This video was created to educate our communities on how the women of the Kasigau, Rukunga village live from day to day. Their struggles, hardships and resilience are remarkable examples of Kenyan lifestyles. We can take action NOW by partnering with them in their efforts for sustainable living!
1/29/10
1/18/10
All Hope Is Not Lost
The last time I saw her she seemed happy and unusually talkative. She explained that the night before was pretty rough. She had done a line or two in a bathroom stall at the Ice House downtown. Apparently her friends had gone on without her maybe even unknowingly. The next morning she remembered hearing the janitor’s mop sloshing near her head. She had spent all night there, passed out. She giggled a bit and fidgeted with her sweatshirt that was two sizes too big. She was still riding it, I could tell. Otherwise her eyes wouldn’t be as lively as they were now and she definitely wouldn’t be interested in talking to me.
We asked her if she needed anything and she just smirked, nodding no. She said she had a place to stay but we couldn’t know what she might be trading or what she had to do, if anything, to receive that shelter. The minutes rushed past us while she jabbered about a few other street youth that she hadn’t seen in awhile. Mentioned she was doing her part to “move up in society” or at least that’s how most service providers describe the task of job hunting. I wondered if she was wearing her finest interview clothes. The pin stripped pants were worn and matched perfectly with the overall baggy theme. Drugs had withered her shape down to an outline and I wasn’t sure what she might have looked like a year ago.
This week was different. I hadn’t been on the streets for over a month now and was uncertain I would remember any one’s name. Since so many youth might have two or three names the task always seems impossible to me. But then – out of the corner of my eye, we caught a glimpse of her. She was bundled in a sweatshirt, not quite as baggy as the last one. She hunched over on a curb and I could tell she saw me too. The sun had decided to grace Denver with it’s warmth that afternoon so I couldn’t imagine that she was chilled. About a foot down from her sat a gentleman. They were together. I had never seen him before but that didn’t mean anything. If it weren’t for the indentations in her arms and neck, I wouldn’t have placed her either. She was different today. Her eyes were solid dark brown, heavy and dead looking. I noticed she had put on some weight since last time I’d seen her, which was a relief. She didn’t make eye contact and wasn’t interested in talking. Took a few bottled waters and snacks and pretty much ended the conversation. She was coming down from a high. “Recovering” you could say although it was painful to witness for the mere minutes I was there. If I had just been walking to work or out shopping I wouldn’t have even noticed her. It was as if she melt into the cement pattern, camouflaged by her peers. Someone said that this was her norm. Not too personable and sometimes even mean. The day we saw her energetic and happy was only a facade. A façade that many youth experience and it can change overnight. It made me wonder what the past month was like for her. How many ups and downs? How many nights on the street or crashing in some dangerous situation?
The sun looms lower and before you know it, your day has folded into evening. A week or two might go by before talking with a friend that you planned on meeting with months ago. Perhaps your to-do list never seems to end and your chasing that task till the end of the year. But what about those whose survival changes in days, hours, even minutes? When you blink and all the options you thought you had before have now dwindled down to: what can I swap for food or cash…or where’s my drug that makes my reality a little bit better? One day you’re surrounded by your street family and the next, you didn’t pull your weight with them so there you sit, alone indefinitely.
It took me about 20 minutes to get home from downtown. I parked the car and sorted through the images I’d just seen. “Focus now” I think to myself “you have dinner to help with and baths to give”.
That night, when all is settling down, I ask my girls what they want to pray for. The usual requests go out for their “cousins who live far, far away” or a safe night, their teachers at school. But tonight, my oldest looks at me and says “I have an idea Mommy”. “Oh really?” I said, “what is it?” Proudly she replies “let’s pray to God for the boys and girls far away that don’t have a house or toys". I remembered earlier that week talking to her about Haiti and what had been going on there. But tonight, my mind replayed the events of that afternoon… and I thought of her. “Well,” I reminded her, “there are lots of girls and boys right here that don’t have a house or toys”. She stared towards her bed for a moment as if trying to process what I had just told her. Was she picturing her friends without a bed? No piles of stuffed animals to cuddle with at night? Was she wondering what kids do all day without newly polished toys or dress up clothes? I’ll never know what goes on in her young mind but one thing I do know is that she’s pretty intuitive The next sentence out of her mouth summed up why I feel inclined to do what I do. She reminded me that all hope is not lost.“Ok” she said “then we should pray for the whole wide world and Jesus can help them”. I looked down at her, her eyes burning with enthusiasm, “that’s right” I said softly, ”so, let’s pray”.
