Be a Funnel Today

I have the funniest relationship with the workers at the Volta Region post offices. As a yevu I'm already easyily recognizeable, but they primarily remember me as the girl who hoots and dances when she gets a package. The customs officer in Ho still remembers me months later, and I'm on friendly terms with the entire staff of the Aflao post office. They all abandon their work and run over when I have a box, to see the latest oddities I've received and chuckle over my "bizarre" reactions. No matter how many times I explain that the contents are for my babies at the orphanage, they always seem puzzled why I'm hopping up and down over YET ANOTHER box of diapers. They tolerate it because I'm good entertainment though. As for me, I usually do everything I can to avoid drawing attention to myself, but something about receiving a new batch of donations kills my inhibitions. Boxes mean Prince, Princess and Philip will have diapers for another week, and Ashili, Constance, Aguh, Gracious and Fali will have real toothbrushes. They mean another month that Good Shepherd won't have to use a considerable chunk of their tight budget to buy sanitary supplies for the girls, and basic household objects for Rose, Kafi and Abla. Real people with real needs.

My trip to Ghana has always been about service.
Yes, I have been fascinated by Africa for my entire life. I want to explore every corner of our big, beautiful, interesting planet. I wanted to challenge my independence and self-sufficience.
But the heart of my trip has always been my desire to serve. Nothing less could have pushed me to cross an ocean and move to a town I had never heard of. And nothing less than my passion for the people I have the privilege of working with in Ghana could sustain me throughout these nine months.
I'm not alone in my passion either.
Since the day I first announced my plan, I have been nothing short of overwhelmed by the supportive and compassionate responses of everyone from my parents to virtual strangers. Monetarily, spiritually, emotionally and otherwise, more people than I ever expected have stepped forward to support me- and, more importantly, the people that I came to help.
Both public and private, from both individuals and organizations, donations towards my trip have raised a jaw-dropping nearly $10,000, not including the value of the objects that have also been donated. More people are still joining the list too- the Ford Motor Company being the latest addition. What touches me most deeply is that regardless of my sponsors' relationship to me, all of them are strangers to the residents of Aflao. Yet that has not stopped them from pouring forth an astonishing amount of resources with no expectation except that I put them to the best use. I have the rare and humbling opportunity to be the "funnel" for these resources. How I use them, who they benefit, is virtually entirely at my own discretion.

It's a responsibility I take extremely seriously.

I have never once forgotten that these are not my gifts, my donations, my dollars at work. Rather they are the result of literally hundreds and hundreds of generous, caring individuals' effort merely working through me. I'm just the funnel.
I'm both grateful for and uncomfortable with my role. It doesn't feel right that I should get the credit for others' generosity. I also struggle enormously with my guilt that, no matter how many boxes arrive, there will never be enough to go around. The need is simply too great. For every person who shows up on my doorstep in tears of gratitude, an equal number come asking for things I no longer have to give. How do you choose who to help when there are 5 baby blankets, 7 mothers who need them, and you love them all?
However the joy of being able to help far overshadows the occasional difficulties. I may feel self-conscious carrying over a basket of goodies to hand out to my neighbors, but when they're smiling and shaking my hand and babbling, "Auntie, God bless you!" I know that it doesn't matter how or where or who it comes from- the bottom line is that these beautiful women have gotten some of the things they so depserately need.

I wish all of my sponsors could be here to personally see the difference they are making in so many dozens of lives. Since that's not possible, I'll do my best to show you!
                                                                        
 

I had the honor of personally meeting Mama Tammy Brooks and her close friend Dr. Marty Hatala last month. They were both warm, caring, genuine women whose obvious love for the children renewed my own dedication as a volunteer. Mama Tammy is the founder and head of the Jesse Brooks Foundation, the organization that runs the Good Shepherd Happy Children's Home, among others.

