Game on: the experience of a western girl playing basketball with Liberian ex combatants and Pakistani peacekeepers
When I stepped on the court the locals took one look at my first shot and simply said “she can play.” The peacekeepers were not sold so easily and appeared a little more disturbed by my appearance. At first I couldn’t tell if it was the white legs, the need for a sports bra or the cultural perceptions about gender roles. With time and familiarity it didn’t seem to matter too much for some, for others it clearly did, but the feminist in me wasn’t going to tolerate any of it, so in an ever so slightly sassy manner, I stood my ground on a court overflowing with testosterone.
The Pakistanis, dressed in matching green and red warm ups have approximately 9 plastic balls and a plan. They begin standard warm-up procedures, which seems a bit odd in this post conflict Liberian setting but, I have seen stranger things; and, given my own eccentricities, I was a huge fan of the oddity of it all. Very quickly I noticed they all could shoot and some clearly were quite savvy about the game. Two of them were remarkably tall, one of which is painstakingly slim and the other has a serious vertical jump. A number of others, sporting classic middle-eastern beards, had a good eye for the court and a very serious attitude. Most of them have dark bushy mustaches and for some reason I couldn’t quite take these guys seriously. I noticed a few of them refused to shake my hand and others avoided direct body contact with me. At the end of the day it seemed we were all were struggling with the subtleties of it all. However, with time and exposure, we managed to eventually take each others talents seriously. No one quite knew what to do with the fact that something like this has never happened here before and everybody felt a bit confused about the rules of engagement; but, eventually I started to get pushed around and when one guy eventually knocked me to the ground, I knew that they knew I could play.
The local guys are only 4 in number so I can’t tell if they recruited me because they thought I might be able to play or simply because they needed a warm body. Of the four, only one has any skill. The other three are athletic but sloppy and somewhat lazy which gets me agitated quickly. My agitation is partly the result of genetics - I take after my father and am fiercely competitive. The remaining part is tied to my firm belief in defense and teamwork and showy sloppiness drives me crazy. I begin to swear like a sailor and make sly comments about Jesus, Mary and Joseph which might have actually endured to me a few of the players. Although I was all smiles and laughs before and after the game, during the game I was a raging competitor and, aside from Patrick, our very talented point guard, nobody quite knows what to do with me. .
It became evident the Pakistanis are VERY used to wining and tend to be cherry pickers even when they are ahead. It takes some time, but Patrick and I find a groove and the others manage to rebound a little and clean up their acts. We eventually managed to pull ahead and I have to admit I was beside myself when we actually won. After the game the Pakistanis pull out a massive blue cooler with exquisitely clear filtered cold water and graciously serve us in tin coffee cups. All the show and edginess is gone and they are once again a bit timid in their interactions with me. I realize they too love the game and suffer from self inflicted pangs of competitiveness.
Just as easily as it was turned off, it is turned back on and we are all once again relating to one another based on some established developing world gender status quo. Although at some point in the game I became first a player, it quickly wore off and, as the game solidified into a memory, I was once again first a woman. We chat for a while and decide it will be important for us to play every day and add an extra morning practice on Sundays to begin at 6:30. This is serious – no more resting and rock collecting for gv…..all I can say to this is bring it – game on!
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Monday, October 15, 2007
a stone, the sky and a few books
One month back in country and I find myself struggling to reengage with my previously mentioned business of not seeming. I wish I could say it was an easy transition and, after a restful break, I was back to my ‘new’ self. But of course change is never that easy, so I am left struggling. Maybe I am reacting to the fact that I find most things interesting and everything else either profoundly touching or completely overwhelming.
First of all I have moved. From my old home Gbarnga, where I was know by many and called Gomah, I have transitioned father into the interior to Voinjama and have been gifted the name Garmai (Ga-my). A beautiful county nested on the border with Guinea, Lofa is likely the Colorado of Liberia. Rolling hills, lush green forests, rumors of a few wild elephants and slightly cooler temperatures suggests it’s a much better fit for a girl like me.
Since my recent move from to Lofa county, I have spent most my days trying to be helpful and profoundly inspiring. This quest is so I can impress my very intelligent and very passionate group of counselors. When I’m not attempting that, I can be found sitting around wishing I had my hammock.
I used to love to be occupied. If life wasn’t hectic I felt like I was being lazy but now chaos seems like an escape from the realty this community faces and I doubt I will find all the excitement of being busy satisfying again. My life, for reasons beyond my control, has been pared down to the simplest human elements – life & death, wakefulness & sleep, suffering & enlightenment, hunger & satisfaction, enjoyment & torture…. Dichotomies of extremes, there is no masking or shades of grey here - it is both refreshing and exquisitely frightening.
An example of the simplicity of it all can be given with the stone that sits here on my desk. A grey stone cut in half by a vein of white. It took me most of Saturday to find it. Many stones were rejected first. I didn’t set out into my neighborhood with a particular idea of the stone in my mind, I just thought I’d recognize it when I found it. As I searched I developed certain requirements. It had to fit comfortable in my hand, preferable gray and be smooth (a soothing stone of sorts for those who know of my college collection). So that was my day, yes my entire Saturday. I spent Sunday recovering.
It wasn’t always like this. It used to be that a day was worthless to me if I hadn’t produced a certain amount of work. That I noticed or didn’t notice the guard’s new shirt, the fruit on the trees, the long collective yet silent journey of the women heading to market – these things were beside the point. But that’s changed now.
In a few weeks I will be living alone. Sharon has left and Andre will be completing his fellowship, but that doesn’t bother me. Or maybe just a little but I know no one could replace Sharon so I accept the loneliness as a respectful gesture of the profound impact she had on me and although Andre’s presence has been refreshing and inspirational, he too needs to go - his own journey is calling him and there is much to be done. At the end of the day it would take an unusual individual to keep me company, remarkable they both managed. I hope I’m not making any of this sound bad. I’m only back one month and I am already fishing for sympathy.
