Doctor, Heal Thyself

I should have seen it coming. All the signs were there.

The funny thing is, no matter how perceptive I think I am, I normally have the most difficult time dealing with my own intuitions about myself. And that's what happened this time.

Last week was grueling. I had two new staff members arrive, two huge proposal deadlines, three meetings to speak at in front of somewhat intimidating crowds, and a friend hospitalized with malaria and typhoid that desperately needed help.

On top of it, I have unexpectedly lost two mentors in less that three weeks, my relationship with Scott is in limbo, and I am in one of those phases again where I miss my mother and brother so much these days it seems heart-wrenching.

Nevertheless, my personality is one that, rather than deal with any of these things individually and try to come to partial resolution, I tend to "snowball" them all together, go into crisis mode, and overextend myself to the breaking point so that I will not have to deal with what is going on internally.

What normally results when I put myself in these circumstances is one thing: illness.

This fact, in and of itself, never ceases to annoy me.

No, I don't think I am some robot who is immune to the human condition that befalls us all sometimes but I rarely, if ever, get sick.

I am not sure whether this is due to my apparently healthy stock of mixed German and Italian genetics or the fact that my mother raised me and my brother with the creed: "Humans make themselves sick for a variety of reasons but there is always a choice on either side, even if unconscious. You can make yourself sick as much as you can make yourself well."

Of course, whenever I mention this to someone who thinks that philosophy is bunk and absolutely believes in the theory that things happen to people for no reason, or that life is random and completely out of one's control, they tend to get extremely angry with me.

"How can you possibly imply that my wife/husband/daughter/mother/etc. chose to get cancer or to become ill? How arrogant of you!!"

As I said, I am not proposing that folks do this willingly or even consciously, but I have seen enough people in my life perform supposedly "miraculous" comebacks from terminal illness, as well as those who have spent a lifetime being sick and have decided to change their philosophy, to know that neither me nor my mother is completely wrong.

What normally makes people sick (besides genetics) is one of two things: a near constant fear of "what could possibly go wrong" or, once things do go wrong, an unwavering focus on: "See, I have always had a disposition to this so it was inevitably going to happen..."

Anyway, whether I am wrong or right isn't really relevant. The point of the matter is that for me, and to a certain extent my brother, getting sick and staying sick in our household growing up wasn't really an option.

No, my mother is not some weird Christian Scientist who doesn't believe in modern medicine but she does believe that you can focus on health rather than sickness and, if you are sick, then it is up to you to not only treat the physical body, but also the mental/spiritual one that may have been contributed to your falling ill in the first place.

When I first moved to Africa a year ago, my family did not focus on what most families' do when their children move to Africa...I did not get, "Oh my God, be careful! You will get AIDS, malaria, typhoid, Ebola virus, dysentery, etc." Even Scott, who also, to an extent, believes in my mother's philosophy, did not spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about the fact that I was going to get sick over here. We all focused on other things but, oddly enough, my health was not the highest on the list.

Now, that being said, I am not a moron. I take my anti-malaria medication, I am careful about what I eat, and I am not tempted to drink out of the tap no matter how many people tell me that my body should have "adjusted" to local flora and fauna in the water by this point. I don't focus on getting sick...but I also am not a fool who begs for it. I am careful but not paranoid.

When I got diagnosed with malaria early this spring I was shocked. Sure, I hadn't been feeling well but I never in a million years thought it was malaria. However, once I realized it was, I took my medicine, endured the couple of weeks it took to start feeling "right" again, and moved on. It shook me a bit but I decided to not focus on the fact that I had gotten the disease (which actually turned out to be a flare-up of something I likely had contracted years ago) and focus on not letting my immune system get so low again that I would have any future "flare-ups."

But, over this past week, I felt it coming.

I was running myself ragged both physically and emotionally. I had abandoned my normally decent eating habits and had gone down to eating one meal a day---all I thought I had time for. On Thursday, I started work at 7:30AM and was still going at 1:00AM. In my head was a non-stop dialog about my relationship with Scott, my future in Uganda, the health of my friend who was sick with malaria and typhoid, deadlines, etc. I couldn't seem to make myself stop...mind or body.

I also wasn't saying "no," as I have learned to do, when someone asked me to do something that was going to add even more pressure to my already jammed schedule. Because I didn't want to take time to actually deal with the thoughts in my head, I just kept adding more and more to my workload until Friday afternoon when I found myself dozing in front of my computer at the office at 3PM. My assistant, Hadijah, looked at me and said, "Patricia, you should really go home and go to bed. If you don't you are going to get sick, trust me!"

I reluctantly listened to her advice because it is so rare for me to fall asleep during the day, no matter how tired I am, and went home.

I didn't take a nap but I did chill out and read a book for a few hours and went to bed early. When I woke up on Saturday, however, I started noticing that things were just not feeling "right" with me but I pushed it away.

"Robert, can you come get me so we can go shopping?" I asked, calling him at 9AM after a fitful six hours of sleep.

Robert, my beloved driver, who never contradicts me and is always willing to abide by whatever crazy schedule I lay out...hesitated.

"Madame Boss, I am happy to come and get you but maybe you should rest today? Maybe you should just have a good lunch and then nap for a few hours?" he suggested.

"No!" I insisted, ticking off my to-do list for the day.

He reluctantly agreed and came and got me. After six hours of racing around doing my weekend shopping, he looked shocked when I got back in the car.

"Madame Boss, you are white!" he exclaimed.

I looked at him and laughed, "Thanks, Robert...thanks for the newsflash," I joked.

But he wasn't joking.

"No, you are really white. And you look funny. Your eyes look funny...they are not shining...so does your smile. You are going to get sick, you need to go home now!" he insisted.

I tried to protest but, in a rare act of defiance, he drove me home anyway. After leaving me with my multiple bags, he gave me some advice.

"You must now drink at least a gallon of water...warm, not cold...take a warm bath, eat something plain without any fats or a lot of sugar, and go to bed. If you do this now, you will probably be OK but, if you don't, you are going to be sick!" he warned.

Robert is not a hypochondriac and, as I said, he rarely protests my bizarre schedule but this time he looked very serious...and scared.

I didn't feel "great," for sure, but I also didn't feel "sick," either. So I took part of his advice (the water, the plain food, and the bath) but I ended up staying up until almost midnight working and chatting on the phone with friends.

I should have listened.

I woke up at 3Am on Sunday morning feeling like every organ in my body, and my entire muscular-skeletal system, had suddenly decided it didn't like the arrangement we had made to live together 34 years ago and stage a revolt.

Everything hurt.

I felt like I had malaria, the flu, typhoid, a severe GI attack...EVERYTHING, at one time.

As I lay in bed trying to beg the sun to go "off" and trying to will myself to crawl out of bed to reach the water bottles in the kitchen, I actually had to smile (even though it hurt).

I knew I didn't "have" anything...hell, I had everything...and I knew I had brought this upon myself. No denying it.

When I started to feel slightly better after nine hours of sleep and three gallons of water and the Ugandan equivalent of Gatorade, I actually had the peace of mind (because it's the only thing left when you don't have peace of body) to start dealing with all of the accumulated mental "snowballing" I had done over the past ten days.

Because I had slept for most of the day, I stayed up most of the night dealing with each issue that I had refused to look at separately, over the course of the hours of the middle of the night.

