International Studies Network

Congratulations to Sara Baum, the International Studies Program’s Outstanding Graduating Senior!

And congratulations to our undergrad scholarship winners! (From left to right: Sara Othersen, Outstanding Freshman; Christina Ingle, Outstanding Sophomore; Cathryn Fortuna, Outstanding Junior; China Billotte, Outstanding Senior)

Honorable Mention: Benta Davis

I will never forget that smell. The feeling of being surrounded in a hallway only a child would feel comfortable in. Organized, they wouldn’t dare, it would take away from the experience of it all. Then again, what would this experience be with out it? This is not my first time feeling like this. Just the other day in the Khan I felt the same way. Hot, sweaty, and less scared of course; at least in the Khan I was able to stand my full height. I could breath, feel the desert air against my face and gawk at the sky. It smelled much better at the Khan too. Spices, food, and falafel yum! But not here, here I was scared, faced with darkness and people. My biggest fear were the people, pushing in and out of the darkness.  What’s so great about this place that all of these people including myself need to see? People were yelling in all directions above me, and below me? Below me were my feet, slanted across a handmade plank board, which made me fear for my safety. “You have to go, move down the board miss!” A guy above me yelled in English with a very strong accent. I could barely see him just his silhouette and the sun.  I looked ahead and staggered slowly down the wooden plank. Passing under a sign that read WATCH YOUR HEAD, NO CAMERAS INSIDE! All the while trying to keep my balance on the wooden plank as I stepped deeper into the darkness. Greeted by that strong smell and heat, I immediately wanted to turn around, but it was too late. What I wouldn’t give to be back at the Khan el Khalili shopping right now I though to myself.  Finally inside I crouched down to wiggle pass the people pushing to get out. “Your almost there” they would say. Walking in a crouched position only made the hallway look endless. I began to sweat profusely and started having thoughts of giving up this wild goose chase just as we met our destination. “Welcome to the Queens Burial Chamber” our tour guide stated, his voice echoed off the walls of the tiny room. He was also drenched in sweat and out of breath. Walking across the small candle lit room I wondered if the Queen would have though this place a prison rather than a place of burial. At least from in here you would think that any grave robbers would turn around, I almost did! How could I have come so close to giving up the chance to travel deep inside of Khufu’s pyramid? What a waste of a trip it would have been.  You traveled all the way to Egypt, descended deep inside of a gigantic pyramid and turn around? They would ask. Ha! I wouldn’t give the chance to anyone I though as I emerged into the light of the hot Egyptian sun. This beats shopping at the Khan el Khalili any day.

Honorable Mention: Lauren Rex

“When in Genoa…on the way to Rome”

 While studying abroad in Spain for eight months, I decided to stay for Christmas break and travel.  My friend Benta and I knew we both wanted to stay over the break, but we weren’t sure where to go.  About a week before we were going to get kicked out of our host-family’s houses, we decided on Italy.  We planned the beginning and the end of the trip.  We booked a boat ride to Livorno, Italy and a flight home from Rome to Madrid.  We were just going to wing the in-between part.

The trip went great for the first two weeks and we managed to meet up with our friend and her family in France.  We weren’t planning on going to France, but it turned out to be great.  We hadn’t found a way to Rome yet and we weren’t too concerned about it.  Everything had worked out so far, so we would find our way there.

We decided to catch a train over night to Genoa, Italy where we could transfer trains to Rome.  Buying a ticket ahead of time did not seem like a big concern to us.  Assuming the ride was in the middle of the night, we couldn’t see the train selling out.  When we arrived in Genoa at 11:30pm, we tried to buy our tickets for the 12:00am train.  It happened to be sold out and the next train didn’t leave until 9:00am the next morning.  We were stuck.  We were now paying for our stupidity of not planning ahead.  It was going to be a long night sleeping in the cold, breezy train station.  So we decided to look for a hostel.

It turns out that Genoa is a pretty run down town with not much going on.  We saw a sign that said hostel so we followed it.  It led us up a long and winding street that never seemed to end.  Eventually we gave up and headed back to the station.  My mom happened to call me on my cell phone from the U.S. to see how our trip was going.   I told her things were going great (as I am walking through a sketchy town in Italy during the middle of the night).

