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Rusty Humanity.

I know that I haven’t been very good about blogging lately…and by that I mean I haven’t blogged at all. I’ve tried to get back into it so many times, but I found myself hitting a wall on each and every attempt. Honestly – I wasn’t sure what I had to say, if I had anything at all. Thoughts and feelings rolled around in my head, but I couldn’t distinguish between those worth sharing and those needing further development. Nothing felt fully formed, and there were (and still are) so many things in my life that I felt unsure of. Potential blog topics were spun sugar, easily crumbling and dissolving under the heavy weight of day to day monotony, indecisiveness, and doubt. However, as the weight of the last few days began to sink in, as the stress of a seemingly burning world began to make a nest between my shoulder blades and burrow into my temples in earnest, I decided to post the following on Facebook….

As my news feed fills up with sympathy for those affected in Paris, grief over life lost, and solidarity with France, my heart is warmed by the common humanity I’m witnessing. At the same time, the world’s response to the near-simultaneous twin bombings in Beirut, Lebanon stands in sharp contrast…..silence. apathy. fringe media coverage at best.

IS suicide bombers set of blasts in the capital of Lebanon killing over 40 and wounding over 100 in the worst terror attack Lebanon has seen in years. And the world is relatively silent. We certainly aren’t putting the colors of Lebanon’s flag up on the Empire State Building for all to see.

Is it because we have come to expect greater violence in certain parts of the world? Or do we find some types of violence more acceptable than others? Do we have a harder time sympathizing with the Lebanese or do we in some twisted way blame them for their own tragedy?Why are some tragedies worth our tears and heartache while we allow others to simply brush brusquely past?

Maybe it’s just that we are tired. I know I am. Tired of contemplating a world that constantly feels on the edge of catastrophe. Tired of summoning up compassion, empathy, and outrage over hateful incidents that seem never-ending.

But at the very least, I think it’s important that we confront the biases of our own hearts – identify how we sift through the tragedies of our present world and decide which are most deserving of our shock and lamentation.

I’m a firm believer that it is only when all lives matter equally, when some deaths aren’t more or less acceptable than others, that our world will truly know peace.

‪#‎weareparis‬ ‪#‎wearebeirut‬ ‪#‎peaceonearth‬

The post was written in less than a minute and barely edited. It was simply word vomit, shards of emotional glass that I desperately needed to tug out of my heart so I could stop the bleeding, but people responded. They liked, shared, commented, and messaged me personally expressing similar feelings and thanking me for putting words to their hearts’ wandering. I was surprised by how comforted people seemed to be by the words, and I immediately thought, with a fair portion of guilt, about my empty blog.

I also thought about rust.

I had abandoned my blog almost a year ago when things in my life started to get muddy – when I could no longer tell for sure what I wanted from my career and my support system felt oh so far away. It was a time when I felt my energy would be better spent pursuing clarity and survival in my day to day. I could always come back to it, right? The thing is, while my blog sat lonely, my writing skills weren’t the only things that rusted…..the machinery of my life that had once been able to ingest tragedy, heartbreak, and injustice and spit back hope, meaning, and resilience now gathered dust. Guts rusted and hollowed out and gears lost their grip. I, for a moment, lost sight.

Rust can gather in the most unexpected places. When I let my writing get rusty, I also inadvertently allowed my heart to do the same. Wrapped up in my own struggles, the mechanism of my heart struggled to cope with the big picture. Most interesting is that I haven’t just struggled to cope with recent tragedies. I’ve also struggled to empathize. As frightening as recent attacks are, I was more frightened by my sudden impulse to stick my head in the sand. Rust. Growing slowly more disengaged from any struggles beyond my own, I stopped writing. For a brief moment I stopped planning and dreaming and setting goals, and I let the heart that always beat for the world grow sluggish and rusty in the grips of selfish concerns.

The recent attacks shocked me out of my reverie. They were an abrupt strike against normalcy that jarred the rust off both my heart and my pen, and so here I am. Trying to convince you that the pain of love and engagement will always be better than the numbness of a rusty humanity. Engaging in a world that consistently lets you down is difficult. Emerging from the muck of your own worries and stresses to care about the suffering of others is hard work. But I hope you believe me when I say it’s worth it, and caring for the innocent victims of the Paris attacks is only the first step. Some would try to convince you that lives lost in Lebanon, Burundi, Palestine, and even our own back yards are acceptably dismissed as ” just the way of the world.” I know from personal experience that this is a lie, sold to us in moments of world-weariness and compassion fatigue.

The world, like real and honest love, is both painful and beautiful. That is no excuse to mourn selectively or ignore death and violence when it occurs in places we deem expendable. Ugliness is no excuse to bury our heads in the sand. We must stand up and demand peace. We must collectively decide to fight for peace everywhere and compassion for all or we run the risk of chaos and peril in all corners.

single serving friends

If you’ve never seen Fight Club, then the title of this post might not mean anything to you. I happened to watch it for the first time on the plane from New York to Dubai. Or maybe it was from Dubai to Abuja? Or was it on the way back? I can’t remember. All I know is that I was on a plane watching grown men kick the crap out of each other. Overall I thought the movie was bizarre. It wasn’t at all what I was expecting, but I’m still glad I watched it if for no other reason than I was introduced to the idea of a single serving friend.