Finally, around 5AM, I went back to sleep. I got up and called Robert at 8AM, with my head threatening to split wide open and my organs still making moment-to-moment decisions about whether they wanted to live with me anymore, and said:

"Hey, Robert, you were right. I don't think I am going to be able to go to work today. I should have listened to you, I am sorry."

He was vindicated and concerned at the same time.

"I knew that was coming, Madame Boss! I know you don't always believe me but, in this country and on this continent, we know what to do to try to help someone not get sick and I was so worried about you!" he related.

I assured him I was fine and asked if he would be willing to come over around 3PM to go to the store for me to replenish my water and Gatorade supplies.

Robert has never seen me ill so I was embarrassed when he came to the door and saw me looking less-than-attractive.

He wasn't fazed.

Instead of getting the supplies for me, he insisted that I go along for the car ride.

"Robert, there is a good possibility that I will get sick in the car...you don't want that," I warned.

"Madame Boss, you need some air. It is only a half of a kilometer and I will do the shopping but we need to air you out...please, trust me," he implored.

I did and we returned back, without incident, a half hour later.

I promised Robert I would be back on the job tomorrow and he looked dubious.

"Maybe not tomorrow, but definitely Wednesday. You are getting better, your eyes are not so flat anymore," he diagnosed.

OK, so maybe I should listen this time. Maybe I should take my own philosophy to heart about what makes one ill...from the inside and the outside.

In the meantime, although I feel like someone's used carpet, I am thankful to have people in my life like my mom, my brother, Scott and, of course, Robert.

I think the message is:

"Doctor, heal thyself."

Balancing Act

Almost two weeks into my agreement with Scott that we would not be speaking until we had come to some sort of resolution about our relationship, individually, I have morphed into a damn Martha Stewart in Uganda.

Mind you, I have always been a bit of an odd bird in that I have both a very deep craving for independence that coexists alongside an equally strong domestic impulse. It often proves to be very confusing, especially for males in my life, when, on the one hand, I can easily take leave of a domestic relationship for weeks or even months on end to indulge my desire to travel and work in far-off places. On the other hand, however, when I am home, I am a dedicated cook, gardener, and decorator. Men, who have normally been raised with one stereotype of a female or another...and, honestly, most women (and men), do tend to go one way or the other...but not both at the same time, get perplexed.

"Wait a minute," they'll say, "So for the past five months you have been giving me hell about not being on time for some culinary marvel you had prepared or for not being quick enough to help in your elaborate vegetable garden or comment on the new painting...and NOW you are going to Southeast Asia for seven weeks?"

Yep.

"So the plants will die, the new unframed paintings will get crumble and I'll starve to death?"

OK, sure, I am being a bit dramatic as, by and large, most of the men I have had significant relationships with share very similar personality traits.

The female friends in my life, of course, are also very similar to me as well and experience the same phenomena, leading me to believe this is "normal" and, ultimately, an OK way to carry on.

Nevertheless, it always seems to become an issue for one or more party at some time during the relationship.

Thus, now that Scott and I are "on hold," and my current workload is such that I cannot do what my core impulse says and jet off on another trip, I have apparently embraced my domestic side with the psychotic intensity of a methamphetamine addict.

Last weekend, I undertook to clean my flat, alongside my housekeeper, Beatrice, with such vigor that she stepped aside and just watched me for a minutes on end. After she had removed all of my books from the bookshelf and dusted, she watched in horror as I quickly removed them all again and repeated. As she mopped the kitchen floor, I followed behind her with a scrub brush on my hands and knees, getting into all the deep groves in the tiles.

"Madame Patrica! Please, I can do this! You are ruining your beautiful new manicure! And...you're crawling on the floor!" she cried, aghast.

I didn't want to insult her but, then again, I also didn't care. I needed to clean.

Then I came to notice all of those subtle things in the apartment that needed to be fixed or changed but had slipped my attention over the past few months because I was doing other things.

"Robert, the tiny light in the upper left side of the guest room vanity shelf is burned out! I need to fix it...I have looked in the stores but can't find the exact, tiny, odd-shaped, spark plug-looking thingee that goes in there...can you get one for me at the market?"

Robert, my driver, is always accommodating and, frankly, seems to love it when I get into these crazy home improvement moods because he is a handy-man by nature and would much rather be hunting down obscure lighting fixtures at the market than sitting in a hot car waiting for me to finish a meeting.

"Sure, Madame Boss, I will get it this week," he promised.

No, Robert, not this week. I need it NOW.

"It's 10pm...are you really sure you need it RIGHT NOW?" he asked.

No, tomorrow morning at 7am is OK, I conceded.

Or:

"Robert, I need new lampshades and a new tablecloth. Very, very soon. The ones now just don't seem to match...let's take off of work an hour early and go to the crafts market, OK?"

Then, one night last week as I was out on my balcony reading before bed, I noticed my plant jungle wasn't looking as healthy as it could be at the moment.

Of course, I called Robert.

(Yes, I do have other friends here, but Robert knows me best and, after 11 months, knows my intense and irrational side and gives into it so he is the one I call whenever I am truly 'in need.')

"Madame Boss, I have been telling you that the fertilizer that you bought at the store won't work. You need real fertilizer...like from my uncle's farm. It will make the plants beautiful again and it is free. Let me get you some tomorrow."

OK, so maybe I should have thought that one through better as, although my plants are indeed looking magnificent, my entire house smells like cow shit.

But still...

Then, of course, there is the cooking.

I love to cook but only have the rare opportunity to do it for many others besides myself and a few friends on the weekends when we have dinner parties. But I find cooking to be the most peaceful thing in the world when my mind and heart is upset. Gardening is a close second but, given that my entire balcony suddenly smelled like a barnyard, I figured cooking would be best.

So, naturally, I also find grocery shopping and stocking up my kitchen with plenty of larder to be equally important, whether or not it is ever actually going to be used.

Last Thursday, my friend Eddie stopped by as I was dragging a 25lb bag of baking potatoes up the stairs into my apartment.

"What the hell are you doing? Making enough vodka for the entire Russian military? You could never use that many potatoes in a year!"

Leave me alone, I scolded him, I will find a way to use them.

The same when my friend Moses stopped by and caught a glimpse of the three gallon jug of cooking oil in my pantry.

"Female hot oil wrestling match this week?" he smiled and winked suggestively.

No, I might need it...I don't know what for yet...but, it is good to be prepared!

When he opened my fridge to grab a beer and two massive gallons of orange juice and two gallons of milk jumped out and fell on his foot, he was aghast.

"What the hell is going on? You don't even drink milk, for Christ's sake!"

I was at a loss for words...

Then he tried, "Oh, I know, I know..." he looked at me slyly, "this is that time of month when women go berserk and clean their houses, buy too much food, and torture their men with unfair demands and irrational accusations...that's what's happening, right?"

NO! I don't have that...problem, I told him. I am just...well, cleaning up and stocking up. That was all.

When I spent five hours on Thursday night preparing an elaborate fish curry and then presenting it to my neighbor, Halima, she was surprised.

"You don't even eat fish curry! It smells delicious and thank you but...why did you make all this food for me and the kids?"

I was at a loss for answers again.

Still, it didn't abate.

When Robert and I did our weekly shopping Friday, I was mindful that I had been asked by Beatrice to replenish her cleaning supplies. Normally, I buy what she needs for a month.

This time, however, I felt the need to "stock up." I called Robert into the store to help me wheel the cart of groceries out to the car because it was too heavy and awkward to navigate myself.

