couldn't. So then I had to eat them. The whole pack. Then I had to eat a pack of cigarettes. I got sick. It took two days to recover.
Joy and my dad were having problems. He was the only adult in the house working. One day we came home to find that Joy had left. I was overjoyed. My dad was crushed. I thought everything would be okay. But then my brother stopped coming home. Connie had gone to my grandmother's. It was just me and my dad. But mentally he was in another universe. About a week later I came home mid afternoon and everything that had been in the house was now in the front yard. Everything. The Pinto was loaded to maximum capacity. There was only enough room for my dad and I to get in. When my dad saw me he told me to go into the house and get anything that I wanted to take. Anything left would be gone forever. We were leaving and not coming back.
My father told me that we were moving to my grandmother's house. When we arrived at my grandmother's house he told me to go ahead and go in, he was going to go get the car looked at and would be back later.
I rang the doorbell and greeted my surprised grandmother. She was happy to see me but wasn't expecting me. She asked what I was doing there, where was my dad? As I answered here question I could see her face fall but didn't understand.
It took months for me to accept the truth.
It would be five years before I saw my father again.
Joy seemed like a sane, normal person. A good person. She was a single mother of three and seemed to have a reasonably happy family. When my dad and Joy got together, it seemed to me that we would maybe become a reasonably normal, happy family too.
I was so very wrong.
It was just a few short months ago that Dawn had broke her hand on my face. Joy liked me in the beginning. My dad could be found most of the time, though he still didn't come home to our house. My brother and sister and I were together again. Everyone was reasonably happy on the surface. It seemed like things were improving. In hind sight it was a brief pause in the grand finale that would be the end of my family.
Connie and her friend introduced Joy and my dad shortly after the start of school year. By mid fall we were all floating back and forth between our house and Joy's apartment, just a few blocks away. We were all together for Thanksgiving and it was the first whole family holiday since my mom had passed.
Christmas came and for the first time since the onset of my mother's illness I felt genuine excitement and anticipation for Christmas beyond hope for a present. I felt sort of normal for the first time in a long time.
Christmas morning there were many presents under the tree, more than I had personally ever seen under a tree that I had a connection to. It was wonderful. But as the presents were unwrapped is was evident that there was a bit of a let-down for me. They were not bad presents. I wasn't rude. It's just that I had outgrown an interest in the things that had been given to me. I made an effort to be polite but it was clear. As I remember it, I was not the only one who was not adequately overjoyed with the presents because Joy lost her shit. It started with snide remarks but quickly escalated to full on yelling. Then screaming back and forth from various people besides joy. Then the Christmas tree took flight across the room, smashing into the window. Play time was apparently over.
Joy's eruptions had occurred, but not ever anything like that. Like so many other situations, this became the new normal. My father was not one to let a train wreck get in the way of romance and in a short time we had moved into a house together. We moved again a few months later a few blocks over and then other members of her family and their friends all moved in with us. Then some time later her ex husband moved in with us.
There were many traumatic events in this house that stay with me to this day. On this occasion the youngest of her two sons was jealous of me for stealing his older brothers attention. I had irked Joy and like an old familiar tune, that boy played his mother. Among the many atrocities he lamented was smoking. I was just about to turn 11 years old. I had lit a cigarette once, puffed, choked and put it out. It happened long before any of them had come around but I had told the brother about it. According to them I was stealing them from the gas station and smoking about a pack a day. Also, according to their story, I was harassing them to join me in smoking.
I was summoned to the living room where everyone sat staring at me. I learned of the accusations as I learned of my conviction. My punishment was that I was to smoke a pack of cigars. I tried to smoke one but couldn't. So then I had to eat them. The whole pack. Then I had to eat a pack of cigarettes. I got sick. It took two days to recover.
