a bunch of (red) delicious

Sebastian’s Surprise Party: A success! Anna, Daniel, Khwayze, Mex, Labo, and I all secretly collaborated to throw our baby Seby a 20th birthday bash last Saturday night. Anna and I spent the day searching for silly gifts and purchasing cake materials, and worked into the evening mixing and prepping a polka dot topped cake and some extra special chocolate cupcakes (nutella covering, of course.) The fellas acquired massive quantities of various beverages, and Mex graciously hosted the whole shebang at Mexyland. Labo blew up balloons and hung a pink toilet paper “SEB” sign in the studio waiting room, and almost all of the international students arrived around 8 pm to help with the birthday cheer. Despite a few slip ups and obvious hints, Seb was completely surprised by everything, and the night was an incredible concoction of sweet treats and loud beats. Dancing, spontaneous jam sessions, and a copious amount of happiness all put me to sleep rather early (I wandered into dream land while curled up beneath a desk in the studio – despite the noise) and Daniel and I left on the high notes of Rafa’s improvisational piano magic.

Return to Kamogelo: Wednesday morning, after my nine am class let out, Seb and I hopped the usual pattern of combis on a trek to Kamogelo. I wasn’t sure if school had started yet (I knew it was sometime in September,) but we decided to take the chance and see. Luckily, we were rewarded with the amazed stares of the children (who probably thought I was gone for good) and the happy “Dumela!”s from the teachers. It was an incredible rush to have the kids pile on top of me again, and I was overwhelmed by how much I had missed them.

It was also astounding to see how much some of them had changed in a month. Chris proudly stuck his tongue through the gap where his lower front teeth had been, and Francinah was babbling like a brook. Whereas her stares had been silent before, she clung to my hand and gazed adoringly throughout the afternoon, mumbling giddy chants and engaging with the other children in completely natural ways. The teachers had always treated her as if she was mentally challenged, but now she shows almost no signs of difficulty with comprehension. Her fluttering eye lashes and mini seizure-like moments are still visible, but otherwise she seems so much happier and active.

Hopefully, I will be able to return to Kamogelo for at least two hours every Monday and Wednesday – an addition to my schedule that I think will help break up the monotony that I sometimes feel looming.

Penn: I miss it. I miss each and every stone on Locust Walk, that crazy back-to-school excitement, the night outings and loud reunions and comfortable CLICK of a perfect place. I knew that being gone for a semester would be hard, and it is. Facebook doesn’t help me forget how much I’m missing in Philadelphia, and no matter the wonderful things I find here, I can’t help but yearn a little for Elmo and Houston and food carts and the Green.

Muffins: Now that Anna and I co-own our very own muffin tray (a cake pan too!) we have embarked on a glorious baking binge. Last week we made killer whole wheat banana muffins, and today we’re going to try a variation on the recipe, adding dates. Oh, the wonder of molded cooking trays! The possibilities are endless. We are self-sufficient. We are bakers.

Red Delicious Apples: I CRAVE. I dream. I spend at least 20% of my 24 hours salivating and fantasizing about the crunch of a bigger-than-your-hand, perfectly ripe, juicy, sweet, shiny red apple. Of all the food that I miss from back home, this Delicious tops the list. The thought of four more months without once sinking my teeth into this tree-grown treasure is really devastating. Yes, there are kiwi. There are pineapple. There are even pears. But apples? Johnny Appleseed didn’t make it this far, at least not with the good ones.

Michael Dignake: Thursday morning, Seb and I were treated by a two hour lecture/Q&A by Michael Dignake, a Motswana who was central to the ANC’s struggle against apartheid, and who was jailed with Mandela at Robben Island. Our Politics of South Africa professor (a baller himself,) had invited Mr. Dignake to speak, and it was an incredible opportunity to hear a first person account of events we’ve been learning about.

The Fresh Movement: Wednesday evening, Seb, Anna, Arnhild, and I attended a meeting of the UB Writers Workshop, otherwise known as “The Fresh Movement.” It was held in a big conference room, and I was surprised to see the group grow to over fifty people (maybe more). What was usually a group forum for writers to present their work and receive critique, this night transformed into a two and a half hour open mic session. The room was charged with energy, and all sorts of people and poets stepped forth to sing a song, drop a rhyme, or read some prose. There was a lot of hilarity (I don’t know where some of these acts came from), and also a lot of breath-holding moments (AIDS, heartbreak, disappointment – subjects that poetry begs to hold). I stood up and read something of my own as well, and it was a great feeling to introduce myself to new people, not just by presenting my face, but my words as well. Each day, I become more and more convinced that this is a nation of poets and emcees, because it is a rare circumstance in which I can’t find one, two, ten, or fifty present.

Finally: I’ve been feeling guilty lately and I think it merits a confession: Despite all of the above and before, I haven’t fallen in love with Gabs. When I walk around in the sunshine, my skin tingling with the heat, staring down at the glass speckled sand and measuring the length of the shadows cast by plants passed, I have the urge to apologize to the things around me. “Little cactus,” I mumble with dry lips and thick tongue, “I’m sorry that your green isn’t enough for me.” And to the birds that chirp in the still morning space between the freedom of darkness and the harsh rays of day, “I am sorry that I don’t always sing along.” It is strange for me to feel so disconnected from the earth, the very ground on which I walk, and the flora that buds gawky and sharp and brittle. But perhaps I need not apologize – I’m sometimes more than certain that my feelings are reciprocated, that this cracked land isn’t satisfied with me either. The grass has never padded my step or embraced me in a breezy fold, nor have the trees ever graced me with a rain of petals. It is me and the earth and we are not exactly cooperating. I haven’t passed judgments or pronounced ultimatums – I understand that all relationships develop differently. However, I’m hoping that a greater sense of place and comfort develops sooner rather than later, because this feeling of situational disconnect is both new and disgruntling.