After we make five trips up to my apartment from the car, and he watched me unpack six bottles of bleach, he sighed.

"Madame Boss, are you and Beatrice making a secret plan to turn the entire population of Uganda into white people? Because, if not, I really cannot see how you are ever going to need that amount of bleach...even if you live here for many more years."

Looking around, I realized that I had perhaps gone a tad overboard.

Nevertheless, I was not ready to surrender yet and spent all night cleaning the apartment, completely forgetful of the fact that Beatrice was coming over in the morning for her normal weekly cleaning appointment.

When I walked out of my room Saturday morning to greet her, I found her standing in the living room looking bewildered.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Well, nothing is wrong...but there is absolutely nothing here that I can find to clean. I am not sure what to do..." she replied.

Feeling bad, I offered to pay her anyway but she refused.

"I'll come back next week and maybe you'll be, umm, feeling normal again?" she asked.

A few hours later, Robert swung by to drop off the new electric wall fixtures I had insisted I couldn't go the weekend without (nevermind I hadn't liked them for eleven months) and he whistled upon seeing the apartment.

"Madame Boss, it is beautiful in here! Beatrice really did a good job this time...so clean!" he exclaimed.

I didn't have the heart to tell him that it wasn't Beatrice, just the fact that he worked for an occasional neurotic.

As he was about to leave, I handed him the sack of the remaining 24 1/2 pounds of potatoes, the oil, and the milk.

His mother is desperately poor and lives in a village about 40 kilometers outside of Kampala where she cares for seven children, including two orphans. She sure as hell needed it more than me.

He thanked me profusely and then sniffed the air, "The smell of the cow poo-poo is gone!" he exclaimed.

(Yeah, I don't know how it wouldn't be with me having emptied a gallon of bleach on the place last night).

Last night, I decided to make a simple pot of spaghetti and meatballs and force myself to sit on the balcony and not tear apart the apartment again, looking for something to clean, something to fix, or something to cook.

Sometimes in your life it is imperative to seek balance, it can't be all one way or the other.

For me, perhaps, that time has come.

Military History: A Present Day Tale

As I was writing my last blog about the culture of "time outs" that pervaded my mid-late childhood, I got to thinking about my own "time out" that is present in my life these days.


It is a deeply painful one but I have always felt that if you can't write it, you can't live it, and, thus, you can't be honest about it, so here I am talking about it.

Adults take "time outs" too, I have discovered. I have discovered this most painfully in my own relationship with Scott although as the days of our "time-out" pass, I gain more clarity.

Scott and I have always had a difficult relationship, logistically and emotionally. We met under very trying circumstances...he was in the midst of separating from his wife and I was in the midst of convincing myself that I was, ultimately, never again going to find someone compatible with my spirit.

I, at that point, had worked in my previous job for enough years to have become deeply admirable of the U.S. military but also wise enough to know that every marine or soldier who showed passing interest in me was not necessarily a compliment or a testimony to my amazing powers of feminine persuasion...it was just human dynamics. Sure, guys in uniform are attractive but, seven years on, I was proud of my job but also jaded and wise enough to know when to make friends and when to become interested. I also knew that the marines and soldiers who really respected me...for my mind...almost never hit on me.

I endured years of criticism and teasing from my female friends about having landed the "ultimate job" because I got to be around guys in uniform and an intensely masculine audience all the time...but, honestly, it was the hardest job I have ever had. And also the most challenging and fulfilling, although my job in Uganda is now rivaling that too. By the time last June rolled around, I barely even thought of the "perks" any longer, I was mainly interested in making sure I did the best job possible.

Thus, last year when I met Scott, I was long past looking for love in uniform. Hell, I wasn't even looking for love at all (or so I try to convince myself...but I think we are all secretly looking for love most of the time, although not always in sexual relationships).

Nevertheless, I was proud of my job, the fact that I had spent the past three years as a part-time instructor/guest lecturer at the United States Marine Corps University at Quantico and the United States Military Academy at West Point, but having gotten long past the crushes I had the first years I was there. Something strange had happened to me, no doubt, in that I had assimilated many things, but I had learned to fit in as a civilian in a world dominated by males and that was enough. I didn't need to have a crush on anyone any longer to justify that I had earned my right to also be in that world.

When my boss at the time, Pauline, asked me to accompany her to the United States Army Command and General Staff College in June of 2008 to give a lecture, I didn't think twice.

Of course...that's what I do...no problem.

I hadn't expected to meet Scott.

It was a simple-enough meeting but it was also magical. He was introduced by one of his department chairs and a former Army General Officer as, "One of the most brilliant young Army Colonels that we have."

I looked at him and thought, "No way he is a goddamn Colonel, he looks like he is about 35! He is a Major or young Lieutenant Colonel at best!"

But, he was not 35, he was 45. Still a young Colonel. And a very, very wise one.

(And pretty damn handsome...but that was only a bonus).

What happened over the next year was simple, we just got along and enjoyed a deeply satisfying appreciation for each other's minds and souls.

We had (have) the same sense of ironic humor, enjoyed the same writers and musicians, enjoyed debating everything from military history to current foreign policy, and, despite him being from the Midwest and me being from the East Coast, found that we shared a similar philosophy (close to humanism) on how we approached life and our fellow man/woman.

So, when his divorce became final, we became a couple...it was natural...we had been best friends at that point for many months.

We had traveled to see each other everywhere possible. I had traveled to see him on base in Florida and on post in Kansas, he had come to DC, and we had a trip together to France that made our relationship sing with possibility. We were talking about whether I could get myself into Iraq to see him or whether he could get himself over here to Uganda...

Until, of course, last month.

Ten months into my deployment in Uganda and two months into his in Iraq.

Then we couldn't stop fighting.

We have been separated our whole relationship...never having had the chance to really spend more than a week or two with each other at a time...

Upon his deployment to Iraq, I honestly reacted oppositely than most women do when their beloved goes to war. I think it is because I have spent so much time around those who have done a third or fourth tour, I knew our country needed Scott. I knew that, as much as I would feel the loss, that this was his job and that he was damn good at it.

I am lucky to count several very good friends who are marines and soldiers and Scott is among the best of them. My personal pride at having this man of mine serve and be in charge of something that was very necessary at a critical juncture of U.S. engagement in Iraq overtook my ego for the first few months. I prided myself on the fact that, because I knew so much about this topic, professionally, I was immune from the feelings that went along with it when you were emotionally involved.

Then, surprisingly, I started to shatter.

I kicked it back. I refused to look at how much I missed him. I refused to be angry at the fact that I wanted him here with me more than where he was at that moment.

I tried to drown out the "It's not fair!!" voice that kept creeping into my head on a daily basis.

For his part, he refused to look positively on the fact that I had just decided to renew my contract in Uganda for another year and had decided to remain "away" from him too.

Scott and I both have fiery tempers. It is actually one of the more exciting parts of our relationship when we are both "healthy" and "whole." When we are not, however, we fight with each other to the point where there have been nights where I have felt like I was dragging my bloodied soul into bed with me...coaxing it to come along.

For his part, I think he feels the same way.

"Our relationship is like candy-coated glass these days," Scott opined, "It tastes so good but it cuts us both apart inside, ultimately."

We had been fighting for weeks. I don't even remember what we were fighting about because Scott and I do not have fundamental disagreements. One of the reasons that I love him.

