"Where are you from?" a colleague at work asked me as we crossed paths in the teacher's lounge.
It's a loaded question for us international types. "You mean.....originally?" I ask with hesitation coloring every word. I hate to be boxed in by my Americaness.
"I'm from the U.S., from New York." I am careful to put the U.S. first, having previously been called out after once replying simply, New York. Everyone knows NY, right? I've forgotten the exact remark, but it had something to do with us Americans putting state before country or assuming everyone has heard of our city, state, hometown. As if we are so important we don't even need a country. (I didn't mean it that way, but New York is kind of up there with Paris, London and Rome. Does it really need a preface?)
"I'm looking for the French. I want to express my condolences," my colleague goes on to say. I am momentarily stunned, but lately I've been seeing- and seizing- moments to talk about Congo with clarity and enthusiasm.
"Weelll.... I did just come from Kinshasa, in the DRC and they are suffering..." I begin to break the silence, telling him I am happy to accept his condolences on their behalf but we need to do more. He's a little unimpressed with my spiel. I sense he just wants to talk about Paris. "I understand," I tell him. "It's because we think certain places are safe. And when the safe places become victims, we feel all the more vulnerable."
"Yes." He smiles as though we have finally understood each other. "They're the guardians. And when the guardians get attacked it's not good."
The guardians? I can see we haven't understood each other at all. But I am trying. I know how hard it is to sustain a grief or outrage. If I came to you one day and said my brother died, you would respond heartfully. Maybe even so the next day, if I came to you again and said I'd lost another brother. Day 3 and 4, yet more brothers and sisters dying might leave you with an overwhelming sense of sympathy at my tragic state of affairs.
After 1 week however, you will begin avoiding me because you just don't know how to respond anymore. It's unimaginable what is happening to me- that so many in just one family would die like this, all close together. As week 2 continues you will put me neatly into the category of "other" and "alien" or "odd." You will have no choice but to move on to other things that are easier to think about. Things that require less emotional output and fewer feelings of helplessness.
But the tragedy continues. Our brothers and sisters continue dying everyday, and not just in Congo, but around the globe. How do we cope?
20.11.15
17.11.15
Bowing to Kings
A mere 5 or so days after getting my computer back- all fixed and fresh with a crisp new screen- I broke it again. Yup, I broke it this time. I could get into the why's and how's and but it wasn't fair's, except that will only lead me down the road of discouragement and despair.
The positive thing about not having a computer at home is that I don't work all evening, every evening. It's not possible. When I go home at night to be with my family, the work stays in school- where it rightfully should.
Of course, it occasionally makes it hard to keep up with deadlines and I don't really enjoy spending every Sunday in my classroom- complete with cute little bunny in tow. It certainly makes writing for pleasure ever harder to get to, but...yeah, I was trying not to go down the road of despair.
The only things that offer true release from the world of work (aside from my little sunshine's laughter) is the world of dance. And drum. Music has a way of pushing all other things aside and claiming complete control.
I remember dancing in Congo- forever remember the zombie analogy- and see how far I have come. I actually miss Congolese dance, for one. The style and rhythms have helped me grow as a dancer in general.
My early teacher- a source of frustration for me at the time- has exploded into an amazing video choreographer and is working with a fabulous team in Belgium. I applaud her talent, her reaching for her dream and her success. Jolie is the shining star in many a video!
I am actually surprised at times by how much I miss Congo- and it's rhythms- especially since I recall the first year or so when my mind was colored by all things Guinean. It was hard to appreciate Kinshasa when my heart was aching for Conakry. But I am growing now and have found that loving dance and art and culture is a bit like being a parent. There is always room for the new and the old and the yet undiscovered.
These last few weeks, however, the drummers have been treating us with rhythms that remind me of my birth into the world of traditional dance. Oddly, I end up feeling a little nostalgic about African dance in New York. Moving across the floor as my body replays those steps from another time- it is like a warm and welcoming friend come to visit. When the teacher points me out to her group of young recruits and says, "She- she gets it. The only one." I know it is not fair. I want to tell her that the moves are good friends of mine. We go way back. I learned them long before coming to this class, this country, this time and space. But I remain silent, keeping our relationship hidden, secret and therefore all the more sacred.
At the same time, I have come to know some of the Ivorian dances pretty well. We are not lost in the jungle, bent-kneed and straight-backed zombies. Now- now we are peasants and villagers. We sow. We harvest. We cook and serve. We entice and praise. We dance with all the ordinariness of daily life and turn it into beauty. Most of the movements are low with a forward bend. Our backs pulse and arms circle out and around and in again. The movements are fluid and smooth, a perfect accompaniment to the drums. But we are never low enough.
