Nothing Beautiful

It wouldn't be a vacation without a trip to the beach and so a mom friend and I, ever in search of ways to amuse the children and fill up endless days of sameness with something different, headed out for a day of fun in the waves and sun.  A ride across the new bridge was a bonus.

Turns out the bridge wasn't the only new sight in store. The road to Bassam was littered with debris. A grand project in destruction was underway- the first step in construction, to be sure but forever the question at what cost? It would feel so much more like real progress if those whose businesses and homes were destroyed directly benefitted from whatever newness took its place. Driving past the ruins left me in a sour mood for the beach. I felt, illogically, as though my touristy beach endeavor was somehow contributing to the mess.

Kilometers and kilometers of concrete broken into rubble

Man vs. man- woven furniture for sale among the ruins

100 pictures wouldn't really show the devastation

You have to know what was there before
to truly comprehend what's missing

A shell of a stand left, or hastily built back up

All that's left of stores and restaurants and crafty shops

Looks like the wreckage from a hurricane (Andrew, yes,
I remember seeing miles of this in South Florida)

Oversize billboards breaking out of their frame, typical C'I style
This one marks the end of the construction zone and the official
entrance to Grand Bassam

A glance at the opposite side of the street gives a clue to the masses of storefronts that have been razed on the other side. Surely they weren't much too look at but without doubt they provided the means for food and shelter to plenty. Where have they all gone?

I don't have the inside story on this one, though random people could be seen wandering amidst the ruins. Some gazing out at the ocean, some sifting through the remains and others appeared to be just taking it all in, similar to the survivors of natural disasters, walking around in shock and awe. Though in this case it was not the hand of Mother Nature to be marveled at but the will of Father Man. 

Grand Bassam is a sleepy town with an artistic edge. I was transported back to my days in Key West or Woodstock. It was a cozy, comforting feel that made me want to find a place and settle in, wander the streets and become a regular. Get my art on. 

The buildings have a definite colonial design, many in stages of disrepair, hollow shells of their former glory. They are at once majestic and mysterious, ominous in what they hint to in the past. I wondered aloud at the history of the town and my friend remarked on a building she'd heard was used in the slave trade. The sound of crashing waves made the images in my mind come to life. Later on, as I looked out across the ocean to the distant horizon, I hovered between the present world and the past with pain in my heart. 

I wondered at how the buildings could even be left standing and how the residents could continue their daily lives with such gruesome reminders of tribulations gone by. Searching online for the history of the town hasn't given many clues. Apparently named a world heritage site, complete with striking photos, but not many details. Former French capital, trading post and port. That's all it says. I guess we are left to infer what was being traded. 

The UNESCO site is even more cryptic, referring to a multiethnic capital with complex, yet harmonious, social relations and 'principals of hygiene' used in the town planning. Not enough details about what this means to satisfy curiosity or provide a clear history of the area. This post includes one small comment that lets me know I am not alone in wondering if the buildings aren't a bane on current residents. Phrases like "historical significance" and "French colonial charm" baffle me. From my current knowledge base, minimal to low for certain, I cannot imagine anything charming or significant(ly worth saving) from colonial rule.

Obviously it is time for me to get my history on. And while a part of me gets the idea that preserving places from the past is important, and about more than just the pretty moments, I felt that same anger and revulsion I had during early tours of Kinshasa that highlighted Stanley's "discoveries" and the old, old church -Sims church. My rejection stems from the fact that I want to know more about the African history of these places, the African developments and importance. Impossible to extricate. The European history in Africa is oft times the only history to find. But what of those who were there before? First and always? 

Needless to say, my trip to the beach lost most of its charm to these thoughts. The rough breaking waves were a good fit for my confusion and melancholy. 

And the only bright spot to my research? This gem of an institution which makes me want to overhaul my resume yet again in hopes of finding a good fit on the faculty here. 

In the end, the ocean experience made both boys' grateful lists, which in turn made me grateful. A little bit of pleasure for them and a mind full of things to contemplate for me = a day well spent.

Eerie shell of a house

If all those haunted houses could be made into
houses of art, maybe some healing could occur

The empty beach everyone is writing about

Rough waves make the boys happy and fit my mood

Nothing beautiful about this horse on the beach. The riders
tap him with the switch all day. 

Mid afternoon the empty beach came alive

Soccer partners and good waves is pretty much all
 Mohamed needs to make his grateful list

Strong Girl

Having a baby in the house has touched us all. It has been especially endearing to watch the big brothers respond to their new little one. They have felt the satisfaction of putting her to sleep (and the resulting indignation when someone makes a loud noise capable of waking her.) They are infinitely curious about what milestones are coming next and when she will be able to reciprocate their outward signs of love.

They make constant observations of her progress that would no doubt impress Piaget. Mohamed has been testing her ability to turn to sound and 'training' her to turn his way when he calls. Unfortunately, he had been insisting on calling her Khadija for the first few months of life so any progress he made was probably also confusing for her.  Truthfully, we call her all sorts of pet names- mostly food (I've even made up a song that includes all the cutsie food names I can think of) and bunny. I call her bunny so often that Nabih has picked up the habit as well. I don't know where this comes from and there is no reason I can pinpoint. Not sure where the tradition of calling babies after food comes from either, though the fact that they are simply delicious might be one natural reason. Sweet pea, pumpkin, cupcake, peanut, muffin....

