In light of the recent shooting horror/hooplah/focus, Tucson has been licking its wounds, forming together, and making sense of the situation (most of the time this has been in positive ways, although it’s seemed at times that things were getting a little too engrossed in the tragedy). In an extremely uplifting memorial, Ben’s Bells (bensbells.org) decided to do a 1,400 bell distribution and to increase the call for intentional kindness to others.

Huddled together at 7am in the plaza, we listened to a beautiful speech with tears glistening in our eyes as the mother of Ben who died 9 years ago talked about some of her stories with kindness to herself when she was in need and later to other strangers. She said she wanted to tell the person who held open the door, “You just saved my life” on some days, but didn’t.

Then we dispersed with maps and bells to take certain neighborhoods and hang about 5 bells per team. We hung the bells from trees and fences in cemeteries, parking lots, and parks… trusting that the person who finds the bell will be in need of a little kindness. (Aren’t we all?)

For whatever reason, this January I’ve been more into trying to change my life (I hate the cliche of “New Years resolutions”). One of the things Jeanette said was that in order to be more kind, we need to take more time. Leave for work 5 minutes earlier so we aren’t rushing through traffic and can let that person out in front of us. If we’re rushing, sometimes we don’t take a moment to look in another’s eyes and connect. This isn’t hard and it’s what breathes life into everyone’s experiences.

In Holly Springs, Mississippi Paul McLeod lives in a large house.  This mansion has been painted various colors, including pink, but had black accents when I visited.  The gated in lawns were filled with old Christmas trees and wreaths.  Two concrete lions grace (pun intended) the stairway and they are draped with Christmas lights and tattered red plastic bows.  Due to Graceland Too being open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, why would anyone go before midnight?

My friend had been there 4 times before so he knew that even though Paul didn’t answer the door after 2 rigorous knockings, he had to be home.  I stood on my tippy toes and peered through the window on the door, tantalized by all the posters and photos covering every square inch of ceiling and walls.  The third knocking did the trick, sending my down-trodden spirit soaring.  And inside Paul began to clear his throat (consequently he didn’t really stop throughout the entire tour).  We stepped in to pay our $5 fee (after 3 visits you get a Lifetime Membership card and no longer have to pay) and Paul started his spiel.  Paul is in his late 50s, with crazy eyes and he talks out of the side of his mouth.

There are pictures of the actual Elvis mansion, Graceland.  Paul repeats time and again that Graceland Too is not out to “duplicate it, just resemble it”.  For the next hour and a half, Paul highlights his collection of …assorted goods.  It takes me 5 minutes before my brain can wrap around his continuous stream of Southern speech with no consistent intonations.  He’s turning on a huge set of colored lights, loud record recordings, and pointing out a gold suit in the corner.  In between outrageous stories and offers of fantastic amounts of money for his items, he slips in jokes about his ex-wife and sex (“And I said to her, are those carry-ons?…I’m talkin’ ’bout titties!”).  I’m literally agog and he’s whistling at me to get my attention so he can point out a pile of books all containing every moment that Elvis was ever on TV, he’s grabbing my arm to show me all the guns Elvis used to own, he’s saying “Yo!” and telling me to check out his vast array of Coke cans and bottles featuring Elvis.  Room after room, all covered with photos that he claims he took in Elvis’s last performance.  At one point he pulls out a tiny Magnum that the cops gave him… I think that’s what he said, I was too stunned that there was suddenly a gun.  Some of what he says are ridiculous jokes, some of them are just lies, some of it is his family history (“and don’t my son look like the spittin’ image of Elvis?”) and then some of it is an insane amount of crap he knows about Elvis.

Overall, it’s the type of house that could have ANYTHING tucked in corners behind dusty statues and plywood boards filled with polaroid photos of all the visitors to Graceland Too (he claims over 480,000 I believe).  Our tour ended when another group of college students stopped in at 1am to have the grand ol’ tour.  My friend said it could’ve gone on another hour otherwise.  I left feeling amazed that Paul spends his life giving this tour, for years and YEARS this has gone on.  That there simply IS that much stuff about Elvis.  And a little bit violated through his bullying speech and the ridiculousness of it all.  I’d say not half bad for $5 in the middle of the night.

Charmed, I’m sure.

We took a delightful bus ride from Dublin to Galway (we’d been informed by an Irishman that Dublin had nothing to offer and that we should head for Galway instead), still enraptured by the comfort of padded seats where you each get your OWN seat and no one accosts you through windows with bags of water and roasted snails.  We giggled over sheep chasing each other across the surprisingly flat landscape dotted with adorable pubs and “off-licences” (sidenote: they call bars in Cameroon off licenses, and I never realized that it had probably come from the UK).

