A Good Story

How does one go about measuring a year?

You know, there is lots of ways to do it. You could break it down into days spent here, or days spent there. One could even focus on a singular theme and how it worked seamlessly through everything else. Lists are good too, a simple way to capture what the days and months have brought expectedly and unexpectedly. I've perused journals and mementos that I have kept in my young 22 years and I've made all sorts of attempts to explain what an entire year has been like—all 365 days.

In the end, I always go back to what I like best, a good story.

                    

A year ago, around this time, to the day even, I made a big mistake. Celebrating 21 was wild, exciting, and fun. Looking back though, it was a little too crazy, complete with a lot less control. I quite simply had too much to drink. Far too much. But mistakes, in my opinion, are rarely occurrences from a straight path, rooted in only one influence. Yes, it was more than just having too much to drink. I was feeling the need to be loved. We all feel it and it manifests differently for everyone. After that night in Denver, I made a move and went too far with someone I barely knew. I understand that bad choices happen, but I didn't think I would ever be like that. Disillusioned, I tried to move past I simultaneously preparing for an exciting journey I had been fully anticipating for years. Ghana! Study Abroad! It had arrived.

I distinctly remember the feeling as I walked into the airport in Denver alone. I provided my check-in information a little shakily, quite overwhelmed that I was leaving the country for awhile. I journeyed up the long halls and lines, fiddling, saying my goodbyes on my phone, and just sitting in a swamp full of anxiety. Here goes nothing, I recall thinking.

This feeling continued upon arrival in London, and I suppose that feeling could be best described as a feeble attempt for your mind, soul, and body to relay and absorb the fact that big change is coming. It's your best effort to prepare when really you can't be even close to fully prepared to live 4 months in Ghana. Overjoyed, I finally saw Rachel and Taylor in the airport at Heathrow. Yes! This was really happening, and we were together.

January moved slowly into February, strangely enough. It wasn't a bad thing, it was just starting out lives in Ghana encompassed so much—from bringing toilet paper to the bathroom each time we needed to go to adjusting to an impenetrable layer of dirt at all times, things were just wildly different.

One time, it must have been late in January, our group of Americans traveled to the Cape Coast Castle in Cape Coast, appropriately located on the coast of the country. The drive was intriguing, and it was impossible to peel my eyes away from the window. When we went through the castle, and we stood in enclosed, dark, and muggy dungeon where slaves once lived awaiting their fate, I felt horrified. Trapped. I felt sick.

Ironically, it was the this trip in late January, the same trip where I touched a small crocodile and struggled to see out of my eyes as we traversed across the top of the canopies in Kakum National Park, where I knew I was exactly where I belonged. Relief and joy had overcome, and boy, I was so so glad. I was falling in love with Ghana.

As I truly began to feel comfortable, I also witnessed and experienced the incredible joy of having friends. It's simple, but when you are in a new place, with a new language to learn, a bowl of sketchiness to eat, and you are just a hot mess, it's nice to have good people by your side. My close friends in Ghana (3 from Hendrix)—Rachel, Paula, Taylor, and Amanda—well, we would just talk and chat for hours. That's it. You can learn a lot about life and people when you just sit down over a cold bottle of coke and share stories.

This crazy night, after a long trip from Kumasi, a bunch of people in our group decided to have a "Festival of Champions" in which we would dress up as weird characters and wrestle each other. It was an American holiday we told our Ghanaian onlookers, and even though we had to move our mattresses out in front of the hostel, it was a definite success. If they didn't already know, suspicions were absolutely confirmed—Americans are rather strange.

As the months of travel, school (when I felt like attending), volunteering, and life in Ghana seemed to steadily move along, I found myself facing pain in a way I had never faced before. As a volunteer in Kissemah, I was getting to know our students at Mauvio's Outreach Program pretty well. We began to be presented with issues of abuse, poverty, and rape that rocked me to the core. Soon, once I got off the tro in Kissemah to teach, I was using my 5 minute walk to glass to re-group, to brace myself, and to ask for strength. I would need every bit I could get. The love I felt (and still feel) for those kids was intensely real. I've always thrived being around young children, but this was new. These children—Rukia, Gloria, Gosway, Akos, Kwame, Margaret, Maama, to name a few—opened my eyes to a different kind of love. A maternal love, a love where I sought to protect and nurture. It's amazing what you can feel thousands of miles from home.

Home was becoming here, and yet it was time to pack and leave again. Why does time move so damn fast?

Goodbyes are immensely difficult. I learnt this plenty this year.

