The View from a Broad

Meme

She taught me how to play solitaire right from the start. Before I learned how to say the name of the card game she called ‘big casino’ I called it ‘Baked Cresino”. It was a game with adding and subtracting and certainly helped my math skills. The solitaire game she explained to me was always (at least theoretically) winnable. But back in the days of decks of cards we both lost often. Nowadays, it is a phone app called Free-cell and you don’t lose because you can always backtrack to the beginning. I still play most every day in memory of my Meme. When I was little, I would wake up in the morning and run into her bedroom first thing – we would play cards before she got up to make us all breakfast. She was 65 when I met her, when I was born, and she always had time for me for the rest of her life.

Meme was my beloved grandma and she taught me everything I know, and lots I am still learning. She made that one safe place in her heart for me that I so desperately needed as a sensitive young girl in the sixties and seventies.

She was born as Irene Hill. We called her Meme though, shortened from ‘my mama’ as she was introduced to my older sister. She was the most important human in my life. Nowadays, when I meet a therapist and start talking about my parents the therapist will soon blurt out – “but why are you mostly okay?” – I always proudly say that Meme loved me no matter what. They inevitable nod their heads sagely and say – ‘ah okay’.

In 1961 my mother was told in the early throws of her pregnancy with me that I would never be born. She was also prescribed thalidomide but wouldn’t take it (I would have been severely damaged by it if she had but that’s another story). So, Mom went back to university to get her master’s degree despite her two children and one foster son at home. She wanted something else to keep her busy. But I stubbornly kept growing in her womb. When I was born and she still had to sit her exams for her master’s degree she called her own mother – long distance from Oxford, England to Warm Springs, Oregon – and asked her to come help for a while. Her mama quit her job, sold her car, and stored her stuff with a cousin in Portland before she got on the plane to come to England and help out.

Mom and Meme fought for the rest of their lives – I’m afraid it may have been their love language. But Meme stayed steady for me as I grew up in a turbulent household.

Irene had been born in a sod dugout in Omega County, Oklahoma territory in 1898. Her earliest memory was losing her rag doll out the back of their covered wagon as they moved west to make room for the Indian reservation that Oklahoma was becoming (at least temporarily). Irene traced her people back to the German mercenaries (called the Hessians) who were brought over by England to fight the colonists. She said, “once they lost, they figured, ‘why go home?” and Meme’s practical disposition linked unapologetically to that spirit. Her parents had four girls and two boys I think, and they were not rich. They dutifully left Oklahoma and moved to Missouri when she was very young, and they continued farming. Though Meme’s mother’s (for whom I was named) father bred horses and made money from horse racing. Much later in life Meme told me that he had starved himself to death under their roof when he lost his sight so badly that he couldn’t tell the difference between a one-dollar bill and a twenty. But that is also another story.

The Hill family lived near a tiny town which had a one room schoolhouse that only went up to grade 8. So Irene repeated 8^th grade three times in a row – She loved learning so much. Two of her sisters married two neighbor brothers (making ‘double cousins’) and her two brothers worked always close to the farm and the life that they knew so well. I remember visiting one of Meme’s sisters in the 1960s and getting our water from the kind of pump that had to be ‘primed’ out in the garden of her house. She had married her sister’s widower later in life but there was no shame around that…I understood that ‘keeping it in the family’ as they did had to do with ‘manning the homesteads’ of the newly broken ‘wilderness’. I am reminded of Willa Cather as I write this (though my mother never liked that author’s condescending tone).

In the 1970s I once trotted into the kitchen at a family Christmas in Buffalo, NY where Meme was grumbling as she put together our feast. She never liked Christmas much. I asked her what her family had eaten for Christmas dinner when she was a kid and she scoffed as she responded, “well corn meal much, just like every other day”.

Irene’s other grandfather had been a civil war soldier and considered himself rich in Lincoln, Nebraska, because he had cash enough to put a kid through high school on his veteran’s pension. He offered all his offspring a turn for one of their kids to go to the academy in the big city. One of Meme’s aunts had a son who had just finished high school and was heading off to Princeton to study math (and then work on the Manhattan project) when her grandpa visited Irene’s family farm. He offered his granddaughter, my grandmother, her lifeline to a much bigger existence when he took her to live with him in Nebraska. I love to tell this story to Europeans and Africans because it points out just how precious frontier women were. Their talents were not to be wasted – if a girl had potential to learn she was cultivated as a valuable resource that the greater society needed. The Hill family of Missouri were hillbillies all the way, but Irene was smart and given a chance to an education. She paid that forward many times by becoming a teacher for the rest of her life. When she retired at 65 to take care of me, she left a job teaching 5th grade on an Indian reservation in Oregon which she had found to be terribly hard work.

In fact, fast forward to my school days and she taught me to read despite my dyslexia. I was not a quick study even though my IQ test results said I was smart. My grandma’s patience was priceless to me. I remember thinking how ugly the word ugly looked on the paper as I learned how to read it and Meme saying “I never thought of it that way but I see your point, it is not a pretty spelling”.

But back again to the WWI – Irene was a single teacher living in Lincoln, Nebraska when she was pointedly not invited to the knitting bee where the ‘cool girls’ were knitting socks to send to the troops in the trenches. She showed up anyway, and proudly stated as she walked into the silenced room that “one volunteer is worth two conscripts any day”. I took that hutzpah to heart – even though I didn’t have the language to call it hutzpah when my grandma told me her story.

My Mom used to tease her mom about how Meme didn’t know enough to wipe the water off the kitchen floor after washing the dishes. Mom said it was because Meme was used to a dirt floor. Meme said that we had her braided rag rugs which wiped up for her – though I remember thinking that the nylon stockings that Meme had knit into rag rugs weren’t very absorbent. They were certainly better than nothing. Meme was not a perfectionist. She was fond of saying, with an exaggerated drawl, that it was “bettr ‘en it were”. I carry that saying forward to this day for when I have done enough.

Meme lived with us on and off for my whole childhood. Mom would periodically kick her out of the house though, even while Mom was divorcing my dad and/or marrying my stepfather. Meme ran the household. I remember when I was seven years old a man tried to take me away in his car as I was walking home from school. I knew enough to run all the way home. When nobody was home, I knew enough to run to Meme’s apartment a couple blocks further and she called the police. They called my dad from work but I couldn’t describe the man at all: “how big was her?”, “grown up sized.” “What did he look like?” “a grown-up man with brown hair and white skin.” We didn’t have the term ‘latchkey kid’ in those days but I was safe after all. And that day my dad and grandma both hugged me and told me I was brave.

Meme had raised my mother, her only child, while traveling all around the west – either with or without my granddad. He was a mining engineer and had lots of ‘gig work’. So Mom was a latchkey kid herself. She had had trouble learning to read as well, before anyone knew what dyslexia was, and hers was exacerbated by changing schools often. But her mother finally taught her at home when Kathryn was in the 5^th grade. My Mom never internalized a concept of being stupid, rather she got very cross with the ‘see and say’ method of teaching reading. Mom and Meme agreed on that.

When WWII broke out Irene took her eight-year-old daughter to Portland, Oregon where both parents worked full-time for the war effort – Irene became ‘Rosy the Riveter’ for the duration. Mom’s fondest memory of her own childhood was sitting on her dad’s lap and listening to the war news on the radio every evening. He had been a WWI veteran and explained everything to his only child even if she was a girl. But Meme didn’t have a fond memory of factory work.

My mother was raised without religion and she laid Catholicism on her five daughters in an almost punitive manner. Once I asked my mom and grandma to become Catholic for me. Mom refused but Meme acknowledged that ‘religion is good for immigrants I guess’ implying that we solid Americans didn’t need that crutch. Later in life however, I brought up religion again; Meme clicked her cheeks and said “whelp, I’ll tell ya. There’s more to life than meat and potatoes. That’s all I know.”

After I graduated college and went to work in Europe for a year, my then boyfriend came over to hitchhike around with me. Meme told me on a long distance phone call that “back in my day, nice girls didn’t do that sort of thing. But you’re a nice girl and you are doing that so I guess that times have change”. What a vote of confidence I felt.

Meme lived long enough to see my son be born and to tell me that he needed a sibling. She said that he was too sociable to be an only child. She said she knew that being pregnant was hard for me, she herself had only given birth to one child; having told me when I, as a child, and asked why I had no aunts or uncles ‘we could have had more children……. but we were careful.’ Mom had been born in 1936 and my guess is that her parent’s didn’t feel safe in that economy to have more kids. But Meme told me in 1986 that my son needed a brother or sister to keep him company throughout his life.

