Notes From a Native Daughter

"I'm Just Sayin', Dawg...Part 30"

2011-08-05T18:36:00.006+03:00

You know, it's kind of comforting for me to look at this picture and know that even though I'm not wearing a speck of make-up, and I felt like a bloated sow that day, something inside of me radiated happiness. Contentment. OKAY-ness, if you will.

I have spent the past few days in Kilifi, preparing for the next Kenyan Alliance of Health and Science Reporters workshop. It could be one of the last events of its kind, if the Universe decides it's time for me to move on. Like I said in the last posting, there's a lot about my life that's uncertain at this moment.

But I guess it's because this image was captured on President Barack Obama's 50th birthday that I notice something special about it. Whatever else you think about him, he looks pretty damn fit for a 50-year-old. He's helping me set a new standard for what 50 should feel like.

I guess all I'm saying is that when I look at this picture of me, I detect a bit of contentment, of certainty that no matter what goes down, somehow I'll be okay. There is something inside so strong, so resilient, so able to shake it off or laugh it off, whatever the situation requires, and just keep on keepin' on. There is something so Eloise and Julie-ish about me; I see both of their faces in this image.

I reckon for the rest of my life, I'll keep seeing them more and more. Knowing that I carry them around inside me, and that I don't really HAVE to wear make-up to throw some serious inner fire, actually feels really great. After all, I loved them just the way they were.

And I love me that way, too.

"I'm Just Sayin', Dawg...."

A Whale of a Decision

2011-07-30T09:15:00.005+03:00

I guess I never realized that whales get very little sleep, but I probably should have. I mean, when you're surrounded by salty fluid that could literally suffocate you if too much of it enters your lungs, you kinda have to stay moving and alert at all times to keep from drowning.

Which is a good way of describing my life at the moment. In exactly two months, the main reasons I have spent the past three years in Kenya will be moot. Done. Finito. No more support from afar, in the form of wire transfers and "organizational identity." If I stick around in East Africa beyond that time, it'll be under my own banner. Fueled by "Pure Princess Rachella Power"--that same Teflon-plated will, determination, and utterly naive, borderline reckless ability to step out on Faith with absolutely no visible means of support.

Of course, I'd be rather coy if I didn't also mention that at about that exact same point in time, I will turn 50 years old. Which prolly makes me a bit of a chump to be using a big-assed WHALE as the imagery for this particular turning point in my life! But I realized it was actually the perfect metaphor earlier this week, when my "Daily Om" email message landed in my AOL inbox. The title of that day's inspirational message was "Spirit of the Sea," and it offered the analogy of whales and their underwater existence to transmit a powerful message to me:

"It is through the vibrations of their unique sound that they release ancient wisdom to us. At the same time, their sound carries across such great distances that whales can enter the realm of the future where they can acquire knowledge of what is to come.

"Every whale sings a song, and they never repeat the same pattern when they sing their song. Since whales must be conscious at all times in order to breathe, they cannot afford to fall into an unconscious state for too long. Never completely asleep, their brain has constant access to the collective unconscious where all answers lie. Whales float peacefully, secure in the ocean environment that supports and sustains them."

I guess middle-aged female whales never struggle with menopause, because the cool depths of the ocean must help regulate their body temperatures. DAMN, that sounds fantastic!! Anyway, I totally grooved to the imagery of having constant access to the collective unconscious where all of Life's answers lie. I visualized myself floating peacefully and secure, knowing that my environment would support me and sustain me.

And then I ran the financial numbers and realized that I will be utterly screwed and homeless in no time flat unless I find another job immediately.

But once that temporary freak-out subsided, I went back to "The Whale Place" in my mind. I recalled two other times in the past five years alone when I was told that one job was about to end, and when I walked out the door or hung up the phone and literally articulated that "When one door closes, another one opens."

Without having the slightest idea of what I would do next, both times I just held my nose and stepped off the sheer side of Life's cliff. I did it for the right reasons, I think, because I knew I wanted to keep myself available to do work that mattered, and that would make a difference. And I'm visualizing myself remaining in East Africa a while longer for the same reasons.

But sometimes, I get so down-to-the-bone tired of being constantly on the move like whales. And I could definitely relate to the non-sleeping analogy, because I've battled insomnia over the past decade. I literally cannot remember the last time I slept through an entire night. And when I do wake up in those wee, dark hours, my brain is usually racing. I'm thinking of all the stuff I need to do, should have done, WILL do, can't do, don't want to do, etc.

Whales might be pretty chill about that kind of lifestyle, but it takes a toll on middle-aged humans. I was talking with another female expat last week about this same thing. She's single, never married, about my age, and committed to being here at least another year, but she has an apartment in New York that she would LOVE to go back and settle into.

We both nailed down the biggest hardship of this life we've chosen: the lack of visible support. The cordial, casual, occasional networks we access when we get so bored we think we'll go completely batshit loopy, but the lack of soul-deep, heart-strung connections. We both concluded that the ONLY thing that would keep us here permanently would be to find "The One," but then we also admitted that we'd have just about as much chance of finding him here as we'd have back home. Which wasn't MUCH of a chance, by the way, but at least over there, we'd have our friends, family and other comforts of home.

So. We keep swimming into the breach, like the aforementioned whales, with no other choice but to keep moving, making a few spectacular leaps every now and then, but mostly just hoping we'll access this alleged submerged, subconscious wisdom that will make it all make sense. I hope I'll be here doing great work for the next few years, but at this very second, I have no idea what I'll be doing next month.

It's a whale of a life, but it's the only one I've got.

Saying "Yes, Yes, Yes" instead of "No, No, No"

2011-07-24T16:24:00.007+03:00

Earlier this week, I had the most fun I've had in AGES rocking the house with a couple of 50 and 60-something American expat friends. We were at a Nairobi club known for playing smokin' old-school tunes, the kind that are almost guaranteed to make you squeal "WHOOOOH! That was my JAM!" after the first few chords are played.

This particular night, the anonymous Kenyan DJ was killin' the Otis Redding catalogue. I mean, I thought I knew there was so much more to Otis that the classic "Dock of the Bay," but I was just blown away by the depth and range that brother possessed! Turns out I recognized about half the songs I was hearing, but there were a bunch I'd never heard before. They ALL got me movin' and groovin', in a deep down in your toes kinda flow.

For a while there, though, I was feeling kind of wistful. I mean, admitting you know the lyrics to quite a few early Staxx tunes, and that you know who Sam and Dave were, and that Isaac Hayes did a lot of the back-up horn arrangements on those classic early-mid 60's tunes, can age your ass in a heartbeat. Finally, somebody forced me to sing the lyrics to Joe Tex's "I Gotcha," and all pretense was lost. I was my old-ass self, and lovin' every minute of it.

"You promised me the day that you quit your boyfriend/That' I'd be the next one to ease on in./You promised me it would be just us two,/And I'd be the only man kissin' on you./Now KISS me, hold it a long time, hold it/don't turn it a-loose now, hold it...."

I skerred MYSELF by that point! But hey, when you're almost 50, and you had a lot of older siblings who got off on that Staxx/Motown/R&B groove, ain't no sense in perpetratin'. Anyway, I'm rambling, so let me get to the point. After that recent funk-fest, it felt really hollow and ironic and sad last night when I learned that Amy Winehouse was found dead at 27. I'm not claiming to have been a rabid fan, but I did really, REALLY like "Back to Black." Of the latest crop of British Neo-Soul singers, I personally thought she was the best--or at least had the most potential to become a powerful influence in the musical world.

Sure, I also heard the stories about the drugs and booze and erratic behavior. But I guess my mind always drifted to Whitney Houston, and how somehow SHE managed to survive a severely dark decade or so with drugs and insane behavior. Of course, now it's rumored that she's slipping again, but hey, we can always keep praying.

Come to think of it, I guess most folks didn't consider propping up Amy Winehouse in prayer because she was still so young. Even though her addictions were ravenous, I guess everybody thought it was just her fumbling, stumbling way of coping with enormous fame. We all hoped that once she finally got tired of bad press, bad men--and just plain got sick and tired of being sick and tired--she would pull herself together and fully embrace her god-given talent.

Before the world knows what really went down, all we can do is speculate about what killed Amy Winehouse, based on her past behavior. In a way, it's like she signed her own death warrant by making millions of dollars through publicly admitting her resistance to getting clean. I remember it struck me as a bit skeevy the first time I heard "Rehab;" it was almost like the record company decided, "Well, if she's gonna be a fuck-up, at least let's all get paid from it." But like everybody else, I grooved to the funky rhythm and to her raspy wail.

But now Amy Winehouse is dead. At 27. Getting that news reminded me of last Tuesday night, shakin' my ass in that chair at that Nairobi bar, and also shaking my head at the incredible vocal power and talent of Otis Redding. It just seemed so damned impossible that the guy singing that amazing music had died at 26. It made me wonder if there isn't some immutable "off-switch" that kicks in for some extraordinarily talented musicians and singers at around that age: Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison....

But the main thing I take from this week's crazy arc of musical musing is that for the rest of my life, I want to say "Yes, yes, yes" to life, instead of "No, no, no." I want to affirm my power and expertise and energy in positive ways. I want to keep on contributing something worthwhile, and I want to help somebody along the way. I also want to achieve more of my own personal goals, which include finding the man I want to spend the rest of my life laughing, learning and loving with.

I guess all I'm saying is if I had died at 27, I would have missed out on 23 incredibly interesting years. I'm banking on at least 30 more. And I kinda wish Amy Winehouse could have visualized herself as an 80-year-old broad "sangin'" her guts out on a concert stage someday. Instead, my heart seized a bit as I heard Tony Bennett on the BBC describe recording a duet with Amy earlier this year, and recalling that he'd told her she sounded like Dinah Washington. Bennet said she'd been somewhat nervous until that point, but when he gave her that compliment, she instantly relaxed, and lit up like a firefly.

Apparently, poor, tortured Amy wasn't able to close the gap between how the rest of the world saw her and how she saw herself. I mean, if Tony Bennett paid ME a compliment like that, I'd have spent the rest of my life trying to prove he was right, instead of running as fast as I could in the other direction, screeching "No, no, no" all the way.

But don't just take my word for it. Here's one of Amy's other lyrics:

"I cheated myself, Like I knew I would. I told you I was trouble. You know that I'm no good."

I rest my case. Rest In Peace, Amy.

These Boots Were Made for Caulking Creaky Knees

2011-07-20T13:28:00.002+03:00

One of my many self-indulgent pursuits during my recent trip back home was the purchase of these supple leather, zip-up-the-back, kitten-heeled boots. Initially, I defended the purchase by declaring them an early 50th birthday present, a visual reminder that turning a half century old doesn't mean you start looking for orthotic inserts in your sensible shoes.

But okay, some of you may be thinking "WTF???? She lives in AFRICA, for Chrissakes...who needs leather boots over there, except maybe for stomping around in muddy forests??"

Well, in my ongoing attempts at promoting Afro-American cross-cultural understanding, please be advised that it is now Winter in Kenya, and of the four such seasons I have experienced so far, it is by far the coldest. OBVIOUSLY, it never gets as cold as, say, the Northeast in the US, or Michigan's Upper Peninsula. To my knowledge, there's never been any snow here. And I don't ever foresee myself investing in a down jacket while I'm on the continent.

But once you've lived in a different climate for a few years, your body recalibrates. Let's forget about my "Change of Life" issues for a minute; I truly believe my blood has thinned. I have been wearing socks to bed just about every night since I returned from the States. Most mornings are chilly and gray, and it's been a real struggle to get out of bed--just like the months of January through April back in DC.

Folks, SAD ain't just an acronym; Seasonal Affective Disorder is real, whether you're in Nyack or Nairobi. I've been plowing through somehow, and the other day I pulled on these puppies with some sexy patterned tights to help jump start the old positive endorphins.

Turns out these boots were a great investment, but sadly, not for the reason you might think. Oh yeah, I was smokin' hot in 'em, but by the end of a cold winter day here, I was forced to acknowledge the REAL reason I'm glad I own them. They covered my achy knees, and kept 'em toasty and snug. Helped cut my dose of Naproxen that day in half.

I swear to the Sweet Thorny-Haired Baby JAY-ZUS, you gotta laugh at this "Getting Older" crap or you woud cut your own throat 5 times every day.

Phenomenally 50--and Friends Forever

2011-07-11T21:19:00.004+03:00

Behold 3 of the luckiest half-century old women of African descent to ever walk the face of the Earth.

They are partly responsible for yet another lapse in my blogging routine, because they just left Nairobi last Thursday. They landed here two days after I returned, from 3 of the most fabulous weeks I've had in a very long time. In fact, my recent stint in the US almost...ALMOST...made up for the 8 years of puredee personal and emotional Hell that preceded it. I had such a profoundly healing and joyous time while back in the US, I fully expected to pay for it by being totally depressed right about now.

Fortunately, these two women helped forestall the funk. Meet Faith and Danita, whom I've known since 1979 and 1980 respectively. I met Faith, the one in the middle, during Freshman Week at Northwestern University. She cemented our friendship by dragging my backwards ass out of my room in Allison Hall and insisting that I go to a frat party nearby. I probably expected Satan himself to be taking tickets at the door, and that I would get pregnant if a guy looked too deeply into my eyes. I remember trying to come up with a few excuses to get out of going, but Faith wasn't having it.

She's been all up in my grill ever since. Seriously, Faith is probably the one person who knows my tics and twitches as well as I do, because I've shared them with her ad nauseum. She's enough of a friend to never use them against me per se, but she also won't let me get away with anything. She's my guru; thank God for Skype, because it's kept us in check when necessary over these past few years.

Danita came to Northwestern the year after Faith and I did, and they bonded because they'd both been raised in suburban Cleveland. Danita's an engineer with the most disarmingly friendly, cheerful and personable energy of anyone I've ever known. I've spent more time with Faith over these past few decades, and yet once Danita and I reconnected, it was like we'd never missed a beat.

They spent about 9 days in East Africa recently, and as I told them in an email earlier today, "The Oasis of Graciousness" never felt more like home. Their being here reminded me of one of the biggest challenges of expat life: that missing sense of "family" and deep, knowing friendship.

There is something about being around people who've known you for decades, and who CHOOSE to travel thousands of miles to be with you, that is truly comforting. You laugh in ways you don't get to laugh with your expat friends. You don't have to explain stuff, and yes, you "exhale" in different ways. You're not always on high alert and with your guard up. You're more at home inside yourself.

That's also a pretty good way of describing turning 50. Faith accepted that glorious mantle in April; I'm next up in October, Danita's turn comes next year. And I think our African sojourn cemented something very important: We are blessed and highly favored. We have lives our own mothers didn't even imagine for us. We have professional role models like Michelle Obama and Oprah Winfrey to help us carry ourselves in the world in ways most women of African descent in the diaspora can never even pretend to imagine. We can set goals and dream dreams and take chances and say yes--or shout "NO!"--in ways our mothers couldn't.

So even though at one point these two innocent looking women did something so diabolical and treacherous to me that I can never fully disclose the details, they also helped ease my reentry into the Kooky Carnival that is life in Nairobi. They reminded me once again that true love and friendship don't fade across the miles and years, and that getting older really IS getting better, if you keep yourself surrounded by really great people.

Fair Weather Friends, That Is....

2011-07-11T20:50:00.003+03:00

I think I've finally figured the secret to enjoying life fully:

Live in a dwelling with a balcony. And invite people you like to come over and sit on it and drink elixirs like apple martinis when it's mild and sunny and pleasant outside. And then, if they piss you off or betray you, you can push them over the edge of said balcony.

I mean, come on: LOOK at these two faces!!! Smiling like butter wouldn't melt in their mouths!! Who knew the depths of evil those smiles concealed???

Sukuma Wicked

2011-07-11T20:00:00.004+03:00

...But then, I probably should have seen it coming. Especially when Faith pulled a knife on me. Well, not exactly, but it just sounds kinda edgy to make that sort of allegation.

Actually, though, I should have had more decency than to enlist their help in pulling off another of my legendary dinner parties. I made another of my batches of sukuma wiki, or Kenyan collards, and Faith and Danita helped carefully wash the greens...

With the emphasis on "carefully." I was, like, "What the HELL, girls??? It usually takes me about 30 minutes to get through the same batch it took THEM an hour and a half to clean. Granted, a forensic examination of my cleaned greens would probably reveal a few less than spotless surfaces, but all I can say is it's a good thing I don't have a separate water bill.

And oh, wait...THEN there was the "Croissant Conundrum"....

Croissant Conundrum

2011-07-11T19:08:00.004+03:00

Girlfriend took, like, 5 HOURS to tear 5 croissants into little pieces for my Sweet Potato Bread Pudding Recipe! Danita and I had fun teasing her about it, though.

Like I said, in hindsight, what eventually happened was probably just Karma biting me in the ass for that harassment. But before I reveal the details of that fateful event, let me share a few more highlights from their visit....

Hiking Hotties

2011-07-11T18:11:00.002+03:00

We actually had a great time doing a short hike in the Great Rift Valley, near Mt. Longonot.

Thumbs Up!

2011-07-11T17:51:00.002+03:00

I mean, really, REALLY GREAT!

Lodge Pudge

2011-07-11T17:26:00.002+03:00

We even stopped at the Great Rift Valley Lodge everybody's been raving about since I arrived in Kenya. The trip probably rearranged my spinal column a bit, the roads were so bad, but at least I can say I've been there.

