It's 4:30 am. I've been up for an hour and a half. I may have gone to bed too early. For me, this means something in the 8:30 or 9:00 range. I am finding my rhythms of sleep have become deeply disturbed. I realize the days and nights that I manage to I rise and fall in harmony with everyone else are really deviations from the pattern rather than a return to normal life.
Maybe being single again has something to do with my fractured sleep cycle. Maybe it is stress from events coming or maybe it is Africa, letting me know the natural world is too full of wonderous beauties waiting be drunk in, while life is too short to allow for adequate consumption.
It is the birds that keep me company in the early hours, and in the darkness of night? A mixture of human interactions, insect melodies, frogs that sound twice any size they could truly be, and numerous other unidentifiable night creatures. Maybe it is this mystery that prevents me from peaceful slumber.
Most recently we have discovered a new housemate- a mouse with a voracious appetite for fibers who is eating through all of our clothes. I see him nearly every evening, scurrying along the edges. I had thought he confined himself to one or two rooms, as he always came running along the path from the kitchen to my closet and then along the wall to my dresser. However, one evening when we were all sitting in the living room, I saw him come down the hall and round the corner into the kitchen. It seemed he had found my room empty and come to join us for a family fun night.
He cannot be caught. There are no mouse traps. I have requested several, was told they were searching Kinshasa, and finally, no, could not find any. I have a large metal rat trap reminniscent of the French guilloutine. He has eaten several snacks from there, being too small to actually trip the catch and so I've abandoned this idea altogether. I'm told to get a cat, but I can't quite get over the ragtag nature of most Congo cats long enough to actually let one in my house.
I did find a rather large lizard stuck on the back porch however. When I came home from school, he was clinging to the screen trying to figure out why he couldn't jump off into the bushes below. (Bushes=outside, lizard= inside.) He was not one of the cute little Santa Fe wall deco lizards that I usually see runnning along ceiling corners. He was big and meaty, one of the blue and orange lizards we like so much...from a distance. It was a Lucille Balle comedy hour trying to get him out. He ran one way, we ran the other. All the while I was shouting at Nabih to shut the door or he would run into the house (I'm wondering now if he might not have been able to catch the mouse. He was probably a gift I ran off.) Actually, I did not run him off. It was Mama Vero who got a broom and was chasing him around the porch while he skittered here and there full of fright and confusion. My method involved leaving the screen door open and letting him leave on his own good time while we huddled safely inside. She took a more direct approach.
I have had to take a direct approach in finding Nabih a school. While he is clearly getting some kind of education at home, learning French and how to ward off giant orange glo reptiles, it's time for something more. I have been visiting Kinshasa preschools and feel a bit like the lizard stuck on my back porch. The whole process is dizzying and disorienting.
I was willing to consent to the first school we saw, mostly because I know several other families that go there and it is close. The program itself was not impressive, but acceptable. We visited the class for an hour and saw (many) children working in small groups. They had a numbers area on the carpet, a writing area and two reading areas. One adult was at each table and worked with the children individually. There was a cute row of blackboards, child height, and the one or two kids working here were supposed to be copying words from the wall. Some children spent a bit of time sitting and waiting for an adult to help them and some also got books to read and sat on the carpet. I didn't see any toys, but there was a bookshelf with some unidentifiable stuff packed in bags and boxes. Looked like a few puzzles and maybe a building toy. The kids appeared to spend most of their time deeply focused on academics. Just as we were leaving, a whole group lesson had them sitting on the floor trying to remember the names of garden plants. It seemed a ridiculous lesson with difficult words to remember. It did include a song and a few examples of real plants which the kids got a turn touching.
This mediocre school later informed me, on what was to be Nabih's first day, that he needed to cut his hair. I was inscensed on several levels and we left there with me a raving lunatic- something I'm not usually prone to here in the DRC. I did run into the director later that weekend while shopping and she assured me the whole thing was a huge mistake, but damage done.
