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.
20.6.09
13.6.09
The beautiful ugly
A few boys have come out into the street to show off their moves. They are rapping and dancing to music pulsating from behind two steel doors. The doors are painted a deep blue with orange diamonds in the middle. It is a small but busy street. A family has taken up residence in a nearby driveway overgrown with weeds. A fire burns down the road and at the end, across the street, I have a vision of two tents made from tarpulin, one blue the other brown. Various people emerge including two small children who've also come to the road to dance.
We're waiting outside ACDF or Stand Proud, as its known. It is a center that houses children and youth with leg disabilities. They are waiting for operations that will restore their mobility. The average stay is six months to a year. The children attend school, when possible, and also spend some time recuperating and learning how to navigate with their new braces or repaired limbs. Older recipients work in a nearby workshop making the braces.
The center itself is small but somehow spacious. There is a large courtyard with a tree placed in the center which provides a shady place and an air of comfort. The living room is large with several sofas and a television. Sleeping cots fill two corners and reach as high as the ceiling. The brown, plastic coverings invoke everything but images of sweet dreams and goodnight kisses.
African walls are difficult to keep clean and here is no exception. With a hundred children at least, the walls are marked with grime, handprints, smudges and layers of dirt. There is a slight perfume of urine in the air and many of the cushions exude a stronger scent. But the children have managed to assemble in the spacious openness of the salon, ever ready participants.
I've come with the boys to begin some kind of art groups and as I listen to the music of a hundred voices, I realize I have some serious organizing to do. We planned to work on the floor, as tables are a scarcity and many of the children have leg braces that prevent traditional chair and table work. The floor is a maze of children, casts, and crutches. I am praying every moment that I do not step on a tender limb as I pick my through trying to hand out materials. Mohamed is a great assistant and together we get the job done.
For this introduction I had asked the children to label the paper with their name and age and then to draw a picture of themselves with their friends or people they like. Djomas was my translator. It is difficult to tell his age but I felt in good hands. He is young, for sure, but also a former recipient who is now in daily charge.
Once the materials and task were presented, I made my way around trying to connect with the children, looking at their drawings and getting a sense of who they were. I was most struck by the subject matter. I didn't see a lot of people. I saw cars and flags and a few schools and houses.
"Where are you?" I asked again and again. Many pointed to their written names and said, "Here. I am here." I pressed them, asking if they were inside the car or behind the flag. In a desperate attempt to express myself, and uncertain if I was being understood, I drew a quick figure of myself with glasses and skirt, pointing out each as I added it. Although the older ones have a better understanding of French, I wanted to be sure I was making my point. He nodded his head. I promised to return to view his self-portrait. When I did, I found it looked amazingly like me, having done a much better and more detailed version of my quick sketch.
There were a few people, singers, muscled men, and soldiers. I didn't see any pictures of children playing or even just standing. I've thought a lot about this, their refusal to depict themselves. There was one boy who drew a detailed image of a brace, with straps and belts attached. The rest drew what they knew, I suppose, or what their neighbor was drawing.
It made me think of the way so many artists strive to acheive a child like freedom in their artwork. Here I was surrounded by children who were not accustomed to having the materials to express themselves with freedom. It will make me happy to see this barrier come down after months of working at the center.
I also decided that I will need to break them up into groups. We are going to work on images of ourselves. A brief talk with the director opened my mind to situation that many of these children are coming from. As handicapped children, they are thought of as less, undervalued and uninvested in. Lisa told me many of the children arrive too shy to speak. The time at the center proves to not only be a catalyst for physical movement and growth but emotional opening. They are suddenly surrounded by others going through their very experience. The older children serve as a model of hope and potential for the future, for a future.
It was a fast hour. The children drew, turned in their pictures and all the materials. Some even helped to resort the crayons by color and talk to Mohamed and Nabih as they finished up their drawings. I felt full of energy and light as I started the car. OK, now where? is what I was thinking.
Because coming back home, to this quiet, tranquil place means coming back to my state of reflection and meditation. It is necessary but lonely. The truth remains: in these last ten months there has been not one wish to be someone else, living another life, not one thought that darkness could be better than any light awaiting, not one sustained moment when I believed there was something I couldn't do. Instead, I have been full of challenging myself, pushing forward in spite of ignorance, unknowns and uncomfortable situations.
It is easy to do this here because everywhere I turn there is inspiration. I have only to look outside these walls and find people seemingly smaller, more incapable, more full of fright and insecurity than I. And they are all making it, every day, with a subtle joy. With this easy comparison, I suddenly feel full of possibility and purpose. It is within my ability to do something. And suddenly my life no longer seems like an ugly burden that I cannot manage. There is something beautiful here and I have begun to see it even inside of me.
It is difficult to post photos here, though I do have some. Posting them for now on FB and will return to try again....
We're waiting outside ACDF or Stand Proud, as its known. It is a center that houses children and youth with leg disabilities. They are waiting for operations that will restore their mobility. The average stay is six months to a year. The children attend school, when possible, and also spend some time recuperating and learning how to navigate with their new braces or repaired limbs. Older recipients work in a nearby workshop making the braces.
