Sunday Afternoon

I’m not sure why, but there is something incredibly perfect about a Sunday afternoon. It’s my favorite time of the week. Always has been.

Sitting at the dining room table with a cup of coffee, a bagel with schmear, and my journal or a letter to a friend. Music soothing the air in the small apartment I share with my friend, Jen. Our cats chasing each other back and forth across the living room and testing our patience with the no-countertop rules. Outside the window, the snow is trying to so hard to come down to earth. Tiny flurries you can hardly see – the brave snowflakes that ventured out alone – not willing to wait for the masses to fall in a blizzard that will blanket the city in silence. These snowflakes drift aimlessly down to earth, taking their time, enjoying the journey. Then facing the buffeting wind that seems to foil their plans and practically lifts them back up to the heavens from which they escaped. It’s a perfect snow. A perfect day. A Sunday afternoon.

Adventures in Bookland

Vampires have commandeered the teen section. Classics now come in comic and zombie form. Dinosaurs have earned their own category. And Miley Cyrus is in the history section.

Thank goodness Nancy Drew still has an entire bookshelf, along with the Hardy Boys and the Boxcar children. Some favorites will never die.

And good news for Goosebumps, you’re still as frightening as ever. But when’d this Wimpy kid come in? And who put Thomas in a corner?

You can get Dr Seuss in all shapes and sizes, and Elmo will teach you to read, count, sing, and paint. The Magic School Bus is still changing form in style and Frog and Toad can go home for half off.

There are education books for every age, grade, and subject – even teachers and tutors can make the grade. Begin learning Spanish or human anatomy, a whole section on New York for kids awaits. Biographies come in picture-book form for 3 year olds and those darn cloth books are as perfect for babies as ever. Need to name a child? We’ve got lots of advice on that! Breastfeeding and potty training too.

There’s popups and mazes, chapter books, and picture books, hard cover, soft cover, board books, and plush. There are even some sing-alongs and those fun piano books too.

The aisles are crowded. The children are happy. E-readers may be selling fast but you can’t replace Bookland for children.

Kids in the City

I think about my nephews and nieces when I walk through the city. I think they would like it here.

I walked by a travel store today with an antiquated train set in the window. I pictured my nephews getting so excited and rushing p to the window to stare at it. Just the type of thing that make them jump up and down.

I think of them on the subways and imagine trying to explain the train that goes underground and takes you anywhere you need. They’d get it because they’re imaginative. And they would love it. They might get a little scared on their first trip, it is a little bumpy after all. But they’d get a hang of it soon enough and be climbing on seats and staring out the window at the black rushing by and jumping over the gap in the platform like they were playing hopscotch. They’d probably balance better than me on those trains. Something to do with that low center of gravity they have, I’m sure.

Yes I think of my nephews and nieces as I walk through the city. All the people they would see and the shop windows they would look into. The trees with all their falling leaves and parks with kids-only playgrounds. I’ve never gone into one of those child-dreamlands but if my nephews and nieces were here, I could take them in every day and watch them play and push them on the swings and maybe race them down the slides.

And the dogs, yes the dogs! I think they would love the city dogs. So many breeds and so many doggie outfits! They would get a kick out of the puppy snow-shoes in the winter.

I could take them to Times Square – and hold them close – but let them see the bright lights and maybe run up and down the big red stairs. At Macy’s they can see the holiday window displays and the giant stuffed animals on the kid’s floor. I can take them to the zoo where they can go into the butterfly world or explore the snake exhibit that I know the boys would love. Or to Coney Island and the aquarium where maybe the big kids can ride the best roller coaster ever with me.

They would love the history museum and the giant blue whale suspended above their heads. And I could show them all the animals of Africa and the constellations of the sky. They might be a bit young for the art museums, but maybe MOMA where interactive displays can pique their curiosity. And certainly to the park, where they can run and jump and play and we can all take a boat ride on the lake, as long as no one falls in!

And the sounds, I think they’d love the sounds. The honking cabs and always jabbering people. The concerts in the parks or squares and, of course, the musicians on the trains and platforms! I can even see them wanting to bring their caja on the train to play for people themselves! They can be as loud as they want in the city, because it’s the city and there are 8 million other people making sound too.

I know the city is big and can be a bit scary. There are a lot of people and a lot of cars and I guess the doggies aren’t always nice. But when I walk through the city, I find myself seeing it through my nephews and nieces eyes and the city takes on this dreamy glow. A place of adventure and discovery. I think they’d like it here. And I’d always hold them close.