I took a morning off to visit two other schools. One run also by an Indian woman and operating on the British curriculum. This was a very small school and only had six children in the class we went to visit. Each child sat at a table and everyone faced a chalkboard. The floor was cement, no carpet and no open place to play. The small tables took up the entire area. There were no visible toys and no books. There were, I was assured, puzzles and toys locked up in bins in the cabinet. Illuminating word choice. There were textbooks (yes, in preschool) and notebooks filled with children's letters and numbers. There was even some addition. I was also shown a small notebook filled with drawings and dictations. We did not stay to visit in this class and were not invited to do so. There was a much older girl sitting at one of the tables and it is unclear what her role or purpose for being there was (punishment? helper? During the presentation of notebooks to me, the children, in their neglect, had begun a general discussion about whose turn it was to write on the board and what exactly should be written. There was some quarreling and the girl didn't move or say a word, so I'm guessing punishment was the reason for her presence.)
We visited another class, same set up- cement floors, chalkboard, small tables, children writing. I was told about monthly contests for handwriting and poetry recitation. I was told events inspired the kids to do better as they compared themselves to how well others did and developed a sense of competetion. I kept trying to balance the idea of such academic focus with the developmental need to play and explore. Does copying the word twenty-nine really mean something when you're four? In trying to be careful not to view everything with an American ego, I wonder if there isn't something to pushing our children to BEGIN early and get started on the race of good grades and high marks and recitiation.
It wasn't long before images of my own students came to mind. The phone calls I get asking, "Ms. Soumah, what does it mean when they say infer?"
And.."What am I supposed to do for number 4? It says what do you think...?"
I'm not ready to give up my ideas of American education yet. So with these images I headed off to the Belgian school, reported to have a great pre-k program, albeit in French.
I was in not in great humor uppon arriving. I'd been disarmed by the previous school who told me Nabih would have to pass a test to get in (yeah, to preschool. But "I'm sure you can teach him what he needs to know..." If I could do this, I wouldn't be looking for a school. We talked about the social aspects and finally she clarified the test as one to establish a baseline but I was basically feeling hopeless.)
I arrived at the office and hazily comprehended the French instructions about admissions process. I asked if I could see a class and I got directions. To go. Alone. It seemed bizarre to me- a stranger, given the go ahead to walk around the campus, unaided.
In order to get to the maternelle side, I had first to pass through a locked gate by the security post. I stopped and peered into the first classroom I saw with an open door. Two teachers were painting at easles and behind them were the children. Wonderous children! Laughing, playing, imagining, creating, sitting-on-top-of-the-tables children. I breathed in the sight. It was familiar and comforting. A teacher noticed me and came to talk. I discovered they were preparing for a parent carnival and so all of the classes have gathered together this day and things were not running as usual. She offered to show me another classroom where I saw carpets, tables, paintings on the walls and TOYS. Lots of toys in plastic tubs and cubby compartments. I saw signs everywhere of living, breathing, thinking children. She was cheerful and bright as she explained the program. She attempted several times to connect with Nabih, who remained his surly self. As we departed, she remarked on his hair, "Tres kool."
I rode back home with happy visions of the wild school, the full of life school, the play and have fun while creating with new friends school. And I try to convert Euros to dollars. The wildlife academy quickly becomes the unaffordable academy. But I can't stop seeing the little girl sitting on top of the table, flying her lego plane through air. It's an image I can sleep with.
23.5.09
14.5.09
Summer Fever
The children have it bad. It is even infecting me. With only three weeks left to go, we're all dreaming of summer. Even as I take time to reflect, I am caught up in the changes that are swirling around us. The migration beings. This morning I received a letter indicating that this week would be the last week for a student. Today is Thursday. This week is practically over. I see tears forming just behind the eyes as I talk to her and try to determine excatly what the travel dates are.
This is the ritual. Late arrivals, early departures and all of it unexpected and sudden. Beyond control. Having just read "Third Culture Kids," I am aware that this is the culture we're talking about: a culture of constant change and inevitablity. It adds a completely new dimension to the experience of a school year. I have witnessed the skipping of social steps in order to form quicker, more intense friendships. No one has time for small talk. They've been through it all before.
This year I have taught the touchy-feelingest, footsie-playingest group of boys I think I will ever know. It has been difficult for me to balance the constant disruption of all their back patting, foot rubbing, shoulder poking behavior with what I recognize as their unabashed craving to be comforted. I've always noticed with admiration the way African men will grab each other by the arm or hold hands while walking with a close friend, but these are eleven year old boys that think nothing of giving each other shoulder rubs while watching the high school choir during an assembly. They walk arm in arm on the way to lunch as if they might not make it were they to attempt the journey alone.
