My dad has recently become the proud grandfather to his second grandchild, Bach Franklin McGehee (congrats Bo and Jess!). He was feeling pretty lucky last week: two healthy, beautiful grandchildren living so close to him. He felt so lucky, in fact, that he planned a quick trip to Vegas.
Dad’s on top of the world right now, living the American dream. To bring him back down to Earth, though, I’ve got to rag on him a little. I'd stopped blogging to focus on my Public Health Analysis for school, but I've decided to bring it back to remind my Dad that he recently broke away from his American dream and lived through 10 days of his African nightmare (OK, not really a nightmare...maybe more like one of those creepy lucid nap-dreams we all have):
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“There’s so much...blackness here.” These words were James A. McGehee, Jr.’s first reflections upon entering Bamako, Mali. He was looking out of the window during the car ride to the hotel when he let this one slip. It was the perfect reaction from Mr. Mashed Potatoes and Gravy himself, fresh off of the airplane, taking in West Africa. I wasn’t exactly sure if he was commenting on the lack of street lights around the city, making it complete darkness at this hour of 10PM, or if he was commenting on the general tint of the population. Either way, I just left the statement in the blackness, and couldn’t wait to see how Big Jim would fare in his first role as a minority.
Once we’d gotten settled into the hotel, after whipping out that unforgettable new quote, I asked my dad if, after two days of traveling, he could handle going out to hear some music. At that point he pulled out one of his old quotes, an ancient Jimism: “This ain’t no dress rehearsal.”
Ever since he’d hit the ripe age of 50, my dad’s been using this quote like white wine to get my mom out to the hundreds of activities he has impossible amounts of energy to do: movies, concerts, UL football games, and those last minute exhausting trips to Las Vegas (OK, my mom doesn’t need THAT much convincing to go to Vegas). He uses it to convince friends and acquaintances to take those intimidating investment risks in business or race horses. He uses it as his reasoning for designing something like an underground movie theater in his Louisiana backyard. Now he was rightfully using it to let his daughter know he could handle a little more Mali before going to sleep that night.
I took him to Savannah, an expatriot favorite where we could listen to some local music and I could ease father into his new surroundings, by being surrounded by at least a few more white folk. While I tried to minimize his ethnic minority, I forgot about his debilitating anglophone/English-speaking minority. But even after 2 days on a cramped airplane, Big Jim was taking it all in stride, saying “merci” any chance he could (even though it did sound like more of a George W. Bush “mercy”). Plus, I was able to perk him up when I explained that “frites,” the French word for French fries, were available on the menu.
Unfortunately, due to the rain -- the all-encompassing excuse for everything that goes wrong in Mali -- there was no live music. In an effort to keep the night a positive experience, after dinner Dad suggested we take a short walk around the area so as not to waste our 20 minute taxi ride over to this side of town. A few paces later, though, he was regretting his decision; we had run into one too many open sewers. There was no escaping their omnipresence. I, myself, tried to use the rain excuse, “you only notice them after the rain!” but he had to get away from the black, gruesome canals closing in on him.
“Taxi!”
Dad was right, life certainly wasn’t a dress rehearsal. At that moment, though, I'd wished there could have been some kind of rehearsing to prepare my dad for the sights -- and smells -- he was to encounter here in Africa.
In Jim McGehee’s big performance of life, end Act: Mali, Scene I.
It's true, ladies and gentleman: herein captured is Jim McGehee sleeping under a mosquito net.
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