Skin Deep: A year in review

June 2016.

I remember leaving my room, looking around to lock it in my memory. The giant, three-paneled, black and white senior portfolio project from Alex A hanging behind my bed as the headboard; the deco wooden end-table with orange glass tiles on the top that I bought with Nora Y three summers ago at a Marengo consignment shop; the carefully placed collection of world trinkets on a desk near the window —including a wooden giraffe with it’s leg cracked up the side that my dad bought me from Uganda when I was in elementary school; stacks of books organized by preference rather than genre or title; a large jar with the insignia of my favorite brewery in Indianapolis that used to contain a signature blonde ale; the collection of scarves bought over a period of four years starting with the black and gray Ethiopian one I bought my brother (he’d left it at home by accident, so I kept it) and ending with the fluffy blanket-scarf I’d bought on a road trip to Ohio with Marcelo V.

I closed my door and clunked down the stairs, towing my carry-on. My mom’s blonde hair hadn’t been fixed yet, and she was in the bathroom blow-drying it. My dad was probably in there, too, showering or something. I looked through my baggage again to make sure everything was in place, and checked my iPhone for the time. There was still half an hour. I sat down on the living room couch and memorized the front room. A portion was dedicated simply to letting light into the room, with windows extending the entire expanse, covered by off-white drapes. Outside, the lovely houses, with dark-green lawns, were waking up, and every so often a car would pass by quietly. I stood and went into the kitchen to get some water, pouring it from the Keurig filter into an oversized plastic cup.

“Hi Luker,” dad said, entering the kitchen.

“Are you guys almost ready?” I asked, getting anxious.

“Well, duh!” Dad made a face at me, rolling his head and twisting his finger near his temple.

I laughed, “you’re so weird,” and left the room to put my bags in the covered porch near the carport. Dad followed me and put the bags into the trunk. When we’d finished, mom was coming out the door, ready to go. She was calling my twin sister:

“Logan! Come on, we’re about to leave!”

Dad went inside, calling in a silly voice, “Moe-Moe, come downstairs, your brother is leaving for two years!”

Then Moe emerged, her hair a complete tangled mess, and her face twisted inward as though she hadn’t seen light until the moment she stepped outside. She had a blanket draped around her. We walked toward each-other.

“Bye,” she said, only.

“Bye Moeny.” I gave her a bigger hug than she generally likes, and left to go sit in the car. She watched on the front stoop until we’d fully gone. And then we were at the airport, and I got on a plane, and I met 19 amazing people in Washington D.C. And all of us flew to Comoros, Africa the next day, and most of us stayed in Comoros for a full year. We taught English, we learned Shikomori, we grew close, and we grew apart. I met my Comoran families, one from Mvouni and one from Sima. And I met my sister, Mousna, named after the prophet Moussa (or Moses). And we made so much food together, and laughed together, and cried together too many times. And a year passed. And I grew.

June 2017.

This morning I woke up behind a mosquito net, cuddling my beloved cat, Oskar Daniel. I’d been dreaming of a distant world where everyone I loved was together and watching the new Wonder Woman movie. After a bit of a forced happy ending, I finally sit up and look around my room. Concrete walls painted over white, except for one section where I have penciled in a design. On another wall is a collection of 40-or-so pictures of home and friends. And on my door is taped drawings from Logan’s students or some kids from my neighborhood. Oskar and I yawn and do our routine morning stretch. He then circles around the foot of my bed, closing his eyes again to sleep. I step out of the netting and roll it up, so my bed is open to the room. As soon as I open my door, Oskar jumps out of bed and goes to patrol the house for mice and insects. I cross the hall (also my kitchen) to the bathroom and get ready for the day. It’s similar to America: I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, fix my hair. The biggest difference is the lack of running water. I use a plastic bottle cut at the top as a cup to fill with water from my giant bathroom bucket. I use it to do everything from wash dishes to flush the toilet to bathe. One of these days I’ll remember to cut a second bottle for the toilet, but bottles are out of my budget and bad for the environment.

When I finish, I pour coffee from my cold-press (a glass bottle that used to hold juice) and open my front door, so I can sit on the covered porch. To my left is the concrete wall of my house. It’s covered in scuff marks including some near the roof that make no sense as to how they got there. In front of me are several fruit trees, my school, and the distant ocean cut just below eye-level by the sky. To my right is my mango tree, some banana trees, and the skeleton of a car that’s since been used to hold clippings from when my neighbor gardens. Oskar loves to lie in that car among the grass and branches. He gets so dirty. I live near the main road, so cars pass pretty consistently all day. Cars are much louder here than in America. Nearly every car I have encountered needs a new muffler or something. Sometimes this stresses me out —it’s too loud to think. But today I thought ahead and brought headphones, so I could listen to music.

