Full Circle!

The first blog post that I wrote for Global Citizen Year was one that I thought about for a long time  before writing. It was maybe the hardest post that I ever had to write because I wasn’t yet even out of the gate, and it was difficult for me to figure out how to relate Global Citizen Year to my life when I was still waiting on it to overtake and transform me.

Then it did.

And now here I am, back at my grandmother’s house in the Poconos, back where the tangible counterpart of the metaphorical basis for that first blog post actually stands: a stacked stone wall situated in front of her geraniums and hibiscuses.

Today, instead of trying to imagine what my home in Guatemala will look like, I am trying to adjust to the idea of a newly heightened presence of the color teal in my wardrobe, and how it will be to live in a world of thousands of other people my own age who are all doing the same thing that I’m doing (such as wearing teal on tuesdays, go Seahawks.)

The approach of my immediate future today versus  the approach of my immediate future last July feels like the difference between floating in a lazy river versus barreling down Niagara Falls. (But please note  that I’m not feeling lazy, just serene, and I wasn’t feeling terrified but something more akin to  moving briskly towards the precipice of the unknown.) (Alright… I was a little terrified too.)

But in terms of further comparison: 

Today: About to change my preferred mascot from the Phoenix to the Seahawk.

Last July: About to change the language of my everyday communication from English to Spanish. 

…

Today: About to move 100 miles away from home.

Last July: About to move roughly 1,600 miles as the crow flies (which I do not).  

…

Today: The prospect of my birthday+ Thanksgiving+Christmas+New Year+Easter (and more) with my family of 18 years.

Last July: The prospect of my birthday+Thanksgiving+Christmas+New Year+Easter (y mas) with my family of  18 weeks.

…

The comparison is pretty extreme. In fact, the idea of college now seems ridiculously simple! I know exactly where I’m going to live, I know my class schedule, I have a campus map, the buses run at scheduled times on scheduled routes (Unbelievable! There are maximum capacity regulations! They are observed!) and what’s more, MILLIONS of other people have done this before me! My parents, my sister, my friends have all been there and gosh, with their advice, support, and general knowledge, this feels like such a breeze.

What’s great is that it could one day be this breezy to take a gap year.

Each year and with every group of fellows it will become a more widely considered and better understood option. I believe my GCY gap year gave me things that 20 years of college couldn’t give me. A Guatemalan family. Full-time volunteer experience. Appreciation and understanding of a foreign culture. (To name a few.)

So even though I cringed at the cheesiness of my first blog post about 2 milliseconds post pressing “submit”– there is truth in it. I feel like I’ve done something to build this movement, and I’ll keep helping because it was everything I needed and more and everything I want the rest of my world to have and experience.

What will you do?

Tags: reflection

“Hingham student reaches out to Senegal”

This article originally appeared in the Hingham Journal HERE

After deciding to take off a “gap year” between high school and college last summer, Gaya Morris, a Hingham resident, recently returned from a stay in a rural village in Senegal as a participant in the Global Citizen Year Founding Fellow program.

What do you think of when you hear the word “Africa”? I’ve been asking kids, elementary to high-school age, over the past few weeks. Having just returned from a seven-month stay in Senegal, West Africa, I’ve been visiting French classrooms in the Boston area, giving presentations on my experience in Senegal.

Their answers usually involve a few iconic images that we generally associate with this triangular presence in our geography books: lions, grasslands, giraffes, men with spears, and maybe a few thatched huts. And then some don’t have any thoughts to share, as if they have never before been asked such a question.

Showing slideshows of photographs and film clips, I struggled to put into words my love for Senegal and for its people: from the crazed, vibrant bustle of Sandaga market in Dakar to cooler evenings sitting on the star-lit stoop outside my host family’s house in the town of Sebikotane, sharing bowls of porridge with the kids; from jokes with passing strangers to the wise Wolof proverbs uttered in my host mother’s bedroom; from lazy afternoons of hair braiding and sweet tea under the shade of the Sapoti tree to the meaningful work I discovered in a school library, sitting down next to little kids on the plastic woven carpet — tracing my finger under lines of text and sounding out the French words in a thickly Senegalese accent, pretending to taste the soup like Goldilocks or knock on the door like the Big Bad Wolf. These are the memories I’ve carried back with me to the United States.

Looking back as a 19-year-old resident of Hingham, getting ready to go to college at Princeton University back in the state where I grew up, New Jersey, I’ve always been eager for travel. When the opportunity to take a trip to the developing world under a program called Global Citizen Year popped up on my computer screen last summer, I immediately leapt for it.

I had already decided to defer my college admission for a “gap year” to do something a little different, and this was a chance to try out a type of work I had always dreamed of doing, before I went off to study about it. I wanted to know what it would be like to fully immerse myself in a foreign language and culture, and, to quote my pre-Senegal self, “learn how to make a meaningful difference in the lives of others.”

