My real name

The title of this blog was inspired by one of my favorite sayings:

Pressure makes diamonds

A group of about 1000 protesters in the streets of Bamako, Mali, were warned by military leaders who recently overthrew the government to “exercise prudence.” In a way, this is an all-too-familiar concise ‘warning’ which serves more as a reminder that this is the military in charge and they may be willing to go unpleasantly far. Yet it has hints of something really strange: A military leader in Africa, being cautious with civilians, just a few days after a coup d’etat.

It’s not the only sign either. Amadou Sanogo has already met several diplomats and journalists to discuss the situation.  He says he plans to hold elections, though it is unclear when he intends to do so.  Much more so, because elections were scheduled to happen this month anyway. Did he feel the need to overthrow the government only to go ahead and hold these elections?  Predictably, he says “it’s a matter of time.”  But all the same, he speaks of running a government which is good to his soldiers, civilians and political parties.  Speaks of restoring peace, as rebels attempt to seize control of the country forcefully, one town at a time.  There are still signs of your typical military leader of course:  the vow to ‘restore pride to the army’ is questionable as is the general love for all things forceful and military. He did after all, overthrow a government a month before an election.  However, he sounds a lot more like a president than many would expect the leader of military coup to.

None of this is to defend him in any way. Or even to suggest that people give him a chance. However presidential he may sound, it is not even reminiscent of a democratic, non-power-clinging one.  He sounds more or less like a dictator, which he is. Just not like one who came to power via a coup.  Dictators, gun-toting or otherwise, are terrible and as such Mr. Sanogo needs to step down at once. Gladly, the whole world seems to be in agreement on this and are working to make it happen.  As I researched a little to type this post I found a large hint of the power of education: Mr Sanogo is a pretty well-educated man, something he is proud of and not something which is common of many African soldiers. Perhaps its why he seems more presidential - education makes presidents of everyone.

“Are you tired?”

“Yes, please.”

I never found such exchanges awkward till about 7 years ago. Yes, please what? What is this person asking for? A bed or a futon, maybe? When I did finally realize that this response was incorrect, I remembered, and understood, that my piano teacher would get so frustrated whenever anyone answered her with “Yes, please.”  Why do so many Ghanaians say this? It could be, like many other weird localized phrases, the result of a bad understanding of some English language concept during the colonization process.  Pronunciations are often the worst results of this, but other things do change as well. 

“What’s his name”

“He is called John.”

Coming to school here has shown me that this mistake isn’t just Ghanaian though. A friend noted a few weeks ago that many international students often say “he/she is called” and it takes her about a minute to realize what was meant.  I’ve begun to wonder if the manner of expressing names in english is simply difficult to grasp. Over years, I’ve managed to teach myself that “he is called” is wrong and hence never to respond to a  ”what’s your/his/her name?” that way. However often when I tell people about my mother’s name I say, “My mother is not actually called Naa. Her name is Mary-Eve.”  My mental conditioning has not allowed me to say “She is called Mary-Eve.”  But add a few more words “not actually” and I revert right back to “called.” This is just really weird and I have no idea why I do it.

For some people, it might be the switch from another language to English that poses the problem. In Twi, telling someone a person’s name actually uses the transliteration of “We call him…” That might explain why native speakers of twi years ago picked up the habit, and why I am stuck with it today, despite speaking very little and very terribly-sounding Twi.

The first example however, “Yes, please,” could be the effect of a very polite society.  With a lot of emphasis placed on saying please and thank you all the time, children might easily have begun to say “Yes, please” in all situations, not noticing the difference between responding to “Do you want a cup of tea?” and “Is your name Kevin” with that phrase.

Some things are just a plain consequence of a lack of understanding of a concept.  ”Can you repeat your question again?” is often used when “Can you repeat your question” is meant. It’s mainly a misunderstanding of repetition that causes this, or failure to think about the meaning of repetition when using the word.  ”He emphasized on” may be a result of the phrases “He emphasized” and “He placed emphasis on.” Without a sincere understanding of the meaning and the language in this scenario, it’s ver easy to start saying “He emphasized on.”  ”Their birthday is coming” used even when two or more people do not share a birthday. Perhaps this happens because people never think of plural birthdays.

