One of the best things about working at the same school my boys go to has been our morning walks. Living on campus means we have a short walk, but the jungle canopy filled with birdsong lends a magical air to our mornings. There is usually something interesting to see along the ground or beside the road and Nabih's keen eye is certain to pick it up. For several years he was into rock collecting and would often stop to unearth some hoped for treasure (unfortunately turning out to be a buried bit of glass or scrap of old linoleum as often as a true find.)
Nabih often lets loose casual phrases of observation that strike me as profound statements on the human condition. Children seem to have a way of doing that with ease. By the administration building that we pass everyday, there is a tree caught in a continuous, fast-forward cycle of the seasons. Its leaves bud, grow, turn red and fall to the ground. We usually pass one of the groundskeepers using a rather loud leaf blower to corral them all into neat piles that can be swept away into the forest.
"Have they ever considered it might be prettier with the leaves on the ground?" Nabih inquired one day. I had to agree. The leaves are a startling shade of red and very large and crisp. They make a lovely ground cover, in the poetic sense. Practically, I guess the steps and parking area just before the entrance to the main office of the school looks neater and tidier swept free of leaves- no matter how crisp and colorful they are.
Our short walk is generally filled with Nabih's nonstop talking- commentaries on the latest books he's read, usually involving some sort of Pokemon battles- but frequently I am graced with a gem of inspiration delivered with Nabih's "but, of course" logical attitude. He has a knack for delivering a creative idea or solution to Mohamed and I as if we are little children who should have known better all along. It makes suffering through the Pokemon sagas almost bearable. There's always hope that an invaluable spark of wisdom will grace my morning at any moment.
Our walk home is equally insightful. One day last week there was another momma-child couple walking just behind us. I could hear snippets of their conversation, filled with the question and answer routine of 7 year olds. I remember it fondly. Endless wonderings about the universe, how it works and why. Luckily, by 9, Nabih has begun to suppose his own answers which far exceed anything I could offer.
While I wasn't necessarily listening in on their conversation, little phrases and catch words floated up to us on the breeze. Apparently the boy had been carrying home a candy bar from a class party and it was becoming something of a mess as a result of the Kinshasa heat and his tight grip. Mom clearly had one eye on contamination factor of chocolate smeared hands and was trying to avert a clothing crisis. While he chatted on, musing about the workings of the world, she tried to direct focus to the small melting river in his grasp. She may have started by using a word just above his understanding - which he immediately questioned- and she was talking her way around it, trying to explain while not detracting from the pleasure of the treat.
"It's better if you don't cuddle it....." and the rest floated off on the wind, leaving me with an image of hugging a candy bar while gently rocking it to sleep. I pondered this as Nabih continued his play by play of something fascinating that occurred on the playground. Don't cuddle your chocolate. Surely there was profound wisdom in there.
I adore chocolate. I love to have one candy bar- Dairy Milk Fruit & Nut my current favorite, dark chocolate a very close second- usually acquired during the shopping trip once or twice a month. There is something so satisfying and delicious about indulging in my one little candy bar that makes me feel luxurious and spoiled. I think there are millions who can understand the appeal of a good quality chocolate. It maintains a fascinating place in history as the food of the gods as well as a focus for psychological and scientific studies - what's so appealing about chocolate anyway?
Considering the 'orosensory' pleasure of chocolate, it easily becomes a metaphor for all things sweet and beautiful- the small moments in life we cherish. Those times together that we don't necessarily get every day but wish we could extend. They seem fleeting even as we are in the midst of treasuring the moment. Walks to school, Sunday afternoons at the pool, sun showers and thunderstorms, decorating gingerbread houses and learning to make fried chicken. All examples of ordinary moments savored in the present for their bitter sweetness, because you know one day you'll look back from the future and miss these times.
Trying not to cuddle your chocolate means it's ok to enjoy the moment as it happens- and then let it pass. It doesn't need to be captured on film, stored in digital memory or shared on facebook. It can just be. One moment that you recognize has fulfilled you, made you happier and more appreciative of the world around you. One good moment in life. And then move on. When you try to hug too hard, or hold on too long, inevitably something gets broken. Don't squeeze the kittens.
It's a good lesson as we prepare to leave Kinshasa behind. Whenever I get too sentimental about the boys leaving the only school they've really known, or when I panic just a little at the thought of trying to learn new streets, make new friends, understand new rituals and customs, I try to remember not to cuddle my chocolate. I want leave this part of our lives behind knowing there will always be fond memories, perhaps a chance to return and visit old friends, and a future ahead full of possibilities- perhaps to be sweeter, perhaps to be harder but most definitely to be lived. And savored to the fullest.
An occasional chocolate bar in our new home will surely help with the transition.
27.4.14
24.4.14
Into rocky terrain
"I was bullied today. Twice. And it didn't feel nice." This wasn't a comment from one of the boys to me. It was actually my response to them when asked about my day. I thought a bit before sharing this incident, and kept most of the details to myself, but ultimately decided that letting them know adults suffer through this stuff too would be valuable. It's not just a kid thing.
And so when they asked what happened, I just let them know that most bullying is about power and someone trying to feel better about him or herself by making you feel bad about yourself. Which is essentially what happened. Except that having someone lay out so clearly how much they hate you is rather shocking. Especially if you yourself hadn't given that person much particular thought- nothing negative, nothing positive- they never really hit your radar because you just don't know each other that well.
