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[zendallkiner]

A year of gratefulness

Roughly a year ago, I started writing down a few things I was feeling grateful for here and there as a way to view the positives of the day or a time period rather than harping on the negative. When looking back at a time period or a day, I struggle with remembering what it was that brought me joy. Rather, it’s the negative interactions, sentiments and experiences that remain and take root. It’s like I water and feed them, giving them power and allowing them to grow taking over. With time they build up and harden a once was soft interior to which I find myself becoming resistant to new interactions if they seemingly resemble any others that may have toted along frustration. In working to overcome the suppression of depression, I’ve sought out the entries from my journal over the last year with what I was grateful for. It’s always in retrospect when people realize the importance or lack thereof of a situation, but I remain rooted in what I’ve felt thankful for since November 2017 however minute it may seem. Enjoy the sporadic list below, extracted word for word from my personal journal. 

November 30, 2017: New friends, nature, my bike

December 1, 2017: anti-diarrhea medication, books, my little brother Yanik whose voice always cheers me up

January 29, 2018: Anna and Simon’s kindness and warmth, tums, Basil’s laugh (it’s so contagious and he loves to laugh. On a day where I’ve felt so down it was exactly what I needed). 

February 12, 2018: Cooking spices, Eric (my baby brother who says my name and hugs me), Avicia Rodgers

March 19, 2018: Sleep, coffee, a fan 

May 21, 2018: Yoga podcasts, music, soup 

May 30, 2018: James Fister, will//desire to exercise, strong//supportive friends, God

June 28, 2018: Myself, water, yoga

October 27, 2018: Exercising, my yoga mat, my little brother Daniel because he makes me laugh, my other little brother Eric because he thinks to come to my room and cuddle

November 5, 2018: Cooler weather, Avicia, sleep, a good book (currently reading Harry Potter for the first time)

November 7, 2018: Coffee, Karina, water 

November 8, 2018: Positive energy, sunshine, a nice pen, my sister Katie

November 14, 2018: Ndeye Thiaw (my counterpart), coffee, cooler weather, the Harry Potter books, new friends

November 20, 2018: Jazz music, Eric, my journal, yoga

Today: my mom, my dad, Jennifer my yoga instructor, candles  

xoxo pc n luv cheers

[zendallkiner]

When you realize you can no longer make yourself happy

What do you do? This is a question I've frantically been striving to answer over the last few months. One morning I awoke from a haze that has fallen upon my life for the last few months only to realize what I had been doing was no longer working. The exercising that I had come to rely upon as my main form of stress relief was failing. Cooking had lost its charm making me dread thinking of going to the market much less actually being there. This left me hungry although no appetite and becoming complacent with this new reality. Reading became less if a way to enter new worlds and more of a dull activity. Honestly, the only thing I found comfort in was the dust-laden concrete floor of my room with the fan blowing in my face and the frequent yet unpredictable visits from my two year old brother. This is something that slowly became my life. Quietly, without word it took over my thoughts, my body and my emotions leaving me utterly exhausted after a day of laying around. The morning I took notice of the haze, I awoke around 10am with tears flowing for no apparent reason and still longing to be asleep. This is when something within me registered as not right. A feeling of dread overcame me when I started to realize this was not my normal although I had allowed it to be. When thinking about who I am, this picture of myself shifting from side to side on the floor day after day is not it. Rather, I imagine myself to be interesting, engaged, optimistic. When I think of who I am and who I want to be it's somebody excited to talk to others and hear about what's going on in their lives. I picture myself eager to learn and willing to try new activities. I'm emotional because that's how I've always been in leading with my heart making me want to talk about challenges people face as well as the moments of happiness that arise amidst it all. When I registered that this idea of myself no longer existed, the fear took hold. I understood something was wrong and I could no longer fix it alone. Reaching out about mental health issues is much easier said than done in my case. To reach out was to accept that I was no longer able to do something for myself that I've been doing for years. I was no longer able to make myself happy, to pull myself out of the dark places I had fallen to. Reaching out was to recognize that I had a problem and in doing so was to share it with another individual, leaving me vulnerable and at risk for judgement. To me, it felt like I would become a burden to my friends because I stopped caring to hear what was going on with them. All that mattered was what was going on in my mind and my heart. That morning, I finally made the decision to figure this out. How could I figure out what's been causing this if I didn't notice it's presence until once in the thick of it? While I had no answer to this I reached out to my doctor anyways. I had described to them the state of being I had become accustomed to and was later connected to a therapist. My whole life, I've been surrounded by those experiencing depression. It's incredibly sad to see this and know that I've also fallen subject to it as well. Over the years, I've told some of those individuals under its spell to try therapy although never experiencing it myself. Having an outside objective listener to understand and provide another perspective that could offer clarity sounded like a good idea. Some people were receptive to this suggestion while others were more resistant. When met with such resistance I often became frustrated because to me it seemed like a logical step in the right direction to finding a solution. Here I am now and feeling much more resistant than I imagined would ever feel in this situation. Friday morning rolled around to which my first intake appointment was scheduled for 10am via a telephone call. Sitting in my room with the door shut, the nerves and regret overcame me. Thinking to myself that today felt different, I actually felt a little better and maybe I no longer needed this. Maybe I misjudged the situation and really could handle it on my own. After the first 5-minute confidentiality part of the session we dove right in. Her first question being "why don't you tell me in your own words what's going on." To which I responded with tears. Choking through my answer not being able to justify where any of this was coming from. Trying to explain a feeling that just didn't seem logical was challenging and frustrating. I described the lethargy and lack of interest in all things that I love where she probed a little further to gain a greater glimpse of the overall picture at hand. By the end of the phone call, I had admitted to a lot of things I didn't realize I was feeling. Admitting to feeling like a failure, feeling overcome by depression, feeling bad about myself as a whole on most days and lacking any desire to reach out to friends and family alike. Before this discussion, many of my feelings were not put into certain categories as such. Rather, it just became this stagnant state of being so when hearing her ask these questions only to find myself responding with either "more than half of the days" or "most days" was truly devastating. They say when you have a problem, the first step is admitting it. It wasn't until I heard myself admitting these things to a stranger over the phone while sobbing on my dusty concrete floor that I understood how bad it had gotten. Recognizing this gave me the sense of agency to try to fix it or at the very least put a plan in place to start the process. Mental health is similar to physical health in that it must be made a priority. It must be actively worked on in order to get to a good place. It's a process that takes a lifetime of practice. As that practice is deepened and better understood, the experience might be a little happier accompanied by a more frequent positive mindset. But the mind and person are always subject to lulls and the quiet voice of negativity. We all experience it on some level, whether it's something we're willing to admit or not. While I've only started this process of healing two weeks ago, having a plan in place has helped. Understanding this will not happen overnight to get back to feeling like myself but that it will happen eventually so long as I stay committed, is what gives me hope. Truthfully, this is something I've felt embarrassed and quite shameful for letting it get this bad but after having my second session with the therapist, I am trying to relieve the self-imposed pressure. During this second session, she gave me a few writing activities to try as a way to organize my thoughts. A way to decipher between the facts and the feelings, coming to a more logical conclusion to certain situations or people making me feel some type of way. When doing this, she kindly reminded me to refrain from posing any judgement onto myself. I chuckled and thought that this was a silly reminder until I embarked on my first exercise when I found my inner critic to reveal itself in the most harshest of ways. As writing, I felt embarrassed for being angry and upset about these various circumstances I thought I had dealt with. Truly expressing how I feel and physically writing such thoughts down brings to life what is hiding in some of the darkest parts of my mind. To address them is to diminish the power they clearly hold in my life, but doing so non-judgementally is all a part of the process. This is what has caused me to share my process today. In an attempt to use writing, something I utterly adore, as a vehicle to unabashedly demonstrate that I'm human and as such I am not perfect. Humans have darkness looming in parts of us we never would like to give recognition to for fear of self-imposed judgment coupled with that of spectators. Others may critique who I am and how I feel as being unwarranted but as I've found myself to be the harshest critic of all, I think I can deal with the rest. As I've been trying to navigate through the negative, one positive guiding force has been yoga. I'll leave you with what my favorite instructor likes to recite during her class. You are worthy. You are strong. You are loved. You belong.