If you wonder what it is I do or see while lying in the hammock I would say I either read or watch the clouds in the sky. Both of which I tend to experience almost unbearably beautiful. What I read touches me because most of the stories are so unlike my current reality. What I see in the sky touches me because I can’t believe it actually is my current reality. That’s what I do watch the clouds and read. Sometimes I even pretend to write and post it on this silly blog site of mine. I know I’m not fooling anyone but I find it almost unbearable touching that you are taking the time to read this right now. Enough of me. Please somebody… send me something to think about.
First of all I have moved. From my old home Gbarnga, where I was know by many and called Gomah, I have transitioned father into the interior to Voinjama and have been gifted the name Garmai (Ga-my). A beautiful county nested on the border with Guinea, Lofa is likely the Colorado of Liberia. Rolling hills, lush green forests, rumors of a few wild elephants and slightly cooler temperatures suggests it’s a much better fit for a girl like me.
Since my recent move from to Lofa county, I have spent most my days trying to be helpful and profoundly inspiring. This quest is so I can impress my very intelligent and very passionate group of counselors. When I’m not attempting that, I can be found sitting around wishing I had my hammock.
I used to love to be occupied. If life wasn’t hectic I felt like I was being lazy but now chaos seems like an escape from the realty this community faces and I doubt I will find all the excitement of being busy satisfying again. My life, for reasons beyond my control, has been pared down to the simplest human elements – life & death, wakefulness & sleep, suffering & enlightenment, hunger & satisfaction, enjoyment & torture…. Dichotomies of extremes, there is no masking or shades of grey here - it is both refreshing and exquisitely frightening.
An example of the simplicity of it all can be given with the stone that sits here on my desk. A grey stone cut in half by a vein of white. It took me most of Saturday to find it. Many stones were rejected first. I didn’t set out into my neighborhood with a particular idea of the stone in my mind, I just thought I’d recognize it when I found it. As I searched I developed certain requirements. It had to fit comfortable in my hand, preferable gray and be smooth (a soothing stone of sorts for those who know of my college collection). So that was my day, yes my entire Saturday. I spent Sunday recovering.
It wasn’t always like this. It used to be that a day was worthless to me if I hadn’t produced a certain amount of work. That I noticed or didn’t notice the guard’s new shirt, the fruit on the trees, the long collective yet silent journey of the women heading to market – these things were beside the point. But that’s changed now.
In a few weeks I will be living alone. Sharon has left and Andre will be completing his fellowship, but that doesn’t bother me. Or maybe just a little but I know no one could replace Sharon so I accept the loneliness as a respectful gesture of the profound impact she had on me and although Andre’s presence has been refreshing and inspirational, he too needs to go - his own journey is calling him and there is much to be done. At the end of the day it would take an unusual individual to keep me company, remarkable they both managed. I hope I’m not making any of this sound bad. I’m only back one month and I am already fishing for sympathy.
If you wonder what it is I do or see while lying in the hammock I would say I either read or watch the clouds in the sky. Both of which I tend to experience almost unbearably beautiful. What I read touches me because most of the stories are so unlike my current reality. What I see in the sky touches me because I can’t believe it actually is my current reality. That’s what I do watch the clouds and read. Sometimes I even pretend to write and post it on this silly blog site of mine. I know I’m not fooling anyone but I find it almost unbearable touching that you are taking the time to read this right now. Enough of me. Please somebody… send me something to think about.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
cadance
I’m never been much of a collector. Aside from a pretty impressive pencil collection in the 4th grade, I can’t recall collecting much of anything until one day I realized I was a collector of stories. My conscious awareness of this tendency occurred shortly after I decided to become a psychologist and; although, many people would think an interest in stories is directly connected to such a professional identity, I would have to say it doesn’t have to be and for some reason I have always had an intense desire to keep it separate. Of course this is not without saying that it has been helpful for the psychologist in me to be interested in stories, but I consider this overlap to be serendipity rather than intricately interrelated. I love stories and I think I would love stories even if I was an engineer.
I realized this important differential the day my dear friends gave me a CD entitled, the retells.
The Retells is a CD filled with short 3-5 minute stories that I had asked friends to repeat over and over again over the years. Recorded in the story teller’s voice, every story began with: ‘Gwen would always tell me to tell her the one about’….and then they would re-tell the story I so frequently asked them to tell over the years. I cried so hard driving down I-70 in my 10 foot U-Haul moving from Colorado to NYC that I had to pull over in order to prevent an accident. The tears were tied both to the fits of laughter I endured based on the substance of the silly stories as well as to feeling touched by the love and knowledge that I was truly known by those that I adore most.
The stories were tales of accomplishment, embarrassment, pride, shame and humor. No matter what the story is about, I love the way in which a meaningful personal story tends to have dramatic nuances and a personalized cadance. For example, my dear sweet friend Yophy, an exceptionally hilarious story teller, always managed to bring in a number of ridiculous analogies or bizaree descriptions of the circumstances she would find herself in; and, she always artistically placed one sarcastic one liner in the perfect space. She tells the story in the exact same manner each and every time, with one exception. With time and knowledge about what I love about her stories, she changes her story telling style in only one slight manner. Just as she approaches the part of her story that I grow to love best, she dramatically pauses, allowing the silence to fill with my apprehension and excitement.
My time in Liberia has taught me something new about what one is to do with a gifted story. I have realized that although part of me was destined to come here to listen to stories so that I could bring them back to share with the world; part of me has also been beckoned here to do something entirely different. I have realized that some stories are given to another so they could be put to rest. So now, out of respect, I have learned that I will be leaving some stories behind. Having been a collector of stories of sorts, a relentless searcher for a good tale, I find myself struggling with this new category of response to a shared tale, but I respect the need for peace and will honor it profoundly.