If I'm all grown up now, why do I feel so young?

At what point do we really feel grown up? I suppose I should ask what that even means. Back in undergrad, I tackled that looming question of what I want to be when I grow up. I was grown up. At least that’s what I felt at the time. I postulated on about how I finally WAS what I wanted to be. I was me. The answer wasn’t about my career. It was about being comfortable in my own skin. And I was pretty darn comfortable back then. Even if looking back now I see how self-conscious I was. Self-discovery is an ongoing process, I’ve discovered. It never ends. I’m just as comfortable with myself today as I was five years ago. And I’ve grown quite a bit since then. I suppose my issue with that question of what I want to be when I grow up is about the fact that I shouldn’t be sitting around waiting to BE. I should just be. NOW. Who I am today is just as important as who I am ten years from now. As is what I do. So why is it that at certain stages in my life, I find myself more or less confident and comfortable and sure. Circumstances I guess.

Here I am beginning an exciting journey in higher education. Back in school studying something I’ve been passionate about for years. Surrounded by students with similar ideals and faculty who genuinely seem to care about my potential. Yet I find myself sitting in every class questioning what I’m doing here. How did I get in to this Ivy league school? What qualifies me to sit beside my peers with such thought provoking questions and intellectual understanding? It’s a disturbing thing to be constantly question myself. And to be questioning where that confidence I once had has gone. It’s like moving from eighth to ninth grade and going from being the big fish down to the bottom of the rung. Except this time there’s no freshmen Fridays with fears of wedgies and toilet dunking. But the insecurity is the same.

Maybe these stages never end. Maybe I never get to a place where I never feel doubt. Maybe if I do it means I’ve stopped being and growing and developing. Maybe complete comfort and confidence is a sign of passive life and eventual burnout. Maybe I need to hunger for these stages where I’m not entirely on top. Because they will take me to the next place, the next stage, the next level where I can get to the next learning moment. And maybe in the meantime I just need to hold on, work hard, and remember that I’ve been here before and I won. I overcame the insecurity and the doubt. I became the smiling sophomore, the spirited junior, and the leading senior owning the halls of the high school that had first made me want to crawl into bed and hide.

I did it then and I became stronger. I’ll do it again. And again. And hopefully many times again before I end.

The only limits on what I can be when I grow up are the limits I place myself.

There are no lions in South Africa

Second reality: There are no lions in South Africa.

Okay, well obviously there are some. They are on the postcards and the 50Rand bill, after all. But they aren’t where they’re supposed to be.

Evening of the gift shop incident. And despite having a healthier sense of caution, I don’t actually feel like I’m in Africa. The roads are paved. The hotel has automatic doors and a flat screen tv in the lobby. Dinner was at a cowboy-themed restaurant where they sing happy birthday and actually give you a real dessert (not the dollop of whip cream American places give these days). How is this Africa?

Where are the dirt roads and women with baskets on their heads and lions ready to eat me?!!!!

Where is Africa?

This isn’t what I expected. Even knowing all I do about South Africa as a developed country. I still wanted my romanticized view of the African continent. And this is not what I imagined.

I studied apartheid. I’ve explored the history of the country. I saw a documentary on Nelson Mandela and I follow the news. I consider myself educated and well-informed. But I still have stereotypes and I still can’t wholly shake them.

I expected grasslands and wild animals and undeveloped country. I got traffic and loud music and t-shirts and jeans.

It doesn’t feel like Africa. But this is Africa. And it’s not that different from home. It’s time I let go of romanticized visions and let the world develop beyond my ignorant view.

There are no lions in South Africa.

At least not where the people live.

South Africa is dangerous

I returned from Africa nearly two months ago. How do I even begin to go back and unravel all that was the trip? The fact is, I haven’t spent nearly enough time unpacking all of it – and I don’t mean my suitcases. So much happened, perhaps so much changed me. Maybe that’s cliché. But if Africa didn’t actually change people, than we probably wouldn’t have that cliché.

A part of me fears, though. That I haven’t really changed at all. It’s been nearly two months and the awe in which I walked around New York City in those first few days back is gone. The constant questioning of how I’m privileged to have so much doesn’t seem to nag on my mind quite as often. And the tears that came every time I remembered the poverty, and racism, and isolation I brushed against, aren’t quite as wet as they once were.

So perhaps it’s good that I am just now making the time to go back and review the three weeks that were my African journey. Perhaps now is precisely when I need to be reminded – and then return again and again to these memories anytime I come close to forgetting yet again.

