I've spent the last mind numbing hour looking at shoes. I'm forever wishing for a more stylish pair that might somehow offer comfort as well. I'm not shopping, however. Instead I am sitting through an infamous Monday meeting inspecting my colleagues' footwear. Their crisp, clean fashions leave me feeling dowdy and un-chic. I move on to noticing hairstyles and skin quality, trying to arrange people by age. I follow the conversation loosely, focusing more on accents and word formations than content.There is a certain way you must shape the mouth to get those French sounds out correctly and I notice the subtle differences. Perhaps it has to do with region of origin. France is a country after all, and my colleagues weren't necessarily neighbors there and they don't all come from Paris.
I know nothing about France and so I can't begin to sort them by geographical locations. Instead, I move on to jewelry. And eye wrinkles and laugh lines. I try to sort them into cliques and wonder who hangs out with who and what their differences are. I begin to notice some subtle (or, subtle to me at least. Everything is subtle coming through the haze of another language) signs of disagreement in philosophy and perspective. A rife among them. It is smoothed over with jokes and laughter in an attempt to ease rigid temperaments and restore professional harmony.
I tune back into content for a bit. This particular meeting is called the counseil du cycle and it involves teachers from each cycle meeting to discuss the students in their grade. Teachers present concerns, strategies attempted and propose solutions. In concept a great idea, in reality it risks turning into a complaining fest. The division occurs because a pair of teachers have recommended a student skip a grade and went ahead and got director and parent approval before the counseil had a chance to review. Members are not happy about this breach in protocol. Humor restores the collegiality but not before I've had a chance to witness who's who in each camp.
I spend some time trying to discern the different learning disabilities they speak of- this being my concentration. The super regulated Frech system of education appears to have a prescribed series of interventions for each dys-.
While it's all fascinating, I feel useless. I don't contribute to the conversation and have long since stopped my inner commentary on the matters. No one asks for my opinion, nor is it ever expected. I ponder my desire to participate. Does it stem from having something new and genuine to contribute or just from a need to feed my ego? I spent the first half of the year nurturing my humility and stifling my natural tendancy to jump in with ideas from past experiences. I was overcome with the distinct sense that nothing I tried to share would be met with merit.
The second half of the year I have found myself feeling more disspirited by my uselessness. The Monday meetings are hard to sit through when I think of all the more efficient ways I could be using my time. While there are few expectations of the English teachers, I have implemented my version of best practices and programs - though I know students will not continue them the following year. I rejoice in gains students have made- and that are clearly shown on the assessments- but there is no one to share them with.
Contrary to popular image, teaching is not really me in my classroom alone, but me in a group of colleagues developing a continuum of learning that students follow- like a path through a forest of knowledge. Except in this case, my path is an ill used short cut, over grown with weeds and tangled briars. We've chopped our way through to a fairly decent clearing but there is no one to lead them on from here.
I turn back to the footwear. There is an assortment of high heels, cushy soles and flip flops. All that's missing is a decent pair of hiking boots.
30.5.15
26.5.15
Finishing Boys
School is out for summer. Not for me – but for Mohamed and many of the boys in the
neighborhood. It felt like they barely went to school. Finishing at 12:30
equals only a half day in my book and I can’t imagine why they wouldn’t
continue school year round with a schedule like that. I’m feeling lost and
anxious about what to do with him (and by extension them) for the next few
months. I hate to think of the bad habits forming from all these hours of hanging around with nothing to do. Year after year after year.
“Finishing schools” (I’m not really sure what else to call them, skill schools maybe?) for girls are quite popular. They are an aid/NGO thing and I’ve seen them here and in Congo. They offer training in skills like sewing, hairdressing, manicures and even technology. Some also have courses in reading and writing and math. The walls around these schools often have pictures of women and girls engaged in all sorts of useful tasks designed to keep them busy and provide a livelihood.
My unease about the long schoolless weeks ahead led to me wondering what kind of skills would be useful for guys. How would we “finish” them? If such schools existed (and I was, of course, imagining the start of a new trend all across Africa) what would they offer? Most importantly, I wonder why they don’t already exist. A recent conversation with the boys about how to be beautiful inside and outside and how to treat the hordes of girls who would soon be surrounding them reminds me of this article about a school for husbands. The time is ripe for a new trend.
I find myself trying to dish out these small bits of wisdom as Mohamed reaches those difficult years of teenage-dom. He’s got lots of energy, he’s right about everything and he wants to please his friends. I am happy that he’s made so many friends but it seems one solution has led to another problem. I recognize this as not just our problem but the problem of all developing countries (can I call them emerging countries? Is that a term that has taken hold yet? So many countries in Africa and Asia are taking off and flying into modern times with more services and advancements than can be found in Europe or the US.)
The unending voyage of migrants is a testament to the dismal situations boys and men are facing. They spend days, weeks and months with nothing to fill their time and no prospects for a future. What are they to do with all of their time? Mohamed’s ceaseless requests for small money (100franc alloco, 50 franc bissap and on and on) resulted in me sending him off in search of a way to make money. We quickly deduced that it was futile. Things kids do for money in other countries are careers here. Selling lemonade- women feed their children on profits from making and selling cold drinks. Raking? Pulling weeds? It’s known as agriculture here and there is no shortage of farmers in the lettuce fields. Small jobs for youth don't exist, unless it is money going to feed the family.
