Falling in Love All Over Again

I am a great lover of rereading good books. This first time I fall in love with a story I tumble through chapters too quickly. My eyes dart through paragraphs as I am hungry to revel in the magic of the words or the twists and turns of the plot. But when rereading, I take the time to digest each precious character arc and each subtle metaphor. I am no longer riding the roller coaster of falling in literary love but I am going deeper and forging a stronger relationship with the book.

Over the last four months in Senegal there are a few things that I have had the blessing to fall in love with all over again. While I was discovering my entirely new surroundings, I sought stability and comfort in what has always been there for me. I was not blinded by the fleeting passion of a new interest but instead was able to forge a more meaningful and lasting relationship. Just like the rereading of a good book, I was reassured by familiarity and still discovered other dimensions to keep my love burning.

To say I am a ‘different person’ than the one who got on the plane in January would be false. I am very much the same Susannah. In fact I am more Susannah. Over the last four months I have connected more deeply with my identity. Not a new identity I felt a pressure to create on the cusp of adulthood but the identity that has been with me since the beginning. I feel more in sync than ever with the bubbly Susannah who performed Annie in her sitting room, the Susannah who made onion grass soup while playing Little House on the Prairie, the Susannah who was content to just watch her baby sister sleep peacefully on the couch. Away from the hustle of college life and the constant hum of technology I have had the opportunity to brush off some of the layers of cynicism, of doubt, of fear that start to form as we make the journey from childhood to adulthood.

We don’t ask young children if they love themselves because they would probably give us a confused expression and wonder why anyone would not love themselves. Yet if we ask that question to ourselves now, as adults, we would probably give a sheepish half-answer. We try to stay humble, but are also scared to give the impression of a lack of self-confidence. I am proudly stating that in Senegal I did fall in love with myself all over again! Just like a little baby stares in wonder at her own fingers and toes, I was in awe of my own hidden strength and power that I did not know I had locked inside. Just like many of the loves in my life I am not perfect, but my flaws give me depth and keep me human. And, as I connected with myself, I rediscovered a couple other great loves in my life along the way…

Reading

As a child I was always described as a ‘voracious reader,’ but with the busyness of high school and then college I did not seem to devour books the same way as before. In Senegal, 30 books later, I was reminded of the power of a good book. My portable library on my kindle included everything from Jane Austen and Charles Dickens to experimental Latin American short stories. Reading was my TV, my friend, and, when things felt a little too different, it was my connection to a familiar world.

I was reminded of what it felt like to lose myself in a book so completely that I would spend my non-reading moments thinking in the author’s voice, internally narrating the world around me with the same style of prose. And I was reminded of the poignancy of a book break-up. When the bar at the bottom of my kindle switched to 100% I knew our adventure was finished, for now, even though I longed for just one more chapter.

Especially in my last week in Nioro du Rip I found myself rereading older books tucked away in the archives of my kindle. I was conflicted with feelings of an impending departure and the comfort of rereading stories reminded me that my own stories of my time at the school could be read for years to come. Clicking through the pages of a book I had read before transported me back to the place where I had first gone on the literary journey. I was instantly brought back to the bunk bed at Donegal, the cushy chair in my college dorm, or the backseat of our Camry on a car trip. I knew the moment I was current living under my mosquito net, with the strong scent of ataaya still lingering in the hot air and the chatter of Wolof in the background, would also be written into the margins of these well-loved books.

And another time, when I am on my next adventure and in need of a good friend, I will turn to these stories again and will not only reread the words on the page but also the memories hiding themselves behind periods and peeking out between paragraphs. As I struggled to say goodbye, I reread in an effort to immortalize my time here.

Writing

I also rediscovered my love for reading’s sister, writing. In college, much of my time writing is reserved for academic papers or clearly outlined assignments. With my blog in Senegal I had the freedom to write about whatever I felt needed to be shared, whatever caused me to want to run to my computer and let the thoughts flow. As I could not always talk through experiences or revelations with those back home, writing on the blog was a way for me to process while still feeling connected.

I rediscovered that feeling of knowing the right sentence is so close I can almost taste it, as I squint my eyes and stare off into space waiting for the words to find each other in my brain. I reveled in the feeling that follows the crafting of a good paragraph, which I display by leaning back from my computer while letting out a deep sigh of approval.

In addition to the blog, I also filled a journal with my more personal ramblings and thoughts inspired by my time here. I loved the feeling of thumbing through the ever-growing marked pages, quickly skimming the lines and lines of looping cursive that represented all the moments of growth I had experienced in just 16 weeks.

Teaching

I have had some of my greatest teaching successes and challenges here in Senegal. If we are not counting my years of teaching teddies and dolls, I am a young and inexperienced teacher. But I still feel as though teaching has always been a part of my life, whether I was dreaming about the day I might actually have my own classroom or actually starting to realize that dream. With the end of this semester I am exactly halfway through college and halfway to my certification as a teacher. Though I have never had any doubts about my major, my internship at Adja Penda Ba school reminded me how lucky I am to have found a path that brings me so much joy and meaning.

