Prone to Wander.

I have moved!

2010-10-28T15:47:00.000Z

Buenos dias!

Most of you probably already know by now, but I've started a joint blog with my bearded boy and will be chronicling my Ecuadorian adventuras at Our Vagrant Life. Someday this blog may be resurrected but for now it is taking a hiatus.

Please join the new blog, follow our adventures, and leave comments liberally!

Hasta pronto!

The Human Trafficking Project

2010-07-15T15:20:00.004Z

I recently became a contributing writer for The Human Trafficking Project, a blog that aims to offer education and awareness about human trafficking issues to readers on a daily basis. It's a really easy and quick way to stay connected to what is happening globally in regards to various aspects of the trafficking world. Some writers focus on labor trafficking, some on what US citizens can do to lessen our unintentional compliance with traffickers, while others like me will focus on sex slavery and prostitution.

Once I am in Ecuador, I will pick up my Prone to Wander blog again - but until then, take 5 minutes out of your Facebook time to get hooked on The Human Trafficking Project!

Bagpipes, Nostalgia and Moving Onward

2010-05-21T18:50:00.003Z

During my final week of college, I was asked to write an article for Jewell's newspaper, the Hilltop Monitor. Of course, I wanted to write a snazzy blog post about this momentous life change but instead have decided to be lazy and plagiarize myself. The reality of leaving Jewell forever and opening a new chapter has not sunk in even a little. When it does, I will attempt to collect my thoughts, but until then:

In eight days I will walk around the Quad for the last time. The bagpipes will play, the professors will nod their heads in approval, and I am not too proud to admit that I will get sad and nostalgic and possibly even weepy. Plus, if Dr. Sallee is giving the commencement speech, how can I keep those tears from flowing? The answer: I cannot.

As I begin my transition out of this little haven of mine, I find myself simultaneously thrilled and terrified - thrilled that I will not have to write any more papers or take any more tests, terrified that I will not know what to do without those papers and tests. In the real world, there will be no Kettle Corn Day and no CUA Formal. I won’t get to walk Dr. Reynolds’ puppy twice a week or skip class to eat lunch with a friend or practice yoga outside with Airam.

The past four years have taught me that, yes, Jewell can be annoying and frustrating, but it can also be a home. It can be a source of wisdom and encouragement. It can be a foundation and a launching pad for future endeavors. If you utilize its resources, build relationships with the professors, faculty and darling cafeteria ladies, and seize the abundance of opportunities that our tiny liberal arts college has to offer, it can become your sanctuary for a time.

Through my experiences at Jewell, I have discovered how to be an activist, a thinker, a questioner and a dreamer. I have grown and transformed into a full-fledged adult through unique and challenging experiences over the past four years thanks to the opportunities that Jewell has provided and the risks I have welcomed.

Jewell has taken me to four continents. I studied Liberation Theology in Central America. I drank coffee with guerrilla fighters in Guatemala. In El Salvador I drove an old beat up truck down a remote highway in the dark with a blind nun instructing me on how to drive a stick shift. In Venezuela, I may (or may not) have lied to immigration in order to get back to my study abroad program in Nicaragua. In Amsterdam, I painfully translated the stories of women who had been forced into sexual slavery. And I revisited the little African village in the mountains of Ghana that forever changed my life and shattered my worldview forever.

Through these travels, I have gained a deeper sense of who I am and who I want to be in the future. I have learned to embrace the uncomfortable and relish in the outlandish experiences that life so readily presents. And ultimately, I have gained a sense of belonging to an adventure greater than myself.

Where to now? Well, in the fall, I will embark on a new chapter of my life - one that will take me far away from my beloved Jewell but much closer to my dreams and passions. I will hop a plane to Ecuador with a lovely curly haired boy. We will live on the beach, eat our weight in avocados, correct an abundance of grammatical errors, hike to Machu Picchu, and maybe even raise some chickens. I will be ever so removed from my little sanctuary here on the Hill, but it is time. I am ready.

Y2K10

2010-01-13T19:47:00.004Z

In the year of our Lord, two thousand ten. Anno Domini. How is that possible? Y2K was ten years ago. An entire DECADE ago. Holy canole.

Last year I wrote an "end of the year" blog reminisicing about the past and dreaming about the future. I had high hopes about 2009. Turns out, those hopes were very, very valid. If I can be so bold to say it, 2009 was my favorite year. I usually prefer even numbered years (cerca 1986) but this odd one blew me away.

I apprehensively moved to Central America in January. I was stubbornly positive that I did not want to make friends or have enough room in my heart for any new relationships. Turns out, I had the time of my life. I made some of the best friends I could ever hope to have in my life. I was inspired day in and day out by the people of Guatemala, El Salvador and Nicaragua. I drank the best coffee in the world. I ate huevos, gallo pinto, platanos and aguacates every single day. I learned how to be vulnerable and open to strangers. I forced myself to break outside of every comfort zone and barrier that I had placed around me, and found that life outside of those obstacles is exactly how I want to live, despite the constant struggle to slip back into the easy. I learned more about social justice, the fight against poverty, the oppression and pain and brokenness that humanity imposes upon each other, the ins and out of free trade agreements and neoliberal policies. And I played drinking games with a nun. Absolutely, hands down one of the most inspiring five months of my life.

And then I came back. Fell in love. Went to Amsterdam for a month. Spoke Spanish. Hung out with prostitutes. Drank wine with the three best friends. Rode a bike like a badass. Faked Dutch. Flew to Hungary. Tasted danger. And finished the Harry Potter series.

My sister and brother-in-law gave birth to the most precious human being I have ever layed eyes on. Noa Violet. She smiles now. And reaches for my nose. My mom bought her a pilot hat that stays on for days because it keeps her ears warm and makes her somehow even more adorable.

In 2009 I can honestly say that I am now most definitely in love. With a man that somehow gets me and my weird quirks and strange sentence structure. He likes my glasses that make my eyes look even larger. Plus, Noa approves. But I do not really want the blogosphere to know too much about this. It is rather sacred.

Also, my mom moved back to America. Tulsa, more specifically. Praise the Lord. I love having her around again. She is teaching at her dream school, a low-income public school that has a need for passionate, genuine and caring teachers like my dear Mama. And she swears that Noa says, "I love Grammy" to her all the time. Noa is 3 months old.

2009 really set the bar high. Bring it on 2010! In the true fashion of YWAM-Amsterdam and their inspiration glittered posters, I'm expecting a miracle.

Noa Violet

2009-10-13T22:33:00.004Z

We gasped. Our eyes welled with tears. My own eyes had been glistening with tears for at least an hour before the moment. I had suppressed them with all of the will I could find, attempting to muster enough strength to put my own excitement and joy aside in calm and collected support of my sister and brother in law.

________

2:04 am. The phone rang. My hand flew toward the nightstand before I had even woken up. As I opened my phone, my heart began to beat faster and faster. Could it be? Had the moment finally arrived?

Hello?

Hi Molly, it's Bhadri.

Oh my gosh. Is it time?

We think Bethanie's water broke.

So... so I should come?

Yes. It's time.

Dammit. I knew I should have filled my tank with gas this evening. See you soon.

I clumsily moved my way about the dark Fairview house at 2 in the morning. I grabbed clothes without thinking, realizing two days later that I had only managed to take three gray colored shirts. Awesome. I made my way to the kitchen where I scribbled a note for my housemates that read, "Sister went into labor. I left at 2:15 am. Will be back Wed or Thurs. Whoa! Love you all." Then for some reason I believed it necessary to bring my turkey sandwich that I had made for the next day's lunch with me.

QuikTrip. 2:15 am. Gas. Coffee. And two large donuts? Why not. I have a long drive ahead of me and the man at the counter already thinks that I am high. Yes, two donuts please. My sister is giving birth right now. Not interested? Fine.

With the turkey sandwich, two large donuts and one terrible cup of coffee riding shot gun, I began the drive home. Wearily but with an excitement I had never known, I turned on the KC hip hop radio station that played music that I can only chalk up to divine inspiration. The smooth tunes of Kanye and Kelly and Avril roused me from my sleep as I drove to the midtown apartment that held my laboring sister.

____________

The pain was gone, though pure and beautiful in its difficulty. The struggle had ended, though worthwhile and deep in its meaning.

My mom collapsed onto a chair burying her hands in her face, not out of embarrassment of any kind but out of a sheer joy. Bhadri smiled and cried and wept as he beamed at his new daughter.

And then there was Beth, somehow even more gorgeous in her post-labor hue. She looked at the little wriggling child that had been such a mystery for nine months. Her baby. And it was love.

Noa Violet Verduzco entered our lives. She flopped onto the bed, gave a little cry and within a second, everyone had fallen in love with her. She was life in the purest form. She was our family.

Welcome, little one, to a world that is not as scary as others might warn you. Welcome to a world that needs you and your life and your beauty. Welcome to a family that, despite all of our flaws and dysfunctionality, will dote on you and will encourage you and frustrate you and convince you that organic foods are better and soccer is the best sport next to frisbee and girls who don't wear make-up are cooler. Welcome to the Verduzco-Bryant clan. Welcome, Noa Violet, we are in love with you and your beauty.

__________________

Amsterdealin'

2009-08-16T17:15:00.003Z

Amsterdam was lovely. Words don't really do my experience justice, as usual, but the five weeks that I spent in that diverse, bustling city full of canals and art and Turkish pizza were incredible, to say the least. I had no idea what to expect, leaving the country once again to embark on my return to Amsterdam, the city that irrevocably changed my life five years ago. I knew that the month had the potential to be life-altering, but it also had the opportunity to simply be a nice experience with some friends. Thankfully, it was the former.

On my final day in Amsterdam, I had two goals: Eat a pancake and make it to the airport on time. Both were accomplished, one with greater enthusiasm than the other. We went to the bike barn, unlocked the bikes and realized that we had a minor problem. We had three bikes for four people. What to do? Ride like the Dutch, that's what. Calley boarded my navy blue Sparta bicycle with a rack on the back, and I hopped upon that rack and held on for dear life. We shakily flew down the narrow and, unfortunately for me, bumpy streets of Amsterdam toward the best pancake house in the world. Calley was a pro, lugging my around on her back wheel, and we felt very local. No one even batted an eye at us, assuming that we were just normal Dutch girls on our way to a business meeting or an outing with friends.

Then came the pancake. A flat doughy cake approximately two times the size of my head. It was everything that I should not eat. Sugar. Ice cream. Chocolate syrup. Whipped Cream. And of course, the healthy ingredient that made it all worthwhile, fresh pears. An elderly American couple saw this massive breakfast of mine, said to me "That is ridiculous!" and then asked if they could take a picture of it. I enthusiastically said, "Of course!" and posed with my final breakfast in Amsterdam. A picture that I will never see but will be passed around that family from person to person, everyone in awe of the size of that massive sugary pastry from a foreign land.

Amsterdam, in a nutshell, was lovely. It was simultaneously encouraging and discouraging, heartwarming and heartbreaking, pleasant and awful, beautiful and dark. It was everything that I could have hoped it to be.

And now I am back in the States, living in a house with four other girls, learning how to homeopathically rid our residence of masses of gnats, feeding Liberty regulars and hyping them up with espresso and coffee at their beckon call. Although I can reminisce about Amsterdam with fond memories, I still haven't dealt with the magnitude of our research or the enormity of emotions that follow such work. Tonight I am going to attempt to lock myself in my room, although only in spirit because my door does not lock, and possibly start the process of dealing with what I have seen and heard in the beautiful city of Amsterdam and the small towns of Hungary.

Goodnight and have a pleasant tomorrow.

Pocahontas is Hungary

2009-07-29T10:02:00.004Z

Disney songs. Overused. Oversung. Over it.

Except Pocahontas. She will forever be my heroine. Not only because I am positive that somewhere in my ancestry we are related, but also because she is a princess who can swan dive off of waterfalls, cradle bear cubs, talk to racoons and single-handedly unite two waring groups out of her very own love for one blond haired, egotistical soldier. But most importantly, she sings songs of wisdom that have inspired me since 1995. I used to sing the ballad "Just Around the Riverbend" with gusto, assuming that some day I would face the same problems that she had. Such as, "Should I marry Kocoum? Is all my dreaming at an end... ooooooor should I still wait for you, Dream Giver?"

Fastfoward to 2009. I am twenty-two years old. I do not listen to the Pocahontas soundtrack on a regular basis; however, I do have it on my iTunes. And when I'm in need of some inspiration, I readily whip out some Native American folklore. Pocahontas sings to me. She tells me that anything is possible, that we shouldn't always follow traditions or expectations. She reminds me that to be safe we lose the chance of ever knowing what's around the riverbend.

What does this have to do with my current situation in Amsterdam? Honestly, not a whole lot. But if I can be so bold as to attempt to connect it, you really never know what's just around the riverbend. As Mother Willow so eloquently expresses in her solo, Listen with your heart. You will understand. And so we follow our hearts. To Hungary.

We have been given the amazing, once in a lifetime opportunity to work with an organization in Budapest, Hungary. And so we booked cheap flights and will cross the continent into the former Soviet bloc country that is still reeling from the devastation of a post-cold war culture and economy. It is a journey that may not immediately change our lives and we might not appreciate the significance of it this weekend... but it's big. 60% of the women trafficked into Amsterdam are from Hungary. It's a new phenomenon and no one has been able to figure out why so many Hungarians, over other Eastern European women, are ending up in the city. And so we pioneer. We pack our tiny bags and head to a country full of mystery.

Was the a roundabout way to inform you of the latest turn in our research? Yes. But was it interesting? Maybe. Embarassingly honest? Absolutely.

