Three King’s Day Celebration Concert, with performances by the Genesee Valley Children’s Choir.  They will be performing the Gloria that Glenn wrote for the choir.

Three Kings Day Celebration Concert

St. Joseph’s Church

Friday, January 6, 2012

7:00 pm – 9:00 pm

I grabbed a taxi on Sunday to go to the Mass at the Catholic Cathedral in a part of Kumasi called “Roman Hill.” I chose a driver in the middle of a teeming crowd of taxis at a place called Tech Junction. I am not exactly sure how I made the choice, except for the fact that I avoided the drivers that were pushing their services on the “Obruni.” This is the word for “westerner,” though most often it means “white man.” It is a word that, in many cases, carries no extra cultural/racial baggage with it. It identifies me as a white man from outside Ghana and little else. Last year, a tall African American student that attended our program was also called “Obruni.” Femi’s African heritage was evident not only in the color of his skin, but also the Adrinka symbols that were tattooed on his legs. He too, was seen as a westerner. It must be said that “Obruni” means different things to different people. My colleagues here at the university use the term for me because, I am truly a white man! Others might assume additional meanings depending on their perspective… not unlike the diverse use of racial identifications in the US. To some, both in Ghana and the US, race assumes many things…some true, some false.

My driver spoke some English, but said little. He got me there. I was grateful. He insisted on waiting for me to drive me back to Tech Junction. I attended the service and proceeded on to the gift shop to buy a copy of the Old and New Testaments in the local language called “Twi.” Since, I will be coming back to this country for many years, I need to get my Twi chops together.

This language (pronounced like something close to “tree” in American English) is the most widely spoken indigenous language of Ghana. It is part of the language group called “Akan” that includes the Fante that live along the coast. A Bible is great language learning tool, because the text is familiar. So, when I read… “Mfitiasee no, na Asem no wo ho, na Asem no ne Onuankopon na weo ho…” I know that I am reading… “In the beginning there was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God…” This is the opening of the Gospel of John. It helps put grammar and vocabulary into a familiar context.

After Mass and the bookstore visit, my driver got me back to Tech Junction, again with little conversation.

On campus, there is a taxi stand near the commercial area. The commercial area has a couple of banks, a bookstore, a pharmacy, and a handful of small food shops. These taxi drivers are different. Every time I get a taxi from that area, I can depend upon a good ride, lots of conversation and a compulsory Twi lesson. Consistently, the drivers from campus will first express their gratitude that I use a little bit of Twi and then they proceed to teach me a couple more phrases in the 5 minutes it takes to get from one side of campus to the other. There is no choice. The lesson is an obligation of the ride. If I refused, they would still accept my 3 Ghana cedis of payment, but I would be seen as an obruni who doesn’t care much about their country. Here, there is pretty good chance that I will see these drivers again. A five minute drive is often one installment in a long-term business relationship.

Aside from the business relationship, five minutes in a cab is five minutes of my life. My American DNA has programmed an internal clock that measures each daily experience according to the time it takes to complete it. A Sunday sermon should last about 8-10 minutes. Beyond that point, something inside me makes me fidgit and look at the clock in the back of the church. If the Mass goes beyond 48 minutes back home, I get anxious that my time with God will likely interfere with my next meeting or recreational activity. If my meal doesn’t show up within the designated 7-8 minute response time of most American restaurants, I feel like I have chosen poorly for that night’s meal out. If my Gmail inbox takes longer than 2.5 seconds to reload, I start to assume that my civil rights have been somehow violated.

Here, the Mass regularly goes about 2 hours. Restaurant food will arrive anywhere from 5 minutes to an hour later. Internet is slow when the tropical sun shines. It is gone when the tropical rain falls. To quote the Wizard of Oz, “we are not in Kansas anymore!” My internal clock doesn’t matter here. Other things matter.

Five minutes in a cab is important. It is not just a means to get to my next thing, though I often can’t get my agenda out of my head. Mr. Asare, the taxi driver today, thought that this obruni needed to learn some new phrases, and regardless of what my internal concerns, he was right. Though I was lost in a myriad of budget worries, bus rides, hotel reservations, and international wire transfers, Mr. Asare had 5 minutes with me, and he wanted me to leave with something new. He couldn’t read my mind. He didn’t know that I have been really missing home, and the hassles of international money transfers were pushing my patience to the limit. Most importantly…he didn’t need to know all that. All he needed to know was where I was going (“Mereko guesthouse,” I am going to the guesthouse”). He needed to know that I would pay (“Ghana sidi mmiensa” 3 Ghana cedis) and that, as an obruni, I cared enough to set my agenda aside for 5 minutes and learn something new about his country.

It was a good five minutes. I said, “Meda ase Pa” which means “thank you very much.” He taught me a new farewell phrase, “Yenni aseda. Nante yiye” which translates to “It is a pleasure. Goodbye.”