www.jessebrooksfoundation.org

L to R: Dr. Marty, Tammy and me with the Good Shepherd kids

As promised, every penny of donation money not used to cover my basic living expenses will go to the children at the end of my stay. I will be writing the check to the Jesse Brooks Foundation, specifially designating it for the kids at Good Shepherd. Tammy assured me that she personally handles all donations and will direct it appropriately. Even more importantly, she told me that the Foundation has ZERO overhead. That's right- 100 cents of every dollar goes to the kids.
Many organizations give a breakdown of how far donation money can go. "X dollars feeds a child for a month. X pays for their schooling for a year." I don't have concrete figures to give you, but I can tell you that I have never believed so strongly in the power of a dollar. Remember how I said the orphanage has to spend a considerable amount every month just on sanitary supplies? Esther said they spend 15 cedis, or approximately 10 USD. Crazy, isn't it? That $10 can keep about a dozen girls clean and comfortable for another month. It's a delicate subject, I know, but one I'm not doing them any favors by avoiding. $5 can buy a new pair of shoes. About $60 gives all the children at Good Shepherd a piece of meat every day for 3 days. Esther has been working tirelessly for the last 6 months to improve the diet at the orphanage because insufficient nutrition, particularly protein and calcium deficiency, is noticeably stunting many of the kids' growth. I could go on and on.
I'm not trying to get preachy or fish for donations (ok, maybe I am a little bit, but can you blame me?) I'm simply trying to illustrate that so little goes such a long way.

So I have a challenge for you: Give away a dollar today.
Drop it in the charity box by the cash register at the store. Hand it to the scruffy guy on the corner. Add it to the tip for the frazzled-looking waitress at lunch.

Be a funnel today.

How Far We've Come

March 6th marked Ghana's 54th Independence Day!
My host father, Worfa, and I got up at 3 am to catch a tro to Accra so we could see the official ceremony in Independence Square.
It was hard for me to choose between spending my only Ghanaian Independence Day at home so I could see my kids march in the local parade or spending it in the capital to see the celebration on a national level. However Worfa's excitement at being in Independence Square on March 6th for the first time confirmed that I ultimately made the right decision.. (That and my kids didn't even end up marching after all, but I didn't find that out until after the fact.) Some of my most memorable and meaningful moments in Ghana have been spent with Worfa, simply sitting in front of our house eating Oreos and talking, so it was very special for me to be able to take a trip with him for the first time.
The center of Independence Square was filled with hundreds of children, from elementary age to adolescents, standing stiffly at attention. They were from metro-area schools and youth groups, such as Ghana's co-ed version of the Boy Scouts and a Muslim Youth Association. They had been standing at attention since long before Worfa and I arrived just after 8 o'clock, and continued standing at attention when President John Atta Mills arrived and drove up and down the rows, waving from the sunroof of his black SUV. They stood stiffly at attention throughout the medley of drum and dance performances, the ceremonial torch lighting and the President's admirably brief speech with only a half hour respite in which they got to move as they marched in formation around the square. The militaristic display was on one hand a little intimidating in its precision and uniformity. On the other hand, though, it looked almost a little silly and I had the very irreverent urge to start belting, "BE PREPAAAAAAAARED!" from that scene in the "Lion King" when all the hyenas are marching.
All this standing stiffly at attention in the Ghanaian sun without rest, shade or water predictably took its toll. In other words the kids were dropping like flies. (I've never quite understood that phrase. Flies are EVERYWHERE in massive swarms, and they seem to do every but die.) The seats we found initially were out of range of the speakers, so since I couldn't hear anything anyway I made a game out of trying to be looking at kids at the exact moment they collapsed. Ok, that sounds a little heartless, but how could I have helped in that situation? The only movement out in the square was the constant running back and forth of the first aid teams as they ferried the fainters to the makeshift infirmary.
Worfa could hardly sit still, which ended up paying off in the end because he pestered me into hunting for new seats just in time so that we were within range of the speakers when Atta Mills gave his speech. I have now heard both Ghana's President and First Lady give live speeches, which I think is kind of neat.
They finished the ceremony with a Presidential Salute (aka big guns go boom) and three Air Force jets zooming overhead.

I have moments where I am reminded- and subsequently amazed- how far Ghana has come in such a short time. Ghana has only been an independent country for the span of my dad's lifetime, after all. Living in my much-loved Aflao, where there are extremely high poverty, unemployment and illiteracy rates, I tend to get a skewed view of Ghana's state of affairs. But then I go to Independence Square in Accra or the cathedral in Kumasi or the regional hospital in Ho (just a tour, not for treatment) and I'm reminded that there really are families here who go out for ice cream, men who wear a suit and tie to work, kids who get to be part of extracurricular activities and go on field trips. Of course I'm speaking from a ridiculously strong bias, but I don't think it's any accident that Ghana has some of the best health care, education systems and public services in all of Africa either. Ghanaians themselves are the driving force that has shaped this amazing country into what it is in little more than half a century. America may be a couple hundred years older, but it's certainly not a couple hundred years ahead.
As I stood in the middle of the square after the ceremony ended, I was filled with an overwhelming sense of hope. I want my kids to know what it's like to do science experiments, to go to a museum, to blow out the candles on a birthday cake, to get spoiled by their parents with a new toy for no reason. I want them to grow up wearing socks and seatbelts- and maybe hating both. I want them to experience the oddly satisfactory feeling of back-to-school shopping. Sometimes it's hard for me not to get lost in my sadness, and even guilt, that they may never know those things. But in that moment, much of the discouragement I battle every day seemed to melt away. I like to think volunteers are people who do what they do because they never fully stop believing it will someday make a difference, despite all indications to the contrary.