Currently I’m sitting across the room from a pony-tailed Irishman singing along to his guitar playing.  His Russian wife tells me that she’s surprised at how all the Irish people she meets are talented in some way, singing, dancing, music instruments, poetry, artists.  Galway is a magnet for musical artists, the streets reverberate with drums, saxophones, and guitars.  It’s laced with quaint lochs, canals, and rivers.  This morning we took a long stroll along the seaside, basking with the other 70,000 residents in the rare sunshine breaking up some of the clouds.

I can’t seem to restrain myself from being charmed by fantastic phrases like “potato jackets”/potato skins, “jumpers”/sweatshirts, and being called “love” by the 25 year old scruffy bartender.  Why, oh why, have Americans lost all the glories of the English language’s accents? (sidenote: today in Ireland’s answer to the Dollar Store – the 2 Euro store – I met 5 lovely older Texan ladies buying light up “Ladies On Tour” sashes for their pubbing tonight… I knew them by their drawl, we bonded over saying yall and aint)

In yet another joy of couchsurfing, we were introduced to the phenomenon of the Silent Disco.  Or the Headphone Disco.  Kim and I having been out of the loop for so long, we’re amazed at nearly everything. But this is just plain The Future.  You go to the club. You put on a pair of wireless headphones with a switch.  You tune into one of the 2 DJs.  The club is quiet, except the sound of lots of energetic moving people and singing along.  For those like me who love to dance for the sake of movement, this is pure brilliance.  Everyone loosens up because you somehow are in your own world with this delicate bubble of personal space.  Even nervous white boys, gangly Irish kids, break loose.  Everyone sings along, sometimes to 2 different songs at one time.  And if you want to have a conversation, it’s not nearly as difficult as the loud rucus of a normal club. And kudos to the DJs, they played an amazingly diverse set with songs such as…

• “Anyone Else But You” from Juno
• “Walk Like an Egyptian” The Bangles
• “Hey Ya” Outkast
• “Jolene” Dolly Parton
• “Fire in the Disco” Electric 6
• “Fight for Your Right to Party” Beastie Boys
• “Paint it Black” Rolling Stones

For those of us without portable music players… this was ecstasy.  And no one dances all up on someone else, because you don’t even know if they’re listening to the same song as you.  Well done, technology, well done.

Excuse the inordinate number of pictures with just me and Kim making strange faces with something that we deem important in the background.  When it’s just the 2 of you, this becomes high quality entertainment. Also excuse my ridiculously bad hair.

We have had an amazing variety of experiences in the short time we’ve been tripping through Europe. I regret that I never put my couch in Buea up on the site.  A few highlights with couchsurfing hosts…

Italy
-We met swingers. Italian swingers.
-We luxuriated in a jacuzzi
-We had a host go with us to the piercing salon
-We exchanged homecooked meals (I really want that recipe for the lentil soup)
-We went to a local favorite bar that played “Mr. Boombastic” with cheap drinks (go to Italy and you’ll see how sweeet this is)
-We saw the local makeout spot that overlooked all of the valley (but, no we didn’t make out)

Germany
-We enjoyed a weekly large multi-course group dinner
-We discovered a Nepalese restaurant
-We stayed in a beautiful, high-ceilinged, hardwood flat a short stroll through the playground in the snow

Turkey
-We went out to an amazing array of side alley bars and clubs
-We learned about a vast variety of Turkish dishes 
-We stayed in a 4 star hotel on the gorgeous coast, where the general manager took us out on the town (and made us try Raki – anis flavored liquor): .

The Golden Age Hotel

In general, we got linked into an international community and saw things that we never would have found on our own.  Thank you to all of our hosts and their kindness for making this trip uniquely unforgettable

Bougie: Aspiring to be a higher class than one is
We apparently got above our raisin’ (this is a Southernism, for those folks who don’t know) in Italy and Germany but were quickly dashed back to a rougher style of life in Turkey.  A refreshing return to elements of Cameroon, we were darting for our lives to avoid being killed by the insane drivers here (Our couchsurfing host described it like a popular game here called “Zombie” where drivers purposely try to hit zombies in the street), fearing food poisoning, and battling with aggressive men (I do give them props for offering me free tea and using lines like “Will you come sit with me darling?” and “Angel, you look thirsty” to get me to patron their business establishments).

