Okay, these are my final comments on camp/life in general for now:
Should any of you like to knit, and be looking for a cool project, I can now highly reccomend mother bear. I've seen the faces of the kids when they get their bears -- they were passed out at breakfast on the last day of camp, while some counselors spontaneously began to sing Christmas carols -- and it was just one more moment at camp where suddenly the room was full of happy, crying, singing people. Awesome.
My computer has what I'm going to euphemistically call the chicken pox (and will studiously avoid call "being dead") so while I have tons and tons of photos of camp and thanksgiving and lots of fun things like that -- well, it may take a while until they make it online. Dammit.
And finally, Camp Sizanani has a website at www.worldcamps.org if you want to see pictures of camp activites in general, even if I myself do not happen to be in them.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
In Which I Become Mariah Carey
I just got back from two weeks at a girls camp in the Northwest province (a girls camp which I blessedly was not in charge of, but only helping out at, I might add). Its an amazing program called Camp Sizanani ("Helping Each Other" in Zulu) that takes kids from Soweto, the big famous and extremely poor township outside of Jo'burg, and brings them to essentially summer camp for two weeks. They do Sports, Arts and Crafts, Theater, Adventure, Swimming, and -- crucially -- Lifeskills. The whole camp is designed around lifeskills, actually, with each activity being specifically focused on increasing self-esteem, communication, empowerment, and all the good stuff like that. So of all the above activites, imagine Becca goes to camp to help out, what would I obviously be doing?
If you answered swimming, you were too right (and blindly guessing). I originally went with the intention of doing Lifeskills, I mean thats my 'thing' right? However, it turns out that one of the major and unexpected skill deficits of the South African camp counselors was the ability to swim. Nobody knew how to swim, yet counselors were needed to teach swimming. A conundrum. And there I was. Suddenly in the pool four hours a day for nine straight days when I thought I'd be teaching all about gender roles and HIV instead.
It was amazingly fun. About 98% of the girls had never been in a pool, never been in a large body of water of any sort before, and to see them progress from outright terror to enthusiastic swimmers was such a blast. One girl, of whom I was particularly proud, told me that a number of years ago she'd spent four days in the hospital after nearly drowning in a swimming pool. But she got in the water, even though I could see how scared she was, and by the end of the nine days she was splashing around indistinguishable from the rest of the kids. Thats bravery.
I was also in charge, along with two other girls (one another PCV, one a South African) or a cabin of 14 13-14 year old girls. Oh my god, what an age. I was reminded why teaching middle school is considered a punishment in the states. It was a little bit funny, though, to watch them vascillate between being the little girls they had just been, who only wanted to have fun, and the adults whom they were pretty sure they should be -- and much too cool for any of that fun stuff. You could see the battle in their eyes, and it was hard to get too mad at them for anything. In fact, they were all incredibly sweet girls (even the ones who pretended not to be) and I think we all surprised ourselves on the last day with how much we were going to miss one another.
The whole experience, in fact, is hard to summarize except for by describing the last day. On average, in a moment to moment sort of way, it was herding girls from one place to another, teaching lessons, eating bad food, attempting to enforce lights out, solving arguments, attempting to wake them up again in the morning, and generally two weeks of exhaustion. That was moment to moment though, that was the surface. I think on the last day we all sort of realized what we had created in the meantime. During those moments, or inbetween, something really cool had happened.
The closing ceremony of Camp Sizanani is a lot of singing and speaches and poetry around a campfire, followed by a bridge or tunnel of camp counselors which all the girls walk through, stopping one by one for a hug and special message from each adult they'd interacted with over the past 9 days. Not only was there not a single dry eye anywhere, I don't believe there was a single person who wasn't a sobbing mess that night, especially including me. It was amazing. Girls talked about what a life changing experience they'd gone through, about what they'd learned and the bonds they'd made with the other counselors. They mentioned how they'd love to come back and be counselors themselves next year (and quite a few actually do), and generally affirmed Camp Sizanani as one of the best things that had ever happened to them. It was really beautiful.
One of the images that I'm left with, the one that sort of expresses camp to me, happened towards the end of our time in the pool. We'd progressed beyond kicking and putting our faces in the water (well, most of us) and had moved on to actual moving-our-arms, kicking-our-legs real live swimming. I had the girls swim to me one at a time, always backing up just a little bit, but always right in front of them where they could see me. My constant litany was "its okay, I'm right here, I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you, you're safe." and I think I said it more than was necessary, because to be able to promise that to a child here is a luxury I won't often have again. So I said it a lot, and I think it was comforting for all of us, and especially healing for me. But we swam out, or rather I walked back and the girl swam to me, until finally I stopped with my back against the rope that demarcate the shallow and the beginning-to-be-deep ends. Then I would stop the girl, and hold her up, and point back to where we had come from -- about 15 feet. "Look! You just swam that whole way, all by yourself, you swam that far! Aren't you proud of yourself?" And inevitably the girl would turn around and her face would break out into a look of awe. In the process of getting there, I don't think she'd realized where she'd been going. And all of a sudden, she'd really accomplished something. Something that a week ago had seemed almost impossible. That one look, when she looked back and saw just how far she'd come, thats Camp Sizanani for me, and something that I think is going to stay with me as one of the highlights of Peace Corps.
If you answered swimming, you were too right (and blindly guessing). I originally went with the intention of doing Lifeskills, I mean thats my 'thing' right? However, it turns out that one of the major and unexpected skill deficits of the South African camp counselors was the ability to swim. Nobody knew how to swim, yet counselors were needed to teach swimming. A conundrum. And there I was. Suddenly in the pool four hours a day for nine straight days when I thought I'd be teaching all about gender roles and HIV instead.
It was amazingly fun. About 98% of the girls had never been in a pool, never been in a large body of water of any sort before, and to see them progress from outright terror to enthusiastic swimmers was such a blast. One girl, of whom I was particularly proud, told me that a number of years ago she'd spent four days in the hospital after nearly drowning in a swimming pool. But she got in the water, even though I could see how scared she was, and by the end of the nine days she was splashing around indistinguishable from the rest of the kids. Thats bravery.
I was also in charge, along with two other girls (one another PCV, one a South African) or a cabin of 14 13-14 year old girls. Oh my god, what an age. I was reminded why teaching middle school is considered a punishment in the states. It was a little bit funny, though, to watch them vascillate between being the little girls they had just been, who only wanted to have fun, and the adults whom they were pretty sure they should be -- and much too cool for any of that fun stuff. You could see the battle in their eyes, and it was hard to get too mad at them for anything. In fact, they were all incredibly sweet girls (even the ones who pretended not to be) and I think we all surprised ourselves on the last day with how much we were going to miss one another.
The whole experience, in fact, is hard to summarize except for by describing the last day. On average, in a moment to moment sort of way, it was herding girls from one place to another, teaching lessons, eating bad food, attempting to enforce lights out, solving arguments, attempting to wake them up again in the morning, and generally two weeks of exhaustion. That was moment to moment though, that was the surface. I think on the last day we all sort of realized what we had created in the meantime. During those moments, or inbetween, something really cool had happened.
The closing ceremony of Camp Sizanani is a lot of singing and speaches and poetry around a campfire, followed by a bridge or tunnel of camp counselors which all the girls walk through, stopping one by one for a hug and special message from each adult they'd interacted with over the past 9 days. Not only was there not a single dry eye anywhere, I don't believe there was a single person who wasn't a sobbing mess that night, especially including me. It was amazing. Girls talked about what a life changing experience they'd gone through, about what they'd learned and the bonds they'd made with the other counselors. They mentioned how they'd love to come back and be counselors themselves next year (and quite a few actually do), and generally affirmed Camp Sizanani as one of the best things that had ever happened to them. It was really beautiful.
One of the images that I'm left with, the one that sort of expresses camp to me, happened towards the end of our time in the pool. We'd progressed beyond kicking and putting our faces in the water (well, most of us) and had moved on to actual moving-our-arms, kicking-our-legs real live swimming. I had the girls swim to me one at a time, always backing up just a little bit, but always right in front of them where they could see me. My constant litany was "its okay, I'm right here, I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you, you're safe." and I think I said it more than was necessary, because to be able to promise that to a child here is a luxury I won't often have again. So I said it a lot, and I think it was comforting for all of us, and especially healing for me. But we swam out, or rather I walked back and the girl swam to me, until finally I stopped with my back against the rope that demarcate the shallow and the beginning-to-be-deep ends. Then I would stop the girl, and hold her up, and point back to where we had come from -- about 15 feet. "Look! You just swam that whole way, all by yourself, you swam that far! Aren't you proud of yourself?" And inevitably the girl would turn around and her face would break out into a look of awe. In the process of getting there, I don't think she'd realized where she'd been going. And all of a sudden, she'd really accomplished something. Something that a week ago had seemed almost impossible. That one look, when she looked back and saw just how far she'd come, thats Camp Sizanani for me, and something that I think is going to stay with me as one of the highlights of Peace Corps.
Like the Pantages, But Not at All
One of the first things we did at camp, by which I mean within 30 minutes of picking up the kids in Jo'burg, was go and see the Lion King. I don't mean we rented the movie and popped some popcorn -- or even projected it onto a convenient wall after dark. I mean 1800 children, their families, the camp counselors and directors, and four extremely happy Peace Corps Volunteers went to a local performing arts center where Disney had essentially donated the entire 1pm matinee of the South African production of the Lion King musical to Global Camps. This was not what I expected when I signed up for camp, but boy was I happy about it.
I'd seen the Lion King before, years ago in LA (for somebody's birthday, as I recall), and I'd remembered it being pretty awesome. So-so music (especially the weird fillers not written by Elton John) but AMAZING costumes. The Lion King is all about the visuals, the unbelievable puppets and characters and scenes that the artists have created. Thats what I remembered. Of course, the major difference between when I saw it with Tess and when I saw it two weeks ago were the 1800 children from Soweto who had never seen anything like this before in their lives. That and the fact that we were seeing it actually in Africa gave it an incredible depth. Here they tweak the languages of the songs quite a bit, which is fun. A lot of the original music was written in Swahili -- the parts that weren't in English, of course. Here they've instead switched a lot of the Swahili for Zulu, and also managed to fit in I believe all 11 official language plus Khoisan, a language which consists almost entirely of clicks and whistles which very few people speak anymore. The kids loved it.
In fact, the kids loved all of it, and while getting to see the Lion King was a wonderful experience on its own, getting to see the Lion King with all those kids is probably going to be my hands down best musical theater-esque experience ever. They were literally leaning forward on the edge of their seats, applauding, laughing, pointing, yelling, clapping and occasionally even singing along. (Hakuna Matata, especially, was a hit. Though according to the little girl next to me who apparently did in fact speak Swahili: "It means no problems not no worries." How can I not love seeing the Lion King in Africa?) When the performers came out for the final curtain call, the kids went wild screaming and applauding for all their favorites -- all except for the man who played Scar, who got perhaps the longest and loudest "Boooo!" I've ever heard. The poor guy. Once I stopped laughing I felt a little bad for him.
I'd seen the Lion King before, years ago in LA (for somebody's birthday, as I recall), and I'd remembered it being pretty awesome. So-so music (especially the weird fillers not written by Elton John) but AMAZING costumes. The Lion King is all about the visuals, the unbelievable puppets and characters and scenes that the artists have created. Thats what I remembered. Of course, the major difference between when I saw it with Tess and when I saw it two weeks ago were the 1800 children from Soweto who had never seen anything like this before in their lives. That and the fact that we were seeing it actually in Africa gave it an incredible depth. Here they tweak the languages of the songs quite a bit, which is fun. A lot of the original music was written in Swahili -- the parts that weren't in English, of course. Here they've instead switched a lot of the Swahili for Zulu, and also managed to fit in I believe all 11 official language plus Khoisan, a language which consists almost entirely of clicks and whistles which very few people speak anymore. The kids loved it.
In fact, the kids loved all of it, and while getting to see the Lion King was a wonderful experience on its own, getting to see the Lion King with all those kids is probably going to be my hands down best musical theater-esque experience ever. They were literally leaning forward on the edge of their seats, applauding, laughing, pointing, yelling, clapping and occasionally even singing along. (Hakuna Matata, especially, was a hit. Though according to the little girl next to me who apparently did in fact speak Swahili: "It means no problems not no worries." How can I not love seeing the Lion King in Africa?) When the performers came out for the final curtain call, the kids went wild screaming and applauding for all their favorites -- all except for the man who played Scar, who got perhaps the longest and loudest "Boooo!" I've ever heard. The poor guy. Once I stopped laughing I felt a little bad for him.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
That Was Unexpected
On tuesday of this week I did what I had initially planned to be a short workshop/lesson about HIV for my teachers at Bhambatha primary. I honestly had no idea how it would go, but I had a couple of main vague goals in mind: 1) teachers need to be educated just like everybody else; 2) people in the community respect teachers, so whatever the teachers are saying had better be accurate; and 3) free captive audience.
I initially planned to take about an hour, and stole what seemed like a good amount of basic activities from resources peace corps had given us (I could have made up my own, I suppose, but why reinvent the wheel?). I had no idea how much my teachers already knew, how receptive they would be, or if they would even want to be there at all. We ended school at 11 to start -- normally I would have protested, but its the end of the year and they're not really doing much -- and I prepared myself for blank stares and high amounts of resistance. Which is about what I got for the first 10 minutes, until things took a turn for the amazing.
What started out as a planned 1 hour workshop turned into a 3 hour conversation and lesson about HIV. Basic facts, how to stay safe, prevalent myths, social causes, the science behind it, what teachers as community members can do, and...most crucial of all...testing. At the end all of my teachers seemed so positive that I asked them how willing they were to test. If I called the local home based care organization and asked them to come to the school, would teachers test? I got some startled looks, some nervous headshakes. After all, agreeing on the importance of testing in theory is one thing, and not too hard. Actually getting tested yourself, in a county where 1/4 are infected and the stigma and shame are so deep-rooted no one will even call AIDS by its name...well, thats a different deal. But then, the principal said "Yes! We are educators, we are community leaders, we must test!" and the deputy principal agreed, and then another teacher, and another. They told me that if they made the call, they would go.
I was astounded. And I made the call.
Today three people from Thembalethu Home Based Care came to my school to test any teachers or staff that were willing. I was prepared with candy and certificates of bravery for anybody who was willing. I was expecting maybe the 3 or 4 that had committed to step up, maybe 1 or 2 more. Instead virtually every adult in the school got tested.
Almost every adult!! 20 out of 25!! In a place where most people believe that its just better not to know because the stress will kill you. A friend of mine couldn't talk hers into it even with the potential of a R5000 raffle payoff. I just can't convey how truly astounding it was that this many people got tested. Even the testers were shocked.
I am so proud of my teachers. The certificates I made them say "...for demonstrating outstanding BRAVERY and LEADERSHIP in learning their status" and thats exactly what they did.
I initially planned to take about an hour, and stole what seemed like a good amount of basic activities from resources peace corps had given us (I could have made up my own, I suppose, but why reinvent the wheel?). I had no idea how much my teachers already knew, how receptive they would be, or if they would even want to be there at all. We ended school at 11 to start -- normally I would have protested, but its the end of the year and they're not really doing much -- and I prepared myself for blank stares and high amounts of resistance. Which is about what I got for the first 10 minutes, until things took a turn for the amazing.