Don’t let the title of this blog lead you to think that I grabbed a quick flight to London or to the Disney resort in Hong Kong (they have a replica of the sword in the stone). Yes, I am still in Ghana. Yes it is Father’s Day, and no, this is not some Arthurian hallucination brought on by my anti-malaria meds.

In the courtyard of one of the largest hospitals in Ghana you find an ancient Asante sword. The sword is embedded in a large boulder. It is protected by a simple, one room shelter and a caretaker. Many regional chiefs gathered at that spot in the 1690’s at the request of Okomfo Anokye, the closest advisor to the Asante King Osei Tutu. After much debate, an alliance was formed among the formerly warring tribes of the region. The sword appeared in the stone as a symbol of their unity and mutual protection. Okomfo stated that if anyone were to remove it, the newly formed Asante nation would be lost forever.

This sword and the Golden Stool (or throne) are the founding symbols of the Asante people. The Asantes grew to become one of the most powerful nations in West Africa in the 18th and 19th centuries. Their territory rivaled the national borders of modern day Ghana. They were a formidable enemy of European colonial power until their eventual defeat by the British in first decade of the 20th century. Swords still remain one of the most recognizable symbols of the Asantes specifically, and Ghana in general. Two crossed swords, the Adinkra symbol “Akofena” is used by the Black Stars, the Ghanaian national soccer team. They advanced further than any other African team in the World Cup in South Africa. They also keep beating the US team consistently! This symbol of power on the battlefield has been transformed into a symbol of shared sacrifice, combined strength and national unity on the soccer field.

There is no shortage of swords embedded in stones throughout other cultures. In Italy, a 12th century nobleman named Galgano Guidotto, son of a Tuscan feudal lord, rejected a life of power and wealth after a stern chat with Michael, the Archangel. He decided to trade his cushy future for a much harder life in service to God and the poor. He walked up on a small hill outside the town of Chiusdino, took out his sword and stabbed it into a rock. A small chapel was built around that rock in 1185, the same year of Galgano’s canonization. His fame grew quickly. The throngs of pilgrims needed accommodations. Monasteries were the hotels of the Middle Ages. A huge Cistercian monastery was soon built at the foot of the little hill to house and protect pilgrims from the dangers of Medieval travel. The monks followed Galgano’s example of a life devoted to the care of the poor, the weak, and the stranger. This monastery eventually became one of the most powerful and influential institutions in that part of Italy for quite some time. Today, the walls of this beautiful church stand tall. The wooden roof has not survived the ages, so the sky is the ceiling and the soft grass is the floor.

Like the Asante sword, Galgano’s sword has never been removed. The Asantes buried their sword in the rock as a sign of their mutual sacrifice and loyalty. Galgano’s sword was the sign of one man’s exchange of personal wealth and power for a life of service to others.

The most famous sword in a stone is the one that was removed by an unlikely boy who became the mythical king of England-Arthur. We don’t know a whole lot about the historical Arthur other than, as a military leader, he successfully pulled together a ragtag alliance of warring Celtic tribes to hold back the Anglo-Saxon invasions of the 5th century. The legend, popularized by a 12th-13th century French poet, Robert de Boron, transformed his military exploits into one of the greatest legends of Western literature. The tale has been retold countless times by many authors. As the ailing king laid on his deathbed, the barons jockeyed for position to take his place. After the intervention of a famous wizard named Merlin, a plan for succession emerged. The guy who could pull a sword out of a stone would be the next king. All the muscle-bound barons gave it a try. All failed. It was the skinny, weakling kid named “Arthur” who showed off his divine sponsorship by yanking the sword out. Physical strength was not the leading qualification of a good king. Wisdom and humility was. That same Arthur went on to build the perfect city of courtly virtue. The Knights of the Round Table gave up their individual ambitions to serve a common, greater good-the ideals of Camelot. This story has captured the attention of centuries of readers, moviegoers, and now tourists in Hong Kong! From animated Disney films to Luke Skywalker, humble kids from backwater towns (or planets) keep brandishing swords (or light sabers) in the fight between Good and Evil. While Galgano and the Asante chiefs plunged their swords into the rock, Arthur had to remove the sword to realize his destiny.

Today is Father’s Day at home in the US. The internet connection is mercifully strong. I received some high tech messages from my children today. Francesca made me a card with a Father’s day poem set to the tune of “We wish you a Merry Christmas” that ended with “and a nice bowl of fufu.” Fufu is a local delicacy here in Ghana and one of Francesca’s favorites. Matteo sent me one of the shortest, and most gratifying Father’s Day messages in Facebook history… “Hey Babbo, you da man.” All of this is good medicine for a dad half a world away.

