Bridesmaid of the Year

August 15, 2015 was the wedding of a beautiful bride and a handsome groom. Their love is palpable and contagious. Their wedding was colorful, simple, and rich with culture and affection. There were four bridesmaids and five groomsmen. I, Susanna, was provided the great honor being among those chosen for the wedding party. This past winter Shannon and Jose decided to change their wedding from December 2015 to August. I was quite pleased at the prospect of being in a summer wedding, and how much sooner they would be able to be together. Almost as soon as the change was made, Shannon sent all of us bridesmaids the link online to the dresses she wanted us to wear. Beautiful eggshell dresses covered in coral and turquoise floral patterns. I promptly ordered my dress, and once it arrived I refused to wear it out of a sort of reverence for the wedding. It's SO cute! I thought, but I can't wear it 'til Chacha's wedding! As the months rolled by, I would occasionally eye it proudly as it hung patiently in my closet. As the day of "la boda" drew closer I thought, It definitely looks like it will fit nicely, but I should probably try it on just in case. Every time this thought crossed my mind, I nodded and resolved to "definitely try it on later."

Then came the fateful day of... August the 14th. With the wedding less than 36 hours away, I finally decided I ought to try on my dress so as to confirm my suspicions of it fitting me perfectly. I slipped it gingerly over my head, and began to zip it up the side. It closed happily around my waist, and moved easily up the lower part of my rib cage, but then to my horror, my curves were taking preventative measures and the zipper came to a stubborn halt. I whispered a terror-filled, "Oh no..." and I yelled for assistance. "Mattie! Help!?" "What is it?" she questioned. I pointed to my dress, then to the zipper, then to my chest, wide-eyed and desperately hoping it was merely a difficult zipper, nothing more. Fixed zippers are feasible in 24 hours, breast reductions are not. She laughed and yanked and then, justifiably, asked, "Is this seriously the first time you're trying this on. Sus, the wedding is tomorrow!" "I'm aware the wedding is tomorrow, and yes!" I cried, "This cannot be my life right now!" I was yelling now. "Oh no, oh no, oh no! Ahhhh! This is not real! I'm so foolish! What am I going to do?! Stupid boobs! Why do I have to be so fabulously attractive?!" My next logical step was to fly, partially clothed, into the next room and tell my roomie. "Rudooooo! Heeeeelp!" I whined, frantically. "What did you do, Chichi?" she asked. "Look!" I replied, pointing at my dire...situations. "Please tell me this isn't the first time you've put on this dress. You've had it for months!" Sheepishly, I confessed that, yes, this may be the very first time. "I did not know that this was the kind of person I lived with..." she chided with a smirk. "I am! It is! I've had you fooled all along. Please help me! What should I do?" She glanced at me over the top of her glasses and sighed. "I'll run to Walmart and figure something out. I may be able to sew elastic into it.." A wave of relief swept over me. Rudo will try to save me.

That night when I arrived home from the rehearsal dinner, my sweet Rudo was perched on the couch, and, while a movie was playing, her brow was furrowed in concentration on her task. I went to bed around 2am, and she was still sewing. When I woke up the next morning she had just woken up to continue her work. We made one last emergency run to Walmart to retrieve clasps. After the clasps were sewn on, she promptly sewed me into the dress. Her thumb was bleeding, the needle was bent and threatening to break, and both of us were frantic. I was about to be late for bridal photos. While she made the final few stitches we prayed that God would keep the needle from breaking. Throughout the entire ordeal, she and I would occasionally burst into uncontrollable laughter regarding the absurd and preventable nature of the whole situation. I told her not to worry about sticking me with the needle, as it would be a sort of penance for my for my foolishness if she did, At last, the deed was done. I was girded, sewn, and fully patched into my dress. As I sped to the wedding venue, I prayed that the threads would hold. The Lord saw fit to put his hands on the seams, and through pictures, processions, and partying nary a thread came loose. I don't think I will be winning any bridesmaid of the year awards, however, Rudo deserves any and every best roommate EVER award.

