How Did I Get to 25?

Next week, I turn 25. It’s subtly shocking, at least to me: 25 years is a milestone, a measurable number that means diamonds and reunions.  Often, it’s the kind of milestone that prompts people to re-remember the existence of things or remaster and reissue classic rock albums.  I am now basically a VH1 special.

But I feel good about 25.  It could be worse.  I could be turning 26.  Or turning 24, like Benjamin Button.  On each birthday, I like going back through my old ones and reminiscing.  For instance, I’ve spent birthdays on beaches with gallons of Coldstone and birthdays crying as friends forced tequila worms down my throat.  I’ve had limo rides and bowling alleys and basketball tournaments and brunches and garage fiestas and luaus and parties that ended with neighbor children somehow slamming their faces into our mini-trampoline.  I turned 21 touring the European Parliament, which is never how I expected to spend that milestone, but hey, I remember all of it!  And of course, last year, I turned 24 wearing a pair of Senegalese princess pajamas and eating chicken with my hands. 

Through it all, on birthdays and in life, I find myself consistently asking the question “How the hell did I get here?” For example, “How did I end up in Ugandan prison after watching Wyclef Jean cry on a forklift last night?” or “How did I end up climbing across this roof at 6am in my favorite party dress?” or “Why is this woman yelling Spanish at me and thrusting a communist flag into my arms?”  Some questions have no answers.  This year, I’ll be on my way to Germany, stopping to have a Mexican celebration with my American friends in Senegal.  What? How?  I don’t know.

But then again, I do know.  I do know how I’ve managed to fall – happily – into most of these experiences.  It’s a combination of opportunities, luck, privilege, and geographic location, not to mention the continuous support of loving and inspirational  people every step of the way.  With that kind of wind at my back, anything less than adventure would be abnormal.  Moreover, in my life, I’ve been allowed – and encouraged – to find my own way. For that, I am thankful.

Lately, I’ve been stopping by the middle school more to work with the English Club.  Their latest project is an English-language theater piece, “Creating a Better Senegal.”  In the skit, everyone comes late to work, steals money from the company, and sleeps with the boss.  They wrote the skit themselves, and the moral comes at the end, when one character exclaims, “It is time to change these habits!”  As for my role, I merely gave them suggestions like, “Maybe the secretary should call the boss ‘my chocolate baby’ when she’s bribing him for money.  That’s a fun English phrase!”

But truth be told, I love the kids I work with there.  The middle school students in Senegal range from about 12-16 years old.  For many of them, finishing middle school is an extraordinary achievement in and of itself, and when they receive their completion certificate, their education ends. When I think back to my life and how a college degree was more an inevitability than vague hope, I find myself unable to imagine a world where life ends and begins with 8^th grade. What would my life would be like if I had grown up here?  Certainly, it’d be different, and maybe not different in a bad way, but without a doubt, different.  I start thinking that if I had grown up in Senegal as a Senegalese girl, maybe I too would be content and proud to finish middle school at 16 and follow it with marriage and a family.  Sure, I’d be missing all of those years and birthdays that American Lisa had – the learning, the living, the leaving – but such is the give and take between cultures.  Maybe Senegalese 16 would be enough for me.

But then I think back to conversations I’ve had, with everyone from teachers to students to friends and neighbors here.  The girls who want to be stewardesses, the girls who want to be doctors.  The teachers who want to go back to university just to learn more, the students who want to study abroad just because.  The unmarried women I know who aren’t ready to settle down, and the ones who are but still insist on completing high school and college first. As anywhere, there are plenty of people in Senegal, some out in the open and some hidden in crevices, who want more, who want something different, and who are willing to work for it.

Bigue wants to be the Senegalese Minister of Health.  She's starting by staying hydrated at preschool, clearly

Some families pull their girls out of school because it just becomes too expensive.  Some stop girls early so that they can help around the house -- watching children, washing clothes, cooking, or working at the family business.  I don’t criticize those reasons in the least.  But when those reasons stop the education of a motivated girl who wants to be a doctor, or a teacher, or a nurse, who wants to keep learning – well, maybe that should be changed.  Senegal has a lot of girls like that.  But at the moment, Senegal also has a 56% literacy rate for girls between 15-24 years old.

