The Post That Has No Name

I don't know what to call this post yet, but give me a second.

...

Just kidding, I i still don't know what to call it.


I haven't posted anything on my blog in a really long time; I remember always wanting it to be better (and, actually, hating the zebra background but being unable to find anything better). I remember loving the responses that I got, even though there weren't many comments. More than anything, I loved looking at the statistics and seeing the audience spread across the globe. I was an awkward highschooler who was happy to have any readers and nothing was better than seeing the countries that the readers were from; not only Namibia and the United States, but Russia, France, South Africa, Latvia, and several others. I loved learning about what people love to read (which, by the way, is not this post, because there are no photos and it is not arranged in an oddly satisfying list of information).


However, when I left for college, I found it harder to write anything. I had all these ideas for better posts and I wanted to make a prettier, more exciting blog out of this. Maybe I will someday, when I get my head around everything that I'm doing (ha.) or at least feel more like a grown up (when does that kick in?) or just maybe when I've sorted exactly what it is to be a grown up missionary kid.


Which is complicated, by the way; sinking into my existence as a repatriated adult MK. My life isn't so exotic. My window panes aren't dusty. My feet don't ache from hours of dance. I no longer wake up to the cries and happy sounds that little girls make when they're getting ready for school or to the light of the Namibian sun as it rises to bake the roof of our house. I miss youth group and music and teaching dance classes, but I miss being Ousie most of all.


And it isn't all gone, by the way (I'd like to end on a happier note). There's a reason I cannot prioritize blogging anymore! I'm learning great things and it's all coming at me at eighty words per minute (which is my typing speed, by the way), at the speed of whipping pirouettes (which I can barely do anymore), and I feel like a child with a whole lot of big, grown up decisions on the table in front of me, but it's so exciting. I have places to go, things to discover, people to love - a future, but also a past I'm still connected to.


And I'm praying all the time that I never forget where I am from.

My Africa

 I found this poetic and real. It's a good description of the place I miss! This isn't much of a blog post, but I don't think I need to add anything else.

Originally from this website:  http://www.afrostylemag.com/ASM9/

The Question

As of today (Thursday) we have a week and four days till we leave Otjiwarongo. Our trip back to America starts July 1st (driving to the capital, then spending the night there) then arriving at Dulles on July 3rd. My room is a wreck of half-packed clothes, makeup and miscellaneous items. Anyone want a denim Bible case? A pair of size 3 [US s6] heels? A box of random craft stuff I've never found the time to use?

A week and four days.
AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAHAHAHAHAAAAHH!!!!!! OH MY GOODNESS.

This is the weird part where I say good bye to people in Africa (who have become my entire teen-hood) and say 'See you next year!' and go back to the people that, in a certain way, I left behind with my childhood (not that I've forgotten you - I love you, my Americaners!) - this is the part where I see what remains of the friendships I've been (not-so-diligently) keeping alive through letters and Facebook since I was twelve years old. For those who don't know, we're going on six years since we moved to Africa.

Returning to our old churches, Co-ops, dance classes and Youth Groups, we'll likely face warm welcomes and bear hugs. On sabbatical, like any other missionary, we'll go to friends' houses, "need-to-catch-up" meetings at restaurants and visit our supporters' Churches. The missionary goes from volunteer work in hospitals, schools and growing churches on the mission field to suddenly adopting the job of 'Nomadic Socialite' on their trip to the Motherland. Yep. My job (and that of my parents) is to talk to people.

Oddly, in the middle of that, I will likely face the Alien-sensation; take that however you want. The MK (oooor military brat, exchange student, immigrant, etc.) who faces their childhood home again will probably find it odd to be back ... and feel like the world has moved on without them. And depending on how different their other culture is, they may also feel like they have a third eyeball growing in the middle of their head.

 It's great to have friends greet you with enthusiasm and ask you questions about your life in Africa (or wherever). Even better is the look on their faces when you speak as fast as you can in some crazy foreign language that they've never even heard the name of. All that is fine and dandy - in fact, most of the above mentioned are pleasures enjoyed solely by Third-Culture-Kids.

