A Curious Course

Nazali yekola na Lingala. I am studying Lingala.

I have happened upon a (rather ancient) book and so begin my studies. It is, amazingly, a translation from English to Lingala, which is ever helpful. I have no doubt I could continue with one from French to Lingala but this version serves as a great beginning. I can spend my time trying to remember the Lingala and not worrying if I've gotten the right French translation.

The words and phrases have begun to make sense to me. I was even able to construct a few of my own sentences. It is like a a great mystery becoming revealed. What fun to try out my sentences on whoever is closest and watch their face light up in surprise. Everyone is great help, laughing at my mangled pronunciation and offering advice. For now, it is easiest for me to begin with the book, to see it in writing and understand the construct.

Most challenging is the conjugation (of all words, not just verbs.) There is a prefix that changes the word at the beginning and also one at the end. It really seemed confusing at first, to start out with a verb - loba (to speak) and end up with- nalobaka (I {always} speak...). Its like the word is buried in the middle and you have to find it. It is a different habit to change the beginning of the word, but I think many African languages do this. The word for child, mwana, becomes 'bana' in the plural children. This, while completely and endlessly fascinating to a language hound like me, is the least of the curiosities.

The manual I have borrowed is from 1963. It is called a basic course, and was put out by the department of state. The key to understanding both cultures lies in the translations and selected phrases.

For example, I am perplexed about the included phrase:
Atutani na nzete - He walked into a tree.

I haven't heard of this happening since I've been here, perhaps it is a local affliction occurring in a different part of the city? Perhaps the mondele, unaccustomed to the frequent power outages, needed some time to learn the intricate landscape?

More intriguing,
Alongolaki bilamba na yo ntango nazalaki kolia.
He undressed while I was eating.


I've never had need for a statement of this sort, but perhaps in Kinshasa, all things are possible.

Finally, and most telling are the words appearing in Lingala followed by a near paragraph of possible translations. There are always more English possibilities. It leaves me with a myriad of questions I am compiling for an unfortunate tutor once I am ready.

Mbanda appears initially as the word for 'co-wife, a brother-in law on the wife's side or sister-in-law on the husband's side,' but then expands to include 'people who don't like each other.'

I should think the definition alone would be a strong argument against the practice of multiple wives. And I wonder what is the word for the odd situation when 2 co-wives might actually get along..... Should they continue calling each other mbanda? Or can they get away with moninga (friend?)

There are comic entries on how to handle a run in with the police and also many phrases to do with the military. They seem placed in random order so that when reading through you will find something like:

The soldiers surrounded the village.
The soldiers are polishing their shoes.
This soldier shined his uniform buttons.

From the dramatic to the mundane. There are sections on auto mechanics, buying food, talking to servants and road work. Interspersed are necessary sections about doctors, illness, death, soldiers and natural disasters. The formality and politeness of the time is evident throughout, but especially so:

Just a minute, I'd like to tell you how we used to suffer.

As if such a discussion might occur in passing, while pricing fruit at the market.
More forceful language is 'scene' in the description of a run-in with police.

Apparently, you (the learner) have been pulled over. You don't begin the conversation well, asking the officer if you've killed someone. (Somehow, I imagine the manual taking on a sarcastic tone.) The officer responds that you must not have seen the light (back when there traffic lights in Kinshasa, I assume.)You progress to make the situation worse by stating that you don't see very well, you don't have your license because you've only just begun to drive and the car doesn't belong to you. Finally, you ask how much of a 'fine' you should pay. The officer asks if you have 1,000 francs in your pocket right now (clearly inflation has hit Kinshasa.) Unfortunately, you don't have the money but offer to make a deposit. This lesson ends with the police officer making a grand statement:

Boy, if you don't want to go to jail, shut up and follow me. And that's final!

The meek reply: I understand you, Officer.

The boys and I have had great fun trying to wrap our tongues around all ng's and zali loka's. There seems to be an abundance of n's, g's and k's. For now, many of the words seem strikingly similar. I imagine that will all clear up with time and practice. Though I'm not sure exactly when I might have cause for:

Soko simsi na ngai eyaki mbindu te, kana nakei kotala monganga
If my shirt hadn't gotten dirty, I would go see the doctor.

Maybe it wouldn't have happened if he'd undressed while I was eating.


I have, intentionally but without malice, left all the accent marks off the Lingala.

Fact and Fiction

As my vacation continues on, I'm finding it filled with little adventure, or those that hold much promise but little reality. I'm trying my hardest to relax and do nothing, as one is supposed to with a good vacation. The closest I can get to this is reading. I've stumbled across a series of books that manage to transport me to different times and places, each in their own way.

The last school I worked in had a reading room, apart from the school library, lovingly created by one of the reading teachers. It was a great collection of books designed to support the curriculum. I appreciated it thoroughly then, as the true resource it was, and continue to remember it fondly from my distance.

There was a section that connected fiction and nonfiction books in an effort to provide a multilayered perspective of a topic. I think of it now as I have just completed two very different books that seem intimiately related. This has happened only one other time in my adult life. I was still in the U.S and part of a book club. We had just finished a book for the club when I happened across the perfect fictional companion. It was such a thrilling expereince, I tried, in vain, to convince the others that I had found the next book. I wanted desperately to discuss, compare and contrast the unique perspectives of a similar subject.

It is especially poignant to me because of my method for choosing books. It is more of a system where they choose me. And it becomes easy for me to think there is a message in every one.

Finally, and simply, the pairs.
From the long but not forgotten book club days- Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver should always be read with The Camel Bookmobile by Masha Hamilton. One is an autobiography of a man building schools across Afghanistan. The other, fictional but based loosely on a real enterprise, is a fascinating drama of a woman delivering books to remote villages in northern Africa with an ending I adore (only my students know what that means.)

Most recently, Till The Sun Grows Cold by Maggie McCune should always be followed closely by The Testament by John Grisham. Maggie McCune writers an autobigraphy of her life that blends into an odd but powerful story of her daughter who fell in love with Africa and eventually married a Sudanese war lord. In the story by John Grisham, which is completely different but somehow related (perhaps only the relevance is sensed by me?) a missionary in the remote forests of Brazil inherits eleven billion dollars and the race is on to find her.



And all of these reads should be followed by a strong game of futbol, a meal of foufou with mbisi and chocolate cake... happy birthday Nabih.

Angst & Awe

the reason I am not a political blogger (aside from the fact that I need things reduced to their simplest terms for adequate comprehension) is the fact that I am very bad at citing remarks. I can never seem to remember where I heard something, only that I did. My reading goal this year was to improve my memory of author names. I am improving in that area and suppose it is time to generalize and pay more attention to when and where I’ve read something of interest.

Of course, this is leading up to a statement, quoted from some other article, from some other place, written at some other time. I came across this fact during a late night scouring session. The internet seems to work best then and I end up sitting awake, searching the web, trying to make contact with the outside world. (UNperpetuation- there is t.v. available here, cable too, even animalplanet. It is an exorbitant sum to get started, however, and I am fairly happy without it.)

Generally I catch up on news from the U.S, followed by news about Congo and then stream music while I write emails or browse for pleasure. It was one evening, while trying to stay informed about the news of the east, that I came across a description of the intake process of refugees into camps. I thought of FEMA and its incredible (insert your own adjective here) handling of the disasters in Louisiana and Texas.

