bostonThe late afternoon sun was shining the day I arrived back in Boston. The Charles River was anything but still with dozens of rowers gliding across its surface. Basking in the good weather, people were out in droves.
Harvard Square was teeming with students donning running shorts or traipsing over the brick sidewalks, iced coffee in hand. I typically love such days, but the whole scene seemed a bit bizarre.
I turned to my mom and said, unthinkingly, “Wow, Cambridge is so white.”
In talking to my Senegalese family and friends, I had always taken a great deal of pride in relating that America is not defined by any one culture, skin color, language, or religion. I tried to translate “melting pot” into French. And even Wolof (I only got so far as “pot”). However, as we crawled through Harvard Square, not a single black person was to be found. Never before had skin color been so very important. Or, perhaps it was the absence of color.
Last weekend, I wound up in New York City to visit friends, family, and interview for a job at a non-profit. The non-profit’s offices were located on Wall Street.
I rode the six train downtown. An African American woman raised her voice over the subway’s roar; she announced that she was a published poet and a direct descendent of the Great Malcolm X. She had some small booklets for sale. Struggling to maintain her balance, she teetered up and down the car offering the booklets to anyone who extended a hand or didn’t avert their eyes.
I looked at her curiously and she pressed two booklets into my hand: Affirmations for the African American Child and A Brief History of Malcolm X.
I flipped through the booklets, especially intrigued by the Affirmations for the African American child. Afraid that I would have to step off the train before returning the booklets to their author, I glanced about the car.
I realized that I was one of two white passengers. A grizzled old man being the other. The car was not particularly full, but it contained an impressive range of ethnicities. Elated by this discovery, I then spent the rest of the train ride employing the language of my ultra politically correct upbringing to convince myself that I was being ridiculous. Why polarize, generalize, draw lines where they don’t exist, etc. etc?
The train reached my stop and I emerged from the city’s damp depths to a blustery wind tunnel of skyscrapers. I hurried past marbled lobbies with cathedral ceilings to the end of the block and stopped short, affixed to the sidewalk by a small panic attack. Investment bankers clipped my shoulders, their trench coats billowing behind pressed suits. The hustle and bustle hardly disturbed me. It was the massive buildings whose facades formed an inexorable gauntlet. And it was the air, heavy not with rain, but money. Money. Money. Money. Time is money, I reminded myself as the foot soldiers of money swept by, indistinct.
I stumbled into an Au Bon Pain and perched on a spindly chair facing a narrow counter along a wall of glass. I briefly considered those I knew in the city and who could come downtown to coax me from my seat. But, though I love to dwell in the domain of the worst-case scenario, I decided that a little personal pep talk was all that was needed.
While in Senegal, I had come to better understand how the US’s influence is truly ubiquitous and well, for lack of a better word, pernicious. In politics, business, and culture, our lives are on display. Those whose eyes registered money signs when they learned my nationality were not entirely mistaken in their beliefs.
How fortunate I am to have been born in a country where such resources exist, where such wealth is possible. This country, reveling in its power, is certainly not without its flaws. But I carry a US passport and an education, the only tools one supposedly needs to fully engage in our democracy, or capitalism, for that matter. So why try to escape these truths, these privileges, when I could make the most of them? Why allow the bad guys to hoard my country’s assets? Why not milk America for all its worth in an attempt to assure certain standards in health and legal protection for citizens worldwide?
And there I was, at the center of it all. The emblem, as we know all too well, of America’s wealth.
I watched shiny black shoes smack sidewalk puddles and thought of my father in Yoff. A policeman, he worked odd hours, oftentimes arriving home late at night. While his dinner was being heated he would polish his shoes in front of the TV. Every night. I viewed this ritual as futile. Never able to check my mental “why?”, I knew all too well the fate of those spotless shoes the minute they hit the sand streets.
However, gazing out at the filled sidewalks, I reversed my position. Why not? Everyone is entitled to dignity, the choice of how to best display it is the choice of the individual. I then remembered the shoeshine stand I had glimpsed in one of the many gilded lobbies.
But that’s Wall Street, I thought.
No, this is Wall Street, I corrected myself.
emzea
The Subway
I have gotten into the habit of purging. Not the same kind of purging I did in Senegal post bacteria ingestion. No, now back at home, I feel stifled by the clutter of my belongings and my room on the whole, a shrine to my childhood. I’m currently in the midst of paring down. Clothes and art supplies are being goodwilled, magazines recycled, and books sorted. Trash bags have proven supremely useful in these organizational endeavors and I have now filled many a bag.
However, the other day, the stack of sleek black bags I had grabbed from under the kitchen sink ran out. I scoured the house for more and came across a box that proclaimed, “NEW! NOUVEAU! NEUVO!” in block letters set against a detailed picture of the trash bag’s new design.
