Whether one takes the Bad Bunny challenge to learn Spanish in the four months between him hosting SNL and headlining the Super Bowl, or prepares for the consequences of POTUS’ announcement that the US will “run” Venezuela until a “safe, proper and judicious transition can be ensured,” ’tis the season to learn a new language. Or in my case, reboot a language.
In another chapter of my life, I was an international math/science/ESL teacher. I’d taught in five different countries outside the States with the last two being Mexico and Honduras. Even though I taught and mostly socialized in English, being immersed in Spanish was the best way to learn the language.
When I returned to the States in 2009, the motivation to study Spanish evaporated. I still understood what I heard and read, especially since relocating to Texas, but I didn’t really “need” to speak Spanish in order to navigate through life.
In 2014, I travelled to Peru with a small group of other American women. In preparation for that trip, I studied Spanish lessons online, using the same program as American embassy diplomats. Toward the end of my visit, my fluency had bounced back.
Then, I returned to the States.
Since streaming has become a regular habit, I recently turned on the Spanish subtitles while listening in English. This compromise has been available for most of the programing I watch.
The only thing that lessens my language acquisition is that I never simply sit down to binge-watch movies/shows. I’m usually reading, answering emails, or my absolute favorite, digitally illustrating.
When my eyes aren’t watching the screen, I’m not getting my impromptu Spanish lesson, but at least I have the opportunity to practice when I look.
The real impetus for rebooting my Spanish-speaking ability this time around was in preparation for a recently-formed Spanish practice group. The organizer, who’s half Puerto Rican, wanted to learn Spanish because she felt excluded during some family gatherings.
I hope she’ll continue meeting at local restaurants that serve Mexican and South American cuisine and, of course bebidas alcoholicas. That initial event hammered out the details.
Everyone except for me are able to attend either Thursday evenings or Saturday afternoons. I’m exclusively a Saturday afternoon/evening attendee due to my Monday through Friday evening yoga/dance/swimming schedule.
I advised the first-time organizer to plan future events based on what best suited her needs since, if she asked 10 different people, she’d probably get 10 different answers. The bottom line is to make the group work for her so she’ll remain motivated to continue it.
My greatest gift to myself during the Christmas-Kwanzaa break was unscheduled time. As much as my remaining PTO covered. I lived out the artist’s dream of indulging my entire day with juggling a few creative projects.
In between projects and errands/chores, I attended exercise classes. My first class for 2026 was hot yoga where the instructor passed out affirmation cards for “bad asses.” I pulled a card that resonated with me.
Every morning, I wake up with a sense of purpose for what needs to be accomplished. The only way I finish large projects is to do a little at a time during the work week and even more on the weekends.
After completing a short film for my family as their Christmas gift, I brainstormed what to do next. I haven’t settled on anything this early in the year although I’ve thought about finally trying my hand with animation. For that, I’d need voice actors. Actually, anyone fluent in English would do. Not going to raise the bar too high for the rate I’m paying.
Just like that, a MeetUp invitation appeared in my email to have dinner at a new nearby restaurant which boasted of a menu with locally sourced food and different in-house beers and cider on tap. The whole vibe reminded me of something that I’d taken for granted back in Austin.
I’ll start attending more of these events in order to get a selection of voice actors. Usually, I socialize through exercise classes. I’ll get more acquainted with my fellow yogi/dancer because you never know what talented person is dancing/doing yoga right beside you.
Given the time of the year, if anyone bothers to ask what’s my New Year’s resolution, I’ll say, “Recruiting voice actors for an upcoming animation project.” That should get the ball rolling.
I started disliking my primary care physician in the middle of 2025 when she kept giving me the same “advice” that she’d given before despite our previous conversations. I mistakenly thought that she would tailor her practice based on the patient in front of her. Instead, she kept acting as if I weren’t in menopause.
A part of me wished that sweet young thang a nice long life. Long enough for her to enter menopause and regret all the bad advice she’d given patients like me. By the end of the year, I had a new PCP.
For most of my adult life, I’d chosen women healthcare professionals since their firsthand experience of being women led me to believe that I would receive better care, especially if they were women of color. A rarity.
Now, that I’m middle aged, I realize that, in addition to having a woman as my PCP, I need an older woman. Older PCPs won’t condescend to me about having to lose weight because she’ll already know what a losing battle that is without HRT (hormone replacement therapy), an appetite suppressant, or some other intervention therapy to address the effects of a declining estrogen level.
The “exercise more and eat healthy” advice falls flat. I already exercise on a daily basis, don’t over eat, and have improved my diet. Even though I’m stronger and more flexible, I’m about 15 pounds heavier than I was in perimenopause.
Additionally, when lab work returned that my calcium level was elevated, a condition known as hypercalcemia, my former PCP never advised me about what may have caused that. I’d simply asked if taking calcium twice a day for the full daily amount could have contributed. She agreed and I adjusted by taking my calcium supplement once a day. End of story.
Except…
I’d requested a DEXA scan. The former PCP informed me that I didn’t need one until I was around 65, but I insisted.
I don’t want to be superstitious and say that I felt it in my bones that I needed a bone density test. Or that an angel had whispered in my ear that something stirred in my bones.
Whatever the case, the results revealed osteopenia in my left pelvic region. Upon reading that, my first thought was, “That bitch would have had me wait a decade later to get my DEXA scan and by then, I could’ve had osteoporosis!”
I took several deep breaths, comforting myself that I no longer had that PCP.
Once I researched the condition, I learned that osteopenia led to elevated calcium levels. Breast cancer can also cause hypercalcemia. My former PCP addressed neither possibility.
On a more positive note, my new PCP, an older woman who was familiar with HRT, messaged me that my latest lab work showed that my calcium levels were normal and that we’d discuss next steps in April.