It's funny how the days and hours leading up to a wedding can seem delirious and chaotic, but a sweet and reverent calm falls over it all when the bride makes her way down the aisle towards her soon-to-be husband. Their eyes meet, and they find forever to be the sweetest word they know. Cakes, bridesmaids' dresses, family drama, technical difficulties, and rain are all forgotten in the breathless moments when two become on. As Shannon and Jose promised "I do," a gentle rain fell on all heads and matched the tenderness of all the joyous tears. Now that they are one flesh and one mind, may all else fade as they walk together towards their Lord. When I remember the day's fiasco with laughter, I will also remember always remember the celebration with a warm, colorful, dancing fondness. And for that, praise Abba.

Little Bird

T-minus five weeks and I will be graduated from college. With shaking knees and trembling hands, I am tiptoeing up to the edge of adult life and peeking over it. It's a long drop! Not only that, but there are so many things waiting at the bottom: taxes, bills, full-time work responsibilities, numbers numbers numbers... For my whole existence, numbers have been something I've tolerated for the sake of the better things, but I can't run any more. I have to make peace with the piling, peevish numerals of being a grown-up. Also at the bottom of the cliff I see: adventure, freedom, delirious uncertainty, and the tools with which I may forge my own story-path. I think I'm ready to jump. I know the truth is that I'll never know until I dive off, head-first, into this next chapter of my life. It's terrifying. For the first time since I was five years old, I don't know what is going to happen come August. I don't even know what June holds in her ardent, eager hands for me. It's a fluidity that I have always craved in the depths of myself, but now that I have to face the reality of my shaky, colt-legged plans I want to shrink back. No! Suz, you've got this! I think to myself, more certain of my own voice than ever before. I can do anything and go anywhere, but that doesn't mean I HAVE to do everything and go everywhere... "Just do the thing in front of you, Susanna," advised a wise and dear mentor of mine.

I've been writing a great deal of poetry lately (to challenge myself and improve my skills), and in my poems there is an undercurrent of longing and lostness. I see the lives of people around me and my own life, filled with the temptation of self-doubt and the fear of becoming one of "those people" who doesn't belong anywhere anymore. I feel my identity becoming more weighty and stronger, and I begin to flex my long-neglected confidence muscles. But I am so afraid. The fear is threatening to squelch my joy of accomplishment and hope for an exciting and meaningful future. I regularly find myself being envious of the people who seem to know where they are going. They are walking "confidently in the direction of their dreams." I am stepping defiantly towards the unknown, hoping for the best and wanting desperately to become someone extraordinary. I don't mean extraordinary as the kind of person whose name echoes down eternal halls of fame, but the kind of person whose unidentifiable fingerprints are left all over everyone I touch. I want to always be kind. I want to love more passionately than I am able. I want to pour myself out so that I am always being refilled, reshaped and made better. I want to have adventures, but not just the kind that everyone thinks of. I want to become a traveler of people as well as geographical places... I want to know and treasure individuals. I want to become acquainted with cultures drastically different from mine and find what's beautiful about them. There is so much to learn, and I can't even begin to list all the things I want to see and do and say, but then I step back and look at myself honestly... How can I, Susanna, do all those things? I watch myself fall into laziness. I see my tendencies to spew my frustration on the people who love me most. I see the black, filthy snares of my selfishness that beckon me into their arms. I witness my frequent surrender to fear, and I shake my head. I can never be the person I want to be. I am in the way of my own dreams. I am my biggest obstacle.

Then, I stop for a moment. I take a breath, and look up. There are windows high up near the ceiling, and through them I gaze at the endless, azure notion of sky. If I am really my biggest obstacle, then it's not a very big one. I am intimately familiar with a Father who is known by many. He is a Father who crafted me carefully, tenderly, and with more love than I can conceive. I may be a sizable obstacle for myself, but not for him. He knows my path and he knows what I want. I am made to crave what he craves, and pursue the way he pursues. I call him.. "Abba... Help please." He knows, and smiles at me. He's wayyyyy ahead of me already. He knew I would ask for help today. He knew what I would be needing in this very moment. In the end, as long as he knows, everything will be fine. He has never promised me a life of ease or wealth, but he has promised that he is always there. He promises me that I am known. He promises me that he is not surprised by my success nor my failure. And, for now, that is enough. I will become his little bird, and dive off the edge. I trust that his warm and holy winds will catch me and carry precisely where I need to go.

Parabola

Stuart Dobbins holds countless respectable titles. He has been ranked among the Fortune 500, featured on the cover of Forbes Magazine, and probably owns more cars than can be found in a small country. The irony of Stuart Dobbins, however, is that his story is referred to as the “success story of a failure” by most people who know him. I have always been curious about this because while he admits to his humble origin, he has never told the full story. This is the story that he recounted to me when I interviewed him at a recent conference.