That felt like quite a lofty statement back in August when I wrote it down in my journal, but I am pleased and proud to say that, in light of my past seven months in Senegal, it makes perfect sense. For we Americans have all sorts of assumptions about what the “less fortunate” in the world need from us, and I would argue that it is only by living amongst these so-called less-fortunate people, experiencing the intricacies of their lives, that we can even begin to determine what our contribution could, should, or shouldn’t be.

As a volunteer in a public elementary school in Senegal, I was at once stricken by the lack I observed as well as inspired to see better education as a solution to so many other problems in Sebikotane, in Senegal, and in the world. More specifically, I observed first-hand the difficulties hindering literacy acquisition amongst Senegalese children. Bare-bones classrooms are packed full of up to 70 students, taught by just one teacher.

Very rarely do children attend preschool before their first day in the first grade and so it can take a teacher almost two months to simply make sure that every child can hold a pencil. And then, try learning how to read and write in a language you don’t understand. For Senegalese students who grow up speaking Wolof, this language is French. All of this means that it is simply too easy for the average student to fall behind and drop out of school before ever learning how to read and write.

Through my work in the school library I was able to explore one potential solution to this problem, which for me came in the form of children’s literature. After dusting and reorganizing the books that clearly hadn’t been touched in years, I eventually managed to bring small groups of students into the library.

I designed activities involving card games, skits, singing, drawing, and of course, reading not only to improve the students’ reading capabilities, but also to interest them in the books, which they had so rarely encountered in their childhood. It was very rewarding at the end of my six months to take note of even the smallest improvements among my students, or at very least, the pride with which they would announce they could read.

Now back in the United States I am working on a project engaging American youth in sending books and letters to correspondents in Sebikotane as a way to continue to contribute to my host community. And I know I will take this inspiration that I found in that dusty single-room library in Sebikotane with me into college, and the work I hope to do beyond.

So how does this very distant place and these very distant people become relevant to us where we sit now, sipping a morning cup of coffee in front of our computer screens perhaps, or glancing at the paper while inching through rush-hour traffic? The only answer I can give is that it most certainly doesn’t have to be relevant, but what if it were? An individual can gain so much for himself or herself and for others by reaching out into an unknown part of the world to learn.

I would without a doubt recommend this sort of experience to other Americans, especially students my age who are in midst of defining themselves and their paths. A gap year may not be the easiest choice to make after graduating from high school, but it is worth every ounce of initial doubt, and it sends one into college with a freshened perspective, a greater sense of self, and motivation.

I visit schools and tell my story not so much to say, “Hey, look what I did,” but more to say: “Look what you can do, too! The shrinking, flattening, globalization (or whatever you want to call it) of the world comes with so many worries about complications, interferences and change, but rarely do we talk about the possibilities and the opportunities for mutual progress.

To learn more about my experience or the organization Global Citizen Year, visit:

www.globalcitizenyear.org/fellowsblog/

Tags: education, reflection, takeaways

Dear Hassane

***I wrote this blog a few weeks ago in the midst of that overly observant readjustment period and I sincerely hope some of the generalizations I have made aren’t offensive to anyone, because that’s really all they are – superficial generalizations in which you may sometimes find a grain of truth.***

Dear Hassane,

Remember that day back in January or February when you asked me about America? It was during one of our Saturday English club gatherings and as usual our discussions had turned to comparing Senegal and the United States: culture, schools, values and ways of life. Life in Senegal is difficult, you kept repeating. You told me the story of your family, and how you, already at the age of eighteen had been forced to spend your summers working for minimal wages on the grapefruit and mandarine plantations and in the green-bean factory, to support your brothers and sisters. You expressed your desire to one day go to America to find the well-paying work that is so scarce in Senegal. I tried to explain to you then, as I have attempted to do for so many others, that life in America really isn’t as “easy” or as perfect as everyone who has never been is convinced it must be. Why? you asked and I struggled then to put all the pieces into words, working off of memories and stumbling through wavering definitions of success and happiness. But now that I have arrived home in America I may be able to respond with greater clarity. For your question goes hand in hand with some of my recent foremost thoughts.

For now I can say for sure that I understand how one could say that ‘life in America is easy.’ Stepping out of the airplane into the long, shining corridors of John F, Kennedy airport in New York, I had the impression of entering a sort of space world – ordered, sterilized and efficient. And indeed this description would fit pretty well the overall sum of the observations and impressions that I have been taking note of over the past few weeks of the landscape that is for me America and home – spaces indoor and outdoor, public and private (and please let me specify, this is an upper-class cross-section that I am describing, a section large enough yet to build up a world of its own). There was so much space, so much calm and quiet contained within the smooth and polished, glass and marble surfaces and contours of the airport building.

