Observations of a Girl: On Being an Inspiration

Anyone who talks to me knows that while I constantly observe and appreciate my life's relative coolness, I consider it to be pretty normal. I know; I know it sounds contradictory, but it's true. My 'Holy crap I'm in Africa' moments exist within a constant state of actually living in Africa. It is for this reason that my blogs grow scarce (and my pictures rank lower in total number than my dad's did in a 10 day trip); I generally feel I haven't got much to say because this life has become my 'mean.'

Sometimes, though, I'm given the chance to see my life through someone else's eyes (something usually accompanied by compliments and praise, the likes of which make me blush like a rose in the spring) and it dawns on me that, like other Peace Corps volunteers were for me, I'm a kind of role model now.

I had the opportunity about two weeks ago to dine with some awesome, inspiring people; people making a living doing everything I'm interested in (One Campaign employees, political advisors, political lobbyists and campaign runners, etc.). I mean, I listened to these men and women talk about doing campaign work for people like Reagan and Gore, about their 'leg-up' positions as the personal assistants to famous Senators, about their involvement in very historical moments in Washington. It was fascinating; I could have listened to them talk all night. What I found mind-boggling was that they seemed to feel the same way about me.

As I casually discussed my projects, my daily existence, and my every-day working life, I realized that it was absolutely out of the ordinary for them. They considered it as inspiring and important as I considered their experiences (and let me tell ya: that's a kick in the teeth).

In truth, this happens a lot; I forget that (though coming to Africa was my choice and, therefor, doesn't seem very extraordinary to me) my job, my experiences, and the life I lead aren't considered normal  to most people. I'm living 'a life inspired;' a life inspiring.

I couldn't tell you exactly how this feels; like any lightbulb moment, it brightens my surroundings like a sonic boom and then it's gone. I could never claim to be inspiring, either - this whole experience has been one full of gratitude and child-like niavity from the from the start. I'm humbled by my work every day, and am often surprised at my luck in doing exactly what I came here to do. Opening an office or building a borehole is as equally awe-inspiring for me because I recognize the people around me who have created that success. Everything here is like a shot in the dark - one in every six attempts errupts into a sparkle of light, but most of the time I've no idea what I'm doing.

I guess it's because we get dropped here - into jobs we've never experienced, a culture we've never explored, a language we don't know - and everything becomes trial and error; we spend two years of our lives in a perpetual state of free-fall until we're plopped back down into the lives we used to know. It's why this job is so unique, anyone who tells you different isn't telling you the whole truth. It's a part of the appeal and it's a part of the struggle.

To wake up one day and decide to be inspiring is backwards - that's never the order anything in life happens. All I can do is lead a life I'm proud of and, so far, I consider myself pretty lucky in that regard. Maybe I inspire someone to apply for the Peace Corps, maybe I help get someone involved in an NGO or research about certain social and political climates - all of these things are wonderful and humbling, but all I've really done is pass the torch and continued living.

It's a fleeting, beautiful thing, you see; captured in blinding, fuzzy moments that stop time, but it's also a cycle. We each keep on living, doing the things we each find amazing; it's the great thing about life: potential - the power of doing. Maybe I've inspired, but that's not really the point, is it? The point becomes, what will you do with it?

xx

The Celebrity of Being a Volunteer

Narration of an escape:
They swarmed like bees; giggling bees with opposable thumbs; shouting and jostling for a place to grab, they ran alongside her frantic escape-pedaling. For the first time in Ghana, the volunteer truly feared ... for her bike.

I don't know if I mentioned this, but I'm kind of a big deal. A star, in fact. The bright, shiny kind - exploding from light years away and directing your attention, always, to its existence in the sky.

Take it how you want (a metaphor for my whiteness, perhaps?) but the above description is exactly how I feel all the time. A bright spot attracting attention; an electronic sandwich board welded to my chest: "OUTSIDER," it blinks. "DOES NOT HARK FROM THIS LAND!" (Naturally, my sign board only speaks in Old English.) The battery never runs down, it's novelty never wears off, and for the life of me I can't pry it away. I'd be no less ostentatious if I stole the chief's horse, glued a uni-horn to it's head, and taught it to shoot laser-beams from it's eyeballs (and that's just when I'm minding my own business).
... Of course, If I managed to do all that I'd probably deserve the attention, but it's an overwhelming thought, no?

Unfortunately, I don't have the skill-set to bestow laser-beam eyes (YET), but I am foreign and, usually, that's enough. More important than being 'foreign,' however, is the fact that I'm white. Where I live this is not only obvious, but blindingly significant. After a lifetime of chasing uniqueness and going against the grain, I have the daily urge to sink into the loving embrace of blissful anonymity. It's an urge that comes with the realization that a parade of children wherever I go will kind of always be ... conspicuous, you know?