Korean Night

2009-07-18T13:27:00.002Z

The aroma of soy sauce and excitement filled the air. Busy hands prepared a feast. Hearts thumped for joy. The nervous anticipation of the greatest night YWAM-Amsterdam has ever witnessed was evident in the demeanor of every individual that had signed up to participate. No one knew what to expect. No one could imagine just how incredible, and unfortunately for you, indescribable the night would turn out to be. We pitied those who signed up too late, and even more, those who had never even heard of tonight. Because tonight was…

Korean Night.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Korean Night. You think you know, but you have no idea…

First, I believe it is appropriate to give you some information to enhance this experience. I am living on a hall of Korean men. They are kind and polite and relatively quiet, save for the one Korean who sings Jason Mraz’s “Geek in Pink” at the top of his lungs on a semi-regular basis. On one of my first mornings as I was getting dressed, I noticed a large shadow appear on my window. Thankfully my curtains were closed but the window was, unfortunately, slightly open. My room is adjacent to the roof which can double as a pseudo-balcony when the mood strikes. And my dear neighbor, a Korean man aged approximately 20 years, had climbed onto the roof and began knocking on my window. I was taken aback. What is this Korean man doing on the roof trying to get into my room? As some of you know may know, I am not the best in situations that may lead to embarrassment of one or more parties, so I casually moved my hand toward the window, attempting to remain out of sight by flattening myself against the wall, and closed the window shut. I thought that this would be the end of our rooftop relationship, but the next day as I was taking a nap, he began knocking again, this time with more force. I pulled the blanket over my head and pretended not to be in the room. I promised after that day, if he knocked on my window again, I would answer it. I would attempt to not be awkward and I would say to him that either A) he has the wrong window or B) do you need to come inside? But he never came back, and so the mystery remains unsolved.

Other than those chance encounters, we say “Hello” and “Good morning!” as we walk past each others’ rooms. We chat about the internet and edit their English notes for them. Clearly, Floor 2 has bonded despite the language barrier, and thus, Calley, LT and I enthusiastically awaited Korean Night 2009.

As we entered the normally bland and undecorated dining room, we were astounded by the transformation that had taken place in honor of our Asian friends. Korean flags with something like origami birds and trees adorned the cloth laden tables in the dining room. Red and white balloons lined the entryway. Sushi, translucent noodles, rice balls filled with spice, and sautéed vegetables painted the blank canvases of our plastic plates. Music heavy with whistles and chimes serenaded our intimate dining experience. Those in charge, and those who got into the Asian sensation spirit, wore Korean flags as capes. The whole dining room was a tribute, an effigy, to the great country.

Immediately following dinner was the real program complete with traditional dancing, a band concert, some type of dance/fighting, and games eerily reminiscent of reality shows made famous by their neighbor to the south, Japan. One game even required all participants to wear aprons, kick a pompon three times in a row, throw a wooden stick into a bucket and then run and jump onto a mattress while blowing out four candles. A relay of relays.

At the end, they all sang a song in Korean and told us that they loved us.

It was and will forever be: Korean Night.

The Red Light District: A Glimpse

2009-07-11T15:02:00.004Z

The Red Light District of Amsterdam. We walked down the main roads and narrow alleys, suppressing emotions of anger and deep disgust. Women, all trapped beyond their glass windows. Their bodies clad in next to nothing. Their faces caked in make-up to hide their tired eyes and beaten cheeks. Parents casually strolled hand in hand with their children, glancing at the women with little interest. Teenagers stopped to gawk. A young girl fixed her mascara in the reflection of an occupied window, seeing only herself and no one inside. Men briskly walked out of the rooms after paying 50 Euros for a body. For pleasure. For an insatiable and unattainable satisfaction.

Those women are laughed at by insensitive and oblivious tourists. Those women are perused and shopped like shoes and purses and light, summer dresses.

So what would I say to that woman in the window? I would tell her that although she may never meet them, she has advocates. Although she may never feel it, she is not alone. Although it may never be manifested in her liberation, there is hope. There is life beyond those windows. There is something more than either of us knows. We are both searching together. We are both looking for worth, value, meaning and, ultimately, love. She is not alone in her suffering. Look around! The whole world is crying out for liberation and redemption. We are all needy and broken. And so I will walk with her. Because I am her.

So join us in the abolition of men, women and children around the world who need you to be aware.

Educate yourself:

http://www.notforsalecampaign.org/

http://www.freetheslaves.net/

http://www.hagarproject.org/

http://www.polarisproject.org/

Cup-a-Soup: Euro Style

2009-07-09T06:46:00.004Z

I am in Amsterdam; my favorite city in the world. It is just as striking and invigorating as I found it was the last time I was here, which just so happens to be a long five years ago. Back in 2004, I came to this city in search of greater understanding and knowledge. It was a trip all-together life changing for little, impressionable, 17-year old Molly. It was integral in my life, pushing me to take risks like leaving home at the age of 18 to live in Africa, and daring me to question beliefs and form my own ideology and thoughts on life. Amsterdam captured me. I fell in love with Amsterdam, fast and hard. For the past five years I have longed to return.
And somehow, someway, I am back. My emotions cannot be contained, my heart desires to delve into the culture and I can't wait to get lost among the canals and winding narrow alleyways. I would choose to be no other place in the world for the month of July 2009. Two of my closest friends and I will be living our dreams, together in Amsterdam.

Onto much more important news...

Cup-a-soup. To you, that image probably conjures up memories of broke college dinners or elementary school lunches. For me, it is glory in a little paper packet. Five years ago, at the age of 17, I sat in my one person room in this same building overlooking a lucious courtyard in a bustling city. I sat on my bed and ate soup. And not just any soup, Cup-A-Soup. Flavor: Kerrie (Curry). I sat on my bed with a mug full of that delicious liquid on the most life changing day of my life (exaggeration? I think not). It became my comfort food for the trip and when I returned, to my utmost horror, I found that Cup-a-Soup America did not in fact supply their customers with my all-time favorite flavor packet. So what's a girl to do when her preservative filled soup box is noticeably absent from the shelves of her local grocery store? Why email Cup-a-Soup, of course! Thus, I emailed those buggers and told them my concern. I knew that they had Kerrie, but where was it? Where could I find it? Could they mail it to me? Their response was kind and thoughtful but disappointing nonetheless. Kerrie is produced only in Europe because the demand is too low in the States. And no, they appreciated my enthusiasm for their product but they could not mail it to me.

And then yesterday we were shopping at Alber Hein- the grocery store- and to my surprise, atop the shelf next to the typical- and let's be honest, boring- soups like broccoli cheddar and chicken noodle sat one lone row of Kerrie. I am back. And it feels oh so nice.

Confession: It is quite likely that Kerrie Cup-a-Soup will taste slightly less incredible this time as my taste has improved and my love for real curry has only increased. That being said, I will update you immediately upon the finishing of my first mug of Kerrie Cup-a-Soup 2009.

Resurrection Fern

2009-06-07T17:59:00.004Z

One month ago I was sipping Cuba Libres in Managua with twenty of my closest friends. We were celebrating the end of final presentations and soaking up the remaining hours of our grand adventure. I was deliberately procrastinating packing the big green backpack that would lead me toward a post-Central American life. Elizabeth and I were sneaking out to the park across from the President's house to play on the teeter totters and make fools of ourselves in front of the young ice cream vendors. Chelsea and I were making plans to bike across the country and have book clubs together and prolong the inevitable goodbyes that were to take place soon. Amy and I were probably pouting. One month ago I was living with the Sandovals. I felt alive.

One month from today, I will be meandering down the cobbled and bike filled streets of Amsterdam. I will view history and art and a brand new culture. I will attempt bits and pieces of the Dutch language from a soon to be bought phrase book. I will live in an Amsterdam all together different from the one I visited five long years ago. I have changed, my perspective on life has been drastically altered and the Molly from 2002 is not the same as today. In one month, I will be in Europe. The Spanish language will not be prevalent and I am sure that I will find myself lost in a culture and language and people that are deep and beautiful. My heart will be broken each day as I walk through the Red Light District. I am going to be immersing myself in brokenness and hurt unlike anything I have ever experienced. And yet... I wouldn't have it any other way.

So as I sit here in my dad's adobe house with lush vegetation and a new lavender plant at my side, I wonder how I got this life. I am living what I have dreamed to live. I am traveling the world, country by country, continent by continent. I get to read books about history and politics. I get to live in the homes of women and men who profoundly change my life. I get to eat tasty foods and drink local beers. I get be outside. I get to study. I get to learn languages. I get to talk with prostitutes and politicians and farmers. And as I do this, as I plunge myself into uncomfortable and all together intimidating situations, I am learning more about the richness of life, the beauty of love and the pain of humanness. How did this happen? I feel like I just might be growing up... maybe.

The Final Days

2009-05-04T23:42:00.003Z

I am trying to find words. Words to explain or express or give a glimpse into my life in Central America. But I can't seem to find these words. This morning I left my Batahola home to move into the house with my eighteen other housemates to share our final week together. Mom, Leo and little Lupita held our hands as we carried our oversized luggage and heavy hearts to the bus. We hugged and kissed and said our temporary goodbyes, knowing that Thursday we would come back with pizza and Coke in hand to have our final dinner together as a familia. We'll watch our telenovelas and gasp with horror as Catalina pushes her ex-boyfriend's car down a hill. We'll play UNO for hours and attempt to get along knowing that cheating is abundant and UNO is serious. We'll eat pizza and marvel in the goodness of cheese. We'll sit on the rocking chairs. We'll say "Lupiiiiiitaaaaa!" over and over and over just to see that cute little smile emerge. We'll let Lola the bird sit on our heads. We'll listen to Dad play guitar and hum. We'll let brother read everything printed on the television screen in a loud, soothing, booming voice. We'll enjoy each other and laugh and giggle and love on each other. And then, some time in the future, maybe distant or maybe closer than I can imagine, we'll get to share it all again.

Meet the kids: Leo. Lupita. Jose Andres.

El Sontule

2009-04-18T19:53:00.003Z

Sandinistas. The Contra War. President Reagan. US foreign policy. Torture. Inequality. Rape. Money.

These words infiltrate my mind as I sit in this house in the middle of Managua. They are words that were once only defined by other words with other meanings in other times. However, as I sit here, legs folded in a comfortable chair, I cannot escape these words. They carry a new weight. They hold within each syllable a story. It is a strange phenomenon when words become personal.

Last week I stayed in the very rural village of El Sontule. No running water. No electricity. No internet. No sink. No door. No luxuries. Mountains surrounded the valley that held my wood plank and cement home. As I stepped outside in the mornings, the brisk air awakened my senses and the view was indescribable. Each night as I carefully made my way toward the latrine, I stopped to stare at the stars- the most brilliant and numerous stars I've ever seen, second only to Mt. Gemi in Amedzofe when the electricity would go off in the surrounding villages. It was romantic and breathtaking.

Aside from the simplicity of a life lacking in luxuries that I tend to always fall in love with, I had the incredible opportunity to live with one of the strongest and bravest women I have ever met. Isabel, a mother of six children ranging from 26 to 8, survived the Contra attacks on her community. Kidnapped. Tortured. Raped. The Contra War hit me like a slap in the face. It is not a story told by politicians and authors and journalists. It did not end in 1987. The war continues to rage. And as I sat there on the wooden bench next to the stove heated by dried corn husks, I listened to Isabel. She spoke delicately and intently. She made the war real as she showed us the mountains where she hid and escaped. We walked on the same land. We looked at the same trees. And at night, we stared at the same stars.

In countries where history, culture and politics merge so drastically and conflict so often, it is easy to overlook the personal stories. It is easier to read about war and human rights abuses and torture than it is to stare it in the face. This week, I was forced to stare it in the face. And I am honored to have the opportunity to hear firsthand, to translate the words, to sit with a strong Sandinista woman in her own home and to glance into a community with a heavy past and a bright future.

Because it's been too long...

2009-04-11T02:59:00.005Z

I'm sitting in the darkened living room of my mom's high rise apartment in Venezuela. The bright lights of Caracas illuminate a city nestled beneath breathtaking mountains on all sides. For some reason, I am forcing myself to blog. It's been too long since I made the effort to write for writing's sake, so tonight, as I sit with my legs propped up on the leather couch, I will write.

For the past three months I have been living among the people of Guatemala, El Salvador and Nicaragua. Currently, I am living with the Sandovals in a small neighborhood in the middle of Managua, Nicaragua. The barrio of Batahola consists of dusty roads lined with cement block homes behind hammock hung porches. Not too quiet, not too loud, Batahola is tight knit and quaint. My house is hidden from street view, tucked behind two larger homes and a high concrete wall. We have no porch or hammock like our neighbors and our kitchen is outside, but what we lack in material possessions is readily made up in the personalities of the family. Papi, Mama, Jose Leo, Carmen, Leito, Lupita and Andre. What a family. Chelsea, my roommate and very close friend, and I have the incredible opportunity be a part of the lives of these amazing people.

Each night I take a bucket bath of the water saved from the days allotment of usuable agua. I attempt to clean the dust and sweat that accumulates throughout the miserably hot days of March and April in Managua. The rains have not come to temper the heat yet they taunt us with each passing cloud. After my bath, I sit with my family and watch telenovelas, futbol, talk, color with the children or read homework articles about the Sandinistas and revolutionaries. It is simple and crowded but very welcoming.

This past week I have been with my Mama. Oh how wonderful and altogether lovely it was to see her face! It was unreal. I walked through the Caracas airport, excitement building as I rushed past immigration toward my beautiful Mama. Over the past 7 days we have visited the ocean, drank refillable coffee cups, sat on the roof of a building with a view of the city drinking wine with her friends, met with a Chavista priest, peaked into mass, layed out by the pool, got sunburned, got tanned and simply spent much needed and much welcomed time together.

As I leave this world of air conditioning, toilets that let me throw toilet paper into them, constant electricity, hot water, a refridgerator full of food, cool nights, washing machines, spectacular views and time with my Mom, I am mentally preparing for the transition. When I arrived in Venezuela, to say that I experienced some culture shock is an understatement. Now as I pack my little bag that holds two pairs of clothes, a toothbrush, my journal and a book, I prepare to re-enter the Third World. It is more uncomfortable and harsher than this cozy apartment or the backrubs that my mom generously gives me when I visit, but the Third World enchants me. With all the normal amenities lacking, Nicaragua has a charm that shouldn't be ignored. I'm sad to say goodbye to my mom, as I always am and always will be, but I'm ready to embrace the next month. The final month of this little adventure of mine.

I´m just not that into you.

2009-03-26T02:27:00.003Z

¨I think you just had your official welcome to Managua, Molly¨laughs my curly haired friend Amy from Rhode Island. Four girls squished into the back seat of a taxi in the heat of the Nicaraguan evening on the way to spin class turned into another eventful moment in the life of Molly Bryant. The stories keep building. Yesterday I was reminded that I am, indeed, immersed in another culture. A culture altogether different than my own; one that has undoubtedly provided moments of confusion, frustration and terror (which just comes with the territory of international travel) but mostly it has provided moments of pure humor and hilarity. As soon as I forget that I´m traveling through Central America, a man in a wheelchair tries to make out with me. At a stoplight. With a plate glass window as our only barrier.

