I was planning on writing this next blog post about my weekend trip to the Dana Nature Reserve. I was hoping to show all of you images of the stunning valley and the vibrant sunset and the adorable puppies I encountered there. But at this moment in time I cannot possibly write about something so mundane as my hiking trip.
Yesterday the grand jury decided not to indict Darren Wilson. There will be no trial for a cop who shot an unarmed teenager in the street. He will walk free, and Mike Brown's family will not see justice for his death- not even the attempt to gain justice.
I feel tired. I feel disappointed. I am upset, and angry, and disheartened by this news. It is wrong, it is a mockery of justice and a slap in the face of what America supposedly believes in. And in these emotions, there is only incredible privilege. Because upon hearing the news, I am upset and disheartened- but I am not worried for my life. I am not terrified for a future of uncertainty. I have that privilege, simply based on the color of my skin.
How is America considered the pinnacle of democracy? Of freedom? Of human rights? How are we the best, the greatest, that the world has to offer? What a
joke. What a complete and utter farce. We are all lying to ourselves,
and it manifests itself in an ignorance that has cost so very many
lives.
We are all lying to ourselves.
On Belonging
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
This morning, I woke up at my usual hour of 6:30 and lay in bed for my usual 10 minutes before rousing myself for my usual cup of coffee. Maybe I'll just stay in bed today, is my usual waking thought. A fierce battle of wills commences, ultimately resulting in me forcing myself to flip the light on and slip my bare feet out of bed onto the chilled tile floor (fun fact, my room is the only one in our apartment without a working heater. Yay!)
The inevitable result of living somewhere for over three months is that you slide into a daily routine (something I've had to give a presentation on MULTIPLE TIMES in Arabic.. I might not be able to say much but I do know how to describe in excruciating detail my morning routine!). When I think about life here, it's hard to conceptualize it within a framework of normalness, simply because I am so far removed from the society and culture I have been acclimated to. But I guess that's the thing, nothing is ever actually a dichotomy, no matter how desperate Western knowledge is to frame concepts as such. So while life back home, in America, is "normal", that does not mean that life here simply reflects the opposite of normal. It occupies a more liminal space, something somewhere in between that encapsulates components of normality and comfort and simultaneously bewilderment and alienation.
Take this morning, for instance- I have a usual morning routine. I wake up. I get ready. I walk to Mustashfa Shmeisani, music spilling out of my headphones, past the dukkan and the bird garden and the three girls who wait for their school bus on the corner with their pink backpacks. The music is a welcome distraction from the lingering stares from slowing car windows, reclaiming a space in which I refuse to allow them to infiltrate. This is a recurring moment of normal.
But then we pile into a taxi, and the driver begins speaking animatedly in Arabic, and it's 7:30 in the morning and even with coffee my mind is not quite up to the challenge of deciphering sentences, so I sit silently in the back and disengage. This is a recurring moment of isolation and alienation.
I experience a plurality of these moments every day- moments that expose me as an imposter and then, not ten minutes later, demonstrate my inclusion.
I'm done with fusHa and another battle of the wills commences- to gym, or not to gym? And of course, the gym wins out because sleep was forgone in order to pack a bag of gym clothes, so I trek down the hill. I was doing this walk this morning, the same walk I do several times a week, and was realized that this routine- ritual, even, had come to embody a sense of home for me. Of place. Belonging.
Moments of realization like that- that not only am I residing here, in Amman, in Jordan, in the Middle East, but actually living here- instill confidence in me that I am not wasting my time, that I have chosen the right path in life for myself. That this is a viable life for me. It is comforting to come to acknowledge that I belong in America, but I also belong in Jordan, and that these belongings are not exclusive. These belongings differ immensely due to the affectation of the subtleties of context, and yet all the same, nurture the same inspiring thought in me. I belong here.
Reflecting
Thursday, November 13, 2014
My stay in Amman is almost over- a thought, once reflected upon, that produces an instinctive rejection. I've only just got here, or so it seems. I feel as if I know the city intimately, and at the same time, I am on the outskirts with no hope of coming anywhere close to belonging in the next five weeks.
