Obama and Dreams From My Father
It took me 20 days, but I finished Barack Obama’s Dreams From My Father. I didn’t read it because he is President of the United States, although that would be a good reason, but I read it because our book club is reading it, and I know how busy the next few months are going to be, so I read ahead during the slower times of summer.
And the trick to finishing it was not allowing myself to read anything else until I had finished – I had a stack of really intriguing books to urge me on. “As soon as I finish, I can read . . . ” Even with all that incentive, Obama’s book is a slog.
He is a gifted orator. He is a plodding writer. There is also a problem I find with autobiographies by anyone – we all fool ourselves, we all position ourselves in a better light, and we have no idea how transparent we are when we do so. Fellow bloggers, do you ever read anything you have written a couple years ago and squirm with embarrassment, or even delete? To be an author is a very very brave thing, when you have a book published, there is no going back, your transgressions are all right out there, and the public can be cruelly critical.
What I liked about the book is Obama-as-Third-Culture-Kid, a man of mixed identity. Most kids who have grown up moving or grown up in different countries from their own, or who have immigrated, can tell you, being an alien is no fun. Obama learns how to adapt, how to look for clues to fitting in, how to pass. It’s a common theme in Third-Culture-Kids.
My favorite part of the book was his return to Kenya, his openness to his African roots, the open-armed love with which his Kenyan half-brothers and sisters welcome him and his response. He had some truly extraordinary adventures, working out just who his father had been as a person. He was blessed to recognize the richness of his inheritance.
The book plods along, but it was worth the time. For all it’s flaws, I find I like that man, and I understand more about where he is coming from. (for grammarians, I understand more about from where the man is coming.) 🙂
Happy Birthday, Mom
“You make me sound so OLD!” my Mother scolded me, when I wrote about how she was 85 years old and still living on her own. Mom keeps active. She can’t do all the things she really wants to do – travel, mostly – because she can’t manage a heavy bag or standing too long – but she keeps up her own place, fixes her own meals, goes out with friends, exercises, makes and keeps her own appointments. We should all be so fortunate, when we hit our 80’s.
(This is not my Mother’s birthday cake, but when I looked up cakes I found this on Kay’s Cakes.com and knew it was a cake my Mom would love, if she loved cake. Actually, she loves Lemon Meringue Pie, and that is what she really had at her birthday party.)
My younger sister has shown her a couple really nice places where she could have more assistance on a daily basis, beautiful places with activities and transportation for elders.
(I can already hear her wincing at using the word ‘elder’)
She doesn’t want to be surrounded by old people. She stays young by being as active as she wants to be.
She has signed up for a three-day mini university course at a nearby university, where they use the college facilities during the summer months to offer interesting mini classes. One of the four classes that she has signed up for is Early Islamic Spain. I’m impressed, Mom.
She keeps up with the news, sends me clippings, reads books we tell her are worth reading, and keeps up with her friends. She is good at managing her money, and researching her investments. She does better than most women half her age.
Happy Happy Birthday, Mom, and many more to come.
Baking Cookies for Palestine
When I was just starting out my own life, I had an idea what kind of life I wanted, but I had no clue how to get it. When AdventureMan and I met, we had the same vision, it was so cool, so unbelievable. We married, and this amazing life has unfolded.
Not everyone is born to move. You have to be good at change. Change can be daunting. Some people are better at staying in one place, sinking deep roots, developing lifetime relationships. Some people – like AdventureMan and me – have a need for stimulation, and we get it by changing locations. We feel so blessed.
It is always painful leaving the place we have been living, pulling up roots is just plain painful. The transplantation process takes time for the organism to adjust, for new roots to develop and take hold. Sometimes, the plant fails. In our case, we have had our failures to thrive, but for the most part, every move has helped us to learn and grow in new ways. We feel truly blessed; we have the lives we were born to lead.
Arriving back in Doha, I called my good friend. We have never lost touch, with e-mail and visits we have stayed in contact, and now I am calling her so she has my new number in Doha.
“You must come Tuesday morning!” she enthused, “We are baking cookies for Palestine!”
This wonderful woman was my teacher for reading and writing Arabic, and she did a great job. I read and write about as well as a five-year-old, but I can sound out words, and can write my name. Best of all, I adored this teacher, and when she called and asked me if there was something I could teach her daughters during the long hot Doha summer, I said “yes” and a new adventure began.