I hed finished talking with my mom, when a police car passed us.  I bet Benta that the police car would turn around and come back.  Unfortunately I was right.  The car stopped and one of the officers got out.  He pointed at us and said sternly, “You. Come here.”  We went to talk to him and I said we do not speak Italian.  He asked what we were doing walking around in the middle of the night in broken English.  We told him how we were looking for a hostel.  He informed us that is had closed down a while ago.  Perfect.  He suggested that we go back to the station and spend the night.  And so we did.  After running into a hobo on the way back to the station, we tried to find the warmest place to sleep.  In the morning we caught the 9:00am train and made it to the final destination of our wonderful, story filled Christmas break in Europe.

Third Place: Christina Ingle

I never dreamed that one day I would be able to come home from college during breaks to great a spunky, intelligent Guatemalan boy whom I would refer to as my brother.

For the average American family, my story is extremely atypical, but heartwarming nonetheless. At the ripe age of 12, I was informed by my mom over our Sunday lunch after church that she felt led during Sunday School to adopt a child. I was utterly dumbfounded. I had being asking her for years whether I would ever have a little brother or sister to play with, and she always put me off.

And so the tumultuous, emotional journey known as international adoption began. Wanting a brother and knowing in the depths of my soul that this was God’s will for us, I became emotionally invested in this process. After months of visits from the social worker, we received a referral of a beautiful two month old baby named Luis. Shriveled up and purple, Luis Daniel Velasquez Perez became our dream as we dwelled on pictures sent every month from his orphanage in Guatemala. My mom increasingly became frustrated with the Guatemalan and U.S. Embassies, who did not seem concerned about her son waiting for her in an orphanage and took their merry old time approving our documents. Finally, after about eleven months after my mom told me we were going to have a new addition to the family, we received a phone call informing us that we could pick up Luis at our convenience. I will never forget the social worker’s emphatic voice on the phone.

“Good evening! Your pink slip has been issued by the Guatemalan Embassy and you are now free to travel!”

I will never forget the violent thumping of my heart upon hearing these glorious words. Racing to pack our bags for Guatemala, my mom and I attempted to prepare ourselves physically and emotionally for the most rewarding journey we could ever embark upon.

At 6:00 the next evening, my mom and I are waiting impatiently in Guatemala City’s Marriott for the orphanage director to bring Luis to us. It is an integral part of the Guatemalan culture to take your time and enjoy life, even if you are drastically late. Finally, we spot our baby in his nanny’s arms, knowing his face only from pictures. He’s tiny, chubby, oriental-looking, sweet, and is clad in the cutest baby wear I have ever seen in my life. I hide behind my camera, taking live footage of my mom meeting him for the first time. When it is my turn to hold him, I smile, then break down in tears because I am so incredibly happy to finally touch him. Complete strangers stop to observe the strange spectacle of a twelve year old girl weeping violently while holding a small Hispanic infant.

Even though Luis is now seven years old and I am nineteen, the bond we first formed in Guatemala has not weakened over time. He often cries for me while I am away at college, and I ensure that when I am home, he receives my full attention. I never dreamed I would have this love for any person in the world.

Second Place: Dorothy Mayne (RPCV Madagascar 2008-2011)

June 2010

Beating Algeria
Madagascar is full of World Cup excitement, and it’s not been lost on me.  My students at the high school in Ambanja are full of end-of-the-school-year excitement, which is, again, not lost on me.  On Wednesday, all of the students at the high school took their English exams. The exam time was scheduled to end just as the USA game was to begin. I told the room I was proctoring that they needed to hurry because I wanted to watch the game. Only three of them laughed, and all three of them got a 100% on their tests (not because they laughed, but because they’re smart, and they actually listen when I talk).

