Baby Protest

 The baby voices outside my window were sweet and innocent. So cute. There wasn't a hint of the power and determination hiding within. It was mid-morning and I'd come home to use the internet and get some writing done. The deadline for my last paper had passed, twice, and I was scrambling to put something intelligible together. 

There is no such thing as privacy in village life. All of my neighbors know when I come and go, the hours I wake and sleep, the visitors I have or don't have. They know if I'm late to work or have stopped home for lunch, usually a cup of tea, in the afternoon. There is no hiding from the babies. They say goodbye to me every morning and are usually the first to greet me when I return.  The babies like to dance, and we'd gotten into a habit of listening to music while I cook in the evening. But this morning, I had one objective: writing. 

I shut the door, closed the curtains and huddled up close to my computer. I'd barely written a few sentences when the tiny voices began. "Mama Soumah, mama Soumah, open the door." I ignored them for a bit, but babies are not easily ignored. I tried reasoning. "I'm working, come back later. I am working hard." That was really as far as my Lingala could stretch. I realized their concept of working was far different from what I appeared to be doing. Work was outside, cooking, sweeping, carrying water. Work was loud with laughter or singing or even yelling. I was inside, quiet, alone. What kind of work could I possibly be doing?

My paper was about Congolese social movements and the legacy of protest. I was busy writing about students calling out the assassination of Lumumba and the university massacre of the 90s. I was immersed in public demands for Mobutu to resign and the masses imploring Kabila to degage. Outside my door, the sweet voices turned indignant. "MAMA SOUMAH." It was clear whatever else they were saying meant, we know you're in there and we're not leaving until you open up. That's when the banging started. Things escalated quickly from there. The rascals started rattling the doors, pounding their fists, shaking the metal window frames. The cries turned into screams. I kept quiet and tried to concentrate. A real live protest was erupting outside my door. What better ambiance?

After what seemed like far too long, one of the mamas showed up to see what all the commotion was about. There was more yelling, threats of violence, babies crying, maybe even some real violence, and then finally...quiet. 

The girls didn't hold it against me, nor I against them. We met for our regular dance-cooking party that evening, and we're still working on boundaries. My paper is finished and I am presenting a summary tonight. Luckily, it will be around midnight my time, the babies should all be sleeping. 

A tiny bit devastating

It's 2-0. Abidjan is clearly winning. I think I spent my first year walking around in a daze, trying to dodge rainstorms and puddles, both literally and emotionally, and ending up soaked more often than not.

My second year doesn't seem to be going much better, though I have managed to stay drier so far. The biggest news for me is that the boys are leaving. In a few short months they'll be flying off to the US for an extended period of time and my worries are all in reverse now.

Of course, I worry about myself- how will I cope with the empty nest syndrome a good 5-8 years early? And Mbalia? I know this is the kind of change that results in ...really big change. Her personality is going to alter as she transitions from being the baby princess with 2 older brothers (complete with a neighborhood of friends and "brothers") to essentially being an only child. I try not get teary-eyed just thinking about it.

But more than us, I worry about them. Heading off to America. I am reminded of a teaching assistant I worked with who told me one summer he had gone to some educational training in the US. His wife was terrified about his trip. "They have guns there," she said. "Everyone has a gun." Her image of the US furnished solely by the news, she'd understandably become concerned about the safety of her husband in such a renegade country.

I admit to feeling the somewhat the same way. Donald Trump lives there. My boys are mixed race Muslims. My fear is grounded. It's not  DT himself, of course, but his whacked out followers that worry me most.

And there is high school. Or middle school, or any public school really. My boys have spent cushy lives attending international schools with super small classes and peers from all over the world who look like them, speak like them and hold some basic understandings about the world (like them.) Which essentially boil down to the fact that even though we come from different places, speak different languages, have different skin tones and countries of origin, it's all good. It's good to be who you are and let others be who they are. Respect. Tolerance. Open-Mindedness. Interest. Curiosity. I'm not convinced an American school is going to offer the same level of acceptance.

I'm worried they are going to find themselves minorities in a small town. I'm worried about the new pressures they will face and the new opportunities to act out or fall down or get caught up in the wrong path. I'm worried about how they will respond to the overwhelming choices suddenly available and the constant plugged in, turned on, tuned up atmosphere I imagine.

In their minds, America represents everything they have never been able to experience or acquire living in Africa. It's come to mean never getting wet on the way to school, never sitting in a traffic jam, and never wearing socks with holes. There are no street beggars, no power outages and no heat waves.  It means going to Burger King every night for dinner and racing around go-kart tracks on the weekend. America is every adventure park and thrill ride they've ever imagined. They are very African in thinking that America is a land of milk and honey and immediate dreams.

These last 8 years, the reality of America has gotten further away from me. Not only am I out of touch with what the day to day is like for kids, but I have no doubt succumbed to much of the same type of thinking and stereotyping my colleague's wife had. The only links I have are social media and the news.  When friends are posting articles like this, it's no wonder I'm freaking out a bit. And I haven't even gotten into the movies or TV series influences yet.

