mourning dance

Last night Alvin said he would run away if he didn’t get to come to the US. He said, “Emily, bring money for the passport.” Without thinking of the emotional implications, I responded, “But Friday you don’t just need a passport; you need a visa and a plane ticket and you need what to do when you arrive.” He walked away to hide his sadness and said in English, “Emily, go and sleep. Kuki, go and sleep.” He just wanted to hurt us in some small way because of the pain my response had caused him. The boy really believes he will be coming with me. Kuki laughs as she tells me what he has said—that if he doesn’t come he will go to the streets and eat ants and become mad. Kuki is laughing both because it is absurd and because it is true. Friday does what he threatens to do. It is all too painful for us and each of us struggles to grasp my leaving in different ways.

I cried with him the other day. Kuki told me he had been crying, and wouldn’t eat. I tried to talk to him, and I was crying too. So I went to my room to hide, and after some time Friday came in and sat on my floor. I gave him the note from my dad, and after glancing at it he set it aside and buried his face in his arms. We sat in silence for a long time, both contemplating our sadness. I watched my young brother as he tried to process what was happening, his own weakness, his care for me, his need for a father. Then after some time I noticed he was crying. His face was still in his arms, but now there were quiet sobs. And I also cried, and I held his hand and he cried harder and squeezed my hand. I rubbed his head and he hid his face. It was excruciating—this boy’s pain and my pain compounded. We just sat, and cried, and held hands for a long time. After a while he picked up the letter and tried to read it. He read a sentence or two and put it down. He did this several times. I am not sure if he didn’t understand the words, or if he didn’t want to read it, but in some ways I know it didn’t really matter what the note said. Later in the day he gave me the note and told me to keep it. I am going to return it to him.

After a long time of silence, he said, “Emily bring the pictures.” So I got out my pictures and removed all the ones of my parents and family and laid them out for him to see. He gently picked up each one, gazing at it for several minutes. It was excruciating for me, who takes those people for granted, to see Friday, a boy who had met my parents for only 2 days, long for those unknown people on those pieces of paper. The only thing that brought him out of his silence was to ask me to differentiate between Alex and Adam. In every picture he pointed to one brother and guessed which one it was. He was usually wrong, but after a while he figured it out.

There must have been something satiating in touching those pictures, because after that he started eating and talking again. What he found there I will probably never know.

What is going to happen to this child? His flighty eyes and playful smile, his precarious balance between contentment and rebellion—I’m afraid my departure will tip the scales and he will fall off. I am afraid for him. I love him. Last night I sat him down and said, look Alvin, things are not easy. Life is not easy. But you have to know that I love you and Jjaaja loves you and everyone here loves you and my parents love you and God loves you. You have to trust God and trust the people that love you, and be patient. I told him that life takes patience and that sometimes we have to work hard to get what we want. I had told him earlier that I didn’t come to Africa when I was 13; I came when I was 20. But deep down, I knew (or feared) I was just buying time. Buying time until I walk out of his life and don’t have to feel obligated to give an answer or care for his pain. It was a cowardly thing to do, but I don’t know any other way. I am just planting seeds of hope in him that in the bottom of my soul I fear will never grow. I don’t believe he will come to the U.S. I told him he needs to work on his English, and study. But God, I don’t think he will ever come. And what does he believe he will find in the US that he can’t find here?

It is too painful for me. It is a real, sharp pain in my chest and the pit of my stomach. I ache and I haven’t even left. All that matters is being with them, and I only have one week left. What can I do? What can I do Lord? What will become of us? What will become of us Father? Now I have 2 more sisters and 2 more brothers, and a grandmother, and so many children. And I love them infinitely, and it tortures me to be away from them. I really have lived with them in a way I have probably never lived with anyone. I am just with them, and that never happens in the U.S. That is a big thing I noticed when my parents were here—that the notion of visiting (“being with”) is incredibly different. To a Ugandan, a crucial part of any visit is just sitting and resting in the house of the host, even if the host is off doing something else. My parents sat in Jjaaja’s sitting room and felt confused because they were sitting alone—no one was there talking with them or accompanying them. But it is like that time and space is placing their presence in the house in a way no activity could do. In the quiet waiting, they observe and take the place in, and the place also takes them in. Sometimes “being with” here simply means waiting for the host to prepare tea for you, and resting in their chair. I think that means a lot to people here—for someone to accept their service and just be in their home.

It is good to be in a home. It is something one will never find in a dorm. To me, dorm living lacks fundamental components of life. How can one be healthy in a place where everyone is—all the time—focused on studies and never interacts with anyone more than 3 years older or younger?

But this home—I just treasure these people, so much more than words can describe. I am afraid of those things fading, am afraid of never seeing them again. I am afraid of disappointing them, of them being squeezed out of the large place in my heart they hold. I want to hold on to them. How does one say goodbye? It is an exquisite, precious, private tragedy. It is a million delicate feelings dancing a mourning dance.

We buried a baby at home yesterday. She died on her 6-month birthday, and had my name—Nalubwama. The mother was mourning and wailing, saying “Munange! Omwana wange!” I was already sad, but I couldn’t help crying at the sight of 40 people singing songs and praying as they lowered a tiny casket into the ground. Some people threw handfuls of dirt on the casket, and then the men started mixing cement. The loud scraping noise behind me was harsh, and with the first shovel poured onto the casket, my tears began flowing freely. They were really trapping that child in the earth; this was irreversible. I felt for the mother and the young brother of the baby. It was only the 3 of us crying out of all the people there.

To recover, I played with my children. They are just so precious to me. I don’t know what to do with myself.

I don’t have time right now to write about my parents visit but I will write this weekend and post it on Monday. Right now my mind is just consumed with thinking about how sad I am to leave. I didn’t know I would REALLY become part of my family in the way I have. There is so much to say I don’t know where to begin so I think I just wrote stream-of-consciousness things. Hope that’s okay, at least for now.

Much love,
emily