I don’t profess to know squat about sports, but I know those guys, both the USA team and the Algerian team, were playing their hearts out. I watched the game in a dingy little bar with about 20 men who were helping me cheer on the States if for no better reason than for their amusement at my team spirit.  It was still tied at zero when they gave the game 4 additional minutes. In the last two minutes, Donovan got in there and won us the game. I jumped up and verbally expressed my approval of Donovan’s command of the game of football, and everyone laughed at me.  I was ecstatic in the results of the game, but I was not looking forward to returning home.
Earlier the same day, a rat was making its way down from the ceiling (normally they stay up in the ceiling, and I bear no grudge against them besides their incessant noise making, but once a new generation figures out how to descend, we have issues) in the broad daylight as I was sitting there reading.  I told it what I thought of it when I chased it back up.  So, I had a pretty good feeling there would be a rat waiting for me when I returned home from watching the game.  I opened the door and saw all of the evidence of amateur rat exploration (knocked over things, things pushed around) and then spotted it across the room, chewing on a picture.  I grabbed my big stick (which I keep around for just such encounters) and made to chase it up to the ceiling.  The dumb thing didn’t know what to do or where to go, and it took off across the room.  I, with my big stick in hand, and USA victory in my heart, took a valiant strike at the vermin, and clocked the little bastard on the first hit.  I was so surprised that I actually made contact, but not only did I make contact, I demobilized it enough to inflict another, this time fatal, blow.  I ran over to my neighbor’s house to tell them that there was more than one American victory on Wednesday. I posthumously named the rat Algeria.

First Place: Leah Anne Lantzy

One time I invited my friends over to my host family’s house in Costa Rica. We all suffered from an incessant hankering for brownies. This chocolate delight grew increasingly sweet, thick and oozy in our imaginations and conversations. My host Mom had previously O.k.ed our kitchen as the site of the culinary operation and so my Norweigan friends arrived a little after seven o’clock.  My Mom, who had retired upstairs to fold laundry, had earlier affirmed that she had a pan that would do the job, so I began to forage the cabinets in the kitchen for it. The cabinets “opened” horizontally, as would a sliding glass door, but were very stubborn in their tracks and required nothing short of a few months preparation to open, which would have included the execution of a vigorous iron-pumping routine and the regular consumption of steroids. After much toil I managed to open one half-way, revealing the mixing bowl we would use and a long, lean cockroach who supposed he would supervise the cracking of the eggs and the measuring of the vegetable oil in exchange for a share of our culinary masterpiece of chocolate ecstasy. Upon seeing him I managed to suppress all four letter words and in the same, highly disciplined manner, chose not to announce his journey to his lookout post on the shelf above the kitchen sink, in hopes that my friends would not notice him nor be grossed-out by his presence. Alas, my friend Nina failed to spare us. In failing to spare, she subjected herself, myself, our other two friends and what seemed like everyone else in the province of Puntarenas to the overpoweringly awkward situation that commonly ensues the identification of such a pest in the home. “There is a cockroach,” she announced, in one of the simplest, yet most potent sentences in the history of kitchen-borrowing in a foreign land. Everyone in the room turned to look at the cockroach, with the exception of the cockroach. He had previously taken note of his own hugeness, foulness and adept ability to intrude on a happy cooking session and selected to sit this one out. “Yeah, there is,” I replied. We watched him enter the darkness between the salt shaker and various mystery spices and cross to the other side of the shelf. “Now it’s over there,” Nina reported. Thank God she did, because I know I, for one, had read the abridged version of Mr. Cockroach’s Travels and needed clarification on the nature and sequence of his highly intricate maneuvers. After staring at him for another decade, I asked “Have you never seen a cockroach in your house?” I was hoping to smother her into silence with negative peer-pressure. On her I displaced the blame for the discrepancy in cultural norms which plagued us that evening. In Costa Rica, cockroaches are to kitchens as boogers are to noses; ever-present, just hopefully not abundant enough to interfere with business of a serious caliber. When sitting with my host family, the range of reactions I noticed to the appearance of a cockroach spanned half the globe. Sometimes my father would scratch his belly, other times he would change the channel on the television. My mother would ask me how my day was or admire her toe nail polish. My sister was by far the most affected by the arrival of such a being: she would begin a new text message on her cell phone, answer a call, or read her latest message. Nina gave me no mercy: “Nope, never seen one in my house, in Costa Rica or at home.” Her words stabbed me, and her tone of voice, which I would describe as nonchalant, disemboweled me, as I had hallucinations of my host father entering the room and becoming permanently emotionally disabled after witnessing the disgust on my friends’ faces. He would never thereafter be able to love another or take pride in accomplishments and we would be responsible for the first case of abrupt-onset autism at the age of 53.