In the meantime, one of my friends, who occasionally took dance classes with me and taught yoga, gifted me a discounted yoga instructor package. Since the cost was the same regardless of whether I registered for 200, 300, or 500 hours, I signed up to get the biggest bang for my buck.
When they emailed a reading list, I enthusiastically checked out three of those ebook titles from the library. I dedicated myself to taking a copious amount of notes. Not only was I too cheap to buy the books, but I also wanted to be mindful of not adding to the collection of material things. Besides, I supplemented my notes with online searches, mainly to define terms.
One ebook motivated me to research which poses were effective for addressing osteopenia in my pelvis and another pose to address my piriformis syndrome. I’d never even heard of that body part before.
One day in yoga class, I described a pain I experienced. The instructor, who used to be a massage therapist, informed me that it was probably caused by my piriformis, not merely a tight hip. Up until that point, I’d stretched to loosen my external hip muscles (abductors) with mixed results.
The full circle moment came when I researched relieving my piriformis through yoga. I’d already known of the stretch: pyramid pose. Doing that posture a few times a day, did more for the pain than temporarily numbing the muscles. I’d bought a collection of topicals to see which one worked the best. Instead, all I had to do was take about two minutes a few times throughout the day to stretch.
I’d bought a standing desk to help break up long periods of sitting while at work. Now, I’ll incorporate stretches in addition to that.
In previous years, I’d chosen challenging yoga moves to target an area that needed more conditioning, in terms of strength and flexibility. Now, I’m targeting poses to alleviate pain. As one yoga studio advertised: Yoga Is Medicine.
I started working on my New Year’s resolution to swim half a mile, then practice straddle splits in the dry sauna about a week into January. I hadn’t planned to change from my milelong swim goal until I was actually in the pool and the goal no longer motivated me. That had been last year’s goal, which I’d achieved, but now that I’d accomplished it, the thrill was gone. I reached the straddle splits goal sooner than I thought and started conditioning to put my leg behind my head AKA Compass Pose.
Along with a new workout goal, of course I added a new activity: axe throwing. This was originally part of a social group outing, but when the host cancelled, I went by myself. Some friends had told me how relaxing the sport was while my capoeira friends congratulated my preparation for when society collapsed. Although I enjoyed the experience, I wouldn’t do it again until months later when my nephew came into town.
For this year’s Galentine’s Day celebration, but I convinced two friends to go indoor skydiving with me. They’d always wanted to try, but had never gotten around to it. Social Organizer Teresa to the rescue! I’d only done it one time before, so they made me go first since I had “more experience.” This time around, I got to soar to the very top on my third trip up. Afterwards, one friend wanted to jump out of a real plane and the other wanted to return the next day. Um, no and perhaps later, as in the following year around the same time.
At the end of March, I finished my six-month online study for my pharmacy tech license. The part I hated the most was cramming facts about 600 medications although I came up with some fun mnemonics: OMG, Al gave Dara herpes. [Generic: imiquimod; Brand: Aldara; Class: Antiviral; Indication: genital herpes]. Cold Chics Cry about gout. [Generic: Colchicine; Brand: Colcrys; Class: Anti-gout; Indication: Gout].
All that studying and rote memorization paid off in the beginning of April when I passed the pharmacy tech exam with 95%. A few weeks later, we celebrated all the April birthdays: my father, sister, nephew and niece.
In May, I secured a new position at work as a training assistant. Once a teacher, always a teacher. Then for Mother’s Day, I treated Mom and my sister, who’s also a mother, to brunch. We strolled around the block for a wine tasting afterwards.
I started off June with a weekend visit to our timeshare at Myrtle Beach. My parents have had that timeshare for nearly 30 years. They finally ended the contract; so I’m glad I got to chill there one last time.
I absolutely loved this year’s Strange family reunion at the end of June. Not only did I interview 21 relatives, resulting in the best (and longest) episode of the “Strange Family Folklore” podcast to date, but we finally included one of my favorite pastimes, dressing up. Our theme was to dress as your favorite decade. My 60s costume transformed me radically since I wore an Afro wig. Relatives who’d known me all my life, didn’t recognize me.
In July, I took a phenomenal two-week vacation in Ghana, prompting me to work on an 18-week writing project spread over 16 blog posts about the experience. This was the first time I’d written a series since starting my weekly blog in 2011. https://www.mathdreads.com/?cat=42
Continuing my pole fitness journey, I started taking a choreography flow class, then spin pole in August. After finally learning to engage my shoulders, I upped my game by taking two pole classes a week: spin and intro to inverts. At this rate, perhaps I’ll stop looking as if I’m undergoing a military drill and start looking as if I’m actually dancing. After all, pole class is just as strenuous as when I trained for capoeira.
During my birthday celebration, I invited my yoga teacher to “throw 5s,” representing my 55th year on this planet.
Afterwards, my family feasted on takeout, mainly because I wanted those tasty biscuits. Absolutely delicious although the restaurant surprised us with three styles of potatoes: mashed, fried and baked.
Of course I paired the meal with a glass of cabernet just before jetting off to my glorious 90-min full body massage.
I invited the massage therapist to “throw 5s” prior to the massage.
Never one to miss an opportunity to dress up, I used half of an Ahsoka costume to attend a Renaissance Faire fundraiser. Proceeds went toward a tiny home for an adult on the autism spectrum, so he could live independently.
Once again, we attended the Southeastern Regional Poetry Slam. At a smaller venue, but still packed the place with 11 powerful performances. The energy was through the roof. Almost made me wish I was still producing my own theme-inspired spoken word and storytelling show.
If I’d actually feared a long line on the last day of early voting for the primary, I didn’t have to worry or adjust my plans too much. I strongly believe in doing my civic duty prior to the collapse of civilization.
