::Random Reflections::

In an effort to post more frequently, I have decided to add Random Reflections--a series of incomplete pieces.

::Reflections in Neutral::

On my drive to work in the morning, there’s a spot which, although briefly, instantly transports me to the top of Churchill Road with the City Hall behind me. As I roll down in neutral, I look ahead down the narrowing stretch of busy asphalt to the unmistakable roundness of Commercial Bank. There, to the left, in the block of faded lime-green sits the Ministry of Defense. Across the street, the National Theater with its colorful wall curiously defies brightness. As if insistent on missing half of everything around him, the Lion of Judah locks his elongated neck in an eternal Eyes Right. At the very bottom, Legehar, once an imposing representation of Ethiopia’s foot inside the door of modern transportation, but now nothing more than a relic of a long-since missed opportunity.

I inhale the Addis air—a familiar mixture of exhaust fumes, dust, and stale neTelah—which, to a foreigner, seems pungent, but to those of us who breathed it as children, it is home. As with the view from Arada, Ethiopia’s great promise lies at her feet—prostrate.

Can Ethiopia rise like the Phoenix out of the ashes?

::Random Reflections: Ethiopian Enuphtuals::

Know that feeling when you wake up from a dream just before what you want to happen happens? That's what it felt like when the the much-dreaded invitation to a second cousin's nephew's wife's aunt's wedding arrived in the mail. Wait, make that TWO invitations. Damn! Almost made it clear through the season, and then . . . .

You know what I mean; it's the same faces, same prolonged "Mushera" entrance, same InjeranaweT. I can't wait--squeal!--to go to yet another intimate ceremony with 974 other close relatives and friends whose only chance of picking out the happy couple in the crowd is to be sober enough to recognize the over-sized white dress. And I'm positively tickled pink to be encountering people who seem to know my whole family history, while I pinch my chin and frown, as if trying to recall the last occasion during which I had the fabulous pleasure of seeing them. And, of course, best of all: I'll gain immediate, mandatory enrollment in an Amharic-language immersion course.

It never fails: we meet one of my husband's very distant "relatives," commonly referred to as cousin, aunt, or uncle, depending on age. Their last encounter was when she saw a picture of him at 8 months. No matter. They embrace, break off to kiss on the cheek four or twelve times while holding each other's arms, embrace again, then some more kisses punctuated by the repeated questions:

Indeme-*muah*-neh? Dehena-*muah*-neh?

Dehenah. *muah* Anchi dehenah-*muah*-nish?

After about five minutes of that, it's my turn. I can usually fake it through the initial greeting stage just fine. But when the questions branch off into actual conversation, the darting eyes and nervous half-smile are a dead give-away. My cover's blown. Then come the raised eyebrows, chin cradled in hand, the incredulity in her voice.

Indeh! You don't speak Amharic?!

That's right, I'm an Ethiopian who doesn't speak Amharic. And for inexplicable reasons, some take it upon themselves to teach me "just one word a day" because "it's very easy." Don't get me wrong, I wish I knew how to speak Amharic, but if I have to hear "You have to learn" one more time, I think I'm going to boil my brain.

I guess I shouldn't complain, though, because unlike the younger generation of Ethiopian-Americans. . . AHH! What's THAT?! . . . who think they're . . . b-b-black . . . Aieee . . . I'm still considered "save-able." But that's another discussion for another day.