As you may know, I have traveled extensively, lived in at least eight countries, and experienced a great deal. Let’s not even talk about all the countries I have visited. The other day, at our UU church, we did a word association exercise. When I heard the word “free,” it took me back to a day in late April or early May of 1979. We had been under a two- to three-week siege in Uganda, fearing for our lives almost daily. One day, just after noon, we heard tanks and heavy equipment approaching the front gate of the Leprosy Center where we worked. At first, we feared this might be the end. Then, suddenly, we realized they were Tanzanian soldiers. We had been liberated. We were free. The compound erupted with screaming, celebrating people. It was amazing to witness. We celebrated for the next couple of days. The strangest part came that on the evening of our liberation, when we listened to a Radio Netherlands broadcast. After the news, our names were announced as missing, with a request that we call home if possible. That moment captured what freedom meant.
In every country where I have lived, I have experienced something special—some moment that felt like freedom. I may not remember the earliest ones. We left the Congo when I was one and a half, moved to Belgium, and left there when I was three. Perhaps my birth itself was a kind of freedom: freedom from my mother’s womb and into life. My first real memory of freedom came on December 5, 1956, in Curaçao. I was three and a half years old when my father told me Sinterklaas had brought me a brother. Sinterklaas is the Dutch equivalent of Santa, except that we celebrate him on December 5. My brother was born that day, and I still remember my disappointment. I had asked Sinterklaas for a sister, but he gave me a brother.
The moments when I felt most free during my youth were usually spent in or on the water—swimming or sailing—or alone in nature, strolling through the bush and observing the world around me. I think I was awkward, a loner, and a bit of an introvert, with maybe one or two friends. I was never bullied or ostracized, but I do remember feeling different. My first-grade teacher told my parents, and me, that I was highly intelligent and would become a professor. My second-grade teacher hated me. I received many beatings from her with a ruler. I am sure I was no sweetheart, but she broke a yardstick on my behind almost every week. Corporal punishment was common in those days, especially in her classroom. I complained to my mother, and she told me, “The next time she does it, get up and walk out of the class to the principal.” Well, I got up—but instead of going to the principal, I walked home, more than an hour in the stifling tropical heat. Free at last. The teacher never reported my absence, so my mother eventually reported it to the principal. Things improved after that: freedom from the daily beatings. I still remember the teacher’s first name: Babs.
Has my ultimate freedom come with retirement? I wish. I am now the president of our church, I still have a mortgage, and I now have a loan for the Airstream. In addition, I depend on the government for Social Security and Medicare. I pay taxes and need a license to drive. I had better stop here. No, I am not a libertarian, but I am as free as I can be—or at least as free as I can feel. Maybe freedom is not the absence of obligations, but the moments I spend on the water, in nature, and out in the world: listening to a concert, traveling, and camping. I hope you feel free too.
We were happy to watch Spain win, although it would have been wonderful for Messi and Argentina as well. We had no strong favorite, which left us free to watch the game without bias and without ties to either country.
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| We were kayaking the other day (after a long hiatus). It felt great to be on the water again! |