What started out as a planned 1 hour workshop turned into a 3 hour conversation and lesson about HIV. Basic facts, how to stay safe, prevalent myths, social causes, the science behind it, what teachers as community members can do, and...most crucial of all...testing. At the end all of my teachers seemed so positive that I asked them how willing they were to test. If I called the local home based care organization and asked them to come to the school, would teachers test? I got some startled looks, some nervous headshakes. After all, agreeing on the importance of testing in theory is one thing, and not too hard. Actually getting tested yourself, in a county where 1/4 are infected and the stigma and shame are so deep-rooted no one will even call AIDS by its name...well, thats a different deal. But then, the principal said "Yes! We are educators, we are community leaders, we must test!" and the deputy principal agreed, and then another teacher, and another. They told me that if they made the call, they would go.
I was astounded. And I made the call.
Today three people from Thembalethu Home Based Care came to my school to test any teachers or staff that were willing. I was prepared with candy and certificates of bravery for anybody who was willing. I was expecting maybe the 3 or 4 that had committed to step up, maybe 1 or 2 more. Instead virtually every adult in the school got tested.
Almost every adult!! 20 out of 25!! In a place where most people believe that its just better not to know because the stress will kill you. A friend of mine couldn't talk hers into it even with the potential of a R5000 raffle payoff. I just can't convey how truly astounding it was that this many people got tested. Even the testers were shocked.
I am so proud of my teachers. The certificates I made them say "...for demonstrating outstanding BRAVERY and LEADERSHIP in learning their status" and thats exactly what they did.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Briefly
From a Swazi Volunteer:
"You will not see tangible, measurable results in 2 years anywhere close to what you hope or expect. The saying that "what takes a day in USA takes a week in Africa, what takes a week in USA takes a month in Africa, what takes a month in USA takes 1 year in Africa" is close to true for reasons that you have no control over. So after your first month on the job, when you are still in USA mode, write down what you would like to achieve in 2 months time. This now becomes your 2 year work goal. NOTE: You can achieve more than this if you move into "take charge mode" but not through a capacity building approach. Also, in 2 years, you will probably not move out of USA mode."
When I read this, I first started to laugh very hard. Then for a brief second I thought I might cry. Then I just laughed some more. Its a pretty good summation.
"You will not see tangible, measurable results in 2 years anywhere close to what you hope or expect. The saying that "what takes a day in USA takes a week in Africa, what takes a week in USA takes a month in Africa, what takes a month in USA takes 1 year in Africa" is close to true for reasons that you have no control over. So after your first month on the job, when you are still in USA mode, write down what you would like to achieve in 2 months time. This now becomes your 2 year work goal. NOTE: You can achieve more than this if you move into "take charge mode" but not through a capacity building approach. Also, in 2 years, you will probably not move out of USA mode."
When I read this, I first started to laugh very hard. Then for a brief second I thought I might cry. Then I just laughed some more. Its a pretty good summation.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Its Not Just Me
An unexpected consequence seems to be coming out of my family's attempts at renovating. In the storage room -- now the porch -- there was a bookshelf, you can actually see it in one of the photos below I think. Obviously as soon as I got home last month and saw my surprise I brought all of my books inside (where they now happily live in more cardboard boxes than I would have expected), however my host family never bothered. Consequently, there is now a bookshelf full of all sorts of random things (disentegrating siswati bibles, old text books, ANC policy documents...) just gazing out onto the street. Nothing good, or I would have saved it, but still lots of books just sitting there.
This week I've had at least two sets of visitors that I know of -- primary grade kids come to sort through this apparent treasure trove. I assume that many more have stopped by when I haven't noticed or haven't been around. They're not looking for anything in particular, they're just awed and a little excited at the prospect of so many books waiting out for them -- free to touch or read or page through without any adult discouragement or intervention. Its like watching birds come to a birdfeeder. Unfortunately at the moment the birdfeeder is full of nutrasweet rather than anything actually nutritious, and I don't want to leave any of my very very small stock of picture books out for fear of damage. But it makes me happy to see, and it gives me hope for the library we're building at Ekwenzeni and the one I think will be forthcoming too at Bhambatha if the renovations ever happen. Kids want to read. They want those books. If we build it, they will come.
Thats kind of reassuring, isn't it?
This week I've had at least two sets of visitors that I know of -- primary grade kids come to sort through this apparent treasure trove. I assume that many more have stopped by when I haven't noticed or haven't been around. They're not looking for anything in particular, they're just awed and a little excited at the prospect of so many books waiting out for them -- free to touch or read or page through without any adult discouragement or intervention. Its like watching birds come to a birdfeeder. Unfortunately at the moment the birdfeeder is full of nutrasweet rather than anything actually nutritious, and I don't want to leave any of my very very small stock of picture books out for fear of damage. But it makes me happy to see, and it gives me hope for the library we're building at Ekwenzeni and the one I think will be forthcoming too at Bhambatha if the renovations ever happen. Kids want to read. They want those books. If we build it, they will come.
Thats kind of reassuring, isn't it?
Saturday, November 03, 2007
More pictures...
because I do not win at blogger.
All our pumpkins, lined up in a row.
My butternut-o-lantern guards the house at night.
Bonga strikes poses with her gorgeous face paint and lovelier pumpkin. (Its me...can you tell?)
All our pumpkins, lined up in a row.
My butternut-o-lantern guards the house at night.
Bonga strikes poses with her gorgeous face paint and lovelier pumpkin. (Its me...can you tell?)
More Pictures!
Bubble blowing on the front lawn. Best dollar store purchase ever.
Everybody strikes a pose with their pumpkins and friends. Latoya and Azora look on a little confused.
Sarah demonstrates the art of perfect pumpkin carving.
Masks in grade 3! Seriously, how cute are they?
"Trickatricka!!" Siswati for trick or treat. Here we're trick or treating for stickers, because hopping 65 9 year olds up on sugar is not a good way to start the day.
A grade 3 boy acts out his grandfather costume. His teachers and friends and I were all cracking up.
Friday, November 02, 2007
Ups and Downs
About a week and a half ago, as an exercise at our mid-service training, we were asked to graph our relative morale from month to month since we had gotten here. Mine seemed to be generally fairly high, though just like everybody else's its gone into a bit of a decline the last few months (like I told Omar, who has just finished his two years and is now off travelling: "Its not exciting and frustrating any more, its just frustrating!" "Yeah, thats pretty normal for right about now."). But like I said, on the whole I rate the last 15 months pretty highly. I attribute this to two things: 1) I really am having fun, and am generally fairly optimistic; and 2) I opted to focus on the best parts of each month rather than the worst. Had we been asked to graph things bi-weekly, or even weekly, there would have been a whole lot more down and things would have been a whole lot more bipolar. This week is an excellent example.
First, the ugly:
Monday and tuesday I once again braved the corporal punishment workshop. I've discussed my thoughts on corporal punishment already, but here I've taken the stance that if its not obvious its probably not that bad, so I don't want to get into it. However, the principal asked me to, so I did.
The first day bordered on disastrous. My teachers argued that the governemnt and department of education were in fact in the wrong, since both Jesus and the Bible advocate beating children (the first time I heard this argument I tried countering: "but didn't Jesus say suffer the little children? and turning the other cheek? Jesus never hit anybody, did he?" I've since learned that this is an entirely worthless strategy, so now I just go with a simple "I don't know. But it is still the law.") By the end of the day I'm pretty sure that I had just convinced them even more of the importance of beating their children. "But Nomvula, of course you are shocked by the extreme levels of violence in South Africa, its because you're from a different culture." Right about there I quit. Not a lot of counterarguments to that one, are there?
The second day was better. We talked about all the different ways teachers could keep discipline without sticks or paddles or any of that. Positive reinforcement, stickers, being in your class (...), all the strategies that we never have to think twice about because we grew up with them, but that are completely foreign to my teachers. It was good! It was great! They were engaged, they asked questions, they agreed that they could and would use all the strategies. They even came up with a few of their own and discussed them. Afterwards quite a few -- including the principal and deputy principal -- came up and thanked me for such a helpful workshop, and promised to do their best.
Success!!
Until today. When I walked into the staff room and saw one of the HODs (department heads) beating the crap out of a learner with a cane until the learner was crouched on the ground, crying and yelling and holding his hands up to protect himself. The childs crime? Hitting another learner. Yup, that beating will definitely teach him that beating people is wrong. (I did pull the HOD aside to speak with him, after initially storming out of the room. We discussed why he did at and what else he could have done...ironically, one discipline technique I highlighted in my workshop.)
Fortunately, this same week I've been spending the large majority of my time with two of my favorite teachers in the village. They are hands down the best of the 60 I work with. They care about the kids, teach the whole time, use a variety of activities and methods, actually plan their lessons, integrate reading and writing...I could go on and on. I love these women. Monday I brought in Swimmy to share with the kids. I figured that I would entertain myself by doing a readaloud, and maybe model it to the teachers as well. I showed Maria -- one of the teachers -- the book, and she immediately grabbed it out of my hands in excitement. Two hours later, there stands Maria, stealing my lesson and doing a phenomenal reading of Swimmy to 65 3rd graders. She stopped to ask questions, translated, had them act out swimming, talked about adjectives...it was wonderful. The kids were enthralled. I wanted to hug her. The next day, as a follow up activity, she had them summarize it in siswati (I suggested that she also ask them to extend the story "...what do you think swimmy and his friends do next?" but apparently that was a little much for kids who aren't even used to repeating in their own words, let alone making up their own things to talk about. Baby steps.)
On Wednesday I also taught what they deemed a "lesson", and I deemed "goofing around because its a holiday" about Halloween. I explained the concept of jack-o-lanterns...the looks on their faces were priceless. Think about the concept of pumpkin carving for a second, its pretty weird. So we drew our own jack-o-lanterns, and then I had them put on masks that they had made for homework and go trick-or-treating for stickers. Apparently the siswati for "trick or treat" is "Trickatricka!!" and I consider that a perfectly valid cultural adaptation. Then we talked a bit about their masks, and I had all of them write poems in English and Siswati about who they were. It was great. I don't claim educational value, but I did get some excellent photos.
After school, Tom, Sarah, myself, and any respective siblings we could find (or steal in Sarah's case) decided to get together for some pumpkin carving. Because you can't have a real halloween without jack-o-lanterns, can you? Unfortunately, what with being in the wrong hemisphere and all, South Africa is a little low on pumpkins at the moment. So we opted for carving butternut-o-lanterns, which worked equally well. Soon a small pack of grade 5 boys wandered over to see what ridiculous thing the crowd of white people was doing. Fortunately Sarah had brought face paint, and I just happened to have some bubbles with me (stickers, bubbles, shiny beads -- the peace corps volunteers essential kit). Soon we had a full on halloween carnival happening!! Here's Tom carving and arranging the lanterns, there's a couple of toddlers running around chasing bubbles, here's a boy with clown face paint. It was awesome. Tomorrow, I'll post pictures.
First, the ugly:
Monday and tuesday I once again braved the corporal punishment workshop. I've discussed my thoughts on corporal punishment already, but here I've taken the stance that if its not obvious its probably not that bad, so I don't want to get into it. However, the principal asked me to, so I did.
The first day bordered on disastrous. My teachers argued that the governemnt and department of education were in fact in the wrong, since both Jesus and the Bible advocate beating children (the first time I heard this argument I tried countering: "but didn't Jesus say suffer the little children? and turning the other cheek? Jesus never hit anybody, did he?" I've since learned that this is an entirely worthless strategy, so now I just go with a simple "I don't know. But it is still the law.") By the end of the day I'm pretty sure that I had just convinced them even more of the importance of beating their children. "But Nomvula, of course you are shocked by the extreme levels of violence in South Africa, its because you're from a different culture." Right about there I quit. Not a lot of counterarguments to that one, are there?
The second day was better. We talked about all the different ways teachers could keep discipline without sticks or paddles or any of that. Positive reinforcement, stickers, being in your class (...), all the strategies that we never have to think twice about because we grew up with them, but that are completely foreign to my teachers. It was good! It was great! They were engaged, they asked questions, they agreed that they could and would use all the strategies. They even came up with a few of their own and discussed them. Afterwards quite a few -- including the principal and deputy principal -- came up and thanked me for such a helpful workshop, and promised to do their best.
Success!!
Until today. When I walked into the staff room and saw one of the HODs (department heads) beating the crap out of a learner with a cane until the learner was crouched on the ground, crying and yelling and holding his hands up to protect himself. The childs crime? Hitting another learner. Yup, that beating will definitely teach him that beating people is wrong. (I did pull the HOD aside to speak with him, after initially storming out of the room. We discussed why he did at and what else he could have done...ironically, one discipline technique I highlighted in my workshop.)
Fortunately, this same week I've been spending the large majority of my time with two of my favorite teachers in the village. They are hands down the best of the 60 I work with. They care about the kids, teach the whole time, use a variety of activities and methods, actually plan their lessons, integrate reading and writing...I could go on and on. I love these women. Monday I brought in Swimmy to share with the kids. I figured that I would entertain myself by doing a readaloud, and maybe model it to the teachers as well. I showed Maria -- one of the teachers -- the book, and she immediately grabbed it out of my hands in excitement. Two hours later, there stands Maria, stealing my lesson and doing a phenomenal reading of Swimmy to 65 3rd graders. She stopped to ask questions, translated, had them act out swimming, talked about adjectives...it was wonderful. The kids were enthralled. I wanted to hug her. The next day, as a follow up activity, she had them summarize it in siswati (I suggested that she also ask them to extend the story "...what do you think swimmy and his friends do next?" but apparently that was a little much for kids who aren't even used to repeating in their own words, let alone making up their own things to talk about. Baby steps.)
On Wednesday I also taught what they deemed a "lesson", and I deemed "goofing around because its a holiday" about Halloween. I explained the concept of jack-o-lanterns...the looks on their faces were priceless. Think about the concept of pumpkin carving for a second, its pretty weird. So we drew our own jack-o-lanterns, and then I had them put on masks that they had made for homework and go trick-or-treating for stickers. Apparently the siswati for "trick or treat" is "Trickatricka!!" and I consider that a perfectly valid cultural adaptation. Then we talked a bit about their masks, and I had all of them write poems in English and Siswati about who they were. It was great. I don't claim educational value, but I did get some excellent photos.
After school, Tom, Sarah, myself, and any respective siblings we could find (or steal in Sarah's case) decided to get together for some pumpkin carving. Because you can't have a real halloween without jack-o-lanterns, can you? Unfortunately, what with being in the wrong hemisphere and all, South Africa is a little low on pumpkins at the moment. So we opted for carving butternut-o-lanterns, which worked equally well. Soon a small pack of grade 5 boys wandered over to see what ridiculous thing the crowd of white people was doing. Fortunately Sarah had brought face paint, and I just happened to have some bubbles with me (stickers, bubbles, shiny beads -- the peace corps volunteers essential kit). Soon we had a full on halloween carnival happening!! Here's Tom carving and arranging the lanterns, there's a couple of toddlers running around chasing bubbles, here's a boy with clown face paint. It was awesome. Tomorrow, I'll post pictures.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Photos
So here you have the roadside view of what my house now looks like. (There are some before shots at snapfish if you want to compare.) I've decided that I'm just going to look at is as haveing a really big, nice patio. Maybe plant some flowers in the giant dirt pile in front.
And here a lovely shot of the next door kraal (cattle pen) and some neighborhood kids who were begging me to "shoot me! shoot me!" while I took the first photo.
Friday, October 12, 2007
The Mercedes
Let me reiterate, before I post this, that my blog is just mine and has nothing to do with the US Government's opinion, Peace Corp's opinion, anybody in South Africa's opinion, etc... I can't even guarantee that my opinion today will be the same as tomorrow. You may have noticed, in fact, that all my entries tend to be fairly upbeat. This is partially because I like to think of myself as an optimistic (albeit intensley sarcastic) person, and partially because peace corps volunteers getting too candid has a tendency to spark international incidences.
So. The Mercedes.
