Gatekeeper Dance Review 2010

Dance is supposed to leave something behind. After a performance is long over, I think back to the images of moving bodies that remain etched in my mind. So it is after more than three weeks since the performance of “Gatekeeper” by “The First Rain Dance Company” that I write my reflections on the performance.

I remember seeing the dance open on the proscenium stage. People at different spaces doing different things. A woman at the fore turns one leg and reaching forward to go around while her back leg tails in the air behind her. A young ballerina? A man sleeps, another woman stomps backwards furiously and comes down to the hit the ground with her fists, while another lets her chest jut to the floor while her back legs goes up like a scorpions tail. All the while a tall man walks around these characters, enclosing them in a rectangle of a sand trail along his path. What is going on? Then one by one, starting with the ballerina, they begin to walk with long legs, plodding each of slowly in front of the other. Very much aerial, they move like a line of slender giraffes to one corner of the stage. I guess this animalistic feelings unites these diverse characters, as well as there black roman soldier style skirts and red ribbon around one leg.

The musical accompaniment to this opening section is a mere array of sounds, clicks, whines and myriad of other articulations of the mouth, by Lize Ehlers. Quite original and unheard of in what was meant to be a dance performance at the National Theatre. That is why I say it seemed the dancers were doing something and I would have loved to see that story develop. Instead, what followed was a series of dances to set musical accompaniments, where it was evident they were dancing. I saw pyramidal formations, of dancers shift through space in hops, skits and slides typical of modern dance. Somehow it evoked the dances of Jerome Robbins in West Side story, and I wonder whether the choreographer of Gate Keeper, Hamisch Olivier, found inspiration in Robbins. The only thing that reminded me of that captivating opening was the way things were often done in series. They would do a movement, like rolling backwards, one by one. And I noticed differences – while some rolled with long legs end in feet as sharp as still, others had softly bent knees and relaxed feet. Why such a difference? Was there a meaning to these differences, or where the dancers just performing it differently? Did some just loose their balance on leg before the others or did Olivier want us to notice the differences in how long they held one foot up their behind the other knee, before coming down? Beats me.

It seems with each piece of music, the dances attempted to show something different. They can follow the music, even if means stomping their heels close to the ground to keep with the time and languidly stepping in a zig-zag pattern that ballerinas would do in lightning speed. There were jumps, some of them high with jagged legs curving behind the back of the dancer. But I have seen people jump higher and break the stillness of the air at the top. In short, I’ve been there, seen that. What is that this company, that aims to integrate contemporary dance with Namibian dance forms, brought for me? In the ending, I see a return of the animalistic sense, where some dances creep away while others walk with those long giraffe like steps. And the last dancer to leave caught my eye as she darted her head from one side to the other, her writs limp and hands held as paws, like some mouse-like creature, before running of stage. Here was something intriguing. I would have like to have seen it developed along the lines of Netherland Dance Theatre’s “Journey to the Stomping Ground” where the dancers mimicked different animal movements inspired by Australian aboriginal dances. I think that would have been interesting for the director of the French Cultural Center, who commissioned Olivier to create “Gatekeeper” as a Namibian contemporary dance work. I doubt he would want to see a replica or mediocre imitation of contemporary dance of Europe or the Americas. After all, the aim of French funding is to develop local art for the purpose of bringing local and world audiences something unique. I did see something unique in that performance and that is what I have chosen to remember.

Endnote:

“Gatekeeper” performed at the National Theatre of Namibia show titled “Fractures” on December 6^th, Windhoek, Namibia

Stephanus Chirche Mid December

“You’re so beautiful” said the Damara man, this black Namibian man, as he smiled at me. “Thank you, you too, “ I replied rather flattered, not knowing what to say. Just a few moments later I gave him a hug and he embraced me, his arms clutching at my torso the way a woman hugs. I could tell that he was of my persuasion. He wore tight blue genes and I could see red, chapped nailpolish on his toes that protruded from his sandals. It was a summer morning that we met, so we both wore sandals. I needed to encourage him, he had walked all this way from Okandja park just to where we stood in KleinWindhoek. He was searching for donations.

“Why do are looking for donations” I yelled behind him as he walked away. He turned and smiled “For what are the donations?” I ask again and he approaches me. I came to understand that it was for his Church “ Paulus //Gowaseb” in Okahandja Park. That place is a shanty town on the edge of Windhoek, I think to myself. And this gay man goes there? I was not certain of whether he was gay. He may have been transgender or perhaps bisexual. But from the way he spoke English and his whole demeanor, he fit the mould a Damara gay – the stereotypical black Namibian man. They needed donations for a trip to Swakopmund on Christmas day – just over one week away. “How do I know this is a real Church and you are not just collecting for yourself?” I interrogated, but with a smile on my face. “That is why I have this cellphone,” he said holding an outdated green screen phone. “You can call this number” he said pointing to a name of a donor – some man with a German sounding name – and a landline number. He tried to explain to me his reasoning, but I could tell from the way he spoke in spurts – starting and stopping – that the problem was English. So I asked him in Afrikaans and he gave me quite believable explanation. I barely understood it, because I bet he used the Afrikaans words for “trutworthiness” and “accountability”, which I do not remember right now.

I cannot even remember this man’s name. He was no older than 25 and he had gone to Church that day in Okahandja park. Thereafter, he promptly walked more fifteen kilometers at least from Okahandja park – on the Western outskirts of our city – to the eastern suburb of Klein Windhoek. Klein Windhoek is like the upper east side of New York city in the sense that people that high flying financially live there. He was not alone, there a girl with him, but she stood a little ahead of us, close to the Nandos take away. “…She has the pen..” he answered when I asked him if I could sign my name on the sponshorship form..” but I told him to not bother with that. What was two dollars anyway? To me there was just change, but I am sure to him they meant much.

“Not even one dollar” he uttered with a touch of desperation, after I said “no” to his request for donations. I was reading my newspaper on the corner of the service station and why did he have to come up to me? Just another one of those skelm beggars. But wait, I see from the sway in his stride and the contour of his legs inside those jeans that this man is moffie, just like me! Moffies don’t cheat! So I decided I to run after him and find out more about these donations he wants.

Earlier that Sunday morning I had just come from Stefanuschirche. I spoke with the woman pastor or priest, as a man from the Church told me earlier. “When she is in the service, she is a priest and I guess when she comes out she is a pastor.” He explained when I asked him about the Church. Does this women actually play two gender roles during and after the service or what exactly did this man mean? Perhaps in German they have two different words to describe a clergy(wo)man during and after the service.

This woman was very much like a priest and I understood what she was doing, even though she recited in German. As she went through the motions of holding up the small white circle bread body of Christ, she uttered German words that filled the room. Her voice was most soothing to listen to. Unusually, she made German so peaceful, the words coming out in mellifluous streams, with zzzs and kks and rrs that were soft and non militarized. So here I am in this Church and I realize that life is beautiful. The room is beautiful in its entire gay splendor. Purple and red smoke intermingled on the walls and before us was an image of Christ on the cross in a blue green hue. Him on the cross on red brown hill, while his spirit like image in warm yellow hues that meld into the warmth of a sunset looks straight at us.The whole room exudes soothing cool colors like the freshness of her German words. German is cold and really refreshing. Who says that just because I had all planned out – to go to Spain or France next year and study in those languages was God’s Will. Oh my Jesus, let your will be done. What if I were to learn German?