The center itself is small but somehow spacious. There is a large courtyard with a tree placed in the center which provides a shady place and an air of comfort. The living room is large with several sofas and a television. Sleeping cots fill two corners and reach as high as the ceiling. The brown, plastic coverings invoke everything but images of sweet dreams and goodnight kisses.
African walls are difficult to keep clean and here is no exception. With a hundred children at least, the walls are marked with grime, handprints, smudges and layers of dirt. There is a slight perfume of urine in the air and many of the cushions exude a stronger scent. But the children have managed to assemble in the spacious openness of the salon, ever ready participants.
I've come with the boys to begin some kind of art groups and as I listen to the music of a hundred voices, I realize I have some serious organizing to do. We planned to work on the floor, as tables are a scarcity and many of the children have leg braces that prevent traditional chair and table work. The floor is a maze of children, casts, and crutches. I am praying every moment that I do not step on a tender limb as I pick my through trying to hand out materials. Mohamed is a great assistant and together we get the job done.
For this introduction I had asked the children to label the paper with their name and age and then to draw a picture of themselves with their friends or people they like. Djomas was my translator. It is difficult to tell his age but I felt in good hands. He is young, for sure, but also a former recipient who is now in daily charge.
Once the materials and task were presented, I made my way around trying to connect with the children, looking at their drawings and getting a sense of who they were. I was most struck by the subject matter. I didn't see a lot of people. I saw cars and flags and a few schools and houses.
"Where are you?" I asked again and again. Many pointed to their written names and said, "Here. I am here." I pressed them, asking if they were inside the car or behind the flag. In a desperate attempt to express myself, and uncertain if I was being understood, I drew a quick figure of myself with glasses and skirt, pointing out each as I added it. Although the older ones have a better understanding of French, I wanted to be sure I was making my point. He nodded his head. I promised to return to view his self-portrait. When I did, I found it looked amazingly like me, having done a much better and more detailed version of my quick sketch.
There were a few people, singers, muscled men, and soldiers. I didn't see any pictures of children playing or even just standing. I've thought a lot about this, their refusal to depict themselves. There was one boy who drew a detailed image of a brace, with straps and belts attached. The rest drew what they knew, I suppose, or what their neighbor was drawing.
It made me think of the way so many artists strive to acheive a child like freedom in their artwork. Here I was surrounded by children who were not accustomed to having the materials to express themselves with freedom. It will make me happy to see this barrier come down after months of working at the center.
I also decided that I will need to break them up into groups. We are going to work on images of ourselves. A brief talk with the director opened my mind to situation that many of these children are coming from. As handicapped children, they are thought of as less, undervalued and uninvested in. Lisa told me many of the children arrive too shy to speak. The time at the center proves to not only be a catalyst for physical movement and growth but emotional opening. They are suddenly surrounded by others going through their very experience. The older children serve as a model of hope and potential for the future, for a future.
It was a fast hour. The children drew, turned in their pictures and all the materials. Some even helped to resort the crayons by color and talk to Mohamed and Nabih as they finished up their drawings. I felt full of energy and light as I started the car. OK, now where? is what I was thinking.
Because coming back home, to this quiet, tranquil place means coming back to my state of reflection and meditation. It is necessary but lonely. The truth remains: in these last ten months there has been not one wish to be someone else, living another life, not one thought that darkness could be better than any light awaiting, not one sustained moment when I believed there was something I couldn't do. Instead, I have been full of challenging myself, pushing forward in spite of ignorance, unknowns and uncomfortable situations.
It is easy to do this here because everywhere I turn there is inspiration. I have only to look outside these walls and find people seemingly smaller, more incapable, more full of fright and insecurity than I. And they are all making it, every day, with a subtle joy. With this easy comparison, I suddenly feel full of possibility and purpose. It is within my ability to do something. And suddenly my life no longer seems like an ugly burden that I cannot manage. There is something beautiful here and I have begun to see it even inside of me.
It is difficult to post photos here, though I do have some. Posting them for now on FB and will return to try again....
5.6.09
Finis
It is official. I have survived my first year teaching in Congo. I'm sitting in my class now feeling strangely let down. The children have all flown off to their exotic locale or been spirited away by drivers and nannies. It is a different world from the final days of past where the staff gathered to cheer and wave as the buses carted students off to their summer vacations spent in farm fields and dirt bike tracks.
It doesn't help that with the dry season comes gray skies and cool weather. The winter of Kinshasa is a dreary place. Perhaps I would feel differently if I, too, were jetting off to friends and family, but instead I feel somewhat lost and unprepared. The calendar of this international lifestyle rolls along with a force and speed of hurricane winds until slamming to a sudden halt almost unexpectedly. It's jarring.
In many ways, I have already jumped through my summer and am planning for December. I don't like this fast forward façon d'être. I want to slow down and enjoy every moment. It's concentric circles, life in an international school balanced with life in Africa.
Reflection? I have enjoyed this year immensely. I love the potential of the school and I have found that I truly am meant to be teaching. If there was a doubt about whether I was meant for this occupation, it is all cleared away. Professionally, its been an amazing year.
Personally? I am completely missing the vibrancy and rhythms of Afrique l'ouest. It is one of those situations that pulls from each limb, contrasting directions. This story is not over, truly just beginning. Never one to remain idle, I've already begun developing some project ideas to see me through until July. I am not entirely in love with Kinshasa, but for now, we get along.
