I don’t know if you listen to Coldplay, but I have, and there is a lyric that’s been stuck with me for weeks now: Nobody said it was easy; no one ever said it would be this hard. I’m sure Chris Martin wasn’t singing about creating a nonprofit from scratch when he crooned those words, but they ring true. When we started on this adventure, breaking our lease and the news to our parents that we were planning on heading to Africa for some unspecified amount of time to build a library, many people assured us that it, in fact, would be far from easy. They told us to be prepared. And we, in our twenty-something wisdom, told them we couldn’t be prepared, but we’d do our best. Everyone said the right things. But no one could have told us how difficult it would be.
Which is why when people come into our lives and our journey to partner with us in our vision, it feels that much sweeter, that much more rejuvenating. We’ve encountered difficulties and pain along this journey, but we’ve also encountered some of the most generous and supportive people. And if one thing is for sure, it’s that we cannot do this alone.
Recently, we’ve been working with a couple of architects at Barker Rinker Seacat Architecture to design the building for the literacy center. After only one false start (in which we designed a beautiful building that was WAY out of our budget), two of the architects, Steve Blackburn and Dedy Rusli, came to us with the design I am unveiling here–one that matches our vision even to the shape of the windows (evoking the spines of shelved books) and the vertical scratching on the concrete and clay walls (reminiscent of the pages of a closed book). Their dedication to this project was entirely self-sufficient (sustained only by our profusions of gratitude and willingness to learn — in other words, 100% donated), and produced a design we are all excited about, with an eye for the important details that architects remember when humanitarians are too focused on the big picture.
Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, the literacy center:
Although it looks a little unconventional at first, the design of the buildings is fairly simple. The higher building is the library, and the lower building is the writing center/classroom. Both the buildings are essentially square boxes, with flat roofs made of corrugated metal and packed clay, with four clay pots cut into the middle of the ceiling to allow light to come in and hot air to get out.
The semi-open ceilings of the two buildings are sheltered by a floating roof made of corrugated metal with fiberglass sky lights that will facilitate airflow and keep the whole center shady and dry. The roof sits at an angle to ensure water drains off the roof and into the rock garden on the side of the center. The floating roof is anchored to the buildings and to steel columns over the community space by steel rods at angles, and inspired in large part by the work of Diébédo Francis Kéré, who used his architecture degree from Germany to create innovative spaces in his hometown of Gando, Burkina Faso.
Look at this place. Look at how real it is, how close it feels. For a moment I am willing to drop the mentality of a professional nonprofit president and simply look at this design. True, it’s still just a design, but it’s a design that would never have come to fruition without the help and partnership and support of two architects who are extremely busy building multi-million-dollar projects for a living, and who have so far donated weeks of their time to us. It wouldn’t exist right now without the support of our families and friends–the people who have listened to our relentless and stubborn idealism even though our eyes and limbs are tired. It wouldn’t exist without the people of Asisiriwa, who welcomed us without (many) questions into their remote community, gave us water, gave us land. It wouldn’t exist without the schools, educators, administrations, and libraries of Ghana, who introduced us to the culture, to the problems, to the country’s resilient and unending quest for betterment.
I can’t look at this without feeling some questions of my own worth, and Brady’s worth, and the worth of our cause. In half a year–one half of one year–we have come from pure, unadulterated ideas to this design for a building on land that we have secured in a community we have met and are excited to return to. Isn’t this beautiful? Isn’t this more than us?
The answer to both questions, it seems, is an absolute yes. This is far, far larger than us. Far larger than the two starry-eyed kids who set out on a path to follow their God six months ago. It’s been a test of faith, and by all accounts it’s only going to get harder from here. But right now, in this moment, I am so thankful for the opportunity to struggle and strain for this project. Visualizing the space in which the people of Asisiriwa will one day teach themselves the lessons of their language, their literature, and begin to create their own stories is extremely impactful to me.
Before I succumb entirely to the pull of emotion, I will simply leave you with this: truly, deeply, thank you.
