Inclusion

This evening one of my English students and her mother and sister took me shopping for local clothes. They helped me find the good shops, and gave me recommendations on scarves and house dresses and outerwear. The youthful and stylish mother bargained for me and advised me on prices. The younger sister assured me that they had plenty of time: “We are free,” she told me with a smile.

The mom greeted the male shopkeepers and exchanged brief chitchat as she swept into each shop, while her daughters and I studiously ignored them and greeted the girl clerks (even here the “How are you? Praise God”). I observed the mother’s position in awe: oh, to be the mama and be respected like that. (Someone here told someone I know just a couple of weeks ago that western women are dogs because of the way they dress and act. Most people—men—do not treat me poorly, but I know that they often think poorly of me. Hollywood is not my friend. Score for my friend, who replied that he would rather that women dress as who they are than to cover up and pretend to be good when they are not. J) And what freedom to step up in respect by being with people who live here!

We finished the evening by picking out snacks in a corner store. Sodas from one cooler, chocolate from another. The mom chose bottled Coke. In the car, she showed us her bottle opener, proof of her addiction. I chose Sprite, because earlier my stomach was protesting slightly to me having eaten and drunk everything set before me at the wedding festivities.

But it was a root beer float that I enjoyed when I returned to my apartment, new clothes strewn across my extra bed.