MyRealLife

NEW BLOG SITE

2010-03-01T17:17:00.000-08:00

Dear friends and family,

We aren't the best at blogging and keeping updates, but I realized that one of the reasons I don't like blogging on my personal blog is because I hate its weird name- www.myryllyfe.blogspot.com. I chose it when blogs were "like so totally new." (It was kind of like when people gave themselves email addresses like: jamminjess43@hotmail.com, etc :) Also, since Ghana we don't update our Ghana blog EVER. So I know this is REALLY annoying to those whose blogrolls consist of about 4 Strayer blogs at this point but we are consolidating. We started: http://mikeandchelseastrayer.blogspot.com/ and that is what we'll be updating from now on as a family. (Mike will probably still keep his personal blog: www.reluctantconquistador.blogspot.com). We might make it private once the baby comes, but we'll let you know.

For now, to make up for the annoyance of changing all your blog lists, I've posted a ton (3 posts!) on our new blog! check it out.

xo-chels

TED revisited.

2010-02-23T09:20:00.000-08:00

I was so sick at TEDIndia this November that I never really got to talk or spread the word. Now that I'm feeling a little better I wanted to share some of my favorite talks that I basically was just so inspired the whole time! I LOVED it. Tell me what you think:

Pranav, by the way, was the nicest guy ever. I went up to him later that day at one of the meals and just told him how inspired I was and impressed with his work. Here we are both in India and he noticed I was at BU and said, "I'm just across the river. We should get together sometime." Amazing.

Blood Donation Box Checking

2009-12-21T16:37:00.000-08:00

We were telling funny family stories the other day and it came up that Mike was totally embarrassed once when he went to donate blood. It was right after we got married and right before he went to Africa with me and instead of checking the box that said "I've been to Africa." He had to check the box that said something like, "Have you had sexual contact with someone who has lived in Africa, a sex worker, etc." He wanted to clarify with the technician, but it just never came up. We were all laughing and my little sister Kati said she had an even better story.

She was filling out the same paperwork and missed that particular box so the lady had to read it out loud. "Have you ever had sexual contact with anyone that has lived in Africa, a sex worker, etc." Kati wasn't really listening and said very matter, "Yes." and then "My sister." The lady's face looked shocked and then said, "maybe I should ask that again...."

Kati just thought she'd said "any contact with someone who has lived in Africa" and thought of me. We all laughed so hard last night about the mix up and what the blood donation worker must have thought.

I love my husband...

2009-12-03T11:19:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I can't get over how much I love my husband. He'll do something simple. cute. ordinary. And It'll make me stop and just smile ear to ear. I feel like my entire notion of belief, faith, and hope is wrapped up in the simple idea that if we could find each other, anything is possible.

I had him make a Christmas list the other day. It only had about 10 things. Mostly practical. Two of them were: cornbread and reeses pieces.

I LOVE him!

Thanksgiving bump!

2009-12-03T10:31:00.000-08:00

I was just reminded of our horrible Thanksgiving meal last year in Ghana. I worked all day cooking food that we brought from the US and trying to make things as nice as possible. Brandon and Mike actually killed and cut up a local Turkey and we invited all our friends over. People were putting gravy on top of chocolate cake, complaining that the men weren't fed first, and ordering me around to get them glasses of water. I think it was summed up best when one neighbor said when I asked him why he wasn't eating anything but the turkey meat, "If I eat your food I will throw up in my mouth."

Needless to say, this year was much better! We had the most beautiful Thanksgiving meal. A bunch of friends got together at Ben and Sus' place and it was decorated so cute and the food was amazing.

This is Mike's and my contribution: a green salad, sweet sweet potatoes, and savory sweet potatoes. It was GOOD!

Yes, that is homemade cranberry sauce (the best I've ever tasted), garlic cream cheese mashed red potatoes, and Homemade artisan bread. Amazing.

Here's the cute table with turkey shaped chocolates all the way from Burdicks in Harvard square that we all love! AND not to mention that for my B-day Sus totally remembered my favorite wedding present-- one of those silly glass cake holders that can also be a punch bowl-- and she remembered how sad I was to get rid of it to go to Africa even though I don't really bake or display cakes or use punch bowls, and she got me one! Only it also can be used for chips and dip so its amazing!

This is the cute maternity outfit that my mom got me for my b-day. The first picture is me normal and the second one is emphasizing the bump a little. I think I kept flashing people with my new boobs all night, so I'm sorry about that....

A little late...Halloween!

2009-12-02T16:48:00.000-08:00

So this year we decided to be Secretary of State Hillary Clinton and Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. Mike looks totally handsome but my Hillary wig was kinda struggling.

Little Baby Strayer

2009-12-01T13:13:00.000-08:00

I' m a HUGE fan of reading other people's blogs and getting updates, but I am not so great about updating myself! So I thought I'd take a stab at being a better blogger and updating more. To begin with is our new little adventure below:

We are due around April 17th and we don't know the sex. It's going to be a surprise, even to us! So far everything looks healthy and strong on the baby's end although I feel like I'm not very good at this pregnancy thing. I'm well past the first trimester and still feeling pretty sick.

I haven't been very productive work-wise and I'm terrified that that is a sign of things to come.....

But yesterday and today I felt some kicks and the ultrasounds and kicks make everything seem worth it. :)

Love ya, chels

Basketball Studette

2009-07-31T22:50:00.000-07:00

I stopped exercising about 8 years ago when I started going to Africa because every time I jogged people would shout, "Who is chasing you?"

This video is a homage to my more athletic days.....

***P.S. Thanks Jared for this video montage, for highlighting only my good shots, creating JPI, AND even letting me be the first girl in the league!

27 things

2008-11-26T16:33:00.000-08:00

For my birthday I decided to list off 27 things I’ve learned in 27 years. Well hopefully I’ve learned more than 27, but these are just the really deep ones.

1.) My biggest strengths and weaknesses haven’t really changed and they are the same thing: Really strong opinions.
• For better: I’ve always known what I wanted. Over time I realize that this is one of the greatest gifts I’ve been blessed with. It’s easy to work for what you want, the hard part is figuring out what you want.
• For worse: I often alienate people, have a hard time with criticism, and it doesn’t take more than a couple of conversations for people to never bring up issues I care about again.

2.) The best decision I made in my entire life was to be madly, head-over-heels, in love with the man I married, “Body and soul.”

3.) It is amazing how totally similar and completely different people in the same family can be. But no matter how well you know each other, circumstances change, everyone follows their own path, and people can surprise you.

4.) I have good friend-dar. The friends I made as a kid are still the ones I love, the friends I make now last a lifetime. Friends are really important in my life.

5.) The main lesson I learned from the last 7 years of Anthropology is that two people can see the exact same world in absolutely different ways and they can both be right and equally justified.