The family I live with isn't really poor by village standards. There is enough food on the table, enough clothes for all four kids, television, two working parents, etc... They're doing okay. However, my host-father is a local counsellor, and he apparently felt that without a car, he just wasn't living up to the title. So despite the fact that they do occasionally run out of electricity, that they have four children to feed, that I get hit up for money (and/or told about just how 'bankrupt' he is -- code for asking for money) more than I am comfortable with, despite all this, he bought a car. And not just any car, oh no, the counsellor can't be seen in just any car, he needs a Mercedes. Forget that he has children to feed, forget that they barely have enough money now, he needs a Mercedes Benz. (And then there's that other tiny detail: the lack of a driver's license. But no big deal, apparently).
It makes me angry, but not because a mercedes is a mark of western consumerism bla bla bla. He's a grown man, he can spend his money on whatever he wants and I really don't think there's any particular moral judgement to be made. If you want a mercedes instead of...I don't know...a set of the great works of western literature...why should one be a more moral choice than the other? Its not. I don't think that spending money on status symbols is inherently good or bad (though on an emotional level I may find it silly, but haven't I done the same thing? Or didn't I when I had the cash?) No, it makes me mad because its a choice that doesn't just affect him - he has children! There are four girls living in that house who now have less food to eat and less light to study by because their father needed to show off.* Our power has been going out fairly consistently now because they can't afford electricity anymore. My host-mom hit me up for R60 the other day for food (normally I avoid loaning them money, I don't really have that much to loan and I hate being seen as a walking wallet. But what could I do? I love the girls and the thought of them going hungry when I have money is repugnant). I'm pretty sure they wash the car more than the baby (usually with insanely loud and awful music right next to my house), and then there's the little matter of my room being half-demolished for a garage. So I hate the mercedes, a lot. Every time I lose another carton of milk because the powers been off too long, and everytime I see him driving up and down the road honking at people when he should be at work I just start to hate it a little more. I refuse to ride in it, because the thought of the American status symbol hopping into the German status symbol to be shown off around town makes me physically ill.
Does all of this sound a little petty? Maybe it is, maybe hating the car is a way of channelling who knows what other stresses and frustrations that I have to deal with every day all into one convenient package. But I think that its just the embodiment of an idea that I see over and over again here: that the look of a thing is more important than its substance. If a learner has really nice handwriting, but gets the answers wrong, the teacher will praise him or her above everybody else. Conversely, getting the right answer but being too sloppy makes it wrong. Secretaries spend hours on borders, tables, graphics, layouts, because thats all everybody cares about in a document -- the content is secondary. The important thing about a meeting is that you have an agenda and a secretary, not that you have important content and get a lot done. And if a family has a mercedes, they're succesful -- even if the power is off for days at a time. Its all about the look, and never about the big picture.
*The fact that this, and corporal punishment, are the two things that I have refused to concede cultural moral relativism on is interesting, isn't it? They both involve adult's relationships with children. Does this in fact reveal a cultural bias in me? The view that childhood is somehow sacred or inviolate (thanks Victorians)? Or does it mean that moral/cultural relationships between adults are just that -- relationships between two consenting adults of relatively equal power and status -- while children don't get much say in whats happening to them, which makes things less fair? I'm going to go with the second one.
So. The Mercedes.
The family I live with isn't really poor by village standards. There is enough food on the table, enough clothes for all four kids, television, two working parents, etc... They're doing okay. However, my host-father is a local counsellor, and he apparently felt that without a car, he just wasn't living up to the title. So despite the fact that they do occasionally run out of electricity, that they have four children to feed, that I get hit up for money (and/or told about just how 'bankrupt' he is -- code for asking for money) more than I am comfortable with, despite all this, he bought a car. And not just any car, oh no, the counsellor can't be seen in just any car, he needs a Mercedes. Forget that he has children to feed, forget that they barely have enough money now, he needs a Mercedes Benz. (And then there's that other tiny detail: the lack of a driver's license. But no big deal, apparently).
It makes me angry, but not because a mercedes is a mark of western consumerism bla bla bla. He's a grown man, he can spend his money on whatever he wants and I really don't think there's any particular moral judgement to be made. If you want a mercedes instead of...I don't know...a set of the great works of western literature...why should one be a more moral choice than the other? Its not. I don't think that spending money on status symbols is inherently good or bad (though on an emotional level I may find it silly, but haven't I done the same thing? Or didn't I when I had the cash?) No, it makes me mad because its a choice that doesn't just affect him - he has children! There are four girls living in that house who now have less food to eat and less light to study by because their father needed to show off.* Our power has been going out fairly consistently now because they can't afford electricity anymore. My host-mom hit me up for R60 the other day for food (normally I avoid loaning them money, I don't really have that much to loan and I hate being seen as a walking wallet. But what could I do? I love the girls and the thought of them going hungry when I have money is repugnant). I'm pretty sure they wash the car more than the baby (usually with insanely loud and awful music right next to my house), and then there's the little matter of my room being half-demolished for a garage. So I hate the mercedes, a lot. Every time I lose another carton of milk because the powers been off too long, and everytime I see him driving up and down the road honking at people when he should be at work I just start to hate it a little more. I refuse to ride in it, because the thought of the American status symbol hopping into the German status symbol to be shown off around town makes me physically ill.
Does all of this sound a little petty? Maybe it is, maybe hating the car is a way of channelling who knows what other stresses and frustrations that I have to deal with every day all into one convenient package. But I think that its just the embodiment of an idea that I see over and over again here: that the look of a thing is more important than its substance. If a learner has really nice handwriting, but gets the answers wrong, the teacher will praise him or her above everybody else. Conversely, getting the right answer but being too sloppy makes it wrong. Secretaries spend hours on borders, tables, graphics, layouts, because thats all everybody cares about in a document -- the content is secondary. The important thing about a meeting is that you have an agenda and a secretary, not that you have important content and get a lot done. And if a family has a mercedes, they're succesful -- even if the power is off for days at a time. Its all about the look, and never about the big picture.
*The fact that this, and corporal punishment, are the two things that I have refused to concede cultural moral relativism on is interesting, isn't it? They both involve adult's relationships with children. Does this in fact reveal a cultural bias in me? The view that childhood is somehow sacred or inviolate (thanks Victorians)? Or does it mean that moral/cultural relationships between adults are just that -- relationships between two consenting adults of relatively equal power and status -- while children don't get much say in whats happening to them, which makes things less fair? I'm going to go with the second one.
Monday, October 01, 2007
wtf?
The other day I got home after a long, long time away from site – training, Pretoria, swearing-in for the new volunteers, Limpopo, Sabie (geez!) – all excited to see my family again after 3 weeks, start making some delicious spaghetti, and show off my sweet digs to Erica. Unfortunately, instead of all that I got a little bit of a shock as the taxi pulled up in front of my house.
My host family recently bought a car (which is a whole different entry), and decided that they needed a garage for it. Before I left, my host mother pointed to my house and mentioned that they were planning to expand onto it to make said garage. My interpretation of this, aided by her hand gestures and pointing, was that my home would go from two cozy rooms (one that I use exclusively as a sort of studio apartment, and one that we share for storage) to three, with a third room being added on for the car. You’d think, by now, I’d have learned about the perils of assumption in South Africa – I mean, since probably 98%of my assumptions turn out to be wrong, why do I even trust them at all anymore? But, well, I haven’t.
Can you see where this is going?
So I get home, and now instead of home I have one studio apartment-esque space to live in (to reiterate mom: yes, I still have four intact walls and a door) and…one three walled catastrophe that looks like a mix of a movie set and a construction site. The taxi stopped, and we were all staring at what was once the inside of my house. I was a little surprised. Three hours later my family got home from whatever important business they had, and explained to me that there had been some sort of ‘mistake.’ I’m not entirely clear on this, but it seems like the original intent was for three rooms and then…an error was made? “Oops, knocked a gigantic hole in your wall by accident, well, we’ll just keep ripping it out now.” Who makes mistakes like that? More likely, I’m thinking, is that its cheaper to extend one room a few feet for a car than it is to construct an entirely new one.
I’m a bit pissed/surprised/irritated, but I’m willing to call that normal. I mean really, how difficult would it have been to call me with a “by the way, we’re knocking down a wall tomorrow. Heads up.” I kept a lot of books and school supplies in there, and they were apparently just sitting out for anybody to take them for at least a couple of days before I got home. Nothing got taken though, for once I guess the utter local apathy towards books and literacy has worked out in my favor. I guess the local tsotsis don’t see a lot of value in smuggling over to Maputo and then selling the complete works of John Donne and Shakespeare. A canonical western literature black market on the streets of Mozambique seems unlikely, though I’m not saying I wouldn’t stop by.
Geez.
My host family recently bought a car (which is a whole different entry), and decided that they needed a garage for it. Before I left, my host mother pointed to my house and mentioned that they were planning to expand onto it to make said garage. My interpretation of this, aided by her hand gestures and pointing, was that my home would go from two cozy rooms (one that I use exclusively as a sort of studio apartment, and one that we share for storage) to three, with a third room being added on for the car. You’d think, by now, I’d have learned about the perils of assumption in South Africa – I mean, since probably 98%of my assumptions turn out to be wrong, why do I even trust them at all anymore? But, well, I haven’t.
Can you see where this is going?
So I get home, and now instead of home I have one studio apartment-esque space to live in (to reiterate mom: yes, I still have four intact walls and a door) and…one three walled catastrophe that looks like a mix of a movie set and a construction site. The taxi stopped, and we were all staring at what was once the inside of my house. I was a little surprised. Three hours later my family got home from whatever important business they had, and explained to me that there had been some sort of ‘mistake.’ I’m not entirely clear on this, but it seems like the original intent was for three rooms and then…an error was made? “Oops, knocked a gigantic hole in your wall by accident, well, we’ll just keep ripping it out now.” Who makes mistakes like that? More likely, I’m thinking, is that its cheaper to extend one room a few feet for a car than it is to construct an entirely new one.
I’m a bit pissed/surprised/irritated, but I’m willing to call that normal. I mean really, how difficult would it have been to call me with a “by the way, we’re knocking down a wall tomorrow. Heads up.” I kept a lot of books and school supplies in there, and they were apparently just sitting out for anybody to take them for at least a couple of days before I got home. Nothing got taken though, for once I guess the utter local apathy towards books and literacy has worked out in my favor. I guess the local tsotsis don’t see a lot of value in smuggling over to Maputo and then selling the complete works of John Donne and Shakespeare. A canonical western literature black market on the streets of Mozambique seems unlikely, though I’m not saying I wouldn’t stop by.
Geez.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Visible/Invisible
I've been back from SA-16 training for about a week and have been spending my time in Pretoria, more or less awaiting the Tenth Anniversary Swearing-In Celebration(party/shindig/do) that, in typical peace corps fashion, was a bit less exciting than all it was talked up to be. I was promised Nelson Mandela and the Clintons! (okay, true I was promised via 8th person rumour, but still). Oh well. There were still swings and free food (in the words of the American Ambassador to South Africa "...one thing I have learned in hosting you guys is that volunteers can eat their own body weight.") and I got all dressed up for the first time since...well, my own swearing in one year ago today (!). We all looked very formal and elegant, not bad for those used to washing in buckets.
During my week here I've been spending a lot of time walking around the city, people-watching, and generally experiencing the vast difference between third world rural life, and first world city life. I'll be very honest: Unlike a lot of what I see each day, it gives me hope. I love seeing all the different people out together, walking together, playing tennis together. I love walking through the University of Pretoria campus and seeing how non-white it is. Is it 87% African and completely aligned with the demographics of the country? Good lord, of course not. But neither is it the all white continuation of the economic and educational disparity that everyday in my village. People are going to University; the cycle is slowly, slowly, slowly dissolving. And I think that thats even more remarkable when you consider that the students at a University now would have been the very first generation since apartheid, born in it's death throes. What will things be like in 20 years? Or 50? In three generations?
I think that one of the things many of us Volunteers tend to forget is that we do live in...not the worst of the worst, but perhaps the most desperate for help. It wouldn't do much good to send Volunteers to places that were getting their acts together on their own, would it? And so our perception of the system might be slightly skewed -- there are good things happening too. Thats not to say for a second that rural education here is anywhere near what it needs to be. I don't know whats going to happen to this generation of children in my village, I don't know if we are anything but a band-aid for this generation of teachers. But what about rural education in America? How good is that? Admittedly there are places like the Esparto district, where I subbed for a bit, or the many incredibly dedicated and fantastic teachers of Santa Paula (hi guys! hi mom!), but then there's also Gustine (hi Kasey!), the inner cities, and on. American education certainly isn't getting it all right, but there are a whole lot of things that are going pretty well. In the same way, there are a whole lot of things going wrong with education in this country, but there are also the occasional things going right (if you can afford it).
During my week here I've been spending a lot of time walking around the city, people-watching, and generally experiencing the vast difference between third world rural life, and first world city life. I'll be very honest: Unlike a lot of what I see each day, it gives me hope. I love seeing all the different people out together, walking together, playing tennis together. I love walking through the University of Pretoria campus and seeing how non-white it is. Is it 87% African and completely aligned with the demographics of the country? Good lord, of course not. But neither is it the all white continuation of the economic and educational disparity that everyday in my village. People are going to University; the cycle is slowly, slowly, slowly dissolving. And I think that thats even more remarkable when you consider that the students at a University now would have been the very first generation since apartheid, born in it's death throes. What will things be like in 20 years? Or 50? In three generations?
I think that one of the things many of us Volunteers tend to forget is that we do live in...not the worst of the worst, but perhaps the most desperate for help. It wouldn't do much good to send Volunteers to places that were getting their acts together on their own, would it? And so our perception of the system might be slightly skewed -- there are good things happening too. Thats not to say for a second that rural education here is anywhere near what it needs to be. I don't know whats going to happen to this generation of children in my village, I don't know if we are anything but a band-aid for this generation of teachers. But what about rural education in America? How good is that? Admittedly there are places like the Esparto district, where I subbed for a bit, or the many incredibly dedicated and fantastic teachers of Santa Paula (hi guys! hi mom!), but then there's also Gustine (hi Kasey!), the inner cities, and on. American education certainly isn't getting it all right, but there are a whole lot of things that are going pretty well. In the same way, there are a whole lot of things going wrong with education in this country, but there are also the occasional things going right (if you can afford it).
Sunday, September 09, 2007
melange
Today I am going to training for the SA-16 Volunteers in Rustenburg (Zeerust? Somewhere far away.) I'll be there for a week talking to the incoming volunteers about integrating into their village and how to become a part of their community. My first thought on this when peace corps told me was "Wow, that would be a good thing to have at training...I wonder how one does it?" So I asked my teachers and my sisters. Latoya's advice: "Um. Patience. I think just lots of patience." Latoya sounds like Peace Corps. One of my teacher's advice: "Well, they should try and get involved in activities and groups in the community, to really meet a lot of people." At that point, I got a little concerned, "wait, Maria, I haven't joined any groups or activities, what am I doing wrong?" "Oh, well. We don't have any in Steenbok. We just have funerals."
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
There you go
Today I learned that, in siswati, the word for "why" and the word for "story" are the same. How completely perfect.
Binary
Last week, on wednesday, I sat in the classroom of one of my favorite teachers (at my least favorite school) and found myself starting to cry. It was just one of those days, where my sheer inability to change anything got to me -- the excusess, the apathy, the fact that I was watching the exact same scenarios play out that I have been for a year with no appreciable change or improvement. Except maybe for the fact that now I just rationalize what I see more.
