Thursday, March 22, 2012

let me get the ball rolling and tell you about grading papers

               When I was little, I used to play “school” with my babysitters.  I would make them sit on the couch as I strutted around the room, calling out spelling words and explaining new vocabulary in a prestigious, egotistical sort of way.  I would get angry and embarrassed when the babysitter would laugh at me or pretend like she knew more than I did.  I was the teacher, after all.

                Grading papers was the best.  I would collect the spelling test, or the pop quiz, or the essay, and mark all over the paper until it bled with red ink.  I loved making comments the most.  “Great job!”  “Amazing!!! J”  “Nice work!”  I don’t know why, but it somehow made me feel important.  I felt that I could really influence my student by what I wrote on her paper. 

                Now that I really am a teacher, things haven’t changed much.

                I will openly admit that I LOVE to grade papers, namely compositions.  Especially now that my students speak English as a second language.  They try to use fancy idioms and proverbs in their writing that usually don’t fit in with what they are trying to say.

                Last week, my 7th graders wrote a composition about what they want to be when they grow up.  Most of their introductions began something like this:
  •           “Let me get the ball rolling by telling you what I want to be when I grow up.”
  •          “Let me take this moment to break the ice and tell you about what I want to be when I grow up.”
  •          In black and white, when I grow up I want to be a nurse.”
  •      “I’ll blaze a trail by telling you about what I want to be when I grow up.”

The rest of the paragraphs were mostly jumbled and confusing.  All of the “nurses” said something along the lines of wanting to be a nurse to “wash her clothes” or to “give them medicine and injections”.  When I asked them if nurses in Lesotho wash their patients’ clothes, they laughed and walked away embarrassed.  I still don’t know whose clothes they were interested in washing.

I was impressed with some other students’ writing abilities.  One of my best students explained that she wanted to work for the Ministry of Education as a researcher in impoverished areas of the country.  As an orphan herself, she said that she wanted to bring school supplies and provide scholarships to orphans in rural areas who would otherwise be forgotten. 

For the better part of last week, we worked on perfecting our compositions about what we want to be when we grow up.  To my dissatisfaction, I used less and less red ink on their papers as the week went on.  Instead, I drew smiley faces and stars and “Well done!!!”s all over the page.  As I graded, I even exclaimed “WOW!!!!!!” out loud to the class.  They all simultaneously would look up from their desks and smile, only to bend down again and scribble away furiously on their papers.  By Friday, the students were thrilled with their final drafts.  I even read some of the better compositions out loud to the class, to the mixed embarrassment and pleasure of the authors. 

Their usual class teacher was absent for most of the week because her child was ill, so they were anxious to present to her what they had written. 

This week I’m on the rotation again, working at a different school.  Mahloenyeng 7th graders learned a fun one this week: what sounds do animals make?  You can only imagine me in a classroom full of 13- and 14-year olds purring, roaring, and whinnying.  I’ll tell you, no two days in Lesotho are ever the same. 

Saturday, March 17, 2012

lost in the woods

                One year ago today, I was wandering down the Las Vegas strip in the mid-morning sunlight with two of my best friends.  We were stumbling around in that confused, hazy limbo between hung over and still drunk from the night before.  We were armed with vodka-slushies and decked out head-to-toe in green for St. Patrick’s Day.  For some reason, we were becoming best friends with everyone on the strip that morning.   We took pictures with tiny men dressed up as leprechauns in the doorways of casinos; we overexcitedly screamed out the names of anyone we recognized on the street like it’d been years since we saw them, even though we hardly knew them back at university.  For some reason, everyone went to Vegas for our senior year spring break.  

                Today, I spent the day at a track field with my students, watching them race in the blazing sun from underneath the cool shade of my umbrella.  I came home alone, exhausted, and celebrated St. Patty’s Day by pouring myself a glass of wine—when I say glass, I mean a fancy Nalgene bottle.  I got a little crazy after that, so I washed the dishes while singing out loud to my iPod.  And now, I’m writing you this blog post by the twinkling light of my paraffin lamp, waiting for this bowl of beans next to me to cool down enough to start eating.   

                Holy shit, how life can change in a year. 

                It blows my mind to think of what I used to consider “normal”.  Things like driving a car to go to the grocery store eight blocks away.  Taking a hot shower.  Eating cold foods—and drinking cold drinks.  Turning on a dishwasher.  Worrying about “repeating outfits” too many weekends in a row.  Walking to the mailbox at night.  Going to drive-thrus. 

                What blows my mind even more is what I consider normal now.  Going to bed at 8:30pm, and waking up at 5am.  Seeing a herd of cows walk past the window during class.  Peeing in a bucket.  Wondering when my unrefrigerated milk and cheese will go bad.  Rushing home at dusk so that wild dog won’t chase me again.  Fetching water in a bucket.

