February 11, 2008
In staging (the Washington DC part of training), Peace Corps tries to prepare you for arriving in country. I think it’s a noble cause but, let’s be honest, nothing prepares you for being in country. Regardless, before we left, I did get one piece of valuable advice that I still use today. The woman leading our hotel-conference room sessions told us, “Just open the door. Everyday, open the door.”
Now, I know this sounds simple when outside is your Starbuck’s cup of coffee, your car and, most importantly, hundreds of strangers who could care less that you left your house today. But, while living here, I’ve grown to miss these strangers. I miss not being cared about. I miss anonymity.
My walk to work everyday is pretty great. First, I leave my house and lock three doors on my way out. Getting out of “town” requires dodging various domestic animals, including guard dogs, whole flocks of chickens and the occasional goat. Then, I hop over the guardrail to the main road. The paved road! I love the paved road! And since it’s still dark and you can see for miles anyway, I walk a bit down the middle of the paved road just to reminisce. Then, I take a turn into the location. The first sign that I’m on time is the tractor warehouse guard unlocking the gate. The next sign is a middle-aged woman that I don’t know. Every morning she’ll say something like, “you are later today” or “Oh, you have woken early”. Thanks for the recognition, lady. Next is the boy who calls me teacher though he goes to a different school. “Good morning teacher.” Then, the check out girl from Multisave (our only grocery store in town) walks the other direction to work about this time. She knows I like oatmeal and don’t speak Damara (once I took a 4-year-old neighbor to Multisave with me. While I was paying the checkout girl seemed confused. Finally she stopped everything to ask if I was Damara and if the child was mine. I felt that “no” was the obvious answer but I didn’t want to say it so quickly that I insulted her intelligence, so I said “noooo” – which may have been too enthusiastic of a no). Next on the walk are the second grade girls who wave and stare – sometimes from the perch of trees. Then 25 minutes from when I locked my front door (17 when I book-it), I arrive in the safety of the school.
I got a ride to school this week in a hearse. A story for a different day, I think. But the next morning all of these people commented on my absence from the street the day before. Nice but, if it happened in America, creepy, no? Walking home is worse because, by then the town as resorted to its party-like atmosphere. Music blaring from houses. Women sitting under trees selling fat cakes. Kids on the stoop of the general store. Generally, I only get asked for a dollar once or twice. The “chief” tells me I changed the weather again. I say “Hello. I am fine. Thanks. And you?” about ten times. On special days, the street pastor will give me an impromptu lesson on spreading the good news and ask for my “viewings on the character of Jesus.” Also on these special days, the man who lives across from the hospital will yell, “Stop, stop walking! Stop! Stop walking! Stop! Talk! Stop walking!” until I am out of his sight. And, if I’m lucky, the fourth grader from the school in town will stop and ask me, with impressive neck-snapping attitude, my mother’s name, my father’s name and where I come from (her most rehearsed English phrases). Which is actually cute. Unlike the man across from the hospital.
On good days, this culture and life of Khorixas all make me smile on both walks. The fact that people are willing to talk to me and welcome me to their town makes me feel like maybe I will belong someday. On bad days, I feel like I am under a microscope (oil immersion 1000x). That’s when all the recognition makes me want to hide.
Luckily, hiding is easy because currently, I love my room. This is pretty pathetic seeing how my room is about the same size a drive thru Dutch Brothers. But it is mine and it is American. On it’s walls I have tacked every 2007 Christmas card, every going away card I brought with me, every letter written to me, my evaluation from modal school (my TRC PCV friend said some nice things. I need nice things in my life), a calendar from Grandma, a map of Namibia where I wrote all PCV sites, a world map (that convinces me the world is actually tiny and I can just hop back to you all), a Seattle space needle ornament left by the previous volunteer and glow in the dark stars (they’re so happy). So, as you can see, this is a nice hole to hide in. But sometimes I have to remind myself I am in Africa… I need to go outside and explore. I need to open the door.
Which bring me to the national anthem. Exploring Namibia makes you think of the national anthem and it would be a shame if I told you about explorations without sharing the background knowledge that goes with them. The anthem goes:
Namibia, Land of the brave
Freedom fight, we have won
Glory to their bravery
Whose blood waters our freedom
We give our love and loyalty
Together in unity
Contrasting, beautiful Namibia
Namibia our country
Beloved land
Of savannahs
Hold high the banner of liberty
Namibia, our country
Namibia, motherland, we love thee.
I’ve learned a couple of things from that anthem. First, the correct way to pronounce “our” is with a breath between its two syllables… that’s right two. Just like the word “films”. Second, apparently many nations are brave. And oddly it seems true for all of them. Striking out on your own and making a new country requires a bit of bravery, I would think. Third, the savannahs are the most loved. And, fourth, the line that will always get stuck in my head is the part about “contrasting, beautiful Namibia”.
There’s nothing particularly musically interesting about that line. I think it just gets stuck in my head because it’s so true. My favorite example of contrast was on my walk this evening (the one where I forced myself to leave my Dutch brother’s room). Over the past few days, Khorixas has gotten more green than I thought possible. Nearly everywhere there was sand when I first arrived is covered in grass and little yellow flowers. The trees have doubled in size and grown leaves. As I was walking and enjoying the greenery, I couldn’t help but notice the sky. To the north was a rainbow in some white clouds and blue sky. To the west the sun was setting. Setting suns here always mean yellow, orange, pink, purple and perfect. To the south, over the donkerhoek was a downpour. It looked evil. To the East were dark purple clouds and lightening.
The whole thing made me think that maybe even the sky gets bored in Africa. And, land of contrast, it was beautiful and terrifying all at the same time. The rain was flooding the Donkerhoek. A little boy drowned in the rains there this weekend. It’s been an upset around town. He was very little and got carried away by a new-formed river (my learners were plastered to the windows facing the camp today during class because they wanted to see all the crowds and cameras who had come talk about the boy). And, in the same moments as the flood, a rainbow decorated the opposite sky. Thunder, lightening, sunset, flood and rainbow all at once seems like a crowd but, in Khorixas there was room in the sky for all of it.
Sometimes I think people make things up for national anthems. Ok, maybe not everyone is America is brave… or, maybe they weren’t really admiring the flag while enduring canon fire… (I know I wouldn’t have been). But, this is the long way of saying: For Namibia, it’s true. Beautiful and contrasting. They’re both true.
12-02-08
I had an odd sensation today. It was fleeting but all around odd anyway. It was a feeling that I was supposed to be here. I felt like, for a brief moment, that there wasn’t anywhere else in the world I was supposed to be.