So here's to you, Ghana. And hoping we're made of the same stuff.

"But I believe the world is burnin' to the ground/ Oh well, I guess we're gonna find out/ Let's see how far we've come, let's see how far we've come/ Well I believe it all is coming to an end/ Oh well, I guess we're gonna pretend/ Let's see how far we've come, let's see how far we've come" ~ Matchbox Twenty

Six Legs

My long-time, six-legged arachnid nemesis finally fell today.

Cockroaches and lizards have virtually disappeared from my room, so aside from the occasional beetle I'm left with only the "shadow spiders." Huge, completely flat, light gray and lightning fast, they stick to the walls (as opposed to also coming onto the floor) and don't seem to spin webs and therefore don't bother me. Adult cockroaches are a different story; I'm immensely relieved not to see them hanging around my ceiling anymore. There's something fundamentally disgusting about cockroaches... They're the size of small animals without any of the cuteness that makes small animals likeable, you know? But thankfully spiders have never overly bothered me. I usually kill them if I can, but they don't stress me out. If I'm feeling lazy I sometimes don't even try; they're all over the place anyway. I find about three a day on average, so I'm getting quite adept at killing them in under five smacks. I'm telling you, they're unbelievably quick- five shots or less is very admirable, if I do say so myself.
Katherine Niemann, spider killer extraordinaire!

...Old Six Legs was the exception.

In an epic battle that lasted more than ten wallops and raged over two walls, I managed to claim two legs, but my victim ultimately escaped with its life.
And has been taunting me ever since.
Six Legs spent two days centered a foot over my door, staring at me (accusingly, I believe). When it finally decided to start moving around again, it stayed frustratingly out of reach at all times. Until- bingo! it finally got careless. I came into my room this evening after being gone all day and there it was, only a foot or so above the floor near my makeshift bedside table.
Doing something nefarious I'm sure...
I reached for the shoe. Bambambam! Three strikes.
Six Legs disappeared into the crack between my door and doorframe. I didn't give up though. As I was searching my door in the dim light, I caught sight of it scampering away across the floor (can you still scamper if you're missing a quarter of your limbs?) out of the corner of my eye. It hid in the shadow of my table. Fatal mistake! Six Legs was toast as soon as it opted for the floor.

I just hope I got it before it spread the word that sometimes even I need more than five tries...


(Happy Birthday, Brandrews!)

Music Therapy

I am a musician.
This will never change.
Watch me convert to Hinduism, dye my hair brown, start writing with my right hand, become a pro athlete, and learn to like seafood and I would still be a musician. Although I'm capable on three instruments, I'm a singer-songwriter at heart. I have more rules, traditions and superstitions about my songwriting process than you find in most religions.

Before I came to Ghana, a lot of people asked me what my biggest fear about moving to Africa was. I didn't admit it to most of them, but it was that I would forget my music. I don't have the technical savvy to write down most of my compositions- there are amateur recordings of some of them, but otherwise they only exist in my head- and I wouldn't be exaggerating if I said I was terrified I was going to forget how to play them after nine months' hibernation. The few people I did confide this fear to assured me not to underestimate muscle memory, it would all come back in time, etc etc. Kind words, but they did little to comfort me. My songs are an intensely personal part of me. In the weeks before I left, the thought of possibly losing them literally kept me up some nights.
I had the chance to play a gorgeous baby grand in the lobby of one of the hotels we stayed at in Cairo, but that only made matters worse. Between my nerves and my informal audience, I stumbled over my songs even more that I had anticipated I would. It's hard to describe how deeply that upset me. (My poor big brother had to deal with my crying so many times in the five weeks he was here, but he always handled it like a champ.)

Even after six months away from home, my music continues to be by far the biggest sacrifice I have made to come to Ghana. I've continued to write lyrics, but without the music it's not the same. Sometimes I miss my piano so much I physically ache for it.
 
So when I was standing around with some of the other teachers today after school and one of them casually mentioned that the orphanage had acquired a new (aka functional) organ (aka keyboard) that was enough to send me sprinting across the compound bellowing "ESTHER, WHERE IS IT!?!?"
 
