the sun over Edinburgh, at one of it's highest points, on 21 October
It hit me the other day - I've never been as far north as I am now. I remember being in Amsterdam in the summer of 2000, feeling like I was so far north that the sun would never set. Amsterdam has a latitude of about 52 degrees North; Edinburgh's latitude is almost 56 degrees North.
I've lived in many places, but never with latitudes even close to where I am now. Zaria (11° N) was close enough to the equator that I don't think I ever realized there was any difference to the length of days during the year. De Kalb (42° N), Towson (39.5° N), East Lansing (43° N), Oakland (38° N), and Mountain View (37.5° N), while having latitudes that span over less than 6 degrees, don't have vastly differing lengths of days in the winter. Edinburgh however, is going to be a new experience for me.
Over the past few weeks, we have been getting less and less sun. We get about 4.5 less minutes of sun each day over the last week, which may not seem like a lot, but when that translates to over 30 minutes of sun is lost in a week, it's something to think about. Today, we are scheduled to have a little over 10 hours between sunrise and sunset; in a week, it will be just over 9 hours and 30 minutes.
The sun makes it's way across the southern sky, seeming to move very fast, as shadows change a lot in a matter of minutes. The sun never comes close close to being "overhead", and it looks like perpetual morning or evening with the long shadows cast all day.
my long shadow at 12:30 on 21 October
the low-hanging sun casting long shadows at 1pm on 21 October
When we moved into this flat, the landlord told us that most of the windows faces the south, like it was a selling point. At the time, I thought "so what?". Now, I know. If our flat has a northern view we would never see the sun. Instead though, we get bright rays of sun (for a few precious hours, and only when it's not cloudy) in our flat.
I remember moving to De Kalb from Nigeria. I was prepared cold, as much as a 12 year old from Nigeria could be, I was not prepared for the darkness. I have the same feeling now; people say "are you worried about getting through the cold winter?" (not knowing I lived in Michigan for 7 years), and I say "not at all; I'm worried about getting through the darkness". I knew winter was coming when Lauren made the purchase I was dreading- she bought a SAD lamp. The darkness was coming.
According to this site, on December 21, the shortest day of the year, Edinburgh will have just under 7 hours between sunrise and sunset, from about 8:45 AM to 3:45 PM. That's kind of scary to me, and I'm not planning on being here on that day, but will be in town close enough to that day to wake up to darkness, lunch with a low lying sun, and dinner with darkness.
I'm already looking forward to the day when I start to dread summer, when the sun will never seem to set.
Nigeria and I have this odd relationship. I was born there, and lived there until I was a little over 12.
The thing is, I feel like I have no real connection to Nigeria anymore. Neither of my parents are Nigerian, so there is no Nigerian cultural tradition, or food, that we would partake in, after we moved to the US. I don't look Nigerian, and have even had to defend that I lived there a couple of times to Ghanaians, who refused to believe that I, the Obroni with dreadlocks, would have ever lived in the most populous country in Africa, the nemesis of Ghana.
I also don't speak with a Nigerian accent (although my West African accent comes out when I speak to Africans). I often get this surprised look from people when they ask where I am from, after I tell them I spent the first 12 years of my life in Nigeria.
I haven't been to Nigeria since 1991, 19 years ago. Much more time has passed since the last time I was in the country than the time I spent there, but I still feel an intense nostalgia about the country, the Nigeria I knew.
I remember the songs we sang in elementary school, about independence day, about the bad shape of the economy in the early 1980s (my dad still chuckles at the thought of having 8-year olds sing about the bad economy). I can still feel my bare feet running along, playing football with a half-inflated ball, or anything round we could find, the feel of the bike I got when I was three and rode until it was unridable (it was, literally, broken in 1/2 by twins I knew). I can still hear the sound of the call to prayer from the Mosques, and the excitement of getting out of school early on Fridays, because the muslim kids had to go to Mosque that afternoon. I remember being called a Fulani, because of my skin tone, and how I felt that was more insulting that calling me Oyimbo (white person).
Unfortunately, Nigeria rarely gets positive stories about it in the media these days; it's looked at for its corruption, the oil industry, the crazy terrorist. It's negative stories have affected me, because of the place of birth listed in my passport, being questioned about my Nigerian-ness by security officials as I pass through airports.
