If my year in Tchad was a book, the events of this past month would definitely warrant a page turn. The biggest transition has been my move from living full-time with the director of Village Altonodji to spending the majority of my nights on campus. It is an opportunity that I had been excited about since before I flew to Tchad, and this month all of the details were ironed out and cleared, so life at school is my new reality!
My first evening here, I was scheduled to begin leading some English clubs. I came in time to arrange my bedroom and familiarize myself with my surroundings. I sat in my big living room in the guesthouse, of which I am the first guest in a long while, hearing the sounds of screaming, laughing children coming from all directions and I thought to myself, like a new kid in school, "Will I fit in here?" Up until now, I'd always loved being at work, and I'd spent quite a bit of afternoon time hanging around with the students, but now that I was here for good I wondered what there really was for a teacher to do among one-hundred rowdy children all the time. I wondered if I should anticipate overwhelming company at all times or, rather, isolation at being the one foreigner bolted up in this big guest house while all the others were living as a family on their side of campus.
I knew answers would come sooner or later, but the questions and slight jitters lingered as I grabbed my ukulele and some chalk and wandered over to the academic side of campus to begin my first English club. Consistent with the way I have seen a lot of things organized over my past few months here, English club was officially announced after I'd set up camp in an open classroom. Some older boys took the responsibility of combing the campus to inform the primary school students that there was a club. Within 15 minutes, the classroom was packed with boys and girls blinking and giggling at me anxiously. We introduced ourselves, sang songs together, and persevered through the chaos of being so numerous. One of the aforementioned older boys did his part by marching up and down the aisles with a tree branch, waving it in the faces of the noisier kids. This is something I want to have qualms with, but truthfully I was thankful to have a willing assistant to help me keep the order.
After my hour with the primary students, and then another with those in the older grades, I was met at the blackboard by half a dozen students who hadn't gotten enough. One girl, who knows Selena Gomez songs by heart and wants to marry Justin Bieber, proudly joined me in singing an encore performance of Lean On Me. Another boy named Caleb asked me to translate the words that he scrawled on the board: "God, I am sorry for your love." As is so often the case with requests such as this, I translated it for him but was unable to discern the source of this unusual phrase. Other students had requests for dialogues and discussions we could pursue in our club. The Activities Coordinator eventually had to shoo everyone out of the classroom and personally shut me in my house to ensure that I was left alone to eat dinner.
Shortly after eating, I heard a knock on the door. There were three or four girls from my English class who plopped themselves down on my couches and started chatting as teenaged girls do. Before too long, I heard another knock at the door and in came three Mamans- big gregarious women who greeted me with giant, tip-you-over bear hugs as if I was a long-lost daughter. And just like that, my fears about being an outsider here were dissipated. The mission of Village Altonodji is to provide educational and humanitarian support for orphans and widows. Not only are the students who live here children who have lost one or two parents, but all of the dozen women who live and serve as "Mamans" are women who have been widowed. Therefor, the community here is one that has been forged of individuals who have lost the people most important in their lives and have come to this place to be another kind of family. Through different and much less tragic circumstances I have also found myself in this space and I have been greeted with as much hospitality and care and instant status of "family" as I could dream of.
So, these three women strode into my abode, wrapped me in hugs, and then proceeded to raise their eyebrows challengingly at me and pump their shoulders in the beginning throes of what I've identified as the "Chicken Dance." It is a physical feat truly remarkable to witness and a fairly impossible to imitate after 22 years of non-exposure, but that doesn't stop people from inviting me to try on a daily basis. It involves shrugging one's shoulders up and down in a way that makes them appear detached from one's body, while subtly flapping one's elbows, popping the chest in and out, and taking little steps to the side and then back again that make one appear to be on a tiny broken escalator that moves you up one step and down another just as soon.
So that happened, there in my living room, but it was just the beginning. Then we progressed to the next stage of the evening. We stood up and I followed the group outside. I was taken by the hand and led across the dark campus to the children's lodging, to the growing sounds of drums and shouts. We came upon an open space in front of the buildings where children and mamans alike were dancing like their lives depended on it. A line of little children perched on the porch, banging at buckets and pans with the finesse of professionals. In the dark, I found myself being tapped and yanked from all angles as children and mamans alike gave me dances to imitate. As soon as I would try anything, it was met with screams of delight and often hugs. Then they would take pity on me and tell me to sit down for a while. During one break, as I dangled my feet off the porch, sandwiched between two tiny pupils who were flapping their arms at me, I took a little inventory of all the things around me. There were the stars above me, winking happily. There was the welcome cool air that arrives after the sun departs, and the lovely smells of nighttime. There were people young and old dancing and ululating and laughing and clapping. There was a huge, beautiful makeshift family with people who lived with and looked after each other. Not one of them, no matter how young, had been spared significant hardship in their lives, but here they were delighting in the evening and in the company of others. I got a little choked up as I realized without a doubt that this is why I flew halfway around the world into the unknown. This is what I had been hoping to find.
Eventually I realized my presence was keeping the kids from going to bed, so I left with a little posse showing me the way. Flushed, I asked the girl next to me if this was something I should expect every night and she laughed and said, "No. We are just happy that you're here with us!" Again that night, my heart skipped a beat for my new home.
That was just the first day. There have been weeks' worth of delightful days since, and my enthusiasm has not diminished. As I've become wrapped up in countless activities and blossoming friendships with people young and old here at Altonodji and around Moundou, I've experienced a kind of satiation that I can't attribute to only one thing. It's a cocktail of things that are filling me in so many ways. I am busy with meaningful work that offers constant challenges and rewards. I am met every single day with hundreds of warm smiles and people who greet me by name. A day doesn't go by that I don't meet someone new, go somewhere new, try something new, or learn something new. And as much as I am resisting being cliché, I can't deny that there is something magical about being with so many children.
I'm so easily and deeply charmed by their uninhibited enthusiasm, curiosity, and affection. Indeed, Village Altonodji is a special place, and a wonderful setting for a new chapter!
Monday, December 22, 2014
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
A Holiday Weekend
So, Turkey Day has come and gone. We Moundou SALTers were treated to our own marvelous Thanksgiving Day celebration, held in the home of Pastor Sem, and in the company of other MCC workers who were visiting Moundou for the weekend. We had a lovely evening chowing down on chicken, couscous, plantains, stewed carrots, rice and beans, French fries, and more. All were festively displayed on a red, white, and blue table cloth brought from Texas. As we ate and shared stories- people that I had known for a range of three months to one hour- I experienced that wonderful phenomenon of being at home away from home. I'm thankful this year that family can be found almost anywhere.
The holiday did not stop here. In fact, in Chad, the following days contained two big national holidays. Friday was Independence Day, and today, December 1st, was Presidents Day. Both were celebrated in Moundou with parades in front of the Mayor's office. Friday was more understated. I watched while a small military group put on a display involving kicking up their feet and turning sharp angles, and a marching band played the occasional anthem.
Monday was the big show. I arrived at 7:30, with hours before the excitement on the street. I was fascinated just to sit on the curb and watch people mill around me. Chad is an extremely diverse country, and while I sometimes feel like I live in a small, well-off, evangelical Christian bubble, I delighted in seeing others who live in Moundou. There were as many people of Arab descent as there were people from the South of the country. I heard as much Arabic as French. I saw young women prancing around in skinny jeans while others revealed only their eyes from beneath their sheer fabric dress. I saw children carrying large buckets on their heads, and others carrying around boxes of shoe-shining supplies and a tiny bench that they used to plop down and work. I saw men who looked as if they could have been walking to an office job in the States, while others wore long white robes and caps, held hands, and squatted impossibly low to the ground as they chatted.
Unfortunately, I have been on an impossible quest to find functioning batteries here in Moundou, and was not able to take a single picture. Again and again I regretted this, especially as the parade went underway and I had the amazing opportunity to see all of Moundou proudly march past me, carrying signs that clearly labeled who they were and what they represented. And wow, there are so many groups that I never suspected existed here in this city! I took this as a challenge to take as many vivid mental photos as possible.
First we were passed by dozens of primary and secondary schools. All private schools have uniforms, and so each group was clearly distinguished by a different set of clothes and a song that was all their own. The children marched past, feet in step with the songs that soared from their mouths. I saw Franco-English schools, Koranic schools, schools for the Deaf, Arabic schools, a nursing school, a technical school (where all of the participants yielded wrenches, hammers, pliers over their heads) and even my dear Village Altonodji walk by.
Then we saw businesses and organizations. There were the Scouts of Moundou, dressed in familiar Boy Scouts-style uniforms. There was the Moundou Tai kwondo Academy, with children of all ages carrying themselves with great dignity in their robes. They were followed immediately by a tai-chi school. There was a Young Democrats group, an art school, a soccer team, a women's union. Past me marched a troupe of local comedians represented by three individuals who looked like something out of the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. One man had painted whiskers, a short stumpy tail coming out of his pants, and stuffing in his clothes that gave him an ample belly and derrière.
There were representatives from each quartier, or neighborhood. The most fun to watch were those people who dressed in what I assume were traditional costumes. Some boys wore nothing but long colorful necklaces on their chests, and grass skirts. They wore headdresses and covered their faces with long veils of dried grasses and danced to traditional instruments that I had never seen before. Another man was dressed as a bull, with large horns sticking out of his head. He was tied up and his friends pretended to lead him with a short rope. Suddenly, as he passed me, he went out of control and launched himself at the unsuspecting crowd, a hair's width away from ramming them with his sharp horns! People screamed, scattered, and then came back delighted and laughing.
I saw dozens of businesses. There were men from the Mondou cigarette manufacturing company and workers from the brewery, wearing outfits made of fabric that was a collage of pictures of Castle Beer. Assala, the well-known local bakery came by on a truck, yielding huge pastries and occasionally throwing a baguette at the crowd. There was a single man carrying a sign that said, in hand-written letters, "homme d'affaires" (businessman). People thought that was uproarious. Then it was our turn to join. Oh, did I forget to mention that I pretended to be an employee of Mama Kiri's work? She works for Sotel Chad, a telephone company, and I was here today because her boss had laughingly suggested that I dress up with them and march in the parade. So here I was, donning a matching wrap skirt, oversized t-shirt with the Sotel Chad logo, a baseball cap, and my own rotary phone. There were ten of us, and when our turn came we jumped right into the middle of the parade. As well-camouflaged as I thought I was, it wasn't enough to prevent people from immediately noticing that one of the people in this parade looked a little different from the thousands of others. I tried to march seriously, carrying my phone with dignity and earnestly answering it from time to time, but it was difficult with people calling NASSARA! (white person) and reaching out to touch me. Things got more out of control when some unseen hand grabbed the hat from off my head, and my fellow "colleagues" turned around to chastise them. I was almost knocked in the head by the sign that my neighbor was carrying as she swung around to shout at the person. By the end, many of us were collapsing into giggles and clutching our belongings dearly. I realized that I was also holding a big piece of cotton, which someone had managed to give me without my noticing as a souvenir from the workers of Coton Chad.
We arrived back at Mama Kiri's work and relaxed with sodas and grilled beef. (And one of the aforementioned baguettes.) The rest of the day was reserved for visiting and lounging. And I needed the time to process all that I had seen! What I really loved about the parade was the chance to see Moundou in all of its diversity coming together to celebrate what it is comprised of. Even in a country ravaged with poverty, insecurity, and mistrust, people take joy in many activities and memberships, and it was a lovely chance to see these things on display.
The holiday did not stop here. In fact, in Chad, the following days contained two big national holidays. Friday was Independence Day, and today, December 1st, was Presidents Day. Both were celebrated in Moundou with parades in front of the Mayor's office. Friday was more understated. I watched while a small military group put on a display involving kicking up their feet and turning sharp angles, and a marching band played the occasional anthem.
Monday was the big show. I arrived at 7:30, with hours before the excitement on the street. I was fascinated just to sit on the curb and watch people mill around me. Chad is an extremely diverse country, and while I sometimes feel like I live in a small, well-off, evangelical Christian bubble, I delighted in seeing others who live in Moundou. There were as many people of Arab descent as there were people from the South of the country. I heard as much Arabic as French. I saw young women prancing around in skinny jeans while others revealed only their eyes from beneath their sheer fabric dress. I saw children carrying large buckets on their heads, and others carrying around boxes of shoe-shining supplies and a tiny bench that they used to plop down and work. I saw men who looked as if they could have been walking to an office job in the States, while others wore long white robes and caps, held hands, and squatted impossibly low to the ground as they chatted.
Unfortunately, I have been on an impossible quest to find functioning batteries here in Moundou, and was not able to take a single picture. Again and again I regretted this, especially as the parade went underway and I had the amazing opportunity to see all of Moundou proudly march past me, carrying signs that clearly labeled who they were and what they represented. And wow, there are so many groups that I never suspected existed here in this city! I took this as a challenge to take as many vivid mental photos as possible.
First we were passed by dozens of primary and secondary schools. All private schools have uniforms, and so each group was clearly distinguished by a different set of clothes and a song that was all their own. The children marched past, feet in step with the songs that soared from their mouths. I saw Franco-English schools, Koranic schools, schools for the Deaf, Arabic schools, a nursing school, a technical school (where all of the participants yielded wrenches, hammers, pliers over their heads) and even my dear Village Altonodji walk by.
Then we saw businesses and organizations. There were the Scouts of Moundou, dressed in familiar Boy Scouts-style uniforms. There was the Moundou Tai kwondo Academy, with children of all ages carrying themselves with great dignity in their robes. They were followed immediately by a tai-chi school. There was a Young Democrats group, an art school, a soccer team, a women's union. Past me marched a troupe of local comedians represented by three individuals who looked like something out of the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. One man had painted whiskers, a short stumpy tail coming out of his pants, and stuffing in his clothes that gave him an ample belly and derrière.
There were representatives from each quartier, or neighborhood. The most fun to watch were those people who dressed in what I assume were traditional costumes. Some boys wore nothing but long colorful necklaces on their chests, and grass skirts. They wore headdresses and covered their faces with long veils of dried grasses and danced to traditional instruments that I had never seen before. Another man was dressed as a bull, with large horns sticking out of his head. He was tied up and his friends pretended to lead him with a short rope. Suddenly, as he passed me, he went out of control and launched himself at the unsuspecting crowd, a hair's width away from ramming them with his sharp horns! People screamed, scattered, and then came back delighted and laughing.
I saw dozens of businesses. There were men from the Mondou cigarette manufacturing company and workers from the brewery, wearing outfits made of fabric that was a collage of pictures of Castle Beer. Assala, the well-known local bakery came by on a truck, yielding huge pastries and occasionally throwing a baguette at the crowd. There was a single man carrying a sign that said, in hand-written letters, "homme d'affaires" (businessman). People thought that was uproarious. Then it was our turn to join. Oh, did I forget to mention that I pretended to be an employee of Mama Kiri's work? She works for Sotel Chad, a telephone company, and I was here today because her boss had laughingly suggested that I dress up with them and march in the parade. So here I was, donning a matching wrap skirt, oversized t-shirt with the Sotel Chad logo, a baseball cap, and my own rotary phone. There were ten of us, and when our turn came we jumped right into the middle of the parade. As well-camouflaged as I thought I was, it wasn't enough to prevent people from immediately noticing that one of the people in this parade looked a little different from the thousands of others. I tried to march seriously, carrying my phone with dignity and earnestly answering it from time to time, but it was difficult with people calling NASSARA! (white person) and reaching out to touch me. Things got more out of control when some unseen hand grabbed the hat from off my head, and my fellow "colleagues" turned around to chastise them. I was almost knocked in the head by the sign that my neighbor was carrying as she swung around to shout at the person. By the end, many of us were collapsing into giggles and clutching our belongings dearly. I realized that I was also holding a big piece of cotton, which someone had managed to give me without my noticing as a souvenir from the workers of Coton Chad.