I've been told it's time to have faith in my parenting and that the last 8 years won't simply be erased because the boys are stepping into a new leg of their journey. I'm trying to believe it's all true. But faith in my parenting is shaky- I am left wondering what memories are they going to have, exactly, of our time here- especially since these  last 2 Abidjan years haven't been the most idyllic. I wonder how they will hold on to their second language. Even if I vow to only speak French with them, it's not going to be the same as living here and using it everyday. I might even be a bit worried that they won't remember how hard I tried, but only how much I didn't succeed.

They're going to change. They're going to grow. They're going to meet people and make decisions and have experiences. And I am not going to be there. It's just a tiny bit devastating to me. The grass was looking greener in Abidjan, until we got here.

Lessons from the little ones

I noticed that some of my first (published) words about dance were not exactly positive. After searching for months to find “the real thing” I am super disappointed in myself. Sara Rich writes about grappling with emotions on her blog. I also like to think I maintain a mostly positive perspective when writing. After all, a bout of complaints doesn’t make for very interesting reading. But sharing only the positives is not an accurate view of life- kind of like  Facebook posts where everyone is only smiling, and status updates that only share the successes. Real life is lot messier than that.

 In previous posts, I've admitted feeling lost at times and pondering my purpose for writing here. Recently it occurred to me that my focus is writing about what it’s like to fumble around in another culture. All the wonderments and charm, sure, but also the frustrations and disappointments. They are most easily shared in the guise of humor once I've gotten past the initial embarrassment or dismay.  I struggle with putting it all out there- or deciding how much to put out there- but expressing vulnerability is part of exploring new experiences. It’s ok to cry- and to talk about it. I’m still finding my comfort zone there, mostly being a cry in the dark kind of person (unless I happen to be walking down the street on my way home, in which case I become a cry behind my sunglasses kind of person.)

I think it’s no coincidence that my first tear free weeks in Abidjan (yes, it's taken a whopping 9 months to arrive at my first tear free weeks) coincided with my first weeks attending dance class. Which is why I am so disappointed that my initial public thoughts on the matter sounded somewhat scathing. I must have just come from a particularly disappointing class.

In truth, I am grateful to have found traditional dance with superb drumming; it is everything I expect from dance, including and especially the multigenerational aspect. Dance in Africa is much more likely to encompass students of all ages. True to form, my class is filled with 4 or 5 paying adults and a multitude of Ivorian children.  I say children but they range in age from maybe 7 to twenty something. It’s true that I have been dancing longer than some of them have been alive. This fun fact has helped me realize two things. 

The first- there is something to be learned from everyone.  One of the youngest boys there is an amazingly supple dancer- a rubber band kid. His back moves in ways that defy a Western spine. And he exudes pure delight. His smile suggests there is little effort to his movement, or, more likely, he is filled with enough passion to make the effort joyous.  During his solo at the end of one class, the drummer increased the tempo- a dare to the dancer to keep up, each one increasing their speed until one declares the other a winner. The boy kept time, his feet moving faster and faster, his smile growing larger and larger until he dissolved in a bundle of laughter on the floor. The other kids jumped in to join the movement, a way of encouraging him and he immediately bounced back up and began again until finally declaring he’d been bested. It was no failure on his part, but rather a display of his skill and agility. And perserverance. Excellent lessons for life. Give your all with a huge smile and when you fall, gather your friends around and get back up. I strive to keep that sense of joy and pleasure evident. 

I like to follow him, observe his style and soak up his happiness. In my years of dancing, I have developed a bad habit of only smiling when I am struggling. It’s a defense for doing it wrong and knowing I am doing it wrong. While it’s ok to laugh at myself, it’s also important to celebrate what I can do. 

Which brings me to the second point. I’m not always wrong. This might seem like an obvious idea but after dancing for so long with the best of the best, I tend to assume the Africans are always right. However, as I mentioned earlier, I’ve now been dancing longer than some of them have been alive. We’re all students and sometimes I am more familiar with a movement or I have observed more carefully. There have been occasions when my partner is not correct and I am. My habit is to normally follow whoever I am with and when we differ I usually give in to them. This results in a bit of frustration on my part because I am either completely confused about who is right, or I know I am right and end up dancing it wrong- which I really hate to do.  I finish my turn across the floor quickly and hurry to get on to a new step. This doesn’t do much for confidence building or my skill as a dancer. 

One Saturday, one hot Saturday when all the best dancers were in attendance, the rhythm was strong and the steps were sweet, I had the opportunity to be dancing behind a very young girl- maybe 6. Her movements were not perfected or full of expression but they were clear. I could easily identify which steps she was attempting. She had two partners, older guys who were dancing with energy and enthusiasm. At one point, the teacher had given the direction to start from the top. The young girl apparently missed this and began at the last step we’d completed. Her two partners started at the beginning. It was obvious the line was not in sync.  

