My Latrine - The Disaster Zone

Yes. I do, in fact, realize that this will mark the third blog I've written about my latrine (not including all of the honorable mentions along the way). I can't really defend myself in this; all I can say is that, as proud owners of holes in the ground, we volunteers grow to have a special relationship with our latrines. Especially when they turn into disaster zones. Take mine, for instance:

Unlike most standing structures, my latrine no longer has a working door. I mean, it has a door, but right now it is a useless, door-shaped piece of wood that leans against the wall in a decidedly door-like manner. I guess one day it decided it wanted to be off of the wall for a while; I'm assuming it was having some kind of mid-life crisis.

Really, though, it's only a problem when I want to use the latrine, which is a lot less than I want to use, say, my kitchen. Also, there's nothing remotely valuable or worth stealing in my latrine - not even a door, apparently. I've taken to using what I call 'the poor man's door,' a piece of fabric draped, somewhat dramatically, across what used to be the door and the gaping hole it once inhabited.

Most days this works out perfectly, but sometimes, mid-pee, the door starts to look like it's falling toward me; usually because it is. I have to agree with the door - peeing underneath it is just as efficient as draping something across it, but I guess I'd rather feel like I'm peeing in a room temporarily missing a door than a pile of rubble I've stumbled on to. I'd also like to add that, while it's completely unnecessary, I still prefer to swing the 'door' open and close as I pass. I certainly understand that at this point 'manhandling' it would be perfectly acceptable, but I like to pretend I still have a working relationship with all doors. Even mangled, Ghanaian ones.

Being suddenly less VIP and more 'public access' has left the room, itself, kind of a disaster. Interest has peaked across the board and, on numerous occasions, I've found myself confronting a pair of surprised beady, little eyes attached to surprised, feathered little bodies and am left to stand awkwardly outside as they loudly, disdainfully vacate the premises.

I also find lots of morning surprises. When I do, I avoid eye contact and continue to tell myself (loudly and repeatedly) that I should be proud someone used the latrine, not criticizing their aim ... obviously it's a daily mental struggle. What used to be a cement safe-haven is now a hostile, unfamiliar place - any and all trust gained has been completely lost. Even my two yard, doing its best under the circumstances to provide a little coverage, is always dangerously close to flapping open in the breeze and  exposing me, forever, to a world that isn't even remotely ready for such a spectacle. I spend most, if not all of my time, staring at it threateningly.

These are not my latrine's only problems; its concrete floor is starting to resemble the surface of a frozen lake at the start of spring. If this were Narnia, I'd be riding blocks of ice down a fast moving river. As it is, I simply, carefully, replace the broken pieces whenever they shift and expose the ant kingdom beneath. Technically (in the absence of a door), I probably don't need a front step, but I've always been one for keeping up appearances. If anything, I hold the small hope that anyone walking by will be so impressed by the concrete slabs, immaculately placed, that they'll hardly notice they are staring into a latrine because it's missing a door.

The door frame rests mockingly against the corner, coolly sporting its now completely useless lock. If I'm being honest, the contraption formerly-known-as 'door' spent most of its time suspended from an intricate web of strings. Clearly it wasn't meant to last forever, but if there's one thing you should be grateful for in America, let it be working doors, latches, and locks - excellent ventilation is a small consolation when the possibility of flashing innocent bystanders becomes a daily likelihood.

I could, of course, fix it. That's what you're thinking, isn't it? I will say only this - if there's a second thing you should be insanely grateful for, it's regular access to capable, always available, sober carpenters. Until 'Africa Time' ceases to exist, until my doorway isn't two inches wider than the door frame on both sides, I guess I'll just have to thank the Peace Corps for making me so laid back that not only do I consider 'the poor man's door' an adequate alternative, but proudly introduce it to you via the world-wide web.

xx

I'm Proud of You

It's not an end, but a beginning, and I have tears in my eyes, but they are of pride and happiness; there is sadness, of course, always sadness in goodbyes, but these were two years spent growing and learning - learning more about ourselves, more about each other than we ever wanted (or thought possible). We lived through loneliness and success and failure; and all dust kicked up in-between. For life, now, we are connected; we will know what it meant, what it was like, what we sacrificed and why it was worth it. Every day, every hour - even the darkest of hours; everything given until we thought we could give no more was worth the life we all received in return.

