Ekiliokit lokatutubet: Half Way Man

Life is good.

My kiddos, well some of the 25,000.

Lunch!

I pedal down the dirt road unable to use my seat because the recent rains washed away the smooth surface of the road; a million bumps now frustrate my morning commute. A gust of wind whips the dust into a cyclone and moves towards me. Do I throw myself into the swamp? Do I hold my breath? No, I wipe my lips of the Bert’s Bees Lip Balm I applied before leaving the house and continue to pedal. Without thinking, I blow a bubble just as I make contact with the cyclone. As soon as I return the popped gum into my mouth, I hear the grit on my teeth.

“I’m such a fool. Great job, Omoding,” I say to myself as I spit my gum into the bush.

For my 6th grade birthday, my mother bought tickets to “Cats.” It was the year of Rum Tum Tugger, Deuteronomy and Jezebel. I ate lunch in Mr. Thompson’s classroom with friends while listening to the soundtrack, imagining my own rebirth. It took a few more years, but I got there.

Grandpa chewed his gum with an open mouth on the way to the theater. He processed at least a pack a day in both cigarettes and chewing gum until he died a few months later. His face soured and he rolled the window down, disposing of the flavorless piece by throwing it as far as his elbow would allow in my mother’s compact car.

“Dad, you can’t just throw your gum like that! It’s littering,” my mom scolded as she drove down the road.

“Jesus, LuAnn. It’s biodegradable. It’ll break down. Dust to dust,” my grandfather laughed and rolled up his window, smoothing his gray hair back into place.

I hope my hair goes with me to the grave.

“Yeah, in years,” my mother countered sarcastically. I sat in the backseat and chuckled. Children should never start an argument with their parents expecting to win. It rarely happens.

I cracked the window and let my gum fly into the spring breeze, feeling mischievous and aligned with grandpa’s philosophy. “Dust to dust,” I whispered.

-[-]-

African time is something completely different from the American reservation system. At home, if you’re late for a reservation on a Saturday night, you lose your table. Here I am, reading Water For Elephants, my second hour of waiting for the Ministry of Education officials to arrive and facilitate a workshop concerning education in war-ravaged areas. Yes, I live in a war-ravaged area.

Well into the third hour, the officials arrive and begin their program, which will last for 6 hours. No meeting should last this long. I certainly don’t; I stand and make my way to the exit, bound for fresh air when – “Yes? You need to leave?” the facilitator asks, clearly keeping tabs on the only white person in the meeting. In fact, the cameraman came to take a picture of the whitey for record purposes. It made me feel like a monkey. “You’re disturbing the workshop.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. I was the first to arrive. I silenced my phone while watching countless others begin conversing in the middle of the conference. Could being white be a disturbance? My disturbance is bullshit.

“Zoe, I can’t believe you just said that. I’m dying of laughter over here!” I whispered in between convulsions of laughter at my stand partner’s humor. Orchestra was a favorite subject because Zoe and I laughed the horrors of high school away behind our music stand. She began a follow-up to her quip, “I’m just saying—“

“Are you two alright or do I need to move you? Adam, you really need to stop all the disruption in class. Some of us are serious musicians. I know you are with us, now show me you are with us,” our conductor/ teacher scolded as I bit my lips to prevent a malevolent smile from shining through. She tapped her stand and we raised our instruments, ready to begin another round of “Hoe Down.”

“Yeah, Adam. Show some sophistication. After all, this is a ho down.” Zoe whispered as she brought her viola to her chin. However, this time we both started laughing and our scrolls nearly knocked into each other.

Without stopping the orchestra, the conductor screamed at us, “You’re fulfilling the violist stereotypes, you two. Be serious.”

“Yeah, Zoe. Be serious. This is a serious piece of music.”

“More like a serious piece of something else!”

-[-]-

When I first moved to the village, I realized I needed to change the locks on my doors. I was not the only holder of keys and people felt at-home enough to storm into my home to keep me company. I didn’t want company, I wanted privacy. That week, I walked to the trading center and brought a carpenter to complete the work. The next morning, I awoke and walked to my bathing area, keys in hand. I turned the key in the lock and . . . nothing happened. It wouldn’t turn. I began trying to force the lock to budge. After thirty minutes, my fingers started to tingle with pain. Children who escaped from class gathered around me as I shook the door and started to cry. Their laughs grew louder and I turned in fury, “Go the fuck away!”

After my outburst, I sat down on the ground, head in hands, and sobbed, “I can’t do this. What the fuck am I doing? I can’t do this!.” That was the last time I truly broke down in Uganda. After fifteen minutes of hysterics, I convinced myself to continue with my day, without bathing, and I stood up to go and dress. After all, would anyone notice? I couldn’t care less.

Every month, TPS held a dance in the Main Ballroom of the Memorial Union. Without much of a budget, the music blared to a room devoid of any inclination of celebration. No decorations except the sparkles on the clothing of those in attendance. The tighter the jeans, the better. My group of friends always arrived a stone’s throw from the porcelain goddess, a consequence of pre-barring. The night was unforgettable. Somehow, we all seemed to wake up the next morning on the floor of a friend’s apartment unable to recall the occurrences of the dance.

The TPS dances are no more, I think. Their budget ran out thanks, in part, to their underage drinkers passing out in the lobby.

“Wake up, G. Sleeping the whole day away is not an option,” Jesse shook me in an effort to bring me back to life after too much Malibu.

“I need food in my system if I’m going to make it out again tonight.”

“I’m never drinking again. I swear. Never again. I feel like death. Let me die!” I groaned as he walked into the kitchen and poured a glass of water.

“You won’t die, drama queen. Drink this. We’re going to get breakfast. Now.”

“Fine. But they better have hash browns,” I said as I gulped the water, suddenly realizing we were one shorter than last night. “Where the hell is Elliot?”

“You know how he is at TPS dances. I shouldn’t have to remind you every time.”

“So, that is why we slept in the living room. I’d apologize for not remembering, but isn’t that part of the TPS experience? Jesus, Jesse. Stop being such a bitch,” I flashed my evil grin at Jesse as he pulled on his shoes.

He immediately turned and cackled, “Correction. Diablo. I’m Diablo. Now, let’s go.” I stood up and caught my balance just as Jesse threw shoes at my head. Despite his tormenting, I considered Jesse a great friend. We ate together a few times a week and studied at the Law Library often, always finding things to talk about.

I pulled on my coat and headed for the door when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. “Wait. Last night, before we went out, what did we do?” I asked as I tried to brush the glitter out of my hair and off my face.

“Get over it. We’re out of here. Bye, Elliot!” he screamed and slammed the door. “It’s not like anyone will notice.” “Ha. Sure. One look and they’ll think . . .”

“Let them think what they want. We had a great night,” Jesse screamed at the traffic as we stepped outside, a patch of snow mysteriously bright red, the color of someone’s vomit.

“Did we? I don’t really remember.”

-[-]-

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