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Vera Oyé Yaa-Anna
A Warrior Spirit
"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams.
Live the life you've imagined."
— Henry David Thoreau
A Liberian parable says, “A dog dreams in its belly.” Since I was a child, I’ve dreamed of the arts. In my Grebo culture, everyone is an artist because art is not a commercial enterprise; it is a way of life. Secretly, the life I imagined was always an artist’s life. In Monrovia, I kept this dream in my bosom. I could not have told anyone because they would have laughed in my face. I choose to honor the late artist Aaron Fallah Brown by sharing my own story as a Liberian artist in light of his untimely death at age fifty-five; like me, he cared about making a contribution to the culture.
In 1989, my foster mother, Ma Lucy Walker Cole, a renowned prophetess, called me to document her prophesies about the Liberian war and my life. She told me things about Liberia and the coming war that were frightening. I would lose everything, she said, including my marriage. My life would be pure hell for many years. God would transform me, in preparation for a new life and associates.
I left Liberia in 1990, for Los Angeles, California. Ma Lucy was right. My life was challenging and sometimes I wanted to leave the earth. Meditation and prayers were my sustenance. I was told by Ma Lucy that there would be signs along my path in the flesh form of humans, and they would guide me. Everywhere I went, someone told me I was born to be an artist. I was in awe. Although I knew I had talent, I could not believe it. Everything I do comes naturally. I am a storyteller, cultural dancer, and producer of the Palaver Hut West African Dinner Theatre. Food in the culinary theatre is fine art.
Since 1993, I have been performing the hopes and despair of my continent to the people of America through the magic of storytelling. Whether set in the theatre, hospital room, or classroom, I have been given the responsibility to uncompromisingly maintain the best of my ancestral traditions, because the traditions must be promoted with authenticity. I incorporate the art of cuisine, music and dance to color my stories and immerse my audience in Africa’s rich cultural heritage. I believe in building bridges between cultures and races, because respect and understanding make our world an enriching experience. I use the common human experiences among my audience participants to create a closeness or familiarity like the atmosphere of a nurturing African village. I believe I was destined to come to the United States and tell my stories, but never was this sense of destiny more tested and affirmed than when I suffered a major stroke.
The day of my stroke, there was nothing unusual about the start of that Los Angeles morning in March 1996. I woke up tired, as usual. A tightness at the back of my neck reminded me that I had a doctor's appointment, but I shifted my focus instead to a Palaver Hut production scheduled for month's end. I hurried to my office in Century City to address invitations for the event, forgetting my doctor's appointment in my excitement. I began addressing the first envelope, but my penmanship faltered, running all over the invitation. I knew something was wrong.
The desk phone rang, sounding strangely distant. I picked up the receiver to hear my good friend, Judy. Alarmed by my strange voice, she rushed to my office, finding me unconscious. She called 911 and I was transported to a quality hospital just across the street (we later called it a "stroke of luck").
I woke up three days later in a sterile room. Confused and dazed, I finally realized I was in a hospital room, but had no clue why. I had an impulse to dress and return to work. Where, I wondered, were my clothes? As I began to disconnect my medical tubes, a nurse came into the room and began yelling at me to stop. I could not understand what she was saying. Another nurse arrived, and the two stood there, gawking as I tried to get out of the bed. My right leg would not move; my right hand seemed stuck to my shoulder. As I struggled, my right leg slid off the sheets.
"Can't you see?" one of the nurses exclaimed. "You are crippled!"
"No I'm not!" I meant to protest, but the words twisted on my lips. I made one last feeble attempt to get out of the bed. Something was terribly wrong, I knew. I desperately wanted and needed my mother.
We Grebo take responsibility for our own healing, empowering the self through stories, as well as through singing, dancing, laughing and creative movement. We are our own psychiatrists and therapists. Elders use stories and parables to teach and heal. Children are told the story of their spirit early on, which helps them to develop self-esteem. I was given a "warrior spirit", never to be defeated. This sustained in me the confidence that I would heal.
I found victory in achieving small tasks. I refused to hold my injured hand like it was a helpless baby. I believed I could retrain my muscles through repetitive movements. After each session with my physical therapist, I would return to my room and practice until I began to sweat.
A stroke is also a mind injury. I felt God was angry with me because, before my stroke, I had not been a full-time performer. In my thoughts, I became the underdog in need of compassion. I felt I had to narrate my story for understanding if I were to heal. I worked on developing narratives for my family and friends. I became immersed in my artistry as part of my healing. I heard drums in my mind and I danced to them, holding onto the bed for support.
Vera Oye Yaa-Anna "Stories Under the Table" CD, a compilation of stories
Although my stroke happened more than 10 years ago, physical therapy continues. My right side is still rather numb. I cannot feel much from my knees to the soles of my right foot. I'm unable to drive regularly because I have difficulty feeling the accelerator. I walk everywhere I can, taking stairs instead of elevators. Yet, there have been gifts on the journey. My work has shifted to a focus on healing.
I felt spirit-moved to apply my art to a program involving cancer patients, caregivers and health professionals. The resulting two-hour storytelling grant-funded workshops have reached more than 3,000 people, presenting storytelling and laughter as healing conduits. I promote support groups, and create a space where participants feel empowered to tell their stories.