But there's something huge missing. Let's return to the phrase above - which, by the way, I completely made up - Alien-sensation. I remember how I felt like a foreigner in my own country. Yep. I said it. I was surrounded by friendly people, but down in my spirit I knew very well that I didn't belong. My clothing, the things I said, and my social awkwardness didn't help me much. (This second-go-'round, I think I'll be better at all of that.)

But something else separates the American-African that isolates them in a crowd of Westerners. Honestly, there are emotions and situations that very few single-culture people understand - this can lead to a deep loneliness in those separated from their mission field. (Interestingly, studies have shown that MK's from completely different countries tend to feel at home in each other's presence. We share 'the commonality of our differences'.)


 Of course, the loneliness is not the worst of it! There's one thing ... one terrible, awkward, heart-wrenching question that Americans and other Western non-travelling citizens use to terrorize their poor, victimized missionaries on a regular basis. And by a regular basis, I mean just about every single day. *deep breath*  (I can hardly type it).



                                                How's.        Africa.



That's it. Just plain ol' 'Hey, how's Africa?' from a friend or relative is destructive to the Missionary's view of said person. You have lost about ten brownie points. Did your I.Q. level just drop? Did you just get 3 inches shorter? Now that I think of it, you kind of smell. And your brow is protruding ominously over your eyes.


I'm just kidding. I started that paragraph trying to make a point, but then I couldn't stop my nasty facetious personality from taking control of the keyboard. Do understand, there's no one I look down on that much. Especially not someone who unknowingly walked into the Danger Zone of a sarcastic, talkative, I-know-everything redhead. Really though, roughly half of the MK's in Africa you'll come across will be annoyed by this question. And practically all of the ones I talked to found the question very hard to answer.

My response is usually a smile with a connotative 'All kinds of stuff. How's the continent of North America been lately?'



The Part II of this post is coming up where I will provide solutions for the problem I have brought up. Mean while, do refrain from asking the question.

Dumpsite VBS

Seem a little extreme? A camp for kids mostly between 4 and 14 ... hosted at the local trash heap (more like a mountain). The ground surrounding the dumping site is sprouting almost as many glass shards as scraggly thorn bushes (which are everywhere) and broken electrical equipment is lying haphazardly all over the place.

It's not exactly ideal, but it's definitely where we need to be.

Every day, dozens of children (and almost as many adults) head out to the dumpsite to (1) - gather recyclables, wh
ich the government pays them a few cents a day to do and (2) - search for bits of food and other things that could be helpful for their survival.

Most kids wouldn't sacrifice their day at the dump to walk somewhere else and hear a few Bible stories, so the mission team decided to make it easy and bring the camp to them.

Driving to the mainroad on day one - in front of us is the other kombi (driven by the other missionaries with us) with some of the kids riding on the back. The Back of our car looked pretty similar!

The dirt road leading up to the main dumping site. This is the area where we were working.

  A girl hanging from the side of our car.

 

 My Mom and sister helping wash hands before snack time.

I'm still alive!

A million times sorry for my absence! I know it's been a very long time since I've written and I hope my dear readers will forgive me, but I've been so busy lately with a good deal of school work, chores and life. After a long day of putting effort into school, writing, dance and music, I feel like a brainless blob. It's very hard to blog in that condition.

My life has been interesting - a lot of up's and down's lately. The children are still in our care and growing more and more healthy everyday - I hate to say that our three-year-old girl, on the other hand, still suffers from separation anxiety on a regular basis. She's grown incredibly sensitive, particularly when someone leaves the house.

The court date, for the millionth time, has been moved back. We are waiting, still, for something to happen. Meanwhile, this has become home to the little kids. It's been at least nine months since they moved in with us and all four have come to see us as their real family.

Sometimes it's hard doing foster care in Africa. Please, continue to pray for my family. Don't give up on this! It's very far from over.