And notice how I've angled myself in this shot, to make up for the fact that the entire time Faith and Danita were in Kenya, I felt like a dumpy Munchkin.

Further Proof...

2011-07-11T17:01:00.002+03:00

"See what I mean?"

Rotary Rendezvous

2011-07-11T16:57:00.002+03:00

Anyhoo, the girls also got to visit a local Rotary Club................

The Other Side of the Tracks

2011-07-11T15:57:00.002+03:00

......And tour Kibera, one of the largest and most infamous slum communities on the African continent, through one of the community groups I've worked with there.

I believe Faith and Danita got to see Africa in a way most Americans never will...as diverse, vibrant and complex, not just as an extended safari tour with giraffes walking up and down the streets and people wearing banana leaf skirts. It's a tragedy, but a lot of people simply can't picture a city with skyscrapers and highways and restaurants and malls in Africa--at least outside of Johannesburg or Cape Town, that is.

The experience left them pretty pretty sober. Speaking of sobriety.....that's where all the trouble began....

Bewitched, Bothered and Blackmailed

2011-07-11T14:39:00.004+03:00

It was in a setting not unlike this one that the "Ultimate Betrayal" occurred.

Wait, it was in this setting, to be specific. This shot was taken at one of my legendary dinner parties, possibly one of the top 3 I've thrown since I landed in Kenya. It was partly in honor of Faith and Danita, partly to mark my 3rd anniversary in Nairobi, and partly to test drive the recipe for Muddled Ginger Martinis that I got from my friend Veronica while I was in Chicago.

Maybe Faith and Danita decided it was also their best opportunity to make me pay for working them like field hands with pre-party cooking and cleaning. Hey, I've acknowledged that was probably a mistake. But did they REALLY have to stage a photo of me passed out on the couch with a mostly empty martini pitcher and a glass near my head???

I managed to secure a copy of that photo, in case any further doctoring occurs down the line. And yes, I was SLEEPING in that photo, but not because I'd consumed too many alcoholic beverages!! I was still battling jet lag, and had spent most of the prior few days prepping for the party and running around town with the girls...and hey, I ain't as young as I used to be!!!

Anyway, it really opens your eyes when your friends set you up, and then laugh like crazed loons about it while you cringe. But come to think of it, if you ever got to see that picture, you'd laugh, too. Not that you ever will. But if you DO, I'll know why and who's responsible.

Oh, I wouldn't do anything about it except laugh my ass off, too. After all, one of the best things about getting older is that ability to own every aspect of yourself, warts and all. And to be able to trust your friends when they say their blackmail demands will be reasonable and infrequent.

First Class Tastes... On a Steerage Budget

2011-06-22T23:30:00.001+03:00

I am finally resuming my Stateside blogging while sitting in a Seattle hotel room tonight as scores of other attendees from the Pacific Health Summit are schmoozing and making merry at the city's tourist "Mecca," the Space Needle. I have wanted to visit the Space Needle for decades, and so it is taking every ounce of my virtually non-existent self-control to NOT ignore the horrific amount of work I must complete-- before I leave this continent at 4:20 PM on Friday--and throw on some glad rags before bookin' my way to the par-tay.

You see, tonight is gonna HAVE to count as my paltry penance for all the eating and shopping and meandering and networking and pontificatin' I've done the past two and a half weeks. I have had the most amazing, energizing, gratifying, nourishing time of the past decade, and I'm not exaggerating. But now it's time to pay the piper. I gotta mail a package of expense reports and receipts from THIS continent, and now is the first time I've been willing to confront the task, so...

"Boo-frakkin'-HOO to little old me for missing out on the free booze and tasty snacks and high-profile networking!" Actually, I've already logged quite a bit of face time over the past day and a half since the Summit began. It's a gathering of most of the leading vaccine-related international researchers, advocates and business leaders, and it's extremely impressive. The main reason I'm here is because of the special Outlook Section in the East African newsweekly I managed to coordinate and get published back in mid-February--the week after I learned my brother Fred had died of a massive stroke in my hometown of Cairo.

Speaking of which, I am so far behind on this blog that I haven't even mentioned the fact that I got to spend 3 wonderful days in Cairo hanging out with family and seeing friends. But I will. Oh, and I haven't told you how divine it was to spend a day and a half getting caught up with my Nu Alpha Pi (NAP--get it???) defense attorney gal pal Felecia Jones from my Northwestern era, who lives with her guy in University City, Missouri. But I will.

I haven't told you how thrilled I am with the new hair color Felecia helped me choose, but I will. I haven't told you how utterly empowered and powerful I felt chatting with people at the Weber Shandwick PR firm's Seattle office about my work in Kenya, but I will. I also haven't told you how nurtured and loved and well-fed I was at my friends Lisa and Drew's house in Portland, OR, and how much fun it was seeing how little goddaughter Rachel is growing like a saucy little weed! (Or how her mother tricked me into going to a nekkid massage spa while I was there...but I will...)

And finally, I haven't told you how confident and relaxed and downright HAPPY

I have felt the past few days in Seattle. I've participated in sessions, solidified my "brand"...oh, and I've handed out copies of the lastest special East African Outlook Section I helped edit and coordinate, and which was published on Sunday. I'll tell you about that later, too.

I guess I just wanna say that from the moment on June 14th when I realized that I had been upgraded from Coach to First Class for my flights from St. Louis to Seattle, I swear I felt a bit of a cosmic shift. I somehow knew that things were starting to fall into place for me, internally. I could feel that I'd reached a place where I know what I know, and that's all I need to know, and I also know that other people feel a strong positive vibe from people who carry themselves that way in the world. Organically and intrinsically, I knew that it means that in this 50th year of my life, I'm about to move from Coach into First Class emotionally, too.

Now, if only we can get my bank account to follow suit. But something tells me that's a part of this process, too.

Hell, it BETTER be!!!!!!!!

The Bridge To ME

2011-06-22T23:05:00.000+03:00

I guess what they say is true...when you finally accept who you are and where you come from, things fall into place. This is where I'm from, and in so many ways, good and bad, THIS is who I am.

And I'm totally okay with that, even though one way or the other, every time I go back, my heart breaks just a little bit more.

The Long View

2011-06-22T21:33:00.002+03:00

During my return visit to my hometown, I wanted to recreate a picture I'd used for one of my recent blogposts. It was of a boy standing on these same metal stairs, peering over the emergency Ohio River levee wall at the rising flood waters.

They removed that emergency barrier a few days before I arrived. But I wanted to climb those stairs and see what that boy saw, more figuratively than literally. I wanted to stare at the bridge to Kentucky like I used to do all those years ago, hoping it would somehow give me a clue about the path my life would take.

I hope that kid develops the ability and willingness to dream big and take risks, just like I did. I hope he's willing to at least try to climb over every wall Life builds in his path. I hope he's smart enough to take the long view of all of his challenges, and remember that just as with the temporary levee barrier, sometimes walls can be dismantled, if we don't give in to fear. No matter how high the waters might climb, you can stand your ground and be a tree standing strong in the middle of a mighty river, rather than be a leaf tossed around by every current......

The Heart of the City

2011-06-22T20:46:00.001+03:00

....but after all that Oprah-esque, "can-do" twaddle, I turned around and took a look at what USED to be downtown Cairo, and it gave me chills. It looks like somebody dropped a bombed. This used to be one of the busiest street corners in town, 8th and Commercial. First National Bank was there, and any number of other businesses. Now it looks like an abandoned movie set.

There's definitely no blood pumping through this worn-out heart. So I really hope all the people who all those years ago decided they'd rather shut Cairo down than integrate are happy. Mission Accomplished, Dudes. I hope you're proud of yourselves.

That's What I Said.....

2011-06-22T14:37:00.000+03:00

The view in another direction points to the Hi Rise, Cairo's tallest building. It's primarily senior housing, but since I have a hard time thinking of any of my older siblings as "seniors," I really didn't consider that when I heard my brother Fred had moved into the Hi Rise a few years ago.

This is where they found him on Feb. 7th, dead in his chair. That's all I want to say about it now.

Whod'a Thunk????

2011-06-22T14:06:00.001+03:00

If you'd told me nearly 4 years ago that one day my brother-in-law Ron and I would stand in the beautiful kitchen my sister Julie so lovingly redecorated and even pretend to smile, I'd have probably punched you in the snout.

Especially since in that same beautiful, sunlight-flooded kitchen, stuck to the refrigerator door, there is one of those magnetic noteboards bearing the fluid, lovely handwriting of my beloved sister declaring her everlasting love for Ron.

If ANYTHING was going to make me fall down on the ground crying and screaming and snorfling snot bubbles during my return trip home, it was gonna be that. At one point, I thought about taking a picture. Then I thought about stealing it and having it laminated, but I knew that if ANYTHING would make Ron get on a plane to come to Nairobi to kick my natural ass, it would be that.

Surprisingly, my heart didn't burst during my time in Cairo. But it did remind me that even though Nelson Mandela is still my all time living hero, Ron has quickly assumed the Number 2 position for carrying on each day with all the potent reminders of the incredible life force who still swirls around us. I guess that's WHY he can keep going, because we both do feel Miss Winky is still with us.

Looks like we've made it!

Numero Uno

2011-06-22T07:15:00.001+03:00

My brother John is still lookin' good. Still could pass for 10 years younger than he is. Still kickin' it and enjoying being retired after 30 years. I especially wanted to see how he's doing, because it has to occur to him that, so far, he's the only Jones sibling who's lived past 60.

He's going strong. And even though we spent part of the time laughing and joking about our twitches and pains and medications, I think he's doing okay. He's "holdin' it down" as the Number One Jones. I'm proud of him.

Saab Story

2011-06-22T06:17:00.001+03:00

I actually miss driving SOOOOO much. As I've told many people, I have no desire to drive in Kenya, because most Kenyans think rules are for suckers with no high-placed connections. They don't give right of way, they don't obey the scant few traffic lights that exist, and if they get tired of waiting, they'll just drive up on the sidewalk and try to pass you.

Most days it is all I can do to huddle in the backseat of a taxi and pray to the Sweet, Thorny-Haired Baby Jesus to get me where I'm going with most of my internal organs intact. But I do so miss my sah-WEET 2002 Saab hatchback, which remarkably only has about 65,000 miles on it, and which has received loving care from my brother-in-law Ron. I used to think the main reason I wanted to come back to America was for regular access to Wendy's. But now I know, it's for regular access to my beloved Fifi Le Saab.

At least until I can afford trade up on her.

That Sinking Feeling

2011-06-22T05:19:00.000+03:00

THIS is the pothole every news organization in America points its camera at every time the rivers rise in Cairo. It's like a metaphor for my poor little hometown's sinking prospects, bottomless troubles, and rocky future.

But trust me on this, I see bigger potholes than this every time I read about America's War on Civility and Sanity, and how the Conservative Teabagger Movement is trying to steer us towards each others' throats to fight over "scraps" like decent healthcare and affordable housing, while their "leaders" laugh all the way to the bank.

In fact, ever since I was a little girl, I remember thinking that all of Cairo's problems were basically the prelude for what would happen to the rest of America if we didn't learn to play nicely together and stop fighting all the time.

Even though I've had an absolute BALL these past few weeks in my homeland, I still feel the same way. And sometimes it seems like the hole in our hearts just keeps getting bigger and bigger.

Coastal Cutie!

2011-06-14T18:08:00.002+03:00

This is another member of the Mommy/Daughter Tag Teams I had fun shopping for as I was preparing to leave Kenya. Little Miss Talia Hicks is a total spark plug, so I thought I'd better get her a dress that reflects her personality.

The vivid Khanga, Kitenge and Kikoy cloth of Kenya always captivates ME, so I picked out this dress for Talia. This particular style of cloth is common on the Coast of Kenya, and in Tanzania, and on Zanzibar. Her mom Joyce also informed me that Talia's favorite color is yellow, so I found a little simple yellow beaded bracelet I thought she'd like.

Mission accomplished!

Reverse Coastal Cutie!

2011-06-14T17:10:00.004+03:00

And the thing is, I didn't even realize that Talia's dress was reversible!! Guess my Shopping Karma is better than I expected!!!

C'est Magnifique!!!!

2011-06-13T09:08:00.002+03:00

Post Chi-Town Update: I'm in St. Louis at the moment, getting my hair "did," and it's the first time in a week I've been motionless and relatively clear-headed, so I figured I'd take the opportunity to update the blog.

I am SOOOO glad I started this journey in Chicago! It was far too long since I'd been, and I had almost forgotten just how SPECTACULAR that city is. I love the Magnificent Mile, the sky-scrapers, and the attitude and the pace, and State Street, and the Chicago River, and the El, and...

Oh, just everything. In fact, I realized I love Chicago so much, it makes my teeth ache. But then, that could just be the 3-month supply of Garrett's Popcorn I ate while I was there.

City With the Big Shoulders...and the Big-Assed Green Hat

2011-06-13T07:39:00.001+03:00

There is so much that I ADORE about America going on in this photo that I just had to write about it! First, I'm standing on a street corner waiting for a form of public transportation that has a more than 90 percent chance of arriving on time and getting me to my desired destination without killing me. After 4 years of living in East Africa, that is a thrilling experience. That and the fact that my lungs are not choked with diesel fumes.

Next, the McDonald's ad on the bus shelter is a righteous hoot! I mean, I may have lived outside of America for a few years, but the day I believe that anything produced by Mickey D's can elicit "delicious harmony" will be the day I'm ready for a straitjacket or assisted living. In my next life, I wanna come back as an advertising exec, so I can sit around all day laffing my ASS off making up bullshit campaigns that bear no semblance of truth but which make me a freakin' MINT.

Now let us now ponder the brother about board the reliable, clean, efficient CTA bus. WTF??? I mean, he's wearing serious Asian headgear of some sort, a manpurse and a wifebeater. I could only chalk his appearance up to the extreme heatwave gripping the city that day. Dude was delusional if he looked into the mirror that morning on his way out the crib and saw anything but HEE-lariousness!

I saved the best focal point in this picture for last. Peep the sister in the funky floral print dress leaning against the bus shelter. I first noticed her from behind because of her green sun hat, which happened to be my favorite shade of vivid, chartreuse-y green. It reminded me that I should have been wearing some kind of hat myself that day, because it felt like the sun was hovering about a half inch above my head.

As you can see from the photo, girlfriend was looking kinda fly. Tall, trim physique, and even from behind, you could tell she carried herself with serious 'tude. But when she turned to face me at one point, I was slightly startled. She was impeccably made up, and she was clearly in her 60's, possibly even early 70s. Now, I don't know why I was surprised that an "older" woman could look so bangin', but I was. And I instantly vowed to be just like her 15, 20 years from now.

In this one moment, everything that makes me feel so American, so different during my travels in Africa became so utterly clear. There are just some things you don't "get" unless you're American. There are some experiences that are uniquely American. And of all the developed nations, I believe America is the safest, most welcoming place for a 65-year-old woman to proudly strut her Inner Hottie.

I swear to GOD, this time i'm gonna Miss America so much more than I ever thought possible after I return to Nairobi, mostly because of this particular street corner reverie.

Recital Reverie

2011-06-13T06:04:00.003+03:00

Here's my latest "Favorite Picture of Myself EVER." It was taken after my friend Veronica's daughter's Spring Recital at the University of Chicago Lab School, the day after I landed.

August is this coltish, funny, brilliant, kinda shy 8 year old kid who loves pink, and dogs, and princesses, and all the things a 8 year old should like. But she also gets really nervous before she has to do things like speak before crowds or do any kind of performance. A few times before the recital, when she almost broke down in tears because she was convinced she couldn't play the piano, it almost broke my heart.

So when she made it through her two songs, I wanted to sprint up to the stage and burst into tears, I was so happy for her! And this is a picture of me trying with all my might to will into this beautiful little black girl, through sheer force of osmosis, the ability to relax and KNOW you're perfectly fine, just the way you are. I was also praying it wouldn't take her another 40 years to feel that way, like it took me.

Daughters of the Diaspora

2011-06-07T18:47:00.003+03:00

I love coming home for many reasons, but the main one is re-connecting with friends and family. This time the focus is the Heartland, and I've spent the past few days in Chicago with these two dazzling Daughters of the Diaspora.

I've known Veronica almost exactly 20 years now. We met at the Chicago Reporter, where I was the first Robert McCormick Tribune Foundation Fellow. I was instantly impressed with Veronica's "backstory." She had left a cushy job with a book publisher to go back to journalism grad school, after which her first job was at The Reporter, a monthly newsletter focusing on race and poverty issues.

Clearly, the sista had guts, and I think that cemented our friendship fairly quickly. By the way, this is also the woman I toured France with in May 2000, mostly on Relais and Chateaux's nickel. I swear, we both still remember those glorious Southeast France vistas, and the beautiful hotels, and the amazing meals we ate, as if they'd just happened yesterday. Of course, some of the chocolate mousse from that trip is still trapped in my left buttcheek, so that helps with the whole memory thing, too.

Anyway, the last time I saw Veronica's adorable daughter August, she was about 3, I guess, and it was in DC, right before I headed to Gulu. Now, August is all tall and thin--and at 8 years old, she's talking like a grown woman! I swear, you need a playbook to keep up with these kids today!

In this shot, Veronica and August are wearing some of the Afro goodies I brought them. I'll be mailing other packages today for various "Mommy and Daughter Combos" I know and love tomorrow. Can't be everywhere at once, and give them all the hugs and kisses they can stand while I'm on this Homeland Tour, but at least I'm on the same continent. And I hope they can all feel the love from Auntie Rachel!