[zendallkiner]

Journal Entry - June 20, 2018

Basil (pronounced Brazil just without the “r”) is one of my little brothers who I believe just turned 8-years old. His birthday is August 11th and he has the most contagious laugh ever. I remember when I came to Nioro for the first time, the volunteer I was replacing and I went to my soon-to-be home where I met all of the family. Basil was very shy and wouldn’t talk much, but he sat very close to me on the couch. He pulled out old photos of him and his other siblings without saying a word just passing them towards me for me to see, wanting me to inquire further about the people in the photos. When I came back to Nioro about a month later to officially move in, he was the first person to run towards me, open-armed, embracing me to show how thrilled he was to have a new older sister in the household. My host parents would later tell me that for the month leading up to my arrival, all he talked about was his new older sister and how he couldn’t contain his excitement. 

Over the past year, I’ve come to know Basil through his bright and charismatic personality. He has this swagger in the way he walks where he likes to inflate his small chest up and walk towards you with a purpose, when most times, there isn’t one other than to laugh about something I will never understand or to shake your hand vigorously and ask how you’re doing. So frequently do I find myself in situations where Basil has a “hilarious” story he wants to share with me, in which something either happened 5 minutes ago or 5 years ago takes all precedence over anything else in that moment. It generally occurs when I’m reading outside where he’ll approach me and exclaim “Danty!!! Listen to this, listen to this!” In this panted, exasperated, excited high-pitch that leads to a 5-minute story interrupted only by him gasping for air that will allow him to continue the story. It always ends by a ridiculous bout of laughter that I partake in, not because I understand any of the story, but rather because he has fought so hard to tell this story to me that tickled him so much to this point. It’s almost near impossible not to laugh with him. 

About 7 months ago when all the kids were receiving their grades in school for the second semester, I showed up to my parents’ restaurant to find out that he had been second in his class. The family was all laughing, singing, dancing and clapping their hands with praise for his hard work. Later that evening, my host dad and I were talking where he said to me with a slight hint of joy in his voice, 

You know Danty, when people look at Basil they wouldn't think he was smart at all. But today we all realized that’s not true, he really is. 

Oftentimes as you can gather from my prior entries, I become frustrated here. I miss the ability to feel anonymous at home and able to do as I please without any judgement from onlookers. On these days, I come home ready to isolate myself in my room, which I frequently do, but sometimes am encouraged to stay out due to Basil’s laughter. He always greets me with a hug that turns into his body hanging from mine as I walk further into the compound. Always accompanied by his permanently sweaty body and giggly state of being from the entrance of the house to the door of my room. 

It truly amazes me, that at his age he has memorized so many songs and can rap as quickly as those who do so for a living. He and the others spend hours upon hours glued to the TV watching music videos on repeat. This is something he absolutely loves showing off alongside his karate ability he says he has learned from his teachers at school. When a friend was visiting me, we were at my house just spending time with the kids outside when Basil screamed, “DANTY!! Look, look!” And proceeded to do some karate chops and kicks while screaming “LIBERATION” in a French accent of course, meaning liberated. These moments of pure weirdness and self-expression have brought me such joy here.  He is somebody that I can feel unconditional love flowing from. Nothing I do seems wrong or lazy to him, it is just a part of me that he fully accepts and adores, which most days is what I really need to get me through. 

As many of the kids do here, Basil corrects my language to make sure I know how to say things without seeming like an idiot. He does this in Wolof, but also in French, which he knows I am so desperate to learn. One day, we were sitting in the equivalent of a living room and he asked me if I knew how to say “do not enter my room” in French. I told him that I did and so he asked me to say it, which I then immediately became embarrassed of speaking French. He giggled and said “N’entrez pas mon chambre” meaning the same thing as “Bul duggal same neeg” does in Wolof. He made me repeat this for about 20 minutes to ensure I wouldn’t forget, which thanks to him I haven’t. I think this is something he wanted to teach me because of one of the first days in Nioro, I wanted him to leave me room but pronounced the word for “leave” incorrectly changing its meaning to “enter.” I had to pee so badly and Basil was following me around looking at everything I did with the utmost fascination. He followed me from outside, into my room, poking around all of my things. I went into the bathroom, which at that point didn’t yet have a curtain hanging to indicate it was occupied. Of course he followed me in and just stares at me, bright-eyed and smiling. I looked at him and in my under developed language, I said “Duggal,” translating to enter. Confused why he was just standing there in silence, I said it again. After about five more times I had to lead him out of my room by hand and run back before peeing myself. Only later on did I find out that the world I should have been saying was “juggal” meaning get out. 

Being in their situation, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to grasp how it feels to have a foregoing living my house. The kids only have a small glimpse into my life and it’s what I share with them that they get this opportunity to learn and see how some Americans act. As time has progressed I have lost much interest in spending all of my free time with them because truthfully it is exhausting. For a while I would exercise outside in order to encourage the kids to join but it make a hindrance to my main way to relieve stress, forcing me to retreat back into my room. Thus, just the other day I was doing a workout in my room where I was quickly started by Basil throwing himself on the ground at the foot of my door to see what I was doing. I have a piece of fabric hanging for privacy that reaches about 1-foot above the floor, so there is enough room to peek into my room if laying on the ground. As I was doing my workout, I hear this commotion and see his hands around his eyes the way people try to focus their vision. I laughed and then asked what the hell he was doing to which he responded, “won’t you call my dad, I’m hungry.” 

Something about Basil in the beginning aggravated me as I desired my personal space and preferred to avoid sweaty bodies hanging from my own, already sweaty self. Over a year later, he is somebody I look forward to seeing everyday, to hear his fast-paced gasps of stories that I truly never understand nor will I ever. I look forward to being in his presence because I know no matter what I do, his love for me will always be there. 

Cheers. 

[zendallkiner]

a man’s world

They say traveling the world provides perspective. Exposure to new cultures, new people, new ways of life are all brought to light. Picture that you’re in this foreign setting absorbing massive amounts of new information only trying to relate it back to what is familiar to you. Frequently, I have conversations with people where they explain some foreign aspect of the culture only to find myself responding with some version of “hmm interesting, we in the States do something different to that...” Always trying to make comparisons simultaneously identifying the large gaps that exist, hoping to connect the two providing perspective to whoever I’m engaged in conversation with. This is the beauty of exchange, isn't it? Educating one another, opening minds to the possibility of worlds and lives that look different to what we know, learning that each way is equally valid and meaningful, just presented with a different packaging. 

With this beauty of exchange along comes the shattering realization that there are unfortunate similarities that extend far beyond defined frontiers. They’re infiltrated across all cultures, peoples, education systems, engrained into the basic beings of who we are, imposed by this collective society. One such similarity I’ve been blatantly confronted with is this notion of a man’s world. 

While I consider myself to be a feminist in the simplest of definitions, I’ve never truly felt as an activist. I agree with equality for women and all things for the advancement of women’s rights, the respect of a woman to decide her own life and the path it will take, but I have remained a quiet observer. Up until this point I’ve felt lucky and privileged in my experiences as a female. Growing up in a female dominated household with an encouraging mother and father. Being directly told and subtly shown the power it is to be female. Encouraged of the positivity of embracing this femininity and feeling capable of taking charge of my life. Deciding upon my personal trajectory omitting the pressure of a man’s desire that so many other women experience around the globe. This privilege of mine had gone unchecked for the entirety of my life until quite recently. While aware of the inequality that surely exists, my personal experiences had left me feeling content. 