It doesn't help that with the dry season comes gray skies and cool weather. The winter of Kinshasa is a dreary place. Perhaps I would feel differently if I, too, were jetting off to friends and family, but instead I feel somewhat lost and unprepared. The calendar of this international lifestyle rolls along with a force and speed of hurricane winds until slamming to a sudden halt almost unexpectedly. It's jarring.
In many ways, I have already jumped through my summer and am planning for December. I don't like this fast forward façon d'être. I want to slow down and enjoy every moment. It's concentric circles, life in an international school balanced with life in Africa.
Reflection? I have enjoyed this year immensely. I love the potential of the school and I have found that I truly am meant to be teaching. If there was a doubt about whether I was meant for this occupation, it is all cleared away. Professionally, its been an amazing year.
Personally? I am completely missing the vibrancy and rhythms of Afrique l'ouest. It is one of those situations that pulls from each limb, contrasting directions. This story is not over, truly just beginning. Never one to remain idle, I've already begun developing some project ideas to see me through until July. I am not entirely in love with Kinshasa, but for now, we get along.
23.5.09
Wildlife Academy
It's 4:30 am. I've been up for an hour and a half. I may have gone to bed too early. For me, this means something in the 8:30 or 9:00 range. I am finding my rhythms of sleep have become deeply disturbed. I realize the days and nights that I manage to I rise and fall in harmony with everyone else are really deviations from the pattern rather than a return to normal life.
Maybe being single again has something to do with my fractured sleep cycle. Maybe it is stress from events coming or maybe it is Africa, letting me know the natural world is too full of wonderous beauties waiting be drunk in, while life is too short to allow for adequate consumption.
It is the birds that keep me company in the early hours, and in the darkness of night? A mixture of human interactions, insect melodies, frogs that sound twice any size they could truly be, and numerous other unidentifiable night creatures. Maybe it is this mystery that prevents me from peaceful slumber.
Most recently we have discovered a new housemate- a mouse with a voracious appetite for fibers who is eating through all of our clothes. I see him nearly every evening, scurrying along the edges. I had thought he confined himself to one or two rooms, as he always came running along the path from the kitchen to my closet and then along the wall to my dresser. However, one evening when we were all sitting in the living room, I saw him come down the hall and round the corner into the kitchen. It seemed he had found my room empty and come to join us for a family fun night.
He cannot be caught. There are no mouse traps. I have requested several, was told they were searching Kinshasa, and finally, no, could not find any. I have a large metal rat trap reminniscent of the French guilloutine. He has eaten several snacks from there, being too small to actually trip the catch and so I've abandoned this idea altogether. I'm told to get a cat, but I can't quite get over the ragtag nature of most Congo cats long enough to actually let one in my house.
I did find a rather large lizard stuck on the back porch however. When I came home from school, he was clinging to the screen trying to figure out why he couldn't jump off into the bushes below. (Bushes=outside, lizard= inside.) He was not one of the cute little Santa Fe wall deco lizards that I usually see runnning along ceiling corners. He was big and meaty, one of the blue and orange lizards we like so much...from a distance. It was a Lucille Balle comedy hour trying to get him out. He ran one way, we ran the other. All the while I was shouting at Nabih to shut the door or he would run into the house (I'm wondering now if he might not have been able to catch the mouse. He was probably a gift I ran off.) Actually, I did not run him off. It was Mama Vero who got a broom and was chasing him around the porch while he skittered here and there full of fright and confusion. My method involved leaving the screen door open and letting him leave on his own good time while we huddled safely inside. She took a more direct approach.
I have had to take a direct approach in finding Nabih a school. While he is clearly getting some kind of education at home, learning French and how to ward off giant orange glo reptiles, it's time for something more. I have been visiting Kinshasa preschools and feel a bit like the lizard stuck on my back porch. The whole process is dizzying and disorienting.
I was willing to consent to the first school we saw, mostly because I know several other families that go there and it is close. The program itself was not impressive, but acceptable. We visited the class for an hour and saw (many) children working in small groups. They had a numbers area on the carpet, a writing area and two reading areas. One adult was at each table and worked with the children individually. There was a cute row of blackboards, child height, and the one or two kids working here were supposed to be copying words from the wall. Some children spent a bit of time sitting and waiting for an adult to help them and some also got books to read and sat on the carpet. I didn't see any toys, but there was a bookshelf with some unidentifiable stuff packed in bags and boxes. Looked like a few puzzles and maybe a building toy. The kids appeared to spend most of their time deeply focused on academics. Just as we were leaving, a whole group lesson had them sitting on the floor trying to remember the names of garden plants. It seemed a ridiculous lesson with difficult words to remember. It did include a song and a few examples of real plants which the kids got a turn touching.
This mediocre school later informed me, on what was to be Nabih's first day, that he needed to cut his hair. I was inscensed on several levels and we left there with me a raving lunatic- something I'm not usually prone to here in the DRC. I did run into the director later that weekend while shopping and she assured me the whole thing was a huge mistake, but damage done.
