Summer After Ninth Grade
The summer after the ninth grade...
I was given a long list of books to choose for my AP World History class. We had to pick three books and then write a well thought out essay about them. Even though I considered myself someone who like to read, I immediately felt defeated by the list of thirty or so books that I had never heard of before. I am sure I wanted to find the book with the least amount of pages, like any fourteen year old who wanted to spend her summer doing nothing. At that time, using the internet was becoming a "thing", but with Google not yet being invented, we still relied on hard research to find information. Plus, we had dial-up internet so going through the hassle of looking up a synopsis of a book was just too time consuming.
Anyway, I made up my mind to go with the most familiar titles on that list: Nelson Mandela's Long Walk to Freedom (it would change my life). I knew Nelson Mandela so that would be an easy read, I thought. Then, because the author's name was African I chose Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart. I'm kind of African, I thought, so there you go. My mom and I went to Barnes and Noble (the one that used to be in Camp Creek Marketplace, but is now a Beauty Master) and we bought the books. I loved new books, the smell, the crisp pages, the vibrant colors of the cover. I was excite, but not enough to read them.
Until I was fourteen, I hated being African. God forbid my mother wore her traditional clothes to my school or spoke to me in Lingala in front of my friends! I was unjustifiably humiliated, but for some reason, in the ninth grade,I became obsessed with going to the Congo. My grandparents who had lived with us for about two years had returned to the Congo a few months prior and maybe I missed them or something, but I decided I was going to the Congo one way or another. So, I penned a two page letter (such a lost art form) to my parents about why I should go to the Congo. My paternal grandfather passed away three years earlier, before I had the chance to meet him. So, in my letter, I expressed that it was imperative that I visit my remaining grandparents, especially my paternal grandmother whom I never met. I gave my parents the letter and almost like clockwork my mom and I were preparing to go to the Congo. Passport pictures were taken, vaccinations, suitcases stuffed with supplies and things to sell. I packed my two books about Africa in my carry-on bag. And we were off! It would be my first time on a plane. The year was 2002 so not only I was scared about flying in general, I was scared about terrorists.
Its funny how growing up I had spent most of my school life trying to convince my American friends that Africa is not just a jungle with animals running around. However, when we landed on the continent, I started to get scared about seeing animals roaming around. My Americanized brain would not shut itself off.
Thinking back on that twenty-four journey makes my head spin. So many things were going on at once. I remember walking down the stairs of the plane, being aggressively escorted to a room, being told we did not have visas to be in the country, my mom telling people to call my grandfather, us being escorted to very nice waiting area where we were served snacks and drinks, then my grandfather and my two uncles showing up in very nice suits and everyone acting very differently. They became nicer, calmer, and more helpful. Then, climbing into a white Mercedes (never been a Mercedes before then). We stopped at my paternal grandmother's home. My cousins were there. I had never met anyone on m dad's side and so it was weird because we all looked and acted alike. It was weird. We took pictures and then we were off to my maternal grandparent's home. We got to a hill and my uncle said that everyone had to get out of the car because the car was too low to make it up the hill with people in the back. Everyone was to walk up the hill, except me. "No, no, you stay." he insisted.
We drove up the hill rocking back and forth. My uncle pulled up to a red iron gate and blew the horn.
To be continued...
I was given a long list of books to choose for my AP World History class. We had to pick three books and then write a well thought out essay about them. Even though I considered myself someone who like to read, I immediately felt defeated by the list of thirty or so books that I had never heard of before. I am sure I wanted to find the book with the least amount of pages, like any fourteen year old who wanted to spend her summer doing nothing. At that time, using the internet was becoming a "thing", but with Google not yet being invented, we still relied on hard research to find information. Plus, we had dial-up internet so going through the hassle of looking up a synopsis of a book was just too time consuming.
Time was running out and I had to choose. I finally decided on two books, thinking that two books would certainly be enough because in my adolescent brain, my World History teacher wasn't going to read our papers anyway. Of course, she asked for our essays on the first day of school!
Anyway, I made up my mind to go with the most familiar titles on that list: Nelson Mandela's Long Walk to Freedom (it would change my life). I knew Nelson Mandela so that would be an easy read, I thought. Then, because the author's name was African I chose Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart. I'm kind of African, I thought, so there you go. My mom and I went to Barnes and Noble (the one that used to be in Camp Creek Marketplace, but is now a Beauty Master) and we bought the books. I loved new books, the smell, the crisp pages, the vibrant colors of the cover. I was excite, but not enough to read them.Until I was fourteen, I hated being African. God forbid my mother wore her traditional clothes to my school or spoke to me in Lingala in front of my friends! I was unjustifiably humiliated, but for some reason, in the ninth grade,I became obsessed with going to the Congo. My grandparents who had lived with us for about two years had returned to the Congo a few months prior and maybe I missed them or something, but I decided I was going to the Congo one way or another. So, I penned a two page letter (such a lost art form) to my parents about why I should go to the Congo. My paternal grandfather passed away three years earlier, before I had the chance to meet him. So, in my letter, I expressed that it was imperative that I visit my remaining grandparents, especially my paternal grandmother whom I never met. I gave my parents the letter and almost like clockwork my mom and I were preparing to go to the Congo. Passport pictures were taken, vaccinations, suitcases stuffed with supplies and things to sell. I packed my two books about Africa in my carry-on bag. And we were off! It would be my first time on a plane. The year was 2002 so not only I was scared about flying in general, I was scared about terrorists.
Its funny how growing up I had spent most of my school life trying to convince my American friends that Africa is not just a jungle with animals running around. However, when we landed on the continent, I started to get scared about seeing animals roaming around. My Americanized brain would not shut itself off.
Thinking back on that twenty-four journey makes my head spin. So many things were going on at once. I remember walking down the stairs of the plane, being aggressively escorted to a room, being told we did not have visas to be in the country, my mom telling people to call my grandfather, us being escorted to very nice waiting area where we were served snacks and drinks, then my grandfather and my two uncles showing up in very nice suits and everyone acting very differently. They became nicer, calmer, and more helpful. Then, climbing into a white Mercedes (never been a Mercedes before then). We stopped at my paternal grandmother's home. My cousins were there. I had never met anyone on m dad's side and so it was weird because we all looked and acted alike. It was weird. We took pictures and then we were off to my maternal grandparent's home. We got to a hill and my uncle said that everyone had to get out of the car because the car was too low to make it up the hill with people in the back. Everyone was to walk up the hill, except me. "No, no, you stay." he insisted.
We drove up the hill rocking back and forth. My uncle pulled up to a red iron gate and blew the horn.
To be continued...
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