Falling Whistles

If you've yet to discover the organization Falling Whistles. Check it out here. In fact, the way I first heard of Falling Whistles was from a friend when I said I live in Congo. "Oh, have you heard of Falling Whistles?"

Lately, this is the typical response whenever I mention we live in Congo. "Have you heard of Falling Whistles?" Obviously this organization is on to something if they're the first thing you think of when you hear Congo.

Falling Whistles campaigns for peace in Congo using the symbol of a whistle. Often child soldiers are charged with carrying the whistles because they are too little to carry weapons. That's a powerful symbol.

You too can be a whistle blower for peace and start a conversation by supporting them here. They also have a great blog about all things Congo, which ahem recently profiled Mama Congo in this Q&A.

Wear your protest (like this guy!) and elevate the conversation.

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Sarah's List:

Congratulations chemical weapons watchdogs on your new Nobel Prize, you probably have a very tough job. While I was rooting for Malala just as much as the rest of you (Holy Malala Facebook feed!), I've been following this guy for some time now. There aren't enough Nobel Prizes in the world to recognize Denis Mukwege for what he's doing for women in Congo.

I think Alfred would agree.

  by  BlatantWorld.com 

And here's an opinion on 12 people who should not have won the Nobel Peace Prize.

This article has been getting a lot of forwarding action this week. It's a good run-down of Congo's history. It's a basic primer on Congo if you don't know where to start. One striking line that pretty much summarizes everything you need to know:

"The Portuguese, Belgians, Mobutu and the present government have all deliberately stifled the development of a strong state, army, judiciary, and education system, because it interferes with their primary focus, making money from what lies under the earth." (emphasis added by me, that's the most important part!)

  by  Julien Harneis 

Meanwhile in the States, kids can't shake hands after games because they'll attack each other?

Disney Princesses in Accurate Fashion? (Not all that different from Disney fashion, huh?)

 

  by  kevin dooley 

And Happy 50th Birthday Mama Youyou! For some reason I felt like I needed to give her permission to celebrate herself so I said, "Turning 50 in the States is a big deal." To which she basically said in French, "Umm yeah. It's a big freakin' deal in Congo too." Touché, Mama Youyou.

Joyeux Anniversaire.

Jill's List:

My parents are coming to visit Kinshasa!  It will be a Congo Christmas for us this year...and we are really super excited.  Where else do you get to celebrate with a holiday visit to the bonobos?  You do remember that you are 1% away from actually being a bonobo, right?

Elias and the esteemed Matt Lippart from All the World's a Rage taking in some bonobo action circa 2011.

Found an absolutely hilarious learn-French app.  The designers at Le Monde are brilliant and obviously love Michael Jackson.  Plus, they use the word, frantastique.  It does not get better than that, folks.

Want this app?  Go here.

I just need to mention Malala one more time.  Because.  Wow.

I started thinking about that, and I used to think that the Talib would come, and he would just kill me. But then I said, 'If he comes, what would you do Malala?' then I would reply to myself, 'Malala, just take a shoe and hit him.'  But then I said, 'If you hit a Talib with your shoe, then there would be no difference between you and the Talib. You must not treat others with cruelty and that much harshly, you must fight others but through peace and through dialogue and through education.' 

Holy pagne on Project Runway!  (I know, we're like months behind...it's how we roll with TV around here.)  I keep trying to decide if Mama Youyou and Mama Vida would be proud or annoyed.  We'll be watching some P.R. and getting their opinions.

My haul from Au Beach today.
Loulou begged to come along to the tiny alleyway full of fabric
 because she wanted to pick out something with "rouge and rose for a new jupe"

Looking for a great SPF face lotion that stands up to rainy season humidity grease.  My lovely Josie Maran is...well...a little slick now that it's steamy outside.  I'm liking samples of this and this.  Any other suggestions?

South African bowls as product storage.

This is funny.

Admiring Arno's art from afar.  When are you coming back to Kin, friend?

Watching this story develop.


And.  One more time.  We are so proud to know Noela.  Read her thoughts on being a young Congolese woman.  She rocked this interview for Every Mother Counts from start to finish.

