Letters

Dear Samba, and Abdoulaye, and Salif, and Maimouna, and Ibou, and Mamadou, and everyone in Allah Laké,

I'm sorry I haven't been able to call recently. Abdoulaye's beeped me a few times but Skype isn't working the way it should so I can't get credit to call him back. And besides that, I've been busy.

I want to tell you that I just finished teaching my friend all the steps to Zowlin, and I can even sing the beat while we dance. Two days a week I teach her, or I said she could just call whenever and we'd walk to campus and dance. It's the closest thing I've got to taking two djembes down to the beach after a hotel show.

(I'm typing like a crab, it sounds like, scurrying across the keyboard. No wonder emails are only a few sentences long, and misspelled. You all hunt and peck it takes hours. Another reason I never email. You'll have to get to the internet café and it'll take the full hour slot just to open a browser window. Doesnt' help that some of the keyboards are english and some are french, so the keys are always switched around. If you all saw how much I write on this blog you wouldn't believe it was all me)

And these last two weeks I've been busy, what I'll tell you on the phone is that I'm helping with a program of interns who are younger than I am, where I learn dancing from older artists in the morning and teach the younger ones in the evening. I won't try to explain that I'm taking west african dance steps from all different ballets and mixing them together to represent a scene from the play Romeo and Juliet. I won't tell you that I was effectively a T.A. for a high school summer intensive program where we introduced twenty high school juniors and seniors to college life, and I got to sit in on all their sessions and try to create a piece on my own. I'll tell you the important part- I'm learning from other artists and teachers with much more experience, and also teaching my friends what i learned from you.

And in the evenings I write songs. That's what I'll say. I have rehearsal every night, and I won't need to mention how sometimes rehearsal gets canceled, you'll understand that as part of the deal. Maybe when I visit again I'll try and translate the epic of Gilgamesh into French or Wolof, I may have some songs to sing you, but what you want to hear is that I'm part of a theater troupe and I'm creating songs to perform during shows.

And of course, my family is here, my mother and father and sister are all here, all doing well, they say hello to you all and your families of course. Aisha is doing fine, and Marie says hello, and all my friends do too. I'll remind you that I haven't been living with my family, I've been living with some friends at the university, my family is far away, and no it isn't sad. I'm going to see them soon, and I'll tell them all you say hello. And you tell everyone in Toubacouta I say hello back. Yes I'm going to live at home with my family for another two months before I go back to the university.

My friend is arriving tomorrow, you'll already assume she's staying with me, the one I told you all about, who can walk on stilts. The one who I'm teaching all the songs. And some dances, too, hopefully. She will be my guest for a few days, and then we're going to a Grand Fete, a huge festival where I will teach more classes in singing and learn from many many artists, it's at a cultural center like the one you're trying to raise money to build. It'll be the closest I'll have come to seeing stars like i know them now. I'm going to teach them "un elephant", the children's handclapping rhyme all the kids know- my two year old niece could have taught it to me. Yes, when you have a cultural center built in Toubacouta, that's when I'll come back. I'll come with an American troupe, and perform there. I'll teach you all my own songs and dances, and come back for another internship with you. When you've got it built. Just let me know.

It's been raining here, very hard. I waited three hours for the rain to stop before I took a bus home yesterday. You won't think anything of it, besides maybe the fact that I counted the hours. I'd love to show you around our bus system, how they arrive faithfully every fifteen minutes. But as I was waiting I was talking to this museum guard, he was from Ghana, his name is Anthony. An entire wedding party walked by into their air conditioned catered party room, and Anthony talked to me about his family and how hard it is to find a job. We talked about how weddings are so fancy here, and you have to be invited to come, and you have to order food in advance and everyone gets just the food they ordered. And how the band is told not to play too loud, not to disturb the neighbors that no one knows and aren't invited. The last wedding I was at I was performing. It was nice, I wasn't alone while I waited for the rain to stop, and his accent reminded me of this girl from WARC.

But it's still hot. Not *as* hot, no. But I'm sitting in my pagne, the one I got my first day in Dakar for orientation, when they tried to teach us to dance on Honorine's roof, and my roommate is wearing a pagne too, she's wearing the one I gave her with the fabric I bought at the market. It's too hot to wear anything else. And I still wear the pendant, my "gris gris" that I always wore in Senegal, and now most days I wear my "petite afrique" on the silver chain that you gave me. It's easy to point out where I was when people ask about Senegal. Some days I wear the bracelet I bought in St. Louis, and some days the bracelet Maimouna gave me before my very first performance at Hotel Paletuviers.

I talked to Salif's family, to his father in Atlanta, Georgia. It's very far away to visit, but I hope one day I can meet him and his family. If he ever comes to the midwest to perform, he said he'd give me a call.

I've made ceeb u jenn once, and attaya a few times. Of course I can do that! I had good teachers. My friends all prefer the third cup. I still prefer the second. Sweet like life. Love is too sugary for me, in the third cup of attaya.

I haven't forgotten Wolof. Or the songs. Or the dances. I go over the steps in the shower, on my bike to the west bank, as I fall asleep. Of course I'm coming back to learn more. Awww, no, it's me who misses all of you. Yes, it is nice to hear your voice again. I'm very happy to talk to you. Yes, of course I'll continue dancing and teaching. No, how could you even think I'd forget? I'll keep practicing Wolof and dancing and singing. And you say hello to Ibou for me, and Ice-T, and Khadi, and Maimouna. And your sisters, and mother, and grandmother- are you still teasing her? Shouldn't do that. And Maimouna, how's your son? And clever Ndeye Sirra? And your mother all the women at Garderie Baobab? Yes, next time you take a group of toubabs to visit say hello to Sonko and the rest. And don't let my cousin Mamadou grow his hair too long, or Fatou will throw a fit. There's a reason Croco doesn't have rastas like the rest of the drummers. And Ibou, take care of your fingers! Don't stain another drum. And Mamadou, give my regards to la princesse, I hope she's not still jealous. No, I haven't told Aisha about her.

yes. I'm coming back. When I finish university and find a good job, and make enough money to come back and share it with you all. When the cultural center's finished, I'll be there for the grand opening. When Fatou's new house is finished, I'll come and stay in the guest room. Or if you come on tour here to America, I'll find you places to perform. I'll be host and guide then, how about that? We'll drink attaya and play djembe. And yeah, Ibou, I'll tell Alicia Keyes you said hi.