I came to the Stefanuschirche in search of a man. I heard that this was an open minded Church from my gay friend Fanni Dorling – a choirmaster – and I believed him. When I entered and found only a handful of people, most of them old women with just one young, albeit, straight couple, I knew I would find my man today. But this Churched was definitely for us queers, just by looking at the people who led the service – three women clad in white and blue priest like attire. Well, might as well stay and see what I can discover.

Writing around Christmas 2010

“Write Pancho, Write” she said as I watched “Anchor Away” on the TCM channel, focused on the scene of a several pianists playing furiously at the same time

I noticed she said write – I remembered then that I had wanted to go and write before the TV grabbed my attention.

“Write? Write what?”

“Write whatever draws you” was the response, but of course we spoke in Bulgarian and my translation is but a mere approximation of the meaning of what she actually said. (pi6i tova koeto te vulnuva, mi kaza tq I neznam koi e na tochnia prevod tuka, mojebi “whatever excites you” ili “impassions you”)

So here I am, typing away. What will I write? I have quite a number of things I penned down in notebooks over the past few months, especially during my trip to the North of Namibia the last two weeks. But I think I will start by writing my story of seeking a man at a local (or actually quite distant) grocery store and the outcome. But in Spanish.

Perhaps one of you can translate it.

Or I will write about the suicide that happened in my neighborhood. On my street, on a house on the same side as ours. LIBRA. In large black capital letters was the first thing they showed on the news after reporting on the suicide. That was the street sign on the corner of our street. Then they showed the wide open street, with our house on the left, before they moved to show the house where it occurred. Yup, surburbia. Urban decay.

And this happened just two days before Christmas day! Tomorrow, I will bake a cake and bring it to the like a good neighbor should. That is what good neighbors do. So I will omit my mistake of going Christmas caroling just outside their house on Christmas Eve singing “Feliz Navidad” as people started and turned away from inside the yard or just gave me a quick expressionless look as they accompanied friends to their cars. That was I guess a mistake. Nonetheless, a young man came from the house to greet me. He affirmed the importance of what I was doing, but made it clear that people were not going to appreciate it, not now. He was calm and warm. “Yeah she committed suicide” he said quite coldly. Why was he visibly calm? How could he even talk to me? Were I a family member, I would not even be able to face the world.

Tonight they had a real big memorial service. Cars parked outside our house, on the other end of the street, round the bend of Andromeda street and right to the end of Libra Street, where the house is, right up to the dead end – the cul de sac. What does the house being close to a dead end have to do with it? Nothing.

I planned to be terse in this post. I have rather been quite exhaustive.

Yet still brief. Life is what happens to you while you are making plans, John Lennon you were so right.

Human Rights day

Human Rights Day

This post is dedicated to Danny Llewelyn, Amanda Jane Howard and Efe.

Human Rights day is today in Namibia and this means a public holiday. I am formally unemployed, but please people, note that I still have stuff to do. One of them being math, since I have to keep my mind in shape for when I start my epidemiology degree (in 2011 or 2012). There will be a mathematical discussion in this post and so Danny brace yourself…

So this has been a fairly relaxing day so far. Great in fact. I do not have to think about writing something for money (for the Flamingo Magazine) or contacting the center for disease control and prevention in Namibia about a scientific presentation for the sentinel survey results or to claim my money for the meeting I attended for the Namibia HIV Clinicians Society. The best of course is not having to worry about being inefficient and packing as much into my day as possible. I have just been at home, in the living room, in the kitchen, sitting room and rude to my mother.

I have been rude to her lately. What is it about me? I believe it’s because my family took a rather dysfunctional turn at the end of last year (this time) when my father moved out. My mother was initially not coping well with this – with his life in open infidelity and the fact she wanted to know “the truth” about my sexuality made things worse. I came out to her and she does not accept it. Not that she rejects me as son. She does not believe it. It being my homosexuality. My brother believes but he does not really care. Any piece of advice I even try to give him is struck down by comments such as “no you are gay, there is nothing you can tell me.” Once we are in the dinning /kitchen area of the house and again they raised the topic – my sexuality. I tried to tell him about how I have faith as a gay person but I ended up bursting out in laughter when he said, quite ironically:

“Unfortunately, you are going to hell.”

My 18 year old brother, I adore to him. Some of you know I love dwelling on things that crack me up and I have been dwelling on this one since two months ago.

Well I constantly struggle with being civil to my mother, since she provides me with free accommodation and even money (in spite of my protests – I want some sort of independence!). I am becoming more patient with her and yesterday we had a great time. I ignored her outburst about my father and instead started singing to her – as if we were in a musical – and she indulged me in song. She hates musicals with a passion, but we made fun of the idea by talking in song.

Danny, remember how much the 5 pound coin with the Queen’s image made me laugh? I can barely remember what was so funny about it. Now we have 10 dollar note with the image of our founding president Sam Nujoma. Somehow, it is just not that funny.

So I did do some human rights campaigning today. I sent a petition to the Slovak Republic that I got signed back in July. It is about scholarships that Slovakia offers to Namibian students with the condition that all applicants furnish their HIV test results. Clearly a blatant slap in the face of human rights and efforts to destigmatize HIV.

You can find this at my other “professional” blog: writinghealth.wordpress.com

One thing I want to write about here is how I am now officially an openly gay man. And I am looking! Honestly, I believe it is time I change my facebook status; First of all, I will have to divorce myself from you Amanda, my wife (Mi español influye mucho en mi ingles, no se dice “divorce yourself” en ingles, sino “divorce” con rispecto a divorzarse en español) . I remember accepting your proposal for a facebook marriage “Pancho do you want to have a facebook marriage” you said with a grin in that dormitory of yours in Scully and of course I accepted. But times have changed. I cannot be a man on “the down low”. Its time I tell you – I am gay! I know this may come as a shock to you and your whole construction of me as the epitome of masculinity, but please allow me the freedom to find a partner. So please let us have a facebook divorce.

I want you guys to join the new social networking site called “1love.org”. It was started just this week in the memory of Bob Marely and I think it allows people to connect while giving to charities around the world. There are some great shots of Bob Marely too.

So that is how I came to think of you – Efe – today. I remember you told me how much you liked Bob Marely when I visited you that night in your room in Lourie Love Hall. That moment is no more and that building, that room, no longer exist in space, but I still remember how I ended up in your arms. I needed affection and I knew I could get it from you, because you kept on asking me “come to my room, come to my room” that whole first semester of sophomore year. It was the toughest semester for me at Princeton and perhaps we could have faced it together as an item. That, however, is another “if only” moment and as the French say “avec si on peut mettre Paris dans une boteille” (with “if” we can put Paris in a bottle).

