The Difference Is...
Everyone asks when you come back, "So, What is the difference?"
Five words...21 letters...
It doesn't seem fair. I have so much that I could say.
Does the person want an answer that corresponds in brevity to their own question?
If so, "Everything. It's all different"
And that still has too many letters.
Does the person have the necessary time for what would begin to approach an acceptable answer?
Is it rude for me to ask if they actually want to know or if they are asking because it is expected?
The most honest of answers would probably be something like...
"I'm not entirely sure yet. There are still things that I am rediscovering here that I'd forgotten. There are things that I think about back "at home" in, Sierra Leone as I have found myself referring to it since my return, that I am already missing."
But even if I were to respond to the very best of my abilities how can I explain the multitude of differences between my two homes. I am sure that I don't have the knowledge of language or the ability to paint a picture that would encompass these two worlds. I could just as soon explain to a blind man what color is, when there is no real way to describe color, as explain to my friends and family here, many of whom have never stepped out of the States, what it is like to go to the market on a Saturday morning, it is the equivalent to describing color. We just don't have the same language or memories to relate to in order to understand.
The difference is...
...
...
Where to start?...
The roads are dirt and all of your clothes turn a fun shade of orange, as soon as you step outdoors.
Think about going to a farm. Out in the country. And not one of the high tech. farms. Think of the mom and pop farms. The ones with the rocking chairs on the front porch and the sweet pale lemonade in an old glass pitcher waiting to break your thirst in two. Think about that kind of a farm. Think about what happens when it rains and the yard turns into a muddy patch of nothingness. Remember what it was like to run to your car, raindrops drenching your best Sunday dress. And when you sat down in your car, wiped the cold drops of water from your brow, and looked down. That is what Sierra Leone is like. When you look down and realize that your primping and your bathing, your curling and your polish, has been taken away in the five yards between your screened in porch and the old vinyl seat of your beat up pickup truck. That feeling of wonder and frustration, not knowing if you will ever be able to get out that old Georgia clay. That is what it is like.
The difference is...
The poor and beggars inhabit the street corners, the road home, the hill behind your house, the market that you shop at, the entrance to your work, the everywhere you look, all day, everyday.
Think about that time that you were getting off the highway and you saw that old dirty worthless man. "How does a person get to this point?” you ask yourself. "That would never happen to me. I wouldn't let it. I wouldn't get to the point where I have to rely on others to provide me with clothes, food, and shelter. That person must have no initiative. That person has given up. I would never be like that." And you looked the other way and stepped a little harder on the gas when the light turned green because that makes the problem go away and God forbid that the person approach you for help because like an infectious disease, like the plague or the pox, this person may spread whatever lackluster spirit-crushing sickness that has so infected them onto your person. Now multiply that one person. Raise that person to the n exponent. Surround yourself with that person and no green lights. Take away that person’s overnight shelter. Take away their food pantries. Take away their Red crosses and their ability to write a sign pleading for help. Take that away with that many people. That is what it is like.
The difference is...
The noise. The great cacophony of noise. Surrounding you. Creating a cocoon that never breaks. Strike up the orchestra of dogs, generators, horns beeping, helicopters passing overhead, late night stereo's blaring, children screaming, people calling, cars squealing, goats bleating,...
Think about the time your six year old was having a Disney princess sleepover with ten of her closest friends, while your droll teenager was out in the garage with his band buddies practicing their latest remake of an old Kiss album, and your crying baby takes up one arm while the phone rings and the pizza man is at the door. Don't forget about Rover who desperately needs to get out to make a deposit on the back sidewalk and won't stop barking until he gets his way and the airport that has just completed it's new runway and has been running test flights at regular thirty minute intervals to ensure the safety of all those landings that will soon be zooming over your head. Insert that into your cookie cutter neighborhoods, into your carefully patrolled burroughs. That is what it is like.
The difference is...
The greetings. The smiles. The children running to grab your hands. The wrinkled old vegetable women asking how your day was. The bare chested guard asking when your friends will be visiting next. The taxi man who tells you about his wife and children and driving a taxi for thirty-two years. The lorry driver who slows down enough that you can jump on and save some money on a bright and sunny day. The gimp old man in his white plastic chair who calls out a respectful greeting or the sun shaded young block maker who yells white man.