And then there are mannerisms and ideas which seem characteristically Ghanaian and are not really about language.  As a child, I was often told to “concentrate on my food.” I find this instruction really, really strange. It makes it seem that eating is a mentally demanding task, which requires maximum focus to be done efficiently. I’ve never understood.  On the contrary, I’ve always felt that eating, while not doing anything else, is a sincere waste of time.  At the very least, I should talk to someone or read a book or magazine while i eat. Years of “concentrate on your food” only leads to the very awkward scenes in restaurants in Accra sometimes - everyone staring at their plates eating at top speed, only resuming the conversation they were having before the food arrived, once they are done eating.

Finally, the custom of giving and receiving physical items only with your left hand. Of course, this is a cultural habit, apparently with a reason behind it. However, I have always had a problem with the reason I’ve been given and I sincerely hope that this is not the true reason for the practice. I was about 7, when I asked my mum (probably for the millionth time) why she despised me taking things from her hand with my left. The reason she gave me - and i’m sure several other people have received this - was that the left hand was the hand used to clean one-self after taking a shit. At 7 years, this was my reaction (less well expressed of course): I have NO clue which hand I use when I go to the bathroom. No idea whatsoever. I didn’t then, I haven’t since and I still never pay any attention to it. I’m pretty sure I’ve used both hands all my life and forgive me if I’m wrong, but I believe that is the purpose of washing both hands whenever you go to the bathroom.

There are these thoughtful little braille translations under signs all over my hallway. For example, there’s a sign beside my door that says ‘269,’ underneath which theres a translation to Braille that says ‘269’ (I’m assuming). I’m sure every college student has seen this before. If not, you’ve never been bored on a Saturday before and there can only be 2 reasons for that. You’re always learning at the weekend, for which I applaud you, or you’re always hangover at the weekend, for which, well, I applaud you. Anyway, I’ve wondered for a very long time how blind people are supposed to find the signs on the wall. They aren’t necessarily big, and the braille part is even tinier than the numerals.  What if they don’t even know that the signs exist? I’ve never understood this. Additionally, the signs which are not room numbers, like signs pointing in the direction of the bathroom, are just in the weirdest location along the walls. With tiny braille imprint underneath them.  Finally, I noticed today that the sign that points toward the wheelchair-accessible restroom does not have a braille imprint on it.  Clearly Swarthmore doesn’t think you can have 2 disabilities simultaneously. Scandalous. Or maybe they thought the sign was too high for people in wheelchairs. Considerate.

Even if you are a super-serious or super-fun college student and have never noticed these signs, you’ve surely complained about your school’s unnecessarily hilly campus at some point (even if it’s just a minor hill). Well, today I have discovered why hilly campuses, and hills in general are a problem for people who are walking - and it’s not just because walking uphill is hard.  I am about to drop new, nobel-prize-worthy knowledge here; I wish I could patent it, but what would anyone use this knowledge for. At the very least I deserve a wikipedia page.  About the hills, no the pain of walking uphill is not what makes hills annoying when walking. It’s the lack of pleasure of walking downhill. Think about it. Biking uphill is one of the most physically strenuous tasks ever - a lot worse than walking uphill, in fact people often walk their bikes uphill - yet bikers never complain about having to bike uphill all the time because biking downhill is correspondingly one of the most pleasing activities in life. As a child, I’d always bike down the main hill (Grey Hill) of regimannuel at great velocity (seemed like I was a car at that age) despite knowing that I would painfully have to bike back up that steep hill when I was done.  I always did it though, gladly, because it was worth it. Sitting in a cable-car doesn’t look like much fun yet skiers do that all the time to get to tear down a slope when they’re done. I’m sure before there were cable-cars, people would trek up the slopes with uncomfortable skis on their feet, just to get to slide back down the snow.  Walking downhill, has never in my 19 years provided any similar feeling. And there you have it - the truth about hills. Now go ahead and create my Wikipedia page.