After a few minutes, the teacher stopped them and asked them to begin again. “You have two papas,” one of the drummers told her. “Follow your papas.” In fact, they had made some motions to her to change her step, but she held such belief in herself that she insisted she was right and thought they should follow her. While she may have been wrong in this case, I completely admired her conviction. She knew what she knew and she knew she was right (even if she was wrong.) I need some of that.

In the end, I realized that I can only get out of the class whatever I put in. If I find some days less challenging than others, then I am the one who needs to make the change. If I find some rhythms harder to keep in tune with, then I am the one who needs to ask for more instruction. Take charge of my learning- it’s something I am always telling my students to do. 

Dancing, while long a passion, has not been easy for me. Somewhere in my teens I picked up a self- consciousness that gets in the way of true abandon. The cutthroat NY classes did little to nurture my tender spirit. Sometimes I am surprised by the encouragement and good feelings floating around my class. It's not a competition. I really love that. And I love learning. I’m ready to embrace this final challenge- throw fear (and those sunglasses I've been hiding behind) out the window and actually give in to joy.

Rounding the Corners

There are two significant corners in my life, though it is only just now that I have come to appreciate the second (actually the first if we are talking proximity.)

The farthest away, but most noticeable, involves food. (Hence the most noticeable. It is taking me longer to notice the subtle, I admit. Over aged or over stressed, not sure which.) I have noticed this corner since we moved in. It sports a healthy outgrowth of rocky rubble. All the other roads and corners in our neighborhood are dirt packed except this one. When I come to the corner each morning on my way to work I step gingerly from rock to rock  and imagine myself crossing a raging river filled with crocodiles. I suppose the rubble pile is left over from some construction or demolition job long past. The house just in front of it is in some state of repair- or disrepair- and has a wonderful set of outside steps leading to nowhere. They appear stone worn and ancient and I imagine, if I make it across the river alive, I will rise to safety by following their path to the nonexistent rooftop.

When I come home, I find this same corner but in reverse. The change in perspective brings a whole new story. Or maybe it is the smell of plantains. Just a few steps away a woman has set up her umbrella, her chair and her outside frying vat. She has plantains bubbling away and a plateful drying on some cardboard next her. It is a sweet smell and I always wonder how many days of this I need to accumulate before the memory of that smell and arriving home are deeply associated and strongly implanted.

The second, first corner is the one right by my house. I love this corner because of the encounters it creates. The sheer volume of people walking down my road is slightly perplexing because my road doesn't actually appear to go anywhere. Despite this, I run into- sometimes quite literally- a variety of people, all at different stages within their day. In the early morning there are men in suits talking on phones, women in patterned dresses off to sell their baked goods and young kids with freshly baked baguettes for breakfast. In the afternoon there are gossiping teenage girls, young guys with earphones singing out their favorite tunes and rascally children calling out and chasing after each other. In the evening the adults are back, sharing news of their day or speculating on the latest actions of their bosses or neighbors or husbands. The children arrive home for the last time from school and the road becomes alive with soccer skirmishes and screams. The telephone cabine/one-stop-odds-n-ends shop begins to fill with happy hour patrons. The air sings with loud discussions and laughter. It's a lot for a street that appears to go nowhere. A small corner with big spirit.

The other end of my road- houses in one stage or another of
construction. The amount of foot traffic suggests the
 'road to nowhere' is a deceiving description

Earlier in the day I'd crossed paths with a young guy who came dancing around the corner. He was skipping and bouncing and feeling the joy of life. His energy made me smile. I might have caught him by surprise because he paused - only for a second, the same second I was wondering if he mistook my laugh for mockery rather than admiration- before continuing in stride and uttering a deep, "Hello, my sistah." Which of course made me immediately think of Ousmane (my echoic memory in effect, no doubt.) Which led me to just enjoy being called sistah for a minute. Which immediately led to memory retrieval of an article I'd read about the effects of calling everyone by family names. I can't find that exact article but I did find this one. Both seem to lament the practice of turning every stranger into someone familiar, every casual acquaintance into an obligation and every potential date into an incestuous affair. I spent mere seconds contemplating this before I returned to simpler thoughts.

This is how I have been spending my weekend. Contemplating people I run into while rounding the corners and trying to keep my thoughts simple and sweet. It takes a lot of energy which is exactly the point. Yesterday afternoon I rounded the corner, again caught up in the cavalcade of my own personal thoughts, engaged in a sort of mental boxing.

Two small boys were peering through the cutouts in a wooden gate near one of the lettuce gardens. I smiled at them and was deciding whether or not to pose a friendly question in passing when one of them turned my way. He tore himself from his peeking and ran at me with gusto, grabbing my legs in a bear hug. I think I know this guy. He's done this before; not often enough to be expected, just random enough to always be completely surprising.