At school we have eight periods in a day and one half hour tea break. A period is forty minutes long. At the end of each forty minutes one 7th grade boy is responsible for leaving all of his eight classes to ring the bell. I believe he was chosen for this task because of his upstanding nature… and, he owns a watch. Then, when the bell sounds, kids file out of class and move as a group (5A, 5B, 5C, 6A, 6B, 7A, or 7B) to their next classroom. The fun part of moving to another classroom is that transition time is not written into the schedule. First period ends at 8:00. Second period begins at 8:00. If 6A has to move from classroom 18 (the lowest numbered classroom – I don’t get it either) to classroom 42, they have to do it “quickly, quietly and efficiently” – nearly impossible for 40 6th graders. And, when they arrive at classroom 42 at 8:05, who is to blame? The class? The previous teacher? I don’t mind when my entire class arrives late. However, at times (at least once a day), a learner will arrive about 10 minutes after the rest of their class. I have yet to make this an offence that requires disciplinary action but, instead, stop them and ask “why are you late?” Here are some of the responses:
- “I was making food for Mr. [so and so].”
- “I was in the toilet.”
- “Mr. [so and so] was asking a stick.”
- “Miss [so and so] was asking tea.”
- “I was drinking the water.”
- “Mr. [so and so] sent me to the store for NikNaks (Namibian Cheetos)”.
- “I was lost.”
- “I have dropped my pen in the sand. Borrow me another.”
First, being in the toilet sounds messy… and wet. Second, English vocabulary is sometimes inserted into Afrikaans or KK grammar – it makes for interesting sentence structure. And, third, what the crap (am I allowed to say crap online)? I thought we were in school? I understand a learner being late for child-ish reasons like digging for their pen in the sand or getting lost at a school they’ve been attending since they were six years old. But being late to buy Cheetos? Being late to run to a teacher’s house and make a sandwich? I don’t know if I’ll ever get that.
Even outside of school, the whole concept is still foreign to me. Children run the errands and do the chores. They make and deliver tea and lunch. They clean the kitchen and do the dishes. They carry bags and water to the house. Is it just my imagination, or in America, is it the opposite? If I recall, in elementary school my mother made me lunch. I didn’t have to run home and make my entire family’s, my teacher’s and my lunch before running back to school.
They have a phrase here, though Americans use it more than Namibians (and I have to admit I’ve never heard it said by an American that wasn’t mocking). They say, “send a small boy.” Need a chair? Send a small boy. Need lunch? Send a small boy. Chalk? Small boy. Need another teacher? A small boy can tell them to come. We even learned “Axabrob” in KK class. It means “small boy”. This is what we call a cultural difference. I’m sure one of you can tell me the irreparable mental and physical damage we are doing to these small boys when they go to fetch this or that. I’m sure it’s against some child labor law. But, I have yet to decide which is a better system of raising a child. Granted, I love the way I was raised and, if I do say so myself, I turned out ok. But, that’s not the case for all American children. We’re spoiled. I was spoiled. Is that better or worse? I’m not sure. I am sure, though, science class is more important than NikNaks.
Oh, and “small boy” really just means child. Which really means learner. Which in our case could mean a 6 year old or 16 year old.
Tuesdays and Thursdays I teach for six of the eight periods. I have two double period math classes in the morning and two single period science classes in the afternoon. In order for me to teach these classes, I have to commandeer classrooms from other teachers who are off that period. I usually feel like an invasion force when I arrive at class. None of the teachers really know the schedule yet (myself included). So on their off periods they tend to be sitting quietly working at their desks a look up to see me standing their with an armload of teaching materials (that I could have let a small boy carry) and holding the schedule that says I get to take over their classroom. I’d like to think that my word is enough but it doesn’t hurt that I have the whole class I’m teaching behind me yelling things like “Miss [person in charge] said we are here!” Meanwhile, the ones who aren’t yelling are hitting each other over the head with something. Or eating something. Or stealing something. Or breaking something. (Kids… I do love them. I do.) I imagine most of these teachers are kind enough to give up their classrooms just to stop the chaos. And, I’m sure it has nothing to do with me looking like a homeless, beggar teacher.
If I were a real teacher, my double period math class would simply sit in the same classroom for two periods on Tuesday and Thursday. But, alas, I am a fake teacher. This means that on Tuesday and Thursday, I dedicate the last two minutes of the first period to prep my learners to switch classes. I tell them: “we are having the rest of class. You must go to room 42. Go in. Sit down. Get your exercise books out and keep working on your assignments.” So, after erasing any proof that I existed in the first classroom, I go to room 42 to find my learners standing outside hitting each other with something. Or eating something. Or stealing something. Or breaking something. I sigh. Then, I finagle my way into borrowing the classroom. Then, I call my learners in. They come in and stand there staring at me. This is common. It means we must greet each other. But, after I convince them that we did just spend forty minutes together, they finally sit down without a second greeting for the morning and, after a minimum of ten minutes and five reminders, get their books back out and open them. Kids… I do love them. I do.
Today, I was in the middle of finagling my class into their second classroom when one of my learners ran up to me with a worried look. She said, “kakerlaka.” I have learned the meaning of this word many times since I’ve been in Namibia – none of these lessons were pleasant. “Kakerlaka” means cockroach. She and her worried expression then bent down and flicked a cockroach away from my foot. Then she ran back to join the rest of her class. She saved me! She saved me from the kakerlaka! Granted, it was a cockroach and I’m pretty sure I could’ve handled myself if it had decided to take a path over my foot. But one of my learners was looking out for me. It made me feel accepted and I pondered for a brief moment adding cockroaches to international signs of peace but ultimately decided against it.
2-17-08
When I got home from work this Friday, I spent the afternoon cleaning to prepare for a couple of volunteers that were coming to town to spend the weekend. In mid-plunge, I wondered if ever before I had needed to plunge the toilet, bathtub, shower and kitchen sink to prepare for people staying the night – we have plumbing problems.
Yesterday was the Katmanjab-Khorixas cluster athletic competitions. Khorixas is the bigger town so the events were held at our stadium. There are two other education PCVs near Katmanjab who traveled with their learners this weekend. In theory, the games began at 7am on Saturday. We, who are learning precious integration skills, decided this merited us showing up at 8:45 – within two hours is appropriate. It was a good day overall. Though, I didn’t do anything I can claim will attribute to the betterment of the Namibia, the Peace Corps, Khorixas, my school, my learners or even these particular athletic games. However, I did get a lot of, what we like to call, “face time” – imperative in reminding your community that you still exist and, someday, when you’re not so clueless and they are actually in need of help (instead of the reverse), you will be there for them.