And though we crave America (we can't wait to go back), all of us will remember making Ghana our home; allowing her to fill a tiny, Ghana-shaped space in our hearts that grew big enough to change our lives. Never forget that we shared it together, this amazing experience, because when I think of the lives and moments that affected me, of the smiles and faces that I love, I think of you, too.

I'm proud of you, Class of 2012. Travel safely and keep in touch.

xx

My First Two Years: A Retrospection

I feel like the title of this blog should be 'my busy month.'

It's not, of course; I like to think I'm more subtle than that (LIKE A FOX), but it wouldn't be an exaggeration. I won't bore you with details, but if this month has been anything, it's been damn busy. I haven't even been writing (which, considering the number of emotions tumbling around in my head, is a feat in and of itself).

For the sake of efficiency, I'll try to sum up AllVol in a few choice sentences:
There wasn't a pool, but there were late nights, dance parties, and lots of laughter. New friends were found, old friendships strengthened, and a lot of volunteers said youtube-worthy, quotable sh*t (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=toz4_vPmmIA). For many of us it meant something else entirely - our closing of service and its fast approach.

Last week it came and went, our COS conference like the blink of an eye. It hardly seemed real, staring at faces I knew would start leaving within the month. 62 friends, colleagues, and comrades; we'd really done it: two years in Ghana. Two years older, two years stronger, two years different. Pinch me, we say, slightly shell-shocked, as we start to reflect ...

Do you remember the day you got your letter?

 It's strange for me; that day seems so far away and yet I remember it like it was yesterday.

When I took my interview over the phone, I actually called back to confirm (in hopeful, elated, quiet disbelief) that I could actually start telling people I was, in fact, going to Africa. "Yes," the man replied, "you can expect your invitation letter within the week." I proceeded to stalk the UPS man.

When it finally found its way into my hands, my stomach dropped into my pelvis and my heart flew up next to my eardrums (which is an awkward place for either to be). I don't think there's ever been a moment in my life I was more terrified, excited, or proud - this was something I'd legitimately achieved on my own. Peace Corps was like my baby and I was proud of my baby.

And then they hand us our Aspiration Statements ...

Well, this is embarrassing ... I was clearly trying to kiss major Peace Corps ass. In fact, I kind of wish I could still write like this; so professional (and slightly pompous) and sweetly naive. I really don't even remember writing any of it. What I do remember is spending all night with Morgan trying to figure out what I wanted to say (Thanks, Morgan); I was so afraid of saying the wrong thing (the remedy for which was apparently a Thesaurus).

I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, but I certainly faked it well (*pats past-self on back*). I even make a lot of really good points that still apply (thanks, Morgan), but two years puts a lot of miles between me and the girl who wrote this. If anything, seeing it now is a clear reminder of that. A slightly embarrassing, thesaurus-aided reminder that the Peace Corps is never what you expect.

What are your accomplishments and achievements?

These are hard to gauge because, in the Peace Corps, the word 'achievements' covers a spectrum as broad as the color wheel.  I could make a list (and probably need to), but many of them are personal: being able to speak and understand a second language; building something successful from the ground up; living independently in a foriegn country for two years; mastering the transportation system (and thus patience) ... once I start naming things, they just keep coming - rolling out into the universe like a ribbon of light.

In creating a list, I start to realize just how significant this all was; that people who think volunteers are running away from life to bullsh*t for two years have no idea what they're talking about. This is, in fact, a pretty big deal. It's a giant accomplishment made up of other accomplishments; an achievement cuddle-puddle, if you will. (Feel free to steal and use that tag-line in future advertisements, Peace Corps.) I have a lot of pride.