Typical of Africa, what I read left me with a double feeling of angst and awe. Upon arrival, refugees are given a handful of sticks and directed to an area where they then construct their own homestead. We have a sample of such housing on our elementary playground. It was built by a second grade teacher and her class last year. The walls are falling apart and need some upkeep. It is a reminder of how many Congolese women and children are spending their days- repairing a shelter.



I must be impressed that with such few resources they are able to create something that provides (meager) protection against the elements. It is doubtful that the residents of New Orleans would have been pacified with a handful of branches, even if they were carefully chosen for their strength and sturdiness.

On the heels of my amazement, comes an overwhelming angst that so many people continue to live in mud packed houses without adequate washing or toilet facilities, even as I walk unhindered across my green oasis blossoming with electricity, running water and indoor plumbing.

But I am in awe of their ability to construct and create. It seems we in the west have lost the basic ability to build for ourselves. For most of us, we wait while another prepares the place in which we might begin to carry out the business of living.

It seems without dispute that the only solution to the global issues plaguing most of the world requires a merging of ideas and technology- that which we have learned and that which we have overlooked.

On the Gov't- Quote from a political blogger

Sometimes you just read something and suddenly, the obvious becomes apparent.......
Emin Pasha- blogging at www.congoresources.com-

"Indulge my half-baked ideas as I play political sociologist of the longue duree. The notion that the government exists to serve the people--rather than the other way around--was one of the deepest and most wide-ranging transformations in Western thinking. It came about because centuries of wars, rebellions, and revolutions led Western political thinkers to develop new ideas about the proper relationship of rulers to ruled. These ideas extended across a range of fronts, were given voice by artists, writers, and even composers, and eventually were taken up as causes by new political actors, revolutionaries in their day. Gradually, over time, these ideas took root, spread, and became embedded in the very structure of our government. Now we have so deeply internalized them that they are subtly reflected in everything we do--from how we raise our children, to what TV shows we watch, to what we expect from the police if we are pulled over for speeding. But these ideas are neither universal nor natural. If anything, the belief that the individual is and ought to be subordinate to the government--that the less powerful must yield to the more powerful--is the more "natural," intuitive notion. That's why the Congolese have at times demonstrated so forcefully against MONUC. They know why MONUC is there; they understand what its mission is. When it fails to protect them, they get angry. But from their own government, they expect nothing. And when that's what it delivers, they are neither surprised nor outraged."

What it's really like....

shedding some light on the state of women in eastern congo:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UX8X6b7q7s8

it was the part when she said, 'I have three children from the rapes, including the one in my arms...'

Un-perpetuating the myth

Today was a perfectly great example of an ordinary day. One of my students invited me to his birthday party, so we all went, Mohamed, Nabih and I and one other teacher from school. There is a very sweet little place not far from campus that is built for children’s entertainment. During our day, I had time to reflect.

Yesterday during our shopping trip I noticed a bowl of beetles laying amongst the cabbage and corn for sale (beetles is the nice word, I believe.) Caterpillars are also a delicacy here and they are sold from colorful plastic bowls, often with bread. During one of our writing assignments, which coincided with a read aloud of City of Ember by Jeanne DuPrau, I asked students to describe their family’s staple foods and the ones they would miss the most. Caterpillars made it onto one list. I am told it might be similar to eating Cheetos- a light, crunchy snack. I have absolutely no first hand knowledge on this however. I’ve wanted to catch a photo of this unique finger food and almost shot one of the beetles, moving en masse in their confined quarters. But I really had to question the motive behind my desire. Mostly I saw it as something different and, especially to a veggie like me, so utterly foreign.

During our International Schools Conference, I had the chance to witness many perspectives of Africa and about teaching in Africa as well as presenting Africa. I am acutely aware of the level of thinking that suggests some of us may be perpetuating a stereotype by presenting only the strange and pitiable. This view suggests that we are only talking about war and hunger and famine (and caterpillars for breakfast) and don’t give enough attention to the positive aspects of Africa.

As with all perspectives, it is difficult for me to take sides. I can only be aware. So I am left to question things like my desire to shoot a photo of an odd and delightful street snack. And ultimately, not to do it. On the other hand, I did update my blog with several links relating to the treacherous past of Congo, the current war and hopefully, a few positive projects worthy of note. I added these links, not to perpetuate, but to draw attention. It came on the heels of a conversation with a good friend- thanks K- that sometimes our first step is simply awareness. While I am searching for something more substantial to fill my soul here in DRC, I can at least begin with that.

Finally, to round things out completely, I am here to write about a completely ordinary day at a child’s birthday party. There were several ‘bounce houses’- those blow up affairs where children must remove their shoes in order to jump themselves into oblivion. There was a large slide in the same manner and several trampolines. Another blow up contraption sectioned off an area for soccer. Mohamed joined in a rather lively game and actually held his own. Close by, a net was set up for volleyball. There was a restaurant as well as a snack bar selling fries and burgers and soda (and popcorn, always popcorn.)

The biggest attraction, however, was a ‘go-kart’ area. The karts were really large bikes with three or four large, sturdy wheels. They moved by pedal power and had a variety of seats. Some allowed for passengers, some were close to the ground but all were reminiscent of buggies built for crossing desert dunes. Children and adults rode around the paved track showing off their (very African- or NYC-ish, whichever you prefer) driving skills. Like a mini Kinshasa, there were traffic jams, fender benders, and traffic directors ready to help with a hefty push. Young boys delighted in taking the turns fast and controlling the skid with a hand brake. Many slightly more cautious drivers pedaled younger brothers and sisters around. Even some brave moms dared the roads in an effort to provide a quick (or slow and halting as the case often was) turn around the track. There appeared to be no time limit on the ride and children drove laps until stopped by sheer exhaustion.

There was a second area with smaller bikes and trikes for children like Nabih. He didn’t quite have the strength to make one go on his own but with some strategic assistance he managed to get around the track several times. It was a hot, sunny day full of simple, clean fun. We discussed the few opportunities for entertainment in Kinshasa, and tried to brainstorm some possibilities (water park, for one.) Personally, I think a roller rink holds potential. Most of the places in existence are picnic areas with a nice view, a cool breeze but not much in the way of actual entertainment. It is another juxtaposition- this calm and tranquil life leads to a patient people, satisfied with small things. It is a nice way to be. Of course, its also a bit boring and there is very little stimulation, educational or otherwise, for children and families. I am reminded of Florida, with its vast array of museums, libraries, and cultural venues aimed at enriching family life. We could use a bit of that here.

But today, we found a small pocket in Kinshasa to enjoy good food, conversation and small thrills. (Plus, I have been given the gift of an Indian sari- perhaps my wardrobe will be changing. I have never worn a sari before and while they are certainly elegant, I am not and so assumed we two did not mix. But! ever open to new things, I will try. )

Kansas

as in Dorothy, we're not....

? ? 50, 30, ? As we near the middle of a marking period, I scan my grades to check on general progress. That is what I came across in the math section of my record book. It is a student I have been struggling to reach. He clearly has some intensive special education needs. I’ve seen some small progress in the area of writing but math remains a mystery. In a class of 25, I feel like I can never get to everyone the way I want, the way I need to.
I have made special effort here, instituting after school help twice a week and even offering a program for the December break. I’ve tried to line him up with a tutor but it gets tricky in that area. He really needs a qualified teacher, I believe, to make any kind of true progress and they are hard to come by.