That's not the Nigeria I knew. The Nigeria I knew was a place where I could run around and play all day, where my parents never had to worry about my safety when I was outside, even at night. The Nigeria I knew is where mothers were called "Mama so-and-so" - my mother was "Mama Kodwo".
So I hope that today, the day Nigeria turns 50, people don't see Nigeria as the place they read about in the news, but, for at least one day, see Nigeria as the Nigeria I knew.
I have had a difficult time sleeping over the past week. I lie in bed most nights, and see this image of my mother; she's in the kitchen, wearing one of the pairs of coolots she owned, with a sleeveless shirt on, cooking something in the kitchen. She is singing, or talking to someone on the phone. I think to myself, "mom is probably making dinner right now". Then it hits me - she's not.
Being in Edinburgh has created this distance between my mother and I that I don't particularly like. The last time I talked to my mother, I would have never guessed that I would be where I am right now, and so I feel like it's this place that she never would have associated with me; like she's not with me here, like she was in Towson, or Oxford, or Ghana. I thought I would go through a catharsis of some sort when I got here, being away from my family, and having "me time" as so many people had suggested I needed to have. I haven't, at least not in the way I imagined; instead I just kind of go day to day, still worrying about my family, and not feeling like I have time to myself, even though I spend most days alone. I spend the days tired and nights restless, unable to sleep.
Six months ago, at about this time (4:30 am Eastern time), I finally fell asleep. I had been awake overnight, by my mother's side during her last moments of life. Looking back, I realize I was going to sleep early that morning, at about the time my mother typically would wake up, to get ready for the job she had for over twenty years. She was given an award for twenty years of service, only a few months before she died.
As a teenager, I avoided telling people what my mother did at all costs, and avoided associating myself, in any way, with her job. I was embarrassed by my mother's job, and didn't want anyone to know what she did. I never even went to her job, unless it was absolutely necessary, because I didn't want anyone from my school to see me there and make the connection between me and her job. I was a stupid teenager, and have lived to regret my actions.
On April 21st, exactly one month after my mother died, I happened to be driving by a McDonald's, and decided to go in and get something. Being a vegetarian, McDonald's is not a place I frequent very often, but it felt like the right thing to do on that day.
So today, I plan on doing what I've done on the 21st of each month for the past five months; I plan on going to McDonald's, the place my mother worked for over twenty years; the place that gave her a 20-year award, much nicer than any award I will probably ever receive for service; the place where I have a hard time ordering because of my vegetarianism; the place I avoided going as a teenager; the place where I see my mother in every employee; the place where I feel like I need to go every month, to honor my mother.
Today would have been my parents 36th wedding anniversary. I doubt that last year, on their 35th anniversary, either of them would have had any thought that I would be using the phrase "would have been" to describe their anniversary this year. I dedicate this post to my parents, Larry and Alberta, who made me the person I am, and the person I hope to be.....
In December 2002, my family went to Ghana. My mother had a big party to celebrate what I thought was her 54th birthday (it was actually her 60th, but that's for another blog). As the party was dying down, a little old lady said something to my mother that made her laugh. I found out later that the little old lady had said she hoped that when she died, my mother would host her funeral, because my mother knew how to throw a good party.
In Ghana, a good funeral is also a good party.
My mother died 5 months ago, when we had a funeral and burial for her in Maryland. A few weeks ago, we had her Ghana funeral.
I learned in March, when my mother's US funeral was going on, that Ghana funerals cover 3 days:
Saturday - We Bury
Sunday - We go to Church
Monday - We talk about the Money
"We" means the family; both immediate and extended, and in Ghana extended family is really extended.
We Bury
We were asked to take clippings of my mother's hair and nails to Ghana with us, to be buried in the family plot. This was put into a small coffin that my older sister, Affie, had arranged. As a family, we drove from Koforidua, where my sister lives, to Aseseeso, a small town that is the traditional family town of my mother, where the family plot is.
In the US, at funerals people tear up, a few people sob or cry, but for the most part, emotion is held in check. In Ghana, emotion runs high.
Women typically wail, loudly, screaming at how much they miss the departed, asking to go with them. I saw some of this at my mother's US funeral, but with only two Ghanaian relatives wailing, it just seemed odd.
