I'd Do It All Again

I’ve been meaning to write this since December 9, 2010. The day I returned to the only homeland I truly know. Leaving Sydney was like ending a romance, but since I don’t find commitment to be one of my strong attributes, it was easy to say goodbye at the time. I miss the smell, loved the sun, and cherish the memories. Sydney was unforgettable.  Like those old loves, I hope we stay friends, able to reconnect after a few years and a few thousand dollars.  Only time will tell.

Before my arrival back home I got warnings about reverse-culture shock, but said “pss ta’ please” to the idea. Little things like warm weather, Aussie accents, the noise from the traffic lights, sweet chili sauce, and the ability to go to bars made me miss Sydney. But for the most part mommy was right when she said, “it’s time to bring your ass home.” I was a bit ready for New York, although I did get restless at home. I used my extra time wisely, sleeping, catching up with family/friends, networking and looking up summer internships. It was boring at times but do-able.

Now coming back to the Wheaton bubble is a different story. I feel like a new student all over again; I see people I’ve never seen before and I’m on a different campus. In a way I thought life on campus stopped and would resume as I left it when I came back – FALSE.  The first week was the hardest, and its only week three.  Ain’t nothing to it but to do it. I know things change, people change and at the end of the day it’s ok.  It hit me that this whole school experience is fast and temporary, so make it worth every minute, and make adjustments where need be! I’m embracing my brand new/oldness at Wheaton, and finding my place once again. I know I'm back in the states, but that doesn't mean this is the end of the blog... :) 

Sydney taught me about me, and that’s all I wanted.
Until we meet again.

Aboriginal Adoption

I recently met a woman and we chatted on our way to the train station. Only knowing her briefly, we got into the topic of education and children, and not thinking whether it would be appropriate or not I asked her if she had children of her own. She said "No – I can't," and I felt bad for even asking.

She explained that her inability to have children of her own is what sparks her desire to teach and still be involved with child development her own way. She finds it rewarding to be both a teacher and general aid for students at her school. She even wrote her own children's book series, selling both in Australia and overseas. When I asked her if she'd ever consider adopting children of her own she said although it may be easier to adopt overseas, there are too many children in Australia that need a family. But I was surprised when she said that she couldn't adopt an indigenous child because she is a white Australian.

So of course I got home and googled it. With so many political issues surrounding the treatment of the stolen generation in Australia I could only imagine the backlash white Australians would get from even thinking about adopting an Aboriginal child. But if a family is willing to take care of a child and provide the basic necessities that the child didn't have access to prior to adoption, black or white, isn't that all that matters? The adoption question gets complicated when you look at the tension between the two groups.

Back in 1909 the Australian government began to take half-caste children (a child of white and aborigine parents) away from their families as an attempt to assimilate them into white society. This government plan to wipe out an entire people by forbidding them to practice their cultural beliefs and 'whiten them up,' lasted until the early 1970's. These groups of children are referred to as the Stolen Generations.

See now when you think about that the adoption policy starts to come full circle. Since Aboriginal practices, languages and beliefs are so important to their culture, sending children into white families threatens its existence. The Australian governments forward attempts to 'help' once before left long-term damage, why should they be given the opportunity to do it again?

Only until recently in 2008 has the Australian government acknowledged and apologized for past laws that allowed them to displace families for decades. The apology from former Prime Minister Kevin Rudd was a big step for Australians, with a simple yet meaningful "I'm Sorry." Even more recent, earlier this month talks about finally recognizing Aborigines in the Constitution were passed around Parliament by the current Prime Minister Julia Gillard. Yes, only this month.

But the debate over white/indigenous adoption remains. If a white Australian, like the woman I met, yearns to be a parent and want to adopt an Aboriginal child he/she would be given an automatic NO because of their race. I guess you can say there are white children that could benefit from adoption as well, but according to the woman with Aborigines only making up 3% of the population, and many living in bad conditions, compared to the white majority there are far more indigenous children in need.

Google said it isn't that white Australians can't adopt indigenous children at all. It's just that preference is given to parents that are Aboriginal, parents that are from the same indigenous community of the child's birth parents, or parents that are part of an Aboriginal community of their own. White parents are basically put at the bottom of the list, and have to be screened by the Courts before the adoption is final to ensure that the child's cultural identity will not be jeopardized as a member of a white family. The government gives them homework to make sure they learn about indigenous culture and teach the child their heritage.