It is also Father’s day here in Ghana. Ghanaian TV is filled with words of encouragement to fathers and stern reprimands for those that are not doing their duty. They don’t mince words here in their public service announcements. In addition to the trappings of modern TV, images of great Asante leaders and their swords frame many of these messages, inspiring Ghanaian fathers to emulate the wisdom and sacrifices of their traditional leaders.

Whether the story involves stabbing swords into stones or pulling them out, it seems they all carry a powerful message for Dads on this Father’s Day. The Asante chiefs, the Italian saint, and the legendary Celtic king all put aside self-serving ambitions in favor of something better. Dads (like Moms!) love their kids even though they cannot predict how they will turn out. They love their kids on the days when everybody falls short. They love their kids without knowing what surprises, both glorious and tragic, might be handed to them by forces beyond their control. Providing love and protection to a child trumps any career achievement. Being a dad is the hardest thing I have ever done. It is also best thing.

When I say “fathers,” I mean something including biological parenthood and beyond. I am talking about all those men who have put a child first. Though my wife and I have just about the best possible parenting situation, we still screw up sometimes. I am so grateful for the many dads that help out Francesca and Matteo on the days when I run out of energy, wisdom, and patience. My children are truly blessed to have a long line of co-padres and co-madres that care for them as much as their own children. When asked about how he managed to raise his two marvelous sons, my dear friend Dale responded, “When the boys sought out mentors other than me, I encouraged it.” Just as those Asante chiefs (all of them powerful in their own right) gathered their combined strength and wisdom into a nation, a bunch of good men and women combined their talents and poured them into Dale’s kids. Many of those people are the same that watch over my kids and other kids back in Geneseo. They have helped to create a tiny nation of young adults that will do great things. I won’t be surprised to see this legacy continue into the next generation.

When I was little, I was on the receiving end of the time, talent and treasure of a long line of smart, caring people. My dad, my brother, my grandfather, my pastor, my music teacher, and my college professors, top off an all-star cast of mentors that kept me from screwing up too much. They could have spent all those hours doing something else, but instead, they chose to help me through some tough spots-even when I showed no gratitude until years later. A whole bunch of stern chats and encouragement pointed me in a pretty good direction. Many of them still keep an eye on me today. You are never too old for guidance from someone who loves you.

I wasn’t the only kid who received love and attention from my list of dads. My father and mother spent countless hours providing health care for children in migrant camps. They also founded our local, volunteer ambulance squad. My brother and his wife have adopted Vietnamese children. My college professor, Bill Cook has spent much of his life adopting teens and making his home a safe place for young boys of many ethnic backgrounds and life circumstances. I don’t have enough space in this short blog to list the many kids who have benefitted from same people who helped me.

Parenting, whether you are a dad, a mom, a foster parent, a co-padre or co-madre, is a lesson in humility. Like San Galgano, we thrust the sword into the stone every time we trade a day of personal advancement for a day with a child. Like our Asante brothers, we thrust the sword into the stone every time we gather the resources of our extended family, neighborhood, monastery or country in service of needy kids. Like Arthur, no matter how weak or ill equipped we may feel, we often have to pull that sword out and take it into battle for kids that are ignored and neglected. Either way, fatherhood is a glorious, dangerous adventure that rivals any of King Arthur’s exploits.

If New York City is the “city that never sleeps,” then Ghana is the country that never sleeps. The sounds in NYC are almost all made by humans and their machines. Here in the Ghana, whether you are in the city or the rural areas, the night is filled with sounds from both humans and nature. Music, trucks, birds, children, blaring radios make up a mosaic of sounds that never stops here.

Last weekend I stayed in a small hotel in the northern part of Ghana called, “Nyame Nnae” which translates to “God never sleeps.” In addition to the 24 hour soundtrack of the country, the owner apologized that the mattresses were rock hard. They were newly imported from China. Evidently, as long as God doesn’t sleep, neither should we.

Though I normally sleep better here in Ghana than home, I felt restless in the last couple of nights. It is not the stress-induced insomnia that I sometimes get back home. Here, the hot temperatures and the fatigue of breathing tropical air combine with a wild array of night sounds to keep me awake. Two nights ago, the darkness was filled with the sounds of drumming and singing at some celebration about a mile away. In between my guesthouse and the party was a full-blown nature orchestra. Some large insect community was grinding out a sustained ratchet-like sound. Birds, big and small entered and exited the performance like guest soloists. Some soloed with delicate chirps and warbles, others with a repetitive pitch pattern, and then there was the audacious African crows that dominated the musical arrangement with a caustic, scratchy shout.

