I don't want to forget Africa. I know that I won't ever forget their faces and their stories and the way my heart would break with empathy. But, I am worried about the little things. The things that made Liberia Liberia. Made me laugh and wonder what kind of alternate universe I had stepped into. The things I had no choice but to embrace with open arms.
Already, I find myself answering questions verbally, as opposed to granting the questioner a slight head nod and raising of my eyebrows (which, I have concluded expends the absolute least amount of energy possible, and thus makes it the obvious choice for responding in Liberian heat). I no longer drop off the last two syllables of every word. I might actually go out of my way to enunciate when I speak, in attempts to be taken for an educated, respectable, professional North American. I havn't heard anyone "trying" or "trying small" in far too long.
I haven't been asked to hold or care for a stranger's newborn in over two weeks. The last three items I have purchased have been from a store where you make your selection from a shelf, as opposed to a wheel barrel, and there is no option for a discount if you allow the vendor to keep their "plastic". There are price tags attached to the items, which tell you how much you will end up paying, even before ten minutes of bartering. Mothers in North America apparently have first names and one is expected to refer to the woman by her given name, not "mama".
It is not acceptable to ignore any and all previous engagements due simply to the fact that "it is raining". ("Rain" is a perfectly acceptable excuse for missing appointments, meetings, surgery, etc. in Liberia. Good system.)
Sidewalks. Enough said. Where's the fun in that?
I am worried that I may never again see a 30-year-old man thoroughly enjoy colouring with crayons. Or a teenage girl carrying a large bundle of lumber on her head. Or that next time someone asks me to marry them, they might know my first and last name.
I miss pretending to care about football (soccer). I miss pretending to sell mangos from a basket on my head to the inhabitants of the ward. I miss hearing a stranger's life story while sitting in ridiculous traffic in a 7-berth cab. (I will note that I don't miss continually explaining that giving him my email address will most definitely not facilitate him coming to "America".)
I am refusing to forget what it felt like to live in a culture that truly loved. That truly valued relationships. That prayed without ceasing. Where the response to "How are you?" was "Thank God". Where patients prayed for the doctors and nurses. Where people who had never met made true sacrifice for one another.
I think I will make it my goal to be mistaken for an African someday. I'll let you know how that goes.
posted by Jenn on Africa, Rain
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I don't want to forget Africa. I know that I won't ever forget their faces and their stories and the way my heart would break with empathy. But, I am worried about the little things. The things that made Liberia Liberia. Made me laugh and wonder what kind of alternate universe I had stepped into. The things I had no choice but to embrace with open arms.
Already, I find myself answering questions verbally, as opposed to granting the questioner a slight head nod and raising of my eyebrows (which, I have concluded expends the absolute least amount of energy possible, and thus makes it the obvious choice for responding in Liberian heat). I no longer drop off the last two syllables of every word. I might actually go out of my way to enunciate when I speak, in attempts to be taken for an educated, respectable, professional North American. I havn't heard anyone "trying" or "trying small" in far too long.
I haven't been asked to hold or care for a stranger's newborn in over two weeks. The last three items I have purchased have been from a store where you make your selection from a shelf, as opposed to a wheel barrel, and there is no option for a discount if you allow the vendor to keep their "plastic". There are price tags attached to the items, which tell you how much you will end up paying, even before ten minutes of bartering. Mothers in North America apparently have first names and one is expected to refer to the woman by her given name, not "mama".
It is not acceptable to ignore any and all previous engagements due simply to the fact that "it is raining". ("Rain" is a perfectly acceptable excuse for missing appointments, meetings, surgery, etc. in Liberia. Good system.)
Sidewalks. Enough said. Where's the fun in that?
I am worried that I may never again see a 30-year-old man thoroughly enjoy colouring with crayons. Or a teenage girl carrying a large bundle of lumber on her head. Or that next time someone asks me to marry them, they might know my first and last name.
I miss pretending to care about football (soccer). I miss pretending to sell mangos from a basket on my head to the inhabitants of the ward. I miss hearing a stranger's life story while sitting in ridiculous traffic in a 7-berth cab. (I will note that I don't miss continually explaining that giving him my email address will most definitely not facilitate him coming to "America".)
I am refusing to forget what it felt like to live in a culture that truly loved. That truly valued relationships. That prayed without ceasing. Where the response to "How are you?" was "Thank God". Where patients prayed for the doctors and nurses. Where people who had never met made true sacrifice for one another.
I think I will make it my goal to be mistaken for an African someday. I'll let you know how that goes.