So I'm officially stateside . . .
And it feels like there's been no time lapse. . .
But at the same time I'm very aware of the two and-a-half months that I spent at home. That felt exactly like two and-a-half months.
And although I'm sure as time passes I'll continually unveil new understandings and appreciations of what I've gained from my time away from here, I'd like to keep record of those things that immediately come to mind - those things I miss already and look forward to when next I find myself there.
Here goes (in no particular order):
- the variety of fruit, so natural and fresh it makes what we call 'organic' taste like plastic
- the cultural respect for education
- being called 'aunty' by my students
- calling women 'aunty' and 'ma' because that's what you do to show respect for those older than you
- having enough time to read
- the beach
- plantain chips
- bartering at the market
- gawking at beautiful men
- evenings on the balcony with my father
. . .
God Bless the adaptability of the human spirit.
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
. . . for small mercies
So guess who gave me a discount the other day?
That's right, Internet Cafe Girl! She hooked me up on some print-outs. I TOLD you she'd come around (smile).
Although, I wouldn't quite agree that we'll ever make it to 'buddy' status: the other day as I was buying my web-time, after my customary greeting of 'How are you today?' I added that I would be leaving soon and would miss the crew at the cafe.
Her response?
A 'well alright then' press-lipped grin and raising of the eyebrows.
Hey, but still - we've come a long way . . .
That's right, Internet Cafe Girl! She hooked me up on some print-outs. I TOLD you she'd come around (smile).
Although, I wouldn't quite agree that we'll ever make it to 'buddy' status: the other day as I was buying my web-time, after my customary greeting of 'How are you today?' I added that I would be leaving soon and would miss the crew at the cafe.
Her response?
A 'well alright then' press-lipped grin and raising of the eyebrows.
Hey, but still - we've come a long way . . .
Friday, February 19, 2010
Mango! Mango!
An ode to mango – the perfect fruit!
I cannot blame the bats for those which they loot
For when spying one juicy, hanging from my father’s tree
I project into the future; it’s sweet nectar I devour sloppily.
Oh but this morning, such a treasure I did spy!
But when going to capture the bounty noticed something quite awry
It was somehow out of place, not nearly as ripe or plump
Oh my goodness it’s been pilfered! It’s stem now but a mere stump!
Who’s the culprit, who’s the thief, who’s the dasher of dreams?!
Fair enough, let them be, it’s not as bad as it seems
For the tree looks quite pregnant with as many as 15!
I cannot blame the bats for those which they loot
For when spying one juicy, hanging from my father’s tree
I project into the future; it’s sweet nectar I devour sloppily.
Oh but this morning, such a treasure I did spy!
But when going to capture the bounty noticed something quite awry
It was somehow out of place, not nearly as ripe or plump
Oh my goodness it’s been pilfered! It’s stem now but a mere stump!
Who’s the culprit, who’s the thief, who’s the dasher of dreams?!
Fair enough, let them be, it’s not as bad as it seems
For the tree looks quite pregnant with as many as 15!
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
The Story of My Life
Why so many men - male musicians to be exact - decide to turn the simplest things into big giant pissing contests is beyond me. I’ll elaborate: one of my ‘missions’ for this trip has been to connect with Lagotian musicians, since Lagos is to Nigeria what New York is to the U.S - in terms of being a center for the arts anyway . . . I’ll not bother to mention all the ways in which that analogy falls flat otherwise. In any case, I figured meeting with fellow musicians would be a great way to: a. get access to a drum kit and b. have an opportunity to hear music being made in ways previously unknown to me. For me, one of the greatest ‘successes’ from this trip would be to build lasting musical friendships that transcend the span of the Atlantic.
Unfortunately, I’ve encountered my fair share of flakiness in the past month and a half (flaky musicians – no WAY!) and so I eventually resolved to continue making the most of it with my current set-up (my snare placed in a chair that faces sideways so that I can use the back of it as my hi-hat) and settled on returning to my full kit, and jam session fantasies, in March. I was saying as much to the one they call Blue the other day, and I was a bit surprised to hear her disappointment. Apparently, she’d been sharing the same visions of awesomeness that I had originally possessed, and so she ever so gently urged me to continue on my quest.
Fair enough, I was officially re-motivated.
For the past week or so, on my way to the market, I’ve been spying an ad for a guitar tutor. I decided it was a not-so-long shot to hope that a professional guitarist might know a drummer/drum kit, and so I took down the number and gave it a ring. Sure enough, the guitarist (I forgot to ask his name) didn’t hesitate to put me in touch with his friend, Victor, who met with me the same day. Victor turns out to be a very young (just taking his college entrance exams), very non-creepy drum player who has access to a drum kit at his church, which is about a 30 minute walk from where I live.