I took a morning off to visit two other schools. One run also by an Indian woman and operating on the British curriculum. This was a very small school and only had six children in the class we went to visit. Each child sat at a table and everyone faced a chalkboard. The floor was cement, no carpet and no open place to play. The small tables took up the entire area. There were no visible toys and no books. There were, I was assured, puzzles and toys locked up in bins in the cabinet. Illuminating word choice. There were textbooks (yes, in preschool) and notebooks filled with children's letters and numbers. There was even some addition. I was also shown a small notebook filled with drawings and dictations. We did not stay to visit in this class and were not invited to do so. There was a much older girl sitting at one of the tables and it is unclear what her role or purpose for being there was (punishment? helper? During the presentation of notebooks to me, the children, in their neglect, had begun a general discussion about whose turn it was to write on the board and what exactly should be written. There was some quarreling and the girl didn't move or say a word, so I'm guessing punishment was the reason for her presence.)
We visited another class, same set up- cement floors, chalkboard, small tables, children writing. I was told about monthly contests for handwriting and poetry recitation. I was told events inspired the kids to do better as they compared themselves to how well others did and developed a sense of competetion. I kept trying to balance the idea of such academic focus with the developmental need to play and explore. Does copying the word twenty-nine really mean something when you're four? In trying to be careful not to view everything with an American ego, I wonder if there isn't something to pushing our children to BEGIN early and get started on the race of good grades and high marks and recitiation.
It wasn't long before images of my own students came to mind. The phone calls I get asking, "Ms. Soumah, what does it mean when they say infer?"
And.."What am I supposed to do for number 4? It says what do you think...?"
I'm not ready to give up my ideas of American education yet. So with these images I headed off to the Belgian school, reported to have a great pre-k program, albeit in French.
I was in not in great humor uppon arriving. I'd been disarmed by the previous school who told me Nabih would have to pass a test to get in (yeah, to preschool. But "I'm sure you can teach him what he needs to know..." If I could do this, I wouldn't be looking for a school. We talked about the social aspects and finally she clarified the test as one to establish a baseline but I was basically feeling hopeless.)
I arrived at the office and hazily comprehended the French instructions about admissions process. I asked if I could see a class and I got directions. To go. Alone. It seemed bizarre to me- a stranger, given the go ahead to walk around the campus, unaided.
In order to get to the maternelle side, I had first to pass through a locked gate by the security post. I stopped and peered into the first classroom I saw with an open door. Two teachers were painting at easles and behind them were the children. Wonderous children! Laughing, playing, imagining, creating, sitting-on-top-of-the-tables children. I breathed in the sight. It was familiar and comforting. A teacher noticed me and came to talk. I discovered they were preparing for a parent carnival and so all of the classes have gathered together this day and things were not running as usual. She offered to show me another classroom where I saw carpets, tables, paintings on the walls and TOYS. Lots of toys in plastic tubs and cubby compartments. I saw signs everywhere of living, breathing, thinking children. She was cheerful and bright as she explained the program. She attempted several times to connect with Nabih, who remained his surly self. As we departed, she remarked on his hair, "Tres kool."
I rode back home with happy visions of the wild school, the full of life school, the play and have fun while creating with new friends school. And I try to convert Euros to dollars. The wildlife academy quickly becomes the unaffordable academy. But I can't stop seeing the little girl sitting on top of the table, flying her lego plane through air. It's an image I can sleep with.
Maybe being single again has something to do with my fractured sleep cycle. Maybe it is stress from events coming or maybe it is Africa, letting me know the natural world is too full of wonderous beauties waiting be drunk in, while life is too short to allow for adequate consumption.
It is the birds that keep me company in the early hours, and in the darkness of night? A mixture of human interactions, insect melodies, frogs that sound twice any size they could truly be, and numerous other unidentifiable night creatures. Maybe it is this mystery that prevents me from peaceful slumber.
Most recently we have discovered a new housemate- a mouse with a voracious appetite for fibers who is eating through all of our clothes. I see him nearly every evening, scurrying along the edges. I had thought he confined himself to one or two rooms, as he always came running along the path from the kitchen to my closet and then along the wall to my dresser. However, one evening when we were all sitting in the living room, I saw him come down the hall and round the corner into the kitchen. It seemed he had found my room empty and come to join us for a family fun night.
He cannot be caught. There are no mouse traps. I have requested several, was told they were searching Kinshasa, and finally, no, could not find any. I have a large metal rat trap reminniscent of the French guilloutine. He has eaten several snacks from there, being too small to actually trip the catch and so I've abandoned this idea altogether. I'm told to get a cat, but I can't quite get over the ragtag nature of most Congo cats long enough to actually let one in my house.
I did find a rather large lizard stuck on the back porch however. When I came home from school, he was clinging to the screen trying to figure out why he couldn't jump off into the bushes below. (Bushes=outside, lizard= inside.) He was not one of the cute little Santa Fe wall deco lizards that I usually see runnning along ceiling corners. He was big and meaty, one of the blue and orange lizards we like so much...from a distance. It was a Lucille Balle comedy hour trying to get him out. He ran one way, we ran the other. All the while I was shouting at Nabih to shut the door or he would run into the house (I'm wondering now if he might not have been able to catch the mouse. He was probably a gift I ran off.) Actually, I did not run him off. It was Mama Vero who got a broom and was chasing him around the porch while he skittered here and there full of fright and confusion. My method involved leaving the screen door open and letting him leave on his own good time while we huddled safely inside. She took a more direct approach.
