Living overseas presents a number of challenges, many of which have been overcome or have even disappeared in the last 6 years. It's amazing how those things once perceived as challenges eventually morph into new ways of living. We haven't been back to the US for two years and so we've had to make some adjustments. Rather than our annual stocking up on clothes, shoes and supplies we've found ways to do that here. While it seemed a bit expensive at first, we've adjusted to that too (after calculating the cost of air fare and the environmental footprint, it all equals out I suppose.)
One thing I haven't exactly figured out, however, is the burden of paperwork. I have managed to escape much of this part of life- rent and utilities included certainly cuts down on the bill paying. I have a great accountant on-line, banking on-line and that leaves only my student loan payments to go out by mail.
By mail. The school had been offering the grand luxury of mail service once per month. We are able to send out envelopes only and receive small (really small) packages. It was enough to take care of the other odds and ends that can't be taken care of online and to allow for a small treat now and then (a pair of US soccer cleats, for example. Or a bag of chocolate chips.)
Sometime back in October my ATM card stopped working. After some investigation I found out that my card had been reported stolen. As I stared at the card in my hand, I queried further. Stolen? There wasn't a lot of information forthcoming but it turned out my bank had reported it stolen. Maybe something to do with the numbers on their side being hacked into. In any case, I ordered a new card and put my Amazon shopping on hold for a month.
Except after a month, the card never showed. I called again and the customer service agent politely informed me they would send a new one and if I didn't see anything in 5-7 days I should call back. Except our mail route could take 1-2 months depending on timing and so I was left to take even deeper breaths and more Amazon hold time.
This saga has continued on, past our vacation (try traveling to another foreign country without the safety net of having your bank funds available....ho hum.) In February, the month I was certain the card would arrive, it seemed the glitch occurred over here on our side. The package was sent to the "wrong side" of customs and is now being held for.....ransom? It's not looking so good for March's mail either, since that remains MIA as well.
Which leaves me faced with the fact that I may be finding myself in a World With No Mail. It might not seem so important, especially as the debate about the viability and need for a postal service continues. Wadhwa writes, "But as despised and problematic as it is, the Postal Service is one of the most important institutions in this country – it is essential to a functioning economy, and it is, thankfully, not going anywhere, any time soon." As someone living in a country without reliable mail service, I can only agree- and hope he is right.
Things are about to get sticky. As I am about to mark another year off my personal calendar, my driver's licence is up for renewal. I can renew on-line (provided my address is the same as the one on my old licence, oh yeah- maintaining an address and all the other requirements in order to qualify for bank accounts, driver licences and even paypal accounts becomes nearly impossible the more time spent overseas...) but there is no way (yet) to receive the actual document on-line. Nope. I need the poste to make that happen.
In the case of my lost and lonely ATM card, most likely stuck in a dark back corner of some cold customs office, I have devised a plan B. Hopefully I will be able to get (yet another) one sent to a friend who is visiting the US during this spring break. And hopefully it will arrive in the precious window of time she is available at that particular address so that she may then bring it back to me in her luggage. Or her pocket. It is, after all, not very big. And doesn't weigh much. Vive le pony express.
This method won't provide much help for my driver's licence. Luckily, if it does expire, I have two years to renew it before I am required to start all over again- by taking the written exam and the road test. Which would definitely require a personal presence in the US. And there's just no guarantee when that event will happen again. Especially since the odds are great we are going local.
I am slightly seduced by the idea of just melting more and more into my surroundings. How important is it to maintain my US documents? Can't I just get a driver's licence from whatever country I happen to be living in? The temptation is grand as it becomes harder and harder to stay in touch. But I know the reality is once it's gone, it could be impossible to get back (re: the address problem, and supplying all those supporting documents like utility bills and other non existent papers I can't produce to prove I exist.)
And so, while paper work has always seemed more of a burden to me than it's ever been worth, I will throw forth one final effort at retrieving the documents that allow me to maintain some small connection to a country that gets ever further away even as I take small steps to realizing that Amazon and I may also no longer be mates.
