ten. Sweet Sarah

Tonight I was working on school paper in the dining room. Windows open- the breeze was cool and the yelling at the bar next store erupting in unison with the futbol match on TV ensured two more reasons for me to fall in love with Uganda.

I heard tiny knock on the door. I looked up and through the mesh screen was Sarah- an 11 year old who came to my house for our “girls day” just one day before. Sarah always seemed to be showing up. She wasn’t supposed to come the day before, but she was with the group waiting on the school steps for me to arrive to pick them up and bring them to town. She was all dressed up like the others. I knew I didn’t know her from school, but I couldn’t help but be drawn to her sweetness. When I told her to jump on the boda her face lit up like the lightening bugs we see at night in the sugar cane fields. I could tell it meant much to her that she could join. It meant much to me as well that she wanted to come. During our sharing time in group- she was the last to go, and it took her about 2 minutes, and me moving next to her and reminding her that she was just as important as everyone else in the room, “ We want to her what you have to say!” Finally, and quietly the words stumbled out until she finished with her head in her hands, smiling, and proud- but exhausted from the energy it took her to believe in herself.

Later, as I gave the girls taxi money home that night and kissed their cheeks goodbye, Sarah refused to go. “ I want to sleep at your house, you have enough space.” She was right, I did but, it would not be fair to the other girls, and I needed to keep working. I explained that to her when unconvinced and angry she piled into the taxis’ with the others.

So here she was again. At my door, taking up the invitation I gave to the girls to come by anytime despite the far distance that divides their village from my apartment. 

I welcomed her and told her she was just in time- I needed a break. We made juice and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. She told me more of her story; memories of when her father died, and what she loves about her sister.  We went for a walk and found some ice cream. We didn’t say much- just held hands and watched the street traffic for a while with a strangling comment here and there about how good the ice cream was.

It was getting dark and I was going to ride with her back to village to make sure she was safe. When I called a boda- she told me that she can stay with me for the night.   “ My mom said you can keep me, I don’t have school tomorrow.” I knew the school was open since I go to the school every day to hang out with the girls and help out if they need me.

She spent the next few minutes explaining that she hangs around school, but can’t go since her mom doesn’t work and they can’t afford school fees.

I asked her how much school fees were.

10,000 shillings per quarter was her reply.

40,000 for one school year.

10,000 shillings equals 4 dollars.

I realized quickly that the ice cream we just bought was 6,500 shillings and for the first time since my time abroad I really felt the difference between her and I; deep in my gut.

I wasn’t sure what to say, and I know there are tons of kids peaking in the school windows everyday trying to pick up what they can from the teachers at the front.

I popped her on the boda and jumped behind her. 15 minutes later we were in her village. I kissed her cheek and made her give me back my aviators she insisted on wearing even though it was dark now. It was so nice to spend time with just her.

Yesterday, on the boda ride home today, and for the rest of my life I am sure I will be sincerely stumped at why WE can’t help US all.

It takes 4 dollars to get this little one in school. That’s a late night trip to McDonalds. That’s buying bottled water instead of getting a water bottle and a purifier instead. That’s one less drink at the bar and 1/8 of shirt you don’t really need.

 I think it would make us all better people if we “sacrificed” some luxury so that someone else in the world- even if you don’ t know them- can have access to something as necessary as education. God knows she deserves it. But, it just doesn’t seem important to the rest of the world most times does it. We are too busy working and buying things to fill voids in our life to bother with others from far away lands-lands that produces those things that temporarily fill those voids.  I think maybe if people would travel more they could see it and then it could become important to them. But, even if you choose not to see it, it’s still there.

How do I connect kids like Sarah (and there are millions)- to the rest of the world? How do share people’s stories and let others see their hearts and smiles that assuredly is the ticket to moving our global community to resemble a community that really cares about each other? 

It starts with me I know, so this week I am going to make some changes and cut out the occasional (and really expensive) burger I grab once in awhile. I think that will be easy to do here in Africa. But, I am also going to spend some time thinking about what changes I am going to make when I get home- where living simply seems harder. The world “living simply” is extremely relative now and I can’t imagine that will ever become what it was for me before my travels. I am thankful for that.

nine. Ducked Taped Mouths

There are not many things that keep me up at night anymore. I have learned that the ways of the world are what they are, and all I can do is wake up rested in the morning in order to have the energy to do a few simple things everyday to spread love and try my best to cause as little harm as possible where ever I land. I try to do what I say I will, and I show up whole heartedly for my life most days. I work on cultivating kindness to offset the pain that seems to be passed from person to person in the form of middle fingers in the traffic lane, yelling in the house next store, or the sheer amount of violence that is happening across the world affecting thousands all in a single moment.