While we were in Ghana, wailing had been going on, off an on, in the days leading up to the burial - when we arrived in Koforidua, in the morning before heading to Aseseeso, and when we arrived in Aseseeso. It got to a fever pitch, however, when the graveyard workers started to cover the coffin. It seemed that all the women were screaming, my older sister hurling herself at the grave, asking to go and be with my mother. She had to be physically restrained, otherwise I think she would have dove into the ground.
It was a lot more emotional for me than the crane that was used to put my mother's coffin into the ground in the US.
Men are not expected to show weakness, but me, my dad, and my uncle (who had really stressed being strong, and who had had a contentious relationship with my mother) were all in tears.
Within 30 minutes however, the mood had completely changed.
People were boisterous, hugging each other, smiling, and laughing. If an American had come onto the scene at this point, they would never have guessed that a burial had just taken place.
We got back to Koforidua in the early afternoon, where loud music was playing, tents and chairs had been set up, and a lot of people were coming to visit - and to party. My family sat in a row, shaking hands of visitors, who seemed to come in big groups - one group numbered about a hundred by my count. It was a lot of hand shaking of strangers, who may not have not even known my mother, and a lot of hand sanitizer use by me.
After greeting people for about an hour, the immediate family went into the house as the loud music went on outside. Between songs, people would take the microphone, announcing who they were and how much money they were donating to the family. This went on for about 5 hours, until it got dark.
The beauty of the "We Bury" day is the outfits. Everyone is wearing black, dark brown, or dark red; funeral cloth. It was really a sight to see all these people, very similarly dressed, marching through Aseseeso to the family gravesite, at the gravesite, and mingling afterward. I again was struck, like I often am when I go to Ghana, at just how much family I have, and how few of them I know.
Photos from the day by Alan Lew - more photos by Alan can be found here
We go to Church
On Church Day, we again wore similar outfits, but this time, they were white.
It was decided that a short memorial would be held at the church where my parents were married, 36 years ago. Because Ghanaian church services can go on for hours, we were told by one of the church's members when to get to the church. We were also told when we would be able to leave.
The church was huge, and packed. My family was asked to come up to the front, twice; the first time was for us to introduce ourselves and the second was for my dad to present a gift to the church.
The memorial was good at the church, although I liked the US memorial service better. The minister did not personally know my mother, so what he had to say didn't have the personal touch the minister in the US had.
After we were told we could leave, our family had many pictures taken in the yard of the church, with the minister, and with each other. Again, it was this big group of people, with similar outfits, almost all related to each other in some way or another. My dad was the gutsiest of all of the men in the group, wearing a traditional outfit - he looked better in it than I thought he would, to be honest. I still couldn't wear it though - one of the many reasons my dad will always be more African than me.
My family, after church
The afternoon of Church Day was almost identical to the afternoon of Bury Day - we sat and shook many hands, music was played, money was donated. I was actually persuaded to dance on Church Day, and the people who asked me were surprised at how quickly I took to the dance - I guess I got it from my mother.
The thing that stood out for me that afternoon had to do with one of my aunts.
My aunt is part of an organization/club that helps out each other, in times of need. A stream of women came in, almost all of them carrying food, or other products on their heads. One by one, they came in, to music, put down the item they were carrying, and started dancing in a circle. In the end, there was a lot of food and household items, with elegantly dressed women dancing around all of it. After the food was taken into the house, the women danced out, in line. It was beautiful.
My aunt's organization, dancing in
More money was donated to the family, and in the evening, the tents were taken down, the speakers taken away, and the party portion of the funeral was over.
We talk about the Money
All the money that was donated over the previous two days had to be divided up somehow.
The siblings of my mother, and Affie, argued about money on that morning, in addition to other things. I was not involved in this, and don't really know how it was settled. What I do know is that I heard a lot of yelling in the compound as I sat in my room. This lasted for a little over an hour, and then everyone seemed happy.
As the yelling stopped and the happiness started, Affie came in and got soft drinks for all of them. She told me she was giving them cold drinks, because they all needed to cool down after the heated argument.
I never have found out who got what. I hope Affie did not leave that meeting empty handed, because she arranged almost everything that weekend.
So the funeral was over, and life would soon get back to normal, at least as normal as it could be without my mother around.
During the weekend at some point, I happened to see the little old lady from 2002. I chuckled to myself when I saw her, remembering how much she had enjoyed my mother's birthday party, but was also saddened to know that my mother would never be able to host the little old lady's funeral, as she jokingly had hoped.
