This is turning out to be one of the least hectic year ends since I've started teaching- and that's not necessarily a good thing. The end of the school year is always filled with goodbyes, but even more so in international schools. Students are leaving, teachers are leaving, some for good- most for vacation- and either way the arrival of summer comes on a wind that whisks us all away from each other and into separate lives. While the alternate lives we live may be temporary, they do exist and most of the faculty, student body and parent population straddles two worlds of one kind or another. Which is all the more reason saying goodbye is important.
The end of the year should be a time filled with rituals of community, fun and celebration. It's important to take this time to celebrate our year together, confirm our friendships and assure each other that, no matter where that wind of summer lands us, there will be people across the globe keeping us in mind, wishing us well and waiting for a reunion.
It's an eerily quiet time. I've been trying to listen but there is only silence so far. Like much else in Abidjan, it seems the school year is just going to slowly wind down and fade away until one day we realize we just don't need to get up and go to that building anymore. Oh yeah, we'll think, it's over now. No celebrations, no goodbye hugs, no appreciations or wacky last moments together. If I hadn't already spent a year in Abidjan, it would be a lot more depressing. (I stole a glance over to the TASOK page and saw all the cool end of year things I am missing right now still going on- DEAR picnics, wacky-wet-n-wild summer fun, author's celebration, art and talent show......)
I've been trying to put my finger on exactly why the city does not speak to me- my dissatisfaction extends beyond the school and out into the everyday environment (many people love it hear and so it is obviously a personal thing...) I am definitely learning a lot about what I want in a school community (and that I no longer want to be at the mercy of others to create this for me.) And I am remembering my forest, mountain roots. I miss green spaces to just be in and, honestly, I guess I miss the freedom having a car would bring.
Taxis are too expensive as a mode of transport out into the peaceful places I am craving. And once I do get there, getting back is a real consideration. And then there is the baggage. Lunch, diapers, change of clothes. Juggling the girl and the bags and the weight of it all in case we need to walk, along with the heat and the sun----or the rain, oh yeah, I need to pack an umbrella. Suddenly, despite being a dirt patch, my yard looks green enough.Spending a day in nature is not the effortless thing I want it to be.
There is something about the constant building everywhere that affects me profoundly. My perspective changes frequently so that I feel as if I am looking down on this corner of the planet and it is hurting. All this cement, covering up soil, reducing the pathways where water might fall, be absorbed and nourish the land. I notice forest-y green patches along highways and send a little prayer that whoever is planning will leave that spot alone. Let it stay green, I whisper. And then I send out appreciations for the trees and the tall grasses and the wild beauty of the space.
The construction has begun again just near our house. What used to be a field bordering the lagoon, complete with palm tree silhouettes just after sunset, has now become row after row of cement walls. Ugly. Ugly everywhere, though somehow when I first visited Abidjan, I thought it was green here. Healthy. I've come to a new conclusion and I've also noticed an effect on my spirit.
A friend posted this link on her FB page with a paragraph somewhere in the middle that seemed to sum up everything I have been feeling:
That is because, in fact, the world presented to us as normal and acceptable is anything but. It is a monstrosity. Ours is a planet in pain. If you need me to convince you of that, if you are unaware of the destruction of forests, oceans, wetlands, cultures, soil, health, beauty, dignity, and spirit that underlies the System we live in, then I have nothing to say to you. I only am speaking to you if you do believe that there is something deeply wrong with the way we are living on this planet.
There is something wrong with the way we are living on and treating this planet. It leaves me feeling as though I want to find a little village somewhere and dig in deep. Withdraw from all these "new developments" that are really only sending us further back in consciousness.
Withdrawing isn't really the answer. In this city of mediocre, average, striving to be like all the others, I am getting lost. Every time I find something that lights me up, it disappears as soon as I discover it. My dance troupe, my capoeira class, collaboration with the girls' school, the boys' orphanage, and the botanical gardens- all come and gone in a flash. Shutting down before they ever really got started.
I've been trying to listen lately, really listen- to myself, the universe, whatever it is that will help me get back on the path. Because this stop over in Abidjan seems like the long cut to where ever it is I was going. Trying to get back to the creative life, the community life, the place where people see each other and always remember to say goodbye. Kende malamu- go well, remember? Go well, my friend, on your journey and be well. Treat the world well and come back so that we may share our stories.
I am not sure what this summer holds for me- another series of goodbyes for certain, but also some new beginnings. Perhaps a much needed shift in perspective as well.
29.5.16
11.5.16
Beyond the SAT
I spent this past Saturday proctoring the SAT exam. Proctoring is a big word for walking around the classroom trying to keep my eyes open. I only had 1 student (there was 1 no-show and 1 who opted into the SAT w/essay, thereby propelling her into another room and leaving me with 1 student to monitor and observe for any signs of cheating or irregularity.)
There is a long script to read full of what appeared to be (to my 1 and only examee) irrelevant directions. But in keeping with the strict regulations and spirit of the SAT, I dutifully read everything, word for word, with the right intonation and inflection one might expect from an official proctor.
I am a reader by nature, however and it was difficult not to snatch up the copy of A Brave New World sitting on the classroom shelf and get entranced. Official SAT procedures prohibit one from reading, (newspapers, novels or student work,) grading papers or any other meaningful activity that might take your eyes away from wayward movement or distract you from watching the clock.