The second little guy attempted to follow suit but I could tell he was just as perplexed about the actions of his friend as I. "You mean I'm supposed to hug her?" he seemed to be asking. "And this is fun?" He moved in slow motion and his leg hug was limp. I patted his back and sent him off to follow his friend. The boys went skipping down the road, their interests caught by other things. When I came back from the store I found them slapping the tail end of a black jeep as though they expected it to respond somehow.

This wooden gate with interesting cutouts appeared just after
Cote d'Ivoire won the CAN. Patriotic car flags lined the top of it for days.

But it's only in these last weeks that I've come to realize the gift this is. Children like me. It's always been just a thing, a given. I like kids and they like me. Just like I have blue eyes and blond hair. Qualities I can't change and don't think about very often. But just lately, as I am searching and questioning and doubting, I hear a little voice piping up. Not often enough but present nonetheless. And it's telling me that receiving the love and trust of children is a gift and I better start being grateful for it. Start paying attention to it and treating it as the valuable thing that it is. Message received. I am working on the acceptance part. Sometimes the things we envision for ourselves seem bigger and more glamorous than the things we actually have. But for one mysterious minute, rounding that corner, I was as enchanting and lovely as movie star. What could be richer than that?

A Glee Epiphany and other realizations

Back when I still considered myself on summer vacation and was busy trying to fill the days I got caught up in Glee. Mohamed and I found some pleasure in watching this TV series about a group of high school students and their experiences in the singing club. A friend had given us the first 4 seasons on a flash drive and so we were free to watch at our leisure. We got so caught up in it that- to my horror- Mohamed announced his goal of 'watching all of season 4 in one day.'

While I silently revolted at his plan for spending a beautiful day glued to the screen, I understood his double need of entertaining himself and escaping from our boring (read lonely) first days here in Abidjan. We watched together, got to know the characters together and enjoyed the music. As an adult, however, I think the similarities ended there. I watched with an eye on my past- ever regretful- while he probably watched with an eye to his future (I'll never act like that.)

High school, I think, tends to bring up a lot of past baggage for many people. (Hail to the high school teachers who navigate this world everyday.) While I have long grappled with my past, watching the main characters struggling through the highs and lows of teenage-dom brought my own experiences ever more in focus. If only, if only, if only......

Thoughts of my past still bring up resentment, regret and wishes that it all had been different. If only I  had known.....if only I had had parents who..... and on and on. In the end, I am left with just one question to ponder. Why is that the most formative years of our lives are those when we are dependent upon others?

Most of the time I wonder why I am still plagued by the events of my youth. At this age I would have expected to have long moved on from those tumultuous years full of mistakes upon mistakes. All my training in therapy suggests that people can get over the impact of parents and friends and errant ways of our childhood. All my experiences in life suggest that we never really do.

If we map out our lives on a timeline, the youthful period takes up a significantly smaller portion of our lives than the grown-up years, and yet, if we're not careful, we can spend an enormous portion of those grown up years looking back, reminiscing, regretting, wishing we could revise what happened long ago. Long ago when we were at the mercy of others.

I think about it in terms of infancy as well. Newborns are completely dependent upon their parents and errors in those early months and years can have disastrous effects on how we develop physically and psychologically. Our self esteem, curiosity, motivation and the general way we approach the world is shaped at a time when have absolutely no control over what happens to us. It seems inherently unfair that our well being is based upon the decisions and actions of others.

Until it struck me that that is precisely the point of it all. No matter which 'good book' you check, they all refer to humans looking out for humans. It may seem elementary, but I finally got the hugeness of this while washing dishes and reflecting on my reactions to spending every night lost in 45 minute episodes of a high school ecosystem. It was a Glee epiphany. We need each other when we're most vulnerable.

Previously I'd always interpreted the 'do good to others' rule as helping our neighbors. I thought I'd covered it by volunteering and offering what little I could to those I saw in need around me. But for some reason it's taken me until now to realize this need for perfecting human interdependence extends to smaller systems- the family systems. Service must begin at home. (I guess you can imagine how that played out in my family if it's taken me some 40 years to figure this out.)

While most of me resents this idea since I seem to have gotten a raw deal on the parent end of things, I realize it is the ultimate vision of a harmonious humanity.  Peace in the world can begin to truly develop when we take care of our children, who are then confident and service minded enough to go out and take care of others. And by feeling a true love for our family, our neighbors and so called strangers (in this version of humanity, we know we are all brothers and sisters) we can truly develop. As a race. Or grow closer to God, if religion is the path you're on. Grow closer to nirvana, if spiritualism is the path you're on. Balance out the universe, if space and energy is the path you're on.

I've spent many of my adult years trying to determine, label and name the path I am on. Islam came pretty close. But these days, I can see the labels are less important than the ideas. It's this concept of humans needing humans that rings the most true. Not just needing, but being obligated to be in service to each other. Getting a raw deal in our own youth doesn't exonerate us from providing for others in our future.