6.) Ecclesiastes was right, there is a season for everything. Life is really long. It doesn’t end at marriage, or empty nest, or retirement. Throughout it all you change a lot.

7.) Everyone in the world deserves a great sex life!

8.) People might surprise you, but relationships don’t change that much. People who I admired, competed against, went to for help or those who got me excited, calmed me down, never judged, always expected a lot, made me laugh, wanted to fix me, needed my help, inspired me, drained me, etc. Are the same people with whom I have the same relationship today.

9.) It goes against my anxiety-prone sometimes-OCD nature, but I am the happiest when I don’t take anything too seriously.

10.) I’m the saddest when I succumb to my contentious self and constantly worry about what other people are thinking of me.

11.) I learn the most from people who tell their life stories, dreams, goals, memories, desires, etc. Especially people who talk about how they’ve overcome adversity, discrimination, sexism, etc.

12.) There is nothing better than a great scenic road trip with people you love.

13.) I feel the most at home surrounded by like-minded people. It’s worth all the time and money it takes to foster experiences together. It is so refreshing.

14.) Honesty really is the best policy. I’ve learned that 100% honesty, when done kindly, reduces passive aggressive communication, misunderstandings, resentment, and regret.

15.) I’m grateful I was taught good work ethic. Hard work really has always paid off in the end.

16.) I’ve stopped beating myself up for my chronic procrastination. I always mope around for about 2 weeks before a big deadline thinking, I really should be working on_______. I do all the usual things: watch TV, cook meals, decide to do a project, clean the house for the first time in a while, etc. Ultimately, I pull it off. In fact, this year I realized that I statistically have ALWAYS pulled it off in the end, i.e. never turned in a paper late, never gotten a horrible grade, never given a completely lame speech, etc. So….this year I tried a new tactic. I stopped getting mad or depressed about it and started praising myself for being so innately aware of my ability to cram that I just know when to start and how long it will take! It’s worked so far and the procrastination time is a lot more fun!

17.) It is more important to me that people are kind and loving and generous and tolerant, than if they are righteous or rich or prestigious or respected.

18.) It is really important that people feel unconditionally loved; that just because you are human, alive, and part of my life you deserve love. It can’t be based on accomplishment or good behavior, but should be a natural human right.

19.) Trust is more important than things or money. I learned this from a friend who would always loan out expensive things— like her car or apt— to friends. She once said that, “You can buy new stuff if they mishandle what you lent them, but the feeling of trust that that person just felt by giving them something valuable, is priceless.”

20.) Most people like being asked bold questions. If done sincerely and at the right moment, What is your biggest fear? Saddest moment? Biggest struggle right now? Ultimate wish? When were you happiest? How’s your marriage? etc. can open so many windows of communication that take years to get to otherwise. And sometimes bold questions are exactly what people need.

21.) I’ve learned from a muse of mine (V.G. at Exponent II retreats) that I’ve done the work, I’ve gained a testimony, and I have every right as the guy sitting next to me at church to have and state my opinions and promptings about issues no matter how they differ from the rest.

22.) “Well-behaved women seldom make history.” Laurel Thatcher Ulrich (another muse from Exponent)

23.) I have a deep impulse to cause change that runs so deep in my veins I’d swear it’s been there for many lifetimes and the reason I’m here on earth. Change in my students’ perspectives, change in the world, change in people’s lives, change in politics, change in culture, change for women, etc. (and I’m still naïve enough to think I can/will do it.)

24.) I still haven’t learned how to be enough or my value. I’ll always say yes to the next job offer even if I don’t need or want it, I constantly work for free because it would be rude to ask someone to pay for my knowledge, I don’t know how to negotiate, I’m grateful that someone wants me for ___, rather than asking if I even want it, etc.

25.) It is really hard to make a big change (i.e. finishing school, starting a family, moving) when you love your life. Can it get any better or is it all downhill from here?

26.) I LOVE my life. I wouldn’t change a thing. (I might’ve changed things in the past—but the present is exactly where I want to be and with the people I want to be with). That feels nice.

27.) As much as I’ve grown, I’m pretty much the same freckle faced four-eyed second-grader that wanted to be the President of the United States when she grew up and was told that she couldn’t because she was a girl. Maybe not that specific, but I haven’t changed all that much. I still think anything is possible…..even if I am a girl.

2008-10-05T07:38:00.000-07:00

Follow-up.

2008-09-24T11:55:00.002-07:00

I don't know why I feel compelled to explain the feelings I've been having about the church for the last couple of years on my blog- maybe it is because I've recently begun to realize how many other people feel the same way as I do. They just say it better. In my life I always feel like the black sheep, the strange one, "why do I care so much?", what's the big deal, etc. It has been nice to have a little bit more time off, to be able to read about the spiritual ups and downs of friends, and also some of the battles others face with the church. It makes me feel so much more normal and justified. Plus, I am so bad at explaining myself and always engender anger and resistence, I want to include the words of others that just explain it better. For example, I've included below the comments of Richard Bushman where he wonderfully addresses why people doubt, what they are feeling, and what they need. I appreciate his willingness to ask the tough questions and appreciate this conference that seeks to get at this information.