´Tis true. I do not exaggerate, my virtual friends. Last night, our taxi driver Fernando pulled up to the stoplight of a busy intersection and immediately locked the doors and asked us to roll up our windows. We obeyed without question knowing that robbery has been on the rise here in Nicaragua. As I was innocently chatting with my friends and moving to the salsa music on the radio, a man´s face appeared directly to my left. Inches away. My eyesight might be horrific but I do have excellent peripheral vision. I slowly turned my head with the face of someone who might be described as one who feels both guilty and nervous because they know they shouldn´t be looking at whatever it is but they can´t not look at the same time. I looked. Failure! Never look.

¨Ho-laaaaaa!¨says the man as he nods and literally licks his lips. Cringe. I smiled and turned away. Surely the man will get the point. I´m just not that into him. He taps on the window. Shudder. He bangs on the window and starts talking. Holy shit. The car errupts into uncontrollable giggles. I try to remain adamant that I will not even laugh because that will just provoke the situation. Do not laugh. And then...

He sticks his mouth on the window. The window that is inches from my face. I turn to give him the look of ¨Ya Basta (Enough!)!¨And then I see it in plain view. His mouth. His tongue. The window. A part of me was literally scared. I wouldn´t say that it´s the most comforting thing in the world to have a man in a wheelchair make out with the window the lies adjacent to your body. Yet, slowly... slowly... slowly... a smile emerged. Then a snort. Then a snicker. And then laughter. Uncontrollable, deep laughter. Tears begin to stream down my face. With each kiss from the man, more tears. Tears of terror, tears of humor and tears that inevitably come with a situation like this. And then the car lost all control. It was contagious. And that damned stoplight lasted for what felt like hours.

Thankfully I had 50 minutes of spinning class from an instructor that had dance moves I´ve never ever seen before and who yelled at me to go faster to take my mind off the classy man at the stoplight. Perhaps we will meet again. Perhaps not. At least we had those 5 minutes together. On the street. With the doors locked and the windows up.

Chip. Mouth. Crunch.

2009-03-23T03:17:00.004Z

3:30 am. My roommate has just entered our bungalow. The door swings and makes a screeching noise against the tile floor. The light switch is turned on. Then off. Then on again. It is our last night in El Salvador and while half of the group stayed up drinking rum and Cokes and probably a healthy dose of tequila, the rest of us had less rum and Coke and tequila, played a few raucus games of UNO, danced Latin American style around the living room and descended the stairs to sleep in our comfy beds for the last time at a more decent hour, although decent is relative.

3:35am. The light is turned off yet again. She noisily walks to the bed that is a mere foot and a half from my tiny bed that is squished in the corner with sheets that don´t fit and a few springs that have slowly made their way closer and closer to the surface and my spine. She has changed clothes and is now ready for sleep. What else could she do? I assume that now all will be quiet. I can go back to sleep. I love my sleep.

3:38 am. Plastic bag crumpling. Still crumpling. Plastic bag falling to the ground. Hitting the ground. My mind races, what is happening? Then I hear it. It becomes clear. She is opening a bag of potato chips. At 3:38 in the morning. An hour and 7 minutes before I am to wake up and get on a bus for twelve hours that will take me to Nicaragua via Honduras and the open road. Bag opened. CRUNCH. Is she really doing this? How could she do this to me? She loves me! Crumpling. Chip. Mouth. CRUNCH. Chew. Chew. Chew. Each movement is like an audible bomb. Chip. Mouth. Crunch. At this point, not only can I swear on my life that she is eating each chip inches from my ear with the intent of instigating a physical brawl, but the bag must be three feet tall. It is never ending, these chips. They continue taunting me and screeching with laughter as her teeth descend on their salty bodies. Chip. Mouth. Crunch. CRUNCH.

3:52 am. The chips have been eaten. The roommate is asleep. I am awake with the echoes of fried potatoes resounding in my ears.

Highways and Byways

2009-03-11T00:58:00.003Z

As we drove down the dirt rode, our fingers sticky from the fresh papaya, the sun began to set. Colors splashed across the sky and the night time coolness slowly descended on the Salvadoran countryside. The four of us squished into the old beatup Toyota pickup truck driven by our host mom, Elena, who just so happened to be a Catholic nun and one of the wisest women I've ever met. She casually asked us questions about our lives, and slipped in the seemingly insignificant question, "Do any of you know how to drive a stick shift?" Two of us said that we knew the basics of it, but we hadn't driven one in a long time. The conversation moved on, nothing too spectacular.

Suddenly, we were on the highway, darkness rapidly approaching, and we were literally averaging 35 mph. Something was clearly not right. Elena delicately pulled onto the shoulder and sweetly said, "Girls, I'm sorry to do this to you but I can't see." The four of us gave each other fearful glances wondering what we were supposed to do.

Elena: Can one of you drive?
Marie and I looked at each other with complete bewilderment
Marie: No. I really don't know how to drive a standard. It's been way too long.
Molly: I don't think I can do it. I really... I just don't think I can do it either... I mean... no. No.

After about two minutes of discussing the situation that was at hand... sitting on the side of the highway in El Salvador at night with a nun and a pickup truck full of people and no one to take the wheel...

Molly: Okay. I'll do it.
Elena: Wonderful! Let's switch seats.

I shakily opened the door, slipped into the driver's seat and adjusted the mirrors only to remember that the entire bed of the truck was full of chairs and other equipment from the day. I could not see out of the back window... at night in El Salvador. But there was no other choice, someone had to get us off the highway and back home. Someone had to drive that damned stick shift.

Literally making the sign of the cross, I put the car into first and took off. Cheers and laughter and applause errupted inside the truck. Elena could not stop encouraging me and telling me how great I was doing. Second and third gear came quickly, and the highway unfolded before me. If it hadn't been for the fact that I hadn't driven a standard in about three years and even then, it was only for a summer, or the fact that I held the lives of four other people in my hands, I might have enjoyed the drive. Instead, my knuckles were white and I thought I might have some type of emotional breakdown when, or more realistically if, we ever made it back safely.

It was completely black on the highway, no street lights to be found anywhere. We desperately searched for our turnoff, although with Elena's lack of sight it made it all harder. And then we saw it... our road that would take us back. I slowed down, put on the turn signal and waited until the massive bus that was coming the other direction passed me. Then... the car stalled. On the highway. At night. In El Salvador.

My next task was to turn the car back on, put it in first and make a left turn on the highway without stalling in the incoming lane. As I look back on this moment, I realize that it might be the most pressure filled moment of my life. If I stalled the car while turning left, we were in a massive amount of trouble. Real trouble. My mind raced with plans of survival. I envisioned screaming, "Get out of the car! Run!" I would run around to the other side, pick up little Sister Elena and carry her off the road. She couldn't run fast enough, could she? Plus, I wasn't sure how to say it all in Spanish. There would be no other way out. So Elena squeezed my hand and told me that I was going to do fine. Quietly freaking out in my head, I breathed, put it back into first gear and made a left turn onto the dusty dirt road that bumpily and yet safely led back to the church where we were staying.

We survived! Cheers, screams and huge sighs of reliefs filled that little pickup truck. Elena repeated over and over, "You're a star! You're a star! You have shown me confidence! A star!" As I got out of the truck that night, my legs and hands still shaking, I smiled a smile of survival and accomplishment. And then I ate some ice cream.

The end.

Leaves Anew

2009-02-22T04:03:00.003Z

The wind is delicately provoking the floral print curtains that drape across the open window of the room that I share with two other women. A tree continuously hits the roof of our abode with the rhythmic tunes of the winds' nighttime music. A movie is being watched downstairs. Two girls are smoking cigarettes with the ease and class of 1940s movie stars. The dorky history majors of the group are gathered in their respective rooms reading the optional articles about revolutions in the 1970s. Ants are crawling across the floor in search of substance, probably the chocolate from one of my roommates' open luggage. I am drinking pineapple juice. Herein lies the next leg of my journey: El Salvador.

With El Salvador comes the much anticipated study of Liberation Theology. A new focus on economics. The fourth Harry Potter book. Rural weekend homestays. One house for 18 people. Early morning jogs. Hot weather. The continuous lack of middle class. An attempt at conquering more of the Spanish language. The Pacific beach. The Catholic Church. Numerous insects, illnesses, laughter and ice cream.

Four weeks and oh so much to learn.

Alright, so at this moment I am struggling with this whole blogging world. I say that often, but I feel it much moreso down here in Central America. I wish I could write better. I wish I could come up with a new word for adventure. Or a new word for new. I wish I could adequately, or at least accurately, describe the beauty and struggle of this small section of the world. I would like to be able to fluidly discuss the string that connects the politics, culture, language and beliefs of Central America. I would like to have funnier stories and richer descriptions. But for some reason, I feel a great sense of lacking. I do not have the words to illustrate the faces of so many who have been influential in my time here. I cannot form the sentences that would make up the paragraphs about the sights and aromas of these countries. For that, I apologize because these countries deserve some fine writing. They deserve to be known in their most raw and real states. They deserve, at the very least, for people to care. For people to become aware of their struggles and their attempts at a decent livelihood. Start reading the newspapers, the BBC and history books about revolutions. It will astound you and make your cringe, but maybe just maybe, you will see a little sliver of why we should care about these fascinating and strong people.

Thoughts from a girl who has not slept in a while and whose thirst for knowledge only continues to grow...

One Month Down...

2009-02-13T21:47:00.000Z

Spanish classes are over. Las clases de espanol son fin. Three weeks of preterit, imperfect, future and that damned subjunctive are finished. How is that possible? I spent 75 hours in class with my spectacularly witty and sassy teacher, Ana; and yesterday as I sat back down in my chair in a post-presentation glaze, I glanced at Ana across the room to gather some type of hint about the level of failure from my last Spanish public speaking engagement of the semester. And she smiled a big smile, gave me a thumbs up and then made the face we like to make each other that consists of crossing our eyes and sticking out our tongues. I will receive a B+ in this intensive Spanish class, and although I am slightly disappointed in that grade, the fact that Ana told me that she is proud of my improvement and she wants to be my friend makes up for the few remaining points I lack in an A+. Starting on Sunday, Ana and I will spend our last week together in a rural village where we will undoubtedly make snide comments about our friends, discuss the politics of Guatemala and give each other beauty tips; more so, she will give me beauty tips, but I will act as though I am deeply interested in how to put on eye shadow that I do not, nor will I ever, own. And when we must finally say our goodbyes, I will have my proper Spanish grammar to remind me of our good times together and she will have a coffee mug with my face plastered across it.

Guatemala, to me, has been Ana and our incessant coffee drinking, our humor at each others languages, the way I pronounce “cámara” and she pronounces “whose,” soaking up sun on the terrace together and commenting on the unsuspecting people below. But Guatemala has also been my home stay here in Quetzaltenango. Each morning I wake up ten minutes before breakfast, leisurely walk to the kitchen where my host mom, Lisseth, comments on how cold my feet must be without shoes and then we sit down to our first meal of the day. We listen to a political radio show, she makes disgusted noises at the news of the day and then explains the disconnect between the politics of Guatemala and the real life of Guatemalans. We drink tea. We converse in Spanish. I nod my head a lot, but unlike the first two weeks in Xela, now I actually know why I am nodding. I understand her, in a way beyond language. We keep each other from being lonely in the afternoons and we play with Peggy, the lazy but well loved dog of the house. She makes me extra plantains to celebrate good grades.

My host dad is a less frequent but very vital aspect of my life in Xela. We only spend time with each in the afternoons. At around 1:20 each day you could find us sitting on the couch watching the news. Sometimes he switches channels and lands on explicit music videos of Shakira and then I blush and we have conversations like this (it has been translated into English to better suit my audience):

Dad: Molly, do you like McDonald’s?
Molly thinking ‘absolutely not’ but saying: Umm, yes, of course. knowing that we need something in common, and I can clearly see it in his eyes and in the way he asked the question that he is a big fan of the Golden Arches
Dad: What do you like to eat there?
Molly desperate for something: Chocolate milkshakes.
Dad: Really?
Molly: And French fries. What do you like?
Dad: Meekree?
Molly: Meekree? What is meekree?
Dad: You know, a meekree. They used to have it but now they do not.
Molly: I do not think I know what meekree is. What is it made of?
Dad: You know, cow. It is the ree of the cow.
Breakthrough!
Molly: McRib! You like McRib!
Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting.
Dad: Yes! Cow! McRib!

Yesterday afternoon we had another bonding moment when I tried hot pepper at lunch, and then I asked for some more, understanding that I was putting my already sensitive intestines in more undue stress than necessary. However, my dad thoroughly enjoyed the fact that I liked spicy food. Then when my host mom said it was cold, as she does at least once every five minutes, he said that she should eat some pepper and then he smiled and winked at me. I think we might have an inside joke that I am not clear on, but one thing I am sure, he did not take it personally that I went the whole day not knowing it was his birthday.

With the pierced and scabbed hands of the one who sacrificed all for us all,
Molly

Buen Provecho!

2009-02-12T22:16:00.004Z

I confidently walked down the streets of Xela this afternoon, the sun warming my recently tanned face. Merely thirty minutes prior to my walk, I had successfully bought tamales for my host family and made a semi-delicious Guatemalan lunch complete with that tinge of spicy-ness. I was wearing clean clothes, a colorful scarf and my hair, recently bathed in hot spring water directly from a waterfall, was behaving moderately well. The stars were aligning. The air was clean. And then out of the corner of my eye, I saw a large white horse approaching me as I can only assume would be described as a canter. Why was there a large horse running behind me? And then I realized, it was not in fact a white horse but a large white truck. It nipped my shoulder. Yes, my friends, for the first time this trip, I had near brush with death. For several weeks I have been told that I am too bold when crossing the street, but in order to get from one place to another in Guatemalan cities, its necessary to be a little bold. Today I was humbled.

To reward myself for escaping death, I met friends at a cafe and ordered a crepe which is a surprisngly Guatemalan specialty. In a few minutes, I am going to go put a picture of my face on a mug for my teacher. I have to tell her goodbye soon, and we're pretty much in love with each other (except for the fact that she's married and we're both into men). I feel like I am courting her because I bought her a heart shaped brownie, flowers and now this mug- my mug on a mug! Puns!- but Ana is so worth it. She's a sassafrass for sure. We get along well.

