I just passed through a really rough period where I felt lost, self absorbed, lonely, and so exhausted that I couldn't find the time to love myself, let alone anyone else. My heart hurt, my stomach grew tight, I cried, I missed home, I noticed every horrible aspect about life here and continued to compare it to the paradise of Oregon; I couldn't respond to the problems of my friends because I was so wrapped up in my own.
As I began to realize that People I haven’t heard from in ages, the friends on the periphery and the close ones too sent emails reminding me of who I once was and who I strive to be: someone who cherishes life and celebrates it with compassion, understanding and acceptance. My old roommate, Chris, sent an email mentioning a time he eavesdropped on me singing into the wind as I rode away from the house on my bike. A postcard from my dear friend, Jill: flowers in Paris; notes from close friends at home expressing frustrations that mirrored my own; a package from home full of chocolates and silly photos of my youngest sister. I can tell by the light in the photos that it is midmorning, and by her expression that my mom probably said, 'Hey, let me take some pictures of you to send to your older sister' and Kai probably rolled her eyes, then got into the role with her tongue deeply planted into her cheek. All these messages, images, thoughts tumbling in on me from far away, started to tug back at me. 'You are not alone', they all seemed to be whispering. It was strange to have such an influx at a time when it was most needed and least asked for. Perhaps more than anything, your messages gave me faith that I am more connected than I had originally thought.
Today, the sun is just as punishing as it was last week; I have just as much work and just as little time; I will still be called 'White girl', or worse ' Pink Ears' by strangers on the street; but something has changed. I have poked my head back out of the shell, and begin to notice that there is light outside. That light is the presence of people and love around me, close and far away. Rather than close my eyes and ears to the opening day, I stand on my roof and do yoga, then slip back downstairs to wake Yann with gentle touches on his back. I notice that perhaps it is more therapeutic for me than for him, watching my fingers trail across his smooth skin, the rise and fall of his body with the steady rhythm of his breath. In some way, me touching him was my way of also trying to touch everyone else who is reaching towards me through letters and emails and facebook comments. And these words are my way of saying thanks, instead of grabbing you in a hug as I would like to do.
I sit on the back of my moto on the way to work this morning, zipping past the Sotramas and dodging potholes. The aroma of early morning cooking fires mixes with the fumes of exhaust and heavy dust. I suppose it's no bicycle and these are not the deep green streets of Portland I loved to fly down. Nonetheless, I see my shadow float past the shops, and rather than notice the un-swept garbage, today I notice the quality of light on the oil stained street, and I hear my own voice in the wind, and it is singing.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Tournaments!
It’s a hot Saturday afternoon before the sun has had a chance to sink low enough over the horizon to provide any shade. When I arrive at the field it is already teaming with kids. They crowd around under the plastic tent, hanging over the metal chairs and milling around the dirt. Excitement hums in the air, punctuated by the rhythmic sound of Bambara, its heavy round syllables and consonants swinging around my head like mosquitoes. The soccer field is a rocky dirt pitch slanting away from the mayor’s office, about the size of half a regulation size field. The goals are constructed of branches stuck in the ground, connected at the top by a thin piece of string. One of the teams has marked the boundaries of the pitch with white chalk. A tall tree stands about 18 yards from the downhill goal.
As I take a seat under the tent, I greet the group of girls behind me. They are animated and warm towards me. ‘Eh togo?’ they ask ‘What’s your name?’ When I reply that my Malian name is Ami Traore, there are some cries of approval ‘ee yeh balimomuso yeh!’ from my fellow Traores; and other clucks of disapproval from the dreaded cousin ‘Diarras’. ‘Ahhh, ee beh shun dun’ ‘Hah hah! You eat beans’ they laugh. This is the favourite Malian Joke between people who have last names such as Traore and Diarra. Soon I learn that these girls are one of the teams that will be playing in the final match. They are in the 7th class and will be playing against the 9th class. I ask them if they are excited, and if they are ready, they answer in unison: ‘Oh yes we are; we may be smaller than the other girls but we are going to crush them!’
As the coach who has organized the whole event arrives and distributes jerseys to the delight of each team, I reflect on how this tournament came to be. Lamine Samake is a Coaching for Hope educator, who has been trained by my project as a quality football coach and HIV educator. He has taken his role farther than many, and become engaged as a community actor in Same, a suburb at the foot of the hills surrounding Bamako. Lamine has taken it upon himself to work with several groups of youth, employing the Coaching for Hope tactic of using football to share important social messages with the youth of his community. At the insistence of these youth, Lamine organized a football tournament. The young people in Same organized their own teams, chose captains, and trained for the competition in football and HIV knowledge. Before each match, Lamine would ask a series of questions about sexual health and HIV. The team’s responses to these questions contributed to the final score of the match; the success of the team depended not only on the team’s skills on the pitch, but also on their collective knowledge of HIV and ways they could protect themselves from it.
