Faith in Humanity

Ever since I was a little girl, I only wanted to do one thing: change the world. I didn’t feel like it was too big of a request, selfless actually in essence. I just wanted to be the one to end world hunger, you know? But like the kid who wanted to become president, there was a point when I realized, ‘Damn, life is hard!’ For my birthday this year, my parents gave me the same card that they gave me last year. I recognized it immediately. The first line reads, “I know this year has been a hard year for you…” I’m certain that for years to come, this card will be accurate. Maybe I’ll open up an envelope to the same card again next year.

I still want to change the world.

I think a lot of us are searching for ultimate truths. Some believe they have found them and will fight for them to the death. I am playing this board game for one, moving around the board, collecting pieces of advice, experiences and memories and adding them to my cache of personal truths.

But they’re all just borrowed things. One day the little candlestick looks like a candlestick, the next it looks like a fiddle. I’ve realized that the world is capable of changing my beliefs constantly. When I unclench my fists and drop all of the game pieces—one thing has always remained: The truth that sustains me from within is this belief that the sole meaning of life is to serve humanity. People need people. I’m not sure what religion I’ll claim tomorrow, or what language I’ll want to learn or what my political affiliation will be, but I know with certainty that my validity comes from serving others.

Like I mentioned earlier, my goal in life has always been to ‘change the world.’ So when I graduated I jumped at the chance to go to Africa and volunteer. I carried a suitcase of clothes and shoes, a backpack full of paper, books and cameras and the heaviest load of them all, expectations of making a huge difference. Well long story short, I didn’t feed a village or end malaria and poverty. I observed several failed development plans and money schemes. I witnessed hunger, poverty and injustice. It was a huge wake-up call. It was so easy to curl up with loneliness and scream at the skies, “What is the point? Everyone dies anyways!” I had moments when I hated humanity and this mess we’ve created. Injustice, murder, apathy; it was a lot.

When I left my host family in Senegal, they sent me off with a final phrase, “Fatteunu yow.” We will never forget you. I had left them with something unforgettable.

I believe there are two types of death. One in which your heart stops beating and you no longer take breaths of oxygen and the other in which your name is no longer spoken or heard and your story is no longer told. The second death scares me much more than the first. Be worth talking about and never underestimate your impact on others. I’ve learned that we can change the world in the smallest of ways, it just requires faith and determination.

I continue to have faith in humanity and I know that others do too. I see it everywhere.  One of my favorite poets, Maya Angelou said, “We are all still so innocent that a person who is apt to be murdered believes that the murderer, just before he puts the final wrench on his throat, will have enough compassion to give him one sweet cup of water.”

To be able to trust that humans are truly good is profound. When I get overwhelmed by all of the bad in the world, I think about the faith in humanity that circles and dances all around me. Even though many of my beliefs may change with the tide, the rock that I stand on is the belief in humanity and my need to serve it.

From My High Horse

I grew up in a family of independent, empowered women. My immediate family consists of my sister, my mom, my father and myself so it is safe to say that the women usually have the final say.  Growing up, my father would never let me believe that I was any less than someone else, especially a boy.  If a boy ever messed with me, my dad just told me to knock ‘em in the nose.  In my world, gender inequality was something of the past.

Subconsciously, I brought this belief with me to Senegal. I knew that women had a much different status here in Senegal than in the U.S., but I suppose I thought being an American exempted me from that cultural implication.  I could not possibly comprehend being considered less simply because I was a woman.

The host father of GCY fellow, Madeleine Balchan, has a horse that he only uses during harvest season. When harvest season ended, I asked him if I could ride it. Without a second thought, he said, “Of course!” So one day in the afternoon I went over to his house where he was waiting with a barebacked horse with a bridle around its head. He simply told me to jump on and then watched me ride off.

The sun was setting and the temperature was perfect. I was on top of the world, oblivious that I was currently creating controversy.  The first villagers I rode past were three men who immediately told me that a woman riding a horse is bad. They shook their heads at me and said, “Dow na ci faas pour goor rekk (Riding horses is for men only).” I didn’t take them seriously and simply retorted with a joke and continued on my way. Soon, I had a giant following of little kids. When one of my little brothers saw me, his face lit up and he started chanting my Senegalese name, “Matel, Matel, Matel.” A little girl wanted to jump up on the horse and ride with me. I was the lead in a parade of uproar. Then, I began to see women and men peek out of their compounds and shake their heads in disapproval.

