The Process

The school year is winding down, and it is just one of many things coming to a close. It's time for reflecting on our Bamako years and celebrating all we've experienced. Sometimes I forget to appreciate the many things we have done, in the midst of feeling isolated and far away. (from what, I can't exactly say, but Bamako inspires in me a sense of distance.)

The painting / book project I began just over a year ago is also coming to a close. We will have the first of two final showings, complete with book mock up, 11 paintings and a music and dance performance. It's a fitting end and feeling like the best finale I've had leaving a country.

The project involved creating a series of paintings to explain the traditional dance called Dansa. I had brought up the idea one day after dance class when I heard that the instructor had an organization dedicated to researching origins of traditional dance. His group also had an objective of bringing traditional dance to public schools. I love dance in schools and thought a literacy component would be a great addition. I also figured Malian students would really benefit from having books documenting their cultural heritage. So began a year of collaboration.

Drissa and I signed the paintings yesterday. We started with a kind of solemn, formal signing on the first few and then hurried things along. I tend to do everything too quickly.

But I have been reflecting on the process- of painting together, of telling the story, of crafting the scenes and of gathering information.

A few mistakes were made from the outset, some of the kind that I knew were not such a good idea at the time but chose to ignore and others, well, I am not sure how they happened.

The biggest mistake was in getting the story right. Somehow we were under the impression that the dance we'd chosen to depict was a wedding dance. I can see how this information was misinterpreted, but it was still surprising to find out, once the project had been nearly complete.

This process was heavily focused on the images, not so much on the story. I've never approached it that way and it is another reason the miscommunication did not get worked out until the end. It was easy enough to rearrange the story a bit, so it remains factual and still fits our images. But next time, double checking the information seems like an obvious first step.

My fact finding mission, really just a clarification of details, involved a meeting with the griots- two ladies the dancer and his wife know. They arranged an evening at their house so I could ask questions and verify the order of events. Initially, I'd had some questions about the role of the bride and how she felt about some of the steps in the wedding process (being sequestered for several days) and the role of the henna painting (was it true red henna meant innocent and black henna meant not so innocent? and who would ever choose the black henna?) but by the time of the meeting, I'd worked through my angst about the details. And my curiosity. I was more focused on the big picture.

The ladies were helpful in describing the order of events, though all stories seem to evolve in that circular thinking common to tales involving African tradition. It's hard to keep track of a story that isn't linear. When one path leads to another and a suddenly interesting detail is revealed, which brings us down a whole new path, but doesn't really relate to the original question....yeah, it's a bit of a challenge to pull out the relevant information. But I was more enriched for the immersion of it all.

They liked my idea and caught a quick glimpse of the images which prompted them to do some on the spot praise singing. The older woman began, and actually seemed to put the younger woman on the spot, as she was still eating. She managed to sing out a few words in between bites, eventually succumbing to the pressure to sing rather than eat. The difficulty of being a griot- always in demand.
They sang so beautifully I wanted to rest my head on someone's shoulder and curl up and be comforted. Their voices were soothing.

Of course, I couldn't understand everything they were saying, aside from my name. Occasionally they threw in a French word or two, something about painting, something about telling stories, and oh yeah, something about my long nose. Leave it to the griots to sing it like it is.

I never really know how to respond to moments like that, so I just sat and soaked it up, hoping to file away the goodness for one of those days when I need a happy memory. I left with my pages of notes and sincere thanks for the evening.

Another step has involved getting the paintings photographed, which we are still not sure has been done correctly. But I do have a file of high definition photos from a Malian photographer who has worked on the national archives (Mali has a history of acclaimed photographers and is in the process of uploading works to digital storage) among other projects, as well as his own work. When I asked him about printing, he suggested the photography school and asked if I had time right then to go visit. We took off on his motorcycle and arrived within minutes. I really appreciated his understanding of my deadline and his willingness to see me though another phase.

