Kashka & Kuukua: A Celebration of Friendship & Love
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Earlier on today I wrote My usual attempt To order my world Make sense of chaos As I wrote I thought This relationship of ours has Grown Progressed Morphed **** From the days We just said “Hello” And went on campus ministry trips To spending time at that “Dominican Connection” retreat with mutual friend, KR Laughing so hard, Letting go of all defences Just being **** Sometimes I wish you had come with On that other “Dominican Connection” weekend in New York Or to Ministry in the Mountains In Colorado Springs where we could have gotten to know each other better ****
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I’m sure there’s a blueprint for our Relationship lying somewhere in God’s house and at those times We were not destined to be that close, Not yet at least **** I remember the time when Yaye Marie and I were teaching you steps to Your first African interfaith dance; How did you get coaxed into that? And later pigging out in the Colonial Room during the international day festival And continental fashion show **** I remember you coming to my numerous African family celebrations, my graduation, my 25th birthday You were slowly building up your Tolerance for spicy African food **** |
An incident of a bright, red face comes to mind That night mom cooked fufu You had had your first taste a month before But this time the pepper was too much Plus it had pigfeet Which from the look on your face You had never tried before I gotta give it to you You are one brave Diva! Never hesitating to try something new **** I remember losing touch after my graduation Then seeing you at your graduation in The summer I went back to Ghana for the first time Don’t recall what you did that summer Or how we got back in touch again **** |
I recall my first semester of grad school I don’t know how much of the difficulty of my first year struggle with theology you knew about Looking back now… It probably wasn’t so much the theology Although I’m sure it played a part But rather my depression that made it such a difficult time for me **** I signed up to lead that trip to Haiti Returned a changed woman You helped me move that summer In between Haiti and Morocco Me driving 50 miles on the freeway Getting stuck behind semis and all the while You patiently driving ahead I left for Morocco with contact only through email that summer Upon my return from Morocco it was an even greater transformation! The beginnings of the woman I am today An amazing adventure **** |
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That July 4th weekend The infamous and dramatic phone call to my boyfriend That ended a 5-year co-dependency I remember you being there for me Encouraging me to come out dancing with the ladies that night, me refusing Choosing instead to Wallow in self-pity for Not being a true black woman Not making that man love me enough To marry me **** Determined for me to get my license that summer you lent me Your time with an ample supply of patience In July of 2002, 6 years after moving to the US I finally did it! **** I tried to finish up teaching and grading Freshman Comp You finished up too Both of us anxious to be done with grad school You looked at jobs I looked for tickets to visit Ghana You interviewed I booked You got the job I confirmed the tickets I was leaving for home Second trip in seven years *** |
Excitement built up as I turned in my final Thesis and drove home The phone call came Relayed the news Tragedy had hit; Disappointment took root Disappointment led to grief I had lost a parent **** I got ready for my trip back to Ghana To bury my father We met at Panera’s that morning It was a sad parting You were moving two hours north to Start a career I was returning home to bury a Father I had barely known Yet knew I would miss We wrote email You called twice and each time I felt hope After talking to you This too shall pass Promised I’d survive **** Blending, bonding, spending time together Time spent watching “Kissing Jessica Stein” Or “The Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood” Or falling asleep during “Runaway Jury” Or reading Iyanla Vanzant in bed together Or journaling side by side ****
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Us loving and caring for each other Us sharing our deepest fears: Mine, my inability to remove race from the conversation Mine, worrying about fitting in with your white peeps Yours, your constant struggle with Feeling the need to sound smart all the time around me Yours, your lack of knowledge about your “invisible knapsack” **** Valuable time spent with each other Time spent with each other’s families Each moment building on the next Connecting us Grafting us slowly into each other’s lives Once separate and individual No longer so Blended, bonded That’s us **** We–you and I have come a long way And I guess that’s what makes us so close Makes us friends beloveds Through most of it we have been there for each other A relationship that is still Growing Progressing Morphing **** |
My Friend This is for you For us For what we have that is beyond words For what we have that defies societal restraints For what we profess That society denies For what we have been For what we are For what we will become because Of each other I appreciate you I love you Thank you for Being my friend **** Kashka & Kuukua A Celebration of Friendship & Love Kuukua Dzigbordi Yomekpe Penned Jan 12 2004 Edited October 26 2012 |
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Welcome to WWISH
“Hi! My name is Antoinette. I’m forty. I’m independent, single and happy.”
