I attended a retreat conference on Monday that asked us to reflect on the last few months. As we closed, we wrote out a wish-list. Since I've been on a bit of a sabbatical from this blog, I decided to share my scribbles. Perhaps this will inspire me to start writing again. Perhaps.
Here goes.
6.13.2011
I want.
For the whole world to wake up. Especially us. Because it seems like everyone is sleeping through the most important parts.
I want.
For us to seek justice, not revenge. To seek solutions, not more questions. Even though questions help us feel better. Questions make us seem more important.
I want for us to help people, not because it makes us feel good or because it’s something we should do, but because it’s something we must do. Without a thought. Without a hesitation. Because our actions affect others. Always.
Justice. Humility. Grace. Community.
I want.
I want us to acknowledge our differences. To accept diversity as a reality. As a standard. The way the heat makes my hair curl but maybe not yours. The way the sun makes my skin pink and freckled but yours gets deep, rich, and dark. The way we may not agree always. That we maybe haven’t recovered from the past just yet. And to be patient about that. Because we all need time to understand ourselves. And the injustices we're born into. The chances we have with the choices we're given.
To acknowledge we share different faiths. Share. Not compete.
To admit we speak different languages but that we all giggle in the same tongue and wink eyes in the same mischief. Energy and space between skin can be electrifying. That love is universal. And anyone can be family.
Knowing that some times all we need to know is that someone cares about us. That someone notices the things we do. That some people love us, even if some people don’t.
I want.
To practice what we preach. To understand that we all need time to reflect. To heal. To recover. For restoration. Before we can go back out into the sunshine. A delicate balancing act of living, breathing, risking, and wishing.
I want.
Patience.
Tolerance.
Humility.
Peace.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Early Awakenings
It’s been a while since my last post. Lately my inspiration has come from the darkness of the early morning, before the rest of the world wakes up, to have some QT with my bubbling brain. Time to think before the blackberry starts buzzing, the way-too-pretty news lady starts touting the day’s tragedies (or Charlie Sheen’s latest tweets) and traffic jams, and before my inbox starts piling up the days’ crises I’ve yet to solve.
I woke up this morning with words on my mind and have settled in with a massive cup of coffee, a big goofy 80-lb dog at my feet, and a happily slumbering BF who is seemingly unstirred by my click-clacking on the computer. A symphony of snores and hums and early-morning musings from the outdoors are all around me, the loudest source coming from the four-legged princess at my feet who provides a wide range of musical gifts in her sleep, and seems to believe she fits quite comfortably in the bed with us (although she doesn’t, really…but shhh….don’t tell her). The muted television is darting shiny lights and colors across the mostly dark bedroom and I find myself feeling strangely content and happy. My little bubble of happiness within the compounds of this queen-sized bed. Which is a great way to wake up today. Especially since it’s my birthday.
I’m 28 years old today. A lot has changed in just the last few months and certainly in the last few years. Among these changes, a new relationship and some new changes at work on the horizon. Today, however, I’m thankful to wake up to a new year. 28 is both a wonderful year and a scary one, too. Two years closer to “thirty-something” and eight-years further away from “twenty-something”, and I’m still wondering why the hell no one talks about how stupid-hard and perplexing and challenging and wonderful and awesome and terrible these years are for us. How utterly insane these years can make you feel. It seems like another lifetime ago I was turning 18, living in the mountains of North Carolina, and trying to understand the journey ahead of me. Thinking I had come through the worst of it, trying to make decisions about college and boys and “what’s next”. What issues I cared about and what things I felt the need to be passionate about. Recycling. Poor people. And chick-fil-a. Check. Check. And check. Flash-forward to now and I barely feel as though I've begun to scratch the surface of what this life is about for me.
And there are days when, despite my self-awareness that I’m not really that old, I start to feel pretty cantankerous and geriatric (working with Baltimore City schoolchildren and college students simultaneously everyday can do this to you, no matter your age). And not to mention really out of date. Not only does MTV baffle me now (what happened to the music!?) but I can’t seem to win for losing with technology. As I was recently reminded by my BF’s son, “You don’t have games OR songs on your cell phone?? You must be SAD!” And I thought I was a part of the technologically-savvy generation. I guess I was doodling in my notebook during those classes in elementary school (yeah, a paper notebook…you know, the kind with a spiral?). Plus I drink water between my glasses of wine. I guess age has taught me something.
For the last few mornings I’ve been awake too early. Perhaps it’s my own body’s response to my own private new year’s day celebration or perhaps the bubbling anxiety that seems to be more and more present on my mind and tongue: “What am I doing with my life and where am I going? Am I happy? Am I fulfilled? When should I have babies?” The questions we all ask ourselves as we creep into adulthood and fall into silent and beautiful patterns with ourselves and our loved ones. And, “did I feed the dog last night?"
Some mornings I wake up so early, and with so much purpose, that I wonder—what is my body really trying to tell me? There’s a reason I’m not sleeping. Maybe something is wrong. Maybe I did forget to feed the dog last night and she’s having dreams of different ways to “accidentally” knock me off. I nervously admit that she drags me towards the steps with a tad too much vigor some mornings.
I’ve always found it mildly flattering that my birthday just happens to coincide with International Women’s Day. Which is ironic because I’ve spent the bulk of my 28 years on this earth negotiating just exactly what my womanhood is about and where I, as a woman, fit into the world with my ovaries and womb and big, thick hips.
And I’ll freely admit that I’ve spent a lot of years avoiding the word “feminist”. I was insistent that I didn’t believe myself to be a feminist and that I couldn’t identify at all with the movement. I associated the word with angry teeth-grinding man-haters who took any opportunity possible to mock women with children or women who didn’t work outside of the home. And men who identified as feminists? Yeah, no thank you. I thought these women (and men) felt the need to demonize domesticity as if it were the enemy. Domesticity was the anti-Christ of feminism and represented everything that prevented the women’s movement from marching forward.
I believed (and believe) in the power of women. I thought I had some radical idea to save domesticity (like the endangered species or the trees). That somehow we were at risk of losing our femininity when we became a part of the "women's movement". I believe strongly that women have an important role to play: we are healers and nurturers and providers of life and nourishment. I believe that we’re supposed to have thick hips and natural curves because we’re supposed to give birth and provide warmth and safety to our children and families. And while many argue that this kind of attitude is SO turn of the century, I guess I don’t find this behavior archaic—I find this behavior critical for survival. And I didn’t hear the feminists sharing these values with me (which was mainly because I wasn’t really listening).
Particularly in college, where I found myself deep in a liberal-feminist-recycle-mania, I felt a need to defend the women out there who clung to domesticity for safety. I felt the need to cling to that domesticity, too. I felt like I needed to offer support to the women who let their partners open the pickle jar and pick up the heavy things. Who didn’t want careers but instead wanted babies and mini-vans and houses with finished basements. Growing up in the south, I found familial structures like these, even though they didn’t necessarily reflect the home I grew up in as a kid, as a source of comfort. Like a country song. Or buttered toast.
And what I know now is that what I was clinging to wasn’t so much the hetero-normative domestic bliss of the 1950’s, but an idea that we all have a role to play in raising our children and our neighbor’s children and our neighbor’s neighbor’s children and that a woman's work is truly beautiful. And I’ve learned, with age, as with most things, that I was largely wrong with my assumptions about feminists. To have thought that these values didn’t have a home in the word “feminist” was myopic and naïve.
I look around at a world in crisis, especially for women. As I get older, I’ve become more aware of the overwhelming pressures we put on ourselves to be a certain kind of woman—to be successful, to be thin, to be pretty, to be likeable—pressures that perhaps are greater than any pressure we get in the classroom, the board room, or the senate floor. The way we interpret the world as women is just as scary as the way the world has been interpreted for us.
I’ve become keenly aware of the harshness of public spaces—the way we all worry about how we’re dressed and how we share a communal fear of being violated, to the point that we no longer trust strangers to be good people, when offered a choice.
I’ve been working with kids for as long as I can remember. Sadly, I can no longer keep track of the number of children I’ve met who were missing mothers (and fathers, too, but that’s another post for another time)—either physically or emotionally—and I can’t stomach what it does to a child.
But I also have spent months of my life in places around the world where women are treated quite differently than they are here. My friends and family in Ghana have taught me so many things about what it means to be a woman—the roles and responsibilities that come with being of this gender, and the joys of this gender, too. I know everyone wants to hear that in developing West African countries, women are hidden and abused, but I have to argue something quite the opposite. While, yes, the freedom of women (and men, too) in places like this looks very different from our man-made American ideals on the subject, women are celebrated and revered for their sheer womanhood. Women rule the roost (although their husband don’t always know it).
As I sit here in the quiet of the early morning, I can freely admit that I love being a woman. I love my curves. And though you may not believe me (or want to know about it), I’ve come to respect my monthly menstruation; a biological reminder of my true femininity and my purpose as a woman. I love wearing high-heels and feeling pretty. I love wearing dresses in the summertime and when I know I’m having an awesome hair day. And I love that I know my kitchen inside and out (and could take on any potluck dinner request with no fear). I’m a baby whisperer. It concerns the BF to no end how loudly my womb can talk; how naturally I take to mothering and how organically babies just seem to land on my hip (and how little I protest).
But I also love my work. I love being respected for my intelligence and my abilities. I actually prefer to work hard and like being recognized when I know I’ve really contributed something important to a project or a plan. And I’ve learned that in this place we live, you can’t always have both worlds. You can’t always blend the two so organically. And why? Because we still have a lot of work to do. Which I might not have said ten years ago.
Yesterday, an article was featured in the Huffington Post, “The Trouble with Bright Girls”. The article explores what it means to be a girl and what it means to be a smart girl and how this impacts your life as a woman. Near the end, the author asks: “How often have you found yourself avoiding challenges and playing it safe, sticking to goals you knew would be easy for you to reach? Are there things you decided long ago that you could never be good at? Skills you believed you would never possess?” I found myself silenced at these questions. Because the answer for me is yes. I was a bright girl and I am a bright woman and sometimes these things can be crippling, in the face of the culture we live in right now.