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Have you ever cried on a plane?

Last week I came across this article: Why We Cry On Planes and I thought it was actually written for me. I had no idea this is a real thing. I emailed it to Jill. Look! It's a real thing!

It turns out over half of people experience heightened emotions while flying. It makes sense if you think about it. Most of the time you're exhausted and had a hectic day getting ready for your flight, or maybe you've just left a loved one. Maybe you're moving away from home. And like Louis C.K. says, you have no phone or internet to distract you from those emotions. Then BAM! Miss Congeniality comes on your tiny screen and you have a breakdown.

The comments at the bottom of the article are almost as good as the article itself. Take this guy: "I once wept during 'Spanglish' on a red eye from LAX. That and the birth of my daughter are the only times I've cried in public. It was damn odd."

Still some people have absolutely no idea why anyone would ever cry on a plane. I read the article to Adam and I choked up just reading about crying. He thought I was ridiculous and he didn't get it at all. He says he's never seen me cry on a plane. That's the thing, everyone hides it. 41% of men say they've buried themselves in blankets to hide themselves from other passengers! Some people run to the bathroom to pull themselves together. I don't feel so weird anymore.

Often when we leave Kinshasa at the end of the school year, we're on the same flight as folks who are leaving Congo forever. I've watched them the week before, during their goodbyes, be stoic and uncaring about their departure. Then when they get on that plane, they fall to pieces. Before takeoff. Before alcohol. Just sitting there in the quiet is what finally gets you.

A few years ago I was flying back from Nairobi with a group of high-schoolers. Seabiscuit was on. (You can see where this story is going.)  I totally lost it. Granted, I was pregnant. But I just couldn't hold back my tears when that damn horse won. Then the girls started to notice. "Mrs. Sensamaust? Are you okay? Mrs. Sensamaust why are you crying?"

Just utter the word "cry" and an entire plane of teenagers will turn around in their seats to squawk and gawk at their emotionally unstable teacher. "No, no. Nothing to see here. The air's just really dry on this plane. Oh look. Isn't that the seat belt sign? Better turn back around." I don't even think I had my headphones on. Just watching that horse and Tobey Maguire in their glory was enough to get me.

Darn you, Seabiscuit. Leave me and my fragile emotions alone!

I know all this sounds crazy. But if you still don't believe me, ask Jill what happened to her the last time she was on a plane and We Bought a Zoo came on. Or better yet, ask her completely confused husband.
 

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Mr. Gilles

Mr. Gilles is a constant companion of mine.

He appears, friendly enough, anytime I introduce myself.

Well, he appears whenever I introduce myself in French:

Bonjour! Je m'appelle Jill.  Ca va?

Get it?

I am Mr. Gilles.

This is what happened when I ordered (very good) sushi the other week.
They took my name explanation very literally.

Jill - the classic simplicity of this name escapes anyone who speaks French...or Spanish...or...well, most languages.  There are so many reasons to love the name Jill and none of them matter if you don't speak English.

For me, the mynameis exchange is complicated.  First, my new acquaintance appears simply confused.  They might wrinkle their brow a bit or try with great difficulty to repeat what I said. Then, they look at me with pity.  Maybe I was trying hard to get out a basic French phrase, but mangled it far past any reasonable explanation?

I used to be shaken beyond repair by this initial verbal scuffle.  Now, I'm ready.  I pronounce my name again.  Slowly.  Jiilll.  And then I say the magic phrase, "C'est comme 'Monsieur Gilles'" (because "Gilles" is almost exclusively a boy name).

The look of relief that spreads across the face of my companion is beautiful.  And utterly predictable.  Mais oui!? Ah! M. Gilles! 

Bien sûr.

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Weekend List!

Sarah's List:


Did you know if you live outside the US, there are many websites we can't access? But we do get good healthcare! It's a fair tradeoff. John Stewart gets it, and this week sent us to another site to watch his show. Free healthcare and The Daily Show? Be very jealous.

This made me laugh. If Congress Got Stuff Done Like Roommates.

"Hey duders, Just wanted to shoot everybody an email saying 

there's kinda a lot of stuff that needs to be done..."