“Hi Antoinette! Welcome.” A chorus of women’s voices responds.
“Em…hello? My name is Kuukua…this is my first meeting. Oh…and I’m thirty-four.”
“Hi Kuukua! Welcome.” A chorus of women’s voices responds yet again.
“Welcome to WWISH, Kuukua, a place for women who are independent, single, and happy,” the facilitator of the group adds.
I am thirty-four. I am independent. I am single. Given the right combination of factors, I am happy most of the time. When I’m unhappy it’s usually because I have not paid attention to my gut. Some days I wish there was an AA-type group for women like me. Sometimes it is the sheer lack of our visibility that throws me into depression. I know we are out there, but because we don’t see each other, perhaps we cave and join the married forces only to launch ourselves into a life of permanent depression. It was difficult to see everyone pairing off in their twenties and wonder if all was well with me. It became more concerning to outsiders when I hit thirty and kept going and still showed no signs of pairing off. Now, a few months from thirty-five, and with every other word out of my aunt’s mouth having to do with marriage, I can’t help thinking about it all over again. It’s not the quintessential 34-year crisis, although I won’t deny that this is probably riding on its heels, but it’s the crisis that’s not often talked about. Even when it is talked about, it’s often done in an attempt to fix it—getting the culprit a therapist, setting her up with numerous blind-dates, quizzing her so often that she begins to make-up ‘boyfriends’—trying to know the root cause of her spinsterhood so they can fix it. Speaking of the latter, at what age does one cross over from being just single into being a spinster? Does anyone know?
When I was growing up my grandmother did her best to ensure that my sister and I steered clear of boys, or rather that boys steered clear of us. She was so concerned with boys and grades that everything else played second fiddle. If actions really do speak louder than words, then she needn’t have tried so hard. All around us, every woman in our family, including her, had been married, once, some even twice, and yet were all raising children single-handedly with little or no male support. So is it a wonder that at thirty-four and thirty-one, my sister and I are still unmarried and have no plans to do so anytime soon? So why do I get flack from all these single mothers, about getting married? Why do I have to spend time creating and keeping track of Jamaican boyfriends that no one will be able to trace? (I discovered a few years back that my extended family had a knack for tracing last names from some of the neighboring West African countries.) Jamaica is safe. They are Africa uprooted. Some of “them” are Rasta people but so long as their skin is like mine and they believe in God, we have a match! Plus to them, Jamaica covers all of the Caribbean so that gives me quite a range.
There are lots of theories why women like me exist. Smart, highly-educated, beautiful, sexy, great cook. Also, Type A, neat-freak, no-nonsense, impatient, brutally honest. Unmarried and childless. By choice! They say we had strong female figures in our lives who over shadowed the male figures (if they were around). They say we are jaded because some guy in our past duped us. They say we are ‘apuskeleke.’ They say we hate men. They say we are lesbians. The list goes on. It never occurs to anyone that perhaps marriage is not meant for everyone, nor does it have to have a timeline, nor does the same timeline have to apply to everyone.
Last Saturday, riding with two of my aunts around town, we passed three dressed-up wedding vehicles. They both chorused each time they saw each one that this was a sign I was getting married soon. Why not spend the time asking after my health and wellbeing? Why not find out how my new job is going? Am I happy? What do I want to do with my life? I’ve been gone from their lives for sixteen years, and when I return all they want to talk about is that boyfriend I’m hiding abroad. At least my one aunt is open-minded enough to use the term, ‘partner.’ Talk of marriage and children seem to consume people’s interactions with me. Given the fact that I have neither, one has to wonder what about it could possibly hold their interest for so long.
I have been on the continent for a total of four months, the longest I have been here since I was whisked away at eighteen to go and benefit from the Western world’s mastery of education and order. The past four months have been anything but a shock to my system; I feel I have stepped backwards at least five decades. It doesn’t matter that I have two masters and I’m working on a third. “Are you married?” is the first question everyone asks after being introduced. Of course the ring on my ring finger causes some confusion, but that’s another story. It seems over here in my old home, women are still just accompaniments to men. They do not acquire status unless it is spelled with the initials M.R.S. Even my classmates who are now doctors and lawyers and have come into some considerable contact with the Western world, have married and settled down, and are rushing home to fix their husbands’ dinners, or for those well-to-do ones, scurrying home to properly supervise the house-helps. These are the women who surprise me. I expect a barrage of marriage-related commentary from the older generation, not these friends. But it seems as if they, having accepted their lot in life, would now like me to also do the same. They don’t see marriage as a choice. It is something every woman must do; how dare I defy the conventions?
