A reassuring decade

I turned 30 in January. Unmarried, no children, no dog, no mortgage, no boyfriend. This is not the 30 I had planned for myself.

Two months into 30, what I do have is  an incredible sense of self, confidence, an unapologetic attitude, a willingness to say no, and much more. With certainty, I am the best version of myself so far.

The past creeps in, sure. The triggers trigger. But the tools have been tested, the repair is more efficient and the recovery is quicker. I have taken myself apart and put myself back together so many times, so, so many times. I know how I work and I have a better idea of what works.

I don’t feel like ‘it’s all downhill from here’–I feel the exact opposite. I am being positioned to do exactly what it is I was put on earth for –whatever that will be, and I am confident even though I have no clear idea what my purpose is.

I’m a confident 30. I’m not worried at all. My time will come and when it comes, I will be ready.

 

Advertisement

Customer Service: Where I press 1 to speak to God

When my phone is acting up, I call for help. I even have customer service phone numbers memorized. I rely on customer service to help fix and maintain my devices, appliances,etc. When something is wrong, I know a call can fix it.

When I am experiencing personal challenges, trauma or pain–who do I call? A friend, boyfriend, parents. As important as I am to them, I don’t have access to them 24/7. They also aren’t standing by waiting for my call. As much as they want me to be happy, their raison d’être is not to ensure my happiness, success or safety. They can sometimes guide and advice me but they don’t know what my future holds. My parents have set me up for success but they are not the creators of my path.

When it comes to personal challenges, when it comes to sharing your successes, I’m finding that God provides the best and most efficient customer service.

My family is Catholic. Since we all grew up in Saudi Arabia, where there are no churches, we relied on our parents to teach us about their religion. The religious guidance I received from my parents vastly differed. My father, a mathematician, presented religious matters with precision, logic and Latin phrases. My mother, a proud homemaker and teacher, presented a more compassionate view, and from a young age, encouraged me to think about Jesus as a boyfriend (…Mom?). Because of my environment, I think I initially learned and took more interest in Islam and other religions, and this was the means  through which I would come to understand the values of Christianity, the tradition of Catholicism, and also, the person I wanted to be.

I can write this post because though I have never considered myself to be ‘religious’, I believed in God. And it is through the acknowledgement of his existence that I can write this post with a certain amount of confidence.

Because I believe in God, I can choose to have relationship with Him, and I can learn to depend on him. I can depend on Him in a way I can’t others. Not only do I not have to filter my thoughts,  be diplomatic, or worry about a reaction, I have immediate access to Him.

I have immediate access to God regardless of what I am going through, rain or shine. How many of us call customer service when things are going well? Do I call T-mobile when my service is working smoothly? Nope. Do I call my bank when they process my check ? No, I certainly don’t but they will hear from me if I get an overdraft fee of $35 for buying a Twix for .75 cents (ah college).

Since I have been lifted out of the dark, not only do I have to be careful that I don’t find my way back, I have to keep a relationship with what got me out.  Imagine if I treated my friends the way I do God?

So that is where I am at now, like I said in my previous post, I’ve transitioned from repairs to maintenance. And I am working to maintain a relationship with God.

I have to thank my special needs student for inspiring this post. Today he said that I should only talk to him when he needs help. ❤

Butterflies don’t chill with caterpillars: Where I acknowledge my progress

I started blogging because I wanted an outlet for my ideas, wanted to practice writing, and perhaps re-channel my anxiety.

To an extent, I think I have been able to do this. I have written about struggles with positive body image, shared personal experience and I’ve touched on some of the challenges I have faced as a third culture kid (TCK).

In fact, my experience as a TCK is the original anchor of my blog. This year, especially in the last several months, as my personal challenges took shape, I relied less on this attribute. It was no longer useful for me narrate my experiences  and emotions through the lens of a TCK.

I didn’t start my blog for followers or likes, but I have been lucky to attract the attention of a few loyal and remarkable followers. I have looked back at my blogs and I’m impressed with much of the content. I have been able to express ideas I’ve suppressed for many years. I’ve opened myself to possible critique, and I’ve maybe given those I’ve shared my blog with a chance to see a different side of me. Or perhaps, just me.