We arrived back at Mama Kiri's work and relaxed with sodas and grilled beef. (And one of the aforementioned baguettes.) The rest of the day was reserved for visiting and lounging. And I needed the time to process all that I had seen! What I really loved about the parade was the chance to see Moundou in all of its diversity coming together to celebrate what it is comprised of. Even in a country ravaged with poverty, insecurity, and mistrust, people take joy in many activities and memberships, and it was a lovely chance to see these things on display.
Friday, November 14, 2014
12 (thousand) Angry Students
What a time to be a schoolteacher in Tchad...
I want make clear at the onset of this blog entry that I am super super safe and sound, describing events that have, fortunately, been brought to a halt. But it was an interesting couple of days!
On November 3rd, the public school teachers of Tchad went on strike, demanding that they receive their proper wages. I wasn't even aware of this until last week when the private school teachers joined them in a week-long strike of solidarity. For the children of Tchad, it was an uninvited vacation. I may be incorrectly speaking for the children when I say this, but I got the sense that the students, especially girls, who didn't have the excuse of school to get them out of the house just came back home to do household chores for much of the day. And I am majorly placing my own judgment on this, but it just didn't seem like a great deal for them. It doesn't have quite the same feel as an unexpected snow day.
I hung out patiently with the rest of the students and teachers. Then we started up again, the solidarity strike having served its purpose, hopefully. On Tuesday, I didn't actually have class so I was puttering around home in the morning. I thought I heard a commotion at my window, so I stood and looked through the shutters. I heard the swelling of voices, many of them the voices of children. We actually share our small side street with a primary school, so it is not at all uncommon for me to hear children's voices, but these seemed to be growing. Soon, I saw children running past my window. First a few, then more and more, a dense herd of little figures in their school uniforms. There was something happening, but I couldn't gage the nature of it because some students were laughing, others crying, and more in hurried conversation with their neighbors. Furthermore, people weren't all running in the same direction, as they would if being chased. I heard our gate open and about 5 young children came in to our compound to sit with our cook. Everybody only spoke Ngumbaye so I was not yet able to get an explanation. Mama Kiri called twice to ask if me if Béné had returned from school yet.
What I learned throughout the day was really saddening. As all of the private schools were settling back into classes- all around the country- older students from the public schools had planned a protest of their own. They had barged into the classrooms, shouting at the children to get out, and making all kinds of a ruckus. I don't know if they were all bark and no bite, or if any had used real force, but it had done the trick of petrifying kids. Some, like my sweet cousin Chance, had left all of their books behind and scrambled over the courtyard wall in panic. Tiny children who didn't know their way home were left searching in vain for their families.
Things were even worse than that. That day riots developed across the country. Somehow, the sibling of a fellow SALTer had his arm dislocated. 3 or 4 people in my city, students mostly, were hit by cars and killed. At my school, people managed to burn down the guard house, which was not a particularly difficult task, as I remember it being just basically a thatch roof.
So, classes were cancelled again, and we went back to waiting.
Then, yesterday, I heard that the government had begun paying its teachers. Today, most of the private schools went back to business. When I taught my pupils, they seemed excited to share what had happened, thrilled by the scariness of it rather than traumatized. I was just glad to be with them again. Maybe I'd feel differently if I was a student, but I've been reminded of what a privilege it is to be able to go to school. And even though I am saddened and perplexed by the way students and others have chosen to express their frustration, I'm also awed by their emotional reaction at having school taken away from them for this long. I am happy to hear that teachers are receiving their pay and that school can go back to usual.
To display to you all that things are not as scary as I may have painted them, I've included some photos that I took this very day of my happy coworkers and students. I was so pleased to spend time with their smiling selves today, and I dearly hope that very soon all of the schools in Tchad can enjoy their own reunions. *And an aside: I actually have no idea how many angry students there were this week. It could have been 12,000, but I also made that up.
I want make clear at the onset of this blog entry that I am super super safe and sound, describing events that have, fortunately, been brought to a halt. But it was an interesting couple of days!
On November 3rd, the public school teachers of Tchad went on strike, demanding that they receive their proper wages. I wasn't even aware of this until last week when the private school teachers joined them in a week-long strike of solidarity. For the children of Tchad, it was an uninvited vacation. I may be incorrectly speaking for the children when I say this, but I got the sense that the students, especially girls, who didn't have the excuse of school to get them out of the house just came back home to do household chores for much of the day. And I am majorly placing my own judgment on this, but it just didn't seem like a great deal for them. It doesn't have quite the same feel as an unexpected snow day.
I hung out patiently with the rest of the students and teachers. Then we started up again, the solidarity strike having served its purpose, hopefully. On Tuesday, I didn't actually have class so I was puttering around home in the morning. I thought I heard a commotion at my window, so I stood and looked through the shutters. I heard the swelling of voices, many of them the voices of children. We actually share our small side street with a primary school, so it is not at all uncommon for me to hear children's voices, but these seemed to be growing. Soon, I saw children running past my window. First a few, then more and more, a dense herd of little figures in their school uniforms. There was something happening, but I couldn't gage the nature of it because some students were laughing, others crying, and more in hurried conversation with their neighbors. Furthermore, people weren't all running in the same direction, as they would if being chased. I heard our gate open and about 5 young children came in to our compound to sit with our cook. Everybody only spoke Ngumbaye so I was not yet able to get an explanation. Mama Kiri called twice to ask if me if Béné had returned from school yet.
What I learned throughout the day was really saddening. As all of the private schools were settling back into classes- all around the country- older students from the public schools had planned a protest of their own. They had barged into the classrooms, shouting at the children to get out, and making all kinds of a ruckus. I don't know if they were all bark and no bite, or if any had used real force, but it had done the trick of petrifying kids. Some, like my sweet cousin Chance, had left all of their books behind and scrambled over the courtyard wall in panic. Tiny children who didn't know their way home were left searching in vain for their families.
Things were even worse than that. That day riots developed across the country. Somehow, the sibling of a fellow SALTer had his arm dislocated. 3 or 4 people in my city, students mostly, were hit by cars and killed. At my school, people managed to burn down the guard house, which was not a particularly difficult task, as I remember it being just basically a thatch roof.
So, classes were cancelled again, and we went back to waiting.
Then, yesterday, I heard that the government had begun paying its teachers. Today, most of the private schools went back to business. When I taught my pupils, they seemed excited to share what had happened, thrilled by the scariness of it rather than traumatized. I was just glad to be with them again. Maybe I'd feel differently if I was a student, but I've been reminded of what a privilege it is to be able to go to school. And even though I am saddened and perplexed by the way students and others have chosen to express their frustration, I'm also awed by their emotional reaction at having school taken away from them for this long. I am happy to hear that teachers are receiving their pay and that school can go back to usual.
To display to you all that things are not as scary as I may have painted them, I've included some photos that I took this very day of my happy coworkers and students. I was so pleased to spend time with their smiling selves today, and I dearly hope that very soon all of the schools in Tchad can enjoy their own reunions. *And an aside: I actually have no idea how many angry students there were this week. It could have been 12,000, but I also made that up.
Monday, November 10, 2014
A Blackboard Under the Mango Tree
About a month ago Mama Kiri and I were lounging in the gentle light of my solar lamp when she informed me, "Maurice came over again today for an English lesson but you weren't here to see him. Maybe he'll try again tomorrow." Maurice is a young cousin who I had met briefly twice. He seemed a little guarded towards me, but I could tell he had a goofy, class-clown personality behind that aloof visage. I had not previously spoken with anybody about giving him English lessons, or at least not that I'm aware of... though I'm sure I have a lot of conversations that I'm not fully tuned into. Nonetheless, the plan had been drafted and conveyed to him, and I was pretty enthusiastic about the prospect of giving private lessons to counter the stress of managing 40 students at a time.
A few days later I was heading to the shower when I saw a familiar young face. I greeted Maurice and, noticing his eager and kind of nervous expression, I said, "you are here for...?" He replied, "anglais." Well let's get started, I figured! I had just heard a rumor of a blackboard that was hidden somewhere on the compound. I remembered playing school back in the day with a sturdy, mini board that stood on its own. I thought how much fun it would be to relive those pleasant moments with a young student in the comfort of our compound. I asked Béné, who was hovering to the side, if we could take it out, so she and Maurice ventured into our storage shed to retrieve it. I went into my room next door to prepare some materials, and I could hear the sounds of shuffling, scratching, dragging, tumbling, etc. I wandered in to find them unearthing this behemoth of a blackboard from behind piles of lumber and tools.
They managed to haul it outside and I directed us to a shaded area underneath our mango tree. The board was covered with Algebra problems from its last use, so there was a wonderfully energetic to-do about how to clean it. A variety of methods were used, and it took about half of our allotted 45 minutes to wipe it down to everyone's satisfaction, but honestly I was as enraptured as either of them. I mean, is there really anything more gratifying then giving a cluttered, dusty blackboard a good wash-down? I think not.
Finally, with moments to go before my next obligation, it was time to begin the lesson. Maurice pulled up a chair while Béné took up her hovering again. I prompted her to join us, because of course she wanted to join. Also, I just wanted her there because Béné is wonderful and makes my time here twice as lovely. She and I have been teaching each other things from the first days. We've spent hours each week pouring over French textbooks, English picture books, song lyrics, math problems, ukulele chords, you name it. She loves to learn, she loves to teach, and I love to spend time with her. So, already, our little group had grown.
That day I taught them the very basics: "I am, you are, he/she is," etc. When I left them, they were dutifully copying into their official English notebooks. I couldn't help but feel endeared towards them and snap some pictures as they worked diligently under the hanging laundry. I knew right away that this was going to be one of my favorite tasks for the year.
The next lesson, we were four. Another niece of Mama Kiri's, Chance, had joined us as well. She is an enthusiastic and focused learner who had just taken a semester at CENTRAM English school. Between the four of us, we determined to have three lessons a week, beginning in the mid-afternoon, and usually lasting until the light begins to fade. Almost every day we have a guest student or two. Maybe more cousins, or someone sent to look after the house. Today was a young man about my age who seems to only speak Ngumbaye, but he requested that I read everything on the board for him to repeat, and then copy it down on a sheet of paper.
The students clamor for homework and are disappointed when I forget to begin each lesson by grading their work with a red pen. They love activities like charades, and it's a blast for me as their teacher to be flexible, to enjoy laughing with them and answering random individual questions, which is not usually possible with my other larger classes. I get a kick out of their enthusiasm, and even their sometimes unkind competitiveness. They laugh together when a word like "thirteen" is impossible to pronounce well, and they will happily knock each other over in the effort to correct another person's spelling on the board. The goal is to learn English, and I can detect no degree of self-consciousness among the three cousins. I love that whenever I decide to end our lesson and retreat to my room, if I look out my window I can count on seeing them sitting there together until dark, copying the homework assignments and practicing their new knowledge.
At night, when there is no electricity and there is little to do but lay on the carpet and sleep or chat, Béné and I will practice. I specifically teach the kids words that I know I can practice with her. "Béné... are you sleeping?" "No, I am not!" "Béné, is Patrick a dog?" "Yes, he is!" "Béné, what are you doing??" "I am cleaning!" It's gratifying and comforting to hear these fragile English words come out of her mouth. Also, it highlights the wonderful nature of this assignment which is that at every moment I am both teacher and student. Between my time at work, at home, and in other formal and informal settings, roles are constantly being reversed and rewritten as children become my teachers, cousins become my students, students become my guides, supervisors ask me to teach them, and so on. I know I am here to teach, but I feel like it is only right to do so in exchange for all that others are teaching me. My life right now is just a huge stew of ideas and language that everybody wants to taste. It's pretty wonderful to be mixed up in.
A few days later I was heading to the shower when I saw a familiar young face. I greeted Maurice and, noticing his eager and kind of nervous expression, I said, "you are here for...?" He replied, "anglais." Well let's get started, I figured! I had just heard a rumor of a blackboard that was hidden somewhere on the compound. I remembered playing school back in the day with a sturdy, mini board that stood on its own. I thought how much fun it would be to relive those pleasant moments with a young student in the comfort of our compound. I asked Béné, who was hovering to the side, if we could take it out, so she and Maurice ventured into our storage shed to retrieve it. I went into my room next door to prepare some materials, and I could hear the sounds of shuffling, scratching, dragging, tumbling, etc. I wandered in to find them unearthing this behemoth of a blackboard from behind piles of lumber and tools.
They managed to haul it outside and I directed us to a shaded area underneath our mango tree. The board was covered with Algebra problems from its last use, so there was a wonderfully energetic to-do about how to clean it. A variety of methods were used, and it took about half of our allotted 45 minutes to wipe it down to everyone's satisfaction, but honestly I was as enraptured as either of them. I mean, is there really anything more gratifying then giving a cluttered, dusty blackboard a good wash-down? I think not.
Finally, with moments to go before my next obligation, it was time to begin the lesson. Maurice pulled up a chair while Béné took up her hovering again. I prompted her to join us, because of course she wanted to join. Also, I just wanted her there because Béné is wonderful and makes my time here twice as lovely. She and I have been teaching each other things from the first days. We've spent hours each week pouring over French textbooks, English picture books, song lyrics, math problems, ukulele chords, you name it. She loves to learn, she loves to teach, and I love to spend time with her. So, already, our little group had grown.
That day I taught them the very basics: "I am, you are, he/she is," etc. When I left them, they were dutifully copying into their official English notebooks. I couldn't help but feel endeared towards them and snap some pictures as they worked diligently under the hanging laundry. I knew right away that this was going to be one of my favorite tasks for the year.
The students clamor for homework and are disappointed when I forget to begin each lesson by grading their work with a red pen. They love activities like charades, and it's a blast for me as their teacher to be flexible, to enjoy laughing with them and answering random individual questions, which is not usually possible with my other larger classes. I get a kick out of their enthusiasm, and even their sometimes unkind competitiveness. They laugh together when a word like "thirteen" is impossible to pronounce well, and they will happily knock each other over in the effort to correct another person's spelling on the board. The goal is to learn English, and I can detect no degree of self-consciousness among the three cousins. I love that whenever I decide to end our lesson and retreat to my room, if I look out my window I can count on seeing them sitting there together until dark, copying the homework assignments and practicing their new knowledge.
Friday, October 31, 2014
Please Pass the Gas
In a conversation with a family member this week, I was asked, "Are people talking a lot about Ebola over there? We sure are!" I am sorry that the threat of the virus is now a reality in the States, and I have been keeping up on the news to track its spread. On the television at night, I see plenty of images of doctors and scientists, dressed from head to toe in those special neon Ebola-suits. And on one channel catering to Chad, I'm accustomed to sitting through a long PSA about how to protect yourself against the virus. People know it is out there, but I don't get the sense that there is all that much to talk about right now. Here, where the disease has not penetrated our border, we have other, more immediate issues that require our attention. At the top of the list right now, far overshadowing the others, is the matter of gas.
I became aware of a problem one month ago in N'Djamena, when a usually dependable taxi guy charged us three times the acceptable taxi fare. When we assured him that MCC would not be calling on him again, he stood his ground. Gas prices were up. It was when I returned to Moundou that I noticed everyone was talking about gas. Suddenly it was twice the price.
The first explanation I heard was that the facilities were being cleaned, so production had halted. The next day when I repeated this to someone, they said that was a weak excuse. I've since come to understand he following story. (I asked our MCC Service-Worker, Gene to explain it to me as if I was 12.) Basically, Chad has one refinery, which is Chinese-operated. The Chadian government checked up on them and said, "You are doing a poor job with this facility, polluting the environment, so you need to clean up your act, pay us a fine, and remediate the damage." The refinery guys, who have always had terrible environmental records and never have to do anything about it, replied, "No way. You know this is the way we operate and you've never done anything about it before. Now you just want to get money from us but we the ones with the power here. Your country will fall apart without us, so you let us know when you're going to let this drop, and in the meantime we are just going to go ahead and stop making gas for you."