Watching this grown man throw his hand up in the air, flop it at the wrist and pounce around my classroom (I am way too self conscious to ever walk like that -not sure where his impersonation stemmed from) and raise his voice an octave (I've always thought I had a rather deep, almost masculine voice and have tried only on occasion to go for "smoky" realizing I can probably never achieve "sweet") watching him, I was stunned to realize he had apparently given me some thought. This obviously wasn't the first time he'd ridiculed me. As a friend suggested later, the most reasonable thing to do would have been to look at him and laugh. Seriously? But my own inner 8 year old came out in response and I told him I didn't have to take him insulting me and making fun of me (or I am telling mom!)
Ever at the mercy of my new and raging hormones, tears threatened to spill and I had all I could do to blink them back in time for the morning bell. Welcome to a new day.
It didn't help that the previous evening had ended in a similar fashion (minus the dramatic posturing.) We are two people who have very different philosophies about our approach to education and human interaction in general. We were trying to work together to organize an event for teachers to present to students. We'd done most of the communicating by email and had only a few minor details left to work out. The ironing out ended up a wrinkled mess as we agreed to disagree and called an abrupt end to our meeting. Slightly steaming, just short of hostile.
The point in question was hardly important, well, except on a philosophical level, where all good disagreements take place. He wanted teachers to be assigned lesson to present and I wanted to allow for choice. (I was cringing at the thought of being assigned the singing lesson- on behalf of the students, a bad, bad idea.) He felt we teachers should just "suck it up and deal" (on behalf of the students, ironically, the very ones I was trying to save from my murderous voice.)
I have always believed in building community, developing teacher buy-in and promoting enthusiasm by providing choice whenever possible. The best ideas usually come from a team of thinkers. The time invested/energy output gained seemed like a worthwhile ratio.
But, as previously mentioned, it wasn't really about that at all. It was about The Past, another dark origin where all good arguments are born. He led our conversation down the path of insults and insinuations referring back to a time when he felt teachers talked in circles and got nowhere (back when I was co-coordinating the team, of course.) He praised the new regime of no discussion during meetings and teachers doing what they are told. (Of course, he is slightly invested in the new regime as they are life partners.) And so I acquiesced, sure, go ahead assign people. (But surely it won't take more than 5 minutes for everyone to choose their strength, to pick the area they'd like to spend celebrating with the kids? It is hard for me to let things go. I finally managed it and said simply I wasn't going to assign people. If he wanted to do that, then that could be his part. I'd already organized the events, listed materials and outlined the directions, alternatives and pictures to go with. I'd developed 2 different student surveys and was happy to hand this piece of organization over (just don't give me the singing booth.)
Somehow it wasn't quite that easy and the meeting ended abruptly. He came in first the thing next morning to "discuss" and ended up dancing around my room ridiculing me in a manner I hadn't seen since back when I had a brother....in the 19's as Mohamed would say. Like 1980.
To finish my ridiculous day off, he came in one final time, pointing in my face, cutting off any word I tried to utter andordering insisting that I would "present a united front" at the meeting. I didn't feel anything close to united and was completely unwilling to give him the chance to humiliate me by yelling, cutting me off or impersonating me in front of others. I didn't go to the meeting.
Try as I might not to be affected by the interaction, I recognize it as bullying- and it does affect me. I wonder what I have done, exactly, to this person I hardly know that would cause him to feel such outrage and hatred for me. And I try to immediately counter that with knowledge that it's about control and power- and nothing I have really done.
Several websites I ran across confirm my fears. Back in October when things turned to hell with another colleague (the life partner of my current tormentor), I decided it was so severe I had to quit. After reading that an "estimated 64% of bullying victims quit or are fired for poor performance" I knew I'd made the right decision. But that still doesn't mean it feels good.
I had been ready to invest in my job, my life here in Kinshasa, my partner's life in Kinshasa. We have families here- children to raise, friends to support, artists to mingle with. Not an exciting life but a potentially fulfilling one.
And then it seemed every time I approached a group of talking people, a certain person would walk away. Every time I offered an idea at a meeting, I was shut up, put down or tuned out. Whatever I presented was met with disdain and contempt and even outright hostility.
After a particularly tense meeting when tempers- or a specific temper- was flaring, my co-cordinator and I decided to quit early. We'd already been told the positions would not look the same next year. When considering the months ahead, I certainly felt the sleepless nights and morning dread weren't worth the minimal monetary compensation. She was ready to do without the constant Thursday morning complaint session following every Wednesday afternoon meeting. We happily handed things over.
While it made matters just dandy for her, somehow the same camaraderie no longer extended to me. A colleague I was once able to bounce ideas off of and develop working documents with was no longer speaking to me. Of course, over the past three years I'd seen him work his way around. I'd spent a few weeks listening to him insist that one of the teachers be fired for "stealing report card comments," witnessed him noting a colleague's arrival and departure times to prove her incompetence and tried to help him discover the difference between mentoring someone and tracking their mistakes in order to report on them. I should not have been surprised when the tables turned to me.
But I am no angel and so, not only was I surprised, I was outraged. I was indignant and righteous. Oh, I hate to be wrong. There's no worse topic to debate right and wrong than your personal convictions. I like the way I teach. I believe in the way I teach. I have spent years reading, researching, discovering and developing my teaching methods. I understand children and they way they grow and develop.