In the twelve months that I left the United States of America, so much has happened. I was going to list them out, but I’d need to bring politics into the list, and I know I can’t do that without losing readers. I hate how partisan we are these days. It’s extremists versus extremists, both completely unable to consider the opinion of the other without dismissing the ideas as either “fake” or “illogical.” In all honesty, I’m not sure I made the right choice in coming to Comoros over supporting America. We are such an unstable nation right now, ready to break in half. But then I hear the rhetoric of “America First,” and know I am doing the right thing. We can’t live in this global world pretending America is our only concern. Everyone is so distracted with their day-to-day that they forget that there is a day-to-day in Comoros, too. And in France. And China. And Sweden. And everywhere else in the world. And some people, myself included, now have to approach the world apologetically. I have lost credibility simply by being American, and now I’m not coming from a place of progress, but regress.

Everything that I loved about America, everything that truly made America great, is fading. We are no longer celebrating our differences. Instead of approaching difference as positive, we approach it as dividing. White people are all ignorant racists, and people of color are any large number of things including the newly emerged “privileged” (which makes no sense). Christians are all bigots and Muslims are all terrorists. Democrats are all elitist conformers and Republicans are all ignorant sheep.

We are no longer pushing forward in political policy, but are rather regressing into a theist government like exists here in Comoros: policies are increasingly based after one set of religious values rather than built to encompass a wide range of beliefs.

We are no longer considered a total democracy, but rather a flawed one (which, granted, would have happened regardless of who was elected). So one of our strongest held mantras, “Land of the Free” isn’t completely true anymore —and honestly, may have never been true to begin with.

Essentially, I’ve been having an existential crisis for the last few months —a crisis long overdue that I’m honored to experience because it’s written about by many of the greats. I’ve come to recognize that nothing really matters, and that life is made up of events in which we project our own meaning —actually coined as the term “existentialism,” which is fun. It’s not that I agree with the philosophy of existentialism as a whole, but rather my mind is reconciling certain truths through the filter of existentialism (in that my choices make the path my life ends up using, and I need to live as my authentic self —which is one I create myself— whilst believing in the possibly paradoxical idea of making meaning and recognizing that there is no meaning unless I make it). And all of this is happening under a second, post-modern filter in which I recognize everything is subjective, and my believing this one truth is simply a product of my subjectivity in the world, and that this may not be the truth for others, and may not even be my future truth. And may not even be true.

I used to be a hardcore romantic, thinking everything that happens in life happens for a reason. I don’t know if I’m broken, or simply disillusioned, but I don’t think that way anymore. I can’t get over the fact that everything is random and nothing really matters and life is a chain of infinite possibilities. And one of those possibilities led me to write this, and there isn’t a “why.” I mean, there might be, but I’m not in a place to believe that there is. And that “why” is something I won’t be able to figure out except in retrospect, anyway. That’s why I haven’t been writing much. And now it’s been a year of this, and I can’t say I’m in a much different place than I was before.

Don’t get me wrong, I have been learning. I understand my birth country and my host country better now. That is for certain. I’ve been given a chance to look at America from a distance, and it’s interesting to see events unfold from an environment that isn’t affected by these events. I have also come to learn about the culture of Comoros and the traditions and values upheld here by not only my host family, but most Comoran nationals. And there have been two striking similarities I’d like to share with you all.

The first is that following Islam is so similar to following Christianity. Everything that is haram or sinful excluding animals and food is vice versa sinful or haram. In both religions, the same God is being worshiped, the same rules are being followed, and the same “Jesus Freak” mentality is glorified except about God rather than Jesus (or Issa). I’ve heard songs that sound exactly like Christian songs I’ve heard in America with the word “God” changed to “Allah.” I’ve seen Christian movies from my childhood dubbed in Shikomori to tell stories from the Koran (my favorite to watch was the one of Youssouf or Joseph). And yet, as soon as Islam is mentioned in Christian circles, there is trouble. And Christianity, though not considered evil, is taboo here, too. It’s so odd to look at this phenomenon objectively. I’ve had so many flashbacks to my Christian childhood while talking to people here, and yet all anyone seems to recognize are the extremists in the news. Not my devout host mother who tells me Koranic stories that I already know because they are the same in the Bible. And not my Muslim director who is working closely with me on my library project —being funded by a Christian church. Why do people think Islam is so evil when, from my year of experience here, it seems nearly identical to my Christian experience?

The second similarity between Comoros and America I’d like to share is the amount of love I’ve received from my host family. I am a son or brother. I don’t “feel” like one. I’m not “treated” like one. I am one. Mousna and I have a similar rapport as Logan and I (and also share the same birthday, coincidentally). My Comoran mother and I laugh and sing together just like my American mother and I do. I’m blessed to have met such amazing people who have shown me something I was hoping with all of my heart: that difference really IS skin deep. That’s one to add to my list of “things I’ve learned in Comoros.”