(unwritten)
1 march 2010
i think the amish got it right
- the bank is closed
- the post is closed
- you waste hours trying to upload pictures on the internet
- your phone is nearly dead
- the power doesn't work
- the only time you can boil water to drink or to take a warm bucket bath is after 10:30 pm, once everyone in the area has gone to sleep
- computer class - need I say more?
- electric hot plate impossible to use
25 february 2010
I just had a visit from three incredible Peace Corps staff members, including Jeff - the driver who likes to boogie.
They came in asking me how I was, and being that they arrived this morning without calling ahead, I was truthfully a bit flustered.. practically still in my PJ's with a mess of bed head.
Then we sat down, and as I cracked open the grade book I spent hours the other night putting together (by hand), it all started to pour out of me.
"Yeah.. classes are great but..
computer class always leaves me wanting to run away.
I mean.. where in America does the ability to teach your class depend on the weather?
Too many clouds, too much rain, not enough sunshine and we can't even use the computers."
Another thing is that
I feel like a hypocrite spending so much time lecturing, especially my English class.
I don't learn well with formal grammar instruction,
in fact, I have to spend hours and hours researching and trying to teach MYSELF all of this grammar stuff - trying to write out the formulas for the past perfect tense, ect. in a way that I can even begin to wrap my brain around - before I step foot in the classroom to explain it to the students.
I didn't really learn French until I went to France.
Why am I trying to teach English to students using methods that weren't effective for me?
My lessons take 3 times longer than they're meant to because I don't want to just stand in front of the class and spill out all of the notes on the board.
No, I want them to - even if i hated it in high school, "why don't you just tell us the formula?!" - discover the rhyme and reasons themselves (thankyouMrs.Davis).
Why are we trying to teach language as if it's math?
Is there really a right or a wrong answer?
Yes 1 and 1 may equal 2, but with language I believe there's so much more flexibility.
These rigid, prescriptive rules interfere with self-expression,
and isn't the meaning behind your message more important than the words used to deliver it?
like a person is only as good as the heart and spirit that fills them,
the body merely serves as a form of transportation,
making the sharing of that goodness possible.
I guess you could say what you say is just as important as how you say it,
if you give someone a compliment with a sarcastic tone, that totally undermines your message, but if someone says "Your clothes is good today", you understand that they think you're well-dressed, even if it's said using different words.. even if it's not 100% grammatically correct.
A printer, a copier.
What school in American doesn't have these tools?
Yet here, our secretary does everything on a typewriter.
If we had a way to produce and replicate work,
time could be so much more efficiently used.
Rather than spending half of the class period copying into their notebooks,
students could use that time to practice their language
and discuss with one another.
to Learn.
So often we are uncomfortable with change,
if my students don't have the same notes as those in the other S2 English class,
they feel as though they are falling behind.
Here (as in other parts of the world), success is measured in terms of points,
unfortunately this is so
and unfortunately this is what drove me to "learn" - or more so to cheat - in high school.
But if we can leave the points behind,
and focus more on the actual progress that comes with the ability to express one's self,
I know the test scores look good on paper,
but what really matters in the end?
Is it possible to find a balance?
Is it possible to make my students realize that their self-worth is not wrapped up in numbers,
I wish I could have seen that as a high school student.
Maybe this change will only possible when our world values a person on something more than a 4. scale.
25 february 2010
I'm sorry, Paula, you've just gotten most of this in hand-letter form, but I guess that acted as a brainstorm and got me thinking that maybe I want to share the story with everyone.
So - teaching is hard. I mean, like really, really hard and I think a lot of this is due to the fact that in order to teach I have to learn.
For the past few weeks I've been working on the different past tenses in my class.
Funny, past tenseS - did you know there's actually 3?
- simple past
- past perfect
- past continuous
I didn't know there were 3 - or maybe somewhere in my brain I was unconsciously aware of this fact, but to actually write it down in lesson-plan form
turns out smartalec's aren't just the product of Amrican society - we've got them here in rwanda too.
the class greets me in a chorus of bingos
Sergent is a young guy in my class - who happens to look and sound exactly like Clement, yet another outspoken boy in my class. Yesterday as some students were finishing up their tests, I asked that those who'd finished earlier wait quietly - which of course is like asking a puppy not to chew up your new slippers. It's just not going to happen.
