Closure

I haven’t written on this blog in a long time and it’s because life is real. It’s not always easily captured on a blog. Teaching was hard; probably one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life and that’s because success doesn’t rely 100% on my progress so much so as it relies on the progress of the kids. I may be very good at and know alot about journalism, English and history, but if I cannot effectively relay that to my students then what good is my knowledge? So, I found myself struggling to engage students, create effective and interesting lesson plans and to stay in control of the classroom which is the most difficult part. I have the utmost respect for teaching and for learning how to become a teacher in the traditional sense instead of through these alternative teacher programs.

Then there was my personal story. My reasons behind my desire and determination to immerse myself in an African culture centered around my quest to bridge the gap between Africa and I. I was searching for my “true identity.” Quite often I found I was spurned by people who rejected me because I was American while others jokingly called me, “Charlotte American” or introduced me as their American friend before I even had a chance to speak.

The people at Goree Island will never know how hurtful it is to demand I pay more than double to take the ferry to the island than the Senegalese because I am a foreigner and not African. (Sidenote: I’ve never actually paid the expensive rate because I can “pass” for Senegalese if I keep my mouth shut, but it still hurts!) The vendors will never understand how unkind it is to call after me, “my sister, my sister,” beckoning me to come to their stand with the intention to cheat me while I stand on the very island from which they may have packed and shipped away my ancestors.

Then there were the good moments; times when people affirmed that I looked just like their sister or cousin. They say I look like a Tukulor. There were instances when I somehow managed to get the real price of an item with my limited Wolof. Vendors never forget your face and some are nice. I saw a guy I had bought jewelry from five months ago recently and he smiled and said hello. He greeted me in English and when I replied that his English was improving he told me that he was taking classes and then handed me a cowshell bracelet for free.



It took me awhile to realize that it’s neither group, not the people that deny nor the people that affirm my “Africanness” that should have power over my true identity. It’s all about how I perceive myself. Yes, I am American. Yes I am also African. But I cannot be limited to a title or a label; I am Charlotte Young, free of what you say I am because I am so much more than what you think! And many of the same people that declare I am not African would reject me regardless if I did not fit their ideal social standing or was of another African nationality.

I still live in Dakar. Just last weekend I was out with friends at my favorite night spot watching Senegalese, Cape Verdeans, Cameroonians, Ghanaians, Canadians and who knows what other nationalities dance to Congolese music. You see this mixture of nationalities and culture, this is Africa.

I was shy of dancing until one guy pulled me up.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“America.” I replied.

“No, you are from Africa!”

He proceeded to dance around, bouncing his shoulders and shuffling his feet to the music. Another guy hopped in front of me.

“Do like this,” he said.

Moving his feet and hips in a dance similar to that I’d seen in the states. So I copied him.

“Well look you can move!” someone teased.

I looked at them and smiled. “Merci.”

So that is it. I am Charlotte—lover of self, lover of people and culture and lover of assisting in youth development—just not as a teacher.

Mach’Allah.

Peace

Encounter with a Marabout

The most outstanding memory from my weekend spent in Louga, Senegal is the time I spent speaking with a marabout, or religious leader, in the Islamic faith. His name is Cheref Mahfou Aidara. He is a brown skinned man with a receding hairline and a quiet, calm demeanor.

I watched him walk into the religious festivities surrounded by his talibes and accompanied with the boisterous songs of Muslim worship. All rose to their feet as he approached and continued to stand as he took his place in one of the large and plush chairs facing the crowd. His younger brothers sat in the chairs beside him. This was the moment everyone had been waiting for.

As a lead singer continued to sing his song to the marabout, others came to sit as his feet or simply just to shake his hand. No shoes were allowed in his vicinity and all kept crouched to the ground around him. So terrified was one man by the marabout’s presence, that he writhed about in the grasp of three men as they carried him to the feet of the marabout. This man was so reverent and fearful that he refused to lift his face and let it stay tucked in the crook of his arm. But the marabout was gracious. He bent to touch the man’s head and allowed him to sit at his side.

