I Hope You Dance

@LindseyHouchin: "Gonna need some help, y'all."

One year after I posted the above tweet, I can think of no better words to say than thank you. To those of you near and far who have made the past year the best it could have been, thank you for answering my cry. While losing one of the most important people in my life was one of the most difficult things to do, there have been plenty of silver linings. In the year following my Momma's death, I've been reminded of the love I'm surrounded by, even when one of my life's most reliable sources of love has expired.

As I've said time and time again, my Momma loved Lee Ann Womack's "I Hope You Dance" and quoted it more times than I could even estimate. A few weeks ago, it crept into my headphones while I was working out. All it would have taken to wave away the sentimental song was a quick shake-to-shuffle, but I let it linger. Before long, I was the goofy-looking girl grinning ear to ear on the elliptical machine. Take a look at these lyrics:

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder
You get your fill to eat, but always keep that hunger

My "sense of wonder" was enough to cause Momma's heart attack. She couldn't ever quite understand why I was endlessly curious about what else there was, where else I could go, and who else I might meet. I couldn't tell you how many times she asked if I really wanted to go to South Africa, but I also couldn't tell you how many times I'd be greeted with a text message after turning my phone back on after a flight that read, "Who'd you meet this time? Any good stories?" I've made it through another adventure with stories to tell, but I'm already looking forward to new ones. And Momma, these extra kilograms (pounds) I'll come back with prove that I've gotten more than my fill to eat!

May you never take one single breath for granted
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed

If there's anything the sudden death of a loved one teaches you, it's to be present in every moment. Take advantage of every moment, and seek out moments that leave you astounded. Then tell someone about them. Get lost in the wonder of the world, and get caught up in overwhelming feelings for the people you're surrounded by. I've always been lucky to have incredible people - strangers, acquaintances, friends, family - in my life, and they've shown me that when one person is taken from your circle, many others reflect the love that was lost. Empty handed is the last phrase I'd use to describe myself.

I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens 

I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance
Never settle for the path of least resistance

There are few places in the world that are blessed with mountains and the ocean and urban city life, and Cape Town knows how lucky it is. On many occasions during my time here at the bottom of Africa, I've overflowed with joy when standing between the ocean and the mountains. Breathtaking views are an everyday occurrence in this majestic city, and they always leave me humming these lyrics. I've never felt more humbled than when standing on the top of Table Mountain and gazing into an endless horizon of ocean. And from the foot of the mountain, what I call "home" here in the City Bowl, reverence best describes my feeling for the mountains. They keep me from settling in too much, from forgetting what else might be out there, and from forgetting to look up and away every now and then.

My Momma did everything (and I mean everything) she could to talk me out of coming to South Africa, not because she didn't support me, but because she wasn't sure she could handle being so far away from her "baby" - the one who'd depended on her so much for so long. In 2012, without my Momma, I wasn't sure this was the right decision. It wasn't the path of least resistance that led me here, but the reward is reassuring. From the end of my adventure, though, I can confidently say that this is just what I needed. And I think she'd agree today.

This quote landed in my inbox on the day my Momma died.
Thanks for the reminder then and now, daily email.

Without the help of friends and family in all corners of the world, and even strangers along the way, I wouldn't have been grinning ear to ear on the elliptical that day. I cried for help, and you answered. Abundantly. To those of you who came to my rescue one year ago, to those of you who helped me find my footing when my world shook, to those of you who crawled into bed with me when it was all I could do, to those of you who encouraged me when I was unsure, to those of you who listened when I talked in circles, to those of you who sent me encouraging messages, to those of you who hugged me tight before I adventured on, to those of you who planted yourselves in my life as my Momma's spirit, and to those of you who were patient with me every step of the way, thank you. You'll never know how much it has meant to me.

Now, let's have a good day, shall we?

A New September (in Memory of My Momma)

I've loathed the month of September for years. So much so, in fact, that the "Over It October" celebration I kicked off with one of my best friends in college has become an annual month-long holiday we look forward to for eleven months of the year.

