Our third child has reached that stage of life known as high school graduation. It's a little bit surreal. As a family that homeschools with the philosophy that learning is a life long endeavor, to mark an "ending" of schooling seems odd. This particular form of schooling ends, the learning never does.
And yet, it is good to recognize and celebrate this transition from home and family to continuing the learning in a different setting.
As each child 'graduated,' we have asked family and friends to contribute their thoughts -- memories and bits of advice -- to a book that we have compiled for the graduate.
I am always stunned at the thoughts people share.
As connected as I am with my children, they have lives apart from mine and my influence. This is a good thing.
I am so grateful for the people who have been part of my children's lives. They so often notice and remark upon aspects of the child's personality or gifts that I take for granted. They see it as special, whereas I just see it as *Emily*.
And I love the pieces of advice they share. Sometimes it's something they heard from their own parents. Sometimes it's something they've learned the hard way.
Best of all, so many of the people in my children's lives share their foundation of faith with her. Remember, Emily, you are one of God's children, now and forever. Rembember, Emily, God will help you when you need help and guidance. Remember, Emily, you are baptized. Remember, Emily, you can be a witness of God's love in the world.
Thanks to all who have or will contribute to this book.
Showing posts with label humbled. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humbled. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Returning from the Hill
Yesterday I came back from the St. Olaf Summer Piano Academy--and it was quite a week.
Fear Darth Maninoff!
and the second boy played a Brahms Intermezzo.
Every day would start out with breakfast, of course, then we had Keyboard Skills class from 8:30 to 9:30. It consisted of music theory and honing our improvisation skills. For the first few days that was the scary class for me. I haven't done serious theory work since middle school, and would not be able to tell you what iii G6/9 means if there was a gun to my head. All those Roman numeral chords were not my friends. What I learned from playing guitar while I took a piano lesson hiatus though really taught me about chord progressions and inversions. I can't read those Roman numerals, but I can play you those chords and improvise a song. I can't play you a really smooth D Flat scale with two hands but it's still my favorite chord ever and I know all the notes in it!
Oh god, I sound pathetic.
But anyways, I listened a lot in Keyboard Skills. I liked that we split up into groups of two or three to improvise on a certain rhythm and chord pattern, because there were some kids who had a great knack for it, and it was so cool to sit back and listen. It also was a great opportunity to learn how to listen to each other, making sure we were rhythmically together and responding to each other's melodies and harmonies.
After that class, I would have a little bit of free time--ahem, practice time-- before my lesson or duet practice session. When I went to my first lesson with Dr. M, I was waiting outside his office door and could hear a girl in there playing a jazzy and difficult sounding piece, which I later found out was by Gershwin. That's when I started to feel like a very humbled and average pianist.
When I went in I showed my teacher all the music I had brought: a Bach prelude and fugue, an Albeniz prelude, a Chopin prelude, and a Beethoven sonata. It was heavy. When I told him that I was working on the Bach and Beethoven for future college auditions, and was planning to apply to St. Olaf as a performance major, he said, "Okay, let's work on that."
My lessons were a half hour long, and we had decided that we'd meet every day, which I thought was awesome because my brain needs that type of consistency when I'm in such an unfamiliar and hectic environment.
It was kind of interesting to work with a person I'd just met, who basically only knew what I was doing right now for half an hour for five days straight. The first lesson I gave a bit of back ground as to where my strengths and weaknesses are, how long I'd been playing, and who my teachers have been. When he kept on asking me if I had played this sonata and that etude, I apologetically told him that my repertoire is like Swiss cheese--there's lots of holes in it.
Then we found out that Dr. M knew my current teacher, Dr. B. "We're like this!" he said, crossing his fingers. I suppose you can never have enough connections.