One of the things that happened is that I learned I never really knew what the day might bring. Getting to know her, her daughters, and her family better, I learned now ignorant I am of how totally differently others live their lives and see the world. I was learning all the time, and most of it was from the daughters. On one occasion, the daughters called me at 6 in the morning – they are never up at six! They asked if I would take them to the hospital to see their mother, and I sleepily said “Yes, of course,” and asked what time they wanted to go.
“Now!” they replied, joyfully, for this was a birth.
My sweet daughter-in-law was visiting, with our son, and so the two of us rushed over to pick up the girls, who came loaded with carafes loaded with coffee, boxes of finjan (tiny Arabic coffee cups) and sweets, loading up the car with goods and joyful laughter. When we got to the hospital, we had a quick visit with the Mom and then – the guests started arriving.
First – the room. Our friend was in a king sized bed, surrounded by lush curtains which could be pulled. She had a marble floor and a marble private bathroom with private shower, and a small dressing room. There was a visiting area with velvet covered seating for around 16 people, and mahogany paneling everywhere. This is the poshest maternity ward I have ever seen.
Many of the guests were stopping on their way to work. “When you visit someone in the hospital,” the girls informed me, “a thousand angels pray for you, for having made this visit.” These visits are de rigueur, an absolute must. We were there an hour, a constant stream of women came and went, staying around ten minutes, each receiving a small coffee. Then, the girls told us we could go, that they would stay to take care of serving the coffee and sweets.
The entire episode, we never had one clue as to what we were doing, or what was going to happen next. I learned just to go with whatever was happening, stay quiet, watch and learn. Sometimes, I ask questions, if there is a quiet moment.
So when my friend says come bake cookies, I go. I remember when she first baked her first cookie; she called me to come. She didn’t have a mother, growing up, and there were gaps – like how to bake cookies. We spent a morning learning how to make mamool, and it took me three days to get the smell of butter out of my hands. It was so much fun.
As I entered the workroom twenty pair of eyes looked up at me. Everyone was neatly dressed in aprons and headscarves, but my friend wasn’t there! I found my friend, we exchanged greetings, and she came to workroom to get me started. I had my own apron with me, and they provided me with a headscarf; we all looked a lot alike, little baker women. As a beginner, I got to put out the dough, later put the date paste on each piece of dough, later roll the dough around the date paste and put a hole in the top.
Most of the women, vastly more experienced than I, were using little tweezer tools to crimp the dough into the fabulous tiny ridges you can see in the photo. My friend explained that one of the women’s husbands had made the special tools for making the holes in the dough, and the table for them to use packing up the cookies and wrapping them, another had provided a portable oven for baking the cookies, another donated semolina (the flour) and another the dates.
Working once a week, making these beautiful cookies, (biscuits, if you are British trained) the women have built two wells in Palestine, and are currently building a bakery. They took their grief and outrage over Al Raza and turned it into the most amazing effort for good. They feed the hungry, give water to the thirsty, they clothe the poor, they take care of families whose men are imprisoned.
“You must come back!” one woman says as I am heading out the door. “You are a good worker!”
I wouldn’t miss it for the world. 🙂
Some Are Silver and the Others Are Gold
Life gets funny when you move. Like 5 minutes after I landed, my Kuwait phone stopped working except for advertisements. The company provided me with a loaner, just so AdventureMan could keep in contact with me, and then like a light bulb going on in my head, I checked to see if the problem was lack of money – yep.
I used to have a phone plan. I am not a big phone user. I discovered those wonderful Hala cards, and at the very max might use 10KD per month – I really am a light user.
When I arrived, my good friend two villas down had her movers – she is leaving. We had like six days of overlap. Three of those days, she had her movers there and I had people here helping me get the new villa set up. We would grab a few minutes when we could – not even enough time for a cup of coffee, but as I left, I thought “this is just like old times.” We’ve both always had busy lives, and we would grab time together when we could.
In the USA, when kids go to camp, we learn songs. It occurs to me that many cultures transmit cultural values in songs – I know I can still remember French and Spanish songs I learned in language classes . . . there must be something about singing that imprints things in your memory. One of the songs is:
Make new friends – but keep the old,
One is silver and the other is gold.
You sing it once, all together, and then you divide into four groups and sing it as a round until it is all finished. You sing it when you are leaving camp, and you cry.
Of course, we are all grown up now. We don’t cry when friends leave. (Liar! Liar!)
The movers are gone, my friend SMS’d me “how about a swim tomorrow?” and I SMS’d back “Sure!”
