You call Peace Corps and have the villagers threaten to throw him in jail.
Oh the courtship between me and Why-Why started on the second day I arrived in Matéri. I had gone to my school, a twenty minute walk, and upon returning saw a place to buy bread. Fresh off the taxi-bus from Cotonou, where you must discouter everything and bread is cheap I argue over the price they demand for the bread. I finally walked away, not really wanting to buy expensive bread I knew for a fact is not very good. Now, looking back, I can see how ridiculous I must have seemed—which is the overarching feeling I have when I look back at most of my experiences here in Benin. As I began to walk away from the stand, the woman handed me the bread. The man, who had been standing next to her the whole time had bought it for me. I did not really get this until after I almost made it home, which had given me time to replay the conversation in my head and translate it correctly. Then I thought to myself, I hope that doesn’t legally bind me in some way to that man.
The next day I was out saluer again, near the bread stand from the day before. I had befriended a lady next to the stand, who makes yam pilee and knew the volunteer before me. Sitting laughing with her and a few other Beninese women, this same man comes up to me with a close familiarity that makes me immediately uncomfortable. The women tolerate him for a few minutes, but then have to almost hit him to make him leave. He keeps asking if I will be his wife. I tell him I am married. He asks how many children I have. I tell him none, thus canceling out being married in his mind. He tells me he is a doctor. I don’t care.
Sunday, I go to church, and as I walk with my sisters, I hear a voice in the distance yelling ma femme, ma femme. I ignore it, until my sisters turn and laugh. I turn and see the same man. I quicken the pace.
Ever since then that same man has made frequent and annoying appearances in my life here. I finally learned his name was Why-Why, and that he was not in fact a doctor—shocker—but actually the doctor’s assistant. I think he actually just cleans out the trash cans at the health center—shocker.
It never resonates with him that I don’t like talking to him and that I am not his wife. I am even resort to saying I don’t speak French, which causes him to try to speak a little English, to which I respond I don’t speak English. And to be honest French or English I really don’t understand him, because on most days he is drunk. I have only seen him on one occasion when he wasn’t drunk. I don’t think he saw me though, because he walked hunched, with his head down, arms dangling as he sauntered by in shame of his existence and angered by it at the same time.
I noticed his visits past my house increased when my Maman was gone, and one occasion my neighbor even tried to tell me what a good worker he was—my neighbor is always trying to find me a Beninese match. I told my Maman all this, and added if he thinks he is such a good worker, why doesn’t he marry him. I was not kidding.
One day, Why-Why popped his head over the door of my Maman’s concession, I guess no one had told him of her return. At the site of him, my Maman told him to leave, and she once again reminded me he was crazy, and I added he drinks too much. Later that same day, as I was preparing to head to Natitingou, I heard his voice outside where my sisters were washing my clothes. I was in my kitchen and remained hidden there, while my sisters covered and told him I was sleeping. Apparently he was hungry and wanted me to make him food, something I rarely do for myself here, and never for him.
Oh Why-Why.
A week later on a Monday evening I was walking my dog and was just about to turn to head back home, when one of my friends called my name. As I walked toward her, my body sent off an “oh-shit” alarm. There was Why-Why, and he had already caught sight of me. Committed to saluer my friend I continued. As we exchanged greetings, Why-Why lingered to my left closely, which allowed him to catch sight of the bandage I had on my arm from a vaccination. That band-aid I imagine was what a butterfly is to a small kitten, irresistible to not touch. And touch my arm Why-Why did. In all the encounters with Why-Why he had never touched me—oh what a gentleman really.
“Don’t touch me,” I said to him abruptly. It sent him off into frenzy, and he began shouting, tiny droplets of spit coming from his mouth as he spouted off. I picked up my dog and my friend guided me away, but of course Why-Why followed. I dare not put my dog down, as he would have laid down in fear and would hinder me from getting home quickly. About 10 or 15 minutes from home, Why-Why continued to follow me, behind him the laughter of his friends could be heard. I kept silent, thinking he quit me, and when he didn’t I threw out a couple insults, including respecting himself and that he was impolite—these are Beninese insults obviously, not American ones. The insults only fuel him, and the shouting of other men for him to leave me alone, go unnoticed. I don’t understand much of what he says, but I do understand his threats to take my dog and steal my money. Finally a man on a moto and a man from his house come and stop Why-Why, I am two minutes from home. I have used all my strength to not break-down in the middle of my village.
Once at home, I go inside, close my door, which I normally only do when I am sleeping at night. I sit on my bed and I cry. I don’t know that I have ever felt so threatened, but I cry more out of embarrassment, because everyone in the village saw him chasing me down the road.
At the urging of a friend, I call Peace Corps, they call my Maman. She calls me and sounds upset. I worry she is angry with me, but I think she is more worried about what might happen to me if Why-Why continues to cause problems. She says, if he comes again, you call me and he will go to prison.
Why-why is my husband, at least that is what I tell the doctor, his supervisor, when I see him. He laughs, and understands I don’t have any hard feelings. My marriage with Why-why is quite beautiful really. I never see him anymore, even in his drunk states, he saunters by without a word or a look. It is matrimonial bliss.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Time Is On My Side?
Time is a difficult concept to grapple with these days on many levels. On most weeks Monday through Thursday go quickly, and normally leave me pretty exhausted. Fridays are filled with lesson planning and housekeeping neglected during the week—shuffling dresses from the back of a chair or the top of my mosquito net back to the twin size bed sitting collecting dust. The dust collecting requires attention in itself; sweeping a couple times a day. Saturday and Sunday always feel like the hardest. I have plenty to do, but my mind feels more idle for a reason I can not explain. The weeks pass by and they seem to go slowly, but then a new month arrives. I am beginning to feel like I am living in a permanent summer. Then there is future time, where I have to travel two weeks from now, a couple months from now, when the next devoir is going to be, and that makes time feel like it has the ability to move at a hastened pace. I worry I will never do more than merely teach here for two years, accomplishing secondary tasks seem difficult.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Maternity Ward
Sunday afternoon I find myself sitting with my family next door. As usual a slow, inconsistent stream of people have entered into our concession to saluer; most of the time I sit quietly saying the little local language I know and occasionally listening to my Maman. I usually sit in my chair that has been fashioned out of narrow sticks in forced into a laid back position that is most comfortable, occasionally pausing to call over Bennie or Izzy, the chions. I make a kissing noise to get their attention, and almost immediately they come dashing over, toppling over each other in jealousy trying to be the first to reach me. On this particular Sunday, after one lady has left, my mother says to me so and so is having a baby.
I never feel like I know who is who. I recognize faces, but know very few names. I can’t feel too bad though, just the other day my neighbor called me la blanche, she still didn’t know my name after a couple months. So when my Maman said someone had a baby I did not try to rack my brain on relations.
Going on an outing is always a culmination of false starts. It starts like this: Jamie, we are going out, or my favorite, so and so is sick or in this instance so and so had a baby. Then my Maman will stand up. Her stating an event happened more often than not means she is going out. But she says it as we are going out, but she uses the third person plural form of aller, suggesting they are going out, but then I remind myself that the subject “on” is we—I can never keep subjects and verbs straight. Notice she does not ask, Jamie do you want to go with me? It is more an announcement, not even really a command. It is a peculiarity, which can be confusing, because inevitably I want to make sure I have been invited. By asking for a clarification though, then my Maman thinks I don’t want to go with her, which leads to me having to exude a high level of excitement about the prospects of going out. You can see the relief in my Maman’s face. It is so interesting to observe a person, especially when half the time you have no idea what they are saying. I find myself learning and understanding so much more about my Maman than I could really know by talking with her.
