Never tell someone they have a dirty glass of water. Instead, hold up your clean glass and let them see for themselves.
We raised our glasses in cheers. My beloved friends from home, two girls who had spent the last month kickin’ it in Kenya, ventured down for a visit. Their mugs were of the traveler’s variety, mine a more stationary sort. And the water, indeed, differed tremendously.
Kenya.
Uganda.
As to be expected, their glasses were dry: I heard of droughts, rain ceremonies, starving cattle.
Mine overflowed: I showed them lush green trees, overgrown grass, and night-filled thunderstorms.
They drank with big eyes seeking SAFETY. They drank in hostile nighttime lullabies. I listened half-amazed to tales of racing the sun: “You had to be inside and safe before night fell. It was not an option to be out past dark.”
Here, I sip unconsciously as I stroll on dirt paths hours past dusk. I lead them into stranger taxis parked on side streets, without hesitation. My safety an afterthought, as if it is deserved or expected.
Is fear something you inherit from a place or a people? I decided that it must linger in the air. Or in my case, it must not. As they found themselves alert and scheming, attuned to their surroundings peripherally, I exhaled in peace. They wore focused-eyes, eyes of women, eyes constantly scanning for undertones of danger. I stumbled, half asleep, blinking slowly.
“Was it because you are white?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes it was because we were women. Sometimes it was because it was nearly dark.”
This threat— whether potential, expected, or known— has never weighted on me. I neither see it nor feel it… so far. Here, I pass trust from person to person freely. I look over my shoulder rarely and when I do, it is seldom accompanied by a racing heart. I never noticed the clarity in my water. Never had a glass to compare it to. As the week unfolded, I discovered a newfound love for green leaves and muddy roads. I remembered to be grateful for this sense of safety. And I reveled in my intimacy with moon light.
