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.