I returned minus one pair of scissors. I am trying to figure out if I should be grateful or indignant. I did begin with 12. It could easily have appeared to the untrained eye that I had plenty to spare. I am forever battling this concept of poverty versus prosperity.
It actually began when I dropped Mohamed off at a birthday party. A new restaurant has opened in Kintambo which has left everyone abuzz. Birthday parties themselves have a tendancy to leave me feeling overwhelmed and out of my social sphere. It is then that I realize Mohamed's friends are children of diplomats and ambassadors. The luxuries I see upon dropping him off make my radiant surroundings seem dreary in comparison. The latest party was being held at the aforementioned new hotspot in town. The bright, colorful building boasted sparkling glass doors and shiny tile hallways. One entire wall was covered with a mixture of paintings and three dimensional art complete with African masks and a cowrie shell design. Several flights up we were presented with a very Western style cafe. Burly men in black t-shirts and nylon caps were waiting to greet us. The dining area was full of tables and patrons enjoying an early lunch. A private party room off to the side enclosed a childrens climbing and play area. As I'd heard a salad and pita sandwich had run one couple something in the neighborhood of $30, I could not really comprehend the price of this party- 20 children for sandwiches, fries and a drink.......
Everything I do here puts me in the land of the surreal. At one time in my not too distant past, I was standing in a cold kitchen accepting bags filled with staples from a dear friend who was aware of my dire situation. No money for nutriants or warmth. My landlord was offering to loan me money so I could put a bit of oil in the tank during a long and particularly cold winter. I couldn't see past the next meal. But here I am pulling into a parking lot filled with sleek, shiny SUV's in polished blacks and grays. I dropped my child off at a birthday party that probably cost more than I spend on a month of groceries. As I pulled around to the back exit, the gate opened to reveal a teeming mass of children clothed in dusty rags waving sticks, empty hands and cheerful smiles in my direction as I, the imposter, deftly drove the car over piles of paper scraps and around craters that littered this back alley. When I returned a few hours later, the children were gone- disappearing with the rain- but I could still see them, and I could still feel their presence along the cramped and littered lane.
Whle Mohamed was whooping it up with his friends, Nabih and I headed for ACDF. This day I had brought their drawings, of which I have been collecting for unknown reasons, and thought we could work together on a forest collage. I was also prepared with their salt sculptures and paints from the previous week in case it seemed possible to organize and manage two different activities at once. I can never be sure how many kids will be there and which ones exactly. It makes a continuing project challenging at best.
After arriving, I quickly decided to scrap the painting plans and work solely on the collage. I taped up some sheets of large green paper which were a sharp and welcome contrast to the gray, dingy walls. The kids seemed to get the idea pretty quickly and began easily cutting out their past drawings. Many were also anxious to begin new drawings which were also cut out and pasted. It was a hive of busy concentration. Several children quickly became designated the 'gluers' and were in charge of assembling the collage on the wall. Less clear were my directions, suggestions and samples of how to construct trees, grass and water. We managed to get a few tree-like structures around the edges and a square of water somewhere in the middle to accomodate a swimming rhinocerous whose legs were accidently cut off by an overly enthusiastic snipper.
In their zeal, however, things began to become fantastic. Horses were flying in the sky only inches away from army helicopters. Men walked effortlessly along the jungle treetops and jeeps supported elephants without caving in. I laughed as I questioned in my broken French, "Es'que ca vole?"
They laughed right back assuring me it was so, animals and houses alike could fly.
I managed a shift when one boy proudly showed me his drawing of one the new washers. Yes, it was definately reminiscent of the sporty machines sitting in the corner. A few moments later I noticed him grandly applying glue and tacking his portrait to the uppermost corner of our second jungle scene.
"Do they really have that in the forest?" I inquired. I really could not tell if they were getting the concept of creating a jungle collage or if they were expressing perspective in a different way. I am well acquainted with the village drawings that are multilayered, descending down the page, house upon house upon garden until a river runs along the bottom. It is akin to the Oriental design using a vertical, rather than horizontal, perspective.
