This is one of those weeks that is always difficult for me, as it is for many Americans. One of those moments in American history that none of us will forget, assuming we were old enough to understand what was happening. 9/11 happened just three weeks into my freshman year of college.
I was asked to share a remembrance of 9/11 at my alma mater and place of employment this afternoon. One of the great things about working in higher education is that we place great value in processing experiences. In sharing our stories. And though these events are often targeted for our students, those of us who participate find ourselves thinking and weeping and learning right alongside our students. Which is a great blessing.
I spent the latter part of this week trying to figure out what I was going to talk about. How I could even begin to stand in front of others and talk about this moment that has changed my entire adult life. My 18 to 28 years. Because 9/11 infuriates me. It makes me incredibly sad. It confuses me. It makes me feel uneasy and sick to my stomach. Still. 10 years later. And not just because it happened. But because of the decade that was born out of these attacks. A decade of fear and polarized politics and racism. A day that forever changed our definitions of words like “security” and “terrorism”. A day that would change virtually every practice we had in traveling and entering and departing public spaces. In our assumptions that we were safe here. Always. And a day that would forever impact the average American’s perceptions of “other”.
And yet this was a day that our whole country stood united. That everyone stopped. And watched. And grabbed the hands of those around them for support. For some security that we were indeed safe. And we built communities inside communities inside communities, like tight concentric circles, made of human hands and warm embraces and candlelit vigils.
Here’s what I remember: I woke up on a Tuesday to a beautiful clear morning. Unaware that I should watch the news, I didn’t. I dressed and walked to class. Finding the academic buildings mostly empty, I walked back towards my dorm, confused about what holiday I had missed or what time change I had failed to make, and found a small group of people standing near a television. I stopped to watch an unbelievable scene on the television. The eery silence of the academic quad began to make sense. Though I couldn’t quite make out what was happening yet, or just how significant it would become, there were billows of black smoke and people running in fear. Alarms and noise and chaos. Buildings were crumbling in flames and chunks of concrete and bodies jumping from windows. I watched, with my heart in my throat, never expecting to see New York City in the background. And later, the Pentagon.
What I remember most clearly, however, was that there was an immediate community in that group of people. And an immediate and overwhelming sense of patriotism, fear and anger. A loss of words. A numbness that overcame us all: Was this really happening? Could it be true?
Within the next hour, the whole campus was awake. We had found ourselves in small huddled groups all over our wooded campus. It felt like everyone was crying. All day. Our shoulders heaving in unison, hands holding each other tight. Two of the girls on my floor had parents in the towers. Almost a whole day later we’d learn that they had actually not gone to work that day. Others weren’t so lucky. My dear friend Devita lost her brother, Romeo, in the Pentagon. Others lost family and friends. It seemed everyone knew someone in New York or Washington. And all of us knew someone who had been affected. Someone who had survived. And sadly, someone who hadn’t.
Keep in mind, this was my freshman year. I was nearly twelve hours away from my home in the deep western mountains of North Carolina. Just three weeks in to my first year of adulthood, I suddenly questioned if I should have ever left my beautiful blue-green valley. Or its deep purple hills that would have protected me from these planes and these loud noises. But that morning confirmed that I was in a place that would quickly become more than just my school; this place became my home. The rest of the day quickly turned into weeks and it was all a blur from there. What events I attended, how we found the strength to go back to class or to take anything else seriously; I can’t remember.
In reflection, I now can say that 9/11 was the first time I was able to place the word “gratitude” in my adult vocabulary. It was the first time I acknowledged my Americanism. My privilege. While it seemed like the whole world was falling apart, I had landed in this small community of thoughtful people. Of people from different places and backgrounds and cultures. I felt safe here that Tuesday. And so lucky. Like so many communities across America, we became one campus that day. One body of grieving souls. One community. For which I remain grateful.
Here’s where it gets hard for me. At this point, I can’t always dissect my life experiences from one another. 9/11 was an integral part of my first year of college, but moreover an integral part of the emergence of my adulthood. That same year, I lost a grandfather and a dear friend, David. I met hundreds of people and made thousands of mistakes. Over the next four years I'd travel abroad and meet thousands more. I'd watch a friend succomb to suicide and another battle with serious mental illness. I'd begin and end (and begin again) relationships that would teach me the capacity with which I was capable of loving. Over the last ten years, I’ve lived a lot of life in a short number of years. This community has been the backdrop for most of that life and in this space I’ve learned how to process the things that don’t make sense. To grieve. To grow. To laugh at myself. And those first weeks, and those first relationships, have remained so significant. Perhaps because this was how we started. This was my very first big thing.
In my ten years in this community, we’ve watched towers fall and gasped as two wars have been declared. We’ve protested and rallied together. We’ve learned how to define big grown- up words like “community” and “justice” and “inequality”. We’ve watched presidential elections and debates. We’ve heard the voices of famous politicians and policy makers. We’ve debated controversies and we’ve shared great stories. We’ve laughed until we’ve cried. We’ve listened to world-renowned musicians and held small, intimate conversations in our rooms and classrooms and offices. We’ve struggled through moments of ignorance and misunderstandings together. We’ve grieved losses and shared humility with each other. We’ve been outraged by each other and ourselves. And we’ve helped each other process it. And though we don’t always agree, we celebrate the freedoms of academia.
And for me, this day of remembrance is a remembrance of all the things I’m thankful for. For this community where we have the freedom to think critically about issues like social justice and kindness and humanity. For the grace and courage to ask hard questions. For the multitude of opportunities we have to learn about ourselves and the world. And how to make it a better place.
I’ve always loved that our College seal references First Thessalonians, chapter five, verse two: “Prove all things; hold fast that which is good.” I find this fitting because this is what our students have always done so very well: ask questions, dig deeper, challenge the status quo, seek solutions.
On this day of remembrance, I’ve challenged myself to have deeper gratitude. For my work. For my students. For my family. For my experiences. For the ability to dig deep on the issues that I care about. For the freedoms I have to learn as much as I can and to share that knowledge back out with my community. An endless ebb and flow of knowledge seeking and information sharing.