So on this International Women’s Day, and my birthday, I ask you to challenge yourself. Ask for more. Stop playing it safe. Stop forcing yourself to be something (or someone) you’re not. Stop listening to Dr. Oz and Dr. Phil and all the morning shows about diets and surgeries and exercise and do the things that make you happy (not the things a doctor on television said would make you happy). Choose hobbies and careers that fulfill you. Don’t be so afraid to eat butter or bread (believe me no one really cares if you gain five pounds…you’re the only one who noticed).
Don’t be so afraid to take big, giant steps. Listen more. Be present in your life. Choose to be alive. Laugh more. Enjoy your children. Be willing to love yourself. And your big hips (or small hips, or no hips, or giant hips). Celebrate yourself.
"In Her Own Words: In Celebration of International Women's Day 2011" was created to share and celebrate the experiences of women from many walks of life. All day Tuesday, March 8th Any Other Wedding and One Cat Per Person will feature posts written by a collective of intelligent, passionate and opinionated women bloggers from the United States and the United Kingdom. We encourage you to comment and create dialouge as well as visit their respective blogs. The conversation starts here, but it does not need to end here. Be sure to stop by Any Other Wedding and One Cat Per Person throughout the day to read all of the posts in the series. For more information about International Women's Day, visit www.internationalwomensday.com
Banner: Joshua Gomby
I woke up this morning with words on my mind and have settled in with a massive cup of coffee, a big goofy 80-lb dog at my feet, and a happily slumbering BF who is seemingly unstirred by my click-clacking on the computer. A symphony of snores and hums and early-morning musings from the outdoors are all around me, the loudest source coming from the four-legged princess at my feet who provides a wide range of musical gifts in her sleep, and seems to believe she fits quite comfortably in the bed with us (although she doesn’t, really…but shhh….don’t tell her). The muted television is darting shiny lights and colors across the mostly dark bedroom and I find myself feeling strangely content and happy. My little bubble of happiness within the compounds of this queen-sized bed. Which is a great way to wake up today. Especially since it’s my birthday.
I’m 28 years old today. A lot has changed in just the last few months and certainly in the last few years. Among these changes, a new relationship and some new changes at work on the horizon. Today, however, I’m thankful to wake up to a new year. 28 is both a wonderful year and a scary one, too. Two years closer to “thirty-something” and eight-years further away from “twenty-something”, and I’m still wondering why the hell no one talks about how stupid-hard and perplexing and challenging and wonderful and awesome and terrible these years are for us. How utterly insane these years can make you feel. It seems like another lifetime ago I was turning 18, living in the mountains of North Carolina, and trying to understand the journey ahead of me. Thinking I had come through the worst of it, trying to make decisions about college and boys and “what’s next”. What issues I cared about and what things I felt the need to be passionate about. Recycling. Poor people. And chick-fil-a. Check. Check. And check. Flash-forward to now and I barely feel as though I've begun to scratch the surface of what this life is about for me.
And there are days when, despite my self-awareness that I’m not really that old, I start to feel pretty cantankerous and geriatric (working with Baltimore City schoolchildren and college students simultaneously everyday can do this to you, no matter your age). And not to mention really out of date. Not only does MTV baffle me now (what happened to the music!?) but I can’t seem to win for losing with technology. As I was recently reminded by my BF’s son, “You don’t have games OR songs on your cell phone?? You must be SAD!” And I thought I was a part of the technologically-savvy generation. I guess I was doodling in my notebook during those classes in elementary school (yeah, a paper notebook…you know, the kind with a spiral?). Plus I drink water between my glasses of wine. I guess age has taught me something.
For the last few mornings I’ve been awake too early. Perhaps it’s my own body’s response to my own private new year’s day celebration or perhaps the bubbling anxiety that seems to be more and more present on my mind and tongue: “What am I doing with my life and where am I going? Am I happy? Am I fulfilled? When should I have babies?” The questions we all ask ourselves as we creep into adulthood and fall into silent and beautiful patterns with ourselves and our loved ones. And, “did I feed the dog last night?"
Some mornings I wake up so early, and with so much purpose, that I wonder—what is my body really trying to tell me? There’s a reason I’m not sleeping. Maybe something is wrong. Maybe I did forget to feed the dog last night and she’s having dreams of different ways to “accidentally” knock me off. I nervously admit that she drags me towards the steps with a tad too much vigor some mornings.
I’ve always found it mildly flattering that my birthday just happens to coincide with International Women’s Day. Which is ironic because I’ve spent the bulk of my 28 years on this earth negotiating just exactly what my womanhood is about and where I, as a woman, fit into the world with my ovaries and womb and big, thick hips.
And I’ll freely admit that I’ve spent a lot of years avoiding the word “feminist”. I was insistent that I didn’t believe myself to be a feminist and that I couldn’t identify at all with the movement. I associated the word with angry teeth-grinding man-haters who took any opportunity possible to mock women with children or women who didn’t work outside of the home. And men who identified as feminists? Yeah, no thank you. I thought these women (and men) felt the need to demonize domesticity as if it were the enemy. Domesticity was the anti-Christ of feminism and represented everything that prevented the women’s movement from marching forward.
I believed (and believe) in the power of women. I thought I had some radical idea to save domesticity (like the endangered species or the trees). That somehow we were at risk of losing our femininity when we became a part of the "women's movement". I believe strongly that women have an important role to play: we are healers and nurturers and providers of life and nourishment. I believe that we’re supposed to have thick hips and natural curves because we’re supposed to give birth and provide warmth and safety to our children and families. And while many argue that this kind of attitude is SO turn of the century, I guess I don’t find this behavior archaic—I find this behavior critical for survival. And I didn’t hear the feminists sharing these values with me (which was mainly because I wasn’t really listening).
Particularly in college, where I found myself deep in a liberal-feminist-recycle-mania, I felt a need to defend the women out there who clung to domesticity for safety. I felt the need to cling to that domesticity, too. I felt like I needed to offer support to the women who let their partners open the pickle jar and pick up the heavy things. Who didn’t want careers but instead wanted babies and mini-vans and houses with finished basements. Growing up in the south, I found familial structures like these, even though they didn’t necessarily reflect the home I grew up in as a kid, as a source of comfort. Like a country song. Or buttered toast.
And what I know now is that what I was clinging to wasn’t so much the hetero-normative domestic bliss of the 1950’s, but an idea that we all have a role to play in raising our children and our neighbor’s children and our neighbor’s neighbor’s children and that a woman's work is truly beautiful. And I’ve learned, with age, as with most things, that I was largely wrong with my assumptions about feminists. To have thought that these values didn’t have a home in the word “feminist” was myopic and naïve.
I look around at a world in crisis, especially for women. As I get older, I’ve become more aware of the overwhelming pressures we put on ourselves to be a certain kind of woman—to be successful, to be thin, to be pretty, to be likeable—pressures that perhaps are greater than any pressure we get in the classroom, the board room, or the senate floor. The way we interpret the world as women is just as scary as the way the world has been interpreted for us.
I’ve become keenly aware of the harshness of public spaces—the way we all worry about how we’re dressed and how we share a communal fear of being violated, to the point that we no longer trust strangers to be good people, when offered a choice.
I’ve been working with kids for as long as I can remember. Sadly, I can no longer keep track of the number of children I’ve met who were missing mothers (and fathers, too, but that’s another post for another time)—either physically or emotionally—and I can’t stomach what it does to a child.
But I also have spent months of my life in places around the world where women are treated quite differently than they are here. My friends and family in Ghana have taught me so many things about what it means to be a woman—the roles and responsibilities that come with being of this gender, and the joys of this gender, too. I know everyone wants to hear that in developing West African countries, women are hidden and abused, but I have to argue something quite the opposite. While, yes, the freedom of women (and men, too) in places like this looks very different from our man-made American ideals on the subject, women are celebrated and revered for their sheer womanhood. Women rule the roost (although their husband don’t always know it).
As I sit here in the quiet of the early morning, I can freely admit that I love being a woman. I love my curves. And though you may not believe me (or want to know about it), I’ve come to respect my monthly menstruation; a biological reminder of my true femininity and my purpose as a woman. I love wearing high-heels and feeling pretty. I love wearing dresses in the summertime and when I know I’m having an awesome hair day. And I love that I know my kitchen inside and out (and could take on any potluck dinner request with no fear). I’m a baby whisperer. It concerns the BF to no end how loudly my womb can talk; how naturally I take to mothering and how organically babies just seem to land on my hip (and how little I protest).
But I also love my work. I love being respected for my intelligence and my abilities. I actually prefer to work hard and like being recognized when I know I’ve really contributed something important to a project or a plan. And I’ve learned that in this place we live, you can’t always have both worlds. You can’t always blend the two so organically. And why? Because we still have a lot of work to do. Which I might not have said ten years ago.
Yesterday, an article was featured in the Huffington Post, “The Trouble with Bright Girls”. The article explores what it means to be a girl and what it means to be a smart girl and how this impacts your life as a woman. Near the end, the author asks: “How often have you found yourself avoiding challenges and playing it safe, sticking to goals you knew would be easy for you to reach? Are there things you decided long ago that you could never be good at? Skills you believed you would never possess?” I found myself silenced at these questions. Because the answer for me is yes. I was a bright girl and I am a bright woman and sometimes these things can be crippling, in the face of the culture we live in right now.
So on this International Women’s Day, and my birthday, I ask you to challenge yourself. Ask for more. Stop playing it safe. Stop forcing yourself to be something (or someone) you’re not. Stop listening to Dr. Oz and Dr. Phil and all the morning shows about diets and surgeries and exercise and do the things that make you happy (not the things a doctor on television said would make you happy). Choose hobbies and careers that fulfill you. Don’t be so afraid to eat butter or bread (believe me no one really cares if you gain five pounds…you’re the only one who noticed).
Don’t be so afraid to take big, giant steps. Listen more. Be present in your life. Choose to be alive. Laugh more. Enjoy your children. Be willing to love yourself. And your big hips (or small hips, or no hips, or giant hips). Celebrate yourself.
