I Dream Of Dali

Almost every night, I have these vivid, weird dreams that I feel no one else can understand. For example, last night I dreamt Daisy was a puppy again, and she was trying to catch a baby turtle. But I was trying to stop her from catching the baby turtle because it was a baby, and because I thought it would just generally be a bad idea for a dog to eat a turtle.

And then I saw Hashim who is one of the boys from Kolfe Orphanage in Ethiopia. He's the boy who came to stay with us I think two summers ago. My mom would remember. He was grown up and looked stronger and healthier. He also seemed happy, which for a kid like Hashim was something big. The first time I saw Hashim smile was when Daisy the dog jumped up on his bed to wake him. Also when he learned to ride a bike. He smiled then.

There was one other time he smiled. I was taking him to meet Mary Beth, co-founder of Operation Hearts and Home, and the woman who organized the trip for the kids from Addis. We agreed to meet at the SUNY Purchase campus in Westchester. While we were waiting for Mary to arrive, I took Hashim into the student center. There was this super fancy Coke vending machine with a robotic arm that flew around locating your drink selection and dispensing it. He actually laughed out loud.

Maybe I have such strange dreams because my mind tends to wander, even in the daytime, as evidenced by the total tangent I just took on Hashim. 

My mom sent me an article last week about dreaming. It was written by Gina Barreca, a columnist for the Hartford Courant in nearby Hartford, CT, though my mom lives and reads her paper in Savannah, GA. I thought this bit was brilliant:

Men don't want to hear about dreams. When somebody says, "I was playing Barbies with Madeleine Albright and we were either in a circus or a brothel when suddenly I started to cut my hair with manicure scissors and Albright says, 'Shouldn't a priest read you your rights before he hears your confession?' which is what she always says in the dream but this time I answered, 'These are not my walls, but my paintings are on them,'" the natural question is, "What do you think it means?" And a lot of men don't like to analyze things.

Read more here: http://www.adn.com/2014/02/20/3338495/gina-barreca-women-unravel-dreams.html#storylink=cpy

Read more here: http://www.adn.com/2014/02/20/3338495/gina-barreca-women-unravel-dreams.html#storylink=cpy

It just occurred to me what my dream might mean. I've been thinking of a book about Daisy for over a year now and done almost nothing. The turtle is symbolic of the slow traveler. Maybe Daisy was trying to eat the turtle in me. Because Daisy never dawdles. She goes for what she wants. Like socks. She really loves to destroy socks.

A Funny Thing Happened

Here's what happened. I kid you not. I went to this Christmas / Hanukkah party in 2009 and almost everyone there was unemployed. Either they'd been laid off or as freelancers the work dried up overnight.

I was in pretty much the same boat. I had two small clients left but had drained much of my savings. Then I got a call. I was in the library and I got a call from my friend Marybeth who is my friend Lou Lou's sister.

I've known Marybeth since Lou Lou and I were in college together in New Orleans at Newcomb College of Tulane University. I stress the Newcomb part only because Tulane decided to close Newcomb post-Katrina. Now Newcomb is this pretend "Institute" but we all know what happened Scott Cowen, President of Tulane.

Okay I'm getting off track.

Marybeth called and said, "Hey would you be interested in going to Ethiopia?" I think at first she was just trying to convince me to write some copy for her website. Then she said it again, "Hey would you be interested in going to Ethiopia?" And so I did. And so I did.

When I got back from my trip to Kolfe Orphanage in Addis Ababa, I realized I needed to get back on the horse. The freelance horse. Cold calling. Working my contacts. Get some money rolling into my checking account. Then I got a call from my friend Steven Stark, host of said Christmas / Hanukkah party for the unemployed. He had a referral for me. Unlike almost everyone else in the United States, Steven had too much work.

For example, Steven had to write copy for a commercial involving Playboy bunnies and his client Macanudo cigars. Then Steven had to fly to LA to oversee the shoot with the Playboy bunnies. Poor Steven.

So there's Ethiopia and Playboy bunnies and work. Finally some work.

I started as a freelance copywriter on-site. I went to work everyday for an agency writing web copy for multiple sites. It was very strange. Having been a freelancer for about 15 years, the idea of going to an office everyday was strange. The water cooler conversations, rehashing episodes of Lost or whatever the cool show is now. The intrigue, the politics, the hard work. I was in over my head.

Then a funny thing happened. I got into a groove. I made some friends. We went to Subway together. Then they offered me a job.

Working for the man. The man who has insurance. The real kind. With a plastic card and shit. Never underestimate the power of the word insurance. Or IN-surance as they say in Texas where I'm from.

