Mood of Jubilation

Last week I had the great pleasure of attending the graduation party for my host mother, Winifred, who finished first in her class (the 'ace' in Liberia) with a degree in religious education from the Baptist Seminary in Monrovia. As with all life events here, this was a capital-O Occasion. My host father is the pastor of a large church in Kakata, and both he and his wife have touched a lot of lives. So the entire church turned out in Sunday best to show their support for such a huge accomplishment.

Liberian parties are usually full of people, they always have great food and an absolutely terrible rented/borrowed sound system, and they all have a program or agenda complete with an MC and the feedback squeal of an abused microphone. There are opening prayers, unrehearsed speeches, and frequent audience participation. This party was a magnitude above because my family works so hard here and because it doubled as the unofficial going-away party for their departure to a new life in America. I got to meet my host ma's mother, see the puppies all grown up, and give Delwin a hug goodbye. It was amazing, and I will miss them terribly, but I am so proud of and happy for them starting a new phase of their life. 

The MC called for a prayer to thank God for the "mood of jubilation" we were graced with, and today, on my six-month anniversary of arriving in Liberia, I am full of jubilation in one form or another.

Dry season is fully upon us, complete with bright sun, cool breezes, and the hazy, dusty sky of harmattan, when the winds blow off the desert to the north instead of the ocean to the south. 

On our adventure to the market, Heather and I were blessed by the produce gods with cucumbers, a tomato, a butter pear (avocado) AND a pineapple! When okra and bitterball are the standard fare, this is a trip to the produce section of Whole Foods by comparison. We had delicious sandwiches bursting with fresh veggies for lunch, and loved every bite. The market was insane today, in the run-up to Christmas, which is a huge deal here. The main market road was choked with wheelbarrows full of clothes and other gifts, and navigating the crowds reminded me a little bit of the mall, but with that dusty Liberian twist. 

Today, my last teaching day before the holiday vacation, was a scheduled quiz for all my classes, so mean of me! But I decided to give those students who showed up a nice Christmas gift, and made it an open-book quiz when I got to school. This also allowed me to put the questions on the board in all my classes at once, taking advantage of absent teachers, so I didn't have to stay until six, which was a side benefit. It was a really good decision, because today was the day for stump speeches and campaigning for student government. They go all-out with that here, registering a political party with the PTA, taking a stand on issues like teacher attendance and the lack of desks, and disrupting class to pass out candy and badges. There are also fabulous campaign crowns that any first-grader would be jealous of: a bright paper band with a square stapled up in front proclaiming "SUP for Rights" and "Ferguson wants justice for students." Because Heather and I were virtually the only teachers holding class today, most of the students were running around campus chanting slogans and playing music. Several of my tenth graders asked me if I supported SUP (Student Unity Party, wants to increase teacher regularity and administrative transperancy) or SDP (Student Democratic Party, wants to get more rights and justice for students, whatever that means). I told them I was very pleased to see my students exercising their political rights, and that I was sure that the best party for the school would win. I also got to wish everyone a merry Christmas ("Ms L, you will carry me with you for Christmas?") and a happy new year. 

It's strange to think that I'm almost done with my first semester of teaching here, that it's been half a year since staging in Philly, that I didn't know any of these people six months ago and now they are my family. I have plans to travel to Grand Cape Mount county for vacation (and maybe end up at Robertsport, one of the best surfing spots in the world), and to call home to talk to everyone. I am keeping you all in my heart this season, and I wish you all the jubilation you can handle. Merry merry!

Thank You For The Work

Today was a day of good work, as such things are measured on a Liberian scale.

Since we were gone to training for a week and came back to 2nd marking period exam week, neither Heather nor myself have had time to do a big restocking trip for far too long. So this morning we strapped on our backpacks, faced the nemesis hill right outside our front door, and headed to the market to fill our empty shelves. 

Wednesday morning in Kakata is a bustling, bizarre, beautiful thing. It hasn't rained in a week, so the streets are a dusty brown instead of a muddy red. The row of shoeshine boys who set up camp at the side of the coal tar greeted us cheerfully as we wended our way past them, fighting upstream against a tide of wheelbarrows and bundle-laden teens. The money-changer we stopped at to convert US dollars into Liberian dollars had a chess game set up and asked if we wanted to play. And everyone said good morning. Our usual shopkeepers missed us and gave us a gently chiding hard time for not stopping by to say hello. We ran into at least half a dozen of our students (most of whom sell in the market or do other work in the morning before going to school in the afternoon since they are self-supported and/or have families and children of their own). And we covered a lot of ground, walking around half of Kakata. All told, the adventure took about two hours. We returned with enough time to rinse off the sweat and stash our haul of rice, canned goods, oil, vegetables, and cleaning supplies before heading to campus for school. Pantry: stocked.