I miss many things about America, but none of them are merely because they are American. I miss being able to cook whatever I want, I miss the late nights in Cafe on the Ave with my stacks of books and frantic typing, I miss my wardrobe of more than three pairs of pants . None of these are intrinsically American, and all of them comforts that I have just as easily lived without here. And I am reminded every day here that these comforts of home, the comforts that America provides, are not really comforts that America provides- they are comforts that my wealth, my class standing provide for me back at home. And perhaps it is good for me to live without them, to learn to grow without the comforts afforded to me by wealth. In these last few weeks I have found myself wishing fondly for home, daydreaming of what life will be like when I return, building up grand plans in my head of how I will spend my next months. But just as I have been daydreaming of the return, I have been dreading it.
Sometimes I think, what if I don't go back? I could just as readily live here- being a fluent English speaker is, fortunately, a hot commodity here. I could easily find a job and a comfortable apartment, and put down the roots here that I have been so desperately missing. Life in Amman has become everyday life for me- a city once foreign, once wildly exciting and desperately confusing has become normal. I feel comfortable enough to walk through the city without a vigilant eye canvassing the streets for shabab that I must avoid, I have a comfortable grasp on the geography of most of West Amman, and I can redirect a cab driver who is attempting to take me down a time consuming- and more expensive- route.
I think I have grown accustomed to life here in the Middle East- albeit I am living in a rather Westernized section of it- and I am relieved to be able to say that I could pursue a life here, as my studies and subsequent career choice will most likely require (sorry, Mom and Dad). This study abroad- if doing little for me in an academic sense- has at least allowed me to prove that to myself. And when I do return to the US, I think I will miss my life here, however fleeting and ungrounded it has been.
I miss many things about America, but none of them are merely because they are American. I miss being able to cook whatever I want, I miss the late nights in Cafe on the Ave with my stacks of books and frantic typing, I miss my wardrobe of more than three pairs of pants . None of these are intrinsically American, and all of them comforts that I have just as easily lived without here. And I am reminded every day here that these comforts of home, the comforts that America provides, are not really comforts that America provides- they are comforts that my wealth, my class standing provide for me back at home. And perhaps it is good for me to live without them, to learn to grow without the comforts afforded to me by wealth. In these last few weeks I have found myself wishing fondly for home, daydreaming of what life will be like when I return, building up grand plans in my head of how I will spend my next months. But just as I have been daydreaming of the return, I have been dreading it.
Sometimes I think, what if I don't go back? I could just as readily live here- being a fluent English speaker is, fortunately, a hot commodity here. I could easily find a job and a comfortable apartment, and put down the roots here that I have been so desperately missing. Life in Amman has become everyday life for me- a city once foreign, once wildly exciting and desperately confusing has become normal. I feel comfortable enough to walk through the city without a vigilant eye canvassing the streets for shabab that I must avoid, I have a comfortable grasp on the geography of most of West Amman, and I can redirect a cab driver who is attempting to take me down a time consuming- and more expensive- route.
I think I have grown accustomed to life here in the Middle East- albeit I am living in a rather Westernized section of it- and I am relieved to be able to say that I could pursue a life here, as my studies and subsequent career choice will most likely require (sorry, Mom and Dad). This study abroad- if doing little for me in an academic sense- has at least allowed me to prove that to myself. And when I do return to the US, I think I will miss my life here, however fleeting and ungrounded it has been.
Obligatory Kitty Pictures
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
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| Cats and their computers. Much fascinate |
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| Kareem at his new home! |
Beit Sitti
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
Tonight I attended a cooking class at Beit Sitti, which CIEE graciously provided as an opportunity for us poor starving students to learn how to navigate the waters of Jordanian cuisine. Thea and I managed to be forty minutes late to the class, courtesy of a time mix up and good for nothing friends who left without telling us. Luckily we were able to grab a cab right outside our apartment, as one of the other CIEE students had just pulled up in one, and our cab driver was one of the more speed-inclined ones, so we got there post haste.
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| I shway helped make this |
We were instructed on cutting technique- like a choo-choo train, knuckles first down the chopping board- and trusted with the very important steps of dicing up cucumbers, tomatoes, parsley and mint for the salad. We also partook in the flattening of the dough balls; I don't want to brag, but I think mine turned out the best. The hardest task I think we were put to was peeling the roasted eggplants; we were warned that if we pulled off flesh with the skin we wouldn't get dinner! A handy tip that helped the peeling go faster was to let the eggplant "sweat" - basically, mush it a bit with your hand to get the water to release to the surface. Also, fun fact: roasted eggplant looks suspiciously similar to smushed up brain.
