A christmas story

They came bearing gifts. I saw two of my street children this afternoon counting a handful of money as they made their way over to me. It couldn't have been more than 500 francs or so, made up of fifties and hundreds.

"Ah, so it is you who are rich today," I greeted them.
"Oui madame," the older boy replied as he handed me 200 franc. I graciously accepted in exchange for my bag of peanut butter sandwiches, chicken and the ever present mayi.

I have heard the saying that giving to street children and beggars only encourages them to continue. If you have read previous posts, you know I have struggled with this a bit- along with the concept of sustainable change. Both these ideas seem to discourage a small, daily kind of giving in favor only of those things that can make grand, lasting change. Those ideas seem to encourage NGO's and others who want their line of work to continue (though I've yet to witness any far reaching changes. To be sure, the dents they make are small and localized. I don't see much difference between that and what I am doing- making small change for a very few people.)


But today, on this holiday that is not mine and yet somehow belongs to everyone, it seems I have received a gift of my own. The surprising offer of those 200 francs makes us more than even I believe.

Water like Gold

I brought them hotdogs and they asked for water. Bringing food to Kazadi several times a day- as one must do with the hospitals here- has me driving up and down the boulevard a lot. I've decided I can no longer continue to drive past the children sitting in the middle of the road just by Mercedes Circle. They are there all day and night begging handouts from the cars who stop at the newly installed red light. Reminiscing about this post, I have since become determined to drive with sandwiches, maybe an occasional chicken and now- water. Because while I've been busy fretting that they are hungry, I never considered their thirst.

For my second trip downtown, I loaded the car with bottled water and a few hard boiled eggs. The boys know me now and ran over to my car (as I held my breath while they dodged traffic getting there. I'll be honing up on my Lingala for "look both ways" and "don't rush, I'll wait for you.") I let them know it was only water this time and they seemed as happy as if I were giving them gold.

Later on that night, (my third trip down to pick up a stranded Ousmane) the kids surrounded my car with happy thumbs up. As I relayed the story to Ousmane, wondering now-as always- where they will sleep, he appeared incredulous. They will go home.

We had a quick conversation about child sorcerers and how many kids have been thrown out of their houses. They have nowhere to return to. Ousmane made me tell the story again so he could try to understand. As if there could be any comprehension. Kin is a wild, wild place.

It was at the very same infamous stop light that we had just witnessed a near robbery. A guy on the street tried to grab the bag off a motorcyclist. He was pulling hard and running along behind it as the motorcyclist took off. Luckily, the biker got away without being pulled off his moto or swerving into traffic. One of the small boys had huddled close to my car as he turned in amazement (and fear?) to watch the spectacle.

But I remain steadfast in my belief that not all the street kids have been so swayed. I have had the chance to meet Gene, who is a bit older than my new friends at Mercedes Circle. Gene hangs out by the hospital. He "parks cars" -something many young boys do in hopes of earning a few franc for "watching the car" while you shop.  I have seen him occasionally before because the hospital happens to be just across from one my favorite stores. Now we have been formally introduced.

I don't really know what I can do for Gene so, for the moment, we are stuck at spare francs and a handshake. Improving my Lingala would certainly go a long way towards communication. I wonder how Gene spends his nights. And while I realize I haven't really made any lasting difference, sometimes I think calling someone by name and offering a bit of respect is a beginning. Who knows where it will lead.....praying for guidance on this one. 

souvenirs

the world is fragile
with these eyes
fresh from visions
of destruction
the ripped and bleeding flesh
has seared its image
in my mind

bits of broken plastic
shards of glass glittering
on the cement
souvenirs of the impact
remains that will slowly erode
with time
as my vision returns
to its calloused state
only the scars
will be left behind
to remind us of how fragile
the world can suddenly
become

Post election lock down

I generally wake every morning to a certain bird that has a very distinctive call and the far away sounds of city destinations being called out by taxi bus money collectors. "Zando......Zando..." they sing, letting everyone know they are heading off to the large market downtown.