I've been thinking about this whole issue for a while now and thought I'd get it out on paper, or on screen. Didn't think I'd end up writing a novel on it though. Feel free to give your opinion.

Peace, or as close to it as we can get,

Kenya

 

 

Sometimes I Surprise Myself

I drove myself crazy on that long rainy train ride about what to talk about with the girls. I’d met them before at the Powderfinger and Jet concert, but it wasn’t the best place to get a word out. Over all of the screaming rock fans all we could really do was exchange smiles. This time I actually had to speak. I kept asking myself, what can I say to these girls that they haven’t already heard? I shook my umbrella outside and I walked into the loud crowded cafeteria – felt like TYWLS.

A bunch of girls in uniform yelling from table-to-table, it made me miss my high school table under the clock. I spotted the director of development and she told me to make a plate of food. She brought all of the girls over and they immediately started talking, asking me how I was, laughing that my dinner was cafeteria food, and fighting over who was going to marry Usher and Justin Bieber.



The Struggle is universal: MLK over Aboriginal Flag



They asked me if all blackfellas (that’s what they call black people in general) in the states walk around with big chains, and if all the white people in New York City act like the ‘posh’ characters on Gossip Girl. I laughed so hard, but realized everything we know about each other’s home countries is based off of stereotypes. I explained everything best I could and they taught me a thing or two as well.  

They’re in grades 7-10 so around 12-16 years old – a lively bunch. Of course the director threw in the occasional academic question; we shared our favorite subjects and the ones we could do without. I explained the education system in the states in comparison to Australia, the prices, the holiday vacation time we get and how to survive in an all-girls school. They asked me how I got into college so we traded stories about how the Yalari and Posse scholarships work. To think I got to work with them from asking questions, sending emails and making connections with strangers who turned out to be really good people. I’m so grateful; hopefully I will meet with them very soon before I leave.

Speaking of leaving... I don’t want to.  Registering for classes at Wheaton next semester was my first reality check.

It’s getting really hot over here so every weekend feels like a beach weekend. Not a fan of the waterbugs though. They roam the streets like rats do in the city, and apparently some people saw some in their room. I bought the good potent stuff from one of the mom & pop stores over here (of course it’s illegal though) while the other girls are spraying them with Raid, which is basically soap and water. The worst was walking into this bar with a courtyard and seeing one stroll up the brick wall and no one even noticed or said anything. I know NYC is not the cleanest place in the world, but that was just nasty – I ran.

Oh I didn’t explain the Melbourne Cup! It's a BIG horserace, think the Super Bowl of Australia. The country stops to watch it and everyone bets and gets drunk. It was earlier this month and one of my internships threw a fancy lunch to watch the races. Everyone gets dressed up in these big hats. Some look like the hats women wear to church that block everyone behind them from seeing the pastor. We had a drag queen MC at our lunch, she was fierce.

Me and Carmen Get it ('Come and get it')

I used to be good at keeping the updates coming weekly, but since I started interning it’s harder to do. I’ll keep them coming though, even if they’re random free-writes, just so you know I’m still alive out here.

Kenya

Dear Daddy,

I used to be your shadow, sometimes I really want those days back.

But I crossed the street and now I’m walking in the shade.

I crack up at the memories and as I get older I understand you more.

You aren’t a bad father; you just say more than you actually do.

Seems like everything just isn’t in your favor, and once you reach out something is always in your way.

She picked up the slack then and still does; a responsibility left for her to do alone.

Oh she fussed, but she never asked for anything.

A trait I inherited.

You don’t have therefore I don’t ask.

And to you the blue uniform and hat equals dollar signs.

You got comfortable knowing that Kenya was taken care of, but never stopped to think of the burden I’d become for others in your absence.

It’s never been about money, but when college came so did the bills, second jobs, and headaches.

Scholarships can get you but so far.

But you always say, “When I win the lottery I’m gonna...”

And I’ll be there waiting.

You taught me that my sexuality is gold and only the finest kings deserve it,

How to throw a punch and block at the same time,

And not to believe the yokey-doke from guys.

You wear many hats, including father.