More than a year and a half later here I am feeling differently, recognizing this new checked privilege I now own. Having become hyperaware of my femaleness in conjunction to every single one of my actions I now take. Constantly am I reminded of what my place should be in this world as determined by society. The frustrations of this have become something I’ve started internalizing. Fearful of rebelling Senegalese cultural customs only to further outcast me more so than my status as a white female sharing a compound with a Senegalese family already does. I’ve learned to practice the art of holding my tongue, as I’m sure many females do. 

So frequently here, I am ‘mansplained’ the importance of marrying a man who can take care of me and all of my needs, personal and financial, by other men who go out of their way making it their sole objective to tell me this. Generally, I just laugh and nod, brushing them off with the justification of my celibacy as a result of my inexperience and young age. They push further offering themselves up to take care of the fact that I don’t yet have a husband and have no plans to do so in the coming years. They shame me for this and tell me that a proper woman, at least in Senegal, must marry as soon as possible to which I remind them I’m not Senegalese. I try to use these opportunities to educate about the cultural differences in existence in terms of marriage and how we American’s are more likely to wait until we are educated, have jobs and are capable of taking care of ourselves. This is lost on many people who are rooted in the notion females are meant to bear children and prepare food for the family and no other explanation will suffice. 

For years now, I’ve become attached to exercise using it as my personal kind of therapy. Allowing the sweat to demonstrate the physical relief of emotional issues I’ve been plagued with since youth. In Senegal, I’ve used it not only as my main stress-reliever but as a way to pass the time. Running through the streets of my town in the United States, I felt elated and exhausted all at once. My mind wandering to the internal struggles only to pair it with my respiration, trying to exhale the negative away. Here I’ve managed to do the same, although accompanied with much more ridicule and feelings of shame. Running through these streets, I frequently hear men sitting under their respective trees, brewing their pots of tea yelling that a woman running has no importance. It’s not in their defined characteristics as decided by society. 

Just yesterday, I returned from a run feeling good after a two-week hiatus. Greeting those I passed, a young man lounging with such carelessness in the same exact spot I had left him before my run. 

“How did your run go?” he asks me. 

“It was good you should have come” I tell him. 

“How far did you go” he inquires. 

“About 3-miles today,” I say. 

Laughingly, he responds, “Ha, that’s a short run,” and dismisses me on my way.

In this short exchange of words, he managed to belittle what I had moments prior felt proud of, all the while doing nothing himself. And so I’m reminded yet again of the man’s world we’re living in. Constantly being subjected to speculation by everybody and made to feel insecure by men in the smallest most insignificant of actions. 

This morning I arose from my deep sleep, lacking any sense of agency to leave my house. I made coffee, sat on the porch and chatted with my host-dad. We have a wonderful relationship where I can talk to him about my thoughts, frustrations and positive points of my day. As we both quietly took our coffee, he abruptly states that he hopes to get a male volunteer as my replacement. 

“Why is that?” I ask him. 

“So we can go out all the time together just us” stating matter of factly. 

To which I responded, laughing, although deeply hurt, “well why can’t you do that with me?” 

Traveling around has surely brought me perspective, introducing me to some of the most fascinating aspects of foreign cultures, providing me with a heightened sense of community and equipped me with a deepened sense of self I never realized was lacking. It has also presented me with the faults of the world and the harsh impacts male-dominated society imposes on its female counterparts. While I’m no expert or profound feminist, the very least I can do is share my experiences and thoughts to shed light on a dark place in our world. 

I recently came across a post the other day I’ll leave with whoever is reading... 

“Being a woman is hard AF. No boobs? Dang. Grow some. Boobs? cover yourself. You’re so vulgar. No booty? Everyone will laugh at you for it. Booty? Well, you better cover yourself cause you don’t wanna draw attention to that booty. Short? You need to wear heels. Tall? Dang. You can’t be taller than your man. Also never wear hells. Skinny? Gotta gain weight cause nobody likes a bony woman. Chubby? Gotta lose weight cause nobody likes a fat woman. You like makeup? Heck no. No makeup? Please take care of yourself. Don’t be so lazy.

We woman are constantly shamed for everything, so we might as well do whatever we want.”

Cheers.

[zendallkiner]

One week feels like two feels like three

Lately I’ve been feeling uninspired. Days on end I start to feel like I’m going through the motions, meaningless ones at that. I wake up, go to the bathroom, brush my teeth and wash my face. I leave my room to find Anna and Fatou sweeping the house where I greet them and mention something about the sweltering heat that has fallen upon us. I heat up water to make coffee and I take my breakfast, whether it be a mango or some eggs. I’ll sit in my room, sometimes outside, thinking about what is yet to come in my day. It’s filled with banalities, nothing really unpredictable will happen, maybe a phone call from a friend, maybe a meeting with my counterparts. The days have started to run together, one week feels like two feels like three. A girl who lived in my house for a short while commonly made the mistake of saying something that happened weeks ago, took place yesterday. I used to correct her on this, but now I understand. 

Yesterday, feels like two weeks ago, feels like two months ago. 

Here I am, feeling unstimulated, uninspired but not unhappy. Rather the contrary. I’m finding comfort in waking up and knowing how my day will pan out, how it will end with a workout in my room, or a run through the streets finding myself at my host mother’s restaurant upon completion, sitting outside watching the cars rumble by. Dragging our chairs into the street where the wind blows making the presence of high temperatures slightly more bearable, we poke fun at Fatou, make fun of my dancing and talk about things Anna plans to do once the month of Ramadan is over. 

I’ve been here for well over a year now in which I am now on the downside of my service, not quite knowing how to feel about it. The excitement of moving towards the next thing hangs in front of me but the dread of leaving behind my new family right beside it. 

My host family has become a constant in my life that I cherish a significant amount. I live in a modest one-story house amongst 12 other individuals, where I can probably recount each conversation we have had together and will have over and over again, but it doesn’t matter. These conversations seemingly on repeat provide a familiarity within my life of which I enjoy. 

As the seasons have come and gone, those in my house have moved with them. This culture lacks a certain sense of permanence. Individuals arrive and leave as quickly as a whisper is heard and soon forgotten, but unlike this quietness uttered into the world, their impact is long lasting. My immediate family consists of Simon and Anna heading the household with their three boys, Daniel, Bazil and Eric. Although this is the nuclear family existing and operating day in and day out, Yanik is there alongside Arianne and Ali who are relatives living here for school and have been for years. Then there's Bouba who arrived about a month before my own arrival to work in Anna's restaurant. These are the people I interact with everyday, who have welcomed me arms wide, hearts open willing to love me, cherish me, accept me. 

While these individuals are here to stay, there are these passersby that change with the seasons. Much of this last year was spent cherishing Marie-Louise and Marie-Claude, two sisters who were sent to live with us to study for a year while their mother took part in an extensive training. When they first arrived I remember them crying and crying longing to be back in a place of familiarity surrounded by their mother and father. Day in and day out they cried until they forgot to cry anymore finally adapting to this new life with their cousins and the strange foreign woman living amongst them. Slowly over time they began to laugh, play and embrace the raucousness of the household. Many nights I spent with these girls laying outside on mats, laughing at one another's dancing and silly faces. 

But with all things that start feeling comfortable, time continues to push forward and the seasons are impatient simultaneously changing with subtlety and force. One day you wake up feeling cold and the next you remember that this is the desert you live in and the heat remains unforgiving. One day Marie-Louise and Marie-Claude are there, the next they are taking their departure at 10pm with bags in hand running with excitement to their Papa whom they haven't seen for months, leaving behind all sense of comfort they had created for one they would like to return to. 

