December 15, 2008

january 8 - 9 - 10: toronto to new york city

ATTENTION PEOPLE FROM UPSTATE NEW YORK, SOUTHERN, CENTRAL AND NORTHERN ONTARIO:

This is asking you a huge favour. My friend, Megan Youngs in Toronto, has kindly donated a ton of stuff (medium box and a schoolbag) for the children of deaf schools in Nigeria. I was not able to bring them with me on my travels, they were a little too heavy for me to carry around. I would be flying out of New York City on January 13, back to Nigeria and not from Toronto.

So, people, listen up, I’m thinkin’ of hosting a badass birthday bash for the lovely Miss Coco (me, hello) at a badass bar and book y’all in a badass hostel. Y’all going to foot the bill for the hotel, drinks, food, but I’ll help foot the gas bill. It’s gonna be a memorable time as Miss Coco turns 29. One more year then she’s not a young adult anymore. Ack.

If you’re interested in giving the stuff a ride, and there’s people who would like to carpool, LEAVE A MESSAGE ON MY GROUP WALL then connect with people from there.

You’d be doing so many children a service by delivering these things. Bless Megan, GBC and Paul for donating the stuff.

There are angels out there, indeed.
Tactile love,
Coco

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December 15, 2008

Coco’s Journal #26: The Silent Thief

December 24, 2008

The past two days have been a whirlwind of emotions and hurdles. One moment I thought it would be my last day to see everything, then waking up to the same what I’d seen before the procedure.

How did it get to the point where I feared being completely blind in that instant second to being reassured of it for just a little bit more?

VSO had sent me home through the holiday kindness of AXA insurance because of worries from all sides after I’d told them about the brown spot and half-moon blur. It was determined that Nigeria’s medical care was not appropriate for my Usher Syndrome conidition and that Canadian medical care was the best choice for me.

When I saw Dr Lapointe, my opthalmologist, she did a thorough examination using different ocular and vision tests, from field test to drops to color illumination lights. The field tests determined I was losing some degree in my field vision, and that the half-moon blur and brown spot in the middle was an unfortunate side effect of deteroriation from retinitis pigmentosa.  For that, there could be nothing done.

However, that was not what alarmed Dr. Lapointe. Through the final series of tests, she discovered a far more serious problem: angle closure glaucoma (google it up).

Angle closure glaucoma, basically, is a condition that suddenly robs one of their vision because the angle in the back of the eyeball, which transmits optical images to your brain, is getting narrower and then closes.

The side effect is said to be disturbing. When someone suffers from an attack of a full closed angle glaucoma, the feeling is compared to a heart attack. The pain is mainly around the eyeball area, leading to the brain. It can be very painful, but does not affect brain activity.

But if not treated within 12 hours, especially in foreign countries like Nigeria, I could have lost all ability to see, and suffering a blitz attack on my eye. The thing is, we’re all grateful that Dr. Lapointe diagnosed this problem before anything like an attack occured to me in Nigeria. The prospect of that is frightening, and it’s as if an angel is watching over me.

The laser treatment was less risky than the surgery done on cataract patients, they actually go under the knife. Laser is quick, a patient can go in and out of five minutes. No hospital stay. However, Dr Lapointe had not done this kind of procedure to eliminate glaucoma on a RP patient. To prevent an attack, I told her to go ahead. Despite that there was a possibility that it’d be taken away forever, like a silent thief. Maybe the laser was too strong for my retina and damaged whatever vision I had left? Catch-22 reared its ugly head.

I underwent laser treatment at the Ottawa General Hospital, I had an interpreter and my father also attended. Dr. Lapointe explained to me the procedure, and the information she had gathered from two retina specialists and one glaucoma specialist. We agreed upon a communication system to use in the dark examination room.

I would look into a machine, and there’d be a red laser aimed at the very  pupil of my eye. It’s been dilated large, and frozen. Dr Lapointe touches my knee one, two, three times and then presses. It’s code for electric shock.

I saw the red laser come into my pupil. My brain transmitted the image to an area of my brain that recognized red. I breathed in, out, in, out. Om, ahhhh. I had gone through a difficult 2 days thinking about everything I’d loved seeing/watching all my life, the faces of people I’d loved and who I’d never get to meet. Wishing I could see the Taj Mahal or the foot of the Amazon before I become fully blind might not be possible in a few seconds. I felt so scared. My heart was in my throat. Would I open my eyes and be able to see out? Would it be a repeat of 2004? Do I need to learn Braille again? All these people wishing me the best.

All of a sudden, I swear to you all, I felt such a strong surge of positive energy, coming in from all kinds of directions. The emails, the instant messages, the wall posts, and calls from strangers, high school and college friends, family, volunteers…. they were in the hundreds. I’m not kidding. There was that many. I was blown away. And that helped me get through the procedure because I know no matter what happens, I would still have all of you around me, taking care of each other and give me the strength to go on without sight.

One. Two. Three. BZZZZZZZZZ!

Whoa. That felt like a mini jackhammer hitting the back of my skull. Click. Click. Click. It went on for like, twenty seconds. I sat there, breating in, out, in, out.

A gentle squeeze on my shoulder signaled I was done. The doc took out the plastic, gelly thing that held my eyelids wide open. I closed my eyes right away, wiping the gel off the eye area.

Moment of truth.

I opened my eyes, and saw the silhouette of Dr. Lapointe in front of the dim light. I asked her to turn on the lights. The blinding flash pained my eyes at first, then they got used to it. I saw the doctor standing in front of me, her anxious face looking at me. I realized I could still see her face, dim blond hair and silver-rimmed glasses.

I turned around. I saw the interpreter. She looked the same as she did five minutes before.

My dad came in, and my brain registered the blue sweater he was wearing.

I could still see. Whoa.

I was elated. It was so close, it could have gone any way.

I have another appointment with Dr Lapointe tomorrow, and we’ll determine if the problem has been elimiated, and that the chances of me having glaucoma would go away forever.

It’s rare for someone with Usher Syndrome/Retinitis Pigmentosa to get glaucoma, it was a surprise I had it. This is to tell you that for anyone, it is important to see your opthalmologist and get everything checked out.

The outpouring of love and support has been extraordinary. I’m really humbled. Bless all.