24.3.14
18.3.14
Our sweet school
A few years ago I had that year as a teacher, the one that makes you reconsider your professional choice and start to view taxi driver as a pleasurable alternative (if you've been reading for any length of time or if you actually know me, then you know that I do aspire to be a taxi driver someday....really.) It was that year when the students and I did more than just not click, we got on each others nerves in a most annoying and terrible way. We pushed every single button and never gave an inch. Every day I felt like a comedian bombing on stage. And every minute I expected the kids to grab some Apollo style brooms and sweep me from the front of the classroom amidst a chorus of boos and shouts. It was the year that makes you want to run for the hills and never come out again. Every single day. For 180 days. Sometimes even the weekends aren't enough to make you feel safe.
I didn't quit teaching, however, and continue to enjoy most parts of my job. This year began in a most promising way -I finally had the dream schedule with all of my favorite subjects. I am teaching art, literacy and social studies. I have a variety of classes and grade levels. I even have enough time in my day to prep for art. And my partner teacher was pretty easy to talk to, fun to exchange ideas with and get helpful feedback from.
Until it all changed. And so drastically that for several weeks just getting up to go to school was a Herculean effort. I couldn't fall asleep at night for replaying events of the day and hashing over conversations- you know the kind, when you insert all the logical things you wish you'd said in the moment and responded with clarity and wit rather than confusion and anger.
Its calmed down a bit - in that tense sort of left on my own kind of calm. I miss the collaborating, the collegiality and the sense of being useful and purposeful in my job. I'm not exactly clear why it all went wrong, though there have been lots of insights that have helped me to accept the situation (mostly) without animosity.
This week is Arts Week at our school and in keeping with tradition a group of teachers has teamed up to plan events for the week. In the elementary we have developed monthly learning celebrations (our version of the old "school assembly") and so I have found myself in the midst of planning, coordinating and preparing for a different kind of art experience for our students to discover every day this week. Its a lot fun. I like thinking with others, problem solving, and developing ideas to their most creative potential. Even trying for crazy at times. Just enough outside the box to make a regular old event really wacky.
It's given me time to realize what I really do love about our school. We've had the chance, as teachers, to create worthwhile, innovative and meaningful experiences for our students. Every month they get a chance to show off what they know and to apply the concepts they are learning in the classroom to celebrations and fun events. We have the math fair with booths and activities centered around math concepts created by students. There is the All School Read and Author's Assembly when kids have a chance to respond to books and write their own to share. We have Leap into Science when kids get to think like scientists and dig deeper into the many realms of science in the real world. There is Arts Week and International Week. There is plenty of dancing, singing, creating, building, thinking, puzzling and laughing. It just feels good to celebrate learning.
And so, despite the challenges of this year, I think I can still leave with sweet memories of the little community school we have created.
I didn't quit teaching, however, and continue to enjoy most parts of my job. This year began in a most promising way -I finally had the dream schedule with all of my favorite subjects. I am teaching art, literacy and social studies. I have a variety of classes and grade levels. I even have enough time in my day to prep for art. And my partner teacher was pretty easy to talk to, fun to exchange ideas with and get helpful feedback from.
Until it all changed. And so drastically that for several weeks just getting up to go to school was a Herculean effort. I couldn't fall asleep at night for replaying events of the day and hashing over conversations- you know the kind, when you insert all the logical things you wish you'd said in the moment and responded with clarity and wit rather than confusion and anger.
Its calmed down a bit - in that tense sort of left on my own kind of calm. I miss the collaborating, the collegiality and the sense of being useful and purposeful in my job. I'm not exactly clear why it all went wrong, though there have been lots of insights that have helped me to accept the situation (mostly) without animosity.
This week is Arts Week at our school and in keeping with tradition a group of teachers has teamed up to plan events for the week. In the elementary we have developed monthly learning celebrations (our version of the old "school assembly") and so I have found myself in the midst of planning, coordinating and preparing for a different kind of art experience for our students to discover every day this week. Its a lot fun. I like thinking with others, problem solving, and developing ideas to their most creative potential. Even trying for crazy at times. Just enough outside the box to make a regular old event really wacky.
