portraits

     Where I'm from, it's the old crossing guard from Hough,  the Kooker's guy, and my mother's Pilates, I'm sorry, "Synergy" instructor. At school, it's the woman who used to own Wildflower Cafe and the crusty man I sometimes sit next to in church. In every corner of the world, we stumble upon a precious few hidden heroes.

Those whose very nature spur one towards a higher level of existence. Those rare souls whose generosity imbues us with courage and hope and mostly, joy. Of course, our close family and friends can do this, but sometimes, we find strength in the most unlikely of faces.


     The first of this breed whom I encountered in Ghana was my Twi language professor, "short Kofi."  You see, the other Twi teacher is also a Kofi, but he towers above his students while I have to peer down from my desk to watch our guy in action.  In emails from our program director, on paperwork, everywhere- he is known as "short Kofi". I don't even know his last name.
    Short Kofi loves what he does. You can see it in his sunken-in eyes and his pointy belly that greets you long before his face.  But what a face. His wrinkly smile falls under the overhang of these massive nostrils that must have been part of the inspiration for the animators of Shrek. All of his endearing features work together to manifest the inner vitality and joy of a man who cares about his work.
     We put hours every week into learning this language that we will have no use for come December, but for those sessions on Mondays and Tuesdays it seems to me the most important task there is. Short Kofi tells us that we are his "disciples spreading the message of Twi." Between guttural laughs we are instructed to "kill the teacher" when he misspells something, to "kill the student" for a wrong answer, or when a blonde girl spills her water bottle- "Your drink seems to be giving you trouble. Kill it and be free." He's full of encouragement (That deserves a four star hotel! followed by a series of handshakes) and advice (Never envy anybody with too many pens). 
     The other day the classroom dialogue flowed from a lecture on the various euphemisms for having to use the toilet (roughly translating to I'm going to greet the chief and I'm going to wash my gun) into our earnest questions about short Kofi's life outside of school. We learned that the man is up by 4:10 every morning for his radio show (the only radio program in Twi in all of Ghana) and then off to a long day of teaching after which he helps the student radio station with their programming before heading home late in the evening. At that point, he finishes other paperwork past midnight. "That's my life," he grins. I had thought that his level of positivity and energy were only available to those clocking in at least 7 or 8 hours of REM cycles. It is truly remarkable that this little man can so consistently deliver such great focus and enthusiasm to his intro level class of foreigners. I refuse to let exhaustion be an excuse any longer.

    It was early morning and we were embarking on one in a varied series of weekend trips. I have forgotten where we were going and who I sat next to. All that remains of the ride through the rain is an image that grabbed me for a few moments at a stoplight. Many products are sold out of large baskets atop women's heads. The massive goods that they are able to balance with such grace and fluidity is truly amazing. I once saw a woman with six monster suitcases stacked atop her head floating lightly through rush hour traffic. But on this particular morning, I locked eyes with a small girl. Her body concealed the years conveyed in her stern eyes. She must have been about my age. Her bare feet pounded against the hot pavement. Just over her feet- a gray dress I think I saw at Forever 21 many years ago. Above the dress- tied to her back- a baby; his head rolling around, dipping in and out of the sweat on her back. Above the baby her eyes darted for the familiar hiss of a potential customer. Above the eyes, atop her head, a wide bowl big enough to bathe in. Towering over the bowl, at least 300 bananas, carefully stacked and arranged to appeal to those of us riding high above the black pavement.  I watched her move towards a man in a taxi, dig for change in the pocket of the baby fabric, run as the traffic began to move, snatch a banana off the tower on her head, and deliver it while she calmed the wailing child on her back. In that moment, it seemed I would never work as hard in my life as this peer of mine. I doubt I will. I am trying to hold onto this image. Rather, it is holding onto me. I think about this girl now, and wonder where she gets her bananas from.

    In Ghana, my fellow students get to postpone that dreaded first year out of college as they fulfill their mandatory year of national service.  Young people are placed in large companies in the capital city, in obscure programs scattered across the rural villages to the north, and some are even teaching assistants at the university. For some it is a great experience that yields further career opportunities, for others it is a weary twelve month road block en route to their future plans. But, to be sure, the national service contingent provides the foot soldiers for the nation's developing infrastructure. Obviously, most of my contact has been with those stationed at the university and I have been so grateful for their presence on campus. 
     My dance class is taught by a somewhat abrasive woman. Try as we do to please her, the international faction of our class just can't quite move the way she wants us to. She yells and yells, demanding things my body is simply not capable of. But the heaven-sent national service TAs are full of encouragement. There are about seven of them for our medium-sized class who disperse themselves and dance alongside us. They are patient and understanding, though far superior in the art form. I know that teaching white kids to dance is not really the dream; most of their aspirations include professional dance troupes in Ghana and around the world. But they work to make us understand what they love about dance. My favorite, Shamu (yes), comes around after some harsh words from the teacher and repeats, "Smile. Enjoy what you are doing." Over and over. He must say that phrase over 100 times in a class. Yet over time, the words slip into my bones and I stomp and clap to the beat of his encouragement.
     Those completing their National Service remind me what it is to be a servant. To give your all for something other than yourself. I look up to them a great deal as they remind me that no matter what the activity, it is possible to choose to enjoy what you are doing.


     Volunteers come in and out of the orphanage on our own rather irregular rotation. When I leave after four short hours in the bustle of a normal day, I am exhausted. I typically collapse on my bed and escape into a book, gearing myself up for my next brief immersion in the ever-moving, ever-constant life of that house. Every week I am amazed that people actually do this 24-7. That it is someone's job to be here with these children all the time. In the past few weeks, I have been able to observe these unbelievable women up close. There are two that I have seen; the aunties. They could be sisters, both middle-aged strong women, the kind you would want on your team. For anything. The aunties move with a quiet grace that rises unexpectedly in moments of discipline or celebration. The children respond to them as they would a parent and their trust in these women is implicit. Their immature gratitude towards them evident in the collapse of a small body into auntie's arms or the tilt of a bald head up towards her smile.
      Morning after morning after morning for who knows how many years the aunties dress their 44 children. And lunchtime after lunchtime they feed them. Until they pass them along into an adolescence and an adulthood that they will only be a part of in pictures and postcards. And new ones are welcomed. For who knows how many more lunches.

     I give thanks for the chance to drink from the overflow of a generous soul's heart and to experience short Kofi's enthusiasm, the banana girl's perseverance, the joy of those in the national service, and the goodness of the Aunties. And I ask for the courage to express my gratitude to such heroes wherever I might find them.