The moment of true realization was when I passed an old woman who was on her way to the market. With a distorted grimace on her face she started wagging her finger at me angrily and scolding me in sharp, rapid fire Wolof. The words felt like they could actually cut me. My heart sank into my stomach. I became nauseous, embarrassed. I wanted off the horse immediately.  I felt like I was going to throw up. I quickly jumped off the horse and returned it to the owner.

I caught a quick glance at all my followers, the smiling children who had no idea why a woman riding a horse would be wrong. Equality exists in the minds of children, but where does it go?  I thought about the little girl who wanted to ride with me. I knew someday, someone will tell her what a woman can and can’t do.

I knew the entire village was talking about me. I could hear my name whispered. I dreaded walking home. Finally, I gathered the courage to make the journey through the criticisms. I had almost made it to my house before a group of women called me over. I grudgingly walked to where they were sitting. One asked me if the rumors were true, if I had ridden a horse today. I answered yes. Before continuing on my way I shook all of their hands in a line. A family friend who often comes to visit my house and always greets me was at the end of the line. When I extended my hand to greet her she swiftly pulled her hand away, out of reach and snapped, “Lan nga defoon, baxul (What you did was bad).”

As I walked home, my feelings slowly transformed from embarrassment and shock to anger. I thought about all the difficult work my host sisters do. The way they rise with the sun, scrub laundry, cook and clean. Last week, one of my sisters had a baby and only an hour later, walked home and was back to cooking. Of course I had heard of gender inequality, but I had never experienced it so directly.

I keep thinking about the little girl who wanted to ride the horse. She will probably never get to.

When the Sun Sets

My soul always sinks
With the sun
All of those oranges and pinks
Take my joy and run

Then the moon comes
With a lonely song
And my heart hums
Along

Sometimes it just makes me want to die
But instead I lie
Curl up into a ball
And stare at the wall

I wonder how
All of the wow
Is able to coexist
With the long list

Of terrible, bad and ugly.

How can
The human
Who watches the magnificent sunset
Still have a heart wet

With evil
Able to steal and kill.

When will
Beauty overcome the bad?
I’m waiting until
That day I am no longer sad.

And no longer hurt
For everything living upon the Earth’s dirt.

The Gap Year That is Filling the Gaps

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

As I write this now, I am sitting at a beat-up wooden desk in an elementary classroom in rural Senegal, West Africa. I am receiving sly looks of curiosityand envy from young students as I write with my ballpoint pen on white lined paper. These students only have worn workbooks, flimsy chalkboards and a nub of chalk.  Their school has no electricity or running water, no bathrooms or playgrounds.

Yet, for the past hour, I have watched them in awe as they eagerly raise their chalky hands to answer questions posed by the teacher or confidentially walk across the cracked concrete floor to face the class and give small speeches in French (their second language). Those steps they take to reach the front of the classroom are only a few of numerous they had to take today. Many of them have to walk several miles just to get to school. These are students who love to learn.

A few thousand miles away, in the most powerful economy in the world, the United States, students sit, half-awake in tiled, well-lit, air-conditioned classrooms.  On the East side of El Paso, my hometown, there are several new schools including the technologically-advanced Eastlake High School, which boasts several all-Macintosh computer labs and student access to a collection of iPads.  On the West side, Canutillo High School inarguably has one of the most beautiful campuses, including an impressive football stadium.  Regardless of when the school was built, where it’s located in the country, or how much money was pumped into it, all American schools unfortunately have something in common: apathetic students.

Despite America’s global power, our country holds one of the lowest ratings in education. We recognize that we are behind, but little is done to make our curriculum more effective.

This year, rather than heading off to college after graduation, I chose to take a gap year because I knew that my high school, Franklin High School, had prepared me well for college, but what about the real world? My AP classes consisted of English, American government and American Macro-Economics.  America, America, America. My education had deprived me of global citizenship.

I will admit, that I was one of those students who dreaded getting out of bed in the morning to go to school. Besides my extracurriculars, I took no interest in my classes. It took leaving the classroom, stepping out of academia for a while to realize that education can be so much more than tests and essays. Coming to Africa to work in my village’s school, I thought I was going to face students who have so much less than students in the U.S., but actually they have so much more. They have a desire, a passion to learn. They want to get up in the morning, and are willing to walk several miles to get to school. They believe that they can actually do something important with their education.

