Alyssa (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} a_gypsy_soul) wrote,@ 2007-09-01 23:41:00 |
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September
September is a month of anniversaries. The type of anniversaries that beg for solemn reflection on one’s past, one’s present and one’s future.
On 23 September 2004, I sat on an Air France flight from Charles de Gaulle to N’djamena and looked out my window, unnerved by the lack of runway lights as we descended. We stepped off that plane, into the hot Sahelian night and were greeted by warm bottles of water and a flurry of confusing activity. I don’t remember much from our first drive to the SIL compound, but I do remember the all-encompassing darkness broken only by occasional small fires that cast looming shadows on walls. The darkness takes you by surprise if only because you think you know what darkness is, what darkness means. You don’t. You can’t. Not really. September was the month I learned about darkness. It was the month it all began. SIL, the grande marche, waiting in line for e-mail at the bureau, Darda, couscous, Majiri, home stay, Ramadan, Robin-dam, singing “Sweet Home Alabama” on the banks of the Chari river, the boat ride that wouldn’t end, Ahmat Daoud, Moumine, hippos at night, Wabo-Wabo, mosquitoes, heat rash, giardia…the list is endless. At the Holiday Inn in Philadelphia, we met as strangers. Tentative, unsure. About each other. About Chad. About what we were agreeing to do for the next two years. But something about the circumstances of Darda, of what we were doing, brought us together. September gave me a new definition of family. I have often said that family doesn’t have to be defined by bloodlines. The connection of family goes deeper than that, strikes at the very souls of people, and bonds them to each other. It’s not a superficial bond, something based on likes/dislikes or random circumstances. It comes about when, and only when, people have been through hell together, when they’ve trudged the mile or so in the mud together, been violently ill together, been through triumph and tragedy together.
Tragedy.
Matthew Costa was a short, curly-haired Puckish imp of a person. The type that no matter how bad of a mood you were in, you couldn’t help but laugh out loud as he danced and karate-chopped his way around the lounge. He was so serious in his unseriousness. And so unserious in his seriousness. He lived vibrantly. He perfected the art of bar shopping, of sneaking whiskey packets into expensive Nasarra restaurants, of integrating into a community without losing his sense of self. Matt completed his two years in Chad and then extended for a third year in Mali. Mali of all places. But after Chad, anywhere is up. And on September 3, 2007, just days, really, from his official close-of-service date, he was gone. He and some friends built a sailboat and had tried to sail it up the Niger River where it hit a power line. And those eyes that once twinkled with a certain mischievousness were closed forever.
I remember the news. Over e-mail. And I remember that moment of feeling so incredibly alone. Of being overwhelmed by grief that I couldn’t share because no one around me understood that I didn’t just lose a friend. I lost a brother. I remember the incredible need at that moment to find myself in the company of those who knew. Who understood. In Chad, one mourns silently. At a funeral, you sit quietly. You don’t need to speak to the grief-stricken. They understand that words are superfluous. That it’s your physical presence that is important. And so I flew half-way across the country to be there, to sit with and hold onto my family.
This September, I am again alone. Feeling disconnected from that past. It’s hard to be so separate from people who were once so very integral to your daily existence. So if I seem a little off-key, a little disjointed, it’s because there are pieces of my soul scattered around this month. I’ll be okay. But September is a month of anniversaries. Anniversaries that require reflection. And I’m reflecting.
September is a month of anniversaries. The type of anniversaries that beg for solemn reflection on one’s past, one’s present and one’s future.
On 23 September 2004, I sat on an Air France flight from Charles de Gaulle to N’djamena and looked out my window, unnerved by the lack of runway lights as we descended. We stepped off that plane, into the hot Sahelian night and were greeted by warm bottles of water and a flurry of confusing activity. I don’t remember much from our first drive to the SIL compound, but I do remember the all-encompassing darkness broken only by occasional small fires that cast looming shadows on walls. The darkness takes you by surprise if only because you think you know what darkness is, what darkness means. You don’t. You can’t. Not really. September was the month I learned about darkness. It was the month it all began. SIL, the grande marche, waiting in line for e-mail at the bureau, Darda, couscous, Majiri, home stay, Ramadan, Robin-dam, singing “Sweet Home Alabama” on the banks of the Chari river, the boat ride that wouldn’t end, Ahmat Daoud, Moumine, hippos at night, Wabo-Wabo, mosquitoes, heat rash, giardia…the list is endless. At the Holiday Inn in Philadelphia, we met as strangers. Tentative, unsure. About each other. About Chad. About what we were agreeing to do for the next two years. But something about the circumstances of Darda, of what we were doing, brought us together. September gave me a new definition of family. I have often said that family doesn’t have to be defined by bloodlines. The connection of family goes deeper than that, strikes at the very souls of people, and bonds them to each other. It’s not a superficial bond, something based on likes/dislikes or random circumstances. It comes about when, and only when, people have been through hell together, when they’ve trudged the mile or so in the mud together, been violently ill together, been through triumph and tragedy together.
Tragedy.
Matthew Costa was a short, curly-haired Puckish imp of a person. The type that no matter how bad of a mood you were in, you couldn’t help but laugh out loud as he danced and karate-chopped his way around the lounge. He was so serious in his unseriousness. And so unserious in his seriousness. He lived vibrantly. He perfected the art of bar shopping, of sneaking whiskey packets into expensive Nasarra restaurants, of integrating into a community without losing his sense of self. Matt completed his two years in Chad and then extended for a third year in Mali. Mali of all places. But after Chad, anywhere is up. And on September 3, 2007, just days, really, from his official close-of-service date, he was gone. He and some friends built a sailboat and had tried to sail it up the Niger River where it hit a power line. And those eyes that once twinkled with a certain mischievousness were closed forever.
I remember the news. Over e-mail. And I remember that moment of feeling so incredibly alone. Of being overwhelmed by grief that I couldn’t share because no one around me understood that I didn’t just lose a friend. I lost a brother. I remember the incredible need at that moment to find myself in the company of those who knew. Who understood. In Chad, one mourns silently. At a funeral, you sit quietly. You don’t need to speak to the grief-stricken. They understand that words are superfluous. That it’s your physical presence that is important. And so I flew half-way across the country to be there, to sit with and hold onto my family.
This September, I am again alone. Feeling disconnected from that past. It’s hard to be so separate from people who were once so very integral to your daily existence. So if I seem a little off-key, a little disjointed, it’s because there are pieces of my soul scattered around this month. I’ll be okay. But September is a month of anniversaries. Anniversaries that require reflection. And I’m reflecting.
