Glory Ho

Dear Scarlett,

When you rose to meet me, you looked like a little old woman and a little baby bird at the same time, an old, wild soul, all scrunched up and sweet and full of ethereal wisdom, yet completely pure. There were no tears or screams, just awe and confusion on your pinker-than-expected skin. I felt every moment. Mommy was very tired and Daddy held you in his arms. Then we gave you a bath.

That first month of your life, I sat on the porch swing in my purple ruffles and sang Hush Little Baby, Old Shep and Jolly Playmates to you. I cried with confusion, exhaustion and happiness. I called Grandma Great. I called Grammy. I called Aunti Maury. I called Erin. They all told me it would be okay.

Thanks to Facebook, everyone knew about you right away. When I announced your birth, you got 57 comments and 27 likes all that first day.

I knew how to hold you, and I knew how to change your diaper and feed you. But I was still nervous a lot. I wasafraid that I will change you. You are so pure, so untouched, sun has never burned your skin. . .words have never bruised your emotions. . .guilt has never dented your conscience.

Daddy kept reading Dr. Sears’ Baby Book. We learned to shoot saline up your nose and take your temperature and with all this H1N1 stuff, Daddy got the flu and had to stay and Nonna and Papa’s for a couple days. One night, you wouldn’t stop crying. . .we were so scared, so we swaddled you and rocked you and eventually I cried with you. It was all I could think to do.

Your favorite activities were hanging out on my shoulder and peeing just as I slide off your diaper. You are a truly beautiful baby. Everyone says so. Then people say how they say that to everyone, but this time they mean it. Even the girls at Mountain Midwifery said you were beautiful. And they see a lot of babies.

On the third morning of your life, my friend Amy called from New York. We hadn’t talked in several months. Sometimes, relationships are complicated. She wanted to know all about you. Someday I’ll take you to New York City to see her. We’ll sing the TMBG song and meet my blog friend, Frances and we’ll go to a poetry reading.

But first, we must master breastfeeding.

Caitlin, the blond nurse with pixie features and Nordic skin from Mountain Midwifery came to see you last week. I was nervous for the dirty house, but Daddy said if our floors were too clean, well that wouldn’t paint us as very good parents, would it? She measured you and looked around and called you Madame and you loved every minute. She also found my Linea Negra, the faint line down my middle, a trace of you, still in my belly. It just means “black line” in Latin, but Caitlin made it sound exotic and beautiful. And to me, it was.

Do you remember living in my belly? When your sleep grins shine through, what are you smiling about? Do you hear Julie Delpy singing that waltz? Do you taste creme brulee? Do you dream about your previous life as a whirling dervish or a deep sea fisherman?

Do you like us?

Love, Mommy

I was so nervous that morning. I’d even cried. Flustered by my slippery hot rollers and the client meeting which had suddenly come up and the fact that my favorite watch of all time had stopped working after seven years. Silly things, you see. But last week it had been sun glare and the absence of a parking lot that did it. I hardly minded. I am much more frustrated by the absence of tears than their sometimes unexpected presence.

At Alpine Access at 11th and Lincoln, I stood waiting for my client, Sonia, a smiling, pin-cushion-skinned, past-hippie graphic designer who lived in Bailey. I had stared through the boardroom toward a Successories-like window frame. There’s Denver, I thought. That’s where I live. The leather-colored buildings of a medium-sized city where the sun was always in attendance and the mountains were always watching . This is where my child will grow up. My daughter’s new college roommate or my son’s friend on that summer trip to Honduras or a beautiful set of eyes in a dark bar will one day ask: So where are you from? Just as I have answered: “I’m from a small town in Illinois” my whole life, my son or daughter will say: I’m from Denver. And there will be at least 18 years of identity and memories wrapped up in that one sentence.

Later, I waited in front of 1245 Franklin Street, a 70′s style building which reminded me of my dot com days in Cherry Creek. The Colorado winter weather was almost warm. I could hear bits of Spanish from the sky. Construction workers were exchanging shouts just a few stories up. Then I saw Michael’s soy-milk-colored 1969 Volkswagen bug coming down the sunny street.

On the 10th floor, we waited.