Marabouts in Senegal are both great in number and highly regarded in society as was evident by this festivity. I was once on a full ferry boat to Goree and it had already pulled off when a marabout arrived. The boat then turned around and waited for this marabout to board and find a seat. While respected by all, each marabout has his set of talibe who look to him for guidance.
It must be at times difficult to be a marabout. It is a position you are born into that is passed down through the generations. Your future is chosen for you before you are even born.

A friend of mine, M. Ndiaye, told a story once of a man who he grew up with who was destined to be a marabout. They were very close and even went to college together in France. While there his friend decided that he wanted to be an actor, so he left and went to an acting school in London. Shortly afterwards his people found out and some were sent to Europe to find him. They asked M. Ndiaye where his friend was but he did not know; he replied that he thought his friend went somewhere in London. When they finally found the young man they sat him down and talked to him for hours. And after that talk, M. Ndiaye says his friend never again mentioned wanting to be an actor.

As I looked on at Aidara I wondered if he ever had aspirations to be a doctor or a lawyer or even a comedian and his dreams too were shot down. Cherif is a direct descendant of the prophet Mohammed the great--something grandson of Fatitmah Zahra. What if he had wanted to be a lawyer or a doctor or even a comedian? As a descendant of the founder of one of the world’s top religions he could never be anything but a marabout. It is one of those situations that makes you question why we are put on this earth. Is it really to find our own individual purpose? Some people never have the option to define their own fate. There are perks I am sure to having people fear you and literally bow and sit at your feet. But what if none of that was ever what you truly wanted in life?

The next day when I had the pleasure to speak with him, I began to doubt whether he ever had any inspiration to be anything else but a marabout.

Hello how are you? He asked me in English. What is your name? And in those two statements he had exhausted all of his English. Aidara is fluent in both Wolof and Arab; two languages I am not able to carry a conversation in. For the remaining part of our talk which lasted about two hours, the questions and answers were translated from Wolof to French and vice versa by a friend. If I write any false statements in this piece, it is because something was misinterpreted.

If you are like me one of the first questions you may have for Aidara was how did the descendants of the prophet Mohammed end up Wolof speakers in Senegal?

Each generation migrated to other countries, he told me. His grandfather had gone to Yemen and his father to Mauritania. From there they left and settled in Senegal.

The next series of questions centered mainly around the role of Jesus. How can Jesus be God and the son of God? He asked. God is alone. Because of the faith of Mary and her father who was also a prophet, God allowed her to give birth to “the prophet” Jesus. But Jesus is not the son of God. He is however the Messiah, or savior of the Jews. It is amusing to me that the only people that don’t seem to believe this are the Jews.

Jesus did not die on the cross, he continued, another died in His place. Who I am not sure. Jesus ascended to heaven before the crucifixion and is the only prophet to go to heaven before death. This is because Muslims believe He is going to come back again and explain to everyone that He is not the Christ or the Son of God and that Islam is the true faith.

To this I replied that this was good news! I would simply wait until He came back and hear what He had to say. They told me that no I could not do this because no one knows when He is coming back.

I then asked if it was possible to go to Heaven or Paradise if you were a good person, believed in God, and basically followed the rules of Islam except that you did not believe that Islam was the true way. No I found out, this was not possible because Mohammed closes the door to Heaven and the five pillars of Islam are the bare minimum for the faith. I did not in fact know that Muslims pray to Mohammad; that surprised me.

Is God the same God for all three Abrahamic faiths? I asked next. The answer was simple—God is God for all.

I then asked Aidara if he personally read the Torah or the Bible, and he told me that no he did not because both of them were included in the Koran.

My last question for the marabout was if interfaith marriage was possible. Between Muslim men and Non-Muslim women yes. But not between Muslim women and Non-Muslim men. This is because of the authority men have over women. A Muslim man will raise his children Muslim and his wife has the freedom to practice as she wants. But because women are weaker, if a Muslim woman marries a non-Muslim she may fall in her faith.

