As I rounded the corner, I saw an oasis of girls gliding down the lane. They were an African postcard image, 4 girls, different heights but all long and thin carrying a variety of bowls, bags and baskets on their heads. They were young and wearing dusty clothes with shiny smiles which only seemed to grow as the road between us shortened.
The sandy path we shared didn't allow for much more than 2 people to pass. As they shifted into single file, one of the girls looked up at me, her smile growing so wide and so bright I began to wonder if I had something on my face. I'd come from painting and had washed my hands well, but I hadn't even looked in the mirror. They greeted me with choruses of "Bonjour Tantie" and just as I was imagining streaks of blue and orange running jagged across my chin, the little girl with a smile that made her eyes dance exploded into giggles. "Tu est jolie-deh," she said, clearly unable to keep her thoughts inside.
The group moved past quickly, talking and laughing among themselves. I didn't even get a chance to say I'd been thinking the same thing about them.
3.7.16
25.6.16
With writer's eyes
It's clear to see I've stopped writing. More fearful to me, I wonder if I have stopped seeing. I don't think so, but a morsel of doubt remains. Enough to make me double my efforts in observation.
My summer goal of taking up painting again set me out once more on an adventure in search of materials, more determined this time to learn the names that are constantly changing. Canvas in English, calico in Kinshasa, critonne in Abidjan. I've mastered Adjame, that overflowing ever bustling market city that used to intimidate me- and I use mastered loosely. My sense of direction still mostly consists of hoping to stumble upon whatever I am looking for- though I think I have the fabric district down fairly well. I use mastered mostly to suggest I have overcome my fear of walking the streets and getting lost. That is the adventure part after all, no?
I'm still in search of the local version of gesso, though I have a name and (yet another) lead. But somehow, hopping gbakas and woro-woros and finally succumbing to over priced orange taxis was less of an inspiration than I remember. In Kinshasa, I had a blog post or two filling my mind with all the sights and interactions. But today- a Friday- I noticed only how the Muslim beggars suddenly had more children sleeping near them on the plastic mats they place street side. I wanted to scoop those children up and get them someplace quiet, someplace clean. I wanted to admonish the surprisingly well dressed women for even bringing them out there. The hurt has always been there, but the anger? It's something new.
Our journey started out amiably enough. We accosted a painter in his outdoor studio and grilled him with questions about what and where we could find materials. He was friendly enough and helpful enough and even accepted my (rather rude?) self-invitation to come back and paint together. There was such a beautiful breeze and so much greeness surrounding him in the vacant lot. I am nearly desperate to find that artistic connection again. I may have been a little forward.
We followed his advice only to end up across town at exactly 12:00- siesta time apparently. The store, the only store that sells the one thing I need, is closed from 12-2. What to do? We sat for a bit, talking with workers strolling aimlessly about on their 2 hour break. I refused to believe it could be this difficult.
Eventually, they sent us off to (impossibly) another hardware store- we'd already spent the previous day in Adjame following false leads. I tried to be more positive and less doubtful, though it got harder with every short-cut turn the driver took, leading us deeper into side street villages tucked unsuspectingly behind city storefronts.
When the driver finally announced our arrival in front of an unremarkable corner quincaillerie much like all the other hardware stores we'd visited, I tried to hold out hope. There was a row of women (and a few men) sitting in chairs along one side of the opening. Ousmane remarked on their style of dress, guessing them to be Guineen. His plethora of West African languages often comes in handy when navigating shopping stalls, bargaining for fruit prices or even changing a dull taxi ride into one of brotherhood.
The people along the entrance didn't look friendly though. They looked regal. I'm not sure if it was Ramadan, or Friday, or Friday and Ramadan or just regular regal wear for them but they were definitely dressed in their best. And it's not that I didn't notice it, it's just the way I noticed it. Later. After I was inspecting paint cans and wondering what trap eau meant exactly. I did admire one man's cap, sitting at an angle on his head, and the embroidery that lends the royal air to so much of Guineen clothing design. But my admiration was buried under my frustration and hunger and disenchantment. I forgot to see the beauty first. I forgot to look with writer's eyes and find the story.
Too often lately I have been forgetting.
My summer goal of taking up painting again set me out once more on an adventure in search of materials, more determined this time to learn the names that are constantly changing. Canvas in English, calico in Kinshasa, critonne in Abidjan. I've mastered Adjame, that overflowing ever bustling market city that used to intimidate me- and I use mastered loosely. My sense of direction still mostly consists of hoping to stumble upon whatever I am looking for- though I think I have the fabric district down fairly well. I use mastered mostly to suggest I have overcome my fear of walking the streets and getting lost. That is the adventure part after all, no?