Joy and my dad were having problems. He was the only adult in the house working. One day we came home to find that Joy had left. I was overjoyed. My dad was crushed. I thought everything would be okay. But then my brother stopped coming home. Connie had gone to my grandmother's. It was just me and my dad. But mentally he was in another universe. About a week later I came home mid afternoon and everything that had been in the house was now in the front yard. Everything. The Pinto was loaded to maximum capacity. There was only enough room for my dad and I to get in. When my dad saw me he told me to go into the house and get anything that I wanted to take. Anything left would be gone forever. We were leaving and not coming back.
My father told me that we were moving to my grandmother's house. When we arrived at my grandmother's house he told me to go ahead and go in, he was going to go get the car looked at and would be back later.
I rang the doorbell and greeted my surprised grandmother. She was happy to see me but wasn't expecting me. She asked what I was doing there, where was my dad? As I answered here question I could see her face fall but didn't understand.
It took months for me to accept the truth.
It would be five years before I saw my father again.
Unlawful Entry
I have mentioned in a previous post that my father would go several days in a row without being seen. My brother was a teenager, without my mother or father around, there wasn't a lot of accountability for his time. He was mostly gone, when he was at home it was usually to make sure I was doing okay. My sister was living with other families most of the time. The result was that I was home, by myself a lot of the time.
For my part that mostly meant I watched what ever I wanted on TV if I wasn't out riding my bike. Safety was not a big concern for any of us. Either for a lack of concern or negligence our front door was unlocked much of the time. Like my brother and father, I mostly came and went at will.
One day I came home and found an older teenage boy in my living room. I had seen him around, his house was at the end of the block. His younger brother was in the same grade at the same school. I was stunned, and didn't know what to say. I just stood there staring at him, wondering why in the world he was in my living room. He undid the buckle of his pants and began to unzip his pants. He said "listen, I know you're gay because you go to school with my little brother and he told me. He told me you suck dicks in the bathroom. I want you to suck my dick." I insisted I didn't. In reality I was scarcely beginning to understand the mechanics of sexual interaction and certainly had no inclination to become active. I was only ten years old.
I shook my head no and stuttered, as I turned to run he grabbed me by the hair, then the collar and jerked me back, throwing me on the floor. Before I could react I felt the weight of his body slam down on top of me knocking the breath out of me. He was more than twice my size. He kept saying "It's cool man. Just be cool okay?" His breath smelled awful. He put one hand between my shoulder blades and was pushing down. He was so heavy, I could squirm but could not get free. His left hand kept tugging at my pants.
My body was on fire and at the same time was cold and tingling, it was as if the heat was so intense it became cold. I was enraged, I was terrified, I was weak and helpless. The sound of everything became intensely loud. Then there was nothing. I heard nothing. The hard lines of the room and the furniture around me, the leg of the chair inches from my face, it all darkened and the lines became hazy. Everything began to blend together, light, sound, shape, pain, fear all melted into one blob. The weight and the pushing on top of me and the floor beneath me was all the same thing. I was just there in the blob. Time stopped. Eventually the pushing stopped. The weight lifted. The blob was changed but still I was there inside the blob. light faded from the room, I stayed there waiting for someone to come and ask some kind of question. No one came home. Eventually I got up.
For my part that mostly meant I watched what ever I wanted on TV if I wasn't out riding my bike. Safety was not a big concern for any of us. Either for a lack of concern or negligence our front door was unlocked much of the time. Like my brother and father, I mostly came and went at will.
One day I came home and found an older teenage boy in my living room. I had seen him around, his house was at the end of the block. His younger brother was in the same grade at the same school. I was stunned, and didn't know what to say. I just stood there staring at him, wondering why in the world he was in my living room. He undid the buckle of his pants and began to unzip his pants. He said "listen, I know you're gay because you go to school with my little brother and he told me. He told me you suck dicks in the bathroom. I want you to suck my dick." I insisted I didn't. In reality I was scarcely beginning to understand the mechanics of sexual interaction and certainly had no inclination to become active. I was only ten years old.
I shook my head no and stuttered, as I turned to run he grabbed me by the hair, then the collar and jerked me back, throwing me on the floor. Before I could react I felt the weight of his body slam down on top of me knocking the breath out of me. He was more than twice my size. He kept saying "It's cool man. Just be cool okay?" His breath smelled awful. He put one hand between my shoulder blades and was pushing down. He was so heavy, I could squirm but could not get free. His left hand kept tugging at my pants.
