When I was in high school I opted for Spanish. I tried to carefully weigh my decision based on a lot of important factors such as where I wanted to travel and what would be most useful in life after high school. In reality, I ended up choosing Spanish because I didn't want to say 'eau' and all those other euh words that French is full of. I didn't feel I could take it seriously and was just a tad embarrassed trying to moan out those sounds.
By college I was far enough along to take a Spanish literature class, which was really a class about literature, in Spanish. It's one of those experiences that I can't quite believe was actually me when I think back on it. We read novels in Spanish, wrote essays and term papers in Spanish and watched telenovelas for our conversation group after class. (Mohamed is hilariously addicted to telenovelas- which results in heated discussions over who gets to pick the TV channel that sound like this: Oh it's time. I need to watch Corps du Desire - Body of Desire- and then Nabih, poor Nabih who just wants to catch up on the latest episode of his favorite manga cartoon responds emphatically, But you can watch Corps du Desire anytime, all night, at midnight even. We always have to watch Corps du Desire.There is a lot of serious pleading and crazy deal making before Nabih concedes. I know I digress but my 13 year old is hopelessly addicted to Spanish soap operas translated in French and I can't miss an opportunity to sneak that into the conversation- any conversation from now until he's at least 35.)
I've been thinking about my past success with Spanish in the face of my current failures in French. The manger at the dance studio was having trouble understanding me- because of your accent, he said. And I know I pronounce all my un's more like the Spanish uno without the o rather than the uhn it's supposed to be. I am trying to correct this. I've been running into these problems for the past year and I know it is time to stop writing about it and take action.
There is a little girl on the corner who is motivating me, though she might not know it. I pass her several times a day and she was the subject of one of my early posts about Abidjan. She wears her hair in the short, close cut style that is popular here. Her tall, thin body is often curled up over top a pretend cookstove or a series of mixing bowls. She is always engaged in serious play. Pretending to bake, to sell, to take care of babies. Most often, I see her pretending to write. She has a little notebook and she hunkers over it moving her blue pen as if she is writing the secrets of the universe. I can see it is important work.
I have often wondered if she goes to school- it seems impossible with all of the random hours I see her perched outside her mother's hair salon. I've never seen her in a school uniform. There is always the possibility she has a tutor come to the house, a popular alternative or addition to school studies. But on the few occasions I have glanced over her shoulder to sneak a peek at her diary, I see it is filled with wavy scribbles. They are in neat rows filling line after line on the page. But it is clear she cannot write.
I have run into a few other cases of women in my neighborhood who cannot read or write. It doesn't stop them from doing business or making calculations. In one instance, I even received a text from one of them- leading me to believe, erroneously, that she was literate. It was only after she signed her name in front of me on a receipt- Clbaly- coulibaly, all the major consonant sounds, minus most of the vowels- that I realized the truth. Her writing was slow, careful and awkward. I'm certain she can't write much more than her name.
I think about this often- mostly when I am making lists. I make endless lists, chalking my faulty memory up to pregnancy brain (after 5 kids it's never really gotten back to 'normal'- of course, normal was back in the 19's- to use Mohamed's favorite term for anything occuring pre-2000- so I can't really claim it as mine anymore.) It could also be due to my teacher mind constantly multi-tasking or my day dreaming mind constantly whisking me away to islands filled with cool breezes and danceable rhythms. Or maybe it is just that I am that person- the one who makes list for the mere satisfaction of crossing things off, and feeling accomplished.
But I seriously need my lists. Sometimes just writing something down will help commit it to memory- I've always been that kind of learner. Often, however, when I consult my list, I find a surprise item there that I would have completely forgotten, again, if I hadn't written it down. I like lists for planning and budgeting and dreaming. When I contemplate trying to organize, prioritize and accomplish all the small details of my life without a piece of paper (or the memo app on my ancient un-smart phone) I get a little lightheaded.
And so I have been sympathizing with the women and the girls in my neighborhood who can't read or write fluently (or even at all.) --I sympathize with women all over the globe who are illiterate but that is a bit overwhelming for me. Taking things in small portions I start to consider what I can do to be part of the solution at least for those in my small corner of the world.
I am a teacher. This is a problem I can do something about, I think to myself, imagining community night classes. But then I remember that I can barely read French myself and am certainly not qualified to teach it. The women might derive some pleasure from learning English, but what they really need to be connected to the news and events in their country is French.
I am a little dejected. Until I remember a conversation with an Ivoiran teacher of English at my school. I'd asked him how he came to be an English teacher and he shared his story. Actually, he told me it had always been his dream, not just to speak English but to teach it. He spent 7 years in university getting his teaching degree. I mentioned my little problem with him and confided that I wasn't sure how I could be of help in the way that I wanted to. Ever in the search to feel useful.
He had previously spoken to me about a place in Youpougon where he works, teaching English to adults. They were looking for a native speaker and he wondered if I might be interested. He mentioned that this place could also help me with my French.
While I'd rather be learning Lingala or even Wolof, which seems pretty useful here in Abidjan, I guess it is time to do something concrete- that could be helpful to others. (A recent small accident with Nabih has proven to me, once again, that I am not really a blood and bandage kind of person so nursing or any kind of first aid, things that seem to be truly helpful, are probably out for me in terms of second careers or volunteer spots.)
It seems time to close these endless posts about French and just resolve the matter already. In the meantime, I will continue to pass the girl on the corner, scribbling meaningful thoughts into her notebook and try to remember there is more than one way to be useful.
