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.
Showing posts with label change. Show all posts
Showing posts with label change. Show all posts
18.2.18
20.8.17
First Impressions
The line between earth and sky was lost in the haze of dust. The land flattened out as we drove across a small bridge. Large new buildings sprang up. "I'm pretty sure I've never seen any of this before. It's not this way. Honestly, I've never even been out here. We should turn around."
I'd been trying to tell the driver that our new house wasn't down this road. The problem was, I couldn't really tell him which road it was down. I had the key phrase- or at least I thought it was the key phrase- Rondpoint Sotuba. That was what they told me the rondpoint just by our house was called, conveniently located on the rue de Sotuba. Easy enough to remember.
But we arrived at a rondpoint with a large statue in the middle of it- familiar, surely, but our rondpoint was empty in the middle. Just a small circular patch of grass that occasionally hosted a homeless man who slept there inside his mosquito net tent. "It's not this one, but it's close," I'd told the driver. That's when he took off down the road, kicking up dirt and muttering to himself.
We'd argued a bit over whether that was, in fact, the rondpoint Sotuba, and his anger was coming out in his driving. The more I pointed out that this new road wasn't the way either, the more erratic his driving became. Nabih was busy asking us both to calm down- ever the voice of reason- and all I could think about was the ridiculousness of the situation. We couldn't even get home.
The behind-the-scenes facts about moving to a new country every few years is that it has the potential to make even the most mundane events horrifying. Going to the store to get a few things ends up in a high speed, road rage induced taxi ride that has us bouncing over pot holes, narrowly avoiding a swarm of motorcycles and even driving on the wrong side of the road for a few minutes. Lost. Completely. With someone who barely speaks French. And who's completely ticked off because he's wasting his gas driving around foreigners who don't even know where they live.
Welcome to Bamako. It's been a long, slow settling and I am not even sure we're there yet. As with any move, there are always the small details to arrange and as is often the case with Africa, small details take forever.
Coming to Bamako definitely felt like a far journey. Ironic, since the plane ride was only an hour and a half. The shortest plane ride possible. And yet, there was a sense of distance that is difficult to describe. A sense of being further away and cut off. Remote. The pace of time has slowed and everything feels far away and hard to get to.
Maybe it is just the newness of things. The first few weeks, and even months, are all about trying to establish a sense of direction. But this vastness is more than just within country. Even friends in other countries seem to be hard to reach. I feel hidden. Maybe it is the desert. Or the donkey driven carts that share the road with the motorcycles and cars. It adds to the illusion that time has rolled back.
We live in the Industrial Zone. It looks just like it sounds. Large trucks barreling down narrow roadways. The corner boutique of Abidjan has been replaced with the "en gros" retailer. Small stores have pallets of rice and boxes of powdered milk stacked to ceiling. There is a sense of buy now because you are on the edge of the countryside.
While the main roads are paved, a glance down any side road reveals the red earth of a village scene. It reminds me a lot of Matadi- the port town in Congo. There is a lot of unloading and shuffling of merchandise. Motorcycles swarm like bees and there is the hum of activity everywhere. Nestled in among all this, and very much unlike Matadi, is the herd of cows being shepherded by a real shepherd (with a staff and long robes to go with.) Goats graze in corrals along the roadside and horses and donkeys are almost as prevalent as the motorbikes.
Everywhere is on the edge of nowhere. If you frame it right. There are large, brand new buildings, stately in that Malian style of architecture, but their emptiness is disconcerting. It's different from the new construction of Abidjan, where you could be certain apartments and offices would be spoken for and occupied before the entire construction was complete. Here, the buildings are fit for kings, but the village is deserted.
The street kids are back, waiting outside supermarkets and vegetable stands where the wealthy might go. They carry oversized tomato paste cans (the commercial size, naturally.) I saw a group of them one morning, emerging from behind one of those monumental, empty new buildings. They were dangling their cans and running across the parking lot full of morning energy.
I tried to catch a glimpse of what was behind the building. Nestled in the back I saw a small cabin, the sides tacked with aluminum and a black tarp covering the roof. A few men were pouring tea and gathering their things. Memories of camp grounds filled my mind. Mornings feel like camping here.
It's been cold these first few weeks as well. I took an early trip to the grand marche in search of blankets, after having woken up in the middle of the night several times due to the cold. I wasn't expecting that at all really. People were quick to talk about the heat, but no one mentioned how cold it could get.
My first impressions are a strange mix of quietness and busyness- the latter mostly due to the motorcycles, appearing from everywhere and out of nowhere. It seems impossible to drive down the street without running one over. I'm told accidents are common. Everyone drives motorcycles, including women with babies tied to their backs. I can't help but think how little protection the thin cloth covering their head will provide.
I am starting to see more women (and actually, a colleague at school often mentions a shortage of men,) but my first impressions are that it's a man's country. Maybe it is also due to the motorcycles. Being on a motorcycle makes you more visible, and even though there are plenty of women driving and riding motos, the majority are men. Everywhere you turn there are gangs of men on bikes. They are not necessarily together, but it's the motorcycle effect. (Probably book material there, if someone hasn't already tackled it.)
It makes me more conscious of my clothing choice, as a woman, realizing I am in a predominantly Muslim country. No one mentioned anything about it during my informal surveys either. Not like when you talk about going to Saudi or Iraq. I spent the first few days trying to notice what other women were wearing, how conservatively they were dressed. I did see a few in jeans. But most were in pagnes or basin. Most have their hair covered, though it is just as much a part of the traditional dress as head covering. With all of the dust, it's also practical. The head covering easily serves as a mouth or face covering when riding on the back of a moto or in a moment of high wind.
I had thoughts like these swirling around in my head as I shopped one morning. I was considering how environment- physical and cultural- has the potential to affect our dress. I was pondering how much one should yield and if certain things would be seen as culturally insensitive as opposed to just being different. Just at this moment, two Chinese women walked up to the deli counter. They wore tank tops and short, tight shorts. I guessed they weren't concerned about being culturally sensitive or appropriate. I decided not to worry about my own wardrobe. All of my wraps are knee length or longer. The most revealing part of my clothes are my arms. I just can't do sleeves. I guess it will be good enough. For now most of my time is spent among Americans or other foreigners at the school anyway.