How have you changed?

Wow. That's a doozy ... Um, I got fatter, I got skinner, I got blonder, I'm a better writer, I stopped journaling, I started free-styling, I gained a pen-pal, I got better at dancing ...

... but, really, I guess a lot of my accomplishments can serve as personal changes; being capable, confident, and knowledgeable in a field I was passionate (but clueless) about are all things changed in me. I'm older in more ways than one and I'm happy; I'm a much better person, as a whole. I've always been social and optimistic, open and appreciative, but in small doses (the way only very young people, green as spring grass, can be). Now I feel like I am those things: a capable, willing, confident adult.

Seriously, I may have my bad days, but I send off so much genuine love into the world on a daily basis that my cheeks hurt by the time I fall back into bed. That feeling, that pure goodness right there, is the biggest change I've experienced. And I owe it all to Ghana, for helping me feel purposeful and successful and just plain grateful.

xx 

The Death of a Father

 A line of headlights appeared along the road, horns blaring as the procession came closer - they were escorting the body to be displayed and prayed over before the ceremony. In a matter of minutes motorcycles were spinning in circles, kicking up dust and threatening bodily harm. It's quite possible none of them should have been driving, but they needed strength to lift their father's casket high overhead and bring him to their grieving mothers.

We followed them into the house and despite two sound systems boasting separate playlists, I felt like I'd intruded upon the most private moments of a family's mourning. The bombastic beat seemed to disappear as women sat with tears streaming down their cheeks; some wailed openly, collapsing against walls and calling to God; others, still, prayed in earnest. It was raw and loud and honest, and I felt like a voyeur.

The crowd soon moved to a darkened part of the house where I could hear traditional drumming. As I held the hand of each woman in turn, the coffin sat silently behind us, a traditional priest standing over it with eyes closed in concentration. Whispers and sobbing carried from each open door until we turned the final corner, where we found a circle of women and girls speaking in tongues - some on their knees; some with hands raised; every head thrown back and dripping with perspiration. Two women led prayer; I do not know how long it lasted. I, too, lifted quiet words of peace for a man we'd watched die painfully and afterward retired to rest. The moon seemed far, far away as Lauren and I sat in the cool night watching children dance, traditional drumming broke out occasionally into the darkness.

Many things happened at once: music and dancing, traditional displays, Pito brewing and drinking, food sellers setting up shop as countless men and women moved in and out of the house to give condolences. We sat in plastic chairs and watched, for a time, dark approaching clouds from the East; lightening flashed and we smiled, hoping. Eventually it rained, a blessing from our father, and we danced much to the children's delight.

At 10pm the first church service started, at eleven Lauren and I slunk away to sleep - we were naive to think it'd be that easy. Some time around midnight both speakers began again and at 3:30am we woke to a traditional war dance near the window; once drumming stopped 50 Cent came on and we deliriously discussed his merits at a funeral. I assume we fell asleep shortly after.

At 6:30 in the morning, I opened my eyes to find the music had not stopped; animated conversations outside told me the day was in full swing again (and that no one had slept). Today, we were told, was the service and burial; drumming and dancing would continue tonight, but today was the last official day of the Christian Ceremony. After a hearty breakfast (Southwestern Omelets with CHEESE) we picked our way to the tents. It was quiet again and cool (for Africa); we were put in the front row. 

The ceremony lasted five hours, almost as if we'd simply decided to go to church that day. Every denomination was represented by a song (accompanied by an amazing band of calabashes and drums) and a particularly zealous sermon was given by the local pastor. Two rounds of donations were performed, though Lauren and I observed it was just as much a part of the culture to pretend to give as it was to give generously, and at the close of three eulogies and a biography, the casket was opened and all were invited to give their last respects. Since dead bodies creep me out, we opted out (though an usher enthusiastically told us we were, in fact, allowed to view the body, as well). He had no idea we'd already said our goodbyes along with 50 Cent the morning before.