September hasn't established the best reputation for itself in my lifetime, and last year was no exception in its poor performances. I, along with her many other admirers, said goodbye to one of the most outstanding people I've ever known: my Momma. 

A date that will be marked on my
calendar for many years to come.

When September snuck into my peripheral vision this year, I immediately started dreading it. After all, I'm very far away from home and anyone who even knew my Momma, yet I'll have to watch two significant dates come and go: September 9th and September 20th. 

September 9th is my Momma's birthday.
September 20th marks the commemoration of her death.

Heavy, right? It's really easy for me to chalk September up as a loss for my morale, but in the spirit of the woman behind those two dates, I'm determined to turn September around. Rather than focusing on the dates that bookend her life, I hope to celebrate the many days between them. This year, I'll be making extra effort to celebrate my Momma's outstanding life - beginning to end - from  Monday, September 9th to Friday, September 20th. That's twelve days. Two weeks. One weekend.    

My Momma was the kind of person who radiated sunshine on the cloudiest of days, believed in you when you didn't believe in yourself, and celebrated the smallest tidbits of joy. In her honor, I'm challenging myself to mindfully make decisions that perpetuate her warm spirit as often as possible. 

If you knew my Momma, or even if you didn't, I'd love for you to join me. I'm not asking for extravagant and elaborate; she didn't have much taste for such things anyway. She was a fan of the everyday, of the simple, and of the thoughtful. 

http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qUH4ZOzda4Y/UGeSqs-E_nI/
AAAAAAAAKIc/1C1p2fVLXuI/s320/september.jpg

From September 9th to September 20th, you can help me make sure her legacy lives on long after she did. It can be as simple as choosing to be patient, sharing your favorite memory of my Momma, deciding to listen rather than talk, catching up with an old friend, planting flowers for someone else to enjoy for years to come, saying hello to a stranger, sending a post card, posting an encouraging Tweet or Facebook status update, leaving a small note, sharing your cupcake or umbrella or optimism, letting your kids stay up 15 minutes later than usual, doing your roommate's least favorite chore, or offering someone a ride.

Looking for inspiration? A lovely lady took on a similar challenge for a whole year, and she's got this project to show for it. And if you're really wanting to go the extra mile, I'd love for you to share some of the ways you're remembering my Momma in a comment below!

Together, we might manage to turn September around.

I'll Remember The Way It Tasted

When I travel, I eat. A lot.

From every new place, I take a few favorite foods and restaurants, and I miss them tirelessly after I’ve left. Cape Town will be no exception. In fact, it will be a shining star on my list of cravings, and you can bet that I’ll be remembering the way Cape Town tasted for years to come.

I’ll remember the sweet, syrupy taste of my morning coffee at The Power & The Glory. I’ll remember the taste of the laugen sticks that stole my heart with their crunchy, salty outsides and soft, doughy insides. I’ll remember the flaky deliciousness of the croissants, the perfect texture of the Bircher’s muesli, and the salty-sweet hot oats.

Malva pudding, a well-known South African indulgence.

When I think of Cape Town, I’ll remember ½ price sushi and dim sum at Beluga on Sundays. Sashimi salad, duck pot stickers, and a samurai roll, please. I’ll remember the way The Works tasted on Monday nights, when Rafiki’s served ½ price pizzas. I’ll remember the perfection of Hudson’s roasted banana milkshakes, and the disappointment I met when I discovered they would no longer be made. I’ll remember the cinnamon frozen yogurt at Myog, which made an appearance once every five weeks.

I’ll remember the seafood paella and fruit tarts at the Neighbourgoods Market on Saturdays, and I’ll remember the chilli poppers, strawberry balsamic chocolate truffles, and artisan lollies at the City Bowl Market on Thursdays. I’ll remember the noodle dishes I took comfort in at Simply Asia, Sawaddee, and Yindee’s. I’ll remember the bite of peri-peri on Nando’s chicken, mielie (corn) and potato wedges.

Milk tart, or melk tert, is an Afrikaans treat.