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| All my shababs, pre-flip of the maqloobeh |
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| Feed me, servants |
Sexual Harassment: A Daily Journey
Saturday, October 18, 2014
This is one of the topics I've been tiptoeing around talking about because I don't want to lend credence to the white imperialist perspective of feminism, in which the Middle East is a backwards, patriarchal society where women are oppressed and dominated and have no agency or voice of their own. That is obviously a blatant, racist lie, full of willful misconceptions of Arab culture and dehumanization of Arabs themselves. What I write here does not in any way condone some sort of Western campaign of human righteousness in which it is the obligation, the duty, the responsibility of the West to invade and intervene in order to liberated the oppressed women of the Middle East. Rather the opposite, actually. But I do want to bring light to the sexual harassment I receive here, and draw some parallels and distinctions to what I experience back in the United States. Because while I do not want to condone the imposition of Western values upon perceived 'oppressed' populations, I also will not remain silent on the injustices I perceive in the world around me.
Today was a typical weekend day for me- perhaps a little more secluded, as I'm studying for midterms. I remained in my apartment all morning, until deciding that I need to do something with my life other than make delicious omelets and watch TV that I don't understand. I was running dangerously low on money- only a couple of dinar left in my wallet- so I decided to walk to the ATM and invited a friend to come along. Several of us ended up going on this excursion- two other girls and one guy- and I walked with one girl as the other two walked in front of us. Three minutes out from the apartment and a truck drove by, with two younger men in the front seats. The window was down, and the truck slowed as it passed us, both blatantly staring at us. One guy leaned his head out the window as they passed, saying "I love you" as they drove off. We were silent for a second until Katie said sarcastically, to herself, "I love you too!" and we laughed for the next minute. Because what else is there to do, really, but laugh off such a situation?
We all split up as we neared the banks, each of us walking off to our respective ATMs. Mine is a bit further than the others, so I was walking quickly with purpose towards it so the others wouldn't have to wait for long. There was a guy loitering on the sidewalk in front of a hotel, and alarm bells went off in my head. Since my trip during Eid al-Adha with Katie, I've gotten pretty good at picking out the creepers. Something about him seemed off, so I determinedly stuck a scowl on my face and tilted my head to stare at the opposite side of the street as I walked by him.
"Bsst bsst bsst" was the response that got- the literal cat call here- and when that didn't elicit a response from me, the whistling commenced. I don't know if whistling or words is worse, but all the same it generates a feeling of violation, of being unwillingly transformed into a display for someone else. I had to walk past him again after using the ATM, and generated the same response. Ignore, ignore, ignore, because what else is there to do?
We walk up the street to the grocery store. A car slows and men leer. We walk by a group of men on the way back home. Their stares linger for a bit too long. A passing car honks, and the guy inside smiles as he drives by.
This was my morning. This was all within a span of 30 minutes. This is not, by all means, reflective of every waking moment of my life in Amman- but it is reflective of a cultural conception of women, especially foreign women, here. We are objects. We are displays. We are easy. We do not deserve respect. We are not people.
During orientation week, there was a presentation given on sexual harassment and how it will likely manifest itself here. It is, honestly, the same way it manifests back in the United States. Unwanted leers, comments, cat calls- the insidious projection of men into my life, claiming that their right to comment on my body is more important than my right to walk down the street unmolested. The advice they gave in responding to it is much the same as how you would respond to it in the US - ignore, ignore, ignore (because if you don't, and you confront it, you might not come out of it alive) and that is what I do. I ignore. I behave like a good, meek little woman and walk down the street as if I can't hear you telling me to smile.
It is exhausting. Some days more than others.
Today was a typical weekend day for me- perhaps a little more secluded, as I'm studying for midterms. I remained in my apartment all morning, until deciding that I need to do something with my life other than make delicious omelets and watch TV that I don't understand. I was running dangerously low on money- only a couple of dinar left in my wallet- so I decided to walk to the ATM and invited a friend to come along. Several of us ended up going on this excursion- two other girls and one guy- and I walked with one girl as the other two walked in front of us. Three minutes out from the apartment and a truck drove by, with two younger men in the front seats. The window was down, and the truck slowed as it passed us, both blatantly staring at us. One guy leaned his head out the window as they passed, saying "I love you" as they drove off. We were silent for a second until Katie said sarcastically, to herself, "I love you too!" and we laughed for the next minute. Because what else is there to do, really, but laugh off such a situation?
