I Open At The Close

The ending to my story is not nearly as dramatic as Harry Potter’s. But I thought I would take a line from the movie for my title to pay a little tribute.

When I walked into my classroom on the last day (arriving late), my 34 babies clapped and cheered and I smiled as big as ever. At the end of the day, I cried as hard as ever. It was a rollercoaster of a day. Most of the day was disappointing, honestly, as I had much less time to do as I had planned. But the kids had a wonderful goodbye ceremony for us and I received many heart-breaking letters. The most haunting thought was that I didn’t really accomplish much and that all my work would be undone in the coming years of their educations. I still fear that, but I do know that I made some good changes. The kids went around telling me their favorite things that they learned, and I was surprised to hear “good debate questions” and “writing an opinion” as well as “reptiles” and “insects.” And then Teacher John joined our circle and added that he liked our outdoor lessons, where I had the kids write what they “notice” “think” “learned” and “wonder.” Plus I know that the field trip did some long-term good for those kids. But it’s just heartbreaking to leave 34 individuals who I feel so strongly for and who I want to help so badly, after such a short period with them.

However, due to several stressful events lately, I’ve felt very ready to go for the last week or so. As I’m sitting at the airport writing this, I just feel like it hasn’t hit me that I’m about to leave. I’ve spent so long here that I think I’ve become accustomed to everything and the shock of being gone won’t hit until I’m back home. I wrote the following a few weeks ago, and I still think it captures my feelings pretty accurately:

I know I will be tempted, at the end of this, to convince myself that leaving is the worst thing that I could do, that teaching here is so much better, and that life here is “the way it should be.” And to a certain degree, those feelings will have merit. I have learned so much about what I value in education, and while I haven’t found the teaching style I prefer to be flourishing here, I have found a school with a close-knit community, a relaxed atmosphere, an inextricable connection to the outdoors, and a sweet, smart, adorable, and eager student body. It is worlds better from the stifling fluorescent halls, repressive and misguided discipline systems, cultural dissonance, and justified student rebellion that I find in so many American schools. However, I cannot allow myself to idealize this community and adopt a hippy dream of abandoning the US for a “simpler” life. While I know that I want to be less removed from the natural world and I do think that the US should become a little more “simple,” I also know that is naive to presume that a “simpler” life– technology-wise– means simpler problems. The problems that this country, region, district, and village face are all incredibly complex. I probably could not begin to understand, let alone solve, most of them.

And I do not belong here. I am a creature of change; I have lived in over 20 different houses, I’ve seen so many places, and I’ve learned so many things, that I have a constant and irrepressible desire for adventure and novelty. I do want to shake off some of this restlessness as I mature, but I know that at this point, I could not be content with a life spent in the same rural area, doing the same thing every day. I do not know how to cultivate crops, slash fields, build a mud house, carry a jerrycan full of water, or skin an animal. I am not strong. My soul has grown within a privileged body, protected from labor. Granted, I could learn these things. I could never learn, though, how to exist in a society that outlaws homosexuality and forces women to wear skirts below the knee. I could never learn to soften or silence the voice in me that questions, that calls out injustice. I could not stifle that voice that says but I don’t want to wear a skirt today. I could not accept an identity, as a woman, of an object of sexual desire to be controlled, rather than a sexual being who chooses how to control oneself.

Perhaps it’s a shame, in the grand scheme of things, that I have not been raised as a group thinker. I do not always put others’ needs before my own, I do not identify myself strongly with one particular group, and I am not always able to accept relativist morals and beliefs “for the greater good.” But I think I’m okay with that. I like being able to have thoughts I can claim as my own, I enjoy limitless learning, and I take pride in choosing people to identify with because I love them, not because of a perhaps-arbitrary grouping. I will always want to travel, and I’ll probably want to live and teach elsewhere for a period of time, but this trip has made me realize something that I didn’t really think I would ever say: the U.S. is my home. I am a product of our emphasis of individuality and personal freedoms. I see so many things wrong with my country, but I’m now closer to accepting that with knowledge (power) comes responsibility. If I am aware of problems, and have an idea of how they’re caused, it is my responsibility to at least try to solve them, even if I know my efforts are futile. If people never fought futile fights, there would be no history books. There is no greater patriotism than recognizing the faults in the country’s fabric and working tirelessly to mend them.

Now, don’t walk away from this thinking that I’m a hardcore patriot who thinks the rest of the world is backwards. Uganda is a beautiful country. Kasese is an enjoyable place to have lived. Rwentutu is an incredible place to have worked. But it is not better than the U.S., and nor is the reverse true. One day, after talking to one of my cooperating teachers about some of the complex problems in the U.S., like poverty, homelessness and discrimination and their intersection with school funding and inequity, he was stunned. He then asked me to compare certain issues with their counterparts in Uganda, and after my response, together with my assertion that I generally found it wonderful here, he asked, “So, shall I then say, that you like it better here than at home?” I replied that it’s not that simple. It’s never that simple. All places in the world have their “roses” and their “thorns” (to use a very teacher-y analogy). I could probably be generally happy living in any number of places. Just like I could be happy with any number of men (one at a time). But, as someone taught me, love comes with knowing that fact, but choosing to commit to one person anyways. Belonging to a place comes with knowing you could live anywhere in the world, but you staying to be with your family and solve problems in your community. Who knows, maybe later in my life I’ll end up moving permanently to Canada, Finland, France, Costa Rica, or somewhere and I’ll look like an idiot writing all of this. But right now, I’m ready to go home.