On Sunday I move to the rural village of Cantel. There will be no running water, internet or electricity so I probably won't be blogging anytime in the next week, not that I have been exceptionally good at posting at any point in Guatemala. In a little over a week, I move to San Salvador which I will call home for somewhere between five and six weeks. I will study Liberation Theology and live in a house with 18 other people. I am excited to continue this journey, although leaving Guatemala is going to be very, very sad.

Also, my host dad said that it is snowing in Miami, Florida. Truth or fiction? Lost in translation?

Guatemala: Primera Vez

2009-02-09T23:20:00.002Z

Welcome to me being completely awful at communication. I knew that my track record for blogging would soon take a drastic decline; I just never knew it would happen during a very exciting time in my life. So I will make a concerted effort to reverse the affects of my laziness. I would like to mention, however, that I am pretty sure I’ve lost the blogging touch. My English is becoming increasingly less eloquent and I find myself have trouble expressing myself in any language. It’s a problem that has frustration and comedy surrounding it at all times. So here's to the first Guatemala blog- one of many, if I play my cards right and find the time to catch some free internet time.

I have found that the more time I spend engulfed in lifestyles and cultures altogether unlike my own Midwest upbringing, the more I realize how much I do not know. To say that a culture is complex is an absolute understatement- and that is precisely what makes cultures so attractive to me. They are deeper and richer and more complicated than one can ever really grasp. It is history, politics, food, economics, religion, tradition, ancestry, environment- and million other aspects- wrapped into the lifestyle of hundreds and thousands and millions of people. Outsiders can study it, poke it and attempt to deconstruct each aspect only to reconstruct an image that will never truly capture the beauty that encompasses cultures and peoples. It is a blatant mystery set out before me each day as I breathe the Xela air and walk down the road to school. I see a land and people that can never be captured in study- much less by these words on these pages- and I relax in that impossibility to fully understand why they do what they do. Because if I comprehend it all, the mystery would be gone along with some of the beauty. The excitement of sharing meals and stories in Spanish with my host parents would be lessened. It is comfortable to feel like one is understood, in fact, it seems almost crucial for one’s own sanity at times. It is comfortable to be surrounded by people similar and familiar, but I feel like my life is not truly being lived if I am not making an effort to search for humanity and familiarity in others who not at first appear like myself. I guess in the last few days I have just accepted that there will be great times of loneliness and sadness, but that is not a bad thing. It stretches me and forces me to reach beyond my selfish sadness and toward humanity. If I work to move past these emotions that are quite honestly a barrier to really loving people, then and only then, will I truly be living.

Also, last weekend I went zip lining on the longest zip line in Central America. And I met two men named Jorge and Carlos who strapped me to the cables and let me go. Ay yi yi!

Such Sweet Sorrow

2009-01-17T19:15:00.004Z

I leave in less than 40 hours. The reality of it all is slowly creeping upon me and I can sense myself bracing for the inevitable emotions that latch on to times of departure. I am sitting in my childhood home surrounded by nothing except a wooden rocking chair and the weight of my heavy heart as I prepare to say goodbye to comfort and familiarity once again. This always happens, the last couple days before I depart to a foreign country or a foreign experience, I feel a sense of loss. I am losing months with friends. I am losing funny stories with my grandma. I am losing easy access to English books and Thai food. I am losing what seems like precious time. But then I slow myself down and I think about the adventure I am about to take part in. And the unknown inspires me to take the leap. It is terrifying, yes, it always is- but at the same time, I know it will be worth it. So I breath deep and pack my backpack with a couple t-shirts, a headlamp, way too many books, a pair of jeans, a dress and a whole lot of mixed emotions about the next five months- but most importantly, with a sense of belonging to an adventure greater than myself.

To you, my dear friends who follow this blog regularly or irregularly, thank you for caring. Thank you for taking the time to read my emotions and my strange stories about grocery store shopping and world travel. You are about to embark on this journey as well, through the eyes of a young girl who wants to soak up all she can. I look forward to sharing this adventure with you.

Central American Addresses: Write me!

2009-01-16T22:29:00.003Z

My Friends,

Monday I leave for Central America, and as much as I would like to blog and write clever witticisms and anecdotes about the past few weeks and upcoming months, I am on a time constraint. Internet is spotty here and there is no telling when my neighbor will decide to get online and selfishly kick me off her stolen connection. Therefore, a blog is coming before I leave... too much to talk about and too many thoughts surround me as preparations are becoming real, time is quickly getting shorter and my emotions reach rollercoaster style heights. But no fears, you will get the scoop as soon as I can bring myself to type again.

Until then, here are the addresses that are in high demand. Use them wisely (wisely meaning often). There are very few things in life that I cherish more than handwritten letters. Very few things. And while I am off in Central America, I would love to hear about your lives and your adventures in your respected parts of the world. This is me, asking-begging-suggesting-admonishing you, my dear friends, to write me. Or email me (mollyb24@gmail.com). Just let me know what you are doing because I would very much love to hear from you all.

Regular Postal Mail Addresses and Dates

Guatemala: January 19 through February 20
c/o Proyecto Linguistico Quetzalteco
5a Calle, 2-42, Zona 1
Quetzaltenango, Quetzaltenango
Guatemala

El Salvador: February 21 through March 29
c/o Centro de Educacion Mundial
Apartado Postal 05-181
San Salvador
El Salvador

Nicaragua: March 30 through May 9
Centro de Educacion Mundial
Apartado RP-44
Monsenor Lezcano
Managua, Nicaragua

For those who want to make the extra effort, boxes and packages can be delivered to these addresses with the same dates as above:

Quetzaltenango:
Proyecto Linguistico Quetzalteco
5a Calle, 2-42, Zona 1
09001 Quetzaltenango
Guatemala, C.A.

San Salvador:
Casa Los Pinos
Residencial Florida
Pasaje Los Pinos #6
San Salvador
El Salvador

Managua:
Casa Jaime Mayer
de Montoya, una c., al sur, una y media c. arriba #1405
Managua, Nicaragua, C.A.

Email: mollyb24@gmail.com OR bryantm@william.jewell.edu

Be Here Now.

2009-01-01T18:38:00.005Z

I do not like blogging when it is expected because that defeats the surprise element of random entries about limeade and strange conversations... but today as I rolled off the mattress that consists of 50% of my bedroom furniture (the other 50% is my family's antique, non-working spinning wheel from the 1800s- not typically found in my room), I realized that indeed a new year has come.

At this time last year, I was on the water with 10 new friends. I was covered in mud, constantly wet and physically exhausted... yet indescribably happy and content. Outward Bound in the Everglades, one of my most treasured times. As 2008 creeped upon us, we celebrated by talking about our lives while balancing on board in a pitch black cove surrounded by dolphins from the ocean. Then we went to bed at 8:00 pm. It was the best New Year's ever. I remember trying to capture the moment in my head so that I could look back on it for years to come, and it worked. I was cuddling between Oyster and Panther, feeling no inhibitions and loving the intense friendship that arose out of our real need for each other. And as we sat in our evening circle, we knew that the new year was starting out perfectly, but we had no clue what would come in the subsequent twelve months.

For me, it was Ghana. It was teaching children about sustainability and playing with herbs and flowers. It was drinking margaritas and becoming best friends with some of the most fascinating and inspiring people I know. It was, unfortunately, directing Homecoming but fortunately developing friendships within Homecoming. It was sending my mom away to a foreign country with a man, not my dad. It was wanting to run away to Oregon to work on a farm. It was camping and roadtripping to California with a random friend I had not seen in years. It was dreading the consequences of adulthood. It was transition to the extreme. It was losing a sense of home but gaining something much greater. It was learning all the words to hip hop songs on the radio. It was riding my bike everywhere. It was accepting family, confronting problems- sometimes hiding them, and as David Bowie would say, it was all about "ch-ch-ch-changes."

At 10 pm last night, I found myself on the floor of my living room, every piece of furniture except one lone rocking chair moved out of the house that day by six tired, unqualified members of the extended Bryant-Jones-Verduzco clan. Bethanie, Bhadri and I lay sprawled in every direction on the floor covered in three or four blankets watching 30 Rock and drinking wine. It was New Year's 2009, but that title really held little significane. We just wanted to hang out and soak up our rare time alone with each other. Never expecting to make it to midnight, in fact, planning on going to bed around 11... we sang songs, danced like the excellent and rhythmically challenged people that we are, laughed uncontrollably, and talked about the new adventures we will embrace in the months to come. I will make my way through Central and South America and hopefully, Europe, in the next eight months. They will move to a farm in North America. And although these travels are important and life-changing, I do not think that traveling will be my greatest journey of the year- nor theirs. I have a feeling it is going to be something more genuine and meaningful.

Just like last year, I have no clue what 2009 will bring. No clue. And that is something that I love about not being in control at all times. Who knows what will happen! I am sure 2009 will consist of some heartbreak like the last, I am sure of that... but I think this year is going to be even better than the last. I just have a feeling about it. Travels, yes, they will be great. But mostly I am ridiculously excited about the future of my relationships... ridiculously excited.

On this our Eve, we shop

2008-12-24T20:49:00.004Z

I slid into the last spot on the furthest row hidden between two large SUVs, all to the unnecessary dismay of the bleach blond, frantic middle-aged woman behind me. She did not like the fact like I left my house 30 seconds before her, and that I was actually justified in taking that spot considering I let another car swipe my previous target with no swear words leaving my mouth. Not one.

I had prepared myself for the worst. Christmas Eve at the grocery store. Really? Is that a good idea? In most cases I would give an enthusiasitc "poor decision, Molly!" to myself as I cradled between the unripened avacadoes and tomatillos in a somewhat neglected corner of the produce section- an area I feel the most at peace with in a grocery store. However, today I decided that the Christmas spirit must prevail despite the chaos that was sure to ensue beyond those sliding glass doors. I was destined to make it in and out of the store with all the necessary items for my family gathering. And on top of that, I was going to be cheerful and calm and not overwhelmed by the mass amounts of people. I do not like mass amounts of people. Ever.

As my mom waited at home, wrapping presents that she promised she wouldn't buy for me, I attempted to survive the overly air-conditioned, flourescent lighted section of society. I walked into the store, reusable bags in hand with an air of confidence that only comes when one knows that pie and awkward family conversations await at the end of the tunnel. I picked a cart that had no sense of direction and when left alone ultimately ran into two unsuspecting customers, both of whom merely laughed and made comments about my "kamakaze cart." Little did they know that if I chose to, I could actually give them an hour long lecture on the origins and ethics of kamakaze warfare which would have dampened the mood somewhat.

My shopping list consisted of twenty or so typical food items and clear nail polish for my mom's nail emergency. As I meandered through the aisles, I weaved past husbands incessantly begging their wives for reassurance via their cell phones. One husband in particular had an uncanny ability to be one step ahead of me. Talk about awkward encounters- and unfortunately, RE-encounters. This yellow shirted, glasses wearing husband wanted condensed milk. Hmm... so did I. I turned the corner to pick up some herbs and there he was. Limeade? Yellow shirt was there too. WHY? Who buys frozen juice in the wintertime? Seriously? I thought it was only my family, but no, it is not. Thus, I attempted to glance at the items on the other side of the frozen food section to avoid the possibility that he might think I found him attractive and wanted to follow him throughout the store like a lost puppy. He took so long picking out that damned frozen juice that I even opened the door for the Strawberry Toaster Streudels- which I remember eating once or twice in middle school and loving them. I did this to throw him off his game. I wanted him to think that I didn't want the section he was leisurely gazing into. I wanted fake frozen pastries. Sucker. After about two minutes of him staring and me walking around in circles and "hmm"ing about what flavor of Toaster Streudel I did not want, this happened:

It's time you just went in. Get that frozen juice and be done with it.

Molly: Hi, excuse me. I need to get some limeade. I am making a key lime pie this evening.
Bah! Too much information! Why did you tell him that?
Yellow Shirt: Oh, okay. Go for it.
Molly: Thanks. Hmm... I can't find it. Sorry, just let... me... find it.... hmm.... it doesn't look like they have it? No limeade? That's strange. Well... sorry I'm taking so long.... I see lemonade, but not limeade. Why are you giving him a play-by-play you socially awkward shopper!?
Yellow Shirt: It's right there. Pointing at the shelf directly in front of my and eye level
Molly: Oh there it is! Of course. It's funny how that always happens!
Yellow Shirt: Mhmm.
Molly: Ok, thank you. Merry Christmas!
Yellow Shirt: What? Oh, yes, sure... Merry Christmas.

It was at this point in the shopping extravaganza that I decided do something out of the ordinary. I whipped out my iPod, put in BOTH earphones and turned on the Sufjan Stevens Christmas album. I never listen to my iPod in public. I usually feel like I'm missing out on something, or what happens if I don't hear someone warn me that something bad is about to happen? Also, I am always afraid that someone might think I am wearing one of those bluetooth ear pieces which make me cringe. But I was about at my breaking point, and desperate times call for desperate measure. Plus, the Christmas spirit must prevail! "Lo How a Rose E'er Bloom" serenaded me as I calmly walked down the aisles toward the cinnamon sticks. I hummed. I smiled. I stopped caring that the yellow shirted Scrooge was less than enthusiastic about my key lime pie. I did not mind the near collisions of carts that were occuring as I simultaneously glided through the store. I did not allow myself to cry out of frustration when the man at the herb section informed me of a great catastrophe- the cinnamon sticks for my first attempt at making mulled apple cider with rum had been bought out yesterday. They had not been restocked.

Sufjan sang and I ungracefully forced my cart toward the glorious end. As I was at the check out counter, the lady asked if I found everything and I said that had. All but my cinnamon sticks. Not ten seconds later, the herb man I spoke with earlier unexpectedly tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Last bag of cinnamon sticks. And they are only $1.50! Merry Christmas, ma'am!" The Christmas spirit prevailed!

Merry Christmas, Ya'll.

Ring my bell

2008-12-14T23:53:00.005Z

I cried in church today. It was one of the best church services I have ever attended. Everything about it seemed to blend naturally. It was pure and unforced. I will admit that I have an innate distrust toward "loving church." Church as in the building, the institution, the service- not the community of people. I have seen the flaws and the inconsistencies and the hypocrisy that inevitably come with humanness and our attempt to create something sacred. Today was different. Jacob's Well tends to get things right. It is the only church I have ever attended that challenges me intellectually and spiritually. I am astounded week in and week out at the depth of honest passion and activisim that arises from our community at JW.