22 february 2010
May i suggest -
When money is an issue, time is a tickin' and you're looking for a quick village escape, the FUSU trucks that pass through your village on a daily basis on their way to town are an ideal form of transportation.
To make the most of your trip I suggest:
- wear sturdy shoes that offer some form of grip. this will help as you hoist yourself up 8 feet into the back of the truck.
- please, have a seat. those bumps and bends in the road are likely to throw you off balance, so unless your feet are strongly planted in the truck bed, i wouldn't leave it up to the forces of gravity, nature, God, ect. Best just to park it.. on a sack of maize or snug between a couple of African people giggling at the muzungu sitting in the back of a truck.. careful now. Those previously mentioned bumps and bends in the road like to kiss your tailbone the whole ride to town - so unless you're packin' a bit of your own cushion to gentle those blows, better just stick to walking.
- that being said, be sure to wear some pre-stained or dark-colored pants.. the red earth caked on the truck is likely to frost you as well, so unless it's a look you wanna sport all day, best go with the darker, fool-proof colors.
May i suggest -
So, you've made it to town, but there's a team of dark clouds quickly making passes over the nearby mountains and once again, money's tight but you've got to make it to the Rwanda/Uganda border one way or another.. well, you don't see a swarm of young boys saddled up on their bikes, yelling "muzungu, muzungu" for no reason - this, the bike taxi, is a commonly used means of get-around here in Rwanda. Make sure you either pack your Kinyarwanda dictionary or bring your mental notes for numbers so that you can negotiate the price. They tell you 500, but you know it's meant to be 100RWF, so taking the white-factor into consideration, you settle on 200 and board the bike.
To make the most of your trip i suggest:
- wear a helmet - not just because it's Peace Corps rules, and you might suffer an Admin Sep as well as the physical consequences of an accident, but because well, at least mine is hot pink and as I'd like to think - very stylish. *Also - if people begin to recognize me as the muzungu with the hot pink helmet, at least they'll know that I'm the one coming and going on a regular basis, and one who isn't likely to put out when you hold out your hand and say "give me money" or "amafaranga".
- pack an umbrella in an easily accessible over-the-shoulder, messenger bag. This will help when those big ol' clouds cave under the pressure of their heavy tears and spill over onto not only you but your bike taxi driver who really ought to be able to see the road! (Why don't eyes come with built-in windshield whippers - I suppose that's what eyelids are for, but they really should be transparent, or offer tinted lenses). So, as it rains, it pours, and being the good American you are, be sure to hold up your umbrella far enough ahead to protect not only yourself, but also your driver from the wet.
- bring a cell phone, just in case. This will help to distract you from the 45 minutes that slowly pass by as the rain has picked up to the extent that neither driving nor riding a bicycle are possible. Find a little half-made mud hut on the side of the road and make yourself at home with your bike taxi driver and all of the children who have come to stare. Your cell phone will also humor others, such as General Alex Kigami who calls, laughing, asking "why didn't you tell me, I would've sent a vehicle for you?!" but refuse the offer as the bicycle makes the adventure that much more fun.
- put your language skills to use - not only to turn down marriage proposals from your driver for yourself and for your sister in America, but also to crack jokes about drinking or swimming in the brown water that is streaming along the side of the road.
- have the money - that is twice what you're really meant to be paying, set aside in your pocket, so that once you reach your destination, you can simply reach in, grab, give and go - leaving no time for your driver to argue, asking for more. Establish a price and stick with it.
Okay, so you're back to town - or at least the "town" that sits on the edge of the main road that branches off to your village nestled about a 30 min. ride back into the mountains... but you want to go to town - the real town, you know, the one that has a bank and a post and a market where you can make your weekly trip to buy food.
May I suggest -
Make your way to the small bus office where people are beginning to recognize your face - or at least your hot pink helmet. Pay the set 400RWF price (black, white, brown or purple - everyone gets charged the same), and take a seat in a plush, comfortable chair on the bus.