Anyway, with all that in mind, I’m currently working with that same middle school to select nine girls for Peace Corps Senegal’s Michele Sylvester Scholarship program.  The scholarship covers school fees -- $10 for a year – for all nine girls.  Three girls are chosen as overall winner for their grade, after writing essays, submitting teacher recommendations, and passing an interview, and they get an extra $30 to buy school supplies. Eventually, the nine selected girls will be invited to the camp I’m helping to organize in my region, and I’m also hoping to form a girls’ health group with them (by disguising it as a prize... muuahahaha).    This program has been going on in Peace Corps Senegal for almost 20 years now, which means it’s almost as old as me, but I still win.

Coming in as an American representing an organization of the American government and telling a family that their daughter is smart, capable, and deserving of praise makes a lot of families reconsider the education of their daughters, not to mention all their children.  Moreover, coming in as an American and telling a girl that she herself is smart, capable, and worth the investment motivates her even farther.  And at the end of the day, it’s crazy that supplementing a school fee of $10 can change someone’s life so drastically.  Maybe not all of these girls will go on to accomplish each and every one of their goals.  But they deserve to try and they deserve the chance to find themselves.

So you may have seen this coming, but yes, for my birthday this year, I call upon all of you to donate a little bit to this fantastic program.  Granted, your donation can be a little bit of constructive thinking about the state of education worldwide, but I’d especially appreciate it if you’d donate a few dollars to my middle school.  If you choose to make a donation, please write “Lisa Floran, Michele Sylvester Scholarship, Thies” in the comments box to ensure your funds go directly to my girls.  Also, keep in mind that any extra funds I receive will go to one of the other 50 scholarship sites around Senegal, so it's a win-win situation. 

Donate to the Michele Sylvester Scholarship via the Senegal Country Fund

I never imagined myself in this life I now lead at 25.  Who knows where Senegal’s girls will be at this age?  Who knows... but maybe, just maybe, they’ll end up in the last, perfect place they never expected.

This Time, I Didn't Miss a Thing

Back in America, I prided myself, and maybe even defined myself, by the things I enjoyed. I was a classy girl: I liked arty movies and indie music, fancy dinners and good wine, ballets and picnics in the park. True, I’ve always had a soft spot for self-indulgent mainstream pieces of trash as well, but these things stayed on the list of “things I find it hilarious to like” rather than “things I am proud to like.” They included Miley Cyrus’ “Party in the USA,” Dominoes, and watching ‘The Bachelor.’

Furthermore, there were many things I hated with a deep, unexplained passion in America. Musicals, for instance. Everyone always assumes that I’m the kind of girl who would be “into” musicals. They start Newsies singalongs at parties and expect me to join, but I never do, because something in me hates the culture of musical theatre, on the whole. I hate big-budget movies that have no plot, despite their visual accomplishments. I hate Avatar and everything it stands for. I have a deep aversion to children’s films. I hate white bread. I hate processed cheese.

But for some reason, in Senegal, I find myself inexplicably loving a lot of these things. I started noticing it when I started getting into Glee. I hated Glee in America, but here, the song and dance routines set to top 40 songs, nostaligizing the high school experience I never had, became a constant craving. Then I started watching ‘It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia,’ another show I hated in America, but here... I can’t get enough! I can’t stop and I can’t get enough! Senegal Lisa dreams of cheetos and white bread by the bushel. She drinks pop constantly and falls asleep five minutes into Best Picture nominees. It’s all very confusing. And the confusion hit a boiling point when I decided to watch Armageddon.

GAME. CHANGER.

