Some of you will recognize this photo. I’m just trying to re-emphasize the fact that I have to do things my way.

I might not be the best naval officer in the world, but I always make it a point to keep my eyes open and mouth shut for the first couple of months after reporting to a new command.  Only after I feel reasonably confident in my evaluation of things do I release the mute button from the seemingly-endless snarky commentary that flows from my mouth. I’m not saying that I am proud of this. Exactly.

So guess what people? 

Today marks exactly six months since I have been in Dakar. I don’t think it’s a coincidence, but it would appear that I have trashed the Quiet-and-Impressively-Tolerant-of-Meaningless-Bullshit-Megan persona and have instead reclaimed my appointed station as a Masshole.

I blame it on my four weeks of vacation.

 Check it out: I’m white, and no one cares.

I can only speak for myself, but I think it’s necessary for a toubab like me to get out of West Africa every couple of months in order to ensure that my concept of normalcy remains calibrated. 

When I was first exposed to the embassy bubble, I remarked that certain aspects of living could be taken from the pages of Lord of the Flies. Call me Master of the Obvious, but Americans living abroad are not in our natural element, and we aren’t going to act exactly normal. I for one can tell you that I’ve spent the past several months feeling the very opposite of normal; I largely only got through the days by accepting my daily dose of bewilderment and chalking it up as cultural enrichment.

That kind of thinking was from the silver lining “observation” period. After six months, I now feel sufficiently broken-in to start talking.

I have no new photos to show you. So you are getting photos of my socks that other people have taken. You’re welcome.

If you read about my love-fest with Western Europe, you know that I was tremendously excited to be back in a place that was like home to me (and no, this goes way beyond the color thing). In Europe I could revert to my usual rhythm of life, and for the first time in months I felt like I didn’t need to change my comportment in the slightest. Vacation furnished a reference point that reassured me that I am still the same old Megan, only right now I am just Megan who needs to figure out how to make her personality coalesce with life in Senegal.

So I am back in Dakar now, and already I find that I have less restraint in inserting my own commentary in subjects that are still a little alien or unfamiliar. That’s okay, it’s all a part of the adjustment period. Don’t get me wrong, I still really enjoy living here. It’s just that at this stage I think I’ve earned the right to open my mouth and refuse to stand for things that kind of make me uncomfortable, simply  because I must be “open” to new experiences. I’m 32 years old. I’m going to go with what my internal barometer is reporting and act accordingly.

Heck, I’m already doing it. Wouldn’t you know that this morning I ran to work wearing leggings that exposed my knees?  Who knows what the next six months will bring.