I have had to take a direct approach in finding Nabih a school. While he is clearly getting some kind of education at home, learning French and how to ward off giant orange glo reptiles, it's time for something more. I have been visiting Kinshasa preschools and feel a bit like the lizard stuck on my back porch. The whole process is dizzying and disorienting.
I was willing to consent to the first school we saw, mostly because I know several other families that go there and it is close. The program itself was not impressive, but acceptable. We visited the class for an hour and saw (many) children working in small groups. They had a numbers area on the carpet, a writing area and two reading areas. One adult was at each table and worked with the children individually. There was a cute row of blackboards, child height, and the one or two kids working here were supposed to be copying words from the wall. Some children spent a bit of time sitting and waiting for an adult to help them and some also got books to read and sat on the carpet. I didn't see any toys, but there was a bookshelf with some unidentifiable stuff packed in bags and boxes. Looked like a few puzzles and maybe a building toy. The kids appeared to spend most of their time deeply focused on academics. Just as we were leaving, a whole group lesson had them sitting on the floor trying to remember the names of garden plants. It seemed a ridiculous lesson with difficult words to remember. It did include a song and a few examples of real plants which the kids got a turn touching.
This mediocre school later informed me, on what was to be Nabih's first day, that he needed to cut his hair. I was inscensed on several levels and we left there with me a raving lunatic- something I'm not usually prone to here in the DRC. I did run into the director later that weekend while shopping and she assured me the whole thing was a huge mistake, but damage done.
I took a morning off to visit two other schools. One run also by an Indian woman and operating on the British curriculum. This was a very small school and only had six children in the class we went to visit. Each child sat at a table and everyone faced a chalkboard. The floor was cement, no carpet and no open place to play. The small tables took up the entire area. There were no visible toys and no books. There were, I was assured, puzzles and toys locked up in bins in the cabinet. Illuminating word choice. There were textbooks (yes, in preschool) and notebooks filled with children's letters and numbers. There was even some addition. I was also shown a small notebook filled with drawings and dictations. We did not stay to visit in this class and were not invited to do so. There was a much older girl sitting at one of the tables and it is unclear what her role or purpose for being there was (punishment? helper? During the presentation of notebooks to me, the children, in their neglect, had begun a general discussion about whose turn it was to write on the board and what exactly should be written. There was some quarreling and the girl didn't move or say a word, so I'm guessing punishment was the reason for her presence.)
We visited another class, same set up- cement floors, chalkboard, small tables, children writing. I was told about monthly contests for handwriting and poetry recitation. I was told events inspired the kids to do better as they compared themselves to how well others did and developed a sense of competetion. I kept trying to balance the idea of such academic focus with the developmental need to play and explore. Does copying the word twenty-nine really mean something when you're four? In trying to be careful not to view everything with an American ego, I wonder if there isn't something to pushing our children to BEGIN early and get started on the race of good grades and high marks and recitiation.
It wasn't long before images of my own students came to mind. The phone calls I get asking, "Ms. Soumah, what does it mean when they say infer?"
And.."What am I supposed to do for number 4? It says what do you think...?"
I'm not ready to give up my ideas of American education yet. So with these images I headed off to the Belgian school, reported to have a great pre-k program, albeit in French.
I was in not in great humor uppon arriving. I'd been disarmed by the previous school who told me Nabih would have to pass a test to get in (yeah, to preschool. But "I'm sure you can teach him what he needs to know..." If I could do this, I wouldn't be looking for a school. We talked about the social aspects and finally she clarified the test as one to establish a baseline but I was basically feeling hopeless.)
I arrived at the office and hazily comprehended the French instructions about admissions process. I asked if I could see a class and I got directions. To go. Alone. It seemed bizarre to me- a stranger, given the go ahead to walk around the campus, unaided.
In order to get to the maternelle side, I had first to pass through a locked gate by the security post. I stopped and peered into the first classroom I saw with an open door. Two teachers were painting at easles and behind them were the children. Wonderous children! Laughing, playing, imagining, creating, sitting-on-top-of-the-tables children. I breathed in the sight. It was familiar and comforting. A teacher noticed me and came to talk. I discovered they were preparing for a parent carnival and so all of the classes have gathered together this day and things were not running as usual. She offered to show me another classroom where I saw carpets, tables, paintings on the walls and TOYS. Lots of toys in plastic tubs and cubby compartments. I saw signs everywhere of living, breathing, thinking children. She was cheerful and bright as she explained the program. She attempted several times to connect with Nabih, who remained his surly self. As we departed, she remarked on his hair, "Tres kool."
I rode back home with happy visions of the wild school, the full of life school, the play and have fun while creating with new friends school. And I try to convert Euros to dollars. The wildlife academy quickly becomes the unaffordable academy. But I can't stop seeing the little girl sitting on top of the table, flying her lego plane through air. It's an image I can sleep with.
14.5.09
Summer Fever
The children have it bad. It is even infecting me. With only three weeks left to go, we're all dreaming of summer. Even as I take time to reflect, I am caught up in the changes that are swirling around us. The migration beings. This morning I received a letter indicating that this week would be the last week for a student. Today is Thursday. This week is practically over. I see tears forming just behind the eyes as I talk to her and try to determine excatly what the travel dates are.
