The Beauty in Exposure
Allow me to start out by saying that Africa is not a desolate and helpless continent seething in its own poverty. Anyone who thinks that when they start reading this might as well stop here because the rest of my little ramblings will sound redundant. Anyone who just said 'Africa is a continent?' should go read a Dr Seuss book. Others may proceed.
I have been in America for a little over a year now, and already, my life has changed a bit more drastically than I anticipated. A sudden accident forced us to suddenly cut all material ties with Togo and uproot ourselves to come here. Although I have had a plethora of embraces accompanied by those dreaded words 'Welcome home,' I might as well be welcomed to a refugee camp. I suppose I have gone through different stages like they say Third Culture Kids do. I've tried being quiet, I've tried blending in, I've tried being even more cultured than I really am, and I've tried the detached cynic bit that most unaware people find snobbish. The only thing that I haven't completed so far is the 'you just don't know' stage. Undoubtedly, this is the hardest. We are past the observances of American culture. Past the acceptance and attempt at blending. Past everything that publicizes my true identity as a Togolese-American. I am now simply in the limbo where the romance period is over, and I realize what this adaption is really going to be like. If anything, it's more like keeping a bittersweet secret that the world will neither understand nor appreciate.
Having been at my school for several months now, I've gotten into the swing of things. I go to school, talk with my friends, do my work, and answer questions like any normal person would. I wear the same plaid skirt and saddle oxfords as everyone else. I look generally the same as them too; there must be at least a dozen other girls with pale skin, brown hair, and blue eyes. But there are so many things that they don't see. People don't see me waking up under a Codhani quilt I hesitate to leave in the morning. People don't see me read the Togolese news. People don't see me put on an Africa necklace every day and hide it under my shirt. When I appear to simply be quiet in a conversation, they don't know that I'm anxious about not knowing whether Awé is still alive or not. There is so much more which is just not visible. If people asked they might find out. But why would I bother explaining to them? They will never understand anyway.
It is so hard to fathom. Seeing such different and shocking things. Privileged teenagers in America MIGHT have a friend who committed suicide, or had a brush with cancer. Maybe. But have they seen one of the women they respect most mourn the husband she never said goodbye to? Have they seen 20 different babies in one week who are so skinny that they might not live another year? Have they spoken to dear friends about what it's like to live under the vulgar eyes of abusive men? Have they ever run into the bathroom of a restaurant because Phoebe died? I quite doubt it. And I don't expect any of them to know that I've seen these things either.
Sometimes you can feel like you're shell shocked. You look at the world around you, with paved streets, busy sidewalks, and shod feet, and think 'How can this be when that was?' At any moment it could disappear and there you are back in the clinic, holding your stethoscope to a patient's arm and saying 'Yep, I knew it was a myth.' But the ironic thing is that, unlike shell shock, you don't dread going back to all that. In fact, you almost dread being here among the iPhones and coffee shops and traffic lights. These aren't your people. They're the ones who judge you for not knowing when to raise your hand in school. Why can't I go back to the third world?
Maybe it was brainwashing when I was a little. 'It's not about what you will do when you grow up, it's about what you will contribute to society.' It was the career choosing mantra. When I was little, I learned that this excluded being a rock star, the Peabody Duck Master, and a food critic (although I'd say that good food is just as important as any other human necessity). When I got older, it wasn't so much a limit or a guideline, but a principle. Why would I ever want to be something ordinary anyway? How could the same kid who cries for Massan at night become a waitress or accountant? I have seen so many amazing and terrifying things; the strange beauty in suffering and the grotesque pride in having been exposed to that side of the world. People may not read it in my face now, but someday they will change. People will become less obsessed with fitting into dresses and trying that new restaurant. Everyone needs their eyes opened. Everyone should travel. People need to see these things in order to truly understand why we, the privileged, help those who cannot help themselves. (again, if you just said that people in poverty should just get jobs, please go watch videos of cats on Youtube) Of course that will not happen to everyone, and it's why there's us. We the exposed, the Third Culture Kids with the weight of numerous worlds on our shoulders. If anyone has the tiniest bit of conviction for the extraneous circumstances they've grown up in, they must act on it. It's a calling. Some may not feel the pull to go overseas again, or even start a big scale, world changing initiative. But even the trivial makes a difference.
To be honest, I'm not perfectly sure where this post was going. I just had thoughts coupled with a bout of insomnia. I suppose if you were to take anything away, it's this: Some people are gifted. Not gifted the adjective, gifted the noun. You have been given a gift; either of a passion to help the helpless or exposure to the trials of the real thing. Use that gift. Take it to India, to Haiti, to any of those under-developed countries. Go to Africa, I kid you not, they make up 80% of the official list. If you feel called to help, you should. It not only blesses others but you too. Even though it has broken my heart a million times, I would not trade my exposure to that resilience in suffering for the world.
