September 17, 2005

8am and we’re in class, scanning the school for chairs for the students. I try to push away thoughts of the robbery, to set aside thoughts of leaving TICH, of leaving Kisumu, of getting on a plane and flying away, watching Lake Victoria recede into the background. How nice it’d be to see the London airport filled with white people with soft hair, or Schipol airport in Amsterdam, knowing with one more leg of the journey I’d be riding up the escalator at Atlanta’s airport, looking for my children’s waiting faces. But I love this school, these students, the work we’re doing and the thought of leaving because I’m scared saddens me. And tires me.

I tell no one what happened the day before. I’m still processing it. But class goes smoothly. We have several exercises where the students prepare short speeches and present. We go over pointers for preparing and delivering great presentations and speeches. We talk about how they communicate in their jobs and in the families, how their communicaiton can be improved using the techniques we’re discussing. The students are open and responsive and we make it through the day. I’m honored to have been a tiny part of the journey toward their degree and toward their career of making a difference for the many Kenyans living in rural poverty. I tell them this. I wonder if I’ll leave and not see them progress through their cirriculum. Mustn’t think about that, just get home and chill with no one making demands.