So here we find ourselves, waiting for someone to cry "Uncle."
A few weeks ago, after my return from N'Djamena, my eyes widened at the sight of the local gas station. Usually it is either empty, or containing one car. From what I've noticed, people don't use the gas station all that much for their motorcycles. Instead, merchants all around town fill up beer bottles with fuel and sell them at stands along the road. My first day here I must have assumed that these merchants were preying on people who couldn't refuse a quick sip of something strong, but fortunately I asked and had this point clarified. So, considering that the vast majority of vehicles in our city are motos, and motorcyclists like to simply purchase a bottle of fuel, there usually aren't many people electing to visit the local gas station.
So anyway, my first big shock came when my taximoto man and I turned the corner and I saw about 50 moto guys, many of whom wore their yellow vests, crammed around the couple of pumps waiting for a bit of gas. The crowd seemed to be stopping traffic because there was a line of unmoving cars in the street, but I learned later that day that those cars were also waiting in line.
From there things got worse. Each day, I've been eager and almost nervous to pass the gas station and see just how many people can fit inside the space, and how many people have left their cars parked, and often empty, in the road to wait. The very next day the number had jumped to well over 100 people, and shortly thereafter I would guess that we were talking about more than 200 men and their motorcycles loitering the the sweltering heat, for what must verge on the whole work day, to get a liter of gas. There are not currently any merchants selling fuel out of little beer bottles. Due to the increased demand, I hear that many of these people had been buying fuel at maybe 1000 CFA per liter (about 2 dollars) and selling it for twice times that much. To correct this problem, people have been prohibited from selling above a price, which makes such a venture far from lucrative, if not illegal.
It is eerie to see dozens of vehicles abandoned on the road, though their owners are surely just yards away with the rest of their neighbors rather than spending their hours in hot, unmoving cars. Nonetheless, the image is too reminiscent of scenes I've become familiar with from post-apocalyptic movies- skeletons of cars lined up along the streets, abandoned by people who tried in vain to escape the tumult ensuing around them... later to be pillaged by cannibals, or zombies, or maybe the few remaining good guys searching for a new beginning.
Ok, I definitely digress. But the other thing that gives me the creeps slightly is the utter lack of people on the road as the days stretch on. This is not what you would consider a big, booming city where traffic jams are the norm. However, it is definitely noticeable when half of the drivers stop driving. I feel more and more part of an elite just by virtue of being seated on a running vehicle, while other people must either be staying home or resorting to walking. I wonder to myself how much longer this can go on.
Now, the gas station that I pass every day is empty again. No one is waiting in line because there is no gas to be found there. That well has run dry, so to speak. My parents were driving around for over 2 hours yesterday looking for fuel, and they came back tired and disappointed. I can't picture people of their standing waiting around all day in a packed crowd under the glaring sun, so it's possible they have been trying to use some connections to acquire fuel elsewhere, but nevertheless they were unsuccessful. From others willing to put more time into the search for gas, I've heard of people waiting from 8:00 am to 9:00 at night. There goes a day's work.
I wonder what the men who usually work as moto drivers are doing these days, besides standing in ridiculously disorganized masses around a gas pump. My moto driver, who mysteriously still has gas, has almost doubled his price this month, but even so I actually feel guilty for using his services because I realize he has not increased his prices in proportion to the amount he is now paying. I think how insecure it must be to make your living with a commodity that may be unavailable tomorrow. And as I ride freely through the recently cleared-out streets, I worry about how people are getting to their jobs... children are getting to school (many schools have begun canceling classes)... how people are coping when confronted with emergencies.
In French, the word for gas is "essence." Indeed, without gas, our community is missing an essential part of life. Of course, that isn't to say that there are not other pieces of culture here that are as important and life giving, and to say otherwise feels awfully materialistic, but I never realized how important this commodity is until it's been torn away. I hear the word come up in almost every conversation, and I am probably only catching a fraction of the significance. From what I hear, we just have to hold out a little while longer. The plan is to have the factories up and running like new by the middle of November, but nonetheless the whole thing makes me realize to what extent we are at the mercy of things and people we can't control. The elements. Gas companies. Politicians. They all help dictate to some extent what our lives look like and what the people here are able to accomplish. It's sobering, and though this may be hackneyed, it makes me grateful to live in a place where I can take for granted such essentials as gas, water, and food that magically comes to the grocery store regardless of the season. We rely on so much, and yet I don't think we know it.
I became aware of a problem one month ago in N'Djamena, when a usually dependable taxi guy charged us three times the acceptable taxi fare. When we assured him that MCC would not be calling on him again, he stood his ground. Gas prices were up. It was when I returned to Moundou that I noticed everyone was talking about gas. Suddenly it was twice the price.
The first explanation I heard was that the facilities were being cleaned, so production had halted. The next day when I repeated this to someone, they said that was a weak excuse. I've since come to understand he following story. (I asked our MCC Service-Worker, Gene to explain it to me as if I was 12.) Basically, Chad has one refinery, which is Chinese-operated. The Chadian government checked up on them and said, "You are doing a poor job with this facility, polluting the environment, so you need to clean up your act, pay us a fine, and remediate the damage." The refinery guys, who have always had terrible environmental records and never have to do anything about it, replied, "No way. You know this is the way we operate and you've never done anything about it before. Now you just want to get money from us but we the ones with the power here. Your country will fall apart without us, so you let us know when you're going to let this drop, and in the meantime we are just going to go ahead and stop making gas for you."
So here we find ourselves, waiting for someone to cry "Uncle."
A few weeks ago, after my return from N'Djamena, my eyes widened at the sight of the local gas station. Usually it is either empty, or containing one car. From what I've noticed, people don't use the gas station all that much for their motorcycles. Instead, merchants all around town fill up beer bottles with fuel and sell them at stands along the road. My first day here I must have assumed that these merchants were preying on people who couldn't refuse a quick sip of something strong, but fortunately I asked and had this point clarified. So, considering that the vast majority of vehicles in our city are motos, and motorcyclists like to simply purchase a bottle of fuel, there usually aren't many people electing to visit the local gas station.
So anyway, my first big shock came when my taximoto man and I turned the corner and I saw about 50 moto guys, many of whom wore their yellow vests, crammed around the couple of pumps waiting for a bit of gas. The crowd seemed to be stopping traffic because there was a line of unmoving cars in the street, but I learned later that day that those cars were also waiting in line.
From there things got worse. Each day, I've been eager and almost nervous to pass the gas station and see just how many people can fit inside the space, and how many people have left their cars parked, and often empty, in the road to wait. The very next day the number had jumped to well over 100 people, and shortly thereafter I would guess that we were talking about more than 200 men and their motorcycles loitering the the sweltering heat, for what must verge on the whole work day, to get a liter of gas. There are not currently any merchants selling fuel out of little beer bottles. Due to the increased demand, I hear that many of these people had been buying fuel at maybe 1000 CFA per liter (about 2 dollars) and selling it for twice times that much. To correct this problem, people have been prohibited from selling above a price, which makes such a venture far from lucrative, if not illegal.
It is eerie to see dozens of vehicles abandoned on the road, though their owners are surely just yards away with the rest of their neighbors rather than spending their hours in hot, unmoving cars. Nonetheless, the image is too reminiscent of scenes I've become familiar with from post-apocalyptic movies- skeletons of cars lined up along the streets, abandoned by people who tried in vain to escape the tumult ensuing around them... later to be pillaged by cannibals, or zombies, or maybe the few remaining good guys searching for a new beginning.
Ok, I definitely digress. But the other thing that gives me the creeps slightly is the utter lack of people on the road as the days stretch on. This is not what you would consider a big, booming city where traffic jams are the norm. However, it is definitely noticeable when half of the drivers stop driving. I feel more and more part of an elite just by virtue of being seated on a running vehicle, while other people must either be staying home or resorting to walking. I wonder to myself how much longer this can go on.
Now, the gas station that I pass every day is empty again. No one is waiting in line because there is no gas to be found there. That well has run dry, so to speak. My parents were driving around for over 2 hours yesterday looking for fuel, and they came back tired and disappointed. I can't picture people of their standing waiting around all day in a packed crowd under the glaring sun, so it's possible they have been trying to use some connections to acquire fuel elsewhere, but nevertheless they were unsuccessful. From others willing to put more time into the search for gas, I've heard of people waiting from 8:00 am to 9:00 at night. There goes a day's work.
I wonder what the men who usually work as moto drivers are doing these days, besides standing in ridiculously disorganized masses around a gas pump. My moto driver, who mysteriously still has gas, has almost doubled his price this month, but even so I actually feel guilty for using his services because I realize he has not increased his prices in proportion to the amount he is now paying. I think how insecure it must be to make your living with a commodity that may be unavailable tomorrow. And as I ride freely through the recently cleared-out streets, I worry about how people are getting to their jobs... children are getting to school (many schools have begun canceling classes)... how people are coping when confronted with emergencies.
In French, the word for gas is "essence." Indeed, without gas, our community is missing an essential part of life. Of course, that isn't to say that there are not other pieces of culture here that are as important and life giving, and to say otherwise feels awfully materialistic, but I never realized how important this commodity is until it's been torn away. I hear the word come up in almost every conversation, and I am probably only catching a fraction of the significance. From what I hear, we just have to hold out a little while longer. The plan is to have the factories up and running like new by the middle of November, but nonetheless the whole thing makes me realize to what extent we are at the mercy of things and people we can't control. The elements. Gas companies. Politicians. They all help dictate to some extent what our lives look like and what the people here are able to accomplish. It's sobering, and though this may be hackneyed, it makes me grateful to live in a place where I can take for granted such essentials as gas, water, and food that magically comes to the grocery store regardless of the season. We rely on so much, and yet I don't think we know it.
Friday, October 24, 2014
Things I Did Today That I Most Likely Wouldn't Have Done If I Was At Home In Pennsylvania (all in the name of living and learning)
* Rose at 5:30 to wash my clothes by hand (Not that this has been a regular occurrence for me. In fact, I hate to admit that this was the first time I've offered to do my own laundry. Apparently Mama Kiri was only willing to accept my offer if I agreed to begin at 6:00 am.)
*Ate an entire baguette with margerine for breakfast- Now, this has definitely become routine. It's hard to imagine beginning my days here any other way.
* Made myself a warm shower by mixing cold water from a bucket with boiled water from a thermos
* Worked my way through a French-language Manga depiction of the Gospels following the death and resurrection of Jesus
* Rode on the back of a motorcycle to and from work
* Thought to myself how uncharacteristically cold it was, even though it's late October and was probably over 80 degrees at the time
* Pretended to take a group of 40 middle schoolers on a plane trip to New York
* Spent an hour having coffee in the office of an accountant, who's name I still haven't been able to catch, because we happened to cross paths on campus and what possible reason could there be to NOT take a little bit of time away from work to say hello?
* Looked up how to say "alcoholic" in an attempt to explain to this accountant the status of my relationship with coffee (Note: the words are the same in French and English)
* Passed a gas station filled with well over 50 motorcyclists all waiting to buy fuel, due to some shady nation-wide fuel shortage that has resulted in prices at least doubling for the duration of this month
* Consumed food that is slimy on purpose (that is to say both that it was intentionally slimy, and I also ate it willingly)
* Hand-wrote multiple copies of song lyrics because I haven't yet figured out where I might be able to find and use a printer
* Played the ukulele while singing French and English worship songs with a small group of young adults under the setting sun
* Took a long walk home from worship group due to the aforementioned fuel shortage, which left my friend and usual transportation-guy moto-less for the day
* Wore a skirt with the face of the First Lady printed all over it. In the States, this would be considered tacky, but here it is not uncommon to see beautiful women wearing beautiful dresses printed from head to toe with pictures of someone's face, with phone company logos, or perhaps with the word "Hello" in multiple languages.
* Ate a salad with my hands, or as Mama Kiri and I call them, "the forks of God."
* Lay in a darkened living room for hours, alternately singing with the females of my home, drinking in the silence, and playing with my favorite month-old puppy, Patrick.
* Reflected on my lovely day in the safety of what I like to consider my fort: a bed enclosed by a sturdy, four-walled mosquito net that keeps out everything bad, except when I occasionally trap bad things inside with me
*Ate an entire baguette with margerine for breakfast- Now, this has definitely become routine. It's hard to imagine beginning my days here any other way.
* Made myself a warm shower by mixing cold water from a bucket with boiled water from a thermos
* Worked my way through a French-language Manga depiction of the Gospels following the death and resurrection of Jesus
* Rode on the back of a motorcycle to and from work
* Thought to myself how uncharacteristically cold it was, even though it's late October and was probably over 80 degrees at the time
* Pretended to take a group of 40 middle schoolers on a plane trip to New York
* Spent an hour having coffee in the office of an accountant, who's name I still haven't been able to catch, because we happened to cross paths on campus and what possible reason could there be to NOT take a little bit of time away from work to say hello?
* Looked up how to say "alcoholic" in an attempt to explain to this accountant the status of my relationship with coffee (Note: the words are the same in French and English)
* Passed a gas station filled with well over 50 motorcyclists all waiting to buy fuel, due to some shady nation-wide fuel shortage that has resulted in prices at least doubling for the duration of this month
* Consumed food that is slimy on purpose (that is to say both that it was intentionally slimy, and I also ate it willingly)
* Hand-wrote multiple copies of song lyrics because I haven't yet figured out where I might be able to find and use a printer
* Played the ukulele while singing French and English worship songs with a small group of young adults under the setting sun
* Took a long walk home from worship group due to the aforementioned fuel shortage, which left my friend and usual transportation-guy moto-less for the day
* Wore a skirt with the face of the First Lady printed all over it. In the States, this would be considered tacky, but here it is not uncommon to see beautiful women wearing beautiful dresses printed from head to toe with pictures of someone's face, with phone company logos, or perhaps with the word "Hello" in multiple languages.
* Ate a salad with my hands, or as Mama Kiri and I call them, "the forks of God."
* Lay in a darkened living room for hours, alternately singing with the females of my home, drinking in the silence, and playing with my favorite month-old puppy, Patrick.
* Reflected on my lovely day in the safety of what I like to consider my fort: a bed enclosed by a sturdy, four-walled mosquito net that keeps out everything bad, except when I occasionally trap bad things inside with me
Friday, October 17, 2014
Donkeys and High-Fives
I suppose that since I've been teaching here in a Moundou for over a month, and since it's my whole reason for being invited here, some of you might appreciate hearing a word or two about it. I shall oblige.
I teach two groups: second- and third-level English. They are the equivalent of 8th and 9th grades. At Altonodji, each level has one classroom reserved, so teachers come and go while the students stay put. When I enter my classrooms, between 35 and 50 students stand up and wait for me to greet them with a big ol' "Good morning, class," to which they respond with a jumbled chorus of "Good morning, Miss" and, "Good morning, teacher." Then we get to it!
The students have notebooks but no textbooks, so much attention is focused on the blackboard. I develop my lessons from a combination of 2 lesson books, a list of national standards for their respective levels, and my own ingenuity/opinions on what they should learn. In case you are not aware, I have no formal pedagogical training beyond a Piano Pedagogy course and a semester being the only non-Education major in Educational Psychology. However, I'll admit that I arrogantly believed I could have all the students wrapped around my finger in no time. Besides just being an undeniably charismatic and charming person, I had felt well equipped with a no-nonsense glare, a slow, confident teacher's stride for circling the class, and a policy of subtracting 2 points from naughty students' grades... However, I've had to learn quickly that there is a lot more to managing a class. It is especially difficult to do so in a new language. When the patient raising of hands seems to be an unheard-of concept, and half the class is calling out questions or making commentary at any given time, it takes me significantly longer to determine to whom I need to respond to and whom I need to either ignore or reprimand.
