While living in Namibia I was definitely appreciative of the slow pace of life and horizons absent buildings with stairs, but since I was raised stateside, and since everyone eventually mumbles something about home sweet home, I occasionally craved capitalist stimuli, such as neon lights, two-for-one drink specials, and thousands of people in close proximity, all too busy for vexatious politeness formulas. Wa lala what, mo’fucka; I have a taxi to catch.. Those urges generally exhausted themselves once I left the village for town, got my beer, and had to actually talk to someone in fluent English, so it was relief I felt when I returned to the village and could read a book or tend my garden, alone. But again the solitude would accumulate and I’d begin to romanticize things I’ve never had much interest in, like the club, or even people for that matter. It was no doubt during one of these moments of revisionist nostalgia that I began to regard Chicago as a good idea once I finished my service.

No matter how slow the pace of life in Peace Corps, time keeps on, and eventually one must face the unsettling prospect of returning to America. The issue isn’t so much any hyper-liberal reservations about the Stars and Stripes, but what to do now now, especially if, like me, one already has their master’s and there’s no more grad school cum stay of execution: I had to begin my life. But where? is an overwhelming decision to make when you’re not tied down to any one place, the rough equivalent of that ridiculous inquiry people make during job interviews: Tell me about yourself. Uh… I was born in… No, I schooled at… Wait, I’m a people person who… Fuck, I don’t know. The same with resettling. Unless you’re returning to where you left from or have some sort of job lined up, there aren’t many guidelines for choosing a place to live, which is quite disturbing. I suppose I could’ve landed at DTW, kissed my mum hello, and bought a train ticket for Santa Fe, but how to rationalize New Mexico? I’ve never been there; I don’t know anyone who has; and I definitely don’t know what language is spoken there. [I think Canadian.] But why not Santa Fe? It satisfies, after all, the only criterion I established for my return: that it not be Michigan. But that’s rather capricious, non, and while I am a bit whimsical, I hate having to map out my reasoning for my father - especially when I don’t have any - so I decided one day I’d live in Chicago and afterward came up with a list of considerations to suit a decision already made. It was a banal list, stuff like relative proximity to family, public transport, urban school district, don’t have to pay for hotels anymore when I visit, blah blah blah, but aside from my family, none of those things really mattered to me, at least enough that I just had to live in Chicago.

Of course, none of this occurred to me as I packed my shite and left Michigan. It didn’t occur either when the gas company shut off my heat just as the temperatures fell well below zero, not did I ponder my disinterest while being denied admittance to a bar b/c my takkies were white. I may have intuitively acknowledged my residential transience when I tried to list my neighbor’s names but realized I didn’t know what any of them looked like, but by then I had an Illinois driver’s license and was looking for a job, which provided me with the opportunity to express myself during interviews about where I saw myself in five year’s time: telling Chicago to slag off. Perhaps I might’ve thought differently had I a car rather than a bike, but I didn’t one day during the spring when I entered a six-way intersection with the right-of-way and some alpha-phallic of an SUV - which ironically, in a way that’s not so much ironic as it is mildly coincidental, had Oregon plates… more in a minute - tried to run me over, thought twice about it, then settled on honking-as-intimidation. It was my right-of-way, and while I get people trying to steal it, I don’t understand the posturing necessary to salvage an ego bruised by a five-second wait, if that. So I dropped my bike in the middle of the intersection and made them wait even longer while I told them to fuck off as they tiptoed around me and my bike. That’s fine, the moment passed quickly, but then I biked home pissed off that I didn’t spit on them. Damn the city makes me mean, which I’m not. I realized then I had two pressing needs: (1) reestablish my spiritual core and (2) get the fuck out of Dodge. Of course, I wasn’t going to GFOD right then and there, so I went to the library instead and checked out a book of Judaic thought. Ah, Zionism, the idea of a homeland. I think I’ll head to Oregon.

I’m a Zionist, and Oregon’s my Israel. An apt comparison, I like to think, though there’s a bit of analogical breakdown when trying to draw too many corollaries. For starters, mine is a meager nation - population: one - and any repossession of my native land won’t require the displacement of millions of Oregonians already living there. And it may be noted that I’ve already called my shot: Oregonians already living there. There won’t be a debate fifty years from now whether the people of Oregon today were members of an already-established society or if they were refugees from Washington, Idaho, and Nevada’s failed invasion of cultural, religious, and political antipathy to force me back to the Midwest. [I doubt I’ll be able to make rent till the very last minute, let alone build a summer home in disputed territory.] My Zionism is also absent any assertions of creed, though I definitely won’t settle without the collection of religious candles I’ve amassed while living in a Mexican neighborhood. I’ll light one for the godless hippies in PDX; I’ll probably even pass judgment; but I won’t proselytize, most especially through the practice of targeted assassination. Unless I have loud neighbors. [I won’t order misanthrope for dinner, but perhaps as an appetizer?]

