In which I come to a realization after an interaction with a human who can not yet talk

I am terrible at keeping in touch with people.

It’s not that I haven’t met people who have changed me and shaped me and made me the person that I am today. It’s not that I haven’t met people that I wish I was still in contact with today. It’s not that I never had best friends who knew all my secrets. 

Because I have and I did.

But I’ve always wanted to be the person who leaves. I’ve always thought of the lifestyle that I lead as a transient one. The people that I surrounded myself with meant something to me while they were surrounding me, but never enough that I made the effort to keep in contact with them when they no longer were surrounding me.

And I was ok with that. I had accepted that the people I met would only be in my life for so long before they would leave again so I should learn the most from them while I still had the chance.

And then I met my nephew. 

We were in the kitchen of my brother and sister-in-law’s house. I had walked in and then suddenly, in front of me was this very small person who I had never met before, but was someone who was very important to me. And, as I watched him bang his hands on the marble countertop, I realized (and I’m borrowing from John Green here) that, as long as I am alive or as long as my nephew is alive, I will be his aunt and he will be my nephew.

There isn’t a part of the African bush remote enough where I can escape that fact. 

And that nine-month-old baby made me realize that maybe I should start thinking about the other people and other relationships that I want to foster so they will still exist long after it would have taken me to figure out how important a particular relationship meant to me in the first place. 

I realized that you have to choose to let someone be part of your life. And you have to work to keep that person part of your life. Because, maybe, leaving isn’t always the answer.

Secret

Of course I would never tell them this in person, but phone calls from my parents have the resounding ability to make me believe that I can last another 17 months here.

Thanks Mom and Dad.

Meet my family: Larissa

I didn’t really see my sister Larissa for the first two weeks I was here. She spent most of the days in the side salon studying French, English, math and science for her baccalaureate exam. The two-day exam marks the end of her years in high school. When she receives her grades, her papa will decide where and what she will study.

For now, she is concerned mainly with making sure her little brothers do their share of the chores around the house. She has no qualms about reporting to Maman when Leo has not swept the house yet today. With a mere glance in my direction, I remove from feet from the coffee table in the sitting room.

At a Peace Corps workshop in which she participated, she put some high school boys in their place when they tried to argue that fetching charcoal for the fire means they help make dinner at their house.

She stood tall with one hand on her hip and one hand gesticulating wildly. Her body language said more than the words she spoke.

Larissa is able to carry such an attitude as a benefit of the family in which and the place in which she was raised.

In a southern, less conservative city like Porto Novo the women have learned to speak their minds. They argue over giving change and hold tight to inflated prices at the market. They aren’t afraid to say exactly what they think of your dress. They fight hard to give their families whatever they can manage.

If this empowerment is accompanied by a little sass, I’ll take it. 

The Sorcerer

Leo, Loic and  I had taken our usual spots at the wooden table in the dining room that has become our designated location for nightly card games since I’ve moved in. I’m facing the window, with my back to the living room, so I am the last person to spy the Sorcerer.

Leo first spots him in the middle of a hand of “pique,” but doesn’t say anything. It is Loic who sounds the alarm.

“Ahh. Mon dieu,” he says. I sit up straight in the chair to see what he is pointing at.

On the concrete wall not quite in the corner is a three-inch long cockroach.

This is not my first encounter with a Beninoise cockroach, but it’s the first time one has dared enter into my home, a few feet from where I sleep, even closer to where I drink coffee in the morning.

“Me,” Leo says. “When I see one of those in the shower, I do not wash myself.”

We decide the cockroach must die. Although, none of us can image the endeavor that we are about to undertake.

Leo calls first for a shoe. Loic brings him a green and yellow flip flop from the back garden. I am skeptical at the strength of a flip flop against this animal, but Leo and Loic have far more experience with such wild creatures.

Leo launches his shoe. It grazes the cockroach, but it does not even move an antennae.

Leo is dumbfounded by the cockroach’s lack of fear.

“It is a sorcerer,” he declares. “That is the only explanation for why it did not move.”

Leo calls next for the insecticide. As a cautionary measure, Loic and I each climb on top of a chair. Leo has given himself as a sacrifice for this mission. He sprays the insecticide.

This time, the Sorcerer moves. It scuttles off the wall and along the floor into the living room. It squeezes into the corner in a manner so it is impossible to crush it with the shoe.

Leo tries the insecticide again. This only serves to piss off the Sorcerer. It flies into hallway and lands on the wall inches away from my open bedroom door.

Leo looks heavenward. “Why have you brought your black magic into my house, you Sorcerer?”

Eyes locked on the Sorcerer, we run into my room. Loic slams the door behind us. Leo and I try to formulate a new battle plan. We decided the best shot is the insecticide.

Leo alone will leave the room, hit the Sorcerer and then retreat as fast as possible. Then we will wait for the insecticide to work its magic. 

We cautiously open the door.

The Sorcerer is staring right at us.

Leo shoots the insecticide directly at the Sorcerer then ducks back into the room under my arm. I slam the door.

We wait.

The insecticide says it works instantly, but there are not specific instructions for sorcerers.

We open the door after 5 minutes. The Sorcerer is belly up in front of my door.

The three of us collapse in a fit of giggles on the tile floor.

“Emily,” Loic calls later. “I want to show you something.” I step out of my room that still reeks a little of insecticide. He is pointing to another Benin-sized cockroach on the wall.