So, we did college stuff last week. The Beethoven sonata, Op. 28 (the first movement called Pastorale), we worked on the Notorious Fugue in G Major, and the D Flat Prelude Op. 28, No. 15 by Chopin. That was my end-of-the-week recital piece, and my assignment from Dr. M was to beat down on these huge loud chords with my hands moving towards the wood of the piano. I wasn't attacking them straight down with tension in my arms, but I was sort of in between, and once I got the hang of the airbag-deploying arm technique, I got a wonderfully scary-good quality sound out of the piano. I call the fugue notorious because I was trying to get the harpsichordy sound of Bach into a modern piano, but ended up putting accents where they shouldn't be. To illustrate what he thought I should do, Dr. M took my book bag. "Is there anything breakable in here?" he asked. "Nope." Then he swung it around from his wrist. "See how it takes work to get it going, but then it takes care of itself when it reaches the top?"
"Uh-huh," I said, hoping my copy of Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee wouldn't come flying out of it at me.
So, I've been trying to metaphorically swing a book bag into a Bach fugue...and I'm happy to say it's been working.
Every day the Piano Academy would also have afternoon masterclasses, and every day with a different teacher. I played a little Beethoven bagatelle on Monday, and I oddly wasn't nervous at all to play for a dozen people and a teacher. Every kid that got up there he quizzed on the opus number and the birth and death dates of the composer of their piece. I think a few people were a bit intimidated, but I wasn't really. He was right that the three Coke machines in Buntrock Commons get cheaper as you go down the hallway. And he was also right that I didn't really "sell" the bagatelle, that I wasn't really excited about it. I tried to joke that I chose to play it that day because it was the lightest book to carry across campus, but he kind of ignored that. Oh well--it was partly true, though. He asked the others what they thought of it, and they said things like, "I think your dynamics are good, but you could have more balance between the hands," or "maybe a little less pedal." One of the no-nos was to call it a song, and not a piece.
"Songs have words, pieces don't." Which makes sense, I guess, but it took me the whole time up there to stop saying song. That's what made him laugh.
It was all good feedback that I tried to internalize quickly, and after being up there for 15 to 20 minutes, I'd say it sounded better than when I came in.
I would say that the first few days at the St. Olaf Piano Academy, I was greatly humbled by the talented kids and wonderful teachers that I spent time with, and I was desperately wondering whether I was really all that good, and whether I could become as skilled as the people I met. It was kind of overwhelming. The second part of the week I was feeling more curious, energized and encouraged and confident about developing my skills as a pianist. I had thought, "Music is my life, and I'm not going to give it up."
Pianists were the only ones who had to audition for the week, and not everybody got passed them, so I kept on telling myself that I wouldn't have been there if I wasn't a good pianist. I just had to keep on keepin' on.
There were 24 kids in this program, but also 200-some others who were either involved with choir, band, or orchestra as part of the St. Olaf Music Camp. We all stayed in one dormitory, Ytterboe, so we all got to know lots of different people. I was at first surprised to meet so many people from outside the Midwest--from Brooklyn, Dallas, Orlando, Los Angeles, Blacksburg, VA, Seattle, and Maryland were some that I heard.
On Sunday night after I got dropped off and there had been the All-Camp meeting with the student counselors about basic rules and stuff (elevator parties not allowed) and after dinner, us pianists had our first masterclass in Urness Recital Hall inside the music building.
I slept in Ytterboe, but I basically lived in Christiansen Music Hall.
The first girl in the masterclass played an awesome Darth Vader-like prelude by Rachmaninoff.
Fear Darth Maninoff!and the second boy played a Brahms Intermezzo.
(You can't fear Brahms because he looks like Santa)
To my amateur ear it didn't sound like either one of those pieces needed a whole lot of polishing at first, but our professor gave suggestions about dynamics, equal voicing of the melody and the left hand accompaniment, and talked about arm tension and how to hit the keys in an effective way to get the best sound. It sounds like simple things, but many people ignore them. You can't just play note, note, note, note, and expect people to think you're a good pianist. You have to add depth and substance to it, no matter how difficult or seemingly simple the piece may be.
Every day would start out with breakfast, of course, then we had Keyboard Skills class from 8:30 to 9:30. It consisted of music theory and honing our improvisation skills. For the first few days that was the scary class for me. I haven't done serious theory work since middle school, and would not be able to tell you what iii G6/9 means if there was a gun to my head. All those Roman numeral chords were not my friends. What I learned from playing guitar while I took a piano lesson hiatus though really taught me about chord progressions and inversions. I can't read those Roman numerals, but I can play you those chords and improvise a song. I can't play you a really smooth D Flat scale with two hands but it's still my favorite chord ever and I know all the notes in it!