After tourist-friendly cities like Rome and Berlin, where so many people speak English and the public transport is stupidly easy, Istanbul took a little adjustment.  The city has easy to navigate landmarks with huge minarets (although Kim and I fought about whether to call them turrets (sidenote: I had to google how to spell this word, and it’s horribly close to Tourette’s syndrome) or minarets) and the Golden Horn (can we name something this graceful in NC please?), the Bosphorus, and the Maramara Sea. And apparently the Golden Horn ain’t what it used to be.  In the 190s, the author Yasar Kemal vividly described it as…

“A filthy sewer filled with empty cans and rubbish and horse carcasses, dead dogs, and gulls, and wild boars and thousands of cats, stinking… A viscid, turbid mass, opaque, teeming with maggots”

Which reminds me to mention that there are an INORDINATE amount of cats, mostly in heat, roaming about the city.  This is a bit charming to us after having not seen many cats in Cameroon (they were eaten pretty quickly).  But the Turks don’t seem to… notice them very much.  And the street dogs are MASSIVELY huge. So imagine the streets laced with cats courting each other and large beast dogs curled up or rolling in the grass.

I  came to Turkey and would NOT leave without seeing some dancing.  Bollocks to the fact that it’s off-season and there’s hardly any belly dancing or whirling dervish shows happening, I will find them! So I searched out Sultana’s… I’m not sure if I can accurately describe the experience.  It was a pricey $75 but I was ready for the belly dancing and traditional dance show with multi-course dinner.  So I put on my fanciest T-shirt and sweater combo and stepped out for a night on the town.
We slowed upon reaching the sign, which was placed proudly on top of “Regina Revue: Crazy Horse Nightclub” with a picture of 2 naked women silhouetted.  But we had reservations, so we pressed on and descended down 2 flights of red-carpeted stairs to where the magic would happen… Only we were 30 minutes early. So Kim and I settled in our reserved table, front and center, in an empty showroom.  They politely asked us where we were from, and then used the information against us by placing a tacky flag on our table (which was to our advantage when everyone was seated and we could look around and make stereotypes about the groups of people).  Dinner was a step up from food served on planes, but not too big of a step.  The curtain was raised accompanied by a hokey announcement of “Tonight we are in the Harem, the most sacred ..blah blah… The Sultana was the mother of the Harem, the mother of us all.”  Imagine if adults needed Chuck E Cheese, and maybe they do.. maybe they do.  The first belly dancer came out in a stunning ensemble of pink bra and sash with lots of beads [sidenote: I was intimately acquainted with the belly dancing costumage after perusing the Grand Bazaar for hours and driving the "market dudes" bonkers with my stalling in front of their display of sequins and beads.  I coveted, sinfully, the "professional" costumes which were heavy bra and sash sets covered in bead fringe and huge rhinestones].  I could barely disguise my knee slapping and snickering as she came out with a C-section scar and a belly tattoo with a blonde wig over her dark brown hair.  But,  I was put in my place as she laid down her skills… Her name may have been Delia, but that might just be my fantasizing it.  She threw in back bends and splits while poppin’ her hips (and I’m no stranger to the belly dancing game, I’ll tell ya. I bought the little book that comes with cymbals and tried to clack them together like a horse)  The subsequent 2 dancers didn’t come close to her tackiness, but neither her skills. There were some more ridiculous touristy “traditional” dances by a group of dancers, who all had distinct personalities.  There was the skinny blonde who HATES her job and then the blonde guy who must’ve gotten really high before the show because he was LOVING kicking up his little black boots.  At one point they called up volunteers from the audience and Kim made us both go up to be the new… slave girls or something… I don’t know but Kim pretended to pour water on the “chosen one” and I did a little 60′s go-go number by fanning my hands over her to make her look special.  Ridiculous.  But we got to curtsy in front of everyone and get special Evil Eye necklaces.

In a less attractive but more naked affair, Kim and I sought out a Turkish bath.  Part of the appeal/oddity of the low-tourist season is that everywhere is empty.  This particular Hamam was… completely empty.  So Kim and I sat in a huge marble room hundreds of years old, and poured hot water on our naked bodies. This is strange since part of the appeal of these type of experiences is feeling connected to all these foreign women in a relaxing atmosphere.  A large Turkish woman in tiny black briefs came and told us to lay on the marble slab in the center of the room so she could loofah-glove us down.  We’d heard that her rubbing could be slightly painful and this was just pretty nice, so we felt pretty tough and awesome.  Until she came back in for round 2 with soap and a spongy thing.  She pounded and broke muscles all over me.  I was recovering in the corner when she came back in and gave Kim and delightful little head massage and shampoo.  I plunked myself down between her legs for her to do the same to me, but she… artfully disguised her confusion at my dreads by sort of mussing it about a bit and then half-rinsing the soap out of my head.  We could only tolerate about 5 minutes in the sauna after having poured so much hot water all over ourselves.  We left feeling supple and refreshed though.