She is prideful and traditional in many ways. I notice that she can be easily offended, but has a passive way of expressing this. She is like many people in a lot of way, but what is interesting is how her kindness comes in conflict with her pride. For example, our other neighbor asks for things all the time, and my mother gives generously. One day the neighbor had a mini-fete for somebody or others sister or husband—again I am horrible at keeping track of who is who. The neighbor practically prepared everything over in our concession, but failed to invite my Maman over. So my Maman was very put off by this. I don’t think it was so much that she wanted the food, but it was the principle of the event. It is proper to invite the person over. Throughout the day my Maman complained about this, and went as far to say she was cutting the neighbor off cold turkey the following day. I never feel like I give quite the reaction my Maman wants in situations such as these. This event actually occurred the same day we intended to set off the maternity center—I watched the midwife’s reaction to this story, and now I try to mimic that response—“Tu a raison.”
Once I have understood my presence is required to an outing the next hurdle to cross is when we will leave. Normally it is within a five to twenty minute time frame. Many factors come into play, each of us has to change, or I have to change, which gives my Maman time to get involved with some other task, which inevitably leads to her yelling at one of the girls over what I can only deduce to be because they are moving to slow. On the specific occasion of going over to the maternity ward though, we wait longer—I am in the process of washing the two week old puppies, which have an absurd number of fleas. Since I was younger I have had a strange obsession with killing all fleas on cats and dogs. Then of course I have to wash off and change after I finish. The sun is on its way down when we finally set off to the maternity center.
At the maternity center it is like my Maman has come home, or arrived at a high school reunion where the classmates actually like each other. She knows everyone, and those she doesn’t know she gets in their business just the same. She gives orders, corrects the new mothers as they try breastfeeding for the first time. I feel grateful that before I left my best friend had a baby, so I know a little about what goes on at this point in a person’s life.
No one can say that Matéri is not doing their part to keep the animal population up. I mean there are babies everywhere. Women, dogs, cats, chickens, guinea hens, spiders; they are all producing, and no one blinks—this is life, literally.
The maternity center faces the outskirts of the marche, which is lined with mini-boutiques. Don’t think boutiques like you’d find in small coastal tourist towns that are filled with useless knick-knacks and local artisan jewelry way over priced. Think the local country convenience store, without the fish bait and mini-grand display of American candy. Like most buildings here the maternity center is cement. You could plop this village right in the middle of tornado alley without a worry.
We cross through some construction work to a room with seven beds. Each bed has metal rods shooting up from the head and foot of it, where the mosquito nets will be attached. At the moment they are bare. These posts loom like a needy insecure teenage girl, who no one will take notice of, despite all her good intentions and security. Although there are seven beds, only six have firm, rubber like mattresses, five are occupied by new mothers. I have long ago given up on guessing the age of Beninese people, but I know these mothers are either the same age as me, but most likely younger.
Very few weeks go by when I am not asked if I am married. One man was very puzzled when I replied, “No I wasn’t married, and no I did not have kids.” I can’t be certain, although I am, and just prefer to be in denial, but that man pointed at my large breasts as a sure sign I was lying and I did in fact have kids. Among the many follow up questions after saying I am not married are, “Why not?.” When I say I am too young and then give me age, they look at me like I haven’t the slightest inclination of what young means. I suppose I don’t when other volunteers have been offered 14 year olds as wives, without the slightest hesitation or shame from the Beninese. I guess it should be no surprise why most men who approach me as jeepers creepers are much older than me. Cougars wouldn’t stand a real chance here. I suppose I welcome a pity parade when I say I am too young to marry, and the Beninese offer up finding me a Beninese man. It puts me in a spot. I can’t say no, because they will think I only want to marry a white man. I can’t say yes, because they might offer themselves. This is just taking their opinion into consideration. Of my own mind I can’t say yes because deep down I know exactly what the men here think of woman, and no amount of western thought on my end would change that I fear. Plus the looks and impolite remarks I have born witness to since being here has spoiled the whole lot for me, as callous as that sounds.
I will be honest though, as uncomfortable as all this is, and boy does it get to me on some days, it is not such an unfamiliar feeling. The questions and culture are different, but the meaning and implications aren’t so different than the States, when a family member asks, “If I have a boyfriend yet?” or if I meet a guy, and he inevitably questions “Why I haven’t been snatched up yet?” The latter question is always an indication that guy is a girlfriend snatcher. And while very few American men are looking to colonize me in the same sense as a Beninese man, meaning making babies and then taking other wives, there is another cultural card at play. Maybe it’s me, but experience says men have rarely really liked me for who I am, although they say so. No, right away, they like me for what they see I could be for them. What this all adds up to is my own criticism of myself, which is that, forgive me, I don’t fall into the more “traditional” female role at this point in my life.
So here I was in the maternity ward around women, who were living up to their roles in society. I saluer all of them, and they stare back at me. Staring is a cultural norm here, which I have come to love—my friends in the States have commented on this habitual flaw of mine, so in a way Benin is coming home for my eyes. We don’t say much beyond hello and me commenting on their babies being pretty or handsome.
As my Maman washes one of the newborns, I sit alone on the lone empty bed in the maternity center. The other mothers are taking turns bathing, while my Maman tends to their new borns. I sit quietly, the 23 year old white woman; the only woman teacher at the school; the woman who gets fed first like the other men in the village; the woman who has yet to bare any children and sees nothing wrong with that; the woman who despite knowing the cultural norms feels pity for these mothers. I know I should feel shame. I look listlessly around, trying to pretend I belong here.
The faces of the new mothers I think may haunt me for a long while. I imagine what I saw hidden in their stares, and how I felt about it and ask, “Was their gaze a result of what they saw in mine? They were exhausted, moving slowly about the room, and one could easily mistake this as the result of giving birth the same day. But no. In their eyes I saw girls whose souls had been stolen from them, without them knowing they had lost them. How could they when this is all they know in their culture? I think back to the first days in Cotonou, the poverty I saw, and still witness everyday. I have pity and sorrow, but get by knowing that this is all these people may ever know, and therefore they don’t know how poor they really are.
My Maman has finished cleaning the first newborn, and handed it over to me, all bundled in clothes it looks like it will never be capable of growing into. I haven’t held a baby this small since my best friend had her girl over a year ago. I am reminded of the fragility of human beings at this young age. I feel calm and tranquil. I have witnessed how some of the babies here are man handled, and know I carry a feeling not many woman here can have or ever know, and that is the choice to hold a baby or not. The baby sleeps easily. It is hungry, I know as it turns its head toward my breast. I give it my finger to grasp onto.
The women around me seem surprised by the baby’s ease and my own. I suspect they think since I don’t have children I don’t care for them or know how to manage them. I look around occasionally at the other mothers, and I feel not only pity, but jealousy. I feel like tears are trying to make their way into my eyes, but they don’t quite reach the point of even forming. It is a bitter sweet thought that causes this sensation. Around women who will most certainly go on to have more babies, I am here, knowing I can make choices and may have already made some choices—although I am young—that may result in me never having a baby. Whose souls are truly at a loss now?
