shokufeh is…home

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.

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I start running down the platform, to meet the blue line train.
And then I feel someone jumping on my back.

“No! Let me go! Stop!”

“This is Conducter Harris. We’ve got a situation here. I’ve got someone attacking a girl, on the platform.”

I feel myself being pulled toward the tracks, right in front of the now-stopped train. His weight is pulling me closer and closer to the edge. He jumps, pulling me on top of him. But I grab a handle on the front of the train. I hold on, despite his bodyweight hanging from my neck.

“This is Harris again. The attacker and the girl are going down onto the tracks. Wait! She grabbed the front of the train. But I don’t know if she can pull herself up. He’s still holding onto her neck.”

It’s really nice of you to keep the higher-ups in the loop, Harris. But you think you could come help me? I can hover here in midair for only so long.

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Strangers who call me “babe” or “hon,” or any other term of endearment

Some years ago, I wasn’t paying close attention while driving in stop-and-go traffic. Or, rather, I was paying attention to the hair of some pedestrians, rather than to the car in front of me. So, I hit the car in front of me.

Going rather slowly, I didn’t do much damage (- to that car. The hood of my parent’s car did a crumpling act). But it was a new bumper that I marred, so the driver’s girlfriend, who was the owner of the car, wasn’t too pleased. I hope I didn’t negatively impact their relationship.

I still remember that when she called me, she called me “hon.” Which I thought was pretty weird, considering we’d never met, and I had hit her car. And I certainly hadn’t endeared myself to her.

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I am STOKED to see Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle! Me, Sam, Drew, Lucy, and Cameron are going to hang tonight. Wahoo!
Check out the animated shorts at the above link.

Regarding the last anticipation, J.K. and Harry did not disappoint. I kept thinking about the book, even after finishing it.

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Sitting here at my desk, I keep feeling random contractions in my abdominal area. I can only conclude it’s the aftershocks of yesterday’s pilates class. She killed us. We all staggered out at the end of the hour. The good thing was that, due to my fatigue, I was soundly asleep by 9:30 pm, which made it easier to get up for my 5 am conference call this morning. (Yeah, Hawaii wasn’t really considered when this national call was put into place. But it’s okay – it’s my special time.)

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I just crossed paths with a mirror for the first time today since my hair dried. My conclusion is that, for once, I’m having a good hair day. Too bad the HUGE red ZIT on my cheek ruins the overall presentation.

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This past week has been full of good things, mostly in the form of phone calls:

- Surprise call at work from a friend, whom I haven’t seen since his wedding last summer.

- Surprise call at home from another friend, whom I haven’t seen since my wedding last summer.

- Call from my mom, saying that she’s coming through Honolulu on her way to the mainland (and the rest of my family), from China. And, you guessed it, I haven’t seen her since a few days after my wedding last summer. Yay! I get to see my mom! It will be a few weeks shy of a year since we were together. Probably the longest I’ve gone without seeing her, regardless of where I’ve been living. Just in the nick of time. Because even though I’m now a married woman, and this is the year I turn thirty, I’m still a girl who needs her mommy.

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I was diagnosed with asthma when I was around eight. It coincided with the news that I was allergic to my favorite foods – pecans, cantaloupe, strawberries, tuna…. Oh, how I cried, when I was told that these morsels would be off limit to me. As you might have deduced, my asthma was triggered by allergies. It was also induced by exercise. (I think that’s why I was oh-so-very couch-potato-like for many years. To the point that when I decided to get off my butt and try out for the soccer team my senior year of high school, and had to get something signed by a PE teacher, I was reminded that soccer entailed running. And she wasn’t even my teacher. And I hadn’t had PE for more than a year. But I digress – sharing with you the magnitude of my reputation for walking “the mile” every week is amusing, but not the point of this entry.)

So, the asthma – my mother remembers it otherwise, but in my memory it resulted in many a calls to my parents to pick me up from school early, due to asthma attacks. Or not even leaving the house to begin with. Heat triggered my attacks as well, and living in New Orleans, going to school in classrooms lacking air conditioners, or even ceiling fans at that point…. well, you get the picture. I also got pretty good at pretending to have, or self-inducing, asthma attacks, when I didn’t feel like being in class. But whenever possible, I tried to avoid having severe attacks.

Severe attacks meant Quibron. *chills* Whenever my breathing (or lack thereof) got truly out of control, I started to panic. Not just because I couldn’t breath. But because the administering of Quibron was near. Even now, probably 20 years after my last spoonful of the grossness, it makes me shudder. The flavor was disgusting. So much so that I can’t even describe it. And that’s why my asthma attacks were often accompanied by tears, and pleas to my parents to not put that spoon in my mouth. But since they loved me, and wanted me to continue breathing, they forced me to open my mouth and then swallow that swill. This was then usually followed by my eating dill pickles, as a strange side effect of the Quibron was a craving for pickles.

I eventually finagled other prescriptions – usually smaller doses of pills meant for adults. These often made me stay up all night, or gave me gas. But I didn’t care. Yes, I will swallow all the pills necessary, just don’t make me take Quibron. A side effect of these later medications was a clean room by the time my parents woke up.

I now rarely have asthma attacks, and when I feel like I’m moving toward one, I use the handy inhaler. I realized just now, as I took a puff (which is what reminded me of the above), that this is the first inhaler that is legally mine. For the past ten years, I’ve scammed them from the other members of my family with asthma. You think I would just get a prescription, but because I don’t really have problems, I don’t usually think about getting one.

As for Quibron, it seems that today’s children are free of this threat. I couldn’t even find the drug in my electronic Physicians’ Desk Reference. I found it at Drugstore.com, but only in tablet or capsule form. So, if my kids ever have asthma, and complain about whatever meds they have to take, I can just tell them that in my day it was Quibron, and there is nothing more evil.

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Just read that McDonald’s is calling upon its meat suppliers to reduce their use of antibiotics. This puts a smile on my face. While it doesn’t directly impact me, it makes me feel better about what my loved ones eat.

I just hope there will be a significant reduction in antibiotic levels, not just one that looks good on paper. Since McDonald’s is involved, this could revolutionize the food industry. Naive dreaming?

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I don’t know what it about fire alarms that gets me happy. I guess it’s because the only time I experienced a legitimate one was in college, when someone’s mattress caught on fire, but no one got hurt. All the other times, the fire alarm going off has amounted to a fire drill.

Maybe it’s that I forgot to grow up? Fire alarm = leaving the classroom = good? A minute ago, the emergency lights on the wall started flashing, accompanied by a piped-in voice, asking for our attention. I was all ready to pick up my bag and head outdoors to the glorious sunshine.

Dashed! The voice proceeded to inform us that there had been a false alarm on the second floor, triggered by construction. Being many floors higher, we didn’t hear the false alarm. In a matter of seconds, my hopes rose and then fell. Have to stay inside. Shucks.

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