Fast forward a few years after Meme’s untimely death at 89 years old and my son and I are looking through my photo album – He called it the ‘Meme died book’ – when his little sister asked where she herself was in all those pictures. I thought I was being kind when I said ‘Sorry dear, you weren’t born yet” But she would have none of that nonsense – she scolded in here little two-year-old voice, like I was some kind of dummy: “No Mommy! I was your grandma!”

From the mouths of babes!

Jasmina

I watched with fear and loathing from our middle-class home in the suburbs of Washington DC to the beginning of the crumbling of Yugoslavia. I had a Serbian friend who was studying medicine in the USA and she was very civilized and not at all as brutal as the media was portraying ‘the Serbs’ to be.

When she asked me if I might take in a young Serbian woman she knew, who had come to study for her last year of High School in the USA and then misplaced her parents – I was pleased with the opportunity. I didn’t want an ‘au pair girl’ because a) I couldn’t afford it and b) I was home after school to take care of my ‘high needs’ kids on my own – but I did want a young woman who wasn’t scared of children who could stay in our spare room and be a friend to our family’s. Jasmina was just that. And she gave us a small rent to help us cover mortgage.

She came with stories of her two years trying to make do in our radical capitalist America. She had been forced out of her original family because they couldn’t keep her after a couple of months in high school. So, then she had gone to be an au pair in a military family in DC, the man was a “Green Barret” and the woman had an office job. Jasmina felt great animosity from the woman but liked the man just fine (here I must say that ‘our Jasmine’ was gorgeous and in retrospect the woman was certainly jealous and uncomfortable with her husband being home alone with her). They too had wanted her to leave. Meanwhile, Serbian Orthodox holy man to whom she had turned in despiration had made very inappropriate passes at her and Jasmina was feeling fragile and angry when she came to us.

I was 12 years – almost to the day – older than her and I was glad for the friendship. Jasmina’s first comment was how healthy we ate. This was not something I really thought was true – my kids ate school lunches and cheerios for breakfast, but I was consciously trying my best, and I guess compared to the other American’s Standard American Diet (SAD) our food was good. I at least had an idea that Fritos and M&Ms didn’t make a balanced diet. She assured me that elsewhere they didn’t have my old-fashioned understanding of food.

Jasmina and I chatted for hours at a time, and I encouraged her that being beautiful was not a crime that she didn’t deserve the sexually predatory nature of her mentor nor the sexual jealousy of her previous boss. I got her a job at the non-profit tax publishing house I worked at part-time and she quickly grew from there. She was quite a dynamic young woman. Jasmina and I were very good friends, to this day our whole families consider me her godmother. I am visiting her in Bosnia this summer.

A memory that really sticks (like a vitamin pill going down wrong in my throat) involved a long-distance call I was making to my sister in Washington State. Jasmine ran through the house screaming and interrupted it because she cried “your government is bombing my parents” (meaning her hometown). Luckily, they were not killed personally and then she refound her parents – her father had been injured as a soldier and was home with mom and kid brother, who had become a heroin addict rather than be drafted. I memorized ‘Jasmina ni ay cutchi’ in Serbian just in case her Mom called. Next, I learned “ya ne goverime serbski” in the same language as we started getting other Serbo-Croatian language calls. I remember one day answering our phone to a Serbian speaker and apologizing with my best accent only to have him come back to me in perfect English with “neither do I. I speak Croatian.” I had the presence of mind to put that rude man back in his box by pointing out that he was calling an American number in Northern Virginia, and that he might at least start with English. It turns out he was a member of the Bosnian Bobsled team that had competed in the Olympics to get out of Sarajevo. He was very predatory to ‘our Jasmine’ so I didn’t like him.

Meanwhile, Jasmina persuaded us to make room for her best friend who was an urban Muslim from Sarajevo as well. It was funny actually: Jasmina looked like a gypsy and Ana was a tall blond mini skirt wearing woman who was studying physics and turned down all Muslim invitations to Ramadan or Eid, treating them with unveiled distain. The two young ladies became famous in our neighborhood for being so gorgeous – as they headed out at night in our family’s little old sky-blue car while they sang ‘’Ace of Base” at the top of their lungs. I felt so old with my two little kids and my morning Sesame Street.

They loved our family Thanksgiving; my brother and sister came from afar for the hugely loaded table. But I made a mistake by putting my brother between the two young Europeans. He got a terrible headache from their perfumes, but we couldn’t tell them because they were being so formal and correct for our high holiday.

Next a young man who had briefly dated Jasmina back in Bosnia showed up in town. Sam was half Serbian and half Croatian (being from a ‘mixed marriage’ during the “Pax Tito”) and had been given a gun and told to fight – starting with physically beating up old men who had been his neighbors. He refused, was beaten himself and escaped that night, selling his gun in Belgrade and taking a bus to Amsterdam where he got on a boat to the Virgin Islands. He illegally got to St Thomas (by stowing away on a pirate ship – REALLY) and then flew to DC where he called Jasmina. He joined us too and became a great waiter at our local TGI Fridays.

One of my daughter’s earliest memories is seeing Sam and Jasmina both crying because he didn’t get ‘asylum’ – she thought that if ‘sylum’s were so precious we must certainly be able to give him one of ours. In fact, it took a lot of money and an expensive lawyer but Sam did finally get his asylum.

During that time however I was heartbroken to watch Jasmina and Ana lose their friendship with each other as their tribes learned mutual hatred so very effectively. Ana finally moved out but Sam and Jasmina stayed on longer. Later, Jasmina went to the American University on scholarship for her last two years – she got in from her Northern Virginia Community College without the SATs because during her interview she explained just how Americentric they were and there was no way she would do well. Meanwhile Sam took an online course in cyber security that he also strongly recommended to me. I thought it was stupidly expensive as well as boring so I didn’t do it. If I had followed his advice, I might have become a millionaire in DC like he has, but I would not have been lived all over the world as I have been lucky enough to do.

I humbly state that I pushed Jasmina hard to go home and help her country and she obediently did so. But after having a son she had to leave again because she couldn’t raise him in that culture. Now, Jasmina is in California – where she went to be near me, two years before I left to come to Paris where I now live. But she can go home every summer and spend time with her family. I will join her this year.

She would love to move back to Europe – but can’t afford to at this time, and doesn’t have the papers to live in the EU. The importance that we play in each other’s lives and the richness that our friendship has brought to both of us cannot be overestimated as we grow older. Maybe I will retire to Bosnia.

Awakening on the I-95

In the rush of suburban, capitalist, 30-something, parenthood its easy to forget. Maybe that’s partly why we clutter up our lives so much. But every once in a while, it hits you upside the head. Today it did.

It’s hot today, but the air is clean, it’s a slow and summertime day. It’s Sunday but I’m working to make up hours spent otherwise during the work week. I had a good breakfast with the kids then borrowed the car.

As I drive downtown to the library my mind is on my family – how they are all contented and well and doing their own things.

Then BOOM. It tumbles down on me: How alone we each are.

We ride, swim, fly or crawl through life. We frantically attach ourselves to others.

Some of us create new life; as if we were God – though we clearly are not.

We are pitiful little bodies, stoking the machine of life.

Ultimately each is on her or his (or there) own: We are sick alone, we are sad alone, we are happy alone. We love alone and we die alone. The world goes on without us.

It’s mostly okay. But sometimes its not – then singing is my only way out. “Aaaa-mazing Grace how Sweet the Sooooouuuund”.

‘Shit – why did that guy cut me off without a turn signal. “Learn to drive Charly.”

I hope the library is open” (written in June 1995)

I just found that old memo-to-self and it made me think: Clearly there is a reason why Americans love their commutes. I think it has to do with forced quiet time. You can listen to the radio or to audiobooks, but you cannot do much else. One must sit quietly with one’s thoughts and feelings.

This is no longer my reality. I no longer drive, the fact that I don’t need a car is, in fact, one of the major reasons I love Paris. I find public transport for my commutes to be much more social (in a very passive way) than is a car. On the metro, I feel like part of the bigger world somehow. There are other people here just like me, they may not look like me or even look at me; but because we live in a civilized country, I trust that if the chips were down, we would help each other. That definitely gives me a sense of security.

Of course, there are ‘bad guys’ in the world. But honestly, I think most predatory people (though of course not all of them) are in positions of authority so that they can conquer and compete with each other for loot and power. They don’t mingle with the masses. Also, I have found that if I don’t present as pray the predators go away.