With the ceremony finished, it was time for Pito (local beer) and general merriment. I devised a plan to leave for Lauren's site. If we thought it was bad the night before, we were fools: drunk men I'd never met before were already milling around my yard, waggling their eyebrows at me as I made my way to the latrine. I wouldn't say that I'm a wimp, but I wimped out. 

As we left, dozens of people watched a traditional priest lead a lamb to sacrifice and an older man led the boys of the household in a war dance (complete with bows, arrows and two rifles) to scare bad spirits away. Droves of people in various states of sobriety greeted us as we walked to Social Center, headed, no doubt, for one of two speakers to dance their sorrows away. No doubt it was a party to remember.

Since returning, traditional funeral rights have continued - one lone man bangs his drum over the house at sunset and sunrise. The house, still in open mourning, lets out a piercing cry occasionally as women come and go, presiding over the family's comfort. Truth be told, most of life has returned to normal. The only sign that anything has changed is the open chair our father used to sit in, an absence made all the more obvious by the silence when his drums stop. 

May he rest in peace

xx

The Development of Ghana

It's not surprising I think about development constantly - I live in the developing world, work in the development field; I come face to face with the problems of development work on the daily (and I've grappled with their elusive solutions for the better part of two years). One would think it easy - it often sounds easy enough to accomplish, but that's from the perspective of an office with a view - on the ground it's a mine field, sometimes literally.

We all agree there must be balance, a middle ground on which to meet. Time and again I see the results of skewed, unbalanced relationships - well-meaning companies, groups, and individuals want to help the only way they know how: money, gifts and things in an abundance most communities have never seen. Lines are drawn and roles are accepted: the victim & the savior; the unable & the equipped; the ignorant & the enlightened; the giver, the taker, the charity & the help.

The legacy of these interractions create any number of things, from apathy to expectation. It's happened in many places for many reasons - we have a saying about the 'best laid plans' for a reason ... So what do we do? We change the way we give, sometimes we change the fact that we give, and we change what's given.

Peace Corps requires a community contribution of some kind; in fact, most organizations do. It impresses importance upon a community, implies responsibility, requires a committment; but this, too, isn't as easy as it sounds. Most communities need help for a reason - what if they can't provide the contribution, or cultural differences surround how a contribution is given? What if there isn't adequate infrastructure to fulfill the requirement (hence the need for aid)?
The plot thickens.

And sometimes the community lies; sometimes they don't understanding the concept; sometimes the entirety of the idea is lost on them. Back to square one.

In relation to what's given, more organizations are turning to a more Peace Corps-like model. We, first and foremost, use our skills to build capacity. We facilitate - teach people to do, rather than doing. It's much more relevant, but harder to accomplish (at least in ways that can be seen). It still almost always includes 'giving' (because someone, somewhere, will always need something or we'd all be out of a job; it's the way the world works).

We aren't always the first 'here,' however. Some people spend two years trying to correct the outcome of actions and behaviors before them. Visitors are often associated with one another, leaving behind them myths, prejudices and long-standing beliefs about the entire culture they come from. Short-term volunteers often underestimate the smallest action or spoken word - a gift given, a custom ignored (whether intentional or not) can upset the balance so quickly (and for so long) it will affect development in certain communities for years.

Development work is surprisingly delicate. Without the proper foundation, introducing something like plastic bags can have resounding affects, layers deep, that span generations and sectors. Similarly, handing out something as insignificant as candy, unprovoked and frequently, will affect the way a community views development work and volunteers completely; it may even affect their success.

The solution seems easy, right? Train volunteers. But how? And how well? When it comes to volunteers, there are several different types. How does one control quality in benevolence? And what's the role of benevolence in long-term development?