Mohamed is also the one often to notice new abilities. "She fusses now if you take away her toy." He added a "here, watch' which made me laugh and admonish him at the same time. "Don't make her cry on purpose," I said, even if I admired the research aspect of his intentions just a little.

We've spent a lot of time waiting for her to be able to smile, to laugh, to grab things with intention. We've tested her to see if she has favorite toys and favorite places to be. Mohamed's other observations include realizing that she feels 'safer' at home and tends to coo and goo more often than when we go out to visit friends. With each small progress the boys set their sights higher. "When will she be able to sit up by herself?" "When will she be able to crawl?"

As much as they might like to hurry things along, I am in no rush. I am trying to memorize every sweet baby moment knowing how fast and fleeting and forgettable they are. It's also in good keeping with my constant struggles to remain in and enjoy the present moment.

I really love watching the boys watch her. I love their interest and predictions and amazement over everything she does. And I love watching her too. The latest development is rolling over. She's quick as lightning now but I managed to snap a few photos of her first efforts. They were truly efforts. I tried hard to recall this kind of effort from the other babies but I just don't remember it. Surely it was as magical, surely it was as celebrated but I find it a little sad that it's no longer as crystal clear to me.

So, sharing this one with a few photos. "Strong Girl," a series in the effort of attaining movement. Not just rolling over but lifting up her head and getting that toy in just the right position for munching on.

Reaching

A careful study

I'm just gonna lay my head down for a minute. Small break.

I really do like those dots.

The blanket- hinderance or help?

Hanging halfway with my favorite

Looks good, right?

Except my arm is stuck

And my head is kind of heavy

Got my arm out but now I can't actually reach my toy
and still keep my head up

Stop cheering me on Mom, and help, won't you?

You're right. I am a strong girl.

I can do it myself. Oh, the satisfaction.

I Don't Want to Be a Fish

Moving is hard. It makes the top three in this article, along with job loss, both of which have occurred recently in my life. I am completely capable of feeling simultaneously like it shouldn't be so hard and like it's way harder for me than anyone else. I long for Kinshasa the way one longs for a lover after a break up. I remember only the good, never the bad and I see all the ways I let it go wrong, not the dreams I had for the future. I miss my friends and the cozy routines even though both had begun to wear me out.

I've spent some time trying to figure out how to describe this move and I keep imagining a big empty house. Pile all of your things in the middle of a room and then live for six months. Imagine the disorder. Add three kids to the mix and imagine the chaos. Small worries but worries nonetheless.

Several days have passed since I have started writing this and in that time I have actually gotten some things hung up on the walls. Ever closer to cozy-hood. Vacation has also occurred, lending to a slightly more relaxed inner atmosphere. Mostly.

There are plenty of days and moments when I am left questioning and reflecting on the shape of things, decisions I've made and ones others have made that directly affect me. Forever in search of understanding and developing 20/20 hindsight before I need it (20/20 pre-sight, I guess.)

Weighing the options before me had me considering the old adage about whether it is better to be a big fish in a little pond or a little fish in a big pond, each having it's merits. It stands to reason it is most comfortable to be the fish you have always been and changing either the size of the pond or the size of the fish is bound to bring on some discomfort.

I was washing dishes and trying to find some way out of the cycle of it all. Think outside the box, I reminded myself. And that's when I figured it out. I don't want to be a fish at all.

Believing in Magic

She wants my photo. Two of them. My neighbor, the screenwriter, has requested a full body shot and a head shot. For the proposal I am guessing. I have put her off a few times and wonder how long it will last. Every time I see her lately she brings it up.  I don't want to give them to her and I can't really explain why. What do I think is going to come of my photos? And is my reluctance motivated by fear?

I have been the subject, victim?, of the reverse photo bomb long before it became a media catch phrase.  In Lubumbashi I remember some visitors to the guest house I was staying at strategically placing themselves for a picture so I would be in the background.  Somewhat amusing at the time, essentially harmless. Another time I was enjoying the sun on a rock near the Congo river when some passersby  requested a quick snap. I agreed but then felt odd, wondering long after what they would do with their photo of the strange white woman.

The topic has made social media rounds with the slogan children are not tourist attractions. In Kinshasa, taking photos without, and sometimes even with, permission can lead to aggressive confrontations. I have no way to rationalize my reluctance to hand over my photos. Except to say it is the Congo in me.

Evading the Principal's Office with a Good Rain

He lifted his hand to his chin, where his mouth had fallen open, and shook his head in disbelief. He didn't close his eyes for the final dramatic touch, but he didn't need to. I was already afraid. The only thing that could save me now was a good rain. As of this writing, I'm still waiting.