We spent about an hour talking to the director, calculating sizes and discussing the objective of the project. The printing room hosted a 12-ink color printer larger than I am tall. Swiss, I was told. There was another under cover that had come, perhaps, from France. I am sometimes still amazed at the things that get imported in. This was impressive.

The director was incredibly helpful during both of my visits. He was patient and interested in the creative aspects of the project. He understood my dilemmas (one of the mistakes I'd chosen to ignore was the size and format of the paintings - clearly not ideal for transformation into a book. I knew this at the time and yet, we'd forged ahead anyway with the materials on hand.)  Because there were 3 basic sizes, each one had to be calculated in relation to the others. And there was the problem of the two landscape formats, which would need to be split to cover two pages.

The director, Youssouf, was a very kind man who worked hard to understand my vision and help with formatting and printing the images. While we waited for a sample print, we talked art and even yoga. He told us a story about the need for movement in keeping the body spry and showed off a few of his poses. When the young kids come into the studio for training, he sits them down in a circle and gets them stretching. He challenges them to touch their head with their toes. The best life lessons always come in unexpected places.

When our test sample was complete, we made a few more minor adjustments. Youssouf talked about his own experience as painter, which he gave up when he found it couldn't provide his meals. He said he was taking careful interest in our work, treating it as he would his own. He seemed really interested in the creativity of the work. "We are not a print shop, we are artisans, We're crafting something," he told me, once we'd finally figured out all the measurements, especially the tricky landscape split. I am hoping to pick up the finished product in the next few days and add the text. Drissa may even have time to add some designs to the page borders, which are quite large in some cases due to our awkward canvas dimensions.

The last piece to all of this is the dance. I have been wanting to perform since I arrived full of energy and enthusiasm to be dancing with such great drummers again. However, this has all come together so quickly, there isn't really time to prepare the way I'd like. We've only practiced twice and there might be two more times before the exhibit. That's about a billion times less than the number I'd really hope for. I'd feel much better if the moves were so ingrained I didn't have to think much about them. Or listen so hard to hear the break.

But I do love dancing and the performance part, our amateur part, is sure to be over before it really begins. I guess what I love is dancing in class when the music goes on and on and we have a million times to get it right. When it feels full and open and free. I am not sure I will be able to replicate that feeling in a 5 minute performance in front of a bunch of people I don't know. But I am willing to try.
It will be the most fitting way to say goodbye to Bamako.

The Cognosu- where a new bride is secluded
for a week after her wedding. She's not
completely alone, her mangamaga
prepares her meals and gives her good
advice about wifely things 

Resistance

It always starts with the taxi drivers. Understanding the culture, getting where you need to go and keeping your finger on the tone of the people, the politics and the history. The most useful thing would be to speak Bambara. It would make them happy and it would help me get to the right destination without a lot of touring the city, which occasionally happens. We could probably also have some good conversations. Malians do seem to be pretty friendly once you break the language barrier.

I had intended to learn Bambara and even wanted to get a head start before leaving Abidjan. But something has happened. An unexpected emotion has crept in and made this new-country experience a bit different from the others. I was talking with a friend who has noticed a similar reaction.

Its the fatigue of learning a new language, discovering new rituals and meeting new people. I don't want to play the introduction game with other ex-pats (where are you from, how long have you been here, where else have you been?.....) I don't want to hear about long job titles that explain nothing. I don't want to ask questions about the hideously inflated job title and I don't want to explain myself.  It's rare that swapping stories of countries visited leads to a meaningful exchange. Mostly it feels like someone trying to impress me with tales of their egos and adventures.

Telling you where I am from is even less effective. It only leads to labels and stereotypes that don't fit anymore, if they ever did. The kind of information to be gotten by asking about my American life is bound to be misleading. And I can't explain my African experiences with any greater clarity. Can't we talk about other things than where we've been and where we think we're going?

