I spotted them on my second lap around the park on a recent spring-like afternoon. A group of women in headscarves is somewhat of an unusual occurrence, though we live close to the University of Arkansas, which has its own share of international students and professors.
I caught the lilt of Arabic as I pushed the jogging stroller ahead of me. Once you’ve learned something of the language, there’s no mistaking it.
Where were they from? Had the executive order on immigrants affected them? Were they worried about their families, their futures, and how those around them now looked at them? Or were these thoughts far from their minds as they enjoyed the sunshine on this beautiful day?
These thoughts flitted through my mind as I continued my jog. When I finished, I took my daughter to the baby swings. I pushed and talked to her and watched the table of women in scarves who sat just in my line of sight. Should I approach them? I had only spoken Arabic a handful of times since I left Yemen ten years ago. I knew it would be a rough go.
After a few minutes, the small girl with them ran to the swings, followed by one of the women. She lifted the girl into the swing and started pushing. I summoned my courage.
“Men fein anti?” Where are you from?
She looked at me with some surprise and perhaps a little caution. “Iraq,” she answered, pronouncing the name not with the harsh American K sound, but with the Arabic qah, the one that lands deep in the throat and lends a certain pop to its words.
“Do you speak Arabic?” she asked.
“A little,” I admitted. She asked where I was from.
“Here,” I answered. Then I explained how I’d lived in Yemen three years, how I taught English there and learned Arabic, and that I hadn’t spoken it much since then. I struggled through the conversation, the words slow in coming. She shook her head a couple of times as she tried to understand. I repeated and tried to understand her accent, so different from the Yemeni ones I’d grown accustomed to.
“Sorry,” I apologized in English. “It’s been so long since I spoke Arabic.”
She shook her head. “La atakelum ingleezi.” She didn’t speak English. We pushed silently for a moment and I thought of all the things I wanted to say to this woman and couldn’t.
‘I’m sorry for the ban on immigration. I don’ t know if it affects you, but I’m sure it affects someone you know and possibly love.’
‘We don’t all agree on this immigration ban. I don’t want you to judge me by the country I was born in, and I won’t do the same to you.’
‘You’re welcome here. You’re welcome to be in this park with me, swinging your child while I swing mine. I want an America where we can do this.’
These are the words I want to say, but the language barrier is too great, the distance between two strangers too difficult.
It’s time to go. I lift my daughter out of the swing. The woman smiles at me.
“Ahlan wasahlan,” she says.
It means welcome, but it carries with it the centuries of hospitality Arabs are famous for when they welcome others into their homes, their lives, their countries. It’s the perfect phrase, and she found it. I nod and repeat the phrase back.
“Ahlan wasahlan.”
You are welcome here.
I leave the park filled with sunshine and children playing and this woman pushing her young daughter on a swing.
I leave the rest of the words unspoken between us.
If you want to make Americans uncomfortable, mention politics or religion and watch the room fidget. You only have to look at the current presidential race to feel the awkwardness of American politics and see the deep divides it creates. And religion? That’s a topic better left to another blog post.
When I moved to Yemen, I quickly learned that these two subjects, nearly taboo in polite American conversations, are the same topics most often broached in first conversations in the Middle East. In fact, not discussing religion or politics with a guest in your home might be considered rude.
If you want to make Americans uncomfortable, mention politics or religion and watch the room fidget. You only have to look at the current presidential race to feel the awkwardness of American politics and see the deep divides it creates. And religion? That’s a topic better left to another blog post.
When I moved to Yemen, I quickly learned that these two subjects, nearly taboo in polite American conversations, are the same topics most often broached in first conversations in the Middle East. In fact, not discussing religion or politics with a guest in your home might be considered rude.
I wasn’t prepared to offer deep thoughts on American intervention (or interference) in Iraq and the rest of the Middle East, or support or defend then President Bush’s war on terror, but these questions were the ones most often posed after the chai ahmar (red tea) and cookies had been consumed during afternoon visits with neighbors and friends.
I’d been in Aden for roughly four months when Saddam Hussein was captured, sentenced and hanged. I vividly remember the afternoon I learned of his capture.
My fellow teacher, Vlad, dashed into the teacher’s room and breathlessly told me, “They got him.” I looked up from a grammar book I was perusing. “Who?” I asked. It was a steamy, Aden afternoon and I was battling a desire to nap. “Saddam Hussein,” Vlad gasped. I dropped the book.
We ran to the computer lab to pull up any information we could find. (Pre-Twitter days, but the internet still had plenty to report). Needless to say, my students were full of questions and opinions that night. They wanted to know if I thought Hussein deserved death, and whether George Bush hadn’t committed the same sorts of crimes in waging war against Iraq. Ironically, I had a student in class named Saddam Hussein (I’m not making that up), who took a lot of teasing that night, too. Eventually, he changed his name.
These were tough questions, and I didn’t feel completely comfortable discussing them, but I tried to push through my American upbringing and join in the debate. It’s not that my students didn’t agree that Hussein had been a brutal dictator, but they were uncomfortable with the idea that the U.S. could roll into any country, conduct a war, and drag that leader out of a hole in the ground for public trial. To be sure, they had cause to worry. The U.S. was (and still is) carrying out drone strikes against suspected Al-Qaida militants in a region east of Aden.
Occasionally we’d hear the military jets leaving Aden on flights to observe that desert area and, I suspect, feed information to their U.S. partners. Perhaps their uncertainty also stemmed from the fact that their behemoth neighbor to the north, Saudi Arabia, is also a U.S. ally. There is little love between Yemenis and their northern neighbors, for too many reasons to cover in this post. It came as no surprise to me when the Arab Spring in Yemen resulted in a civil war partially influenced by Saudi Arabia and other outsiders. My students’ fears we spoke of on that long ago day are, in many ways, coming true.
