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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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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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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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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