I thought to myself, would my mother have liked the funeral Affie had arranged for her? I had a one-word answer to myself - Yes.
I've now spent one week in Edinburgh. It's been a tough week, a fun week, an interesting week, filled with trying to understand people when they talk to me, dealing with weather like I've never seen before, weird navigation, and being hit in the face, again, by my inability to make friends, and a feeling of loneliness. This is going to be my home for the unforeseeable future and I'm excited, and scared.
Navigation
I was welcomed to Edinburgh by getting traffic ticket. The navigation device we had used to get from Oxford to Edinburgh told us to make a right turn, where we were not supposed to. I heard a car honk at me, and about 30 seconds later, saw the police car in my side mirror.
In the end, it was a small fine, and the cop was almost apologetic, blaming the GPS device as I had, but saying a camera had caught my error, and so he had to give me a ticket. I shook his hand, he gave me directions to where we were headed, and we were on our way. It was not the warmest of welcomes, but at least I can say I got to sit in the back of a cop car for the first time.
My navigation woes continued when I walked, and biked, through town over the next week.
Edinburgh is a two-level city. Some streets are at a lower level than others, and without looking at a map carefully, mistakes happen. I was trying to get from one place to another, on my second day here, and had planned to turn right at an intersection. When I got to the location of the intersection, I realized the intersecting street was a good 100 meters above me, essentially a bridge over the street I was on. I've had this problem happen a few times, because the maps I have do not make it obvious that one of the streets is a bridge.
I also saw there was a bike path below a street near our flat. It took me a few days to figure out how to get to it, but when I did, it was awesome. It's the peaceful way to get downtown, where you don't run the risk of getting hit by a bus (which almost happened to me). I did almost run into a couple of dogs on this path though, on my bike. One little dog was so excited to see my front tire, I had to slam on the brakes and jump off the bike to avoid running it over. It then decided to follow me, it's owners running after it, as it ran after me.
bike path under a street
My worst navigation mistake was turning right, instead of slight right, on a walk home. This took me to an industrial part of town, taking me an extra hour to get home (it takes nearly an hour, when I don't make any mistakes). To top this off, I had bought a shower curtain rod that day, was walking around Edinburgh neighborhoods with a 6-ft pole with me.
One of the added problems to navigation is the sheer number of people everywhere. It is festival month in Edinburgh and, according one source, the population of the city is tripled during August. Crowds are everywhere, and I'm never sure what side of the sidewalk I should be walking on, because so many of them want to walk on the right. I feel like you can tell who is a UK resident by what side of the sidewalk they walk on, but even then, some want to walk on the right.
Street performers downtown
Weather
I've heard many people use the phrase "give it a minute, it'll change", when talking about the weather in their city. In none of the cities where I've heard this said, have I literally experienced weather changes in a minute - in Edinburgh, I have; several times.
The first day I wandered into Old Town, I decided to sit in a park after the 45-minute walk. It was sunny, so I planned on sitting for about 20 minutes. In about 2 minutes, it wasn't sunny anymore, it was gray. A minute after that, it was raining. I got up to get out of the rain, but a minute later the rain stopped. A couple of minutes later, it was sunny again. The pattern looked like it was going to repeat itself about 5 minutes later, so I decided to just sit through the rain - this time, the rain went on and I eventually went to shelter, watching it rain for 20 minutes. A couple of minutes after the rain stopped, it the sun was out.
It's going to take me time to adjust to this kind of weather. I will have to carry an umbrella around with me, and I'm never sure how much layering of clothes I should go with - almost every time I've left home, I've been very cold, only to be really hot when I got back home. This is partly due to the walking/biking that warms me up, but I still feel like I never know how much warm clothing I should have with me.
I've been told that the weather doesn't change much during the year. I guess if weather changes so much in one day, overall yearly weather patterns might be a bit too much to handle.
Loneliness
I'm a hard person to get to know, so I don't make friends easily. In college, someone told me that when they met me, they found me very intimidating partly because I don't talk much, but also because of my hair, and the big Ghana flag I had hanging in my room scared them off a little.
I've never moved to place where I didn't have school or work lined up. Most people I know in my life, I've met through school or work. Coming here is different, and I worry that I won't meet any people who I don't meet through Lauren.