That's pretty much how I am feeling in these first few weeks. Foreign. Out of place. Not quite settled. It's enough to make you get all nostalgic for home. But then I remember there really is no place called home. This is it. Wherever I am. Home.
Reflecting on the physical home is probably best left for a whole new post. The space is different and comes with a new set of (interesting?) things to consider. We're still next to a lettuce field, however. I guess it will take more than a move across the border to change that.
I have thoughts on the sense of safety (or lack of,) the Malians themselves, the new job, the new language, and all of the other "news" that confront you in a move like this- best left for another post. My first impressions aren't positive or negative, though the inclination to compare everything to the place you just left is strong. (If only the taxi drivers could be as good as the peanut butter. Malian chauffeurs- down 1, Malian peanut butter- up 2+)
My first impressions just are.
Red, busy, dusty, slow paced, quiet. We have a new turtle. And maybe that's the best change so far.
I'd been trying to tell the driver that our new house wasn't down this road. The problem was, I couldn't really tell him which road it was down. I had the key phrase- or at least I thought it was the key phrase- Rondpoint Sotuba. That was what they told me the rondpoint just by our house was called, conveniently located on the rue de Sotuba. Easy enough to remember.
But we arrived at a rondpoint with a large statue in the middle of it- familiar, surely, but our rondpoint was empty in the middle. Just a small circular patch of grass that occasionally hosted a homeless man who slept there inside his mosquito net tent. "It's not this one, but it's close," I'd told the driver. That's when he took off down the road, kicking up dirt and muttering to himself.
We'd argued a bit over whether that was, in fact, the rondpoint Sotuba, and his anger was coming out in his driving. The more I pointed out that this new road wasn't the way either, the more erratic his driving became. Nabih was busy asking us both to calm down- ever the voice of reason- and all I could think about was the ridiculousness of the situation. We couldn't even get home.
The behind-the-scenes facts about moving to a new country every few years is that it has the potential to make even the most mundane events horrifying. Going to the store to get a few things ends up in a high speed, road rage induced taxi ride that has us bouncing over pot holes, narrowly avoiding a swarm of motorcycles and even driving on the wrong side of the road for a few minutes. Lost. Completely. With someone who barely speaks French. And who's completely ticked off because he's wasting his gas driving around foreigners who don't even know where they live.
Welcome to Bamako. It's been a long, slow settling and I am not even sure we're there yet. As with any move, there are always the small details to arrange and as is often the case with Africa, small details take forever.
Coming to Bamako definitely felt like a far journey. Ironic, since the plane ride was only an hour and a half. The shortest plane ride possible. And yet, there was a sense of distance that is difficult to describe. A sense of being further away and cut off. Remote. The pace of time has slowed and everything feels far away and hard to get to.
Maybe it is just the newness of things. The first few weeks, and even months, are all about trying to establish a sense of direction. But this vastness is more than just within country. Even friends in other countries seem to be hard to reach. I feel hidden. Maybe it is the desert. Or the donkey driven carts that share the road with the motorcycles and cars. It adds to the illusion that time has rolled back.
We live in the Industrial Zone. It looks just like it sounds. Large trucks barreling down narrow roadways. The corner boutique of Abidjan has been replaced with the "en gros" retailer. Small stores have pallets of rice and boxes of powdered milk stacked to ceiling. There is a sense of buy now because you are on the edge of the countryside.
While the main roads are paved, a glance down any side road reveals the red earth of a village scene. It reminds me a lot of Matadi- the port town in Congo. There is a lot of unloading and shuffling of merchandise. Motorcycles swarm like bees and there is the hum of activity everywhere. Nestled in among all this, and very much unlike Matadi, is the herd of cows being shepherded by a real shepherd (with a staff and long robes to go with.) Goats graze in corrals along the roadside and horses and donkeys are almost as prevalent as the motorbikes.
Everywhere is on the edge of nowhere. If you frame it right. There are large, brand new buildings, stately in that Malian style of architecture, but their emptiness is disconcerting. It's different from the new construction of Abidjan, where you could be certain apartments and offices would be spoken for and occupied before the entire construction was complete. Here, the buildings are fit for kings, but the village is deserted.
The street kids are back, waiting outside supermarkets and vegetable stands where the wealthy might go. They carry oversized tomato paste cans (the commercial size, naturally.) I saw a group of them one morning, emerging from behind one of those monumental, empty new buildings. They were dangling their cans and running across the parking lot full of morning energy.
I tried to catch a glimpse of what was behind the building. Nestled in the back I saw a small cabin, the sides tacked with aluminum and a black tarp covering the roof. A few men were pouring tea and gathering their things. Memories of camp grounds filled my mind. Mornings feel like camping here.
It's been cold these first few weeks as well. I took an early trip to the grand marche in search of blankets, after having woken up in the middle of the night several times due to the cold. I wasn't expecting that at all really. People were quick to talk about the heat, but no one mentioned how cold it could get.
My first impressions are a strange mix of quietness and busyness- the latter mostly due to the motorcycles, appearing from everywhere and out of nowhere. It seems impossible to drive down the street without running one over. I'm told accidents are common. Everyone drives motorcycles, including women with babies tied to their backs. I can't help but think how little protection the thin cloth covering their head will provide.
I am starting to see more women (and actually, a colleague at school often mentions a shortage of men,) but my first impressions are that it's a man's country. Maybe it is also due to the motorcycles. Being on a motorcycle makes you more visible, and even though there are plenty of women driving and riding motos, the majority are men. Everywhere you turn there are gangs of men on bikes. They are not necessarily together, but it's the motorcycle effect. (Probably book material there, if someone hasn't already tackled it.)
