Upon arrival to the school grounds, the children saw Catherine* and smiled their big toothed grins; puffs and circles of red fog were created from the dust they kicked up with their heels as they jumped up and down calling her name. They skipped along beside us. I made funny faces and squinted at them, which made them giggle, and then they skittered away as we turned the corner and vanished from sight. We needed to go to Catherine's host family house first, so she could change out of her jeans into a skirt, to teach. It is not appropriate for a woman to move about her day in such casual attire. Note: (I had on cream colored riding pants, the riding pants I wore every day to the stables to ride Midnight - the horse I rented in South Africa. They are my Africa pants. I donned cowboy boots, and a black jogging jacket. Hopefully, my respectful greetings and wide welcoming eyes excused my laziness to "dress" that day).
We entered the school grounds around lunch time and it was the usual hustle and bustle of school children running and playing, chasing one another, demonstrating their impatience as they waited their turn to hop on this old fashioned sort of carousel ride that looked so inviting I also wanted a turn to spin, spin, spin around fast like that. All the children had on red and white checkered shirts. They looked like a hundred moving picnic tables. The girls wore blue skirts or jumpers, the boys blue shorts. It is hot outside. Hot! And Catherine and I sit with our bums balanced on a wooden beam, baking like geikos in the sun. We are waiting to enter P6, where she will teach her class. We are talking about the project she is facilitating at the school, and per usual there are a number of obstacles and "bumps in the road" she must handle in order to see this project through to its end. Children are gathering around us because I made eye contact with a couple of little girls. I began moving my head in a muppet-like bobbing motion that indicated I wanted to dance. I fixed my eyes beyond them like I was seeing something REALLY interesting in the distance, and twisted my lips in the silly way I do, and I kept on with that head gesture. The few children that witnessed me doing this started to clap their hands, smiling as bright as that hot sunshine, and laughing and giggling, almost uncontrollably. Uh oh, I was drawing a crowd without uttering a single word to them yet. Twenty, thirty more children came running to join in on the fun. Soon most of them were clapping in unison, laughing and egging me on to keep on with my antics, and I do. Doesn't take much! I am a "ham" at heart.
I like kids. I like small people. I think they are interesting. I "get them". I think they know I speak their language, and in my own way, I communicate a side of my spirit with children that is comforting for them, exciting to them, but can be off-putting and/or embarrassing to some adults. Ironically, those same adults who find me embarrassing, have embarrassed me, too.
Adult: "How many children do you have?"
Hope: "I don't have any children."
Adult: "Why not?"
Hope: "I am not sure how to answer your question, except to say, I suppose it was not in the stars for me."
I smile and bite my lip. My eyes well with tears. I feel sad. I am marked as incomplete, not whole, somehow a damaged woman. I feel I have endured a questionable African ritual that will ultimately ex-communicate me from womanhood, from a community, from a world society.
Adult: Bows head. Averts eyes trying to find someone to "save" them from this situation. Change of subject. Excuses themselves to carry on elsewhere. Looks back at me, confounded by this fact they have learned about me.
I forgive them. I understand. I understand more and more these days. And besides, I am getting used to having a version of this conversation in Uganda, as much as I am getting accustomed to being called Muzungu. It is inconceivable to women, men, children, that I am childless. I am anomaly. Story of my life.
I will never be a mother. But I am about to become a sort of "mother"; the God Mother to a child who will be named Charlotte. One of my dearest friends, Scotia, is pregnant and honored me with the request to take on this role of her long awaited, desired child. I have thought about Scotia and "Charlotte" a lot on this trip because of the conversations about children, because of my intense focus on children here. I think about the landscape of what Charlotte's life will be like in contrast to the lives of the Sara's, David's Matthew's, Emmanuel's and Rachel's I have met in Uganda. She will not want for anything. She will have shoes. She will have heart. The "gifts" that will be bestowed upon Charlotte are not detectable in a sonogram, but the very qualities of her being that will serve her well in the big life I know she'll live. Charlotte will most likely be a beauty. If she's lucky she'll get her mother's eyes and lips and hair. (The Father of this child is equally beautiful but we're focusing on women here, people). Charlotte, you will learn what it means to have integrity and grace. Like your mother, you won't want to see suffering. You will be wise and intelligent. And you will be fair and exercise diplomacy. Like your mother, you will be a friend, and a woman of your word (thank you, Scotia). You will be strong and mighty in a quiet, dignified sort of way. You will know what it means to be brave. Yes, you're mother has been brave, oh so brave. And you will have that kind of courage. As the Ugandans say, "You are welcomed." We all await you with open arms. And yes, you are welcomed!