Adjusting to this change has been the entirety of my life here, getting to know people in a span of mere days just as quickly reacting to the feeling of losing them and the impact they leave behind. 

A new season has fallen upon us with the rains leading to nourishment of the earth providing us with food and grass and much humidity. Water slowly falling from the sky being happily and desperately received by the cracked, brown earth. It's almost as if you can hear the sigh of relief from the ground that hasn't felt nourishment for months. You see the haze that slowly rises indicating a long thirst that is being quenched at last. One that is never fully satisfied, always ready for more but grateful for any drop it can take in. Amidst this haze, a new turn of people have arrived and the process starts yet again. This one of getting to know one another, sharing our experiences and revealing much of ourselves. This time, it's Christine, Jean and Eliza who have come into our house for their summer vacation. With the plentiful hours laid out in the day, there is a significant amount of time to get to know one another, a vast amount of time available that allows you to familiarize yourself with the depths of each other in a matter of days, hours even. 

Just as these 12 individuals have accepted me, I in turn accept this change of seasons equally arms wide, heart open. Welcome to the family. 

[zendallkiner]

The art of mastering goodbyes

The last two years have been filled with critical turning points, many moments of transition between living spaces, friend groups, diets and jobs only to mention a few. I remember being at my high school graduation many years ago now, thinking as I’m dozing off in the back of the crowd that the majority of these people I will never see again. I’ll never pass them in the hallway at good old Poolesville High School on our way to lunch or on our way to sports practices after school. I’ll lose any kind of remote contact with them as friendships and friend groups slowly dissipate as life wills it. It’s only natural, right? I have memories and photos to support these memories of hugging one another on graduation day promising to stay in touch over the summer before we head in our own directions whether it be to college, directly to work or some other perfectly fine route. Memories of saying flimsy goodbyes in order to avoid the reality of it all. It was this feeling of sadness, yet liberation in which we knew our time together was done. We had endured one of the most transformative phases of our life and made it out on the other side, some with bright-eyes while others looking fearful, unprepared, not yet ready for what is to come.

Fast-foward over the next four years where we all forget about these feelings of anxiety and fear for the unknown. The next most crucial phase of life where we shed everything we knew and entered a new world alone and as ready as we’ll ever be. Meeting individuals who would become lifelong friends, maybe even longer than the ones you just spent the last 16 years with in your youth years. We came by some amazing people as well as some individuals we probably could have done without, but again that’s life. Now we’re at graduation again, where we are surrounded by these new people who have helped shape our lives, our thoughts, our beings in a more substantial way than ever imagined. And yet, here we are saying goodbye again. Performing an essential and completely normal aspect of life that comes with transition, with it still feeling difficult. This time it’s even more real since we don’t have the high chance of running into each other on Thanksgiving Eve at the local bar to have our annual catch-up. This time that pang of fear and sadness knowing these people you’ve spent four years in your classes, helping to develop one another’s knowledge, behavior, thought processes, will move forward and separately never to see each other again. Here we are trying to master the art of saying goodbye yet another time. Again with the unrealistic commitments of “we’ll keep in touch, I promise”  and “we’ll see each other once a year every year for the rest of our lives” amongst other too soon to be broken promises. It’s the reassurance of making this commitment that makes the reality of it all just a little more bearable. 

I talk about all of this because I find myself at a point in my life where I’m having to remaster the art of saying goodbye yet again, and it’s even more difficult this time around. I have a friend I’ve made over the last year since moving to Nioro du Rip named Pellagie. She is a 24 year old woman from the Gambia who lost both her mother and father around 5 years ago. She speaks a good amount of English as well as Wolof, so depending on our mood we’ll switch back and forth between the two. I remember the first day I met her at a church celebration for a few young girls and their first communion. She came out of the house in an extravagant red dress with beautiful braids and the kindest energy I’ve ever experienced from any individual. I wouldn't say I’m any kind of energy reader, but she has such a vibrant soul that it’s something you notice regardless of your skill to really do so. After that day, we ran into one another around town, at church amongst other places, until finally she invited me over to her house and our friendship began. I went over to her house and watched her cook, she played with my hair, we laughed so frequently and on some occasions we cried. We went on a few runs together, we went to the local bar together and did things I’d find myself with my friends at home doing. Over the past year, I got to know her so well that she opened up to me in a way that nobody here in this culture has yet to do. She took it upon herself to confide in me, her friend, about the problems she was experiencing at home. The restrictions she felt being a woman in this society, the expectations of cooking and never being able to leave to do anything for herself. 

“But I have dreams, Danty. I have things I want to do for myself and if I stay here I can’t do those. I want to make clothes and earn a living for myself. Life is so hard, it is so incredibly hard, Danty and I just don’t know what to do.” 

This is what she said to me in the school sewing room where we found ourselves laying on the tables trying to escape the suffocating heat. The tears came streaming down her face expressing the hardships of making this decision and also feeling jaded by life. Feeling as though life had cheated her by taking her parents too early and putting her in a place where her household only had one path laid out for her.

“If my father was still alive, I would never be in this situation. I would be living with him, in his house surrounded by peace. I wouldn’t be feeling this pain.”

And so this conversation continued over a few months. Where she divulged more and more to me. She cried harder and harder. And I sat there holding her hand, arm around her shoulder, feeling grateful to have established this sense of trust with somebody from such a different culture. Also feeling a deep sadness wishing I could do something more for her. She is somebody who lives in a different world from my own, who lacks the education I have, but somebody who feels the same things as people do all over the world crossing all physical and cultural borders. 

And so a few months passed with talk of her moving to another city to escape the household strife currently existing in her home. 

“Next week I’ll go, Danty. Next week I’ll be leaving and I’ll find my peace.” 

But this was said time and time again with no sign of leaving, ultimately making me write off the actuality of it ever happening. 

Until it happened.

And I found myself realizing this time, no matter what I say about seeing one another again, it is so much less likely to happen than any other moment of transition I’ve found myself in. With lack of good phone service and constantly changing phone numbers, there could be one day where she wants to call me and vice versa but we realize we no longer have the capability to do so. 

She arrives at my house the day before she leaves and says, “tomorrow I leave, Danty. Tomorrow is the day.” 

“How do you feel about it? Are you happy?” 

“I will be. I will be okay. God is good and he will find me my peace.” 

After about 30 minutes, she takes her leave and says its time to go. It’s time to head to her home in Nioro du Rip for the last time, prepare her bags and leave the following morning. I walk her halfway home, embraced in one another arms like two school children showing off their friendship to the world, afraid of letting go for fear of never getting this moment back. 

“Danty, let me leave you here. I will miss you so much and I will call you once I get to where I’m going.” 

We hugged, said the obligatory “I’ll see you again soon” and went our separate ways. 

This experience left me with the knowledge that saying goodbye is something that can never be mastered. No matter how hard we try to make it acceptable, it will always be unbearable in its own ways. While leaving me with this realization, I’m also left with the feeling of gratitude as I so often find myself feeling here in retrospect. Grateful for the friendship that will last forever within my being and who I am and will be for the rest of my life. 

She is somebody who has showed me the most kindness I have ever experienced in Senegal and ultimately anywhere. While everybody is open and willing to talk to you, she took it a step further. She took me into her home, into her heart and accepted me, which is something I can never begin to thank her enough for. 

My life has been comprised of phases and people who have contributed to who I am as an individual in these very moments. People who have helped guide me in my decision making, friends who have told me I’m being stupid, boyfriends who have taught me things that I never want to experience in a significant other, parents who have guided and supported me, sisters who have loved me unconditionally. It has been made up of moments of hardship and pain simultaneously accompanied by happiness and joy. I find myself in this phase now realizing that while friendship is ultimately better when spent together, its something that persists overtime and is demonstrated through our actions taken later on. All those people I’ll never see again from high school, helped shape me into who I am today. Even though indirectly, I can guarantee if I had grown up with a different group of people, I wouldn’t be who I am today. And this is something I know will occur with Pellagie’s friendship. The kindness, acceptance and genuineness she showed me will never be forgotten. I will forever remember her laugh and the happiness she brought to everybody around and the feeling of comfort she provided individuals in times of strife. 