This week is the first week of 3rd marking period (a marking period is four weeks of instruction, one week of review, one week of exams repeated six times in a school year) and I made the executive decision that I would teach my tenth-graders actual algebra for this period after months of arithmetic review. So today I introduced the concept of translating English sentences into algebraic expressions. We kept things simple, making a list of words for addition and practicing math sentences using just that operation. I felt like an amazing teacher, too. I had students raising their hands to ask thoughtful questions and coming to the board to give (mostly correct) answers. They even took a mini-quiz and mostly managed to do their own work. 

Part of the reason class went so well is that more than half my students were absent, and twenty bodies are easier to manage than fifty-five. Many students and teachers have decided, apparently, to take their Christmas vacation two weeks early, and campus is like a ghost town after recess except for those dedicated/unlucky few who have Peace Corps teachers and decide to stay. After I finished teaching today, the empty schedule meant that I got some time to 'lecture small', or chat, with my kids and engage in a little Goal Two exchange, sharing American culture with Liberians. They had some great questions, like "do people in America have hard time like Liberians we do?" (I told David and Abraham about homeless people living on the streets, of which I've seen none here- "Don't their families help them, Ms. L? Why don't they get jobs?") and "is there special state for vampires to live in? (No, Martin. Vampires aren't real, we just have plenty stories about them) and "why  your father teach literature and you love to teach mathematics?" (Some people are strong at different things, Eva). I loved having the chance to talk and listen to my kids in an informal way. And they're so curious and open to asking anything- sometimes to a ridiculous or uncomfortable degree- which is refreshing. Students: taught.

Amos the carpenter came by yesterday to finish grouting the tile floor in our living room and reinstall the baseboards, and today when I got home from teaching my one class, I got out a bucket and a brush and, Cindarella-style, took to hands and knees to remove the spots of grout and cement marring our gorgeous new floor. (Tile: cleaned)

 I naturally tackled this task with the front door open and music playing loudly, which the neighborhood took as an invitation to drop by and thank me for the work and jealously ogle our beautiful floor. I had been worried that they would see us as selfish, wasting money on something so superfluous, but everyone's reaction has been overwhelming support and admiration of our investment in our home and the community. They all want to tell us "Thank you for the work," which I find strange since all I did was sit on the porch while three Liberians took less than a day to lay a floor, but since we supplied the materials and had the idea, we get the thanks. And the visitors. First was Ma Mary from up the hill who dropped in to appreciate us and ask if we had any extra cement dust she could have. Then Muistafa, a student, visited to say hello and caught me singing along (loudly) to "Hey, Jude," which probably made his day. And Peace, Ben and Fatu's dog, came by to spread out on the coolest surface in town. But my favorite visitor was Ben himself. I was just putting the bucket away and dancing on clean tile in my bare feet (para bailar la bamba, se necesita una poca de gracias) when his quiet voice interrupted from the porch, "what country is this music?" 

I told him the language was Spanish, and asked him if he liked it. 

"I hear this before, when I were refugee in 2003, it make me think on that time." 

"What place were you a refugee?"

"Oh, near to Freetown, in Sierra Leone. It a nice song..." and he smiled and went back to hooking the grass in his yard. Thank you for the work, Ben. 

Working Hard to Make a Living

It's the Saturday after exam week and there's no rest for the lazy.

My roommate is in town, leaving me on kitten/dish duty. Amos the carpenter is coming to put in a new floor that (hopefully) won't try to trip me to death every morning, so there's a huge mound of sand right in front of our porch steps waiting for his arrival at '8:00' or the Liberian equivalent. I need climbing gear to scale the pile of laundry-to-be-done in the corner of my room. If I don't use the bananas today they will aquire consciousness and possibly take over West Africa. I have 400 final exams and 200 make-up quizzes to grade. There is a rampaging horde of children at the well causing noise, spilling water, and taking forever to fill their buckets, holding up all my other chores. And yet.

And yet the mist over the hills is gorgeous, keeping the heat and bright sun of dry season at bay for a little while. My lap is full of purring baby cat curled up in a little ball of peace. A very kind blind man carried two pumpkins to us yesterday (word of our 'pumpkin business' conversation with Ben last month has spread all over town) so I get pumpkin soup for dinner today and tomorrow. The semi-sentient bananas are going to be delicious banana bread in a few hours. I have faith that at least half my students will pass my class this marking period. And I am here, alive in this moment, looking ahead (forward?) to a full day after a full week in a full month of the hardest and most amazing year of my life to date. Maybe I have a blessings list and not a to-do list. I can see how people love 6:30 in the morning.