For our greater community, I challenge us to transform a decade worth of confusion into action. To allow our anger to motivate intellectualism and compassion. To allow our discriminations to motivate democracy and justice. Our apathy to motivate empathy and civic engagement. That we move into the next decade not discouraged by our lack of progress, but encouraged that there is still great work to be done. Motivated that we are the dreamers and the thinkers and the activists and the policy-makers for the next generation. And that we all have the ability to do something. To be a part of it.
Showing posts with label being home. Show all posts
Showing posts with label being home. Show all posts
Sunday, September 11, 2011
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, September 2, 2010
Two-headed monster
Sometimes after I’ve been on vacation for a while or, say, I've spent two weeks in another country (or on another continent), I have this sobering re-entry into the real world. Into my real life. For the short amount of time I’m away from my daily life, I disconnect just long enough to remember what life can be like when it isn’t a total bat-shit crazy race. I’m reminded of another kind of life that exists—“Island Life”, I call it. And I lust for ways to integrate island life into my Baltimore life. My noisy, has-and-wants-too-much wandering life.
When I was in college I’d sneak away to my quiet, picturesque mountain town during holidays and breaks and I’d so quickly fall back into my old patterns. I’d hang out with the people I’d known since toddlerhood, cracking the same old jokes since 1985, and falling into a kind of lazy comfort that only comes from years and years of life shared with friends and family. I’d drive the long way home just to see the sunset over the mountain ridge. I’d leave my house and take my ancient Honda station wagon, covered in liberal, peace-mongering bumper stickers, “up in the forest” (which is what we’d say when we’d take the windy road up into the mountains and into the national park that covers a large portion of the county) and park my car along the side of the road. There are hundreds of spots where you can just wedge yourself between the trees and the river and listen to the noise it all makes when you’re quiet. And I would sit, often stunned, next to that river, comparing my two worlds. The noise of the water just loud enough that I was comfortable thinking whatever I wanted—no one else could possibly hear it. Here was this life that was really quite charmed—safe and secure, nestled between the river and the valley. I knew everyone I needed to know—and they knew me. I didn’t have to prove much to anyone anymore because they’d known me since I was in diapers. They knew what I was capable of (and they knew my faults, too). Life, in general, was pretty quiet and slow. Things happened gradually. People lived pretty simply.
Then there was this new life I’d discovered in this bizarrely large city called Baltimore and this small, wooded, suburban college campus. I could never find my way anywhere (accept around the one loop road that outlined my college), the city roads made no sense to me, the drivers honked and drove too fast, and these “beltways” that wrapped themselves around Baltimore and Washington, D.C. felt more like boa constrictors than highways, slowly choking the life out of the communities they “belted”. But there was this group of people I’d met who were so much like me it scared me (because that didn’t happen often in that small town of mine). They were liberal and progressive and snarky and thought the same weird things I thought were funny to be funny, too. There were things in this city that were wholly new to me—things that scared and excited me, equally. I encountered people and situations I thought only existed in movies (uhh…lesbians are real!?). I made all kinds of messes. And mistakes. It was exciting and shiny and new and I had to work, for the first time in a long time, to have an identity—to find that same “comfort” I’d had in my cozy little hammock of Western North Carolina. Oh and did you see The Wire? Yeah. It was like that, too.
I’d take the flight, or ten hour drive, back to Baltimore, fretting over the transition that would inevitably happen in the coming days. The giving up of what I knew for the gnawing discomfort of the unknown. The speeding up of life. The loss of my sweet, subtle southern accent. The lack of understanding people had about where I was from and what real life could look like without giant shopping malls, access to designer anything (because we had Sky City and Wal-Mart…take your pick), or anything too complicated, really. Not to mention there was this charming naïveté I’d come to love about the people I grew up with. It couldn’t be more different from the cynicism and biting commentary I was growing to love from my new Northeastern friends (although I wasn't entirely sure I really liked it just yet). I almost felt like the two worlds couldn’t possibly share space in my identity. It was too exhausting to go back and forth. It was basically culture shock, every single holiday and vacation.
And I’ve discovered, for better or for worse, that gradually, I’ve shifted my identity. I’m still from that small mountain town and my childhood is an inescapable part of who I’ve become—but I’ve modified my home base. I’ve allowed a lot of complication into my life. It’s messier and noisier than I ever expected it to become. I care too much about the brands on my feet and the realness of the pearls in my ears. I still fall in love with all the wrong people (and some of the right ones, too). Baltimore has become my home, without asking (rude), and while I’ve come to love the noise and rats and quirky appeal of Charm City, there is still something wonderful about getting away. About sneaking out at the crack of dawn and watching the harbor fade in the distance as I head south (or just out).
It never fails, though, that the getting away triggers all these questions and leads me into this deep, dark journey into the “person I’ve become”. And it awakens the Piscean gypsy in me that feels uncomfortable with being so settled—so embedded in a lifestyle that I can’t quickly pack up and leave from without a moving truck and at least a month to do laundry and buy boxes. It makes me think questions like, “Have I become the asshole I never wanted to become?” or “Would I like me if my high school me met me now?”
There is no doubt that Baltimore has changed me. Working in a low-income urban community in an inadequately resourced public school system will change your life. It changed the way I think and the way I talk and the way I see the rest of the World. It changed how I think about systems and education and accessibility. In fact, it changed my whole path. I never intended to stay this long. I had a one year plan. This turned into a five year plan. And it looks like it’s quickly become a ten year plan. I think I suck at plans.
And the timing of this internal babbling is pretty spot on. For those of you who work in higher education, you know what the months of August and September are all about. It’s like our January. Our spring. Our Easter. Also, our living hell. We are reborn into a new academic year with a new freshman class of students, so wide-eyed and brimming with excitement and fear and all those feelings of being torn between their old life and the new life they’ve yet to realize.