So Efe, I do remember you, quite fondly. Since that time in your room, I saw only from time to time, but I never thought of you romantically. Nonetheless, I also avoided you because I feared I would go “all the way” with you and so I kept my distance. I also was not head over heels in love with you. But then I was not with anyone. Since my freshman year, I found a way of looking a gorgeous men and seeing their humanity. Effectively, I saw them as they were – imperfect, ugly, human beings and then any crushes faded away.

So (the third so in this series), I want to ask you how you are doing. I imagine you may be writing poetry someplace in a far away city. You are truly romantic. Your poetry, your collection of poetry (remember the Bulgarian poets whose books I brought you? Who were they again – remind me? If we meet again, under whatever circumstances, I hope I can read those poems to you). There is really something so alluring about the way you talk and express yourself. I imagine you are thinking (nearly two years have passed since we talked and now this guy wants to get in touch with me?) I agree. I am not expecting a reply. I will keep you in prayers, because I need to also figure out how I feel about you. Know this: I want to find out – whether or not anything will be possible, a meeting, a letter, an email. I cannot say I am in love with you, but truly speaking, my spirit longs for you. But “if this is love that I am feeling”, I would like to hear from you, because “I don’t want to wait in vain for your love”.

Time for Math:

So Danny, I am so glad that you wrote to me. At the time I was just again exploring math.

Today in Namibia, or at least in my part of Windhoek, a bear got married. What I mean is that it rained on a bright day. In Bulgarian we have a saying “rain is falling, sun is shinning, a bear is getting married”. I went outside topless jogging with my dog, Snowy. She loves the exercise (she is overweight cause we feed her with our leftovers) and I wanted to exercise my human right of jogging without a shirt on in Windhoek. Were I a woman, I would have done it all the same. I mean literally, in Namibia, there are women who walk around topless. These, however, are dressed in traditional wear and usually have red ochre on their skin – the Ovahimba. In 2008 I went up to an Ovahimba village for about a week to do a study on the relationship between the recreational and spiritual dance of these people. It was cool (I kept a diary that I may transcribe for this blog one day).

But here is the math, I am loosing sight:

Well, what if you had four cups in a row, all different color and you wanted to see where the first five rain drops fell. Imagine that raindrops only fell one at a time at these cups. How many ways are there of dropping these first five raindrops? All we care is the water we find in these cups after the five raindrops have come down. Imagine, we could have all five drops in cup number 1 or we could have one drop in each cup or we could have some other distribution of drops. I found out you can use a type of graph theory to answer this question . First you draw five lines evenly spaced from each other – the space between these lines is a cup – you have four cups. There | | | | | you see the four cups? Then you put in 0s for the drops | 00000 | | | | - this is the case when all five go in the first cup. Now what you have to do is count the number of configurations possible. Well you use combination counting. Basically, you notice that the two outer | | are the borders of the row of cup and inside you have 5 0s and 3 |s Then the problems amounts to how many ways can you arrange the 5 0s and the 3 |s. This meants having 8 spaces, where each space can accommodate any one of the eight items (5 0s and 3|s). If we place all the 0s, we automatically know where to place the |s and vice versa. So we can just think of it as 8 choose 3 or 8 choose 5 (8 factorial over 3 factorial times 5 factorial). Its that easy!

But my question now is what if we had instead of 5 raindrops, 3 raindrops and 2 pebbles. How do we work that problem? So now we have in between the borders | |. 3 0s 2 * (* denoting pebble) and 3 |s.

I think I have an idea – you first do the placement of one of the items and the other. I first place the 0s and I know I have 8 choose three ways of doing that. Then I left with 5 open spaces where I have to place my 3 *s and 3 |s. Now I can place the pebbles 5 choose 3 number of ways, and that also places all my |s. So the answer, by counting theorem is 8 choose 3 multiplied 5 choose 3. Does that make sense, since I do one activity (placing the 0s ) before the other (placing he*s) and the total ways of doing activity A made up of doing activity 1 followed by activity 2 is n1 x n2, where ni denotes the number of ways you could do activity i.

Here I am confident of being correct, but I would appreciate your imput.

Ok have to go!

Love

PANCHO. I am going off to see a movie screening at a house an American Expat who lives practically in my neighborhood. This morning I jogged over to his house – quite a beautiful pink villa (he is married, come on people no, pink is perhaps the color his wife likes) and he saw me, invited me and showed me his paradise of a garden with its bonzi trees.

Take Care

Pancho

Spirituality again

So what happened to me – I was under the “bondage of sin” as I struggled to kick the habit of consulting pornographic websites. I am actually doing a kind of revisionist historiography of my life and I realize that the whole pornography thing was less of a problem in my time at Princeton than I thought it was. It was just the more stuff I was doing at and the better time organized I was, the less I needed it. I think it was just a product of me being badly organized (dealing with my dance course and the demands of ‘academics’) and general lonliness. There was of course the fact that my fascination with the male body was really badly directed.

I guess that is why I fell in love with Jesus and decided to make Him my lover. Rather than suppressing my homoerotic urges, I took Jesus and imagined Him being with me.

These fantasies – or visitations of his divine presence in my mind – are actually quite different to what I saw in porn videos.

I have written about this difference before, but in case you are interested here I will write it again.

A Jesus that truly is a supernatural lover passing right through me (I think these were inspired by a Jesus Culture Song where the lead singer goes “he cuts right through me”) and his sacred heart is bare for me. His love making is physical – I do imagine him moving inside me as his supernatural body interacts with my insides. Oh and usually, he pushes himself into me, but there have been times I have imagined myself inside of Him.

These have really been the most powerful moments – really ecstatic and orgasmic for me. Sometimes, its not so great, like the time Jesus was blank, expressionless, before me as I imagined us moving together under the covers – was he asking me “Have you reduced me to you f*** buddy?”

In any case, I stopped looking at pornography and part of was breaking bad habits. I think that’s where the band “Tenth Avenue North Came In”. I heard them on this gospel channel from South Africa we have on satellite TV – Love is Here was the song. I went on their myspace page and played that at night. I also played “Healing Begins” and it really spoke to my process – I was now healed.

I am still healing the wounds from the “Highlands Assemblies of God Church” my local Church down the road where I met lots of great young people and where I went for a Friday youth group. Till the youth leadership met with me and eschewed the fact I was an openly gay man. Then I left. I did not realize it, but I bear a lot of bitterness for that Church, and I am healing through that.

So now what am I? I am a way out there Christian, more way out there than I have ever been.

During the past month, I doubted whether I should still call myself “Christian” or “Catholic” so I changed my facebook profile to “Syncretic Christian without a Church but still Catholic”. I realize now how redundant that is because Christianity, especially Catholicism, is syncretic to start with, while Church affiliation is not a must.

Today I was walking down independence avenue in Windhoek – our main street – when this man just suddenly calls out to me “wow, where are you from?” with a brightness in his eyes. I could tell he was one of us – the gay kind – but I really was not interested. He had a cigarette, was taking a smoke break outside of a store amidst the scores of people just walking on buy. “Are you from here?”

“Yes I am why do you ask?”
“Then you must have studied outside, when did you finish?”