It's given me time to realize what I really do love about our school. We've had the chance, as teachers, to create worthwhile, innovative and meaningful experiences for our students. Every month they get a chance to show off what they know and to apply the concepts they are learning in the classroom to celebrations and fun events. We have the math fair with booths and activities centered around math concepts created by students. There is the All School Read and Author's Assembly when kids have a chance to respond to books and write their own to share. We have Leap into Science when kids get to think like scientists and dig deeper into the many realms of science in the real world. There is Arts Week and International Week. There is plenty of dancing, singing, creating, building, thinking, puzzling and laughing. It just feels good to celebrate learning.
And so, despite the challenges of this year, I think I can still leave with sweet memories of the little community school we have created.
17.3.14
Posts that never were
I woke sometime around 1 am with a horrible feeling that something is wrong. I spent a bit of time trying to distract myself with the usual late night venues- surfing Facebook (ever constant revealer of disturbing midnight secrets,) catching up on news (and non-news) from the Huffington Post and reading whatever else seems remotely interesting (this link about uncontacted tribes appeared in my FB feed, ironically the night of our book club meeting about The People in the Trees.) The Washington Post report on family planning in Senegal, when coupled with the myriad of responses, leaves me feeling twisted and of course, no one can really be sure what's happening in Crimea. An even bigger mystery is that of Malaysian flight MH370 and the many theories about what could have possibly happened there.
None of these have been enough to shake a sense of unease and personal tragedy from my own mind however. After an unsuccessful attempt to watch a film of some sort, I finally shut off the lights determined to sleep. It's easy to say what happened next was a panic attack, easy enough to chalk it up to hormones (that's a one-size fits all excuse for everything these days) but it didn't feel like that at the time. From this short distance of about 15 minutes, it feels right to call it a panic attack. I've been working on my ability to watch my emotions pass, like a scene in a movie, and not get too wrapped up in any one extremity (would be a helpful skill for getting through this school year. I have noticed improvement, definitely, or maybe it is just finally adapting to what has become one of my most bizarre professional years yet.) But overwhelmingly it was a sense of grief and loss. Butterflies. Powerlessness. Regret. Mostly just loss.
It happens often that I wonder if I am too sensitive for this world. I am easily overwhelmed by senseless waste, unequal abundance and innocence wounded. Motherhood intensified all of these emotions, and perhaps it is to be expected now again, this increased sensitivity. But it makes even the mundane difficult to get through. I waiver back and forth between opening up and digging deeper back into a small, safe and oh so private world. As my need for support grows, my desire to hide away increases.
I have a list of blog posts I intended to write, something about blue garlic- which greeted me as I unwrapped my lunch one afternoon- apparently safe to eat. And something about this photo- an endless array of cornflakes- so typical of Kinshasa, where stores start off having all wonder of things and eventually cave in to the one brand mentality. Nothing is really consistent in Kin, except of course cornflakes.
I had small ideas to explore the nature of words (again) and how in Africa it is always said. "I am going to the hospital" rather than "the doctor's" which seems to give equal gravity to every illness- perhaps with reason. Or the differing ideas between illness and work- whether or not go or to stay home and the understanding that while one might feel obligated to appear at work, spreading illness is actually less preferable than being present.
There are probably a few more ideas on my list, ideas that seem good at the time, but I can't make them go anywhere anymore. I am so caught up in this limbo of waiting. The last time I felt such pressure from the universe was just before I decided to come here. Nearly every aspect of my life had to cave in before I could simply get up and follow my dream. Luckily, I have thought often of that time and am able to face these moments with a sense of peace- delusional or not, time will tell.
I know that I am a hard one to initiate change and so must often be forced. I think I have mostly come to terms with the future path, certainly am excited and welcoming about much of it, but remain stuck in a wrapping up business kind of mode that hasn't allowed me to do much more than observe what's going on around me. Our last months in Kin. White butterfly season- they are so abundant you can barely walk without feeling as though you may step on one. Nabih even sighted several flying just above the rows of cornflakes. Senegalese shopkeepers in Victoire sporting all the latest in shoe fashion (and I only know this because the males in my life are obsessed with footwear, though I marvel at why and how it is a majority of Senegalese who seem to be selling in the markets and storefronts.)
