I lived in a funeral home when I was three years old.

My dad was a funeral director my whole life (like My Girl). When I was born he decided to go to college in Cincinnati. After he graduated from the Cincinnati College of Mortuary Science, he got an opportunity to work at a funeral home in Whitehall called the Hill House. From my memory of it, it was a huge mansion with grand marble columns and a fancy gold door. In reality, it was a crummy funeral home with chipping white paint. Anyways, as part of his job offer he could move his whole family into the living quarters that were attached to the funeral home with no rent, however he was dedicated to 24/7 on-call status. 

As you can imagine, this was very hard on him. Any time the phone rang he would have to work. This made life very tough on him and on us as well. My three year old self and my six year old sister were not allowed to laugh or play. At all times we were hushed and warned about getting dad in trouble. 

The only thing separating the living quarters we stayed in and the funeral home was a wall. I remember my mom doing the laundry in a small laundry closet and through a simple door was the stuffy funeral parlor with the casket displays. The acoustics were terrible and any noise that was made in the living quarters we stayed in could be heard in the quiet somber funeral service going on next door. 

I remember my sister and I getting very creative with how to play quietly. One day my mom was coming down with the flu and was taking a nap on the couch. She kept telling us girls how cold she was so we decided it would be a good use of our play time to also be helpful. We quietly emptied every soft thing from every closet: every linen, every towel, every blanket, every coat, and every stuffed animal. We carried them one by one and placed each item on top of our sleeping mom. Finally, when we had made a giant warm mountain on top of her we decided the last step would be to climb the mountain and sit on top. That’s just what we did and then our mom woke up and looked up to see all the mess we had made and ordered us quietly to put everything back. I think about my mom and her life and how many times she stifled her voice. How many times she needed to yell but couldn’t or wouldn’t. That was a tangent, but you get the idea. 

Another distinct memory I have from living in that funeral home is forming a real belief that I would never be able to read. My sister was older than me and would come home from school with books that she could read. During our quiet play time with books and puzzles, I remember holding a book upside down looking at the words in amazement. I can somehow remember the moment I created the belief and subscribed to it: I will never know how to read. It all looked too hard. It felt so impossible and far away from me. I looked at my sister in awe at the magic of her being able to read (she was always good at everything) and just accepted my fate. 

Of course I then went on to kindergarten and elementary school and I learned how to read at a completely normal level. I did learn how to read. It just happened and I didn’t even realize that it was happening. I caught on and the once completely overwhelming thing became common language and second nature. 

That is kind of how I am feeling about learning Mandinka. I am struggling with the same three-year old belief at almost thirty years old: I will never speak Mandinka. It looks too hard and it feels so far away from me. I look at the people in my cohort in awe at the magic of them being able to speak so well. 

I am praying that i will catch on soon and that what feels so overwhelming to me right now will become second nature. 

In the meantime, I feel like screaming.