Looking forward to tomorrow and the days to come I have promised myself and my beloved story tellers that I will show up and listen with all the gusto that I show up for the ones I love to hear over and over again. For the ones that need to be left behind I have decided that I will carry them with me to the beautiful Liberian coast, far from the interior, and drop them like stones, one by one into the ocean.
For those of who are wondering ‘why now’ about this topic I have to say that story has been on my mind both consciously as well as unconsciously because I have the honor of hosting a consultant and recipient of the University of Minnesota Human Rights Clinic Fellowship, Andre Heuer. Andre is a gifted story teller and avid collector. His thoughts on his experience here in Liberia and more about his project can be read at: http://andresjourney.blogspot.com
I realized this important differential the day my dear friends gave me a CD entitled, the retells.
The Retells is a CD filled with short 3-5 minute stories that I had asked friends to repeat over and over again over the years. Recorded in the story teller’s voice, every story began with: ‘Gwen would always tell me to tell her the one about’….and then they would re-tell the story I so frequently asked them to tell over the years. I cried so hard driving down I-70 in my 10 foot U-Haul moving from Colorado to NYC that I had to pull over in order to prevent an accident. The tears were tied both to the fits of laughter I endured based on the substance of the silly stories as well as to feeling touched by the love and knowledge that I was truly known by those that I adore most.
The stories were tales of accomplishment, embarrassment, pride, shame and humor. No matter what the story is about, I love the way in which a meaningful personal story tends to have dramatic nuances and a personalized cadance. For example, my dear sweet friend Yophy, an exceptionally hilarious story teller, always managed to bring in a number of ridiculous analogies or bizaree descriptions of the circumstances she would find herself in; and, she always artistically placed one sarcastic one liner in the perfect space. She tells the story in the exact same manner each and every time, with one exception. With time and knowledge about what I love about her stories, she changes her story telling style in only one slight manner. Just as she approaches the part of her story that I grow to love best, she dramatically pauses, allowing the silence to fill with my apprehension and excitement.
My time in Liberia has taught me something new about what one is to do with a gifted story. I have realized that although part of me was destined to come here to listen to stories so that I could bring them back to share with the world; part of me has also been beckoned here to do something entirely different. I have realized that some stories are given to another so they could be put to rest. So now, out of respect, I have learned that I will be leaving some stories behind. Having been a collector of stories of sorts, a relentless searcher for a good tale, I find myself struggling with this new category of response to a shared tale, but I respect the need for peace and will honor it profoundly.
Looking forward to tomorrow and the days to come I have promised myself and my beloved story tellers that I will show up and listen with all the gusto that I show up for the ones I love to hear over and over again. For the ones that need to be left behind I have decided that I will carry them with me to the beautiful Liberian coast, far from the interior, and drop them like stones, one by one into the ocean.
For those of who are wondering ‘why now’ about this topic I have to say that story has been on my mind both consciously as well as unconsciously because I have the honor of hosting a consultant and recipient of the University of Minnesota Human Rights Clinic Fellowship, Andre Heuer. Andre is a gifted story teller and avid collector. His thoughts on his experience here in Liberia and more about his project can be read at: http://andresjourney.blogspot.com
Thursday, September 20, 2007
fork in the road
Alice came to a fork in the road. "Which road do I take?" she asked."Where do you want to go?" responded the Cheshire cat."I don't know," Alice answered."Then," said the cat, "it doesn't matter." ~Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
I’m back in Liberia and I find myself thinking about many different things. First, I’ve returned hoping to see something that may not have ever been here ...or maybe it’s been here all along but I haven’t been about to see it due to self inflicted blinders. Everything I encounter remains confusing and disheartening, but I have never felt so welcomed. Five of my fellas from basketball and two pals from the various task forces I take part in phoned me in the 20 minutes I stood in the customs line at the airport, all claiming I was desperately missed; and, as soon as I jumped in my car to begin my trip back to Gbarnga, my favorite driver threw in our most favorite of tapes and we sang at the top of our lungs all the way home. And, yes it did, in fact, feel like home.
It was a curvy road but I knew the bends well and the journey felt comforting and familiar. Calling this place in which I am currently existing home is slightly ironic given this journey occurred a few short days after I stood proudly in my very own piece of real estate I purchased in Denver: that’s right, while back in mile high city I stood in this empty loft feeling as if the nomad in me had settled, even if just a tiny bit, and I enjoyed the silence of my space. So the question is - how is it possible for one individual to have two conflicting experiences of home? Maybe as the Cheshire cat suggests…….it doesn’t matter.
I’m back in Liberia and I find myself thinking about many different things. First, I’ve returned hoping to see something that may not have ever been here ...or maybe it’s been here all along but I haven’t been about to see it due to self inflicted blinders. Everything I encounter remains confusing and disheartening, but I have never felt so welcomed. Five of my fellas from basketball and two pals from the various task forces I take part in phoned me in the 20 minutes I stood in the customs line at the airport, all claiming I was desperately missed; and, as soon as I jumped in my car to begin my trip back to Gbarnga, my favorite driver threw in our most favorite of tapes and we sang at the top of our lungs all the way home. And, yes it did, in fact, feel like home.
It was a curvy road but I knew the bends well and the journey felt comforting and familiar. Calling this place in which I am currently existing home is slightly ironic given this journey occurred a few short days after I stood proudly in my very own piece of real estate I purchased in Denver: that’s right, while back in mile high city I stood in this empty loft feeling as if the nomad in me had settled, even if just a tiny bit, and I enjoyed the silence of my space. So the question is - how is it possible for one individual to have two conflicting experiences of home? Maybe as the Cheshire cat suggests…….it doesn’t matter.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
they fell in love many times
A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, and always with the same person."