It's the first time I have arrived somewhere with an idea of about how long I'd like to stay. And it is affecting my ability to become engaged. Sure, I want to see things, learn about the culture and dance- of course. I want to absorb the music and the dance and the art as much as possible. But I am wary about investing. Learning a language means I might end up staying longer than intended. Making connections means I might end up feeling comfortable and at home, which will make it harder to leave.

Resistance. It's like a little rough edge around everything I do. I have a very keen sense that there is a fine line for me to be walking here in Bamako. It appears to be the kind of place you don't expect to stay, but then 5 or 10 years later, you find you are still there. And I don't want to still be here in 5 years. I think.

There is great music. Stunning dance. Beautiful art. Strong traditions and interesting history to explore. There are a lot of attractive things. So why am I in such a hurry to get out of here?

It's complicated. Or maybe I am complicated.  The only thing to be certain is that dance show I saw last night was amazing. The costumes were a modern, brilliant interpretation of shiny bazin. The whole effect reminded me of a fireworks show. The grand finale when you think each explosive display is the last, only to see it followed by something more colorful with a pattern more complex and breathtaking the previous compilation.

It was a good show. I saw a few artists I know and maybe strengthened some connections. Simply put, one nice evening in Bamako. It did inspire a series of flashbacks, reminding me of so many other good shows and artists and experiences that I loved. It was impossible not be confronted with the temporality of it all. While I am reminded of the importance of living in the moment, enjoying each experience in the present, I can't help but feel a tinge of resistance.

The way of art

Happily beginning this year as the lower school art teacher. Full time. Dream come true. You can read all about it here. It means a new year, a new position and the never ending game of curriculum development.

I do love this part of teaching. Designing a path to guide students along, developing investigative questions, bookmarking resources, and imagining experiences is a huge part of what makes my work satisying. There is nothing easy or short about curriculum writing. It is bread made from scratch, fresh pasta rolling through the machine, pastels carefully flattened, lovingly stuffed and tenderly fried. Creating curriculum is a homemade Thanksgiving meal all the way to picking fresh cranberries from the backyard.

I have all the ingredients spread out on my desktop. Tabs are open to grade level documents, science and social studies year long overviews, national art standards, AREO art standards, my own visual art curriculum (a place for storing images and links to resources) and, finally, the Pre-K-5 yearlong art curriculum overview.

I switch back and forth between documents along with web resources such as art blogs, pintrest, educational journals and google images. I bookmark relevant artists, living and dead, local and international, well known and obscure. I'm looking to make art come alive by exposing students to ALL the possibilities in art. We're not all Rembrants and vanGoghs.

So what role does art have for us? This is just one of many questions that my students will spend the year exploring. What is the role of art in society? What is the responsibility of governments in safeguarding art and making it accesible to all? What role does art play in documenting and resolving conflict? How can art record history and uncover complexities in international and national relations? How does art contribute to unity and reconciliation?

More importantly, at this age, how does art play a role in my personal life? These are big questions and we only have 40 min. once a week to figure it all out. In addition, or concurrently, there is the teaching of technique- yes, art is a skill like reading or writing or mathematics and it can be learned and improved. It needs to be practised.

There is also exposure to historic works of art, artists and movements. On my physical desktop, I have lists of movements, illustrative works, and the must-haves in the art world. There are painters, sculptures, and illustrators. There is art history and contemporary art.

Aside from the planning of units and lessons, there is the learning of names. 214 + or -. When I might have had 2 Aishas, there are now 4. There are at least 7 Mariame, Mariama or Mariannes. And a whole host of names I can't even pronounce. I make phonetic notations but some 50 kids later, I've forgotten what my shorthand means. When the child (or the whole class) corrects me, I look at my notes and nod my head. Yup, that's exactly how I've written it and it still didn't make sense. I spend my class periods calling everyone by their name everytime I talk to them and sometimes I just walk around randomly telling them who they are.  Because nothing is worse than seeing them on the playground shouting out, "Hi Ms. Soumah!" and I can't say their name back.

