It's been a while.

But I was inspired to write this 3-page essay... this is the first draft. I'll be sending it to FLV later. I just felt the need to shout from the rooftops after the christmas festival last month.

My proudest moment in my entire life was this past FLV Midwinter festival 2010-2011.

On January 9, 2010, I left the country to spend four months studying abroad in Senegal, west Africa. The night before my flight left I spent with my family and a bunch of friends I’d seen just a week and a half earlier at the Midwinter Festival 2009-2010, eating good food and chatting and singing songs (to keep me distracted so I couldn’t panic). I felt so grateful to have that community to support me and send me off, and spent much of the plane ride thinking of all the stories I’d bring back to share.
As part of my study abroad program, I was placed in a homestay family almost immediately. Although in classes I heard other American students talking about having trouble knowing how to act around their new families, feeling like they were in the way around the house, I had no trouble finding things to do- the key seemed to be asking, “How can I help?” The question was not whether a foreign guest would be allowed to do dishes her first night in a new country, the question was where my family kept the soap. It made sense to me to do chores, help out, or clean up after dinner. The culture shock was much less jarring for me, I feel, because I’ve grown up trying new foods, learning about new cultures, and actively participating in whatever is happening at the moment. It’s because I’ve grown up at Folklore Village.
I thought about Folklore Village at least once a week while I was in Senegal. One of the first things my group learned in orientation was about the traditional “ataaya” tea ceremony, a very specific hour-long process that instantly put me in mind of the Ostfriesland tea that (just two weeks before!) I had at the Midwinter Festival. I made up my mind to bring back a little ataaya pot and glasses and paid close attention after every meal to how the tea was prepared- I knew I wanted to bring this tradition back to the midwest and couldn’t wait explain all the little rules and customs I was learning.
Before arriving on-site, I had applied for an internship in “arts and culture, music, theater, or dance”, not knowing what kind of internship would be possible or if I could find an organization that would let me learn about the interests I expressed on the application. I was placed in a small town, Toubacouta, with a dance and drumming “Troupe Allah Laké” (a rough translation would be “God wills it”). Though I quickly informed them I had no background in this kind of dance, after a week of watching their performances and four rehearsals under my belt I was given a costume to match the other girls and had my first performance. I realized that because I couldn’t remember all the steps, I had to keep an eye on the women in front of me so I could copy what they were doing instantly, and try new dance steps in front of an audience, without hesitation.
This is where I have Folklore Village to thank: for giving me the practice standing behind someone, watching them, and moving with them. Even more so, I have Folklore Village to thank for the confidence that kept me dancing even though I didn’t know the steps, that kept me smiling even though I knew I stood out, and that kept me singing even though I didn’t speak the language.
I spent six weeks in Toubacouta with Troupe Allah Laké, (Though there were plenty of European tourists visiting at the hotels, I was one of two American students in a town of roughly three thousand people, and I was definitly the only one in the troupe who hadn’t spent my whole life in Senegal). From the first day I met them, I was treated as any other member of the troupe. I went to rehearsals, and I was able to perform with them almost nightly at the hotels, and I also had the honor of performing in front of my whole town and neighboring villages on the 4th of April- Senegal’s 50th independence day. It was my third performance. I had had five days of rehearsal.
I was also fortunate enough to be allowed to sit in at meetings and conduct interviews with several key troupe members about their plans to build a cultural center there in Toubacouta. Troupe Allah Laké had been undergoing some major changes a few months before I arrived. I found out that they had combined what was previously two different dance troups into the one I knew, and were applying for government grants to start consturction on a building that would provide rehearsal and performance space for not only the resident performers but visiting artists who came through. They wanted a space to teach classes, hold concerts, and rehearse (While I was there we rehearsed every day on the beach, waiting until the sun was low enough and the sand was cool enough for bare feet. Although it was admittedly picturesque and sounds amazing, it was clear that all the musicians and dancers would be better off practicing on a dance surface free from twigs and shells, and without being interrupted by any children, crowds of visitors with video cameras, or on occasion, a neighbor’s goat). They asked me if I understood what they meant when they described this goal, asking if in America we had places like the one they were trying to make into a reality. I thought immediately of Folklore Village.
My last day in Toubacouta before heading back to Dakar, I spoke with Bathie Ndiaye, the head of the troupe. Though very encouraging and a wonderful teacher, he had always been a man of few words, partly due to a sizeable language barrier, but on my last day he sat me down, looked me right in the eye, and told me it was my duty to go back to America and teach everyone what I had learned with Allah Laké.
He told me that they had only once before had an intern for more than a few days at a time, and that just as I had never done West African dance before, they’d never had a student like me before. He was stunned by how quickly I threw myself into not just the mechanics of the dance steps and rhythmes, but the culture as a whole. He said that I had truly become a member of Troupe Allah Laké, and as a member of the troupe, it was my duty to pass on what I had learned.