- Mignon McLaughlin
I awoke in the dark at 5:21 after finally managing to get a full night of sleep: rest I desperately needed. The weather outside is a bit chilly. I turn the deck chair and arrange everything so that I am facing the massive mountains of Breckenridge. The moon shines above and I cover my legs with a fleece blanket and place a steaming hot cup of coffee on the arm of my chair. By 6:17 the sky is bright -instantly informing me that another day has if fact arrived. It wasn’t an explosive sunrise or remarkable in any visual sort of way, but being awake and present at the moment night changes to day or day changes to night is always breathtaking for me and makes me feel so incredibly small while somehow reminding me that I am an integral part of things.
To my right is the giant glassed in dinning hall in a multimillion dollar house where the bride and groom will be holding their reception. Fifty round paper Chinese lights hang from the ceiling and white table cloths cover tall intimate tables. The house has been rented by the bride and groom for the purposes of hosting their closest friends and to facilitate the celebration of their nuptials. Heaters are set up outside so people can gather like moths in the night to keep warm during the reception.
I arrived exhausted and fatigued from West Africa two short days ago sans luggage, sans gifts, sans energy; but, due to the fact I am surround by such familiar individuals, such loving one, I feel soothed and reenergized. These friends of mine, friends I almost feel unworthy of, surround me and engulf me in a warm blanket of concern and curiosity and my heart aches at their tenderness towards this friend whose careen choice forces her to repeatedly abandon them and not be around for the important events in their lives. They give me undeserved credit for my endeavors and I sit alone wishing that they could only understand that their ability to do what they do – teach, nurse, design, advocate, build, create, love, procreate, settle, invest………..far surpassing my confused attempt at creating a career for myself.
On my left I see a lovely waterfall and an unending pine forest. Ahead a beautiful balcony facing the slopes of Breckenridge ski resort. At this time of year, the visual is a mixed palate of different shades of green. Lights glimmer in the valley only making this snapshot even more enchanting at night and I look forward to being present as the day unfolds into another night…….
plus one
They wanted to keep it small: something that is easy to say but amazingly difficult to do. Because they are so loving and interesting and outgoing in such different ways their closest friends and family already outnumber their desired size. So they make a big decision – no plus ones. Although a nice idea, the reality is that single individuals often bring unimportant charters from their own lives simply so they have “a date.” These unknowns, these “fillers” take up a lot of unnecessary space and cost a lot. Obliviously, for single people this can feel like another hit to an already marginalized existence - the uncompleted goal of coulpdome. Being single is a transitional point between childhood and commitment. No one is believed when they say “but wait, I am happy, I am complete I am me fully, and yes…I am still single.”
I have never been one of those people who take fillers to weddings and at the tender age of 30 I have attended far more wedding single than as a couple. Even though there were moments in my early twenties where I was struck by pangs of anxiety thinking about what table I would be sat at or paying for hotel rooms and renting cars solo, I grew into appreciating the aura of a wedding as a single observer and have a very interesting set of wedding attendance memories as a single gal.
Following a very meaningful but slightly challenging wedding attendance in Sanibel Island, Florida a few years ago, where I was forced to splurge on all of the aforementioned logistical necessities while in grad school; feeling exceptionally poor and tired of my unrequited love affair with a dear friend of 4 years, I attended a wedding solo because I couldn’t image not being there. I simply adored the couple and rank them in my top five of couples who truly know how to do this thing we call marriage. In attendance would be the first love of my life and he would be attending with his girlfriend. I managed the anxiety and had the most amazing time with the bride to be on the eve of the ceremony, connected with other amazing individuals, enjoyed the couple and the company and ended the night sitting on the balcony with the groomsmen smoking a cigar. The ex and I had a tender moment and I felt confident, beautiful and completely ok with being alone.
But I digress……The reason I even mention plus one is that the groom may have given me the most touching compliment about this state of oneness. While arranging the guest list a few months back the groom told the bride the following: “Let’s leave the option of plus one on Gwen’s invitation because I know that if she were to check that space she would want to be bringing someone amazing, someone I would want to meet.” Even now, as I write this, I tear up at the subtle way in which he complimented me and the way in which these two people truly know me.
I had an amazing time, surrounded by love, hope, excitement and memories and I realized that even though I saw so many beautiful things with my eyes sitting on that deck in Breckenridge, the most beautiful thing I experienced that weekend was felt with my heart.
- Mignon McLaughlin
I awoke in the dark at 5:21 after finally managing to get a full night of sleep: rest I desperately needed. The weather outside is a bit chilly. I turn the deck chair and arrange everything so that I am facing the massive mountains of Breckenridge. The moon shines above and I cover my legs with a fleece blanket and place a steaming hot cup of coffee on the arm of my chair. By 6:17 the sky is bright -instantly informing me that another day has if fact arrived. It wasn’t an explosive sunrise or remarkable in any visual sort of way, but being awake and present at the moment night changes to day or day changes to night is always breathtaking for me and makes me feel so incredibly small while somehow reminding me that I am an integral part of things.
To my right is the giant glassed in dinning hall in a multimillion dollar house where the bride and groom will be holding their reception. Fifty round paper Chinese lights hang from the ceiling and white table cloths cover tall intimate tables. The house has been rented by the bride and groom for the purposes of hosting their closest friends and to facilitate the celebration of their nuptials. Heaters are set up outside so people can gather like moths in the night to keep warm during the reception.
