I was contemplating names the other day, and I realized that I go by many. I did have a nickname as a child – I won’t tell you what it was. :^) My mom still calls me by that occasionally. Of course, I have gone by Dawn as long as I can remember. :^) In 1992, I added the name “wife” to the list, though Jim does not generally use that when he needs me for something. :^) I am not sure I could respond well to “WIFE – come here!” In 1995, I added the name Mommy – which morphed into Mom and now occasionally (by the boys) Mere –which is the French version. Upon entering Guinea, “Madame Anderson” was added as the formal, respectful French name for a married woman. As I entered the village, I acquired 3 new names. I am referred to by the nationals as either “doctor” or “Gulun Nga” (twin mom) or Madame. Recently, since the boys are getting taller than me – they refer to me as gbo-nga (the big kids mom ) as they have nicknamed the boys “gbo.” (In Yalunka culture, you are referred to as the mom of your first born – kind of like saying – oh, you are so and so’s mom.)
Over the radio by my teammates, I am referred to as GKB (formerly as Niaya) Dawn to distinguish me from Soulemania Dawn (Cluckie). And my teammates kids call me “Aunt Dawn.” Of course, this summer, when my “official” blood niece called me Aunt Dawn for the first time, it was an incredibly sweet sound and will still get the child just about anything she wants!
Three years ago, I also added “n to” (pronounced with a long “o” sound) to my names, which means “my namesake” and my little namesake loves to call to me as she runs up for me to hold her. Her mom told me the other day that she tells everyone that her “to” moved to GKB.
One other name that I love is when I am called “mom” or “mommy” by our 60ish year old chauffer, Mr. Bah. He refers to all of the team women that way as a sign of respect and it is very sweet. When I call him, he answers with “yes, Mom” and it brings a smile to my face. And then a few weeks ago, our mason, Frigi, whom we have work with for almost 2 years and is one of my favorite Guineans, started calling me “n na” – my mom. He said I have become his mom now. It was very sweet as well.
My contemplating left me very thankful that I have avenues into each of these “segments” of life that have bestowed different names on me. Occasionally, on a bad day, though, you might find me hiding in response to one of those names being called out loud – especially if it is the 10th or 12th time I have been called in a very short time. But generally, I love them all.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Friday, January 1, 2010
Well it is that time of year again. . . Christmas and New Years parties and Female Circumcision?
Unfortunately, in the part of the world where we live, those all seem to go together. Since this is read by many people of various ages and walks of life, I will spare you the details of the whole event, which are gruesome, in my opinion. Suffice it to say that female circumcision is widely practiced here, even though declared illegal by the government.
Much of my understanding of the process has brought a great amount of frustration and anger. I have a limited knowledge of the beginnings of the tradition, except that is was started to prevent women from having the desire to cheat on their husbands. Of course, that was many years ago and it has evolved into a “coming of age” type of ceremony. It is practiced by women on girls between 11 and 14. (As a side note, boys are circumcised at the same age as a passage into manhood.) As I stated, I felt only anger about the “tradition”, which leads to a lot of complication in childbirth, both for mom and baby.
In the old village, most people knew how we “white” people felt about the whole thing – and usually avoid talking about it with me – though I did have a few close women friends who would discuss it. I, of course, knew the subject would come up in the new village, and wondered how best to approach it. I hate the practice, but also realize that I am a guest in this country and need to conduct myself in that manner. Two days ago, I heard the dancing and the partying and the gun shots that signify something big is happening in the village and I wondered if it was that time of year. Indeed, Monday morning, I saw numerous women walking back and forth on the path behind our house and I knew what was happening.
My opportunity came just a little while later as I chatted with some of my new friends. I started by asking what was going on and went on to explain that “white doctors” and many African women from other countries do not believe in the practice because it can lead to problems with childbirth (also due to a host of other reasons that I could never begin to explain in another language.) They just smiled, and said they had heard that on the radio as well. They laughed and said, yes, those girls are in pain now, because it hurts so much. That made me mad. Why would you laugh about that? If you had been subjected to that as a girl (the girls have no idea what is going to happen to them), why would you do the same thing to your daughter?
