Often times fear and vulnerability masks itself as angry, superior, or a 5 letter word that rhymes with witch.

I should know. 

This important admonition comes to mind as I settle into life in a new country.  I’m relying heavily on others to help me to find housing (and navigate the mounds of paperwork and beauracracy that entails), transportation, communication, a store to buy soap, you get the picture.  And it’s hard.  But I’m so glad I learned this critical lesson before deciding to move to Brazil, as it certainly prepared me for its trials.  Now when I get frustrated and impatient with those helping me to navigate this rough terrain, I can explain to them that I’m not angry, I’m just feeling vulnerable because my personal affairs are in their hands and I don’t like it.  I can tell them, “It’s not you, it’s me.”

I came to this realization of fear and vulnerability masking itself as a myriad of ugly traits in 2012…after I had come down off of my angry, haughty, bitchy high, of course.  I was in Ghana on business and one of my top priorities was getting my hair braided by one of the Fairy God Mothers of cornrows.  So after conferring with the ladies working the hotel’s front desk (and observing their perfect coifs), I was sent to Matilda’s “salon” over on the red clay road near the old police station in Accra.  Well, to say that I was “sent” isn’t entirely true because in true Ghanaian fashion, one young woman in the group gave me her phone number and volunteered to personally take me on her Saturday off to ensure I made it there and back without getting lost, but I didn’t want to impose.  That’s what my coworkers were there for, after all!

So after having a coworker to call to make me an appointment and obtain directions with very few street names and lots of landmarks, I finally made it to Matilda’s “salon.”  The road was much too treacherous for the car we were in.  Heck, all of those manholes, rocks, boulders, stray dogs, red clay, and random trash would have given a Humvee a run for its money.  But we made it!  Three ladies working on my hair and 1 with my feet in her lap giving me a pedicure.  I felt like the honorary African-American Village Queen of the Hour.  When my co-worker dropped me off, Matilda told him that it would take her 2 hours.  About 20-30 minutes before she finished, she said, “you can call him to pick you up.”  So I did.  And sure enough, exactly 2 hours in and the equivalent of $20 later, my hair was flawlessly completed, but my coworker was nowhere to be found.  I thought to myself, “I’m sure he’s on his way, I’ll give him 10 minutes.” I think I might have given him 15 before I called.  He told me he’d be there in 10 minutes. Great!  10 minutes, 15, 30, 45, 60, 90, 120 minutes and countless dead-end phone calls to all 2 people I knew in Ghana later, he finally shows up!  I seriously don’t know how anything in my vicinity survived the fire that I was breathing.  I dared him to look at me.  And then the biggest offence of all…. He had the nerve to compliment me on my hair!  I could have ripped his tongue out of his throat.

Overreacting, you say?

Imagine this…you’re halfway across the world in a foreign country ALONE.  You get DROPPED OFF in a random neighborhood village to let “Matilda,” albeit very nice, braid your hair.  You are relying on 1 of the 2 people you know in the entire country of 25 million people to return for you in 2 hours and they don’t show until 2 hours later with NO COMMUNICATION.  Ladies and gentlemen, we are not talking about a developed country with 1^st world urban planning where a GPS can lead you home in a few clicks.  This is a chaotic maze of people selling everything on the streets from bottled water and homemade food to pool toys and windshield wipers, loud cars with smoking tailpipes, jitney buses, gypsy cabs, red clay and dirt roads with human sized potholes, loud horns, bootleg preachers on corners with loud speakers, stray dogs, power outages, tin & wood shack stores and eateries, and no street signs.  I couldn’t even BEGIN to explain to anyone where I was!  And by the way, that old police station landmark…yeah, never saw it.  I was LIVID!!!  When my ride finally arrived, never had I been so angry and relieved at the same time.  My words cut like a hot knife on butter.  I’m sure my typical “eat $h!t, and die” look was magnified 100 fold.

But months later after I calmed down and had a chance to reflect (yes, I said months…okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration), I realized that while I was indeed angry at being left waiting for over 2 hours, it was more fear that had taken hold of my heart.  Or the fear of being vulnerable.  Or the reality of my vulnerable state?  Something like that.  I was alone.  I didn’t know where I was.  I couldn’t get in contact with anyone. And I didn’t know when anyone would show up for me.  And although the ladies in salon were nice to a fault and I never once felt like I was in any physical danger, I was still afraid.  I didn’t know how or when I would make it back to the safety and comfort of my hotel.  I couldn’t get a call to go through to the hotel to have them to send me a car.  Not that I could tell them where to pick me up anyway!   I thought I might have to walk to the end of the alley-like road Matilda’s salon was on to yield one of those gypsey cabs.  I was in a very vulnerable position and it was uncomfortable as hell. For someone as fiercely independent as I to grant someone my trust is monumental.  And in my mind, I was failed miserably.  I felt abandoned.  Like a ship lost at sea without a sail.  And every minute that passed felt like an absolute eternity!  Every unanswered phone call made me feel as if my little canoe drifted a little further from the shore.

But when I was able to rationalize what had happened and get honest with myself, I realized that my ego had taken a serious blow!  How dare anyone leave me waiting?!? I felt embarrassed to have been left sitting there for so long!  What must the ladies in the salon be thinking?  I knew that I wasn’t stranded or lost forever.  I knew that my ride would eventually show up.  Again, the fear and my ego had me beguiled.  In my anger and FEAR, I made so many vows to “never do” this or that.  But my wild heart and my curious spirit would never allow me to live that way.  And the next time I’m in Accra, Matilda’s will undoubtedly be one of my first stops.  But you better believe I will have a private driver who will be chained to the broken salon chair next to mine whilst I bury the keys in a secret place a stranger dare not go.  Calculated risks, my friends.

So the next time you’re tempted to respond in anger or camouflage that insecurity as pride or false superiority, take inventory.  Understand the true condition of your heart.  Ask yourself what’s really driving these ugly behaviors.  Could you too be attempting to mask your own fear and vulnerability through a veil of anger, or meanness, or superiority?  Have an eye discerning enough to recognize their signs, and enough courage to confess and course correct.  Doing so does not make one weak.  Quite the contrary, in fact.  So cheers to building those muscles of courage! 

“True courage is not the brutal force of vulgar heroes, but the firm resolve of virtue and reason” ~ Alfred North Whitehead

“Courage is not simply one of the virtues, but the form of every virtue at the testing point” ~ C.S. Lewis

“Courage is to never let your actions be influenced by your fears” ~ Arthur Koestler

Talk to me….tell me about a time when you have put up a veil of pride/anger/impatience/(fill in the blank) to hide your fear or insecurity.  How might you have chosen a path of courage for yourself and likewise, one that was more affirming to those you were dealing with?

Disclaimer: The comments made about Ghana were for demonstration and creative purposes only.  Of all the countries I’ve traveled, Ghana is, and likely will ever be, my most beloved.  Never in my life have I felt so comfortable and “at home” in my own skin.  I felt Free. Smart. Funny. Sexy. Confident. Relaxed. Energized. From the smoky taste of the perfectly grilled tilapia to the tranquilizing art gallery overlooking the majestic Atlantic Ocean that transported my stolen ancestors to the Americas, I connected with the country and the people on a spiritual level and it will ever be home in my heart.