I never feel like I know who is who. I recognize faces, but know very few names. I can’t feel too bad though, just the other day my neighbor called me la blanche, she still didn’t know my name after a couple months. So when my Maman said someone had a baby I did not try to rack my brain on relations.
Going on an outing is always a culmination of false starts. It starts like this: Jamie, we are going out, or my favorite, so and so is sick or in this instance so and so had a baby. Then my Maman will stand up. Her stating an event happened more often than not means she is going out. But she says it as we are going out, but she uses the third person plural form of aller, suggesting they are going out, but then I remind myself that the subject “on” is we—I can never keep subjects and verbs straight. Notice she does not ask, Jamie do you want to go with me? It is more an announcement, not even really a command. It is a peculiarity, which can be confusing, because inevitably I want to make sure I have been invited. By asking for a clarification though, then my Maman thinks I don’t want to go with her, which leads to me having to exude a high level of excitement about the prospects of going out. You can see the relief in my Maman’s face. It is so interesting to observe a person, especially when half the time you have no idea what they are saying. I find myself learning and understanding so much more about my Maman than I could really know by talking with her.
She is prideful and traditional in many ways. I notice that she can be easily offended, but has a passive way of expressing this. She is like many people in a lot of way, but what is interesting is how her kindness comes in conflict with her pride. For example, our other neighbor asks for things all the time, and my mother gives generously. One day the neighbor had a mini-fete for somebody or others sister or husband—again I am horrible at keeping track of who is who. The neighbor practically prepared everything over in our concession, but failed to invite my Maman over. So my Maman was very put off by this. I don’t think it was so much that she wanted the food, but it was the principle of the event. It is proper to invite the person over. Throughout the day my Maman complained about this, and went as far to say she was cutting the neighbor off cold turkey the following day. I never feel like I give quite the reaction my Maman wants in situations such as these. This event actually occurred the same day we intended to set off the maternity center—I watched the midwife’s reaction to this story, and now I try to mimic that response—“Tu a raison.”
Once I have understood my presence is required to an outing the next hurdle to cross is when we will leave. Normally it is within a five to twenty minute time frame. Many factors come into play, each of us has to change, or I have to change, which gives my Maman time to get involved with some other task, which inevitably leads to her yelling at one of the girls over what I can only deduce to be because they are moving to slow. On the specific occasion of going over to the maternity ward though, we wait longer—I am in the process of washing the two week old puppies, which have an absurd number of fleas. Since I was younger I have had a strange obsession with killing all fleas on cats and dogs. Then of course I have to wash off and change after I finish. The sun is on its way down when we finally set off to the maternity center.
At the maternity center it is like my Maman has come home, or arrived at a high school reunion where the classmates actually like each other. She knows everyone, and those she doesn’t know she gets in their business just the same. She gives orders, corrects the new mothers as they try breastfeeding for the first time. I feel grateful that before I left my best friend had a baby, so I know a little about what goes on at this point in a person’s life.
No one can say that Matéri is not doing their part to keep the animal population up. I mean there are babies everywhere. Women, dogs, cats, chickens, guinea hens, spiders; they are all producing, and no one blinks—this is life, literally.
The maternity center faces the outskirts of the marche, which is lined with mini-boutiques. Don’t think boutiques like you’d find in small coastal tourist towns that are filled with useless knick-knacks and local artisan jewelry way over priced. Think the local country convenience store, without the fish bait and mini-grand display of American candy. Like most buildings here the maternity center is cement. You could plop this village right in the middle of tornado alley without a worry.
We cross through some construction work to a room with seven beds. Each bed has metal rods shooting up from the head and foot of it, where the mosquito nets will be attached. At the moment they are bare. These posts loom like a needy insecure teenage girl, who no one will take notice of, despite all her good intentions and security. Although there are seven beds, only six have firm, rubber like mattresses, five are occupied by new mothers. I have long ago given up on guessing the age of Beninese people, but I know these mothers are either the same age as me, but most likely younger.
Very few weeks go by when I am not asked if I am married. One man was very puzzled when I replied, “No I wasn’t married, and no I did not have kids.” I can’t be certain, although I am, and just prefer to be in denial, but that man pointed at my large breasts as a sure sign I was lying and I did in fact have kids. Among the many follow up questions after saying I am not married are, “Why not?.” When I say I am too young and then give me age, they look at me like I haven’t the slightest inclination of what young means. I suppose I don’t when other volunteers have been offered 14 year olds as wives, without the slightest hesitation or shame from the Beninese. I guess it should be no surprise why most men who approach me as jeepers creepers are much older than me. Cougars wouldn’t stand a real chance here. I suppose I welcome a pity parade when I say I am too young to marry, and the Beninese offer up finding me a Beninese man. It puts me in a spot. I can’t say no, because they will think I only want to marry a white man. I can’t say yes, because they might offer themselves. This is just taking their opinion into consideration. Of my own mind I can’t say yes because deep down I know exactly what the men here think of woman, and no amount of western thought on my end would change that I fear. Plus the looks and impolite remarks I have born witness to since being here has spoiled the whole lot for me, as callous as that sounds.
I will be honest though, as uncomfortable as all this is, and boy does it get to me on some days, it is not such an unfamiliar feeling. The questions and culture are different, but the meaning and implications aren’t so different than the States, when a family member asks, “If I have a boyfriend yet?” or if I meet a guy, and he inevitably questions “Why I haven’t been snatched up yet?” The latter question is always an indication that guy is a girlfriend snatcher. And while very few American men are looking to colonize me in the same sense as a Beninese man, meaning making babies and then taking other wives, there is another cultural card at play. Maybe it’s me, but experience says men have rarely really liked me for who I am, although they say so. No, right away, they like me for what they see I could be for them. What this all adds up to is my own criticism of myself, which is that, forgive me, I don’t fall into the more “traditional” female role at this point in my life.
So here I was in the maternity ward around women, who were living up to their roles in society. I saluer all of them, and they stare back at me. Staring is a cultural norm here, which I have come to love—my friends in the States have commented on this habitual flaw of mine, so in a way Benin is coming home for my eyes. We don’t say much beyond hello and me commenting on their babies being pretty or handsome.
As my Maman washes one of the newborns, I sit alone on the lone empty bed in the maternity center. The other mothers are taking turns bathing, while my Maman tends to their new borns. I sit quietly, the 23 year old white woman; the only woman teacher at the school; the woman who gets fed first like the other men in the village; the woman who has yet to bare any children and sees nothing wrong with that; the woman who despite knowing the cultural norms feels pity for these mothers. I know I should feel shame. I look listlessly around, trying to pretend I belong here.
The faces of the new mothers I think may haunt me for a long while. I imagine what I saw hidden in their stares, and how I felt about it and ask, “Was their gaze a result of what they saw in mine? They were exhausted, moving slowly about the room, and one could easily mistake this as the result of giving birth the same day. But no. In their eyes I saw girls whose souls had been stolen from them, without them knowing they had lost them. How could they when this is all they know in their culture? I think back to the first days in Cotonou, the poverty I saw, and still witness everyday. I have pity and sorrow, but get by knowing that this is all these people may ever know, and therefore they don’t know how poor they really are.