On Whiteness:
Sometimes it's embarrassing (when everyone watching and greeting sees me trip over air and fall on my ass); sometimes it's awkward (when I try to pretend I don't notice the stranger next to me taking my picture on his/her phone); sometimes it's humbling (when I'm escorted to a location because the person I asked directions from wants to ensure my safety); sometimes it's the exact experience one would expect when being reduced to a color (when I'm talked about in a language it's assumed I don't understand as if I am invisible  - even though I do, and I'm not; when I'm pointed and laughed at like a circus attraction for no obvious reason; when I'm targeted as nothing more than a bank account, a marriage visa, or a status object).

This is the average day in my life; surreal interactions ranging from innocent (children yelling, sometimes from miles away, "SOLAMIA!! SOLAMIIII-YA!!!! BAH-BAYEEEEEEE!") to intrusive (random man stops my on my bicycle to insist I take him as a lover because he's always wanted to "take a white for a wife"). In fact, my skin color is so exulted (I wish this weren't the correct adjective, trust me, but it is) that not only am I sought after, but constantly on display. I couldn't blend in if I tried.

It's slightly jarring (sometimes amusing) and has forced my understanding of what Peace Corps called a 24/7/365 kind of job. I now empathize with celebrities; I regularly feel like Bono (though I'm pretty sure this is the only place someone like Bono feels 'normal' for the same reasons I don't). And it's probably the difference between visiting a place and living there. As life regains a sense of normalcy for me, I remain an object of curiosity for everyone else. What used to be endearing when the job was new is now a constant reminder that I'm still seen as an outsider in a country I now call home: I figure they should be bored by now; they figure white people are always from somewhere else, somewhere better. Ghana could never be my 'home' - it's where black people live (several people have explained this to me), which is why my novelty actually makes sense. Someone, laughing at the child parade, once said, "If you lived here one hundred years, you'd still be different because you'd still be white, Emma," and I can't really argue with his logic.

This doesn't mean that I don't have friends or that they don't want me to stay, it just means that no matter how long I stay, I will always be the focus of most interactions. (It is a strange, alternate reality to fall into; coming from a land that sees pointing out differences as politically incorrect - you can imagine most of us react negatively to the connotation of 'being white.' It's truth notwithstanding, it's considered insulting.) My skin is both a curse and a blessing; the catalyst for many experiences, to be sure. To have one's race pointed out constantly (as in, "White girl, come here," or "Hey! White!") isn't something our generation is used to. We see it as demeaning and find it difficult to come to terms with. I swear it's the 'cure-all' to racial slurs and stereotypes. It would do wonders for the average racist, finally understanding what it's like to be the 'blunt end,' so to speak. Perhaps we could eradicate all hatred through simple experience (I told you I'd save the world when I joined the Peace Corps).

In the very least, I've got some great stories (and a new perspective). When I finally get to tell my grandchildren that I was famous one day, it won't be due to senility or jest. It'll be because, "Damn it, I taught the chief's horse to shoot lasers from it's eyeballs! I did! I'm not lying!"

xx

More Things to Know ... In Ghana

1. Flies are like vampires. They never come in unless invited (upon the tops of childrens' heads).
 2. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT succumb to the temptation of looking into your latrine; you will rue the day. Better to treat it like the worst sexual experience you've ever had: ignore it completely.
 3. In regards to the above - tell your father you've no idea what I'm talking about. "Sex? Never heard of it ... must be something french ..."
 4. No matter how long you've lived in Africa, waking up in the middle of the night to Jumanji-like drumming vibrating through the floor will always be creepy. (No one is hunting you; zombies do not exist.)
 5. I do not recommend zombie-themed books, shows, movies or jokes. As soon as the thought is entertained, mefloquin-induced dreams will occur. (See number 4)
6. Reading by candle light: terrbily romantic; terrible for your eyes. Decide your fate: blind romantic, complete with adorable seeing-eye pet, or otherwise normal human being deprived of lots of self-love.
7. In regards to the above, standard answer should be: "Of course I don't know what 'self-love' means, dad. Who's JILL? She fell down the hill, right?" *walks backwards from the room*
8. Sewing, knitting, crocheting are all now pasttimes. Call me Aunt Mildred because, apparently, I'm 76 years old.
9. Read enough novels and you will start to talk like one. People like that don't have friends; people like that talk in iambic pentameter to their three-legged cats. Get ready for a long winter ...
10. America, even in thought, is completely overwhelming. Period.
11. Teo years is hardly long enough, trust me.
12. Looking forward to the task of handwashing two or more loads of laundrey is what we call 'Hitting the Pathetic Precipice." Now go fetch your water, loser (said the three-legged cat).
13. Harmattan (translation): biking against the wind both to and from the house; African terrain (translation): up hill both ways; Hot Season (translation): simultaneous heat rash and heat stroke. I am officially an Old Wive's Tale for whiney school children ...
14. A rain shower in Ghana is not a 'rain shower,' it is the Apocalypse - torrential downpours of tsunamic proportions. There will come a day (sometime in April) that all volunteers will pray for one lasting at least 1000 days.
15. Only in Africa will you wish upon a shooting star for the Apocalypse. But you will - Hot Season is upon us ... thank God it's 2012?
16. (Speaking of Hot Season) Beware of the Harmattan snot-rocket. It often comes, unannounced and with astounding aim, from around two seats up. Window seats always run a high risk, but snot-rockets hold a special place in squirm-worthy, Harmattan Hell.
17. Three separate cell phones (positioned at either side and behind you) playing three different songs simultaneously without headphones is totally acceptable; you've been misinformed. NOW ENJOY THE MUSIC.
18. Toffees are completely legitmate currency.
19. The more weirded out you are by the white people you see will directly correlate to your reverse culture-shock upon returning to America. You should probably get out more.
20. Stop!!! Stop, stop. Just stop .... you're still white.

