Chapter 11: The one about belonging
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Challiya, Thursday 24th of September 2015
Today's a slow day. Maura is pretty weak, but the nurse, who came by our house this morning, affirmed she's doing fine. She's drowsy and pale. I don't like it. But when she wakes, she smiles and is coherent.
She's been to the clinic yesterday (it's only a short hop from the carpenter school) and they confirmed the amebiasis theory and provided her with antibiotics. I'm glad we've got that clinic close by, even though only nurses are working there. We'd be able to reach the hospital by car in ten anyway.
I'm keeping her hydrated as best as I can, but even though the vomiting has stopped, she's losing enough from her runs to the toilet every half an hour – ha! The toilet runs. Oh, she'd kill me, if she knew I was writing this. She always looks deeply embarrassed when she comes back from the bathroom and I know she's looked at herself in the mirror. There's no point in telling her it doesn't matter or that she actually looks kind of cute, tousled hair, all sleepy, lazy.
Here's an anecdote that cheered us up: Around noon, a small herd of five to seven goats came into the nice little garden in front of our house and wholeheartedly began ripping our beautiful sunflowers out of the ground. I went outside and scared them off by clapping my hands. Five minutes later they were grazing comfortably again. Frustrated, I went outside for the second time and noticed the way they raised their heads in alarm when they saw me.
On the spur of the moment I chased them up the road, passing my room where Maura was cheering me on from the window, and passing the wood-workshop, the guard's booth and the gate. I chased them all the way up to the clinic. The workers, the guard, the people coming from town – they all stopped and laughed. Honestly amused. I had to laugh, too, and did so the whole way back to the house, feeling incredibly relieved and... yeah, lucky. Finally I had done something meaningful over here.
Well, actually, freeing the smoke outlet of Tayanne's kitchen has given me that kind of satisfaction once before. I learned that the kitchen is somewhat sacred to the person it belongs to, that it is impolite and highly unusual for a foreigner, or men for that matter, to enter. Therefore I can't blame Hannes for not knowing under what kind of circumstances his cook was working every day. From the outside there is no way to tell what's inside the circular hut. There's no window and even though the door stands always open, it's like gazing into a black hole.
Again and again over the last couple of days I have asked her permission to enter it – merely by motioning towards it. I've gathered so much respect and sympathy for the young woman... I actually got seriously frustrated with Hannes, when I finally got Tayanne's permissive nod to step into the hut, that morning Maura got sick.
She had eyed me openly, smiled a little shyly, amused and proud at the same time as I went over the threshold. I, however, couldn't make out anything once I was inside. My eyes watered immediately, hell, I was barely able to keep them open. Sharp smoke filled my nose and mouth, my lungs and then I already stumbled back outside, coughing and gasping for air. No idea how that woman didn't die from smoke poisoning by now.
Yesterday afternoon I fortunately found the time to fix the actual simple technical problem. After I finished I got three buckets of ashes out of the hut! Of course I managed to get grime all over myself, that even made Maura retrieve my Leica to get a picture. Of me as well as the with laughter rocking and incredulous looking bystanders.
Tayanne got all nervous and unhappy with me climbing the hut. I bet, it's a typical man's job, which obviously only fueled me to do it myself. Plus, I'm not only female, but also white, which always seems to complicate things. Especially when I get myself dirty, which to me seems impossible to avoid, having to walk knuckle deep mud roads each day. I can only marvel at the Ethiopian's and, in fact, Maura's ability to keep inexplicably dressy at all times.
There'll probably be days I wish the goats were back. Or some day I'll just get used to feeling quite useless.
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Last week we made a habit of reading to each other while Alban takes his afternoon nap. Maura got home from the hospital each day around four and she loved to just crawl up in bed and place this sleepy little gnome on her chest.
It's still the parenting book we read, which I find rather philosophical and therefore a little annoying (I doubt that Ethiopians reflect as much on their children and still they seem fine to me, though I'm not surprised at all. I always knew Maura would over think every tiny bit concerning the baby, not that I don't ever do that, but I somehow believe it doesn't concern every single little choice I make about what kind of fabric his car seat has or what kind of music to listen to in his presence (before and after his birth!)), anyway... I have actually found a couple of passages very, uhm, stimulating, I must say.
Now that Maura is sick, I moved her mattress to my room and we've got a lot more time to read. My room actually is nothing but beds now. In between her mattress and mine is one of Alban's baby blankets. He spends most of his time rolling around now, swinging a small calabash quite forcefully left and right. Bacha brought it the other day, it has dried and its seeds are loose inside, so they make a lot of noise when you shake it – we call it the calarattle.
Over here it's the only toy Alban's got so far. Maura suggested to keep our luggage free of all the gifts (that just kept coming) and I liked the idea. It might sound cheesy and smug, but I kinda like the impression that he only needs oxygen, food, a place to sleep and people who care about him. We only took the car seat, a baby blanket, clothes (also the ones he still has to grow into) and, yeah, cotton diapers, which I also blame on Maura and which make me feel so... hippie.