"Get down,' our teacher will say. "You are bowing to kings." I've been keeping this piece of humility in mind as my reality spins out its tale. Yes, I am bowing to kings here in Abidjan. There are so many ways to interpret this- and currently my state of affairs fits them all.
The positive thing about not having a computer at home is that I don't work all evening, every evening. It's not possible. When I go home at night to be with my family, the work stays in school- where it rightfully should.
Of course, it occasionally makes it hard to keep up with deadlines and I don't really enjoy spending every Sunday in my classroom- complete with cute little bunny in tow. It certainly makes writing for pleasure ever harder to get to, but...yeah, I was trying not to go down the road of despair.
The only things that offer true release from the world of work (aside from my little sunshine's laughter) is the world of dance. And drum. Music has a way of pushing all other things aside and claiming complete control.
I remember dancing in Congo- forever remember the zombie analogy- and see how far I have come. I actually miss Congolese dance, for one. The style and rhythms have helped me grow as a dancer in general.
My early teacher- a source of frustration for me at the time- has exploded into an amazing video choreographer and is working with a fabulous team in Belgium. I applaud her talent, her reaching for her dream and her success. Jolie is the shining star in many a video!
I am actually surprised at times by how much I miss Congo- and it's rhythms- especially since I recall the first year or so when my mind was colored by all things Guinean. It was hard to appreciate Kinshasa when my heart was aching for Conakry. But I am growing now and have found that loving dance and art and culture is a bit like being a parent. There is always room for the new and the old and the yet undiscovered.
These last few weeks, however, the drummers have been treating us with rhythms that remind me of my birth into the world of traditional dance. Oddly, I end up feeling a little nostalgic about African dance in New York. Moving across the floor as my body replays those steps from another time- it is like a warm and welcoming friend come to visit. When the teacher points me out to her group of young recruits and says, "She- she gets it. The only one." I know it is not fair. I want to tell her that the moves are good friends of mine. We go way back. I learned them long before coming to this class, this country, this time and space. But I remain silent, keeping our relationship hidden, secret and therefore all the more sacred.
At the same time, I have come to know some of the Ivorian dances pretty well. We are not lost in the jungle, bent-kneed and straight-backed zombies. Now- now we are peasants and villagers. We sow. We harvest. We cook and serve. We entice and praise. We dance with all the ordinariness of daily life and turn it into beauty. Most of the movements are low with a forward bend. Our backs pulse and arms circle out and around and in again. The movements are fluid and smooth, a perfect accompaniment to the drums. But we are never low enough.
"Get down,' our teacher will say. "You are bowing to kings." I've been keeping this piece of humility in mind as my reality spins out its tale. Yes, I am bowing to kings here in Abidjan. There are so many ways to interpret this- and currently my state of affairs fits them all.
8.11.15
the boutique
"The boutique" is just another name for the corner store. And there really is one on every corner. In West Africa, these boutiques have a distinctive look. I keep wanting to take a picture but haven't figured out how to do that without changing our relationship. The picture I want is deep and inside. I want to sit and question, those American questions that can never be fully answered, because they are never completely understood. (part of me felt these things have already been uncovered- photographed, interviewed, explained- but a google search is turning up nothing. Might have to revisit the photograph series after all...)
It brings me back to one of my first experiences of this kind of all consuming work- El Salvadorains at a restaurant. The story I'd heard was one of our dishwashers had walked his way across the countr(ies) to somehow land in upstate NY. He found a place, as many did, washing dishes, bussing tables, doing anything that would bring in money. Eventually he was promoted to prep cook and cold cook until he was one day running the day time kitchen. Somewhere in between all of that I asked him if he enjoyed his job.Was it the life he'd envisioned for himself? Was it his dream? I wanted to know. Was he happy?
Even as I asked, I realized the futility of my question. I'd heard they all shared a room in a hollowed out, vacant restaurant- 10 of them sharing space by candlelight just to crash for the night before returning to their 14 hour shifts. Americans search for personal happiness, but immigrants search for happiness thorugh service to their families. Yes, he said. He was happy. He had a job that allowed him to send money home. Mission accomplished.
But then, as now and every moment in between, I wonder about my ability to be satisified through my occupation. Is it enough? I ask. What's the purpose? I don't want my life to be consumed with working.
Whenever I am feeling particularly overtaxed in this regard, I have only to look to my neighborhood boutique.
West African boutiques are always framed with bars. These are not stores you enter but stores you stand outside. You look in through the bars and ask for items you want to purchase. The storekeeper will pull them down and offer them to you through one section of bars that is larger than all the rest. A "window" for larger purchases. The actual door is often locked and the keeper is inside, surrounded by piles of goods and stocks of merchandise wanting to be sold.