This early search for money is only the beginning of a lifetime of deadend leads down a road to nowhere. When I think of the boys in our neighborhood, I am frightened for their future. Some may get scholarships to better schools (it is the practice for students to attend Ivorian schools until the last two years when the smartest ones can get entrance to the French schools- at government pay, I believe. My colleague in the secondary school tells me they arrive strong in French and math skills, subjects of emphasis in the French system. They are well prepared to take the exams.) But not all students have this opportunity. And higher or better education does not always ensure employment.
What of the ones who squeak by with 50%? They may end up selling wares in a small boutique or along the roadside. They might have the chance to learn a trade such as mechanics, electricity or carpentry. Some may find themselves in labor- working with cement or doing the preconstruction tasks of digging and clearing. There is always the ever present phone credit business. I’m going out on a limb to offer another of my intensely unscientific statistics to guess that of all the boys Mohamed hangs out with (4 or 5 solid friends and another 5 -6 interlocutors) maybe 2 will end up in one of these situations. And the rest? Wandering about town wondering how to fill their days, gathering in groups at the corner spaghetti shack to talk about the latest soccer scores, dreaming of a faraway life in another world where work is possible and the basic comforts of life are not considered a luxury. Surely there is a better finish for our boys?
“Finishing schools” (I’m not really sure what else to call them, skill schools maybe?) for girls are quite popular. They are an aid/NGO thing and I’ve seen them here and in Congo. They offer training in skills like sewing, hairdressing, manicures and even technology. Some also have courses in reading and writing and math. The walls around these schools often have pictures of women and girls engaged in all sorts of useful tasks designed to keep them busy and provide a livelihood.
My unease about the long schoolless weeks ahead led to me wondering what kind of skills would be useful for guys. How would we “finish” them? If such schools existed (and I was, of course, imagining the start of a new trend all across Africa) what would they offer? Most importantly, I wonder why they don’t already exist. A recent conversation with the boys about how to be beautiful inside and outside and how to treat the hordes of girls who would soon be surrounding them reminds me of this article about a school for husbands. The time is ripe for a new trend.
I find myself trying to dish out these small bits of wisdom as Mohamed reaches those difficult years of teenage-dom. He’s got lots of energy, he’s right about everything and he wants to please his friends. I am happy that he’s made so many friends but it seems one solution has led to another problem. I recognize this as not just our problem but the problem of all developing countries (can I call them emerging countries? Is that a term that has taken hold yet? So many countries in Africa and Asia are taking off and flying into modern times with more services and advancements than can be found in Europe or the US.)
The unending voyage of migrants is a testament to the dismal situations boys and men are facing. They spend days, weeks and months with nothing to fill their time and no prospects for a future. What are they to do with all of their time? Mohamed’s ceaseless requests for small money (100franc alloco, 50 franc bissap and on and on) resulted in me sending him off in search of a way to make money. We quickly deduced that it was futile. Things kids do for money in other countries are careers here. Selling lemonade- women feed their children on profits from making and selling cold drinks. Raking? Pulling weeds? It’s known as agriculture here and there is no shortage of farmers in the lettuce fields. Small jobs for youth don't exist, unless it is money going to feed the family.
This early search for money is only the beginning of a lifetime of deadend leads down a road to nowhere. When I think of the boys in our neighborhood, I am frightened for their future. Some may get scholarships to better schools (it is the practice for students to attend Ivorian schools until the last two years when the smartest ones can get entrance to the French schools- at government pay, I believe. My colleague in the secondary school tells me they arrive strong in French and math skills, subjects of emphasis in the French system. They are well prepared to take the exams.) But not all students have this opportunity. And higher or better education does not always ensure employment.
What of the ones who squeak by with 50%? They may end up selling wares in a small boutique or along the roadside. They might have the chance to learn a trade such as mechanics, electricity or carpentry. Some may find themselves in labor- working with cement or doing the preconstruction tasks of digging and clearing. There is always the ever present phone credit business. I’m going out on a limb to offer another of my intensely unscientific statistics to guess that of all the boys Mohamed hangs out with (4 or 5 solid friends and another 5 -6 interlocutors) maybe 2 will end up in one of these situations. And the rest? Wandering about town wondering how to fill their days, gathering in groups at the corner spaghetti shack to talk about the latest soccer scores, dreaming of a faraway life in another world where work is possible and the basic comforts of life are not considered a luxury. Surely there is a better finish for our boys?
22.5.15
A family of horses
I’ve been wanting to share a picture of the horses I pass everyday on my way to school.
My camera was stolen, however, so instead I’ve been feeling disappointed about
that. But then I remember I am supposed to be painting images with my words. In
which case, here’s a portrait of the horse family.
They live on the corner of what used to be a quiet intersection, aside from the early morning and midday school pick ups. In true Abidjan fashion, a new road is coming and so the quiet intersection is now turning into a traffic stopping round point. Back in September, there were two horses and they could be found on either side of the roadway, sometimes in a small patch of grass barely an arm’s length wide.