But I also understand that there are multiple approaches to teaching and learning. And just because someone doesn't subscribe to my methods, it doesn't mean they are wrong. Or that I am right. Or that I am wrong. (Because I hate to be wrong. Even when I am wrong- a real life Bama from one of my favorite movie clips of all time )
But the tables did turn to me and mercilessly so. I spent months dragging myself to work, dreading every step I had to take outside the safety and security of my classroom. I struggled to sit through every meeting feeling the silent tension as sharp and cutting as the daggers lining the palm fronds outside our classrooms. I felt completely left out of everything and it affected my patience with children, my satisfaction with my job and my health.
The worst part is, I can't really be sure why or how this all began. I'd given up the part of my job that seemed to be at the root of the problem-handed over control to he who sought it so intensely- and so I had figured all would return to normal. Except it never really was normal. It had just been several years of turn taking. Now it was my turn.
With two people bent on making me miserable, pregnancy hormones bent on making me a frazzled wreck and seven weeks of school left, I am living for the weekends. Sometimes, that's not even enough.
On the sunny days, I am finding ways to enjoy my students and prepare the end of year rituals that will line the path to middle school. I delight in introducing the younger students to art concepts they haven't yet imagined and find satisfaction in watching their creations unfold. I feel my passions rekindled during discussions with 4th graders about Gandhi, equality and the nonviolent fight for justice. Even as I find satisfaction in realizing it is a perfect segue to the 5th grade study of human rights, I remember I won't be here to teach it next year. And I try to find hope for an unknown future instead.
On dark, rainy days it is harder to believe there is a silver lining to this cloud. It's hard to remember that part of my dream has always been creating a place of my own. I begrudgingly admit that in order to step forward, I usually need a push. Not the gentle shove from a friend down a snowy, sleigh riding hill but the mean hard push of an enemy into rocky terrain.
And so when they asked what happened, I just let them know that most bullying is about power and someone trying to feel better about him or herself by making you feel bad about yourself. Which is essentially what happened. Except that having someone lay out so clearly how much they hate you is rather shocking. Especially if you yourself hadn't given that person much particular thought- nothing negative, nothing positive- they never really hit your radar because you just don't know each other that well.
Watching this grown man throw his hand up in the air, flop it at the wrist and pounce around my classroom (I am way too self conscious to ever walk like that -not sure where his impersonation stemmed from) and raise his voice an octave (I've always thought I had a rather deep, almost masculine voice and have tried only on occasion to go for "smoky" realizing I can probably never achieve "sweet") watching him, I was stunned to realize he had apparently given me some thought. This obviously wasn't the first time he'd ridiculed me. As a friend suggested later, the most reasonable thing to do would have been to look at him and laugh. Seriously? But my own inner 8 year old came out in response and I told him I didn't have to take him insulting me and making fun of me (or I am telling mom!)
Ever at the mercy of my new and raging hormones, tears threatened to spill and I had all I could do to blink them back in time for the morning bell. Welcome to a new day.
It didn't help that the previous evening had ended in a similar fashion (minus the dramatic posturing.) We are two people who have very different philosophies about our approach to education and human interaction in general. We were trying to work together to organize an event for teachers to present to students. We'd done most of the communicating by email and had only a few minor details left to work out. The ironing out ended up a wrinkled mess as we agreed to disagree and called an abrupt end to our meeting. Slightly steaming, just short of hostile.
The point in question was hardly important, well, except on a philosophical level, where all good disagreements take place. He wanted teachers to be assigned lesson to present and I wanted to allow for choice. (I was cringing at the thought of being assigned the singing lesson- on behalf of the students, a bad, bad idea.) He felt we teachers should just "suck it up and deal" (on behalf of the students, ironically, the very ones I was trying to save from my murderous voice.)
I have always believed in building community, developing teacher buy-in and promoting enthusiasm by providing choice whenever possible. The best ideas usually come from a team of thinkers. The time invested/energy output gained seemed like a worthwhile ratio.
But, as previously mentioned, it wasn't really about that at all. It was about The Past, another dark origin where all good arguments are born. He led our conversation down the path of insults and insinuations referring back to a time when he felt teachers talked in circles and got nowhere (back when I was co-coordinating the team, of course.) He praised the new regime of no discussion during meetings and teachers doing what they are told. (Of course, he is slightly invested in the new regime as they are life partners.) And so I acquiesced, sure, go ahead assign people. (But surely it won't take more than 5 minutes for everyone to choose their strength, to pick the area they'd like to spend celebrating with the kids? It is hard for me to let things go. I finally managed it and said simply I wasn't going to assign people. If he wanted to do that, then that could be his part. I'd already organized the events, listed materials and outlined the directions, alternatives and pictures to go with. I'd developed 2 different student surveys and was happy to hand this piece of organization over (just don't give me the singing booth.)
Somehow it wasn't quite that easy and the meeting ended abruptly. He came in first the thing next morning to "discuss" and ended up dancing around my room ridiculing me in a manner I hadn't seen since back when I had a brother....in the 19's as Mohamed would say. Like 1980.
To finish my ridiculous day off, he came in one final time, pointing in my face, cutting off any word I tried to utter and
Try as I might not to be affected by the interaction, I recognize it as bullying- and it does affect me. I wonder what I have done, exactly, to this person I hardly know that would cause him to feel such outrage and hatred for me. And I try to immediately counter that with knowledge that it's about control and power- and nothing I have really done.