It is difficult to engage a student who doesn’t find relevance in the material. It is time for American classrooms to bring the curriculum into the 21st century. We still have students reading A Tale of Two Cities when there are much more pertinent books, like Ishmael by Daniel Quinn and Half the Sky by Nick Kristoff, which I wasn’t introduced to until after I left the classroom.

We are conditioned to believe that education is simply something we must attain in order to get a job so that we can make money. Students need something more to work for.  All throughout high school the goal is to get into a decent college and then once there, the goal transitions to getting a good paying job. We must read all the right classics, take all the required tests and know how to structure an essay, but ask a student a current events question or where Senegal, Africa is and they won’t have the slightest clue. I had no idea where Senegal was until I journeyed here myself.

One of the most important lesson I have taken from this year is that education can be so much more. It is a way to exercise your curiosity, discover our world and better yourself. By taking a ‘year off’ to live and work in a developing country, I have rediscovered my passion to learn. I have found my place in the world as a global citizen. Now, with my new global perspective, my college education will be more relevant and valuable and I know that I have much more to strive for than just a good paying job.

When the Water Stops

After about four days with no shower, I start to really smell. My skin becomes darker with caked dirt, and I am forced to re-wear filthy clothes and turn socks inside out.

The water has stopped running.

At least once a week, I go to turn the handle on the spigot in the yard and nothing will come. Not even a trickle. For unknown reasons, the water remains underground. When this happens, my family, without blinking an eye, become like camels, living off the little water they have stored for such circumstances. They drink little and use even less.

When the water magically re-appears, my family doesn’t hesitate to refill the big containers that sit in our yard. They must always keep a supply of water on hand. This practice of rationing, while unsafe, is necessary. Standing water is more likely to be dangerous to drink, but the villagers must be prepared for when the water stops. Reusing water and washing hands less often obviously can lead to sickness, but what other option is there when you have nothing to with which to wash your hands?

Without a doubt, my village is better off than they were five years ago, when they had no running water and had to pull it up in buckets from deep, dangerous wells, but there is still a level of constant uncertainty on when water will be available.

The majority of Americans take 10-20 minute showers, use washing machines, dishwashers and leave the sink running when brushing their teeth without a second thought.  Rarely is the preciousness of water understood or considered; we take it for granted.

Frequently it is forgotten that water is a source of life. Because of the temperamental nature of the village water, my family faces this fact every day. In my village, everyone is a natural water conservationist. Water that is used for washing hands at mealtime is also used to wash the dishes. Laundry water is used to clean the latrine. Dishwater is given to the sheep to drink. Everyone uses less than five gallons for their bucket showers, while much of the rest of the world uses 30 gallons or more.  When the water isn’t running, the sheets don’t get washed, fewer showers are taken and Attaaya, a favorite tea, isn’t served after lunch or dinner. Sacrifices are made for something that the rest of the world insatiably consumes without responsibility.

My family will probably never experience a hot shower, a washing machine or a dishwasher, not to mention a bubble bath or a dip in a swimming pool—commodities and luxuries I took for granted before. Now, when I travel to Dakar and get a hot shower, I can only think about my family.

When I must leave my village and travel back to America in May, I know that I will never forget the sound of my entire village screaming and cheering when the water comes back on after being off for days.

 

Prayer Call

My host mother doing her midday prayer.

Early morning prayer call
They get out of bed and then fall
With their foreheads to the sand.
Then with their hand
Finger a holy string of beads
On which their soul feeds.
They pray for strength
Not knowing the length
Of the coming day
Or what it will pay.
Only hoping
For the ability of coping
And to make it at least
To the final soul feast,
The fifth prayer call.
Where again, they fall
To thank God for his glory
And for continuing their story

Laundry Day

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

The women in my family had washed and hung their clothes before I had even woken. They left sleep behind at prayer call, six in the morning, when the sun had only kissed the sky and not yet embraced it in a hug, When I climbed out of bed onto the sand speckled, cracked concrete floor, the sun had already outstretched its rays and curled its fingers around Senegal, scorching everything with its grip. I had only one clean outfit, a pair of navy blue kaki capris and an Andy-Wharholed, Obama t-shirt laying on the single shelf that was designated to me. After putting on the last of my clean clothes, leaving the shelf bare, I decided that it had to be laundry day.

