The house across the street from us has a clay water pot out front. It is a common sight in Mali, this clay water pot. They can be found in front of mosques, houses and little boutiques. The pot has a cover and usually sitting on top is a plastic cup or two.
Anyone who needs a drink is welcome to come and help themselves. And people do. Mali is hot. People are thirsty. The clay pot keeps the water clean and cool. It is a typical Malian gesture- this kindness in the most basic and humane way.
Just beside our house, there is a footpath that leads to the main road. On the other side of the footpath is a huge lettuce garden. We get a lot of traffic on the footpath, though I haven't quite figured out where everyone is going. Our neighborhood could be considered new; it's still very much a hybrid of half-built houses, lettuce fields and random occupants like us. While there isn't an obvious destination in sight, maybe some are just coming for the water.
There is often a collection of 'talibe boys' who pass by in the morning and evening hours (a quick google search for talibe boys reveals a wealth of information on aid projects and other social programs aimed at their wellbeing.) I have caught myself being annoyed at their begging by my car, in my driveway. As if begging outside a store is somehow better but- just don't bring it home. Ridiculous really, unless I try to justify it by noting that when I go into a store, I can purchase a little food for them but caught in my driveway I am unprepared. I have nothing to give and not giving makes me feel stingy.
I see them go across to the clay water pot and take turns drinking. I have often wished for such a pot in front of my own house. Something that says, I see you. I am keenly aware that the harshest grievance is not refusing to give, but refusing to see. Its important to be looked at, to be greeted and to feel as if you are part of the world. We don't like to do this because looking and seeing results in a sense of responsibility. It's simply not normal to see a young hungry child on the street and turn your head. But we do it. It's simply not possible to bring them all home and offer a cushy bed, or a seat at the dinner table. Sometimes, I buy bread. Or fruit. Or other snacks that we ourselves are in search of, treats. It's not too much to buy an extra box of something or a dozen rolls to share.
It's even easier to put some water outside your house. To welcome those who pass by, and support them in our journey through humanity.
One evening, I watched a group of the boys scamper up to the house, right up close to the wall. They hung around a bit after they had their drink, fooling around and laughing, being physical in that way that boys do. No one came out and shooed them away. No one gave them deep penetrating stares until they slunk their heads and left. Myself, I enjoyed their laughter and their youth. The energy of living in the moment. It contrasted sharply with an experience we'd had in America and the memory came flooding back to me.
We'd been out walking, my aunt, Mbalia, Nabih and I. It was early evening and we were exploring a small patch of woods behind a school across from my aunt's house. A house where she has lived for over 20 years. The woods were really just a small patch of trees between the schoolyard and a wealthy new subdivision behind it.
My aunt led the way through the cool forest path until we emerged into the open- a field of high grass stretched before us abruptly turning into the manicured back lawn of several mini-mansion houses. I stopped in my tracks. Clearly we were trespassing. I looked to my aunt for guidance and she waved me on. She'd done this before. Nabih had the same reaction emerging from the trees. He stopped short and looked at me, questioning.
Later on when we had The Talk, we discussed this moment. This moment of hesitation and the sensation of something being not quite right. Forever and always, we should listen to that moment. Even if your mom tells you to go on ahead, you should question harder. Go with your gut.
We walked skirting the edge of the lawn, trying to balance on an invisible perimeter line. Anyone in their house looking out would see three strangers walking in their previously private and somewhat secluded back yard. Or they might see a small family out enjoying the evening air. It felt weird, but not more so than being a kid and taking the short cut that ran through the neighbor's yard. Until we got to the driveways. It definitely felt too intimate there.
We were in a place we didn't belong, too close to the wealthy. One of the men had come outside and crossed over to his neighbor's garage. He was watching us and waiting for his neighbor to join him. I said good evening but he looked at me coldly, silently. I walked on a few more steps, making my way to neutral ground on the street and turned around to see how close behind Nabih was.
That's when my heart dropped. I saw with someone else's eyes. A guy with a hoodie on, clouding his face. A big guy. Walking on private property. This is how people get shot, I thought. This is it exactly. How stupid of us to have taken what seemed a harmless short cut. How careless of him to be wearing his hood up.
The guy in the driveway was whispering to his neighbor. They stood close, gesturing, clearly pointing out our path. My heart was pounding. I knew they didn't see a 13 year old child. In their eyes, he wasn't the Nabih I knew. They didn't see him as a shy, young boy with a sweet smile and gentle laugh. They would have never have guessed he still kissed his mom goodbye every morning, even in the hallways of middle school surrounded by his friends. And they likely never even thought that his hood was up because he was cold, we were all cold, not quite used to the northern chill, still missing our warm African air, cozy-ing up in our long sleeves and sweaters and hoods.
