My Family Christmas Tree

My mother is particular when it comes to the interior decor of the family’s colonial style home. I am most grateful for this except for when it comes time to gift-give (souvenirs, Christmas, birthday, etc.). So I am usually elated when I find a gift suitable enough for my mother’s tastes. With the exception of a red apple scented candle from Yankee Candle that is still on display in the bathroom next to the kitchen, I have learned that trying to accessorize or decorate the Gavron house is a lost cause.

Well, the same rules of decorating engagement apply when it comes to the holiday season. Ornaments are selected and placed upon the tree using a number of criteria headlined by the likelihood of the tree will appear in next season’s Pottery Barn winter catalog. Years ago, my mother started a family tradition of wrapping two ornaments, one for my sister and one for me, that we would open with glee on Christmas morning. The ornament is comparable to the year in review; it captures the essence of the year. For example, there was the time mom purchased a pleasant Shrek figurine for me because that year I apparently reminded her of an ogre (okay, really, it was because I dressed as Shrek for my high-school’s rendition of the Shrek theme-song, I’m A Believer).

Decorating the Christmas tree has always been a full family effort. In my naïve years, the entire family would converge around the tree while Bing Crosby sounded from the speakers. Each of us would work together to decorate the Douglas Fir. After the family bonding hour expired, my mother would return to the tree and rearrange the ornaments to improve the aesthetics. Well, once I became aware of this inefficiency, I defied the family and put my foot down. No, I will not decorate the tree. You’re only going to strip the tree and re-outfit it. How do you think Douglas feels when you strip him naked in the front window for everyone to see?! So now, instead of decorating, I supervise. I usually sit on the couch in a state of supervision (or more probably woolgathering). I see it as a win-win-win. I supervise, my mom spends less total time decorating, and Douglas doesn’t have to get brought up on public indecency charges.

If I had to pick one consistent challenge the Gavron family tree faces each year, it would be the angel. On occasion, we have overzealously estimated the clearance of our living room and found the angel sitting rather snuggly (and probably smugly) no room for the halo, relying more on the Beyonce lyric I can feel your halo over I can see your halo. Also, this year, I learned that we tree-topped with a tainted angel. Apparently, when my grandmother passed, my mother exercised her prerogative and took our grandparents’ angel. Which was fine, until my grandfather’s Christmas tree stopped sporting an angel since he failed to find the family angel. Well, Catholic guilt overcame my mom, and the angel was returned to the rightful owner.

Overall, Christmas 2010 was a success. Not because my sister received double the number of gifts I received, but because it was the first year in recent memory where the Gavron family tree was both stolen-angel-free and Shrekless. (Our family couldn’t seem to locate Shrek this year…hmm…maybe my grandmother decided it was time for a little payback).

End of Semester Review

Five months ago I experienced an earthquake of a magnitude not felt since the introduction of Lunchables in my elementary school lunch bag. Five months ago, I relocated to Accra, Ghana. Five months is a substantial amount of time. In five months, a dragonfly lives out its entire life. In five months, an orange peel comes close to decomposing. Five months has given me the audacity to say that I’m a force of nature.

The semester had its highs and lows, but the journey was worth every minute (okay, not every minute).

In five months, I’ve learned a lot of lessons. For one, the importance of soccer in the socialization of an American abroad; for another, Ghana wasn’t made for everyone. One of the Fellows, Rhys (pronounced like the candy Reece’s Pieces, despite its near phonetic impossibility), had to throw in the towel. This Australian bloke found himself constantly battling the bacteria. For example, there was the time that the entire staff went out to celebrate Rhys’ birthday. The only problem – Rhys couldn’t join us because he was bed rested with malaria. Or there was the time that Rhys selected a restaurant for his farewell dinner, and the staff obliged, despite his absence due to…wait for it…malaria.

But for fear of coming across as an egotistic Negative Ned and feeding into the misconceptions of sub-Saharan Africa, I feel truly blessed to have the opportunity. I find myself constantly laughing at the little things. Every day after lunch I walk to the local market to get some fresh air (and a Coca Cola), and every day I walk past the same two children. Every day these children see me, smile, point, and declare obruni. I am their cardboard box; cheap entertainment.

The night before my flight to America, I found myself again playing the role of cardboard box. My students decided as part of a send-off, they would pond me. To pond – this noun-converted-to-verb has a playful (and painful) meaning in Ghana. Ponding is associated with milestones or special occasions. In my case, it was the end of the semester and my return to the United States. It is a categorically male ritual where the victim stands helplessly with his back to the group while everyone else pelts buckets of water at the weltering honoree. A few buckets (and stings) later, with one red back, my cultural experience was finished. No hard feelings. I’ll just trade my red back for the red ink when I grade their assignments next semester.

Real Ghanaians of Genius

One of the lessons I learned while living outside of the United States is that it doesn’t matter where I am – I will always find real men and women of genius.

Left turn man. Struggling to locate the bus terminal based on the city map in my guidebook, the Fellows and I turned to the street smart for directions. Oh, you’re looking for the bus terminal? No problem. At the first junction, do nothing. At the second junction, do nothing. At the third junction, go straight. What? If I get to the first junction and do nothing, how do I ever make it to the second junction?

