I’ve been seeing monsters everywhere and it’s not just because I’ve recently finished
reading The Girl In Between by Leakan Zea Kemp. That story was wonderfully odd
and slightly unsettling in a way so many of the books I’ve been reading lately
haven’t been.
The monsters have been around long before I began that journey. It has to do with
the construction going on everywhere. The corner of horses has been razed. Just
another casualty of progress. But I have found a tragic poetry in the removal
of their grazing grounds, now filled with machines, overturned dirt and cement.
It’s a huge road project that is turning over all the back country lanes and
transforming them into highways.
It will be pretty when it is finished, in that sterile, carefully planned and organized way.
They will plant trees and flowering bushes in the round-abouts and along the
road edges. There will be enough green to please the eye and dull the senses,
making one forget to even wonder what it looked like before, wild and untamed.
Beautiful and natural.
Getting around the traffic backups as a result of the construction means taking even
longer short cuts, through Akuedo- a name I love to say. Akuedo is a village by
Abidjan terms and the streets there are small, barely wide enough for two cars
to pass. There are no high walls hiding the houses. They have doors that open
directly onto the sidewalks. The windows are covered with wooden shutters
giving the place a quaint European feel.
I enjoy the disorienting aura of this small town all the while knowing
it is just lying in wait, a vulnerable victim of progress that is encroaching.
In a year, or maybe less, the monsters of steel and concrete will have arrived
to tear down houses, enlarge roadways and build row after row of apartment
buildings lacking character and history.
I am in the middle of this change and it is painful to watch. During the rains I ponder the
effect of all that cement working as a barrier between earth and sky,
disrupting the natural relation of water falling down and being soaked back up
again. I imagine the water as a living thing (and isn’t it really?) surprised
as it hits the once soft and supple terrain, shocked by hardness and forced to
scatter, searching for a place of comfort, soft soil to welcome it home again.
I see these monsters cloaked in a shadowy haze, like something from a Stephen King novel
and I wonder what will happen when there is no more soil left for the rain to
soak into. What will happen when every inch has been broken and defeated and
the world is covered in concrete? Maybe it sounds dramatic or extreme but I
fear most often that no one is taking it seriously enough.
The construction/destruction debate is not the only evidence of energy being devoured. Once the
metaphor is in my mind I begin to see signs of it everywhere. I search for solace in the world of dance and when it fails me, I blame it on the monsters. I've been seeking not just to replicate what I knew in lives past but to make it better. When my day to day fails or even when I want to celebrate, I turn to dance. Making art is generally something I do alone, a private exploration of my inner emotions and reactions to the world around me- but dancing? It's something I turn to for that sense of sharing and belonging. Its a creation made in multiple and seems to be most pleasing when there is a team of people sharing energy together. And that's what the draw is- that sharing of energy in community.
The past few weeks, however, I have been the only person in my dance classes. They've morphed into private lessons. While this seems like an amazing opportunity I have come to dread the moments I am there. They are stale and stagnant, slow moving and boring. My dance classes have suddenly become incapable of sending me off into that other realm of freedom and liberty of thought and simply just being. I remain rooted in agony.
It's because of the monsters. I've come to steal energy and it's not there. My dance teachers are tired and unmotivated. They know I will never dance like them and so they offer up watered down movements while they focus on easing their pains from the rehearsals and performances of the previous weeks.
I am tortured by this change because if I don't have dance to turn to then I have nothing and there must always be something. I know I am the monster that's come, not to share energy but to gnaw and gnash and gobble up all I can before making a hasty retreat back to my lair, where I will dine greedily on my treasure until it begins to wane. Only then will I venture out in search of more. The problem is the source appears to be drying up and I need to find a new well, a new village to plunder of its energy children.
Of course, in some stories, the dragon is remorseful- he doesn't want to be trapped forever stealing children and gorging until his belly is full, sleeping away weeks in a coma of digestion, rising only to be forced to steal and pillage again. He wants to be a happy dragon, living in peace with the villagers and using his fire breathing capabilities to light their cook stoves and share stone soup.
With this new metaphor in mind (not all monsters are bad) I set off for my dance class determined to reach deep inside and find some energy to share. It's been mostly successful. I am forcing myself to dance with enthusiasm and exuberance I don't really feel. I push through the awkward moments of feeling silly and frustrated by steps I cannot master. I demand repeats of what I do not know and add my own flourishes to steps I love. I try not to care that the drummers are sending out tsunami waves of energy with their rhythms and I know I can never repay them. Guilt has no place here. I dance to the best of my ability and hope they will accept it.
In the end I suppose it could be a matter of pretending until it's real, fake it until you make it. Though no amount of pretending or faking is going to save the green spaces. Maybe art is the first step to making that change, though at times it seems too small and insignificant a step. A beautiful quote from this school suggests otherwise.
There are many practical and physical things that need to be done - but
the problem is mobilizing people's will and purpose. Essentially, what
needs to change is our perception of the world and our relationship with
nature. A feeling of connection to the natural cycles and
interdependence of the world will assist individuals to see the cycles
and balances in their own life, and from there potentially move to a
community and worldview.
In essence, defeating the monsters within, our collective monsters.
Showing posts with label art therapy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label art therapy. Show all posts
22.7.15
18.8.12
Looking for the white lady
"I have lost the road. I turned by the bakery, but now I am not sure exactly which turn off I should take." I was talking to Mama Annette, whom I'd never met in person and trying to find out how to get to the center for boys just outside of Bandal. She said she would send some of the kids to find me. I had already traveled a considerable way down the road and wondered if I had gone too far.
"But how will they know me?" I queried, still not quite solid in my belief that everything always works out (no matter how many times it does, there remains a lingering doubt.)
"Well, first, you're white." Did something in my voice give me away? I took a quick glance around the dusty dirt road and confirmed that I was, in fact, the only white person in sight.
"I am in a blue car," I said just in case some other mondele showed up in the meantime. I turned the car around and headed back towards the bakery. Then I turned around again and waited by the side of the road for some strange kids to find me. After a few minutes, I spotted them running towards me, waving their hands with smiles exploding from their faces. Did I really think somehow we would miss each other?
They happily jumped in the car and we set off in search of the center a block away. I've begun an art therapy program for the ORPER centers in Kinshasa. There are six houses, with one dedicated to serving girls, one for the youngest boys and the other four for the older boys. One day a week we draw and color and paint. On Sundays we play games and build with legos.
The boys were full of energy and eager to begin. They drew with concentration and careful thought. Mama Annette told me several of the boys had just arrived in the last day or so and were still getting used to routines. The care and nurturing here was evident. She began by asking them all to make sure their noses were clean which I found amusing and considerate all at the same time.
We began by designing their names. Some of the boys needed help writing and I did my best to try and spell some of the more unique names. I'm at their mercy. One little boy told me his name was Dieu (God) and so, thinking perhaps Dieudonne (God given), which is a common name in Kinshasa, I went ahead and wrote it on his paper. With some discussion we eventually added Mbaya. Dieu Mbaya. Pierrence and Moshubaye were some other names I sounded out.
Each boy presented his picture and explained some of the items he'd chosen to add. There were lots of flags of Congo, "Angola" (they said this but the flags didn't show the colors of Angola) and a green, yellow and black flag that I couldn't quite discern the significance of. There were houses and cars and snakes. One boy showed the story of how he had run away from his parents. After each presentation, the boys clapped and whooped for each other. Pride and happiness filled the room. I couldn't keep the smile from my own face even as the energy took a bit of a chaotic turn.
Our next project was to work in teams and draw random lines with a black marker. Then the boys spent time using crayons to fill in the spaces they had created. It is fascinating to watch how the different teams organize themselves. Inevitably there is a team that ends up with clearly divided areas. There are teams that work together to coordinate colors and teams that just randomly fill in wherever and however they wish. Each group came up with a name for their design and presented it to the group. Mama Annette asked them to explain why they had chosen a particular name and it turned almost into a school lesson. They said things like, "Banana because they are filled with vitamins and vitamins are important."or "Okapi, it is the pride of Congo." and " Ferme because when you don't have enough to eat, your stomach is closed." Profound thoughts from 7 and 8 year olds.