It's been a big adjustment. The only way I can really explain it is to say it's like when I first got married. And I was all, "Whadd'ya mean I have to tell you where I'm going?" As jobs go, it's pretty cake. The people are nice. Like actually nice. Mostly we just work. Very few meetings about nothing. Most days I'm out of there by 5:30. And there's the insurance.

I'm reading this book by Laura Munson called A Story of Unlikely Happiness. So far, so good. I actually read the Modern Love column in The New York Times that launched her career. I could relate.

The thing is I don't know her story. I will by the end of this book. What I like already is that she is a writer. She wrote in obscurity for years - 14 books according to the one she finally published. That's me. Writing in obscurity. Down to about 1 blog per month now that I'm insured. Laura Munson reminded me to get off my ass and keep writing. In obscurity. Ad inifintum. Here I go.

N.B. I was talking to my friend Marc at work and I told him I used to work at The Washington Post. He said, "You worked at the Washington Post? Wow, how far you've fallen." And that's what I love about Marc.

Also I don't have to tell my husband where I'm going. He knows I'm going pee.

The Starfish Story

A funny thing happened over Easter weekend. First I did something my mother asked me to do - that is go to church. Second, I heard during the sermon the Starfish story that I'd heard a few weeks before in Ethiopia.

I sometimes think I have a bit of the shine, like Scatman in the Shining. It's just a touch. Sometimes I think things right before they happen. Sometimes I stop fighting and something really weird or coincidental happens.

Back to Easter. My mom sent me this email because we'd been through a rough patch. My son was bitten by a dog that animal control was then planning to put down and all was a big mess. Some other stuff too but I don't want to invade everyone's privacy. Just a weird rough patch.

So my mother sent me an email with subject line: a radical idea. She suggested we go to church on Palm Sunday. She said it seemed like things were so much easier for us when we lived in Raleigh, NC and that might have been the result of regularly attending church at The Good Shepherd on Hillsborough Street.

One thing I will say is that in many ways I am very proud to be a (lapsed) Episcopalian. Because for many of us that means an accepting, even liberal church. That's not always the case, witness the Anglican bishops who want to make homosexuality a crime. But my church in Raleigh and my church in Westport, Christ and Holy Trinity, these churches welcome everyone. Even me. Now that's saying something.

We did not attend Palm Sunday mass and in fact I was kind of steamed at my mom because the truth is I live by the golden rule, for the most part, even though I no longer regularly attend church. My brother often says surfing is his church. Fly fishing is his church. You don't need incense and putting on your best duds to be in church. That's what I believe too.

But, at the last minute, on a whim, we decided to attend church on Easter Sunday. Frankly, I think that's also bollocks just going to church on Easter and Christmas. But there I was racing around my room trying to remember what church clothes I had.

We decided to go early, get in and out. Episcopalians are famous for that. We're not a very touchy feely group. We do our Nicene Creed, our Communion then it's a quick coffee hour and we're off to play golf. But that's really the essence of what I love about my church. To me it's private. Not private like you don't show kindness or you hide it even. But it's a way of life you choose to live by and all the rest are trappings.

We made it to the 7:30 service. That's am people. It's usually what I call the old lady service - old prayer book, no music, no muss no fuss. But it was a bit more crowded it being Easter and all. A little music and a guest speaker, a bishop who gave the sermon that day.

Bishop Laura Ahrens I think her name is. She looked a little sunburned. Friendly. Kind of quirky even. The sermon she chose to give was the sermon about the Starfish Story. I don't know why but I've never heard the starfish story before. The first time I heard it was in Ethiopia in February.

We'd spent a day in Addis at the boys orphanage at Kolfe without accomplishing much of anything. We spent hours at the Addis Home Depot choosing paints only to find out our choices were white, orange or black. They had paint rollers, but they didn't have the roller handles. We'd carefully chosen cleaning supplies that would last the longest only to find out there was no water that day and therefore no way to dilute them.

No water day. That's what they told us. What does that mean? How can 135 boys have a "no water" day?

So I sat there glumly thinking what the hell am I doing here and my friend Eileen came up to say hi. I don't really have a poker face so I guess she picked up on my frustration. And she said to me, "Well you know the starfish story, right?"

"What," I asked.

"The starfish story. You know. A boy is standing on the beach throwing starfish back into the ocean before they get trapped on land. A man walks by and says why bother when there are so many and you can't save them all. It won't make a difference. And the boy says it makes a difference to that one. And to that one."

Eileen told me that story and my thinking began to change. The more obstacles we encountered the more I began to think maybe the most these kids can hope for is to spend some time with someone who cares.

And "no water" day will be just a fact of life.