"In Her Own Words: In Celebration of International Women's Day 2011" was created to share and celebrate the experiences of women from many walks of life. All day Tuesday, March 8th Any Other Wedding and One Cat Per Person will feature posts written by a collective of intelligent, passionate and opinionated women bloggers from the United States and the United Kingdom. We encourage you to comment and create dialouge as well as visit their respective blogs. The conversation starts here, but it does not need to end here. Be sure to stop by Any Other Wedding and One Cat Per Person throughout the day to read all of the posts in the series. For more information about International Women's Day, visit www.internationalwomensday.com
Banner: Joshua Gomby
Monday, February 7, 2011
Coming Home
Now I know what I’m supposed to be doing. I’m in graduate school and I have a paper due tomorrow. And naturally, because I basically work two full-time jobs, am owned by a loyal dog (who also deserves more time...and athleticism...than I ever have), and a drinking problem social life, I’m starting said paper the night before it’s due, after a long Monday at work, and an even busier weekend (albeit intellectually unproductive). I’m in that dreadful stage of feeling simultaneous guilt and disappointment in my own lack of self-motivation, whilst also fully acknowledging that this paper is likely to be incomplete by the time class rolls around tomorrow afternoon. And wondering if the first assignment of the class was really the best one to fuck up? Probably not.
Somehow it never fails that these moments of sitting with my laptop amidst open books and notes inspires me to do nothing else but think about what I’d write if I were blogging instead of writing something intellectual, researched, and/or grammatically correct. Oh and to think about things that have nothing to do with “education”, “at-risk youth”, or “best-practice”.
It’s been a while since I’ve dedicated much time and effort to this blog and I'm not entirely sold that I'll be posting more than one or two posts per month for a while. And it has nothing to do with not wanting to write. It just hasn’t been happening. Which is partly a result of the day-to-day of my life and partly a result of the amount of processing I appear to be doing about my life and my future and all the things you think about when you begin the steady approach to the end of your “twenties”. Most of which I'd rather not share with the intrawebs, for now.
And I keep going to Africa. Which just disrupts everything.
I started this post the other morning at the ass-crack of dawn (I was still experiencing jet-lag), and am just getting around to finishing it (and posting it).
I'm awake early. Again. I just want to sleep. And not just the act of sleeping, but the other parts, too. Where your body slows down and your shoulders relax and you sink deeply into the bed and take a deep breath. That’s what I want, too.
As much as I labor over getting ready for these trips, and spend hours shopping and packing and evaluating my color-coded and coordinated lists, coming home has become the hardest part of these adventures.
The first time I went to Ghana, it took me months to "recover". Within a week, my sleep had returned to its normal pattern, but there are other things, deeper things, that can’t possibly escape your system that quickly or that easily. Things you can't shake from your psyche immediately. And each trip, I expect it will get easier. And for the most part, yes, the emotional readjustment has become more manageable. Now a culture-shock veteran, I know what I need to do to feel better when I get back. I know what to avoid; which conversations to ignore; places I shouldn’t go within three weeks of coming home. I know how to take care of myself. But I can’t help but cling to the experience for as long as possible and feel overwhelmed by everyone and everything.
While we were traveling, I wrote a few letters to my students. I followed the blogging tradition of so many of my "mommy blog" idols and wrote them letters that contained bits and pieces of my own experiences over the years, mixed in with some motherly advice and some suggestions on how not to panic. I know it sounds unbelievably nauseating to think that I wrote a group of eighteen adults “mommy letters” while we were traveling, but you gotta understand a few things about how emotionally draining these experiences can be; how utterly exhausted one can get while simply trying to experience everyday life, let alone process it in any intellectual capacity. And how much I really can't help but mother the shit out of anyone and anything I encounter.
A few nights before we left I wrote them this:
As we come to a close, take the time to absorb what you've seen and felt and heard and smelled. Bring it all home with you. Unpack your suitcase slowly. Save some of the dirt. Don't try to make sense of it too quickly. As best you can, allow yourself some space before you jump back into real life.
And I’m finding myself struggling to take my own advice. Unfortunately, the reality of my life mandates that I re-immerse myself as quickly and efficiently as possible, despite my own natural resistance to such nonsense. Despite my hostility towards this place I call “home” where everything seems unnecessarily large and shiny and clean and the food tastes bland and sweet and like chemicals.
It's almost become comical with my family and friends. They've learned to handle me carefully in these tender weeks, knowing that I'm at risk of crying or bursting into laughter, or some insane combination of both, at any moment. Almost to the point that I feel mildly abandoned. Why aren't they calling me!?
And while I work hard to not be too obnoxious about the whole thing, I’m just not sure there is anything I can really do about it. At this point, this place has become a part of me. It's in my blood now. Literally. The Red Cross won't even look at me. What I've seen and felt and tasted and explored in Ghana and Benin is an inescapable part of who I am as a person. I've been traveling back and forth to these places since I was 19. The person I've become at almost 28 has most definitely been shaped by my experiences abroad; by the people, the food, and the customs.
Despite my love of using words to describe impossible situations, I can rarely find the words I need to describe these trips. Sure, I could (and probably will) tell you stories about football games where riots break out and feeding monkeys bananas and walking to waterfalls that are enormous; I can share experiences about feeling overwhelmed by my own identity as a white American or the way that my curves are celebrated, and not feared, by the locals, but without knowing the sting of the pepper sauce on your pounded cassava or the way the heat seeps into your bones as you sink low into your hips and dance and sweat until you can barely breathe, I sometimes find it requires too much explanation. The quick exchanges in the market; the expressions of strangers that sear into your heart; the small hands of children exploring your face or hands or arms, curious to see if you feel as different as you look. These are the experiences I can’t quite name. I can't put these thousands of moments into simple enough terms to truly do any of them justice for just how meaningful they all become as you begin to unpack your suitcase.
So my desire for sleep is deeper than a REM cycle. It's about really resting. Really absorbing. Really transitioning back to life in Baltimore. And though several days have passed since I began this post, and my sleep pattern has returned to normal, I still have those moments where I don’t really even believe the things I was doing two weeks ago. Where I say, "Hey, I was in Africa last week." Where I can’t even make sense of the things I'm doing from the moment I wake up to the moment I fall asleep because it all seems so mundane and routine in comparison to where I've been and how alive I felt. And it's more than just answering the "how was your trip" question. It's bigger than that.
Tonight I met with a large group of our students who have just returned from being abroad for a semester and I couldn't help but feel at home with this group of "displaced souls". Resonating with their stories about being uncomfortable and unaware of the silent social cues of a new culture. Listening to them share stories about foods they'd kill to be eating from the dining hall again or people they wish they could see again. This room full of young people who have just found themselves and lost themselves all over again. Who have just tested their boundaries more than they had ever imagined to be possible. And lived to tell the tale. Well, if they could find just the right words to tell it.
And I could see the bags under their eyes, because I have them too. The lack of "sleep". The resistence they had towards the "routine". The hesitation in their voice when they answered that question we all ask with, "it was amazing. Really." Not because it wasn't, but because it's just too hard to explain.
Somehow it never fails that these moments of sitting with my laptop amidst open books and notes inspires me to do nothing else but think about what I’d write if I were blogging instead of writing something intellectual, researched, and/or grammatically correct. Oh and to think about things that have nothing to do with “education”, “at-risk youth”, or “best-practice”.
It’s been a while since I’ve dedicated much time and effort to this blog and I'm not entirely sold that I'll be posting more than one or two posts per month for a while. And it has nothing to do with not wanting to write. It just hasn’t been happening. Which is partly a result of the day-to-day of my life and partly a result of the amount of processing I appear to be doing about my life and my future and all the things you think about when you begin the steady approach to the end of your “twenties”. Most of which I'd rather not share with the intrawebs, for now.
And I keep going to Africa. Which just disrupts everything.
I started this post the other morning at the ass-crack of dawn (I was still experiencing jet-lag), and am just getting around to finishing it (and posting it).
I'm awake early. Again. I just want to sleep. And not just the act of sleeping, but the other parts, too. Where your body slows down and your shoulders relax and you sink deeply into the bed and take a deep breath. That’s what I want, too.
As much as I labor over getting ready for these trips, and spend hours shopping and packing and evaluating my color-coded and coordinated lists, coming home has become the hardest part of these adventures.
The first time I went to Ghana, it took me months to "recover". Within a week, my sleep had returned to its normal pattern, but there are other things, deeper things, that can’t possibly escape your system that quickly or that easily. Things you can't shake from your psyche immediately. And each trip, I expect it will get easier. And for the most part, yes, the emotional readjustment has become more manageable. Now a culture-shock veteran, I know what I need to do to feel better when I get back. I know what to avoid; which conversations to ignore; places I shouldn’t go within three weeks of coming home. I know how to take care of myself. But I can’t help but cling to the experience for as long as possible and feel overwhelmed by everyone and everything.
While we were traveling, I wrote a few letters to my students. I followed the blogging tradition of so many of my "mommy blog" idols and wrote them letters that contained bits and pieces of my own experiences over the years, mixed in with some motherly advice and some suggestions on how not to panic. I know it sounds unbelievably nauseating to think that I wrote a group of eighteen adults “mommy letters” while we were traveling, but you gotta understand a few things about how emotionally draining these experiences can be; how utterly exhausted one can get while simply trying to experience everyday life, let alone process it in any intellectual capacity. And how much I really can't help but mother the shit out of anyone and anything I encounter.
A few nights before we left I wrote them this:
As we come to a close, take the time to absorb what you've seen and felt and heard and smelled. Bring it all home with you. Unpack your suitcase slowly. Save some of the dirt. Don't try to make sense of it too quickly. As best you can, allow yourself some space before you jump back into real life.
And I’m finding myself struggling to take my own advice. Unfortunately, the reality of my life mandates that I re-immerse myself as quickly and efficiently as possible, despite my own natural resistance to such nonsense. Despite my hostility towards this place I call “home” where everything seems unnecessarily large and shiny and clean and the food tastes bland and sweet and like chemicals.
It's almost become comical with my family and friends. They've learned to handle me carefully in these tender weeks, knowing that I'm at risk of crying or bursting into laughter, or some insane combination of both, at any moment. Almost to the point that I feel mildly abandoned. Why aren't they calling me!?
And while I work hard to not be too obnoxious about the whole thing, I’m just not sure there is anything I can really do about it. At this point, this place has become a part of me. It's in my blood now. Literally. The Red Cross won't even look at me. What I've seen and felt and tasted and explored in Ghana and Benin is an inescapable part of who I am as a person. I've been traveling back and forth to these places since I was 19. The person I've become at almost 28 has most definitely been shaped by my experiences abroad; by the people, the food, and the customs.