The main character in Fight Club has a theory that while you’re traveling everything is single serving: the coffee, sugar, coke, snacks, toothpaste…even the friends. His theory perfectly describes the phenomenon that, in my opinion, is what makes travel truly worthwhile – connecting with perfect strangers on completely even ground. Imagine this hypothetical situation for a minute. You’re standing alone by the baggage carousel and another person comes to stand rather close to you. Most people squeeze as close to the carousel as physically possible, but not you two. You guys stand a respectful distance away, patiently waiting your turn to push through the masses and heave your bag off the moving belt. You have no idea whether that person is a millionaire or just scraping by. Whether they have a great relationship with their parents or forget to send even birthday cards once a year. Do they have a significant other? Are they good at their job? Do they tip well? How often to they exercise? What do they regret? You know none of these important things. Something about a 14 hour flight seems to even everyone out – no one gets off one of those flights looking very fresh. The typical markers of success, wealth, struggle, and failure are slowly rubbed away leaving a naked human being in their place. All you know is that you’re standing alone by the baggage carousel and they’re standing alone by the baggage carousel and somehow you feel like it would be a terrible tragedy if these two individuals standing alone didn’t somehow recognize each other. Maybe strike up a conversation. Maybe not. But at least turn to the other person, give them a little smile and an eye-roll that says “how freaking long does it take to unload some bags?” and by doing so, give a small nod of appreciation to that which is human and eternal and precious about the total stranger standing next to you. You may not know them, but you recognize that there is something worth knowing about them, so you open yourself just enough to smile or make a light comment about the terrible injustice of having to pay for a baggage cart.

For me, those little moments are the most wonderful, enlightening thing about traveling. Whether it’s merely a glance, the exchange of a few words, or a laughing conversation that ends in a warm goodbye, it is these completely random interactions, unburdened by the biases and judgments we bring to normal life, that prove to me just how wonderful it can be to be vulnerable. Next time you’re at the airport take a look around. Most people go into what I call “bubble mode” when they’re traveling. They stick the headphones in, crank up the tunes, bury themselves in a magazine, or glue their noses to the screens of glowing devices. Rarely does anyone just sit and look around, acknowledging the people sitting near them or walking by, soaking in the atmosphere of going places, connecting with the people making the journey by their side. Am I the only one who finds that so strange? That we all sit together in the terminal or at the gate or in the tin cans we call airplanes, getting ready to travel across the country or across the world side by side, and we hardly even look at each other? It’s weird. It’s disconnected. And I stumbled across a ground breaking not-so-secret about 7 or 8 long-haul flights ago… Traveling for 36 hours straight can really suck. Sorry for not putting that more elegantly, but seriously, the stale air, the airplane food, the uncomfortable airport chairs, the swollen ankles, the borderline bathrooms – it can be really terrible. But the real secret is that it can also be wonderful, nurturing, and so sweet.

Crazy as it sounds, I love those long days. I live for them. And I realized a while ago that my love of travel stemmed from one very simple practice. I strive to connect with the people around me. Don’t get me wrong, it’s extremely important to be careful and alert when you travel, but that doesn’t mean we have to shut everyone out. Whether I’m sitting at a hotel bar, standing by the baggage carousel, eating pizza at 2 am in the airport, riding on a tour bus, wandering a market, gritting my teeth on a bumpy bus, holding my nose through an iffy bathroom experience, standing in line with aching shoulders waiting to check my bag, or sniffling over who and what I’m leaving, I do my best to really see the people sharing space with me and reach out to them if I can. I’ve discovered that even the grouchiest looking fellow travelers are no match for a charming smile and sincere compliment. Without fail, I walk away from every single serving interaction with a smile on my face. It turns out that being nice to people – reaching out with an open hand to say, I see you friend, thanks for being here, it matters – is the best thing you can do for yourself. It makes you feel more human, more connected, more grateful, more aware…just happier. And when single serving friends turn into lasting ones who text you from all around the world giving music suggestions, sharing funny stories, inviting you to visit, and just checking in….well that’s probably the most rewarding, satisfying feeling I have ever experienced. All because I try to look up out of my bubble and really see the person standing next to me.

So here’s to all the people I connected with while traveling recently. Including (but certainly not limited to)…

Mrs. Worrywart and Mr. Ex-Marine on the flight from NYC to Dubai:  you were the sweetest couple I’ve ever met, and the way you treated each other helped me understand what I eventually want from a relationship.

My fellow Breakfast Club members: though it was annoying to have to finish our Starbucks so quickly, huddling together in the corner sharing stories before proceeding through security made the 2:30 am flight so much less jarring.

Frank. For being brave. Also Chris, Ada, and Joy. For making my one day off so lovely and full of laughter and for teaching me the language of Nigerian car horns – an invaluable skill to be sure.