After flitting about Italy for a bit, thinking it was a bit cold (especially before our bags arrived and we were left only wearing what we’d taken on the plane), we arrived in Berlin and got schooled.  The entire week that we were there, it snowed and snow-stormed sometimes.  But that’s nothing compared to the 3rd week of January, they kept telling us.  What a strange date to take note of.  Are Germans are constantly saying “Agh! 2 and a half weeks in, better get ready in a few days for the REALLY cold period!” …and furthermore, North Carolinians can we make up something like this so that I can look forward to dreading it? OR, better yet, can North Carolinians make up a fake date that it the weather gets horribly severe (I’m thinking like a really intense fake hurricane week) to tell visitors so we sound like we keep and monitor really efficient weather reports?  The Australians apparently have this “inside joke” that they always tell foreigners about the “Drop Bear”, a bear that drops down and attacks only foreigners.  I’m not sure how true this is, but if it is, kudos Australians because that is a really widespread inside joke.

Anyway…
We put Berlin on our itinerary after hearing so many people talk about how artsy, inexpensive, and fascinating the city is.  We spent the first day wandering around, dazzled by the snow and learning how to move around in it (I would get distracted by some sparkling lights and fall smack on my bootay in the middle of a busy sidewalk).  But, unlike all the touristy places we’d been in Italy, Berlin is MONSTROUSLY huge.  And you can’t just stroll about in the snow and find things to entertain you.  So day 2, we created more of a plan – apparently German cities cause you to behave more like a German, precision! We went on a walking tour of the city which was profound, for 4 hours we tromped about with our Irish guide (with a “gift of the gab”).  He explained to us all the different layers that are going on in the cities architecture and monuments.  Apparently Berlin has a unique way of building back after buildings are damaged (by the extensive bombings) – they choose to sometimes recreate what was there before, sometimes the Communists took over and built something hideously practical, or sometimes they just throw in a bunch of different architecture from various periods.  The monuments in Berlin, and we didn’t get to see nearly  half of them, are beautifully done.  I find that a lot of monuments in America are sometimes missing something, they don’t touch on my personal emotions about what they commemorate.  But Berlin, unfortunately, has had to get good at expressing feelings about events.  For the Memorial to the  Murdered Jews of Europe, it’s not really explained and you’re walking through these huge slabs of concrete that gradually grow to be much taller than you and the snow whistles through them… it’s intense.  The Memorial has been debated since currently there are several separate memorials for different groups that were persecuted during the Holocaust (which is a term not officially used by Germans, it seems) since some say that everyone should be memoralized who suffered during that period.
The Memorial for Victims of War and Tyranny has been renamed numerous times, and is also contested since it doesn’t differentiate between the victims and the perpetrators, and it’s within the former guardhouse of the Prussians.  I was impressed by this particular memorial because it’s open to the elements and in a huge concrete building with a hole directly above the statue, the light, the rain, the snow, all come in to create a distinct mood.

We went to a funky contemporary art gallery with weird German things going on.  Our favorite was a huge room with WAY oversized lamp and couches where you could climb up and feel miniature while watching these trippy art films, wiggling your feet high above the ground.

On a completely separate and lighter note, and I don’t want to belabor this point too much, but… I’m extremely disappointed that none of my friends and family felt the need to tell me about Avatar.  One night we went and bought crazy expensive movie tickets (My God! Is this the state of the modern world? It’s a far cry from our $2 Chinese DVD collections with over 20 films on the streets of Cameroon) and 3-D glasses to watch this fantastic film.  I don’t know if we were starved for action and romance, but …we were like gerbils on crack the entire time, so wound up.

