The Colors of My Country

By Esther Lee Barron

"Unsure of where I belong geographically, I grow in personal identity. In myself, I find a blending of nations and the intersection of culture. What pleasure to think that perhaps I am my own country!" What begins as a compilation of memories morphs into a broader analysis of transition when one moves from country to country or stays in one place and encounters an unexpected variety of people otherwise presumed to be like oneself. The writing examines a personal journey of cultural assimilation, maneuvering through nuances of acceptable language and social rituals followed by feeling the loss of friends and place when heading to yet another unfamiliar location. Questions arise about one's worth when geographical roots are perceived as unattainable and identity seems as fragmented as the mosaic of cultural influences. Herein lies hope that perspective gained through the passing of years helps to seal the quandaries with stability and that home can be found in loving people and faith in God. Grace be upon those whose children have chosen global citizenship, continents away from their nomadic parents, and offspring whose hands are raised to heaven for sustenance, far from the warmth of what is familiar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781643003122

Book preview

Memory—musings of Africa on a U.S. spring day take me back

On spring days, I find new grass where I can lie back to soak in warmth. I pull a blade from its outer sheathe and taste the tender interior shoot. I close my eyes as sounds of chirping birds and mooing cows transport my spirit to a faraway place in the Kenyan highlands. Flies buzz by and distant donkeys bray.

There I walk barefoot down a narrow path beyond the Bible college compound through patchwork fields of pasture and maize. I pick up a stick to shoo the cows whose clanging bells disturb the hum of breeze and insect song. Two Kipsigis women, coming up the hill from the river, walk erect, balancing heavy burdens on their heads. I greet them in their mother tongue as I pass by.

Hometown—explaining that I don’t have one

I’d like to call Kericho my hometown, but it’s not like Hometown, USA, a permanent point of origin to which one returns for high school or multi-generational family reunions. In this identifying indicator, I am hard-pressed to answer the question, …Where do you come from?

Kenya was my home where I grew and played and attached myself to a familiar place. My passport, however, deemed me North American, though for much of my life I could hardly call myself one. I knew I was not the African with whom we were typically acquainted: I had white skin, and I did not comb my hair with a hot iron to make it straight. I was taught I was an American, and I lived a loftier standard than most members of the Kipsigis tribe from the surrounding area. Yet I felt myself a part of the land as though it breathed in and out of me. I named her trees, knew her flowers, and imagined I had power to tame her wildest creature. I loved her people.

I didn’t believe heaven could be better than Africa, even if it had golden streets. But being the child of missionary parents, I was taught that earth was not our final home. Citizenship was celestial no matter our country of residence.¹ I just never longed for that place until I left this sub-Saharan paradise and took up residence in the United States.

On patriotism, members of the family researched our family tree to see, if along the trunk, the name of General Robert E. Lee would be found. That was never verified. Still, we were connected to the state of Ohio where my daddy grew up on a farm. His family was of the branch of Zebulen Lee, one of Washington’s scouts in the American Revolutionary War. His reward was a generous land grant for his service to his country. So it was that on the Fourth of July, when Americans gathered for their independence celebration at the Nairobi Park in Kenya’s capital, I, with hand on heart, quoted the Pledge of Allegiance and saluted to Old Glory. A more common the practice, every Friday at boarding school, I stood beneath Kenya’s colors and sang poetic prayer:

Ee Mungu nguvu yetu

Ilete baraka kwetu

Haki iwe ngao na mlinzi

Natukae na undugu

Amani na uhuru

Raha tupate na ustawi.

Oh God of all creation

Bless this our land and nation

Justice be our shield and defender

May we dwell in unity

Peace and liberty

Plenty be found within our borders.

Unsure of where I belong geographically, I grow in personal identity. In myself, I find a blending of nations and the intersection of culture. What pleasure to think that perhaps I am my own country!

---

¹ https://www.imb.org/2017/09/27/third-culture-kids-conundrum-home/

Kericho—the earliest place I believed was Hometown

Kericho summons mental images of two areas, the mission station and the town itself. Leaving the highway and the diesel exhaust expelled by lorries, crowded buses, and Datsun matatu taxis sagging with the weight of their loads, a red dirt road wound its way across a river, past a water-propelled corn mill, and climbed a hill to Kenya Highlands Bible College. Kipsigis children tending to their younger siblings or herding sheep and cows smiled broadly and waved at the passing car. Beyond a protective cow grid, a small office for Christian publications and a building for Radio Injili occupied the lower acreage of the compound. Then missionary homes of concrete block and red-tile roofs on sprawling lawns bordered the road to the church and field headquarters’ office and college campus. A black wattle forest covered part of the hillside, and opposite it, cows grazed on a level area that functioned as a soccer field when properly mowed.

