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| Elephant carved chairs |
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| Carved giraffes on the base |
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| Secret door on the base too! |
We've hit the four month mark. Although we've been in our new spot for four months, its hard to tell if we're making progress. We haven't hung any pictures and we still don't have any hot water or furniture, though we did get this amazing table and chair set for free from a friend of a friend. Our lives have changed in ways we didn't anticipate and often in ways we can't control. Loss of control is something my former colleagues explore as they settle into their new spot(s) and is one of the things that makes moving so hard. Trying to figure out and fit into a new culture, a new country and, ultimately, a new life takes its toll.
We've become a microcosm. Our little family functioning in its own small world. The boys haven't met any friends yet and I spend most of my time among strangers.This means a bit of remaking myself- often by default. Every new posting offers a chance to reinvent oneself. A chance to meet new people and offer bits and pieces of yourself one small revelation at a time. Sometimes it all comes together and sometimes it offers a surprising glimpse into parts of yourself that you hadn't really considered before. Mostly it's some configuration of the two.
The thing about being in a French school is that I am presenting myself in a second language. I can't possibly be the same person I would be in my native language- for the good and the bad. I remember someone once telling me how different (and cute? did she say cute? she used some adjective that I can't quite remember) I am when speaking French. What it comes down to is a lot of second guessing. Should I send this email to my director in my grammatically incorrect and probably misspelled French? In English, I wouldn't dream of such a thing but now, I haven't really much choice. What I'm left to ponder is whether or not he thinks less of me - professionally- for it.
On the street, people are happy to hear my poor French. They love to tag me as American. I presume due to my accent, I've been tagged in many taxis and stores. It's not much different than me tagging the Senegalese, prevalent in Ivory Coast and easily recognizable due to the lilt of their French. I find a secret delight in being able to distinguish between the Africans and it is due to my experiences with people from many West African countries. I also find I have developed a fierce pride in being able to identify the Congolese singers on the radio. Singing in Lingala? Yup, that's me. They're playing my song. I try to find a way to work into the conversation that I have just come from Kinshasa. I suppose it is similar to the many drivers who like to tag me as American and then get directions in English (a right, yes? and left, gauche, non? I was giddily inspired to teach one taxi driver 'hang a louie' American slang for left, n'est-ce pas?) But those interactions are a far cry from the formality of the work place.
I remember being in Kinshasa and hearing the response of some teachers and administration to broken English. Unfortunately it wasn't in the vein of "Hey, give him points for the old college try." In fact, I recently spent one lunch break reading research on bilingual classrooms and I realized how far removed from the American perspective I've become. Some research on bilingual education sounds dismally negative- like a thing to do until the child becomes fluent in English rather than a thing to celebrate and encourage. In my world, the bilingual classes are sought after and fill up quickly.
But that doesn't stop me from thinking twice before clicking the send button on my emails. And a conversation in which I posed several questions to a fellow teacher resulted in me saying, "I'm really not stupid," in French, of course. To give him credit, my fellow teacher responded, emphatically, "Terae, I wasn't thinking that," but I felt it. Because I am someone different in French. I admit, happily, that spending so much time with French French speakers is increasing my vocabulary, possibly fixing my grammar (as opposed to African French which is filled with grammatical loopholes that make understanding the Ivorians akin to learning a new language on it's own- just when I've learned to stop saying nonante and septante, Belgicisms found in Congo) and adding to my repertoire of facial expressions (French French is filled with interesting sound effects and facial expressions which seem just as important as the words.) Yes, I am advancing, but often I still feel like a five year old. Even the students at recess look at me with quizzical eyes - making me wonder if what I am saying is actually what I mean to be saying.
Most days I realize that I am a mere shadow of the person I used to be. I can no longer have those stimulating give and take discussions about education, banter about the perfect word to use in creation of curriculum documents or other academic discourse. Not the way I used to. I am too busy learning the ropes and concentrating on comprehension. So I search for interaction in other ways.
These include passing remarks with strangers about catching a taxi - which resulted in a few days of fun early morning conversation with a woman who thought sharing a taxi would be good for both of us. Unfortunately we were heading in separate directions. Random conversations in the grocery store are another way to get my social fill. Yesterday I spoke with an older man who wanted to know how I prepare soya chunks. He was considering buying them on advice from a friend. When I grabbed a package he took the opportunity to ask how I make them. We kept running into each other in various aisles and the dialogue continued. Maybe he was as hungry for conversation as I.
The businesses, stores and pharmacies in my neighborhood offer other chances for quick conversations. The people know me well enough to have a simple exchange. "Know me." My daily and weekly routines mean I pass the same people and we've begun to say hello. But I have no deeper an image of them than they have of me.
