There was a day, a few days ago, when I felt like me. It’s like when you’re a child, out playing, and the sun has suddenly set and before you’ve even noticed, you’re late getting home. You always realize after the fact.
There is a boy, Grade 5, who works at the corner store selling cold drinks and sweets. I taught his class once. His English is smooth like caramel, better than mine. There are a group of young girls who give my sweaty, panting self hugs once I’ve made it up the giant hill on my runs. They chant, “Finished? Finished? Finished?” in the local language. I always shake my head, “Awe, I have to go back down now”. There is one girl, maybe around age twelve, who bounces between her parents house and where I stay, with her grandmother. She is diligent, hard-working and loves to pretend that she hasn’t been looking at you when really she has been. There is a woman who works where I train who never looks busy or rushed but always accomplishes a million things. She shares Zambian traditions and small, small superstitions like blowing air on babies when they burp up their mama’s milk. All these people and more let me be myself when there are so many others who tell me I need to be different, to be smaller, to be less of an American woman. To not be a feminist. But a few days ago, I felt like me, strong thoughts and all, and I loved every person I met because everywhere felt free and everything in the hot wind told me to be brave.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Author's note:Hi, I'm Helen. Welcome to Lifted ~ I write to lift myself up. Archives
March 2021
|