There are several challenges when going to the centers, one of which is figuring out how to work with the educators. My two experiences have been incredibly positive and the women have helped to translate for me, teach me a few words and maintain order.
On Sundays, the "auxillary" staff are present. They are not the trained workers but fill ins so the regular staff can have a day of rest. They may let the routines slide a bit and be a little less involved in doling out morale and encouraging good behavior. But in general, I felt like the kids were lucky to be in such a positive place.
I couldn't help comparing them to the girls at the center I had visited the week before. The girls were calmer, appeared more tired and worn out. They are at a day center and this may be part of the reason. While there are sleeping quarters, the girls can come and go. There was a greater range of ages and on my first visit, I was introduced to the president, vice president and secretary. They did the same activities but with shyness and less exuberant energy. Their drawings were full of food (pineapples and fish) and the pestle and mortar used for grinding. They talked about preparing food and listening to the radio. Some of them talked about fashion. They all seemed to name their group pictures after countries (carte de Amerique, carte de Congo, carte de Angola, etc.)
The second day at their center, we built with legos and pattern blocks. They learned how to play Jenga and Connect Four. They had a lot of questions about my hair- most of the younger girls appear boy like because thier hair is so short. One girl sported some beads just in the front-"Rhianna," she told me, after the famous pop star.) They offered to fix me up and I sadly had to tell them that the dreds don't actually come out. The courtyard is not covered and we were in the sun for much of the time. They alternated between sleeping and building lazily. I watched one young girl who appeared to be mentally retarded do most of the work washing cups and dishes. I really wanted to call her over and tell her to play but wasn't quite ready to over rule established routines. This was quite different from Mama Annette who told me about one of the boys that seemed a little slow in speaking, but now she noticed he was quite intelligent with the art we were doing. She also remarked about how coordination in some of the children could be improved and I felt like I had a good supporter in her.
The program involves me rotating around to all of the six centers - which means it will be a long time before I get back to the girls. I had such a good time talking with those girls and laughing together I thought I wanted to insist on staying at just one place. Then I met the boys today and we had a different kind of fun. So I see, maybe the rotation is good for awhile. All the kids can benefit from making art and playing games with the white lady, Mama Soumah. And I am learning more Lingala and how to have my own real exploding smile.
"But how will they know me?" I queried, still not quite solid in my belief that everything always works out (no matter how many times it does, there remains a lingering doubt.)
"Well, first, you're white." Did something in my voice give me away? I took a quick glance around the dusty dirt road and confirmed that I was, in fact, the only white person in sight.
"I am in a blue car," I said just in case some other mondele showed up in the meantime. I turned the car around and headed back towards the bakery. Then I turned around again and waited by the side of the road for some strange kids to find me. After a few minutes, I spotted them running towards me, waving their hands with smiles exploding from their faces. Did I really think somehow we would miss each other?
They happily jumped in the car and we set off in search of the center a block away. I've begun an art therapy program for the ORPER centers in Kinshasa. There are six houses, with one dedicated to serving girls, one for the youngest boys and the other four for the older boys. One day a week we draw and color and paint. On Sundays we play games and build with legos.
The boys were full of energy and eager to begin. They drew with concentration and careful thought. Mama Annette told me several of the boys had just arrived in the last day or so and were still getting used to routines. The care and nurturing here was evident. She began by asking them all to make sure their noses were clean which I found amusing and considerate all at the same time.
We began by designing their names. Some of the boys needed help writing and I did my best to try and spell some of the more unique names. I'm at their mercy. One little boy told me his name was Dieu (God) and so, thinking perhaps Dieudonne (God given), which is a common name in Kinshasa, I went ahead and wrote it on his paper. With some discussion we eventually added Mbaya. Dieu Mbaya. Pierrence and Moshubaye were some other names I sounded out.
Each boy presented his picture and explained some of the items he'd chosen to add. There were lots of flags of Congo, "Angola" (they said this but the flags didn't show the colors of Angola) and a green, yellow and black flag that I couldn't quite discern the significance of. There were houses and cars and snakes. One boy showed the story of how he had run away from his parents. After each presentation, the boys clapped and whooped for each other. Pride and happiness filled the room. I couldn't keep the smile from my own face even as the energy took a bit of a chaotic turn.
Our next project was to work in teams and draw random lines with a black marker. Then the boys spent time using crayons to fill in the spaces they had created. It is fascinating to watch how the different teams organize themselves. Inevitably there is a team that ends up with clearly divided areas. There are teams that work together to coordinate colors and teams that just randomly fill in wherever and however they wish. Each group came up with a name for their design and presented it to the group. Mama Annette asked them to explain why they had chosen a particular name and it turned almost into a school lesson. They said things like, "Banana because they are filled with vitamins and vitamins are important."or "Okapi, it is the pride of Congo." and " Ferme because when you don't have enough to eat, your stomach is closed." Profound thoughts from 7 and 8 year olds.
There are several challenges when going to the centers, one of which is figuring out how to work with the educators. My two experiences have been incredibly positive and the women have helped to translate for me, teach me a few words and maintain order.
On Sundays, the "auxillary" staff are present. They are not the trained workers but fill ins so the regular staff can have a day of rest. They may let the routines slide a bit and be a little less involved in doling out morale and encouraging good behavior. But in general, I felt like the kids were lucky to be in such a positive place.
I couldn't help comparing them to the girls at the center I had visited the week before. The girls were calmer, appeared more tired and worn out. They are at a day center and this may be part of the reason. While there are sleeping quarters, the girls can come and go. There was a greater range of ages and on my first visit, I was introduced to the president, vice president and secretary. They did the same activities but with shyness and less exuberant energy. Their drawings were full of food (pineapples and fish) and the pestle and mortar used for grinding. They talked about preparing food and listening to the radio. Some of them talked about fashion. They all seemed to name their group pictures after countries (carte de Amerique, carte de Congo, carte de Angola, etc.)
The second day at their center, we built with legos and pattern blocks. They learned how to play Jenga and Connect Four. They had a lot of questions about my hair- most of the younger girls appear boy like because thier hair is so short. One girl sported some beads just in the front-"Rhianna," she told me, after the famous pop star.) They offered to fix me up and I sadly had to tell them that the dreds don't actually come out. The courtyard is not covered and we were in the sun for much of the time. They alternated between sleeping and building lazily. I watched one young girl who appeared to be mentally retarded do most of the work washing cups and dishes. I really wanted to call her over and tell her to play but wasn't quite ready to over rule established routines. This was quite different from Mama Annette who told me about one of the boys that seemed a little slow in speaking, but now she noticed he was quite intelligent with the art we were doing. She also remarked about how coordination in some of the children could be improved and I felt like I had a good supporter in her.
The program involves me rotating around to all of the six centers - which means it will be a long time before I get back to the girls. I had such a good time talking with those girls and laughing together I thought I wanted to insist on staying at just one place. Then I met the boys today and we had a different kind of fun. So I see, maybe the rotation is good for awhile. All the kids can benefit from making art and playing games with the white lady, Mama Soumah. And I am learning more Lingala and how to have my own real exploding smile.
20.6.12
A real artist
Beyond stocking up on good reads, preparing for the trek also involves making the rounds to say goodbye. I went to visit my painter friend today and check out the new work he has been producing. He is preparing for a trip to Gabon and was eager to talk about his project.
I caught a taxi pretty quickly just outside the gates and then spent a few long minutes in Kintambo mustering all my resistance to stay focused.(One singer for Zando with a particularly deep and melodious voice almost drew me in and swept me off to an entirely different part of the city.) A few soothing taxi rides and a long walk led me to the door of his workshop. He proudly showed me his drying paintings- beautiful homages to departing teachers from the Belgian school. What an amazing gift from the school. I snapped another bad phone photo of a painting in progress thinking our school might try something like that. It is traditional for schools to give a gift to teachers whose contracts have finished and Aicha works their image into an original piece of art to forever immortalize their stay in Congo.