We all split up as we neared the banks, each of us walking off to our respective ATMs. Mine is a bit further than the others, so I was walking quickly with purpose towards it so the others wouldn't have to wait for long. There was a guy loitering on the sidewalk in front of a hotel, and alarm bells went off in my head. Since my trip during Eid al-Adha with Katie, I've gotten pretty good at picking out the creepers. Something about him seemed off, so I determinedly stuck a scowl on my face and tilted my head to stare at the opposite side of the street as I walked by him.
"Bsst bsst bsst" was the response that got- the literal cat call here- and when that didn't elicit a response from me, the whistling commenced. I don't know if whistling or words is worse, but all the same it generates a feeling of violation, of being unwillingly transformed into a display for someone else. I had to walk past him again after using the ATM, and generated the same response. Ignore, ignore, ignore, because what else is there to do?
We walk up the street to the grocery store. A car slows and men leer. We walk by a group of men on the way back home. Their stares linger for a bit too long. A passing car honks, and the guy inside smiles as he drives by.
This was my morning. This was all within a span of 30 minutes. This is not, by all means, reflective of every waking moment of my life in Amman- but it is reflective of a cultural conception of women, especially foreign women, here. We are objects. We are displays. We are easy. We do not deserve respect. We are not people.
During orientation week, there was a presentation given on sexual harassment and how it will likely manifest itself here. It is, honestly, the same way it manifests back in the United States. Unwanted leers, comments, cat calls- the insidious projection of men into my life, claiming that their right to comment on my body is more important than my right to walk down the street unmolested. The advice they gave in responding to it is much the same as how you would respond to it in the US - ignore, ignore, ignore (because if you don't, and you confront it, you might not come out of it alive) and that is what I do. I ignore. I behave like a good, meek little woman and walk down the street as if I can't hear you telling me to smile.
It is exhausting. Some days more than others.
The Story of a Cat
Friday, October 10, 2014
I think I've mentioned this before, but one of the hardest things about being here for me is the feral cats. They're everywhere, and it's not terribly uncommon that you stray across the body of one that was on the unlucky end of a collision with a car. I have somewhat of a bleeding heart when it comes to animals, I'll admit, and it's hard for me to see so many with no hope of a good life, especially as it will be many years before any sort of animal infrastructure is built up to instate a catch and release program to diminish the numbers.
So of course when a friend send me a picture of a tiny, really itty bitty kitten that followed him for a bit up the street I demanded to know where he had found it. And then I went out, scooped him off the streets, and brought him home.
And then I remembered that I am a college student in a foreign country living in an apartment and that I really, really don't have the time to raise a kitten. Oh, and there was also the fact that I'm leaving the country in another three months to return to the US, and there's no way I would be able to bring him with me (although, of course, I thought about trying).
The kitten- I named him Kareem (كريم), meaning generous- was seriously the tiniest thing I've ever seen. I estimated he was about 3 weeks old; when I first scooped him off the streets he couldn't really walk (it was more of a very, very drunken stumble) and his eyes were that hazy-not-quite-a-color that kittens have for the first several weeks. The first night I attempted to bottle feed him- not the easiest thing when your makeshift bottle is a ziploc baggie with a corner cut off, and ridiculously messy at that. Thankfully I quickly discovered that he could eat (kind of) by himself from a saucer, and from then on he got warmed up kitten formula with some mushy wet food in a saucer. This was also a really great way to make a complete and utter mess of things, as he decided that he needed to be as close as possible to the food, and would clamber INTO the saucer in order to eat. There were a lot of paper towel baths involved.
I also got to experience the truly thrilling job of being a momma cat in charge of making her kitten pee. Warm, wet paper towel to the butt after feeding- works every time. Who knew? I do, now. I certainly do not miss that part at all. I had him for two days before finding a vet to take him to (of course located in Abdoun, the richest neighborhood in Amman), and spent those two days waffling over what I should do with him. I didn't really want to keep him- it just wasn't logical on my part, and he was so time intensive that I wouldn't have time for anything else- but at the same time, pets aren't really a huge scene here, especially cats. I kind of just decided that whatever happened happened and decided to leave it at that.
