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.
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