"The following is Richard Bushman's introduction to the 2008 summer seminar, “Joseph Smith and His Critics,” given July 29, 2008. I also have a poor mp3 recording of the paper and in the next week or so I plan on blogging any additions Bushman made in reading the paper to the group. For my thoughts on the seminar in general, see "Preliminary Thoughts on the 2008 Bushman Seminar," and "Follow-up Thoughts on the 2008 Bushman Seminar." For notes on the presentations themselves, see Juvenile Instructor's "Notes on the 2008 Bushman Seminar," parts one and two.
Introduction Richard Bushman Increasingly teachers and church leaders at all levels are approached by Latter-day Saints who have lost confidence in Joseph Smith and the basic miraculous events of church history. They doubt the First Vision, the Book of Mormon, many of Joseph’s revelations, and much besides. They fall into doubt after going on the Internet and finding shocking information about Joseph Smith based on documents and facts they had never heard before. A surprising number had not known about Joseph Smith’s plural wives. They are set back by differences in the various accounts of the First Vision. They find that Egyptologists do not translate the Abraham manuscripts the way Joseph Smith did, making it appear that the Book of Abraham was a fabrication. When they come across this information in a critical book or read it on one of the innumerable critical Internet sites, they feel as if they had been introduced to a Joseph Smith and a Church history they had never known before. They undergo an experience like viewing the famous picture of a beautiful woman who in a blink of an eye turns into an old hag. Everything changes. What are they to believe? Often church leaders, parents, and friends, do not understand the force of this alternate view. Not knowing how to respond, they react defensively. They are inclined to dismiss all the evidence as anti-Mormon or of the devil. Stop reading these things if they upset you so much, the inquirer is told. Or go back to the familiar formula: scriptures, prayer, church attendance.The troubled person may have been doing all of these things sincerely, perhaps even desperately. He or she feels the world is falling apart. Everything these inquirers put their trust in starts to crumble. They want guidance more than ever in their lives, but they don’t seem to get it. The facts that have been presented to them challenge almost everything they believe. People affected in this way may indeed stop praying; they don’t trust the old methods because they feel betrayed by the old system. Frequently they are furious. On their missions they fervently taught people about Joseph Smith without knowing any of these negative facts. Were they taken advantage of? Was the Church trying to fool them for its own purposes?These are deeply disturbing questions. They shake up everything. Should I stay in the Church? Should I tell my family? Should I just shut up and try to get along? Who can help me? At this point, these questioners go off in various directions. Some give up on the Church entirely. They find another religion or, more likely these days, abandon religion altogether. Without their familiar Mormon God, they are not sure there is any God at all. They become atheist or agnostic. Some feel the restrictions they grew up with no longer apply. The strength has been drained out of tithing, the Word of Wisdom, and chastity. They partly welcome the new freedom of their agnostic condition. Now they can do anything they please without fear of breaking the old Mormon rules. The results may not be happy for them or their families. Others piece together a morality and a spiritual attitude that stops them from declining morally, but they are not in an easy place. When they go to church, , they are not comfortable. Sunday School classes and Sacrament meeting talks about Joseph Smith and the early church no longer ring true. How can these people believe these “fairy tales,” the inquirers ask. Those who have absorbed doses of negative material live in two minds: their old church mind which now seems naive and credulous, and their new enlightened mind with its forbidden knowledge learned on the internet and from critical books.A friend who is in this position described the mindset of the disillusioned member this way:“Due to the process of learning, which they have gone through, these [two-minded] LDS often no longer accept the church as the only true one (with the only true priesthood authority and the only valid sacred ordinances), but they see it as a Christian church, in which good, inspired programs are found as well as failure and error. They no longer consider inspiration, spiritual and physical healing, personal and global revelation limited to the LDS church. In this context, these saints may attend other churches, too, where they might have spiritual experiences as well. They interpret their old spiritual experiences differently, understanding them as testimonies from God for them personally, as a result of their search and efforts, but these testimonies don’t necessarily have to be seen as a confirmation that the LDS church is the only true one. “Since the social relationships between them and other ward (or stake) members suffer (avoidance, silence, even mobbing) because of their status as heretics, which is usually known via gossip, and since the extent of active involvement and range of possible callings are reduced because of their nonconformity in various areas, there is a risk that they end up leaving the church after all, because they are simply ignored by the majority of the other members.” He then offers a recommendation:“It is necessary that the church not only shows more support and openness to these ‘apostates’ but also teaches and advises all members, bishops, stake presidents etc., who usually don’t know how to deal with such a situation in terms of organizational and ecclesiastical questions and – out of insecurity – fail to treat the critical member with the necessary love and respect that even a normal stranger would receive.” Those are the words of someone who has lost belief in many of the fundamentals and is working out a new relationship to the Church. Other shaken individuals recover their belief in the basic principles and events but are never quite the same as before. Their knowledge, although no longer toxic, gives them a new perspective. They tend to be more philosophic and less dogmatic about all the stories they once enjoyed. Here are some of the characteristics of people who have passed through this ordeal but managed to revive most of their old beliefs. 1. They often say they learned the Prophet was human. They don’t expect him to be a model of perfect deportment as they once thought. He may have taken a glass of wine from time to time, or scolded his associates, or even have made business errors. They see his virtues and believe in his revelations but don’t expect perfection.2. They also don’t believe he was led by revelation in every detail. They see him as learning gradually to be a prophet and having to feel his way at times like most Church members. In between the revelations, he was left to himself to work out the methods of complying with the Lord’s commandments. Sometimes he had to experiment until he found the right way. 3. These newly revived Latter-day Saints also develop a more philosophical attitude toward history. They come to see (like professional historians) that facts can have many interpretations. Negative facts are not necessarily as damning as they appear at first sight. Put in another context along side other facts, they do not necessarily destroy Joseph Smith’s reputation. 4. Revived Latter-day Saints focus on the good things they derive from their faith–the community of believers, the comforts of the Holy Spirit, the orientation toward the large questions of life, contact with God, moral discipline, and many others. They don’t want to abandon these good things. Starting from that point of desired belief, they are willing to give Joseph Smith and the doctrine a favorable hearing. They may not be absolutely certain about every item, but they are inclined to see the good and the true in the Church. At the heart of this turmoil is the question of trust. Disillusioned Latter-day Saints feel their trust has been betrayed. They don’t know whom to trust. They don’t dare trust the old feelings that once were so powerful, nor do they trust church leaders. They can only trust the new knowledge they have acquired. Those who come back to the Church are inclined to trust their old feelings. Their confidence in the good things they knew before is at least partially restored. But they sort out the goodness that seems still vital from the parts that now seem no longer tenable. Knowledge not only has given them a choice, it has compelled them to choose. They have to decide what they really believe. In the end, many are more stable and convinced than before. They feel better prepared to confront criticism openly, confident they can withstand it. - - - - The members of the seminar on “Joseph Smith and His Critics,” a group of Religious Education and CES faculty who met at BYU for six weeks in the summer of 2008, are among those who have known Latter-day Saints in this state of confusion and doubt. We have had many opportunities to talk to questioners about their problems and admit that we have often fallen short in our answers. We came together in hopes of learning to do better. Besides gathering information on a series of specific issues, we have discussed how best to deal with questioning Saints. What way of speaking is most likely to win their trust and convince them we have their best interests at heart? We began by agreeing that criticisms of Joseph Smith should not be dismissed as foolish or purely evil. The negative attacks that disturb first-time readers are usually based on facts, not merely prejudiced fabrications. To play down the force of the criticism, we believe, only convinces the seekers that we do not understand. We appear to be sweeping trouble under the rug. They may have been devastated by a criticism; we must show that we understand why. Consequently, the seminar took as its first principle to state the negative argument as fully and accurately as we can. We try not to minimize the difficulty or prejudice the case against the critic. In no other way can we persuade the doubters that we understand the problem. Secondly, we try to avoid dogmatic answers. Rather than replace the dogmatic negative attacks of the critics with our own dogmatic answers, we attempt to show that a more positive interpretation is possible. Critics often claim that Joseph’s sins were so egregious as to utterly disqualify him as a prophet. We can understand their viewpoint, but we think there is another side to the story. Rather than destroy the critics, we want to loosen their grip. In the long run, we believe this approach will persuade questioners more effectively than claims to certainty where none is possible. We believe in stating our own strong convictions about the church as a whole, but we do not to pretend to perfect knowledge about complex historical questions. We know that airing criticisms troubles many Latter-day Saints. Like most Church teachers, the members of the seminar do not want to draw attention to questions that will only unsettle faithful members. But we also feel that silence is not the answer. The absence of instruction troubles questioners more than anything. They feel they have been betrayed because they came through their Church classes ignorant of the devastating information now a few clicks away on the internet. The gaps in their education leave them disillusioned and angry. To counteract this lack of preparation, the seminar members have taken as our motto the scripture that begins: “As all have not faith, teach one another” (D&C 88:118). We are encouraged by the scriptural recognition that not all have faith, and by the appealing remedy, “teach one another.” For many questioners, loneliness is the heart of the problems. No one seems to understand. We are enjoined by this scripture to find these seekers and bring them into a fellowship of inquiry. We hope that our papers will help Church teachers create safe havens where questions may be asked and answers explored--where we can teach one another."
____________________________________________
Richard L. Bushman is a Professor Emeritus of History, Columbia University, the current holder of the Howard W. Hunter visiting professorship in Mormon studies at Claremont Graduate University, and author of the recent biography Joseph Smith: Rough Stone Rolling. The image is from Meridian Magazine's "Library of Congress Explores the Impact of Joseph Smith," by Page (Townsend) Johnson.