That Saturday I took him to the vet, randomly located above a small grocery store in a very, very residential neighborhood. The vet took him into the exam room, prodded him for a couple minutes, and pronounced him healthy except for a flea problem. I left him there for an hour, hour and a half for the flea bath and waited outside for him. It was a relatively pleasant evening in a nice, quiet neighborhood, so I just tucked myself in a nook on the sidewalk outside someones house and read a book on my phone. Apparently in Abdoun they are not used to young white foreign women perching on sidewalks for prolonged periods of time, because a man came up to me after lingering in his garden for a while and struck up a conversation with me. His English was limited- although better than my Arabic- and our conversation was mostly based on Obama (he was of the opinion that Obama should have married a white woman, but liked him anyways). He ended up inviting me inside for some tea, reflective of the hospitable culture here, but I assured him that I was fine where I was. He was nice, it was a well to do neighborhood, but I was alone and it's better to err on the side of caution. He wandered away after that, and I went back to my reading.
...until 10 minutes later, when he walked up again, this time with an older gentleman in tow. This older gentleman struck up a conversation with me-- his English was flawless, and he told me that he had lived in the US for 10 years during the 60s and then taught Arabic to expats in Oman. He explained to me that he was the previous fellow's neighbor, and had been fetched because of his superior English skills. He repeated the invitation to tea, which I once again declined, explaining that my cat was at the vet and I was just waiting for him. We said our farewells, he went off and talked animatedly with the first man, and then they went back inside.
At that point the one and a half hours were up, so I went back inside to fetch Kareem. He was all fluffy and clean from his back, but mad as a devil and made sure we all knew it. The vet visit itself was wayyy cheaper than it would have been back in the states- just 20 JD- so that was nice, seeing as I am a starving college student and don't exactly have a lot of spare cash to throw at large vet bills. Been there, done that, ready to not do that again for a while now. I collected little Kareem and shuffled him back home, now flea free and much cleaner.
Upon arriving home one of my roommates made her distaste for him very clear- a bit confusing as she had been there when I first found him and had seemed supportive. Regardless, that kind of put a wrench in things, and I decided to pull out all of the stops to find him a home. There was a lot of web crawling as I tried to figure out if there were any animal rescues/shelters in Amman, and what the animal scene was like. Things I learned: there's one large animal shelter that may or may not still be operational (their phone number doesn't work and their website hasn't been updated in a while), there's a vet clinic that sometimes takes in rescues and rehomes them, and that there's a small but surprisingly present animal community.
I posted an adoption listing on the aforementioned vet clinic's facebook page, and then went through the really fun process of screening interested people. It was hard because I needed to significantly lower my standards from what I am used to in animal adoptions, simply because of the animal community here, but I also wanted to make sure he went to a good home and wouldn't end up back out on the street. It took a couple people- my favorite was a 16 year old boy who was significantly more interested in finding out how old I was than in Kareem, and who wanted me to keep him for another month to potty train him before selling him for 100 JD to him- but I ended up finding someone to take him, and it only took me five days!
So I had Kareem for about a week- a terrible, terrible week filled with waking up at 6am to feed the crying kitten and running home after every class to feed him again and not being able to go out because I needed to feed the kitten and.. you get the point. The little bugger got on my nerves a lot, but there were also some high points (like the first day he figured out the litter box; I went around telling everyone who would listen how smart he was for pooping in the right place).
I met with the final approved adopter that Thursday, handed Kareem off, and breathed a huge sigh of relief. And now I can officially say I have adopted out a kitten in Jordan.. I think that's one to add to my resume!
So of course when a friend send me a picture of a tiny, really itty bitty kitten that followed him for a bit up the street I demanded to know where he had found it. And then I went out, scooped him off the streets, and brought him home.
And then I remembered that I am a college student in a foreign country living in an apartment and that I really, really don't have the time to raise a kitten. Oh, and there was also the fact that I'm leaving the country in another three months to return to the US, and there's no way I would be able to bring him with me (although, of course, I thought about trying).
The kitten- I named him Kareem (كريم), meaning generous- was seriously the tiniest thing I've ever seen. I estimated he was about 3 weeks old; when I first scooped him off the streets he couldn't really walk (it was more of a very, very drunken stumble) and his eyes were that hazy-not-quite-a-color that kittens have for the first several weeks. The first night I attempted to bottle feed him- not the easiest thing when your makeshift bottle is a ziploc baggie with a corner cut off, and ridiculously messy at that. Thankfully I quickly discovered that he could eat (kind of) by himself from a saucer, and from then on he got warmed up kitten formula with some mushy wet food in a saucer. This was also a really great way to make a complete and utter mess of things, as he decided that he needed to be as close as possible to the food, and would clamber INTO the saucer in order to eat. There were a lot of paper towel baths involved.