This is the ritual. Late arrivals, early departures and all of it unexpected and sudden. Beyond control. Having just read "Third Culture Kids," I am aware that this is the culture we're talking about: a culture of constant change and inevitablity. It adds a completely new dimension to the experience of a school year. I have witnessed the skipping of social steps in order to form quicker, more intense friendships. No one has time for small talk. They've been through it all before.
This year I have taught the touchy-feelingest, footsie-playingest group of boys I think I will ever know. It has been difficult for me to balance the constant disruption of all their back patting, foot rubbing, shoulder poking behavior with what I recognize as their unabashed craving to be comforted. I've always noticed with admiration the way African men will grab each other by the arm or hold hands while walking with a close friend, but these are eleven year old boys that think nothing of giving each other shoulder rubs while watching the high school choir during an assembly. They walk arm in arm on the way to lunch as if they might not make it were they to attempt the journey alone.
Some of them have known each other for a few years, some met just this past August. They have found a way to support each other and to really live here and now. It has made some of our class events take on an even greater sense of importance. We are marking moments of time that will be forever remembered as, "When I lived in Kinshasa, I remember we..." It's like teaching school and summer camp all rolled into one. Only these kids don't have next summer's reunion to look forward to. When they say goodbye, it will most likely be forever.
I am closing this year with a real sense of accomplishment. It comes from our community service project, which had initially caused me so much grief because we could not provide a sustainable gift. I have received something more from this experience than I expected and I suspect it is what will sustain me to keep pursuing these kinds of experiences.
The project began with the students writing very funny skits- spoofs of traditional fairy tales with an environmental theme. The dinner theater was a great success. The plays went well, the kids served spaghetti and everyone enjoyed the cookies they baked for dessert. We raised a respectable amount of money.
I finally connected with the right people and we decided to spend half of the money on trees to help stop erosion at a local orphanage. The other half of the money would go towards clean water packets to be donated to children at Stand Proud (www.standproud.org)- an amazing organization that provides surgeries and braces for kids with missing or malformed limbs.
What has stunned me about my students is that, in just this last week, they have translated one of the plays into French and are going to perform it during the donation ceremony. Of course, we’ve yet to see how it will turn out, but it is their sheer confidence that dazzles me. Rewrite our play into another language? Perform it before 200+ people and be filmed while doing so? Give up our free time to practice and our Saturday to perform? Yeah, no problem. We can do it. We can do anything. And I believe them. This whole event seemed to get bigger than we wanted or anticipated. The company that has asked to film the event for use in advertising and promoting the PUR water packets is another exceptional organization (http://www.psi.org) working in Congo to provide health products to low income families at cost.
Working with the people at these two places and exposing my students to their capabilities of making real change has given me one small breath of hope and inspiration. Maybe I am doing something useful after all.
This is the ritual. Late arrivals, early departures and all of it unexpected and sudden. Beyond control. Having just read "Third Culture Kids," I am aware that this is the culture we're talking about: a culture of constant change and inevitablity. It adds a completely new dimension to the experience of a school year. I have witnessed the skipping of social steps in order to form quicker, more intense friendships. No one has time for small talk. They've been through it all before.
This year I have taught the touchy-feelingest, footsie-playingest group of boys I think I will ever know. It has been difficult for me to balance the constant disruption of all their back patting, foot rubbing, shoulder poking behavior with what I recognize as their unabashed craving to be comforted. I've always noticed with admiration the way African men will grab each other by the arm or hold hands while walking with a close friend, but these are eleven year old boys that think nothing of giving each other shoulder rubs while watching the high school choir during an assembly. They walk arm in arm on the way to lunch as if they might not make it were they to attempt the journey alone.
Some of them have known each other for a few years, some met just this past August. They have found a way to support each other and to really live here and now. It has made some of our class events take on an even greater sense of importance. We are marking moments of time that will be forever remembered as, "When I lived in Kinshasa, I remember we..." It's like teaching school and summer camp all rolled into one. Only these kids don't have next summer's reunion to look forward to. When they say goodbye, it will most likely be forever.
I am closing this year with a real sense of accomplishment. It comes from our community service project, which had initially caused me so much grief because we could not provide a sustainable gift. I have received something more from this experience than I expected and I suspect it is what will sustain me to keep pursuing these kinds of experiences.
The project began with the students writing very funny skits- spoofs of traditional fairy tales with an environmental theme. The dinner theater was a great success. The plays went well, the kids served spaghetti and everyone enjoyed the cookies they baked for dessert. We raised a respectable amount of money.
I finally connected with the right people and we decided to spend half of the money on trees to help stop erosion at a local orphanage. The other half of the money would go towards clean water packets to be donated to children at Stand Proud (www.standproud.org)- an amazing organization that provides surgeries and braces for kids with missing or malformed limbs.
What has stunned me about my students is that, in just this last week, they have translated one of the plays into French and are going to perform it during the donation ceremony. Of course, we’ve yet to see how it will turn out, but it is their sheer confidence that dazzles me. Rewrite our play into another language? Perform it before 200+ people and be filmed while doing so? Give up our free time to practice and our Saturday to perform? Yeah, no problem. We can do it. We can do anything. And I believe them. This whole event seemed to get bigger than we wanted or anticipated. The company that has asked to film the event for use in advertising and promoting the PUR water packets is another exceptional organization (http://www.psi.org) working in Congo to provide health products to low income families at cost.
