Author Angel Ackerman

Little Girl Feet

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The travels have commenced. I’m successfully boarded on Amtrak’s 6:55 a.m. train, the Northeast Regional, my regular hook-up between Philadelphia and Washington, D.C.

  
My day started early, with a random phone call for the second night in a row from Pakistan. Don’t ask me who it was, I didn’t answer. Normally I don’t take my phone into my bedroom but I thought it easier to use it for an alarm rather than change the real clock. Even though I had the ringer silenced, the vibrating phone woke me at 1 a.m.

And because I am traveling today I had trouble getting back to sleep. Part of it may have been the cats hogging the bed.

At 4:11, I got up. Husband got in the shower. I went down for a glass of juice. I hear movement upstairs and sure enough, my eleven-year-old comes down the stairs.

To tell you the truth, I was happy to see her. I hate the idea of leaving those I love without a final round of hugs and kisses.

We left the house at 4:30 so we could stop at Wawa for coffee. Child was thrilled to get a hot chocolate. I was disappointed they hadn’t started making egg sandwiches yet.

We arrived at Gayle’s house. Gayle drove me to Philly, as I laughed at her stories of errant students and she laughed at my tale of my daughter helping me pack and her reaction to my many styles of underwear.

And now, after 20 minutes at the gate next to the business class dude who couldn’t stop talking for 30 seconds (“My father fought in WWII and was recalled for Korea.” “Did you know Jersey Mikes has hundreds of locations?”), I am on the train with a 20-something girl silently listening to her headphones.

Departure tomorrow

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 Everyone has a travel routine. Mine typically involves packing, unpacking and repacking my suitcase every day for a week. 

My week has been hectic: my retail life still discombobulated from Christmas, family life still scattered due to a health emergency over the weekend, home repairs, refinancing the house and catching up with college friends home for the holidays (and building some new relationships, too).

So I just finished packing now. Packing the first time, not the unpacking and repacking part. My train leaves in about 16 hours.

The only thing I have left is to pack my laptop, my phone and my Fitbit charger.

Some people think it’s crazy that I’m going to Mogadishu. 

Some people think it sounds like a great adventure.

Many are concerned for my safety.

  

Leaving this week… for Paris, Djibouti and Somalia

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Americans don’t usually travel to Djibouti or Somalia. The last time we went, the airline check-in agent said people don’t usually board planes for the Horn of Africa unless they have a crew cut and camo pants.

I am almost ready for my upcoming trip to East Africa.

Today there was a suicide bombing in a restaurant near the presidential palace in Mogadishu.

I leave for Mogadishu soon.

Exciting times.

People don’t understand my fascination with East Africa. And I must admit I am somewhat trepidatious to visit Mogadishu, but it’s something I want. I believe it’s a special place and significant in the political landscape. I believe that to understand the impact of French colonization on the Horn of Africa, it’s important to understand the non-colonized regions of the Horn.

Djibouti is a traditional crossroads, ethically comprised of Issa Somali and Afar in addition to many other people, from Arab to European descent. So I’m curious to see how Somalia compares to Djibouti.

Maybe it’s crazy, but I am very excited to visit Djibouti for the second time and Somalia for the first.

‘This Paris’ in StepAway Magazine

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It thrills me to share with you my first official creative byline, a milestone despite my fifteen years as a professional print journalist.

My friend Nancy and I were reviewing markets in September when we discovered StepAway, an online literary journal honoring flâneur style poetry. I submitted what I call “my Paris poem,” which captures a walk through multi-cultural, post-colonial influenced Paris. The poem comes from my return to Paris, fifteen years after I first met her.

We had both changed.

I see Paris as a bewitching, urine-stained whore and the details in the poem are real. They had put us in our room before housekeeping cleaned it. They did have 85 pink and brown stairs. We were sandwiched between Gare de Nord and Gare de l’Est.

The man in dreadlocks really existed. And my tears were also real.

I will find myself in Paris again Jan. 8, on my way to East Africa (Djibouti and Somalia). It’s a common stop-over for me now, but in 2010 I wasn’t sure I would ever see Paris again.