For weeks I'd been noticing the large cement wall of the basketball court. One side faces in to form a cozy covered court area leaving the outer side exposed to the playground. It is one of the first things you see when coming down the hill towards the gym. It has about 2 meters of rocks between it and a smaller, mid sized wall. The rocks and the low wall make it an inviting place for kids to have a snack and play a few games with friends. It's also part of the rounds I make during my recreation supervision duty. I noticed the wall for two reasons.

First because a huge empty wall is just the kind of thing I notice. I imagine murals and graffiti and hours of painting fun. I see themed scenes and random designs, large splashes of color and inviting patches of texture.

Second because the wall is attractive to kids, too. I'd been watching them try to scratch designs onto the surface with the little pebbles scattered about. A huge box of colored chalk in the 'reserve' had caught my eye. The artist in me wanted to nurture the artist in them. So I sought permission to bring out some colored chalk and let the kids draw. "Sure," the director said amicably enough. "And a good rain will just wash it away, right?"

That was last week. Today was my first opportunity to try it out. I didn't have much more of a plan than putting the chalk in a bucket and handing it out. Collect it at the end. I did have enough sense to remind them they were at school and to encourage "jolie chose."

I'd forgotten how much they like to write their names and tag each other. While I'd been imagining flowers, animals, houses and people, they were all busy making the dreaded 'S.' A few did manage to sneak in some pretty cool cartoon guys and complex design patterns but they were mostly lost amidst the writings and scribblings of 30 or  40 kids.

The dreaded S. Why do kids
everywhere think it is so cool?

I invited a few girls from my class to begin and another teacher on duty quickly told them to stop.  I went to let her know I had gotten permission from the director. She acquiesced but didn't really seem to believe me. The students' reactions also bordered on panic. A few came to "tell" on their peers or let me know they'd asked them to stop, but no one was listening. In fact, it did begin to seem like we were doing something wrong. Kids swarmed by the dozens to get some chalk, many with mischievous grins on their faces. A small delight in breaking the rules. When the guy who shares my post came around the corner to check out the commotion, saw the wall and did the whole head shaking, hand to chin thing, I started to get worried.

Though both the director and I had thought it seemed like a good idea at first, I had to admit the wall was pretty much a mess. It wasn't clean or neat or remarkable in any way. Kids had chalk all over themselves, on their white shirts and their hands. They were grinding the dust into everything they could find. A completely unstructured wreck.

I began to think of how I could have made it better. I could have said only pictures, or given a theme "circles and squares," perhaps, the theme of our upcoming school art show. I could have limited the number of artists or chosen only 2nd grade girls, who are particularly good at doodling. They would have made something beautiful. I began to wish for rain. Only rain could save me from having to take responsibility for the monstrosity.

Just after the recreation I went to meet a group of students I am working with on a theater piece. Inside their classroom I saw snowmen decorating the walls. The backgrounds alternated between pastel blue and pastel green.  White snow dots were falling from the sky. They were neat and clean and sterile. Every one looked just like its neighbor. It struck me then that this was what the school seemed to be about. Being neat and clean and not too different from your neighbors.

I hadn't set out to make a statement with the chalk. Sure, I could have organized a more cohesive piece, or even a piece of artwork, but I hadn't set out to do that either. I just wanted to open up some expressive opportunities for those creative types. The ones not found on the basketball court or the soccer field.

I've since spent a lot of time pondering the other adults' reactions, wondering if everything needs to be structured and beautiful or if there are times when kids can just be kids. I know there are. I know I believe in free play and boredom and imagination.  I believe in learning by exploring and discovering and doing. And I don't think the end result is necessarily the most important part of creating art. So why do I feel so guilty? The other  question I can't seem to answer, will I do it again on Thursday?

I guess it all depends on whether I get called in to the principal's office and how soon it rains.

What I imagined vs what it felt like

your o news

We have one channel in English...Euronews / multinews. Its a daily dose of what's going on around the world in my native language. They don't offer too much information, maybe a thirty minute segment that rolls over again and again. They manage to get most of the headlines and it's enough information to start the day with. They also have an interesting segment called 'no comment' in which they simply show video of an event without any reporting on it. Images only.

This morning I listened as the reporter gave accounts of news from the world in her accented English. Not surprisingly, the US made the headlines.  It was a rare account, having the US make the Euronews in a case that didn't involve war or menace of another country. I realized, with some dismay, the US had blended in with the other reports about mistreatment and citizens rallying against those in power.

There have been so many cases cited recently, I can't actually keep track of them. The UN has even taken a position "expressing deep concern about the “disproportionate number of young African-Americans who die in encounters with police officers, as well as the disproportionate number of African Americans in US prisons and the disproportionate number of African-Americans on Death Row.”

What the heck is going on over there? I would be a lot more surprised if I hadn't already had my own  experience along this route. But that is a story for another day. Right now, trying to wrap my head around current events, and thinking this is somehow related.

Out of credit

Phone calls in Africa often just end. No goodbye, no call you later. Sometimes even mid sentence, the conversation is suddenly over. The underdeveloped social side of me secretly loves this. No need to figure out how to wrap things up or bring an end to a stalled conversation. It's over, just like that. No need to apologize. The caller on the other end probably understands you have just run out of credit. He or she might call you back, depending on their credit situation. Otherwise it is understood you'll catch up later.

