In order to accomplish this, a myriad of notebooks are on the must have list. They're even color -coded which is every elementary school teacher's dream organization method. The green notebook is for science, the purple notebook for math and the transparent book for English. I love two things about this method- there is a yellow notebook and it's for poetry and there is such a thing as TP. I am not exactly sure what TP stands for in terms of the abbreviation (surely something French) but it refers to a certain style of notebook that has a blank drawing page following every lined writing page. The poetry notebook looks like this as does the science (all those diagrams of experiments and brilliant hypothesis just waiting to happen!) I think there is a place for being exposed to and even memorizing poetry. It makes me think of the Renaissance experience....well rounded and exposed to bit of everything. Which is apparently valued in the French system because at the primary level, the teacher is everything. PE teacher, art teacher, music teacher. While these classes are required, there is no specialist educator to present them. So now I am planning a sports class once a week and eyeing the eight djembes in the 'reserve room' where extra supplies can be found.
And then there's the red pen. I've spent most of my teaching career avoiding the red pen syndrome, refusing to use it and adhering to the philosophy that correcting student errors in that way doesn't lead to real learning. Now, it's all about the red pen. There is even a system for it ( color coded, of course.) When we make corrections as a class, students use their green pens (required as per the supply list) and when I make corrections on a student's work, I use the Red Pen. All notebooks must be corrected before going home (to be signed on Fridays, or every few weeks, timeline decided by the teacher. Parents can sign in any color.)
Getting used to the French system has been mostly all right. Although I feel on the edge of tears most mornings, everyone was super nice and forgiving when I had to take 2 days off in the first week of school for that malaria flare up. Having the work day end at 1:00 is really good for morale I think. While some of my days continue to be a lot longer than that, when I do get done at 1:00 I feel like I am skipping out early. By dinner time I've forgotten that I even went to work at all and it feels like the weekend. Amazing. I could live a whole other life in my time outside of school. I am beginning to understand the appeal of the French way of life.
As a local hire however, I think I must be missing some perks. While the hours may leave time to enjoy life, the pay scale doesn’t really permit much. And I've already mentioned the lack of free schooling as one of the biggest drawbacks. Recess duty is the hardest time for me as all I can imagine is how much fun the boys would be having and how much they are missing out on.
Because I have yet to work out that hurdle, the boys and I are doing work at home. I envisioned many scenarios before coming here, but of course I never anticipated working and trying to home school at the same time. We are getting lessons in being patient and trying to keep our hopes up, but we're missing Kinshasa.
The boys miss friends and soccer. They miss birthday parties and weekend sleepovers. I miss....well, I've been trying to figure that out. What is it exactly that I miss? Every time I get close to an answer it sounds too much like all the things I was hoping to get away from. I know the truth about myself though- my big secret- I like things messy. And complicated. Rough around the edges, risky and uncertain. Abidjan is neat and clean and orderly and while that was refreshing, I miss the chaos and disruption. (Of course, when I mentioned that idea about Abidjan being neat and orderly another new teacher kind of shook her head and furrowed her eyebrows. Neat and orderly? she questioned. I guess it's all relative to where we're coming from.)
I’ve always heard we spend our adult lives trying to recreate the environments we grew up in…which is probably why I search out the hardest situations. Its what I know. From the middle of those places, I look out and tell myself I am ready to have things happen easily, without a struggle. It’s my time, I think, to cruise through and enjoy life. But once I am here, in the smooth lane, something is missing.
I suppose a large part of it has to do with having not yet made connections in the art scene. I haven’t met any painters. I don’t have an inside track for canvas, stretchers or veneer banc. I’ve heard the magic of the djembes but only from a distance and, while I am in the market for a dance teacher, I haven’t yet discovered her. Abidjan has yet to come alive for us.
On the flip side, turns out Kinshasa is way huger than I actually believed. I may miss the sound of Lingala on the streets but it’s no stranger to the inside of a cab. Kinshasa musical artists seem to be a favorite of the taxi drivers, which only serves to fuel my not-so-secret dream. I could be the one driving around listening to Fally all day, dreaming of destinations a mere gas tank away.
I thought it was a significant sign that Mikitisa was playing in the taxi on my ride to school the first day. A little bit of Kin to send me off to a good welcome. Now I realize it wasn’t so unusual after all. The majority of taxis are most likely to be playing either a Congolese artist or reggae music. Despite this, I remind myself that Ivory Coast has a rich culture full of the rhythms and sounds that first attracted me to West Africa. I'm just waiting to feel the full effect in person.
I happened to catch a glimpse of a unique version of the quiz show one afternoon in a waiting room. The TV was tuned in to a question/response type of show that everyone was chiming in on, agreeing or disagreeing with the contestants, clucking and shaking their heads when they disagreed with the answer given. The Ivorian twist, however, included a traditional dance contest interlude after each segment of questions. Apparently teams represented districts around the city and each group sent a representative to answer questions followed by the team dance, complete with costumes, make-up, live musicians, and the occasional special effect. More entertaining than the African soap operas featuring chiefs, village magic and 1970's style special effects.
Though I may be feeling far from creativity and the arts for the moment, I am lucky enough to pass this odd tree every morning. A calabash tree, I am told. I am familiar with dried calabash, as used in instruments, but I’ve never seen what’s really inside one. And I never considered they might grow on trees. It’s just odd enough to give me pause, to make me think, to step outside my box for a minute every day. I hope I never get used to this tree. I want to stop and ponder every morning…. pumpkins? watermelons? What are those things and why are they growing on that tree? Who am I and what am I doing at this French school?