Though I found the political questions challenging, I had to admire the openness with which my hosts asked these questions. They honestly wanted to know my thoughts as an American. I should also say, I never felt condemned by them, even when we disagreed or debated. They agreed that leaders can be separated from those they lead. In fact, the phrase, “Bush no good, but you, we like,” was a pretty common utterance. Evidence to the fact that meeting someone face to face and having an open dialogue is a far cry from the politically slanted, hate or fear fueled news we ingest every night.
I often wished (and still do) that every American could have the same experience I did and sit down to discuss politics with my Yemeni neighbors over a steaming glass of tea and chocolate filled cookies.
Wouldn’t the world be a different place if we could?
Dressing for a wedding in Yemen is like readying for the prom. The dresses are flashy, beaded, sparkly and low cut. It doesn’t matter that no men will be in the room at a typical wedding celebration. These ladies dress to impress.
My roommate invited me to tag along to a wedding after I’d been in the country a few weeks. We caught a dibab (van bus) downtown and walked through the dress shops, sweating through our clothes and baltos. Baltos are black coverings, sometimes called abayas, worn by women in Yemen. I wore a balto early in my stay, eventually disregarding it in favor of pants and long sleeved, modest shirts.
Dressing for a wedding in Yemen is like readying for the prom. The dresses are flashy, beaded, sparkly and low cut. It doesn’t matter that no men will be in the room at a typical wedding celebration. These ladies dress to impress.
In a crowded, downtown shop, I found a purple dress a little gaudy for prom, but my roommate assured me it was perfect for a Yemeni wedding. I paid less than $20 for it, a steal if we’d been dress shopping in the U.S.
The night of the wedding, we threw on our party clothes, pinned up hair, buttoned baltos over our dresses and headed to the rented hall for the wedding. It was already dark when we arrived. Since Aden is closer to the equator, and Yemen doesn’t follow a Daylight Savings Time calendar, sunrise and sunset were roughly the same all year, with sunset occurring between 5:30 and 6:30 every night.
Music throbbed through the thin walls of the hall. We entered into semi-darkness and several women greeted us with kisses to both cheeks, the traditional greeting. They encouraged us to take off our baltos and oohed and ahhed over our dresses. When we walked into the open room, the strong scent of incense nearly overpowered me and the music thrummed so loudly I had to shout to my roommate to be heard. We found a few seats near a back wall and sat down to take everything in.
The bride sat at the front of the wedding hall on a throne like chair, her dress glowing from the spotlight over her head. Her dark hair was coiled into a perfect updo and her eyes were deeply accentuated by thick, black eyeliner. I’d already noticed Yemeni women had a tendency to slather on mascara and eyeshadow. When only your eyes are visible to society, you make the most of it. Tonight, though, the groom would see her for the first time in her wedding gown, without a headscarf and balto. Like any bride, she wanted to look perfect.
Many women danced in small groups. It was an odd feeling watching only women dance together, but in high school there were certainly times when groups of girls would dance together when the boys weren’t courageous enough to ask anyone to dance. We were asked to dance several times, but I declined. We were already attracting attention as foreigners. I didn’t want to overshadow the bride in any way. Some of the dancing was what you might see at any club, but most of it contained the more traditional, sinuous belly-dancing moves that even the little girls reproduced with ease. That definitely kept me in my chair. Next to these gals, I’d look like a clunky robot.
I noticed a small contingent of women slowly visiting those seated on the outer edges of the room. I wasn’t sure what was happening until they reached us. I didn’t speak more than a few words of Arabic at this point, so I only understood the greeting, not the words that followed.
“They want to know if you’d like perfume?” my roommate translated.
“Sure,” I agreed. The first lady held a small vial of oil. She dabbed it on my wrists and behind my ears. I could tell it was some sort of incense. I later learned Yemen is where frankincense is harvested and for years it was carried to market on the backs of camels on the Incense Trail.
The next woman held a small burner. Pungent smoke flowed out of it. More incense. She waved her hand through the smoke, wafting it towards me. I blinked, my eyes watering from the smoke and intense smell.
“Is this normal?” I asked my roommate, trying not to cough. She laughed. “They love incense here.”
I tried to embrace the moment, but I was glad when the woman moved away, taking the smoky perfume with her.
The last woman held an exquisite silver pitcher, the kind you imagine might be used to serve tea to a sheikh or a king. She spoke a word I didn’t understand, so I shrugged and smiled. She took my non-committal gesture as acquiescence and tipped the pitcher forward, spilling perfume down the inside of my dress, soaking the purple material with its overpowering scent. I gasped and stepped back.
“Helwa?” the woman asked. “Beautiful?”
“Helwa,” I choked out, still stunned. My roommate started laughing. She declined the pitcher of perfume and the women moved on.
“Was that normal?” I asked, dabbing at the damp perfume with a napkin.
She shook her head. “I’ve never seen that in my life.”
We fell into a fit of laughter. My eyes stung and I could barely breathe through my own cloud of oiled, smoked and drenched body and dress.
Suddenly there was a flurry of movement. Black baltos flew into the air like ravens scattering in a field. They eclipsed the bright colors, exposed skin, the perfect coiffures, until nothing could be seen but dark eyes, bright with anticipation. A woman brought my balto to me and gestured for me to put it on.
“What’s happening?” I whispered to my roommate.
