The present struggle

A friend recently tagged me in an article on Facebook. It was on the topic of family separation. There are no words to describe this nadir in American history. Or perhaps there are.

In 2 days I tried but could not click on this article. This particular low point was too painful for me to even read about. It was beyond outrage. Well beyond embarrassment.

I thought about this article and how it described of ripping babies from their mothers. It is some sort of Machiavellian “lesson” for people fleeing to the US to be met with the exact opposite of safe harbor. They are being met with a punishment even murderers with due process are not subjected to.

I thought about the insensitivity, the injustice and the inhumanity.

But most of all, I could not bear the pain of imagining a mother whose child is taken. The white searing heat of it. The sheer torture these women and children are experiencing.

So I didn’t click on the article.

Instead, as is the way of Facebook, I deliberated on a pithy apology. One that would be safe enough given my current occupation. One that wouldn’t trigger criticism. But one that would somehow express all of those feelings described above.

As I crafted my response, words did come to me and when they did I was surprised. The phrase that came to me is so well known. A throwback cliche from another terrible moment in history.

When I heard and sang these words in the past, I often pondered the meaning for

these words seemed not to describe the earthquake of resistance and ultimate victory. These words seemed not nearly magnanimous enough to capture the successful efforts that led to justice and equality in this country.

“We shall overcome,” I posted.

Suddenly I understood that this song was not written at the end of the civil rights struggle. When I sang these words at events decades later, they were not about the success but the struggle of civil rights.

As I wrote these words in response to the immigration catastrophe, I felt their meaning for the very first time.

"Deep in my heart. I do believe that we shall overcome some day."

Briefly from Botswana

I saw nothing of Gaborone, Botswana except a nice resort and a “diamond park.” The hotel was complete with palm trees and monkeys so that checked a few boxes. From my room I could see the plains stretching as far as the eye could see with bushes, brush and rolling hills under a brilliant blue sky, which recalled for me Kenya's Rift Valley.

The “diamond park” piqued my interest. The diamonds are trucked down from mines across the country to Gaborone. They close the streets to let the armored vehicles pass. They are brought to a giant office park where each diamond company has a massive warehouse that processes and polishes the gems. It’s right next to the airport. My crazy young taxi driver, Jason, said “we don’t see diamonds in Botswana.” Hopefully the Kimberly process ensures profits for the country. Based on driving through the city, I think it does to some extent.

As monkeys and peacocks traipse the grounds of the hotel, over 200 Africans from across the continent arrived to discuss LGBTI rights. It is hard to find a braver, more inspiring group. Truly. Imagine being gay in Africa. There could not be a harder life on this Earth.

The issues discussed ranged from violence and discrimination to criminalization to HIV to gender fluid identities and intersectionality. It was nuanced and pained and progressive and, above all else, etched with extraordinary resilience.

Cleopatra “Cleo” is a transwoman from Uganda and was resplendent during traditional dress night. She wore a perfectly tailored Katanga dress of gold and red. When 200 people sang happy birthday to Aurelie, a Lesbian woman from Cameroon, she broke down in tears. Moved by the tribute, sure, but mostly by the overwhelming expression of love and support she has likely never known in her life.

During our gala evening, we sat outside in the freezing cold. While I can hardly say I know Botswana, I can confirm from the direct experience of freezing my tuckus off that it has a desert climate. 70s during the day and low 40s by night.

Roll call during the gala announced the groups from each country. It was a raucous and frenzied joy with dancing and songs from every nation that crescendo-ed with each call. We then reached the zenith and one of the most amazing moments of my life. As roll call ended, a man in back shouted, “WAKANDA FOREVER” and all of us shouted back, “WAKANDA FOREVER” while crossing our arms, hooting and beating our chests.

Viva Riviera Maya!

“Mommy, I want to live in Mexico and then we can have a pool in our backyard.”

This was Austin’s declaration on our last day of vacation. He and I spent a few moments working through the logistics of such a plan and I sadly pointed out that there are no jobs for mommy and daddy in Mexico.

It was a good trip. Our flights were perfect and once we finally left the rental car place we zipped quickly down to our boutique hotel, LiveTulum, which I found with the ease (having been past it while on my girls trip in January.) It was largely as we left it and thus pretty good. It was a little more expensive, because we were there during spring break week, so Hayden noticed things that were a little less charming when you pay more: inattentive (unresponsive?) staff who had to be reminded to make up our room, an extra fee for Austin, etc., but for the most part it remained the perfect launch point for beach and restaurants.

We wasted no time and headed straight for La Coqueta, our favorite place, which did not disappoint. Austin became obsessed with the the wooden cut out of a Mexican wrestler and proceeded to ask 400 questions about Mexican wrestling. I could answer two of them and Hayden’s reply was, "what’s Mexican wrestling?"