Working with the people at these two places and exposing my students to their capabilities of making real change has given me one small breath of hope and inspiration. Maybe I am doing something useful after all.
5.5.09
31 flavors
I have been imploring my students for months to open with a good beginning, a hook. In the interest of practicing my own preachings, I set out to find a number....a large number, the estimated population of Kinshasa. I stumbled upon an amazing account of life in Kinshasa written by Mayamba Thierry NLANDU, Professor of English Literature at the University of Kinshasa (Congo) http://i-p-o.org/kinshasa.htm
5 to 7 million was the number I had been looking for. Apparently no one really knows how many people live in Kinshasa, sprawling as it is, desparate and uncountable thousands living in cramped and unknowable conditions. Professor Nlandu writes an accurate and intriguing account of the city's urban and suburban counterparts and their reaction to the environment they struggle against daily. He writes of the lively and expressive night life (of which I have only heard rumors...) and the role of violence and poverty. It seems a hopeless and dismal situation and he hides nothing. It seemed a fair portrait of a people who have travelled so far to overcome their history, though it might appear a stagnate pace to one ignorant of the journey.
Nlandu writes of a comparison between the urban and suburban dwellers of the city, and so perhaps a bit out of context, but inherently relevant, is his comment,
"Materially poor persons, all of them do 'not have' many things. That is why they should concentrate on the inner strength of their 'being' to retain a feeling of human dignity."
And to think I was just going to write about going out for an ice cream. Because that's what was on my mind. I joined the FB network, initially to try and entice readers here. I've since come to see it is pure expression that keeps this blog rolling and, while readers make me feel validated and even interesting, it is not an essential component for posting. I publish because I must.
FB has become an altogether different kind of outlet, a place for small talk and cryptic messages. Once in awhile, the two collide. Because, as I've written, we are feeling an effort at maintaining our human dignity here. We want simple things like cold cereal and ice cream. It was with determination that I vowed to bring the boys out to the new ice cream shop, even if it cost more than our monthly grocery bill. Just once, we were going to have some fun.
The FB part of me says, yeah, tres kool- great new spot in Kin-city. And it is. New and clean with walls of a deep, purple mauve reminiscent of blackberry ice cream. Silver chrome stools lined up along a counter and mirrored backdrops hanging behind a soft cushioned booth. Pale green chairs and tables complimenting the walls in the way only a sock-hop, cone-shop could. The flat screen TV, however, breaks the innocence with its explicit images of music video lust and illusion. This is Kinshasa, after all.
We enjoyed our cones wrapped in dripping, soggy napkins. The boys wished they could try every flavor and I watched with interest the families and couples that came through the door, eager, like us, to feel something akin to 'normal.' A simple pleasure, a quick treat.
But in Congo, its always more than that. Two worlds collide. Outside the door awaits the ever present security. An impressive guard, this one I saw. Tall, uniformed and active. Very active. The gangs of kids just outside the parking lot, on the small, narrow street band together in their hunger. They take bold steps towards patrons leaving the shop and try to outwit the guard by dividing into teams and flanking opposite sides of the cars. It is not so much the physical need that motivates them but an inner hunger, that seeking for human dignity Nlandu writes of.
It is this agony and desperation, cultivated through no error of their own, that invades my ability to enjoy a quiet evening. It is palpable in the air, vivid in their eyes and screaming in their actions. It is such an overwhelming feeling of unjust and incomprehension. I see it. I hear their silent question repeated so often it unleashes a furious righteousness. Why? Why do they have so much when we have nothing? Why do they eat colorful ice creams and drive away in shiny cars while we tour these streets in mismatched shoes and ragged clothes? Why them and not us?
There's no answer. After our treat, we went to the river. There is a quiet, peaceful place by the embassy residences where many families come to walk, ride bikes and take a casual stroll. It has, again, a feeling of harmony and well being. For the etranger, it is a nostalgic feeling of home, where one could walk safely down a street or let their children loose on tricycles and scooters. The houses are well built and maintained. The roads- impeccable, no sign of erosion in sight.
5 to 7 million was the number I had been looking for. Apparently no one really knows how many people live in Kinshasa, sprawling as it is, desparate and uncountable thousands living in cramped and unknowable conditions. Professor Nlandu writes an accurate and intriguing account of the city's urban and suburban counterparts and their reaction to the environment they struggle against daily. He writes of the lively and expressive night life (of which I have only heard rumors...) and the role of violence and poverty. It seems a hopeless and dismal situation and he hides nothing. It seemed a fair portrait of a people who have travelled so far to overcome their history, though it might appear a stagnate pace to one ignorant of the journey.
Nlandu writes of a comparison between the urban and suburban dwellers of the city, and so perhaps a bit out of context, but inherently relevant, is his comment,
"Materially poor persons, all of them do 'not have' many things. That is why they should concentrate on the inner strength of their 'being' to retain a feeling of human dignity."
And to think I was just going to write about going out for an ice cream. Because that's what was on my mind. I joined the FB network, initially to try and entice readers here. I've since come to see it is pure expression that keeps this blog rolling and, while readers make me feel validated and even interesting, it is not an essential component for posting. I publish because I must.