This link was: http://www.lifeongoldplates.com/2008/08/bushmans-introduction-to-joseph-smith.html

2008-09-23T07:20:00.000-07:00

http://projectdeseret.com/?p=83

I've included this link to a friend/rommate's blog entry called: "In defense of the dissidents" because it really explains how I feel about the church right now. I can never explain myself well. I always fumble, or express too strong of opinions that push everyone away rather than helping them understand what I am saying and why I feel so strongly about things. I think she does a much better job than I do at explaining the conundrum of being a part of something with so many contraditions: feminist in a Patriarchal system, spirit of the law vs. letter of the law, personal agency vs. obedience, love vs. prejudice, etc. And the overwhelming desire to continue being a part of this thing but needing to incite change....somehow......but feeling like your change seeking is rejected at every turn- and you are left feeling more stupid, alone, justified- but embittered, the more you push. This may not make sense to some- but to those it does- Ashley's blog entry explains it better.

2008-09-11T06:25:00.000-07:00

Anthropologists Develop New Approach To Explain Religious Behavior

ScienceDaily (2008-09-10) -- Without a way to measure religious beliefs, anthropologists have had difficulty studying religion. Now, two anthropologists from the University of Missouri and Arizona State University have developed a new approach to study religion by focusing on verbal communication, an identifiable behavior, instead of speculating about alleged beliefs in the supernatural that cannot actually be identified. ... > read full article

This blog will be dead for a year (not that I update it anyway)

2008-07-15T20:48:00.001-07:00

Please go to http://partyinghana.blogspot.com/ to read about our year traveling Europe and living in Ghana, West Africa.

Family

2008-06-21T13:09:00.000-07:00

I just read an interesting article in the New York Times. This is how Mike and I want to raise our kids. We've gotten some flack for it- because obviously we don't have kids yet, but we want to make it work.

I'm in a band!

2008-01-21T19:37:00.000-08:00

One of my long time dreams has recently been fulfilled! I've always wanted to be some hippie rocker chick. Playing music loudly, crazy hair, swaying to the music, uber confident! However, the combination of teenage lack of self-esteem and perfectionism, kinda made it so it was (and often still is) hard for me to look on the outside what I feel on the inside! So... really cool, granola, musician never seemed possible. In fact, I even called a local band in Utah that had a Djembe drummer who was moving to start playing with them, and I was too scared to follow it through!

Enter: Kenneth Hartvigsen- an unbelievable musician who decided that we should all just jam one day. Mike learned the bass in about 2 minutes and I've been practicing on my Djembe. It has been SO much fun! We recorded one of our songs the other day! You can listen at: www.myspace.com/postboston. Out bands name is POST and we are going to do a Utah and European tour this summer! Whoo-hoo! I still don't look it, although my legs are really hairy and so maybe I'll stop wearing a bra next, but I feel it! Enjoy!

My Brother Died 8 Years Ago Today. . . .

2007-07-24T07:47:00.000-07:00

My mind used to automatically recall that tragic night, the body, or his last terrible moments. It used to make me sad and angry.

Now I can recall more of the good than the bad. I remember how life was suspended in this alter- social world. There weren't any duties, daily schedules, chores, discipline, politeness, etc. We all just kinda existed in this liminal state of mutual respect, apparent love, equality, sincere closeness and distance. We all made the most important matters clear. When I missed curfew mom and dad didn't get mad at me for breaking a rule, rather, they just told me how much they loved me and worried about me, especially after Grant's death, when I wasn't at home. I believed that. I don't think I was ever late again.

As bad as the circumstances were, it was wonderful to belong to a culture were all the important things rose to the top. Neighbors came and played games, stayed late, brought food and ate with us. Money wasn't worried about, no one was told what to do, we all wanted to hold the little siblings. Family came and stayed. Friends called and sent cards. People came out of the wood works for the funeral and if it wasn't as sad as it was I would have looked forward to a time when all of the people in our lives came together. It was a strange combination of people who didn't know each other, but who made an impact on my family in all of the different stages of our lives: old high school friends of my parents, friends from Tooele, families from Oregon, church members from Orem, cousins from all over the country, old students of my Dad's, etc.
I've never felt more loved. Everyone displayed in a short period of time how much we meant to them. It put everything in perspective.

I'll never think of the covenant we make at Baptism, "Mourn with those that mourn, Comfort those that stand in need of comfort," the same way again.

2007-07-19T16:50:00.001-07:00

At What Cost?

2006-10-30T12:22:00.000-08:00

We had just gotten out of a movie. My first movie in four months! It wasn't even really a movie. My friend Wil, a tall handsome kid from Minnesota who was always up for a good time, had been dying to see a movie. There weren't a lot of entertainment options in the middle of West Africa, unless you consider watching geckos, trying to make food from "home" with Ghanaian ingredients, or resorting to middle school fun by piercing eachothers body parts with needles, entertainment. We were all international students at the University of Ghana in Legon, Ghana. Wil found out from some classmates that there was a house at the edge of Rindge east downtown where you can watch movies. So that was our weekend.

All of us smushed into a taxi- a sedan painted orange- four in the back seat sometimes two in the front. It took at least a half an hour to go a couple miles. Ever since Kwame Nkrumah- Africa's first black president and Ghana's father of independence- was ousted, the military coups hadn't cared about things like roads or electricity. The roads were horrible. Rain had washed out large crevasses, pot holes, and such deep tire indentations that in between the two tracks lie a constant arch scraping the bottom of the car.