Spending the weekend with two other volunteers was nice because it gave me a little perspective on the whole PCV experience. I realized that, generally, we are all confused, all the time. It seems that, because you live in a certain town or remembered someone’s name, you may be a better PCV than another but, in actuality, it just means you are a better faker. More than once during the games, one of us would be talking to a local teacher or coordinator with the others standing silently by. At the end of an outwardly logical conversation, the two silent ones would ask, “What was that about?” Inevitably this was followed by, “I have absolutely no idea.”
I have this theory that if you just keep smiling and showing up maybe it’ll all work out. If nothing else, at least the American people seem pleasant because we smile all the time. Someone will say something like, “when the volunteers travel to Outjo they will train the team and ride with the learners.” This is followed by us smiling and saying, “okay…” while thinking “Me-volunteer or another volunteer? What team? What do I train them? Why are the learners going to Outjo? When? Are we going in the back of a cattle truck or a vehicle with seatbelts? What are we doing when we get to Outjo? Why did I need to know that?” And, in the time you are deciding which of these questions is the most pertinent to ask out loud (because there will only be time for one to be answered before another seemingly unrelated tangent will take place that only causes ten more questions), you smile.
2-18-08
I got a fever yesterday. It came on really fast in the afternoon. Just walking from the kitchen to my room felt like I had just run a lap around the track. Luckily, one of the times I collapsed from exhaustion after a walk through the house, it was next to my Peace Corps medical handbook. I decided this was probably the good time to make sure I didn’t have an exotic fever-causing virus only available in southwestern Africa.
It didn’t appear that I have anything more than a cold. But, still catching my breath (and still living in Namibia), I found some interesting things to read about in my handbook. My favorite section is the one completely dedicated to Culture Shock. Symptoms of culture shock were listed as: Homesickness, boredom, Family tension, Withdraw from friends, excessive amounts of sleep, compulsive eating or not eating, Irritability, stereotyping host country locals, loss of ability to work, inexplicable fits of weeping, exaggerated cleanliness, and alcohol abuse.
Jessica’s reading thoughts: “Fits of weeping? Check. Sleep? I sleep, yeah. Homesick? Check. Boredom? I’m still reading the PC medical handbook. Eat? Yeah… and I bake… is baking bad… Cleanliness? I take showers. Hmm.”
Keep reading: The stages of these symptoms follow the following pattern: 1) Initial euphoria 2) Irritability and hostility 3) Gradual adjustment 4) Adaptation and bi-culturalism
Jessica reading thoughts: “Cool. I get to be bi-cultural! Is that as cool as being bi-lingual? Wait, did I miss the euphoria? Was that somewhere between the jet-lag and break downs on the phone when I first called home?”
Suddenly, my low-grade fever was far from my thoughts and I was concerned with my mental state of being – as I often am in Namibia. Then, I got an SMS from a friend and got distracted – as I often do in Namibia. And forgot about the whole thing until later. At which point I decided: I may or may not have these symptoms. And I may or may not die of culture shock. But, either way, the fact remains that US government educational material continues to entertain me :)
Disclaimer: the above entry is a result of what I like to call a fever-medicine shadow. This means my brain was raised (granted, a few slight) degrees above normal and American medicine is strong and, well, both tend to make me ramble. Thanks for listening.
2-19-08
After spending some time in examination of the work done by the laborious dung beetle, I have a new appreciation for my lot in life and, if you spend your days involved in tasks other than rolling large pieces of…, you should too.
2-22-03
I think I’ve reached the point in the game where travel meets job. The novelty is officially starting to wear off.
I’ve reached a point where the beautiful African-child faces I teach everyday are the same learners I taught yesterday and will teach tomorrow. They need to do their homework and they need to tuck in their uniform shirt. Yes, you can go to the toilet. No, you may not throw a pen across the room.
I’ve reached a point where the crazy man on the corner who sells decorative nuts has about three with my name on them. Literally. And he’s impoverished… but I’m still not buying one. And I stopped feeling bad about saying no.
I’ve reached a point where stopping to talk to the woman who sits under the tree selling fat cakes is just stopping to talk to someone I know. Even though she gives me iffy medical advice like: “hold garlic on your tongue until it burns and then it will burn out the fever.” Hmm, I think I’ll stick to the fat cakes.
I’ve reached a point where I accept a ride from anyone with Khorixas plates. Don’t worry mom.
I’ve reached a point where Bird-sized moths are not fascinating. They are gross… ok and still pretty cool when they die and cover the road.
I’ve reached a point where I’ve quit caring that I don’t match. And I don’t notice that deodorant never comes out of my shirts. And I think I wore the same outfit on Wednesday and Friday this week… but I can’t be sure because I wear it so often.
I’ve reached a breaking point where I started wearing sunscreen. Hey, skin cancer never looked good on anyone.
I’ve reached a point where I nearly consistently remember that people at home are still at home and, thanks to technology, still very accessible. But I still get homesick. I think there’s no controlling that.
I’ve reached a point where I count down to seemingly mundane events. Wednesday: groceries! Woo! Saturday: Cinnamon rolls and Internet! Sweet! March 1st: new clothes that I haven’t worn in Namibia yet. I hid them from myself. I am going to be so clean! …Everybody needs a strategy for counting down the full two years.
I’ve reached a point where I can watch nearly a whole season of Grey’s Anatomy in 48 hours, while still going to work and sleeping. Ok, ok, I bet I could have done that before too.
I’ve reached a point where, when I see kids playing soccer in the street with a lightening storm in the background, I think of my childhood and not “oh, my goodness, I’m in Africa!” even when they yell “Donkey cart” instead of “car” to clear the game out of the street. (Actually, I have no idea what they yell because they aren’t speaking English, but something effectively gets them all out of traffic when it matters)
I think I’ve almost reached the point where this becomes normal.
Actually, I’m probably speaking too soon. But, there are enough normal moments in everyday to make me think that maybe, just maybe, the world is small. And maybe, we are all alike.
Don’t feel bad for me and my normality. Be proud. I may actually fit in soon. I may actually make a friend! …Lets not get carried though. I still only walk on two streets in the location and have been too scared to branch out. I’ll make it with time, though.