It's easy to think this is right when we consider orphans and hungry children. Women sometimes get our sympathy as well, being the main caregivers for children. But distance is easy to come by. People who are too different, or seen as potentially able to care for themselves or people who are too dangerous to care for fall outside our radar of obligations. Some cultures foster more of a sense of interdependence while others focus on independence. All cultures eventually face a limit.

Ebola in the news seems one curse on this world designed to drive the wedge between us humans even deeper. Its not just Africans who are ostracizing their children and neighbors. Spain is having a hard time dealing with an outbreak there. The numbers of confirmed cases remain in the single digits and observed cases in the double digits. It's not a far stretch to understand how countries in Africa, whose numbers have hit the thousands, are having trouble coping.

Ebola is tearing apart the fragile seams that hold families and communities together- especially in places where resources needed for daily living are already scarce. Most of what I read or see on the news is capable of bringing me to tears. (New mama hormones are an excellent strategy for increasing empathy-maybe it should be added to the water supplies.)   I try not to pass judgement but am lost in wonder when confronted with images of children suffering or dying alone.  Perhaps they are orphans, but thoughts of anyone spending their last days and hours in a haze of pain and loneliness is enough to  make me doubt the future of humanity.  If we could all be as heroic as this woman, than my faith might be restored. But we can never really know how we will respond to crisis in our family or in our community.  Maybe Ebola is more of a test of our humanity rather than a curse.  

Aside from our emotional reactions and spiritual safety, Ebola presents a real danger to pregnant women and medical caregivers- those charged with the physical future of humanity. I remain divided between the joy of my epiphany- we need other people when we are at our most vulnerable- and utter dismay- you mean we need other people when we are at our most vulnerable? I'm committed to being the other person.....now I just have to work at accepting help when I am most vulnerable. Which TV series is going to teach me how to do that?

The beauty of play

8OO kids in a group is probably not something most people can imagine, unless you happen to be a primary school teacher. My last school had a mere 3OO students and that included kindergarten through high school.  Though the elementary alone only had about 13O kids, we spent a good deal of time discussing recess.  Recess duty, recess rules, recess routines.

My initiation into recess in Kinshasa was shocking. I was fresh from the US with rigid rules and safeguards in place. The playground I encountered seemed to be a haven of hazardous behavior and children run amok. Over the years we worked to create regulations that were clear and consistent and contributed to the safety of students. There were challenges in getting children to understand and comply with the guidelines and getting adults to follow through with consistency. It seemed to be a constant work in process.  

In the French system duty is called service, aptly so, and thus far happily involves a lot less discussion. My first day at school here, the director outlined a few new protocols he wanted to try and we’ve been off and running ever since.  The kids are allowed to choose the area they want to play in. Apparently last year students were assigned areas on a rotating basis.  Supervision is handled by teachers and the ‘surveillance team.’  I really love this concept and they do an incredible job.  

Every Tuesday and Thursday I find myself on the covered basketball court watching an obscene number of children roam wild. We have 3 main areas for recess and so the entire population of students is somewhat spread out. It still works out to a swarm of children such as I have never seen in my life. I was in awe the first day. Actually, I’m in awe every Tuesday and Thursday.

My post is the basketball court, but I also keep an eye out on the soccer field and track surrounding it, the grassy area next to the court and the picnic tables. The court hosts 4 basketball games and something that resembles soccer, except they get to use their hands and throw the ball to make a goal.  In addition to all these games going on simultaneously, there are the random groups of kids just racing through and the ones having their snacks on the sidelines.

Over on the soccer field it appears to be equal mayhem. The running track that surrounds the field turns into a scooter derby as children race laps despite the games of tag, soccer offshoots and groups of giggling girls meandering by.

There is pushing and tugging, screaming and laughing. Kids fall down and friends offer a hand to pick them up.  They argue about who had the ball, who gets the ball, who is out and who is in and, most often, they resolve their dilemmas on their own. Rarely is an adult called on to intervene. The few times I had to talk to a group about rough play, they dispersed back into the crowd, disbanding and forming new groups, new games and new disputes. 

It’s beautiful play. Children being children. They are allowed the space to discover, explore, create, discuss, argue and problem solve.  They organize their time, some choosing to sit and eat before playing, some choosing to munch while they wander. They touch and tug, fall down and get back up. They win and lose. They share and refuse.  And they keep an eye out for us adults. 

I generally enjoy recess duty. I like the chance to be outside, to walk around and to see the games children play.  What I’ve noticed most about having so many kids out there playing together is that my presence is needed less. I still check in occasionally and there are a few that like to hang around and talk to me but usually only for a minute. It often seems that by the time I arrive on the scene, I’m no longer needed. Today I saw a boy lingering by the basketball hoop. He looked as though he might be feeling left out or trying to figure out how to join in. Just as I decided to go and talk with him, one of the kids from the basketball game swooped by, wrapped his arms around the boy and invited him to join in.  The boy refused, preferring to stay where he was by the post, but now I knew he wasn’t lonely or left out.