Though the size varies, there is always that sense of a cage. Sometimes the vendor will sit outside in a chair, ever ready to jump up and assist a consumer. Sometimes there are two and they will trade conversation and keep good company.
But if I focus in on just this one store, the one closest to me, I sesne an ever more lonely tale. There used to be two- but one was sent out to man another shop and so now there is one. He seems rather young to me and so confined. I see him sometimes praying outside in the early morning, or leaving his space on Fridays to go to the mosque. On these days he seems even smaller, younger, more vulnerable without the shape of his boutique to surround him.
Mostly I see him inside, sitting on a straightback wooden chair surrounded by high piles of boxes and endless crates of soda. There is barely room for him inside, especially when a shipment has just come in. He has a cookstove and a small television. Nothing about the set-up looks cozy or comforting. There is no couch, no walls with paintings or photographs. He has no kitchen or dining room or living room. He has just the boutique.
I've asked random questions, trying to get a more complete picture. At times the door is closed, leaving only the window open. He tells me at night, if he is at the window, kids will come and steal things out of the open doorway if he doesn't lock it. The same neighborhood kids who buy from him all day turn against him under cover of darkness. There isn't anger in his response, just acceptance. He has adapted.
I ask him what time he closes and he tells me 11:00. It seems so late, especially since I know his doors open at 6:00 or 6:30. So when do you sleep? I ask. 11:30 he responds in complete seriousness. I sense a rigid routine in there and all my regrets about working too much fly out the window. 6-11.00- no breaks, except on Fridays.
He is chained to this place. One night, one night out of the 365+ days I have lived here- I saw a girl in there. She was sitting in a hard backed chair next to his, nestled in amongst the cartons of Awa and the gallon of oil that is expressed into individual bags to be sold for quantities starting at 100franc. She was there and they were watching tv together. I don't know what their relationship was and I can't even begin to guess. I've never seen her again- or anyone else.
I have heard the small snippets of conversation that pass between him and neighborhood buyers- from flirtations with girls to indiginant drunken young men who insist their importance as consumers far outweighs his as supplier ("if it weren't for us, you wouldn't be here..." one young someone began...and went on and repeated until it was obvious he just wanted to purchase on credit.)
I approach the bars from outside and can't help but imagine what it is like from within. Every day, every hour and every minute tied to this existence. It is not his store, which makes it all the more difficult to comprehend. The lonliness, the routine, the unchanging drudgery of it all.
I wonder if he dreams of a wife, a family, a life apart from this. I wonder about friends and parents and his connection to the owner. Did they know each other? Are they related and is it a family obligation that keeps him here? This is when I begin to understand the reason for taking things day by day. For not planning too far ahead, not dreaming or envisioning- what is beyond these cartons?
But surely he must? Somewhere there is a faith that this will one day give way to something greater. A knowledge that the routines of today can be changed in an instant, giving way to the dreams of tomorrow. I haven't yet found a way to inquire- my weird American questions revealing a truth best left uncovered.
It brings me back to one of my first experiences of this kind of all consuming work- El Salvadorains at a restaurant. The story I'd heard was one of our dishwashers had walked his way across the countr(ies) to somehow land in upstate NY. He found a place, as many did, washing dishes, bussing tables, doing anything that would bring in money. Eventually he was promoted to prep cook and cold cook until he was one day running the day time kitchen. Somewhere in between all of that I asked him if he enjoyed his job.Was it the life he'd envisioned for himself? Was it his dream? I wanted to know. Was he happy?
Even as I asked, I realized the futility of my question. I'd heard they all shared a room in a hollowed out, vacant restaurant- 10 of them sharing space by candlelight just to crash for the night before returning to their 14 hour shifts. Americans search for personal happiness, but immigrants search for happiness thorugh service to their families. Yes, he said. He was happy. He had a job that allowed him to send money home. Mission accomplished.
But then, as now and every moment in between, I wonder about my ability to be satisified through my occupation. Is it enough? I ask. What's the purpose? I don't want my life to be consumed with working.
Whenever I am feeling particularly overtaxed in this regard, I have only to look to my neighborhood boutique.
West African boutiques are always framed with bars. These are not stores you enter but stores you stand outside. You look in through the bars and ask for items you want to purchase. The storekeeper will pull them down and offer them to you through one section of bars that is larger than all the rest. A "window" for larger purchases. The actual door is often locked and the keeper is inside, surrounded by piles of goods and stocks of merchandise wanting to be sold.
Though the size varies, there is always that sense of a cage. Sometimes the vendor will sit outside in a chair, ever ready to jump up and assist a consumer. Sometimes there are two and they will trade conversation and keep good company.