“The groom is coming,” she whispered back. As she spoke, a young man appeared through the entryway dressed in a sharp suit, hair and mustache oiled. He peered through the sea of black, looking extremely nervous. His bride waited on the throne, her white dress the only color visible. He took his place on the empty chair next to her and shyly took her hand.
I tried to imagine what this wedding looked like through his eyes, the heady scent of perfume, the hundreds of women all in black save his bride, who looked straight off the cover of a magazine. No wonder he looked stunned.
“Let’s go,” my roommate whispered. I agreed. My first Yemeni wedding had been thoroughly eventful. We headed home, carrying the scent of the wedding with us. Even after I showered, the scent clung to my skin for days.
These memories of Yemen still cling to me, too. I remember the words of the woman holding the silver pitcher after she drenched me with perfume. “Helwa?” she asked me. “Is it beautiful?”
My time in Yemen was at times overpowering, mysterious, overwhelming – a mix of emotions and experiences poured over me when I wasn’t quite ready for it. Still, I accepted it as the gift it was.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about BIG ideas. Ideas that are so B – I – G you have to capitalize them. Ideas that are so BIG they take your breath away and terrify you at the same time. Those ideas. The ones we dream about while we’re doing everything else.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about BIG ideas. Ideas that are so B – I – G you have to capitalize them. Ideas that are so BIG they take your breath away and terrify you at the same time. Those ideas. The ones we dream about while we’re doing everything else.
When I was 18 and nearly finished with high school, all I wanted to do was play soccer. I had other dreams, too, like getting my college degree and traveling, but soccer had been such a huge part of my life and I wasn’t ready to give it up. I was a pretty decent player, not the most skilled or the fastest, but good enough to be noticed by some smaller colleges. Still, I wanted to go after the B-I-G dream.
I wanted to play NCAA Division I college soccer. And I wanted to do it at the University of Arkansas where my parents attended college. I’d been raised a Razorback in exile in Oklahoma and I was ready to head home.
One day I mustered my courage, dialed the number and called up Janet Rayfield, head coach of the Lady Razorback soccer team. It probably wasn’t done this way, but it was late in the school year, late in the recruiting process, and I knew if I didn’t call her now, I never would.
I still remember how hard that phone call was, how nervous I felt as I tried to answer the coach’s questions. She asked about my high school and club experience and informed me that they had no scholarships left, but she would come watch me play if I still had any interest in joining the team. I told her about the only two games I had left on my schedule as a high school player, the Oklahoma All-State game and the club state tournament. She agreed to come.
The day of the All-State game was nuts. I’d had this crazy idea that my sisters and I should do Freewheel, a bicycle trek across Oklahoma that requires you to ride 30-60 miles each day, and it fell on the same week as the All-State game. I’d already ridden several days of the event, but I took that day off and headed to the game, where I joined the other senior girls selected from teams on the eastern half of the state in a battle against girls from the western side of Oklahoma.
We had a full roster of talented players and most people rotated through playing time, leaving and reentering the game. Looking back, the All-State coach must have known I was being scouted that day because I played the entire game. I had a blast and played well, including a great slide tackle and a shot on goal from nearly 40 yards out.
After the game, Janet approached me and introduced herself and congratulated me on the win. I told her about Freewheel and I still remember her laughing and saying, “You mean you’ve ridden a hundred miles this week on your bike and you played in the All-State game?” Ah, the advantages of youth.
Free Wheel ’96!
Janet didn’t promise me anything when she left the All-State game, but the next weekend my team played in the final of the State tournament. It was a tough game and my team was the underdog against an aggressive team that had dominated our league since I’d been playing club ball. Still, we went head to head with them and everyone played their best. I was relentless, knowing I would never play with my teammates again. I’d also spotted Janet on the sidelines. The pressure was on. The rest of my soccer career hung in the balance that day and I was determined to leave everything on the field, no matter what happened.
Oklahoma State Tournament
We lost that game by a single late goal. I could hardly speak as I walked off the field, but I made my way over to Janet. She said she was sorry about the loss, but that we’d played a great game.
Then she invited me to come play for the Razorbacks.
And with those few words, a new chapter in my life began. I would keep chasing that BIG dream of playing soccer at the college level. I didn’t know the challenges I would face yet, how difficult it is to play at a high level, or the friendships I would make. I only knew that I’d decided one day to stop dreaming about this dream and do something about it. And I’ve never regretted it.
That tells me that the ship I seek is passing, passing.
-Paul Lawrence Dunbar-
The American Eagle anchored in Castine, Maine.
I’ve just returned from one of the most amazing experiences I’ve had; sailing around the coast of Maine on the schooner the American Eagle.
My husband’s family took two weeks in an epic RV journey from Arkansas to Maine to board the schooner for a four day cruise. Though we stopped many places along the way, the point of the trip was retracing the footsteps of his grandparents, who boarded the same schooner years ago.
The American Eagle is a 90 foot restored fishing schooner first launched in 1930. Captain John Foss purchased and restored the ship in 1984 and has been captaining cruises ever since. The American Eagle is designated as a National Historic Landmark and she doesn’t disappoint. With varnished wooden deck and masts, gleaming brass accessories and four sails, the ship is an amazing sight. As we set sail from Rockland, passengers on other boats pointed, waved and snapped picture after picture. I could only imagine what we looked like cruising under full sail.
Earlier this summer, Uncle B gave me and my husband sailing lessons to help us feel more experienced for this trip. Though it worked, and we were able to identify many parts of the boat and various tacks, sailing knowledge didn’t prepare me for the rest of the adventure.