The latest news on eyebrows. Everyone knows this is an issue near and dear to my heart. I mean eyes.

Even Nefertiti's restoration required shaping up her eyebrows.

  by  GeometerArtist 

This book looks so fascinating. A peek inside Iranian living rooms? Yes, please.

While I'm not so sure that giving money to child beggars is the absolute worst thing you can do as a tourist, here's an interesting piece on the matter.

My sister sent our kids this picture of Uncle Ryan and Elmo in New York City. They freaked out. I replied with the NYT article about this Elmo's "disturbing past." Then she freaked out.

And I dare you to watch this just one time. Or less than 50 times.


Jill's List:

Elias has already changed his Halloween costume idea like 50 times.  Maybe we'll show him this slideshow for some inspiration.

Image found here.

Read Chekov (or maybe some Wendell Berry) to be more empathetic and emotionally intelligent.  (It's scientifically proven!)

I have a huge bag of lemons in my fridge.  There was a sale and both Johan and I filled up at the grocery store without checking with each other first.  Here, you always take your fruits and veg and have them bagged and weighed far before you even approach a register.  Once that bag is tied, you have committed.  Maybe I need to make some of these?

While planning for a Middle School Workshop on Community and how to generally be nice, I was informed that Macklemore and Ryan Lewis had a song that was popular with the young folk. I had absolutely never heard of these people.  Does this make me old, cool, or clueless?

Follow these stories about girls and their dreams around the world during the month of October. (You might even see the DRC featured..!)

Feeling a little jealous of people living with seasons.  Especially when I see things like this.  Fall in the Northwest is like nothing else.

Trying to locate a replacement for my favorite piece of jewelry.  I bought two strands of Ethiopian brass heishi beads in Cape Town (I know, random.) last year and wear them nearly everyday.  I'm just preparing for the inevitable break, drop, or lose.  Seems like this is an option.

Perfection.

Ugh.  Yep.  Children playing alone because there's nowhere else to go.  And this is not a story about Congo.

8th Grade Teachers really should rule the world. (Or just the U.S. government.)  I love the photo they use to illustrate the article.  I swear that's exactly what my middle school teachers looked like.

And.  Speaking of middle school teachers...please take a second to read all about EduCorps, a project to support teachers in the Great Lakes Region of Africa.  This is the vision of the one and only Sara Rich (whom I have never actually met, but feel like I know).  She is stupendous.

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On Bananas and Self-Pity

It’s pretty safe to say that the summer I gave birth to Annaïs was a special one. And when I say "special" I mean crappy. Sure it was great because I had a baby and all, but it’s kinda the pits when you’re away from home, your other child is a toddler, and all you want to do is give birth so you can start the paperwork to get everyone back to Congo.

Remember me whining about my awful labor? Well I was actually showing uncharacteristic self-restraint and left out my sob story of having surgery a week later. It wasn’t serious surgery, but it was surgery none-the-less. And I was one week postpartum (read: crazy hormonal).

Gosh what a beautiful baby. 1-minute after labor: Not worth it. 2 years after labor: Worth it a million times over. Photo: Jill Humphrey.

Have you ever been around a postpartum woman? After a crappy labor? And about to have surgery? If you hear of someone in this trifecta of misery, stay far far away.

All I really remember is sitting in the hospital room about to go into surgery with newborn Ani sleeping in her car seat in the corner, and Adam beside me (but it’s safe to say I had snapped at him about something so we probably weren’t speaking) and I was feeling unbelievably sorry for myself. 

So instead of taking those final moments before I went under to tell my family how much I loved them, I read one of those shiny hospital magazines that are really just thinly-veiled fundraising attempts. There was an article about the fancy new cancer center. It went on and on about the cancer patients and their fortitude and positive outlook. Cancer patients are obviously very amazing and strong folks. I thought, “Well on the bright side, I’ll never get cancer.” If I can summons this amount of self-pity over some dumb surgery, I would never be able to deal with cancer. I would feel way too sorry for myself and self-pity does not a proper cancer patient make. And thus it will never happen to me. So I got in a little better mood because I convinced myself I was too miserable of a person to get a terminal illness.  