Last night, the local dogs erupted in a ferocious barking chorus around 2AM. There must have been some unwanted beasty wandering through the neighborhood. Judging by the sound alone, I could tell that the intruder leisurely strolled by with little regard for the warning of the local canines. Their barking burst into the night with deafening urgency. They kept barking, each with a different pitch, rhythm and cadence. Like some 20th century minimalist composition, the random barking molded itself into a thick, consistent texture of high-energy sound. After about 5 minutes of this, one dog shifted from a bark to a lone howl. This singular, sustained note cut through the percussive drone of the barking. But like good jazz musicians that follow a new musical idea from one player, the other dogs, one by one, joined in the howl until the drumming of barks gave way to layers of sustained pitches. Sometimes they howled in unison and other moments they bent their notes into passing dissonances and harmonies. This lasted another 5 minutes until the dog chorus returned to their original barking theme. After a tasteful recap, they faded away into the background of the night. No big flashy finale. The beasty and all the faithful guardians of the neighborhood quietly exited the night stage.

No matter what random sounds show up each night, I can always depend on my daily, musical wake up call sometime between 4:30 and 5AM from the local mosque. The call to prayer starts each day with a reminder of the sacredness of the upcoming day. The call goes out to everyone, regardless of their religious affiliation. Sacredness, like God, is celebrated in many ways here in Ghana, but you rarely hear anyone speak as if they “own” God. Islam arrived here in the 9th century with missionaries from the Mediterranean Sea that crossed the Sahara. Christianity arrived in the mid 15th century with Portuguese sailors. Both of these religions found traditional faith systems that were largely monotheistic. While there were minor gods of various kinds, they all answered to “Nyame,” the creator. Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of criticisms between varying interpretations of Christianity, Islam and traditional faiths. Just that here, no matter what faith you hail from, God seems to be available to all, 24 hours a day because God never sleeps.

Though I usually remain in bed a little longer, the daily Muslim call to prayer is a gentle reminder of home. The monks of the Abby of the Genesee rise in the night to pray for a new day. This monastery is situated a couple country blocks away from my home. Though I never chose the monastic life, I have always admired those men and women in monasteries around the world that start and end their days in singing. As a musician, punctuating the hours of each day with song always made a lot of sense to me. Monastic vows require you to stop whatever you are doing to go sing the divine office several times each day. Even though I make much of my living as a musician and composer, there are all too many days that pass without any music making. Phone calls, emails, bills, meetings and contracts grab a hold of my day, and before I know it, I am exhausted and ready to sleep, never having added some beautiful sound to that day’s concerto.

The heat totally beat me up a couple days ago. I needed a late afternoon nap. In the midst of sleep, my dream was filled with the sound of a lawn mower. Some part of my subconscious thought that dreaming about lawn mowers was pretty strange, so I started to crawl my way out of the deep sleep. Eventually, upon shaking the slumber from my eyes, I realized that the mower was not in my dream-it was right outside my guesthouse window. I had never before heard that all too familiar sound of the gas-powered push mower in this country. Men and women with exceptionally long machetes cut most of the lawns here. They bend over and swing a 3 foot knife with just the right motion that bends the flexible blade and makes a clean, even shave of grass. The Industrial Revolution in the US was based on the assumption that human labor can and should be replaced by machines. The Digital Revolution has made the next logical step in replacing people with computers. Here in Ghana, human labor tends to trump machines because of the fragile power grid and the need to import most technologies. Machete mowing requires much more human power than the gas-powered mower but it often proves to be cheaper and more efficient. Furthermore, the soft whoosh of the machete allows me and everyone else to hear the birds, the insects, and the occasional musical celebration about a mile away. The gas mower drowns out all of these beautiful sounds.

I’ll see how tonight goes. Hopefully, I will get some sleep in this country that never sleeps. Maybe God might even take the night off too.

We are in the rainy season of West Africa that runs roughly from April to August.  Though it rains frequently, it doesn’t rain constantly.  This season offers a wide menu of diverse rains from light misty precipitation to ferocious floods that create waterfalls off the edges of roofs.  These heavy tropical downpours do not distinguish between dirt and paved roads.  They cut deep gashes into both.

When it doesn’t rain, the air is thick with humidity.  The equatorial sun seems to boil the moisture hanging in the air and it feels like breathing the steam of a teakettle.  The volatile, moist, hot air creates waves of thermal updrafts that the large birds of Ghana really enjoy.  Vultures barely need to flap their lumbering wings when they find these thermals.  They ride the unpredictable contours of hot and not-so-hot air, using them to go about the business of everyday survival.

