Seashells and amoebas

Claire Lea, center, in Guinea

Claire Lea, Guinea, 2002-2004

By Kristen Hare

  In the space between Guinea and Missouri stretched nine years, three moves, one Master’s degree, several jobs and a wedding.

  On her latest adventure, Claire Lea found herself, again, in a wholly new and unexpected place.

  It took all her energy, often left her exhausted, excited, maybe a bit scared. And it got her thinking about Guinea. 

  Specifically, the muumuus. 

  So one day, Claire headed down the wooden steps of her basement and dug until she found an old box from her Peace Corps Days. Inside, she found something she’d nearly forgotten.

  If that was even possible.

  She reached in and pulled out the soft cotton night gown -- a parting gift from the young woman in her host family in Guinea. Made of yellow cotton, it had maroon spots. Crocheted maroon spots. They were everywhere.

  It was horrible, she thought then. All the dresses in Guinea were horrible.

  In the village of Baniam, near the border of Sierra Leone, Claire hunkered down to life in a mud hut, to learning French, and to teaching, with determination. She’d lived in Spain for a year and was fluent in Spanish before joining the Peace Corps. She was laid back, accepting and adapting well to most everything in Baniam. 

  Except for the clothes.

  She coudln’t stand the local clothes. 

  They were big and bright, a mosh pit of clashing colors and patterns that shocked her a bit every time she saw them. Yes, she’d adapt and adjust, but she wanted, still, to be Claire, even in a small way. 

  Finally, though, resisting was harder than blending in, if you could call it that. And when Claire gave in to the muumuus, to the wild colors and patterns, people in her village actually applauded as she walked down the street.

  So fine, she’d dress traditionally.

  There were several tailors in Baniam, but Claire choose to have her clothes made by a young seamstress. The outfits the young woman made were nice and fit well, and Claire felt good giving her business to another woman.

  As a surprise one day, using leftover scraps of fabric, the seamstress presented Claire with a new suit. The fitted blouse and straight skirt were perfect for school events, and a few steps above the muumuus.
  But it wasn’t pretty.

  The seamstress knew Claire didn’t like the loud colors and patterns so popular in Guinea, so she chose a brown fabric covered in seashells, and another, with splotchy shapes. They look like amoebas, Claire thought to herself, and so she named her new look “seashells and amoebas.” 

  I can handle this, she thought to herself as she got ready to wear her new outfit. It’s just sea shells and amoebas. 

  The young seamstress also had left over denim, and one day she made Claire a long denim jumper, with a strip across the chest of, yes, sea shells and amoebas. And spaghetti straps. And ruffles.

  My God, Claire thought to herself. It’s a denim jumper with ruffly sleeves and spaghetti straps. I am going to rock this jumper.

  And so she did.

  The day she wore the sea shells and amoebas jumper was a long, hot one, like most in Guinea. Claire traveled throughout her village, meeting with families of her students and community members for a project about HIV/AIDS prevention and awareness. 

  Finally, around 4 that afternoon, she shuffled through the dirt up to her hut. Standing before the door, she glanced down.

  And there, at the seam where the seashells and amoebas met the denim, was a nipple.

  Her nipple.

  She had no idea when it had happened, but her denim jumper with the spaghetti straps and ruffles had ripped right where it met the sea shells and amoebas, exposing her breast for who knows how long.

  It was puzzling, Claire thought, but, surprisingly, she realized, she didn’t really care. She’d long accepted the traditional way of dressing and with it, a different sense of herself inside her clothes. And she’d seen a lot of things in Guinea. She’d seen a lot of nipples.

  Now, she saw one of her own. 

  No one in Baniam ever said anything to Claire about what she thought of as the petite pop out. The jumper with ruffles and spaghetti straps and a strip of seashells and amoebas never got fixed. Claire left it in her village when she returned to Missouri. 

  But she did come home with the soft yellow night gown dripping with crotched maroon circles. 

  And on that day nine years later, when Claire pulled the yellow gown out from the cardboard box, she was seven months pregnant. Her small body felt round and achy as her belly grew. 

  I could wear this, she thought to herself for the first time ever. It looks comfortable. And I might actually like it.