I will never forget the best friend I was so blessed to make and have the privilege of keeping.

I can only hope one day you all can experience the kindness that Pellagie has showed me. I hope one day we can all try to master the art of saying goodbye, even if it’s truly unrealistic. 

[zendallkiner]

NOWHERE or NOW HERE?

This is a phrase I heard in a yoga podcast I was doing this past Saturday morning. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve listened to this specific yoga class over the past few months considering its one of the only ones that remains downloaded on my phone but that’s besides the point. I’ve listened to it, practiced it and reaped its benefits on numerous occasions. But this Saturday was the first time I realized this phrase uttered from the class narrator. He says aloud to the class in his presence and mutters into his what I imagine to be headset microphone duo, “you are either nowhere or now here, which one will you choose?” It’s this message of being present and question of how many seconds, minutes, hours and days have I spent wishing away. A direct number isn’t something I can give you but I can recount phases in my life where I’ve yearned for the next one to just start already.

I remember young angsty Kendall upset over something probably so irrelevant in high school making me want to be everywhere but in that school. I remember wanting to be out of the house with my parents and my sister and grandparents and every other person that came into that vicinity in search of my independence. Rather than embracing a lot of wonderful moments I could have spent being happy and content surrounded with loving individuals, I wasted my energy on wanting to be elsewhere. Fast forward to university years that came with so many hours spent in the library only wanting to be in bed, hours spent at work thinking about how I should be in the library dreaming of my bed and then just wanting it all to end with the reality of graduation rapidly approaching, feeling resigned and like four years ways four years too many. While I created amazing friends and memories during those years of studying bonding over late nights accompanied with more cups of coffee than I’d wish to admit, bonding over planned potluck parties and ridiculous, but mutual, peer pressure, I still wished graduation upon me.

Next came along the limbo of the post-graduation period of waiting to hear back from prospective employers. Spending hours in Starbucks creating and recreating my resume, finally to hear back I’d be up and moving to Senegal with the Peace Corps. Once news of this fell into my lap, the following months were spent planning in anticipation for such a huge move across the world. I would go into work and have people ask me about how I felt leaving and if I was excited or scared or if I would really commit to it. Everyday I thought of the future and what it had in store for me, what lifestyle would I be living, would my language come easily, would I make any friends? While I do agree future planning is a very positive thing in regards to having an idea for what path you can take, I can’t help but think about what this yoga instructor said to me. I can’t help but wonder about how many moments I have missed because I was too focused on what was to happen later. The amount of times I sat anxiously in the presence of others to hear back about weekend plans, not giving the time of day to whoever was accompanying me.

How many times have I been stuck nowhere because I refused to now be here? 

Here I am in Senegal, and I truly do find myself wishing the days away on occasion due to the heat, lack of work, boredom or something actually on my schedule that lies ahead in the coming days. People ask me my plans for once I finish my service here, they ask me if I am ready to get back to the states, if I’m really thinking about living abroad again and so on.

If I’m being completely honest, I’m just ready to take a fucking breath. Take a breath and live my life. We’re all stuck in this time warp of forward looking and its all good and fun until one day we wake up and it’s been 10 years with no real recognition of what just happened. We will wake up and feel like the last decade has been spent waiting for the next big thing to happen, waiting for our careers to start, waiting, waiting and waiting some more.

I want to be done waiting and evade this feeling of being lost in the nowhere that is my daydream of future plans. With due diligence in the past few months, I have been trying to be present in my life and recreate this appreciation of what I have now and not what I can have later. I’ve been working on feeling content in my interactions with my neighbors, extending the lengthy greetings that ask about your morning, your work, your family and most importantly your peace. Working on embracing the minutes to hours of my lengthy bike rides to neighboring towns as a way to relax, treat my body with respect and provide it with strength. Really working to embrace the moments where the day seems endlessly open with only the calls to prayer to remind you of what hours have passed by.

Just recently, a great friend of mind asked me why I write the blogs that I do and to be honest I can’t give a concise answer. With everything I say here, I could easily write in my journal and call it a day with that. But then I remembered a day where I was laying in my bed during hours of peak heat wanting to know if anybody else out there was feeling like I was and if they too were in this place of nowhere. Only three weeks into site, confused, hot as shit and lost. I remembering looking up blog post after blog post to see if anybody had written about what they were really feeling and I could only find two that really reassured me out of all Peace Corps posts in the world. Again, maybe I’m speaking to the wind or those simply curious about my thoughts, feelings, etc. But just like my work here, if these blog posts help at least one person better reflect within their selves then my goal is achieved.

And hey, even if it doesn’t at least I’m getting some good reflection out of it. Cheers.

[zendallkiner]

Post vacation ramblings

Today I’m writing from a place of happiness and fulfillment. I just returned from an 11 day vacation back in the United States that was so utterly essential to my sanity. If you haven’t been keeping up, I’m living in Senegal. A town that is roughly 3,771 miles from where I grew up in Maryland. That translates to a 45 minute ride to the airport in Washington, DC, an 8 hour flight to Senegal’s capital city, a 30 minute taxi ride to the garage, three more car rides that take between 5 and 8 hours long that finally reaches my new home of Nioro du Rip. About two months ago, I made the decision to take my first vacation back to the United States out of pure homesickness. I was wandering around my town trying to navigate what work I could possibly begin with the extensive training I had just undergone, and feeling like I was getting nowhere. Sure, I was making friends and my language was significantly improving according to my family, neighbors and strangers alike. But the work? Pretty nonexistent. I felt useless and bored and at times like I wouldn’t last. So I up and went home to gain a feeling of comfort back in my life and really think about if this is something I want to continue for the next year and a half. 

So as I committed myself to going home, told all of my friends and family, purchased the ticket and readied my mind to leave Senegal for the first time in 8 months, daily life began to pick up. My community members started to value my presence and opinions, saw that I was capable in performing tasks asked of me and came to me with a project proposal. This project is no small feat and who knows if I’m capable of doing what they want me to, but the very least I can try. The month leading up to my departure to the states, I had multiple meetings with neighborhood leaders, my Senegalese counterpart and entrepreneurs who started their own waste collection system situated in another town. They highlighted their wants, their needs, their many frustrations and what they feel they are capable of doing in establishing such a system. I felt and still continue to feel honored by the fact they feel comfortable to share their complaints that exist in regards to the lack of management the town exhibits in regards to the trash problem. 

Let me just set the scene for you. My town is lovely, it is bustling with a major highway cutting it in half, a large outdoor market where vegetables and fish are sold daily. Donkey drawn carts, motorcycles, cars, bicycles and pedestrians fill the streets from an early hour in the morning until timis, which is time to pray in the evening. Its a city comprised of motivated and happy individuals all hanging outside talking amongst family members and neighbors. This all sounds lovely and beautiful and it is, I promise. But within these pockets of town and numerous people who inhabit it, comes trash and lots of it. Trash is piled up on the periphery of every neighborhood, filling the canals, side streets and open fields of sand. Weekly or even bi-weekly these mounds of trash are set to fire by community members creating a hazy afternoon with the most rank smell you can imagine. Walking to my mother’s restaurant I cover my face with a scarf to avoid the contamination of burning plastics, cans, fabrics and any other waste products. To say the least, it is a major issue that my community has decided it wants to fix. 