Tactile love, namaste.
Coco

info:
http://www.healthprofessor.com/landers/macular_degeneration.php?keywords=glaucoma&referrer=Adwords&camp=HealthProfessor-MacularDegeneration&group=glaucoma&keyword=close+angle+glaucoma&traffictype=search&creativeid=3129515229&sourcesite=
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Closed_angle_glaucoma

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November 8, 2008

African Journal #25: Vision Today, Gone Tomorrow

November 5, 2008

 

At eight years old, I first learnt I had a retinal condition that would eventually deteroriate my vision as I got older. Usher Syndrome, to me, was not an issue I’d cared to remind myself of in my teens, until it became a problem in college. I struggled to come to terms that I was blind as well as Deaf, and that I would eventually have to learn how to adapt to life as a blind person. Cane orientation, Braille lessons and Deaf-Blind community networking started  when I turned 23, as well as advocating for equality for people like me. What I’d thought was a catalyst, a demolition ball ruining my life turned out to be a blessing. I am in a faraway, strange part of the world helping Deaf and Deaf-Blind people discover they have the right to have the same opportunities as any other citizen of their African country. If it weren’t for my blindness, I probably wouldn’t be grateful for so many things in my life, including the remaining vision I had. Whatever time I had left to see, I travel the globe, taking in its undiscovered beauties, vast mysteriousness and immersing into a rainbow of cultures. I’d seen the red sands of the Subsaharan desert, the mountains of Bavaria, the ancestry of the Romans, golden temples of the Orient and the miracles that were homegrown. All that before the age of 28, clearly I wanted more time until I could see my hair turn gray in the mirror, my friends’ children into adulthood, perhaps my own wedding. Wishful thinking, now turned into a somber reality I’d have to accept, that my vision was going to go sooner than I’d hoped.

 

In the final weeks of my journey across America this summer, I had packed up my bulging suitcases and got ready to head for the Big Apple. Sitting at the desk of 910 8th Street, staring in the glare of the laptop, I noticed something that was surely not there before. In the remaining good eye – the one on the right – a strong blur had taken up half of the 5-degree tunnel, with a big, brown spot smack dab in the middle of the split between the blur and clear parts of sight. Horrified, I emailed several of my Deaf Blind friends and asked what the hell this was. They assured me it was probably a floater, a common symptom of Usher Syndrome. I had it several times, and it’d disappeared within three to four days.

           So, I waited patiently. I looked out to the skyline of New York City with the clear half, finding it a nuisance I’d hoped would go away soon. The brown spot hadn’t moved, or disappeared. The blurriness hadn’t dissolved, it remained the same. Taking my focus off the new change in my vision, I visited the Helen Keller Center, ate sushi with friends, had coffee and muffins by Prospect Park and walked the streets of Flatbush Ave, Brooklyn. A part of me panicked, wanted to go home to see my local ophthalmologist. But the other part of me that longed for Africa, longed to see my Nigerian gang, to get to the grind with my new organization. That latter half overpowered my concerns and I was on the afternoon flight out of John F. Kennedy Airport via Frankfurt, Germany. By the next morning, I landed in Abuja, Nigeria, ecstatic to be back and subconsciously praying that the stupid thing in my eye would go away. I didn’t want to think about the options I would eventually have to face: cataract removal via operation or leave it be and let it lead to full blindness. In 2004, I had a routine cataract operation on my left eye, to remove a seemingly ripe cataract. It led to sudden full-blindness and ever since I’d been very wary of another operation that put my right eye at risk.

 

Weeks passed. The damn thing was still there, slowing down my reading by 50%, making objects harder to identify, faces became strangers until they told me who they were, large objects were harder to find. After weeks of frustration, I finally gave up on hope it’d go away and I admitted my condition to VSO and my father. Understandably, they were very concerned, and off I went to see a Nigerian ophthalmologist for an examination before it was determined if I’d need treatment in my home country.

 

Dr. Femi Babalola’s office was inside the Racheel Eye Clinic in Abuja. It wasn’t a run-down building but it wasn’t extragavant. It looked humble, the white paint on the exterior walls wore out with years under the blistering sun. My interpreters, Bisi and Lola, accompanied me to the clinic to ensure clear communication. They are fluent in Signed Exact English. I sat in the small waiting room, right across me was a counter with shelves behind glass, glasses were on display. Next to it, a wall separating the two sections, was a secretary’s desk. She took my ID, looked at my forms I’d filled out, and said the assistant would be with me shortly. Shortly became immediately, and I was escorted into a small, dark office with a gadget in the middle of the room, a tall floor lamp with dimmed light, and closed curtains. I sat in the big dentist’s chair, saw a mirror across me that reflected the optical chart. The woman assistant made some inquiries, wrote it on a notepad, and said I needed eyedrops to dilate my pupils for examining. The doctor would be with me soon.

           I went out to the waiting room again, and was given my drops in front of several strangers. As the drop touched my eyeball, I suddenly felt a strong sting. My eye was burning and I tried to stifle a scream. I told the nurse it was too strong, but she insisted that it was the right kind and other patients had used it. Another drop in the other eye had the same result. I whimpered, but didn’t complain, and closed my eyes for a few minutes. The nurse returned, checked my eyes and was amazed it wasn’t dilated yet. ‘One more time’, she told the interpreters. I objected, saying it hurt too much, which was unusual. In Canada, it only required one drop in each, and it was as gentle as a baby’s tear. Painless.

           ‘Take it, just one more time. Then you’ll be seen by the doctor’, she said. So I took it, but this time, I could not contain my screams. I yelled out some curse words, and tears (not the drop liquid) came pouring out of my eyes. I had to wear my sunglasses, as a tiny fraction of light made it more painful to look around. After five minutes, the nurse returned. I took off my sunglasses, she looked bewildered. My pupils had not dilated yet! She accused me of keeping my eyes open after the drops, and I told her I had kept it closed behind the sunglasses. She insisted that I take it one more time, and I stood up and flat out refused. I told her that it was torture, and if the other patients had complained of the burning, they should look into getting a better solution from American eye clinics. I didn’t want to further damage my vision, but she said the doctor would not see me until I was a good girl and took the last drop. I got very agitated, and debated whether I should take the drops. So I did. And the result? No dilation! So all of that pain was worth nothing. The doctor saw me anyway, and after a hour of poking, prodding and analyzing, he said he would give me a prescription and it would go away. I said that until he contacted my Canadian doctor, I would not take any medication, not after the horrible experience I had with a standard eye dilation practice. He understood, and promised he’d get in touch with my doctor. He recommended new glasses, but I refused again. I didn’t want any diagnosis until I got a second opinion.

 

           After the trip to see Dr. Babalola, a series of emails were exchanged between him, me, my Canadian ophthalmologist, VSO Nigeria staff and my father that lasted weeks and weeks. Now, a conclusion is nearing – I would be home for the holidays, in December, and have the doctor at home examine me. She’d been examining me for over ten years, so she knew me and my condition inside and out. So, details are still being worked out, and it looks like I’ll have to slip on an old parka, find dusty boots in the basement, and don my favorite colored hat and brave the winter and watch my tan fade. I’d be back in Nigeria in time to ring the New Year and content with a diagnosis from my Canadian doctor.

 

Whatever happens, I have to accept the inevitable: if this thing that just appeared all of a sudden is something permanent, I have to put all of my energy in finishing my VSO term, finding a way to cope with the sudden change, and mustering up the courage to face more challenges now that half of the good vision’s gone. I still long to watch the Masai dance around the bonfire in their colorful face paint in the nightfall of Tanzania, the lush green rainforests of Uganda, the coffee fields of Kenya and the magnificient coast of Malawi. That shall happen in 2009.

