the waiting room

from the inside of the BCamp School looking out

Ok, so I know that as of late this little blog has become a photo gallery (and of sometimes very poor quality, my due apologies) instead of any sort of writing, but I am here now to rectify that situation; though, I can’t promise the photo gallery won’t continue…a picture is worth a thousand words, right? Here we go…

I’m at site right now, in the office in fact, sitting, waiting to see if the sweat will ever stop pouring or if this look will just become a part of me. Sitting always ensues deep thought. I work at an educational non profit and August is a big vacation month so there is hardly anyone around, so I am left to my own devices, lucky enough to be one of the golden Malian PCVs with access to internet and the occasional air conditioning unit. (Yes, you can oh and ah now.)

But back to the thinking.

As I was walking to work I was thinking about this place and my place within it. In Mali, PCVs are given Malian names by their homestay host families (whom you met earlier). This is mainly because Mali has a rich history of joking relationships that work amongst people of corresponding last names and ethnic backgrounds. It’s not as complicated as it appears and it works, or so people say. Anyway, I have a Malian name. My name (N togo) is Lalla, after the women in my host family. It also happens to be the name of my host sister. I really like this name for many reasons. For starters it is the nickname I call my American sister, so having that name is like having a part of America with me always. To me, Lalla is like my alter ego and I use a little bit of my American Lalla to base that off of, which I think would make her laugh and be really proud. Lalla also means “maybe” in Bambara, the language here. At homestay that immediately made me laugh. It is like I’m being called “maybe” all the time! But now as I think about my insecurities and uncertainties, the name is becoming more and more poignant.

What’s in a name?

I’ve been alone at site since Wednesday morning. I am very blessed to have the home that I do and be surrounded by such wonderful people. I have a very structured work environment: an office, an office building, a boss, hours to be places…something uncommon to the education sector here. It’s like having one foot in the west and one foot firmly in Mali. A balancing act for sure, but an interesting juxtaposition of ideas and values, a shift in the idea of Malian immersion. Here, the people that surround me are just as interested in English, America, and me as I am in them, Mali, and Bambara. There is a constant use of three languages instead of just me fighting with Bambara. It’s always something different, that’s for sure.

So, back to my story, I’m walking to work this morning, up this giant hill that is bound to give me buns of steel or at the very least work me into a sweat and make me rethink trekking my laptop all over, and I started thinking about my name again. Lalla. Maybe.

I am hesitant and apprehensive. I feel awkward all the time. I hate that I can’t properly communicate with my host family, and at this stage they don’t love my awkwardness as much as my homestay family did. I’m afraid I am too quiet, or read too much, and certainly worried that I go to bed too early (but I so need my beauty sleep! And getting eaten alive by mosquitoes is just so unappealing). I’m right now in the constant state of maybe. And, thus, the name fits.

And it even fits on a larger scale. As a volunteer we are positioned to immerse ourselves into the daily life of another culture, another place foreign from our comprehension of what the world is like. We come here bright eyed and bushy tailed ready to change the world, be changed, and come back to the states and our families two years later as different people. But I think along the way something changes. Or something new emerges. Or maybe it really is a growth process from the moment your foot hits foreign soil till the moment you pack up your bags to leave. Immersion is a tough call. I am here as Lalla, everyone knows me as Lalla, and as much fun as I have with her as an alter ego, there is a part of me that wonders about Mary. Some days it seems like she is somewhere else, living another life.  Here I am trying to grasp onto a Malian life, and yet cling to the Americana in me. It’s like that cliché, “you can take the girl out of the states, but you can’t take the states out of the girl”. And I think that is difficult. To be Malian and to be American. Is that possible? Or at the end of the day does it leave everyone is a constant state of maybe. A word defined by its uncertainty.

But.

On the other hand, the maybe can also be defined by its possibility. And that is the silver lining, and the continued dichotomy. There is so much hope to being in the Peace Corps, to being in Mali, at this place, in this moment. And that hope is filled with this positive energy of maybe. Here, the possibilities are endless, what can be done, the relationships to be made, the people to meet. Everyday I learn something. I overcome something (unpacking? Totally scary and felt very permanent. Running? Turns out that sparked an emotional tailspin because the last place I ran was in the states with my mom, now its solo and in Africa!) everyday. It’s constant learning. Constantly being wrong, or searching for the answer, but there are answers. There are people who are willing to help. This is a team. This is literally my village. And here, they know the phase “it takes a village”-- they live it everyday.

And so, as I continue to babble on without making much sense, the state of maybe continues, but with all the hope of what is to come. I will take the uncertainty with the possibility. The optimism for what will come, with the hesitance of right now. Because right now is part of the process, without it the joy will not be as sweet. So I wait for the joy, the ease, the less awkwardness.

I wait.