Unfinished phone calls used to stress me out, until I realized the other caller understood, had probably found him or herself in the same situation at one time or another, out of credit and not really able to run out and get more just then. Overall, I prefer this system of buying credit in units of your choice, or your budget's choice, rather than the contracts and monthly payments. No surprises. You pay in advance. And many companies offer emergency codes that will supply you with credit in SOS situations. There are codes to share credit with a friend and a variety of other services designed to help the user.  It's a fairly friendly system.

Except for the occasional dropped call. Lately I am feeling as though my posts have run out of credit. I get near the end, where I would normally like to tie things up all neatly, and simply click publish. Dropped call. Some of my ideas don't even make it that far. They're still stuck in draft mode. Like a call that can't get through. Abidjan does seem to have that fault in the service. Some days calls, national or international, just don't seem to get through. While I haven't any ideas about how to repair the issue, I do have some ideas about what's causing my own difficulties. It's most likely due to some of those "recent events" I have mentioned, or some other ones I have not mentioned. Either way, these last few weeks, and probably the next few to come, have simply found me out of credit.

On Water and Rain

Beads of water have formed along my upper lip. Rivulets of perspiration run beneath my clothing. I'm sweating and it's not yet 7:30 in the morning. I'm not surprised as I arrive at work most mornings in a healthy state of exertion.

In fact, I often think what I will remember most about my time in Abidjan is the heat. Logically, I can't seem to work it out. Checking online weather stations doesn't help. Both Kin and Abidjan have similar temperatures. They've each been consistently around 30°. There doesn't seem to be a scientific explanation as to why it feels so much hotter here or why I spend most of my time drenched in sweat.

More time walking outside, brand new baby hormones, no leafy jungle trees to shelter me. Chalk it up to any one of those or numerous other possibilities, I suppose. In the end all I know is what I feel. And I feel hot. It's still raining in Abidjan, but it seems to do little to keep things cool.

The rain here comes with force. Often I can hear it before it falls. The sound of the rain somehow precedes it. Another one of those things that defies logic. In Kinshasa the heat would build to such a degree you knew the rain was inevitable. The pressure was tangible, visible even. After the rain came a sense of relief, of release. Everything was immediately cooler.

In Abidjan the heat builds, but it is a scorching kind of heat. It feels like the desert to me. The rains last longer, fall harder. The cooling feels damp. Some days it is downright cold, relatively, I guess. But I could reach for a wrap or a sweater. They don't come together, the heat and the rain. They seem to each take different days, staying apart from one another. More of a competition rather than the tandem rhythm felt in Kin.

Being that it feels so much hotter here, I wonder why everyone seems so much more laid back about the water bottle situation. Of course, it could just be the French school I am at. The French are pretty much laid back about everything, even drowning babies apparently. In Kinshasa, there seemed to be an entire culture around water. Water bottles made every class supply list. There were big garbage cans filled with water in every building and the same reserve supplies outside our houses. Kids took their bottles to every class, to recess and lunch, necessary companions to all activities.

Which isn't to say the students here don't have water bottles. They do, though I couldn't tell you which ones have and which ones don't. The bottles remain on the periphery. What's missing are the elaborate routines associated with 'making' water, storing water, and simply getting a drink of water. While the water has gone out occasionally since I have been here, it elicits more of an indignant inquiry. "Did you have water this morning??" in stark contrast to the weary resignation of Congo.  The question more, "Have you gotten water yet?" or "Are you still without water?"  Even worse but nonetheless common, "How long have you been without water?"

A quick search shows Ivory Coast is not without her water problems. But they do have a functioning water company with a pretty impressive website. For the most part, it works. Drinkable water flows from the tap. I've tried to find out if it is really drinkable, but...nothing reliable has turned up. Brochures in the office and on the website claim it is true. I've heard varying degrees of belief in this. We drink it. While we haven't gotten sick, I do sometimes wonder if we aren't being slowly poisoned.

As with many things in Abidjan, there is enough of a middle class to make it happen for most of the people.  Rural areas and poorer neighborhoods continue to struggle, but there is a sense of vision, of marching forward in the right direction.

With Grace

If I have fled one form of suffering,
Only to find myself entrenched in another
Perhaps it is because I have not learned
How to suffer
with dignity, with humility,
with grace.

Framing

Abidjan is a city under construction. Everywhere you looking there is a building going up or the idea of a building going up. Happily, there are still enough palm trees evident to prevent the concrete from taking over. Not the California palm tree, tall and slender, impossibly touching the sky, but the village palm, short and squat full of aging brown leaves hanging down topped by new green growth, and maybe a bunch of bananas. Noticing the trees on my daily walk has made me realize I probably don't have enough words for palm trees. It's a whole class ? of tree that has many versions.  Banana, coconut, pineapple, date. Each of these trees gives a different fruit and has it's own unique look. They frame the construction of Abidjan with a promising mood. I spend a lot of time hoping it will remain that way. That the developers won't get overzealous and knock everything down in their haste to make way for humans.