Despite my love of using words to describe impossible situations, I can rarely find the words I need to describe these trips. Sure, I could (and probably will) tell you stories about football games where riots break out and feeding monkeys bananas and walking to waterfalls that are enormous; I can share experiences about feeling overwhelmed by my own identity as a white American or the way that my curves are celebrated, and not feared, by the locals, but without knowing the sting of the pepper sauce on your pounded cassava or the way the heat seeps into your bones as you sink low into your hips and dance and sweat until you can barely breathe, I sometimes find it requires too much explanation. The quick exchanges in the market; the expressions of strangers that sear into your heart; the small hands of children exploring your face or hands or arms, curious to see if you feel as different as you look. These are the experiences I can’t quite name. I can't put these thousands of moments into simple enough terms to truly do any of them justice for just how meaningful they all become as you begin to unpack your suitcase.
So my desire for sleep is deeper than a REM cycle. It's about really resting. Really absorbing. Really transitioning back to life in Baltimore. And though several days have passed since I began this post, and my sleep pattern has returned to normal, I still have those moments where I don’t really even believe the things I was doing two weeks ago. Where I say, "Hey, I was in Africa last week." Where I can’t even make sense of the things I'm doing from the moment I wake up to the moment I fall asleep because it all seems so mundane and routine in comparison to where I've been and how alive I felt. And it's more than just answering the "how was your trip" question. It's bigger than that.
Tonight I met with a large group of our students who have just returned from being abroad for a semester and I couldn't help but feel at home with this group of "displaced souls". Resonating with their stories about being uncomfortable and unaware of the silent social cues of a new culture. Listening to them share stories about foods they'd kill to be eating from the dining hall again or people they wish they could see again. This room full of young people who have just found themselves and lost themselves all over again. Who have just tested their boundaries more than they had ever imagined to be possible. And lived to tell the tale. Well, if they could find just the right words to tell it.
And I could see the bags under their eyes, because I have them too. The lack of "sleep". The resistence they had towards the "routine". The hesitation in their voice when they answered that question we all ask with, "it was amazing. Really." Not because it wasn't, but because it's just too hard to explain.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Why Dogs Smile in Africa
It's true. Earlier this week, it occurred to me that every dog I've ever seen in Africa has been smiling. Or at least it's my interpretation of a smile. I guess it is hot, and perhaps they're all merely panting and thus their mouths curl upward with just the slightest grin, leading one to believe that they are indeed happy. As if they know something we don't. As if they're on the best walk of their life, minus the leash and the pedantic owner.
Something I've always loved about the three places in West Africa I've spent the most time--Ghana, Togo, and Benin--is the way the animals just roam around at will. I get great amusement out of the chickens who run in and out of restaurants and the small pygmy goats who wander across the road--sometimes even looking both ways and baying to their kids, "DON'T DO IT! OBRONI (universal word throughout most of Ghana for WHITE PERSON) BUS COMING!" The clusters of sheep and cows who all look hot and miserable. The small, sickly looking cats who seem to linger a bit too long at your feet while you eat. And at times, even a monkey or two ballsey enough to sneak a bite of whatever you're eating. And there is a casual nonchalance about it among the locals to the mere chaos these animals bring to the atmosphere. The layer of absurdity that three baying baby goats can add to a scene. Or a chicken who can't contain her squawks.
And I'm assuming that this statement could be interpreted as shallow or insensitive to the plight of the third world. Didn't you know? Only developed countries are allowed to use fences. And pastures. And cages. How could I have been so ignorant!? And of course I know these animals are here because they serve a purpose--something Africa seems to have gotten right (as most things here appear to serve a practical purpose rather than a frivolous, superficial one). These animals provide food and nourishment, fibers for clothing, and a rudimentary system of currency (I'll trade you three goats and a chicken for a cow). But I can't help but giggle when I see goats climbing to the top of a building or when chickens interrupt my dinner. Particularly when my dinner IS chicken.
The title I've given this post even has me giggling. Having now made this journey many times, I'm become just a tad sensitive to the topic of "fill in the blank here in Africa", like "mission in Africa" or "study abroad in Africa", which are phrases many people use and almost everyone interprets differently. (Newsflash: Africa is a massive continent with many, many countries. All different and unique). And I'm certainly not suggesting that I've become an expert, or that I travel "the right way", but I can't help but cringe when I overhear comments in the international concourse en route to somewhere on the continent or even sometimes in my own workplace about "fill in the blank here in Africa". Where are you going? What are you doing? Let's be specific here, folks.
There are three huge mistakes people make about traveling to Africa. And let me be clear, I'm guilty of all three on some level and have only learned from my own privileged, American stupidity. First, the largest carry-on item we Americans bring with us on these trips is pity. A massive bag full of pity that we've packed specifically with the intention of leaving it behind before we re-board for our flight home. That we'll share with all the locals who don't have McDonald's and TiVo. The clothing we'll leave behind that we bought on triple discount from the store that keeps the developing world busy with orders for more cheap clothing for people who don't want to spend what thread is really worth.
The second mistake comes in the form of assumption; in assuming that everyone we encounter in Africa is hungry or desperate. That the kid on CNN with the flies in his eyes (who does exist, somewhere, I'm sure) is EVERY child on the continent. And that all these kids want is to have YOUR life. And YOUR iPod. Well, okay. They probably do want your iPod. I want your iPod, too.
The third is embedded in the second mistake, and requires that you assume that the people you encounter are also less intelligent than you. That you've bought in to the message that because our education system has better infrastructure, that we're smarter. That because we practically have the internet streaming through our eyeballs, that we have more information. That we've somehow figured it all out. And the reasons theses places can't make progress is because they haven't "figured it all out". Which is crap.
I secretly think dogs smile in Africa because they've actually figured it all out. They know all the secrets. And they're fully aware of what idiots the rest of us truly are.
Over the last few days, I've watched my students stumble into the realities that exist here. Hunger has a horrifying face. Third-world poverty translates to sights and smells you've probably never encountered unless you've been here; a mixture of rotting fish, human feces, hot urine, and the unidentified smells of burning trash. Watching children urinate in the street, not because they want to but because they have to can be a thirty-second life changer. All of this probably sounds really horrible, and unfortunately it truly is until you know this place. Stepping over piles of trash because no real waste management infrastructure exists. Crossing streets jam-packed with cars and motorbikes, fumes and smoke clouding the air, because this is what rush hour in the developing world looks like. No amount of romanticizing what this experience is about can negate these facts.
But then there is the contrast. This delicious contrast that can leave you feeling shaken and confused. There is something alive in the air here. These are communities who are inclusive to each other and who function collectively, raising each other's children and supporting each other emotionally, physically, and financially. People seem to be more passionate and joyful. And then there is the music and the dance. Intricately beautiful dances that are truly so embedded in life that barely-walking toddlers are better than I am at the fluid, organic movement. And a constant, chaotic throbbing of music in the background. An endless pulsing of drums, bells, horns, hip-hop, synthesized noise, and reggae.
And I've watched them battle the pity in their suitcases. Trying to intellectualize their choices and emotions. Trying to make sense of what feels like a bleeding heart or an infected cut somewhere that they can't reach. Also trying to understand what feels so perfect about this place. And what seems to work, in the middle of so many thing failing. Trying to understand the difference between helping or learning, saving or teaching, fixing or listening. Trying to understand where they fit: Am I here to DO something or am I here to LEARN something? And is there really a difference?
When I was little, I watched the movie Sabrina over and over again. I dreamed of being like Sabrina and going to Paris and finding myself the way she did. And when I traveled to Europe for the first time, I tried to figure out how I was going to have that experience. And when it didn't happen, I just assumed it would happen later. In Paris. I never realized that my "Sabrina" moment would happen right here in Ghana, in a developing country, with no small cafes or endless cappuccinos or Harrison Fords. But that's the thing about life. It just happens.
I completely found myself on this continent. And in this country. I've learned, and continue to learn, so much about what it means to be a human from the people I've met here. To be a woman. To be alive. When I'm in Ghana, I find myself smiling more for many of these reasons. Make no mistake about it. These trips are exhausting. I sometimes crash into my bed at 9 or 10 o'clock at night so exhausted with what I've seen that day and so overwhelmed with what my brain is processing that I have no other choice but to sleep, if I can. If the images of something I've encountered in my day don't keep me awake. But there is a freedom that I feel here that I rarely feel at home. It's an escape (an escape that I fully acknowledge as a condition of my own privilege). For many, this place is far from an escape. But perhaps far too few locals can see the forest for the trees; far too few know what blessings exist here and how rich this society really is.
And as I've led this group of undergraduates all over Ghana for the last two weeks, I've learned just as much as they have. I've been tested everyday by the questions I'm asked and the experiences I'm having. I continue to stumble into things I don't understand, languages I don't know, and situations that have no words. And I'll be honest, I'm almost ready to go home. To fully re-charge. To return to the things and people and spaces that I love and that bring me comfort.
I'm astounded by how much I learn each and every time I come here. By how much I grow. By the things that become crystal clear with distance, like love and what's really important.
And experience has taught me that many of these lessons can't possibly begin to make sense if you're too busy thinking about how broken everything is first. If you can't see that there is a richness to what lacks. A beauty to what seems ugly and unwanted. A light in a person's eyes that I hardly ever see at home, a warm hum that fills the grey, over-stimulated void of not playing enough. Not laughing enough. Not dancing enough. For packing your suitcase with pity instead of walking shoes. With assumptions instead of sunscreen.
For seeing the dog with the shit-eating grin and not winking and saying, "I know, buddy. I've figured it out, too."
Something I've always loved about the three places in West Africa I've spent the most time--Ghana, Togo, and Benin--is the way the animals just roam around at will. I get great amusement out of the chickens who run in and out of restaurants and the small pygmy goats who wander across the road--sometimes even looking both ways and baying to their kids, "DON'T DO IT! OBRONI (universal word throughout most of Ghana for WHITE PERSON) BUS COMING!" The clusters of sheep and cows who all look hot and miserable. The small, sickly looking cats who seem to linger a bit too long at your feet while you eat. And at times, even a monkey or two ballsey enough to sneak a bite of whatever you're eating. And there is a casual nonchalance about it among the locals to the mere chaos these animals bring to the atmosphere. The layer of absurdity that three baying baby goats can add to a scene. Or a chicken who can't contain her squawks.