More than naught, volunteers are short-term, untrained, and largely uneducated about where they end up. Not many organizations have the time or money to prepare volunteers like the Peace Corps does. Many of them are young and inexperienced; some come to fulfill requirements for school or national service - the organizations they come with are largely privatized, unorganized, and spread very thin. Can you start to see a problem? It's not that their intent and motivation are wrong - altruism and volunteerism have a very significant place in the world - but good intentions often fall short in the face of such daunting social problems.

Trained individuals exist, but they exist behind a desk somewhere else, it's why volunteers are necessary. And when trained, long-term volunteers run into problems anyway, how can short-term programs expect anything different? It's probably why so many of us end up in development work - we keep trying to fix the problems we experienced on the ground.

This is what makes my job rewarding and difficult (and difficult to explain). It's not necessarily pessimism, but the inability to find the 'right answer' to long-standing problems; they solidify like a pile of collective trash - burn the top layers, sure, but until you dig down to the bottom there's no telling what problems hide underneath.

Would you believe this is only the start of problem, a tiny part of it? It already seems so convoluted, but this is only what I see from a community level - nevermind state politics, regional politics, or international politics; forget corruption or the short-comings of basic governmental structures in communities so far removed. What about economics, the world market, the willingness and ability of businesses to take advantage of a population without the proper knowledge or representation? And then we have culture wars, ethnic conflicts, social constraints and inequalities ...

It becomes clear why so many difficulties face developing nations, why they simultaneously need and desperately need to be rid of outside help (of benevolence and guilt). Take into account a history of exploitation and broken promises, of leading by example, and suddenly it's like putting a shattered egg shell back together. The solution is multifaceted and always far from perfect, always needing improvement, always needing time and attention. In my case, I feel like I understand less about development than I did coming into it (writing lengthy blogs and muttering to myself in secret).

And still, after all this thought, the answers elude me. I sit up worrying at night that the time I've spent on building a sustainable project will find some reason to fall short. I can't help but wonder, all the time, about the complexities of this life I've found and the path I've chosen to follow after I leave it. How does it work? How can it work better?

... and here you just thought I sat around holding adorable babies.
(to be continued?)

xx

Ghana: A Love Affair

The most valuable lesson I've learned in Ghana has been in my continued love affair with life. The smallest thing strikes me as profoundly important with increasing regularity.

It's not as though my curiosity, my childlike naivity, did not exist before Ghana, but it is most certainly magnified. And I like it. It enables me to whole-heartedly, with all of my being, enjoy everything as though it were new. The color of powders lined side by side, bowl by bowl at market is intellectually stimulating; the textures of the world come to me through a camera lense; the beauty of pattern and fabric against smooth, dark skin is like a canvas in front of me just waiting to be painted.

In my love affair I appreciate other things, too, small things with no seeming significance; the fact that something as simple as dried flowers and leaves dyes the color of my tea in varying degrees - orange to green to blue - or that the pattern it makes before resting at the bottom of the mug is as intricate as any cloud I've ever seen in the sky.

I find beauty in a lot of things I didn't give much attention to before. A small ant, the triumph of bread crumbs heaved atop its shoulders, is whispered encouragements by me; he is as important to the whole as I am. I hold no disdain for him and he, making his way over my toes, doesn't even realize I'm here. Just he and a breadcrumb.

I lose minutes, hours, of my day to people watching. Sometimes I just close my eyes and listen to the sounds, clues to life. In the midday sun no other movement exists but the wind, squeezing around the chimes in my window, through the branches of the trees; leaves seem to whisper to each other as sun light weaves its way into spots along the shaded ground; laughter - a lilting sound carried up and into the sky, as if it would fly away and be as free as the child who made it, who uncaged it.

Vibrations come to me underfoot in the drumming and building and cooking; and I can feel the strength behind it, wrapping itself up and around my calves. It's a rythym like a pulse showing me Africa's heart, why the leaves and flowers and branches still find reason to plunge into the ground and take root; dryness in the air sets my hair alive like the rubbing of two balloons.