Oktoberfest turned out to be quieter than expected, but at least the food and cider were good.
I’ve never been a big fan of beer, but this selection intrigued me. We all sampled them a weekend at a time.
Not more than 100 yards away from “Oktoberfest” was another outdoor event with even more food options.
Not a moment too soon, Halloween season officially began with my first costume, Foxy Brown, at the Pole-O-Ween event.
For the first time ever, I attended downtown Fayetteville’s Zombie Walk. My sister and I had the right idea: put our names on the waitlist for our favorite Italian restaurant, then stroll to check out all the other costumes.
Since Halloween fell on a Friday this year, I ended the week with a partial zombie costume for my virtual training group. Only two of my trainees wore a head decoration, but everyone raised at least a RAWR claw.
Never impressed with all the Christmas decorations after Halloween, we made the best of the backdrop for our group yoga and wine picture.
Speaking of wine, I was in no mood to prepare a side dish for Thanksgiving. Instead, I prepped my jacket with a half bottle of red and my infamous silver chalice.
Like a bad cliche, the day after Thanksgiving, while everyone else celebrated Black Friday, we were among the unfortunate observers of Brown Friday. The half bathroom in the lower part of the house, near the laundry room and my bedroom, flooded. In exploring the plumbing problem, they discovered an asbestos problem. I was like the woman in the bubble, having to unzip and zip up two temporary plastic doors to go to and from my bedroom. The silver linings: 1) getting my steps and squats in, coming and going to my bedroom; 2) the peacefulness of the nearby laundromat; and 3) still finding occasions to play dress up!
First dress-up occasion: watching a live performance where dancers dressed up as characters from popular children’s stories. One of my friends danced as the Cheshire Cat.
For the second costume opportunity, I dressed as the only Black Who from Whoville at a Christmas-themed dance performance. Always a good time, especially with my “fancy” wine jacket. In other words, I stuffed my small wine bottle and chalice into the pockets of a faux fur coat.
No Christmas season would be complete without our annual Strange Family Reunion Virtual Christmas party, where, once again, I brought home the gold!
Finally, two days after Christmas on Saturday, or on Day Two of Kwanzaa, Kujichagulia (Self-Determination), all the family gathered together in the living room to watch a short film, Abundance Blessings, that I’d gifted to the family. I’d sworn off giving materialistic gifts back in 2022 and have focused on family events instead.
For years, I tortured myself, thinking of unique gifts for my immediate family. Gift-shopping was so much easier during the years I lived outside the States. The real challenge arose when I returned in 2009. The period between then and 2020 were hit or miss.
After eight years of being an expat, I resettled in Austin, TX. For the first few Christmases, I got away with the uniquely Austin things: Keep Austin Weird and Longhorn T-shirts, things made by local artists and businesses.
Even before I suddenly quit teaching, the whole gift-buying thing had become stale. The worst holidays were when I was too broke to participate in the commercialization of Christmas, but still wanted to celebrate with my family. The expectations of the gift-exchange was very stressful. The experience usually involved either a joyless financial obligation and/or the gift recipient was graceless in their discovery that my gift hadn’t met their expectations.
The year I was $30/week for groceries poor, one of my family members voiced how they hoped what I’d gifted them wasn’t a cookbook while unwrapping a cookbook. Well, not only had that cookbook represented half of my weekly grocery budget, but it contained two recipes that we were both known for. I’m not sure if the person ever used it, but I felt absolutely stupid for sacrificing half my weekly food money instead of making a gift like I’d done for every other family member.
Two COVID silver linings were not traveling home for Christmas and the rise of Zoom. That was an inexpensive holiday where I sent two care packages of edible goodies: one vegan gift for my sister and her family to share and another one shared by my parents, other sister and nephew.
I absolutely loved that. Not just the comparatively cheaper online shopping, but the mere appreciation that none of us died from a virus and had lived to see one another again, albeit virtually.
Although I’d managed to secure a full-time job with good benefits in June 2021, as par for the course, my salary was nowhere near being enough to continue living in Austin. So, I moved back home with my parents at the end of July 2022.
As stressful as relocating was, I had to adjust to a new family dynamic on top of always being home for the holidays. There was no way I was going to jump back on the capitalistic, commercialization of Christmas once again.
I researched “non-materialistic” Christmas gifts. One thing that resonated with me was planning a family event. I’m not sure how I came across indoor skydiving, but as soon as the idea crossed my mind, I booked a flight for the whole family except my octogenarian parents who still had an enjoyable time watching the rest of us.
The following Christmas, Dad could no longer walk unassisted. For that family Christmas event, I recruited five of my dance teachers to perform in a Christmas show that I wrote, produced, directed and hosted. It was one of the few times Dad had been outside the house without it being a doctor’s appointment since his injury.
By the next Christmas, Dad still couldn’t walk. I produced another Christmas show where an actress/dancer came to our house to perform a one-woman show I’d written. She performed in the living room where I ran sound from my laptop.
I barely pulled off that last show. Took far more effort than the previous year to thread the needle, given that half the family lived out of town and only stayed for a hot second. Then I worried about the performer arriving on time, my family arriving on time and me getting Christmas Eve off, which Christmas miracle, I did.
This year, the day after Thanksgiving, traditional Black Friday, we joined millions of other families in the States and had a Brown Friday. On Brown Friday, you have to call a plumber. At the time of this writing, that seemingly simple plumbing problem blossomed into the house needing asbestos mitigation AND new pipes outside of the house.
And it was STILL the Christmas season. I paid for half of the original plumbing bill since I felt that my occasional use of “flushable” wipes had contributed to the issue. However, the house, which was built in 1971, still had the original pipes and needed an upgrade.
I was still motivated to observe a non-materialistic Christmas, but Grinch style. This year, everyone’s getting cussed out for Christmas.
