BRATTLEBORO — I had it in mind that I would start this entry with a dreadfully funny witticism about feeling like a missionary because our entire group wore matching polo shirts today, which pretty much encompasses the totality of what I know about missionaries. And although I seem to have started with a reference to the witticism, I have not, and will not, give it its full due because to do so would make me a complete tool given the rest of the day.
This was our first full day at Mbiriizi Primary School, and it was an out-and-out doozy. Our bus pulled up to the school paths lined with more than a thousand children, singing, clapping, dancing, and generally looking beatific.
The reception was for us, and there was no pretending otherwise. There was no room for false modesty (gamely looking behind you to see if there was someone more important there), no room for embarrassment (“No, really, it's all too much!”), no room for anything other than to propel yourself forward through the throngs, reaching out to touch the outstretched hands, and smiling. I was, of course, the only idiot who found some solemnity in the revelry.
We were then ushered to the front of the auditorium, which in America would be classified as a hollowed-out shell of a large, ballroom-size hovel, and were seated in what I have now come to understand as seats of honor in this village: white plastic lawn furniture.
* * *
An hour of singing and dancing followed, punctuated toward the start with our group singing the national anthem in some Roseanne-Barr-esque homage.
Every time I looked away from the stage to one of my trip-mates, they seemed to have a small child in their lap. I, at no point, saw how these interactions went down.
I do not know if my colleagues beckoned to the children. I do not know if there was a youth-wrestling match in which the children on the laps emerged victorious. I do not know if incantations were uttered. I do know that I was the only one without a child in my lap, and although I feigned jealousy, I really wasn't there yet.
The rest of the day was significant, if a tad blurry. I remember being really anxious to start my task for the day, which involved visiting every class at the school and handing each individual student a tube of toothpaste.
So many levels of experience on this task alone!
First, the appreciation. When the assistant principal introduced us to every class and explained to them that they would be receiving a cheap plastic toothbrush, a travel-size tube of toothpaste, and a small plastic cup in which they could store their new treasures, they applauded. For dental hygiene!
Oh, and how about the part where each student curtsied, some with knees to the floor, while whispering a barely audible “thank you”? My responding “kale” - “you're welcome” in Luganda - didn't belong in that same exchange.
* * *
I can't remember a part of my day that didn't have me immersed in children. But even this interaction was extraordinarily layered.
On one side was the non-verbal communication: sitting with children on a wall near the playground as they sat in my lap, felt my arms, looked at my palms, touched my earrings. These were always with the younger children, who pushed others out of the way, ever so gently, to jockey for a better tactile position.
I didn't walk across campus today without at least two (and usually far more) children holding my hands. If there was some room for pause about holding hundreds of different hands of children with whom I had no relationship, it is not a space I can recall.
On the verbal side of communication was an incredible summit I had with six 12-year-olds toward the end of the day as I had a 6-year-old on my lap and another 6-year-old on my arm.
They started by asking me if I knew Obama. After I affirmed that he was indeed my president, I launched into this whole biography of Michelle Obama and her passion for children and the food they ingest. I thought it was so important to highlight her, though I'm now not sure why, and their lack of interest validated this uncertainty.
They then told me that the Ugandan president is a bad man who steals land and that it is important that people vote against him next year. I made them promise me they would vote when they were 18, not even knowing if that was the voting age, so it's possible I may have contributed to voter fraud. Apologies.
* * *
I asked about their plans when they graduate (they all wanted to be doctors, except for the 6-year-old on my lap who wanted to be a farmer), what life is like for them as orphans, and what they thought about snow.
They had this amazing method of indicating they had something to say by clearing their throat. It was as adorable and obvious as it was respectful and earnest.
The 12-year-old to my immediate right used the throat-clearing method to perfection as I was waxing on about blizzards. (I live in Vermont.)
When I gave him the floor, he asked me if it was true that when babies were born in America, they automatically have parents, money, and a home.
Without hesitation, I told him that no, this was not true, and that many children do not have a home.
“Orphans?” he asked.
“Yes.” I replied. This seemed to surprise him.
I made them all promise that we would talk again, although I have no way of holding them to that. But I do so want my own little Dead-Poets-Reading-Lolita-in-Uganda klatch, so I'm counting on a bit of fate to bring us together again.