xx

Madonna was Right: XPRESS Yo'self

There's nothing better than standing in a room full of individuals so bright they could light a fire. They're ready to take on the world and change the injustices they see - even when it means they must also improve themselves. I got the chance to work with forty-five such individuals at XPRESS Camp, a GYD-led initiative and the first of its kind, with Kimmy Smith in Wa. The purpose of the camp was to encourage leadership and volunteerism within the youth, while fostering self-expression through art. You can probably guess that last bit was my favorite part: I was all "ART ART ART!!!" all week (and we even threw in some theatre and song & dance); basically I was in Emma Heaven.

Because the first day coincided with World Aids Day, after crafts and icebreakers were over, Kevin Lenihan and I took the opportunity to share the stories of our uncles with the kiddos. By doing this, we were able to discuss stigma and life with HIV, after which, we were met with a rather interesting Q and A. The questions were interesting (and thorough), so I think it was a hit ... then again, I always say that :)

Over the next four days, we did an array of things - 'inner expression' masks, social problem brainstorms with coinciding skits, discussion of career development and leadership, a talent show (during which, PCVs preformed 'The Thriller'), and poster creations to encourage community volunteerism on a small scale. We culminated all of this in a public trash pick up in the Wa Market on market day. It was interesting, to say the least. Aside from the 'normal' kind of harassment that comes with picking up trash, I think the students found it hard to deal with accusations of reimbursement for work that was obviously voluntary. It was a common agreement we were all able to share and might have changed the way some of them saw the PCV leaders.

Despite a few hardships, I think most (if not all) students came away having learned a great deal. They made friends and opened up; they learned the value of respecting each other and the value of teamwork in projects big and small; they even got to use REAL flush-toilets. I think, in the very least, we taught them to be louder about their cause (ie. 'Hey! Don't drop that there: use a rubbish bin!" or "Hey! HIV is serious and stigma isn't something to laugh at!") which is always good when applied in the right way. 'Occupy Wall Street' would be so proud ... We also came to the conclusion that this model had to be repeated - you wouldn't believe the feeling of inspiration being thrown around by everyone; it was the perfect storm.

After being involved in such a thing, I can see why teachers do what they do - the potential of one young person (let alone forty-five) is enough to invest in thousands. And thank goodness these students have volunteers in their communities - it was amazing to see how good a positive role model could be in just a few days. Makes me proud to do what we do.

With the vision of a prophet, Kimmy (just call her Mohammed) organized our closing ceremony on International Volunteerism Day; five schools in the Wa district were invited to join in our festivities (and what's more, they all showed up!!) Three brilliant student speeches later (and a lot of certificates) we were finished without any serious hitches. Will Smith got to stay in his box.

Now that we're all back at our respective sites, planning has commenced for at least three more regional camps. I speak entirely for myself, of course, when I say that I've been channeling some serious artsy vibes, as well (which manifest themselves in Christmas decorations, if you must know). Personally, I'm as proud of us as I'm surprised that Christmas is a mere two weeks away (which is a lot). I can't wait to hold my own XPRESS camp in the Upper East! Nothing in the world sounds better to me than encouraging leadership and volunteerism at the same time as creative expression. Seriously. The only thing that could be better is another performance of The Thriller. Which is bound to happen some time.