We lolled around in the pool, sort of theoretically exercising, but her equipment is en route back to the USA and mine is en route from Kuwait, so we were pretty lax, sort of bobbing around and laughing and catching up. She is trying to bring me up to speed on what is going on in Qatar, and I am trying to remember everything she is telling me. We walk home, head in our separate directions again. I have a loaner car, and I get to go grocery shopping ALL BY MYSELF!
I am down to putting away my last two bags of groceries when my loaner phone rings and it is my good friend saying “I have to drop my son at school, have you eaten, want to have a late lunch?” and I laugh and say “sure” and we plan to meet at 1:30, but the QTEL (Telephone) man comes (the company sent him so I wasn’t expecting him) and the problem is too complicated, so he will come back and I just barely have enough time to get to the meeting-up restaurant.
Ooops – no, forget that, I am going to be late, I had forgotten about the traffic, so I break the law and call my friend on my mobile and say “I’m going to be another five minutes at least, I am so sorry, go ahead and order for me” and she just laughs.
We have a great lunch together, still catching up on all I need to know, and I ask if they have plans for dinner tonight and she says “no” and I say we would love to have them come to our house for something simple. Like I have napkins; the ones she gave me because they were leaving, but I don’t even have a tablecloth with me, it will be something casual like spaghetti and salad and garlic bread and she says she thinks they would just love that kind of evening but she has to check with her hubby.
We talk talk talk and then her hubby calls and she forgets to ask if he can do dinner with us, but then my hubby calls and says we need to do blood work for our residency and can we do dinner another night (we already have another date set up with them) and so I get off and have to say “uh, I am sorry, but I have to take back that dinner invitation.”
This all seems convoluted and round about, but this is where those GOLD friends come in. She just starts laughing (I love it when she cracks up) and says “OK! But I’m NEVER going to let you forget this! You WITHDREW an invitation!” and then we are both laughing and oh, Lord have mercy, I am so thankful just to have a little overlap with this crazy friend, and oh, how I am going to miss her.
Some friends are just THERE, they know what the important things are. This friend has me all set up with a really good cleaning lady who will start on Saturday, she told me the really good tailor she has found, the best car rental place, and which car wash guy to keep far away from. She borrowed a cup of laundry soap. Tomorrow, she needs to come here and iron her son’s shirt for graduation, and she and her husband are bequeathing to us their leftover (legal! legal!) booze. Here is what takes it beyond gold – our husbands like each other, too. Our cats . . . not so much. Her cat wants to make nice, my cat gets all hissy.
Inside this grown up expat body is still the little Girl Scout from camp, making new friends, and treasuring the old . . .
Facets: A Little about who we were in Kuwait
I saved some photos from our Kuwait life to share with you once we were gone. I know some of you think I went overboard with the anonymity thing, but I have had stalkers, even here on this blog, and I would rather error on the side of anonymity than have to deal with people who know too much about me.
We present a single facet, or maybe even a few facets or our multifaceted lives as bloggers. I am just sharing a few more little facets:
Here is where we lived – in Fintas, which means “large water container” from what I have been told. When we first got to Kuwait, and I would tell my new friends where I lived, they would gasp and say “Fintas!” like it was the end of the world. On a good traffic morning, it only took us ten minutes to get from Fintas to Salmiyya, maybe 20 minutes to the airport. It takes a whole lot longer, we have found, just to get out of Jabriyya!
This photo is taken from the pier in Eqaila Family Beach. My apartment was over the park and swimming pool. It was a never-ending source of lost hours for me, watching families, watching the school groups visit. My favorite is the families of ladies in abayas who would bring inner-tubes and float in the shallows on the hot days, keeping cool, keeping covered.
I have a good Kuwaiti friend who would tell me that when he was growing up, Fintas was just a small beach place, a place he and his friends would camp out in the hot Kuwait summers. There was just a tree or two, and a shack on the beach, he told me. He also used to camp on the empty beaches of Salmiyya. (!) I loved listening to his old Kuwait stories.
This was my living room. It had great light from morning ’till night. No, none of this is my furniture, except all the bookcases. 🙂 It was a furnished apartment.
This was my kitchen, which I loved because it was well planned, had great light and great shelf spaces. It also had a great place to store/display all my baskets:
This is Little Diamond’s bedroom, which was also my project room, this is what my project room usually looked like:
Here is a photo of one of the best parts – the moon rising over the Gulf, right outside my window, and shimmering over the park:
This is what I look like:
Here is my other blog:
World in Stitches
I haven’t asked my husband if I can share his photo. When I get a chance, I will ask, and if he says OK, I will show you a photo of him, too. 🙂
You know what Pete looks like!