I am always impressed with the amount of work Aicha turns out. He is like a painting machine. When I picked him up for the Gala exhibit at our school last month, he loaded several wet works into the car along with 6 or 7 dry pieces. He is always admonishing me to get busy so we can exhibit together. With only a week or so before that particular exhibit, he seemed to think I could create enough work in time to make it a duet.
Others have had a similar thought about my artwork. "Paint a lot and we can find a place to show (read- sell) it." I've tried explaining that for me, creating is more like childbirth. Long, laborious, painful yet satisfying. It takes so much of my energy and leaves me spent and exhausted. The thought of painting often conjures up resistance. Agony. I'm not even sure why I do it. Simply, because I can't NOT do it. I am compelled. But it has always been more therapeutic in nature. I give most of my work away as soon as it's finished- unable to bear looking at my expelled emotions.
So when Aicha asked me how my work was coming along on the canvas frames he had recently supplied me with ( remember this post....the price has been considerably lowered since our friendship has deepened) I set about explaining again the psychology behind my art. I'd just come from days immersed in a portrait painting which I then walked 7 kilometers to deliver in the name of purging myself from some devilish emotions. It seems to have worked pretty well.
But Aicha began to counsel me on the value of not giving everything away and presenting these raw emotions for the world to share. Yeah. "I do have something underway that isn't so traumatic," I informed him. "But that particular piece really needed to be far from me."
I guess that's the main difference between a painter for profit and art therapy. I think with practice I might evolve. But I am not really sure I want to.
I caught a taxi pretty quickly just outside the gates and then spent a few long minutes in Kintambo mustering all my resistance to stay focused.(One singer for Zando with a particularly deep and melodious voice almost drew me in and swept me off to an entirely different part of the city.) A few soothing taxi rides and a long walk led me to the door of his workshop. He proudly showed me his drying paintings- beautiful homages to departing teachers from the Belgian school. What an amazing gift from the school. I snapped another bad phone photo of a painting in progress thinking our school might try something like that. It is traditional for schools to give a gift to teachers whose contracts have finished and Aicha works their image into an original piece of art to forever immortalize their stay in Congo.
 |
| A teacher (and her parrot) amidst symbols of the school and country |
Others have had a similar thought about my artwork. "Paint a lot and we can find a place to show (read- sell) it." I've tried explaining that for me, creating is more like childbirth. Long, laborious, painful yet satisfying. It takes so much of my energy and leaves me spent and exhausted. The thought of painting often conjures up resistance. Agony. I'm not even sure why I do it. Simply, because I can't NOT do it. I am compelled. But it has always been more therapeutic in nature. I give most of my work away as soon as it's finished- unable to bear looking at my expelled emotions.
So when Aicha asked me how my work was coming along on the canvas frames he had recently supplied me with ( remember this post....the price has been considerably lowered since our friendship has deepened) I set about explaining again the psychology behind my art. I'd just come from days immersed in a portrait painting which I then walked 7 kilometers to deliver in the name of purging myself from some devilish emotions. It seems to have worked pretty well.
But Aicha began to counsel me on the value of not giving everything away and presenting these raw emotions for the world to share. Yeah. "I do have something underway that isn't so traumatic," I informed him. "But that particular piece really needed to be far from me."
I guess that's the main difference between a painter for profit and art therapy. I think with practice I might evolve. But I am not really sure I want to.
27.9.09
Madame Mondele
I returned minus one pair of scissors. I am trying to figure out if I should be grateful or indignant. I did begin with 12. It could easily have appeared to the untrained eye that I had plenty to spare. I am forever battling this concept of poverty versus prosperity.
It actually began when I dropped Mohamed off at a birthday party. A new restaurant has opened in Kintambo which has left everyone abuzz. Birthday parties themselves have a tendancy to leave me feeling overwhelmed and out of my social sphere. It is then that I realize Mohamed's friends are children of diplomats and ambassadors. The luxuries I see upon dropping him off make my radiant surroundings seem dreary in comparison. The latest party was being held at the aforementioned new hotspot in town. The bright, colorful building boasted sparkling glass doors and shiny tile hallways. One entire wall was covered with a mixture of paintings and three dimensional art complete with African masks and a cowrie shell design. Several flights up we were presented with a very Western style cafe. Burly men in black t-shirts and nylon caps were waiting to greet us. The dining area was full of tables and patrons enjoying an early lunch. A private party room off to the side enclosed a childrens climbing and play area. As I'd heard a salad and pita sandwich had run one couple something in the neighborhood of $30, I could not really comprehend the price of this party- 20 children for sandwiches, fries and a drink.......
Everything I do here puts me in the land of the surreal. At one time in my not too distant past, I was standing in a cold kitchen accepting bags filled with staples from a dear friend who was aware of my dire situation. No money for nutriants or warmth. My landlord was offering to loan me money so I could put a bit of oil in the tank during a long and particularly cold winter. I couldn't see past the next meal. But here I am pulling into a parking lot filled with sleek, shiny SUV's in polished blacks and grays. I dropped my child off at a birthday party that probably cost more than I spend on a month of groceries. As I pulled around to the back exit, the gate opened to reveal a teeming mass of children clothed in dusty rags waving sticks, empty hands and cheerful smiles in my direction as I, the imposter, deftly drove the car over piles of paper scraps and around craters that littered this back alley. When I returned a few hours later, the children were gone- disappearing with the rain- but I could still see them, and I could still feel their presence along the cramped and littered lane.
Whle Mohamed was whooping it up with his friends, Nabih and I headed for ACDF. This day I had brought their drawings, of which I have been collecting for unknown reasons, and thought we could work together on a forest collage. I was also prepared with their salt sculptures and paints from the previous week in case it seemed possible to organize and manage two different activities at once. I can never be sure how many kids will be there and which ones exactly. It makes a continuing project challenging at best.
After arriving, I quickly decided to scrap the painting plans and work solely on the collage. I taped up some sheets of large green paper which were a sharp and welcome contrast to the gray, dingy walls. The kids seemed to get the idea pretty quickly and began easily cutting out their past drawings. Many were also anxious to begin new drawings which were also cut out and pasted. It was a hive of busy concentration. Several children quickly became designated the 'gluers' and were in charge of assembling the collage on the wall. Less clear were my directions, suggestions and samples of how to construct trees, grass and water. We managed to get a few tree-like structures around the edges and a square of water somewhere in the middle to accomodate a swimming rhinocerous whose legs were accidently cut off by an overly enthusiastic snipper.
In their zeal, however, things began to become fantastic. Horses were flying in the sky only inches away from army helicopters. Men walked effortlessly along the jungle treetops and jeeps supported elephants without caving in. I laughed as I questioned in my broken French, "Es'que ca vole?"
They laughed right back assuring me it was so, animals and houses alike could fly.
I managed a shift when one boy proudly showed me his drawing of one the new washers. Yes, it was definately reminiscent of the sporty machines sitting in the corner. A few moments later I noticed him grandly applying glue and tacking his portrait to the uppermost corner of our second jungle scene.
"Do they really have that in the forest?" I inquired. I really could not tell if they were getting the concept of creating a jungle collage or if they were expressing perspective in a different way. I am well acquainted with the village drawings that are multilayered, descending down the page, house upon house upon garden until a river runs along the bottom. It is akin to the Oriental design using a vertical, rather than horizontal, perspective.
Yet again I was met with laughter and a nod.
"C'est vrai?! Un machine, dans le foret?" Really?! A machine in the forest? I felt determined to get to the heart of the confusion. But as he turned to look at me and assure me, completely and truly with every ounce of his being that YES! there were washing machines in the forest, the trees finally gave way and I saw everything for what it was. His eyes were shining and he patted the corners of his creation firmly to the wall. His work was on display for all to see. THAT was greater than any juxtaposition of brown and green construction paper I was hoping would be assembled into an arrangement of tree and leaf like shapes. There was a use for their carefully drawn designs of the past and it was simply to be hung, admired and commented upon.