I'm still in search of the local version of gesso, though I have a name and (yet another) lead. But somehow, hopping gbakas and woro-woros and finally succumbing to over priced orange taxis was less of an inspiration than I remember. In Kinshasa, I had a blog post or two filling my mind with all the sights and interactions. But today- a Friday- I noticed only how the Muslim beggars suddenly had more children sleeping near them on the plastic mats they place street side. I wanted to scoop those children up and get them someplace quiet, someplace clean. I wanted to admonish the surprisingly well dressed women for even bringing them out there. The hurt has always been there, but the anger? It's something new.
Our journey started out amiably enough. We accosted a painter in his outdoor studio and grilled him with questions about what and where we could find materials. He was friendly enough and helpful enough and even accepted my (rather rude?) self-invitation to come back and paint together. There was such a beautiful breeze and so much greeness surrounding him in the vacant lot. I am nearly desperate to find that artistic connection again. I may have been a little forward.
We followed his advice only to end up across town at exactly 12:00- siesta time apparently. The store, the only store that sells the one thing I need, is closed from 12-2. What to do? We sat for a bit, talking with workers strolling aimlessly about on their 2 hour break. I refused to believe it could be this difficult.
Eventually, they sent us off to (impossibly) another hardware store- we'd already spent the previous day in Adjame following false leads. I tried to be more positive and less doubtful, though it got harder with every short-cut turn the driver took, leading us deeper into side street villages tucked unsuspectingly behind city storefronts.
When the driver finally announced our arrival in front of an unremarkable corner quincaillerie much like all the other hardware stores we'd visited, I tried to hold out hope. There was a row of women (and a few men) sitting in chairs along one side of the opening. Ousmane remarked on their style of dress, guessing them to be Guineen. His plethora of West African languages often comes in handy when navigating shopping stalls, bargaining for fruit prices or even changing a dull taxi ride into one of brotherhood.
The people along the entrance didn't look friendly though. They looked regal. I'm not sure if it was Ramadan, or Friday, or Friday and Ramadan or just regular regal wear for them but they were definitely dressed in their best. And it's not that I didn't notice it, it's just the way I noticed it. Later. After I was inspecting paint cans and wondering what trap eau meant exactly. I did admire one man's cap, sitting at an angle on his head, and the embroidery that lends the royal air to so much of Guineen clothing design. But my admiration was buried under my frustration and hunger and disenchantment. I forgot to see the beauty first. I forgot to look with writer's eyes and find the story.
Too often lately I have been forgetting.
Filled
She didn't ask me a million questions, the way I asked her. She responded to my inqueries...
what was most surprising? what did you see that you expected to see? what was the best? the worst?-
with reflection, with thoroughness and detail, with answers that sounded surprisingly like me.
She didn't ask me a million questions, but I'm answering them anyway. I was surprised to find she was taller than me. Surprised by the way this made me feel -too old and too young at the same time.
I was delighted by her beauty, which I expected, but surprised by her grace and confidence. I was awed at her determination to just a hop a plane and fly on over to Africa to see us, a week before her graduation, with a million things strolling through her mind. She put everything on hold, braved a pilot's strike and dedicated a week to us.
It was a week that left me thirsty for more and yet strangely satisfied. We prioritized and planned our moments, making sure to get in all the things we miss doing together. We painted and baked and took market trips. We had clothes made- even a graduation dress in that fabric that is all the (African?) rage. We couldn't squeeze four missing years into that too small, just right week, but surely we tried.
My favorite Mohamed moments were watching them play soccer in the sand- yup, she jumped down there and joined the guys on the beach. It was enough to make a few passersby stop, and take it in, this white girl playing African soccer. I love the video she showed me of Mohamed, telling me how good it was and narrating the important parts so I could really understand. I love the party we made in his hospital room, eating lasagna and wearing birthday hats.
My favorite Nabih moments were making pottery together and flying on the swings at Paradisia. She's always had patience for Nabih and something of a calming effect. He managed a few disappointments with much more decorum than usual. They are bakers, those two, and we compared recipes and swapped treats- he a lemon tart and she cocoa brownies. He even made his signature quesadilla for her- sibling exchange at its finest.