But we had gotten into a pattern of fighting and I had gotten into a pattern of depression characterized by consoling myself with a few too many glasses of wine on nights I felt lonely.

"Why are you doing this?" he would ask.

Because I had no idea what else to do.

Last Thursday night was the culmination of something that had to break.

He was terse and tired and I was effusive and wanting to talk.

I kept telling myself, "He's in Iraq right now, you know better than to ask more than he can give..."

But suddenly it felt so goddamn unfair.

I exploded.

We fought for an hour with me saying, "Why aren't you interested in my day anymore? Why do you always sound so goddamn tired and like you're dying to get off the phone with me?!!"

"Because I AM goddamn tired, Patti. I AM tired!!" he hollered back.

Afterwards, in my fury, I wrote him an email that he said felt like a "Dear John" letter and told him we shouldn't speak for a few weeks.

To my surprise, he wrote back calmly and said, "I agree. That is best right now."

I accept that because I think we are both right.

I also accept that things might not turn out the way we hope because we have worn each other to shreds and there might be irreparable damage done. I also know that my ego might never recover and that forced distance to me has always been a way of saying "good-bye."

But, tonight, as I sit on my balcony enjoying the cool breezes of the Uganda evening and savoring a good book after a great article on counterinsurgency warfare, I miss Scott more than ever. I wish I could talk to him.

Yet I know why we can't.

Still, silence is comforting. It makes you realize how much you really do miss someone.

I am also learning to not be so attached to the outcome of things.

It's a hard lesson, especially for someone like me who is so fond of being in control of things, but it is one I must learn.

For all of my bravado about understanding "military history," this is one personal story that clearly escaped me.

But, for what it is worth, I am trying to learn the lesson now.

A Guppie Child

I came of age in a time and place that could best be classified as a hotbed of "Yuppie Idealism."

For those not familiar (and please, for God's sake, don't feel left out, it was not necessarily a time worth remembering in U.S. modern history), "Yuppie" was an acronym for "young, upwardly mobile professional" or "young, urban professional." This philosophy, and its acolytes, struck and inhabited large swaths of the U.S. during the Reagan era of the 1980s and spawned such ridiculously narcissistic television shows as "Murphy Brown" and "Thirty-something."

My parents, despite either having been raised at the tail-end of the WWII years (my father) or in a relatively fresh immigrant culture (my mother), were both Baby Boomers and also eventually became Yuppies for a time. Although they embraced the ideals of their parents and their, respective, experiences during the war or on the long trip from Italy to America, they still dabbled in being Yuppies for awhile.

However, their approach to raising me and my brother, despite being Yuppies, flew in the face of everything that the Yuppies seemed to espouse about child-rearing...in particular, the concept of medicating a child rather than disciplining him or her and readily utilizing the concept of "time outs" rather than other, less gentle, methods.

No, neither my brother nor I was ever physically abused by either one of our parents, both detested physical violence, but when we were acting like fools, we were told about it in no uncertain terms and were then given a choice: stop the behavior at hand or face undesirable repercussions. No, never violence, but getting good and grounded for weeks. No television for weeks or even months. "Hard labor" in the form of tedious chores that were additional to what we were normally expected to contribute to the family.

I would envy, circa the early-mid 1980s in southern Connecticut, my friends whose parents were experimenting with "New Age" philosophies that advocated treating children as equals and never meting out strict reprisals for their behavior. "Let them think about it and feel the inate wrongness of their actions but do not criticize, it will cloister their spirit!," was the dominant theme that is presented in this challenge to parental authority..."don't ever repress their spirits!!"

Unfortunately, my own parents didn't quite buy it.

When my friend, Jennifer Alvarez, decided to burn down her parent's basement lighting toilet paper on fire in the fireplace or cover the dog in Vaseline and then set it loose in the new family room, her parents gave her a "time out." When I snuck out of my bedroom in the middle of the night to steal some of the expensive chocolates that my mother had received as a gift from a friend in Europe, she chased my ass around the kitchen with a wooden spoon...

When, at the age of 10, my friend Kara Novak decided to quit the softball team because she wasn't given the role of star in-fielder, her parents took her to a psychologist to talk about her feelings of "inadequacy." When I tried the same with quitting basketball because I was too short to play the coveted positions and was tired of being benched, my father gave me such a searing lecture on team values and not letting your friends or colleagues down, I was never tempted to do such a thing again.

When my friends hit puberty and starting sneaking into their parents liquor cabinets or stealing their cigarettes, many were put on drugs such as Prozac (the "wonder drug" when I was an early teenager) and Ritalin. When I decided to mimic them and, with my first crush, descend downstairs to my grandfather's impromptu bar that was set up in the basement of my grandmother's house and finish off a bottle of 15 year old Gin, my father said, "If I ever see you drunk again before the age of eighteen, I will take you to the hospital to get your stomach pumped, whether you are sick or not. Do not ever, EVER, touch alcohol again until you are smart enough to know the repercussions!"

Later, when one of my friends got into "cutting" and decided to take her step-father's razor to her arm and carve her boyfriend's initials into it, her mother sent her to a swank psychiatric hospital in upstate New York so she could recover while being properly "medicated." When I, at the age of 13, was so traumatized to be leaving the first real crush I had ever known to relocate to FL and promptly staged a 'suicide attempt' by trying to slice my wrists with cuticle scissors after sneaking a few glasses of my mother's expensive vodka, she was unforgiving.

"Really, Patti? You are trying to kill yourself with cuticle scissors? REALLY? Jesus, stay away from my damn vodka and there is nothing that's happening to you that you won't get over but trying to kill yourself with cuticle scissors is embarrassing. At least use something sharp!" she said.

So then, when my friend Gerry embraced anorexia, I decided to have a go at bulimia.

I was never prone to such things but I felt like such a misfit and, desperately wanting my parent's attention, started trying to mimic the "binge and purge" routine I had seen on a TV mini-series.

Of course, I had never been able to binge (bad manners) and I hated being sick so purging was a problem too. Nevertheless, I persisted.

I would call my poor 7-year old brother downstairs to stand outside the guest bathroom and tell him, "Look, I am very, very sick. I have a disease...it is called bulimia. I am now going to throw up and you have to stand outside the door and listen to me and then go tell mom and dad what you heard, OK?"

Bill, my beloved brother, was too wise and loyal for his years even then and would say, "That is gross. Why do you need to throw up when you're not sick? But, if you want me to do it, I will."

Eventually, my mother sat me down and said, "OK, I know this is a tough time for you and I know you are watching all of your friends do this stuff that you think gets them positive attention but all it is doing is making them more sick. But, if you want this attention, then I will give it to you. Now, what do you want?"

I was embarrassed, horrified, really. I felt like I was letting my mom down because, although I certainly did have angst, I didn't have bulimia or any desire to really kill myself.

Still, I wasn't going to let the moment slip away.

"I need Prozac," I told her with conviction.

"OK, then we will make an appointment for you with the psychologist and get you on Prozac, if that's what you think you really need..." she agreed.

I spent the week leading up to the appointment telling all of my high school freshman friends how I, finally!!!, was going to get Prozac. I may not have had "time-outs," but I was going to get medicated, just like them...

True to her word, my mother sent me to a psychologist and, the next week, I was on Prozac (again, in those days, Prozac was the answer to everything so it was readily given to children and young adults).