I also got to experience the truly thrilling job of being a momma cat in charge of making her kitten pee. Warm, wet paper towel to the butt after feeding- works every time. Who knew? I do, now. I certainly do not miss that part at all. I had him for two days before finding a vet to take him to (of course located in Abdoun, the richest neighborhood in Amman), and spent those two days waffling over what I should do with him. I didn't really want to keep him- it just wasn't logical on my part, and he was so time intensive that I wouldn't have time for anything else- but at the same time, pets aren't really a huge scene here, especially cats. I kind of just decided that whatever happened happened and decided to leave it at that.
That Saturday I took him to the vet, randomly located above a small grocery store in a very, very residential neighborhood. The vet took him into the exam room, prodded him for a couple minutes, and pronounced him healthy except for a flea problem. I left him there for an hour, hour and a half for the flea bath and waited outside for him. It was a relatively pleasant evening in a nice, quiet neighborhood, so I just tucked myself in a nook on the sidewalk outside someones house and read a book on my phone. Apparently in Abdoun they are not used to young white foreign women perching on sidewalks for prolonged periods of time, because a man came up to me after lingering in his garden for a while and struck up a conversation with me. His English was limited- although better than my Arabic- and our conversation was mostly based on Obama (he was of the opinion that Obama should have married a white woman, but liked him anyways). He ended up inviting me inside for some tea, reflective of the hospitable culture here, but I assured him that I was fine where I was. He was nice, it was a well to do neighborhood, but I was alone and it's better to err on the side of caution. He wandered away after that, and I went back to my reading.
...until 10 minutes later, when he walked up again, this time with an older gentleman in tow. This older gentleman struck up a conversation with me-- his English was flawless, and he told me that he had lived in the US for 10 years during the 60s and then taught Arabic to expats in Oman. He explained to me that he was the previous fellow's neighbor, and had been fetched because of his superior English skills. He repeated the invitation to tea, which I once again declined, explaining that my cat was at the vet and I was just waiting for him. We said our farewells, he went off and talked animatedly with the first man, and then they went back inside.
At that point the one and a half hours were up, so I went back inside to fetch Kareem. He was all fluffy and clean from his back, but mad as a devil and made sure we all knew it. The vet visit itself was wayyy cheaper than it would have been back in the states- just 20 JD- so that was nice, seeing as I am a starving college student and don't exactly have a lot of spare cash to throw at large vet bills. Been there, done that, ready to not do that again for a while now. I collected little Kareem and shuffled him back home, now flea free and much cleaner.
Upon arriving home one of my roommates made her distaste for him very clear- a bit confusing as she had been there when I first found him and had seemed supportive. Regardless, that kind of put a wrench in things, and I decided to pull out all of the stops to find him a home. There was a lot of web crawling as I tried to figure out if there were any animal rescues/shelters in Amman, and what the animal scene was like. Things I learned: there's one large animal shelter that may or may not still be operational (their phone number doesn't work and their website hasn't been updated in a while), there's a vet clinic that sometimes takes in rescues and rehomes them, and that there's a small but surprisingly present animal community.
I posted an adoption listing on the aforementioned vet clinic's facebook page, and then went through the really fun process of screening interested people. It was hard because I needed to significantly lower my standards from what I am used to in animal adoptions, simply because of the animal community here, but I also wanted to make sure he went to a good home and wouldn't end up back out on the street. It took a couple people- my favorite was a 16 year old boy who was significantly more interested in finding out how old I was than in Kareem, and who wanted me to keep him for another month to potty train him before selling him for 100 JD to him- but I ended up finding someone to take him, and it only took me five days!
So I had Kareem for about a week- a terrible, terrible week filled with waking up at 6am to feed the crying kitten and running home after every class to feed him again and not being able to go out because I needed to feed the kitten and.. you get the point. The little bugger got on my nerves a lot, but there were also some high points (like the first day he figured out the litter box; I went around telling everyone who would listen how smart he was for pooping in the right place).
I met with the final approved adopter that Thursday, handed Kareem off, and breathed a huge sigh of relief. And now I can officially say I have adopted out a kitten in Jordan.. I think that's one to add to my resume!
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