                “What comes to mind when I think of the word ‘success?’ That is quite the story, Miss Spearman. Honestly, I was never meant to be great, and I am still far from greatness. I never led an impoverished existence; I never went hungry for anything more than adventure. In my safe, warm home, I lived with my parents who cordially tolerated one another. The walls were covered with sepia-tone photos of our family of three, and my life was a giant white canvas. That bare whiteness resembled my inner space…”

                “Inner space, Mr. Dobbins?” I interrupted, unaware of his meaning.

                “Oh yes, hmmm. I suppose you could call ‘inner space’ the playground for the mind and heart. I apologize for the lack of clarity. All I had ever wanted was color in my life, so I pursued art. Passion, emotion, and depth were what I loved so much about art and those who created it. This love likely stemmed from my previous lack of all three. I adored painting, and that I had the power to create. Whiteness became filled with life and color at my command. My paintings gave voice to imaginings to which I could never ascribe words.”

                “I did not know you were an artist, Mr. Dobbins,” I exclaimed, intrigued. He chuckled, and glanced upwards for a moment as if deciding what to say next. The bright, white lights hung from the expo-center ceiling, and created a colorless ambiance. He continued,

“It is common knowledge that artists rarely make a living from their art. I believe this is only fair, since it would be, in a sense, like selling one’s soul to the highest bidder. Far from home as a young man, I spent countless nights on friends’ couches and I often went weeks without doing anything. When I could not afford art materials, I would sit around and bemoan my inability to express myself. The unfairness of my perceived plight would overwhelm me, and I was hard pressed to see the beauty of my own existence. Those years exemplify what I now consider seasons of immense failure. I failed as an artist not because I was un-talented or lacked passion and desire, but because I made my art for myself only. Anything I could have offered to the world’s life-giving stockpile of beauty was handed over already devoid of value.”

He paused as his words echoed off of the metal walls, and he seemed pensive as he recounted the story. I prompted him, saying, “What happened next, sir?”

“Well, I eventually decided I did not like being a ‘poor, starving artist,’ and pursued a career in business. My creativity was now filtered into a new project birthed from my selfishness; sales. Passion and desire are useful for more than just painting, but often come in handy in convincing people living in colorless worlds that a ‘want’ is a ‘dire need.’ I was an excellent salesman from the beginning. Plastic grins and empty charisma oozed out of my being because I knew what I wanted. At least, I thought I knew. After several years of dazzling material success, I felt little-acquainted with my old self. The “artist Stuart” was long gone, and he had been replaced with “overpaid, reckless Stuart.” Having piles of cash was a new sensation for me, so naturally I did not know how to handle the situation responsibly. I spent money almost as quickly as I earned it on frivolities. Eventually, the day came when I began bouncing checks and having my credit card declined. I was being suckered out of the money I had swindled. Rejection swiftly replaced acceptance. The friends with whom I had previously painted the town scurried away like cockroaches fleeing stomping boots. This time my failure was immediately evident to me, and having experienced gain, I resented friendly-couch homes more than ever. I envied “artist Stuart” for his naïveté. I was mistaken about one thing, though.”

“What is that?” I encouraged.

“I had not failed because my money was gone. I had failed because I had continued to worship myself. I ‘progressed’ from satiating my inner longings through art to spending money in a prodigal manner. My loneliness and emptiness were overwhelming. The final blow came about a month after my money ran out. During my time in sales, I had engaged in some illegal activities regarding the handling of money. You have heard whispers of my money scandal, have you not?”

“I must confess I have, sir,” I admitted.

“Well, now you will know the whole truth of the matter. I broke the law to increase my own wealth, and when I was at my weakest point my retribution came. I was sued for $500,000.00 by my company’s partner for lying on my sales records. I lost my job, I spent the next year in and out of court, and I was left destitute. My parents would not let me come home, I had no friends, and I was living on the streets. It was then that realized that it was my fault that I was a failure, and only then did I begin to learn what true success was. Winston Churchill said, ‘Success consists of moving from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm.' I find it ironic that the definition of success is meaningless without failure. Success, Miss Spearman, is rooted in humility. One who thinks only of himself will never truly be successful because no matter what he owns or how much money he has, his life will be one of insatiable yearning and selfishness. Many judge my success by how many dollars are in my bank account, but I am successful because my heart is full. I have finally created something beautiful for the benefit of others, and I in turn have benefitted. Well, it has been a pleasure, ma’am.”