Some of them have known each other for a few years, some met just this past August. They have found a way to support each other and to really live here and now. It has made some of our class events take on an even greater sense of importance. We are marking moments of time that will be forever remembered as, "When I lived in Kinshasa, I remember we..." It's like teaching school and summer camp all rolled into one. Only these kids don't have next summer's reunion to look forward to. When they say goodbye, it will most likely be forever.
I am closing this year with a real sense of accomplishment. It comes from our community service project, which had initially caused me so much grief because we could not provide a sustainable gift. I have received something more from this experience than I expected and I suspect it is what will sustain me to keep pursuing these kinds of experiences.
The project began with the students writing very funny skits- spoofs of traditional fairy tales with an environmental theme. The dinner theater was a great success. The plays went well, the kids served spaghetti and everyone enjoyed the cookies they baked for dessert. We raised a respectable amount of money.
I finally connected with the right people and we decided to spend half of the money on trees to help stop erosion at a local orphanage. The other half of the money would go towards clean water packets to be donated to children at Stand Proud (www.standproud.org)- an amazing organization that provides surgeries and braces for kids with missing or malformed limbs.
What has stunned me about my students is that, in just this last week, they have translated one of the plays into French and are going to perform it during the donation ceremony. Of course, we’ve yet to see how it will turn out, but it is their sheer confidence that dazzles me. Rewrite our play into another language? Perform it before 200+ people and be filmed while doing so? Give up our free time to practice and our Saturday to perform? Yeah, no problem. We can do it. We can do anything. And I believe them. This whole event seemed to get bigger than we wanted or anticipated. The company that has asked to film the event for use in advertising and promoting the PUR water packets is another exceptional organization (http://www.psi.org) working in Congo to provide health products to low income families at cost.
Working with the people at these two places and exposing my students to their capabilities of making real change has given me one small breath of hope and inspiration. Maybe I am doing something useful after all.
This is the ritual. Late arrivals, early departures and all of it unexpected and sudden. Beyond control. Having just read "Third Culture Kids," I am aware that this is the culture we're talking about: a culture of constant change and inevitablity. It adds a completely new dimension to the experience of a school year. I have witnessed the skipping of social steps in order to form quicker, more intense friendships. No one has time for small talk. They've been through it all before.
This year I have taught the touchy-feelingest, footsie-playingest group of boys I think I will ever know. It has been difficult for me to balance the constant disruption of all their back patting, foot rubbing, shoulder poking behavior with what I recognize as their unabashed craving to be comforted. I've always noticed with admiration the way African men will grab each other by the arm or hold hands while walking with a close friend, but these are eleven year old boys that think nothing of giving each other shoulder rubs while watching the high school choir during an assembly. They walk arm in arm on the way to lunch as if they might not make it were they to attempt the journey alone.
Some of them have known each other for a few years, some met just this past August. They have found a way to support each other and to really live here and now. It has made some of our class events take on an even greater sense of importance. We are marking moments of time that will be forever remembered as, "When I lived in Kinshasa, I remember we..." It's like teaching school and summer camp all rolled into one. Only these kids don't have next summer's reunion to look forward to. When they say goodbye, it will most likely be forever.
I am closing this year with a real sense of accomplishment. It comes from our community service project, which had initially caused me so much grief because we could not provide a sustainable gift. I have received something more from this experience than I expected and I suspect it is what will sustain me to keep pursuing these kinds of experiences.
The project began with the students writing very funny skits- spoofs of traditional fairy tales with an environmental theme. The dinner theater was a great success. The plays went well, the kids served spaghetti and everyone enjoyed the cookies they baked for dessert. We raised a respectable amount of money.
I finally connected with the right people and we decided to spend half of the money on trees to help stop erosion at a local orphanage. The other half of the money would go towards clean water packets to be donated to children at Stand Proud (www.standproud.org)- an amazing organization that provides surgeries and braces for kids with missing or malformed limbs.