How did this man know my whole story, without ever having met me? Was it my really curly hair, or the fact that I walk around with half torn sandals and an open back pack (one of the compartments is broken and always open)?

I did not even have my ankle bracelet from India that Andy Chen got me sophomore year (another gay man , who actually left Christianity)!

I told him about smoking and the dangers, but he just said “it was his choice”. As I was being kind off preachy, which I really hate, I stopped. But then I remembered speaking with a boy named Isaac outside Murray Dodge one time at Princeton and I told him “I pray you will find the courage to stop” Isaac scoffed and looked at me funny. About two weeks later we had a conversation on our way to Forbes and he told me I was much more understanding and less judgmental than the Christians he knew from his part of the US.

So this man now in Independence avenue, trying to flirt with me, and I just need to go. So I do. I do tell him to join the LGBT network Namibia (on facebook( and I ask him to look up facebook. Do I share the gospel of Jesus Christ? No. That would be really preachy. While we talked he told me he studied psychology – he asked me if I had “psychosocial support” and I said yes – in fact I go and see a psychologist – Dr Annandale – monthly. I asked him the same question and guess what he studied psych but “practices without working as one”. So I wonder what Rich would make of that.

In any case, I left, feeling rather flattered. But of course, Jesus should be one that takes all the credit, he is the one that puts people in my life and brings them to me.

Earlier in my life, since Freshman year, I though it was my mission to evangelize to the gays in a way that was there very own. In a way that gives primacy to our homoerotic nature and how this finds expression in our Christianity. But then I found myself disillusioned with Churches and even with the whole gospel thing.

I would actually deny that I am a Christian if someone put a gun to my head and said “deny Christ or I shoot!” I feel life is important and if I were to say no, I would just be committing suicide for a silly reason – I would still love Christ in my heart and no-one can take that away, no matter what they force me to say. Honestly, I think Jesus is much more mature than to say “Well you lied about me that day to save your life, so it’s over between us.” I really suspect that this interpretation of the gospel – about “saving your life to only lose it” attempts to control people and keep them Christian, even it means losing their lives. This is religion at its worst. It’s something I want no part off! Obviously, I would be willing to die for the good and for doing God’s Will – as people have done throughout history – but I hope you realize how different that is from suicide. I had a dream about this and suicide. It was surreal; it was about a woman who commits suicide because she is told to by the people around her. At then end they say it was for “love” but I heard in the song a sinister song with the lyrics “be wary of love.” Love that drives you to kill yourself – what love is that?

So now I am slowly picking up the pieces of my spirituality and I am going to still find a way to spread Christianity. I want to focus on prayer. Prayer is always there, where you are Christian or not, its part of being human, it’s the expression of that deepest desire for the universe to have mercy on you and the entire human race.

I have been so blessed this past quarter. Here is a picture of me receiving a certificate for “Health Advocacy and Social Mobilization” from the mayor of Windhoek on October 28. It was part of the World Health Day 2010 which was held in March and which I promoted a little. The main thing I did was to find an urban health champion – Mama Agnes – who has done so much for babies and toddlers affected by HIV. You can read my article on “Baby Haven” at www.flamingo.com.na Honestly, who care about the background, here is my photo. Mama Agnes was also a winner!

Lograr

No he logrado ligar con un chico que conocí mediante Facebook. También lo conocí mediante facebook y no nos vimos nunca. Es muy interesante y me divierto mucho cotándoles esta historía, pero antes de que la cuente, permiten que les digo porqué escribo en español en facebook.

Hace más de tre años de una tarde durante mi tercero año en Princeton cuando fui a buscar a mi amigo Zachary Marr. Hay gente que no tiene buenos recuerdos de sus años en universidad, pero para mi era un época buenísima porque llegué muchas cosas que me apasionaban excepto aprender español – era mi asignatura pendiente. Zachary no estaba en su dormitorio, pero la puerta estaba abierta y entré por allí (sin que lo supiera porqué soponía que no le importara – eramos buenos amigos). Y creo que al encima de su cama había unos cuadernos de español con fotocopias. Me encontré con una lista de verbos españoles y había el verbo “lograr” con su traducción en inglés - “to achieve or succeed” . Al pesar de que Zachary tiene una madre mexicana que por supuesto es una hispano hablante, Zachary hablaba más inglés que español – aunque estudiaba este idioma para sus estudios de literaturas comparadas nunca lo oí hablar este idioma. Quizás fuera solo una lengua académica para él y no como una lengua viva por la que se expresaba en su vida diaria. No pienso que le costaba hablar. Es más que le resultara extraño y artificial hablar este idioma. Ya que sabe que hablo y escribo español ¿vaya a escribirme en este idioma? ¿Zachary, vas a responderme a mi, por fin, el idioma de una parte de tu patrimonio cultura, aunque no te consideres como un “chicano?” Chico oye, ¡te extraño mucho, te echo de menos!

Por mi parte, también tengo una batalla con mi patrimonio lingüístico. Al principio del año he dado el salto de aprender Oshiwambo – el idioma de mi padre y he cargado un libro gratis desde el Internet para aprenderlo. Me ha resultado bastante útil aquel libro, como tiene las reglas gramaticales y las explica muy bien. También he aprovechado del hecho que hay una mujer Oshiwambo que viene limpiar nuestra casa dos veces a la semana y habla muy poco inglés pero mucho Oshindongo – el dialecto de Oshiwambo que mi libro enseña. ¿Porqué no la he ayudo a mejorar su inglés? Con respecto al español, quedo casi todos los día con un español que se llama Juan en café para hacer un intercambio de lenguas – hablamos inglés y luego español. Pero no hago este con Ndeapo – la mujer “alma de casa” (pero no es la esposa de mi padre que tampoco vive con nosotros – se mudó el año pasado) ¿Porqué? A lo mejor deriva de que todavía no me ha preguntado hacer un intercambio – le vaya bastante bien sólo hablar conmigo en Oshiwambo y charlar, porqué antes de que empezara estudiar este idioma muy diferente del español e inglés, solía callarse.

Por este chico que de Facebook, se llama Ruan y lo conocí porque se fijó en el “post” sobre la mutilación de dos niños en un pueble en el norte de Namibia, porqué han cometido el pecado de la sodomía, y Ruan respondió a mi mensaje expresando su pena y horror. Me solicité un artículo sobre este caso para la nueva revista del movimiento para derechos para los homosexuales en Namibia – LGBT network. Luego le mandó un intento escrito y mientras me enamoré del. Era como una obsesión – la de aventura – y he incluso escrito dos poemas para el pero no ha quedado muy impresionado por ellos, respondiendo en una manera equivoca al recibirlos. ¡Por fin me ha escrito algo concreto hoy! diciéndome “no te conozco y por eso no puedo ayudarte con las cosas personales. Es mejor que tengamos una relación profesional.” Se refiere a mi última carta en la que le dijo que quería conocerlo para poder enamorarme del.

