This god, this one word: “I.”

I don’t have kids. And I probably will never [way past 30 and still not feeling the urgent need to reproduce, a desire to dress a boy in a bow-tie nor beads on a girl’s pig tails. Oh and I am still horrified at the sight of a swollen belly. Still see the devil they can grow into when I see children’s “innocent” faces. Still think it odd, for a woman to look so proud at having lain on her back and let a man – well – “masturbate” in her. Not my words!].

So motherhood may not be my call. However, I know and have lived through the miracle of a child birth, or atleast the joy of looking at a wee-one, in its various forms:

How? my, curious, readers would ask:

Why.. the first time I read my name in print on “The Monitor” some 10/12 years ago!
When I saw my nick name, and a translated version of my blog post, on Addis Neger back when that newspaper mattered!
Every time I sign into my Huffingtonpost account and see my 63 fans; that mostly follow me because of the funny comments I make!

I walk around with my chin in the air, my chest stuck out, telling myself [and the world] that it was me.. yeah.. EYE built that!

New “father-to-be”s, I’m sure, would know what I’m talking about. Oh I’m sure a more Darwinian reason would be provided for you were you to ask a man why he looks so perky at the rather costly [and MisGan Yelesh] prospect of inviting “a puking, pooping, eating, screaming, incoherent stranger” into his life. That it’s the reassurance of the continuing of his name, his love for children, her glow! But, deep down, I think it’s the knowledge that he’s “tapped that” that gives him a new purpose in life. That one of his little fellas has swam through the gene pool and won the race; scoring one for the home team. That he has actually accomplished something, “knocked up” a woman in a way that leaves a mark, an evidence, something you can actually see – and feel. What makes it less of an accomplishment, ewnetun lemenager, to getting a degree, owning a business, winning a lottery?! Isn’t the young African man sitting under [somebody else’s] orange tree deriving the same kind of pleasure to that other [European?!] young man who went through the toils of planting the orange tree, transporting the oranges and making money?! You look at your woman, you look at her belly, and you know that was you.. yeah.. YOU, son of a gun, who did that! It even makes pregnant women attractive, if craigslist’s “casual encounters” section can be any guide [which it can: it’s practically a She-hiker’s guide to men’s true nature, their perverted desires and deep psychosis].

“I built that” is the break-through banner heroes tear out of. It’s the spring most things noble and all things un-noble issue forth from. Thrill-seekers are born of it. Dictators slip-through it. Serial killers keep relics because of it, and return to crime scenes to sacrifice [sometimes themselves] for its greedy.. lustful.. unappeasable gods. It’s what built the world, and what’s tearing it apart, bit by bit. It’s what made Ayn Rand’s books a favorite among tea-partiers, and Obama’s “You didn’t build that” too expensive a gaff that almost costed him the vote of small business owners. It is, more importantly, what made Jack build the house:

[[with]..the farmer sowing his corn,
That kept the cock that crowed in the morn,
That waked the priest all shaven and shorn,
That married the man all tattered and torn,
That kissed the maiden all forlorn,
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built].

It’s toxic. It’s wonderful. It gives life its meaning and can be topped by only one thing: seeing your name on the cover of a booker prize nominee hard-cover someday. [Insh Allah]

So.. what have you built lately?

Can you tell me how to get…

You are black. You are standing in line with a bunch of non-black people – say a check-out stand at Walmart. There has been a black customer infront of you. This black person has screamed, she’s black she is loud and she’s proud, either at the cashier [the card keeps coming short], her sister or her baby-daddy who promised to pick up the kids/chip-in with the rent/did something or other with some girl or other. You have been embarrassed by this assault on the ear canal, panicked – as all Ethiopians have and would – that you’d be perceived just as bad by the disvirtue of sharing the same skin-color! “Asedabiwoch”, you might have said and moved on, had there been a friend or a family member standing beside you. There being none, and not being of the temperament that shrugs the shoulder and says “Egna min ageban” [but of the kind that needs to prove he/she was a different kind of black, an Ethiopian black – a friend with a face burnt with the sun] what’s your best plan of action?!

Sing! [I say]. Not “yaGerhin” zefen. Not even a radom “yaGeracheWun” zefen. But a particular zefen! A zefen that comes with kids, and nature-shots and everything that makes life in America look fantasy-land for the young [or the young at heart]. A song that starts with “Sunny day” and talks about sweet airs and friendly neighbours. Of open doors, magic carpet rides and happy people. By the time you hit the 4^th note, and are asking to be told how to get there, one of the white women standing before you is bound to turn around [with the slow dramatic twist of the neck] and ask rather sharply [but not totally unfriendly-ly], if you were singing the theme song for Sesame Street.

[Smiles are swapped. Harmlessness established. Friendship stroke up. Or striked-up. Or striken.

Never fails!!]

So here is to big bird, to cookie-monster and the number nine. To things we will be missing [when Romney gets elected], or missed out on [when born in Ethiopia – the classic!]:

To drawings we didn’t do.
To Grimm tales that weren’t read to us.
To numbers that neither run nor danced to ‘eyaznanu mastemar’ us.

To colors that didn’t brighten our worlds!
To swing-sets we didn’t swim through the air on top of
To art-classes we didn’t attend
and music-lessons we never took.

To field-trips we didn’t go to
[Fishings, Campings, boy/girl scout clubs]
And countries we weren’t exchange-students at
[To Japan, The Dominican republic, Italy or France
To Mandarine-Chinese, to Spanish, Guten Morgen & Guten tags]

Here is to self-love we were never taught
To a world we were never encouraged to explore
And a life we would go through like a mice in a maze full of traps

Here is to being Ethiopian and to missing out on things that make childhood fun, adult-hood an adventure, growing old a new chapter.

Here is to being axed, out-sourced; to not being them and stealing their jobs. Here is to you and I!

Cheers!