 

           In a sense, losing my vision feels like dying. I want to see more places, absorb the faces, remember the different shades of colors, read 1,000 books, read the face of my lover, all before I cannot see anymore. It’s terrifying. I tell people I’m okay with it, which I am, but there are times when I sit by myself, realizing the realities of being fully blind and I cry. I never want to be blind, but remain deaf. Deafness has its own deafhood, but blindness has more struggles than a culture of its own. But I shall find a way to go on, like Helen Keller, Father Cyril Axelrod, John Lee Clark, Art Roehrig, Polly Mansfield, Doris Fedrid, Jelica Nuccio, and many, many Deaf Blind leaders around the globe have. If they have found the courage to go on in life as a Deaf-Blind person, so can I. But I’d honestly want to have my sight for just a little bit more. I’m so young.

           But perhaps if losing my vision is death, then the moment I die, I shall resurrect a new person.

 

Tactile love,

Coco

 

PS: Who knows what caused the rapid deteroriation? We’ll find out soon enough.

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October 10, 2008

African Journal #24: American Yin, African Yang

Abuja, Nigeria

October 10, 2008 

 

As I sat in Lufthansa Airlines Flight 330, Aisle 2, Row 24 in Seat A by the window on my last leg of the flight back to Nigeria, I let my legs rest on the empty seat beside me and snoozed most of the way from Frankfurt, Germany to Abuja. Two months had passed from the day I landed in the Big Apple in July, to the day I made my departure from America on September 24th from John F. Kennedy International. I bid my New York City host adieu, and as I walked through the security gate I started reflecting back on the eight weeks I’d spent travelling cross-country, and as I got closer to Nigeria the thoughts still ran by my mind. From the plummeting economy to the wrath of Hurricanes Hanna and Ike; ill with a severe allergy reaction the first two weeks in America that ended the day before I found myself without a gallbladder; the friendships I’d renewed and created; from New York City to Ottawa to Vermont to San Diego to Portland to Seattle to Seabeck to Washington, DC to New York City. The things that most occupied my thoughts were the inspiring moments of my journey, as well as the culture differences between America and West Africa.

 

I daydreamed into another illusion while “Made of Honor” played on the little touch screen in front of me. The daydreaming brought me back in a time warp, but they were paired with two comparisons side by side. One side of my dreams had the African culture and the lifestyle I’d seen and somewhat adopted; the America that I’d known for twenty-eight years – the fast-paced lifestyle and media-influenced culture on the other side.

 

I could notice the stark contrasts in most of the comparisons, and a few similarities. The education system for the Deaf (and plus) differed in empowerment and availability of resources, the currencies afforded different things for middle class and the poor, exposure of mainstream media and its power, attitudes of strangers and friends, the culture clash between me and America, me and Nigeria.

 

The similiarities lie in the material things that people in America and Nigeria could possess, however, it wasn’t much. America is one of the top leading industrialized countries so therefore their access to modern technologies and craft changed to something better by the week. In Nigeria, cars, computers, TV sets, cell phones could be newer only if the Nigerian had deep pockets full of nairas. Oddly enough, when I was in Nigeria pre-America, my laptop died but I was able to find a replacement loaner easily, yet when I was touring the states I found myself struggling to adapt to the MacBooks of seven hosts and some times, having to settle for none. Internet cafes with computers handy are often seen around cities, but in America most of the cafes had wireless but you had to bring your own laptop. People in Nigeria would ask me for my text number and I’d gladly give them my cellphone number; Americans would ask me if I had a pager whereas I had none so making plans to get together would be a challenge – find a computer, schedule ahead of time or ask someone to page the other person for me. It was not an easy task to go through everyday life of a traveler with lack of technology in America, it made me feel somewhat primitive. In Africa, if you have an updated cell phone with the camera in it, you’re an instant celebrity. (I don’t have that, just a plain Nokia large print cell).

 

The other aspect of mainstream media that I’d compared side by side would be the availability of closed captioning (Nigeria would have Arabic closed captions, American tv’s after 1993 had internal CC devices), the exposure of bare skin on women and men (Flashy music videos with the sex kittens of girlie bands of the UK and America were only featured on satellite tv in Abuja and Lagos; poor quality filmmaking with hilarious or overdramatic Nigerian actors of Nollywood dominated most television sets except in Hausa territory; in Hausa territories they showed the British BBC and Euro-CNN, but mostly it was Arabic-speaking programs from all over the world.), print is also available in all outlets – independent and federally run publications dominate America and Nigeria but in Nigeria, there is scarcely activist publications making its way on news shelves, nor graphic pornography. Nigeria is well known for its blend of strong, Orthodox religions such as Catholicism and Christianity, but a tad more relaxed sect of Islam. So, media is controlled mostly by the Nigerian government whereas in America you’d find everything from gay publications to style, the Playmate Bunnies to anti-government publications. Free speech sometimes come at a cost in both countries, especially when one is exposed to more and more media with their tech possessions. Especially where my feelings about my body was concerned: media in the US favored size 0 models, while in Nigeria big women were celebrated in movies, television and print. I felt myself relaxing to the image of my apple-shaped abdomen in the West African country but that familiar twinge of insecurity returned when the ads featuring Victoria Secret models and the rail-thin teenage girls in television shows appeared on billboards, magazines, flyers, in passing conversations or on the sidewalk once I was back in America. I had to keep reminding myself that media should not be able to alter my increased confidence – anywhere. I should think of myself as a person I’d grow to love regardless if I didn’t own a laptop or pager or a size 5 body. It’s scary to see the stark contrasts in each countries that define how women and girls and boys and men view their bodies.

 

The influence of mainstream media aside, I reflected on my lonely time in the desert of Kebbi with a live-in intervenor that only fingerspelled and a school staff that I went by daily with simple greetings, and how I’d experienced momentary shock when I first tactile with the first ASL-using person I’d encountered by 34th and Penn Station in the Big Apple in the hazy evening of July 24th. The series of tactile conversations gave me much-needed injection of companionship, intellectual discussions, humourous bantering, soulful and intimate one-on-ones, and most inspiring of all conversations would be with the Deaf Blind people I’d met at Seabeck Camp for the Deaf-Blind.  I had sorely missed the freedom of expression, listening, signing, and speech of the mind. I was missing that in Kebbi, sometimes with my VSO volunteer group. As I left for Nigeria, I told my host that he would be the last person I’d really be able to tactile so freely, with a sense of inclusiveness (environmental and emotional information) because in Nigeria, I’d have a long-ways to find people I felt at ease with, in communication and trust.