En su modo, mi ha rechazado el intento de ligar con el. Bueno pero, prefiero que me diga simplemente “no puedo, tengo novio” y si no tiene uno solo “no puedo” , como la cantante en la canción “obesesión.” Durante todo esta búsqueda a una pareja, me he dado cuenta de ser un poco como el cantante de esta canción.

“… mi única esperanza es que oigas mis palabras…” canta el y ella responde enseguida “No puedo tengo novio” que provoca “no me enganches por favor” de su parte

I must write

I must write! A lo largo de un día, como hoy, domingo, paso horas pensando en las cosas que podría escribir en este blog, pero al fin no les escribo porque ¡hay tan mucho que escribir! Sería imposible escribirlo todo.

Je ne sais pas pourquoi mais au tours d’un jour tel qu’aujourd’hui je passes d’heures entière à penser à ce que je pourrais écrire ici au blog, mais je finis toujours par rien écrire, puisque il serait impossible de l’écrire tout.

Non lo capisco per niente pero tutti i giorni, come questo – è domenica – passo un ora all’altra pensanda a le cose che potrei scrivere in questo blog ma alla fine non ne scrivo niento perchè tutto mi viene troppo, mi sembra una cosa così dificile da fare che non la faccio. Pero qui scrivero qualcosa per mettervi al corrente della mia vita.

I do not understand it. The three paragraphs above all discuss the same thing, though the one in Italian expands upon the first two. I often feel overwhelmed by all of the things that happen to me, not because they are bad, on the contrary they feel my life with happiness. But because I feel the need to write them all this is impossible. Nonetheless, through writing at least I allow some of my memories to come back to life.

Today was a most wonderful day! I realized how blessed I am – again, but I was also convicted of how I take so much for granted. I spoke to my grandmother this afternoon, while I was alone at home. My mother has left to the coast for work and my brother, as per his habit since I got here from Princeton, is out on the weekends. In any case, my grandmother in Bulgaria lamented how none of us, neither me nor my brother, had even made a mention of the clothes they sent us via my mother who was in Bulgaria. I apologized and she accepted it saying “it’s ok this is just a critique from one friend (comrade) to another (how would you translate “drugarska kritika”?).

I feel this post must come to an end. But yes, I am grateful. For my family, for my ability to run to move as I did when I ran home this late afternoon from the cathedral, through town, through Windhoek West up the hill, past the open space set aside for our park – in Dorado Park (my “suburb” – but its just a stones through away from the city, so not a suburb in the American sense) and down the hill to my street. No I am going to give you my street name, next thing I know you’ll be stalking me psycho (actually if you are reading this you could only be a friend, because I give this address to friends only.)

I am applying for the Fulbright grant, at long last. I need to write a personal statement, but write now I am torn between two different directions. One will be to speak about AIDS and prisoners and how I want to do research that will contribute to our knowledge about people on the margins who are effectively “invisible”, João Biehl put in “Will To Live: AIDS and the Politics of Survival”. The other approach would be write about malaria and how it represents a problem that has to be approached from multiple aspects – population genetics of the parasite and people, statistical inquiries into indicators of disease and survival, medical diagnostics and diagnoses and of anthropological (sociological) aspects. But I do not yet have any experience with malaria in any way, while my job at the ministry of health last year brought me close to the problem of the marginalization of the prisons. But actually, I do have an experience with malaria! The two malaria professors at the University of Namibia! They both took me out to lunch on separate occasions.

The first time, the molecular biologist I spoke too (Professsor A) wanted me to volunteer in his group for his lab projects. This would have entailed doing Western blots and other lab procedures that take eons to do, such as knock out as well purification of certain plant matter in search of antimalarial activity. I turned him down because I am really more interested in the anthropological side and the very reason I am here in Namibia after Princeton is because I want to explore ways of research outside of the lab. Alright, he understood. So when Professor B (his name actually starts with B as well!) came and asked me if I would be willing to help him and A write a

review article about the anthropological aspects of malaria, for a pioneering Namibian academic journal, I was excited. But I soon realized I would need formal recognition – as member of their research group – for me to publish anything with them. When I asked them to give me formal status and a transport stipend (the cost of traveling to the University of Namibia each day from my house should be covered by them, since they approached me and I am volunteering, for Pete’s sake! – Do I know a Pete? Peter yeah, but no Pete, anyway). So Professor B said he would contact the head of the research group and he would come back to me. He never did, in spite of my calls.

I was then close to doing cool research on the primary literature – and looking at collected data from the ministry of health – for a malaria review article, but it feel through. Had I had my masters in epidemiology already, things would have been different, perhaps? So that is what I will write about for my Fulbright!

Dinner is ready! I baked rice with ground beef, carrots, peas and onions! I wanted to make really Bulgarian and ended up with something generic. Except there is 4ybritsa (Chubritsa) our signature Bulgarian spice in it.

I have switched off the oven, but I am not hungry. I had tarator (look it up) – a great Bulgarian dish – earlier and I feel somewhat full. Need to sleep!
Oh as for my GRE general test ! Maximum ponage, ETS will scarcely believe they were whopped by a test taker in Namibia! Perhaps both us whopped ETS’s ass, myself and this other young lady who took the test with me, it was just us too. She works for an American study abroad program that brings students to do a semester abroad in Namibia doing different social science research projects. I met three participating students – all lovely young ladies, Ruth-Anne Dohner, Jasmine and Jessica (do I remember their last names, no, but I pray they are doing well!). I may write to them soon.

Goodridance GRE, yes it is true what they say “third time’s a charm.”

P.S. I miss a lot of you my friends, at this moment, I am thinking of Christian Milan, Kate Poole (2D – co op people) and my wife Amanda Howard who more than three years ago proposed to me “ Do you want to have a facebook marriage?” after I remarked that so many of our peers at Princeton had hitched on the internet. Of course, I accepted to be her lawfully wedded wyfie.

I miss making bread – which I did not do much of at the co- op, except in the last few weeks of my life as student at Princeton. I made it about twice or three times and it was great!

Also, as for my aim to make Sunday a busy – normal weekday – where I am ultra productive: fail. This will not work, even if I do keep the Sabbath Friday- Saturday, in my own Jesus is my lover kind of way.

Languages

In discussing the way our indigenous languages are undervalued, I would like to begin with the following questions:

Why is it that indigenous languages are only offered for study at government schools in rural areas?

Why is it that there are events about the intricacies of the French language and culture (nuit de l’écrit – feast for the readers) but there are no events dedicated to Namibian indigenous language and their rich oral traditions?

Why is that we have to pay more than three times more (N$1700) to study a Namibian indigenous language at Polytech than we have to pay for Spanish (N$ 400)?

And most of all, why is that as a young Namibian, I am more drawn to learning Spanish than my own Oshiwambo?