And why not? It’s free. One size fits all. Even if it doesn’t, it’s easily customizable. Personalized to let past Christmas slights ooze out as the eggnog flows.
With so many boxes checked, I’m surprised I’ve not done it before. Especially when family members had so ungraciously complained about a gift I’d given them right in front of me. Worst, one family member aggressively approached me about a gift I gave another family member because that was what a third family member “should have” received as well.
Fuck all that. And I get to keep my money too. Scrooge would be proud.
I’d never been to a Grilled Cheese Festival before, but the name alone evoked fond childhood memories. However, we coupled the experience with ciders.
I don’t remember what charity the event raised money for, but people were definitely generous, sharing extra food tokens with us as we arrived. We even saw other friends who’d arrived hours earlier and joined them in line for our first sample.
The friend who I’d come with immediately vetoed the grilled salmon and cheese quesadilla. Her palate didn’t include fish with cheese. Since I was starving at that point, I wolfed it down, not caring about the combination nor the fact that it wasn’t quite a “grilled cheese sandwich.” I later learned that that food truck had run out of bread since they hadn’t factored in other food trucks not showing up. Apparently, there were supposed to be anywhere from six to nine different food trucks providing some version of grilled cheese, but only three had showed up.
Next sample was the ol’ school grilled cheese served up from a renovated bus. Everything about it was absolutely delicious. Even my friend, who was far more particular about food than I was, enjoyed it and returned for seconds.
The first place winner, according to my palate, was the grilled brisket and cheese. Fortunately, I sampled the sandwiches in the order of increasing deliciousness.
The weather cooperated with the outdoor event until the sun went down. The temperature dropped way too low for my comfort, especially since I hadn’t worn a jacket. In all aspects of my life, I pack light and live uncluttered.
I joked with three other friends, who included checking out guys along with their pursuit of grilled cheese and drinking, why they couldn’t flirt with men who worked at the venue who could have turned on the heat lamps. I wanted to stay long enough to hear the band, but in the end, the plunging temperature motivated us to leave.
I’d stopped eating bread on a regular basis a few years ago. Although that event was an edible indulgence, I definitely planned to resume making bread scarce in my diet once again.
I don’t have a passion for cooking. The most I do since moving back in with my parents is make breakfast every morning. Even the pull of Thanksgiving didn’t inspire me to prepare a dish or dessert to share.
For a brief moment, I thought about bringing my very first batch of Kool-Aid pickles. I’d only learned about their existence a few days prior to Thanksgiving on National Pickle Day. Since the preparation didn’t involve too many ingredients nor much effort, I tried it out.
The most time-consuming part was finding the Kool-aid packet. Not only was it on an aisle that I usually skip, but I couldn’t buy an individual packet like we used to do when I was a child. So, I got my pack of five and used the blue-colored one. (Who really gives a damn about what the actual artificial flavor was?)
Then, I bought the cheapest jar of pickles, which conveniently enough, were also thinly sliced. As any kitchen scientist knows, the more surface area something has, the quicker the absorption rate.
When I got home, I poured 2/3 cup of sugar into the bottom of a mason jar, emptied the Kool-Aid packet, forked out all the pickles, and then filled the jar with the pickle juice.
Mom, who’s auditorily-challenged but still managed to hear that I was up to something, entered the kitchen to investigate. I told her about my edible experiment, explaining that they’d be ready in three days.
Despite the surrealness of blue-green pickles a la Dr. Seuss, they were delicious. Although they were festively colored, I was in no creative mood to dress them up or at least arrange them beautifully on a tray to elevate them to a Thanksgiving side dish/condiment.
Instead, I stuffed my inside jacket pockets with my silver chalice and a 375 mL bottle of red wine. Along with my Thanksgiving pants, a drinking jacket was the perfect accompaniment for the holiday.
Of course, I wasn’t the first to think of a “drinking jacket.” A quick online search resulted in many hits for beer jackets, showing off all the features to accommodate various drinking accessories and ease of transportation.
I’d have to make several modifications if I truly wanted to transform my multi-pocketed jacket into a true wine jacket, starting with straps to secure the chalice and the bottle. Or much deeper pockets.
As I’ve ranted before, the fashion industry abhors women’s clothing having pockets, much less deep pockets. I’m not sure if it’s whether to pressure women to buy expensive handbags or to pressure women to show off our bodies, unencumbered with bulky pockets, but men don’t have the same struggle. They even enjoy pockets with their pajamas.
As usual, the chalice was a big hit, but one person just had to clown me about the size of my bottle. He didn’t even want wine. My niece had brought a 750 mL bottle of wine. So, there was enough wine for everyone who had good palates: my nieces, a nephew and me. The rest only liked fruity cocktails and very sweet dessert wines, ie alcoholic Kool-aid, as I refer to them.
Time will tell if I’ll be inspired to prepare something for Thanksgiving. Or create a better wine jacket.
For a total of eleven years, I’d worked outside the States, starting in Tanzania with the Peace Corps. Yet, I planned far more for a two-week trip to Ghana than I’d ever planned for life in another country. Also, this was the most I’d ever paid for a vacation; so, I wanted to make sure that I got my money’s worth.
One of my cousins, who’d toured Ghana before with Dr. Kofi Lomotey, enthusiastically recommended the life-changing experience. Thanks to her advocacy, eight of us, who were either descendants of Jesse Strange, my great grandfather, or married into the family, prepared for months to participate in the excursion.
I renewed my passport, obtained a visa, a yellow fever shot, malaria pills, and arranged for two weeks off. Initially, I’d requested only one week off. Fortunately, I had no problem getting that second week off since I’d started planning months in advance.
