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Maman

Today marks five years since I hugged my grandmother. Even though it's been that long, tears well up in my eyes whenever I think about Maman, and our parting. I was leaving for the Gambia, for what was supposed to be a two-year stint in the Peace Corps. And she was dying. We all knew that to be the case, though, being my grandmother and loving me to pieces (as grandparents are prone to do), Maman talked about seeing me in a couple of years. Our tears revealed the truth - that we both knew that this would be the last time we'd see one another.

I left for my new adventure with fear in my heart, knowing that I would have to deal with the news of Maman's passing in the near future, and that I would have to deal with it alone. Early on in my Peace Corps training, I asked what the procedure would be. How would I, living in a mud hut in a village a few hours from Banjul, find out that my grandmother had passed to the next world? I was told that Peace Corps personnel would drive to the village and tell me. And so, I became attuned to the sound of cars. Not those running along the south bank road, which cut through our village. But the ones that left the road for the dirt paths of the village.

Any time I heard a car in close proximity, my heart plummeted to my stomach. But the fear was soon allayed by the sound of the car's occupants getting out and speaking in Mandinka to others in my compound, or continuing their drive to the main road. Then, one day in August, as I was cleaning my hut, a car stopped right outside. And I knew. The Peace Corps person didn't even have to open his mouth before I burst into tears.

I left the Gambia in September 1998, less than three months after arriving. In that time, my world changed. I came back to a place where people seemed whiter and fatter than when I'd left. That was, of course, just my perception. I also came back to a family that had lost its matriarch, its center. That was more than perception.

For a long time, I told myself that Maman's passing had nothing to do with my leaving the Gambia. But it's hard to know if that's the truth. If not for my worries, maybe I would have been more willing to stay there, despite my misgivings about my role. I've also said, for the past 4.5 years, that I'm glad that I went to the Gambia and I'm glad I came back. While I'm sad that I wasn't able to be with Maman in the last days of her life, I ultimately see it as a good thing that I went to the Gambia. For even that short experience helped shape what came next, including becoming friends with the man I eventually married.

When I think of my grandmother, I think of a strong, selfless, spiritual woman. When I spent the night in my grandparents' room, I would see her praying, early in the morning, late at night. I remember once, being at the airport with her, and she asked me to hold her purse while she went to the restroom, because she didn't want to expose the prayer book in her purse to the dirtiness of the public restroom. It was something I thought strange at the time, but came to respect, the more I thought about it. She was the provider of unconditional love, and fruit peeled just-for-you. She proved me wrong when she outlived my grandfather by five years, reminding me of the stories I heard of her climbing over the garden wall while pregnant, to escape people on the hunt for Baha'is. She wanted us to achieve our wildest dreams.

Posted by Shokufeh at June 30, 2003 03:08 PM