My body was on fire and at the same time was cold and tingling, it was as if the heat was so intense it became cold. I was enraged, I was terrified, I was weak and helpless. The sound of everything became intensely loud. Then there was nothing. I heard nothing. The hard lines of the room and the furniture around me, the leg of the chair inches from my face, it all darkened and the lines became hazy. Everything began to blend together, light, sound, shape, pain, fear all melted into one blob. The weight and the pushing on top of me and the floor beneath me was all the same thing. I was just there in the blob. Time stopped. Eventually the pushing stopped. The weight lifted. The blob was changed but still I was there inside the blob. light faded from the room, I stayed there waiting for someone to come and ask some kind of question. No one came home. Eventually I got up.
Shift
In a previous relationship, the last one before I left Texas, the relationship had devolved to mostly fighting. One day we were in one of our longer more intense arguments. I was methodically laying out my grievances against her and with each point that I tried to make the argument would spin off in a different direction on a different tangent. After some time she began to see the points I was making and began to understand what I was saying in a new way. Then, startled with a new view, she looked at me and said "OH MY GOD! I AM NOT INNOCENT!"
Twenty years after the fact, I still find that statement quite remarkable. We had been together for almost two years, we went through some tough times, and the whole time she had been thinking she was completely innocent of any wrong doing. It hadn't occurred to me that anyone could be that delusional.
It was a very turbulent time and I was going through some very painful life lessons. I had a lot to learn. I still do. But I have learned that there are a whole lot of people walking around sincerely thinking they don't ever do anything wrong.
For my part, I have come to understand that there is a difference between guilt and wrong and innocence and right. But I have also come to understand that this binary view is inappropriate for most peoples relationships and situations. I have no delusions about being right or innocent. I claim neither, not in that instance in which I was fighting with my girlfriend, not in my recent divorce. At this point I really try not to think about people and situations in such terms, it doesn't help anyone achieve anything positive or constructive.
Most people begin and end with themselves, what they like, what they want. Right/wrong, guilt/innocence automatically puts most people on the defensive, which means they aren't listening very well.
Right / Wrong and Guilt / innocence are appropriate for math exams and a court of law. Most other places it's really counterproductive.
I also wont argue with people. Most things are not worth arguing about. But what does arguing accomplish anyway? It puts people on the defensive which means you will have a harder time making an agreeable point.
If someone starts talking to me I will do my best to listen and I will listen for as long as I am able. Listening to people who have something to say is one of the most important and loving things we can do for another person. If something is said that I disagree with, and my thoughts are solicited by the person speaking I will give my view, I will give the reasons for holding that view and then I am done. On occasion, if the subject is important enough and it is someone I feel close to I will engage in a calm, rational debate of facts and rational ideas.
Experiences, some of them painful, has taught me that this is the best way to interact with others. I really do enjoy when someone disagrees with me and we have a rational debate. In such cases there is often something else that I had not considered, some potential caveat that I had not seen. If they make a good case I will usually change my mind or moderate my opinions or I end up learning something. In any case I am better for the exchange.
Africa
In 2012 I went to Africa.
It is the only time I have ever been out of the country. It was also the first time I had ever traveled out of the southern U.S.
Africa was not ever a place that I thought I would go. I had not ever wanted to go to Africa.
Prior to that trip I was a follower of Christ and in a spiritual crisis. I thought God was telling me to go to Africa so I went. I am glad that I did, it changed my life.
I went to Africa with the idea that I was going to there to help the African people. I thought there would be some grand moment of revelation or of God speaking to me. Why else would God tell me to go to Africa?
From the moment I got off the plane, I began to fall in love with Africa, with Nairobi Kenya, where our plane landed. It was strange to me, to set foot on soil so far from home, literally on the other side of the planet. The soil was sandy and reddish, not unlike the soil I have seen in pictures of Mars taken by the rovers. It might as well have been Mars.