There would be countless comparisons, as I re-settled in my Nigerian roots, with flashbacks of my time in the summer of ’08 when I returned to my Canadian and American roots. In the tiniest things like the smell of a suburban Long Island home after it’d been cleaned with industrial chemicals to the smell of incense and cooked akara, suya and masara wafted through the windows of the flat at 3 Maitama Close where the volunteers visiting Abuja sought a bed. The smells of sewage waste and piling garbage mountains littered in areas of Nigeria wasn’t as pleasant as the salty smell of the Pacific ocean. Sipping coffee at the Transcorp Hilton of Maitama, Abuja, Nigeria, was the closest thing we had to filtered coffee I found at a stand by Prospect Park in Brooklyn. Nigeria does not export nor import coffee beans, we opt for instant coffee (instant poop) and boycott the fancy ideals of Starbucks. In Seattle, there are Starbucks and chain coffee shops grinding and brewing quality coffee beans for caffeineaholics at incredibly ridiculous prices, on every block. The little things like those would invade my mind as I’d trudged through my first three weeks back in Nigeria but strangely enough, the only thing I’d truly missed back home is the tactile love.

 

As I go to sleep in the king-sized hotel bed of the Parkview Hotel, Wuse I, Abuja, I shall dream of hope, personal growth, challenges and new friendships as I begin my second chapter of life in Nigeria. Then by breakfast tomorrow morning before the HIV/AIDS workshop resumes, I shall hope that one day my American and Canadian friends would have the opportunity to sit in Aisle 2, Row 24, Seat A on the way back to America after visiting me and ponder the contrasts and the similarities.

Mi casa es tu casa, anywhere in the world. Come and be my guest, experience Africa. You’ll never be the same again. I promise that.

 

Tactile love,

Coco

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October 8, 2008

Job Opportunity: Be my SSP in Nigeria!

Greetings from Abuja, Nigeria!

 

I would like for you to read this carefully, consider it seriously, and grab the opportunity while it’s right there in your face. If this is too far-fetched or an opportunity you must pass, then do me a favor and pass this along.

 

As you might know, I am serving as a volunteer with Voluntary Services Overseas Nigeria, and am presently working with several NGO partners: SNR: Nigeria’s Response to HIV/AIDS; Coalitions for Change (C4C) and VSO. I am based in Kaduna, Kaduna State which is located in Central Nigeria. I have just been transferred to Kaduna from a far away city in the desert, Kebbi, where I’d been working at a Deaf school since March 2008.

For several months in Kebbi, I had a hearing intervenor/support service provider, Marufat, who lived with me full-time and in some situations, interpreted for me. We went food shopping, took trips around the city and out of state, as well as doing errands. She was my sighted guide, for it’s dangerous in Nigeria for a Deaf Blind white woman to venture out alone. Unfortunately, as soon as I arrived back in Nigeria in September after several weeks vacationing in America, Marufat quit to continue her education on a master’s level. I am now left without an intervenor, and that is why I am sending this e-mail out to you.

Right now, nothing is certain or confirmed, but it’s been an idea that was passed along my supervisors at VSO: seek out a person with qualifications to work with me as my part-time intervenor and part-time interpreter.

The position would have the volunteer live with me in my three-bedroom apartment, rent-free, accompany me to my workplaces (SNR office; C4C locations, and at the Kaduna School for the Deaf), occasionally interpret short Kaduna SNR team meetings, accompany me to the markets of the city to pick up food and supplies, escort me on my out-of-town trips to strange new cities, help me host workshops for the general population (HIV, Deaf-Blind, leadership), work with other Nigerian interpreters during major at-large meetings with my NGO organizations or the government Assemblies. As you can see, this requires multiple facets of interpreting, intervening, and involvement. I need someone who is flexible, willing to work with other interpreters, open-minded, assertive, creative, outgoing and committed.

The volunteer must be a hearing person, preferably female but if there is trust and acknowledgment, I am willing to accept applications from males. The volunteer must be hearing, with a background in interpreting, and at least experienced with working with Deaf-Blind persons and is open to tactile in sign language. American Sign Language is a must, but the volunteer needs to understand that, in Nigeria, most Deaf people use Signed English Exact – and in some situations I will need the volunteer to clarify what has been said.

The position will begin January 2009 to August 2009. That is how long I have been contracted to work with SNR, but there MIGHT be a possibility there will be a second term for the volunteer intervenor from August 2009 to January 2010 if VSO can find me another placement. The volunteer would probably be keen to work with University of Jos during this second term, to develop a new field of interpreting and sign language.

The volunteer intervenor would receive these during the employment: free rent, medical insurance, trainings pertaining to In-Country Training and VSO Office orientation, flight to Nigeria and the return trip home, reasonable time off work, and a monthly salary of 34,000 Naira (325.00 USD). I also earn the same amount, and I consider it a very comfortable salary. I am able to afford food and transportation, some luxuries. VSO will take care of any expenses related to visa proceedings, but if you have not applied for a new passport, the fee is yours to cover. The volunteer would cover for his or her own food, transportation on time off, dental insurance, and clothing. There is furniture, water, electricity in the apartment which has been paid for by SNR.

What I would ask you to do for me is to send me your resume, a one-page letter explaining to me about yourself and one-page letter explaining why you are the best person for this job. Also please include ONE letter of reference – not from a friend or family member.

What I don’t need is a flaky, emotional, moody volunteer who will break down or get angry when things don’t go their way or issues appear during interpreting. I need a cool, collected, fun, motivated and optimistic person who loves adventure and is willing to support me any way possible.

When you send me your resume and the three letters (attach them as MS Word), I will go through them and send the ones that I consider the most fit for me to VSO Canada (the office will process work visas and guide you through the process via communication) and VSO Nigeria so they are prepared for you if you are the chosen one.

The deadline will be November 1st, and I hope to have a final decision by November 10th. VSO Canada will screen the final pool of candidates, and whoever has their papers ready will be chosen to go to Nigeria to begin a new chapter in their life.

 

Give this serious consideration, and again, if you are unavailable for this opportunity, please forward this to other people. I stress that this is just an idea that is being passed along VSO, but they are very keen on making this happen so why not grab the opportunity while it’s knockin’?

 

Merci beaucoup for your time,

Christine “Coco” Roschaert

Tactiletheworld@gmail.com

More information on VSO:

www.vsocan.org

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October 5, 2008

411: WestJet and Air Canada Fight Court Ruling on Free Flights for SSPs

Greetings!

As you may recall, from this May 2008 news release I had posted on my website, “411: Canadian Airlines to Allow SSPs Fly for Free”. An Usher Syndrome buddy and International Usher Syndrome Buddies Network founder, Ryan McNary of Edmonton, Alta. alerted me of the press release that tells us of another hurdle in accessibility for Canadian citizens who are Deaf Blind or physically unable to do air travel by themselves.

In Canada, the term used to describe a sighted person accompanying a Deaf Blind person is called an intervenor, but it is also commonly known in the States as SSP - Support Service Provider.

May 2008 article: http://tactiletheworld.wordpress.com/2008/05/14/411-canadian-airlines-to-allow-ssps-ride-for-free/

We have to do something! But what?

Join the International Usher Buddies Network on Facebook or their MSN group to share ideas and take action!