We started out on one beach, but were surprised to find it covered in huge mounds of seaweed. Odd, because it was not there on my trip in January. We moved to another beach which we knew, Playa Paraiso. It had the seaweed, but also a seaweed patrol who were busy lifting mounds of it.

Beach time was endless fun for Austin and pretty nice for us too. We lounged and sipped cocktails. Hayden would take Austin out to jump waves and then I would build sandcastles with him.

This was our daily routine, although we experimented with different beaches. The good thing about waiting two hours for a rental car was that Hayden got to know someone who was a frequent tourist and gave us a bunch of tips. We tried his first tip, Caleta Tankah beach. It was a 6 minute drive from our hotel and it was waaay better than the Tulum beaches. A small fee for the car and we were in a gorgeous place with stunning views and few people. This was my favorite of the week. We next went to Xpu-ha beach which was further away but was the first beach where Mexican families outnumbered tourists and that was fun too.

We found the town at Tulum beach to be just too boho-y for us this year. It was truly overrun with 20-somethings who could somehow combine scantily clad with the gauzy draped look. We did endure it long enough to head for a nice meal with great service at Cenzontle.

So we headed north to Playa Del Carmen, via the fun if too well marketed Akumal Monkey Sanctuary. Despite our fears (not security fears, tourist fears), Playa was actually quite nice. Chief amount our happy surprises was our hotel, Petit Lafitte, another boutique hotel. This time it was on the beach and this blew Austin’s mind. He instantly declared it the winner. When probed for the reason why, he explained that he never wanted to leave because this beach had shells. They were itty bitty shells, but enough that beach combing took up a large chunk of our days in Playa.

Indeed, we got pretty lazy (or settled) in our last couple of days and didn’t move from our hotel, which was very family friendly and due to the price tag, was filled with pleasant families from Brooklyn to Berlin.

Austin had his only almost meltdown at dinner one night here due to sheer exhaustion. We were able to steer him back on the path, however, with an airport purchase that became our mealtime savior: a dry erase book of games. Instead of the phone, we were able to keep him entertained with kiddie Madlibs. He broke his heart laughing as we filled in silly stories about a turtle named Robert (his best friend at school) who ate grumpy milkshakes...

Trip honorable mentions go to Playa del Carmen's downtown pedestrian walk - not nearly as offensive as I thought it would be (although the water was Jersey Shore brownish) and to a potential future destination: Puerto Morelos. We were there for 40 minutes, but it looked like it could be the best combination yet of relaxed, local Mexican vibes that would transport us away and sustain us upon reentry.

One more honorable mention to Austy on our return trip. We didn't get in until midnight. After all day sightseeing and two plane rides, Austin was great by the time we got home and handled school the next day like a champ!

Back in Africa

It’s been too long! I know this because I almost cried in the jetway when I got off the plane and smelled “Africa.” This is a smell that is at once so familiar and impossible to describe…burning fires and lush vegetation mingling together? Something like that.

Even though I was in Kenya, it still felt good to be back on the Continent. We drove out to Naivasha on my second day…a romantic and historic journey through the Rift Valley. There is a pass that we came over and looked out from the escarpment as far as the eye could see. For some reason, I did manage to see a herd of zebras, who were just chilling on the side of the road. The roads in Africa are full of life. In Nairobi, traffic is ensnared with cars and bikes and people and goats. There are sign posts like “God Saves Hair Salon” riddled everywhere, and in Nairobi for some reason, there are notices plastered every few feet for doctors promising love potions and anxiety relief. Hmmm. In the country, or “bush” as they say, there are vehicles piled two stories with god knows what: mattresses, sugar cane, you name it. Trucks going 14 miles per hour. Motorcycles, or bodas, going 114 miles per hour. It all passes by as I look out across the valley and dream.

The hotel in Naivasha was a classic safari lodge. It was pretty nice with stunning grounds of acacia trees and tropical plants. The rooms are vast, although a little worn. I love these places and they are truly a unique experience of East Africa: colonial décor mixed with safari animal motifs. We were greeted after our journey with hot towels soaked in peppermint oil and cold fruit cocktail juice – likely pineapple, papaya and passion juice. Passion juice! Why the US cannot import passion juice is beyond me. It is so delicious and I, not a juice person, cannot get enough when I’m here.

We had speeches at our opening event that went on for hours. I’m not kidding. HOURS. My patience for such things was practiced when I lived in Uganda, but it had atrophied in my absence and I found myself looking around after about two hours wondering, “isn’t anyone else hungry?!”

As usual with my jobs over the years, in Naivasha I met brave and amazing people who were fighting tirelessly for human rights. Unlike the international development world, human rights activists, whose lives are regularly on the line, have a different take on international assistance. They have to be talked into it in most cases and are uncompromising in their convictions. That is perhaps a blog for another time.

I find myself returned to Africa after several years overwhelmed in every sense. Many of the stories and myths I have carried back to life in DC have been confirmed. Other memories have not done justice to this place. And I haven’t even gotten to Uganda yet!