We asked her if she needed anything and she just smirked, nodding no. She said she had a place to stay but we couldn’t know what she might be trading or what she had to do, if anything, to receive that shelter. The minutes rushed past us while she jabbered about a few other street youth that she hadn’t seen in awhile. Mentioned she was doing her part to “move up in society” or at least that’s how most service providers describe the task of job hunting. I wondered if she was wearing her finest interview clothes. The pin stripped pants were worn and matched perfectly with the overall baggy theme. Drugs had withered her shape down to an outline and I wasn’t sure what she might have looked like a year ago.
This week was different. I hadn’t been on the streets for over a month now and was uncertain I would remember any one’s name. Since so many youth might have two or three names the task always seems impossible to me. But then – out of the corner of my eye, we caught a glimpse of her. She was bundled in a sweatshirt, not quite as baggy as the last one. She hunched over on a curb and I could tell she saw me too. The sun had decided to grace Denver with it’s warmth that afternoon so I couldn’t imagine that she was chilled. About a foot down from her sat a gentleman. They were together. I had never seen him before but that didn’t mean anything. If it weren’t for the indentations in her arms and neck, I wouldn’t have placed her either. She was different today. Her eyes were solid dark brown, heavy and dead looking. I noticed she had put on some weight since last time I’d seen her, which was a relief. She didn’t make eye contact and wasn’t interested in talking. Took a few bottled waters and snacks and pretty much ended the conversation. She was coming down from a high. “Recovering” you could say although it was painful to witness for the mere minutes I was there. If I had just been walking to work or out shopping I wouldn’t have even noticed her. It was as if she melt into the cement pattern, camouflaged by her peers. Someone said that this was her norm. Not too personable and sometimes even mean. The day we saw her energetic and happy was only a facade. A façade that many youth experience and it can change overnight. It made me wonder what the past month was like for her. How many ups and downs? How many nights on the street or crashing in some dangerous situation?
The sun looms lower and before you know it, your day has folded into evening. A week or two might go by before talking with a friend that you planned on meeting with months ago. Perhaps your to-do list never seems to end and your chasing that task till the end of the year. But what about those whose survival changes in days, hours, even minutes? When you blink and all the options you thought you had before have now dwindled down to: what can I swap for food or cash…or where’s my drug that makes my reality a little bit better? One day you’re surrounded by your street family and the next, you didn’t pull your weight with them so there you sit, alone indefinitely.
It took me about 20 minutes to get home from downtown. I parked the car and sorted through the images I’d just seen. “Focus now” I think to myself “you have dinner to help with and baths to give”.
That night, when all is settling down, I ask my girls what they want to pray for. The usual requests go out for their “cousins who live far, far away” or a safe night, their teachers at school. But tonight, my oldest looks at me and says “I have an idea Mommy”. “Oh really?” I said, “what is it?” Proudly she replies “let’s pray to God for the boys and girls far away that don’t have a house or toys". I remembered earlier that week talking to her about Haiti and what had been going on there. But tonight, my mind replayed the events of that afternoon… and I thought of her. “Well,” I reminded her, “there are lots of girls and boys right here that don’t have a house or toys”. She stared towards her bed for a moment as if trying to process what I had just told her. Was she picturing her friends without a bed? No piles of stuffed animals to cuddle with at night? Was she wondering what kids do all day without newly polished toys or dress up clothes? I’ll never know what goes on in her young mind but one thing I do know is that she’s pretty intuitive The next sentence out of her mouth summed up why I feel inclined to do what I do. She reminded me that all hope is not lost.“Ok” she said “then we should pray for the whole wide world and Jesus can help them”. I looked down at her, her eyes burning with enthusiasm, “that’s right” I said softly, ”so, let’s pray”.
1/16/10
Young Girl, Young Girl, What Do You See?
After some time of deliberating, the Doc walked in with the results. "A herniation of your L4 and L5 discs is causing them to bulge and give you nerve pain" he said, unseemly disturbed. Seriously? I'm 29 years old and I already have degenerative disc disease? Sure it's common, by the age of 50, 85% of us will show signs of this back pain. But again, I reiterate : I am 29. I have three little kids, grad school, part time work, church responsibilities, hiking trips...the list went on. The plain and simple truth of the matter is, I don't have time for this.