"If It's Worth It, Let Me Work It..." The Postscript

2011-06-07T15:33:00.001+03:00

I'm SO glad I asked Veronica to take this picture of me this morning! It reminds me of another image from Nov. 2009, on Goree Island off the coast of Senegal.

I'd shoved the camera at a nearby hapless tourist and asked him to capture me staring down the passageway leading to the "Door of No Return," that dank portal to waiting slave ships where so many African American ancestors began their grueling Atlantic Ocean journeys hundreds of years ago. Ironically, once I saw that picture, all I noticed was how huge my butt looked.

Anyway, this morning I wanted proof that for the first time ever, I think, instead of lying around moaning about how hard jet-lag was hitting me, I actually completed a 3-mile walk with Veronica! In fact, we've been walking on Lake Michigan every morning since I arrived. The first two mornings were cool and overcast, which was a blessing. But today was wicked hot. I mean, sweat was pouring off me like the fountain at Millennium Park. My hips hurt. My ankle's still slowly recovering from my "Vienna Vicissitudes." My lower back is still twinge-ing from the "Central Kenya Matatu Massacre."

In medical terms, I believe my overall condition could be classified as "Tore Up from the Floor Up."

But I did it!!!! I kept up with Veronica, and I came out of this tunnel on the other end with most of my lung capacity intact. And I like how this picture is sort of washed in the rays of the sun..."Light at the End of the Tunnel" metaphor, and all the rot. A perfect bookend for the Goree Island shot--like I made safely it across the Atlantic, and I am HOME.

Oh, and I also like how you can't see my butt in this shot.

Travellin' Shoes

2011-06-04T09:16:00.003+03:00

I Think I've finally figured out why older women LOVE red shoes.

You could spend most of your day sweatin' like a broke-back mule, juggling 20 tasks at once, tired and grumpy and sleep-deprived and itchin' to pimp-slap the next simple-assed so-and-so who tries to wreck your last nerve...

...But when you're wearing red shoes, all it takes is one look down to reconnect with your Inner Princess. Red shoes make you feel like you're 4 years old again, and it's Easter Sunday. You feel flirty and fashionable and fun. Footloose. Fancy. Free.

I meant to pack these very shoes to bring along on my latest journey. In fact, it's already begun. I'm typing this posting in Schiphol Airport, where I just finished an 8-hour flight from Nairobi, and now there's a 10-hour one ahead. This time, I'm by-passing the East Coast and getting to the heart of the matter--Chi-town, Cairo and St. Louis--before heading further west.

Oh, here's another reason it's taken 3 weeks and being trapped in an airport and letting my laptop recharge to update this blog! So much has happened, I don't really have time to share it, but I should probably tell you about one really serious incident, which involves my feet. I think I almost killed them during a quick jaunt to Vienna, Austria in mid-May.

In just four days there, I made an immediate connection with the one TRUE "Love of My Life": Pork. One bite of a Kasse Kreiner, and I thought I would go mad with sheer bliss! For better or wurst, in Vienna I realized that the only thing I will NOT eat on a pig are its thoughts, ambitions and deepest anxieties.

But somewhere in that swine and swag-fueled frenzy of shopping and eating in that glorious city, I about wrecked my feet. They haven't really felt the same since. Seriously, the first few days back in Nairobi, I could barely walk. I soaked them in Epsom Salts 2 or 3 times, but they were still on fire. I'm talking throbbing corns, the whole nine.

In fact, I was just about ready to risk needing to get 'em amputated eventually by going to a Nairobi podiatrist when they finally calmed down. That may be due to the fervent prayers I sent heavenward, vowing to be a good girl the rest of my life if God would just make the fire go away! And of course to prepare for today's journey, I had these puppies pedicured and massaged. Oh, and I'm wearing the obscenely expensive MBT "toning" sneakers I bought while I was still in Gulu, which offer a surprising amount of support. (It's been so long since I wore them, I forgot how much. Nairobi is definitely not a walking city, and I was too busy trying to look cute to think to pack them for my Vienna trip.)

In just 24 hours, I'll be back in my homeland. Feet, don't fail me now.

"I'm Just Sayin', Dawg..." Part 29

2011-06-04T05:08:00.003+03:00

I'm not sure what it is about this time of year that makes me purchase biblical footwear, but if you'll recall a posting from last June (that is, if you haven't completely given up on my flighty blogging of late...), I allowed myself to get sucked into the vortex of ridiculously over-priced high-end shoe shopping during a jaunt in Georgetown, and just because some guy at a pretentious feng-shui boutique on M Street looooooved NPR, and thought I was a righteous humanitarian for working in Kenya.

He reduced the price of a pair of Givenchy sandals by a third--but they were STILL three times more than what I paid for these bad boys. Remember how I just wrote that my feet were hurting so bad during my Vienna jaunt, I thought I'd wrecked them? Well, how 'bout these mugs for solving the problem???

By the end of the third day of endlessly fascinating wandering, I ducked into a Nike store on Mariahhilferstrasse (Don't EVEN ask...) fully intending to find a pair of sturdy, stolid sneakers. Oh, I peeped these black gladiators out the corner of my eye, but as the young salesman kept insisting I try them on, I scoffed. Sure, they're funky and fun-looking, but I needed arch support. "Structural Heel"-ing, so to speak.

Half an hour later and "BAM!" I was half-gliding, half-limping towards the nearest Bratwurst stand. After all, "It is better to LOOK good than to feel good, no?"

"I'm just sayin', dawg..."

Take Me To The River

2011-05-17T19:13:00.003+03:00

During the recent flood threat in Cairo, I saved a bunch of pictures from the wires, and planned to write a lot of blog posts about what my hometown means to me. I guess now I'll just save them for the memoir.

But I DID want to write about this one right away. It's because I spent sooooooo many hours staring at the Ohio River along the levee road, where this kid is. I've even climbed those metal "stairs" like he's doing, in earlier centuries during my childhood when the river rose above its banks.

I simply can't tell you how many times I find myself marveling at how far I've come in this life. I recall pedaling down to this river on one of my various rickety bikes, or driving down in one of the family jalopies, either with one of my sisters or alone, and just sitting there. Some OTHER Cairo teens drove to the levee road to have underage sex, or do drugs, or anything more risky than just staring at the water and hoping that one day, they'd have great adventures, and travel the world, and make a difference.

I never got to get pregnant on the Ohio River levee, or lost a few brain cells from chemical hijinks, but I guess all that dreaming paid off.

By The Book

2011-05-17T18:08:00.004+03:00

Here's another place I spent a lot of time when I was growing up in Cairo, besides the local Kingdom Hall of Jehovah's Witnesses, or my sister Julie's house. I'm probably the only pre-teen who spent hours in the Cairo Public Library reading back issues of Popular Psychology.

I SWEAR I used to devour that publication trying to figure out what was wrong with me, why I was so melancholy, why I didn't want to party and hang out and do the fun stuff other kids wanted to do. I won't divulge the specifics of my self-diagnosis, but I learned a lot from that magazine. I also used to rip out the Betsy McCall Paper Doll pages and take them home with me.

Yeah, I said it. I'm a thief. Come and get me.

Anyway, I also did some legal stuff at the library. I read all of the Oz books by the time I was 8 or 9, and then moved up to the teen romances, and then eventually Science Fiction. I was probably the only teenager in Cairo who could tell you the difference between "I, Robot" and Isaac Asimov.

Come to think of it, I guess I was a really, REALLY strange kid. But like I said earlier, I think it paid off.

Thank you, Mama, for taking us all to this building and signing us up for library cards by the time we were five or six.

Thank you, dear sweet Library Ladies like Mrs. Ogg and Mrs. Seavers.

Thank you, David, and John, and Julie, and Fred, and Peter and Reuben, and Sarah, and Marilyn, for setting good examples for me and Rebecca about why reading was so important.

Living life "by the book" isn't so bad, after all.

The Breakthrough

2011-05-16T08:32:00.001+03:00

A few weeks ago, I think I the Universe sent me the first sentence for my long-debated memoir. Here it is:

"I woke up from a dream that I was dating Arnold Schwarzenegger the morning after the night they blew up the Mississippi River levee in Cairo, Illinois, and two days after Osama Bin Laden was killed."

You'd wanna keep reading a book that started like that, wouldn't you????

That's my way of explaining one of the OTHER major reasons I lost my blog-writing mojo: I was worried sick about flooding in the Midwest, and the possibility that my hometown would get swept off the map. I probably would have written a lot of really brilliant postings if I'd been able to harness the emotions swirling through my brain, but I was just too busy and too angst-ridden.

But I can recall how absolutely skeeved-out I was after waking up from the Schwarzenegger dream. I was all, like, "WTF was THAT about??" Actually, I've figured it out by now. I was flipping past my paltry DSTV channels at home one Saturday afternoon and stumbled across the brainless "comedy" with Arnie and Danny Devito, "Twins." Now, I've never been attracted to Arnold on any level, but I had to admit the scene of him warbling the song "Yakety-Yak" while wearing only a bath towel kinda worked for me. Normally, I think most body builders look like they're suffering from terminal anaphylactic shock with all those grotesque bulges, but Arnie was looking kinda hot in that scene.

Anyway, that must have fueled the dream. And it was quite PG rated, at least what I can remember of it. But the fact that I had been so obsessed with following details from Cairo, and that the whole world was buzzing with news about Osama Bin Laden, made it seem kinda weird that I'd dream about being Arnie's girlfriend. And it was even more disturbing to hear a week or so later that he and Maria Shriver had announced their separation. But I was happy for her, because Maria really needs to cut ties with negativity and embrace life in her Golden Age years, and stop being "The Good Wife" to a 'roid-fueled, ass-grabbing megalomaniac.

Strap yourself in, dear readers. When my Muse finally reappears, watch out.

"If It's Worth It, Let Me Work It....."

2011-05-15T11:10:00.003+03:00

I've probably spent most of the past two weeks trying to come up with valid excuses for why I've completely blown off the blog for nearly the past month. Really, the only one that even comes close to being worth the time it takes to type it up is that I have been working harder than a 1-legged, two-dolla 'ho these days.

But that is so INCREDIBLY inappropriate, I knew I had to find another way to communicate just how busy I've been. So I'm using the picture up top. It's from a half-day briefing I led this past Monday in Nyeri, Kenya, about 3 hours north of Nairobi in Central Kenya. This was a quick turn-around event that followed the BIG EVENT: the 4-day, Child Health Research workshop and the last thing I wrote about briefly last month.

I swear 'fo GAWD, I meant to write a bunch of posts about that experience. It was fabulous. It was the best thing that's happened during my nearly 3 years in Kenya. It renewed my faith in this work. It made me feel so proud and influential. It made me feel like I am really making a difference.

It also put me in bed for about two and a half days. Other than going to a friend's place for Easter Dinner, I spent those two and half days in the fetal position with the fan pointed at me, drifting in and out of consciousness. I was ZONKED LIKE A MO' FO', and for a while there, I thought I'd finally reached that point in life I'd always vowed to avoid: the moment when you must admit to yourself that "I AM TOO OLD FOR THIS SHIT."

But I guess the good news for me at this point is that I really don't even have time to ponder that possibility. There is always so much going on these days, and there are truly so many opportunities being tossed at me, I would be a plumb fool to not spend every available second pursuing them.

So a lot of times these days, I find myself standing in front of groups of reporters telling them about my "mission": getting policy makers and the public to realize that health reporting, and improved health care access and infrastructure, are as much a part of national development as improving tourism or luring business to Kenya. I've decided that whether I'm here two more months, or two more years, or TWENTY more years, I'm gonna give it all I have.

Now, I might not "put my thang down, flip it, and reverse it," like Missy Elliot advised a few years back, but I have decided that if' it's worth it, let me work it!

Born on Third Base

2011-05-15T09:02:00.003+03:00

Here's another reason why I can't waste time whining about how hard I'm working these days.

When I saw these 4 terra cotta figurines at a roadside market recently, I HAD to buy them. They depict a man selling roasted maize on the side of the road, the typical "Mama" stooped low hauling a huge bundle of firewood, a crowded matatu with people jammed inside and hanging on for dear life outside, and a woman braiding a girl's hair.

I see these kinds of images every day in Kenya: hardworking, decent, salt-of-the-earth people who start work LONG before I begin the daily negotiations about when I'll stop hitting the snooze button. These are people who work like dogs every day, for less than what I spend on a bottle of sparkling water. These are people who, for whatever reasons, repeat this routine every day, year after year, while their so-called "leaders" exploit the sweat of their brows, tax them beyond belief, raise the price of fuel and food so high that they might as well stay home, because they won't be able to get to work or feed their families on what they receive in wages.

I found these figurines shortly after reading a comment on a friend's Facebook Wall that I haven't been able to forget. The conversation was about conservative legislation in the US, and how the "Haves" keep looking for ways to nickel and dime the "Have Nots" back home. The commenter completely rang my bell when she wrote,

"Some people who were born on third base go around acting like they've just hit a triple."

To me, that meant that some people who through a set of circumstances they were either born into, or who had the right connections---or even simply because they WEREN'T born in a struggling, developing country--walk around acting like they are justified in condemning other people, or like they are more deserving of the right to live in dignity, or have enough to eat, or a warm bed to sleep in.

I ain't gon' lie--I have my moments when it's downright overwhelming to be living in my really nice two-bedroom Oasis of Graciousness, all by myself, with a full refrigerator, and the ability to call a taxi to take me wherever I need to go by my damn self, and not squeezed like a sardine into a noxious rolling death trap. I live vastly better than the nearly 60 percent of the population who demographers say live at or below the poverty line in Kenya, and I think part of what keeps me over here doing the work I do is bottom line guilt.

Even though I was born in poverty in the United States of America nearly 50 years ago, compared to people like the ones these figurines portray, I was "Born On Third Base." But I'm grateful that I don't walk around frontin' like I hit a triple. I take it one base at a time, and I try to wave a few people in behind me as I go.

"I'm Just Sayin', Dawg..." Part 28

2011-05-15T07:12:00.004+03:00

Since I mentioned crowded matatus in the last posting, this seems like a good time to introduce you to my efficient, organized, and very talented young journalist/assistant Sarah, who almost got herself fired this past Tuesday.

Not really, but it was touch and go there for a second! Overall, Sarah is the literally reason I have been able to accomplish ANYTHING with the Kenyan Alliance of Health and Science Reporters. She's focused, hard-working and totally committed to the idea of improving training resources for Kenyan journalists. She's computer savvy, which helps when I get frustrated and want to fling the organization's lousy laptop against the wall. And she'll arrive early, stay late, organize invoices, work with vendors, race across town to pick up tee-shirts--and THEN find time to do her own reporting, which is always very good and very well-written. The most important thing is that her brains are so much younger and fresher than mine, and she remembers things we're supposed to do. She's like my spare brain.

But here's the thing. For our recent trip to Central Kenya, Sarah insisted that we take a matatu. An 11 seater death sled on wheels that usually travels at top speeds and is more likely than not to be driven by a 20-year-old guy who probably spent the night before gulping Tuskers and chewing the local hallucinogenic Miraa.

I was about to tell her to "talk to the hand," but then I felt a brief surge of fiscal responsibility. A 3-hour matatu ride to Nyeri costs 350 shillings, or about $4, whereas renting a car would cost 8,000 shillings, or $92. To Sarah, it was a no-brainer--take the matatu, like millions of other Kenyans do every day, and save the organization a lot of money. So on Monday at around 2:30, Princess Rachella boarded what was only her second matatu during nearly 3 years in Kenya.

By the time we were settled in for the return trip on Tuesday around 3:00, I was exhausted, my lower back ached from having been jolted over long stretches of bumpy roads the day before, and I was in AGONY thinking about the now 4 hours it would take to get back to Nairobi, because we'd encounter Nairobi rush hour traffic this time. Seriously, I would have paid $920 for a car with a clean interior and good shocks. So I pretended to whine about wishing I was back in DC, with the efficient, fast Metro system, with no bumps and crazy drivers. We both laughed at my antics, but then Sarah said, "Stop acting like a baby!"

Many things occurred to me after I finished being stunned. First, I am old enough to be Sarah's mother, so there's probably really something wrong with me if Sarah perceived I was acting like a baby. Second, when I first met Sarah, she was so meek and skittish and desperate to please, I could barely get her to look me in the eye, no less have her speak to me. It felt kinda nice that she has become comfortable and confident enough to tell me to get a grip.

But here's the thing: why wouldn't my youthful employee, raised in a culture where respect for elders is almost a LAW, view me with a mixture of nearly paralyzing, awe and reverence which would stop her from ordering me to quit being such a whiny little bitch??

I'm still processing this situation, but for the most part, every time I think about it, it makes me smile. By the way, coincidentally, I suddenly find myself in the market for a new assistant! (*just kidding!*)

"I'm just sayin' dawg..."

Guantanamera, Indeed!

2011-04-21T16:50:00.003+03:00

For now, this is all you need to know about how the Second Kenyan Alliance of Health and Science Reporters Workshop has gone this week. Last night, after getting uncharacteristically hammered on just two margaritas, I wound up crooning "Guantanamera" with the strolling Kenyan guitarist at the Fairview Hotel, along with these three beaming young journalists.

I have had an absolute BLAST! These kids have been wonderful. I am exhausted beyond words.