The conversation drifted to other topics as eggs were cracked, cooking instructions read and translated into English and progress was made toward our beloved end. Yet we still lacked a pan to cook the brownies in, so I called my host father into the room. “Awkwardness doesn’t exist” I told myself, “and besides, cockroaches like the dark, if he reappears, he won’t be on stage for more than a few acts.” My Dad didn’t know the location of the pan and went upstairs to ask my Mom. In the meantime, I tried the door to the remaining and seldom used cabinet which was beside the oven in the darkest spot of the kitchen. “It’s only awkward if you make it awkward.”

I could only slide the cabinet door two inches, but it was just enough for another cockroach to scurry out and crawl toward the kitchen sink. I took a deep breath and turned my back on my new compadre until my Dad descended the stairs and pointed to the same cabinet where I had seen the first bugger.  “She says it’s in there.” I tried the door again and was able to open it far enough to reveal the entirety of the right wall of the cabinet, which was a square foot in size and would have been the color white if every centimeter had not been taken up by the head, thorax, or leg of a cockroach. “I can’t open it any further,” I told my father, who was standing behind me and may have seen what I saw. I took one step backward, then I took another, and yet another I managed. My burly host father obscured my view of the site and I was left alone, never more alone in the blackness, imagining the desperate fleeing of the army of loathed critters as he pried the door open and retrieved the pan. My host Mom came downstairs, saw the condition of the pan and went into the laundry room. She returned with a handful of a severe cleaning product and threw it into the pan that I had begun to wash in the sink. “Yes, clean it well, it is seldom used,” she said with a smile. “Well I hope you have everything that you need now. I’m going to go get some beer and we’ll all have a drink.” I agreed excitedly as my friends chatted and ate the remains of the batter that didn‘t make it into the baking pan. I’ve never been and still am not afraid of the cockroach nor am I particularly disgusted by their presence in the home.  As I scrubbed the pan I took a glance at the cabinet, then at my friends and decided that the oven had obscured their view of the image that I will never forget, that of myself simultaneously crossing the great, cliché ‘bridge of culture” and walking, naked, with my lunch tray into the vast unfriendly cafeteria, filled with cliques upon cliques of catty girls and guys who mock my voice and say that I have cock-roaches in my house. I had never been so afraid of girls being afraid of cockroaches!

BGSU can now count among its faculty a traditional Igbo chieftain — twice over. For his scholarly contributions to the promotion and preservation of Igbo history, culture and heritage as well as service to Nigeria and humanity, Dr. Apollos Nwauwa was recently awarded two Igbo chieftaincies, the Odenigboof Ekwe and the Ohamadike of Umuchieze.

Nwauwa is chair of the Africana Studies Program and a history faculty member for the past 12 years.

While both honors were officially conferred on him and his wife, Helen, in Nigeria in late December 2011, the Nigerian Association of Greater Toledo celebrated the Nwauwas’ achievements at a reception held in Toledo on March 31. The reception was attended by friends and family from surrounding states and numerous BGSU faculty and staff members. In addition, three other Igbo chieftains from the Detroit area attended and were ceremonially ushered into the hall.

“It was so glamorous,” said Nwauwa. “Most of the people in attendance really knew the true meaning of being named a chieftain. While my academic profile means something to people here in the United States, it means so much to me that my people back home feel the impact of what I do. We are blessed to be so recognized.”

What he and his wife are doing is considerable. Their philanthropic efforts include donations to a preschool and sponsoring a number of university students, providing hospital supplies, and mentoring young people.