He smiled, shook my hand and walked away.

Note to readers: This is a definition essay I wrote for my super fun writing class. I hope you enjoy it! Also, can you figure out why it is titled "Parabola?" Please put your guesses in the comment section (on Facebook or Blogspot).

Neuropathy

My little sisters and I hopped eagerly out of the car. I was sixteen years old, and autumn was near. We rushed towards the house with its stone-littered facade; the beige, brown, and grey familiarity beckoned us to enter. The soft, golden afternoon light glowed brilliantly and as the sun was just beginning to sink behind the treetops, I burst through the old creaky storm door. It was, as always, pleasantly smeared and smudged with cloudy, white fingerprints and also with tongue-prints from the dogs, Winston and Churchill. Affectionately known as “the boys”, their fur looked like silky, auburn waves undulating smoothly until reaching the tempest of the ferociously wagging tails. The door slammed behind me with an abrupt and satisfying clatter.

I yelled, “Grandmommy, Grandaddy, we’re heeeeere!” Then, there he was, handsome and sophisticated, standing resolutely in the doorway from the cool, sunny hallway leading into perhaps my favorite kitchen. The kitchen walls were a sagely green--sagely because they knew more than they would admit. The L-shaped, black, granite countertop had housed countless hot, noisy, joyous Spearman meals. Beneath the counter lay the cupboards of mystery; I never could find what I needed from them. Grandmommy was always rearranging them. “Susu, my sweetie!” he called. His bright smile revealed a set of straight, white teeth, and the skin near his twinkling, green eyes bunched delightfully into wave after wave of perfect wrinkles. His clean-shaven face was framed by well-manicured white hair; thick for someone in his 70s. My hero, “my John Wayne” as my cousin Ashley called him, strolled welcomingly in to greet me. I ran towards him, as I always did, jumped into his arms throwing my arms firmly around his strong, proud neck. This time was different, though. “Woah, Baby. Be careful,” he cautioned gently, nearly toppling over. I, a 5’1” 130-pound girl, had nearly knocked over my powerful, 6’2” grandfather. This was the first of countless days that I would walk into that safe, old house to find my John Wayne weaker than before.

“I have ALS,” he proclaimed, “Lou Gehrig's Disease.” I was shocked. What miserable, terrifying disease had the nerve, the gumption, to touch my grandfather? My emotions were in what I thought at the time was an upheaval, but I knew nothing of the pain that would soon find its way into our family. A neuropathy is a type of disease that attacks the brain and nervous system. ALS causes deterioration that slowly and gradually removes the brain’s ability to communicate with the muscles. Because of this decline in control, the muscles begin to atrophy. They continuously wither away until the victim is unable to speak, eat, or eventually breathe. Asphyxiation is a common cause of death in the end. But to me, ALS is more than a disease. It is once strong hands hanging like limp banana peels with concave canyons between formerly nimble, handy fingers. To me, ALS is a black, electric wheelchair, the shiny, metal vehicle that carried the weight that his body and our arms could not bear. To me, ALS is the monster that gave Grandaddy countless nights of terror--waking up unable to breathe or choking on his own saliva. His saucer-like eyes and limp hands, flailing about at the ends of weak, sagging arms.

An autumn Saturday came two years after the first signs of deterioration. The same beige, brown, and grey stone lay beckoning in its mortar prison.The same smudged and smeared storm door slammed reliably behind me, reminding me of the seeming finality of its closing. The same sagely green walls had taught my family more than we wanted to know. A few solemn hours were spent in the kitchen that day. The granite countertop now held the weight of many melancholy conversations in addition to delicious, steaming meals. Amazingly, it was able to bear such a burden. Suffering had given the whole of the old house a tendency to sigh: great, heaving sighs that tried to lend strength to Grandaddy’s weak lungs. Something was hazy about this particular visit. Everyone had grown weary, but God had lain a restful air on us, like a warm, golden embrace. The time soon came for me to go home. I tiptoed across the kitchen and gently pulled open the rumbling, sliding door that led into the den. There he was, handsome and sophisticated and tired. He lay in his wheelchair, reclining slightly, taking short, rattling breaths. I looked fondly on my John Wayne wearing his familiar Clemson paraphernalia, and timidly touched his shoulder. He stirred for a moment. “Are you leaving, Baby?” he inquired. “Yes, Grandaddy. I have to go. I love you so very much.” Unbeknownst to me, “I love you too, Sweetie” were the last words I ever heard him say. I kissed him on his head where his thick, white hair was now replaced with thin, white fuzz. He relaxed back into his repose, and I left him with the warm tingling of a love-filled heart and the icy sensation of the pain of watching someone I love suffer.