Several websites I ran across confirm my fears. Back in October when things turned to hell with another colleague (the life partner of my current tormentor), I decided it was so severe I had to quit. After reading that an "estimated 64% of bullying victims quit or are fired for poor performance" I knew I'd made the right decision. But that still doesn't mean it feels good.
I had been ready to invest in my job, my life here in Kinshasa, my partner's life in Kinshasa. We have families here- children to raise, friends to support, artists to mingle with. Not an exciting life but a potentially fulfilling one.
And then it seemed every time I approached a group of talking people, a certain person would walk away. Every time I offered an idea at a meeting, I was shut up, put down or tuned out. Whatever I presented was met with disdain and contempt and even outright hostility.
After a particularly tense meeting when tempers- or a specific temper- was flaring, my co-cordinator and I decided to quit early. We'd already been told the positions would not look the same next year. When considering the months ahead, I certainly felt the sleepless nights and morning dread weren't worth the minimal monetary compensation. She was ready to do without the constant Thursday morning complaint session following every Wednesday afternoon meeting. We happily handed things over.
While it made matters just dandy for her, somehow the same camaraderie no longer extended to me. A colleague I was once able to bounce ideas off of and develop working documents with was no longer speaking to me. Of course, over the past three years I'd seen him work his way around. I'd spent a few weeks listening to him insist that one of the teachers be fired for "stealing report card comments," witnessed him noting a colleague's arrival and departure times to prove her incompetence and tried to help him discover the difference between mentoring someone and tracking their mistakes in order to report on them. I should not have been surprised when the tables turned to me.
But I am no angel and so, not only was I surprised, I was outraged. I was indignant and righteous. Oh, I hate to be wrong. There's no worse topic to debate right and wrong than your personal convictions. I like the way I teach. I believe in the way I teach. I have spent years reading, researching, discovering and developing my teaching methods. I understand children and they way they grow and develop.
But I also understand that there are multiple approaches to teaching and learning. And just because someone doesn't subscribe to my methods, it doesn't mean they are wrong. Or that I am right. Or that I am wrong. (Because I hate to be wrong. Even when I am wrong- a real life Bama from one of my favorite movie clips of all time )
But the tables did turn to me and mercilessly so. I spent months dragging myself to work, dreading every step I had to take outside the safety and security of my classroom. I struggled to sit through every meeting feeling the silent tension as sharp and cutting as the daggers lining the palm fronds outside our classrooms. I felt completely left out of everything and it affected my patience with children, my satisfaction with my job and my health.
The worst part is, I can't really be sure why or how this all began. I'd given up the part of my job that seemed to be at the root of the problem-handed over control to he who sought it so intensely- and so I had figured all would return to normal. Except it never really was normal. It had just been several years of turn taking. Now it was my turn.
With two people bent on making me miserable, pregnancy hormones bent on making me a frazzled wreck and seven weeks of school left, I am living for the weekends. Sometimes, that's not even enough.
On the sunny days, I am finding ways to enjoy my students and prepare the end of year rituals that will line the path to middle school. I delight in introducing the younger students to art concepts they haven't yet imagined and find satisfaction in watching their creations unfold. I feel my passions rekindled during discussions with 4th graders about Gandhi, equality and the nonviolent fight for justice. Even as I find satisfaction in realizing it is a perfect segue to the 5th grade study of human rights, I remember I won't be here to teach it next year. And I try to find hope for an unknown future instead.
On dark, rainy days it is harder to believe there is a silver lining to this cloud. It's hard to remember that part of my dream has always been creating a place of my own. I begrudgingly admit that in order to step forward, I usually need a push. Not the gentle shove from a friend down a snowy, sleigh riding hill but the mean hard push of an enemy into rocky terrain.
Cash for a Coca
Every time I write, I renew the best intentions of making it a more frequent habit. Post, post, post. But these past few weeks have left me battling a blinding head cold, molasses slow internet and two computer breakdowns. Yes- not one but 2 of the computers available to the house crashed. Or had help crashing. And so, nearly the entire month of April has gotten by without any witty and clever observations added to the blog roll.
The angst is behind me however (well, momentarily to be sure) as I received the good news of having one of the tortured machines returned to me unexpectedly in good health. The Mac is back. This is grand news on many levels- not the least of which involves the fact that as school draws to a close I must transfer all of my documents, photos and other life consuming technology pieces from one computer to another. I had no idea what that "other" would be or where it would come from. I'd browsed a shop downtown to see if there were any quality computers available and couldn't really be sure enough to make a purchase. For once, happy to have procrastinated in search of perfection.
Our IT tech at school is basically a genius. He is the perfect combination of IT whiz, capable electrician and hard-working positivity. I've never seen him without a smile on his face, despite what is surely more work than one person can handle. Although he is part of a 3 person department, I know if I need something repaired, prepared or explained, he is the person to go to. (Most of us know that, which is why he is horribly over-worked. That and the fact that he never says no.)
When my mac screen opened displaying the file of death with the infamous question mark, I thought it was over. Actually, I knew it was over. I asked his opinion and found out another mac user at school was suffering the same fate. A few days later, however, he came to me asking for a stab at my computer. He thought there was hope. Never one to bask in the sunshine before the clouds have truly parted, I handed it over with lingering doubt. Two days ago I happily got word that my machine was "under observation" but appeared to be working and in good health. He let me know he'd spent about 3 hours working on it and had used a compilation of parts from my previous dead mac. (Macs and I have a history- brief and deadly as opposed to the long and creative relationships I hear so many others raving about.)
