My Ghana

Six Days

Six days is all that remains of my time here in Africa. Less than a week, but I’m sure people do vacations here all the time in just six day. Still, I doubt they can fully understand this country’s wonders in such a short period of time. I have been blessed with time here, time I am grateful for, but now that time is quickly running out I’m feel like its slipping away.

Despite everything, the lovely goodbye party with the staff on Saturday, and an amazing assembly put on by the boys this morning – more to come later – as each day goes I feel more alone. Ridiculous I know, but I still can’t shake the habit of self-isolation that has developed in the past days. I want to experience every minute I have left, yet, I think my soul is trying to shield me from feeling anything at all, numbing me like Novocain. I guess, in an odd way, I am like a tooth ready to be pulled from Africa. But I want to feel the pain, experience the beauty, and remember the sting. A sting that awakened me from mediocrity at home, with its sun so powerful I realized I was carrying a burden that was not mine to carry, in its dust I was able to forgive myself and wash myself free of the little things I no longer needed to carry. In doing so I found who I am, and who I want to be. To be it simply I rediscover happiness in this land, and for that I will always be thankful.

The sun has started to come back, as the raining season is at its end, it sometimes pops out briefly and reminds me of its power to blister and to heal, and quickly reseeds. As will I, when I return home. Six days.

Millbrook in Ghana… suprise!

Earlier this week Millbrook came to Ghana, literally. It was a wonderous day for me at the academy, when the familiar has become foreign and vise versa. Seeing Mrs. Hardy, looking truly African chic, led to an involuntary and deep hearted hug. It was great to see and Emily and her husband as well, but what really took me back was the students accompanying them. Momentarily I was transported from the “quad” at the Academy to a Millbrook spring, surrounded by Hil, Leah, Jordi, Blake, Yann and Cam laughing. At the time I’m sure I was worried something or other, likely my plans for 9:30 to 10:00, I could feel the laughter we shared inside me as I returned to the present and introduced myself to this group of current students. Part of me wanted to go back for good, to do it all over, to take up opportunities as they were by coming to Ghana, yet I’ve learned so much about myself here (dorky I know) and I have come to realize I cannot become the person I hope to one day be by changing the past. Still there was a bit of longing for longer hair and a more trim waistline as I walked with the group through the Academy.

It was an off day here, most of the U15 squad was off in Accra getting their Visa’s, so I brought what was left of my Form 4 class to the dorm side to continue our discussion of Civil Rights: Malcolm X versus Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. So I held our history class on the quad, in front of the Academy dorms, and invited the Millbrook students joined in our discussion until it was time for them to go. There were pictures taken in front of the Powers Dorm, updates on Baki’s experiences, and tons of Millbrook pride. Quick goodbyes and thanks were exchanged; as I watched Millbrook leave Ghana. Still I smiled as I resumed class, the two me’s reunited, the 17 year old student and the 27 year old teacher.

“Saved” in Africa? Probably Not…

Today I went to church for the first time I can remember - I did not attend a holiday mass, a funeral or wedding. There was no cathedral, pews to kneel on, stained windows to admire. Most notably for me there was no priest, deacon, or other appointed church official to make mass, well, mass.

My memories of church as a child are not happy ones. They mostly include knowing Grandma and Grandpa’s or Nana’s impeding trips meant church and Sunday school. If my memory is correct my mother tried to introduce a healthy dose of god into us kids, we all even attended catholic school at some point.

I remember my first communion as more of a family event than a religious celebration, then as a rebellious teenager refusing to be confirmed (I gave in, knowing it would break my Grandmother’s heart and that my Nana would literally break me to pieces).

Since those early years, I have attended church reliably for four reasons: funerals, weddings, Easter and Christmas. Some years I have attended mass on special important catholic holidays such as Ash Wednesday, but looking back I believe that had more to do with my ethnic heritage as an Irish Catholic than a desire or steadfast belief in what was being preached from the pulpit.

Since coming to Ghana religion has been a major topic of conversation.

At first I dodged questions about my religion with coming up with basic questions to complex and personal questions. For example, when asked, “are you a Christian and or a Muslim?” I might respond, “My family is Catholic.” When asked whether I believed in god, I would honestly reply yes but not list the conditions of my belief. And on, and on it has gone.

It’s my last month so I decided to do something about it. I would attend church with the boys. I woke up early on Sunday (my only day to sleep in) and headed to church, which I was told, is help in the auditorium/gym/dinning hall. At ten o’clock I gathered there with the Christian academy boys who chose to attend (i.e. all the Christians at the academy).

As I approached the hall, I realized how different this was from any mass I’d ever attended, there was no cathedral, pews, nor was their any authorized church official. It was everything that religion was not to me. Each boy dressed in their Sunday best, brought their own Bible, eager to share with me. Mr. Ike led church like it was a lesson, and in listening I learned, I was shocked when we ended and I realized I didn’t disagree with anything he was saying, something that never happened at home. We sang three songs; Mr. Ike led using his Bose ipod speakers, and the boys smiled as they sang along occasionally looking at the words, but more so enjoying the being in the moment. “Our God is Great,” they sang with fierce determination and wholehearted agreement.