My Maman has finished cleaning the first newborn, and handed it over to me, all bundled in clothes it looks like it will never be capable of growing into. I haven’t held a baby this small since my best friend had her girl over a year ago. I am reminded of the fragility of human beings at this young age. I feel calm and tranquil. I have witnessed how some of the babies here are man handled, and know I carry a feeling not many woman here can have or ever know, and that is the choice to hold a baby or not. The baby sleeps easily. It is hungry, I know as it turns its head toward my breast. I give it my finger to grasp onto.
The women around me seem surprised by the baby’s ease and my own. I suspect they think since I don’t have children I don’t care for them or know how to manage them. I look around occasionally at the other mothers, and I feel not only pity, but jealousy. I feel like tears are trying to make their way into my eyes, but they don’t quite reach the point of even forming. It is a bitter sweet thought that causes this sensation. Around women who will most certainly go on to have more babies, I am here, knowing I can make choices and may have already made some choices—although I am young—that may result in me never having a baby. Whose souls are truly at a loss now?
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Beninese Jamie
I know I could never be Beninese, but I must confess, I have always enjoyed playing dress-up.
Growing up I did not actually have a dress-up box in a traditional sense, and by traditional sense, I mean like those cute girls on television commercials who dig through a giant wooden chest of pearl beaded necklaces, boas, high heals, and dresses made of find sheer, satin, silky like materials. But I did play dress-up the best I could.
I still don’t have a chest, but I do have a stack of African style clothes. Dresses made of crazy patterns, and a two meter piece of fabric that I wrap around myself when I am at home—it has become my version of sweatpants in Africa. I try to look my best on a consistent basis, which is more than can I say when I lived in the United States. I always match my earring, necklace, and bracelets to my dress. I come up with different ways to try and wear my hair, and I have showered three times a day on occasion. I paint my nails once a week, my toenails once every two weeks.
Wearing the costume of a Beninese doesn’t take a lot of time, although I do find myself needing to add more clothes to my wardrobe. Learning the language, however, has been taxing. But it seems that I have up and taken on the persona of a Beninese woman.
It wasn’t until I was around other volunteers I had realized this. I went to buy some credit with a friend at a small boutique in Parakou. My friend also wanted to know where he could find sodobe, the Benin version of moonshine. I find myself thrown into a conversation about sodobe. Nothing earth shattering, just some simple jokes that would barely pass for mildly entertaining in the States, but here they are cherished and the Gold Standard here. As we left the boutique my friend was left asking, what was that? I didn’t know what he meant, and then he was like, you sounded so Beninese.
The next day I went to the marche with another volunteers. I have made it habit to find one vender and then have her show me to the other things I need to buy. I risk finding a vender who leads me to someone who will rip me off, but I take it anyways. At first when we enter the marche I am overwhelmed with the number of people vying for our attention—it is unlike my village marche that I have grown accustomed to. The sun is setting, and in the hazy air there is desperation among the venders. They see us Americans as appropriate targets to take off their hands no Beninese person would buy, even in perhaps the poorest circumstances.
The volunteer with me is about as indecisive as I am, and we fumble over ourselves a little. We find a vender with most of the vegetables that we need, and I set to getting everything, swatting away the venders that are attacking us like flies feeding on meat that has been sitting out all day—not an uncommon phenomenon here. They appear with one item of fruit only to move quickly back for another item, seeing me dismiss the first with a hand, saying “No, ca ce n’est pas nécessaire,” “No pas ajhourd’hui,” “Pas maintenant,” “Ca c’est comme une bebe.” The last response in regard to the largest pineapple I have ever seen in my life, which makes the venders all laugh.
In the mist of all the chaos we come out with most of our things, and I am confronted with the sun nearly set. It is like I have come out of a trance, moving back into the panic state of being swarmed by people. My guard is back up, as I am no longer surrounded what I had perceived to be kind Mamans.
The volunteer turns to me, and nearly in the same tone, shock, and words questions my transformation for a short ten minutes into a Beninese woman. I smile and feel flattered, perhaps I am more bien integre than I thought. On the way back to the work station though I get lost, and I am reminded, I could never be fully Beninese.
Growing up I did not actually have a dress-up box in a traditional sense, and by traditional sense, I mean like those cute girls on television commercials who dig through a giant wooden chest of pearl beaded necklaces, boas, high heals, and dresses made of find sheer, satin, silky like materials. But I did play dress-up the best I could.
I still don’t have a chest, but I do have a stack of African style clothes. Dresses made of crazy patterns, and a two meter piece of fabric that I wrap around myself when I am at home—it has become my version of sweatpants in Africa. I try to look my best on a consistent basis, which is more than can I say when I lived in the United States. I always match my earring, necklace, and bracelets to my dress. I come up with different ways to try and wear my hair, and I have showered three times a day on occasion. I paint my nails once a week, my toenails once every two weeks.
Wearing the costume of a Beninese doesn’t take a lot of time, although I do find myself needing to add more clothes to my wardrobe. Learning the language, however, has been taxing. But it seems that I have up and taken on the persona of a Beninese woman.
It wasn’t until I was around other volunteers I had realized this. I went to buy some credit with a friend at a small boutique in Parakou. My friend also wanted to know where he could find sodobe, the Benin version of moonshine. I find myself thrown into a conversation about sodobe. Nothing earth shattering, just some simple jokes that would barely pass for mildly entertaining in the States, but here they are cherished and the Gold Standard here. As we left the boutique my friend was left asking, what was that? I didn’t know what he meant, and then he was like, you sounded so Beninese.
The next day I went to the marche with another volunteers. I have made it habit to find one vender and then have her show me to the other things I need to buy. I risk finding a vender who leads me to someone who will rip me off, but I take it anyways. At first when we enter the marche I am overwhelmed with the number of people vying for our attention—it is unlike my village marche that I have grown accustomed to. The sun is setting, and in the hazy air there is desperation among the venders. They see us Americans as appropriate targets to take off their hands no Beninese person would buy, even in perhaps the poorest circumstances.
The volunteer with me is about as indecisive as I am, and we fumble over ourselves a little. We find a vender with most of the vegetables that we need, and I set to getting everything, swatting away the venders that are attacking us like flies feeding on meat that has been sitting out all day—not an uncommon phenomenon here. They appear with one item of fruit only to move quickly back for another item, seeing me dismiss the first with a hand, saying “No, ca ce n’est pas nécessaire,” “No pas ajhourd’hui,” “Pas maintenant,” “Ca c’est comme une bebe.” The last response in regard to the largest pineapple I have ever seen in my life, which makes the venders all laugh.
In the mist of all the chaos we come out with most of our things, and I am confronted with the sun nearly set. It is like I have come out of a trance, moving back into the panic state of being swarmed by people. My guard is back up, as I am no longer surrounded what I had perceived to be kind Mamans.
The volunteer turns to me, and nearly in the same tone, shock, and words questions my transformation for a short ten minutes into a Beninese woman. I smile and feel flattered, perhaps I am more bien integre than I thought. On the way back to the work station though I get lost, and I am reminded, I could never be fully Beninese.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
My Passing Grade
Before arriving to Benin I took on a long-term substitute position for the majority of the second semester. Working at an inner-city school was not easy, but the challenges I faced there—from students openly admitting to not studying for exams to the pressure of trying to do everything possible, short of doing the work for them, to make sure the kids pass—taught me how to cope with the reality of being a teacher. It is a job, which can never be perfected.