It was like being reunited with an old friend. It was like being reunited with me, really.
For as long as I sat there, I could pull the beautiful familiarity of my words and melodies around me like the world's best security blanket. It filled up that emptiness in my chest I've lived with so long I wish I could say I've become accustomed to it.
And the longer my fingers moved over the keys, the more I remembered. Chord by chord, the pieces of "Hummingbird" came together a little better with each repetition. As I played through "Orion's Love Song" I thought, 'I can't remember the middle section even vaguely; what am I gonna do?' ...And then I reached the end of the part I could consciously remember and somehow I just didn't stop. As the music reappeared from some hidden part of me, I was overwhelmed with relief and above all gratitude. 
Muscle memory might just be the best idea God ever had.
 

 

I am a musician.

This will never change.

A 99 Valentine's And Six Months Down

Valentine's Day marked 99 days until I arrive home.
Today marks 10 days until my six month anniversary with Ghana.

Unbelievable, isn't it? The last time I counted there were 185 days! I know 99 days is a long time, but only being in the double digits makes it seem like so little! It brings up that familiar panicky feeling of "Where is the time going?!?" As I sat down to write this post, I paused to take a look around my room and said out loud, "I've been living here for half a year." Didn't really believe myself though.

When I think back on all the things I've done in Ghana- my first weekend at Agbamevorza, those first loooong days at Good Shepherd before school had even started, my adventures with Julia, leaving VARAS, going to Egypt with my brother- it seems reasonable to think almost six months have gone by since I stepped on that plane in Detroit.
But in my day to day life? No way! I'm comfortable enough in Aflao to feel at home, and sometimes fed up enough with some of the cultural challenges to even think I've been here too long. However time is flying by without my knowledge and certainly without my permission. One of the last things my Dad told me when we said goodbye at the airport was "Days will crawl, months will fly." Of all the things I was told to expect when coming to live in Africa for nine months, that's been by far the most accurate.
Not much else was, to be honest. My friend's mom told me that showing your bare legs was probably going to be scandalous but women walking around topless would be no big deal, and THAT has certainly rang true, but otherwise... How could anyone- probably least of all myself- have known was I was getting into?

Last weekend I spent time with some Peace Corp volunteers. I love my Germans/Dane dearly, but it's nice to get my American fix occasionally. They got it into their heads that we should jump off the large, modern bridge that stretches across the gorgeous Volta River about 200m upstream from the little resort where we stayed. The fact that idiot foreigners do this periodically and that the river is about 30 feet deep was comforting enough to get me on to the bridge. Seeing two of the braver ones jump successfully was encouraging enough to get me over the railing.... That was when I had the realization that I was about to voluntarily leap four stories into a crocodile-infested (ok, ok that's me being melodramatic. crocodile-inhabited, and most of them are small) river in the middle-of-no-where Ghana and started hugging the support pole and saying things that would make my Dad laugh and my Mom cry. When all four of us were spaced out on the beam, one of the guys started counting. I don't remember peeling my arms off the pole, but I do remember telling myself "Katherine, listen here: when he says three, just jump. No, no, just lean. Let gravity do the rest. He says three, you tilt forward a little bit and whatever happens next is purely coincidence and entirely out of your control and therefore not your fault when you have to explain your paralysis to your mom, ok?"
Shutting down your survival instincts is a fascinating process.
I honestly don't remember initiating my legs to move when he finally got to three; all I remember is having time to think "Wow, I've been falling for a really long time..." before I hit the water. I came up screaming bloody murder (with a wicked bruise stretching the entire length of the back of my left thigh for the next week to prove why. Apparently I flailed...) and with a huge adrenaline rush.
Yet even though I escaped- relatively- unscathed, had great fun doing it despite my terror, and plan to milk this story far past what it's worth in terms of bragging rights... no way jose you could get me to do it again. Actually, looking back, I'm completely baffled how I got the guts to do it in the first place. All I know is I was scared out of my mind, so how I was able to get myself to jump anyway is just beyond me. If he'd counted to five instead of three, if I'd had just two more seconds to think about it, I'm pretty sure I might've chickened out.
Even if you could've looked into the future and told me, "You'll be fine; you'll just get a bruise, but it'll be a lot of fun and a great memory" I think fear would've gotten the best of me.

In a lot of ways, that's how I feel about coming to Ghana too. I think it's for the best that I didn't know there was even the possibility that I was coming here until such a short time before I actually left. If I'd had six months or more to plan and dream and worry and anticipate and imagine...I'm not sure I would've had the guts to go through with it. As it is the short time I did have almost did me in. If I'd had just two more months to think about it, I'm pretty sure I might've chickened out.