                They say that one thing all human beings crave is routine.  Something normal.  Even the most globetrotting of types have a general “routine”, whether they notice it or not.  The way you brush your teeth.  The direction in which you swirl soap in your palms to wash your hands.  The side of your head that you start brushing first.  The side of your mouth that you chew with first.  Anywhere in the world, and you will adhere to these tiny, insignificant personal routines.

                Getting over big changes in life is about finding your routine after it’s been unexpectedly taken away.  It’s like becoming lost while wandering down a path in the woods.  Your heart stops.  You panic.  You start to wonder where you went wrong, where you turned off the path and how you will get back.  Your mind races about what might happen if you’re lost forever—or maybe not forever, but for a while.  Do you have cell service?  Should you scream for help?  How much sunlight is left in the day until you’re stuck in the dark wilderness for the night?  What will you eat?  Where will you sleep?  Is there anyone out there to help you?

                Of course, you only know this feeling if you’ve ever had the misfortune of being lost in the woods.  Growing up in the piney forests of Colorado, it happened to me a couple of times.  Maybe for you, it was getting separated from your parents in the shopping mall when you were 7-years old.  Regardless, the feeling is the same.  It’s this primal fear of being completely and utterly lost.

                But then, suddenly, the rocky ground in front of you vanishes away into a trodden-down path.  You recognize that crooked tree on your right, and you know you’ve been here before.  Your heart slows down, and one foot automatically follows the other in a sense of recognition, and you’re once again enjoying that walk in the woods.  And strangely, an overwhelming sense of happiness takes over, because you know that you’re not alone and lost in the middle of nowhere.  

Saturday, March 10, 2012

momma hen

                Ever since school started in January, my students have been practicing for the infamous Moshoeshoe’s Day.  From the beginning, I had a love/hate relationship with Moshoeshoe’s Day, because since January, our afternoons have been dedicated to practicing various extracurricular activities instead of attending regular classes.  It just seemed like a complete waste of time.
                Oh, by the way, it’s pronounced “Moh-shway-shway”.  I didn’t guess the first time I read it, either.
Moshoeshoe’s Day rolls around every March.  It’s a day to celebrate the founding father of Lesotho and (all three of) his subsequent ancestors.  For Moshoeshoe’s Day, schools across the country compete in traditional cultural activities, such as dancing and singing, and not-so-traditional activities, such as “athletics”—or what we would call track and field. 
I have to admit, the traditional dances are so cool.  We don’t have anything like a “traditional American dance” that we can proudly showcase on the 4th of July.  The twist?  The hand jive?  Can you imagine schools training for months to have a national Hand Jive competition?   
The boys have a dance where they do high-kicks and stomp around with bells attached to their ankles, all while jabbing sticks in the air and acting threatening to anyone who happens to be nearby watching.  They wear colorful man-skirts and long, bright feathers attached at their shins.  Despite the costumes involved, it’s actually a pretty testosterone-filled dance.  My students are anywhere between 10 and 15-years old, but when they start doing this dance, all of the sudden they spontaneously grunt out loud in these deep, manly voices, and hold their little muscular arms outstretched like a rooster showing off by fluffing up his feathers. 
The girls have a couple of dances; one is Lesotho’s version of the Beyonce booty shake.  They wear short, thick grass skirts with loud bells attached underneath, so when they pop their butts in the air, the grass flies up just enough to see their tiny (and usually naked) butts underneath.  They pop their booties to the rhythm of a deep bass drum being pounded by one of their classmates.  The simultaneous clinging of the bells in their skirts makes the whole thing sound so… tribal.  Also, traditionally, most of the girls go topless during the dance.  Apparently this is all OK—the girls are still too young for it to be considered inappropriate.  To my surprise, my 7th grade girls (who are not too young to still look like boys) were totally comfortable wandering around topless for a good part of the afternoon of Moshoeshoe’s Day.  A part of me was jealous; never in my dreams would I have been that confident at 13-years old. 
The second girls’ dance is more of a shoulder-pop move, where they kneel on the ground and move their shoulders back and forth in harsh rhythm to the deep bass of a drum while waving feathers or sticks in the air.  Their costume for this dance is much more conservative: a long, flowing skirt matched with a buttoned-up blouse. 
Maybe I should have mentioned this a few paragraphs up: today was Moshoeshoe’s Day.  Finally, after months of practicing choir songs in a stuffy, overcrowded classroom, and running sprints in the scorching afternoon heat, and monotonously clapping along to the rhythmic beat of an African drum (an overturned large plastic bucket), we were ready to compete.
We left school this morning around 9:00am—only an hour later than when we were actually supposed to leave.  Not bad for Basotho time.  We had arranged for three taxi-vans to pick us up from school.  When the taxis pulled up with electronic music playing at deafeningly full blast from the speakers, the kids were uncontrollable.  We finally got them all loaded in, and after a strict talk about not dangling their bodies out the window while we speeded down the highway, we were off.
We drove to a nearby elementary school, about 15 minutes northeast from our school.  We were the last of eight schools to arrive.  We quickly met with the other schools’ staff members for a coffee and bread in the teachers’ lounge before the day began. 
We started with athletics—100 meter, 200 meter, 500 meter, and relay race.  It took hours.  By the end of it all, I felt awful for my kids.  They were so exhausted, and water was extremely limited.  I spent most of the afternoon either screaming along the sidelines at my students during the races or herding the tired, hot kids underneath my umbrella and in the shadow of my skirt to rest in the shade.  I felt like a real Momma Hen. 
On the way back home, electro music blaring from the speakers and the bass so loud that my ponytail quivered with every beat, the kids still screamed and danced just as enthusiastically as they did at 9:00am on our way to the fields.  They were just totally overtaken with excitement and happiness from the day’s activities. 
I couldn’t help but think back to similar events during my middle school days—field trips, school carnivals, ice cream socials—they were the only thing you ever had to be preoccupied about for months.  Nothing else really mattered.  And the “day of” was so overwhelming, that I would think about it for weeks afterwards.
My kids are surely no different.  I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face for the rest of the ride home.  For some reason, I felt so proud and happy to be a part of such an important day for them this year.  I wanted to squeeze all of them and tell them individually how well they did in the day’s events and how proud I was of them.  I think that would have been a little creepy, so instead I showed them videos taken on my cell phone during their traditional dances.  Their faces lit up when they saw themselves on the screen.  They didn’t need me to tell them anything; they were proud for themselves.   