Over time, they have become a more permanent fixture on a large corner of the block. Another horse joined them and sometime in February a new colt made an appearance. Unlike the older horses, which are always tethered by the ankle to a rock or post, the new baby was free to roam. He (or she) leant a decidedly spring-like feel to February despite the climbing temperatures. I enjoyed watching him wobble and frolic next to his parents (if, in fact, they are related. I never signs of a bulging belly.)
A small structure eventually appeared as well, an open stall with a black tarp roof. The impending new road lies in contrast to the apparent permanence the horse stall suggests. To the right of the field lies a large hole in the ground with a sloping entrance. It’s the kind I see dug for wells next to lettuce farms. Just beyond that is a collection of bushes and small trees shielding the horses from the main thoroughfare. A collection of women used to sit selling fruits and phone cards and some sort of breakfast meal from large plastic tubs. Most of them have been displaced by the construction. They’ve either moved across the street or down to the corner. I cut across the field on a dirt path which has since become a short cut for cars. The horses don’t seem to notice my presence or be bothered in the least by the increase in traffic.
A neighborhood begins on the left, though I have never really considered the horses belonging to any one of those houses. I rarely see a person attending to them, and the one or two times I did, I hadn’t the nerve ask the million questions I harbor. Who do the horses belong to and what is their purpose? They are clearly not for riding and I can’t imagine another reason – not just for having horses but for adding to the herd.
I enjoy walking this way and feeling a bit of country in my morning- only to be spit out in a sea of buildings and traffic and people. For a brief moment, I am on a quiet lane in the middle of a village. Abidjan is practiced in creating these dizzying alterations of scene. Nowhere is this more apparent than on my way to my Wednesday afternoon conversation in English. I meet with a teacher from the high school at her place in Akuedo. This past week a taxi driver offered a mere 1000 franc to take me there and I was so surprised I had to ask twice.
He took the back road that travels behind the primary school, past the lycee and over into Palmeraie. The road we travelled was red dirt and full of holes. The path was lined with palm trees and village houses. These houses are wooden in construction and often have black tarp nailed to the top or sides. They appear small from the outside, maybe one or two rooms and are ageless. It is hard to tell if they are going up or coming down. We travelled on this road for 5 minutes or so. Five village minutes, meaning we drove in frequent starts and stops, mad dashes forward from 0 to 20 and then back to 0 again all the while swerving from right to left to avoid potholes. The car buoyed up and down like a sailboat. A less seasoned voyager might have felt a twinge of motion sickness.
No sooner had I been lulled into a sleepy country state than we rounded a corner and joined civilization again. Concrete houses in progress sprang up, corner stores and roadside sellers appeared. Just like that we were back in the city. Sort of. I still had the feeling of being far from anywhere but I could imagine a short walk straight down this road would end in the congested nightmare that is the conjunction of Palmeraie and the grand route. There is such a palatable sense of change in the air. I know in a few years, everything that feels remote and natural will be replaced by commercial buildings, high rise apartments and over- sized villas.
For now I enjoy the calm and tranquility of the neighborhoods I find myself in. I like the small town feel of each cartier. I am a little saddened by the inevitable growth and expansion. And I wonder what will eventually happen to the horses. I like their presence in my morning. But I know they cannot stay there.
Even as I question their purpose, I reflect upon my own. A few days ago I’d had a sense that this is it. And I had to wonder briefly if I was ok with that. Is Abidjan the resting place? Is it here that my boys will grow into men? And what of me? I’ve yet to feel I’ve found that just right spot. I can’t know what the future will bring. I can’t even really see past the next 6 weeks to the end of the school year. I remain like the horses, all snuggled in their patch of grass and weeds, a small family enjoying each other as progress marches on in their midst, waiting for time to tell how the new roads of change will affect them.
They live on the corner of what used to be a quiet intersection, aside from the early morning and midday school pick ups. In true Abidjan fashion, a new road is coming and so the quiet intersection is now turning into a traffic stopping round point. Back in September, there were two horses and they could be found on either side of the roadway, sometimes in a small patch of grass barely an arm’s length wide.
Over time, they have become a more permanent fixture on a large corner of the block. Another horse joined them and sometime in February a new colt made an appearance. Unlike the older horses, which are always tethered by the ankle to a rock or post, the new baby was free to roam. He (or she) leant a decidedly spring-like feel to February despite the climbing temperatures. I enjoyed watching him wobble and frolic next to his parents (if, in fact, they are related. I never signs of a bulging belly.)
A small structure eventually appeared as well, an open stall with a black tarp roof. The impending new road lies in contrast to the apparent permanence the horse stall suggests. To the right of the field lies a large hole in the ground with a sloping entrance. It’s the kind I see dug for wells next to lettuce farms. Just beyond that is a collection of bushes and small trees shielding the horses from the main thoroughfare. A collection of women used to sit selling fruits and phone cards and some sort of breakfast meal from large plastic tubs. Most of them have been displaced by the construction. They’ve either moved across the street or down to the corner. I cut across the field on a dirt path which has since become a short cut for cars. The horses don’t seem to notice my presence or be bothered in the least by the increase in traffic.