Wish me luck. I’m integrating.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Saturday, February 9, 2008
"You can be mean. You're in the Peace Corps. It's like a free card"
That is a quote from an anonymous PCV. I'd like to think its true. Only because its hard to be nice all the time... In any country.
Oh, and PS (pre-script): Jill is no longer in the Valentine's Day play. Bummer. I'm going to need something to do on Valentine's Day now... And I hope that will be reading all of the loving emails you all send me :)
January 30, 2008
Before I left the States, I read a few blogs from current volunteers in Namibia. They were helpful, but I don’t think I fully understood them until now. Only natural, I suppose. One thing I remember reading was about a PCV who started walking with an umbrella to and from school. She felt a little silly but didn’t want to get burned. Now that I’m here, I see many women carrying umbrellas and only one has been American. I think they want their skin to be lighter… but that could be a myth. I also remember reading about learners mocking American accents. I thought, “That could be cute”. No! It’s maddening! When will the novelty wear off? I don’t remember reading much about the language. This is odd because – It is Huge! I do remember reading about the unnatural pace a PCV goes through books. Jill proves this one true at a rate of about a day to day and a half per book. And, most recently, I’ve remember reading about the January and February sporting chaos. When I first read it sounded like just another hoop the PCVs had to jump through. But today, I experienced the magic of it all.
My primary school took the Kudus and the Orics to a stadium on the way out of town. Yet another corner of Khorixas I “footed” it to (their word, not mine). The kids were asked to come after lunch break to begin at 2:00 and they were asked not to wear dresses. The learners showed up between 1:45 and 3:00… some of them in skirts, some in boxers and some in tank tops I would have made them go and change out of if they lived in my house (meaning: it didn’t have enough fabric for a 14 year old). But, there were no dresses.
First, the kids met in the stadium. This stadium has a soccer field – with real grass!!! It also has a dirt track, covered stadium, bathrooms with running water and a few shade trees. When I got there early (what was I thinking) I sat and pondered the grass and shade trees and felt a little like I was back home. Then the learners started showing up. These kids, who live in houses made from 30 different pieces of corrugated metal and cook outside on a fire in the one pot their family owns, were now spending the afternoon running around a western-style stadium. It was cute and I wished I had cotton candy and peanuts to give all of them. While waiting they played and rolled in the grass. There were butterflies too… how could you not see magic in that? I mean seriously.
When most of the teachers and learners had arrived, the teams were split. Then, they started with team cheers. I’m pretty convinced they made up most of them on the spot. But the great thing about having fifty kids with rhythm is that they can get behind any clapping/singing game pretty quickly. The bad thing about having fifty kids with rhythm is that they have a lot of enthusiasm about it and forget to stop sometimes. “Oh, numbah, Numbah one. Kudus ah Numbah one” was chanted for approximately half an hour on repeat. Cute, but in a if-you-were-someone-else’s-kid way (and, at Eddie Bowe, “we’re teachers and parents” and that “makes us tougher” – I’ve been told). Annoying or otherwise, I was really happy to see them take ownership over their teams. I have this theory about building character by owning something you put work into.
When the track meet began it had a lot of whatever-meter runs… I can’t remember because I don’t belong at track meets. The kids who weren’t running cheered on their teammates from the stands. At one point in time, a child collapsed on the track right before the finish line. One teacher cleared the other kids away and tried to wake up the fallen learner. He was unsuccessful and called over another teacher to help carry the learner off the track. The second teacher picked up the collapsed learner and started to carry him away. The whole stadium had stopped to watch… about that time the kid cracked a smile and jumped out of the teacher’s arms and ran away. It reminded me a little of the Sandlot. I laughed, but then took a quick second to reflect on how much trouble that learner has given me in Science and stopped. It’s the creative ones that get you.
In the whole afternoon, I literally did nothing. I sat with the Grade Ones and enjoyed the scene. Sometimes, I show up and have to run the show and sometimes and show up and sit with the Grade Ones… it’s all about being prepared for anything… or not caring that you’re not prepared and going with the flow. I was ok with it though because the Grade Ones are excellent companions despite the fact that they only speak 9 words of English: How, are, you, am, fine, I, love, you and bye-bye. Technically, “Haullo” is KK too.
1-31-07
Did you know Khorixas and Chia Pets are made out of the same substance? I just went for a walk on a familiar path and got lost because so much greenery has sprouted in the past week. I’m trying not to appreciate it too much because I’m sure it will all fade very quickly. But I did take pictures so I can prove that greenery does exist in semi-desert areas (thank you Ecology for that practical knowledge).
I borrowed a book today called “Dear Exile”. It is a book full of letters written between two friends. One is in New York and the other is a PCV in Kenya. I spent the whole afternoon reading the adventures of the two and laughing out loud to myself like a crazy person. The PCV describes the first days of school… and I laughed. They waited three days for their staff meeting to start. She describes the staff room at her school… and I laughed. There was a flood and roaches in it while she wrote that letter (writing letters at school? I’ve done it. And I only wish our school had enough water for a flood). And, when the PCV attempted to burn dental floss and instead burned his hand… I laughed. Some of the scenarios seem a little too close to home.
Today, I have been in Khorixas for exactly three weeks. Two years has never felt longer. But on the plus side, approximately half the city knows my name. On the downside, they only know my name because of gossip.
Real teaching has only been in my existence for this past week. And in these precious few days I have concluded one thing: I will never be a middle school teacher. My grade six “Maths” (why is everything plural here: hellos, good mornings, maths, sciences…) classes have been ok. They listen well and are willing to answer questions. We are currently working on whole numbers and expanded notation. I’m a little surprised that they don’t know that the 5 in 56 means 50. I find myself struggling to remember 6th grade and what I knew about math. Anyway, grade 7 has been a bit of a handful. Teaching those two classes everyday is just asking to be made fun of. It is literally like I am back in middle school again. It’s really hard to balance the novelty of being from America and being a new strict teacher (strict – that’s me! Actually, I just chant that to myself before I walk in the classroom. Don’t smile before Christmas, they say. I think here it’s Easter, though). They want to mock my accent and ask me questions about American money and Eminem but I am insistent that we learn science. In real life, I’d rather just talk to them about whatever interests them. That could be one of the reasons they describe the first three months of PC teaching as “a disaster. Ha, a train wreck!” in training.
