The first time I went to Guinee I found myself in a group of a women, preparing a meal in the outdoor kitchen. We were across the dirt road from the main house, sitting outside a half- built, cement construction. French was still mostly a foreign language and the women's Soussou pure magic.
Someone handed me a woven sieve filled with rice. She picked out a stone and ceremoniously tossed it on the ground. The meaning was clear. They left me alone with my job and busied themselves with the numerous other components of preparing dinner for the troupe.
I sat there, basking in their small talk, suspecting the mundane but reveling in a sense of secrets and knowledge being passed around. I shook the rice back and forth and every so often gave it an experimental toss. I did't see anything that looked out of place.
I had no idea what I was doing, but I did it with all of my being. I smiled and occasionally threw out a grain, committed to cleaning rice. Or at least appearing to.
It's a moment that's been coming back to me recently. That feeling of wanting to be useful, wanting to fit in and belong, of having a pass of sorts based on my outer appearance (men weren't cleaning rice, nor were they expected or invited to) but despite best intentions, I am overcome with feeling slightly lost, unsure of my direction or my purpose. What I know is that with all of my being, I am cleaning rice.
