One of the classes I took last semester at Wofford was Introduction to Gender Studies. Twice a week, after lunch I would sit there for close to two hours and be in a constant state of anger. I was angry about all of the injustice in the world, but I was also angry about the lack of diversity at Wofford. Every person in the class was white. The majority was conservative in their thinking, and a severe lack of opinion and interest was present. Important topics like the right to abortion fell flat in discussion, no one really wanting to give their two cents. I struggled coming to Wofford. Yes, I am from Texas and technically Southern, and yes I am a white female, but I did not feel like I fit in. My experience was this: the majority appeared to like living in blissful ignorance, no one wanting to challenge stereotypes or develop their conscious.
In my Gender Studies class we learned about the discrimination against women across the board, for example in health care in both developed and developing countries. We learned about the severe food and shelter shortages that refugees experience, and the inequality of gender in matters concerning the environment. We expanded our knowledge about worldly problems, but we also attempted to address some of the issues that hit closer to home, like sexual assault on campus. Even there though, our thoughts were brief, unworthy. From this, I learned that even if you are not sure where you stand on matters such as equal rights or gun violence, it is important to care. To show empathy, and to be able to show interest is what matters. You can approach a situation, with your hands up in surrender, knowing full well that you do not understand something in its entirety, and still care. For example, I am not involved in Greek life and completely admit to not knowing its’ inner workings and whether or not a complaint against a fraternity is justified, but I do know how to feel for the people involved. I know not to brush them off and to not turn a blind eye to something that might be wrong. Being in Tanzania, working for TATU, has underscored this ideal. Something that I learned living on Wofford’s campus, that sometimes people want to ignore the bad, is not a feeling contained to Spartanburg, but that is everywhere. I do not blame people for wanting to not live in opposition. It’s a nice break from reality, feeling like everything is fine. But not everyone will stand to live in ignorance. There are people, like those at TATU, who see the problems and want to help or draw attention, who want to focus on learning how to make things better. Being so close to an organization that aims to relieve the suffering of a few particular villages has taught me that my eyes are bigger than my stomach. By focusing on a few, connecting with those who are willing to listen, change can happen. I have met so many wonderful people from all over, including at Wofford. I love hearing the excitement in my professor’s voices when they talk about topics that are close to their hearts. I love the smiles of those who cater to student’s needs. I love the people who care for the big trees, with their wide branches, that surround the paths at Wofford. I love the excitement of the gardener at Glendale, while he tends to seedlings as water rushes past our environmental center. I love accomplishing hard assignments and being able to celebrate successes with others. I love being able to play soccer at nighttime, when the moon is high in the sky, with people who I am lucky to call friends. I love the fellow Wofford students I have come to Moshi with, each of us from different corners of the same college: some outgoing in campus union and admissions, some quiet but strong in their perspective fields. There are so many good parts of every situation, and perhaps through focusing on those joyful parts, then we can change the tide of being fearful in addressing those not-so happy parts. There are so many great things about Tanzania and Wofford, as well as the things that need work. By celebrating the positives, we can begin to be okay with recognizing our faults and start to see a way to form them into opportunities to grow.
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On the way to Kilimanjaro National Park, you pass a gas station called Mount Meru Pit Stop, a woman grinding peppers on her porch, children walking up a hill towards church and a street named Beverly Hill. Rows of corn follow one after the other with gently sloping hills in the background. Tarmac, full of ridges and bumps, prevents anyone from going too fast. As you drive by, you can catch the eye of almost anyone standing at the edge of the road. If only for two seconds, you hold one another's gaze, a window pane and an entire life separating you from the strangers who live and breathe Tanzania.
In the early mornings, before I go on my run, I pass school children dressed in blue skirts or shorts and crisp white-collared shirts. Some giggle in groups, some practice their English and say hello, and some are quiet, averting their eyes. The people I see everyday stand out to me, yet simultaneously blend into my surroundings. My brain has successfully molded the new into my normal. The mosquito bites on my ankles are typical, the kindness in people’s eyes expected. I’ve found a place to eat lunch at, where they serve me traditional rice and beans for a little under 1 USD. I have a few trusted taxi and bajaj drivers, who know the places I want to go before I even ask. I know which ATMs in town have the smallest fees and the largest withdrawal limits. My ears are tuned to the rise and fall of Swahili, paying attention when someone appears to start talking about me, a white girl. At night, I strike a match for the gas stove and boil water for tea after my dinner. These are all things that I have grown comfortable with, giving me a sense of accomplishment in a foreign country. At home, I live on a street called Beverly. It’s wide, lined with trees, full of sun and has a constant stream of cars. The street is a permanent part of my memory, providing me with a physical location of where I come from. Beverly Hill street, on the out-skirts of Moshi, is wedged between plots of land, its’ name plastered on a large white sign protruding from long stalks of sugarcane. The narrow strip of dust reminds me that I do not belong, not here, at this Beverly. And yet, it reminds me that I don’t necessarily belong back home on that Beverly street either. My life has expanded to a point where I am neither here nor there, constantly on a pendulum. I have resettled in various places, finding commonalities, providing me with comfort wherever I may be. My language teacher has kind eyes. Her name is Lucy, and I get to see her twice a week. She arrives swiftly and on time, unlike any other Tanzanian I have met. Lucy is soft-spoken and never angry, yet seemingly always tired. She carries herself with a sense of perpetual exhaustion, as if she has stayed awake for far too long or has recently dealt with a toddler who has had one too many meltdowns. Lucy always greets me multiple times, as is the way in Tanzania. We sit down as a group, me, her, and two other American interns. For a whole hour, the only thing to focus on is Swahili. It always stands as a nice work interlude, disrupting the rhythm of every day. Together, we concentrate on uncovering new words: verbs to describe our actions and nouns to breathe life into the people we meet, the places we go and the things we do, finally giving them their accompanying names in this foreign tongue. We learn to speak in the negative, ironically beginning to say all the things we cannot do here, like speak to another fluently.