It feels good, this not being needed. It feels right. I’m there for safety only, for the serious stuff they can’t work out, and only after they’ve already tried.  It leaves me feeling a bit like an anthropologist.  Surrounded by masses of little people, I wander amongst them observing and discerning….what are they doing? I saw a group of boys today playing a game that looked similar to Mother May I? except they were striking poses and the ‘mother’ appeared to be doing everything in his power to make the others laugh or break pose. Turns out this game is called 1,2,3 Sun and that’s the most I could gather.  They seemed a bit suspicious of my questioning. I continued my observations from a distance and left them to go back to their beautiful play.

Child's Play

As I came around the corner, 15 goats appeared, charging at me. OK, perhaps it was more like 5. Most of the goats were slowly ambling in my direction as they munched on the grass and garbage lining the path. But just as I'd turned the corner a dark brown goat with mottled, curly hair and curved horns came bleating around the opposite corner at full charge. He was surrrounded by a pack of 3 or 4 younger goats following his lead. His rukus was enough to stir up 2 or 3 of the munching goats who left their nibbles to join the small pack of newly arrived and fleeing goats. They were all charging right at me.

I hadn't left home in the best of moods and it was still fairly early. Lost in my thoughts and the residue of morning haze, I was taken completely by surprise. I felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. I didn't know how to respond. Our nieghborhood is full of chickens, roosters, goats and stray dogs. I've never seen one of these animals pay the least amount of attention to any of the humans bustling around them and so have become complacent and relaxed enough to lay my fear of dogs aside and completely ignore- or amusedly steal peeks at- the animals around me. Maybe it was the horns on the male goat or maybe it was all the noise and motion the small pack created, disturbing the morning calm but I considered whether or not I should be frightened, or if I should run, or at the very least, step off the path and make room for them. I also had some time to wonder what it was that inspired such panic and half expected it to come barreling around the corner in chase, some grisly half-being from the pages of a Stephen King novel.

In the end, my thoughts were too slow to inspire movement, the goats too fast to wait for a reaction. They ran around me or became distracted by some tasty looking road debris and we each continued on our way, calmer, returned to original agendas.

I can't tell who owns the goats and have witnessed all number of children and adults chasing them off, but they are an amusing sight on our dirt streets, along with the roosters I saw peeking out of someone's garbage can, and add to the charm of the neighborhood. I remember being worried about moving to the big city of Abidjan. Looks liike I found a farm instead.

I suppose eventually I should get around to the story of Abidjan {keeping in mind not every country has a Congo like secret locked up in it's past or present.} I see the people crowd around the newspaper boards each morning catching the headlines. The boards are tall wooden rectangles tacked from top to bottom with the day's newspapers. You can't turn the pages, but you can join the crowds to read the front page headlines and get an inkling of what's happening, maybe decide to buy a copy.

I'm not ready to join the political know yet. I am still busy observing my neighborhood, enchanted with all the games children play. There are so many children around with so much energy and laughter. Maybe I just never found myself in the right spot in Kinshasa but it's something I don't remember. Kids skipping down the road, arms pinwheeling along side as if they can go faster and fly higher with sheer determination. Buying ice cream treats from the vendor squaking his bike horn as he pushes his cart of frozen goodies down the road. There are certain times in the afternoon and just before dusk when the streets are filled with summertime fun.

There is no shortage of hopscotch games. The squares are easily drawn in the dirt, even better if it is slightly wet and firmly packed after a rain. The version I see most often is the one that ends with a big circle after the two final squares.I remember this from my youth but I can't remember for what or how the circle is used.  There are plenty of bikes, though most are reserved for grown ups- a true form of transportation. I do see some kids tearing around on two wheelers, including thelittle guy who has a wire seat on the back of his bike and totes his little brother or cousin along with him. He makes it look effortless, but I know he must be strong to fly so fast over the sand.

There are giggling girls walking arm in arm, doing the teenage gossip thing, lingering just a bit longer at strategic corners where certain streets meet. Little kids with containers sit in full concetration filling, dumping, refilling. They are completely absorbed in their task and I can see their play is a serious affair.

My favorite? A group of kids who are often found in the front of what I assume to be their parents' shops. They are usually sitting in a line on the front stoop having some discussion or other. The day I saw them they each had a colorful container in front of them filled with an elaborate mud sculpture. And they were haggling fiercely. I remember playing store, buying up all the canned goods from the kitchen cupboard, but it never occured to me to dispute the price. I happily handed over my imaginary money, whatever amount was requested of me. But these kids? They argue. They discuss true value and worth, quantity and craftsmanship. They haggle with energy and mirth. No wonder I never stand a real chance in an African marketplace. They've been practicing since they were 6. Child's play is never really just play. But then, us educators have known that all along. 

