Slow American Xing

I am a product of American society. I expect things to be fast in all aspects. Referencing one of the Black Eyed Peas songs on their new album, I’m part of ‘Generation Now.’ This is a cultural reflection stemming from a developed nation, but hard to transfer to the developing lands of Ethiopia. I have mentioned before how I’ve somewhat enjoyed this change in pace. It is a quality I need to learn desperately, albeit quite frustrating. Living in a place where I need to reduce my speed, quite literally, I have come to realize the speed at which I live my life. I talk fast, read fast, walk fast (I blame that on trying to keep up with mom in the mall when I was young), learn fast, work fast…you get the point. I have to consciously tell myself to slow down if the person I’m with doesn’t beat me to the punch. The only figurative fire I’m running from is on top of my head, so what exactly is the rush? I tell myself that sometime in between now and two years, I will switch to this lower gear. I wonder how pliable this characteristic of mine is. Just like most other things, only time will tell. Being expediently efficient, or the euphemism I give it, has both good and bad traits. Good being that I am more productive. The bad is that most things that are sustainable are not done quickly. Real change takes time and time is not something that can be sped up or slowed down. There will always be sixty seconds in a minute. I realize this. Then why is it so hard for me to practice it? There are quick solutions to complex problems, but these solutions tend to fail before any marked progress has occurred. If I am to do things right, I need to get with the program. The irony is it will take time for me to learn to slow down and adapt this cultural way of life and it is something that I wish to happen now.    

Little Tykes

Every morning on my way to the establishment where there is a desk for me (my office is the community…), which is also literally around the corner, I am greeted by probably two of the most adorable tykes I have ever met in my life. Their names: Samirawit and Huwett. In Ethiopia, almost all names have a meaning. ‘Samirawit’ is taken after a religious figure and ‘Huwett’ translates directly into ‘life.’ When Ethiopians ask what my name means, my answer ranges from something made up like “the queen of the world” to “I have no idea, my mom doesn’t either, she thought it sounded ‘k’onjo.”

 These two kids either wait for me every day or are always outside. Nevertheless, they always seem to know when I’m coming around the bend. They run up to me, which usually causes everyone to stop and stare. I’m used to the constant feeling of everyone looking at me, so I pay no mind. I pick one up while the other waits patiently. The one in my arms proceeds to give me grandma-like kisses on both cheeks. I usually end it after the 5^th kiss or so, namely because my cheeks hurt. This same procedure is repeated with the other. If this happens every day for the rest of my time here, I think it would be rather difficult to stay in a sour mood for long. Their affection is so transparent and innocent. It is a welcomed reminder that not everyone wants something from me. They have been getting into the habit of coming into the place where my desk is, which may need to stop, but I am enjoying it as of now. Instead of doing what I came to do there, we end up talking about their family or counting the freckles on my arm (the most recent tally is left: 13, right: 11). At some point, one of the employees thinks that I should probably get something done and tells them to leave. I’m just as disappointed as they are.

Then there is the landlord’s son on my compound who likes to help me do my laundry. He usually just splashes water everywhere, but I like how he is getting in the habit of doing what is considered for many “woman’s work” at an early age. I usually have to wash it again because he drops it on the ground, but that is the price I have pay, I suppose. He also likes to sneak into my house and touch possibly everything that he can reach. His mother often calls him ‘rabash,’ which means ‘one who causes trouble.’ Some things like the character of two year olds pays no difference to culture.

Whether I’m leaving my home or entering it, there is another group of kids who play around the general vicinity who also like to greet me. The youngest one broadcasts my presence and play-by-play to the other children, much like a sports announcer. They all run out of their respective homes or play sites and congregate in front of me taking turns shaking my hands, bumping shoulders (it’s one of the many greeting styles), and saying ‘hello’ ten different ways. I don’t see how they don’t lose interest.  

These are only a handful of the little tykes that make my day, every day. Besides the kids, I like to think I’m establishing some good relationships with adults as well. It really makes a difference knowing that even though I may be alone when thinking about my culture or whatever else that I’m not lonely. In the same vein, I’m not ignorant of the people who tease and taunt me. Asking me for money or shouting insults. I have chosen not to focus my attention on them. Day by day I let it affect me less, but I still think of comebacks, which is essentially a waste of my time, energy, and happiness I’m attempting to achieve here.

Like I said, there are the people who try to understand me and what I’m here for. The friends I have made listen to my hardships although we come from two different worlds. Ethiopians have a wonderful way of taking you in as one of their own (and asking you personal questions that family would too). Not saying ‘no’ to almost all invitations, whether it is my 7^th cup of coffee or 3^rd dinner allows me to build these friendships and feel constantly full. So, whenever I’m feeling down, all I have to do is leave my house and let Africa save me.