Oh god, I sound pathetic.
But anyways, I listened a lot in Keyboard Skills. I liked that we split up into groups of two or three to improvise on a certain rhythm and chord pattern, because there were some kids who had a great knack for it, and it was so cool to sit back and listen. It also was a great opportunity to learn how to listen to each other, making sure we were rhythmically together and responding to each other's melodies and harmonies.
After that class, I would have a little bit of free time--ahem, practice time-- before my lesson or duet practice session. When I went to my first lesson with Dr. M, I was waiting outside his office door and could hear a girl in there playing a jazzy and difficult sounding piece, which I later found out was by Gershwin. That's when I started to feel like a very humbled and average pianist.
When I went in I showed my teacher all the music I had brought: a Bach prelude and fugue, an Albeniz prelude, a Chopin prelude, and a Beethoven sonata. It was heavy. When I told him that I was working on the Bach and Beethoven for future college auditions, and was planning to apply to St. Olaf as a performance major, he said, "Okay, let's work on that."
My lessons were a half hour long, and we had decided that we'd meet every day, which I thought was awesome because my brain needs that type of consistency when I'm in such an unfamiliar and hectic environment.
It was kind of interesting to work with a person I'd just met, who basically only knew what I was doing right now for half an hour for five days straight. The first lesson I gave a bit of back ground as to where my strengths and weaknesses are, how long I'd been playing, and who my teachers have been. When he kept on asking me if I had played this sonata and that etude, I apologetically told him that my repertoire is like Swiss cheese--there's lots of holes in it.
Then we found out that Dr. M knew my current teacher, Dr. B. "We're like this!" he said, crossing his fingers. I suppose you can never have enough connections.
So, we did college stuff last week. The Beethoven sonata, Op. 28 (the first movement called Pastorale), we worked on the Notorious Fugue in G Major, and the D Flat Prelude Op. 28, No. 15 by Chopin. That was my end-of-the-week recital piece, and my assignment from Dr. M was to beat down on these huge loud chords with my hands moving towards the wood of the piano. I wasn't attacking them straight down with tension in my arms, but I was sort of in between, and once I got the hang of the airbag-deploying arm technique, I got a wonderfully scary-good quality sound out of the piano. I call the fugue notorious because I was trying to get the harpsichordy sound of Bach into a modern piano, but ended up putting accents where they shouldn't be. To illustrate what he thought I should do, Dr. M took my book bag. "Is there anything breakable in here?" he asked. "Nope." Then he swung it around from his wrist. "See how it takes work to get it going, but then it takes care of itself when it reaches the top?"
"Uh-huh," I said, hoping my copy of Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee wouldn't come flying out of it at me.
So, I've been trying to metaphorically swing a book bag into a Bach fugue...and I'm happy to say it's been working.
Every day the Piano Academy would also have afternoon masterclasses, and every day with a different teacher. I played a little Beethoven bagatelle on Monday, and I oddly wasn't nervous at all to play for a dozen people and a teacher. Every kid that got up there he quizzed on the opus number and the birth and death dates of the composer of their piece. I think a few people were a bit intimidated, but I wasn't really. He was right that the three Coke machines in Buntrock Commons get cheaper as you go down the hallway. And he was also right that I didn't really "sell" the bagatelle, that I wasn't really excited about it. I tried to joke that I chose to play it that day because it was the lightest book to carry across campus, but he kind of ignored that. Oh well--it was partly true, though. He asked the others what they thought of it, and they said things like, "I think your dynamics are good, but you could have more balance between the hands," or "maybe a little less pedal." One of the no-nos was to call it a song, and not a piece.
"Songs have words, pieces don't." Which makes sense, I guess, but it took me the whole time up there to stop saying song. That's what made him laugh.
It was all good feedback that I tried to internalize quickly, and after being up there for 15 to 20 minutes, I'd say it sounded better than when I came in.