We had 25 guests and six crew aboard for this four day sail. Yes, 31 people confined to 90 feet of ship. Close quarters to be sure. However, the other passengers turned out to be the fascinating part of the voyage I wasn’t expecting. They came from across the country and all walks of life. Doctor, oilman, teacher, marketing specialist. Old school friends, families, couples. Twenty-five people who most likely wouldn’t have met outside of this trip, and who may never meet again.
The first night, while docked at the shipyard, I worked hard to keep names in my head, who went together, who was new, who had sailed before. In the morning, we cruised out of the harbor and past the islands that mirror the Maine coast line, never out of sight of rolling green land and lighthouses. With blue sky and sea, plenty of wind and sun, I felt like I was sailing out of a story or postcard. I chatted with one passenger after another, their lives opening before me like the beginnings of books I would never have the chance to finish.
My husband and I shared our stories in return: what we do, where we’ve traveled, how much we know or don’t know about sailing, about Middle Eastern politics, about this or that. It felt refreshing to be thrown together with people so utterly unknown, where lives are blank pages again and the story unfolding is one we’re all sharing together.
Hannah, a crew member and fellow aspiring author, swapped favorite books and authors with me, a conversation we returned to again and again throughout the cruise. Scott shared his experiences working overseas and we spoke of languages, travel and the intricacies of world politics. Veteran cruise guests Mark and Carol spoke of previous trips, especially the first one where they got engaged, twenty-five years ago.
The second night we anchored in a nice, sheltered cove and rowed to a rocky private island for a lobster bake. The veteran lobster lovers showed us the best way to crack the shells and extract the meat while I tried not to look my meal in the eye. That night, an orange full moon rose above water so still, it was a near reflection of the night.
The next day we sailed past islands and boats and lighthouses and buoys and, though many on board chose to soak up the sun with a book in hand, for once in my life I couldn’t read. I left my books stowed in my cabin and moved about the ship, from the bow, where a crew member always kept watch, to the stern, where Captain John pointed out landmarks and told stories, and sets of binoculars invited you to examine the coastline in detail.
We anchored near a little town called Castine and rowed up to the dock in shifts to roam around. David and I hiked to the top of the town to examine the remains of Fort George, where the British handed the Americans the worst naval defeat in history until Pearl Harbor. The drawn out battle happened 236 years to the day we were there, and “permanently damaged” Paul Revere’s reputation for his part in the defeat. His reputation seems much recovered.
We spent that night in a much broader inlet, and after a delicious dinner (I’m not sure how chef Andy managed to make amazing meals in the tiny galley, but he did), Captain John read a story and several poems. I woke up early to catch the sunrise (and sunrise does come early in Maine). As we set sail, fog rolled in and one by one, we added layers of warmth to our clothes and peered into the thickening mist.
The crew took turns sounding the foghorn, one long blast and two short, to alert nearby boats we were under sail. Though we could no longer see land, the sailing was fantastic, with a strong and steady wind. The boat heeled with every tack, catching water through the scuppers once, and causing us to stagger sideways like drunken sailors when we moved around the deck.
We came out of the fog into bright sunshine and another little cove with lobster boats zipping around us. Several of us changed to swimsuits, mustered our courage, and walked onto the bowsprit to the “pulpit,” the tiny platform at the end of the bowsprit. The water looked very far away, but with most of the ship watching, I literally took the plunge into frigid water.
Our last night aboard ship, someone broke out folk song books and we sang together. Outside of church and campfires from long ago, I never sit around and sing, especially with people I hardly know. Yet that night we did, song after song, and the water carried our voices to ships and shore.
Mark, on returning from below, said, “From far away, you all sound kind of nice,” which brought a lot of laughter and more songs. We were reluctant to end the night, which signaled the end of the trip, but finally we had to break the magic and head below.
I fell asleep thinking how remarkable it is that in a few short days you can form connections to strangers that feel strong and kindred.
The next morning found us motoring through deep fog and a rolling sea that left me parked in the center of the boat, fighting my first and only bout of seasickness. Our fog horn blasted every two minutes as Captain John monitored the navigational system and called out, “Boat, port side,” and more to his crew. We all strained to spot the invisible vessels until they appeared, turned and slipped back into the fog like the seals that occasionally popped their heads above water.
After a deluxe brunch I could only half enjoy on my unsettled stomach, we began gathering up bedding and belongings and returned to our shipyard. A flurry of activity, photos and goodbyes, and the twenty-five guests hurried away as the crew readied for a quick turnaround with new guests boarding that evening.
We dispersed, exhausted, in twos and threes and sixes, to other parts of this country, still feeling the thrill of the journey and the unsteadiness in our legs. Never again would this group of people come together in this way, but we carry the magic of a four day journey at sea with us wherever we go. We are, as Henry Longfellow wrote long ago:
Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;
So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another,
Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.
Crew and Guests of the American Eagle July 31st-August 4th, 2015.
Group photo courtesy of Helen Nickel. All other photos copyright kimberlymitchell.us.
After I moved to Yemen, this is a question I heard from friends and family at home. In the U.S., most of us have a fairly static idea of what the Middle East looks like. Huge sand dunes. Camels. Hot sun.
Though Yemen does have a large desert in the eastern half of the country, most people inhabit the western half, along the coast and mountains (yes, there are mountains in the Middle East!).
The beautiful, terraced mountains of Yemen.
Still, I was thrilled the first time I went to the downtown market in Aden and there, hooked to an old cart, sat a camel chewing its cud and shaking a fly from its ear. A real, live camel.
I also saw camels anytime I took the Aden-Taiz road. I’m sure they belonged to someone, but they grazed alone in this wild looking land, and when I gazed at them, I felt like I was hundreds of years in the past. Then a plastic bag would float by on the breeze and pull me back into the present. (Yemen was covered with used plastic bags. The waste system hadn’t caught up enough to deal with this modern environmental hazard.)