None of these half thoughts really explain why I awoke with such a foreboding feeling, or why I am still awake now at 5 am, when the birds have signaled a new day. None of it explains the rush of tears, shortness of breath and terrible pounding grief. I would be happy to never find out. Here's to hoping all my friends are safe, here's to making it through another day in Africa.
None of these have been enough to shake a sense of unease and personal tragedy from my own mind however. After an unsuccessful attempt to watch a film of some sort, I finally shut off the lights determined to sleep. It's easy to say what happened next was a panic attack, easy enough to chalk it up to hormones (that's a one-size fits all excuse for everything these days) but it didn't feel like that at the time. From this short distance of about 15 minutes, it feels right to call it a panic attack. I've been working on my ability to watch my emotions pass, like a scene in a movie, and not get too wrapped up in any one extremity (would be a helpful skill for getting through this school year. I have noticed improvement, definitely, or maybe it is just finally adapting to what has become one of my most bizarre professional years yet.) But overwhelmingly it was a sense of grief and loss. Butterflies. Powerlessness. Regret. Mostly just loss.
It happens often that I wonder if I am too sensitive for this world. I am easily overwhelmed by senseless waste, unequal abundance and innocence wounded. Motherhood intensified all of these emotions, and perhaps it is to be expected now again, this increased sensitivity. But it makes even the mundane difficult to get through. I waiver back and forth between opening up and digging deeper back into a small, safe and oh so private world. As my need for support grows, my desire to hide away increases.
I have a list of blog posts I intended to write, something about blue garlic- which greeted me as I unwrapped my lunch one afternoon- apparently safe to eat. And something about this photo- an endless array of cornflakes- so typical of Kinshasa, where stores start off having all wonder of things and eventually cave in to the one brand mentality. Nothing is really consistent in Kin, except of course cornflakes.
There are probably a few more ideas on my list, ideas that seem good at the time, but I can't make them go anywhere anymore. I am so caught up in this limbo of waiting. The last time I felt such pressure from the universe was just before I decided to come here. Nearly every aspect of my life had to cave in before I could simply get up and follow my dream. Luckily, I have thought often of that time and am able to face these moments with a sense of peace- delusional or not, time will tell.
I know that I am a hard one to initiate change and so must often be forced. I think I have mostly come to terms with the future path, certainly am excited and welcoming about much of it, but remain stuck in a wrapping up business kind of mode that hasn't allowed me to do much more than observe what's going on around me. Our last months in Kin. White butterfly season- they are so abundant you can barely walk without feeling as though you may step on one. Nabih even sighted several flying just above the rows of cornflakes. Senegalese shopkeepers in Victoire sporting all the latest in shoe fashion (and I only know this because the males in my life are obsessed with footwear, though I marvel at why and how it is a majority of Senegalese who seem to be selling in the markets and storefronts.)
None of these half thoughts really explain why I awoke with such a foreboding feeling, or why I am still awake now at 5 am, when the birds have signaled a new day. None of it explains the rush of tears, shortness of breath and terrible pounding grief. I would be happy to never find out. Here's to hoping all my friends are safe, here's to making it through another day in Africa.
6.3.14
Past lives, future adventures
I continue to search for a direction, knowing that our paths are about to change dramatically. I have half-heartedly completed a respectable stack of applications to send off to a variety of international schools. Every so often I get a little nibble- a return email with some small request for more information. But it hasn't really progressed beyond that.
My number one choice- after much thought and deliberation on their part- finally sent me an email stating they could not actually offer me a job this year, but maybe next. Little birds whisper in my ear that even at this moment there are those that conspire to change that decision and I guess time will tell if they find success.
It has been discouraging to say the least. I know that the interview process was good, that the fit between skills and needs was a match and the location ideal. I figure if a school so completely enamored with me can't deal with the circumstances, then no one else really will either.
It makes for an interesting analysis however and I have spent a fair amount of time trying to figure things out. The whole process raises several questions. The first of which revolves around location. (The second of which to be discussed at a later date perhaps.) Whenever I get one of those interested little nibbles, I begin a process of imagining myself in a new locale. It's usually fun for awhile, but when I try to put the details in place, things get weird. Anyplace sounds interesting initially, as a vacation. Putting long term attachments to the idea always seems to send me reeling. Because in the end, I don't want to raise my children in a place that's too white. And I ask myself absurd questions like, "How do the Chinese feel about blacks? Are there any Africans there?" Thailand or the Philippines conjure up relaxing images of islands and long, luxurious coastlines. Until I spend a little more time on the school websites, viewing pictures of students and activities. It's the dark faces that are missing.