It makes me more conscious of my clothing choice, as a woman, realizing I am in a predominantly Muslim country. No one mentioned anything about it during my informal surveys either. Not like when you talk about going to Saudi or Iraq. I spent the first few days trying to notice what other women were wearing, how conservatively they were dressed. I did see a few in jeans. But most were in pagnes or basin. Most have their hair covered, though it is just as much a part of the traditional dress as head covering. With all of the dust, it's also practical. The head covering easily serves as a mouth or face covering when riding on the back of a moto or in a moment of high wind.
I had thoughts like these swirling around in my head as I shopped one morning. I was considering how environment- physical and cultural- has the potential to affect our dress. I was pondering how much one should yield and if certain things would be seen as culturally insensitive as opposed to just being different. Just at this moment, two Chinese women walked up to the deli counter. They wore tank tops and short, tight shorts. I guessed they weren't concerned about being culturally sensitive or appropriate. I decided not to worry about my own wardrobe. All of my wraps are knee length or longer. The most revealing part of my clothes are my arms. I just can't do sleeves. I guess it will be good enough. For now most of my time is spent among Americans or other foreigners at the school anyway.
That's pretty much how I am feeling in these first few weeks. Foreign. Out of place. Not quite settled. It's enough to make you get all nostalgic for home. But then I remember there really is no place called home. This is it. Wherever I am. Home.
Reflecting on the physical home is probably best left for a whole new post. The space is different and comes with a new set of (interesting?) things to consider. We're still next to a lettuce field, however. I guess it will take more than a move across the border to change that.
I have thoughts on the sense of safety (or lack of,) the Malians themselves, the new job, the new language, and all of the other "news" that confront you in a move like this- best left for another post. My first impressions aren't positive or negative, though the inclination to compare everything to the place you just left is strong. (If only the taxi drivers could be as good as the peanut butter. Malian chauffeurs- down 1, Malian peanut butter- up 2+)
My first impressions just are.
Red, busy, dusty, slow paced, quiet. We have a new turtle. And maybe that's the best change so far.
22.5.15
A family of horses
I’ve been wanting to share a picture of the horses I pass everyday on my way to school.
My camera was stolen, however, so instead I’ve been feeling disappointed about
that. But then I remember I am supposed to be painting images with my words. In
which case, here’s a portrait of the horse family.
They live on the corner of what used to be a quiet intersection, aside from the early morning and midday school pick ups. In true Abidjan fashion, a new road is coming and so the quiet intersection is now turning into a traffic stopping round point. Back in September, there were two horses and they could be found on either side of the roadway, sometimes in a small patch of grass barely an arm’s length wide.
Over time, they have become a more permanent fixture on a large corner of the block. Another horse joined them and sometime in February a new colt made an appearance. Unlike the older horses, which are always tethered by the ankle to a rock or post, the new baby was free to roam. He (or she) leant a decidedly spring-like feel to February despite the climbing temperatures. I enjoyed watching him wobble and frolic next to his parents (if, in fact, they are related. I never signs of a bulging belly.)
A small structure eventually appeared as well, an open stall with a black tarp roof. The impending new road lies in contrast to the apparent permanence the horse stall suggests. To the right of the field lies a large hole in the ground with a sloping entrance. It’s the kind I see dug for wells next to lettuce farms. Just beyond that is a collection of bushes and small trees shielding the horses from the main thoroughfare. A collection of women used to sit selling fruits and phone cards and some sort of breakfast meal from large plastic tubs. Most of them have been displaced by the construction. They’ve either moved across the street or down to the corner. I cut across the field on a dirt path which has since become a short cut for cars. The horses don’t seem to notice my presence or be bothered in the least by the increase in traffic.
A neighborhood begins on the left, though I have never really considered the horses belonging to any one of those houses. I rarely see a person attending to them, and the one or two times I did, I hadn’t the nerve ask the million questions I harbor. Who do the horses belong to and what is their purpose? They are clearly not for riding and I can’t imagine another reason – not just for having horses but for adding to the herd.
I enjoy walking this way and feeling a bit of country in my morning- only to be spit out in a sea of buildings and traffic and people. For a brief moment, I am on a quiet lane in the middle of a village. Abidjan is practiced in creating these dizzying alterations of scene. Nowhere is this more apparent than on my way to my Wednesday afternoon conversation in English. I meet with a teacher from the high school at her place in Akuedo. This past week a taxi driver offered a mere 1000 franc to take me there and I was so surprised I had to ask twice.
He took the back road that travels behind the primary school, past the lycee and over into Palmeraie. The road we travelled was red dirt and full of holes. The path was lined with palm trees and village houses. These houses are wooden in construction and often have black tarp nailed to the top or sides. They appear small from the outside, maybe one or two rooms and are ageless. It is hard to tell if they are going up or coming down. We travelled on this road for 5 minutes or so. Five village minutes, meaning we drove in frequent starts and stops, mad dashes forward from 0 to 20 and then back to 0 again all the while swerving from right to left to avoid potholes. The car buoyed up and down like a sailboat. A less seasoned voyager might have felt a twinge of motion sickness.
No sooner had I been lulled into a sleepy country state than we rounded a corner and joined civilization again. Concrete houses in progress sprang up, corner stores and roadside sellers appeared. Just like that we were back in the city. Sort of. I still had the feeling of being far from anywhere but I could imagine a short walk straight down this road would end in the congested nightmare that is the conjunction of Palmeraie and the grand route. There is such a palatable sense of change in the air. I know in a few years, everything that feels remote and natural will be replaced by commercial buildings, high rise apartments and over- sized villas.
For now I enjoy the calm and tranquility of the neighborhoods I find myself in. I like the small town feel of each cartier. I am a little saddened by the inevitable growth and expansion. And I wonder what will eventually happen to the horses. I like their presence in my morning. But I know they cannot stay there.
Even as I question their purpose, I reflect upon my own. A few days ago I’d had a sense that this is it. And I had to wonder briefly if I was ok with that. Is Abidjan the resting place? Is it here that my boys will grow into men? And what of me? I’ve yet to feel I’ve found that just right spot. I can’t know what the future will bring. I can’t even really see past the next 6 weeks to the end of the school year. I remain like the horses, all snuggled in their patch of grass and weeds, a small family enjoying each other as progress marches on in their midst, waiting for time to tell how the new roads of change will affect them.