Hello Camel!
On the way to the Little Aden, where my roommates and I liked to go when we wanted a private beach, the sea crept up on both sides of the road. In its shallow depths, flamingos grazed and stood on one leg. They weren’t the bright pink flamingoes I saw in zoos, but paler shades of orange and peach fading to ivory. The organisms these flamingos ate didn’t contain the amount of pigment needed to brighten their feathers. Still, they were wild flamingos and I eagerly looked for them each time we drove to Little Aden.
Chameleons were an unexpected discovery. Yemen has its own type of chameleon, the veiled chameleon, so called because of the cone around its head. I often saw these creatures in back gardens, but occasionally one would climb up to an open window and peek inside. In Taiz, a chameleon lived in our backyard. I often went outside to search the yard for him, looking for the green and gold bands on his body that blended in with the leaves of the bush he loved to sit in. Then we’d have a staring contest. Fortunately for him, my attention span is far shorter than a chameleon’s.
My backyard friend.
Lions were once indigenous to Yemen, but now they only reside in zoos. I visited Taiz Zoo once on a class field trip. Unlike the lions in American zoos which are separated from visitors by large pits and tall fences, these lions were kept in small pens so close to visitors you could stick your hands through the bars if you wanted to. In fact, I watched a zookeeper hand feed a lion. The lions looked sleepy and bored in their tiny enclosures. I couldn’t blame them. I felt sorry for these once wild and noble creatures that once roamed all over Yemen.
Anybody want to buy a goat?
The bigger attraction at Taiz Zoo was God’s goat. His fur was a patterned in such a way that it appeared like الله, Allah, was written on his side. Upon inspection, I had to agree that it did look like Allah on his coat, lucky for that goat, as goat is often a main course in Yemen, especially around the Eids, or holidays.
Just a donkey munching on some dumpster goodies.
Goats roamed the streets in Yemen, often helping out with the trash problem by climbing in the dumpsters to graze. More than once, I tossed our garbage bag into the dumpster, only to have a goat pop its head up and baa at me for interrupting its lunch. My husband and I had a short stint as goat owners. That’s another story.
Backyard Goat chewing on some qat.
Yemenis don’t keep pets, for the most part, and animal control was non-existent. This meant the cats procreated like, well, cats and hovered near the dumpsters to scavenge what they could. I have no doubt those cats kept vermin under control, but it was still hard for this cat lover to see so many unkempt animals roaming the streets. The dogs kept out of sight during the day, risking thrown rocks or kicks if they were seen. At night, they roamed in packs, and several times I had the unnerving experience of being followed by these large groups of dogs through the streets.
A friendly stray dog that ventured out in daytime.
This week, I’ve given away three kittens a stray cat had in our tool shed and called the local animal shelter about a stray dog running through the park and neighborhood. I’m working with a local non-profit to help me place any kittens I can’t find homes for and ensure the mother cat will be spayed and not contribute to the animal problem here. When I called the local shelter, an officer responded immediately and the dog was picked up and taken to the shelter. After my experiences in Yemen, I’ve come to appreciate living in a culture where systems are in place to control the animal population and give homes to as many animals as possible.
A young Silly Cat looking like an Egyptian hieroglyph.
I loved the camels, the flamingos, the chameleons, and I didn’t mind the goats, but the stray dogs and cats in Yemen were one of the most difficult parts of my stay in that country. Things turned out well for one animal, though. I found a kitten behind my apartment, abandoned by her mother. Silly Cat quickly became mine and when my husband and I left Yemen, she made the long journey home with us.
“She’s living the Yemeni dream,” our neighbors joked, “going to America.” I always tell friends Silly is the best souvenir I’ve found. She’s a reminder of all the animals I saw in Yemen, and helps me remember I can make a difference, even if it’s in the life of one cat.
The 2015 Women’s World Cup kicked off this week. What I love most about the World Cup, besides the fantastic soccer, is that it brings many countries and fans together for a brief period of time, all enjoying the same thing. I’ve been fortunate to enjoy many World Cups now, many times while traveling the world.
I don’t remember much of the 1982, ’86 or ’90 World Cups. I started playing soccer in 1986, but I didn’t grasp the importance of the World Cup held in Mexico that year, where Argentine Diego Maradona scored the infamous “Hand of God” goal and Argentina eventually took home the trophy. That World Cup did birth the Mexican wave, which I enjoyed at sporting events growing up.
In 1990 I was aware the U.S. men’s team made the World Cup for the first time since 1950. The U.S. lost all three games and soccer might have fallen into ignominy again if not for the 1994 World Cup, held right here in the U.S.A. Meanwhile, in 1991, I followed the inaugural Women’s World Cup with great interest. By ’91 I loved soccer and dreamed of playing for my high school, and possibly beyond. I became familiar with the names of players who would dominate women’s soccer for the next ten years. Michelle Akers-Stahl, Mia Hamm, Brandi Chastain, Kristine Lilly, Julie Foudy. These players would inspire me, and many other young girls playing in the 90s. When the U.S. team won the World Cup in 1991, it seemed like women’s soccer was on the map.
By 1994, my sisters and I were playing nearly all the time. My dad got tickets to a game in Dallas, the closest venue. The game was ’86 World Cup champions Argentina vs. Bulgaria and we were elated at the opportunity to see an aging but still dangerous Diego Maradona. Alas, Maradona’s lifestyle caught up to him. On the bus from the parking lot to the stadium, it was announced that Maradona had failed a drug test and would not play. I remember staring at my sisters and father in, well, it wasn’t disbelief, as Maradona struggled with cocaine addiction in the early 90s, but we were disappointed all the same. Bulgaria won that match 2-0, proving how unpredictable World Cups can be.