I would say that the first few days at the St. Olaf Piano Academy, I was greatly humbled by the talented kids and wonderful teachers that I spent time with, and I was desperately wondering whether I was really all that good, and whether I could become as skilled as the people I met. It was kind of overwhelming. The second part of the week I was feeling more curious, energized and encouraged and confident about developing my skills as a pianist. I had thought, "Music is my life, and I'm not going to give it up."
Pianists were the only ones who had to audition for the week, and not everybody got passed them, so I kept on telling myself that I wouldn't have been there if I wasn't a good pianist. I just had to keep on keepin' on.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
My Day Not On Safari: Part IV
Sometime in the afternoon, we took off in the landrover again with the same people, but minus Alex and plus Barnabas. We went to Mapogoro, the next village over, to visit the Mtwavila family , who's daughter was also sponsored by my church to attend Idodi, and died in the fire. This family was of the Hehe tribe, I think, and lived in a very nice brick and cement house. We met the father and adult brother, and three women, one of whom was a sister. We all sat in a livingroom-type area on cushioned chairs, and Jacob, the evangelist for Mapogoro, led us in a hymn from the Mwimbieni Bwana, their Lutheran hymnal. Mom gave them words of comfort, a gift of t-shirts, and a necklace for the sister. It's hard for me to think that these two girls had survived all the more common causes of death in Tanzania--malaria, AIDS, bad water etc.--and had gone to school, a place of hope and opportunity, but that is where their lives tragically ended. The only thing we can do, though, is to move forward with them in mind so that we can change things for the better.
This visit was interesting because it was so different from the last. I saw the father wipe a tear away from his eye, but other that, it looked to me like they were in the acceptance process. They were solemn. I wonder how the grieving process varies from tribe to tribe, between women, me, and children. How are they expected to act? A question for my next trip. There were prayers, Mungu akubariki's (God bless you), and pole sana's (very sorry). The brother invited us to his duka, shop, for drinks, so we headed for what I guess you could call downtown Mapogoro. We all sat outside the store in plastic chairs drinking Pepsi and Mirinda and Coke, and the atmosphere seemed to change 360 degrees. We were talking, joking and laughing. I sat and listened, and wondered if we were acting appropriately. I quietly asked Mom, and she gave me the I-don't-know-what-to-tell-ya shrug. "It did kind of happen already," she said. Okaaay. So I just went with it. Next door to us was a bar, and it sounded as if someone was watching a sci-fi movie like Star Trek at very high volume. There were booms and bangs and it was kinda strange. Alex arrived on his bike and approached our group. "Get your book out, Mom, quick!" I whispered. She did, and greeted him with her newly-learned Barabeig word that she read from her notebook. Alex giggles and shakes her hand. Mom is a bit confused now, because on our return she looked at her notebook from her previous trip and found the Barabeig words she learned then. Her last trip, aguna maida bash bakhoda meant good afternoon. This time, we were told praise the Lord. Did something get lost in translation, you think? I love language.
We stayed at the shop for maybe half an hour, then we headed back to Tungamalenga Camp in the good old landrover. We all got back, sat down under the mango tree and talked until dark (and dark in Tanzania is dark). Then we said goodnight to them all, went to have our dinner, and just crashed in our rooms after the long, but very good day. I really enjoyed being there when nothing was really set to happen, we could just wander along at our own pace, and see people living their real lives, not trying to make everything perfect for the wazungu (white people). I feel very grateful for the experiences and memories I have been given by this day in Tungamalenga: sad ones, and happy ones, discouraging ones, and yet hopeful ones. It is something I will not forget.
This visit was interesting because it was so different from the last. I saw the father wipe a tear away from his eye, but other that, it looked to me like they were in the acceptance process. They were solemn. I wonder how the grieving process varies from tribe to tribe, between women, me, and children. How are they expected to act? A question for my next trip. There were prayers, Mungu akubariki's (God bless you), and pole sana's (very sorry). The brother invited us to his duka, shop, for drinks, so we headed for what I guess you could call downtown Mapogoro. We all sat outside the store in plastic chairs drinking Pepsi and Mirinda and Coke, and the atmosphere seemed to change 360 degrees. We were talking, joking and laughing. I sat and listened, and wondered if we were acting appropriately. I quietly asked Mom, and she gave me the I-don't-know-what-to-tell-ya shrug. "It did kind of happen already," she said. Okaaay. So I just went with it. Next door to us was a bar, and it sounded as if someone was watching a sci-fi movie like Star Trek at very high volume. There were booms and bangs and it was kinda strange. Alex arrived on his bike and approached our group. "Get your book out, Mom, quick!" I whispered. She did, and greeted him with her newly-learned Barabeig word that she read from her notebook. Alex giggles and shakes her hand. Mom is a bit confused now, because on our return she looked at her notebook from her previous trip and found the Barabeig words she learned then. Her last trip, aguna maida bash bakhoda meant good afternoon. This time, we were told praise the Lord. Did something get lost in translation, you think? I love language.