Nope. They saw a foreigner. A menace. An unknown. Dark and bulky. All their worst imaginings, direct from an American media source nearby being pumped like poisoned well water into their homes night and day, all those easy stereotypes filled their heads. They didn't say hello. No nod. No friendly, 'Where you folks coming from?' Definitely no offer of a glass of water.
It is a stark contrast that America, overflowing with such abundance everyone feels a need to hide in their house and guard their treasures with this Mali, where the little bit of nothing someone has is offered freely with a generous smile. Despite all the 'development,' I'm not convinced Americans are better off. She hasn't sold me on the dream yet.
I had to have a talk with Nabih. I explained the recent history- all the shootings of innocent kids, the bias and racism, the idea that a practical clothing choice could play on the fear of someone else's ignorance. I was a bit surprised at how much he didn't know, and sad I had to introduce him to it. Some of his innocence washed away.
I put my arm around him and enjoyed the feeling of walking down the street with my boy, realizing how it could have all gone wrong in an instant. I had to be much, much more on my toes in America. He could have been hurt- or gone.
Or the guy in the driveway could have said, "You guys get lost? Where y'all coming from?" and we could have laughed and said, "Africa," and he could have said, "Well that's a mighty long way," and then our worlds could have been opened and shared instead of that silent cold stare.
I think about it often when I see groups of kids walking down the streets in Bamako. They have their arms around each other, one leaning on the other or holding hands, journeying together. They surround me at my car, gathering in groups- in masses enough that once or twice I felt a tinge of fear. But my idea of retaliation was to sit them down and lecture them on the behaviors of begging. "If you want to get the most from people," I imagined myself saying,"don't all crowd together at their car. Give people room to breathe and send one or two preferably the youngest....." I cut off my imaginary lecture as I realized how absurd it all sounded. There are no easy answers.
We impose random things to normalize it all. A friend lines them up in order of age and begins by handing cookies to the youngest. I give out my rolls to the girls first, then the youngest boys. When they all grab and no one says thank you, I impose manners on them. As if it is going to change their prospects in life. When I give out oranges, I insist that they share, and then follow them to make sure it happens. Silly things, useless things.
But there is an exchange. No cold stares. No quiet judging of who I think they are or what they're capable of. I know they are children and they are children who are missing a lot of things I believe children should have. I can't fix that. But I can offer a smile, a small treat, an expectation that we treat each other with respect. I can say hello.
Even when they are in my driveway holding their oversized empty cans, staring at me with tired brown eyes, standing too close in their dirty, torn clothes and reaching out with too thin arms - I can still say Bonsoir, ca va? And I can really mean it. How are you, neighbor?
Showing posts with label America. Show all posts
Showing posts with label America. Show all posts
13.9.18
3.12.17
Presenting as Black
The past few weeks have felt like a whirlwind. Both planned and unexpected travel sent me spiraling through the vortex of time, leaving me disoriented and slightly confused. I am slowly getting back on my feet, grounded as they are here in Africa.
I haven't traveled out of Africa in the last 5 or 6 years. In June, I took a quick trip to Paris, which was like visiting a foreign country in a way I'd never quite imagined France (which is, in fact, a foreign country.) In November, I had the chance to visit again and took every opportunity to stay in the same neighborhood, eliciting a cozy sense of the familiar.
That trip, the basis of which was research, expanded my perspective on future initiatives in Congo. I began to sense the construction of a foundation and structure which I haven't yet had time to fully process.
I'd arrived home for less than 24 hours when I was flying off again, to the far away and even more foreign land of America. A family emergency called. While the flight to Europe is highly doable, even including the roundabout layovers often accompanying cheaper fares (I am still not able to comprehend how the long-cut equals less money- surely the short-cut requires less expense?) the trip to the US is unbearable. 3 flights, 8 hour layovers and, on the return, the uncharted but by-now-to-be-expected "hop" through a neighboring country.
Since I've been flying to Africa, I have frequently experienced this touch down in a country bordering the final destination. It usually comes at the end of a long series of flights and is just enough to play havoc on the last vestige of patience. Essentially, it is like an additional flight- meaning I really took 4 flights home, rather than 3. But it is not listed on the itinerary and so, despite it's regular occurrence, still manages to come as a surprise.
But my story is not really about the flights, although allowing for a moment of motherly pride, my girl turned out to be the best travel buddy ever. At three, she managed to weather the planes and airport layovers with an energy and enthusiasm that was inspiring.
My story, or the part I am choosing to focus on, is really about that small town in mid-America I found myself in. I'd had plenty of reservations about traveling. I don't do America well and small town America...well, frightened might not be the right word exactly, but there was definitely resistance of a sort.