With Much Love,
Kailey

Missionary support

Days have passed in tiresome work. It's just one of those days when I go from one thing to the other, and in the end I feel like I'm in a fog - everything I got done is really nothing, because my brain is swimming together like a puddle of consciousness whispering 'stoooooooooop, you are neglecting meeeee'. I have successfully ignored both sides of the brain; I have excercized no logic whatsoever and done nothing artistic since the moment I woke up.  I've just gone back and forth between computer and chore, computer and chore ... Pinterest, laundry. Again and again. It rocks, but I don't really feel anymore accomplished or happy at the end of the day.
I'm preparing mexican food. My mom cooked the meat, spiced it, and got out the tortillas, which we use sparinngly (we treasure our burritoes, since tortillas are incedibly hard to find in Africa). The rest of the work is for me. Tomatoes, onions, lettuce, cheese. I'm standing in the kitchen, getting lost once again in thought.


BAM!!!


I get hit by a wave of horrible music.


Coming from the livingroom. I stop shredding the cheese and cock my head. After a while of listening, I recognize the music. My mouth turns into a grin.


It's the da Silvas.


Aah, my old friends. The music is so sudden and silly, it's like they are here with me. This family lives in the United States, about the area where my family is from. We've been old friends with them. I met the two pretty sisters through ballet class (ages ago), then when my brother discovered all of their brothers, I guess our two families had to meet. So we've known each other for years. They've supported us through the move to Africa, the transitions, everything.


So they made a video for us. This was about three years ago, and all six crazy kids helped make it. I haven't watched that video for *phh*, I don't know how long.


And one of my siblings just put it in the DVD player. A wave of memories comes over me. I can't even see the screen from where I'm standing. It's just the horrible music SOMEONE was playing during recording. I start laughing.

The foggy feeling that I've experienced through the whole day is dispersing. For a few minutes, I remember the goofy person I was at the age of twelve, the crazy dreams I shared with my friends, and the inside jokes that will never wear out. The 'da Graham's as we were called.


All of this brings back a clear mind, a happy face, and a little more energy.


If I may say so, a lot of missionaries (new or not), struggle emotionally if they are unable to bring their own world - the American culture, comforts they grew up with, old friends - into contact with the culture they are presently living in.


This could mean living so deeply in the present that one forgets where they  have come from. Or maybe the people from their first culture simply cannot understand the trials or experiences of the new culture they are living in. Some, during the first few months, shut out the newer culture to dwell on the past (*aghem* made much easier through facebook). All of these prevent transitioning or comfort in the lives of missionaries.


I guess this is a way overdue thank you to my old friends. :) Their rediculous jokes, acting, and music-playing brought a new light to my day. This is also an encouragement to any readers with missionary friends. It might seem like no big deal to write a letter, send a little gift, type up an email or tag them in some silly old picture. But those things matter, and simply asking the question, 'how is the ministry going?' can bring a new life to their ministry that nothing else could.


If you ever choose to make a twenty-minute movie about the missionary family you miss, go all out. For all you know, three years later, you'll bring some laughter into their long, weary day.

Otjiwarango, Namibia

               The town I live in (OH-chee-vuh-RONG-go) is not really a big town, though it is considerably larger and more first-world than the many Namibian villages that are scattered throughout this region. We are a town of about fifty-thousand people altogether. Forty-thousand people live on the East side of Otjiwarango and the remaining ten-thousand live on the West side, which is the ‘well-to-do’ area.

A person driving straight through the town from East to West will notice drastic changes; at first, you’re on a dirt street full of pot holes from the recent rain … lined with shacks made of wood scraps, sheets of metal and wire. As you drive, the road levels out and among the self-built homes you find barbed-wire fences and the occasional cinder-block wall supporting the rest of the home.

The homes you see after that are made entirely of clay bricks or cinderblock. Before you know it you’re driving on pavement and the sidewalks are lined with people selling veggies, clothes, and cheap candy. On every other corner is a bar blasting loud music to the world.

Next you come to the ‘center’ of town (which is way off center), where you find grocery stores, clothing stores, and shops dedicated entirely to the passing tourists. Unlike your average Namibian town, this place also has a handful of small cafes and movie rentals as well.