All the seriously kick-ass filmmakers, photographers, and artists I met at the African International Film Festival in Calabar, Nigeria, especially Bobby, Domilolo, Chile, Dayo, Msuur, Olive, and Koko. You are inspirational, beautiful human beings who also really know how to party. You’ll never know how perfect your timing was.

Brandon from the hotel bar in Dubai: You made those five hours pass faster than I thought possible. For the White Russians, music suggestions, stories, laughs, moments of clarity, motivation to stay the course, and proof that people are wonderful more often than not, thank you from the bottom of my heart. I’ll never forget you. Alles gute zum geburtstag, my friend.

And of course all the people I worked, lived, laughed, cried, sweated, itched, wondered, dreamed, and planned with while in Nigeria. Especially Onenu, Ochala, Fr. Peter, Sabastine, Daniel, Lawrence, Margaret, Fred, Genevieve, and Elizabeth.

You’ve made me better.

You’ve made me happier.

You’re are the real reason I travel.

I hope I see you again someday.

i have 167 bug bites.

Well friends, I’m two weeks into my trip to Nigeria**, and there is no word of a lie in the title of this post. Seriously. I just counted. Between the mosquito bites on my legs, the red ant bites I got this afternoon on my left foot, and the sun fly bites covering every exposed inch of my extremities, I think I’m ready for new skin thank you very much. If anyone has any to donate to a poor soul who is about to itch the rest of hers off, I would be so grateful.

Ok so that was a slightly creepy request. I’ll give you that, but you have no idea what I would do for just one tube of Cortasol and one night sleeping with a fan. For the past year and half, my life has been one long exercise in gratitude – I find myself fantasizing about a running shower and electricity at night. The National Electricity and Power Association has been given a different name by locals. Playing off the acronym NEPA, they’ve decided to instead call it Never Expect Power Always, and that seems pretty darn accurate to me. Wayyyy more accurate than the official name, at least.

Despite Nigeria’s rapid economic growth, there are huge lags in infrastructure, particularly in the rural areas. No running water or sewage system, no reliable power, and many of the roads are potholed and impassable when it rains. Thankfully, I’m staying at a wonderful rectory with our founder, Reverend Father Peter Obele Abue. A Catholic priest for nearly 30 years, Father Peter has done wonders for the parish, and the rectory is a pretty comfortable place to stay! Still, the power and water issues plague us, and the only place I can get an internet connection is under one particular palm tree in the back yard. The problem with that is that this particular spot also seems to be the home of my new mortal enemy: the sun fly. These tiny insects leave massive quantities of large, swollen, red, intensely itchy bites in their wake, and I refuse to continue being their buffet. This leaves me with only one option – when attempting to check my email, I must put on long pants, socks, long sleeves, and a bandanna in order to protect every possible inch. Aside from getting the side-eye from the gardener, this approach also leaves me with the problem of drowning in my own sweat. The days here reach 95-100 F on the regular, and as a girl from the Midwest, I normally reserve this skin-covering attire for weather in the 50’s or below. So if I’ve been a bit slow responding to your email, FB message, or other communication, please don’t be offended. I’m limiting my internet time in the interest of self-preservation.

167 bug bites.

No itch cream.

I’m busting out every technique we tried in Cambodia for dealing with bites – toothpaste, hot spoons on bare skin, the works.


167 bug bites.

No itch cream.

I wake up in the middle of the night scratching bites I didn’t even know I had.


167 bites.

No itch cream.


Before slipping too far down the path of self-pity, let me revisit the reason I came to Nigeria in the first place. I didn’t get on the plane at JFK with the expectation that I was off on a month long vacation. I knew there would be tough moments. I knew I wouldn’t always be comfortable. I didn’t quite know the extent to which that was true, but still I came for a bigger purpose. If I’m working for an organization called Children of Rural Africa, I should probably meet these children I’m devoting most of my waking thoughts to.  Two weeks in, I’ve met many of those kids we work with. I’ve met with local government, grant-making organizations, institutional partners, and staff. I’ve heard from community women, clan elders, and parish councils. I’ve seen the need, and there’s still so much left to be seen. At one time or another I’ve been challenged, inspired, moved to tears, devastated, and filled with hope on this trip. Meeting the people I’m truly working for has been the best thing I could have done.


And suddenly……

167 bites.

I don’t really care.

**As of actually posting this, I’m more like three weeks into my trip, but yes, it has taken m that long to get the photos uploaded and find a good enough connection to make the post public. Sigh. Internet struggles.