To make the most of your trip I suggest:
- grab a window seat, that gives you control over the temperature as well as over the potency of the stinky-dippered (? yes, no, maybe?) baby besides you. Downside? Keep the window closed until the bus is actually moving, this will limit the irritation caused by the children and old women who - spotting a muzungu - flock to the bus, extend their hand in a limp sort of manner and stand outside your window - sometimes even pounding on the bus - until the driver is ready to pull away.
- it may also be a good idea, depending on the length of your trip to sit either near the front or in the very back of the bus if possible, to avoid being climbed over as people pile in and get off along the way.
Alright, you've made it to Musanze, the town where most people are used to seeing white people - many tourist come and go here to make their trip to see the Volcano's precious gorilla families - rumor has it that the famous Dian Fossey spent her life right here, in my backyard, studying these endangered creatures - and you stop at the post only to find the box empty although you know there's a lot of love on it's way. You pay the 2000RWF ($4) to cover - literally cover - an envelope jammed packed with a dozen or so letters home and head off to the market. Spotting your favorite toilet paper vendor and the fact that he also has some laundry soap in his little booth, you give it a go. He seems trustworthy enough and over the next couple of years, who knows what kind of beautiful friendship may bloom out of these trips to the market.
Okay - the market.
To make the most out of your trip I suggest:
- bring a list - one that you've compiled after taking inventory of your kitchen and cleaning supplies. Chances are good if you don't write it down, you'll be easily overwhelmed by the stares, the calls and all of the unwanted attention you may or may not receive based on your skin color that even the most necessary of items (like toilet paper, or onions, ect) may be forgotten. so, a list and a pen to check things off as you go.
- bring your own bag (BYOB) and as I bought today - a plastic/mesh basket (this will help to protect against the squashing of your tomatoes and bananas - after all, they're tomatoes and bananas, not squash).
- carry a couple of small bills and/or coins in your front pockets. This is good because it's never a brilliant idea to go digging around in your wallet, exposing your bigger bills (if you've got them), to hungry, on-looking eyes. Sometimes when I find nothing but a 5,000RWF bill ($10) in my pocket, I hand it over, after agreeing to buy 100RWF worth of green peppers and the lady wanders off seeking change and I just cross my t's and dot my i's that she'll actually come back with 4,900 francs of change for me rather than taking the money for a run. So, small bills or 100RWF coins are a great idea.
To help you think in terms of getting the most for your money (muzungu prices, remember), today I bought:
- 2 kilos of potatoes for 200RWF (40cents)
- about a dozen or so carrots 200RWF
- 1 pineapple 200RWF
- 10 or so tomatoes 100RWF
- a nice-sized bunch of bananas 300RWF
- about 6 or so medium sized onions 200RWF
- 4 green peppers for 100RWF
My fresh fruits and veggies total = 1,300... $2.60 and these should get me through the week - in combination with lentils, couscous (very expensive!!), oatmeal, noodles, beans, ect ect.
As far as getting back to the village after this little tour around town, there's a public bus that makes the daily trip, leaving around 4:30 - but requiring that you arrive by, if not before 4:00 if you want any hope of getting a seat.. otherwise you're going to be standing in someone's lap, and as fun as that sounds, it's not easy work to surf even the smoothest of Rwandan roads in the bus. So rather than this option, we'll take the cushy smaller bus taxi back towards the border.
May I suggest -
Mention to the driver, or the man who collects tickets, that you don't actually want to go all the way to the border, but would rather prefer to get off at Kidaho. You may find yourself stuck in the back seat, right next to that stinky diapered (?) baby again, but just crack the window and rest assured that as the bus continues, eventually people will filter out, creating an isle way and you will be able to de-board the bus. Eventually.
The bus will let you off at Kidaho and instantly you will be surrounded again by those young fellas on bike taxis.
May I suggest -
Hire the one who calls you by your proper name, Umunezero, rather than muzungu. Also, it's always a good idea to let them know that you know that the price for the 1/2 hour (1/2 up-mountian) bikeride from the main road to your village is 300RWF (60 cents), not 4 or 500 - as they often try to pull a fast, but more so buhoro buhoro - one on you. Every now and again, depending on the responses you get when you ask your driver about his life, his family - or on how heavy your bag of fruits and goodies from the market may be... or how hot the sun and the afternoon heat are that day... ect.. you may decide to be more generous and slip him an extra 100. This is up to your personal discretion and pocketbook. Truthfully though, seeing some of those men sweat trying to bike me up a mountain, they earn it, ya know?