 On the other side of this area are a number of happier looking homes; thatched roofs, green gardens and healthy trees promise that when you look inside, you’ll find tiled floors, large sofas and paintings on the wall. And quite probably four bedrooms. That are altogether larger than the homes of entire families on the opposite side of the town.

Widest income range in the world? Hmmm … I think yes!

My African Saturday :)

  Another day passes and I am at home. Waking at about 8 A.M., I take in the beautiful light of the rising sun on my light pink curtains. A moment passes as I take in the still bedroom. When I step out my little door, I will walk into chaos. Not a negative kind of chaos, and I'm not really afraid of it. I'm just hesitant to leave the peaceful bedroom, because I know what's coming; two little girls clinging to my arms and crying out in broken English, "Kailey! Kailey, come look. Look at baby." They'll pull me past three preteen sisters talking, laughing, playing computer games and my dad just leaving to run errands and pick up my brother from a sleepover. My teenage sister will be in the kitchen, searching through our masses of food for something healthy to eat. My busy mom will be sorting through laundry, calling out our names to come and get our clothes and, Kailey, there are eggs on the stove if you want them. No thank you, I say, maybe later, at the same time that I trip over my little dog. I apologize and try to stroke his head quickly before the girls are again shouting, "Come, Kailey! Coooooo-muh!"


  Then finally, in the livingroom, they will gesture to our ten month old baby brother behind the couch in some awkward position in a basket that they put him in .... just so they could show me.


"Oh, that's very nice!" I respond with a smile, just before I rescue the confused baby and bounce him in my arms. Oh, shoot.


  The toddler has my cell phone.  I shout and dive to take it from her. I check the phone and breath a sigh of relief. My three year old sister hasn't called anyone today. Where did she get it anyway? I marvel for a few seconds at how ironic it is that my half-deaf sister seems to be in love with cell phones.


  I have dog duty today. All of us have chores that switch each day of the week, one day sweeping, one day putting the kids' toys and books away, another day cleaning bathrooms. Except for me; practically every day I have dog duty. That means I start my morning by feeding the dogs and refilling their water bowl. We, by the way, have two galumphing, enthusiastic, hundred-plus pounds german shepherds with an uncontrolable appetite. Next to them my fifteen -year-old sister has a doschund and I have a spotted jack russel. It's a miracle the monstrous dogs haven't swallowed our lap dogs whole.


  This is a normal Saturday morning for me; I wake to the warm African sun, I hang out in my room for about an hour, then I venture out to the jungle of my twelve member family - more than twelve if you include the young lady staying in our flat. And the four dogs mentioned above. And the many little pets that run through our yard and the people that visit every day who might as well be family.


  I leave my bedroom and things go almost exactly I would have guessed, except that two ladies and an infant are here to visit, adding to the number. The house is surprisingly quiet for a busy Saturday morning, but I could blame that mostly on my absent brother (still at the friends' house).


  What will I do today?


  It's hard to plan my Saturdays here in my little town of Otjiwarango. There's so much I should or could do, but Africa surprises you. A friend could come over unexpectedly, my parents might have to leave suddenly (which means I have to watch the siblings), or we'll end up with a new critter in our yard that I absolutely HAVE to examine, take pictures of, hold.


  I think, through it all, regardless of what may come my way, I will find time to dance.


 Dance is what makes life light and breathable, but keeps me grounded in who I am. It is the flavour of the ruddy Namibian earth that I spin over. It is giving thanks to God for the life coursing through my veins, my beating heart, and the muscles that I care for with every stretching, twisting, stomping, twirling step I take. Dance is a breath of pretty pink in a very, very dark world.


  Dance is exactly who I am. Dance is what the baby laughs at, and the toddler does her best to mimick and my other sisters and brother check in on every once and a while, just to make sure I'm still dancing. To make sure I'm still me and be certain that I still hope.


I love dance, nearly as much as I love all of them.

Love,

 Kailey Brooke Graham