I remember my experience at recent opening of an art exhibition at national art gallery of Namibia. As usual, there were quite a few foreigners at the event, and this time the majority happened to be Spaniards, as their embassy sponsored the exhibition. I recall being in the midst of Spaniards and also hearing two men speaking Oshiwambo nearby. I was about to gravitate to the Spaniards and continue to refine my command of the language of Cervantes, but then I opted to go over to the gentlemen. I tried to make out what they were saying, but it was just a stream of Oshiwambo, some of which I understood, to my ears. So I moved to look at the sculpture and speak with Spanish lady, who described her multiple interpretations of a large flint shaped rock with a hole in it, as a bird that was about to take off. Currently, I cannot describe an artwork in Oshiwambo – that is just beyond the level I have reached studying with the aid of a free book “Te ti! - a manual for Oshindonga” that I downloaded free of charge from the internet. Kudos to the Namibians who collaborated with American Peace Corps volunteers to write that book and then put online for all to access. But it is somewhat ironic that I am learning the language of my fatherland through a book designed for foreigners.

Why am I writing this piece? I need to find a way to express my fear that we, including myself, are mesmerized by European languages at the expense of appropriating our own. Indeed, there are benefits to learning those languages, including a successful career in the hospitality sector or access to foreign institutions of higher learning. But do we realize we are buying into the hegemony of these languages? Let me explain clearly. In my Spanish we had to comment to on following statement using the future tense:

Los expertos opinan que ingles, español y chino serán los idiomas dominantes del futuro y las lenguas minoritarias desaparecerán.

“Experts relieve that English, Spanish and Chinese with the dominant languages of the future while the languages of minorities will disappear”.

I guess that seems possible, at least in the case of Namibia, where we are still coming to grips with what means to be a multilingual society with only one official language, which by the way, nearly no one claims as their own. Perhaps this is just a phase in development and one day Namibia will be developed and English will be our forte. Welcome to the United States of Africa, where “ethnic languages” are mere vestiges of our primitive past.

Update after UNAM humanities and Social Science Conference

I went to the conference of the humanities and social sciences of UNAM on Thursday and Friday. It was deeply satisfying and enriching, I not only learnt a lot but I had a chance to network with sociologists who are keen for us to push for a scientific presentation of the sentinel survey results of 2010 – I am excited at the prospect!

Finally, I will have a chance to do something really epidemiological in Namibia. I think I have done quite a few med anthro things (at two published op pieces, which you will find in this blog). A rigorous treatment of the sentinel survey of HIV prevalence amongst pregnant women is what I need. Perhaps I will have access to the data and I will manipulate in R! How fun.

Rather than elaborating at length about the conference, I wish, for the sake of time, to speak about the work of a visual artist. She presented on her exhibition “Images of Fertility and Abundance”. A cross between a mandrake and an octopus with branching tentacles is what some of the works resemble. Then there are prehistoric like images of mother figures with burgeoning wombs and opened seed pods that resemble the female genitals. “Nature is fool of images that I find erotic” said the artist. Of course, she did not elaborate on exactly how they were erotic.

I enjoyed this exhibition, because of its earth-like references and how it valued the human body. Spirals of colored wind that flew all over a canvas comprised one of her paintings, in my perspective. It was also great to see how as an artist, she connected her works with sociologically relevant themes. She spoke of how she aimed to counter “the culture of consumerism and materialism” that is becoming dominant in Namibia: “We all want to live in a big house in Ludwigsdorf [affluent suburb of Windhoek] with a four by four car and many accounts, but I just want to question that – can everyone in Africa do that and what will happen if they did?” Her artwork – full of the colors in the wind – was inspired by abundance and it drew you in with the warm red, orange and yellows. To me it illustrated how consumerism draws people in.

Her references to alternative, pre-Christian, forms of spiritually were equally intriguing. She had an “earth altar” that she was inspired to create by the personal, home, Christian shrines that people employed in the Byzantine empire, at some point in time. Her shrine of an open white carnivore jaw – like an ivory serrated V – affixed to a brown earth background. Bones in the dirt, a fossil or the first human shrine in Africa tens of millennia ago? I really enjoyed this and I feel moved to explore the connection my own spirituality has to nature. Indeed, I feel I have been overburdened by patriarchal, heterosexist forms of Christianity. Apart from valorizing the inherent validity of homoerotic relationships, I need to also explore the role nature has in the sacred.

Alright, that’s it for now!

Pancho

Save Tonight (Zach you'll love this!)

I know that end of the Sabbath has come. For me, who is accustomed to keeping the Sabbath on Friday to Saturday, the working week has official begun. But remember, I am not Jewish in the first place, so I should be allowed some flexibility right? And more importantly I would like to savor these last few moments of evening – I want to save to night, though I won’t fight the break of dawn. I will post this letter, rather than writing my progress report of my life post Princeton to my former advisor or continuing in my search for admission to a Masters program. I will save the night, I will extend that one hour after sunset so that the Sabbath goes on until I finish this letter to you my dear readers. Especially for Zach Marr – this is for you.

It is from my friend Zach Marr that I learnt about music and how it connects to faith. On his blog, you’ll find it’s all about that. Now I am writing about how there is a song “Save The Night” by Lenny Kravitz which defies the dichotomy of “secular and Christian” music. It also defies the dichotomy of music that is “gay or straight” and the unison of the two former concepts the dichotomy of a “straight devout Christian or a disgruntled homosexual non-Christian”. In this song, I feel gay and Christian themes coming out strongly.

If you have heard this song you will know its about Lenny Kravitz singing :“Save the Night and fight the break of dawn, come tomorrow, tomorrow I’ll be gone”. It is insightful for me to say these lyrics are modern, hip version of the Gospel, where Jesus tells his disciples to keep the vigil as he goes to pray in the garden, the night his passion began. In the Gospel, it recounts how Jesus roused them to wake up when he came from prayer and they were sleeping. This occurred, according to the Gospel, moments before the guards came to cease Jesus. Now Lenny Kravitz is saying what Jesus would have said back then, but in a way that invites us to enjoy his company. But then there is an apparent incongruity that of Lenny singing “Girl you know I got to go” and that of Jesus speaking to his disciples who, as far as the gospel suggests were all men. Mary Magdalene was absent that night.

For me, this is where queer theory comes into play. Though Lenny may sing “girl” this term is broad enough to include both women and gay men. As gay men, we often call each other “girl” or “girlfriend” as we shun traditional genders that for centuries have been thrust upon us – the prerogative of being “men”. At first I never understood how this could be possible, but then one day at Wilcox dinning hall at Princeton, I meet Nour and he was wearing a generic rubber wrist band, except it was pink with the words “mamma I’m a big girl now.” “Nour, you are not a girl, are you, why do you have that wrist band,” I asked him, genuinely befuddled “I am a big girl Pancho, aren’t you?” he answered rather amused. I did not get it immediately, and I protested “no I am not a big girl, I am boy” and he insisted “One day you’ll realize you are big girl too.” The dialogue was somehow different, there are not exact citations, but let that not detract from my point: we are also girls as gay, bisexual and especially transgender wo(men). Later it dawned on me that I had a feminine side that I had overlooked. So Jesus or Lenny Kravitz could be singing to a man, a gay, bisexual or transgender wo(man).

I take you understand the complexity of it all. Well I hope you also understand the simplicity : The song, as the Bible, speaks to an individual who interprets it as function of his identity and circumstances. In this sense, I believe Christ encompasses all sexualities, because he invites us all, to partake in his supper just before his imminent departure. Indeed, the song also alludes to the last supper. Lenny speaks of saving the night with “me, you and a bottle of wine”. How much closer to the sharing of the blood can you come to now?

