Perks of Being a Wallflower

    

    It's not often that I come across a phrase that gives words to the feelings. To be perfectly honest, I have a love-hate relationship with this reality. It's a side that I have grown to embrace and have come to accept as something that is an essential part of me, largely because nowadays I accredit all my "odd" quirks to my kind-of recent discovery of personality types, and the fact that I apparently fall under the INFJ bunch. A rare breed, we are. Anyway, I'm an introvert, did I mention? I somewhat feel it important to explain this tidbit to everyone I meet, especially those just meeting me for the first time. Maybe because I know there'll be many an awkward moment between us and perhaps if they're pre-warned then I can get away with it. And I'm such a cliche about it too: stuttering, variations of useless word vomit and saying few words as possible, eyes wandering as I look for the nearest exit when there's a lull in conversation, the works. Want to spot an introvert, watch out for the one everyone talks over.
    That last one is one of the not-so-perky perks. This happens so often it doesn't even phase me anymore. Honestly, the alternative is just not appealing, 'cause then I'd have to be louder than the loudest person (usually an extrovert) and that's just messing with the group dynamic. It's best not to tinker with the balance of nature. Sure, there's a danger to growing comfortable with this because sometimes you just end up slipping through the cracks. It's all peachy until I actually want to be heard and find myself with no audience.
    There really should be a how-to manual for people with introverted friends. We are, in some ways, a little high maintenance. See, it's like this: I want to be invited to that party, but I don't want to go. In the words of Audrey Hepburn, "I don't want to be alone, I want to be left alone". I'll come to you when I'm ready for human interaction. Much like a cat, if you will. You may also want to note, quiet does not equal sad. I am generally a quiet person, and that will likely be the first thing you notice about me. Please recognize the significance of me seeking you out to talk.
    Oftentimes I feel like extroverts have it made. It's nice to think that people will recognize this inner amazing being hiding behind all that awkward mess and take the time to get to know you and find out the gem you really are, or whatever. As magical as that sounds, first impression is everything, and I'm an odd cookie from the get-go. (Doesn't stop me from holding on to the dream of that guy who, for whatever reason, finds my awkwardness insanely adorable).
    This is the struggle: there've been times when I felt like I was using the whole personality thing to conclude that I'm simply not wired to be around people so I won't even try. Then I get the crazy idea to actually put myself out there, and It. Is. Draining. Small talk grates on my nerves. If I don't have anything to say, I say nothing. And, I kid you not, when I'm doing all that I can to come up with things to talk about, one of two things happens: a)totally useless trivia slips out of my mouth, usually followed by crickets, or b)I talk so much while smiling maniacally that my cheeks physically hurt. Don't knock it til you try it? Yeah, tried it, knocking the hell out of it, next?
    What do I do with all the time freed up by avoiding humankind? I read novels. Tons of them. (Side note: anytime someone asks me what I do for fun, and specifies that I not say reading, I kind of want to sock them. It's a legitimate enjoyable activity, dammit!) I spend an insane amount of time daydreaming. Believe me, it's quite entertaining in my head (I know that sounds a lot like something a crazy person would say, and I lack proof showing otherwise, but you'll just have to trust me on this one). I'm busy worrying myself over problems, some of which aren't even my own. I have my handful of friends I genuinely enjoy spending time with and talking to, who get and, dare I say, enjoy my special brand of humor. Who appreciate that I'm not broken; I don't need to be fixed. With whom conversations just flow.
Not forced. Not coerced.
Just present.

Blurry

    I feel like my move to the States has opened a huge can of mind-boggling worms. As someone who has spent their entire life in Africa with most of the population being black, there are just some things I have never had to deal with, things I never even knew were issues. For those of you at home still scratching their heads (stop it by the way, you're ruining your hair), 'tis racism that I speak of. And everything that comes with it.
    So, there are all these topics like cultural appropriation, which I'm still not totally crystal clear on, and of course the deaths of the African Americans at the hands of the police. Sometimes I feel like it is not in my place to speak out about these topics because I feel so out of my depth and it's not something neither I nor my family grew up experiencing. Most of the time I just fall silent because of some of the comments I read and I feel sad because some people seem incapable of empathy.
    What spurred this on was an argument I got drawn into about two weeks ago after the concurrent deaths of Cecil the lion and Sam Dubose. Now, for those of you who don't know about the latter, because I'm pretty sure everyone in the world heard about the lion, Sam Dubose is an African American man who was pulled over by a Caucasian policeman (political correctness is exhausting) and ended up being shot in the head by said cop, without sufficient provocation to illicit such a reaction. If you're interested, here's the story:

http://edition.cnn.com/videos/us/2015/07/29/university-of-cincinnati-police-officer-body-cam-shooting-vo.cnn