As I was realizing this, I looked over to the benches in the back of the room. A few mintues after arrival, a storm appeared in the sky forcing the older teens and visitors to move inside. They sat on the benches, talking or just looking, not having much to do. Some took up the task of coloring or cutting, others just chided those who were involved. There is an art to this patient waiting here in Africa. I've seen it many places as well as repeated in the theater. African dramas are often comprised of social scenes that involve sitting and talking. Its true to life. But it also requires a constant readjustment of my perspective.
Comparitively, drawing a realistic model and hanging it on the wall turns the piece into a focal point, a source of discussion, admiration and even some good natured joshing. Recognition and validation by one's peers secured. (I am sensing a pattern here. I just need to remember that I see it and that it is of value.)
This day there was more of a teaching component to the activites. I felt a distinct eye on me as the mothers of prospective recipients watched from their new, inside seats. We were now the entertainment. And I do have a role to fill on these Saturday's. While I continue to decipher what it means to me personally, the children have no doubt. "Madame, madame.." they call as I hand out supplies. They want refills, pencil sharpeners, more markers, markers that work,...etc. Occasionally, I feel they are too demanding and I try, in Lingala, to get them to say please. "Soko olingi," I prompt. Although I've learned a few useful phrases, their reaction never differs. They smile and laugh as general comments circulate the room. I can never be sure if they take me seriously. And with the extended audience, the chorus of "Madame" was ever growing, song like and clearly the subject of some discussion. We will have to work on my name and I on theirs.
There are moments of concentration and focus interspersed with chaos and confusion. Generally it is in the setting up and cleaning up that supplies tend to go missing. I have been aware of this and understand it is a risk of the trade. The lego building has remained on hiatus for this very reason. I imagine there is a bit of it that could be cured by relationship building. The more often I visit the center, the better we come to know one another, the more respect we might develop. But I am distinctly aware of a bridge I cannot cross. As I work there, I see myself through their eyes. I feel foreign and unknown to myself in this light. It makes the gaps between us seem all the more insurmountable. With my 12 pairs of scissors and 13 glue sticks, every week I show up with books and paper and crayons in bright pink pails. Just last week, I was badgered to rudeness by a girl who wanted one of the pails and felt I should be obligated to give it to her.
I begin to lose my patience. I want them to make the connection that I am bringing these supplies and materials for their benefit and if they filch them piece by piece, there will be nothing left to bring. I want it to be an even exchange of gifts. If I bring the the entertainment, they can respond by sending me off with all of my original pieces. But it cannot really work this way. No matter how many times I come, there is always the chance that I won't show up. They are awaiting the day when I fly off to some other locale, leaving them once again to dusty, dreary Saturdays sans l'art, sans l'jouie. Until some other mondele shows up with grand ideas and hopeful plans. I am not sure if I can transcend this image of the wealthy white. I still carry memories of my own dark time, peering into empty kitchen cupboards and wondering how the children will eat. I know that, in comparison, it is not really the same. But I also know that, while I do not necessarily want to be their 'madame mondele,' I have not comitted to Kinshsasa. It is very likely I am waiting for a plane to whisk me off to some other locale.....
It actually began when I dropped Mohamed off at a birthday party. A new restaurant has opened in Kintambo which has left everyone abuzz. Birthday parties themselves have a tendancy to leave me feeling overwhelmed and out of my social sphere. It is then that I realize Mohamed's friends are children of diplomats and ambassadors. The luxuries I see upon dropping him off make my radiant surroundings seem dreary in comparison. The latest party was being held at the aforementioned new hotspot in town. The bright, colorful building boasted sparkling glass doors and shiny tile hallways. One entire wall was covered with a mixture of paintings and three dimensional art complete with African masks and a cowrie shell design. Several flights up we were presented with a very Western style cafe. Burly men in black t-shirts and nylon caps were waiting to greet us. The dining area was full of tables and patrons enjoying an early lunch. A private party room off to the side enclosed a childrens climbing and play area. As I'd heard a salad and pita sandwich had run one couple something in the neighborhood of $30, I could not really comprehend the price of this party- 20 children for sandwiches, fries and a drink.......
Everything I do here puts me in the land of the surreal. At one time in my not too distant past, I was standing in a cold kitchen accepting bags filled with staples from a dear friend who was aware of my dire situation. No money for nutriants or warmth. My landlord was offering to loan me money so I could put a bit of oil in the tank during a long and particularly cold winter. I couldn't see past the next meal. But here I am pulling into a parking lot filled with sleek, shiny SUV's in polished blacks and grays. I dropped my child off at a birthday party that probably cost more than I spend on a month of groceries. As I pulled around to the back exit, the gate opened to reveal a teeming mass of children clothed in dusty rags waving sticks, empty hands and cheerful smiles in my direction as I, the imposter, deftly drove the car over piles of paper scraps and around craters that littered this back alley. When I returned a few hours later, the children were gone- disappearing with the rain- but I could still see them, and I could still feel their presence along the cramped and littered lane.
Whle Mohamed was whooping it up with his friends, Nabih and I headed for ACDF. This day I had brought their drawings, of which I have been collecting for unknown reasons, and thought we could work together on a forest collage. I was also prepared with their salt sculptures and paints from the previous week in case it seemed possible to organize and manage two different activities at once. I can never be sure how many kids will be there and which ones exactly. It makes a continuing project challenging at best.
After arriving, I quickly decided to scrap the painting plans and work solely on the collage. I taped up some sheets of large green paper which were a sharp and welcome contrast to the gray, dingy walls. The kids seemed to get the idea pretty quickly and began easily cutting out their past drawings. Many were also anxious to begin new drawings which were also cut out and pasted. It was a hive of busy concentration. Several children quickly became designated the 'gluers' and were in charge of assembling the collage on the wall. Less clear were my directions, suggestions and samples of how to construct trees, grass and water. We managed to get a few tree-like structures around the edges and a square of water somewhere in the middle to accomodate a swimming rhinocerous whose legs were accidently cut off by an overly enthusiastic snipper.
In their zeal, however, things began to become fantastic. Horses were flying in the sky only inches away from army helicopters. Men walked effortlessly along the jungle treetops and jeeps supported elephants without caving in. I laughed as I questioned in my broken French, "Es'que ca vole?"
They laughed right back assuring me it was so, animals and houses alike could fly.
I managed a shift when one boy proudly showed me his drawing of one the new washers. Yes, it was definately reminiscent of the sporty machines sitting in the corner. A few moments later I noticed him grandly applying glue and tacking his portrait to the uppermost corner of our second jungle scene.
"Do they really have that in the forest?" I inquired. I really could not tell if they were getting the concept of creating a jungle collage or if they were expressing perspective in a different way. I am well acquainted with the village drawings that are multilayered, descending down the page, house upon house upon garden until a river runs along the bottom. It is akin to the Oriental design using a vertical, rather than horizontal, perspective.
Yet again I was met with laughter and a nod.
"C'est vrai?! Un machine, dans le foret?" Really?! A machine in the forest? I felt determined to get to the heart of the confusion. But as he turned to look at me and assure me, completely and truly with every ounce of his being that YES! there were washing machines in the forest, the trees finally gave way and I saw everything for what it was. His eyes were shining and he patted the corners of his creation firmly to the wall. His work was on display for all to see. THAT was greater than any juxtaposition of brown and green construction paper I was hoping would be assembled into an arrangement of tree and leaf like shapes. There was a use for their carefully drawn designs of the past and it was simply to be hung, admired and commented upon.
