Mom's graduation and life in the meantime

So, a few weeks ago, my mom graduated from ULK--Kigali Independent University (why they retain the French acronym and use the English full title is beyond me) along with...I don't know...maybe 2,000+ other people? About as many as I graduated from high school with, right? Only in high school, they didn't have scheduled arrival times for different sorts of guests spaced half an hour apart, nor did they have several never ending speeches. In short, it was not six hours long. I, like any good American child, brought a book and my iphone for entertainment. My siblings? They brought a can of pringles and a box of biscuits (cookies). Rwandan children are apparently expected to fend for themselves in any and all things. My siblings don't have any toys or books at home (unless you count the xbox...for real. And the books I assume one of them borrows from school), so entertainment consists of beating each other up (like any good Rwandan/Ugandan child), whining, asking for my computer, or talking non-stop. Ahem, 7 year-old. And so this is basically how the ceremony went. For six hours. There were two other muzungus sitting near me (a nun and some dude), and both brought books with them. We were the only ones that did so, and lord did they come in handy. Something about our raising, I guess. Lord help these kids if they ever have to go on a long car/plane ride...

So anyway, after the ceremony, we took pictures then headed back home for the party. My mom's graduation (oh, by the way, she studied Administrative Sciences, or something of the like) party basically consisted of moving the living room furniture out into the front yard, surrounding that with lawn chairs, and then sitting there for hours as people gave speeches and gifts to my mom. And sang and danced. Even my 21 year old sister who never comes home was there with her friends. Birthdays aren't really that big of a deal here, so i assumed graduations wouldn't be either. Just kidding. I went to bed before everything even finished. I go to bed at 10 here, it's crazy. Anyway, we had a first round of starches (lunch) when we got home and a second round (dinner) half way through the speeches. They brought in extra helpers and made (super super fresh) chicken. Pretty sure I saw almost the entire transition from a bunch of chickens running around the back yard to pans full of chicken waiting to be eaten. Me? I ate fries and matoke. Nom. And of course, Fanta. What special occasion would be complete without fanta?

That aside, I've just been feeling really homesick lately. It comes and goes, and right now it's gone, which is nice. Sometimes, I'm glad to be here, to take the bus, to live with a family. Sometimes, it doesn't bother me at all when people stare at me or say muzungu (like when I had a herd of small children follow me through Nyarutarama (this fancy neighborhood) for about 10 minutes trying to give me flowers and profess their love for me. They learn early). But there are also some days when I just can't handle it and I'll stop dead in my path and stare back at someone til they look away, mouth "what??" to the dude across the aisle at church who has stared at me for HALF AN HOUR STRAIGHT, laugh at the kids who ask me for bon-bons, quip back to the young guys who go "we, muzungu!" that "my name is not muzungu." Or even better--the guy that fell down the hill, stood up, and told me that I was sexy, to which I replied "that's a really rude thing to say to me when you don't even know me." Not that they can understand my words, but hopefully the disgust translates well. And really, at that point, I don't care to speak Kinyarwanda. Though, it's funny. Just when I'm feeling as out of place as can be, I'll walk into an alimentation, carry on a short greeting conversation in Kinyarwanda, then ask for what I want, and the Rwandans there are just blown away that I can speak so much Kinyarwanda and I've only been there three months! It's pretty funny. And I feel like I hardly speak any at all. The two year olds at work speak more than I do. But really, three months is enough. I'm ready to go home. Yeah, it's hitting me that we only really have a month and a half left and that we're moving out of our host homes next weekend (fleedommmmm!!!) and that we still haven't been on more than one big trip while here, but honestly, I'm ready to go home. I'm sure I'll miss it once I'm back, but right now... The other group is only here for 3 months and they did their homestays for about 2 months as opposed to our 3. We each think the other has the better program, but honestly, 3 months sounds great for me.

Oh well. In the meantime, thank god for pringles and snickers. And Mr. Chips and the crazy awesome american dude that runs the place.

Oh, also, it's memorial week here. Genocide memorial week. I plan on writing about that once the week is over. It's been an interesting experience.