The missionary community was tight-knit, although that could have bothered some adults who valued privacy. I lived in a secure and loving world that delivered what I needed. I believed that together, we functioned for the betterment of all those around us, and in my own way, I contributed to the actualization of that belief. Therefore, it was not a burden to enthusiastically anticipate a town trip with my dad or mom when it was his or her turn to make the run. That meant we handled as much business as possible in town for the sake of those on the station, from postal services to banking, from car parts to groceries for the Bible college dining hall.

Activity at our house began with breakfast at seven. Roosters and donkeys from surrounding farms welcomed the morning sunlight while big, black ibises cawed and flit on the front yard to poke long, curved beaks into the dewy grass for breakfast grub. A distant hum of a lawn mower assured us that the African maintenance men had begun their day. As the sun rose high, Daddy left for the mission office to make radio contact with Kaboson, Tenwek, and Naikarra. By eight thirty or nine o’clock, town was the pressing destination. It was only appropriate that we return in time for ten o’clock tea. After a final stop in the office for outgoing mail and grocery orders, we were off to Kericho.

Kericho was regal in December when flags and swags of the nation’s colors were hung for Independence Day. Trees, tropical flora, and poinsettias along Harambee Avenue in the center of town only enhanced the cheerful welcome of the main drag whose incline took traffic to a roundabout intersection where cars merged and flowed to the left around a circular garden. The town’s commerce provided us with sufficient supplies for living. Specialty items and nicer clothing had to be sought in the larger cities. Nevertheless, that was not my worry. As a child, I thrilled to seek merchandise I could purchase with my allowance as I tagged along behind one of my parents.

The highest priority of stops seemed to be the post office, the bank, and the Kericho Grocers. Unlike the American supermarket with carts and a barrage of choices, decisions were streamlined due to limited selection. I believe there were five cereals at most. Besides that, one left his order at the counter. While we moved on to complete other business, the Indian merchants filled the order and billed our account, which was paid at the end of each month. We returned an hour or two later to load up for home. In this store, I bought my fair share of Pez dispensers and candy packs, Smarties (the British equivalent of M&M’S), Mackintosh’s Quality Street chocolates and caramels. I would press the colorful foil wrappers and save them because of their bright colors.

Beside the grocery was the chemist’s. The aroma of burning incense permeated the sidewalk around the door. Upon entrance, an Indian man with a rolled beard and turban or a woman in ethnic garb marked with a Hindu prayer dot on the forehead greeted the client. I was impressed that the goods were locked up in glass cabinets. Here I would dream about perfume and powder I could buy Mother for Christmas. I am still amazed at the memory of huge rolls of cotton sold there instead of cotton balls. On the street, the incense faded into the pungent odor of new and cheap rubber. Bata Shoes was at the end of the street where we bought flip flops, tennis shoes, and, occasionally, a pair of sandals. One had to be selective. It wasn’t the same as an American shoe store where brand names overwhelm with varying features of the sole, shape, or cushioning. One style fit all athletic activity. The tread on the sole of the tennis shoes looked like Grandma Smith’s pearl-stitch knitting in molded rubber.

A baby-blue painted cinema plastered with erotic Indian movie ads flanked the grocery’s other side. Being inquisitive because of the nasal sounding music piped onto the street, I was told not to look at them because they were so suggestive. Obediently, I looked straight ahead to the Christian Literature Center across the road. There we entered a more innocent world of books, fountain pens, erector sets, and notebooks. Because my younger brother John liked stamps and needed my help to organize them, we often browsed stamp collector albums. There we restocked our supply of stamp hinges. Another nook behind the Kericho Hardware was filled with toys where John and I bought Matchbox cars and Becky and I bought puzzles or liquid for blowing bubbles. With Daddy, I stopped to talk with Mr. Mystery, the hardware owner. Being a maintenance sort of guy, Daddy often purchased nuts, bolts, nails, and such there. I can still see Mr. Mystery’s hand on that counter at my eye level as he wrote the invoices. He moved his pen to form numbers and letters in his chicken scratch handwriting that I could not read. I can still see his long fingernails and heavy gold ring and hear his distinct accent. I wonder what the Mystery in his name was.