We got there, picked out a movie, and were led into a little living room with a large TV. I don't even remember the movie, but I remember there being a menu and we could order goat kabobs. After the movie, we started the long journey back to a main road where we could flag a taxi. It was hard to even walk the ragged roads.

By the time we had gotten to the main road we were exhausted. We flagged down every car we saw, regardless of the orange paint. I remember thinking how rude it was to drive past people in a car that was empty! Why couldn't they just give us a lift. An idea that is just ironic and laughable to think as an American. Especially as an american from the West, where empty cars are the norm. But America was an image so distant from the lived experience of trudging through mountainous roads of red African soil.

A taxi passed us. Then it stopped. We started walking towards it, laughing about how our friends back home were probably "going to a movie" too. In the moon light I saw the silhouette of a very pregnant woman dragging her sleeping infant from the taxi. She was yelling at the driver. Obviously, injusticed. We asked what was going on. She looked at me with disgust. Right into my eyes, searing forever the image of a woman's tired powerless defiance. Then, she walked away. Slowly and painstakingly down a long broken road.

The driver said, "Don worry. Don worry. Obruni, Git in." I was irrate. "did you just kick out that pregnant woman because we are white?" The word Obruni set me in a rage. It means white person and everywhere we went we incited the phrase. It didn't matter where we were or how long we had been there. The first thing out of anyone's mouth: male, female, young, old, etc. was "Obruni!" Walking to class I probably heard it 100 times. The markets were worse. They'd tried to get your attention, "Obruni, obruni, obruni!" People said it matter of factly, like when I walked up to the bank teller when it was my turn in line and he said, "Obruni" with the intonation of, "Maam." People said it surprised, for instance I once sat behind my classmate and when he turned around to a sea of 500 black faces he saw mine and yelped, "Obruni!" Everyone laughed. People said it excitedly, like when I walked past the store front of Akuafo Hall and all the seamstresses would chant, "O-brun-eeeeee!" They said it to me, to eachother, and to no one in particular. They said it in riddles, rhymes, songs, and dances. To them, I was nothing more than an Obruni. And tonight that made me mad.

I refused to take the taxi. My friends were too tired for social justice. I knew that I could not be left alone out there waiting by myself for the chance that a taxi might come by. When the driver started getting upset, "Oh, git in. Obruni. Don worry. Oh." Wil started getting angry too. And the rest followed. We stuffed into the care and then made the driver drive up to the pregnant lady and ask her to get back in. We would wait for another one. She refused. She didn't even look at us and kept walking. I felt too comfortable squished inbetween the back of the passenger's seat, my friend Erin's knees, and the side door to protest. We finally made it home and I went to my room silently. Something changed in me.

This wasn't just fun. Race wasn't a joke. It wasn't over. It was a big deal. I got treated differently because I was white and I could only see that because I was a minority for the first time. This made me angry. I started learning Twi so that I could find out the correct prices and stand out from the tourists. "Ma paucho. ney boy o den. te so." Please. It's too expensive. reduce the price. I'll never be able to totally understand what it means to be a minority ethnicity in a culture where that makes you inferior. But I did learn after awhile in Ghana that I was always second guessing people's motives, personal assessments, evaluations, and judgements based on my skin color. "You're just doing that because I'm white." often ran in my head. But it is NOTHING compared to the constant racial profiling, judgements, assumptions, and ingrained, taken-for-granted, embedded ideologies we have for minorities in our country.

Age 4

2006-10-28T12:28:00.000-07:00

I don't remember a whole lot about being four. I remeber that we moved to an apartment in Tooele, Utah and that my neighbor would make red jello jigglers. I remember thinking jello jigglers were the pinnacle of culinary acheivement. They were the neatest thing in they whole world.

I've seen pictures of me holding my little brother Grant. He was a failure to thrive baby, had tubes in his nose and had to sleep under lights in the hospital. I remember my dad talking about how hard it was to hold down Grant- even as a baby. He had to sit on his little legs and pin his arms to the ground while my mom inserted tubes into his noise. I don't know if I remember that or if I just remember my dad talking about it.

We moved to a big house on 356 Eastridge Dr. (I didn't memorize that until 1st grade.) My dad and undle Alan had built the house. It was white and red brick with black window shutters. It had wooden vaulted ceilings in the front room and really wide stairs to the downstairs. It had a huge back yard. I liked that house. I would play outside with my neighbors. The lot next door to us was empty and we'd always build forts, or play with bugs next door.

My mom taught preschool. I don't really remember being in her class, except that when she taught with other kids she talked differently that when she just talked to her own kids.

I had preschool with Sue Roberts also. She was in our ward. She had a prosthetic leg. I always thought that was so interesting.

Age 1-3

2006-10-28T11:54:00.000-07:00

There is not a lot that one can remember from their first year of life. Ironic, because that is a very critical stage of development. In fact we are born earlier than all animals. Some believe this is what instigated human sociability. During all infancy and beyond, children are completely reliant. Our brains and bodies are just growing. Along the way we just happen to learn about others, society, and culture.

I've learned about my first years of life from others. My mom graduated college with two kids. She was pregnant with me when she took a japanese class and told me that she always left the class to go throw up! She would tell me that when I was a baby, I smiled like E.T. I don't really know what that means and when I finally saw E.T. I really didn't think this is who I ought to be resembling! But it made me feel special anyway to see my mom smile remembering me as a baby. She also told me I always posed as a model. Even as an infant just crawling around, I would place one leg over another and lay on my side. She searched through old photo albums where all my aunts and uncles had feathery hair or large mustaches and wore all shades of brown. Yep. I did pose as a model. I was a chubby little kid smiling broadly and laying there on my side one rotund leg in front of the other! My mom also told me I was bald for awhile. It is hard to be a cute kid when you are bald until 2 years old. She helped me out by putting little bows in my hair. She'd dip the bow in Karo syrup and just hold it to my head. Advantages of baldness. People probably said I looked just like my father! :)

My grandma always told me I was her special grandkid because I was born in her house. I wasn't really born in the house, but while they were on a mission and my parents were living in their place. I couldn't tell if she felt guilty for not seeing me until I'd been born for awhile or if she really thought it was special that I was born there. But regardless, she always made me feel like I was a special grandchild.

I was born on Thanksgiving day. My dad always said he was mad he had to miss the Turkey Bowl that day- basically a reason for him and all his brothers and friends to play football all morning in the mud! He would smile afterwards, but I always imagined him watching a football game on the TV attached to the hospital room ceiling at the moment that mom was giving birth. He'd scream, "Goooo." My mom would hastily say, "Eric!" and he change his attention and reply with, "Gooo baby, you can do it!"

