The Sounds My Sneakers Make
14 August 2007
While waiting for my students in Grade 8 English to finish an assignment on synonyms, I decided to write some thoughts down so as to not break down crying. On August 14, I was feeling kinda homesick...
The Sounds My Sneakers Make
My bicycle has a flat
Today I am teaching school
In August, there's always a chance of rain, but today, I'll risk getting drenched...I have to walk by foot.
As I pass through my village and onto the next, the children scream my name or variants of it.
They'll shout 'toubab' until my eyes roll back far into my head.
The children's shrieks and shrills are only white noise; my mind is somewhere else.
My ears are attuned to the beat, the rhythym of my sneakers on the tarmac.
As I try to avoid trampling and tripping through the water-logged potholes, the beat, the rhythym of the rubber against the pavement almost bring me to tears.
The sound, the humidity in the air reminds me of nights when I'd have 'dates with Dad'.
Mom would be working late, as she oftens does, so he and I would make some sort of 'feast' out of leftovers.
We'd watch cable news 'til we (usually just me) couldn't stand hearing the same headline for the **th time.
We'd look at each other as Chris Matthews or Keith Olberman would sign off and give each other the unspoken signal---time to take a (brisk) walk around the neighborhood.
Since I was little I remember him wearing New Balance sneakers.
From the time I began to play sports I'd wear the same brand too because I inherited his flat, wide feet and the different widths of New Balances accomodated this trait.
On our walks, I'd start off fast, following the momentum that our driveway's hill provided.
Dad would soon tell me to slow down, not because he couldn't keep up, but because he wanted to build his speed gradually, little by little...set the pace.
We'd chat about the past-his past-stories of his childhood and college days and his first years with Mom. I'd share memories of elementary school---memories usually triggered by things we passed by in the neighborhood---like...
The Buick Rendezvous parked on the street about 1/4 mile away from our house. I told Dad about a classmate's failed attempt at pronouncing 'rendezvous' in Mr. Del Rossi's 8th grade English class and how everytime I see that make and model, I can't help but laugh. (Note: I have not yet seen a Buick Rendezvous in The Gambia...nor a Buick of any kind. In fact, any American car is a rarity.)
On our walks, I'd tell him about my hopes, dreams, goals, and then we'd stop talking for a bit and I'd listen to the rhythym of the rubber against the pavement and the beat of the shoelaces against the tops of our sneakers-all in the peacefulness of our unspoken words.
Now during these days here, I'm feeling homesick again. I long for the familiar, for affection, for silence.
Each time I feel those feelings, I try not to cry, but try to remind myself that I used to talk and talk about how I wanted this adventure. This is not forever and I have waited so long for this opportunity.
And on many of those nights, walking with Dad---feet FLAT on the surface---I'd tell him of my dreams of being here (here not as in The Gambia specifically, but here in the moment)---challenging myself.
Isn't it funny how the sound of rubber on the pavement can automatically take you to a place where you wish you could be? I've wished to be here for so long...and now that I'm here, a part of me wishes I could be there, even if just for a walk with Dad.
My feet and my hopes and dreams take me to so many places, but I know that my feet are planted in the memories of the sounds my sneakers make.
While waiting for my students in Grade 8 English to finish an assignment on synonyms, I decided to write some thoughts down so as to not break down crying. On August 14, I was feeling kinda homesick...
The Sounds My Sneakers Make
My bicycle has a flat
Today I am teaching school
In August, there's always a chance of rain, but today, I'll risk getting drenched...I have to walk by foot.
As I pass through my village and onto the next, the children scream my name or variants of it.
They'll shout 'toubab' until my eyes roll back far into my head.
The children's shrieks and shrills are only white noise; my mind is somewhere else.
My ears are attuned to the beat, the rhythym of my sneakers on the tarmac.
As I try to avoid trampling and tripping through the water-logged potholes, the beat, the rhythym of the rubber against the pavement almost bring me to tears.
The sound, the humidity in the air reminds me of nights when I'd have 'dates with Dad'.
Mom would be working late, as she oftens does, so he and I would make some sort of 'feast' out of leftovers.
We'd watch cable news 'til we (usually just me) couldn't stand hearing the same headline for the **th time.
We'd look at each other as Chris Matthews or Keith Olberman would sign off and give each other the unspoken signal---time to take a (brisk) walk around the neighborhood.
Since I was little I remember him wearing New Balance sneakers.
From the time I began to play sports I'd wear the same brand too because I inherited his flat, wide feet and the different widths of New Balances accomodated this trait.
On our walks, I'd start off fast, following the momentum that our driveway's hill provided.
Dad would soon tell me to slow down, not because he couldn't keep up, but because he wanted to build his speed gradually, little by little...set the pace.
We'd chat about the past-his past-stories of his childhood and college days and his first years with Mom. I'd share memories of elementary school---memories usually triggered by things we passed by in the neighborhood---like...
The Buick Rendezvous parked on the street about 1/4 mile away from our house. I told Dad about a classmate's failed attempt at pronouncing 'rendezvous' in Mr. Del Rossi's 8th grade English class and how everytime I see that make and model, I can't help but laugh. (Note: I have not yet seen a Buick Rendezvous in The Gambia...nor a Buick of any kind. In fact, any American car is a rarity.)
On our walks, I'd tell him about my hopes, dreams, goals, and then we'd stop talking for a bit and I'd listen to the rhythym of the rubber against the pavement and the beat of the shoelaces against the tops of our sneakers-all in the peacefulness of our unspoken words.
Now during these days here, I'm feeling homesick again. I long for the familiar, for affection, for silence.
Each time I feel those feelings, I try not to cry, but try to remind myself that I used to talk and talk about how I wanted this adventure. This is not forever and I have waited so long for this opportunity.
And on many of those nights, walking with Dad---feet FLAT on the surface---I'd tell him of my dreams of being here (here not as in The Gambia specifically, but here in the moment)---challenging myself.
Isn't it funny how the sound of rubber on the pavement can automatically take you to a place where you wish you could be? I've wished to be here for so long...and now that I'm here, a part of me wishes I could be there, even if just for a walk with Dad.
My feet and my hopes and dreams take me to so many places, but I know that my feet are planted in the memories of the sounds my sneakers make.
posted by Stephanie at 12:46 AM
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