I often wonder how many times it takes for someone to remember me. Historically, I am not all that memorable. I have tried to infuse some humor into my casual interactions, lending to my memorabilia factor. I've noticed it can be as infrequent as one visit before someone recognizes and remembers me. The friendliness of Abidjan, perhaps. Or the white factor. There are a few other Europeans in my neighborhood I am beginning to discover, but we are not many.
There is a white man, French I'm guessing, but since we haven't exchanged more than a passing hello, I cannot really know. I see him many mornings in the neighborhood. We've begun to greet each other- for no other reason than we are both obviously strangers, I think. He seems more interesting as he is walking deeper into the cartier on his way to work while I am heading out. On a few occasions, I have seen him at the carrefour where taxis gather and I assume he is headed to the office. Most interesting would be a sit down and chat about what he is doing here and why. But I have no idea how to make this happen. Or if I even want to.
It's not much different in my workplace. Conversations occur in passing and often don't get much further than how are you? I'm not sure how to take it further and not yet convinced I want to. Slowly, slowly, or malembe, malembe as is said in Lingala. I've become known as the theater person at school and have even been approached by the director with an invitation to attend a professional development conference on the topic in February. I am excited to branch out in a new direction. Having an official paper documenting professional training in this area can only add to future opportunities.
For the moment, still taking it all in. Returning to my little microcosm after work and relishing my Sunday night dinners with a friend in English. Spending my weeks among strangers in French.
But that doesn't stop me from thinking twice before clicking the send button on my emails. And a conversation in which I posed several questions to a fellow teacher resulted in me saying, "I'm really not stupid," in French, of course. To give him credit, my fellow teacher responded, emphatically, "Terae, I wasn't thinking that," but I felt it. Because I am someone different in French. I admit, happily, that spending so much time with French French speakers is increasing my vocabulary, possibly fixing my grammar (as opposed to African French which is filled with grammatical loopholes that make understanding the Ivorians akin to learning a new language on it's own- just when I've learned to stop saying nonante and septante, Belgicisms found in Congo) and adding to my repertoire of facial expressions (French French is filled with interesting sound effects and facial expressions which seem just as important as the words.) Yes, I am advancing, but often I still feel like a five year old. Even the students at recess look at me with quizzical eyes - making me wonder if what I am saying is actually what I mean to be saying.
Most days I realize that I am a mere shadow of the person I used to be. I can no longer have those stimulating give and take discussions about education, banter about the perfect word to use in creation of curriculum documents or other academic discourse. Not the way I used to. I am too busy learning the ropes and concentrating on comprehension. So I search for interaction in other ways.
These include passing remarks with strangers about catching a taxi - which resulted in a few days of fun early morning conversation with a woman who thought sharing a taxi would be good for both of us. Unfortunately we were heading in separate directions. Random conversations in the grocery store are another way to get my social fill. Yesterday I spoke with an older man who wanted to know how I prepare soya chunks. He was considering buying them on advice from a friend. When I grabbed a package he took the opportunity to ask how I make them. We kept running into each other in various aisles and the dialogue continued. Maybe he was as hungry for conversation as I.
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| Textured soy protein meat substitute Tasty and a great conversation starter. |
I often wonder how many times it takes for someone to remember me. Historically, I am not all that memorable. I have tried to infuse some humor into my casual interactions, lending to my memorabilia factor. I've noticed it can be as infrequent as one visit before someone recognizes and remembers me. The friendliness of Abidjan, perhaps. Or the white factor. There are a few other Europeans in my neighborhood I am beginning to discover, but we are not many.
There is a white man, French I'm guessing, but since we haven't exchanged more than a passing hello, I cannot really know. I see him many mornings in the neighborhood. We've begun to greet each other- for no other reason than we are both obviously strangers, I think. He seems more interesting as he is walking deeper into the cartier on his way to work while I am heading out. On a few occasions, I have seen him at the carrefour where taxis gather and I assume he is headed to the office. Most interesting would be a sit down and chat about what he is doing here and why. But I have no idea how to make this happen. Or if I even want to.
It's not much different in my workplace. Conversations occur in passing and often don't get much further than how are you? I'm not sure how to take it further and not yet convinced I want to. Slowly, slowly, or malembe, malembe as is said in Lingala. I've become known as the theater person at school and have even been approached by the director with an invitation to attend a professional development conference on the topic in February. I am excited to branch out in a new direction. Having an official paper documenting professional training in this area can only add to future opportunities.
For the moment, still taking it all in. Returning to my little microcosm after work and relishing my Sunday night dinners with a friend in English. Spending my weeks among strangers in French.
