Georgina

When I found Georgina, I actually stayed away from her. She shied away from my touch, and since I didn't know what was wrong with her, I was afraid of hurting her more by trying to care for her. I just remember this incredibly fragile and looking baby that everyone kind of ignored. She looked like she had some physical disability, but didn't act like the babies with neurological disorders. I didn't know what to do with her.
Then one day a British volunteer with some medical training told me she looked the way because she was severely dehydrated - that was her only problem. I was horrified. She told me that the mothers didn't take the time to care for her because she was too weak to cry, so they forgot about her. The mothers had enough on their hands just taking care of the "cute ones" who had a chance of getting adopted. I was like, well if someone took care of her, maybe she would be cute enough to get adopted too. The British girl agreed with me and told me that she bought extra water to feed her, but would be gone all weekend. She asked me to stop by every day to give Georgina a drink. I quickly agreed, and Georgina immediately became my special project.
Friday I gave her water. The mothers were annoyed with me because I wouldn't give any to the "cute ones" who sat crying nearby, but I knew they would get water from the mothers, while Georgina wouldn't. It was a stressful time, but I was determined to show God's love to this little girl by giving her a drink. I thought of the sheep and the goats in Matthew.
The next time I went, I was told Georgina had been taken to the hospital. That was it, no more information. I panicked, but tried to believe it was all for the best and Georgina wouldn't be forgotten by the overworked hospital staff, but would be cared for as she desperately needed.
About a week later I finally got out of the staff where she was and that it would be ok to visit her. I found her in the hospital and realized that God had answered my prayers. She was on an IV and looking much better. Then the nurse came in. She was a Ghanian who had been educated in America, and was thrilled to be able to talk to an American about Georgina's case. She told me that Georgina actually had kwashniokor, a severe protein deficiency. She looked at me and was like, what is going on at this children's home? I see cases come in like this all the time. She'll get better here, but if nothing changes, she'll go back to the home and get bad again. I promised to see what I could do.
Georgina was eventually transferred back to the children's home, and is getting better all the time. You can see from the photo that though her legs are still pencil-thin, her torso's getting downright chubby. I think the mothers have been instructed to put extra protein formula in her food, and it's helping. Georgina now consumes everything in sight and is actually sitting up by herself.
She's the one hope I have. She's the one child I saw go from bad to better. Thank you God for Georgina, and may she continue to improve.

Evan

Well, anyone who knows anything about my experience in Ghana knows about Evan. I was looking at this very odd-looking baby when a Dutch volunteer came up and started telling me about him. She first pointed out that he had six fingers and six toes, which I thought might be a side-effect of whatever made him look so odd. Then she explained to me that this tiny thing was actually six months old, but was starving to death because he threw up everything he was fed. When I expressed that there were doctors for that sort of thing and why wasn't he in the hospital on an IV, she looked at me and said, "Please, he's positive." He had aids so the doctors didn't bother to make sure he didn't starve to death.
Then I was asking one of the mothers his name, and found out the he was really a she named Evandra. I was like, ok. However, when I went to go change her diaper, I discovered my original instincts were correct. She was a he. The mothers had read the wrong line on the form and were calling him by his mother's name. When I pointed out their mistake, they decided it was too late now to learn his real name, so they decided to call him Evan. I was like, so a baby's dying of AIDs in Africa, and no one even knows his name.
I soon discovered that if you didn't allow Evan, who was surprisingly full of life, to guzzle his food like he wanted to, but fed him in tiny sips and gave him time to swallow in between bites, he would keep everything down. Not that this was an easy process. Feeding him took an hour or more, but I was willing to take the time to prolong his life until some organizations in the States I had begged for money from responded. However, the mothers resented the time I took with him. Why spend hours on a lost cause when they are bogged down with work for children who have a chance in life? I didn't mind when they yelled at me, but it was really hard to see a mother take the child from me and pour the rest of the food down his throat and watch Evan throw up not just what she fed him, but probably everything I painstakingly gave him also. But despite everything, he began to get better.
As Evan improved, he began to act more like his age, though he still looked like a premature infant. He loved to beat the air with his fists. We developed this game where he would shove his fist into my face, and I would kiss it until he snatched it away. When he did so, he would give me a hint of a smile. Then he would shove his fist into my face again.
Then one day, out of the blue, Evan died. I heard that he woke up unable to breathe. They took him to the hospital, but the hospital wouldn't admit him. I guess they thought he was a lost cause. I knew he didn't have much of a chance, but it was really hard for me anyway, because I had fallen totally in love with him. Now every time I see a fist I think of him.
Maybe he's playing the fist game with Jesus right now.