When I submitted the poem in late September, I didn’t know what would happen November 13. I think my poem speaks to inclusion, and if I wrote it now perhaps Paris herself would cry and the man in dreads would soothe her. 

The editor’s note in StepAway offers a great sentiment and lead in to my poem:

StepAway Letter From Editor

And my poem itself:

This Paris in StepAway

Some of my Paris photos:

Angel’s Paris photos

Holiday Upheaval

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The events of the last few months have rendered my life unrecognizable, even to me.I have a suspicion that 2016 may come together in ways I never imagined or be the year that leaves me bankrupt, homeless and destitute in more ways than one.

So far I’m leaning toward and working for the former, but the worrier in me can’t help but fear the latter.

Between my broken ankle and the medical bills I incurred (who knew physical therapy was THAT expensive?) and the fact that I paid for graduate school, car repairs and a euphonium on my American Express, I was forced to ponder refinancing the house. The appraiser comes Sunday, but, again, I’m nervous because the appraisers are never generous in my experience. Last time I did this, they wanted to loan me exactly what I need now. So we’ll see. This new mortgage would shorten the length of our current loan, pay off the car and the American Express AND not add to the cost of our monthly payments.

With this and winter and travel looming, I have decided to defer enrollment at West Chester until next semester. I won’t have to commute in the snow. I can get my finances in order and proceed responsibly and not worry about classes interfering with my travel schedule.

Speaking of travel: January 7 I leave for France; I believe it’s January 8 I leave for Djibouti and January 12 I arrive in Mogadishu. Plus a trip to Lebanon may be in the works for spring.

I’m also working on some book reviews in some World War II era memoirs for Hippocampus.

Now the good news…

My poem “This Paris” has been accepted by StepAway magazine. I don’t consider myself a poet, so it’s a tad funny that I’ve placed a poem.

I believe I got an A in my grad school history class and my professor would like to see me continue some of my work, specifically on the Horn of Africa. That’s the topic, not that she wants me to go far, far away.

Publication and acceptance

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I got an email earlier this week that I was accepted into West Chester’s MA program in history.

Today I received an email with information on how to get temporary access to the article on poverty inDjibouti I co-authored with Annette Varcoe for the Sage Encyclopedia on World Poverty, volume 2.

And my husband and I are finally going to see the new James Bond movie Monday.

This post is short, but full of fun news.

A Lesson from EZ Pass

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I spend too much of my life stressing over details in my life that really don’t require that much thought. Thanks to EZ Pass and my American Express this might be changing. 
I started grad school as a whim. Not something normal people do, but I’ve never done anything in the ordinary fashion. The tuition went on my American Express (no interest until August 2016), along with my prepay heating oil bill for the winter.

When I first started driving to West Chester every week, I gathered a stack of singles and fives to keep in my console in the car. Toll money. There are two fairly equally ways to travel the turnpike to West Chester. One involves Route 22 and straight down, the other uses Route 78 and the back roads to hook up with the turnpike in Quakertown.

The back road method eliminates a dollar or so in tolls.

And I’m cheap.

I ordered an EZ Pass and I noticed something when it came. I didn’t care so much about that extra buck. I usually drive to West Chester on the cheaper way, but on the way home I never feel like weaving around in the dark. So I don’t.

And I refuse to stress over saving or spending a dollar. 

I’ve noticed on my EZ Pass bill that it really doesn’t force my account to recharge any sooner than if I stick to my stingy back way.

Maybe I’m mellowing in my old age.

I freaked out the first time I used the EZ Pass. What if it didn’t work? I made my husband use the ticket and EZ Pass lane just to be sure.

And that stack of $30 in small bills in my car? It’s down to $5. Most of it reallocated to the child’s lunch money. 

But it took a month before I was willing to touch it.

State Parks Weekend with the Liberty Bell Wanderers

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I have had a great month in October. My boot is off. I had a fantastic ortho who released me from his care on Wednesday (Thanks, Dr. Sacco.) I also have a team of physical therapists who have taught me so much in the four short weeks we’ve been together. (And I will probably have my final session with them on Monday.)