I decided to approach the administration to find out exactly what it is I’m supposed to do with this child. Retention is hardly appropriate, nor do I believe it would adequately fill in the gaps that are missing. Many of our students have gaps.

I’m not sure what I was expecting or hoping for. I suppose that may have been my first error. Never go into a meeting without some idea of the desired outcome. I wasn’t thinking long range either. Error number 2. I left the meeting in a daze, feeling as if I’d been punched in the stomach. Error number 3. Always keep yourself composed. I felt like being physically ill, and I know my face showed every bit of it. I had to work to close my mouth as it hung open in shock. And I can’t get past the outright racism of the statement to determine if that’s what it actually was.

I’m told to write a letter requesting a meeting with family based on my concern about the student’s future at the school. Long before, when I knew nothing, I thought there might be some kind of entrance exam or application to get in. But there is not. And if there is no screening process to weed out potential difficulties, how do we then institute a process where we kick them out once a problem is identified? I’m told there is a screening process but I believe it has yet to be clearly identified. If there is no initial judgment, how can it be brought about mid-year? Oh, oh you mean that kind of learning difficulty? No, we don’t take those.

But I’m not really sure what that means, because he is not the only one in my class suffering from broad gaps or lack of adequate progress and achievement. He is not the only who will require support and modification of program in order to be successful. But I am told that he is an African child and as such, already of higher education and status than most of his compatriots. He can continue in any number of the available schools from the other private ones in the area to the “public” African schools.

Maybe I think of Guy, who is suffering so much to learn to read. And I recall how he was pushed through an African school, where no one seemed to recognize his difficulty or care, or have the means to deal with it. But we have the means. We are able to support and modify, we are able to present in multilayered ways. So why is he being shoved into a system where they cannot or will not be able to help him?

Or maybe I am just thinking about how shy and awkward this student was during his first few weeks of school. He is new to the country and it was not an easy transition. He had difficulty making friends and being accepted. But I see him now and I see the way he has branched out and blossomed. And I see the way all of that will contract again. He will become lost and ignored in the back of a class where he will daydream his days quietly away. And he will have me to thank for that.

Reflections of a Tourist?

Last weekend I took Mohamed to get his hair cut. We didn't go to that barber, underneath the tree. Our barber actually had a door to walk through and 2 chairs for clients, as well as a row for those waiting. There was even a small T.V. in the corner showing a futbol match.

One of my students had come to school sporting the 'fancy' cut Mohamed loves. The kind where they shave designs in your hair. I managed to find the scoop and we set out in search of a lightning bolt or shooting flame. (Mohamed has become adept at drawing sports cars lately and he adds a symbol of speed and power to each.)

We were accompanied on our trip, mostly because I needed directions, and I was quite self-conscious as we left the gate. Big brother is watching? Back to the gossip ring. I felt a strange need to explain where I was going and why. It was fairly easy to dim the light that shone on that particular aspect of campus life. It's much nicer to live in ignorant bliss. But I was slightly disturbed at having to acknowledge it at all. Sacrifice comes with the garden of eden? Sometimes it just feels like one big glass fishbowl.

We made it first to one barber, only to be turned away because Mohamed's hair required clippers and the electricity was not strong enough there. A second shop supplied electricity, parking, and a huge baobab for shade. Underneath the tree was a kaleidoscope of life. One woman sat selling bananas from an umbrella covered table. Another was bagging burnt wood? charcoal? for sale. Closer to the road, a group of young men played Foosball. Some were sitting on benches watching, some were napping. The parking area doubled as a car wash/ repair spot and so men wandered back and forth scrubbing, washing and drying- themselves and the shiny new SUV's that seemed so out of place. A few sat inside an abandoned car, napping or simply enjoying a soft seat.

Children and chickens played all around. Naturally, they became interested in Nabih and tried to get him to play but he wasn't interested. He was busy keeping a fearful eye on the chickens and hiding behind his hat. One bold little beauty came up and tried grabbing him out to play but he refused all her attempts to entice him.

I thought several times about taking photos but didn't want to stand out as a tourist. I realized the complete futility of this statement even as I thought it. As if I could be anything but. I enjoyed watching the sights as much as they all enjoyed watching me, each foreign to the other. I had the chance, standing under the tree, to comprehend the powerlessness and vulnerability that comes from being unable to control the color of your skin.

I may learn the language and the customs. I may learn to bargain as good as any Congolese and I may even learn to read between the lines and comprehend the humor. I may appreciate the dress and the art. I may even move among the streets with confidence and ease. But I will never be mistaken for a local.

Mohamed was pretty happy with his hair cut. I think he ended up with something more like a firecracker than a death defying flame. He's got plans for next time, however. And maybe I'll bring my camera and get a shot of that outdoor arcade. Nabih and I can even take turns posing with the chickens and the charcoal and the children.

Just a Gardener

Its difficult to write lately. Not for lack of subject matter, more for lack of translation. My double perspectives are catching up with me. I want to write about the oddities I see here but I end up sounding too much like complaining. I’m still enchanted. I just wanted to give a more accurate picture of what it is like at times. Unsuccessfully, so far. I'll come back to that.

Something that is proving a bit challenging for me, as my stay becomes longer, is being a good judge of character. I’m trying to realize that I may not be an especially good judge of character. I’m trying to learn from my past mistakes, perhaps. And it’s really throwing me because I’m just not sure what went wrong. I have always chalked it up to personal growth on my part and lack of such on the other, but how many times does that occur? And why does it reoccur? I’m beginning to think my vision is flawed. Delayed?

Things I have seen though, that I believe in, include our safety officer, Papa Josef. Since I have been here, I’ve only seen him in this role. He takes it very seriously and I delight in hearing him rebuke the drivers for one infraction or another. He is essential in communicating across the language divide that often separates maintenance and chauffeurs from faculty. He is expert at developing a relationship with the children and keeping their needs in mind. He seems to have every elementary student’s phone number in the palm of his hand, ready to dial should a child be left waiting too long.

Last evening, the elementary school performed their annual holiday concert. It was truly a grand affair and the students were spectacular. The music teacher (intern) really came into her own and chose an eclectic range of songs from around the world. Children sang in many languages and brought a true sense of hope and unity to the evening.

It began as expected, with everyone meeting in their classrooms. After the grand finale, however, the students were simply dismissed. Parents scooped children directly from the stage or gathered them off the sidewalk. I was slightly uncomfortable with this arrangement after the strict U.S. policy of signing kids out from the class and making sure safety and security abound. It can be very loose here at times. So it was that I encountered a parent on the sidewalk, telling me one of my students was stuck, having been dropped off by a parent who thought the evening would be longer than it was.

I took the student, found his brother, made a call and we all sat down to wait. We had some fun reviewing social studies facts for a test and playing simple games on my phone. Papa Josef checked in, as he can be counted on to do, to make sure I was staying with the child and had called the parents. I didn’t see any other teachers or staff. I know if I had gone ahead home and not run across this student, he would be staying with Papa Josef until someone came. I think everyone on campus is secure in that knowledge.

Which is why, at that time as many others, I hear the echo of someone telling me, “But he’s just a gardener.” Perhaps when she arrived she saw him that way, but since I’ve arrived, I’ve seen him only as a safety officer, a resource and necessary part of student life. When I saw him gardening in our neighbor’s yard I thought, “What’s he doing? He’s not a gardener! He’s the safety guy!”

There are many hidden treasures here and I’m not always sure I can be counted on to spot them all. Likewise, I may be mistaking a mere glass globe for a pearl. The lens I am looking through is distorted by culture and language and it is difficult to be certain I am seeing clearly.