Every time I hear someone say, “I love shopping,” in my head I’m like “bitch please, get in line.”  People who know me might know my “worst” (or best, depends how you look at it) experiences:  Achiaa’s had to pull me out of a shop before, I’ve lost several pounds by shopping for 21 hours nonstop (midnight to 9pm), going broke in the middle of the summer living by myself in another country. I should clarify though, I only enjoy doing this with clothes. So I do know some people who I’d say “like to shop” more than I do. Because while they can spend the same amount of time buying clothes as I do, they wander in the grocery store as though they couldn’t decide which of Chanel’s perfumes smells best (you know who you are).

What do I enjoy buying most? Cornflakes. Just kidding. That’s probably number 3. Blue jeans. Blue skinny jeans. Seeing a good pair has to be right up there with orgasms on the greatest human feelings list. I love jeans so much when I see blue female skinnies my first reaction is “I wish I had a sister.” I’d spend so much money on her if I did.  Almost every other item of clothing (for me) makes me happy as well. Shorts, shirts, shoes yeah that’s it actually. But everybody likes buying those. I enjoy buying bags, but I’ve never owned a man-purse. So again, I would have bought bags for my sister and I buy bags for my mum. Perfume - addictive. Ties, and then I don’t wear them. Same thing with blazers and waistcoats. It’s always too hot in Ghana and no one dresses up nicely here so you just look weird if you do.

Why I like shopping? I just like clothes. I love people who look good. Seriously it takes intense self-control not to walk up to people who look nice on the streets of New York and introduce myself. I love girls in blue skinny jeans. Love. Love people who smell good, girls carrying a nice bag. People in white shirts and shorts in the summer, pea coats and scarves in the winter. Consequentially, I enjoy buying all these things. I love looking good myself. I love when my mothers friends see me and are just like “wow” I really dress well. =D. Best moment though? Someone complimented my mum on her bag and she says, “Thanks, Kwame got it for me.” “Wow he has good taste.” “What do you expect? He’s my son.”  Haha that’s right Mary-Eve, now give me more money.

This might turn out to be a very long post - longest I’ve ever seen on Tumblr. Maybe I should break it up. The story with which this begins, is a personal experience from December 13, 2009, immediately after which I wrote most of this. It was simultaneously one of the most disheartening and inspiring days of my life - a mix next to impossible. The day angered me with the insensitivity of some humans and awed me with the courage of others. I was saddened by the cruelty of poverty, and moved by the strength of hope.

I walk calmly into the grade 5 classroom at the school.  The children run wildly around my friends and I.  They are difficult to settle and I wonder about the hour ahead of me – This is not the best start.  Our task is to help them with their reading which we hear is not the best.  We have brought books to read with them.  It seems that they are chasing after the books in our hands, staring hungrily and grabbing viciously.  I realize it’s my responsibility to take charge here.  So I order them to sit down and wait quietly, almost shouting at the top of my lungs.  They sit down at their desks.  Younger children from lower grades try to join the class.  The 5^th graders tell them to leave and they promptly obey.  I take a good-looking book, despite the adage about books and their covers, then walk up to one desk.  There are 4 boys at the desk.  I ask their names

“Benjamin,” “Ussef,” “Eric,” “Kwabena,” they tell me.

“I have a book for us to read”

There is a low mumble of sounds that I can’t make out.  I continue without asking what they meant.  I open the first page and ask who wishes to read first. Kwabena says he will.  He starts reading and it’s painfully slow.  Placing his hand carefully on the words, he mumbles them to himself syllable by syllable till he knows what they are, then reads out loud.  I quickly read ahead to get a grasp of the story.  It is so easy for me and I am done in seconds.  The book is simple.

I start to listen to him once more, with focused attention, as he reads the first sentence out loud.  He pauses when he’s done with it.  I tell him to go on.  He resumes the measured pronunciation of each word.  Once or twice, he pauses at a difficult word and I pronounce “favorite” and repeat myself.  He repeats the word then continues.  We go on like that and he reads a meaningful number of sentences over a few too many minutes before I tell him to stop.  I ask if any of them understand what he has just read.  No one does.  Not one of four grade 5 boys could comprehend a few fairly simple sentences about tigers, pythons and crocodiles.  I am quite surprised.

