Home Takes Time

I'm an Army Brat... So all in all, my move to Ha Selomo has been my twelth in my lifetime, and my second as an adult, living on my own. Needless to say, I'm not new to the concept of being the "new-comer" in a community. If anything, I thrive on it. I love the adventure of a new place... Exploring the local hot-spots, meeting new neighbors, finding a nitch, giving something back to a new community. It's thrilling and rewarding. Moving makes me feel like my life is moving forward in a positive way.

But even with all of my moves... Friends I've waved goodbye to, new houses I've had to make into homes, and akward moments as the "new kid on the block"... My most recent move to Ha Selomo has, for somewhat obvious reasons, been the most difficult. Obviously the logistics involved in "moving" (as if it was some quick and easy drive across town to a new house) to Lesotho have been quite the ordeal, in and of themselves... Two years of applications, one international flight with 30 strangers (soon-to-be-family, whether you like it or not!), two over-stuffed luggage bags, nine weeks of intense and exhausting PC training, one new culture, one new language, two rural villages, two new host families, a few hours on a van, and countless random bags and boxes (seriously, finding a good sturdy box around here is like the ultimate treasure hunt!) full of two years worth of possessions.... And voila! Welcome to your new home!

AND this is where I think I went wrong... And boy, was Lesotho ready and willing to teach me yet another lesson! All of these logistical checkmarks on my ever-growing to-do-list, do not a home make. Of course, I somehow knew this... Yet over the past few weeks in Ha Selomo, I've found myself more frustrated than perhaps during any other move I've previously experienced. And not with the culture, or lanuguage, or lack of amenities, or my new Basotho neighbors whose customs are so different from my own at times... But with myself.

I think I thought that because I was an Army Brat, OR had a Master's degree in Anthropology, OR was relatively well-traveled for my age, OR had really taken the time to prepare myself, mentally and emotionally, for this journey... I think I thought that maybe this transition would be natural for me? That since I was "meant to do this" is would somehow be easier for me. That maybe, just maybe, culture shock would be lessened by my preparations. WRONG. Lesson #1: I don't care if you are Margaret Meade herself... There is nothing easy, simple, or natural about being thrust into a foreign culture. I did everything Peace Corps asked of me... Including the part about having no expectations about your new home and culture. The problem is, I had far too many (and too high) expectations for myself.

I am and was no more prepared to face this experience than any other human being. Yet in moments when I felt socially uncomfortable, OR did not want to leave my house for fear of MORE questions and staring, OR got tongue-tied trying to find the words to explain myself in Sesotho- I blamed myself. I grew impatient with my own imperfections... I grew more and more frustrated with my inability to immediately be "right at home" in this new place. If only I could speak better Sesotho, or if I was more-outgoing and less introverted... If only I was better... Different. Maybe this would feel like home already. But I was wrong to be impatient with myself... So instead, I'm learning to let go.

After Christmas break and countless, much-needed, debrief sessions with my PC friends, I've come to a new perspective on this experience... I've decided to embrace the fact that I am who I am. I am still me- just ME in Lesotho, instead of ME in America. I can't change the fact that this is NOT the culture I was raised in, and so a million simple, tiny things on any given day feel different to me here. This doesn't feel like "my home" because it's not necessarily meant to be. And that's not my fault... In fact, it's no one's fault. It just is. (Welcome to the real-life experience of the importance of "culture" that no graduate degree in Anthropology can truly teach you!) I can't change the fact that I am an introvert. I was one in America, and I was going to be one here... So expecting that I am never going to tire of people asking me questions, or touching me, or staring at me 24/7, when I'm doing nothing more interesting than walking to the shopong to buy eggs, is completely unreasonable. I didn't appreciate "social overload" situations in America (And let's face it, my life here feels like one slightly uncomfortable and mistranslated social situation after another! Haha)- So I shouldn't feel guilty about not being out "integrating into my community," when I need a few hours of "me time." I have to be honest and patient with myself.

And this is perhaps the part of the story where I should be honest in saying that, despite all of the above mentioned frustrations, Ha Selomo is legitimately wonderful. My Basotho neighbors are, without a doubt, some of the most welcoming people I have ever met. I'm beyond excited to start teaching on January 28th (what in the world I'm going to do until then, is another question!) It doesn't quite feel like "home" yet, but I know it will soon... And I don't think I really knew that until yesterday.

Yesterday was the first time that I really thought, "This is MY village now, too." I went to church for the first time with a neighbor of mine, Keke... Being in church again, apart from being therapuetic for me personally, reminded me of what I fell in love with in Kenya, and why I waited so long to come back to Africa. There's just something about the cacophony of musical harmonies that fills the air and engulfs you until you can sense nothing but that moment in time. You are nothing but sensation- the sway of bodies crammed closely together, the shouts of joy and rhythmic clapping that seems so omnipresent you aren't certain if the noise came from you or someone else, the complete spontaneity and abandon of worship... Everyone is a sinner, and everyone is the preacher. It was the first time I felt I was a part of their community... Right in the middle of the group emotion and celebration. And in that moment, it felt like home to me for the first time.

Later in the afternoon, several of the local teenage girls and I sat around on my Ntate's porch and watched the village men play soccer. They giggled about boys, and whispered about village gossip. The men ran back and forth from the field to us, where I'd placed a pitcher and a bucket of water from the pump. It was a scorching hot Sunday afternoon, so the bo-Me (women) had nothing better to do than wander over to see me... And thanks to the presence of a few willing teenage translators, I was actually able to have real conversations with my neighbors. I told them about America, and they told me what color and design they think my next seschweschwe (traditional Basotho dress) should be. It was a good moment.

I baked fresh bohobe (bread) and peach cobbler, using peaches the Chief, Moena Moshoeshoe, had given me the day before.... And later in the evening, I went to visit my friend/IL (Introductory Liason), Phepheng, and her ohoono (grandmother) to take them cobbler and transplant a few of their strawberry plants to my garden. I walk through the village now, and people don't just know my name- occassionally I can remember theirs. The children don't simply stare anymore; they attempt a timid, "Hello" or "Bye-bye" to me in English (Because that's the rule- You come to visit Me' Limpho, you have to try to speak English! Haha). It was a day of a dozen little realizations or moments, that added up to a singular feeling of contentment... With myself, and with my place in Ha Selomo.

Things are getting better... And it's not my home yet, but it will be. I will know I've succeeded when I go away for a weekend, and can't wait to "come home" at the end of it. That's the moment I'm now PATIENTLY waiting for... Because sometimes "home takes time."