For the first week I felt nothing at all. I paraded around school, showing my Prozac bottle off to anyone who would care to look, and spent hours on the phone discussing with my friends (also medicated) the "side-effects" and our "individual experiences" with the drug. (Mind you, I didn't feel shit during that first week).

By the second week I had sunk into something that I can only term as despondent. I couldn't concentrate, was prone to crying all the time, and no matter how hard I studied for tests, the memory that I have always relied on to get me through any challenging academic situation was gone. I was numb on the outside but paranoid on the inside.

By the fifth week (a day during the summer break that happened to coincide with me being pulled out of school in Connecticut and transferred to Florida when my parent's divorce became final and me, my brother and my mom moved there), I was sitting outside staring at the pool.

For the very first time in my life, I actually felt like ending it. I wanted nothing more than to dive into that hotel pool and never emerge again.

I wanted to call some of my "medicated" friends in CT but I couldn't relate anymore.

All I knew was that my life was suddenly miserable "for real," and I couldn't feel a damn thing except numb.

But, somewhere behind that "numb," a part of me was kicking for air.

As usual, my mother came at the right time.

Settling herself next to me in the lounge chair she asked, "So how's the Prozac?"

I wanted to hate her but I knew that this was a lesson.

"I'm fine," I insisted.

"Then why are you sitting out here crying silently and staring at a pool when I haven't seen you write, dance, play a sport, or laugh in a month? You are thirteen, not thirty." she pressed.

I started to cry uncontrollably at that point and she reached into my beach bag and yanked the bottle of Prozac out.

"Can we be done with this part now, Patti, please?" she implored.

I nodded. She then took the remaining pills and dumped them into a glass of seltzer she had with her and we watched silently as they fizzled into nothing.

"Hey, look, it is tough being a kid, I know that. I also know that your father and I expect a lot from you and your brother and expect you to act responsibly. I am sorry if we screwed up sometimes but seeing you drugged for the past month-and-a-half killed part of my soul the same way it was killing part of yours. Do you understand?" she said.

Yes, I did.

"I know you grew up around people whose parents thought that it was OK not to discipline their children and to use medication and social conditioning as alternatives to what your dad and I perceived as 'real' parenting but...well, we just didn't. We don't," she continued.

I was still despondent and hazy from the drugs but I was coming out of it, slowly.

Eventually, the Prozac wore off and I was faced with a jumble of raw nerves in a situation where everything in my life seemed to be collapsing. My parents were divorced, I was in a new high school where I was confronted with a culture that was so unfamiliar that I felt like an "outsider" on a daily basis.

During that time, my mother and I grew further and further apart.

We would not reunite for many years, and after many lessons, but my time playing around with that sort of drama formally ended that day at the pool. I was never like the "other kids" and the children of the Yuppies that I grew up among. But, despite our isolation over those years, my mother knew that about me.

Tonight, as I was looking back on that time, I called a friend to ask if he (who is my age but from France) had the same experience.

"Hell no! My mother would have either cut my own neck off with the cuticle scissors by sawing or thrown me in the pool and drown me herself! I can't believe that was America at one time..." he said, incredulous.

I laughed.

"I made it through though!" I declared.

"I can't believe you, YOU, ever wanted to throw up food! You have such a fine palate and love food so much...that is amazing!" he observed.

"Do you think I am fat?" I asked, joking, but almost reflexively.

"No, I think you are amazing. But, I do have some pills over here if you want them...I don't think they are Prozac but if you are feeling like you need to go back there..." he teased.

No, I don't think so.

"Good, I never thought you were a Guppie!" he said.

I was about to correct him but then just shut up and smiled.

I was, for a time, a Guppie.

Gone Native?

It's funny to read back over my own blog postings sometimes and realize what my thoughts and feelings were eleven months ago upon assuming this position. No, I am not going to get all "Kevin Costner-Dances-with-Wolves" in this blog but it does amuse me sometimes to look back at things almost a year on here.

The other night a mirror was held in front of my face so starkly that I am beginning to realize that I am going "native."

It happened upon the occasion of a U.S. Congressional Staff visit to Uganda. I was asked by the American Embassy to gather together a group of prominent Ugandans to meet with up-and-coming U.S. Congressional staff members who were here at their Senator's request to get the low-down on "real Ugandans." I sent out an email to the seven most articulate and well-informed Uganda politicians and civil society leaders I had in my Rolodex and we all got together over drinks and cocktail weenies the other night at Uganda's ritziest hotel.

I have lived the past eight years of my life in political circles in DC in some capacity or another so although I was stressed about making a good impression, I was fairly certain I could pull this one off correctly. What stunned me at the outset was the age of these "senior" political staffers. They were mostly in their mid-twenties and, although very intelligent, their age worked against them immediately in an African society where age equals prestige.

The next thing that shocked me was how I was looking at them.

"So clean! So healthy!" I kept thinking. Then, "So idealistic and yet somehow so naive!"

These were Americans. My people. And here I was looking at them like they were some foreign species of flora or fauna that had descended into my world.

The other stunning part was how they were looking at me. I was dressed, as I almost always am, in a very good suit and, to my mind, there was no difference in the way the that I looked from the way they looked. Still, I had only been asked to facilitate the meeting and not take part so I largely cordoned myself off at at the end of the table and let the Ugandans do the talking...they were the ones the Congressional staffers were there to meet, after all.

Still, the visitors started addressing me like I was not an American. At one point, a woman from Maryland shook my hand and said, "I am from Maryland, that is on the east side of the country in the U.S."

I said, "Yeah, I know where Maryland is, I am from Pennsylvania, we are pretty close by..."

She looked flustered.

"Right, I just assumed you had lived here for a long time because you're so, well, comfortable here. I know you're American, I just forgot..." she trailed off, embarrassed.

It shook me pretty hard. This is the first time I could tell the difference between me and people from the country I have lived in my entire life. Far from feeling "cool" or accomplished, I felt somehow banished...exiled.

My friend Moses, who I wrote about in my February blog, "The Price of Love," was there to prop me up.

After the delegation left, he and I stayed at the hotel bar for a few hours and talked. Moses is one of my most "impossible" friends, because he is so moody, but he is also one of my favorite ones because he is absolutely blunt and honest. He is Ugandan but has a penchant for dating American women so he and I get together about every six weeks to do some cross-cultural information exchanges.

I told him how unnerved I was about feeling like I was not American anymore.

"Do I look different to you? Have I started speaking English in a strange way?" I queried.

He laughed at me and said, "It isn't what you say or how you look, for the most part...it is your body language."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, how are we sitting right now?"

I realized that we were sitting side-to-side, nearly touching, with him grasping and holding my wrist when he wanted to make a point.

Americans who are not intimate couples don't sit this way, they tend to face each other and make barely any physical contact. We favor eye-contact over what Africans favor, which is not eye contact but being in close physical proximity to one another, and touching, to convey trust.

"Tonight," he continued, "when you were told not to be on stage, you acted like a Ugandan. You sat there with Lillian (the director of public prosecutions) and kept holding her hand and speaking to her very closely. You were nearly sitting in the same chair. There was no physical distance between the two of you like there was between the Ugandans and the other Americans. Did you notice that?"

I hadn't.

"And, when you got up to deal with the bill and the server, you took his hand and walked him off into a far corner to negotiate the bill, away from the table but still clearly making a negotiation, did you notice that you did that?"


Nope.

"You also, for the entire meeting (three hours), were having some side discussions with one of the Ugandan politicians there and making back-deals and side-deals but you were constantly in motion but were still present at the meeting. Did you notice that?"

