Travel Advisory- a found poem

I found this poem in my inbox

which is filling up with notices.

Email after email on the state of the world
Crime, civil unrest, kidnapping
All the countries that I love
filling up with what seems like unusual levels of
armed robbery, roadblocks, military checkpoints,
demonstrations that turn violent
heavy-handed police tactics
resulting in civilian casualties or death-
but the breathing kind of death
that comes from being shot in a crowd of angry masses
hurling rocks and threatening to overthrow the government.
Not the death that comes from buying candy, or an evening jog
Not the death that comes from selling cigarettes or CDs
Or walking in the rain, talking on the phone
Or sleeping in your very own bed.

My inbox is filling up with notices
Suggesting actions you should take:
Appoint someone to talk to hostage-takers,
media, government agencies, and members of Congress
should you be kidnapped or detained
Establish proof of life protocol
and leave DNA samples with your medical provider
for ease of access in case your family needs it
Most of all, if asked to stop by police,
Stop only in well-lit areas or where many officers are present

I wonder who is sending out the advisory on the US?
Canada, Europe, and the beautiful places.

But even these advisories do not say

the things that need to be said. 

On being the "Other"

As an educator, as in any profession really, I’m no stranger to meetings. Endless meetings it seems at times. I’ve never actually calculated the hours, but in the French system there is a formula for this- of course. 106 hours of professional meetings. Those of us in the bilingual program are mandated for a bit more- happily this comes with extra pay.

I spend most of my time, as I may have mentioned, actively listening. It takes a lot of effort to be sure I understand what’s really being said and make sure I don’t miss some obligatory duty or deadline. My binome  (the closest I can come to translating this interesting word is co-teacher, though it seems reserved specifically for the partner teacher in a bilingual situation) is great. He is constantly checking in with me to make sure I understand and is ever ready to ‘translate’ (still in French but in simpler terms) whatever I might be unclear about.

Our most recent meeting involved discussion about events for the year- ways to incorporate English into the other school events and presentations that might include the ‘regular’ classes (known as classique -where English is taught as a language class but for far fewer hours a week and with less intensity than in the bilingual classes.) This meeting left me with huge sense of deja vu in a reverse sort of way.

In Kinshasa we- or at least I- spent a lot of time devising ways to incorporate the Congolese perspective into our curriculum. Oddly enough, I was often deferred to as an expert- or, minimally, as someone with some knowledge in this area, even when other Congolese teachers were part of the meeting.  I can tell you that’s an odd feeling.

It’s not so easy to try and pick out the relevant aspects of a culture not your own to present authentically to students. I spent a lot of time questioning the assistants, other teachers and my friends to get their ideas on how to do this. No matter how much information I gathered on what was important to them, which experiences were most accurate and significant, I could never ignore the fact that I am not Congolese and therefore risked getting it wrong or being slightly off in the presentation.    

I guess it’s poetic justice then that I found myself at such a meeting, this time with a chance to be the other.  The French teachers were choosing holidays and food to share, planning a traditional English ‘tea-time.’  I have no insider knowledge of this English tradition but, perhaps because I was in the room or perhaps in an effort to be more inclusive, talk turned to American traditions. Specifically, Halloween (I guess October is upon us, my how the time flies when you’re in school.) Maybe I should say thankfully Halloween- a holiday I do know something about. I’d been having an odd feeling of panic and being exposed. Most often I feel like a quasi-American.  What are the most iconic symbols and experiences of my country anyway? Do I really know?

I was reminded of my first trip to Guinea. We were in the village hanging around a campfire one night. The musicians were singing the songs of their country in beautiful, bittersweet voices. Whenever I asked what a song was about, invariably it had to do with love of their country or duty to family. After they’d finished their round, they asked the two Americans in the group to sing something. Not only is my voice something I’m rather shy about, but put on the spot like that I couldn’t think of a song that equally represented the US and expressed a profound moral. It seems like all our songs are love songs- and not often very good at that.  (It wasn’t until much later that I remembered America the Beautiful, a song whose words I’d had taped to my headboard as a child and sang myself to sleep with every night. I could have sang that had I my wits about me.)

The problem is, if asked, I’m not sure what I could come up with as significant American symbols. America is huge. It depends on which part of the country we’re talking about, which social class, which ethnicity, and on and on. I started to understand the difficulty of posing such questions to my Congolese friends who surely grappled with the same issues. Congo is vast, complete with it’s own multitude of ethnicities and languages. It seems the best either of us could do is pick the cliché….exactly what I’d always tried to get away from. Apple pie and baseball. Or basketball. American football. Ice cream. Thanksgiving.  It’s about all I have in my tool belt when it comes to spreading American culture.

Nevertheless, I found it amusing to listen in as they tried to nail down something that would exemplify America- and I felt oddly “other.” Far away memories, a distant sense of having known that life but almost as if had happened to another person, which I suppose, in a way, it did.