They named me Brittany the first day. My mom had fought for that name. You see, I'm the luckiest person alive. I have 5 cousins all my same age. When my mom said that she wanted to name me Brittany, my aunt Becky who was due 5 months after my mom, argued that she was going to name her daughter Brittany. It was a sore point for those pregnant months. They didn't name me Brittany.

My mom said she didn't really know why, but it just didn't fit. They named me Shannon the second day, but were still not completely sure. By the end of that day the nurses told my parents they had to officially fill out the birth certificate before they left the hospital. My dad went to pull up the car and told her to decide whatever she wanted. He came back and asked, "So is it Brittany or Shannon?" She said, "It's Chelsea!" I can imagine her laughing! Chelsea was crossed off the early lists. I'm glad they chose Chelsea.

I Always Thought I'd Stop Daydreaming Once I Got Married...

2006-10-01T20:41:00.000-07:00

I always thought I'd quit daydreaming once I got married.

I daydream a lot. My thoughts are always moving so fast that daydreams are the only way to keep my mind occupied while helping me feel calm.

My daydreams--pre-marriage-- usually consisted of being in an intense situation {stranded on an island, saved from an attack, fighting for a cause, etc. pick a scenerio} with the most {popular, attractive, confident, etc. pick an adjective} boy that I didn't really know. He would passionately kiss me while I was completely unaware and that's where it'd end.

What I've realized since I've been married, is that I daydream just as much.

I imagine my beautiful amante silently walking up behind me. He stands really close. So close that I can feel his breath move the strands of my hair. This tiny sensation sends tingles throughout my entire body. He stays there for a moment, letting me recover from my little tremor. I anticipate the next move. Slowly and intently he moves all of my hair over my right shoulder. His left hand gathers the staying strands and I feel the little hairs raise on my face and neck. I imagine my handsome husband lightly tracing the line of freckles that spread from my neck, out onto my shoulders. He slowly and barely follows the curvature of my arms down until we are at last interlocking fingers. Wedding rings clincking together. A rush of tingles scatter all the way down my body landing deep behind my stomach-- a ride a roller coaster reaction which forces my chest to quickly expand.

I always thought I'd stop daydreaming once I got married. I don't know where I got that idea.

My First Memory

2006-07-26T19:35:00.000-07:00

My first memory is really bright. I remember sitting in my parents bathroom. There was a lot of light streaming thought the high window and bouncing off the white cotton that both my parents wore. My mom was combing my wavy blondish hair into "pigtails." I remember staring at myself in the mirror. I think I was in pink or red corduroy overalls, but I'm not sure. My dad walked past us to the toilet beside the counter and went pee. I remember looking over and very seriously asking, "Dad. What if your pee-pee was on your forehead?" It was a legitimate question to me. I was trying to envision how one might go pee. My Mom laughed and I think my Dad said something like, "You know, I've never really thought about that.

My Brother Died Seven Years Ago

2006-07-24T19:08:00.000-07:00

The first year I was still angry.
The second, I felt resigned to this constricted level of emotion: The S curve reached low into the depths of sadness as I braced myself for the worst and it jumped up slightly below mediocre.
The third, I made myself too distracted to think about it. I felt a hand of comfort the night I did.
The fourth, I wept and wept. I didn't find comfort. I felt so alone in my sadness.
The fifth, I had found happiness again. I began to really smile. It surprised me when I felt joy.
The sixth, I stopped feeling lonely.
The seventh, I weep for memories past and memories lost. I no longer feel angry or lonely. My regret has turned into resolve- to see life as fleeting and love as enduring.

I'll never forget the feet. The white sheet that covered his body was too short. His feet, with their ever protruding ankles, stuck out from beneath. That image is seared into my memory. Not the part of the memory which is recalled or reflected upon, but like a tatoo on the very lining of the hall where all thoughts are stored. I have less vivid memories of his body, his face, his muddy mouth. They didn't seem real. That wasn't the brother I knew. But those feet. Those long skinny smellers which would hold up his Flamingo like stance in front of the T.V. The very annoyances that would brush my side of the car and throw me into a fit of rage. Those I can't forget.

Maybe next year I'll be grateful. Maybe by year eight, that's all I'll have left.

My Real Life Story

2006-06-08T18:38:00.000-07:00

It’s a damn shame that modern explorers aren’t given the large sums of money that Columbus, Magellan, and Shackleton received in order to, well, explore. Born a couple centuries earlier and I would have been an explorer. I would have stowed away on the HMS Beagle or tucked my long brown hair into a sailors cap and signed on to the first convoy at port. In fact, my name means port; Chelsea, the fearless port. I always did think that was a funny meaning for a name. Not beautiful, divine, or even peaceful, just port. Interestingly, that is how I felt as a child, everyone coming and going while I stayed stationary. Maybe that is why I want to explore. As my fate would have it, I was born at a time when I had to figure out how to travel the world (and pay for it) on my own.

The first time I felt destined to travel was when my mom rented all six tapes of “Roots” from the Tooele Utah Public Library. I was in forth grade and I remember running home from school everyday because I couldn’t wait to see what would happen to Kunta Kente. I was so enthralled with a life, landscape, and world so different from my own. Right then and there I vowed that I would go to Africa some day. I carried that dream through grade school all the way into college, doing projects or taking courses on anything that had to do with the African continent. Even though I had never traveled outside of the country and no one I knew had ever been to Africa, I was going to go.

I knew I would go because I have this feeling rush over me every time I decide to do something. I know—almost like a prediction—that I am already destined to do it. This feeling arises deep in the pit of my stomach and spreads throughout my entire body, tingling into my appendages. It’s weird. I still can’t figure out if I feel this way because I decide to do something, or if I decide to do things because I feel this way. I can distinctly remember feeling this way on two separate occasions. One was when I watched “Roots” and decided to go to Africa and the other was when I observed my parents relationship and decided that I would fall madly, head-over-heels in love.
It wasn’t long after my freshman year of college that both of these feelings came back forcefully. This was the year that I met a wealthy, attractive boy from Kentucky named Stephan Vancomft.* He was the perfect mix of Southern charm and dimples, someone who could woo anyone off their designated course in life. We started finding excuses to talk everyday and quickly became good friends. On Valentines Day he planned a romantic evening and in the back of his black Toyota Tacoma we had our first kiss. We dated for awhile and things became pretty routine. We even started talking about marriage and a family. The only problem was that I couldn’t shake the feelings in the pit of my stomach. I needed to go to Africa and I needed to fall madly, head-over-heels in love.