My favorite Mbalia moments were teaching her to take a 'selfie' and dancing circles on an overtired night. I love the way Mbalia jumped right into her arms as soon as we came through the gate, sisters from the very first.
And the me moments? Going to the marketplace and being mistaken for sisters, for twins even. Choosing fabric and feeling that satisfying thrill of having clothes custom made. I loved baking together and painting together. Exercising and laughing together. I loved laying around on a rainy afternoon and waking her up and saying goodnight. I loved just being in the very same house. Together.
My favorite just her moments- Those soccer shoes she brought, all worn apart and taped up at the toe-looking like a ballerina's practice flat and showing all the signs of love for the game. Her perfect eye for snapshots from a taxi window and her try anything spirit. Everything about her filled me with love and awe and admiration. I admit to being a little dumbstruck, lovesick, marveling with delight. But then, she's always done that to me. Her patient nature, open, accepting, curious, maturity without judgement- it's all come together in such a genuine, graceful way.
There isn't a worst, beyond the obvious- it was such a perfect time. But as it has passed, I wonder, did I hug her enough? Did I kiss her and call her sweet names and make her feel a mother's love? We talked a lot but there is much we didn't get to say. And there never seems to be enough time, or the right time, to explain, how hard its been, how long and lonely, how deep and wondering, how nothing is ever quite complete when there is so much distance, how some holes just remain.
But I am not stuck there. Instead I am filled with her inspiration for art, her excitement at moving on to the next full phase in life and the joy in knowing this intelligent, confident, beautiful woman. I feel honored and privileged that we worked together on decorations for her dorm- a painting of encouraging words filled with all the images of her dreams and passions. I am filled with positive thoughts for the future, looking forward to hearing about her college tales and planning our next adventure. I am filled with courage in a way that I simply wasn't before. Congratulations to my love, my sweetness!
what was most surprising? what did you see that you expected to see? what was the best? the worst?-
with reflection, with thoroughness and detail, with answers that sounded surprisingly like me.
She didn't ask me a million questions, but I'm answering them anyway. I was surprised to find she was taller than me. Surprised by the way this made me feel -too old and too young at the same time.
I was delighted by her beauty, which I expected, but surprised by her grace and confidence. I was awed at her determination to just a hop a plane and fly on over to Africa to see us, a week before her graduation, with a million things strolling through her mind. She put everything on hold, braved a pilot's strike and dedicated a week to us.
It was a week that left me thirsty for more and yet strangely satisfied. We prioritized and planned our moments, making sure to get in all the things we miss doing together. We painted and baked and took market trips. We had clothes made- even a graduation dress in that fabric that is all the (African?) rage. We couldn't squeeze four missing years into that too small, just right week, but surely we tried.
My favorite Mohamed moments were watching them play soccer in the sand- yup, she jumped down there and joined the guys on the beach. It was enough to make a few passersby stop, and take it in, this white girl playing African soccer. I love the video she showed me of Mohamed, telling me how good it was and narrating the important parts so I could really understand. I love the party we made in his hospital room, eating lasagna and wearing birthday hats.
My favorite Nabih moments were making pottery together and flying on the swings at Paradisia. She's always had patience for Nabih and something of a calming effect. He managed a few disappointments with much more decorum than usual. They are bakers, those two, and we compared recipes and swapped treats- he a lemon tart and she cocoa brownies. He even made his signature quesadilla for her- sibling exchange at its finest.
My favorite Mbalia moments were teaching her to take a 'selfie' and dancing circles on an overtired night. I love the way Mbalia jumped right into her arms as soon as we came through the gate, sisters from the very first.
And the me moments? Going to the marketplace and being mistaken for sisters, for twins even. Choosing fabric and feeling that satisfying thrill of having clothes custom made. I loved baking together and painting together. Exercising and laughing together. I loved laying around on a rainy afternoon and waking her up and saying goodnight. I loved just being in the very same house. Together.
My favorite just her moments- Those soccer shoes she brought, all worn apart and taped up at the toe-looking like a ballerina's practice flat and showing all the signs of love for the game. Her perfect eye for snapshots from a taxi window and her try anything spirit. Everything about her filled me with love and awe and admiration. I admit to being a little dumbstruck, lovesick, marveling with delight. But then, she's always done that to me. Her patient nature, open, accepting, curious, maturity without judgement- it's all come together in such a genuine, graceful way.
 |
| To soccer, with love |
There isn't a worst, beyond the obvious- it was such a perfect time. But as it has passed, I wonder, did I hug her enough? Did I kiss her and call her sweet names and make her feel a mother's love? We talked a lot but there is much we didn't get to say. And there never seems to be enough time, or the right time, to explain, how hard its been, how long and lonely, how deep and wondering, how nothing is ever quite complete when there is so much distance, how some holes just remain.