I have had several classes that felt like majority damage-control and minimal teaching. After one particularly challenging lesson in the first week, I gave myself an introspective check-up and concluded that I was far from tearful about the whole thing, but that it was the kind of class that might have already cracked some other teachers. Therefore, I took my lack of panic as a small success. I considered where to go from here. Some acquaintances encouraged me to find a ruler (and pronto) to demonstrate to the students that I'm not messing around. Apparently I don't have to hit anybody, but I definitely need to threaten to. Unfortunately MCC isn't the biggest proponent of corporal punishment so I've had to resist the urge to follow this piece of advice :)
So what have I done instead? Well, true to my nature I've gone with being funny. (And I feel compelled to add here that I'm not promoting myself as a brilliant comedian or anything, but I'm just recognizing that when confronted with almost any situation in the world, my natural inclination is to make a joke or do something disarmingly weird.) When half the class is trying to do anything but engage with what I'm teaching, I don't think that being cutesie and self-deprecating is necessarily the way to gain their respect, but nonetheless I do think it gains their attention much of the time.
For example, the other week I had written a short text on the board, and after going over it, I asked for a volunteer to read a sentence aloud for pronunciation. After the first volunteer had read (very well, I might add), I enthusiastically gave him a high-five, much to the class' amusement. The high-five had not been meant to be funny. It was totally natural. However, when the next student read the second sentence, I knew I had everyone's attention, so I gave that person a high-five as well. Suddenly students were climbing all over each other to volunteer to read, and I had to scramble around the class doling out high-fives which were reciprocated with varying degrees of force. I couldn't quite tell if the students just loved high-fives (in which case, if I reflect on my Ed. Psych course, I'm probably creating praise-junkies who rely on external motivation) or if they thought it was funny and idiotic that I was running around getting so excited about a couple of English sentences, but either way I didn't feel like I was fighting anyone to participate.
Another example. Have you ever noticed that if you say donkey ten times fast, it sounds like you're making the "hee-haw" sound? I was doing a lesson on animals last week and this occurred to me as I was slowly articulating the syllables in DON-KEY. I thought this would be a helpful way to remember the word, so I started making donkey sounds. This led to me making animal sounds for every one of the animals, including pigs, goats, dogs, and... well, I blanked when I got to camels. But anyway, I definitely saw a number of bleary, half-closed eyes snap wide open when I began doing so, so I stuck to it. Later, after a week-long hiatus from teaching, we began reviewing the animals. I wrote all of the English names and we spent a good ten minutes pointing to each animal and making animal sounds together as a class. Some of the students can make some incredibly convincing bird calls and sheep bleats, let me tell you. Once again, it wasn't my most dignified moment, and maybe students were looking at each other behind my back saying, "isn't she wacky?!" but that's a price I am more than willing to pay for a class that is excited about engaging with the blackboard. (Side note: Since I first wrote this a week ago, I have had MANY out-of-classroom moments with students that have involved them brightly hee-hawing "DonKEY," which means it's working.) Moral of the story: I'm no miracle worker so far but this assignment has truly been an excellent one for me. Besides enjoying connecting/laughing with young people, I am someone who has loved school for as long as she can remember, and who spent much of her childhood playing "school" with elaborate print-outs and lesson plans. (Shout-out to the Skuzins!) I remember the thrill of learning even the most basic vocabulary when I was in 8th grade studying Spanish. When in doubt, I close my eyes and put myself back in that classroom. How did I enjoy learning? I am charmed by the students who race each other across the campus each morning to greet me and carry my bags into the classroom. I am grateful to the class chief, Alfred, who has come up to me various times after class with a list of students who were giving me trouble. I'm touched by students who stay after class to request that I translate the English text on their backpack (ex. Lonely Heart), or to ask me to sing a song in English. I know that for many of my students, English is more than a required subject. For many people, young and old who I have met, learning English is something they feel will take them places. I feel passionate about being charged with the responsibility of conveying what knowledge I can in whatever ways I can while I am here.
I teach two groups: second- and third-level English. They are the equivalent of 8th and 9th grades. At Altonodji, each level has one classroom reserved, so teachers come and go while the students stay put. When I enter my classrooms, between 35 and 50 students stand up and wait for me to greet them with a big ol' "Good morning, class," to which they respond with a jumbled chorus of "Good morning, Miss" and, "Good morning, teacher." Then we get to it!
The students have notebooks but no textbooks, so much attention is focused on the blackboard. I develop my lessons from a combination of 2 lesson books, a list of national standards for their respective levels, and my own ingenuity/opinions on what they should learn. In case you are not aware, I have no formal pedagogical training beyond a Piano Pedagogy course and a semester being the only non-Education major in Educational Psychology. However, I'll admit that I arrogantly believed I could have all the students wrapped around my finger in no time. Besides just being an undeniably charismatic and charming person, I had felt well equipped with a no-nonsense glare, a slow, confident teacher's stride for circling the class, and a policy of subtracting 2 points from naughty students' grades... However, I've had to learn quickly that there is a lot more to managing a class. It is especially difficult to do so in a new language. When the patient raising of hands seems to be an unheard-of concept, and half the class is calling out questions or making commentary at any given time, it takes me significantly longer to determine to whom I need to respond to and whom I need to either ignore or reprimand.
I have had several classes that felt like majority damage-control and minimal teaching. After one particularly challenging lesson in the first week, I gave myself an introspective check-up and concluded that I was far from tearful about the whole thing, but that it was the kind of class that might have already cracked some other teachers. Therefore, I took my lack of panic as a small success. I considered where to go from here. Some acquaintances encouraged me to find a ruler (and pronto) to demonstrate to the students that I'm not messing around. Apparently I don't have to hit anybody, but I definitely need to threaten to. Unfortunately MCC isn't the biggest proponent of corporal punishment so I've had to resist the urge to follow this piece of advice :)
So what have I done instead? Well, true to my nature I've gone with being funny. (And I feel compelled to add here that I'm not promoting myself as a brilliant comedian or anything, but I'm just recognizing that when confronted with almost any situation in the world, my natural inclination is to make a joke or do something disarmingly weird.) When half the class is trying to do anything but engage with what I'm teaching, I don't think that being cutesie and self-deprecating is necessarily the way to gain their respect, but nonetheless I do think it gains their attention much of the time.
For example, the other week I had written a short text on the board, and after going over it, I asked for a volunteer to read a sentence aloud for pronunciation. After the first volunteer had read (very well, I might add), I enthusiastically gave him a high-five, much to the class' amusement. The high-five had not been meant to be funny. It was totally natural. However, when the next student read the second sentence, I knew I had everyone's attention, so I gave that person a high-five as well. Suddenly students were climbing all over each other to volunteer to read, and I had to scramble around the class doling out high-fives which were reciprocated with varying degrees of force. I couldn't quite tell if the students just loved high-fives (in which case, if I reflect on my Ed. Psych course, I'm probably creating praise-junkies who rely on external motivation) or if they thought it was funny and idiotic that I was running around getting so excited about a couple of English sentences, but either way I didn't feel like I was fighting anyone to participate.
Another example. Have you ever noticed that if you say donkey ten times fast, it sounds like you're making the "hee-haw" sound? I was doing a lesson on animals last week and this occurred to me as I was slowly articulating the syllables in DON-KEY. I thought this would be a helpful way to remember the word, so I started making donkey sounds. This led to me making animal sounds for every one of the animals, including pigs, goats, dogs, and... well, I blanked when I got to camels. But anyway, I definitely saw a number of bleary, half-closed eyes snap wide open when I began doing so, so I stuck to it. Later, after a week-long hiatus from teaching, we began reviewing the animals. I wrote all of the English names and we spent a good ten minutes pointing to each animal and making animal sounds together as a class. Some of the students can make some incredibly convincing bird calls and sheep bleats, let me tell you. Once again, it wasn't my most dignified moment, and maybe students were looking at each other behind my back saying, "isn't she wacky?!" but that's a price I am more than willing to pay for a class that is excited about engaging with the blackboard. (Side note: Since I first wrote this a week ago, I have had MANY out-of-classroom moments with students that have involved them brightly hee-hawing "DonKEY," which means it's working.) Moral of the story: I'm no miracle worker so far but this assignment has truly been an excellent one for me. Besides enjoying connecting/laughing with young people, I am someone who has loved school for as long as she can remember, and who spent much of her childhood playing "school" with elaborate print-outs and lesson plans. (Shout-out to the Skuzins!) I remember the thrill of learning even the most basic vocabulary when I was in 8th grade studying Spanish. When in doubt, I close my eyes and put myself back in that classroom. How did I enjoy learning? I am charmed by the students who race each other across the campus each morning to greet me and carry my bags into the classroom. I am grateful to the class chief, Alfred, who has come up to me various times after class with a list of students who were giving me trouble. I'm touched by students who stay after class to request that I translate the English text on their backpack (ex. Lonely Heart), or to ask me to sing a song in English. I know that for many of my students, English is more than a required subject. For many people, young and old who I have met, learning English is something they feel will take them places. I feel passionate about being charged with the responsibility of conveying what knowledge I can in whatever ways I can while I am here.
Un Bon Repos
Composed October 8th:
Many of you probably saw more of me than usual last week. At least virtually. Indeed, I had a wonderful time uploading pictures and videos, replying to emails, and seeing some of your highly pixelated faces on my iPad screen via Skype. If I was not able to connect with you, I invite you to check out my flickr.com album of photos from my first month here in Tchad. (I don't know the link but my name is MaddieAndChad). The reason I was able to do all this, and more, is because I was staying at the MCC representatives' house in N'Djamena during a three-day workshop between MCC and its partner organizations here in Tchad.
Besides sitting on the couch glued to my iPad, I had a number of valuable experiences during my weeklong sojourn from Moundou. The training itself was informative and challenging. In attendance were the four of us SALTers, Jon and Angela Austin, and two employees from each of the seven partners we have in the country. My host father and the accountant from Village Altonodji were the representatives from my program.
While the sessions were conducted in French, I was very pleased with how much I could understand, which I attribute primarily to the fact that it was a crash course in Research Methods which I studied last year. We also discussed the importance of result-oriented planning, which is to say, having in mind a long-term result that you can break down into smaller goals, for which you can then obtain necessary resources and plan activities. While much if this was old hat to me, I learned that this method of planning and evaluation is rather cutting-edge here in Tchad. For many of the participants, esteemed directors and personnel, it seemed like it might have been the first time they were asked to operationalize an ambitious goal like: making parents understand the importance of their children's education.
I also enjoyed sessions on reporting, finances, and communication with MCC. I learned more about how MCC works and how hey decide where to put their money. I loved hearing "relief sale" described to the audience, and felt exhilarated even from my seated position the room to realize that the apple strudel and ice cream that I scarfed down last fall at the Goshen MCC Relief Sale might have created funds for some of these very partners that I'm now getting to know on this side of the globe. We discussed how Tchad is competing with countries all around the world for funding that comes almost entirely from generous people who give to MCC. Every time the director of my school, or perhaps the director of ENVODEV, an eco-charcoal enterprise in my town, puts in a request for funds from MCC, their success in obtaining those funds relies on people like you and me who have the means to donate. I think that being on this side of things will forever change how I feel about giving to MCC in the future. I used to vaguely imagine that funds equated a new goat for a family in need somewhere, but now I'm realizing just how many humanitarian, educational, environmental, agricultural, etc. organizations MCC has teamed up with to bring positive lasting change around the world! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On Saturday we had plans to stick around the city to see the sights. However, we had not anticipated that Saturday was Tabaski, a religious holiday that commemorates God's faithfulness to Abraham when, instead of making Abraham sacrifice his son Isaac, he gave Abraham a lamb in his place. From what I understand, it is a joyous day of gathering and feasting with friends, and about as horrific for lambs as American Thanksgiving is for turkeys. One memorable image was that of two lambs positively sprinting down a crowded city street while a young man chased after them with a stick. Another sight that I apparently just missed was a man sitting on a pile of sheep that he had stuffed into his trunk, attempting to squash them down so that he could latch it shut, as if they were clothes he was trying to fit into a suitcase.
For the most part, the city had the appearance of a ghost town. We drove passed the closed gates of the artisanal village (where we had hoped to spend our morning) and parked right in the middle of the grand market in an empty lot that is usually packed tightly with vendors, goods, and customers. Instead of being bummed about this turn of events, I was happy that it meant more time to get to see and explore my fellow SALTer's homes.
Mark's house is incredible, with a spiral staircase leading up to the second floor, of which he has been given a large living room for his personal use with a huge flat screen tv and a lovely dining space.
Laura has just about the sweetest family I've ever met, and they reminded me a lot of my beloved Senegalese host family two years ago. There were people of all ages cooking, lounging, and enjoying each other's company in the compound. I was especially pleased to meet Laura's host brother who recently returned from ten years in Senegal. He helped me remember and practice some of my few Wolof phrases and gave me a bunch of music by my favorite Senegalese artists. Meanwhile, another host brother tenderly held and played with his baby niece, frequently brushing the side of her face in a way that you might wipe dust off of a prized trophy. While Laura prepared a dish of fried okra, a few host siblings and cousins gathered to swap simple songs in French, English, and Ngumbai. By the end, we could each sing "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes" in a new language. After we all gathered inside to partake in the feast laid out before us, her host parents arrived and sat down with us as well. I had been looking forward to meeting them because Laura's host parents are cousins to mine. In fact, Laura told me that it is a running joke with her family that she needs to learn to eat more like me because apparently when her host siblings were down to visit Moundou, my host mother never stopped raving about how well I eat. For the week or two leading up to my return to N'Djamena, she told me over and over again how excited she was for all of the MCC personnel to see how much weight I've gained. This is the nature of being a visitor in a Tchadien home. It is no secret that I make people very happy when I eat and very unhappy when I skimp, so I have taken to grinning, patting my stomach, and puffing out my cheeks when I receive such a compliment.
Spending the afternoon at Laura's, observing her happy family, looking through family photo albums, and listening to American pop music on the television while munching on newly discovered snacks and chatting with my North American friends was one of the most comfortable and happy experiences I've had the pleasure of enjoying this month. Now that I am back in Moundou, possibly until after Christmas, I am thankful for the repose and I'm feeling refreshed and ready to tackle the months ahead. Expect many more posts coming your way and don't forget me in the long while it takes before I can upload pictures again!
Many of you probably saw more of me than usual last week. At least virtually. Indeed, I had a wonderful time uploading pictures and videos, replying to emails, and seeing some of your highly pixelated faces on my iPad screen via Skype. If I was not able to connect with you, I invite you to check out my flickr.com album of photos from my first month here in Tchad. (I don't know the link but my name is MaddieAndChad). The reason I was able to do all this, and more, is because I was staying at the MCC representatives' house in N'Djamena during a three-day workshop between MCC and its partner organizations here in Tchad.
Besides sitting on the couch glued to my iPad, I had a number of valuable experiences during my weeklong sojourn from Moundou. The training itself was informative and challenging. In attendance were the four of us SALTers, Jon and Angela Austin, and two employees from each of the seven partners we have in the country. My host father and the accountant from Village Altonodji were the representatives from my program.
While the sessions were conducted in French, I was very pleased with how much I could understand, which I attribute primarily to the fact that it was a crash course in Research Methods which I studied last year. We also discussed the importance of result-oriented planning, which is to say, having in mind a long-term result that you can break down into smaller goals, for which you can then obtain necessary resources and plan activities. While much if this was old hat to me, I learned that this method of planning and evaluation is rather cutting-edge here in Tchad. For many of the participants, esteemed directors and personnel, it seemed like it might have been the first time they were asked to operationalize an ambitious goal like: making parents understand the importance of their children's education.