I postponed our engagement plans. Everyone thought I was irrational. They said that Stephan and I could go to Africa together someday. I would agree, but inside I knew I had to go alone. I didn’t know why. I just felt that I needed to. I also had to figure out what “madly, head-over-heels in love” meant. Wasn’t I in love with Stephan? He was perfect. I couldn’t ask for anyone nicer, more supportive, or more respectable. I tried making a list of pros and cons, I couldn’t come up with any cons. I tried asking people for advice and my Grandma had the chutzpah to say that he was the best thing about me. I even tried being mean to Stephan so that he wouldn’t want to be with me. I was so confused. I loved him, I loved his family, and I even loved the life that I would have if I married him, but I knew that the only reason that I couldn’t commit was these feelings at the bottom of my stomach. I decided that I would never understand until followed those feelings.

After a lot of turmoil and tears, I finally listened. I started planning my long anticipated trip to Africa. I researched travel groups, study abroad programs, volunteer opportunities, internships, field studies, and even English teaching programs. The same problem kept arising, everything was too expensive. You see, I have always been poor. It’s not a bad thing really it’s just what happens when your father is a school teacher and your mother is a stay at home mom. It never really affected me until this instance. It felt like a road block on the way to my destination. Intuitively, my parents decided to make me a deal. They proposed that if I could come up with half of the money to go to Africa, they could come up with the rest.

I took them up on the offer and spent the rest of the summer working traumatic telemarketing and nasty nannying jobs. I was determined in my quixotic quest. I decided to stop being controlled by extenuating circumstances and finally bought a plane ticket to West Africa.

Extenuating circumstances didn’t seem like that bad of an option when reality set in the morning of my departure and I realized that I would be flying alone, at twenty, to a completely foreign land. I was so scared, that I began hoping that something would go wrong. I tried to move slowly so that I might miss my plane and prayed that my Visa wouldn’t arrive. Dang FedEx. The thought even crossed my mind that maybe I could just live in the San Francisco airport for 5 months! But, the closer we got to the airport, the more daunting this adventure seemed. As I walked the long terminal to my gate I thought, “What am I doing?”

I remembered the words that my mom had said that morning. She called on the way to the airport; there was silence for a minute and then she said, “Chelsea, I am very proud of you.” I was overwhelmed with emotion and I knew in that one moment she understood all of my conflicted feelings of giving up a secure and perfect life for something unpredictable. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt more validated, more confident, or more hopeful than I did at that moment. I lifted myself up and boarded the plane. I was going to chase my dream!

Now anyone who has been to Africa knows that it is not a typical dream! The filmy red dirt that sticks to your sweat, lunch squeezed out of the bitten off corner of a plastic bag, “pure water,” black boogers, goat kabobs, and makeshift female urinals would make anyone want to turn back around and get on a plane home. But for me, it didn’t really matter what this elusive “Africa” was. It was the fact that I was accomplishing something I had set out to do ten years earlier.
On the plane I took out my leather bound green journal and wrote “January 26th 2002: Today is the first day of the rest of my life.” I remember thinking at the time that I was being a little over dramatic, but looking back now my life really did change that day.

Monday, January 28, 2002: It’s an odd thing really, waking up one morning and realizing that you are in the middle of Africa. It is so humid. I sweat constantly. My clothing and all my supplies are consistently, continually, and unchangeably damp all the time! I am alone so far. I still don’t know quite what to expect.

I felt like I was in this haze for the first couple of days. Everything was new! It looked exactly like the National Geographic pictures. The plants were rainforest green and the dirt was bright orange-red. Women walked everywhere with large bundles, baskets, or boxes on their heads and had their infant children tied to their backs. I didn’t eat a whole lot those first couple of days because I couldn’t tell what was food and what was soap (you only make that mistake once). I stuck to universally recognizable things like bread and eggs.

Those first few nights I couldn’t sleep. I would hear the sounds of bugs and see movements in the dark. I cringed to think of what type of entomological party was taking place when I closed my eyes! I decided it was safest to cover myself with a sheet—a protective barrier against the nano enemies—which just made me sweat more. One night while I was sleeping I was suddenly awakened by something landed hard on my chest. I had convinced myself that it was just one of those falling dreams until I felt four little legs scurry down my entire body and plomp on the floor. I dramatically threw off my blanket and sat straight up in my bed breathing rapidly. The electricity was out, of course. I decided to stop trying to be tough.
I walked downstairs, found one of the security guards, and told him that I had some kind of nocturnal animal living in my room. He said, “Oh, sure. They are geckos. You should be happy. They eat the mosquitoes and other bugs that make you sick. You are lucky to have a gecko in your room.” I didn’t feel lucky, but I also didn’t fear the night as much. I realized then, that a lot of my decisions in life were based on fear—where I went, what I ate, who I was friends with, what I looked like. I gave myself a couple of days to be scared, lonely, nervous, and to miss Stephan and then I named my pet geckos and started exploring!

I made a lot of friends at the University of Ghana, but none more significant than a feisty girl from Boston named Marie. She was on a study abroad program from UNC and had curly red hair. She always gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. I liked that. We learned a lot of things in a very short time, like if you go for a jog in Ghana people might be alarmed and shout, “Who is chasing you?” Or that if you use your left hand for anything you will be considered rude. We learned how to go to the bathroom standing up, to swallow food instead of chewing it, and to greet properly.
We discovered the word for “Obebini.” (it means black person) in order to counteract all of the constant shouts of “Obruni” (white person) everywhere we went. It promoted roars of laughter! This and other experiences often caused me to reflect on how different my normal life was from this. For example, I remember getting into a taxi and having the driver say to a friend, “Oh, fat lady. You get in the front.” I immediately responded, “Don’t call her fat,” only to be taught a lesson about cultural relativity when they both explained that it wasn’t rude to call someone fat. God made them that way and God wouldn’t make anything bad. Plus, a little meat in Africa was an ideal figure. This lesson became more vivid when I was “complimented” by a friend who said, “Oh, Africa tis’ makin’ you so fat.”

This caused me to reflect on my own feelings about my looks. It was only a day earlier that I tried to blow dry my hair straight and realized half way through that I was sweating so profusely that whatever hair I had dried was wet two seconds later. In fact, it was only that morning that I had reapplied concealer twice because it kept melting off. I ALWAYS wore, and I mean wouldn’t leave the house or bathroom without, contact lenses, a water bra, and a full set of makeup. I knew that I was ridiculous, but I couldn’t help it. I know I looked a lot better when I was done up and whenever I wasn’t, I couldn’t help reverting back to the sixth grade insecure, no boyfriend, ugly kid. My identity came from the façade I had created. I liked myself when other people liked me. I felt beautiful because Stephan said I was beautiful. I couldn’t even imagine life without that façade.

I decided to make the theme of this African adventure be about rediscovering myself. I started with baby steps. No makeup. Okay, that was too hard, just mascara and lip gloss. Eventually, no makeup. I ripped the bra padding out of my swimsuits and bras, stopped caring about my weight, and opened a dusty case which held a pair of glasses that I had refused to wear for so many years. I couldn’t help feeling like the dorky junior high school girl who dressed up for the 7th grade Halloween dance as pippy longstocking (hangers in the piggy tails and all). Not such a bad costume unless NO ONE ELSE DRESSED UP! I spent the whole dance knocking out couples with my rigid braids and standing alone in the corner of the gym. This is who I was without my makeup and water bra. I never wanted to be that person again.