Tactile love, Coco

******************************************************************

Council of Canadians with Disabilities
Conseil des Canadiens avec DeficiencesAir Canada and WestJet Oppose Equality
For Canadians with Disabilities

Once again the Canadian disability community is up against a transportation Goliath. This time it is the tag team of Air Canada and WestJet. These wealthy corporations are using expensive legal tactics to fight the removal of a significant barrier to the mobility of persons with disabilities. Air Canada and WestJet want to keep charging disabled people, who need additional space to accommodate their disabilities, the price of an extra ticket. The airlines are seeking leave to appeal at the Supreme Court of Canada a Canadian Transportation Agency (CTA) decision which ruled that persons with disabilities, who because of their disability require an additional seat or an attendant to assist them with in flight needs not met by flight attendants, will not have to purchase two fares.

The airlines sought, but were denied, leave to appeal the CTA decision at the Federal Court of Appeal. “The airlines are simply stalling implementation of the CTA decision. They are trying to reduce costs at the expense of the equality of Canadians with disabilities,” said Marie White, Chairperson of the Council of Canadians with Disabilities (CCD). “We trust that the Supreme Court of Canada, just as they told VIA Rail that they must accommodate persons with disabilities by retrofitting their Renaissance cars, will deny the airlines’ application to appeal,” said White.

CTA is an expert panel responsible for ensuring safe and accessible travel. They are mandated to remove barriers to persons with disabilities. The airlines are using their economic power to delay implementation of a good decision. Canadians with disabilities, who as a group are poorer than their nondisabled counterparts, should not have to repeatedly wage costly legal battles to protect the decisions of expert adjudication panels. Many individual Canadians with disabilities are left wondering– is the administrative law system for transportation broken?

CCD, Canada’s leading cross-disability human rights organization, has been proposing a legislative, rather than a litigious solution: the passage of access regulations by the Federal Government for all modes of transportation in federal jurisdiction. The United States has already taken this measure to ensure access for persons with disabilities. “Access to federally regulated transportation has been eroding for persons with disabilities,” said Pat Danforth, Chair of CCD’s Transportation Committee. “We call on all federal parties to commit to a fully accessible transportation system,” said Danforth.

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Press Release

For Immediate Release September 4, 2008

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October 2, 2008

African Journal #23: Tactile Love

Portland - Seattle - DC - NYC

Every day that passed, dusk til dawn, I often thought about those who I missed dearly. My father, my rebellious brother, my ailing mother. My devoted friends, friends who came and went, those who tactiled with me in the darkness. Strangers that passed by with a glance, those who cared enough to stop by and ask how I was doing. All of those presences were in America, either 5,000 or 8,000 miles away from where I was sitting, by the foot of the Sahara Desert. I longed for tactile, in the form of hugs, sign language or love. It was hard to come by, even as the people of Kebbi struggled to provide me even the tiniest bit. My intervenor, Marufat, only understood an inkling of how I desired full-on tactile in sign language, for she spelt everything she translated into my hands. I told her every day how I wished I could communicate so freely with someone who inhibited my first language: American Sign Language. There also was something I long desired: tactile in the form of true love. I thought I would find that in America. Sort of.

 

Admittedly, there was someone who kept on lingering in my mind. Every morning as I woke up, I would think of his touch, how he would wake me up. During the day, I remembered how he would go about his business, doing what he loved doing the most. In the evenings as I sat by the candlelight, I would look back at this American fellow and think about the incredible connection we both had. Eventually, in my dreams, it cast stories of how we would re-connect, once I got back to America. Some nights, I would opt to dream of those who I held dear, my family – or my friends who readily offered tactile love back in Seattle. But my dreams were occupied mostly of this guy, whom I can really confess to you, is the best crush I’ve ever had in my life.

 

So, when I bumped into him in the path of my American journey, my heart beat so irregularly, I thought perhaps I would pass out. There he was, as suave and charming, walking toward me. His hugs were like infinite for me, I thought I would stay there forever. His eyes twinkled happiness, his smile beamed excitement. There was the possibility, the tiniest, that I could meet ‘the one’. I saw him in a period of several days,  but with each day passing, nothing happened. My mind filled with more and more questions than answers, and as much as I wanted to shout out that I loved him, voices told me to wait. On the last day, it seemed, we would part to other avenues in our daily life: him to his career, mine to my adventures, I decided to tell him exactly how I felt.

 

To this day, we remain friends. He told me he loved me very much, but it wasn’t to the extent I had desired.  He was gentle, unlike the other men that had let me down so harshly. For the first time, I felt, that I could really move on so easily, because I understood where he stood, and how much he cared for me. For that instant moment my dreams of us together ended, a whole another started. No regrets. He gave me the most important lesson: forgive those who betrayed me; remember those who love me.

 

Onto my journey into the western shores of America I continued, in search of more and more tactile love. I found that when I landed in Portland, Oregon, in the arms of Zach Wineman. As you might recall, he was the interpreter that accompanied me to Africa, the tall, handsome blonde guy that reeked charisma. He was ecstatic to see me, and took me home – his home instead of ours in Kebbi – and nursed after my wounds. I was still healing from the surgery, feeling useless. While Zach was at work, I futilely attempted to do Yoga, my favorite activity, and it hurt so much. I missed being active, but let my body rest yet my mind running as if a mouse was doing the mill wildly. I met up with an acquaintance, Boots – not the rubber soles that everyone wears during rainy seasons in the Northwest – but an actual person named Boots. I met her during one of my wild nights out in Seattle on my birthday last January, and we clicked. Even if it was for an hour last time, we knew we wanted more time to connect – so here we were. She arranged my presentation to be held at a fab coffeehouse (oh, how Northwest), and 25 people showed up. Despite no air conditioning and everyone sweating it up, it was a success. The whole week went by in a blur, but forever thankful for the hospitality of Zach and Boots. One day, one day, Portland will experience the wrath of Coco.

 

Off it was to my favorite city in the whole world. I first set foot there in 2005, when Gallaudet sent me there for an internship at the Lighthouse for the Blind, Inc.. When I landed, I knew this would be the city I would call home. Not only would the 300+ Deaf Blind population win me over, it was the extraordinary scenery – the mountains by the far range, the ocean by my foot, and the smell of fresh pine and saltwater. I just knew. Oodles of tactile love followed my first and second days of touching base with my Seattle folks, they were excited to see their dear Coco back in their hometown. This had been what I had missed the most: being normal. Growing up Deaf but “blind” in the closet, I had never felt normal. Even as I never knew there was a large Deaf Blind community, I just knew that the Deaf community wasn’t entirely “me”. So indulging in days and days of beautiful tactile love really overwhelmed me, I kept reminding myself that this feeling was better than loneliness back in the desert. I gave two wonderful presentations to the community, then when I embarked onto the Seabeck Camp for the Deaf Blind, I provided two more entertaining presentations. When I set foot at Seabeck, a wonderful but intense feeling swept over me. I took all the wonderful scents of the mountains in my lungs, saw extraordinary sea life with my eyes, and placed my hand on hundreds of hands, sharing so much tactile love. I was “famous” by now, for my journal postings on the world wide web, and for my courage to survive the challenges of a Deaf Blind batura living in the remote desert of Nigeria. Many new faces, although their names familiar thoroughout the Deaf Blind world grapevine, vied to talk to me, touch my hand, proclaim that they’d talked to Coco. It was such a wonderful time getting to know the people that I’d touched throughout my writings, but it was immensely overwhelming. This year’s camp had recruited double the number of attendees due to its 30th anniversary, meaning I had very slim chance of sitting down with my oldest friends and letting out what I’d had experienced in Africa. A few tears and a lot of laughter ensued. I got to see Erin Griffin, the other half of my interpreting team, and all was well with her. She was going through big life changes, and in the small, precious moments we had together, I cherished her company. She had seen me through the most toughest challenge of my life, as Zach did.