After hours of speaking with a marabout in French I grew tired and I was not able to ask all of the tough questions I wanted to ask. But Aidara is a nice man. He took his time with me. He asked me why I chose to wear the head covering and seemed pleased that I did so out of respect. I explained the difference between the Protestant and Catholic Church to him and tried to explain why Christians did not believe Mohammed. In the end he invited me to come back again for another discussion.

For me the most fundamentally important idea that I took away from the session was the similarities between the Christian and Islamic faiths. No they do not believe the same exact things but I heard some of the same statements made by the marabout made in the Christian Church. God is God for all…only God can convert and no one can force anything…before this knowledge you were like a child in the dark but now you have been brought into the light… They both have the same approach to salvation. But the resounding last question is how will you get there? And that dear reader is up to you to decide.


(Cheref Mahfou Aidara praying for me.)

Why I like English Better than French

"Le/La" vs. "The"

**A Conversation while walking down the streets of Touba**

Me: Hey Abo!

Abo: Hmmm?

Me: Un jour, tu sors toute la nuit et tu m'appelles. Je ouvre le porte pour toi.

*Laughter*

Soda: Charlotte.

Me: What?

Soda: It's la porte not le.

Me: Quoiever!!!! Le...la...c'est la meme chose!!!!

**More Laughter***


Earthy Apples

I was looking at a bag of "pomme de terres," which literally translated means "apples of earth." Earth Apples??? They're potatoes!!! Apples and potatoes are nothing alike.

ThInGs I No LoNgEr TaKe FOr GrAntEd

Just a list of some things I've noticed are no longer in my life...

1) Washing machines. I really wish I had one. There is someone who washes clothes but she doesn't wash jeans, underwear, cargo pants or bathing suits. All I have are shirts.

2) Target/Walmart- the convenience of everything in one location so easily accessible. I don't always like to bargain in Wolof for stuff.

3) Taxi meters- because they're fair. What's not fair is overcharging me because I'm not Senegalese.

4) College ruled paper- who would've thought I should stock up on paper before I came. But the paper here is like graph paper, I can't write on that.

5) Smart trip cards or bus pass- that'd be nice to have. although the way the bus system works here, it would be impossible to implement a smart trip machine. The bus gets so packed during rush hours and there's no way to monitor who is on the bus and who paid.

6) phone plan/unlimited texting- I have a pay as u go phone. I don't like my conversations to last longer than 20 sec otherwise i'm paying beacoup money!!!

7) Bacon- PORK bacon, or even turkey bacon. Haven’t had either since I’ve been here.

8) Milk- I don’t like the way the milk tastes here. I want some 2% milk.

9) Oreos- but not just any oreos, the white ones. Nobody loves those. Except for me. I love white oreos. Although now that I think about it, having the black oreos would be great as well.

10) Waffle fries from chic fil a. They’re so delicious. Actually I just miss chic fil a in general. Nuggets with waffle fries and sweet tea lemonade mix.

11) Certain sanitary Practices- although I’m not dead yet. Maybe there’s no need to sanitize everything.

And a Merry Christmas to You

When people ask me what was my Christmas like in Senegal, I may omit the fact that one of the first things I did that day was to break down crying in front of my host family. It was a very pitiful and pathetic sight. I kept asking for the phone—in English—as the tears streamed down my face because it seems when I’m upset I can only speak English. They couldn’t understand me. Finally I was able to get my message across and I called my home and managed to stutter a Merry Christmas to my mom before hanging up because the phone was so staticey and I was so emotional that nothing else could be said.

Once off the phone they asked me what was wrong and I could only reply, “C’est Noel,” to which they burst out laughing at me.

They just didn’t understand how important the day was to me. But I’ll try to break it down for you so that you can understand exactly what was on my mind and why I cried.