“You don’t understand?”

Total silence after I ask again.  I prod for an answer, and they shake their heads.  They do not know what the book says.  I exhale – Wow.  I guess I have to explain, I think to myself, and I go ahead to do so.  So Kwabena can hardly read, only merely pronounce printed symbols.  I move on to Benjamin.  Unfortunately, he makes Kwabena seem like a ridiculously fast paced reader.  He is excruciatingly slow in analyzing the words, after which he wastes so many more moments in pronouncing them.  His voice is barely audible – he’s just above mumbling the words out.  I reckon he lacks confidence in his reading.  So far it’s correct though, and I encourage him.  Unfortunately, Kwabena loses patience and reads the sentence out.

“Thank you, Kwabena, but let’s allow Benjamin to read the next sentence by himself. We all allowed you to read when it was your turn.”

Benjamin resumes and it takes him forever to get a full sentence out. Again I have to explain the sentence to them.  The book had seemed simple, but considering how basic their reading is, now I have doubts as to whether we will be able to get through this book smoothly – for such readers, the hints of sarcasm in the plot was not a great aid to progress.  However, despite my worries, I could not have been prepared for the shock that came next.

“Okay, your turn, Ussef.”

Ussef picks the book and tilts it towards him.  He looks a lot older than the other kids and I naturally expect that he is a better reader.  He lowers his head very close to the page and with wide open eyes, tries to pronounce the first word.  He stutters and stammers, pronouncing phonemes instead of words.  Sometimes, he pronounces the letter as it is said in the alphabet.  Instead of new, “Eneh-eh-w.’  I’m more than a little perplexed and I guess it shows on my face because Ussef suddenly raises his head and looks away.

“I can’t read.”

My confusion turns to more than a little surprise and without much thought I blurt out, “At all?” He shakes his head. I quickly regroup and calm down.  “Okay,” I tell him, “No problem.”  In my head I’m amazed.  Class 5! Cannot read?  I remember writing weekly essays in 5^th grade.  I remember one that I’m particularly proud of. He cannot read I tell myself again.

“How old are you?” I ask all of them.”

Benjamin and Kwabena are 11, almost normal for 5^th grade in Ghana.  Ussef is 15. Eric is 14.  Ussef cannot read at 15 years.  At 15, I was in my first year of high school.  If there was any doubt about my literary proficiency at 11, there certainly isn’t any about it at 15.  Only 2 years later, I’m here teaching them to read and writing about it.  I sigh and get back to work. “And you, Eric,” I turn the book to him.  “Can you read?”

He shakes his head, “no.”

It would be less frightening, less hopeless, if they was actually learning how to read. You would think the fact that they go to school each morning, spend the whole day there, in class, with students, with teachers, would count for something along that line, but no. Teachers cannot give students like Ussef and Eric much practice in class because they have a schedule to follow.  They do not have enough patience to allow these students to read in class and so they make people like Kwabena read because it makes the class go smoothly. They might not even have noticed that some students are unable to read because the students, so grateful to be at school in the first place, will never complain.  It’s no fault of the teachers, really, but what about Ussef’s life?

As we draw ever closer to 2015, I often read articles about how close or how far the world is from achieving the Millennium Development Goals. Several countries, including Ghana, are said to have made astounding progress in putting majority of young children into primary school. It’s a great achievement, and will do a lot to improve global poverty - at least it should. That said, putting children into schools like this is hardly solving the problem. I love the UNDP with every There isn’t necessarily anything wrong with existing public schools, but they are simply overstretched. Teachers cannot deal with these numbers and if we put a 100% of children through primary education, and 50% come out like Ussef, unable to read after 6 years of education, what have we done? Not much, and nowhere near as much as the numbers suggest. Thinking about these, and many other problems which face my country, it’s very easy to despair. I stood in that classroom disheartened at the terrible life-story before my eyes, yet Ussef and Eric themselves, seemed perfectly fine with the fact that they are literally “receiving an education” without any of the skills it should be giving them. In several ways, they even seemed hopeful about their future and maybe you cannot blame them - even being in school is a miracle they didn’t consider possible a few years before. Honestly though, I believe there are only 2 ways in which a person can have hope in such a situation - You are either an incredibly strong person, or you don’t fully grasp the difficulty of the situation.