I also enjoyed sessions on reporting, finances, and communication with MCC. I learned more about how MCC works and how hey decide where to put their money. I loved hearing "relief sale" described to the audience, and felt exhilarated even from my seated position the room to realize that the apple strudel and ice cream that I scarfed down last fall at the Goshen MCC Relief Sale might have created funds for some of these very partners that I'm now getting to know on this side of the globe. We discussed how Tchad is competing with countries all around the world for funding that comes almost entirely from generous people who give to MCC. Every time the director of my school, or perhaps the director of ENVODEV, an eco-charcoal enterprise in my town, puts in a request for funds from MCC, their success in obtaining those funds relies on people like you and me who have the means to donate. I think that being on this side of things will forever change how I feel about giving to MCC in the future. I used to vaguely imagine that funds equated a new goat for a family in need somewhere, but now I'm realizing just how many humanitarian, educational, environmental, agricultural, etc. organizations MCC has teamed up with to bring positive lasting change around the world! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On Saturday we had plans to stick around the city to see the sights. However, we had not anticipated that Saturday was Tabaski, a religious holiday that commemorates God's faithfulness to Abraham when, instead of making Abraham sacrifice his son Isaac, he gave Abraham a lamb in his place. From what I understand, it is a joyous day of gathering and feasting with friends, and about as horrific for lambs as American Thanksgiving is for turkeys. One memorable image was that of two lambs positively sprinting down a crowded city street while a young man chased after them with a stick. Another sight that I apparently just missed was a man sitting on a pile of sheep that he had stuffed into his trunk, attempting to squash them down so that he could latch it shut, as if they were clothes he was trying to fit into a suitcase.
For the most part, the city had the appearance of a ghost town. We drove passed the closed gates of the artisanal village (where we had hoped to spend our morning) and parked right in the middle of the grand market in an empty lot that is usually packed tightly with vendors, goods, and customers. Instead of being bummed about this turn of events, I was happy that it meant more time to get to see and explore my fellow SALTer's homes.
Mark's house is incredible, with a spiral staircase leading up to the second floor, of which he has been given a large living room for his personal use with a huge flat screen tv and a lovely dining space.
Laura has just about the sweetest family I've ever met, and they reminded me a lot of my beloved Senegalese host family two years ago. There were people of all ages cooking, lounging, and enjoying each other's company in the compound. I was especially pleased to meet Laura's host brother who recently returned from ten years in Senegal. He helped me remember and practice some of my few Wolof phrases and gave me a bunch of music by my favorite Senegalese artists. Meanwhile, another host brother tenderly held and played with his baby niece, frequently brushing the side of her face in a way that you might wipe dust off of a prized trophy. While Laura prepared a dish of fried okra, a few host siblings and cousins gathered to swap simple songs in French, English, and Ngumbai. By the end, we could each sing "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes" in a new language. After we all gathered inside to partake in the feast laid out before us, her host parents arrived and sat down with us as well. I had been looking forward to meeting them because Laura's host parents are cousins to mine. In fact, Laura told me that it is a running joke with her family that she needs to learn to eat more like me because apparently when her host siblings were down to visit Moundou, my host mother never stopped raving about how well I eat. For the week or two leading up to my return to N'Djamena, she told me over and over again how excited she was for all of the MCC personnel to see how much weight I've gained. This is the nature of being a visitor in a Tchadien home. It is no secret that I make people very happy when I eat and very unhappy when I skimp, so I have taken to grinning, patting my stomach, and puffing out my cheeks when I receive such a compliment.
Spending the afternoon at Laura's, observing her happy family, looking through family photo albums, and listening to American pop music on the television while munching on newly discovered snacks and chatting with my North American friends was one of the most comfortable and happy experiences I've had the pleasure of enjoying this month. Now that I am back in Moundou, possibly until after Christmas, I am thankful for the repose and I'm feeling refreshed and ready to tackle the months ahead. Expect many more posts coming your way and don't forget me in the long while it takes before I can upload pictures again!
Thursday, October 2, 2014
PIC NIC
On Saturday evening I had the honor of being a guest speaker at a special gathering held at CENTRAM, an English language school for students of all ages in Moundou. MCC has partnered with CENTRAM since 2008 and is currently providing them with an English teacher who is my friend Ruth. I visited with Ruth the other week just to see the facilities and meet the faculty. It is a small school with about 4 teachers who offer classes in the afternoon, and I enjoyed meeting people who enjoy speaking English with American guests. During the visit, Ruth showed me a notice about their upcoming "pic nic" to celebrate the conclusion of summer classes, and I was promptly invited to come and speak.
I had been greatly looking forward to this event in the preceding days. Ruth gave me the tentative schedule. We would have the first half of the program at the school. Then we would all walk to a restaurant for some reason. Then, we would all go "to the middle of the road" and I would present my speech on How to Master English. Ruth assured me that she had asked several people in both French and English for clarification about this particular part, but that was all she could gather. She also said that, while this was called a "pic nic," she wasn't certain that the word actually carried with it the promise of food, so I shouldn't expect it. Also, the radio might be there. I was excited to see how this would play out!
The afternoon of the picnic, I arrived at the school to find a few people milling around outside while others set up in one of the classrooms. While I had been trying not to bring any assumptions with me, it occurred to me that I had wrongly assumed this picnic would be outside. After about an hour standing around being generally in the way of people's preparations, I was invited with the other staff and invited guests into a classroom for a delicious meal of chicken, veggies, and couscous. A line of four students served us generous portions, of which I ate everything, don't worry!!! This meal was not inclusive of the students, which made me conclude that it was a pretty disappointing picnic for most of those involved, but I thoroughly enjoyed myself!
Once we actually made it into the classroom where the event would take place, I took my seat at a table that was labeled "ADMINISTRATIVE STAFF" in between Ruth and Pastor Sem, the director of the school. The program was delightful! There was a brief welcome, a small group led by Ruth that sang classics such as "This is the Day" and "This Train is Bound for Glory." Students presented original poems and skits about a number of topics including about 5 short speeches on AIDS, which received supportive hoots and hollers. One boy's speech, in which he spoke from the perspective of HIV/AIDS and described his transmission, concluded with the words, "Incurable, Incurable, Incurable!" About here in the program, assistants came around with subs for all of the students, at which point I realizes this was not such a disappointing picnic after all! Ruth gave a speech about the differences between American and British English.
Somewhere in this time, the weather outside grew increasingly dark and ominous. The wind slammed the windows open and shut until they had been properly latched, and the business of people running around shutting windows while the winds blew noisily into the room had made it increasingly difficult to focus or hear the speakers. It was at the height of the action that it was announced that we would be making our way, the 70 of us, across the street to a restaurant, and then I would give my speech. However, as we exited the building, it looked like we would soon be facing a hurricane, so that plan was dropped. I would never know what road I was going to be standing in the middle of, which is maybe my biggest regret to date in Chad to date.
Instead we went right back inside and I gave my speech on How to Master English. I'm pretty sure I was one of the least qualified people in the room to give this particular advice, considering that I have not yet become proficient in a second language, whereas I'd guess that most all of my audience are at least bilingual, but I kept in mind that many of the students are only beginning to learn English, so this speech was primarily a chance to listen to a native a English speaker and get motivated that way. I tried to use a lot of hand gestures and use my best motivational speaker voice until I decided I'd bored them enough and I took my seat.
After I sat down, the chairperson asked the two other MCC guests if they had anything to add. They good-naturedly pitched in some advice and took their seats. Then he began urging others to ask us questions, and just like that we became an expert panel! I realized that with the cancelation of our prior plans, those in charge were taking advantage of the resources at hand to come up with a replacement activity, of which I was happy to oblige to the best of my abilities.
There were not an overwhelming number of questions, and a few were posed at individuals. A young man asked Ruth. "How can I learn to talk as fast as you?" I was asked, "What should we do to be able to go to the United States?" Isn't that the million dollar question? Once again, as a born citizen of the U.S. I felt abysmally equipped to answer such a question, and reminded myself again that I was not here to work any magic, but rather to be a resource for speaking and hearing English.
After the panel, there were words of closing and we were dismissed. A number of students came up to get their pictures with us, and then I was taken whisked off by my moto driver through the dark streets to home. It was only 6:00, but the sun sets early here, at least at this time of year. Light droplets of rain tickled my head and shoulders as we zoomed, and I breathed in the rushing air that felt almost chilly against my damp skin. It occurred to me that in the month I've been here, this was the first time I had been outside to walls of my home at night! I was relieved to have avoided a downpour, which thankfully held off until I was safely deposited into the living room of my Chadian home.
I had been greatly looking forward to this event in the preceding days. Ruth gave me the tentative schedule. We would have the first half of the program at the school. Then we would all walk to a restaurant for some reason. Then, we would all go "to the middle of the road" and I would present my speech on How to Master English. Ruth assured me that she had asked several people in both French and English for clarification about this particular part, but that was all she could gather. She also said that, while this was called a "pic nic," she wasn't certain that the word actually carried with it the promise of food, so I shouldn't expect it. Also, the radio might be there. I was excited to see how this would play out!
The afternoon of the picnic, I arrived at the school to find a few people milling around outside while others set up in one of the classrooms. While I had been trying not to bring any assumptions with me, it occurred to me that I had wrongly assumed this picnic would be outside. After about an hour standing around being generally in the way of people's preparations, I was invited with the other staff and invited guests into a classroom for a delicious meal of chicken, veggies, and couscous. A line of four students served us generous portions, of which I ate everything, don't worry!!! This meal was not inclusive of the students, which made me conclude that it was a pretty disappointing picnic for most of those involved, but I thoroughly enjoyed myself!
Once we actually made it into the classroom where the event would take place, I took my seat at a table that was labeled "ADMINISTRATIVE STAFF" in between Ruth and Pastor Sem, the director of the school. The program was delightful! There was a brief welcome, a small group led by Ruth that sang classics such as "This is the Day" and "This Train is Bound for Glory." Students presented original poems and skits about a number of topics including about 5 short speeches on AIDS, which received supportive hoots and hollers. One boy's speech, in which he spoke from the perspective of HIV/AIDS and described his transmission, concluded with the words, "Incurable, Incurable, Incurable!" About here in the program, assistants came around with subs for all of the students, at which point I realizes this was not such a disappointing picnic after all! Ruth gave a speech about the differences between American and British English.
Somewhere in this time, the weather outside grew increasingly dark and ominous. The wind slammed the windows open and shut until they had been properly latched, and the business of people running around shutting windows while the winds blew noisily into the room had made it increasingly difficult to focus or hear the speakers. It was at the height of the action that it was announced that we would be making our way, the 70 of us, across the street to a restaurant, and then I would give my speech. However, as we exited the building, it looked like we would soon be facing a hurricane, so that plan was dropped. I would never know what road I was going to be standing in the middle of, which is maybe my biggest regret to date in Chad to date.
Instead we went right back inside and I gave my speech on How to Master English. I'm pretty sure I was one of the least qualified people in the room to give this particular advice, considering that I have not yet become proficient in a second language, whereas I'd guess that most all of my audience are at least bilingual, but I kept in mind that many of the students are only beginning to learn English, so this speech was primarily a chance to listen to a native a English speaker and get motivated that way. I tried to use a lot of hand gestures and use my best motivational speaker voice until I decided I'd bored them enough and I took my seat.
After I sat down, the chairperson asked the two other MCC guests if they had anything to add. They good-naturedly pitched in some advice and took their seats. Then he began urging others to ask us questions, and just like that we became an expert panel! I realized that with the cancelation of our prior plans, those in charge were taking advantage of the resources at hand to come up with a replacement activity, of which I was happy to oblige to the best of my abilities.
There were not an overwhelming number of questions, and a few were posed at individuals. A young man asked Ruth. "How can I learn to talk as fast as you?" I was asked, "What should we do to be able to go to the United States?" Isn't that the million dollar question? Once again, as a born citizen of the U.S. I felt abysmally equipped to answer such a question, and reminded myself again that I was not here to work any magic, but rather to be a resource for speaking and hearing English.
After the panel, there were words of closing and we were dismissed. A number of students came up to get their pictures with us, and then I was taken whisked off by my moto driver through the dark streets to home. It was only 6:00, but the sun sets early here, at least at this time of year. Light droplets of rain tickled my head and shoulders as we zoomed, and I breathed in the rushing air that felt almost chilly against my damp skin. It occurred to me that in the month I've been here, this was the first time I had been outside to walls of my home at night! I was relieved to have avoided a downpour, which thankfully held off until I was safely deposited into the living room of my Chadian home.
Friday, September 26, 2014
A Dieu soit la Gloire
My family attends Eglise #8 in Moundou. It is a congregation of about 1000 people and it is conducted in French. There are other churches in the city that operate in Ngumbai, but according to Mama Kiri, there are no congregations that are much smaller than our church. You would have to travel to a neighboring village to see a congregation with only a few hundred people.
The service technically begins, I believe, at 8:15 but we usually arrive shortly thereafter, and we are usually among the first 10% to sit down. The majority arrives sometime before 9:00 or maybe 9:30. I can understand why there's no rush to fill in, because in my experience the service has lasted a minimum of 3 hours and upwards of 5, in the case of Communion Sunday.
The worship space is large, but even so we squeeze tightly into rows on the long wooden benches. Overhead fans and open windows have helped to keep us from overheating, but I've also noticed a number of women with large plastic fans. People look wonderful. I sit in a sea of men and women in their Sunday bests, which are colorful, sparkly, chic fabrics and, for the women, matching head scarves fashioned in dozens of different ways.
In the past weeks I have spent the service not understanding much of anything that was happening, but this past Sunday I had the benefit of being seated next to Ruth, my SALTer friend from Canada who speaks French quite well. She very helpfully informed me what was being said from time to time, which was especially beneficial when we were called up front to be formally introduced to the congregation. Pastor Sem, who is also the director of the English school at which Ruth works, let the congregation know what we are doing this year and invited us to share a few words. Ruth did the talking, and I peaked out from behind her and smiled.
The sermon on Sunday was about one hour long. The scripture verses that it centered around were Ephesians 5: 22-24. "Wives, submit to your husbands, as to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife even as Christ is the head of the church, his body, and is himself its Savior. Now as the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit in everything to their husbands." With the aid of Ruth, I understood that the message was that indeed, the man is the head of the household, but the head needs not weigh down the body. Furthermore, men and women are not unequal, but rather they simply have different roles. The man's role is to make good decisions for the household and to love his wife, and the woman's job is to respect and obey him. Of course I only got snippets of this sermon (through means of Ruth's translations) but the congregation seemed to be loving it. There were ripples of laughter and head nodding, especially noticeably from Mama Kiri. The sharp contrasts between the parts of the Bible emphasized in my familiar Mennonite circles with those I've been exposed to here has been a reminder to me that culture tends to shape religion just as much as religion shapes culture. We believe in the things that give us comfort and strength, and we reject or disregard the things that are incompatible with our deeply held values and ways of life. It has been fascinating and jolting to participate in family life and worship with people whose deeply-held beliefs about God and humanity are different than mine and sometimes totally foreign to me.
Following the message we had about another hour of songs, offerings, and prayer. Prayer is very frequent in our church. After the first Sunday, I asked Ruth if she thought we'd prayed more than half a dozen times and she said that surely it was closer to 20. I had to agree she was probably right. Of course, I'm not a great person to ask because sometimes I'm not sure if we are praying or not, so I just half bow my head and look out of the corners of my eyes to see what others are doing. One time I had my eyes closed for a particularly long prayer, and eventually looked up only to realize we had never been praying at all, and I just appeared to be asleep.
The offering time is a joyous occasion, and probably my favorite part of the service. All 1000 of us stand up row by row and walk or dance to the front of the space to deposit our money into offering boxes as the choir leads us in singing. Eglise 8 has two choirs: one French and one Ngumbai. The French choir sings a lot of classic hymns and worship songs that I already know, which is wonderfully familiar for me, especially because we don't have hymnals with written notes so it's not as easy for me to join along singing. On one occasion, during the worship song "You are Alpha and Omega," the leader began belting it out in English, and the whole congregation joined in, soulfully forming syllables that vaguely resembled the words, "You are Alpha and Omega. We worship you, oh Lord. You are worthy to be praised." I'll admit that I'm usually one of the last people in a room to join in when this song, or any other contemporary worship song, is played. But on this particular occasion I could hardly stop smiling as I sang!