Think about going to visit your relatives when you were a child for Thanksgiving or Christmas. Think about the feeling of anticipation that you have when you woke up the morning of the trip. You could hardly sleep because you knew that you got to go see the grandma who makes frosted cookies and lets you eat the dough. The grandfather who lets you sit on his lap for a football game and teaches you which are the good guys and which are the bad guys. The uncles who take you out after a belly busting meal and teach you how to hit a baseball or work a half-nelson. The aunts who just can't believe how big you've gotten and want to know about the little cute red-headed girl at school. Remember what it was like to get in the car and never get there. To have that feeling of knowing you are going to a place where you will be greeted and fawned upon. Loved by all who inhabit your space. It is a feeling of being special. It is a feeling of acceptance. It is a feeling that each person that you interact with is glad to see you. It is a feeling that happens each time you open your door and walk onto the street. That is what it is like.
The difference is...
That people go from strangers to acquaintances to friends in lightning fast time because you never know how long this person you are meeting is going to be in the country. A week. A month. Six months. A year. The evolution of friendship gets put on warp drive because it has to or else who are you going to share your life with.
Think about someone who has been told they don’t have long to live. They realize that there is so much to do in life and there may not be time enough to get the things done that they wish to accomplish. Think about the desire they have to see new places, correspond with old friends, have adventures, cherish love, live every moment of everyday to it's fullest because their moments are numbered. In my home we are living something that mimics this proclamation. We don't know how long we have with a person. And we may not have time to stretch out an acquaintancship over weeks or months as we might here in the states. There you ask a person's name, what they do in Freetown, and how they managed to make it to such a place and the person is then well on their way to becoming a friend. If you hang out a second time then the relationship is established. After three times you are old pals and forever after that each meeting only adds to the bond that is now something you will remember for the rest of your life. Squeezing in so much into a short amount of time. That is what it is like.
The difference is...
That everyone and everything you have known and cherished is out of reach. Few e-mails and fewer phone calls don't mean that people have forgotten you but an incredible thing happens. While your adventure takes place...other people are still living their own lives. While it would be interesting to see what happens if everyone else's life gets put on hold when you are not around, this doesn't happen.
Think about when you went to summer camp for the first time. Can you remember how dark it was at night. Odd sounds and weird shadows. Your brain screaming at your prone body to jump right off your squeaky rusty bunk bed and sprint, not walk, not run, but sprint to the phone and dial in a blaze of fingers your home phone number which marches through your head, just to hear your mom or dad say, "Hello? Who is calling at 1 in the morning?" You are more than willing to risk the admonition from the counselors and the heckling from your fellow campers if you can just talk to your family for a moment, for that briefest of times that would allow you to know they haven't forgotten you and that, while they are still living their life, they do miss you and look forward to your return. That is what it is like.
The difference is...
Too vast to explain. And yet... both places are now home. I look forward to being in one place while I'm in the other. Last night I dreamt I was shopping at the market in Freetown. I spoke and heard Krio as I bartered with the local store owners. Months before I came back to the states I started having dreams about places I used to work here, people I used to hang out with, my church, my friends, my family. Everyday since I have been back I have converted most of the prices that I've seen into Leones. For ten months my brain acted like my own little bank and worked out how much I was paying in dollars with most purchases. Everyday since I've been back I've thought about the friends that are in Sierra Leone. Everyday that I was there I thought about the people that I had left and counted the months until I got to see them again.
The difference is...
My way of thinking. Because when I first stepped off the plane ten months ago I was speechless and couldn't have imagined that any place on earth could be more different from the home I had just left than the place I was going to inhabit for the next ten months of my life. And it is different. And while I have tried to relate some of those differences to things that would have made sense to me when I left, I have not done a sufficient job at painting my picture. I cannot relate how I felt that Freetown quickly became my new home because I was able to relate my experiences there with my life here. I cannot relate how each day I learned new things from new experience because it took those new experiences to learn those new things.
The difference is...
Guess I'm still stuck with my original quandary. I will continue to try to decipher what people really want to know. Quick and painless or listen to my voice drone on while I wonder if my audience has grown bored with my endless stories.
The difference is...
Something I am still figuring out.