So luckily, I like most people. Like Blanche Dubois from a Streetcar Named Desire, “I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers”. I even like hearing my neighbors moving around in the apartment upstairs from me. I know them, though we seldom chat, and they are nice folks. I trust the general public (most people) to be on my side.

Now of course, crowds are a different species. I go to peaceful demonstrations, for example, until there is any hint of conflict then I flee. I don’t like crowd.

But commuters are not crowds – we are just regular folk going about our days, even though we are often packed in together.

Clearly, I am not a “Lone Wolf” like so many people claim to be (notice how predatory that term sounds as well).

I have lived through some potentially life-threatening events: earthquakes, blizzards, strikes, and getting lost in the woods – though thankfully never war; and I know that people come through for each other most of the time. I want to live near people, I want to know they are there, and I love to socialize.

And yet I happily live alone.

How we got to Dhaka

The year was 1995, my kids were in elementary school, and I was working part-time at a tax publishing house in Northern Virginia so that I could be there for them after school.

We owned a house in Falls Church, VA and visited Florida to see Lew’s mom often. We got a dog and I really tried to be a perfect little suburban housewife – but I was sinking into depression. American doctors prescribed prozac. Honestly, I think I had grown up believing that as long as I played my roll right people would love me, and as long as people loved me all was well. If I was dependable and loving, cheerful and responsible, then life would be good. If I tried hard enough I could make my life good. But it wasn’t working out – I couldn’t. I was not born to be a happy suburban wife. I wasn’t ready to just support an ambition and hard-working government employee of a husband and raise to happy kids.

Lew and I went to a marriage counselor for a short while…then I went alone to the therapist. She helped me have the courage to say to Lew “we gotta get out of here”. He was pretty happy as he was – he had a job in the Dept. of Energy policy office and a supporting wife and lovely children, after all. But we decided that he and I would both apply for jobs overseas. I don’t think he really thought we would leave home, deep in his heart of hearts. But he had promised me when he married me and in my brain, I knew that if we didn’t find something where we could live abroad as a united family, then I would take the kids and go it alone in the developing world.

We both applied to whatever we were qualified for, anywhere on Earth. Not surprisingly, Lew (PhD from Penn) got the best offer: Teaching environmental development in Dhaka Bangladesh.

One particular day sticks in my memory like old gum. It was one of those days where you stand up for what you need. I got home from work to make lunch for mother-in-law Joan and then get the kids from school when I received a call from Lew from his office.

He was laughing when he told me “I just received a fax. Let me read it ‘We are honored to offer you a job as professor of Environmental Science at the Independent University of Dhaka. Can you start in one month’s time? We will offer $2000 a month pay and round-trip tickets for you and your wife’. Can you believe it? Hahaha”

Of course, my response was not what he was hoping for: “Oh Lew this is your big break into academia! Let’s go. But we can’t be there in a month. Ask about next term? Oh my God this is so exciting.” No more laughter from him was forthcoming. He back peddled hard: “Lili I don’t even know where Dhaka is! Isn’t Bangladesh the poorest country in the world? I have a steady job with the US government. We can’t give that up”. Etc etc.

The look on my usually good-natured mother-in-law was the meanest I ever saw in her whole life. “You are not taking my family away” – I might have laughed at her intensity except that I was honestly a bit scared of her tiny person myself. Although I didn’t know it at the time – Joan had most of the power in our marriage after all (and yes I do mean Lew’s and my marriage). Joan had her son wrapped around her finger with her ‘collapse and conquer’ approach to life – but that’s another story for another time. I told her she could come to Dhaka too. But she would have none of that. She stared daggers at me for the rest of the day. Maybe she quit talking too, but she never talked much, until she had her evening cocktails in her.

Back in 1995, Joan spend several months a year with us in suburban Virginia and I took the kids down to visit her in Florida several times a year as well. She liked that life and didn’t want me messing it up.

She didn’t want us to go away. She had nobody else to take care of her and she felt that we wouldn’t be safe. But I had explained to Lew when we married him that I couldn’t raise my kids fully in the USA and thus we would have to live abroad for a time. He had agreed. My sisters and brother and I were raised partly in Africa, and I thought it was the best thing that every happened to us. So I wanted the same for my kids.

Before I left to get the kids from their school, Lew admitted on the phone that he almost hadn’t told me about the job offer because he was afraid that I would like it. But his Mom had assured him that I too would get a “kick out of it”. She didn’t know me as well as he did.

So next, I called my oldest sister in Seattle, I knew Anamaria would back me up in the need to get the kids out of suburbia USA during their formative years. She did not disappoint – cheering me (us) on and even saying she would come and visit us the next Christmas.

I started talking up the 18-month adventure and the leave of absence idea to anyone who would listen.

At this time you see, the US government (Under Reagan??- nope Clinton) had a culling process going on, whereby they fired employees and shut down whole offices from within the Government. We knew that the Senate Republicans didn’t like the Policy Office of the Dept. of Energy (facts already had a liberal bias by then, and Lew was working as best he could to mitigate climate change). Lew’s boss really liked the idea of his taking a leave of absence – in naive hopes that this would keep them under the radar from the nasty government shutdowns. No such luck of course – so we returned to no jobs when we came back from Dhaka. But that’s another story too.

We negotiated with Grandma Joan that we would only go for a year and a half, and she could even come visit us. She tried to tell us that we had to leave the kids with her, but I knew that my parents had been through the same thing when I was a baby. At one point Joan even said “when your kids are grown up they will move to Jupiter and then you will see how I feel”. But Lew rightly pointed out that Joan had immigrated to the USA from Canada when she graduated university in Nova Scotia, and her parents had visited her. Americans move for work.

Finally, we decided to move in January of 1996. I had to threatene that I was going somewhere with my kids alone if Lew couldn’t stomach it. I had some connections in Nairobi and Lew didn’t want to lose us all so he bravely went along with the scheme.

Also, the fact that a neighbor lady, one whose husband collected guns, had a psychotic break and decided that our kids, Sadie aged 6 and Terry aged 9, were her enemies, helped encourage us to get out of town fast.

I quit my job and Lew took a leave of absence from his. We rented out our house and sold our furniture. The kids’ doctor asked me what I would do with all my pretty things and I responded “that’s easy, I don’t have any” I packed 8 large suitcases (back in the days when one had luggage allowances) full of stuff that I thought we would need: one huge trunk was from People’s Drugs (“No More Tangles” cream rinse, a pool ‘noodle’ antihistamine, which may have saved a sister’s life the next year, that sort of thing). Another one was for children’s literature (having been 10 when my six-year-old sister and moved to Ghana I remembered the value of good books for kids). I brought warm footy pajamas in big kid’s sizes because I had been warned that Dhaka apartments got really cold for a few months a year. I hid away Halloween, Easter and Christmas paraphernalia in the luggage as well because Sadie still believed in Santa. Terry wasn’t progressing very well with his reading (we found out later how dyslexic he was) so he needed to practice the fun Scholastica young adult fiction on his own. Also, I knew that we wouldn’t have a television, but I didn’t tell that to the kids. I did tell them that they would be able to eat with their fingers in Bangladesh. But I didn’t even know that Terry would want to eat with his left hand which is a major no no in Muslim countries.

Finally, I sold our piano to buy the kids each one-way tickets to Dhaka and my younger sister – the other young mother from my family – told me that she was only then coming fully to terms with the extent of my insanity: “you don’t sell your piano to buy one way tickets to Bangladesh for your six and nine-year olds”. But I knew that if we kept up-to-date US credit cards, we could buy return tickets home whenever we needed too. And simply pay them off over time, once we were back to a western economy. But we did actually send money home to the states every month from Dhaka – sort of a reverse immigrant thing in retrospect.

Our January flight out of Washington, Dulles airport to London then Doha then Dhaka was postponed the night before we thought we were leaving for a whole week because of a huge snowstorm. This quirk of fate worked really well for us because we sent the kids out to sled with our neighbors while Lew and I frantically painted the empty house for several days straight. I can’t remember where we slept at night but I guess we still had some mattresses somewhere. It was a very cozy time and the neighbors were awesomely hospitable.

Wouldn’t you know it? The taxi driver who took us to the airport was a Pakistani gentleman had fought in the language wars between East and West Pakistan in 1970, His side lost and he warned us that the Bengalis were lovely people as long as they were illiterate, but “be careful of those who can read”.