They live on the corner of what used to be a quiet intersection, aside from the early morning and midday school pick ups. In true Abidjan fashion, a new road is coming and so the quiet intersection is now turning into a traffic stopping round point. Back in September, there were two horses and they could be found on either side of the roadway, sometimes in a small patch of grass barely an arm’s length wide.
Over time, they have become a more permanent fixture on a large corner of the block. Another horse joined them and sometime in February a new colt made an appearance. Unlike the older horses, which are always tethered by the ankle to a rock or post, the new baby was free to roam. He (or she) leant a decidedly spring-like feel to February despite the climbing temperatures. I enjoyed watching him wobble and frolic next to his parents (if, in fact, they are related. I never signs of a bulging belly.)
A small structure eventually appeared as well, an open stall with a black tarp roof. The impending new road lies in contrast to the apparent permanence the horse stall suggests. To the right of the field lies a large hole in the ground with a sloping entrance. It’s the kind I see dug for wells next to lettuce farms. Just beyond that is a collection of bushes and small trees shielding the horses from the main thoroughfare. A collection of women used to sit selling fruits and phone cards and some sort of breakfast meal from large plastic tubs. Most of them have been displaced by the construction. They’ve either moved across the street or down to the corner. I cut across the field on a dirt path which has since become a short cut for cars. The horses don’t seem to notice my presence or be bothered in the least by the increase in traffic.
A neighborhood begins on the left, though I have never really considered the horses belonging to any one of those houses. I rarely see a person attending to them, and the one or two times I did, I hadn’t the nerve ask the million questions I harbor. Who do the horses belong to and what is their purpose? They are clearly not for riding and I can’t imagine another reason – not just for having horses but for adding to the herd.
I enjoy walking this way and feeling a bit of country in my morning- only to be spit out in a sea of buildings and traffic and people. For a brief moment, I am on a quiet lane in the middle of a village. Abidjan is practiced in creating these dizzying alterations of scene. Nowhere is this more apparent than on my way to my Wednesday afternoon conversation in English. I meet with a teacher from the high school at her place in Akuedo. This past week a taxi driver offered a mere 1000 franc to take me there and I was so surprised I had to ask twice.
He took the back road that travels behind the primary school, past the lycee and over into Palmeraie. The road we travelled was red dirt and full of holes. The path was lined with palm trees and village houses. These houses are wooden in construction and often have black tarp nailed to the top or sides. They appear small from the outside, maybe one or two rooms and are ageless. It is hard to tell if they are going up or coming down. We travelled on this road for 5 minutes or so. Five village minutes, meaning we drove in frequent starts and stops, mad dashes forward from 0 to 20 and then back to 0 again all the while swerving from right to left to avoid potholes. The car buoyed up and down like a sailboat. A less seasoned voyager might have felt a twinge of motion sickness.
No sooner had I been lulled into a sleepy country state than we rounded a corner and joined civilization again. Concrete houses in progress sprang up, corner stores and roadside sellers appeared. Just like that we were back in the city. Sort of. I still had the feeling of being far from anywhere but I could imagine a short walk straight down this road would end in the congested nightmare that is the conjunction of Palmeraie and the grand route. There is such a palatable sense of change in the air. I know in a few years, everything that feels remote and natural will be replaced by commercial buildings, high rise apartments and over- sized villas.
For now I enjoy the calm and tranquility of the neighborhoods I find myself in. I like the small town feel of each cartier. I am a little saddened by the inevitable growth and expansion. And I wonder what will eventually happen to the horses. I like their presence in my morning. But I know they cannot stay there.
Even as I question their purpose, I reflect upon my own. A few days ago I’d had a sense that this is it. And I had to wonder briefly if I was ok with that. Is Abidjan the resting place? Is it here that my boys will grow into men? And what of me? I’ve yet to feel I’ve found that just right spot. I can’t know what the future will bring. I can’t even really see past the next 6 weeks to the end of the school year. I remain like the horses, all snuggled in their patch of grass and weeds, a small family enjoying each other as progress marches on in their midst, waiting for time to tell how the new roads of change will affect them.
24.4.14
Into rocky terrain
"I was bullied today. Twice. And it didn't feel nice." This wasn't a comment from one of the boys to me. It was actually my response to them when asked about my day. I thought a bit before sharing this incident, and kept most of the details to myself, but ultimately decided that letting them know adults suffer through this stuff too would be valuable. It's not just a kid thing.
And so when they asked what happened, I just let them know that most bullying is about power and someone trying to feel better about him or herself by making you feel bad about yourself. Which is essentially what happened. Except that having someone lay out so clearly how much they hate you is rather shocking. Especially if you yourself hadn't given that person much particular thought- nothing negative, nothing positive- they never really hit your radar because you just don't know each other that well.
Watching this grown man throw his hand up in the air, flop it at the wrist and pounce around my classroom (I am way too self conscious to ever walk like that -not sure where his impersonation stemmed from) and raise his voice an octave (I've always thought I had a rather deep, almost masculine voice and have tried only on occasion to go for "smoky" realizing I can probably never achieve "sweet") watching him, I was stunned to realize he had apparently given me some thought. This obviously wasn't the first time he'd ridiculed me. As a friend suggested later, the most reasonable thing to do would have been to look at him and laugh. Seriously? But my own inner 8 year old came out in response and I told him I didn't have to take him insulting me and making fun of me (or I am telling mom!)
Ever at the mercy of my new and raging hormones, tears threatened to spill and I had all I could do to blink them back in time for the morning bell. Welcome to a new day.
It didn't help that the previous evening had ended in a similar fashion (minus the dramatic posturing.) We are two people who have very different philosophies about our approach to education and human interaction in general. We were trying to work together to organize an event for teachers to present to students. We'd done most of the communicating by email and had only a few minor details left to work out. The ironing out ended up a wrinkled mess as we agreed to disagree and called an abrupt end to our meeting. Slightly steaming, just short of hostile.