I spend my lunch  duty walking around talking to kids about their meals, their names and any other random conversation starters in an attempt to remember. I know it will come, and it is by far easier to remember in the confines of the art room- it's just generalizing to the wider school context that presents a challenge.

I know from perusing art teacher blogs that many have it worse. They write of no sinks, no classrooms (I did do a stint of art on a cart way back when...)They have 1,000+ students (?!!) and 3 schools to shuffle between. The most incomprehensible-- 20 min. classes.

I don't even consider making art, personally, if I only have 20 minutes (maybe something to consider if I had a table and a studio space to just pop in and out of.) But art, and learning, is about getting into that zone- "the flow"- where time is lost and it's just you and the medium.

I wish I had time to help my students experience this at every art class. Time to look at art thoughtfully and learn the words to respond to elements that are striking and the time to discover what they like and don't like. We can't do it at every class, but I am realizing it is something I can build in consistently.

It is a journey. When we discussed "what is art?" during our first class session, I was delighted to see many kids were already reading the room. "Well, it says art is not a thing,"  they pointed to the quote on the wall. "Art is a way."

Evading the Principal's Office with a Good Rain

He lifted his hand to his chin, where his mouth had fallen open, and shook his head in disbelief. He didn't close his eyes for the final dramatic touch, but he didn't need to. I was already afraid. The only thing that could save me now was a good rain. As of this writing, I'm still waiting.

For weeks I'd been noticing the large cement wall of the basketball court. One side faces in to form a cozy covered court area leaving the outer side exposed to the playground. It is one of the first things you see when coming down the hill towards the gym. It has about 2 meters of rocks between it and a smaller, mid sized wall. The rocks and the low wall make it an inviting place for kids to have a snack and play a few games with friends. It's also part of the rounds I make during my recreation supervision duty. I noticed the wall for two reasons.

First because a huge empty wall is just the kind of thing I notice. I imagine murals and graffiti and hours of painting fun. I see themed scenes and random designs, large splashes of color and inviting patches of texture.

Second because the wall is attractive to kids, too. I'd been watching them try to scratch designs onto the surface with the little pebbles scattered about. A huge box of colored chalk in the 'reserve' had caught my eye. The artist in me wanted to nurture the artist in them. So I sought permission to bring out some colored chalk and let the kids draw. "Sure," the director said amicably enough. "And a good rain will just wash it away, right?"

That was last week. Today was my first opportunity to try it out. I didn't have much more of a plan than putting the chalk in a bucket and handing it out. Collect it at the end. I did have enough sense to remind them they were at school and to encourage "jolie chose."

I'd forgotten how much they like to write their names and tag each other. While I'd been imagining flowers, animals, houses and people, they were all busy making the dreaded 'S.' A few did manage to sneak in some pretty cool cartoon guys and complex design patterns but they were mostly lost amidst the writings and scribblings of 30 or  40 kids.

The dreaded S. Why do kids
everywhere think it is so cool?

I invited a few girls from my class to begin and another teacher on duty quickly told them to stop.  I went to let her know I had gotten permission from the director. She acquiesced but didn't really seem to believe me. The students' reactions also bordered on panic. A few came to "tell" on their peers or let me know they'd asked them to stop, but no one was listening. In fact, it did begin to seem like we were doing something wrong. Kids swarmed by the dozens to get some chalk, many with mischievous grins on their faces. A small delight in breaking the rules. When the guy who shares my post came around the corner to check out the commotion, saw the wall and did the whole head shaking, hand to chin thing, I started to get worried.

Though both the director and I had thought it seemed like a good idea at first, I had to admit the wall was pretty much a mess. It wasn't clean or neat or remarkable in any way. Kids had chalk all over themselves, on their white shirts and their hands. They were grinding the dust into everything they could find. A completely unstructured wreck.