The Saturday prior to my departure, I treated all of my clothes, except for underwear and bathing suits, with permethrin. Although I’d read the instructions, I thought spraying my clothes with that mosquito repellant was tedious. So, I poured a container’s worth into a bucket. The first thing I dunked was a pair of jeans.
I learned several lessons: jeans were far too absorbent to dunk; I wasted nearly a whole bottle of permethrin; and spraying was both time- and cost-effective. After those life lessons, I hung up an item at a time in the laundry room to spray.
I laid all the damp items on a drying rack. The treatment would last for weeks even after six washings.
That process allowed me to double check that I had enough clothes, especially underwear since I hadn’t planned to do laundry while on vacation. I strategically put all my clothing and other supplies, such as flushable wipes, into my suitcase.
Wipes. There’s something about traveling, especially to a developing country, that causes a preoccupation about “cleanliness.” Wipes weren’t merely for toilet uses, but to clean my hands before eating, wiping down surfaces and wiping my face during long hours of travel.
As my niece pointed out, they weren’t antibacterial. True, but who wants to wipe their sensitive parts with antibacterial chemicals? That was what hand sanitizer was for. Plus, dining tables are wiped down with far less sanitary cloths.
I’d calmed down from the paranoid state of obsessively cleaning things since COVID, but the virus was still out there, right? Even knowing that Ghana had had a better COVID response than the States didn’t shake the belief that I needed to pack far more wipes than I’d possibly use in two weeks. Just in case.
Finally, my departure date arrived. Normally, I’m not a nervous flier, but during the months of planning for this trip, the political climate had changed. Masses of federal workers had been laid off. Airport controllers, many of whom Reagan had fired back in the 80s, were still in short supply. Tariffs. Travel bans. Would we still have a country to fly out of? Or return to?
My mind churned with paranoia. No one else in our travel group expressed any concerns out loud; so I kept my paranoid thoughts to myself.
My sister convinced me that we had to wake up very early in the morning to make a 90-minute trip to the airport for a noontime flight. At least I wasn’t late.
Despite my meticulous planning and packing, I forgot to pack an umbrella. Fortunately, she had one in her car to lend me. Even so, I would not have asked her to turn the car around.
We stopped at a fastfood place to get breakfast. Perhaps it was too early in the morning for them as well. My sister placed her drive-thru order, but the employee stopped responding when I attempted to order. By the time we pulled up to the window, even my sister’s order had been lost.
I chased away thoughts of that bad service being an ominous sign. If I hadn’t given into paranoia at that point, why let superstition creep in?
We had a beautiful drive while eating our breakfast in the car. No traffic all the way to the airport. Once my sister dropped me off, an airline worker greeted me and handled my check-in, doing everything for me with a smile.
Just like that, those twin demons, paranoia and superstition, disappeared. I happily rolled my luggage to be checked in. That’s when another demon jumped on my shoulder: Snap Judgment.
I placed my luggage onto the scale and greeted the airline worker who sported a prominent drink stain covering most of her chest. (She can still be a competent employee, right?)
Although I made an effort to look into her eyes, I may have faltered or else she was self-conscious because she explained about spilling a breakfast smoothie on herself. Sounded like a fluke occurrence. (You hear that, Snap Judgment?)
Then, she flipped through my passport to check the visa and frowned. (Paranoia reappeared.) Most visas that she’d dealt with had a barcode, but the Ghanaian visa did not. She said that she wasn’t sure which number represented the visa number. After consulting a nearby coworker, she typed in the visa number. (Paranoia disappeared; Snap Judgment lingered.)
After entering the women’s restroom, I looked at the visa, which only had two numbers. One of the numbers was very clearly labeled “passport number.” The other number, typed in large red print, could have only been the visa number. (Snap Judgment threw back its head, laughing, then snapped its finger and disappeared.)
Armed with nothing but an overstuffed purse, I headed toward security. For the first time in years, I kept my shoes on. One of reasons I’d bought a pair of comfortable, stylish slip-on sandals was for the ease of going through airport security. A few days before departure, the rules had changed, allowing passengers to keep their shoes on during the security check.
Although I was far too early, I sat down at the departure gate near an outlet to relax and entertain myself until my cousin’s friend, who was on the same flight, arrived. With that thought, I realized I had no idea what my cousin’s friend looked like.
My phone call woke up my cousin. She was always the last one to do everything, but somehow still on time. She was flying directly to Accra out of DC later that evening and STILL hadn’t finished packing. So, my early-ish phone call actually helped get her day started.
I immediately recognized my cousin’s very stylish friend from the pictures she’d texted me. We’d only had enough time to exchange names when the stylish friend dashed off in search of her cell phone, leaving her carry-on with me.
A few minutes later, I noticed two other women react to Stylish Friend’s name being announced over the airport PA system. When she returned triumphantly with phone in hand, SF introduced me to her coworker and the coworker’s daughter, who’d both heard the announcement.
For our first flight, from RDU to JFK, my initial thought was that the plane was too small. In retrospect, the plane had two seats on either side of the aisle, which was standard for a domestic flight. The actual problem was that it felt cramped.
When I discovered a woman sitting in my window seat instead of her aisle seat, I didn’t complain because she looked even more cramped, jammed up beside the window. She politely offered to switch seats with me. At the time, I didn’t realize I was being played.
I declined, thinking I’d have more breathing room with access to the aisle. What I actually had was motivation to dodge everything that came down that aisle before, during and after the flight. I hadn’t flown in six years and had forgotten the dynamics of why I usually chose window seats in the first place.
Our foursome found a restaurant near the departure gate. My only criterion was that the place served wine. Bonus: our server had given us a stack of napkins, which I stuffed into my purse. When traveling around a developing country, I believe in having my own toilet paper supply.
Properly sated, I strolled over to the gate, hugged my cousin who lived in New York and would be my roommate for the next two weeks. She pointed out Dr. Kofi, who stood in the boarding line.