I was recently asked to sign a letter of complaint against someone and found I simply couldn’t do it. I tried to evaluate my real reasons and am still wondering which of us has the more valid points. Perhaps this is a natural give and take, but here the consequences seem so much more severe. It is an immense responsibility to accept that, as a result of my statements, a job may be lost. I do not want to face the implications of that. However, I also realize the need for expectations to remain high. Sympathy is not enough to keep a job.

I did feel, however, that the letter of complaint was quite severe and could have simply been addressed through conversation. I felt perhaps that the author was a bit picky. And then I thought that perhaps my experience in Congo was not as thorough as hers, and maybe she had a right to be picky. I also felt that sometimes people just don’t communicate well enough with the people they are asking to drive them around. I understand I am a bit laid back, often to my detriment. Sometimes people make assumptions that just aren’t true. But I’m not sure if that would be me or them. So, I couldn’t sign the letter.

Everyone seems to have their own unique perspective based on completely different schema. It is a time when my ability to judge character is really coming under scrutiny. Though I may not be great at this particular skill, it is hard to accept too much help here. Ultimately, I must decide what works for me in my world. Because here in international teaching, we are like a bunch of concentric circles, orbiting in our own ellipses, colliding occasionally with common needs or interests but maintaining space and distance, coming as we are from such diverse backgrounds and reference points.
It’s a mini cosmos, with an occasional blip of chaos and one or two stray gardeners wandering about.

Not So Far Off

Remember that post where I was talking about tropical storms and the image they brought of destruction and mayhem? This last storm was not so far from the vivid description seen so often in films.

I heard this huge tree fall in the middle of the night. It took down a light post as well. Exactly opposite the tree is my bedroom window. I suppose we are lucky it was pushed in this direction.

The next day, our gardener hepled another tree to fall. At the time, however, I was unaware of this and it seemed as though trees were toppling all around us. This is not exactly the sign I was hoping for, but I am not one to complain. Now if I could only figure out what it means.....

Beware the future, obstacles may bar your path?

Tuck Your Shirt Out

The Yellow Belt. Mohamed has proudly graduated to a new level in karate. He gained this new status at a four hour presentation ceremony. It was certainly an experience for me, being relatively new to the karate experience itself. There was time to honor the masters who had come to judge the students and time to honor the teacher. There was time to allow all of the students to show what they had learned. (And with Nabih, there was time to check out the college soccer game going on in the field next door, as well as a basketball game on the court-worthy of a posting all its own.) The karate students came forward by school to present a series of moves and then again by rank to be judged for acceptance to a new level. The whole affair was a unique mixture of English and French and Chinese.

Mohamed took his karate very seriously, practicing the series of steps he would be required to perform. For days before the show, he would ask me if I wanted to see ‘tuck your shirt out.’ I gave him my full attention despite my confusion. Illumination came during the presentation when I heard the instructor give the commands,” Tak, Eshate, Aiea!”
It is a wonderful juxtaposition that I can afford karate lessons here in Kinshasa as I never could in America. Twice a week after school is a mere $30 per month. I must relate everything back to groceries because sometimes we just want something fun to eat. Pizza at $12 a slice means we are better off taking an extra class of karate. Or private dance lessons.

Yes, I am finally learning the traditional dances of Congo and they are beautiful. My spirit could be wooed and captured by dance if it were more feasible to travel to the country and see it. I’m working up it. I’ve only just begun to drive in Kinshasa. The dangers of the bush should wait. For now I’ll just tuck my shirt out and have faith.

The halfway point

It is about half way through the school year. Next week we will be breaking for a much needed vacation. Three weeks sounds like a long time now but it's sure to fly by in an instant. The patience required to work here has begun to stretch a bit thin. The charm has been washed away by the rain. On some days, a mere stapler can reduce me to a crumpled mass of tears. There are definitely some simple things that could go a long way top making life easier. A stapler is high on my list. One memorable afternoon I was trying to put up a bulletin board in the cafeteria. It is an oversize one and the upper grades had decided on a theme. I was trying, alone, to put up the background. It would have gone fairly well except the stapler kept jamming. So, there I was, holding a huge roll of paper, half stapled to the wall and in need of a pair of scissors on the nearby (but not quite close enough) table to clear the mangled staples. Its one of those scenes that could be funny if you were in the right mood. It just seems that every time I try to get creative I am stymied by a stapler. Because, yes, as I leaned against the board to keep the weight of the paper from pulling the whole thing down and stretch out cautiously with my other arm, I seriously considered yelling for help. Help? I realized the situation was too ridiculous to invite someone to witness and continued on my own. For the love of a stapler. (I won't even bother to describe the small red stapler I was using. It resembled more toy than office apparel and I longingly recalled the sturdy black machines of my not so distant past.)

Other small items holding vast power over me include whiteboard markers and poster paper. Poster paper simply because there is none. When I want to do a project involving posters I must either ask the students to buy their own (resulting in different sizes, shapes and colors) or I must try to create it by cutting sheets from rolled butcher paper. This scenario leads me to sprawling on the floor with sheets of paper curling around me as I try to cut, measure and flatten. There is nothing funny about this even on the best of days. Whiteboard markers? OK, I can see the humor here. This is the only situation I actually laugh through, and that might be more a sign of serious damage than good humor. The last time I went to refill my supply, I was able to choose from red or green. (There used to be blue long ago, even black, but now it's holiday colors only.) The markers are of such poor quality that they fade quite quickly once exposed to the air. I have been known to begin chucking them into the garbage can during a lesson, one after another as I heave and sigh searching for patience. It is usually in the middle of a lesson that I grab a marker to illustrate a point, only to have nothing come out. Chuck. Into the can. I do this mostly so I will be forced to walk up to the admin building and request more. However, I had to stop myself, during one particularly intense frenzy, before I threw them all away and had nothing left to continue the lesson. This is the part where I laugh and laugh because wouldn't the students just love it if I had to cancel a lesson for lack of equipment. Its hard to believe today I was longingly recalling the chalkboard. I have always hated chalkboards.

Equally frustrating is the lack of Internet connection. Like everything, its only frustrating if it isn't there when you need it. Personally, I manage well enough. But, educationally, there is plenty we could do if we had strong computers and certain Internet. (We could get around the obstacle of dying whiteboard markers, for instance.) I do have an LCD projector, which is helpful and I may plan to use it more often to avoid the invisible ink syndrome. We have textbooks but I feel a lack of paper. This may or may not be true. There is just the air of scarcity when I go to request supplies. I might receive one packet of colored construction paper (last request resulted in only blue) or asked how many manila file folders I need (how 'bout the whole box?)

After all is said and done however, what I miss most truly with my entire heart, soul, and every fiber of being are index cards. I miss small index cards and jumbo ones. I miss having them available in assorted colors like yellow, blue and red. I miss being able to grab an index card and jot down a note. I miss being inspired in the middle of a lesson and grabbing a handful to hand out to students for a quick activity. I miss using them to make flashcards, vocabulary cards, recipe cards, outline notes, color-coded group work, guess who I am? game, spelling cards on a ring, spelling sort in a pocket chart, quick note home to parents, here take my email, note to self about things to do tomorrow index cards.......

