Awhile back in Tanzania, I bought some ibitengi with Obama's face on it. It came in two pieces-- I'm saving one for when I get back to America but have been using the other as an all-purpose wrap for doing "works at home."
I'm torn as to whether I should feel patriotic or treasonous while wearing it. One the one hand, you can't get much more American than wearing your president's face around your house all day. But on the other hand, I am frequently wiping my dirty hands, spilling food, or sitting on Obama's face. Hero or traitor? This could very well be the Supreme Court's toughest case yet. I can just picture it:
In the case of Howell vs. America, the prosecution will now present its evidence. Witnesses state that the defendant did willing, and repeatedly, make remarks and actions of questionable patriotism with reference to her wearing of the president's likeness on her posterior region. Some examples highlighted include, but are not limited to:
1. On January 18th, 201, the defendant did unthinkingly wipe her avocado-smeared hand across the president's face, followed by fully three minutes of helpless laughter by the realization that a particularly large green glob was positioned directly below the commander in chief's left nostril. The defendant was heard to remark aloud, "Why Mr. President, snot a smart look for you!"
2. On February 7th, 2012, phone records show that the defendant send a text message to an unknown recipient, stating "I'm stargazing on Obama's face!" The Secret Service was quickly alerted, only to discover the president safely in a cabinet meeting. Satellite imagery later revealed that the defendant was, in fact, sitting outside on her ibitengi, gazing up at the constellations. Still, the cost to the taxpayers of mobilizing the Secret Service for such a false alarm cannot be overstated. The public cries out for justice.
3. On February 13th, 2012, the defendant did, while using her ibitengi in the course of ordinary domestic chores, spill a small portion of bleach across the president's likeness. The prosecution acknowledges that such an accident is not, in and of itself, worth mentioning; however, inside sources reveal that the defendant then comtemplated sending a text message to the aforementioned unknown recipient, reading "Hahaha, I just made Obama white." Furthermore, the same source can authoritatively state that the defendant was only prevented from taking such reprehensible action by a lack of airtime.
4. Finally, the prosecution has irrefutable evidence that on February 21st, 2012, the defendant did, while wearing her ibitengi as a cape, spend fully thirty minutes standing next to a hole in her wall, killing termites with a shoe and gleefully proclaiming, "Captain America demands that you die!"
The prosecution rests its case.
I don't think the defense can make an adequate rebuttal in the face of all that evidence. I just hope I can keep up with my blogging from federal prison...
Friday 24 February 2012
Friday 17 February 2012
Muffins and Musings
Next week marks the 16 month anniversary of my arrival in Rwanda. I know that some people read Peace Corps blogs expecting tales of adversity and epiphany...well, this week I had my own moment of quiet reflection, and thought I would share.
It came from what we PCVs like to call "student gems." That's when a student writes something that isn't quite correct, but is still somehow true. As I sat at home, grading exercises on antonyms, I stumbled upon this unexpected revelation: "A ship is not the muffin." It was such a profoundly simple statement, yet so profoundly...right. You can't argue with its logic: a ship IS not the muffin. Why, just a few weeks back, I bought a muffin in Kigali and sat staring at it in utter bewilderment for fully five minutes. Should I butter it? Should I set sail on it? What if pirates try to snatch my muffin? How will I defend it? What if I want my ship toasted? Can I outfit raisins in the hull? And why is it A ship and THE muffin? Is there only one muffin that a ship cannot be?
So, this little blog post goes out to all my fellow Ed 2 PCVs. Here's to the last sixteen months--sometimes we love out jobs, sometimes we want to quit, sometimes we find inspiration where we least expect it. And sometimes, just sometimes, if we're lucky, we can have out ship and eat muffins too.
It came from what we PCVs like to call "student gems." That's when a student writes something that isn't quite correct, but is still somehow true. As I sat at home, grading exercises on antonyms, I stumbled upon this unexpected revelation: "A ship is not the muffin." It was such a profoundly simple statement, yet so profoundly...right. You can't argue with its logic: a ship IS not the muffin. Why, just a few weeks back, I bought a muffin in Kigali and sat staring at it in utter bewilderment for fully five minutes. Should I butter it? Should I set sail on it? What if pirates try to snatch my muffin? How will I defend it? What if I want my ship toasted? Can I outfit raisins in the hull? And why is it A ship and THE muffin? Is there only one muffin that a ship cannot be?
So, this little blog post goes out to all my fellow Ed 2 PCVs. Here's to the last sixteen months--sometimes we love out jobs, sometimes we want to quit, sometimes we find inspiration where we least expect it. And sometimes, just sometimes, if we're lucky, we can have out ship and eat muffins too.