I tried to breathe all of it in, the kids' laughter, the distinct taste of red-red, the noise of the market, the travels of my dad and I as we so much of Ghana, all of it. I closed my eyes, and soon awoke to being back in Heathrow—alone again. I had bid adieu to my friends as we arrived in London and headed our own ways. I sat idly in the first class lounge after one last goodbye to Rachel and literally thought I would go crazy. Hot showers, gourmet food, unlimited wine—a dream in a way, a nightmare in the other. I took my stuff abruptly at one point, walking swiftly to the fancily decorated bathrooms and cried. I cried very hard while I was in that bathroom in the middle of the airport. This was just stage one of a long, weird, and challenging transition back to America.

The summer was invigorating some of the time though—I mean, I was home! I watched my brother graduate, I rode on ATVs, and I relished my summer workouts most of the time. With a big sigh of relief I was back to my old life. Wait.

Only this time, I was different, I was changed. Like a broken puzzle piece, I really wasn't fitting anymore. I would realize eventually, that not only did life keep moving while I was gone, but so did life at Hendrix too. Jumping right back into things was much more complicated than I anticipated. Still, I yearned for Hendrix the longer I was home. Come July, I had become fully immersed in my summer job as a family area intern at the Gathering Place. At one point, one hot summer Denver day, I just felt a part of the family there. I was friends with other staff members, and I was able to forge meaningful relationships with some of the kids I worked with. One family, well, they brought me an entire pan full of enchiladas as a thank you gift. Could it get any better? The team around me, 4 women of all different ages, was supportive on and off the job. When my brother was put in jail for a night, they were there when I got the call. They held me when I could not stand, and without them, I don't know how I could have sorted some of that confusion out.

As the heat continued on, I was doing what I loved every day. I played with kids who needed some extra love. I loved my job. How many people can say that?

August came. Finally.

I had a wonderfully delightful last few weeks with my parents and soon it was time to go. Mom and I packed the Prius and headed due South. I called Ali as we neared Conway city limits and I was euphoric. I don't know what it is exactly, but being at Hendrix is truly a place where I am me without any reservations, and that is very special. Also, I was just ready to see my friends after a long long time away from each other. We all had stories to share, fun to have, and new memories to make.

Unpacking my car and moving in was perfect. I couldn't have been happier. Screams, tears, and laughter were basically the norm the next few days as reunions happened everywhere. Even on the hockey field, it was just so nice to be back and with everyone again. I was grateful for this community, and happy that I had another year of it. One day, over Labor Day, we went to the Lake, had a picnic, took pictures as we pranced around like we owned the place, and layed in the sun. I like doing cute things like that.

However, the adjustment was not purely full of joy and bliss—I encountered a new batch of struggles that I wasn't sure how to handle at the time. A sadness struck that was hard to explain, only that I just felt so utterly sad, did not know why, and couldn't really confront what it meant. For someone who journals and reflects regularly, I just was miles away from being self-aware. I couldn't what I was feeling. That of course, was just it though. I had to face it. Why was I sad? Why did I feel alone? Why did I want to cry all the time?

When things picked up, I genuinely began to enjoy hockey season again. Practice was enjoyable and after starting off a little rough, the season as a whole exploded with success. With I think it was 4 or 5 straight wins, we beat the 9^th ranked team in Division II and eventually advanced further in the conference tournament than ever before. It was a very good time to be a Hendrix Warrior, and I will always remember what it looked like after I scored in the DePauw game. My hands held high I glanced at the stands and saw so many people that I loved cheering loudly on their feet. Nothing beats that. The season was magical and the feeling of accomplishment stills tastes familiar in my mouth. Ending my career with 6 other seniors was emotionally draining. I don't think even now it has fully hit me, but things like this take time. Closure, indeed.

So, season ended and I had nights of dread with studying endlessly, nights of Taco Bell runs, and nights of things like a Jersey Shore party. I had Sunday mornings too, and I won't deny that I adore Sundays at Hendrix. They come easy and I like that. The semester ended in a flash after a refreshing trip to Tulsa with Rachel's family for Thanksgiving, and I remember thinking that, "wow! Much has happened." Indeed, things are moving along in my life and my friends' lives too. Hearts were broken, post-grad plans were pursued, and Michelle was even engaged by the end of year (!!!), and planning a Southern summer wedding. I, along with my friends, was realizing that we were no longer little girls. Still, we have a good time and act young, because let's be real. Being young is just too much fun. Undeniably though, we have come a long way since being little baby freshman only a few years ago.

                    

And so, I finished 2010 much in the same way that it began—with reflection.

This time, feeling grateful, pleased, changed, and anxious for what is to come in the future. Disillusioned, I no longer am. At least not now.

To close the year, I watched football endlessly with my family, I forged a new approach to my relationship with my brother, and I even soaked up the Maui sun for a week, riding bikes down mountains, and running along the beach.

Yes, much has happened, but also, much is to come.

And, no matter what I go through in the next year, I will keep writing, because truly, it is the best way to tell a good story.