I asked him to let me know how much it would cost and I was met with silence- and a smile, of course, the ever present smile. Nice to look at but completely useless in presenting a course of action. I decided to confer with one of the Congolese assistants with a bit of technology background, thinking he might have an idea about going rates.
While he didn't have any advice about dollar amounts, he did suggest a gift. I was a bit confused. Honestly, I thought- who doesn't want money? Or, to be brutally honest I thought, what Congolese doesn't want money? Because life is hard and salaries are small and Kinshasa is tres cher. However, he suggested that since my offer of money wasn't met with a price I could either leave something in an envelope kind of anonymously or offer a different kind of gift. He thought a gift of money might be outright refused and would even make future exchanges awkward- could perhaps be construed as an insult. He went on to elaborate that in all conversations he'd ever had, I'd always been referred to as "my good friend" or - and here he mentioned a Lingala word I didn't quite get but it meant to express endearment- someone that all else would be dropped for in order to help out.
Hmmm. It sounded good but not quite right. I'd recently reread Night Studies: Stories of Life in a West African Village- a charming, quick read about a guy living and teaching in Nigeria. He spends a lot of time with neighbor children and seems to enjoy getting to know the culture and succumbing to it's rhythms. Just like I want to do here. Except I can never seem to figure out the hidden rules.
Offering just a gift made me nervous about possibly insulting my colleague and IT godsend so I did what all good students do- I sought out a second opinion. Cultural Expert #2 said it was crazy not to offer cash and suggested I put $50 in an envelope and give it to him, with an adage that he can get some (phone) credit. While the idea of giving cash had been my original plan, I was still stuck on how much. Too little seemed equally as insulting as too much. Of course, in my mind I had been saved from buying a brand new computer so too much was relative to being saved from that impending doom- priceless really. In the end, I simply wanted to be fair (to both of us) and I was frustrated trying to figure out what fair was. Couldn't someone just give me an hourly rate?
I was reminded of the police and their Cocas. The most common way to give money to the traffic police or guards outside a store is to offer a small amount and suggest they buy a Coca. Sometimes they will make a drinking motion as you drive buy- a request for a little bit of cash to quench their thirst. This approach serves two purposes. One- it allows you to show some appreciation for a service. Two- it allows you to acknowledge whatever you are giving is probably not enough but the other person should accept it graciously anyway. I'd finally arrived at a solution (and a small feeling of confidence and understanding of culture after all. Maybe I wasn't as far behind Benjamin Madison as I thought. He makes it all sound so damned easy in his book- so lighthearted and carefree.)
What I am left to wonder about, however, is Cultural Expert #1. How could his advice be so different? He suggested I buy a nice shirt or a jersey and offer that, saying sometimes a gift says more. Unfortunately, doing the wrong thing in a cross cultural situation could send a whole lot more of an unintended message. While a huge part of me detests things that are illogical, unclear and hard to follow a small secret part of me is a bit relieved to feel a genuine understanding of this puzzle.
Yes, by offering $50 to "buy credit" the receiver then has an opportunity to express how expensive phone calls are these days and suggest that perhaps more is needed. We can then ensue a conversation about an entirely fictional thing, all the while negotiating the price for a real life service that was offered and received. Who needs price tags? Price tags are for foreigners, she thought, as she smugly sipped her Coca.
The angst is behind me however (well, momentarily to be sure) as I received the good news of having one of the tortured machines returned to me unexpectedly in good health. The Mac is back. This is grand news on many levels- not the least of which involves the fact that as school draws to a close I must transfer all of my documents, photos and other life consuming technology pieces from one computer to another. I had no idea what that "other" would be or where it would come from. I'd browsed a shop downtown to see if there were any quality computers available and couldn't really be sure enough to make a purchase. For once, happy to have procrastinated in search of perfection.
Our IT tech at school is basically a genius. He is the perfect combination of IT whiz, capable electrician and hard-working positivity. I've never seen him without a smile on his face, despite what is surely more work than one person can handle. Although he is part of a 3 person department, I know if I need something repaired, prepared or explained, he is the person to go to. (Most of us know that, which is why he is horribly over-worked. That and the fact that he never says no.)
When my mac screen opened displaying the file of death with the infamous question mark, I thought it was over. Actually, I knew it was over. I asked his opinion and found out another mac user at school was suffering the same fate. A few days later, however, he came to me asking for a stab at my computer. He thought there was hope. Never one to bask in the sunshine before the clouds have truly parted, I handed it over with lingering doubt. Two days ago I happily got word that my machine was "under observation" but appeared to be working and in good health. He let me know he'd spent about 3 hours working on it and had used a compilation of parts from my previous dead mac. (Macs and I have a history- brief and deadly as opposed to the long and creative relationships I hear so many others raving about.)
I asked him to let me know how much it would cost and I was met with silence- and a smile, of course, the ever present smile. Nice to look at but completely useless in presenting a course of action. I decided to confer with one of the Congolese assistants with a bit of technology background, thinking he might have an idea about going rates.
