I arrived in Ghana already five years ago. I think I wanted to break myself—not melodramatically—open my eyes wider, hyperextend my mind. In the end, what can I say? It was difficult: I grew. That year left deep and clear impressions on me. I was humbled. I worked hard, I sweated hard—but.
I confess that I devoured books. If anyone has time enough to finish War and Peace in two weeks, her life must be called a life of leisure.
These next months will be hard. We will be lonely; we will be frustrated; we will be sick; we will sweat and work hard. Our brains will be constantly overloaded with the newness and strangeness of this brief home.
Toil and hardship remain foreign to my experience. Difficulty is of our own choosing--has always been. A difficult life is utterly different than difficult music, difficult writing, difficult art.
Here, a thought problem: a child is born and raised in the wealthy suburbs of Chicago or Detroit; at age ten, he or she moves to the overwhelming neighborhood of Pahar Ganj in New Delhi. Another child is born in Pahar Ganj, and moves at the same age to a wealthy suburb in the States. For whom will the transition be the most difficult?