I have been in America for a little over a year now, and already, my life has changed a bit more drastically than I anticipated. A sudden accident forced us to suddenly cut all material ties with Togo and uproot ourselves to come here. Although I have had a plethora of embraces accompanied by those dreaded words 'Welcome home,' I might as well be welcomed to a refugee camp. I suppose I have gone through different stages like they say Third Culture Kids do. I've tried being quiet, I've tried blending in, I've tried being even more cultured than I really am, and I've tried the detached cynic bit that most unaware people find snobbish. The only thing that I haven't completed so far is the 'you just don't know' stage. Undoubtedly, this is the hardest. We are past the observances of American culture. Past the acceptance and attempt at blending. Past everything that publicizes my true identity as a Togolese-American. I am now simply in the limbo where the romance period is over, and I realize what this adaption is really going to be like. If anything, it's more like keeping a bittersweet secret that the world will neither understand nor appreciate.
Having been at my school for several months now, I've gotten into the swing of things. I go to school, talk with my friends, do my work, and answer questions like any normal person would. I wear the same plaid skirt and saddle oxfords as everyone else. I look generally the same as them too; there must be at least a dozen other girls with pale skin, brown hair, and blue eyes. But there are so many things that they don't see. People don't see me waking up under a Codhani quilt I hesitate to leave in the morning. People don't see me read the Togolese news. People don't see me put on an Africa necklace every day and hide it under my shirt. When I appear to simply be quiet in a conversation, they don't know that I'm anxious about not knowing whether Awé is still alive or not. There is so much more which is just not visible. If people asked they might find out. But why would I bother explaining to them? They will never understand anyway.
It is so hard to fathom. Seeing such different and shocking things. Privileged teenagers in America MIGHT have a friend who committed suicide, or had a brush with cancer. Maybe. But have they seen one of the women they respect most mourn the husband she never said goodbye to? Have they seen 20 different babies in one week who are so skinny that they might not live another year? Have they spoken to dear friends about what it's like to live under the vulgar eyes of abusive men? Have they ever run into the bathroom of a restaurant because Phoebe died? I quite doubt it. And I don't expect any of them to know that I've seen these things either.
Sometimes you can feel like you're shell shocked. You look at the world around you, with paved streets, busy sidewalks, and shod feet, and think 'How can this be when that was?' At any moment it could disappear and there you are back in the clinic, holding your stethoscope to a patient's arm and saying 'Yep, I knew it was a myth.' But the ironic thing is that, unlike shell shock, you don't dread going back to all that. In fact, you almost dread being here among the iPhones and coffee shops and traffic lights. These aren't your people. They're the ones who judge you for not knowing when to raise your hand in school. Why can't I go back to the third world?
Maybe it was brainwashing when I was a little. 'It's not about what you will do when you grow up, it's about what you will contribute to society.' It was the career choosing mantra. When I was little, I learned that this excluded being a rock star, the Peabody Duck Master, and a food critic (although I'd say that good food is just as important as any other human necessity). When I got older, it wasn't so much a limit or a guideline, but a principle. Why would I ever want to be something ordinary anyway? How could the same kid who cries for Massan at night become a waitress or accountant? I have seen so many amazing and terrifying things; the strange beauty in suffering and the grotesque pride in having been exposed to that side of the world. People may not read it in my face now, but someday they will change. People will become less obsessed with fitting into dresses and trying that new restaurant. Everyone needs their eyes opened. Everyone should travel. People need to see these things in order to truly understand why we, the privileged, help those who cannot help themselves. (again, if you just said that people in poverty should just get jobs, please go watch videos of cats on Youtube) Of course that will not happen to everyone, and it's why there's us. We the exposed, the Third Culture Kids with the weight of numerous worlds on our shoulders. If anyone has the tiniest bit of conviction for the extraneous circumstances they've grown up in, they must act on it. It's a calling. Some may not feel the pull to go overseas again, or even start a big scale, world changing initiative. But even the trivial makes a difference.
To be honest, I'm not perfectly sure where this post was going. I just had thoughts coupled with a bout of insomnia. I suppose if you were to take anything away, it's this: Some people are gifted. Not gifted the adjective, gifted the noun. You have been given a gift; either of a passion to help the helpless or exposure to the trials of the real thing. Use that gift. Take it to India, to Haiti, to any of those under-developed countries. Go to Africa, I kid you not, they make up 80% of the official list. If you feel called to help, you should. It not only blesses others but you too. Even though it has broken my heart a million times, I would not trade my exposure to that resilience in suffering for the world.
As far as writing goes, let me assure you, you are more than a "decent" writer. Thanks for posting.
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