Lucy moved to Senegal immediately after college in 2009. She's had many adventures here, some of which I know and others I'm sure she hasn't shared with me. There's been lots of general hassle for a single white woman, the expectation that she prove herself tough. There have been robberies (even their rings were stolen before the wedding), false friendships that ended in apartment looting…A lot to send children crying home and mothers into apoplexy.
Likewise, Lucy's big sister Eva has traveled literally around the world with her backpack, ridden her bicycle solo from Boston to Portland, quit her job without another in hand and is gone on a five month journey of investigation that includes hiking in the Mojave desert, snowshoeing in Idaho, visiting the Dominican Republic and landing soon in Dakar for two months to meet her nephew, and perhaps to intern with the BBC.
"Don't you worry about your daughters?" That they get robbed again and again in a foreign land? That they camp all alone in the desert? That they travel across the Sahara on a bus that breaks down multiple times? Or grow ill from dehydration because that next South Dakota town is many miles farther than it looked on the map and the water bags are running low?
Who? Me? Why should I worry?
My line, which is more than a line—which is something I deeply believe—is that when my children propose undertakings that frighten me, I must remind myself that neither has ever entered upon an adventure unprepared. Lucy moved to Senegal fluent in Wolof, with a knowledge of the city's layout, and with a job in hand. When she's had losses, she's been angry and upset, but she flies into action, seeks help from the right sources, and come out alive and wiser. She knows she'll have more troubles and lives her life to minimize risk.
Likewise with Eva. The proposition of a summer cross-country bike ride alarmed me, but when I asked her to tell me the details, she had already taken a self-defense course, researched routes, knew everything about bicycle maintenance…She'd left no stone of preparation unturned.
Why should I worry, my children being so bold yet so wise in the conduct of their explorations?
So. Lucy came into the the kitchen the other night when I was straightening up; she wished to offer me an apology. I was surprised: She'd given me no reason to be angry about anything.
She regretted having been snappy with me about the Nigerians. Readers of that post who may have returned to it will find an addendum I made with deference to Lucy after I had told guests my amused version of the Nigerian story. She had earnestly reminded me that those Nigerians represented the possibility of harm: They fit into the culture of the Evil Eye that is so real here.
Her apology in the kitchen was for having been unreasonable with me. "It's just that she feels so responsible for anyone who falls under her protection!" Do the Nigerians cause her any problems? They do not. She has no contact, avoids them, never speaks to them. But they are always among the threats in her expanded peripheral vision, and one must be wise about the potential in this environment. She knows well that I understand by now not so much as to return the greeting of people on the street: The chances of bad intentions are at least 50-50. She knows that I understand and obey. So when I joke about the Nigerians, in her heart of hearts she knows that I am creating a story from the circumstances and my own point of view, not mocking her mores or those of her host country, which I deeply respect.
That conversation shocked into focus all my fears for my daughters, the fears that I have consigned to logical management in order to let the girls go, take their own risks and thrive as they wish. They are grown and know infinitely more than I do what they are capable of and what's best for them.
But I am afraid! I do worry! And I handle my fears by telling stories that reshape events to cast them in the point of view of an ironical and loving white, American mother, a point of view that makes clear that there is indeed an phenomenal gap between their aspirations and attitudes and mine. It's impossible for me to enter their points of view, as it is to lose mine. And why would I want that? I will never be of this African life; I can only filter it to incorporate at much as I can. I can try to filter, too, my attitude toward all that I would never accept back home.
Lucy and I talked about this. We both know that I behave myself as instructed and that I work sincerely to understand her world. But it hadn't occurred to either of us how great is the role of my storytelling—not only in interpreting life in Senegal, but in managing my distress and fear of what I encounter and my concerns about the future. When I'm ironic or comical, I'm in a space that allows me to acknowledge the distance from my usual, Western life and standards, and my efforts to grasp the ones I'm moving among. Sometimes it's like bridging a canyon with your fingertips and toes. And in those stories, the Roadrunner, the superhero, Walter Mitty—all of them make it across, we don't understand or care how.
If I just keep writing what presents itself to my notice, I may not understand how—with my feet on Cape Cod and fingertips in the Senegalese sand—I make one world of the two. On the African shore, Lucy's daily life integrates her cultures.