I’ve held back names and some finer details of particular events but for the most part, I have written honestly and to the best of my ability.

This post acknowledges how far I have come and the positive changes I’ve made thus far. Granted, while I have made an overall positive shift, there are things I still struggle with daily. This is just a part of life. What I am positioned to do now is reflect upon these daily struggles with more positivity than I have in previous years. I hope that I have put to death my former ‘doom and gloom’ mentally.

What do I need to work on moving forward ? Well, I’ve spent time doing repairs and I’d like focus on maintenance. But I’m fully aware that life being what it is, I’ll inevitably have to do some repairs along the way. The difference will be in the tools I use–tools that heal without causing more damage.

I’m dedicated to maintaining my ‘ship’ and keeping the water out. As Joel Osteen says, it is not the water surrounding ships but the water that gets in, that sinks ships.

& other long stories

That time Joel Osteen dropped several truth bombs on me

Do you talk to yourself the way you talk to other people?

I remember my parents directly and indirectly teaching me how to communicate; what to say, what to not say. It’s something we learn how to do all through life really. Less time, unfortunately, is dedicated to learning how to speak to ourselves. Our intangible thoughts are powerful because they facilitate our relationship with ourselves and with other people. I know I have had less than positive thoughts about a person but it’s all unicorns and rainbows when I speak with them. It’s a little harder to make that switch when you talk to yourself.

When I look back and think about all the things I have said to myself, I am bully. I have picked apart and spat on myself. I think because it’s internal and automatic, it can be hard to control, hard to notice. But the effects are devastating.

Let’s take body image; the less satisfied I have been with my body, the more weight I have gained. If I had noticed this a few years ago, I would have stopped and started yelling compliments at my reflection. My words and my thoughts were negative and they did not reflect what I truly wanted. I wasn’t telling myself that I was healthy, capable of change, beautiful or confident. Instead, I was telling myself that I couldn’t ever lose weight, that I would forever be a slob, and much more. Words matter. As I talked down to myself, I didn’t encourage any positive behavior. In fact, when I spoke negatively, the bad habits and lifestyle that got me to that position were empowered and worse, justified. It was perfectly fine for me to just sit around and eat because, well, I wasn’t ever going to lose weight, that’s what I was telling myself–so there was no need for me to replace my three-topping pizza with a large bowl of kale and dates (or whatever Kate Hudson eats).

Had I changed the conversation I was having with myself sooner, I am confident that I would have experienced different results. As you know, I have been listening to Joel Osteen for several days now and he is having a remarkable effect on me. In The Power of I Am, Osteen says that our words prophesy our future–I think he’s right. It doesn’t mean that if I say, “I will win the lottery tomorrow” I can quit my job today though. Osteen says, “God will release for you what negative words have delayed”.

I can either talk my way to success by believing that the best is coming my way, or I can feed my demise and speak negatively about my future and myself. If I choose the latter, inevitably, my negative words will impact my actions and my attitude. When I started telling myself I was capable of making better food choices, instead of submitting to my thunder thighs (now said lovingly), I was less entised by a slice of pizza (truly!). When I started telling myself, and saying out loud that I was talented, I had a great skill set, my perfect job would find me…I felt less useless, my unemployment wasn’t a burden, it was an opportunity to be creative.

If you’re rolling your eyes saying here’s another bible bumper. My first response would be that I haven’t opened a bible in a long while. I just started listening to a different voice because my own voice had been hurting me for too long. If it helps to replace “God” with “The Universe” or whatever it is you believe in, be my guest. I spent most of my life believing that prayer was activity of the idle, so I will not judge you.

But if you’re repeatedly telling yourself the opposite of what you want, what purpose does that serve? I found that it didn’t serve me, so I changed the conversation.

It’s working.

Things I am not: Separating status from my identity

I graduated from a prestigious school in May with a Masters degree. I also graduated with equally august ideas about what my life would look like post-graduation.