Today, on wednesday, I again sat in the classroom of another of my favorite teachers (at my favorite school) and again I started crying. This time though, I was watching one of the teachers who had put together Likusasa Letfu conduct a session on gender roles with every grade 6 and 7 girl in the school as part of the weekly club that they planned back at camp. In front stood the four girls who had attended, helping out Violet (the teacher), leading discussions, and generally showing off all they'd got. I've never been more proud of anybody in my life, I don't think.
I'm pretty sure I have a great job.
Today, on wednesday, I again sat in the classroom of another of my favorite teachers (at my favorite school) and again I started crying. This time though, I was watching one of the teachers who had put together Likusasa Letfu conduct a session on gender roles with every grade 6 and 7 girl in the school as part of the weekly club that they planned back at camp. In front stood the four girls who had attended, helping out Violet (the teacher), leading discussions, and generally showing off all they'd got. I've never been more proud of anybody in my life, I don't think.
I'm pretty sure I have a great job.
Monday, August 20, 2007
More Photos
There are new pictures up on the snapfish site from mine and Roy's vacation, including some shots of my village and house. And lots of animals from Kruger, too. Enjoy!
No Excuses
Recently I've been teaching grade 6 and 7 English after hours at one of my schools. I really enjoy it, partially because I like working with the kids, and partially because it helps me feel productive. I'm operating on the exact opposite of most South African teaching methodology, that is very little lecturing from me, and a whole lot of activity from the kids. (Well, as little lecturing as possible from me. I still love to talk more than practically anything else out there). I figure that since my siswati would be a whole lot better if I actually practiced it, whats going to improve their english much more than just practicing it as much as possible? I figure that I'm providing facilitated practice with a native speaker, as a supplement to their regular classes, which honestly aren't all that bad. Mostly.
Anyway, all of that is nice, in an "I'm being productive in the Peace Corps" sort of way, but honestly who cares about that? Here's the good part:
Today in grade 7 we were doing some writing, so I thought I'd bring in some music to listen to while they worked. After class some girls stuck around to hang out with the exciting and seemingly newly accessible American. (In fact, I think I'm slowly beginning to drift away from 'exciting white lady' and closer to 'exciting really weird lady.' Whatever, I'll take it). They told me that they'd like to dance a bit, so I bust out some Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, a little Bon Jovi, and then...then I hit upon the Flogging Molly.
Today I instigated a Flogging Molly moshpit in a grade 7 South African classroom. Life is good.
Anyway, all of that is nice, in an "I'm being productive in the Peace Corps" sort of way, but honestly who cares about that? Here's the good part:
Today in grade 7 we were doing some writing, so I thought I'd bring in some music to listen to while they worked. After class some girls stuck around to hang out with the exciting and seemingly newly accessible American. (In fact, I think I'm slowly beginning to drift away from 'exciting white lady' and closer to 'exciting really weird lady.' Whatever, I'll take it). They told me that they'd like to dance a bit, so I bust out some Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, a little Bon Jovi, and then...then I hit upon the Flogging Molly.
Today I instigated a Flogging Molly moshpit in a grade 7 South African classroom. Life is good.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
#50
So the other day I almost got a puppy -- his name would have been Max -- but then I didn't. Now his name is Bobby.
I wasn't (and still am not) planning to get a puppy, understand. A few of my friends have, and while I am very jealous of them and their pet-having fun, I also feel like I am very, very bad at taking care of things when left to my own devices (witness: Sigmund the Beta). Plus I'm leaving in a year (!), and what would I do with it then? So I know, puppy = bad idea.
However. When I showed up to school one cold, windy morning I started hearing the saddest yelps ever the moment I walked in the front gate. They were coming from a tiny little puppy of the standard village mutt variety. He couldn't have been more than 8 weeks old, his eyes were barely open and I could hold him in one hand, and he was just crying and crying. He was cold, he was sad, and children were yelling and poking at him. What was I supposed to do? I found him a box and brought him into the office. (While the clerks made jokes about my new 'child'). Then I decided that he might just be lost and have a home to go to, so I brought him and his box back outside, along with a jar of water and some of my lunch later in the day, on the theory that if he wanted to go home he could, and if he didn't have a home, well...
I spent my whole morning chasing mean children away from 'the' puppy, as in my mind he slowly morphed into 'my' puppy. I started planning how I would take care of him, how soon I could get him to a vet, who I could get to puppy-sit when I went on vacation, all that. In other words, over the course of just 5 hours I went from "pets = DOOM" to "I have a puppy!"
So imagine my shock and desolation, then, when I walked out of the office at about noon to check on my puppy -- and he was gone! Box and all! I immediately dropped what I was working on (a very challenging and productive game of solitaire, I believe) and went on a puppy-finding mission. After much diligent reconaissance work, ("What are you looking for, Nomvula?" "My puppy!" "Oh...he's over there.") I discovered that one of the Grade 1 teachers had decided that since he was outside, he was fair game, and she'd been wanting a dog for a while. I was very sad at the loss of my potential puppy, but she would of course be able to take care of him much longer (if not better!) than I will. So it is all for the best. I suppose. I made her promise to take good care of him, and to give him a good name. (Bobby. Not bad. I guess.)
The end? Not quite. The next day, the puppy's (original) owner called the school and demanded his dog back.
And that was how I almost had a puppy.
Also, remember this post: http://slainteafrica.blogspot.com/2006/12/renovations.html ? Yeah. I finally got around to the painting party. All I need now is a rug, it will really tie the whole room together.
I wasn't (and still am not) planning to get a puppy, understand. A few of my friends have, and while I am very jealous of them and their pet-having fun, I also feel like I am very, very bad at taking care of things when left to my own devices (witness: Sigmund the Beta). Plus I'm leaving in a year (!), and what would I do with it then? So I know, puppy = bad idea.
However. When I showed up to school one cold, windy morning I started hearing the saddest yelps ever the moment I walked in the front gate. They were coming from a tiny little puppy of the standard village mutt variety. He couldn't have been more than 8 weeks old, his eyes were barely open and I could hold him in one hand, and he was just crying and crying. He was cold, he was sad, and children were yelling and poking at him. What was I supposed to do? I found him a box and brought him into the office. (While the clerks made jokes about my new 'child'). Then I decided that he might just be lost and have a home to go to, so I brought him and his box back outside, along with a jar of water and some of my lunch later in the day, on the theory that if he wanted to go home he could, and if he didn't have a home, well...
I spent my whole morning chasing mean children away from 'the' puppy, as in my mind he slowly morphed into 'my' puppy. I started planning how I would take care of him, how soon I could get him to a vet, who I could get to puppy-sit when I went on vacation, all that. In other words, over the course of just 5 hours I went from "pets = DOOM" to "I have a puppy!"
So imagine my shock and desolation, then, when I walked out of the office at about noon to check on my puppy -- and he was gone! Box and all! I immediately dropped what I was working on (a very challenging and productive game of solitaire, I believe) and went on a puppy-finding mission. After much diligent reconaissance work, ("What are you looking for, Nomvula?" "My puppy!" "Oh...he's over there.") I discovered that one of the Grade 1 teachers had decided that since he was outside, he was fair game, and she'd been wanting a dog for a while. I was very sad at the loss of my potential puppy, but she would of course be able to take care of him much longer (if not better!) than I will. So it is all for the best. I suppose. I made her promise to take good care of him, and to give him a good name. (Bobby. Not bad. I guess.)
The end? Not quite. The next day, the puppy's (original) owner called the school and demanded his dog back.
And that was how I almost had a puppy.
Also, remember this post: http://slainteafrica.blogspot.com/2006/12/renovations.html ? Yeah. I finally got around to the painting party. All I need now is a rug, it will really tie the whole room together.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
12 down
Today and yesterday I did the (in)famous corporal punishment workshop with 8 of my foundation phase teachers. I say infamous because it's something that nearly every volunteer does at some point or another, but that doesn't exactly mean its all that succesful. But its sort of like the pit toilet and the mocking and the muggings. Sort of a rite of passage. (No, I have not been mugged. Though many would add to that: "yet")
So, we do the workshop. And I ask them to come up with 2 types of positive reinforcement that they could use in their classroom. My favorite answer, by far:
"Well, instead of yelling: 'Hey Stupid! Stop making noise over there!' we could use their name. Then they will feel proud that we know what their name is."
Yes friends, its been one whole year in the peace corps well spent.
(Also, Molly Weasley is my new hero.)
So, we do the workshop. And I ask them to come up with 2 types of positive reinforcement that they could use in their classroom. My favorite answer, by far:
"Well, instead of yelling: 'Hey Stupid! Stop making noise over there!' we could use their name. Then they will feel proud that we know what their name is."
Yes friends, its been one whole year in the peace corps well spent.
(Also, Molly Weasley is my new hero.)
Friday, July 20, 2007
Should I Read Hegel
Even in Africa, its finally here: Harry Potter day, hooray! Thank goodness for this 9 hour time difference, so that I can still claim to have bought my book at (California's) midnight.
I will resurface in a few days with more africa-stuff (and probably just a little harry potter stuff).
Hooray!
I will resurface in a few days with more africa-stuff (and probably just a little harry potter stuff).
Hooray!
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Chilling in Pretoria
So my camp was an amazing success, if I do say so myself. The girls were so into it, the teachers participated, there were no more than 3 major disasters a day. It was really, really great. I feel like now, 11 months in, I've finally Done Something Important. Like this could really make a difference or something for at least a few girls.
It was so great to watch both the kids and their teachers come out of their shells and really begin participating as the days went on. On the first day everybody pretty much clustered by school or age, until Liz, Amber and myself relentlessly made them split up and mix around. By the end of the second day (self-esteem and goal setting) they were talking, playing, hanging out together. The teachers were participating in and leading if not most than a lot of the camp (at one point I found myself just sitting on a bench, watching, and thinking to myself -- "I feel so lazy! Oh wait...they're supposed to do it themselves. Weird.") We talked about HIV/AIDS and there were so many really good questions. A nurse came in, and a local police officer, and talked to the kids about rights and health and puberty and all the rest of it. Possibly the very best part of the whole camp was our "I Can't" Funeral.
An I can't funeral is supposed to be more or less what it sounds like. Kids write down all the things they can't do ("I can't speak siswati, I can't keep the comments to myself, I can't stop being anal retentive about time even though I'm in Africa, etc...")and then you do a short shpiel about "today we are burying I can't, there is nothing we can't do, bla bla bla" and throw it all in the fire. In the states thats how it would work anyway. Here we had an ENORMOUS traditional swazi funeral that I never saw coming. The teachers told me not to worry and that they would take care of things (which of course is traditionally where I would start worrying). So I just decided to wait and see. About 8pm they all file into a small room singing and dancing, they have benches set up like a church, there's a choir, there's a pastor, there's an MC. We have singing and eulogies ("this man, he was very ugly")and sermons and everything else they could think of, until finally after everybody has danced their way up to the front do deposit their card in our beautifully made cereal-box coffin, we all parade outside and toss it into the bonfire. Amazing.
The next day we all got together and planned out clubs, speak-outs, dramas, poetry sessions, and everything else that they could think of to teach their friends and schools about HIV, Self-esteem, and even a little bit of gender roles (like I'm going to let that go just because I'm in South Africa).
So the verdict on the first annual Likusasa Letfu girl's camp: Kick Ass
(I have pictures, lots and lots of pictures, and I will post them all ... eventually. I promise. But for now bear with me, cuz I'm still working on it.)
It was so great to watch both the kids and their teachers come out of their shells and really begin participating as the days went on. On the first day everybody pretty much clustered by school or age, until Liz, Amber and myself relentlessly made them split up and mix around. By the end of the second day (self-esteem and goal setting) they were talking, playing, hanging out together. The teachers were participating in and leading if not most than a lot of the camp (at one point I found myself just sitting on a bench, watching, and thinking to myself -- "I feel so lazy! Oh wait...they're supposed to do it themselves. Weird.") We talked about HIV/AIDS and there were so many really good questions. A nurse came in, and a local police officer, and talked to the kids about rights and health and puberty and all the rest of it. Possibly the very best part of the whole camp was our "I Can't" Funeral.
An I can't funeral is supposed to be more or less what it sounds like. Kids write down all the things they can't do ("I can't speak siswati, I can't keep the comments to myself, I can't stop being anal retentive about time even though I'm in Africa, etc...")and then you do a short shpiel about "today we are burying I can't, there is nothing we can't do, bla bla bla" and throw it all in the fire. In the states thats how it would work anyway. Here we had an ENORMOUS traditional swazi funeral that I never saw coming. The teachers told me not to worry and that they would take care of things (which of course is traditionally where I would start worrying). So I just decided to wait and see. About 8pm they all file into a small room singing and dancing, they have benches set up like a church, there's a choir, there's a pastor, there's an MC. We have singing and eulogies ("this man, he was very ugly")and sermons and everything else they could think of, until finally after everybody has danced their way up to the front do deposit their card in our beautifully made cereal-box coffin, we all parade outside and toss it into the bonfire. Amazing.
The next day we all got together and planned out clubs, speak-outs, dramas, poetry sessions, and everything else that they could think of to teach their friends and schools about HIV, Self-esteem, and even a little bit of gender roles (like I'm going to let that go just because I'm in South Africa).
So the verdict on the first annual Likusasa Letfu girl's camp: Kick Ass
(I have pictures, lots and lots of pictures, and I will post them all ... eventually. I promise. But for now bear with me, cuz I'm still working on it.)
Sunday, June 24, 2007
In Which I Become Coach Carr
My camp begins tomorrow morning at 7:30am. Its been...a process to get here. I don't know what I'm going to see tomorrow. Where the taxis will go, how many people are actually coming as to how many I've planned for, what time things will really get started, or exactly how laughable that to-the-minute schedule I made is.
This is going to be so awesome. Wish me luck.
This is going to be so awesome. Wish me luck.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Photos!
Ok, so, I'm still mostly digital photo technologically illiterate, however I do have a snapfish account. (I'm perfectly aware that this is probably not the best/most efficient site but...it is the one I knew about and managed to get photos onto). Currently there are about 200-odd photos sitting there, however I think you have to have an account to look at them (though the account is free). So if, for some reason, you want to look at a bunch of pictures of me and various other people hanging out in Africa, then by all means create an account and let me know and I'll send you the link.
Photos.
Ta-duh.
Edit: Okay, I sort of know how this works now. Go here. Good luck.
Photos.
Ta-duh.
Edit: Okay, I sort of know how this works now. Go here. Good luck.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
This I Believe
At a training awhile back another volunteer described to many of us the concept of This I Believe and suggested that we should all give it a try, with the results to be sent out later in a mailing or maybe even published in some small way and kept in the PC office. The final results would be due yesterday. I think that its a really great idea, for a lot of reasons. I feel like I'm surrounded by so many amazing people every day that I can't wait to read theirs. I also want to use it with some of my more willing teachers, or even some of the older learners (language proficiency will be a hurdle, but I'll sort that out later). Plus, I enjoyed the opportunity to really sit down and think about what I actually do believe in. Its harder than you think, especially when you consider that you have to cram it all into less than 500 words. Anyway, if any of you are at all curious, here's mine:
I believe in a lot of things. I believe in true love and high adventure. I believe that one of the most important human virtues is simple kindness. I believe that a good sense of humour is essential to pretty much every situation I will ever encounter, and that the ability to laugh at good things, bad things, crap situations, and above all myself is possibly the best coping mechanism I’ll ever have. I believe that life is kind of a funny thing, but that that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t work hard at it. I believe that there is something bigger than myself out there, and that has given me a sense of comfort and strength when I have been lonely, or scared, or hurt. I believe in rock and roll, and that music really can save your mortal soul. I believe that people are people and everything else – gender, race, age, background – is extra. I believe that it is your choices that make you who you are and that it is your choices and your actions by which people should judge you. I believe that there is always a choice.