Will touch base when I've re-charged the batteries. But let me just say that sometimes, if you just hang in there long enough, the Universe rights itself. I think the last bitter memory from Kilifi is finally dissipated.

Hallelujah!

Knocked Up

2011-04-07T17:09:00.006+03:00

HAH!!! Got you with that title, didn't I!!!

This posting is DEFINITELY not about that. To paraphrase the brilliant Coen Brothers, my womb is now a "rocky place where no seed may gain purchase." No need for Rachella to worry about pregnancy from here on out.

No, this posting marks the first time I've felt ready to write about my recently- deceased brother Fred Wesley Jones, the one who decided to stop taking his diabetes medication regularly, years ago. The one who could talk the horns off a billy goat. The one with the big dreams and goals and plans. The one whose health deteriorated so badly at the end, he was an obese, stooped, shuffling, wreck of a man. And the one who could dip an old Army boot into his secret recipe barbecue sauce and make it taste like the best thing you ever wrapped your lips around.

But whenever opportunity knocked, Fred seemed to have an excuse to ignore it. Poor Fred never, EVER lived up to his potential. And he had tons of it.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again--I come from a really, really smart family. My mother's IQ was off the charts when she was in high school, but her mother didn't support her doing anything other than helping raise her 8 younger siblings. My father was a genius with all things mechanical, even though he never made it past grade school. All 10 of the Jones offspring were known in Cairo for being the smart, bookish, nerdy Jehovah's Witnesses who were basically social pariahs.

Here's just how smart the Jones siblings were. If any of you readers have ever met ME during these past 50 years, the following confession says it all: I consider myself the dummy of the bunch!! Always have. But that's okay, because being the dummy in a bunch of geniuses still gives you a pretty good jump on the rest of the populace.

Anyway, Fred was was a really good orator, as most of us are (were), and had the same deep, fluid voice we all possess(ed). And he was not only smart, but athletic. Fred was a football star for Cairo High School. I can't remember what position he played, but I know he was good. And I remember his Senior Year picture, which is the way I have been thinking of him in the two months since he was found dead in his chair. In that 1970 photo, Fred was pensive, staring off at an angle instead of directly into the camera. And he was very handsome. And very young.

And very alive.

Anyway, the reason I'm writing about Fred now is because last night, after I'd poured myself onto the couch at the Oasis, after a long day of planning for the next Kenyan Alliance of Health and Science Reporters week-long workshop, after making and answering lots of phone calls, and emails, while preparing myself for a Skype call with someone from Geneva who wants me to take on another really exciting, potentially lucrative short-term journalism training project, I logged onto one of my 3 email accounts and found a message from a woman I've never met, who heard about the project through another woman I've never met, and who's in town from London for only a few more days, and who wanted to meet with me before she left.

I swear, you guys, I almost flung that laptop against the nearest wall!!! I almost wanted to start yelling and cursing and shouting, "ENOUGH!!! I am just one person!!! I can't do everything!!! Stop nibbling away at me like a million little greedy-assed ducklings, for God's sake!!!!"

And in that exact moment, I thought of Fred. I've had a few nightmares about him recently. You see, I'm having trouble visualizing him being in a box, underground. Fred was so full of life...even though the second half of his life was inarguably chaotic and tragic. Even in the depths of emotional misery and interpersonal drama, Fred could talk a good game. He always led with a positive cliche or an uplifiting sentiment, even when all the rest of us just looked at him and shook our heads.

Fred always had a half-baked plan or a scheme to make a mint. He loved scouring flea markets and garage sales, a passion he shared with our mother, because he was convinced he was going to find the one priceless item that would set him up for life. He swore his allegiance to mentoring young people in Cairo and its listless environs, even though his relationship with his own two children was strained at best. He was active in local civic circles, attending town meetings and doggedly researching Cairo's intriguing history, hoping to come up with a entrepreneurial development scheme that would revitalize the entire region.

The saddest thing of all is that Fred possessed the golden key all along. He could have been the "Colonel Sanders of Barbecue," if he had truly focused on that one thing, and given it all the attention and enthusiasm he splintered off in a thousand different directions. He had all the external evidence he needed to chase that dream whole-heartedly; anybody who tasted his grilled meat went absolutely apeshit! It was mostly because of his special sauce, but it was also because of his grilling technique. He attended BBQ Battles throughout the Midwest, loading up his converted metal garbage can-cum-grill, tying on his apron, and turning on the aggressively corny "Fred Jones Shtick." If you didn't have to hear it 24-7, Fred's upbeat, can-do patter was actually mildly entertaining. But it was the 'que that really made believers out of anybody who met him.

At one of those cooking contests, some guy offered to set Fred up in a restaurant franchise. His food was that good, and his persona was that persuasive. I'm not going to sit here and pretend I know all the details of that encounter, because the guy could have been smarmy, or Fred could have done some thorough background checks before deciding to reject the offer. All we ever knew was that Fred said he didn't want to "lose control of his recipe." He didn't want to work hard and make big bucks for some other guy, even if he got a cut of the profits. He wanted to be the big dawg in the fight, and run his own show.

Once again, we all just shook our heads. It was a chance. It was his shot. It was an opportunity knocking. If he worked hard enough, we all totally believed Fred could have eventually bought the guy out and struck out on his own. WE believed in his product that much.

Til the day I die, I will believe that Fred turned down that offer because he KNEW it could succeed. He knew his barbecue could make him successful beyond his wildest dreams. And Fred was afraid of having all his big talk come true. He was more comfortable talking about success than actually being successful.

Which brings me back to my "verklempt" moment on the couch last night. I've told several people that the past few months have been a blur, because it seems that every day, someone else comes along wanting my advice, input, support or partnership. They like what I'm doing. They can see tangible fruits of the KAHSR project. After they've met me, they believe I can accomplish what I say I can accomplish. And as everything I conceptualized in that grant application last April actually starts occurring, it's like that famous phrase from "Field of Dreams."

"If you build it, they will come."

For me, that means if you talk a big game about what African journalists need in terms of support, nurturance and guidance, people will start coming out of the woodwork to ask for your advice, input, support or partnership. You built it, and so here they come to take advantage of what you built.

Am I as afraid of success as Fred was?? Is all this attention making me want to flee for the nearest exit? Will I wind up talking myself out of achieving this goal I set, this dream I dreamed up? Will I let Life, or whatever subterranean demons swirling around out there in the Existential Soup, lure me away from this moment in time that, basically, I have spent the past 50 years preparing myself to be ready for?

"Y'all know me better than that!"

Sure, it's hard. Sure, I feel stressed and overwhelmed at times. A lot of times. Sure, I wish I had a bigger budget and 4 more employees, and 3 more Princess Rachella clones to do this work.

But I don't. All I have is me. And my belief in me. And the knowledge that even if I fail, I will have gained so much because I tried.

That's why I keep having nightmares about Fred being in a box, underground, suffocating. Flailing and clawing and trying to get out. That's how I know I would feel, if I gave in to fear of success, after working so hard to become the supremely capable woman that I am.

That's why I keep going, and I hope Fred appreciates the effort. It's partly for him.

"This Is The Day The Lord Hath Made..."

2011-04-03T19:07:00.004+03:00

...or at least it was the day He made yesterday.

It was absolutely beautiful. Resplendent, even. I spent most of it at the Muthaiga Golf course during the Kenya Open. Not that I know enough about golf to spread on a Ritz cracker, but it's surprising what access dropping a few names can get you. When I wasn't spread out on a patch of carefully manicured grass under a shady tree, I was feasting on the buffet at the VIP Barclays Bank tent. (No booze, but hey, at least I didn't have to cook last night...)

Basically, these ARE the days the Lord hath made. The days of my life--what's left of it. And I decided yesterday that I had to start getting on with it. March kinda pulled me down, but April's gonna get me back in the groove. I can just feel it.

It's blue skies from here on out. At least until it's not. But then they'll be back again, eventually. That is until they're not, permanently. But by that point I won't care. So let the living begin!

The Rainbow Connection

2011-03-27T19:12:00.003+03:00

Sometimes, you just gotta make your own rainbows.

I knew the minute I saw these wine glasses that I would have to own them. As usual, I didn't NEED them, I just had to have them.

Yeah, I've been in the doldrums, a LOT, these past few weeks. But I've also had some fairly sky "highs" this month, too. For example, I collaborated on an extremely successful journalism briefing last Friday, on agricultural research and child nutrition, that completely obliterated the painful memories of the first god-awful workshop in Kilifi. I attended the 4th Annual Nairobi Wine Festival the next evening, and not only won a bottle of really good wine, but my photo appeared on the Society Page of one of the local newspapers!! It's the first time I've "Scored"" on the social scene in 3 years of living in Nairobi, and it was actually kinda cool.

And these days, I am the Empress of Schmooze, trying to raise the profile of the Kenyan Alliance of Health and Science Reporters project. My motto is, "Have Heels, Will Travel." In fact, my corns are talking to me at this very moment, since I recklessly chose to wear my spiky pumps to a Friday meeting with a big deal Pharma company that wants to support research training. Oh, I KNOW I was smokin' hot, but I've spent most of the weekend crippled.

I guess the brightest spot so far was the dinner party I gave a few evenings ago. I swear, B. Smith ain't got NUTHIN' on R. Jones. When I'm in the Gourmet Zone, no nose is safe from my aromatic tentacles. Granted, this time around, my marinated snapper didn't quite turn out as perfectly as the first time I made it, and the black eyed peas with half green mangoes were a bit al dente because I didn't soak them overnight, but my seven guests RAVED over everything. Even my Afro American version of sukuma wiki......

.....and ESPECIALLY my sweet potato bread pudding, which I think could usher in world peace in the proper setting.

So, as I draped the table in one of my colorful Kenyan khanga cloths, and carefully arranged my rainbow stemmed wine glasses, I realized that this is just the way it's gonna be from here on out. The hurdles will get higher, the losses deeper, the waist thicker, and the hair grayer, and so on and so forth, but as long as you can still make your own rainbows every now and then, this life still beats the alternative by a country mile.

A Hug From Home

2011-03-27T17:23:00.002+03:00

Oh, I forgot about the brightest spot of all this month! Usually, when I roll over in bed in the middle of the night and see the message light flashing on my BlackBerry, I do my best to resist the temptation to read the email. Given the time difference between here and the US, it's likely to be something work related. My insomnia is already bad enough without thinking of all the things that lie in wait once the sun rises.

But one night this month, I gave in and read a message from my brother-in-law Ron (even though my gut churned at the thought of receiving even MORE bad news from home...) But the subject line read, "Cairo's Got Talent," so I figured it couldn't be too awful. Turns out it was the most wonderful news I've received in a long, long time.

I already knew my Broadway Star/actor/songwriter/singer buddy Christopher Jackson had released his first album this month, and even though it took about 3 days to download it on iTunes, I'd managed to listen to it and send him much love and praise from across the miles. It is so weird to hear someone you know personally singing on your personal portable music device! It means they've achieved a significant level of fame, but if you're lucky, they're still the person you've always known. And as I've mentioned about Chris, I've known him since the first time I laid eyes on him as a tyke in a blue and white sailor suit.

But now he is a full-grown, handsome young husband and father of two, a veteran of two wildly successful Broadway musicals ("The Lion King" and "In The Heights") and now there's the CD. It was almost too much to comprehend, until I read Ron's message. When you download a CD, you don't get access to the liner notes on the packaging, obviously. But Ron ordered his copy through the mail, and when it arrived, the first thing he noticed was that Chris sent ME a shout out, as one of the folks from Cairo who had made a difference in his life.

But then he made both me and Ron lose it by dedicating the CD to the memory of several people who've passed on--one of whom was my sister, Julie Newell. "I owe my Life, my Passion to you! Forever my Angels!"

It's hard to describe how I felt lying there in the dark, reading that message. But as Ron mentioned on his blog, it did remind me of the time Julie and I went to New York to see Chris perform shortly after "The Lion King" launched. He scored us two fairly good mezzanine seats, but they weren't together. Having watched her struggle through incredible pain from the lupus, just to get dressed and ready to head to the theater, it was agonizing climbing behind her on the steps as we made our way to the seats. And I probably missed half the show craning my neck to keep an eye on her, to make sure she was okay, even though I knew every joint in her body was probably screaming in pain.

But I'll never forget the way she flung herself at him afterwards, when we met up with him at the stagedoor. I had never seen her so proud of anyone, or anything, even ME for that matter. And I was just as proud and thrilled for him.

So much so, in fact, that I don't even mind sharing my Archangel Julie with Chris now that he's so famous. In the name of love, CJ, I am so proud you are my friend.

Forced March

2011-03-13T16:24:00.002+03:00

Okay, I've gotten through the first half of March relatively unscathed.........

Like I wrote in an earlier posting, March has morphed into a completely sucky month, for several reasons. Memories of my eldest brother David settle in during the first few days, and now, fresh waves of emotion are roiling about another brother, Fred, who made his transition last month....

And whose 59th birthday would have been on March 21st. But lately, I've started noticing that several of my good friends have the same March malaise issues. My pal Joyce in Raleigh lost both of her parents in this third month of the year, and my BFF Faith lost a good friend last year during this period.

Eventually, you start to realize that if you live long enough, so many horrible things will happen there'll be plenty to distribute throughout all 12 months, and there really won't be any time slot left for you to check out from reality. Truth be told, right now July looks to be about the only free and clear shot I have for a 30-day period unencumbered by visions of doom.

Of course if I'm still living in Kenya in July 2011, I'll be bummed at yet ANOTHER missed opportunity for slightly charred hot-dogs and fireworks...

Aww, screw it! Pass the Prozac, already....

Sukuma Wiki For the Soul

2011-03-01T14:37:00.004+03:00

This posting is a personal message to the woman in the photo on the left, but if you want to read it, I'm sure she won't mind.

"Dear Ellen,

"I'm sure you'll probably think of this as completely outrageous revisionist history, but somehow, I always, always knew your reserved, shy demeanor back in the Clearwater Bureau of the St. Petersburg Times was a total cover-up.

"When we met back in the mid 80's, I was still deep in the whole meek, introverted "Good Girl" persona, and I never really allowed myself to get to know you. This was further complicated by the fact that you were one of my editors, which means you weren't to be trusted anyway. But I remember always being startled when you cracked a joke, or laughed, even, because you were so quiet and reserved. I was at least able to open up and relax a bit around colleagues I considered friends.

"Ironically, one of those colleagues was a guy I wrote about back in December, when I was in Juba, Sudan for the radio reporters' workshop. The late Paul McGorrian, the beautiful, cheeky, lanky young Wasp who became so dear to me was also your friend, and it was only after I wrote that posting that you shared your secret...YOU were in love with him, too!!! I guess it's just as well that we were both so reserved and shy back then, or we'd have probably scratched each others' eyes out.

"I know I'm rambling, so let me get to the point. A few years back I learned that you had become a Unity Minister, and I was at turns astonished and totally unsurprised. It made sense, mostly because Unity was the only "religion" I had ever committed to after leaving Cairo. The whole metaphysical, intellectual aspect of Unity appealed to me from the minute I was introduced to it. You don't have to surrender your brain to believe in Unity. You don't have to feel like a worthless piece of crap who needs to be "forgiven" and cleansed before you'll ever get your reward--AFTER you're dead, by the way. You can be in the world, feeling like you're part of the same divine spirit that created the Universe, which means you can walk around with your shoulders squared and looking people in the eye, and feeling like you matter.

"The funny thing is that while I've flirted with Unity over this past decade, and embrace Daily Word affirmations as often as I can, I never really sought out any of your writings. I knew you were a pastor at Unity Church of Wimberley, Texas, but I also knew I wouldn't be getting there anytime soon. But then back in January of this year, I noticed an email mentioning something called "Unity FM," which streams programming from Unity pastors and associates online. Well, living in Internet-challenged East Africa makes ANY kind of online endeavor dicey at best, so at first I didn't think much of it. But amazingly, through my nifty new 3G iPad, I can download videos and online radio with barely a hitch.

"Ellen, that's when I discovered your program 'Absolute Living.' And I just had to tell you that your deep, soothing, slightly Texas-twanged voice has been nourishing me ever since. It seems like each of the feeds from you and your co-host Laura Shepard speak directly to something that I've known I need to work on, or have been working on, or didn't even realize was creating all kinds of issues, longings, gaps and gaffes in my life.

"And I'm learning about you in ways that would have never happened back when I was an emotional and spiritual amoeba in Clearwater. I was just watching the world go by back then, furiously paddling my way through, hoping to somehow earn the respect and love that I wish I'd known I was entitled to all along. And when I look at this picture of you, I realize how far we've both come. It's like THIS is who you were all along, and it only took a couple of decades for us both to figure things out.

"Somehow, we both discovered the recipe for being pretty interesting, dynamic women, eh? All it took was a little psychic culinary exploration. Dicing the doubt, chopping away the negative energy, marinating in positive self-esteem, and hard-boiling a belief that we had something extra to contribute to the world.

"So thank you, Ellen, for providing me with some spiritual sukuma wiki over here in East Africa. It has such a bold flavor all its own, and it's much more nourishing than chicken soup, trust me."

"Moving Right Along...."

2011-02-28T15:38:00.003+03:00

Well! All RIGHTY-then!

February's been quite a month. That is, if you prefer that your months SUCK ASS.

But hey, there's always tomorrow.

No...wait, March reminds me of my brother David, and his punk-ass exit from life. And March 21st is...WAS...Fred's birthday.