Monday, March 5, 2012

the toughest job you'll ever love

                I had chicken last night for dinner.  Eating chicken is really thrilling when you only get it every couple of weeks.  Even when it comes vacuum-sealed in a can with sea salt water. 

                I sautéed it with onions, garlic, a little bit of olive oil, and a handful of the first harvest of green beans from my garden.  Tossed it all together with brown rice and soy sauce.  I couldn’t have been happier.  Except, it’s not very exciting to have great meals when you are by yourself listening to the news on the radio and eating at a primary school desk.  So I celebrated by popping a Tylenol PM and reading in my bed, falling asleep by 9:30pm (It was a late night. Really.).    

                When you are applying for the Peace Corps, they say that it’s the “toughest job you’ll ever love”.  And they aren’t lying.  They say you’ll have “your highest highs, and your lowest lows”. 

                Today was a low.

                Not that I am not happy here, or that I am wishing I were somewhere else.  Hours or days will pass where I am on the brink of packing up my suitcase and saying, “F@#! it, I am out of here!!!”  But usually, if I wait it out, the feeling passes. 

                Yesterday, I got home from spending the entire weekend with American friends.  My friend Heather spent the night on Friday; we watched “The Holiday” and ate bean soup and chocolate cake and drank red wine.  For breakfast the next morning, we polished off the chocolate cake (this time, topping it with peanut butter) and sat around reading People magazine.  Saturday, we went to a “camping event” with two other volunteers.  We played Frisbee in a park and walked around collecting firewood to cook an early dinner.  We spent the night drinking quarts of beer and watching reruns of cartoons from the ‘90s. 

                Needless to say, I was a bit disappointed returning to my site Sunday morning, slightly hung over, and immediately bombarded by my students as soon as I stepped off the taxi.  I decided that I was going to shut myself inside my house all day and relax.  It sounds antisocial, but believe me, sometimes you just need those kind of days.

                Of course, it was the one day where absolutely everyone in the village decided they wanted to come and visit me.  A couple of times after hearing knocking at the door and turning my visitors away (“I am sick today my friend, so sorry!”) I decided just to ignore the knocking and lay down for a nap.  Twenty minutes after closing my eyes, I heard knocking again and the voices of girls whispering excitedly outside.  I didn’t move.  I figured that if I didn’t make any noise, they would think that I wasn’t home and turn away.  

                Nope!   They walked right into my house.  What the hell??  Not okay.  They were all smiles seeing me curled up on my bed, but their eyes got wide when I quickly hopped up and scolded them for barging into my house without knocking.  Looking back on it now, maybe I was a bit harsh…but, I didn’t even know these girls.  They weren’t my students; they were high schoolers who were probably just coming over out of curiosity.  I think I gave them a pretty good scare as I ushered them out and slammed the door behind them; one of them managed to squeak out a “I am so sorry, madam!” before she scampered away.