I arrived exhausted and fatigued from West Africa two short days ago sans luggage, sans gifts, sans energy; but, due to the fact I am surround by such familiar individuals, such loving one, I feel soothed and reenergized. These friends of mine, friends I almost feel unworthy of, surround me and engulf me in a warm blanket of concern and curiosity and my heart aches at their tenderness towards this friend whose careen choice forces her to repeatedly abandon them and not be around for the important events in their lives. They give me undeserved credit for my endeavors and I sit alone wishing that they could only understand that their ability to do what they do – teach, nurse, design, advocate, build, create, love, procreate, settle, invest………..far surpassing my confused attempt at creating a career for myself.
On my left I see a lovely waterfall and an unending pine forest. Ahead a beautiful balcony facing the slopes of Breckenridge ski resort. At this time of year, the visual is a mixed palate of different shades of green. Lights glimmer in the valley only making this snapshot even more enchanting at night and I look forward to being present as the day unfolds into another night…….
plus one
They wanted to keep it small: something that is easy to say but amazingly difficult to do. Because they are so loving and interesting and outgoing in such different ways their closest friends and family already outnumber their desired size. So they make a big decision – no plus ones. Although a nice idea, the reality is that single individuals often bring unimportant charters from their own lives simply so they have “a date.” These unknowns, these “fillers” take up a lot of unnecessary space and cost a lot. Obliviously, for single people this can feel like another hit to an already marginalized existence - the uncompleted goal of coulpdome. Being single is a transitional point between childhood and commitment. No one is believed when they say “but wait, I am happy, I am complete I am me fully, and yes…I am still single.”
I have never been one of those people who take fillers to weddings and at the tender age of 30 I have attended far more wedding single than as a couple. Even though there were moments in my early twenties where I was struck by pangs of anxiety thinking about what table I would be sat at or paying for hotel rooms and renting cars solo, I grew into appreciating the aura of a wedding as a single observer and have a very interesting set of wedding attendance memories as a single gal.
Following a very meaningful but slightly challenging wedding attendance in Sanibel Island, Florida a few years ago, where I was forced to splurge on all of the aforementioned logistical necessities while in grad school; feeling exceptionally poor and tired of my unrequited love affair with a dear friend of 4 years, I attended a wedding solo because I couldn’t image not being there. I simply adored the couple and rank them in my top five of couples who truly know how to do this thing we call marriage. In attendance would be the first love of my life and he would be attending with his girlfriend. I managed the anxiety and had the most amazing time with the bride to be on the eve of the ceremony, connected with other amazing individuals, enjoyed the couple and the company and ended the night sitting on the balcony with the groomsmen smoking a cigar. The ex and I had a tender moment and I felt confident, beautiful and completely ok with being alone.
But I digress……The reason I even mention plus one is that the groom may have given me the most touching compliment about this state of oneness. While arranging the guest list a few months back the groom told the bride the following: “Let’s leave the option of plus one on Gwen’s invitation because I know that if she were to check that space she would want to be bringing someone amazing, someone I would want to meet.” Even now, as I write this, I tear up at the subtle way in which he complimented me and the way in which these two people truly know me.
I had an amazing time, surrounded by love, hope, excitement and memories and I realized that even though I saw so many beautiful things with my eyes sitting on that deck in Breckenridge, the most beautiful thing I experienced that weekend was felt with my heart.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
awake in the rain
When I opened my eyes I could hear it was still coming. The rain has been coming for a while now, but yesterday it was serious and there were pools of standing water in nearly every crack and crevasse. I rubbed my eyes and looked at the clock on my phone: 2:22 - it was early but at least it was a good, no rather a perfect time (I simply adore those double twos).
I started thinking about a number of things…..the pending loss of my dear sweet house/teammate who will be finishing her contract in 5 short weeks. This idea kindled a memory of pupino strategically moving his dog dishes around after being fed in such a way that it was clear he had a plan. Next came a hazy thought of my brother and his alleged frustration about me being so indescribably far away. This was followed by a flash of the handsome gentleman I recently met with a rush of what it feels like to be close to him. We experience each other intensely (secondary to some uncanny chemistry) each and every time we run into each other. Then just like that I pictured two of my close friends in Denver. Both brides-to-be who must be feeling overwhelmed by the immensity of it all; but, who take time to check in on me nonetheless. I imagined seeing them in a few short weeks at the base of Peak 8 in Breckenridge. I was struck by the realization that I am most definitely ready for a break, and, then I drifted back to sleep, a head full of the important characters in my life. I awake with a slight chill in the morning, the rain was still coming.
I make the small cup of coffee over a small gas stove in the percolator I carried across the globe. The first sip feels like my single most enjoyable indulgence in this desolate place. I move to the hammock and listen to the rain. In the mornings I don’t rush around like I typically do in the West trying to organize, get ready, check e-mail, check voicemail, pay bills, feed the dog, blow-dry my hair put on make-up. Here I am no longer in the business of rushing.
I am also no longer in the business of seeming. I recently received a couple (actually a number) of calls from the people who know me best. These people are clearly more than a little bit worried about me. They hear my voice crack when I talk about what I am seeing, go stoic when I talk about all the ex-combatants and their veiled threats and go numb when I talk about the trauma that surrounds me and they are all worried. So tonight I sat once again in my hammock and thought about their expressed concern while I watched the clouds move and change in front of me. They shifted and altered themselves so dramatically it was as if I was strolling though an art museum glancing at different palates, different ideas.
ready for a break
I realize that I am exhausted. I have become more withdrawn or maybe a better word would be obscure, as in faint, unclear, distant. I say that and think that’s not it exactly because the thing that I am most tired of is how visible I am. Every movement, every gesture every look – watched, studied, judged. Empty coffee cups gather around my sitting spaces: the few places I feel unwatched are scattered and my journal is full of unfinished thoughts.