I'm not the kind of person to strike up a conversation with a stranger, so I think it's going to be tough. I've spent my first week here walking around town, talking to almost no one, and I think the thought of not getting to know people is what worries me most about this move.
I've had people ask if I was worried that I don't have a job lined up, or if I'll understand people when they talk to me. Neither of those worry me now that I'm here - Lauren has a job, and most of my family speaks with accents that a lot of people find hard to understand, so neither of those are major concerns. I don't like the idea though, of not knowing people in the city I live.
So my first week is over here. I've learned to carry a map and an umbrella with me at all times (though I've also learned to get through the day without either). If only there was a "social-Jefferson" I could carry around in my backpack. One who would help me get to know some cool Edinburghians? Edinburghites? I don't even know what they're called...
I was mainly involved in two things - registration and technology.
Registration
Many of the attendees were not from the US, so they could not get checks very easily to pay for the conference. This meant they had to pay cash. Paying hundreds of dollars in cash, in a foreign country, could not have been the easiest thing for them. They would have to find an ATM, hope it would work for them, and would allow them to pull out enough money to pay for their bills, then get that cash to me.
I ended up handling about $13,000 in cash, which I had to take to the bank on the last day of the conference; this was kind of a scary thing to do - I've never held that much cash.
Of course there were the glitches with registration; people wanted to stay longer than we had thought, or shorter, or came later or earlier than expected. All this affected how much money they owed. There were also name tags that went missing, receipts that were not good enough (which my dad dealt with, not me), and other requests of verification of attendance at the conference.
Most things were resolved by Wednesday, the fourth day of the conference, but Sunday and Monday were spent running around, with a piece of paper listing who owed what, and me constantly jotting down random things on my iPod touch to make sure everyone had what they were supposed to have and that everyone was kept happy.
All in all, I didn't have too many problems with the administrative side of things. Technology, on the other hand, had more glitches.
Technology
Initially, the only technology I knew I would dealing with, was setting up a Skype connection to Portugal, on the Wednesday of the conference. I had gone to the room where this was going to happen the week before, and checked the sound and projection hookup, as well as the internet hookup. It all checked out fine. I didn't expect many other tech issues, but of course, they came up.
The big tech problem of the first day, was video recording. I had agreed to record each plenary talk, which kicked off each day. On the first day, I had thought about audio (I made the speaker use a microphone, so my flip camera would pick up the sound), and found a good location for the camera. It never occurred to me though, to find a place to put the camera on. I spent an hour that morning, trying to sit as still as possible, holding my camera - my arms got very tired that morning.
I had decided to carry my computer to the conference every day, just in case someone wanted to use it. I have a mac mini, not a laptop. It's about the size and weight of a laptop, but has no screen. I was amazed at how few people (including the tech workers at the conference site) had never seen one before.
Set-up problems were relatively minor; there were a couple people who didn't seem to want my help, when they clearly needed it; people who didn't feel comfortable using a mac (completely understandable).
An odd problem that came up was from a person who was using one of those notepad computers, which have screens that can be flipped and then written on. For some reason, her screen got stuck in "writing" mode, so it was rotated by 90-degrees. Neither I nor a tech guy who was working in the facility had ever seen this problem before. In addition, the computer user was Greek, and all the instructions were in Greek. The tech guy and I looked at it and both said the obvious line, which I will not repeat here.
The biggest tech issue that came up (and is still somewhat of an issue) was that of posting power point slides and videos online.
On the first day, at the first talk, someone in the audience asked the speaker if the power point could be posted somewhere. The speaker said they had no idea how to do this. I felt like everyone then turned to look at me, like in a movie, or a dream. I said I would put power points online, if they were emailed to me.
Then the emails started coming; "I can't send the attachment, it's too big". I kind of felt that if it was too big to send to me, it would probably be too big to post online, but I did get some flash drives from people, and shrunk their slides. At the time of this writing, I've posted 27 presentations, and expect to post more.
Posting videos is tough. We live in a youtube world, where a lot of people think you can post any videos you want on youtube. Well, you can't post 2-gig videos on youtube, I'll tell you that much. I had to find a website that would host large videos, and had to do some work reducing the file size of the videos. In the end, I found a site, but have not had time to reduce the sizes of the videos.
