As an educator, as in any profession really, I’m no stranger
to meetings. Endless meetings it seems at times. I’ve never actually calculated
the hours, but in the French system there is a formula for this- of course. 106
hours of professional meetings. Those of us in the bilingual program are
mandated for a bit more- happily this comes with extra pay.
I spend most of my time, as I may have mentioned, actively
listening. It takes a lot of effort to be sure I understand what’s really being
said and make sure I don’t miss some obligatory duty or deadline. My binome
(the closest I can come to translating this interesting word is
co-teacher, though it seems reserved specifically for the partner teacher in a
bilingual situation) is great. He is constantly checking in with me to make
sure I understand and is ever ready to ‘translate’ (still in French but in
simpler terms) whatever I might be unclear about.
Our most recent meeting involved discussion about events for
the year- ways to incorporate English into the other school events and
presentations that might include the ‘regular’ classes (known as classique -where English is taught as a
language class but for far fewer hours a week and with less intensity than in
the bilingual classes.) This meeting left me with huge sense of deja vu in a
reverse sort of way.
In Kinshasa we- or at least I- spent a lot of time devising
ways to incorporate the Congolese perspective into our curriculum. Oddly
enough, I was often deferred to as an expert- or, minimally, as someone with
some knowledge in this area, even when other Congolese teachers were part of
the meeting. I can tell you that’s an
odd feeling.
It’s not so easy to try and pick out the relevant aspects of
a culture not your own to present authentically to students. I spent a lot of
time questioning the assistants, other teachers and my friends to get their
ideas on how to do this. No matter how much information I gathered on what was
important to them, which experiences were most accurate and significant, I
could never ignore the fact that I am not Congolese and therefore risked
getting it wrong or being slightly off in the presentation.
I guess it’s poetic justice then that I found myself at such
a meeting, this time with a chance to be the other. The French teachers
were choosing holidays and food to share, planning a traditional English
‘tea-time.’ I have no insider knowledge
of this English tradition but, perhaps because I was in the room or perhaps in
an effort to be more inclusive, talk turned to American traditions.
Specifically, Halloween (I guess October is upon us, my how the time flies when
you’re in school.) Maybe I should say thankfully Halloween- a holiday I do know
something about. I’d been having an odd feeling of panic and being exposed.
Most often I feel like a quasi-American.
What are the most iconic symbols and experiences of my country anyway?
Do I really know?
I was reminded of my first trip to Guinea. We were in the
village hanging around a campfire one night. The musicians were singing the
songs of their country in beautiful, bittersweet voices. Whenever I asked what
a song was about, invariably it had to do with love of their country or duty to
family. After they’d finished their round, they asked the two Americans in the
group to sing something. Not only is my voice something I’m rather shy about, but
put on the spot like that I couldn’t think of a song that equally represented
the US and expressed a profound moral. It seems like all our songs are love
songs- and not often very good at that.
(It wasn’t until much later that I remembered America the Beautiful, a
song whose words I’d had taped to my headboard as a child and sang myself to
sleep with every night. I could have sang that had I my wits about me.)
The problem is, if asked, I’m not sure what I could come up
with as significant American symbols. America is huge. It depends on which part
of the country we’re talking about, which social class, which ethnicity, and on
and on. I started to understand the difficulty of posing such questions to my
Congolese friends who surely grappled with the same issues. Congo is vast,
complete with it’s own multitude of ethnicities and languages. It seems the
best either of us could do is pick the cliché….exactly what I’d always tried to
get away from. Apple pie and baseball. Or basketball. American football. Ice
cream. Thanksgiving. It’s about all I
have in my tool belt when it comes to spreading American culture.
Nevertheless, I found it amusing to listen in as they tried
to nail down something that would exemplify America- and I felt oddly “other.”
Far away memories, a distant sense of having known that life but almost as if
had happened to another person, which I suppose, in a way, it did.
America is filled with immigrants who’ve left their
countries in search of something more. Many have decided to stay without
returning to their home countries, whether by choice or by circumstances beyond
their control. Over time, they come to see themselves as Americans, through and
through. I’d often wondered what it was like to have another country in your
back pocket- how does it feel to spend so many years away from the place you
were born and raised. It feels real is one thing I’ve learned. (And as the
American debate over immigration continues, it’s a point I wish could be made
more clear somehow. Returning immigrants ‘home’ after so many years in the
States is really akin to landing in a strange country and learning it all over
again. Not home at all.)
I’m beginning to get a taste of being the immigrant, even if
I don’t yet have another country to take the place of my birth home. For now,
it’s Congo. And I guess that’s how it goes for the third culture generation.
Whatever country we’ve last come from is the one we identify most with. I am
surprised but happy enough to identify with Kinshasa, remembering when I’d
first arrived there I identified with Guinea. I guess a true nomad has enough
room in the heart for many homes.