A neighborhood begins on the left, though I have never really considered the horses belonging to any one of those houses. I rarely see a person attending to them, and the one or two times I did, I hadn’t the nerve ask the million questions I harbor. Who do the horses belong to and what is their purpose? They are clearly not for riding and I can’t imagine another reason – not just for having horses but for adding to the herd.
I enjoy walking this way and feeling a bit of country in my morning- only to be spit out in a sea of buildings and traffic and people. For a brief moment, I am on a quiet lane in the middle of a village. Abidjan is practiced in creating these dizzying alterations of scene. Nowhere is this more apparent than on my way to my Wednesday afternoon conversation in English. I meet with a teacher from the high school at her place in Akuedo. This past week a taxi driver offered a mere 1000 franc to take me there and I was so surprised I had to ask twice.
He took the back road that travels behind the primary school, past the lycee and over into Palmeraie. The road we travelled was red dirt and full of holes. The path was lined with palm trees and village houses. These houses are wooden in construction and often have black tarp nailed to the top or sides. They appear small from the outside, maybe one or two rooms and are ageless. It is hard to tell if they are going up or coming down. We travelled on this road for 5 minutes or so. Five village minutes, meaning we drove in frequent starts and stops, mad dashes forward from 0 to 20 and then back to 0 again all the while swerving from right to left to avoid potholes. The car buoyed up and down like a sailboat. A less seasoned voyager might have felt a twinge of motion sickness.
No sooner had I been lulled into a sleepy country state than we rounded a corner and joined civilization again. Concrete houses in progress sprang up, corner stores and roadside sellers appeared. Just like that we were back in the city. Sort of. I still had the feeling of being far from anywhere but I could imagine a short walk straight down this road would end in the congested nightmare that is the conjunction of Palmeraie and the grand route. There is such a palatable sense of change in the air. I know in a few years, everything that feels remote and natural will be replaced by commercial buildings, high rise apartments and over- sized villas.
For now I enjoy the calm and tranquility of the neighborhoods I find myself in. I like the small town feel of each cartier. I am a little saddened by the inevitable growth and expansion. And I wonder what will eventually happen to the horses. I like their presence in my morning. But I know they cannot stay there.
Even as I question their purpose, I reflect upon my own. A few days ago I’d had a sense that this is it. And I had to wonder briefly if I was ok with that. Is Abidjan the resting place? Is it here that my boys will grow into men? And what of me? I’ve yet to feel I’ve found that just right spot. I can’t know what the future will bring. I can’t even really see past the next 6 weeks to the end of the school year. I remain like the horses, all snuggled in their patch of grass and weeds, a small family enjoying each other as progress marches on in their midst, waiting for time to tell how the new roads of change will affect them.
15.5.15
La poupee
I spent one recent Saturday in search of a good freezer. My neighborhood phone credit seller and all around go it guy suggested I go to Treichville and scour the streets for a good deal. It sounded infinitely easier than the maze of Adjame and so the princess and I set off for adventure.
I took a cab to the "appliance section" of the rue de commerce and got out in front of a random store. I understand and don't understand the concept of what seems to be the typical African "street of commerce." It is organized by topic- all the appliance stores in one section, all the plumbing supplies in another and so on. It makes for easy searching on the customers part, certainly, but I can't quite figure out how it benefits the storekeepers.
I walked up one side of the street and down another, browsing windows, sidewalk merchandise and occasionally going in to check things out further. It was quickly clear I'd landed in the Lebanese section of town. I noticed men and women sitting outside their shops, hovering in their doorways or taking care of business inside.
Some called out to me and invited me in, some watched me warily as I passed and some offered a quiet smile but said nothing. The merchandise was similar and the prices the same. As I walked into one store, I saw a woman who appeared to be sitting on a large throne with her wares arranged all around. The tiles were sparkling white and, in contrast to the other cramped stalls, there was ample space to move around and inspect the appliances. I felt all eyes on me, being the only customer at the moment, and I made my way quickly through the store. I eyed the price tags from a distance and didn't linger long over any one item. By then, I'd already seen what was available. The queen bee called out to me as I headed for the door.
"Those aren't the prices, madame," she said with a smile. I nodded my head. The reason that buying a freezer becomes an adventure is because not only do you have to locate one you think might work for more than a month, you have to negotiate a fair price and figure out how to get it back to your house. Negotiating is not my strong point, no matter how many rules and strategies I have developed. At best, they are mere coping methods for a painful process.
I'd actually come with the intent of not buying. I wanted to see what brands were available, compare sizes and get an idea of beginning prices. The section of the street I was browsing was not long and was nicely tree lined. Small and shady, but I was already tired. Too much of the same with not enough difference in options or prices. None of it really fit my budget.
The shopkeepers were friendly, though their level of interest in me varied. Most of them had seen me going in and out of the other stores and knew I wasn't purchasing. I heard snippets of conversation as I passed, many assuming I was French. One large man, sitting in a plastic chair, called me over.
"Bring the poupee," he said. It took me just a second to realize he was talking about the baby. Mbalia had been the recipient of smiles and goochy-goos all throughout our adventure. Babies have a way of making connections.
'You're not French." I'd only said a few words before he made his accusation. "Give me the doll," he commanded putting his arms out. I laughed to stifle my inital response which was, "you must be nuts if you think I am handing my precious over to a stranger laid up on his lounge chair outside his store eating greasy chicken." I don't actually know if he was eating greasy chicken but he looked like the type who would eat greasy chicken and lick his fingers afterward.