I think I was secretly afraid that I would go into the room and the doctor would poke around and then say: “Pregnant? What makes you think you’re pregnant?” It just seemed so uncertain without the medical confirmation. Had I missed a period? Yes. Had we taken a home-pregnancy test? Um, three. Had my breasts been hurting? Yep. Had I been extra tired? Absolutely. All the symptoms had added up. Still, I so needed this proof. This heartbeat. This confirmation.

But when I told them I was pregnant, they totally believed me! First Michael and the nurse practitioner examined everything that I couldn’t see. And then they wheeled in the ultrasound and it was my turn to look. There it was.  Our baby.

And we both drew in a breath of air, knowing that we would never be here, right here, again.

I had decided to drive home for Christmas. And once I put all those images of me stranded in a cornfield and then approached and kidnapped by Asgrow O’s Gold-logo’ed-mesh-hatted trucker in a locked drawer at the back of my head, it started to sound like the perfect idea. There would be pit-stops at interstate-side Subways with slow customer service. Cheap Caseys gas at the Mall of the Bluffs.  The home of Marion Morrison and the bridges of Madison county waving me on.  Signs for camping at Exit 25.   Country countdowns with Bob Kingsley. The icy Mississippi just a few feet over the edge of the I-80 bridge.

Some people find this drive one of the worst in America.  But I have found that while its so easy to see the snow-sprinkled poetry in the craggy peaks and canyons of the West, a place where image overcomes imagination, the Midwest calls for more work. It takes an ear for a story and a deeper life lens to sift through the wheat, corn and clapboards of the plains. This land made me who I am. It is my friend.  And I am secretly sweetened by the fact that it remains largely unchanged.

At home, however, while the soft corners of my hometown’s collage looked just like they always did–memories that aren’t meant to ever pass away–most everything else had changed. And at every counter, out every window, in every closet, I would undoubtedly find suddenly-grown children, a pasture no longer empty, drawers with items I didn’t recognize.  I needed that 12 hours to go home at my own pace. To watch the gradual shift from clear sticks of sun to a soft white haze. For the same reason walking the seventeen blocks from Christopher Street Station to Madison Square helps you understand New York City so much better than a subway ride, I needed to drive these roads myself.

So I filled up my Craig’s List Ford on the 19th, and in a 15 hour pocket between unpredictable ice storms, like a pioneer turning ’round, I drove back to my past.

Home was all I hoped it would be. This is significant. Because over the years, I have come to appreciate the longing and the anticipation of what’s to come rather than the object of my desire. As Rebecca Solnit says in the Field Guide to Getting Lost, “If you can only look across the distance without wanting to close it up, if you can own your longing in the same way that you own the beauty of that blue. . .”

Perhaps this strategy, which I learned from being away so long, eases your expectations.  When I stayed overnight in Omaha, after I met dear Betty and Owen, but before I saw Warren Buffet’s house, my friend Patrick also presented a wise gem. He said he’d learned to “accept love however people show it”. I thought that was important.

I made the return trip in just one day, perhaps needing a little less transition time as I headed back to the future or perhaps just eager to get back to my Michael. I lived in the present, marveling at the signs and communication that American infrastructure provides, admiring the cattle’s self-constructed still life, driving into the Colorado sunset and wondering what sign would appear on Ella Pierce Turner.

It was a +.

I once heard a friend of mine relay a conversation he’d had with his wife:

Husband: Honey, what’s your greatest fear?
Wife: Well, I think it would be that if one of us died and little Sally had to grow up with just one parent.
Husband: Oh, I see.
Wife: What’s your greatest fear?
Husband: Bears.

But seriously, what’s YOUR greatest fear? And what kind of fear are we talking about? One that threatens your life, your perception of the world or your sanity? Now that I’m safely on American soil, devoid of any disease and free of bullet wounds, I can talk about this. In general, travel was FAR, FAR less dangerous than people imagine–largely, I believe, because people picture us dodging suicide bombers and hiding from Al Quaeda. And that didn’t happen. However, there were a few times when I began to wonder just what the hell we were doing. . . .and these were legit.