I worked conferences for a couple summers while I was in college, and I worked this one last week. I really like working conferences - I like the cool people you meet, and the uncool people you'll never have to see again. Given the chance, I would gladly do this kind of job full-time, but we'll see what happens when I get to Edinburgh.
I'm moving tomorrow - traveling to Ghana for a week, Oxford for a week, then up to Edinburgh. My last week in Towson was spent working on ICEm-4. I can see my end in Towson, I can see my start in Edinburgh, and I can see the 2 places I'm going to be in between. I see 'em - 4.
I've been taken back to childhood over the past couple of weeks.
About two weeks ago, I noticed a few pimply-looking things on my body. I thought it was heat rash, a mild rash I had every summer during my years in Towson, these little water-filled things on my body that never amounted to anything much, and went away once the hot, humid, weather passed. What I had this time was not a heat rash; a few days later I was diagnosed with chickenpox, an illness most people come down with when they are children.
One year, while we were living in Zaria, every friend I had came down with the chickenpox, but, for some reason, it skipped our house. Neither my sister, Emily, nor I, came down with it. I always attributed this to my awesome immune system, which I still brag about.
After I had moved away from Towson, sometime while I was in college or living in California, Emily told me she had gone to a doctor, who told her that she had had chickenpox. This, of course, surprised me. I now assumed that we both got a mild case of the chickenpox that year, back in Zaria. I still thought I had an awesome immune system, because now my thinking was, my immune system was so awesome that I got the chickenpox, and didn't even know it. I guess my immune system was weakened at some point.
The nurse I talked to was positive that I picked it up in my crazy traveling, from Edinburgh, to Oxford, to London, to New York, to Washington, to Towson, and then to Mountain View and back, a few days later. I slept little for a couple of weeks and was in closed spaces with a lot of strangers; a bad combination. I was now going to be trapped in the house, during the hottest, most humid days, Towson had seen in a long time; with a one-room air conditioning unit that was used to attempt to cool down an entire floor (it brought the 100F+ temperatures outside to 90F inside - not the kind of relief I was really hoping for).
Trapped in the house, I decided to do something productive.
I had started putting together a DVD of my mother's memorial and burial services several months ago. I recorded everything that happened, got Lauren to interview people to talk about my mother; it was good, but it was missing something. The whole thing seemed a little depressing, so I wanted to put together a slideshow of pictures of my mother, covering as much of her life as I could. I thought this would be a good time, sitting in the house, with my mother's presence everywhere, to look through the many photos in a gigantic tupperware bin in the basement.
I was taken back to my childhood.
As expected, I found a lot of pictures of my mother. Pictures of a woman who looked almost unrecognizable to me, taken when she was very young, to the woman I saw last year, goofing around with my niece. What I didn't expect, was to see pictures of me, from times I barely remember, had forgotten entirely, or was too young to possibly remember.
Pictures of me as a college student, the first time I grew out my dreadlocks, pictures of a trip to California with my family, when Emily got pooped on, twice, by seagulls, in a matter of minutes; pictures of my chubby 13-year-old self, who was a stranger in this country; a picture of me holding my teeth in my palm, waiting (I guess) for the tooth fairy. Pictures of me and my mother; her cutting my hair, which I still think of as the safest feeling I've ever had; my mother and I playing in some body of water. Pictures of my father and me; me standing with my dad when I was four; my dad holding me as a baby. Pictures of my sisters and I; Affie, my older sister, playing with me when I was in diapers; Emily and I, when she was in diapers.
Affie and I
The picture that struck me most, that I came across, was one of all five of us, in Arizona, the only year all five of us went from Zaria to Arizona. What struck me about this picture, and all of them, to some degree, is just how normal our family looks in it. I always think of this multicultural life I've lived, and how different my family is from most families in the world, but in the end, we're pretty normal. We all laughed (except Emily) when the seagull pooped on her twice, and we all cried when my mother died.
I'm now getting over the chickenpox, my body covered with hundreds of scabs, but I can now go out into the world; the adult world, maybe now leaving that part of my childhood behind. It's rare for someone to say they were glad they got sick, but I'm glad I got the chickenpox, and I kind of wish I have some permanent scars, to remind me of those two weeks, when I was taken back to my childhood.
my mother, Affie, and my father, look on, while Emily and I play in the water
Soon after college, I started carrying around a print-out in my wallet. It was a print-out of a Gye Nyame, a very popular Adinkra symbol in Ghana. I wanted to get a tattoo of the Gye Nyame, and thought that by carrying around the print-out, I would eventually have the nerve to get it done.
