Hair Personified

(a fast-write from today's class)

Patricia is one of those women you cannot identify by her hair. Some days it’s copper ringlets; other days sleek, flowing to the shoulder ebony; then a fro of fuzz, cropped-close like a poodle recently to the barber. Her ever-changing hair wardrobe I could only liken to the shoe closet of some American women. Her hair, an extension of her personality – vibrant, and at times, unpredictable.

Due to my pediatric clientele’s desire for decorating my carpet office floor with play dough, I met Patricia early in my days working at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital. Patricia often surfaced just as I was finishing up for the day, her timing seemingly impeccable. My trash bins she would empty, my decorated floor she would look upon, smile, laugh and shake her head knowingly. It was her accent barely discernible in her laugh that alluded to a background beyond the cleaning duties she held at the hospital. A native of Ghana, Patricia came to Cincinnati by way of her husband, a Ghanaian man living in the States. Friends and family were dispersed throughout the country, but here in Cincinnati, was where she was raising her immediate family.

Having a slight infatuation with Africa - the people, the natural, raw beauty of the landscape, the culture, the way of life and colorful dress – Patricia and I got on well. Quite well. She was observant to the hints of African incorporated into my daily life – the fabric of my computer bag, the dangles from my ears, the swatch of cloth in my hair, or the rare African-printed skirt. For Christmas, she betrothed me with a necklace from Ghana – a myriad of earth-toned beads culminating into an African-continent-shaped stone. A stunning cherished remnant from the Dark Continent, well loved and worn.

In March 2010, having known me 6 months, Patricia remarked one evening, “I would like you to be my sister-in-law.” Thinking that she was being generous with her words, I merely laughed in response.

Then in June 2010, during a therapy session, I heard a knock on my office door. Believing it was the child’s father coming in, I opened the door. But standing before me was not the child’s father, but rather Patricia – early to work that day. As my patient, a 6-year-old boy with severe ADHD and his father watched on camera from the observation room, Patricia explained her presence – with little regard for the audience that was witnessing this conversation unfold.

Patricia: “Maria, Maria! Remember how I said I wanted you to be my sister-in-law? Well, I spoke with my brother who lives in Ghana. He is very excited to marry you. However, I thought it best if he send pictures so you can see how beautiful he is. He wanted me to give you...”

Nodding towards my patient with the door still half-open, I interrupted, “Thank you, Patricia, that was very thoughtful of you. However, I am in with a patient. Let’s catch up later.”

She handed me a large, poster-size envelope postmarked from Ghana.

Shocked, I wrapped up the session as calmly and coherently as possible. The child, ever inquisitive and clever in distracting me from speech therapy, inquired about the person at the door. I briefly explained that she was “one of my friends”, a term I often used to refer to other patients. The father, thankfully tactful or forgetful, did not ask further regarding the intriguing conversation he had likely overheard.

The next day remembering the contents of the Ghana-postmarked envelope, I opened it and curiously retrieved what had traversed an ocean and many weeks to get to me. Enclosed were 2 photos. One, a life-size picture of an African man’s head, perhaps even blown-up to be larger-than-the actual size of his head. The other, another blown-up picture this one depicting an African man clad in traditional-African garb. He looked as if he had taken a bed sheet, wrapped it around his body toga-style, and secured it to his frame with one simple knot. He stood against a car, weathered, with simple open sandals adorning his feet. He looked to be a man – stoic and regal.

Ironically, his identifying feature was his hair. Unlike his sister, this man had hair that was static through the fashion trends and changing seasons. His hair all black, save for a patch above his head – this patch of hair was a sharp contrasting pigment of white. An identifying feature that had earned him the nickname “Snow.”

So what’s next for the couple – one with “snow” colored skin, the other with “snow” colored hair?

The consulted Magic 8-ball reads, “Ask Again Later.” ;)

the finish line

“When will I be able to run again?” I asked.

(Laugh). “If you’re standing in the middle of the road and there’s a car coming, then you can run,” responded my physical therapist.

--

My foray into running began as a little girl growing up in cornfield-clad Maria Stein, Ohio. Running down the road, pursuing my cousin’s car as it disappeared into the distance, my legs moving in sync with my waving hand. My cousins, the daughters of my mother’s twin sister, often visited in the summer. At some point it became tradition that as their wheels went down the road, my feet followed suit. Often barefoot along the road, hot with bubbling asphalt, the air stagnant with summer heat, I chased dreams and cars.

Then in middle school my cousin and my twin sister joined cross-country. Wanting to choose a path different than my twin, I became a cheerleader. Being hailed a “rah-rah” by my older sister did not sit well with me nor did practicing gymnastics unsupervised in the family backyard sit well with my sprained body, so by high school, I joined the cross country ranks. I became one of the few familiar with the 5k metric equivalent for 3.1 miles. One of the few who liked to “run for fun.” One of the few who saved up to buy not CDs or new clothes for school but rather a new pair of New Balance running shoes. As a scrawny teenager weighing in just under 100 pounds, standing at almost 5’2, my short legs and bony appendages, never garnered me athletic accolades. My twin sister, 6 inches taller, had the legs for running. She could actually sprint. I chose instead to go the distance.