FB has become an altogether different kind of outlet, a place for small talk and cryptic messages. Once in awhile, the two collide. Because, as I've written, we are feeling an effort at maintaining our human dignity here. We want simple things like cold cereal and ice cream. It was with determination that I vowed to bring the boys out to the new ice cream shop, even if it cost more than our monthly grocery bill. Just once, we were going to have some fun.
The FB part of me says, yeah, tres kool- great new spot in Kin-city. And it is. New and clean with walls of a deep, purple mauve reminiscent of blackberry ice cream. Silver chrome stools lined up along a counter and mirrored backdrops hanging behind a soft cushioned booth. Pale green chairs and tables complimenting the walls in the way only a sock-hop, cone-shop could. The flat screen TV, however, breaks the innocence with its explicit images of music video lust and illusion. This is Kinshasa, after all.
We enjoyed our cones wrapped in dripping, soggy napkins. The boys wished they could try every flavor and I watched with interest the families and couples that came through the door, eager, like us, to feel something akin to 'normal.' A simple pleasure, a quick treat.
But in Congo, its always more than that. Two worlds collide. Outside the door awaits the ever present security. An impressive guard, this one I saw. Tall, uniformed and active. Very active. The gangs of kids just outside the parking lot, on the small, narrow street band together in their hunger. They take bold steps towards patrons leaving the shop and try to outwit the guard by dividing into teams and flanking opposite sides of the cars. It is not so much the physical need that motivates them but an inner hunger, that seeking for human dignity Nlandu writes of.
It is this agony and desperation, cultivated through no error of their own, that invades my ability to enjoy a quiet evening. It is palpable in the air, vivid in their eyes and screaming in their actions. It is such an overwhelming feeling of unjust and incomprehension. I see it. I hear their silent question repeated so often it unleashes a furious righteousness. Why? Why do they have so much when we have nothing? Why do they eat colorful ice creams and drive away in shiny cars while we tour these streets in mismatched shoes and ragged clothes? Why them and not us?
There's no answer. After our treat, we went to the river. There is a quiet, peaceful place by the embassy residences where many families come to walk, ride bikes and take a casual stroll. It has, again, a feeling of harmony and well being. For the etranger, it is a nostalgic feeling of home, where one could walk safely down a street or let their children loose on tricycles and scooters. The houses are well built and maintained. The roads- impeccable, no sign of erosion in sight.
I do enjoy our walk. I enjoy sitting on the grass and talking with a friend while my boys climb trees and roll down a hill. I enjoy it because I must. It is a break from the constant sense of need that follows me whenever I go beyond the gates. But I cannot stop my own questions from rolling through my mind. I cannot stop my own anger and furious frustration.
If it can be built here, why not everywhere? Why is the suitable only developed for the elite? My mind cries with anguish at the images of an Africa living up to her potential, an Africa built to maintain the human dignity of her people. I can imagine the magnificence of such a place, more difficult to see is the road leading up to it.
Kinshasa the lush and green and plentiful. Well, at least from this perspective.
28.4.09
100 proof
I enjoy navigating the roads of Kinshasa, never knowing for sure how a trek through a 'puddle' might turn out. I don't drive to the village, however, as it is quite a distance and appears to require some careful negotiations. There are some areas where the road narrows and police sit in plastic chairs, manning each side. I have noticed the driver, Charles, and others in the car nodding and waving to them as we pass. I assume they know each other, and that without that connection it might be difficult for one to pass unheeded.I have seen such casual things on the quiet, country roads and always imagine what it would be like to walk them myself. Machetes and machine guns are not unusual. Unfortunately, a white woman walking would definately be.
This last trip, as we were leaving, two of the men generally manning their post from plastic waved us down by the side of the road. There was some discussion in rapid, loud Lingala and I tried to determine the mood of the conversation.
It wasn't easy. There were handshakes and greetings, smiles, head nods but also, clearly, debate. I am always fascinated by how others deal with the shake-down, ever eager to pick up tips. Charles is particularly impressive with his social skills, so I paid close attention. As I heard numbers being thrown around, one of the men left to get something.
He returned with a bottle of whiskey so potent my nose burned with the scent of it. It was offered to the men in the car, refused only by one, enjoyed by two. Admist laughter and male bonding, we drove off. Didn't see it coming but I guess I wasn't completely surprised either. What did I think they were doing all day in the hot sun in their white plastic chairs?
After everyone else had been dropped off, Charles headed to bring me home. It was then that we came across the water route shown above. I feel a kindredness with Charles because he is a skilled and sometimes crazy driver. As he peered out at the water road, I knew what he was thinking. I could almost hear him calculating the turn around time and the huge traffic jam awaiting us if we were forced to take an alternate route. I could see him judging the outer edges of the road and even the distance of the sidewalk. I could sense how badly he just wanted to go for it. We sat there watching the road for awhile, contemplating.
Of course it was impossible. We turned around. He found another passage and we got off again. I became amazed by the people taking shelter under roof overhangs and on small porches. They appeared all lined up along the side of the road, waiting.
It seems so bizarre that life stops for the rain. Everything is on pause. Rain is not new to Africa and I wonder why, in this case, people choose just to stop rather than adapt. Stalls close down, goods get wrapped up and people huddle in small dry spaces patiently watching the water tumble from the sky.
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