These last few weeks have also been trying, to say the least. These are the weeks where we all cuss under our breath, all day long, wondering why the hell we pissed away June and July with retreats and half-days and week-long vacations (although if I recall correctly, my summer wasn't particularly quiet, either). These are the weeks we work 10 hour days and weekends without even realizing it (what day is it, anyway?). These are the days we deal with hovering parents and toxic levels of anxiety and lots of tears and lots (and lots) of whining.
But these are also the days where I find myself questioning, just like the first-year students, "Where have I come from?" And "where am I going?" Sometimes the motivational talks and speakers and events continue to reach me, and to move me (perhaps more than the students?). The messages of "explore with wonder and awe" and "challenge yourself to grow" are messages I have to remind myself every morning. Because it's easy to become okay with the mundane routine. It's easy to get caught in the cycle of blah and to forget that a part of living life is actually enjoying it.
As I've been readjusting to a new semester, a new year, and frankly still trying to process all the things I'm thinking and feeling about this last trip to West Africa, I'm feeling contemplative and like I'm just on the verge of some new breakthrough--some new insight into my world.
When I'm traveling or headed home, I often don't look at a watch. I try my damndest not to have a schedule or a plan. I try my best to go with the flow (although the "work" me has been so well trained that it often takes days to really slow down and disconnect). But coming back is like a slap in the face. My inbox has piled up, I've forgotten just how mean people really are, and the soft, quiet, subtlety of not really caring what happens is replaced by the loud, blinking, anxiety of my working life.
This week I've been having lots of long talks with friends and colleagues about the nature of life and the nature of our work in higher education and in the community. These have been deep, philosophical conversations that ebb and flow somewhere between, "why are privileged white people so stupid!?" and "does the work we're doing even really accomplish anything?" And somewhere in those discussions, too, is this private battle of mine between these two people inside me, like a two-headed monster; the "Baltimore" me who has become hardened and bold; the small town girl who still remembers what the frogs on the pond sound like at night and how the dew smells first thing in the morning. The girl who empathizes with the urban poor and all the issues wherein (and has become pretty vocal about it, too) and the girl who understands small-town values and who wasn't shocked when George W. Bush was elected again. The girl who has spent months of her life in places like Ghana and Benin, experiencing new cultures and religions and tastes and sounds and people and the girl who remembers being afraid to drive to the other side of the county because it was too far away. The girl who still smiles anytime she smells honeysuckle and the girl who doesn't even notice anymore when a rat darts across her path in the alley.
The girl who is still trying to figure out how to have the best of both worlds. And how to be happy about it.
When I was in college I’d sneak away to my quiet, picturesque mountain town during holidays and breaks and I’d so quickly fall back into my old patterns. I’d hang out with the people I’d known since toddlerhood, cracking the same old jokes since 1985, and falling into a kind of lazy comfort that only comes from years and years of life shared with friends and family. I’d drive the long way home just to see the sunset over the mountain ridge. I’d leave my house and take my ancient Honda station wagon, covered in liberal, peace-mongering bumper stickers, “up in the forest” (which is what we’d say when we’d take the windy road up into the mountains and into the national park that covers a large portion of the county) and park my car along the side of the road. There are hundreds of spots where you can just wedge yourself between the trees and the river and listen to the noise it all makes when you’re quiet. And I would sit, often stunned, next to that river, comparing my two worlds. The noise of the water just loud enough that I was comfortable thinking whatever I wanted—no one else could possibly hear it. Here was this life that was really quite charmed—safe and secure, nestled between the river and the valley. I knew everyone I needed to know—and they knew me. I didn’t have to prove much to anyone anymore because they’d known me since I was in diapers. They knew what I was capable of (and they knew my faults, too). Life, in general, was pretty quiet and slow. Things happened gradually. People lived pretty simply.
Then there was this new life I’d discovered in this bizarrely large city called Baltimore and this small, wooded, suburban college campus. I could never find my way anywhere (accept around the one loop road that outlined my college), the city roads made no sense to me, the drivers honked and drove too fast, and these “beltways” that wrapped themselves around Baltimore and Washington, D.C. felt more like boa constrictors than highways, slowly choking the life out of the communities they “belted”. But there was this group of people I’d met who were so much like me it scared me (because that didn’t happen often in that small town of mine). They were liberal and progressive and snarky and thought the same weird things I thought were funny to be funny, too. There were things in this city that were wholly new to me—things that scared and excited me, equally. I encountered people and situations I thought only existed in movies (uhh…lesbians are real!?). I made all kinds of messes. And mistakes. It was exciting and shiny and new and I had to work, for the first time in a long time, to have an identity—to find that same “comfort” I’d had in my cozy little hammock of Western North Carolina. Oh and did you see The Wire? Yeah. It was like that, too.
I’d take the flight, or ten hour drive, back to Baltimore, fretting over the transition that would inevitably happen in the coming days. The giving up of what I knew for the gnawing discomfort of the unknown. The speeding up of life. The loss of my sweet, subtle southern accent. The lack of understanding people had about where I was from and what real life could look like without giant shopping malls, access to designer anything (because we had Sky City and Wal-Mart…take your pick), or anything too complicated, really. Not to mention there was this charming naïveté I’d come to love about the people I grew up with. It couldn’t be more different from the cynicism and biting commentary I was growing to love from my new Northeastern friends (although I wasn't entirely sure I really liked it just yet). I almost felt like the two worlds couldn’t possibly share space in my identity. It was too exhausting to go back and forth. It was basically culture shock, every single holiday and vacation.
And I’ve discovered, for better or for worse, that gradually, I’ve shifted my identity. I’m still from that small mountain town and my childhood is an inescapable part of who I’ve become—but I’ve modified my home base. I’ve allowed a lot of complication into my life. It’s messier and noisier than I ever expected it to become. I care too much about the brands on my feet and the realness of the pearls in my ears. I still fall in love with all the wrong people (and some of the right ones, too). Baltimore has become my home, without asking (rude), and while I’ve come to love the noise and rats and quirky appeal of Charm City, there is still something wonderful about getting away. About sneaking out at the crack of dawn and watching the harbor fade in the distance as I head south (or just out).