By Justin Wallace
Five words...21 letters...
It doesn't seem fair. I have so much that I could say.
Does the person want an answer that corresponds in brevity to their own question?
If so, "Everything. It's all different"
And that still has too many letters.
Does the person have the necessary time for what would begin to approach an acceptable answer?
Is it rude for me to ask if they actually want to know or if they are asking because it is expected?
The most honest of answers would probably be something like...
"I'm not entirely sure yet. There are still things that I am rediscovering here that I'd forgotten. There are things that I think about back "at home" in, Sierra Leone as I have found myself referring to it since my return, that I am already missing."
But even if I were to respond to the very best of my abilities how can I explain the multitude of differences between my two homes. I am sure that I don't have the knowledge of language or the ability to paint a picture that would encompass these two worlds. I could just as soon explain to a blind man what color is, when there is no real way to describe color, as explain to my friends and family here, many of whom have never stepped out of the States, what it is like to go to the market on a Saturday morning, it is the equivalent to describing color. We just don't have the same language or memories to relate to in order to understand.
The difference is...
...
...
Where to start?...
The roads are dirt and all of your clothes turn a fun shade of orange, as soon as you step outdoors.
Think about going to a farm. Out in the country. And not one of the high tech. farms. Think of the mom and pop farms. The ones with the rocking chairs on the front porch and the sweet pale lemonade in an old glass pitcher waiting to break your thirst in two. Think about that kind of a farm. Think about what happens when it rains and the yard turns into a muddy patch of nothingness. Remember what it was like to run to your car, raindrops drenching your best Sunday dress. And when you sat down in your car, wiped the cold drops of water from your brow, and looked down. That is what Sierra Leone is like. When you look down and realize that your primping and your bathing, your curling and your polish, has been taken away in the five yards between your screened in porch and the old vinyl seat of your beat up pickup truck. That feeling of wonder and frustration, not knowing if you will ever be able to get out that old Georgia clay. That is what it is like.
The difference is...
The poor and beggars inhabit the street corners, the road home, the hill behind your house, the market that you shop at, the entrance to your work, the everywhere you look, all day, everyday.
Think about that time that you were getting off the highway and you saw that old dirty worthless man. "How does a person get to this point?” you ask yourself. "That would never happen to me. I wouldn't let it. I wouldn't get to the point where I have to rely on others to provide me with clothes, food, and shelter. That person must have no initiative. That person has given up. I would never be like that." And you looked the other way and stepped a little harder on the gas when the light turned green because that makes the problem go away and God forbid that the person approach you for help because like an infectious disease, like the plague or the pox, this person may spread whatever lackluster spirit-crushing sickness that has so infected them onto your person. Now multiply that one person. Raise that person to the n exponent. Surround yourself with that person and no green lights. Take away that person’s overnight shelter. Take away their food pantries. Take away their Red crosses and their ability to write a sign pleading for help. Take that away with that many people. That is what it is like.
The difference is...
The noise. The great cacophony of noise. Surrounding you. Creating a cocoon that never breaks. Strike up the orchestra of dogs, generators, horns beeping, helicopters passing overhead, late night stereo's blaring, children screaming, people calling, cars squealing, goats bleating,...
Think about the time your six year old was having a Disney princess sleepover with ten of her closest friends, while your droll teenager was out in the garage with his band buddies practicing their latest remake of an old Kiss album, and your crying baby takes up one arm while the phone rings and the pizza man is at the door. Don't forget about Rover who desperately needs to get out to make a deposit on the back sidewalk and won't stop barking until he gets his way and the airport that has just completed it's new runway and has been running test flights at regular thirty minute intervals to ensure the safety of all those landings that will soon be zooming over your head. Insert that into your cookie cutter neighborhoods, into your carefully patrolled burroughs. That is what it is like.
The difference is...
The greetings. The smiles. The children running to grab your hands. The wrinkled old vegetable women asking how your day was. The bare chested guard asking when your friends will be visiting next. The taxi man who tells you about his wife and children and driving a taxi for thirty-two years. The lorry driver who slows down enough that you can jump on and save some money on a bright and sunny day. The gimp old man in his white plastic chair who calls out a respectful greeting or the sun shaded young block maker who yells white man.