Armageddon is the kind of movie I used to mock. But suddenly, this time around, watching it unleashed a torrent of emotions and a backlog of cultural criticism normally reserved for far worthier outlets. So, you see, I am writing this post with two objectives. The first is to address the fact that living in a foreign place brings out strange and surprising emotions, obsessions, and urges! And the second and more important reason is for me to expound upon my feelings regarding Armageddon.

1. OIL SAVES THE WORLD: An asteroid is hurtling toward Earth! Oh no! We’re all going to die! Wait – Michael Bay knows who can save us. Is it green energy? Electric cars? Organic farms? NO. Of course not. OIL RIGS ARE THE ANSWER. In Armageddon, NASA scientists absolutely know that the only technology necessary to protect humankind is a combination of nuclear weapons and deep sea drilling. And you thought oil was going to be the death of us all! You were wrong. Dead wrong.

2. AMERICAN OIL SAVES THE WORLD: Moreover, it’s not just oil that will save the world, it’s AMERICAN OIL! At this point in the movie, the liberal media is choking on the false libel they have been spreading for years. So head straight to a down-home American oil rig, because that’s where the real heros are. And when I say real heros, I mostly mean Michael Clark Duncan. But for realz -- we don’t need no fancy schmancy rocket science to solve this problem! A little bit of common sense from some real Americans is plenty to avoid the end of days!

3. AMERICAN WILL JUST DIY THIS THING, DON’T EVEN WORRY ABOUT IT: Oh, hey, Mr. President, the world is going to explode in a matter of moments. Do you want to brainstorm with Angela Merkel, maybe include some of our Asian allies, talk it over with David Cameron? Hell NO, Armageddon’s American President doesn’t want to talk about this to anyone. “They’re savages,” he basically says. “There will be madness in the streets if this information gets out.” What he’s really saying is, America’s got this one. Everyone else can continue going about their silly little lives while American tries to be the hero and gives overweight oil riggers with felon records near-coronaries. I think the idea for this decision in the film was to make America seem smart and strong. But don’t we all know the real answer is TEAMWORK? Surely the Russians must have a few solid insights about this asteroid! Ughhhhh!

4. NEVERMIND WE WILL TELL ONE DRUNKEN RUSSIAN: Oh wait my bad, I’ve been misrepresenting the film. The Americans DO tell some of the international community about their rag-tag plan: a drunken Russian in the space station. Honest to God, when this stereotype of the Russian man appeared in the movie, I thought his opening line in an overwrought accent as he spun in a gravity rainbow was going to be our only shout-out to international cooperation. I’ll admit that Armageddon pleasantly surprised me by giving the Russian some heroic moments, like kicking a faulty machine until it worked and then proclaiming “This how we fix thing on space station ho-HA!” But I still hold to the fact that the Russian was merely a pawn in the American plan, and his own president probably had no idea what the eff was going on near the satellites. That’s how American rolls. Hard. And secretive.

5. WE NEED SOME SHOTS OF OTHER UNFORTUNATE COUNTRIES: At least the cinematographer seemed to understand the global scope of this kind of film. While the script ignores any sense of the international, at least some of destruction shots include them. Then again, why is an unnamed Asian country represented as an idyllic opium den? And why is the only city we see destroyed none other than gay Paris? Oh right! BECAUSE AMERICA IS RUNNING THIS SHIT AND THIS MOVIE.

6. REMEMBER WHAT WE’RE FIGHTING FOR!: What are we fighting for? Well, obviously not the world (DUH!), but AMERICA. If you haven’t noticed, the theme of Armageddon is America. And the America that we are fighting for isn’t shown as she truly exists, McDonalds, bayou rats, freeways, and all, but as a Norman Rockwell interactive tableau. Look at the children in pigtails and overalls jumping into their cellar as the asteroid nears! Look at the families emerging from church and jumping into their 1948 Cadillac, ecstatic at their second chance at life! The American sequences are ultimately confusing and made me wonder if the real threat wasn’t an asteroid but an alternate dimension of 1952 trying to envelope Earth in 1998.