We stayed at the shop for maybe half an hour, then we headed back to Tungamalenga Camp in the good old landrover. We all got back, sat down under the mango tree and talked until dark (and dark in Tanzania is dark). Then we said goodnight to them all, went to have our dinner, and just crashed in our rooms after the long, but very good day. I really enjoyed being there when nothing was really set to happen, we could just wander along at our own pace, and see people living their real lives, not trying to make everything perfect for the wazungu (white people). I feel very grateful for the experiences and memories I have been given by this day in Tungamalenga: sad ones, and happy ones, discouraging ones, and yet hopeful ones. It is something I will not forget.
My Day Not On Safari: Part III
We drove to Isanga, another preaching point nearby. Isanga is a mix of Hehe, Bena and Masai tribes, and the chapel they worship in is just a bit bigger than my bedroom (i.e., not very big at all). There were five girls there who were afraid to go back to Idodi Secondary School after the fire. That disaster had to happen when students were preparing to take their national exams. After the fire the school was closed for three weeks and students were sent back home. But there was hope at Isanga, too. We saw the piles of bricks they planned to use to build a house for the evangelist there, which is something of great need. We didn't stay too long there, but we sang, we prayed, gave gifts and recieved gifts. The whole trip seems to be one big act of humbly accepting gifts from our Tanzanian partners, whether they are tangible gifts or not.
After that we drove back to Tungamalenga for lunch at the parish hall. Alice, a primary school teacher who also helped prepare lunch, asked me, "Emmy, how many Swahili words did you learn today?" I confessed I hadn't practiced during our drive. The only person I wasn't afraid to make linguistic mistakes in front of was our translator, who was asleep most of the ride. Alice and I always practiced though. I felt kind of proud because when people would be talking in Swahili, I would sometimes understand the gist of the conversation, not just a few random words. Progress!
After we ate, Mom and I learned another language. We already knew basic greetings in Swahili, Masai and Hehe, and now it was time for Barabeig. One of our traveling companions was a young evangelist named Alex, a member of the Barabeig tribe. He came over to our table and at Mom's request taught us a few words in the language. I can't even explain how hilarious our lesson was. Alex only speaks Barabeig and Swahili, and Pastor Paulo next to us only Masai and Swahili, so we enlisted the help of Alice's husband Barnabas, clinical officer of the village dispensary, who was on the other side of the room, to translate for us. Here's how the conversation went: Alex would say a phrase (aguna maida bash bakhoda), Mom would say, "What? Say it again?" Alex wouldn't understand, Barnabas would repeat her question in Swahili, then Alex would say it again slower (a-gu-na ma-i-da bash ba-kho-da), Mom and I would say it back again (aguna maida bash...?), he'd correct us, Mom would exclaim, "Ooh, let me write this down!" and Pastor Paulo and I would look at each other, laughing and laughing. Repeat all this for maybe 20 minutes (with different Barabeig words of course), and you have one of my highlights of the trip. Alex was so nice and patient with us, too, firmly shaking our hands when we said something right. As a matter of fact, he seemed in slight disbelief that we were trying at all. It's nice to find out that language can be a bridge and not a barrier.
After that we drove back to Tungamalenga for lunch at the parish hall. Alice, a primary school teacher who also helped prepare lunch, asked me, "Emmy, how many Swahili words did you learn today?" I confessed I hadn't practiced during our drive. The only person I wasn't afraid to make linguistic mistakes in front of was our translator, who was asleep most of the ride. Alice and I always practiced though. I felt kind of proud because when people would be talking in Swahili, I would sometimes understand the gist of the conversation, not just a few random words. Progress!