The Bread Scene

The Bread Scene 30. 11. 08 8:53 pm

Last night we went with our neighbors to see their son in his debut performance. He is 14 years old and has been taking sax lessons with an accomplished saxophonist. The evening was pleasant, if you don’t count Nabih’s wild side. He was very overtired and it tends to have the opposite effect. Mohamed, on the other hand, stuffed himself to exhaustion and practically fell asleep in his chair. I did notice his smile however, which revealed his dimple and lit his eyes in pure joy. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen him so free.

The music was a fun mix of American and Congolese, with a special highlight including a jingle for “Comfort,” a feminine product marketed here in Kinshasa. Apparently the saxophonist had written it, and it was being produced by our neighbor. I was introduced briefly to a minister of some sort, (political not theological) but honestly, it didn’t really mean much to me (clearly, it was supposed to.) I haven’t yet figured out all the titles or how the government works exactly (running on the Parliament system here.) The most ironic was listening to La Bamba- a Spanish song in an African restaurant that moved everyone to sing the chorus. The band members gave everything over to the student, really offering a chance for him to shine in the spotlight. While the boy was capable and even talented, I eventually came to the conclusion that perhaps there was more to this than just a simple performance.

Our neighbors are good people and I generally have a good time when we go out together, though I undoubtedly end up feeling like the peasant farmer (I’m trying to see the charm in peasant farming…) They are on the wealthier end of the spectrum and dazzle with class and fashion. They seem to have a sweet marriage, a true partnership and a wonderful way of making me feel completely comfortable. It is always an experience.

On the way home, they decided to stop for bread. I frequently feel, when riding in this car, like I am part of a Nascar test drive. That is, I feel I’m in the hands of a professional driver in every sense of the term. We were speeding down the road in a frantic rush of freedom, as the traffic had just let up, when I felt the car (violently?) swerve to the side of the road where a troupe of women walked with bags of bread.


The air inside the car became quiet as even the children were entranced by the sight. Outside the air was a fury of insistence that would put the most profitable Florida car salesman to shame. It seemed as if hundreds of women materialized, all shoving their bags of bread against the window and even into the car itself. She turned on the interior light and calmly searched for some francs. This is the kind of scene that would leave me feeling rushed and confused. But she took time to turn back and ask if I would also like some bread, unfazed by mounting vehemence outside.

The women were calmed by a word or two in Lingala and the scene ended with laughter, cheers and well wishes. She always gets the best deal and speaking Lingala goes a long way in obtaining that. It is easy to see they delight in these small exchanges, impressing the Congolese with their knowledge of local language, bridging the gap and creating the social connection. It is a necessity for the long term. She smiles back and explains how there is a bakery near by which practically guarantees a fresh loaf.

We zoom off again and I am lost in the darkness of the night sky, punctured only by the occasional roadside candlelight. I think of one of the walks I took with Nabih outside the restaurant. It was surrounded by a school and a medical centre. The school posted a sign on the gate offering employment. I wondered what it would be like to live and work in such a place, surrounded by life.

Its All here

Well, feeling a bit foolish, I'd like to say I've found a great blog with beautiful photos. It is almost exactly oppostie my blog and it tells many of the things I just can't seem to say in a clear direct way.

The other thing is, I've come up with a plan. Whether it will be fruitful or where it came from exactly, I'm withholding all judgement. I know only it is something I can envision and this lends some credence to the whole crazy scheme.

The better blog, or maybe just the other blog:

http://www.travelblog.org/Bloggers/Mondelay/

This doesn't mean I've given up, it just means I'm amassing my photos. They're coming....

Patience & Perseverance

It took awhile to get these photos posted, but here is our walk home through an impending storm. Our house is just below the elementary school soccer field. Its only a five minute walk but we could see the sky changing and smell rain in the air.




There's always an intense wind that picks up just before the storm. The build up comes with enough signs so that everyone might scramble inside or find some dry shelter. This is also the part that lends itself to an eerie movie. The prelude to the storm suggests strength and magnitude and biblical cleansing. It is here that the thunder rolled along the heavens, hinting at another world up top.

By the time we reached our house, the sky had gotten quite dark. Nabih kept asking if it was night. It was really only around 3:00. It seemed like the clouds were making mountains off which the thunder rolled and bounced. Just as we reached the back yard, there was a burst so loud we set off on an involuntary run.

Our front sidewalk, which we don't use that often, quickly turned into a small river. We sat on the back porch enjoying our (belated) slice of Thanksgiving sweet potato pie as the rain pelted us through the screen. "How can the rain fall sideways?" Mohamed asked incredulously. Ah, the power of the wind. There is often a lake sized puddle on the back porch the morning after a rain, and I try to remember not to leave the shoes out there. A few hot, sunny days always wipes the warning from my mind.

After the thunder and lightning had their say, the rain was free to fall in musical melody. This is the view from the front step. There is a nice covered area that is perfect for watching the storm, taking a few photos and breathing the clean scent of the falling water. Luckily, it's also wide enough to catch me as I jumped at a final burst of thunderous applause that clapped from the sky. The bolt of lightning was so clear and close I thought I might have captured the image. Slightly tempted to stay out and try again, this once, better judgement ruled and I watched the rest of the storm from inside.

Audience

Rather than read along with my old book club, I read about another kind of missionary. Roger Youmans, who is a missionary doctor, wrote an autobiography (When Bull Elephants Fight) about his many years working in Kinshasa and other areas of Congo. It was a detailed account and gave some amazing insight on how things have (or haven't really) changed since the early 70's when he was here. Even he, as a doctor, sometimes wondered exactly what he was doing here.

I've also spent some time reading other blogs. I like to find some written by others living in Africa and there are plenty. But the latest one I read was written by a fellow teacher here who has just had a baby in the U.S. I wondered what made her blog different than mine (for clearly it was) and came to a few realizations.

- Its o.k that my blog is different than most others I've read. I guess it is a true reflection of me and that's really all it should be. (It took me awhile to arrive at this conclusion, but once here, I am solidly here.)
- Pictures definately add to the blog. There's definately more reading involved here and photos could break that up. I remember intially hoping to tell this story through images. Just as I recommitted myself to posting more, I woke up to the realities of actually trying to do that. Nevertheless, I have some photos saved and an approaching storm I'm dying to share. Nabih seems committed to this as well because during our trip today (yes, I drove the boys to get Mohamed's hair cut) Nabih stole the camera and began shooting all kinds of photos from the back seat windows- a post unto itself.
- Finally, I realized it has something to do with audience. Clearly, she was writing with an audience in mind. With a specific purpose of updating her family and friends about how life and pregnancy in Congo was faring. It has taken me some time to consider my audience (I can no longer truly say I am writing solely about teaching as I've talked very little about my classroom or other challenges related to teaching here.) I intended to write in essay- like form about the issues as they caught my eye, and I think I have done that. I've written about things that I've been compelled to write about, things that linger in my mind and haunt my dreams. I guess I'm not always clear as I could be and hardly ever straightforward, but there's no way around it. Hard as I try to write something simple, I get bogged down in the hazy mist of my perception. I can see too many sides at once.

And, while I'm not really sure if anyone is actually reading, or who, it's not really my motivation (though I have wondered how to get more notice in the blogging world...) It ends up like my painting, sitting on the floor of my bedroom, where I glance at it in passing, wondering briefly where the future will bring it. The purpose is in the process, the final result simply a pleasant extra.

Clear like honey

This is one of the first mysteries I encountered here, in my very backyard. I found three of these in the small 'play-house' outside our back porch. When I first found it, I'd hoped to collect more. Bamboo sheaves had turned out to be great for making small paintings on. I was full of imagining how I could turn these into sculpture or collage.