While he didn't have any advice about dollar amounts, he did suggest a gift. I was a bit confused. Honestly, I thought- who doesn't want money? Or, to be brutally honest I thought, what Congolese doesn't want money? Because life is hard and salaries are small and Kinshasa is tres cher. However, he suggested that since my offer of money wasn't met with a price I could either leave something in an envelope kind of anonymously or offer a different kind of gift. He thought a gift of money might be outright refused and would even make future exchanges awkward- could perhaps be construed as an insult. He went on to elaborate that in all conversations he'd ever had, I'd always been referred to as "my good friend" or - and here he mentioned a Lingala word I didn't quite get but it meant to express endearment- someone that all else would be dropped for in order to help out.
Hmmm. It sounded good but not quite right. I'd recently reread Night Studies: Stories of Life in a West African Village- a charming, quick read about a guy living and teaching in Nigeria. He spends a lot of time with neighbor children and seems to enjoy getting to know the culture and succumbing to it's rhythms. Just like I want to do here. Except I can never seem to figure out the hidden rules.
Offering just a gift made me nervous about possibly insulting my colleague and IT godsend so I did what all good students do- I sought out a second opinion. Cultural Expert #2 said it was crazy not to offer cash and suggested I put $50 in an envelope and give it to him, with an adage that he can get some (phone) credit. While the idea of giving cash had been my original plan, I was still stuck on how much. Too little seemed equally as insulting as too much. Of course, in my mind I had been saved from buying a brand new computer so too much was relative to being saved from that impending doom- priceless really. In the end, I simply wanted to be fair (to both of us) and I was frustrated trying to figure out what fair was. Couldn't someone just give me an hourly rate?
I was reminded of the police and their Cocas. The most common way to give money to the traffic police or guards outside a store is to offer a small amount and suggest they buy a Coca. Sometimes they will make a drinking motion as you drive buy- a request for a little bit of cash to quench their thirst. This approach serves two purposes. One- it allows you to show some appreciation for a service. Two- it allows you to acknowledge whatever you are giving is probably not enough but the other person should accept it graciously anyway. I'd finally arrived at a solution (and a small feeling of confidence and understanding of culture after all. Maybe I wasn't as far behind Benjamin Madison as I thought. He makes it all sound so damned easy in his book- so lighthearted and carefree.)
What I am left to wonder about, however, is Cultural Expert #1. How could his advice be so different? He suggested I buy a nice shirt or a jersey and offer that, saying sometimes a gift says more. Unfortunately, doing the wrong thing in a cross cultural situation could send a whole lot more of an unintended message. While a huge part of me detests things that are illogical, unclear and hard to follow a small secret part of me is a bit relieved to feel a genuine understanding of this puzzle.
Yes, by offering $50 to "buy credit" the receiver then has an opportunity to express how expensive phone calls are these days and suggest that perhaps more is needed. We can then ensue a conversation about an entirely fictional thing, all the while negotiating the price for a real life service that was offered and received. Who needs price tags? Price tags are for foreigners, she thought, as she smugly sipped her Coca.
6.4.14
Small Treasures
Life in Kinshasa cultivates an appreciation of the little things- minor moments that can be turned into small treasures of time. During our vacation we made a few discoveries, tried some new things and stepped out of our comfort zone when possible. Some of the highlights:
- Protein popcorn- This delicious treat was discovered at a friend's house during movie night. We started the tradition by bringing flavored popcorn (chocolate- a house specialty, and cheese, another favorite.) The hosts added to the fun by finding this scrumptious recipe (although the name seems misleading- sounds healthy but can it really be? With corn syrup?) She is the kind of person to actually have corn syrup on hand (surely my version will include some form of substitution. Although corn syrup made it to my shopping list this week, I didn't actually spy it in any of the stores.) Highly recommended for popcorn enthusiasts.
- My ever jubilant fitness instructor offered a few classes in the pool during this break since attendance was light. During one class we got around to theorizing about kickboxing in the water- which was quickly scheduled for the following Thursday. Some of the water exercises were great- though I have a hard time believing it's really as good- if not more intense- than an out of water experience. In my current state however, a good floating workout feels wonderful. Kickboxing was a bit of a miss however. The resistance of the water slowed things down (adding to the muscle toning benefit I imagine) but something was lost in the attitude. I think much of the appeal and motivation of kickboxing is feeling like a bad a*# mo-fo and that kind of gets dampened when all your punches throw up little splashes of pool water. But we tried it- ever the good guinea pigs for our award winning instructor (can't do that in Canada, we told her smugly, always trying to maintain our title of favorite fitness buddies- making up in spirit what we lack in numbers.)
- I spent a few fun days wandering around in confusion as I tried to digest the metric versions of weight gained. Though I am trying not to harp on turning 40, facts are it's in my mind a lot. For most of the past year in fact. And gaining weight is a heck of a lot scarier now than ever before. It just doesn't go exactly where you want it to, and there is an ever present acknowledgement that it will probably be a lot harder to get off this time around. I've been keeping mental track of my numbers- 61kg to begin with and the most recent weigh-in- 67. A mere 6 kg. I let the confusion and happiness settle in for awhile (ok, I knew it was damned near impossible that I had only gained 6 kg....but I wanted to revel for a moment.) Once I did the conversions I found out 6kg= about 13lbs. Much more realistic. But still not terrible for the halfway point. My next google search involves looking into how to make your own weights because one of the things I am seriously going to miss is having the weight room available- well stocked, 24 hours and free. While I probably will not be casting my own weights from cement, there are a few good ideas here and an uplifting story.