That day, I was inclined to think the children did not understand the depth of their own predicament. They didn’t realize that if they weren’t even learning to read, then this ‘education’ which was giving them hope, was nothing to be happy about. But the ignorance gave them hope for the future. When you don’t know what can (or is likely to) inhibit you, you can achieve more. Hence the millions of motivational posters about not letting reality hold back your dreams. Reality is cruel, and it would be nice to let it go. But you need to know the reality of problems you are dealing with if you are going to solve any problem, and once you do, it’s a monster task to maintain hope.  This issue has had me considering, lately, what kind of parent I’ll be: Whether I’ll always let my children believe that anything and everything is possible, pretend that they are likely to achieve whatever they want to (because that will make them attempt to achieve more, and therefore stand a chance to do so). Or will I “prepare” them for how insanely hard this world is (much of which I haven’t even experienced) and always tell them that life is not easy, like my own parents have done. I am yet to make any decision and probably will not for a while.

About the title of the post, I think I’ve realized that hope is clear, because when you know the least, you dream more, believe more. The more you know (color you add), the less hope you have, normally. But I have also realized that the children who could not read could be the ones who understand their situation best. How often do other people understand what you are going through more than you do? Not often. Yet they still have hope, and if they do I guess the rest of us are obliged to be hopeful as well.  I’m currently reading Wangari Mathaai’s book, “The Challenge for Africa” and I am so awed, that after such a careful analysis of the problems on our continent, she still has an amazing amount of hope for it. That is all I want to be. Hopeful.

A couple of years ago a friend wrote the first few lines of a poem and gave it to me to complete.  She also went ahead to write her own continuation separately, and we compared poems at the end. For two poems that start with the same lines, they are incredibly different and pointers to the wealth of different ideas imagination can produce. The First poem is mine, the second is hers and the emboldened lines are what she initially wrote before we completed the poems.

Watch me as if you have never seen me before

Like everything I did, said, wrote was new

Like I was some magical being from somewhere far; somewhere you could never come.

Remove the ordinary shells, the everyday story and see that you are just like me.

Strip yourself, and be shocked at what you reveal.

For we are not different; I have only embraced what we share underneath your pretense.

And I am not scared to talk;

Neither am I scared to act.

You are still watching; your still, hard eyes bore into me.

You wonder how I am unfazed by your ice-cold stares.

You wonder why I won’t stop.

Won’t stop to proclaim, won’t stop to act.

You wonder why I’m different?

Look beneath your lies.

………………..

Watch me as if you have never seen me before

Like everything I did, said, and wrote was new

Like I was some magical being from somewhere far; somewhere you could never come.

Remove the ordinary shells, the everyday story…

Trace the veil over my face and behind my ears again,

Pretend like you have never uncovered me. Ever…

Take away my drab, plain and boring clothes

Dress me, shawls and scarves and embroidered gowns

Put shiny, shimmery bangles on my arms and my feet

Tattoo henna in my palm, kohl around my pleading eyes.

Place strong gold in my ears, diamonds studded in my nose.

Twist my hair, touch my curls.

Fix the ivory-sapphire clasp in the hold.

Take my hands and turn me round.

Look into my eyes, and watch me watch you.

Complete what you begun.

Make me new.