 

Leaving Seattle for Washington, DC, was not what I wanted. I wanted to remain at “home”, but I knew what lay ahead. I had more presentations to give, more money to raise, and people to see. DC was somewhat a stroll down collegiate memory lane, but an reassurance that I had indeed graduated from Gallaudet. Old friends filled my available days, and during the nights I lay awake, thinking about the tactile love I’d had experienced throughout my journey in America. Never had I taken it for granted, but even more so I had cherished the availablility of communication. In Nigeria, I had to contend with a sign language that I had known when I was small but disliked, (Signed English Exact), communicating with hearing people on a daily basis through marker and paper proved to be an upscale challenge, and the lack of close friendships had made me more appreciative of what I had back “home”.

 

My trip in Washington, DC was extended because of hurricanes Hanna and Ike, but before I knew it, I was walking through the Helen Keller Center in Long Island, NY on my last days in America, my last chances to be fully toxicated with tactile love, then when I woke up, I was on a plane enroute to Frankurt, Germany. Then by next wink, I found myself snuggling on the most uncomfortable seat enroute to Abuja, Nigeria, West Africa.

 

My next chapter starts now. My work, my social life, my way of thinking. All start anew. I’m looking forward to it, especially when I know my heart lies with Africa, and less with that man I once thought would be the love of my life. I can finally move on, with new challenges, a community of Deaf people and VSO volunteers ready to welcome me into their arms. A new brand of tactile love. I can only hope that, this time, it will really be rewarding, and I can stick in it longer than I thought I could up in the desert. Working with people infected with HIV is a truly emotional avenue anyone could take, and I am humbly honored and surprised to take it on. With these people, regardless of their deadly, transferrable disease, I am ready for a whole new brand of tactile love.

 

Tactile love those who you hold dear, even those who inspire but instil fear in you. Fear is meant to teach you the lessons in which you learn how to love yourself, and those who embrace you in the most toughest of times.

 

Thank you everybody back home in America and Canada, for helping me raise $3,851.00, and for providing so much tactile love that I could stock up for the next one year and half as I remain in West Africa.

 

Tactile love,

Coco

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September 9, 2008

African Journal #22: The Hospital Room View of San Diego

September 8, 2008

San Diego

Where did the time go? It’s been such a blur, I’m sitting in an office of a home in Washington, DC, debating whether I should hit the sack at 11pm or do a journal. Long due.

My trip to San Diego via a new airline, Sun Country, was anything but pleasant. My head cold prevented me from breathing through my nose, the cabin was filled with icy, unnatural air and the airline was too cheap to provide warm blankets and pillows. But the economy today is hard, y’know, affecting airlines. Anyway, I was greeted by a stranger, a deaf surfette, Erin at the gate. She’s a good friend of a good friend of mine, so the trust was there. Erin took me to picturesque Pacific Beach for a sundown stroll, then we indulged in great introductory conversation at a sushi boat eatery. You cannot find yellowtail tuna, tofu, salmon, seaweed or sashimi in Nigeria, so it was a heavenly treat.
Come Wednesday, a hearty breakfast at Mission Bay Café, an afternoon basking in the sun on Pacific Beach while Erin and Matt surfed, and a night on the town summed up to be a great day. I wasn’t feeling so icky anymore so I was on the road to recovery.

Adam Stone and Erica Parker, friends from a few years back, picked me up and we were off to visit the legendary Del Mar horse races. Adam’s beautiful family home sat on a hilltop, a mere mile from the horse track – I was envious. It was in stark contrast to what I had lived in Nigeria, the southern Californian house equipped with linoleum flooring, bubbling hot tub adjacent to a pool and exquisite art hanging around the home. I hope Adam wouldn’t mind me spilling some of his home decoration secrets.

A hot but dry afternoon at the Del Mar track was interesting, seeing upper class folk in their pretty polka dot dresses and large brimmed hats, Gucci sunglasses, men in their gambling finest and straw fedoras. I hung by the fence, opting to look over the railing rather than bringing my monogrammed C.A,R. lawnchairs and my trusty Del Mar T-shirt. Tacky.

We were in the mood for some grub at a Thai restaurant in the hills. I had some satay with a Tom Yum soup and some great conversations in tactile with Adam and Erica. By the end of dinner, I was experiencing some sort of acid-like discomfort in my upper stomach. I started sweating, and told Adam to drive me home. They dropped me off at Erin’s apartment by 9pm, but she wasn’t home til late. After my dinner dates left, I laid on the couch, munching on Tums and hoping the acid reflux would go away. I had that several times, so laying down sometimes helped. But by 9:30pm, I started feeling queasy and ran to the bathroom. There went my breakfast, lunch and dinner in the toilet, that went on every 15 minutes. I continued throwing up until Erin got home at 2am and was shocked to find me looking so sick on the couch. She checked in on me, then had to sleep for work the next day. By 7am, Erin woke up to find me slumped in the bathroom, STILL throwing up. I had no solid food left in my system, so my liver bile was the only thing left. Erin encouraged me to go to the hospital, so off we went. I felt so weak, my legs trembling and I had to lean on railings, Erin and something solid for support. I felt like throwing up even more.

The emergency room at Scripps Mercy Hospital near North Park was the closest one Erin drove me to. The ER wasn’t packed, only two quiet people sat by while they waited for their call. I sat in the chair, looking for a garbage can to throw up in. Erin wrote down information, and interpreted environmental and written information. Erin has several Deaf Blind friends, so it was easier for her to be able to tune in on my needs to know what was around me, so she continually gave me clues to what was around me. That put me at ease. After I took some medicine, I stopped throwing up and was admitted as a patient. A male interpreter showed up, which I would call Joe, much to my surprise. I thought the hospital would get a woman interpreter. But I was too disoriented to complain. I underwent several tests: ultrasound, Cat Scan, urine and blood tests and a full physical. It was determined that I had several gallstones floating around and one got clogged in the hole between the gallbladder and the tube from the liver to the stomach. It was hard to believe that a gallbladder, which has very little use, could make me so sick with gallstones. One of the causes for the gallstone development was rapid weight loss. I had lost almost 70 pounds in a total of four months, which resulted in hard rocks forming. There actually is a downside to weight loss?!?