And I'm assuming that this statement could be interpreted as shallow or insensitive to the plight of the third world. Didn't you know? Only developed countries are allowed to use fences. And pastures. And cages. How could I have been so ignorant!? And of course I know these animals are here because they serve a purpose--something Africa seems to have gotten right (as most things here appear to serve a practical purpose rather than a frivolous, superficial one). These animals provide food and nourishment, fibers for clothing, and a rudimentary system of currency (I'll trade you three goats and a chicken for a cow). But I can't help but giggle when I see goats climbing to the top of a building or when chickens interrupt my dinner. Particularly when my dinner IS chicken.
The title I've given this post even has me giggling. Having now made this journey many times, I'm become just a tad sensitive to the topic of "fill in the blank here in Africa", like "mission in Africa" or "study abroad in Africa", which are phrases many people use and almost everyone interprets differently. (Newsflash: Africa is a massive continent with many, many countries. All different and unique). And I'm certainly not suggesting that I've become an expert, or that I travel "the right way", but I can't help but cringe when I overhear comments in the international concourse en route to somewhere on the continent or even sometimes in my own workplace about "fill in the blank here in Africa". Where are you going? What are you doing? Let's be specific here, folks.
There are three huge mistakes people make about traveling to Africa. And let me be clear, I'm guilty of all three on some level and have only learned from my own privileged, American stupidity. First, the largest carry-on item we Americans bring with us on these trips is pity. A massive bag full of pity that we've packed specifically with the intention of leaving it behind before we re-board for our flight home. That we'll share with all the locals who don't have McDonald's and TiVo. The clothing we'll leave behind that we bought on triple discount from the store that keeps the developing world busy with orders for more cheap clothing for people who don't want to spend what thread is really worth.
The second mistake comes in the form of assumption; in assuming that everyone we encounter in Africa is hungry or desperate. That the kid on CNN with the flies in his eyes (who does exist, somewhere, I'm sure) is EVERY child on the continent. And that all these kids want is to have YOUR life. And YOUR iPod. Well, okay. They probably do want your iPod. I want your iPod, too.
The third is embedded in the second mistake, and requires that you assume that the people you encounter are also less intelligent than you. That you've bought in to the message that because our education system has better infrastructure, that we're smarter. That because we practically have the internet streaming through our eyeballs, that we have more information. That we've somehow figured it all out. And the reasons theses places can't make progress is because they haven't "figured it all out". Which is crap.
I secretly think dogs smile in Africa because they've actually figured it all out. They know all the secrets. And they're fully aware of what idiots the rest of us truly are.
Over the last few days, I've watched my students stumble into the realities that exist here. Hunger has a horrifying face. Third-world poverty translates to sights and smells you've probably never encountered unless you've been here; a mixture of rotting fish, human feces, hot urine, and the unidentified smells of burning trash. Watching children urinate in the street, not because they want to but because they have to can be a thirty-second life changer. All of this probably sounds really horrible, and unfortunately it truly is until you know this place. Stepping over piles of trash because no real waste management infrastructure exists. Crossing streets jam-packed with cars and motorbikes, fumes and smoke clouding the air, because this is what rush hour in the developing world looks like. No amount of romanticizing what this experience is about can negate these facts.
But then there is the contrast. This delicious contrast that can leave you feeling shaken and confused. There is something alive in the air here. These are communities who are inclusive to each other and who function collectively, raising each other's children and supporting each other emotionally, physically, and financially. People seem to be more passionate and joyful. And then there is the music and the dance. Intricately beautiful dances that are truly so embedded in life that barely-walking toddlers are better than I am at the fluid, organic movement. And a constant, chaotic throbbing of music in the background. An endless pulsing of drums, bells, horns, hip-hop, synthesized noise, and reggae.
And I've watched them battle the pity in their suitcases. Trying to intellectualize their choices and emotions. Trying to make sense of what feels like a bleeding heart or an infected cut somewhere that they can't reach. Also trying to understand what feels so perfect about this place. And what seems to work, in the middle of so many thing failing. Trying to understand the difference between helping or learning, saving or teaching, fixing or listening. Trying to understand where they fit: Am I here to DO something or am I here to LEARN something? And is there really a difference?
When I was little, I watched the movie Sabrina over and over again. I dreamed of being like Sabrina and going to Paris and finding myself the way she did. And when I traveled to Europe for the first time, I tried to figure out how I was going to have that experience. And when it didn't happen, I just assumed it would happen later. In Paris. I never realized that my "Sabrina" moment would happen right here in Ghana, in a developing country, with no small cafes or endless cappuccinos or Harrison Fords. But that's the thing about life. It just happens.
I completely found myself on this continent. And in this country. I've learned, and continue to learn, so much about what it means to be a human from the people I've met here. To be a woman. To be alive. When I'm in Ghana, I find myself smiling more for many of these reasons. Make no mistake about it. These trips are exhausting. I sometimes crash into my bed at 9 or 10 o'clock at night so exhausted with what I've seen that day and so overwhelmed with what my brain is processing that I have no other choice but to sleep, if I can. If the images of something I've encountered in my day don't keep me awake. But there is a freedom that I feel here that I rarely feel at home. It's an escape (an escape that I fully acknowledge as a condition of my own privilege). For many, this place is far from an escape. But perhaps far too few locals can see the forest for the trees; far too few know what blessings exist here and how rich this society really is.
And as I've led this group of undergraduates all over Ghana for the last two weeks, I've learned just as much as they have. I've been tested everyday by the questions I'm asked and the experiences I'm having. I continue to stumble into things I don't understand, languages I don't know, and situations that have no words. And I'll be honest, I'm almost ready to go home. To fully re-charge. To return to the things and people and spaces that I love and that bring me comfort.
I'm astounded by how much I learn each and every time I come here. By how much I grow. By the things that become crystal clear with distance, like love and what's really important.
And experience has taught me that many of these lessons can't possibly begin to make sense if you're too busy thinking about how broken everything is first. If you can't see that there is a richness to what lacks. A beauty to what seems ugly and unwanted. A light in a person's eyes that I hardly ever see at home, a warm hum that fills the grey, over-stimulated void of not playing enough. Not laughing enough. Not dancing enough. For packing your suitcase with pity instead of walking shoes. With assumptions instead of sunscreen.
For seeing the dog with the shit-eating grin and not winking and saying, "I know, buddy. I've figured it out, too."
 |
| Lucky, by Fiona |
Saturday, December 25, 2010
A Christmas Post
Over the last few years, my trips to the mountains have become few and far between. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, I can’t decide which, I’ve become increasingly more embedded in Baltimore. It was just a few short years ago that I made threats of all levels (serious, idle, petty, etc.) that I’d pack up my shit and move back to the Carolinas where life felt quieter; more peaceful and tolerable. Where I was sure the grass was greener. And though I joked about the double-wide on the back of my mom’s property, it would be a lie to say I hadn’t actually thought about how to make it look “less trailer-y”, just in case. But now that Baltimore is home, it has become harder to pick up and head south on a whim. It’s no longer as easy as unplugging the refrigerator in my dorm room, shoving all of my dirty clothes into the backseat and drinking three red bulls to drive through the middle of the night. Oh no. Now there are bills to pay before I leave town. And phones to forward. And a dog to worry about. And “out-of-office” email statuses to put in place. Not to mention the compulsive need to clean my house before I leave it—because apparently once you become a “grown –up”, it no longer becomes acceptable to bring home dirty clothes for the holidays (and heavens knows, no more dirty dishes…last time I did that I really got the stink eye). Prepping to go out of town for anything more than overnight requires at least three days of planning and list-writing. Oh the epic lists I’ve written.
Yesterday I began one such journey, and made the ten-hour trek south for Christmas. Winding down the Shenandoah and into the Blue Ridge, I was remembering how beautiful this drive was just a few short months ago. Back in October, autumn had taken those hills hostage and turned every last leaf a vibrant color before letting them go. Now those leaves were gone, quickly turned into dust and mulch. Now, in December, the hills were speckled with the slightest dusting of white snow, as if a baker had been flying above and had accidentally dropped a pound of confectioners’ sugar gently over the rolling peaks.
And though I despise these long drives, mainly because I despise driving, I’ve almost become dependent on the built-in reflection this time alone in the car affords me. This time to let my brain talk as much as it needs to, without anyone calling the cops to report a crazy lady talking to herself. I just assume everyone driving past me thinks I have on a wireless handset, or that I’m singing out loud to the radio. The drive north is much less satisfying. Once I get about halfway through Virginia, the landscape becomes increasingly less interesting and the mountains get smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror. But heading south is another story all together. The mountains get bigger and more beautiful with each mile marker. By the time I get to Tennessee I often have the urge to pull over and just get outside. I want to inhale deeply and purge all the toxicity that builds up in my little city brain. I want to find a way to wrap the purple-blue mountains up into a little marshmallow that I can eat. Like wonka-vision.
And because these trips are seasonal, they often coincide with a holiday, which generally involves family, which generally means things get complicated, which generally means I’m anxious for days leading up to my departure. By the time I hit the mountains I’m desperate to release my anxiety. To just pour it out in the river and watch it rush away in the blue-green murk of the rapids. To feel comforted. To let the mountains absorb my burdens. To carry what feels so heavy.
Christmas has notoriously been a hard holiday for me. Which is not to say that I don’t enjoy Christmas. In fact, it’s quite the contrary. I recognize that I’m almost 28 years old, but I can’t make that six year old girl inside me contain my excitement over Christmas morning. When I was little, I’d wake up at 4 in the morning and was forbidden to actually touch the presents. Instead, I’d quietly tip-toe my wild-curly-haired self out into the living room and sit on the couch and just look at them all with awe. All the precious boxes so tidily wrapped and carefully stacked. Then I’d sit and watch black and white movies on the television until it was bright enough outside and I could get away with waking up my college-age sisters without them biting my face off. Come to think of it, it’s probably no wonder my siblings didn’t have kids until their 30s. I probably was the best birth control they could have had. I was totally oblivious to any signs of hangovers or a lack of desire to “care about Christmas”. Oh no. I cared about one thing and one thing only. PRESENTS. And I’d like to think I’ve finally put that little girl to bed, but to be honest, I’m just as excited to open presents tomorrow as I ever was. Although perhaps far more aware of what presents COST now that I have to pay for them, too.