"Like sands through the hourglass, So are the days of our lives." And the months. And pretty soon, there won't be a single freakin' month left when I won't be reminded of some tragic circumstance involving my kith and kin.

And once again, I think the Universe needs to unclog its damn ears, 'cuz it didn't hear me right on New Year's Day. Remember when I declared I'd be "Grateful Times Seven in 2011"??

Now, I'm grateful FOR seven. And hoping none of the other Jones siblings takes "The Big Dirt Nap" this year.

But hey, I'm not trying to be morbid or anything. Just had to get that out of the old system.

"Moving right along...."

Hump Day

2011-02-17T18:01:00.004+03:00

Y'all need to pray for me, but not just for the reason you think.

You see, today I bought these two bags for one reason and one reason only. Not because I needed them...God no. That would be too much like right. Nay, I bought these two amazingly beautiful, well-made, sturdy bags because they were made out of.....camel leather.

A freakin' CAMEL, people!! The "Ship of the Desert," and all that rot!! One of those tall, spindly-legged, goofy lookin' mo' fo's with the humps and the cloven hooves. One of those critters that should probably be on the endangered species list, but escape that fate because they're so friggin' horny, you couldn't kill 'em off if you tried.

Not that this means they should wind up being a purse because of their loose morals, but there was just something so borderline creepy and guilt-inducing about owning these bags! I've long since stopped worrying about the immortal soul of cows; they shouldn't taste so damn good if they don't want me to flaunt their skin. Hell, it would just go to waste if somebody didn't dry it and stretch it and dye it and tailor it to my exact, buttery-soft specifications.

But camel leather. CAMEL LEATHER, FOR CRISSAKES!!! And both bags cost about one third of what one of them would have cost if I'd bought it at Nordstrom's!!!!!

I swear, if malaria doesn't kill me, the amazing creativity and craftwork of this continent WILL.

HELL-OOOOOOO!!! THEY'RE MADE OUT OF A CAMEL, PEOPLE!!!

Don't hate, appreciate. And don't forget to pray for me, while you're at it.

"It's Been a Long, A Long Time Comin'..."

2011-02-16T18:12:00.004+03:00

".....But I know, A change is gon' come, Oh, yes it will."

Wait..it's already here. If you'd told me five years ago, hell, even LAST year, that millions of people would storm the streets of ANY capital city of ANY country on the African continent to demand that a corrupt, greedy, cruelly indifferent leader resign, I would have called you puredee batshit crazy.

I've just seen too much mind-twisting, gut-wrenching, soul-shattering poverty, neglect, and thievery over here. I've seen too many people accept it as the just the way life is. I've watched too many people stuff themselves into too many crowded matatus, headed to a job that pays less each month than I've paid for a pair of boots, working 8 hours or more every day just for the privilege of barely surviving, forget about educating their children or buying medicine.

I've seen children playing on fresh graves in IDP camps in Northern Uganda after decades of war, and I've seen them lying on the hard, drafty dirt floor of the Great Rift Valley in tattered tents in Kenya after election-related violence, and each time, I've lost a bit of my faith. I'll admit it. It is just so hard to keep believing in justice and heavenly intervention when you see children suffer. It's so hard to believe that one day, things will get better, and that mean people will get what's coming to them.

I'm not a fool. I realize that the proud elation in Egypt has already been replaced by harsh reality. I realize getting rid of Mubarak was not a panacea. I know there are even scarier, greedier, meaner demons than him walking the Earth, and they'd gladly take the reins if they got a chance.

I guess all I want to say is, I'm just so very glad I got to see what's happening Up North in my lifetime. May the rest of the continent get in on the gettin' while it's good.

Black Like Us

2011-02-16T14:33:00.008+03:00

"Stay with me here."

I already know that half of you will dismiss this posting as long-distance Obama idolatry, from someone who's only spent about a month and a half living under his "rule." You'll mutter about my appalling lack of poli-sci expertise for arriving at the hypothesis I'm about to share with you. You'll just dismiss what I'm about to state as a girlish crush, or blind nationalism, or old-school "race pride," or some other such tomfoolery.

But I remember feeling the tectonic plates of the Earth move while watching President Barack Obama give his speech at Cairo University in June of 2009. I made a point of leaving my desk at Nation Centre and joining the guys in the Sports Department to watch it on one of the office TVs. I also mentioned that I had grown up in Cairo. They were quite impressed, until I added the "Illinois" part, and then I became invisible again.

I watched as much of it as I could before having to return to my desk, but remember thinking how extraordinary the image was. An American President, of African descent, addressing a predominantly Muslim crowd in an Arabic nation on the African continent. Again, if you had predicted that would happen in June of 2008, I'd have done my best to try and have you committed, for your own safety.

Now, here's that hypothesis I promised to share. I think the seeds for the uprising in Tahrir Square were planted in June of 2009. I believe that after 8 years of watching George W.'s addle-pated international diplomacy, people in the Middle East were more stunned than the rest of the world that America was able produce a Barack Obama. And before you even "go there," I realize that just because he has a Muslim sounding name, it doesn't mean he's universally accepted, or even liked in the Middle East. After all, he's still associated with "The Great Satan."

But look at the picture up top. Take your time, really LOOK at it. Like most biracial people, if you didn't know Obama is the product of an African man and a white American woman, you could conclude he was from Spain. Or Argentina. Or Greece....

Or Tunisia. Or Algeria.

Or Egypt.

Imagine what it must have felt like to be sitting in the auditorium of Cairo University in June of 2009, watching a youthful, vibrant man, the "Leader of the Free World," who looks kinda like your people, talking about freedom and democracy and respect for women a bunch of other "radical" ideas. When all you've experienced from your leaders for the past 3 decades is greed and brutality and utter contempt.

No need to give him another Nobel for it, but you'll never convince ME that President Barack Hussein Obama didn't light the spark that lit the match that eventually lit the path to Tahrir Square.

Oh, and one more thing: If loving him is wrong, I don't wanna be right.

"I'm Just Sayin', Dawg...." Part 27

2011-02-15T20:15:00.001+03:00

Can I take a second here to admit that I think Gwyneth Paltrow is cool as hell? For a skinny rich b---h, that is.

"I'm just sayin', dawg...."

(And now, back to our regularly scheduled grief....)

Papering Over The Grief

2011-02-15T19:20:00.001+03:00

For almost a week after I learned my brother Fred had died, I literally didn't have time to think about it. I had to put up or shut up, and there was far too much at stake. Like my reputation. Like being exposed for a lot of sound and fury which signified nothing. Like having talked myself into a project I couldn't produce.

Thing is, when I shook the dust of the ill-fated Kilifi journalism workshop off my heels back in December, I was truly ready to pack it in and head back to America. Back home. I was pretty much convinced that doing the kind of journalism training and mentoring I'd won a grant to do was impossible in Kenya, because journalists just weren't feeling it. Journalism isn't considered a "craft" here; it's a job. For too many journalists, "ethics" are for chumps who don't have any influential connections. And who has time to take a week--even half a day--to really think about issues, and to work on improving their writing skills?

I believe I've mentioned that the only reason I'm still on the continent is because I had such a marvelous experience working with Sudanese radio journalists immediately after the Kilifi workshop. They reminded me that not everybody is cynical and unmotivated. Besides, I had already proposed producing a special section in the East African weekly newspaper about the new government initiative to provide free pneumococcal vaccine for infants. The research was conducted in Kilifi, and it was actually a big deal for Kenya. Heck, if nothing else, Melinda Gates' visit a few weeks ago proved the significance of the event.

Mercifully, the only two writers who took the Kilifi workshop seriously--and another reporter who I SHOULD have invited instead of the handful of complaining jerks who wasted my time and theirs--saved my bacon in the end. One of them is my assistant in the new journalism project, who turned in a first draft that almost made me applaud the laptop screen, it was so perfectly on point. The second is a former malaria researcher with three young kids who approached me late last summer, wanting to shift from scientific writing to journalism. Without her analytical expertise and skill, half of these pages wouldn't exist. The third contributor fought long and hard to do more health-related reporting with no support from his editor, and finally had to threaten to quit before they took him seriously.

So....these pieces of paper symbolize weeks of pensive planning, plotting and praying. And just when I really had to dig in my heels to gut this thing out, I learned Fred had died. For many hours after hearing that news, I contemplated flying home for the funeral. Even though family members talked me out of it, in those fevered, eerily still hours before dawn, I almost pushed the button on a flight.

Something made me stay. And it wasn't just fear of losing face. It was the spirit of Eloise and Julie. It was pure mulishness. It was sheer will. It was the ultimate "In yo' FACE!" to the naysayers, to the folks who'd turned up their noses at all my hard work back in December, and then had the nerve to go around bad-mouthing me afterwards.

And it was therapy. I picked up a copy of the published results at around the same time Fred's funeral was occurring, thousands of miles away. Somehow, I hoped it would make him proud. And everybody else up there watching out for me, holding me up.

One Thing to Do When the Grief is Enuf

2011-02-15T17:29:00.002+03:00

Yesterday after work, I was suddenly obsessed with making a batch of sukuma wiki.

This time, I was gonna be creative and add some smoked neckbones, and some leeks. I'm sure I'd be chased out of the country if a Kenyan got a whiff of my impromptu experiment, but I wanted to add an African American spin to it.

All the washing and chopping and dicing and simmering took about 3 hours last night. I was almost too exhausted to eat it. The first bite didn't knock me off my feet, so I think the next time I'll stick to the authentic recipe. I've made it before, and it's turned out really well. This time, I just needed to focus on doing something other than marinating in grief.

Another Thing To Do When the Grief is Enuf

2011-02-15T14:54:00.001+03:00

I've slept with this iPad more than any man I've ever known. I got it just before Christmas, and it is without a doubt the coolest gadget I've ever owned.

As usual, I haven't really figured out one tenth of what it's able to do, so it's basically just an outsized iPod/email tool. Coupled with the new, outrageously expensive headphones Kelly brought over for me (I left my other pair of outrageously expensive headphones in the back seat of a taxi last summer), I have been indulging in electronic escapism every single chance I get these days.

Probably shouldn't be listening to "The Essential Michael Jackson" collection these days, given how hard HIS passing hit me, but great headphones get you so focused on the amazing sound quality, you forget everything but the beat.

The operative word here being "forget."

In Full Bloom

2011-02-12T23:33:00.002+03:00

I bought these lillies on Friday, February 4th. It was the day before what I considered THE best dinner party I've thrown in almost 3 years in Nairobi. I love having them in the bathroom; they're so pretty, and they smell so sweet. Now that I think about it, that party was on February 5th. That was the day my mother died, in 2005.

Usually, after a couple of days, my lillies start to curl up and turn brown. By the fourth day, the sweet smell goes sour, the water gets murky, and the leaves start falling off. By day five, they're in the dumpster.

This morning, eight days later, was my brother Fred's funeral. These must be magic lillies, because they're in full bloom, and they still smell sweet. I'm not exactly sure when Fred died; they found him on the morning of February 7th.

I'm going to bed now. Rest in peace, lillies.

And Then There Were Seven

2011-02-12T23:00:00.004+03:00

Okay, this is gonna sound really macabre, and I apologize for it in advance. But I bought 7 bird of paradise flowers today because when Marilyn and I were talking on Monday night, she raised a solemn reminder....

There are seven of us Jones siblings left now. David, Julie and Fred are gone.

Let's see how long these flowers last.

It's In The Bag

2011-02-11T11:20:00.005+03:00

It is astonishing how sometimes, the least little innocuous thing can completely rattle you, throw you worse than you ever could have imagined.

After all, this particular "least little innocuous thing" happened less than 12 hours after I learned that another of my older brothers, Fred Wesley Jones, had died. I was walking from my bedroom to the living room this past Tuesday morning when I noticed what was written on the front of the bag my friend Kelly had ferried from New York to Nairobi the week before. Kelly has been a real life-saver these past couple of years, generously agreeing to be the "mule" for all my online shopping. And she always meticulously packs everything, making sure to tape the tops of liquids and put them in gallon-sized Zip-loc bags, and carefully ordering all the packing receipts. She also puts everything in really cool bags, like from Henri Bendel or Barneys. I've kept quite a few of them, hooking them onto a doorknob or over a rack in the closet, so I can pretend I still have access to Upscale East Coast shopping.

Actually seeing the front of this bag felt like somebody thwacked me in the center of my forehead with a log. I had lain awake most of the night before, after talking to my brother-in-law Ron and my sister Marilyn, trying to sort through the shock and the details. I guess I'll be able to write about it one day, but right now, I just can't. It's too raw. But I know I didn't think of him as "Fred Wesley" as I tossed and turned in the tangled sheets. I thought about what we used to call him 40 years ago, when he was young and strong and healthy and a high school football star and had the whole world as his oyster, it seemed.

We called him Freddie.

So even though it's not spelled the same way, and even though there's a rip on one side, I think I'll keep this bag right where it is for a while. Maybe I'll even keep it forever. To me, it feels like somehow, I was with him when he passed.

"I'm Just Sayin', Dawg...." Part 26

2011-02-11T09:42:00.004+03:00

Here's another reason why the most valuable thing I own is my sense of humor.

Late Monday night, when my sister Marilyn and I finished clawing our way through the shock and profound sadness of accepting that our poor, tragic brother Fred was finally at peace, Marilyn sighed and recalled what the old school rappers used to do when one of their homeys got smoked. They poured a little booze on the ground, and then solemnly declared, "I'll meet ya' at 'The Crossroads,' dawg. "

With tears of pain stinging in the corners of my eyes, once again I found myself utterly unable to stop the sarcastic remark that spilled out.

"Yeah, but at our age, instead of pouring booze, we just pop a high blood pressure pill and say, "Meet ya' at the Blue Cross, Blue Shield clinic." Trust me, laughter can save your life, sometimes. Or at least your sanity.

"I'm just sayin', dawg...."

"And the Fake Kenyan Accent Oscar Goes To...."

2011-02-01T13:23:00.008+03:00

I am a woman on the cusp. More and more these days, I realize I've been living here so long, it's definitely "fish or cut bait" time.

Here's a perfect example. I've resorted to hanging out of car windows to buy DVD's of recent movie releases. I'm not proud of it, it's just a fact of life. But it really sunk in yesterday as I was poking through some guy's wares in gridlock traffic, and asked if he had one of this year's Best Film Oscar Nominees, "True Grit."

"Eh?" was his puzzled response, and I hear it at least two or three times a day from various sources. Every time, I get defensive, because it's like my ability to speak clearly and articulately is being challenged. I'M SPEAKING ENGLISH, DAMMIT! English is one of the official languages over here, right??? All I want a copy of the movie, "True Grit," not the Armenian language version of "Das Boot." I gave it one more shot.

"True Grit!"

"Eh?" The furrowed brow and look of utter incomprehension only poured gasoline on an already explosive situation. It was friggin' hot in the back seat of that car, and the traffic was crawling, and I just wanted to get home. WTF is the problem??

And then I remembered.

"Ta-LOO GLEET!"

"Ahh," he replied. "It is here."

*sigh*

(Note to that handful of Kenyan readers who have once again concluded that I am a patronizing, American elitist jerk: "Get over yourselves, already!" All I'm really saying with this post is that if I stay here much longer, I need to commit to learning Kiswahili,or intonate in a way people can understand. It's not about imperialism. Don't be so tetchy.)

Black Beauty

2011-02-01T12:15:00.001+03:00

It's been a while since an image of myself startled me. Usually, it's for the wrong reason. For example, there's a picture of me taken at the journalism workshop I hosted in Kilifi last December where I was caught completely off guard, and just about ready to pop a blood vessel because those reporters had worked my last nerve, and I was exhausted from all the work I'd done to get the danged show on the road, and plus my hot flashes were REALLY kicking in, and all I wanted was to go sit by the pool....after I slapped the bejeezus out of a few folks, and, I mean....

I looked busted. (And no, I ain't NEVER posting that picture, so don't even ask.) It was a side view shot, and I looked like I was slowly melting down into myself, arms hangling limply at my side, shoulders slouched as I leaned back into a chair, wearing a grim, flat-line expression. Seeing that image scared me because I looked so much like my mother. Not from Miss Eloise's halcyon, "Fierce Force of Nature" days when she was in her 30's and 40's, but just like she looked just before she died. Resigned. Worn out. Too through.

Like a sad old lady.

Even though I know why I looked so bad in that picture, it haunted me for a while. I was like, "Wow, if that's how I'm gonna look in 20 years, I better start saving for daily facials and a 24-hour, on-call personal trainer, because...DAY-um!!" So just imagine how startling the image above was for me. If I do say so myself, I think I look quite lovely in this picture taken last Friday night. But then, I was probably just reflecting the glow from the women surrounding me, who were celebrating the birthday of the diva named Tina Monique who's wearing the dazzling diadem.

Let me just say that there is nothing like the range of beauty contained among women of African descent. I've traveled enough of the continent to have finally counteracted the last vestiges of an internalized European blonde, blue-eyed gold standard for beauty. I'm sorry, but African beauty is not only physically alluring, it has rhythm. And passion. And flow. And diversity. It can be as black as ink or as fair as cafe latte, and it's just as stunning. Just like the smiling, shining happy faces above. One in particular stand out, of course: mine. For the first time in ages, I almost didn't recognize myself.

I look so thin in this picture!!! I'm flashing a respectable amount of leg, and it doesn't look like a haunch of beef hanging in a store window. I'm wearing a nice, sunny, controlled smile, not like I usually do when I'm happy and wind up baring my gums like Mr. Ed. I look poised. In fact, my face looks significantly younger than what the calendar says it is.