College came along and I continued to lace up my running shoes. The purple stripes on my favorite pair of shoes faded into shades of grey, the navy and yellow N insignia for New Balance wore off and fell away, duct tape bandaged talking holes, and the shoe treads underneath became smooth, but I kept running. I sprained my knee ice-skating, but kept running, downgrading a trained-for marathon to a half-marathon 4 weeks later. I dislocated my right kneecap playing ice hockey but still walked the hilly streets of San Francisco 3 weeks later, racking up nearly 20 miles in one day whilst loosely abiding by physical therapy recommendations. I acquired a stress fracture in my left foot, wore an orthopedic boot for a month, removed it the day before undergraduate graduation, wore heels down the aisle and then spent 2 months traipsing around Europe a good portion on running feet. Through the aches and pains, swollen joints and ice packs, I played intramural soccer, took up rugby, spent days hiking, and kept right on running.

Then August 9th, 2009 I crossed the finish line.

I had been home but 3 weeks from Africa just in time for a close friend’s wedding in Columbus, Ohio. To the church ceremony and the reception thereafter I went. Shook it all about with the Hokey-Pokey, stepped in tune to the Electric Slide, and got down with the Chicken Dance. Kept the fun going at a bar afterwards with my cousin, dancing with her flatmate and friends until, as some say, “I literally broke dance.”

Bewildered as to why suddenly my bottom was on the floor and everyone else was dancing on two feet, my hand traveled to my left knee. What I felt was even more perplexing. My kneecap had gravitated out of its socket and was resting on the left side of where my knee should have been. Gripped with pain and impending shock, I could not get up. I could not walk. Two men whose names I did not know transported me to safety. One making way for me in the drunken crowd and the other, a rather slight fellow, carrying me. A cab was called and I was whisked away with my cousin to the emergency room of the Ohio State University Hospital.

There in a patient room I sat alone save for a team of medical students and doctors peering at my wayward knee and me. The state of my knee and the state of my dress (fit for a wedding) provided a puzzling picture. The doctors wanted to call in an anesthesiologist to put me under while they pushed the knee back into its socket. Unfortunately, quite sober, I was computing dollar signs in my head for the expense and suggested a local anesthetic instead. The doctor reported it wouldn’t give me the pain relief I sought.

So alas I asked, “Can’t you just push it back in?” Incredulous looks exchanged. Everyone thought I’d taken a crazy pill. Especially when they realized I was being serious. “How long would it take? How long would the pain last?” I inquired. “It would be extremely painful but the pain wouldn’t last long,” one reported. “Well then, let’s get on with it,” I stated.

One well-meaning (but foolish) individual offered to hold my hand during it. I warned him that I would likely break it. Instead, I gripped the wheelchair’s arms; knuckles white, and followed the Lamaze instructions of a sage doctor. “Breathe in through your nose and whistle out your mouth.” And this I did as an audience watched my kneecap being pushed back into its rightful place.

Aware of my pain medication sensitivity (and cognizant of the astronomical inflation of medication in hospitals), I relented to only taking one Motrin after the ordeal. As I had crutches and a leg brace at my parent’s place from my last knee dislocation 3 years prior, I refused to acquire another set. Instead, I left the hospital, my left knee well wrapped in ace bandage, hopping on my good right foot. Without crutches and poor upper body strength, I managed to navigate a flight of stairs and a pair of friendly cats to the refuge of my cousin’s bed where I slept for a couple hours before driving myself the 2 hours home to my parent’s place. Not wanting to worry them, I waited until they had gone through their typical Sunday morning ritual before calling them, letting them know that my crutches would need to be found in the next couple hours, dusted off, and placed where I could reach them upon opening my car door. And per request, hours later, I found them and my father waiting for me as I pulled into my parent’s driveway. My father knowingly shaking his head.

To be continued...

30 Hours in Mumbai

26/11. 9/11 but in India. On the 26^th day of November, 2008, Pakistani-based Muslim terrorists lay siege to Mumbai, India’s financial capital. Ten coordinated shooting and bombing attacks, killing 173, wounding 308. Well-equipped gunmen singled-out individuals with American and British passports. To be killed or taken hostage. Not a good day to be at Leopold Café, a popular restaurant for foreigners. Not a good day to be an American in Mumbai.

--

For 2 days, I had travelled by bus from Maputo, Mozambique to Johannesburg, South Africa to catch a flight to India for my friend Sangeetha’s wedding. I had met Sangeetha as a student at Miami University where we had both pursued graduate degrees in speech-language pathology. I was now working in Mozambique; she was planning to find work in her native country of India. But first, she was to marry an Indian doctor from Calicut, India. An arranged marriage that she had welcomed.

No stranger to flying, I had minimal anxiety regarding the impending flight that would take me from Johannesburg to Dubai to Calicut. Even as I watched a crew of Emirate airline attendants attempt to process my e-reservation, my anxiety level registered at 0. Their conversation in a foreign tongue did not faze me. It was when the looks on their faces began to appear frantic and when I heard a brave soul utter to me, “Do not worry, ma’am, we’ll get it sorted” that I realized this was going to be no quick check-in. Then I was pulled aside and calmly told that for whatever reason, my individual ticket had been cancelled. There were no empty seats on the flight. I had no ticket to India.