Location: Beirut, Lebanon
Inner Monologue: Oh my God. The Sunnis and the Shiites are about to begin killing each other and we are in the wrong place at the wrong time. Didn’t this happen on a subway in Adventures in Babysitting? This is the warzone the news is always talking about. We must get the hell out of here. Now. But how?
What Happened: We’d been dropped off a few blocks shy of our apartment on a street between ethnically divided neighborhoods and had lost our way. Recent days had brought violence and riots. It was rainy and windy. As we walked, we noticed armed soldiers—not the bored looking ones we see sitting atop tanks at intersections—but men hidden under overhangs and around corners. A lot of them. Looking alert and ready for action.
Physical Condition: sweaty, shaky
What I Say To Make Myself Feel Better: Be calm, Andrea. Your chances of getting hurt are still pretty slim. Really. You can duck into a million places. The soldiers are here to protect you. If you are hurt, we’re in the city. Lebanon has ambulances. They will come.
Conclusion: There’s nothing we could have done differently here. You can’t hole up at home and not live when times are tense. We almost always know our way–this is an anomaly. Like the Lebanese do, you must continue with life. At least it’s not personal. I am not their target.

Location: Uganda
Inner Monologue: This vehicle is going to crash and roll and burn. And I am on it. This could be it. This could really be it. The cops will call. My Mom will answer. Hopefully they’ll find the gifts in our bags. I am never going to see my nephew. I can’t believe it. Traveling is not worth this fear.
What Happened: A busdriver has found a paved road and is going so fast around curves that people are falling out of their seats. He is honking every couple minutes at the swarms of people on the shoulder or crossing the road who are carrying babies, herding cows, balancing bundles of bananas on their vintage bikes and toting baskets of vegetables on their heads. Our destination is still hours away.
Physical Condition: Tears
What I Say To Myself To Feel Better: If we are in a head-on crash, I will probably survive. I am high-up and in the back. If we roll, I do have a seatbelt on. Plus, in this country, it is widely known that crowds will form and attempt to lynch the culprit, which, even if you’re dying in the ditch at least provides a bit of justice.
Conclusion: What can we do? This is simply the state of transportation in Uganda. It’s the worst case so far, but its been bad before and it will be again tomorrow, too. Unless I want to walk or spend some serious money, I don’t have a choice.

Location: Nairobi, Kenya
Inner Monologue: Nairobi is called Nairobbery. At least we don’t have a LandRover to hijack. But still, I know that guy wants my bag and this is a very dicey neighborhood. I feel like we’re in the projects. The AFRICAN projects. At any moment, I could be attacked. Those people are watching us. This is personal.
What Happened: We’d been looking for a hostel and a bad neighborhood had seemed to engulf us very quickly.
What I Say To Make Myself Feel Better: Well, even if I’m mugged, the injuries will be minor. I’ll just fall down and lose all my stuff. Whatever. So why am I so scared?
Conclusion: Take precautions as in any city. Don’t go down dark alleys. Stay in crowded areas. Clutch your bag as you walk. I can’t tell you why I was so freaked out–maybe because its more personal or more targeted. But I was. And I didn’t like it one bit.

Ironically, I was never particularly all that scared in Northern Iraq.

At the market that morning, there was nothing special for sale. It was Goodwill in the shape of a shoe horn along the lake. Fourth-hand dresses and Old Navy sweatshirts and shiny department store shoes minus the box on blankets. Frowning vendors sold tough-skinned tomatoes. Very occasionally a car would roll by entirely too fast and send dust into everyone’s eyes and nostrils. At the waterside were uneven rows–dozens of faded blue, green and magenta dug out canoes atop Lake Bunyonyi. It was part of everyone’s commute. They sat parked, empty, humming to themselves between the reeds and up against the shore. The rafia once wound tightly around their owner’s goods had now fallen away creating an accidental crow’s nest in each cradled space.

Continue reading ‘Survival’

Do you like the dark?

I’m not really a fan. I prefer a light switch, even if I don’t need one. Africa doesn’t have a switch. Often, its only teeth enamel and eye-whites which light the way along the lane as they sell fish, walk home, feed a baby or haul their harvest.

We’ve had no choice but to do the same. In Nairobi, which is infamous for crime, we walked in our own kind of dark into a scary slum, searching for a hostel which turned out to be more of a rooming house. In the village, it was along the red, grooved roads with faint stars overhead, lowing cattle at our sides and pinching ants underfoot. At Lake Naivasha, along the shoulders of a national park the half-kilometer back to camp. In Kisumu, it was around the Jomo Market where kerosene flames exposed our ruffled feathers and their dry fish heads.

