Saturday morning I could not fight my normal urge to catch an extra fifteen or so minutes of sleep; even though it was 6 a.m. and still dark outside. Bumbling around in the dark, using the flashlight on my cell phone as a guide I prepared for the first volleyball practice at my school. I was reminded of how many early mornings of my life have been spent getting ready for such practices.
I have been telling myself for weeks that I am going to start running each morning. When that never happened, I said, OK well how about yoga? I did that for two days. The lack of exercise is becoming noticeable. Not because I am gaining weight, but rather when I exert myself in the slightest I can feel in my muscles this dormant like state rebelling against me as they never would have in the past.
I bike to school and arrive a little after 6:30, practice starts at 7, but I want to have time to put up the net. The surveillant at the school, who is in charge of the soccer team, has agreed to meet me, but there is a miscommunication. He was at the school, but insisted that we take a run up the mountain, which is something he does with the director every Saturday (I have joined twice before). Apparently when I agreed to come early, this was why. I told him that I wanted to be ready when the girls arrived. Oh we will be done by 7:15 or so. I don't know how many laps I have run as a player and given as a coach for being late, let alone 15 minutes. I don't have much of a choice and so I go on the run.
When we get back the girls are waiting and we make our way to the volleyball court with two balls and the net. One ball I found the day before as I was leaving the tailors. I was shocked to have found it and bought it even though I know the guy asked way too much for it. After seeing the school's volleyball I had no other choice, that is the second volleyball.
I am running behind my planned out practice and opt to forgo putting up the net. We are going to be doing introductory stuff with passing mostly, so the net won't be necessary. I run five laps around the court with the girls. And by court, I mean what I guessed to be the parameters. The court is not sand, not pavement, just regular terrain, with some boulders and dried out grass patches--a breeding ground for injuries. There are two giant wooden poles stuck in the ground where you hang the net. I know that diving is not going to be a safe option, and my girls are going to have to learn to be fast.
I have the girls circle up, but of course I don't know the French phrase for this, so I just sort of point and tell girls where to stand. I go to stretch the arms first and quickly realize how foreign all of this is to these girls. They just giggle uncomfortably. I forgo trying to have them count outloud like we do in the States. The rest of the practice is spent learning passing form, some setting, and a little bit of hitting (just going through the motions).
It is difficult at first to get the girls to have a wide enough stance when they pass--many look pigeon toed. I keep asking them if that is comfortable and how they can't move like that. They laugh, but then next thing I turn around and a different girl is doing it. I don't have to tell to many of them to keep their butts down, and they laugh when I make reference to the "Yo-Yo-Yo" song, which has a video of cartoon women shaking their huge butts. I try to explain to them that you have to call for the ball. I teach them 'mine' after they fail to say anything in French. They start calling the ball, but when it isn't near them. They think they should yell mine if they want the ball. Finally, my sister comes in and explains in Biali, which helps. The only major breakthrough I finally have at the end is to tell them to stand like they are washing clothes, which is normally with a wide stance.
I go to setting, which is not exactly my strong point. I try to teach the way I learned, holding a paint bucket, make a small window parrallel to your forehead. They do the up and down motion with their legs and arms well enough, but when we start a few insist on swatting the ball downward. I demonstrate that way doesn't work, but this one girl can't help herself.
I show them a little bit of serving and then toss the solo ball we have up for each of them to hit. I have a feeling serving will be easy for girls who spend their days mashing up food with giant wooden sticks and have way better arm muscles than I ever have.
In the end I feel bad. I think the practice was flat and I am discouraged because we just have one ball, my volleyball terminology is limited in French, and I am worried the girls did not enjoy it, although they say the do. I realize that part of my problem is I am American and I have this mentality with volleyball that everything must be done exactly right. I have realized though that all these girls, save one, have never seen volleyball played, let alone played it. For that matter some have never played a sport. I have decided what I need to do is create a volleyball team like my classes, where the practices are fun and engaging, and patients is key.
On Sunday morning I wake up early, but not to run. I wake up because my legs are extremely sore from the day before. I can't believe I used to play volleyball everyday and sometimes all day. My sister and her friend later tell me how sore their legs are too. They are in a pain, but not in a "I never want to do it again," but proud of the reason behind it.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
I Know Better, But its not Beninese
It is 7 o’clock on my Friday evening, and I am pausing to tell you about the time I was schooled in how to take care of my dog, who is now currently sitting in my lap shivering, wrapped up in my panya (a two meter piece of fabric).
