Americana

At Stella Maris Polytechnic's auditorium

Mid-word

The view from the porch of Bill's home

Dancers at the US Embassy's festival

US Ambassador Linda Thomas-Greenfield. What's left?

Friday, June 3

I'm currently living at my boss's home (the view from its porch is featured above). His niece and her friends used the television in the living room to watch My Best Friend's Wedding, the late '90s rom-com starring Julia Roberts. A day later, another group of friends visited, and they watched the movie again. Hopefully they haven't been given the impression that most American weddings come dangerously close to being ruined by psychopathic food critics. Actually, they might be. I've been gone for nearly a month, so much may have changed.

That night, I had a vivid dream that involved me ordering a large iced drink at Starbucks and then a burrito at Chipotle. My subconscious knew that I'd be going to a festival at the American embassy the next morning.

Saturday, June 4

At the festival, which included Liberian vendors, artists, dancers and musicians, I stopped by a painter's booth to see if he had any affordable souvenirs. As he flipped through some of his works, I thought I heard him mumble, "The ambassador!" Though I couldn't make out all of his words, he motioned to shoo me out of the way as someone else approached. Since this person was essentially cutting me in line, I took the liberty to ask her several questions, primarily, "Are you the ambassador?" She responded by staring at me, her countenance feigning disbelief that I could not know who she was on her own turf.

We then started chatting. She has spent thirty years in the foreign service. Her son will be attending Howard Law school in Washington, DC, next year. Then, she decided to introduce me to her intern for the summer. That intern then introduced me to another set of interns (grad students from various public policy schools) who she'd met and with whom I'd hang for the rest of the day. Before the group of us left the festival, the ambassador called out my name from the lawn table where she was sitting with her friends. Since I'm not part of an intern program here, she wanted to make sure that she had my phone number because she's going to put on an event for the young Americans in Liberia this summer.

Sunday, June 5

Though I had made plans to go to the soccer game between Liberia and Cape Verde, walking around town all day Saturday with my fellow interns made me want to spend Sunday afternoon sitting. I probably made the right decision, since crowds pushed, shoved, and bribed their way into the stadium, reportedly. Beyond capacity, the stadium's light towers enticed some fans to climb onto its structures to watch the match. Liberia won, by the way.

Monday, June 6

I met with the dean of students at Stella Maris Polytechnic in Monrovia. He asked me to share the plans for next summer's institute on critical thinking to some of his students in their auditorium on Wednesday.

That night, I had dinner with an American lawyer who is taking a six month-break from her corporate firm in New York to work for the Liberian government.

Tuesday, June 7

I met with deans and administrators at the University of Liberia, which is only a five minute drive away from the Rebuild Africa office.

Wednesday, June 8

Knowing that I'd be presenting to college students instead of university officials, I made some modifications to the presentation. One change included adding a short critical thinking exercise that required three volunteers. I put up three logically flawed (and silly) statements and asked each volunteer to describe their problems. It seemed to go over well.

To end this post, I'll share one of the cultural exchanges that I've experienced. The Liberian handshake, which has been given to me by university deans and grandmothers alike, has a fascinating history, which I found in (where else?) the text of a cookbook. From The African Cookbook by Bea Sandler:

The greeting of one Liberian to another is unusual, and you might greet your guests this way at your Liberian dinner. When shaking hands you grasp the middle finger of your friend's right hand between your thumb and third finger and bring it up quickly with a snap. The custom had its origin in the days of slavery when it was not uncommon for a slave owner to break the finger of his slave's hand to indicate bondage. When the freed slaves colonized Liberia, they began this ritualistic greeting as a "sign" of their freedom.