But still. I wasn’t exactly comfortable yet. In fact, I’d been stockpiling escape routes as if a twister was on the way, taking refuge in cyber cafes, Western-style restaurants and ATM kiosks since we’d landed in Africa. The darkness. The blended expressions of wonder, desperation and apathy. The eyebrow arches of acknowledgement. We were a minority all through the Middle East, too. But something was different.

Continue reading ‘Afraid of the dark’

We started this trip with two cameras. We now have none.

Yes, the whole stolen thing really sucked. So did the day-long police report experience. There was disbelief, devastation and denial. But there was, eventually, a solemn belief in the idea that this didn’t mean the world was bad, just that two people were bad. We had to move on. To do that, we engaged in a little exercise.

Why do we take travel photos anyway?

Answer One: To show others what adventurous, well-traveled individuals we are. To decorate our home with our excellent photography (so we can show others what adventurous, well-traveled individuals we are.) To color our blogs, (so we can show others what adventurous, well-traveled individuals we are.)

But this preoccupation with proof for others is no good. Who are you living for? You or your dinner party guests?

Answer Two: It’s about us! We want to be reminded later in life about all the exotic places we’ve been. Every action-packed moment. Each tri-textured vista.

I understand. But think about it.

Continue reading ‘Naked Eyes’

The soft spongey skin beneath my nails are rimmed with blue paint and there is a spot above my breast, too. It’s from today. We painted a pit latrine at a school for orphans as volunteers for SoftPower Education. It will not be the last bit of blue to stain my body. I felt brighter. Like I belonged a little more to this continent.

Ah, this continent. It’s probably like having a baby. When it happens to you, no matter how much you’ve read, it feels like its never happened quite like this to anyone else on the planet. These people embody the nostalgia of nursery rhymes as they head up the hill to fetch a pail of water. They move like a prayer, soft and slowly down the most natural lanes of life.

Do you have Coke in America? They ask.

What about cows? Stars?

And with these questions, my understanding of their edges gets a little deeper. The turtle dove is coo-cooing and the women are laboring and the men are idle. The babies are naked and the toddlers are snotty (literally) and the children’s faces are filled with bits of sugarcane. Their pleated skirts and pointy collars and school-issue sweaters try so hard to be proper, but it’s no use. Missing zippers, frayed at their edges. . .

Continue reading ‘Africa Just Is’

The water is angry and swirling from the splash of the sky, the shoebills are out for a bath, the monkeys are minding the forest and Africans are whooping and squawking along the ruddy, muddy shores while 50-50’s edge grows ever closer. I scoop the waves with futility. . paddle left, paddle right, hold on, hold on and get down, I can’t hear his orders above the thunder! What’s he saying now? Strands of hair sticking to my cheeks, the warm comfort of tears just about to break loose, glancing at Michael for reassurance and realizing I am on my own, fearing I wouldn’t hold on tight enough, considering the the distance of the drop. . how rock formations could create such rapids . .wondering just how long I’ll stay underwater this time. Silverback was at least half an hour ago now, but the waves had thrashed me in a spin cycle for what felt like at least two minutes, but was probablyl more like 15 seconds. I was so scared. Out. Of. Breath. I am still so scared. “Be loose” Michael always tells me. Let your body roll with the water, with the boat, against an oar. Alarmed by the word “loose”, I check to make sure my helmet is still there. . .that my life jacket is snapped. . .that the rescue kayaks are still with us. But I am out of time. The falls are here. I try desperately to keep the taste of drama in my mouth so the fear won’t fill it up. I whisper my trio of mantras. . .that people did this every day, that everything would be okay, that somewhere. . .I can see it, there, between the waving seaweed of my own shores, is the rush of fear which I actually enjoy but I just. .can’t. . .quite. . .reach it. Then the boat goes horizontal and all I can see are the handles and my hands and my eyelids.

White water rafting.
In a thunderstorm.
Atop a Class Five Rapid
At the source of the Nile
In Uganda.

As Lawrence would say: Fuckin’ A, man. Fuckin’ A.