Abundant would be another word that keeps surfacing in my mind to describe the sites around me. Like along the Route Nationale heading into Dakar there are so many things to buy, but no, this is different. Not just fruit and nuts and cookies, although we’ve got plenty of those too, but every good imaginable and others that you can’t imagine, all laid out on shelves and hanging from hooks; displayed in cases and under spot-lights to look pretty. Shoes, hats, candy, electronics, books, cds, medicine, tshirts, toys, games, magazines, newspapers and many varieties of each. And all of this the most blatant evidence of that essential underlying fact that separates America from the rest of the world, that elevates it in your mind into that realm of dreams and future, and in mine up with the space ships and pixar movies. Yes, Assane, there is a lot of money in America. It doesn’t grow from trees, as I’ve often heard people joke, but you can sense it, feel it all around you.  And this does in certain ways make life “easier.” Read more…

Conclusions of many sorts

Its not the first time I’ve remarked how hellos are much more important than goodbyes for the Senegalese. There is no question that greetings are of the utmost importance – to shake the person’s hand and go through the usual series of inquiries about your friends family, health and happiness – but then its so funny how people can separate so abruptly, often without a word. Kids march into class in straight lines like little soldiers, but then pelt out in all random directions when the bell rings. My host mother will often simply hang up the phone without warning when she feels that a conversation has been sufficient. I would say that my culture (American culture?) on the other hand values endings more than beginnings. Or maybe its just me who thinks that those last words, last gestures, are important, to conclude a conversation on the right note, seal off a stage in your life or an experience properly. If ever I get cut off from a phone conversation with my parents back in the states right before we’re about to hang up, we still have to call back to actually say goodbye. And so naturally I was worrying about how on earth I would find the right things to do and to say to conclude the past six months of my life: to show my immense gratitude, appreciation and hope for the relationships I had built with the people and places around me. All of which I had imagined taking place in those final moments at door steps and car windows.

But instead, I felt as though my goodbyes were spread out over a gradual period of a few days, during which by simply spending time with friends and family, savoring last activities, I and they too were able to remark on the significance of our time spent together. The process was rather emotionally exhausting, and did feel a bit drawn out , but in the end I think I will always look back on those final days as some of my best in Sebikotane.

The subject of my departure had been a looming shadow over discussions for several weeks already, despite my constant efforts to evade it, but it wasn’t until my final Saturday with my host family that our activities seemed to reflect a sort of purposeful preparation for this fact. On Saturday morning I cooked my first and last very own ceebujeen, almost completely on my own. Kine got to gutting the fish before I could stop her, but after that my host mother made sure that I was the one to carry the calabash bowl to the corner market (although she came with me to assist with barging through the crowd of women to actually reach the table of veggies), to pound the stuffing, fry the fish, spice the sauce, peel the vegetables, sift  the rice, wash and pour and stir the rice, scrape the delicious sticky bits from the bottom of the pot, and divide the meal between the various bowls. I love the rawness of cooking in Senegal: its hard but satisfying work that requires strong, deft hands, agility and fearlessness of oil. I’m going to miss being able to just throw scraps on the kitchen floor. Read more…

Tags: culture, departure, takeaways

A memory

Here is a blog post I meant to post a couple weeks ago but somehow never found the chance to. I guess now you could call it a memory.

My alarm rings at quarter to seven (as I am unable to prevent it from doing every single day due to the broken screen) and I jolt awake to the dim bluish light and soft shuffling beginnings of morning traffic in Dakar. The five rectangular shadows of the other fellows and their mattresses are motionless, poor Mathew still with his backpack for a pillow. Fifteen minutes later I’m dressed in yesterday’s outfit, damp from the humidity that the sea breeze brings to this northern part of the city, my hastily stuffed tote bag already cutting into the same old nook and in my shoulder, and I pause at the door wondering if I should wake somebody, feeling weird setting out alone. But I had told the kids that I would be at school at nine as usual – and besides, I had already decided. I take one last look at the large, emptied room, the site of so many monthly meeting memories, and then turn away.

I let the door click closed behind me, and start trudging through the sandy roadsides of Yoff, up towards the highway. I stop to buy a pain au chocolat at the French bakery, full of warmth and delicious smells at this early fresh-bread hour, hurrying past the talibe, little boys barefoot and in tattered clothing stationed already at the threshold of the glass door, shaking their empty tomato cans already containing a few coins and sugar cubes. Saraxsi egg naa, I say under my breath. I’ve already saved my soul. At the highway I wait for the right moment to dart across, clamber over the concrete barrier in the middle and then hurry after an already stopped clando. A clando is like a public taxi that can take many passengers at once short distances for small fees. The only way to recognize them is to simply look for the smaller, older-looking, most battered up vehicles on the road; the ones emitting little spurts of brown exhaust and making the loudest clanking noises. Cracked windshields are almost always a given but these days even for the regular yellow taxis broken glass isn’t that extravagant.

Assalam Malekum I say as I climb in after the other two male passengers already seated. Patte d’oie. And nothing else. No one is talking at this time of morning. I fish around in my pocket for a 100 franc piece, not really sure whether it should be 50 or 100, and sometimes I get really hung up about not getting ripped off, but then I just think, really, does ten cents make that much of a difference? Read more…

Tags: culture, public transportation, reflection