I began to think of how I could have made it better. I could have said only pictures, or given a theme "circles and squares," perhaps, the theme of our upcoming school art show. I could have limited the number of artists or chosen only 2nd grade girls, who are particularly good at doodling. They would have made something beautiful. I began to wish for rain. Only rain could save me from having to take responsibility for the monstrosity.

Just after the recreation I went to meet a group of students I am working with on a theater piece. Inside their classroom I saw snowmen decorating the walls. The backgrounds alternated between pastel blue and pastel green.  White snow dots were falling from the sky. They were neat and clean and sterile. Every one looked just like its neighbor. It struck me then that this was what the school seemed to be about. Being neat and clean and not too different from your neighbors.

I hadn't set out to make a statement with the chalk. Sure, I could have organized a more cohesive piece, or even a piece of artwork, but I hadn't set out to do that either. I just wanted to open up some expressive opportunities for those creative types. The ones not found on the basketball court or the soccer field.

I've since spent a lot of time pondering the other adults' reactions, wondering if everything needs to be structured and beautiful or if there are times when kids can just be kids. I know there are. I know I believe in free play and boredom and imagination.  I believe in learning by exploring and discovering and doing. And I don't think the end result is necessarily the most important part of creating art. So why do I feel so guilty? The other  question I can't seem to answer, will I do it again on Thursday?

I guess it all depends on whether I get called in to the principal's office and how soon it rains.

What I imagined vs what it felt like

the color of taxis...continued

Most of our moving money has been spent on essentials - stove, refrigerator, mattresses, security and advance on the rent. We are still busy trying to complete details about water and electricity payments.  While the utility companies operate with an orderliness and aim to serve that all of Kinshasa should be envious of, it does require a bit of back and forth.

The orange taxis, more expensive and often in slightly better condition, are the easiest mode of travel. They bring you directly to your destination. I ve been developing a verbal map of Abidjan as we decipher how to get from place to place. Some of the larger roads have names, which I ve taken to writing in a small notebook. Otherwise, we are bound by landmarks and references. It all lies in choosing- or knowing- the right references. Occasionally, we re left to do things the old fashioned way- we simply have to ask along the roadside. My notebook has proven invaluable for repeat trips, and if we see an interesting store or market along the way, I usually note that down as well.

Abidjan is spread out into what feels like a million small towns. We live in M Pouto which I ve begun to envision as one of the last little country and dirt road communities. It lies between the lagoon and the more prestigious Riviera sections- II and III. Abidjan is booming with construction of McMansions and McVillas, Riviera III is no exception. A few back road shortcuts to our house have revealed blocks and blocks of these kinds of neighborhoods going up, giving the whole place a South Florida feel- clean, neat and beautiful in a stencilized and highly repetitive way.

This area is also home to the yellow taxi, the cheap local travel known as worro-worro- I have no idea how to spell it and can barely even pronounce it correctly. I also can t really figure out how to get anywhere in these taxis. When I go out alone, I choose to walk about 15 min down to the main carrefoure marking the entrance to MPouto. There I can grab a worro-worro going straight up the hill and get off anywhere along the road for 100-200FCFA. A ride like this can get me to the American school, a really yummy bakery and ice cream shop, a very cozy book and stationary store or a home decorating shop, along with a number of other small groceries and fruit markets.  I found a short cut over to the big supermarket I try to avoid due to its deceptively high prices, though a trip there is a necessity at times. I was feeling pretty frugal and accomplished the day I got there for a mere 100FCFA. Of course, the ride back with all my bags directly to my door requires orange service to the tune of 1500-2000FCFA, but its still nice to know where corners can be cut.