7. BRUCE WILLIS SHOOTS BEN AFFLECK WITH A GUN: This happens. This happens on an oil rig. This happens. He be crazy! They all crazy!

8. IN SPACE EVERYONE CAN HEAR YOU SCREAM: I thought the opening scene was a dream sequence because the guy who died looked like Bruce Willis and also, I could hear the astronauts screaming. Everyone knows that’s not how it works. We’ve all seen Aliens. In space NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU SCREAM. So what was that opening about?! I spent the first 15 minutes waiting for Bruce Willis to wake up from his dream within a dream before finally conceding that I was smarter and knew more about space than Michael Bay.

9. BILLY BOB THORNTON IS RUNNING NASA: And it comes as a shock that ex-cons are given the green light to go into space? This blows my mind but clearly it shouldn’t.

10. BEST WAY TO MAKE SURE YOUR SON-IN-LAW NEVER SCREWS OVER YOUR DAUGHTER: Simple. Die for him. Trick him into thinking he’s going to save the world, then, at the last minute, punch him in the face and send him back to Earth, ensuring that your name will live forever in glory but you will never meet your grandchildren. And for the rest of his life, your daughter’s lover will be haunted by your selflessness, haunted so strongly that he never strays from her side lest Marley’s ghost descends from space to kill him with a meteor shower.

Love is the answer to every question.

So yes, I write this post not only to comment on Armageddon, but also to comment on the fact that my life has taken a turn where I feel compelled to comment on Armageddon. I do not know why I suddenly noticed so many fascinating things in this film. I also do not know why I started sobbing during two pivotal scenes. These things happen. All I know is that not only do I live differently here, and apparently I love differently here too.

I hope we can all still be friends when I get back. I just wanted to take this moment to be honest about the person I have become.

Paula Abdul for a Night

As I walked into the auditorium on Saturday night, wearing my brand-spanking new “American Corner American Music Contest 2012” T-shirt and headed for my place of honor in the front row, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was my destiny. I couldn’t help but notice that seldom have I felt so happy, excited, and powerful during my time in Senegal. For on this day, I was judging a music contest. A music contest of Senegalese contestants performing English-language songs. A music contest with the sole intention of impressing me, an American, by playing music in my language, that I would understand and like and want to dance to. On this night, everyone would be culturally adapting to ME. And the winner was going to get one of these trophies.

Kathleen poses with the guitar trophies and the life-size Obama that decorates the American Corner office

The music contest was the brainchild of my friend Cheikh, who runs the American Corner in Thies. The American Corner is an office in the Cultural Center sponsored by the American Embassy. They provide English-language resources and sponsor activities, such as the English class I co-lead once a week, as well as other spontaneous events, like Gospel Concerts that cover African American Spirituals and R. Kelly’s “I Believe I Can Fly.” Did I never talk about that? It was my favorite event in Senegal, at least until I judged the American Music Contest 2012. I’ll write about it at a different time. But yes, this past weekend, Cheikh hosted a music contest. I’m still not exactly sure why, and I’m never exactly sure how he gathers participants for these events, but they happen, and they are always great.

I had no idea what to expect when I showed up to judge the American Music Contest. Would it be covers of American songs with impersonations of American bands? Would it involve original compositions adapted from English-language poetry? Would it be Senegalese mbala music, translated into English? Anything was possible! As the anticipation built in the minutes before the competition started, our contestant list grew from 7 to 8 to 10 to 12 participants. Doing who knows what.

So after the esteemed judges – me and two of my fellow English teachers, Colin and Kathleen – took our seats, the program began to unfold. First, we were treated to the Senegalese anthem translated into English, fulfilling one of my expectations. After that, we had a transitory performance, meant to warm up the audience. The two people we would be seeing weren’t competing, but THEY SHOULD HAVE BECAUSE I WOULD HAVE PROBABLY HAD THEM WIN. Why? Because they used the stage names “J. Lo” and “Lil Wayne,” and J.Lo was wearing a pink, animal print jumpsuit over heels and they rapped top 40 hits. It was during this song that I knew it was going to be the perfect night and that there was absolutely nothing better I could possibly be doing with my Saturday night, not only now, but for the rest of my life.