After we ate, Mom and I learned another language. We already knew basic greetings in Swahili, Masai and Hehe, and now it was time for Barabeig. One of our traveling companions was a young evangelist named Alex, a member of the Barabeig tribe. He came over to our table and at Mom's request taught us a few words in the language. I can't even explain how hilarious our lesson was. Alex only speaks Barabeig and Swahili, and Pastor Paulo next to us only Masai and Swahili, so we enlisted the help of Alice's husband Barnabas, clinical officer of the village dispensary, who was on the other side of the room, to translate for us. Here's how the conversation went: Alex would say a phrase (aguna maida bash bakhoda), Mom would say, "What? Say it again?" Alex wouldn't understand, Barnabas would repeat her question in Swahili, then Alex would say it again slower (a-gu-na ma-i-da bash ba-kho-da), Mom and I would say it back again (aguna maida bash...?), he'd correct us, Mom would exclaim, "Ooh, let me write this down!" and Pastor Paulo and I would look at each other, laughing and laughing. Repeat all this for maybe 20 minutes (with different Barabeig words of course), and you have one of my highlights of the trip. Alex was so nice and patient with us, too, firmly shaking our hands when we said something right. As a matter of fact, he seemed in slight disbelief that we were trying at all. It's nice to find out that language can be a bridge and not a barrier.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Em:My Day Not On Safari, Part II
Picking up from where I left off:
The sympathy was for the friends and family of Chake Kuyaa, a young student sponsored by my church who died in the Idodi Secondary School fire on month ago, with 11 other girls. There wasn't much we could do at all except offer our condolences and our prayers.
At certain points we would have a 3-language translation going, with Petro speaking in Kimasai, Pastor Paulo translating to Kiswahili, then our translator Mfaume ending in English. After the formal speech making, the women, who had been cooking something a little ways away, served us all groundnuts, goat meat, and pop. The meat was good, kind of greasy and tender, but I never knew which part I was supposed to eat or not. The meal was even better washed down with a pop called Mirinda Mango. Everybody ate with us, though I felt bad only Mom, Mfaume, Pastor Paulo and myself were sitting on stools and chairs. Everyone else sat on the ground , kneeled or stayed standing. On the other hand, if I just sat with them, I'd be disrespecting their hospitality. Hosts and guests each have their own role to play. People sang while we ate.
Afterwards Mom, the rest of the landrover group and I walked a short distance to the house of Chake's mother. We were going to make a "consolation visit."
Now, Masai houses are very different, even from other African houses. They are called bomas, and the one we were in was made of sticks and a thatch roof. It was held up by thick tree limbs, had two rooms, dirt floors and was about four or five feet tall. There were threee women inside sitting on a cow skin, Mama Chake in the middle and two old women on either side. Two calves stood in the corner. Mom and Mfaume took two wooden stools while I sat beside the women on the cow skin, and the others stood. Mama Chake looked so devastated and lethargic, as if her daughter had died last week instead of last month. She said that her husband was very old and that since the fire he's been living with a relative because she didn't have the energy to care for him. My mom spoke with her, held her hand and hugged her. I was glad that she could always think of fitting things to say for that moment, and that it was her job to represent our group as a whole. I would not have been able to find any words to comfort Mama Chake. Mom also gave her a card that had been signed by many people at church who had heard about the fire (along with a bit of money) and a card from Chake's sponsors. Mama Chake had been sniffling the whole time, but now she just broke down and cried, and Mom hugged her. Pastor Paulo led us in a prayer. During the prayer, to my astonishment, the calf in the corner started peeing. You could have knocked me over with a feather. All I could think was OH MY GOD! That calf was so close to the women, too. One of them kind of swatted her hand at it, but other than that no one reacted. A holy moment interrupted by life. After that we ended our visit, maybe 20 minutes, and said our good byes, shook hands, and then continued back to the area we had gathered at before. As we neared our vehicle, Mom discussed something with our group. She wanted to give a gift of money for their chapel construction in honor of Chake. It felt like the only thing of use we could do. The people were grateful for that. You may think that worshipping under a tree (like we were) is romantic and liken it to Abraham's time, but to construct an actual building for that purpose sends out the message that the Masai are serious, and they are here to stay. The people were grateful for it, and I cannot wait to see the chapel when it's finished.