I wonder what's going on with me because, after all, I am white. Caucasian to be precise, I suppose. I have never been able to identify with a specific ethnicity, not really knowing much about my family. My mother's side claimed Italian heritage, among others, and I guess if I think hard enough I might occasionally identify with food from there. But that's as deep into the cultural alliance as I can get.
So I am left to wonder why exactly do I feel so connected to Africa and Africans? I tried to find some research on this topic- people of one race or ethnicity who identify more strongly with those from another- but I couldn't really find much. Tabloid-esque tell-alls about white women who only date black men (and theories on why) that don't quite hit the mark. While I am well aware of the "women-who-only-date ________" phenomenon (insert whatever you like on the line. I once had a conversation with a lady in a bar who informed me she only dated cops....Asians, Italians, Indians, Cops, Military, Cons or Ex-Cons.....you name it and there's some kind of woman out there who will fall for it- and only it.) but that's not exactly what I am talking about. Dating, marrying, physical attraction. No, I am talking about the rest of real life. The mundane bits.
What I am uncovering, as I search for a place to live, raise my kids and settle in my roots, is that I would really feel like something were missing if I wasn't living here in Africa. Somewhere- anywhere- on the continent, though, of course, I have my preferred regions. There are a certain number of people who might feel that way about living in America or Canada (there's an awful lot of fiercely loyal Canadians here in Kin,) but they most often hail from that country originally.
So what's up with my weird trans continent obsession? Where did it come from and how was it born? While there are plenty of novels and romantic movies about the ex-patriot who finds him or herself hopelessly in love with Africa those stories usually involve some sort of rolling farm in South Africa or tranquil village in Tanzania. The main character is usually surrounded by a bunch of other ex-pats and claims to love the land. I'm not sure it's quite the same thing for me.
I'm in the middle of a city, spend most of my time alone in a borrowed house that provides as much frustration as satisfaction and when searching to socialize I usually prefer Congolese artists whose company infuriates me as often as it provides solace. I don't exactly fit in here any better than I did in America. There's very little to romanticize.
I haven't really arrived at any answers. An easy out would simply be to say I don't want to raise my kids in a school where they are the only children of mixed race. It is simply overflowing with inter-racial families here. There seem to be combinations from every country on the planet -Italian-Congolese, American-Rwandan, French-Malian. But the reality is I could chose wisely and find similar melting pots in other areas- large cities where cultures collide, fall in love, marry and have children who then go to school with their multi-hued heritages coloring the hallways with a variety of skin tones and hair textures that would allow my children to blend in.
It's not really about blending in though. I do like that fact that my children have friends from other places whose families speak a multitude of languages. I like that they are aware of countries I hadn't even heard of until I was in college. And I really like the fact that they seem to understand how big and small the world is at the same time.
But there is a definite part of this feeling that is purely, selfishly me- not mom related. I like it in Africa.It fills me up and makes me whole on those days when emptiness threatens to eat away my soul like acid. Maybe I don't need more of a reason than that.
My fourth grade literacy class is studying India- home of both Hinduism and Buddhism. My recent life events have sent me on a quest to seek advice and knowledge from all level of spiritual books and so the two have nicely collided. Past lives. Karma. Old ideas reinforcing themselves in my present life once again. Maybe my intense passion for all things African is simply the part of me that was born here before and hasn't yet found a way to let go. Not really sure if that means I should resist or give in? Not really sure the choice is completely all mine to begin with.
My number one choice- after much thought and deliberation on their part- finally sent me an email stating they could not actually offer me a job this year, but maybe next. Little birds whisper in my ear that even at this moment there are those that conspire to change that decision and I guess time will tell if they find success.
It has been discouraging to say the least. I know that the interview process was good, that the fit between skills and needs was a match and the location ideal. I figure if a school so completely enamored with me can't deal with the circumstances, then no one else really will either.
