Maybe A Eulogy

This might be a eulogy. I've never written one before, so I'm not entirely sure. But I would like to say a little bit about what Chinua Achebe meant to me. I first heard of Achebe in high school. For my African History class sophomore year,  I had to read Achebe's best known novel, Things Fall Apart. I don't remember much about how I felt about it then. I liked it, I think. But I definitely didn't understand the full implications of the novel. I did not understand the subtle message of the novel as a whole: Africa is not a place of darkness, it is a place of humanity. Sometime in the eighties Achebe wrote a wonderful critical essay analyzing Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness. Achebe drew on many of the techniques and philosophies of the emerging post-colonial academic understanding of the West's relationship with and view of the rest of the world to produce a reading of Heart of Darkness with connotations that make my blood run cold. I did not particularly enjoy Heart of Darkness. I found it stuffy and terribly Victorian. For such a short book, it seemed remarkably dense. Last year, I took a class on post-colonial literary theory. We read Achebe's last book, Anthills of the Savannah. It is a masterfully written novel and quite difficult because Achebe uses Nigerian pigeon liberally throughout the text. I have since read even more of his work. I have come to the conclusion that, while Achebe is not the most brilliant writer I have read, his writing served an important and necessary purpose--and will continue to serve that purpose for a long time to come. Achebe gave a face to Africa. He gave a face to pre-contact, pre-Christian Africa. He gave a face to corruption and instability in Africa. Achebe reminds us--his audience in the West--that there is more to Africa than what we hear in the news. People in Africa go about their everyday lives--always have, always will.That is what Achebe means to me. He is a reminder that, no matter how much I might like to buy into the easy image of Africa with which I am routinely presented, people are people everywhere. Especially in Africa.

In Which I Contemplate Change

The way I look has changed. My skin is darker than it has ever been. A pinkish-golden color. The bright green dress I brought with me actually looks good against my skin. I thought it made me look a bit sickly before. There are more freckles on my shoulders and arms—and new ones on the bridge of my nose. Or maybe those are sun spots. I’ll worry about that when I get back though. I have a startling watch tan. There are gold streaks in my hair; I might actually be blond by the end of this trip. I feel like I’m starting to look like the supermodels from the eighties: sun-kissed and hale, but with a soft prettiness.

All this is a part of a larger issue: the way this trip will change me. Because there will be change, no question about it. And most of it will be for the better, I hope. But some of it will be hard. I will never be as comfortable in my own home, my own skin. There is awareness in me now, awareness of the incredible privilege Americans enjoy. And we do enjoy incredible privilege. More than we can ever really know. I had a difficult time understanding why some of the USAC girls had such a hard time arranging to travel to travel to Togo and Nigeria. I can basically book a flight to anywhere in Europe and go. I don’t need a visa. I just say that I am a tourist. I suppose it is sign of the power of the American tourist dollar. I remember that the first time I looked at my passport, I felt pride when I read the request by the office of the Secretary of State that I be allowed free passage, that I be afforded the rights and privileges due an American citizen. I do not think that I can ever now forget the power of an American passport. Because it is just one more thing about me that gives me more power than the people around me. Never mind that I come from an upper-middle-class family. Never mind that I am well-educated and well-read. Never mind that I am white. I didn’t understand before this, the inherent status of my being. I feel a weight now. I feel responsibility. There is a large part of me that wants to go home and forget about what I am thinking now. I could probably manage it. 

But I will change in other ways, too. I am more aware of the way I wash and prepare vegetables. I have to be so careful here. I have discovered the joys of handkerchiefs. Why have we stopped using handkerchiefs, anyway? I truly understand just how heavy books can be. I can not longer take wifi for granted. There is so much more. Small things. But I notice them. I will notice them. And I am sure you will, too. 

In Which I am Rather Homesick

In one of our rather epic email conversations--we've gradually expanded from a few paragraphs to a few pages--my friend Kristen wrote something rather lovely about homesickness:

I wouldn't feel guilty about that homesickness. It's only natural, after all. You're off having an amazing experience, but that doesn't mean that home isn't as wonderful as it's ever been. You aren't letting that hold you back, and that is all that counts.

I have been very homesick. I miss my parents. I miss how easy life is in the US. I miss not feeling guilty for going to supermarkets. Only foreigners and wealthy Ghanaians can afford to, or even want to, shop at such places. Open markets and smaller local stalls and vendors are the norm.  Even in the middle of Accra, which I admittedly am getting better at navigating, I am a member of a minority--a minority with resources unavailable to the average Ghanaian. I miss being invisible. I miss being average. It is so surreal to walk down a street and have eyes follow me, have people turn to get a better look at me. I wish that I was being self-centered in this...

Maybe this is the half-way through blues. I am almost exactly half-way through my time here. Two month and one week down, two months and one week to go.

I'm posting a picture I took of home before I left. I miss the snow.