Reining myself in

I tell myself: Look. See. Remain objective. But I cannot deny who I am. As I walk every day from the Invisible Children compound to town, I pass villagers sitting in front of hundreds of buildings no bigger than the shed that provides winter protection for our outdoor furniture. In the majority of them, plumbing is non-existent. Some are made of bamboo reeds lashed together, some out of old planks nailed to sapling straps, there are a few made of the brick that dotted the trip. Roofs are usually corrugated steel. Then there are the round houses, plaster walls covered by thatch roofs. As I walk by these people they look at me with curiosity. They shout “Apwoyo” (hello) or”Munu” “Muzunga” (white one). I answer “Apwoyo” and they laugh. I am told it is my accent. The way things are said changes the meaning. Apparently, I’ve been calling them “rabbits.”

I think of these homes. None of them would be allowed to stand in the states. None could have been put up in the first place. I find I am emotionally in two places: Half of me feels pity, "How do these poor people survive?” the other half is filled with admiration, “These incredibly resourceful people, the can handle anything that comes their way!” I struggle to remain in the middle, remember they are people, just people. Both pity and admiration serves to infantilize, an exercise in ego.

I continue to walk, heading for the market. I see a man without legs. He is sitting in a construct that resembles a wheelchair, but only in purpose. The part that houses his backside looks to be made out of half a square washtub sitting in a shopping cart with the front cut out. Leading the way are bicycle handlebars, gears and pedal. He is smiling as he hand pedals past me. He shouts, “Munu, Apwoyo.” I answer, “Acoli, Apwoyo.”
He laughs.