And so for months, I have been waiting patiently and with much boredom for a project to partake in and thus it has arrived just in time for me to return home for a while. While this may not seem like a huge issue, I was nervous in leaving for two reasons. One that I wouldn’t come back and two that if I did come back, the motivation for this project would be diminished. Things like that happen here often where motivation appears and as quickly as this happens it can just as easily disappear and this was my fear. 

A las, I returned home and as a result I feel rejuvenated. I feel thankful and grateful for the opportunity to wake up on one side of the world only to fall asleep on the other side that very same evening. I feel grateful for the family that greeted me at the airport and the friends and family that came to my home to share an evening of eating delicious food and drinking American beer and red wine because lets face it, the alcohol in Senegal is trash (although on a hot bored day you’ll find me with a lukewarm Gazelle in my hand aside some friends at the local bar - aka Christian lady’s house with a fridge and beer inside). With this rejuvenation came clarity. Clarity of why I left in the first place, my frustrations at home and the lifestyle I so badly wanted to change. While my vacation was filled with delicious food, wonderful memories created with friends and family, so much wine, it was also comprised of the motivation to return to the community I had left behind. I have made a commitment to my Senegalese family, friends and work partners and to leave them in a time of need would be against who I am. Against what I want in my life and what I can do for these individuals. 

I have now made my return to my new hometown and happy to find it feeling like home. My first night back with my family felt so normal and with ease. Sitting outside under the stars having the kids jump all over me. I was greeted by my neighborhood when I arrived with screams of “Danty new na! Danty new na!” meaning Kendall’s back, she’s home. Greeted by hugs and laughter and plenty of handshakes. Questions of how are you parents, your sisters and their kids. And your friends? Everybody there is in peace? You look wonderful and glowing and happy, but we missed you so much while you were gone. 

Today I sit next to my counterpart at the NGO’s office casually chatting about my vacation, what I did there and what she did here while I took my leave. Revisiting the subject of the work I left behind and if its still viable in which she reaffirms the motivations of my community and the passion has not dwindled. Today I sit with a full heart of acceptance and readiness for what my community asks for me and what I can provide for this home of mine. 

And for those of you reading this, my community greets you and hopes you are all in good health, happiness and peace. 

[zendallkiner]

When the old and new meet

The world begins to reawaken with the stirring sounds of the animals. They are heard seeking for food, rummaging through the garbage that lines the streets and sounding their respective noises. As for streets, I should really say the ways that interconnect the town. The lines of dust that take you from where you start off to where you are going. The morning prayers are quietly uttered under the breaths of individuals around the world making a collective rumbling of noise that is felt throughout the household. A simultaneous breath that is reverberated everywhere, every inhale felt. Every exhale felt. The call to morning prayer echoes over the loud speaker at each mosque scattered through the city signaling the start of a new day. The sun remains asleep in this part of the world, but it will soon arise from the nook it hides within. 

Anna lays quietly and with a stillness so calm she is able to feel the reverberations of the awakening world stirring around her. She hears the murmurs of her neighbors’ collective prayers whom are respectively praying to their Allah. She listens to the cooing of the birds and if she’s lucky on this day, the sputtering of the rain that might be falling. She lays still listening to this while Simon remains fast asleep next to her, oblivious to everything but his dreams. Her baby Erik lays there too, eyes fluttering, belly rising and falling soon to awake with the pang of hunger that sweeps over his year old body. Undisturbed, she is aware of the dreams that scroll through his mind longing to know what is is he sees. So young, so innocent and unknowing of this world. As Anna lies awake waiting for the day to commence just as yesterday did and tomorrow will, she falls into a state of being. A state of being that takes her back to a time many years before this one. One before her children were born, before she was a wife, a restaurant owner, a beloved mother and admired host mom. This was a time where she was young and living in Southern Senegal in a region called Ziguinchor. 

Ziguinchor, a region described as the pocket of beauty within Senegal is where Anna’s mind goes on this morning. The time in which she was a young girl studying at the local school. A young athlete freed by the feeling of running with her friends. Exhilarated by the sensation a curious mind brings. A time in which many different paths lay ahead, all leading different ways, unknowing which one she shall take. Unaware of these options that were available until this day in which she lays awake, lays still, lays thinking.

Thinking of this time in which her mother came home and told her they were to leave. To leave Ziguinchor and head North to the region of Kaolack. For reasons unsaid, all she could do was accept what she was told. And so she did with grace and peace for this is how life happens and it must be the will of Allah. And who is she to say other wise if it is what he wants? So mid-year, she left her town in the direction of a new one, leaving behind her studies, her sports and her friends to a city unknown to her. Upon her arrival, she became acquainted to the new life of hers. A life at home for she was unable to continue school at this time. In this period of transition, her papers were lost excluding her from re-enrollement until the new year was to come. So she stayed at home, helped with the house, going to the market, left behind her sports and what had made her feel so free, patiently and excitedly awaiting the new year to come. 

And it came, and as many things do, disappointing news was in its company. Not only were her school records lost, but her birth certificate was as well, a requirement to re-enroll. By the time in which a new one could be acquired, too much time will have passed requiring her to wait until the following year again. Thus, she made the decision to forgo school altogether and take a different path in life. 

Brought back to this morning listening to the world that has now awoken and a day started with full force, Anna remains in her bed. She remains satisfied, although these thoughts of nostalgia run through her head, she is happy. She hears her children starting their morning chores of sweeping the household before they are sent off to school. Starting their daily routine without being told a single thing, a routine she has so effortlessly engrained in her house. Laying, thinking, breathing, she basks in this life she has been able to create for herself. A family so beautiful, a restaurant that is picking up in business, a husband who supports her in all she does.

She hears Daniel and Bazil arguing in the distance, Ariane and Yanik vigorously sweeping and Erik now awake and crying for her milk. Knowing she must arise in the coming minutes, she runs through all of the things this day will ask of her and acknowledges something must give. Not all can be done, which is okay, she can baayi it until tomorrow. All will work out as it did yesterday and it will tomorrow. Finally arising from this morning of nostalgia in a dream like state, she rubs her eyes and exits her room witnessing the well-oiled machine that is her life. 

She makes sure the children are sent on their way with breakfast making their way to school. As they leave, she is left with silence, calm, just her and her baby. She hears another stirring within the house and wonders whether she should check in on the new addition within the family. Thinking to herself she will be fine. So many times she has said she will ask if anything is needed from me. She begins feeding Erik and readying herself to leave for the market, Anna sees her emerge from her room with a cup of coffee in hand. 

Good morning Danty! Did you sleep well? Anna asks. 

Yes I slept so well, thank you. How are you doing this morning? she replies. 

Anna watches her prepare her breakfast, and enjoys this morning that becomes a part of her daily routine for the next two years of starting her day. Starting her day in the company of the American who landed within these four walls of the compound who is her new daughter, friend and companion. She sits thinking of this old life, new life and current life. One that she remains satisfied in and curious simultaneously of what is to come. What can be learned and shared in these 20 months that remain. Sipping her coffee she thinks, breathes and smiles, thanking Allah for this new day she is blessed with. 

[zendallkiner]

Resiliency

Sometimes when I'm sitting in the heat, bored and not knowing what to do, memories flash in and out of mind. This happens in a way that allows me to see my life as if it were a movie. You know those scenes that sum up a large chunk of somebody's life giving all the information necessary only showing flashes of film, oftentimes accompanied by a nice soundtrack. Sometimes that's how my mind works. Specifically on this day, its the last six months that are interwoven into my thoughts. Interwoven is the memory of heading to the airport with my family by my side, first landing in Senegal and all that is to follow. It's this stream of consciousness in which I remember my first steps off the plane and the fear I felt in my body of being in a land so foreign to me. And then I remember the bus ride to our training center, trying to hold down the sickness arising in me from so much travel, and most likely a lot of nerves. Followed by meeting the rest of my stage mates.