In the photo it is compact and curly. It is hard and strong. I cannot bend it or break it. I even had a bit of difficulty trying to put in the thumbtacks so that I could hang it in the window. I assumed it to be dead and long discarded from whatever tree it fell. However, it possesses life. I have witnessed it's ability to open, dependent upon the weather it seems, to a long and nearly flat state. I've asked everyone who has come within sight of my back porch if they can identify it or have ever seen such a thing before. I even ventured beyond, carrying the pod like an unknown treasure or hidden curse to the neighbor for evaluation. The neighbor who has lived here for 18 years. Nope. Never saw anything like it.

Mama Vero, equally amazed as I (you must imagine the first few events, when we were sure it was our minds deceiving us and not the actual movement of this forgotten relic) has never seen anything like this either. She was quick to point out that it must be spirited. Of course, anything foreign or not easily understood can be chalked up to spirited. But I too was wondering.

Finally, I asked Papa Josef, one of the main gardeners and safety officers for the school. He seems to be a knowledgeable man of many talents and I figured if there was an answer, he would have it. He said yes, it comes from a tree on campus and he went so far as to point one out to me. I admit to being skeptical. He does have a reputation to protect I suppose, or at least some pride. Maybe I just wanted it to be mystical. He provided detail, such as the fact that it is indeed a pod (clearly) and made up of layers. Deep inside is the life. Even now, I could open it and plant it and the seeds would grow. I am not tempted, as I much enjoy the changing design, and, while it may come from a campus tree, I have not found another. Odd, considering how the mangoes and flowery apples thump continuously to the earth below.

I'm contemplating other things as well. There is plenty of time to think in the Congo. Most recently a painting I've finished, mediocre at best. I can see where I’ve gone wrong, where it could be improved. But now that the canvas is full, I am faced with the dilemma of starting again in hopes of perfecting it or simply starting anew. I suppose it is what masters do, rework, rework, and rework (revise, we call it in the writing world. Something I am forever insisting and modeling for my students.) But here in the land of scarce resources it seems a sin. Of course, what good is a mediocre painting? If the subject is compelling enough, certainly it deserves to be reworked. Am I still compelled? Sometimes I think, once the work is done, what good is a painting at all?

While not the only reflection I’ve been struggling with, by far the most benign. At least I’ve found the answer to my earlier question. (No, the C.C. is not always right, or wrong.) It came by way of a power outage that led to one woman working in her doorway. Nabih and I passed on our way from the sandboxes. I stopped to say hello, as she looked so inviting, sitting at a student desk placed directly in the door to allow for maximum light. She is not one of the teachers who live on campus, and I’d made several assumptions. However, life beyond the walls remains an endless fascination so I stopped with my many questions. Turns out, this time I was the one who was all wrong.

The conversation was quite interesting, though told with her characteristic confusion. It is as if she does not want to burden the listener with too many details but finds it difficult to edit. As she speaks, she closes her eyes and makes such pauses one might think she has lost her way altogether. My experience tells me simply to wait, silently inviting and encouraging more. Slowly her story unfolds.

She spent the last 10 years in China. There came a time when many people kept repeating that they felt she should be moving on, she was needed in another place. Though these were fellow Christians, they did not know her well. Through a series of events and meetings she found herself in Congo. It seems they were not ordinary meetings but with people well placed in the government to facilitate the process of gaining a visa during a time when tensions were rising. She came with an interest in pygmies. She had met just the people who also shared this interest and steered her in the right direction. Upon arriving, she felt a need to find some work to fund her passion. The timing was such that as she approached the superintendent here, someone had broken contract, leaving a void which he was only too pleased to fill. The story goes on as she lives and works in Congo, helping the pygmies develop some kind of sustainable living. She talks about reaching a block, when she just wasn’t sure how to continue. After much prayer, the answer comes to her, “Honey.” Only the way she tells it is like this- " I kept asking, what do I do now? and he said, 'Honey.' " So clear, just like that.

It turns out, gathering honey had been an indigenous part of pygmy life, with gatherers climbing some 300 feet to capture a hive. Another chance meeting with just right person puts her in contact with a beekeeper who is willing to send a trainer to work with her and the pygmies teaching them how to bee farm.

This is not a made up story but one example of a life working exactly as it should with purpose and direction. I am entertained and inspired. How fortunate that I passed to say hello with a question poised on my lips. But part of me wonders why I continue to waiver. I speak with confidence about having patience and knowing the right thing is coming. But inside I wonder about my doubts and insecurities. I wonder about my lack of direction and whether my prayers are simply not absolute enough.

I'm hoping for some kind of answer.

I have been spending my days on this oasis, doing very little to reach out.

But I want to know- what exactly am I doing here? Or, better put, what can I do best here? Where can I find service?

Just before leaving the U.S. I felt more and more strongly that I could really only find some kind of peace and happiness through service. For a long time, I skimmed by pretending my job, with its intense emotional demands, was service enough. There is no pretense now, no excuses. I'm just stalling, waiting for a crisp clear answer. Clear like honey. My doubter's soul says, she heard it, why can't I?

It has caused me to reread some of my earlier posts. In doing so I realize I can comment with positive affirmation. The move here has been enough to quiet my soul. It seems able now to listen. Despite the stereotypical cliché that was my dream, it’s turned out to be exactly what suits me.

Now that I've relished in the dream for several months, its time to get up and start the business of living, whether or not its clear like her honey or full of little bee body parts, all viscous and cloudy like mine. They both sweeten the tea, I suppose.

Conservative Wright

I really wanted to make another wr- word there but have refrained. I am amazed at my ability to still be shocked by events around me. As those who know me are aware, I tend to spend some time observing and keep my personal perspective, well....personal. In this case, it frees up others to be all out in the open with theirs.

I took this weekend to enjoy the sun and have fun. Yes, fellow New Yorkers, it's November 17th and I have a bit of a sunburn. We spent Saturday and Sunday afternoon at the pool. The pool is one of the true highlights here. There are days when several other people come to enjoy the deep, warm water. This provides some interesting socialization. Some days, the place is deserted and it feels like having an Olympic sized pool to yourself. Saturdays are usually good for the former, Sundays for the latter. The reason being that many of the families here are Christian (conservatives, are these words always linked?) and attend church followed by a light meal out or shopping. It is only us pagans that shop on Saturday (or Muslims as the case may be.)

It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon with a clear blue sky and warm yellow sun. I'm guessing the temperatures were in the 90's but that is another of the Western measurements I've come to do without (I don't know if Celius will ever really mean something to me.) It is enough to look outside and know the day is grand. The pool was nice with several other families. Nabih and Mohamed had a chance for some other adult attention. I am half listening to the conversations around me but they're focused on nail polish and hair highlights. The talk gently drifts to on-line brides and trying to set up one of the faculty this way. There is still the tinge of gossip floating around the words and I think idly to myself that this particular person might prefer a husband more than a wife. Someone voices that exact thought and I hear a sharp intake of breath, like a machete slicing the tall grass we have growing all around the edges here. "How could you say that? Don't say that."

They begin to discuss the California referendums and whether or not gay marriage was passed. Lost still in my sun induced haze, I remain unprepared for what is about to happen. There is a bit of discussion about whether it passed and if it was in fact overturned and then cheering. Cheering. I feel like everywhere I turn there is cruelty in the air, lurking behind a friendly face and open smile.