This is not to say that I do not feel love for this place, because I do; sometimes I feel it so strongly that I think I might be having a panic attack. In those moments, my heart races uncontrollably and I worry that I may throw up. The love I feel is for these wounded souls who surround me, souls who have survived more than I can even image and they move on, grow - love. Although there are some days where it makes sense that I feel so alone and tired of being seen and it feels so difficult to accept the fact that there is simply no one I can reach out and touch and say nothing with because of the inherent power my “otherness” holds. I am warn down by this reality, hence the need for a break.
reflecting back: a different version of me
For a long time I never revealed what I felt. In my late teens and early twenties I lived by a simple principle: never willingly show fear or pain. I have always been expressive and playful but I was always strong, some would even say tough. I also became exquisitely good at feeling the emotions of others, even the unexpressed ones, and therefore I became good at what I chose to do. Then, following some of my own therapy, I realized that pain or fear must have been the only thing I was feeling – because if there had been anything else, I could have expressed it without violating my principle. I always liked to laugh but aside from my silent boughts of laughter, emotions were a sorted affair. Only now do I realize I was only half way there.
Based on my principle, I was unable to show any of my feelings because in the end they were all painful, one way or the other. The most exquisite joy was a sting to the heart, and love – love was a crisis of the soul. So I lived a very contained very controlled life. I never endured a crippling heart break but I also never endured intoxicating love; I never risked my pride to the point of failure but I also never took a risk for something that seemed unattainable and attained it.
For the last few years I worked on adjusting my principle, and it worked, or at least it worked half way. I was able to speak what I felt, but now I realize that rarely, in any other way, did I truly display emotion. I did so in periodic outbursts, uncontrollable releases but rarely about love and rarely in a fluid expressive manner that didn’t end with me asking the question “am I making sense?” or “do you think I’m crazy?”
In the last few years I reached a point where I could express my feelings through language (except with one kindred spirit out there who may or may not know I am making reference to them because they would have to feel it: with this individual I was chronically reticent). Until recently I had yet to reach a point where I truly felt it and spoke about it in the same instant.
Now I am doing both and those who know me best are concerned and rightfully so. It seems I can’t control it yet. I’m like a little pup: blind and grateful and exposed. It’s like I’ve been cured from a self-inflicted defect and now I can love not just in the general but in the specific and it hurts, painfully so.
So even though it is hard here and I am a little traumatized, I am not ready to walk away. I’m utterly exhausted in body and spirit but it still feels marvelous. And, knowing I have those of you out there who are having your very own abduction fantasies and are ready to jump on a plane to come and rescue me from myself gives me a feeling that is indeed a crisis but a crisis of feeling loved.
I started thinking about a number of things…..the pending loss of my dear sweet house/teammate who will be finishing her contract in 5 short weeks. This idea kindled a memory of pupino strategically moving his dog dishes around after being fed in such a way that it was clear he had a plan. Next came a hazy thought of my brother and his alleged frustration about me being so indescribably far away. This was followed by a flash of the handsome gentleman I recently met with a rush of what it feels like to be close to him. We experience each other intensely (secondary to some uncanny chemistry) each and every time we run into each other. Then just like that I pictured two of my close friends in Denver. Both brides-to-be who must be feeling overwhelmed by the immensity of it all; but, who take time to check in on me nonetheless. I imagined seeing them in a few short weeks at the base of Peak 8 in Breckenridge. I was struck by the realization that I am most definitely ready for a break, and, then I drifted back to sleep, a head full of the important characters in my life. I awake with a slight chill in the morning, the rain was still coming.
I make the small cup of coffee over a small gas stove in the percolator I carried across the globe. The first sip feels like my single most enjoyable indulgence in this desolate place. I move to the hammock and listen to the rain. In the mornings I don’t rush around like I typically do in the West trying to organize, get ready, check e-mail, check voicemail, pay bills, feed the dog, blow-dry my hair put on make-up. Here I am no longer in the business of rushing.
I am also no longer in the business of seeming. I recently received a couple (actually a number) of calls from the people who know me best. These people are clearly more than a little bit worried about me. They hear my voice crack when I talk about what I am seeing, go stoic when I talk about all the ex-combatants and their veiled threats and go numb when I talk about the trauma that surrounds me and they are all worried. So tonight I sat once again in my hammock and thought about their expressed concern while I watched the clouds move and change in front of me. They shifted and altered themselves so dramatically it was as if I was strolling though an art museum glancing at different palates, different ideas.
ready for a break
I realize that I am exhausted. I have become more withdrawn or maybe a better word would be obscure, as in faint, unclear, distant. I say that and think that’s not it exactly because the thing that I am most tired of is how visible I am. Every movement, every gesture every look – watched, studied, judged. Empty coffee cups gather around my sitting spaces: the few places I feel unwatched are scattered and my journal is full of unfinished thoughts.
This is not to say that I do not feel love for this place, because I do; sometimes I feel it so strongly that I think I might be having a panic attack. In those moments, my heart races uncontrollably and I worry that I may throw up. The love I feel is for these wounded souls who surround me, souls who have survived more than I can even image and they move on, grow - love. Although there are some days where it makes sense that I feel so alone and tired of being seen and it feels so difficult to accept the fact that there is simply no one I can reach out and touch and say nothing with because of the inherent power my “otherness” holds. I am warn down by this reality, hence the need for a break.
reflecting back: a different version of me
For a long time I never revealed what I felt. In my late teens and early twenties I lived by a simple principle: never willingly show fear or pain. I have always been expressive and playful but I was always strong, some would even say tough. I also became exquisitely good at feeling the emotions of others, even the unexpressed ones, and therefore I became good at what I chose to do. Then, following some of my own therapy, I realized that pain or fear must have been the only thing I was feeling – because if there had been anything else, I could have expressed it without violating my principle. I always liked to laugh but aside from my silent boughts of laughter, emotions were a sorted affair. Only now do I realize I was only half way there.