This weekend my family and I joined the Liberty Bell Wanderers in Willow Grove where we will visit four state parks. Today we walked 10 miles on trails and more around town.

We arrived at the hotel where most of the group was staying at 8 a.m. We were on the road fairly early for our first stop: a 10K walk through Fort Washington State Park. By about mile 4.5 my ankle had that mild soreness, but we came upon a playground so the swings, monkey bars and, no lie, FOUR WAY SEE-SAW soon made me forget a twinge of discomfort.

Oh! And we saw hawks swirling around at the Hawk Observation Deck.

Lunch was at Feliz Cantina. There we experienced a true culinary miracle: gaucamole with candied pecans, bacon and blue cheese. And I tried fish tacos. And I liked them!

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We went back to the hotel where we moved from (my friend and fellow walker) Gayle’s room to our room. She’s staying with us tonight. After a very brief respite, we headed out to Tyler State Park which reminded me of our local park, Jacobsburg.

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We only attempted a 5K, and to keep child happy we let her take photos of people’s dogs. I’ll have to do a count and perhaps a gallery of her dog photos.

Once again we found ourselves at the Hampton Inn in Willow Grove where child immediately hopped in the shower. I had brought cake pops from Starbucks, microwave popcorn and board games in my suitcase. Gayle and I went out for beverages (found a 7-eleven a half mile away) and somehow ended up with a pizza. On foot.

We had pizza, cake and chocolate milk and played Ticket to Ride (the board game). Child crawled in bed without a fight at 7:45.

Anticipating adieu to the boot

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Today, I head to my orthopedic specialist for an evaluation of my ankle. I have no pain. I have taken a few steps without my boot here and there to test the foot. I now shower standing on my foot. I have mastered getting in and out of the boot. I have even modified my weight training routine so I can lift in the boot.  

But nothing beats the anticipation of thinking I might be free of my boot today. 

First though, I have to survive a trip to the dentist. This never used to be an issue, the dentist. I have good strong teeth. Four and a half years ago I had a fall, and my top teeth smashed my bottom teeth. Or vice versa. So, frequently, every trip to the dentist reveals new damage that the impact has caused over time. Cracks in my teeth enamel, which, thanks to high fluoride toothpaste are “healing.” You won’t find my in the fluoride hating camp any time soon because I have x-rays that show how my damaged teeth have improved. 

Health scares like the teeth, the boot, and the other crazy things that have happened to be in the last five years serve as a great reminder— warning I am about to embark into cliché land here—of making sure you live your life the way you want to live it. I reflect a lot during these injuries. And I really do believe that fatalists have a point: Whatever will happen is going to happen, we can’t stop it. That’s not to say you don’t have to move yourself to the place you need to be. That merely means that whatever you fear or expect usually doesn’t happen where or how you think it will.

Like the ankle.

I broke it walking near my house. I wanted a salad and there’s a restaurant a little more than a mile a way that has the biggest salads I have every seen. Earlier that day I had moved all the furniture out of my living room by myself. I went to the gym for a fitness orientation and body fat evaluation where I learned my body fat was 21.8% and I was in excellent condition. And the woman who performed the evaluation for me helped me set new weight increments and design a new routine for my winter goals. And I came home and broke my ankle.

  
I didn’t do it roller skating (which I did the week before). Roller skating certainly provides a challenge for my legs and their unwillingness to cooperate with my brain thanks to cerebral palsy. I did three laps around the skating rink. I also didn’t break my ankle at the trampoline park where I celebrated my 40th birthday a couple months prior. My friend got stuck in the foam pit though, that was funny. But no one broke anything.

I broke my ankle walking. 

I have traveled to, among other places, Tunisia, Yemen, Djibouti, and Russia. And I seriously hope to visit Somalia. Soon. 

Because I broke my ankle trying to procure a salad. I mean, really, do you think the idea of pirates scares me? I work retail. The idea of some lunatic opening fire in the front end of our store strikes me as a more likely event than the prospect of a kidnapping.