Ambivalence.
Of two minds, originally uploaded by la vrai nomade.
I’m way behind. I keep trying to map out my shifting feelings towards being here, and I end up lost in the squall. Things get brighter, then bleaker, in such rapid succession that it’s almost not worth keeping track.
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3.9.08//
We are at war, Magdeleine says again and again. She is the general. And this lady, she says, winking and wagging her finger at me, is my lieutenant. We take a walk after dinner and stand out beyond the courtyard in the cool charged air while heat lightening flashes. What you are doing is absolutely incredible, she says. I could send you anywhere, and you would survive. I’m surviving but I’m not happy, I say. Well, bon. For them, it is…leur vie. Leur vie quotidienne. Mais pour nous…nous sommes en parentheses. It is not your life. But it is unique! What an opportunity. When you go back, you will make a list of your accomplishments - I can help you if you like - you will see how much you have learned. And then, pah, you close the door on it. And you can return to it happy. It is not your life. But really, look at you. Twenty two, it’s incredible, frankly. I am trying to believe her. It don't feel it.
After we part ways, I find myself at the path through the courtyard right as the power goes; a collective cry goes up from the dining hall across the circle of trees. Everything is black, startlingly black, like a veil over the eyes, then lit with the eerie silhouette light of heat lightening. Contrast and flickering, like silver negatives, branches lit and stark and plunged into darkness. I am overwhelmed. Tears. The rain starts. I run for the portico and sit on the cool concrete with my knees tucked under my chin and watch the earth flicker on and off, trying to remember who I am and what I want.
3.10.08//
I feel disconnected from my own brain. I feel incredibly unreflective about this whole experience, I know I should be taking it down, making note. Commence: The way the colors deepen in the twilight after the rain, the sweet acrid scent of the bushes that you taste in the air on the back of your tongue. The bougainvillea under the windows tricked out in shocking magenta blooms, much brighter and wilder than the deep purple blossoms on church crescent. The absolute blackness when the power cuts out, the incredible way the moon and stars blaze in absence of light. I see Orion and say nothing…save a secret for the moon. The inexplicable rainshowers, thunderous and captivating. The walk from the secretariat to the main hall, heat, gray brick tiles, dirt, concrete, steps and the cool of the room, the path down through the trees glimpsed on the way. Being obsequious, please auntie, food is ready; please auntie, can I have your corrections, please I’ll bring it right away. The body language of politeness, learned gestures. Oh, you are a Ghanaian now. The alarming zyklon b chic of the shower. The stencil GESDI in black paint on everything, sheets, bed, chair, mirror, tablecloth, door, toilet, window slats, curtains. The way Emma takes care of me. How lucky I am that everyone likes me so much, even if they don’t want to listen to me. The gaggle of school kids that runs up grinning and shrieking, obruni obruni! And trap me in a collective hug, stroking my arms, clutching at my hands, trying to reach my hair, tugging my underarm tufts. I feel like every black kid that ever landed in rural Iowa. (Can I touch? Will it come off?) The townspeople that come to sell their wares when a big group arrives at the complex, dictionaries and evangelical sex advice (what every good Christian should know about sex…which is to say, as little as possible), men’s trousers, watches, cufflinks, sandals. Oranges, with the peels piled up in front of the table. Aloe whitening cream. Ginseng. Hand cranked torches. The cheap counterbalanced aluminum chairs that fall over at dinner. Jam and milo at breakfast, adding condensed milk and sugar to everything. The treat of going into town, buying kyofi and fried fish and bread. We know where everything is now - lorry station, pharmacy, best convenience shop, salon, internet café, chop bar. People I don’t recognize call me Yaa and ask me to find the accountant for them. Alfred calling me Yaa Asantweaa, warrior Queenmother! and making onlookers chuckle. I need to do character sketches…
3.11.08//
Perfect, improbably blue sky; fluffy storybook clouds. I wore my flirty new burgundy rose petal skirt, made the Ghanaians laugh at my clipped pace, went into town and back alone, spoke as I pleased. I feel a new balance settling itself; I can be me, unabashedly, cultural sensitivity be damned, and laugh too loud and curse and drink and walk fast and go around unshaven and barefoot and singing in a short skirt (perplexed Ajumakan: ‘Obruni, what are you doing? Why are you in such a hurry?’ Me: ‘I’m a New Yorker, it’s how we do’), but I am Ghanaian(ish) now, I can inhabit the phrases and gestures and body language of politeness that this space requires. It feels perfectly natural to play the part.
We had emo tuo and groundnut soup AND delicious wakye for lunch; yummy yummy rice and noodles and fried egg for dinner. I had a whole blessed hour at the café. Emma was delighted with the pictures I took, laughing and joking about what we’ve been through here, told me I was really good and should pursue it. She was proud of me for eating so much today. Thank you, mother hen. I love it when she calls me meine liebling and strokes my hair when I’m upset. Deep breath; think about your boy. (What would I do without her?)
So, huh. This is who I am right now. I am not fucking up as badly as I thought. I hope I can hold onto this feeling.
3.14.08//
The stationary store - add it to the list of hidden gems. If only Catreen and Kuh could have seen! Row after row of beautiful notebooks full of blank promise and possibility; myriad pens, pencils, inks and paints; envelopes for every conceivable situation! Scissors! Glue! A rainbow of cardstock! What joy.
3.15.08//
Foray out to Emma’s place: tro tro to first junction Teshie, and then a dropping taxi to the last stop, and a short walk up 2nd avenue - only her 2nd avenue looks remarkably like the tri-cities in Washington State, all low bungalows on rolling streets, flowers spilling over whitewashed walls. Met her stepmom, who I didn’t realize existed, and the funny younger brother she talks about incessantly, and her sixteen year old sister with a tomboy attitude and a lisp who avoided studying for her biology exam by asking me question after question. Her dad gave me a big hug and said he thought I was more Ghanaian than American.
Later Emma told me the little bro and her sister had been all agog at my impending visit. No offense, she said, but we’ve never had an obruni at the house. They didn’t know what to expect. Is she really coming? How is she getting here? (Here stepmom smacks li’l bro) She’s taking a tro tro like everyone else, of course! Not all white people take taxis everywhere. Don’t ask stupid questions.
She took me around to all her favorite shops, and we both spent far, far too much money - but after working twelve days straight from 8am to 10pm every day with no time off, we needed a reward. Beads! Batik! Skinny jeans! Embroidered slippers! Because clearly, what I need is more clothing. Sigh. Again and again Emma handed me rather scandalous items - pink, frilly, altogether un-me. Er, this isn’t really my style, I said. I know that, she said, narrowing her eyes, I’m thinking of your boy here, now try it on. I finally had to tell her, um, you know, he’s not really into pink and frilly either…