The Picture of Dorian Gray

I recently celebrated my 24^th birthday, and my third one in Africa. As we celebrated at the beach throughout the weekend, life and maturation and aging passed through my wandering thoughts. I spent the weekend in Angoche, where there are four other volunteers, and a couple friends made the trek to celebrate with me. We spent the days adventuring and sitting on the back deck of their apartment having drinks, swapping stories, and looking out onto the town and the Indian Ocean.

I stopped to think about this past year, the adventures I’ve had, the troubles, and the general distance I’ve come. Part of me feels I am no older (in any way) from a year before, which makes me want to search for a painting of myself stashed in someone’s attic.

But another part of me wonders how I could possibly be any different from a year ago. One year ago, Mozambique was still a vacation. I was three weeks into training without a care in the world, with a twinkle still in my eye and a spring in my step. I was still full visions of revolutionizing science class for my students.

If I pause to look at the difference in my attitude towards school now, I can’t imagine what that portrait in the attic might behold for me. Those eyes don’t sparkle with naiveté, but rather show the dull shine of a volunteer frustrated with a broken education system. I make a difference at school. I know this. But in training everyone believes one’s name will be sung unto the heavens. I have a song, but the tune mingles with the groans of my students as I walk into class on test day.

The sprightly, high-stepping youthfulness in the portrait has morphed as well. Instead, a slow, slogging trudge has replaced it, evincing the drain from the blistering sun.

And the smile… the smile that once showed optimism that integration into a completely foreign community was possible now has curved upward sardonically to reveal the cynicism of living a year labeled as “the white person” to the masses, not bothering to call me by my name.

Fortunately, this portrait doesn’t exist. If it did, I would set fire to it.