8 Missed Calls

Today was the second day of classes. I spent the entire day absorbed in scheduling, being on time and having the right books and catching up with people I hadn't seen in almost a year. Mondays and Wednesdays all my classes are in the theater building anyway- I thought of nothing else. After class I went straight to rehearsal, and was singing for three or four hours. The day ended at about nine-thirty.

On the way home, I looked at my phone and saw that I had eight missed calls. The same number tried to call me five times. My phone didn't recognize it, the "221" country code gave it away. Senegal.

I went through my notebook, the back pages where I wrote down everyone's phone numbers, promising to call. It only reminded me of how many people I haven't spoken to since then. The number that called my phone is not in my notebook. Someone must have gotten a new phone. Maybe my Dakar family called- I didn't write down Raissa's number, or Papa Anicet's. I dont' know who called me, and it's too late at night to call them back. I should try sometime soon, though. I don't want to be rude. And I really want to know who's spending the money and effort to call me.

I took a shower tonight, and instead of singing I realized I was talking. Speaking, in French and Wolof and a little tiny bit of Mandinka, imagining conversations. I pretend I'm sitting at "chez les 4 freres" with the guys, listening to macho drummers bicker about how to make the perfect cup of tea. I tease Mamadou about his Belgian girlfriend and Ibou about Martine, the French tourist who wouldn't leave him alone. (She called me the other day. Twice, during class. Then texted me, said Ibou gave her my number. Such a friendly talkative woman, and just as unwilling as I am to let go of Toubacouta.)

I make crazy plans with Sw and Maimouna about going on tour all over the states, dancing. I show Samba how much better I've gotten. I come up with countless ways of laughing off sai-sai boys on the street who ask why I don't want a boyfriend. I barter taxi fares and have in-depth conversations with friends about what it means to be an artist.

I can't stop thinking about my 150 children at Garderie Baobab, and how to earn their respect. If I can get them all to learn my name in just one week, why couldn't I get them to learn their ABC's? I can't stop thinking about Ndeye Sirra, my five-year-old helper, who used her recess time identifying letters, smudging sticky bissap-fingers over the pages of my notebook. I keep coming back to the question of HOW can I teach them, how can I help them, I have to come up with a system that works.

I've read "Give with Gratitude" and "Nine Hills to Nambonkaha". I've decided that the Peace Corps isn't for me, not right now, but am starting to look into different scholarships. I'm a "student consultant" here at the U, I'm going to advise students who are looking at MSID Senegal, email suggested packing lists and homestay advice. I can't let it go. I can't stop thinking about it.

And even when I do stop thinking about it- like today, when I went a good twelve hours totally absorbed in not just American culture, but the tiny West Bank Minneapolis Theater culture- they call and remind me that they're still thinking of me.

I keep coming back to what I told everyone before I left. D'abord, j'étudie. Aprés, je travaille. Quand j'ai assez travaillé, je vais retourner. I'm coming back, c'est sure. It's just going to take some work. And it's comforting to know that the people I'm longing to see again are far more patient than I am.