Super score!
He generously offers to escort me to his church anytime there’s no service underway and let me have at it. I’m totally grateful, but by now am much better at formulating my own Lagotian precautions, and so I decide it’s best not to go it alone; I ask my cousin, who also lives in the city, to tag along and he agrees.
Now, Victor has already asked if I was looking for drum lessons, to which I replied that I was not. I let him know that I’m simply looking to play on something that doesn’t sound like wood and vinyl so that I’m not completely without the feel for a kit when I get back to the States. I just want to practice.
OK, deep breath . . .
We get to the kit (hooray!) and I get my sticks out and start to go into some beats that I want to remember. I knew it wasn’t like I was going to have complete privacy, but I certainly didn’t expect for Victor to be standing directly next to me, watching my every move, ready to critique:
“You need to use your wrists more . . . hit the bell . . .”
“I don’t want to hit the bell.”
“Oh.”
He doesn’t move.
I’ve been playing for all of 3 minutes when he asks me to get up so he can “show [me] something.”
Here we go . . .
10 minutes later my sticks are handed back to me but I haven’t been playing for 5 minutes before I’m asked to get up AGAIN. Now when he sits down he instructs me to repeat what he’s about to demonstrate.
Sigh . . .
I’m starting to tense up a bit from frustration but then I say to myself, “You know what? It’s all good. He’s been playing for ten years, you’ve been playing for three. It never hurts to learn. Be a good sport. And besides, he’s been so kind to help you out and not ask for anything . . .”
And so I become Victor’s pupil – not entirely whole-heartedly, but what the hey.
No sooner had I made this resolution than in comes Victor’s friend, another drummer, Sampson.
He plops himself directly in front of me and begins to move the parts of the kit around, “Don’t you want it closer? I like when it’s right on top of me.”
He hits me in the knee with one of the toms as he shoves it towards me. I slowly push it away, “That’s a little too close.”
Sigh . . .
Now he’s staring at me.
“Do you want to play something?” I ask him.
“Me? Oh nooo! I just got here, I want to see you. Play something.”
Sigh . . .
I oblige, but when I’m finished he looks a bit confused. Maybe even indignant, like he’s been served tuna salad when he paid for steak.
“What is that style?”
“People say I play melodically . . . really I just play what I hear . . . ”
“Is that all you play is that band stuff? Don’t you play any jazz, funk . . .?”
Sigh . . . . . . where’s Katy Otto when you need her?
“Why don’t you play something?” I suggest.
He smirks and gets up with a leisurely sway. We switch out. He starts to go, and not to my surprise, he’s wonderfully talented. As he plays, he looks at me occasionally, unabashedly gloating.
Really?
What part of “I’d just like to practice” translated to all of this? What is it about men and female musicians???
And believe me, this is not an isolated incident by any means. This is just one of the many, MANY episodes of male musician muscle-flexing that I’ve endured since I started playing the drums. It’s like there’s some gene that needs to be expressed in men when it comes to music. Some ‘jerk’ gene. Maybe for all of the years that women weren’t encouraged to be musical badasses and settled for quietly taming the flute and the French horn while our male counterparts were blessed with amps and overdrive pedals at their bris', the gene grew more dominant, it’s expression more intrinsic.
But you know what, it’s about time to start breeding that shit out of the DNA. Thank GOD for Girls Rock! band camp!!! I figure that by the time our graduates get to be my age, they would have come up against enough of the ‘jerk’ gene (and respectfully ripped it a new one) to put the recessive wheels swiftly in motion.
(smiling) And how.
Unfortunately, I’ve encountered my fair share of flakiness in the past month and a half (flaky musicians – no WAY!) and so I eventually resolved to continue making the most of it with my current set-up (my snare placed in a chair that faces sideways so that I can use the back of it as my hi-hat) and settled on returning to my full kit, and jam session fantasies, in March. I was saying as much to the one they call Blue the other day, and I was a bit surprised to hear her disappointment. Apparently, she’d been sharing the same visions of awesomeness that I had originally possessed, and so she ever so gently urged me to continue on my quest.
Fair enough, I was officially re-motivated.
For the past week or so, on my way to the market, I’ve been spying an ad for a guitar tutor. I decided it was a not-so-long shot to hope that a professional guitarist might know a drummer/drum kit, and so I took down the number and gave it a ring. Sure enough, the guitarist (I forgot to ask his name) didn’t hesitate to put me in touch with his friend, Victor, who met with me the same day. Victor turns out to be a very young (just taking his college entrance exams), very non-creepy drum player who has access to a drum kit at his church, which is about a 30 minute walk from where I live.