A Return to Loveliest Insanity

Dearest Friend,

I’m so sorry for being gone so long. Time got away from me, and before I knew it, I hadn’t written anything in months! I’ve missed you, and so many things have happened since we last spoke. In July, I left Uganda and GWED-G with many tears and “I’ll miss you”s and looks over my shoulder. I was initially supposed to visit Nigeria before going home but had visa troubles, so, much to my parents’ shock, I marched up on our Wisconsin porch a few weeks early. I won’t go into detail about their reactions, but let’s just say that my father isn’t often speechless and my mother’s bladder control isn’t what it used to be. Words can’t describe how wonderful it was to see their faces, feel carpet under my bare feet, eat my mother’s lasagna, and introduce Tucker to the United States! That’s right, my four-legged shadow crossed the pond with me. We’d become inseparable in Uganda, and there was no way I could stomach the thought of leaving him behind. One 10 hour bus ride, 2 flights, one layover, and three hours in the car later and Tucker was home! As I predicted, everyone instantly fell in love with his sweet personality and snuggly nature…well, almost everyone. The cat wasn’t terribly thrilled.

The rest of July, August, and September passed in a flurry of coffee dates, dinner dates, TV marathons, new-job prep, dog walks, roadtrips, and packing. I hadn’t come all the way home just to smell the roses, after all. I landed myself a new job! You’re talking to the newest US Country Director of Children of Rural Africa (CorAfrica). Actually, you’re talking to the only US Country Director in CorAfrica’s history! They’re a fantastic organization, founded by a Nigerian Catholic priest named Peter Abue, that runs education, health, water, and economic programs in SE Nigeria (now you see how Nigeria fits into all of this). They’ve got a great group of volunteers and staff both here and in Nigeria, but they saw the need for a more established US office that could spearhead fundraising, communication, and strategic development efforts – so they hired me! Over the next two years, it will be my job to generate resources, strengthen systems, implement initiatives, and in all ways support and grow this inspiring organization that is already doing so much good. When I wasn’t talking in funny voices with my Mom, running around Milwaukee’s nightlife with long-unseen friends, or catching up on Bones, I was getting ready to take the plunge into my new adventure with CorAfrica. Which brings us to October….

Ladies and gentlement, I’m happy to report that I am writing to you from my very own studio apartment in New York City. Queens, to be exact. A neighborhood called Sunnyside, which I’m finding to be charming and full of life. With the exception of a stingy superintendent who edged toward irate today when I locked myself out of my apartment (to be fair, the guy did have to climb in my kitchen window from the fire escape), everything has been wonderful. I’ve gone running several times without getting lost. I’ve done the laundry, figured out how to work the oven, found a few good grocery stores, and unpacked all the boxes. It feels empty without Tucker, who will join me in late November, but my neighbors are welcoming and the family-run cafe across the street serves massive, steaming bowls of lentil soup for just $2.50 each. What more can you ask for?

Unfortunately (or if you’re my superintendent, maybe it’s fortunately), my grounding is only temporary. This Saturday, I’m headed to Nigeria for five weeks in order to turbocharge my work with CorAfrica. The job officially started September 1st, but I won’t be able to get going full steam ahead until I get on the ground, meet people, and see the state of things for myself. Nigeria’s not a terribly nice place to be right now….while the country has done a remarkable job eradicating Ebola within its borders, the rest of West Africa is still in extremely dire straits. Boko Haram continues to cause mayhem in the north, and upcoming elections have everyone a bit on edge. I’ll be in the Southeast corner of the country, though, and we’re not expecting any hiccups. After a few visits to the Nigerian embassy, several encounters with a rather surly visa processing agent, and a bit of hair-pulling over the out of date information on Nigeria’s immigration website, I’ve got my visa! All systems, go!

Now that I’m getting back into my blogging groove, I’ll be sure to keep you posted about life in the Big Apple and my blunders in getting acquainted, my trip to Nigeria, working with CorAfrica, and probably anything else that pops into my head. Again, so sorry for the gap in correspondence, dear friend. Just know that I’ve missed you, and I hope we can go back to being on regular speaking terms again. I’ll certainly do my best on this end.

Goodbye for now from Sunnyside.


the exorcism en route

It was one of those days. Coming back from a lovely weekend with friends, we all knew we had a long day of traveling ahead of us. The roads in Uganda aren’t simple to navigate, and there was no easy direct route from where we were back to Gulu. So we resigned ourselves to a 5 hour matatu (taxi-bus-thingy) ride back to Kampala before catching the 8-ish hour bus back north. The matatu ride went shockingly well, but we hit a few speed bumps in Kampala when we couldn’t find any buses leaving for Gulu before 7 pm. Thanks to the ingenuity and incredible likability of my friend Julie, we finally finagled eight tickets to Gulu leaving at 5:30 pm instead, and our day was back on track. The ride began happily: chatty, friendly neighbors, only leaving 20 minutes late, pretty smooth ride.

Things got weird about three hours from Gulu.