I believe that the world is an amazing, beautiful, miraculous place, and that I am one of the luckiest people in the world to get a chance to see and enjoy so much of it. I believe that there is tragedy and sadness in the world, and that really, really bad things do happen all too often to good and innocent people, but that my answer to that can only be to enjoy the good things more and fight harder against the bad. I believe that the town I grew up in – the orchards and the hills and the ocean and the strawberry fields – will always be one of my favorite places in the world no matter where else I go, and will always be my home, no matter where else I live. I believe that childhood friends forge a connection that no relationship afterwards can match, and I believe that I am extremely lucky to still be close with so many of mine.
I believe in coincidences, and hard work, and passion, and persistence. I believe that there is literally nothing on this earth that cannot be made better if enough people are willing to work at it, and work hard. I believe that sacrifice is worthwhile.
To put it simply: I believe in joy.
I believe that to live life with joy doesn’t mean that you are ignoring bad things, it doesn’t mean you are in a state of blissful ignorance. Joy in the face of poverty, ignorance, global warming, death, and the million other things that haunt every minute of our lives is an act of strength. It is a declaration that you choose to fight, and struggle, and try to make things better, because things can and should be better. It is a choice to love not just one person or one thing, but everything. And above all, it is a confirmation of life. Joy is the open-eyed embrace of everything the world has, everything the world is, and everything the world can be. This I believe.
I believe in a lot of things. I believe in true love and high adventure. I believe that one of the most important human virtues is simple kindness. I believe that a good sense of humour is essential to pretty much every situation I will ever encounter, and that the ability to laugh at good things, bad things, crap situations, and above all myself is possibly the best coping mechanism I’ll ever have. I believe that life is kind of a funny thing, but that that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t work hard at it. I believe that there is something bigger than myself out there, and that has given me a sense of comfort and strength when I have been lonely, or scared, or hurt. I believe in rock and roll, and that music really can save your mortal soul. I believe that people are people and everything else – gender, race, age, background – is extra. I believe that it is your choices that make you who you are and that it is your choices and your actions by which people should judge you. I believe that there is always a choice.
I believe that the world is an amazing, beautiful, miraculous place, and that I am one of the luckiest people in the world to get a chance to see and enjoy so much of it. I believe that there is tragedy and sadness in the world, and that really, really bad things do happen all too often to good and innocent people, but that my answer to that can only be to enjoy the good things more and fight harder against the bad. I believe that the town I grew up in – the orchards and the hills and the ocean and the strawberry fields – will always be one of my favorite places in the world no matter where else I go, and will always be my home, no matter where else I live. I believe that childhood friends forge a connection that no relationship afterwards can match, and I believe that I am extremely lucky to still be close with so many of mine.
I believe in coincidences, and hard work, and passion, and persistence. I believe that there is literally nothing on this earth that cannot be made better if enough people are willing to work at it, and work hard. I believe that sacrifice is worthwhile.
To put it simply: I believe in joy.
I believe that to live life with joy doesn’t mean that you are ignoring bad things, it doesn’t mean you are in a state of blissful ignorance. Joy in the face of poverty, ignorance, global warming, death, and the million other things that haunt every minute of our lives is an act of strength. It is a declaration that you choose to fight, and struggle, and try to make things better, because things can and should be better. It is a choice to love not just one person or one thing, but everything. And above all, it is a confirmation of life. Joy is the open-eyed embrace of everything the world has, everything the world is, and everything the world can be. This I believe.
Friday, June 15, 2007
But You Don't Have to Take My Word For It
South Africa Strike Foreshadows Political Contest
By MICHAEL WINES NY Times
Published: June 13, 2007
JOHANNESBURG, June 12 — A nationwide strike by South Africa’s public-service unions lumbered into its 12th day on Tuesday, shuttering schools, crippling hospitals and hamstringing courts — but not moving President Thabo Mbeki’s government far toward a settlement.
The standoff mirrors South Africa’s political situation, which pits a stoic Mr. Mbeki against left-leaning unions that accuse him of betraying the nation’s vast lower class. The two forces will clash later this year when the dominant political party, the African National Congress, convenes to choose a new president, an act tantamount to selecting South Africa’s next ruler.
The strike so far has inconvenienced millions of South African adults and children girding for midyear exams, but has done little lasting damage. That could change on Wednesday, however, when hundreds of thousands of municipal workers may desert their jobs in sympathy with the strikers.
“They have the responsibility for picking up trash, for keeping the city power going,” said Duncan Innes, an independent labor analyst in Johannesburg. “If they go out, it could be quite disruptive.”
The strike was called by the Congress of South African Trade Unions, or Cosatu, an amalgam of 1.8 million workers, most employed by national, provincial or local governments. The group’s unions had demanded a 12 percent salary increase and other benefits, but lowered their wage demand to a 10 percent increase.
During the talks, the government raised its initial offer of a 6 percent increase to 6.5 percent, although it was expected to make a new offer when negotiations resumed late Wednesday.
The walkout, which the union says includes 700,000 of its members, has been confined largely to teachers, hospital workers and some government functionaries like court orderlies and stenographers. Public schools have been shut since the strike began, and some private schools began closing this week as strikers threatened to picket them. The government has fired thousands of striking nurses, arguing that they violated a constitutional ban on strikes by essential workers, and has deployed army medical workers in public hospitals.
Violence has been limited. But Mr. Mbeki was angered Monday when the general secretary of Cosatu, Zwelinzima Vavi, warned that very soon the strike would turn violent.
Patrick Craven, the spokesman for Cosatu, said in an interview that “the unions are absolutely committed to keeping this strike peaceful, legal and disciplined.” But Mr. Mbeki condemned what he called the unions’ “message of selfish own interest,” and some political and labor analysts said that more violence could erupt if the strike spread to municipal workers.
Nobody disputes that the teachers and nurses who have walked out deserve a raise. A beginning teacher earns about $700 a month, and nurses may earn as little as $500, at a time when food costs are rising 8.6 percent a year.
In some ways, the wage dispute has been overshadowed by the test of political wills between Mr. Mbeki and the unions — a prelude, some say, to the contest for leadership of the African National Congress.
Mr. Mbeki, president of both South Africa and the congress, is legally barred from running again for national president in 2009, but is widely expected to seek a new term as president of the party late this year. The president of the party effectively controls who becomes its nominee for president of South Africa.
Cosatu, which is formally allied with the African National Congress, has remained officially impartial in the leadership struggle. But unofficially, the group has vigorously backed Mr. Mbeki’s populist rival, Jacob Zuma.
Experts say the strike could become more serious if it spreads beyond public workers to private industries vital to the national economy. But, so far, that seems unlikely; the major union representing miners, for example, said this week that it would not join the walkout.
For now, at least, that leaves members of the public sector, whose ability to bring South Africa to a standstill appears limited.
By MICHAEL WINES NY Times
Published: June 13, 2007
JOHANNESBURG, June 12 — A nationwide strike by South Africa’s public-service unions lumbered into its 12th day on Tuesday, shuttering schools, crippling hospitals and hamstringing courts — but not moving President Thabo Mbeki’s government far toward a settlement.
The standoff mirrors South Africa’s political situation, which pits a stoic Mr. Mbeki against left-leaning unions that accuse him of betraying the nation’s vast lower class. The two forces will clash later this year when the dominant political party, the African National Congress, convenes to choose a new president, an act tantamount to selecting South Africa’s next ruler.
The strike so far has inconvenienced millions of South African adults and children girding for midyear exams, but has done little lasting damage. That could change on Wednesday, however, when hundreds of thousands of municipal workers may desert their jobs in sympathy with the strikers.
“They have the responsibility for picking up trash, for keeping the city power going,” said Duncan Innes, an independent labor analyst in Johannesburg. “If they go out, it could be quite disruptive.”
The strike was called by the Congress of South African Trade Unions, or Cosatu, an amalgam of 1.8 million workers, most employed by national, provincial or local governments. The group’s unions had demanded a 12 percent salary increase and other benefits, but lowered their wage demand to a 10 percent increase.
During the talks, the government raised its initial offer of a 6 percent increase to 6.5 percent, although it was expected to make a new offer when negotiations resumed late Wednesday.
The walkout, which the union says includes 700,000 of its members, has been confined largely to teachers, hospital workers and some government functionaries like court orderlies and stenographers. Public schools have been shut since the strike began, and some private schools began closing this week as strikers threatened to picket them. The government has fired thousands of striking nurses, arguing that they violated a constitutional ban on strikes by essential workers, and has deployed army medical workers in public hospitals.
Violence has been limited. But Mr. Mbeki was angered Monday when the general secretary of Cosatu, Zwelinzima Vavi, warned that very soon the strike would turn violent.
Patrick Craven, the spokesman for Cosatu, said in an interview that “the unions are absolutely committed to keeping this strike peaceful, legal and disciplined.” But Mr. Mbeki condemned what he called the unions’ “message of selfish own interest,” and some political and labor analysts said that more violence could erupt if the strike spread to municipal workers.
Nobody disputes that the teachers and nurses who have walked out deserve a raise. A beginning teacher earns about $700 a month, and nurses may earn as little as $500, at a time when food costs are rising 8.6 percent a year.
In some ways, the wage dispute has been overshadowed by the test of political wills between Mr. Mbeki and the unions — a prelude, some say, to the contest for leadership of the African National Congress.
Mr. Mbeki, president of both South Africa and the congress, is legally barred from running again for national president in 2009, but is widely expected to seek a new term as president of the party late this year. The president of the party effectively controls who becomes its nominee for president of South Africa.
Cosatu, which is formally allied with the African National Congress, has remained officially impartial in the leadership struggle. But unofficially, the group has vigorously backed Mr. Mbeki’s populist rival, Jacob Zuma.
Experts say the strike could become more serious if it spreads beyond public workers to private industries vital to the national economy. But, so far, that seems unlikely; the major union representing miners, for example, said this week that it would not join the walkout.
For now, at least, that leaves members of the public sector, whose ability to bring South Africa to a standstill appears limited.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Good Intentions
I have recently introduced Latoya to "America's Next Top Model" which, for some reason I don't understand, is on TV here on tuesday nights. We have both agreed that it is both a very stupid, and very awesome show, and now have a standing date for every tuesday at 9.
I can only imagine that this was *exactly* what JFK had in mind 45-odd years ago.
I can only imagine that this was *exactly* what JFK had in mind 45-odd years ago.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Downtime
Today I slept in until 8:30 and then spent 3 hours reading Harry Potter while listening to my sisters play outside with their friends. This is pretty typical for a weekend, but given that today is a Tuesday its just a bit off from my regular schedule. The reason, of course, is the massive teacher's strike happening all over South Africa. Nearly every school in the country has shut down. Kids are home, teachers are home, I am busy perfecting the ultimate grilled cheese recipe (hint: simplicity and vigilance are both key). My camp is still on (thank goodness!) The teachers who are working on it with me agreed early on -- when I first started hearing strike rumours and getting nervous -- that because we'd already spent so much time planning, and because the camp is really more of a community project than a school one, we would continue working on it no matter what. So that at least should be okay.
We're pretty much supposed to stay out of politics, Peace Corps "advised" us to stay away from the schools during the strike because we didn't want to appear to be undermining the teachers. I can understand this, and many of my teachers seem to agree to varying degrees. But really, I can only make so many grilled cheese sandwiches.
Also, the best part of my day yesterday was sitting around watching "Ever After" with my family (thanks emily!) In one scene a servant woman is hoeing in the family garden. My host mom started to laugh at her wimpy strokes (is that the right word? What exactly is the motion one does with a hoe called?) when clearly any gogo in the village could have done a much better job. There's some cross culture I never expected.
We're pretty much supposed to stay out of politics, Peace Corps "advised" us to stay away from the schools during the strike because we didn't want to appear to be undermining the teachers. I can understand this, and many of my teachers seem to agree to varying degrees. But really, I can only make so many grilled cheese sandwiches.
Also, the best part of my day yesterday was sitting around watching "Ever After" with my family (thanks emily!) In one scene a servant woman is hoeing in the family garden. My host mom started to laugh at her wimpy strokes (is that the right word? What exactly is the motion one does with a hoe called?) when clearly any gogo in the village could have done a much better job. There's some cross culture I never expected.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Cornflakes
The other day I was sitting on my family’s front porch, chatting with two of my sisters – Latoya and Jabu, who are 14 and 16 respectively. This is one of my favorite parts of the day. Both girls are beautiful, smart, and sweet, and I really enjoy getting to hear about their and their friend’s perspective on big things like the school system, HIV, poverty, alcoholism, immigration, and all the rest of it. But even better is just having two friends who I can sit around and be silly with after school. We talk about Generations and movie stars, and their favorite musicians. They show me the latest dance moves, and I demonstrate over and over how bad my dancing is. Is it strange that two of my closest South African friends are 14 and 16? Maybe, but as I get further and further out of the exceedingly homogenous (age, socio-economic, and, yes, racial to a large degree) experience that was college I’m learning that that matters less and less. They’re my friends because I love the time that I spend with them.
Which is why my blood ran cold when, after sitting together quietly for a few minutes, Latoya looked at me and asked in perfect seriousness: “Ses Nomvula…is it true that white people are better than black people?”
What can you say to a question like that? What could I say? I can’t think of anything more calculated to break my heart. I asked her if she thought it was true. She said, “Well, no, but Bonga [the 8 year old sister] does. She asked mom to buy her Cornflakes because she sees white people eating them on TV. She says white people’s food is better. That’s what I thought too when I was her age, but I don’t anymore.” So we talked for a bit about the differences she sees around her. Why the white people in Malelane all seem to be doing so well, why the black people around her in the village are so poor. About the schools, and Apartheid, and the systemic brainwashing that has taken place over hundreds of years. (“But most white people in South Africa are rich, aren’t they?” “Well yes, richer than most people here, but only because they stole everything.”) Most people in the village feel the same way. They know that, technically, they are now equal in the eyes of the government. They see that there is a black president, a black government, that doors that were closed are slowly opening, but that can’t replace 300 years of, well, being told that white people are better. I am consistently offered the best seat in the car, the best plate of food, the seat of honor at whatever function. Sure some of this is because I’m willing to come volunteer and help out for a couple of years, but when I think about how many 24 year old women from the village would be offered the same perks or choice offerings of whatever, the same deference, the same ease of access, well of course she wouldn't.
But mostly, it all comes down to this: An 8 year black girl old lives in a rural village, in a cinder-block house with a tin roof, no running water, and days when there is no electricity because the money has run out. Everybody she knows lives them same way – many of them much worse off (at least she has shoes). She watches a happy, wealthy, white family eat cornflakes for breakfast in their perfect home. What would you conclude?
Which is why my blood ran cold when, after sitting together quietly for a few minutes, Latoya looked at me and asked in perfect seriousness: “Ses Nomvula…is it true that white people are better than black people?”
What can you say to a question like that? What could I say? I can’t think of anything more calculated to break my heart. I asked her if she thought it was true. She said, “Well, no, but Bonga [the 8 year old sister] does. She asked mom to buy her Cornflakes because she sees white people eating them on TV. She says white people’s food is better. That’s what I thought too when I was her age, but I don’t anymore.” So we talked for a bit about the differences she sees around her. Why the white people in Malelane all seem to be doing so well, why the black people around her in the village are so poor. About the schools, and Apartheid, and the systemic brainwashing that has taken place over hundreds of years. (“But most white people in South Africa are rich, aren’t they?” “Well yes, richer than most people here, but only because they stole everything.”) Most people in the village feel the same way. They know that, technically, they are now equal in the eyes of the government. They see that there is a black president, a black government, that doors that were closed are slowly opening, but that can’t replace 300 years of, well, being told that white people are better. I am consistently offered the best seat in the car, the best plate of food, the seat of honor at whatever function. Sure some of this is because I’m willing to come volunteer and help out for a couple of years, but when I think about how many 24 year old women from the village would be offered the same perks or choice offerings of whatever, the same deference, the same ease of access, well of course she wouldn't.