The sympathy was for the friends and family of Chake Kuyaa, a young student sponsored by my church who died in the Idodi Secondary School fire on month ago, with 11 other girls. There wasn't much we could do at all except offer our condolences and our prayers.
At certain points we would have a 3-language translation going, with Petro speaking in Kimasai, Pastor Paulo translating to Kiswahili, then our translator Mfaume ending in English. After the formal speech making, the women, who had been cooking something a little ways away, served us all groundnuts, goat meat, and pop. The meat was good, kind of greasy and tender, but I never knew which part I was supposed to eat or not. The meal was even better washed down with a pop called Mirinda Mango. Everybody ate with us, though I felt bad only Mom, Mfaume, Pastor Paulo and myself were sitting on stools and chairs. Everyone else sat on the ground , kneeled or stayed standing. On the other hand, if I just sat with them, I'd be disrespecting their hospitality. Hosts and guests each have their own role to play. People sang while we ate.
Afterwards Mom, the rest of the landrover group and I walked a short distance to the house of Chake's mother. We were going to make a "consolation visit."
Now, Masai houses are very different, even from other African houses. They are called bomas, and the one we were in was made of sticks and a thatch roof. It was held up by thick tree limbs, had two rooms, dirt floors and was about four or five feet tall. There were threee women inside sitting on a cow skin, Mama Chake in the middle and two old women on either side. Two calves stood in the corner. Mom and Mfaume took two wooden stools while I sat beside the women on the cow skin, and the others stood. Mama Chake looked so devastated and lethargic, as if her daughter had died last week instead of last month. She said that her husband was very old and that since the fire he's been living with a relative because she didn't have the energy to care for him. My mom spoke with her, held her hand and hugged her. I was glad that she could always think of fitting things to say for that moment, and that it was her job to represent our group as a whole. I would not have been able to find any words to comfort Mama Chake. Mom also gave her a card that had been signed by many people at church who had heard about the fire (along with a bit of money) and a card from Chake's sponsors. Mama Chake had been sniffling the whole time, but now she just broke down and cried, and Mom hugged her. Pastor Paulo led us in a prayer. During the prayer, to my astonishment, the calf in the corner started peeing. You could have knocked me over with a feather. All I could think was OH MY GOD! That calf was so close to the women, too. One of them kind of swatted her hand at it, but other than that no one reacted. A holy moment interrupted by life. After that we ended our visit, maybe 20 minutes, and said our good byes, shook hands, and then continued back to the area we had gathered at before. As we neared our vehicle, Mom discussed something with our group. She wanted to give a gift of money for their chapel construction in honor of Chake. It felt like the only thing of use we could do. The people were grateful for that. You may think that worshipping under a tree (like we were) is romantic and liken it to Abraham's time, but to construct an actual building for that purpose sends out the message that the Masai are serious, and they are here to stay. The people were grateful for it, and I cannot wait to see the chapel when it's finished.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Em: My Day Not On Safari, part 1
On Wednesday, our penultimate day in Tungamalenga, three members of our group got up bright and early to go to Ruaha National Park for a day-and-a-half safari. My mom and I stayed in the village while they were gone. Mom had done that twice before and loved "kuzunguka zunguka-ing," walking circles around Tunga, meeting people in a much more informal manner, and having freetime for long and contructive conversations. I did it with her because: You've seen one giraffe, you've seen them all, I saved a small amount of money by staying, and I liked the idea of "kuzunguka zunguka-ing" too. I wanted to spend more time with the people I'd met before time ran out.