No.

"And, finally, the Ugandans also all wanted to sit closer to you even though they knew that you were not the one with the power in the room but because you were more comfortable to them in the way you spoke and behaved, did you see that?"

Jesus, I was beginning to feel blind.

"Your driver, Robert, has become your personal assistant and closest confidant even though he barely spoke English when you met him a year ago but now he has the keys to your flat and negotiates everything from your cable TV contract to your flower care. I can come over any time and basically walk into your house without prior notice. You have intricate relationships with hotel workers, shop assistants, and parking police based on how you have determined the power-balance of the relationship. You paid for one hotel staff member in Gulu to have an expensive surgery in January and she made sure that the entire hotel was vacant and the best service available when your employers were here last month. This is how we do things in Africa...and this is how YOU do things nowadays. But I don't think that's American, is it?"

I thought back to living in DC and I laughed.

No, this is not how we "do things." I couldn't imagine paying for the hotel manager's gallstone surgery at the Ritz Carlton in exchange for getting a guarantee of the penthouse suite for my boss. Here, though, it seemed oddly normal.

"So you have lost your personal space issues, which is huge to Americans, and you act like an African in that you are constantly negotiating and making deals and still carrying on as though none of this were happening," Moses said.

"It is actually quite cute. I remember how uptight you were ten months ago and now you are different, I like you much better this way," he concluded.

I am still really uptight about being on time and I have no patience, I reminded him.

"Talk to me in another six months," he said, "I bet you that you will have relaxed on those issues as well."

Never, I told him.

He held up six fingers and put a 20,000 Shilling note on the table.

Bet taken.

Terrorist Chili

My boss was in town over the past two weeks and we had a lot of conversations about whether I should stay or leave Uganda. Our grant was renewed and I have the guarantee of another full year of employment here but I miss the U.S. so much some days that it kills me.

It's not that I don't love Uganda, I do, but I miss my own country. I miss leading a "normal life" although I realize that term has never applied to me. I want the chance to have a life with Scott (whenever he decides to start living a "normal life" too) and I want to go back to work for my own country. These decisions weigh heavy in my life right now and I tend to rely on friends for comfort and advice.

So, tonight, I did what I normally do when I need a friend and walked across the landing to knock on Hasim and Halima's door. They are my next-door neighbors and we have struck up quite the friendship over the past few months and they opened the door, as usual, and invited me in for a chat.

I really wanted to talk to Halima, to get a woman's perspective, so Hasim left us after giving the normal greetings and offereing me tea.

We talked for an hour, with her holding my hand and giving me an impromptu hug every now and then, plus tons of good advice, until I left.

As I was walking out the door, she said, "Do you ever write about our friendship? I am sure most Americans would be shocked that we are so civilized and can be friends!"

She laughed and shut her door.

I never really thought about it but Halima is right. That's why I am writing this blog.

Hasim and Halima (not their real names) are from Somalia. Not only are they from Somalia, but they are part of a faction that the U.S. has occasionally blacklisted and labeled "terrorists." They are both devout Muslims although neither one of them is fanatic and, obviously, they are more than willing to engage in friendships with Westerners.

Halima and I became friends over a pot of mint leaves. We share the same landing on the third floor and Halima grows mint for tea while my other neighbor, Geeta, an Indian, grows mint for cooking.

I like to garden so when Geeta went back to India this summer, I started taking care of her plants...and Halima joined me one night as I was pruning the pot.

She was covered head-to-toe and I could only see her eyes but I was surprised to see her outside of the flat, as she normally remains inside at all times.

We started with formalities but, in no time at all, started giggling about life in Uganda, relationships with men, and the challenge of cooking homemade meals.

It was weird, I admit, having a conversation with someone who I couldn't see, except for her eyes, but Halima was so warm and so funny that I quickly forgot about the fact that I couldn't see her. Honestly, by the time we were done with the pots of mint, she might as well have been wearing jeans and flip-flops, I knew enough about her to have decided that I wanted to be friends with her, even though I had no clue what she looked like.

Two days later, her brother knocked on my door and said that Halima would like to see me.

So I went over and had a great dinner with her, Hasim, and their two children. Since then, we have become good friends. I go over to their flat on a weekly, and sometimes daily, basis to chat.

The first time I saw Halima without her hajab (the Muslim covering that Somali women wear), I was shocked. She is so pretty that it almost hurts your eyes to look at her (to which Hasim said, "See? Now you know why I don't want men looking at my wife!"). But after my second visit, she stopped wearing the hajab around me and I only see her like that when she is outside of the flat.

Halima also has the same fascination that my mother does: crossword puzzles. Both she and her husband were educated in Canada so their English is perfect and Halima's absolute favorite thing in the world is doing a crossword puzzle. She usually gets one New York Times crossword puzzle a month from her brother living in New Jersey and this becomes her obsession for weeks on end. She'll call me at random times and ask, "What is the synonym of 'serendipity?'" or, "What did Frank Sinatra sing in Las Vegas in 1962?" I always feel bad because I don't know most of the answers but this forms the basis of my friendship with her.

Despite the fact that Halima and her husband were educated in Canada (thanks to a wealthy uncle and clan member), they have both lived in Somalia their whole lives. They CHOSE to go back there again and again until they had kids and decided that they didn't want to see them killed or forced to fight in another war.

I had an uncomfortable moment, about six weeks back, when Hasim asked me about Scott, my boyfriend.

"What does your boyfriend do for employment?" Hasim asked.

"He's a military officer. U.S. Army Colonel, " I related, "Airborne, infantry."

Hasim shook his head. "'Black Hawk Down,' right?" he asked, relating to the event that caused so much damage for both the U.S. and Somalia...and the future of our engagement in Africa and elsewhere.

"Yes, 'Black Hawk Down,' although Scott was not in Somalia at the time," I said.

"Do you think Scott would be upset to know that the woman he loves is having dinner with people from the same country who killed his fellow soldiers?" Hasim asked.

I swallowed hard. It is rare to find that level of bluntness in another human being and I was floored, quite honestly.

"No, I have told Scott about our friendship," I related.

"And he doesn't mind?" Hasim asked, incredulous.

Then I was confronted with one of those moments where I needed to tell the truth, the whole truth, to this man from Somalia who is a devout Muslim, used to serve in the Somalia military, is married to a woman who can't go outside without being fully covered, is probably considered a terrorist in the U.S., and who once dropped his briefcase in a puddle and took off his perfect leather shoes to help me carry a load of groceries up to my apartment.

"Hasim, I don't know where to begin but let me just start by saying that Scott doesn't care who I am friends with. He is not that kind of man. As long as people are kind to me, I don't think it matters who they pray to at night. Yes, I know that the American experience in Somalia was painful for both sides and I don't think anyone has truly gotten over it completely. We thought we were helping and you thought we were invading. There was wrong done on both sides. Also, September 11th shocked and horrified most Americans. I know you have told me that in Somalia this would be 'just another day' but it wasn't that way for us. Most Americans, myself included, could not understand that level of hatred and violence."

He shook his head and indicated that I should go on.

"Honestly, it caused many Americans to hate Muslims of any stripe because those attacks were propagandized with religion so that's they way it stuck in our heads. And, honestly, the Taliban and the Wahhabis are nasty, brutal people. I know you're not like that, and neither is your family, but for a lot of Americans, there is no dividing line. I am sorry about that, I am sorry about that for my country, but that's the way it is."

