Applying the PhD

When I was younger, we played a lot of games. We built card houses and played Rummy and Gin and Crazy Eights. I played numerous versions of Solitary, and almost every card game seemed to have a dice version. So we played those too. We played so often that when I closed my eyes, I could still see the outline of the cards, the shapes of the diamonds and clubs in that eerie reverse lighting that happens behind closed lids.

Studying for an advanced degree is a bit like that. It takes up nearly every spare moment, and even when I am not reading or writing something, I am thinking of whatever it is I am supposed to be reading or writing. I see ethics and moral dilemmas everywhere. Even and especially when I am trying to relax or take a break from the intense analyzing of ideas, the topics present themselves.

One of the reasons I'd accepted the job in Lagos was for an opportunity to "just" teach art, an option that would allow me to focus on only one subject and to follow my passion. I'd imagined there wouldn't be much overlap and one would easily allow me to concentrate on the other.

Naturally, real life is interconnected and all things overlap. It's only taken a few short months for the first ethical dilemmas to begin presenting themselves and refusing to go away. I've designed all of the curriculum content to connect to self-identity and culture, social studies themes or aspects of study in other classes. 7th grade is studying West African history, which leads naturally to an examination of the Benin Kingdom and their stunning work in bronze. Which has led to an entire ethical analysis of the conflict over returning the Benin Bronzes, and African artwork in general (I feel a paper coming on...)

In 1897, Britain plundered the kingdom, stealing religious artifacts and ceremonial items. Oba Akenzua II began the quest to have the items returned in 1936 and it is an ongoing affair. On the surface, it seems to be a straightforward problem. The items were stolen and they should be returned.

There are several complicating factors, which I was happy to introduce to my 7th grade classes. Honestly, I was surprised at their responses, though perhaps I should not have been. A Eurocentric mindset is cultivated in communities across the globe since birth. They are no different.

They wanted to know if England had given credit to Nigeria (is that all it takes to make stealing morally acceptable?) When I raised the question about whether there should be monetary compensation included in the return because, after all, people have been paying a lot of money for a lot of years to visit the works, students sympathized with the Brits and suggested it would be difficult for them to give back the stolen loot after so many years and making so much profit. They suggested a 5 or 10% return. I hadn't read anything about restitution for past profit in the articles, but it turns out Trevor Noah and I think alike. There should be something to atone for all of the profits made over the 120+ years.

One of the responses to Europe's argument that there are not places to store or show African art encompasses the idea that perhaps it is not meant to show. These were not decorative art pieces, but sacred objects. Many were not meant to be seen by the general public but rather kept secluded in royal homes or other places. Just because Europeans have treated the art in a certain way throughout the ages does not mean that is the only way to treat them. Perhaps they go back to their sacred status, hidden, revered and an essential part of the spirit of the community.

There have also been some African leaders who suggest that having the work out in the world has been something of a cultural ambassador for African countries. They say they're ok with keeping some of the work in Europe where it will continue to showcase the skill and talent of African artists and present the history.

It's a complicated perspective since these items can be considered primary sources of historical events, many of which are not taught or discussed in African schools. These pieces provide very clear historical evidence of how kingdoms and courts were organized. Complex, stunning and showcasing great technical skill- those words apply not only to the artwork, but to everything surrounding the controversy and the historical significance of the objects.

I share a room with elementary art and the instructional assistant has overheard many of our debates. She took some time to share with me her direct lineage to the Oba and some of her perspective about the controversy. As someone who has inside knowledge about the use of some of the items, and the implications of having them openly accessibly, her perspective is revealing.

There really is no controversy. Stolen items need to be returned to the owner. The owner decides how best to care for them. End of story really.

The students were still not entirely convinced.  I put everything in terms of their personal items- so, if I steal your sneakers, because I notice you don't care for them very well and I decide I know best how to care for them....is that ok? (no, they don't agree.)

If I come into your bedroom and steal all of your belongings, and then decide to give you a few things back- but keep the rest for myself....it's ok? (no, not really.)