The ’94 World Cup was the first time I kept up with the men’s national team as well as the women’s, and that team, full of personalities and talent, surprised most of the world by advancing to the round of 16. It was the ’94 World Cup that hooked me on World Cup soccer.
In ’95, I watched most of the women’s world cup, where the U.S. finished a disappointing 3rd place, despite fielding a talented forward named Mia Hamm. 1998 brought a different experience. I’d finished two years of college soccer, and I was studying abroad in France, the host of the ’98 men’s tournament. The country was enthralled with the World Cup, and so was I. World Cup merchandise permeated the stores and street markets. Ironically, though I was in France, I couldn’t get a ticket to the sold out games. I watched many of them on a friend’s TV, or in the student lounge of my French dorm room.
For the final, I traveled north with a few friends. We watched the game in the home of a French family, painting our faces blue, white and red. When France defeated Brazil 3-0, our hosts insisted on driving through town to celebrate. We joined everyone else as they headed downtown to the square to celebrate. I’d never seen so many people crammed into one small town square, waving flags, setting off fireworks and cheering. It was an amazing moment.
When the 1999 women’s world cup began, hopes were high the women would win. The team was talented and the U.S. was hosting the tournament. Ironically, I was out of the country again, this time in Mexico. I caught games sporadically on TV at my host family’s house, but the day of the final, U.S. vs China, I was on tour in a small village. While some of my classmates wandered off in search of a restaurant, I spied a bodega with a TV inside.
I hurried over and discovered the owner was indeed watching the final game, shirtless, on this hot day. He invited me to watch and we did, all the way through the thrilling penalty kicks that gave the U.S. the victory. I’m sure this man was amused at my cheering. When Brandi Chastain pulled her jersey off in celebration of her winning penalty kick, the man motioned to his own bare chest and indicated they were the same. In the spirit of celebration, I laughed, then bought some snacks and one of those sweet Mexican Cokes to celebrate.
2002 was the first World Cup my husband and I watched together. He wasn’t a soccer fan before this, but he jumped all in (We were dating. That’s what you do.) We watched every game from Korea and Japan in the early hours of the morning. The U.S team went surprisingly deep in the tournament, losing to Germany 1-0 in the quarterfinals. I learned two things – that the men’s team was improving, and that any guy who’d get up at 3 a.m. nearly every night to watch the entire world cup with me was worth marrying, if he’d ever ask me. (He did).
The 2003 women’s world cup was again hosted in the U.S. after being pulled from China over fears of SARs. And yet again, I was out of the country. I’d just moved to Yemen, where coverage of the women’s tournament was nil, and I kept up through the only source I had, the internet. The U.S. took 3rd and Germany won. I humbly congratulated my German roommate on her team’s success.
2006 has been my favorite world cup to date, even surpassing being in France for the ’98 final. The language school where I studied Arabic set up a big screen and showed the games live. We attended every game, often with fans from the nations who were playing, since the language school was so diverse. The Yemeni students came, too, and cheered loudly. I have great memories of sitting in a classroom full of soccer fans from all over the world, cheering, sometimes teasing each other when our countries squared off, and having a great time. I’m convinced an international crowd is by far the best way to view a world cup.
By ’07, we were back in the states. I watched the women take 3rd place that September while I started my first year of coaching preschool fitness. In 2010, we gathered with friends and family every night to watch the men’s cup on the big screen at my church. Some nights, there were many. Some nights, my husband and I would close out the games, just the two of us.
In 2011, we were disappointed again as the U.S. women lost the penalty shootout to Japan. In 2014, we gathered in my sister’s house to cheer on the men’s team to its round of 16 finish, watching nearly every game in the process.
This year, as the U.S. women try for their 3rd world cup title (and I feel we’re due!), I cheer them on with the memories of all these different world cups behind me, and the hope and expectation that future world cups will find me in different places, cheering with friends from many countries, all in love with the same game.
Days in Yemen always began early. The imams began to sing the first call to prayer at dawn, then most people began their days. In Ramadan, that routine changes drastically. Before the dawn prayer call, many people eat a meal to tide them over for the long day of fasting ahead. I’d awaken in those early morning hours to the smell of sizzling garlic, an odd scent at 4 a.m.
After the morning prayer, schedules were often pushed back to allow long periods of rest. My English classes started later, as did the Arabic classes I took later on. I found mornings during Ramadan the best time to get outside and take a walk without the usual traffic in the streets. Ramadan mornings were some of the quietest times I experienced in Yemen.
After the midday prayer time, street traffic would pick up as many people went to work, shopped for the evening meal and started late classes.
Soon mouth watering smells would drift out of street side restaurants as they prepared sambusas, small triangle shaped pastry pockets filled with spiced meat and then deep fried. After Yemenis break their fast with dates and water, sambusas are generally served and they are delicious. Many times I’d stop into one of the restaurants and grab a bag just before sunset. “Light on the lips, heavy on the hips,” a British friend used to say as we devoured those treats.
Fasting is the focus of Ramadan, but I’d say food is a close second. When you remove something so vital to people’s lives and daily routines, it’s hard not to fixate on it. So while most Yemenis I knew dutifully fasted during the day, they planned special meals each night to eat after breaking the fast. I was lucky enough to experience a few of these meals, which often included piles of rice spiced with coriander, cloves, cinnamon and saffron, chicken, flat bread, yogurt salads and special desserts.