"How come you are not that way?" Halim asked. "You have told me that you were five miles away from the Pentagon when it was bombed...the man you love is in a warzone and could be killed at any moment for possibly making the same mistake in Iraq that Americans made in Somalia. What is the difference?"

(I appreciated his candor but really needed something stronger than mint tea at that particular moment...)

"I wasn't raised that way," I told him. "I wasn't raised to hate people based on their religon or the color of their skin. Half of my family came to America as Italian immigrants and were treated very badly. So, when my mother raised me and my brother, she instilled in us that all people are deserving of a fair chance and respect...that you treat people as individuals. It's also, to be honest, an American value. I think Scott was probably raised that way too. Most Americans are kind, even the ones who are soldiers or marines and trained to kill people."

"But Scott is part of an organization that was wounded in Somalia. How can he possibly not hate us? I would have a hard time with that myself," Hasim admitted.

"I don't know, Hasim, and I can't speak for Scott or the U.S. military. But I can tell you that most Americans set out to do good, not evil. I get angry with my own country sometimes because I think we don't do a good job in understanding other people's cultures and histories but I can tell you one thing I know for sure, most Americans are kind and set out to do the right thing, even if it turns out wrong in the end."

Hasim smiled and said, "I guess you'd never wear the hajab, right? Even if Scott asked?"

I laughed.

"I know Halima wears it with dignity because she is beautiful and she is showing piety to both her husband and God. But no, you won't see me in one of those anytime soon. And Scott wouldn't ask...it's not part of our culture," I said.

He smiled and laughed.

I got up to leave.

Suddenly, Halima came rushing out of the kitchen with a spoon in her hand.

"Here, try this! I used the recipe you gave me a few months ago and this is how it came out!"

I nearly fell over from the spiciness of the ground meat mixture, although I recovered and thought it was very tasty...although very, very hot.

Somali Chili.

"What kind of chili did you use in this?" I asked.

"Oh, a chili pepper native to Somalia, I thought it would go well with your recipe," she told me.

I told her that her version of my football chili would probably kill most Americans but that it was a good adaptation...for Somalis.

The next day, her son knocked on my door with an entire pot of it. Amazingly, she had toned down the spiciness and it was delicious. I ate it all week.

Hasim has dubbed it, "Terrorist Chili" and I have joined him in the joke.

No, there is nothing funny about terrorism and there is certainly nothing funny about what happened in my country eight years ago and what continues to happen in his country today. But, slowly, friendships like ours are beginning to start a healing process.

A much needed one, to my mind.

(This story is dedicated to Halima, I hope I got it right. And I still don't know the answer to this month's 12 accross).

The Introduction Ceremony: Cow Values

A couple of weeks back, my good friend Jane called and asked me to “stand with her” during her introduction ceremony. I was both honored and confused.

Honored because Jane is one of my closest friends here in Uganda, and I knew this was a big event in her life.

Confused, however, because although I knew introduction ceremonies are akin to really big marital engagement parties in the U.S., I had no idea what this would entail and what would be required of me. I tend to like to be fully prepared to any sort of semi-official or ceremonial duties and, frankly, I was coming up short in the knowledge department.

Plus, this was Jane. And Jane has taken such good care of me since I moved to Kampala ten months ago, I didn’t want to do anything wrong.

I had met Jane during the month I was living at the Sheraton when I first got here while I was searching for a home. She was the server who always came to my door with room service and never once questioned why my jet-lagged and homesick self would possibly want a bacon cheeseburger at seven in the morning. She was also the one who forced my ass out of the Sheraton and made me start embracing Uganda and the fact that this was going to be my home for the next year.

So I decided to ask Eddie, my friend and part-time driver, about the details of an introduction ceremony while he was taking me around Mbale, eastern Uganda.

“Oh…that’s a big event. A really big one,” he conveyed.

Eddie operates a tour company so he is very familiar with Americans and American culture so I could quiz him on possible cultural similarities.

"So do I have to buy a bad dress that I will pay too much for, only wear once, and inevitably look fat in?” I joked.

He looked at me strangely.

"No, it is not like that. This is the time when the potential bride brings her future husband home to meet the family and where the bride price is negotiated. It is usually a day or two-day event and it is taken very seriously and can be quite detailed, depending on the tribe.”

Ah, the bride price. The dowry. This is an important and much debated custom here in Uganda.

Some families take it very seriously, and it can literally bankrupt the future groom and his family. Other families think of themselves as more modern and embrace a “token” bride price, usually symbolic rather than monetary, to avoid having to send their daughters to a freshly destitute family after their wedding.

Eddie asked me where Jane was from and I named the village.

"Oh boy, she’s from the northeast…I know that region. This is going to mean cows. Lots and lots of cows,” he related.

He continued to tell me, and my good friend, Janice, who was joining us for a beer, about the “cattle culture” of this region of eastern Uganda.

A bride’s value, he told us, is determined in cows, literally. Cows are considered sacred by many tribes in Uganda and a family’s status and wealth is determined by the number of cows they own.

"The more ‘pure’ the woman, the higher bride price she fetches," Eddie said. “If a woman is a virgin or has only lain with maybe one man, then she will get a lot of cows, even up to fifteen. If she has lain with too many men, however, or has had too many boyfriends, her value drops to only one or two cows. Or, in some cases, to another animal entirely.”

"Shit,” Janice said, “My father could probably get a goat for me…”

At the same time I was thinking to myself, “I wonder how my mother would feel about a pet hamster?”

In any case, Eddie concluded, I should check with Jane immediately because I had probably signed on for a lot more than I realized.

So I called Jane upon returning to Kampala.

"Oh, it’s not THAT big of a deal,” she said, “I only need for you to do a few things…”

First, she told me, I needed to go with her to her village to be fitted for a traditional dress. Her tribe has a specific pattern of cloth printing that can only be found in the village so I would need to make time for that.

OK, I thought, that is easy enough and sounds fun…

Then, I would need to commit to cooking with her female relatives for up to two days before the ceremony as they would be preparing a ton of food and all women were expected in the kitchen.

Alright, that too sounded like fun and I love to cook so, why not?

Then it got a little more complicated…

"And, of course, you will need to be present when my virginity is validated,” she said, matter-of-factly.

WHAT?!

"Do you mean I have to do something to see if you are, um, intact?” I asked, horrified.

"No, no, no,” she said, laughing heartily. “You just have to be present with me when the village elder woman does it.”

I thought about this for a moment and said, “Jane, are you really a virgin?”

She laughed again and told me that no, of course not, but this was symbolic and a tribal ritual.

OK…well I guess I can stand by and watch or whatever…

“Oh, and you have to check the cows along with my parents and my uncle,” she said.

“What do you mean, check the cows?” I asked.

She explained that the woman who "stands with" the bride-to-be is also required to inspect the cows that the potential groom brings as the bride price to make sure that they are healthy, well-fed, and fertile.

"Jane, I used to work in the veterinary field but, really, I don’t know the first thing about bovine fertility,” I admitted. Then, “Does it require long plastic gloves?”

She was nearly hysterical now and could barely breathe to answer me in between huge bursts of laughter.

"No…again, it is symbolic. But if you don’t like one of the cows, then it is your responsibility, along with my parents and uncle, to reject my fiancé because he would dare to bring a bad cow in exchange for me…”

I had two thoughts simultaneously: “Damn, at least I know she’s not a virgin so there won’t be too many cows to check,” and, “I would never tell Jane’s boyfriend, a Ugandan recently returned from Iraq, that I didn’t like his cows…I could never do that.”