First let me just say I know how to take care of a dog. Or at least I think I do. I grew up with no fewer than three dogs in my house at one time, so you’d think I’d have a clue.
I have had my dog since he was born more or less. My neighbor has a dog and she was pregnant when I got here. In October she had six puppies. Beaugard (that’s my dog) was the first one I held. I claimed him as mine early on. He was one of the best looking ones and he wasn’t a female—I don’t want little Beaugards running around.
I started trying to potty train him early on; yelling NO a lot at him when he tried to pee everywhere. I learned to take him out immediately after he woke up and show him designated urinating and poo-ing areas, which are actually the same places where some humans can be found defecating on market day—yay! Since this process has begun he has peed and poo-ed in the house only once. Once he did pee on me in my bed, but that was my own fault—he’d been crying to get down more or less for an hour and I was too tired to get up.
My friend Ashley called me recently and she laughed at me. I told her having this puppy was like having a baby, and I was certainly going to be thinking extra hard when I decided I wanted to have a kid.
When he was a month or so old I tried to have him sleep in my house with me. He cried so much and I grew impatient. I put him back with the other puppies and resumed my restful sleep. A week later though I tried again, and now he sleeps most of the night nestled under my armpit sleeping. And on most days he continues to sleep until I make him get up so I can go to school.
The other day my sister told the boutique owner my dog sleeps with me in my bed. The guy shook his head and said that was no good. He also said naming my dog handsome guardian was also no good—he’s just a dog after all.
Dogs here, well they roam freely. I was convinced that it was built into Beaugard’s genes this need to sortir (to go out). When he was still very little though we had a series of dog nappings, and so I resorted to keeping him on a leash all the time, and walked him twice a day so he’d get his exercise. Then my Maman returned from being away for two weeks and told me to let him run free. He is too big to be tied up she said.
So for a week or so I allowed little Beaugard to roam free, but I began to worry. First of all, he took it upon himself to become friends with the meat vendors near my house, who frequently hit dogs. Secondly, one day he decided he wanted to try and follow me to school. I remember turning back every few seconds, seeing his little ears flapping in the wind, and he was running with all his heart. He made it half way before a little girl started chasing him and he went back home. A couple weeks later though, a little bigger, he attempted to follow me again, this time he was met with success. There is no tricking him either, he knows when I am leaving and will come out of no where to join me. So now I keep him tied out on my porch while I am at school. He cries so much when I leave, it breaks my heart.
Meanwhile my mother has been getting a chronicle of Beaugard’s life and urging me to keep him tied up more. I know this, but I also know the Beninese way with dogs, and how nuts they think I am with him already.
So today he has been tied up most of the day, like most days this week, but he keeps crying. Maybe he needs to go the bathroom, so I let him out. Of course when I do this, this is when the vet arrives, and I have to spend five minutes asking everyone where Beaugard went.
After capturing Beaugard, the vet looks over him, and hands him to me. You must wash him twice a week; he is too dirty. Also he can’t be running around like this. I say to him about how I know this, but everyone always tells me to let him run free. He shakes his head, and I know we both get that these people know very little about decent pet care. He doesn’t let this be an excuse. I feel so embarrassed.
After he left I promptly took Beaugard into my showering area and gave him a bath. He now smells like Chamomile and refuses to leave the warmth of my lap. I guess he is going to have to learn to be an American living in a Beninese world, just like me.
First let me just say I know how to take care of a dog. Or at least I think I do. I grew up with no fewer than three dogs in my house at one time, so you’d think I’d have a clue.
I have had my dog since he was born more or less. My neighbor has a dog and she was pregnant when I got here. In October she had six puppies. Beaugard (that’s my dog) was the first one I held. I claimed him as mine early on. He was one of the best looking ones and he wasn’t a female—I don’t want little Beaugards running around.
I started trying to potty train him early on; yelling NO a lot at him when he tried to pee everywhere. I learned to take him out immediately after he woke up and show him designated urinating and poo-ing areas, which are actually the same places where some humans can be found defecating on market day—yay! Since this process has begun he has peed and poo-ed in the house only once. Once he did pee on me in my bed, but that was my own fault—he’d been crying to get down more or less for an hour and I was too tired to get up.
My friend Ashley called me recently and she laughed at me. I told her having this puppy was like having a baby, and I was certainly going to be thinking extra hard when I decided I wanted to have a kid.
When he was a month or so old I tried to have him sleep in my house with me. He cried so much and I grew impatient. I put him back with the other puppies and resumed my restful sleep. A week later though I tried again, and now he sleeps most of the night nestled under my armpit sleeping. And on most days he continues to sleep until I make him get up so I can go to school.