“Bonsoir Monsieur,” I say. I close my door to the sound of Loic cackling at my salutation. One can only deal with so many sorcerers in one night.

Meet my family: Leo

The first interaction I had with my fifteen-year-old brother Leo was his introduction in broken English.

“Me, I am called Leo,” he said while I sat at the wooden kitchen table eating rice with a sauce of tomatoes and onions, my first dinner at my family’s house.

I was tired. My arms hurt from carrying my 58 and 52 –pound luggage. The plus vite French with a  Beninoise accent was beyond my abilities. At this point, I would take any English someone would willingly say to me.

Based on my latest language exam, I have reached a language proficiency with French that allows me to continue as a volunteer, but most of my days are still defined by the thoughts and feelings that I would be unable to convey in French.

Leo is the one person who is not American who can at least attempt to understand what I’m saying when my French fails me. (As long as I speak slowly and clearly enough in English.)

There are many times when I feel like I’m talking to myself. At night, when my French fails me more, my run-on sentences in English tend to end with the phrase “And I’m talking so fast right now I know Leo can’t understand what I’m saying.”

He replies, “Oh Emily. Your English is too fast for me.”

It is then that he understands what I’m working with everyday.

Meet my family: Gabriel

Gabriel is the 6-month-old son of the woman who comes over four times a week to help my Mama here prepare dinner. He spends most of his time at the house with his chest to his mom’s back, secured by a piece of cloth she ties around her chest. His brown feet stick straight out as he is momentarily suspended parallel to the ground when his mom bends over to fill a bucket with water from the tap. His mouth is open in a gurgle of happiness. 

However, with one glance in my direction his expression changes to one of shock then fear. His mouth opens in a cry.

Six-month-old Gabriel cannot fathom my skin tone anymore than I can fathom why we as a humanity have always found the ability to systematically rank ourselves by race.

I am the first white person Gabriel has ever seen. I am the first white person that many of the infants I encounter have seen. I cannot tell you about the adults because all the adults I’ve encountered are socialized enough to know it’s not usually acceptable to point at a person’s arm and burst into tears.

I’ve written before about the word “Yovo,” the term the Beninoise use in general for everyone who does not have an African skin tone. There is also a song that normally accompanies me whenever I travel outside my home. It’s catchy enough that it becomes stuck in my head by the time I reach my destination.

These things don’t make me angry. They don’t even really annoy me anymore. Mainly I’ve accepted them as a side effect of the respect and deference with which I am generally treated here. At mass, people use two hands to shake my one, a sign of respect in Beninoise culture. People greet me using the formal version of verbs. 

It is essentially, the opposite of what a child like Gabriel would experience if the situation were reversed. If he was the only noir in a neighborhood of blanches, history has shown his experience would be much different. For now, I will take the tears.

Meet my family: Loic

Loic would like nothing more than to play soccer all day. I showed him the ball I brought the fourth day I was here, and since then, he and that blue ball have been best friends. Usually, I am woken up from my naps by the thump of Loic kicking the ball against the concrete wall that surrounds the back garden.

After it’s too dark to play outside, he is poised in front of the computer playing virtual soccer. He pauses only when it’s time for his favorite American TV show on Wednesday nights, Dirty Sexy Money.

That he has a sister from the US who has heard of Ronaldo and Messi is a point of pride for him.

Loic, at 11, is still in that age range when he can cut through tension and bad days simply by being himself. He doesn’t understand why but he comprehends that there are few things that make me laugh like when he runs down the hallway yelling that he is “the boss.”

In the past days, my family has become significantly invested in improving my comprehension of French. Loic, more than anyone else, has taken it upon himself to happily correct my every misspelling and incorrect choice of helping verb with the past participle.

He can also be easily recruited to listen to my Missouri pronunciation of French words. Once I got over the idea that a boy whose voice still hasn’t changed yet is more of a grammarian than I am currently, Loic is a great teacher.

I hear he is the boss.

Things I miss about the US #1

My mom gives the best hugs.

I’m just sayin’.

My mom’s hugs could kick your mom’s hugs’ ass in a knock-out hug throwdown.

She’s about the same height as me so I don’t have to squat down too much when I want to bury my head in her neck like I’m four years old still. She still smells the same: Downey fabric softener, Dawn dish soap and occasionally what she’s made for dinner.

My mom has received an Academy Award, a Pulitzer and a Nobel Prize in hugging. But she’s too modest to put them on display. She keeps them in the laundry room next to the Shout! stain remover. 

She’ll never complain that she’s in the middle of something, and she’ll happily hold you as long as you like.

She also excels at the hug-back rub-hair stroke combo. The trifecta.

 I’m tellin’ you. It will get you every time. 

My dad on Jane Eyre

Last night, my mom, my dad and I watched the latest version of Jane Eyre, the one with the girl from Alice in Wonderland and the guy with the deep, German voice.

We’re in the middle of the scene where Rochester finally confesses his love for Jane, one of the great moments in the story, when my dad pauses the DVD and turns his LAY-Z-BOY to face my mom.

“You want me to talk like that, don’t you?” he says. "You want me to tell you that there is string tied to my gut that is also tied to your gut and if you get too far from me, I’m afraid that string will break.“

My mom replies, "Well, he didn’t say it exactly like that.”