On the other hand, I am slowly beginning to be able to tell Lucy what I did last weekend, what I do at work and after work. “Ninakimbia” ~ I am running or I run, after work. In her mind’s eye, I can see Lucy imagining the things I do. I cannot begin to imagine the things she does after work. Does she go home and cook dinner like me? Does she have other mouths to feed? They are questions I cannot form in Swahili and seem impolite to ask in English, a language she intends to replace with her own. In fact, I know very little about Lucy. We are both women, yet separated entirely by our cultures. An invisible boundary stands between us, yet interest draws me close, wanting to know more about her, more about all Tanzania women. Lucy is private, blinking slowly, asking if it has been enough for today. “Enough,” we respond, “Enough for today.” Taking a walk here is a source of accomplishment. Getting places via a dala-dala, taxi, or bajaj is the norm. Yet the few times when it’s feasible to walk somewhere and the sun is high in the sky, I take to the streets. Small, white butterflies are always dancing along the roadside. Sometimes, I’ll hear strains of American music coming from various shops or restaurants. The sound is familiar, yet its' striking difference from my surroundings reminds me of the foreignness of where I am.
Talking with my Aunt, one of the first things she asks me is how I get from place to place. Her inner-journalist immediately questions how I accomplish the most basic of functions, the in-between of one moment to the next. It strikes me as ironic how we tend to focus on the management of things, figuring out logistics, emphasizing the plan and following through with its execution. Since when did we stop wondering about the meaning of it all? Why do I take one taxi from point A to point B? Is it typically to fulfill a basic human need: food or companionship? Or does it play a small role in the grand scheme of things? What is the grand scheme of things? Through this internship, I have gathered that perhaps it is okay to get lost in these small details. To not always yearn for an overarching goal, to not have an endpoint in mind is okay. It is cheesy, but when you realize that it’s the little things that make up a life, a warm cup of coffee or a smile from a stranger, you can let go of the need to make sense of it all. Sometimes just watching white butterflies is okay. Sometimes there can be nothing better, nothing simpler, than enjoying the moment. My biggest test in Tanzania has been learning about the things I am not good at, about recognizing where I am failing, and about where I am stunting my own growth. Sometimes, at the end of the day, I am weary from all the ways that I am not showing up to my life.
Tanzania is a place that is so full of life, that it emboldens you to raise your own standard of living. Daily actions here are very deliberate, making every decision seem important, relevant to who you are as a person. Back at home, you can very easily get away with going through each day, busy with tasks, never breaking to take a step back and see the ways in which you are personally involved. Sure, you might have finished your homework, gone to lunch with friends, found time to jog around the track, but what part of you was active in those decisions? Or were they simply done because they were expected from you, or normal, or comfortable? Being at TATU and witnessing their work, I have realized that perhaps through small actions you can reintegrate yourself into your own life. I want to live fully, to be able to say that I was present in each experience. Reaching the halfway point of this trip has made me grateful for the struggles, for the opportunity to struggle. Sometimes, after a long day of sitting in the office, I wonder how I can put more of myself into the work that I am doing. Creating forms for travelers or contemplating the usefulness of an Instagram account can be testing on my self-worth. It sounds extreme, but it is the truth. One of the most important people I have met here, reminded me that there is always a reason. Where you are right now is where you are meant to be. When you stop fighting the discomfort, or the struggle, you allow yourself to understand the ways in which you are learning and beginning to change. I’ve learned that even though I am an independent, typically introverted person, feeling alone in the work that I am doing is isolating. It has made me realize that a solitary lifestyle sparks fear in me, and that the foundation of my being yearns to connect with other people. The moments when I have been immersed in the culture, at Mistu Wa Tembo, or simply interacting with another person are vital to me. These moments fill me with satisfaction, knowing that I can understand and relate to another person, to help them feel that there is somebody else there for them. I have learned that I am a quiet, humble yet strong leader. I can make decisions for many while staying true to myself. I never wish to come across as self-righteous, and work towards empathizing with others. Most importantly, I have learned to recognize my faults. Where I have come undone, failed miserably, and continue to stumble and fall. I have learned to smile at myself, pick myself up, and continue to grow. I am showing up. I am not hiding. I am stepping fully into my life. |
TanzaniaHi, I'm Helen. Welcome to Lifted ~ I write to lift myself up. Archives |