Think about going to visit your relatives when you were a child for Thanksgiving or Christmas. Think about the feeling of anticipation that you have when you woke up the morning of the trip. You could hardly sleep because you knew that you got to go see the grandma who makes frosted cookies and lets you eat the dough. The grandfather who lets you sit on his lap for a football game and teaches you which are the good guys and which are the bad guys. The uncles who take you out after a belly busting meal and teach you how to hit a baseball or work a half-nelson. The aunts who just can't believe how big you've gotten and want to know about the little cute red-headed girl at school. Remember what it was like to get in the car and never get there. To have that feeling of knowing you are going to a place where you will be greeted and fawned upon. Loved by all who inhabit your space. It is a feeling of being special. It is a feeling of acceptance. It is a feeling that each person that you interact with is glad to see you. It is a feeling that happens each time you open your door and walk onto the street. That is what it is like.
The difference is...
That people go from strangers to acquaintances to friends in lightning fast time because you never know how long this person you are meeting is going to be in the country. A week. A month. Six months. A year. The evolution of friendship gets put on warp drive because it has to or else who are you going to share your life with.
Think about someone who has been told they don’t have long to live. They realize that there is so much to do in life and there may not be time enough to get the things done that they wish to accomplish. Think about the desire they have to see new places, correspond with old friends, have adventures, cherish love, live every moment of everyday to it's fullest because their moments are numbered. In my home we are living something that mimics this proclamation. We don't know how long we have with a person. And we may not have time to stretch out an acquaintancship over weeks or months as we might here in the states. There you ask a person's name, what they do in Freetown, and how they managed to make it to such a place and the person is then well on their way to becoming a friend. If you hang out a second time then the relationship is established. After three times you are old pals and forever after that each meeting only adds to the bond that is now something you will remember for the rest of your life. Squeezing in so much into a short amount of time. That is what it is like.
The difference is...
That everyone and everything you have known and cherished is out of reach. Few e-mails and fewer phone calls don't mean that people have forgotten you but an incredible thing happens. While your adventure takes place...other people are still living their own lives. While it would be interesting to see what happens if everyone else's life gets put on hold when you are not around, this doesn't happen.
Think about when you went to summer camp for the first time. Can you remember how dark it was at night. Odd sounds and weird shadows. Your brain screaming at your prone body to jump right off your squeaky rusty bunk bed and sprint, not walk, not run, but sprint to the phone and dial in a blaze of fingers your home phone number which marches through your head, just to hear your mom or dad say, "Hello? Who is calling at 1 in the morning?" You are more than willing to risk the admonition from the counselors and the heckling from your fellow campers if you can just talk to your family for a moment, for that briefest of times that would allow you to know they haven't forgotten you and that, while they are still living their life, they do miss you and look forward to your return. That is what it is like.
The difference is...
Too vast to explain. And yet... both places are now home. I look forward to being in one place while I'm in the other. Last night I dreamt I was shopping at the market in Freetown. I spoke and heard Krio as I bartered with the local store owners. Months before I came back to the states I started having dreams about places I used to work here, people I used to hang out with, my church, my friends, my family. Everyday since I have been back I have converted most of the prices that I've seen into Leones. For ten months my brain acted like my own little bank and worked out how much I was paying in dollars with most purchases. Everyday since I've been back I've thought about the friends that are in Sierra Leone. Everyday that I was there I thought about the people that I had left and counted the months until I got to see them again.
The difference is...
My way of thinking. Because when I first stepped off the plane ten months ago I was speechless and couldn't have imagined that any place on earth could be more different from the home I had just left than the place I was going to inhabit for the next ten months of my life. And it is different. And while I have tried to relate some of those differences to things that would have made sense to me when I left, I have not done a sufficient job at painting my picture. I cannot relate how I felt that Freetown quickly became my new home because I was able to relate my experiences there with my life here. I cannot relate how each day I learned new things from new experience because it took those new experiences to learn those new things.
The difference is...
Guess I'm still stuck with my original quandary. I will continue to try to decipher what people really want to know. Quick and painless or listen to my voice drone on while I wonder if my audience has grown bored with my endless stories.
The difference is...
Something I am still figuring out.
By Justin Wallace
posted by Kristen | 5:21 PM
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