Stinging slaps...

It’s still sinking in. Those pictures of Donald and Melania Trump and hearing the words – “The President and First Lady of the United States” announced when they walk onto a stage… it’s like a little a stunning slap on my cheek every time I hear it, watching re-runs of the inauguration, the inauguration balls, or news podcasts discussing Michelle as the ‘former’ First Lady. I don’t want to accept it. Many of us don’t. We keep hoping one of those little slaps will wake us up from the bad dream, not remind us that it isn’t a dream.

But my hope this morning is that each of those little stinging slaps will awaken us to what we have not wanted to see, have not felt personally and therefore disregarded. The significant malcontent among average working Americans of all races. This economy is not working for them. So we who speak of inclusive politics, need to do some internal reflection about what inclusive politics would truly look like.

What I also hope will come of this moment in our political history that feels so dark and surreal… in fact, is something that Trump’s presidency has already brought to the foreground. The liberal world order where the United States is a defender of the free world. That is the positive spin that our politicians have placed on the behavior, but there are many dangerous realities that are tucked into this accepted norm that organizes our modern world. This includes unhampered drone wars that threaten civilians on a daily basis in lands far away from our safe streets. This includes a World Trade Organization that has no mandate to protect and give support to fledgling economies struggling to gain an economic foothold in the modern era.

The beauty of having a president that is a complete wild card is this: no one can take their eyes off him. None of his policies and executive orders will be a given, expected, the order of the day. The political parties platforms on both sides of the aisle have been thrown out the window in a sense. Trump’s words were revolutionary – a tone never before witnessed in a swearing in ceremony. ”America First.” He directly challenged the world order and with these two words has shaken confidence and questioned our political alignments and military presence across the world. I concur that we should question this world order. Does it still make sense, the unquestioned might of the United States of America? I would likely arrive at very different conclusions than President Trump, but what he lends us is a moment to step back and say, hey, the world is changing very rapidly. Let’s question everything. Let’s explore what makes sense of this modern era, and what is not working for many people.

The beauty of the wild card we’ve all been handed is that we have to keep engaged, and find meaningful ways to discuss what we want our new world order to look like. To be a part of the conversation and not let rash new executive orders or Republican-dominated legislative and executive branches do away with what is good, but be a part of the voice encouraging them to explore alternative avenues of achieving what many of our citizens are crying out for. If the platforms of both parties are no longer relevant for wide swaths of the population, now is the time to find new policies that are meaningful and relevant. Let us make good use of every minute. And know that we, as the people, are collectively responsible for what order takes shape in the next four years.

Habby Birday to You...

I'm sitting on my little balcony having breakfast. There's a nice breeze always flowing across this second-floor corner because of the massive mothering mango tree that fills the entire red earth courtyard adjacent. It's filled with little chicks flocking around their mother hen who is scratching in the rubbish piles in the corner; of baby goats hopping around their mother who is tied to a little stake; of huge pots of 'pate' - cornmeal mush - sitting on three terracotta mounds of earth built up from the red earth itself..  The white porridge is bubbling over into the fire centered between the terra-cotta mounds, fed by long stakes of wood that are progressively pushed into the fire. Under the tree, during the day, there's usually a woman with a wooden table and antique sewing machine, surrounded by panels of beautiful colorful chaotic Pagne (African wax prints) that were printed in Holland, China or Ghana. She has a tiny baby tied to her back, head bobbing up and down as she presses her foot to the sewing pedal. In another corner, this morning, there's a mother surrounded by a few bystanding children of several ages.. she's holding the little one in her arms, while a pot of laundry sits nearby soaking.



I sit for breakfast, the balcony concrete rail obscuring my view (and for which I am grateful and don't want to be nosy). And as I start to take my first bite I hear her gentle voice lilting up to me ... "Habby birday to you, habby birday to you, habby birday to you...." she's singing to the little baby in her arms. It took me a second to be sure, because I've only ever heard them banter back and forth in a local (probably Ewe) tongue. But that is a song that is probably the most common song sung across the wide world. No matter what language you speak, this song is an American import to the world. It was the same in Morocco, in Haiti, sung by people who know no other english words, and probably don't understand the actual words they're pronouncing. But celebrating the passing of a year in the life of someone is quite significantly a tradition that we Americans have popularized the world over.

