Fevers and Mirrors - Last State of the Sarah

It's been over a month since I arrived in LAX. I'm home now. Kind of. I'm still living out of boxes. After moving out of the home I had last semester with my girlfriends and spending my last night there, I moved to my mom's place. Now she's moving to another new place. I might live there next year. Or I might live at a new house full of girls that I love. I have a place to live, doubly, a place with people I love. And home's supposed to be where the heart is. I'm lucky. But this doesn't feel like home. Not like I could say if I went back to Uganda today then I would feel at home. It's just that this doesn't, but it's supposed to. It's not the same. I'm not the same. I keep thinking back to a lazy April afternoon in Rwanda, when we were at the Kigali capital city genocide memorial. We were sitting in a large room with windows opened to reveal the view of green trees and small, brown homes crowded together as if for warmth on the hills. We assembled ourselves in front of a television to watch Ghosts of Rwanda. And we learned about how every American living in Rwanda at the time, whether NGO worker or church leader or ambassador or what, left. All but one. And the one who stayed talked about how angry he was. And I felt that anger. I could see our reflection in the television. I would watch the film, and then change my focus to look at us. Our faces were sad, angry, bitter, sometimes bored. I couldn't just hate someone else, find someone to blame it on, say if I had been in that situation I would have stayed. Because I knew if anything happened while we were there, our bus would tear out of the streets of Kigali just like so many busses of white people who had space for their little dogs but not for a Rwandan did 15 years ago. I knew I could be looking at myself when I watched that film. This guy in the Amsterdam airport asked me why I had to go all the way to Africa to fix somebody else's problems. I explained I didn't. I came here for me, because the drama of life seems to be a bit magnified in Africa, and I needed that magnification to be able to really see, to understand the world and myself. He summarized what I said with saying I needed a bigger slap in the face. I got that slap by seeing myself face to face. The kid from Bright Eyes, he has that album, Fevers and Mirrors. I like the way he thinks. Fever is basically whatever keeps you up at night. The mirror is self-examination or reflection. Balancing the scales, that's how we try to solve our through logic or rationalization. The clocks and calendars symbolize time and all the other little measurements we make that are always chasing after us. I thought I was wise. I thought I had a good view of the world, of people. I thought I wouldn't be the person who misjudges someone, who is able to see both the good and bad in people. But I'm not. That keeps me up at night. I want to speak out against what's wrong, and do what's right. But if I can't even tell the difference, I could end up really hurting people. I'm home now, but I'm not. I'm trying not to forget what I learned about seeing people for who they are, instead of as a label. I'm tired of all those lines and walls that divide people, all the little measurements and scale-balancers we make to compare ourselves with others. Yet I keep finding myself reinforcing some of them. So I'm trying to stop that. Trying not to use cultural labels or religious labels to determine if someone is "good" or "bad." Like, I had this dream last night, once I finally got to sleep. People were playing some kind of bible study game. Anyways, the question was something like what do men have to wear to go to church. And my momma said something like a two-piece tux. Which, in retrospect, is kinda funny. But anyways, then there was all this controversy, because everyone else said that was too casual. So my mom had to try to use the Bible to defend her answer, and she was trying to say see it's not clear whether it's two or three-piece, and we should always be quicker to give grace than to judge. I stood up for my mom saying she was right, but that we would be willing to defer to everyone else. I remember the word defer very clearly - I think my sub-conscious must've been proud of itself. :) Anyways, I woke up, and I was so upset. Cuz it felt like everyone had been judging me and my mom for not wanting to judge others. And because it seemed like if you didn't have to wear a three-piece tux than gosh darnit my dream self shouldn't have deferred but stood up for all those people in two-piece tuxes, so they could feel welcome, too. And then I was annoyed at myself cuz I started judging all those dream people who were judging me. Nasty circle! It's kinda funny when I say it all out loud. But it's also a real struggle I've been having, with realizing how culturally-based so many of our markers are for deciding if someone's good or bad, saved or sinner (bad theology, but you know what I mean). And then I get scared and kinda paranoid/defensive that because I don't trust those markers anymore, then maybe I don't really belong anymore. Does that make sense? This is where I'm at a month after Uganda. Not home. Not really sure if I'm making sense. But not alone in all of that. And not homeless. I talked with my politics professor in Rwanda about whether I would have stayed or gone if I had been in Rwanda when the genocide happened. And I told him I wasn't sure. I remember how he smiled and laughed, shaking his head. He told me I would've gone, because I couldn't answer the question. I'm afraid there's some truth in that. I keep imagining myself looking into this 18 inch mirror in the shape of Africa with black etching of the different countries. I'm really scrutinizing it, trying to understand its history and its wars and its people. I'm looking into it and then I'm so surprised to find myself. And I'm not who I thought I was. Cue some sort of eery, over-dramatic instrumental music :) And then bring in the beat rock and roll and have a crazy dance party!