As I boarded a bigger, cramped plane, I knew I wouldn’t be sweetly persuaded out of my window seat. This was the longer leg of the journey; so, in addition to avoiding things bumping into me from the aisle, I’d be able to prop my head against the window for a few hours of sleep. At least half of that came true.
One of the in-flight movies I watched, “Death of a Unicorn,” had an actress who looked like my seat partner from the first flight. Either that was an incredible coincidence or I didn’t have to land in Ghana before my mind started to play tricks on me.
Things actually got undeniably tricky as soon as we landed in Accra.
When had it become Sunday? Surely, while we flew over international waters. Ghana was four hours ahead of the East Coast. But psychologically, the idea of “the next day” didn’t gel because I hadn’t slept.
Despite the fact that my head was cushioned and propped against the window, I couldn’t fall asleep for any appreciable amount of time since my seat partner’s movie screen kept flashing light when the scenes changed. Soon after his screen went dark, the flight attendants raised the cabin lights to serve breakfast.
Even if I’d received proper rest, landing in Accra at 7:15 AM would have still felt like 3:15 AM EST. Once the plane touched ground to a round of applause, I slept-walked, following the herd of passengers.
Grateful to travel with three others, we stood in the customs line together until we were called to one of the self-contained, glass-encased booths arranged in a row. As soon as I approached the customs window, the officer checked my passport and yellow card.
She pointed out that my yellow card was incomplete because the doctor hadn’t filled everything in. For $20, they’d complete it for me. Even with my sleep-deprived mind, I knew that was bullshit.
I asked to inspect the yellow card. I glanced over the card, noting that everything hadn’t been filled out. The officer told me to step to the side so she could continue helping others.
Since the custom officer’s booth was shaped like a small square, I moved from the front of the square to the back. All I really wanted to do was get both my yellow card and passport back without making a scene or paying a bribe.
While she assisted another traveler, I reached into the booth and collected my passport. Then, I got her attention, telling her that I had to rejoin my tour group. I pointed to the other three women who were standing together a few feet away, looking at us. The officer tiredly waved me away.
As I joined my companions, I wondered if the officer had attempted to solicit a bribe from me because I had a lighter skin tone. Colorism was rampant in the States, but that didn’t mean that the phenomenon existed in Ghana. That was merely the framework through which I processed my situation. The familiar hypervigilance coming to the surface after being unfairly singled out.
After all, the other three women were also Americans and had “incomplete” yellow fever shot cards. Yet, we’d all gone to different customs officers. They had been routinely processed without any incident; so, I’ll never really know what confluence of factors had made me a mark.
Next hurdle: getting my checked bag. I’d begun to worry that the suitcase had been lost. I silently chastised myself for not tying a ribbon around my medium-sized, charcoal gray suitcase to distinguish it better. Everyone else in the tour group had received their things. One of my travel companions waited with me for emotional support. Once I finally grabbed my suitcase, she said that she’d seen it go around the conveyor belt at least one time.
We boarded a bus that had both English and Korean lettering. I’d taught ESL in South Korea for 14 months, so I recognized the alphabet, but not the words.
Despite my fatigue, I couldn’t sleep on the bus. So many things reminded me of Tanzania: the colorfully-dressed people, the hustle and bustle, and the near-miss driving patterns with bold pedestrians, including an assortment of vendors, many with products for sell, being carried on their heads.
I’d worked in two other African countries for two years apiece: Tanzania and Egypt. Ghana reminded me more of Tanzania than Egypt. Except for the traffic. Chaotic-looking from the perspective of someone from the States, the only reason I could tell that we were in Sub-Saharan traffic rather than Egyptian traffic was the lack of a donkey cart in the mix.
Our bus unloaded in front of a hotel with a large lobby, decorated with large dark wood carvings. As we sat in the lobby, Dr. Kofi and his support staff circulated around, handing out registration forms.
Eventually, we received our electronic room key and headed off toward the elevator, which was very small and only accommodated about four people, depending on how much luggage was present.
Roommate Cousin and I rolled into our spacious room with two full-size beds. As RC unpacked, I picked up the A/C remote. No matter which sequence of buttons I pushed on the remote, the unit wouldn’t turn on. I double-checked that the outlet, where the unit was plugged into, was turned on. I abandoned the effort to use the bathroom.
That’s when I noticed the row of switches located between the room door and the bathroom. As soon as I put the room key into the slot, the A/C came on along with some of the bedroom lights. By trial and error, we figured out that the two bottom switches in the trio controlled the foyer and main bathroom light, but we never figured out what the top switch did.
The most important switch of them all, turned on the hot water heater. The red light above that switch indicated whether it was on or off. In what became par for the course, I took my shower first in every new accommodation just so I could figure out how to get hot water and explain the process to RC.
Before getting myself situated in the room, I ventured out onto our semi-circle balcony to take pictures of the view, from left to right:
Still not convinced that the international electrical adapter that I bought would work, I plugged in the neck fan first. Since the fan didn’t blow up, I plugged in my phone.
While stretched out on the bed, I did yoga exercises for my low back. The sounds of the city poured through the closed windows: traffic, sirens, construction and the occasional rooster.
Years ago as a Peace Corps Volunteer, I’d learned that roosters crowed all day long and not just at the crack of dawn. At that time, I’d heard that, thanks to human interference with our electric lights, roosters “were confused” as a result. It’s laughable now that I’d once believed that since I hadn’t grown up on a farm.
The myth of roosters only crowing in the morning was perpetuated by entertaining childhood stories and cartoons. (Another good cartoon myth: roadrunners being as large as ostriches.) Roosters crow at the sight of dawning light, to mark territory, to attract females. Pretty much any reason to assert dominance.