It strikes me every time I'm in a remote corner of the world, far from the conscience of most Americans, that we little realize some of our most universal exports - not goods and products and services - but American music, American movies, and even American holidays - in all their commercialized glory (when affordable).

I recall spending October in Ravenna, Italy in 2014.. on October 31st everyone dressed up and went trick-o-treating. They explained that the American tradition had only become popular in the last couple years. In Denmark, the same - although they have their own version in the spring as well and the two contend for dominance, but so far the Danish version is ahead. I remember Easter eggs hung from skeletal-white painted bare-limbed trees set up in the streets or the few fancy shops in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. Or the same, hung with lights and red bows for Christmas in the Caribbean. It was out of place, strange in that hot weather and dusty crowded streets - sometimes I even saw fake snow sprayed around, with santa clauses so out of place and trying so hard to conjure images of a cozy cold snowy christmas - when the temperature hovered between 90 and 100 degrees.

In Morocco, my most vivid memory of the striking contrast in American cultural imports was sitting in a 'taxi' squeezed full of five religious Moroccan men, all in long robes and Haj caps. They had been listening to droning chants of the Qu'ran on the radio throughout the two hour drive. I think it was Ramadan, an especially religious time of the year where sex and drink and all such things were supposed to be abstained from for a month (or at least while the sun was up). Someone switched the radio and suddenly Black Eyed Peas was seducing us with "my hump, my hump, my lovely lady lumps..". No one in the car changed expression or gave any indication that they had any idea what she was singing, or that it stood out in any contrast to the verse of the Qu'ran they had just been listening to. I just sat in the front seat wide-eyed, keeping a lid on my grin, knowing I was the only one in the car who found humor in the situation. And on we drove across the barren moonscape of southern Morocco.

For me, certainly the commercialized aspect of american holiday exports is not something to get excited about. But this particular tradition - taking a moment to recognize a year passed in someone's life, when one realizes as life goes on that each of those years is precious and unretrievable, lived, suffered, savored or wasted - this is a tradition that I can thank our great nation for. Let us celebrate life, life lived and life to come.

More than a Yovo

I walked tonight with Gracia. They call her 'Grace'. Or as it would probably be spelled in the French they're speaking: "Grâce". For short. But I don't know if I would call her gait graceful... she's five. The height of an eight year old, and she gobbles it all up. Life. Food. The street.

So we walk. It's our evening ritual by now. and by now the neighbors have grown accustomed to my dissimilar presence, and smile and greet me. And by now Grâce has taken up my habit – in word if not in fashion – of correcting all the neighborhood street kids who call after me: "Yovo, yovo!". "C'est pas yovo! C'est Rachelle!". Tonight was the first night she mimicked my incessant correction. Yelling back over our shoulders as we proceeded, in the dusk and in the dark. "Pas yovo!!!" I smiled. It almost blew my ear drums out with the strength of voice emerging from those little lungs, but I loved it. Little Grâce was taking up the call of duty to inform all the little kids not to call me the name Togolese give to all white foreigners. But to give them my name. There was certainly some some strong scent of déjà vu in all this from my peace corps days long ago.

To me, it was, with every interaction, a fight against the human urge to classify people into easy stereotypes. So it was a mission. A lesson. And I thought, god, how many of their relatives in the States or Europe want to shout back at their neighbors. I'm not just a black "African". I have a name. I have a story. It's not everybody's story. It's my story.

And now the angles were reversed. I was the one who didn't look like everyone else. On Saturday, running around a highschool dirt field track with dozens of Togolese (all in, soccer games and fitness groups included, maybe a couple hundred persons), for a second I forgot I was the only white face around. And then I remembered. And then I smiled. Because no one was paying attention to me. Just letting me run. Us, humanity together sweating. Letting our bodies feel their potential, our white blood cell count building with every round of the track. It felt so good not to be cooped up.

This was certainly not the first irony of living here. Working in that office. I was the white foreigner who was grossly underdressed for such a professional environment. Trying to conjure up outfits and scuffy white slip-on shoes that gave some semblance of the respect and professionalism the office demanded. (And not least were its padded leather doors on every floor, and other doors with security codes that blocked access to most.)

In a way it was exhilarating to have those angles reversed.  So home we walked, hand-in-hand, Grâce and Rachelle-who-was-more-than-a-yovo. and I left her with her mama downstairs, and walked upstairs to my own apartment and settled in with my laptop to read Benin's fiscal code.