The point in question was hardly important, well, except on a philosophical level, where all good disagreements take place. He wanted teachers to be assigned lesson to present and I wanted to allow for choice. (I was cringing at the thought of being assigned the singing lesson- on behalf of the students, a bad, bad idea.) He felt we teachers should just "suck it up and deal" (on behalf of the students, ironically, the very ones I was trying to save from my murderous voice.)
I have always believed in building community, developing teacher buy-in and promoting enthusiasm by providing choice whenever possible. The best ideas usually come from a team of thinkers. The time invested/energy output gained seemed like a worthwhile ratio.
But, as previously mentioned, it wasn't really about that at all. It was about The Past, another dark origin where all good arguments are born. He led our conversation down the path of insults and insinuations referring back to a time when he felt teachers talked in circles and got nowhere (back when I was co-coordinating the team, of course.) He praised the new regime of no discussion during meetings and teachers doing what they are told. (Of course, he is slightly invested in the new regime as they are life partners.) And so I acquiesced, sure, go ahead assign people. (But surely it won't take more than 5 minutes for everyone to choose their strength, to pick the area they'd like to spend celebrating with the kids? It is hard for me to let things go. I finally managed it and said simply I wasn't going to assign people. If he wanted to do that, then that could be his part. I'd already organized the events, listed materials and outlined the directions, alternatives and pictures to go with. I'd developed 2 different student surveys and was happy to hand this piece of organization over (just don't give me the singing booth.)
Somehow it wasn't quite that easy and the meeting ended abruptly. He came in first the thing next morning to "discuss" and ended up dancing around my room ridiculing me in a manner I hadn't seen since back when I had a brother....in the 19's as Mohamed would say. Like 1980.
To finish my ridiculous day off, he came in one final time, pointing in my face, cutting off any word I tried to utter andordering insisting that I would "present a united front" at the meeting. I didn't feel anything close to united and was completely unwilling to give him the chance to humiliate me by yelling, cutting me off or impersonating me in front of others. I didn't go to the meeting.
Try as I might not to be affected by the interaction, I recognize it as bullying- and it does affect me. I wonder what I have done, exactly, to this person I hardly know that would cause him to feel such outrage and hatred for me. And I try to immediately counter that with knowledge that it's about control and power- and nothing I have really done.
Several websites I ran across confirm my fears. Back in October when things turned to hell with another colleague (the life partner of my current tormentor), I decided it was so severe I had to quit. After reading that an "estimated 64% of bullying victims quit or are fired for poor performance" I knew I'd made the right decision. But that still doesn't mean it feels good.
I had been ready to invest in my job, my life here in Kinshasa, my partner's life in Kinshasa. We have families here- children to raise, friends to support, artists to mingle with. Not an exciting life but a potentially fulfilling one.
And then it seemed every time I approached a group of talking people, a certain person would walk away. Every time I offered an idea at a meeting, I was shut up, put down or tuned out. Whatever I presented was met with disdain and contempt and even outright hostility.
After a particularly tense meeting when tempers- or a specific temper- was flaring, my co-cordinator and I decided to quit early. We'd already been told the positions would not look the same next year. When considering the months ahead, I certainly felt the sleepless nights and morning dread weren't worth the minimal monetary compensation. She was ready to do without the constant Thursday morning complaint session following every Wednesday afternoon meeting. We happily handed things over.
While it made matters just dandy for her, somehow the same camaraderie no longer extended to me. A colleague I was once able to bounce ideas off of and develop working documents with was no longer speaking to me. Of course, over the past three years I'd seen him work his way around. I'd spent a few weeks listening to him insist that one of the teachers be fired for "stealing report card comments," witnessed him noting a colleague's arrival and departure times to prove her incompetence and tried to help him discover the difference between mentoring someone and tracking their mistakes in order to report on them. I should not have been surprised when the tables turned to me.
But I am no angel and so, not only was I surprised, I was outraged. I was indignant and righteous. Oh, I hate to be wrong. There's no worse topic to debate right and wrong than your personal convictions. I like the way I teach. I believe in the way I teach. I have spent years reading, researching, discovering and developing my teaching methods. I understand children and they way they grow and develop.
But I also understand that there are multiple approaches to teaching and learning. And just because someone doesn't subscribe to my methods, it doesn't mean they are wrong. Or that I am right. Or that I am wrong. (Because I hate to be wrong. Even when I am wrong- a real life Bama from one of my favorite movie clips of all time )
But the tables did turn to me and mercilessly so. I spent months dragging myself to work, dreading every step I had to take outside the safety and security of my classroom. I struggled to sit through every meeting feeling the silent tension as sharp and cutting as the daggers lining the palm fronds outside our classrooms. I felt completely left out of everything and it affected my patience with children, my satisfaction with my job and my health.
The worst part is, I can't really be sure why or how this all began. I'd given up the part of my job that seemed to be at the root of the problem-handed over control to he who sought it so intensely- and so I had figured all would return to normal. Except it never really was normal. It had just been several years of turn taking. Now it was my turn.
With two people bent on making me miserable, pregnancy hormones bent on making me a frazzled wreck and seven weeks of school left, I am living for the weekends. Sometimes, that's not even enough.
On the sunny days, I am finding ways to enjoy my students and prepare the end of year rituals that will line the path to middle school. I delight in introducing the younger students to art concepts they haven't yet imagined and find satisfaction in watching their creations unfold. I feel my passions rekindled during discussions with 4th graders about Gandhi, equality and the nonviolent fight for justice. Even as I find satisfaction in realizing it is a perfect segue to the 5th grade study of human rights, I remember I won't be here to teach it next year. And I try to find hope for an unknown future instead.
On dark, rainy days it is harder to believe there is a silver lining to this cloud. It's hard to remember that part of my dream has always been creating a place of my own. I begrudgingly admit that in order to step forward, I usually need a push. Not the gentle shove from a friend down a snowy, sleigh riding hill but the mean hard push of an enemy into rocky terrain.