This Saturday morning it seemed even the birds were quiet.  Cars could be heard rolling smoothly down the street but no calls from taxis. Apparently public transportation was suspended, though police continued to roam the streets rounding people up.  Though Russia seems to be having similar election woes, DRC is not fairing so well with international attention. No one seems to really get it. (Or rather, they get it and are stubbornly looking out for their own best interests.)


We've been restricted to campus, which I guess in the big picture is a much larger and nicer place to be than some US Embassy personnel restricted to their homes. However the first notice, at the beginning of last week, left me with an odd rebellious streak. My inner 14 year old coming out I guess. I spent lots of time pondering about the effects of walking out the front gate and trying to determine the best method for scaling the barbed wire wall.

Now that they've actually announced the results we all knew were coming, I agree there is not much reason to go out there. Half the Congolese are staying in their homes as well. Its become more than just a police state. The military are reported to be on every corner and the police are armed with the latest in defensive and offensive gear (gifts from the USA apparently.)

But a huge part of me continues to wonder. Who is out there to witness what is going on? How can things really change if everyone remains locked in fear hiding behind the flimsy doors of their homes or fleeing on precarious ferries across to neighboring countries? How can the international community really pretend that the vote was fair and the will of the people is being enacted? Of course, I know the answers to these questions (money, power and greed,) but it remains a source of frustration to say the least.

Our compound was dubbed the cruise ship and teachers planned a plethora of activities including sports every day, poker nights, movie nights and a variety of potluck dinners. Time off from school (added to the confinement on campus) always leaves my mind reeling so I attended very few of these events. I felt guilty enough heading off to the pool with the kids (avoidance of warfare in our very home made this a necessity.) Though most of my Congolese friends report being tucked safely in their abodes, there is still one I haven't been able to contact.

YouTube and twitter abound with videos of demonstrations taking place outside the country along with simple reports from those locked within:

"It looks like they are preparing for war but against who? People are filled with fear - 2 police officers are in front of my house."

"The police are everywhere, the army is on every corner, the Presidential Guard is armed to the teeth."

Protests have broken out in London, DC, Brussels, France and South Africa. The Carter Center has finally released a report stating that elections lack credibility but there seems little hope that this will have any real effect. SMS capabilities have not been restored and the quiet, empty streets (for the most part) seem directly related to the heavy police presence. How long can they stay out there and what will happen when they finally get the order to go back home?

A small series of adventures

Quest for a canvas- adventure #1

School has been closed for days. We had an extra long Thanksgiving weekend due to the Nov. 28 elections and now, due to the government SMS shut down, we are experiencing another near week off from school. Of course, local reaction to the results leaves everything up in the air and open to change. We could be home for awhile. That leaves me with plenty of time to paint….and I even have a fresh new canvas to contemplate. 

Obtaining the materials for that constituted something of an adventure- back when adventures could happen (aka before post-election lock down.) It began with asking one of the artists teaching an after school program to bring me a frame and some raw canvas….apparently called calico here. I begrudgingly gave him the money for the frame, a price I thought was exorbitantly inflated.  Of course, he reminded me I could remove the finished painting and stretch a new canvas on it thereby making it endlessly re-useable- if rendering my completed piece unhangable. We discussed the price to no avail as he convinced me that I didn’t have the saw to cut my own wood (or even any wood to cut if I did happen to have a saw somewhere—no garage in Kinshasa filled with rusty tools or scrap pieces from a long ago do-it-yourself project) or the ability to fix all the pieces together (after close inspection of my frame, I still cannot discern the secret to keeping the pieces together.)  Thus having clearly laid out the details of my helplessness, he didn’t waiver in his $15 fee. And I had no choice to pay it. But I wasn’t happy.

We moved on to the discussion of the canvas….and another outrageous quote. I tried to justify the fee to myself by thinking about the hours I would spend trudging up and down the rue de commerce, going into every fabric store in search of calico. The rue de commerce seems a herculean effort to me and it was an easy sell. But then he returned with double what I had asked for and requested more cash. My patience worn out, I tried to explain all of my budget constraints (no, I can’t really spend a week’s worth of grocery money on canvas just for myself) and this time I held firm in refusing to pay. Mostly I just didn’t like the fact that I felt like I was being corralled into paying too much for something that I could find for myself. So much for my previous justification and my weariness about facing the infamous rue.