The other day my sister told the boutique owner my dog sleeps with me in my bed. The guy shook his head and said that was no good. He also said naming my dog handsome guardian was also no good—he’s just a dog after all.
Dogs here, well they roam freely. I was convinced that it was built into Beaugard’s genes this need to sortir (to go out). When he was still very little though we had a series of dog nappings, and so I resorted to keeping him on a leash all the time, and walked him twice a day so he’d get his exercise. Then my Maman returned from being away for two weeks and told me to let him run free. He is too big to be tied up she said.
So for a week or so I allowed little Beaugard to roam free, but I began to worry. First of all, he took it upon himself to become friends with the meat vendors near my house, who frequently hit dogs. Secondly, one day he decided he wanted to try and follow me to school. I remember turning back every few seconds, seeing his little ears flapping in the wind, and he was running with all his heart. He made it half way before a little girl started chasing him and he went back home. A couple weeks later though, a little bigger, he attempted to follow me again, this time he was met with success. There is no tricking him either, he knows when I am leaving and will come out of no where to join me. So now I keep him tied out on my porch while I am at school. He cries so much when I leave, it breaks my heart.
Meanwhile my mother has been getting a chronicle of Beaugard’s life and urging me to keep him tied up more. I know this, but I also know the Beninese way with dogs, and how nuts they think I am with him already.
So today he has been tied up most of the day, like most days this week, but he keeps crying. Maybe he needs to go the bathroom, so I let him out. Of course when I do this, this is when the vet arrives, and I have to spend five minutes asking everyone where Beaugard went.
After capturing Beaugard, the vet looks over him, and hands him to me. You must wash him twice a week; he is too dirty. Also he can’t be running around like this. I say to him about how I know this, but everyone always tells me to let him run free. He shakes his head, and I know we both get that these people know very little about decent pet care. He doesn’t let this be an excuse. I feel so embarrassed.
After he left I promptly took Beaugard into my showering area and gave him a bath. He now smells like Chamomile and refuses to leave the warmth of my lap. I guess he is going to have to learn to be an American living in a Beninese world, just like me.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
24
For the second time in a row I actually felt like I had in fact aged a full year on my birthday. The first time it happened it was my 22nd birthday. I was working at National Geographic at the time, and I remember I went to the bathroom a little after lunch, and after washing my hands I just stared at myself in the mirror. And thought: “I no longer feel like I am constantly trying to catch my feelings up with my actual age.
I did not have a mirror this year it is more or less a feeling. It would be easy to say that I felt older because I was living in Africa, but I don’t think that is it entirely. The last couple days, having finished reading The Pilgrimage by Paulo Coelho and Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, along with the New Year I find myself edging towards a new way of thinking.
Maybe it started with my New Year’s Resolution—wear sunscreen on my face. I have been in Africa for almost six months and prior to Christmas I had applied sunscreen once, I think. I admit I could see the irony and amusement if later in life I developed skin cancer and that it was linked to trying to save the world in Africa.
I made this resolution out of vanity. Although I have been told many times before that too much sun makes ones face resemble a leather bag some sort of aging gene kicked in one day in early December when I was reading an article about being in your 20s and being sure to taking care of your skin as if you were in your 30s or 40s.
I think a lot about the future, always planning. I keep trying to plan for what will happen after my service (I am not even six months in yet), and I just keep changing my mind. I admit now that part of my reason for joining the Peace Corps was this desire to search for something I was passionate about.
And maybe it’s thinking about the future so much that makes me feel older, because I realize a changing set of priorities. For example, there was a time in my life when I said with conviction that I would not have kids and wasn’t going to get married. I thought I was so progressive with this thinking. But then something changed and now I have been quoted as wanting five children, adding the more kids you have the better chances you have that at least one of them will take care of you in your old age—I plan on living a long time.
I think feeling older has a little something to do with my actual physical state. I love Africa, but I can see it taking a toll on my body: My hair has been falling out more, I am told a combination of stress and the malaria medication I am on; I spent my Sunday morning scrubbing the cement floors of my house on my knees, I felt like Cinderella, and I know tomorrow I will be aching way more than I already do; I have lost some weight since being here, it has been gradually. I am by no means unhealthy, and after all these years of complaints my boobs finally have agreed to shrink first in the weight loss. My face is also thinner. I haven’t had my menstrual cycle in a few months, which I don’t want to complain to much about, and yes I am sure, very sure, I am not pregnant.