I decided to approach it as I did any travel- a foreign culture to be observed and wondered at. Curiosity makes for a great lens. I mustered up enthusiasm for the huge hay bales that lined the grassy plains on the way from the airport. They resembled a Van Gogh or a Monet. I allowed myself to be enchanted. And when we passed a collection stacked to resemble a caterpillar and painted green, I smiled with childish delight. So this is America.
My trip included a family reunion of sorts, and surely that is a story of it's own, especially since it's been a good 20+ years since we have seen each other. How do you even begin a reunion like that? In some cases, it is easy enough to just pick up where one left off. That is to say, pretend like the 20 years never passed. I suppose the ability to do this is what makes us family, as opposed to a collective group of strangers assembled in the same vicinity?
The plan went well enough. I'd thought of a few questions to ask my brother, who's never been much of a talker. I'm potentially not much of a talker either, so the reunion with him left me feeling a bit nervous. What the heck do you say to someone after 20 years? I decided to focus on the present and our main reason for being together- the ill health of our mother. I also had a few questions prepared about his life in the small town and his aspirations in business, which I'd thought he'd recently started. (Later that day, I managed to pick up some more tips from my great aunt, who has a gift for random conversation starters. At 88, she hoovers between sounding extremely intelligent and occasionally unpredictable. With her in the lead, we covered topics from the political leaning of the mayor to Trump's proposed tax plan to the local educational system. My brother did his darndest to answer in between summarizing the story of Ray Kroc and the McDonald's brothers.)
And through it all, my girl was shining. She is undeniably cute and has a way with people. She charmed up to her uncle immediately. He'd barely opened the door when she stepped outside and gave him a huge hug- or embraced his shin, in any case. She wasn't intimidated in the least by his 6'2 frame. We went out for coffee and the entire time she engaged him in a silent coloring game that included a ton of hand signals, thumbs up and random kisses.
Though her English is coming along, generally in unexpected spurts of words strung together in nearly complete sentences, she still prefers French, and often settles for a mix of both languages in her daily speech. While she was winning hearts with her charming ways, a translation was occasionally called for. As we left the restaurant, we stopped for a creature from the pirate/santa who was creating animal balloons. (This was a rather odd affair that resulted in him calling out, "Balloon popping, balloon popping," every 15 minutes or so throughout our entire hour and a half stay. His fire alarm alert was a bit anti-climatic as it was generally followed by a muted puff of air nothing like the large explosion we'd been led to believe was coming.)
Mbalia wanted a wolf but finally settled on a puppy (though I feel certain she would have been content with the deer and a name change.) The pirate/santa took his work seriously, however, and tried to include her in as many decisions as possible. I was busy being distracted by his colorful bag of balloons when I snapped out of it to see she had taken a step forward and was slightly in the man's face. "I said rouge," she was exclaiming a bit indignantly. To be fair, she had been politely asking but after several misunderstood requests, she felt a need to assert herself. A small clashing of cultures. We all got a laugh and the pirate/santa switched over to his French accent for the rest of the puppy constructing.
We left happily, blue and red puppy in tow, en route for my mother's apartment. My brother's wife agreed to take Mbalia to play and spent a beautiful afternoon outside in the crisp fall air. Later on, my brother took a turn with his niece, who couldn't get enough of the swings at the nearby playground.
We spent a regular family day together, exchanging small talk and laughing at bits of nothing. My brother and his wife were enchanted with Mbalia and liked to tell stories of their misunderstandings together. Several times they referenced "walking down the street with a black kid," who was trying to express something in her repeated French that they just couldn't understand (and passersby or other park players were sort of wondering why the adult wouldn't respond to the child's needs.) It was a comic moment the way my brother told it, he has a knack for that, but I was kind of stuck on the "black kid" remark.
I tried processing this with my aunt later that evening. I wasn't sure where my discomfort was coming from and why. I am generally proud of my children's' African heritage and usually find myself emphasizing this over their American side. Perhaps it was the word black. Mbalia is not black- there are few people who actually are graced with the beautiful, deep skin tone we might call black. Most of us are hues of brown and tan and beige and peach. Generally, I see her as golden. And in Africa, she is definitely not passing as African. At most, people may suspect her of being a multicultural child (can I say mixed? I am not even sure anymore.) She is clearly foreign and I am not exactly sure how others see her. It is something I have thought of occasionally in terms of the boys as well.
We are most often surrounded by the many hues of whatever international school we are currently connected to, however, and this is a perfect fit. The student body is a healthy mix of shades representing the colors of the world. There are soft browns and golden sunsets, there are dark tans and milky whites. There are a million in betweens and no one seems to remark on skin color all that much. Rather, kids delight in exchanging country of origin tales ("I was born in.....but really my mother is from....and my dad is from....so I am all three!) They compare where they've been and what sights they've seen in each country. They take pride in knowing the cities of the world and having experienced a bit of them, even if limited by age and allowance. (One girl admitted that all she did on her great European vacation was spend time in a hotel room watching tv and swimming in the pool. She wasn't allowed at the grown-up parties and the family stay-over had been dedicated to business. She'd experienced a restaurant and a shopping trip, but not much more.)