But I was now in command of a frame and some canvas ….next step- gesso. I figured I could easily track this down as I had heard the artist himself refer to it as gesso…though with a slightly softer and more slurred “g.” I remembered seeing a brightly colored paint store in Kintambo and figured that would be a good starting place. “Store” is really a large word for what I found in actuality. Upon stepping into the doorway, I was faced with a counter. Behind it were shelves full of paint containers, some already opened and hand mixed. I was given the option of latex….which didn’t sound quite like gesso. After some discussion about the use of this paint, I was directed to a small market just after Bandal, some 15 minutes or so from where I was. Turns out the “market” was actually another version of the rue. 

This one boasted a larger street (paved, 2 lanes, lots of traffic) and seemed to me to be the commercial district for plumbing, painting and toilets.  Most of the stores looked like garages with the entire front open and men sitting on chairs alongside coiled plumbing wires and sinks. I made my way to a crowded section smelling of toxins and loaded with women and charcoal cookers. Explosive dangers aside, I contemplated paint stands overflowing with milk cans- no need for labels as the colors dripped down the side turning pastoral cows into blue and orange washed out versions of their former selves. 

People called from every direction eager to sell me all sorts of fabrications. I stepped up to one counter and, after some discussion about which color I wanted (gesso is normally available only in white- clue #1 that they might not have exactly what I was searching for)  was led  down a long, dark crowded hallway and around a corner. “Go in, go in,” they implored as I made my way over saturated rags and suspicious barrels into an office filled with dusty desks and grime covered windows. I surveyed the inventory with a fire marshall ’s horror. It seemed likely to spontaneously combust at any moment. As they offered to mix something up according to my specifications, I could see the dollar signs flashing in their eyes. No, I am not a chemist and barely certain what makes gesso preferable over ordinary white paint, but vowed to find out as soon as I could get to the nearest google station. (Gesso is thicker, lasts longer and is a mixture of plaster, glue whiting and paint which makes for better absorbency and texture.) 

I finally called the artist to find out exactly what gesso is known as here on the streets of Kinshasa. Veneer blanc. He told me he usually purchases it at a shop downtown. So, back into the taxi bus and off to the opposite side of town (closer to where I had started, of course, where all good adventures begin.)  

Another circular tale…..adventure #2

I realize I may not have written of this perfectly ridiculous adventure and have been amiss in not sharing it with you. It began, as most great adventures do, with an erroneous sense of direction and purpose. I had set out to pick up Guy from a friend’s house. I was armed with a telephone number and street address. I even had a hand drawn map with familiar sounding street names. I felt confident of success. I set out duly following the arrows and making left turns where indicated. 

It wasn’t long before I stopped and began to ask for directions. This becomes an adventure in itself. Some people are unable to help and just point off down the road. Other people eagerly call in women and men from their stands, beckoning them over and enlisting advice from what becomes small crowds of bystanders. Inevitably, they will discuss among themselves and finally report back to me with a point and a shooing off motion (very similar to the first type of direction helper, only with more drama and fanfare.)

All requests always end with something like, “just go straight and ask some more people down there.” My search for Avenue de Fleuve (conspicuously named Avenue of the River- an easy enough landmark to find) was one that led me completely down Avenue Justice, around the government buildings and then back to the embassies housing section, located far too close to the beginning of my journey than the map allowed. A friendly group of older men had warned me that the Avenue de Fleuve was broken up into several non-connecting sections and so I should be careful to notice house numbers. An even friendlier street vendor offered to accompany me (and sell me some of his art during the drive.) I graciously declined.

I continued my pattern of drive a bit and ask a bit. I even began to call the house where Guy was to see if someone there could assist with directions. He (predictably) told me to ask someone on the street. At about this time I had been driving for nearly 45 minutes and found myself on a dark, deserted road with the river to my right and large, imposing and unfriendly houses to my left. “But there is no one to ask,” I responded. “Is your house near the embassy housing?”  This is when the directions began to go very wrong. “Just ask for Jean Pierre Bemba’s house. Then you will find us.” Who? Bemba, as in the guy at the Hague? Really?