It makes for an interesting analysis however and I have spent a fair amount of time trying to figure things out. The whole process raises several questions. The first of which revolves around location. (The second of which to be discussed at a later date perhaps.) Whenever I get one of those interested little nibbles, I begin a process of imagining myself in a new locale. It's usually fun for awhile, but when I try to put the details in place, things get weird. Anyplace sounds interesting initially, as a vacation. Putting long term attachments to the idea always seems to send me reeling. Because in the end, I don't want to raise my children in a place that's too white. And I ask myself absurd questions like, "How do the Chinese feel about blacks? Are there any Africans there?" Thailand or the Philippines conjure up relaxing images of islands and long, luxurious coastlines. Until I spend a little more time on the school websites, viewing pictures of students and activities. It's the dark faces that are missing.
I wonder what's going on with me because, after all, I am white. Caucasian to be precise, I suppose. I have never been able to identify with a specific ethnicity, not really knowing much about my family. My mother's side claimed Italian heritage, among others, and I guess if I think hard enough I might occasionally identify with food from there. But that's as deep into the cultural alliance as I can get.
So I am left to wonder why exactly do I feel so connected to Africa and Africans? I tried to find some research on this topic- people of one race or ethnicity who identify more strongly with those from another- but I couldn't really find much. Tabloid-esque tell-alls about white women who only date black men (and theories on why) that don't quite hit the mark. While I am well aware of the "women-who-only-date ________" phenomenon (insert whatever you like on the line. I once had a conversation with a lady in a bar who informed me she only dated cops....Asians, Italians, Indians, Cops, Military, Cons or Ex-Cons.....you name it and there's some kind of woman out there who will fall for it- and only it.) but that's not exactly what I am talking about. Dating, marrying, physical attraction. No, I am talking about the rest of real life. The mundane bits.
What I am uncovering, as I search for a place to live, raise my kids and settle in my roots, is that I would really feel like something were missing if I wasn't living here in Africa. Somewhere- anywhere- on the continent, though, of course, I have my preferred regions. There are a certain number of people who might feel that way about living in America or Canada (there's an awful lot of fiercely loyal Canadians here in Kin,) but they most often hail from that country originally.
So what's up with my weird trans continent obsession? Where did it come from and how was it born? While there are plenty of novels and romantic movies about the ex-patriot who finds him or herself hopelessly in love with Africa those stories usually involve some sort of rolling farm in South Africa or tranquil village in Tanzania. The main character is usually surrounded by a bunch of other ex-pats and claims to love the land. I'm not sure it's quite the same thing for me.
I'm in the middle of a city, spend most of my time alone in a borrowed house that provides as much frustration as satisfaction and when searching to socialize I usually prefer Congolese artists whose company infuriates me as often as it provides solace. I don't exactly fit in here any better than I did in America. There's very little to romanticize.
I haven't really arrived at any answers. An easy out would simply be to say I don't want to raise my kids in a school where they are the only children of mixed race. It is simply overflowing with inter-racial families here. There seem to be combinations from every country on the planet -Italian-Congolese, American-Rwandan, French-Malian. But the reality is I could chose wisely and find similar melting pots in other areas- large cities where cultures collide, fall in love, marry and have children who then go to school with their multi-hued heritages coloring the hallways with a variety of skin tones and hair textures that would allow my children to blend in.
It's not really about blending in though. I do like that fact that my children have friends from other places whose families speak a multitude of languages. I like that they are aware of countries I hadn't even heard of until I was in college. And I really like the fact that they seem to understand how big and small the world is at the same time.
But there is a definite part of this feeling that is purely, selfishly me- not mom related. I like it in Africa.It fills me up and makes me whole on those days when emptiness threatens to eat away my soul like acid. Maybe I don't need more of a reason than that.
My fourth grade literacy class is studying India- home of both Hinduism and Buddhism. My recent life events have sent me on a quest to seek advice and knowledge from all level of spiritual books and so the two have nicely collided. Past lives. Karma. Old ideas reinforcing themselves in my present life once again. Maybe my intense passion for all things African is simply the part of me that was born here before and hasn't yet found a way to let go. Not really sure if that means I should resist or give in? Not really sure the choice is completely all mine to begin with.
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