Then there are always the half-remembered stories (I went there when I was three) and the familiar places (we always visit my grandma's village in Cameroun) but rarely is there anything about skin color. I think there is where my discomfort was coming from. America and it's preoccupation with race. My aunt assured me that my daughter "presented as black," but I honestly didn't see it. It wouldn't have mattered to me either way, except it felt false, an exaggeration. I guess this is the dilemma of multi-cultural children everywhere. They don't belong on one side or another, but somewhere in between.
I think, with a bit of reflection, the one-drop rule was being applied and something about that infuriated me. To be fair, Mbalia is more than one-drop. She is half African and half-American, a much more authentic version of the term African-American than many black Americans (how many generations live and die in America before you drop the country/continent of origin?)
Perhaps if I'd felt they were referring to her African self, I wouldn't have felt as miffed. Somehow, simply referring to her as a color (that didn't even apply) seemed to negate both her heritage as an African and her heritage as an American (which I readily admit to emphasizing only when advantageous, ie passport country.)
Ironically, I remember feeling the exact same way in reverse shortly after Nabih was born. Someone on his dad's side of the family referred to him as "toubab," a word often reserved for whites or foreigners. I was upset because Nabih was, again, a golden child, and 50% African. Didn't that count for something? His dad tried to reassure me at the time that the relative had only meant "toubab" as in "one with no worries," and perhaps this is right. The words that Africans use to describe the foreign white people are generally not related to color but to location or economic status. One dictionary has this interesting suggestion about the root of the Lingala word mundele, used to reference white foreigners, or even black foreigners. (Note the actual word for white in Lingala is mpembe.) A similar situation is true of the Sousou word fote- which signifies a wealthy foreigner. And during one of my trips to Guinee, I heard my dance teacher, who'd been born and raised in the country but had lived outside for about 10 years, referred to as the "white Baga," obviously not related to his skin color but the fact that he returned to his Baga village a wealthier version of the man who'd left so many years before.
I hadn't ever considered my reaction to the question of race before. I have an undeniable pride in my children's African heritage, though perhaps I could do more to make sure they understand the nuances of their particular ethnicity. If this is my confused response to the question of being black, I wonder how my children will sort through their own experience of actually being the ones to straddle the color line. Mohamed has already confirmed he feels "more African than American," though I chalk this up to world view rather than skin color. In essence, I agree. I understand and feel much more comfortable among Africans than I do Americans. I suppose there will be no accusing me of presenting as black, however, at least not among the single minded Americans. A few Africans have wondered aloud at my country of origin, much to my delight. Sadly, I have to admit that no, I am not Guineen or Ivorian...merely American. And a white one at that.
I haven't traveled out of Africa in the last 5 or 6 years. In June, I took a quick trip to Paris, which was like visiting a foreign country in a way I'd never quite imagined France (which is, in fact, a foreign country.) In November, I had the chance to visit again and took every opportunity to stay in the same neighborhood, eliciting a cozy sense of the familiar.
That trip, the basis of which was research, expanded my perspective on future initiatives in Congo. I began to sense the construction of a foundation and structure which I haven't yet had time to fully process.
I'd arrived home for less than 24 hours when I was flying off again, to the far away and even more foreign land of America. A family emergency called. While the flight to Europe is highly doable, even including the roundabout layovers often accompanying cheaper fares (I am still not able to comprehend how the long-cut equals less money- surely the short-cut requires less expense?) the trip to the US is unbearable. 3 flights, 8 hour layovers and, on the return, the uncharted but by-now-to-be-expected "hop" through a neighboring country.
Since I've been flying to Africa, I have frequently experienced this touch down in a country bordering the final destination. It usually comes at the end of a long series of flights and is just enough to play havoc on the last vestige of patience. Essentially, it is like an additional flight- meaning I really took 4 flights home, rather than 3. But it is not listed on the itinerary and so, despite it's regular occurrence, still manages to come as a surprise.
But my story is not really about the flights, although allowing for a moment of motherly pride, my girl turned out to be the best travel buddy ever. At three, she managed to weather the planes and airport layovers with an energy and enthusiasm that was inspiring.
 |
| Best travel buddy ever |
I decided to approach it as I did any travel- a foreign culture to be observed and wondered at. Curiosity makes for a great lens. I mustered up enthusiasm for the huge hay bales that lined the grassy plains on the way from the airport. They resembled a Van Gogh or a Monet. I allowed myself to be enchanted. And when we passed a collection stacked to resemble a caterpillar and painted green, I smiled with childish delight. So this is America.