                I started off this morning with a steaming mug of Starbucks Mocha (courtesy of my latest package from Grandma!) and BBC World News on the radio.  I was at school on time, as were (most) of the other teachers.  Actually, all of the teachers except the one who really matters—the one I teach with.  Great.  The principal suggested that I wait around to see if my teacher would show up in time for class.  She didn’t. 
  
                An hour after school began, the principal announced that she needed to leave to go to the bank in town.  Cool.  I was left in the teacher’s lounge alone for the rest of the morning.  Luckily, I brought my computer and let it charge while I typed up a copy of a teacher’s guide I am writing for a novel in grade seven. 

                Lunchtime rolled around, and all of the other teachers filtered into the office.  For the entire hour and a half of lunch, they sat around and spoke rapid-fire Sesotho.  I sat in silence.  I understand that English is not their first language, but do you know what it feels like to be sitting in a room full of people and feeling completely invisible?

                 We practiced choir in the afternoon which lifted my spirits a bit.  I stood in the back row with my 7th grade boys.  They were so funny trying to sing bass with cracking voices and dance to the rhythm of the song with awkward long legs.  They remind me of my brothers when they were 13- and 14-years old.  I pretended to tap some of them on their opposite shoulder while they were standing next to me, and they got a kick out of me trying to sing Sesotho songs in a deep voice. 

Suddenly behind us, two younger boys got into a fist fight, punching each other in the face and eventually rolling around on the ground.  The other teachers just stood by and watched until some students pulled them apart.  I was confused as to why the teachers didn’t jump in—but I wasn’t about to step in and separate the boys by myself.

                After choir, the boys were called into the office.  I was finishing up working on our new library when one of the teachers asked me to leave the room so he could “deal with these boys”.  I stepped outside, and a few seconds after they shut the door behind me, I understood why.  One of the boys started screaming as he got his punishment.  The other female teachers standing outside with me laughed it off, but I tried to distract myself by checking my Facebook on my phone and wandering a bit further away from the building.  I understand that corporal punishment is an inevitable part of schooling in Lesotho, but that doesn’t make it any easier to witness.

                Getting home this afternoon, I poured myself a vodka lemonade and popped in my iPod to some country music. 

                Two melancholic days alone is two too many.  I decided to walk over to my (other) principal’s house to talk about work stuff.  This principal is also my “introductory liaison”, or my go-to person for cultural questions in my village, since she lives about a half hour walk from my house.  I didn’t really need to talk about anything; I just wanted to hang out at her house.  She makes me feel like I am a part of her family.  Her daughter is my age and likes to talk about shoes and hair and boyfriends.  Her husband reminds me of my own Dad.  He is serious and stern, but occasionally, he shows his sensitive side—like when he gave me a tour of his chicken coop and explained in broken English how to raise a proper rooster.

                I found my principal sitting on the side of the road, jolly as usual, and eating a peach.  She immediately called over her gardener and ordered him to fill a bag of peaches from her orchard for me.

                I can honestly say that it’s been a long time since I’ve been happier to see someone.

                She explained that she’d been flopped on the side of the road for a half hour or so waiting for a taxi so she could go and visit her friend.  Obviously, she insisted that I come along.  I was hesitant at first; I didn’t want to get home very late, and I didn’t want to sit around in a room with more people speaking a language that I don’t understand. 

                But I couldn’t say no.

                Soon enough, a taxi pulled up, completely full, and as a last-minute attempt to escape to the safety and loneliness of my hut, I told her to squeeze into the taxi alone and that I would catch up with her later.

                “No!  We are going together!”

                The best thing that you can do for yourself when you are feeling lonesome is to get out.  Get out and talk, to anyone, or anything… luckily, here in Lesotho, that’s not too hard being a girl and the only white person within five villages of my house. 

                I’m so happy that I shoved myself in this taxi with my cheerful principal.  Once inside the taxi, I even met up with the lady who fed me a chicken foot the other day.  I didn’t understand what everyone was laughing about, but I’m pretty sure she was explaining to the entire taxi what my face must’ve looked like as I ate the foot toe by toe.   

                I’m home now with a giant bag full of peaches, BBC World News on the radio (again), and Ramen soup on the stove.  Except now, I’m alright with it.  I’ll eat dinner alone, again, at my desk.  I’ll be asleep by 9pm tonight (earlier—I’m tired from my late bedtime last night! Ha).  Maybe I’ll even finish the novel that I’m reading.  Now that would be really exciting.

                Even though I have my good days and my bad days, I know that the good days are going to fulfill above and beyond the dreams that I had of what my Peace Corps service would be like.  The bad days will help me appreciate that much more all that I have been blessed with back at home.  Speaking of which, I can’t wait to get home to a fat, juicy chicken from the grill on the back porch.  It’s just not the same when it comes from a can.