But in more recent years, the holiday has become harder, despite the little girl inside me who still believes. For my family, it isn’t as simple as everyone gathering in one place to celebrate. Christmas, and most holidays, get spread out over several days (sometimes weeks), and several cities, and I sometimes find myself eating three or four “Christmas dinners” before it’s all said and done and the ball drops for the New Year. We’re the modern American family, facing the modern American dilemma, in all our re-married with kids glory. Christmas gets more complicated, too, because it’s no longer the focus of the other 11 months of the year. Other obligations pile up, you run out of time to properly Christmas shop (and you never had the money to begin with), and you start to realize just how much crap there is out there to buy and by given (and just how much YOU DON’T WANT any of it).
In just a week, I head back to West Africa with 18 undergraduates. While I’m so excited, this simultaneously makes me enormously anxious because I’m basically responsible for ensuring that these guys all come back in one piece, and that they’ve all had a relatively awesome experience, and that no one is pregnant or married. This requires months of planning, hundreds of neurotic, alphabetized, highlighted lists, and lots of white wine (for consumption during planning, not teaching). But it’s also more than that. Though I’ve traveled back and forth many times now, I can’t ever seem to quite prepare myself enough for what really happens to my spirit in this place called Ghana. I have to begin to prepare my heart for what I see, for the unthinkable poverty I encounter and for the breathtaking beauty that I see.
And I’m preparing myself for the next few days of siblings and too many cookies, and the noise of children happily ripping open wrapping paper. And drinking too much wine and eating too much butter. And trying to make sense of it all just a week before heading to a place where what I have can make me feel heavy and glutinous. Where the giving I’ve done in the holiday season can leave me feeling shallow and vain. But where I feel alive in a way that is raw and enlightening.
And somehow it's already Christmas day (although it is still very, very early). And frankly, I'm in a bit of a state of disbelief. At my feet, the dog has buried herself under a handmade quilt and snores in a slumber that is deep and heavy. I've just come home from midnight service, wrapped a few last minute gifts, and am sitting awake in a fit of anxiety trying to make myself go to sleep. Trying to remind myself about the six year old girl in my soul who will wake me up in just a few hours to go and sit and admire the gifts. About the little girl inside me that still believes.
Merry Christmas, friends. Wishing you and yours a blessed Christmas and health, happiness and peace in the 2011. And may we all believe just enough to keep us honest.
Yesterday I began one such journey, and made the ten-hour trek south for Christmas. Winding down the Shenandoah and into the Blue Ridge, I was remembering how beautiful this drive was just a few short months ago. Back in October, autumn had taken those hills hostage and turned every last leaf a vibrant color before letting them go. Now those leaves were gone, quickly turned into dust and mulch. Now, in December, the hills were speckled with the slightest dusting of white snow, as if a baker had been flying above and had accidentally dropped a pound of confectioners’ sugar gently over the rolling peaks.
And though I despise these long drives, mainly because I despise driving, I’ve almost become dependent on the built-in reflection this time alone in the car affords me. This time to let my brain talk as much as it needs to, without anyone calling the cops to report a crazy lady talking to herself. I just assume everyone driving past me thinks I have on a wireless handset, or that I’m singing out loud to the radio. The drive north is much less satisfying. Once I get about halfway through Virginia, the landscape becomes increasingly less interesting and the mountains get smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror. But heading south is another story all together. The mountains get bigger and more beautiful with each mile marker. By the time I get to Tennessee I often have the urge to pull over and just get outside. I want to inhale deeply and purge all the toxicity that builds up in my little city brain. I want to find a way to wrap the purple-blue mountains up into a little marshmallow that I can eat. Like wonka-vision.
And because these trips are seasonal, they often coincide with a holiday, which generally involves family, which generally means things get complicated, which generally means I’m anxious for days leading up to my departure. By the time I hit the mountains I’m desperate to release my anxiety. To just pour it out in the river and watch it rush away in the blue-green murk of the rapids. To feel comforted. To let the mountains absorb my burdens. To carry what feels so heavy.
Christmas has notoriously been a hard holiday for me. Which is not to say that I don’t enjoy Christmas. In fact, it’s quite the contrary. I recognize that I’m almost 28 years old, but I can’t make that six year old girl inside me contain my excitement over Christmas morning. When I was little, I’d wake up at 4 in the morning and was forbidden to actually touch the presents. Instead, I’d quietly tip-toe my wild-curly-haired self out into the living room and sit on the couch and just look at them all with awe. All the precious boxes so tidily wrapped and carefully stacked. Then I’d sit and watch black and white movies on the television until it was bright enough outside and I could get away with waking up my college-age sisters without them biting my face off. Come to think of it, it’s probably no wonder my siblings didn’t have kids until their 30s. I probably was the best birth control they could have had. I was totally oblivious to any signs of hangovers or a lack of desire to “care about Christmas”. Oh no. I cared about one thing and one thing only. PRESENTS. And I’d like to think I’ve finally put that little girl to bed, but to be honest, I’m just as excited to open presents tomorrow as I ever was. Although perhaps far more aware of what presents COST now that I have to pay for them, too.
But in more recent years, the holiday has become harder, despite the little girl inside me who still believes. For my family, it isn’t as simple as everyone gathering in one place to celebrate. Christmas, and most holidays, get spread out over several days (sometimes weeks), and several cities, and I sometimes find myself eating three or four “Christmas dinners” before it’s all said and done and the ball drops for the New Year. We’re the modern American family, facing the modern American dilemma, in all our re-married with kids glory. Christmas gets more complicated, too, because it’s no longer the focus of the other 11 months of the year. Other obligations pile up, you run out of time to properly Christmas shop (and you never had the money to begin with), and you start to realize just how much crap there is out there to buy and by given (and just how much YOU DON’T WANT any of it).
In just a week, I head back to West Africa with 18 undergraduates. While I’m so excited, this simultaneously makes me enormously anxious because I’m basically responsible for ensuring that these guys all come back in one piece, and that they’ve all had a relatively awesome experience, and that no one is pregnant or married. This requires months of planning, hundreds of neurotic, alphabetized, highlighted lists, and lots of white wine (for consumption during planning, not teaching). But it’s also more than that. Though I’ve traveled back and forth many times now, I can’t ever seem to quite prepare myself enough for what really happens to my spirit in this place called Ghana. I have to begin to prepare my heart for what I see, for the unthinkable poverty I encounter and for the breathtaking beauty that I see.
And I’m preparing myself for the next few days of siblings and too many cookies, and the noise of children happily ripping open wrapping paper. And drinking too much wine and eating too much butter. And trying to make sense of it all just a week before heading to a place where what I have can make me feel heavy and glutinous. Where the giving I’ve done in the holiday season can leave me feeling shallow and vain. But where I feel alive in a way that is raw and enlightening.
And somehow it's already Christmas day (although it is still very, very early). And frankly, I'm in a bit of a state of disbelief. At my feet, the dog has buried herself under a handmade quilt and snores in a slumber that is deep and heavy. I've just come home from midnight service, wrapped a few last minute gifts, and am sitting awake in a fit of anxiety trying to make myself go to sleep. Trying to remind myself about the six year old girl in my soul who will wake me up in just a few hours to go and sit and admire the gifts. About the little girl inside me that still believes.
Merry Christmas, friends. Wishing you and yours a blessed Christmas and health, happiness and peace in the 2011. And may we all believe just enough to keep us honest.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Thanksgiving
It seems my last few posts have been pretty heavy, and I have to admit, life has felt pretty heavy lately. I’ve had to make a lot of those real-live grown-up life choices, and the outcome isn’t always what we want it to be. We surprise ourselves with how much we still care about what others think. We surprise ourselves with how easy it is to make really bad choices. How hard it can be to stay true to yourself and others.
But today, as I sit in my childhood home, surrounded by the sights and smells I’ve known as home since I was 2, I find myself feeling overwhelmingly lucky. And seeing that it is Thanksgiving, it seems a fitting time to post something to this blog that I've ignored for too many weeks now about just how blessed I really am.
Two nights ago, as I drove up the mountain range and back down again into the valleys of Western North Carolina, I had a moment of forgetting all the things and people that have been resting heavily on my heart and my conscience. I’ve written about this experience before—this “coming home” moment when the whole world seems to feel right again. When I can take a deep breath and relax. When I feel like no matter what’s happening in the big, bad world around me, that it’s likely it’ll all be okay, at least for the next few days.
Even in darkness, there is something startlingly beautiful about these mountains. The way the fog wraps around the curves of the landscape, like cotton batting settling into the corners of a well-worn quilt. The way the moonlight shines off the rocks and the purple-blue hues that in sunlight twinkle in shades of lavender and periwinkle become rich and deep like midnight blue and eggplant. The way the rivers and creeks wind through the hills like long, thin snakes in search of lower ground. The way that white-boarded churches and stone houses nestle on the edges of sloping land, and despite the darkness, these places feel full. How the outline of the mountain range dances with the night sky, and there are spots that are indeterminable as land or cloud or tree.
These images and the cool, autumnal mountain air provide space for pause. And reflection. After a few days of being home, I begin to relax. I begin to turn off my Baltimore brain and think about the things that are really important. Granted, as everyone in my family has gotten older and life has become increasingly more complicated, my holiday time has become sacred and my time has become divided. Life mandates that I divide my vacation weeks into clumps of mini-vacations with all the people that I love all around the world. And despite not seeing everyone at once, I remember how lucky I am to have so many places to visit; so many people to call family.
And though it still feels like the world may be going to hell in a bobsled, there are still things happening all around us for which we must remain thankful.
I remain thankful for my friends and family. You are the macaroni to my cheese; the people who keep me going, who keep me laughing, and who keep me grounded. For reminding me when I’m being a giant, gaping asshole and for reminding me, too, when I’ve done something right. When I’ve done something good. I’m thankful for all of our blessings and I’m even thankful for all of our flaws (as my family reads: “Huh!? WHAT FLAWS!? DON’T WRITE THIS SHIT ON THE INTERNET!”). It’s useful to be reminded just how close we all are to being cast in Days of Our Lives. And how lucky we are to have natural good looks, in the event that a camera crew ever shows up.