My trip included a family reunion of sorts, and surely that is a story of it's own, especially since it's been a good 20+ years since we have seen each other. How do you even begin a reunion like that? In some cases, it is easy enough to just pick up where one left off. That is to say, pretend like the 20 years never passed. I suppose the ability to do this is what makes us family, as opposed to a collective group of strangers assembled in the same vicinity?
The plan went well enough. I'd thought of a few questions to ask my brother, who's never been much of a talker. I'm potentially not much of a talker either, so the reunion with him left me feeling a bit nervous. What the heck do you say to someone after 20 years? I decided to focus on the present and our main reason for being together- the ill health of our mother. I also had a few questions prepared about his life in the small town and his aspirations in business, which I'd thought he'd recently started. (Later that day, I managed to pick up some more tips from my great aunt, who has a gift for random conversation starters. At 88, she hoovers between sounding extremely intelligent and occasionally unpredictable. With her in the lead, we covered topics from the political leaning of the mayor to Trump's proposed tax plan to the local educational system. My brother did his darndest to answer in between summarizing the story of Ray Kroc and the McDonald's brothers.)
And through it all, my girl was shining. She is undeniably cute and has a way with people. She charmed up to her uncle immediately. He'd barely opened the door when she stepped outside and gave him a huge hug- or embraced his shin, in any case. She wasn't intimidated in the least by his 6'2 frame. We went out for coffee and the entire time she engaged him in a silent coloring game that included a ton of hand signals, thumbs up and random kisses.
Though her English is coming along, generally in unexpected spurts of words strung together in nearly complete sentences, she still prefers French, and often settles for a mix of both languages in her daily speech. While she was winning hearts with her charming ways, a translation was occasionally called for. As we left the restaurant, we stopped for a creature from the pirate/santa who was creating animal balloons. (This was a rather odd affair that resulted in him calling out, "Balloon popping, balloon popping," every 15 minutes or so throughout our entire hour and a half stay. His fire alarm alert was a bit anti-climatic as it was generally followed by a muted puff of air nothing like the large explosion we'd been led to believe was coming.)
 |
| Pirate/Santa's kaleidoscope of colored balloons |
 |
| Pirate/Santa and his French accent for my girl |
 |
| Blue puppy, black kid? |
I tried processing this with my aunt later that evening. I wasn't sure where my discomfort was coming from and why. I am generally proud of my children's' African heritage and usually find myself emphasizing this over their American side. Perhaps it was the word black. Mbalia is not black- there are few people who actually are graced with the beautiful, deep skin tone we might call black. Most of us are hues of brown and tan and beige and peach. Generally, I see her as golden. And in Africa, she is definitely not passing as African. At most, people may suspect her of being a multicultural child (can I say mixed? I am not even sure anymore.) She is clearly foreign and I am not exactly sure how others see her. It is something I have thought of occasionally in terms of the boys as well.
We are most often surrounded by the many hues of whatever international school we are currently connected to, however, and this is a perfect fit. The student body is a healthy mix of shades representing the colors of the world. There are soft browns and golden sunsets, there are dark tans and milky whites. There are a million in betweens and no one seems to remark on skin color all that much. Rather, kids delight in exchanging country of origin tales ("I was born in.....but really my mother is from....and my dad is from....so I am all three!) They compare where they've been and what sights they've seen in each country. They take pride in knowing the cities of the world and having experienced a bit of them, even if limited by age and allowance. (One girl admitted that all she did on her great European vacation was spend time in a hotel room watching tv and swimming in the pool. She wasn't allowed at the grown-up parties and the family stay-over had been dedicated to business. She'd experienced a restaurant and a shopping trip, but not much more.)
Then there are always the half-remembered stories (I went there when I was three) and the familiar places (we always visit my grandma's village in Cameroun) but rarely is there anything about skin color. I think there is where my discomfort was coming from. America and it's preoccupation with race. My aunt assured me that my daughter "presented as black," but I honestly didn't see it. It wouldn't have mattered to me either way, except it felt false, an exaggeration. I guess this is the dilemma of multi-cultural children everywhere. They don't belong on one side or another, but somewhere in between.
I think, with a bit of reflection, the one-drop rule was being applied and something about that infuriated me. To be fair, Mbalia is more than one-drop. She is half African and half-American, a much more authentic version of the term African-American than many black Americans (how many generations live and die in America before you drop the country/continent of origin?)
Perhaps if I'd felt they were referring to her African self, I wouldn't have felt as miffed. Somehow, simply referring to her as a color (that didn't even apply) seemed to negate both her heritage as an African and her heritage as an American (which I readily admit to emphasizing only when advantageous, ie passport country.)