"She will cry,' I said simply. Mbalia has gotten to that stage where going with strangers induces confusion and crying. A normal and safe baby response.
"Is she sick?" the man wondered, obviously unable to comprehend why anyone, baby or not, wouldn't be overjoyed to sit on his lap and be greased by freshly licked fingers.
"A little," I smiled and wished him a good day. He politely wished us a good day back and we continued on our journey. But he wasn't the only one to reach out and try to touch or kiss or remark on 'la poupee.' I found it odd and invading and was happy to jump back into a taxi and make my way home- freezerless.
I took a cab to the "appliance section" of the rue de commerce and got out in front of a random store. I understand and don't understand the concept of what seems to be the typical African "street of commerce." It is organized by topic- all the appliance stores in one section, all the plumbing supplies in another and so on. It makes for easy searching on the customers part, certainly, but I can't quite figure out how it benefits the storekeepers.
I walked up one side of the street and down another, browsing windows, sidewalk merchandise and occasionally going in to check things out further. It was quickly clear I'd landed in the Lebanese section of town. I noticed men and women sitting outside their shops, hovering in their doorways or taking care of business inside.
Some called out to me and invited me in, some watched me warily as I passed and some offered a quiet smile but said nothing. The merchandise was similar and the prices the same. As I walked into one store, I saw a woman who appeared to be sitting on a large throne with her wares arranged all around. The tiles were sparkling white and, in contrast to the other cramped stalls, there was ample space to move around and inspect the appliances. I felt all eyes on me, being the only customer at the moment, and I made my way quickly through the store. I eyed the price tags from a distance and didn't linger long over any one item. By then, I'd already seen what was available. The queen bee called out to me as I headed for the door.
"Those aren't the prices, madame," she said with a smile. I nodded my head. The reason that buying a freezer becomes an adventure is because not only do you have to locate one you think might work for more than a month, you have to negotiate a fair price and figure out how to get it back to your house. Negotiating is not my strong point, no matter how many rules and strategies I have developed. At best, they are mere coping methods for a painful process.
I'd actually come with the intent of not buying. I wanted to see what brands were available, compare sizes and get an idea of beginning prices. The section of the street I was browsing was not long and was nicely tree lined. Small and shady, but I was already tired. Too much of the same with not enough difference in options or prices. None of it really fit my budget.
The shopkeepers were friendly, though their level of interest in me varied. Most of them had seen me going in and out of the other stores and knew I wasn't purchasing. I heard snippets of conversation as I passed, many assuming I was French. One large man, sitting in a plastic chair, called me over.
"Bring the poupee," he said. It took me just a second to realize he was talking about the baby. Mbalia had been the recipient of smiles and goochy-goos all throughout our adventure. Babies have a way of making connections.
'You're not French." I'd only said a few words before he made his accusation. "Give me the doll," he commanded putting his arms out. I laughed to stifle my inital response which was, "you must be nuts if you think I am handing my precious over to a stranger laid up on his lounge chair outside his store eating greasy chicken." I don't actually know if he was eating greasy chicken but he looked like the type who would eat greasy chicken and lick his fingers afterward.
"She will cry,' I said simply. Mbalia has gotten to that stage where going with strangers induces confusion and crying. A normal and safe baby response.
"Is she sick?" the man wondered, obviously unable to comprehend why anyone, baby or not, wouldn't be overjoyed to sit on his lap and be greased by freshly licked fingers.
"A little," I smiled and wished him a good day. He politely wished us a good day back and we continued on our journey. But he wasn't the only one to reach out and try to touch or kiss or remark on 'la poupee.' I found it odd and invading and was happy to jump back into a taxi and make my way home- freezerless.
Lessons from the little ones
I noticed that some of my first (published) words about dance were not exactly positive. After searching for months to find “the real thing” I am super disappointed in myself. Sara Rich writes about grappling with emotions on her blog. I
also like to think I maintain a mostly positive perspective when writing. After all,
a bout of complaints doesn’t make for very interesting reading. But sharing only the positives is not an accurate view of life- kind of like Facebook posts where everyone is only smiling, and status updates that only share the successes. Real life is lot messier than that.
In the end, I realized that I can only get out of the class whatever I put in. If I find some days less challenging than others, then I am the one who needs to make the change. If I find some rhythms harder to keep in tune with, then I am the one who needs to ask for more instruction. Take charge of my learning- it’s something I am always telling my students to do.
In previous posts, I've admitted feeling lost at times and pondering my purpose for writing here. Recently it occurred to me that my focus is writing about what it’s
like to fumble around in another culture. All the wonderments and charm, sure, but also the frustrations
and disappointments. They are most easily shared in the guise of humor once I've gotten past the initial embarrassment or dismay. I struggle
with putting it all out there- or deciding how much to put out there- but
expressing vulnerability is part of exploring new experiences. It’s ok to cry-
and to talk about it. I’m still finding my comfort zone there, mostly being a
cry in the dark kind of person (unless I happen to be walking down the street
on my way home, in which case I become a cry behind my sunglasses kind of
person.)
