Writing my story

April 27,

With the rays of the sun slowly sifting through the curtains, I find the silence stifling. I miss the goats that used to wake me in the mornings. As I open the bedroom window, the chirping of birds fills the air, accompanied by the sounds of French being spoken below and the aromatic smells of breakfast wafting into my room. Reluctantly getting out of bed for our last day, four of us decide to venture into Dakar in search of a record store.

Julie gives directions to the cab driver, but I can’t help but wonder: does this place even exist? With no street signs to guide us, we rely on Julie's GPS.

Julie guiding the cab driver to the "record store"

After a short ride, we leave the cab and soon find ourselves wandering deep into sand-filled neighborhoods. Appropriately, the street art that pops up around us is simple yet direct, with bold colors shouting, “Story - Write Your Story.” Yes! Is this an omen? Is it too late to start my story, to turn the page and begin a new chapter? Isn’t this what I often relay to my students, that it's never too late to start again? Fittingly, I’m with fellow English teachers, and I realize I’m not alone in this quest for self-discovery.

Write Your Story

As we continue to venture further into the sandy streets, we notice that there are no signs for a record store. I spot a child kicking a soccer ball and quickly join in, my initial shyness giving way to giggles and shared joy. I’ll miss this connection with the children.

We continue, yet seeing that we’re lost, locals approach us to offer guidance. We follow them to a beautifully tiled house, which turns out to be the record “store”—a gentleman’s personal collection of records that he sells. Connections are made, and we receive invitations to return for the Jazz Festival in the summer. We leave with our purchases, pondering whether anything like this could happen back in the U.S.

Continuing our adventure, we hail another cab, and I’m starting to understand the culture of hailing taxis and bartering prices. We manage to find a “mall,” where we sit down for gelato and stock up on candy to bring home for our students and families. As we slowly make our way back to the hotel for final packing and dinner, each of us is lost in our thoughts.

One last task awaits us: we are asked to write a letter to our future selves, seal it, and hand it back to Brooks. It will be sent to us in a few months. I wonder: will opening this letter reopen the heartache of the sad goodbyes? Will it remind me of my “why”? Will it bring a bittersweet smile and a lonely tear, urging me to expect the unexpected, challenge myself to step out of my comfort zone, and remember the spirit of Teranga? Only time will tell…

With our final goodbyes said, letters handed in, and luggage packed on the bus, there’s nothing left to do but head to the airport. We fly as a group to Paris, where we separate for the next leg of our journeys back to our respective families.

Two flights down, over 15 hours of travel, several time zones crossed, and with the desert sand still lingering in my sneakers, I sit in the car heading back to reality when my phone pings with a message from Mansour: “Mom, Famma, I am so thankful you made it home safely.” The caring continues, the namesake crossing cultures, and my identity is still being seen.

Holding dear the core values and culture of the Senegalese, I begin this next chapter of my life, inspired to write my story with love, connection, and an open heart.