the culture of modesty

I understand that I’m super late in weighing in on this conversation. The evolution of the swimsuit has already debuted, the myriad responses have already circulated and ya’ll are turning to turtleneck season and won’t care about this discussion for another ten months. So forgive me if this is annoyingly out of season, but I’ve only just caught up on this trending topic in America. (#bushdweller.)

I’ve learned two specific lessons from my Zambian ladies regarding modesty that have been very valuable to me and I think are worth sharing.

First. Modesty is culturally informed. When I first arrived in Fimpulu, I had to process the breastage that I was encountering everywhere. Boobs, boobs and more boobs. Where do I look? I remember riding in the back of a truck once, sitting across from a lady and a man. The (bra-less) lady somehow realized that her shirt was on backwards and so right there in front of me and next to this other guy, she whips her shirt off, flips it around and puts it back on the right way, flashing us all with breasts that have clearly nursed a small tribe of youngins. And I nearly peed my pants I trying so hard to stifle embarrassed laughter. 

Since then I’ve grown quite comfortable in this environment and have happily joined right in with the free and fancy flinging of boob-to-baby’s-mouth. “How long did it take you to get really comfortable nursing in public?” I’ve been asked. Well. The first week we had Bronwyn here in the village, people would come and greet us and if she was nursing, they would get down in her face to tickle her cheek and say hi. Inevitably, she would pull off leaving me fleshy and exposed with someone’s face two centimeters from my strikingly pink areola. Fantastic. But after this happened multiple times, I noticed the trend that not a single person was paying attention to my boob. Not the women, not the teenage boys, not the grandfatherly old men.

I love everything about this.

I remember listening to a sermon by a well known American pastor who was teaching on the topic of modesty and he was jesting about how ‘there are only three kinds of men: blind men, gay men, and breast men.’ Hmmm. Sorry MD but you forgot Zambian men, and doesn’t that make your statement sound foolish? This attitude perpetuates a false stereotype that American men are physically/biologically/humanly unable to not go crazy over breasts. Yet my experience here has taught me that this is simply not the case. It would seem that the breast obsession in America is a cultural obsession - an unfortunate one that is grossly drawn out in media frenzies, shooing nursing women into closets, and dragging the modesty conversation through piles of obnoxious muck.

However, a second lesson remains. Namely, culture still matters.  Zambian men may not be "breast men," but the ladies here know what kind of men they are. There is a very good reason why you will never see a woman’s skin above her knee. The thigh to belly button region is practically sacred, and women go to extreme lengths to preserve the intimacy of that skin for their husbands alone. In my good-wife training  (which I’ve never written about because: a) I don’t know who reads this blog, b) I was sworn to secrecy and c) the details of that event are totally not 'G' rated…) we were taught (and by taught I mean hazed) into a strict agreement that certain body parts are for our husbands alone. No man shall ever touch or gaze upon thine thighs, dear women, or we shall beat you. Kapeesh?

Little girls are given a certain amount of cultural latitude to wear shorts or run free in whatever outfit. But at a tender age, girls are expected to don dresses and wear panties and sit with legs crossed. Just the other day, nature-baby Bronwyn was gallivanting about in a diaper and t-shirt when a woman came up and only half-jokingly scolded, “she’s too old to not be wearing a skirt.” Yes ma’am. It’s a social contract that the rural communities firmly hold to. Men are socialized to be attracted to thighs and we agree to not tempt them with ours. No debating. No claiming our rights. No making a point about it. No whining and complaining that men should control themselves. It’s respect pure and simple. With the threat of a sever bamayo beating thrown in for good measure. 

These two lessons have provided a lens through which to observe this great American modesty debate. I now know that I do not need to feel ashamed of the way that God made me, and it is not my burden to account for every man’s action. The breast attraction is arbitrary (at best), which just makes all the fuss and argumentation and hooter-hiders seem silly.

However. 

AT THE VERY SAME TIME, as a member of society and a sister to my brothers, it is my responsibility to behave with a certain level of respect for my own culture. Both of these things are valid and both must be reconciled if we are to ever live in a society that is at the same time truthful and gracious. I will probably always throw up a little in my mouth every time I hear someone defend high necklines with the words, “that’s just how men are wired”...*and*... I’ll graciously cover up anyway, (or at least try and angle myself a bit) because culture is a powerful force in shaping the mind’s eye. Those forces are real and palpable and I’ve been trained well enough to respect that.  

insaka

I’m so excited about the new addition to our property, I just had to share it with you all. Look at my fantastic new insaka! What’s an insaka, you ask? This thing. I’ve never been able to figure out its official translation – gazebo-ish thing, short walled cooking shelter, small circular structure. Now that you've seen it, I'll let you describe it in your own words. Most people have insaka-s. They are primarily used for cooking as people prefer to keep their homes free of smoke, especially if they are using firewood. Entrenched in our American-ness when it comes to food prep, we have a room inside our house dedicated to food storage, supplies and cooking prep, and so a cooking insaka has never really been our thing. 