Breathless Day
The air is still, and there isn’t a single wave on the vast, flat glassy Gulf. At eight in the morning, it is already breathlessly hot:
It’s not getting any better. Maybe by the beginning of next week, as you can see, a little “cold” weather will be moving in 😉
The only way you can determine the difference between water and air is the layer of yellow tinged haze on the far horizon:
Here is what my life looks like right now:
Yesterday, a sweet friend dragged me away from all the packing and focus on moving and treated me to a day at the Aquatonic Spa. I admit it, she had to drag me – I can get so immersed in my misery that I don’t even want to do something fun.
In spite of my churlishness, we had a great time. Playing around in that fabulous pool, and then having beauty treatments afterwards – it just took all the misery out of me. I felt great for the first time in weeks. I slept last night without waking, and awoke refreshed, thanks be to God, and thanks to my friend who knew what I needed better than I did.
Income Tax Blessing
You didn’t think those words could all be used in the same sentence, did you? AdventureMan and I have to pay something called “quarterly estimated taxes” and this year, I guess because our investment income went seriously down, we overpaid our taxes. I know, I know, that doesn’t sound like good news to you, but it sure beats the pit-in-the-stomach of learning that you owe more to Uncle Sam. We overpaid, and we will go ahead and apply it to next year’s taxes and hope that everything works out well next year, too.
We used to talk to my father about ways he could pay less tax on his income and savings. He would look at us and say “But the government was always good to me!” (he worked for the government) “They paid my salary! They pay my retirement! They help pay my medical bills! Why would I not want to pay them taxes?”
It was an extraordinary attitude; I have never forgotten it.
Brilliant Sunrise, 5 Apr 09
Goooooooooooood Morning, Kuwait! 🙂
It is going to be another gorgeous day in Kuwait. Don’t let this “heavy fog” deter you. When I got up, the sunrise was so bright, I couldn’t see the sun, it was refracted all over the sky. I was only able to get the shot by focusing on the reflection of the sun on the water.
It is going to be a fantastic week – sweet warm days and cooling off evenings, perfect for sitting outside and drinking coffee, visiting with friends – and a little later in the week, a chance of more rain:
AdventureMan and I saw Journey to Mecca yesterday, along with about 500 others living in Kuwait. The movie is still packing people in! The audience was about 3/4 full with children, and I thought “oh this is going to be great, crying children and people talking on their cell phones.” I was SO wrong. Although the movie theater was full, I did not hear a single phone, I did not hear a single crying child – the movie held us all spellbound. We loved the movie, and we loved seeing it in the IMAX theatre.
(There are special headsets for non-Arabic speakers, with the dialogue in English. We didn’t know; they just spotted us as probably-non-Arabic and handed us the headsets.)
Sometimes, I am just slow. My niece, Little Diamond, had recommended a book called Travels with a Tangerine: From Morocco to Turkey in the Footsteps of Islam’s Greatest Traveller, but it was not until yesterday that I got it – that Ibn Batuta was from Tangiers! Sometimes, I am just slow . . . sometimes I can grasp subtleties but the obvious escapes me totally.
You can buy this book from Amazon.com for a mere $10.17 plus shipping. Yes, I own stock in amazon.com.
You can also probably find it at the Kuwait Bookstore, that amazing store in the bottom of the Al Muthanna Mall, near the Sheraton Circle downtown.
Feast Day of John Donne
In church, on Friday, the speaker was discussing Lenten practices, and told us of a woman who seriously committed herself to Lent, but allowed herself respite on the feast days of the saints of the church. She has one coming up today – the feast of John Donne, a great priest, poet and thinker in the church.
His life is fascinating, and when he falls in love and secretly marries the daughter of the rich and powerful man for whom he works, he is imprisoned. When released, he began preaching, and ended up revered for his work with the church, and his fine writings.
He was also ahead of his times. Here is one of the essays/meditations best known in our culture; it is often read at funerals, and says, as many are saying now – we are all connected. What happens to my neighbor, happens to me. In this earthly world, we are connected in ways we don’t even understand, and it is our duty, as well as our own best interest, to look after our neighbor:
MEDITATION 17, BY JOHN DONNE
NUNC LENTO SONITU DICUNT, MORIERIS
[Now this bell tolling softly for another, says to me, Thou must
die.]
Perchance he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill as that he know not it tolls for him; and perchance I may think myself so much better than I am, as that they who are about me and see my state may have caused it to toll for me, and I know not that.