I think
it’s no coincidence that my first tear free weeks in Abidjan (yes, it's taken a whopping 9 months to arrive at my first tear free weeks) coincided with my first weeks
attending dance class. Which is why I am
so disappointed that my initial public thoughts on the matter sounded somewhat
scathing. I must have just come from a particularly disappointing class.
In truth, I
am grateful to have found traditional dance with superb drumming; it is
everything I expect from dance, including and especially the multigenerational
aspect. Dance in Africa is much more likely to encompass students of all ages.
True to form, my class is filled with 4 or 5 paying adults and a multitude of
Ivorian children. I say children but they
range in age from maybe 7 to twenty something. It’s true that I have been
dancing longer than some of them have been alive. This fun fact has helped me
realize two things.
The first-
there is something to be learned from everyone.
One of the youngest boys there is an amazingly supple dancer- a rubber
band kid. His back moves in ways that defy a Western spine. And he exudes pure
delight. His smile suggests there is little effort to his movement, or, more
likely, he is filled with enough passion to make the effort joyous. During his solo at the end of one class, the
drummer increased the tempo- a dare to the dancer to keep up, each one
increasing their speed until one declares the other a winner. The boy kept
time, his feet moving faster and faster, his smile growing larger and larger
until he dissolved in a bundle of laughter on the floor. The other kids jumped in to join the movement,
a way of encouraging him and he immediately bounced back up and began
again until finally declaring he’d been bested. It was no failure on his part, but
rather a display of his skill and agility. And perserverance. Excellent lessons for life. Give your all with a huge smile and when you fall, gather your friends around and get back up. I strive to keep that sense of joy and pleasure evident.
I like to
follow him, observe his style and soak up his happiness. In my years of dancing, I have developed a bad
habit of only smiling when I am struggling. It’s a defense for doing it wrong
and knowing I am doing it wrong. While it’s ok to laugh at myself, it’s also
important to celebrate what I can do.
Which
brings me to the second point. I’m not always wrong. This might seem like an
obvious idea but after dancing for so long with the best of the best, I tend to
assume the Africans are always right. However, as I mentioned earlier, I’ve now
been dancing longer than some of them have been alive. We’re all students and
sometimes I am more familiar with a movement or I have observed more carefully.
There have been occasions when my partner is not correct and I am. My habit is
to normally follow whoever I am with and when we differ I usually give in to
them. This results in a bit of frustration on my part because I am either
completely confused about who is right, or I know I am right and end up dancing
it wrong- which I really hate to do. I finish
my turn across the floor quickly and hurry to get on to a new step. This
doesn’t do much for confidence building or my skill as a dancer.
One
Saturday, one hot Saturday when all the best dancers were in attendance, the
rhythm was strong and the steps were sweet, I had the opportunity to be dancing
behind a very young girl- maybe 6. Her movements were not perfected or full of
expression but they were clear. I could easily identify which steps she was attempting.
She had two partners, older guys who were dancing with energy and enthusiasm.
At one point, the teacher had given the direction to start from the top. The
young girl apparently missed this and began at the last step we’d completed. Her
two partners started at the beginning. It was obvious the line was not in
sync.
After a few
minutes, the teacher stopped them and asked them to begin again. “You have two
papas,” one of the drummers told her. “Follow your papas.” In fact, they had made
some motions to her to change her step, but she held such belief in herself
that she insisted she was right and thought they
should follow her. While she may have
been wrong in this case, I completely admired her conviction. She knew what she
knew and she knew she was right (even if she was wrong.) I need some of that.
In the end, I realized that I can only get out of the class whatever I put in. If I find some days less challenging than others, then I am the one who needs to make the change. If I find some rhythms harder to keep in tune with, then I am the one who needs to ask for more instruction. Take charge of my learning- it’s something I am always telling my students to do.
Dancing,
while long a passion, has not been easy for me. Somewhere in my teens I picked
up a self- consciousness that gets in the way of true abandon. The cutthroat NY
classes did little to nurture my tender spirit. Sometimes I am surprised by the
encouragement and good feelings floating around my class. It's not a
competition. I really love that. And I love learning. I’m ready to embrace this
final challenge- throw fear (and those sunglasses I've been hiding behind) out the window and actually give in to joy.
9.5.15
You can't be late for the Americans
She’s late.
I’ve called to get a status report and she said she’s on her way but I
recognize it as the standard reply. It doesn’t really tell me where she is or
how long until I can expect her. Her exact words were “I’m by the lettuce”-
whatever that means. Mputo is filled with lettuce farms.
“Now that
we’ve met and had a chance to talk, can you tell me any ways in which I don’t
meet your ideal version of the perfect candidate? Or, do you notice any areas
missing or incomplete on my resume?” I figured after a full of year of trying
to secure a position, this was the perfect way to find out what has been
standing in my way. I accepted the dare.
The other
great advice was to be ready for that “what are your strengths and weaknesses”
question. The article suggested googling yourself so you could offer a what-others-have-to-say-about-me
response. I happily took up that challenge as well and found a great quote to
share.
By all
logic, I should be offered the job. But I know that logic is not always the
prevailing sentiment behind hiring (hence the reason why I am on my 8th
attempt.) But I am patient. It’s one of
the characteristics I have been honing this past year.