I gathered my red, dirt-stained clothes and took them out to the sandy yard. I found a big purple bucket and two makeshift buckets made out of empty gasoline jugs and filled them with tap water. Orange water spurted from the spigot, filled with minerals and iron that would normally be filtered out in the States. In one of the buckets I soaked all of my clothes in the murky water. Anything that I had that was white was immediately tie-dyed orange and brown. The next bucket I dropped soap in and the final bucket was for rinsing.  I took each piece of clothing, grasping it with my palms and scrubbed it between my knuckles. The creases of my fingers slowly gave way to wrinkled, wet sores, which have now scabbed over from constant chafing. It took me a total of two hours in the hot sun, up to my elbows in water, to clean each article of clothing. The women in my family laughed at my poor washing methods. They scrub between their hands, squirting soapy water with the same perfection it takes to milk a cow. I awkwardly rub cloth together with my knuckles, unable to spray water from the fabric the way they do.

After the washing was done, I rung all the water out by twisting the clothes in my hands until calices began to form. I carefully carried my clothes and clipped them to the line. They probably weren’t really that clean, but the idea of them having been in soap and water was enough for me.

When the sun choked all dampness out of the hanging clothes, the women tore them down from the line, piled them in their arms and then dumped them on a mat under the big tree in our front yard. We all sat down and folded the garments. After folding my starched, stiff clothes I helped with theirs. I picked up each piece with caution as if they would crumble in my hands. Their clothes are thin and overused. While folding, I fingered the multiple holes that cover them. The kids’ clothes reminded me of the cheap doll outfits I used for my toys when I was a child. They are faded and worn, seams screaming for help, frayed at every edge. I looked at my pile of well-sown, sturdy clothes and cringed when I look back at theirs. Most of my family members only have three outfits that they wear all week.

Even though they dress in the same tattered outfits, it is the last thing you notice because they also wear their pride, accentuated with a smile.

Lost in Translation

While I tell these stories in English, I live my life now in Wolof.  My struggle to translate life to language seems impossible; I feel like a typist who holds her hands over the keys slightly off, the words coming out garbled.

I am lost in translation.

Like an infant, I am in a new world, surrounded by new words. Unable to think in Wolof, I am no longer using language for myself. I am overwhelmed, filled up with emotions and thoughts I need to express, but can’t until I learn the words. In my village, I can’t feel, I can’t think, without Wolof.

Sometimes I am Leona’s magic eight ball, an object that curious villagers shake with their questions. I can only answer yes or no.  I am a parrot, repeating the simple words I hear. The women in my family pull me into our grass-hut kitchen and point to things as they cook and announce their names over and over until I memorize them. I take these Wolof words into my mouth like foreign foods; it is an acquired taste. My family sits around and asks me questions and then teaches me how to respond. Everyone goes silent as I repeat what I’ve learned in my English-stained Wolof.  They mock me and laugh.  I’m the child, the magic eight ball, the parrot, the village clown.

I am in this lonely space between jumbled consonants and vowels. I have always used language to understand and connect with others, but now I have been reduced to gestures and charades. I am learning to read an entirely new, rudimentary human form of body language, facial expressions and movements hoping that eventually I will be able to take words and connect them to movements and objects like sticky notes.

My host brother told my team leader Anta that I was so reserved, quiet and polite. I told her to tell him that he better take advantage of it, because when I learn the language all hell’s going to break lose. He looked into my eyes and laughed. Every day I am becoming less silent.

Today, a month after joining the village, I found myself properly greeting a man and answering his questions in full sentences. Before he turned to leave, he said, “Degg nga Wolof bu bax.”

“You understand Wolof well.”

Jang la ndank ndak.

Learning slowly, slowly.

 

 

 

My Sandbox

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Picked up from the pavement of Dakar, I was dropped off in the sun-soaked sand of my new village on November 2. Curling my toes to hold on to my sandals, I waded through the wind-blown earth until I reached my house, the home of the Ndiaye family, a last name I now claim as my own. I shook hands with my yayy and baay (mom and dad), repeating the few greetings I had memorized in Wolof. I followed my older brother as he gave me the grand tour. He showed me the three rooms that will really matter while I’m here: my bedroom, the bathroom and the shower.

My bedroom is a tin-walled cave that I share with three other people. On the walls, blue fabric hangs from the ceiling. There is one king-sized bed, two bed-side tables and a dresser. My bags were stuffed in a corner, blended in with all the other items in the room, as if they had been there all along.