There was a 100 foot cactus growing up like it was a shade tree, in the middle of the round-about near the airport exit. There were scores of large white birds on the roof, the telephone poles and in the trees. I had not ever seen or heard of birds like these, but they looked like they were big enough to eat a toddler if they were so inclined.
There were military personnel, police officers and security officers everywhere with M16 looking rifles, not across their back but in front, ready to open fire in the blink of an eye. There is definite sense in the air that you don't want to cause trouble with anyone.
Africans have a very different outlook on how to drive and navigate traffic. They are not put off by litter the way we are here in the U.S. When they saw another large group of fat Americans, us, they see opportunity to earn money. But the ones I encountered all wanted to do something for me to earn the money. In the seventeen days that I was there, I only encountered one beggar. One person who said "Please, give me some money". I saw more people than I could ever count were living in desperate poverty.
We did not stay very long in Nairobi, we were headed to a rural village named Tawa. We were a church group, we did churchy things. We went to church. We visited the orphanage and schools. We visited people in their homes. We hiked up mountains. We saw incredible sights of plants and animals. We met wonderful and amazing people. We ate new and interesting food and learned new tastes.
We were in an impoverished region, a region devastated by drought. Of the farms that had not been abandoned, all of them were struggling to produce enough food to sustain themselves. It is a common story in this region to hear that the man, unable to produce enough to sustain himself and his family, abandons the farm and the family to go to the city to find work and start over. In these conditions, I was surprised to not find one single person was sad, depressed, or unfriendly. They live every day of their lives truly struggling to survive. But each time we gave something intended to be a free gift, they would insist on also giving in return. Even if we didn't present them with a gift, they insisted that they give to us a gift of some sort. I tell you with out exaggeration, every single person we came across met us with a smile and was truly generous. There were no beggars in Tawa. No open hands looking for something, only open arms and warm greetings.
I do not mean to suggest that this place is perfect. It is a desperate place, where the struggle to survive is real, it is intense and unrelenting. I am saying that these people do not have the problems of self pity, selfishness or greed like we have here in the U.S. And after reading this you perhaps think to yourself "Well I am not like that!" Yes, you are. I was and I am. Compared to other Americans, perhaps you are not. Compared to the Kenyans I met, yes you are. We all are.
Visiting the poorest of the schools we would see, we met a small child that has haunted me ever since. We noticed one child standing off at a distance from all the teachers and children. He did not say or do anything to draw attention to himself. He was not trying to hide. He just kept a good distance away from everyone. We asked about him and the teachers had him cover over to us and they told us his story.
The father had abandoned the family. The mother was unable to feed all of her children and so to ease her burden, she beat this child to drive him away so she would not have to see him. He had at one time been a student at that school but it had been some time ago. At first the teachers were giving the child some of their food and gave him water from the water tank there at the school. But as the drought had gotten worse they were no longer able to spare the food. The foundation of the water tank failed and the back half of the water tank broke off and fell down the hill side so they were no longer had water available.
There is no power grid in Kenya. There is no water water pipes delivering water everywhere in Kenya. If you want water you have to go find it. Most of the creeks had long since dried up. There was a river near by but it was very, low and also polluted with waste. Most people in Tawa have to walk 20 to 40 minutes to access water from the river. There are some wells that have been drilled but you must pay money to get water from the wells.
So here is this small child, he looked like maybe he was four years old. He is literally dressed in rags, he as an infection in his eye. He has no food. He has no water. He has no medicine. He has nothing. He has nothing in truest, cruelest sense of the words.
Here in the U.S. when we say "There is nothing to eat" what we mean is there is nothing that we want to eat or there is nothing that we are willing to spend the energy to prepare so we can eat it. There is food to eat, we're just either to lazy or picky to eat it. In Tawa, no food means there is - no food -. Really and truly, no food.