I’m thankful for the community of thinkers and artists I find myself surrounded by everyday. I’m thankful for the inspiration and creativity I find in my students and colleagues, for the idealism they hold for the future, and for the change they want in the world— and the possibilities they find so imminent and real.
I’m thankful for all the men and women who wake up everyday and contribute something back to their community. Who raise their children to be kind and honest. Who fight for justice and equality. Who don't lay back and accept the status quo but who use their voices and their brains when they’re outraged. Who vote. Who listen. Who care.
I’m thankful that someone invented boxed cake mix (because it's just so good and cheap). And that when you add butter to sugar with cream, you get frosting. And how nicely bacon compliments bourbon.
I’m thankful that I can see the humor in life. That I can laugh everyday. I’m thankful that Sarah Palin’s reality show will likely be her demise. I’m thankful that people with a lot of time on their hands still make ridiculous videos on Youtube so that I have something to watch in the middle of the night when I’m battling insomnia.
I’m thankful for the little things. For the challenges we face, so that we better know ourselves and our world. For the hardships we encounter so that we have appreciation for what we do have. For the disagreements we engage in, so that we can come to an agreement. For the messes we make as we grow and learn and try to make sense of the spaces that don't make sense, so that when we clean up it feels that much more satisfying.
I'm thankful for these mountains, for these moments of calm, and for places that feel like home and people who feel like family. For love and kindness. For generosity. For memories. For the future.
Happy Thanksgiving, friends.
But today, as I sit in my childhood home, surrounded by the sights and smells I’ve known as home since I was 2, I find myself feeling overwhelmingly lucky. And seeing that it is Thanksgiving, it seems a fitting time to post something to this blog that I've ignored for too many weeks now about just how blessed I really am.
Two nights ago, as I drove up the mountain range and back down again into the valleys of Western North Carolina, I had a moment of forgetting all the things and people that have been resting heavily on my heart and my conscience. I’ve written about this experience before—this “coming home” moment when the whole world seems to feel right again. When I can take a deep breath and relax. When I feel like no matter what’s happening in the big, bad world around me, that it’s likely it’ll all be okay, at least for the next few days.
Even in darkness, there is something startlingly beautiful about these mountains. The way the fog wraps around the curves of the landscape, like cotton batting settling into the corners of a well-worn quilt. The way the moonlight shines off the rocks and the purple-blue hues that in sunlight twinkle in shades of lavender and periwinkle become rich and deep like midnight blue and eggplant. The way the rivers and creeks wind through the hills like long, thin snakes in search of lower ground. The way that white-boarded churches and stone houses nestle on the edges of sloping land, and despite the darkness, these places feel full. How the outline of the mountain range dances with the night sky, and there are spots that are indeterminable as land or cloud or tree.
These images and the cool, autumnal mountain air provide space for pause. And reflection. After a few days of being home, I begin to relax. I begin to turn off my Baltimore brain and think about the things that are really important. Granted, as everyone in my family has gotten older and life has become increasingly more complicated, my holiday time has become sacred and my time has become divided. Life mandates that I divide my vacation weeks into clumps of mini-vacations with all the people that I love all around the world. And despite not seeing everyone at once, I remember how lucky I am to have so many places to visit; so many people to call family.
And though it still feels like the world may be going to hell in a bobsled, there are still things happening all around us for which we must remain thankful.
I remain thankful for my friends and family. You are the macaroni to my cheese; the people who keep me going, who keep me laughing, and who keep me grounded. For reminding me when I’m being a giant, gaping asshole and for reminding me, too, when I’ve done something right. When I’ve done something good. I’m thankful for all of our blessings and I’m even thankful for all of our flaws (as my family reads: “Huh!? WHAT FLAWS!? DON’T WRITE THIS SHIT ON THE INTERNET!”). It’s useful to be reminded just how close we all are to being cast in Days of Our Lives. And how lucky we are to have natural good looks, in the event that a camera crew ever shows up.
I’m thankful for the community of thinkers and artists I find myself surrounded by everyday. I’m thankful for the inspiration and creativity I find in my students and colleagues, for the idealism they hold for the future, and for the change they want in the world— and the possibilities they find so imminent and real.
I’m thankful for all the men and women who wake up everyday and contribute something back to their community. Who raise their children to be kind and honest. Who fight for justice and equality. Who don't lay back and accept the status quo but who use their voices and their brains when they’re outraged. Who vote. Who listen. Who care.
I’m thankful that someone invented boxed cake mix (because it's just so good and cheap). And that when you add butter to sugar with cream, you get frosting. And how nicely bacon compliments bourbon.
I’m thankful that I can see the humor in life. That I can laugh everyday. I’m thankful that Sarah Palin’s reality show will likely be her demise. I’m thankful that people with a lot of time on their hands still make ridiculous videos on Youtube so that I have something to watch in the middle of the night when I’m battling insomnia.
I’m thankful for the little things. For the challenges we face, so that we better know ourselves and our world. For the hardships we encounter so that we have appreciation for what we do have. For the disagreements we engage in, so that we can come to an agreement. For the messes we make as we grow and learn and try to make sense of the spaces that don't make sense, so that when we clean up it feels that much more satisfying.
I'm thankful for these mountains, for these moments of calm, and for places that feel like home and people who feel like family. For love and kindness. For generosity. For memories. For the future.
Happy Thanksgiving, friends.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
No Sense of Urgency
Late last night, lying in bed and thinking about all the Halloween debauchery I had witnessed in Fells Point, my blackberry buzzes from my bedside table. I’ve become accustomed to this nightly buzz, as the early morning’s onslaught of the day’s coupons and sales and news stories begin to fill my inbox, and I generally ignore it, waiting for the next morning to purge most of it over my morning coffee. I happen to still be awake, and pick up the phone to see what Williams Sonoma has put on sale or what Bluefly.com is demanding I must have before the week is out. I see it’s a message from a dear friend in Benin, and I quickly sit up and read it. It’s titled “flood”. He started his email, “As I’m sure you know by now, the rains this year have caused so much havoc to us all. My roof has been touched and water is entering the rooms; the sewage system and the compound have been flooded.” He goes on to talk more about what’s happening, and more importantly about what’s not happening. There is a sense of urgency in his tone, desperately trying to figure out how he can try and fix this for himself and his family. Wondering, very innocently and almost embarrassed by it, what role I play in that, as his good American friend.
I pick up my laptop, and swing it open as my heart sinks. I quickly open the browser and Google: “floods in Benin”. Three or four articles pop up at the top, with headlines like “Floods ravage Benin” and “Floods generate humanitarian crisis”. I cringe and wait for my heart to stop pounding. I didn’t know. I had no idea.
Benin has become a place I love; a place I consider a second-home. To think of this place under water, and people dying, I’m suddenly feeling like throwing up. Amidst feeling sick, I start to feel guilty, too. I, like most of my well-educated and politically engaged friends, like to stay abreast on what is happening around the world. I actively read the newspaper and watch the BBC. I check the NYTimes updates all day long. I read political blogs and international headlines and I like to think I can carry an intelligent conversation with most people on domestic and international issues. I’m finding myself angry that this news story, now days old, hadn’t trickled into a single one of my feeds. Hadn’t made it to a front page of anything that I read every morning. That I didn’t hear about it and more importantly, that most people wouldn’t even begin to notice. I forced myself to lie back down, ignoring the gnawing agitation in my gut, and prepared myself for another restless night of sleep, knowing my loved ones, 5000 miles away, were fighting a natural disaster. And more importantly, that this country’s lack of infrastructure was ultimately it’s largest enemy. And that just a few months ago, I sat on those shores, drinking beer and eating local nuts, journaling about the rustic beauty and the traditional charm of these dusty, rural villages.
Upon waking, I read many of the articles I’d thumbed through at 2 am and really let this news settle in. I respond to Alex, wondering what the state of his health is and if his family is okay; I ask, “How bad are the cities?” My colleague also writes to him, almost simultaneously, as if we’re in each other’s heads, asking many of the same questions. And now I wait. And check the web obsessively for updates. Waiting for a time-delay to catch up, so that I can correspond more.
In the mean time, it seemed an appropriate time to begin lesson-planning for the upcoming class in a few weeks on slavery and racism in West Africa. In January, my colleague and I will take 18 undergraduates to West Africa, Benin included. In this time, we do our best to teach an intensive course in History and Culture and, naturally, slavery and the slave trade are a necessary element of that. It’s probably the most difficult portion of the program, for a wide variety of reasons.
For starters, race is something everyone talks about and thinks about on different levels; the conversation is often based in an individual’s own personal story and experience and encounters with race. Secondly, the history of slavery in America is grossly distorted, and most North American children learn the history of slavery as only a companion to the Civil War and largely in association with the Deep South, the cotton industry, and plantation life. Rarely is the true story of slavery told; the story that includes most wealthy families that dotted the entire East coast, the critical role of the North, and the trade of slaves that spurred American commerce well past the abolition of slavery. Lastly, this conversation is hard because it involves blame. And emotions that have yet to be quelled. Conversations that have never happened and a desperate need for a paradigm shift.
Today I decided to preview a documentary I’d like to show in class. I’ve read the accompanying book, and the story outlines a family in Rhode Island coming to terms with it’s own past as the descendants of one of the largest slave-trading families in North America. The documentary is quite good, albeit largely based on some serious white privileged guilt, but I find it relevant. The story outlines a journey of a family to Ghana and then to Cuba and then back to Rhode Island, and documents much of their experience. I couldn’t help but relate as I watch them stand awkwardly in the slave dungeons; knowing the feeling I’m seeing on their faces as they try to discern what their role is and why it hurts so bad. Watching young Ghanaians challenge their presence: Why are you here? Don’t you feel bad? Hearing stories of the way they’re treated by African-Americans on those shores; the way they’re rejected and battered as if they’re continuing to commit a crime just by being present in such a sacred place. I’ve done that journey five times now. I’ve sat on those white-washed walls and felt the aching in my center over something that I inherently feel responsible for and simultaneously searching my heart for resolution. For reconciliation. And felt the same sense of embarrassment, and of guilt, as I attend events intended for descendants of the African Diaspora. The same sense of displacement, which has taught me more than anyone could ever understand, but perhaps is still inherently selfish of me.