Before I continue, this is the first time, since my acceptance and graduation from the school, that I have mentioned it as a prestigious school. So in case ‘prestigious school’ is a trigger for you, please feel welcome. I am not going to rant about how life has failed me while I wait for my navy blue, gold buttoned blazer to be steam pressed. In fact, I’m sitting in a public laundry facility and there’s an EBT card in my right pocket. I do have said blazer but it’s currently subject to bidding on eBay.

Having been unemployed since May, I have consistently confused my status with my identity. This pushed me into an abyss of self-loathing, depression and unrelenting feelings of uselessness.

For several months, my unemployment meant that I did not have attractive skills, it meant that I hadn’t performed well at school, that my hard work was meaningless and had I even worked hard enough? I was confusing a temporary status with my entire existence.

Who I am is separate and unequal to my employment status. I am hard working, I did well in school; in a few notable courses I out performed my peers, I have an incredibly diverse skill set and I have been fortunate to have had experiences that will make me the perfect candidate for my perfect job when it comes my way.

How we talk to ourselves is so important. I would never talk to my worst enemy the way I often converse with myself. I had to change the conversation I was having with myself to find peace with my situation. When I stared doing that windows started opening. Not windows of opportunity mind you, but windows that let out a lot of bad air. Am I fully employed now? Nope! I don’t even have an interview lined up. But I am doing something now that I used to love and I am finally taking action on ideas that I’ve had for a while.

Given the pressures and schedule of a full time job, especially the type of job I had envisioned for myself, I doubt I would have had the time to do what I am doing now. And after the events of the last two years, I am not sure why I didn’t actually look forward to this time.

I don’t want to give you the impression that this was a smooth transition. It was not. I fought it, kicking and screaming. For months, I’d spend my day applying for jobs, reaching out to people on LinkedIn, formatting and reformatting my resume, I’d go on interviews only to be told some version of ‘It was down to you and one other candidate’. I heard this about four times. Eventually, I had to accept that perhaps, working right now wasn’t what I was supposed to be doing. If it were, someone else would be getting that call.

Learning how to accept things as they are is incredibly difficult. It is incredibly difficult for me because I was taught that if I worked hard, I would get everything I wanted and my achievements would be endless. And this is actually true; except no one ever said I would get what I wanted immediately.

There are other applications to this that have been useful to me, for example, body image. How I perceive myself to look doesn’t mean that I am not worthy of being in a relationship, it does not mean that I can’t have healthy relationships, it does not mean that I am lazy, etc.

I am going to continue reminding myself not to confuse my status with my identity.

—-

This post is inspired by Joel Osteen’s ‘The Power of I Am’.

Creating a culture of self-love: Loving my body wherever I go

IMG_0674

When I was living in Saudi Arabia, I was between a size 6 and 8. Being relatively thin, I was less concerned with how much I weighed and far more occupied with how I looked. I was an ultra-conservative dresser—even under my abayah. I wanted to be a virtuous girl and woman; this would be achieved through my choice of clothes, which would influence my actions and ultimately, how I was perceived.

When I arrived in the U.S. I became more aware of my body type. For the most part, I continued to dress conservatively. With the cultural shock of living in the U.S. after a lifetime in Saudi Arabia, combined with a familial incision, I began to eat differently. Increasingly, I found comfort in foods that I had rarely consumed. By the end of my freshman year, I was a size 10.

My eating habits made me more conscious of my body. I think this is a point largely missed by others: It’s not that I was eating because I didn’t notice my body or take pride in how I looked.  I was acutely aware of my body and how it was changing. In fact, I was obsessed. I felt powerless in swapping my current habits for healthier ones. As I continued to lose autonomy, I relied more on food to distract me from my growing discomfort with myself.

This experience was aggravated by mass consumption of the female body in the U.S.  I couldn’t escape the reminder that thinner was better. As a naturally curvy person, even in my smaller-sized days, watching hip-less, flat chested, thigh gapped women be portrayed as the only type of beautiful woman was difficult and fueled a more destructive view of myself.