The big difference is, I would still jump all over again.

If you could've looked into the future and told me, "This is how many nights you won't be able to sleep because you'll be so homesick. This is how many times you're going to cry. This is the number of days you'll dread having to face your class again. This is how many times you would kill for a sandwich from Panera." etc, I'd still be here.
Granted I would've packed a heck of a lot more nonperishable comfort food and cried a lot harder when I left, but I still would've gone.
Especially if you also could have told me how many times my jaw would drop in amazement and how many days my kids would make me speechless with pride and how many moments I would gloat to myself about the cool things I've gotten to see and do.

One... Two... Three... Just lean.

Half a year down and a quarter to go!

a sentence begins with a Capital Letter

Repetition, repetition, repetition.

I want my kids to understand the why's and not just the what's, but some things can only be learned through brute force memorization. For example, ever tried to find a pattern, some basic logic to help explain the seemingly nonexistent rules of past tense grammar in English? I have and it's not pretty. The regular verbs (the ones that just take on -ed) are few and far between. The best I could do was group like verbs- thought/bought/brought and kept/slept/swept- to make our verb chants more poetic and thus more memorable. Sometimes it sucks to only have whatever excuse for a textbook I carry around in my head.

One of our daily repeated drills goes,
"A sentence begins with a-"
"CAPITAL LETTER!"
"and ends with a-"
"FULL STOP!"

My aunt, my godmother and an elementary teacher in Missouri, gave me one of the highest compliments I've received in quite a while:
She called me a real teacher.
Not a high school graduate doing volunteer work, but a real teacher. Imagine that! I feel like Pinocchio with the strings snipped :)
Her simple affirmation made me take a second look at the work I'm doing in Ghana. I mean, I've always known that what I'm doing is absolutely worthwhile, but sometimes...being worthwhile doesn't necessarily mean it always feels worth it. I feel like I've been walking around in a smog of negativity and burnt-out-ness lately, ever since it really sank in that I can't do it all. I can't save the world or fix the system or even- and most discouragingly- seem to fight the system. I also seem to be the last person to have this realization that I am not Superman.
....But if I'm a real teacher, then maybe I don't have to be Superman after all.
I know I've made a difference in these kids' lives. And I'm hoping it's a difference that goes beyond the fact that they can spell "puddle" and identify the future tense now. I know I will probably never feel like I've done enough, but I hope that sometimes I will be able to shut up my inner perfectionist long enough to take a step back and let myself bask in my kids' achievements...and perhaps even acknowledge my own contributions to them. Sure, I still get assignments where the only capital letter is the the 'b' in football or the 'y' in happy or there's a full page of writing without a period in sight, but they're making great improvements overall.
My inner perfectionist will only stay muted for so long though. Sigh. There is always more to be done.

After all, according to Jackline a sentence begins with a capital letter and ends with a kitten.

Butterfly Effect

I'm not usually much of a poet, but some of my Dad's words of wisdom sparked some inspiration when I hit a particularly low point the other week.


"It has been said something as small as the flutter of a butterfly's wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world." - Chaos Theory


if only it was as simple as
struggle: emerge: fly away
struggle to be
your own adult
your own
to be
but unravel my cocoon and you will not get threads of silk
rather the threads of a story
inside is no monarch or moth- though i do chase moonbeams
instead you will find a girl
wrapped in nine months of exotic accents and fiery food
with a tribal heartbeat hip-life cannot match
whose fingerprints speak in Ewe
inside the girl, perhaps, the butterfly
struggle: emerge: fly away
the pattern will be bolder the longer it sets
the etchings in the wings deeper
black commas near the bottom for the children
stuck on pause
two indrawn breaths someone forgot to release
22 featherlight strokes across the back in every hue
mirages that shift a little every day
"you're a gift to them"
from someone too big and unimagineable to name
but here they call him Mawu
there will be scarlet for the dust
intertwined with the ancient green of the baobabs
gray for the hissing ocean
homesickness tattooed in royal blue at the joint
the hint of a milky way
where nostalgia has bleached the edges white
and black
of course
a living Kente cloth from the master weaver himself
struggle: emerge: fly away
they heard africa
i heard a siren call
they said impossible
i said impractical
watch me spin a new future from the tangled web
of what i always promised would someday be
watch me write a new law of cause and effect
my effect
the flutter of a single butterfly's wing
but the typhoon will rage in me.