Coming to America, Coming Home

I feel as though there would be something amiss if I didn't take the opportunity to compare, once again, America and the United States.

I left for Boston the 2nd of June. It was late. With my large army surplus knapsack and small laptop carry-on, aided by my friend Kara, I slowly hoisted myself from the zemidjian and onto the broken sidewalk. My stomach was twitching nervously as I gazed at the large, formerly unfamiliar building in front of me. Kara walked me right to the line to check in and hugged me good-bye.
"Enjoy America," she said.
"I will," I replied robotically, my eyes shifting around to make sure my luggage was safe in front and behind me. Then she disappeared, I saw her blond hair and white arms for just a moment before she shattered into a million pieces and I was on the plane.

The man next to me was a Sergeant with the US Military. I didn't want to talk with him at first. I thought he would try to hit on me. I had been conditioned to not talk to men unless I had to. It's just easier to ignore them outright instead of engaging them and finding it necessary to do so later when they start harassing you to give them your phone number. He was nice. He had a blond mustache. He thought my Nagot was endearing. He was training Beninese soldiers near the Nigerian border. He uniform faded into the gray of his airline seat as I dozed off.

The food. So much food. Every time I awoke, Air France fed me. Dinner, breakfast, lunch and a snack. Real butter. Cheese. Bread. I couldn't touch the wine, worried it would be too rich. Clean, cold water was a blessing in a plastic cup. On the plane ride to Benin the first time, my friends Rich, Bradley and I all got drunk on the complimentary airline size bottles of wine. We were raucous and giddy with red mouths and teeth. I drank because I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep on the red eye flight, never having had to get used to sleeping sitting up. This flight I couldn't keep my eyes open. I didn't have time to watch an in-flight movie or listen to music or read. I just slept, lulled by the peaceful ride and vibration and relative infrequent bump in the road.

At Charles de Gualle I stared in wonder at the series of automatic revolving doors. Thinking about how revolving doors were so efficient. I drank a cup of coffee and listened to my Ipod for six hours, marching up and down the terminal trying to see what I would like to buy. The New York Times was sold out, I settled for the Herald Tribune. I watched lovers entwine their legs beneath cafe tables and harried parents usher small children past men in wrinkled suits with sunglasses. I tried to write. Nothing came out. I was tapped out. Dry. My brain was overloaded in the way that it was when I first arrived in Benin. Culture shock. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I didn't want anyone to know who I was or where I was coming from or where I was going. I was anonymous, the way many Americans like to be.

Arriving in Boston I was elated to see David. A pair of cow horns strapped to the top of my knapsack made it difficult to walk, they were almost twice as wide as my body and tied near my neck. People stopped and stared from their cars as we walked to his apartment. I felt as though I looked like a minotaur. I spent two days delirious. When I closed my eyes I'd see JoJo running through the bush, naked, as usual. I'd see my mama walking back and forth from the the house with a pan of water to wash dishes. I'd see Mouda scrubbing laundry beneath the mango tree. Red dust. Roosters. The constant sound of women pounding meager tubers into food. The call to prayer. Then I'd open my eyes and see cars, skyscrapers, white people, glass windows, asian people, curtains, brown people, soft beds, food. So much food. So, so much food.

Finally when my brain caught up with the rest of my body and realized where I was, it was time for all of that good food to make me sick. At a very nice Indian restaurant in Porter Square I suddenly realized I couldn't eat all of those saturated fats and sugars anymore. Perhaps it was a virus or food poisoning- or perhaps I just wasn't used to the way I used to eat. In the United States, food and restaurants serve as forms of entertainment. Eating is a leisure activity, typically served quickly and enjoyed with friends or family in a way that seems more foreign than ever now. Americans don't break bread over the same dinner table as their parents, they're sharing naan at trendy establishments with tall cafe tables and wifi. I can't tell you how many lunches served as 'visits' over the following two weeks.

The next two and a half weeks were a whirlwind of faces, similar questions, toasts, and travel. I saw my family for nearly a week and a half, successfully visiting with all of my sisters, friends from high-school, college and gave a small presentation to my sister Bek's 1st grade classroom. I realized dressed in "traditional garb" (A bunch of panges I wrapped around myself because I didn't think to bring any modeles), and speaking in front of a class of students that I was conditioned to speak with an African accent, my voice slow and consonants softened. I had found my teacher voice, and it was from West Africa. I danced the "chicken" dance, a kind of difficult and awkward dance, in a bar in Albany. I fell asleep into my chinese food in Queens after talking about buruli ulcers. I walked through Prospect Park thinking about sacred forests and urbanization. I complained that my friends walked too fast, were too scheduled, that the subways felt like slave ships. There was no time to sit. I couldn't write, I had barely enough time to sleep. I thought back to my days at the New York State Senate and college, how if I had just one day in two weeks were I didn't have plans it was a blessing. If I could finish a newspaper I didn't have enough to do. I began to see Benin as a bit of a haven, where my time was freer, the faces friendlier, and the work rewarding.

Frequently Asked Questions:

So how was Africa?
-- It was/is fine(?)
What do you eat out there?
-- Uh, grits beaten with a stick until starchy. Sauce made from fish and tomatoes.
What else?
-- ? Whatever I can find.
What is the most messed up/ scary thing you've seen?
-- Why would you want to know the answer to that question?
How do you go to the bathroom?
-- I have a latrine.
So no running water, huh? Wow. How about electricity?
-- Yes, but it does go out sometimes. I'm lucky to have it though.
When do you come back?
-- I don't know. Probably September 2011.
Why not sooner?
-- I don't know. I can't make plans that far in advance. On verras.


I met Chris Kotfilia, a friend who also served in Peace Corps Benin, in the same coffee shop where we used to work together. He asked me what kind of Volunteer I became. I instead just listed every kind of volunteer one could be before deciding that I had no idea. I don't have the luxury of categorizing myself and my work in that way. He told me about how he goes to Chinese markets to try to find West Africans. How he now mentors a middle schooler whose family is from Savalou. We talked about how we didn't want Benin to be 'It', the one cool thing you do in your life; the one accomplishment that you always draw on for your world perspective. He's thinking of traveling, but is juggling first world responsibilities such as degrees and long term relationships. I felt relieved to not be wearing the same cement shoes, even if my feet are tainted red.

After another six days with David, I left for Paris. I said to him as I was packing that I was worried I'd be crying into my complimentary wine hovering over the Cotonou airport. However, the plane was comfortable, even though they fed me too much again. Instead of crying on the final descent, I felt relieved. Benin was going to be my home for the next year, and it felt good to be home.