But mostly, it all comes down to this: An 8 year black girl old lives in a rural village, in a cinder-block house with a tin roof, no running water, and days when there is no electricity because the money has run out. Everybody she knows lives them same way – many of them much worse off (at least she has shoes). She watches a happy, wealthy, white family eat cornflakes for breakfast in their perfect home. What would you conclude?
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Obit
"I listen to feminists and all these radical gals. ... These women just need a man in the house. That's all they need. Most of the feminists need a man to tell them what time of day it is and to lead them home. And they blew it and they're mad at all men. Feminists hate men. They're sexist. They hate men; that's their problem."
Jerry Falwell, this camps for you.
(and from now on I'll get back to talking about Africa, I promise)
Jerry Falwell, this camps for you.
(and from now on I'll get back to talking about Africa, I promise)
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Mother's Day
You know what the best advice I've ever gotten is? The tiny little phrase that manages to pack in more "hell yes, here's something to live your life by" and less trite cliche per syllable than nearly any other?:
"Honey, don't forget: It's easier to ask forgiveness than permission"
Thanks mom. Your words and actions inspire me every day, in Davis, Ventura, South Africa, and everywhere inbetween. I love you.
"Honey, don't forget: It's easier to ask forgiveness than permission"
Thanks mom. Your words and actions inspire me every day, in Davis, Ventura, South Africa, and everywhere inbetween. I love you.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Party Hard
Last week was my birthday, and I am now 24 (which is just weird. I'll be 25 when I come home, which is even weirder). I had mentioned to one of my teachers in passing about a month ago that my birthday was coming up while we were driving somewhere. She said, "Oh but you must be at our school that day, we will sing to you!" I laughed, and so did she, and then we kept driving.
So, on my actual birthday, I found myself in a kombie full of grades 4-6 learners on our way to the nearest piano to practice "Funniculi Funnicula." As we pass my key school where that teacher works, I saw her out on the road waving her arms around and trying to flag down the taxi. It stopped for her, and we said hello, and then she talked to one of the other teachers a bit, said something to the kids, and then told me that the next day I had to be at her school to help out their choir (which, incidentally got first place at the competition and will be continuing next week. Awesome.) As we're talking I all of a sudden hear 20 learners burst into:
"Happy Birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Nomvuuuuuuuula..."
She had apparently told all the kids to sing happy birthday to me, just like she promised. I cracked up. (Although, some of the fun of having all the kids sing just to me passed when they immediately followed up by singing along with the radio's remix of "f*** you you ho." Seriously, wtf Africa).
Anyway, I figured that that was my birthday sing along and that things were all taken care of again until next year. So, the next day I wandered into my key school, where all of the teachers were acting...a bit shadier than usual. I was constantly deflected from the office, told to go hang out in the grade 7 class (where, when the teacher dissapeared for the 3rd time in 15 minutes, I spent an hour or two playing Anagrams and Hangman with the kids). Despite the fact that I was specifically there for a choir practice, the choir didn't seem to be actually practicing.
Finally, at about 11, one of the teachers called me. "Nomvula, come here, we are having a staff meeting." I walk into the classroom, and there were all my teachers sitting in a row, my host parents up front, a giant pink sparkly cake (I immediately though of Emily) and the words "Happy Birthday Nomvula Sambo/Rebecca!!!" written on the blackboard with pictures and multicolored chalk. They had thrown me a surprise party!!! There were speeches, candles, singing, and even a gift. I'll be honest, when it was my turn to give a speech I started to cry a little.
It was so amazing, not only that they would take so much time and effort to do this for me when I don't even know what I've done for them yet (my favorite line from a speech: "Nomvula has done so much for us, I can not even list them all one by one" while I thought to myself, "funny, neither can I.") but because for the very first time I felt like I was being seen as a person. They weren't celebrating the white person's birthday, they weren't just happy that I was there because I'm different, they were throwing a party for my birthday, me as an individual person whom they like on a personal level. I know volunteers who have been at site for two years and still don't feel that way. Some people feel like they are just dolls, without dimension or feeling to the people around them. But now, with only 8 months on site under my belt, to at least a few people I'm just me. Still a white me, of course, that will never go away I think, but at least me.
So, on my actual birthday, I found myself in a kombie full of grades 4-6 learners on our way to the nearest piano to practice "Funniculi Funnicula." As we pass my key school where that teacher works, I saw her out on the road waving her arms around and trying to flag down the taxi. It stopped for her, and we said hello, and then she talked to one of the other teachers a bit, said something to the kids, and then told me that the next day I had to be at her school to help out their choir (which, incidentally got first place at the competition and will be continuing next week. Awesome.) As we're talking I all of a sudden hear 20 learners burst into:
"Happy Birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Nomvuuuuuuuula..."
She had apparently told all the kids to sing happy birthday to me, just like she promised. I cracked up. (Although, some of the fun of having all the kids sing just to me passed when they immediately followed up by singing along with the radio's remix of "f*** you you ho." Seriously, wtf Africa).
Anyway, I figured that that was my birthday sing along and that things were all taken care of again until next year. So, the next day I wandered into my key school, where all of the teachers were acting...a bit shadier than usual. I was constantly deflected from the office, told to go hang out in the grade 7 class (where, when the teacher dissapeared for the 3rd time in 15 minutes, I spent an hour or two playing Anagrams and Hangman with the kids). Despite the fact that I was specifically there for a choir practice, the choir didn't seem to be actually practicing.
Finally, at about 11, one of the teachers called me. "Nomvula, come here, we are having a staff meeting." I walk into the classroom, and there were all my teachers sitting in a row, my host parents up front, a giant pink sparkly cake (I immediately though of Emily) and the words "Happy Birthday Nomvula Sambo/Rebecca!!!" written on the blackboard with pictures and multicolored chalk. They had thrown me a surprise party!!! There were speeches, candles, singing, and even a gift. I'll be honest, when it was my turn to give a speech I started to cry a little.
It was so amazing, not only that they would take so much time and effort to do this for me when I don't even know what I've done for them yet (my favorite line from a speech: "Nomvula has done so much for us, I can not even list them all one by one" while I thought to myself, "funny, neither can I.") but because for the very first time I felt like I was being seen as a person. They weren't celebrating the white person's birthday, they weren't just happy that I was there because I'm different, they were throwing a party for my birthday, me as an individual person whom they like on a personal level. I know volunteers who have been at site for two years and still don't feel that way. Some people feel like they are just dolls, without dimension or feeling to the people around them. But now, with only 8 months on site under my belt, to at least a few people I'm just me. Still a white me, of course, that will never go away I think, but at least me.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
About Rule One...
This weekend, I also spent some time at a semi-local orphanage helping out a couple of friends of mine with a "Freedom Fun Day" activity camp. Just something fun for the kids to do over a long weekend. There was a little boy there who couldn't have been older than 3. The first time I saw him he was just skirting the edges of all the activities and was completely filthy. His clothes were crusty, his face was snotty, he was carrying around a bucket and rag (not sure why) and there were flies all over his face. He's the youngest kid there by a few years, my friend told me that he and his sister are from Mozambique, though he speaks siswati.
This child broke my heart. He gets fed, he gets washed every now and again, but he's certainly not potty trained (he can't even reach the toilet) so...you can imagine. It was so obvious, nobody touches him, nobody holds him, nobody spends the time to play with him or talk to him or cuddle him or do any of the 100 basic things that every child deserves. The first day he just skirted all the action, though halfway through I gave him some soda (well, I gave him some of Mike's soda) and then he was my shadow for the rest of the day. The second day he was less shy, and got kind of into the balloon game the kids were playing (by which I mean he got sad when his balloon was popped and happy when I got him a new one). Halfway through the day he was happy to sit by Christy or myself, to be tickled and played with, though he still seemed deeply skeptical about this whole affection thing. By the end of the day he was sitting in my lap, perfectly happy with his balloon (or occasionally my watch or camera) and a safe place to be.
When was the last time somebody let this child sit in their lap? When was the last time he was hugged? And this is South Africa, so I had to wonder too: what happened to his parents, and what about all of those old sores on his arms and legs? (Well, you know, southern Africa, 1 in 4 infection rate. Take a guess). This is HIV, isn't it? This baby that I held in my lap because nobody else would, or could. The children with no parents and the classrooms with no teachers. It would be easier if there were somebody to be mad at. Someone who I could go yell at, or blame, or be pissed at until they got their act together. But there's not. There's just these babies with no parents, with nobody to love them, and not a few of whom will die of the same disease their mothers passed on to them.
This child broke my heart. He gets fed, he gets washed every now and again, but he's certainly not potty trained (he can't even reach the toilet) so...you can imagine. It was so obvious, nobody touches him, nobody holds him, nobody spends the time to play with him or talk to him or cuddle him or do any of the 100 basic things that every child deserves. The first day he just skirted all the action, though halfway through I gave him some soda (well, I gave him some of Mike's soda) and then he was my shadow for the rest of the day. The second day he was less shy, and got kind of into the balloon game the kids were playing (by which I mean he got sad when his balloon was popped and happy when I got him a new one). Halfway through the day he was happy to sit by Christy or myself, to be tickled and played with, though he still seemed deeply skeptical about this whole affection thing. By the end of the day he was sitting in my lap, perfectly happy with his balloon (or occasionally my watch or camera) and a safe place to be.
When was the last time somebody let this child sit in their lap? When was the last time he was hugged? And this is South Africa, so I had to wonder too: what happened to his parents, and what about all of those old sores on his arms and legs? (Well, you know, southern Africa, 1 in 4 infection rate. Take a guess). This is HIV, isn't it? This baby that I held in my lap because nobody else would, or could. The children with no parents and the classrooms with no teachers. It would be easier if there were somebody to be mad at. Someone who I could go yell at, or blame, or be pissed at until they got their act together. But there's not. There's just these babies with no parents, with nobody to love them, and not a few of whom will die of the same disease their mothers passed on to them.
Do Re Mi in 6 8 Time
I mentioned to one of my favorite teachers about 2 or 3 months ago that I had studied music a bit in college, and play an instrument or two...including the piano. She, suddenly and spontaneously, broke into any number of emphatic 'hallelujah amen, oh praise jesus!'-es so that I started looking around me wondering if maybe the big man himself had materialised somewhere behind us. Nope, turns out that they were in desperate need of a piano accompanist for an upcoming choir competition in which EVERY SCHOOL IN THREE DISTRICTS was participating. So, you know, good thing I hadn't touched a piano in about a year. So I spent about three days at a semi-nearby teachers center that had a piano, practicing the music that turned out to be kind of hard (damn). And then approximately 3 hours of one saturday playing for all the music teachers/choir leaders so that they could get an idea of what things would and/or should sound like before the big day. (They had the option of bringing their choirs that day so that the kids could actually practice singing with the piano but, well, TIA).
Last saturday was the big competition, and THANK GOD the official piano player actually showed up. The teachers all claimed that they would rather have had me because I "listened better" (which means I was perfectly willing to ignore all musicality and ink on the page in favor of whatever they wanted) and wouldn't really believe me when I told them that no, they didn't. By coincidence two of the schools that I had been hanging out at the past week also did really well and will move on to the next round.
The school that I was at this past week claims that those two schools did well because I happened to be around (because, you know, sporadically clapping my hands to the beat every now and again and occasionally pointing out things like 'hey, I think you're supposed to be a bit louder here' = BEST CLINIC EVER!!!) so my job for the week was to hang out with the choir. Thats fine, I can do that. It was really fun.
I felt so bad for the kids though, the teachers had them practicing 5 hours a day for a week! Which, of course, is just horrendously bad for you. A lot of them couldn't even talk at the end of the week, I'm hoping that the long weekend will help them out some. They're singing "Funniculi Funnicula" which is actually really hard even if you do read music, and apparently none of the teachers do. Every song, every tune, everything is learned by ear or by do re mi sight singing. Its really amazing when you consider how much singing happens around the village and how beautiful it all is. ...But I've spent a lot of time explaining time signatures and rests and chords.
The kids are sounding really good, which is impressive because they've only had a week to practice. I'm rooting for them on Friday, its the second round of competition so they're not just up against the neighboring schools, now there are the rich schools from around Malelane and Komatipoort in it too. I don't know if the teachers are thinking of it this way, but what a coup for the to do well, to win or move on. I know they can, I have total faith in them, and they're so dedicated too. Wish us luck.
Last saturday was the big competition, and THANK GOD the official piano player actually showed up. The teachers all claimed that they would rather have had me because I "listened better" (which means I was perfectly willing to ignore all musicality and ink on the page in favor of whatever they wanted) and wouldn't really believe me when I told them that no, they didn't. By coincidence two of the schools that I had been hanging out at the past week also did really well and will move on to the next round.
The school that I was at this past week claims that those two schools did well because I happened to be around (because, you know, sporadically clapping my hands to the beat every now and again and occasionally pointing out things like 'hey, I think you're supposed to be a bit louder here' = BEST CLINIC EVER!!!) so my job for the week was to hang out with the choir. Thats fine, I can do that. It was really fun.
I felt so bad for the kids though, the teachers had them practicing 5 hours a day for a week! Which, of course, is just horrendously bad for you. A lot of them couldn't even talk at the end of the week, I'm hoping that the long weekend will help them out some. They're singing "Funniculi Funnicula" which is actually really hard even if you do read music, and apparently none of the teachers do. Every song, every tune, everything is learned by ear or by do re mi sight singing. Its really amazing when you consider how much singing happens around the village and how beautiful it all is. ...But I've spent a lot of time explaining time signatures and rests and chords.
The kids are sounding really good, which is impressive because they've only had a week to practice. I'm rooting for them on Friday, its the second round of competition so they're not just up against the neighboring schools, now there are the rich schools from around Malelane and Komatipoort in it too. I don't know if the teachers are thinking of it this way, but what a coup for the to do well, to win or move on. I know they can, I have total faith in them, and they're so dedicated too. Wish us luck.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Abyss
Yesterday I left school a little bit early to begin my walk home. Class had gotten out about 30 minutes ago, so there were still lots of kids all over the place. A few of them decided to walk me home. And then a few more, and then a few more, and a few more – until I had an enormous pack of children giggling and surrounding me like an atom cloud as I cruised down the road. They practiced their English (“Good morning! Hi, Nomvula! Good morning!”). I practiced my teaching skills (“seriously guys, its 2 in the afternoon – at least say ‘good afternoon.’ Okay, how about this: ‘whats cracking’ – say ‘whats cracking’” They didn’t) So we all headed down the road together while everybody in the village laughed at me and my new-found horde. I was beginning to congratulate myself on how well I was putting up with my popularity, feeling all proud of my tolerance and patience, etc… and maybe enjoying my celebrity a little bit too when all of a sudden…my horde disappears? Wtf?
I look around –
I’ve been abandoned for a new and interesting hole in the ground.
Such is fame, I guess.
I look around –
I’ve been abandoned for a new and interesting hole in the ground.
Such is fame, I guess.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Spring Break...Woo!*
I just got back from a vacation in Mozambique – which I can actually see from my backyard, so I suppose it was about time I made it over there. I think that the best part of being an education peace corps volunteer in Africa is probably about the same as the best part of being an education worker anywhere else in the world –ridiculous amounts of vacation time. So for spring break (well, autumn break. I am so tired of this stupid southern hemisphere) we decided to head to a tropical beach.
