In-between
I have never been present for a birth before. I have seen them on T.V., I have read about them in books, but I have no memories to claim for my own. After all, our own birth does not count. Walking through the hospital in Ghana, I see birth all around me. More than that, I feel birth. The woman with the extended pregnant stomach walking around. The man with his head in his hands sitting down. Waiting, perhaps? I wonder if this is his first birth, as well. He sits and waits. I stand and watch.
I am standing in a hospital. I have only been in the hospital awaiting for the news of death, never birth. For a minute I wonder if I am going to hear the screams of new life. But I don't. Silence—the overwhelming sound of nothing. The lady is talking about midwives, and I find myself wondering how many births she has seen. Too many to count? Or does she remember them all?
I walk into a room filled with women on the verge of giving birth. I wonder if this is the day where I will experience my first birth—the first breath of new life. I worry that I am not supposed to be here, this is not my place. I have yet to know the pains of giving birth and the love for a child. I worry that my eyes will wander too much, that my smile will not seem genuine, that the women will despise my presence. I turn my foot, my head follows, and I am ready to leave. My eyes glance at the room one more time, and in the corner there is a woman who is awake. Her eyes wander to me, her smile is genuine, and she does not seem to mind my presence. I smile in return. Genuine.
We walk further into the hospital, and I pass the man who is waiting. Has he held his child, or is he waiting for his child? There is a backpack in front of him…has he been here long? I walk past him and stand still. Nobody is moving, but I hear Angelina say that there is a woman in the room next door who is in fetal distress. Is this the mans wife? We continue to walk, and through the window I see a woman in pain—a pain of which I know nothing about. This reminds me that with the beauty of life comes the pain of giving life.
I see people in front of me turn to go into another room. I worry about feeling out of place again, and as I enter the room, I see women. I am told that these women have just given birth. Some of them are sitting up. I see one nursing a baby. Angelina picks up a newborn baby and places it into the arms of the person standing next to me. Birth. New life. I glance down at the baby, the angle is awkward and I can only see the forehead and fluttering eyelashes. A newborn baby. I blink and find that my eyes are watering. Never before have I been so close to a new life. I feel the beauty of birth—this baby who is in a strangers arms, and is unaware of the past and future.
Life is beautiful.
Life is ugly.
I arrive at Cape Coast Castle, and the first thing that strikes me is how impervious nature can be to human suffering. Blue water crashes onto the sand, there is a soft hot breeze, and I am struck by the contrast of the beauty of this place compared with the surrounding town. It is beautiful, but there is no beauty here. I walk through the entrance, pay my camera fee, and our tour begins.
Twenty of us walk into a room where two hundred people used to stand. The first thing I notice is the smell. Centuries and generations have passed, but I can still smell the indescribable scent of pain and humiliation and defecation. Someone says that it smells like their gerbils cage, and while I want to laugh, I am struck by how accurate that is and how sad it is that it is accurate.
The heat, I notice the heat. I feel tired, I am sweaty, and our tour guide leads us into the Female Slave Dungeon. The last person walks through, the door is shut, and we are in the darkness. I can still smell it—that smell. The ugly one that I want to forget but know I never will. I stand there, in the dark, and for a second I am scared. I know that this darkness will end in thirty seconds, but I am still scared. I wonder how the other people dealt with their fear, knowing that the darkness would not end anytime soon, and when it did, the light of the sun would not bring promises of a better future. I am not scared of the dark, but I am scared of this darkness. The door opens, light streams in, and within minutes the beating heat of the sun makes me wish for shade, but not darkness.
We walk down the hill, duck our heads as we pass through a door, and then we are in darkness again. There is a door in front of me. The door of no return. I step closer, and my foot is on the threshold. I lean in closer, past the point of no return for people standing here in the past, but I am able to return. I rejoin the group and we walk away. We were able to walk away.
I walk all the way back to the entrance, past the kids selling water and the men with the bracelets. I walk all the way back to our bus, I take a step in and feel cold air. And just like that I am far from darkness and heat. I am far from birth and away from death.
In-between
I am twenty years old. Never before have I been so close to birth. Never before have I been so close to death. The gift of life, the curse of death, and the ability to feel both without experiencing either. Two polar experiences, but together they meet in the middle—where I am, where I usually can be found, far from a Ghanaian maternity ward and slave dungeon.
The almost tears from seeing a newborn baby, the sweat rolling into my eyes as I enter the slave dungeon—both are forever a part of me, a piece of my identification and what I am able to identify with from now on.
I email my mom about my experiences. She says that it was a gift to experience all stages of life in such an intimate way. I think about this. I am still thinking about this. Humanity is able to bring new souls into this world, but humanity also has the capacity to destroy human souls. Humanity is in-between. I am in-between.