Alas, the one hour after Shabbis is over and I feel the need to conclude and go forth to do all the other things I need to do. “Girl you know I got go, Lord I wish it wasn’t so, save tonight and fight the break of dawn, come tomorrow, tomorrow I’ll be gone.” An call for us to carpe diem and live for Christ now. Christ is worth saving the night for and I have spent many a night in his presence, though his physicality eluded me, I have visualized him with me. Much like Madonna’s like a prayer “In the midnight hour I can feel your power just like a prayer, you know I’ll take you there”, I feel the deep thrusting of lovemaking in my mind. Like A Prayer, it goes without saying, is another of those songs that seems secular, but is actually a praise song. I realized this when I was 16 and I always dreamt of singing this song at my Christian youth group (run by wonderful Baptist missionaries, in spite of our divergence of views on homosexuality). Back then, I did not venture to contemplate the sexual overtones of Like A Prayer, but now I understand that subconsciously, the sexual and spiritual were one, which meant I could not distinguish one from the other. Do you think I can now?

God Bless

Pancho

Il Vangello per i Gay

To: Isacc Martinez-Perez, Sagrado Nova Flores, Angelo Castello, Diego Cominazzini, Coleman Conelly.

Carnissimi amici e fratelli in Gesù Cristo,

Volevo mandarvi questa lettera tanto tempo fa, ma non ci riuscivo per tutti gli altri impegni – quotidiani ed altri legatti alle mie ambizioni – che me sequestravano il tempo. Comunque, oggi mi metto a farlo. Spero che stiate bene e sapiate che voglio bene.

Ho scritto questa lettera quasi quatro mesi fa.

La lettera nasce del mio desiderio di parteggiare la mia fede e la mia esperienza come un cristiano gay con gli, soprattuto con voi, amici miei che ho conosciuto durante gli ultimi cinque anni della mia vita. L’uso dell’italiano è anche un modo di ricordarmi di voi, siccome siete italiani o italofoni (grazie al Collegio del mondo Unito o altre istitutuzione, ad essemip Princeton University, dove ci siamo conosciuti.) Tra l’altro sto imparando lo spagnolo è se non mantengo activamente l’italiano, sarà conquistato come fu l’America (in effeti, il verbo ser di spagnolo sta sostituiscendo essere)

Ecco la mia lettera:

Questa mattina è lucida qui Namibia e profito benissimo del sole di Agosto. Vi scrivo perchè mi sento davvero comosso, convinto dallo Spirto Santo che devo parteggiare con voi la buona novità del vangelo.

Magari, alcuni di voi vi chiedete “Ma che ne voglio sapere di Dio, non sono mica religioso” Io, invece, ho bisogno di Gesù. Il suo messagio ci ricopre della garantità di un more abbondante per la sua salvezza. Adesso potrei parlare della vita a venire – nell’alto dei cieli – pero penso che l’aspetto della vita vita attuale sia più importante.

Quante sono state le volte che noi – omosessuali o bissessuali – abbiamo perso la fiducia in Gesù? Magari siamo passatti per la mezonga che Gesù ci condanna a una tortura eterna del corpo. Tutta una storia di intoleranza che portiamo con noi nei confronti di qualunque cosa cristiana.

Adesso vi invito a accostarvi insiemi a Gesù. Chi bussa alla porta? Puo darsi Gesù che vuole cenare alla tua tavolla: “Ecco sto alla porta e busso. Se qualcuno ascolta la mia voce e mi apre la porta, io verrò da lui e cenerò con lui ed egli con me.” Apocalisse 3: 20 (Revelations 3:20).

Invece di constringerci ad accolgierlo, Gesù ci chiedi il permesso d’accoglienza. Questo è fondamentale perchè scelgiamo noi la fede.

Chi di voi possa pretendere di vivere una vita complettamente soddisfatta? Nemmeno io, posso dirvelo. Pero, piano a piano, il senso della mia vita appare. Più che camin accanto a Gesù più che provo un amore piena agape e eros – il quale nessuno mi pùo togliere. Considerate questa frase: Jesus in Love with Lesbians, Bisexual, Asexual ,Gay and Transgender people -JILL BAGT (Se facessi un giorni un spettacollo di drag, vestito da donna, questo sarebbe il mio nome alternativo). Tutti noi abbiamo bisogno di Dio o dobbiamo imparare a essere umili per capire quanto siamo bisognosi.

Volevo scrivervi una lettera ispirata a San Paolo, il quale (a proposit) era ‘gay’ secondo un blogger che tratta temmi sulla sessualità e il cristianismo (www.gospelforgays.com). Ho perfino scritto un contribuito in questo blog, si chiama “My comming out story”, è tutto in inglese. Vi devo una spiegazione, lo so, come mai vi scrivo tutto un discorso sul critianismo senza nessuna notizia della mia vita quotidiana? Controlate i mieie blog pmulonge.blogspot.com e writinghealth.wordpress.com se volete sapere un po’ più dei miei progetti e pensieri

Rispondetemi in qualsiasi lingua, se non la capisco che google a tradurla.

Attention à la tension!

Attention à la tension!

Le Blog « Pancho’s Brouillons » à été mis sur pieds pour m’aider à réfléchir à traves l’écriture. Alors, je vais m’en servir maintenant car je me sens au bout de quelque chose inévitable – la perte de ma motivation pour étudier la langue de mon père des mes ancêtres récents africains (je dis récents puisque nous sommes tous africains les hommes), le Oshiwambo. Je ressens que cela soit inévitable en raison du fait que je m’occupe de plus en plus de ma quête pour une bourse d’étude de master en France. Et voila n’est-il point ironique que j’écris ce brouillon en français ?

D’habitude j’étudie l’Oshindonga le matin chez moi en ma chambre (l’un de deux dialectes d’Oshiwambo que on peut étudier formellement en Namibie). J’ai trouvé un livre de méthode de langue, c’est-a-dire un texte complet pour l’apprendre tout seul y compris des exercices dans l’internet. Ce livre-là est aussi gratuit à chacun qui le désire, ce sont des américains volontariats de « paix de corps » à le mettre en ligne pour tout le monde. Ce qui s’est passé ce matin c’était que j’ai du aller voir le directeur du centre culturel franco namibien. Je lui a parlé de bourses pour faire un master en France et je suis tellement content que finalement j’ai la chance de préparer une candidature pour en master en France ! Quelle joie ! En effet, c’est lui qui s’est rapproché de moi une journée quand j’étais la dans le foyer avec mon amie Fabrice Laurentin et il m’a posé la question :

« Est-ce que tu voudrais étudier en France ? »

« Mais oui, » j’ai répondu, d’après ce que je m’en souviens, mais la citation exacte n’est pas importante. Ce qui je veux souligner c’est que depuis cet rendez vous informel, je me suis mis à écrire ma lettre de motivation vu que il m’a dit « ramène-moi une lettre de motivation et ton CV » c’est jour là et aussi et ce qu’il a répété ce matin au cours de notre réunion plutôt décontractée malgré je lui accordais tout le temps le ‘vous’ alors qu’il m’a tutoyé lors qu’il répondait à mes questions.