The competitors ran the gamut. Among them were:

• Baye fall types – the dreadlocked men who know how to play guitar and make tourists love them, often seen on the beaches. The first was called “Doom u Dialaw,” which translates to “Child of Dialaw,” which is coincidentally where my friends and I were semi-attacked by less musical Rastas a week ago. One girl’s sand pile was destroyed, and another was bitten. But these guys were great. Some lyrics were hard to discern, but I think one song detailed a dead father and another talked about smiles fixing everything.
• Acapella ladies – the first of these contestants was in full-on modest Muslim gear: head to toe black with a black headscarf. Oh, but wait, what’s that? Oh yes, she also had a sequined gold bra sewn on top of her extremely modest sheath. BALLSY. BALLSY. She dedicated her song to the talibe. The other girl sang a song about being “exactly where she was supposed to be.” Things got heavy during acapella time.
• Rappers – the rappers. I loved them. So much. I was also just impressed that so many young men attempted to tackle English through rap. I mean, how many songs can you rap? I can sometimes do a few verses, if I’m lucky, and I’m channeling Nicki Minaj. One guy, who reminded me of Jay-Z and was coincidentally the son of a Peace Corps Trainer, pulled it off especially well. All of the rappers had the synonymous introduction of thanking the audience, maybe throwing out the n-word in a blissfully ignorant way, and then saying either, “Hit me, DJ” or “DJ. The song.”

Other contestants included a semi-professional mbala band, an adorable Moldy Peaches-esque brother and sister combo who did the happiest reggae version of "Happy Birthday" I’d ever seen, and a local reggae/rap artist, who waved his shirt around his head like it was a helicoptor and this one was for North Carolina and also graciously thanked Colin by calling him “his n-word.” No one should be an n-word, but Colin is especially far from the description.

Deliberation was difficult. All three judges had very different ideas about who should win and why. Our biggest dilemma concerned the participation of the two semi-professional entries: they already knew they were good, so should they win? And maybe more importantly, would we disrupt the social order of Senegal if we did our little American positivity dance and rewarded people for things like “trying really hard!” or “being untrained and still good!” or “having fun!” These are decisions every judge must make.

Eventually, we decided to base our selections on three categories: musical content and ability to display the chosen genre; lyrical content and English delivery; and stage presence. To even things out a little bit, we awarded two honorable mentions. But in a shocking twist to the audience, we gave the semi-professional band 3^rd place. They sounded great, but none of us could understand anything that they said, which knocked them down a bit in the standings. The one group that delivered every lyric with complete precision – the fake Moldy Peaches – earned 2^nd place, prompting them to shockingly take the stage in front of the band, whom they placated by innocently proclaiming as their idols. And our winner for the evening was the local reggae/rap artist, who had managed to rile up the crowd, speak fantastic English, execute his genre, and call Colin the n-word. When he came up to accept his award, he started crying, thrust the trophy to the sky like a Grammy, and launched into a speech. We felt confident in our choice after that display and its positive reception by the audience.

So the competition was a success! I loved the feeling of absolute, or at least 1/3, power I had during the evening. In fact, at one point, I took the stage and started an impromptu performance of the Sean Paul song “Got to Love You.” These things happen when too much power meets possibility, and when I say possibility, I mean a DJ, an empty stage, a microphone, and me. Nonetheless, I think the outburst gave the audience reason to respect us more as judges. At the end of my weird off-putting dance, I proclaimed, “Got to love YOU, Senegal! Got to love YOU, contestants tonight!” I felt like Bob Marley. I acted like Paula Abdul. I might have looked like the lovechild of Frank Zappa and a gazelle. But I was just being a Peace Corps volunteer, doing my civic duty and job, which on this night was judging an American Music Contest. In these moments, I love it.