The church is catholic, universal, so are all her actions; all that she does, belongs to all. When she baptizes a child, that action concerns me; for that child is thereby connected to that body which is my head too, and ingrafted into that body whereof I am a member. And when she buries a man, that action concerns me: all mankind is of one author and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated. God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God’s hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again for that library where every book shall lie open to one another.
As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come, so this bell calls us all; but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness.
There was a contention as far as a suit (in which piety and dignity, religion and estimation, were mingled) which of the religious orders should ring to prayers first in the morning; and it was determined that they should ring first that rose earliest. If we understand aright the dignity of this bell that tolls for our evening prayer, we would be glad to make it ours by rising early, in that application, that it might be ours as well as his whose indeed it is. The bell doth toll for him that thinks it doth; and though it intermit again, yet from that minute that that occasion wrought upon him, he is united to God. Who casts not up his eye to the sun when it rises? but who takes off his eye from a comet when that breaks out? Who bends not his ear to any bell which upon eny occasion rings? but who can remove it from that bell which is passing a piece of himself out of this world?
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promentory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were. Any man’s death dimishes me because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
Neither can we call this a begging of misery or a borrowing of misery, as though we were not miserable enough of ourselves but must fetch in more from the next house, in taking upon us the misery of our neighbors. Truly it were an excusable covetousness if we did; for affliction is a treasure, and scarcely any man hath enough of it. No man hath affliction enough that is not matured and ripened by it and made fit for God by that affliction. If a man carry treasure in bullion, or in a wedge of gold, and have none coined into current money, his treasure will not defray him as he travels. Tribulation is treaure in the nature of it, but it is not current money in the use of it, except we get nearer and nearer our home, heaven, by it. Another man may be sick too, and sick unto death, and this affliction may lie in his bowels as gold in a mine and be no use to him; but this bell that tells me of his affliction digs out and applies that gold to me, if by this consideration of another’s danger I take mine own into contemplation and so secure myself by making my recourse to my God, who is our only security.
You can read his history and learn more about him here: John Donne.
St. Oscar Romero
I didn’t even know we had a St. Oscar Romero, so when it came up on my screen, this morning as I was doing my daily lectionary readings I took a little time to read about him.
What an incredible man – and a modern day saint, too, a man for our times:
OSCAR ROMERO
ARCHBISHOP OF SAN SALVADOR, AND THE MARTYRS OF EL SALVADOR
(24 March 1980)
Óscar Arnulfo Romero y Galdámez (August 15, 1917 – March 24, 1980), commonly known as Monseñor Romero, was a priest of the Roman Catholic Church in El Salvador. He later became prelate archbishop of San Salvador.
As an archbishop, he witnessed numerous violations of human rights and began a ministry speaking out on behalf of the poor and victims of the country’s civil war. His brand of political activism was denounced by the hierarchy of the Roman Catholic Church and the government of El Salvador. In 1980, he was assassinated by gunshot while consecrating the Eucharist during mass. His death finally provoked international outcry for human rights reform in El Salvador.
In 1997, a cause for beatification and canonization into sainthood was opened for Romero and Pope John Paul II bestowed upon him the title of Servant of God. The process continues. He is considered the unofficial patron saint of the Americas and El Salvador and is often referred to as “San Romero” in El Salvador. Outside of Catholicism Romero is honored by other religious denominations of Christendom, like the Church of England through its Common Worship. He is one of the ten 20th-century martyrs from across the world who are depicted in statues above the Great West Door of Westminster Abbey, London.
You don’t have to be perfect to be a saint, in fact in the reading for today, St. Paul writes that “22 For I delight in the law of God in my inmost self, 23 but I see in my members another law at war with the law of my mind, making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members. 24 Wretched man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? 25 Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!
So then, with my mind I am a slave to the law of God, but with my flesh I am a slave to the law of sin.
We cannot, in our own strength do right all the time, even if we want to choose rightly. Oscar Romero may not have been perfect (because none of us are, it’s not like I know anything scandalous about him) but he dedicated himself to righting a major wrong he saw in society, and his persistence and dedication ended up causing his death.
Recent Comments
intlxpatr on A Lawless, Authoritarian … Kuwait Someday on A Lawless, Authoritarian … intlxpatr on Oh Thank You, Amazon! Rivergirl on Oh Thank You, Amazon! intlxpatr on Give to Those Who Ask Wikipedia Donate Button
Amazina
Early Voting in Florida
Here There and Everywhere 