Events of the last month or so have left me reconsidering many things, trying to figure out which persecutive is the right persecutive. The ever elusive search for the truth. Is Abidjan a city of construction or destruction? Not surprisingly, I keep discovering that truth has a shifting and unsteady quality. Rather than an absolute answer, truth seems too often to be something that is chosen, a matter of framing.

Behind the scenes of a post

It’s job hunting season again, though I feel as if it never really ended. Sort of like two weeks into the new school year and you realize the summer break wasn’t nearly long enough.

It means scouring the web for opportunities and lots of writing. I’d like to say I can write cover letters in my sleep by now but somehow it never gets any easier. I’m trying to be more precise and less long-winded but it remains a challenge. I get excited about my past accomplishments and tend to go on and on. At little research ended up in this find, a format that I really love as it forces me to be concise. I’m not sure what employers think however, and I have found it occasionally results in a 2 page letter. 

In addition, my blog posts are piling up in my head. None of this would be too much of a problem as I love writing and it seems to be the only art form I have managed to hold onto here in Abidjan. Except my computer is slowly losing its keys. Writing is already arduous process. My fascination with words means I am constantly searching and revising for the perfect synonym, phrase or analogy. Now I have to stop every few sentences or so to fill in missing letters. I’ve tried just writing the entire piece and then going back to complete the gaps but my natural rhythm defeats that. Usually I have the l on copy and spell check picks up most words. There are plenty of times however when “no suggestions” pops up, or none of the suggestions are the ones I am searching for. I’ve found little tricks to help out with this. Writing unior in order to get the suggestion of junior and then deleting everything but the sought after j. Some words don’t register as wrong and those are the ones I need to be especially careful about.  Apparently u is a word…so writing up requires prudent editing. The word like easily becomes lie without the k and so again, diligent proofing essential.

Being the word nerd that I am, I actually find this whole process somewhat fascinating, except that it takes 4 times as long to write something, and I am in constant danger of losing my train of thought as I search for the missing alphabet.  That’s not even including the search for the dash and the closed parenthesis, previously two of my favorite punctuations as I can’t help but insert unrelated commentary and thoughts about my thoughts. In order to find that, I usually do a Google search for parenthesis and copy and paste. Along with the zero, in the case of needed numbers.

Capital letters threw me off for awhile but I have [had?] found a shortcut for that. “Transformations” used to pop up as an option and it allowed me to make a word or letter completely capital or lower case.  I can’t seem to find that again in this writing.

It occurred to me during one long evening laboring over letters that if potential employers knew the lengths I went to make a presentable document, they would surely offer me the job right away. My critical thinking and problem solving skills definitely put to the test. 

Bonjour and a smile

I'd begun to fear that Kinshasa had left an unexpected mark on my soul. While that may seem a dramatic statement, the fear was real. I have seen some street people here in Abidjan, but in my day to day, not many. The ones I do see remain on the periphery. They barely have time to make it to my window before the taxi is speeding off again. It's become too easy not to register them. To turn away.

Occasionally I've made eye contact with a child or a woman, but the most they get out is a Mama or a Tantine before something stops them, stops us from going further in the exchange. And to be honest, my first thoughts are always a comparison to the kids in Kin. Nothing matches their need and so I have half a thought that those in need here are somehow less in need. In reality, need is need right? Less is less and it's never more or enough.

Part of my denial might be due to the fact that I am feeling less able to give being that we find ourselves in dire straights at least once a month. My own financial situation has never really stopped me before however. No matter how tight it gets, I can always look to the end of the month for a reprieve. Having coins on hand again should make it even easier to find room for charity. But every coin represents a ride in a taxi, shortening a 45 minute walk to a mere 20 or so, a luxurious relief from the blistering sun of midday. In effect, it seems I've found several reasons not to give, the biggest of which is due to an unfair comparison.

I've been contemplating the effects of spending so many years surrounded by the unimaginable. Nothing I have seen here even comes close to the city streets there. And that's not taking into account the situation of the rural population in either country. But it doesn't mean the need here is less important or less devastating to those stuck in the cycle of poverty. I just couldn't get myself to care all that much. Hence, the concern over the fate of my soul.

But there's a boy.....I have been seeing him every morning on my walk down to the carrefour. Sometimes we exchange a glance and I can see words forming on his lips, but neither of us have yet offered as much as a greeting. He wears the same clothes, torn dirty jeans of an undeterminable color and an oversize shirt open at the collar. I checked out his shoes today, something that used to be a deciding factor in who and how much to give. Do they have shoes, i.e. flip flops? Do they match? Barefoot kids got the first priority, mismatched or only 1 shoe next and finally those with covered feet. An arbitrary way to assign need. Surely all of their stomachs were bare.

The shoes, i.e. flip flops, on this guy matched and seemed to be the brightest thing on his body. It did not erase my urge to ask him if he was hungry or my wish to I send him off to my house with a note for Christine to find him some breakfast. He appears to be about Nabih's size and so I began to entertain the thought of at least giving him a "new" pair of pants.

