Connections and Ties with Obama

I feel connected with the new president.

From the first day I was here, I discovered an Obama craze. Other volunteers came back one morning to show off "Obama gum". We see posters of him everywhere, his face on city busses, even entire 20 min news segments dedicated to him. Yesterday, Sharon's niece, Doreen, and I walked to Nakumat, which is a large store similar to Walmart. There is no bargaining, just straight out prices. There was a book store that had prices actually comparable to Borders. In other words, ridiculously expensive. I saw Obama's first book, and embarrassingly I admit that I do not remember the title. Well Doreen knew that it was back at home. I picked up the book last night, and have just finished it.

I've had a lot of doubts of our new president, and I'm not going to start a big political discussion here, but now I understand why he is such a craze here. He is an Obama, from the Luo clan. His family has considerable ties with Kenya.

As I read through his life, his childhood in Indonesia, his college years, working as an organizer in the South Side of Chicago, his journey back to Kenya, I had a huge emotional stirring. This man seeked to find out and iron all the kinks in his identity. What is he? White? Black? What? I find the same questions rise up in me, as I find myself amongst a sea of dark skinned people.

When I got here, it startled to me to see such a resemblace with Trinidad and Tobago. But the more and more I have experienced Nairobi, I am reminded more and more of--unexpectedly--Korea. Why Korea? The market I visited yesterday. The stories of Sharon's childhood walking 24 miles a day to go to school. The sights of people selling slippers and underwear out in the middle of the street--items that I cringed to see in Chicago out of embarrassment, but now is such a normal observance here. Ugali, a boiled corn flour mixture, which reminds me of dduk, a Korean dessert. It has the same consistency, it fulfills a similar role in Kenyan peoples' tradition as much as rice balls right after the Korean War. Just as my parents survived off of rice balls and kimchi, the Kenyans have their equivalent of Ugali balls and collard greens. I'm eating the same biscuits and cracker like snacks that I will find in Korean marts in the US.

The more I see these resemblences, the more I feel like I need to give Korea another chance. The only time I've been to Korea was before high school, for two weeks. I've even repressed the exact year, and most memories because the whole experience is not a positive one. Koreans are... racist, even racist to Koreans that are not native to the homeland. I felt hurt, misplaced among family members that carry the same fantasies and myths of America as much as those who don't have any family abroad.

Yes, I know that Korea has changed, for my father could not pick out any of the same things as when he was a child. Although I have resolved to construct my identity has a Christian, I do know that it is important to know and meet my family back in Korea....

--------------------------------

My experience here is turning out not to be what I expected, to some level. It is truly a blessing to be here; although, I did not know that I would be placed in Nairobi. In other words, I do not know what it is like to live out in the country, before the city started to bloom. Yet, it is still Kenya.

There is a start desparity between the rich and the poor, underfunded schools, people starving to get by. The roads aren't paved, and as a result, all my shoes have a rich mahagony-orange layer that replaces the bottoms of my shoes. a lot of what i see, if i am not careful, will instill in me feelings of when I think about inner city Chicago. But what you don't see right away is that these people still have hope. Everybody I have met so far have some understanding that poverty is an invented concept. Yes there has been poverty even when the Maasai were fully respected, before the "white man" came and colonized Kenya. But that was the life they knew. They have not given up, and I have met countless numbers of people that have worked out of the cycle of poverty, something that has engrained itself in the minds of Americans.

What bothers me is that I keep trying to call Kenyans "African Americans". Shoot, they've never even been to the states before. When I see this dark colored group in front of me, I think of the African American friends I had in kindergarten, those living the stereotypical life from the projects. But no, these people are Kenyans. They are different. These people are mostly just as naiive about America, assuming that every single person is well off. As soon has a ntaive spots a Mzundo, prices are hiked up and favors are expected. I mean, why not have these stereotypes? It is human nature. But sometimes I want them to know that America is not as cracked as it seems to be.

Well tomorrow is my first day with the children. I want to give my all to them. I don't think I'll devour books as fast as I did this weekend. I finished that book so fast, because I devoted all my time to it. No, if I can , I want to play with the children from the school and the children I met in the apartment next to me. Rita, age 8; her sister age 2; her friend age 5. Sadly I don't remember the other two childrens' names. They are so beautiful, so content stuck playing hide and go seek in the gated parking lot.

The beautiful thing about this city is that I feel hope. I feel this sense that the people have some source of inspiration, that they won't be like they are forever. I can only pray that I might be able to play some role in furthering their dreams.

Until then, rest well America.
Becky