But if I focus in on just this one store, the one closest to me, I sesne an ever more lonely tale. There used to be two- but one was sent out to man another shop and so now there is one. He seems rather young to me and so confined. I see him sometimes praying outside in the early morning, or leaving his space on Fridays to go to the mosque. On these days he seems even smaller, younger, more vulnerable without the shape of his boutique to surround him.
Mostly I see him inside, sitting on a straightback wooden chair surrounded by high piles of boxes and endless crates of soda. There is barely room for him inside, especially when a shipment has just come in. He has a cookstove and a small television. Nothing about the set-up looks cozy or comforting. There is no couch, no walls with paintings or photographs. He has no kitchen or dining room or living room. He has just the boutique.
I've asked random questions, trying to get a more complete picture. At times the door is closed, leaving only the window open. He tells me at night, if he is at the window, kids will come and steal things out of the open doorway if he doesn't lock it. The same neighborhood kids who buy from him all day turn against him under cover of darkness. There isn't anger in his response, just acceptance. He has adapted.
I ask him what time he closes and he tells me 11:00. It seems so late, especially since I know his doors open at 6:00 or 6:30. So when do you sleep? I ask. 11:30 he responds in complete seriousness. I sense a rigid routine in there and all my regrets about working too much fly out the window. 6-11.00- no breaks, except on Fridays.
He is chained to this place. One night, one night out of the 365+ days I have lived here- I saw a girl in there. She was sitting in a hard backed chair next to his, nestled in amongst the cartons of Awa and the gallon of oil that is expressed into individual bags to be sold for quantities starting at 100franc. She was there and they were watching tv together. I don't know what their relationship was and I can't even begin to guess. I've never seen her again- or anyone else.
I have heard the small snippets of conversation that pass between him and neighborhood buyers- from flirtations with girls to indiginant drunken young men who insist their importance as consumers far outweighs his as supplier ("if it weren't for us, you wouldn't be here..." one young someone began...and went on and repeated until it was obvious he just wanted to purchase on credit.)
I approach the bars from outside and can't help but imagine what it is like from within. Every day, every hour and every minute tied to this existence. It is not his store, which makes it all the more difficult to comprehend. The lonliness, the routine, the unchanging drudgery of it all.
I wonder if he dreams of a wife, a family, a life apart from this. I wonder about friends and parents and his connection to the owner. Did they know each other? Are they related and is it a family obligation that keeps him here? This is when I begin to understand the reason for taking things day by day. For not planning too far ahead, not dreaming or envisioning- what is beyond these cartons?
But surely he must? Somewhere there is a faith that this will one day give way to something greater. A knowledge that the routines of today can be changed in an instant, giving way to the dreams of tomorrow. I haven't yet found a way to inquire- my weird American questions revealing a truth best left uncovered.
The miracle of night
Mostly, Africa is home. And I do mean that in the broad sense of the continent. While the country may change, my ears and eyes bring in information through an African context. I am not hearing the same anymore. When I talk to my colleagues, I am often filtering though layers - and sometimes tuning out altogether- because the basis from which I try to relate has shifted completely. Often I simply do not arrive. We are no longer the same, those ex-patriots and I. Somewhere along the way I moved across boundaries and became less of an ex-pat and more of an immigrant. (The buzz around those terms is an ongoing debate and I"m not sure what I agree with or where I fall, but you can read about it here, here and here.)
It's something I have reflected on since moving to Africa- and possibly having to face the choice of fleeing in the name of conflict (there was this post in 2009.) In my current set-up, there's no question. We are here. Fleeing is not an option and there is no agency who can or will help us.
But I am good with that. We don't want to flee (or so I like to think. At least one of us Soumahs would probably jump at the chance to get out of here and I am trying to come to terms with that so if the opportunity presents itself, I will be lovingly supportive and not tearfully distraught.)
Every so often though, in the name of this blog and unknown future written representations- I try to see again through my outsider eyes. I try to get back that magic that Africa held when she was slightly unknown but ever enchanting. The past few weeks, as I have rounded the corner of my small dirt street and made my way home in the dark evening night, I am greeted with a sight that is surely "other," though for us it now just is.
You can almost tell time by it and more than once the boys have questioned why I don't join in- which brings a small smile to my face.
The house across the street (street feels like a big word for the small dirt path that separates us) is home to babies. I've been half-heartedly trying to count them- or at least be aware of how many there actually are- but when one of my observations noted another pregnant women I decided to just give up. There are a lot. 3 or 4. I heard the newborn baby cries and I see the mamas outside with month old cuties wrapped in their white blankets. I have not been able to determine what the house is- one thing I've learned about outside appearance- they give no clue as to inside inhabitants. I can't tell if the doorway leads to one apartment or many- if it is one family related or merely neighbors. What I know is there are babies, and they go to bed around 7.