Effectivement, je ne me plains pas. C’est juste frustrant que je ne parle autant bien l’Oshindonga que français ! En outre, les enjeux autour l’apprentissage d’Oshindonga sont ceux de la famille, de pouvoir me communiquer avec ma grande mère, laquelle j’ai vu cette dernière fin de semaine au nord de Namibie. En revanche, quant au français je l’apprends toujours et j’intensifie mes lectures en cette langue parce que je veux capitaliser sur l’opportunité d’étudier l’épidémiologie en France. Par conséquent, je pense que je vais finir par vendre mon âme au français en oubliant mon patrimoine et en échangeant le capacité de manier bien l’Oshindonga contre la maîtrise d’une langue colonisatrice et hégémonique.

Par contre, l’Oshindonga est aussi hégémonique vu que tous les autres dialectes d’Oshiwambo sauf qu’un n’ont point de même les plus basique ouvrages écrits. Pas de publicités ni des labels en ces dialectes-là les. En Namibie, il n’y a que l’oshindonga et Oshikwanyama dans le domaine public, à la radio, en la télé, dans les journaux.

Alors, maintenant je pense d’avoir parvenu à un point que je peux dépasser, au-delà du quel je n’arrive pas à grimper. Ce brouillon s’arrête ici. Mes études d’Oshindonga vont continuer, mais pas au même rythme, celui du commencent, de la découvert de cette langue tellement différente du français, mais qui partage, d’autre côte, beaucoup de choses en commun.

Il faut que j’aille. Un jour, peut être, je vais reprendre ce brouillon-ci et mes études sérieux d’Oshindonga.

En commencent ce brouillon, j’ai voulu écrire sur la tension entre mon désir d’aller en France pour étudier et d’apprendre l’Oshindonga. Désormais, je me rends compte du fait que cette tension n’existe plus. Je l’ai cassée. J’accepte la domination du français et en l’acceptant je conquiers contre lui.

Las Tensiones que animan mi vida

Alvarez, not Juan my friend, former roommate (for a week in Arezo) and classmate, but Alvarez the name of a woman writer who once said “it is through writing that we live the many lives that we cannot in real life.” I read this at the American Cultural Center one day when I was perusing the shelves – favorite procrastination pass time. I was supposed to be doing something related to my GRE prep (only a month and half left to go and I will be done with them!).But I cannot sit on the computer (good thing I am doing the paper based GRE), I hate it, and yet I am here, because the notepad I find too tedious. Ironically, I believe the notepad is doomed to disposal and with it my scribbles, while the laptop has some enduring quality. In fact, laptop bits and bytes are no less ephemeral than the writings on paper, if not more. At a click of a button they are gone, a the drop of water in the inner workings of the machine and they are scrambled forever.

Today was a fairly beautiful day. I was fortunate enough to run in the Italian lady I met here – signora Barbara Castelli. We had so much fun catching up, since she was away. Wait, should I be writing this in Italian now? How can I best conceal that fact that I am actually deeply an English thinking person, though I pass much of my time speaking and pondering in other tongues? Non importa, l’unica cosa che conta è che ti arrichia la vitta, la esistenza parlando in altre lingue, bensi che non le comandi, non le parli o pensi quanto bene che l’inglese, ma in fatti, pensiamo più profandamente in queste lingue straniere di quanto uno pensa, siccome possiamo usarli per esprimere quei desideri i quali sessuali o volgari che temiamo dire nel linguaggio materno per la stigma.

Lo spagnolo è più difficile di quanto uno pensa - Spanish is more difficult that one thinks it to be (said Barbara). Now I will surely be able to maintain and develop Italian whilst learning the langauge of Cervantes (its linguistic “cousin”. And what of my own language, Oshiwambo? I am learning it, albeit, at a slow pace, my own pace, using the book I downloaded from the net – that treatise of language Te ti, a self teaching guide complete with exercise that certain intrepid and dedicated peace corps volunteers put together with the help of the Oshindonga speakers they met here. There is so much tension between my learning and wielding of these languages. Like there is in between me composing my dances, writing to friends about Christ and our gay identity, being Namibian and Bulgaria, man and gay and who knows what else. “Sometimes, this tension threatens to tear us asunder”, says Alvarez.

I hope it will not. Yes, I will say, because I believe it, by the Lord’s grace I will find what is best!

I want your love!

“I want you love, love, love, love, I want your love…Jesus” Really I do and not just because Lady Gaga sings about it. She is caught in a bad romance, without sex, which is why she laments throughout the whole song. I, on the other hand, am in a relationship where sex and love – Eros – imbues it with meaning. Jesus is my lover!

“That’s crazy!” was what Abdul said yesterday when we were talking about sex with Jesus. The conversation over the dinner table in our small kitchen astounded me: we were really going deep into what it meant for me to fantasize and experience the Holy Spirit in the most orgasmic of ways. We were talking about Christianity, and yet we ventured into territory some would consider blasphemous. We were have a Shabbat dinner, but it was not Jewish – Pork and beef with Greek tzitzaki – totally not kosher. We ate well, but we did not indulge or overeat: Bienque d’habitude je suis un gourmande, cette fois-là la gourmandie n’a pas figuré au cours du diner : On a résisté à tout manger, puisque il fallait qu’il y avait de la bouffe pour mon frère qui était ailleurs. Néanmoins, on s’est bien remplie surtout avec le buffet que la bonne compagnie nous a offert.

Nous avons mangé et parlé et marché dehors pour lui trouver un taxi et on a prié ! Quelle joie !

So Jesus thank you so much. Si il mio amico è rimasto un po’ perplesso del mio discorso del eros con Gesù, ma nonostante tutto ciò, l’amore di Dio – quelle che è al di là di ogni piacere fisco, ci collegava in una compresione straordinaria. La fraternita. Poi oggi, il mio fratellion, si fratellina bensì sia più grande e alto di me, mangiava la zupa di fronte a me alla tavola. La zupa che io avevo preparato e reso bella – proprio da mangiare in un ristorante – ordonata da tre foglie de menta su un cucchiaio di yoghurt messo nella zupa arancione di lentiche. Appetizzante!

Now, is the time I conclude this blog entry. I need to write letters. I accumulate so many letters, many of them unfinished, or transcribed on paper and never sent. I often feel burdened by the vastness of it all, the cyber facebook universe and how many people I can write to as a result. As for the post, I use, but I guess I never post letters that I was supposed to. So now I will write some letters, those that are overdue. And then I will request mailing addresses for those who have written letters waiting for them.

I need to send a letter to my mother who is on holiday in Bulgaria. But she will be back before it reaches her, so then I will then just wait.

So then I need to get the addresses of :

Rickie Siegel

Coleman Conaley

Sagrado Nova-Flores

Mohammed Soushi

It is dusk, the Sabbath is almost over. I like to spend these last few moments writing to my dear friends.