My investment in the success of my students means that teaching always seems to bring out the best in me. When I could lose my patience, I only need to look around the room at all the wide-eyed stares listening to my every word and I manage to take a deep breath and try again. When I could just trudge through my day on autopilot, I see my students come bounding into the room, radiating their joie de vivre and I push myself to channel their energy and make each moment count.

I have experienced what it means to fail as a teacher. I bit off more than I could chew, I didn’t always properly plan ahead, and sometimes I lost control of my class. But even dealing with all that mess and frustration and disappointment I am not deterred from this noble profession. I have also seen the pride in a student’s face when she finally gets it, and I witnessed the diligent frown of concentration when a child is determined to learn. Those moments remind me that it is a privilege to teach.

The single hardest goodbye in this country was to my students. On the last day with my fifth graders, after they performed a thank you song, some of the students gave me notes carefully folded in envelopes. Back in my bedroom I opened each one, and was moved to tears when I saw one boy, who had attended every single one of my optional Spring Break classes, had given me a copy of his baby picture. I fingered the worn edges and the glossy front and stared into the inquisitive eyes which had not changed with time. I was so grateful for this physical memory of one of my most dedicated and engaged students. While he may be grateful for the ‘newness’ I brought to the classroom and the vocabulary words I taught, I will be forever thankful for the purpose he served in my life. His successes and his support was the best validation I have ever received for this career path I have chosen. More meaningful than any ‘A’ on a test, his giving of something dear to him helps me see the meaning and purpose in my own life.

Music

Though music is not hard to find in Senegal, I often sought refuge with the music I had downloaded on my own Spotify playlists. After a long day of walking in Dakar or a tiring afternoon teaching, I would just lie back on my bed, put in my headphones, and fall into a world of memories and of easy understanding. So much of my time was spent in French or in Wolof, each moment felt so new and each day was an experience. Returning to my favorite songs was a chance to escape to a place that always felt like home. Much like my relationship with rereading books, certain songs brought me back to places and people who were part of the initial discovery.

But not all my listening was familiar, as my father and I have a shared Spotify playlist called ‘Mixtape.’ Much like its name implies it includes a wide range of music that my dad finds and adds to the list so that I, too, can discover a new artist. I always looked forward to wi-fi so that I could download the newly added songs my dad was listening to in his office in America, thousands of miles away, thinking of me.

Sometimes I would stumble across songs that perfectly articulated a certain feeling or day, but these two

songs I returned to again and again because they felt like a soundtrack for my entire adventure in Senegal. I remember listening to them at least eight years ago while sitting in my basement, doing homework, and eating goldfish as an after-school snack. Those songs that spoke to me almost a decade ago now take on a deeper meaning as I feel as though I have lived out the lyrics I once only listened to. “Far, Far” starts with the lines Far, far there was this little girl/She was praying for something to happen to her/Everyday she writes words and more words just to spit out the thoughts that keep floating inside. And the chorus of India Arie’s song proclaims I found strength, courage and wisdom/It’s been inside of me, all along.

Family and Friends

It is certainly true that distance makes the heart grow fonder. In finding my own strength, I realized who in my life continues to shape my character even if they are not by my side. In moments of difficulty, I heard my mother’s refrain of ‘This too shall pass.’ In moments of doubt, I heard my father’s reassurances echo deep in my soul, Irish accent and all. In moments of ridiculousness and confusion, I heard my sister’s laugh bouncing around inside of me reminding me to take nothing too seriously.

A teacher’s gift of the gab made my heart fill with memories of my late Aunt Sis. Late night reading of historical fiction brought with it memories of my best friend Emily and made me nostalgic for University of Maryland. Questions about my Holton ring made me look forward to a summer reunion with my high school friends with whom I still have the blessing of close friendship. And observing easy conversations and intimate moments between members of large Senegalese families filled me with longing for evenings with my own family. Humid summer barbeques in our back yard, bike rides to Aunt Jane’s, hours of conversation over Indian food and Nana Katie’s Bakewell Tart at Granda’s, and the very end of each day in my own home in Silver Spring.

Despite prior signs of evening fatigue, I always seem to have a second wind right at the moment when it is time to transition from the sitting room to my bed. My mother raises her eyebrow as I dart down the steps one more time to recall another story, ask another question, and prolong that precious moment where I feel free from tomorrow’s expectations and today’s worries. In the stillness of the night, I always feel completely safe and magically ageless. I might have just finished reviewing for a second grade spelling quiz, done the final edits on a Model UN paper, or finalized a college semester schedule but I always have the distinct feeling of being the dearly loved daughter of my parents and each thought, each worry, each observation can be shared no matter how trivial or personal. It is those moments of pure openness that I am ready to return to.

Though over the last four months strangers quickly became family, and though goodbyes have been tearful, I am ready to be welcomed again into the folds of my own family. I will bring with me all my experiences, which I will reread for years to come, and I will proudly display my growth. But I am ready to be nestled between my parents on our soft, navy blue sofa with Columbo on the TV and Breyer’s ice cream in my lap. Filled with pride from this semester’s accomplishments, my heart warmed by the beauty of these past months, and my future enticingly open.