Peter’s voice is reverberating off the pale blue paint of the cement walls, easily filling the room with his presence. He is a commanding figure by any measure, but especially so in this room, where the audience sits so quietly, with a resounding humbleness. Most of their eyes are aimed downwards as they listen, as if looking at the speaker is a privilege they haven’t earned yet. These are our conference attendees, the men and women we’re to spend the next three days teaching the basics of Christian leadership. Where I come from, attending a conference is, at worst, an inconvenience. For some of these, discovery might put their lives in jeopardy. People have lied to their families, their husbands, to be here. Our lesson plans seem an inadequate reward for that sort of daring.
A tuft of breeze fills my nose with an overpowering scent of flowers from the lei that hangs about my neck. It is an honor I will never get accustomed to, to have a hula hoop-sized wreath of marigolds dropped over my head just for showing up someplace. I’m treated like a visiting dignitary and seated at the front of the room, to be stared at curiously by a pack of people I’ve never seen before. I don’t want to be up here. I want to be standing in the back, where I belong. I want someone to give me back my camera. The light is coming through that back window at just the right angle to catch a red-and-orange sari back there, and I want to take a picture of it.
Peter removed his lei seconds after they placed it on his head. Am I being perceived a prideful by keeping mine on? That I feel that I deserve the honor? Out of the corner of my eye, I see John moving in his seat against the wall. He slowly takes off the lei and lays it carefully over the arm of his chair. That decides it.
“I’m gonna take mine off,” I whisper.
Sarah’s fingers dig into my arm. “Don’t you dare,” she hisses.