Of course Ma, Frankie and Tommy overloaded him with all the wonderful things a baby doesn't need. I guess, I did the same when TJ was born. Even Constance sent Alban a stuffed animal, a fair trade, small elephant. I'm still amazed that she cared to do so. Or maybe I'm surprised that Maura even told her mother about Alban and it actually made Constance recognize that he's important to her.
Today we read a chapter about solidarity, which was pretty moving. It started with an example of a teacher who knows the father of one of his students is an alcoholic, which he then divulged in front of the whole class. Then the student got up, denied it and defended his father. The author says it was the student, not the teacher, who spoke the truth, cause solidarity with one's parents, a statement about their relationship, always makes the (higher) truth.
I had a hard time not eying Maura too openly, but I really wonder how she feels about that. I keep telling her about every annoying detail concerning Ma, but Maura would never speak ill of either of her parents. It's almost impossible to engage her in a conversation that might lead to acknowledging where they've failed her. Sure, she can talk about how it wasn't righteous of Hope to use Paddy's money for MEND and I don't even have to name the reasons why she dislikes her mob father – but there's only little to get out of her, when it comes to the parent-child-relationship. And even less regarding her adoptive parents.
Up to this very year I didn't even know Maura's father's name. Given how close we are, don't you think that's weird, Barry? I got to know both your parents in person, even though your father is at sea most of the time.
The way her father has hurt her – that's just the tip of the iceberg. She has two sets of parents and none of them have been there for her the way they should have been and when she really needed them. But like I said, we don't talk about them that much.
I mean, I know I have my part in this, joking about proclamation and stuff when she tries to talk to me. Do you think that – on some level – she's still intentionally protecting them by not talking about them, cause... cause I'm too judgmental? Am I? Or does she really not think about them that way, and that often? Solidarity doesn't mean they can do what they want to her without bearing the consequences, right? I wonder whether Maura's parents don't know what they're missing out on just as much as Maura doesn't know, how to ask them for it.
Last night I asked her, why she thinks it is that she couldn't bring the easiness she has around people in Ethiopia to Boston. She looked so sad and uncomfortable, so vulnerable and yet I don't think she hated that she was all that. It's more like it was okay to be all that, it really was. And even though such moments are kind of heavy, I wouldn't want it any other way, I wish it could be this raw and open more often.
It... or she made me feel more alive than I might have been for the past couple of months.
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Saying this, I find myself guilty. Toward Alban mainly, I guess, but maybe to all the people close to me. Guilty of not trying harder, not being... better. Maybe it wasn't possible at the time, too much going on, and... and at some point I kinda shut down in fear of losing it completely. Maybe. I'd like to go back and handle a couple of things differently anyway.
Maura believes, there's a side to her she can only fully explore and... and be when she's in Challiya. She didn't even say Ethiopia. It's this concrete place. She thinks, it's always got something to do with distances. In Boston she's distanced herself toward people, to be able to be that Boston-part of her, in Ethiopia she's distancing herself from that same part of her, which lets her be closer to the people. I'm not sure, I got that right now, but it was something like that. Pretty confusing, huh?
Sometimes I think, she's just really stuck in her head and puts more thought and meaning into all that distance stuff than it's worth. But on the other hand I'd like to believe that despite all that she struggles with, she's not either Boston or Ethiopia-Maura, when we're together. That somehow she can be both with me, cause maybe I'm a little like Challiya to her when we are in Boston, even though that has a somewhat arrogant connotation.
What I want to say, I think she knows how to be complete and I think she can be just that when we're together. At least it's been like this before and maybe we have drifted a little bit apart, but getting back there is more than possible... it's beautiful and more intense.
We're over 6.000 miles from home and we're figuring out, where we belong. Do you think that's crazy?
You know, she does guess. Sometimes. And not only when I force her. Two nights ago, when she got sick, she said she guesses she wants to belong... somewhere. I didn't even notice it until I was back in bed, but as soon as I realized what it meant, I got back up and suggested that we move her mattress to my room. For once I wanted to be the literal one in our relationship and give her an obvious closeness.
I figure, for her guessing must be like letting her guard down, like pushing through some wall, or one of the walls – and I just had to act on that, cause who knows, she might just add another layer if I didn't, right?
I want to give her something, somewhere to belong to. I believe I always wanted that. Ever since she first met Hoyt and that bastard made her doubt her... humanity. It's why I'd be so suspicious about Ian, why I'd asked Constance to be more affectionate toward her, why I encouraged Maura to pursue things with Jack. - she's one of the most lovable persons I know, she doesn't deserve to be left, neglected, lonely. And yeah, that's what they are and were: Ian the leaver, Constance the neglector and Jack the possible but unfulfilled promise of an end to loneliness.
Hm. I guess, that's not really fair, but true nonetheless!, and I know Maura's relationship with these people is much more complex and the love she feels might be that higher truth the author talked about, but in the end I can see only one point:
She should be loved.
And I can do that, right?
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I did love you, Frost. Still do. Did I let you know that enough?
Love,
Jane
A/N: The story about the student and the teacher is from a book by Bonhoeffer.