It is my hope to be standing with the French choir before too long. In fact, Ruth and I were dropped off by our families last Saturday for rehearsal only to find out that instead of the usual 4:00-6:00 meeting time, they had arranged a slightly longer meeting from 6:00 pm until 5:00 the following morning. We were told this by a few members of the choir who were there early to prepare a meal for everyone else. We did not stick around for this particular rehearsal, but from what I understand it's not all that rare, and is considered a bit of a spiritual practice, or proof of one's devotion. I will not neglect to mention if I ever make it through an 11-hour choir all-nighter.
Then there is the Ngumbai choir. I think they tend to be the show-stoppers. Whereas the French choir sits to the left of the podium and performs with the accompaniment of some guitars and a keyboard, the Ngumbai choir sits to the right and their preferred means of accompaniment are drums, hands, whistles, shakers, and high-pitched vocal theatrics. The harmonies are very distinct, and different from anything I've ever heard before. The music is very repetitive and somewhat chant-like, but anything but sleepy! Sometimes during the singing, people up front will do these incredible dances that involve moving their shoulders forwards and backwards at impossible speeds that make them look like chickens! I joined a dance party in the courtyard after church the other week and they made me try, and it is absolutely harder than it looks. Anyway, it is all great fun, and does wonders for waking up a sleepy congregation after an hour long sermon. Following the offering this past Sunday, as the choir finished a rousing piece, Mama Kiri and a woman on the other side of the sanctuary had a contest to see who could make the loudest, most enthusiastic "Ayayayayayayay!!!!" sound, to the laughter of the whole congregation.
After church this past Sunday, before taking my exit on Mama Kiri's motorcycle, I bought my own copy of the hymnbook. Perusing it this week, I have discovered lyrics that are clearly translations of some deeply loved sings from my life. I have enjoyed sharing them and learning new songs with members if my community since then, and I'm excited to add more to my repertoire. While so much about these worship experiences are certainly going to be very insightful cultural experiences, it's nice to know that there will also be snippets of the familiar in it all!
The service technically begins, I believe, at 8:15 but we usually arrive shortly thereafter, and we are usually among the first 10% to sit down. The majority arrives sometime before 9:00 or maybe 9:30. I can understand why there's no rush to fill in, because in my experience the service has lasted a minimum of 3 hours and upwards of 5, in the case of Communion Sunday.
The worship space is large, but even so we squeeze tightly into rows on the long wooden benches. Overhead fans and open windows have helped to keep us from overheating, but I've also noticed a number of women with large plastic fans. People look wonderful. I sit in a sea of men and women in their Sunday bests, which are colorful, sparkly, chic fabrics and, for the women, matching head scarves fashioned in dozens of different ways.
In the past weeks I have spent the service not understanding much of anything that was happening, but this past Sunday I had the benefit of being seated next to Ruth, my SALTer friend from Canada who speaks French quite well. She very helpfully informed me what was being said from time to time, which was especially beneficial when we were called up front to be formally introduced to the congregation. Pastor Sem, who is also the director of the English school at which Ruth works, let the congregation know what we are doing this year and invited us to share a few words. Ruth did the talking, and I peaked out from behind her and smiled.
The sermon on Sunday was about one hour long. The scripture verses that it centered around were Ephesians 5: 22-24. "Wives, submit to your husbands, as to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife even as Christ is the head of the church, his body, and is himself its Savior. Now as the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit in everything to their husbands." With the aid of Ruth, I understood that the message was that indeed, the man is the head of the household, but the head needs not weigh down the body. Furthermore, men and women are not unequal, but rather they simply have different roles. The man's role is to make good decisions for the household and to love his wife, and the woman's job is to respect and obey him. Of course I only got snippets of this sermon (through means of Ruth's translations) but the congregation seemed to be loving it. There were ripples of laughter and head nodding, especially noticeably from Mama Kiri. The sharp contrasts between the parts of the Bible emphasized in my familiar Mennonite circles with those I've been exposed to here has been a reminder to me that culture tends to shape religion just as much as religion shapes culture. We believe in the things that give us comfort and strength, and we reject or disregard the things that are incompatible with our deeply held values and ways of life. It has been fascinating and jolting to participate in family life and worship with people whose deeply-held beliefs about God and humanity are different than mine and sometimes totally foreign to me.
Following the message we had about another hour of songs, offerings, and prayer. Prayer is very frequent in our church. After the first Sunday, I asked Ruth if she thought we'd prayed more than half a dozen times and she said that surely it was closer to 20. I had to agree she was probably right. Of course, I'm not a great person to ask because sometimes I'm not sure if we are praying or not, so I just half bow my head and look out of the corners of my eyes to see what others are doing. One time I had my eyes closed for a particularly long prayer, and eventually looked up only to realize we had never been praying at all, and I just appeared to be asleep.
The offering time is a joyous occasion, and probably my favorite part of the service. All 1000 of us stand up row by row and walk or dance to the front of the space to deposit our money into offering boxes as the choir leads us in singing. Eglise 8 has two choirs: one French and one Ngumbai. The French choir sings a lot of classic hymns and worship songs that I already know, which is wonderfully familiar for me, especially because we don't have hymnals with written notes so it's not as easy for me to join along singing. On one occasion, during the worship song "You are Alpha and Omega," the leader began belting it out in English, and the whole congregation joined in, soulfully forming syllables that vaguely resembled the words, "You are Alpha and Omega. We worship you, oh Lord. You are worthy to be praised." I'll admit that I'm usually one of the last people in a room to join in when this song, or any other contemporary worship song, is played. But on this particular occasion I could hardly stop smiling as I sang!
It is my hope to be standing with the French choir before too long. In fact, Ruth and I were dropped off by our families last Saturday for rehearsal only to find out that instead of the usual 4:00-6:00 meeting time, they had arranged a slightly longer meeting from 6:00 pm until 5:00 the following morning. We were told this by a few members of the choir who were there early to prepare a meal for everyone else. We did not stick around for this particular rehearsal, but from what I understand it's not all that rare, and is considered a bit of a spiritual practice, or proof of one's devotion. I will not neglect to mention if I ever make it through an 11-hour choir all-nighter.
Then there is the Ngumbai choir. I think they tend to be the show-stoppers. Whereas the French choir sits to the left of the podium and performs with the accompaniment of some guitars and a keyboard, the Ngumbai choir sits to the right and their preferred means of accompaniment are drums, hands, whistles, shakers, and high-pitched vocal theatrics. The harmonies are very distinct, and different from anything I've ever heard before. The music is very repetitive and somewhat chant-like, but anything but sleepy! Sometimes during the singing, people up front will do these incredible dances that involve moving their shoulders forwards and backwards at impossible speeds that make them look like chickens! I joined a dance party in the courtyard after church the other week and they made me try, and it is absolutely harder than it looks. Anyway, it is all great fun, and does wonders for waking up a sleepy congregation after an hour long sermon. Following the offering this past Sunday, as the choir finished a rousing piece, Mama Kiri and a woman on the other side of the sanctuary had a contest to see who could make the loudest, most enthusiastic "Ayayayayayayay!!!!" sound, to the laughter of the whole congregation.
After church this past Sunday, before taking my exit on Mama Kiri's motorcycle, I bought my own copy of the hymnbook. Perusing it this week, I have discovered lyrics that are clearly translations of some deeply loved sings from my life. I have enjoyed sharing them and learning new songs with members if my community since then, and I'm excited to add more to my repertoire. While so much about these worship experiences are certainly going to be very insightful cultural experiences, it's nice to know that there will also be snippets of the familiar in it all!
Thursday, September 25, 2014
All in the Family
Religious worship and practice has been a hugely prevalent and visible part of life here in Moundou. I've read that about 70-80% of the population is Christian, and it seems to me that the vast majority of those people can be categorized as Evangelical. I don't want to give away too much yet, because I have a post pending about attending our my family's church, Eglise 8. However, I will let you in on a little fun fact that relates!
When I meet a new person and ask their name, they will either give me the long version or the short version, as people might do anywhere. Usually, when it's the long version, I have trouble catching it or being able to repeat it back to them, which is typically what I try to do just to confirm that I've heard someone. However, when I get the short version it is often a familiar Christian name that I can identify if I allow for the pronunciation to be a bit different.
As I've mentioned previously, my host mother and father are named Christine and Samuel. It didn't go unnoticed that my brother is also named Samuel. Since then, my host mother has had a lot of fun putting together some additional connections. From the beginning, she has talked a lot about her younger sister, who has passed away, named Madeleine. Furthermore, my host father has a brother or cousin named Philip and an older brother, deceased, who was named Isaac. In addition, my host sister is named Mary Rose but she actually has four names, one of which is Elizabeth. Therefore, Mama Kiri says, my family is the States is right here in my Chaddian family. Unfortunately, I haven't stumbled across any Sages, Roberts, Annas, Delaneys, Emmas, or Romas, but I have 9 more months here and I'm pretty sure if I dig deep enough into the the layers of everyone's names I will be able to find them somewhere!
When I meet a new person and ask their name, they will either give me the long version or the short version, as people might do anywhere. Usually, when it's the long version, I have trouble catching it or being able to repeat it back to them, which is typically what I try to do just to confirm that I've heard someone. However, when I get the short version it is often a familiar Christian name that I can identify if I allow for the pronunciation to be a bit different.
As I've mentioned previously, my host mother and father are named Christine and Samuel. It didn't go unnoticed that my brother is also named Samuel. Since then, my host mother has had a lot of fun putting together some additional connections. From the beginning, she has talked a lot about her younger sister, who has passed away, named Madeleine. Furthermore, my host father has a brother or cousin named Philip and an older brother, deceased, who was named Isaac. In addition, my host sister is named Mary Rose but she actually has four names, one of which is Elizabeth. Therefore, Mama Kiri says, my family is the States is right here in my Chaddian family. Unfortunately, I haven't stumbled across any Sages, Roberts, Annas, Delaneys, Emmas, or Romas, but I have 9 more months here and I'm pretty sure if I dig deep enough into the the layers of everyone's names I will be able to find them somewhere!
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
A Tale of Two Chicken Dinners
I've had the request to write about food. Rest assured, a post is coming that will shed light on all the Chaddien cuisine I have consumed. But first, I have a story. I suppose they are actually two stories, but they both happen to be about the same thing. A chicken dinner. It's amusing to me that my two greatest food (mis)adventures to date have involved chickens, which I've always considered the least offensive meat in the animal kingdom. I'm not here talking about camel meat, or fried scorpion, or even something as commonplace as goat, which I still have trouble stomaching. No, I kind of wish I was writing about something so exotic, but here I am talking about chickens. I'll begin.
The first event occurred a week ago at the home of Mama Christine's coworker. I was sitting in a plastic chair among 10 colorfully dressed women, half of whom were wearing the same dress as Mama Christine. Munching on my own personal bowl of shrimp crackers and popcorn, and watched as they discussed matters in Ngumbai that may or may not have been related to work. Eventually, huge platters of covered food were carried out by the host and her helpers. When it was time to eat, a girl came around to us one by one with soap and a kettle with which to wash our hands. When mine were washed, I followed the lead of the woman to my left and got up to eat. It looked great! Fried chicken, some kind of salad, and bread to soak up the juices. Someone served me the salad, and then plopped two big pieces of chicken on top. I sat down to enjoy, watching the people around me for cues. Most of them attacked the food with their hands, so I mostly let my fork fall by the wayside. I also noticed almost immediately that many of the women placed their chicken in little black plastic bags, like they were going to take them home. It made sense sort of, because this didn't happen to be a meal time. However, I had no such bag and I'm so totally aware that the one most basic cultural rules is that you must eat well in someone's home, and seeing as I had nothing else to offer to the group, I was happy to oblige. I finished my first bottle of Coke and they brought me another. I ate all the salad, all the juices, and what seemed to me like all the edible parts of the chicken that I'd been given. Content, I lay my plate in the table in front of me and went back to observing. A girl took my plate away and came back to open my second bottle of Coke. I put up a hand to say, "no, thank you, I don't need any more."
That was a mistake.
The woman next to me turned and addressed me. It took me a while to figure out what she was saying. I thought she was just affirming that I'd eaten a lot and that the food was good. But then, as she kept going, her face growing more and more stern, I realized with chagrin that she was scolding me for NOT eating! Everyone's attention turned to us as she reiterated how important it is to eat what your host provides, and that it is rude not to. I offered, "I did eat a lot," but she kept going. I got more desperate, "I ate it all," I said, and she scoffed. Apparently that was my mistake. I had not, in fact, eaten all of my chicken and they had all definitely noticed. Look at the hostess, she said. She is not happy because you didn't like her food. She directed my attention to the woman standing by the food table, shaking her head at me in disappointment. "I'm sorry," I pitifully choked in English, and many of them snickered in a way that suggested that they did not find my apology acceptable. Finally, after what felt like several minutes of discussion about my rudeness, the girl said, "you don't want your Coke?" and I just shook my head, having accepted that I was the bad guy.
On the way home, I tried once more to say to Mama Christine that I had thought that I'd eaten all of the chicken, and she said no I hadn't. So at this point all I could do was hope that out of all of this I had at least learned a lesson that would come into play someday. Never again would I not eat all of my chicken.
Fast forward one week.
I was sitting on a mat outside with Bene, who is kind of a little sister to me. We like reading French together out of her school textbook, as activity I cherish! Anyway, as we sat, enjoying the afternoon, our little rooster, so unassuming I thought it was a hen, wandered around clucking plaintively. It struck me as a rather sad chicken, and I remarked on its state. Bene laughed and regarded it, saying that it wanted a wife. Together, we made some more commentary, personifying this lonely guy and trying out different languages to engage him in conversation (ok, maybe that was just me) and went back to our reading.
A little while later, Mama Kiri, as I now call her, honked at the gate and Bene ran to let her in. When she dismounted from her motorcycle, she pulled a hanging chicken from off the handle and threw him onto the porch. From the way she handled it, I assumed it was dead, but once it hit the ground it jumped up into ready position as well as it could, though its legs were bound together. Its sides expanded and contracted dramatically as it took in its surroundings, wide eyed. I considered what its past 15 minutes had been like; he was sold, flung upside-down on a strange, loud machine, and carried this way at 20-30 miles per hour in the open air, to be dropped on its head in this new place. Mama Kiri told me, no big surprise, that we were going to eat him tomorrow.
I watched the bird. He was on high alert. His entire body kept leaning ever so slowly to the left until he would fall over and in a flash be up straight again. (It reminded me very much of watching someone who is trying not to fall asleep in public, but their head keeps dropping.) I wondered if he would be able to sleep tonight like this. If anything was broken. If he absolutely knew he was going to die. The other rooster, my new friend, wandered over, still clucking curiously, and I think he was disappointed to find that the humans had not, in fact, brought him a wife.
I continued to stare, aware that Mama Kiri's watchful eyes were on me, thinking what a strange girl she had taken in. Then, there was a sudden commotion! Bene was chasing the other rooster all over and across the compound! She chased it past the new arrival on the porch and into the living room. As I waited for them to emerge, I couldn't help but notice that the other rooster was audibly gasping in horror from his corner of the porch. Soon, Bene exited the living room with the rooster in hand, grabbed a knife, and carried him to a side of the compound. Is it foolish to admit that only now did I realize this little guy was also going to be dinner?
I insisted upon watching while Bene held the little guy down with her foot on his wing, took it by the neck, and began sawing away, rather slowly I felt, at his throat. I assumed she would behead the thing, but she only cut it enough for it to bleed out, then twisted its head around while it flailed about. The twitching bird was then tossed into big bowl while she did the same to the second rooster. I'm not at all convinced that they were officially dead when Mama Kiri poured steaming water on their bodies and began ripping out their feathers. Of course, I've always known this is where our chicken comes from, but I think what caught me off guard was that these poor guys never had time to be regular corpses. Before my eyes, they went swiftly from living, scared-pantsless creatures to poultry in a matter of about 10 minutes.