The first month and half as a substitute teacher was among the hardest months of my life. I am not sure how I made it through some days without crying in front of my students, and to think through most of my public education if a teacher spoke in a less than a friendly tone it would send me into tears immediately. I realize this makes me appear like a weaker soul.
As a substitute I remember one particular day though. I had to call parents and inform them that his or her daughter or son was failing my class. I called one mother, and after going through my spiel she said, “I have heard all about you from my daughter,” in this accusatory tone that could only be compared to a mother speaking to a boy she has never met and that has just broken her daughters heart. She spoke to me as if I was a child, hitting on my weakness of being only 23 years old—a target the kids constantly reminded me of. She continued, “Have you ever thought maybe it’s you? That you are not a good teacher, and that is why my daughter is failing?” I looked down at her daughter’s grade sheet and saw she had turned in two things since I had arrived in February, it was almost April. I am not sure what words I struggled to get out after she said that, but I could feel the rage in her voice. She spoke to me as if she knew me, and she hadn’t the faintest idea of who I was or what I was going through, and I could tell she really didn’t give a shit, either way. I shut down, and hurried the conversation along in the best way I knew possible. Once off the phone I cried. Several of my students failed the third semester and many because they refused to do work. I didn’t take that as my problem, I can’t grade what I don’t have, and I gave them every opportunity to do the work. The administration did not feel the same way, and I spent my fourth semester really doing everything possible to get my kids to pass.
Before beginning to teach in Benin all the TEFL volunteers went through training, which involved four weeks of teaching local kids through a summer school program, and having other volunteers and Beninese teachers observe you. The first week I struggled to get through my entire lessons. The criticism: I was trying to make sure everyone learned. “You are lucky if half of your class passes,” a volunteer said to me, in a tone which made it apparent that it was acceptable when this happened. In my heart I could not accept this, it was my job to teach, and for me that meant everyone.
My first month at post was among the hardest months of my life. I was faced with classrooms of students whose numbers were growing into the 70s. I was teaching English to students, who spoke the local language and a smattering of French. I spoke French, but my accent I imagine is like listening to the Asian teacher, who speaks English well, but you can’t understand most of the words, well because each word has an added Chinese or Japanese sound to it. Of course the kids snickered. I have perhaps a false sense of entitlement. I am American and know English well therefore these kids should be nothing short of as excited as children waiting in line to talk to Santa for the first time at the local mall. They should have their heads open ready for me to dump my infinite wisdom. I realize the naïveté of this now. Humans are an interesting sort, and by humans at this moment I mean myself. I hate making mistakes, I want to do everything right, but I find myself learning infinitely more by making mistakes. After a lecture about getting to angry with my students from the Beninese school teachers, despite my protests I took it to heart. I also took my kids confusion, and waning interest to heart. I needed to find a way for them to learn, all 70 of them.
After the first interrogation (quiz), in which I had well over a quarter of my students below passing grades, I set about to make a change. I rearranged every students seat, and put them in mixes of strong and not so strong students. I developed a team strategy, where by each group became a team. My little ones, or 6eme kids, are named after colors, “Team Purple,” “Team Brown,” etc. and my evil ones, or 5eme students, are named after places in Benin, “Team Parakou,” “Team Kerou,” etc. Doing individual work is a challenge with so many kids, who all write at a pace that puts the movement of a herd of snails to shame. I have taken to the theory the kids may learn better from each other, assuming a couple learn a thing or two from myself.
The kids all had their second interrogation a week ago. The numbers improved exponentially. Sadly I questioned some of the students who jumped ten points, comparing their exams to the smart kids they sit next too. I was unable to find foul play. After I finished grading all their exams I had between 10 to 15 percent of my kids failing, out of nearly 300 kids. There are still some not grasping concepts, and I am not sure what has caused the change, but the ones who don’t get it are starting to not want to be left behind. I am starting to understand how to help my kids bit by bit. I don’t want to fail them.
We will be starting our second semester soon, and I have a handful of new strategies I am itching to try with my kids, including hand puppets, balls, and being the craziest teacher in a goofy kind of way. I suppose I did not take the settling for 50 percent passing to heart and improvements in a few students has given me the hope that perhaps I can get all of my students to pass. I love this job. I love the feeling of my kids’ energy as it calms when I come in the room, and as tired as I feel sometimes I love that I try to perfect a job that I know can’t be perfected.
The first month and half as a substitute teacher was among the hardest months of my life. I am not sure how I made it through some days without crying in front of my students, and to think through most of my public education if a teacher spoke in a less than a friendly tone it would send me into tears immediately. I realize this makes me appear like a weaker soul.
As a substitute I remember one particular day though. I had to call parents and inform them that his or her daughter or son was failing my class. I called one mother, and after going through my spiel she said, “I have heard all about you from my daughter,” in this accusatory tone that could only be compared to a mother speaking to a boy she has never met and that has just broken her daughters heart. She spoke to me as if I was a child, hitting on my weakness of being only 23 years old—a target the kids constantly reminded me of. She continued, “Have you ever thought maybe it’s you? That you are not a good teacher, and that is why my daughter is failing?” I looked down at her daughter’s grade sheet and saw she had turned in two things since I had arrived in February, it was almost April. I am not sure what words I struggled to get out after she said that, but I could feel the rage in her voice. She spoke to me as if she knew me, and she hadn’t the faintest idea of who I was or what I was going through, and I could tell she really didn’t give a shit, either way. I shut down, and hurried the conversation along in the best way I knew possible. Once off the phone I cried. Several of my students failed the third semester and many because they refused to do work. I didn’t take that as my problem, I can’t grade what I don’t have, and I gave them every opportunity to do the work. The administration did not feel the same way, and I spent my fourth semester really doing everything possible to get my kids to pass.
Before beginning to teach in Benin all the TEFL volunteers went through training, which involved four weeks of teaching local kids through a summer school program, and having other volunteers and Beninese teachers observe you. The first week I struggled to get through my entire lessons. The criticism: I was trying to make sure everyone learned. “You are lucky if half of your class passes,” a volunteer said to me, in a tone which made it apparent that it was acceptable when this happened. In my heart I could not accept this, it was my job to teach, and for me that meant everyone.
My first month at post was among the hardest months of my life. I was faced with classrooms of students whose numbers were growing into the 70s. I was teaching English to students, who spoke the local language and a smattering of French. I spoke French, but my accent I imagine is like listening to the Asian teacher, who speaks English well, but you can’t understand most of the words, well because each word has an added Chinese or Japanese sound to it. Of course the kids snickered. I have perhaps a false sense of entitlement. I am American and know English well therefore these kids should be nothing short of as excited as children waiting in line to talk to Santa for the first time at the local mall. They should have their heads open ready for me to dump my infinite wisdom. I realize the naïveté of this now. Humans are an interesting sort, and by humans at this moment I mean myself. I hate making mistakes, I want to do everything right, but I find myself learning infinitely more by making mistakes. After a lecture about getting to angry with my students from the Beninese school teachers, despite my protests I took it to heart. I also took my kids confusion, and waning interest to heart. I needed to find a way for them to learn, all 70 of them.
 |
| Students copy in class. Luckily their pace quickens everyday. |
The kids all had their second interrogation a week ago. The numbers improved exponentially. Sadly I questioned some of the students who jumped ten points, comparing their exams to the smart kids they sit next too. I was unable to find foul play. After I finished grading all their exams I had between 10 to 15 percent of my kids failing, out of nearly 300 kids. There are still some not grasping concepts, and I am not sure what has caused the change, but the ones who don’t get it are starting to not want to be left behind. I am starting to understand how to help my kids bit by bit. I don’t want to fail them.