The doc gave me two options: I had to have surgery on Saturday, August 9th, remove my gallbladder via surgery, or take some medicine and the pain would go away… temporarily. It could come back with a vengeance in Nigeria… imagine this: small town clinic, seven hours away from the capital with better hospitals? Possibly a doctor that graduated from vet school. My overworking but cautious imagination led me to make the decision to opt for surgery in San Diego, not somewhere on the foot of the Sahara Desert.

But, oh horror! There was the presentation I had scheduled to give on Saturday afternoon at 3pm at De Anza Cove! A beautiful day on a beach, people sitting on the grass watching Coco tell stories of her life in Africa. Now that bubble has popped. I wanted that to happen, so after the doctor left, I told Adam, Erica, Erin and a new, cool friend, Cindi, that I wanted to change the location to the 6th floor of Scripps Mercy, the same day of my surgery, time pushed to 5pm. They all thought I was nuts. Indeedy! My work for VSO has made me a more passionate person, I would go to any lengths to ensure that a dream comes true. I dreamed of this moment in San Diego, and it was going to happen.

At 11am, I was prepped for the operation, with well wishes from Cindi and the hospital staff. Joe, the interp, returned in the morning and I immediately requested for an interpreter change. Joe accompanied me into the OR, and due to lack of warning, I passed out from the anesthesia.

I woke up from the 2 hour surgery, groggy from the meds, to find a new female interpreter and Cindi waiting for me. My torso (stomach area) felt so numb, yet sore. I could not move around. I felt like I was on Cloud Nine. Everythin seemed like it was a dream. Adam and Erica showed up in the afternoon, unsure if I would be well enough to give a 2 hour presentation. With eagerness and stubbornness, I told them it’s really going to go as planned. I prepared my vlogs for the audience to see, and I dressed myself in a beautiful printed Nigerian robe. My IV was hooked up, and morphine was dripping, keeping me afloat.

Five o’clock struck, and a steady stream of people showed up. Several of them were former Gallaudet colleagues, and some of them total strangers. Twelve people, two hours, three funny stories and $173.00 later, I completed Tactile Nigeria: San Diego with several business cards, satisfied and amazed people, and a big smile on my face. It was from the euphoria of doing a crazy thing, and it was mostly from the morphine.

I was released from Scripps Mercy on Sunday morning, from the hospital bed into Erin’s car. We headed to the drug store to get a fill of Hydrocodone and Oxycodone, as well as antibiotics. I could not believe how much pain I was in, from the four small incisions made on my torso. Four cuts for: 1) scissor, 2) clamp, 3) videocamera, and 4) to take the gallbladder out. The muscle area was sewn, while the top layer of my skin had surgical glue and tape on top.

In the evening, Erin helped me pack my bags for my trip to Portland, Oregon early Monday morning. I could not wait any longer or waste any time seeing the ubercool Zach Wineman – the terp guy that accompanied me to Nigeria back in March. His posse in Portland – Boots, Alisha – bonus.

I am more and more amazed at the courage I have. When people tell me that, I just nod humbly and ponder the measurement of courage in different people. I wake up everyday as an ordinary person, think about what I want to eat for breakfast and who I want to see. I don’t think often about the impact I make on others, nor the impact they make on me. I just tread in daily life as usual, but when I tell stories of survival like this, I sit back and say, whoa. There have been some people in my life that have easily given up when life gets tough, either choosing drugs or alcohol to wipe the realities away, or ending their lives. I know I have gone through so much in life, and I am thankful everyday for living, and for the people I have by my side. That goes for strangers like Erin, Cindi and the support system from the internets and afar.

I now look at my scars, remembering the journeys I made with each and every one of them. From head to toe.

The bed is calling me. I doubt I will be up with the sun, but I’ll be equally happy to get something like this out of my system. Until next time.

Tactile love,
Coco

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September 9, 2008

African Journal #21: Back In America

August 18, 2008
NYC, Ottawa, Vermont, NYC

It’s so nice to be back on the keyboards, at last. With a little more comfort this time. I’m about to unleash a bit of what’s been stored in my memory onto this, after three weeks on the road and away from the computer. Irony is, I am readily devoted to the computer with access to one often, but here in America, that’s nearly impossible.

The last time I really doted on a Mac Apple computer was in grade eight, in the age before internet. I was obsessed with Oregon Trail and typing pen pal letters to print, mail and send to kids around the world.
Then I turned to PC and indulged in fifteen years of PC lovin’. Since my laptop burned and crashed literally, out of service since May, I have gone on the road without my own personal laptop. I had borrowed laptops from my hosts, but three out of four had Mac laptops. Imagine the awkwardness of hitting Ctrl Apple in the wrong place and having sneaky windows swipe away from my sight. Frustration, indeed. Then my fourth host had a PC, I was thrilllllllled - meant catching up on uploading vlogs, writing blogs, and catching up on work. But as soon as I got to Zach’s in Portland, I was bummed to see that his PC had this weird ambidextrous keyboard, split n half. You know these weird things that help your wrists? That. I struggled with it for so long, it made doing emails daunting. So, the fifth host has a mac, but it seems to be a bit more manageable. Here I am, writing.

The past three weeks since July 23 has been what would be summed up as crazy, torrential, emotional, uplifting, fun and full of tactile love. You would not believe what’s happened to me - but I’ll try to sum it up :)

When I flew in New York City, I was hit with culture re-shock, the icky smell of smog and sewage, busy people around 34th and Penn in Manhattan and a dose of my first full-on tactile experience with Shane, a former colleague at Lighthouse, Inc, in Seattle, and a friend for life. He works as an interp at the Helen Keller Center and lives in the hood of Brooklyn. It was a good and bad visit, the latter with me being very sick with a head sinus cold. My body functioned just fine, but the difference in climate and environment was affecting my allergy reaction. I had a day’s visit at HKNC in Sands Point, NY, and needlessly to say, I was NOT impressed with the center - I had not gotten a tour, and they failed to arrange an important meeting in which I would have asked for them to sponsor a Nigerian student to come and be trained at the center. I had requested repeatedly, but the administrators didn’t pay any attention to it. I sincerely hope that the Center will be undergoing some serious, serious changes soon. Students’ futures are at risk there - that’s how much I can say for now.

I rested a while, ate some Jamaican roti, hung out with the Boys of B’klyn, and set off to Vermont on Sunday the 27th and was greeted by my best friend, Keri Ogrizovich. The pregnant sweetheart drove me home to Canada direct from the airport, and in two and half hours, I was reunited with my dad. It was wonderful to see him again, and put his worries at ease for a bit. I was standing in front of my house, intact and alive, so that really overjoyed my dad.