I am
excited to have an interview in English and I feel immediately the differences
a year at the French school have had on me. English sounds odd coming out of my
mouth as I greet the office staff. When I see someone coming towards me on the
path I pause for a minute of decision about whether to greet in English or
French. American schools are like that. I actually take a minute to refresh my
memory about all the American etiquette I need to employ- handshakes, not
kisses, first name introductions are ok, even expected and a strong work ethic.
Which is
why, despite all my inner peace building this year, I am stressed that the nanny is late. You can’t be late for the Americans.
The French will graciously accept traffic or late nanny stories. The French
might even be late themselves, but the Americans? I know I cannot be late with
tales of family interruptions because it will be assumed the rest of my working
days will be plagued with family interruptions. Americans like to say that
family is important and family comes first- as long as it doesn’t actually
interfere with working hours. I’ve
missed a lot of things about working for a US school, but this isn’t one of
them. I’ve come to admire and find comfort in the French ideal that family is
important and requires devotion. That in order to give your best to the work,
your mind must be at rest about other responsibilities. It appears to be a
holistic view of the professional which seems kind of at odds with the view of
education for the student.
I have
spent an entire year reflecting on the pros and cons of each system. I’ve tried
to clearly determine which aspects I want to continue and incorporate into my
personal philosophy and strategies of teaching and which I don’t. I feel
prepared to discuss my observations and bring them into the conversation when
appropriate. One of the interviewers is an Ivorian, presumably having gone
through the French system herself and attests to much of what I am saying. I
feel like we forge a small bond.
While I
don’t spend time putting down the French system, (I’m not judging, just
observing) I do note what I miss. And I miss the chance to discuss pedagogy
with my colleagues and create events for students that allow them to share and
express their learning- to really determine the relevancy of it and become the
masters. I’m far enough removed from my
last months of trauma in Kin and can discuss these ideas in a calm manner. I miss being able to offer quality education
the way I know I can. The Ivorian interviewer recaps what I’ve said. “You want
to offer the best of yourself,” she says and I could hug her for getting it.
For getting me.
My
interview is tricky on many levels- layers and layers of behind the scenes stuff I know about and even more I don't know about. But in the end, it feels good (it’s always felt good, quite honestly. I
know without doubt I am a good fit for the school.) It is in the midst of
developing, reminiscent of Kinshasa when I arrived, and my experiences there
would be useful here.
So I am
left, peacefully waiting without
expectation, for a response. Peace, patience and humility being a few of the
things I have picked up in this last year. I’ve been planning a more detailed
reflection of this year’s journey in another post (yeah, that one about those
Monday meetings….it’s coming.) I’ve
arrived at the point where I can grudgingly admit that I needed this year to
learn some things about myself. It’s been a year of struggle and growth – those
two things going hand in hand (I want to say inevitably, but I know that’s not
true. Struggle doesn’t always lead to growth, well, not positive growth anyway.
I’ve witnessed this in the past year too.)
It’s been a
year of learning. Turns out that’s another of those things I do best since
arriving here in Abidjan.
Christine
is never late, or at least not usually. Back in the beginning, we’d had a
discussion about it. It went something along the lines of if you’re late, I’m
late and I can’t keep telling my boss the nanny was late. If I lose my job, you
lose your job. It was pretty effective. But in this case, we’ve been on
vacation for two weeks and I’m not sure I have been completely clear on how
important it was to be on time today.
I have an
interview (something like my 8th interview) scheduled at the
American school and I’m trying to be really prepared. I’d even done some
homework on how to have a brilliant interview and actually found some good
advice on how to be prepared for the more standard and oh-so-dreaded questions.
I haven’t been entirely sure what has gotten in my way in the past interviews
and so was particularly happy to find this gem, which ‘triple- dog dared’ me to
“go out in a blaze of glory.” The way to
do this was to take those final moments when the interviewer asks if you have
any questions and elicit feedback right away.
5.5.15
Falling back- 5 bullets
I've got lots of time to write and an internet connection. I'm just not sure what to say. I've spent these last 10 months in a state of near constant reflection. I know myself better than ever and have almost mastered living in the moment. Its easier to do with a baby on hand. In my free time, I tell myself I am just going to be. And then I sit on the floor and engage with whatever is amusing my sweet little princess.
It brings me back to days in the park when my oldest were little. There was a sweet empty playground within walking distance and we spent hours of every afternoon there. I remember thinking at the time that this is what life was really about. While it's good for my soul, I am beginning to think it's not so good for my writing.
I've begun using my (slightly ancient and outmodeled) phone to record messages to myself. Thoughts I want to follow up on. There's only one memo left and it has to do with my Monday meetings at school. School seems so far away on these 2 week vacation periods. I really appreciate this system of having dependable and frequent breaks from working. I thought it would be a great time to catch up on writing and making art but I am too busy trying to elicit little baby coos and silver laughter.
Sometimes I actually do stuff, like go to a dance class or a concert, but mostly I don't. My dance class has great drumming but I've resigned myself to the fact that it's not going to make me a better dancer. It's a beginner class and the energy level completely depends on which Ivorian students are in attendance. Dancing in the US with such talented and accomplished performers has really spoiled me. I want the best in it's purest form and the watered down version we get in class is slightly frustrating. The 3 or 4 other paying students are all older than me, frequently dance off time and are new to dance. But I don't want to complain. I really think dancing again has been the main reason I have made it through these last few weeks in a fairly stable frame of mind. No tears threatening my daily commute.