Super score!
He generously offers to escort me to his church anytime there’s no service underway and let me have at it. I’m totally grateful, but by now am much better at formulating my own Lagotian precautions, and so I decide it’s best not to go it alone; I ask my cousin, who also lives in the city, to tag along and he agrees.
Now, Victor has already asked if I was looking for drum lessons, to which I replied that I was not. I let him know that I’m simply looking to play on something that doesn’t sound like wood and vinyl so that I’m not completely without the feel for a kit when I get back to the States. I just want to practice.
OK, deep breath . . .
We get to the kit (hooray!) and I get my sticks out and start to go into some beats that I want to remember. I knew it wasn’t like I was going to have complete privacy, but I certainly didn’t expect for Victor to be standing directly next to me, watching my every move, ready to critique:
“You need to use your wrists more . . . hit the bell . . .”
“I don’t want to hit the bell.”
“Oh.”
He doesn’t move.
I’ve been playing for all of 3 minutes when he asks me to get up so he can “show [me] something.”
Here we go . . .
10 minutes later my sticks are handed back to me but I haven’t been playing for 5 minutes before I’m asked to get up AGAIN. Now when he sits down he instructs me to repeat what he’s about to demonstrate.
Sigh . . .
I’m starting to tense up a bit from frustration but then I say to myself, “You know what? It’s all good. He’s been playing for ten years, you’ve been playing for three. It never hurts to learn. Be a good sport. And besides, he’s been so kind to help you out and not ask for anything . . .”
And so I become Victor’s pupil – not entirely whole-heartedly, but what the hey.
No sooner had I made this resolution than in comes Victor’s friend, another drummer, Sampson.
He plops himself directly in front of me and begins to move the parts of the kit around, “Don’t you want it closer? I like when it’s right on top of me.”
He hits me in the knee with one of the toms as he shoves it towards me. I slowly push it away, “That’s a little too close.”
Sigh . . .
Now he’s staring at me.
“Do you want to play something?” I ask him.
“Me? Oh nooo! I just got here, I want to see you. Play something.”
Sigh . . .
I oblige, but when I’m finished he looks a bit confused. Maybe even indignant, like he’s been served tuna salad when he paid for steak.
“What is that style?”
“People say I play melodically . . . really I just play what I hear . . . ”
“Is that all you play is that band stuff? Don’t you play any jazz, funk . . .?”
Sigh . . . . . . where’s Katy Otto when you need her?
“Why don’t you play something?” I suggest.
He smirks and gets up with a leisurely sway. We switch out. He starts to go, and not to my surprise, he’s wonderfully talented. As he plays, he looks at me occasionally, unabashedly gloating.
Really?
What part of “I’d just like to practice” translated to all of this? What is it about men and female musicians???
And believe me, this is not an isolated incident by any means. This is just one of the many, MANY episodes of male musician muscle-flexing that I’ve endured since I started playing the drums. It’s like there’s some gene that needs to be expressed in men when it comes to music. Some ‘jerk’ gene. Maybe for all of the years that women weren’t encouraged to be musical badasses and settled for quietly taming the flute and the French horn while our male counterparts were blessed with amps and overdrive pedals at their bris', the gene grew more dominant, it’s expression more intrinsic.
But you know what, it’s about time to start breeding that shit out of the DNA. Thank GOD for Girls Rock! band camp!!! I figure that by the time our graduates get to be my age, they would have come up against enough of the ‘jerk’ gene (and respectfully ripped it a new one) to put the recessive wheels swiftly in motion.
(smiling) And how.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Take Heed
I’ve narrowed down my father’s excessive precautions into the following categories:
a. fears he has as a father
b. fears he has as a Lagotian
c. fears he has as a 72-year-old man
Advice stemming from a. and c. I know not too spend too much time fretting over, but when it appears that it’s coming from b. I’m realizing more and more that I better fucking listen.
a. fears he has as a father
b. fears he has as a Lagotian
c. fears he has as a 72-year-old man
Advice stemming from a. and c. I know not too spend too much time fretting over, but when it appears that it’s coming from b. I’m realizing more and more that I better fucking listen.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Begin Again
I felt really happy today – in the extreme as a matter of fact. I was in a classroom of about 50 children, and they were so excited about drawing their self-portraits that they had to be reprimanded in order to pack up and start to head home.
Today was my second official day as the Third Avenue Primary School’s Volunteer Creative Arts Instructor. What a gas! Totally one of those strange, curiously-sourced ideas that I conjure up and fantasize about and then (even more curiously) actually realize.
