Staycation, All I Ever Wanted

Today is the last day of a staycation that Hayden and I planned, because I had to burn some leave time before I officially start my "new" job and he has been traveling nonstop for work. Austin was in school for the week, which meant we were able to really get down to the business of cleaning and purging the house.

We cleaned out the closet in the middle room, which is now filled again, but less with Hayden’s childhood memorabilia (there’s still 2 boxes) and more with current-day suitcases. We went to IKEA to buy patio furniture and eat Swedish meatballs. I packed for Kenya and Hayden used his new power drill. My crowning staycation moment was replacing the bathroom air conditioner duct vent (say that 3 times fast), which used to drive me nuts because it collects dirt and is not easily cleaned. The new one is dark and will hide the dirt :)

Some staycation promises were not kept. I still have figured out an accessible exercise scheme. I didn’t read much. I still need to stealthily hack away at Bob and Doug’s Little Shop of Horrors backyard. But we were hardly sat still this entire week. I paused briefly to watch the US Women’s soccer team trounce Thailand (13-0), but then it was back to clutter removal. Mind you, the house is still cluttered, but a little more organized.

I’m off to Kenya tomorrow and as always have mixed emotions before I depart…irrational fear of flying, worries about Austin whose last day of school was today and who will have camp next week, etc. etc. But they will be fine and hopefully I will too.

New Zealand, with deep thanks

A child helps you remember the beauty of the beach. For hours in St. Lucia last month, Austin was indefatigable as he explored shells and waves and sand. This morning in Picton, New Zealand I discovered with glee a sandy beach with loads of clam, mussel and snail shells. I scooped up a few, delighted that these would be the legitimate New Zealand treasure that would accompany the innocuous store bought knickknacks from anywhere I had already purchased for Austin.

I had wondered how to spend my morning before ferrying back to Wellington. There were several boat tours on offer, but my ferry ride seemed to scratch that itch. By chance, the table I sat at for dinner at Oxley's had a map on it that included several walking trails or "tracks" as they're called here.

Perfect.

I set out to walk in the winding, lush hills and dip my toes in the brisk, crystal clear water. I walked in solitude among the fragrant cedar trees and occasional glimpses of the turquoise blue bay below. I hummed Dvorak's 9th Symphony out loud and thought about Lord of the Rings, because everywhere in New Zealand looks like LOTR.

I thought about my beautiful day of wine tasting yesterday. We had a lovely guide, David, who was the friendliest guy in the world and took us to nice places. On the way back, he gave an earnest and passionate lecture on ceding vegetation, endangered indigenous species, and the shifting realities of life on this island. He spoke without drama or politics, but instead he presented climate change as reality upon us, undeniable and worrisome for all.

I cleared the steep slope and came upon Bob's Bay. I had the stunning views to myself. An occasional boat passed. Two ducks floated by. I felt deep peace in New Zealand before the long journey home.

Leitis in Waiting

In the Kingdom of Tonga, there is the cultural tradition of Fakaleitis, “like a lady,” who are transgender women sought after by the church and royalty for their service. Joey Joleen Matele told her story and the story of the leitis of Tonga in a documentary called, “Leitis in Waiting,” about the lives of these transgender activists. Words fail me to capture the effect of having heard her story and her struggle to convince her community that her congenital transgenderness is rooted in the culture of Tonga. 

Her life as a leiti is not an import “from the West,” as the evangelical anti-hero pastor in the film claims. He happens to have a USA-sponsored radio program that spews hate. But unlike a vast majority of us who sit at our armchairs and complain about the right wing, Joey invites the pastor into her movie, into her story, into her life, because she doesn’t want to give up on him and give in to hate.

When you grow up in suburban New Jersey, places like Tonga or Georgia (the country) or Libya or Cote d’Ivoire are not places that you know about, dream of visiting or imagine the people living in. Yet, in my profession, I know these places and the people who live and love like you and me. I have had the privilege of being reminded over and over again in my travels of the utter commonness of our humanity. 

One of the leitis in the film has a stage name of “Lady Gugu,” because she wants to be like Lady Gaga, but also have her own persona. What teenager in suburban New Jersey couldn’t relate to that? Joey, herself, spoke about having a 13 year old who acts like a 20 year old and a 20 year old that acts like a 13 year old. If that’s not a universal parenting observation, I don’t know what is.

Of course, in observing the commonness of our humanity, I do not want to conflate our life experiences. Indeed, the leitis have suffered harassment, violence and even death for their otherness. But it is because of our commonness and our right to all have fundamental freedoms and live in dignity that we must fight for the Leitis of Tonga. As Prime Minister Ardern here in New Zealand has said in her deeply empathetic response to the terrorist attack in Christchurch, “they are us and we are them.”

Joey Joleen Matele ended the screening of her movie with a song. Her gorgeous silky voice sang out, “You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains…” and I floated out of the room bonded to her for life.

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.