As we walked into the sanctuary, we were handed bells to ring during the service. The sermon was about rejoicing. We were told to ring the bells when we felt moved to do it. Instead of using the "Evangelical gutteral sounds" we rang bells. We were outwardly expressing out agreement and gladness to our community. And it may sound strange, but it was absolutely beautiful. The sound of those bells throughout the service was radiant.

I have experienced holiness on numerous occasions. Each time unique, haunting and unexpected. Always pure and beautiful. Today I witnessed one of those moments. As seven or eight children walked toward to front of the church with the intent of lighting candles for the Advent season, something in the room changed. The adults were hushed. No sound came from our mouths; we all waited in a sense of anticipation for something great, although we had no way of knowing what was to come. As the candles were lit, the children, babies and toddlers began to speak and sing and shout. Babies cried and giggled and screamed. Toddlers pointed and got on their parents laps to see the candles. The toddler next to me kept yelling "fire! lights!" They were all ringing their bells. No one told them to stop or to be quiet. No one cared about etiquette. We all sat and witnessed something beyond ourselves. They were praising God and communicating in a way that we do not understand. They rang the bells in unison, they cried and smiled and sang. It was one of those make-you-shiver-and-tear-up moments. It was sacred in the deepest definition of the word. It was holy and it was incredible.

And now I have to leave this community, in search of another one. In search of people who want to lend their talents and passions to fulfill their purposes. And it is going to be hard to find them. They are few and far between, but refreshing when discovered. So I will mourn the temporary loss of this community because it is alright to cry. I will accept my fears and doubts and dread, and I will replace them with a knowledge that adventures require much of me. They are times of struggle and sacrfice. They ask me to become less introverted and more bold. They push me and stretch me and plead for me to learn and grow. I will go to Central America with the satisfaction that I am not losing relationships or communities, but adding them.

But really, I am mostly sad.

No Countdowns, Please...

2008-12-03T23:16:00.009Z

I hate countdowns. I think they are a waste of mathematics. I caught my self glancing at the calendar about to count down the days left here at Jewell. Good thing it's still on November, because I might have succumbed to the temptation of addition.

Minor tangent: I love my calendar. It is from my place of employment and it is vintage maps. Geography kicks ass, as far as I am concered, and I think I could stare at maps for hours and not get bored. The map for November is super cool, that in conjunction with my laziness is why I have not changed it yet. Tangent over.

However, it is less than two weeks until my departure, I really do not need a calendar to figure that one out. But it haunts me and pulls at me. As excited as I am about going, I do not want to leave. I hate leaving. You may ask, you do not want to leave Liberty? Jewell? Really? But it is so true. And I am grateful for that knowledge, no matter how painful the leaving will be. It is in that understanding that I can appreciate the beauty of this community of people that surround me.

I want to write about this, but I am suddenly overwhelmed with my love and appreciation for these people. First, I must give credit to the wonderful people of Liberty who have become protective pseudo families and who find it important to tease me about my piercing and to encourage me on my adventures. Many would also like to marry me off. Working at By the Book is... well, it might just be the locale for my first novel. It is like a sitcom, but the characters are better and more loving and somehow stranger than one might find on a tele. Yes, there are days when I want to spray whipped cream on the next person that asks me for a skinny cap... but mostly, I love them.

My friends. Oh my friends. I am getting teary... what can I say about these incredible people? They are the family that I have chosen to surround me during this time of my life, and I am continually astounded by them. I feel like I could write paragraphs about each of them, but collectively, they are the most genuine, caring, intelligent, and kind people I know.

I love doing homework, drinking coffee and talking about inappropriate things with Sarah P. on Sundays. I love baking really dense pastries with Carina and Lea every week. I love trying on the most hideous dresses in the world with Anna. I love giggling and confessing dumb things with Sarah H. I love running into Kelsey and talking outside in the cold for half an hour. I love laughing with Krysten about Caitlin's awkward photo ops. I love that I get to make Lucy Oreo Blasts on a semi-regular basis. I love pretending to run with Liz but going on philosophical walks instead. I love trying not to laugh at Kate's dirty jokes. I love it that I have to wear white trash clothes each Monday night while Jordan wears a handmade, glow in the dark shirt. I love that Brett is always so much more prepared than DJ Model C and me but still encourages us and tells us that we are funny. I love that my friends are so vibrantly diverse from each other. I have such different relationships with each other them, and it keeps me sane and grounded.

I feel unworthy to have such a community. And I already feel tired thinking about trying to develop another circle of friends while I am away. It will be fine, I have done it before... but, do I really need any more friends? I feel like I've hit my quota. I am an introvert, I really don't need anyone else. Maybe I will enter a stage of life where I am a major loner. I've always sort of been attracted to that lifestyle, maybe the next six months will be my loner phase. I will keep up with all my beautiful friends here, and just ignore the people I am with. Probably not... but one thing I know for sure, I am honored to have the opportunity to live, eat and be crazy with the coolest cats around.

Irregulars: Blame it on the weather

2008-11-19T01:04:00.003Z

My Tuesdays start early and end late. They usually consist of tasty, clandestine scones strategically placed under the espresso machine so that RG (my co-worker and resident grump) does not give me a harder time than usual. I work a split shift- open to close- with my Astronomy class in the middle. After closing the coffee shop, I rush up to dinner, barely make it to Astronomy lab, run to the radio station and perform one of the best radio shows on campus- no questions asked. Rushed yet routine, Tuesdays keep me on my toes and remind me that I am young.

This Tuesday, oh this Tuesday, was rather... unpredictable? Snapshots and snippets of the day are all that I can offer because even long, detailed stories would not adequately describe the strangeness and hilarity that was today...

Bill walked into the store today holding something behind his back as he gave me a big hug. After our initial greeting, he whipped out a well worn crossword puzzle. Not just any crossword puzzle- the exact puzzle that we did last week together. He said, "I've been carrying this puzzle around all week in case I saw you. I finally got the last two clues! I am so proud and thought you might want to see it. You can throw it away if you'd like." I kept the puzzle.

I ate a clandestine scone - (that's my new favorite pair of words).

Bill: Remember when I asked you why you got the new piercing and you said "because I'm in college?"

Molly: Yes. Did you like that?

Bill: Oh it was perfect! Best response. Speaking to his sister: Did you know that Molly was Jewell's Homecoming Director?

Molly: Good thing I didn't have this when I was director. The alums wouldn't have liked that.

Bill: Pshaw... good thing. Gaw!

Molly: Hey! What is that supposed to mean?

Bill: I don't like it. We can be frank with each other, right?

I was offered a date with a young, Missouri Nascar racer who won a race last weekend and who "has a smile that could light up a room." He is 29 and posed on magazines without a shirt. I'll pass.

4:45 pm. I stopped, mid-drink making, to assess my environment. One high school girl was on the bookshelf ladder shaking and reaching toward a pair of horse bookends. One mentally imbalanced man wearing camoflouge from head to toe- with the exception of his "I Voted for Pedro" glitter sticker- was incessantly asking me to repeat "hoorah!" with him. One MySpace friend of a co-worker was reading the headlines in today's newspaper outloud. Two little boys wanted to buy juice. A regular was waiting in line to buy her granddaughers old Nancy Drew books that had lost their back covers. Six junior high boys were asking me questions from the balcony above. And the soy milk that I was steaming started to overflow. It was at this moment that time stopped. I felt completely alone, as if I was the absolute last sane person left on the planet. Then I smiled and said, "Okay... hoorah!"

I received a phone call that had a yelling person on the other end. Wrong number.

A young man who resembled trenchcoat-wearing Jonathan Safran Foer of yester-year (is that a word? Did I make that up?) browsed the store in silence, smiled at me and then proceeded to non-chalantly walk out of the store while grabbing a napkin and putting it in his pocket. All without skipping a beat.

The night ended with an acapella duet of Fergilicious with my new same camo wearing, Pedro loving friend.

Tuesdays, oh Tuesdays.

Dental Hygiene and Sibling Love

2008-11-17T00:16:00.011Z

One of my personal goals for this semester was to become more proactive about my dental hygiene. Don't get me wrong, I brush twice- sometimes three times- a day and have never been subjected to a cavity. In fact, I think my tooth enamel is like iron- nothing is going to penetrate that baby. But really, how long can I slide by on genetically superior tooth enamel? I fear no more than 22 years. Thus, I bought dental floss this afternoon. No I didn't splurge for the fancy brand name floss that probably whitens, fights gingivitis and cures rabies. I opted for the 79 cent, mint flavored kind- probably because I lack confidence in the longevity of my flossing career.

A fellow Jewell student and pre-dentistry major told me that he can tell if someone flosses or not almost immediately. Though I doubt he actually has that superpower, it made me feel uncomfortable. Because I do not floss. Alas, it is time to break past the wall of bare minimum. My gums may bleed and I may have 79 cent floss residue stuck permanently between my too close together teeth, but the next time I get into a conversation about floss I will hold my head high and say, "why of course I floss! Everyday."

____________________________________________________
An Ode to the Cooler One:

Now for something much better than dental floss: My sister, Bethanie. For those of you who do not have the honor of knowing my older sister, I feel sorry for you. She's pretty much the coolest ever. Bethanie lives in Costa Rica with her husband Bhadri and their dog Booster. They all share the initials BV. They are working on a farm, building bamboo fences and zip lining through the rainforest. Bethanie used to design children's watches. And she wanted to be Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz when she grew up (this is written in past tense which is an assumption). Bethanie was given the more unique name, but I am not bitter. She is adventurous and just might be the inspiration that convinced me that I can travel the world and still survive.

Since the year 2001, we have been best friends. At least, since 2001 it has been mutual. I always wanted her to be my bf4l, but I used to wear my pants a little too high and I turned off her bedroom light when she was reading just to really stick it to her. It worked.

We get along quite beautifully now. And I really hope someday we live in the same country- preferably the same city/township, because I think that would be pretty spectacular. For now, we travel around the world visiting each other in our different environments.

Bethanie and I laugh a lot. Somehow we gain confidence when we are around each other, and we get a whole lot goofier. And bolder. And probably prettier.

We aren't really mad at each other.Look to the left. What to do on a Thursday in Oklahoma? Dress up like the 80s, put on thick eyebrow liner and some bows- and you've got yourself Sister Glamour Shots 2008!

To the right: Acting like some of Beth's international students in California

Above: Oklahoma fun with mom, Booster, Barbies and Bhadri...

Seasons

2008-11-09T23:02:00.004Z

Seasons. They are times of change. And just like the weather and the trees and the leaves and the barometric pressure, we are in a constant state of transformation; maturing, growing, becoming. At times it can be scary. Change is not always easy. But it can also be invigorating.

Right now, I am in a strange state of transformation. Words do not easily come to mind to describe this process that I am in. Emotionally, I am drained but hopeful. Physically, I am apathetic and tired. Spiritually, I am becoming refreshed with each day. I am content and satisfied with this time. Although my heart feels pain at times and I am easily prone to feel a sense of brokenness, I think it is good. Brokenness can be healing. It can be freeing. And if tears and pain lead to freedom, then sign me up!

So in an attempt to continue changing, to live life to the fullest, to never regret missing an opportunity, to be bold and adventurous, to screw stereotypes, to be young and prone to mistakes... I pierced my lip. Note the picture below:Yes, I did it. It was a little spontaneous (of course, I did go into the place and ask all the necessary questions, chicken out and then show back up 5 hours later). I did not want to do this out of vanity or rebelism (is that a word?)... but I still wanted to do it. Why? I am not sure. Maybe just because I wanted to. Maybe because it is fun. Is that a good enough reason? Why do I always have to make something with deeper meaning? It was fun. And I like it. That's all.

How did it happen?

Sarah: How's your dinner?
Molly: It would taste better if I had a piece of metal in my mouth.

Sarah: Let's do it.

Molly: What? No! Really? Now?
Sarah: Yes! Let's go. Now.

Cue scarfing of granola and yogurt, broccoli falling to the floor, jumping and squealing, and running out of the cafeteria with numerous confused students left in wonderment.

Thanks to Sarah, my lovely and beautiful friend, I now have a piece of foreign metal sticking out of my face. It is fun.

The Genius of Foer

2008-10-28T03:06:00.002Z

The leaves are falling. The wind chill is below freezing. My appendages are in a constant state of numbness. Pumpkin seeds are baking in the oven. It is autumn. And I am overjoyed.

I love reading books, especially during the chilly seasons. Tonight I should be doing school work of some sort, but as has become a regular occurence, I cracked open a book just for fun. This evening I was glancing through one of my all time favorites Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close by my all-time favorite author Jonathan Safran Foer. He is brilliant. I can read his works over and over, and yet somehow I find new meanings each time. That is rare. If you have not read Everything is Illuminated or the aforementioned book, then I would highly advise it.

...together and separately, out loud and silently, we were determined to ignore whatever needed to be ignored, to build a new world from nothing if nothing in our world could be salvaged, it was one of the best days of my life, a day during which I lived my life and didn't think about my life at all.

He makes me want to be an author.

Sueno

2008-10-22T19:06:00.004Z

I daydream. Usually it has to do with some far off adventure that appears unattainable and distant. Yet somehow, if I dream enough, I usually get there.

I am not reading about the pre-WWII Japanese attempt at imperialism in the Pacific as required of me by my favorite professor, but I am researching organic farming internships in Oregon. I do this. I so easily get lost in a world of possibilities and potential. I develop these thoughts that take me out of my dorm room and put in places where I get to be outside, I get to cook and I get to live life with other people. Not that I don't live life with people here... I do. But I'm not outside nearly enough as I would like. And the oven in our kitchen set the fire alarm off consistently.

It is not that I am dissatisfied with my life here at Jewell. In fact, I just had an incredible fall break filled with corn mazes, backcountry driving, sushi, oversized margaritas and Mexican men who wink too much, best friends from DC, glitter glue and camping. It was perfect. And I even got to read a whole book. Really, I could not have asked for a better break. So why do I daydream so much?

Maybe it's the age- I am nearly 22 (on Friday!)... I feel like I matured more this summer, and now I am ready to move on with my life. I love college. Too much sometimes. But now I feel like it is time for the next stage. I want a life now. Oh to have a house (or a treehouse on someone's farm)! To be able to read a book that I won't be tested on. To be able to actually start working on issues that I believe in. To study more, but also to do.

I will live in Amsterdam. I will garden and live on a farm in Oregon. I will bake bread in Boston. I will work with prostitutes in San Francisco. I will do microlending in Africa. I will write a book in Montana. And I will drink tea and sit on a big, wrap-around porch on 39th Street.

