shokufeh is…home

Lately, MrMan’s been taking a long time to fall asleep.  I’ll come home, thinking he’s asleep, and then, in the darkness, I hear him asking Sam, “What’s that noise?  Is Mee home? What are those lights?”  Last week, when that happened, I just carried on quietly and didn’t go near his room.  Tonight, when I got home from an LSA meeting, I decided to see if going to see him would hasten his trip to dreamland.

Mee!  You were at LSA?

Yes. I was at LSA.

Oh…. What is LSA?

It’s a kind of Baha’i meeting.

Dancing?

No, LSA means Local Spiritual Assembly.  We were talking about things in the community.

In Louisiana?

Yes, in Louisiana.  New Orleans, Louisiana.

His questions answered, to some degree, he was snoring ten minutes later.

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MrMan is the youngest of the cousins. At least for a brief while longer. (Though maybe not briefly enough from my sister-in-law’s perspective.)

On Sam’s side, we have four girls – three in one family, one in another. The one is soon to welcome a little brother. We spent Christmas with all of them, in Chicago.

On my side, a cousin is a mom to two boys. They and MrMan are the only ones of their generation in my dad’s family, the smallest Persian family in the world. We spent a week with them last summer.

Then there are the designated cousins – the two daughters of one of my friends. She and I grew up together, and her parents still live here.  The friend lives with her family in Atlanta, and we evacuated there for Gustav, and have seen them here once or twice since then.  Last month when they were here, MrMan was having trouble remembering their names,  so to describe who he was talking about, he called them his cousins.  (He was concerned that maybe they didn’t have penises, but was okay with it once it was explained that it was because they were girls.)  He even calls their grandparents by their grand-titles sometimes, so I guess it fits.

All of these kids are older than MrMan.  And live in other cities.  But this morning he got it in his head that he was going to give them some clothes.  So he selected a few things (ones that fit, mind you), located a bag, and stuffed them in.  Maybe it’s because he wears hand-me-downs from the boys in the family.  Maybe he got tired of the clothes.  Maybe he was feeling generous.  Whatever the reason, he filled up this small paper bag and carried it to the car this morning.  Maybe I’ll find out the next step in his plan this evening.

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Last night, I went to book group, leaving Sam and MrMan with dinner from the freezer – pizza, and broccoli. (How I love the convenience and tastiness that is frozen broccoli.)

This morning, I was chatting with MrMan about his evening.

“What did you have for dinner last night?” I asked.

“Bugs.”

“Bugs?! What kind?”

“Blueberry bugs, and cockroaches.”

As the conversation continued, it became apparent that he has standards about what he’d be willing to eat.

“…But we don’t eat butterflies. No butterfly wings.”

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“And what did you say to the pandas?”

“Don’t poop on the yogurt!”

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You know those life experiences that freak you out at the time? But then become fodder for why your life is interesting? This is one of those.

(Shenyang, China)

Wednesday, June 5, 1996 – 10:30 pm

Approximately one hour ago, I pulled a worm out of my butt.  Yes, that does say worm, and that does say butt.  I went to the bathroom, and then started to take a shower, beginning with my backside.  I touched something and pulled a little.  It didn’t seem to be leftover toilet paper, too sturdy to be mucus. Did I have an old tampon stuck in there? I was scared to pull on it, but I did.  And then there was a worm, wriggling a little, lying on my bathroom floor.

Needless to say, I screamed, several times.  The household came.  I opened the door and told them I’d had a worm inside and I’d pulled it out of my butt.

Paisley’s the most freaked out.  After my initial shock, I though it was kind of funny.  We called Jalal after I (showered and ) dressed.  Her reaction was, “there’s a first time for everything.”  Then she told me to go to the doctor, but not before she told me she used to check her shit religiously in Africa.  But she’s never had worms.

I put it in a plastic bag and took it downstairs right before lights out.  Nobody freaked out.  They said it was from dirty vegetables,a dn that since my stomach didn’t hurt I don’t need to go to the doctor.  Their reaction was what I’d jokingly pictured.  Julie said it should be longer, that this one is short.

This country’s a trip.  I’ll go to the doctor tomorrow just to be sure.

It’s funny the things I miss about the life I used to lead.  This was the first of several worm experiences I had during my two years in China.  And probably the best.  (Can one say that?)  Not because of the worm itself but because of the circumstances surrounding it.  Thirteen years later and I still remember my flatmates clustered at the bathroom door as I haltingly screamed that I’d just pulled a worm. out. of. my. butt.  One roommate proceeded to panic about the fact that she bit her nails.  One started laughing and had soon come up with the theory that a bigger worm had kicked this worm out. My students thought it was pretty funny, too, but maybe that was just because I thought it was a big enough deal to put the worm in the bag and go see them about it before they went to bed.

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For the past year and a half, I’ve been very focused on the fact that this coming December will be my last payment on my education: after ten years, I will have paid off the loans I took to complete my MPH.
However, it wasn’t until I received an email this morning, asking for volunteers for the May commencement, that it hit me that I’m now just a few months shy of it being ten years since I graduated from public health school.  It hardly seems that long.
I’m sitting here, trying to process that in my head. Maybe more importantly, my heart.

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