Tonight I wasn't trusted to escort guests to the road by myself. They think I will get lost on my way home in the dark. Then, as I prepared my bath water, my dad pointed to the shoes I washed last night and said, "Next time, I will wash those. You didn't do a good enough job." I was so proud of myself for washing my shoes. For remembering to clean them and spending the time to scrub the dirt from them! The American in me is thinking, "Who washes their Tevas? You wear them on your feet. You're sweaty feet. And then you walk on dirt and mud roads...and you wash them?!" I understand their logic, and the huge empahsis on personal hygeine, but I tried! Only to be reprimanded. It's partially amasuing and partially frustrating to be constantly treated as if I am six. I'm lucky to even be considered six. If it wasn't for thier English skills and my common sense, I would be about as competent as a fetus.
But that just makes the moments in which my parents allow me to cook, to wash, to clean, to function as any 21-year-old Ugandan, that much more meaningful.
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