So, anyway, it was a Buzzfeed article about Cecil the lion, and I posted a comment along the lines of 'I wish people would cause as much of an uproar about the death of a human being'. Some guy then proceeded to begin a looooong argument about how I don't care about the life of the lion, and went on to explain to me that, in fact, the death of Sandra Bland was televised for weeks. Long story short, the guy hadn't even heard about Sam Dubose, thus proving my point. I actually had to convince him to watch the video for himself because already he had assumed that 'well, he must've done something wrong'. I cannot tell you how immensely sad that made me, that this man was tried and sentenced, without his story even being heard ,because let's face it, this is the version we often hear from the media. I'm assuming that it was an effort to save face or something, but he proceeded to try and prove that this was not indeed an act of racism, and was simply people of color pulling the "race card". After all (get this) he totally knows and understands the hardships black people face. I mean, as he put it, he is one of the few people in his family who is white.

Yes, make way for the authority on all things race. I'm still trying to grasp the full meaning of the phrase "pulling the race card". What exactly makes the cut for being a legitimate act of racism? It must be said, there's those weird ones that treat these incidents like a contest, as if we're keeping score. The "what about us?" variety. I mean, hey, if you'd like the monopoly on hate crimes against your race, be my guest.
    I also happened to hear about the whole Kylie Jenner-cornrow fiasco and Amandla Stenberg (click on her name for her video on cultural appropriation) calling her out on being culturally (in)appropriate(?), while others claimed people were just being, pardon my French, 'butt-hurt' about nothing. There was a whole Buzzfeed article about times the Kardashians have been called out on cultural appropriation, and I start to wonder where to draw the line. Does it apply when we buy Maasai blankets and wear their headdresses? I feel like I need to take a whole course on this!
    A William Wilberforce once said:

"Let it not be said that I was silent when they needed me."

I still struggle with making a call on when to speak up about something, and when to let it slide because some people simply get their kicks from getting a rise out of others, even when the argument is pointless (I loathe those people). There's something I read one day, and I kick myself every day for not saving it or writing it down somewhere, whose basic gist was, if everyone decided to fall silent about issues simply because they "didn't affect/apply to them", and everyone is left to fight their own battle, no one will be left to help you fight yours. Granted, the original sounded a whole lot more articulate and wise. But. yeah, basically. I know, ever so eloquent. Just something to think about.

eDating for the Socially Awkward

    I can see how the title can mislead one into thinking that 1) I actually have advice for the socially awkward and 2) I am an experienced dater. Do not be fooled, neither of the above is true. I have not been on a date in 3 years, and in the words of Chandler Bing, I'm hopeless and awkward and desperate for love. Well, sorta... In any case, the following post contains accounts of my botched up attempts at dating, and is not in fact anything you should emulate. This is solely for your entertainment, capisce?
    So one of the joys of being a 21 year old freshman, and by joys I mean whyyy, is that everyone in my class is fresh out of high school and is my age...three years ago. Big deal, right? Well, it is. It's just a thing I have, I can't bring myself to date anyone younger than me. I feel like a cradle robber! Solution: hang with seniors, who are actually, for the most part my age. Easy. If the title of this post was in fact, eDating for the Social Butterfly. I am, for all intents and purposes, a 12 year old stuck in a 21 year old's body. To illustrate,