I sometimes wonder if I am just justifying my inaction by saying, “that ‘s just the way it is.” But, I know for me, if I don’t keep justifying it- my heart may be broken all of the time.

Tonight  it’s 2 o’clock in the morning and I can’t sleep. For the past 10 years I have working with girls and boys who have been victimized by sexual violence. I heard a few stories today in Africa that compared to the sexual violence I witnessed in Asia and equally matched by the enormous number of youth, adults, and elderly who deal with it everyday in the United States. I’ve heard those stories too.

I rack my brain all of the time about how we start combating this ever growing problem that exists for our whole world. This isn’t Africa’s issue. This isn’t a sex trade problem in Asia.  Rape is everywhere, everyday, every 3 minutes.

My work is not specifically with sexual violence survivors. It’s with youth and it is the reality that  anywhere we find youth who are struggling in a world who refuses to see their worth and holds their age and vulnerability against them- we find victims of a kind of violence that leaves an imprint of pain for years, and years. It’s one that sits with you, makes you replay moments over and over again about what you could have done differently to not be in that place or that time, to have told someone sooner, the list goes on and on.

Most times when we find the courage to talk to girls about rape-preventative counseling is what I have heard it called in the last few months- I think “Why the fuck are we only talking to girls about this?” (Excuse the language here, but I am sure you can let it slide considering the level of frustration with letting sexual violence slide at this point.) What about the other half of the population. Shouldn’t they be in these rooms too? Isn’t it their sisters, mothers, brothers problem too? They are victims as well, they are  also a large majority of the perpetrators. In fact, isn’t it the boys who should be getting the “let’s prevent rape” talk.

1 in 4 girls are subjected to sexual violence before they are 18. The rate for boys is very close behind.

If that is a fact then a very similar number of men (and yes some woman too) are the ones committing the act. Why is no one paying attention to that!!!!

If we want to fix the root problem we should be looking at the root problem.  Somehow that many people think it is okay to sexually abuse, rape, hurt others. They think they can get away with it…..and they are aren’t they?

On a plane ride the other day a human rights lawyer who specifically deals with this issue said to me, “ It’s so complicated. Think about how many people are involved in the act- a quarter of the world really. It’s scary to think about how many people we would have to arrest if we started actually punishing the crime, not to mention child porn. Our jails would be filled. We simply don’t have the manpower. So it’s no wonder that people stay away from it- it’s so complex, and so deeply woven in our societies, and so secretive, it seems impossible to fix. Better to put your efforts at the homeless shelter feeding the homeless.” She was right.

Two days ago I sat in on a counseling session in a rickety school building, light shining through the cracks of wood illuminating the beautiful faces of 50 teen girls. The whole meeting consisted of these girls telling stories of the several creepy men who wander their village and make them feel uncomfortable everyday.  When the teacher asked me to say something- I stood up with sudden fear in my belly. As I looked over the group of girls I realized that many of them had already experienced the sexual violence the others were so fearful of. In fact surely, it was THE quiet ones that have dealt with it. There I was talking to a room full of girls about sexual violence, and all I could think to say was the facts.  I told them the stats. I told them if they have been, or ever are victims of sexual violence to not hold that in, to tell other woman or men they trust. I told them it’s never their fault and even if you go through something as awful as that, you are not damaged. You are still beautiful, strong, and important to the world. 

I said many things in those few minutes, but I didn’t tell them of my sexual violence past. I didn’t tell them I was 1 in 4. I wanted to, but… I couldn’t. I could feel the spirit in me sit down next to the other quiet girls as it often does and instead chose to put my voice(and that part of my story) in my pocket. Foster care wasn’t always a kind place and even now writing this out loud makes me uneasy about how others will see me. The thought of someone pitying makes me churn. The thought of my family feeling bad makes me feel guilty. I have 100 other reasons why my core pushes against this. The thought that maybe I am damaged runs deep, but loses it’s power everyday I choose to move forward instead of staying stuck in a time I simply wasn’t in a safe place. But, it’s still really hard for me to say out loud, even to a group a young girls who may have needed me to. I think it’s time to say it anyway.