There were pauses in my self-hate though. When I visited Ghana in the summer, I could temporarily abandon the idea that skinny was better. Not because Ghana didn’t celebrate her thinner women but because it mattered less whether I was thin or not. In fact, it was a wonderful thing that I was curvy. My body type was desired and celebrated to an extent. Interestingly enough, when I visited Ghana in the summer, I could lose up to 20 pounds without any effort or intention to. My mind was healthier in Ghana and I was kinder to body.

But as I continued to gain weight, being in Ghana become a painful reminder of my weight gain. If you’ve read my post The Trouble with Words (Part I), at a point, it became increasingly difficult for me to be in Ghana because I despised being called obolo. If I knew I would be traveling to Ghana, I would schedule the latest possible departure date so I could give myself more time to slim down—this never worked.

Being away from my family and the constant feeling of displacement, are two of possibly four reasons I have continued to gain weight. Different events in my life have fueled my reliance on food as a coping tool and I’m currently wearing a size 12.

I realize now that I am the worst person to be mean to myself. I never give myself a break; I am always present and ready to take myself apart.

I would love to have the body I had in Saudi Arabia. But I was so disconnected from my body then, so ashamed of what society said it could do, so afraid to use or portray it incorrectly that I did not love my body. Even though I am less satisfied with my body now, I think I love my current body more than I ever could have in Saudi Arabia

Bottom line: A nomadic life style has exposed me to different ideas on what defines a woman’s beauty. These ideas have either been uplifting or burdensome. Despite the richness of variety, my happiness and self-confidence should not be subject to locale. I was late in coming to the realization that regardless of where I am, I am always with me. My body is the place where I live. And maybe, in that sense, the relationship I have with my body is actually a culture. So, I could construct a culture that positively influences my body. I can create my own beliefs, behaviors and values towards my body. I can even choose foods that celebrate and encourage my well-being. I have adopted different cultures anyway, what’s one more?

An adventurous and quiet introvert

A life of adventure, overseas travel, comparing your high school student body to the UN General Assembly, coveted trinkets from around the world, multi-lingual, frequent flier before it was even a thing—yes, the glamorized life of Third Culture Kid (TCK). At first thought, it may seem odd to be a TCK and an introvert. How would an introvert manage the constant change and chaos, engaging with different people and cultures?

In my view, there is an expectation that TCKs are extroverts.

I am a TCK and I am an introvert. I have no reservations about identifying as either, especially being an introvert. I’m more reserved than I am shy, more contemplative and observant than I am talkative. I’m less likely to say what I really mean, and more likely to correctly express myself in writing. How does that fit into being a TCK?

Being an introvert means that I am very close to a small circle of people. It means you either know all of me or you know nothing at all. It means that if you want to go out tomorrow at 11pm, I need to know a week in advance—preferably. It means that when I agree to go out, I’m already looking forward to coming back home. It means that before I go out, I’m mentally preparing to have conversations I don’t really want to have. It means that being around ‘too many’ people exhausts me, and that however loud the room is, in my mind, it’s louder.

Being a TCK means that I know it might be several years before I see friends and family again. In the case of Saudi Arabia, being a TCK means that I know I might never see many of my friends again. It means that each time I move, each time I make that decision, I am consciously risking friendships and relationships. It means that I will make that tough decision knowing it will hurt me, hurt others, break me, but I will make that decision anyway. It means that I can be incredibly mature. It means that I am very empathetic; that sometimes I understand others more than I do myself; that I can associate as quickly as I can dissociate; that sometimes staying is just as hard as leaving; that my parents are my anchor; that I have had mid-life crises in different area codes, that it’s sometimes easier to pack than unpack, that I’ve had to learn and unlearn who my race is; that the U.S. is a foreign and exotic country, that I sometimes have to be content with not being understood; that I have to put effort into making myself understandable, that the first time I heard someone say don’t throw the baby out with the bath water I wanted to call the police.