When I asked Nabih to get some of his clothes that no longer fit, a fairly easy task as Nabih himself is in need of clothing, he happily complied.  The boys asked who it was for and I described the child I see each morning who has been wearing the same clothes for weeks. You mean the one by the fruit stand? Mohamed inquired. As I thought about, I realized there were a few children in our neighborhood who seemed to wear the same dirty, oversize clothing every day. No school uniforms for those kids.

In my mind, the boy by the fruit seller is connected to an adult.  And I'd always assumed some of the other children I'd seen were wearing those clothes as their "work" clothes, apprenticing at the bicycle repair stand or other equally useful,potentially dirty job. I imagined they saved their "good" clothes for school or church or other outings.  I realized not only wouldn't it be so easy to give away a pair of too small sweat pants and a no longer worn shirt (word would surely get around that the white lady was giving out free clothes and my door might never be quiet again,) but I also don't really know anything about this kid. Just because he doesn't seem to be attached to any adults doesn't mean he isn't. He's clearly going somewhere every morning at the same time. Maybe he's off to work, just like me.

I spent the rest of my walk reflecting on this book I'd read a few months ago. Overall it invoked some pretty mixed feelings in me. In the end, I'm not sure if I liked it or would even recommend it, but it did bring up questions. I suppose that makes it worthwhile reading at the least. (Something about the website is a complete turn off for me. Maybe I think giving should be as invisible as the thread. Then again, here I am publishing my own thoughts about the struggle with giving.) The author befriends a boy as their paths cross seemingly randomly. She can't explain the connection any better than I can determine why this child, of the many in my neighborhood, has reached in and spoken to my heart. Over the course of years they eat together, take trips together and she begins to play a greater role in his schooling. She even meets his family to be sure she isn't stepping on any toes when he invites her to meet his teacher at a conference. Somehow she manages to be there for him, respect his family and worry about him without crossing lines. I wondered if I could do that. Doubt crept in. It's only just now that I realize I already have.

I've given out bits of nothing to street kids and then gone home to my house and listened to the rain on the roof, wondering all night if they had somewhere dry to be. There weren't any families to meet or teachers to conference with.  Luckily the man in my life has the same soft spot as I and so I haven't been faced with the conflict or sense of choice that she ultimately was.

I do have other challenges though, namely my salary which I can't seem to make stretch to the end of the month no matter how frugal I am. It impedes my ability to be sure I can commit.  I've never really managed to quiet the voice of a long ago Kinshasa friend (Yes, but is it sustainable? I hear her asking in her overly indignant, development world voice.) There are rules about giving. The best kind of giving is one that will lead to some permanent change for the receiver, rendering future giving unnecessary. It's  hard to achieve that in the life of a child alone, especially when instinct wants to restore childhood rather than supply a fast track to adulthood, even if it means more security in the long run.

I do believe in spontaneous giving and one off giving. Sometimes the most you can do is a one shot affair. And I think that's ok. But if I am going to see this boy everyday and live with him in my neighborhood, than a one shot deal isn't really acceptable. If I make an effort, it has to be a real one. The problem is, I'm not sure how real I can be right now.

Islam has some beautiful teachings  about giving. Specifically it suggests giving to those in need, beggars, women and children. It does more than suggest actually. Since we're talking about recognized hadiths (oral teachings of Mohamed) or words from the Quran itself, I guess it is more like a commandment to provide for those less well off than yourself. Being ever merciful however, a series of degrees are outlined to ensure one does not become overtaxed. Give money or items first and if you haven't a material thing to ease someone else's suffering, use your hands to create something which will then lead to being able to give. If neither of those options are available, being kind and even smiling all count as charitable acts.

I remember that one a lot when I am feeling financially restricted. Seeing someone by offering a greeting or smile can be a bright moment in an otherwise dismal day. I've been on the receiving end of that often enough to know it is true. (A search to find some written support for that didn't yield the results I wanted, but I did find this fascinating post.)

I remember spending my Lingala lessons learning to say Where do you sleep? and Where are your parents? and other useless phrases most street kids can't, or won't, answer. The most I've ever gotten is a vague reference to a quartier. Over there...somewhere. Since Abidjan is thoroughly French speaking, I have all the tools I need to start with a cheery Good morning and maybe a Where are you going?

Despite my newly collected pile of cast off clothing, that's probably the best first step. I'll give it a try tomorrow. Bonjour and a smile.

The Uniform Effect

Statistics. Research. Data driven reports. The less glamorous side of education, perhaps, but an infinitely curious one no doubt. Teaching has long been a profession equated with the arts, but the science of education is essential for achieving results and making a true difference.

In my search to break out into other fields of education this is becoming even more important. Schools are happy to look at my past experiences in the classrooms, but NGO's want to see proof of my success in hard numbers. What do I know and how can I prove it?

Though I enjoyed my research and statistics class immensely in grad school, I haven't revisited the practice since. I have based my teaching techniques on the research of others but have not conducted my own.

Not for lack of ideas. Daily life in the classroom is apt to land one possible research topic after another directly in your lap. Lately I have been confronted with my ideas about school uniforms and equitable gender access, both topics of personal interest and relative to my current job searches.