We will be starting our second semester soon, and I have a handful of new strategies I am itching to try with my kids, including hand puppets, balls, and being the craziest teacher in a goofy kind of way. I suppose I did not take the settling for 50 percent passing to heart and improvements in a few students has given me the hope that perhaps I can get all of my students to pass. I love this job. I love the feeling of my kids’ energy as it calms when I come in the room, and as tired as I feel sometimes I love that I try to perfect a job that I know can’t be perfected.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Mother of Matéri
Knowing my Mama now it is no wonder I have been taken in as a family member. She rejects nearly no one. My Mama is a short lady, she is shorter than me. She is strong and thin mostly, except for a little round belly that she admires proudly when she is finished eating. She jokes about making me fat before I go back to the States—it is good to be fat here and considered attractive.
Around the house she has two panyas wrapped around her, and normally wears a western style shirt—shirts that you can by at the mall for going clubbing when you are a teenager. Around her head in the day she wraps a cloth, at night she leaves her head bare, which shows her short hair and makes her look older.
I am not sure how old she really is, she jokes that she is old. I asked my sister once, she said she thought maybe 51. Age is irrelevant here. Her skin is dark, and she has a unique nose that her daughter, Petra shares. It is not a typical African nose, and it comes to a point. Petra acknowledged this, saying it was a “white” person like nose. My Mama has a great big smile, and large white teeth. In the mornings she chews on a stick—the Benin toothbrush—to keep them clean, spitting out bits of wood onto the ground, watching and making sure the children are sweeping and doing their morning choirs in a timely fashion.
Petra is her only actual blood child. There is no mistaking the two are related. Then there is Huegette, a niece—her parents live in Natitingou. Huegette is a tall solid teenage girl. She has a gentle voice, but a strong presence. She works hard, studies a lot, and almost never gives my Mama any problems. Then there is Maiveux, who is my Mama’s grand daughter. She is Sophie’s child. I did not know this for nearly a month. My Mama pays for her to go to private school. It is about 30,000 CFA, which is a lot of Benin. Then there is Presca, who we as of late refer to as a crazy person—she exhibits the hoppng behavior of the aforementioned crazy man. Presca has no family relation, but my Mama feeds and clothes her, and gives her a place to stay.
Then there is me. She calls me and Petra her benjamins, which is the French word for youngest. She knows I am the youngest in my family back home. At the same time I often jokingly called Papa Jamie. Last week, there was a meeting for the parents of students at the private school. I went along as one of Mieuveux’s parents. Mieuviex no runs her homework and studies by both me and Mama. I am not sure when, but I assume recently, like in the last few years, my Mama’s husband passed away. Yesterday I ate my lunch quickly and was given more. My mama explained I should say when I want more food, there is no man here after all, just her and I.
During the course of a week people come in and out of the concession. Last week a lady came in with a baby. The lady was to old to be the baby’s mother, apparently the mother had passed away. The lady did not know how to feed the baby. She gave the baby her breast to feed from, but at age 60 or so, my guess is that did not yield much success. My Mama had one of the girls go get some unsweetened condensed milk, and another boil water. She mixed together some milk, and fed the baby. She explained carefully how she made the concoction and the lady went on her way. Yesterday she went to a nearby village and got a free huge can of powdered milk for babies, which she gave the lady.
On Thursdays the two of us set out into the market. There is an elderly woman, who lives behind the Catholic Church, she had twelve kids, and now uses canes to help her walk—she is over 80 I am sure. I always saluer the woman, and my Mama always quickly gives her 50CFA.
A vendor came by to sell some jewelry. I bought a necklace and earrings. My mama saw a pair she liked, but didn’t by it. She didn’t have the money she said. Yesterday she bought a primary school student all her supplies for school.
Petra told Mama that one of her friends father’s children was sick. Malaria. We left a little after 8 p.m. to go saluer them and see if they were doing better. On arrival my Mama asked if they had a mosquito net. They did not have one big enough for their mattress. After departing the house, my Mama went to the pharmacy and asked about a double size net. They said there wasn’t any, she insisted they look. Five minutes later they found one. They gave it to her, and she had one of the students take it back to the family.
The past few nights the two of us have set off the maternity ward, where my Mama baths some of the babies, and get on the new mothers when they aren’t breastfeeding properly.
Sometimes my Mama takes out old pictures of past volunteers. She is so proud of their work, but I can’t help but want a picture with her, because I am so proud to know her, the mother of Matéri.
Around the house she has two panyas wrapped around her, and normally wears a western style shirt—shirts that you can by at the mall for going clubbing when you are a teenager. Around her head in the day she wraps a cloth, at night she leaves her head bare, which shows her short hair and makes her look older.
I am not sure how old she really is, she jokes that she is old. I asked my sister once, she said she thought maybe 51. Age is irrelevant here. Her skin is dark, and she has a unique nose that her daughter, Petra shares. It is not a typical African nose, and it comes to a point. Petra acknowledged this, saying it was a “white” person like nose. My Mama has a great big smile, and large white teeth. In the mornings she chews on a stick—the Benin toothbrush—to keep them clean, spitting out bits of wood onto the ground, watching and making sure the children are sweeping and doing their morning choirs in a timely fashion.
Petra is her only actual blood child. There is no mistaking the two are related. Then there is Huegette, a niece—her parents live in Natitingou. Huegette is a tall solid teenage girl. She has a gentle voice, but a strong presence. She works hard, studies a lot, and almost never gives my Mama any problems. Then there is Maiveux, who is my Mama’s grand daughter. She is Sophie’s child. I did not know this for nearly a month. My Mama pays for her to go to private school. It is about 30,000 CFA, which is a lot of Benin. Then there is Presca, who we as of late refer to as a crazy person—she exhibits the hoppng behavior of the aforementioned crazy man. Presca has no family relation, but my Mama feeds and clothes her, and gives her a place to stay.
Then there is me. She calls me and Petra her benjamins, which is the French word for youngest. She knows I am the youngest in my family back home. At the same time I often jokingly called Papa Jamie. Last week, there was a meeting for the parents of students at the private school. I went along as one of Mieuveux’s parents. Mieuviex no runs her homework and studies by both me and Mama. I am not sure when, but I assume recently, like in the last few years, my Mama’s husband passed away. Yesterday I ate my lunch quickly and was given more. My mama explained I should say when I want more food, there is no man here after all, just her and I.
