We were sitting in a house in a local village talking to a woman named Joyce. Six or seven people live in the small government home she inherited from her parents. Tattered calendars decorated the cement walls. Despite the size, Joyce, like many other Basotho women, takes great care of what she has; doilies sit delicately on the arms of the small couches in the living room, gospel music played softly in the background. Curious kids peeked around the corner, looking inquisitively at the first white people to be in their home. Eighteen year old Gugo continued cleaning in the small kitchen as chicken feet boiled on the stove. She filled a bucket of water using the spiket outside, no running water in their house, and came back to wash the windows. She worked quietly, listening intently to our conversation.

A few minutes into our visit, we prompt Joyce, “tell us about yourself…”

She paused for thought. After a moment of silence, Joyce answered confidently in broken English.

“I am a mother.”

“I am a born again Christian.”

Another pause.

“Well, I guess that’s all.”

How simple! I struggle to come up with how to tell others about myself. Usually spouting off something about being a college graduate or, before I came out here, I would have answered something about working in marketing. Maybe adding where I was from or what I like to do. As Americans, our identity is so wrapped up in what we do, how we contribute to society. Instead, Joyce’s identity is WHO she is. Not what she does or where she’s from.

Funny how profound two short sentences can be.

done.//

This entry was posted on Sunday, October 5th, 2008 at 10:00 pm and is filed under culture, makes my heart smile. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.