I turned the box over a couple of times, studying the diagrams and reading the print that was clearly supposed to make one ecstatic about the bags’ new look. These bags did not sit well with me. I was particularly puzzled by the claim that “GLAD® ForceFlexTM bags help keep trash out of your way.” Begrudgingly (and without any sense as to why I felt any resentment towards the bags), I filled a bag with clothes and watched it stretch with the weight. Big deal, I thought.
That evening, as I was rushing off to meet a friend, one of my Jesuit neighbors pulled into the adjacent driveway. I live next to a very large yellow house owned by a divinity school that may or may not be affiliated with Harvard. The residents of the house rotate regularly, but we have come to know the current residents fairly well.
We greeted each other and mutually established the fact that yes, counter to my mother’s fears, I was indeed back in one piece. Apparently he had received the address for my blog and, dutiful neighbor that he is, checked it out. He asked how the transition was going and I replied, “surprisingly well.”
He related his experience of visiting a US grocery store for the first time after an extended stay in Haiti. I admitted that I had yet to breach that sphere of Western Life.
“What is difficult is the abundance of choice,” he said thoughtfully.
I nodded my assent. “I’m having enough trouble as is with trash bags.”
He gave me a quizzical look.
And I then proceeded, though previously unaware of my convictions, to launch into a diatribe about my encounter with the new and improved trash bags.
“Trash in Senegal goes on the ground you walk—sand, sidewalk, street….it’s all landfill. Or, within individual households, it goes in a small bucket. Tied up in the tiny wafer thin bags from the market. Collected once a week if you are lucky enough to live in a developed urban area. Burned or buried or not. But even though the streets were filthy, trash was not generated at nearly the same level as here. All containers and bottles are reused. Nothing comes with all of this ridiculous extra packaging. No paper towels….” I rattled on. My neighbor listened patiently.
“And here they are revamping trash bags. One of the single consumer products that, up until this point, never required innovation to increase or maintain demand. Millions were probably spent to design, manufacture and market those trash bags. Not high fashion. Just some marketing ploy to launch a new ad campaign. So much money to redesign trash bags….” I trailed off, embarrassed by my loquaciousness.
“If that makes any sense at all.” I tried. “Maybe the transition has been a bit more difficult than I had imagined….”
And my neighbor, with all of his priestly (jesuitly?) wisdom said, “You know, that is something you could write about.”
I laughed and we chatted a bit longer before parting ways.
However, the other day, the stack of sleek black bags I had grabbed from under the kitchen sink ran out. I scoured the house for more and came across a box that proclaimed, “NEW! NOUVEAU! NEUVO!” in block letters set against a detailed picture of the trash bag’s new design.
I turned the box over a couple of times, studying the diagrams and reading the print that was clearly supposed to make one ecstatic about the bags’ new look. These bags did not sit well with me. I was particularly puzzled by the claim that “GLAD® ForceFlexTM bags help keep trash out of your way.” Begrudgingly (and without any sense as to why I felt any resentment towards the bags), I filled a bag with clothes and watched it stretch with the weight. Big deal, I thought.
That evening, as I was rushing off to meet a friend, one of my Jesuit neighbors pulled into the adjacent driveway. I live next to a very large yellow house owned by a divinity school that may or may not be affiliated with Harvard. The residents of the house rotate regularly, but we have come to know the current residents fairly well.
We greeted each other and mutually established the fact that yes, counter to my mother’s fears, I was indeed back in one piece. Apparently he had received the address for my blog and, dutiful neighbor that he is, checked it out. He asked how the transition was going and I replied, “surprisingly well.”
He related his experience of visiting a US grocery store for the first time after an extended stay in Haiti. I admitted that I had yet to breach that sphere of Western Life.
“What is difficult is the abundance of choice,” he said thoughtfully.
I nodded my assent. “I’m having enough trouble as is with trash bags.”
He gave me a quizzical look.
And I then proceeded, though previously unaware of my convictions, to launch into a diatribe about my encounter with the new and improved trash bags.
“Trash in Senegal goes on the ground you walk—sand, sidewalk, street….it’s all landfill. Or, within individual households, it goes in a small bucket. Tied up in the tiny wafer thin bags from the market. Collected once a week if you are lucky enough to live in a developed urban area. Burned or buried or not. But even though the streets were filthy, trash was not generated at nearly the same level as here. All containers and bottles are reused. Nothing comes with all of this ridiculous extra packaging. No paper towels….” I rattled on. My neighbor listened patiently.
“And here they are revamping trash bags. One of the single consumer products that, up until this point, never required innovation to increase or maintain demand. Millions were probably spent to design, manufacture and market those trash bags. Not high fashion. Just some marketing ploy to launch a new ad campaign. So much money to redesign trash bags….” I trailed off, embarrassed by my loquaciousness.
“If that makes any sense at all.” I tried. “Maybe the transition has been a bit more difficult than I had imagined….”
And my neighbor, with all of his priestly (jesuitly?) wisdom said, “You know, that is something you could write about.”
I laughed and we chatted a bit longer before parting ways.