The conservative right, I remind myself. I find most of the missionary families to be gentle and nice. The staff here are pleasant enough. But I am just distanced enough to forget the core beliefs.

In the high school newspaper there was a tongue in cheek photo of one of the coaches crying because McCain lost. It is hard for me to imagine how we could both be working at the same school. I find it difficult to understand how people with such a closed mind would end up in such a diverse and international place. Then I realize there is fault in my thinking, in assuming everynone is here to embrace the many cultures and try to understand different beliefs. They have come to change something they see as wrong and to dominate a system they believe is flawed.

We were all there at the pool, enjoying a swim, splashing and playing together. There was almost a poetry there, the two opposite extremes coming together. I'm just not sure anyone got that but me. Before my silence was taken as complacency, I decided to leave. Sundays are a much better day for swimming.

Muse

It was not a figure of expression when I described the tears in my eyes during Jacques show. He has quite a talent for choosing music and seems dedicated to an international mix. It is a treasure to have met him. Today I found out the exact song that humbled me and I should have known is was a song for Allah. Nothing else could hold such power. It's here now, for all to enjoy. We've been listening all night, the boys and I. Painting and singing. That's (truly) why I came to Africa. To follow the muse. To find my passion. To grow closer to my belief. Celebrate life, sab vird karo, Allah, Allah.

Saturday shopping...

.... or something like that.

I find it too hard to fit into this jagged world, where she eats potato chips from a can, ignoring the boy outside with no pants. The store is filled with jeans, overpriced to be sure. If we each gave $5 it could be done. But they are full of their evening at the Ball and thinking of Christmas trips home. I know $20 will not rid my stomach of hunger or fill my night with sleep.

I am reminded of another trip, another she. “Cholera has broken out, killed 14 people.” It’s the Belgian (yes, we are reduced to nationalities here in the world of international teaching.) He’s trying to show his awareness of politics, thinks we’re all fools for not discussing more, being more aware. I read the paper once a week and have found several good radio websites. I opt to say nothing. A man selling plastic containers walks by. “That’s what I need, food storage.” It comes from a young American, not caring about the 14 dead or the thousands displaced. It’s amazing how narcissistic people can become here. They think of it as a survival strategy- don’t look at the beggars and thieves, they will go away if you ignore them. No questions about where they will go or why they are beggars and thieves to begin with. I tried to placate the Belgian with a question half posed- “Where? Around here or in the east?” Of course, I know it’s in the east, where the real tragedy is occurring. From our stance, it seems as far away as America. At least it will until something happens to bring it closer to home, or to inconvenience our lives.
It was regrettable that time, to see the indifference.

But this time, unforgiveable. We found ourselves in a travel tour bus, four American/European women pretending the little boy on the sidewalk didn’t exist. It’s altered my ability to interact with them, not that the bond was ever especially strong to begin with. I am as stunned by the cruelty as if one of them had gotten off the bus and slapped the boy in the face. They do not see it as cruel, they choose not to see at all.

I’m determined to take photos. It has only just occurred to me the reason photos are not allowed is because of the dire situation downtown. It’s not security but national image that is at stake. The store I’ve come to hate is City Market. It’s ridiculously expensive, (home of the $22 box of cereal) but also home to a small community of street people. Except they’re not people, they are women and children. Women nursing babies and smoking cigarettes. Children hoping for a Coke or piece of bread, sitting on dirty blankets, breathing in fumes from the cars and buses that pass. Today, they were arguing. Two women, one whose veins in her neck stood out as she yelled. She loosely grasped a plump baby that looked as if it might tumble to the ground. From somewhere, a saw appeared in her hand. She held it casually by her side as she yelled. Point taken, I suppose.

I asked the driver, Papa Mazando, to deliver the pants. He handed the bag to a woman, gesturing and explaining. I could barely see from the bus window, but I caught a glimpse of her face as she held the pants out and joy as she presented them to the boy. I don’t know if it was the right thing to do, surely not the wrong thing. I understand the solution to these problems cannot be conquered this way. But, of all the children outside that day, there was just one with such a simple and obvious need. It was the only thing to do. For some reason, I wasn't really sure if she would be joyful.

He doesn’t leave my mind that simply. I think of him as the rain pounds the roof. I try to find comfort in stories of secret dry places where he might take refuge. The television would paint a picture of him finding an abandoned building with some bedding and a fire to keep warm by. I know the truth is he is probably wet and cold, soaked in his new pants and hungry with his old, empty stomach. I am humbled with gratitude for my dry house and cozy bed. Though this night, it provides little comfort.

Food- again

I've been wanting to write about food for awhile, and I've probably written about food in the past. When there is not much entertainment or social connection, food becomes many things. But lately, I've seen even more.
Perhaps it is with the onset of the rainy season. Or perhaps it began with the new generator house being built and the presence of men on campus too noticeable in their bright red suits. The gardeners and maintenance men here tend to wear a dull blue that blends with environment. But everywhere people are looking for food.

I've become more aware of where my food comes from. Similar to having a garden back home, the tomatoes and lettuce we get (from the garden next door) are more flavorful. The mangoes are heavenly and the avocado divine. I feel so treated and blessed, maybe because they are expensive and rare in the States. But to simply pick a papaya from the tree seems a wonder. I marvel at these small joys, a perk to living on campus with its abundance of fruit trees and gardening space. But I see everyone else searching for mangoes that have fallen and are just right (I have not mastered this art and cannot find the edible ones, though Mohamed often tries.) They search for mushrooms to such a degree that both boys spot them on the weekends and pick to save for Mama Vero when she comes on Monday. It sparked a delicious conversation in which Mohamed insisted they were mushrooms and Nabih said, "No! Champignons." I could only laugh and say,"Yes" to both.

People look hungry to me when they are stooping to gather something from the earth, though I don't know why it is so. It is natural to gather our food, fresh from the soil. But I am tamed and used to seeing it growing in quarantined plots or beneath the harsh, artificial lights inside a store.

Parents

It was a long day of meeting and talking with parents. They can be a powerful force, I'm told. it is easy to see why. First because they are paying for the education and so, feel more directly that they are entitled to receive a certain quality of service. Second, the teacher population is transient and I am sure it is trying for the parents to be orienting new teachers each year, never really knowing what to expect. I can see with their eyes how it must be difficult.

I can see with my teacher eyes also, however, and that it can be scary to be at the mercy of so many parents who might seem whimisical or blinded by love for their child. I did manage to pass the most scrutinuous inspections and, though I began rather nervously, by the fifth conference become lost in some kind of haze, discussing other people's children as I see them and the policies and procedures of the class as I designed it.

Despite the many perspectives, I'm happy to say that nearly every family remarked how their child was happy to come to school each day. This is worth remembering. The children are having fun.

The conferences themselves were a walk through many lands. Only 3 of the families spoke English as a first language. I conducted one conference entirely in French and another brought her daughter to translate to Hindi. Some of the parents were not entirely happy with the mark of 'satisfactory' and definately not with 'C,' though I tried to explain that they are both avergae and acceptable grades. I can understand dissatisfaction with 'C' more so than 'S.' Parents are expecting the best.

Never one to give out squishy grades, I did have to inform some that their children were simply not working up to potential. Some of the messages were more dire, an emotional need for a period of adjustment, or lack of regard all around. Some were facing what is clearly a child with special needs but certainly cannot be discussed as such. Expectations are high.