Each area has their own color worro-worro. Koumassi is home of the green taxi. Its also become, in my mind, the Home Depot section of Abidjan. We first went there to find the Congo-Brazza consular- an affair that took 2 days of internet searching and 1 full day of fruitless roaming by taxi to find. I ve since noted it in my notebook Consular, Congo-Brazza, Terminus 11 Koumassi.  While we were getting a passport photo, we got a good tip on ceiling fans and that went in the book as well. Ceiling fans, Market Jakonai, Grand Carrefoure Koumassi. It goes like that. We pass bikes, a paint store, some tiles I hope to browse and buy one day for the front walk project. It all goes into the notebook- landmarks, references, street names when available and the quartier.

What I really want to do in Koumassi is just get out and walk around. Christian likes order and swiftness. He prefers to shop in closed stores and boutiques rather than outdoor markets. We ended up getting ceiling fans at the GM appliance store and never actually made it to what I imagine is the hectic and bustling Market Jakonai. But me? I like outdoor. I like bustling and hectic. I want to browse through the buckets of bolts and washers.I want to buy random pipes and bits of iron bars. I am pulled to these things by a desire to reassemble them into sculptures and collages. I want to buy the pristine and perfectly square tiles and smash them into pieces so I can make mosaics in cement. I am a perpetual do-it-your-selfer and I have written often of my longing for that junk drawer. Our house has no drawers- not a single one, not even in the kitchen- and so I am eager to create my own assemblage of bits and pieces of inspiration that could fill an empty paint bucket and hang out, maybe in the ugliest part of the house hallway, waiting to be transformed into something beautiful.

Franco-creativity

Symphonie des arts is a beautiful garden filled with art and sculpture and peacocks tucked down the side streets of Kintambo magasin. It's on the list of sites to visit during the new teacher tour and I don't think I have been back since...maybe just once.

Searching for capoeira spots lead me to investigate the dance studio located within. And of course, I could not help but be distracted by the art. The path into the Symphonie is lined with plants and trees and hidden birds. The entrance hints at a taste of the magic that awaits inside.

Paintings and sculptures line the walkways. Visitors are lead into a store that is overflowing with more paintings and crafts such as pillowcases, napkin sets and table sculptures. There could never be enough Sundays to view everything on display.

A back exit leads into yet another exquisite garden area. The only thing I was allowed to photograph was this natural beauty.

The artists exhibit area was simply breathtaking. The amount of work created for the Francophonie was astonishing. Many artists incorporated the official logo and there plenty of roosters and okapis dancing, shaking hands and enjoying meals or games together. (Apparently the rooster represents France and the okapi...well, that one seems more obvious to me.) Presidential portraits were also popular as well as other important players in the francophonie game.

My favorite artist incorporated bits of fabric and magazine pictures into energetic forms of women dancing, carrying vegetables and other daily activities. He had two larger than life paintings at the end of the exhibit area, just by a small stage, that were mesmerizing in their expression and size. I felt like I could melt into the tableau and be lost in paradise.

Each artist was afforded a small, individual exhibit area and standing before each space one could be completely immersed in their particular style and message. Oil paintings with broad strokes of bold color filled one area, while careful pen and ink drawings of Congolese masks completed another.

I went back a second day simply because it is an exhibit that deserves to be enjoyed. I was the only visitor on both occasions and continue to marvel at the melancholy of having so much art in such an exotic location void of crowds and spectators. Souleymane, who had accompanied me both times and eventually (of course) struck up a conversation with the owner, suggested that the presidents in attendance would be interested to see the homage presented here and I don't doubt he is right. While I found the work to be overwhelmingly beautiful and inspiring, I wonder what will become of it. Such an outpouring of creativity.....sequestered it seems.

Other artists, such as those selling at the Marche de Valeur, experienced a different kind of sequestration. Their entire area of stalls and exhibitions was moved back several meters and then surrounded by a large blue opaque fence. Every time an event of importance happens in Kinshasa, this particular group of artists seems to get pushed into the shadows. I continue to wonder why they aren't seen as a source of pride and a bit of culture to be capitalized on.  Other "ugly" areas around town were more aesthetically hidden away with large banners covering up normally exposed crumbling buildings and other areas of disrepair.