Another first: Today I checked out the first two books from the library for the year. One kid wanted a book on sports and the other wanted information about animals. I helped them find some books and fill out their library cards. They are my guinnee pigs for the whole process. I’ve been told to not let learners take books home because they get wet in floods or parents in the squatter’s camp use the pages to build a fire. But I stressed the importance of keeping the books safe and I am hoping for a safe return. I am also hoping that instilling small trusts in them will make them more responsible and worthy of trust. Responsibility! Ownership! Leadership! Be an Example! Am I sounding too Western yet?
Tomorrow is a sanity trip day. The volunteers will exodus from Khorixas and travel to Outjo. There we will hide from our semi-desert troubles, make a lot of no-bake cookies and commiserate. Also on the to do list: search for and recover a new trashcan. It seems un-assaulted rubbish bins are in short supply in K town.
2-5-08
I feel like my blog is a safe place. I feel this for a lot of reasons but, mainly, I feel this because I can still write the date month-day-year. Sometimes I have mini panic attacks when I turn to write the date on the board every morning – year-day-month, wait… month-day-year, no… um, day-month-year. Yeah, that’s it. Really, it’s quite a pitiful sight.
For lunch break today I had a liter/litre of fruit juice. I think that’s weird. Is that weird?
I didn’t find a rubbish bin in Outjo. I feel kind of bad about this. But I did succeed in eating a lot of cookies and commiserating.
Jill is going to be in a play that some youth in Khorixas are putting on for Valentine’s Day. She is going to be a nurse. The play is about the first time an original tribe heard the real facts of HIV/AIDS, I think… the explanation is weirder every time I hear it. I think this is the first time in a long time I’ve looked forward to Valentine’s Day. Don’t worry about Jill’s moral though; I’ll sit in the back so she can’t hear me laughing.
Today, I took a page from an old high school teacher of mine. The first day of calculus class, he kindly passed out note cards for us to write our name, age, favo(u)rite color, food, subject and what we wanted to be when we got out of school. We spent the whole time filling out the cards having warm fuzzy feelings that this man genuinely wanted to know about our lives. Then, he collected them and dismissed us. When we came back the next day, we had a lecture where he asked us the answer to numerous trigonometry and calculus questions. But, in the beauty of his plan, we did not need to raise our hands to answer these questions. He called on us! By flipping through our note cards! Then, at the end of everyday, he’d shuffle them! This painful set-up meant I had to pay attention for all of class and be ready with an intelligent answer because I never knew when my name was next in the pile. Well, as you can imagine, this plan is more difficult when the names have clicks and you are a clicking dunce, such as myself. But, willing to make a fool of pronunciations, I enacted the Note Card Plan today. It went over really well in 6th grade. I giggled to myself a little at the collective “gasp” from 6A when I turned their note cards against them. Grade 7 will have to experience that joy tomorrow. Oh, the satisfaction of classroom management.
Behavior management has been a bit of a nightmare since I’ve started teaching. I’m not exactly sure why this is. I’ve never had a behavior problems with a group of kids that I had NO idea how to solve. After all, working with and leading groups of kids has been my job, as a volunteer or otherwise, since I was a kid myself. I feel like that amount of training should have given me enough tricks to start off this year. But these kids are a different breed. I won’t go into the details of the problem because, well honestly, they’re all too middle school-ish. But I will say, I started the note cards today and have an elaborate reward system worked up for next week. I think the trick in all of this is to just keep showing up. Their weakness is an underestimation of American persistence… or, at least, Miss Jessica’s persistence.
Well, in the mean time, between now and then, just for kicks, a few things I’ve been wondering:
- Does speaking three languages affect the mental development of a child? How? What if they don’t learn how to read and write in any of them?
- Can a human run faster than a donkey?
- Can tans become permanent? Am I going to have perma-shirt sleeves?
- Is Mefloquine severely detrimental to my health?
- How to I get scones crumbly?
- What are some recipes I can use mealie (corn) meal for? (Moto, I think it was a typo/misunderstanding in the recipe I gave you. Fat cakes call for flour – not corn/mealie meal)
- Excessive cravings for cheese is like a brain-tumor thing, right?
- What’s going on in your lives?
2-9-08
I was using the Note Card Plan yesterday in science class. It works really well. But sometimes the kids just freeze when I call on them. This is understandable for a couple of reasons. First, kids here don’t get singled out for anything except when they do something wrong. So obviously they would look like deer in the headlights when I call on them. And second, English is not their first language and, I know from experience, speaking a foreign language in front of large groups is scary… really scary.
Anyway, it’s understandable that they freeze. So, I’ve taken to walking over to their notebooks and looking at the answer they have written. Usually, it’s correct. At which point I say, “perfect”. Yesterday, I noticed the bold ones started to freeze also. This is the opposite of what should happen. I discovered the cause in the last period of the day. One of the louder boys in class gave me the deer in the headlights look when I called his name. Then, he held out his book for me to look at. I looked and said “perfect. Say that out loud.” But instead, he turned to his friend, straightened his shirt, brushed it off in an I’m-awesome manner and repeated “perfect”.
Sheesh. Someone praise these kids please.
Over the past few days, I reread my blog posts. How is it that so much perspective could be gained a three and a half months? During site visit I remember Jill and I were totally disgusted with out respective housing situations. But, I can’t lie; they’re both quite posh (minus Jill’s overwhelming need to mop). I remember thinking also that a lot of the people I met were kind of rude. I’ve re-met those people since being back at site and, to be honest, they’re really pleasant welcoming people. I also remember while writing some of the posts I was really worried that they would come off as cynical or too serious. While re-reading I found that none of them were really that bitter.
I say all of that because I was debating whether or not I should write about corporal punishment. Do they really need to know? Will they understand? I think you will.
Corporal punishment is illegal in the United States (that’s a bit of an understatement, huh? In truth, you can’t really even touch a child). Well, it’s illegal in Namibia too. But, the catch, it’s only illegal if you get caught. Beating children is still accepted among colleagues as a good form of discipline. I knew this before I got to school. And I understand that it is still a new law and it may take a few years to see the full effect. But, it’s still a shocking sight.
Don’t go overboard with imagination. The people I work with are good people. And kids aren’t beaten to a pulp. Beating means the learner has to hold their hand out while the teacher hits it repeatedly with a stick. The stick is usually about the same diameter as my pointer finger. After each hit, the little ones jump around with their hand tucked under their armpit or between their legs. Then they hold out their hand again for another hit.
I’ve only seen a few kids being beat but learners are more than willing to share their beating stories with me. “Oh, miss, I failed a test and I was beat by Mr. So-and-so…” I know from experience that kids like to tell stories. But I also know those stories are usually rooted in truth. I’m not starting an all out witch-hunt. I’m just sayin… there are stories.