We traveled north last weekend to the Brong Awafo Region. Our bus was one of several that, like those vultures negotiating every bump in the air, crawled over countless pot holes (some the size of a Volkswagon) and deep ravines that were cut into the road by the previous night’s downpour. Without the grace of the vultures, the tall coach bus heaved and complained with the squeaks and bangs of metal scraping on metal…axles stressed to the limit.  If we were to reach our destination, there was no choice but to follow the rough, unpredictable road that nature gave us.  What little control we had over this semi-wild environment was concentrated in the hands of our masterful driver named Thomas.   He seemed to navigate them as easily and the large soaring birds navigate the thermals on a sunny day. Not the rest of us. We awkwardly bounced around the seat cushions with every wrinkle in the road. We were the guests.  We were the strangers. Our bus, our cameras, and our ipods made us look like visitors from some other planet in this lush, pulsating, green world.  We passed by a single construction vehicle, clearing dense vegetation for a new road.  But even the bulk of this massive bulldozer seemed to fight a losing battle against the singular will of the forest.

We eventually arrived in Boabeng.  The story goes that a hunter wandered into this area in 1827 in search of water.  At the river’s edge, he met a fetish, a forest spirit who protected the local Moma and Colobus monkeys.  The fetish told the hunter that if his people came to live there, they would need to live with the monkeys and never harm them.  The fetish explained that if they killed one of the monkeys, one of them would die soon afterward.  The hunter returned to his people and told them of the deal the fetish had proposed.  They agreed, and at the site of a huge ficus tree, their village was founded.  Since that time, the people and the monkeys have lived together according to this mutual agreement.  The monkeys attract tourists like us. We bring in a little extra income into this small village. In return, the villagers care for the monkeys, making sure that their habitat is kept safe from damaging forms of intrusion.  This has been working well for a long time.  The monkey population continues to grow with the help of their human partners.

We stopped several times to watch these two species of monkeys dance through the maze of tree branches.  The Momas were generally comfortable with us humans. Even though the Colobus monkeys stayed higher in the trees, they seemed willing to relax, drape their long, white ribbon tails over the branches, and allow us to fill up lots of digital real estate in our cameras.

At the end of the tour, we met Daniel. Daniel is a 50 year old Moma.  He showed up on the edge of the monkey cemetery with much of his extended family behind him.  Daniel walked with utter confidence among us, all the while showing the young ones the proper way to interact with the humans.  While some of the grandchildren dangled from low hanging limbs to the delight of our students, Daniel strolled over to a small patch of forest devoted to monkeys that have died.  Part of the partnership here includes a proper burial for monkeys. If they die in the forest, the villagers cover the body in a white clothe and bring it back for burial.  Often times, monkeys that anticipate their death (due to sickness or old age) emerge from the forest and come to the middle of the village to die.  Each monkey has a wooden grave marker stating its name, age, and date of birth.  Along side the monkeys, lies the fetish priest (who acted as the voice of the forest spirit).  This is a rare case where human and animal share a final resting place.  It is a testament to their profound connection. Daniel chose one of the wooden grave markers and gracefully jumped upon it.  He sat there for a long time, dividing his attention between his extended family behind him and the curious large primates with cameras and sneakers in front of him.  While the wonders of the forest often elicited joyous laughter and giggles from our students, Daniel demanded from us a certain level of respect.  His presence provided the appropriate gravitas to this sacred place. Our group got noticeably quieter without any human instruction.

In the Catholic tradition, there are stories of saints that helped negotiate the forces of the created world with the needs of human beings.  One of the most popular stories involves St. Francis and a ferocious wolf.  A frigid winter destroyed the food source for the animals that lived in the forest near the medieval hill town of Gubbio.  Out of desperation, the animals began entering the town in search of food.  A large wolf soon followed.  He terrorized the villagers.  As fear tightened its grip on Gubbio, a hunting party was assembled to kill the wolf. When St. Francis heard of the situation, he suggested a compromise. If the villagers promised to share some of their food with the wolf, the wolf would promise to stop his violent behavior.  A deal was struck. The wolf became a dear friend and protector of the people of Gubbio.  Like the monkeys of Boabeng, upon his death, the wolf was given a proper funeral and was mourned for many years by the villagers.

Americans have lost much of their connection to the forces of nature.  We proudly control our surroundings with powerful technologies and shrewd business acumen.  While we customize our attention by escaping into the virtual worlds of digital devices, we can easily forget the need to observe and respond to the all-too-real waves of nature’s give and take.  Every once in a while a devastating tornado, hurricane, flood or fire reminds us of the illusion of our control.  Similarly, every once in a while, a visit to a state park reminds us of nature’s staggering beauty that trumps any of our virtual creations.  When our scientists dive deep into the mysteries of the natural world, they add new opportunities to marvel at its power and complexity.  However, when our ability to explain and quantify nature reaches its limit, we are left with stories like Daniel and the people of the Boabeng.   It is these stories that help us navigate the unpredictable twists and turns of our time here in Ghana. That story was backed up by the actions of the Boabeng villagers and the thriving presence of Daniel and his extended family.