Home Sick
Home Sick
This past week I have been enjoying semi-celebrity status. I walk through Harvard Square, my old stomping grounds, and pop inside a storefront door to be met by shrieks and open arms. A hero’s homecoming, my existence is trumpeted and my feats abroad lauded.
This really occurred just once. At my old job. Pre-Senegalese adventurer, I was a pen salesgirl. A bad one at that. But, nevertheless, I was happy to find my old boss and favorite co-worker still obsessively adjusting the store’s displays when I stopped by last week.
-Emma!
-Yes!
-You’re back!
-Yes!
My favorite co-worker embraced me.
-How was it?
-Wonderful.
Always uneasy with this answer but unable to embellish it, I am quick to turn the tables.
-How’s school?
-Almost done.
My old boss sauntered over and clenched my hand.
-So good to see you again.
-And you.
Something changed in his dark eyes and I struggled to recognize it as I had previously deemed him incapable of possessing it: emotion.
-Your mother. She was a here. He said in his lilting Italian accent. She was a worried about you. Concern. It was concern.
Haha. I laughed. And the now reflexive answer:
-Yes. She and the rest of Cambridge have made that quite clear. I suppose I was too far away for comfort.
This exchange has become routine, understandable in some circumstances (neighbors, my mom’s close friends and co-workers), less understandable in others (the masseuse, the hairdresser, the florist, the managers at the restaurant I used to hostess at…admittedly a favorite restaurant of my mom’s), and then completely baffling, as was the case with those with whom I worked a job that gave me little to no pleasure.
Though I had initially been able to laugh off what I imagined to have been my mother’s response when asked about her wayward daughter—She gets sick all of the time! I’m really worried about her—I began to suspect that these encounters were perhaps not quite so lighthearted as I bid my retail cohorts farewell and noted their eerie smiles.
Had my mom, induced by maternal paranoia, gone on a Cambridge crusade of sorts to contact all my acquaintances past and present and warn them that The Dark Continent (I hate that expression!), would, in all likelihood, swallow me whole? Alien bacteria would ravage my body, the equatorial heat would slowly fry my body from the outside in, parasites would eventually outnumber tissue cells…the details were unimportant. I would be survived by both parents and if there was any interest in creating a pre-emptive support group to brace her for my imminent demise, she could be reached at this number.
For about a week, I did not confront the perpetrator. I just added a tick to my mental tally every time an acquaintance gaped at my existence. My robust, unscathed, smiling, laughing, breathing existence.
Then this past weekend, a visit to my grandma finally gave me occasion to address this misconception. When my grandma, for the fifth time in two hours, turned to me, touched my arm, and pronounced that she was just so glad to have me back in this country, in one piece, I gave her a half smile. Then turning to my mom, commented that, I really resent the notion that one drops dead upon entering Africa.
-Emma, you were really sick. I was worried.
-No more sick than any other first time visitor.
-You were very sick.
-No, not really.
-Yes.
-No.
-Look, all I know is that when you tell me that there is no place you would rather be than at home, in your bed watching Sex and the City, I get worried. You don’t say things like that. You were really sick.
I laughed. My mom looked hurt. Indeed, I remembered uttering those words.
My body, at 102 degrees Fahrenheit, had found no respite in the midday heat. My head had taken on the weight of the world. My mouth dry. My stomach empty and churning. I had made what felt like a trans-Saharan trek to the Shell Station to by some too-expensive Gatorade which I had promptly vomited. My bedroom was windowless, making me exceedingly hot. Body-racking chills had prevented sleep from coming easily if at all. I had been thoroughly miserable. And, for the first time in nineteen years, had felt pangs of longing, longing to be at home. I had fired off an email begging that my mom call me. And she did.
I had never even used the word homesick. But after deliriously murmuring something about wanting to be at home, I remember the silence at the other end of the line.
-Well, I guess going halfway around the World is what it takes for you to feel homesick.
-Homesick?
-You are homesick, Pumpkin.
-I think I’m just really sick.
A former camp counselor who had to expound my approach towards homesickness for concerned parents one too many times, I always detected, in most parents, hints that they actually hoped their beloved daughter would feel a tinge of homesickness.
But, up until this point, I had never given my poor parents any reason to believe that their beloved daughter had any homebody tendencies whatsoever. Sleepovers were always eagerly anticipated and I often attempted to extend my stay an extra night. At age ten, I went to sleep-away camp for the first time. When my mom picked me up at the end of my two-week stay, I cried all of the way home. And pouted, constantly on the brink of tears, until my parents said that I could go to camp for a full month the following year. But even month-long stays could not satiate me and I would always fall into a post-camp slump, crying bitterly and pouring over photographs for the week that followed my return.
My sophomore year of high school I became resolute that I should spend some portion if not all of my junior year “away.” I toyed with the idea of going to France for the entire year, but after deciding that I hated French, opted to spend my fall semester at a school in Vermont.