On Monday the 28th, I shopped, indulged in some spa therapy, and saw my mom. My mother is, sadly, a serious alcoholic. Her beauty and energy was robbed by the bottle when I was very young, and her mind is going, too. I had this urge to see her, immediately, and as soon as I saw my mom, it dawned on me that it would probably be the last time I’d see her. Jill’s fraility shocked me, her skin so gray and her signing had become incomprehensible. My mom and dad took sign language courses when I was young, and my mom was a better signer than my dad. But now, I had to rely on Keri, a certified Deaf Interpreter, to interpret for me in tactile. Mom said she had “bad blood” flowing in her veins, and she could barely walk. Mom broke her hip at 63 years old this past December, so she walks like a 90 year old.
It was a very emotional day for me, my mom and Keri. Mom gave me a picture taken when I was three, and asked me to keep it. I had lost most of my childhood pictures when my box went missing last February enroute to Nigeria. So Mom’s gift was something special. I told her I loved her very much and let the elevator door close between us, maybe for the last time.

Later that night, Keri and I went to the Perkins Restaurant to jumpstart my fundraising drive for Deaf Nigerians. I saw many old friends, and a lot of my family came. I gave a kick ass presentation, and held a silent auction. I raised $1,400 with the love and support from the Ottawa gang. I want to thank especially Christine Wilson for coordinating the interpreters, my family for coming and cheering me on, Darryl Hackett and Sarah Colbeck for hosting and moderating the event, VSO Canada for their support and presence, Eveline McNeil and family for their amazing love, and everyone for coming.

Keri and I went back to see Dad one last time, and I went through my boxes from childhood as Dad was moving away from the house as he’s sold it. I had another emotional time reliving my childhood, all good and bad parts. I found my mom’s beautiful opal diamond ring and the bracelet Dad bought her from his trip to Nigeria in 1973 to visit my aunt.

Keri and I set off for beautiful Vermont in her Subaru suv - the view is so gorgeous in Upper NY on the way to the mountains. Keri and Nick celebrated their son Lochlan’s third birthday surrounded by friends and family, with delicious salads, wine and burgers. Nice R and R.

I was still feeling horribly, sneezing so much mucus, and wasting so many kleenex and seeing the world through foggy glasses. It was off to San Diego, indeed. But first, I went to a barbeque hosted by a cool friend of HKNC’s and I met some cool Deaf Blind people. I sold my African Kebbi bags and raised $173.00 - thanks, NYC!

Then it was off to sunny San Diego on August 4th.. but that story deserves its own part, so this is to be continued………

tactile love, coco

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July 15, 2008

African Journal #20: The Passionate Worker

July 5, 2008

 

I have dreams. Everyone does. Mine is about traveling the globe; seeking adventure, uncovering mysteries, aiding the needy, and making a difference. It is a guarantee that I will leave my footprint in undiscovered countries until the day it leaves no more on earth. My path is often planned yet unknown, I make it a goal to travel and work but where I’d go is always a surprise. I find it more challenging and educational in the four corners of the world, rather than a four-walled classroom. It is my life’s work to provide the resources I’d been fortunate enough to gain from my education and employment. Some people let that rich knowledge and networking go to waste, I don’t. I find it a pleasure to be able to connect people to jump-start a dream; to build a library rich in materials that document dreams. Perhaps one day I could start a non-profit organization that does fundraising and resource sharing for Deaf and Deaf-Blind services, schools, organizations and groups around the globe? One thing is for sure – I dream of buying a house in Seattle by the water, calling it my own, traveling a few months per year when it’s cold. Marriage and children is still a BIG question mark. I long to love my work, and share that love with someone who would be my lifelong partner. One day, perhaps. But right now, doing volunteer work for VSO is one of many dreams I am living out right now.

 

People have asked me why I don’t write about my work, what I do at the school and for my organization. I try to find my muse, or excuse to write about my employment, but I can never find any. VSO placed me with an impoverished school that educate handicapped children, 250 of them Deaf students. It was in all of our intentions that I would survey the school on-site, write up a report on damages and areas of repair, and seek out funding from international charity outlets to renovate the school. I had experience doing damage assessment and proposal work for Gallaudet during my years serving as a chairwoman for a commission on disabilities. I also had intentions of providing workshops to teachers of the school to be more prepared to teach Deaf Blind students, whereas today there is no such group of students.

 

Unfortunate circumstances in the past 2 ½ months have prevented me from being successful in these goals, for many reasons. And I feel that by writing these reasons for thousands of people to write, makes me feel uncomfortable. I want you to understand that the situations that have occurred in the past months have not been pleasant, it has prevented me from doing my work. I feel that I cannot place blame on anyone in public, out of respect for their reputation and privacy.

 

VSO has been an incredible source of support throughout all of this wahala. They have constantly communicated with me via cellphone texts and emails. VSO volunteers have banded together and came to cheer me up in the beginning of June, in midst of all the wahala. Even more so, VSO has made sure that my needs were accommodated for: they covered the costs of internet and the purchase of a generator. They are currently in the process of seeking out a new placement for me, more closer to the capital city, other volunteers, large Deaf communities and more opportunities to make an impact on a national scale. Currently, I’m only able to make an impact on a local scale. VSO feels that my energy, resources, experience and networking could benefit even more Deaf Nigerians nationally rather than spending 2 years focusing on one school.

 

Once I move South, I’ll be working with several organizations: one will be my employer; several others will be my pet projects on my spare time.

 

To this day, I have only met one Deaf-Blind person. Hassan and I don’t really communicate well. However, I am working hard to find a school in the States or Canada that would take him in for a six-week training period with an Nigerian intervenor. It’s proven to be a costly venture, costing around $20,000 USD for both. It has not been an easy search, going through three centers and one charity organization and not receiving much good news. I am still determined to have Hassan fly over to receive training that will empower him to be more independent like I am. He deserves to feel more free.

 

I hope that in the next year, I will meet more Deaf-Blind people, but it will not be easy. They are scattered, well-hidden in homes by parents who think they cannot survive out there in the big, bad world. So, it won’t be a speedy success, it will take me some time to reach the Deaf-Blind population of Nigeria.

 

So, right now, it is a goal to travel the States to raise awareness about several Deaf organizations in Nigeria and raising funds to sponsor them. I have had bags and clothes made by girls at my school and the women at the Birnin Kebbi Women and Children’s Shelter. The profits will be divided up among Deaf organizations to prosper, and the children at the school to receive toys, and the women of the shelter to afford diapers and bottles for their children. The women have HIV, or have been abandoned by their husbands.

 

It brings tears in my eyes every time I make a child laugh, or a woman grateful for my empowerment. It brings pride in me when I tell Deaf people of my own Deafhood, and making them realize that they have their own Deafhood, too. It’s so hard to imagine myself cooped up in an office space, doing dull work while I could be out there, rolling up my sleeves and putting that education to good use.

 

So, you have a glimpse of my work here in Nigeria. I hope soon upon my return in Nigeria this September, I will finally have found a muse and an excuse to write details of an successful placement.

 

I wonder if you are happy where you work, or do you feel stuck? If you feel stuck and bored, you’re largely to blame. You’re in control of your destiny. You are able to choose a job that you love most, that brings you passion. People should love their work, rather than work themselves to death. Every one of you has a gift, use it to empower others.

 

Tactile love,

Coco

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