When I eat at McDonald’s, I’ll remember the fiery spice of the Grand Chicken Spicy sandwich that doesn’t exist in the USA. I’ll remember the late-night taste of boerewors rolls with grilled onions and sweet chilli sauce on Long Street. I’ll remember the crisp, sweet taste of Savanna and Hunter’s dry ciders. I'll remember the blueberry bubble tea and chilli poppers I found at the Waterfront food market.

I’ll remember chicken pies from Woolworths, mince samoosas from the tuck shop by the refugee centre, cappuccino muffins from the sandwich shop on campus. I’ll remember Caribbean onion and balsamic chips, chakalaka, onion jam, and springbok. I’ll remember the salty taste of biltong, the sticky sweet taste of koeksisters, and the custard-like taste of milk tart. I'll remember the gooey deliciousness of malva pudding with Amarula topping. I'll remember rooibos tea and Jacob's instant coffee. And I’ll remember the taste of chips (fries) served with just about everything.

Samoosas, also known as samosas, are savory pastries.

If our paths cross for any significant amount of time in the future, you’ll hear me dream of all of these things. Similar tastes will kick off nostalgia, and I’ll miss Cape Town again. Just like my taste buds occasionally miss Coldwater, MI and Nashville, TN and Louisville, KY and Charlotte, NC and Lincoln, NE. 

And just like my taste buds often miss Bowling Green, KY.

Say What? Languages In My Classroom

I have a confession to make: I’ve never been too interested in languages beyond English. Despite compulsory studies in Spanish (two years in high school) and American Sign Language (two semesters in college), I’ve remained rather isolated in my fascination by English, around which my professional and personal life has been woven.

Living in a country with eleven national languages is enough to pique one’s interest. In South Africa, English is the shared language, but many (if not most) people speak another language or more. While one who speaks only English can navigate Cape Town without any lingual challenges, it is not uncommon to hear a handful of languages spoken on the sidewalks. English, isiXhosa, Afrikaans, isiZulu…

Volunteering at Scalabrini Refugee Centre has given me a widened scope of language in Africa. The variety of languages spoken in the hallways is incredible. The refugees are constantly helping each other translate words and phrases from one language to another. I often have to turn to another student and ask, "Can you help me understand her?"

Most of my students’ lingual resumes overlap at French (and, increasingly, English), but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. At the end of class on Wednesday, I conducted a survey per a request by the English School intern: How many students in your class speak each of the following languages? How many languages does each student speak?

Thanks to Wikipedia, here's a map of official
languages in Africa. South Africa boasts ELEVEN.
Keep in mind that these are only the official ones.

Of the 21 students who were present that day, five speak one language other than English, four speak two languages other than English, six speak three languages other than English, and six speak four or more languages other than English.

Yes, that’s right. SIX of my students speak four or more languages. One student speaks six! And that’s not counting the rather advanced English they’re perfecting now. I was blown away.

Languages spoken by my Pre-Intermediate II class and how many students speak each:

• French – 16 (31 francophone countries in Africa)
• Lingala – 10 (northwestern DRC, Republic of the Congo, Angola, CAR)
• Swahili – 5 (Kenya, Tanzania, Uganda, Rwanda, Burundi, Mozambique, DRC)
• Kikongo – 5 (DRC, Republic of the Congo, Angola)
• Tshiluba – 5 (DRC)
• Somali – 4 (Somalia, Ethiopia)
• Arabic – 2 (North Africa)
• Kinyarwanda – 2 (Rwanda, Uganda)
• Kirundi – 2 (Burundi, Tanzania, DRC-Kinshasa, Uganda)

I was absolutely floored, and the students laughed at my reactions. To be the teacher in a language classroom and speak only one language, as opposed to the nine languages my class collectively speaks? Humbling, to say the least. Indescribable, even. 

When I stepped foot into my first class at Scalabrini, I knew very little about African cultures. I'm certainly no expect today, but I have learned so much from my students, which leaves me increasingly curious about their lives. At the end of my experience, it will be my students that I will miss most. They have undoubtedly changed my life by teaching me just as much as I have had the privilege of teaching them. 