It never fails, though, that the getting away triggers all these questions and leads me into this deep, dark journey into the “person I’ve become”. And it awakens the Piscean gypsy in me that feels uncomfortable with being so settled—so embedded in a lifestyle that I can’t quickly pack up and leave from without a moving truck and at least a month to do laundry and buy boxes. It makes me think questions like, “Have I become the asshole I never wanted to become?” or “Would I like me if my high school me met me now?”
There is no doubt that Baltimore has changed me. Working in a low-income urban community in an inadequately resourced public school system will change your life. It changed the way I think and the way I talk and the way I see the rest of the World. It changed how I think about systems and education and accessibility. In fact, it changed my whole path. I never intended to stay this long. I had a one year plan. This turned into a five year plan. And it looks like it’s quickly become a ten year plan. I think I suck at plans.
And the timing of this internal babbling is pretty spot on. For those of you who work in higher education, you know what the months of August and September are all about. It’s like our January. Our spring. Our Easter. Also, our living hell. We are reborn into a new academic year with a new freshman class of students, so wide-eyed and brimming with excitement and fear and all those feelings of being torn between their old life and the new life they’ve yet to realize.
These last few weeks have also been trying, to say the least. These are the weeks where we all cuss under our breath, all day long, wondering why the hell we pissed away June and July with retreats and half-days and week-long vacations (although if I recall correctly, my summer wasn't particularly quiet, either). These are the weeks we work 10 hour days and weekends without even realizing it (what day is it, anyway?). These are the days we deal with hovering parents and toxic levels of anxiety and lots of tears and lots (and lots) of whining.
But these are also the days where I find myself questioning, just like the first-year students, "Where have I come from?" And "where am I going?" Sometimes the motivational talks and speakers and events continue to reach me, and to move me (perhaps more than the students?). The messages of "explore with wonder and awe" and "challenge yourself to grow" are messages I have to remind myself every morning. Because it's easy to become okay with the mundane routine. It's easy to get caught in the cycle of blah and to forget that a part of living life is actually enjoying it.
As I've been readjusting to a new semester, a new year, and frankly still trying to process all the things I'm thinking and feeling about this last trip to West Africa, I'm feeling contemplative and like I'm just on the verge of some new breakthrough--some new insight into my world.
When I'm traveling or headed home, I often don't look at a watch. I try my damndest not to have a schedule or a plan. I try my best to go with the flow (although the "work" me has been so well trained that it often takes days to really slow down and disconnect). But coming back is like a slap in the face. My inbox has piled up, I've forgotten just how mean people really are, and the soft, quiet, subtlety of not really caring what happens is replaced by the loud, blinking, anxiety of my working life.
This week I've been having lots of long talks with friends and colleagues about the nature of life and the nature of our work in higher education and in the community. These have been deep, philosophical conversations that ebb and flow somewhere between, "why are privileged white people so stupid!?" and "does the work we're doing even really accomplish anything?" And somewhere in those discussions, too, is this private battle of mine between these two people inside me, like a two-headed monster; the "Baltimore" me who has become hardened and bold; the small town girl who still remembers what the frogs on the pond sound like at night and how the dew smells first thing in the morning. The girl who empathizes with the urban poor and all the issues wherein (and has become pretty vocal about it, too) and the girl who understands small-town values and who wasn't shocked when George W. Bush was elected again. The girl who has spent months of her life in places like Ghana and Benin, experiencing new cultures and religions and tastes and sounds and people and the girl who remembers being afraid to drive to the other side of the county because it was too far away. The girl who still smiles anytime she smells honeysuckle and the girl who doesn't even notice anymore when a rat darts across her path in the alley.
The girl who is still trying to figure out how to have the best of both worlds. And how to be happy about it.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
And the livin's easy...
I normally don't post a lot of pictures and not a lot of words to my blog but today may be my exception. For the last few weeks my roommate and I have been trying to make our house an even better home by overhauling the backyard. For any of you who live in a rowhouse, you know what a challenge this can be. At max, your yard is about 8 feet wide, and if you're lucky you get about 20-25 feet of depth. Many of these old rowhouses have porches and garages and weirdly shaped additions and trying to make the yard into something functional can be a challenge. Plus, the dog thinks this part of the house is entirely hers. Down to the bees.
I was told a few years ago (although I couldn't tell you by whom because my brain just isn't as functional as it once was) that the small, charming backyards of city rowhouses are really all you ever need. This person reminded me that even when you have acres and acres of land, you find you spend all your time in one small section of the yard. I think this person might have been trying to make me feel better (because I sure remember using every inch of those acres growing up). But there is something special about these backyards. Small fences divide our homes and we truly share our yards with the entire block. We see each other at six am with our morning coffee and at midnight with our wine glasses. We know what each other's dogs sound like and we pay attention when things move or furniture is rearranged. I know this would drive some people crazy, but I kind of love it. Just another charm for me.
Plus, Cara and I are lucky. We have gardeners next door. In fact, our neighbors on our left have lived in their house for almost 65 years and have been gardening everyday since they moved in.
Talk about competition. Every day I find something new blooming in their yard and they've already got the biggest tomatoes I've seen yet in anyone's garden. Our little puny clover grass and concrete walkway was making me depressed every time I went onto our deck. I begged the wife (aka my roommate) to do something about it and one morning she handed me a hand-drafted plan of our new backyard. It would require a lot of building and releveling of the soil and pulling out of the existing grass, but she assured me that for under $300, I could have a yard I'd actually want to spend time in.
And she was right. And on budget. And I think we've done a great job as newbies. I'm slowly finding my green thumb and Cara has been able to release her inner lumberjack. Lacking 65 years of practice and despite the fact that we're mere renters (so we don't want to sink any real cash into this DIY project), I think we've done a splendid job. Also, did I mention how great it is to live with a real-live handy-woman? I mean, this girl is amazing. If I were a lesbian, I'd so marry this woman. Hell, I might marry her anyway.
Check outour her project (I'd like to claim more of it, but it just wouldn't be right):
Step one: Beg, plead, and bribe roommate to build you raised beds for your flowers, herbs, and vegetables. Fill with organic garden soil and bat guano (from Dr. Earth) and plant the shit out of those flowers, herbs, and veggies.