Birthdays aren’t a spectacle to me, but they do hold a special place. I admit I think I was more depressed on my birthday than on Christmas—narcissistic I know. This year I didn’t do anything special. I am not going to throw a full-out pity party for myself, because I could have done something more for my birthday. I chose not to. I woke up at a normal time, swept my house, dressed for school. I taught my two classes, and didn’t even tell the first one it was my birthday. I told my second one, and they all lit up. They lit up even more when I let them say hello to my mother on the phone. I put her on speaker phone, and I could see how proud they were to be able to talk to her in English, even if it was just “Good morning, how are you?”
After classes I went to the market and bought a bunch of new cooking dishes, which were much needed. I always feel so content and full of joy when I buy things that I know are going to make things more “American” feeling here. I worry what might happen if I run out of things to buy and ways to improve my house.
I had a meeting in the evening, no one showed up, so I took two hours to lesson plan. I of course received phone calls from my family and friends—and I didn’t mind that a few of them required me to wake up at 2:30.
On Friday I did bake myself a chocolate cake with the help of my sister. After dinner we put in the 24 candles my mom sent from the States, and they sang happy birthday to me, in French of course. I actually blew out the candles twice, because my brother really wanted to get the picture of me blowing the candles out—he missed the first time around. The funny thing is even blowing the candles out twice I forgot to make a birthday wish.
Tomorrow, as I have told myself for the last few days, I am going to get up early and start practicing yoga. I did yoga in high school, because my mom told me to, and I didn’t really get it. I told my mom I want to try it again—it is too hot here and the air is to dry for me to realistically keep up with running. I told her I think maybe wanting to do yoga is a sign my spirit is calming down or something—another sure sign that I am getting older, perhaps maybe even wiser.
I did not have a mirror this year it is more or less a feeling. It would be easy to say that I felt older because I was living in Africa, but I don’t think that is it entirely. The last couple days, having finished reading The Pilgrimage by Paulo Coelho and Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, along with the New Year I find myself edging towards a new way of thinking.
Maybe it started with my New Year’s Resolution—wear sunscreen on my face. I have been in Africa for almost six months and prior to Christmas I had applied sunscreen once, I think. I admit I could see the irony and amusement if later in life I developed skin cancer and that it was linked to trying to save the world in Africa.
I made this resolution out of vanity. Although I have been told many times before that too much sun makes ones face resemble a leather bag some sort of aging gene kicked in one day in early December when I was reading an article about being in your 20s and being sure to taking care of your skin as if you were in your 30s or 40s.
I think a lot about the future, always planning. I keep trying to plan for what will happen after my service (I am not even six months in yet), and I just keep changing my mind. I admit now that part of my reason for joining the Peace Corps was this desire to search for something I was passionate about.
And maybe it’s thinking about the future so much that makes me feel older, because I realize a changing set of priorities. For example, there was a time in my life when I said with conviction that I would not have kids and wasn’t going to get married. I thought I was so progressive with this thinking. But then something changed and now I have been quoted as wanting five children, adding the more kids you have the better chances you have that at least one of them will take care of you in your old age—I plan on living a long time.
I think feeling older has a little something to do with my actual physical state. I love Africa, but I can see it taking a toll on my body: My hair has been falling out more, I am told a combination of stress and the malaria medication I am on; I spent my Sunday morning scrubbing the cement floors of my house on my knees, I felt like Cinderella, and I know tomorrow I will be aching way more than I already do; I have lost some weight since being here, it has been gradually. I am by no means unhealthy, and after all these years of complaints my boobs finally have agreed to shrink first in the weight loss. My face is also thinner. I haven’t had my menstrual cycle in a few months, which I don’t want to complain to much about, and yes I am sure, very sure, I am not pregnant.
Birthdays aren’t a spectacle to me, but they do hold a special place. I admit I think I was more depressed on my birthday than on Christmas—narcissistic I know. This year I didn’t do anything special. I am not going to throw a full-out pity party for myself, because I could have done something more for my birthday. I chose not to. I woke up at a normal time, swept my house, dressed for school. I taught my two classes, and didn’t even tell the first one it was my birthday. I told my second one, and they all lit up. They lit up even more when I let them say hello to my mother on the phone. I put her on speaker phone, and I could see how proud they were to be able to talk to her in English, even if it was just “Good morning, how are you?”
After classes I went to the market and bought a bunch of new cooking dishes, which were much needed. I always feel so content and full of joy when I buy things that I know are going to make things more “American” feeling here. I worry what might happen if I run out of things to buy and ways to improve my house.