I hobbled to my car, easing my way in like I had just given birth while Dave drove as gently as possible back to the house. I had used the walker in the hospital to ease some discomfort, so I suppose I could secretly use it at home. After all, I hadn't seen any young suburban moms hobble to the park with snacks in their walker basket lately I would wait until this inflammation died down then I would go back to life as normal. Back to how I want to define myself. A definition that didn't include a walker, a bent over crouch or a medicine cabinet full of little orange bottles. Sure I had seen lots of people that needed assistance walking. A few girls at school in wheelchairs, older adults at church, grocery stores, heck, I constantly urge my own family members to do what's best for them and use a cane or whatnot. They were still themselves, weren't they? They were the same friends and family I loved. Nothing had changed except for a superficial adjustment of their physical ability. A walking stick wouldn't define them. I never thought poorly of them or considered them inferior to me.
BUT - then it dawned on me. Of course I did. I formulated my opinions of them, opinions that had some sort of negative connotation. I had to have. For when it came time to accept my lot of back pain, I denied it. I refused to use a walker in public. I pushed myself beyond my abilities because it's what I've always done and I won't be stopped by my pain. After all, I had places to go and important things to do!
And then it started. I noticed little things at first like toilet paper being a far reach in a stall. Heavy doors at the post office or stairs without railings. I began to notice things that could have made my life a lot easier being absent from my everyday life. Taken for granted. Overlooked by the busy and self-determined society who illuminated their privilege of ablism.
However, it's not the tangible things that bother me the most now. It's the spoken or unspoken language we all use from time to time. I caught myself saying things like "I feel like an old lady" or "my 30's better be better than this". I noticed myself get embarrassed as I would have to get up slowly from a bench once our name was called at a restaurant, or if there was an activity at my job that included a lot of movement, I passively sat out instead of saying "I have a bad back". Wasn't I a confidant woman? What was this new condition that had broken my strong hold on the world around me?
Discrimination comes in many forms.
It's most often the ones that are so closely knit into our society, our language, our slang or habits. It's disguised as personal preferences and glossed over as cliche's. It's constantly being re-enforced as we skip through life and give no second thought to what "I feel like an old lady" is really trying to convey. Are old ladies bad? Is old age something to avoid, full of pain, and horrible things? Perhaps some might think so. What if I said "I feel like an old man"? Would that insinuate a plethora of wisdom or, like an "old lady", insinuate aches, pains and miserableness? Certainly, it can't be that terrible. Certainly that's not what my future holds. For I would hope that by the time I have come to the age of being considered an "old lady", my faith will have increased tremendously. My love for my partner will be overflowing with selflessness. My children will have grown knowing their God, their passions and the love of their parents. Particularly, their mother, the "old lady".
The question is continually raised - Isn't it silly to be making such a big deal about language? Isn't this "Politically correct" business a bit too extreme? Perhaps. But first, consider this: what images am I instilling in my children as they grow and learn? If my reference to a people or population usually comes with negative undertones, what message? Or if I'm speaking of myself and the sentence is laden with put-downs. hmm.... I wonder.
Mind Over Matter
The idea of blogging has teased me for some time now. Who would read my posts besides myself? I can picture it now, browsing them in the middle of the night as I procrastinate from research papers, and after I had already exhausted my facebook profile. Will I be able to articulate my reaction to the world around me? What will I write of? Motherhood, Christian feminism, social work, family life, crossroads and my constant need to be in the mountains.
Of course I can occasionally interject my thoughts out loud at home - between screaming matches of ring-around-the-rosy and the ever spouting fountain of questions also known as Kennedy. If I get lucky, I can head downstairs and lock myself in the furnace closet to hear myself, but inevitably, someone will start yelling my name: "Mooooom-mmmmmy" and I'll have to truck back upstairs and fish out the sippy cup that was being filled with toilet water.
Despite that snapshot of reality...I'll take the optimistic road and... write.
Of course I can occasionally interject my thoughts out loud at home - between screaming matches of ring-around-the-rosy and the ever spouting fountain of questions also known as Kennedy. If I get lucky, I can head downstairs and lock myself in the furnace closet to hear myself, but inevitably, someone will start yelling my name: "Mooooom-mmmmmy" and I'll have to truck back upstairs and fish out the sippy cup that was being filled with toilet water.
Despite that snapshot of reality...I'll take the optimistic road and... write.
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