Ironically, I remember feeling the exact same way in reverse shortly after Nabih was born. Someone on his dad's side of the family referred to him as "toubab," a word often reserved for whites or foreigners. I was upset because Nabih was, again, a golden child, and 50% African. Didn't that count for something? His dad tried to reassure me at the time that the relative had only meant "toubab" as in "one with no worries," and perhaps this is right. The words that Africans use to describe the foreign white people are generally not related to color but to location or economic status. One dictionary has this interesting suggestion about the root of the Lingala word mundele, used to reference white foreigners, or even black foreigners. (Note the actual word for white in Lingala is mpembe.) A similar situation is true of the Sousou word fote- which signifies a wealthy foreigner. And during one of my trips to Guinee, I heard my dance teacher, who'd been born and raised in the country but had lived outside for about 10 years, referred to as the "white Baga," obviously not related to his skin color but the fact that he returned to his Baga village a wealthier version of the man who'd left so many years before.
I hadn't ever considered my reaction to the question of race before. I have an undeniable pride in my children's African heritage, though perhaps I could do more to make sure they understand the nuances of their particular ethnicity. If this is my confused response to the question of being black, I wonder how my children will sort through their own experience of actually being the ones to straddle the color line. Mohamed has already confirmed he feels "more African than American," though I chalk this up to world view rather than skin color. In essence, I agree. I understand and feel much more comfortable among Africans than I do Americans. I suppose there will be no accusing me of presenting as black, however, at least not among the single minded Americans. A few Africans have wondered aloud at my country of origin, much to my delight. Sadly, I have to admit that no, I am not Guineen or Ivorian...merely American. And a white one at that.
16.4.16
A tiny bit devastating
It's 2-0. Abidjan is clearly winning. I think I spent my first year walking around in a daze, trying to dodge rainstorms and puddles, both literally and emotionally, and ending up soaked more often than not.
My second year doesn't seem to be going much better, though I have managed to stay drier so far. The biggest news for me is that the boys are leaving. In a few short months they'll be flying off to the US for an extended period of time and my worries are all in reverse now.
Of course, I worry about myself- how will I cope with the empty nest syndrome a good 5-8 years early? And Mbalia? I know this is the kind of change that results in ...really big change. Her personality is going to alter as she transitions from being the baby princess with 2 older brothers (complete with a neighborhood of friends and "brothers") to essentially being an only child. I try not get teary-eyed just thinking about it.
But more than us, I worry about them. Heading off to America. I am reminded of a teaching assistant I worked with who told me one summer he had gone to some educational training in the US. His wife was terrified about his trip. "They have guns there," she said. "Everyone has a gun." Her image of the US furnished solely by the news, she'd understandably become concerned about the safety of her husband in such a renegade country.
I admit to feeling the somewhat the same way. Donald Trump lives there. My boys are mixed race Muslims. My fear is grounded. It's not DT himself, of course, but his whacked out followers that worry me most.
And there is high school. Or middle school, or any public school really. My boys have spent cushy lives attending international schools with super small classes and peers from all over the world who look like them, speak like them and hold some basic understandings about the world (like them.) Which essentially boil down to the fact that even though we come from different places, speak different languages, have different skin tones and countries of origin, it's all good. It's good to be who you are and let others be who they are. Respect. Tolerance. Open-Mindedness. Interest. Curiosity. I'm not convinced an American school is going to offer the same level of acceptance.
I'm worried they are going to find themselves minorities in a small town. I'm worried about the new pressures they will face and the new opportunities to act out or fall down or get caught up in the wrong path. I'm worried about how they will respond to the overwhelming choices suddenly available and the constant plugged in, turned on, tuned up atmosphere I imagine.
In their minds, America represents everything they have never been able to experience or acquire living in Africa. It's come to mean never getting wet on the way to school, never sitting in a traffic jam, and never wearing socks with holes. There are no street beggars, no power outages and no heat waves. It means going to Burger King every night for dinner and racing around go-kart tracks on the weekend. America is every adventure park and thrill ride they've ever imagined. They are very African in thinking that America is a land of milk and honey and immediate dreams.
These last 8 years, the reality of America has gotten further away from me. Not only am I out of touch with what the day to day is like for kids, but I have no doubt succumbed to much of the same type of thinking and stereotyping my colleague's wife had. The only links I have are social media and the news. When friends are posting articles like this, it's no wonder I'm freaking out a bit. And I haven't even gotten into the movies or TV series influences yet.
I've been told it's time to have faith in my parenting and that the last 8 years won't simply be erased because the boys are stepping into a new leg of their journey. I'm trying to believe it's all true. But faith in my parenting is shaky- I am left wondering what memories are they going to have, exactly, of our time here- especially since these last 2 Abidjan years haven't been the most idyllic. I wonder how they will hold on to their second language. Even if I vow to only speak French with them, it's not going to be the same as living here and using it everyday. I might even be a bit worried that they won't remember how hard I tried, but only how much I didn't succeed.