But insaka-s can also be used as meeting spaces. I’ve had a dream in my heart ever since becoming pregnant with Bronwyn that I would like an insaka near our well in order to meet with women and provide mothering/friendly/spiritual support to them. After attending MOPS at our church in Ithaca while on maternity leave, I was all the more inspired – African MOPS, I wondered, could I possibly get that to translate to this place and these ladies?  I talked about it a lot with Jeremy. He spurred more thinking. I picked out a name – tulelya bwino – we are eating well –  and I solidified my idea of meeting regularly to learn one cooking tip and one Godly-parenting principle. The theme I wanted to weave throughout was – “Man does not live by nshima alone but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.” 

I’ve been talking for months. Let’s make this happen, I’d say! So start, Jeremy would say! But the picture in my mind always had us gathering in a nice big insaka in our front yard, close to the well, in a relaxed, community based environment. For months I’ve been ragging on dear husband to put the insaka at the top of the project list and yet there was always something “more important” that took priority. And yes, we got in some fights about it. But because the man loves me and loves to see my visions come to pass, ALL OF A SUDDEN he organized the stuffs and the peoples and voila – look at the beaut.

Steven and Mwaba requested specifically to be my models. Such studs.

All of a sudden I was very excited... and very scared. This dream of mine just got real, and now I had to make it happen. A bazillion fears ran through my mind, “what if no one wants to come or what if I’m boring or too intellectual or not funny or, or, or.” And I kept coaching myself. Don’t punk out because you are scared Bethany. Remember angels in the outfield? Build it and they will come? Here’s your insaka. Just try. And try I did. I so badly, from the bottom of my gut, wanted this idea to take off and see mothers transformed and children thrive and communities renewed and, and, and. Still, I need to leave all the results based “stuff” in God’s hands and simply invite. Cook the soy beans, gather some paper and crayons, and do life with the mamas. Because that’s what the insaka culture is all about – this is where life happens – bodily nourishment and soul nourishment. 

So two weeks ago, I jumped in feet first. I advertised, I made signs. I prepared a lesson and I watched my clock with in butterflies in my stomach, waiting for the thing to start. 

As ladies arrived, we started with learning how to make roasted soy beans and soy flour. We talked about the nutritional benefits of soy and the benefits of snacking on soy beans and increasing protein content of nshima with the flour. And then after eating the food, we transitioned to eating the real food. We read scripture and talked about the good life and why every word from the mouth of God is necessary to be truly satisfied. 

And because women's ministry seems to be synonymous with craftiness, we drew pictures. (as a side note - I do not understand WHAT. SO. EVER. why women's min and diy are one in the same. Maybe I'm missing a key feminine ingredient because I have zero interest in artsy anything... but, I can function outside my comfort zone, so we were artsy anyhow.***see endnote***) We drew pictures to help ourselves remember what we had learned and to help us pass those truths on to little ones in our households. 

And you know what - it was fun. It was special and beautiful and everyone is excited to do it again soon. And - my heart is happy. You see, I get really nervous when it comes to starting things. Jeremy is the initiator in the family - he will try anything and start anything and just go for it without fear of failure. Its a part of his wiring, and honestly, it sometimes drives me nuts how good he is at it. I on the other hand prefer to be the sustainer. Once the hard work of starting is already complete, I rock at coming along side the slow moving ball and helping it gain momentum until it thrives on its own. This is one of the few things that I have taken ownership of since its inception. My borders are enlarging and I feel outside of my realm of expertise and I'm in that uncomfortable space where personal growth happens. 

My one prayer is, may this gig last as long as the Lord desires it to, and for however long that is, may the ladies who gather know Jesus better as a result of having come. 

And now for my end note. *** Because I am missing the crafty/DIY/women's min gene, I'm asking for help from my sisters out there. If anyone has ideas or suggestions for creative ways to link simple Bible stories or simple Bible principles with super-low-resource-craftyness, PLEASE TEACH ME YOUR WAYS. Or, to broaden it even more, if you are a MOPS mom or a women's min guru and have figured out ways to speak to women's heart's via this craftycraft avenue, again, PLEASE SHARE YOUR WISDOM. I'm willing to learn. And my neighbor ladies deserve the best - and I have a feeling, some of ya'll truly are the best! So don't me shy, TALK TO ME! I have hunch we can't just color pictures of nshima and crosses forever.