I enjoy a happy home life and my impulse towards “away” is not by any means driven by an aversion to home but, instead, an innate curiosity about what lies beyond home and all that is just so….familiar
Familiar. The word used to stick in my throat, often uttered with some profane prefix. The notion of the familiar, I feared, was destined to stagnate my being, drive me into an existence where I would amount to nothing more than a drone—overly secure, not living but mimicking actions long observed. However, I have come to cultivate an appreciation for the familiar.
Living in Senegal for four months was a constant barrage to my every sense, a maze work of challenges with no fixed point of start or finish. For those times when I needed to retreat into myself, I constructed small havens of familiarity—my room, the sunny roof, the boutique around the corner where the little boy behind the counter knew my name and penchant for sugar, often slipping me a few tinfoiled chocolates with whatever else I requested from the shelves.
At home, the regions of familiar are not pockets but vast plains. One may pass entire days, weeks, and (God forbid) months in seamless routine. Daily actions require little to no thought. The Times can be found in the box at the end of the street. But only mornings before it sells out. Oranges at the corner store. The 77 bus runs down Mass Ave. It is impolite to cut someone in line. It is polite to smile, make eye contact, and say thank you.
At home, one’s lexicon for living is not constantly being revisited and revised.
And, for finite periods of time, this can be reassuring.
This past week I have been enjoying semi-celebrity status. I walk through Harvard Square, my old stomping grounds, and pop inside a storefront door to be met by shrieks and open arms. A hero’s homecoming, my existence is trumpeted and my feats abroad lauded.
This really occurred just once. At my old job. Pre-Senegalese adventurer, I was a pen salesgirl. A bad one at that. But, nevertheless, I was happy to find my old boss and favorite co-worker still obsessively adjusting the store’s displays when I stopped by last week.
-Emma!
-Yes!
-You’re back!
-Yes!
My favorite co-worker embraced me.
-How was it?
-Wonderful.
Always uneasy with this answer but unable to embellish it, I am quick to turn the tables.
-How’s school?
-Almost done.
My old boss sauntered over and clenched my hand.
-So good to see you again.
-And you.
Something changed in his dark eyes and I struggled to recognize it as I had previously deemed him incapable of possessing it: emotion.
-Your mother. She was a here. He said in his lilting Italian accent. She was a worried about you. Concern. It was concern.
Haha. I laughed. And the now reflexive answer:
-Yes. She and the rest of Cambridge have made that quite clear. I suppose I was too far away for comfort.
This exchange has become routine, understandable in some circumstances (neighbors, my mom’s close friends and co-workers), less understandable in others (the masseuse, the hairdresser, the florist, the managers at the restaurant I used to hostess at…admittedly a favorite restaurant of my mom’s), and then completely baffling, as was the case with those with whom I worked a job that gave me little to no pleasure.
Though I had initially been able to laugh off what I imagined to have been my mother’s response when asked about her wayward daughter—She gets sick all of the time! I’m really worried about her—I began to suspect that these encounters were perhaps not quite so lighthearted as I bid my retail cohorts farewell and noted their eerie smiles.
Had my mom, induced by maternal paranoia, gone on a Cambridge crusade of sorts to contact all my acquaintances past and present and warn them that The Dark Continent (I hate that expression!), would, in all likelihood, swallow me whole? Alien bacteria would ravage my body, the equatorial heat would slowly fry my body from the outside in, parasites would eventually outnumber tissue cells…the details were unimportant. I would be survived by both parents and if there was any interest in creating a pre-emptive support group to brace her for my imminent demise, she could be reached at this number.
For about a week, I did not confront the perpetrator. I just added a tick to my mental tally every time an acquaintance gaped at my existence. My robust, unscathed, smiling, laughing, breathing existence.
Then this past weekend, a visit to my grandma finally gave me occasion to address this misconception. When my grandma, for the fifth time in two hours, turned to me, touched my arm, and pronounced that she was just so glad to have me back in this country, in one piece, I gave her a half smile. Then turning to my mom, commented that, I really resent the notion that one drops dead upon entering Africa.
-Emma, you were really sick. I was worried.
-No more sick than any other first time visitor.
-You were very sick.
-No, not really.
-Yes.
-No.
-Look, all I know is that when you tell me that there is no place you would rather be than at home, in your bed watching Sex and the City, I get worried. You don’t say things like that. You were really sick.
I laughed. My mom looked hurt. Indeed, I remembered uttering those words.
My body, at 102 degrees Fahrenheit, had found no respite in the midday heat. My head had taken on the weight of the world. My mouth dry. My stomach empty and churning. I had made what felt like a trans-Saharan trek to the Shell Station to by some too-expensive Gatorade which I had promptly vomited. My bedroom was windowless, making me exceedingly hot. Body-racking chills had prevented sleep from coming easily if at all. I had been thoroughly miserable. And, for the first time in nineteen years, had felt pangs of longing, longing to be at home. I had fired off an email begging that my mom call me. And she did.