And so when they asked what happened, I just let them know that most bullying is about power and someone trying to feel better about him or herself by making you feel bad about yourself. Which is essentially what happened. Except that having someone lay out so clearly how much they hate you is rather shocking. Especially if you yourself hadn't given that person much particular thought- nothing negative, nothing positive- they never really hit your radar because you just don't know each other that well.
Watching this grown man throw his hand up in the air, flop it at the wrist and pounce around my classroom (I am way too self conscious to ever walk like that -not sure where his impersonation stemmed from) and raise his voice an octave (I've always thought I had a rather deep, almost masculine voice and have tried only on occasion to go for "smoky" realizing I can probably never achieve "sweet") watching him, I was stunned to realize he had apparently given me some thought. This obviously wasn't the first time he'd ridiculed me. As a friend suggested later, the most reasonable thing to do would have been to look at him and laugh. Seriously? But my own inner 8 year old came out in response and I told him I didn't have to take him insulting me and making fun of me (or I am telling mom!)
Ever at the mercy of my new and raging hormones, tears threatened to spill and I had all I could do to blink them back in time for the morning bell. Welcome to a new day.
It didn't help that the previous evening had ended in a similar fashion (minus the dramatic posturing.) We are two people who have very different philosophies about our approach to education and human interaction in general. We were trying to work together to organize an event for teachers to present to students. We'd done most of the communicating by email and had only a few minor details left to work out. The ironing out ended up a wrinkled mess as we agreed to disagree and called an abrupt end to our meeting. Slightly steaming, just short of hostile.
The point in question was hardly important, well, except on a philosophical level, where all good disagreements take place. He wanted teachers to be assigned lesson to present and I wanted to allow for choice. (I was cringing at the thought of being assigned the singing lesson- on behalf of the students, a bad, bad idea.) He felt we teachers should just "suck it up and deal" (on behalf of the students, ironically, the very ones I was trying to save from my murderous voice.)
I have always believed in building community, developing teacher buy-in and promoting enthusiasm by providing choice whenever possible. The best ideas usually come from a team of thinkers. The time invested/energy output gained seemed like a worthwhile ratio.
But, as previously mentioned, it wasn't really about that at all. It was about The Past, another dark origin where all good arguments are born. He led our conversation down the path of insults and insinuations referring back to a time when he felt teachers talked in circles and got nowhere (back when I was co-coordinating the team, of course.) He praised the new regime of no discussion during meetings and teachers doing what they are told. (Of course, he is slightly invested in the new regime as they are life partners.) And so I acquiesced, sure, go ahead assign people. (But surely it won't take more than 5 minutes for everyone to choose their strength, to pick the area they'd like to spend celebrating with the kids? It is hard for me to let things go. I finally managed it and said simply I wasn't going to assign people. If he wanted to do that, then that could be his part. I'd already organized the events, listed materials and outlined the directions, alternatives and pictures to go with. I'd developed 2 different student surveys and was happy to hand this piece of organization over (just don't give me the singing booth.)
Somehow it wasn't quite that easy and the meeting ended abruptly. He came in first the thing next morning to "discuss" and ended up dancing around my room ridiculing me in a manner I hadn't seen since back when I had a brother....in the 19's as Mohamed would say. Like 1980.
To finish my ridiculous day off, he came in one final time, pointing in my face, cutting off any word I tried to utter and
Try as I might not to be affected by the interaction, I recognize it as bullying- and it does affect me. I wonder what I have done, exactly, to this person I hardly know that would cause him to feel such outrage and hatred for me. And I try to immediately counter that with knowledge that it's about control and power- and nothing I have really done.
Several websites I ran across confirm my fears. Back in October when things turned to hell with another colleague (the life partner of my current tormentor), I decided it was so severe I had to quit. After reading that an "estimated 64% of bullying victims quit or are fired for poor performance" I knew I'd made the right decision. But that still doesn't mean it feels good.
I had been ready to invest in my job, my life here in Kinshasa, my partner's life in Kinshasa. We have families here- children to raise, friends to support, artists to mingle with. Not an exciting life but a potentially fulfilling one.
And then it seemed every time I approached a group of talking people, a certain person would walk away. Every time I offered an idea at a meeting, I was shut up, put down or tuned out. Whatever I presented was met with disdain and contempt and even outright hostility.
After a particularly tense meeting when tempers- or a specific temper- was flaring, my co-cordinator and I decided to quit early. We'd already been told the positions would not look the same next year. When considering the months ahead, I certainly felt the sleepless nights and morning dread weren't worth the minimal monetary compensation. She was ready to do without the constant Thursday morning complaint session following every Wednesday afternoon meeting. We happily handed things over.
While it made matters just dandy for her, somehow the same camaraderie no longer extended to me. A colleague I was once able to bounce ideas off of and develop working documents with was no longer speaking to me. Of course, over the past three years I'd seen him work his way around. I'd spent a few weeks listening to him insist that one of the teachers be fired for "stealing report card comments," witnessed him noting a colleague's arrival and departure times to prove her incompetence and tried to help him discover the difference between mentoring someone and tracking their mistakes in order to report on them. I should not have been surprised when the tables turned to me.
But I am no angel and so, not only was I surprised, I was outraged. I was indignant and righteous. Oh, I hate to be wrong. There's no worse topic to debate right and wrong than your personal convictions. I like the way I teach. I believe in the way I teach. I have spent years reading, researching, discovering and developing my teaching methods. I understand children and they way they grow and develop.
But I also understand that there are multiple approaches to teaching and learning. And just because someone doesn't subscribe to my methods, it doesn't mean they are wrong. Or that I am right. Or that I am wrong. (Because I hate to be wrong. Even when I am wrong- a real life Bama from one of my favorite movie clips of all time )
But the tables did turn to me and mercilessly so. I spent months dragging myself to work, dreading every step I had to take outside the safety and security of my classroom. I struggled to sit through every meeting feeling the silent tension as sharp and cutting as the daggers lining the palm fronds outside our classrooms. I felt completely left out of everything and it affected my patience with children, my satisfaction with my job and my health.