But I am not stuck there. Instead I am filled with her inspiration for art, her excitement at moving on to the next full phase in life and the joy in knowing this intelligent, confident, beautiful woman. I feel honored and privileged that we worked together on decorations for her dorm- a painting of encouraging words filled with all the images of her dreams and passions. I am filled with positive thoughts for the future, looking forward to hearing about her college tales and planning our next adventure. I am filled with courage in a way that I simply wasn't before. Congratulations to my love, my sweetness!
 |
| Super pleased she choose the best African wish to adorn her graduation cap. |
12.6.16
arrival
I spent the day remembering my first trip to Africa, the way I feel in love with travel. The many languages in the airport, secretly satisfied when I hit the point in my journey when English was no longer the first in the long line of translated announcements.
I remembered the way the African climate enveloped me. The sounds of the night making magic in the air. I spent the day reliving the newness of it all and hoping my girl is having her own journey of wonder.
The day I've been waiting for, finally here. She's coming. Tonight. To Africa.
I remembered the way the African climate enveloped me. The sounds of the night making magic in the air. I spent the day reliving the newness of it all and hoping my girl is having her own journey of wonder.
The day I've been waiting for, finally here. She's coming. Tonight. To Africa.
8.6.16
Draft SAT
She looks at me- guiltily
and I have decided she is
taking the test to please her
family
filling in circles randomly
She's not even calculating
her future path
is different than her family's
vision
When our eyes meet
I change my story at
the judgement there
She's evaluating me
Conspiracy
Sent by the SAT
Trying to cheat,
Copy questions
Double check the validity
of my authority
But in the last 25 minutes
When she's been finished long
before the others
continue page turning, pencil scratching
She sits, head in hands
Watery eyes filled with sadness
and I have decided she is
taking the test to please her
family
filling in circles randomly
She's not even calculating
her future path
is different than her family's
vision
When our eyes meet
I change my story at
the judgement there
She's evaluating me
Conspiracy
Sent by the SAT
Trying to cheat,
Copy questions
Double check the validity
of my authority
But in the last 25 minutes
When she's been finished long
before the others
continue page turning, pencil scratching
She sits, head in hands
Watery eyes filled with sadness
29.5.16
another ending
This is turning out to be one of the least hectic year ends since I've started teaching- and that's not necessarily a good thing. The end of the school year is always filled with goodbyes, but even more so in international schools. Students are leaving, teachers are leaving, some for good- most for vacation- and either way the arrival of summer comes on a wind that whisks us all away from each other and into separate lives. While the alternate lives we live may be temporary, they do exist and most of the faculty, student body and parent population straddles two worlds of one kind or another. Which is all the more reason saying goodbye is important.
The end of the year should be a time filled with rituals of community, fun and celebration. It's important to take this time to celebrate our year together, confirm our friendships and assure each other that, no matter where that wind of summer lands us, there will be people across the globe keeping us in mind, wishing us well and waiting for a reunion.
It's an eerily quiet time. I've been trying to listen but there is only silence so far. Like much else in Abidjan, it seems the school year is just going to slowly wind down and fade away until one day we realize we just don't need to get up and go to that building anymore. Oh yeah, we'll think, it's over now. No celebrations, no goodbye hugs, no appreciations or wacky last moments together. If I hadn't already spent a year in Abidjan, it would be a lot more depressing. (I stole a glance over to the TASOK page and saw all the cool end of year things I am missing right now still going on- DEAR picnics, wacky-wet-n-wild summer fun, author's celebration, art and talent show......)
I've been trying to put my finger on exactly why the city does not speak to me- my dissatisfaction extends beyond the school and out into the everyday environment (many people love it hear and so it is obviously a personal thing...) I am definitely learning a lot about what I want in a school community (and that I no longer want to be at the mercy of others to create this for me.) And I am remembering my forest, mountain roots. I miss green spaces to just be in and, honestly, I guess I miss the freedom having a car would bring.