The bathroom is an outhouse with a hole in the ground and a jug of water in the corner. Instead of toilet paper you are expected to use your left hand. The shower is a concrete room; the walls have three nails to hang your clothes and are frequented by roaches and crickets. Replacing a showerhead is a 5-gallon, plastic bucket that you fill with water at the spigot across the yard.

Completely overwhelmed, I walked back to the central spread of sand that functions as a living room—a beach, without an ocean. My family told me to sit, so I fell down in the sand and let the grains cling to my sweaty skin. “What am I doing here?” was all I could think. I felt like I had been tossed into an hourglass, suffocating from the heat, a mere particle in the world, buried in time. I scooped up sand and let it run through my fingers and thought about how there were 22 days until I got to see the other fellows again. This would be my home for the next 173 days. I had 180 days until I could see my family again. As I sifted through the sand, I could feel the minutes crawling. Each grain of sand represented a day away from home.

That night, I sat under the night sky sorting peanuts, surrounded by 25 of my new family members who were talking and laughing in a language I didn’t understand. I gazed up at the moon, the same astrological sphere that lit up the sky back home. The cool air surrounded me and I could feel heat pushing its way through from the little coal fed stove my family was using to make attaya, a type of tea. I watched the glowing coals, as warmth wiggled through them; the embers were a dance floor for the swaying flames.

I locked eyes with one of my sisters. She smiled in a language that I understood. Suddenly, there was no time. I realized that these six months were a blessing. When you are doing something you love and your whole heart is in it, time becomes unimportant. I am finally living my dreams. They are beating in my chest and flowing through my veins. I am here, living now.

Life is prolonged for those who live it.

When all was quiet, I locked myself in the shower room. I dipped a cup in my bucket and poured the murky water over my body, washing every last grain of sand from my skin.

That night in my new home, I slept like a baby. The next morning I stepped out of my room, curious as a 5-year-old, into my sandbox, eager to play.

Dancing Naked

Dancing on stage with musician YoussouN'Dour

I keep having the same dream.  The sun is in my eyes, but in its glare I can see people staring and pointing at me.  Panic stricken, I look down and realize I am naked, exposed.  Then I wake up.

But often, I’m not sure that I have actually wakened. When walking to school, I get stares, sometimes comments. I bite the inside of my cheek to make sure I’m awake. I can feel the pain.

On our fifth day in Senegal, we were dragged to the nitty-gritty, living, breathing downtown Dakar. In the confines of markets, paved streets and shoppers you cannot escape the constant plead and beg of vendors. Whirling around you are the intoxicating smell of gas emissions, the sights of brightly colored cloth and the sounds of people bargaining in foreign languages. It is complete sensory overload.

When getting onto the bus to go home, I was pushed and shoved up the stairs. Overwhelmed, I tried to successfully reach the bus, while keeping my balance and protecting my belongings. Right before reaching the bus doors I looked down to see that my purse had been unzipped and was now missing my wallet. I yelled out words no one could understand as I watched the thief snake through the bus and exit on the other side with my money and ID.

My voice cracking, I tried explaining that I couldn’t pay my bus fare because I had no money. I could feel the looks of pity, curiosity and sympathy. In a sea of dark skin and whispered words in Wolof and French, I was a blonde, blue-eyed, white girl, crying and cursing in English. I felt like a target. Bare, lost, unprotected.

Through my tears and swearing someone understood what had happened, and in a matter of minutes, the entire bus knew my story. After mustering up the courage, a Senegalese man came up to me and asked if I was okay. I shook my head. With a softness in his eyes, he explained to me that Senegal is not a bad place; it just has a few bad apples. He kept repeating, “Senegal is a good country.”

I believe him.

Last night we went dancing.  Everyone packed together and utilized whatever piece of the dance floor they were given to express whatever they were feeling. The room was hot and the floor was slick with sweat. There was this moment when I just let go. I embraced that I was out of place and just danced. Suddenly, I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I was breathing the present.  Yes, people were looking at me, but they wanted me there. They welcomed me.

I don’t have to fit in to belong.

When I finally made it home at 5:30 in the morning, my head hit the pillow and I fell fast asleep. I don’t remember dreaming, but if I did, I’m certain I was either fully clothed, or simply dancing naked.

At a YoussouN'Dour Concert