Because Home is Sometimes a Feeling

I am the only forenji and staff member here. The arms of the students rest heavily on my shoulders as the fifty of us form a moving ring of dancing and singing. Our heads are thrown back and we are bellowing out the words to, of all things, a remix of “Country Roads”.

Instead of ”West Virginia”, some of the students shout the names of their homelands: “Addis Ababa!” “Nazreet!” The music has been revamped with Ethiopic style saxophone and a heavy beat. I start a modified flat-foot and people follow my dance. For about three minutes, I am considered a good dancer for the first time in my life.

I shouldn’t have been at the party. I was there by accident. I may have to deal with the fall-out of being seen dancing (usually terribly) with students. Already, some of the women (who usually did NOT dance but sat in the chairs next to the dancers and whispered) laughed at me and called me something in Amharic. I don’t care. This was fun and I’ll hopefully remember it forever. For one song, I didn’t feel out of place here at all. In the middle of a crowd of strangers in a strange land, I was home.