Taxis are too expensive as a mode of transport out into the peaceful places I am craving. And once I do get there, getting back is a real consideration. And then there is the baggage. Lunch, diapers, change of clothes. Juggling the girl and the bags and the weight of it all in case we need to walk, along with the heat and the sun----or the rain, oh yeah, I need to pack an umbrella. Suddenly, despite being a dirt patch, my yard looks green enough.Spending a day in nature is not the effortless thing I want it to be.
There is something about the constant building everywhere that affects me profoundly. My perspective changes frequently so that I feel as if I am looking down on this corner of the planet and it is hurting. All this cement, covering up soil, reducing the pathways where water might fall, be absorbed and nourish the land. I notice forest-y green patches along highways and send a little prayer that whoever is planning will leave that spot alone. Let it stay green, I whisper. And then I send out appreciations for the trees and the tall grasses and the wild beauty of the space.
The construction has begun again just near our house. What used to be a field bordering the lagoon, complete with palm tree silhouettes just after sunset, has now become row after row of cement walls. Ugly. Ugly everywhere, though somehow when I first visited Abidjan, I thought it was green here. Healthy. I've come to a new conclusion and I've also noticed an effect on my spirit.
A friend posted this link on her FB page with a paragraph somewhere in the middle that seemed to sum up everything I have been feeling:
That is because, in fact, the world presented to us as normal and acceptable is anything but. It is a monstrosity. Ours is a planet in pain. If you need me to convince you of that, if you are unaware of the destruction of forests, oceans, wetlands, cultures, soil, health, beauty, dignity, and spirit that underlies the System we live in, then I have nothing to say to you. I only am speaking to you if you do believe that there is something deeply wrong with the way we are living on this planet.
There is something wrong with the way we are living on and treating this planet. It leaves me feeling as though I want to find a little village somewhere and dig in deep. Withdraw from all these "new developments" that are really only sending us further back in consciousness.
Withdrawing isn't really the answer. In this city of mediocre, average, striving to be like all the others, I am getting lost. Every time I find something that lights me up, it disappears as soon as I discover it. My dance troupe, my capoeira class, collaboration with the girls' school, the boys' orphanage, and the botanical gardens- all come and gone in a flash. Shutting down before they ever really got started.
I've been trying to listen lately, really listen- to myself, the universe, whatever it is that will help me get back on the path. Because this stop over in Abidjan seems like the long cut to where ever it is I was going. Trying to get back to the creative life, the community life, the place where people see each other and always remember to say goodbye. Kende malamu- go well, remember? Go well, my friend, on your journey and be well. Treat the world well and come back so that we may share our stories.
I am not sure what this summer holds for me- another series of goodbyes for certain, but also some new beginnings. Perhaps a much needed shift in perspective as well.
The end of the year should be a time filled with rituals of community, fun and celebration. It's important to take this time to celebrate our year together, confirm our friendships and assure each other that, no matter where that wind of summer lands us, there will be people across the globe keeping us in mind, wishing us well and waiting for a reunion.
It's an eerily quiet time. I've been trying to listen but there is only silence so far. Like much else in Abidjan, it seems the school year is just going to slowly wind down and fade away until one day we realize we just don't need to get up and go to that building anymore. Oh yeah, we'll think, it's over now. No celebrations, no goodbye hugs, no appreciations or wacky last moments together. If I hadn't already spent a year in Abidjan, it would be a lot more depressing. (I stole a glance over to the TASOK page and saw all the cool end of year things I am missing right now still going on- DEAR picnics, wacky-wet-n-wild summer fun, author's celebration, art and talent show......)
I've been trying to put my finger on exactly why the city does not speak to me- my dissatisfaction extends beyond the school and out into the everyday environment (many people love it hear and so it is obviously a personal thing...) I am definitely learning a lot about what I want in a school community (and that I no longer want to be at the mercy of others to create this for me.) And I am remembering my forest, mountain roots. I miss green spaces to just be in and, honestly, I guess I miss the freedom having a car would bring.
Taxis are too expensive as a mode of transport out into the peaceful places I am craving. And once I do get there, getting back is a real consideration. And then there is the baggage. Lunch, diapers, change of clothes. Juggling the girl and the bags and the weight of it all in case we need to walk, along with the heat and the sun----or the rain, oh yeah, I need to pack an umbrella. Suddenly, despite being a dirt patch, my yard looks green enough.Spending a day in nature is not the effortless thing I want it to be.