What has stunned me about my students is that, in just this last week, they have translated one of the plays into French and are going to perform it during the donation ceremony. Of course, we’ve yet to see how it will turn out, but it is their sheer confidence that dazzles me. Rewrite our play into another language? Perform it before 200+ people and be filmed while doing so? Give up our free time to practice and our Saturday to perform? Yeah, no problem. We can do it. We can do anything. And I believe them. This whole event seemed to get bigger than we wanted or anticipated. The company that has asked to film the event for use in advertising and promoting the PUR water packets is another exceptional organization (http://www.psi.org) working in Congo to provide health products to low income families at cost.
Working with the people at these two places and exposing my students to their capabilities of making real change has given me one small breath of hope and inspiration. Maybe I am doing something useful after all.
5.5.09
31 flavors
I have been imploring my students for months to open with a good beginning, a hook. In the interest of practicing my own preachings, I set out to find a number....a large number, the estimated population of Kinshasa. I stumbled upon an amazing account of life in Kinshasa written by Mayamba Thierry NLANDU, Professor of English Literature at the University of Kinshasa (Congo) http://i-p-o.org/kinshasa.htm
5 to 7 million was the number I had been looking for. Apparently no one really knows how many people live in Kinshasa, sprawling as it is, desparate and uncountable thousands living in cramped and unknowable conditions. Professor Nlandu writes an accurate and intriguing account of the city's urban and suburban counterparts and their reaction to the environment they struggle against daily. He writes of the lively and expressive night life (of which I have only heard rumors...) and the role of violence and poverty. It seems a hopeless and dismal situation and he hides nothing. It seemed a fair portrait of a people who have travelled so far to overcome their history, though it might appear a stagnate pace to one ignorant of the journey.
Nlandu writes of a comparison between the urban and suburban dwellers of the city, and so perhaps a bit out of context, but inherently relevant, is his comment,
"Materially poor persons, all of them do 'not have' many things. That is why they should concentrate on the inner strength of their 'being' to retain a feeling of human dignity."
And to think I was just going to write about going out for an ice cream. Because that's what was on my mind. I joined the FB network, initially to try and entice readers here. I've since come to see it is pure expression that keeps this blog rolling and, while readers make me feel validated and even interesting, it is not an essential component for posting. I publish because I must.
FB has become an altogether different kind of outlet, a place for small talk and cryptic messages. Once in awhile, the two collide. Because, as I've written, we are feeling an effort at maintaining our human dignity here. We want simple things like cold cereal and ice cream. It was with determination that I vowed to bring the boys out to the new ice cream shop, even if it cost more than our monthly grocery bill. Just once, we were going to have some fun.
The FB part of me says, yeah, tres kool- great new spot in Kin-city. And it is. New and clean with walls of a deep, purple mauve reminiscent of blackberry ice cream. Silver chrome stools lined up along a counter and mirrored backdrops hanging behind a soft cushioned booth. Pale green chairs and tables complimenting the walls in the way only a sock-hop, cone-shop could. The flat screen TV, however, breaks the innocence with its explicit images of music video lust and illusion. This is Kinshasa, after all.
We enjoyed our cones wrapped in dripping, soggy napkins. The boys wished they could try every flavor and I watched with interest the families and couples that came through the door, eager, like us, to feel something akin to 'normal.' A simple pleasure, a quick treat.
But in Congo, its always more than that. Two worlds collide. Outside the door awaits the ever present security. An impressive guard, this one I saw. Tall, uniformed and active. Very active. The gangs of kids just outside the parking lot, on the small, narrow street band together in their hunger. They take bold steps towards patrons leaving the shop and try to outwit the guard by dividing into teams and flanking opposite sides of the cars. It is not so much the physical need that motivates them but an inner hunger, that seeking for human dignity Nlandu writes of.
It is this agony and desperation, cultivated through no error of their own, that invades my ability to enjoy a quiet evening. It is palpable in the air, vivid in their eyes and screaming in their actions. It is such an overwhelming feeling of unjust and incomprehension. I see it. I hear their silent question repeated so often it unleashes a furious righteousness. Why? Why do they have so much when we have nothing? Why do they eat colorful ice creams and drive away in shiny cars while we tour these streets in mismatched shoes and ragged clothes? Why them and not us?
There's no answer. After our treat, we went to the river. There is a quiet, peaceful place by the embassy residences where many families come to walk, ride bikes and take a casual stroll. It has, again, a feeling of harmony and well being. For the etranger, it is a nostalgic feeling of home, where one could walk safely down a street or let their children loose on tricycles and scooters. The houses are well built and maintained. The roads- impeccable, no sign of erosion in sight.