Au rythm du pays

Now that it's finally time to leave, I still don't feel quite ready. Each year in Congo has been marked by some rhythm and this year, the rythm du pays. It's a common response to "Ca va?" and I tend to hear it more once the dry season has begun. In the rhythm of the country. I have come to understand it as meaning going with the ups and downs- but mostly it seems in reference to the downs. The struggles and constant battles for everyday survival the Congolese are so well known for.

I've come to accept so many things about the way life works here. I guess more than anything, year 4 has been about shedding my old rhythm and moving more in harmony with my environment.  Unexpected waits don't seem to bother me so much anymore. Run ins with traffic police have been scarce, traffic "rules" are more apparent to me now and I can blend in with the flow seamlessly. I've become acquainted with most of the good shortcuts (there is nothing quite as satisfying as averting those Kinshasa traffic jams with a good back street trail.) I've learned enough of the language to usually get the gist of a conversation, even if I can't really respond yet. I don't hear those horrific cries of mondele so much (except those cute kids who live across the street. I have seriously been thinking of going over to tell them my name so when I walk outside I can listen to chants of Soumah......) I can't really explain that last one, perhaps I just don't notice it anymore. I am still clearly a mondele, but maybe it is just that when I do hear it, it doesn't bother me. Acceptance. I am the outsider here and will always be so, thanks to my luminescent white skin ( I don't think I actually glow in the dark but sometimes walking around at night can make me feel like I do.)

Au rythm du pays basically means life is hard here, and then sometimes it gets a little bit better. But it's never really a sure thing, the getting better part, and I guess that suits me. I always have been one to do things the hard way, learn life's good lessons long after I should have, stubbornly persist when maybe I shouldn't.  Being here has become kind of comforting. We're all struggling for something.  And even if I still dream of Guinea and aspire to dancing in Senegal, America seems to be calling to me less and less. When I walk out the door there, it's just going to be an ordinary day.

When I walked out my door today, I passed an army truck overflowing with singing soldiers. I saw another wedding at the communal building and I passed two funerals. I was saluted by one red beret carrying a terrifically impressive weapon. (I'm still not quite comfortable saluting back, being a common citizen, so I just tried to make my eyes respectfully wide and gave a small head nod and a smile.) I listened to the music of the street vendors clicking, clacking and calling out their wares. Someone even called me mademoiselle. Africa must be making me younger.  I finally ended up at a graduation party for a six year old. They were celebrating her move to primary school. The music was loud, the food was plenty and the young boys were dancing joyously to their favorite Congolese hits. I marveled at the way they flawlessly performed the latest moves and I took sheer joy in their beauty and abandon. It could easily be a different story but that's what I left with. Images of children loving their life together. One good moment au rythm du pays.

In Plain English (or as close as I can come to it anyway..)

This is the kind of day that has me repeating to myself, 'I really love my life.' The fact of the matter is I have never felt this way before. I am cognizant each and every minute of the pleasure my life brings. The gratefulness to which I approach everything is a drastic turn from the previous me who was, basically, a shouting, raving lunatic- completely stressed out and unaware of how to overcome it all.

Most days the sun, with its nurturing heat and vibrant rays is enough to reduce me to a humble state. Today was one of those perfect days full of experience and exuberance. One of the teachers at school volunteers at an orphange (I believe there was a previous post about a trip we made there.) He arranged to have the kids come to campus and several teachers had them in for a 'class.' We made books in my room and it was fun. The kids were well mannered and quiet....so quiet. Of course, I did see them on the playground and I know what happens with a bit of freedom. But they had lunch and I made some watermelon slushies (which I don't think were actually a great hit, but they did seem to like the sandwiches...) Mohamed had a great time playing with all of the sports equipment and showing them how to use everything.

But that was not even the beginning of the perfect day. (Well, technically, that was the beginning, but that is not yet the perfect part, although it was a nice time.)

I had arranged for Jacques to come to Stand Proud with me this Saturday to do some drumming with the kids. Last week, as we drew, music played and some of the kids were dancing and moving. It seemed evident they would love to have some live music to groove to.

Walking in to ACDF, I felt at home. Ahhhh, these are the kids I know. Because we were a bit late, it seemed they had given up on me. Most had moved off to the bedrooms in search of an afternoon nap.
"Are we going to draw today?" one child asked me and I couldn't tell if it was hopefully or with lazy interest. I sent them off to gather the others for a great surprise.The children were immediately drawn to the drums and with Jacques' incredible spirit he easily inspired them to dance, sing and express themselves. Their eyes were filled with pure joy and excitement and smiles lifted every face. I felt completely happy to see them so caught up in the moment.  And it really was about the moment. I did not feel any need to think about longevity, sustainability or continuity. I just wanted a day of pure pleasure for these kids. And they got it. So did I.

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.