A couple of weeks ago, while the children were still on winter break, I noticed that this public elementary school was on my street, about 10 minutes walking distance from my father’s house. I started to think that it’d be nice to work with children during my stay . . . and then I wondered what I could do – anything they need help with, of course. Ooh! What about ART?! I could teach them ART! And that’s about all the pre-meditation that went into it.
So when school finally resumed last week I made up my mind to go and see about it all. As I walked past the sagging gates of the school’s main entrance I was definitely still a little dreamy about the whole thing, but as I navigated through the sandy campus, past the wide, one-level rectangular structure to find the principal, or headmistress, I definitely began to undergo an awakening.
‘Who the hell am I?’ I thought; the headmistress’ glare undeniably asked the same question.
Awkward.
Blah blah blah I’d like to volunteer, I’m here until March yada yada my Dad lives down the street etc etc I love to work with children.
Slowly the headmistress begins to reply: ‘Unfortunately . . . we are unable to take on any new employees . . . we simply don’t have the funding . . .”
“No, I want to VOLUNTEER . . . “
“Eh heh . . . but surely at the end of the month you would like SOME kind of small something . . . some COMPENSATION for your work . . . “
“No, really I don’t.”
“Eh heh . . .”
At this point she glances at the woman who’s been sitting silently next to her, who gives a small nod. I think this must be the co-headmistress, but I don’t really feel in the position to be asking questions so I wait for something more.
The headmistress delivers: “Tell me . . . what is it that you want to do with the children?”
After a roundabout explanation (keep breathing!) that I work with youth in different capacities and can competently teach them a few different subjects, I venture to offer up that I’d like to teach them art.
“Ah hah!” the headmistress exclaims. Her co- nods with deep satisfaction.
“We have been LOOKING for someone to teach them ART!”
Get the shit outta here, I’m thinking.
So that was basically it – we talked about what kind of art would be useful for primary schoolers and then I was asked to report back to the headmistress’ office on Monday.
And I did.
And today was Tuesday. And it was grand . . . simply grand. There’ll be plenty more tales of elation to come, I’m sure.
(insert a smiling heart)
Today was my second official day as the Third Avenue Primary School’s Volunteer Creative Arts Instructor. What a gas! Totally one of those strange, curiously-sourced ideas that I conjure up and fantasize about and then (even more curiously) actually realize.
A couple of weeks ago, while the children were still on winter break, I noticed that this public elementary school was on my street, about 10 minutes walking distance from my father’s house. I started to think that it’d be nice to work with children during my stay . . . and then I wondered what I could do – anything they need help with, of course. Ooh! What about ART?! I could teach them ART! And that’s about all the pre-meditation that went into it.
So when school finally resumed last week I made up my mind to go and see about it all. As I walked past the sagging gates of the school’s main entrance I was definitely still a little dreamy about the whole thing, but as I navigated through the sandy campus, past the wide, one-level rectangular structure to find the principal, or headmistress, I definitely began to undergo an awakening.
‘Who the hell am I?’ I thought; the headmistress’ glare undeniably asked the same question.
Awkward.
Blah blah blah I’d like to volunteer, I’m here until March yada yada my Dad lives down the street etc etc I love to work with children.
Slowly the headmistress begins to reply: ‘Unfortunately . . . we are unable to take on any new employees . . . we simply don’t have the funding . . .”
“No, I want to VOLUNTEER . . . “
“Eh heh . . . but surely at the end of the month you would like SOME kind of small something . . . some COMPENSATION for your work . . . “
“No, really I don’t.”
“Eh heh . . .”
At this point she glances at the woman who’s been sitting silently next to her, who gives a small nod. I think this must be the co-headmistress, but I don’t really feel in the position to be asking questions so I wait for something more.
The headmistress delivers: “Tell me . . . what is it that you want to do with the children?”
After a roundabout explanation (keep breathing!) that I work with youth in different capacities and can competently teach them a few different subjects, I venture to offer up that I’d like to teach them art.
“Ah hah!” the headmistress exclaims. Her co- nods with deep satisfaction.
“We have been LOOKING for someone to teach them ART!”
Get the shit outta here, I’m thinking.
So that was basically it – we talked about what kind of art would be useful for primary schoolers and then I was asked to report back to the headmistress’ office on Monday.
And I did.
And today was Tuesday. And it was grand . . . simply grand. There’ll be plenty more tales of elation to come, I’m sure.
(insert a smiling heart)
Saturday, December 19, 2009
intro intro intro intro
I've started this as a reminder to self to stay connected with those who stay connected to me, regardless of geographic locations. If you like, check back in from time to time to see what I see and how I see it . . . in Nigeria, that is.
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