I think sometimes it’s hardest being a TCK when you’re introvert. It’s not like I can throw myself out there and easily get to know a whole other group of people again, and again. But I can, I do, and I have. As an introvert and TCK, I create meaningful bonds with my environment and as often as I have had to break that bond, it’s never easy. With each environment, I am immersed into a culture, a way of thinking, a new lifestyle.

I am highly perceptive, hyper-flexible and while it might take me longer to form intimate relationships with people, I can adapt to new surroundings. I’m more than just a perpetual traveller; I can go beyond participating and observing surface culture to truly understanding and even adopting different facets of deep culture.

In revising this entry, I have questioned whether to post this at all. It can read as being extremely arrogant. But I think that is because I still have an incorrect definition of introvert hiding in some unreachable corner of my mind. I am not weak because I am an introvert. I’m not socially inept or lonely. As an introvert, a sense of adventure is not absent within me. It’s there—it’s a quiet curiosity that poses questions and carefully sifts through observations, and experience to get answers. In this way, I don’t over-burden the people I encounter with questions to make them appear exotic and foreign; I don’t exemplify the differences, I discover as what makes ‘ them, them’ and ‘me, me’. I engage with the people I meet and speak with them as I would others—their nuances; whether personal or cultural, are naturally revealed. And for me, I have found that too often TCKs, non-TCKs, attribute tangible differences to culture, rather than a person’s being.

Me, my mother and my Turkish friends in front of our house in Saudi Arabia.

Me, my mother and my Turkish friends in front of our house in Saudi Arabia.

Bottom line: Being an introvert is not a setback. Neither extroverts nor introverts are better at being TCK; we are equally aware of the blessings and challenges of being TCK. Being TCK means that I don’t have a better half, I have better halves and they are scattered all around the world. I am product of different cultures and I am extremely grateful.

Finding “I” in We & Us

When I decided to embark on this blog, I did my research on how to start. Every article I read pointed to the importance of dedicating my blog to a theme or 1-2 topics. My first instinct was to write about issues related to economic development: poverty, women’s empowerment or micro-finance. These topics cover my passions, I just didn’t want to have to write about them in a blog.

So I subjected myself to an abrupt exercise of trying to figure out who I was; I figured that such insight would lead me to a theme or at least narrow my choices to a few topics.  I wrote my name on the center of a page and I wrote every answer that came to mind to the question: What defines you?

I was thoroughly disappointed; my answers were geographical. I had written countries.

I always get stuck on the Who are you? What defines you? questions. When I was living in Saudi Arabia, I never thought about who I was. I was a girl and by virtue of this, who I was, how I was expected to behave, was all somewhat prescribed. My Ghanaian parents never asked me who I thought I was either. It was just as well; I wouldn’t have had an answer. I was asked, What do you want to be when you grow up? I had an answer.  For a very long time, what I wanted to be had nothing to do with me personally.

It wasn’t until I came to the U.S. that I was really confronted with the burden of “I” and defining it.

I’ll put it this way: for most of my life, I was who I was perceived to be. Was I decent? Was I proper? Respectful? Studious? A good daughter? Obedient?  I either was or I was not. Once I had that acceptance, I was ‘free’ to do whatever wanted. I didn’t need to define myself; the definitions were there—I just had to match my name with an acceptable definition.

When I moved to the U.S. to attend Michigan, I found myself not having the presence or pressure of a culture that would guide me through established dos and dont’s. Suddenly, I was in a place that afforded me the expensive opportunity of making mistakes—mistakes that I couldn’t have imagined before.

And it was terrifying.

My first two years at Michigan, were also my first years in the U.S. since my birth. I didn’t know what was expected of me. Yes, of course, I was supposed to get good grades. But suddenly, I could get good grades and wear a halter-top. Call my parents regularly and stay out till 3am. Whatever audience I have on this blog is probably waiting to read that during my college years I went crazy, what with all that freedom. I didn’t really. In the back of my little mind, even though I was in a completely different country, I still felt those eyes on me.

