The culture of ME

Today I had the honor of being a guest speaker in a grade 2 classroom where the kids are learning about the concept of culture, and how it shapes a person's identity.  They are exploring the idea that, as third culture kids, and even those that are not, culture isn't just where you've come from, but perhaps a collection of tidbits gathered along the way.  As I was talking about aspects of my own personal culture, grounded on my collection of beliefs and values, I was asked about some things that have changed for me since adding pieces of Ghanaian culture to my own.  I thought I'd share some here:

• I take my shoes off before entering someone's living room.
• I greet everyone with, Good morning, Fine morning; You are welcome; or How is the day?
• I have extended my family.
• I still enjoy a family dinner each night, but it includes anyone who might happen to be around.  Everyone is invited to eat.
• I shake hands with everyone, even if I know them.
• When in a group, I shake hands from right to left.
• I say Good evening! instead of Hello.  Along the same lines, I always greet someone and ask of their family before I begin a conversation.
• I wave only with my right hand.
• I am culturally sensitive in regards to my dress.
• All the typical cultural activities, like dancing, drumming, eating and clothing.

The list seems small, as I know I've adopted other bits of Ghana into my identity.  Perhaps I'll watch the list grow as time goes on.  

Pounding fufu with Auntie Akua.

Blending in

It's no secret that I love Ghana.  I love Ghana and I am in love with Ghanaians.  I am charmed by the ways that we interact with one another, shouting to each other on the street, greeting everyone and any one, and enjoying hearty laughs.  It lightens my sould to have daily exchanges with my brothers and sisters, uncles and aunties from the car window, at the market or in my own home.  My heart is always open to othe laughter and waves of children.  Some of these moments happen because I am Obroni, but most happen because I am Ghanaian.

But it can also be exhausting.  Sometimes I just want to blend in.  The little moments that happen simply because I stick out in the crowd can be entertaining, but sometimes they wear me out.  There are times when I want get lost in the tunes on my headphones, read a book on the beach or eat my toast on the way to work without interruption.  I don't want to be the victim of a pop-in visit.  No, I don't want you to cut a coconut for me.  No, I don't want to buy your apples.  Yes, I have a tattoo.  No, my skin doesn't feel differently than yours.  Yes, I am white.  Yes, I just sat down to eat dinner and want to do so in minimal clothing.  I just wonder where the the line is drawn between captivating culture and tedious annoyances.  The line of tolerance seems to fluctuate daily.  I know Ghanaians find me to be just as interesting as I find them, but sometimes I'm just too tired to reciprocate and I just want to blend in.

This poor gal wasn't getting any reading done either.

I went to the beach in hopes of bonding with a novel.  Instead I bonded with these guys.

Mr. Golden Sun

There's a song that says, "...haven't seen the sun in three damn days..."  If you live in West Africa right now, it's been much longer than 3 days.  We are in the thick of Harmattan, the thickest in several years, and it is toying with our health and humor.  It takes hours to pick all the sand out of my eyes each morning; my nose is caked with crust; and the other morning I woke up in the middle of the night to find my lips stuck to the pillow case.  It's dry.  It's dry and dusty.  It's dry and dusty and we haven't seen the sun shine in days.

Harmattan is a phenomenon that blows through West Africa each year, some time between December and March.  Typically, we get it here in southern Ghana around early January and it lasts only a few weeks.  It is a trade wind that blows from the Sahara to the Gulf of Guinea, and it brings with it fine particles of sand and dust.  On the bright side, it also lowers humidity and can provide delightfully "cool" temperatures.  Those pleasures, however, are mostly offered to our friends in the north who have much more sand and dryness to contend with.

Each of the last two years, we've noticed a hazy sky and a bit of extra crust around the eyes in the morning, but mostly just enjoyed the cool evening breeze that blows it all in.  THIS year, however, slam!  We got it, but good.  I'm used to sunshine.  I'm used to the blue skies that Crayola crayons are named for.  This little Florida gal just doesn't understand how the sun can hide for this long.  Earlier today I emerged from my office just at the moment that the children were being called in from their recess.  Looking like the setting for a science fiction movie, the kids emerged from a yellow-ish haze, muddling through the thickness.

Hope is on the hidden horizon, along with softer lips and the dissipating yellow fog.  Until it arrives, I'll keep plenty of moisturizer on hand and refrain from trying to rub the smudges from my glasses.

The rising sun, as seen through an aperture in the early morning haze.

The view from our terrace.  Typically, the town below shows through the clear skies.  This is actually a light haze as compared to recent days.

Puddle?

The aforementioned "puddle" on the way home . . .

Although the water level has gone down considerably (it used to be up to the doors) due to the fact that we haven't had any rain in a month and a half, we hear of at least 2 cars and a 4x4 each week getting stuck.

Auntie

Somehow I earned the title of Ghana's favorite auntie.  Many folks who know me also know that after 3:30 kids aren't necessarily my favorite.  I love everything about them, their giggles, their strange questions and crazy ideas during the school day, but after that I value peace, quiet and clean hands.  Living in Ghana has put an abrupt end to my solitude and opened my heart and home in ways I never thought I was capable of.



Last Sunday, Samuel called and said, "Please, we are coming."  How naive of me, but I thought "we" was simply his wife, children and him.  Instead, I came down the stairs, rounded the corner and found
9 cuties lined up on the edge of the couch, sitting tall and stiff like the Von Trapp children.  When I asked them to introduce themselves,
they followed suit by standing up down the line, stating their first and last name, followed by their age.  What is one to do with 9 little ones, ages spanning from 3-16 on a lazy Sunday afternoon?  Run to the kitchen, find cake and chips, feed them and then bust out the drums.  In line with the usual festivities at Auntie's house, we drummed and boogied into the evening, laughing all the way.  At some point we figured the more the merrier and got the neighbor and her kids in on the action as well.  11 drummers drumming.  And of course, at the end of it all, the entire lot piled into the Kia tired and full-bellied, with one last nugget of chocolate in their hands to savor another time.

Kofi's daughter Rachel was to celebrate her birthday on Tuesday.  What better way to celebrate it, than American style at Auntie's house?  Well sort of.  Armed with Glynn's chocolate cake (that had to be served already cut into clumps due to a minor trauma in the kitchen) and a decorative candle placed on the side (praise me for my improvisational skills), we gathered 'round and sang Happy Birthday to a joyful little 6-year-old and allowed her enough chocolate to satiate her coco-filled dreams.

Wait, I'm seeing a pattern.  Maybe it's the good chocolate at Auntie's house that brings them in droves.


I spent the majority of Saturday hopping around town with a 17-year-old in tow and in search of the perfect dormitory snacks.  Priscilla is headed off to her second semester at secondary school and was in need of provisions.  As we filled her bags with a four month's supply of corn flakes, powdered milk and TP, we decided to spice things up a bit.  One step inside the US Commissary and her eyes popped out of her head at the sight of things she never dreamed she could eat.  A quick introduction to the world of Tootsie Pops, Doritos and Cherry Coke led to a full trolley and her road to the most envied girl in school.

Whatever it is that makes them come my way is irrelevant.  The point is that the door will always be open.  Suddenly that uninterrupted evening or weekend quiet time just doesn't matter much.  It's the squeals of delight, the light in the eyes and the little love notes left on my fridge that make it all mean something.  Whether they call in advance or I find myself the victim of a pop-over visit, I find myself secretly loving my new role as Auntie.