I didn't know too many people with tattoos in college; I don't know if it was a generational thing (it seems like every college student today has tattoos), or if I just happened to know people who were kind of prudish about that sort of thing. Because of this lack of tattooed friends, I didn't really have anyone I felt comfortable asking about the tattoo process.
So, I carried around my print-out in my wallet, for several years.
I turned 25 in June 2001. I happened to be in Vancouver for that birthday. I was in an odd transit from the place I had called home for seven years, Michigan; to the place I would call home for 8 years, the San Francisco Bay Area. The transit included driving to Oakland, flying to Vancouver, staying there for a month, then 6 weeks in Massachusetts, 2 weeks in Baltimore, then back to the Bay Area.
In Vancouver, I was taking a class, and met some cool people. At some point, I let it slip at that I always wanted to get a tattoo; I told them about the print-out in my wallet, and that was it - one of them immediately told me I had to go to "the best place to get a tattoo in Vancouver". She said she expected to hear back from me about it by the next time we had class, otherwise she would drag me there herself.
I went to the tattoo place the day after my 25th birthday. The guy working there had that stereotypical tattoo artist look, with the big loops in his ears that had stretched out his earlobes, a few tattoos, a shaved head, and he was really skinny; he was a really cool guy. He looked at my print-out, said he had a better one in the back (it was much better than the copy I had been carrying around for several years), and wanted to make sure I wanted to go through with it. I set an appointment for the next week, when I got this.....Gye Nyame, means, literally, "take God", or "God is great". I've never taken the literal meaning to heart. To me Gye Nyame means be humble, there is something out there more powerful than you. I like my meaning, and I've tried to live by it.
In 2006, I turned 30. I had been itching to get another tattoo, another Adinkra symbol. This time I wanted to get a Kwatakye Atiko, a symbol for bravery and valor. I had been having a number of problems with my ankle that year, a recurring injury from soccer. I played through the injury time and time again, aggravating the injury on, at least, a weekly basis. I decided to get the tattoo just above that troublesome ankle. I was in San Jose at this point, and the tattoo artist I went to was no where near as nice as the guy in Vancouver, but he was good, and I got this.... Yesterday, I got my third tattoo. This tattoo means more than either of the previous two did, but I wish I wasn't getting this tattoo. I'm getting this tattoo in honor of my mother.
Last Christmas, with mother's health beginning to fail her, my younger sister, Emily, decided to get a set of necklaces for the women who are direct descendants of my mother. She got 5; one for each of my sisters, one for each of my nieces, and one for my mother. It had a design on it that looked pretty simple and I asked what it was. She told me it was a Tabono, an Adinkra symbol I had never heard of; a symbol of strength, confidence, and persistence.
When my mother died, I knew I had to get a tattoo of the Tabono, because, in my eyes, my mother was one of the strongest, confident, and persistent people I know (she might have been a little too persistent about some things, to be honest). I told Emily about this, and yesterday, on the day when Ghana beat the USA in the world cup, we got similar, but not identical, tattoos.
I don't know if this will be my last tattoo, but I would like to think it is. I would like to think the last tattoo I get is the most meaningful, not one that I got because of an itch I had, or one I carried around on a ratty piece of paper in my wallet for several years.
American sports fans are fickle. Second place is always forgotten and I think, in the end, that may be why the USA will never warm up to football (the kind actually played with your feet). America is a long way from being number 1 in the world in that sport and US sport fans are too impatient to be fans of a sport when they don't win all the time, or in this case, where they don't win at all, on the world scale.
In the aftermath of USA beating Algeria, when there were pretty big news stories about the win, videos posted on youtube, and people I know, who no nothing about football, all of a sudden becoming fans of a team they know little about, the US became a "soccer nation", for a few days at least.
Don't get me wrong, I was jumping out of my chair when that goal in stoppage time went in, but to be honest, I was doing it out of the excitement of the goal; I would have jumped out of excitement if Algeria had scored at that time, too. It would have been a thrilling win, regardless of who won the game at that point.