This was not in my mind either. The eyes had been real. They were neighbors, friends and strangers. I remember being about 8 years old, going to the playground. It was unusually quiet that day. When I got home, my mom asked me what I did. I told her that I had been playing by myself. She said that so-and-so had seen me climbing a tree in a dress and I should never do that again. If I went out and my clothes weren’t properly covered by my abayah I would hear of it. When I was in Ghana and I made the grave error of walking by an adult without greeting them, I would get home and hear about it. The feeling that my errors were observable and constantly preyed upon didn’t leave me for a very long time.

I was finally able to shake the ‘I’m being followed’-mania when I started graduate school in 2013. I went a little wild—and let me tell you friend, graduate school is neither the time nor place. I balanced meeting UN under-secretaries, sharing hallways with Jeffery Sachs and the intellectual load of graduate school with—let’s call it, intense social activity.

Truth be told, I was not partying every night. But when I did go out, I felt the need to test myself: what were the boundaries I would create for myself? It is said that character is who you are when no one is watching, so who was I? It wasn’t just that I went out at night but I was more social than I had ever been: talkative, willing to meet new people, I accepted every invitation and I even dressed differently.

In many ways, my experience may not be different from anyone who has left home to attend college. College brings a certain freedom for everyone. It’s an experience that puts you in control of the choices you make. But living in Saudi Arabia for 18 years, being raised by Ghanaian parents (both wonderful things!) created friction for me and it wasn’t until years after I left Saudi Arabia that I was  able to acknowledge this.

Bottom Line: I shouldn’t have been so disappointed with my answers. There are also probably research-based methods of self-discovery that I could have sought. But for now, it is okay that I find it difficult to define myself outside of my time Saudi Arabia and outside of Ghana. From my experience, neither culture really supported self-identification/discovery. I was a small part of something bigger, and that something bigger was attached to something greater. In Saudi Arabia, I was my father’s daughter. In Ghana, I am attached to more people than I can count. The social nets were comforting. I am now standing on the net though, trying to walk around. Perhaps trying to find my way off. But it is like trying to walk off a trampoline when everyone else is still jumping.

Untitled1

The Trouble with Words (Part II)

Obroni is the Akan (or more specifically, the Twi language) word for foreigner, literally meaning “a person from beyond the horizon”. It is often colloquially translated into “white person” or “white man”.

I lived in the Middle East for 18 years, submerged in a culture and environment completely different from that of my parents. I was not born in the Middle East and I was not born in my parent’s home country of Ghana. I was born in the United States. It was not until I left the Middle East for the University of Michigan, and a couple of years into my college experience, that I became familiar with the concept of ‘third culture kid’ (TCK). Finally, one word that explains almost everything without embarking on the tiresome story “Well, I grew up here, my parents are from over there yonder, but I was born yonder, and then my parents up and left there to go there.”

There is the view that TCKs are spoiled, well-traveled nomads with trinkets of their global experience as themes in their apartments. This might not be a completely erroneous view, however, it is glamourized. There is another side of being a TCK that is lonely and lit with confusion. You can be reminded of your TCK-ness when there is a 4-7 hour time difference between where your parents are and where you currently are, when you haven’t seen your childhood friends in over a decade, and your best friend in six years, and you see your boyfriend once a year for 4 weeks. Once you’re hit with the TCK bug it’s with you for life: a battle between your accustomed sense of ‘adventure’ and your desire to develop a sense of home/belonging/peace.

Acclimatizing to a new culture is generally an easy process for the TCK. Most of us have developed an anthropological mindset; we are problem-solvers, observers, listeners, empathic, inspired and innovative. To be thought of otherwise, told otherwise, is a very difficult thing and dare I say, insulting accusation.

When I visit Ghana, which is where I am from most of the time, the last thing I want is to be pointed out as someone who doesn’t belong. And that is what being called obroni does for me. Much like obolo, there is little hesitance to call someone obroni and little you can do about it.