Step two: Ask roommate to frame patio square and level the ground and soil. Remember to ask sweetly and offer to make sausage biscuits.
Step three: Ask roommate to put down gravel and sand and level it all with this handmade rake (and again, remember to offer to make cocktails and dinner).
Step four: Sunbathe on the deck while this all goes down. Don't forget sunscreen! Try not to look guilty when Cara comes up for a break sweating and dying of thirst.
Step five: Figure out how to convince the dog that the new hole for the patio isn't a sandbox, litterbox for the alley cats, OR a mini-beach (warning: this step involves bribes and treats)
Step six: Lay pavers, fill with sand, and layer the mulch.
Step seven: Plant rose bush for good luck.
Step eight: Invite over friends for a BBQ and make sure the patio is dance-proof. Play James Brown. Serve corn. (Yet to be completed).
First major DIY project of the summer: COMPLETE. Just in time to sit outside and sip mint juleps. Thanks, wife.
And no, you can't have her.
I was told a few years ago (although I couldn't tell you by whom because my brain just isn't as functional as it once was) that the small, charming backyards of city rowhouses are really all you ever need. This person reminded me that even when you have acres and acres of land, you find you spend all your time in one small section of the yard. I think this person might have been trying to make me feel better (because I sure remember using every inch of those acres growing up). But there is something special about these backyards. Small fences divide our homes and we truly share our yards with the entire block. We see each other at six am with our morning coffee and at midnight with our wine glasses. We know what each other's dogs sound like and we pay attention when things move or furniture is rearranged. I know this would drive some people crazy, but I kind of love it. Just another charm for me.
Plus, Cara and I are lucky. We have gardeners next door. In fact, our neighbors on our left have lived in their house for almost 65 years and have been gardening everyday since they moved in.
And she was right. And on budget. And I think we've done a great job as newbies. I'm slowly finding my green thumb and Cara has been able to release her inner lumberjack. Lacking 65 years of practice and despite the fact that we're mere renters (so we don't want to sink any real cash into this DIY project), I think we've done a splendid job. Also, did I mention how great it is to live with a real-live handy-woman? I mean, this girl is amazing. If I were a lesbian, I'd so marry this woman. Hell, I might marry her anyway.
Check out
Step one: Beg, plead, and bribe roommate to build you raised beds for your flowers, herbs, and vegetables. Fill with organic garden soil and bat guano (from Dr. Earth) and plant the shit out of those flowers, herbs, and veggies.
Step two: Ask roommate to frame patio square and level the ground and soil. Remember to ask sweetly and offer to make sausage biscuits.
Step three: Ask roommate to put down gravel and sand and level it all with this handmade rake (and again, remember to offer to make cocktails and dinner).
Step five: Figure out how to convince the dog that the new hole for the patio isn't a sandbox, litterbox for the alley cats, OR a mini-beach (warning: this step involves bribes and treats)
Step six: Lay pavers, fill with sand, and layer the mulch.
Step seven: Plant rose bush for good luck.
Step eight: Invite over friends for a BBQ and make sure the patio is dance-proof. Play James Brown. Serve corn. (Yet to be completed).
First major DIY project of the summer: COMPLETE. Just in time to sit outside and sip mint juleps. Thanks, wife.
And no, you can't have her.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Commencement
Sitting in the scorching hot sun on Friday, watching one graduate after another cross the stage, it struck me that I’m starting to feel old. Now for all you sensitive 40 and ups out there, don’t get your panties in a wad. I’m not implying that I am old, thus making you older. I’m not that stupid. I’m merely making a suggestion that with each passing year, I’m reminded that I am beginning to make my entry into the serious-we’re-not-joking-it’s-really-real world of adulthood. I have friends with wrinkles. And back problems. And babies. And divorce lawyers. It’s weird.
I remember what it felt like that day and how amazing it felt to walk across that stage. The excitement, the drama, the sadness. Here I was in the cozy womb of my wooded college campus, among the people I considered my best of the best, and I was being asked to leave. Graduate. Pack up. Move on. I had spent four years laughing and discovering and growing and falling over stupid and accomplishing and throwing up from too much vodka from plastic containers and hiding in nooks of shadows of trees and gazing at stars and writing papers all night and pretending to tap dance down brick pathways and grieving and stumbling into new selves and former selves all while thinking “what is the self?”
For some people, college is this obligatory stamp on their path. Four years (or maybe five) of requirements and probably too many parties and maybe the place where you met the person you married. Or maybe you busted your ass to get through, working full-time just to get the degree. This piece of paper that is supposed to somehow transform us. Make us more hire-able. Better employees.
But for others, college is this space of discovery. A chance to pause the rest of the world and completely absorb yourself in your own years of 18-22. It’s like four years of padded walls and access to all the fingerpaint you could ever want. Oh and Cookie Crisp. And chicken fingers. And the goal is to still come our hire-able and a better employee. But maybe with some deeper, more philosophical thoughts on hand.
That’s how I remember college. A journey. A road. A space of discovery. A chance to figure out me. Who I was and why I cared. And why anyone else might ever want to, too.
I remember asking myself questions I’d never thought to ask before. I remember trying to catch it all—all the things that were happening in my brain and in my ears and in my knees and in my eyes. Trying to cram it all into my heart and my brain and my memory banks; horrified someone might steal this slice of life I’d stumbled across. That I’d lose access.
I remember all the tragically sad things that happened and how I thought there was no way my heart could ever find its pieces again. And then finding those pieces, and emerging a bit more hardened and perhaps more wise.
I remember laughing so hard I thought I’d die. And reciting movies from heart. And meeting women who changed my life—strong, courageous, hilarious women who taught me how to be a woman. How to fight for myself. How to love myself. My girls.
I look up at the windows that face the lawn of commencement. I think how many mornings I’ve woken up facing this lawn. How many mornings I’ve been here. With the sun on my face. And all the things that have happened between all those sunrises.