As I was realizing this, I looked over to the benches in the back of the room. A few mintues after arrival, a storm appeared in the sky forcing the older teens and visitors to move inside. They sat on the benches, talking or just looking, not having much to do. Some took up the task of coloring or cutting, others just chided those who were involved. There is an art to this patient waiting here in Africa. I've seen it many places as well as repeated in the theater. African dramas are often comprised of social scenes that involve sitting and talking. Its true to life. But it also requires a constant readjustment of my perspective.
Comparitively, drawing a realistic model and hanging it on the wall turns the piece into a focal point, a source of discussion, admiration and even some good natured joshing. Recognition and validation by one's peers secured. (I am sensing a pattern here. I just need to remember that I see it and that it is of value.)
This day there was more of a teaching component to the activites. I felt a distinct eye on me as the mothers of prospective recipients watched from their new, inside seats. We were now the entertainment. And I do have a role to fill on these Saturday's. While I continue to decipher what it means to me personally, the children have no doubt. "Madame, madame.." they call as I hand out supplies. They want refills, pencil sharpeners, more markers, markers that work,...etc. Occasionally, I feel they are too demanding and I try, in Lingala, to get them to say please. "Soko olingi," I prompt. Although I've learned a few useful phrases, their reaction never differs. They smile and laugh as general comments circulate the room. I can never be sure if they take me seriously. And with the extended audience, the chorus of "Madame" was ever growing, song like and clearly the subject of some discussion. We will have to work on my name and I on theirs.
There are moments of concentration and focus interspersed with chaos and confusion. Generally it is in the setting up and cleaning up that supplies tend to go missing. I have been aware of this and understand it is a risk of the trade. The lego building has remained on hiatus for this very reason. I imagine there is a bit of it that could be cured by relationship building. The more often I visit the center, the better we come to know one another, the more respect we might develop. But I am distinctly aware of a bridge I cannot cross. As I work there, I see myself through their eyes. I feel foreign and unknown to myself in this light. It makes the gaps between us seem all the more insurmountable. With my 12 pairs of scissors and 13 glue sticks, every week I show up with books and paper and crayons in bright pink pails. Just last week, I was badgered to rudeness by a girl who wanted one of the pails and felt I should be obligated to give it to her.
I begin to lose my patience. I want them to make the connection that I am bringing these supplies and materials for their benefit and if they filch them piece by piece, there will be nothing left to bring. I want it to be an even exchange of gifts. If I bring the the entertainment, they can respond by sending me off with all of my original pieces. But it cannot really work this way. No matter how many times I come, there is always the chance that I won't show up. They are awaiting the day when I fly off to some other locale, leaving them once again to dusty, dreary Saturdays sans l'art, sans l'jouie. Until some other mondele shows up with grand ideas and hopeful plans. I am not sure if I can transcend this image of the wealthy white. I still carry memories of my own dark time, peering into empty kitchen cupboards and wondering how the children will eat. I know that, in comparison, it is not really the same. But I also know that, while I do not necessarily want to be their 'madame mondele,' I have not comitted to Kinshsasa. It is very likely I am waiting for a plane to whisk me off to some other locale.....
20.9.09
what i could have written about but didn't
completely unsatisfied with my most recent entry but unsure of how to change it...i decided just to invite you to sample the random, swirling thoughts that fill my head each day from which i try to construct coherent, interesting and descriptive sentences. i could have written about
Instead, working to focus and present information (more photos pleeeze) on aspects of life as
an enfant du pays......sans le famille, sans les amies, sans l'amour, mais avec le main de dieu
raising two boys in africa, loving dance, and searching for adventure as found in everyday heroes
- a dancing pig
- the 23 year old who left it all to learn swahili and start a school
- how completely unimportant and meaningless my own personal life felt after reading that article
- oatmeal raisin cookies, homemade ice cream and teaching couple from sudan
- the 10 year old girl filled with emotion who thought her cousin was involved in congo's abusive tin mining practices
- chocolate banana cookies, homemade frozen yogurt and a neighbor
- malian women refusing their own right to speak for themselves and be educated
- the 4 year old who had an entire building of children repeating his sing song words (yes, that would be my four year old.....he's got a gift--- of some nature)
- the conservative right, as found everywhere here in drc and the vast approaches i've developed to respond and interact with them on a daily basis
- emotional uncertainty and psychological imbalance...as experienced here in drc on a daily basis (oh wait, i think my last post was about that...)
- the huge wedding? or other event held just around the corner, creating thrilling traffic scenes as drivers hauled their oversize camions into alternate lanes despite oncoming traffic (no worries, accident averted...i had at least 2 inches between my mirror and theirs)
- insects and the complete annoyance and final tolerance of finding them absolutely everywhere, surely i've eaten more than a few....am i still a vegetarian?
- the process of creative (or written!) art and how the end result often does not match our emotional journey nor our aesthetic preferences.........
Instead, working to focus and present information (more photos pleeeze) on aspects of life as
an enfant du pays......sans le famille, sans les amies, sans l'amour, mais avec le main de dieu
raising two boys in africa, loving dance, and searching for adventure as found in everyday heroes
19.9.09
the stories we tell
It all started with a song. A song and an energetic yet sensual video. Sometimes these things just have to catch you at the right moment. This one did. The basic premise of this love song, set to a rhythm and blues beat backed by a vocal quartet, was 'tell me what you want.' Presumably, the sexy young singer was ready to accomodate.
But its all about timing and this particular evening, I saw much more in the lyrics. I was reminded how we all search for someone to listen to us and show interest. It is how we fall in love, by creating a story around someone and elevating them above the others. Something unique and special has made this person stand above the rest. It is easy to be seduced by the stories people tell us of ourselves and even to begin to see some truth in there. I have been struck with fascination at our human need to be validated by others. And I have been struck by our human tendancy to follow the stories. We surround ourselves with people who mirror back an image that is similar to the one we hold. Occasionally, it is possible to break free from that, to change the image of oneself and find some liberation in a new story.
This is where the song left me, questioning whether or not I am ready to believe in a different kind of reality. It is a precarious state.
With the school year back into full swing, I am feeling full of the complex and often conflicting emotions that come with teaching, and even more, teaching in an international school. I still struggle with the balance of communities...the inner, ex-pat community and the outer Congolese community. Here, there is very little mixing. I have attributed this to my often timid nature and slow pace, (it takes me forever to adjust to change and venture forward...) but I am beginning to suspect it is so much more than me. And it leaves me longing for the west, where I feel the vibrant music and strong culture could reach out to encase me.
But what do I really know of the culture here? Or even there...? I have made the on-line acquaintance of a Congolese student studying in the United States. He is intelligent, passionate, and full of hope for his country. He is an eloquent speaker and has inspired me (among so many others) to take up the cause of Congo, teaching, educating and speaking out. I am excited about what I am able to teach my students and the discussions that result. Last year, I spent a lot of time understanding the history of this country- a history that moved me to tears and inspired horror at both the abuses and my own ignorance of the facts. It is fitting then that this year I spend some time acquainting myself with the present- understanding current events, their relationship to the past and speaking out, if nothing else, with some hope for the future.
But it is easy for me to lose my focus. I am quick to fall from grace and abandon the hope inspired by this student whose passions run so deep. At times, I feel so far removed from anything useful. There is a disconnect between the enthusiasm and value I feel when teaching about Congo and any actual relationships I have been able to form. It is a strong and distant separation that has been difficult to cross. I wonder what I am doing here after all.
In my isolation, I frequently find myself contemplating this imbalance of community. What doesn't change is that I am most content when surrounded by large groups of people- who often happen to be speaking a language I cannot comprehend. It is the African house that tempts me, with its jumble of occupants coming and going, finding a way to live bound together in their desperation. Its a desperation that is visible and yet, irrelevant somehow. It soothes me to be so surrounded. Always I am left feeling content just to remain, with an odd sense that I could simply begin, right here, where I am and make up a new life.
At Stand Proud today, I was able to restore my focus. It only takes a week or so for me to come unraveled and I was in a terrible state this morning, wondering why I even go there and what was the point? Weren't there bigger things I could be doing? Or nothing at all? Nothing at all was tempting me, as desperation and uselessness sought to find a nesting ground.