I helped pluck the chickens, of course. What else could I do? Then Mama Kiri sawed them into a million pieces, cleaning them and throwing them into a pot. And yes, the head, the claws, and all innards except for the intestines were considered edible.
We waited until the next day to fry everything. The two chickens were served with French fries, plantains, green beans, and bread. As I sat with Mama Kiri to eat, I ripped into my previously-feathered friends in a manner that was as unladylike as I could muster. After seeing the process, I decided that chicken is not any more or less offensive than any other animal. Nor is any one part more or less edible, more or less part of a once living creature. I tore off anything my teeth could extract from the bone, and this time there was absolutely no one who could complain that I'd left too much on my plate.
The first event occurred a week ago at the home of Mama Christine's coworker. I was sitting in a plastic chair among 10 colorfully dressed women, half of whom were wearing the same dress as Mama Christine. Munching on my own personal bowl of shrimp crackers and popcorn, and watched as they discussed matters in Ngumbai that may or may not have been related to work. Eventually, huge platters of covered food were carried out by the host and her helpers. When it was time to eat, a girl came around to us one by one with soap and a kettle with which to wash our hands. When mine were washed, I followed the lead of the woman to my left and got up to eat. It looked great! Fried chicken, some kind of salad, and bread to soak up the juices. Someone served me the salad, and then plopped two big pieces of chicken on top. I sat down to enjoy, watching the people around me for cues. Most of them attacked the food with their hands, so I mostly let my fork fall by the wayside. I also noticed almost immediately that many of the women placed their chicken in little black plastic bags, like they were going to take them home. It made sense sort of, because this didn't happen to be a meal time. However, I had no such bag and I'm so totally aware that the one most basic cultural rules is that you must eat well in someone's home, and seeing as I had nothing else to offer to the group, I was happy to oblige. I finished my first bottle of Coke and they brought me another. I ate all the salad, all the juices, and what seemed to me like all the edible parts of the chicken that I'd been given. Content, I lay my plate in the table in front of me and went back to observing. A girl took my plate away and came back to open my second bottle of Coke. I put up a hand to say, "no, thank you, I don't need any more."
That was a mistake.
The woman next to me turned and addressed me. It took me a while to figure out what she was saying. I thought she was just affirming that I'd eaten a lot and that the food was good. But then, as she kept going, her face growing more and more stern, I realized with chagrin that she was scolding me for NOT eating! Everyone's attention turned to us as she reiterated how important it is to eat what your host provides, and that it is rude not to. I offered, "I did eat a lot," but she kept going. I got more desperate, "I ate it all," I said, and she scoffed. Apparently that was my mistake. I had not, in fact, eaten all of my chicken and they had all definitely noticed. Look at the hostess, she said. She is not happy because you didn't like her food. She directed my attention to the woman standing by the food table, shaking her head at me in disappointment. "I'm sorry," I pitifully choked in English, and many of them snickered in a way that suggested that they did not find my apology acceptable. Finally, after what felt like several minutes of discussion about my rudeness, the girl said, "you don't want your Coke?" and I just shook my head, having accepted that I was the bad guy.
On the way home, I tried once more to say to Mama Christine that I had thought that I'd eaten all of the chicken, and she said no I hadn't. So at this point all I could do was hope that out of all of this I had at least learned a lesson that would come into play someday. Never again would I not eat all of my chicken.
Fast forward one week.
I was sitting on a mat outside with Bene, who is kind of a little sister to me. We like reading French together out of her school textbook, as activity I cherish! Anyway, as we sat, enjoying the afternoon, our little rooster, so unassuming I thought it was a hen, wandered around clucking plaintively. It struck me as a rather sad chicken, and I remarked on its state. Bene laughed and regarded it, saying that it wanted a wife. Together, we made some more commentary, personifying this lonely guy and trying out different languages to engage him in conversation (ok, maybe that was just me) and went back to our reading.
A little while later, Mama Kiri, as I now call her, honked at the gate and Bene ran to let her in. When she dismounted from her motorcycle, she pulled a hanging chicken from off the handle and threw him onto the porch. From the way she handled it, I assumed it was dead, but once it hit the ground it jumped up into ready position as well as it could, though its legs were bound together. Its sides expanded and contracted dramatically as it took in its surroundings, wide eyed. I considered what its past 15 minutes had been like; he was sold, flung upside-down on a strange, loud machine, and carried this way at 20-30 miles per hour in the open air, to be dropped on its head in this new place. Mama Kiri told me, no big surprise, that we were going to eat him tomorrow.
I watched the bird. He was on high alert. His entire body kept leaning ever so slowly to the left until he would fall over and in a flash be up straight again. (It reminded me very much of watching someone who is trying not to fall asleep in public, but their head keeps dropping.) I wondered if he would be able to sleep tonight like this. If anything was broken. If he absolutely knew he was going to die. The other rooster, my new friend, wandered over, still clucking curiously, and I think he was disappointed to find that the humans had not, in fact, brought him a wife.
I continued to stare, aware that Mama Kiri's watchful eyes were on me, thinking what a strange girl she had taken in. Then, there was a sudden commotion! Bene was chasing the other rooster all over and across the compound! She chased it past the new arrival on the porch and into the living room. As I waited for them to emerge, I couldn't help but notice that the other rooster was audibly gasping in horror from his corner of the porch. Soon, Bene exited the living room with the rooster in hand, grabbed a knife, and carried him to a side of the compound. Is it foolish to admit that only now did I realize this little guy was also going to be dinner?
I insisted upon watching while Bene held the little guy down with her foot on his wing, took it by the neck, and began sawing away, rather slowly I felt, at his throat. I assumed she would behead the thing, but she only cut it enough for it to bleed out, then twisted its head around while it flailed about. The twitching bird was then tossed into big bowl while she did the same to the second rooster. I'm not at all convinced that they were officially dead when Mama Kiri poured steaming water on their bodies and began ripping out their feathers. Of course, I've always known this is where our chicken comes from, but I think what caught me off guard was that these poor guys never had time to be regular corpses. Before my eyes, they went swiftly from living, scared-pantsless creatures to poultry in a matter of about 10 minutes.
I helped pluck the chickens, of course. What else could I do? Then Mama Kiri sawed them into a million pieces, cleaning them and throwing them into a pot. And yes, the head, the claws, and all innards except for the intestines were considered edible.
We waited until the next day to fry everything. The two chickens were served with French fries, plantains, green beans, and bread. As I sat with Mama Kiri to eat, I ripped into my previously-feathered friends in a manner that was as unladylike as I could muster. After seeing the process, I decided that chicken is not any more or less offensive than any other animal. Nor is any one part more or less edible, more or less part of a once living creature. I tore off anything my teeth could extract from the bone, and this time there was absolutely no one who could complain that I'd left too much on my plate.
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
No School: Rain Day
This morning I awoke to my phone alarm, which was going crazy for a second time. I hadn't heard it 10 minutes earlier, apparently because it had been completely drowned out by the heavy rains pounding on the tin roof of my room. That's right! If you were picturing me sweating in unrelating, dry heat, you've got the wrong picture, because I've arrived smack dab in the middle of the rainy season. And when it rains, it pours! The tin roof accentuates the clatter impressively. To give you an idea, when I had my friend Ruth over the other day it began to rain so heavily that I was honestly screaming at the top of my lungs and she still could hardly make out my words!
So today, against this soundtrack, I groggily got ready with the aid of my solar lamp. The morning sky was still fairly dark, especially with the rain, and the power was out. It felt earlier than 6:30, and the rain made the thought of heading to Village Altonodji for my first day of one-on-one training feel a little more daunting than it had been the previous night. I took breakfast in my room before Mama Christine called me to come greet some of her friends in the living room. Packed and ready for school, I did so. I sat in the living room for quite a while as people passed in and out. Eventually I must have dozed off in the chair, because I heard my host mother tell me to go take a nap while it continued to rain. I was surprised that it was an option to simply not go to work while it was pouring, but I had been really dubious about how most people, who don't have cars like my family, were expected to get anywhere with only a few paved roads in our vicinity.
I awoke an hour later and decided, as the rains finally subsided, that it was not in the cards for me to go to school at all today because nobody was mentioning it. I asked, and my host father, Samuel, assured me that no one else had gone in due to the rain. However, it certainly didn't seem like anyone else's lives had stopped on account of it. Mama Christine came into the house in her beautiful yellow dress, totally soaked from head to foot from her motorcycle ride to the market, which she told me was as packed as ever.
No matter, I had a free day as I have had almost every day since my arrival. Today felt special, I think because there were enough little moments that just clicked, meaning they felt comfortable, nice, routine. Not a total guessing game!
For the remainder of the morning I hung out at home. My host sister, Mary Rose, is my age and home for about a week more before going to West Africa for the year. She currently has malaria and wanted to sit with me and learn English, so we spent some time going over the alphabet, colors, and important common phrases including such classics as, "I am sick" and "I am a strong, independent woman."
Following that, I sat outside with Bené, a girl who I understand is of some relation, but has been taken in by my host parents to help around the house. We officially broke the ice last night when I taught her how to make those cute string friendship bracelets, and we spent hours working on them together. Today, we sat on a mat on the covered porch and peeled dozens and dozens of little root vegetables that are called yam-somethingorother. There was a lot of giggling involved when we would loose grip of the vegetables and either drop them in the water or fling them into one another's laps.
Somewhere during the process, my host sister brought me an outfit of hers: a long sleeved shirt with a wrap skirt and headscarf. I tried it on and modeled it, much to my family's pleasure. They had me wear it all day.
As the day went on, it involved eating a lot of good, hot food, a few rides on the back of Mama Christine's motorcycle on errands and visits, and a lot of peaceful lounging. Even when there is nothing to say, it's amazing to me how much my hosts and I can find to laugh about and connect on. As Mama Christine and I were sitting on the porch in the evening, waiting for our chicken to cook, I started humming to myself the tune "We Are Marching in the Light of a God," which I knew from childhood. To my surprise, she casually began humming along. It turns out she recognized the song from a church choir! As we sat, singing a familiar song and laughing as the night set in, I definitely had one of my first feelings of being at home in this new place.
So today, against this soundtrack, I groggily got ready with the aid of my solar lamp. The morning sky was still fairly dark, especially with the rain, and the power was out. It felt earlier than 6:30, and the rain made the thought of heading to Village Altonodji for my first day of one-on-one training feel a little more daunting than it had been the previous night. I took breakfast in my room before Mama Christine called me to come greet some of her friends in the living room. Packed and ready for school, I did so. I sat in the living room for quite a while as people passed in and out. Eventually I must have dozed off in the chair, because I heard my host mother tell me to go take a nap while it continued to rain. I was surprised that it was an option to simply not go to work while it was pouring, but I had been really dubious about how most people, who don't have cars like my family, were expected to get anywhere with only a few paved roads in our vicinity.
I awoke an hour later and decided, as the rains finally subsided, that it was not in the cards for me to go to school at all today because nobody was mentioning it. I asked, and my host father, Samuel, assured me that no one else had gone in due to the rain. However, it certainly didn't seem like anyone else's lives had stopped on account of it. Mama Christine came into the house in her beautiful yellow dress, totally soaked from head to foot from her motorcycle ride to the market, which she told me was as packed as ever.
No matter, I had a free day as I have had almost every day since my arrival. Today felt special, I think because there were enough little moments that just clicked, meaning they felt comfortable, nice, routine. Not a total guessing game!
For the remainder of the morning I hung out at home. My host sister, Mary Rose, is my age and home for about a week more before going to West Africa for the year. She currently has malaria and wanted to sit with me and learn English, so we spent some time going over the alphabet, colors, and important common phrases including such classics as, "I am sick" and "I am a strong, independent woman."
Following that, I sat outside with Bené, a girl who I understand is of some relation, but has been taken in by my host parents to help around the house. We officially broke the ice last night when I taught her how to make those cute string friendship bracelets, and we spent hours working on them together. Today, we sat on a mat on the covered porch and peeled dozens and dozens of little root vegetables that are called yam-somethingorother. There was a lot of giggling involved when we would loose grip of the vegetables and either drop them in the water or fling them into one another's laps.
Somewhere during the process, my host sister brought me an outfit of hers: a long sleeved shirt with a wrap skirt and headscarf. I tried it on and modeled it, much to my family's pleasure. They had me wear it all day.
As the day went on, it involved eating a lot of good, hot food, a few rides on the back of Mama Christine's motorcycle on errands and visits, and a lot of peaceful lounging. Even when there is nothing to say, it's amazing to me how much my hosts and I can find to laugh about and connect on. As Mama Christine and I were sitting on the porch in the evening, waiting for our chicken to cook, I started humming to myself the tune "We Are Marching in the Light of a God," which I knew from childhood. To my surprise, she casually began humming along. It turns out she recognized the song from a church choir! As we sat, singing a familiar song and laughing as the night set in, I definitely had one of my first feelings of being at home in this new place.
Saturday, September 6, 2014
Welcome to your new life- Part 2
Wednesday morning, the very first in my new home, I awoke bright and early to take my breakfast in my room. I'd been pleased to learn upon my arrival that I was going to get to visit Village Altonodji for training straight away, even though classes don't begin for another month. Once I'd enjoyed my baguette and hot insta-milk, my host father, Samuel, and I got in the car and made the quick trip to the school.
It was a big moment driving through the gates of the campus that will largely be my home this year. It is lush beyond belief, with tall wild grasses growing between all of the concrete yellow buildings. Because of the recent rains, my host father navigated us past huge, deep puddles that positively glistened in the morning sun!
I figured I was first going to receive a tour or something, but as Samuel led me into the first building, the chapel, I found myself facing about 20 people who's attention was on a male speaker standing next to me. I was introduced to the speaker, and led to a folding chair to the right of the pews. As my host father left, I heard him introduce me to the group, adding that I spoke little French. Then he departed, and I was officially in training!
For the next 8 1/2 hours, except for a quick trip home for lunch, I sat in the chapel and began to have those warm fuzzy WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO feelings as the two speakers instructed us in French on a number of pedagogical concepts. If I kidded myself before that I understand enough French to at least know what general topic is being discussed at any given time, I certainly am not laughing now. I was totally lost. At first, I was somewhat on edge, thinking that at any moment they would ask me a question, or the session would end and I'd have to figure out what was happening next, but as time went on, I realized that this was likely going to last the whole day, and furthermore, nobody seemed to assume that I understood anything. Fortunately, before too long, a man sat beside me and said, "Hello, how are you?" adding that he was another English teacher who was going to help me. I was very appreciative to have a fellow English speaker there to assist, but throughout the day, his input was minimal, and was eventually limited to explaining why everyone in the room would suddenly be roaring with laughter, and even so, I never really understood the jokes.
That evening, I felt ready to drop at any moment, but I forced myself to sit with the short reading assignment we'd been given and write a thorough translation, making about a million references to my French-English dictionary. Only when that was completed did I let myself pass out and rest up for the next round. Come morning, I was the first one to arrive at the chapel, and soon my English speaking friend and the others were there to join me. And guess what! I was much less bewildered. The group spent the first hour or so reviewing the day's reading, so I actually knew what the topic of discussion was this time around, and I found that a lot of the vocabulary from the previous night's reading was coming into play today, This time, instead of hoping that the language might just sink into me as I sat, I wrote down anything I could pick out, and shamelessly poured over my poor, overworked dictionary the whole time. I asked questions of my new mentor, and felt a small sense of victory every time I understood, or recognized, a new word. So basically, I don't know if my understanding was any better, or if my expectations were just different (much lower), but I found the second day much more energizing. I'm fact, I was sorry to realize that I might not have more opportunities like this, to spend all day in a safe place where I can hear a ton of French without the obligation to respond or even understand it all! Furthermore, to be armed with a dictionary and a friend who was constantly happy to answer my questions, it was a pretty sweet deal!
