The Next Chapter

Damn, my January blog post output was paltry! I mean, I know I can get distracted at times, but that was pitiful even for me!

Granted, there was some significant drama last month, what with the ankle incident and all. But I really don't think that was the problem. No, I've just been intensely preoccupied lately with next chapters. Not in books, but in lives. Well, in a life, anyway. My life.

You see, my Kenya stint ends in June. I've known this for a while now, but all of a sudden, that fact feels like equal parts gift and threat. All things considered, and especially after my recent New York/DC break, I'm extremely ready to return to America permanently. And yet........

I know some of you are shaking your heads right about now. You're also probably thinking, "Rachel, your problem is, you really don't know WHAT you want, and you're afraid of committing to anything." Well anyway, if YOU aren't thinking it, I'm thinking it about myself.

Usually during the wee small hours of the night when Insomnia clasps me in its loveless embrace, I spend a lot of fevered monkey-mind moments wondering just exactly what I have to return home to. (Besides lots of people who love me and would be very happy to see me, which is nothing to sneeze at, of course.) But at this point in my life, what kind of--for want of a better term--"Life Structures" will I be returning to? After all, I don't own a house or apartment. I don't have a job waiting for me. I don't have a husband, boyfriend, potential mate, or even a smoldering crush in the wings. I'd be returning to...

What????

I've started the process of sorting that out, employment-wise, which is good. But a funny thing happened today, and it sparked an evocative end to my recent case of blogger's block. I was talking to an American acquaintance who's married to a Kenyan man about the new constitution that's being drafted here now. Surprisingly, under current law, being married to a Kenyan does not confer automatic citizenship, or even the chance at getting citizenship someday. As it stands now, you simply can't become a Kenyan citizen. Even your kids have to eventually declare one citizenship or another...they can't be both Kenyan and American.

The new constitution may change that. Near the end of that discussion, I startled myself by saying, without the slightest bit of hesitation or irony, "I gotta find myself a Kenyan man to marry." Well, my acquaintance laughed and automatically committed herself to the task at hand. Since I'd started the whole schmear, I played along as she explored my requirements for a potential mate: Age, educational background, professional status, etc.

Oh, we both acknowledged my challenges. At age 48, it'll be hard to find an African man of my era who isn't already married with grown kids and grandkids. Or if he's divorced or widowed, he's probably considering having another set of kids, and is looking for a woman at least 20 years younger than me. Still, I get the feeling this woman might actually line me up a few Kenyan prospects before my stint ends.

Anyway, I've been thinking about my impulsive declaration ever since. What made me affirm I wanted a Kenyan husband? Back in the States, most of the guys I dated were white. Besides, even during the height of my online dating obsession, I rarely vocalized a desire for a husband, per se. Over the past decade or so, prior to living in East Africa, I'd have been quite satisfied with a committed long term relationship, with a man who was as devoted to me as I was to him. While I suppose subconsciously that could have meant I wanted a wedding ceremony, marriage was never really as top of mind as the emotional and intellectual connection I craved.

Now, I've gone on record as saying I simply haven't been overly attracted to Kenyan men. Oh, there've been a few crushes, even an intense one, for that matter which recently died on the vine. But on the whole, there are just too many cultural hurdles to clear, and I'm not as emotionally spry as I used to be. I've lived alone far too long to contemplate making the adjustments, concessions, and alterations to my independent psyche required to tackle African cultural norms about a woman's role in marriage. And yet....

With only about 5 more months to go in Nairobi, what on EARTH made me say I wanted to marry a Kenyan?? Was it just sheer vulnerability, the fear of being greeted in America by.....nothing? And given my slightly dated packaging, am I finally ready to do whatever it takes to snare myself a husband? Furthermore, am I considering the possibility of feeling more protected by being with a man who would expect to rule the roost? After all, I've been making all my own decisions, rightly and wrongly, for the past 3 decades or so. Wouldn't it be just the teensiest relief to defer that process to somebody else, within a cultural framework that demands it?

"In other words, have I lost my damn mind???"

I don't know. On the one hand, I guess it's a good thing that I can still surprise myself in relationship matters. Trust me, it would be very easy to give up on the whole marriage thing at this point, for a lot of reasons. But as I become more consumed by figuring out what the heck my next life chapter will be, I'm kinda happy I'm considering more than just another resume entry. Wonder of wonders, after all these years, I'm finally starting to envision a much more fully rounded plotline.