“You feel you are contributing in one way or another to making a difference in people’s lives,” Nwauwa said of his commitment to philanthropic work.

It was for these and other activities that His Royal Highness, Eze Emmanuel Obi Anyakudo (Ezearo II of Ekwe) and his Cabinet conferred on Nwauwa the Odenigbo of Ekwe chieftaincy on Dec. 28, 2011. Ekwe is Nwauwa’s home community. Odenigbo means “one who ‘writes’ or achieves for the Igbo.”

Two days later, on Dec. 30, the Eze-in-Council and His Royal Highness, Eze (Dr.) Enyeribe Onuoha (Ezeudo I of Umuchieze, Ihitteafoukwu, Mbaise) conferred on him the Ohamadike of Umuchieze chieftaincy. Both recognitions oblige him to continue his worthy service to the Ndi-Igbo, Nigeria, and humanity.

Umuchieze is some distance from Ekwe, Nwauwa said. The Ohamadike title conferred upon him translates as “the real leader fully recognized by his people” and was given for his service to the Nigerian community as a whole.

International Studies Program: What was your major and minor at BGSU? What year did you graduate?

 Brittany M. Jacoby: My major was International Studies and my minor was Political Science. I graduated in 2009.

ISP: Did you have any internships as a student at BGSU? If so, where at and what was that experience like?

BMJ: I didn’t and I wish I had! I tried to get internships with organizations doing human trafficking work in Toledo with no luck. The summer after I graduated I was lucky enough to intern with Amnesty International in Chicago it was a fantastic experience. I would encourage other IS majors to consider pursuing summer internships in nearby cities.

ISP: Did you study or travel abroad as a student at BGSU? What was that experience like for you? What did you learn from it?

 BMJ: I did. I was fortunate enough to obtain a scholarship to study abroad for a full academic year at Nanzan University in Nagoya, Japan my junior year. It was a wonderful experience, and I am so happy I did it. My language skills improved exponentially, and it helped me grow as a person.

ISP: Tell me a little bit about your job search after graduation. What difficulties did you face? What do you think helped you?

 BMJ: To be completely honest, it was horrible. I feel like no one told me how important it was to obtain extensive internship experience in my field before graduation. I’ve since entered into graduate school where I’ve been able to accumulate experience, but it would’ve been helpful had I started in my undergrad.

ISP: What brought you to your current job? What has your experience been like so far?

BMJ: I currently work on campus at American University in Washington DC as the Program Associate for the Center for Peacebuilding and Development. I found out about the position through my former internship supervisor. I LOVE my job! I get to work on awesome projects all over the world.

ISP: Walk me through a current day for you at your job.

BMJ: I do a variety of things on any given day. Normally, I communicate with international practitioners who have applied for our summer training program. I assist with grant writing and research; right now I’m focusing on a potential project in Iraqi Kurdistan. Finally, I assist with our Education for Peace DC Project, where we our mapping the field of peace education in DC via qualitative interviews with DC organizations.

ISP: Do you have any advice for current BGSU International Studies students?

 BMJ: INTERN, and get out of Ohio. One of the best things I did was move to Washington DC, so many more job and networking opportunities here.

ISP: If you could do one thing different or change something about your college experience, what would it be?

 BMJ: I would have traveled more, and I would have tried harder to get out of state internships in the summer.

ISP: How did your INST degree from BGSU help you prepare for your current career?

 BMJ: I fostered some strong relationships with some of my professors that I have found really helpful. I encourage INST students to take part in additional activities like Model UN to increase their knowledge.

ISP: How has language been a part of your education/helped you after you graduate?

 BMJ: It’s been very important; in order to enter into my graduate program (International Peace and Conflict Resolution) I had to speak a second language at an intermediate level.

ISP: What are your future plans and goals?

 BMJ: I graduate in May. I plan on pursuing a career in human rights and peace education. I’m applying for the Fulbright to do work in Cambodia in 2013.

ISP: Is there anything else you would like to share about yourself?

 BMJ: If you are interested in attending graduate school, interning and/or moving to DC please let me know. I’m happy to help