How dare I? This is another of the reasons why being in Ghana has been challenging. I don’t fit the conventions. Here, not fitting the conventions is a lot lonelier than in the U.S. where thinking outside the box is encouraged. Not fitting the box here means there are a lot of awkward silences when people ask certain questions. It means you rehearse a patent answer and deliver it to everyone who is nosey enough to ask (and that’s really everyone). It means rehearsing more answers for the obstinate guy who has come-backs for all my other answers. It is challenging because not only do I get to process the issue of Africa’s brain drain and my participation in it, or missing my family back in my other home, or teaching, or fill in the blank, I also have to think quickly on my feet about what to say to the question: “Are you married?” and its follow-up: “Why not?” or “What are you waiting for?” Of course there are other sneakier versions of the question:
“But Mel, aren’t you lonely?” (My old home friends call me by my Anglo name, Melody-Ann.)
“Of course I’m lonely sometimes, but not lonely enough to rush and fill it with a permanent fixture!”
Ehhh! Wrong answer! This one could lead to hours of defending such ‘flawed’ thinking.
It is exhausting to speak my mind, to say how I really feel about the whole matter, so I shut up and let them lecture me on the benefits of marriage and producing, again.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( 13 so far )Life Beyond the Vacation
There is a lot to say and do but for some reason I am quiet and calm. I booked my flights yesterday and it gave me some calm after it was all done. It’s scary to be making such a big move. It didn’t occur to me until Nana Nyarko said it that I was really doing something brave. Yes, it was home but it was out of my comfort zone. A place I hadn’t lived in for 16 years. I am taking a big leap of faith dragging myself off to another continent and especially to a country where sexism and homophobia have lunch together every day. A place where any sense of progressiveness is sometimes seen as an adoption of Western ideals and a booting of the traditional homegrown ones. Homophobia and sexism are preached in the pulpit on Sundays at most churches, discussed and prayed about at Bible Study on weekdays, and argued about over Star beer in the local chop bars where men retreat to instead of going home to their toiling wives.
Over the last two months I’ve been privy to conversations with several people, some of which have scared me. People in charge talk like this? These are the voices in the mainstream? What will happen to the world if we don’t stand up and counter some of these conversations and yelling matches? What happens if those of us with alternative voices chose to remain quiet? I’ve been more shocked at my own friends’ reactions to their “lot in life” to use the phrase rather facetiously. Most of the women I encountered knew their worth but some were willing to let society dictate to them how much they should be worth. Some were willing to be physically groped in public places because it was easier than causing a scene and drawing attention to the man doing it. Some had never been told their worth and so didn’t know to expect any better. On an average a woman is guaranteed to be forcefully grabbed by a strange man at least once a day if she leaves her house and more if she uses public transit. This is not OK! The term, “Personal Space” and “Boundaries” mean absolutely nothing to most men, married or not. The common retort I’ve gotten is that women were created for men’s pleasure so any woman who doesn’t acquiesce to such harassment hates men, this then ushers in the topic of homophobia and when this comes in, people literally lose their minds.
But I think I am beginning at a good place. The school I’m headed to is an international one, and there is only a handful of its kind in Ghana. As such, it is a cocoon of sorts, and this characteristic both thrills and disturbs me a bit. It would be a microcosm of Berkeley to an extent but there will be more people who look like me than not providing a comfort I have not been privileged to have before. I have been assured of care and support for this journey, but it’s my conscience that nags about service to the poor and how this fits in. The school is one of the more expensive schools in Ghana and even though they serve orphans as well, the concept still remains that it is an exclusive school of 320 students more than half of whom can afford to be there. I have heard only positive things from everyone I’ve spoken to. I know now after traipsing through five institutions that no institution is perfect. Some are better than others but they are all people-made and so have flaws. Once I learned this, and also that institutions don’t always work for people, especially my people, I had a whole new understanding and appreciation for them and my relationship with them. I hope this will be one of the better ones. This hope is what tempers the nervousness and anxiety that seizes hold of me at all hours. What the heck am I doing? When I can’t answer this question, I try to pack. When fitting 16 years of life in America into 2 50-lb suitcases fails, I go shopping. After all, I am going to have to replace those shoes I gave to Aunty Ama. J
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