I know this because if you round the corner between 7 and 8 you will see the women outside. They have the babies strapped to their backs and they are pacing, or rocking or just gazing at the moon. It is time for the babies to sleep so they take them outside and give them fresh air and quiet night filled only with far-away neighborhood sounds. I know enough now to suppose the women are not necessarily the moms, though perhaps they could be.
And I view this ritual from the future persepective. What memories will the babies hold of the cool night wind blowing in off the lagoon- soothing, refreshing, lulling them to sleep alongside the distant drums and steady rhythms of a hip-hop beat, calling children and barking dogs, men laughing and an occasional horn honking.
It's cozy and comforting. I understand why the boys want me to take Mbalia out to walk through the night sounds as she transitions into the world of dreaming with nature and man in it's most harmonious time.
I don't do it. It is one of those bridges I can't be expected to cross. We've begin developing our own nighttime routine- sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't.
But I do enjoy the sight- the babies out for their evening stroll while their mamas talk on the phone or text someone or simply gaze out at the universe, contemplating the miracle of night.
It's something I have reflected on since moving to Africa- and possibly having to face the choice of fleeing in the name of conflict (there was this post in 2009.) In my current set-up, there's no question. We are here. Fleeing is not an option and there is no agency who can or will help us.
But I am good with that. We don't want to flee (or so I like to think. At least one of us Soumahs would probably jump at the chance to get out of here and I am trying to come to terms with that so if the opportunity presents itself, I will be lovingly supportive and not tearfully distraught.)
Every so often though, in the name of this blog and unknown future written representations- I try to see again through my outsider eyes. I try to get back that magic that Africa held when she was slightly unknown but ever enchanting. The past few weeks, as I have rounded the corner of my small dirt street and made my way home in the dark evening night, I am greeted with a sight that is surely "other," though for us it now just is.
You can almost tell time by it and more than once the boys have questioned why I don't join in- which brings a small smile to my face.
The house across the street (street feels like a big word for the small dirt path that separates us) is home to babies. I've been half-heartedly trying to count them- or at least be aware of how many there actually are- but when one of my observations noted another pregnant women I decided to just give up. There are a lot. 3 or 4. I heard the newborn baby cries and I see the mamas outside with month old cuties wrapped in their white blankets. I have not been able to determine what the house is- one thing I've learned about outside appearance- they give no clue as to inside inhabitants. I can't tell if the doorway leads to one apartment or many- if it is one family related or merely neighbors. What I know is there are babies, and they go to bed around 7.
I know this because if you round the corner between 7 and 8 you will see the women outside. They have the babies strapped to their backs and they are pacing, or rocking or just gazing at the moon. It is time for the babies to sleep so they take them outside and give them fresh air and quiet night filled only with far-away neighborhood sounds. I know enough now to suppose the women are not necessarily the moms, though perhaps they could be.
And I view this ritual from the future persepective. What memories will the babies hold of the cool night wind blowing in off the lagoon- soothing, refreshing, lulling them to sleep alongside the distant drums and steady rhythms of a hip-hop beat, calling children and barking dogs, men laughing and an occasional horn honking.
It's cozy and comforting. I understand why the boys want me to take Mbalia out to walk through the night sounds as she transitions into the world of dreaming with nature and man in it's most harmonious time.
I don't do it. It is one of those bridges I can't be expected to cross. We've begin developing our own nighttime routine- sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't.
But I do enjoy the sight- the babies out for their evening stroll while their mamas talk on the phone or text someone or simply gaze out at the universe, contemplating the miracle of night.
6.11.15
Year of the Teacher
School years tend to take on themes. At this point it feels as though I have lived through the Year Of--- in just about every topic. There was the Year Kids Kept Climbing Out the Window (and coming back in through the door, oddly enough. Not a real escape but rather an alternate expression of indecision.) That same year I thought for a moment an especially energetic young guy might actually win the scuffle with the panic button people. It was my first official teaching post and I realized in one brief, breathless moment I might need a panic button for my panic button. Or I could just win the kids over. It was the same year I taught poetry by Tupac and introduced students to authors who looked and sounded like them - curriculum design inspired by student need. We put court in session- a reader's theater that was all too real for most of them- and held passionate debates about Walter Dean Myer's Monster We read Maya Aneglou and Toni Morrison and broke the taboo against all their private angst. Cutting was a thing then, too, so we turned to Patricia McCormack and followed her character Callie through her own cutting experience. It turned out to be the Year of Opening My Eyes to the Power of Literature.