I'll Remember The Way It Felt

I’ve put this one off because making sense of how this experience feels is a daunting task. 

It’s easy to tell you that when I remember Cape Town, I’ll remember the intense heat of the summers and the bitter cold of the winters. I’ll remember the absence of central heat and air conditioning. I’ll remember the sideways rain that pelted onto my skin like bullets. I’ll remember the refuge I found in my electric blanket on the coldest nights. I’ll remember the rays of the sunshine on my face when winter took a break for a few days. I'll remember the icy water of the ocean.

A stunning sunset in Strand

I’ll remember my uncomfortable mattress on the floor that I called my bed. I’ll remember the unfinished surfaces of our home – paint that absorbed moisture and wood that warped in water. I'll remember how the stairs shook when one climbed up or down. I’ll remember the click-click-click-click of the dial on our gas stove as it struggled to spark. I’ll remember the way my muscles burned while I climbed Eaton Road.

When I remember Cape Town, I’ll remember how it felt the first time I successfully gave a tourist directions. I’ll remember the surprise of unconsciously uttering South African vernacular. I’ll remember how proud I felt to show off my temporary home to visitors from My Old Kentucky Home.

Family photo on our game drive day trip

But how do I capture how it feels to walk into a coffee shop and be greeted by a freshly pulled Americano (for the American, the barista will say)? And how do I explain what it feels like to inhale the crisp, chilly morning air at the bottom of Table Mountain? How do I tell how it feels to run into people you know on the opposite side of the world from where you spent your first 23 years?

And how do I explain how it feels to fumble through conversations in English with refugees from across Africa? Or how it feels to celebrate their perfectly constructed compound sentence written in the present perfect verb tense? Or how it feels to explain to your students that you’ll leave soon, and that you’re not sure when you’ll be back? Or how it feels to hear someone yelling your name on Long Street, turn around, and find your student grinning ear to ear.

A photo from one of my classes last term.

When I remember Cape Town, I’ll remember all of those feelings. I’ll remember how insignificant I felt at the top of Table Mountain, at the tip of Cape Point, and at the shore of the ocean. I’ll remember how wide the world felt, how far away home seemed, and how encountering the smallest cultural difference can feel like walking into a wall. I’ll remember how it felt to be included, and how it felt to be excluded. I’ll remember how it felt to be different, and I’ll remember how it felt to be the same.

I’ll remember how it felt to arrive, and I’m sure I’ll remember how it felt to leave. For now, though, I’m still wrapping my mind around how it feels to miss people and places I haven’t even left yet.

When I think about Cape Town, I’ll remember the way it felt.

10 Weeks & 12,259.7 Miles From Home

10 weeks.

That’s what separates me from home.  

Well, that and 12,179 air miles. And 80.7 road miles. But who’s counting?

It’s official, folks. I’m the proud owner of a plane ticket that will take me from Cape Town, South Africa to Nashville, Tennessee by way of Johannesburg, Doha, and Chicago.

CPT - JNB - DOH - ORD - BNA

That’s right. Mark your calendars. Come October 22, I’ll be back in the land of southern hospitality, Starbucks, and Zaxby’s. And by no coincidence is that just long enough for me to recover from jet lag before reuniting with my favorite people in my favorite place: WKU Homecoming.

Ten weeks seems like a long time. Until you realize that’s only ten more sushi Sundays at Beluga. And ten more half-price pizzas at Rafiki’s. And then you realize you won’t even make it to all of them because you’ll be traveling in between. Holy moly.

It isn’t until you start thinking about tying loose ends that you realize just how deep your roots are. Leaving means terminating my gym membership. And switching the phone and Internet bills to another housemate’s name. And sorting financials with your university. And buying take-away souvenirs from that time you lived in Cape Town. And sending your last postcards. And eating your new favorite foods. And writing thank you notes. And abandoning your phone number. And closing your bank account. And packing your life back into its familiar spot in suitcases. And saying goodbye.

