Let me introduce myself. My name is Tara and I recently moved from my home of 10 years, New York City, to my new home; Jinja, Uganda. In the last 3 months, I have become a wife, a mother, and a non-profit program director. In short, you can say that I have had alot of adjusting to do....and it is not done yet. I wish I had started writing in this blog back in the fall, during my last months as a costume tailor in the entertainment industry....while I was moving out of my 8-year apartment, working as much as possible, and saying goodbye to my friends. But, then again, maybe it is best to just start now, sparing you the ups and downs of that time.
So, about the title...
Last summer, while I was busy falling in love with Grace, my now husband, we went to visit his mom periodically. To say that his life and mine while growing up were different is a HUGE understatement! When you see the photos of adorable African children in tattered clothing, playing with bike tires and sticks, and sleeping on mats, that is him. When you see American girls in pigtails, with Barbies, riding in a car and going to the local pool and roller rink, that is me.
Grace comes from a family of 11 children, in a village called Lwanda. His mom still lives in the brick, tin-roofed, mud-surrounded house of his youth. She has a separate smaller hut for cooking, and a hut made of sticks and packed-mud that my man built when he was a teenager...I lovingly refer to it as his "puberty hut"...because it is a way for village pubescents to assert their independence...their man-hood, if you will. By the way, his mom talks often of us moving in there...she refers to it as "Tara's house"....which, my family, when they were here for our wedding, found HILARIOUS!! Here is a picture of my family looking in the hut, and another of me looking nervously around "My" house. ha!
Needless to say, we have VERY different backgrounds....and this is a source of constant amusement and interest...and the occasional "issue" or annoyance. I am sure you will hear much more about these differences if you continue following my blog. So, one night we took Grace's mom, Edith, out for dinner in town. We had a hard time conversing at first--me sitting with my Lusoga verb sheet and piecing together simple sentences like, "I want to learn Lusoga slowly slowly", and her smiling kindly at my attempts (That sentence is my current catch-phrase by the way, getting lots of laughs, and respect funny enough, from the locals I use it on) Grace was reluctantly translating for us, trying his hardest not to edit both sides with his own commentary.
And, at some point in the evening, the topic turned to chicken. Edith made a grimace-y face and shook her head, looking away from all of us in disapproval. I was confused by this, and my usual flood-of-questions came pouring out...why did your mom respond like that? Does she not like chicken? etc. When he could get a word in edge-wise, Grace revealed that his mom actually WON'T eat chicken. I was even MORE confused and kept asking questions....but why? Does she believe it is wrong? Do women still believe this? Did your sisters eat chicken? Is she shocked that I eat it?
To spare you the tedious back-and-forth of these "lost-in-translation" conversations, I will sum it up like this: Edith's generation grew up believing that women simply DON'T eat chicken. It just isn't done. It is taboo. And, when pressed, she is not even sure herself why that is. It might be like the belief here that if a woman rides a bicycle, she is not a virgin....or, in a local slum of the Karamajong tribe, that using a latrine can give you HIV. But, she has never eaten chicken, and never will...even after Grace telling her that it is okay and that if she wants some, she should try it. Even, after cooking it for her family, including the girls. Even after acknowledging that it is okay for other women, aka ME, just not for her.
I guess it is just "one of those things" here in Africa....something you simply have to take for what it is....if you try to analyze it or rationalize it, you will just grow more and more confused, or downright frustrated.
And, for me...it is just learning about my new environment, my new family, and my new life. Some things you just have to take at face value, laugh, and move on.
So, about the title...
Last summer, while I was busy falling in love with Grace, my now husband, we went to visit his mom periodically. To say that his life and mine while growing up were different is a HUGE understatement! When you see the photos of adorable African children in tattered clothing, playing with bike tires and sticks, and sleeping on mats, that is him. When you see American girls in pigtails, with Barbies, riding in a car and going to the local pool and roller rink, that is me.
Grace comes from a family of 11 children, in a village called Lwanda. His mom still lives in the brick, tin-roofed, mud-surrounded house of his youth. She has a separate smaller hut for cooking, and a hut made of sticks and packed-mud that my man built when he was a teenager...I lovingly refer to it as his "puberty hut"...because it is a way for village pubescents to assert their independence...their man-hood, if you will. By the way, his mom talks often of us moving in there...she refers to it as "Tara's house"....which, my family, when they were here for our wedding, found HILARIOUS!! Here is a picture of my family looking in the hut, and another of me looking nervously around "My" house. ha!
Needless to say, we have VERY different backgrounds....and this is a source of constant amusement and interest...and the occasional "issue" or annoyance. I am sure you will hear much more about these differences if you continue following my blog. So, one night we took Grace's mom, Edith, out for dinner in town. We had a hard time conversing at first--me sitting with my Lusoga verb sheet and piecing together simple sentences like, "I want to learn Lusoga slowly slowly", and her smiling kindly at my attempts (That sentence is my current catch-phrase by the way, getting lots of laughs, and respect funny enough, from the locals I use it on) Grace was reluctantly translating for us, trying his hardest not to edit both sides with his own commentary.
And, at some point in the evening, the topic turned to chicken. Edith made a grimace-y face and shook her head, looking away from all of us in disapproval. I was confused by this, and my usual flood-of-questions came pouring out...why did your mom respond like that? Does she not like chicken? etc. When he could get a word in edge-wise, Grace revealed that his mom actually WON'T eat chicken. I was even MORE confused and kept asking questions....but why? Does she believe it is wrong? Do women still believe this? Did your sisters eat chicken? Is she shocked that I eat it?
To spare you the tedious back-and-forth of these "lost-in-translation" conversations, I will sum it up like this: Edith's generation grew up believing that women simply DON'T eat chicken. It just isn't done. It is taboo. And, when pressed, she is not even sure herself why that is. It might be like the belief here that if a woman rides a bicycle, she is not a virgin....or, in a local slum of the Karamajong tribe, that using a latrine can give you HIV. But, she has never eaten chicken, and never will...even after Grace telling her that it is okay and that if she wants some, she should try it. Even, after cooking it for her family, including the girls. Even after acknowledging that it is okay for other women, aka ME, just not for her.
I guess it is just "one of those things" here in Africa....something you simply have to take for what it is....if you try to analyze it or rationalize it, you will just grow more and more confused, or downright frustrated.
And, for me...it is just learning about my new environment, my new family, and my new life. Some things you just have to take at face value, laugh, and move on.