We spent a night in Maputo, the capital, which is a little bit sketchy but can be pretty interesting if you’re willing to walk all over the place to find stuff. Probably the best part is the ridiculously fresh seafood. There’s a fish market right on the beach, and then all of these little restaurant-like places that are basically glorified kitchens. They cook your food for you for about the equivalent of $2 a plate. Its completely delicious.
After a night in Maputo we got into a bus for a comfortable and delightful 8 hour ride up Tofo beach – which is incredibly beautiful and totally worthwhile. You know all those corona commercials where you’re looking from the perspective of a person in a hammock and its all white sand and completely clear blue water and coconut trees? Pretty much just like that. And I spent about the whole week in that hammock. We also tried to go snorkelling with whale sharks (what a ridiculous sentence to write. Who does that? Who says, “oh, last week when I was snorkelling with whale sharks”) but sadly we never actually found any. We just rode around in a boat off the coast for 2 hours instead. It was a nice boat ride. Maybe some other time.
Generally the whole trip was really amazing (especially the part where I accidentally pulled the handle off the backpacker’s propane stove and created an enormous fountain of flames and explosion that kind of threatened to burn the whole place down, when all I really wanted was to make spaghetti. That was fun.) Mozambique is definitely much more what people probably think of when post-colonial Africa comes to mind. Its very poor, but you can see the remains of the Portugese/Arabic/European influence in the architecture and infrastructure, which is occasionally very pretty even in a completely run down state. It has a very Caribbean tropical feel to it, lots of palm trees and sudden rain storms. I kept thinking to myself how much mom and dad would love the place, its so beautiful and so very real and down to earth at the same time. I wouldn't be surprised if Mozambique and its beaches start becoming a real touristy resort destination in not too many years. (Maybe 20). I'm glad I got to go there now and get the 'backpacker' feel before that dissapears. Of course, it is also a complete economic mess: the people are poor, the streets are covered in filth, and the cops are corrupt.
We actually got hassled by a group of cops when we were walking through Maputo on our last night. They wanted our passports, but only one of us actually had his on him. They wouldn’t accept our PC IDs, were giving us a hard time, and generally things were looking like we were headed towards a night in a Mozambican jail (and…ew) because God knows we didn’t have the money for bribes, when this dude in a car pulled over and just started shouting at them over and over in Portugese. I have no idea what he was saying, but he was pissed. So the cops turned to us and asked if there was a problem here. We said most definitely not and got the hell out of there.
So Mozambique was fun.
*This might look pretty familiar to a few of you getting letters pretty soon. Sorry, but I can only write the only thing so many times in so many ways, you know?
We spent a night in Maputo, the capital, which is a little bit sketchy but can be pretty interesting if you’re willing to walk all over the place to find stuff. Probably the best part is the ridiculously fresh seafood. There’s a fish market right on the beach, and then all of these little restaurant-like places that are basically glorified kitchens. They cook your food for you for about the equivalent of $2 a plate. Its completely delicious.
After a night in Maputo we got into a bus for a comfortable and delightful 8 hour ride up Tofo beach – which is incredibly beautiful and totally worthwhile. You know all those corona commercials where you’re looking from the perspective of a person in a hammock and its all white sand and completely clear blue water and coconut trees? Pretty much just like that. And I spent about the whole week in that hammock. We also tried to go snorkelling with whale sharks (what a ridiculous sentence to write. Who does that? Who says, “oh, last week when I was snorkelling with whale sharks”) but sadly we never actually found any. We just rode around in a boat off the coast for 2 hours instead. It was a nice boat ride. Maybe some other time.
Generally the whole trip was really amazing (especially the part where I accidentally pulled the handle off the backpacker’s propane stove and created an enormous fountain of flames and explosion that kind of threatened to burn the whole place down, when all I really wanted was to make spaghetti. That was fun.) Mozambique is definitely much more what people probably think of when post-colonial Africa comes to mind. Its very poor, but you can see the remains of the Portugese/Arabic/European influence in the architecture and infrastructure, which is occasionally very pretty even in a completely run down state. It has a very Caribbean tropical feel to it, lots of palm trees and sudden rain storms. I kept thinking to myself how much mom and dad would love the place, its so beautiful and so very real and down to earth at the same time. I wouldn't be surprised if Mozambique and its beaches start becoming a real touristy resort destination in not too many years. (Maybe 20). I'm glad I got to go there now and get the 'backpacker' feel before that dissapears. Of course, it is also a complete economic mess: the people are poor, the streets are covered in filth, and the cops are corrupt.
We actually got hassled by a group of cops when we were walking through Maputo on our last night. They wanted our passports, but only one of us actually had his on him. They wouldn’t accept our PC IDs, were giving us a hard time, and generally things were looking like we were headed towards a night in a Mozambican jail (and…ew) because God knows we didn’t have the money for bribes, when this dude in a car pulled over and just started shouting at them over and over in Portugese. I have no idea what he was saying, but he was pissed. So the cops turned to us and asked if there was a problem here. We said most definitely not and got the hell out of there.
So Mozambique was fun.
*This might look pretty familiar to a few of you getting letters pretty soon. Sorry, but I can only write the only thing so many times in so many ways, you know?
Monday, March 26, 2007
Haven't You Always Wanted a Monkey?
Sadly, this entry has absolutely nothing to do with its title. But wouldn't it be fun if I moved to Africa and really did have regular contact with monkeys? I'll have to settle for my 2 year old host sister instead, I guess. She is probably much cuter and smarter than any potential monkey, anyway. And probably throws her own poop around at least a little less.
One of the reasons I love spending time with Azora so much is because language is tends to be a non-issue. The two of us speak roughly the same amount of siSwati, but we seem to understand eachother perfectly anyway. She usually wants to play, sleep, have a drink, or avoid a bath, so we relate well. We also have our language lessons togehter: here is my head, my nose, my eyes, my hands, etc... (I have also taught her to say nose, mouth, spaghetti, and obnoxious in english. Each time she points to her nose when I ask where it is, I am convinced that I live with the most brilliant child in the world).
There are also certain key phrases that she has recently picked up due to having reached the potty-training stage of her career, and these I've had to learn with a certain amount of rapid necessity. So when she informs me that "ngifuna kaka!" I know that its time to get her off my bed and into the pit toilet. (There's also a certain sense of bizarre comfort to know that some words don't change no matter what culture or language you're in. Kaka means exactly what you think it does.) The trip to the pit toilet is accompanied by much commentary from both her ("unuka!") and me ("yeah, it does smell. Don't look down, friend, pit toilet rule 1! Azora, I love you but I am not fishing you out if you fall in." etc...) and finished up with her ordering me to 'sula!'
Any hint that I might have been succumbing to maternal instincts tends to end right there. No matter how much I may adore this child, I firmly believe that in the end we just all need to learn to wipe our own rear-ends.
(I really was planning to write something at least a little insightful up there, but sometimes you just have to give into the bizarre instead. Next time.)
One of the reasons I love spending time with Azora so much is because language is tends to be a non-issue. The two of us speak roughly the same amount of siSwati, but we seem to understand eachother perfectly anyway. She usually wants to play, sleep, have a drink, or avoid a bath, so we relate well. We also have our language lessons togehter: here is my head, my nose, my eyes, my hands, etc... (I have also taught her to say nose, mouth, spaghetti, and obnoxious in english. Each time she points to her nose when I ask where it is, I am convinced that I live with the most brilliant child in the world).
There are also certain key phrases that she has recently picked up due to having reached the potty-training stage of her career, and these I've had to learn with a certain amount of rapid necessity. So when she informs me that "ngifuna kaka!" I know that its time to get her off my bed and into the pit toilet. (There's also a certain sense of bizarre comfort to know that some words don't change no matter what culture or language you're in. Kaka means exactly what you think it does.) The trip to the pit toilet is accompanied by much commentary from both her ("unuka!") and me ("yeah, it does smell. Don't look down, friend, pit toilet rule 1! Azora, I love you but I am not fishing you out if you fall in." etc...) and finished up with her ordering me to 'sula!'
Any hint that I might have been succumbing to maternal instincts tends to end right there. No matter how much I may adore this child, I firmly believe that in the end we just all need to learn to wipe our own rear-ends.
(I really was planning to write something at least a little insightful up there, but sometimes you just have to give into the bizarre instead. Next time.)
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Success!
I found out yesterday that my grant has been approved for a girl's empowerment/HIV education camp this coming summer (Or...winter...June. Whatever). I'm so, so excited, not least of all because this was the first major grant that I've written and it was accepted on the first attempt. I've asked for a little under $3,000 American to fund 4 days at a youth hostel in Kruger Park (!). We're going to spend time with 24 12-16 year old girls from my village to discuss things like gender roles, self-esteem, life goals, relationships, and of course HIV and how it is effected (affected? whichever) by all of the above. I'm ecstatic, and I feel like this is something that really has a chance of helping girls in my village.
As far as my other project goes, I sent out 11 letters last week requesting book donations from various philanthropies and NGOs throughout the world (though mostly the US and UK). Hopefully we'll start hearing back from them soon. Would anybody out there in the US like to do a book drive with me? (Mom? Ed'd? Kate and band-uh!?). This is going to be the only accessible library for 20 miles -- which actually translates to about 2.5 hours. Which, of course, actually translates itself to inaccessibility. My dream is sections of books in SiSwati, Xitsonga, and English. Children's books, novels, books for adult literacy programs, pamphlets and information on health and agriculture, resource and textbooks for learners to do research projects and papers. I want lots of shelves and comfortable chairs and a computer with internet access. I want this to be a place where both kids and their parents can come to spend a few hours just enjoying the written word, or learning something new, or...whatever.
Is this ambitious? Incredibly so. But if there is one thing I've been passionate about my entire life its books and literacy and I can't imagine a better windmill to start tilting at.
Wish me luck, friends.
As far as my other project goes, I sent out 11 letters last week requesting book donations from various philanthropies and NGOs throughout the world (though mostly the US and UK). Hopefully we'll start hearing back from them soon. Would anybody out there in the US like to do a book drive with me? (Mom? Ed'd? Kate and band-uh!?). This is going to be the only accessible library for 20 miles -- which actually translates to about 2.5 hours. Which, of course, actually translates itself to inaccessibility. My dream is sections of books in SiSwati, Xitsonga, and English. Children's books, novels, books for adult literacy programs, pamphlets and information on health and agriculture, resource and textbooks for learners to do research projects and papers. I want lots of shelves and comfortable chairs and a computer with internet access. I want this to be a place where both kids and their parents can come to spend a few hours just enjoying the written word, or learning something new, or...whatever.
Is this ambitious? Incredibly so. But if there is one thing I've been passionate about my entire life its books and literacy and I can't imagine a better windmill to start tilting at.
Wish me luck, friends.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Likusasa Letfu
I’m currently working on two major projects that make me very happy.
The first is a girl’s empowerment/HIV education retreat that will be held at the end of June. I just finished the grant application for funding, and hopefully I’ll hear back from Peace Corps about it soon. The basic idea behind the retreat is this: women, for any number of reasons, biological as well as psychological and cultural, are at a much higher risk of HIV/AIDS in the village than are men. The women’s movement hasn’t quite made it all the way to Steenbok yet (which is why my key school principal occasionally tries to get me to wash his shirts for him…good luck). Girls in high school and primary school feel compelled to have sex for all the same bad reasons that their counterparts in the US do – so that the boy won’t leaver her, to prove that she loves him, because all her friends are doing it, etc… They also feel far less able to force the boy to wear a condom when they do agree to sex (assuming that they have actually agreed.) Teen pregnancy is rampant and verges on no big deal in the eyes of the girls. I’ve heard estimates that upwards of 50% of the female learners at the secondary school have children. My own estimates put the teen pregnancy rate at about 15% a year in the village. So the idea is, if we spend some time talking to girls from every school about self-esteem, about their own plans for their own futures, about the fact that they really are good enough and strong enough to do whatever they want and say whatever they want, then that itself will drastically effect choices they make in the future. We’re also going to spend time discussing HIV myths and facts, ways to protect themselves, etc… Its impossible to live in South Africa and not have heard about HIV of course. By some estimates the HIV infection rate is as high as 25%. Its highest in Mpumulanga (my province) and rural villages (like mine). They’ve heard ABC. They’ve seen the slogans. But I think that sitting down and discussing HIV, and STIs, and pregnancy – processing things in their own way and words instead of being passive receptors for government slogans – will go a lot further. I hope. I have a teacher from every school in the village of the committee to put this together, and we’ve all already decided that this camp should come back and create some sort of peer-education club at each school when they start up again in July. Potentially this can be a really awesome and sustainable program, or that’s my dream. I’m also really excited because my brilliant host sister, Latoya, is just the right age to go. The girls are going to be chosen via an essay contest, and I know that her English writing skills are good, so I think that she’ll get to go (and I’m not above pulling a few strings either…)
My second project is a school library that has the potential to become a resource for the entire community. The thing about it is, too – I didn’t even start it! A teacher at one of my schools came to me and said that she wanted to start a library for the school. She had already cleared out a room (this is the only school with spare classrooms. Hopefully within the year we will manage to get enough extra space to create libraries at the other two schools too). I told her that I would be completely delighted to help her, and as I just happened to have my copy of Libraries for All on me at the moment, I lent it to her. Finally on Friday she showed me the spare class, already complete with bookshelves. We went through a list of potential book donors, and talked about who we thought could use the library – what kind of books did we want? We both agreed that the dream is creating a community resource and that she is more than willing to act as librarian (which is, in its own way, unfortunate since she’s also one of the best teachers at the school. But we can burn that bridge when we come to it). So we’re requesting books on agriculture and community building and appropriate technology as well as reference and reading books. Looking around the room we could both see it: the computer will go here, the shelves will go here, and chairs and beanbags and tables and lamps and rugs, and… So my job this weekend is to write a general letter from a list of key points that we put together and then tailor it slightly to each organization we identified. I’m also planning to hit up Adventures for Kids and any other groups I can think of for book drives (perhaps some members of the Santa Paula or LAUSD school districts would like to help…?). My nearest neighbor recently got nearly 3900 books donated from one drive to her schools. Not that I’ve ever been at all competitive or anything, but…I’d say I have an obligation to at least double that.
In addition to those major things, I’m also going to start English clubs at two of my schools, and I want to see if I can actually start teaching a class a couple days a week at my key school. What better way to show teachers that it really can be done than through really doing it myself every day?