After the three left, the landrover Mom had hired arrived. We were going to the Masai village of Mahove, and with us came our driver Titus, associate Mchungaji Paulo (the first ordained Masai pastor in the diocese), five evangelists and partnership committee members, and our translator Mfaume, a soon-to-be university graduate. Ten of us fit in the seven-seater, with Mom and I sharing the front passenger seat, and we were soon on our bumpy way to Mahove. It took perhaps 20 minutes, where we went through several villages, and then through a rough path in the Tanzanian bush. We didn't have a clue how Titus knew his way, when there was hardly a road to follow. I imagined the directions sounding like, "Turn left at the tree. No--the other tree. Yeah, that one. Then, see that bush? The little one with the pointy needles?" It all looked the same to me.
We were nearing our destination when we stopped. Blocking our was was a large bundle of sticks, a woman's kitenge cloth, and a pair of shoes. Titus called out something to the trees in Swahili once, then twice. The second time, people slowly started appearing from behind the trees, they gathered their things and we continued driving. Titus laughed and told us, "They thought we were soldiers." I found out that Mahove is part of a reserve, therefore it's illegal to cut the trees for firewood, which they need to cook their food. Mahove doesn't have easy access to water either, and it's a long walk to get it. The government told the Masai, traditionally a nomadic herding people, to settle in this one place, far from these necessities, and isolated from other villages and people. I have no idea why they were put there.
Shortly afterwards, we arrived at the preaching point and we popped out of the landrover. We were greeted by evangelist Azuberi Mhema and people of the congregation. They showed us to some small wooden chairs on a tarp, and we were mercifully shaded by another tarp hung from two trees. Azuberi and Petro, the other evangelist who is Masai, led the people in songs you can't help but clap to. Azuberi read a report, telling us there are 106 church members, 51 of whom are adults. Their main goals are to build an actual chapel--presently they worship outside--and they're in the process of organizing to buy cement and collect the bricks. And of course they asked for help to build a well. This was the second time a group from my church had visited Mahove. Mchungaji Paulo got up and read a verse from Colossions in Kihehe, a very different tribal language from his own. People were impressed and entertained by that.
After that, Mom got up to say words of thanks and sympathy. The thanks was for welcoming us so graciously, and for working hard to build a chapel.
After the three left, the landrover Mom had hired arrived. We were going to the Masai village of Mahove, and with us came our driver Titus, associate Mchungaji Paulo (the first ordained Masai pastor in the diocese), five evangelists and partnership committee members, and our translator Mfaume, a soon-to-be university graduate. Ten of us fit in the seven-seater, with Mom and I sharing the front passenger seat, and we were soon on our bumpy way to Mahove. It took perhaps 20 minutes, where we went through several villages, and then through a rough path in the Tanzanian bush. We didn't have a clue how Titus knew his way, when there was hardly a road to follow. I imagined the directions sounding like, "Turn left at the tree. No--the other tree. Yeah, that one. Then, see that bush? The little one with the pointy needles?" It all looked the same to me.
We were nearing our destination when we stopped. Blocking our was was a large bundle of sticks, a woman's kitenge cloth, and a pair of shoes. Titus called out something to the trees in Swahili once, then twice. The second time, people slowly started appearing from behind the trees, they gathered their things and we continued driving. Titus laughed and told us, "They thought we were soldiers." I found out that Mahove is part of a reserve, therefore it's illegal to cut the trees for firewood, which they need to cook their food. Mahove doesn't have easy access to water either, and it's a long walk to get it. The government told the Masai, traditionally a nomadic herding people, to settle in this one place, far from these necessities, and isolated from other villages and people. I have no idea why they were put there.
Shortly afterwards, we arrived at the preaching point and we popped out of the landrover. We were greeted by evangelist Azuberi Mhema and people of the congregation. They showed us to some small wooden chairs on a tarp, and we were mercifully shaded by another tarp hung from two trees. Azuberi and Petro, the other evangelist who is Masai, led the people in songs you can't help but clap to. Azuberi read a report, telling us there are 106 church members, 51 of whom are adults. Their main goals are to build an actual chapel--presently they worship outside--and they're in the process of organizing to buy cement and collect the bricks. And of course they asked for help to build a well. This was the second time a group from my church had visited Mahove. Mchungaji Paulo got up and read a verse from Colossions in Kihehe, a very different tribal language from his own. People were impressed and entertained by that.
After that, Mom got up to say words of thanks and sympathy. The thanks was for welcoming us so graciously, and for working hard to build a chapel.
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