But until then, I will study sustainable development in Central America. And I will continue daydreaming because it is the dreaming that inspires the action. So dream on, my virtual friends, dream on.

This is my friend Julie. Not only does she work at an art gallery in our nation's capital, but she also gave me bangs. And made me paint my fingernails.

She came to visit me. We took walks and painted. We camped outside in the cold- but I made sure we took vitamins before we braved the weather. We talked about life and love and God. Now I am refreshed.

She dreams too.

Blog-worthy Bill

2008-10-15T03:28:00.003Z

Bill leisurely walked into the bookstore at his normal time; 8:20 am. He was wearing his matching William Jewell College trucker hat and windbreaker along with his black sneakers and oversized reading glasses. I gave him the typical, "Good morning, Bill! How are you doing?" And he very intentionally walked over to give me a pat on the back while flashing his contagious grin. He asked, "Now, Molly... what were you? Director of Homecoming?" That's right- let me mention that I never told Bill this, it is simply that By the Book gossip spreads like wildfire. "Did you know that I was Homecoming Director at Jewell in.... what was the year? I think it was 1947." Verdad? How cool. Who could have guessed that Bill would walk into a coffee shop every morning to greet a barista that held the same stressful role as HC director of his own college 61 years later!

Maybe that's why I'm a history major. I love stories and connections. I love to see how things begin and how they reconnect. I love that Bill who buys his $1.50 cup of coffee every morning and I have something in common. I love his stories and I love giving him reason to share them.

Bill also always fills out the NY Times Crossword Puzzle (one of my everyday activities, as well). Today I was waiting to do it until the afternoon so Bill took that opportunity to use me. He wanted answers and he wanted them now. So he would read them off and I would try to answer them. My favorite came about three clues in. He said, "Molly, you're young. Which 'rapper' co-owns the NJ Nets? 4 letters, second letter A." I know that I am out of touch with the rap world- surprising, no?- but one rapper always stands out above the rest. My fav.
"Jay-Z."
"Well, who the hell is Jay-Z? How do you spell that? Are you sure?"
"Bill, don't question my knowledge of hip hop."
"Okay, us Homecoming directors have to stick together."

Bill is blog-worthy. Just when I thought he was predictable, he gives me another story.

Homecoming Teaser

2008-10-12T00:59:00.003Z

Merely 4 hours ago, I finished my duties as William Jewell College's 2008 Homecoming Director (with my now dear friend Kate). It was the most stressful and busy week of my life, hands down. Beforehand, I thought that I knew what those two words actually meant (stressful and busy); however, this week those definitions held a completely new meaning. I cannot write about it yet, though it is worthy of some major blogging. First I need to be alone for a while. I need to not hear "Molly! Molly! I have a question!" I need to have a conversation with one person at a time. I need to not have 1,200 people scrutinizing my every decision. I need to not have those 1,200 people constantly looking at me for direction. I need to debrief and to catch up on my much neglected school work.

So tonight, I put on a dress, drank a margarita and tried to enjoy my newfound freedom. Homecoming is over... now what am I going to do?

This week I...
... yelled at someone and used the word "damn" in my first bonafide argument (btw, I won)
... talked on a loudspeaker at a football game that I did not watch
... shook Joe Biden's hand (a very ironic story follows this someday soon)
... cursed a lot
... laughed a lot

Really, it's just Homecoming. Not all that interesting, I understand, but it's probably the biggest leadership position to date. In the words of Beyonce, "I'm a surivor, I'm gonna make it, I'm a survivor who keeps on survivin'." Inspirational. True.

It's 8:28 pm. I am going to sleep.

Jamaica Me Come Home...

2008-09-30T03:41:00.007Z

Last semester, I was suckered into being the Homecoming Director for Jewell. In fact, I was told "you have no choice." Totally untrue and not a good way to convince me to do something, but I nonetheless took the job. Ironic, considering how I have little to no school spirit, I am not in a sorority and I find myself saying often to people overinvolved in the event "it's only Homecoming!" Anyway, from what I hear it's the most stressful thing you can do at Jewell, but I am doing fine. I am usually a pretty relaxed person, and I have found myself staying calm under the intense pressure of angry Greeks, bitter Independents and frazzled faculty members. However, when I look at the planner that depressingly holds the activities of my life in 7 small boxes a week, I feel slightly overwhelmed. On top of directing Homecoming, I am working at my coffee shop AND doing hours as an RA. Yet, I just have to take it day by day and the craziness of life seems to subside.

Bethanie and Bhadri (my sibs) are leaving for Costa Rica on Saturday. We had a coffee date via Skype this morning, and it made me ever more jealous that they get to go farm while I will be here in Liberty. I want to farm! When I get tired of life here in Missouri, I dream. I even do research to follow-up my dreams. I found a farm in Oregon that is run by a vegan couple who have treehouses for their interns' living quarters. I could move there, harvest food, cook dinners, read books in the evenings, climb mountains, surf in the summers, hike through canyons and the list goes on. Yet, I know that even if I did that, I wouldn't be completely satisfied. I would have another dream to chase. Always chasing, never catching- that's the fun of it! So for now, I will be alright with studying WWII, contributing to others' caffeine addictions, watching Flight of the Conchords, and embroidering pictures of animals for friends. Oh, and directing Homecoming.

When I ever get a little sad or annoyed with life, I just take a glance at this beauty...

The Sisters of Carmel

2008-09-27T01:21:00.007Z

I would like to admit something that I have never discussed prior to this entry. My blog is in an indiscernable Slavic language. I always click on "Utworz bloga" when I should click on "Zaloguj sie" for a new post. Why is it in a foreign language? I do not know. I have a love/hate relationship with it. In a way, it's annoying- but it's also a challenge. And you know I love challenges.

____________________________________

"I sometimes imagine that I long for the seclusion of a nunnery. But I know that I must seek You among people, out in the world." Etty Hillesum, my new hero

When I went to California this summer, I stayed at a Carmelite Monastery on the side of a cliff overlooking the city. It was set in a normal San Diego neighborhood, but once in the monastery, a whole new world appeared to me. The moment I walked into the quiet, dark and somewhat mysterious home of 14 Catholic sisters, I immediately became overwhelmed by the purity of it all. The women were genuine, their love clear and their hospitality inspirational. I got to spend some time with a darling nun named Sister Yvonne. We discussed my life, her life, the mission of the Carmelites, their struggles, my struggles, their need to find a place in the world, my need to find a place in the world, and our unified love for God.

It was special, yes, and I knew that at the time... but I look back on those few days with some of the most incredible and dedicated women I have ever met and my heart is tender. You know that feeling? It's relatively the same feeling I get when I think about my brothers and sisters in Africa (to a smaller extent)- but it's the feeling that there is something very sacred about that place, those people and that time. Sacred. Set apart. Holy. My heart aches to return.

And I'm not saying that I will become a nun- although let's be honest, it is possible- but I will say that I long to be a part of something like that. Something that is so community oriented, but not just community for community's sake- real, genuine desire to be a family with the common goal of Christ. The unified acceptance that our purpose is not our own. We are not made for the world or for our desires, but for something greater. Something more meaningful. Harder. Beyond ourselves.

Although I did have to dance around the fact that I was traveling with a boy, the nuns accepted me as the Protestant wanderer that I am. And Sister Yvonne... oh Sister Yvonne, she was genuinely interested in my life and the places God has taken me. We prayed together, and actually cried together- albeit most of the crying was from yours truly but they were tears of joy and relief- and something very beautiful developed in that monastery and in our conversations.

I do not know why I felt like writing a blog about the Carmelites of San Diego, but I do know that they now hold a special place in my heart. And I want to write a book about them or about my experience with them. Because they are wonderful. And beautiful. And inspirational. And sacred.

__________________________

Coffeehouse Altercations

2008-09-20T20:23:00.003Z

Racism.

To me, that has always seemed like an out of date, Southern, ignorant perspective only seen in the movies or read in books. It has never really presented itself to me up close and personal... until last night. I know that racism exists, but to actually be in the midst of people who think that hate can be justified is bewildering. Absolutely inconceivable to me.

Where to begin? One of my co-workers who has been especially hard for me to get along with just so happens to be in 11th grade. I love high school boys; they are so charming. He has made comments that make me cringe on mulitiple occasions, and last night was my breaking point. He jokingly made a racist comment, not uncommon in the least for him. I could no longer roll my eyes and simply tell him that he was acting like an asshole. No, this was our time to hash it out. What proceeded was an hour and half conversation about why he feels like it is acceptable to say and ultimately, think a certain way. It was somewhat productive. He learned that he feels superior to minorities, and that society has trained him to believe that money makes a person more valuable. But when I would ask him what he believes and not what society believes, he had no clue.

This kid is an extremely intelligent, albeit extremely annoying, young boy. I told him that I expected him to be able to back up his comments. He couldn't. He repeated, "I can say it because it's the truth!" To me, that is not an argument. And he couldn't wrap his mind around the idea that simply saying something is true or right doesn't actually make it true or right, and that generalizations amount to nothing. And at one point I asked him what he valued, how he decided one person was superior than another. Was it money? Race? Affluence? Intelligence? And he admitted that he did not know what he valued. He wanted to know, but he had never thought about it.

It was frustrating. It was mind-blowing. But it was needed. He asked me all kinds of questions about why I believe the way I do. Why I don't care about money like he does, why I value certain things about others, etc. It was good. And I had the opportunity to give him my raw perspective on life. On my struggles with judging people who are rich, who are ungrateful, who wear mini-skirts and who pop their collars. We learned from each other.

Oswald Chambers said in today's devotional, "When we come into contact with things that create confusion... we find to our amazement that we have the power to stay wonderfully poised even in the center of it all." He was not speaking about racism, but I will take it as a sign that my words were not my own. I was a well full of questions, answers, comments that were surprisingly genuine and non-aggressive. I was astouned at the conversation because although it was intense, we were respectful of each other. God was bringing to mind things I have learned and experiences I've had that had relevance to the topic. It was strange how beautifully it all come out and how it all fit together to shed light on the heart of the topic.

And then all hell broke loose. Another co-worker came in. The high schooler and I were mid-conversation, learning from each other, beginning to get somewhere... and then she walked in. I expected an ally. I expected decent human kindness. And all I got was a whole new battle.

This girl asked what we were talking about and I said, "(insert boys name here) made another racist comment and we are talking about why he thinks its okay and I think its wrong." And she looked at me and said, "Hail Hitler." I laughed an uncomfortable laugh. She had to be joking, right? And then she said, "I think racism is okay." I wanted to cry- out of frustration, out of disappointment, out of loneliness, out of brokeness.

The one who I thought would be my ally became my toughest opponent. I let her explain to me and I tried to listen with respect. But it was lost on me. First of all, the reasons and arguments that these two co-workers proceeded to berade me with sounded very unintelligent to me. Maybe it's the fact that they haven't been to college and have never had to give a real argument. I told them that a professor would tear them apart if they ever wrote a paper with those kind of generalizations, opinions, statements and absolutely nothing to back them up. No evidence. Nothing. But secondly, here were two young people who are justifying their hatred and superiority toward other humans. It was utterly heart-breaking. I kept thinking not only about the people that they are expressing superiority over but about them. What is it like to live with a hatred toward your fellow humans? Real, honest hate.

I left work with a feeling of utter disgust. I called my dear friend Caitlin, a non-racist like m'self, and she let me rant and cuss and scream about the night. We talked a long time about racism. About how we were raised and how racism creeps into everyday life in America. And she eloquently stated that "hatred can never be healthy." Where there is hatred, there is no health. And that is the root of it all. Hatred can never and should never be justified.

I cannot get that conversation out of my mind- maybe because I need to think about it more. But I have literally had tears well up in my eyes as I replay certain aspects of that conversation. The hatred disgusts me. The lack of love and complete disregard for humanity makes me heart hurt. Racism is real. It is not so uncommon as I once thought. And it slapped me in the face.

Travel Etiquette... or lack thereof, lady

2008-09-15T15:50:00.003Z

I can be socially awkward, yes, I know that about myself. I do not always follow social norms, and admittedly, I sometimes blatantly disregard them. But travel etiquette I have down. It is like second nature to me... or so I thought.

I have been to 13 airports since December: Kansas City, Chicago, Miami, Tulsa, DFW, Minneapolis, Amsterdam, Accra, Dallas-Love, Lubbock, San Francisco, Phoenix, Milwakee. That sounds pretentious. I hate flying... I mean, I sort of love it. But I would rather drive then fly. And driving I have done as well. I have covered well over half the country this year by highways and byways, canyons and flatlands, oceans and mountains, hippie towns and cow pastures. Traveling is something that I enjoy, and honestly, it is one of the few things that I can consider myself well-informed about.

One can only imagine my shock when I was snubbed on an airplane last night by a 40something, make-up wearing, spray on tan loving, tight pants flaunting, woman drinking her large soda. I flew Southwest, one of the gems of the airline industry, and I was one of that last passengers on the plane. I knew I would inevitably get a middle seat, but I do not really mind that because I'm young and old people need more leg room more than I do.

I scouted my middle seat options. Usually I like to sit between two people with amiable appearances or a couple of old people will suffice. I found two ladies and I politely said, "Excuse me? Is that seat taken?" To my utmost confusion, the soda drinking, soccer mom says, "Umm... bsha... hmmph... no. I guess not." I was appalled. Did she just pull the "sorry, seat's saved" move? So I thought, screw you! I'm sitting next to you to simply to spite you. She could have left it at that. She clearly proved her point, right? No, she had a trump move yet to play. I opened my Steinbeck novel, crossed my legs and tried not to disturb my sensitive neighbor. Not more than 30 seconds later she actually gets up and moves to the back of the plane. I looked around in an even more confused state, and said to the short haired older lady next to me who was quite indifferent to my troubles, "Whoa, I think the lady next to me left. But her drink is still here." Quick hand, huffy woman snabs her drink, gives me a dirty look and huffs off to her new seat. The backpacking hipster behind me who had observed the whole event said, "Whoa. That's weird. Hmm... what's her problem?" Finally, an ally!

Did I look dirty? Was I too hippie? I mean, I don't wear velour jogging suits like her, so obviously I'm not as stylish... but really, why does she care so much? Have we come to the point where sitting next to someone on a plane is an inconvenience? Is personal space so important that we need an extra 2 inches for our 50 minute flight to Kansas City?

Try sitting on the floor of a vehicle with (or ontop of...) 30 other people, several bags of rice and a couple live animals... then talk to me about personal space.