The small streets of Agogo are bustling with energy.  The roads are shared equally by private cars, crowded tro-tros (the mini van taxis of Ghana), trucks hauling massive tree trunks and spewing black smoke, children playing, goats, chickens and dogs darting in and out, street sellers with their entire inventory balanced on their heads, businessmen holding cell phones to their ears and mothers carrying their children on their backs.  Bird songs weave together with blaring car horns, gentle children’s voices, raucous laughter, a crying baby, and the pounding rhythm of Hip Life music coming from homemade PA systems.

At the center of town is the Agogo Presbyterian Hospital.  This hospital/nursing school handles everything from emergency services, eye care and HIV cases to surgical procedures, and the treatment of tropical diseases. They not only care for large numbers of patients but also conduct research on new medicines and treatments. It is unbelievably inspiring to see what they accomplish at Agogo with so few resources.

We visited with two researchers that are testing a new malaria vaccine.  They hope that this disease, that kills so many children in West Africa, can not only be controlled but also eradicated.  It is common for malaria to account for 50% or more of the daily emergency room cases in Ghanaian hospitals. An effective vaccine would be no small accomplishment. We listened to the scientists describe the meticulous work of building the necessary trust in rural communities for medical trials, data collection, etc.  As they spoke, I was quietly struck with the fact that the research for short-term malaria prevention (for westerners) is far more advanced than the research leading to its elimination for children in places like Ghana.  The medicine I take daily provides solid (if not complete) protection during my month long stay in Ghana.  That medicine was developed in my part of the world for people like me.  The kids here suffering from malaria have not had the same attention from the medical marketplace.

The children found in one ward have a rare tropical skin disease called buruli ulcer.  This disease is found in many tropical areas of the world.  While little is known about how to prevent it, it seems to be related to the same bacteria that causes tuberculosis. Both the disease and the skin graft surgery (necessary for advanced cases) is disfiguring and debilitating. The antibiotic treatment requires a hospital stay of 3 months to 3 years depending on the severity of the individual case. Even after treatment, the disease often returns.

Agogo, like many Ghanaian hospitals, doesn’t have a food service. A family member must leave home, live at the hospital and cook for the child.  Since many of these farm families live on the edge of subsistence, losing the help of a child in addition to a mother, aunt, or grandma to a long-term stay in the hospital can tip the fragile balance of survival. All too often, parents of these children must decide whether to feed one child in the hospital or the others at home-an unbearable choice, but one that cannot be avoided. Many of these kids get abandoned at the hospital. The hospital does the best it can.  Sometimes families share their food.  Sometimes there are no other options. On top of all this, malnutrition impedes the child’s ability to respond to treatment.

There is a one-room school in the middle of the hospital.  The room is about 12 feet square with a blackboard, some benches and some simple wall paintings of rainbows, dolphins and the ABC’s.  There are no books, notebooks or pencils. There is no teacher. One volunteer from the next town comes in occasionally to read to the kids in the ward. Mothers and grandmothers that come to cook read to the children if they are able. They need learning materials. They need people. The long-term stay at the hospital without regular schooling sets these kids behind their peers back home.  Upon their return, many of these kids drop out of school. Combined with the disfigurement of this disease, these children face a long and terrible list of challenges.

After today’s visit, some of our SUNY Geneseo students set up a mini fund within our group to buy a bunch of food for these kids. Toward the end of our stay, I will have the Santa Claus job of delivering a couple big bags of rice and a barrel of palm oil.  This is one of those places with very clear, definable needs that yield immediate results.  The rice we deliver will provide some necessary help in the near term.  But Agogo needs an institutional partner to ensure that these kids get good food and a solid education.  Just as the rolling mountains embrace this town, the embrace of a grandmother, a teacher, a college student, and an institution is necessary to protect these beautiful kids.

More on Agogo later… the kids’ faces are still in my mind…its hard to get them out…I don’t think I want to.

I had better sleep.

Goodnight,

Glenn

Here in Ghana, you find a graphic language called “Adinkra.” Each symbol carries a complex meaning. The Adinkra symbol of a large bird walking forward while turning its long neck and head toward the path behind it reminds us to “go back to your roots.” Every time I walk down the streets of Kumasi I feel as if I have come back to some part of my roots. It is not as simple as tracing my bloodlines. To my knowledge, I have no West African relatives.  I am part Scottish Protestant and German Catholic with a dash of other Celtic tribes for good measure.  I grew up in the midst of a rural farm town in upstate New York with lots of Italians.  Though my family carries no Italian DNA, our daily routine is more Italian than Scottish or German. Many members of my family speak Italian. We grow grapes in the backyard and make the wine that goes along with lots of pasta, homemade bread and many other trappings of our adopted culture.  My wife has strong Polish roots. I have nieces who grew up in Vietnam and a nephew-in-law of Syrian decent.  We are quite a picture of American diversity but there is still no connection by blood or marriage to West Africa. Meanwhile, back here in Ghana, I do my best to learn the music, the language, the history, and the food, knowing that I will always be an outsider. So why do I still feel this illusive sense of coming “home” every time I return to Ghana?