On the way, as you grip to the bottom of the drivers seat and avoid making eye contact with the steep cliff and sharp rocks at incredible depths below, you may or may not be passed by a vehicle carrying loads of farming tools in the back. This car may or may not stop a few feet ahead of you and then the passenger may or may not offer you a ride - and being that his car has 4 wheels rather than 2, and automatic transmission rather than the pumping of this poor fella's legs, you may or may not decide to take him up on the offer - paying your bike taxi man full price even though he got you hardly half way back.. he remembered your name and he had good intentions of getting you all the way home in one peace.
So now in the truck, with 4 wheels, instead of 2, you make polite conversation in Kinyarwanda, French, English, explaining that you are in fact from around here and not some lost tourist, and explain that the reason you know Kinyarwanda is because you were forced through 3 months of language training before being set free in this beautiful country to really learn - and as they approach your stop, you say "hano, hano", here is good, and you thank them very politely and finish the rest of your trip on foot - past the children outside who quickly run to greet you - more and more using Umunezero rather than muzungu, and you smile and you walk home.
truck
bike
bike
bus
bus
bike
truck
Big day.
look up quote from jimmy page
i wanna devote myself to this
librarys last
but so do the fingertips you can leave on someone's heart
10 february 2010
I think we would open with:
"If there was a breeze blowing that day, I didn't feel it, but the waves on the lake told me it was so."
I think I would like an arial shot, the young girl walking out onto the grand peninsula that reaches far into Lake Burera. - a favorite hangout spot for village children, soon to be converted into hotel property - what a shame.
She sits herself down on the rocky cliff, the grass is too saturated from the week of rain. She watches the clouds play out over the lake and the distant mountains - a painted backdrop would never do - Hollywood could never recreate this serene setting. She lays back, pointing her ears to the sun and suddenly the chorus of insects fades away into only the songs of birds and the sound created by their flight, overcoming gravity as the air brushes over their wings.
These things we can see and hear, but how do we breech her thoughts. As she sits, head tilted back spotting the spoonful of marshmallow fluff that is once again topping Muhaboula, the volcano, behind her, her mind wanders back across the lake, to the small room that houses the school's 10 computers.
How am I to teach 60 students on 4 computers (with the solar power at school, there is only enough electricity to run 4 computers at a time - on a good, sunny day that is.. cloudy days, don't even think about it) she wonders to herself.
And the thought hits her.
There is this thing we often don't recognize. Something that she grew up with in America, when every student in her language class had access to his/her own computer. When she grew up playing Oregon Trail and Mavis Becon in elementary school, when she was able to go home and chat with friends online as a 12 year old. Something that she had as a child, that is missing in the lives of these students here; the privilege to try.
In America, she thinks, we learn by experimenting.
What are the different organs of the body?
Let's cut open this frog and find out.
What happens when you mix these chemicals together?
Let's do it and see.
In America, she had had the chance to learn by doing, and here the students learn by reading and writing. Reading and writing about hypothetical experiments and hypothetical cases. Reading about how to use a computer without having the opportunity to set a finger on the mouse.
The privilege to try.
The freedom to learn.
And as she notices that it is due time to head back to teach her class of second year students, ages anywhere from 14 to 18, she stands up and begins the walk home.
On the way, she meets a kind soul.
Who would play the old man she conversed with - in Kinyarwanda where possible, French where not - on the walk back from Musangabo? He was old, wrinkles in all the right places. Grey hairs peeked through is cheeks, forming a scruffy beard. his voice was kind, he was familiar, like someone she'd seen before, or maybe just the general wise-kind-old man archetype character we so often hear about in the movies but never actually meet.
How would they portray the scene where she and the old man approach the corner, the bend in the road, and in the distance an entire school full of blue uniforms comes running, racing to the greet the musungu with the English words she hears them reciting, waking her up in the morning, every day.