This is home. For nine years I’ve called this place home. After being out in the real world for a few years, I came back to work here. As a grown-up. As an adult. But I feel like one of the lucky ones, because I know what happens here. I know how it feels. I’ve felt it in my heart and in my hands and I’ve danced with it at night and I’ve rolled around with it in the rain. I’ve tasted it on my tongue and I’ve taken it out on walks. It’s not something anyone can ever put a thumb on and almost everyone tries to name it. Each year a new student commencement speaker has the enormous task of trying to find words that describe this thing that happens here. And I watch her catch her breath. And it is there in her voice. This thing we all know about. This thing we cannot name.
There are days when I question why I ever came back to work here—this charming alma mater of mine. Like anywhere, we have our own fair share of the dramas. And I hear the others whine and moan and talk quietly behind closed doors. Perhaps they don’t know. But I do. I know what happens here. And I remember. And those moments remind me why I’m here.
As I listen to the names, one after another, I look up to the window where I spent my freshman year. And my eyes wander over to the window where I spent my junior year. And I smirk because I know things about these walls. And I look out at the lawn. And I’m feeling old, but happy. Missing my girls. Knowing they'd be sitting right here next to me, in something terribly chic, clapping for people they don't know. Because we know how it feels. We know what happens here.
I remember what it felt like that day and how amazing it felt to walk across that stage. The excitement, the drama, the sadness. Here I was in the cozy womb of my wooded college campus, among the people I considered my best of the best, and I was being asked to leave. Graduate. Pack up. Move on. I had spent four years laughing and discovering and growing and falling over stupid and accomplishing and throwing up from too much vodka from plastic containers and hiding in nooks of shadows of trees and gazing at stars and writing papers all night and pretending to tap dance down brick pathways and grieving and stumbling into new selves and former selves all while thinking “what is the self?”
For some people, college is this obligatory stamp on their path. Four years (or maybe five) of requirements and probably too many parties and maybe the place where you met the person you married. Or maybe you busted your ass to get through, working full-time just to get the degree. This piece of paper that is supposed to somehow transform us. Make us more hire-able. Better employees.
But for others, college is this space of discovery. A chance to pause the rest of the world and completely absorb yourself in your own years of 18-22. It’s like four years of padded walls and access to all the fingerpaint you could ever want. Oh and Cookie Crisp. And chicken fingers. And the goal is to still come our hire-able and a better employee. But maybe with some deeper, more philosophical thoughts on hand.
That’s how I remember college. A journey. A road. A space of discovery. A chance to figure out me. Who I was and why I cared. And why anyone else might ever want to, too.
I remember asking myself questions I’d never thought to ask before. I remember trying to catch it all—all the things that were happening in my brain and in my ears and in my knees and in my eyes. Trying to cram it all into my heart and my brain and my memory banks; horrified someone might steal this slice of life I’d stumbled across. That I’d lose access.
I remember all the tragically sad things that happened and how I thought there was no way my heart could ever find its pieces again. And then finding those pieces, and emerging a bit more hardened and perhaps more wise.
I remember laughing so hard I thought I’d die. And reciting movies from heart. And meeting women who changed my life—strong, courageous, hilarious women who taught me how to be a woman. How to fight for myself. How to love myself. My girls.
I look up at the windows that face the lawn of commencement. I think how many mornings I’ve woken up facing this lawn. How many mornings I’ve been here. With the sun on my face. And all the things that have happened between all those sunrises.
This is home. For nine years I’ve called this place home. After being out in the real world for a few years, I came back to work here. As a grown-up. As an adult. But I feel like one of the lucky ones, because I know what happens here. I know how it feels. I’ve felt it in my heart and in my hands and I’ve danced with it at night and I’ve rolled around with it in the rain. I’ve tasted it on my tongue and I’ve taken it out on walks. It’s not something anyone can ever put a thumb on and almost everyone tries to name it. Each year a new student commencement speaker has the enormous task of trying to find words that describe this thing that happens here. And I watch her catch her breath. And it is there in her voice. This thing we all know about. This thing we cannot name.
There are days when I question why I ever came back to work here—this charming alma mater of mine. Like anywhere, we have our own fair share of the dramas. And I hear the others whine and moan and talk quietly behind closed doors. Perhaps they don’t know. But I do. I know what happens here. And I remember. And those moments remind me why I’m here.
As I listen to the names, one after another, I look up to the window where I spent my freshman year. And my eyes wander over to the window where I spent my junior year. And I smirk because I know things about these walls. And I look out at the lawn. And I’m feeling old, but happy. Missing my girls. Knowing they'd be sitting right here next to me, in something terribly chic, clapping for people they don't know. Because we know how it feels. We know what happens here.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Snow Day
On Thursday afternoon I was making so much fun of my beloved state of Maryland. Everyone and their mother was frantically rushing about town, grabbing at the picked over shelves of bread, peanut butter, and eggs. I myself found my way to Target in the middle of this apocalyptic trial run; I joined my fellow Americans and bought bread, butter, milk, and eggs. I also bought 3 liters of wine, but that probably goes without saying. I stood in line at Target watching families pile on weeks worth of food, toys, and cleaning supplies wondering to myself if we’d even get this snow storm that we’d been threatened with. How many times do we panic for nothing? And why on earth is the person in front of me buying two jugs of Clorox, borax, laundry detergent, AND fabric softener. Apparently she had BIG plans for the snow storm. Made me feel almost guilty buying only butter, eggs, dog food, birthday cards, and my weakness: USWeekly. I clearly had plans for a much less clean and more shallow snow day.
Well, foot meet mouth. The snow started falling on Friday night and by the time I woke up on Saturday I felt like I had accidentally boarded a cruise to Alaska in my sleep. Not so much a snow day—a snow week. As the inches kept piling on, I was quite proud that I’d actually remembered to hit up Target before the storm hit (and really happy I’d picked up those big, fat bottles of vino). So, 30 inches of snow later my only regret was not buying the Charles Wysocki jigsaw puzzle (note: if you don’t know about these puzzles, look them up. I’m obsessed.)