It whispers at night when thousands up thousands of stars sparkle to life - just how vast this universe is and how I will never comprehend its fullness, not even if I were to dedicate my life to understanding the beauty to every piece.

And when I can't see it, I bend my ear to earth and listen; and if it can't be heard, I place my palm upon dirt like the ripe belly of a mother, and I find that life is going on all around me; that I should be naive and curious in its beauty is a truth I cannot deny. This is as relevant a lesson as any. Perhaps it is the most important of all.
Ghana has become a kind of love affair.

xx

Pictures:

'Coming [Home] to America'

"I am King Jaffe Joffer, ruler of Zamunda."

In trying to find words to describe America I realize it's as hard as describing Ghana. I suppose I could use a list of adjectives, things like 'clean' and 'vast,' or 'deafening' and 'delicious,' but that doesn't tell you anything real, does it? A tumbling list of adjectives says very few things; and I'm just as afraid of saying too little as I am of saying too much.

Two weeks in America was too short and too long; 'overwhelming' is probably the appropriate word - the extent of which I'm finding hard to verbalize. After twenty consecutive months away from home I was completely unprepared for it's complexity. I tried to steel myself, I did, but against my best efforts everything was foreign  How could it not be? The first time I tried to use my best friend's phone - a touch phone not unlike one I used to own - it was like typing with my elbows. No one on the receiving end would have known the difference.

Except her, of course, watching in abject horror.

Characterizing my experience in Ghana has always been a challenge; describing abstract ideas and emotions is the bane of my existence (I am a writer, after all), but I've never found it difficult communicating with myself. Knowing this, I gave no thought to the possibility that I'd become a stranger in my own life.

America isn't necessarily different; I am.

It would be no exaggeration to say the minute I stepped onto solid, American soil, I completely shut off my brain. Sure, I followed the polite, well-lit signs pointing me to an EXIT, but coping with the amount of motion going on around me required me to stop processing it. Until I sat down and observed individuals (*eh hem* their outfits, let's be honest here), I was like Terminator - determined to find a bench at all cost, without impediment and at pedestrian risk.

The first thing I noticed was a quiet anonymity, a feeling both blissful and isolating. Physically, being inconspicuous despite color, religious affiliation, or nationality was liberating. I closed my eyes to the stillness and took it in completely; car horns floated over the wind, a fast-moving highway hummed quietly in the distance, and not one person interrupted me or asked me what I was doing sitting alone with my eyes closed. And yet, having grown so used to a culture so thoroughly present I immediately felt Ghana's absence. Like my first months at site, I was completely aware of being separate from my surroundings (and if there's a place to throw twenty months of volunteerism into sharp relief, it's LA).

Usually volunteers notice how quiet America is immediately. Not all of my time in Ghana has been filled with noise, but the quiet is of a different kind. I didn't realize how acclimated I'd become to African sounds until my brain tried to over-correct them by reproducing the noises electronics make when they're confused. The airplane, the car, the houses I visited - all eerily quiet; my sense of comfort and familiarity had entirely changed (the ringing in my ears was just the proof).

Truthfully, I don't think I made one decision while I was home; I couldn't have handled the pressure. Heather and I were a disaster. We sounded like the vultures from Jungle Book: "Whadda you wanna do?" "I dunno, whadda you wanna do?" "I dunno, whadda you wanna do?" "I DUNNO! WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO?"

I didn't even care; I was so happy to be sitting next to my best friend that we could have watched paint dry, crack, and peel off the walls. There were so many different options, so many possibilities, that my only coping mechanism was to stare vacantly and pretend I didn't understand English  I forced everyone to make all of my decisions for me; this happened with movies, clothes, accessories, conversations, even a sandwich menu. I felt like a child - slightly frustrating, but only when people looked at me like I should know what kind of sandwich I wanted.