I did my best to uphold the standard, even if I only had 1 student, because the rigors and rules are what lend the test to being..., well, standard. Uniform, equal, fair. I walked around the room actively proctoring- reading all the posters (luckily, we were in a Mandarin classroom so the reading was a bit more interesting than the average classroom poster. I think I may have even picked up a pattern or two in the characters...,) staring out the window (opening the curtains when the power went out) and checking my testee to make sure she wasn't photographing any parts of the test or sending them off virtually via some secret electronic device hidden on her person.
Nope. All was well. I took a seat next to her and perused the testing manual. I read (again) the admittance sheets and calculated birthdays. The young girl sitting next to me was 20 years old.
That gave me pause. I remembered myself at twenty and for a minute I was envious of her there, with her life stretched out before her, filled with possible journeys and international connections. Clean. Uncomplicated. Bare.
The contrast with my own life at that age was staggering. A vision of myself appeared in my mind's eye like a stranger, and I was overcome with the burden of who I had been and all that I hadn't known or thought possible.
Sometimes the weight of life choices is heavy. I've spent much of the past two years trying to determine how to move forward without creating more regret, to proceed with foresight rather than hindsight (as so eloquently put by a recent Bernie supporter. Though, honestly, American politics seem almost as far away from me as that image of my 20 year old self.)
In general, I am pleased with the person I have grown into. Crafting a version of yourself that matches all the fine details of who you know you are takes time and patience and focus. But it is a work that is never quite complete. For now, it feels a bit like a work that is halted in progress. Abidjan has had a way of making me feel stuck in limbo these past two years.
It's not true. I have only to witness the impish smile of my little lovey as she pours (yet another) glass of water into an unsuspecting someone's lap (her favorite pass time lately) or hear the way her gibberish falls and rises in time with Nabih's cries of indignation (he really is teaching her the finer points of how to argue) to see that she has grown from that adorable, always sleeping, ever smiling, cute and cuddly baby to a walking, talking, fire-breathing toddler. Time is passing. I'm not sure I am making the most of it.
It is kind of hard to feel I am using time to my advantage when the manual suggests I walk around and stare at test-takers for 4 hours. Or maybe that is the point of it all. I learned a bit of Chinese, discovered the title of a book I want to read, and admired some Magna art. While I did I daydream about future possibilities, I spent most of that time living in the very moment- watching the clock, noting the hour and minutes right down to the seconds. I was aware of my breathing and my walking and my presence. I was aware of her presence. Two people in the same room, twenty years apart, lifetimes at opposite ends of the spectrum, facing choices made and unmade, random worlds colliding.
All on a Saturday morning before noon.
There is a long script to read full of what appeared to be (to my 1 and only examee) irrelevant directions. But in keeping with the strict regulations and spirit of the SAT, I dutifully read everything, word for word, with the right intonation and inflection one might expect from an official proctor.
I am a reader by nature, however and it was difficult not to snatch up the copy of A Brave New World sitting on the classroom shelf and get entranced. Official SAT procedures prohibit one from reading, (newspapers, novels or student work,) grading papers or any other meaningful activity that might take your eyes away from wayward movement or distract you from watching the clock.
I did my best to uphold the standard, even if I only had 1 student, because the rigors and rules are what lend the test to being..., well, standard. Uniform, equal, fair. I walked around the room actively proctoring- reading all the posters (luckily, we were in a Mandarin classroom so the reading was a bit more interesting than the average classroom poster. I think I may have even picked up a pattern or two in the characters...,) staring out the window (opening the curtains when the power went out) and checking my testee to make sure she wasn't photographing any parts of the test or sending them off virtually via some secret electronic device hidden on her person.
Nope. All was well. I took a seat next to her and perused the testing manual. I read (again) the admittance sheets and calculated birthdays. The young girl sitting next to me was 20 years old.
That gave me pause. I remembered myself at twenty and for a minute I was envious of her there, with her life stretched out before her, filled with possible journeys and international connections. Clean. Uncomplicated. Bare.
The contrast with my own life at that age was staggering. A vision of myself appeared in my mind's eye like a stranger, and I was overcome with the burden of who I had been and all that I hadn't known or thought possible.
Sometimes the weight of life choices is heavy. I've spent much of the past two years trying to determine how to move forward without creating more regret, to proceed with foresight rather than hindsight (as so eloquently put by a recent Bernie supporter. Though, honestly, American politics seem almost as far away from me as that image of my 20 year old self.)
In general, I am pleased with the person I have grown into. Crafting a version of yourself that matches all the fine details of who you know you are takes time and patience and focus. But it is a work that is never quite complete. For now, it feels a bit like a work that is halted in progress. Abidjan has had a way of making me feel stuck in limbo these past two years.
It's not true. I have only to witness the impish smile of my little lovey as she pours (yet another) glass of water into an unsuspecting someone's lap (her favorite pass time lately) or hear the way her gibberish falls and rises in time with Nabih's cries of indignation (he really is teaching her the finer points of how to argue) to see that she has grown from that adorable, always sleeping, ever smiling, cute and cuddly baby to a walking, talking, fire-breathing toddler. Time is passing. I'm not sure I am making the most of it.
It is kind of hard to feel I am using time to my advantage when the manual suggests I walk around and stare at test-takers for 4 hours. Or maybe that is the point of it all. I learned a bit of Chinese, discovered the title of a book I want to read, and admired some Magna art. While I did I daydream about future possibilities, I spent most of that time living in the very moment- watching the clock, noting the hour and minutes right down to the seconds. I was aware of my breathing and my walking and my presence. I was aware of her presence. Two people in the same room, twenty years apart, lifetimes at opposite ends of the spectrum, facing choices made and unmade, random worlds colliding.
All on a Saturday morning before noon.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)