Friday 10 February 2012
A Very Unlucky Weekend
Superstition has it that bad things happen in threes. In Rwanda, irksome things happens in threes. To my face.
Somedays, the universe sends you an unequivocal sign that you should just crawl back under your mosquito net and stay there all weekend. I received one such omen last Friday and foolishly chose to ignore it.
Rwanda is excellent bird-watching territory. There's a dazzling variety of colors, shapes, and sizes flitting about. Some volunteers are proud to have identified as many as 13 different species. But what the guidebooks unanimously fail to mention is that the birds of Rwanda are equally adept at spotting you.
The back window in my living room room overlooks the nearby valley and banana groves. In true Peace Corps fashion, I can spend hours standing there, staring out it, watching the mist come in and recede across the hills.
It's also the best source of light in my house, so of course I lurk next to it while doing my morning hygiene routine. Apparently, my lurking skills aren't quite up up to skulk, because last Friday I was viciously attacked. In the face. By a hummingbird. On the plus side, I decided to claim it as a new species. So next time you're in Rwanda and a hummingbird dive-bombs you, you my dear friends, have just positively identified the Howellus Intheface-us. Most bird-watchers go their whole lives without catching so much as a glimpse of this rare and dangerous avian. For those who do encounter it, its sharp feet and pointy beak often it the last thing they ever glimpse.
The trials of my face continued the next day at the Ministry of Justice. I'm involved with a really awesome program to teach English to the judges and staff at the Supreme Courts of Rwanda. And it gives me a perfect excuse to shout "lawyered," even if only in my head.
So there I was, revising prepositions of location, with a room full of professional adults, feeling quite professional (if slightly precarious myself) in my high heels, when the fold-out whiteboard abruptly collapsed. Into my face. It was, however, a great teaching moment. Howe often can the phrase "the whiteboard is on my face" be both true and applicable to the lesson?
By Sunday, I was firmly gripped by paranoia. And I was going to be spending most of the day on buses. Vomit seemed likely to be the crowning glory of my unholy trinity of facial unpleasantness. But I made it back to my village completely unscathed. My nose didn't even get sunburned. I got smug. Complacent. I let my guard down. I made tea on my petrol stove. A giant fireball exploded in my face. Thankfully, my eyebrows remained intact, even if my dignity was slightly singed.
So, I will no longer scoff in the face of superstition. Monday passed without a single facial incident. It would seem my bad luck has run its course...for now, at least. Although I did stub my toe on a goat this morning...
Somedays, the universe sends you an unequivocal sign that you should just crawl back under your mosquito net and stay there all weekend. I received one such omen last Friday and foolishly chose to ignore it.
Rwanda is excellent bird-watching territory. There's a dazzling variety of colors, shapes, and sizes flitting about. Some volunteers are proud to have identified as many as 13 different species. But what the guidebooks unanimously fail to mention is that the birds of Rwanda are equally adept at spotting you.
The back window in my living room room overlooks the nearby valley and banana groves. In true Peace Corps fashion, I can spend hours standing there, staring out it, watching the mist come in and recede across the hills.
It's also the best source of light in my house, so of course I lurk next to it while doing my morning hygiene routine. Apparently, my lurking skills aren't quite up up to skulk, because last Friday I was viciously attacked. In the face. By a hummingbird. On the plus side, I decided to claim it as a new species. So next time you're in Rwanda and a hummingbird dive-bombs you, you my dear friends, have just positively identified the Howellus Intheface-us. Most bird-watchers go their whole lives without catching so much as a glimpse of this rare and dangerous avian. For those who do encounter it, its sharp feet and pointy beak often it the last thing they ever glimpse.
The trials of my face continued the next day at the Ministry of Justice. I'm involved with a really awesome program to teach English to the judges and staff at the Supreme Courts of Rwanda. And it gives me a perfect excuse to shout "lawyered," even if only in my head.
So there I was, revising prepositions of location, with a room full of professional adults, feeling quite professional (if slightly precarious myself) in my high heels, when the fold-out whiteboard abruptly collapsed. Into my face. It was, however, a great teaching moment. Howe often can the phrase "the whiteboard is on my face" be both true and applicable to the lesson?
By Sunday, I was firmly gripped by paranoia. And I was going to be spending most of the day on buses. Vomit seemed likely to be the crowning glory of my unholy trinity of facial unpleasantness. But I made it back to my village completely unscathed. My nose didn't even get sunburned. I got smug. Complacent. I let my guard down. I made tea on my petrol stove. A giant fireball exploded in my face. Thankfully, my eyebrows remained intact, even if my dignity was slightly singed.
So, I will no longer scoff in the face of superstition. Monday passed without a single facial incident. It would seem my bad luck has run its course...for now, at least. Although I did stub my toe on a goat this morning...
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