At home in the states, church had become a chore on the to do list, but in Sunday I joined in and sang “our god is great” with everything I had (A for effort, F for good tune). I listened as the boys read versus from the book of soehl, and a gentleman delivered a holily on obedience to god and agreed with his thoughts – something that had never happen during homily by a priest at home.

There was no communion, but the service wasn’t over; church turned into an interactive lesson. The topic was forgetting god’s goodness in times of personal need and frustration – recognizing we all have moments of self-doubt, need, or even foolish concerns. We learned that as Christians we should rely on each other to get through tough times by reaching out to those who look as if they are in need an offering to pray for them. The irony of the Muslims service caring over discussion from the math room hit me, as did the fact that to date I’d had as many doubts as beliefs in God.

Before I knew it we were breaking up into pairs to admit something personal, confidential, to a fellow Christian and to pray for the. It was like a mini confession, but instead of a wood box with a screen the boys just naturally paired. John Smith asked me to be his partner, I hesitated, unsure of whether I was ready for it, but, could never say no to this small boy. We went aside, and he offered to go first, relieved I agreed, he made an admission about fearing death when traveling home on the roads (traffic accidents is the leading cause of Homicide in Ghana), and asked me to pray for him and his dilemma, I did so as I was taught, and said a prayer in silence. He looked confused so I said the first thing that I could think of that was honest and difficult “I’m worried when I go back to America I will not be able to find a job.” The boy nodded “that is a hard one, may I pray for you?” “Please” I responded. “In the name of god, we pray for Madam C.’s safe return to America, though she is leaving our schools, here work for children must continue. We ask you, almighty god, to look over Madam C. and help her find a job where she can help teach boys as much as she taught us. We pray in the name of almighty god.”  Honored, thankful and suddenly filled with faith by this small boys word, I understood his confusion earlier and asked if I could lead one more prayer, he agreed. “Father, please look out for John as he travels home at the end of term or anytime he is on the roads. We ask for your assistance in pushing for Ghana’s roads to become safer and its drivers’ more careful so that no one must fear traveling in the country. For this we pray.” He smiled and nodded, I had clearly fixed my earlier mistake, but in praying for him out loud I too felt connected to something more than human, was it the group? The celebration? Or was it really faith?

I’m not saying I converting to Christianity, but I have been given a Bible of my own now and will attend church again next week. Waking up early is hard; finding something to have true faith in seemed impossible. But, through the boys eyes I learned there “god is great” and wouldn’t I want to share in that greatness.

Writing this post brings me back to my confirmation day, in the teen angst and lack of interest in the event I remember rudely discarding a cross my Grandmother had gave me for the occasion. I don’t think it ever left its case. My Grandmother passed away last November, but I think she’d enjoy this post, in her eyes things always had a way of sorting themselves out. When I get home I plan to tear the house apart to find that cross, and were it with pride in my new found respect for Christianity and to carry my Grandma with me everywhere I go. Who knows maybe it will bring me luck if finding my “one and only” she often inquired about. That certainly would be divine intervention.

alert: rehydration sachets are worth every penny

Just pouring my rehydration sachet into a liter bottle of Volta water makes me uneasy. While the Brit’s have a pomegranate flavored sachets aren’t not nearly as bad, I’m stuck with Ghanaian orange sachets from my last trip to the hospital where I loaded up. As much as I hate its salty chemical taste that you must drink a liter of, I’ve learned my lessons.

I respect the sachet; far beyond I’ve idolized ginger ale when battling stomach flues over the years. Here it allows me to bounce back to subtle normalcy after a bout with the good old tum tum, and prevent me from falling back into illness at least twice a month. Its foul powder saves me, unlike the Pepto-Bismol in the medicine cabinet that temps me with a quick fix. But there are no quick fixes here, especially not in the rainy season.  And for the first time I’m not angry to be power the coral powder into my water bottle, I was expecting it.

You shouldn’t be surprised but, last night, after 5 hours of down pouring rain, just as the left us in the darkness, the power went out. That was it, no use putting the generator on at 7:00, which wouldn’t have bothered me so much if my phone didn’t have 1 power bar and my computer had more than 75% battery. But it wasn’t my day, and it would quickly become clear that the next day wouldn’t be any better. By the time I got to my room my cell died, with it, my only flashlight. So I showered by Ipad, - quickly - it too was only at 82% battery.

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In case I forget…

I know how cliche and boring it is to say that Africa has changed me, but still I must admit it has and I don’t ever want those changes to go away.  How to do this seems puzzling to me, I know I’ll have this blog and pictures to remind me of alterations I have made in my life goals, my sense of self and my understanding of how the world works. But still, in a world of washing machines and DRYERS is it really possible to avoid digressing into the person I was before the ants, the malaria, the ever present heat of the African sun, and 52 boys who reminded me who I wanted to be just be being themselves? Honestly I don’t think so, but I hope over the extra three months I spent those changes have become etched on my soul permanently.  I also plan to start a special “In Case You Forget” savings account to bring me back if I start forgetting. I invite all of you donate to that account, jk, but seriously to keep me mindful of this promise and send me back if I mess I really forget!

littlebirdsings:

the skies are expanding and bruised. this house is cold and quiet, my footsteps follow me. maybe it will rain. maybe it will storm.