During the course of a week people come in and out of the concession. Last week a lady came in with a baby. The lady was to old to be the baby’s mother, apparently the mother had passed away. The lady did not know how to feed the baby. She gave the baby her breast to feed from, but at age 60 or so, my guess is that did not yield much success. My Mama had one of the girls go get some unsweetened condensed milk, and another boil water. She mixed together some milk, and fed the baby. She explained carefully how she made the concoction and the lady went on her way. Yesterday she went to a nearby village and got a free huge can of powdered milk for babies, which she gave the lady.
On Thursdays the two of us set out into the market. There is an elderly woman, who lives behind the Catholic Church, she had twelve kids, and now uses canes to help her walk—she is over 80 I am sure. I always saluer the woman, and my Mama always quickly gives her 50CFA.
A vendor came by to sell some jewelry. I bought a necklace and earrings. My mama saw a pair she liked, but didn’t by it. She didn’t have the money she said. Yesterday she bought a primary school student all her supplies for school.
Petra told Mama that one of her friends father’s children was sick. Malaria. We left a little after 8 p.m. to go saluer them and see if they were doing better. On arrival my Mama asked if they had a mosquito net. They did not have one big enough for their mattress. After departing the house, my Mama went to the pharmacy and asked about a double size net. They said there wasn’t any, she insisted they look. Five minutes later they found one. They gave it to her, and she had one of the students take it back to the family.
The past few nights the two of us have set off the maternity ward, where my Mama baths some of the babies, and get on the new mothers when they aren’t breastfeeding properly.
Sometimes my Mama takes out old pictures of past volunteers. She is so proud of their work, but I can’t help but want a picture with her, because I am so proud to know her, the mother of Matéri.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
A Typical Day
It’s 6:30 a.m. I know because the guinea hens and chicken are running across my tin roof once again. They come almost every morning, and even though I know it is them making the thunderous sound I can’t help but always feel initially uneasy.
Like most days I wanted to get up at 6 a.m. but I know I don’t have to get up, and so I lie in my bed, underneath my mosquito net, ignoring my watch, which beeps every five minutes. When I finally get up it is because the light is starting to really peak its way into my room. Most of the time it is because my stomach has started to turn a little and I must use the bathroom. Tearing the mosquito net from out under my mattress I slip on my flip-flops, search for my panya to wrap around me, and make my way to the bathroom.
I am lucky because I don’t have a latrine for my bathroom. I have a toilet, which I dump water down to force “things” down. I have running water that comes out of two sides of the wall. I keep a bucket under the side closest to the toilet, and the other end has a basin, which I use for showering. The mornings are often cold, and so I skip a shower. On occasion I will wash my feet and legs, and my face.
I check the bucket in my kitchen to see how much filtered and boiled water I have, and then I check the time. Normally I need about twenty minutes to boil a sizeable amount of water from the filter. Time permitting I boil water in the morning or throughout Friday and Saturday, when I don’t have class.
Water boiling on my gas stove, I unlock my front door, and put a rock up against it to prevent it from shutting all the way. Then I take to sweeping my house. The floors are made of cement, and I have resolved to know I will never ever get all the dust that blows into my house out.
When the water has made its way to a rolling boil, I set my stop watch and wait for three minutes. After it is finished I make sure my screen door is closed and I cut along the side of my house to my neighbors and saluer everyone—that is if my Mama has not come and done it first.
Around 7:30 I collect my belongings for teaching, and roll my bike out of my living room where it sleeps at night to avoid being stolen and wear and tear from the weather. I make my way over to say good bye to my neighbors, and then I set out on my ten minute bike ride to school.
I teach Monday through Thursday. I have class at 8 a.m. every morning, except for Mondays. The ride to school is not as scenic as other areas of Matéri, such as the pirage. I pass by the maket, which on Thursdays is booming with vendors from all the local villages, and Tangieuta. Past the market I pass by a group of zemijan drivers sitting around, I suppose waiting, not impatiently, for customers. Along a dirt road with bumps and patches of sandy drifts I ride my bike, dodging students on the right, who are walking close to the bush, on their way to the primary school, and the C.E.G., where I teach. I also make my way past students on their bicycles that by and large are to big for them. In some cases an extra student has mounted themselves on top of the metal piece above the back tire behind the main seat of the bicycle. Behind me I keep my ears a lot for motos. I can normally tell when a professor is behind me, because he won’t honk his horn at me, but wait for a good time to pass me. In front of me I also watch for motos and cars, although I normally only a see a few this early.
I teach two hour blocks. I never have more than three classes, and I have a three hour break in the middle of the day, repo. At school I try to always make time to saluer the administration after I finish locking up my bike to my tree, and before heading off to my class of 65 to 70 plus students.
During repo I spent my time at my neighbors, grading papers, reading a book, or playing with the puppies. We eat lunch, and typically a least one or two people wander in to saluer, sell, or ask for help from my Mama. She is like the mother of Matéri. She turns no one away and helps all those she can.
In the afternoons, if I am not teaching, I plan my lessons, write, read, or do house work, all the while listening to the mischievous children next door play with my neighbors children, who inevitably have work they should be doing, and when it isn’t don’t will prompt my Mama to yell at them when she gets home.
When my Mama arrives I collect my things and go sit over with her and the other family members. When night sets in and the electricity cuts on, a few students come into the concession to study under the light. Normally my Mama sets up her cot and falls in and out of sleep before she showers and eats dinner. Around 8 p.m. my sister Petra always watches the Italian soap opera on TV. Depending on work and fatigue I normally head to get ready for sleep around 8 or 9 p.m. I say I am going to bed, but normally I stay up reading, or talk to people in the States later on in the week.
I check my water again, to see if I need to filter some more, and I dump the boiled water from the morning into the bucket. I shower and nestle undet my mosquito net, with the lights out, except for my lamp that I switch off after I start dosing off uncontrollably.
Like most days I wanted to get up at 6 a.m. but I know I don’t have to get up, and so I lie in my bed, underneath my mosquito net, ignoring my watch, which beeps every five minutes. When I finally get up it is because the light is starting to really peak its way into my room. Most of the time it is because my stomach has started to turn a little and I must use the bathroom. Tearing the mosquito net from out under my mattress I slip on my flip-flops, search for my panya to wrap around me, and make my way to the bathroom.
I am lucky because I don’t have a latrine for my bathroom. I have a toilet, which I dump water down to force “things” down. I have running water that comes out of two sides of the wall. I keep a bucket under the side closest to the toilet, and the other end has a basin, which I use for showering. The mornings are often cold, and so I skip a shower. On occasion I will wash my feet and legs, and my face.
I check the bucket in my kitchen to see how much filtered and boiled water I have, and then I check the time. Normally I need about twenty minutes to boil a sizeable amount of water from the filter. Time permitting I boil water in the morning or throughout Friday and Saturday, when I don’t have class.
Water boiling on my gas stove, I unlock my front door, and put a rock up against it to prevent it from shutting all the way. Then I take to sweeping my house. The floors are made of cement, and I have resolved to know I will never ever get all the dust that blows into my house out.
When the water has made its way to a rolling boil, I set my stop watch and wait for three minutes. After it is finished I make sure my screen door is closed and I cut along the side of my house to my neighbors and saluer everyone—that is if my Mama has not come and done it first.
Around 7:30 I collect my belongings for teaching, and roll my bike out of my living room where it sleeps at night to avoid being stolen and wear and tear from the weather. I make my way over to say good bye to my neighbors, and then I set out on my ten minute bike ride to school.