1) Like I told them, it was Christmas. I missed my family terribly. The thing is that that is a very powerful statement to make because after my senior year of high school I have tried my hardest to stay out of SC and it seems that I have succeeded. I went to college in DC and now I’m in Senegal, very very far from SC. But in DC I could always come home for the holidays and here I can’t. It seems that whatever it was I didn’t like about my homestate, has dissipated. And I just want to be home with my mom and my dad and my little brother.

Thanksgiving was hard enough; I have never felt such a strong desire to visit my Grandmother’s house in the backwoods of Georgetown County. All I wanted was to eat dinner with my entire family- my aunts, uncles and cousins, to laugh and to feel the togetherness shared between those of my blood. Now I know that people here have done their best to make the holiday enjoyable, but it’s just not the same. And I miss my aunts’ cooking.As the holiday season progressed, it just got even harder for me. Now I’m not saying I want to stay permanently in SC, but I know I need to be there around the holiday season.

2) Throughout my experience in Senegal I have realized that Senegalese people love holidays and when one of their holidays comes around they are very extravagant in the way that they dress and in what they do. Korite comes—we have a large feast, we get dressed up and we visit others so that everyone can see how fly we are. Tabaski comes, it’s the same thing and we even kill a goat. But when Christmas comes, people party the night before and do absolutely nothing that day. And for me it hurt because Christmas is my holiday that I celebrate in a grand way because it’s important to me as a Christian. I thought that Muslims viewed Jesus as a prophet and if that’s the case to me, they gave Him absolutely no respect. Some people cannot even tell me why they celebrate Tabaski but everyone knows Christmas is the day Jesus’ birthday is celebrated and nobody cared. I guess He’s just not important to them after all. But what made it worse is that I partied the night before with them. I told myself I wanted the Senegalese experience, but as that night progressed at the club I began to have a moral complex about it. Why was I even out? And it was my first time at the club.

3) I didn’t have a clean towel and I needed to take a shower. I don’t understand why there are not extra towels in the house or why my towel is not clean. Why are there no washing machines?????

And so that’s why I cried. I celebrated Jesus in my own private way, but at the time I was still very unhappy.

Now I recognize that there are some terrible memories that people have around the holiday season and my memories haven’t been bad they just haven’t been what I wanted. But I can honestly say if I compare my holidays seasons together, this has hands down been the worst holiday season in the history of my life.

Rudolph

Who thought that it would be so hard to teach the song, "Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer?" It has been a song I've known since childhood. But when you teach a class full of francophone 10 and 11- year-olds who have never heard of Rudolph and don't really celebrate Christmas, it can become quite a task. But they surprised me and I am very proud to show this video of my class singing "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" this past Friday. It was the highlight of my day.

That Dang Little Muhammad!!!!

My little host brother Muhammad came very close to getting a spanking the other day.

He was sitting at the breakfast table whining for no reason, and his dad told him to come which he didn't do. He just sat there crying like the little baby he is.

All of a sudden dad gets up but mom rushes in and grabs baby, saves him from a spanking. Dad had a belt in his hand ready.

I just sat at the table laughing. Then he looked at me and says, "this is not in America." I just smiled and said we got beat growing up too. We got beat probably more than they do here. In my house the belt didn't come out for no reason. If my daddy took his belt off he was going to use it on one of us...maybe both. That was the way it was.

If that had been me my dad or mom would've said, I'll give you something to cry about, and that would've been it. The thing about it is I have never seen a little boy in Africa or America, that needs to get beat as badly as Muhammad needs to get beat. That little boy needs to get his butt whooped like...every 2 hours. That'll show him. He hits, he spits, he yells, he throws things, he tried to pull my pants down on the school bus he's so bad. And he'll do something, laugh and walk away, and he gets away with it every time. Talk about things that are unfair.

He came in my room one morning and spat on my sheets but do you think he got in trouble OF COURSE NOT. Now it's getting cold and I have no sheets. Maybe it's because he's the baby, maybe it's because he's the only boy I don't know. But I'll tell you this, I'm glad mama is pregnant and I hope she has a boy. Then maybe Mohammad will finally be able to calm down and act normal...or maybe not.

(it's always better when he's sleeping)