I had a meeting in the evening, no one showed up, so I took two hours to lesson plan. I of course received phone calls from my family and friends—and I didn’t mind that a few of them required me to wake up at 2:30.
On Friday I did bake myself a chocolate cake with the help of my sister. After dinner we put in the 24 candles my mom sent from the States, and they sang happy birthday to me, in French of course. I actually blew out the candles twice, because my brother really wanted to get the picture of me blowing the candles out—he missed the first time around. The funny thing is even blowing the candles out twice I forgot to make a birthday wish.
Tomorrow, as I have told myself for the last few days, I am going to get up early and start practicing yoga. I did yoga in high school, because my mom told me to, and I didn’t really get it. I told my mom I want to try it again—it is too hot here and the air is to dry for me to realistically keep up with running. I told her I think maybe wanting to do yoga is a sign my spirit is calming down or something—another sure sign that I am getting older, perhaps maybe even wiser.
Monday, January 4, 2010
The Honeymoon Is Over
Today I had to spend some time making amends.
I am not sure why, but I really thought I could spend the next two years trying to live in perfect harmony and not making any missteps.
My first problem started with my sister (see Sisterhood). That eventually mended itself with time. She even bought me a cool bracelet for Christmas and went with me to find the doctor today. Things have appeared to reach a neutral ground. I love my sister, but I know her ways and am reminded often that she is still a child and not my equal necessarily.
While family matters pass with more ease, it is no big surprise that my other problems involve men.
A month ago in passing I told the owner of the boutique next to my house I would teach him how to use his computer. I offered to come that evening, but he was busy. I told him to let me know when would be good. I figured he’d forget or tell me in advance. The second thought just goes to show I still think like an American and not a Beninese person.
A week past and one day my little sister came by and said he asked if I could come help. It was almost 8:30 or 9 o’clock. I of course said I was busy, which I probably was, but also it was late, and I wasn’t going to drop everything right then and there. Two days later my other sister, came and asked if I could go help him. Again, no warning, and again I said no.
Christmas Eve, I had to buy credit in an emergency, because my friend’s taxi had broke down on the way to my village. In my panic, the man asked me why I hadn’t come to help him and said he was made at me. I was too stressed about my friends to get really angry, but I wasn’t so stressed out that I wasn’t super annoyed. My annoyance was topped off when he ask I come over on Christmas when there is electricity all day. I did not.
Last night I had a terrible stomach ache. I swear there was a demon in my belly, as only that much pain could be inflicted by a demon. In my agony, my sister calls me, and asks me to come over. I assumed she meant next door, which I thought was odd, as she could have easily just walked over. But no, later she called again, to explain to come to the boutique. On further questioning I realized once again I was being asked to help with the computer. Annoyed I said I was sick, and again I was reminded he was mad at me.
The problem is that the electricity is not always on, and it normally comes on after it gets dark, and I don’t want to be seen in a man’s boutique behind his counter working with him. People wouldn’t talk, but they would assume. Plus, I was slightly angry with him for harboring my sister a few weeks ago (again see Sisterhood).
I felt resolved to just never go to his boutique anymore, but he has good Sangria, and it is convenient to buy phone credit there. I then thought I could explain why I hadn’t come and helped him, and that I thought he had been quite rude and impatient. Neither of these solutions was realistic. No need to alienate someone for two years in my small village, where everyone knows everyone. So today after school I agreed that every Sunday for an hour I would come help him. He seemed happy by this, and I also know sometimes on Sunday we have electricity all day. The hour gives me time to do things before it gets dark.
The second injustice I have bestowed upon someone was not going to a dinner meeting. Once again the darkness causes problems for me. I assumed we would eat dinner early, and when my post-mate told me it be later it made me nervous. It is a hard job trying to keep up a saintly hood here. I planned on going, despite my fatigue and battling and ongoing sickness caused by the dry air and massive amounts of dust that exist here. Upon arrival at home though, I forgot I had promised to help my Maman print something at work, and she was leaving the next day. My Maman feeds me everyday, and it was for work, so of course I helped her.
Today I saw the professor (he is who I cancelled on). The Beninese have a way of being angry, without actually being angry. If you say hello to them, of course they say hello back, but they will try to sneak away without saluer-ing, which is only there favorite national pastime. This is what the professor did to me. I figured I’d let it lie, because I know he is moving soon. Of course a slave to not wanting people to dislike me I changed my mind. I explained to him I did not like going out at night, and I had also been sick—both true. He understood, and I told him I’d still like to come over, and we agreed on a lunch date on Friday. He seemed happy by this, and after I told him my birthday was on Thursday, he said it be a mini-birthday fete (party).
