In Ghana, you are given a name based on the day of the week you were born. If anyone asks you what your birth day is, they aren’t looking for the date but a “Wednesday” or a “Saturday.” They are asking for your name. People look forward to their name day each week similarly to the way many look forward to their birthday each year. They look forward to the day not because they will have a party or receive gifts, but just because it is their day.
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| My sister-in-love and I in Cape Coast, Ghana |
My name is Adwoa [ODD-JO-UH], which means I am a female who was born on a Monday. The thing about Mondays, for me, is that I generally hate them. And not in a small way--I dread the beginning of each week like primetime television viewers dread campaign season. I mourn the end of the weekend like my newly-non-dairy-consuming mama mourns ice cream. I beg for snow days even on beautiful spring days, such as this. (Disclaimer: It's not just Mondays, but they always seem to be the hardest.)
Last Monday I was offered a diagnosis which confirmed what I believed/feared for over a decade: depression. In some way it’s affirming, to be able to have a name for my demon. To have a concrete explanation for all the areas I feel painfully inadequate. In another way it’s like “what do I even do with this?” So I have the diagnosis, but that doesn't change my situation. It doesn't ease the struggle. It doesn't make the day-to-day any less messy.
One significant season of my life (student-hood) is drawing to a close, at least for now. And a new season of my life (real-world-hood) has been fading in. It is just as horrifically scary as it is exciting, but I have one main goal as the transition takes place. Aside from keeping a roof over my head and growing in love, my most practical goal is to embrace Mondays.
After all, I came into the world on a Monday--the universe made room for me on a Monday. God chose me to be among the sisterhood of the Monday-borns. My mother worked really freaking hard to let me join this world in time for lunch on a Monday. The least I can do is celebrate that, even in tiny ways.
What might that look like? Heck if I know. Maybe I'll wake up a little earlier to make a fantastic breakfast. Maybe I'll drop some confetti in my backpack so I can carry a little party with me everywhere. Or maybe I will simply whisper to myself in an effort to fight the impending gray: "Hey. This is my day." So call me Adwoa.