A woman’s scream pierced the night was a suddenness that jerked me from half-sleep. It was a terrible, terrified sound. She screamed again. I jolted again. She launched into continuous hysterics, and I looked around with wide eyes into the faces of equally baffled and jarred friends. The bus driver finally pulled over and turned on the lights. Our group was sitting near the very back. We couldn’t see much of what was going on, but we were anxious to know what was happening at the front to cause such pain and fear. Hushed murmuring filled the bus as whispering lips passed the story backward, discussed, and speculated. It was decided by the general audience that the girl, not more that 14 years old, must have a demon in her. Thank heavens there was a priest on board who valiantly stepped forward to take control of the situation. After a brief tussle, more horrified, terrified, hysterical wailing from the girl, the exorcism began, and the bus, to my extreme surprise, casually resumed it’s journey. The lights went back down, people chuckled, and our previously peaceful journey resumed – it was the emotional and spiritual version of a shrug, but something was different. The usual lullaby – the rush of the wind, the grumble of the engine, and the soft breathe of many people in close proximity – was replaced by terrified wailing punctuated by a forceful male voice and screams of mental anguish. An utterly bizarre and horrifying soundtrack on an otherwise totally normal night. I’ll never forget sitting back in my chair, breathing in the sweet air rushing in at my face from the cracked window, looking out at the moon-soaked landscape, and feeling my soul cringe as the air was rent by the terrified wailing  of a woman completely out of site in the darkness at the other end of the bus.

I’m not sure what it was – mental illness, an anxiety attack, some previous trauma, or spiritual demons – that caused the woman’s episode of panic and misery. I’m not sure why so many people on the bus felt ok resuming their trip and conversations as if they weren’t cloaked in the shadow of whatever terror this woman was facing. Maybe they just realized there was nothing they could do. Maybe they realized the only thing you can do sometimes is keep going. Whatever it was, it was an experience that will stay with me for a long time. The night my normal, peaceful, calm, albeit bumpy, bus ride back to Gulu was set on a stage of invisible horror, given a soundtrack of pain and fear. Eventually the girl calmed, whatever demons were plaguing her subsided, but the sounds of her misery revisit me often.

alternate title: how is life?

Rewind approximately three days. We’ve all arrived in Fort Portal, Uganda, and everyone is walking around in varying states of bliss. Whether you’ve been to the area before or not, coming from Gulu to Fort Portal is a remarkable transition that tends to leave you reveling in the beauty. Fort Portal is different than Gulu in many ways – more paved roads, bigger homes, more solid structures, more restaurants, coffee shops, and stores. Ringed by the Rwenzori Mountain range and close to the border with the Democratic Republic of Congo. They even have a statue of a lion at the city center with an incredible amount of real-looking hair. We were all there for one of two purposes: to participate in a triathlon or to support the people participating in the triathlon. Due to earlier ankle injuries, I fell into the second group, and I enjoyed it far more than I expected to. The location was breathtaking. For the swim: a crystal blue, freshwater crater lake. For the bike, a grueling 18k along red dirt roads and up rocky hills. The run: the hills and forests along the crater’s edge. We watched it all from a lodge resembling the African version of Hogwarts perched at the perfect vantage point from which to commit the surroundings to memory. It was quite possibly one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. Surrounded by such natural beauty and the equally incredible beauty of the kind souls and laughing eyes of my friends, I felt very at peace.

The people in Fort Portal, at least those that I encountered personally, don’t ask “how is your day?” or “how are you?”. Instead, upon greeting someone, they ask: “how is life?” I was struck by the question, lovely and sincere, and I realized it was pure truth when I answered: wonderful. Sometimes it really can be as simple as that if we let it. How is life? Wonderful. Really, truly, peacefully, in the golden light of sunset, with a backdrop of mountains, on a carpet of lush green, surrounded by kind people, wonderful. Wonderful.

For those three days, that was more than enough. Wonderful.



Lovely one, if you dare to dream, you must be brave enough to fight.
-Lisa Bevere

There are all kinds of fighting in the world. Every minute of every day, there is fighting happening somewhere.

Last night, a bunch of us girls got together for a movie night, but we were disrupted before we could even push play by a loud and angry dispute in progress next door. We sat together, some of us getting up in agitation to converse mutely with the guard about our options, many of us with our hands over our mouths, as we listened to both man and woman shouting at each other, the woman’s high-pitched screaming that went on and on, the clanking of a chain, the barking of a dog. After peeking over the separating wall, our compound’s guard assured us that the chain was not being used on the woman, that the bitter words were being thrown around equally by both man and woman, and that there was no need for us to intervene. As you can imagine, his words did little to comfort those of us who tend more toward action than patience. Fighting.

I read an article this morning about human rights activists in Western Sahara. Caught in an occupation situation the world has forgotten about, they struggle daily with the oppression and brutality of Morocco. These activists have enduring torture, jailing, and harassment, yet they maintain that it would be better to die than to live in fear. Fighting.

In South Sudan, nothing…absolutely nothing…makes sense. Another generation of children is being lost to continued unrest and misery in Darfur. Rebels and governments armies continue to clash, to kill, to massacre, to loot, to frighten. Refugees and displaced people are running in every direction, and even those who do make it to a camp in safety face desperate conditions, including malnutrition, crime, and scarce water.