I am not sure why, but I really thought I could spend the next two years trying to live in perfect harmony and not making any missteps.
My first problem started with my sister (see Sisterhood). That eventually mended itself with time. She even bought me a cool bracelet for Christmas and went with me to find the doctor today. Things have appeared to reach a neutral ground. I love my sister, but I know her ways and am reminded often that she is still a child and not my equal necessarily.
While family matters pass with more ease, it is no big surprise that my other problems involve men.
A month ago in passing I told the owner of the boutique next to my house I would teach him how to use his computer. I offered to come that evening, but he was busy. I told him to let me know when would be good. I figured he’d forget or tell me in advance. The second thought just goes to show I still think like an American and not a Beninese person.
A week past and one day my little sister came by and said he asked if I could come help. It was almost 8:30 or 9 o’clock. I of course said I was busy, which I probably was, but also it was late, and I wasn’t going to drop everything right then and there. Two days later my other sister, came and asked if I could go help him. Again, no warning, and again I said no.
Christmas Eve, I had to buy credit in an emergency, because my friend’s taxi had broke down on the way to my village. In my panic, the man asked me why I hadn’t come to help him and said he was made at me. I was too stressed about my friends to get really angry, but I wasn’t so stressed out that I wasn’t super annoyed. My annoyance was topped off when he ask I come over on Christmas when there is electricity all day. I did not.
Last night I had a terrible stomach ache. I swear there was a demon in my belly, as only that much pain could be inflicted by a demon. In my agony, my sister calls me, and asks me to come over. I assumed she meant next door, which I thought was odd, as she could have easily just walked over. But no, later she called again, to explain to come to the boutique. On further questioning I realized once again I was being asked to help with the computer. Annoyed I said I was sick, and again I was reminded he was mad at me.
The problem is that the electricity is not always on, and it normally comes on after it gets dark, and I don’t want to be seen in a man’s boutique behind his counter working with him. People wouldn’t talk, but they would assume. Plus, I was slightly angry with him for harboring my sister a few weeks ago (again see Sisterhood).
I felt resolved to just never go to his boutique anymore, but he has good Sangria, and it is convenient to buy phone credit there. I then thought I could explain why I hadn’t come and helped him, and that I thought he had been quite rude and impatient. Neither of these solutions was realistic. No need to alienate someone for two years in my small village, where everyone knows everyone. So today after school I agreed that every Sunday for an hour I would come help him. He seemed happy by this, and I also know sometimes on Sunday we have electricity all day. The hour gives me time to do things before it gets dark.
The second injustice I have bestowed upon someone was not going to a dinner meeting. Once again the darkness causes problems for me. I assumed we would eat dinner early, and when my post-mate told me it be later it made me nervous. It is a hard job trying to keep up a saintly hood here. I planned on going, despite my fatigue and battling and ongoing sickness caused by the dry air and massive amounts of dust that exist here. Upon arrival at home though, I forgot I had promised to help my Maman print something at work, and she was leaving the next day. My Maman feeds me everyday, and it was for work, so of course I helped her.
Today I saw the professor (he is who I cancelled on). The Beninese have a way of being angry, without actually being angry. If you say hello to them, of course they say hello back, but they will try to sneak away without saluer-ing, which is only there favorite national pastime. This is what the professor did to me. I figured I’d let it lie, because I know he is moving soon. Of course a slave to not wanting people to dislike me I changed my mind. I explained to him I did not like going out at night, and I had also been sick—both true. He understood, and I told him I’d still like to come over, and we agreed on a lunch date on Friday. He seemed happy by this, and after I told him my birthday was on Thursday, he said it be a mini-birthday fete (party).
Case of Anxiousness
The sun was setting as I settled in to watch “Harry Potter” on my computer, winding down from a day of training, followed by my daily run. Lying underneath my mosquito net I heard my phone ringing over the sound of wizardry entering my ear drums via headphones.
When I receive calls from the United States
“Guess what?” she says.
I hope she isn’t about to toy with me; I hope her excitement is about my project and not something else, I think to myself, selfishly.
“I just searched your project online to text you update on how much is left to be raised and a notice came up saying the project is fully funded.”