Around noon, we crossed the street from our hotel for lunch.
I ordered too much food as if I wanted an impromptu Ghanaian “Thanksgiving.” Not knowing the portion size, I figured hummus with fresh-baked pita would be the appetizer and jollof rice with lamb shank, my entree. Since I still battled fatigue, I ordered a non-alcoholic ginger pineapple drink.
Mom would have loved the strong ginger taste, sweetened by fresh pineapple.
I risked ordering what I considered a Middle Eastern food, but someone in the kitchen knew exactly what they were doing. I shared the appetizer with other tour members who sat near me.
Either I didn’t know what lamb shank was or in the States it wasn’t that large. As soon as the server placed the entree in front of me, I removed all the meat off one side of the bone and put the rest on another plate for the others to share.
One member in our tour group had discovered a half sister via commercial DNA testing. One of the reasons he and his spouse had traveled to Ghana was to meet her. She and her family, which consisted of three beautiful bright-eyed kids with locks, like their parents, arrived at the restaurant.
In contrast, genetic testing had revealed that part of my maternal DNA came from Ghana. So, seven of us, along with two in-laws, had traveled to see our family roots.
We’d finished lunch, but sat idle, waiting for the money exchange guy who would travel around with us every day during our tour. Although I had my tab, I didn’t care to use my credit card nor dollars since I didn’t have any low bills. I’d only bought $50s and $100s because they fetched the highest exchange rate.
“Is that him?” SF asked when she saw a Ghanaian man with a large fanny pack swagger into the restaurant. AKA “Money Man.”
I looked away from the soccer match displayed on one of the large flatscreen TVs. Not that I was a sports fan. I’d needed a distraction.
I’d missed his dramatic entrance, but witnessed Money Man’s slick hand-jive greeting with another guy sitting near us. Coming hours away from Kumasi, he had been delayed due to traffic. He got down to business, working his way up and down the table efficiently changing US dollars for cedi.
After paying our tabs in Ghanaian currency, cedi, a few of us walked from our hotel lobby to the pool where two elementary-aged girls were attending swim lessons. The restaurant where we’d have dinner and breakfast made up one of the walls, surrounding the pool area.
Since I packed light, no laptop nor iPad waited for me in the room. In what became a daily ongoing ritual, I watched TV while journaling. I knew how easily details slipped away unless I recorded them whenever I got the chance. Journaling allowed me to relax and focus on the trip.
Another batch of people in our tour group arrived in time for dinner, including my sister, nieces, brother-in-law, another two cousins and her spouse. At the end of dinner, Dr. Kofi welcomed us all and made several announcements about tomorrow’s itinerary.
A tour member informed us that it was Dr. Kofi’s 75th birthday, prompting us to sing Stevie Wonder’s version of “Happy Birthday.”
After dinner, a group of us went to Dr. Kofi’s room to look at fabric and have clothes made. I was in a sleep-deprived fog as I looked at material from the cloth vendor and was sized by the tailor. I handed the tailor a button-down shirt that I wanted copied.
I practically fled the room in search of a shower. I usually shower at night and was determined to maintain that habit. The last time I’d showered was on Friday night. In my mind, Saturday didn’t count because I had been flying.
I clicked the water heater button. While waiting for the water to heat up, I laid out my clothes, both for the night and the next day, and gathered all my toiletries. Felt like a new woman after that refreshing shower.
I set my alarm for 5:15, so I could join Dr. Kofi on the 6 AM walk. When I’d asked him at lunch if he’d start the morning walks on Monday morning, his response, “Are pigs’ feet pork?”
RC and I joined other early-bird members of our tour group outside of the hotel. To the right of the hotel, a watermelon vendor was ready for business BEFORE 6 AM. Talk about a strong entrepreneurial spirit.
As a matter of fact, there were many people up at that time, just milling about. Then, I looked across the street.
Beside the restaurant where we’d had lunch was a disco. I’d fallen asleep to the various beats that penetrated through the closed hotel windows. Was this the mass Monday morning walk of shame?
Our morning walk started promptly after 6 AM. Dr. Kofi set a casual pace along the street over a variety of urban terrain with very few sidewalks, and the occasional rooster.
At our turn around point, Dr. Kofi bought softball-sized doughnuts for the group. Although they were much larger in size than the doughnuts I’d eaten in Tanzania, they tasted the same.
While waiting for him to complete the transaction, I took a picture of the hot sauce billboard. Not only am I a hot sauce enthusiast, but I loved the proximity of the sauce’s name to a curse word and its potential effect on one’s digestive system.
I nibbled on my doughnut back at the hotel. That didn’t ruin my appetite for the hotel breakfast buffet, consisting of fresh fruit, pastries, spicy ramen, and beef and chicken sausage. One of the servers delivered my omelette to the table.
After breakfast, we filed into the hotel conference room where Prof. Kofi Akpabli, senior lecturer at Central University, gave us some background facts about Ghana. Although I jotted down notes, at times I was sleep writing. So, charge it to my jet lag and not my heart if I recorded incomplete thoughts:
Ghana ~ same size as Oregon with the population of TX.
Public universities are well-funded, but more private universities fill in the gaps with 94 of them.
Colonizers couldn’t eliminate chieftaincy.
Northern Ghanaian chiefs sit on animal skins. Other chiefs sit on stools (thrones).
Funerals: people wear traditional colors: black, white and red. Traditionally, women don’t wear makeup, but that’s changing.
In 1961, Peace Corps makes Ghana first country where volunteers were placed.
Obama visited Ghana first before Kenya as president.
A version of the March on Washington occurred in August 1963.
Big 6: Oanquah, Nkrumah, Qbetsebi-Lamptey, Ofori-Atta, Akufo-Addo, Ako-Adjel.