I’m not trying to underplay the fact that kids are being beat here either. The problem comes from the fact that I don’t belong. I am an outsider. I can’t just come into these schools, pull out my soapbox, stand there and preach “In America… Beating children causes fear… Discipline should be balanced with reward…” This country is still trying to figure out who it is. That can be a rocky process.
Since we’re being so honest about being in the Peace Corps in Namibia, I think I’ll let you in on another [superficial] cultural difference. Oddly enough, this cultural misunderstanding puts PCVs in as much of a foul mood as the beatings… really, just the female PCVs, though. Let me explain:
Here, it is good to be fat. Being fat can mean a few things. It can mean that you are rich enough to afford food, you are all around healthy and, most importantly, you don’t have AIDS. It is a common compliment to say, “You are fat!”
Well, let me tell you, this does not go over well. It doesn’t matter if the person is actually fat or not. One volunteer I met from NAM26 is approximately the same size as Mary Kate Olson. She lives with a family and teaches in the north. Her host family was so pleased one morning when she came in for breakfast wearing a large shirt. “Oh, you are fat today!” They were so excited for her. She was less than pleased though.
Our trainers tried to warn us. They explained that sometimes it could mean that you look happy, healthy and well adjusted. This, as you can imagine, doesn’t help. Yesterday, I put on a sweatshirt between our morning staff meeting and tea break. One of my favorite colleagues came up to me as I was waiting for the tea water to boil, patted my hip and said, “Oh, yes. You are getting fatter.” Gosh, this freaked me out. I went home and tried on some pants I haven’t worn since the Sates to make sure they still fit. They do. Don’t worry. I prefer to think she was referring to the sweatshirt and the fact that I was actually smiling during tea break and not dreading the awkwardness.
Which brings me to the sweatshirt. It’s cold here! Just yesterday and today. The rain came on Thursday night. This time it’s not the patchy downpours that alternate with intense sunshine to ensure misery. It was almost similar to Oregon spitting rain. We have been sitting a cloud for the past two days and it is glorious. Bleak. Gray. Wet. Cold(ish). I love it. I’m not crazy, just homesick.
And since we’re flowing so nicely between topics, you all need to know: I am a wimp. I am a wimp because I am homesick. I hear from reliable sources that it is common to be homesick when you move to Africa… or, generally, the other side of the planet. But, I have a period of everyday dedicate to being homesick. I don’t choose these periods of the day or how long they last. They usually choose me. Sometimes, my tears well up at very inconvenient times – like staff meeting or while explaining STIs (STDs) to 7th graders. It’s actually a little pathetic.
I have faith, though, that this is what we like to call an “adjustment period”. And, hopefully, it will pass. I am finding each day to be better than the day before it. Each week, I am becoming more comfortable. It would all be so much easier though if I could just get a cup of coffee at Chapters, curl up on a friend’s couch, watch TV and drive to my parents’ house on the weekends…
All those things will be there when I get back, though? Right? Friends, reserve those couches for me now. Got it? Mom, Dad. Car? House? Elmer’s? Ok?
Well, this is “Goodbye”. Wait. I already did that in October. So that means this is a “See you later”. But I won’t see you for a while. So this is really a “More later”. Which I am sure to be true. Because, here, there is always more to tell. Always.
More Later. Love, J
Oh, and PS (pre-script): Jill is no longer in the Valentine's Day play. Bummer. I'm going to need something to do on Valentine's Day now... And I hope that will be reading all of the loving emails you all send me :)
January 30, 2008
Before I left the States, I read a few blogs from current volunteers in Namibia. They were helpful, but I don’t think I fully understood them until now. Only natural, I suppose. One thing I remember reading was about a PCV who started walking with an umbrella to and from school. She felt a little silly but didn’t want to get burned. Now that I’m here, I see many women carrying umbrellas and only one has been American. I think they want their skin to be lighter… but that could be a myth. I also remember reading about learners mocking American accents. I thought, “That could be cute”. No! It’s maddening! When will the novelty wear off? I don’t remember reading much about the language. This is odd because – It is Huge! I do remember reading about the unnatural pace a PCV goes through books. Jill proves this one true at a rate of about a day to day and a half per book. And, most recently, I’ve remember reading about the January and February sporting chaos. When I first read it sounded like just another hoop the PCVs had to jump through. But today, I experienced the magic of it all.
My primary school took the Kudus and the Orics to a stadium on the way out of town. Yet another corner of Khorixas I “footed” it to (their word, not mine). The kids were asked to come after lunch break to begin at 2:00 and they were asked not to wear dresses. The learners showed up between 1:45 and 3:00… some of them in skirts, some in boxers and some in tank tops I would have made them go and change out of if they lived in my house (meaning: it didn’t have enough fabric for a 14 year old). But, there were no dresses.
First, the kids met in the stadium. This stadium has a soccer field – with real grass!!! It also has a dirt track, covered stadium, bathrooms with running water and a few shade trees. When I got there early (what was I thinking) I sat and pondered the grass and shade trees and felt a little like I was back home. Then the learners started showing up. These kids, who live in houses made from 30 different pieces of corrugated metal and cook outside on a fire in the one pot their family owns, were now spending the afternoon running around a western-style stadium. It was cute and I wished I had cotton candy and peanuts to give all of them. While waiting they played and rolled in the grass. There were butterflies too… how could you not see magic in that? I mean seriously.
When most of the teachers and learners had arrived, the teams were split. Then, they started with team cheers. I’m pretty convinced they made up most of them on the spot. But the great thing about having fifty kids with rhythm is that they can get behind any clapping/singing game pretty quickly. The bad thing about having fifty kids with rhythm is that they have a lot of enthusiasm about it and forget to stop sometimes. “Oh, numbah, Numbah one. Kudus ah Numbah one” was chanted for approximately half an hour on repeat. Cute, but in a if-you-were-someone-else’s-kid way (and, at Eddie Bowe, “we’re teachers and parents” and that “makes us tougher” – I’ve been told). Annoying or otherwise, I was really happy to see them take ownership over their teams. I have this theory about building character by owning something you put work into.