I had never even used the word homesick. But after deliriously murmuring something about wanting to be at home, I remember the silence at the other end of the line.
-Well, I guess going halfway around the World is what it takes for you to feel homesick.
-Homesick?
-You are homesick, Pumpkin.
-I think I’m just really sick.
A former camp counselor who had to expound my approach towards homesickness for concerned parents one too many times, I always detected, in most parents, hints that they actually hoped their beloved daughter would feel a tinge of homesickness.
But, up until this point, I had never given my poor parents any reason to believe that their beloved daughter had any homebody tendencies whatsoever. Sleepovers were always eagerly anticipated and I often attempted to extend my stay an extra night. At age ten, I went to sleep-away camp for the first time. When my mom picked me up at the end of my two-week stay, I cried all of the way home. And pouted, constantly on the brink of tears, until my parents said that I could go to camp for a full month the following year. But even month-long stays could not satiate me and I would always fall into a post-camp slump, crying bitterly and pouring over photographs for the week that followed my return.
My sophomore year of high school I became resolute that I should spend some portion if not all of my junior year “away.” I toyed with the idea of going to France for the entire year, but after deciding that I hated French, opted to spend my fall semester at a school in Vermont.
I enjoy a happy home life and my impulse towards “away” is not by any means driven by an aversion to home but, instead, an innate curiosity about what lies beyond home and all that is just so….familiar
Familiar. The word used to stick in my throat, often uttered with some profane prefix. The notion of the familiar, I feared, was destined to stagnate my being, drive me into an existence where I would amount to nothing more than a drone—overly secure, not living but mimicking actions long observed. However, I have come to cultivate an appreciation for the familiar.
Living in Senegal for four months was a constant barrage to my every sense, a maze work of challenges with no fixed point of start or finish. For those times when I needed to retreat into myself, I constructed small havens of familiarity—my room, the sunny roof, the boutique around the corner where the little boy behind the counter knew my name and penchant for sugar, often slipping me a few tinfoiled chocolates with whatever else I requested from the shelves.
At home, the regions of familiar are not pockets but vast plains. One may pass entire days, weeks, and (God forbid) months in seamless routine. Daily actions require little to no thought. The Times can be found in the box at the end of the street. But only mornings before it sells out. Oranges at the corner store. The 77 bus runs down Mass Ave. It is impolite to cut someone in line. It is polite to smile, make eye contact, and say thank you.
At home, one’s lexicon for living is not constantly being revisited and revised.
And, for finite periods of time, this can be reassuring.
Color
All souvenirs seem less African, Loren wrote in her first post-homecoming email.
Indeed, ever since unpacking my bags, I have been tormented by the alarming incongruity of my new belongings. Of which there are many.
As couture was so very inexpensive in Senegal, I had several traditional and modern items of clothing made. My first foray into couture was my tiabas, a traditional outfit worn by young women composed of a long, tight skirt and a fitted tank top. Amazed by the way in which the clothes cradled my every curve, I soon realized the potential of tailored clothing. I became a sixth grade girl again, constantly doodling buxom yet slender figures donning the outfits of my heart’s desire. Only this time, my dreams were realized. Truth be told, I went a bit overboard. Imaging that I could be my own designer, I never got over the notion that a drawing and some simple measurements are really all that clothing requires.
I was excited to bring my new duds home and somehow incorporate them into the rest of my wardrobe. Laundry was one of my first post-homecoming tasks. Sorting out the vibrantly colored fabrics from the rest of my laundry was not hard. Tossed my new clothes into the washing machine. And then the dryer.
What emerged from this commonplace and supposedly benign process was not the same as what had entered. The colors had faded and ran. The material was wrinkled. The washing machine with its multiple cycles actually rinsed the garments so they were not starched with all-purpose soap. Emerging from a toasty dryer at the depths of my dank basement, they also lacked that sun baked feel produced from a day of line drying.
But the most discernable difference was that the clothes, even the modern ones, had lost their vitality. They were no longer striking or beautiful. It was as though I had attempted to bring home some tropical plant that had now withered and died in this alien climate.
I had also gone a bit textile mad. Unable to walk through Dakar’s vast textile markets without giving myself over to the bold patterns and colors, I had told myself that the fabric would undoubtedly find a place in my room.
Back at home, I reviewed all of my carefully selected textiles only to discover that they were just printed pieces of cotton that lacked any place in my surroundings. Homeless fabric.
The other day I got a haircut. My mom phoned from the hairdresser’s to just let me know that Yvonne could fit me in if I left the house pronto. A not so subtle hint that I could use some coiffing.
Split end free, I emerged from the hairdresser’s and glanced at the adjoining store. Low and behold, the store’s windows were filled with boubous and tiabas. Here, in a neighborhood I knew so well, was a store I had failed to notice. It was owned by a Ghanaian couple who confirmed that, yes, the store had been in existence for the last four or so years. I pulled my mom in and she eyed a purple outfit trimmed in the elaborate embroidery I had been careful to avoid in my couturing, knowing it be hard pressed to find a place in western fashion.