My neighbor, upon seeing me shuffling around on our porch this morning, beckoned for me to follow her down to her residence. She showed me the newest member of her family, a tiny tuxedo-colored kitten with a pitiful mew and very little meat on her frail bones. My neighbor informed that she’d found the little one wandering around the road just a few minutes from our gate. After inquiring after her owners, she was confident the kitten had been abandoned, and she decided to bring her home. In a world where so many children are abandoned, mothers die in child birth, young boys shoot each other with guns they shouldn’t even know how to hold, chemical weapons are used by despot dictators, and spouses beat each other out of frustration and desperation, I think it would have just been one tragedy too many for my neighbor to have passed this starving kitten by and left her on the roadside. We read the news and are bombarded by anger, violence, sadness, despair. My neighbor, and most people I know, cope by doing the little things they can every day. They work against the injustice in front of them. She wasn’t going to let this little thing die if she had anything to say about it. Fighting.

I consider my options for the future, both for my career and personal life. I read the news and good books. I write. I go to work, and support an organization doing vital human rights work on the ground. I do the little things I know how to do to help this one organization and, by extension, the people they work for. The people they fight for. I don’t know exactly what the next few years hold for me, where I will go, what I will do, who I will meet, but wherever the wind takes me, I am both driven by a fire for justice and motivated by a still small voice that whispers in my ear: is that the best you can do? Whatever I do next, I know I want to fight. Somehow, in some way. For justice, for children, for peace, for rights, for full bellies and free minds, for acceptance, for unity. When you come to find me, you’ll find me fighting. Fighting.

Of all the types of fighting in the world, I wish we had more of the last two. Fighting against injustice. Fighting for freedom and peace and love. Fighting will always exist, but we get to choose what kind of fighting it is. In our own lives. In our own corners. Let’s fight the good fight, fight the just fight, and encourage others to do the same.


**Please check out my new blog: Stepping on Cracks. It is dedicate not so much to personal experience and reflection as to more professional and academic opinion and research about international development, politics, and affairs. I’d love it if you read my first post and, if you enjoyed it, subscribed.

castration, vomit, and other joys of dog ownership

Dark clouds threatened around the tips of the trees surrounding our compound as the gates opened to receive the local vet. I should have taken them as a dark omen for what was to come. The vet was here to carry out the very necessary procedure of neutering Tucker before he got much older, but other than that, I knew absolutely nothing about what the next 12 hours would hold. I didn’t even know if he was here to pick Tucker up or if the procedure would (seriously?) take place at our home. My housemate, Jon, had already outlawed canine surgery inside the house…not completely unreasonable, but that meant the porch was still available, right?

As you might have been able to guess, Vet Simon Peter was not here to pick up Tucker. I set aside my bowl of cereal and attempted to prepare myself for the unknown.  The vet had a nice handshake, but that was the only pleasant surprise of the evening. The dark clouds continued to close in, the wind was blowing, and little did I know, the fur was about to fly. It started with Doc claiming that anesthetic was given by weight, and since Tucker weighs about 7 kilos, he’d only give him enough to put him partially to sleep. Ok, two problems with that. First of all, why on earth would I want my dog partially awake while his two best friends were getting removed? Secondly, it has been months since Tucker weighed 7kilos. At this point, he weighs more in the area of 15. I tried to raise both concerns with the vet, but, in the manner that some Ugandans occasionally adopt when dealing with Mzungus* they find difficult, he breezed by my nervous questioning with a wave of his hand and a casual “it’s fine!” My brow furrowed.

Our first trial came with the administering of the anesthetic. The vet wasn’t exactly quick about it, and Tucker hates shots. I’ll let you fill in the details. Stage one finally ended with Tucker staggering around the compound and me firmly informing the vet that he needed to figure out a more efficient way of giving reluctant animals shots. Doc was starting to look annoyed with me, but the amount I cared would not have filled his bumbling syringe. Tucker is my companion, my friend, my stress reliever, and my responsibility. I love that dog, and seeing him hurting or upset was not going down well…particularly in the face of a nonchalant vet haphazardly wielding sharp objects. As the rain started to pour down angrily, I didn’t realize how much worse it could get.

As the first dose started to take effect, I bundled Tucker up and brought him back over to the porch where he consented to lay in docile acceptance while Doc shaved the area. I mistakenly thought that if he was accepting that indignity without a peep then the anesthetic must have been enough. Wrong. As Doc made the first incision, Tucker howled in pain and fear….which provoked a bit of howling on my part as well. By the time Doc went in for a second attempt, Tucker had been given another shot of anesthetic and the good vet’s ears were probably ringing slightly. Unfortunately, even though Doc plowed on ahead without hesitation, it still didn’t seem to me that Tucker was far enough gone. He moaned and cried in a muted way throughout the first half of the procedure, and by the time the Doc switched to the second testicle, I was very close to tears. Fortunately, the sedative seemed to fully kick in for the second half, and Tucker lay blissfully unaware through the rest of his de-balling. I was not so easily calmed, however, and by this time I had had enough of Doc. When he suggested we get a bucket of water and simply rinse the blood off the porch, I decided it was time for him to leave. Clutching his $12 in hand, the vet was escorted from the premises by one tightlipped Mzungu* with curly hair and a serious attitude.