Yesterday, as my roommate was recovering from shoveling our cars out (because lord knows I don't shovel snow), I said: I'm thankful for the snow. This sent her into near hysterics because it was so out of the blue and clearly said from the comfort of my sweatpants and wool socks. While she was aching from head to toe from moving literally 2-3 tons of snow off of our vehicles, I'm sitting there happily contemplating the joys in life in my elastic-waisted post-chardonnay-blasted haze. But I am. I'm thankful for it. I needed the time to relax. I think we got 30” of snow because God knew I needed to stay in bed all weekend, curled up under the blankets, snuggled with the dog (who really only snuggles with me in hopes that I’ll drop a graham cracker…not that I eat graham crackers in bed…or, rather, not that I’m proud that I sometimes eat graham crackers in bed).
And what is it about snow falling that makes me so insatiably hungry? And not hungry for things like brussel sprouts or salad. OH NO. I’m talking about cinnamon rolls and cookies and rice krispy treats. I’m talking about nachos and buffalo chicken and pizza. I want cream sauces and things smothered in cheese. And if the snow means you can’t go to the store to buy these things—you get inventive. You stand in your pantry for thirty minutes trying to figure out how something you have in your cabinet will somehow magically become the one thing you’re craving from your favorite restaurant. You use flour and sugar and eggs to make things from scratch—SHOCK! NOT FROM A BOX! The kind of inventive that means I’ve run the dishwasher twice today because I’ve been using so many pots, pans, dishes, and appliances.
It’s like an evil, cruel, unwritten law that comes with snow. And we got so much snow, that it seems that I have to eat in similar proportions. Last week it snowed and we got 2-3 inches and I made a whole batch of chocolate chip cookies just for me. As in, I was home alone. I ate at least 7 of them before I decided I’d surely die of diet-induced diabetes in my sleep if I didn’t back away slowly and eat a piece of celery. So it seems only natural that I’ve been making all kinds of concoctions this weekend and eating my body weight in sugar and butter. Which, for the record, is a lot of sugar and butter.
Nothing like a snow storm to bring out your inner 1950’s housewife. Don’t hate me yet, feminists. I DO know how amazing it feels to put on those power heels, a high-waisted pencil skirt, a string of pearls and walk down some shiny hallway with authority and that distinctive “click-clack” of a woman in charge, but I can’t help but love the feeling of standing over a stove and making something delicious from plain old ingredients. Like, please forgive me Women’s Movement, but sometimes I think we really got ahead of ourselves with this whole anti-domesticity movement. I’d take a day at home in my slippers with a Le Creuset dutch oven over a high-brow power meeting any day. Hell, I’d even give up being able to vote a time or two if you bought me a new standing Kitchenaid Mixer (but only if it’s the professional series in a stainless steel finish…I’ve got SOME standards, people). Please, don’t tell the suffragists.
So, obviously my favorite part about my snow weekend is the freedom it gives me to do whatever I want. Like right now, I’m sitting in a sea of cookbooks, trying to put to memory the unfailing albeit persnickety rules of Béchamel sauce. This is a beautiful, simple cream sauce. It consists of four ingredients: milk, flour, butter, and salt. There are three rules that ensure a perfect Béchamel. First, never allow the flour to burn (which requires keeping the butter from browning). Second, add the milk to the flour and butter gradually, and off heat to keep it from forming lumps. Third, never stop stirring until the sauce is formed. If only we could discover three basic rules to everything—three basic rules that would ensure happiness and a perfect ending. Maybe that’s why I love cooking so much. With a little thought, and a lot of heart, you can make amazing things happen with the simplest of ingredients. Recipe for life, anyone?
So, friends, enjoy the snow. Take the time to read a good book, bake a batch of cookies, and eat 8,000 extra calories. Unless you're one of those jerks that DOESN'T live in the mid-atlantic and you're lounging in 70 degree weather on a beach somewhere. PS-If this is you, I hate you. Because I hear we’ve got another storm headed our way. Could be another foot or two of snow. I should perhaps make a trek to the grocery store today to ensure my early on-set heart disease. We're down to only 6 sticks of butter.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Landing
Sometimes you just can’t sleep. Sometimes you feel things you just can’t explain. Sometimes you are so overtaken by emotions that you can’t quite pinpoint why you’re feeling so uncomfortable in your own skin. You find your eyes are welling up with tears at the simplest thing; crying for no real good reason.
I’m having one of those days today. Today I woke up feeling like I wasn’t supposed to be here today; like I should be somewhere else.
I can’t help but feel like my heart is burning a bit, missing Africa.
A journal entry from January, 2005:
After a grueling plane ride, we land. It’s like any other landing—they give the same speech, some protocol—I could be in New York, London, or Los Angeles. It’s not until I step outside that I realize: Shit, this is Africa. Kotoka International Airport, Accra, Ghana.
The heat immediately seeps into my skin, an abrupt change from the cold, artificial air my body had gotten used to for the last ten hours. I breathe in the air. I smell the faint scent of burning and a strong smell of earth; a smell I’ve come to love and know as Ghana. Sometimes it seems like the earth itself is sweating from the heat; a sweet, dark odor seeping from the pores of the red clay. It wraps around you quickly and quietly.
After stepping onto the tarmac, we walk a short distance to the terminal—a large concrete building. The building has been painted, Akwaaba, “welcome”. Just inside the doorway, people rest on mats in the hallway. Flying for this many hours always confuses my body; I have no idea what time it is or how long these people have been waiting for our flight to arrive. There seem to be people lingering everywhere. The airport is a good place to wait. Outside the front doors, people stand in large groups waiting to see who arrives. Families gather in anticipation; young, hopeful men stand around in hopes that someone will hire them to transport luggage or drive a taxi.
But indoors, the air seems stagnant and hot. There are bags stacked everywhere. A barely rotating luggage belt clanks around awkwardly, as bags pour in through the open hole that leads directly outside. Large metal carts rapidly move around and fill up by locals and Ghanaian-Americans who seem to know exactly what to do. There are very few signs and even less machines—no computers, no digitized screens, no moving walkways. If this weren't my third time here, I'd be lost. In America, this would be chaos. Here, it seems strangely under control. Calm, even.