Any way, I think we can finally change that old saying about shooting for the moon ... something like: "With so much potential in that sky, forget about the moon! Go catch some shinies!"

Whatever, mine's way better ... :)

xx

Fight the Good Fight: World Aids Day

If you know anything about me, you probably know that my uncle, Monkey Alan, died of pneumonia due to complications with AIDS. If you don't know me, but you're good at connecting dots, it's pretty easy to figure out that he's my constant inspiration - especially when it comes my work in Ghana. Tomorrow, December 1st, marks another year in the fight - the fight for a cure; the fight for universal medicine; the fight against discrimination; the fight for Monkey Alans all over the world.

Over 33.3 million people are living with HIV today; over 25 million people have died in the last twenty-six years - 25 million sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, uncles and friends. Twenty five million Monkey Alans.

Maybe you know one of them; maybe, like me, you've lost someone already; maybe you don't know anyone, but still support the cause. Well, tomorrow's your day to display your support: wear red, wear a red ribbon, volunteer to hand out condoms, attend a rally or a vigil or a concert. Do your part to support the fight.

And just in case you don't have a face to put to the cause, I'll show you mine - my daily inspiration, the reason I joined the Peace Corps, the angel over my shoulder - Monkey Alan:

In Loving Memory

xx

   For more information, go to http://aids.gov/world-aids-day/ to see what America is doing for HIV today.

Speak the Truth: TED.com (Chimamanda Adichie)

I stumbled upon this video while browsing TED.com and I thought it important to share; it's a young female writer from Nigeria speaking on the dangers of adopting only one story to describe different people, cultures, and problems. It's kind of like the 'stereotype' talk, only deeper, and I think she has a wonderful point. It doesn't hurt that she's a great speaker, as well.

http://www.ted.com/talks/chimamanda_adichie_the_danger_of_a_single_story.html

xx

Existing in Excess

I know it might be slightly premature, what with a pending extension in the works, but I find myself thinking about what it'll be like when I come home. What I'm refering to here is the inevitable reverse-culture shock. I mean ... where to start? Reliable electricity (that I have to pay for), faster-than-lightning internet, trash-tv, produce aisles (hell, GROCERY STORES), fashion, private cars, movies and movie theatres, candy (and weight gain), the people I love, people I don't know paying absolutely no attention to me, running water, an existence devoid of any comic goat-related moments ... The list only gets longer ...

I just know it: I'm gonna turn into the crazy lady who has a bucket in her shower to bathe, uses only candles as light, and hordes any kind of container for water collection. I will also probably be incredibly cold. 90% of the time.

On the flipside, I'll (probably) overdose on fashion (it's inevitable, really), yell excited obscenities as I drive my own car down a real highway, and use up all my carbon-credit flying across the country to visit people EVERYWHERE. Basically, I'll be a terror; completely out of control. I imagine it'll be terrifying and awesome at the same time, kind of like the Tower of Terror.

What astounds me more than this inevitably loony behavior (almost, but not quite split-personality) is the sudden heightened awareness I'll have for anything in excess. It's going to drive me up the wall ... think about it:

I've not only watched, but experienced just how much effort's involved for most people to get access to water. I watch people walk miles, full basins balanced on their heads, in sweltering heat, for a daily supply. DAILY supply. How will I react when someone next to me in the bathroom runs the tap unnecessarily? Probably fly into an ugly hulk-like rage that ends in tears - mine, of course, as she walks around the crazy lady and toward to well-marked exit.

Can I possibly fight the urge to knock on every door in the neighborhood and tell them the merits of flourescent lights (the blue ones keep away bugs and induce groovy underwater hallucinations); or that they could simply turn OFF most of them to reduce their carbon footprint? Reading by candlelight is fun! And romantic! Besides, no light's gonna keep the hoodoo voodoo man away at night ... sorry, little Tommy.

Just contemplating our excessive nature (as a country) makes me want to curl into a whimpering ball. I've adjusted to my new life so well, it almost seems impossible to need as much as the average household uses (and wastes). Nevermind the crippling self-esteem issues I'll develop with such a drastic drop in marriage proposals and child-parades; it'll be like beating my fists against a brick wall. The waste potential of a produce aisle might make my heart burst! Which is likely, anyway, considering the sudden variety offered to me.

How do I prepare? Is there some kind of Peace Corps bootcamp where Billy Zane comes and beats my ass back into shape? Would I go back, given the chance, to a blissful existence, blindfolded to the rest of the world's struggles? The answer is definitely 'no.' I am going to voluntarily turn into a crazy, walking contradiction; a well dressed, philosophical wreck; a giddy, technology-crazed ball of simultaneous guilt and unbridled joy. This is gonna get weird ... you've all been warned.

xx