At the end of the day, members of the administration, including Samuel, came for a bit of a closing ceremony in which we were each presented with an official certificate of completion. I received mine somewhat sheepishly, and to the friendly laughter of the others in attendance, because I didn't exactly participate nor did I take away many of the intended concepts for my mental toolbox. But by golly, I'm going to hold onto that certificate as a reminder that when things are overwhelming during this year of radically new experiences, there is clarity at the end of the tunnel. It will take a lot of effort on my part. It will take a lot of patience and assistance from others. Some things will just take time, or a few good nights' sleep. But I know that with every passing minute, I am learning a great deal here, and that with each small step, I am working my way to a much greater understanding of my surroundings. So for now, I'm pretty happy to be in this place of almost complete mystery, because there's nowhere to go but up!
It was a big moment driving through the gates of the campus that will largely be my home this year. It is lush beyond belief, with tall wild grasses growing between all of the concrete yellow buildings. Because of the recent rains, my host father navigated us past huge, deep puddles that positively glistened in the morning sun!
I figured I was first going to receive a tour or something, but as Samuel led me into the first building, the chapel, I found myself facing about 20 people who's attention was on a male speaker standing next to me. I was introduced to the speaker, and led to a folding chair to the right of the pews. As my host father left, I heard him introduce me to the group, adding that I spoke little French. Then he departed, and I was officially in training!
For the next 8 1/2 hours, except for a quick trip home for lunch, I sat in the chapel and began to have those warm fuzzy WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO feelings as the two speakers instructed us in French on a number of pedagogical concepts. If I kidded myself before that I understand enough French to at least know what general topic is being discussed at any given time, I certainly am not laughing now. I was totally lost. At first, I was somewhat on edge, thinking that at any moment they would ask me a question, or the session would end and I'd have to figure out what was happening next, but as time went on, I realized that this was likely going to last the whole day, and furthermore, nobody seemed to assume that I understood anything. Fortunately, before too long, a man sat beside me and said, "Hello, how are you?" adding that he was another English teacher who was going to help me. I was very appreciative to have a fellow English speaker there to assist, but throughout the day, his input was minimal, and was eventually limited to explaining why everyone in the room would suddenly be roaring with laughter, and even so, I never really understood the jokes.
That evening, I felt ready to drop at any moment, but I forced myself to sit with the short reading assignment we'd been given and write a thorough translation, making about a million references to my French-English dictionary. Only when that was completed did I let myself pass out and rest up for the next round. Come morning, I was the first one to arrive at the chapel, and soon my English speaking friend and the others were there to join me. And guess what! I was much less bewildered. The group spent the first hour or so reviewing the day's reading, so I actually knew what the topic of discussion was this time around, and I found that a lot of the vocabulary from the previous night's reading was coming into play today, This time, instead of hoping that the language might just sink into me as I sat, I wrote down anything I could pick out, and shamelessly poured over my poor, overworked dictionary the whole time. I asked questions of my new mentor, and felt a small sense of victory every time I understood, or recognized, a new word. So basically, I don't know if my understanding was any better, or if my expectations were just different (much lower), but I found the second day much more energizing. I'm fact, I was sorry to realize that I might not have more opportunities like this, to spend all day in a safe place where I can hear a ton of French without the obligation to respond or even understand it all! Furthermore, to be armed with a dictionary and a friend who was constantly happy to answer my questions, it was a pretty sweet deal!
At the end of the day, members of the administration, including Samuel, came for a bit of a closing ceremony in which we were each presented with an official certificate of completion. I received mine somewhat sheepishly, and to the friendly laughter of the others in attendance, because I didn't exactly participate nor did I take away many of the intended concepts for my mental toolbox. But by golly, I'm going to hold onto that certificate as a reminder that when things are overwhelming during this year of radically new experiences, there is clarity at the end of the tunnel. It will take a lot of effort on my part. It will take a lot of patience and assistance from others. Some things will just take time, or a few good nights' sleep. But I know that with every passing minute, I am learning a great deal here, and that with each small step, I am working my way to a much greater understanding of my surroundings. So for now, I'm pretty happy to be in this place of almost complete mystery, because there's nowhere to go but up!
Welcome to your new life- part 1
As of Tuesday, I have become an inhabitant of the city of Moundou! Following an 8 hour bus ride from N'Djamena, which I spent comfortably snoozing and marveling at the increasingly beautiful landscapes out my window, My friend Ruth and I arrived at the bus stop into the capable hands of two men connected with MCC. I'm sure I will introduce you to them later. We had a delicious meal, together with our host families, and then parted ways. I am living, at least for now, with the director of Village Altonodji, the school where I will teach.
When we arrived at home, my host mother showed me to my beautiful room! That is also something that deserves it's own blog post. It is huge and could easily double as a living room, but I have it all reserved for myself! I was then led to the living room, where my host mother, Christine, and I sat and got acquainted for the next couple of hours. Now, it's time to mention that Moundou has very spotty electricity, and for the majority of my first few hours there, we were operating without lights. This hardly posed a problem during daylight hours, but it became very apparent as we sat into the evening. As if it's not hard enough faking your way through a conversation in a different language, try doing it as the sun sets and you can no longer rely on any visual cues to guide you! That's not to say that I didn't have a wonderful time getting to know my host mother. We spent a lot of time drilling Ngambai phrases, as it is my ambition to hit the ground running with my language study.
The best part of the evening came when Christine told me she wanted me to listen to a song. She took me by the hand and led me into her daughter's section of the house where a worship song was playing on the television. Almost mischievously, she smiled at me and started dancing a little. I joined in, much to the delight of their niece, who saw and started shouting for her cousin, Christine's daughter, to come watch. We danced around the room while the two laughed at us, and I'll even admit that some air instruments were pulled out. Now, of course I felt pretty silly playing an air keyboard and marching around someone's room basically upon meeting them, but I've got to say, if I had to describe a personal philosophy about how to happily live with a host family, based on my experience in Senegal, and now in Moundou, I think it would be that if someone asks you to dance, even on the first night, you better get your hips moving straight away!
At night, and every night since then, my host mother sat with me in my room and prayed with me. Among other things, I heard her ask God to bless me as I work hard to learn French and Ngambai, which made me feel like this host family was already invested in my well-being, and I found very comforting. I went to bed happy on my first night here!
Monday, September 1, 2014
I Spy (from out my car window)
This morning, as we ran errands with our MCC representative, Angela Austin, we received our most thorough peak at the city of N'Djamena so far. Up until this point, I've only had glimpses of the buildings within walking distance of our home, save for the exciting sights and smells of the Grande Marché (the mostly outdoor market) a taxi ride away. Today, we passed the looming presidential palace, the concrete soccer stadium, and the Place de la Nation, a park built around a huge arch and a statue of a man that I yet need to have explained. As much as I wanted to take in the buildings surrounding us, it was nearly impossible for the first stretch of the drive to tear my attention from the chaos ensuing before us! Angela, with impressive courage and apparent ease, weaved through a mess of people plowing through the streets in their cars, on foot, and especially on motorbikes (it was more likely that someone was carrying an infant than wearing a helmet). It's truly remarkable to see how any space that is large enough to fit one's vehicle is absolutely fair game, and if you're not willing to move with confidence and entitlement, mostly ignoring the white lines, you are likely to be honked at for being in the way. Angela says she only got behind the wheel after nine months of living here, which frankly I find premature!
We stopped by the immigration office to verify our papers, picked up necessities at a number of grocery stores, and collected some cute Austin children from their international school in the city. Afterwards, I discovered that your car can be a one-stop shop here in N'Djamena! When Angela parked on the side of the road to purchase a SIM card and pre-paid minutes for our phones, a man came right up to the car to handle the transaction. He was Angela's regular phone guy. While he stepped away to get our cards, other vendors came by offering produce and other items. Angela patiently and courteously declined some of these offers, but, as we sat there, distributed sticks of gum to some visiting children, made change for an older man, and purchased enough oranges for her whole family to enjoy at dinner. I considered that if your shopping list was short and you knew exactly where to go, doing errands could be as simple as pulling up to a drive-in theater!
Returning home, we passed a beautiful array of merchants lined up beneath umbrellas of every imaginable color. I can't estimate how many people made their livelihoods along that stretch of road, but according to Angela, I was only seeing a fraction of what had been. Only a few months ago, the long dirt expanse behind them had been occupied by vendors, but one day, without warning, it was bulldozed away. Of course, people were dismayed and furious, and now they are picking up the pieces and making due with the limited space now reserved for them.
I'm greatly looking forward to heading out of the city tomorrow, into Moundou, the town where I will be living this year. I imagine that during the 6-7 hour drive, I'll get to see a much bigger slice of the country!
We stopped by the immigration office to verify our papers, picked up necessities at a number of grocery stores, and collected some cute Austin children from their international school in the city. Afterwards, I discovered that your car can be a one-stop shop here in N'Djamena! When Angela parked on the side of the road to purchase a SIM card and pre-paid minutes for our phones, a man came right up to the car to handle the transaction. He was Angela's regular phone guy. While he stepped away to get our cards, other vendors came by offering produce and other items. Angela patiently and courteously declined some of these offers, but, as we sat there, distributed sticks of gum to some visiting children, made change for an older man, and purchased enough oranges for her whole family to enjoy at dinner. I considered that if your shopping list was short and you knew exactly where to go, doing errands could be as simple as pulling up to a drive-in theater!
Returning home, we passed a beautiful array of merchants lined up beneath umbrellas of every imaginable color. I can't estimate how many people made their livelihoods along that stretch of road, but according to Angela, I was only seeing a fraction of what had been. Only a few months ago, the long dirt expanse behind them had been occupied by vendors, but one day, without warning, it was bulldozed away. Of course, people were dismayed and furious, and now they are picking up the pieces and making due with the limited space now reserved for them.
I'm greatly looking forward to heading out of the city tomorrow, into Moundou, the town where I will be living this year. I imagine that during the 6-7 hour drive, I'll get to see a much bigger slice of the country!
Saturday, August 30, 2014
read with a grain of S.A.L.T.
Welcome! Before you proceed, (or later today, if you must wait) please watch this important TED talk. It has set the tone for how I'd like to approach my story-telling for this coming year.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=D9Ihs241zeg
Bridge-building: It's the prospect of the SALT (Serving And Learning Together) program that most excites me as I begin my term. For a whole year, I will have the pleasure of living, eating, learning, dancing, singing, worshiping, bartering, and more, with members of my global family who I never expected to get to know! Simultaneously, I'm hopeful that I can bring some of my experiences back to friends at home, doing a small part in tearing down barriers between our worlds. I've been gifted with the unlikely opportunity to be a window into life in a country (population over 12 million) that some of you have never encountered up until now. And I'm honored to get to reveal a new part of the world to my readers. However, with great power comes great responsibility, and this responsibility was weighing heavily on me as I completed SALT orientation and began to fly across the Atlantic to reach Chad. So, I'd like to begin my jottings with a disclaimer:
This blog is not really about Chad.
As much as I don't want to admit it, this blog is really just about me and the way I'm grappling with being plucked from my home and dropped in a new culture. The reason I want to emphasize this is because I don't want anyone to get the impression that the things I put down in this space are necessarily "true" of Chad, of Chadians, and especially of Africa as a whole. Of course, I'm not going to tell any lies, but I'm also sure that my reality isn't even going to look like that of the other SALTers who are sitting right beside me as I type. Even as we regaled Angela and John, the M.C.C. representatives here in N'Djamena, with stories of our adventure in the market this morning, I was very aware of disparities between how we interpreted basic transactions of, say, some potatoes.
Did you know that eye-witness accounts make poor testimonies in courts? It's because every story is just a way to articulate our perceptions, which can be far from accurate. In the same way, the snippets that I can share about my life in Chad are not as much hard facts about the country as they are reflections of me; my perceptions, my judgments, my stereotypes, my fears, my education, etc.
I feel especially hesitant to share my experiences, because the nature of my assignment with M.C.C. is one that may feed into detrimental stereotypes that many North Americans hold about Africa as a whole. I will be teaching English to children, many of whom have lost at least one parent. I have heard the death is a bitterly prevalent part of life for most people in Chad, and I'm sure I will encounter heartbreaking stories and scenes. But it is hugely important to me that you, the readers, allow your growing schemas of Chad to include the beautiful and simple stories as well. Don't do what I might be likely to do, and hold on only to memorable images that evoke pity.
I acknowledge it's maybe pretentious to ask these favors of you at the onset of this blog, (Seriously, don't forget to watch the video!!!) because I can't predict who might actually read it, nor can I predict what stories I will have to share with you. With that said, I think if we don't all proceed with caution, taking my stories with a grain of salt, we may decide that my one story is adequate to understand the dynamic lives of millions of people. What I want is to make your worlds bigger with this blog, rather than box those people in. With that said, I can't wait to start sharing! Check in again soon for more. I promise to start including actual anecdotes and fewer sermons for the time being. :)
Bridge-building: It's the prospect of the SALT (Serving And Learning Together) program that most excites me as I begin my term. For a whole year, I will have the pleasure of living, eating, learning, dancing, singing, worshiping, bartering, and more, with members of my global family who I never expected to get to know! Simultaneously, I'm hopeful that I can bring some of my experiences back to friends at home, doing a small part in tearing down barriers between our worlds. I've been gifted with the unlikely opportunity to be a window into life in a country (population over 12 million) that some of you have never encountered up until now. And I'm honored to get to reveal a new part of the world to my readers. However, with great power comes great responsibility, and this responsibility was weighing heavily on me as I completed SALT orientation and began to fly across the Atlantic to reach Chad. So, I'd like to begin my jottings with a disclaimer:
This blog is not really about Chad.
As much as I don't want to admit it, this blog is really just about me and the way I'm grappling with being plucked from my home and dropped in a new culture. The reason I want to emphasize this is because I don't want anyone to get the impression that the things I put down in this space are necessarily "true" of Chad, of Chadians, and especially of Africa as a whole. Of course, I'm not going to tell any lies, but I'm also sure that my reality isn't even going to look like that of the other SALTers who are sitting right beside me as I type. Even as we regaled Angela and John, the M.C.C. representatives here in N'Djamena, with stories of our adventure in the market this morning, I was very aware of disparities between how we interpreted basic transactions of, say, some potatoes.
Did you know that eye-witness accounts make poor testimonies in courts? It's because every story is just a way to articulate our perceptions, which can be far from accurate. In the same way, the snippets that I can share about my life in Chad are not as much hard facts about the country as they are reflections of me; my perceptions, my judgments, my stereotypes, my fears, my education, etc.
I feel especially hesitant to share my experiences, because the nature of my assignment with M.C.C. is one that may feed into detrimental stereotypes that many North Americans hold about Africa as a whole. I will be teaching English to children, many of whom have lost at least one parent. I have heard the death is a bitterly prevalent part of life for most people in Chad, and I'm sure I will encounter heartbreaking stories and scenes. But it is hugely important to me that you, the readers, allow your growing schemas of Chad to include the beautiful and simple stories as well. Don't do what I might be likely to do, and hold on only to memorable images that evoke pity.
I acknowledge it's maybe pretentious to ask these favors of you at the onset of this blog, (Seriously, don't forget to watch the video!!!) because I can't predict who might actually read it, nor can I predict what stories I will have to share with you. With that said, I think if we don't all proceed with caution, taking my stories with a grain of salt, we may decide that my one story is adequate to understand the dynamic lives of millions of people. What I want is to make your worlds bigger with this blog, rather than box those people in. With that said, I can't wait to start sharing! Check in again soon for more. I promise to start including actual anecdotes and fewer sermons for the time being. :)
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