This little boy was actually eight. He lives in Tawa Kenya, so he looks like he is four to me, another fat American. This little boy had no food, no water. But on this private bust that we rented, driven by the driver we hired, is a 5 gallon igloo cooler that is filled with crystal clear, clean iced water. And in my seat is two packages of crackers that I brought along for a snack. Of course I had already had a nice large breakfast before we left where we were staying that morning.
We have seen pictures in magazines, in movies and on TV of starving children in Africa. I sometime felt sad for them but usually did think much about it. It is a completely different situation when a starving child is looking you in the eye. A child that is not so unlike my own children. Everything that I knew understood about life or the universe or my place in it changed in that moment. Everything changed, everything in the same magnitude as none, like no food, no water. I continue to be changed each day. This child is with me, reminding me that I need to change.
In that moment I was overwhelmed by the amount of need in the world. I was overwhelmed by how ridiculously insignificant I am, how powerless I am to do anything about the suffering in the world, the suffering of children like my own precious children. But then I realized that it is not for me to solve the problems of the world, it is up to me to do something.
Do Something! Do what?
I can change my attitude. I can change the way I look at people and situations. I can change the way I live my life, how much I consume, what I consume. I can focus on giving more than I take.
In Tawa, people were giving from the heart. We were giving out of our abundance. In Tawa, the most important thing between any two people is the interaction, the relationship between them. We were so wrapped up in task lists, times, places and events. People were secondary.
It is up to me to change. Make people and my relationships with them most important. Give what ever I have to give, to whoever needs it, and give it freely. I am not the smiley type but I can be kind and polite. I can listen when people want to speak.
If I can learn to want less, to need less, there can be more for people need but have nothing or do not have enough.
I may not make one iota of difference in the world but it won't be because I have not tried. Trying is doing something isn't it?
It is the only time I have ever been out of the country. It was also the first time I had ever traveled out of the southern U.S.
Africa was not ever a place that I thought I would go. I had not ever wanted to go to Africa.
Prior to that trip I was a follower of Christ and in a spiritual crisis. I thought God was telling me to go to Africa so I went. I am glad that I did, it changed my life.
I went to Africa with the idea that I was going to there to help the African people. I thought there would be some grand moment of revelation or of God speaking to me. Why else would God tell me to go to Africa?
From the moment I got off the plane, I began to fall in love with Africa, with Nairobi Kenya, where our plane landed. It was strange to me, to set foot on soil so far from home, literally on the other side of the planet. The soil was sandy and reddish, not unlike the soil I have seen in pictures of Mars taken by the rovers. It might as well have been Mars.
There was a 100 foot cactus growing up like it was a shade tree, in the middle of the round-about near the airport exit. There were scores of large white birds on the roof, the telephone poles and in the trees. I had not ever seen or heard of birds like these, but they looked like they were big enough to eat a toddler if they were so inclined.
There were military personnel, police officers and security officers everywhere with M16 looking rifles, not across their back but in front, ready to open fire in the blink of an eye. There is definite sense in the air that you don't want to cause trouble with anyone.
Africans have a very different outlook on how to drive and navigate traffic. They are not put off by litter the way we are here in the U.S. When they saw another large group of fat Americans, us, they see opportunity to earn money. But the ones I encountered all wanted to do something for me to earn the money. In the seventeen days that I was there, I only encountered one beggar. One person who said "Please, give me some money". I saw more people than I could ever count were living in desperate poverty.
We did not stay very long in Nairobi, we were headed to a rural village named Tawa. We were a church group, we did churchy things. We went to church. We visited the orphanage and schools. We visited people in their homes. We hiked up mountains. We saw incredible sights of plants and animals. We met wonderful and amazing people. We ate new and interesting food and learned new tastes.
We were in an impoverished region, a region devastated by drought. Of the farms that had not been abandoned, all of them were struggling to produce enough food to sustain themselves. It is a common story in this region to hear that the man, unable to produce enough to sustain himself and his family, abandons the farm and the family to go to the city to find work and start over. In these conditions, I was surprised to not find one single person was sad, depressed, or unfriendly. They live every day of their lives truly struggling to survive. But each time we gave something intended to be a free gift, they would insist on also giving in return. Even if we didn't present them with a gift, they insisted that they give to us a gift of some sort. I tell you with out exaggeration, every single person we came across met us with a smile and was truly generous. There were no beggars in Tawa. No open hands looking for something, only open arms and warm greetings.