The worst part is, I can't really be sure why or how this all began. I'd given up the part of my job that seemed to be at the root of the problem-handed over control to he who sought it so intensely- and so I had figured all would return to normal. Except it never really was normal. It had just been several years of turn taking. Now it was my turn.
With two people bent on making me miserable, pregnancy hormones bent on making me a frazzled wreck and seven weeks of school left, I am living for the weekends. Sometimes, that's not even enough.
On the sunny days, I am finding ways to enjoy my students and prepare the end of year rituals that will line the path to middle school. I delight in introducing the younger students to art concepts they haven't yet imagined and find satisfaction in watching their creations unfold. I feel my passions rekindled during discussions with 4th graders about Gandhi, equality and the nonviolent fight for justice. Even as I find satisfaction in realizing it is a perfect segue to the 5th grade study of human rights, I remember I won't be here to teach it next year. And I try to find hope for an unknown future instead.
On dark, rainy days it is harder to believe there is a silver lining to this cloud. It's hard to remember that part of my dream has always been creating a place of my own. I begrudgingly admit that in order to step forward, I usually need a push. Not the gentle shove from a friend down a snowy, sleigh riding hill but the mean hard push of an enemy into rocky terrain.
24.9.13
Strawberry Season
It's contract season in the world of international schools. This is a time when directors and superintendents start trying to guess who will leave and who will stay. They begin the dance of wooing wanted teachers to stay and dropping subtle hints about the adventures awaiting those they wish would move on. Retaining teachers can be a source of pride for a school in an industry where travel and new experiences are one of the main motivating factors that draw people to this specific field- international education. In some cases, the wooing can be fierce enough to put a peacocks feather strutting dance of allure to shame.
But school leaders are not the only ones racing to find their ground. It is the season when teachers begin to reflect on their personal happiness. They review their job satisfaction, their personal life satisfaction and the goals they've set for each. I find the entire process a bit odd and liberating at the same time. Reflection is good. Taking time to remind yourself of your professional and personal goals is invaluable for achieving success and overall happiness.
What strikes me as strange- or overly privileged- is trying to identify if I am "happy" and then possibly uprooting my entire family to go off in search of it. Happy seems to be an ever changing emotion, one that describes a moment or an event, but not necessarily life. Well, perhaps life in the sense of an overall feeling of happiness or general state of well-being. But that seems to be something one carries with them, not something you're likely to find in the next country adventure.
Of course, environment does play a huge role in our ability to feel free, less stressed and more leisurely. Some locations just don't lend themselves to relaxing. Or require an entirely different kind (and fairly imaginative sort) of entertainment.
The danger in this season lies in beginning to see the grass as greener. I don't really know if I am happy, surely I could be happier? Then again, I'm not necessarily unhappy and things can surely get worse. I've long been cursed and blessed with being able to see two sides to every story. It lends for challenging decision making at best. Contract season always leaves me feeling a bit uneasy.
I end up remembering an email from a friend in Ethiopia who was describing fresh strawberries and organic greens available at the local market. It would be nice to eat strawberries, I think. Do I want to live somewhere where people can eat fresh strawberries? I am tempted.
Is this really how life decisions are made? Bad days come along every so often, no matter what your location. On those kinds of days, heading off in search of fresh berries seems like a perfectly reasonable idea- and satisfying. Because after all, what is life about but enjoying time with the ones you love? Think of all the strawberry oriented things you could do as a family- strawberry picking, Friday night strawberry cheesecake, Saturday bbq's and strawberry shortcake, Sunday morning strawberry pancakes, cool smoothie strawberry drinks and light-hearted conversations every afternoon- the possibilities seem endless. Whether the list has 14, 12 or 9 ideas attached, one thing people seem to agree upon is that strawberries=fun.
Added to the entire difficult decision making process is the fact that we're not actually discussing this year. It's contract season now but the contracts we are discussing are for next year, meaning you have to actually project your professional/personal level of satisfaction over the next 8 months and then hope that same trajectory continues into the following ten months. The timing makes it nearly impossible for me to have coherent thoughts. Try to figure out now where I want to be at this same time next year?
Most people don't have this yearly cycle of reflection, decision-making and temptation. If they aren't happy in their daily lives, they make slow changes to adjust accordingly. If they do decide to make a change, chances are it affects just one area of their life- the job, the neighborhood, the family dynamics.
In contract season, you're looking at the whole shebang- pick the entire family up, move off into a brand new country (new neighborhood, new house, possibly even new language,) start a new school and a new job. Every single aspect of your life gets an overhaul. Which could be an entirely positive thing. You could be looking forward to strawberries for dessert..........
But school leaders are not the only ones racing to find their ground. It is the season when teachers begin to reflect on their personal happiness. They review their job satisfaction, their personal life satisfaction and the goals they've set for each. I find the entire process a bit odd and liberating at the same time. Reflection is good. Taking time to remind yourself of your professional and personal goals is invaluable for achieving success and overall happiness.
What strikes me as strange- or overly privileged- is trying to identify if I am "happy" and then possibly uprooting my entire family to go off in search of it. Happy seems to be an ever changing emotion, one that describes a moment or an event, but not necessarily life. Well, perhaps life in the sense of an overall feeling of happiness or general state of well-being. But that seems to be something one carries with them, not something you're likely to find in the next country adventure.
Of course, environment does play a huge role in our ability to feel free, less stressed and more leisurely. Some locations just don't lend themselves to relaxing. Or require an entirely different kind (and fairly imaginative sort) of entertainment.
The danger in this season lies in beginning to see the grass as greener. I don't really know if I am happy, surely I could be happier? Then again, I'm not necessarily unhappy and things can surely get worse. I've long been cursed and blessed with being able to see two sides to every story. It lends for challenging decision making at best. Contract season always leaves me feeling a bit uneasy.
I end up remembering an email from a friend in Ethiopia who was describing fresh strawberries and organic greens available at the local market. It would be nice to eat strawberries, I think. Do I want to live somewhere where people can eat fresh strawberries? I am tempted.