Lew was off to teach University. It was hard for him – he had to be very brave a few time – but he has often thanked me for making him take that gig. It changed his, and all of our lives, a great deal for the better. So happy ending.

Dhaka Dowry

Something about my own baby girl’s 35^th birthday has made me remember an episode that she didn’t understand back when I was 35.

It’s another true tale from our time in Dhaka, Bangladesh, in 1996 when my daughter Sadie was seven years old.

Sadie was often as tall as grown-up Bengali women. I have trouble accepting this visual memory nowadays, but it’s true. I am a tall woman even here in the west, but my daughter was literally as big as many of the adult women I dealt with daily in Dhaka.

Clearly, Bengalis are a naturally small people whose growth had been further stunted in the 90s by their malnutrition, particularly among mothers and babies. I remember reading, in fact, that Bangladesh was one of the very few places on earth in which the average human size was actively decreasing during the 1990s. Childhood and maternal poverty were real and significant. One interesting detail in their culture was that men generally ate first, then boys, then moms than little girls…..so females went hungry most often.

Bottom line – Sadie was big enough that she could hand down her pretty childhood dresses to teenaged girls who wanted to use them for their own wedding dresses. We got used to this reality.

Meanwhile we lived in a very public and social venue. Our home in Dhaka was a lovely four-bedroom apartment that we usually shared with at least one adult female visitor from the west. The city was terribly crowded so we offered western sanctuary for several Fulbright scholars as well as woman colleagues with our family of four. But we were never separated from our Bengali community either because of Mrs. Muktah. I had hired her as just about the only woman available who was willing to do the job of cook/cleaning lady in our house. It is necessary to explain here, that the cook is traditionally the head of all household staff in South Asia – like the butler in all those Agatha Christie novels. Thus, putting a woman in the roll of cook was a radical shift from the social norm. It was too prestigious. Mind you, I did it on purpose – I had been warned not to leave male staff home alone with young children, especially not little girls. I would not risk any trouble there, and I only wanted one staff member. We never had any pedophile type problems in Dhaka at all by the way. But, I came to town knowing that I would hire only a woman cook/baby sitter. Mrs Muktah fit the bill perfectly.

Now, of course, she had a husband and child of her own, her son was similar in age to our kids. I thought that was cool. She explained that she had a much older son from her first marriage who was back home with her mother in “the village”. Mrs Muktah’s first marriage had been arranged for her before she even had her first period. She had “married for love” to her present husband and somehow this was considered extremely shameful. I was never to tell anyone. They had their own son, and she wanted all three of them to live in our one room down on the ground floor. Her husband was a gardener at the ‘American Club’ which was conveniently walking distance away, and to which we were allowed to be members because of the hardship post that was Dhaka. So I said yes of course (commuting has never appealed to me); but then I had to clear this with our landlord. He thought he didn’t approve of so many people. But then he met the lovely family, they moved in and we all lived happily ever after. We even hired a snake charmer once to do his mystical dance in our unused parking space. Magic.

Predictably, Mrs Muktah had to hire her own young girl helper, who stayed with them in the one room ground floor servants quarters as well but who spent all day up in our apartment helping out. So, we were not lonely.

Bangladesh is about the size of Wisconsin and had a population of 124 million souls at that time, so it was crowded. People were used to being piled up together. The young professional women who stayed with us were regularly and sincerely asked if they didn’t feel lonely having their own room – alone. “aren’t you scared at night?” The social contract for women did not include “a room of one’s own”. People considered it more human and comfortable to have four or five to a room.

Our landlord lived alone on the first floor. He was a retired sea captain who had fought loyally against West Pakistan in the 1970 Bengali war of independence from Pakistan (on the other side of India, but also a Muslim country and it had been the colonial overlords of East Pakistan from 1947 to 1970). The countries’ names say a lot as “the Islamic Republic of Pakistan” had been the power over “the People’s Republic of Bangladesh” back when it was still East Pakistan. Our landlord – The Captain – had heard the news of the Language Revolution (precipitated by the University of Dhaka’s poetic love of Bengali in 1971). He was at sea at the time on a big war ship and had changed his ship’s flag from Pakistani to Bengali. He had risked execution because this could have been an act of treason. Instead, he became a freedom fighter who was quick to tell about his success story. He was happily divorced at the time we knew him and living off the rent he made from his top three floors. I liked the Captain a lot, but he was ready to die: observing Ramadan against doctor’s orders in the hope of taking the good karma to heaven with him.

The Captain’s apartment building didn’t have a gate or a lock on the main door so beggars used to show up at our front door up on the fourth floor. I always had bananas (often a bit over ripe for my taste) and a few coins for them. I even sometimes had hand me down clothes from my fast growing children to give to these girls. They were usually girls.

This particular day a young girl who was just a bit smaller than Sadie knocked at our door. She was begging to collect money for her dowry because her family couldn’t feed her anymore. She explained how she had to pay for a husband so that no bad man would get her. She was about 12 or 13. We had a lovely chat with her because her English was excellent. I didn’t have a gun to give her at the time but the scheme I had long had to give every 11 year old girl in Bangladesh a a small fire arm and to teach her how to use it against ‘bad men’ solidified in my mind. I didn’t have a gun handy though, so I went to get a dress to give her that was slightly too small for Sadie. I left the two of them chatting happily while I picked a particularly lovely long, flower child type dress.

When I came back our Bengali friend was explaining how she was going to wear the dress as her wedding dress once she got her dowry collected, but I said that I would not give cash for a dowry because I didn’t approve. Bangladesh at that time had a toxic mix of Muslim and Hindu culture. Girls had to pay a dowry to get married; but the man could divorce them easily any time he wanted to and send them home to mama. Then her family of birth would often not accept her because she was “tainted”. I still see red when I think of this ‘tradition” – and I spent a lot of time in 1996 railing against women abuse to anyone who would listen. A Bengali novelist at the time, argued rightfully that wives were like prostitutes but that prostitutes at least got paid. The Muslims powers that be in that ‘people’s republic’ brought a fatwa against this woman but she was right. Around that time I got the idea to start a school for this age of girl and teach them self-help – and self-defense – skills….but it never happened.

This day Sadie and I collected some food for our little friend to bring home to her family and then we gave her the new dress. I may have even given her a bit of cash too. We both really liked her, she was sharp as a whip and funny too.

The punch line for me – and it was a punch in the gut frankly – came as I patted her pretty little head to say good-bye: This girl, who was collecting a dowry to get married and start her own family, still had her own baby soft spot – the fontanelle – pumping away. Her own skull had never developed properly, presumable due to malnutrition. I almost fainted in shock, but I didn’t tell Sadie and we kept it all light and lovely as we said our farewells.

God Rest that girl’s soul – I’m sure she is dead by now. I hope she didn’t leave any orphans.

Instant Intimacy

Gonna Getcha

I was only in California for one week in 2018 to legalize my separation when our daughter explained how she had booked three activities for this, the last weekend in November: She had got a scholarship to some sort of a love and intimacy weekend retreat before she knew I would be in town and then she found out she had to go for a weekend campaign fundraiser for her job. “No Problem” I said “Can you give me the weekend love scholarship? Where is it?”

When I heard that it was in a campground north of Marin County I fretted about driving there So – ever competent my daughter – she called (on her own without even explaining to me) and asked for a ride from Davis to the retreat.

I wasn’t thinking much about the idea – in fact I was shopping at the dollar store for dinner and stuff to take back to France with me (I got some awesome face cream and an annual calendar) when my cell phone rang the day before the workshop.

I answered to “Hi this is Greg, and I was asked by Sheila herself to call you and offer you a ride to the HAI meeting”

I calculated fast and bumbled out “UUUhn. Oh, you mean this weekend retreat. Do you live in Davis? Who’s Sheila?”

“Yes, but I didn’t list myself as being available to carpool because I thought we all might need the alone time and I didn’t want to force conversation on anyone.”

“No worries, I can ride quietly in the back seat if you want. I haven’t absolutely decided I’m going – my daughter is gifting me this retreat.”

“Oh – so you don’t really know what the retreat is about?”

“Love somehow?? Can I camp there?” I bumbled along

“Well yes. Why don’t you talk to your daughter and if you decide to go you will have to bring your own towel, sleeping bag and air mattress if you wanna camp? I can fit them all in my car that is not a problem.”

“Okay I’ll call this evening. What time would we leave tomorrow?”