While I feel anger about the whole thing, I also am drawn to watching the whole scene (not the actual ceremony but the events surrounding it). I suppose it is a bit of a morbid fascination, like rubber-necking at a car accident. I watch the women dancing and singing and celebrating, and I realize that they have no clue about the complications that can follow. They are simply celebrating woman hood. Secretly, there have been times when I wished a lot of girls would have immediate complications, so I could point out exactly why I hate the practice (not because I want the girls to be hurt, of course.) Saying that it complicates childbirth is just too vague and with consequences too far away – especially in a fatalistic society where everything that happens is just chance. They were even so pleased about the whole event that they brought the “practitioners” who perform the ceremony to meet me.
And last year, I was shown another side, when one of my best friends in the old village had her daughter circumcised (one of Hannah’s friends). She was terrified for her daughter but saw no alternative if her daughter wanted to get married some day. It is the only way they know for a girl to become a woman in this society.
And so, on I go, educating when I can, and praying for understanding for the women and praying even more for the little girls. Maybe, just maybe, in my lifetime, there will be another way for the women to feel that their daughters can become women.
Much of my understanding of the process has brought a great amount of frustration and anger. I have a limited knowledge of the beginnings of the tradition, except that is was started to prevent women from having the desire to cheat on their husbands. Of course, that was many years ago and it has evolved into a “coming of age” type of ceremony. It is practiced by women on girls between 11 and 14. (As a side note, boys are circumcised at the same age as a passage into manhood.) As I stated, I felt only anger about the “tradition”, which leads to a lot of complication in childbirth, both for mom and baby.
In the old village, most people knew how we “white” people felt about the whole thing – and usually avoid talking about it with me – though I did have a few close women friends who would discuss it. I, of course, knew the subject would come up in the new village, and wondered how best to approach it. I hate the practice, but also realize that I am a guest in this country and need to conduct myself in that manner. Two days ago, I heard the dancing and the partying and the gun shots that signify something big is happening in the village and I wondered if it was that time of year. Indeed, Monday morning, I saw numerous women walking back and forth on the path behind our house and I knew what was happening.
My opportunity came just a little while later as I chatted with some of my new friends. I started by asking what was going on and went on to explain that “white doctors” and many African women from other countries do not believe in the practice because it can lead to problems with childbirth (also due to a host of other reasons that I could never begin to explain in another language.) They just smiled, and said they had heard that on the radio as well. They laughed and said, yes, those girls are in pain now, because it hurts so much. That made me mad. Why would you laugh about that? If you had been subjected to that as a girl (the girls have no idea what is going to happen to them), why would you do the same thing to your daughter?
While I feel anger about the whole thing, I also am drawn to watching the whole scene (not the actual ceremony but the events surrounding it). I suppose it is a bit of a morbid fascination, like rubber-necking at a car accident. I watch the women dancing and singing and celebrating, and I realize that they have no clue about the complications that can follow. They are simply celebrating woman hood. Secretly, there have been times when I wished a lot of girls would have immediate complications, so I could point out exactly why I hate the practice (not because I want the girls to be hurt, of course.) Saying that it complicates childbirth is just too vague and with consequences too far away – especially in a fatalistic society where everything that happens is just chance. They were even so pleased about the whole event that they brought the “practitioners” who perform the ceremony to meet me.
And last year, I was shown another side, when one of my best friends in the old village had her daughter circumcised (one of Hannah’s friends). She was terrified for her daughter but saw no alternative if her daughter wanted to get married some day. It is the only way they know for a girl to become a woman in this society.
And so, on I go, educating when I can, and praying for understanding for the women and praying even more for the little girls. Maybe, just maybe, in my lifetime, there will be another way for the women to feel that their daughters can become women.
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