“Oh this is beautiful,” she gushed.
“You really think so?” I was inexplicably incredulous.
The price? $96.00.
I laughed aloud. “And that is a fixed price?” I asked the husband.
“Afraid so,” he said.
Indeed, ever since unpacking my bags, I have been tormented by the alarming incongruity of my new belongings. Of which there are many.
As couture was so very inexpensive in Senegal, I had several traditional and modern items of clothing made. My first foray into couture was my tiabas, a traditional outfit worn by young women composed of a long, tight skirt and a fitted tank top. Amazed by the way in which the clothes cradled my every curve, I soon realized the potential of tailored clothing. I became a sixth grade girl again, constantly doodling buxom yet slender figures donning the outfits of my heart’s desire. Only this time, my dreams were realized. Truth be told, I went a bit overboard. Imaging that I could be my own designer, I never got over the notion that a drawing and some simple measurements are really all that clothing requires.
I was excited to bring my new duds home and somehow incorporate them into the rest of my wardrobe. Laundry was one of my first post-homecoming tasks. Sorting out the vibrantly colored fabrics from the rest of my laundry was not hard. Tossed my new clothes into the washing machine. And then the dryer.
What emerged from this commonplace and supposedly benign process was not the same as what had entered. The colors had faded and ran. The material was wrinkled. The washing machine with its multiple cycles actually rinsed the garments so they were not starched with all-purpose soap. Emerging from a toasty dryer at the depths of my dank basement, they also lacked that sun baked feel produced from a day of line drying.
But the most discernable difference was that the clothes, even the modern ones, had lost their vitality. They were no longer striking or beautiful. It was as though I had attempted to bring home some tropical plant that had now withered and died in this alien climate.
I had also gone a bit textile mad. Unable to walk through Dakar’s vast textile markets without giving myself over to the bold patterns and colors, I had told myself that the fabric would undoubtedly find a place in my room.
Back at home, I reviewed all of my carefully selected textiles only to discover that they were just printed pieces of cotton that lacked any place in my surroundings. Homeless fabric.
The other day I got a haircut. My mom phoned from the hairdresser’s to just let me know that Yvonne could fit me in if I left the house pronto. A not so subtle hint that I could use some coiffing.
Split end free, I emerged from the hairdresser’s and glanced at the adjoining store. Low and behold, the store’s windows were filled with boubous and tiabas. Here, in a neighborhood I knew so well, was a store I had failed to notice. It was owned by a Ghanaian couple who confirmed that, yes, the store had been in existence for the last four or so years. I pulled my mom in and she eyed a purple outfit trimmed in the elaborate embroidery I had been careful to avoid in my couturing, knowing it be hard pressed to find a place in western fashion.
“Oh this is beautiful,” she gushed.
“You really think so?” I was inexplicably incredulous.
The price? $96.00.
I laughed aloud. “And that is a fixed price?” I asked the husband.
“Afraid so,” he said.
A couple weeks before I was set to arrive home, my mom sent an email alerting me to the fact that she would not be home on my planned date of arrival in Boston. The next day, I received an email from my dad noting that he too would be out of town when my plane was to touch Boston’s terra firma. Eventually, my parents compared notes and it was decided that I, only child and light of the universe, should receive a proper homecoming. The ticket was moved back a day and I would spend the extra night in a sweet little hotel in the middle of London, allowing me to squeeze in a visit to my favorite museum, the Tate Modern.
I never made it to the Tate Modern. Apparently egalitarianism abounds at Paris’ Charles De Gaulle Airport and, when five flights have converged at a Customs booth manned by two officers, priority is not given to those who have connecting flights. Despite my persistent harassment of the uniformed young Frenchman who stood by, eyeing the flood of travelers with a look of ennui, I had to wait like everyone else. Two hours spent on my feet talking presidential politics to the Cincinnatian behind me was just enough time to narrowly miss my flight.
With four hours to kill before the next flight, I did laps around the shops of the pearly terminal, stopping briefly in the pharmacy or mini-marché, before becoming overwhelmed and subsequently self-conscious. The bookstore was the only spot that sustained my attention. I finally settled at a small café and ordered a café au lait.
Americans were everywhere. Impudently speaking English. Their presence was jarring…grating, really, and I consciously deterred a creeping sense of estrangement from “my people.” Nursing my coffee, I decided that international airports exist outside the constructs of nationality, culture, or even locale. The structures themselves may as well float in the sky, planes docking into them as with space stations or ports. How the passengers would then reach their ultimate land-based destination was beyond my imagination.
I arrived in London fueled by several cups of coffee, a preservative pumped airplane pastry, and two hours of sleep. Over the past twenty-four plus hours. Yet this confluence of conditions produced the most amazing and sustained burst of energy. I was sure that I was bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and sharp as ever.