And the old woman? Bent over her cane with a mouth sporadically decorated with what is left of her teeth. She greets the muzungu, always with a full smile and asks her again if she want eggs. Those blue uniforms quickly surround her, forcing the old woman out and the white figure is left in a sea of black students bombarding her with "good morning" (and luckily for them, it actually is morning - so she responds with good morning and not good afternoon - they haven't gotten to that one yet) and "what time is it?" as they spot that she has a watch wrapped around her wrist - although chances are good that they do not catch nor understand the "9:45" response.
And where would the camera be to accurately depict the waves of children that follow her down the road.
I would want it to appear just as it feels to me, and it feels to me like a rush of emotion and amazement - this is my life.
How can you catch that on film?
"what is Love?" I asked my class today - trying to define "falling in love". I think that's a much bigger question than they realize, one I don't have the answer to, yet. I'm getting there though.
5 february 2010
It's a Friday night and being the wild 22 year old that I am, I thought that I ought to get out of the house and socialize. Socializing in Kagogo, Rwanda is not exactly a typical American's night out on the town. There are no adult beverages involved or bad American hiphop. No dancing on bars or flashy heels. Instead of the Peanut Barrel or the Riv, i set out on my Friday night to my - social destination - the E.S. Kagogo's girl's dormitory.
The doors were hardly cracked open but i could hear the screams and laughter boiling over inside from a mile away. Once I graced the doorway, the excitement only escalated into even stronger clapping and singing. The girls quickly huddled around me and asked me to sing the one Rwandan song I happen to know at best two or three lines of; Ese Rambona (by Meddy - whose phone number I have saved in my cell, it's a long story involving paradise, a cute waiter and a couple of even cuter American girls - me being one of them of course). So the girls hush one another until my fragile voice can be heard as I pronounce the words I know neither the meaning of nor how to write. The girls lose it, so thrilled, they join in and we have a choir of choruses, rehearsing the same 4 lines over and over again.
The girls beg me to sing an English song.. when I struggle to find one that's both appropriate and singable, they suggest that I sing a church song. The perky "You have been baptized in Christ" and vision of Father Michael at St. William's fills my mind, but it is not exactly in the top 10 on my itunes, so racing for ideas I recall a few nights spent at KP '09 with a lady called Princess Pat.
And there I am, stretching my back, hands cupped around my mouth:
THIS IS A REPEAT AFTER ME SONG.
Yes, we repeat.
No, no. Repeat! THIS IS A REPEAT AFTER ME SONG!
???
THIS IS A REPEAT AFTER ME SONG!!
thisarepedefermison.
Close enough - we move on.
The Princess Pat (Egyptian arm motions)
theprinizpa
Lived in a tree (Guess the Princess Pat and I have more in common than I realized)
Livinatre
and on it went.
After the Princess Pat?
Obviously that song needs to be followed up with a tall glass of..
Don't give me no pop, no pop!
Don't give me no tea, no tea!
Just give me that milk
Moo Moo Moo Moo
That Irish milk! (milking thumb utters)
Moo Moo Moo Moo
Being that this is a co-ed boarding school, with wide-open fields that lift your spirits to the mountain tops and a moat-like lake surrounding all sides, I was kind of hoping that in some way my life at E.S. Kagogo would resemble that of summer camp. A dormitory full of girls piled on bunk-beds, singing fire-side songs, while others touch my golden mess of hair asking if it's natural, and pulling it back checking my ears and nose for holes that do not belong, come on. That's a little like camp.
So the time comes for everyone to gather in a room that doubles both as their church and dining hall and one girl drags me across the volleyball court to join them in prayer. As we walk in, a group of young students stands at the front of the room, singing with such coordination and grace, their voices a perfect Kinyarwandan blend, tall, extra rich with a little dollop of cool-whip on top. And so it goes. One after another, groups or brave solos make their way to the front, before hundreds of classmates, to spill out their love for Umwana in song. Even the young women, who can appear so timid in class find their voice within when it comes celebrating their relationship with God.