So smooth. Heaven forbid he smiles. At which point I revert to default mode: resting bitch face with a sudden and morbid fascination with the ground. Why? Well, if I knew the answer to that I'd quit doing it, now wouldn't I? I mean, ugh, I'm one step away from drawing maps with my toe and giggling!
    You can't accuse me of not trying. A while back, I joined an online dating site. Don't judge me. You've read everything preceding this, I have problems! One thing to note, I may be a wreck in the one-on-one social skills department, but I am an absolute hoot on paper, e- or otherwise (as evidenced by this blog, if I do say so myself). Another thing to note, I have recently discovered, I can be a little picky if so inclined. I can't help it if I enjoy intelligent conversations with interesting, and dare I say, funny people. The guy can be sporting a twelve pack with the face of Jason Momoa, and shut it all down if he can't so much as distinguish between 'your' and 'you're'. It also seems that everyone is, to quote, um, a lot of them, "a laid back, easy going, sensitive guy". Can I just clarify that, and allow me to speak for all women, at no point will I read that and think, 'Well, it's on his profile so it must be true'. Then there are the over-sharers. If in the first 5 seconds of reading your profile, I know about your ex-wife and your terrible divorce and your reservations about love because she broke your heart, maaaybe dial it back a notch.
    Not to say there aren't some, seemingly, decent guys out there. Who, because I'm so gosh darn lucky, also happen to have a child from a previous marriage (call me crazy, but that's a lot going on at age 24). and/or are a good 10+ years older than me. Or 5'4". Yes, I'm superficial, sue me. Also, it has been mentioned that I'm old-fashioned in some ways, and I personally don't think it's asking for a lot to want the guy to make the first move. I'm on one of those sites that require membership, thus a monthly fee, in order to see who likes your profile. Nope. So, according to the site, 148 people have clicked 'Like'. Funny that, seeing as tumbleweed is rolling across my inbox. The ones who do message me turn out to be guys with some sort of 'swirl' fetish. Pass.
    My love life, ladies and gents. Thanks for reading.

Saddling The Horse

    I feel like, if I write it, I have to commit to it. So, old news, weight loss journey and all that jazz continues still. It doesn't really ever end. Definitely not for people like me. I'm one of those unfortunate souls who break their backs losing weight, but so much as smell a slice of bread and gain it all back. Ain't life grand.
    So, this is somewhat part 2 of the journey, because, honestly, I haven't worked out all that much post-boot camp (can't believe that was a year ago!), and I have 2 kg to prove it. Ugh. But, twas not all in vain. Since part 1 of my journey, I am definitely more conscious about what I put on my plate. I have been exposed to a world where no thigh gap be damned, girls break out them short shorts and crop tops (there are some courageous souls out there, people!) and while my very African upbringing is embedded deep within me, I'd like the option should I succumb to a particularly fabulous pair of shorts.
    I won't lie, exercise is not exactly up there with my list of favorite things to do. If I'm running, let it be clear to everyone that there is imminent danger and it is coming fast. There's a stack of things against me, one of them being my introvert tendencies, coupled with my love of books = sweet treats cozied up in bed getting lost in some fantasyland. At least, this had been me for the longest time, til a little channel called TLC came along and terrified me to my very soul. How, you ask? Where to begin... 'My 600-lb life', 'Weighing up the enemy', 'My weight is killing me'... you get the gist. Now, I am an extremely far cry from 600 pounds (that's ~272 kg FYI), but it's been enough to instill the fear of God in me.
    It's a hard concept to grasp if it hasn't been a personal experience, but there's a period in a big girl's life when she goes from looking at herself in the mirror and mercilessly picking herself apart, to feeling sorry for herself because she's so unhappy, to simply being sick and tired of feeling sorry for herself, and having a pile of clothes in her closet that will be revisited 'when she's smaller'. That, friends, is the point of no return. No thought is more terrifying than the possibility of reverting back to that girl, after mastering up the courage to drag herself from there.
    So, as always, bitch I shall about every burpee, every sit-up, every bloody lunge I do begrudgingly, and I'll day dream about that delicious chocolate chip chocolate cake with chocolate fudge and be content with the idea of it (and of course get me some of that once in a while. I'm no masochist) but I'll suck it up and do it...I owe it to that girl.

Fifty Shades of...Well...