Yet again I was met with laughter and a nod.
"C'est vrai?! Un machine, dans le foret?" Really?! A machine in the forest? I felt determined to get to the heart of the confusion. But as he turned to look at me and assure me, completely and truly with every ounce of his being that YES! there were washing machines in the forest, the trees finally gave way and I saw everything for what it was. His eyes were shining and he patted the corners of his creation firmly to the wall. His work was on display for all to see. THAT was greater than any juxtaposition of brown and green construction paper I was hoping would be assembled into an arrangement of tree and leaf like shapes. There was a use for their carefully drawn designs of the past and it was simply to be hung, admired and commented upon.
As I was realizing this, I looked over to the benches in the back of the room. A few mintues after arrival, a storm appeared in the sky forcing the older teens and visitors to move inside. They sat on the benches, talking or just looking, not having much to do. Some took up the task of coloring or cutting, others just chided those who were involved. There is an art to this patient waiting here in Africa. I've seen it many places as well as repeated in the theater. African dramas are often comprised of social scenes that involve sitting and talking. Its true to life. But it also requires a constant readjustment of my perspective.
Comparitively, drawing a realistic model and hanging it on the wall turns the piece into a focal point, a source of discussion, admiration and even some good natured joshing. Recognition and validation by one's peers secured. (I am sensing a pattern here. I just need to remember that I see it and that it is of value.)
This day there was more of a teaching component to the activites. I felt a distinct eye on me as the mothers of prospective recipients watched from their new, inside seats. We were now the entertainment. And I do have a role to fill on these Saturday's. While I continue to decipher what it means to me personally, the children have no doubt. "Madame, madame.." they call as I hand out supplies. They want refills, pencil sharpeners, more markers, markers that work,...etc. Occasionally, I feel they are too demanding and I try, in Lingala, to get them to say please. "Soko olingi," I prompt. Although I've learned a few useful phrases, their reaction never differs. They smile and laugh as general comments circulate the room. I can never be sure if they take me seriously. And with the extended audience, the chorus of "Madame" was ever growing, song like and clearly the subject of some discussion. We will have to work on my name and I on theirs.
There are moments of concentration and focus interspersed with chaos and confusion. Generally it is in the setting up and cleaning up that supplies tend to go missing. I have been aware of this and understand it is a risk of the trade. The lego building has remained on hiatus for this very reason. I imagine there is a bit of it that could be cured by relationship building. The more often I visit the center, the better we come to know one another, the more respect we might develop. But I am distinctly aware of a bridge I cannot cross. As I work there, I see myself through their eyes. I feel foreign and unknown to myself in this light. It makes the gaps between us seem all the more insurmountable. With my 12 pairs of scissors and 13 glue sticks, every week I show up with books and paper and crayons in bright pink pails. Just last week, I was badgered to rudeness by a girl who wanted one of the pails and felt I should be obligated to give it to her.
I begin to lose my patience. I want them to make the connection that I am bringing these supplies and materials for their benefit and if they filch them piece by piece, there will be nothing left to bring. I want it to be an even exchange of gifts. If I bring the the entertainment, they can respond by sending me off with all of my original pieces. But it cannot really work this way. No matter how many times I come, there is always the chance that I won't show up. They are awaiting the day when I fly off to some other locale, leaving them once again to dusty, dreary Saturdays sans l'art, sans l'jouie. Until some other mondele shows up with grand ideas and hopeful plans. I am not sure if I can transcend this image of the wealthy white. I still carry memories of my own dark time, peering into empty kitchen cupboards and wondering how the children will eat. I know that, in comparison, it is not really the same. But I also know that, while I do not necessarily want to be their 'madame mondele,' I have not comitted to Kinshsasa. It is very likely I am waiting for a plane to whisk me off to some other locale.....