The first time I came here, I didn’t know what to expect. I stepped off those steps, felt that heat hit my skin for the first time, and walked into the unknown—a whirlwind month of my early college years. I spent three weeks wandering West Africa with my eyes wide open, trying my damndest to absorb everything in sight. I attempted, feebly, to process what I was hearing and feeling with every ounce of myself. To look at everything with as many lenses as I had the capacity—to do my best to simply participate and observe.
I’ve learned, over the years, just how hard this is to do—to simply blend into the background, participate and observe. I was naïve to think it would be so easy, that I could just show up in West Africa and not be seen by everyone as a white, American obroni college student. Besides, our western brains are highly skilled to pick out imperfections. We’re well-trained in cynicism, sarcasm, and despair. It has taken me many years to begin to quiet those thoughts—to push them to the side—so that I can truly hear the music. So that I can really dance. So that I can be okay with darkness.
And here I am back again, landing in this beautiful land and preparing myself for a new adventure—a new learning curve. I’m so happy to be back. As soon as the dusty smoky heat hits my nostrils I can feel it. That it that changed my life two years ago. That it that has left me dumbfounded, heartbroken, and filled to the brim with curiosity, joy, and light. That it that has made everyone I know who doesn’t know Africa hate me for loving this place so much.
We’re met on the other end of the terminal by my dear friend Christine. I can hear her laughter as soon as I come through customs. She cries out with joy, as if in pain, and releases the most excruciatingly beautiful smile that no one could possibly stay upset or angry in her presence. The hug that follows this grin is even more joyful and suddenly the hours and hours on an airplane are non-existent. The heat is beginning to set into my bones and I’m so excited to be here—to be home. She squeezes me tight and says, “Welcome home, junior sister”, and lets out an outrageous cackle that lets me know she sincerely means it. I feel like I can’t contain my words; I ramble in circles asking how everyone is doing, checking in on her love life, her family’s health, etc.
There is a distinct feeling I get when I travel to a place that feels like home. Everywhere I walk, I hear the local greeting: “You are welcome.” This time, I feel that in the deepest of places.
I’m having one of those days today. Today I woke up feeling like I wasn’t supposed to be here today; like I should be somewhere else.
I can’t help but feel like my heart is burning a bit, missing Africa.
A journal entry from January, 2005:
After a grueling plane ride, we land. It’s like any other landing—they give the same speech, some protocol—I could be in New York, London, or Los Angeles. It’s not until I step outside that I realize: Shit, this is Africa. Kotoka International Airport, Accra, Ghana.
The heat immediately seeps into my skin, an abrupt change from the cold, artificial air my body had gotten used to for the last ten hours. I breathe in the air. I smell the faint scent of burning and a strong smell of earth; a smell I’ve come to love and know as Ghana. Sometimes it seems like the earth itself is sweating from the heat; a sweet, dark odor seeping from the pores of the red clay. It wraps around you quickly and quietly.
After stepping onto the tarmac, we walk a short distance to the terminal—a large concrete building. The building has been painted, Akwaaba, “welcome”. Just inside the doorway, people rest on mats in the hallway. Flying for this many hours always confuses my body; I have no idea what time it is or how long these people have been waiting for our flight to arrive. There seem to be people lingering everywhere. The airport is a good place to wait. Outside the front doors, people stand in large groups waiting to see who arrives. Families gather in anticipation; young, hopeful men stand around in hopes that someone will hire them to transport luggage or drive a taxi.
But indoors, the air seems stagnant and hot. There are bags stacked everywhere. A barely rotating luggage belt clanks around awkwardly, as bags pour in through the open hole that leads directly outside. Large metal carts rapidly move around and fill up by locals and Ghanaian-Americans who seem to know exactly what to do. There are very few signs and even less machines—no computers, no digitized screens, no moving walkways. If this weren't my third time here, I'd be lost. In America, this would be chaos. Here, it seems strangely under control. Calm, even.
The first time I came here, I didn’t know what to expect. I stepped off those steps, felt that heat hit my skin for the first time, and walked into the unknown—a whirlwind month of my early college years. I spent three weeks wandering West Africa with my eyes wide open, trying my damndest to absorb everything in sight. I attempted, feebly, to process what I was hearing and feeling with every ounce of myself. To look at everything with as many lenses as I had the capacity—to do my best to simply participate and observe.
I’ve learned, over the years, just how hard this is to do—to simply blend into the background, participate and observe. I was naïve to think it would be so easy, that I could just show up in West Africa and not be seen by everyone as a white, American obroni college student. Besides, our western brains are highly skilled to pick out imperfections. We’re well-trained in cynicism, sarcasm, and despair. It has taken me many years to begin to quiet those thoughts—to push them to the side—so that I can truly hear the music. So that I can really dance. So that I can be okay with darkness.
And here I am back again, landing in this beautiful land and preparing myself for a new adventure—a new learning curve. I’m so happy to be back. As soon as the dusty smoky heat hits my nostrils I can feel it. That it that changed my life two years ago. That it that has left me dumbfounded, heartbroken, and filled to the brim with curiosity, joy, and light. That it that has made everyone I know who doesn’t know Africa hate me for loving this place so much.
We’re met on the other end of the terminal by my dear friend Christine. I can hear her laughter as soon as I come through customs. She cries out with joy, as if in pain, and releases the most excruciatingly beautiful smile that no one could possibly stay upset or angry in her presence. The hug that follows this grin is even more joyful and suddenly the hours and hours on an airplane are non-existent. The heat is beginning to set into my bones and I’m so excited to be here—to be home. She squeezes me tight and says, “Welcome home, junior sister”, and lets out an outrageous cackle that lets me know she sincerely means it. I feel like I can’t contain my words; I ramble in circles asking how everyone is doing, checking in on her love life, her family’s health, etc.
There is a distinct feeling I get when I travel to a place that feels like home. Everywhere I walk, I hear the local greeting: “You are welcome.” This time, I feel that in the deepest of places.
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