I bring home clothing made by local tailors from gaudy wax fabrics, the spirited colors and designs of which warm me year-round and remind me of this place with this part of my heart. Otherwise, my stories fill the gap. They are always about me, trying to understand my next of kin, her family, her New World in always inscrutable Africa.
Likewise, Lucy's big sister Eva has traveled literally around the world with her backpack, ridden her bicycle solo from Boston to Portland, quit her job without another in hand and is gone on a five month journey of investigation that includes hiking in the Mojave desert, snowshoeing in Idaho, visiting the Dominican Republic and landing soon in Dakar for two months to meet her nephew, and perhaps to intern with the BBC.
"Don't you worry about your daughters?" That they get robbed again and again in a foreign land? That they camp all alone in the desert? That they travel across the Sahara on a bus that breaks down multiple times? Or grow ill from dehydration because that next South Dakota town is many miles farther than it looked on the map and the water bags are running low?
Who? Me? Why should I worry?
My line, which is more than a line—which is something I deeply believe—is that when my children propose undertakings that frighten me, I must remind myself that neither has ever entered upon an adventure unprepared. Lucy moved to Senegal fluent in Wolof, with a knowledge of the city's layout, and with a job in hand. When she's had losses, she's been angry and upset, but she flies into action, seeks help from the right sources, and come out alive and wiser. She knows she'll have more troubles and lives her life to minimize risk.
Likewise with Eva. The proposition of a summer cross-country bike ride alarmed me, but when I asked her to tell me the details, she had already taken a self-defense course, researched routes, knew everything about bicycle maintenance…She'd left no stone of preparation unturned.
Why should I worry, my children being so bold yet so wise in the conduct of their explorations?
So. Lucy came into the the kitchen the other night when I was straightening up; she wished to offer me an apology. I was surprised: She'd given me no reason to be angry about anything.
She regretted having been snappy with me about the Nigerians. Readers of that post who may have returned to it will find an addendum I made with deference to Lucy after I had told guests my amused version of the Nigerian story. She had earnestly reminded me that those Nigerians represented the possibility of harm: They fit into the culture of the Evil Eye that is so real here.
Her apology in the kitchen was for having been unreasonable with me. "It's just that she feels so responsible for anyone who falls under her protection!" Do the Nigerians cause her any problems? They do not. She has no contact, avoids them, never speaks to them. But they are always among the threats in her expanded peripheral vision, and one must be wise about the potential in this environment. She knows well that I understand by now not so much as to return the greeting of people on the street: The chances of bad intentions are at least 50-50. She knows that I understand and obey. So when I joke about the Nigerians, in her heart of hearts she knows that I am creating a story from the circumstances and my own point of view, not mocking her mores or those of her host country, which I deeply respect.
That conversation shocked into focus all my fears for my daughters, the fears that I have consigned to logical management in order to let the girls go, take their own risks and thrive as they wish. They are grown and know infinitely more than I do what they are capable of and what's best for them.
But I am afraid! I do worry! And I handle my fears by telling stories that reshape events to cast them in the point of view of an ironical and loving white, American mother, a point of view that makes clear that there is indeed an phenomenal gap between their aspirations and attitudes and mine. It's impossible for me to enter their points of view, as it is to lose mine. And why would I want that? I will never be of this African life; I can only filter it to incorporate at much as I can. I can try to filter, too, my attitude toward all that I would never accept back home.
 |
| Looking up from the family courtyard. |
Lucy and I talked about this. We both know that I behave myself as instructed and that I work sincerely to understand her world. But it hadn't occurred to either of us how great is the role of my storytelling—not only in interpreting life in Senegal, but in managing my distress and fear of what I encounter and my concerns about the future. When I'm ironic or comical, I'm in a space that allows me to acknowledge the distance from my usual, Western life and standards, and my efforts to grasp the ones I'm moving among. Sometimes it's like bridging a canyon with your fingertips and toes. And in those stories, the Roadrunner, the superhero, Walter Mitty—all of them make it across, we don't understand or care how.
If I just keep writing what presents itself to my notice, I may not understand how—with my feet on Cape Cod and fingertips in the Senegalese sand—I make one world of the two. On the African shore, Lucy's daily life integrates her cultures.
I bring home clothing made by local tailors from gaudy wax fabrics, the spirited colors and designs of which warm me year-round and remind me of this place with this part of my heart. Otherwise, my stories fill the gap. They are always about me, trying to understand my next of kin, her family, her New World in always inscrutable Africa.
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