And the one they really weren't sure about- if I steal all of your clothes and go out and make your fashion sense famous, I get to keep the money and anything positive that comes from that? I'll just mention that it was all your idea.....and you never had a chance to make it famous, because all your stuff was with me. (they're not really sure about this one....ownership of the idea versus ownership of the items- even if by stealing- versus power to make something seen)

We're talking about privilege here. The power and privilege to access international markets and international locations. The power and privilege to know your own history because the artifacts are housed safely in locations you can visit or presented in ways that accurately depict how they were used in your culture.

The conversations will continue. I can see their minds are still churning over the ideas and the connections and puzzling it through. Some walked out shaking their heads, commenting it was the best art class discussion they'd had, others kept referring to "our art," though clearly not Nigerian, clearly not aware of the history or culture in any way that would obviously merit an "our." Identity is a funny thing that way, a tricky thing for these third culture kids who live everywhere and belong nowhere. They need to develop as many perspectives as countries they've lived in, and they need to be given the opportunity to explore, understand and grapple with the complexities of colonialism, both its historical context and its current manifestations. They need to come to terms with their own role and the roles of their ancestors. The conversations will continue.

Kin-revisited

I spent a quick week in Kinshasa, just to see. It's easy to romanticize the past and to exaggerate an affinity for something until it becomes an ideal. I am pretty happy to report that my obsession with Kinshasa is a reality. I loved every minute of my stay there. Ideally I could have gathered up the sounds and rhythms of life in a bottle, allowing me to breathe in the ambiance of the city whenever loneliness overtakes me.

As it were, I found it hard to even take photos. Capturing one small fraction of the greater picture seemed hardly likely to do justice. Even video, with its ability to move and record sound wouldn't be able to really express the essence that is Kinshasa. It wasn't until my last day, en route for the airport, that I began to snap random images and take pocket videos. I let the recorder run as the taxi moto flashed through the streets, leaving me with a traveling sensation of energy of Kin.

There were many moments I wanted to freeze. One evening, we were sitting and talking with a friend's family. The husband and wife chatting with the us, a few older girls sitting nearby, one playing with her mother's hair. The busyness of evening chores filled the air around us. I imagined trying to capture the moment and knew that the togetherness of family and the fullness of life would  be overshadowed by the dimness of our surroundings. It would become an image of absence, highlighting the lack ofs rather than the fullness I felt.

I did come away with a positive story to tell. I encountered the center, La Vie est Belle, a very cute little house on a sweet little street nestled magically in the middle of Victoire. One right hand turn is all it took to be transported from the bustling energy of the city center to an almost suburban ideal. The street was lined with trees and kids playing soccer, teens hanging on the edges listening to music and gathering in that way teens do.

 Beautiful street

The center is a small house with a yard large enough to host a little cafe in front, a few outbuildings and several rehearsal and making spaces in the back. On my first visit, the place was alive. A band, complete with guitarist and drummer playing a large plastic jerry can, a la mode de Kin,  was rehearsing in the back. Two dance groups were practicing their moves, one on the outside terrace and one inside.  Several guys were gathered under a tarp near a garage, painting butane canisters black in preparation for some street performance. And two other guys were busy washing plastic bracelets in a bucket and working with a homemade silkscreening device. There were preparing t-shirts and a performance for an artist who'd suddenly passed away- car accident on his way to the village.

This place was nearly the exact embodiment of my dream center. Talking with the manager, Peter, revealed we had a lot of vision in common. I told him I saw his mouth moving, but it was all my own words coming out. It didn't take long for us to devise a project together. I proposed presenting their work at an upcoming conference at UI&U and also creating a my own mini-series in response.

Entrance to office on the porch and small cafe to the right

The center has 4-5 rooms which are available for artists who write a project proposal. They can come and do a residency for free, meals provided. I jokingly suggested I'd be sending in my own proposal, and then wondered how much of a joke it had to be. Spending a month surrounded by such creative energy and support sounds like a paradise.