There is something about the constant building everywhere that affects me profoundly. My perspective changes frequently so that I feel as if I am looking down on this corner of the planet and it is hurting. All this cement, covering up soil, reducing the pathways where water might fall, be absorbed and nourish the land. I notice forest-y green patches along highways and send a little prayer that whoever is planning will leave that spot alone. Let it stay green, I whisper. And then I send out appreciations for the trees and the tall grasses and the wild beauty of the space.
The construction has begun again just near our house. What used to be a field bordering the lagoon, complete with palm tree silhouettes just after sunset, has now become row after row of cement walls. Ugly. Ugly everywhere, though somehow when I first visited Abidjan, I thought it was green here. Healthy. I've come to a new conclusion and I've also noticed an effect on my spirit.
A friend posted this link on her FB page with a paragraph somewhere in the middle that seemed to sum up everything I have been feeling:
That is because, in fact, the world presented to us as normal and acceptable is anything but. It is a monstrosity. Ours is a planet in pain. If you need me to convince you of that, if you are unaware of the destruction of forests, oceans, wetlands, cultures, soil, health, beauty, dignity, and spirit that underlies the System we live in, then I have nothing to say to you. I only am speaking to you if you do believe that there is something deeply wrong with the way we are living on this planet.
There is something wrong with the way we are living on and treating this planet. It leaves me feeling as though I want to find a little village somewhere and dig in deep. Withdraw from all these "new developments" that are really only sending us further back in consciousness.
Withdrawing isn't really the answer. In this city of mediocre, average, striving to be like all the others, I am getting lost. Every time I find something that lights me up, it disappears as soon as I discover it. My dance troupe, my capoeira class, collaboration with the girls' school, the boys' orphanage, and the botanical gardens- all come and gone in a flash. Shutting down before they ever really got started.
I've been trying to listen lately, really listen- to myself, the universe, whatever it is that will help me get back on the path. Because this stop over in Abidjan seems like the long cut to where ever it is I was going. Trying to get back to the creative life, the community life, the place where people see each other and always remember to say goodbye. Kende malamu- go well, remember? Go well, my friend, on your journey and be well. Treat the world well and come back so that we may share our stories.
I am not sure what this summer holds for me- another series of goodbyes for certain, but also some new beginnings. Perhaps a much needed shift in perspective as well.
11.5.16
Beyond the SAT
I spent this past Saturday proctoring the SAT exam. Proctoring is a big word for walking around the classroom trying to keep my eyes open. I only had 1 student (there was 1 no-show and 1 who opted into the SAT w/essay, thereby propelling her into another room and leaving me with 1 student to monitor and observe for any signs of cheating or irregularity.)
There is a long script to read full of what appeared to be (to my 1 and only examee) irrelevant directions. But in keeping with the strict regulations and spirit of the SAT, I dutifully read everything, word for word, with the right intonation and inflection one might expect from an official proctor.
I am a reader by nature, however and it was difficult not to snatch up the copy of A Brave New World sitting on the classroom shelf and get entranced. Official SAT procedures prohibit one from reading, (newspapers, novels or student work,) grading papers or any other meaningful activity that might take your eyes away from wayward movement or distract you from watching the clock.
I did my best to uphold the standard, even if I only had 1 student, because the rigors and rules are what lend the test to being..., well, standard. Uniform, equal, fair. I walked around the room actively proctoring- reading all the posters (luckily, we were in a Mandarin classroom so the reading was a bit more interesting than the average classroom poster. I think I may have even picked up a pattern or two in the characters...,) staring out the window (opening the curtains when the power went out) and checking my testee to make sure she wasn't photographing any parts of the test or sending them off virtually via some secret electronic device hidden on her person.
Nope. All was well. I took a seat next to her and perused the testing manual. I read (again) the admittance sheets and calculated birthdays. The young girl sitting next to me was 20 years old.
That gave me pause. I remembered myself at twenty and for a minute I was envious of her there, with her life stretched out before her, filled with possible journeys and international connections. Clean. Uncomplicated. Bare.
The contrast with my own life at that age was staggering. A vision of myself appeared in my mind's eye like a stranger, and I was overcome with the burden of who I had been and all that I hadn't known or thought possible.
Sometimes the weight of life choices is heavy. I've spent much of the past two years trying to determine how to move forward without creating more regret, to proceed with foresight rather than hindsight (as so eloquently put by a recent Bernie supporter. Though, honestly, American politics seem almost as far away from me as that image of my 20 year old self.)