They're going to change. They're going to grow. They're going to meet people and make decisions and have experiences. And I am not going to be there. It's just a tiny bit devastating to me. The grass was looking greener in Abidjan, until we got here.
My second year doesn't seem to be going much better, though I have managed to stay drier so far. The biggest news for me is that the boys are leaving. In a few short months they'll be flying off to the US for an extended period of time and my worries are all in reverse now.
Of course, I worry about myself- how will I cope with the empty nest syndrome a good 5-8 years early? And Mbalia? I know this is the kind of change that results in ...really big change. Her personality is going to alter as she transitions from being the baby princess with 2 older brothers (complete with a neighborhood of friends and "brothers") to essentially being an only child. I try not get teary-eyed just thinking about it.
But more than us, I worry about them. Heading off to America. I am reminded of a teaching assistant I worked with who told me one summer he had gone to some educational training in the US. His wife was terrified about his trip. "They have guns there," she said. "Everyone has a gun." Her image of the US furnished solely by the news, she'd understandably become concerned about the safety of her husband in such a renegade country.
I admit to feeling the somewhat the same way. Donald Trump lives there. My boys are mixed race Muslims. My fear is grounded. It's not DT himself, of course, but his whacked out followers that worry me most.
And there is high school. Or middle school, or any public school really. My boys have spent cushy lives attending international schools with super small classes and peers from all over the world who look like them, speak like them and hold some basic understandings about the world (like them.) Which essentially boil down to the fact that even though we come from different places, speak different languages, have different skin tones and countries of origin, it's all good. It's good to be who you are and let others be who they are. Respect. Tolerance. Open-Mindedness. Interest. Curiosity. I'm not convinced an American school is going to offer the same level of acceptance.
I'm worried they are going to find themselves minorities in a small town. I'm worried about the new pressures they will face and the new opportunities to act out or fall down or get caught up in the wrong path. I'm worried about how they will respond to the overwhelming choices suddenly available and the constant plugged in, turned on, tuned up atmosphere I imagine.
In their minds, America represents everything they have never been able to experience or acquire living in Africa. It's come to mean never getting wet on the way to school, never sitting in a traffic jam, and never wearing socks with holes. There are no street beggars, no power outages and no heat waves. It means going to Burger King every night for dinner and racing around go-kart tracks on the weekend. America is every adventure park and thrill ride they've ever imagined. They are very African in thinking that America is a land of milk and honey and immediate dreams.
These last 8 years, the reality of America has gotten further away from me. Not only am I out of touch with what the day to day is like for kids, but I have no doubt succumbed to much of the same type of thinking and stereotyping my colleague's wife had. The only links I have are social media and the news. When friends are posting articles like this, it's no wonder I'm freaking out a bit. And I haven't even gotten into the movies or TV series influences yet.
I've been told it's time to have faith in my parenting and that the last 8 years won't simply be erased because the boys are stepping into a new leg of their journey. I'm trying to believe it's all true. But faith in my parenting is shaky- I am left wondering what memories are they going to have, exactly, of our time here- especially since these last 2 Abidjan years haven't been the most idyllic. I wonder how they will hold on to their second language. Even if I vow to only speak French with them, it's not going to be the same as living here and using it everyday. I might even be a bit worried that they won't remember how hard I tried, but only how much I didn't succeed.
They're going to change. They're going to grow. They're going to meet people and make decisions and have experiences. And I am not going to be there. It's just a tiny bit devastating to me. The grass was looking greener in Abidjan, until we got here.
26.6.12
Land Legs
A few personal traumas probably didn't set me off to a great beginning for my trip. The planes and airports along the way were actually quite painless. Arriving in Miami and making it through customs and passport checks was also relatively easy. The lines moved quick enough and the questions weren't too imposing. I've gone through worse in New York.
I guess it really went downhill after arrival. The person who was supposed to meet us wasn't there. Our plane had come in a few hours late but one would expect people to check out that information- readily available as it is on all these fancy electronic monitors the airport is adorned with- and then wait. I had no contact information (I know, I know. I did try to secure this before leaving but it was impossible- chalk it up to one of those personal traumas I mentioned.) I finally managed to track down a number, buy a phone card and make contact. Of course, none of the pay phones in the lobby seemed to be working. I went back to the money exchange booth to have my newly purchased phone card checked out (working) and then went in search of more phones. The row of pay phones on the second level (down, as I came to find out that's what second level meant, not up as I had initially assumed) looked bright and shiny but also didn't work. (I did fly back to the US, right? Land of working systems and all things electronic???) I was beginning to miss Kinshasa dearly at this point- a mere two hours into my stateside vacation.
A nice guy at the money exchange booth on this level tried out the number I was trying to call on his own cell phone. Success. Sort of. The child who answered the phone didn't know where his mom was or her cell number but would call her to find out. Yeah, I was more than a bit confused a this point, but luckily I come from Kinshasa where using reason and logic is not necessarily the best way to solve a problem. I hung up and decided to call back in a few minutes.