“I could pick you up at one pm so we could get there by 4 ….its a long drive”

Now I was getting both excited and scared. God knew I didn’t really want to spend the weekend chilling with my ex but the family I was staying with were looking forward to socializing with me and I had old friends I wanted to see as well.

Talking to daughter over supper with ex decided me. We all got along well, and it was as if nothing had ever happened since he had kicked me out of his home. She explained that she didn’t know much about this HAI retreat, but she had done a warm up thing with her boyfriend and there had been a lot of looking into each other’s eyes and touching each other’s cheeks and stuff……….OK well it would certainly be an adventure! And so VERY Californian Hippy Dippy. I decided I could try it.

I called Greg back and we set up our meeting – over at the car rental actually – where I was renting a car for Sadie to drive down to her work engagement. We carried the air mattress and the sleeping bag and my clothes for the weekend and off we went.

Greg turned out to be a sort of shy, but attractive, older man who still had blond hair after retiring as a dentist. He and his wife had been divorced for several years and he had an on-and-off type girl-friend but he talked about the birth of his first grandchild, and his ailing mother as we drove through California. He too grew up in New York State, but he had moved to California as a young adult and lived there his whole career.

When I told him in the present continuous tense “I am leaving my husband” he thought I meant that in the near future tense – same words different meaning. Based on context. After a full day at the workshop I figured this missed communication out.

Somewhere along the ride down, Greg mentioned that this retreat became ‘clothing optional’ half-way through the second day. OyVAY! I told him I would NOT be taking off my clothes but that I had forgot my swimsuit, so I wouldn’t even be able to use the hot tub. He seemed a tiny bit disappointed – but I didn’t let that worry me – he was a perfect gentleman, and clearly a kind, interesting man.

We talked about how for, young women anyway, we agreed that being polyamorous could be a sign of their boyfriend not being in love enough with them. We talked about divorce. We talked about living alone and how it really is okay and he enjoyed it and I craved it. Despite all my fun tales of adventure from my nomadic life, I confessed to him how very worn out and raw I was feeling. He commiserated.

And finally, we got there. Near the shores of Clear Lake, the venue was a beautiful place nestled into the dry hills of northern California. It had a huge common room, another building that was a dormitory and awesome dining room and some cabins that couples had rented to sleep in. There was also a yurt but it was far from any toilet facility. I decided to set up my sleeping arrangement in the common room.

I went for a walk and had to climb a hill from the camp ground to find phone reception and when I sent pictures to Sarah and the friend I was staying with; the former was happy for me and the latter said if I was too scared she would come and get me. I thanked her but figured I could make it through the first night anyway.

I was the only one who smoked in the whole group of 25 or so people and there was no wine with dinner…..bummer.

We gathered in the common hall, which was very warm indeed. It turned out the workshop was the introductory course in the field of ‘Love, Intimacy and Sexuality’. We were asked to take off our shoes and socks before we entered. Of course, the first thing was to introduce ourselves, explain why were there and tell our biggest hope and fear for the workshop; even just doing that got me crying. I told everyone that I wasn’t at all in the mood to talk about sexuality at that time, but I needed honesty and intimacy, and I would try to stick with it; for the first night anyway.

We had to go around the circle and look deeply into everyone’s eyes and say “I love you. You’re beautiful. Thanks for sharing” OH MY GOD…..I was just effing weeping after two people. I HATED it! But I didn’t want to be anti-social. Then we chose a partner to work with for the whole workshop – of course Greg and I chose each other because we knew each other a tiny bit. I was frankly a bit scared of him being attracted to me….but there was very little choice after all.

There were not a lot of single people there – most people came as a couple – and all the single people were much younger than I – except Greg. It was weird actually – like the fates had meant to set us up somehow. A few of the young women were really obese; but I still felt too old to be at a clothing-optional get-together. And I didn’t want to look at a bunch of naked men either.

Before dinner people were invited to stand up and share why they were there in more depth and front of everyone if they wanted to. One young man got up and cried about his recent divorce and how he missed his wife and felt unattractive and thought he could never love anyone again etc. Some younger people stood up and talked about mild sexual shaming (nobody told of rape or anything too heavy, just parents who judged them, early gay curiosity, or high school in-crowd shaming stuff).

Dinner was fabulous and fun and everyone was friendly and chatty. After dinner they went to dance in the hall but I didn’t join them. I really wanted to go hide alone so I went out and skinny dipped alone in the hot tub even though it was really cold. I hid in the dark and told no one and looked at the sky (pitch black) until it rained again. It was a beautiful place and I decided to go try my bed but it quickly became clear – that a: I would have trouble setting up the air mattress and b: they would be partying pretty late. So I paid the extra $35 for a dormitory bed despite the fact that I snore sometimes.

Next morning, I was awake and hungry for breakfast – jet lag heading west generally makes me hungry and heading east generally takes away my appetite. I was enthusiastic about breakfast. There was a young Turkish man there who lives and works in the silicone valley and I wanted to talk to him. Somehow that lead painlessly back to the meeting room.

We started with the going around the circle staring into each other’s eyes and this time we were to gently stroke each other’s faces while we told them we loved them. We made groups of four – which were not to include our original ‘buddy’ (honestly a bit of a relief for me) and we talked about our first sexual experiences. Mine was easy and nobody in my group was much more complicated – one couple had fallen in love in college but broken up and she had played the field for a while before they got back together but it was all okay…..I guess that was the point of the exercise. To point out that there is nothing to be ashamed off. Nobody needs to judge anybody about their sexual history.

Before lunch we did more large circle dances and greetings. And then the clothing optional exercise where everyone stood in the full circle and took off our clothes. Not surprisingly it was not the least bit sexual for me and I just wanted to put my clothes back on. Which I did before lunch. It was cold outside so those who knew the ropes had brought house dresses to put on to go over to the dining room…..but not me. I put on my winter coat and went outside and had a cigarette.

After lunch we sat with new partners in a very intimate position on the floor with our legs straddling the other (but if one of the people was naked we didn’t sit like that). The mantra they kept repeating was that we had to stay at our ‘yes point’ meaning that if we didn’t want to do something we didn’t have to. First, we sat with a partner who was not of our choosing – I sat with the divorced Filipino and talked about why we thought we would not be of that person’s choosing. He said – unbidden – “you might be fine to choose” and when I didn’t understand he said “I’m sorry that was inappropriate”. It had been inappropriate too – because I had been busy talking about how he was the age of my kids and stuff.

Then we chose a partner of our own gender and we each shared the meanest somebody of our own gender had been to us. It was my Mom and her father’s sisters who had let us down when we were kids. Then we took turns playing the role of mother after this intimate ‘un-loading’ and apologized for their moms. So, I told how mom had beaten us often from a position of blind rage and how I would not forgive her – particularly for how badly I had watched her beat my little sister. Then the woman I was partnered with – much younger than me; but very busty so she felt really maternal – hugged me to her shoulder and told me I hadn’t deserved that; and nobody should do that; and on behalf of my mother she was very sorry. I cried a lot and it did reduce some burden. First though, I had done the same for my partner because of her teasing aunts making her feel bad when they made fun of her about growing boobs. She didn’t cry – I did.

Next, we partnered with someone from the opposite sex and I got to partner with the Turkish guy. He too went first and told me that his first girl friend and been unfair in breaking up with him so that he thought mostly women just liked him for his money. I hugged him to my shoulder and told him that not all women were like that and that 0n behalf of his girlfriend I was very sorry for him she shouldn’t have done that. Then I told him that my dad had gone and died on me when I was 15 and that I had trouble forgiving him for that. The Turk then hugged me to his shoulder and the fact that he had a full beard (like my dad) added to the magic of his role-play “on behalf of your father I’m sorry that he died and left you with no dad to take care of you”…..I cried again, but it was a good sob.

That evening there was a talent show after dinner and me and the Filipino sang ‘Amazing Grace together’ He was very good and we had fun – we are both catholic and both love that song.

It got silly though all fun; still after dinner I went to hide again and I vowed (again) that the next day I would not partake in the foolishness. My raw exhaustion was not getting better!

But the next morning we had bacon and omelet for breakfast and everybody was joking, and one woman told me about a love triangle that was developing amongst the ‘polyamorous’ crowd at the place. Some of the couples who were closer to my age took on a bit of a protective stance towards me – ‘you deserve to have a husband who really loves you and values your intimacy’ type stuff. So back in I went to the club house…….

It must have been on Sunday morning that we actually discussed being naked with each other (with our buddies – meaning me and Greg) I sorta bowed out around then but then the directors of the program (a man and a woman) each gave a live description of their genitals. Complete with lights and magnifying glasses……….It wasn’t me so it didn’t bother me much. Nothing terribly new – but I’ve taken care of many a naked baby.