Don’t misunderstand me.  This is not some romanticized fabrication of a westerner grabbing at straws to reconcile the mistakes of his colonial ancestry. Similarly, this is not a Stephen Colbert-esque satire on finding my “lost African heritage.” This sense of “going back to my roots” is more personal…it’s more immediate.

Maybe it emerges from the sense of raw and joyful hospitality I receive from friends, colleagues and strangers here.  Maybe it comes from the pervasive role that music plays in Ghanaian culture that resonates within my artistic soul.  Maybe it shines through the vibrant optimism that sustains Ghanaians in the hard work of building a country, driving them to push forward in the face of huge obstacles. This optimism often inspires me when I become consumed by the comparatively small obstacles I face back home. Certainly, I must attribute a good chunk of my love for this country to the friendships that have grown over the years.   Regardless of the color our skin, those that call me “brother” are those that I will know for the rest of my life.  We will follow the growth of our children together. We will share our sorrow when friends and relatives pass away. We will follow our respective careers, do some great projects together and look forward to the next time we can share some food and laughter- either on their side of the Atlantic or mine.

Beyond the personal connections I feel here, there are many reminders of how American ideas and culture are now returning to their roots.   We drove by the “Abraham Lincoln International School” in Manhyia yesterday.  I think that the former president would be proud to know that a West African school bears his name.  The same is true for our current president. Since Obama’s visit here in 2009, his name and image can be found everywhere.  In fact, while I write this blog, I am sipping a very nice cup of “Obama Tea” (I doubt he is receiving royalties!). There are also images of Martin Luther King Jr. and other leaders of the American Civil Rights Movement that show up on billboards, church publications, and small business advertisements. A while back, on a remote coastal road, I saw a hand-painted sign advertising the availability of farmland.  There was a simple picture and a slogan that read, “40 Acres and a Mule.”  I am not sure how many potential farmers here knew that this was the same deal offered to newly freed slaves (many with Ghanaian ancestry) in mid 19^th century America.  I hope this offer works out better for them than it did for post Civil War Black Americans.

Last November, I chatted with the director of the Elmina Slave Castle Historical Site.  This restored fortress served as one of the largest trading posts for West African slaves, gold and other commodities of European expansion.  The Portuguese, the Dutch and the British ran this slave castle at various intervals for more than 350 years.  The director noted that Americans visit this place in increasingly large numbers.  He said that African Americans often come to Elmina because it represents the ancestry that otherwise cannot be traced.  Africans sold into slavery lost their names.  Records of their lineage were rarely kept or preserved.  The tools of Western genealogy are not available to today’s descendents of slaves, so Elmina provides a glimpse into a collective history…a history that represents all West African slaves and therefore reaches back to their lost ancestors. I shared with the director that when our SUNY Geneseo students come to Elmina, they discover a vital part of their history that is often forgotten in the American classroom.  Our Slave Trade curriculum usually begins with the slave ship, then continues on to the plantation and the ultimate struggle for freedom and equality.  We rarely explore the complexities of West African tribal conflicts and the colonial manipulation that placed so many slaves on those ships.  A walk through the solemn walls and battlements of Elmina goes a long way in filling the gaps of our historical imagination. The inscription on the wall of Elmina reads…

“In everlasting memory of the anguish of our ancestors,

may those who died, rest in peace,

may those who return, find their roots,

may humanity never again perpetrate such injustice against humanity.

We, the living, vow to uphold this.”

Going back to your roots places certain demands on those who dare turn back. This poem reminds us of the profound responsibilities of those who return to their roots.  To honor those who passed through these walls, we must make sure the mistakes of the past are never repeated.

Yesterday, Susan and I talked about this sense of “going back to our roots” during a long bus ride through the inland savannah in the northern Asante/Brong Awafo region.  Slender tree trunks stab the horizon, supporting graceful, arching palm branches that wave gently in the West African breeze.  These towering trees emerge from grassy fields that are peppered with small shrubs.  This is mostly a new growth savannah that is recovering from the deforestation of a much denser rainforest.  This habitat hosts many small animals, including Moma and Colobus Monkeys, small rodents, snakes, lizards, snails, etc.  The Harvard entomologist, Edward O. Wilson once reflected upon his many years of research in Africa.  He suggested that the Western notion of the “backyard,” with its short grass, shade trees, shrubs and small pets can be traced back through our genetic memory to humanity’s origin in the African savannah.  He argues that the manicured, middle class, suburban lawns of America represent an attempt to artificially recreate the natural landscape that gave birth to our species.  While many scholars question this provocative argument, Wilson’s idea provided some interesting fodder for reflection as we drove through the inland savannah.