I will still do things to make you proud.

I can hear you singing that song off-key, “You’re a Big Girl Nowww, No More Daddy’s Little Girlllll”

Hopefully you’ll read this one day,

Thank you for making me strong. Love you.

No, Where Are You From?

I started another internship at a publishing company and its perfect, exactly what I was looking for  while I’m here. I’m still working for the non-profit and I really like , but to make a long story short I had to please Wheaton first and make sure I get all my credits, public relations just isn’t one of them. So I get two internships, each twice a week. Planning events at a non-profit and overseeing the production of custom magazines at a publishing company.

At an event last Saturday a photographer from a newspaper in Sydney asked to take my picture. I had no problem with that, and smiled from ear-to-ear like I always do; making sure each tooth got its five seconds of sunlight. He was an older man, and asked me where I was from and what my name was for the caption I guess. I told him I was from New York City studying here until December, but that wasn’t the answer he was looking for. He asked again, ‘no, where are you from? Ghana or another country?’ I said ‘no, I’m from New York.’ Then he said what every black person wants to hear; ‘oh you don’t know exactly where? It’s too hard to trace back that far huh?’ I let out a BIG sigh, and ha then said, ‘you can say that,’ and started to turn away. After that he said ‘wait I didn’t catch your name.’ I said, ‘Bryant like Kobe and Kenya like the country, but I’m from New York.’

There are some ignorant people in the world, and you’d think working for a newspaper would teach you how to talk to people. I used to be jealous of my friends whose family come from another country and have a place to claim outside of the US, part of me still is. All I know is southern, North Carolina and home, New York. Tracing back my family history is something I always wanted to do and in time hopefully I will.

To add to the lineup, I started my first day publishing. Custom magazines are produced by publishers for a specific company, so you basically polish the vision the company has in mind for their magazine. I was looking for some pictures to go with an article and asked one of the editors about what I should look for. She told me to look in old issues to get a feel of the client’s style, then added ‘you know, plain, simple, clean-cut and Caucasian, sad but true.’ I looked at her and said ‘yeah I can tell, the world is just lovely,’ – and I can’t wait to change it.

Kenya

Can't Touch This

Yet again, I got my butt tapped at a club. These men are ridiculous. Of course I turned around and yelled, giving him a piece of my mind. But I couldn’t believe he turned to his friend and laughed at me. As a result I got louder, in a very loud club no less. I didn’t want the tear to fall from frustration, but when it did I turned around and I walked away to the bathroom. I refused to let him see me like that or have my make-up run. 

I came back to where he was sitting and wanted to slap the grin off his face. So that’s exactly what I did! He licked his tongue in and out of his mouth to piss me off further (good job). So I grabbed his mouth in my fist and threw his head against the back of the couch, and said “Touch Me Again And I Will Cut Your **** OFF!”

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel like leaving after that. But I walked to the other side of the club and kept dancing, feeling damn good about myself. Afterwards I thought about it, and it wasn’t that he didn’t take me seriously. I embarrassed him in front of his friends and his ego couldn’t handle it. Mission Accomplished.  

No More Skype Dates ...

Mommy came and went for spring break and so did my computer. Sadly, my HP died out on me right during finals all the way over here. That's why the blog posts have been scarce. I can hijack my friend’s computers and use my internet-stick (since it's already paid for) or I can wait until the weekdays to come to the BU building. Maybe this will make me do work ahead of time since I have to plan the time I can use the world-wide web around my internship and class time. Then again it’s me – so maybe not. No more Skype and blasting music in my room until further notice. I just know all I want for Christmas is a new laptop.

On a happy note, I had a good spring break. Mommy's visit made me realize that I do miss home a little more than I thought, but I'm NOT ready to come home yet. I just want to swoop down, check on Nana, say hi to people for the day and be back in my apartment in time to make dinner.

I started my first week at my internship. And it’s true, you learn from everything you do and all the people you meet, whether you like it or not. Best advice – keep an open mind.

It’s starting to hit me that I have about six weeks left. I like living on my own. I cooked spoiled chicken last week because I didn’t want to waste it, then took a bite and threw it out. And I pick the little blue spots off my bread because I don’t want to waste an entire loft. My toast looks like swiss cheese; a little mold never killed anyone.