My observations about school uniforms remain purely abstract, unfounded and rest in the realm of  supposition. They are not scientific yet, because, at this point, too many variables prevent me from drawing conclusions. If straight science is on the far right, than my blog is on the far left and that makes it the perfect place to wander out loud through my wonderings about school uniforms and the impact it has on student teacher relationships.

There is no shortage of research available on the relationship between uniforms and academic success, uniforms and behavior, uniforms and attendance and even uniforms and overall school climate. Most of the research linked here is from the US, but a specific search for Africa and uniforms yielded slightly different results.

In the case of looking at relationships between uniforms and education in Africa, topics geer more towards uniforms effictively barring students from accessing education and therefore, what effect giving uniforms to students might have. I can attest to my own experience as a parent and how the need for uniforms contributed to a delayed start of school for my children. 

I haven't arrived at an opinion about them however. I have fond memories of my own early years in Catholic school and the uniforms we were required to wear. Consistent with the findings, I experienced a sense of belonging and community. Putting on my uniform may have set me apart from the public school kids, but it did reinforce that I was part of a group....all the other kids wearing the same green jumper and white shirt. Plus, my uniform was cozy. I liked to wear it long and I can recall the feel of it against my legs and the weight of it warming me up on winter days. I never contemplated why I had to wear a dress or what it would be like to pick out my own attire each morning. (Though I admit to waiting for the bus and enviously eyeing the boys' long pants on some of the nippier winter mornings.)

Mostly I loved my uniform. Ours was green with knee
socks and I never had one of those snazzy matching
headbands, but I was just as happy as these girls. 

I suspect many elementary students feel the same way, not really questioning the uniform, especially if it has been a staple of their school years. While most of the research looks as the relationship between the student and their uniform, I have started wondering about the effect of the uniform on the relationship between student and teacher. 

I realized during one recreation that I don't feel as if I know my students as well as I usually do. This is partly due to the fact that most of them are native French speakers and they are simply different people in English. Not completely of course, but just enough to make a difference. I also realized I missed little clues about their personalities because they were all dressed the same. I immediately began to scour the playground in search of ways students had found to individualize their uniforms. 

Some had bracelets or watches, some wore sweaters or colored t shirts underneath. A few boys opted for pants although official the elementary uniform is shorts for boys and skorts for girls. I determined small bits of style, but I think it was mostly due to the way they moved, or whether they chose to eat their snack first or try to play and eat.  I saw differences in the way they spoke to each other and whether they preferred to play with children from a different grade or opposite gender. I noticed those who choose to run around and those who choose to sit and talk. 

Perhaps the uniforms had forced me to be more observant? I could easily imagine the opposite however. If I were not diligent, the uniforms could lull me into seeing only the white and the beige and not necessarily the individual beneath the color. I might miss signs of something awry at home or changes in behavior if I become quelled into seeing only masses of boys versus girls. 

So much for my foray into scientific discovery. I am no closer to understanding the effect of uniforms on student teacher relations, but at least I have become aware that there could be an effect. Awareness is always the first step. 

Tales from the hood

The knock on my door is not unexpected. I am waiting for the French tutor who will be giving Nabih lessons to get him confident enough to go to school in French. Mohamed has already started an Ivorian school and seems to like it well enough.

When I open the door, however, it's not the man but a woman. A neighbor. She doesn't say anything in way of greeting or announcing herself and I am not sure how to proceed. It's an awkward moment while I try to figure out the protocol. I raise my eyebrows as I gesture her inside. It's more of a question than an invitation.

We've established a ritual of greeting guests on our small porch, and so I offer her a chair outside. Eventually I determine she is Assita, the woman we met recently on the walk to the main road. She is a screen writer and is developing a TV series. She approached Christian and I because she thought we might be good actors for a part in her show. Apparently there is a section featuring a mixed couple and we fit the image. Christian's sap heritage probably doesn't hurt.  I don't think he goes to the extreme but he does care about his clothing.

As we walked to the main road, she explained her project in more detail. It was a fascinating story and she promised to stop by our house and talk again. The woman at the door did not resemble a screen writer, or any other type of writer. She wore a large African print housedress and had a weary air about her. It was too easy to imagine her fanning the flames of an outdoor cookstove. Traces of the smartly dressed woman hurrying off to work were barely visible.

I tried to merge the two images of her as we talked about character development and how major themes in her work reflected life in Africa. I had read the synopsis she'd dropped off earlier and was impressed. It was a good story.

The main character is Agape, an orphan in search of a good education. Typically, she has a brush with prostitution, which she just manages to avoid, homelessness, and is thrown out by several who agree to take her in, due to jealousy, illness or other misfortune. But the story doesn't begin with Agape.

It starts with her parents, Marc and Maria, two school kids in the throes of amour. Maria is pressured by Marc to give in to his lust, despite good advice from a friend that studies are more important. Not only is Maria's family scandalized by her pregnancy, war breaks out causing both families to flee, in different directions.