- The other place I am going to miss will be the pool. When all else fails, going to the pool is the one sure option to induce a carefree feeling of luxury and vacation. It is easy to stare up at the blue sky framed with palm trees listening to the parrots and imagine yourself in any tropical location in the world. A little mental vacation. Often our not-quite-Olympic-sized pool is empty, giving an even greater impression of opulence- as though you were lounging in your own backyard. Occasionally there are other kids around for Nabih to play with, adding some fun to an otherwise dull day. I usually spend my time stretching and exercising underwater, practicing some pull ups on the bars by the diving blocks in an endless attempt to add muscle to my persistently skinny arms. Nabih likes to hang off the basketball hoop (pulling that net closer and closer to the water) and practice perfecting his tricks. Sometimes we bat a ball around or play some random game of dive and catch. No matter what we do, it's refreshing and relaxing. Stress and unhappiness guaranteed to melt away at the pool.
It's always good to try and do one thing that will outshine all others. If I can think of one event that will give the boys something to talk about and remember - just one day out of the ordinary- I can usually coast on those memories for awhile (and stave off the dreaded 'there's nothing to do' for the rest of the week.) So, we packed up and headed off to the 'snake park' one Sunday- Kinshasa's anti-venom unit situated on the outskirts of town in the middle of dirt roads and long grass. There had been a lot hype recently from a group of teachers who had gone there and so we were surprised- and disappointed?- upon first driving up to the 'park.' Park is a big name for an outfit that could have fit on my back porch. But then, I guess snakes don't actually need much room- preferring as they do to remain all coiled up in the dark.
To be fair, the hype centered around how knowledgeable the staff was and the information they could provide about each of the kinds of snakes. There were about 9 large cages set up on stilts, framed with screens in a shady area of the field. There were some large plastic barrels and smaller plastic tubs lined up over top in a row on some wooden shelves to the left of the cages. And there were snakes. Lots of them.
We started with a tour of the venomous ones. The handler took each one out with a long metal hook and we watched from a distance. He told us he'd been bit 6 times. Well, the last time the snake didn't actually get the venom inside. He repeated often how snakes need an enclosure to hide in or they will die from the stress, even as he nudged them from their homes so we could get a glimpse of the deadly creatures. The cobras did a little dance for us as the keeper informed us that all snake charmers were bogus. Cobras follow the movement of the flute, not the music. All snakes are deaf.
When it came time to view the non-venomous snakes, the fun began. The real reason you go to the snake park is so you can hold the snakes- and snap a thousand pictures to prove to your friends how brave you are. You'll notice I am not in any of the pictures. My bravery comes out in different ways.
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| Love the pure enthusiasm on Mohamed's face. He is game! |
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| The snake diva- a friend's daughter approached everything with calm interest |
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| Nabih is clearly more cautious |
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| but proud of his participation |
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| Mohamed seems good...... |
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| ....until the snake turns around for a kiss |
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| What would a trip to the snake park be without a little snake charming hat? |
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| It looks really good on Nabih |
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| The python is most impressive.... I freaked out at first thinking it was a boa |
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| Christian really hates snakes...a lot. But he was ready to help the kids and always first to hold a snake- true bravery |
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| It's actually quite heavy. Nabih declined but snake diva was ready |
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| My favorite part of the whole experience. Love this guy. |
After the awesome reptile experience (we declined a chance to go down and see the crocodile as it required a long walk through muddy fields or a trek in the car....) we set off to find Lac de Ma Vallee.... a cozy little restaurant by a lake for some afternoon relaxing, complete with peddle boats. We'd been here once or twice before and I knew the boats would be another memorable adventure.
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| Love the road to the lake |
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| Nabih's peddle boat face--- he always begins with a bit of trepidation |
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| The brother's go out- it soon becomes peddle boat wars as everyone migrates to their own boat. Let the racing and bumping commence! |
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| Christian and I pose for a photo by the lake |
5.4.14
No niche is not necessarily a good niche
The last two weeks of vacation have passed....without much fanfare. I have struggled to get through each day in a positive spirit and feel useful and upbeat. I wonder why it is such a struggle for me and appears so natural and second nature to some. I've tried to practice being slightly more open and casual about things in conversations. As we waited for other students to show up to class one afternoon, my kickboxing instructor asked how the break was going. I attempted a casual but honest response, "I usually freak out the first few days but I think I'm mostly over it now....." She replied with an interested, "Really? What do you mean exactly...?" And so I told her I usually get a bit depressed....it's definitely something I've heard before in the confines of our exercise room. One someone had mentioned she gets depressed if she doesn't work out and I immediately and exactly knew what she was talking about. Or at least, I thought did. Hearing her and knowing me. But as I shared my thoughts that day, sitting on the dusty rubber floor of the PE room, I wondered. I sounded casual enough, just a bit of sharing but not over sharing- no need to make the situation uncomfortable.
But my depression isn't really like that. It's not casual and flippant. It's not something that comes around for a few days and then goes off, like a cancelled tv series. Its all consuming and debilitating. I literally can't get out of bed. Add new mama hormones to the mix and I am in tears and unable to get out of bed. For reasons that are unknowable. Reasons that didn't seem to really exist the day before. Reasons I used to be able to talk myself out of but not on this day, and maybe not the next. They are days filled with second guessing, doubting, and loneliness. They are long and inconsolable days.