New.

waterforbreakfast:

I feel like I’m always apologizing for something here now lol. I’m on break, but haven’t had internet for about a week and so I apologize for you not hearing more from me, even though I’ve had a lot of time on my hands. Christmas in Ghana for me is really just higher level socializing, networking and relaxation. No complaints here.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

2012 needs to be a big one for me. Graduation, job prospects, decisions waiting to be made and so much more. The thought that I have no clue where I will be in say, October 2012, frightens me… very much. I also turn a very frightening age NEXT MONTH. Like, I never thought I’d be turning this age, at least not for a while. I certainly don’t feel that age. I’m panicking just thinking about the number… and what comes after it, and what comes after that… Jesus. But anyway, I’m going to try not to panic, and take things a day at a time.

On to the post. (oops, yes, sorry, that was all just a few words saying hello, and stuff)

I had a conversation with my nice friend, Jake, a while back. It was humorous for the most part, but it really made me think. We were talking about, and describing ‘The Ghanaian Dream.’ Or at least, our idea of it. It popped into my head this morning and made me laugh, so I thought I’d share :)

First of all, The Ghanaian Dream takes place in Accra, and only Accra. You may have some sort of leeway in Kumasi, if you have a home in Asokwa, or Ahodwo, but even that, is an Ashanti Dream. The proper Ghanaian Dream happens in Accra. And not just any kind of Accra, mind you. It can’t take place in Western Accra. No Lartebiokorshies or Mamprobis invited. Think big. Think East, think North. Labone, Roman Ridge, Cantoments, East and West Legon, Airport, Airport Hills…yup.

You must own a story-building. If you own a one floor building, it must be a very beautiful one with a large compound that makes up for its lack of staircases. The gate needs to be large and intimidating, and there needs to be a security guard present at all times. He doesn’t live The Dream, but he exists to make sure yours unfolds flawlessly. The house itself has several bedrooms, anywhere from four to twelve is fine. Because you know, yes, you have three children, but your extended family from England and America visits you twice each year, and the extra space is a Godsend. You live with a Yaa or an Abena or a Mavis, whose job it is to see to it that your laundry transitions from piles on your bathroom floor into stacks in your walk-in closet through a perfectly undetectable process. She would cook too, but there is a chef for that, so she helps him by chopping his veggies and passing him a utensil here and there. Your garden is impeccable, and your pool exists even though you never use it.

Your three kids go to a school that is most likely abbreviated into three letters, and has an international curriculum and students from all over the world. You have as many cars as there are people in your home, yet, only half that number possesses a license. In fact, the day you knew for sure that you lived The Ghanaian Dream, was the day processions of people from your church began to arrive at your house and request use of one of your cushy vehicles for their son’s wedding convoy. Those requests haven’t stopped since, and you don’t mind it. After all, you delight in giving back to the community. Not all will see the interior of a Range Rover in their lifetime, and if it falls upon you to facilitate the experience, who are you to decline? It is the Lord’s work.

Even though you sound privileged and spoiled, you really are not. You are deserving because you worked for it. Well, either you worked for it or you too, were born into a household which predisposed you to a path leading to The Dream. You do the right thing, you go to church, you make sure your children receive the best education, you give alms, you send money home to your village every month, and you manage to juggle all these without cracking your iPad 2 screen.

You love Ghana, you see, there is a lot of money to be made here. There is so much potential, but you see, the people’s attitudes are the problem, eh, they are not serious. The unprofessionalism is at an all time high, you say. People are lazy, they are not punctual, their work ethic is poor, corruption is everywhere, people want something for nothing. You and your friends have these conversations often, over beers at Rhapsody’s, while berating the self-appointed ‘parking lot attendant’ who feels entitled to 1 Cedi for his efforts.

The money can be put to better use; your kids need to take their annual Summer vacation, because Ghana is hot and dusty, and there is still no McDonald’s here. What will they wear to school in September when all their friends are back and smelling like Yankee with their Yankee shoes and Yankee gum and pencil cases? No ma’am, their friends need to know that they come from a Good Home. That they too live The Dream. And of cooourse they can come swimming on Saturday afternoon. It’ll be fun as always. Your chef will cook, and their driver will drop them off.

* disclaimer: sarcasm fully intended, social commentary sold separately

LOVE this. Perfect example of what this blog is for. This girl inspires me so much as well.