I was surprised by how much coverage football got over the next few days and even though I'm happy the sport I love most, was getting so much exposure in this country, I was left with a series of what ifs...
What if Robert Green, the England goalkeeper, had not let a goal in by the US, thus changing the points/goal differential scenarios for the US. If everything else had remained the same, would there be such hype about the US beating Algeria? or would anyone really care?
What if the disallowed goal against Slovenia would have counted. All else remaining the same, how much would Americans care about the Algeria game? The Algeria game would now have meant less, and probably nowhere near as many people would have stuck around to watch the 0-0 affair into the 90th minute.
What if the US was beating Algeria 3-0, 80 minutes into the game (which easily could have, and some would say should have, been doing at that point in the game); would everyone all of a sudden jump on the US soccer team bandwagon?
Personally, I don't think so. I think if any of the three would have happened, there wouldn't be the frenzy over football by non-football followers, and there wouldn't have been the let-down, when US lost to Ghana. America was celebrating a moment, not celebrating the team.
In my opinion, the USA-GHA game should have ended 2-1, or possibly 3-1, in favor of the USA, but the Ghanaian goalkeeper was on fire. I think football, like hockey, can turn on the strength of a goalkeeper. The Ghana goalkeeper was excellent, the USA goalkeeper was just okay, and in the end, I think that was the difference in the game.
Where does US soccer go now?
I go back to my first sentence. American sports fans are fickle. I have heard almost no one congratulate the US on getting to where they did. Yes, I realize they could have gone further, but at least acknowledge the comeback they were able to go through to win their group when getting to the knock-out round was in doubt; acknowledge that winning their group for the first time in 80 years was an achievement. Instead, I've seen (mainly non-football people) complain about how it sucked that the US lost, and, in effect, whine about it.
How far did these fans really think the US was going to go? Did they think the US would have gotten by Uruguay? Past many of the other world class teams? I don't know. What I do know is, the US lost to Ghana four years ago, so the assumption that they would get by Ghana this time (which I heard people say, even after they lost to Ghana yesterday) was a ridiculous assumption to make.
As someone who has loved the game of football for all of my life, I hope it is able to grow beyond AYSO and adult leagues, and can grow to the point where college teams get at least as much coverage as college lacrosse teams. Sadly though, I do not see that happening in a long, long, time.
So I hope American sports fans can become less fickle, and leave behind the mentality where second place is forgotten, much less only getting to the round of the 16 in the World Cup.
Customs officer: So you were born in Nigeria? Me: Yeah. Customs officer: How did that happen?
A lot of smart-ass answers could be given at this point. I could've gone with my grandfather's line: "Because I wanted to be close to my mom when I was born" all the way to the birds and the bees response: "When a man and a woman love each other...."
I didn't go with either of these, of course; I just said "uh....my parents lived there at the time."
This was a conversation I had a few months ago, upon returning to the US from England.
I'm a global citizen, more so that most people. I live in a country I was not born in, was born in a country neither of my parents were born, and will be moving to a country where I have no family.
Even though people talk about the world being smaller, there are still many people who don't go very far from their roots.
When I lived in Michigan, almost everyone I knew was from the state and planned to stay in the state after college - I was neither from there nor wanted to stay there after college. At the time, I thought it was odd for people to not want to move away from the place they'd always been, but I've come to realize that I may be the odd one.
Many of the Californian students I taught at De Anza didn't seem to have any desire to leave, even the Bay Area, much less the state. Mind you, living in the Bay Area is probably considered a nicer place to stay than Michigan by most people, but still....
We went to Ratingen, a suburb of Düsseldorf, to visit some distant relatives of Lauren, a few weeks ago. I was surprised to see how close all the members of the family lived to each other. Cousins would hang out on weekends on a regular basis, because they lived in the same town. Grandparents could drop by anytime to see their grandchildren. I've only lived in the same town as any of my cousins for the last three years I lived in Nigeria; I've never lived closer than 600 miles to any of my grandparents.
I guess it might be me though; my sister lives only a few miles from my dad, who can see his granddaughter pretty much any time he wants.
Why do I bring all this up? Lauren was offered a job in Edinburgh, and it looks like we're going to be living there for the next several years. Who knows, maybe one day, we'll have a child who has a similar conversation with a customs officer, as they travel the world.