I felt quite ridiculous asking for his house on these dark city streets. I knew it deep and true that I was far from my intended destination.  A security guards and a policeman standing on the corner looked like a hopeful (or maybe desperate) alternative. I had the friend’s father on the phone again and the security guard began a conversation with him. This conversation was then transferred to the policeman who was encouraged to join me in the car. We were to follow the road (straight!) and after making a left hand turn, ask around a bit. Frustration engulfed me and, seeing that the officer had no weapons, I accepted the proposal. We drove back in the direction I had initially come from, closer to where the hand drawn map had indicated. We asked a lot of people. We turned around a few times. We even called the house once more.

Before I knew it, we were back to looking for one Mr. Jean Pierre Bemba’s house on Avenue Justice. Although my rational mind knew it could not be this complicated, a surreal sense of timelessness and spacelessness had taken over. I was no longer on the streets of Kinshasa but hovering above in some sort of warped science fiction strand of the universe where left was up and right was down and there was nothing in between. We finally arrived at JPM’s house and made yet another call. “I can’t see you outside,” the mother remarked. “I don’t see the car.” I tried to explain it was because I had not yet arrived but clearly we were suffering some kind of communication malfunction that language alone could never transcend.

Somehow we were eventually able to make the arrangement to meet at the gas station on Justice just after the Supreme Court.  The friend’s father showed up (without Guy) only to tell me he would be back in one minute. He had to drop someone off or pick something up. I was left there feeling I’d already made an enormous imposition on the policeman’s time and wondering why the man had not simply brought my child to the meeting place. I continued to hover in the Just Above Reality space.  

Finally he returned and we followed him to his house, a mere seconds away. I parked outside and met him in the interior parking area reserved for residents. As we made our way to the elevator he asked me if I had been in Kinshasa long. “This is my fourth year, “ I replied.

“And you don’t know your way around here yet?” I stared incredulously at the back of his head, practicing my deep breathing and patience building techniques. I ratcheted it up a notch when his wife made the same comment.  

In the end, it took me nearly 2 ½ hours to find this house, return the ever gentile policeman and make my way home. Here are the new directions, and estimated travel time, as I have been able to reconstruct them:

  Follow Avenue Justice to the gas station after the Supreme Court ( note the change here from someone’s personal house to a major landmarked building. Of course, I think there is only one gas station on Justice anyway.) Turn left at the station and make your first right. (20 minutes.)

I am overwhelmed by the simplicity of it all. I must have spoken to thirty people that night and called the inhabitants themselves at least five times.  No one ever said, Go straight. Make a left. Make a right. No one ever said, Supreme Court.  I have no feelings to sum up that ride. It was one of those adventures that we watch ourselves participating in and maybe even narrate for ourselves along the way, trying to guess the outcome as a reader might with an enthralling mystery novel.  The ending was nothing like what I had imagined at the beginning.

Enfant sans langue

I've been initiated encore. It seems there is no end to the initiation rites here in Congo. I've weathered my first middle school conferences and I can say they left me feeling worlds away from elementary school. I usually spend the year with my 5th graders prepping them for the hectic and perhaps impersonal world of middle school. I tell my parents that this is the last year of the "mother hen" syndrome where one teacher can coach and coddle and gently ease the student into independence. I rage on about the horrors of homework piling up from multiple classes and try to instill all sorts of organizational habits in my young fledglings.

But the truth is, I have been elementary teacher for most of my years and so I am only half way sure if my rantings are true. But now I walk away with the proof.  Partial proof to be fair. In elementary we have the luxury of being concerned with the whole child. Examining background and previous experiences helps us to determine learning styles, areas of strength and potential challenges. Being the teacher of all subjects allows us to pull in strengths from other disciplines and make connections for the child so he or she can see how one subject might be similar to another (yes! bring those math skills into learning how to count in French - 80 is really just 4 twenties.)