So, look, here's the thing. Every now and then, we're all gonna have our bad days when we look and feel like 12 miles of bad road. But always remember that somewhere inside that sad wreckage staring back out at you from the mirror is the REAL you. And when you get right down to it, she's a stunner.

Melinda and Me

2011-01-24T21:10:00.002+03:00

You know, the funny thing is, last June, when I attended the "Women Deliver" Reproductive Health conference at the Washington, DC Convention Center, one of the highlights for me was hearing this woman talk about her commitment to maternal and child health. At the time, Melinda Gates was just a face on a large satellite screen, but I remember being greatly impressed by her poise and passion for the same kind of issues I care deeply about.

So it was an extraordinary privilege to shake her hand earlier this evening, and to thank her for the boost of inspiration. After all, I had seen her speak just a few days before I had to sign a contract committing to a a third year of living in Nairobi. A third year that HER foundation had paid for. Oh sure, I hear some of you out there thinking, "Rachel can't even recognize that she's swallowed about a gallon of the Philanthropic Kool-Aid, and her bleeding heart has condemned her to roam the Earth in search of so-called 'meaning,' instead of hauling her happy ass back to America where she belongs."

Naaah, I just want to build on my collection of photographs of me standing near immensely influential women whose names begin with M. First Michelle, and now Melinda. Better sleep with the camera next to me tonight, in case the Virgin Mary appears at the foot of my bed.

"I'm Just Sayin', Dawg...." Part 25

2011-01-24T12:39:00.004+03:00

When it's time for Rush Limbaugh to reap his Karmic Harvest for the hateful garbage he spews each day, I just hope I'll own a 75 inch flat-screen TV, a gourmet popcorn machine, and a buttery soft leather couch to snuggle into as I watch it unfold.

I could not believe what was I was reading last week when a friend sent a link to a story about his latest hijinks. Apparently, while Chinese President Hu Jintao was visiting the US recently, Lame-baugh thought it would be really funny to mock the way he speaks. He riffed about 17 seconds of standard-issue babbling, a la the 1930's Hollywood version of Chinese...I don't have to repeat it here, do I?

Apparently, all Asian languages sound the same to Rush, and so somewhere in that warped, swampy morass that passes for his skull, he decided to score some comedic points with the army of feral zombies devoted to his show. I'm still appalled thinking about the blatant disrespect, the unblinking, defiant lack of human decency that man embodies. And then I remember he was raised in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, at a time in American history when you could openly mock and harass and disrespect people of color, if they didn't stay in "their place," or if they spoke when they weren't spoken to.

Now, I'm not using this posting to malign "Cape" as it's most often referred to, because those days of segregation are long gone. Whenever I've gone back to the Midwest over the past decade or so, I've usually wound up going there, or to another town with a similar pedigree, Paducah, Kentucky. For Cairo residents, they are two of the closest locations for shopping or any semblance of city life. Black folks can pretty much go wherever they want in both towns these days.

Anyway, on the same morning I read about Rush's latest tomfoolery, I also saw the photo up top. Once again, America's Sassy Little Sweetheart, Sasha Obama, came to the rescue! Apparently, she's learning Chinese at Sidwell Friends School in Washington, and so she greeted him in his own language, politely and respectfully. Like somebody who was raised well. It was such a powerful reminder that no matter how many mansions he lives in, no matter how many ratings points he scores or how many young blonde trophy wives he marries, Rush Limbaugh will go to his grave as little more than a bellicose, belligerent pre-Civil Rights Era Cape Girardeau schoolboy craving the attention and admiration of the other creeps on the playground by making fun of people who are "different."

While Rush was uttering his gibberish, he said he can't understand how anybody can learn Asian languages. Thanks, Sasha, for providing one more piece of evidence that Rush Limbaugh has the mental agility of someone under the age of 9, and displays all the class and decorum of someone raised by wolves.

"I'm just sayin', dawg..."

Now THAT's What I'm Talkin' 'Bout!

2011-01-23T10:45:00.002+03:00

Dang if Tunisia didn't need my advice!

However, lest I be accused of harboring delusions of grandeur, all I really mean to say is that I am once again mesmerized by the geopolitical events on the African continent. Or I guess I should say I'm in a state of continuous astonishment. Within the past month, everyday, average Tunisians like the ones in this picture managed to literally dismantle the government, to end a brutally greedy and selfish regime that was draining their very life blood.

In fact, this picture was taken at the funeral of a young man who set himself on fire, after constant harassment by police took its toll. He was a college student trying to support himself and his family selling fruit, but officials kept confiscating his meager wares. The young man finally had enough, and chose an horrific way to end his frustration.

His grieving relatives may not be able to glean much satisfaction from the fact that his desperate act launched the overthrow of the government, but I'm hoping one day they will. As a survivor of suicide myself, I can attest that you spend the rest of your life trying to find a reason, or meaning, or justification for what your loved one did.

My God, what a way to make sense of a tragic loss. What a way for a nation to find its courage and connect with its internal might. What a sacrifice.

And now there are similar acts occurring in Egypt and Algeria. One day soon, I'll share my thoughts about why I don't think "People Power" will reach East Africa anytime soon.

Michelle and Me

2011-01-20T13:56:00.004+03:00

This is probably the closest I'll ever get to Michelle Obama, yet the shiny, happy smile on my face would lead you to believe she and I are sorority sisters or something.

Part of the reason I'm smiling so widely is that since she just turned 47, it's a potent reminder that I am for the first time older than an American First Lady, yet have managed to remain in the above average percentile of the Smokin' category, just like Michelle. Not that I'm comparing myself to Michelle physically, mind you--especially not her Terminatrix biceps. It's just that when I look at this picture, it invokes so many powerful, empowering thoughts.

I guess the main one is that if I live on the African continent for another 20 years, I'll still be American, proudly and fiercely so. It wouldn't matter if I married a Kenyan man, adopted a Kenyan name, learned flawless Kiswahili, even got myself a Kenyan passport. I'd still have more in common with Michelle than most Kenyan women my age. I'd still be more myself with my sisters across the water. After nearly four years of living in East Africa, I may recognize some of the rhythms and embrace some of the patterns, but I've finally admitted to myself that I'll never really, truly belong in this culture.

That doesn't necessarily make me sad, but if I'm honest, I'm also not happy about it, either. As I've written before, I keep expecting that maybe one day, I'll land in an African nation and feel completely at home. But then, the older I get, the more I realize that home is about a hell of a lot more than geography.

Anyhoo, the next emotion this picture evokes is gratitude. I am about to turn 50, and I am still holding the line against Father Time. Oh, sure, fewer people guess my age to be in the early 30's than they used to...I'm lucky if I score a "38 or 39" anymore, and that's only if I got a good night's sleep. But this shot fairly SHOUTS that I am a 49 year old black American woman standing in the heart of downtown Nairobi, Kenya next to a picture of the first American First Lady of African descent, and I have lived long enough to revel in the fact that I am indeed older than said First Lady, yet most days I still feel like the whole damn world is my oyster!!!

That platitude expressed, I must admit that I am also writing this post while seated directly adjacent to a fan turned on high, because I've been gripped in the clutches of a weeks-long continuous thermonuclear hot flash. (Oh, don't act surprised that I've started back on that topic again!! You can't have been so naive as to think it was never going to come up again, dammit!)

NPR-No Pleasure, Really

2011-01-12T10:57:00.010+03:00

I keep waiting for the day when 7 out of 10 people will NOT be impressed by the fact that once upon a time, before the Earth's crust had cooled, I used to work in this building. Those 3 simple letters used to produce such a sense of awe and respect whenever I invoked them, I guess I got a little drunk on the Kool-Aid myself.

Whenever people ask me what working at National Public Radio was like, I often respond with two very distinct impressions. First, it was and remains the smartest place I've ever worked. Nine out of 10 people in this building are smart. Extremely smart. Now, I might not have liked some of them for a whole constellation of reasons, but everybody, including the security guards sitting at the reception desk, was freakin' smart!

Seriously, though, what that means is that out of all the newsrooms I've worked in, I was never so surrounded by as many curious, inquisitive, intellectually rigorous people. You could sit in a meeting for a couple of hours at NPR just discussing the whys and wherefores of a particular story, and whether it was worth doing, and still come out feeling there was some territory left to explore, and with no final decision. But whenever that decision was made, you best believe it was the right one.

I started out at NPR in August 1998, working on the Science Desk. I have never worked with a more hilariously deranged group of people! And most of them had advanced university degrees! Talk about intimidation, at first anyway. But I was a seasoned newspaper reporter with a deep voice, and an interest in child well-being and health issues, and that's how I got the job. With my typical "can do" spirit, I jumped in with both feet. And I had a lot of fun working for NPR's Science Desk. Especially on Friday afternoons, when the impromptu bar was opened at somebody's cubicle.

But a few months after starting, I "heard through the grapevine" that one of my Science Desk colleagues was openly objecting to my presence there, because he felt I'd been hired for no other reason than my skin color. This was in the Fall of 1998. And this brings me to my second major impression of my experience at NPR:

It was one of the most stubbornly resistant cliques of white, middle-upper middle class privilege I have ever encountered. (Strap yourself in, y'all...remember, I done TOLE you 2011 is my year to say what I mean and mean what I say!) Now, let me parse that statement carefully, so as not to give the wrong impression. When I use the term "white, middle/upper middle class privilege," I do NOT mean to suggest that there is an overt pattern of racist exclusion, or formalized structures that result in people of color getting paid less or being openly ill-treated. Rather, the privilege I refer to is that the people who run NPR by and large reserve for themselves the inalienable right to interpret the world, and what is newsworthy, based on how THEY view it, and how people who look like them, sound like them, and live in their neighborhoods or similar ones, view the world.

Don't get me wrong: that world view is just as valid as any other. It's just limited. It isn't the same as mine, or the Latina living in the Bronx, or the Asian guy in San Francisco's Chinatown. So the question becomes, do you want to produce programming that sounds like, and appeals to, mostly people who look like you, sound like you, think like you, and experience the world through your lens, or do you want to broaden your range?

That's the question legions of people have asked about NPR through the years. People who love NPR ADORE it, and I'm not questioning the quality of its content. What I'm saying is that the people who have sampled NPR and rejected it, or who've heard about it but never looked into it, or who have never even heard of it, constitute a significant percentage of the populace. I'm not just basing that on skin color; millions of young people think NPR is for old people. Lots of rural folk think NPR is for snobby, citified elitists. People in various ethnic groups feel the programming has absolutely no content that reflects their experience.

The good news for NPR is that the die-hard core audience of people who adore the network is largely well-educated, affluent and influential. With demographics like that, who'd want to risk fiddling around with content? Well, funny you should ask that, because that brings me to the main reason I'm writing this blogpost--I recently learned that NPR's Senior Vice President for News, a woman named Ellen Weiss, "resigned" last week. In case you are among those people who aren't slavishly devoted to NPR, Ellen's gone because she was the person who fired a...ahem..."journalist" named Juan Williams for saying that he gets nervous whenever he's in an airport with people wearing Muslim garb. Oh, and he said it during his extracurricular commentator stint at the rabidly conservative Fox News Network. Oh, and one MORE thing...she fired him over the phone.

Now, I'm not gonna get into the whole rigamarole around the Juan Williams/NPR/Fox News shitstorm. You may have already deduced what I think about Juan Williams AND Fox News, based on that last paragraph. But I mention it because the way Ellen Weiss handled that incident does such a terrific job of summing up NPR's Diversity Strategy. First, in my association with the network, which consisted of part-and full-time stints off and on over a 9-year period, I saw very few attempts to "grow their own" when it came to internal efforts to change the culture and make its' sound and programming more diverse. Diversity was attempted by hiring a marquee-named person of color and then pointing to him or her and shouting, "See?? We are oh-so-diverse!"

For example, Tavis Smiley got hired, but his show was targeted to public radio stations with largely black audiences. I don't believe it was ever carried on the main network. When he didn't work out, along comes Ed Gordon, formerly of BET. He eventually exited stage left. Journalist and commentator Farai Chideya landed a gig, but her show got axed last year. Two marquee names remain--Michelle Martin of "Tell Me More," and Michelle Norris, a co-anchor of "All Things Considered."

(If I were a complete cynic, I'd even read something into THOSE hires. "Make sure your two black female stars have the same first name, so you'll never be accused of thinking they all look alike." But then, I'm not a complete cynic...much.)

You might say at this point that the fact that I was hired contradicts that point, but then I'd reply with the bottom line reality that for my entire time as a reporter with the network, I was told my voice just didn't make the grade. Literally everywhere else in the Universe I travel, people comment on my rich vocal timbre, but at NPR it was rubbish. Now, I know that just because a person has a deep voice doesn't necessarily make them broadcast material, and I also admit that it took me years to relax and try to be conversational in my delivery. But that's not what they were saying.

My voice was not a fit at NPR because it has too much bass in it. Too much African bass. I don't sound like Mara Liasson, or Jennifer Ludden, or Andrea Seabrook. Or like anyone who lives near, or looks like, the people who run NPR. And in their minds, that would be an affront to the core audience. It doesn't fit into the NPR signature sound.

Again, I am not suggesting racist intent here, and I need to make that clear. Other than the one or two folks who resented me being there early on, I never experienced overt racism while working at NPR. Ever. But as someone commented on the National Association of Black Journalists blog following Ellen Weiss's departure, it's as if NPR simply just doesn't know what to DO with people of color! All those brilliant intellects become flummoxed at the prospect of including a different worldview at the table. Which led to the Public Relations DEBACLE of the Juan Williams firing, which any 9 year old who's watched enough TV could have advised Ellen that you probably should give the guy, like, a warning first, or at least have him come in for, like, a meeting before you fire him, because, like, he's black, and, like, kinda famous, right? And, like, there are very few black people in your office and, like, you don't wanna make people think you don't like black people, do you????

But in what was just the latest in a series of ham-fisted moves involving employees of color, Ellen just simply didn't know what to do about the "Juan Problem," and chose the most expedient way of removing it. After all, she had lots of other important things on her plate. See, you have to understand a bit about a woman like Ellen. She's about my age, but graduated from Smith College (which incidentally, I received a financial aid package offer from back in the Stone Age, but realized I didn't want to go to an all girls' school, and couldn't afford it anyway. And then promptly decided to go to Northwestern University, which I also couldn't afford. Go figure.)

Ellen started working at NPR as an intern straight out of college, and I'm betting she intended to retire from there 10 or 15 years from now. And even those people who may be somewhere humming "Ding, dong the Witch is dead..." right about now would concede there are few more single-minded, totally focused, hard-working and driven people on the face of the Earth than Ellen Weiss. They would laud her perseverance, and the fact that she achieved the goal she articulated when she started, to one day run the whole kit and caboodle.

But they would also say that the same single-minded focus was what may have ultimately contributed to her downfall. Ellen Weiss spent so much energy creating a signature philosophy and sound and culture and ethos at NPR, that there was no time or energy left to consider how it might be shaped to reflect the larger society. Recognizing and acknowledging the need for people who don't look like you, or live near you, or sound like you to be a part of the mix would divert that focus. Staffing that newsroom with said people would require you to move outside of your interpersonal comfort zone, to maybe consider programming content that holds absolutely no interest to you. In other words, becoming the Big Kahuna at NPR was more about Ellen Weiss's personal goal and vision instead of creating a more inclusive newsroom and product, in my opinion. That's fine, I suppose, but once again, her departure proves that mindset quite frequently has a expiration date.

Bottom line: When there are half as many people of color in NPR's Newsroom as there are in NPR's Mailroom, or in the IT Department, I'll believe they're getting serious about diversity. Period.

Did I forget to mention here that I LOVE NPR?? And that I have many friends who are still there, and that I have a deep and abiding reservoir of respect for the work that is produced there? That said, I also remember being on assignment once in Atlanta, and having a black public official tell me that while she listened to NPR all the time, she couldn't help noticing the dearth of black voices on the network. For some reason I had a bit of the Devil in me that day, and I shared with her that in some circles (namely, my brain), NPR stood for, "Negro, PLEASE Run! Don't walk outta there, RUN!"

That woman laughed for a good 10 minutes straight! I bet she's still telling people what I said, especially lately. Thing is, these days, when I think of all the wasted potential and bad press and glacial efforts at diversity at NPR, I find I derive "No Pleasure, Really."

Leavening in Eleven

2011-01-09T20:24:00.005+03:00

"You have just entered a dimension where two pans of dinner rolls, made from the same batch of dough, baked in the same oven, can end up in two drastically different universes."

Welcome to Suburban Nairobi...aka, "The Twilight Zone." I SWEAR, I've been battling big-assed Easy Bake Ovens for two and a half years now in Kenya, but nothing, not even the pasta made from ostrich eggs that dissolved into a gooey mess about 30 seconds after it hit the boiling water, can top this debacle! Granted, one reason for this sorry outcome is that I've been flipping back and forth between reports from Sudan and Arizona all day. Watching the surgeon's press conference, trying to get an update on how Rep. Gabrielle Giffords is doing, made me ease up on the vigilance one needs to regulate the uneven supply of electricity fueling the aforementioned Easy Bake oven.