“Sorry dude, know you just spent a year in a warzone supporting U.S. efforts but, quite frankly, your cows SUCK. Now go on and get out of here, you can’t marry my friend…”

No, I couldn’t do that.

“And that’s it!” she pronounced. That is all I had to do.

Then I thought of another question that I knew might be offensive but I had to ask…

"Jane, I know we have been good friends for a year but why did you pick me to ‘stand with you.' I know you are closest to your sister and that’s she’s in England but…well, why me?”

Luckily, she wasn’t offended, and, in her very practical way of explaining things, said, “Because I love you and I have so much fun with you…”

OK…

“And because you are white and having you there in a traditional dress with me, cooking with my family, checking my boyfriend’s cows, and affirming my virginity is going to draw huge crowds. People will want to come to see that and, for me, this will mean more gifts and more money and I could really use it to buy a house for me and Paul now. I hope this doesn’t upset you,” she said.

No, it didn’t. Made good sense, actually.

Later, I was relating all this to Scott, who was getting a good laugh out of the image of me checking the cows for Jane.

Then I asked him how many cows he thought I was worth.

He fell silent immediately.

Scott, smartly, realized that the wrong answer could very well lead him into a place he didn’t want to go, so he tried to be practical.

"Babe, I can’t give your mother a cow, her condo is too small…”

Hypothetically, I insisted.

He sighed. “Patti, I don’t know, I have never had to think about something like that. We don’t trade cows for women in the U.S. …but, alright, maybe three or four?”

"That’s it?? That is all I am worth to you? Three or four goddamn cows?!!!” I snapped.

"Jesus, Patti, this isn't fair! How the hell can I give you the right answer when I can't even begin to think like that...anything I say is bound to be wrong!" he snapped back.

"How many cows was your ex-wife worth, hypothetically?" I pressed.

Scott remained silent, refusing the bait.

Then, rightly sensing that he wasn’t going to win this one, he tried to change the subject.

"Do Ugandans take honeymoons?” he asked.

Although still pissed about my low cow-value, I allowed myself to be distracted.

"I don’t know…I don’t think so. Most Ugandans don’t have that kind of money and I think that the grooms are pretty much tapped out after the whole dowry deal so, no, I don’t think so…” I said.

"I would take you anywhere in the world you wanted to go,” he related. “Anywhere.”

Nice try, Buster, I told him.

Still, nowadays I am consumed with a whole new issue: My value in cow.

Maybe I'll ask my driver, Robert, on Monday. He should be able to give me a decent estimate.

In the meantime, I am trying to figure out if I can look into a cow's eyes and determine its fertility because there is no way in hell I am doing it manually.

I love Jane but THAT is a little much to ask...even for an introduction ceremony.

Trusting Your Gut

I was reminded of an important lesson over the past week, although it came in a different form.

The is one I have struggled with (blessing it sometimes and cursing it other times) since early childhood. I have always been hyper-sensitive and hyper-attuned to other people's emotions. I can usually figure out within about three minutes, based on how I feel, whether the person I am dealing with is someone who I want to spend any further time around or not. I know this may sound weird and perhaps arrogant but I have always used that 'sixth sense' to determine the people who "feel" good versus the people who "feel" bad.

My first experience with this was when I was in the second grade in a strict Catholic primary school in Connecticut.

I strongly disliked and felt extremely uncomfortable around my teacher. She gave me extremely bad vibes. It was nothing she 'did,' in particular, but something about her was wrong. I made every excuse in the world not to go to school to be around her when my Mom finally asked, "What is wrong with you? Why don't you want to go to school?"

I told her that this woman made my stomach hurt just being around her for five minutes and I would do anything, including being home-schooled by the odd-smelling nun who gave private lessons, not to ever have to enter this woman's classroom again.

It was nothing specific...she never singled me out for punishment or unfair treatment (I was so shy and such a nerd that it would have been hard to), but I just felt bad being around her.

Luckily, my mother has always encouraged me to listen to my heart and follow my instincts so she didn't discount what I was feeling. Nevertheless, she told me that I had to finish out the year and she gave me some tips for avoiding this woman's negative energy. I went back to school and did as I was told but was so happy when the year ended that I couldn't wait to be out of that classroom.

The following year, my second-grade teacher left under mysterious circumstances that all the adults whispered about but I never got the full details on. It didn't matter...I was no longer her student or plagued by the negative feelings associated with being around her.

Last week, in northern Uganda, the same thing happened.

It was with a woman whom I had met back in February who works for the UN. I remember the meeting well and, although I was desperate to make friends at the time, I avoided her like the plague. She just felt wrong. There was something about her that gave me such a bad feeling that after our initial meeting, I never contacted her again despite her numerous calls to try to make appointments with me.

I ran into her again in Gulu (Northern Uganda) and had the same bad feeling. One of my colleagues from the U.S., however, who is traveling with me, decided that he liked her and encouraged me to socialize with her. Nevertheless, my other colleague, who is my direct boss, had the same feelings I did.

"She's bad news," Peter said. "She made a negative impression on me and I can't figure out why...but it doesn't matter...just leave her alone."

Mick, the one who liked her, disregarded both of us and continued to socialize with her. Today, under circumstances too petty and detailed to go into here, I received a call from her.

I felt like I was in the psycho ward.

I know this is not kind and I normally am pretty understanding under most circumstances but I spent more than two hours on the phone with this woman today as she ranted and raved about her employees, Uganda, her husband, her job, etc. The impetus for her call was the fact that I had befriended one of her employees (a Ugandan) and she was put out by that fact and wanted to "set the record straight" about how awful my new friend was and how awful Uganda is, in general. She is a fairly high-level diplomat and I couldn't really hang up on her so I ended up with a stomachache similar to the ones I got in second grade around the teacher who gave me bad vibes.

After I was done with her, I called my boss, Peter, to relate the call.

"Goddamn it!!! I told Mick to leave her alone but he probably gave her your number...I'm sorry about this...you've got enough on your plate not to have to deal with lunatics," he said.

(Have I mentioned that one of the reasons, for the past nine years, that I have either worked directly for Peter or been associated with his company is because he absolutely, positively, unflinchingly and unfailingly, trusts the impressions of the people who he works with?)

"So what do I do?" I asked.

"Nothing," he told me. "Just don't pick up the phone anymore and leave it alone. I will talk to Mick."

Later, tonight, on a call with Scott, I related this event. I told him that I thought I might be weird about getting such a bad vibe off of someone and then having it proved correct.

As usual, Scott listened to my entire tale, laughing occasionally, and then offered sage advice.

"Babe, good soldiers know this one too...we call it a 'gut check.' If some dude (or chick) is giving us the willies, we back off and evaluate the situation and the necessity of dealing with a potentially bad actor. This is ingrained in our training. We are taught to respect and even hone our 'guts,' so don't disregard this part of you or let it be consumed by diplomatic crap...it is the difference between making the right decisions and the wrong ones..." he said.

Then, "For us, it is usually a life and death circumstance....it might not be that grave for you but respect and cultivate your gut instincts...that is definitely the best course of action in all situations."

Like my mother, and most of my closest friends, Scott is in touch with his 'gut.'

I felt better.

"Trust your gut" is the the moral of this story.

I do.