I found a working pay phone eventually, made contact with the young boy who was now able to supply his mom's cell phone and transfer of the children was a go. Now on to find my ridiculously luxuriant hotel for the conference. I was definitely not feeling ready for five stars.
Upon check in, I found out that I was sharing a room (something neither I nor the roommate were expecting on this first night.) She kept talking about how she had traveled all day and I finally had to agree that yes, some of us came from even further away and had been traveling for several days (I left out the with four children part because I was on the edge of tears at this point. A very unwelcome welcome.) My key to the room didn't work and my luggage was nowhere to be found. Kinshasa was looking mighty comforting in comparison.
By the time I had navigated my way through all four buildings of the hotel and back to the main lobby and then back again to my room, I was pretty much on the edge of a break down. I could barely hold back tears as the bell boy handed me my bags. He knew enough not to wait for a tip and scampered off to deliver the rest of his luggage. Me? I ran out to the nearest Publix marveling at all the South Florida joggers with nothing to do but enjoy the leisurely life. Oh Western world take it easy on my senses.
I am at a loss as to how to address all of the people standing around to open doors and smile at me. My French is ever ready but useless and I can't seem to remember the English greetings. Mostly because no one is greeting anyone and they are all walking by caught up in their own worlds. Is it always like this?
I've finally arrived at my room, in isolation, surrounded by enough space and furnishings to accommodate several Congolese families. The bathroom is as big as my kitchen back home. It's so cold I have gone outside in search of warmth- and am even considering putting the heat on. I have been in these kinds of hotels before- mostly in Africa, where it should feel even more posh and oppressive than it does here, but somehow, on African land, I feel like my feet are firmly placed. Here, I am just completely unstable on these new American land legs.
I guess it really went downhill after arrival. The person who was supposed to meet us wasn't there. Our plane had come in a few hours late but one would expect people to check out that information- readily available as it is on all these fancy electronic monitors the airport is adorned with- and then wait. I had no contact information (I know, I know. I did try to secure this before leaving but it was impossible- chalk it up to one of those personal traumas I mentioned.) I finally managed to track down a number, buy a phone card and make contact. Of course, none of the pay phones in the lobby seemed to be working. I went back to the money exchange booth to have my newly purchased phone card checked out (working) and then went in search of more phones. The row of pay phones on the second level (down, as I came to find out that's what second level meant, not up as I had initially assumed) looked bright and shiny but also didn't work. (I did fly back to the US, right? Land of working systems and all things electronic???) I was beginning to miss Kinshasa dearly at this point- a mere two hours into my stateside vacation.
A nice guy at the money exchange booth on this level tried out the number I was trying to call on his own cell phone. Success. Sort of. The child who answered the phone didn't know where his mom was or her cell number but would call her to find out. Yeah, I was more than a bit confused a this point, but luckily I come from Kinshasa where using reason and logic is not necessarily the best way to solve a problem. I hung up and decided to call back in a few minutes.
I found a working pay phone eventually, made contact with the young boy who was now able to supply his mom's cell phone and transfer of the children was a go. Now on to find my ridiculously luxuriant hotel for the conference. I was definitely not feeling ready for five stars.
Upon check in, I found out that I was sharing a room (something neither I nor the roommate were expecting on this first night.) She kept talking about how she had traveled all day and I finally had to agree that yes, some of us came from even further away and had been traveling for several days (I left out the with four children part because I was on the edge of tears at this point. A very unwelcome welcome.) My key to the room didn't work and my luggage was nowhere to be found. Kinshasa was looking mighty comforting in comparison.
By the time I had navigated my way through all four buildings of the hotel and back to the main lobby and then back again to my room, I was pretty much on the edge of a break down. I could barely hold back tears as the bell boy handed me my bags. He knew enough not to wait for a tip and scampered off to deliver the rest of his luggage. Me? I ran out to the nearest Publix marveling at all the South Florida joggers with nothing to do but enjoy the leisurely life. Oh Western world take it easy on my senses.
I am at a loss as to how to address all of the people standing around to open doors and smile at me. My French is ever ready but useless and I can't seem to remember the English greetings. Mostly because no one is greeting anyone and they are all walking by caught up in their own worlds. Is it always like this?
I've finally arrived at my room, in isolation, surrounded by enough space and furnishings to accommodate several Congolese families. The bathroom is as big as my kitchen back home. It's so cold I have gone outside in search of warmth- and am even considering putting the heat on. I have been in these kinds of hotels before- mostly in Africa, where it should feel even more posh and oppressive than it does here, but somehow, on African land, I feel like my feet are firmly placed. Here, I am just completely unstable on these new American land legs.
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