But after I finished this latest round of culinary cussin', I stood there a minute and stared. Then I got clobbered by a memory from January 2007, after I'd settled on my annual New Year's motto:

"My life will leaven in 2007." I hoped it would invoke a rising from the ashes of death and disease that had stalked my family the prior 4 years. By that point, my eldest brother and both parents had died, and my sister Julie had battled through a year of a Stage 4 colon cancer diagnosis. She seemed to be hanging tough in that moment, and so I vowed to rise like a phoenix, or at least like one of my famous batches of cloverleaf dinner rolls, in 2007.

Three months later, my NPR job got cut in half, which signaled an eventual parting of ways, probably a lot sooner than I would want it to happen. But I remember walking out of Managing Editor Ellen Weiss's office after she'd lowered the boom and squaring my shoulders, vowing to not crumble. I remember consciously reminding myself that when one door closes, another opens, and I was determined to not let it destroy my ego. Three weeks later, I'd been offered "the opportunity of a lifetime"...a chance to live overseas...

In Gulu.

Well, after I got over the initial shock of Northern Uganda and figured things out with my gig, I started to believe I could not only survive that stint, I could even thrive. I couldn't have asked for two more genial, hardworking colleagues in guys named Sean and Akiiki, and it seemed like I could ride out the rest of the tour without blowing a gasket. In fact, I was in the middle of one of the best workshops I've ever organized, in Arua, Uganda, just a stone's throw from the Democratic Republic of Congo, when I got the first call from my sister Marilyn, gently suggesting that if I ever wanted to see Julie alive again, I might want to start looking into a plane ticket.

By December of 2007, I'd concluded the universe must have misheard the motto I'd affirmed on New Year's Day. Instead of "leaven," Higher Power must've thought I'd vowed that my life would "leaden" in 2007. It was just one more way for me to laugh through the pain. Well, looking at this picture, I realize the Universe is finally getting around to setting the record straight. It reminds me that you don't get the good without the bad in this life. It reminds me that as much as you might try to control the situation, there's always going to be something that is completely out of your control, and more often than not, that something will SUCK OUT LOUD, and you will think that this time, you won't be able to survive it. But then you wake up a few years later and realize you did.

Let me break this thing on down to Chinatown, aiiiiight???? The Universe is reminding me to stop focusing on the six incinerated rolls in the pan on the right, and rejoice in 12 of the most delectable, buttery, flaky, yummy rolls I have ever made in my life! I know this because I have already started picking at the one in the center of the bottom row of the pan on the left. They are incredible, probably because I got a little carried away with the butter this time.

Higher Power is giving me one more chance to keep my promise to be "Grateful Times Seven in Twenty-Eleven." No wishing for Seventh Heaven for THIS gal, or any magic wands or Prince Charmings. "Just keep rising, Rachella." That's what all the angels and other celestial guides and good vibrations keep whispering. I'm still listening, don't worry.

P.S. I just found out that NPR's now Senior Vice President for News Ellen Weiss resigned a few days ago, part of the blowback from the Juan Williams saga. After 29 years. Half the network is in shock, the other half is rejoicing. I'm somewhere in between. Don't worry, I'll write about it soon.

God Save America

2011-01-09T11:35:00.004+03:00

I spent most of today battling chest pains. But it had nothing to do with high blood pressure, or lack of exercise, or even stress. It's because when I had awakened in the wee hours of last night, as I often do, I made the mistake of checking the headlines on my BlackBerry. That's when I learned about the shooting/mass murder at a political meeting in Tuscon, Arizona.

And that's when the first pangs of heartache began. It took a long while to get back to sleep after reading about what had happened, or what people think happened. And when I finally got out of bed, that's when the guilt kicked in. I realized I've spent so much time over the past year or so focused on African politics that I've been oddly detached about the political scene back home. I know the generalities, like what's going on with the Tea Party, and the growing disappointment with President Obama's performance, but the guilt stems from my blissful disengagement from it all! It's actually been a relief to be able to send a "Tsk, tsk" in a general Westerly direction, and then shift most of my intellectual geopolitical attention to the madness over here.

It's still too early to know whether the Arizona shooting was politically-motivated or not. As several commenters have noted on Al Jazeera and CNN, there are too many mentally ill people with access to guns in America to know for sure if this was an organized political statement or just some guy who stopped taking his meds. And while at first I was going to use the picture of Representative Gabrielle Giffords to illustrate this posting, because I am so relieved she is still alive after being shot in the head, my heart just about gave out on me when I read about the youngest victim, 9-year-old Christina Taylor Greene.

That beautiful child was born on September 11th, 2001. She had just been elected to her school's Student Council. And she went to the meeting after a neighbor, who knew how much she was starting to get interested in politics, extended an innocent invitation.

I don't expect I'll get much sleep tonight, either. And it's funny, just a few days ago, I expected to be completely focused on monitoring the election in Sudan. Now, I'll be kept awake by the sound of my heart's blood dripping for little Christina, and all the while, I'll be praying for my homeland.

'Nuff Said

2011-01-08T20:41:00.002+03:00

Blending Into The Scenery

2011-01-08T13:40:00.001+03:00

Sometimes, I feel like the Black Female Zelig. Or Maybe Forrest Gump. I've got enough photographic evidence that I've been in the middle or near some pretty interesting events.

I'm looking at a 1994 picture of me standing beside Nelson Mandela even as I type these words. I plopped down in Northern Uganda a year after a 21 year Civil War ended, and in Kenya 5 months after the Post Election Violence. In January of 2010, I got caught in the middle of a rock-throwing riot between Christians and Muslims in downtown Nairobi. And here's a picture of me in Juba, near a Separation Poster.

Can't wait to see what'll happen next...or can I?????

Africa Must Wake Up

2011-01-07T16:21:00.008+03:00

Watching the news last night, my major New Year's Resolution gave me a nudge in the gut. I've been following coverage of the upcoming election in Sudan as closely as possible lately, and of course it's because I was just in Juba last month. And since the other major story from the African continent these days is the Presidential stand-off in Cote D'Ivoire, I've also started watching developments there a bit more closely than I might have, say, a few year ago.

Now, my number one New Year's Resolution for 2011 is to reclaim my voice. To say what I mean and mean what I say. I expect those of you who may have followed this blog over the past few years might be a bit confused, because I certainly haven't been a shrinking violet about my life, fears, neuroses and challenges. (And if I was having sex, I wouldn't hesitate to talk about that, either.) But for a lot of reasons, I've kept most of my opinions about life on the African continent to myself.

Now, Miss Eloise didn't raise no fool, so don't expect me to go rogue, or anything. I mean, I'm well aware that I could get the knock on the door in the middle of the night, or have the wheels on my taxi shot out before being dragged off somewhere, if I started getting too opinionated. After all, I am a visitor on foreign soil, and a female one at that. These Kenyan dudes don't play that, 'yo? So, tempered with all the love and respect I can offer, what I wanna say at this particular moment in time is,

"Africa must wake up, the sleeping sons of Jacob. For what tomorrow may bring, may a better day come, Yesterday we were kings, can you tell me young ones -- Who are we today? "

Actually, I stole those words from one of my favorite albums of recent years, "Distant Relatives" by Nas and Damien Marley. There's so much wisdom on that joint, it's almost like food. It's from two Diaspora brothers and their artistic colleagues who, in my opinion, absolutely nailed the demons plaguing the African continent. Tribalism, greed, poverty, every lyric tells the story. Just like the picture above.

It reminds me of some the criticisms of Black America during the Civil Rights Era Riots. In every major American city, whenever some injustice against black folks went down, we starting burning and looting our own shit. Wasn't no riotin' in Beverly Hills; we just burned down Compton, and shook our fists at the TV cameras. Oh sure, there was a lot of positive activism, and lots of "insider" political and intellectual advocacy, but much of what led the news was the brick throwing and flames.

As a kid, I didn't get it, and 40 years later, watching scenes of rioting and looting and shouting at the Al Jazeera and CNN cameras, I still don't get it. Because when I watch these mostly young, male, "ain't got a pot to piss in, nor a window to throw it out of" Africans shouting threats and taunts in support of some guy who's barricaded inside a palace using cutlery that costs more than what that same young man will make in an ENTIRE YEAR, I wind up concluding that kid THINKS he's awake! He thinks he's doing something, making a statement, taking a stand. He thinks he's expressing power and might, especially when that guy in the mansion hands him the equivalent of five US dollars and a machete and tells him to go kill the "enemy."

That young man, who has been stripped of every other type of legitimate power, or identity, or even basic human dignity due to outrageous and obscene squalor and deprivation, feels mighty when the lens is pointed at him. But he is in a deep coma. He is a puppet dangling on the end of a string held by a man who's 3 times his age and has nothing but utter contempt for him. A man who wouldn't even stop to help if his presidential motorcade accidentally knocked him down. An old man who has drained the coffers and the lifeblood of their mutual homeland, and views him with the same disgust as a sewer rat, could not give a f--k whether he and everybody like him died of starvation tomorrow as long as his own children get to live in palatial splendor, and he gets his medical care in Geneva.

THAT'S what Nas and Damien Marley mean in those lyrics. Young and old, male and female, the majority of people living in unquiet desperation on the African continent need to wake up. "Wake the F--K up!!!" I wouldn't even pretend to suggest I know who should be running things where I am, or in Cote D'Ivoire, or in any of the 52 African countries. But as a brown-skinned woman who lived through a tumultuous era where people like me came out on the other side with some basic measure of rights, I can tell you that things will never change as long as people allow the few to so cruelly exploit the many.

And they'll never change while you're walking around with your eyes wide shut.

"When I Am An Old Woman, I Shall Wear Purple..."

2011-01-01T20:25:00.004+03:00

"...With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me. And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves, And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter."

I love that poem by Jenny Joseph, because it reminds me so much of my mother Eloise. Based on her fashion sense, and her decorating instinct, her motto HAD to have been, "If two things match, that plot won't hatch." I'll never forget the look on my brother David's face after he had helped her buy the first new house she ever lived in, and sent money for furniture, and came home and saw the red velvet couch with the white piping, and the hideous dining room set. She scoured flea markets for accent pieces that would be rejected by a House of Horror, and she spent hours stitching together outfits that Aunt Jemima would have hooted at.

Eloise Jones loved vivid colors like red and purple, and wore as many of them at the same time as she could. And she always admonished me to wear bright colors, because dark-skinned women looked better in bright colors, she said. I guess she also did it because early in life, I always chose dark colored clothing, and loose fitting at that. It's like I was ashamed of my body, but then that was because of her, too. I felt naked wearing sleeveless blouses until well into my 20's, because Mama always said only tramps wore sleeveless clothing.

In fact, I've only worn a bikini top in public once in my life, and that was on Ipanema Beach in Rio, after 8 months in Gulu evaporated most of my body fat. So when I picked the bathing suit in this posting, I probably did it out of an act of defiance. It's purple, loud and bright at that, but my Mama would have hissed like a serpent and made me cover myself up if she'd seen me wearing it. But of course, she'd have probably just been playa-hatin' BIG TIME, because when she was almost 50, her hair was shot through with gray, and she was at least 40 pounds overweight, and she'd given birth to 10 children.

Now, in the interest of full disclosure, this photo was taken in February of 2009, during my Zanzi-cation with my dear friend Ron. He's the one who's taken most of the best pictures of me ever. When I feel happy and peaceful and comfortable in my skin, I guess it just seeps through the lens somehow. I felt pretty smokin' in the pics Ron took of me in this purple suit. And though I've probably put on a pound or two since then, I could probably still slither into it, with a little extra shea butter rubbed on my hips.

Anyhoo, I wanted to start the year off with this pic because where I'm living at present, being 50 is considered "old," especially for a woman. Who's never married. Or had children. But frankly, I've never felt younger or freer in my life! I'll post the rest of the Jenny Joseph's poem later to help explain why. But it boils down to this: there really is something about a woman growing older that frees her up to be who she really is, and say what she really feels, and do what she really wants to do. And in my Golden Jubilee year, that's exactly what I'm gonna do, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days of this year and every other one God gives me. I'm gonna reclaim my voice, and work with purpose, and solidify my "brand," and EXHALE. Hell, I ain't waiting for somebody to come along and tell me how to breathe. I already know how.

So, I'm ringing in 2011 feeling extremely lucky. Like I said, my mother was pretty "rode hard and put up wet" by the time she turned 50, and my sister Julie had endured more health crises than I care to remember by that point. But when I think of her, I remember that if somebody had told her she would only live 7 more years when she turned 50, she couldn't have packed more living into that time than what she actually did. That woman wore the HELL out of life, and endured daily physical and emotional pain doing it.

I, on the other hand, am a relatively healthy, hot tamale for an old bag about to turn 50. And for that, I will be grateful times seven in 2011.

Warning
by Jenny Joseph

WHEN I AM AN OLD WOMAN I SHALL WEAR PURPLE
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Taken from the book
When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple
Editd by Sandra Martz
Papier Mache Press--Watsonville, California 1987

Cottage Industry

2010-12-31T16:44:00.003+03:00

Now that I think about it, this innocuous little pink and green cottage is where some of the worst times of my life took place. And I've had some really horrible times over the past decade, you best believe.

But for purposes of this blogpost, let's start with the Holiday Season, 2007. I'd been in Gulu, Uganda for about 7 months at that point, except for the time I spent back in the US when my sister Julie died. The only thing that saved my own life that Christmas was the fact that I was completely numb. Shock and extended trauma can be a blessing sometimes, I guess. When I remember opening the last box Julie ever sent me on the day after Christmas, and DIDN'T completely lose my damn mind, I can only conclude that my nerve-endings were completely blunted, by a mixture of cheap Ugandan banana gin and grief.

And then there was the New Year's Eve generator explosion while I was in that cottage, on that compound, by myself--except for the guard who was a former child soldier for the Lord's Resistance Army. If you asked me today to go spend three weeks on a lonely acre with him, I'd cuss you out. But I did it back then, because I honestly felt like I had nothing left to lose.

And then a few hours after the generator was mended, I battled a huge-assed moth that kept dive-bombing while I cowered under a mosquito net. I think my time in Gulu made me a bit less afraid of all creatures that creep, crawl, and flutter--but not much. I had to battle the damn things on a daily basis, so after a while you tend to develop a bit more nerve.

In fact, I stopped being afraid of a lot of things during my time in Northern Uganda.

I left Gulu in February 2008 with mixed feelings...grateful to be heading back to "civilization," but sad to be leaving the kind of work I'd come to love. And the solitude and quiet of that cozy little cottage was actually quite restful in hindsight. Lonely more often than not, granted, but that kind of quiet nothingness forces you to either go crazy or work through some thangs.

And now three years later, I'm spending another quiet New Year's Eve, alone. But hey, at least there ain't no ex child soldiers around! And for some reason, I feel like I'm breaking the holiday curse that began in this little pink and green cottage three years ago. On New Year's Eve 2008, I was too stunned to care what the future brought. Twelve months later, the numbness had worn off, and while I've never told anybody, I was so depressed, in so much pain, I wasn't sure I wanted to see what 2009 would bring.

I spent last New Year's Eve watching my beloved Twilight Zone Marathon in Brooklyn, after spending a wonderful evening with my sister friend Marcy. As I've recently explained, this was just a few days after my Christmas Day brush with terrorism at Detroit Metro Airport. I was probably still a bit dazed, but for all the right reasons. I was alive, and I was in my homeland, and I'd consumed several corned beef sandwiches by then, and was really content with my life. It didn't matter that for one mo' 'gin, I still wasn't going to be kissing a man, my man, at midnight.

And now, here I am winding up another holiday season. I spent a really marvelous Christmas Eve dinner with my "Cousin George," his wife Carole and their family and friends. Christmas Day was spent with my buddy Monique and her next door neighbor, Rev. Phyllis, an American married to a Kenyan man, and who knows how to burn in the kitchen! I'm talking turkey and dressing, mac and cheese, candied real live "AMERICAN" sweet potatoes, the whole nine yards. We even sang Christmas carols, and I remembered most of the words to "The Little Drummer Boy," which really impressed the crowd.

At present, I'm lounging on my couch in suburban Nairobi, hoping I can stay awake long enough to experience Midnight at the Oasis, 2011. Still alone, still not entirely certain about what the future will bring. Will I usher in 2o12 on American soil? Will I be a 50-year-old newlywed? Will I be alive and healthy, employed and overjoyed, or poor in pocket and spirit?

Will I be able to completely close the door on the cottage industry of focusing on what I don't have, or will I find a way to be perpetually grateful for what is????

O Hear the Clarion Call!

2010-12-25T13:03:00.001+03:00

'Twas the day before Christmas, and joy dawned at noon,

'Cuz I won't be Bugle-less any time soon!!!!

Wishful Thinking

2010-12-25T12:07:00.003+03:00

God, how I wish my sister Julie and my mother Eloise were alive to see this image! Two beautiful, proud, elegant African American women presiding over the nation's Christmas celebrations as the First Lady and First Mother-in-law.

Now, I know the past few years haven't been a carefree thrill ride for the Obama-Robinson clan. I got this picture from a fashion blogpost where the very first commenter condemned her for wearing vintage couture. It's the first time a First Lady had ever done that for a holiday affair, and the dress cost about $2,000, instead of 3 or 4 times more for an original holiday gown. The writer suggested she made the choice as some sort of mockery, as if wearing a "second hand dress" made her some kind of hero in these tough economic times.