    I'm really glad I didn't watch Fifty Shades of Grey as soon as it hit the big screen, because then I got the chance to hear about other people's disappointment and so lower my own expectations for when I did actually watch it, i.e. earlier today. It's been said to death, the movie is never as good as the book. As a former dedicated fangirl of the trilogy, this just didn't do it for me. I expected more intensity, more emotion, just...more. To be fair, I am a tad biased because I was never really that thrilled with the choice of cast. Dakota Johnson does a pretty good Ana, but Jamie...meh. I am probably gonna sound a little too critical, but...he smiled too much. Maybe it's just me, but when I read the book, the picture of Christian Grey in my head was this tall (sorry Jamie), dark, brooding, intense, devilishly handsome man who could intimidate you with one look. Him...not so much. He has a nice voice though!
    Some parts of the movie reminded me of Agnes  in Despicable Me 2, practicing her recital of her poem for mother's day in front of Gru, especially during the interview at their first meeting. I do understand though that it must be quite challenging to fit an almost 500 page novel into 2 hours of acting, more so one with so much detail. No one is more thankful than I am that they spared us the gory details of the tampon bit. Gross. I must say, the soundtrack is pretty cool.
    I'm not sure that I'd want to watch the sequels to that, mostly because I'm pretty sure the imagery in my head from reading the books would still be better. I am looking forward to reading Grey. It should be a refreshing change of pace from all the 'oh my' of Ana's incessant monologue. I came across a post on Tumblr that had me in stitches:

"This is Anastasia Steele every five seconds:"

       

So yeah...fingers crossed.
    I last read FSOG about 2 years ago, so it was kinda nice to relive it. I was also reminded about my change of heart concerning my love of the book, all things considered, and exactly why Ana was bat-shit crazy to not have ran away screaming from the word go, or at least dump his ass solely on principle of his enormous ego. "Rectify the situation." Pfft!
    Suffice to say I clearly lack the makings of an Ana, but me thinks next semester would be a good time as any to make buddies with journalism majors, yes?

Breathe In. Let It Out

    I think, probably, every parent's nightmare is the moment their child begins to have a mind of their own and forming their own opinion. Much as it's awesome to essentially 'be your own person' (delusions of teenage years), there are individuals like myself who don't always know what to do with that kind of freedom. I'm a self-proclaimed opinionated person (albeit not out loud, ironically), and ideally I'd like to be that 'IDGAF what you think' person, Big Sean in the background and everything, but, much to my ire, I do. Just a smidgen. Sometimes. Even when I want to post or share something on social media, a small niggling part of me is mentally doing a rundown of my list of followers, wondering if any of them might get offended, or might think differently of me.
    It's not a totally insane notion though. God knows the world today isn't all that great with greeting opposing thoughts with arms wide open. The immediate reaction is usually along the lines of "This is why you're wrong." and you can almost see them lifting their leg ever so gracefully as they mount their high horse. Personally, the worst thing that ever happened to the human race was the ability of anonymity in the internet. This is basically the domain of the bigots, racists, homophobes, and general assholes of the world. Lucky us.
    One of my favorite things about having this blog is that it's mine. Anyone who types in my URL does so to read about what I think about something, take it or leave it. That this is my forum. (Once upon a time I had a journal, then laptops happened. Big fan of the written word, but cataloging thoughts is exhausting!) Cathartic, if you will. I highly recommend it, actually. Writing, I mean. I read a quote once:

"You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better." -Anne Lamott

    So, moral of the story, don't be a pain in the behind then clutch at your pearls in horror when someone finally decides to call you out on your bull. On the other hand, be careful not to choke yourself in your valiant effort to hold your tongue. Sometimes things need to be said.  Stand up for someone who isn't 'like' you. Do what is right, not what is easy. Speak your truth.