Then we got together in new groups of four and had a wordless lunch followed by a wordless ‘sacred show” – our particular group kept our underwear on as all four of us showered together. It was weird enough to be embarrassing but not magical in any way (at least not for me).

Anyway by Sunday afternoon we got together with our shower groups and did butterfly wing massages of one person at a time – given by three of us at a time.

Then we had one more total circle experience and said good-bye.

We were all really nice to each other at the end and it felt very sad to say good-bye I wanted to get everybody’s email address and stay in touch. But I haven’t really done so.

All in all It became clear to me how much we all needed the intimacy before we return to our work lives without any intimacy at all. Americans are very good at being buddy colleagues but not so good at real friends. So this was like a microwave over (as opposed to a regular slow cooker) for making real friends . They try to keep in touch but I can’t have much to do with that because I am in France…

Anyway that’s my story and I’m sticking with it. One couple who live in Woodland and Greg are still in touch a bit with me.

I feel like if Lew and I had gone together we might have saved our marriage – but if I think I’m shy I can’t imagine Lew partaking in this stuff at all.

Nevermind – all shall be well.

A Stranger in a Strange Land

I’m sure that all of us feel like a stranger sometimes. But I’m here to say that I belong. I have always accepted the responsibilities of being a member of the human tribe and so I am worthy of its privileges too.

I have never felt like I really belong anywhere as much as I feel like I belong in Paris. But this fact is not because of any particularly welcoming nature of Parisians; in fact I think I feel comfortable and welcome here – quite on the contrary – because they don’t feel the need to approve of me (No welcome wagon ever showed up at my door. No neighbors every said – “Oh are you new here?”). In fact, Parisians are famously stand-offish. Let’s call it nonchalant shall we? The best I ever get is a friendly stranger saying “is this your first trip to France?” or “where do you come from?” to which I always answer “the 15th arrondisement”

Years ago a third cousin of mine, a French man, told me that this anonymity is exactly the strength of Paris. His kids proceeded to block me on Facebook after he died, but his younger brother is still friendly when I find myself in his hometown in Brittany. Pierre was right of course. Shortly after I moved into my cozy apartment in a posh neighborhood in Paris I invited all the neighbors over for an ‘open house’. Those who came were enthusiastic, if few. I am still friendly with the concierge but my next door neighbors (‘neighbors on my landing’ as the French say) have moved and my downstairs neighbor went and died. Still I have two neighbors in my building with whom I shared meals during covid’s confinement. That is an amazing blessing to me. As I say to any French people who will listen, despite my accent: ‘in America you better get along with your neighbors because they are who you call upon in a crises, you sure don’t call the Police” Interesting to me how safe the French feel depending upon their government.

No, what I really like about Paris is the simple fact that everybody expects everybody else to be a stranger, but still a citizen, and thus worthy of politeness and disinterest. Over interest is seen as a come-on of course, so I have to be careful. Once I was walking in the Paris suburbs when the skies opened in a huge downpour. I opened my umbrella as I passed a man going in the other direction and opening his own umbrella. I smiled at him in my mid-western shrug toward solidarity in an uncomfortable situation. He grunted at me but then turned around a few paces later and came back to ask if I wanted to go home with him. That one taught me a lesson about innocent smiles. He was perfectly polite but not friendly enough to give me a smile.

In Kenya, I am allowed to belong whole heartedly as long as I’m footing the bill. I don’t trust anybody to actually have my back if I’m not paying him. As I run a charity school for some of the poorest kids in the world, if I try to enlist help from a Kenyan, they always ask to be paid. Oh wait, the Hari Krishna’s of Kenya have chipped in out of solidarity, so I should take that back. But the Kenyan Police would kill me in a heartbeat if they thought they could get five bucks for the effort. Right Chief Constable Owino of Malindi? The rule of law is another one of the blessings that us richer earthlings can enjoy.

I felt like I belonged enough in Dhaka thirty years ago, but I was a very good American wife and mother, working for an NGO for very little money. Even though I made no pretense at being Muslim they were very nice to me, to us all. I was told in Bangladesh that there are three genders – Male, Female and Foreign Woman – and honestly I liked my place in Dhaka life.

Returning to America was hard. Its true what they say – you can’t go home again. I made a good fake though and people were generally nice to me but I was enough of an iconoclast that I generally only made friends with immigrants to the USA. Locals often didn’t ‘get me’ very well, even if they tried. Luckily there were plenty of immigrants in the USA and I generally did alright that way.

Also I have always had a powerful secret weapon in my big messy family. My five siblings and their families fully understand that they are committed to my belonging with them forever. This is another priceless blessing in my life, especially since my first husband didn’t buy into the whole commitment thing.

But you don’t have to be as nomadic as I have been to worry about belonging. I know this fact from my dear friends all over the globe who mostly suffer from this worry. Am I too poor, rich/fat/skinny/stupid or smart to fit in? I labored under the compulsion to keep myself useful so that people would like me for my first sixty years of life in order make sure I belonged. But I’m too tired now. So I’ll help only when you want me too and only if I can. Here a shout out goes out to Brad Yates on YouTube and the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Paris for helping me process my alien nature.

Thus, even though I have quit racing, I expect to continue belonging as a fully paid up member of the human race. And truly Viva la France where I have as much right as anybody to live in Paris. I am truly honored to be a Parisienne.

Poison Ivy in Berlin in 2014

My itchy patches were climbing up my legs and arms in a scary fashion, and with a bright red color, on the Thursday in late June so I went back to the Pharmacy in downtown Berlin.

I was walking towards the huge modern central train station that morning to buy my overnight ticket to Paris for that coming weekend so I decided to stop in on the way. The plan was that I would take an all night train to Paris – where I would see one guest off from our investment flat (later to become AirBnB) on July 4th, and welcome another tenant on July 6th. I had hoped to tie in a work meeting and make a work trip out of my train trip, but as it happened this would not be so easy – that is another discussion of course for another time.

So on Thursday morning I walked across town to the train station because the weather was nice and I wanted the exercise, but what I hadn’t understood was that our local pharmacy (basically right across the street from our flat in Berlin) happened to be a particularly international one. So the one I stopped in at on my stroll – near the Neue Synagogue and the cafe where I liked to get a lovely cappuccino and a slice of banana bread – wasn’t so comfortable with poison ivy. They took one look at my legs and the medicine I was already using and panicked. I felt like a leper for a short while – holding up my finger that had fallen off.

They wouldn’t prescribe anything but instead sent me upstairs to the public clinic where a dermatologist works. Now please remember that though I had been in Berlin for nearly a week at this time my language skills were still not great so I was in no position to complain. I took the referral form and walked up the three flights of stairs (instead of taking an elevator) because I felt fine…but then I had to wait in line behind several people in a very full waiting room to talk to Mr. Information. He was kind enough to speak some English to me, and promised that I wouldn’t wait too long to see the dermatologist. He was, not surprisingly, very worried about how I would pay for the visit but when I heard it would only cost 40 euros I pulled out a 50 euro note and he made me an appointment for right away.

I had previously noticed how unbusy the streets of Berlin seemed, few cars, not many pedestrians and a really mellow feel …. well it became apparent that this was because the entire population of Berlin, were in this doctor’s office waiting in front of me that morning.

I went to the Dermatologist room and waited nearly an hour pretending that I could understand German – grinning at a baby, making room for a man in a wheelchair and skimming through magazines without saying a word to anyone. But when the nurse called me into the doctor’s office the jig was up. I recognized “blah blah, german word, German, something Fulton” as she spoke directly to me (and I could see that I had been there longer than anybody else). But I then had to confess ‘ich sprechen nicht Deutsch’. She smiled politely and left.

The doctor of course spoke perfect English. Wouldn’t any American doctor speak perfect German after all???? Hahaha. He even knew what poison ivy was and prescribed me a new topical cream and night time pill “a stronger antihistamine” and sent me on my way in about 4 minutes. We had time to joke about how it should be called “Pocahontas’ Revenge” while Dr. wrote a prescription and then I snuck back through the waiting room to the information man who quietly took my money and gave me a receipt.

I went back down the stairs to the pharmacy and didn’t have to wait at all to give my prescription to the lady behind the counter. She nodded seriously and got the two containers that my magic piece of paper listed. The cream cost 50 euros and the pills cost 40 euros. Bummer! I said something about no longer needing my weaker pills and she nodded knowingly and took the box back (That I had only taken three pills out of) but didn’t offer any money back. Oh well.