Maria finds herself without family, unaware if her mother is alive or dead. She gives birth to Agape and 8 years later dies of illness.  Marc's family fares slightly better in that they are together and even search for Maria, to no avail.

Agape's story begins and the viewer follows her through a series of highs and lows. At one point, she befriends a schoolmate and is adopted by her family, a mixed couple. This seems to be the beginning of a good life, until her adopted father succumbs to sickness. The family is left without funds and Agape beings to feel she is a burden. She leaves her studies and returns to her country to search for relatives. It is here, at the age of 15 that she has a brush with prostitution and homelessness, which she successfully averts. She does get a position as a nanny, but there is jealousy over her beauty and intelligence. The woman of the house throws her out.

Finally she secures a job in a bar.  She captures any moment she can to sneak away and read in hopes of keeping up with her studies. It is there she meets a man who takes an interest in her and offers to help. Typically, again, they end up in a hotel room. The conversation continues, however, and before they take things too far Agape reveals just enough of her story to give the man pause. She shows him a picture of her mother and lo, the man, Marc, recognizes his sweetheart Maria. Father and daughter reunited. Wow.

Sure would love to see this on the screen. Assita tackles everything from teenage sexual pressure to refugee family separation and access to education.  She works in themes about tolerance and justice, forgiveness and peace. The proposal she left me is only the first in the series but after reading, I was eagerly waiting for the next episode. She assured me my scene would be in episode 34, presumably the mom of Agape's friend who adopts her. While I am not necessarily counting on that, it would be a treat to see this project become a success. It is set in Abidjan but could easily take place anywhere on the continent. A timeless tale with just enough of a twist to make for a jaw dropping end.

I am inspired by my neighbor and vow to continue working on my own tales from the hood. In the meantime, funding connections welcome.

Messages from childhood

Not sure what happened to turn my blog into French for a minute....something about the cybercafe I was at, I think. Back to English, considering messages from my childhood....which leads to messages from childhood in general, those we receive and by default, those we don't.

   “You is kind. You is smart. You is important.”     The most beautiful affirmation to a child as quoted in The Help by Kathryn Stockett

Recent life events have me wandering through my inner hallways trying to determine which doors open up to reveal true aspects of myself and which are filled only with doubt and deceit. I'm trying to stay away from those doors. It's too easy to go in, turn on a light and shut the door behind me. Getting cozy in that room of self pity and negativity is a dangerous thing.  Rough patches like these are when we count on the messages from childhood to sustain us. Surely there are other ideas about ourselves that we create and gather as we travel through life, but the foundation is made up of those early messages. And if they've been missing or not so positive? Then a lot of effort must go into combatting them. It may be more important to hang onto the newer messages, but it's a lot easier to fall back into the familiar, despite the knowledge that it is a false and self destructive place.

The happy people that I know, the positive, peaceful ones....they spend time affirming qualities of their character or the life they want to lead. It's something I have been working on, having the faith and patience to believe my own words. And making sure they are the right words.

I'm also busy making sure I am sending the right words to the children in my life. It's not always easy, especially on those days when patience is short and stress is long. I can't seem to take this post where I want it to go. Maybe I'll revisit it later. I guess for now just trying to remember I is kind, I is smart and I is important. And so are you.

First World Plus

Bright lights, plastic toys, an escalator. It’s the escalator that impresses me most. That’s the way things are these days. I am impressed by a moving staircase. I’ve gone to the “mall” in search of a pump. Sococe is a collection of stores, restaurants and even a theater. It feels first world to me, although my perspective is probably somewhat skewed at this point. It reminds me of a time when I insisted a friend try some vegetarian bacon I had become enamored with. It tastes just like bacon, I assured her.  After a test, she laughed and assured me that I was too far from the real taste of bacon to make such a statement with any authority. While it may not have resembled bacon to her, there was just enough crispiness and flavor to give me the memory of bacon. Which was close enough. Sococe is the vegetarian bacon, just enough bright lights and an over abundance of material things to give it the feel of a Western mall.

Best of all, it boasts a baby store complete with 2 styles of breast pump, one of which appears similar to the Medela and might actually work.  Starting next week, the baby will have the privilege of dining on milk direct from an Italian expresser, at Italian expresser prices.  It may resemble Medela but the Italian label apparently merits double the cost.

Nothing in Africa happens without oddity however and this story is no exception. Unlike the other stores in the mall, the baby store opens at 2 o’clock on Sunday and Monday.  Of course, I was there on a Monday at noon. Considering the price of a taxi, the decision to wait was easy. Just across the parking lot was a collection of tables and umbrellas forming an outdoor eatery. We commenced the wait with a few drinks and a sample of attetike, the local starch du jour. Tastier than Kinshasa foufou and similar to couscous, I found it delicious with some fish and spicy pepper. Most surprising of all, it came with free water and a glass of passion fruit juice. Those two features, along with the 1OOO franc price tag kept me in awe as much as the taste. While I miss Kinshasa for reasons clear and unclear, what I realized is that my relationship resembles one of a mother and child. I want good things for her. Western amenities like free, drinkable water with a meal.  The glass of juice included? First world plus.