I do not mean to suggest that this place is perfect. It is a desperate place, where the struggle to survive is real, it is intense and unrelenting. I am saying that these people do not have the problems of self pity, selfishness or greed like we have here in the U.S. And after reading this you perhaps think to yourself "Well I am not like that!" Yes, you are. I was and I am. Compared to other Americans, perhaps you are not. Compared to the Kenyans I met, yes you are. We all are.
Visiting the poorest of the schools we would see, we met a small child that has haunted me ever since. We noticed one child standing off at a distance from all the teachers and children. He did not say or do anything to draw attention to himself. He was not trying to hide. He just kept a good distance away from everyone. We asked about him and the teachers had him cover over to us and they told us his story.
The father had abandoned the family. The mother was unable to feed all of her children and so to ease her burden, she beat this child to drive him away so she would not have to see him. He had at one time been a student at that school but it had been some time ago. At first the teachers were giving the child some of their food and gave him water from the water tank there at the school. But as the drought had gotten worse they were no longer able to spare the food. The foundation of the water tank failed and the back half of the water tank broke off and fell down the hill side so they were no longer had water available.
There is no power grid in Kenya. There is no water water pipes delivering water everywhere in Kenya. If you want water you have to go find it. Most of the creeks had long since dried up. There was a river near by but it was very, low and also polluted with waste. Most people in Tawa have to walk 20 to 40 minutes to access water from the river. There are some wells that have been drilled but you must pay money to get water from the wells.
So here is this small child, he looked like maybe he was four years old. He is literally dressed in rags, he as an infection in his eye. He has no food. He has no water. He has no medicine. He has nothing. He has nothing in truest, cruelest sense of the words.
Here in the U.S. when we say "There is nothing to eat" what we mean is there is nothing that we want to eat or there is nothing that we are willing to spend the energy to prepare so we can eat it. There is food to eat, we're just either to lazy or picky to eat it. In Tawa, no food means there is - no food -. Really and truly, no food.
This little boy was actually eight. He lives in Tawa Kenya, so he looks like he is four to me, another fat American. This little boy had no food, no water. But on this private bust that we rented, driven by the driver we hired, is a 5 gallon igloo cooler that is filled with crystal clear, clean iced water. And in my seat is two packages of crackers that I brought along for a snack. Of course I had already had a nice large breakfast before we left where we were staying that morning.
We have seen pictures in magazines, in movies and on TV of starving children in Africa. I sometime felt sad for them but usually did think much about it. It is a completely different situation when a starving child is looking you in the eye. A child that is not so unlike my own children. Everything that I knew understood about life or the universe or my place in it changed in that moment. Everything changed, everything in the same magnitude as none, like no food, no water. I continue to be changed each day. This child is with me, reminding me that I need to change.
In that moment I was overwhelmed by the amount of need in the world. I was overwhelmed by how ridiculously insignificant I am, how powerless I am to do anything about the suffering in the world, the suffering of children like my own precious children. But then I realized that it is not for me to solve the problems of the world, it is up to me to do something.
Do Something! Do what?
I can change my attitude. I can change the way I look at people and situations. I can change the way I live my life, how much I consume, what I consume. I can focus on giving more than I take.
In Tawa, people were giving from the heart. We were giving out of our abundance. In Tawa, the most important thing between any two people is the interaction, the relationship between them. We were so wrapped up in task lists, times, places and events. People were secondary.
It is up to me to change. Make people and my relationships with them most important. Give what ever I have to give, to whoever needs it, and give it freely. I am not the smiley type but I can be kind and polite. I can listen when people want to speak.
If I can learn to want less, to need less, there can be more for people need but have nothing or do not have enough.
I may not make one iota of difference in the world but it won't be because I have not tried. Trying is doing something isn't it?
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