It occured to me that it would have been easier to deal with this exotic, tropical disorder before I left the States but I really thought I had gotten away scot free at that time. The Poison Ivy encounter (from cleaning my back garden) -took nearly two weeks to flare up. But when it did it was bad.

The Very Good News was that these European medicines did seem to be working well. I had gotten another patch of Poison Ivy on my chest but it was not at all itchy and I was losing the itch on all the others except one tiny patch at my wrist …. I had many more pills and an unknown amount of cream left so I was happy.

I hoped that the US health insurance would cover my costs once I send them in my receipts, but I don’t think this process ever even happened.

Our daughter then arrived that evening and we had a lovely visit.

Sadly, the morning she was supposed to leave – she woke up with a terrible neck spasm and a stiff neck and couldn’t even move for a couple of hours. I went back to our local (international) pharmacy as soon as it opened and got her pain killers, magnesium (as a muscle relaxant – “duh everybody knows that right??”) and some hot cream (Voltaren/Bengay?). This latter seemed to cause a rash on both me and Sadie both – so its use was abandoned. Though she liked the warming effect of the ointment – the color of our rashes scared us.

I got a real taste of German pharmaceutical health care….And both my daughter and myself recovered completely. I haven’t really dealt with Germany since that time – but I can rest assured that I don’t need to be afraid of their medical care. I now even have my European Health Insurance card so I can travel peacefully.

I was just mugged by the Kenyan Police

We were getting off a motorcycle taxi (called a boda boda in Kenya) at about 1 pm this afternoon, when two regular middle-aged guys (Andrew later said they smelled of liquor, but I didn’t notice) came at our driver (who really was a very young man). One of the guys grabbed the motorcycle keys out of the ignition and the other held up a set of handcuffs and said something about ‘your coming with us’.

It was a busy street and we had been three on the motorcycle (which is why we had got off there….to catch a proper taxi). Everyone who was going about their Saturday business, just stopped and looked on.

But not me – I said “who the fuck are you” to the aggressive dude who was all up in my face, as I got off the bike. Then I continued in real shock “what are those? Hand cuffs?” He said “this is not about you its him” and pointed to the poor little driver. I repeated my question and said something like “NO Way! What the hell did he do? Why should I let you pick on him?” It had crossed my mind that he was a murderer or something – but then I began to realize that this is a police state and they are just being bullies to the weak (especially if there is a white person about to pay them money – presumably I have 20,000 Kenya shillings, about $200 in my back pocket with which to bribe them)

The guy said “We are policemen.” But I didn’t care or believe him. I said something like “So I’m supposed to let you handcuff him. I don’t think so.”

“I don’t believe you are policemen.” I continued “Show me your badge. You are just thugs. I’m taking a picture” and I went for my phone.

He pulled out his pocket ID that said he was with the Kenya National Police and asked me not to take a picture. “Are you satisfied?”

“NO what the hell did he do wrong?” By this time the passers by were heavily on my side (actually I think they were protecting the foreigner), talking about corruption in Swahili. “Why should I let you handcuff our driver?” Somewhere in my highly triggered brain though, it was beginning to dawn on me that when the police are involved, I had promised Andrew to let him do the talking in his polite and submissive manner because I have increased the bribe amounts in the past by being bitchy and trying to take pictures.

I repeated “what did he do wrong?”

Mr Policeman said “he was driving without a helmet” as another boda boda passed with no helmet and no trouble. It was clearly because a white passenger meant money. So, I walked away in a huff to the shade by the side of the street.

Andrew said “I’ll deal with this as he, the ‘plain clothes cops’ and the boda boda driver walked to bike out of the intersection.”

But the policeman followed me into the shade first and said “are you Italian” I told him “no American” and he said – oh that is why you are rude. I should have said ‘not as rude as to carry handcuffs around’ but I just turned around and faced the wall until he headed off with his partner.

The regular citizens were mad though too. They said stuff like “They may not even be cops. Don’t pay them anything” “They harass us all the time.” “Corruption is so bad these days” But none of us talked about Kenya’s new thug in chief! It might have been a perfect opportunity. But I just stood fuming in the shade of a butcher shop for a couple of minutes before I noticed two little kids sitting further away, lower down, but still in the shade and I sat next to them.

I sat there trying to be inconspicuous (not an easy task for a white woman in Kawangware) but long enough time passed that I started getting scared that they had taken Andrew off with the kid and his bike.

So I went to call Andrew and noticed that my phone was exploding with my family’s encounters with corruption in Ethiopia – more expensive as it turned out – but much less violent.

Andrew answered my cell phone call briefly, and said he was dealing with them, and I should just wait where I was. So I did. Now I was calming down and the eyewitnesses were going on about their business. It occurred to me that I held no currency and didn’t speak the language – so I didn’t want any more trouble.

By the time Andrew returned about ten minutes later, he had bargained the corrupt cops down to only 15 dollars, (the community outcry had helped). The boda boda driver even got to take his bike home, and he gave us a sincere thank you as he left. He looked very shaken up.

Andrew tells me this happens all the time – that the drivers often need to pay 20,000 Kenya shillings to get their bikes back (and remember their daily take home pay is more like 1000KSh) But let me tell you – working class Kenyan citizens have had enough! It is time for a general strike!

A true story

I was in boarding school – or actually staying in a teacher’s spare room, because the dorm was full, in Thika, Kenya when my father died at 41 years old. He was in Vancouver, BC.

I got the news on a phone – at a neighbor’s house – from my mother in Dar es Salaam. “I’m sorry Lili but your Dad is dead” Since my parents were long divorced, my dad was the paradigm of health, and my mother never talked to him. I assumed she was telling me about my stepfather. I asked if she meant Oscar but she said no my real Dad.

After saying “oh thank God” at the death not being of Oscar. My next mature and dispassionate thought was “I’m going to ignore this news” I was so happy at my school, not having to deal with my family that – at the age of 15 – I was ready to say “oh well” and forget all about my father in Canada. Maybe this wouldn’t have been a good long term response but it was how I thought I would cope at the time: By plugging my ears and humming so as not to hear the bad news.

But my stepfather, who had lost his own father young, insisted that we fly back for the funeral. He paid for our flight ‘home’ for the funeral. He did get his money back, but he wasn’t sure he would. So, in mid-January 1976 I flew to the other side of the world to see my dad’s corpse, and I guess to take part in the wake.

It was decided that Ari (11-year-old sister) and I, should fly ‘home’ immediately to Vancouver. (Dad’s home. I had spent some summers there with him, but it sure wasn’t my home.) She was put on an airplane in Dar-es-Salaam, with my ticket from Nairobi in her hand, and I had to get myself into Nairobi. I think I took a matatu (public nissan bus)– but maybe somebody drove me. Honest I can’t remember. What I can remember is getting to the Killick’s (friends of my parents, and my friend’s parents) house, well before my flight. They were very kind. I remember very clearly that Mrs. Killick, not knowing how to sooth me, had suggested I lay down to rest, with an “I’m so sorry dear, would you like a nice cup of tea?” What more can you say?

Then they drove me to Wilson Airport, at the time it was just Nairobi Airport. Also at that time, one would regularly see wildebeests, giraffe, zebra and even the occasional elephant on the trip from Thika to Nairobi mind you. Now the Thika road is all heavily populated with humans and Thika is a commuting town.

That evening Mrs. Killick, hugged me and dropped me off at the airport where I was supposed to wait for my ticket to be brought to me from within the flight from Dar-es-Salaam as it stopped over on its way to Europe.

But at that time and place in history, a 15-year-old white schoolgirl who was crying about her father’s death got let all the way onto the plane without having a ticket. I was walking up the steps onto the plane by the time the stewardess was bringing my ticket out to give it to me and get me through customs.

We were travelling as ‘unaccompanied minors’, Ari and I, so we got the royal treatment – toys and candy and lots of juice. But of course the stewardesses kept bugging us constantly to make sure we were okay. And we were.

It is significant that I don’t remember packing back in Thika, because when we arrived in Calgary, Alberta the next day we had no winter clothes. This was late January remember. The stopover in Calgary lasted four hours and Ari and I wanted to leave the airport but of course we couldn’t go out into the snow in our sundresses and sandals. So instead, we tried to hide from the ‘accompanying’ airline staff and appear all grown up.