I couldn’t help but start tearing up as an intense dialogue spurred between these desperately overwhelmed white Americans and a frustrated black American woman. She argued, “If white people were paying more attention, they’d be just as pissed as we are. The fact that they aren’t reads that they aren’t paying attention. That there is no sense of urgency.” The conversation is heartfelt, and not hostile, but strong. The racial intensity in the film is tangible; I can feel it in my own heart. In my own memories. In my own experience.
I can’t count how many times I’ve thought the same thoughts. How many times I’ve desperately questioned, “Why aren’t people more outraged?” As I’ve counted quarters out of my own wallet for city school kids who don’t have enough money for the bus or as I’ve listened to parents who work three jobs and can barely make rent. As I’ve watched the way a system ignores an entire class of people; and how easy it is to forget what privilege affords you. As I’ve watched young women and men of color struggle in a world that still caters to the white. And to the elite.
Lately, this has been about the rest of the world, as I’ve tried to make sense of how easily we can shut off the bad news. How American media has been designed to sing and dance until we forget that we’re at war in two countries. That Americans, and our insatiable hunger for cheap products, fuels some of the most incredible worldwide hunger and poverty and yet we continue to buy it, because we don’t see it. It’s 5000 miles away in a small, hot building that’s currently under water.
They symbolism of my entertainment choice this afternoon is biting.
There is no sense of urgency. I didn’t know about Benin. It took a frightened, sad email from 5,000 miles away for me to understand what was happening there.
In just a few days, America votes in the primary election. This election has been nasty, and the nation’s wickedness seems to have ratcheted up to near-toxic levels. In an election that has been increasingly fueled by polarized parties, racially-charged commentary, and large quantities of mud and feces slinging , I find it ironic that we’re still not talking about things that really matter. We’re still not focusing on what it takes to get bread on a table, how to go to college when you’re a homeless teenager, and how to bail water out of your flooded compound. How to prevent Cholera from killing your children. We’ve watched the whole world experience tragedy over the last few years. From Chile to Haiti to Pakistan, we’ve seen quick clips of tragedy in between America dancing with the stars, and occasionally, we host a telethon and pat ourselves on the back for our American humanitarian efforts. For the overwhelming generosity of our country.
And then we attend the funerals of the young men and women who are so bitterly bullied about their sexuality and their gender that they take their own lives, and we question: Where is our sense of urgency? Where is that overwhelming American generosity?
A part of me doesn’t even want to participate anymore. Doesn’t want to go to the polls. To vote for a governor and a senator, who regardless of their party, will still not answer my questions. Will still not drive through the boarded-up blocks of my city without judgment, attempting to seek solutions to what slavery REALLY did to this country. To most urban cities.
There is no sense of urgency.
And I admit it's crushing, even for myself, to have these feelings. This is coming from me, a girl who so ardently talks about civic engagement and building community. A girl who fundamentally believes in justice and in effective systems. Who can watch 200,000 people from all races rally in Washington, D.C. to "restore the sanity" and feel inspired and then turn around and feel so uninspired. So cheated by my own home. And I can't do anything but write about it.
And wake up tomorrow and continue to fight for justice in a place that feels bigger and more enormous and more complicated, everyday.
I pick up my laptop, and swing it open as my heart sinks. I quickly open the browser and Google: “floods in Benin”. Three or four articles pop up at the top, with headlines like “Floods ravage Benin” and “Floods generate humanitarian crisis”. I cringe and wait for my heart to stop pounding. I didn’t know. I had no idea.
Benin has become a place I love; a place I consider a second-home. To think of this place under water, and people dying, I’m suddenly feeling like throwing up. Amidst feeling sick, I start to feel guilty, too. I, like most of my well-educated and politically engaged friends, like to stay abreast on what is happening around the world. I actively read the newspaper and watch the BBC. I check the NYTimes updates all day long. I read political blogs and international headlines and I like to think I can carry an intelligent conversation with most people on domestic and international issues. I’m finding myself angry that this news story, now days old, hadn’t trickled into a single one of my feeds. Hadn’t made it to a front page of anything that I read every morning. That I didn’t hear about it and more importantly, that most people wouldn’t even begin to notice. I forced myself to lie back down, ignoring the gnawing agitation in my gut, and prepared myself for another restless night of sleep, knowing my loved ones, 5000 miles away, were fighting a natural disaster. And more importantly, that this country’s lack of infrastructure was ultimately it’s largest enemy. And that just a few months ago, I sat on those shores, drinking beer and eating local nuts, journaling about the rustic beauty and the traditional charm of these dusty, rural villages.
Upon waking, I read many of the articles I’d thumbed through at 2 am and really let this news settle in. I respond to Alex, wondering what the state of his health is and if his family is okay; I ask, “How bad are the cities?” My colleague also writes to him, almost simultaneously, as if we’re in each other’s heads, asking many of the same questions. And now I wait. And check the web obsessively for updates. Waiting for a time-delay to catch up, so that I can correspond more.
In the mean time, it seemed an appropriate time to begin lesson-planning for the upcoming class in a few weeks on slavery and racism in West Africa. In January, my colleague and I will take 18 undergraduates to West Africa, Benin included. In this time, we do our best to teach an intensive course in History and Culture and, naturally, slavery and the slave trade are a necessary element of that. It’s probably the most difficult portion of the program, for a wide variety of reasons.
For starters, race is something everyone talks about and thinks about on different levels; the conversation is often based in an individual’s own personal story and experience and encounters with race. Secondly, the history of slavery in America is grossly distorted, and most North American children learn the history of slavery as only a companion to the Civil War and largely in association with the Deep South, the cotton industry, and plantation life. Rarely is the true story of slavery told; the story that includes most wealthy families that dotted the entire East coast, the critical role of the North, and the trade of slaves that spurred American commerce well past the abolition of slavery. Lastly, this conversation is hard because it involves blame. And emotions that have yet to be quelled. Conversations that have never happened and a desperate need for a paradigm shift.
Today I decided to preview a documentary I’d like to show in class. I’ve read the accompanying book, and the story outlines a family in Rhode Island coming to terms with it’s own past as the descendants of one of the largest slave-trading families in North America. The documentary is quite good, albeit largely based on some serious white privileged guilt, but I find it relevant. The story outlines a journey of a family to Ghana and then to Cuba and then back to Rhode Island, and documents much of their experience. I couldn’t help but relate as I watch them stand awkwardly in the slave dungeons; knowing the feeling I’m seeing on their faces as they try to discern what their role is and why it hurts so bad. Watching young Ghanaians challenge their presence: Why are you here? Don’t you feel bad? Hearing stories of the way they’re treated by African-Americans on those shores; the way they’re rejected and battered as if they’re continuing to commit a crime just by being present in such a sacred place. I’ve done that journey five times now. I’ve sat on those white-washed walls and felt the aching in my center over something that I inherently feel responsible for and simultaneously searching my heart for resolution. For reconciliation. And felt the same sense of embarrassment, and of guilt, as I attend events intended for descendants of the African Diaspora. The same sense of displacement, which has taught me more than anyone could ever understand, but perhaps is still inherently selfish of me.
I couldn’t help but start tearing up as an intense dialogue spurred between these desperately overwhelmed white Americans and a frustrated black American woman. She argued, “If white people were paying more attention, they’d be just as pissed as we are. The fact that they aren’t reads that they aren’t paying attention. That there is no sense of urgency.” The conversation is heartfelt, and not hostile, but strong. The racial intensity in the film is tangible; I can feel it in my own heart. In my own memories. In my own experience.
I can’t count how many times I’ve thought the same thoughts. How many times I’ve desperately questioned, “Why aren’t people more outraged?” As I’ve counted quarters out of my own wallet for city school kids who don’t have enough money for the bus or as I’ve listened to parents who work three jobs and can barely make rent. As I’ve watched the way a system ignores an entire class of people; and how easy it is to forget what privilege affords you. As I’ve watched young women and men of color struggle in a world that still caters to the white. And to the elite.
Lately, this has been about the rest of the world, as I’ve tried to make sense of how easily we can shut off the bad news. How American media has been designed to sing and dance until we forget that we’re at war in two countries. That Americans, and our insatiable hunger for cheap products, fuels some of the most incredible worldwide hunger and poverty and yet we continue to buy it, because we don’t see it. It’s 5000 miles away in a small, hot building that’s currently under water.
They symbolism of my entertainment choice this afternoon is biting.
There is no sense of urgency. I didn’t know about Benin. It took a frightened, sad email from 5,000 miles away for me to understand what was happening there.
In just a few days, America votes in the primary election. This election has been nasty, and the nation’s wickedness seems to have ratcheted up to near-toxic levels. In an election that has been increasingly fueled by polarized parties, racially-charged commentary, and large quantities of mud and feces slinging , I find it ironic that we’re still not talking about things that really matter. We’re still not focusing on what it takes to get bread on a table, how to go to college when you’re a homeless teenager, and how to bail water out of your flooded compound. How to prevent Cholera from killing your children. We’ve watched the whole world experience tragedy over the last few years. From Chile to Haiti to Pakistan, we’ve seen quick clips of tragedy in between America dancing with the stars, and occasionally, we host a telethon and pat ourselves on the back for our American humanitarian efforts. For the overwhelming generosity of our country.
And then we attend the funerals of the young men and women who are so bitterly bullied about their sexuality and their gender that they take their own lives, and we question: Where is our sense of urgency? Where is that overwhelming American generosity?
A part of me doesn’t even want to participate anymore. Doesn’t want to go to the polls. To vote for a governor and a senator, who regardless of their party, will still not answer my questions. Will still not drive through the boarded-up blocks of my city without judgment, attempting to seek solutions to what slavery REALLY did to this country. To most urban cities.
There is no sense of urgency.
And I admit it's crushing, even for myself, to have these feelings. This is coming from me, a girl who so ardently talks about civic engagement and building community. A girl who fundamentally believes in justice and in effective systems. Who can watch 200,000 people from all races rally in Washington, D.C. to "restore the sanity" and feel inspired and then turn around and feel so uninspired. So cheated by my own home. And I can't do anything but write about it.
And wake up tomorrow and continue to fight for justice in a place that feels bigger and more enormous and more complicated, everyday.
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