Callie Daniels-Howell, Kalamazoo College student and 2012 Umoja Project intern 

We approach as a parade: first the primary student, then the LINK teacher, Umoja Project volunteer, us. Occasionally we greet others as we pass, speaking mostly to the teacher and volunteer as the students whose homes we are to visit trail behind, nervous and shy.

It is the home visit routine, something we do at least three times a day, 5 days a week. It is the home visit routine, something I am decades from mastering and with which I am years from being comfortable. It is the home visit routine, the aspect of our time here that I continuously struggle with most.

I love the idea of the home visit. I love a lot of the process. But I think that’s where I get startled, muddled, unsure: it feels like a process. I wish that I was able to walk into a home, breeze past the language barrier, and carry on a conversation with the guardians and students as if I wasn’t a sudden intruder, a visitor with little to offer, a university student who can’t understand what it would be like to welcome strangers into your home as if it’s just one more stop on the Kenya tour. It is not the act of visiting homes, of showing one cares, of taking notice of students and families that makes the home visit such a stiff and segmented process; it is me.

First we hesitate outside the home before being welcomed inside. We are asked to take seats. I clasp my hands, look around, smile.

We give introductions, we’re told to “just ask questions”. We ask how many children stay in the home and how long they’ve been supported by Umoja. I look around, unsure how many questions we’re supposed to be asking, uncomfortable with this strange interview of their lives, of their struggles. The part of the visit which challenges me most is toward the end (which is close to the beginning): the words of encouragement section. The room fills with silence, I look to my feet.

The volunteer gives me a look, shifts in his seat and says “well…” giving me my stage cue to enter the scene, a hero ready to encourage the family into personal success. We are asked to give words of encouragement almost everywhere we go – churches, primary schools, secondary schools, meetings, homes. I find that I can give words to primary and secondary students, though often cliché in nature, because I myself have needed those same words at times. I can tell students to keep healthy so that they can continue working hard in school. I can tell girls to prove wrong those who say they are weak or incapable by remaining confident and doing well in school. I can tell secondary students to stay focused on their goals and to persevere, that with determination they can be successful. I can tell girls that they are worth more than their body or any compliment a boy might give it. But I find it insincere, awkward, and inappropriate to give words of encouragement in situations which I can’t even begin to understand or fully sympathize with.

I say “I know sometimes it is difficult”, without knowing at all what it’s like to be a parent, a single mother, a grandmother or grandfather of four, six, eight, nine children.

I say “keep working hard so that your student can continue in school” without knowing how hard they’ve been working, without understanding the amount of work each day holds.

I want to be good at home visits. I want to be capable of using that time to immerse myself in the community, to build relationships, to show I care, to show Umoja cares. But each time I’m asked to encourage, I seize up. I don’t know what it’s like to take care of abandoned neighbors, of orphaned children, of grandchildren left by children lost.

I want to not focus on our differences, to not look at the relationship between us by its lack of commonality. But what weight do my words of encouragement hold if they don’t come from a place of understanding?

I mean the words I say; I want the mamas, the grandmothers, the students to have hope, to stay strong, to be a good example for their children.

I mean the words I say; I am inspired by their will, by their love for these children, by their sacrifices for their success. I mean the words I say; Umoja can provide blankets, sanitary towels, uniforms, school fees but it is the guardians – mamas, babas, grandfathers, neighbors, sisters – who support them in spirit and ensure their strength in character.

In every home visit, I feel awkward, insecure, anxious. I am caught up in the formality, in the speaking cues, in the distance between us which I create.

In every home visit, I wonder how to be a full and worthwhile presence, I wonder how show my sincerity and humility, I wonder how to do away with the feeling of process, of formality.

So as we approach our last four weeks in Kenya, I know that I will go into every home visit wondering, struggling, and trying to be better, to understand further, to encourage more deeply. I know that I will go into every home visit meaning the words I say.