The hotel was located in the midst of the city’s most bustling, and touristy parts—the Times Square of London. As the cab wound its way about town, I became enthralled by orderly chaos that surrounded me. The masses appeared to move in prescribed patterns. Incredible.
The woman who ran front desk at the hotel had a decidedly French accent.
As I deposited my two huge bags by the desk, she looked at her book, “but how long are you staying?” Parisian.
I explained that I had actually just been in Africa, or rather Senegal, for four months and was on my way home.
“Ooooh,” she screeched. “I am so jealous…but you don’t have the tanned!”
I said something about fair skin, but she just shook her head.
“You were traveling?”
“Well, I did do a fair amount of traveling. But I was also studying Sustainable Development and…” I hesitated, “French.”
“Oh! You speak French!” She exclaimed. In French.
“No. Not really.” I said in English. I suddenly felt very tired and confused.
“I am French you know,” she said. In French. “I’m from Paris.”
I smiled. “Oui. J’ai pensé votre accent c’etait un accent Parisien.”
“Aaahhh!” She leapt up and clapped her hands together. “Vous parlez très bien!”
Wait, I thought. What language was I speaking? My friend did not allow me the time to give this question serious consideration.
She really wanted to travel. She wanted to go someplace warm. Her family was originally from the Mediterranean and England’s climate simply did not suite her. She had now spent two years in London both working this job and as an au pair and her English was so very improved and what she really wanted to do was become a flight attendant.
I decided we were speaking French and encouraged her in her dreams, saying that we could become flight attendants together and travel the world.
She started going over the details of becoming a flight attendant—the airlines, the hubs, the destinations, the hours—before I cut her short and admitted that I had yet to go to University and that was really a priority.
After taking a nice hot shower, I took a long constitutional around the heart of London. Giddy with excitement (or adrenaline), I was happy to be in a city that made some degree of sense and literally stopped to smell the roses. Or lilacs as the season would have it.
I found that I was unable, however, to enter of the stores whose displays I admired. My interactions with people thus far had been very limited, or conducted in French, and I was still unsure of myself. I wound up at a Starbucks near the hotel. A nearly lifelong addict, I knew just what language to use and what to expect. Grande soy chai latte.
I finally went back to the hotel in an attempt to sleep but instead, I went crazy.
My whole body quivered with exhaustion and my eyes were firmly shut, but my mind reeled. Or shorted out. Or something. I started hearing cockroaches. Accustomed to falling asleep to the sound of cockroaches scuttling across my floor or gnawing noisily on my headboard, I became convinced that I had brought the cockroaches with me. Unable to move because of fatigue, I tried to ease my mind by reviewing every Wolof word I knew. And then constructing sentences. And ultimately conversing, mentally, with myself in Wolof. The nonexistent cockroaches ceased their nonexistent movements, but the quiet became unbearable. I leapt out of bed without even fully opening my eyes. I decided it was time for another walk. Before I left my room, however, I kicked my bags several times and listened for scuffling. None.
The sun was setting and the temperature had dropped, considerably. The shawl that had previously provided adequate warmth was useless. I resolved to buy something long-sleeved and substantial as all I had were a couple of very dirty long sleeved linen shirts.
As most stores were closed, Victoria Station with its vast mall seemed promising. I found one of those generic cheap trendy stores and promptly purchased a sweater, immediately taking it out the bag and rejoicing in its warmth. I still had not eaten at this point. Sushi. Pizza. Bagels. Ice Cream. All that I had longed for over the past four months was at my fingertips, but I was unable to commit myself, stop so long as to actually purchase something. I recognized, however, that I go a bit nutty without food. Cheese Shoppe read one sign. I like cheese, I told myself. I have not had real cheese in a very long time. I think I would like some cheese.
The shoppe offered a vast sandwich selection featuring some of my favorite cheeses, vegetables, salmon, chicken…all on whole grain bread. But I only seemed capable of selecting one. Spicy caramelized onion chutney (read: yassa). I bought the sandwich, threw it in my empty shopping bag, and practically sprinted out of Victoria Station, all the way to what I had already deemed my Starbucks.
There, left hand gripping a steaming grande soy chai latte for warmth, I enjoyed my gruyere, rocket, and yassa sandwich.
I never made it to the Tate Modern. Apparently egalitarianism abounds at Paris’ Charles De Gaulle Airport and, when five flights have converged at a Customs booth manned by two officers, priority is not given to those who have connecting flights. Despite my persistent harassment of the uniformed young Frenchman who stood by, eyeing the flood of travelers with a look of ennui, I had to wait like everyone else. Two hours spent on my feet talking presidential politics to the Cincinnatian behind me was just enough time to narrowly miss my flight.
With four hours to kill before the next flight, I did laps around the shops of the pearly terminal, stopping briefly in the pharmacy or mini-marché, before becoming overwhelmed and subsequently self-conscious. The bookstore was the only spot that sustained my attention. I finally settled at a small café and ordered a café au lait.