I was told that I could go to a travel agent but one outside the airport or go online to book a flight. Either way there would be a 2-3 day delay. “Was my flight urgent?” they asked. Odd question, no one travels for 2 days from one foreign country to the next to wait days in that foreign place before departing on a flight to another very foreign place. In addition, I had convinced an American friend to come to our mutual friend’s wedding. She had never left the States. Quite hesitant initially, she finally conceded when I told her I would be waiting for her at the airport and would not leave her side for the duration of the journey. Interpreted urgent or otherwise, I did not have days to get to Calicut, India. I had hours. Tick tock tick tock.

The Emirate airline advice I disregarded. Instead, I walked from one airline desk to the next inquiring, “Do you have flights to India? How soon can you get me there?” I had gone through nearly the whole alphabetical line of airlines (Alitalia, Ethiopia, Kenyan, Qatar) until South African Airways put my fears to rest. They could get me to Calicut through Mumbai. A 15-hour layover both ways. I would miss my American friend’s arrival but I would make it in time for my Indian friend’s wedding. I had one hour to get word to my friends, go through security, and board the plane bound for India. Within 8 hours, I would be in Mumbai. I had little time to prepare. Tick tock tick tock.

The Mumbai international airport is not one of comfort. Due to its proximity to the Pakistani border and the strained relations between the neighbors, police were everywhere. Their eyes everywhere. I left. Upon entering the night heat, I was met by an onslaught of Indian businessmen looking to make a deal. I bartered with a taxi driver, but paid too much. Wound up at a hotel, where again my fair skin and American passport, made me pay too much.

The next morning, still a couple hours into my first Mumbai 15-hour layover, I embraced the chaos of the city. With a hotel staff member, I went in search of a SIM card for my phone so domestic calls (within India) could be made. My friends thus far knew little regarding my whereabouts, only what they could glean from the frantic email I had sent before my hasty departure.

Getting a SIM card in India, I quickly realized was no minute task. Closely following the hotel staff member, my passport in tow per his request, we weaved from one shantytown to the next. Inquiries placed, copies of my passport made, money exchanged. We walked on. After hours of curious perusal by onlookers, I acquired a SIM card. My first foray into Mumbai’s streets, a few blisters to sport and once white shirt now quite dusted, but not much worse for the wear.

I traveled onward to Calicut, meeting up with my friends, having a week of great fun and further intrigues: sitting in the second row for my friend’s marriage ceremony sharing space with the other 1500 guests invited, shopping for saris, tasting dried coconut by the street side, giving free “English” lessons to inquisitive villagers, seeing the countryside by train, exploring the backwater region by boat (as if in Venice), and trying to interpret the characteristic Indian “head bob”, in which Indians actually communicate by way of bobbing their heads.

Then it was back to Mumbai for my second and final 15-hour layover. This time, though, I had a personal tour guide – my friend Sheila. We first met in Maputo, Mozambique where we had arrived within weeks of each other, became friends, and then her hometown of Mumbai beckoned her back to India. With a phone and her number, we got in touch. We had a good half-day to catch up and to see the city – tourist sites and all.

It was now March 2009. Nearly 4 months since the Mumbai attacks or 26/11 as the Indians referred to it as. The targeted sites, many tourist spots, were part of the tour. We passed the Taj Hotel by rickshaw, where 167 perished. We walked past Leopold Café where 10 had been murdered. Bullet holes still blotted the front.

Being here felt so surreal, so eerie. It wasn’t a feeling I welcomed. I walked on picking up my pace. Then from the corner of my eye, I glimpsed an Indian gentlemen sprinting across 5 lanes of traffic. His eyes set on me. My heart stopped. My feet stopped. What the….

“Ma’am! Ma’am! Stop! Stop!” I couldn’t move. One lane of traffic separated him from me. “Ma’am, ma’am! Please stop!”

Now a couple feet.

Tick tock tick tock.

“Ma’am, will you be in my Bollywood movie?” What?!

“We could make a good deal. You be in my Bollywood movie? Yes, yes?” I was speechless.

“We make big money.” Blank look. Mouth agape. Speechless.

My images of the Mumbai attack – fear, trails of blood, panic, ricocheting bullets, horror – diminishing into a montage of shaking hips, stiletto-dancing women. Absurd. Unlikely.

As my ability to form sentences seemed impaired, my friend intervened.

“No, no, she doesn’t want to be in your Bollywood movie.” No. No. No. Indians are well known for their persuasive skills and persistence and the clashing of these two Indians was no exception. My heart was still pounding.

Bollywood dreams dashed, we managed to escape into a bakery with a distracting array of chocolates and sweet confections. My friend quickly forgot the incident. I did not.

I sat on the plane that night, homesick for a land I had not seen in many months, and one I would not see for many more. I was homesick for a place where upon entry I would pass through the line for “nationals” not for “foreigners.” I was homesick for a place where my nationality and fair skin garnered few second glances.

I was homesick for a place where I could just be.