I was honored, I said, but I only knew the five dances we had been performing.
He told me to teach the five dances I did know.
I told him I wasn’t sure I knew the drum rhythems well enough to perform them.
He told me that I would just have to practice them until I was.
I told him I might forget a few dances or songs.
He made me promise to come back soon to learn more, and that I’d have to work hard in the meantime so that when I came back we could pick up right where we left off.
I protested that I didn’t know of any dance school that would let me teach.
Bathie looked at me, and kindly reminded me that I live in America, where I can start my own dance school if I need to. And besides, he added, isn’t there anywhere I could find people who would want to learn our dances?

Since coming back I have done my best to honor that promise I made. I’m still in contact with a few friends from the troupe, and get calls every other week from my host family. I’ve taught several of my friends some dance steps, and tried to keep all of the songs locked inside my head. This became much easier when, eight months after my internship, I found myself back at Folklore Village for the 2010-2011 Festival of Midwinter Traditions. I have always appreciated the community that FLV creates, but this year in particular I took nothing for granted. So often I would look around and realize how so much of my life was shaped by this annual process of tradition and renewal.
I taught theater games I had learned from my uncle, and during the Santa Lucia program noticed how I barely had to teach the songs anymore- all the kids had learned them just as I had. This time, though, for the first time, it was my turn to bring something back from my own life experiences. In addition to keeping alive the activities and traditions I’d grown up with, I could add something completely new to the mix.
Finally, I was able to do a presentation during the scheduled “tea time” talking about my experience abroad, and afterwards I spent an hour in the farmhouse cooking ataaya in my tiny teapot on the stove. The ceremony takes a full hour to complete, and it was nice having time to chat to the small group around the kitchen while I poured the strong, heavily sweetened tea from one cup to another just as I had learned, having the youngest person present serve the tea to all present, in strict order of age- eldest first.
I had also taught two African dance workshops earlier in the festival with Ellen Binns teaching drumming, and a few songs. During the evening party we all dressed up (including some clothing I brought back from Senegal) and gave a small performance. In the line of dancers, I realized I was standing next to my mother and my grandmother, both of whom had gone to the two workshops earlier. In that moment, I was more proud and more grateful than I have ever been in my life.
It’s a very good thing that West African dance is, as an art form, the most energetic and expressive and joyous activity I know of. The only thing I could do was dance, if I had not I would have burst. That one performance, for me, was pure gratitude. It was my way of paying homage to Bathie Ndiaye and Troupe Allah Laké who had welcomed me with open arms and patiently taught me for my six week internship. It was my way of honoring my family- my mother and grandmother, and my bigger family- the community that had watched me grow up. And it was what I feel just one small way of giving back to Folklore Village, the village that had raised this child.

After the performance was over, I couldn’t stop smiling. Tears were streaming down my cheeks. I wanted to shout, “Thank you!”
This is what you have given me.
Thank you for helping me become the kind of person that can go, and learn with the tools you gave me, of acceptance and enthusiasm and a strong sense of world community.
Thank you for helping me become the kind of person that can come back, and bring with me the tools to teach and share what I have learned with people who care as much as I do, who understand the importance of traditions and cultures like this. “
In Senegal I experienced a community in which the older generation is highly respected for the experiences they have had, and for what wisdom and knowledge they can pass on to the younger generations. One of my teachers mentioned that in America, this does not exist. He was right. I have found, however, in Folklore Village, a community in which the younger generation is valued and empowered for the experiences they will have, fueled by the wisdom and knowledge they will pass on once they are older.