Now I was sitting up, looking out the window at the fading sunlight and I just couldn’t believe it. Just last Friday there was $7,000 left to be raised. Surely this was not true, and when it turned out to be so, I just couldn’t believe I had actually done it. Well, I correct myself, that we had actually done it, because I certainly wasn’t working alone. I couldn’t believe that a little over $14,000 had been raised in a five month period.
The next few days after confirming the project was funded and telling people in my village the news, something other than total joy and happiness started creeping into my psyche. Anxiety …
I had been so focused on raising the money that it never occurred to me how I would feel when I actually started implementing the project. Oh god, I thought, people have entrusted me with $14,000!
I am as responsible as they come, and perhaps that is why I started worrying. I just knew I didn’t want to let anyone down. This project has to be completed as clear-cut and quickly as possible.
In a way it was like the fundraising process all over again—the stories and tales of volunteers biting off more than they could chew, and leaving without funding their project. Only this time, other voices came to mind—“I knew a volunteer whose school tried pocketing the money” and “You know you wouldn’t get it completed before six months.”
My brother made an astute observation during a Super Bowl a couple years back. One of the teams playing had gone the whole season undefeated, and for that reason many fans were not rooting for them. He said, “Why do people not want others to have success?”
It is a pattern I have noticed recently, this indirect, or in some cases direct way of putting out into the world that things just won’t work out. I fall into the trap from time to time, like the first two months of fundraising when I let the thought of failure remain a constant figure in the back of my mind.
Back then it was my own faith and that of my family that guided me through the negativity. Fortunately now it is my director, the accountant, and the contractor who give me confidence. They are all very competent and serious individuals, who only want what is best for the school. Like me they take full responsibility for the project, and while I and all of those who donated essentially did not want to let the school and village of Matéri
Case of Anxiousness
The sun was setting as I settled in to watch “Harry Potter” on my computer, winding down from a day of training, followed by my daily run. Lying underneath my mosquito net I heard my phone ringing over the sound of wizardry entering my ear drums via headphones.
When I receive calls from the United States
“Guess what?” she says.
I hope she isn’t about to toy with me; I hope her excitement is about my project and not something else, I think to myself, selfishly.
“I just searched your project online to text you update on how much is left to be raised and a notice came up saying the project is fully funded.”
Now I was sitting up, looking out the window at the fading sunlight and I just couldn’t believe it. Just last Friday there was $7,000 left to be raised. Surely this was not true, and when it turned out to be so, I just couldn’t believe I had actually done it. Well, I correct myself, that we had actually done it, because I certainly wasn’t working alone. I couldn’t believe that a little over $14,000 had been raised in a five month period.
The next few days after confirming the project was funded and telling people in my village the news, something other than total joy and happiness started creeping into my psyche. Anxiety …
I had been so focused on raising the money that it never occurred to me how I would feel when I actually started implementing the project. Oh god, I thought, people have entrusted me with $14,000!
I am as responsible as they come, and perhaps that is why I started worrying. I just knew I didn’t want to let anyone down. This project has to be completed as clear-cut and quickly as possible.
In a way it was like the fundraising process all over again—the stories and tales of volunteers biting off more than they could chew, and leaving without funding their project. Only this time, other voices came to mind—“I knew a volunteer whose school tried pocketing the money” and “You know you wouldn’t get it completed before six months.”
My brother made an astute observation during a Super Bowl a couple years back. One of the teams playing had gone the whole season undefeated, and for that reason many fans were not rooting for them. He said, “Why do people not want others to have success?”
It is a pattern I have noticed recently, this indirect, or in some cases direct way of putting out into the world that things just won’t work out. I fall into the trap from time to time, like the first two months of fundraising when I let the thought of failure remain a constant figure in the back of my mind.
Back then it was my own faith and that of my family that guided me through the negativity. Fortunately now it is my director, the accountant, and the contractor who give me confidence. They are all very competent and serious individuals, who only want what is best for the school. Like me they take full responsibility for the project, and while I and all of those who donated essentially did not want to let the school and village of Matéri
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Rare Moments
I know before I tell this story it may be a bore in comparison to lions and waterfalls, but it is one of those stories that you can relate to because it is life in its simplest form.
One of my favorite moments in life was when I was maybe 12 or 13. My family was going to Chincoteague for the day. We did not take week long beach vacations in my family growing up, and while my mother I think believes this is why I find the need to travel now—to make up for lost time—I don’t think I’d want my childhood to be any different. Instead my family on occasion went to the beach for the day, occasionally camping somewhere overnight. So as we were driving to Chincoteague we were listening to Bob Marley’s Greatest Hits. And my favorite song, Buffalo Soldier came on, and me and my brothers sang the whole song together, with the windows down and the warm air blowing on our face. We all laughed afterward and it is a moment I have never forgotten. And try as I might with other songs, I have never been able to recapture that moment in quite the same way ever again.