It took me many years to realize everyone doesn't have days like these (or weeks or years.) And after that thought, I spent months wondering what it would be like to never be plagued with these days. Ever. Imagine a whole life lived in the sunshine, knowing what you see and feel around you is the real reality and never entering the dank and musty cave of self doubt and loathing. I cannot imagine.
Writing is unreachable at this time. I used to spend lots of energy pouring my thoughts into pages and pages of emotional outburst. I rarely do it now. Painting, sculpting, and drawing are often one way out- a path I can usually step on that will eventually lead me back into the sunshine of normality. But not words. And definitely not upbeat, observant, happy words. Getting to the blog is hard.
This is not a blog about battling the dragon of depression- though it could be. Certainly there are many who are also caught in the same battles or have loved ones resting on the brink. Surely it would be worthwhile to share in the most illustrating prose what it's really like living with a mind that is so intent on tricking itself.
But I am not here for that. "It's not my thing." And what I have found out most during this small vacation is that I don't really have a thing. I resist things. I could have a blog about turning 40. Or what it's like to be expecting in Congo (complete with my second greatest love- more doctor stories!) I could write about living with teenagers (a parenting blog) or have an educator's blog or an artist's blog. There are relationships- intercultural, interracial, multilingual, a vast array of social and economic boundaries being crossed and double crossed. For every aspect of me, there is the potential to specialize in a blog exploring all about it. While I enjoy reading about each of those things, none of them are specifically "my thing." I'm not a niche person and I guess I never really have been- though I often think I aspire to be.
I have always dreamed of being a master of something....or maybe I dreamed of knowing a little bit of everything and nothing completely. The Renaissance factor. I think, really, I wanted to know something so completely and fully my confidence could never waiver. Except I can't seem to pick the thing I want to know. It's always changing- or it's equally diverse in interest and intensity- both paths leading me to be more of a Renaissance than a connoisseur.
As I set off to embark on "my own thing" I realize I am going to need a lot of sturdy goals in place- something else that began to taunt me these two weeks of freedom. If depression grabs so easily here in the middle of security and tranquility- what is it going to do to me in the middle of the unknowns?
I need to have a firm vision and a plan for getting there (which I mostly do.) But the bigger items to pack in the suitcase are determination and resolve. Giving up is simply not a choice. I realize this whole thing would be so much easier if I could just settle on a niche- call it my own, embrace it and throw every ounce of energy into birthing a project of my design. Completely. But I remain pulled in a few different directions.
all the while maintaining what I believe is a firm foundation. A niche would be better.
But my depression isn't really like that. It's not casual and flippant. It's not something that comes around for a few days and then goes off, like a cancelled tv series. Its all consuming and debilitating. I literally can't get out of bed. Add new mama hormones to the mix and I am in tears and unable to get out of bed. For reasons that are unknowable. Reasons that didn't seem to really exist the day before. Reasons I used to be able to talk myself out of but not on this day, and maybe not the next. They are days filled with second guessing, doubting, and loneliness. They are long and inconsolable days.
It took me many years to realize everyone doesn't have days like these (or weeks or years.) And after that thought, I spent months wondering what it would be like to never be plagued with these days. Ever. Imagine a whole life lived in the sunshine, knowing what you see and feel around you is the real reality and never entering the dank and musty cave of self doubt and loathing. I cannot imagine.
Writing is unreachable at this time. I used to spend lots of energy pouring my thoughts into pages and pages of emotional outburst. I rarely do it now. Painting, sculpting, and drawing are often one way out- a path I can usually step on that will eventually lead me back into the sunshine of normality. But not words. And definitely not upbeat, observant, happy words. Getting to the blog is hard.
This is not a blog about battling the dragon of depression- though it could be. Certainly there are many who are also caught in the same battles or have loved ones resting on the brink. Surely it would be worthwhile to share in the most illustrating prose what it's really like living with a mind that is so intent on tricking itself.
But I am not here for that. "It's not my thing." And what I have found out most during this small vacation is that I don't really have a thing. I resist things. I could have a blog about turning 40. Or what it's like to be expecting in Congo (complete with my second greatest love- more doctor stories!) I could write about living with teenagers (a parenting blog) or have an educator's blog or an artist's blog. There are relationships- intercultural, interracial, multilingual, a vast array of social and economic boundaries being crossed and double crossed. For every aspect of me, there is the potential to specialize in a blog exploring all about it. While I enjoy reading about each of those things, none of them are specifically "my thing." I'm not a niche person and I guess I never really have been- though I often think I aspire to be.
I have always dreamed of being a master of something....or maybe I dreamed of knowing a little bit of everything and nothing completely. The Renaissance factor. I think, really, I wanted to know something so completely and fully my confidence could never waiver. Except I can't seem to pick the thing I want to know. It's always changing- or it's equally diverse in interest and intensity- both paths leading me to be more of a Renaissance than a connoisseur.
As I set off to embark on "my own thing" I realize I am going to need a lot of sturdy goals in place- something else that began to taunt me these two weeks of freedom. If depression grabs so easily here in the middle of security and tranquility- what is it going to do to me in the middle of the unknowns?
I need to have a firm vision and a plan for getting there (which I mostly do.) But the bigger items to pack in the suitcase are determination and resolve. Giving up is simply not a choice. I realize this whole thing would be so much easier if I could just settle on a niche- call it my own, embrace it and throw every ounce of energy into birthing a project of my design. Completely. But I remain pulled in a few different directions.
all the while maintaining what I believe is a firm foundation. A niche would be better.
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