Art lined driveway to garage and making spaces 

Several work areas here in the back

I passed another evening or two engaged in great conversation with the artists. I learned about their work with the neighborhood children and they all seemed to express a sense of responsibility for providing a creative atmosphere for the kids to experience. They talked about wanting the children to have toys and a chance to play. They recognized the importance of being creative and building and inventing. Right now they might be working with cardboard, true, but maybe next it will be circuits and sockets and motors. The tinkerers of today could easily become the engineers of tomorrow.  I was impressed with their action and insistence. "If the government is not able or willing to step in, then we have to do it," they told me.

Artist working with and educating the neighborhood kids- 

Of course, for every story of courage, there is a story of despair.  A friend took me to Maluku to see the village, although officially still a part of Kinshasa. He's trying to put together a small organization to work with the children in area, actually taking care of a few and offering dance workshops for the many.

As we walked around the town, children ran everywhere. It was a Thursday afternoon but school was closed due to heavy rains the night before. Apparently attendance is sporadic at best for most kids anyway. Parents don't always see the value of school or they can't pay for the materials. Even though there is a new initiative for free education, there are always costs for books or uniforms or other things that make it difficult to get a child to school every day.

My mountain climbing gear....I didn't know

                                                    
                                                                     

Cozy little spot for rent- about $30- you'll need to run your 
own electricity lines. Likewise on your own to figure out 
water, cooking, and toilet structure.

View of the city and across the way Brazza

Some girls with nothing to do but pose for photos

The first place we actually stopped was to visit the family. My friend wanted to introduce me to his mom and also to see a little boy he'd decided to take care of. The story isn't really clear- stories are never really clear- but it sounded like he'd come across this baby, who was said to be 2 years old although he couldn't walk and I don't think he talks. The mom was young and didn't really pay much attention to the kid. Apparently there a lot of young moms here in the city-village. Young like 12 or 13. Too young to be moms.

The houses in Maluku are small, wooden- framed with little windows and cement floors. I pushed aside the curtain in the doorway and squinted to see in the dark interior. There were a few plastic chairs, one soft stuffed chair and a table. Flyers from an annual dance festival in Kinshasa lined the walls.

I didn't notice the baby on the floor. I greeted the young girl, my friend's sister or cousin or some member of the family who was around to help. She was eating and it was only later that I saw the baby, sitting in the shadows, impossibly quiet, eating foufou. He looked to be about 6 months old. His eyes were too big, his legs too small and it was apparent he had a serious lack of nutrients and energy.

My friend, earnest in his desire to help, lacks experience. He's young, has no children of his own and has only ventured into the bigger world outside of Kinshasa few times. He said he'd bought a baby walker, trying to encourage the boy to use his legs but he just didn't have the strength. He asked me if I knew of some medicine that could help- as if the answer would be found in a bottle or a few sips of liquid.

"The child needs a doctor," I told him. "There is no medicine that can help him. He needs nutrients, possibly therapy, and I am not sure if there is something else the doctors can do." It is a dire situation, this child, sitting in a small dark room in a quiet village town an hour and a half away from anyone who might have an idea of what was wrong. There was no urgency about it.

I am sure he is not the only child in need of care and food and attention. Too many children in Kinshasa and Congo in general, lack the basic needs. There is a very real danger of a lost generation. It's one of the hard parts of Congo- the potential to be overwhelmed by the need. But in the end, I realized that just getting back and creating a simple life, doing my small part, it's the best I can do.

I left a little cash and strict instructions to take the child to Kinshasa, to a reputable doctor and to call me with a diagnosis. We'll see what the next steps are- maybe there is something that can be done, or maybe the damage is long lasting. In which case, the child is lucky to have fallen into the hands of my friend, who has a big heart and sincere intentions. He's willing to foster him, take care of him and provide the basics.

I don't know how it happens- how he can imagine and then actually proceed to take in children. It's part of my creative response, an idea I have been grappling with for the last few years. It deserves a post of it's own perhaps, but I wonder how the people live with no money. My friend is an artists, a dancer. He's struggling himself and yet, somehow there is room to take in this baby, and a few others, try to keep them fed and clothed. It's the great mystery to me- how it all happens on less than a dollar a day, as they say.

Road back to Kin