Summary of our Berlin experience:

• Germans: WAY too into techno. Drop it. Really. And turn down your headphones! Halfway across the metro is too far for me to hear your thumping rave.
• Berlin: Brownie points for your AWESOME street art, and condoning it! Germany and Ireland are the only countries in Europe that Americans can get “Artist Visas” for one year.  This should be more encouraged.
• Young Europeans: Quit making out everywhere.  Period.
• Apparently German food isn’t really easy to find in Berlin, we kept asking everyone what we should eat in Berlin and they would say, “Oh there’s this great little Thai place” or “The Turkish kebaps are amazing!”… we may have missed out, I don’t know
• Kim and I were often taken for Germans, or at least German speakers – apparently we fit in with Berlin because we have such “different styles”… I’m not sure exactly what this means, but in contrast to Italy, thanks for accepting us!

Food is not one of them.  We’re carrying out one of the goals of Peace Corps by spreading the culture of Cameroon to others; Italians are shocked that Cameroonians don’t eat raw vegetables and we haven’t really eaten salads for 2 years.  We went into a grocery store and I haven’t been so elated in a long time.  Except the CRAZY eating schedule (Italians don’t really eat breakfast and then they only eat dinner at like 9pm… as in, places aren’t really open before 8), we’ve been basking in the glory of Italian food.  Street food should always mean gelato and paninis, except I am missing soya and burning fish every now and then…

Cameroonians and Italians… very different concepts of personal space than Americans.  I was frequently a bit rattled when Cameroonians were constantly sweating on me and poking limbs into my space on buses. And Italians are always standing just a little too close or not moving out of the way at all.  Italians have adjusted to their tight city plans and park their TINY cars right on top of a whole rack of vespas… making Americans need for huge cars look silly.  Last night we went to this great, PACKED Italian restaurant… and when I say packed, I mean that it would violate American fire codes.  Hot and tight seating, picture the cliche Italian dinner with strangers and SO many in a room. 

Dysfunctionality… I gotta say that Italians are working with a lot more technology on their side, but strangely enough… the system doesn’t always work, which is all too familiar.  Although the bus stop does tell me when the next bus is coming, the trains are sometimes just…canceled (and not announced). 

Quick summary of cities… (Why can’t Americans just say the Italian names of these cities? Its not hard!)

Roma/Rome: clean and efficient, beautiful ruins set in the middle of beautiful architecture.  Tons of good restaurants and things to do.  The Vatican museum is 5.5 hectars of art, much of it pilfered from the different  conquests around the world.  I didn’t get to see the Pope, but I don’t feel like I missed out on too much….

Firenze/Florence: A bit uppity, gorgeous buildings and churches.  Oddly enough, tons of people walking dogs and not picking up their crap.  Expensive and delicious food.  They laced the many small streets with different types of stars and webby lights that made every moment seem exotic and special. 

Lecce: A college town in the south, it’s known as the Florence of the south.  Amazingly ornate churches tucked back in winding little narrow alleyways.  Christmas lights were stunning hanging in magical city squares.  Around 10pm, the bars all open and the alleys flood with young people hanging outside to smoke and stand with drinks since sitting is at a premium in all these tiny little hole in the wall joints.

Napoli/Naples: Known for being rude, dirty, and violent… it’s so alluring!  It’s got an old city feel that says “I don’t take no shit, and no I won’t pick up my trash!” There’s a long history of nativity scenes here, where markets sell figurines to put in them and churches hold exhibitions of these itty bitty little scenes complete with lights and tiny food.  New Year’s is like nothing I’ve ever seen, with the streets becoming the Gaza Strip (there was an Israeli girl here who at first exclaimed a bit of fear at the “bombs”, and I thought she was being phobic about fireworks, thinking that Americans got this down).  Children and young people set off… what can only be described as bombs.  Loud, ground shaking booms that have no fun sparkling lights to accompany them.  At midnight, the town goes beserk with bombs and then individual displays of what would be the city fireworks in the States, huge glittering fireworks making it through the smoke that hangs over the town.  Packed onto a balcony with 5 other international kids, I couldn’t sling my head back and forth to take in all the lights going off from the sea to the castle on the hill.

My NGO, specifically my boss, gave me a fantastic parting gift of a HUGE send off ceremony.  Officials were there as well as groups, organizations, students that I’d worked with for 2 years. Imagine being celebrated for the tiniest thing you had ever done, in speeches and tug of war, sketches, etc.  So much work went into the event and its planning that it was such an honor.  We decorated the hall (this was part of my contribution, I made signs that said “Jess says…”  with pictures of a shaggy redhead with glasses) .