And as they sing their choreographed songs, I recall class this past week, the first week of school, when I had my students introduce themselves before everyone, and how so many of them said that their favorite sport was praying or that when they grow up, they want to help with the development of their country. Whereas in America, a land so skeptical and superstitious, here, these students, and nearly every individual I have come across in Rwanda, has a blind devotion to God Almighty. For the first time I see that He gives them hope, prayer gives them hope, hope for their people, hope for their country. And I ask myself if hope through unquestioned belief in something isn't maybe more healthful and productive than pessimism and doubt. Considering Rwanda's history of genocide, I think that if they are able to come together, for their love of Jesus, no matter what their ethnic identity may be, and to let a past - that in other parts of the world would brew self-destructive bitterness, to let it go, seeking reconciliation together, through God - No wonder their passion so often brings them dancing on their tiptoes. Their God given hope is pulling this country back to their feet.
And so when one of the students approaches me to ask if I'd come to the front of the room to make a speech, I decline. Both because I am afraid to speak in front of a large group (ironic because I will be doing that 4 days a week for the next two years) but also because this is God time, it is not Nicole or Umunezero time, not time for the muzungu to introduce herself or use her Kinyarwanda to get a cute laugh. It's God time and that is a part of their culture that I want to respect.
So I continue to sit on the wooden benches that I think are defying gravity by withstanding such weight as the dozen or so of us test its strength and I quickly grow tired - because let's face it, when the neighbors wake up at 5, I wake up at five, so i begin to yawn uncontrollably. The children around me give me concerned looks and assume that I am starving "you do not take food?" "No no, nda haze" I tell them (I am satisfied = I am full), and I explain that when I yawn, making exaggerated arm motions, in my culture, that does not mean that I am hungry, as it does here, but rather that I am tired. In my sleep-like state, the children then ask me my birthday. July 22nd I tell them. Of what year, they want to know? I respond 1977, thinking for one reason or another that that will put me at 30 years old, as I have been telling my classes all week. Nope. That makes 32. Oops.
So I hold out for as long as I can.. frozen to my seat out of both respect for their prayer time and for a fear that as soon as I move, it will be all - and I mean all eyes on me, if I trip, if I stumble, even just the fact that I am leaving before the service has ended, is enough reason to start gossip. But as a couple of the boys tell me it could be another 40 minutes (holding up 3 fingers) I realize that I just can not stay any longer. I stand up, as I approach the front, the crowd, even the speaker goes silent. So much for not wanting to make a scene.
Damn muzungu getting her cute little Kinyarwanda moment after all.
"I'm sorry" I tell them. "I am tired, I'm going to sleep. Good night" I say in Kinyarwanda.
Laughs. Giggles.
There's only so much you can do.
Earlier today though, sitting on my front step with my plate of beans and potatoes - just like nearly every other meal - and then again tonight, sitting amongst the crowd of children sharing their love for God, I was nearly moved to tears.
This was my dream.
This dream got me through my senior year of college.
I wanted to join the Peace Corps.
I wanted to live in Africa.
And here I am.
I know that for some, squat pots, no running water, shady electricity and jumbo spiders might not seem like the dream, but I'm living the dream. My dream.
And I am so grateful for the opportunity.
3 feburary 2010
My favorite sport is eating.
My favorite sport is learning.
I do not like not having running water.
I do like putting buckets out when it storms and later bathing in the fresh rain water.
I do not like taking a bike taxi to the main road to catch the bus,
and as my poor taxi boy pedals my - I don't even know how many pounds - with all of his might over and around and up the mountain sides and then through town,
as observers, idling their long, hot days on benches out front of stores whistle and hiss and shout at my sight.
No, I do not like that at all.
I do not like the bloated fullness feeling that lasts with me the entire day after eating a bowl of my ever better-and better bean soup.
I do like the crackled rainbow earth tones of the beans I buy at the market as they sit in a bowl, thirsty for a sip to rehydrate their skins.
I do not like going to bed with feet that would make one doubt my muzungu-ness as they are dirtied with Earth from a day of walking the roads and town.
I do like feeling more and more confident and comfortable here, with the people, the language and the culture.
I do not like learning Kinyarwanda from a book.
I do like the way Adelin let's me speak my broken Kinyarwanda, understands what it is I am trying to say and does not focus too much on correcting my mistakes. I also like the way she now too says "izuba yagiye gusinzira" - the sun is going to sleep, the closest I've come to saying "sunset"
I do not like the way my students looked at me blankly today when I told them I wanted them to write me a letter.
what is a letter?