   

Mid-Year Post...Or Something

    So...back in the 254 for summer vaycay (I will never say that again, I promise). Just enjoying not being ridden hard (hah hah) by assignments and all that good stuff, and embracing my new 'the cool fun aunt' role. It's all good. Not a fan of the showers though. Rain, that is. But, could be worse. BELIEVE me.
    I don't know about you, but I always have these blah-life crisis/crises where I get these random urges to do something spontaneous and/or dramatically different. Case in point, my big chop and hair dye last year, and my four sessions of piercings. Okay, so maybe that's not exactly up there with getting tatted up or buying a sports car (as if), but they usually do the trick. The mood struck again about a month ago (I kinda wish it was about a week agooo...teehee...I'll stop now), and Pinterest, the little temptress, put the idea of a fifth piercing in my head, which I got very recently. One word: OUCH. My cartilage is not very forgiving, and I kinda have to sleep positioned like a corpse now, but I'll deal.
    I'd like to think my subconscious is deeper than that, but not really in this case because let's face it, this is the crazy poking its ugly head, but no permanent damage so...meh. I'm known (to myself) for taking the phrase 'train of thought' and straight up Usain Bolt running with it. *clears throat* *prepares self for profoundness* I started thinking about the pursuit for self-growth (I don't know how I leaped to that either). First off, it's a testament to my age, or maturity if you will, me thinks, for thinking about my future in a way I've never had to, because to me that's always entailed career-family-30-year-old related stuff, and it's finally hitting home that the 'future' is fast approaching (2020 is 5 years away! Mind=blown) and I actually need to make decisions, important ones at that, concerning said future. Which freaks me out a tad since, from my new year's post about switching career paths, I'm more or less going down a much uncharted one. I've always been one of those people who function by making lists and schedules and having thought-out plans (textbook INFJ) so the pressure is on to formulate a clear concise plan post-undergrad. I'm in a fairly new and considerably wide major that has opened a world of possibilities, and it's kind of overwhelming. Y'know, the more the choices the harder the decision and all that.
    At the same time there's this whole world of adulthood. There is very much a kid in me, and it's a bit daunting that the government trusts me to vote, drink, drive, own property and a credit card, all the while acting sane enough to keep my behind out of prison. Is anyone ever really ready for it? God knows I occasionally meet people who immensely restore my faith in my ability to handle my shit. Can't run away from it, so might as well embrace it, and hey, maybe even have some fun while I'm at it. Carpe diem, always.
(Speaking of, the promised FSOG movie review is coming up soon).

Now that I've touched base, laters!

I am a C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N

    People, I survived NEGATIVE 20 degrees Celsius and lived to tell the tale! To my fellow Kenyans, you have officially lost your right to complain about the cold, ever again. Ever. The next post was supposed to be about the Fifty Shades of Grey movie, but seeing as I haven't watched it yet, that's still in the works.

    I feel like I'm about to open a can of worms, but then not really, depending on who you ask. In all my 21 years I've been a Catholic, and in 20 of those years I've lived in a country with citizens who all identify with either Christianity, Islam or some form of religion. Fast forward to 2014, I'm transplanted to a country that is all about individualism and their rights and all that good stuff. Prior to coming here, I'd been forewarned about culture shock, and I'd been actively waiting for it to happen. I've grown up watching a lot of American shows, and surprisingly the reality wasn't all that different so for the most part what they did didn't phase me. Four months in, I was convinced that I'd dodged that bullet, but in the recent past I realized that I am living it, right now.

    Like I said, I grew up in a mostly religious community. Prayers and Bible verses being read in schools and national functions, plenty of churches everywhere and generally people being open about their religion because for the most part it was a common factor among them. That being said, I've always been, I guess somewhat secure in my faith, in that spiritually I was in my comfort zone. I was firm in my beliefs in the sense that I didn't question them, but I had never been in a position whereby someone else questioned them. As a Christian I never really took time to think of the whys, always being content with Christianity simply being my reality. But in an environment where I relatively often come across a nonbeliever, I've had to do some soul searching. 

    These past few months have been somewhat of a struggle for me, acclimatizing to a place where a good number of people don't relate to my beliefs, and who, for them, science holds more weight. I struggled with the ability to proudly identify with Catholicism, having an underlying fear of being treated differently, because as a Christian, it's not uncommon that I'll be assumed to be pre-conditioned to be a gay bashing, narrow-minded prude, and all the other typical labels Christians are subject to. It's definitely a struggle hearing and reading demeaning things people have to say about my faith, taking jabs, and I get that the extremist Christians are the ones people associate the Christian faith with, and the bad experiences said people have had with these Christians tarnish their view on Christianity and give the rest of us a bad name (We're pretty decent, me thinks).