Norville Bridges Spearman passed away in his sleep two weeks later on November 5, 2011. But that day, the last time I saw him, touched him, or heard his voice is a day forever burned into my memory.

“His Name Goes Before Me”

Walking down the road of life

Sometimes I am alone

Unknown and new, I search for home

For when I cease to roam

But He has gone before me

His name is known by all

Because his name is my name too

Even strangers heed my call

They only love me ‘cause of him

For I am not so grand

And knowing that I came from him

Makes all stretch out their hands

I know he’s far from perfect

I’m sure he knows it too

But he follows hard the promises

Our God is faithful to

As he grows old and wiser

I wish to be like him

With kindness in my eyes

And my every words a hymn

His name’s his pride, like our God

It’s what he answers to

And at the ending of his life

It will have proven true

How beautiful it is

That his name can keep me safe

And because of him I find

Solace in any place

Fathers' Day 2014

Strengths-Finders 2.0: Susanna's Top 5

These are the results and descriptions of my Strengths-Finder evaluation:

1. Positivity - People who are especially talented in the Positivity theme have an enthusiasm that is contagious. They are upbeat and can get others excited about what they are going to do.
Chances are good that you probably consider yourself an idea person. Your job, studies, or life in
general are more exciting when people ask you to generate novel assignments, activities, or
campaigns. It’s very likely that you often bring an air of excitement to various contests when the sole
aim is to have fun. You feel good about activities that do not involve keeping scores to decide who
wins and who loses. Driven by your talents, you automatically reflect on all the good people, events,
experiences, or opportunities you have encountered in life. You frequently pause to consider
everything for which you are grateful. You probably avoid individuals who seldom say “thank you” or
rarely express appreciation. They think there is a scarcity of good things in life. You, on the other
hand, think there is an overwhelming abundance of good things to enjoy. Because of your strengths,
you often are energetic and filled with glee. Perhaps you are happy to hear that people have
expressed fondness for you. Maybe you go out of your way to notice the fine traits some of these
admirers possess. By nature, you feel very good about yourself and life in general when you
frequently and sincerely compliment your coworkers, classmates, peers, or teammates.

2. Maximizer - People who are especially talented in the Maximizer theme focus on strengths as a way to stimulate personal and group excellence. They seek to transform something strong into something superb.
Driven by your talents, you may have a reputation for being a hard worker. Perhaps this is because
you ensure that your work matches your talents, and because you seek to develop strengths so you
can accomplish even more tomorrow. Chances are good that you might spend more time thinking
about your talents than about your shortcomings. Sometimes you give a lot of thought to your
limitations when you meet with failure or defeat. Rather than try to be someone you are not, you
sometimes partner with individuals who possess talents you lack, and return the favor by sharing your
own talents. By nature, you sometimes give yourself credit for contributing certain talents, knowledge,
skills, and strengths to the group. Instinctively, you now and then give yourself credit for knowing what
to say to certain people. Perhaps you enjoy talking more than listening. Because of your strengths,
you frequently notice what makes each person unique or special. Armed with these insights, you
probably inspire many individuals to move into action. You realize life is more fulfilling for people who
choose tasks and are given assignments that closely match their talents. You often notice the different
moods, need for information, or preferred forms of recognition for the people in your life.