I couldn't believe the bishop repeated the starfish story. I'd even worn a scarf I bought in Ethiopia for the first time that day. I must have the shine right? It's a sign that I need to stay focused on the important things in life. Like making sure my son is safe. Like not forgetting the boys at Kolfe. And not taking for granted the fact that making an effort, even if that effort ends in epic failure, matters.

I was leafing through our handout for the service and in the back was this message from Donald Coggan, former Archbishop of Canterbury:

One of the most important errors about Christianity is that it is a recipe for being good, that its primary purpose it to tell people how to improve themselves as life goes on. That is a great fallacy. Christianity is essentially a story - a story of what God has done about our great enemies of sin and death."

I love a good story.

How to Say Goodbye to Benjamin

This is the one I can't get out of my head. This is the smile I can't forget. I know I've been a bit morose lately so I promise my next blog will be a hilarious take on my marriage or a foray into sagging middle-aged skin.

But this one I've been thinking about and had to write.

Benjamin is Beniyam Kefele. He is 14 years-old and in the 11th grade. His favorite subject is English and his best friend is Ephrem Kibru.

Benjamin is one of over 130 boys who live at Kolfe Orphanage in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. He has a kind face. Little dimples appear when he smiles. He is thin like all the other boys but he is tall.

We played a game one day. The boys were sitting on the steps to the rec room and I suddenly realized one of them looks exactly like Tiger Woods. Then they all wanted to know who they looked like. Ephrem you look like Jimmy Stewart. Of course they're too young to know Jimmy Stewart. The older boy, he looks like Brad Pitt with his new goatee. Then they asked about Benjamin.

I was stumped. I said I had to think about it.

It occurred to me later that night that he looked like Usher. So I told him the next day.

"Oh yes. I like Usher," he said.

We'd greeted each other in the standard Ethiopian way. It's sort of how men greet each other in the US, by clasping hands, pulling each other close, and bumping chests. Only I kiss the boys on the cheek too. I don't think I'm supposed to do this but I do.

Benjamin greeted me and then we went to work again. The day before we'd bonded over paint. We were painting and we kept trying to clean up but we'd get our hands dirty again. It became a running joke.

More painting that day. New black latex paint that was very difficult to clean. He always smiles this boy even with black paint all over him.

When we finished painting we moved on to the next project, photographing the boys for the non-profit's website. He left briefly and returned with a huge American flag draped around his shoulders. More smiling. He loves this flag.

In a storage room we were photographing boys, one by one. The idea is to create a visual record of them, their ages and their "future jobs". Their dreams, their ticket out, what they want to be some day. Never mind that we learned later the Ethiopian government will choose what they study, if they are lucky enough to study. Today it was about their dream.

Later I was invited to see Benjamin's photo album. He showed me photos of the parents he remembered, dead now. Photos of him with his twin brother China. Photos of him with his brothers at the orphanage--photos carefully arranged in an album.

As I sat there, maybe 8 other boys sat with me on a tiny bunk bed mattress. When I first came to the orphanage, it made me uncomfortable how close they came to me. They wanted to see my iPhone or they wanted to read the bios I was writing about them. They would pin me in a corner.

If you know anything about Finnish people or Scottish people, my other clan, you know we're not a touchy feely lot. They would sit so close to me I felt their skin, their bones. I felt one of the boys flicking my hair behind me. Then Gitane, another boy, started twisting my hair like my son Will used to do when he was a baby.

This was a very special moment for me. First, I conquered my fear of being so close to them. Mainly I felt accepted and loved. Like one of them.

I did some interviews with the boys, compelled to pull back into observer mode. As I sat scross from them asking how the hell they ended up here, I knew I didn't or couldn't understand anything about what had happened. This isn't reality TV. They aren't screaming or yelling or throwing things. They sat there quietly describing waking up to a dead mother and a neighbor taking them to an orphanage.

When I had to go, Benjamin walked me to the car. He started to cry but he was crying in that sad way big boys do because they can't cry out loud anymore.

I waved goodbye and held it together until we left. Then I started crying thinking about Benjamin and the others. How can I say goodbye to him, to all of them?

I don't know.

Disappointments Large and Small

This morning I had an email from Beniyam one of my sons back in Ethiopia. I'd asked about everyone on campus including their pet dogs. The puppy, Jerry, died. He doesn't know why. Some kind of disease he thinks.

One thing I've learned traveling outside the US, is that in a place as poor as Ethiopia, animals are often neglected. Pets are a luxury that most cannot afford. The boys at Kolfe orphanage had three dogs. Now only the two older dogs remain - Jumbo and Bob.

For the boys at Kolfe Orphanage, losing a pet is a disappointment, but it's one of so many that I doubt they will give it much thought. After interviewing dozens of boys who don't know their birthdays and can't remember what their mom looked like, the puppy's death is just another twist in the road.