I think that more people need to ignore social norms and personal space. Then maybe we would get along more, care less about inconvenience and more about our relationships with other people. The world might just live in harmony if every once in a while we really talked to a stranger, raced a random biker down the sidewalk on our longboards (ahem, Bhadri) or let someone sit next to you on a plane. I could be wrong though.

For my family

2008-09-01T22:05:00.009Z

Although today may seem like any other Labor Day, for me it is monumental. Not only did I begin my junior year of college, attend a BBQ, and buy some mums, but as I write, my mom and her new husband are embarking on their latest adventure. They are moving to Venezuela. Yes, South America. Life is always changing, but right now, it seems like everything that has had an kind of significance for me is shifting. Though it's difficult and strange, it's not a bad thing. My life is unusual, I understand that, and I also appreciate that. But it does seem to constantly test my patience and my trust in God. However, I am beginning to understand a little bit more of why my life is in a constant state of transformation. I need it. I am learning how to rid myself of all attachments. Things that seemed so important to me (my childhood house, my car, my stability) are being taken. Or I am being urged to give them up. Honestly, everything that I have relied on and most things that I associate with comfort and with home are no longer the same. It's terrifying, but at the same time, I know that my home and my real focus will be on something greater and oh so much more stable. All this has allowed me to see my life from a new perspective.
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My mom will always be my mom. She does not need to live and teach in Tulsa to be my mom. My sister and I have lived in foreign countries. We've been transformed because of those experiences; why shouldn't my mom have that opportunity as well? And I love that she is so brave and adventurous. She doesn't understand where Bethanie and I got the nerve to travel and visit different cultures, but clearly she has something to do with that.

So to my mom and Joe, congratulations on your next adventure. I'm so proud of you!
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And to my dear brother, Bhadri, you are not forgotten. Happy Birthday! Bethanie and Dad, thanks for being so wonderful and for taking care of me and my gallbladder. I will see you all soon enough. Let's go camping.
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"Though outwardly we are wasting away, inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." -Paul

Attic Attack & Sentimental Sisters

2008-08-21T04:08:00.006Z

My sister and I have been cleaning out the attic this week. For those of you who did not know, my mom got remarried this summer and is moving to Venezuela (yes, South America-Hugo-Chavez-Venezuela). Therefore, everything that has been accumulated by my sister and I for the past 26 years is being sorted, stacked, and placed in piles of "Give Away" or "I could never part with this (insert item such as: tennis shoe scooter, Barbie in neon pink dress, etc)." We have laughed hysterically, remembered long forgotten stories and even shed a few sentimental tears. It is much more emotional that I thought. I am at a stage in my life where I am really focusing on simplifying everything. If it isn't practical, artistic or rationally sentimental why do I need it? Do I really need three boxes of rocks? Yes, I do.

Sidenote: I was an avid rock collector. You think you were too? Did you have your own private rock tumbler? Can you pin point a geod? Amethyst? What is Oklahoma's state rock? Do you have that state rock mounted on a ring? Did you consider each and every rock- including the gravel at the end of your driveway- precious gems? Well I did. I loved rocks. I even had books about rocks.

No, I do not need three boxes full of rocks. So I condensed them into one. I threw out the large, oddly shaped stones that I obviously took from someone's yard during a bikeride. I did not need those large rocks that sort of resembled guns and sunny side up eggs. But I know that I once loved them. Just like I loved my glow bug and my Amy Grant Sings Christmas cassette tape.

Despite the large collection of items from my childhood that have jolted memories and made me rather sad to part with, it is quite freeing to condense everything. I love giving things away. I love limiting myself to one box. You can only keep one box, make it work. Right now I am sifting through my clothes and limiting my number of t-shirts. I am currently trying to get rid of all but 25 t-shirts. And even worse, it's hard. I find myself thinking "well, maybe someday I will want to wear this" and then I have to catch myself and remember that I am insane. I do not need that many t-shirts. No one needs that many t-shirts! Simplify. I have found that life becomes much clearer when "things" are not surrouding me. They can be suffocating. Simplify, simplify, simplify. Something I think I will be continuously striving to do.

This is for Liz:
Currently Listening to: Chris Thile
Currently Reading: Raise High the Roof Beam Carpenters
Current Summer Realizations: My life is not normal, my sister is incredible, I like domestic activities, and I don't drink enough water
Currently Eating: Vegan Chocolate Cake

Life is a highway...

2008-08-10T20:47:00.009Z

I must admit, I am currently struggling with the new concept of domestic blogging. International travel and quips about African children are do-able for me. But talking about myself in America, much harder. Thankfully I have brilliant friends like Sarah and Liz who show me how wonderful it can be to read the thoughts of those you love. They have inspired me to push through and write.

Life in America has been extremely hard for me these past two years. I had been judgmental, bitter, jaded and angry more times that I can count. Consumerism and apathy have surrounded me because I have allowed them to. I have focused on the negative and idealized the rest of the world. It has been especially difficult to readjust once again into the American life without losing the beauty of African life. So what's the cure for my ill, you ask? Roadtrip. Ingredients: Sister, beach, good talks, nuns, public transportation and camping. No hydrogenated oils.

After teaching gardening in Tulsa for 3 weeks, I embarked on yet another adventure. My friend John and I headed out to California via Route 66, Sedona and long endless highways. Fueled by too many cups of coffee, we made it to San Diego where my sister and brother-in-law are currently teaching. It was perfect. I love my sister. I realized that this was our first "trip" together without the 'rents. We got to chill at the beach, eat lots of Mexican food, drink good beers, and search for used socio-politcal books like nerds. What more could a girl want?

In addition, I stayed at a Carmelite Monastery with fourteen beautiful nuns. I had my own apartment with a kitchen, bathroom and windows that opened out onto the insanely gorgeous gardens. It was one of the most clearly holy places I have been. The presence of the Lord was found in the stillness of the halls, the vibrant colors of the SoCal flowers and the smile of Sister Yvonne, the Prioress who welcomed my Protestant self into her humble abode. I cried when I left. There was good half hour where I seriously considered joining the Carmelites and becoming a nun. It's not been completely ruled out.

After having some good quality sister time, we headed up highway 1 toward the final destination of San Francisco. We had the best Thai food of my life in LA, slept illegally in a State Park, cooked pancakes on the beach north of Santa Cruz and made it to San Francisco to drink coffee by mid-morning. I love San Francisco. An intoxicated Frenchmen told John and me that no one was actually from San Francisco, it's just that all the crazies and outcasts from everywhere else in America move there. Sounds perfect to me.

Most details I will keep to myself because I feel like the more things are spoken, the less sacred they remain. And roadtrips are sacred, as far as I am concerned.

So instead, I will leave you with the image of Bhadri and John during an intense game of checkers at a local San Diego coffee shop. Bethanie and I watched on with about as much anticipation as these two expressed during the match.

Meet Rosalinda

2008-07-02T18:13:00.002Z

Meet Rosalinda. Lauren and I taught her when she was two and three, and she is pretty much one of the most darling children in the world. And I think I can claim that, as I've met a lot of children around the world.

Rosalinda was picking flowers near my house the first Sunday I was in Amedzofe. I saw her and my heart leapt. It was the first time I had seen one of my old students... one of my chillens! But I knew not to expect much because she probably wouldn't remember me. She was so young.

Darling Rosalinda looked up at me, with flowers in the pockets of her dress and in a tight bouquet wrapped with her little hands. Her eyes grew wide and big as she boisterously yelled "Teacha!" and ran at me full speed. She jumped up into my arms and kissed me and hugged me and gave me flowers.

Up until this moment I had been going through a very dark, loneliness... but the second that girl jumped into my arms and giggled with delight that her old, white teacher was holding her and tickling her yet again... that loneliness vanished. She came to visit me every day after school and I caught glimpses of how mature and wise a five year old can truly be.

This may be cheesy and overly sensitive to you, virtual friends, but that's okay with me. It is really for Lauren and Lesley, and it's for those who like sweet stories. So deal, mmk?

Zen and the Art of Sleep Deprivation

2008-06-26T15:03:00.002Z

Subtitle: The Epic Tale of a Traveler's Homecoming

Welcome back to the United States of America, Molly Bryant.

I arrived at DFW Airport after 17 hours in the air. I was feeling pretty good, I had just traveled to Africa and back by myself with no problems. All was going well, and it looked as if I would have no traveling woes at all. Too soon? Yes.

I bought a round trip ticket from Dallas because I am a cheap, savvy traveler who likes a good deal. And this was the best I could find. So when I left for Ghana I did not have a way to get from Dallas to Tulsa but I was not concerned. I had my mom purchase the cheapest ticket she could find which so happened to be on another airline. No problem. I would just get my luggage and then re-check my luggage with Southwest. Right? Wrong.

Molly: Excuse me, can you tell me how to get back into the DFW terminal? I have to check-in with Southwest and I don't know where to go.
Immigration Officer: Oh sure. Well, isn't Southwest at Dallas-LUV?
Molly thinking explitives but saying: Hmm, yes I believe it is. Well, maybe not.
Immigration Officer: Maybe there is one here.
Molly knowing that there is not one there: Yes, maybe there is. Thank you.

I then proceeded to calmly go through immigration and walked up to an old man at the information booth to make sure that I was indeed at the wrong airport. Sure enough, yes, I needed to be across town in roughly one hour to board my plane. I needed to get a taxi or shared transportation to take me. So I went outside to find my way. No one knew how to get there and no one really cared to help.

Most would have had a breakdown at this point. I had just traveled from Africa to America by myself. I had been awake for 32 hours straight. At one point, I attempted to cry but my eyes were so dry from being awake for so long that nothing came out. That was only my only breakdown, it was about 5 seconds and I just made a weird face and then gave up.

I found my shared taxi cab, hopped in with three businessmen who looked absolutely disgusted at me. Here I was, the hippie with hair legs and an African dress and messy hair, sitting next to a man that did not hide his utter disdain for my appearance. I really could not have cared any less. I had reached the point in sleep deprivation where one becomes delusional. I sang along with the radio, I sneezed and then somehow felt that I needed to justify my sneeze by saying "I've been awake for more than 30 hours straight, sorry," I did not care. And more than that, I was having a relatively nice time because I had refused to freak out. I also think that I like myself a lot more when I haven't slept. I am more daring and I can make myself laugh a lot more.

After we dropped the businessmen off at their swanky hotel, the driver and I proceeded to Dallas-LUV. We chatted about my sleep deprivation, the humor in being at the wrong airport after traveling so long, his children, my family and then he gave me a tour of a fancy neighborhood where the Dallas Cowboys owner lives. Stellar. He told me that it would have been very expensive to get a taxi by myself, good thing this is a flat rate for everyone.

Molly: By the way, how much is that flat rate?
Driver: $21.00
Molly: Okay, cool.

I did not have $21. I did, however, need to be at Dallas-LUV ASAP. What's a girl to do?

I got out of the car at LUV, handed the man all of my money which did not quite reach the flat rate, rummaged through my bags to see if maybe I had anything else.

Molly: Well, I have a Euro and some Ghana Cedis?
Driver: No worries, love. Consider it on me.

And the tale ends at hour 45 (of being awake) with the woman next to me saying "Wow, it will feel really great to get off this airplane." We flew from Dallas to Tulsa and the total flight was 38 minutes. If there was ever a time that I was to punch a 65 year old lady in the face, it would have been then. But I did not. I went home, ate chicken and went to get some much needed sleep.

P.S. As this whole thing was playing out, I was thinking "What a great blog!" And I had all these quips and silly comments but they are lost on me now that I have slept. Too bad. I am a lot cooler without sleep.

Apologies and A Couple Photos

2008-06-26T04:48:00.005Z

First of all, I realize now that I should have written a blog this morning to inform you all that I arrived home safe and sound after 2 days of travel. I realized this at about 4pm today when I had received numerous text messages, phone messages and emails asking if I had returned. Only one was a little frantic.

So... I'm back in America! I slept in my own bed last night and drank coffee on my back porch this morning.

My reason for not writing yet is that I have a really great travel story to share (it's epic!) and it deserves some effort... right now, I am completely zapped of energy and my sister and brother in law just got in from Europe today, so it's coming soon.

Until then, here are a few photos to keep you interested in my life. More will be revealed after Lauren and Lesley get the full viewing.

I love Nuns

2008-06-24T04:44:00.002Z

On my flight from Accra to Amsterdam, I was seated next to a Ghanaian nun. We sang a song together in a local dialect and then we watched the sun rise over the Holland countryside. I am not even exaggerating.

And I showed her how to buckle and unbuckle her seatbelt, open the bag that contains the blanket, how to open the bathroom door and many more airplane phenomenoms. She pretty much kept me sane. Nuns are wonderful.

In Amsterdam I Got Quite Crazy

2008-06-24T04:36:00.002Z

4:30 in the morning, my time, and I am being so very Euro-African as I sit in the airport sipping my latte and eating a scone... whilst dawning the Ghanaian dress that I received as a gift. All is well. I left Ghana last night and the whole ordeal seemed like an awful blur of chaos, farewells and food. But we all made it through, although I must admit that yes, I did cry. But I think that it is perfectly fine to express emotions, so I went for it. However, it was not nearly as dramatic as two years ago.

I now have 4 hours to walk around Amsterdam... Schipol Airport. It has taken so much self control not to walk out into the city. Only a select few understand the gravitational pull toward Dam Square, the Cleft or Dwazezaken. Ah, I cannot even think about it! So I was leisurely meandering through the gates and saw the exit and customs... I started to move toward it and thought, should I? But then I realized that if I left, I would never come back. Thus, I am eating my scone. I just have to remember that someday in the future, I will get to spend plenty plenty time in Amsterdam... when I move here.

I have not yet grasped the magnitude of my trip to Ghana, now will I ever, I imagine. And I definitely have not begun to deal with leaving my loved ones again... that will take time, and probably quite a bit of it. But right now, I am content and sleep deprived and really not looking forward to DFW. Bleh. I think I might go make a European friend... wish me luck!