3. Adaptability - People who are especially talented in the Adaptability theme prefer to “go with the flow.” They tend to be “now” people who take things as they come and discover the future one day at a time.
It’s very likely that you can be flexible about how a game is played. Having a good experience is much
more important to you than winning. Many people marvel at your ability to calmly move on to
something else after you have met with defeat. Instinctively, you keep your distance from those who
fail to slow down long enough to take in the world’s loveliness and recognize the goodness of
individuals. Aware of life’s fleeting nature, you discover something admirable in common objects,
ordinary people, and everyday experiences. You choose to live in the present. You exhibit the
flexibility required to deal with change. Because of your strengths, you occasionally rely on your
intuition to make the right decisions as events unfold. To some degree, the present — not the future
and the past — captures your attention. Perhaps you monitor and adjust what you are doing or how
you are doing it as circumstances change, people join and leave the group, problems arise, or new
resources become available. By nature, you have little need to draw attention to yourself and your
accomplishments. Instead, you lavish compliments on your associates. You support them and their
projects with your words and deeds. You are more likely to acknowledge the talents and contributions
of easygoing individuals who refuse to take themselves too seriously. You probably have a harder
time praising colleagues who are so tense and on edge that they make everyone, including
themselves, miserable. Chances are good that you are filled with awe by beauty in the world, in
people, and in the cosmos. Whether you gaze upon nature’s wonders or marvel at the work of human
hands, you are filled with wonder. You can suddenly stop what you are doing to watch a sunset, listen
to the rustle of leaves, stand before a work of art, hear a piece of music, look through a telescope, or
hold a newborn child. You experience beauty at a level many people cannot imagine. Once the
moment has passed, you can still picture the scene or hear the sound in your memory.

4. Connectedness - People who are especially talented in the Connectedness theme have faith in the links between all things. They believe there are few coincidences and that almost every event has a reason.

Driven by your talents, you may convince people that a project or cause improves humankind’s quality

of life. Occasionally you persuade them how important it is to protect the planet’s resources for future

generations. Perhaps you help people realize they can accomplish more good as a group than they

can as individuals. Instinctively, you sometimes feel a particular yearning to control your life, and to

leave your mark on the world. To some extent, you know you are somehow linked to every human

being on the planet. This partially explains why you sense whatever you choose to do or not do

affects them just as their choices eventually affect you. You might feel you are walking a tightrope

between wanting to be totally independent and knowing you need others to survive. By nature, you

sense you are linked to all humanity. You contend that harming another human being eventually

harms you. Misusing the environment has personal consequences, you argue. This perspective on life

influences your thoughts, actions, decisions, or choices. Chances are good that you routinely take

time to listen to the philosophies of people. You prefer to associate with individuals who share your

optimistic outlook on life. You undoubtedly avoid people who complain, gossip, or blame others for

their endless misery. Because of your strengths, you now and then engage in laborious tasks. You

might yearn to dedicate yourself to some worthy cause or noble purpose. Perhaps fortifying the bonds

between yourself, the people you know, and even those you will never meet gives your life special

meaning.

5. Developer - People who are especially talented in the Developer theme recognize and cultivate the potential in others. They spot the signs of each small improvement and derive satisfaction from these

improvements. It’s very likely that you value financial security, but you refuse to think about it as much as many people do. You measure the quality of your life in less tangible but more meaningful ways. You place

a higher priority on spending time with family and friends than working overtime to make extra money.

You prefer a simple, less costly vacation to an expensive trip. You treasure a gift someone made for

you more than a costly present purchased at an upscale, trendy store. By nature, you have keen

awareness and insights into the moods of individuals. You tend to be highly responsive to others’

thoughts and feelings. Not everyone can sit with a person as he or she experiences a full range of

emotions: happiness, anger, frustration, gratitude, contentment, sadness, elation, despair, or grief.

You rarely distance yourself from those who you sense need you to be there for them. Because of

your strengths, you enjoy activities involving youngsters more than those involving adults. You truly

appreciate their fresh ideas about how to deal with life’s challenges. Maybe their childlike dreams

prompt you to provide them with special growth opportunities. Driven by your talents, you are known

for being an upbeat and sociable person. You make a point of praising young people when they do

things well or show even the smallest signs of personal growth. Your obvious joy in their successes

affirms and motivates them. Chances are good that you sometimes throw yourself into your work even

when you are personally inconvenienced. To some extent, you place the well-being of others above

your own.

"Read the World"

Advocacy Project Research Paper- Anecdote Version

by Susanna

Halima lay awake on her mat. Her husband Babatunde’s heavy breathing had turned to snoring, so she resigned herself to being awake. The sun was not yet up, but she knew morning was near. The birds outside soared over her hut singing the world back to life. She propped herself up on her elbow and gazed pensively at her husband. He was not unattractive, she thought to herself, but she feared him. Behind his dark, handsome features he hid an unbridled fierceness that only Halima saw. Around the village he was considered a respectable and genial person. People were surprised that such a man wanted to buy Halima, a gangly, scrawny daughter of a poor man, for his wife. They could not have known that he was merely stingy and wanted her mostly because she was so young. Her father could not afford to feed her and Babatunde wanted a wife he could “mold like clay.”