Other years followed.The Year of the Garden, The Year My Prinicpal Got Divorced (it was only afterward I found out that all the hell I'd been living through that year had an underlying cause...) There was my first year in Africa when I had the Class Who Loved to Read and Write as Much as Me- it was like we were made for each other. There really couldn't have been a better welcome to world of international teaching. Of course, a few years later there came the Year of the Class Who Made Me Want to Run for the Hills shortly followed by the Year When My Colleague Actually Did Make Me Flee.
For awhile, I thought this year might turn out to be the Year of the Parents. By mid-October I'd already had several intense parent meetings and a heated exchange with a mother bear. Luckily, I have my own mother bear and it kicked in to protect a student who was the real focus of her anger.
After some reflection, I don't think this year is going to be about parents however. It seems to be shaping up to be about me. And I don't mean I am taking over. This is one thing I have been noticing more and more and finding weirder and weirder--- the tendancy for teachers to use their classroom position to go on and on about themselves. To share stories of their lives that moves well beyond instructional purpose and hugs the border of narcissistic domain. I'm not doing that.
But I do feel free this year. The amount of singing and dancing going on in my science and math classes is probably a shade beyond normal. It might be something to do with age, or place, or maybe it is just this particular class that inspires something in me. But whenever I feel a dance or a song coming on I just go with it. I usually don't go too far with it- just a sample before I turn it over to them and say make this into something. Get back to me and we'll make a video.
They've already taken the X-Y Coordinate dance and choreographed a number to go along with Nae-nae (a little too catchy for me and it ends up in my head for days! "Now watch me X..x...x Watch me Y. And watch me X...x...x...you get it....) Our 15 minute daily calendar warm up has turned into a full theater production complete with costumes, props and an Emcee host. It's wild. But it has them begging to do calendar, which is really just a review of skills like finding factors, solving equations, reviewing multiplication and decoding prime factorization.
So I'm going with it. We're doing everything and anything that seems exciting, worthwhile, silly, spontaneous, and interesting. Because the math needs spicing up and the science is just engaging enough to hold all of our attention, and---why not? I am finally comfortable in my skin and if the waning and waxing of the moon makes me imagine a modern dance move or a karate kid "wax on-wax off"- then why not share it- and the accent to go with?
I do recognize a bit of this is coming from a place that is searching for more. I am underwhelmed with the ordinariness of Abidjan and looking for something inspiring. I miss my kids at Stand Proud and I miss my nightly English classes with La Jeunesse. I miss doing something like making art with a real artist and dancing in a truope of young divas (even if I wondered what the heck I was doing there the whole time.) I miss pulling up to a carrefour and having a quick exchange with a pack of street kids. I miss seeing their faces and checking in on them and having them know me. I miss feeling connected.
So I've become a bit reckless and I dance in class occasionally, and sing in my off tune voice once in awhile and pull out all my theater tricks to enhance our school day hours together. We've recently smashed a cell phone or two in our search to uncover the workings inside. I've found an opening in the curriculum that allows me to take them down the path of Congo's minerals and the resulting conflict and devastation to a people. I feel passionate again for a moment. The Year of the Teacher. I'm going with it.
Other years followed.The Year of the Garden, The Year My Prinicpal Got Divorced (it was only afterward I found out that all the hell I'd been living through that year had an underlying cause...) There was my first year in Africa when I had the Class Who Loved to Read and Write as Much as Me- it was like we were made for each other. There really couldn't have been a better welcome to world of international teaching. Of course, a few years later there came the Year of the Class Who Made Me Want to Run for the Hills shortly followed by the Year When My Colleague Actually Did Make Me Flee.
For awhile, I thought this year might turn out to be the Year of the Parents. By mid-October I'd already had several intense parent meetings and a heated exchange with a mother bear. Luckily, I have my own mother bear and it kicked in to protect a student who was the real focus of her anger.
After some reflection, I don't think this year is going to be about parents however. It seems to be shaping up to be about me. And I don't mean I am taking over. This is one thing I have been noticing more and more and finding weirder and weirder--- the tendancy for teachers to use their classroom position to go on and on about themselves. To share stories of their lives that moves well beyond instructional purpose and hugs the border of narcissistic domain. I'm not doing that.
But I do feel free this year. The amount of singing and dancing going on in my science and math classes is probably a shade beyond normal. It might be something to do with age, or place, or maybe it is just this particular class that inspires something in me. But whenever I feel a dance or a song coming on I just go with it. I usually don't go too far with it- just a sample before I turn it over to them and say make this into something. Get back to me and we'll make a video.