______

My first reality: South Africa is dangerous.

More dangerous than Central Park after dark. And not because of lions.

I hadn’t even been in the country for more than a few hours. If you can even count the airport in Johannesburg as being in the country! And yet already I was having my confidence rocked by South Africa.

It was an innocent error. Or a naïve one. Depending on your view.

With my carry-on bag slung over my shoulder and my money safely tucked in my brand new money pouch, I felt like a confident, secure world traveler. I knew I could probably find postcards cheaper than at the airport, but I wasn’t here to shop and didn’t want to miss the chance to send some memories home. I was eager as I selected cards with wild animals and beautiful coastlines. None of which I’d actually seen in my two hours at the airport but all of which I was sure I would see before I returned.

With my purchases carefully selected, I made my way to the counter that looked just like any other gift store counter in any American airport I’d ever been in. As my cards were scanned and the total rand I owed came up on the screen, I awkwardly swung my bag to my front and dug deep for that secure money pouch that was really supposed to be hanging down the front of my shirt. But I’d do that when we were actually out and about – not in an airport surrounded by my friends. I swung the bag around to my side again and began counting out the foreign currency I had just received at an exchange place trying not to be distracted by the colors and animals I found so exciting on each bill.

That was when it happened.

“What do you think you’re doing, leaving that bag open? This is South Africa. Not New York.” It was said with such disdain. A haughty know-it-all chastising the ignorant newbie. It wasn’t a polite reminder or a concerned piece of advice. It was a message that I didn’t belong.

In a heartbeat I processed what he meant, why he said it, and how he knew I was from New York. My carryon was partially unzipped after I’d retrieved my money. South Africa is well known for petty theft and major crime. And my sweater was proudly advertising my NYU affiliation.

It was all I could do to manage a polite thank you and ashamedly zip closed my shoulder bag as I grabbed my change, my postcards, and shuffled away. My super sophisticated money pouch seemed ridiculous all of a sudden. My bravado at managing a new currency was gone. My confidence that I was smart enough to travel in Africa was nowhere to be found.

It was that last that hit the hardest. For now, I was surrounded by my team – eight other travelers all going through this together. A buffer against the stupid mistakes I might make or a resource if the worst really did happen. But in ten days, I’d be on my own. Making my way from one African country across a border into another and with no one there to hold my hand. If I couldn’t be smart in an airport gift shop, how was I going to stay safe on my own, in a country I didn’t know, with a language I didn’t speak?

I knew the realities of South Africa. I’d been told in our meetings often enough and done my own research on travel warnings and advisories. I knew not to walk alone or to go on the beach at night. I knew to keep valuables out of sight and put my passport in the hotel safe. I knew that even the airport porters might be suspect. But I didn’t really know. I was a New Yorker. I knew how to stay safe. I had common sense. I’d traveled Europe and fended off drunk Italians with my friend. Slept in train stations and shady hostels and not had a single thing stolen. I thought I knew. But I didn’t really know.

This was a new arena. A new ball game and new rules. And I was expected to get them wrong. That was the advantage that I lost. I was anxious before I’d even begun. I anticipated my demise before I met my opponent. My confidence was shot. Africa would win because of one man.

South Africa is dangerous.

I’m not entirely sure if it’s the crime that makes it so. Or the expectation.

Terrorism as the Answer

There are no borders. To anyone who thinks terrorism exists elsewhere or originates outside the lines of the United States of America – read this. And know this is not the first time, nor will it be the last. Hatred surrounds us. And it’s right in our backyard.

We all point fingers. We never want things to be our fault. If there’s a problem, there must be someone to blame. And it’s best if it’s not me, or you, or someone I know…but THEM. Someone out there, someone different from me. But it doesn’t really matter who it is or where it comes from. Hate is hate. And intolerance is wrong.

These men were upset, angry for something, wanting vengeance. They picked someone to blame. Without reason or real proof. They picked someone to hate on veiled reasoning and flawed logic. They claimed patriotic retribution and religious instigation. Defending the rights of one group by killing another. But how does blowing up a temple, school, and community center full of non-combatants right any wrong? How do you fight violence with violence and expect to be heard? The din will be too much and no one will listen to your point when your guns are blazing.

Freedom for anyone cannot be gained by taking freedom from anyone.

Filling people with terror only makes the battle harder, stronger, longer. Nothing is gained. More is lost. It doesn’t matter who we are, where we come from, what religion we practice, or the strength of our economy – we must listen and be heard. We must respect. Only then will freedom ring loud enough for us all.