Huh?
‘Legotodamahket!
During our knitting lesson, I had asked Odel to teach me some Liberian English. There are days were I seriously have no clue if it is English they are speaking or not. But then again, I’m sure they feel the same way about me.
‘Oh, let’s go the market!’ I responded. All my knitting ‘students’ laughed and clapped.
‘My freh! Howdabody?’ I asked. My friend, how’s the body? Where I come from if you go up to someone and ask ‘how the body?’, someone calls it sexual harassment. Here, it means ‘how are you?’
Odel smiled and responded ‘Body strong!’
Odel is here with her fourteen year old daughter, Thelma, who had a cleft lip repaired. They live in Sinkor, a less poor part of town, near the city hall and a popular restaurant named Golden Beach. Incidentally, I was just there this past week and had walked right by her apartment. I know this, because when I asked if there are two small monkeys chained to a tree right outside, she said, yes. While this is Africa, the monkeys-as-pets-living-in-the-city thing is not a common factor, so I know we’re talking about the same place.
Felicia and Joanna have begun to teach others how to knit, or in Liberian terms, ‘mik da dolly’ – make the doily. Making the doily in ward B right now consists of a simple garter stitch sewn up the sides to create a small cell phone holder or purse. Yesterday, they were all gathered around Debeh (mother of 7 year old Martineh, who had cleft lip surgery). Debeh was very reluctant to learn. When I asked if she wanted to try, she pursed her lips and shook her head, ‘no.’ After a few moments, she said, ‘I try.’ She continued to make mistakes and had a very tough time understanding how to knit. She gave up.
‘The first time, I wanted to give up. Michelle said that I will do it and I did!’ Joanna declared. She turned to me, smiling and said, ‘You said I would do it, and I did it.’ Joanna has completed three projects and is on her fourth.
Debeh picked up her needles again. Today, she had about 5 inches of a knitted piece in her hands. I gave her a hug, holding her work up, and asked her if she was proud of herself. She didn’t say so much, but there was a glimmer of happiness in her eyes.
Over the course of the last two months, I have taught eight women how to ‘make the doily.’ I encourage every single little thing they do in the right direction. The celebration and pride that comes out of these moments vary from a tiny smile (Debeh) to jumping out of the bed and clapping (Felicia, Dehne). It doesn’t matter if they make one stitch or finish an entire project. The beauty of seeing someone fight against their own hopelessness is a powerful and real thing. And while it is nice that they acquire a practical and creative skill that could change what they sell for money, it is priceless that they know that they are talented individuals.
We are created in the image of God. We all possess an aspect of a great Creator - the one who created everything from the simplest blue sky to the most intricate and dynamic systems, the human body. I try to illustrate this truth to them each time we sit down. If they acquire a simple skill, it is only a small success that may fade with interest. But when we understand our own potential, our appetites are whetted. Then we dare to desire, to want, to risk disappointment, even. When we encounter the germ of God that was planted within us, hope is born. Without that encounter, there is no reason to expect anything good and all we have is fear of the unknown.
Dehne left last week with 8-year-old Musa. It was the first time I saw the little boy grin from ear to ear. His face was disfigured in a car crash in 2006. He left with a new smile.
Felicia’s wound is getting better and better. She will leave soon as well as well. Today, her dressing was taken off and I finally saw her entire face for the first time. Her darling baby, Rosetta, is the object of affection for everyone who passes by. We sat outside the hospital room for a while today and had a chat.
She was shocked that I am thirty years old. She is twenty-three. I told her that I have no baby and no husband. I think she felt very sorry for me. I smiled, and said that because I have neither I am able to be in Liberia and to meet her, to sit there that very moment and be her friend.
‘Maybe I will be married one day,’ I said. It is one of those passing comments a person makes when they are not sure if happiness is in store of them. Perhaps afraid of something good, wanting to desire, to risk disappointment.
Through her buck teeth, that shy smile, she looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘Do not say maybe. You will. With God, all things are possible.’
Right there, a germ of hope. Planted. A bit of fear removed.
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