It was only when I started wearing makeup, got my braces off, converted to contacts and switched from white sports bras to enhancing lacy ones that anyone noticed me. I was scared that I would go back to being inconsequential if I changed. But, seeing as this African adventure was about looking fear in the eyes and continuing on, (and because humidity made my hair poof out and my makeup run off anyway) I decided to try everything new.

I started volunteering at a center for mentally handicapped children and through their happy unconditionally loving eyes I began to see my own worth. As a result, I saw myself in ways that I had never thought before. I wasn’t high maintenance! This came as such a surprise to me. I could handle a seven hour sweaty bus ride squished next to a urinating child, with a chicken on my lap, and a goat on the roof better than most people. I was beginning to find myself, my likes and dislikes, and my goals and dreams.

Through this novel situation I could completely reinvent myself. It was only a matter of time before my friends and I started going on little adventures all over Ghana. These were the days never to be forgotten— to sit under the sound of a witchdoctor’s voice dictated by ancestral spirits, to backpack through grass as tall houses, to rescue captive hospital children with what I would normally consider pocket change, to watch witches ceremonially sacrifice animals, and mothers silently give birth alone.

I got my ears pierced with a needle, ate fu-fu, climbed to the top of Umbrella rock and suffered miserably for a few days because I got typhoid fever. I took classes on traditional African dancing, drumming, and singing. I learned how to speak the Akan language of Twi and how to barter like a local for taxis and souvenirs. I did rounds at the local hospitals and got beat in a foot race by a girl who was barefoot! Marie and I met the U.S. Ambassador, celebrated Ghana’s Independence Day at the Black Star outdoor arena, and went to Kissima to watch cultural performances. We rented a tro-tro and climbed the canopy walkway of Kakum national Park. We celebrated Easter at a village performance in Lipke-Todome and then hiked to caves where we found spider skeletons the size of a large man’s hand! We hiked through savannah, canoed through jungle, and spent the night in a village made on stilts in the middle of a lake.

Some of the most memorable experiences I had were when I saw a little girl reach over, touch Marie’s arm, and then look at her finger to see if any of the whiteness rubbed off. Another was when our Ghanaian friend Kwame first learned there had been a man on the moon. “But what do they do on the moon?” was the exasperated query of my twenty-five year old Ghanaian friend after learning about Apollo 11. Barely believing it, he emphatically argued, “How can a man walk on the moon? It is round; he will fall off!” Perplexed, I looked at him intently and asked slowly, “You know that the Earth is round, don’t you?” After a detailed discussion about the workings of the Universe using a dirty soccer ball that I would rotate on the axis of my finger, I answered his original question simply saying, “Well, we collected a lot of dirt samples.”

I reveled in Africa as the land of extremes: extreme hatred, extreme love, exquisite beauty, horrible disgust, inordinate possibility, utter hopelessness. Marie and I had become inseparable by this time. We decided to do the ultimate adventure and travel throughout the rest of West Africa, a trip consisting of backpacking through the counties of Cote d’Ivoire, Mali, Burkino Faso, Togo, and Benin. We started in Cote d’Iviore and spent a week traveling through the coastal towns, where we got attacked by mosquitoes but experienced the most beautiful beaches in the world. We then went to Man where we hiked the largest mountain in West Africa. Our next plan was to make our way to Mali where we would float on the Niger River, see the mosques made of mud, and then hike through the Sahara desert to Dogon country where the Blue Peoples of the Sahara live.

Our ride to Mali took two days squished in a tiny minivan with 19 other people and our bags on our laps. We finally made it to Bandiagara, the town where Dogon country starts. We slept on the top of mud huts that we got to by climbing up notches in a tree stump. The bathroom was a hole in the ground. Marie and I hired a guide and spent three days hiking through Anasazi like Dogon cliffs. We ate onion soup for days.

When we made our way back to Bandiagara to catch a bus to Burkino Faso two large Malians stopped us and told us we had to take their taxi. They said that there were no other busses today and that they would charge us 100$ U.S. I didn’t trust them. Before we could object, they ripped Marie’s backpack off her back and started strapping it to their taxi. Just then our bus arrived. As Marie went to get her backpack, I got in line to enter the bus. These two men let all of the Malians on board and then stood in the doorway before Marie and I. They told the bus driver to leave. The driver wouldn’t listen to our protests, after all, we were just women. He started the engine. There is only one bus that leaves from this village everyday and so I did what any malnourished, pushed up against a corner, women would do. I stood in front of the moving bus and put my hand out to motion the sigh to stop. Marie joined me and this bought us some time. As the men cam to pull me away from the front, Marie was able to get into the side door by kicking the shins of the man that held her bound. I tried to hop on the back of the moving bus, only to have one of the men jump on after me. He picked me up and threw me from the moving vehicle. I sat in the dirt looking up to see an entire village staring at me and my only connection in life vanishing in the burlesque dust of the orange road. I yelled dramatically, “Pourquoi?” in my broken up French. I made a decision right then and there that I wasn’t going to sit and let other people determine what my life was going to be about. So I ran. I ran so hard that I think the driver felt bad and slowed down. The people on the bus helped pull me through the side door all to the sound of some nasty French expletives.

Marie and I sat in silence surveying our bruised skin, covered in mud and spotted from the frequent dust storms. We wept. I think we cried partly from the shock of being accosted and almost separated a world away from safety and partly because we realized our own insignificance. We had thought we were strong, indestructible even. I wanted to go home.

We’ve often talked about our experiences together, Marie and I. We’ve dubbed this one the “reverse Rosa Parks.” She fought to sit in the front of the bus because of her race; we fought to get on the bus because of ours.

I’ll never forget the feelings of that day in Africa, nor the many days before and after. Africa was my personal exodus. It was the place where I confronted fear straight on. It wasn’t that Africa made me a different person, I just figured out who I had been too scared to be all along. My real self.

It was extremely hard for me when I returned home because I missed Stephen. I depended on him, I needed him, I couldn’t be me without him. He was the first person to really love me. But, I wasn’t a complete person when I was with him and just maybe that is what it takes to fall madly, head-over-heels in love.

No one ever talks about how long it takes to get that happily ever after. It was three elongated years of feeling lonely, like I had made a mistake giving up Stephan, and wondering what that second pit in my stomach meant before I met the man of my dreams, Michael. The man with whom I would fall madly, deeply, truly, head-over-heels in love! (And don’t worry, Marie flew out to be a bridesmaid for this new exploration.)