Where I Come From

As I write this, I'm at our provincial office/house with over twenty other volunteers.  A number of people have finished their two years of service and will be leaving the country soon, so we gathered for a celebration (80's themed dance party, of course) last night and many of us visited a nearby waterfall today.  (See previous post, Holy Water, for my first experience under the waters of Chishimba.)  The musical selection here at the house is always rather eclectic, with the number of volunteers and their various interests in music, and Alan Jackson's song Where I Come From came on moments ago.

Where I come from, it's cornbread and chicken
Where I come from, a lot of front-porch sittin'
Where I come from, tryin' to make a livin'
and workin' hard to get to heaven, 
Where I come from

I don't know if this song describes my childhood in South Dakota, necessarily; I've never even had a front porch.  It does seem to represent the pastoral ideal, however, particularly of the American south.  And with a few slight adaptations, it's quite true for many in my community in Zambia, too:

Where I come from, it's shima and chicken
Where I come from, a lot of insaka sittin'
Where I come from, tryin' to make a livin'
and workin' hard to get to heaven,
Where I come from

Of course, most people can't afford chicken often, but it seems to be a favorite relish and is often served to welcome visitors or celebrate an event.  And not everyone has an insaka, or small gazebo-like structure for sitting, cooking, and eating, particularly among Mambwes; they seem to be more common among Bemba families.  But everyone sits, or "tutensies,"on little stools in their courtyard, often for long portions of the day, so "a lot of little-stool sittin'" would work as well.  And in this predominantly (and proudly) Christian nation, you can believe there's a lot of workin' hard to get to heaven.

I often find that country music lyrics describe some of the things I like best about Zambia.  A perfect example is Tracy Lawrence's If the World Had a Front Porch:

If the world had a front porch
Like we did back then
We'd still have our problems,
but we'd all be friends
Treatin' your neighbor like he's your next of kin
Wouldn't be gone with the wind
If the world had a front porch
Like we did back then

This song amuses me, because in Zambia it seems like everyone is next of kin.  Large families and marriages that stay within the community mean everybody is related.  On a serious note, though I like the notion of a front porch, a gathering place for reflection, relaxation, and community.  But it's not really about the porch.  It's about taking the time to sit and be together.  Shelling groundnuts (peanuts) is a common activity this time a year, and it's a lovely one.  In the U.S., if I want peanuts, I buy a pack of Planter's.  Here, they come from the field, and there's something very familial about gathering around a basket and shelling groundnuts together.  (For one, you can't eat a pound at a time, because it takes a while to shell them.)  The world can't get a front porch, or little stools in a shared courtyard, or whatever.  But all people, in their little family units, their little communities, can.  We can all take the time to be together.  And at the core, our lives aren't all that different.  After all, isn't a lot of our life eating, going through daily routines, trying to support our selves and family, and trying to be the best people we can be (whether that be in pursuit of a heavenly afterlife or not)?  The details change, but seems that these are some of the common threads that fill our days, at least where I come from.  All the places I come from.