The early days of Palaver Hut West African Dinner Theatre in Los Angeles were a real Umoja. Artists from Liberia, Sierra Leone, Nigeria, Ghana, Senegal, Cameroon, Benin, Mali, Ethiopia, and Kenya came together and participated, donating their time, creativity and resources to all those wonderful people. The first event was "Echoes of Nigeria." Nigerians came in from San Francisco and Oakland and we had a ball! We had Nigerian cuisine, drummers, entertainers, fashion and art. The night was magical. Every event celebrated an African country and its art. The first newspaper to feature the Palaver Hut was “The African Times”, which was the paper to read for important information on Africa. Whenever I had a radio interview, donations in cash and kind came from generous Africans, Americans, Europeans and a few African-Americans. Everyone wanted the venture to thrive and succeed because there was no other cultural event like it in the Los Angeles area.
I relocated to Washington, DC, in the winter of 1996 at the invitation of a local businessman with ties to the National Democratic Committee, to stage and perform a Palaver Hut production for former President Bill Clinton’s inauguration festivities. This did not happen, but I decided to remain in Washington, DC, and promote the West African Dinner Theatre. Since then there have been many days when I’ve beaten myself up badly, for my poor judgment in the decision to move.
Every city has its own unique character, culture, and pop cultural identification. Washington, DC, the nation’s capital, is dubbed “the world’s capital” for its Embassy Row of foreign embassies. It is also called “Chocolate City” because of its large African American population. In the summer of 1999, I received a call from a Mr. Lester Hyman, who informed me that he had read about me in the Washington Post. He asked if I had performed at the Liberian Embassy; I replied that I had not. He wanted to know, would I be interested if he could arrange my participation, and I responded that I would. I received an invitation from former ambassador Rachael Diggs. This is how I came to the attention of the Liberian Embassy and community. Since then, I have supported and participated in the Liberian Embassy’s July 26 celebrations. My performance time slot has been produced as a community experience, with non-Liberian African artists participating along with me. To date the only support I’ve had from the embassy has come from Mrs. Catherine Nmah, in the form of referrals for performances.
This summer, for the third time, I received an invitation from the Smithsonian Folk Life Festival to participate. I informed the embassy that I would be participating, telling stories about Liberia. The Smithsonian agreed to hang the Liberian flag when I came on. Hoping that the one million-plus visitors would experience the Liberian flag, I was disappointed when no one from the embassy was in attendance. I thought all Africans, including the various embassies that we had informed, would have been proud of my efforts and lend their support, yet few Africans have supported me.
I believe that the lack of interest in African cultural arts is due mainly to the lack of cultivation by the Liberian political and social leadership. I do not know how many Liberian artists there are in the metropolitan Washington area. What I do know is that I’ve never performed with another Liberian artist, and I’ve only had one Liberian artist attend a Palaver Hut production, and that was in 1998.
There is a problem with how Liberians view themselves and their culture and it is not positive. If it was, the evidence would be very visible. Many Liberians believe that assimilation is the only means to experience all there is about the United States. This leaves them bankrupt, morally and culturally. Many of them are ashamed and embarrassed about their limited knowledge of our cultural arts, so embracing its importance becomes difficult.
On account of cultural ignorance, Liberians can be insulting. My surname is indigenous, Grebo, and I cannot count the times someone who could not pronounce my name decided that they could insult me, by making fun of my name, or remarking, “You girl, you still doing that foolish country dance?” Others insist my name is from Ghana or Nigeria. I am often insulted by this kind of cultural ignorance and disrespect.
Recently, I experienced the profound loss of my good friend, supporter and fellow artist to cancer. This recent loss has impacted me in ways that I did not expect, giving me cause for much introspection. Since December of 2006, I’ve lost five dear friends and supporters to cancer. I find myself in a rough and tough place that I know my faith and my creative work will get me through. My loss is major, because these people were my extended family, providing critical support for me as a cultural artist. I could count on them to attend my performances. Also, I could call any one of them when I needed spiritual or emotional support. I am especially grateful that they all lived to celebrate with me and experience my many successful grants. I am also pleased that I am in a special category as the only indigenous African women to receive four nominations for the prestigious “Mayor Art Award” and, receive twice, the Artist Fellowship Award, from the official arts agency in the Washington, DC, area: the Commission on the Arts and Humanities.
My social circle includes successful artists from all walks of life. These people are not Liberians but Americans. It appears that my work for Africa does not interest any Liberians. Many times I have been asked why I left a supportive African environment like Los Angeles. Well, when I came to Washington, I was not under any illusion that the majority of my supporters or audience would be Liberians.
Some name recognition is making life a little easier. I keep forgetting that this country is a celebrity culture. Here is a little story:
One day I went into my neighborhood supermarket and the sales associates commented, "Oh wow! Today we have had two celebrities! We had one this morning and now we have another!" Turning around, I asked where, and he said, "You!" What a joke.
I am still producing Palaver Hut for special events. We are beginning the next phase for television with the Palaver Hut West African Culinary Theatre Educational Cultural Enrichment Program. I am cultivating a love for Africa by taking the next generation, the children, on virtual visits to Africa. Thanks to Europeans and African-Americans for recognizing the quality in my work, and supporting me, I am able to continue to pay the bills.
When I am with my audience, instead of feeling hopelessly discouraged that I am a Liberian artist alone, I use my love for my culture to motivate me. I will continue hanging with my audience, telling the stories of Liberian artists like myself, and the late Aaron Brown!
Copyright © Vera Oye Yaa-Anna
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