There’s still plenty of time, I tell myself. And there is. But there isn’t. There are many hours in a day, and there are many days in ten weeks, and that zoomed-in perspective makes time feel slow. But there are also many weeks in a year, and ten weeks quickly becomes October 22.

There are not a lot of squares between now and then.

When Ryan Adams sneaks through my speakers with my favorite portion of his lyrics – I miss Kentucky, and I miss my family / All the sweetest winds, they blow across the South – I can’t help but wish time would speed up. 

When the sun is beckoning Cape Town to life and Table Mountain seems to be glowing, though, I can’t help but wish time would slow down.

Here’s to ten weeks of looking forward to a familiar future in my humble hometown and to ten weeks of savoring the present before it becomes the past.

I'm looking at you, October 22.

Smooth Criminals

So, my iPhone was stolen.

Around here, that's usually the end of the story. 

In this case, though, it's the beginning. Thankfully.

One of the first things one learns about Cape Town, unfortunately, is the outstanding crime rate. You quickly train yourself to be incredibly aware of your surroundings. You avoid carrying your laptop with you unless you absolutely need to. You carry a cross-body purse that fastens, if you have one, because they’re the hardest to take or take from. You learn when it’s okay to have your headphones in (leading directly to a valuable item in your pocket) and when it’s not.

Long Street, almost anyone would tell you, is an area that calls for heightened awareness and vigilance. Even during the day, pick pocketing and mugging happens often. One of my roommates has had one camera and one phone stolen very close to the same area. Other roommates have been mugged in similar situations. When you’re on Long Street at night, and when you know how real the threat is, you multiply that vigilance by at least four.

On this particular night, I hadn’t planned on carrying an apartment-warming get-together into the night, so I wasn’t as prepared as I usually would be. I had everything in my zipped-up pockets of the jacket I was wearing. On this night, I did all I could to be as “smart” as possible: I danced – like a fool – with my hands in my pockets, I avoided pulling my phone out when I was in crowded group of people, and I checked often to make sure I had everything.

When we were leaving for home, we paused on Long Street. We were distracted by a friend, and, therefore, became easy targets. Here’s what I remember about the subsequent events:

“Guys, we need to make a move. You’re attracting attention.”
“Everyone, check your pockets NOW.”

“MY PHONE!”

One of our South African friends, a guy named Wanda, had been scoping out the situation from the start. He knew we’d acquired bulls-eye targets, and it turned out that his signals were warranted. As soon as I said my phone was missing, he was on a mission toward a guy who was walking across the middle of the street. After an inaudible exchange, Wanda returned to our huddle. Wagging my iPhone in his hand, shaking his head with a laugh. In South Africa, there’s an expression for that feeling: “Shame.”

Cape Town criminals are smart. Or, if you will, smooth. Afterward, Wanda told us that the pick pocketer will usually hand off the stolen goods to another person, who will calmly walk away from the scene. That’s how he knew to confront the guy crossing the street.

In other cases, people will approach you by complimenting your shoes. They’ll align your foot with their foot to “see if they’d fit,” all the while sliding their hand into your pocket. Another time, I was walking with my hands in my pockets, when a guy on the street put both hands around my arm and slid them down the length of my arm while I shook him loose. If I’d had anything in my hand, it would have become his.

I’ve been extremely fortunate so far. I’ve hardly ever felt in danger, and I’ve only had a couple of run-ins with crime here. I did surrender a camera to Cape Town, but that was by my own fault. Apparently, if you leave a camera on a bathroom sink in a public place, it disappears quickly. Who would’ve thought? And, oh, how could I forget? There was that time someone was spending my money in another country while I taught refugees how to speak English. 

The city’s reputation for high crime rates and danger are real, but certainly not restrictive of one’s enjoyment of Cape Town. Despite pick-pocketing, clever tricks, and bank account fraud, though, this amazing city’s “smooth criminals” haven’t dulled my brilliant experience here. Especially with the help of good friends who can swiftly retrieve your stolen possessions!