I desperately tried not to bring on tears as people said the sweetest things about all these amazing accomplishments, some that weren’t really true (I don’t speak pidgin better than Cameroonians, I didn’t do any major health improvements with groups).  Cameroonians don’t know what to do with public crying unless someone’s died.  I didn’t have any issues holding back the tears when the youths lost to the women in tug of war (the women were SERIOUS, putting on sportswear and talking trash – I was on the youths). 

I got to dance with all my ladies, in a ridiculous traditional dress and headscarf, showing off what I’d learned after 2 years: be bold and shake your skin.

Leaving Buea was harder than it should have been.  I feel very lucky to be able to keep in touch with most of the people I connected with through email.  But as a pack rat, I had enough crap to disperse for multiple houses. I made trip after trip to the office, to my neighbors, to friends, orphanages, carrying stuff. And shipped a huge bag home.  I gave my local grandma, Bomba, a traditional dress.  She was nearly crying at having to say goodbye and having this tremendous gift from me.  This was one of the more touching goodbyes I had… my 83 year old neighbor who took me like her own daughter, in spite of my scandalous boxers, late night partying, and lack of domestic skills, and we only communicated through pidgin. 

My hardest goodbye was my counterpart, Esther.  In my speech I explained that Peace Corps assign volunteers a “counterpart” but that Esther has no counterpart, no one is on her level. She is certainly a mentor for me and my experience would have been lost without her energy, direction, and love. Kim and I went to dinner at her house, WAY out in the bush, where she giggled at my quips as she finished her homework for an online course, we scratched at multiple mosquito bites, and ate delicious coconut rice.

I’m starting to miss my house already, with my wall murals, privacy, tons of space and leopard couch (for god’s sake!).  I know if I go back to Buea in even a year, it will be different. I won’t be able to track down all my friends who have moved/changed their numbers.  Bars will pop up. Construction will cram into tiny spaces. Prices will be different for things in the market. I may lose my pidgin. This is a nicely packaged up experience that wasn’t always easy but was a beautiful thing for me.

On December 5^th, the girls gathered in the front entryway to take a closing picture (I made them take it with “crazy faces”) and receive their (much sought after) Peace Corps certificates.  We gave them all a small amount of art supplies so they could continue working at home for a little while.  Most of these girls had never been in any kind of art setting in their lives and may never be again.

This is the project, out of an entire 2 years, that I am the most proud of.  18 girls, 4 of them deaf, were able to explore art.  I tried, as much as possible, to make it sustainable so that there are 2 more facilitators for next year.  But it may fail and never happen again… and I’m OK with that. I was thoroughly rewarded by the girls’ enthusiasm (who wouldn’t be enthusiastic doing face painting?) and creativity (in one of their later projects, the girls did a collage and one of them started making it 3-D and this is HUGE for them).  We made colorful paper mache masks, meditated and did Chinese brush painting, made body collages, and Snap Cups.

In one of my finer moments, I brought back the… cheesy/ridiculous idea from “Legally Blonde” (??!!) where she has everyone get their own cup and you write little messages to put into them with nice things about that person.  My friend Kim snickered loudly in the back as I made the girls repeat after me, “Aw… SNAP!” Where else will I have the chance to make a room full of young girls say that (and no one call their moms or older sisters and say “I don’t know.. but this crazy white girl just made us say “Aw snap”… and that ain’t right)?  The girls wrote little notes to each other to take home on the last day so they could still feel connected to each other.  Don’t hate.

A few days before I moved out of my house, one of the girls came over and said she needed to talk to me.  In a whispery voice, she told me she had started her period.  She likes to tell stories, and so she gave me the full rundown on how “it” happened and how she discovered it. Part of the art class curriculum was a session on reproductive health (the girls don’t learn this in school and no one ever really explains to them what their period is or what happens during pregnancy).  As I whooped and hollered, sweeping her up in my arms, she asked, “You’re HAPPY??!” More people should get celebrated on their becoming a woman.  And Starine will be a wonderful woman.

Art education is desperately needed (among a whole pile of other things…) here. I’ve been thinking about a future career in doing art education in developing countries.  It’s so exciting, to see them feel comfortable expressing themselves; girls in Cameroon are used to being very demure and quiet in the classroom as the boys overshadow them.   In my guestbook at my Send Off, one of the girls wrote “Thank you for making me bold” (which is funny, since she probably was the most bold in the class, but cute too).  I’m just starting to realize that other people didn’t grow up doing art the way I did, thanks mom.  Sometimes we grow nostalgic for Mr. Markers (you remember the smelly ones) or coloring books, the chance to waste some paper.  Everyone deserves the chance to find themselves through art growing up.