Based on my principle, I was unable to show any of my feelings because in the end they were all painful, one way or the other. The most exquisite joy was a sting to the heart, and love – love was a crisis of the soul. So I lived a very contained very controlled life. I never endured a crippling heart break but I also never endured intoxicating love; I never risked my pride to the point of failure but I also never took a risk for something that seemed unattainable and attained it.
For the last few years I worked on adjusting my principle, and it worked, or at least it worked half way. I was able to speak what I felt, but now I realize that rarely, in any other way, did I truly display emotion. I did so in periodic outbursts, uncontrollable releases but rarely about love and rarely in a fluid expressive manner that didn’t end with me asking the question “am I making sense?” or “do you think I’m crazy?”
In the last few years I reached a point where I could express my feelings through language (except with one kindred spirit out there who may or may not know I am making reference to them because they would have to feel it: with this individual I was chronically reticent). Until recently I had yet to reach a point where I truly felt it and spoke about it in the same instant.
Now I am doing both and those who know me best are concerned and rightfully so. It seems I can’t control it yet. I’m like a little pup: blind and grateful and exposed. It’s like I’ve been cured from a self-inflicted defect and now I can love not just in the general but in the specific and it hurts, painfully so.
So even though it is hard here and I am a little traumatized, I am not ready to walk away. I’m utterly exhausted in body and spirit but it still feels marvelous. And, knowing I have those of you out there who are having your very own abduction fantasies and are ready to jump on a plane to come and rescue me from myself gives me a feeling that is indeed a crisis but a crisis of feeling loved.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
a sinking feeling
I saw Pupino one last time. I had no idea it would be my last. We spent Saturday afternoon playing his new favorite game “shake” for toffees. I gave him a bath and he rolled around on the towel drying off. He got some medicine for his cuts on his nose in a tea cup full of milk. On Sunday we had tied him up because a guy complained. The complaint seemed so fruitless and transparent: an obvious attempt to get money from us, we didn’t even really think about it after the discussion ended. Even if this guy was disturbed, how could he take his frustrations out on innocent sweet Pupino?
Pupino is a 9 month old puppy who had recently discovered his manhood. To prove it he recently began pursuing a girlfriend in the neighborhood. He was frequently observed strolling around with her and periodically invited her over for lunch and would let her eat first out of his bowl. Sometimes he was found sneaking under an added barrier to the fence that the guards had made to prevent him from sneaking out. On a good day these barriers were Pupino proof but on a bad day, when Pupino was feeling frisky, he couldn’t be stopped.
Every morning the guards and the drivers and I made up little stories about the adventures of Pupino and it seemed that these stories were some sort of platform in which we could laugh and joke and be playful together. This is a difficult platform to find in an environment outside your own, but somehow Pupino managed to break down all barriers for us with regards to humor. All our discussions were ironic and sarcastic and preposterous and I loved it.
Never, not once did poor Pupino fight back when all the dogs in the neighborhood would fight and every time he escorted me to the basketball court he would take a long route up over the hill to the left of my walking trail so that he didn’t have to encounter the meanest dog in the neighborhood. He never growled at a human being, actually he didn’t even bark which was not so great (given he was gifted to us to be a guard dog) but it wasn’t his style and he spoiled him rotten for it. All the kids in the neighborhood knew him by name even more so than my own and so some days you could see me walking down a dusty path with him and hear “whitewoma! Whitewoma! Pupino! Pupino!” He was so sweet, such a tool.
He went missing on Sunday night. Earlier that day I found him rolling around chewing at the makeshift rope leash that we had tied around his neck to keep him from going to the aforementioned complainer’s house (had I only known how dangerous this fella truly was). Pupino played with the rope in the way a cat would play with a dangling toy. He looked so innocent that I figured it would take him some time but he would get free and join the dozens of stray dogs in the neighborhood and the guy would cool off because, in reality, Pupino was no trouble at all. I never, not for one second, thought Pupino would leave and never come back.
Allegedly, Pupino had spoiled a screen. When we visited the house there was not window or door on the house that was not already spoiled and the home was not even the beginning of a home. It looked abandoned and the children were all running around with runny noses and the wife was clearly maltreated.
The night it happened was a bad night in Gbarnga. Guns and ammo were found in a small house on Broad Street near the mosque, and dozens of people threatened to light the mosque on fire. They stoned the house of the alleged arms dealer and chanted, “the war is over! no guns! no bullets! no more!” Failing to see the irony in their aggression towards the potential aggressors about being aggressive, an ire sense of instability set in and the UN forces were out patrolling all night. Unbeknownst to me this was the same evening poor Pupino was slaughtered.
I find myself unable to relive myself of two regrets – one, that when that scary man came to discuss the screen door Pupino had “allegedly” spoiled on his house that I didn’t speak with him longer. I figured that by sending him away I was sending a message that no I was not going to engage in these “lets exploit the NGO worker” games. I figured this man, who was claiming this very specific male dog, one of many, was some sort of culprit, a dog with a volitional plan of wreaking havoc on his household, could not be serious. At the end of the day he was demanding payback for a made up issue so that he could access some of the money he so quickly (and wrongfully) assumed we had. And two, that in that last moment of contact with poor sweet Pupino, I had not relented and let him crawl up into the hammock with me in the creeping little way he always tried. I was thinking he was getting too big and he was too dirty and he shouldn’t be crawling on people anyways, but in my heart of hearts, I adored this foolish little dog for being such a lover and should have let him crawl in and cuddle for a minute.
I think it hurts a little bit more because in this world I’m living in, a world where I am always an outsider, I felt I communicated more, not less, with this silly little dog. Pupino never considered my skin color in formulating his impression of me and once I won him over, his love for me was unconditional. I was so proud of him when he would walk with me down to the basketball court, unleashed, with a slight swagger. He would sit patiently in the tall grass periodically grasping for flies, waiting for me to finish. He would wait the entire two hours, play with the kids that were lingering about (if they so desired) and then he would walk me home. With the same studly gait he came, he went, and he would arrive home to greet Sharon with as much love and excitement as he had greeted her three hours earlier.
