Home?

            Leaving home to go home is a funny thing indeed.  Is it good to be back?  Yes, that is I think so.  Give me a few more days to process, and I know I’ll start getting excited about my next, more local adventure, beginning grad school at Emory University.  But was it as gut-wrenching to leave this time as before?  You betcha! 

On the bright side, “Amy Diallo” turned out to be far easier to find than expected.  Where did she turn up, you might ask?  Well, she certainly came around on Korité (the feast marking the end of Ramadan), in time to watch the ritual sleep slaughter, don traditional Senegalese clothing of her own, and pay all the requisite social visits.  But even more so, I rediscovered her in the little things, the sweet moments that marked the rhythm of my days there, which stretched out particularly lazy and long during our final days of Ramadan fasting.  [Confession: I did make a once-a-day exception for mangos—after all, their season is almost up, and I couldn’t let the pile my family had stocked up for me go bad!]  Yes, it was in was in the hours spent just sitting and chatting with Papy Jo, helping with Mama Fat Kane in the kitchen, playing with my little nieces, and going on evening walks with my brother that I found myself slipping back into that part of me that is Amy Diallo .

Without the constant influx of English that came in the form of 55 American peers last time around, I found myself living and dreaming in French more than ever before.  In fact, without the structure and support of the program, I was able to come to the realization that I could truly make a full and contented life for myself there—were I able to find meaningful work, that is!  How exhilarating it was to make new Senegalese friends, learn even more about the culture, and become further embedded in my family’s life!  But the realization was also a bit bittersweet, knowing that, at least for the next three years, a move to Senegal is simply not the path I’ve chosen to take.  As I prepared to leave, Papy Jo and Mama Fat Kane began to regularly ask me, “Who will do this when you’re gone?  And what about that?” referring to the various little tasks I’d claimed as my own, such as bringing Papy Jo his juice or lugging the wash bowl out for Mama Fat Kane after meals.  The last day of my time there, my little 6 year-old niece’s plaintiff cry nonetheless caught me by surprise: “But Amy Diallo, who is ever going to cut the okra when you’re gone??”  Having been dubbed particularly talented at this line of work (for reasons entirely unbeknownst to me) and having since spent many afternoon hours chopping the things to pieces, her question definitely made some sense—it just also is surely not the sort of legacy anyone ever expects to leave behind!

In short (ok, or maybe not so short), my days spent in Senegal this summer number among some of the most special of my life.  The opportunity to go and fully share life with this second, across-the-world family of mine was a tremendous gift.  In some ways too, it served as a timely reminder that I can adapt to even the most disparate of circumstances, changing and opening myself up to others wherever I might be.  As I set off to grad school, I know that I’ll be doing my darnedest to hold on more tightly to the Amy Diallo side of life—that is, challenging myself to keep trying new things and seeking out friendships in circles different from my own.  I know also that I will, or rather must, find a way go back.  After all, who else is going to cut the okra?

Affectionately,
            Amy Diallo