The appeal of town was more than what one could buy. It was smells of incense and spices. It was sounds like that of air pressure and metal clanks at the Bhachu brothers’ Safari Motors, the accents, the languages, or the whir of a sewing machine when passing the tailors. It was sights like the Indian midget lady or identifying the Indian lady with the longest jet-black braid, judging which wore the most beautiful sari and wishing that a pierced nose with rhinestone stud, golden, curled-toe sandals, and bangles looked as appealing on skin not quite as tan. It was the rhythmic saunter of the African policemen in starched khaki shirts and Bermuda shorts, knee socks, polished shoes, and brass buttons topped with a red fez whose tassel bobbed and swung with each authoritative step. And every now and then, it was the treat of carry-out samosas from Merali’s bakery. Those deep-fried triangular pastries filled with ground beef, onions, peppers, and spices, accompanied by spiced tea, made a delicious lunch, the climax of a Kericho town trip.

Sanctuary—church under the trees

Wherever I have traveled, I have encountered sanctuary: that designated quiet spot to do the business of the deeper search, inspiring worship, fine-tuning the soul to its inner voices whether in a chapel or cathedral, an overstuffed chair, or the branch of a tree. Perhaps it’s the hush or the bend of the light that opens the secret places of the heart. No matter the country, it is nature itself that seems to be the most appropriate place for me.

In my youth, we attended church services in a variety of facilities, from Gothic stone cathedrals furnished with pews and kneeling cushions to tin-roofed frames with two-by-four-inch planks secured on bricks to accommodate the crowd. The character of worship accompanied the facilities. In echoing cathedrals, Anglican liturgy entwined the first and second readings and the chorus in stuffy British tones with a pipe organ. In the tin-roofed building-to-be, flies, babies’ cries, and African rhythms sounded a more rustic praise with tambourine. Far greater the impact when there were no walls at all. On a Sunday, we packed picnic blankets and folding chairs for seasonal meetings in natural amphitheaters under the shade of eucalyptus trees. The setting did wonders for my soul. The trees themselves seemed spires. Looking up through the trees, blue sky was the perfect backdrop for cotton creatures that passed overhead. The seeds of the eucalyptus provided beads with which to busy the hands making bracelets. The basin shape of the terrain brought thoughts of Jesus, using the natural acoustics to deliver the Sermon on the Mount.

Because service was an event, not a point on the clock, singing began before everyone was in attendance. If one took a seat on the outer rim, the visual effect was stimulating. Very few arrived in cars, they walked or rode bicycles. On every hill surrounding that place, far-off dots slowly enlarged to moving blotches of primary and secondary colors, converging on a painting canvas. At the center of the amphitheater, a sea of bobbing colors was fixating. Most of the women wore patterned scarves around their heads, which added detail to the random design. I was a part of a live work of art like Seurat’s A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. I suppose the church must be a painting.

Though I could not tell the words, I still hear the call to worship in Kipsigis.

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,

Tune my heart to sing Thy grace.

Streams of mercy, never ceasing,

Call for songs of loudest praise.

Teach me some melodious sonnet,

Sung by flaming tongues above.

Praise the mount I’m fixed upon it,

Mount of Thy redeeming love.

Academy—boarding school—what it was and what it offered

School was a place away from our parents. We went to Rift Valley Academy in a place called Kijabe—, which meant a place of the wind. The administration building, whose cornerstone Teddy Roosevelt laid in 1909, was called Kiambogo, meaning the place of the buffalo. The cape buffalo, with its massive, curled horns was our mascot. There we boarded for three months at a time before we went home for a month’s vacation. In the middle of the term, if our parents’ location permitted, we were free to leave campus for a long weekend.

Those poor children, I’ve heard folks say about the missionary children who attended there. I grow in understanding of why they say the phrase. In my adult years, I’d think long and hard about the trade-off my children would endure if I had been given the work of foreign missions as well as parenting. I am thankful I have not had to make such a decision. My reservations would concern what my children might not experience in technological advances, exposure to career options through well-known adults who would gladly mentor my offspring, and the inevitable separation of the family this life necessitates only because those are the areas from which I counted my own losses. Never would I accept the criticism that I was abusing or neglecting them while leaving them. Nevertheless, as I watch American parents shuttling their children from activity to practice to party, I have felt blessed to have grown up at a boarding school. My involvement and pursuits were limited only by what the environment could not offer me rather than my parents’ time and energy or the amount of money in their wallets. Rich experiences were available within walking distance because teachers, dedicated to a vocation that was intricately tied to a personal relationship with God, gave service to our needs as if they were giving service to Him.