Americans were everywhere. Impudently speaking English. Their presence was jarring…grating, really, and I consciously deterred a creeping sense of estrangement from “my people.” Nursing my coffee, I decided that international airports exist outside the constructs of nationality, culture, or even locale. The structures themselves may as well float in the sky, planes docking into them as with space stations or ports. How the passengers would then reach their ultimate land-based destination was beyond my imagination.
I arrived in London fueled by several cups of coffee, a preservative pumped airplane pastry, and two hours of sleep. Over the past twenty-four plus hours. Yet this confluence of conditions produced the most amazing and sustained burst of energy. I was sure that I was bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and sharp as ever.
The hotel was located in the midst of the city’s most bustling, and touristy parts—the Times Square of London. As the cab wound its way about town, I became enthralled by orderly chaos that surrounded me. The masses appeared to move in prescribed patterns. Incredible.
The woman who ran front desk at the hotel had a decidedly French accent.
As I deposited my two huge bags by the desk, she looked at her book, “but how long are you staying?” Parisian.
I explained that I had actually just been in Africa, or rather Senegal, for four months and was on my way home.
“Ooooh,” she screeched. “I am so jealous…but you don’t have the tanned!”
I said something about fair skin, but she just shook her head.
“You were traveling?”
“Well, I did do a fair amount of traveling. But I was also studying Sustainable Development and…” I hesitated, “French.”
“Oh! You speak French!” She exclaimed. In French.
“No. Not really.” I said in English. I suddenly felt very tired and confused.
“I am French you know,” she said. In French. “I’m from Paris.”
I smiled. “Oui. J’ai pensé votre accent c’etait un accent Parisien.”
“Aaahhh!” She leapt up and clapped her hands together. “Vous parlez très bien!”
Wait, I thought. What language was I speaking? My friend did not allow me the time to give this question serious consideration.
She really wanted to travel. She wanted to go someplace warm. Her family was originally from the Mediterranean and England’s climate simply did not suite her. She had now spent two years in London both working this job and as an au pair and her English was so very improved and what she really wanted to do was become a flight attendant.
I decided we were speaking French and encouraged her in her dreams, saying that we could become flight attendants together and travel the world.
She started going over the details of becoming a flight attendant—the airlines, the hubs, the destinations, the hours—before I cut her short and admitted that I had yet to go to University and that was really a priority.
After taking a nice hot shower, I took a long constitutional around the heart of London. Giddy with excitement (or adrenaline), I was happy to be in a city that made some degree of sense and literally stopped to smell the roses. Or lilacs as the season would have it.
I found that I was unable, however, to enter of the stores whose displays I admired. My interactions with people thus far had been very limited, or conducted in French, and I was still unsure of myself. I wound up at a Starbucks near the hotel. A nearly lifelong addict, I knew just what language to use and what to expect. Grande soy chai latte.
I finally went back to the hotel in an attempt to sleep but instead, I went crazy.
My whole body quivered with exhaustion and my eyes were firmly shut, but my mind reeled. Or shorted out. Or something. I started hearing cockroaches. Accustomed to falling asleep to the sound of cockroaches scuttling across my floor or gnawing noisily on my headboard, I became convinced that I had brought the cockroaches with me. Unable to move because of fatigue, I tried to ease my mind by reviewing every Wolof word I knew. And then constructing sentences. And ultimately conversing, mentally, with myself in Wolof. The nonexistent cockroaches ceased their nonexistent movements, but the quiet became unbearable. I leapt out of bed without even fully opening my eyes. I decided it was time for another walk. Before I left my room, however, I kicked my bags several times and listened for scuffling. None.
The sun was setting and the temperature had dropped, considerably. The shawl that had previously provided adequate warmth was useless. I resolved to buy something long-sleeved and substantial as all I had were a couple of very dirty long sleeved linen shirts.
As most stores were closed, Victoria Station with its vast mall seemed promising. I found one of those generic cheap trendy stores and promptly purchased a sweater, immediately taking it out the bag and rejoicing in its warmth. I still had not eaten at this point. Sushi. Pizza. Bagels. Ice Cream. All that I had longed for over the past four months was at my fingertips, but I was unable to commit myself, stop so long as to actually purchase something. I recognized, however, that I go a bit nutty without food. Cheese Shoppe read one sign. I like cheese, I told myself. I have not had real cheese in a very long time. I think I would like some cheese.
The shoppe offered a vast sandwich selection featuring some of my favorite cheeses, vegetables, salmon, chicken…all on whole grain bread. But I only seemed capable of selecting one. Spicy caramelized onion chutney (read: yassa). I bought the sandwich, threw it in my empty shopping bag, and practically sprinted out of Victoria Station, all the way to what I had already deemed my Starbucks.
There, left hand gripping a steaming grande soy chai latte for warmth, I enjoyed my gruyere, rocket, and yassa sandwich.
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