When the track meet began it had a lot of whatever-meter runs… I can’t remember because I don’t belong at track meets. The kids who weren’t running cheered on their teammates from the stands. At one point in time, a child collapsed on the track right before the finish line. One teacher cleared the other kids away and tried to wake up the fallen learner. He was unsuccessful and called over another teacher to help carry the learner off the track. The second teacher picked up the collapsed learner and started to carry him away. The whole stadium had stopped to watch… about that time the kid cracked a smile and jumped out of the teacher’s arms and ran away. It reminded me a little of the Sandlot. I laughed, but then took a quick second to reflect on how much trouble that learner has given me in Science and stopped. It’s the creative ones that get you.
In the whole afternoon, I literally did nothing. I sat with the Grade Ones and enjoyed the scene. Sometimes, I show up and have to run the show and sometimes and show up and sit with the Grade Ones… it’s all about being prepared for anything… or not caring that you’re not prepared and going with the flow. I was ok with it though because the Grade Ones are excellent companions despite the fact that they only speak 9 words of English: How, are, you, am, fine, I, love, you and bye-bye. Technically, “Haullo” is KK too.
1-31-07
Did you know Khorixas and Chia Pets are made out of the same substance? I just went for a walk on a familiar path and got lost because so much greenery has sprouted in the past week. I’m trying not to appreciate it too much because I’m sure it will all fade very quickly. But I did take pictures so I can prove that greenery does exist in semi-desert areas (thank you Ecology for that practical knowledge).
I borrowed a book today called “Dear Exile”. It is a book full of letters written between two friends. One is in New York and the other is a PCV in Kenya. I spent the whole afternoon reading the adventures of the two and laughing out loud to myself like a crazy person. The PCV describes the first days of school… and I laughed. They waited three days for their staff meeting to start. She describes the staff room at her school… and I laughed. There was a flood and roaches in it while she wrote that letter (writing letters at school? I’ve done it. And I only wish our school had enough water for a flood). And, when the PCV attempted to burn dental floss and instead burned his hand… I laughed. Some of the scenarios seem a little too close to home.
Today, I have been in Khorixas for exactly three weeks. Two years has never felt longer. But on the plus side, approximately half the city knows my name. On the downside, they only know my name because of gossip.
Real teaching has only been in my existence for this past week. And in these precious few days I have concluded one thing: I will never be a middle school teacher. My grade six “Maths” (why is everything plural here: hellos, good mornings, maths, sciences…) classes have been ok. They listen well and are willing to answer questions. We are currently working on whole numbers and expanded notation. I’m a little surprised that they don’t know that the 5 in 56 means 50. I find myself struggling to remember 6th grade and what I knew about math. Anyway, grade 7 has been a bit of a handful. Teaching those two classes everyday is just asking to be made fun of. It is literally like I am back in middle school again. It’s really hard to balance the novelty of being from America and being a new strict teacher (strict – that’s me! Actually, I just chant that to myself before I walk in the classroom. Don’t smile before Christmas, they say. I think here it’s Easter, though). They want to mock my accent and ask me questions about American money and Eminem but I am insistent that we learn science. In real life, I’d rather just talk to them about whatever interests them. That could be one of the reasons they describe the first three months of PC teaching as “a disaster. Ha, a train wreck!” in training.
Another first: Today I checked out the first two books from the library for the year. One kid wanted a book on sports and the other wanted information about animals. I helped them find some books and fill out their library cards. They are my guinnee pigs for the whole process. I’ve been told to not let learners take books home because they get wet in floods or parents in the squatter’s camp use the pages to build a fire. But I stressed the importance of keeping the books safe and I am hoping for a safe return. I am also hoping that instilling small trusts in them will make them more responsible and worthy of trust. Responsibility! Ownership! Leadership! Be an Example! Am I sounding too Western yet?
Tomorrow is a sanity trip day. The volunteers will exodus from Khorixas and travel to Outjo. There we will hide from our semi-desert troubles, make a lot of no-bake cookies and commiserate. Also on the to do list: search for and recover a new trashcan. It seems un-assaulted rubbish bins are in short supply in K town.
2-5-08
I feel like my blog is a safe place. I feel this for a lot of reasons but, mainly, I feel this because I can still write the date month-day-year. Sometimes I have mini panic attacks when I turn to write the date on the board every morning – year-day-month, wait… month-day-year, no… um, day-month-year. Yeah, that’s it. Really, it’s quite a pitiful sight.
For lunch break today I had a liter/litre of fruit juice. I think that’s weird. Is that weird?
I didn’t find a rubbish bin in Outjo. I feel kind of bad about this. But I did succeed in eating a lot of cookies and commiserating.
Jill is going to be in a play that some youth in Khorixas are putting on for Valentine’s Day. She is going to be a nurse. The play is about the first time an original tribe heard the real facts of HIV/AIDS, I think… the explanation is weirder every time I hear it. I think this is the first time in a long time I’ve looked forward to Valentine’s Day. Don’t worry about Jill’s moral though; I’ll sit in the back so she can’t hear me laughing.
Today, I took a page from an old high school teacher of mine. The first day of calculus class, he kindly passed out note cards for us to write our name, age, favo(u)rite color, food, subject and what we wanted to be when we got out of school. We spent the whole time filling out the cards having warm fuzzy feelings that this man genuinely wanted to know about our lives. Then, he collected them and dismissed us. When we came back the next day, we had a lecture where he asked us the answer to numerous trigonometry and calculus questions. But, in the beauty of his plan, we did not need to raise our hands to answer these questions. He called on us! By flipping through our note cards! Then, at the end of everyday, he’d shuffle them! This painful set-up meant I had to pay attention for all of class and be ready with an intelligent answer because I never knew when my name was next in the pile. Well, as you can imagine, this plan is more difficult when the names have clicks and you are a clicking dunce, such as myself. But, willing to make a fool of pronunciations, I enacted the Note Card Plan today. It went over really well in 6th grade. I giggled to myself a little at the collective “gasp” from 6A when I turned their note cards against them. Grade 7 will have to experience that joy tomorrow. Oh, the satisfaction of classroom management.
Behavior management has been a bit of a nightmare since I’ve started teaching. I’m not exactly sure why this is. I’ve never had a behavior problems with a group of kids that I had NO idea how to solve. After all, working with and leading groups of kids has been my job, as a volunteer or otherwise, since I was a kid myself. I feel like that amount of training should have given me enough tricks to start off this year. But these kids are a different breed. I won’t go into the details of the problem because, well honestly, they’re all too middle school-ish. But I will say, I started the note cards today and have an elaborate reward system worked up for next week. I think the trick in all of this is to just keep showing up. Their weakness is an underestimation of American persistence… or, at least, Miss Jessica’s persistence.