(nacho)
a letter.. I write it on the board. l-e-t-t-e-r
Oh! LeTTer.
Yes, leDer.
Your American pronunciation...
Much the same way my papa neighbor did not understand when I stated that I needed "wader"... "wader?"... "yego, amazi".
Oh! WaTer!
Yes, waDer.
I do like the fact that my grandma called me tonight and she too pronounced water - waDer and letter - leDer. It's not just me, thankgoodness.
I do not like feeling overwhelmed by my new job as a teacher.
I do like when I get really excited about teaching and have a mind full of ideas and dreams and goals.
I do not like finding myself at the front of the class, full of self-doubt, afraid to write something on the board in fear that it will be misspelled.
I do not like the fact that I find myself in this situation not just before my class, but in front of other teachers and my director as well.
I do not like that they will think me dumb, too dumb to teach. And I am, when it comes to spelling, always have been. Maybe being responsible for conveying correct information to students will help me to finally face and overcome this challenge that has hindered me all my life. Lord knows I could not have gotten through University without Microsoft Word and spellcheck. But what do you do here when students tell you they hear rumors that people in America do not know how to write by pen - no joke - because everything is done on "the machine" (computer). I guess, at least for me personally, there is some truth behind that. I can write by hand, but nothing that would receive the grades I earned typing my papers all my life.
I do like the advice, probably some of the best I've ever received, "fake it til you make it".
I do not like wearing dress shoes that offer no grip on the steep, slippery grass and mud paths. Stairs? Heard of them? They could do wonders here.
I do like the way I look all dressed up in professional, adult clothes.. or in blue jeans rolled up to floods and gumboots.
I do not like the fact that my students didn't even blink when today I introduced myself as Umunezero, a 30 year old, American. Maybe it's the "the teacher's always right" culture, but 30, really? Come on...
I do like that when they asked me for my other name, (looking for you know, that American one my parents put on my birth certificate), I told them "teacher".
I do like the way Crystal Lite and other powder drink mixes make my waDer taste.
I do not like the fact that I can't bring myself to drink the waDer from my filter without them.
I do not like that my new neighbors wake up before the sun, interrupting my slumber, forcing me awake hours before I'd like to get out of bed.
I do like walking around my house, cooking, cleaning, living - in the nude. Just because I can.
I do not like how the carrots I buy at the market get all wrinkly before I am ready to use them. I still eat them, in my soups, but I don't like it.
I do like how there are so many fresh fruits (papayas, mangos, pineapples, bananas) and veggies available at the market for a fraction of the price they would cost in America.
I do not like how fruit flies always swarm my compost bowl in the kitchen.
I do like how my compost pile out back is now turning itself into a bean garden, with plants growing taller and stronger every day.
I do not like how phone calls are pay by the second here, making it unrealistic to call someone just to chat, or cry or laugh.
I do like that America rings me once a week typically, for just those reasons.
I do not like the enormous lack of organization here - buses arriving 40 minutes late, school starting a day after expected, receiving the curriculum the day before students arrive...
I do like that I am learning to be flexible.
I do not like that the trip to the post takes about an hour.
I do like that I have amazing friends who write me on a regular basis.
I do not like spending an entire afternoon or evening preparing a meal over my charcoal stove.
I do like the sense of responsibility that comes with having to cook and feed myself... all the time.
I do not like the roosters who sing their song at the most inappropriate times, like 6am as well as 2 in the afternoon - as I try to take a nap.
I do like the mama chicken that runs around my yard with her crew of 6 babies in tow.
I do not like how early it gets dark here.
I do like the star-filled night skies.
I do not like spiders.
I do like crickets, or at least find them tolerable. I think Disney is responsible for that.
I do not like using a squat pot.
I do like the fact that it does not require a bucket of water for flushing.
I do not like remembering where I was 4 months ago today.
I do like seeing how far I've come.
I do not like being one of two female teachers on staff, nor the fact that only about 1/5th of the students here are girls (shows the value placed on educating women..)
I do like the opportunity I have to here to be a good role model for them.
I do not like being so far from my loved ones.
I do like their support, encouragement and the fact that their photos and letters are posted all over my house.
xoxo