I once read that holding hands is a way to remember how it feels to say nothing together.
I find that a fitting phrase for poor Pupino as I felt so incredibly proud of him the day he finally learned how to shake. Even though it took weeks and weeks to conquer this small task, he eventually became a true gentleman when it came to the shake. After weeks of him rigidly resisting any attempt at the hand shake, he eventually did it and once he knew how excited we got when he did it, he became a shaking fool. Some nights I could even hear the guards outside my window practicing with him and once he did what they asked for, they always clicked and whispered “that’s one clever dog.” From the day he learned how to shake forward he would do that thing dogs do when they can’t seem to get enough; just place his paw up on my hand or my knee and wait, over and over again as if to say I have something to say but since you can’t understand me, let’s say nothing together.
Pupino is a 9 month old puppy who had recently discovered his manhood. To prove it he recently began pursuing a girlfriend in the neighborhood. He was frequently observed strolling around with her and periodically invited her over for lunch and would let her eat first out of his bowl. Sometimes he was found sneaking under an added barrier to the fence that the guards had made to prevent him from sneaking out. On a good day these barriers were Pupino proof but on a bad day, when Pupino was feeling frisky, he couldn’t be stopped.
Every morning the guards and the drivers and I made up little stories about the adventures of Pupino and it seemed that these stories were some sort of platform in which we could laugh and joke and be playful together. This is a difficult platform to find in an environment outside your own, but somehow Pupino managed to break down all barriers for us with regards to humor. All our discussions were ironic and sarcastic and preposterous and I loved it.
Never, not once did poor Pupino fight back when all the dogs in the neighborhood would fight and every time he escorted me to the basketball court he would take a long route up over the hill to the left of my walking trail so that he didn’t have to encounter the meanest dog in the neighborhood. He never growled at a human being, actually he didn’t even bark which was not so great (given he was gifted to us to be a guard dog) but it wasn’t his style and he spoiled him rotten for it. All the kids in the neighborhood knew him by name even more so than my own and so some days you could see me walking down a dusty path with him and hear “whitewoma! Whitewoma! Pupino! Pupino!” He was so sweet, such a tool.
He went missing on Sunday night. Earlier that day I found him rolling around chewing at the makeshift rope leash that we had tied around his neck to keep him from going to the aforementioned complainer’s house (had I only known how dangerous this fella truly was). Pupino played with the rope in the way a cat would play with a dangling toy. He looked so innocent that I figured it would take him some time but he would get free and join the dozens of stray dogs in the neighborhood and the guy would cool off because, in reality, Pupino was no trouble at all. I never, not for one second, thought Pupino would leave and never come back.
Allegedly, Pupino had spoiled a screen. When we visited the house there was not window or door on the house that was not already spoiled and the home was not even the beginning of a home. It looked abandoned and the children were all running around with runny noses and the wife was clearly maltreated.
The night it happened was a bad night in Gbarnga. Guns and ammo were found in a small house on Broad Street near the mosque, and dozens of people threatened to light the mosque on fire. They stoned the house of the alleged arms dealer and chanted, “the war is over! no guns! no bullets! no more!” Failing to see the irony in their aggression towards the potential aggressors about being aggressive, an ire sense of instability set in and the UN forces were out patrolling all night. Unbeknownst to me this was the same evening poor Pupino was slaughtered.
I find myself unable to relive myself of two regrets – one, that when that scary man came to discuss the screen door Pupino had “allegedly” spoiled on his house that I didn’t speak with him longer. I figured that by sending him away I was sending a message that no I was not going to engage in these “lets exploit the NGO worker” games. I figured this man, who was claiming this very specific male dog, one of many, was some sort of culprit, a dog with a volitional plan of wreaking havoc on his household, could not be serious. At the end of the day he was demanding payback for a made up issue so that he could access some of the money he so quickly (and wrongfully) assumed we had. And two, that in that last moment of contact with poor sweet Pupino, I had not relented and let him crawl up into the hammock with me in the creeping little way he always tried. I was thinking he was getting too big and he was too dirty and he shouldn’t be crawling on people anyways, but in my heart of hearts, I adored this foolish little dog for being such a lover and should have let him crawl in and cuddle for a minute.
I think it hurts a little bit more because in this world I’m living in, a world where I am always an outsider, I felt I communicated more, not less, with this silly little dog. Pupino never considered my skin color in formulating his impression of me and once I won him over, his love for me was unconditional. I was so proud of him when he would walk with me down to the basketball court, unleashed, with a slight swagger. He would sit patiently in the tall grass periodically grasping for flies, waiting for me to finish. He would wait the entire two hours, play with the kids that were lingering about (if they so desired) and then he would walk me home. With the same studly gait he came, he went, and he would arrive home to greet Sharon with as much love and excitement as he had greeted her three hours earlier.
I once read that holding hands is a way to remember how it feels to say nothing together.
I find that a fitting phrase for poor Pupino as I felt so incredibly proud of him the day he finally learned how to shake. Even though it took weeks and weeks to conquer this small task, he eventually became a true gentleman when it came to the shake. After weeks of him rigidly resisting any attempt at the hand shake, he eventually did it and once he knew how excited we got when he did it, he became a shaking fool. Some nights I could even hear the guards outside my window practicing with him and once he did what they asked for, they always clicked and whispered “that’s one clever dog.” From the day he learned how to shake forward he would do that thing dogs do when they can’t seem to get enough; just place his paw up on my hand or my knee and wait, over and over again as if to say I have something to say but since you can’t understand me, let’s say nothing together.
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