And at home, I will remember this as two and a half wonderful months of my life. I have so many happy memories and have learned so much. I finally became a real teacher and I had a much more enjoyable classroom placement than ever before. I also saw some pretty horrible things that will always stay with me. All these things have changed me and how I intend to live my life. I hope that you have also learned something and allowed yourself to be affected by it. Thank you for following me on my adventure.

Goodbye, Rwentutu!

Talking To Strangers

 This is a short post on how I have perceived my social interactions here.

I recognize that our group of student teachers seems less social than groups before us. We all consider ourselves introverts. We enjoy traveling, obviously, and interacting with others, especially children, obviously, but it seems to take something out of us. We come home and we need an hour alone, to do planning or reading; just quiet, away from others. So, the fact that we have not made many “friends” falls partially on our shoulders. Our personalities are just not conducive to seeking out conversations during our free time. However, the conversations we have had did not leave me wanting more. I do not want to generalize, so I will say that the following commentary is about six people I’ve regularly had conversations with.

First of all, these people have often initiated conversations when I’m not expecting them. I might be working on lesson plans, for example, while sitting within the house or on the porch. I could be on a roll, in the zone, totally busy with my work and distractedly absent from the conversation, and the person would continue talking. I understand that our social cues are probably different, but it seems like they’re not watching me at all for any signs that I might not want to be talking. I also think that, since they don’t have the same sense of time, they might not understand that I’m stressing about planning a lesson on time. Still, whether they understand or not, it’s inconvenient and stressful for me to be forced into an hour-long (or more) conversation when I need to get work done.

Second, I usually am not involved too much in the conversation. With a few individuals, I can’t even get a word in. I don’t really understand this. Is it because they’re my elder (although one is only older than me by a few years) and I should listen to their wise words? Is it because I am a woman (all six individuals are men) and my opinions don’t matter as much? (This actually seems fairly plausible, since we were repeatedly asked by men if Matt was our "group leader" because he was the male. A few men would only directly talk to Matt, ignoring our presence.) Is it because I’m American, and they’re just so excited to talk to an American that they have to get all of their thoughts out? Is it because I’m listening quietly, as is respectful in my culture, instead of talking at the same time or telling them I’m busy, which wouldn’t be disrespectful in theirs? I’m sad to say that, after almost 2 months here, I haven’t figured it out.

Perhaps most importantly, all six of these people have, at one point or another, told me what to believe or do, without giving me the opportunity to state my opinion. For example, I have been told that I don’t go to church enough and that I really ought to praise God for getting me here safely, etc. I’ve been told that my country really shouldn’t meddle with Uganda’s anti homosexual policies and with the situation in the Ukraine. These were not conversations, but lectures. I do not like lectures, especially as a teacher. In these two instances, the individuals really closed the door to learning from each other.

Finally, when we attend events where we are the only mzungu, we’re given oddly special treatment. We are ushered to the best seats, and a line of people comes to shake our hands and greet us. It’s nice, and welcoming, but it feels somewhat empty to me. People don’t go beyond asking “how is your life?” and it feels like they see us as belonging to a group, having the label of mzungu, without seeing us as individual people. We’re not given the opportunity to start conversations, because we’re scooted around and told what to do, and no one starts meaningful conversations with us. In many situations, too, there’s a significant language barrier. Even if people speak English, we often do not understand one another.

So, all of this makes me somewhat withdrawn from society here. I know that talking with people could help me learn a lot, but I frankly do not feel like being lectured at for an hour. Right now, I’m really excited to go home and talk! I’m yearning for the friendly midwesterner who you can strike up a conversation with at a bar or at the bus stop. I know there’s a lot you can learn about people from talking with strangers, and I like meeting people who feel the same way. I understand that there’s a lot of cultural clashes happening here, and that I need to be adaptable and learn from another culture. I do look forward to more opportunities in the future to interact with other cultures. But I’m also eager to return to knowing what’s going on, having the same codes, and being able to laugh at a joke, if only for a brief time. Maybe I’m not learning as much as I should be, but at least I now I won’t take social interactions within my culture for granted, which I think is a fairly important thing to learn.

One notable exception to these observations and feelings, though, has been talking with the P6 teacher, Teacher Rau. Even though he wasn’t officially a cooperating teacher of mine, I interacted with him more than any other teacher and formed a great friendship with him. He even invited me to his house for lunch (which doubled as a home visit, because his younger brother is one of my students). We talked about education, laughed, shared tons of delicious food, and he showed me his family’s small plot of land and a nearby bridge. I haven’t passed a more enjoyable afternoon with a platonic friend in a very long time.

In contrast to all prior observations, Rau asks me questions, treats me quite normally, respects my opinion, and is not very judgemental of others’ differing opinions. And we have a great time, telling stories and making jokes. So that just goes to show that you can’t make sweeping generalizations.

With the Rau family, minus the brother who took the picture

I crossed this wobbly bridge!