Before going to Ethiopia, a volunteer collected hearing aids to donate to some of the children who are losing their hearing. We had to choose two boys and two girls for testing and hopefully fitting with a hearing aid. Thankfully we didn't have to make that decision -- the orphanage directors made it for us.

We took two boys from Kolfe Orphanage, Dejene and Ephrem, and two girls from nearby Kechene Orphanage. We never even asked the girls their names. They were young, maybe 6 years-old. Both were signing, not speaking. Even I was thinking this doesn't look like a problem that can be solved with a hearing aid. After driving for an hour, waiting for an hour and then being tested, the doctor explained the girls could not be helped at all. Even in the US, surgery would only marginally impact what they could hear.

The two boys were in better shape. They could still hear. So the doctor asked a volunteer to bring them both back again the next day. For whatever reason, no one thought to show the hearing aids we had to the doctor during the first visit. More hours of driving and more hours of waiting and the doctor again could not help them because the hearing aids were made for adults and wouldn't fit in the boys ears.

The kids had to pose for a picture for a donor back in the States who wanted to see how her donations were being put to good use. Standing in front of a chart of the ear canal, the kids looked out with serious faces. Why should they smile? After hours of time spent with strangers they were no better off than they were before we arrived. Only we had given them hope when there was no hope.

The girls both seemed very uncomfortable. One of the girls had an expression I've only seen on much older people. Her friend would sometimes smile. They both looked like they'd seen more than any kid should. I did get them to smile once by showing them how to make a video on my iPhone. They videotaped me and played it back. For an American kid, I think it would be the equivalent of Criss Angel making himself disappear. Magic.

Moussa-Ali lives at Kolfe Orphanage. Moussa is about 8, one of the youngest kids living there. One evening, Moussa cut his ankle pretty badly. I just happened to bring band-aids and Neosporin with me that day. Just like my son, Moussa didn't want me to touch it. He didn't want me to hurt him. I was trying to tell him I wouldn't hurt him but he didn't trust me. Why should he?

The next day we came back and Moussa's ankle had the purple betadine (I guess) on his ankle but it looked like it was swelling and that the band-aids were dirty. I offered to give him new ones but he declined. Then he changed his mind. After making a big deal of it, I realized I didn't have any big strips left. Only the small ones. I put Neosporin on the cut and then reapplied the dirty old band-aids. I'm sure it hurt and his ankle looked like it was getting infected, but Moussa just sat there quietly. What else could he do?

As an American, it's hard to imagine what life is like for these orphaned kids. Sometimes they have water and sometimes they don't. They have food but no protein and no fruits. A pencil is a valuable commodity. There are artists without paints. Athletes without shoes. Injured kids who can't even get a clean bandage. At night, they are alone on campus. The adults are gone and the kids are by themselves. I asked one of them what would happen if a boy got sick during the night. "Wait until the next day," he said.

Almost uniformly the boys told me they liked campus life. They are happy at the orphanage. I found this hard to believe, but the more we traveled around Addis, the more I could see they were grateful for a bed and food, even if they don't like the food.

Getamelkam is a 16 year-old boy who is only in the ninth grade. His name means God is Good in Amharic. He said, "I don't like this campus. This campus is useless. I love the mother and father I lost." He's lived in orphanages for 10 years after both his parents died when he was 6.

In this bit of film, you can see the two girls we took to have their hearing tested. Note the expression of the girl on the left. I remember this word from German class in 6th grade. Weltschmerz. World weariness or sadness for the world. That's the expression on this girl's face.

Am God

"Am God," he said. "Am God."

"Sorry I didn't catch that."

"Am God."

"You're name is God," I asked?

"He's not God," said Yoftahe. "He's Gat."

Yoftahe is our driver here in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. His English is impeccable. He went to boarding school and college in the US. His boarding school was in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. That was some cruel joke his parents played on him sending an Ethiopian boy to Amish country.

Am God is Gat, an extremely intelligent Ethiopian boy living in horrible conditions. As my fellow bandmate on this magical mystery tour put it, Gat is very refined. He also speaks English very well, like Joftahe.

Gat asked my religion. "I am an Episcopalian," I said. Then Gat launched into a brief overview of the Anglican Church.

Gat is lucky. He's one of the lucky ones at Kolfe Orphanage, home to 132 boys aged 8 to adult. Gat is lucky because Gat is smart. Gat can make it out of here. He can scale the walls surrounding this orphanage and make it on the outside.

"Am God," he said.

NB Gat is on the right in this photo. He's wearing a shirt that says "Do It for Johnny".