Orphan views

We finally made it today to the orphanage. It was a group trip which was not as weird as I’d thought it might be. The orphanage turned out to be typical in many ways that I expected but I also came away with some welcome and surprising revelations.

The area itself was quite beautiful. The grounds are spacious and well maintained. It was relatively clean and organized. It is quite large and has many buildings. There were infants quarters, a house for the girls and separate for the boys. There was a church area, clinic, dining hall, basket ball hoops and an area for volunteers who plan to stay for awhile. I did not take many photos because I felt I could never capture what I was seeing. I think it needs to be more than random photos, quick shots designed to elicit certain emotions. Maybe next time. Maybe after I've had a chance to spend some time.

When we arrived, most of the kids were at church. The babies were not and so we began with them. Typically heartbreaking, if such a phrase exists. The ones who could walk ran up with arms aloft, aching to be held. The ones that could not move just sat and cried. I picked up one small baby girl crying in the porch area. She was surrounded by flies and had an odor that I can still smell 9 hours and a hot shower later. I eventually managed to calm her and could not imagine how I would put her down again. Giving her to another adult was not an option as they were clearly busy with dressing some others and sorting through clothes. The hallway was scattered with babies sitting quiet and alone.

The handout of stuffed toys and lollipops began, and the children were happy. I managed to put my little princess down, rubbing her back and letting her play with my bracelets as I watched, with a mother’s horror, toddlers roaming with pops in their mouths. Some wondered how to open them while others were unconcerned about the wrapper and just began eating. I left her with a beaded memento and made my way outside. Children were all over, grabbing for sweets and plush toys. I could not really make sense of this scene, again feeling great waves of uselessness washing over me, threatening to knock me down.

The cry of my little friend brought me some purpose and I went back inside to see what had happened. It is difficult to know with a baby. I found Gloria lying on the floor clutching a stuffed seahorse someone had given her in exchange for the bracelet. I sat her up and patted her back. It seemed something was wrong with her foot- polio?- but it wasn’t really clear. Her eyes became focused on another child’s lollipop. She watched expectantly as an older girl opened the wrapper and then gave it to the toddler. This brought a fresh round of tears. I was really impressed by the young girl who, after a moment of consideration, reached into her pocket and took out her own lollipop. Gloria licked her lips. I’ve never seen a baby do this and all I could think of was how hungry she must be. She was pacified by the pop and I left her sitting there in the hallway.

The rest of the tour was equally heart wrenching. So many children and so few resources. It can be easy in this situation to make judgments and assumptions. Though I heard some, I tried to steer clear myself. I cannot really comprehend the daily management of four hundred children needing to be washed, cleaned, fed, supervised, entertained, held, attended to and kissed goodnight. Some things get sacrificed.

I was left to wonder what kind of life these children could aspire to. What is waiting for them? But it was comforting to know they all attend local schools. There is even some collaboration being worked on to connect the local English language institute with the older students. The language institute teaches them English and prepares them for tests that will enable them to apply to foreign colleges and universities. They also help with researching scholarships and visas. It is a broad gesture.

But I imagine the babies growing up in this life, detached and neglected in all but the most basic of needs and I wonder what is possible for them. This, just one orphanage. The feelings of inadequacy wash over me like huge tidal waves rolling in the open ocean. It’s too big of a picture with no solid ground in sight. Endless.

There were several other visitors to the orphanage that day and it is a successful place in the balance of things. I’m told we will do more with them as a school next year. And I can see the benefit of going just to read stories and hold some kids on my lap. It feels like a grain of sand.
I can’t understand why am I so content in Africa? In the midst of all this desperation and frustration, I’ve never felt so peaceful and complete. I can’t imagine being in any other place. There’s nowhere else to go. I did realize on the way home (that famous Kinshasa traffic so conducive to self-reflection) that perhaps my identification comes from being an orphan myself. For all intents and purposes, that is what I’ve been. Just now, I understand.


The children have actually formed a queue here to receive a treat. Many try to jump the line or get doubles but it was quite organized and calm compared to the earlier stampede for plush toys. One boy is holding a baby. I saw lots of tenderness between children here as well. They are caring for each other.

Playground Philosophy

"Is there a bad God?" Mohamed tilts his head as he asks me this over dinner.
"No." I think about it only for a minute, trying to figure out what he's heard lately, wondering if he is referring to a devil.
"Kagiso doesn't believe with Adam." I am patient as he talks about his classmates. I know eventually the story will come together, revealed in bits and pieces with clarity only at the end.
"Kagiso said God needs sleep and Adam said He didn't. Then Adam went away from Kagiso. They used to be best friends, but now they're not."

World politics reduced to its basic level. I love this moment, discussing the philosophies of the playground with my son as he grapples with the issues. I savour being able to steer him to the right path, knowing even as I do that it won't always be this simple. He won't always take my word as the deciding factor. Things are bound to get more complicated. But for now, we can revel in the innocence.