Art has so many purposes it seems and that is never more evident than in Africa.

American Culture?

Upon returning to Kinshasa this summer, I embarked on a quest to fill up my evenings with exercise. It turns out many people search for this outlet, as there isn't much else to do in Kin (night life aside.) I've heard this same story repeated by many of the newcomers joining existing classes. Do you think you'll come back? I ask. And that's when they confess, "Probably. I am new to Kin and there's just not much to do." Of course, it depends on perspective. Those arriving from the smaller, distant (and more beautiful?) cities of Congo often remark on how there is so much more going on in Kin than where they've come from. Hard to imagine.

Leisure time isn't spent shopping or going to movies (although the Hall de Gombe has offered free Saturday animation films for kids this month.) Some people find it easy enough to go out on the river or take small trips  on the weekends to outdoorsy type places which offer picnicking and views of nature. But exercise classes offer a place to be social, meet new people and improve your health. So what could be better than that?

A few recent personal explosions have resulted in a drastic change in my exercise routine and I was feeling flabby and gray. Getting soft. When an invitation to yoga passed my email box, I hungrily agreed to try it out (again.) The yoga circuit, like many things in Kin, hoovers on the edge of becoming a clique. The previous classes I went to were at someone's house and people seemed to know each other well. I felt like an intruder, or at least, like I needed someone else to get me in the door. The vibe depends heavily on the atmosphere of the house and the people present. There is often dinner or snacks together afterwards. Sounds cozy enough....unless you suffer from "social fitting in-ness," like me.

This class was being offered at the American Cultural Center, a neutral place I figured. Getting in required putting our name on a list and bringing photo id. I went with a friend and found the class to be everything I could happily participate in. No judgement, no competition, and modern music.

It was my first trip to the American Cultural Center, though I believe I have seen a photo or two on the embassy web page about certain ceremonies held there, none of which qualify for my definition of culture. I guess I am more aligned with #4 while the American embassy seems to be aligned with #2.

Because the Hall de Gombe (the French Cultural Center) is one of my favorite places to view events, I couldn't help but compare the two. I've "friended" the Hall de Etoile (center in Lubumbashi) and the Institute Francais du Mali, both of which are constantly posting music and art events.  One Planet Travel has this to say about the purpose of the cultural center in Mali. And I pretty much agree with this version of sharing and developing culture.

So I was disappointed to find the American culture tucked behind guards and barbed wire. Clearly no music events were going on here. It took a few minutes for the guards to check our id's and contact someone within to come and escort us to the center. Our photo cards were replaced with visitor badges alerting us to the need of an escort where ever we traveled within (and even to get out.) I was feeling a bit jealous of French system of setting up a cafe, a stage- an artistic mecca so to speak- that invites local artists and foreign visitors to present their talents to the community at large.

In contrast, American culture seemed protected and reclusive. Hidden away for only the privileged to partake in. What's so great about American culture? I silently protested. Why aren't we supporting and promoting local artists, collaborations between countries through art and an altogether friendlier view of
the culture? Ironically, the American Embassy has hosted their few music and dance collaborations at the French cultural center.

I had to concede that maybe we are just presenting the truth. American culture is often closed off and unaccepting of others. We're kind of egotistical and selfish. It's the American way or the highway.

While I greatly enjoyed the yoga class and returned the following week (and plan to continue returning, because, of course, there isn't much to do in Kin) I remain disappointed in the country's continuation of elitism. Culture is meant to be shared, celebrated and developed. Not hidden away behind barbed wire and electric scanning devices. Maybe I would feel better if they just changed the name to better reflect this statement: Our objective is to help you better understand the United States, its politics, society and values.  The American Propaganda Center, perhaps? The Elitist American Viewpoint Center? or maybe just, The Only Center that Matters? We could call it TOC-MAT......everyone loves a good acronym.