Well, in the mean time, between now and then, just for kicks, a few things I’ve been wondering:
- Does speaking three languages affect the mental development of a child? How? What if they don’t learn how to read and write in any of them?
- Can a human run faster than a donkey?
- Can tans become permanent? Am I going to have perma-shirt sleeves?
- Is Mefloquine severely detrimental to my health?
- How to I get scones crumbly?
- What are some recipes I can use mealie (corn) meal for? (Moto, I think it was a typo/misunderstanding in the recipe I gave you. Fat cakes call for flour – not corn/mealie meal)
- Excessive cravings for cheese is like a brain-tumor thing, right?
- What’s going on in your lives?
2-9-08
I was using the Note Card Plan yesterday in science class. It works really well. But sometimes the kids just freeze when I call on them. This is understandable for a couple of reasons. First, kids here don’t get singled out for anything except when they do something wrong. So obviously they would look like deer in the headlights when I call on them. And second, English is not their first language and, I know from experience, speaking a foreign language in front of large groups is scary… really scary.
Anyway, it’s understandable that they freeze. So, I’ve taken to walking over to their notebooks and looking at the answer they have written. Usually, it’s correct. At which point I say, “perfect”. Yesterday, I noticed the bold ones started to freeze also. This is the opposite of what should happen. I discovered the cause in the last period of the day. One of the louder boys in class gave me the deer in the headlights look when I called his name. Then, he held out his book for me to look at. I looked and said “perfect. Say that out loud.” But instead, he turned to his friend, straightened his shirt, brushed it off in an I’m-awesome manner and repeated “perfect”.
Sheesh. Someone praise these kids please.
Over the past few days, I reread my blog posts. How is it that so much perspective could be gained a three and a half months? During site visit I remember Jill and I were totally disgusted with out respective housing situations. But, I can’t lie; they’re both quite posh (minus Jill’s overwhelming need to mop). I remember thinking also that a lot of the people I met were kind of rude. I’ve re-met those people since being back at site and, to be honest, they’re really pleasant welcoming people. I also remember while writing some of the posts I was really worried that they would come off as cynical or too serious. While re-reading I found that none of them were really that bitter.
I say all of that because I was debating whether or not I should write about corporal punishment. Do they really need to know? Will they understand? I think you will.
Corporal punishment is illegal in the United States (that’s a bit of an understatement, huh? In truth, you can’t really even touch a child). Well, it’s illegal in Namibia too. But, the catch, it’s only illegal if you get caught. Beating children is still accepted among colleagues as a good form of discipline. I knew this before I got to school. And I understand that it is still a new law and it may take a few years to see the full effect. But, it’s still a shocking sight.
Don’t go overboard with imagination. The people I work with are good people. And kids aren’t beaten to a pulp. Beating means the learner has to hold their hand out while the teacher hits it repeatedly with a stick. The stick is usually about the same diameter as my pointer finger. After each hit, the little ones jump around with their hand tucked under their armpit or between their legs. Then they hold out their hand again for another hit.
I’ve only seen a few kids being beat but learners are more than willing to share their beating stories with me. “Oh, miss, I failed a test and I was beat by Mr. So-and-so…” I know from experience that kids like to tell stories. But I also know those stories are usually rooted in truth. I’m not starting an all out witch-hunt. I’m just sayin… there are stories.
I’m not trying to underplay the fact that kids are being beat here either. The problem comes from the fact that I don’t belong. I am an outsider. I can’t just come into these schools, pull out my soapbox, stand there and preach “In America… Beating children causes fear… Discipline should be balanced with reward…” This country is still trying to figure out who it is. That can be a rocky process.
Since we’re being so honest about being in the Peace Corps in Namibia, I think I’ll let you in on another [superficial] cultural difference. Oddly enough, this cultural misunderstanding puts PCVs in as much of a foul mood as the beatings… really, just the female PCVs, though. Let me explain:
Here, it is good to be fat. Being fat can mean a few things. It can mean that you are rich enough to afford food, you are all around healthy and, most importantly, you don’t have AIDS. It is a common compliment to say, “You are fat!”
Well, let me tell you, this does not go over well. It doesn’t matter if the person is actually fat or not. One volunteer I met from NAM26 is approximately the same size as Mary Kate Olson. She lives with a family and teaches in the north. Her host family was so pleased one morning when she came in for breakfast wearing a large shirt. “Oh, you are fat today!” They were so excited for her. She was less than pleased though.
Our trainers tried to warn us. They explained that sometimes it could mean that you look happy, healthy and well adjusted. This, as you can imagine, doesn’t help. Yesterday, I put on a sweatshirt between our morning staff meeting and tea break. One of my favorite colleagues came up to me as I was waiting for the tea water to boil, patted my hip and said, “Oh, yes. You are getting fatter.” Gosh, this freaked me out. I went home and tried on some pants I haven’t worn since the Sates to make sure they still fit. They do. Don’t worry. I prefer to think she was referring to the sweatshirt and the fact that I was actually smiling during tea break and not dreading the awkwardness.
Which brings me to the sweatshirt. It’s cold here! Just yesterday and today. The rain came on Thursday night. This time it’s not the patchy downpours that alternate with intense sunshine to ensure misery. It was almost similar to Oregon spitting rain. We have been sitting a cloud for the past two days and it is glorious. Bleak. Gray. Wet. Cold(ish). I love it. I’m not crazy, just homesick.
And since we’re flowing so nicely between topics, you all need to know: I am a wimp. I am a wimp because I am homesick. I hear from reliable sources that it is common to be homesick when you move to Africa… or, generally, the other side of the planet. But, I have a period of everyday dedicate to being homesick. I don’t choose these periods of the day or how long they last. They usually choose me. Sometimes, my tears well up at very inconvenient times – like staff meeting or while explaining STIs (STDs) to 7th graders. It’s actually a little pathetic.
I have faith, though, that this is what we like to call an “adjustment period”. And, hopefully, it will pass. I am finding each day to be better than the day before it. Each week, I am becoming more comfortable. It would all be so much easier though if I could just get a cup of coffee at Chapters, curl up on a friend’s couch, watch TV and drive to my parents’ house on the weekends…
All those things will be there when I get back, though? Right? Friends, reserve those couches for me now. Got it? Mom, Dad. Car? House? Elmer’s? Ok?
Well, this is “Goodbye”. Wait. I already did that in October. So that means this is a “See you later”. But I won’t see you for a while. So this is really a “More later”. Which I am sure to be true. Because, here, there is always more to tell. Always.
More Later. Love, J
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