Is this really how life decisions are made? Bad days come along every so often, no matter what your location. On those kinds of days, heading off in search of fresh berries seems like a perfectly reasonable idea- and satisfying. Because after all, what is life about but enjoying time with the ones you love? Think of all the strawberry oriented things you could do as a family- strawberry picking, Friday night strawberry cheesecake, Saturday bbq's and strawberry shortcake, Sunday morning strawberry pancakes, cool smoothie strawberry drinks and light-hearted conversations every afternoon- the possibilities seem endless. Whether the list has 14, 12 or 9 ideas attached, one thing people seem to agree upon is that strawberries=fun.
Added to the entire difficult decision making process is the fact that we're not actually discussing this year. It's contract season now but the contracts we are discussing are for next year, meaning you have to actually project your professional/personal level of satisfaction over the next 8 months and then hope that same trajectory continues into the following ten months. The timing makes it nearly impossible for me to have coherent thoughts. Try to figure out now where I want to be at this same time next year?
Most people don't have this yearly cycle of reflection, decision-making and temptation. If they aren't happy in their daily lives, they make slow changes to adjust accordingly. If they do decide to make a change, chances are it affects just one area of their life- the job, the neighborhood, the family dynamics.
In contract season, you're looking at the whole shebang- pick the entire family up, move off into a brand new country (new neighborhood, new house, possibly even new language,) start a new school and a new job. Every single aspect of your life gets an overhaul. Which could be an entirely positive thing. You could be looking forward to strawberries for dessert..........
13.3.11
smoldering pockets
As I have been watching world events, countries falling to natural disaster, governments crumbling to human resistance, I admit to having hoped that Congo would be next. It is time for a true change to grab the African continent and sweep her clean and clear of the foul debris polluting her for so long. It is time for a new age, a return to golden splendor and wisdom that once flowed from the lands long before the tortured hands of colonization wreaked havoc and ruin. Congo remains a unique case and hearing the words on the streets, the casual comments uttered in response to Egypt and Libya, Tunisia and Ivory Coast, I am simply not sure that she is ready here. I search for the pride and belief, the fire and passion that is needed to ignite such a drastic change. Here? Within the country? There may be smoldering pockets, but I am not yet convinced it's enough.
16.7.10
Victim of environment
I've come to recognize these trips to the US as one long assault on my emotional memory. I spend the time in a series of adjustments. First I am reacquainting myself with the life I lived here, the material comforts and ease of navigating about the daily business of life. I remember how to make consumer choices in stores and ignore the extraneous fluff- something my children are not as good at -becoming quickly and easily overwhelmed. I marvel at the ease of crossing streets as a pedestrian (I actually have the right of way- no need to dive into the roadside brush to escape an oncoming taxi!!) I note the developments for the disabled and elderly (buses that lower a ramp to accommodate motor driven wheelchairs and passengers that stand to make room so they can be locked safely into place) and long for that level of dignity to be brought to the African men, women and children that make their way down crowded city streets on their hands or rolling across dirt pathways because they are turned down by overflowing public transportation--no room for their clunky wheelchairs cobbed together from various bike and automobile parts.
I try to fit the pieces of my American self together as I watch commercials urging me to buy, upgrade, furnish, and acquire goods I no longer need or want. I remember wanting these things for my house, my family, myself, but I notice these parts have been shed, replaced slowly by a desire to have things for humans.
As the days turn into weeks, I begin to wonder if I can manage the two parts of myself...the two lives I am living. Naturally, the reflection moves from global to personal. Memories from my life confront me at every crossroad, tugging at emotions I'd thought had long been dealt with. I start to wonder which life is 'real,' akin to Jake embracing his Avatar self as more genuine than the body he left behind. What began as a journey of delight and wonder turns quickly into self-questioning and reminiscence as I greet old friends and reconnect with family.
But the roller coaster is far from finished. The weeks turn into a month and I begin to long for my own space, my familiar pace of life. I must prepare for the journey back and yet another metamorphosis. I must become a bit practical and think of the items we will need to make it through another year in Congo cut off from the quality supplies we can find so easily and cheaply here. It becomes more difficult to remember the things I "need" surrounded as I am by such bounty.
I begin to fear I am nothing more than a victim of my environment. Each space welcomes me with its unique version of who I am and who I could be. Each place seduces me with dreams of an existence that could satisfy my every need---needs that change and morph depending upon the exterior, needs that are defined by the environment surrounding me, needs that melt away as the scenery changes. Adaptation: a human condition that leads to as much confusion as potential solutions.
I try to fit the pieces of my American self together as I watch commercials urging me to buy, upgrade, furnish, and acquire goods I no longer need or want. I remember wanting these things for my house, my family, myself, but I notice these parts have been shed, replaced slowly by a desire to have things for humans.
As the days turn into weeks, I begin to wonder if I can manage the two parts of myself...the two lives I am living. Naturally, the reflection moves from global to personal. Memories from my life confront me at every crossroad, tugging at emotions I'd thought had long been dealt with. I start to wonder which life is 'real,' akin to Jake embracing his Avatar self as more genuine than the body he left behind. What began as a journey of delight and wonder turns quickly into self-questioning and reminiscence as I greet old friends and reconnect with family.
But the roller coaster is far from finished. The weeks turn into a month and I begin to long for my own space, my familiar pace of life. I must prepare for the journey back and yet another metamorphosis. I must become a bit practical and think of the items we will need to make it through another year in Congo cut off from the quality supplies we can find so easily and cheaply here. It becomes more difficult to remember the things I "need" surrounded as I am by such bounty.
I begin to fear I am nothing more than a victim of my environment. Each space welcomes me with its unique version of who I am and who I could be. Each place seduces me with dreams of an existence that could satisfy my every need---needs that change and morph depending upon the exterior, needs that are defined by the environment surrounding me, needs that melt away as the scenery changes. Adaptation: a human condition that leads to as much confusion as potential solutions.
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.
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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