The Color of Your Eyes

Opening Christmas presents was absolutely amazing. When my mom sends presents, she has this ability to eliminate distance in between the giver and the receiver. She has always boxed things perfectly and seems to send just enough of home to make one feel like they are there. Nothing has changed, when you open her packages. Christmas presents to Africa were nothing short of typical Mom. I won’t go into the long saga of the actual delivery of packages, but rather I’ll pick up when I unpacked perfectly wrapped presents from large FedEx boxes.

Every gift was wrapped in paper, ribbons, and tags from home. I could almost touch the tin box of tags and slip the rolls of wrapping paper out from the large cardboard box that housed such exquisite papers. Glitter covered my floor from tissue paper that she had splurged on, because what would Christmas be without stunning gifts? She even found a mini Christmas tree, some ornaments, battery-operated Christmas lights, and plenty of hanging décor to bring Christmas into my hut. The colored Christmas lights illuminated a display of gifts that coated an entire bookshelf, complete with stocking and all. I laughed out of glee and embarrassment. I wouldn’t even know how to explain this to a Zulu if they peaked in the window.

The gifts remained under my mini tree for about a day, when my mom and I were able to have a talk date and I could open presents with her voice.

“I don’t even know where to start, Mom! There’s too many. Maybe I’ll just open one every month for the rest of my time here. Which one gift should be my Christmas present for December 2010?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Pick one. I can’t even remember what all is there anymore.”

I picked up a square box, Anthropologie-shaped, if my memory served me right. The tag read, “Merry Christmas, Dollbaby. (You may not like this.) Love, Mom and Dad.” This looked like a good starting point, I could work my way up to the exciting gifts. I described the wrap and read the tag to my mom and she recalled the present, “Oh, yes. I hope you like this, but you may not.”

I unwrapped an adorable sweater and tears came to my eyes. I couldn’t stop crying. With one gift, I remembered that I had a favorite store, and favorite clothes, and style! I forgot about me. I cried and cried. The phone cut out, because cell phone service is essentially nonexistent in my house. By the time my mom called back, I was wearing the cutest sweater I’d ever seen and was still bawling.

“Mom!” I said through the tears, “I forgot! I forgot that I love cute clothes! I own a cute piece of clothing again! I forgot that I could do this!” She laughed and laughed and admitted that she had to excuse herself from work because she didn’t want to miss out on my Christmas.

“Open another!”

“I don’t need to. This is beautiful,” I wiped my eyes and was floored that there was even more to open.

Let’s be real, of course I opened more presents. I cried with each present. I couldn’t even control the tears. “I’m happy,” I said, “I swear. I don’t know why I can’t stop crying.”

“You must have just forgotten about home and who you are aside from REI labels and dorky blouses. Open another! This is so fun!”

I picked up a small box. “Oh my God! Is this from Fini?! I forgot about Fini!” (Fini is one of my favorite Seattle boutiques. It’s a tiny shop near Pike Place filled with unique accessories, all of which I would love to have.) My mom said nothing; either it was Fini, or a risky gift chosen by Mom in a daring moment. The small, non-Fini box held a pair of stylish and artsy earrings. “Oh my God. These. These, are beautiful.”

“Oh good! They’re by a local artist on Whidbey Island. I know that you wanted a pair of earrings you could wear with everything, like some of my artsy earrings. I hoped that you would like them as much as I did.”

“Mom. Wow. I love them. Although my light is on, I can’t tell what color they are. Black? Are they black? God, these are awesome. These will go with everything! What color are they?”

Pause. “They’re the color of your eyes.”

With that, I lost it. Tears, tears, and more tears. My mom knew the color of my eyes. Well, of course she did. But someone, somewhere loved me that much. My mom knows my style, knows my eyes, knows me. I’m a person that has style and has distinctive characteristics beyond the fact that I have white skin.


As much as I walk through this village, and every single person calls my name, most would fail to identify me in a crowd of white people. I am so valued here, and yet so unknown. I wonder how often we do this in life. How many people do we rely on and yet don’t know? Usually, there are so many distractions and others to comfort these people that actually knowing a person doesn’t always matter. There are days here when I don’t care if I am the only person who understands me. But apparently, it is unavoidable that I desire to be loved as an individual here. I wonder if there will be a day when someone knows me here like my friends know me at home. I guess that isn’t the reason for me being here. I’ll have to learn how to remember myself, and celebrate that self, enough to teach other who I am. Beyond a white person, beyond a woman, beyond a PCV, beyond an American. I would like to introduce myself as an individual. Perhaps, I need to also welcome in the individuals that surround me. Beyond a black person, beyond a South African, beyond a Zulu. We are all people.


My favorite gift of Christmas was a small, intricately crafted, cobalt blue box. It reminds me of my mom. It reminds me of her style, her favorite color, her writing, her wisdom, her love. Although one goal I had when joining the Peace Corps was to lose my dependence upon material objects, a few small presents represented my heart. None of these things were needed; but being reminded of individual beauty was a remarkable gift for Christmas.

Thank you, Mom, for shortening the distance of home and reminding me of who I am. I love you.