The first is a girl’s empowerment/HIV education retreat that will be held at the end of June. I just finished the grant application for funding, and hopefully I’ll hear back from Peace Corps about it soon. The basic idea behind the retreat is this: women, for any number of reasons, biological as well as psychological and cultural, are at a much higher risk of HIV/AIDS in the village than are men. The women’s movement hasn’t quite made it all the way to Steenbok yet (which is why my key school principal occasionally tries to get me to wash his shirts for him…good luck). Girls in high school and primary school feel compelled to have sex for all the same bad reasons that their counterparts in the US do – so that the boy won’t leaver her, to prove that she loves him, because all her friends are doing it, etc… They also feel far less able to force the boy to wear a condom when they do agree to sex (assuming that they have actually agreed.) Teen pregnancy is rampant and verges on no big deal in the eyes of the girls. I’ve heard estimates that upwards of 50% of the female learners at the secondary school have children. My own estimates put the teen pregnancy rate at about 15% a year in the village. So the idea is, if we spend some time talking to girls from every school about self-esteem, about their own plans for their own futures, about the fact that they really are good enough and strong enough to do whatever they want and say whatever they want, then that itself will drastically effect choices they make in the future. We’re also going to spend time discussing HIV myths and facts, ways to protect themselves, etc… Its impossible to live in South Africa and not have heard about HIV of course. By some estimates the HIV infection rate is as high as 25%. Its highest in Mpumulanga (my province) and rural villages (like mine). They’ve heard ABC. They’ve seen the slogans. But I think that sitting down and discussing HIV, and STIs, and pregnancy – processing things in their own way and words instead of being passive receptors for government slogans – will go a lot further. I hope. I have a teacher from every school in the village of the committee to put this together, and we’ve all already decided that this camp should come back and create some sort of peer-education club at each school when they start up again in July. Potentially this can be a really awesome and sustainable program, or that’s my dream. I’m also really excited because my brilliant host sister, Latoya, is just the right age to go. The girls are going to be chosen via an essay contest, and I know that her English writing skills are good, so I think that she’ll get to go (and I’m not above pulling a few strings either…)
My second project is a school library that has the potential to become a resource for the entire community. The thing about it is, too – I didn’t even start it! A teacher at one of my schools came to me and said that she wanted to start a library for the school. She had already cleared out a room (this is the only school with spare classrooms. Hopefully within the year we will manage to get enough extra space to create libraries at the other two schools too). I told her that I would be completely delighted to help her, and as I just happened to have my copy of Libraries for All on me at the moment, I lent it to her. Finally on Friday she showed me the spare class, already complete with bookshelves. We went through a list of potential book donors, and talked about who we thought could use the library – what kind of books did we want? We both agreed that the dream is creating a community resource and that she is more than willing to act as librarian (which is, in its own way, unfortunate since she’s also one of the best teachers at the school. But we can burn that bridge when we come to it). So we’re requesting books on agriculture and community building and appropriate technology as well as reference and reading books. Looking around the room we could both see it: the computer will go here, the shelves will go here, and chairs and beanbags and tables and lamps and rugs, and… So my job this weekend is to write a general letter from a list of key points that we put together and then tailor it slightly to each organization we identified. I’m also planning to hit up Adventures for Kids and any other groups I can think of for book drives (perhaps some members of the Santa Paula or LAUSD school districts would like to help…?). My nearest neighbor recently got nearly 3900 books donated from one drive to her schools. Not that I’ve ever been at all competitive or anything, but…I’d say I have an obligation to at least double that.
In addition to those major things, I’m also going to start English clubs at two of my schools, and I want to see if I can actually start teaching a class a couple days a week at my key school. What better way to show teachers that it really can be done than through really doing it myself every day?
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Ngitawukushaya!
One of the biggest things that I struggle with in my schools – and I’m far from being alone in this – is corporal punishment. Not so much the struggle to get teachers to stop doing it (though obviously I do) but the struggle within myself to process my own feelings and knee-jerk reactions to it.
In theory I’m not completely against the occasional slap on the wrist or other physical correction of a child. Sometimes you just want to give a kid an immediate physical reminder that what they did probably shouldn’t be repeated. Of course there are other and better ways to get your point across, and I don’t think that myself I could ever hit a child in any way but I’m just saying…probably there will be no lasting psychological scars from the calm occasional or once in a great while spanking. (Can you see already how many qualifiers I’ve worked in? How uncomfortable this makes me?)
That said, the first time I witnessed a teacher hitting students in her class it was probably one of the more horrible things I’ve ever had to sit and watch. Those children were terrified of every movement she made, and I personally was on the point of tears. First grade for goodness sake! How can you expect kids to learn to love reading if their first experience with it is like something out of Full Metal Jacket? But that’s not really the point (for now). I’ve seen other teachers hit, slap, humiliate, and pinch their learners. Other volunteers tell me horror stories involving full on whips. My schools, to be fair, are actually pretty good about corporal punishment. I’ve only seen three outright text-book examples (of course, I’m sure there were all sorts of other instances that I didn’t), but I felt like I was the one being hit each time.
Many of my teachers, while they won’t admit to hitting their learners, per se, still see nothing wrong with it as a teaching method, and herein lies the root of my problem:
In my eyes if you are capable of hitting a child openly and without remorse you are, with no shades of black and white, a Bad Person. In the eyes of my teachers and the people in my village, you are probably just a Caring Guardian. I have trouble talking to any teacher after I have seen them do this. I don’t want to be in their classroom, I don’t even want to look them in the eye or greet them in the morning. They have shifted catergories, moved into the unforgivable.
Is a good part of this a cultural thing? Yes, probably. I know perfectly well that corporal punishment was and is practiced in pretty much every school system that ever has existed. I know it is a very recent innovation that means that I (or more to the point, Robbie) never got called into an office and whapped good for whatever stupid thing I had done. I know all about nuns and rulers, and Mr. Spoon, and Roald Dahl’s stories, and all the rest of it. It happens, it happened, western civilization doesn’t seem to have come crashing down for it. But still. I was never hit as a child (maybe once, I have a vague recollection…), teachers in my classes never threatened to hit me, the very thought of violence as a disciplinary measure is something that I managed to grow up blissfully unaware of. And so when I see it, I am shocked. I consider it immoral, bad, I am incapable of seeing shades of grey. I cannot translate this as ‘culture’ even though every rational, far off part of me is saying that these are exactly the sort of clashes I was warned and taught about over and over.
Am I right? Are they wrong? I don’t know. I just can’t condone the violence as a solution, in any context, but I am willing to work towards understanding why my teachers can. Understand that I mean the rational, under control, occasional slap or pinch or whatever. I have also seen teachers simply lashing out at students at anger and in frustration, and I think that that is just wrong – no culture, no mitigations. Children should never be the vent for your aggravation. I don’t care how much the teacher hates their job or how poorly trained and frustrated they are. Unacceptable.
So what am I going to do about all this? I really don’t know. I’ll put on my workshops, I’ll explain the alternatives to every teacher I catch. I’ll tell them how against it I am and that I will walk out of any classroom where I see learners being hit. I’ll refuse to work with that teacher again until we work out a solution, a suitable set of disciplinary alternatives. It is, all my cultural qualms aside, against the law anyway.
But what does this mean for my cross cultural education? Do I just accept this as an example of “our cultures are different, hooray diversity!” Is it something I can change? Is it something I should bother changing? Is it inherently wrong or is it just my perspective?
Its that last one that gets me. Does cultural diversity translate to moral relativism? Do I get to be the one to draw the line in the sand?
In theory I’m not completely against the occasional slap on the wrist or other physical correction of a child. Sometimes you just want to give a kid an immediate physical reminder that what they did probably shouldn’t be repeated. Of course there are other and better ways to get your point across, and I don’t think that myself I could ever hit a child in any way but I’m just saying…probably there will be no lasting psychological scars from the calm occasional or once in a great while spanking. (Can you see already how many qualifiers I’ve worked in? How uncomfortable this makes me?)
That said, the first time I witnessed a teacher hitting students in her class it was probably one of the more horrible things I’ve ever had to sit and watch. Those children were terrified of every movement she made, and I personally was on the point of tears. First grade for goodness sake! How can you expect kids to learn to love reading if their first experience with it is like something out of Full Metal Jacket? But that’s not really the point (for now). I’ve seen other teachers hit, slap, humiliate, and pinch their learners. Other volunteers tell me horror stories involving full on whips. My schools, to be fair, are actually pretty good about corporal punishment. I’ve only seen three outright text-book examples (of course, I’m sure there were all sorts of other instances that I didn’t), but I felt like I was the one being hit each time.
Many of my teachers, while they won’t admit to hitting their learners, per se, still see nothing wrong with it as a teaching method, and herein lies the root of my problem:
In my eyes if you are capable of hitting a child openly and without remorse you are, with no shades of black and white, a Bad Person. In the eyes of my teachers and the people in my village, you are probably just a Caring Guardian. I have trouble talking to any teacher after I have seen them do this. I don’t want to be in their classroom, I don’t even want to look them in the eye or greet them in the morning. They have shifted catergories, moved into the unforgivable.
Is a good part of this a cultural thing? Yes, probably. I know perfectly well that corporal punishment was and is practiced in pretty much every school system that ever has existed. I know it is a very recent innovation that means that I (or more to the point, Robbie) never got called into an office and whapped good for whatever stupid thing I had done. I know all about nuns and rulers, and Mr. Spoon, and Roald Dahl’s stories, and all the rest of it. It happens, it happened, western civilization doesn’t seem to have come crashing down for it. But still. I was never hit as a child (maybe once, I have a vague recollection…), teachers in my classes never threatened to hit me, the very thought of violence as a disciplinary measure is something that I managed to grow up blissfully unaware of. And so when I see it, I am shocked. I consider it immoral, bad, I am incapable of seeing shades of grey. I cannot translate this as ‘culture’ even though every rational, far off part of me is saying that these are exactly the sort of clashes I was warned and taught about over and over.
Am I right? Are they wrong? I don’t know. I just can’t condone the violence as a solution, in any context, but I am willing to work towards understanding why my teachers can. Understand that I mean the rational, under control, occasional slap or pinch or whatever. I have also seen teachers simply lashing out at students at anger and in frustration, and I think that that is just wrong – no culture, no mitigations. Children should never be the vent for your aggravation. I don’t care how much the teacher hates their job or how poorly trained and frustrated they are. Unacceptable.
So what am I going to do about all this? I really don’t know. I’ll put on my workshops, I’ll explain the alternatives to every teacher I catch. I’ll tell them how against it I am and that I will walk out of any classroom where I see learners being hit. I’ll refuse to work with that teacher again until we work out a solution, a suitable set of disciplinary alternatives. It is, all my cultural qualms aside, against the law anyway.
But what does this mean for my cross cultural education? Do I just accept this as an example of “our cultures are different, hooray diversity!” Is it something I can change? Is it something I should bother changing? Is it inherently wrong or is it just my perspective?
Its that last one that gets me. Does cultural diversity translate to moral relativism? Do I get to be the one to draw the line in the sand?
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Quarterly Report
The other day as I waited in line to buy electricity for my family, an old man came up to me and said (in SiSwati), “Wait, are you THE Nomvula Sambo living in --------?” “Why yes, yes I am.” He then shook my hand and wandered off.
I am famous.
A few nights previous to that, I woke up to the feeling of something on my leg. It was a cockroach who had cleverly managed to sneak inside my mosquito net and commence crawling up the inside of my pajama pants.*
I am desired.
Later in the day I watched a woman at the grocery store do a visible double take when I told her that yes, in fact I was living in my village and not in Komatipoort.
I am…sort of confusing.
And so it goes as I find myself rushing towards the 6 month mark of my time as a Peace Corps Volunteer. That’s like the end of freshmen year, you’d think that I’d have learned something by now….you know, in theory.
What I probably have learned is why every other PCV I met during training, the ones who at that point had all been around for at least a year, kept telling us that we would end up scaling our ambitions back. That failure was sort of inevitable, and we would learn to be happy with ‘small victories.’ At the time I thought, “To heck with that! I came to Peace Corps to save the world and I’m going to do my best with the little corner I have!” I plotted workshops, young reader’s faires, 20 minutes of reading every morning, libraries I would put together, computer labs that I would build. I read policy documents on alternatives to corporal punishment and plotted all the facile answers I would give my teachers. I memorized curriculum booklets and waded through Department of Education policy documents, ready to explain all of them at the drop of a hat.
And I will still probably do a lot of that, but I’m also starting to realize that mostly those things are all external. The reason we are here, and the way that things will finally, eventually (someday…) change is much harder. Computer labs are great. Explaining policy is great, but at a certain point everything else is just external to good teaching practices. The way the schools will change, the way that things will get better, is just straight up better teaching. Kids here can’t read and they can’t think critically. You ask anybody “why?” and you get the blank stare to end them all. No computer lab or workshop is going to change that, only good teaching will. And I’m willing to help my teachers with that for the next 2 years ceaselessly. I’ll explain classroom management, and open-ended questions, and why essays are fun, and books are good, and sticks are bad until the end of time, but…that doesn’t really mean that they’ll be interested in it.
How do you convince people that the way things have been done practically forever really isn’t the way to do it at all, and instead they should try this? People don’t change their actions unless they see a really good reason, and currently many of my teachers don’t. It was good enough for them when they were in school. Their teachers beat them and they turned out all right. Why should they listen to the crazy PCV with the ridiculous, new, and difficult ideas?
Why indeed?
Turns out these are the small victories those in the know were talking about. When I can convince a teacher to erase the answers from the board and let her kids find it themselves for classwork. When someone else asks to borrow my book of grammar games (I was comp lit, okay?) and really does seem to notice that the ones encouraging creativity are better. When I can make at least one person understand the difference between regurgitating something and knowing it. Those are my victories. Tiny moments that happen maybe once a week, twice if the hippy gods are smiling down on me. I suppose that those are scaled down a bit from my original plans of saving the world, but they are what will make a difference, so I’ll go with it. Besides, I’ve got 18 more months.
*Oh yes, that is one very, very dead cockroach now. Simply unacceptable.
PS
Kelsey! I can't wait to see you!!
I am famous.
A few nights previous to that, I woke up to the feeling of something on my leg. It was a cockroach who had cleverly managed to sneak inside my mosquito net and commence crawling up the inside of my pajama pants.*
I am desired.
Later in the day I watched a woman at the grocery store do a visible double take when I told her that yes, in fact I was living in my village and not in Komatipoort.
I am…sort of confusing.
And so it goes as I find myself rushing towards the 6 month mark of my time as a Peace Corps Volunteer. That’s like the end of freshmen year, you’d think that I’d have learned something by now….you know, in theory.
What I probably have learned is why every other PCV I met during training, the ones who at that point had all been around for at least a year, kept telling us that we would end up scaling our ambitions back. That failure was sort of inevitable, and we would learn to be happy with ‘small victories.’ At the time I thought, “To heck with that! I came to Peace Corps to save the world and I’m going to do my best with the little corner I have!” I plotted workshops, young reader’s faires, 20 minutes of reading every morning, libraries I would put together, computer labs that I would build. I read policy documents on alternatives to corporal punishment and plotted all the facile answers I would give my teachers. I memorized curriculum booklets and waded through Department of Education policy documents, ready to explain all of them at the drop of a hat.
And I will still probably do a lot of that, but I’m also starting to realize that mostly those things are all external. The reason we are here, and the way that things will finally, eventually (someday…) change is much harder. Computer labs are great. Explaining policy is great, but at a certain point everything else is just external to good teaching practices. The way the schools will change, the way that things will get better, is just straight up better teaching. Kids here can’t read and they can’t think critically. You ask anybody “why?” and you get the blank stare to end them all. No computer lab or workshop is going to change that, only good teaching will. And I’m willing to help my teachers with that for the next 2 years ceaselessly. I’ll explain classroom management, and open-ended questions, and why essays are fun, and books are good, and sticks are bad until the end of time, but…that doesn’t really mean that they’ll be interested in it.
How do you convince people that the way things have been done practically forever really isn’t the way to do it at all, and instead they should try this? People don’t change their actions unless they see a really good reason, and currently many of my teachers don’t. It was good enough for them when they were in school. Their teachers beat them and they turned out all right. Why should they listen to the crazy PCV with the ridiculous, new, and difficult ideas?
Why indeed?
Turns out these are the small victories those in the know were talking about. When I can convince a teacher to erase the answers from the board and let her kids find it themselves for classwork. When someone else asks to borrow my book of grammar games (I was comp lit, okay?) and really does seem to notice that the ones encouraging creativity are better. When I can make at least one person understand the difference between regurgitating something and knowing it. Those are my victories. Tiny moments that happen maybe once a week, twice if the hippy gods are smiling down on me. I suppose that those are scaled down a bit from my original plans of saving the world, but they are what will make a difference, so I’ll go with it. Besides, I’ve got 18 more months.
*Oh yes, that is one very, very dead cockroach now. Simply unacceptable.
PS
Kelsey! I can't wait to see you!!
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