After the evening meal, it was time to make up for those quiet mornings. Everyone took to the streets to do some shopping. Most people buy new clothes in anticipation of Eid al-fitr, the celebration of the end of Ramadan. Ramadan nights were by far the best nights to be in the marketplaces. The streets grew increasingly crowded as the month wore on, all the shops glowed warmly, and extra lights were often strung across shop windows or the market streets. A holiday feel pervaded the air. The women especially enjoyed this time as most of the year women did not leave the home after dark. In Ramadan, huge groups of women would float past, blending into the darkness in their black ankle length baltos (abayas), eyes sparkling with excitement.
Nights grew longer as the eating and shopping continued, and mornings began later and later, until finally, in an exhausted but determined last push, the month long fast ended and the Eid arrived. The morning of the Eid new clothes and sometimes gifts are given (sound familiar?) and then families take to the streets to promenade in their new finery and visit friends. Another huge meal is consumed, this one in the middle of the day, and of course, prayers are said. The celebration could stretch into a few days, or sometimes a week if someone was returning home to a village.
Once Ramadan ended, and schedules went back to normal, I found I missed the quiet Ramadan mornings, and even more, those exciting Ramadan nights.
Photo Credits:
“Mandi” By w:user:Bamakhrama (English wikipedia) [GFDL (www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/)], via Wikimedia Commons
“Samosa 1” by Zantastik – Own work. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons – http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Samosa_1.jpg#/media/File:Samosa_1.jpg
“Dates” Image courtesy of Praisaeng, Headscarves Image courtesy of franky242, “Ramadan Greeting” Image courtesy of maple at FreeDigitalPhotos.net
When I submitted a short story to Listen To Your Mother, I had no idea what I was getting into. I saw the call for submissions through Arkansas Women Bloggers. One of my goals for 2015 is to push myself to write outside my comfort zone and get more involved with local writers. This seemed like a good opportunity to do both.
I was asked to audition. I knew this might happen. Still. A live audition. I hadn’t done that since…wait…never. Consumed with sports in high school, I didn’t do musicals or plays, even though I suspected they might be fun. Fortunately, I’d had the opportunity to read my work to an audience in grad school, so the thought wasn’t paralyzing.
I asked my husband if a 3 hour drive south for a 5 minute audition was worth it. “It is if it’s important to you,” he answered. I decided I wanted to give this Listen To Your Mother thing a shot. At my audition, I read my story with all the love and enthusiasm I’d felt while writing it.
In March I learned I’d been chosen to be part of the show! I was ecstatic, and admittedly, still clueless about what I was in for.
Our first cast photo! What a great looking bunch of storytellers! Photo: Sarabeth Jones
We met in late April for the first rehearsal, a sit down read-through of everyone’s stories. I was floored as each person shared their story. Some brought the group (and their authors) to tears. Others made us roar with laughter. When we finished, I knew I had chosen, and been chosen, to be part of something special.
Those stories stayed with me all weekend. At the second rehearsal, as I heard the stories again, I reflected on the power of story to draw people together where no connections existed before. I felt connected to the others in the room, people I’d only met once, through their words, the intensity of their stories, the depth of emotion and strength behind each one. I’ve been exploring life through story this year, and here was another example of how important our stories are to us, but how important it is to share them with others.
Superhero poses before the show! We got this! Photo: Jacob Slaton
The day of Listen To Your Mother Little Rock, I woke up excited. I tweeted. I taught. I hardly ate. I dressed up. We drove three hours south. “Are you nervous?” my husband asked. I shook my head. “Not yet.”
The cast met in the theater and the producers arranged us on stage. We took pictures. We got momentarily trapped in an elevator when we got caught up taking cast selfies and forgot to exit on our floor. We ate snacks and tried not to be nervous about sharing deeply emotional stories to the crowd of 250 gathering in the auditorium below. Finally, it was show time!
Reading my story on stage. Don’t I look earnest? Photo: Jacob Slaton
I’m not sure there’s anything like walking on stage to applause. As each cast member shared their story, I listened, knowing what was to come, and still moved by each story. When it was my turn, I walked confidently to the mic, knowing this story was ready to share. I spoke of my mother’s love for her small town, of the many stories she’d lived, and how that story connected to mine. I walked back to my seat to applause.
My part over, I listened to the rest of the stories with a deep appreciation for what my fellow cast members had written. Even though every story was unique, from grief over the death of loved ones, to depression, to the struggles and triumphs of daily living, every story took its place in the broader story we were telling about motherhood.
LTYM Little Rock Cast takes a bow! Photo: Jacob Slaton
I couldn’t help but think, though, that we were contributing to a bigger story: life and the human experience. Through our personal struggles, victories, relationships and fears, our stories brought 13 cast members, 4 directors and producers, and 250 strangers into a shared experience and a new understanding of life.
Life is fleeting.
Life is precious.
Life is a struggle.
Life is laugh out loud funny.
Life is eternal, if not here, then in the way our stories live on through others.
After the show, we had a champagne toast. We mingled with the audience. I felt overwhelmed and grateful for the many compliments I received.
“I loved your story. Thanks for sharing. You got it just right. That’s how that time (the 1950s and 60s) was.”
This is why actors act, I thought. For the way the audience reacts after the show.
Photo: Jacob Slaton
After the show, while having drinks at an outside patio around the corner from the theater, someone rapped on the glass window from inside the restaurant. When I looked up, a lady inside held up the Listen To Your Mother program. She pointed to me and gave a thumbs up.
“Your story,” she mouthed through the window. “My favorite.”
I beamed. Stories were still connecting us. I went to bed with a smile on my face. I woke up with a smile the next morning. That was an amazing night, I thought.