I returned to the carnage to find Tucker starting to show signs of life. I moved him inside and set about cleaning up the destruction on my porch. Thank heavens for my angel of a neighbor who not only sat with Tucker and I throughout the ordeal but offered her natural disinfectant in the wake of Doc’s early exit. Thanks to her and a few minutes of deep breathing, things seemed to be looking up. The next hour or so passed without incident as Tucker slowly came out of the stupor. I was lulled into complacency.

So there are three possible explanations for what happened next. Either Doc decided it wasn’t necessary to fill me in on possible side-effects of the anesthetic, he overcompensated after my first tirade by giving Tucker far too much anesthetic, or Tucker’s stomach just couldn’t handle the copious amounts of sedative after a day of rummaging in the garbage. I’m honestly not sure what it was, but I do know that if I hadn’t spent nearly two years cleaning up a children’s ER as a volunteer, I would NOT have been prepared. Several upchucks of epic proportions, barely digested stomach contents, nearly unbearable smells, and no paper towels. I will spare you the details of exactly how I managed to contain the damage. I’ll just say that it involved a knife, a dustpan, some toilet paper, and lots of disinfectant.

When Tucker and I finally settled in to bed, I thought the worst was over. Tucker seemed to be acting more normal, and I’d already said several prayers for a cessation of hostilities. I drifted off to sleep hopeful. Apparently, however, Tucker did not feel like he had sufficiently expressed his disgust with the day’s events, and I woke up to more dog urine covering my floor than I thought it was possible for one puppy’s bladder to hold. In the interest of fairness, I should mention that Tucker was cowering in the corner, clearly mortified. I doubt the voiding was intentional, and it’s hard to be mad in the face of such obvious apology.

Thankfully, I had gotten up with 2 hours to spare before having to go to work, so I had plenty of time to wash my entire floor, the hallway, the kitchen (where the first vomit apocalypse had occurred), and the porch (the source of all this evil) with hot water and disinfectant. Several emergency cups of coffee, a quick rinse for the pup, a long shower for the human, and I was ready for work! Hoorah.

*white person

falling forward

Walking is falling forward.

Each step we take is an arrested plunge, a collapse averted, a disaster braked. In this way, to walk becomes an act of faith. We perform it daily: a two-beat miracle – an iambic teetering, a holding on and letting go.


I am on a journey. I am in pursuit of an idea, a story, a chimera, perhaps a folly. I am chasing ghosts.

Paul Salopek

Too often I find myself apologizing for a dip in my blogging frequency. For the past six weeks, I’ve been at home taking a breather… relaxing, talking to friends over coffee, watching basketball with my dad, running errands with my mom. All very normal things, yet they felt deeply meaningful to me after nearly 9 months on far-off continents. My time at home helped me recharge, unwind, and prepare myself both mentally and emotionally for my next adventures.

So here I am back in Gulu. Falling forward.

There are a lot of things that I’m not sure of right now: how long I’ll be here. what exactly I’ll be doing. how my salary is going to work. what I’ll be doing after my time in Gulu is up.

What I do now is that I’m here now, so the only thing to do is to keep on keeping on. As Paul Salopek says so eloquently, to fall forward. Like Mr. Salopek, I too feel as if I’m performing a daily iambic teetering in pursuit of an idea, a story, perhaps a folly. I’m on the search for a better, more equal, more peaceful world. Some days I’m immensely hopeful, and other days things happen that make me want to retreat into myself and grieve for love forgone.

On my first day back in Gulu, I was playing basketball with some friends when I badly sprained my ankle. My first night. It was definitely not what I would have planned for myself if given the choice, but as I sat panting from the pain in my living room immediately following the unfortunate incident, I had two thoughts. Number One: this sucks. Number Two: well, I’ve never been injured in a foreign country before…this should be interested. Turns out I was right, it has sucked, and it has definitely been interesting. For a while I felt helpless and incapable and very stressed out, but once I was able to drag myself out of my pit of self-pity, I managed to see it as an opportunity. My time in Uganda has been one lesson after another in just keepin’ on. This was my biggest test yet, and while I’m not yet completely healed, I do feel that I’m out of the woods. The key is just to keep falling forward.

With my return to Uganda will hopefully come my return to regular blogging, and I hope you’ll continue on this journey with me. As I write this, nearly ten people have packed themselves into our small kitchen to cook dinner, chat about our days, and discuss what awaits us in the week to come. With their warm presence I am reminded that so much of what we face in life is made easier and more enjoyable with company. So I hope you’ll all continue to keep me company as well. Stay with me as we continue this daily act of faith…marching, slogging, running, creeping…some days slow, some days fast…susceptible to fatigue but never despair. Always in pursuit of those ghosts hovering just on the edge of possible. I believe someday we’ll catch them together.