Spoiler alert: I am about to switch to my automatic race card default setting, which I only use sparingly. Now, I know Michelle Obama is no saint, and I know she's made some not-so-wise comments and some questionable fashion choices. But leveling that critique come from a place of nothing but puredee "Who does that uppity n----r b---h think she is?" And you couldn't give me a million dollars to change that opinion. Trust me, if Laura Bush had done it, she'd be hailed as fashion forward and sensitive to the public zeitgeist.

But don't let me plunge too far into the abyss. All I really wanted to say with this posting is that I wish my mother and sister were alive to see this picture. They would be so astonished and proud. As I will always be, to hail from a country where a scene like this could take place.

"I'm just Sayin', Dawg," Part 27"

2010-12-25T10:09:00.001+03:00

You mean to tell me they couldn't find a single black elf in Washington, DC??????????

"I'm just sayin', dawg..."

All I Need For Christmas

2010-12-23T16:20:00.000+03:00

I've spent the past few days wondering why I'm NOT feeling bummed about another Expat Christmas, a good 8,000 miles from the nearest sweet tater pie or Honey Baked Ham. In fact, I woke up this morning feeling great, and it had nothing to do with the wine from the night before.

And then it occurred to me that I'm just happy to be anywhere. Last Christmas Day probably scarred me emotionally, moreso than I've ever admitted. As long as I live, I will never forget the eerie silence in the Immigration Arrivals Hall at Detroit Metro Airport, where I queued for 4 hours AFTER having sat on a runway for 5 hours, in the plane that landed just after the one that ferried the Nigerian Nitwit whom I've affectionately nicknamed the "Underoos Bomber" from Amsterdam to Detroit.

Everybody, even exhausted babies and toddlers, seemed too stunned to make a peep by that point. People who had only an hour or so earlier cursed KLM, and the airport, and the Fates for ruining their Christmas Day were all of a sudden visualizing themselves splattered across the runway, or incinerated beyond recognition. It was probably the closest brush most of us will ever have with terrorism, even though we weren't on the same plane, and nobody got hurt. But somehow, we all really felt it. Deeply.

So, when I recall finally sinking into my bed at the Airport Best Western in Romulus, Michigan around 10 PM on Christmas Night 2009, having consumed my Yuletide feast of Fritos and Coke, I remember feeling an insane level of gratitude. Jetlag and shock kept me wide awake for a few more hours, which I filled by flipping through cable channels and being soothed by nasal American accents. It didn't matter that I didn't get any turkey or stuffing or gifts, or hear any carols or get to watch Rudolph or Charlie Brown or "A Christmas Story 24-Hour-Marathon" on TBS. I was alive.

That's why this year, it just doesn't seem like such a big deal that I'm not in America being ushered into the bosom of somebody's family on Christmas Day, or that I don't have a family of my own to cook for, or a kid to spoil. It doesn't matter that this little chocolate-colored Afro-centric angel is the only ornament on display at the Oasis of Graciousness, and the only card I've received so far came from the delivery guy at the grilled chicken joint I've subsidized over the past two and a half years in Nairobi.

Just like Celie said in "The Color Purple," I'm here. Dear God, I'm here! That's all the Christmas spirit I need, for now.

Temporary Transvestite

2010-12-22T18:52:00.007+03:00

I had to wait until I made it back to Kenya safely to write this post, just in case I found myself waking up on a dirt floor in a Sudanese prison for sneaking into the country under false pretenses. It wasn't until the day before I boarded the flight to Juba that I noticed a tiny, gender-based error on my temporary travel visa.

After arriving, I held my breath until the second I cleared the airport. Same thing on the day I left Sudan, praying security officers wouldn't check my papers too closely.

*Sigh.* Thing is, I don't know if I'm more upset with the person in Nairobi who looked at me and made the mistake anyway, or with the folks in Juba didn't catch it and loudly protest that there's no WAY someone as feminine as me could be mistaken for a man.

Either way, I bet they're still talking about the Black American transvestite journalist who dared flaunt her wickedness for a full week in Southern Sudan.

See why I love my life so much???? I am a laff riot with legs.

Another Moment In Time

2010-12-22T08:40:00.001+03:00

I wish I'd kept track of all the group photos I've taken at African reporting workshops through the years. There must be at least a dozen by now. This is one of the best. Such a fine bunch of serious, enthusiastic, focused young people.

And I REALLY enjoyed spending time with the white guy at the far right of this shot. John is a former NPR colleague who's now coordinating training and programming in Sudan for Voice of America. We're both former "Nippers" as ex-NPR employees call themselves, who have managed to move on to even more challenging, more interesting gigs. When this training was coming together, John asked me to come up and help out, seeing as how it would take place in my neck of the woods.

We both feel pretty lucky to be doing what we're doing at this moment in time. The American media business is going through major mid-life crisis, and that's putting it mildly. It's a perfect time to be a Journalist Without Borders, to travel to new places and approach our craft from a different angle. If the rest of my career plays out through helping other people become better journalists, that feels right, somehow.

They Might Be Giants!

2010-12-22T08:30:00.001+03:00

It's true what they say about Dinkas from Sudan. I wound up with a crick in my neck from staring up at guys like these all week.

I felt like a member of the Dinky tribe.

"I'm just Sayin', Dawg," Part 26"

2010-12-21T11:18:00.002+03:00

It's never a good idea to let guilt be a major motivating factor in your life. Still, I can honestly admit that most of the reason I haven't been blogging lately is that I'm stil processing my time in Juba, GOSS. Also, I think back-to-back journalism trainings knocked me on my butt, for real. I've concluded that the investment of emotional energy....the hope that someone will benefit from all the hard work and effort....is a bigger drain than the physical toll.

But my time in Southern Sudan also managed to inspire me, in so many ways. Here's the ultimate moment...when a Sudanese woman journalist walked up to me and tied this banner around my waist. It's the symbol used by folks who want the South to separate from the North and form a new country. After 2o years of war and strife, they think it's time for a clean break.

The vote for the new referendum will begin on Sunday, January 9th, 2011. And the name of the journalist in this picture, the one who tied the banner around my waist, is....Sunday.

YOU do the math. Once again, I am stunned by how I always seem to have these extraordinary opportunities for a ringside seat during historic moments on the African continent of late. There's GOTTA be a reason for it...

"I'm just sayin', dawg..."

"I Have To Admit, It's Getting Better..."

2010-12-11T01:56:00.002+03:00

Introducing Ayuen Panchol, the baby-faced 6'5" Sudanese journalist-slash-rapper a.k.a. "T.S." from the group "Holy Crooks" and who is now my new best friend, and who COMPLETELY hooked me up with an elaborate collection of classic and new hip-hop music: De La Soul, A Tribe Called Quest, Common, The Beatnuts, Pharcyde. It's mind boggling how much edgy, super cool music this kid has.

As a result, I am happy again. My week in Juba, GOSS has completely recharged my batteries and realigned my worldview. The Sudanese reporters I've worked with are positive, enthusiastic, smart, professional, serious--it makes last week feel like a blip on the radar screen. I WANT to stay in touch with these reporters. I WANT to hear their stories and track their progress. I WANT to know what they experience during the historic election that's coming up next month. Mostly because I want to be sure they'll be okay if any there's any trouble.

And....I WANT to come back to Juba.

Two months ago, you couldn't have paid me a thousand dollars to believe I would ever feel that way. Or that I would agree to go clubbing with a baby-faced 6'5" Sudanese journalist-slash-rapper in a group called "Holy Crooks" next time he comes to Nairobi. But you always have to stay open to the possibilities....

"...Or Has Time Re-written Every Line???"

2010-12-08T10:39:00.003+03:00

I prefer to remember the happy moments from last week's reporting workshop in Kilifi.

This is about it. But it was a good one, for sure.

To Coin a Phrase....

2010-12-07T20:16:00.003+03:00

These are the earrings I plan to wear during my one-week stay in Juba, GOSS (Government of South Sudan). They are Irish Coins, circa 1961. I bought them at Eastern Market in Washington, DC probably about a decade ago, and I have lost and misplaced about a hundred pairs of earrings since then. But not these.

That's because, obviously, 1961 is the year I was born. It's also the year that Paul Lavery McGorrian was born. He was one of the first people I met when I started working at the St. Petersburg Times' Clearwater bureau back in June of 1986. I remember thinking that this tall, lanky, blonde, bespectacled Irish Dartmouth Grad was like a young Thurston Howell the Third, or something. He was almost a caricature of himself, all pseudo-serious and wonky. It was like he had watched every movie about journalism ever made since the dawn of cinema, and was trying to cram all the different celluloid personas into one package.

But for some reason, we clicked, probably after the first time I flat cracked his ass up in the newsroom one day. As long as I live, I'll never forget McGorrian's giggle. When he completely lost it, he also lost control of his limbs, flailed about, turned bright pink, took a few minutes to pull himself together, and then lost it again. When I realized I had that much power over him, it became a challenge to catch him off guard and make him blow his cool. Of course he eventually learned my comedic weaknesses and we started competing to break each other down. But I guess I knew I'd REALLY earned this Ivy League Yuppie's respect when he started recommending esoteric, boring-ass books for me to read, like about the history of the wars in the Middle East, or something, and I'd listen respectfully and then yawn in his face.

And he'd laugh.

Of course, as occurs quite frequently in life, I didn't realize I was in love with Paul Lavery McGorrian until his plane crashed somewhere between Islamabad and Gilgit, in the summer of 1989. I spent months torturing myself about our last phone conversation in June of that year, after I had left Clearwater and moved to Ft Lauderdale to spend a short, psychotic stint at the Miami Herald bureau there. That's where I learned that McGorrian had quit his job and withdrawn his savings and was headed to Pakistan to be a freelancer. I called to say goodbye and wish him well, and then there was this awkward pause. I didn't want to hang up. HE didn't want to hang up. We both mumbled something, and kept saying goodbye.

That was before I learned to tell people I wasn't related to, or hadn't slept with, that I loved them. Just because of who they were and what they meant to me, not because I HAD to, or because I hoped they would say it back to me.

Twenty-one years later, I realize I'm living the life McGorrian was trying to live all those years ago. I guess I really felt it tonight, when I was sitting in my hotel room in Juba, GOSS, a few weeks before an historic referendum that will either create a new country or reignite a dormant war, and I was watching an Arabic international cable news network program about that very referendum.

That's when I was reminded, once again, that I've come a loooooong way, baby. To coin a phrase....

"I'm just Sayin', Dawg," Part 25"

2010-12-05T18:45:00.004+03:00

Because I don't have time to get into details right now, all I can say is you know you've had a rough couple of weeks when the thought of landing in Juba, Sudan in less than 24 hours feels like a VACATION.

"I'm just sayin', dawg......"

The Bigger Picture

2010-12-03T12:01:00.005+03:00

There was a moment during this past week when I literally didn't think I'd make it to Friday. Seriously.

I lay curled in the fetal position in the center of the bed at my beloved Mnarani Club at daybreak, and even the thought of lying by the pool brought no pleasure. So much had gone wrong, I just wanted to evaporate, maybe stand out in the middle of a Kilifi Road without a hat and sunscreen until I melted into a puddle of chocolate flopsweat.

One day, I'll tell you why. It'll be part of my weighty ruminations about the challenges of journalism training on the African continent. But here's one scene that made every minute of the past week worthwhile. Getting reporters past the official press releases and the sound bites, and the pharmaceutical company PR, and into the wards where the real impact of diseases like pneumonia and HIV/AIDS plays out is absolutely critical. I can only hope the experience ignited the reporting instinct for one or two of them.

What I do is about connecting the dots until they form a bigger picture. Call it my "peripatetic pointillism," if you will. Or just say that for some reason even I don't fully understand, all the bad stuff is worth it if one person embraces a deeper journalistic vision for him or herself.

"Well It's Not Far Back to Sanity...."

2010-11-28T15:06:00.004+03:00

".....at least it's not for me. And if the wind is right you can sail away, find tranquility."

You know, even though I've been working like a red-headed mule these past few months, I can honestly say that my trips to Kilifi have provided a bit of a sanctuary. And even that's kind of ironic, because they've all been working trips!

But when I've allowed myself a break to relax by the pool, I've alway felt rejuvenated. Oh, the place I'm staying in isn't a super posh resort; it's actually quite basic by my Princess-y standards. Clean, comfortable, no frills, adequate food. The pool is actually the biggest selling point.

And the sailboats. Dhows and the like. You already know about my dhow Jones. But there's just something about lying in the sun watching boats drift by that I find really soothing. They're so graceful, and calm. And yet somehow purposeful. They're going somewhere, they're just not rushing. Just like me. The Kenyan Alliance of Health and Science Reporters Workshop begins tomorrow morning bright and early; the journalists will be arriving in Kilifi in a couple of hours. But for the first time since I don't know when, I'm actually calm about a project I've worked my guts out in pulling together. I'm not stressing. Granted, you should probably talk to me tomorrow morning, but for now, I'm chill.

I wonder if people in sailboats realize that the only reason they exist is to inspire those left on shore????

Tuk-Tuk Trippin'

2010-11-27T18:14:00.004+03:00

I wonder about me sometimes. Like when I'll outgrow my fascination with all things childlike. And for me, the little souped up golf carts called Tuk Tuks are just the ultimate kiddie kick!

I feel like, well, like Sasha Obama whenever I ride in one! I can't help smiling! They sound like they're operated with an electric can-opener engine, and you could probably outrun one if you had to.

But every chance I get to ride in one of 'em, I am SO there! And I probably have about 10 pictures of me standing next to one during my African travels. I mean, seriously, when am I ever gonna grow up and stop being such a rank touriste??

Prolly never. Just consider it part of my insouciant charm!

Late Arrival

2010-11-26T18:26:00.005+03:00

I am 49 years old, and until this morning, I have NEVER "met cute" on an airplane before.

Now, don't get your knickers in a twist just yet. I ain't sending out gold-engraved invitations anytime soon. Hell, I may never even see the dude I met on today's Kenya Airways flight to Mombasa again. It's just that for the first time ever, I had an incredibly interesting conversation with a guy on an airplane who wasn't a borderline, or COMPLETE, schmuck.

Guess I should take that back, because on the Detroit to Amsterdam leg of my flight back to Kenya in January, I spent several hours talking to the Auburn University student who made me laugh, think and question my worldview all at once. That was a fascinating conversation, albeit with a virtual infant. At 20, there wasn't gonna be any frequent flier credit earned in the Mile High Club with him.

But today, when the guy sitting in the window seat to my left made a crack about the radioactive "croissant" we had just been handed, I had an instant choice to make--and I've made the same one 97 percent of the time on scores of airplanes. I could have twisted my mouth into a wry grimace and then proceeded to completely tune him out, while pretending to focus even more intently on my copy of Oprah Magazine, or the newspaper I'd brought along. You see, I have this tendency to size guys up fairly quickly, and if they don't get the engines revved within the first 10 seconds, I'd rather check my horoscope than jibber jabber through hours of flight time.

Besides. when 8A finally showed up to take his seat, I was already in a mildly pissy mood. I usually make a point of asking for a window or aisle seat, but for some reason, it didn't occur to me this morning. And since Mombasa is only 45 minutes away, I don't see the point of making a big deal about it. For whatever reason, I've always gotten a window or aisle seat. This morning, I was in a smack-dab middle "B" seat, and gritted my teeth waiting for a porker on one side and a deodorant-challenged dude on the other. Well, 8C showed up first, and at least he was a hygienically correct, if stiff and reserved white Brit.

8A turned out to be a man of Asian Indian descent, about my age I'd guess, average height and build, casually dressed in that "I'm a businessman heading to weekend meetings at a golf resort" kind of garb. Absolutely no hormonal activity was flared. So yet again, it was one of those cases where I stretched my face at him and then tucked into my copies of the Daily Nation, Standard and Star newspapers. Then the "breakfast" service began, and I knew I could concentrate on slurping my yogurt and granola until we began our initial descent. That's when 8A cracked wise about the roll.

8A has a deep, sultry British accent that could spontaneously combust the elastic in your drawers. He was also wearing some really cool glasses, and he had a pleasant smile. He's also an apparently EXTREMELY successful businessman, with many contacts and references I've heard of, and one we have in common. And even when I tried to shut down the conversation at various points, when it seemed like he kept asking questions about what I do, and what I think of President Obama, and how I liked Kenya, and what I'd be doing in Kilifi, he was still interested.

By the time he offered to carry my bag off the plane, I was completely gobsmacked. It has been SOOOOOO long since a guy thought I needed help, it took a second for me to even translate what he was saying. And as we walked to the baggage claim, he did that quintessential "guy on the prowl" thing--asked if I was living here with my family. I said I was single. He added, "And ready to mingle?" I just laughed. Like I said, it's been so long since anybody cared, I didn't have any flirty replies at the ready.

We parted ways when I had to wait for my usual gargantuan suitcase at the carousel and he headed off with his sleek carry-on. And then he did the cutest thing...the thumb and forefinger "I'll call you" gesture. I just smiled. I mean, I'm still way too much of a cynic to NOT believe that he has a wife named Padma and 8 children under age 6 living in a Nairobi suburb. I actually don't expect to ever hear from him again.

But something about the encounter felt like another sign that my life is shifting into high gear. I mean, I'm launching this really cool new project that could turn out to be a big deal, if the Universe cooperates. In a lot of ways, I'm more at peace with who and what I am than I've ever been. And even though this morning's encounter was only an incremental step, it was an important one.

So, if I can score a seat next to a stimulating, successful man who seems totally into ME on one flight, I can do it on another one. It's never to late to cash in some frequent flier miles, I guess.