But it wasn’t just the night and the performance. It was the coming together, making a cohesive whole out of 13 individuals, and feeling the power behind our words. Even now, those words come back to me.
I want to remember them always, even though I know eventually, they will fade. But the connection made through those words, that of story, will endure.
Listen To Your Mother Little Rock Photo: Bryan JonesWe couldn’t have done the show without our amazing sponsors! Thank you especially to Jacob Slaton for his photography and time! Photo: Jacob Slaton
Recently I participated in Listen To Your Mother Little Rock, an amazing series of shows performed across the nation to celebrate all aspects of motherhood. It was a great experience and I’ll devote a blog post to it soon. In the meantime, I wanted to post the essay I read for the show in celebration of my mom. Enjoy and Happy Mother’s Day!
There Goes Your Boyfriend
by Kimberly Mitchell
“There goes your boyfriend.”
My mother’s big sister had a way of teasing her when they were girls growing up in Mena.
Mom would survey that tow headed paper boy riding by on his bicycle and giggle.
“I don’t think so.”
My mother, Gayle Lay, in 1957.
It’s 1957. Cokes are 5 cents a bottle, Elvis is all shook up and let me be your teddy bear while Ricky’s crooning about a teenage romance. Their posters are plastered to the walls of the bedroom my mother shares with her sister. At 10, she’s carrying her black and white saddle shoes and roller skating to Debbie’s house, even though her mother told her not to cross Janssen Avenue. She’s buying penny candy down at Reynold’s Variety. Sometimes that paper boy walks in to hand deliver the Mena Star. Sometimes he says hello.
“There’s your boyfriend.”
“I don’t think so.”
Growing up I knew as much about Mena in the 1960s as I did my own hometown in Oklahoma. School breaks were measured by how much time could be spent down in Arkansas. We’d load up the Dodge Caravan and head four hours south and east down Highway 71. As the road twisted through those old oaks and loblolly pines, breaking into breathtaking views of the Ouachitas, my mother’s eyes began to sparkle.
“Tell us a story about growing up in Mena,” we’d beg, which always made my mother laugh, but she was never short on stories.
“When I was in fifth grade, the girls chased the boys and the next recess, the boys chased the girls. If the boys caught the girls, they got to kiss them. Jane and I could always outrun those boys, but sometimes we decided to slow down and get caught so we could get kissed.”
“Ewww,” my sisters and I groaned. “Tell us another.”
Mena seemed a different place to her. I saw my grandparents’ old white house with the huge mulberry tree out front. My mother saw the tree her cousin and brother drove the go-cart halfway up.
I saw a dusty croquet set. My mother pointed to the red mallet, where Grandpa taped it together after Cousin Sammy split it open on her head during a heated disagreement. If my mother ever offers to play croquet with you, be warned, you’re in for a game.
“There goes your boyfriend.”
“I don’t think so.”
It’s 1961 and my mother’s playing cars down in the dirt with her brother when, thunderstruck, she realizes a boy could walk by. “I’m through,” she tells my uncle. “Okay,” he says, thinking she’s done playing for the day. But my mother’s thirteen now and she’s through playing trucks. She’s walking to the library in her white canvas shoes, meeting Debbie and Jane at Pete’s for malts. Cokes are 10 cents now. Sock hops are in the junior high gym with Chubby Checker and Fats Domino. They’re doing the twist in homemade spaghetti strap sundresses just long enough to keep the principal happy.
I didn’t understand why my mother always had one foot in the past, or why she loved to tell those stories. But life was changing for me. Trips to Mena became more cumbersome. “Can we get back home in time for the game? But there’s a party Saturday. I don’t want to go this time.”
“There goes your boyfriend.”
“I don’t think so.”
It’s 1964. “You better not skip choir tonight,” the pastor warns the youth group. But the Beatles are on Ed Sullivan and nearly everyone skips. As the Beatles sing, girls scream and faint in the audience and my mom watches, rapt, while Grandpa grumbles, “That hair is too long.”
Gayle Lay at seventeen.
“You better not do that again,” the pastor scolds the choir. But the Beatles are back on Ed Sullivan and the pastor gives up. My mother’s cruising down Mena street, eating ice cream at Dairy Queen, wearing black flats and an updo and dreaming of college.
When I graduated high school, visits to Mena decreased. Life was here and now. My sisters and I went to college. Married. Children were born, and not born. My niece and nephews are growing up in a tumult of noise and laughter and tears.
Slow down, I want to tell them. But they’re not listening.
And now I see it. My mother, raising her own children, living life in those moments, but living them out of her past. And that past, part of mine, too. Blue hydrangeas wrapping around a little white house, summer nights listening to June bugs sing, the glow of Grandpa’s cigarette joining in with the fireflies. A garden full of plump, sun-warmed blackberries that burst in your mouth. Bike rides all over town but don’t you dare cross Janssen Avenue. Those same streets my mother roller-skated. Those same streets my dad biked delivering all those newspapers.
“There goes your boyfriend.”
There goes college. There go four daughters, each with dreams of her own. There go grandchildren who won’t stop growing. There goes fifty years. There….there it goes.
But in my mother’s stories, it’s 1964 again. It’s Ricky and Elvis, nights at the drive-in, sock hops and Monopoly, roller skates and hand sewn skirts, 5 cent Cokes served cold in a bottle, chocolate malts with best friends, and that tow-headed paper boy giving my mother a shy smile.
“There goes your boyfriend,” my aunt says.
And my mother says, “Hmm.”
Mom and me celebrating Halloween and generally having a good time.
I caught the lilt of Arabic as I pushed the jogging stroller ahead of me. Once you’ve learned something of the language, there’s no mistaking it.