Even if we don’t accept such a sweeping theory of genetic memory, these days it is hard to escape the American music styles that are returning to their ancestral homeland.  Most forms of American popular music trace some part of their heritage to the mixture of West African and European music styles that occurred during and after the slave trade.  Antonin Dvorak, the great Czech composer of “The New World Symphony,” wrote in the early 1890’s about the importance of emerging African music styles to the unique artistic character of the young American nation.  Today, Ali Farka Toure, a singer and guitar player from Mali, is called the “African Blues Man.”  He has taken the Blues, a style born from the mix of cultures in the African diaspora, and brought it back home.  Similarly, Ghanaian dance music known as “High Life” has given birth to a new genre called “Hip Life.”  American Hip Hop has returned to its artistic roots and recombined with modern West African styles.  The music throbs with multiple languages, irresistible rhythms and some marvelous surprises not found in its American musical parent.  Furthermore, as a composer of multi-ethnic music, I cannot resist the chance to explore the points of contact between Ghanaian song and Western musical forms.  I’ve got some stuff on the drawing board now that will explore some of the same ideas in this essay with music.

So, we begin our trip in Ghana by returning to our roots.  However, this is not a one-way ticket.  Even as I look toward Ghana, like the large bird of Sankofa, I cannot help but to look over my shoulder back to the US. The yardstick of my life, on which I measure my moments of hardship on one end and joy on the other, seems to get longer on both ends with every visit to West Africa.  Those things that I experience here that are frustrating and frightening are more so than their equivalents back home.  Similarly, many moments of triumph and joy here push the frontiers of similar moments in my life in the US. In the last couple of years, Americans have hit the worst economic situation since the Great Depression. However, a visit to West Africa places the economic struggle of my family within a bigger picture.  Though we have had a hard time making ends meet, we have never doubted that our children would be fed.  We are confident that someday we will emerge into a more prosperous life.  That is not the case for many other Americans and also for many here.  Despite riding the ragged edge of survival, this country still radiates a sense of hope and muscular optimism.

When we look back to our roots for the purpose of understanding our present, we must remember that our identities are more than our bloodlines.   My ethnic roots define one part of me, but my experiences define much more.  There are days when I feel like I share more with my Ghanaian brothers and sisters than my fellow Americans.  There are other days here when I feel like I was born on Mars.  At any rate, I am grateful for the chance to know some beautiful people here in Ghana. I know that they will continue to add to the richness of my life.  I hope I can add some to theirs as well.

I mention this because today I will be loading up several blogs from the last week because the connection is really good today.  Though the events described have occurred over the last 10 days, the postings are all coming together.

I apologize ahead of time for any typos that might slip through!

All the best from West Africa,

Glenn

I am traveling in Ghana during this month of June 2011. I join Dr. Susan Bandoni, a group of 13 undergraduate students from the State University of New York at Geneseo and 6 Ghanaian students from Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology (from here on I will use the acronym KNUST) in a study of Global Health issues. For those of you that know me well, you know that I am not a biologist. As a musician, composer, and lover of History, I am drawn back to Ghana. Though the focus of this course is not my strength, the vibrant life of West Africa captures my imagination and will surely show up in my next round of musical work.

My role this month is to direct the logistics of the trip, support student writing, and to supplement Susan’s work with lectures/discussions on West African history and culture. I have visited Ghana twice a year for the last couple of years. My time here has been focused on the exploration of Ghanaian music, culture and education. I have worked in a variety of Ghanaian schools, from large public districts to small orphanages. My master’s degree thesis explored ways of leveraging local folklore for the prevention of Ghana’s most widespread children’s disease-malaria.

I have had the privilege of meeting Ghana’s last president and the current Chief Justice of their Supreme Court. I have come to know businessmen, professors, regional chiefs, musicians, and a whole bunch of beautiful kids. Sharing these friends and the wonders of modern Ghana with others is one of my favorite things to do. That being said, I feel like I should receive 3 college credits for all that I am learning. I am seeing new parts of this beautiful and inspiring country with Susan’s guidance. Also, I am indebted to her and the doctors, nurses, and researchers we work with for their wisdom and knowledge. Much of it will show up in the following blog entries. I am also grateful for the patience and linguistic hospitality I receive from Ghanaians. This country has a wide range of traditional languages and their national language is English.

Doing the work of business, government, education, research, and much of day-to-day life requires that any given person here is speaking English as their second, third or fourth language. Though I am learning bits and pieces of Twi (spoken by about 40% of Ghanaians today), my progress is slow. My mistakes are welcomed with good-hearted laughter and gentle correction. The bottom line: I must depend upon the skill and patience of my multi-lingual Ghanaian colleagues and friends to provide a safe and joyful learning experience to this marvelous group of undergraduate students. I hope you enjoy this small window into our time together this month.

Sincerely, Glenn McClure