Wendy’s lady. While spending the evening in a beach bungalow at Ada Foah, I placed a dinner order of fried rice and yam chips. Three hours later, I received a plate of fried rice and chicken. Okay. Not exactly what I ordered, so I ate the fried rice, and returned the chicken. It’s cool. I’ve come to find fried rice as a sufficient meal. Well, moments later, I’m approached by the waitress. Excuse me. We just realized that we gave you chicken instead of yam. We made a mistake with your order. So you’re going to have to pay extra for the chicken. I’m sorry? You made a mistake? I didn’t even touch the chicken? I didn’t complain that I got the wrong dish? And you’re charging me extra? I’ve heard similar arguments before…

Good Friday man. Okay. I kid, I kid. Nobody in Ghana would EVER mistake Palm Sunday for Good Friday. Example #1. Example #2. Example #3.

Holy Matrimony

It took me three months, and 210 meals (who’s counting?), but the other afternoon, I returned to my laptop to find a nice white envelop upon my desk, Mr. Brian penned in blue ink across the bottom right corner. I could feel my heartbeat accelerating, and not just because I had finished a bottle of Coca Cola. I’ve become conditioned to know that a white envelope on my desk contains cash, payment, money for services rendered, money for services never rendered.

This time, I opened the envelope to find not cash, but rather an invitation to Florence’s wedding. Florence is a part of the school’s kitchen staff and I was rather embarrassed for not even knowing that she was in a relationship, but felt honored to be invited nonetheless.

As the wedding approached, my nerves were building. Mere hours before the wedding, I found myself tied up (and throwing up) on the road from Tamale, and I don’t have a perfect track record when it comes to arriving to weddings on time. Thankfully, I arrived just in time. My invitation was stamped noon. It turns out everyone else’s was stamped one pm. Cool. My colleagues and I were escorted to the second row.

Well, the ceremony was beautiful, despite it not being in English. I was enjoying spectator privileges until the lady sitting next to me poked me and told me that it was our turn. I could hear the susurrous whispers of the congregation.

Our turn? What do you mean by our turn? I probed. You and your colleagues are supposed to sing a song for the bride and groom. I’m sorry…what? We’re supposed to sing a song to the bride and groom? Right now?

My mind quickly jumped into panic mode. The first song that came to mind was Cee Lo Green’s F*** You, which I immediately dismissed as being outrageously inappropriate. My next thought was, what songs do Americans, Dutch, and Pakistanis all know – Happy Birthday? I was weighing the merits of a song that had meaning for matrimony and a song that the international group of colleagues would recognize. Clearly, ubiquity trumped meaningfulness. Thankfully, one of the Ghanaians in our program recognized our visible agitation, volunteered a hymn, and began singing to the congregation. I just stood on stage awkwardly swaying back and forth. It’s times like these where I find myself convinced that I am the cultural experiment instead of the other way around.

Coup d'etat

I enjoy my sports. I actively follow the local Washington teams, regularly read reviews of my alma matter Virginia (often at my own risk when it comes to football and basketball), waste weeks of my life consuming every broadcasted Olympic game, and have consistently performed mediocre at best in my fantasy football league. But like many Americans, I have not paid much attention outside of World Cup play.

I distinctly recall a time in my life, that perhaps I would prefer to forget, where I spent an entire afternoon penning posters for my family’s front row seats during the Women’s World Cup Quarterfinal match USA vs Germany. Mia Hamm vs. Birgit Prinz at Landover Field on July 1, 1999. After arriving 30 minutes late to the match due to the abhorrent Beltway traffic, the USA Women’s team was down 1-0. Also, the USA Women’s team was the only team to score a goal in the game…someone scored a goal in their own net… (this uncanny parallel to pee wee soccer should have been an early warning sign that perhaps I was following the wrong sport).

Regardless, no amount of sports fandom could have prepared me for the epic match of the season. Barcelona vs. Real Madrid. Apparently everyone was planning on watching the match. Brian, will you be watching the match tonight? At this time, still unaware that the match we were referring to was the Barcelona vs. Real Madrid match and not my University’s ACC-Big Ten Matchup, I was forced to show my hand. What match? Blaspheme. What match? Only the match that everyone in the entire world will be watching. While I would like to believe you, I can’t accept your hyperbole.

So instead of watching the contest, I decided the time would be better spent reconnecting with my pastime. Instead, I sat on my bed reading K. A. Applegate’s series The Animorphs, the saga of teenagers given the power to morph into animals in order to fight the alien Yeerks (nerd-alert) on my Barnes and Noble Nook. I was basically begging to be ostracized at the dinner table the following day. Everyone would be talking about the football match I wasn’t watching, and nobody (nobody in the entire world) would be talking about Animorphs.

What actually happened: In a truly world-class performance, so I’ve been told, David Villa led Barcelona to a 5-0 romp, rolling through Real Madrid.

What I thought happened: A coup d'etat. With the riotous and boisterous atmosphere, I really thought the government had been overthrown. Either that or the Yeerks had taken over.