Fast forward to the first time I went to live with my family and I saw the Peace Corps car drive away leaving me in a foreign house hold. Feeling abandoned with no language skills, my water filter and the thought of "oh shit what did I get myself into?" The flash that happens next is the start of a language learning process. One that was (and still is) accompanied by many frustrations and many satisfactions happening simultaneously. All these initial challenges seeming so impossible to overcome. And then I remember the first time returning back to the training center with my fellow stage mates, hearing about their experiences, their firsts in the community and the things they've been able to overcome.

With this, everything seemed a little less daunting, a little more doable, a little more realistic and a lot less scary. A few months came and went where we were sworn in as official volunteers, driven off to our final sites and started what would become the next two years of our lives.

As I reflect on this time in retrospect, I think about something a friend sent me in an e-mail. He told me that as human beings we are resilient in nature. We are able to adapt to almost anything and while we may be unable to quantify it, we are improving in some way by being here, indulging in these experiences no matter how minute they may seem. It's something that we do day in and day out that we never realize until later on. When reading this email, it was a time in which I was doubting myself. Doubting my abilities, doubting my longevity and stamina. If I'd truly be able to make the full two years. When we are put into a new environment, try something never before thought of, regardless of what that may look like, we adapt, we persist.

August marks six months of being in country for me and it seems as though the hardest and scariest obstacles have been achieved. At this point on my Senegalese timeline, I am able to look back with retrospect and see these improvements, these changes and personal impacts. Whether it be unknowingly or with intention, as each day comes and goes followed by the weeks and the months, things become a little easier because of this resiliency I continue speaking of. This awareness is something I need to really let that sink into my soul. Accepting a feeling of pride to infiltrate my being, because I should be proud in where I've gotten so far. I feel proud to have learned a new language, created a new community, found many new friends and felt capable in doing so.

Since starting these ramblings or whatever you shall call them, a few people have reached out to me and asked if I was okay. A hint of struggle and sadness was detected in my writings, they said.

It's okay for you to come home you know? At least you tried your best, don't feel like a disappointment if you decide to leave, they reiterated.

And to this I respond, that my struggles thus far are necessary in my personal growth and work process and I embrace them wholeheartedly with this experience. I find that it is hard enough to figure out yourself in a culture that is very much your own, much less having to reinvent yourself to new cultural norms being thrown at you in ever which way. Any individual who lacks some kind of hardships when adjusting to this process of redefining and readapting their whole self within a new setting is lying. Either lying or they have some world secret they are witholding from the rest of us. This is the first time in my life in which I feel I learn something new about myself every day in varying contexts from hour to hour.

I've learned ways in which I cope with things, the limits of my social interactions, the abilities I have when I commit myself to something new amongst so many other things. This theme of resiliency is something I truly appreciate being told because oftentimes its hard to remember that with a little patience, something that was so foreign initially has the potential to become a new normal.

I wake up daily and walk the same path into the city, greeting the same people, having the same conversations. While at first, this felt so foreign and so temporary to me despite its redundant nature, it has now become my new normal and I attribute this normalcy to my ability to persist. My ability to accept this foreigness and make it my own.

Before coming here, I was told to fall in love with this country and its people for when this happens, life here will continue with ease. As the days come and go, I find myself appreciating the nuances of Senegalese culture I once became frustrated with. I find myself feeling gratitude when individuals perform the smallest act of kindness that may have gone unnoticed before. Here I find myself falling in love slowly but righteously.

[zendallkiner]

The rains

Awoken by the rain sweeping over the city pounding upon the roof and hitting the cement that is my compound, I had a thought. One for me to roll back over and return to the slumber I had just arisen from. And so I did, only to awake an hour later to the rains falling harder and faster and this thought turned into a feeling that was peace.

And so this day I awoke in peace for I knew this rain was a sign to rest, to stay in the house and embrace the slow pace. There I laid and continued to do so, comforted by the feeling of having to be nowhere. Allowing myself to settle in to my bed and breathe. Just breathe, think and smile.

They said the rains would come. They've been saying it for months now and as I awoke to this first rain I was overtaken by a sense of familiarity. One I didn't realize was lacking until I unexpectedly had it back. On this morning, I arose and when I arose, I exited my room and listened. I listened to the city taking its pause, absorbing the water and life transforming. The deserts turning into fields, the crops growing into food and life being revitalized.

For months they’ve been saying this and I patiently waited. I waited and I braced myself for unknowing what to expect. Braced myself for floods, for the inability to do anything, go anywhere. A country overcome with water and no way out other than allowing time to pass and the land to dry out. And then they came, quietly at first. The showers fell, families collected their chairs and retreated into their homes finding shelter from the wet. Then louder they came and more steadily. Indicating it was time to rest, stay in the house and wait.

Rain is something I never found true comfort in. More of a nuisance really, always having to have a rain jacket or an umbrella on hand. Sometimes faring the cold weather accompanied with the wetness, other times faring the humid heat and stickiness left behind. Always having somewhere to be and the rain hindering that. But here, I have nowhere to be other than present. Nowhere to be other than talking with people in the street, the fruit vendors, the breakfast ladies, the strangers passing by wanting to hear about my family, my purpose, my mind.

At home, the rains came unknowingly but frequently enough to be an annoyance at times. Until I came here, and I didn’t experience rain for months. I weathered through the heat, the sweat, the sun all without a sight of a grey cloud. I went without hearing the drops falling from the sky and making their sound on impact with the ground, the roof, the tree leaves. And so when they arrived, I tell you this calmness that overcame myself was one so intoxicating I continued to lay, bask in its transformative effect.

So on this first rain, I took the morning for myself. Eating breakfast with my siblings, sipping coffee, buttering our bread and laughing. Enjoying one another’s presence being forced to pause our schedule for the day and just exist. We retreated into my room only to lay on the floor, attempt yoga and laugh harder at absolutely nothing. This rain had a childlike effect, giving me flashbacks to my family I left in the United States. Flashbacks to days where we never left the house, where we rolled around on the floor playing games with my older sisters and my parents. Me pushing for attention from my parents, annoying them until they oblige to my childish desires to play with me, entertain an energetic soul.

As my new siblings and I laid around in the darkness of what my room was at the time, hiding ourselves from the rain, I saw the creation of a new family. A family that loves me, wants me there, misses me when I’m gone from the city. One that looks like the family I already have, but has taken time to recognize. I am able to see the similarities between the two, that being the feeling of home that is present. The feeling of home that is being created in a new place and drawn from a home that lives within my memory, my heart, my soul and my being. One that rests with my family in the United States patiently and kindly awaiting for my return. One that is never forgotten allowing me to create a home wherever I go with them in mind. And this is what I call progress. My ability to see attributes of my family in this new group of people who I also call my family. At first, just because no other words existed to describe what they were. But now, family is what they’ve truly become. And I attribute this progress to the rains.

The rains providing me sanctuary and time to develop. To develop this sense of comfort and ability to remain resilient amongst adversity.

As I write this, the rains are pouring all around. Sitting on a porch in a compound, the sound of the rains drown out everything else, the mist touches the back of my neck, my arms, my hair. Relaxed, I feel. Thunder in the distance quietly booms making its way closer and closer. For months they’ve been saying the rains were coming and they have arrived. They have arrived and they come with purpose and this purpose I thank them for.

[zendallkiner]

Under the mango tree

Here I sit, listening to the melancholy sounds of the background music, the bustle of the office, the quiet rumble of life happening all around. The clicking of keys, the goats calling out to each other, the motorcycles flying by. Time passing with nothing in its way. Here I sit. 

I sit, thinking of when I first got here, the excitement that encompassed my being alongside the fear and the regret. What did I get myself into? As I think of these sentiments, I reflect upon my progress thus far. Progress not being defined by work but rather ability to feel at ease. The ability to recognize this country, this city as my home. Something that is mine that I can proudly take ownership of. While this is still a work in progress, here I sit thinking how have I gotten this far? What is it that has made me continue to this point and I think of the mango tree. 