I had made up some salt dough so we could try our hand at sculptures, thinking of possibly painting them the following week. No one was disappointed by the lack of legos, instead showing intense curiosity about the product I brought.
"Not foufou," I told them. "Faux pas mange." It only took one sniff to convince them not to eat the dough. With some Lingala translation help from those more versed in French, I got my point across about what they were supposed to do. Eagerly, they took up the task of creating boats, little soliders and an occasional animal.
A man was present this day that I had not seen or spoken with before. He was one of the therapists that come to work with the kids. He remarked how beneficial it was for them to be working with the dough and with their hands in general- drawing, coloring, kneading. Focus restored. Thats all it took to remind of why I go there. Small help, but help nonetheless.
I think it is in being there and feeling so at ease that I can begin to imagine my story changing. Even as I reflect on the concrete, positive effects of working physically with the material, I hold a strong belief in the development of imagination and expression. It is important for those children to be able to imagine a different life. Although I feel the steps we're taking are minute in that regard, we are taking steps. It's the hard part to remember. And I as well.
I am taking ever small steps in changing my own personal story. While I may be tempted to see this perspective from another and enticed to respond to the call to 'tell me what you want,' I know it is not sustainable. They are simply words of a story that will soon enough be tarnished, changed and forever altered. Once again I begin the solitary task of painting my own images and quieting the desire to feel relief in the words of another.
But its all about timing and this particular evening, I saw much more in the lyrics. I was reminded how we all search for someone to listen to us and show interest. It is how we fall in love, by creating a story around someone and elevating them above the others. Something unique and special has made this person stand above the rest. It is easy to be seduced by the stories people tell us of ourselves and even to begin to see some truth in there. I have been struck with fascination at our human need to be validated by others. And I have been struck by our human tendancy to follow the stories. We surround ourselves with people who mirror back an image that is similar to the one we hold. Occasionally, it is possible to break free from that, to change the image of oneself and find some liberation in a new story.
This is where the song left me, questioning whether or not I am ready to believe in a different kind of reality. It is a precarious state.
With the school year back into full swing, I am feeling full of the complex and often conflicting emotions that come with teaching, and even more, teaching in an international school. I still struggle with the balance of communities...the inner, ex-pat community and the outer Congolese community. Here, there is very little mixing. I have attributed this to my often timid nature and slow pace, (it takes me forever to adjust to change and venture forward...) but I am beginning to suspect it is so much more than me. And it leaves me longing for the west, where I feel the vibrant music and strong culture could reach out to encase me.
But what do I really know of the culture here? Or even there...? I have made the on-line acquaintance of a Congolese student studying in the United States. He is intelligent, passionate, and full of hope for his country. He is an eloquent speaker and has inspired me (among so many others) to take up the cause of Congo, teaching, educating and speaking out. I am excited about what I am able to teach my students and the discussions that result. Last year, I spent a lot of time understanding the history of this country- a history that moved me to tears and inspired horror at both the abuses and my own ignorance of the facts. It is fitting then that this year I spend some time acquainting myself with the present- understanding current events, their relationship to the past and speaking out, if nothing else, with some hope for the future.
But it is easy for me to lose my focus. I am quick to fall from grace and abandon the hope inspired by this student whose passions run so deep. At times, I feel so far removed from anything useful. There is a disconnect between the enthusiasm and value I feel when teaching about Congo and any actual relationships I have been able to form. It is a strong and distant separation that has been difficult to cross. I wonder what I am doing here after all.
In my isolation, I frequently find myself contemplating this imbalance of community. What doesn't change is that I am most content when surrounded by large groups of people- who often happen to be speaking a language I cannot comprehend. It is the African house that tempts me, with its jumble of occupants coming and going, finding a way to live bound together in their desperation. Its a desperation that is visible and yet, irrelevant somehow. It soothes me to be so surrounded. Always I am left feeling content just to remain, with an odd sense that I could simply begin, right here, where I am and make up a new life.
At Stand Proud today, I was able to restore my focus. It only takes a week or so for me to come unraveled and I was in a terrible state this morning, wondering why I even go there and what was the point? Weren't there bigger things I could be doing? Or nothing at all? Nothing at all was tempting me, as desperation and uselessness sought to find a nesting ground.
I had made up some salt dough so we could try our hand at sculptures, thinking of possibly painting them the following week. No one was disappointed by the lack of legos, instead showing intense curiosity about the product I brought.
"Not foufou," I told them. "Faux pas mange." It only took one sniff to convince them not to eat the dough. With some Lingala translation help from those more versed in French, I got my point across about what they were supposed to do. Eagerly, they took up the task of creating boats, little soliders and an occasional animal.
A man was present this day that I had not seen or spoken with before. He was one of the therapists that come to work with the kids. He remarked how beneficial it was for them to be working with the dough and with their hands in general- drawing, coloring, kneading. Focus restored. Thats all it took to remind of why I go there. Small help, but help nonetheless.
I think it is in being there and feeling so at ease that I can begin to imagine my story changing. Even as I reflect on the concrete, positive effects of working physically with the material, I hold a strong belief in the development of imagination and expression. It is important for those children to be able to imagine a different life. Although I feel the steps we're taking are minute in that regard, we are taking steps. It's the hard part to remember. And I as well.
I am taking ever small steps in changing my own personal story. While I may be tempted to see this perspective from another and enticed to respond to the call to 'tell me what you want,' I know it is not sustainable. They are simply words of a story that will soon enough be tarnished, changed and forever altered. Once again I begin the solitary task of painting my own images and quieting the desire to feel relief in the words of another.
20.6.09
Socially serving
The minature pink buckets were perfectly designed for holding crayons. I cannot begin to guess what their real purpose might be but it seemed they were designed for us. There was a little black handle which made it convenient for passing (though I noticed today that no one actually did) and the lids made them perfect for travel.
The ride to the Center was cool and energizing. There is nothing better than the anticipation of making art. I had brought along a bunch of plastic and foam tracers in the form of geometric shapes. I thought we could start there. I still haven't decided if I should be teaching art, merely providing an environment in which it can happen or something betwen the two.
The little kids came quickly enough and found seats together. Over the hour and half I was there, the living area filled with older kids as well. Most of them traced the shapes and colored them in, as requested. A few were able to turn the shapes into something and some even went freestyle. I maneuvered around the room in my fashion, asking kids about their drawings and inviting them to dream. It is difficult for them, I see, this dreaming part. American kids would be so brash and bold, laying out all the plans for how BIG their lives would be. "And THIS will be my house, and here is my car, and I will have two dogs....."
One boy drew a guitar and when asked if it would be him playing it, he shook his head. Nope, not me. "Then you will be the singer, hey?" I asked. He acquiesced but it seemed more in an effort to please me than something he really believed. I figure they've got to be able to see it before they feel like going to acheive it.
I refused to allow myself to take pictures this day, though my hands were really aching to. I sat and watched the children drawing, behaving as children. Some fought over materials. There was a bit of hiding and hoarding. But mostly, they were concentrating on their drawings with effort and attention. I listened to Nabih's distinct laughter as two boys found some amusement in teasing him.
One thought kept washing over me as I looked out across a sea of big smiles and bright eyes and curled up legs and wasting limbs. These are the throwaways. I was sitting in this room filled with such energy and beauty and I knew that in their society they are not considered worthwhile. The worst part is that everything I saw struck my Western eyes as temporary and irrelevant. Their disabilities hardly seemed debilitating and in a western world, they would be hardly so. Or maybe my eyes cannot see the way they used to. Africa has certainly colored my ideas about what is and is no longer important.
Leaving there, I was ready once again to go anywhere but home. My hands were so hungry to hold a camera, a real camera and everywhere I turned my eyes saw the frame of a shot. This is a new obsession for me, or perhaps an old one gaining strength. The equipment I have does no longer allow for the things I really see.