I felt obligated to explain my life in Africa, to thank everyone behind me for adhering to the social construct of a line, to randomly ask them about their sleep, their morning, their family, their house, their day, their job, their car, and their kids in quick succession. I was completely socially awkward, but without an obvious excuse. My line of thought, my type of conversation, my general life experience was totally inapplicable.

Writing a charming blog about volunteerism is one thing, being completely unable to relate in conversation like some hermetical cat lady is quite another.

In the Peace Corps we often talk about 'the glaze.' It's a look 'normal' Americans get when they've reached their limit in Corps-talk. This usually happens when they stop being able to empathize; it could mean too much detail or too little, too boring or too fantastical, and sometimes it just means too much. Some people last longer than others, but it always happens - at some point my experiences will just be too different to visualize. This isn't something I take personally, but it is something I recognize. Vigilance is key. If I'm going to catch the glaze soon enough (and save myself a mental wound), I've got to stay on my game.

Naturally, this makes conversation kind of a task. I don't think I realized how exhausting it would be to talk to people. It took a lot of mental preparation, continuously reassessing what was an appropriate topic; it was like exercise for my brain. (I didn't spend twenty months in Ghana to tell people about the mundane, culturally misunderstood, and sometimes depressing segments of the curtain-raiser called my life in Ghana, did I? No!) Still, I caught myself Ghanaian clicking mid-conversation; worse, I found myself engaging in Ghanaian English. I had to brace myself against things like materialism and melodrama, but also against the fact that I would inevitably 'glaze over,' too. (Just like that delicious chicken dinner on the KLM flight to Amsterdam - when did airplane food get so good??)

Near the end of my trip, we visited Quinn's (Downtown Colorado Springs) on a Saturday night. I forgot, completely, any reverse culture-shock I might be experiencing and jumped right in, belly exposed and arms spread wide. I found that my limit for group activities is roughly a dozen people; and the thought of more people coming caught me like Peter Rabbit with a carrot in my teeth. I felt my eyes go wide and the thoughts dropped from my head faster than I could pick them up again; I panicked so fast I didn't have time to recognize where the feeling came from. Anna, a friend recently nominated for the Peace Corps, squared her face to mine and asked if I was okay.

Ah. I remembered where I was, I realized why I'd started to panic - the sound of a hundred conversations rushed back into my head, a dozen of which were directed at me; live Irish music, drink orders, and general merriment came at me in layers as I realized, once again, that I was technically a visitor. This was not normal for me.

I had to reassess, and quickly. I realized it was easy to fall into a pattern of retreat; playing the role of an observer in my village had made me vulnerable to overload. I was vigilant, damn it. VIGILANT.

You know what else? I was lucky. Not only was I surrounded by some of my closest friends and family, I was actually enjoying being a visitor. Absence has this funny way of making the heart realize how lucky it is, how important certain things will always be, and how great it is to see life through fresh eyes. It sounds gooey and mushy and dripped-in-pink, but it's true. Feeling foreign to America means good things for integration, for my growth as a person and, most importantly, the opportunity to really appreciate my life. Both distinct parts of it.

Both distinct types of silence; both distinct types of 'queues;' both distinct types of conversation, friends, and experiences. It all came together sitting at the airport in Amsterdam. I was people watching, as usual, and I decided to run to the restroom. Not wanting to trek my bags back and forth, I turned to the Ghanaian woman next to me and asked if I could leave my bags with her. "Yes," she replied, "you go and come and then when you come, I will also go." My heart fluttered in my chest: finally, someone I understood.

I always miss America. I miss America because my family and friends are there, because Pikes Peak carved a giant ridge into my heart, because it's my home. Until a stranger spoke Ghanaian-English to me in a Dutch airport, I didn't realize how much I'd missed Ghana, too.

What better feeling is there than realizing you're coming home?
xx

RIP Gimpers; my home was you, too.