    This has been my contemplation for Holy Week. When I hear or read about the bad things Christians have said and done, and the backlash that follows, and I feel like I'm reaching the point of tearing my hair out in frustration, I remember the song 'And They'll Know We Are Christians By Our Love'. I realize I can only do so much, but if I live my life in a way that my words and actions portray me as the kind of Christian I'd like a nonbeliever to know, and give them the kind of experience I'd want them to associate Christianity with, that's something. So the plan is, smother them with love and affection. "I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ who lives in me." (Galatians 2:20)

    To answer the question: why am I a Christian? Because it makes sense to me. Because it feels right. Because I believe it and I live it. Because I belong to Christ.

Africanese 101

    Hope the new year's being good to you. So, I've been in the US for about 5 months now... I think this happens to everyone when they're somewhere foreign to them, that they'll find some oddities in the behaviour of the people they're around (and it's so annoying that the word 'behaviour' is underlined). Anyway,besides the point. So, naturally, I am a bit of a spectacle to some of the Americans I meet. I've noticed most of them are people with little to no filter, and the questions they ask and comments they make, which are seemingly harmless, have the potential of grating nerves when asked and/or said frequently enough.
    First off, I'm pretty sure when you ask someone where they're from and they answer Europe (but who does that, surely?), naturally your follow-up question would be "Where in Europe?". Interestingly (and by that I mean not at all), when I say I'm from Kenya, the only thing that sticks is that I'm African, and as such any future follow-up questions will be focused on how things are done or the state of affairs in Africa. I tend to think these people are of 'the country of Africa' mentality variety. It's irritating, it really is.
    Here's another thing I could live without hearing: "I'm from Kenya." "Oh, you're from Africa? I've always wanted to go there." "Where in Africa?" "I dunno, I've just always wanted to go there." This is an actual conversation I had. Bypassing the fact that my mentioning where exactly I'm from had no bearing whatsoever, it begs the question, will you jump on a plane and land somewhere off the coast of northern Africa and simply wander? There are 53, yes, FIFTY THREE countries in the continent of Africa; we have more countries than there are American states. Pick one already.

Area: 30.22 million sq km (America covers 9.857 million) 

    Sometimes I wish I could take some of the people I know on a trip to Kenya so that they see the non-existence of the rock they think I've been living under. Scenario: in the spirit of throwbacks, I was feeling a little Linkin Park and was playing Encore. Someone asks the question (brace yourselves): "You guys know Jay Z in Kenya?" WHAT?! Really? I still get looks of surprise when I sing along to a popular song or sing some old ones. We know them. We know them all. We listen to songs as they come out. All. Of. Them. This is up there with "I don't know how you do it in Africa, but here we...". In no scenario is that leading statement necessary. If it's not gonna kill anyone, just do it.
    Now, this may be hard to believe, but we don't all live in a perpetual oven. It rains. It gets cold. It even snows in some parts of Africa (gasp). You know how California and Alaska don't have the same weather? That makes sense to you, right? Then why on earth would you think the whole of Africa has blistering heat 24/7/365? The whole of Kenya doesn't have the same climate. Africa has deserts, rain-forests, highlands, and all the other good stuff you can find out about. How, you ask? Well, there's this amazing creation I like to call G o o g l e.
    My point, and I do have one: I don't expect an American to know all there is to know about Africa, heck, even I don't know it all, but there's a distinct difference between a lack of knowledge and ignorance, especially when it seems like someone doesn't mind sounding ignorant because it's Africa. I highly doubt that any African would mind answering questions about their home (who doesn't like talking about their culture?), but, it would be nice if an outsider bothered to learn a thing or two about basic trivia. Impressive even. Believe me, you'd be such a novelty, and a welcome one at that.
    I recommend watching African American by Trevor Noah, a South African comedian, available on Netflix. As usual, he puts a...fascinating spin on things.
    Enough about that. Plans for Valentine's weekend: go to the theaters and watch Fifty Shades of Grey as I judge every second of it, alongside my fellow single girlfriends. Keep an eye out for a follow-up post. This should be interesting...

Laters