I teach Monday through Thursday. I have class at 8 a.m. every morning, except for Mondays. The ride to school is not as scenic as other areas of Matéri, such as the pirage. I pass by the maket, which on Thursdays is booming with vendors from all the local villages, and Tangieuta. Past the market I pass by a group of zemijan drivers sitting around, I suppose waiting, not impatiently, for customers. Along a dirt road with bumps and patches of sandy drifts I ride my bike, dodging students on the right, who are walking close to the bush, on their way to the primary school, and the C.E.G., where I teach. I also make my way past students on their bicycles that by and large are to big for them. In some cases an extra student has mounted themselves on top of the metal piece above the back tire behind the main seat of the bicycle. Behind me I keep my ears a lot for motos. I can normally tell when a professor is behind me, because he won’t honk his horn at me, but wait for a good time to pass me. In front of me I also watch for motos and cars, although I normally only a see a few this early.
I teach two hour blocks. I never have more than three classes, and I have a three hour break in the middle of the day, repo. At school I try to always make time to saluer the administration after I finish locking up my bike to my tree, and before heading off to my class of 65 to 70 plus students.
During repo I spent my time at my neighbors, grading papers, reading a book, or playing with the puppies. We eat lunch, and typically a least one or two people wander in to saluer, sell, or ask for help from my Mama. She is like the mother of Matéri. She turns no one away and helps all those she can.
In the afternoons, if I am not teaching, I plan my lessons, write, read, or do house work, all the while listening to the mischievous children next door play with my neighbors children, who inevitably have work they should be doing, and when it isn’t don’t will prompt my Mama to yell at them when she gets home.
When my Mama arrives I collect my things and go sit over with her and the other family members. When night sets in and the electricity cuts on, a few students come into the concession to study under the light. Normally my Mama sets up her cot and falls in and out of sleep before she showers and eats dinner. Around 8 p.m. my sister Petra always watches the Italian soap opera on TV. Depending on work and fatigue I normally head to get ready for sleep around 8 or 9 p.m. I say I am going to bed, but normally I stay up reading, or talk to people in the States later on in the week.
I check my water again, to see if I need to filter some more, and I dump the boiled water from the morning into the bucket. I shower and nestle undet my mosquito net, with the lights out, except for my lamp that I switch off after I start dosing off uncontrollably.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Had a Bad Day
Last Friday night my PC friend Erin called me. She was having a bad day. A professor had scolded her because she didn’t hang out and talk with the other professors. On top of this agitation she should not cry in public, which is where she was—I suggested sunglasses. We talked for about 20 minutes, interrupting conversations to go purchase more credit for our phones. I was worried about Erin. She is a great person and I think she is frequently misunderstood, even by other Americans here. Like me, Erin is also the only female teacher at her school.
Yesterday I called Erin. I was having a bad day. I had given my 5eme classes, or the evil ones, a quiz, or interrogation. They are older than my 6eme kids, and my 6eme kids understand English better than them and this is their first year. My 5eme kids insist I explain things in French. I try to refuse as much as I can. They laugh when they shouldn’t, and even with cultural barriers I can tell they are not even trying at times. I can deal with students who don’t understand, but I am frustrated with those that won’t even try. I had to throw out a bunch of students, but that is not what set me over the edge.
A professor had tried to help, but by helping I was worried he had shown the students I alone could not deal with them. He also called the students stupid. I don’t agree. He also said the students didn’t know any better. I agree to a point, but I also believe my students do know better, or at least capable of knowing better. The professor proceeded to tell me that I was not any different than the other professors in how the students acted. I disagreed. He did not know the countless times I have had to tell students to stop watching my class, only to get stares from the students, who look at me like I am a piece of meat—upholding their male roles in Benin society. He also said I didn’t know students. I disagreed. I had classroom experience prior to coming to Benin, and I knew students a little better than he might think—besides he doesn’t really know me at all. Like Erin, I felt misunderstood.
I wanted to explain things to him, but instead I said thank you and went to give my students a lecture, but I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I was not prepared for that to happen, and so I stopped, said nothing, and just went back into my lesson. I left class twenty minutes early, while the students copied, afraid I could not hold it in, and I put on my sunglasses, fearing someone might see me about to cry.
When I reached home, I allowed myself to fully go through all the thoughts I had suppressed in the classroom. These students, these professors don’t understand the sacrifices I have made to be here and to help them, and some of them don’t care. For them life goes on as normal, with or without me, and for others I am just amusing because I am white and American. I thought, well shit, I could teach kids who waste my time in the United States, and at least I could yell at them more appropriately then I can here. I sat on my bed and I looked at my pictures from home, and I let out, through tears, a little of the home sickness I had been battling with. I wished for a second I could just be my old self, and my old life. In the United States I could tell the men to **ck off, or cut some other insult. Here, I can’t, it isn’t appropriate, nor do I know how to say that in French. And what saddened me more, was that in thinking that, I realized I could never have that old life back. Even when I go home, I will always know there is something that exists outside of my world.
Yesterday I called Erin. I was having a bad day. I had given my 5eme classes, or the evil ones, a quiz, or interrogation. They are older than my 6eme kids, and my 6eme kids understand English better than them and this is their first year. My 5eme kids insist I explain things in French. I try to refuse as much as I can. They laugh when they shouldn’t, and even with cultural barriers I can tell they are not even trying at times. I can deal with students who don’t understand, but I am frustrated with those that won’t even try. I had to throw out a bunch of students, but that is not what set me over the edge.
A professor had tried to help, but by helping I was worried he had shown the students I alone could not deal with them. He also called the students stupid. I don’t agree. He also said the students didn’t know any better. I agree to a point, but I also believe my students do know better, or at least capable of knowing better. The professor proceeded to tell me that I was not any different than the other professors in how the students acted. I disagreed. He did not know the countless times I have had to tell students to stop watching my class, only to get stares from the students, who look at me like I am a piece of meat—upholding their male roles in Benin society. He also said I didn’t know students. I disagreed. I had classroom experience prior to coming to Benin, and I knew students a little better than he might think—besides he doesn’t really know me at all. Like Erin, I felt misunderstood.
I wanted to explain things to him, but instead I said thank you and went to give my students a lecture, but I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I was not prepared for that to happen, and so I stopped, said nothing, and just went back into my lesson. I left class twenty minutes early, while the students copied, afraid I could not hold it in, and I put on my sunglasses, fearing someone might see me about to cry.
When I reached home, I allowed myself to fully go through all the thoughts I had suppressed in the classroom. These students, these professors don’t understand the sacrifices I have made to be here and to help them, and some of them don’t care. For them life goes on as normal, with or without me, and for others I am just amusing because I am white and American. I thought, well shit, I could teach kids who waste my time in the United States, and at least I could yell at them more appropriately then I can here. I sat on my bed and I looked at my pictures from home, and I let out, through tears, a little of the home sickness I had been battling with. I wished for a second I could just be my old self, and my old life. In the United States I could tell the men to **ck off, or cut some other insult. Here, I can’t, it isn’t appropriate, nor do I know how to say that in French. And what saddened me more, was that in thinking that, I realized I could never have that old life back. Even when I go home, I will always know there is something that exists outside of my world.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)