But in middle school compartmentalization begins. One class requires a completely different set of skills and behavior patterns than another. The student is left on their own to make comparisons and draw conclusions of similarity. Which probably works out all right for most. But hasn't the new swing of education brought us away form reaching "most" of the children and tailoring our instruction to meet all children? I know these are the troubles that plague me into the night. Not the majority of my class, but that one student. What am I going to do to make things accessible for him or her? How am I going to turn this material into something he or she can grab onto and find meaning in?

The report card was average. It was not a surprise to me. I know we (parent and child) are working on some things. Some of them rather serious deficits. So I planned to approach the conferences in terms of finding out what specific skills we could improve upon that would make a difference overall. I also planned to have a chance to explain some of the background difficulties that we are facing.

French was our first stop. The worst grade and the most important skill needed. Because in our life, I have witnessed a tragedy. My son is coming from a childhood where French was the second language and continues to be a prominent language in his family of non English speakers.  Somewhere along the way he lost both his maternal tongue and his small bit of French, leaving it virtually impossible for him to communicate with his biological  mother and family.  I see he is now left with only his incomplete and often hazardous English. He uses words like "thingy" a lot. Expressing himself is  a challenge compounded by other delays and physical impairments suffered in childhood. In infancy he suffered head trauma and I have always believed this affected the area of language. Add that to the tumultuous teenage years when appearance is everything and we end up with a quiet boy who thinks a lot and speaks out tentatively. But in middle school they didn't seem very interested in hearing about this. It wasn't about the whole child and how we could help to compensate for some very real challenges. In my class we memorize.

After passing a weekend where I had begun to overhear more French phrases and attempt to communicate with his uncle and younger brothers in French, I was feeling pretty encouraged. I was ready to applaud his effort and look at some real strategies for improving upon this. What I found was in stark and startling contrast to this. We were told he puts out no effort and doesn't try. He just needs to memorize. I attempted to point out that memorizing was definitely not a strong point. I attempted to explain some of the language difficulties that I have noticed for years. My pleas fell on deaf ears. And more than that I was told I was not doing my job as a parent to teach him these things at home. Because, after all, the teacher had done her job in the classroom and all the other kids could do it.
I attempted to point out that not all children learn the same and are not coming from the same physiological or experiential backgrounds.

We continued our debate getting nowhere. There was some definite miscommunication. I wasn't asking for different expectations but a different approach to learning. I was asking for my child to be seen as an individual and treated as such in the classroom. To be noticed for his strengths and encouraged in his efforts. I wanted his fears recognized and allayed. I wanted the classroom to be a safe learning environment. And above all, I didn't want this to turn into one of those experiences that drives a child to hate an idea simply because he was not supported in his learning. This is one area that is too important. In recognition of the futility of our conversation, I was left with these parting words, "Madame, laisse moi tranquille."

I feel good in saying that the rest of my conferences did not go this way at all. With tears of frustration I made my way around the room talking to other teachers, hearing his strengths and making plans for improvement. I am happy to say he was able to hear that he is smart, has great ideas, has shown more effort and should strive to be a "B" student or even an "A." I heard encouragement and support. I even heard a couple of mother and father hens offering their time and acceptance of questions. We talked strategy and uncovered hidden feelings that were preventing full participation. From the rest of those conferences, we left with insight and a clear direction.

But into the evening, I still realize the sting of being told I am not doing my job. I didn't try enough, wasn't involved enough. And I wonder how my child can sit in a classroom like that each day, afraid to ask a question or try a new word for fear of doing it wrong or being called out for his lack of proficiency.

We talked a lot afterward, he and I, about our own personal goals for French. About the connection to family and culture. I tried to rejuvenate his desire and let him know the effort I had seen at home. I try to tell myself that one small portion of his day can be weathered and overcome by what we do at home. I suppose I can view it as one glimpse into the harsh world to come......but do I really have to? Surely it can be a different way. We made our plans and set our own goals and I will try to hold onto these as I watch him grow, a child without a complete language to call his own.