I turn back to the girls, and ask how they feel about their HIV knowledge. ‘Oh, great!’ they answer, and then rattle off the modes of transmission for me. ‘We also decided it would be important to share this with our families, so we have decided to go as a team, door to door in our neighbourhood to talk about it with our friends and their families’ mentions the captain of the team. The whistle blows and I am beckoned onto the field to greet the two teams before they start to play. I shake hands, say good luck, and initiate the kick off before returning to my seat.
The girls match is violent, messy, and passionate. The girls had never had a chance to play before Lamine introduced them to football, and have had no formal training but their passion in playing is evident. They are wearing soccer jerseys that my old Ashland High School had sent over, and the joy I get from watching my old jerseys on these girls is indescribable. When the first and only goal of the match is scored by a girl on ‘my team’ the whole crowd streams onto the field, dancing, running, arms flapping, music pumping; the girl who scored is beaming like she just won the lottery.
In terms of Soccer, the boys match is high quality. I watch them negotiate the terrain change, the rocks, and the tree with finesse and ease, wondering how our Ashland boys might fare in similar conditions. Their passes are precise; their headers are firm; their shots, strong. They communicate minimally but effectively. This is serious business and they play as if this were the champion’s league.
The evening shadows have grown longer, cutting the heat of the day, but not the passion of the crowd, which has grown to enclose the field three persons thick ¾ of the way around. The village chief and I hand out soccer balls to the winning teams; the DJ pumps up the music; I prepare to leave. As I start my bike, I look over to see a group huddled together over a school notebook. I catch a glimpse of the page. At the top it says ‘Team name: AC Barcelona’ followed by the list of players. The youth are already preparing for another tournament!
As I take a seat under the tent, I greet the group of girls behind me. They are animated and warm towards me. ‘Eh togo?’ they ask ‘What’s your name?’ When I reply that my Malian name is Ami Traore, there are some cries of approval ‘ee yeh balimomuso yeh!’ from my fellow Traores; and other clucks of disapproval from the dreaded cousin ‘Diarras’. ‘Ahhh, ee beh shun dun’ ‘Hah hah! You eat beans’ they laugh. This is the favourite Malian Joke between people who have last names such as Traore and Diarra. Soon I learn that these girls are one of the teams that will be playing in the final match. They are in the 7th class and will be playing against the 9th class. I ask them if they are excited, and if they are ready, they answer in unison: ‘Oh yes we are; we may be smaller than the other girls but we are going to crush them!’
As the coach who has organized the whole event arrives and distributes jerseys to the delight of each team, I reflect on how this tournament came to be. Lamine Samake is a Coaching for Hope educator, who has been trained by my project as a quality football coach and HIV educator. He has taken his role farther than many, and become engaged as a community actor in Same, a suburb at the foot of the hills surrounding Bamako. Lamine has taken it upon himself to work with several groups of youth, employing the Coaching for Hope tactic of using football to share important social messages with the youth of his community. At the insistence of these youth, Lamine organized a football tournament. The young people in Same organized their own teams, chose captains, and trained for the competition in football and HIV knowledge. Before each match, Lamine would ask a series of questions about sexual health and HIV. The team’s responses to these questions contributed to the final score of the match; the success of the team depended not only on the team’s skills on the pitch, but also on their collective knowledge of HIV and ways they could protect themselves from it.
I turn back to the girls, and ask how they feel about their HIV knowledge. ‘Oh, great!’ they answer, and then rattle off the modes of transmission for me. ‘We also decided it would be important to share this with our families, so we have decided to go as a team, door to door in our neighbourhood to talk about it with our friends and their families’ mentions the captain of the team. The whistle blows and I am beckoned onto the field to greet the two teams before they start to play. I shake hands, say good luck, and initiate the kick off before returning to my seat.
The girls match is violent, messy, and passionate. The girls had never had a chance to play before Lamine introduced them to football, and have had no formal training but their passion in playing is evident. They are wearing soccer jerseys that my old Ashland High School had sent over, and the joy I get from watching my old jerseys on these girls is indescribable. When the first and only goal of the match is scored by a girl on ‘my team’ the whole crowd streams onto the field, dancing, running, arms flapping, music pumping; the girl who scored is beaming like she just won the lottery.
In terms of Soccer, the boys match is high quality. I watch them negotiate the terrain change, the rocks, and the tree with finesse and ease, wondering how our Ashland boys might fare in similar conditions. Their passes are precise; their headers are firm; their shots, strong. They communicate minimally but effectively. This is serious business and they play as if this were the champion’s league.
The evening shadows have grown longer, cutting the heat of the day, but not the passion of the crowd, which has grown to enclose the field three persons thick ¾ of the way around. The village chief and I hand out soccer balls to the winning teams; the DJ pumps up the music; I prepare to leave. As I start my bike, I look over to see a group huddled together over a school notebook. I catch a glimpse of the page. At the top it says ‘Team name: AC Barcelona’ followed by the list of players. The youth are already preparing for another tournament!
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