America is filled with immigrants who’ve left their countries in search of something more. Many have decided to stay without returning to their home countries, whether by choice or by circumstances beyond their control. Over time, they come to see themselves as Americans, through and through. I’d often wondered what it was like to have another country in your back pocket- how does it feel to spend so many years away from the place you were born and raised. It feels real is one thing I’ve learned. (And as the American debate over immigration continues, it’s a point I wish could be made more clear somehow. Returning immigrants ‘home’ after so many years in the States is really akin to landing in a strange country and learning it all over again. Not home at all.)

I’m beginning to get a taste of being the immigrant, even if I don’t yet have another country to take the place of my birth home. For now, it’s Congo. And I guess that’s how it goes for the third culture generation. Whatever country we’ve last come from is the one we identify most with. I am surprised but happy enough to identify with Kinshasa, remembering when I’d first arrived there I identified with Guinea. I guess a true nomad has enough room in the heart for many homes. 

American Culture?

Upon returning to Kinshasa this summer, I embarked on a quest to fill up my evenings with exercise. It turns out many people search for this outlet, as there isn't much else to do in Kin (night life aside.) I've heard this same story repeated by many of the newcomers joining existing classes. Do you think you'll come back? I ask. And that's when they confess, "Probably. I am new to Kin and there's just not much to do." Of course, it depends on perspective. Those arriving from the smaller, distant (and more beautiful?) cities of Congo often remark on how there is so much more going on in Kin than where they've come from. Hard to imagine.

Leisure time isn't spent shopping or going to movies (although the Hall de Gombe has offered free Saturday animation films for kids this month.) Some people find it easy enough to go out on the river or take small trips  on the weekends to outdoorsy type places which offer picnicking and views of nature. But exercise classes offer a place to be social, meet new people and improve your health. So what could be better than that?

A few recent personal explosions have resulted in a drastic change in my exercise routine and I was feeling flabby and gray. Getting soft. When an invitation to yoga passed my email box, I hungrily agreed to try it out (again.) The yoga circuit, like many things in Kin, hoovers on the edge of becoming a clique. The previous classes I went to were at someone's house and people seemed to know each other well. I felt like an intruder, or at least, like I needed someone else to get me in the door. The vibe depends heavily on the atmosphere of the house and the people present. There is often dinner or snacks together afterwards. Sounds cozy enough....unless you suffer from "social fitting in-ness," like me.

This class was being offered at the American Cultural Center, a neutral place I figured. Getting in required putting our name on a list and bringing photo id. I went with a friend and found the class to be everything I could happily participate in. No judgement, no competition, and modern music.

It was my first trip to the American Cultural Center, though I believe I have seen a photo or two on the embassy web page about certain ceremonies held there, none of which qualify for my definition of culture. I guess I am more aligned with #4 while the American embassy seems to be aligned with #2.

Because the Hall de Gombe (the French Cultural Center) is one of my favorite places to view events, I couldn't help but compare the two. I've "friended" the Hall de Etoile (center in Lubumbashi) and the Institute Francais du Mali, both of which are constantly posting music and art events.  One Planet Travel has this to say about the purpose of the cultural center in Mali. And I pretty much agree with this version of sharing and developing culture.

So I was disappointed to find the American culture tucked behind guards and barbed wire. Clearly no music events were going on here. It took a few minutes for the guards to check our id's and contact someone within to come and escort us to the center. Our photo cards were replaced with visitor badges alerting us to the need of an escort where ever we traveled within (and even to get out.) I was feeling a bit jealous of French system of setting up a cafe, a stage- an artistic mecca so to speak- that invites local artists and foreign visitors to present their talents to the community at large.

In contrast, American culture seemed protected and reclusive. Hidden away for only the privileged to partake in. What's so great about American culture? I silently protested. Why aren't we supporting and promoting local artists, collaborations between countries through art and an altogether friendlier view of
the culture? Ironically, the American Embassy has hosted their few music and dance collaborations at the French cultural center.

I had to concede that maybe we are just presenting the truth. American culture is often closed off and unaccepting of others. We're kind of egotistical and selfish. It's the American way or the highway.

While I greatly enjoyed the yoga class and returned the following week (and plan to continue returning, because, of course, there isn't much to do in Kin) I remain disappointed in the country's continuation of elitism. Culture is meant to be shared, celebrated and developed. Not hidden away behind barbed wire and electric scanning devices. Maybe I would feel better if they just changed the name to better reflect this statement: Our objective is to help you better understand the United States, its politics, society and values.  The American Propaganda Center, perhaps? The Elitist American Viewpoint Center? or maybe just, The Only Center that Matters? We could call it TOC-MAT......everyone loves a good acronym.