2008-06-22T16:19:00.002Z

Top 5 Things I Am Looking Forward to in the States:
-Coffee, not the crappy Nescafe taste the spirit of Africa packet, but real coffee. Strong and black (wink, Katherine)
-Non-tomato based products... food is a big deal to me. I like it and I always have. So bring on the sushi, the hamburgers, the mashed potatoes and the enchiladas because mama's coming home
-Euro Cup? Have I missed it? Tell me I haven't missed ALL of it. If I have, then I will change this one to "Frisbees"
-New music, such as the new Coldplay CD which I have yet to hear with my own ears but I dream about the genius of it often
-MY SISTER! She comes back from Europe the day after I come back from Africa, aren't we cool? And we will finally make it in the States at the same time... thanks to my gallbladder, but I'm not bitter because it get to make puns and cook and gang up on my parents with m'seastar

Top 5 Things I Will Miss about Ghana (not including people because that's just too hard):
-Kelewele... the best fried freakin' plantain dish in the world, only served at night in the cities
-Ghana Time... meaning, you never have to be anywhere on time because no one else will... it's actually more than perfect for me because for those who don't know this, I usually don't make it anywhere on time and I have a fear of being early
-Church... filled with dancing and singing, the best part is you don't even have to be a good singer to lead worship and that makes me happy and accepted
-The Prayer Garden... every night in the village I spend an hour or more in a garden run by my dear Mr. Sheri who owns a tortoise that has an uncanny resemblance to him... the garden overlooks to the village of Biakpa and you can see as far as Lake Volta, it's about as close to heaven as anywhere
-The vibrant colors of the fabric, the homes, the environment, the food... everything is so colorful

Summer In the City

2008-06-22T15:58:00.002Z

Apparently whenever I try to upload pictures to the blog, the computer freezes completely. It's unfortunate because I would love show you all the lovely faces of my friends and family here, but it looks like I will have to save that for when I get back to the States... which is all too soon. I will be arriving in Tulsa on Tuesday night after a super long flight from Accra to Amsterdam to Dallas and then finally the homestead. In Amsterdam though, I plan to meet with a man who is a bigwig when it comes to the anti-trafficking of women in the Red Light District... it's perfect! If he doesn't show up, then I am going to make some unsuspecting boy buy me a cup of coffee and possibly a waffle. Only time will tell.

Right now, I am in the capital, Accra where life is hectic and crowded and hot. It's drastically different from the village which was nice and calm and very few people cared I was white. Here though, I get lots of stares and exponentially more proposals (even the ring that I wear on my left hand to deter suitors is living up to its potential). However, I'm making the best of it and getting to see some very dear friends.

Yesterday, my BFF Ghanaian-style, Dinah and I took the town. We visited with our old housemates, the Badjies (can I get a woop woop, LK and Les?) They are absolutely wonderful. And my baby, really... if I can ever claim another child as my own, it would be this beautiful bundle of energy, Maa Justine. Lauren and I used to take her to school, on our backs, as a baby and now two years later, she's a walking, talking noise making machine. When I walked into the room, she looked up at me and said "You're my auntie! You're my auntie!" And then led me by the hand to her photo album, sat on my lap and showed me pictures of her three white aunties. It was absolutely priceless. Aah, it was only too short of a visit. After eating some rice and stew and a pleasantly long conversation with Brigitte Badjie, Dinah and I headed off to the beach. Before we left though, Maa sang and danced and made up a song about me being her auntie. She even taught me the Black Stars theme song for the Africa Cup of Nations.

Sidenote: I had planned to go to see a soccer match today with the Black Stars and was absolutely giddy about the whole affair... but plans changed, as they always do. And you know what I ended up doing? Sitting at a Chinese/Ghanaian Restaurant with two African men. Soccer or awkward lunch? It's a toss-up for sure.

I will continue to blog, even when I get back to the States, because there is so much else that I wanted to share but I didn't have the internet... and I want to put up pictures. If you all want to see them. Really, I feel like a mother who wants to show off all her children's boring awards and pictures and tell really awful and stupid stories that are only interesting to her because she is their mother and she drives a van with an Elementary Student of the Month sticker stuck crooked on the bumper. So if this is the case, I apologize. I never intended to turn into that girl.

More to come, tech lovers.

Peace.

Boo

2008-06-19T20:29:00.002Z

Virtual Friends (and hopefully, real ones too),

I have had a change of plans. I have been here for a month now and just made it back to Accra. I have very little time at this internet cafe, but the news... I will be gracing the States with my presence on Tuesday the 24th. Yah. Apparently I have a malfunctioning gallbladder. No big deal. But really, what do you even need your gallbladder for? So... I promise to blog again soon. And it will be sillier and clever-er than this one.

P.S. I think I'm actually African... just a little paler than the rest.

Everything Is Illuminated

2008-06-07T10:56:00.001Z

Everything is illuminated here in Amedzofe. Life, purpose, significance- all become clearer and more vibrant. My soul finds rest here. I am forced to slow down and quiet myself each day. The multi-tasking, super efficient minded characteristic of my college life becomes unimportant. It does not matter.

Instead, I find my satisfaction in the unknown and the uncomfortable. I do not know why God has chosen to take me back to Ghana, and I do not know if I will ever know the fruits of my labor. Maybe it is not about what I have done for these beautiful people but more so what they have done for me. I know that they have had an incredibly large impact on my life, but have I really done anything for them? It is unknown and I am perfectly satisfied without the lack of understanding. Because, honestly, it is not about me anyway.

Most noticeably, I have learned to despise the comfortable in life. I do not know if this makes sense, but to me, it is my goal that I am constantly striving to reach. I want to force myself outside of the cultural, traditional, mental, physical and mostly spiritual comfort of what I have always known. I have found over the years that when my greatest moments are found in the uncomfortable because that is where God works. I must relinquish my control and completely surrender. It is in the uncomfortable that I ironically find peace.

As a result, I am once again embracing the fact that I do not understand everything. And I don’t care to understand it all. But one thing I am sure, in Ghana, it is clearer… life just makes more sense. It is a beautiful culture and I cannot even begin to adequately explain my love for the people and the country.

Health Report

2008-06-07T10:54:00.002Z

Dearest Friends,

Over the past week and half, I have been rather sick and unable to eat much food. As a result, it looks like I may need to come back to the States early. Home is calling me back and despite my stubborness and inability to convince my body to get better, it seems I will be coming back in a couple weeks. However, if I feel fine over the next few days, I will stay. Please be praying that I feel better and can stay as long as I intended.

Your Friend,
Molly

Ninja Love

2008-06-07T10:53:00.001Z

This is an actual conversation that took place over two or three days in Amedzofe. Surprisingly, it is not altogether uncommon.

Disclaimer: I lie about my status, for reasons only white American girls who have lived in Ghana would understand:

Francis: Oh you are welcome. What is your name?
Molly: Molly. How are you?
Francis: Oh I am Francis. You are Mary? Like you are the mother of the Savior?
Molly: No, Molly. M-A-L-I.
Francis: Oooh, Mary. Okay.
Molly: Yes, Mary.
Francis: Mary Magdalene, where are you from?
Molly: America. My people send their greetings.
Francis: Oh, America? Oh what a nice place! How are your peoples? Will you marry me?
Molly: No, I won’t marry you.
Francis: You have a man?
Molly: No… well, yes I do.
Francis: Has he promised to marry you? Is he a white man?
Molly: No he is a black man.
Francis: No I want to be the black man. I want to marry you. Marry me?
Molly: No no no. I am sorry. I can’t.
Francis: Okay, well have a good day.
Molly: Thank you, you as well.
Francis: I am a ninja.
Molly: No you are not.
Francis: Oh fine, have a nice day.

Two days later:
Francis: Hello.
Molly: Uhh… hello.
Francis. Ninja!
Molly: Oh yes, hello.
Francis: Okay, goodbye. I love you.

True Life: I live in Africa

2008-06-07T10:51:00.001Z

Over the past week and half, the Ghanaian in me has revealed itself once again, accompanied with my inevitable accent. Africa is like second nature to me. The smells, the food, the bugs, the way of life. As of yet, I have encountered numerous large, no enormous, insects and rodents in my house. Since it is only my friend Dinah and I in the house this time, we are forced to deal with them all by ourselves. I have successfully refrained from screaming while a mouse brushed past my foot and ran out of the kitchen, moved a millipede the size of my foot from my room with a stick and some prayers, completely obliterated a snake-ish creature that is said to be poisonous from the hallway, and multiple spiders have lost their lives and countless ants have been crushed by my fingers, feet and utensils of some sort. Maybe my destiny is not to live in poverty but to be an exterminator.

Home Sweet Home

2008-06-07T10:49:00.000Z

Oh Amedzofe. We arrived in the village before dusk Saturday evening. I already see the changes that two years can make. The road up to the mountain has been paved several miles further than when I last took the road, and driving up to the village seems much faster. Of course, driving is relative. We walked a good portion of the way up the mountain because the tires on the car that we borrowed from a friend in Accra began spinning on the rocks and pebbles of the road, so we had to get out of the car, with thunder booming across the valley, and sprint while the car drove upward without us. It was silly, and it was priceless to see Uncle Yawo run up a mountain (that is an image specifically for Lauren and Lesley).

I was so excited but getting a little nervous about arriving back to my Ghanaian home. Would people remember me? Do people even know I am coming? What am I going to do? What have I gotten myself into? All of these worries washed away the second I walked into the home of my dear, dear friend Esenam. I will not even attempt to describe this beautiful, strong and precious woman. She is Esenam and she is my sister- that is all that can be said without losing her character in translation. She saw me, screamed “Aaah Sister Molly!” and literally picked me up off the ground. It was better than any reunion I could have imagined. Seriously. We laughed and hugged some more, exchanged a few greetings and just could not believe that we were staring at each other face to face. Nothing has been lost in those two years. Maybe we did not know the details of each others lives, but we did not need to. I was back and all was well.

I am back!

I'm Ghana Love It

2008-05-31T09:29:00.002Z

Dear Virtual Friends,

I made it! I am sitting in an internet cafe listening to Mariah Carey and trying to type as fast as possible. I only have a couple minutes so this won't be witty or silly or clever, but it will be informative, grammatically incorrect and fast.

Ghana is wonderful. I have forgotten much but I am quickly being reintroduced to the culture. As soon as I stepped off the plane, I could smell Ghana. I forgot how completely devoid of smells America is, until I came back. Ghana is a vibrant country will rich colors, strong scents and beautiful people.

One of the most shocking pieces of news that I have heard from my family here is in regard to food prices. Commodities have been raised exponentially. I am sure you have all heard on the news or from Oxfam about the price of rice and others staple foods, but let me tell you, it is crazy. I went to the market yesterday and was absolutely stunned. I could barely afford to buy food. And then I spoke with my Uncle Yawo who told me that it is bad. The Government has not raised the income and people simply cannot afford to eat. Unless something changes soon, there will be major problems in Ghana and most of sub-Saharan Africa.

Sorry to be a Debbie Downer. Here's some great news: I am going to my village, Amedzofe, today! I am thrilled. I seriously cannot wait. That is why I am typing so fast. The sooner I leave this internet cafe, the sooner I will be in the village. Last I heard there was no electricity and hasn't been any for 3 weeks. Hopefully it will be back on or this will put a damper on all nighttime activities, music and movies from my laptop. But all is well, it will be interesting nonetheless.

The computer is beeping extremely loud at me. I think this means my time has come. I will try to write again soon but it may be a couple weeks. But please, do not hesitate to email me or mail me: Molly Bryant, Box 2632, Accra, Ghana. I LOVE mail. Seriously.

Talk to you in two weeks or so!

Love.

Ghana 101

2008-05-22T18:52:00.004Z

Dear Bloggers,

Sound the trumpets, release the doves, I am now one of you. Although I have long considered blogging a form of vanity, I accept that I too am vain and enjoy telling stories about myself. Screw humility, I am interesting. And I’m going to spend the summer in Ghana playing with children, eating spicy food, wearing high wasted skirts, dancing at church and possibly even catching malaria again. What more could one girl want?

In six days I embark on this next adventure. For those who did not know me two years ago when I lived in this beautiful country, here are few tidbits from my journal to get you started on what life is like in this crazy country:

On my day at the market in Accra: “I hate it. Men like to tell you that they love you and want to marry you. Vendors try to sell you children’s shoes and fat men’s pants. It’s okay for a little while, but it gets old pretty quick”

“Tonight we have a Togolese man staying with us. He is told us he was here to study butterflies. I asked him if he took pictures of the butterflies and his response was ‘No, I kill them and package them.’”

“A rooster ran into the school today while the children were taking a nap. He flipped out when he realized where he was and tried to escape as fast as he could.”

“On our way out of town, we decided to visit Mama Patience but we did not know where her house was. We asked Mr. Otsina and these were his directions: On the first road in Vane there is a big tree on the right and a small tree on the left and a big house that’s not finished next to the big tree. We should go into the unfinished house and ask where Patience Ebedi lives.”

“The sheep were a big hit and the children thought they were fascinating. Unfortunately, ‘sheepy play time’ had to be cut short because the children started throwing rocks at them.”

“We watched and laughed as they ran home, because running kids are funny enough- but with the wind factor it was bordering on hysterical.”

“I have malaria along with my two white companions, Lauren and Lesley.”

“There I was in the field with a baby on my back and an inside-out umbrella trying to make it back home before the wind carried us to Togo.”

Also, the pictures are from my village Amedzofe (sort of pronounced: Aw-meh-joe-pay) and some of the beautiful children mentioned in the above quotes.

Peace and Chow.

Your Unsure Blogger,
Molly

Addendum to my friends:

Yesterday as I was driving home from an atypical post office visit, I suddenly became aware that my friends are pretty spectacular. What caused this realization? Why haven’t I noticed before? I definitely knew I was surrounding myself with intelligent, witty and kind people… but I did not know how much they really cared about me. After a long chain of events within 24 hours that consisted of several phone calls (Tangent: Phone calls are uncharacteristically significant to me considering I am awful at calling people back or taking the initiative to start the dreaded but necessary phone conversation between friends who do not live in close proximity, so I more than appreciate the effort that it takes- maybe I have phone phobia “telephobia”). I also received a long letter and package that consisted of hours of indie music and a card about lunch meat, a combination that is rarely trumped. As my fellow Okies would say, “I sure know how to pick’em.”
My friends, you have been extremely supportive, and more importantly, enthusiastic about my return to Africa. It is one thing to have someone tell me that they think it’s cool or whatever that I am going, but it is a completely separate emotion when my friends are genuinely interested and eager to be a part of my adventure. Your words are followed by actions. For that, I will never be able to thank you enough. This is so super cheese louise, but I felt it needed to be said.

I apologize for the extra long blog. I will work on being more efficient with my virtual dear kitty.

2008-05-20T03:59:00.001Z

really clever posts and super awesome photos coming soon...