She was ten years old when they were married. She was now twelve and pregnant with her first child. When Halima did not become pregnant within the first year of marriage Babatunde said it was because he had been too kind to her, therefore she did not respect him enough to bear him a son. Then the beatings began. Most days he made a ritual of hitting her repeatedly on the face when he arrived home or throwing her on the ground a couple times. One day, however, the worst day of her short life, he came home in a drunken rage.  He had seen Halima’s friend Awende in the village toting her twin sons home. She tried to explain to Babatunde that Awende was three years older than herself and had been married since she was eight years old, but he was too drunk to hear or care about any of that. He reached out and clutched her fragile neck and thrust her against the wall of the hut. He grabbed a blunt, old machete and waved it in her face, shouting hatefully at her. Silent tears streamed down her face. She trembled in uncontrollable terror. He gripped her small face in his free hand and snarled, “Stop crying, you worthless piece of garbage. Your life is nothing!” he spat. “But you belong to me nonetheless, so I will try to make use of you! I will make sure you can never leave me. I will mark you so all will know you are my property.” He ripped off her clothes and threw her to the ground. Then, as she tried to crawl away from him, he began carving an “X” in her lower back with the dull machete. She screamed in agony. He kicked her repeatedly in the face, telling for her to be silent. She couldn’t see through the blood dripping from her forehead into her eyes. He then forsook the machete for a long, thin piece of firewood that he began using as a bludgeon. She writhed in pain as her own blood pooled around her. He pounded her body until he had exhausted his energy, which was some time later. Eventually, he dropped his bludgeon and rolled her nearly unrecognizable, emaciated frame over with his foot. He dropped to his knees, grabbed a fist-full of her hair, and jerked her head up to an inch from his face. He whispered, his breath rank with alcohol, “You are stupid and worthless, woman…A waste of life. Bear me a son, or I will kill you.” He dropped her head back onto the wet ground, then collapsed, worn out, on their mat. Halima, too weak and in pain to even weep, prayed that she would die as her world faded to blackness.

That was one year ago. He had broken her nose and, she guessed, several ribs. Nearly every part of her body bore scars from that night or various other times when he beat her violently. She could not see the “X” on her lower back, but sometimes when she bathed she would finger the rough scar absent-mindedly. Her nose had healed back a little crooked and her ribs still ached from time to time. This particular morning she hoped her husband would sleep for a few extra hours. She placed her scarred hands on her protruding belly and whispered gently, “My Child, this world you are being born into is even darker than your skin will be. You have a cruel father and a stupid, worthless mother. For your sake, I at least hope you are a boy.” She got up, slipped into her clothes, put on her head scarf, and tiptoed out of the house. She headed towards the market. It was an hour walk one direction, so by the time she had arrived the sun was all the way above the horizon. Halima loved the hustle and bustle of the bazaar because she could disappear. She felt invisible, but in a way that made her feel powerful. She preferred being invisible to being seen and despised. She liked the vivid colors that surrounded the various booths, and the warm yellow light from the sun as it climbed towards its throne high in the sky. This particular morning, however, there was an uncharacteristic type of chaos going on in the center of the market. As she drew nearer she wondered what was going on in the middle of the big group of children. They all chattered excitedly in Swahili. Not one to make her own presence known, Halima stood silently on the outermost edge of the group, craning her neck to check out the action. All of a sudden, a tall, white woman with long blonde hair stood up. She towered over the children, beaming kindly down at them. She wore a beautiful blue and purple skirt that swept all the way down to her ankles, and a white t-shirt with the picture of an elephant on the front. Many little brown hands tugged at her skirt and shirt, and reached up to touch her soft hair. Halima liked the look of the woman, but began backing slowly and shyly away. The woman called softly towards her in Swahili. “Come here, Beautiful!” she said. Halima giggled at her funny accent, and continued backing away. “Where are you going?” said the woman, locking eyes with Halima. She was shocked, because she would never have thought the woman would be addressing her. She had forgotten that she was not actually invisible, and no one in her whole life had ever called her beautiful. The woman caught up to her in a few strides and squatted down to look Halima in the eyes. “Hello, Beautiful,” she said sweetly. Halima wanted to laugh and cry all at once. She was terrified yet jubilant. 