I think I figured it out a few minutes ago- 16 years after my abuser left, at 2 in the morning in Africa. Maybe if we want things to change we simply need to start finding the courage deep within to say out loud, “ I am 1 in 4.”  If the whole world wrote that on their shirt for a day, everyday until it stops or at least gets better, it would be easy to see how many people in the same room as you right now are affected.  We no longer would go through it alone. It would be bigger then some frustrated and angry blog post from some graduate student trying to change something that has directly affected her and so many children she loves. It would be OUR problem. 

It is OUR problem.

 I know that no victim wants to be labeled, but then don’t be. Call it what it is and in doing so take power away from the people who have taken power from you. Stick up for the others who come after us. Shove facts and fear of getting caught back in the faces of those who are committing sexual violence, and don’t be surprised when their shirts say “1 in 4” too.

 1 in 4 voices can make a lot of noise. Maybe enough noise to keep people up at night thinking about it, looking for solutions.

I am 1 in 4.

eight. Two Little Teachers.

These two young giggling girls were inseparable. They lived together in a home in Uganda, Africa- The Ntinda House. They were there because they have no traditional family, for now. Some of their sisters they lived with had come to the Cornerstone organization taken from sex trafficking, others taken from abusive homes, from the death of parents, and still others from abandonment. But, you could never tell when you're surrounded by these girls that they had already experienced the harshness of the world in their lives. This girl's house specifically did every event during sports day with their whole hearts. They fought hard against the boys, they cheered each other on, they picked each other up off of the pavement when they fell but not with their hands. The spirit of trust and understanding was so strong that this became the arm lifting them to try again. Try again, and again they did, together.

I was watching how connected they were all day from a distance. Even when they found out that they were not the house champions they were all disappointed and stormed off in a fiery of disappointment that soon faded back into smiles. 

When there was ever a free moment they danced. I think this may be the piece that connects them deeply. It’s easy to sit in your pain with others spending time complaining and thinking about all the ways in which the world has victimized us. But, it is a much bigger talent to put that aside, to open our hearts again, to be vulnerable, to trust, and to dance in that. 

All of the girls that day shined bright. 

But, it was watching these two specific girls that made that day one I will not forget for a long time. 

One was a little ball of sunshine. Her smile was as big as the sun and her energy bounced around off of people like the futbol that was popping around on the field. Her energy always seemed to be encouraging the others to "play, more, now please!!". The other kept her happiness to herself. She was content, understanding, and more thoughtful then her partner. She played when asked, but also pulled her friend to sit sometimes and watch what was going on even if it was only for a few minutes before she started to pop around like a futbol again. From all the way across an entire field, I could see that those two fully accepted the other never trying to change who they were. This component often seems to be the catalyst for such a visible foundation of love. 

I spend a lot of time thinking about how to create a better reality for the foster children in America who disappear there in the years of switching homes and changing schools. I spend a lot of time thinking about how to give tools and trainings to teachers and mentors so that they can seize the organic opportunities at every turn for youth the build self esteem and confidence-a gift that can’t be taken away if it is authentically grown. 

So, it was a jolt of reality for me that day when suddenly I felt that longing I used to feel when I was a little kid in the system, wishing I had a foster sister, or a family who totally accepted me, loved me, nurtured me like these two girls were so perfectly modeling all day. Even as an adult (or something like that), I look back and sometimes feel sadness about what I surely missed with many homes except my last. And it’s a reality check for me every time that I too am still working on this self-esteem I try so hard to teach others they are good enough to have. For me, it still takes a lot of intentional effort to allow myself to be loved. 

I am here in Africa to “teach” others tools. It was pretty clear to me the second day I got off the plane that it was Uganda that was going to teach me more and not by their eldest, but their youngest. 

I visited another house the next day called The Mengo House and it too was filled up to the roof with love and laughter.  This again reassured my ideas that the US should think seriously about turning back to a system of orphanages with loving heads of the households. Yes, we would need to re-think what that looks like, god knows many of the “group homes” we have know are failing in many ways. But, it can be done- and we can start now. When you put a group of kids together in a loving space with some caring guidance, they never fail to build a community that us adults, and absolutely our government, should be taking notes from. 

Okay one more thing about watching these girls all day.

I have always struggled with trusting women because of my past. Today, I was reminded of the women who have not only become my supportive family, but have also created an energy around me so strong and warm that I can pick myself up when I fall just by knowing they are there. I will never be able to explain to them what their love has given to me. It has given me the courage to live in the present most days, courage to go to Africa, and courage to feel love. It has given me the courage to be wrong, to say I am sorry, to explore who I am by stretching the limits of my life to find out what’s right for me.

And that left me in a profound place of gratitude, one that sticks with me everyday as I travel the world. 

With that comes peace...

And with peace…joy.