Lovely

I spent the weekend in Blantyre, or rather in Chigumula which is just outside of Blantyre. I went with Clement, who I have been dating over the past three months, to meet his family (I suppose now that both families know I'm ready to announce this here). Honestly I was a bit nervous to meet his family for a few reasons, (1) culturally it's a big deal, (2) he told me that I would be meeting 20-30 family members during the visit, and (3) I have heard many stories about Malawian parents not wanting their children to partner with foreigners, some even going as far as to cunningly sabotage the relationship.

I feel the need to say a bit about this concept of cultural preservation, which I think at times might be called racism. Dr. Sadik, the former Deputy Secretary General of the UN made a statement at the UN Conference on Women in 1995 that I believe applies to many subjects and I like to reread her words from time to time:

"We must not bend under the weight of spurious arguments invoking culture or traditional values . . . The function of culture and tradition is to provide a framework for human well being. If they are used against us, we will reject them and move on. We will not allow ourselves to be silenced."

Culture is not static; it is the constantly evolving story of a people; it is a collection of wisdom and knowledge acquired over generations. Traditions are the tools, rites, and behaviors used to remind people of what is most important in life. Traditions are used to reinforce values and uphold life. I feel very strongly that all cultures deserve respect, but equally strongly that culture should never fuel arguments/actions that maginalize, disempower, or destroy. Every generation must contribute to the growth of its culture, in this way ensuring its longevity, responsiveness, and relevancece to their context. Every generation must accept what is useful and reject what is not. However, rejection based soley upon difference is rooted in fear and ultimately diminishes what it attempts to preserve.

As a true mutt myself, or swirl (a sweeter term coined by my cousin Joe), I especially detest the common argument that interracial relationships are selfish/wrong because they give no consideration for the poor children destined to be social misfits. Most of us swirls are well-adjusted human beings and, in my perspective, having a multi-racial background is a gift. There is something special about never perfectly matching the crowd; viewing life through multiple lenses may contribute to a deeper sense of empathy and a heightened awareness of the dangers associated with monochromatic perspectives.

Thankfully, Clement's family was lovely and warm even though the weather was a frigid 50 or 60 something.

Blantyre is a short three-hour drive south from Lilongwe but on the express bus it's a painful five hours. I think my 650MK bought me 4 cubic feet of space. Anyway, we arrived stiff but intact early afternoon on Saturday. After walking through the gate we first met and greeted his grandmother, then his mother found us and gave me a big hug, and so it began. There were waves of handshakes, hugs, kisses, and smiles attached to names and descriptions of relationships. (I tried hard and failed to memorize them all; I'm still hoping for a diagramed cheat sheet.) His parents live about 100 yards from his maternal Uncle and between the two households there are almost 20 children. Three of his mother's siblings have died and left children, so now all these cousins are regarded as brothers and sisters and many move fluidly between the houses. Clement himself is the oldest of 8 but I think I only met three of his real siblings, the rest were away at various boarding schools. The weekend was full, and so was I (I think I ate five meals a day). I chatted for hours with his dad, mom, and uncle; went for a long walk with his sister and cousins; slept in a room with his sister and grandmother; took warm bucket baths behind the house; and held chicks, puppies and toddlers. Everything felt good. It felt like acceptance and Clement told me that I passed the test 100%.



Monday morning I took another express bus back to Lilongwe, which brought me home in a mere 6 hours, and this time I had the seat next to the door with a sign reading, "Not for Passenger Use." The seat was better than the one I had on my previous ride even though I ended up sharing a corner of it with Joseph, the guy who opens and closes the door. And, even though I had to jump out at every stop and/or hold my hands in front of my face to ward off the blows of cabbage, carrots, tomatoes, and bottles being thrust in the door by dozens of overeager vendors all clamoring to fit produce and bodies through the single port of access to potential customers. A sense of humor is easier to come by when you're well rested.