Imagine the joy of a child to have rocks for climbing, woods for building forts and hideaways, tall grass fields for playing hide-and-seek. There were treehouses, tire-and-rope swings that took one sailing over grassy slopes, a playground full of apparatus, and a soccer field. All these were mine for endless afternoons without the threat of dangerous intruders. To these were added Pioneer Girls Club where we learned crafts and sewing and sometimes made gifts for Christmas, Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day. On Saturdays, we had scheduled field days when the grade school or high school was divided into competitive teams of Stanleys and Livingstones (I was a Stanley.) The victors received an ice cream treat at the end of the day. On Saturdays that weren’t field days, dorm parents scheduled hikes to intriguing places like the Mau-Mau Cave or Hot Springs. Each place had its unique beauty and natural entertainment from which we returned sunburned, scuffed, and dirty but with lungs filled with fresh air accompanied by a healthy appetite.

As we got older, sports tournaments were added to our Saturday activities. Because of a high interest in the students’ performance, these days brought parents to the school for a day’s visit. To accommodate the crowd of spectators from RVA and other schools, the Senior Store opened. It was a canteen under the porch of Kiambogo run by the senior class. Proceeds from the sales were saved for Senior Safari, a five-day excursion to Mombasa beaches. For such days when the canteen was open, students withdrew funds from a bank account their parents had deposited at the beginning of each school term. This also gave each student opportunity for budget management over the course of three months as school supplies and snacks could be purchased from the school store. It was in junior high that classes began to develop a corporate identity by electing class officers who planned class parties and managed finances for future expenditures like the Junior-Senior Banquet. Through the student council, students served on committees for many aspects of campus life, like those of a college campus. Privileges were added that included weekly movies and socialization in the Student Center. Opportunity was given to try out for interscholastic sports teams. I played basketball and field hockey and gave my heart in cheerleading. Freshmen could try out for choir, and music lessons were offered to students whose parents paid for them. I took piano from the time I was in the third grade through the tenth grade.

As we grew, so grew our responsibilities. By the tenth grade, some were Sunday school helpers for the elementary grades, infirmary helpers for the clinic, and candy stripers at the Kijabe Medical Center. The graphic arts class put together the yearbook called Kiambogo. Outreach groups witnessed to people in the surrounding areas through testimony and music, and the individual classes worked on plans for the year they would decorate for the Junior-Senior Banquet or take off on Senior Safari. From an educational standpoint, I believe I received a higher quality of instruction there than what students in the U.S. public schools receive. There were no intercom boxes that interrupted classes. The library was available to us after school and through study hall hour in the evening. Severe weather threats were not ours so no class was interrupted for drills.

Dorm life and social events made us into a close-knit bunch as getting along with each other was an education all its own. Living closely and knowing each other so personally faded the distinction of denominations and nationalities. Sure, there were tense discussions. Sadly, there was a time when a few girls of African origin argued that we white students offended them and discriminated against them. I avoided the issue because it distressed me that I was included in the white. There was the jealousy, the quarrels, and the circles of friends that go with growing children, as there would be in any other place on earth, but there was a lot of trust and nurturing too. It was from these experiences that I learned the intimacy of deep friendships. Since that time, I have judged the depth of relationships according to how closely they compare to those of the distant past. Honestly, in this adult life, rare have been those occasions when I have traveled as profoundly into mutuality in an intimate understanding with those of diverse background as what I enjoyed there.

Cafeteria—terrible food, but I was well-fed

We were well-fed. Though typical complaints could make a stranger believe that we were no better sustained than emaciated nationals in times of famine exposed by National Geographic, we were well-fed. In drought, we endured the shortage of sugar or flour or whatever the lack. And the food we ate improved the longer I attended boarding school. We were well-fed.

On our way to school, returning from a month’s vacation, we children would talk about the adjustment back to the abysmal cafeteria food. If betting had not been taboo, we would have wagered whether the first meal would be spaghetti