Anyhow, I’m moving to Oregon soon. I decided during a job interview while listening to some principal espouse an educational philosophy more reminiscent of Alcatraz lockdown than the flowery mission statement I read while preparing for the interview. I just bought a car-slash-suitcase that I named Sampson, short for Sampsonite, and hopefully it makes it west, else I’ll have to settle wherever it breaks down. I’m not sure exactly when I’ll be far enough past Chicago proper that I begin to breath fresh air again, but I’ve made plans to share Thanksgiving with my Peachy Bear in Seattle, so I’ve only a couple more months to flash my M[id]W[est] gang signs and go into hiding whenever Michigan loses a football game. Hasta, homogeneous topography; I’m going to make out with a mountain full of Douglas Firs.

This past year has been a bit of a malaise, and while an honest assessment would no doubt point to a bit of malingering on my part, I also wonder how much my time in Namibia has exasberated my sensitivity to Camus' Absurd Man.

But one day the "why" arises and everything begins in that weariness tinged with amazement. "Begins" - this is important. Weariness comes at the end of the acts of a mechanical life, but at the same time it inaugurates the impulse of consciousness. It awakens consciousness and provokes what follows. What follows is the gradual return into the chain or it is the definitive awakening.

I've been pondering how to spend my life at a time when it'd be 3/4 over in some parts of the world, but nothing substantial ever presents itself. I don't want to be a corporate stooge - and teaching under NCLB is just as corporate as sharpening pencils for IBM - but I also know waiting tables, bartending, and panhandling for change just to cover rent is an absolute waste of the opportunities I've had that others are routinely denied. Still, there's something inorganic about giving the man a manicure just b/c I have a fancy degree. I like the security money can bring, but there have to be other rewards, which is why I reminisce quite often about Namibia, especially when I receive letters affirming the adumbration of time-not-completely-wasted.

Hi Jeremy!

My notice board is full of pictures of you and Tsepo. This makes me miss you a lot. It’s better for Tsepo because I’ll miss her from Monday to Thursday, but for you it’s like missing you forever.

These pictures on my notice board makes me smiles and sometimes sad. I gave Tsepo a picture where the two of you are. She carries it at school in her school bag. It’s like every learner at her school knows who Jeremy is. She carried her cell phone at school. Her teacher called asking if I knew Tsepo came with a cell phone at school. They were surprised when I told them it wasn’t working, it was sent by an uncle from America as a toy.

The nail polish was applied on her nails every after few minutes. It got finished within few minutes.

She put on her tiara and we went for shopping. People thought she won a title. At least she got all the attention she needed, because people wanted to find out which title did she win. Thanks to you for making her look like a princess. Her confidence is boosted. She now speaks English. She will always tease me that, “mama no Caprivi language.” when I speak to her in our language.

Mukena was also excited with his gift. He is saying “thank u.” I wish you could see how happy Tsepo is with the gifts u sent her. If she wants to sleep, she will grab her Michigan blanket and cover herself.

Keep in mind that your niece will always miss you forever. She said I should say hi to you and you should come and visit her. She tells me I should tell you she is in Oshakati. She thinks maybe you just don’t know where she is staying that’s why you can’t visit. It will taker her time to understand that you are far away from her.

I hope her pictures I send will make you smile, since she’s a photogenic. She doesn’t run out of styles.

Since she is in school, she will one day write letters to you.

School is fine. I miss you so much. You were really a brother to me. I miss u always when I’m watching ‘desperate housewives.” Onyati is boring since you and Tsepo are not there. I sometimes find myself driving to Oshakati during night. Meme Uukule is always asking about you. She misses you also.

I bought a new car radio, which can play mp3. The CDs you sent can also play in my car radio. The trip to Katima Mulilo will be very short because I will never run short of music.

You made Mukena and Tsepo dance to the maximum when I played Namib Alive! They really enjoyed it. I hope you can put that picture of Mukena and Tsepo dancing in your mind.

Gabriel is also doing fine. He did very well in April exams. I have sent a copy of his certificate for grade 10 and a school report for grade 11 and see how he is performing.

I hope you will not be confused with the boy in the pictures I have sent. He is my cousin. He is staying with me, doing NAMCOL. He has stayed with my mom since grade 2. He lost his parents when he was in grade 1.

We completed the scholarship forms with Jacky. We selected 4 learners. These are: Shatiwa Fillemon, Immanuel Wilbard, Lungameni Hilen and Niinkoti Ester. Most of the learners failed English in April. Only 2% of the learners managed to make it in English.

The whole staff and the learners will always miss you. Even now they still sing y our song, “Jeremy Kalunga na ku…” you will remain in their hearts forever. Even the parents will always refer to you as a man of the people. You were truly a man of the people.

Tsepo, Mukena and Lydia miss you a lot. You will always remain in our hearts forever and always. Sorry for using yellow, its all I had in my house.

Enjoy,
Lydia

le sigh...

there's no precedent for how to feel about umich losing to appalachian state, but...