Ghana has a rare type of lighthouse and the other is in Michigan. The Ghanaian one is older.
Ghana has warmth, colorful vibes, round the clock hustle and bustle, poor and good infrastructure; peace and safety; delicious cuisine, people who look like you.
“Consult the old lady” expression means to use a pragmatic way to solve a situation.
Chiefs are men, but follows a maternal line. Women are behind the scenes, especially the Akan.
Colonizers told African kings that they had to be chiefs because King George was the only king.
I bought two of his books, Tickling the Ghanaian and The Prince and the Slave. The first book explained cultural phenomena, which I readily saw/experienced while touring the country although I’d read about not chewing fufu too late to be implemented. The second book was a play, depicting the complexities of the slave trade and change of fate on the African continent.
(Please click on individual pictures to see the full view, then click on the browser back arrow to return to blog view.)
During the second lecture, my notes were even more sporadic:
In 1884, European colonizers demarcated the African continent among themselves. Used indirect rule to exploit resources.
1897: Rise of nationalist groups.
1945: Nkrumah conference about independence.
Big 6 arrested because three British soldiers killed since the British fired upon peaceful protesters.
Members of parliament elected from different provinces.
3 E’s: Economy, Environment, and Emerging rights.
China has large presence with cheap products, which kills Ghanaian products.
Gold, Mg, bauxite, diamonds.
Funny how POTUS complimented Liberian president’s English-speaking ability since it’s an English-speaking country.
Our first excursion was to the W.E.B. DuBois Museum, which included his former house, exhibition area, and final resting place.
DuBois, historian, sociologist and civil rights activist, was the first Black person to receive a PhD from Harvard in 1895.
The irony didn’t escape me that as one of the cofounders of the NAACP (National Association for the Advancement of Colored People), DuBois lived his final years outside the States.
One of his beliefs was that elite Blacks, who he called the Talented Tenth, would racially uplift all Blacks.
I’m a believer in the 80/20 rule which dictates that only 20 percent of production yields 80 percent of the results. I don’t merely expect the top ten to be productive, but all of us. No one is so untalented that they cannot contribute something to the cause.
Moreover, the formally educated don’t know it all. Lived experiences and oral tradition greatly contribute to knowledge and progress. Why else should one travel and purposely go out of their comfort zone?
I intentionally packed and wore a T-shirt that depicted the cover of my first book, Tribe of One. The one tourist picture I knew that I wanted was to pose with DuBois’ portrait while wearing it.
When our museum guide led us into his personal library, she said that she’d decorated the space with curtains to depict W.E.B. DuBois’ name. Some of us got real close to the curtains to see if the pattern spelled out his name. After a while, she revealed that since the initials of his first and middle names spelled out “web,” the design was full of spider webs.
Throughout adulthood, especially after graduating from college, I’d juggled creative projects. At no point in my life did I ever think that I had enough money or talent. Only the lack of time invested into a project prevented it from being completed. So, when I read the below quote, I readily agreed that time was the only resource someone needed to do great things.
Since I’d packed light, I hadn’t brought one of my books with me to place with his. From one writer to another. Although I write fictional novels and mostly nonfictional blog posts, I felt that DuBois’ activism helped pave the way for me to have a voice.
For lunch, we went to a richly decorated, upscale restaurant.
Despite the extensive menu, I ordered a traditional meal: fufu. In all the reading I’d done prior to visiting Ghana, no where do I remember being advised not to chew it. Fufu had a very soft texture that I could have easily swallowed it. Call it force of chewing habit. Perhaps servers didn’t advise me due to previous tourists reacting badly after being told not to chew fufu. Whatever the case, it was still delicious.
After lunch, we visited the Kwame Nkrumah Park. Dedicated to Ghana’s first president after independence in 1957, the park recounted how Ghana was the first sub-Saharan African country to free itself of British rule. Different tour groups, from local schoolchildren to we foreign visitors, gathered in front of Nkrumah’s statue to chant one his famous quotes, “Forward ever. Backwards never.”
Next stop: Black Star/Independence Square. Known as the “Lodestar of African Freedom,” the black star, featured in the Ghanaian flag and on various architectural structures, symbolized the emancipation of the country and the African continent.
On our way to dinner, we passed two buildings which had rooftop bars. Their coloration reminded me of the 60s. Although we’d passed by them several times before, I hadn’t bothered to look at the top since the design itself was so striking compared to the rest of the Accra cityscape.
Many found the dinner buffet too spicy. Not only did I love the well-seasoned food, but I also added black pepper sauce. We topped the meal off with vanilla and strawberry ice cream which had a flavor reminding me of lip gloss. As stuffed as I felt, others surprised me, talking about going to the restaurant across the street from our hotel.
I napped on the bus trip back to the hotel. Perhaps others did as well since no one initially seemed enthusiastic about the welcoming ceremony as we filed into the conference room where we’d started off that morning. Yet, things turned lively when support staff gifted us kente cloth sashes with our names on it. (I removed names on most of the pictures below.)
A few days prior to visiting Ghana, I’d watched a late-night comedian where Chance the Rapper was one of the guests. I nearly jumped out of my recliner when he said that he’d visited Ghana, which helped influence his latest album. He recommended that when in Ghana, try KFC. He assured us that their chicken was much better than what we ate in the States.
As a matter of fact, when RC had first visited Ghana, someone in her tour group pointed out Chance the Rapper. They had been souvenir shopping a large market at the same time as he. She hadn’t known who he was prior to that encounter.
One of my cousins and a niece took an Uber to KFC. I was too jet lagged to go, but I asked my niece to bring me a piece of chicken. The seasoning was delicious, but the chicken itself wasn’t all that better than in the States. Then again, I only tasted a drumstick. My niece reported that the chicken breast was really good.