Whatever the next few months hold, bring it on.


leaving, grieving, and believing

There are over 500 people gathered at the three central gas stations serving Gulu town this morning. They’re jostling, jockeying, and most of all waiting a long time to fill their tanks with the ever-dwindling petrol supply. The source of the shortage is a mystery to everyone I’ve talked to. This alone is odd – Ugandans almost always have a theory. It started last week when the power supply was particularly bad and everyone was running their generator, but the shortage has persisted long past when it should have been alleviated. Boda drivers are scarce, and the ones that are running are charging 2 – 3x what they normally would. Field work has ground to a frustrating halt. People are running out of gas and propane for cooking. It has been this way for nearly a week, and yet people line up at the gas stations en mass each morning, hoping that there might be a few available drops to be squeezed into their tanks. Most of them are turned away disappointed.

Dry season trudges determinedly on. Dust has become omnipresent…collected on floors and tabletops within minutes of sweeping,  invading your eyes and nostrils, setting up camp on your cheeks, knuckles, and toes, nesting in your hair, burrowing under your nails, and wafting through the air in great clouds after passing cars. The heat is pressing, as if you’re trapped in one of those easy-bake ovens we so loved as children, and it seems to sap your limbs of willpower. Even when my hair is up, the stragglers lay damp and listless on my neck, and my clothes cling to my skin like needy children seeking constant attention.

They just killed two chickens out back. I think they’re going to be eaten at the luncheon celebrating my time at GWED-G. Like nails on a chalkboard, the sounds of their final moments run along my skin and raise goosebumps, making me cringe and my heart beat faster. It’s ironic that they’re dying for me and my leaving, and I make the mistake of glancing out the window…I can see one running around headless after escaping the confining grasp of his executioner.

It is from this stage that I soon take my leave. Tomorrow, I’ll take the morning Post Bus to Kampala, spend the night with a friend, and finally fly homeward on Wednesday. After 6 months, many kilos of beans and rice and posho, countless hours on the back of a motorcycle, one motorcycle accident, 3 exhaust pipe burns, 164 cold showers, 51 days without power, and hundreds of mosquito bites, I finally turn my eyes home…at least for a while. I’m leaving Uganda. Such a strange thought when most of my dreams have begun and ended with this internship for nearly a year. I’ve accomplished many things in my time here – both personal and professional milestones have been reached, lessons have been learned, and realizations have been come to. And now it’s time to go.

Particularly in the last four months, I’ve made friends here in Gulu. Good friends. If I’m being perfectly honest, better friends than I expected to find. People who have accepted me, bruised and imperfect as I am. People I genuinely love being around, who make me laugh and help me cry. Men and women who are, in the ways that matter, kindred spirits and beautiful souls. I am so incredibly lucky to have met them, and I am grieving our coming time apart. They have made me better for knowing them, even in such a short time, and their absence will leave a hole. I also have a dog now! Tucker. A thoroughly Ugandan mutt who doesn’t understand how to politely walk on a leash but can ingest pretty much anything without so much as batting an eye. He’s endlessly sweet and snuggly, and he’s been a perfect companion for stressed evenings and quiet mornings. Though I know he’ll be in good hands in my absence, I’m still mourning the loss of my new shadow. I’m sad for the loss of other things, too. Cool mornings quietly sipping coffee and making to do lists as the sun comes up in that slowly, slowly, then all-at-once way it has here. Boda rides with the wind whipping in your hair. Lazy days by the pool. Challenging but fulfilling days at work. Passions, a fire stoked.

More than anything, I think I’m grieving the days when leaving didn’t always feel like a division. When my heart belonged only to one place, one home, one state, one country, I could successfully return from a new destination and not feel as if I’d left part of my heart in transit. Not so anymore. Whether it’s the people or the work or the land itself, part of my heart will always be here, in this time, with these friends and colleagues. Just as part of my heart will always be home, with family and dogs and soft mattresses. Maybe that’s a sacrifice we make when we choose this life of wandering. Maybe it’s the price we pay for freedom and wings. It’s a price I’m willing to pay, but it doesn’t make leaving easy. No matter where you’re leaving or where you’re going, there’s always a slight tearing.

So there’s grief for sure. But behind the grief is a deep cool well of refreshing belief. I might be leaving Uganda, but I’m also coming back. I’ve extended my contract with GWED-G until March, 2015. So I’m coming back to the land of gas shortages, power outages, dust, poverty, frustration, corruption, disappointment, long waits, bumpy roads, and hungry eyes. I’m also coming back to lovely friends, wonderful colleagues, work that drives me and fills me and follows me, generous spirits, great music, good food, warm handshakes, long greetings, belly laughs, nourishing sun, and quiet mornings. When I get back, I’ll be moving into a new house and taking on a new role at work – Livelihoods Manager, working with the livelihood components of multiple projects to help get vulnerable women and youth back on their feet economically.

Like the people in line at the gas station this morning, I suffer no illusions about where I’ve chosen to leave a piece of my heart, the place I’ve chosen to return to. I know that there are times I’ll be turned away empty-handed. But hope and belief are a powerful team, and I have both in abundance. It’s hard not to when you walk out of your gate in the morning to the sight of a slight woman – carrying a baby on her back, firewood on her head, a jeri can in one hand, and a bag of tomatoes in the other – singing in a high, clear, beautiful voice about the glory of God and the beauty of the coming day.

Goodbye Uganda, but only for now.