And then the nurses came to get me and they expected me to get all sentimental over leaving my newborn for the first time. I was more worried about leaking breast-milk all over the operating table. Yeah, yeah. See ya baby. Can we get this over with before I get too full of milk? A horribly unloving mother and a terrible future cancer patient. An ultimate low in an otherwise pretty happy life. 

Then for some reason I started thinking about Mupwa the gardener back in Kinshasa. And how he said he was planting banana trees for the new baby. I got kind of teary thinking about the beautiful banana trees waiting for us in our backyard in Congo. I kept my focus there for the rest of that crummy summer. I knew our lives would be happy and normal again when we got back to Congo and had our swaying banana trees.

The morning after we returned to Kinshasa, I looked out our back window. This was the triumphant moment I had been envisioning. We were back. I was healing. I was post, postpartum and ready to be cheerful and have a normal life again.

And there were no trees. “Mupwa, where are my damn banana trees?” Oh they’re there! Look real close. I put on my glasses and there they were. About 6 inches tall and wilting. 

Mupwa laughing in my face for thinking I'd have bananas and life would be normal again anytime soon. (Not really, photo from here.)

Turns out it takes a ridiculously long time for banana trees to grow, not to mention bear fruit. Over the next year or so, our precious newborn baby kept us up every night. And having two children in under two-years nearly killed us. Our lives were not normal. Fittingly, most of my inspirational banana trees (aka very small banana plants) died.   

Then one day not all that long ago, our girls started sleeping all night and playing together instead of screaming and crawling up our legs. We started to emerge from the fog of sleep deprivation. And I swear, I looked out back and one of those damn banana trees had a bunch of bananas on it.   

Yep, there they are.

I jumped up and showed Mama Youyou, who was unimpressed. I told Mamicho to keep an eye on them so they wouldn’t get stolen. They both did their laugh-till-they-cry thing and in between snorts said, “Madame. No one’s going to take your bananas.” Yes they will. Those are very special bananas to me. It is only fitting that they will get stolen.

My bananas still weren’t ready to be picked by the time we left Congo this past summer. A good two years after that crummy (I mean "special") summer when Ani was born. So with the seriousness of telling someone what to do with your remains after you die, I told Mamicho to eat the bananas while we were gone. She looked at me like I was nuts. I assumed her look was because she knew she could never bring herself to eat my “special bananas.” In reality it was because she knew they still wouldn’t be ready for 5 more months. 

Sure enough, they were still on the tree, green as ever, when we got back this year. Our gardener said we had to wait for the precise, right moment to pick them. 

When I got home one afternoon last week, Mamicho ran to me out of breath. “Madame, les bananes!” She said she knew it was the right moment, but couldn’t find our gardener to pick them, so found the next best thing, his womanizing father (hey, we never said all Congolese are saints) and he chopped them down for us. She hoped that was okay. 

This weekend we plopped the whole bunch down in front of Ani. She deserved first dibs. After all, she was the one being born when they were planted. The birth experience probably wasn’t so great for her either. And I was kind of mean to her when I was busy convincing myself I was too pathetic to ever get cancer. 

She ate about 7 and then we made ice cream with the rest. The bananas gave Adam sores in his mouth, Ani got a rash around her lips and I got hives on my feet. But I got to eat my damn bananas. And a very long wait for everything to be normal again was over. 

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Weekend List!

Sarah's List:

Though it may seem like a good idea, here's a piece on the Inadequacy of Donating Medical Devices to Africa. Otherwise known as, "Junk for Jesus." Ha. Did you know most of that stuff breaks down almost immediately? Or no one really knows how to use it. There's gotta be a better way.

Fetus Charlotte makes her grainy debut on Soviet Era ultrasound machine (Zambia, 2009.)

Are free yoga classes the answer? The Africa Yoga Project thinks so. Empowering communities through physical, emotional and mental wellness. Sounds just like what Kenya needs right now.

  by  VinothChandar 


Did you know two-thirds of Americans flush public toilets with their feet? (But more importantly, one-third uses their hands?!) Just another extremely important study.