Two nights ago as I sat with my sister playing cards, Presca was near by. I don’t normally call Presca my sister, and really calling her anything but her name would not be appropriate. Presca is not related to the family, and she has a cool if not slightly dangerous spirit. She knows enough to know she should be more apprehensive, but she is immature enough to not really try. She sings to herself, and has a giggle that is menacing to say the least. She doesn’t speak much French even though she goes to school everyday, where they speak French. She talks back sometimes and in general she acts like the definition of a crazy person.
So we are playing card, when my sister tells me to look at Presca. She is holding a tiny mirror that broke off god-knows-who’s moto, and has a razor in her hand. She is shaving her head. Now the girls her all have to keep their heads shaved for school, so this isn’t the crazy part of it. The crazy part is the razor. As I look closer and the light hits it right you can see she has cut her scalp. I cringe and I am worried for her. She could really hurt herself. When she sees my horrow, she of course laughs and keeps going. When my aunt comes in the concession she runs away. Like I said she knows enough sometimes to be worried of her actions. She returns and half her head is bald, and the parts that are shaved have chunks of hair attached. Finally a friend of the family comes in and rescues her.
Twenty minutes later, after applying medicine to her cuts, which give her white spots on her head, I still can’t help but laugh at Presca. Then Presca decides to take to mocking me when I yell at Beaugard. She assumes that hitting all animals is the best way to discipline, so my yelling no at Beaugard is of great amusement. Her impression is actually quite good, and I can’t help but laugh. All of us laugh, and I eventually take to mimicking Presca, who then mimics me making fun of her.
Like I said, I know this story isn’t amusing from an outsider, but it was one of those rare moments, like singing “Buffalo Soldier,” in the car with my brothers that could never be repeated. It is a moment that capsizes on the familiarity and bond you have with a group of people.
One of my favorite moments in life was when I was maybe 12 or 13. My family was going to Chincoteague for the day. We did not take week long beach vacations in my family growing up, and while my mother I think believes this is why I find the need to travel now—to make up for lost time—I don’t think I’d want my childhood to be any different. Instead my family on occasion went to the beach for the day, occasionally camping somewhere overnight. So as we were driving to Chincoteague we were listening to Bob Marley’s Greatest Hits. And my favorite song, Buffalo Soldier came on, and me and my brothers sang the whole song together, with the windows down and the warm air blowing on our face. We all laughed afterward and it is a moment I have never forgotten. And try as I might with other songs, I have never been able to recapture that moment in quite the same way ever again.
Two nights ago as I sat with my sister playing cards, Presca was near by. I don’t normally call Presca my sister, and really calling her anything but her name would not be appropriate. Presca is not related to the family, and she has a cool if not slightly dangerous spirit. She knows enough to know she should be more apprehensive, but she is immature enough to not really try. She sings to herself, and has a giggle that is menacing to say the least. She doesn’t speak much French even though she goes to school everyday, where they speak French. She talks back sometimes and in general she acts like the definition of a crazy person.
So we are playing card, when my sister tells me to look at Presca. She is holding a tiny mirror that broke off god-knows-who’s moto, and has a razor in her hand. She is shaving her head. Now the girls her all have to keep their heads shaved for school, so this isn’t the crazy part of it. The crazy part is the razor. As I look closer and the light hits it right you can see she has cut her scalp. I cringe and I am worried for her. She could really hurt herself. When she sees my horrow, she of course laughs and keeps going. When my aunt comes in the concession she runs away. Like I said she knows enough sometimes to be worried of her actions. She returns and half her head is bald, and the parts that are shaved have chunks of hair attached. Finally a friend of the family comes in and rescues her.
Twenty minutes later, after applying medicine to her cuts, which give her white spots on her head, I still can’t help but laugh at Presca. Then Presca decides to take to mocking me when I yell at Beaugard. She assumes that hitting all animals is the best way to discipline, so my yelling no at Beaugard is of great amusement. Her impression is actually quite good, and I can’t help but laugh. All of us laugh, and I eventually take to mimicking Presca, who then mimics me making fun of her.
Like I said, I know this story isn’t amusing from an outsider, but it was one of those rare moments, like singing “Buffalo Soldier,” in the car with my brothers that could never be repeated. It is a moment that capsizes on the familiarity and bond you have with a group of people.
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