I enjoyed talking to the parents for the most part and was able to gently steer the conversation to focus on improvements and hopes for the future. I felt that they liked me (Kinshasa is a small community and it is definately a collective sense of "they") and it gave me a cozy sense of being watched over and inducted into their cultures.

One parent explained it this way, so eloquently: Every night she is there to assist her children with homework, with schoolwork, whatever they need. Because there are 2, she will divide her time between them, watching over both and providing support. When the grades come back, if her daughter has a "C" then she is feeling perhaps she did not help enough. She will even question, "Did I give too much time to the other child?" She tells me she will feel guilty, as if she is failing her child by not helping where needed.

This was a quite an eye opening perspective. I realized I had been very clear with my group of fifth graders about the expectations. I had even 'cancelled' classes at times to review the importance of a response or assignment. But perhaps this message had not been transferred adequately to the parents. Suddenly I felt as if the burden is not mine alone but I have many helpers. These children will succeed.

Of course there are some that simply do not really see their whole child. I think, as a parent, it is not always possible. But there are beautiful people here. Everyone seemed to have such grace and a pleasant appearance. I do enjoy this job.

I cannot begin to write about the most bizarre conference. Just know that the conversation, occurring in French, had something to do with vomiting over bowel movements (ask me how this relates and I surely cannot explain) and brilliance, somehow the two are connected? Unfortunately, I am pretty certain I cannot attribute this to a translation error. Nope, she said it. Ka-ka. Several times. That is when the mist turned into a heavy fog and I knew I stepped over..........

witness

It is difficult to write tonight. All day I'd had ideas about writing some teacher talk things. Sometimes I wonder what the purpose of this blog is, and I think, it was to write about teaching here. But of course its about living here too. And, because I can't do anything simply, its about the complexities of one life in Africa.

Then I went to Jacques' show. I am reminded that there is no such thing as one life. All lives are connected, through intention or not. I was prepared for the show,as much as one can be: la violence fait a la femme. The dance was definately in the same style as the previous. I kept thinking of painting and how there would be an artist's signature through figure and form. It was there in style and music, in the way modern and traditional dance fused and interchanged. The dance was just as powerful, sometimes uncomfortable, overtly sexual. At times the dance was satirical but I wondered how the audience could laugh when I had tears in my eyes. The techno-pop background music varied between traditional Congolese drumming and a beautiful African song evoking freedom and hope. That is the melody that brought me to tears. It transported me back to another Africa, my first Africa. And I realize that I miss that time immensely. I was a different person then and I can feel the age in me now.

As America rejoices a new president, I seem to be caught up in a cycle of loss. In one small moment, I heard Barack refer to those in the forgotten corners of the world, and I felt seen. But I awoke to find Rock Star missing the next day. "It's kind of sad," Mohamed repeated all through breakfast. "Baby junior must be sad, too." It is strange how much I miss walking out onto the back porch to catch a quick glimpse of his (or her) activities.

It is lonely here and after the dance I felt the energy of people all around me. I felt the person that I used to be and remembered how she would have stayed and soaked it in, savoring the richness of the art. There is something unexplainable about watching social commentary expressed this way, hearing the audience reaction as they recognize mockery and anguish. There is something profound about watching it with the Congolese, the artists. They are not the Africans of CNN.

There the tragedy is sterile, dramatized and impersonal. Another African mishap. Here, it becomes so much more. A people awakening to their future and claiming their past.

The show took place in a small outdoor courtyard, cement stage covered with a tin roof. The audience sat in plastic chairs under a slight drizzle. There was electric and amplification. There was even some attempt at stage lighting. In this world, its quite a success. I am struck by the image of someone just beginning, working on a dream. Doing something.

It brings me back to why I am here, what am I doing? And how I so wish to be doing.
It is difficult to have patience, an essential component to life in Africa. I am pushed to paint, through my limited resources and large silent house.

Maybe tomorrow I can write of teacher things. Tonight, I can see only the dance. I can feel how it touched my soul, and try to face the piece of myself that knows what really happened on stage. The rest, for now I can only witness.

Rock Star

Oct 27 9:08 pm

There is a spider just outside our back porch that has built a massive and intricate web. It has not been disturbed by the wind or rain or falling debris of the last few nights. The boys have named him (or her) Rock Star and she has been with us for several months now. She has become our version of Animal Planet. We observe her activities everyday and even managed to catch her repairing her web. She seemed to be using her long thin legs as needles, sewing the threads in a delicate pattern. We have seen stranded insects caught and awaiting death. And who could resist witnessing the feast?!

It seems that Rock Star has either given birth (although we did not notice any egg laying or hatching) or made a friend. There is a Rock Star, Junior now in residence slightly below the original. Every so often I stop being stunned by the beauty and wonder if I should worry about a Hitchcock-ian overtaking. Mostly I don’t. They are doing a double duty of pest control and scientific entertainment.

I have been noticing an abundance of small wildlife lately, perhaps an indication of truly slowing down and adopting the African pace and rhythm. Mohamed even pointed out several snails along the path that were so cleverly camouflaged it took some minutes to spot them. The one crawling (do snails crawl, or slither? Neither word seems apt. Maybe creep, or slide- although slide is too fast. Truly, the snail jut seemed to be, in this spot one moment and in that spot the next) by the front porch posed for a photo.

The time off was good for scouting around and noticing things. Lamine was able to join us for a few weeks and that was eye opening as well. His presence swooped down on all of us and he became a celebrity overnight. There is a not-so-subtle gossip ring that sends news of campus from one house to the next. I’ve never actually heard anything but I know it exists. People just show up at my house (take Jacques for example, who delivered the drums- he never asked where I lived, he just showed up one Sunday morning. I don’t even think he knows my name.) They greet me with questions about events I am certain I never shared. Such is living on the island, a public-private affair.

Everyone seemed to know of Lamine’s arrival and with the assistance of Nabih (the new mayor in town) he met many people living on campus as well as most of the maintenance crew. Within a day he had met a fellow countryman from Senegal and discovered where to purchase West African goods. In 2 days he had convinced the gardener to finally trim the opening through the stone archway (apparently Nabih had given previous orders not to cut the vines) and to begin turning the soil for a long awaited garden. By the morning of day 3, on my way to school, one of the maintenance guys stopped me to ask where I’d found such a great African husband? A regular rock star.

Of course it helps that he came bearing gifts. The children were thrilled to have “Christmas in July” and Mama Vero felt happily blessed with her supply of children’s clothes. On day 4 she was giggling like a schoolgirl as she invited her friend to come and sample some rice with chicken and tomato sauce. She simply could not believe that he had cooked it and how! Of course, I’d been inviting her to eat with us for weeks but maybe my invitation was lacking in pizzazz.
In no time, it seemed I had to run off to Uganda. That was an experience unto itself and though I missed everyone, I don’t regret going. The return passed just as quickly, though it seemed some of the initial fervor had worn off. The boys were as excited as ever to watch movies and play tennis or soccer with Baba. I had the chance to see that being married to a rock star isn’t always what it seems.

I also realized a bit about my own extended family and how our cycle of meeting and parting created for me a familiar and comfortable sense of being. I used to visit with my aunt every summer and on holidays. There was a great feeling of being on vacation together and setting aside the everyday worries and duties to just enjoy being together.

But now we’re back to school and routines and back to being just three, unless of course you count the other Rock Star, oh and Junior makes 5.