Be sure you check out the link in the article for the quiz where you get to guess the location of each international toilet. Turns out, I'm really good at this. 10/10. No big deal. 

Hint: Look for the cultural clues...

  by  -{ thus }- 

A wise person once told me that if I was going to die in Africa it wouldn't be from malaria or typhoid or fighting for your place in line (but sometimes I think that's a good possibly), but rather from a car accident. Here's a map to prove that's true.


I loved reading about this seasoned doctor's surprising fear when her son had minor surgery for ear tubes. (And it's good to know that even medical professional moms freak out a little.)

On the other side of a tonsillectomy/adenoidectomy.

Did you catch this article this week? How to get flat abs, have amazing sex, and rule the world in 8 easy steps. My favorite message of the piece: "If you can read this, your life is pretty awesome."

Adam and I celebrated our anniversary this week. And I was reminded of my favorite quotes on marriage. One by Ben Affleck (yes, really) and the other from Nora Ephron: "Never marry a man you wouldn't want to be divorced from."

I've always thought you would be a really nice person to be divorced from, but way more awesome being married to. 

(Egyptian man on left is skeptical.)

(More great Nora Ephron marriage quotes. Including a genius one about what a baby does to marriage.)


Jill's List:

I just had a "crazy-busy" week.  Should I read this article for perspective?  Or am I young enough that it doesn't apply to me?

Muwah models what I feel like after this week.

When Elias was several days old, I proudly put him in my brand-new baby sling, put on his black, bad-ass baby hipster hat from Bootyland and went for a walk to Crave on Seattle's Capitol Hill.  After a block or so, a stranger stopped me and asked me if she could smell my baby's head.  I didn't really know what to say and so she took my silence as consent, yanked off his cap, and took a deep whiff.  Two babies later, I fully appreciate the deeply addictive quality of new baby smell.

Baby Eli around time of above story.  This was at a Pearl Jam concert.  He was three weeks old.  Wow.

Which is a nice segue into my next link, a Rolling Stone article about the new Pearl Jam album, due on October 15th.  Say what?  (Nice Every Mother Counts shirt, Eddie! Thanks for the sharp eye, Mary Hope.)

We fully appreciate the power of the vaccine, living in a country where death-by-preventable-disease is rampant.  And, before we moved to Congo, we were grateful for flexibility when we asked to space out the jabs.  Interesting perspective.

Loulou posing as if she had just had a shot so I would have a pic for this link.
Gratuitous Spiderman Band-Aids are never a bad thing.

Speaking of the friendly family doctor...  We love our doc.  He is a frequent traveler to resource-poor countries and issued only excitement and sound advice - no warnings of doom and danger -when we told him we were moving to Africa with our two young children.  We also think our Kinshasa family doctor is swell.  (Even though the first chapter of the newest David Sedaris reminded me exactly of this old-school Belgian MD.)  The experience of having a provider who understands the whole family is priceless.  Too bad family medicine is a "dying speciality."  Maybe we need to ease their burnout with mindfulness?

Mindfulness.  South Africa-style.

A difficult job, but one that is so important to families who experience infant loss.  I feel so privileged to have photographed some of these brief lives.  (Thanks, Leitzle.)


Big surprise: being poor makes your brain work poorly.  Oh! So, it isn't just a bootstraps problem after all...

Selling cassava.  Kinshasa.  

I really did just yell at my child, "Loulou!  Put your shoes on!  The creeping eruption is going to get you!"  It's a real thing.  Ick.

And.  This.  Just this. (Thanks, Matt.)

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Alternate Nostril Breathing...

...and other activities you should definitely do with 4th graders.

Along with the usual school nurse duties (band-aids, eye screenings, maintaining that cot for the sick kids), I also get to teach.  Like really teach.  The kind that includes many hours a week in a room with multiple 11-14 year olds.  Prior to Kinshasa, I always saw myself as strictly a childbirth educator.  Certainly never a Middle School classroom teacher.  I had one unfortunate college experience with an education course called "Rhythmic Activities" I took in order to get an easy P.E. credit and swore off any sort of teacher-ly activities from there on out.