And the image I brought home with me was of the family still camped out in the driveway. I've a feeling I will be marking my visits to the center by the progress of this woman and her children. She was sitting despondently with her head in her hands when I drove up. Laundry was scattered out upon the weeds, drying. Her children sat behind her in a row, equally depressed. No one moved. They looked much the same when I left. It is a desperate situation. Where should the homeless go? There are no social services to step in and provide a safety net. There is no government aid to make sure the children are fed. She is living in a driveway with her children and the entire neighborhood passes by her each day. Everyone sees them, but what is to be done? I seriously considered of giving her a hundred dollar bill I happened to have in my bag. It seemed a like a ridiculously absurd amount of money and somehow not enough all at the same time.
I kept thinking about the more, the real, the substantial change she needed. I am no longer wondering why her and what good is helping just one? I am now thinking, we crossed paths for a reason and how can I best socially serve? I have to do something. Because while I am now sheltered and warm, bathed in artifical lights in my pocket of western world, she still sits outside. Hungry and cold, wrapping her children in thin blankets and huddling around a small fire. The mother in me knows how the mother in her is slowly dying.
The ride to the Center was cool and energizing. There is nothing better than the anticipation of making art. I had brought along a bunch of plastic and foam tracers in the form of geometric shapes. I thought we could start there. I still haven't decided if I should be teaching art, merely providing an environment in which it can happen or something betwen the two.
The little kids came quickly enough and found seats together. Over the hour and half I was there, the living area filled with older kids as well. Most of them traced the shapes and colored them in, as requested. A few were able to turn the shapes into something and some even went freestyle. I maneuvered around the room in my fashion, asking kids about their drawings and inviting them to dream. It is difficult for them, I see, this dreaming part. American kids would be so brash and bold, laying out all the plans for how BIG their lives would be. "And THIS will be my house, and here is my car, and I will have two dogs....."
One boy drew a guitar and when asked if it would be him playing it, he shook his head. Nope, not me. "Then you will be the singer, hey?" I asked. He acquiesced but it seemed more in an effort to please me than something he really believed. I figure they've got to be able to see it before they feel like going to acheive it.
I refused to allow myself to take pictures this day, though my hands were really aching to. I sat and watched the children drawing, behaving as children. Some fought over materials. There was a bit of hiding and hoarding. But mostly, they were concentrating on their drawings with effort and attention. I listened to Nabih's distinct laughter as two boys found some amusement in teasing him.
One thought kept washing over me as I looked out across a sea of big smiles and bright eyes and curled up legs and wasting limbs. These are the throwaways. I was sitting in this room filled with such energy and beauty and I knew that in their society they are not considered worthwhile. The worst part is that everything I saw struck my Western eyes as temporary and irrelevant. Their disabilities hardly seemed debilitating and in a western world, they would be hardly so. Or maybe my eyes cannot see the way they used to. Africa has certainly colored my ideas about what is and is no longer important.
Leaving there, I was ready once again to go anywhere but home. My hands were so hungry to hold a camera, a real camera and everywhere I turned my eyes saw the frame of a shot. This is a new obsession for me, or perhaps an old one gaining strength. The equipment I have does no longer allow for the things I really see.
And the image I brought home with me was of the family still camped out in the driveway. I've a feeling I will be marking my visits to the center by the progress of this woman and her children. She was sitting despondently with her head in her hands when I drove up. Laundry was scattered out upon the weeds, drying. Her children sat behind her in a row, equally depressed. No one moved. They looked much the same when I left. It is a desperate situation. Where should the homeless go? There are no social services to step in and provide a safety net. There is no government aid to make sure the children are fed. She is living in a driveway with her children and the entire neighborhood passes by her each day. Everyone sees them, but what is to be done? I seriously considered of giving her a hundred dollar bill I happened to have in my bag. It seemed a like a ridiculously absurd amount of money and somehow not enough all at the same time.
I kept thinking about the more, the real, the substantial change she needed. I am no longer wondering why her and what good is helping just one? I am now thinking, we crossed paths for a reason and how can I best socially serve? I have to do something. Because while I am now sheltered and warm, bathed in artifical lights in my pocket of western world, she still sits outside. Hungry and cold, wrapping her children in thin blankets and huddling around a small fire. The mother in me knows how the mother in her is slowly dying.
13.6.09
The beautiful ugly
A few boys have come out into the street to show off their moves. They are rapping and dancing to music pulsating from behind two steel doors. The doors are painted a deep blue with orange diamonds in the middle. It is a small but busy street. A family has taken up residence in a nearby driveway overgrown with weeds. A fire burns down the road and at the end, across the street, I have a vision of two tents made from tarpulin, one blue the other brown. Various people emerge including two small children who've also come to the road to dance.
We're waiting outside ACDF or Stand Proud, as its known. It is a center that houses children and youth with leg disabilities. They are waiting for operations that will restore their mobility. The average stay is six months to a year. The children attend school, when possible, and also spend some time recuperating and learning how to navigate with their new braces or repaired limbs. Older recipients work in a nearby workshop making the braces.
The center itself is small but somehow spacious. There is a large courtyard with a tree placed in the center which provides a shady place and an air of comfort. The living room is large with several sofas and a television. Sleeping cots fill two corners and reach as high as the ceiling. The brown, plastic coverings invoke everything but images of sweet dreams and goodnight kisses.
African walls are difficult to keep clean and here is no exception. With a hundred children at least, the walls are marked with grime, handprints, smudges and layers of dirt. There is a slight perfume of urine in the air and many of the cushions exude a stronger scent. But the children have managed to assemble in the spacious openness of the salon, ever ready participants.
I've come with the boys to begin some kind of art groups and as I listen to the music of a hundred voices, I realize I have some serious organizing to do. We planned to work on the floor, as tables are a scarcity and many of the children have leg braces that prevent traditional chair and table work. The floor is a maze of children, casts, and crutches. I am praying every moment that I do not step on a tender limb as I pick my through trying to hand out materials. Mohamed is a great assistant and together we get the job done.
For this introduction I had asked the children to label the paper with their name and age and then to draw a picture of themselves with their friends or people they like. Djomas was my translator. It is difficult to tell his age but I felt in good hands. He is young, for sure, but also a former recipient who is now in daily charge.
Once the materials and task were presented, I made my way around trying to connect with the children, looking at their drawings and getting a sense of who they were. I was most struck by the subject matter. I didn't see a lot of people. I saw cars and flags and a few schools and houses.
"Where are you?" I asked again and again. Many pointed to their written names and said, "Here. I am here." I pressed them, asking if they were inside the car or behind the flag. In a desperate attempt to express myself, and uncertain if I was being understood, I drew a quick figure of myself with glasses and skirt, pointing out each as I added it. Although the older ones have a better understanding of French, I wanted to be sure I was making my point. He nodded his head. I promised to return to view his self-portrait. When I did, I found it looked amazingly like me, having done a much better and more detailed version of my quick sketch.
There were a few people, singers, muscled men, and soldiers. I didn't see any pictures of children playing or even just standing. I've thought a lot about this, their refusal to depict themselves. There was one boy who drew a detailed image of a brace, with straps and belts attached. The rest drew what they knew, I suppose, or what their neighbor was drawing.
It made me think of the way so many artists strive to acheive a child like freedom in their artwork. Here I was surrounded by children who were not accustomed to having the materials to express themselves with freedom. It will make me happy to see this barrier come down after months of working at the center.
I also decided that I will need to break them up into groups. We are going to work on images of ourselves. A brief talk with the director opened my mind to situation that many of these children are coming from. As handicapped children, they are thought of as less, undervalued and uninvested in. Lisa told me many of the children arrive too shy to speak. The time at the center proves to not only be a catalyst for physical movement and growth but emotional opening. They are suddenly surrounded by others going through their very experience. The older children serve as a model of hope and potential for the future, for a future.