5 to 7 million was the number I had been looking for. Apparently no one really knows how many people live in Kinshasa, sprawling as it is, desparate and uncountable thousands living in cramped and unknowable conditions. Professor Nlandu writes an accurate and intriguing account of the city's urban and suburban counterparts and their reaction to the environment they struggle against daily. He writes of the lively and expressive night life (of which I have only heard rumors...) and the role of violence and poverty. It seems a hopeless and dismal situation and he hides nothing. It seemed a fair portrait of a people who have travelled so far to overcome their history, though it might appear a stagnate pace to one ignorant of the journey.
Nlandu writes of a comparison between the urban and suburban dwellers of the city, and so perhaps a bit out of context, but inherently relevant, is his comment,
"Materially poor persons, all of them do 'not have' many things. That is why they should concentrate on the inner strength of their 'being' to retain a feeling of human dignity."
And to think I was just going to write about going out for an ice cream. Because that's what was on my mind. I joined the FB network, initially to try and entice readers here. I've since come to see it is pure expression that keeps this blog rolling and, while readers make me feel validated and even interesting, it is not an essential component for posting. I publish because I must.
FB has become an altogether different kind of outlet, a place for small talk and cryptic messages. Once in awhile, the two collide. Because, as I've written, we are feeling an effort at maintaining our human dignity here. We want simple things like cold cereal and ice cream. It was with determination that I vowed to bring the boys out to the new ice cream shop, even if it cost more than our monthly grocery bill. Just once, we were going to have some fun.
The FB part of me says, yeah, tres kool- great new spot in Kin-city. And it is. New and clean with walls of a deep, purple mauve reminiscent of blackberry ice cream. Silver chrome stools lined up along a counter and mirrored backdrops hanging behind a soft cushioned booth. Pale green chairs and tables complimenting the walls in the way only a sock-hop, cone-shop could. The flat screen TV, however, breaks the innocence with its explicit images of music video lust and illusion. This is Kinshasa, after all.
We enjoyed our cones wrapped in dripping, soggy napkins. The boys wished they could try every flavor and I watched with interest the families and couples that came through the door, eager, like us, to feel something akin to 'normal.' A simple pleasure, a quick treat.
But in Congo, its always more than that. Two worlds collide. Outside the door awaits the ever present security. An impressive guard, this one I saw. Tall, uniformed and active. Very active. The gangs of kids just outside the parking lot, on the small, narrow street band together in their hunger. They take bold steps towards patrons leaving the shop and try to outwit the guard by dividing into teams and flanking opposite sides of the cars. It is not so much the physical need that motivates them but an inner hunger, that seeking for human dignity Nlandu writes of.
It is this agony and desperation, cultivated through no error of their own, that invades my ability to enjoy a quiet evening. It is palpable in the air, vivid in their eyes and screaming in their actions. It is such an overwhelming feeling of unjust and incomprehension. I see it. I hear their silent question repeated so often it unleashes a furious righteousness. Why? Why do they have so much when we have nothing? Why do they eat colorful ice creams and drive away in shiny cars while we tour these streets in mismatched shoes and ragged clothes? Why them and not us?
There's no answer. After our treat, we went to the river. There is a quiet, peaceful place by the embassy residences where many families come to walk, ride bikes and take a casual stroll. It has, again, a feeling of harmony and well being. For the etranger, it is a nostalgic feeling of home, where one could walk safely down a street or let their children loose on tricycles and scooters. The houses are well built and maintained. The roads- impeccable, no sign of erosion in sight.
I do enjoy our walk. I enjoy sitting on the grass and talking with a friend while my boys climb trees and roll down a hill. I enjoy it because I must. It is a break from the constant sense of need that follows me whenever I go beyond the gates. But I cannot stop my own questions from rolling through my mind. I cannot stop my own anger and furious frustration.
If it can be built here, why not everywhere? Why is the suitable only developed for the elite? My mind cries with anguish at the images of an Africa living up to her potential, an Africa built to maintain the human dignity of her people. I can imagine the magnificence of such a place, more difficult to see is the road leading up to it.
Kinshasa the lush and green and plentiful. Well, at least from this perspective.
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