They've already taken the X-Y Coordinate dance and choreographed a number to go along with Nae-nae (a little too catchy for me and it ends up in my head for days! "Now watch me X..x...x Watch me Y. And watch me X...x...x...you get it....) Our 15 minute daily calendar warm up has turned into a full theater production complete with costumes, props and an Emcee host. It's wild. But it has them begging to do calendar, which is really just a review of skills like finding factors, solving equations, reviewing multiplication and decoding prime factorization.
So I'm going with it. We're doing everything and anything that seems exciting, worthwhile, silly, spontaneous, and interesting. Because the math needs spicing up and the science is just engaging enough to hold all of our attention, and---why not? I am finally comfortable in my skin and if the waning and waxing of the moon makes me imagine a modern dance move or a karate kid "wax on-wax off"- then why not share it- and the accent to go with?
I do recognize a bit of this is coming from a place that is searching for more. I am underwhelmed with the ordinariness of Abidjan and looking for something inspiring. I miss my kids at Stand Proud and I miss my nightly English classes with La Jeunesse. I miss doing something like making art with a real artist and dancing in a truope of young divas (even if I wondered what the heck I was doing there the whole time.) I miss pulling up to a carrefour and having a quick exchange with a pack of street kids. I miss seeing their faces and checking in on them and having them know me. I miss feeling connected.
So I've become a bit reckless and I dance in class occasionally, and sing in my off tune voice once in awhile and pull out all my theater tricks to enhance our school day hours together. We've recently smashed a cell phone or two in our search to uncover the workings inside. I've found an opening in the curriculum that allows me to take them down the path of Congo's minerals and the resulting conflict and devastation to a people. I feel passionate again for a moment. The Year of the Teacher. I'm going with it.
3.11.15
The problem with a good idea
The same old things have kept me away for awhile and in true form I have been collecting post ideas. I'm starting with what's close to mind and will revisit a few thoughts from the past- though recurring and therefore surely relevant.
A future post is certain to outline The Year Of.....and it is shaping up to be a year of many things...one of which is finding out I don't really love all the things as dearly as I thought I did. Or rather, all good ideas potentially have a dark side.
Many international schools have turned their Halloween parade into a storybook character parade. Our school is no exception. From a distance, this sounds like such a fabulous idea. Use a holiday laden with candy getting, stranger door knocking and dead spirit revelling and turn it into something wholesome- encourage and endorse a love of reading while still allowing for the all important costume designing.
My class voted on a goal of achieving "Best Costumes Ever" and so, in an attempt to support this lofty objective, I decided I should dress up too. I have never been much of a costume wearer. In the US my go-to Halloween digs included a sweatsuit and a pair of headphones. Jogger. Subtle, already in my closet and different from my daily wear. I used to have red jogging pants and matching zip up jacket (I can't imagine why I ever had such a thing, but I did) and I wore it with gusto.
My current approach was similar. I did a google search for characters who had things I already own. "Character with glasses" and "characters in a blue dress" were two of my first searches. The choices came down to Waldo and Madeline. I briefly conisdered Red Riding Hood since I have a smashing red sequined thing that I thought might be fun to wear.
I tried to give some suggestions to my 5th graders. I tried to tell them that striving for Best Costumes Ever might mean we had to search beyond all the Wimpy Kid and Dork Diaries characters- who are really just kids like us- and try for something a little more.... creative.
But the books kids are reading in 5th grade aren't filled with the most colorful characters- not in appearance anyway. At a certain point, a character becomes loveable or memorable because of their actions and words and inner thoughts and less because of their appearance.
One kid really seemed to capture the essence of it all by coming in with a cartoon mask cut-out- a nice spin on the stick figure drawing essence of those books. Another managed to create his own homemade ninja costume eerily resembling a lego ninja character gracing the cover of his book.
But the more the kids searched and planned for their choices- my chocolate brown and coffee colored students- the more I saw there weren't enough characters that really resembled them. And I wanted to opt out. I suddenly found myself not wanting to support this idea- this idea rooted in literacy and cozy bedtime tales and reading and imagining characters from books- not movies. It became an idea I wanted to veto.
It's not news that there aren't enough diverse characters in children's literature. I'm not surprised just merely saddened again. I thought of all the time I used to spend searching for books to fill my classroom library and to make required reading as part of the curriculum. Hours and weeks and months and a lifetime really, always keeping eyes open for just the right tales, with a range of characters experiencing an array of life stories. Children from countries around the world, from all levels of economical backgrounds and family lifestyles, with skin colors that are pale and red and brown and beige and tan and dark. With eyes that are straight and slanted and green and blue and brown and black and seeing and nonseeing. With legs that work and those that don't.
It's one thing to search for that and acquire that and strive to put that in my classroom (my long lost and beloved classroom.) But in the libraries? In the popular culture of kid speak and kid read? They aren't going to be doing all that searching. They are taking what's readily available, mass produced, deemed a success and pushed to be popular. They are choosing from what's easy to find and it doesn't necessarily resemble them.