I'm still trying to figure out what I want to do with my life here in Abidjan and hoping the right situation will present itself. The boys are having up and down moments at school, which I am trying to take in with the right balance of concern and confidence.
In the absence of anything profound to share, here's a bulleted list of random observations (the bulleted list, a favorite fallback....)
It brings me back to days in the park when my oldest were little. There was a sweet empty playground within walking distance and we spent hours of every afternoon there. I remember thinking at the time that this is what life was really about. While it's good for my soul, I am beginning to think it's not so good for my writing.
I've begun using my (slightly ancient and outmodeled) phone to record messages to myself. Thoughts I want to follow up on. There's only one memo left and it has to do with my Monday meetings at school. School seems so far away on these 2 week vacation periods. I really appreciate this system of having dependable and frequent breaks from working. I thought it would be a great time to catch up on writing and making art but I am too busy trying to elicit little baby coos and silver laughter.
Sometimes I actually do stuff, like go to a dance class or a concert, but mostly I don't. My dance class has great drumming but I've resigned myself to the fact that it's not going to make me a better dancer. It's a beginner class and the energy level completely depends on which Ivorian students are in attendance. Dancing in the US with such talented and accomplished performers has really spoiled me. I want the best in it's purest form and the watered down version we get in class is slightly frustrating. The 3 or 4 other paying students are all older than me, frequently dance off time and are new to dance. But I don't want to complain. I really think dancing again has been the main reason I have made it through these last few weeks in a fairly stable frame of mind. No tears threatening my daily commute.
I'm still trying to figure out what I want to do with my life here in Abidjan and hoping the right situation will present itself. The boys are having up and down moments at school, which I am trying to take in with the right balance of concern and confidence.
In the absence of anything profound to share, here's a bulleted list of random observations (the bulleted list, a favorite fallback....)
- Ivory Coast does offer free schooling, but the teachers are frequently on strike. When school is in session, the day isn't long enough for the students to get quality learning accomplished and they have far too much time on their hands to try and fill in with meaningful activity. I can attest to this by the amount of time neighbrhood children spend at my house and the hours they come and go. Free education sounds good and fair- and is necessary- but shouldn't come at the cost of quality.
- Abidjan seems to have a plethora of freeness however, and the mosquito net people have passed by my house. They are from the national office of something and their job is hand out free, treated nets to families. A commendable operation. Someone at my door informed me recently that someone else would be coming to take a short survey and hand out tickets. I guess I then take the tickets somewhere to get my free nets. Great. With only a few short months to go, I am crossing my fingers that we will be able to celebrate Mbalia's first year of life- malaria free.
- I recently watched Timbuktu at the French Institute - Abidjan's version of the Halle d Gombe (how I love that place.) The Ivory Coast version is, predictably, filled with more grandeur and pomp than Kin. The indoor ampitheater seating holds about 600. The film itself was quietly touching and stayed with me for days. I've come to appreciate cinema as art again and this story was masterful. Highly recommended if viewing is an option for you.
- I went back to the Institute for a free concert, courtesy of the French embassy. (Concert by invitation only and our school was handing out tickets.) It was a Ugandan kora player, Joel Sebunjo. This clipped interview is both interesting and not at the same time. His background is fascinating however, and I wasn't wrong in thinking the kora is mainly a West African instrument and he was unusual being a player from Uganda. Ironically, the boys most enjoyed the traps player- I guess for them the kora is old school and the traps are exotic. That's what I get for raising them in Africa.
- I guess I can't have a bulletted list without a taxi story. In an effort to make 5 things, I'll include my ride home last night, which was kind of creepy. After my dance class, I've taken to scribbling some notes in my book- simple stick figure sketches of the movements and name/origin of the dance. I can usually accomplish this in the taxi on the way home and the passing streetlights offer enough to see by. The taxi driver startled me after 10 minutes of silence by wondering aloud if I could see well enough to write. His French was super fast and all smashed together. I am getting better at deciphering this but sometimes I still wonder if what I think I am hearing is actually what is being said. He followed the predictable taxi line of conversation (You're not French are you? How long have you been in Abidjan...etc, etc.) which can feel invading, interesting or annoying depending on the driver. He moved quickly from Akwaaba (welcome) to are you married? Haha. Actually, it got creepy before that because somewhere in between I think he actually said, I am very effective in bed. His exact words, Je suis tres efficace....kind of went over my head and so he felt a need to add au lit. I congratulated him for his skills and hoped the ride would be over soon. He suggested we exchange contacts (no thank you) and at his insistence (about exchanging contacts and his skills in the bedroom) I assured him he would meet some available woman soon. Surely. He told me he didn't want an Ivorian woman because they were too interested in money (ahh, but lucky you - you have a job, I told him at the same time wondering why he thought European or American women weren't interested in money? How did we ever get that rap?) I tried to keep the conversation light while at the same time realizing how very wrong it could all go. My first very yucky ride in an otherwise pleasant city.
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