 But now I find myself writing lesson plans, getting all angsty about Bloom's Taxonomy, and preaching the good word of rubric-based assessments.  After two years of cold sweats before every lesson, I even kind of like it.

A scene from my classroom.  I swear this kid is doing research.  Really!

In addition to my regular gig in the middle school, I often get to pop into other classrooms for a little health lesson here and there.  For example, a couple of weeks ago, the 4th Grade teacher asked me to come do a guest spot on stress.  So, naturally, I got all stressed out trying to figure out how to talk about stress to nine and ten year olds.  I am at ease with my middle schoolers, but elementary students...they intimidate me.

After much deliberation on what to do, I began the lesson by turning out all the lights, putting on some Sigur Ros, and helping everyone take a 'mental vacation.'  While I think they enjoyed the old-school guided imagery, it was really an exercise for me.  I needed a moment.

Then we got down to business with a stick figure.

(I am not as talented as my dear spouse, who I frequently bribe to draw for me. Like this rendition of "Carrot Stick Man" I made him sketch for a poster I was modeling for a 'Create Your Own Superhero' project:)

We did debate the appropriateness of the carrot emblem on the t-shirt.
He said, "You're the one who made a fake superhero called 'Carrot Stick Man! Who does that?"

We talked about what stress looks like.  Students described stress and I drew accordingly. Our poor stick man quickly had sweat dripping from his hands, messed up hair, angry eyebrows, a racing heart, clumsy feet, and a "tickling" stomach.  He was a mess.  I could relate.

Then, we tried to fix his desperate, stressed-out state.  Kids suggested a warm bath for his tight neck muscles, yoga for his pounding heart, a nap for his headache, and - appropriately - a day on the Miami beach for, well, everything.

Soon thereafter, we started alternate nostril breathing.  

Backstory:  I found a really great instruction sheet on some basic stress relief techniques. (You rock, North Dakota State University.)  After reading it over, the kids split up into groups to teach each other the four techniques listed here:

The rest of this super resource can be found here.

After learning all of these techniques, we did a survey.  Shockingly, the most popular stress reducer demonstrated in class, by show of hands, was alternate nostril breathing.  I was sure this exercise would be the hardest sell: ridiculous to look at, confusing to learn, and difficult with the constantly dripping noses elementary students always seem to display.  Not only did they like it (with a straight face), many of them already knew all about it.

I asked them - trying not to appear incredulous - who they had seen doing alternate nostril breathing.  Apart from one kid who said that he once saw someone shooting snot rockets out of their nose using this technique on the playground, all of the other examples were legit: adults using alternate nostril breathing during times of stress.  I was speechless.  I mean, I like to think that I'm kind of an expert in breathing techniques after years of working with women in labor.  But, never, ever have I tried alternate nostril breathing.  It's too weird, too deliberate, too time-consuming, too...something.  But these kids have parents who are going around doing this on a regular basis?

"Breath-control" or Prânayâma.

One girl raised her hand and said, "I saw my dad doing that last weekend.  I asked him why he was doing that and he said that he was stressed because some really bad things had happened at a mall in Kenya.  He said he was really sad and breathing like that made him feel better."  The other kids nodded solemnly. 

Bravo, dad.  

Bravo for sharing your feelings and explaining them to your daughter.  Bravo for being willing to show her the bizarre - but pretty excellent - ways you deal with stress.  Now, she - and an entire class of 4th graders - know what to try when life feels overwhelming.  They don't just think deep breathing is some weird public service announcement brought to them by their friendly school nurse, they believe it is a normal thing to do when the going gets tough.  Thanks for unknowingly teaching my lesson better than I ever could.

On Monday, Sarah summarized the tangle of thoughts and feelings that emerge in the midst of tragedy.  Just like that dad, many have been struggling with the list of horrendous events that seemed to define this week.  

Life is shit sometimes.  Sometimes the only way to respond is as simply as possible.  I often tell people who are very scared, very painful, or very sick that "all you have to do right now is breathe."  Reducing everything to a single breath slows the world down enough to be manageable for at least a moment.  It's at that moment where we all need a ridiculous, but effective, technique like alternate nostril breathing.  Go ahead.  Try it.  

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