So my excitement for the Storybook Character Parade dwindled quickly. By the time I was talking to a colleague- who responded wryly that she would be- of course, what else- "Aya from Yopougon" I was completely disspirited. (google image search Aya and then google image search black storybook characters, or African storybook characters)
It's easy enough for the little ones to still become princesses and battlefield warriors. There are plenty of cats and rabbits and turtles in childhood books. The more imaginitve might opt to become trucks or cars or even talking, walking vegetables. Truthfully, no one is ever too old for a picture book. But the kids get it. They get the idea of taking a favorite character and making it come to life. They want to do it.
It's just that the options are sorely limited.
A future post is certain to outline The Year Of.....and it is shaping up to be a year of many things...one of which is finding out I don't really love all the things as dearly as I thought I did. Or rather, all good ideas potentially have a dark side.
Many international schools have turned their Halloween parade into a storybook character parade. Our school is no exception. From a distance, this sounds like such a fabulous idea. Use a holiday laden with candy getting, stranger door knocking and dead spirit revelling and turn it into something wholesome- encourage and endorse a love of reading while still allowing for the all important costume designing.
My class voted on a goal of achieving "Best Costumes Ever" and so, in an attempt to support this lofty objective, I decided I should dress up too. I have never been much of a costume wearer. In the US my go-to Halloween digs included a sweatsuit and a pair of headphones. Jogger. Subtle, already in my closet and different from my daily wear. I used to have red jogging pants and matching zip up jacket (I can't imagine why I ever had such a thing, but I did) and I wore it with gusto.
My current approach was similar. I did a google search for characters who had things I already own. "Character with glasses" and "characters in a blue dress" were two of my first searches. The choices came down to Waldo and Madeline. I briefly conisdered Red Riding Hood since I have a smashing red sequined thing that I thought might be fun to wear.
 |
| Blue dress, yellow hat- I can do that |
I tried to give some suggestions to my 5th graders. I tried to tell them that striving for Best Costumes Ever might mean we had to search beyond all the Wimpy Kid and Dork Diaries characters- who are really just kids like us- and try for something a little more.... creative.
But the books kids are reading in 5th grade aren't filled with the most colorful characters- not in appearance anyway. At a certain point, a character becomes loveable or memorable because of their actions and words and inner thoughts and less because of their appearance.
One kid really seemed to capture the essence of it all by coming in with a cartoon mask cut-out- a nice spin on the stick figure drawing essence of those books. Another managed to create his own homemade ninja costume eerily resembling a lego ninja character gracing the cover of his book.
 |
| My Vote for Best Costume Ever |
But the more the kids searched and planned for their choices- my chocolate brown and coffee colored students- the more I saw there weren't enough characters that really resembled them. And I wanted to opt out. I suddenly found myself not wanting to support this idea- this idea rooted in literacy and cozy bedtime tales and reading and imagining characters from books- not movies. It became an idea I wanted to veto.
It's not news that there aren't enough diverse characters in children's literature. I'm not surprised just merely saddened again. I thought of all the time I used to spend searching for books to fill my classroom library and to make required reading as part of the curriculum. Hours and weeks and months and a lifetime really, always keeping eyes open for just the right tales, with a range of characters experiencing an array of life stories. Children from countries around the world, from all levels of economical backgrounds and family lifestyles, with skin colors that are pale and red and brown and beige and tan and dark. With eyes that are straight and slanted and green and blue and brown and black and seeing and nonseeing. With legs that work and those that don't.
It's one thing to search for that and acquire that and strive to put that in my classroom (my long lost and beloved classroom.) But in the libraries? In the popular culture of kid speak and kid read? They aren't going to be doing all that searching. They are taking what's readily available, mass produced, deemed a success and pushed to be popular. They are choosing from what's easy to find and it doesn't necessarily resemble them.
So my excitement for the Storybook Character Parade dwindled quickly. By the time I was talking to a colleague- who responded wryly that she would be- of course, what else- "Aya from Yopougon" I was completely disspirited. (google image search Aya and then google image search black storybook characters, or African storybook characters)
 |
| Aya- so much more than a book- in Cote d'Ivoire |
It's easy enough for the little ones to still become princesses and battlefield warriors. There are plenty of cats and rabbits and turtles in childhood books. The more imaginitve might opt to become trucks or cars or even talking, walking vegetables. Truthfully, no one is ever too old for a picture book. But the kids get it. They get the idea of taking a favorite character and making it come to life. They want to do it.
It's just that the options are sorely limited.
 |
| A subtle Madeline, already cooking up ideas about how to open minds next year |
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