Something I am frequently told is that I can’t be Ghanaian because my parents did not teach me ‘my own culture’. I have been told this within 10 minutes of encountering another Ghanaian. First, that is a horrible accusation of irresponsibility to direct towards my parents—forget that it is ill informed! Certainly, my parents did not raise me to be American (whatever that means). In fact, any Ghanaian child who was raised in the US probably heard variants of “We aren’t American”, “We will not tolerate any American behavior in this house”, “All the children on Full House are rude!”.

I’ve been called obroni by family, during an internship by colleagues and office superiors and as I walk casually from point A to B. In fact, humorously, complaining about being called obroni will certify you as obroni, having preference on what you will eat will make you obroni, having an opinion that differs from the group you are with—obroni, asking that a colleague not call you ‘sweetheart’ or ‘my wife” –obroni, looking like you could be obroniobroni. Anything that you might say or do that deviates from ‘the norm’ and you are bestowed with obroni.

Before writing this post, I did some reading on the etymology of obroni. I’d encourage anyone interested to do the same. My post, however, is based on my personal experience with the word. And for me, obroni has less do with being white (I am black (and proud)) and is more a poorly informed belief about another person, an oversimplified understanding of different cultures, and an abrupt rejection of an individual’s duality.

For example, rejecting the idea that I could be both Ghanaian and American because the two are mutually exclusive, that adopting all or some of one culture is a complete rejection of the other, that I cannot prefer pizza to waakye and say I am Ghanaian (humor intended but I have been told this).

I don’t wear traditional wear often. I’m more of an emo spirit and I like navy blue, black and gray—these colors are not readily featured in our cloth. My apartment is not filled with Ghanaian art and craft. I don’t have the flag of Ghana on my porch, although I do own the Ghanaian flag and it is the only flag I own. I don’t know how to do any Ghanaian dances although I have attempted Azonto. I don’t like gari (dried cassava), I will run away from anything that has palm nut oil, and I will not, I repeat, I will not eat fufu!

But is this what makes a person Ghanaian? If it is there are some Peace Corps people I need to sit down with. I don’t want to be judged by outwards displays of culture. Not only because I think it is unfair towards me, but because it is disservice towards our culture because it ignores the sophistication of what makes us. What makes deep culture? Attitudes towards elders; approaches to problem solving; notions of courtesy, manners, friendship, leadership; concepts of time, fairness, justice; communications styles and rules like facial expressions, tone of voice, personal space, conversational patterns in different social situations.

Bottom line: I am Ghanaian. It is not up to anyone to decide that for me. The fact that I have been exposed to different cultures does not make me less Ghanaian, it makes me more Ghanaian in the best possible way. My exposure to cultures only helps me appreciate and understand the finer details of my Ghanaian culture. My choice not to eat fufu on Sundays does not make me less Ghanaian in the same way that wearing navy blue and not pink does not make me less of a woman.

The Trouble with Words (Part I)

Definition. Obolo: A person who is fat

Have you watched the movie The Invention of Lying? An offensively brief plot summary is the characters live in a world where lying has not yet been ‘invented’. Everyone is subject to the truth—hearing it and speaking it. From my interpretation of the movie, consequences of lies like being hurt and offended would also not exist. In the movie, people are subject to the truth and equally compelled to respond truthfully. Quite unlike the movie is the recipient in his or her inability to respond or react, truthfully or otherwise.

I am Ghanaian, plus-sized and I have been called obolo more times than I can put effort to remember. To be called obolo feels like being a character in The Invention of Lying where whatever someone sees and thinks about you, he or she comments immediately. On the name caller’s part, there is no consequence—the ‘truth’ literally speaks for itself.

‘Obolo’ is a type of mockery that is socially accepted[1], recognized, very difficult to avoid and nearly impossible to protest. I once made the mistake of telling someone that it was neither appropriate nor kind to call me fat. I call it a mistake because of the verbal execution I thereafter received. The verbal backlash centered on my being obroni, another problematic word for me.

A few things for contextual purposes: I was born in the United States, my parents are Ghanaian, I lived abroad for 18 years though not in the US, I have spent 90% of my summers in Ghana.