It was a fast hour. The children drew, turned in their pictures and all the materials. Some even helped to resort the crayons by color and talk to Mohamed and Nabih as they finished up their drawings. I felt full of energy and light as I started the car. OK, now where? is what I was thinking.
Because coming back home, to this quiet, tranquil place means coming back to my state of reflection and meditation. It is necessary but lonely. The truth remains: in these last ten months there has been not one wish to be someone else, living another life, not one thought that darkness could be better than any light awaiting, not one sustained moment when I believed there was something I couldn't do. Instead, I have been full of challenging myself, pushing forward in spite of ignorance, unknowns and uncomfortable situations.
It is easy to do this here because everywhere I turn there is inspiration. I have only to look outside these walls and find people seemingly smaller, more incapable, more full of fright and insecurity than I. And they are all making it, every day, with a subtle joy. With this easy comparison, I suddenly feel full of possibility and purpose. It is within my ability to do something. And suddenly my life no longer seems like an ugly burden that I cannot manage. There is something beautiful here and I have begun to see it even inside of me.
It is difficult to post photos here, though I do have some. Posting them for now on FB and will return to try again....
We're waiting outside ACDF or Stand Proud, as its known. It is a center that houses children and youth with leg disabilities. They are waiting for operations that will restore their mobility. The average stay is six months to a year. The children attend school, when possible, and also spend some time recuperating and learning how to navigate with their new braces or repaired limbs. Older recipients work in a nearby workshop making the braces.
The center itself is small but somehow spacious. There is a large courtyard with a tree placed in the center which provides a shady place and an air of comfort. The living room is large with several sofas and a television. Sleeping cots fill two corners and reach as high as the ceiling. The brown, plastic coverings invoke everything but images of sweet dreams and goodnight kisses.
African walls are difficult to keep clean and here is no exception. With a hundred children at least, the walls are marked with grime, handprints, smudges and layers of dirt. There is a slight perfume of urine in the air and many of the cushions exude a stronger scent. But the children have managed to assemble in the spacious openness of the salon, ever ready participants.
I've come with the boys to begin some kind of art groups and as I listen to the music of a hundred voices, I realize I have some serious organizing to do. We planned to work on the floor, as tables are a scarcity and many of the children have leg braces that prevent traditional chair and table work. The floor is a maze of children, casts, and crutches. I am praying every moment that I do not step on a tender limb as I pick my through trying to hand out materials. Mohamed is a great assistant and together we get the job done.
For this introduction I had asked the children to label the paper with their name and age and then to draw a picture of themselves with their friends or people they like. Djomas was my translator. It is difficult to tell his age but I felt in good hands. He is young, for sure, but also a former recipient who is now in daily charge.
Once the materials and task were presented, I made my way around trying to connect with the children, looking at their drawings and getting a sense of who they were. I was most struck by the subject matter. I didn't see a lot of people. I saw cars and flags and a few schools and houses.
"Where are you?" I asked again and again. Many pointed to their written names and said, "Here. I am here." I pressed them, asking if they were inside the car or behind the flag. In a desperate attempt to express myself, and uncertain if I was being understood, I drew a quick figure of myself with glasses and skirt, pointing out each as I added it. Although the older ones have a better understanding of French, I wanted to be sure I was making my point. He nodded his head. I promised to return to view his self-portrait. When I did, I found it looked amazingly like me, having done a much better and more detailed version of my quick sketch.
There were a few people, singers, muscled men, and soldiers. I didn't see any pictures of children playing or even just standing. I've thought a lot about this, their refusal to depict themselves. There was one boy who drew a detailed image of a brace, with straps and belts attached. The rest drew what they knew, I suppose, or what their neighbor was drawing.
It made me think of the way so many artists strive to acheive a child like freedom in their artwork. Here I was surrounded by children who were not accustomed to having the materials to express themselves with freedom. It will make me happy to see this barrier come down after months of working at the center.
I also decided that I will need to break them up into groups. We are going to work on images of ourselves. A brief talk with the director opened my mind to situation that many of these children are coming from. As handicapped children, they are thought of as less, undervalued and uninvested in. Lisa told me many of the children arrive too shy to speak. The time at the center proves to not only be a catalyst for physical movement and growth but emotional opening. They are suddenly surrounded by others going through their very experience. The older children serve as a model of hope and potential for the future, for a future.
It was a fast hour. The children drew, turned in their pictures and all the materials. Some even helped to resort the crayons by color and talk to Mohamed and Nabih as they finished up their drawings. I felt full of energy and light as I started the car. OK, now where? is what I was thinking.
Because coming back home, to this quiet, tranquil place means coming back to my state of reflection and meditation. It is necessary but lonely. The truth remains: in these last ten months there has been not one wish to be someone else, living another life, not one thought that darkness could be better than any light awaiting, not one sustained moment when I believed there was something I couldn't do. Instead, I have been full of challenging myself, pushing forward in spite of ignorance, unknowns and uncomfortable situations.
It is easy to do this here because everywhere I turn there is inspiration. I have only to look outside these walls and find people seemingly smaller, more incapable, more full of fright and insecurity than I. And they are all making it, every day, with a subtle joy. With this easy comparison, I suddenly feel full of possibility and purpose. It is within my ability to do something. And suddenly my life no longer seems like an ugly burden that I cannot manage. There is something beautiful here and I have begun to see it even inside of me.
It is difficult to post photos here, though I do have some. Posting them for now on FB and will return to try again....
27.4.09
Possibility
Things never work out the way you thought. Or more accurately, most often things have a specific way of working out and that may or may not be the way you wanted. It is getting slightly easier to adjust to this perspective. But it does take concentration and a certain conviction to do so. I have to work at it.
The last few days have been such a kaleidoscope of emotions that I can't really pick what I want to write about. The village is a great place to start. It is slow going. I knew it would be, taking the trip only every other weekend. There are 2 schools of thought in art therapy- the idea that values the creation as cathartic and important in and of itself versus the idea that verbal processing is a necessary component for self reflection and growth. Being me, I see the inherent value in both sides.
With the boys, there is the challenge of language. If I am to be running the group as a 'group' then I need the ability to monitor the language more than I can. They are social, chatty and make comments frequently- the kind 17 year old boys make. But, I cannot understand their words and thus guide their interactions into a 'group norm.' And so, instead, I ask questions. I make quiet suggestions about their art work and the direction it will take. I am trying to open their minds to the possibility of a new world in ever subtle ways.
In one case, a boy had drawn a picture of his hand, outstretched. I asked him what was behind it, what was he reaching for? He did not want to say. Finally, he said,"Nothing," though added a watch to the wrist.
"Is it true," I asked, "that you want nothing?" I was half joking, trying for a light-hearted interaction but also pushing him to think a bit. He looked me directly in the eye and I am not exactly sure what I saw there. But he said again, "Rien." It's not easy for me to tell if he meant it, if he meant to give me his tough guy look, or if he simply meant he couldn't face it.
On the other hand, a boy was drawing a fairly skilled image of some monkeys in a tree. He had placed a stylized sun in the corner. I invited him to decide, " Is it day or night?" and he took this suggestion and decided to make it a night party. He was open to a new idea and also seemed excited at figuring out how to make it appear a night sky. It seems like a small thing, but I clearly saw a light in his face as he thought about it and responded with a smile, "La nuit."
It was because of this light that I was paricularly distressed to see later, another boy painting over the beautiful orange-red sun. He had crossed out the original artist signature and signed his own and made a few changes to the color. Disappointing.
I sat with the two boys and an educator/translator to try and discuss things. Time was short and it didn't end the way I'd have liked. There was still some resentment, naturally. Both boys are fairly talented but clearly it was a motive of jealousy. It is hard for these boys to feel successful and valued. It is one of those moments that makes you want to stay for so long, trying to replace all of the things they are missing. Its not possible, I know.But there was that moment of light and it's all I can see from here. There was a shift in possibility. Things don't always have to be what they once seemed. You might just have to work a bit at seeing it.
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