Browsing Archive: October, 2010

For African Girls Who Considered White When Black is Enuf

Posted by Heather Faison on Friday, October 22, 2010,

Agnus hid her face in the flaps of her faded blue collar when I reached to take a picture.

“No,” she protested. “I don't look pretty.” She continued thumbing through the pages of Glamour Magazine.

My 13-year-old neighbor, with sheepish eyes and an unassuming smile, paused at a cosmetics ad. She traced her index finger down the highlights of the blonde-haired model. I never so desperately wanted a copy of Ebony. Essence. Uptown. Anything to counter the penetrated message that beauty is...

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Three words: Black. Sand. Beach.

Posted by Heather Faison on Wednesday, October 20, 2010,


Before coming to Cameroon, I pictured this place in my head. Black sand. Ocean. American food. I was in!

Limbe Beach is a tiny resort area just outside of Buea. After hitching a ride with Mr. Bibum, the founder of the deaf school where I volunteer part-time, and his wife Margaret, my roommate and I grabbed some breakfast (omelettes and bacon!) at a restaurant inside the wildlife reserve.

Mr. Bibum and his wife joined us and told the story of how they met a university in the UK, where Margare...

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My New West African Home

Posted by Heather Faison on Tuesday, October 19, 2010,
No, I don't live in a hut. My floors are not made of mud and I don't live anywhere near lions, tigers or bears.

In Cameroon, my apartment has running water, indoor plumbing and I have a room I don't share with five other people. BCS (By Cameroonian Standards. I'll be using this acronym a lot) I am very well off.

By American standards, there were things I had to get used to: Freezing cold shower water, daily power outages, bed bugs (and every other kind of creepy, crawling creature), taking buck...
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Hearing between the signs

Posted by Heather Faison on Thursday, October 14, 2010,

He made a cross with his fingers and pointed it toward me. I furrowed my brow.

If a kid walked up to me like this in America, I would have forked over my wallet, because surely, he was throwing up a gang sign. But this isn't South Central. It's the Buea School for the Deaf and this boy only wanted conversation.

“What is your name?” he asked in sign language.

I twisted my fingers rather clumsy to spell what I hoped translated to Heather. He shook his head and smiled.

It is the end of the ...

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A Blessing in Cameroon

Posted by Erin Wildermuth on Thursday, October 7, 2010,