This is a story that takes me back to the beginning of my service when I arrived to my permanent site just two months into Senegal, knowing absolutely nothing and feeling overly prepared for whats ahead. Eager to get out but not knowing where to start, I woke up one day and just walked. Walked and greeted people, hoped to be called over also hoped to be left alone, having a moment of contradiction within my being the longer I walked the more I thought what am I doing here, where the fuck am I? I continued and continued until the hissing began, and as protocol here goes, I was being summoned. This is where my story under the mango tree begins.

“Come here! White girl, come here and talk with us!”

…okay…it couldn’t hurt I’ll stay for 15 minutes and keep on keeping on…

And fifteen minutes, turned into thirty turned into an hour turned into 4 hours into me rushing home to make lunch in time. During this time, the place that will become my sanctuary, my place of solace, my comfort was unknowingly being created. A group of men occupy this nook within town, Laye being the carpenter who spends his days woodworking alongside a few others and the rest sitting around drinking tea, chatting. Intimidated, I skeptically approached these men, some young, some older unaware this is the last place I need to fear.

“What’s your name? What’s your mission here?” they ask.

The name’s Danty, talks about Peace Corps, uses broken Wolof…shyly, embarrassingly writes down everything in a notebook, still studying Wolof…

“My name is Ibu” “Mine is Cheikh” “Mine is…” etc, etc, “Why aren’t you writing our names down? Label them under the mango tree so you don’t forget later”

Sixteen people talking all at once. Who is that one again? And him? Ugh. Vivaciously transcribes names being shouted, thinks its dumb to label where these people are from, later internally thanks them because forgets. obviously.

As the excitement continues in the new relationships created, conversation steadily continues about my purpose here, the United States and the lives of these individuals under this mango tree. Conversation gets directed towards my challenges here thus far one of those being the inability to communicate in the way I would like. Feeling so incapable to say exactly what I want, the frustrations that ill to cease. This expression of frustration, while subtly told, is overwhelmingly responded with reassurance and kindness. A kindness so gentle and welcoming intertwined with invitations to return here when the loneliness and frustration has its grasp on my being.

“Here is your home, whenever you are feeling down or lonely, know that you always have us. We are your friends and you can always find us here.”

And so the days passed, exploring different corners of the town, finding other individuals and groups to shoot the breeze with, forgetting to return back to this first home I was offered. Until I woke up and felt the loneliness creeping up. Awakened by sounds of sweeping and the bustling of children preparing for school, the sound of life moving along without any care of my existence. The endless hours laying fully ahead with nothing to occupy them. So I walked, and walked and happened back upon the mango tree. Hesitantly approaching these individuals fearful of reprimand for having forgotten to return for quite a few days only to be welcomed back with looks of endearment and genuine excitement.

“It’s been a long time since seeing you, where have you been?”

Just walking, I say. Looking to really know the town by talking to as many people I am able to.

“Well, welcome back, we’re happy to see you. Come sit, drink tea and talk with us.”

Since then, I have returned to this corner of the world with pleasure on numerous occasions. Always welcomed, always reminded of the kindness that is offered and always asked if I will be the second wife. Jokingly of course until my answer is yes.

I tell this story with gratitude in mind. The gratitude I feel for being accepted by people within my community, my new home. There are so many times where this part of my life, this location I am living in feels so temporary. It feels as though I am walking through the streets seeing new faces every morning, afternoon and evening. I am dragged out of site for medical issues, social gatherings or work meetings in which adds to this feeling of temporariness. Anything can happen. Tomorrow I can wake up and decide to leave. I have the ability to go home at any moment and that kind of power is daunting. A power that makes me feel as though my life is so temporary in nature if I so choose. And then I return, and I pass by the mango tree and everything feels a little less temporary.

The same people are there, doing the same things, talking with the same mannerisms all having their particular role. The jokester, the inquirer, the instigator…

And this characteristic of permanence and consistency I feel gratitude for. Without fail being asked how I am doing, if I’m better, where my family is and if they are in peace. In a world where things fail to stop when greater life takes a hold telling you your body hates this country having these places to find solace within is the greatest gift of all.

“Your body, It must rest a while” says life. 

“But I can’t rest, I must get back to my life, it cannot pause for this long” my body responds.

In which life responds without a care. It continues on and things feel temporary and permanent and everlasting all at once. And I persist, persevere. But when I return to my new life, I have found a place to return to. A place for when the days have been unexpectedly shuffled, unexpectedly displaced. A place that amidst all of this whirlwind, I can find an element of calmness, one that will always be there. 

Feeling grateful for this corner of the world I can call my own, here I sit. 

[zendallkiner]

Lists are key

Journal excerpt, June 6, 2017

Day in the life - Senegalese style

7:15 Awakened by noises of intense sweeping. Falls back asleep.

8:00 Feels guilty for still being asleep, rolls back over. Falls asleep again.

8:15 Forces self to get up...scope out the scene for mice. Coast is clear, goes to bathroom.

8:30 If laziness doesn’t overtake my body, workout.

9:15 Shower if water isn’t cut off

9:30 Eat breakfast...make it last as long as possible before leaving the house. Judith (my aunt) comes who tells me I’m ignoring her or offers me her baby...depending on the day...or the mood..The definition of a f***boy (in the nicest way possible. I love Judith). 

10:15 If nothing is planned (nothing is ever planned) leave the house and walk aimlessly. Prays for someone to call me over to talk*

*By call me over I really mean hiss

10:30 or 11 Must have been hissed at by now so most likely sitting with someone talking....explains Peace Corps, explains I don’t have husband, a child, a fiancé or a boyfriend (thanks for the constant reminder) and no I won’t marry you. 

12:30 Getting hot, probably annoyed and thinking about going home

13:00 Begins to retreat back to home. If walking, stops at least 6 times to talk with construction workers on the road*

*Explains again, no I won’t marry you. No I’m not Chinese. Yes I’m 22 and single (thanks again). And no, I won't bring you to America. Also yes, I speak Wolof. 

13:20 Returns home, greeted by all my siblings with excitement, “Danty’s home!! Danty’s home!!) so much touching. so hot. so f******* hot.

13:25 Change pants immediately. Drinks water. Sits. Waits for lunch.

13:45-14:15 anytime between this time, lunch is served. Rice/some kind of sauce. Pretty delicious. 

14:30 Retreats to room, reads until hot/tired

14:50 - 16:00 (sometimes 17:00) takes nap. more like day sleep but whatever. again too f******* hot. 

17:30 Exits room, greets family if they’re there or awake

18:00 Go on a night adventure. Sometimes talk with people until dark. Sometimes break fast* with people where I’m forced to eat until I can’t move. Also have to eat dinner later...

*Applicable during month of Ramadan exclusively

20:00 Goes to fruit stand to chat with my friend, buy some fruit etc etc

20:30 Goes to family restaurant, help out, sit around with my family just talking, watching videos or learning to cook

22:00 Return home. Run into neighbors. Talk to them for a little, feels guilty for not seeing them frequently enough. Says I’ll come tomorrow*

*forgets

22:10 Eats dinner (prolly fried dough of some sort with a lot of grease and definitely onions). Gains more weight

22:30 Reads my book while kids study*

*By study I really mean play cards, run around, yell at each other etc etc

23:00 Retreats to room, reads a little. Fights off mice with broom, falls asleep.

00:45 Arm is numb, wakes up.

1:45 Hears cat, sounds like its dying. wakes up. thinks of mice. skeptically falls back asleep.

4:00 other arm is numb, wakes up. 

7:15 Repeat. 

[zendallkiner]

[zendallkiner]

[zendallkiner]

[zendallkiner]