Crazy Stories

When I was in Ghana, I prided myself on doing all these crazy things and having all these crazy stories. How many people do you know that have had a cab driver ask “Did he sex you?” How many people have been chased by policemen for crossing the grass in the wrong place? What about getting locked in an apartment and having to climb over a wall in the middle of the night to get out? And these are just some of the stories that help me stand apart from the other people in Ghana with me. If you put me in an American context, how many people do you know who've eaten rats, bats, and fish eyeballs? Who has been asked if they were married in front of an entire church of single men? And the list could go on.
We came to Ghana to learn about another culture – to find out how much we could tolerate and to try to learn to accept another perspective. Lofty goals. However, we were expected to accomplish them by having “experiences.” The more you've done and put up with, the better a person you are. You've found out what you're made of, how much of another culture you can tolerate. You've challenged yourself and seen just how far out of your comfort zone you can go. And at the same time, you've validated another culture by participating in it. Good for you. Everyone admires you and is jealous of what you've accomplished.
You know what? Bologna. I've been telling my stories with pride, with the added benefit of being able to be wildly entertaining by putting everything in a sarcastic light so everyone ends up laughing. But what am I proud of? What are we laughing at? At the corruption in the Ghanian police system? At my ability to eat anything no matter how much I might be abusing my body? What have I really gained?
Corruption is part of what keeps Ghanians so poor. I'm enjoying experiencing part of what might have starved a child. Ghanian's lack of mastery of the English language and preoccupation with sex holds them back and leads to problems with AIDs. A poorly constructed and vulgar sentence is really funny. And what, may I ask, is so special about climbing over a wall or being proposed to by a bunch of desperate Christian men? Seems more sad to me – only funny because it happened in Africa. About the food... the only thing I seem to have gained from that experience is a bunch of parasites.
Not all experiences are good or worthwhile. In the end, how did the crazy things I did benefit me or anyone else? They make for good stories, but those stories often poke fun at terrible aspects of Ghanian life or merely exalt myself. It seems like I haven't learned anything about tolerance after all. I've only learned how wonderful I am and how silly Ghanians can be. And I certainly didn't do Ghanians any favors or show them any love. You know, I went to Ghana because I wanted to learn how I might be able to make a difference someday, and instead I let myself be influenced by the people around me. I learned I am an arrogant monster.

Worse than a Dog

When I got home from Africa, the most unexpected change was this animosity I felt towards my beloved dog. I resented any attention my mother paid her – talking to her, combing her, feeling sorry that it was raining too hard for a walk. I was especially unwilling to accommodate my dog's desire to share the bed with me. My mother complained that I was being unnecessarily harsh towards “a member of the family,” but that irritated me all the more. My response was always the same. “She's so spoiled,” I would yell. “She's a dog.” My mother told me I needed to search my heart about what caused this change in her former queen of dog-spoilers.
At first I thought I just wasn't used to being around dogs. The dogs where I lived were creatures to be feared an avoided, not loved. They were mangy, gaunt from lack of food, and mistrusting of humans. On top of all that, they weren't given their rabies shots, so they were potential death traps as well. Before I left people joked that it would be really hard for me not to touch any “cute animals.” but it turned out to be not problem. I was happy to stay far away.
But could four months of avoiding an animal really undo a lifetime of love and affection? As I thought more about it, I realized there was something else that prompted my attitude. For four months I had volunteered in an orphanage. For four months I watched helplessly as children were treated worse than my dog. I watched children go without meals because people didn't donate enough money that month. My dog's bowl was always full. I watched children sleep on mats on a concrete floor. My dog slept on a bed. I watched children play with trash and rocks. My dog always had a plethora of new toys. Worst of all, I sat and held children as their parents walked away. My dog's family rand to her every time she cried. And I'm supposed to be ok with this?
It's a cruel world, but unfortunately, I can't change any of that by being meaner to my dog. If only it were that simple – as if love unused in one place would automatically spill to another. Wouldn't it be wonderful if love were like molecules, moving from a place of higher concentration to a less-densely populated area? But instead, the more you give, the more you have to give. So I guess the only thing to do is to try harder to love my dog, despite the injustice of her situation Oh yeah, and I can look for more ways to love a child as well.
In the meantime, maybe I should take some time to thank God that I live in a country where children are treated even better than my dog.

Doing One's Part

If you own a $2000 purse, you're not doing enough.

I say this as much in judgment of myself as I do of anyone who actually owns such a purse. The statement came from the second time I saw New York City for the first time.
As my father drove me home from the airport after I had spent a semester at an orphanage in Africa, I was transported back to the first time I had driven through those streets. Only this time I was thinking very different thoughts than I was when my father drove his star-struck fifteen-year-old into New York City for her big summer away from home. I remember looking out of the window at the stores on Fifth Avenue and feeling I had finally found where I belonged. Here was the home of those amazing clothes, those designer purses, those mysterious and alluring sunglasses. That first summer in The City I had wanted desperately to fit in. Over the years I've welcomed each new opportunity to spend even a fraction of the money that will get me closer to looking New-York perfect.
Now, as I pass those same stores, I don't see perfection, I see waste. I see selfishness. I saw a mass of people – any one of whom could have saved an orphan like Kojo or Isaac. Kojo has a brian tumor. The doctors in Africa gave him a year to live because they couldn't perform the operation he needed. Only adoption by someone in Great Britain or the United States, where the operation was done, could have saved him. Over the past months I've watched him deteriorate to the point where no doctor in the world could do him any good. Isaac has HIV. Without money for the medical care necessary to keep him alive, Isaac is destined to become another statistic, dead before the age of five. Right now he's toddling around the orphanage and charming everyone who visits, but who knows how long he'll last?
My father understood that I was grieving – reacting to a side of life most New Yorkers never see. And he made a good point – most of the people I saw do contribute to charities. They just don't contribute to the people I had grown to love. We can't save the whole world, he reminded me, we each do our part. And it's not wrong to enjoy the fruits of our labor as well, is it?
Then it hit me. Since when has my father brought me up to be “good enough?” Since when have my grades been “good enough?” Since when has my performance at my job been “good enough?” Come to think of it, I was actually raised to do everything I could do, and if that wasn't enough, to do a little more. I was raised to believe that in this world, bosses don't want someone who “tries.” Successful people aren't the ones who “get a little closer” to their goal. In fact, great Biblical heros like Abraham and Paul didn't really seem interested in “doing enough” either. Where did this apathetic thinking come from?
I think I know.
The problem is that people view need like they view the continent of Africa itself – as a massive, unsolvable problem. And they contribute into that ambiguous “need,” which is all that anyone could expect them to do. But when I think of need I think of Kojo. I think of Isaac. Needs have names, and someone's “good enough” wasn't enough for them.