In general, I am pleased with the person I have grown into. Crafting a version of yourself that matches all the fine details of who you know you are takes time and patience and focus. But it is a work that is never quite complete. For now, it feels a bit like a work that is halted in progress. Abidjan has had a way of making me feel stuck in limbo these past two years.
It's not true. I have only to witness the impish smile of my little lovey as she pours (yet another) glass of water into an unsuspecting someone's lap (her favorite pass time lately) or hear the way her gibberish falls and rises in time with Nabih's cries of indignation (he really is teaching her the finer points of how to argue) to see that she has grown from that adorable, always sleeping, ever smiling, cute and cuddly baby to a walking, talking, fire-breathing toddler. Time is passing. I'm not sure I am making the most of it.
It is kind of hard to feel I am using time to my advantage when the manual suggests I walk around and stare at test-takers for 4 hours. Or maybe that is the point of it all. I learned a bit of Chinese, discovered the title of a book I want to read, and admired some Magna art. While I did I daydream about future possibilities, I spent most of that time living in the very moment- watching the clock, noting the hour and minutes right down to the seconds. I was aware of my breathing and my walking and my presence. I was aware of her presence. Two people in the same room, twenty years apart, lifetimes at opposite ends of the spectrum, facing choices made and unmade, random worlds colliding.
All on a Saturday morning before noon.
There is a long script to read full of what appeared to be (to my 1 and only examee) irrelevant directions. But in keeping with the strict regulations and spirit of the SAT, I dutifully read everything, word for word, with the right intonation and inflection one might expect from an official proctor.
I am a reader by nature, however and it was difficult not to snatch up the copy of A Brave New World sitting on the classroom shelf and get entranced. Official SAT procedures prohibit one from reading, (newspapers, novels or student work,) grading papers or any other meaningful activity that might take your eyes away from wayward movement or distract you from watching the clock.
I did my best to uphold the standard, even if I only had 1 student, because the rigors and rules are what lend the test to being..., well, standard. Uniform, equal, fair. I walked around the room actively proctoring- reading all the posters (luckily, we were in a Mandarin classroom so the reading was a bit more interesting than the average classroom poster. I think I may have even picked up a pattern or two in the characters...,) staring out the window (opening the curtains when the power went out) and checking my testee to make sure she wasn't photographing any parts of the test or sending them off virtually via some secret electronic device hidden on her person.
Nope. All was well. I took a seat next to her and perused the testing manual. I read (again) the admittance sheets and calculated birthdays. The young girl sitting next to me was 20 years old.
That gave me pause. I remembered myself at twenty and for a minute I was envious of her there, with her life stretched out before her, filled with possible journeys and international connections. Clean. Uncomplicated. Bare.
The contrast with my own life at that age was staggering. A vision of myself appeared in my mind's eye like a stranger, and I was overcome with the burden of who I had been and all that I hadn't known or thought possible.
Sometimes the weight of life choices is heavy. I've spent much of the past two years trying to determine how to move forward without creating more regret, to proceed with foresight rather than hindsight (as so eloquently put by a recent Bernie supporter. Though, honestly, American politics seem almost as far away from me as that image of my 20 year old self.)
In general, I am pleased with the person I have grown into. Crafting a version of yourself that matches all the fine details of who you know you are takes time and patience and focus. But it is a work that is never quite complete. For now, it feels a bit like a work that is halted in progress. Abidjan has had a way of making me feel stuck in limbo these past two years.
It's not true. I have only to witness the impish smile of my little lovey as she pours (yet another) glass of water into an unsuspecting someone's lap (her favorite pass time lately) or hear the way her gibberish falls and rises in time with Nabih's cries of indignation (he really is teaching her the finer points of how to argue) to see that she has grown from that adorable, always sleeping, ever smiling, cute and cuddly baby to a walking, talking, fire-breathing toddler. Time is passing. I'm not sure I am making the most of it.
It is kind of hard to feel I am using time to my advantage when the manual suggests I walk around and stare at test-takers for 4 hours. Or maybe that is the point of it all. I learned a bit of Chinese, discovered the title of a book I want to read, and admired some Magna art. While I did I daydream about future possibilities, I spent most of that time living in the very moment- watching the clock, noting the hour and minutes right down to the seconds. I was aware of my breathing and my walking and my presence. I was aware of her presence. Two people in the same room, twenty years apart, lifetimes at opposite ends of the spectrum, facing choices made and unmade, random worlds colliding.
All on a Saturday morning before noon.
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