Luckily when we got to Vancouver Mom’s mom who lived in Buffalo – had got there too, and she was carrying winter boots and coats. So, we were ok.

But Dad’s body had already been flown down to his mom in Colfax Washington (500 miles away and in the USA). My 19-year-old brother had gone with it. My sister from university (on the other side of Canada) was in Vancouver as well though, and we three girls – 11, 15 and 21 – tried to fly to Colfax ourselves. Of course, we were fogged in in Seattle, so the whole plane was piled into a bus and driven the 8 hours to Spokane (the nearest airport to Colfax) I remember that we three were talking much too loudly and making too much noise and fun as the other passengers watched. I thought we might be entertaining them, but in retrospect they were probably horrified. We laughed a lot about stupid things, but I guess that way we didn’t cry a lot over a very sad thing.

Arriving in Colfax, which had been a one hotel town, back when my grandparents ran the hotel, we were welcomed with open arms and wet eyes by our father’s mother. She was remarried and her husband was a kind man – a real cowboy that one, always wore his hat. We called him Grandpa Dave. I remember Grandpa Vern before him, but I never met my real grandpa. Dad had been an only child, only 18 years younger than his mom. Grandma Letha never really recovered from Dad’s death. She tried but she sorta shut down after her son died. I guess the two of them had not got on so well actually, but that never makes anything easier, does it?

Before the funeral my Dad’s last girlfriend – Abby – took me aside (I was just in from my trip), away from the rest of the family, and told me that “you were your father’s reason for living, and you spoiled his life. But don’t feel guilty now.” I never forgave her for being that mean! Why did she feel she had to say that? I honestly think she chose me to ooze that poison at because she knew all the other three of Dad’s kids wouldn’t have taken it from her. You is such an ambiguous word – plural or single. I figure we all WERE dad’s reason for living, especially compared to his run of girlfriends – but we were kids, we hadn’t asked to be born. He was supposed to take care of us, not the other way around. At the time I just kept crying and apologizing.

But then I got my revenge by relishing the bad mouthing of Abby that went on within Grandma Letha’s many siblings’ discussions. Years later Abby tried to be my friend, but I wouldn’t have anything to do with her. They had not married but I understand she changed her last name to his and called herself his widow for the rest of her life.

There were several other girl friends at Dad’s funeral too, and flowers from ex-wives who couldn’t make it.

To this day my father’s corpse is the only dead body I have ever seen. He had an open coffin. He had died of viral myocarditis while swimming his daily laps (his extreme fitness routine) and so he was not ugly. But I remember that he didn’t look a thing like himself (maybe for the simple reason that he had always had a big open grin when he was alive – one that I have inherited – but obviously his mouth was closed into a tight little smile in death). In any event, to me that one look into the open coffin proved the existence of a soul, and also that it leaves the body at death. My Dad was not in that body, he had gone away.

I remember the wake was at the Chinese restaurant (probably the only restaurant in town). Again everyone was very jolly. We wouldn’t examine our darker emotions. Though I remember lots of relatives coming up to me and saying, “I’m so sorry Cliff died so young” and myself thinking – “What do you mean young? He was 41 for goodness sake!”. I always figured I would die at 41 as well, and then I almost did two days before my 42 birthday….but that’s another story. The forced bonhomie that I remember so well has always helped me remember this joke “What’s the difference between an Irish wake and an Irish wedding? One less drunk at the wake”. Dad was buried next to his father and back five generations in the town cemetery.

We didn’t stay long in Colfax. My grandma Letha was living in a trailer house, very comfortably, and we were four big kids. We were there for a few days in the bleakest winter. Then we younger folks went back to Vancouver to stay with my brother for another few days. My mother’s mother – we called her Meme – was waiting there as well.

It is strange that what I remember about my brother’s house was his music. Warren Zevon ‘send Lawyers guns and money” was important to me. My oldest sister had to hurry back to McGill because she was missing classes but Meme took me and Ari down to Portland Oregon to visit her cousins…she had some that were our ages. We must have been there about a week. They were nice people and it felt weird to have these relatives that we hardly knew and that I knew were feeling really sorry for us.

Then Ari and I went with Meme back ‘home’ to Buffalo. I think the trip to Portland had been decided on because we couldn’t fly straight back to Buffalo because of the famous blizzard. Meme had always been renting out rooms in our big old beautiful house in Buffalo. We got in a short week after the blizzard and the tenants had eaten all her supplies. According to my understanding that was the year “Buffalo wings” were invented. They came from a restaurant across town that had to feed people who were stuck there. They cooked up whatever supplies they had, because they couldn’t get anything else in – So Buffalo style Chicken wings were born using a big bag of frozen chicken wings with blue cheese and tabasco sauce put on them (because that’s all that was available). Sadly, my grandmother’s tenants hadn’t come up with anything so yummy.

I do remember that the mail quit being delivered until I could get out there and shovel the snow. It was now more than a week after the blizzard and our sidewalks were ice packs six inches thick of firmly packed ice/snow so it was hard work to shovel. Nobody had shoveled the several feet of new snow that had fallen evenly over the whole lawn. They had just trudged through it and packed it down for me to deal with later.

My grandma was always sewing for us kids. This time, while Ari and I did very little of anything in our house. Meme sewed me a money belt of clever design: she took two ace bandage rolls and sewed them together in such a way that dollars could slide between them and all the way around my waist. This way the elastic stayed tight around my waist and the money belt could fit 2000 dollars in it without being visible at all.

After three weeks in the New World Ari and I flew back home to East Africa. I got off the plane with a money belt around my waist and got myself to Thika where I simply showed up at school unannounced. I had given no warning to the teacher that I would be back, luckily he hadn’t rented out my room to someone else yet. But he did scold me for my poor communication skills….still he had no phone. Someone might have called his neighbor again I suppose – but nobody had.

I did a lot of sitting around and telling my friends that it was all my fault that my father had died because I had fought with him over the phone the summer before and refused to go out and visit him. We had shouted at each other and I had cried as I chose my sisters over my day. That was the day our beloved family dog had jumped in front of a car and killed herself. I knew it was all my fault. Once the teacher heard me saying this and he really scolded me! He said that I was acting insane and that he must never hear me say that again. I guess he was right. Though to this day I half believe my guilt.

But this money belt with its $2000 cash wasn’t for me to spend in Kenya. At that time my family was in Tanzania. It was managing its money exchange rates and had criminalized black market trading or even leaving Tanzania with its currency. My stepfather, Oscar was getting ridiculously few Tanzanian shillings to the dollar (and he was paid in dollars). The scheme was that I would – highly illegally – trade dollars for Tanzanian shillings at about ten time the official rate while I was in Kenya. Dar-es-Salaam was the capital of a planned economy, copying China’s five-year plans and Nairobi was the capital of a wild west style capitalist economy (and it still is to this day). Anyway, I took one Saturday from Thika and went into Nairobi and went up to an Indian/Kenyan merchant (I think he was officially a textile seller) I pulled out my money belt (he wasn’t nervous at all) and handed the shiny compact pile of ten twenty-dollar bills to the shop keeper. He gave me a big old messy and bulky stack of Tanzanian shillings, counting them out loudly and officially with the shop door open. They were worth ten times what I would have got in a bank. Of course, they didn’t fit nicely into my money belt – but I shoved them in as best I could.

Then Tanzania updated its currency so as to no longer allow these old bank notes. I went ‘home’ to Dar-es-Salaam that weekend for my mid-term break from school in Thika, conveniently just before the Tanzanian Banks quit accepting these old notes. I wasn’t terribly concerned as we landed in Dar because I had seen the white privilege work wonders for me before. But when they started pulling apart everyone’s suitcases looking for currency I began to think twice. My money was ‘safely’ around my waist – but the belt was at least an inch thick all the way around. Luckily, I was wearing a school skirt that I had sewn for myself, so it didn’t fit well, I had rolled up my waist band to make it fit nicer, so it was already fat. It looked like I had a snake around my waist. The police took some men directly to jail when they found some Tanzanian Shillings on their persons. I had no plan B. They frisked all the men who had been on the airplane with me. My sweat really stunk by now. But there were no women officers around and the exclusively male police force certainly couldn’t touch a young white schoolgirl – so they just asked me how much money I was carrying. I showed them my almost empty wallet and answered five dollars and they let me through.

That was when I vowed to never black-market money ever again. We stopped at the bank on the way home from the airport in Dar-es-Salaam and deposited the old bank notes for full value.

A week later I returned to Thika and didn’t do so well in my exams that term.