Someone near-and-dear to me shared a blog post from That Hayet Rida, “Growing up Fat in Ghana”. Hayet writes about her experience as a plus-sized woman growing up in Ghana. Her narrative resonated with me. Rida says, “Sadly, I grew up in a culture that considers feelings and emotions exclusive to white people”. I must choose my words carefully because I do not intend to disagree with Rida’s observations. I am relieved to read Rida’s perspective and as evidenced from the comments section, discover that we are not alone.

I would not say, however, that most Ghanaians view feelings and emotions as exclusive to white people. Feelings and emotions are not white inventions, but probably a cocktail of chemistry, biology, environment, etc. I do think that it is more the case that different societies/cultures place varied emphasis on feelings and emotions, and this importance influences the role feelings and emotions play. Does that make sense? When I think about Ghana then, I think of a society that grieves together, laughs together and celebrates together—in my view, Ghana is an extremely affectionate society.

Ghanaians are observant and Ghanaians speak freely, for the most part I believe. No one has ever skirted around the issue of me being obolo. “Obolo” marks the beginning of social interaction in my experience. It is said as easily as “Obolo, how are you?”. “Obolo!” can also mark the beginning, end and sole purpose of interaction. Frankly, however it appears, it is horrible. For some reason, I feel compelled to add that in the same way I am called obolo so too am I called beautiful, eii sister wo ho y3 f3 ohhh. Obviously being told that I am beautiful (swirls) stirs up different emotions than obolo (cringes).

This is an important distinction for me because I think it might be saying something important about Ghanaian society and culture that is easily overlooked. And I will try and illustrate it this way: I have lived in the US for a decade now and I can’t recall being called beautiful by a stranger in public. Strangers have offered ‘compliments’ that made me feel uncomfortable and unsafe. I have never been called fat by a stranger in America either, but I have received all sorts of unsolicited counsel on how I can lose weight, eat better, dress for my weight, etc.

In America, I think we have developed a library of politically correct terms because we readily acknowledge that words can hurt and because our society is richly diverse. But is it okay that I think someone is stupid as long as I address him or her as ‘less intelligent’? If I see someone and I believe they are fat, as long as I address him or her as curvy, am I good?

What we say are leaves whose roots are our thoughts. But does that mean we should say exactly what comes to mind…? I guess not. What I am saying is that I didn’t consent to being called fat or oboloo. I similarly did not consent to ‘thick’ and ‘curvy’ or ‘plus sized’ but these terms have been deemed to be more respectful and maybe they are, unless it’s a new leaf for the same thought.

Personally, I do not appreciate any differences between fat and thick, or fat and curvy, or fat and heavyset or big boned. If we were to group people by their size only, would the groups ‘fat’ and ‘skinny’ have any more value or use to us than ‘curvy’ and ‘thin’? For a moment there, I even struggled to find the politically correct term for skinny—what are these terms? Why aren’t they at the tip of my tongue? Have you looked at the definitions of fat and skinny? The definitions are not favorable to either category in my opinion! Take a look at the synonyms too.

The issue is the social value or lack thereof we have bestowed upon ‘fat’ and ‘skinny’. The evidence that one body type is valued over the other is abundant.

As I write this, I am in Ghana. Yes, I have been called obolo. My response is to smile (or smirk) because if someone is calling me obolo they will not understand my protest. I can only hold them accountable for being an active participant in one facet of their culture. If they did understand my protest, they wouldn’t be calling me obolo, I hope. I have also reached a point in my self-growth where thoughts of self-hate and unloving descriptions of my body are slowly and surely being replaced with self-love, praise and just general amazement with everything my body enables me to do.

Bottom line: The consequences of a lack of consideration for a person’s feelings and the seeming hesitance, reluctance or refusal to scrutinize and question certain facets of one’s culture all create a terrible burden for the recipient of name calling and inevitably for the society itself. Maybe we wouldn’t need an archive of politically correct terms if we our interactions did not dedicate so much value to physical attributes.

[1] I am saying it is socially accepted because it is wide practice to call men and women oboloo. Of course, as it is the purpose of my writing to point out, this ‘acceptance’ is limited and partial.