“My name is Lana,” said the woman.  “Lana,” repeated Halima in barely more than a whisper. “What is your name?” questioned Lana. Halima shook her head. “I bet it is a lovely name because you are very lovely.” Halima shook her head again and tears came into her eyes. “Well then, I will just call you ‘Lovely’ until you are ready to tell me your name,” chuckled Lana, stroking Halima’s brown face. “Do you go to school, Lovely?” questioned Lana. Halima shook her head once again. Halima hardly knew what a school looked like, much less been inside one. Lana reached inside her bag and pulled out a notebook and a pencil. She wrinkled her eyebrows and peered at Halima. Then she began to draw. Within ten minutes Lana had drawn a picture of a beautiful little girl, with brown skin and a slightly crooked nose. As she finished the shading Halima clapped and said, “It’s beautiful! Who is it?” Lana frowned slightly and said, “Have you never seen what you look like before, Lovely?” “Of course not!” replied Halima immediately. “But my husband assures me I should be glad I can’t see myself. He wishes he didn’t have to.” Lana looked shocked and said, “Your husband is wrong, Lovely. You are stunning! This is a picture of you!” Halima sat on the ground, looked up at Lana and tears began to pour from her sparkling brown eyes. Then she looked down at her belly and stroked it gently. Lana plopped down beside the weeping girl and wrapped her in a strong, warm embrace. Once Halima stopped crying she said weakly, “I am Halima.” Lana smiled her biggest smile yet and proclaimed, “I knew it! I knew it!” “What?” asked Halima, confused. “Your name is beautiful! Do you know what it means?” “No,” responded Halima. “It means gentle!” said Lana delightedly. “Halima, Halima, Gentle one,” Lana chimed in a sing-song voice. Halima did not understand this beautiful white woman. She was the only person who had ever noticed Halima with something other than disdain. Lana clasped both of Halima’s hands in her own and said, eyes twinkling, “I have to show you something!” She pulled out another book and opened to a page somewhere in the middle. All of the pages were covered in tiny black markings that Halima could not decipher. She had seen similar markings on signs around the village, but did not know what to make of them. “Here!” said Lana, pointing to one particular group of markings. “That is your name.” Halima was puzzled. “How can that be my name?” she asked. “This book is full of letters, and letters make up words. You can write down things that are said. People can send messages, tell stories, and go on adventures just from learning to read,” replied Lana. “I cannot learn to read,” said Halima despondently. “Why not?” demanded Lana. “I am stupid…” declared Halima, hanging her head in shame. Lana stood up to her full height and looked up at the sky for a moment. She then looked down at Halima, her face sober and filled with pain. “Did your husband tell you that too, Halima?” she questioned. Halima was silent. Lana leaned down and whispered in her ear, “You are smart. I can see it in your eyes. Your child will be smart and beautiful just like you. I will teach you to read, and you will teach your child. That way you will be able to read the world together.” “Read the world?” said Halima. “Yes, when you can read then the world belongs to you. You can read it.” “Read the world…” echoed Halima in wonder. For the first time in her life, Halima felt a warm, tingling sensation rising from her toes and permeating her entire body. She beamed at Lana, reaching out and linking her hand with the tall, white woman with a funny accent. This must be what hope feels like, she thought. I like it

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Afterward: Women and little girls all over the world, especially in impoverished areas, face the same thing that little Halima faced. They fall prey to early marriage, abuse, oppression, rape, prejudice, human trafficking and countless other horrors. At the root of these terrors are countless causes, such as ignorance, poverty, corruption, war, and violence. Another issue plaguing our world and subjecting helpless and innocent people to the horror and cruelty of reality is lack of education. Being able to read and write, especially in a Lingua Franca (English, French, German, etc.), opens so many doors to the oppressed that would otherwise be closed to them.

            “According to the CIA World Factbook, almost 75% of the world's 775 million illiterate adults are concentrated in ten countries (in descending order: India, China, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nigeria, Ethiopia, Egypt, Brazil, Indonesia, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo). Women represent two-thirds of all illiterate adults globally. Extremely low literacy rates are focused in three regions: South Asia, West Asia and Sub-Saharan Africa”