Universals Nov 18

                  There are some things that I’ve noticed in Ethiopia that occur in America too. However, how I deal with them has shifted based on where I am. 
For example, bananas going brown. The feeling of not wasting anything is a universal. No matter the cost of the original item, it is important that it is used while it is still good. Throwing out food because it wasn’t eaten quickly enough is a shame. In the States whenever bananas started to go brown I would whip out a batch of banana muffins or a loaf of banana bread. This week I attempted to make banana pancakes without a nonstick pan. It sort of worked out. This also goes for tomatoes, carrots, cabbage and other veggies from market day.

         
           Craving certain foods when sick. I don’t know about the rest of you, but when I am getting over something and start to want food again (who really likes food when they are sick?) I have cravings for certain things. When I was sick in Butajira I wanted my Grandma’s Cindy’s chicken noodle soup. It’s thick, rich, creamy, and delicious. Yesterday as I was getting over something I ate the day before, I craved shiro. Shiro? The thick, slightly spicy, paste eaten with injera or bread. Why? I don’t know, but it sure did taste good.

          
         Drink Tea = Medicine. Yesterday when I had to cancel plans to stay in bed, the first advice given to me was “Drink tea.” My landlady made sure that I had plenty of tea before leaving me alone. This happens state side too. When I would wake up with a cough or not feeling well, Grandma would always give me a large, hot cup of tea first thing. I’m not sure about the medicinal qualities of this drink, but it seems to help. 


                   Sports are serious. I’ve grown up in the world of sports. My brothers and dad talking about so and so and some statistic in football, basketball and mostly baseball. I don’t know all the statistics, names and facts like they do, but I could be okay at a baseball game. However, this week I realized my incompetence in this field. Teacher friends taught me all about the Ethiopian football team (whose lost to Algeria 1-3 on Sunday) and who was who for Manchester United, Manchester City and Chelsea. Grade Nine boys taught me all the catch phrases for the great WWE wrestlers complete with the entrance moves. They then tested me on them. Being a fan, supporting something grander than one person, is universal. The focus of such fan-dom may be different though.

        
         Clothes don’t wash themselves. Laundry didn’t really bother me ever. Growing up it was my weekend chore to wash and fold all the laundry for the Sexton 5. It didn’t bother me. I’d pop in a movie and get it done. In college I went to grandparents’ every other weekend and did it there. If an emergency came up I would get some quarters and do it on my own. The laundry machine is a luxury I will never take for granted again. Once I get started on the bucket washes, it’s not that bad. The numbing activity lets your mind wander to other things. It’s getting started that’s a drag. It also is important to do it when there is water and the sun is out, two things that sporadically aren’t reliable.

         
         School Vacations. Some schools in the states cancel school for hunting or harvest time. Administration realizes the importance of these and would rather not have students skip. As rainy season has ended a couple months ago, it is time for harvest. However, the sound of thunder rumbles. The fear of a crop getting spoiled by the rain in a highly agricultural environment leads to school being cancelled Monday – Thursday this week. Students are needed to help their families. However, unlike the States where the make up time is scheduled throughout the school year, here they want to make it up as soon as possible. So, I have school Friday – Sunday this week and next weekend. Which means I will teach from November 21 – December 5 without a day off. There would be a mutiny if weekends were jeopardized in America!    


                 Birthdays are cause for celebration. On Sunday I went to a 3 year old’s birthday party. He was dressed adorably in new clothes (dark jeans, white button up shirt, black suspenders, bow tie). I expected there to be lots of kids around like all birthday parties I’ve been too. Instead, there were mostly adults sitting around and talking. As soon as I got inside I was given an over-flowing plate of hambasha, popcorn (fandusha), animal crackers, and candy. We then sat around and talked for a while. They put a sparkler in a fresh ambasha, lit two candles, and a candle shaped like a number 3 for pictures. However, they didn’t have the kid blow them out. Instead he had to cut the hambasha. Hats that annoy kids with the plastic string around then chins, numbered candles, song, pictures and grandparents coming are some ways birthdays are celebrated the same here and there.


                 I suppose this blog could also be called: Things I’ve Learned About Myself. 1. I hate wasting food. 2. My food cravings have shifted. 3. Tea is amazing! 4. Love sports. 5. I dislike washing clothes by hand. 6. School is throwing off my grove. 7. Life is a good thing to celebrate. But, that is too self-centered to convey all I am thinking. I’ve lived and traveled through multiple cultures, but I haven’t seen or experienced them all. Reflecting on the similarities and differences between two, sparks interest in learning about others. How do people adapt to the availability of food? What do you do when bananas or other food start to get brown? What random cravings do you have? What food or drinks are your comforts when you are sick? Who are you a fan of? How do you adapt to changes in your schedule? What does your culture value over education? How are birthdays celebrated? Are they just for kids or adults too? I smile as I think that I’ve only been in site for 7 weeks. How much more will I learn and adapt in the next 89?











Not Homesick Nov 8

         In the opening scene of Robin William’s Patch Adams has peaceful piano music as he states,  “All the restless hearts are trying to find a way home.” And questions “How far away home can be?” But then he defines it:  “Home. The dictionary defines home as both a place of origin and a goal or destination.” As I come to the blue and gold gate from an exhausting long night out, I realize what is making Selekleka home to me.

                This past year as my family moved around, my dad coined the phrase “Home is where your pillow is.” Home: The safe place where you can go and relax enough to sleep. Where your worries and anxieties can be left out. My room is my home. No matter how exhausting my day is or how many times I question where I am, I am grounded in a safe compound in block 55. It may not be the address on my driver’s license or where the mail is delivered, but it’s home.

                I can leave on weekends to Axum or Shire. I used to want to go. To get internet. To connect back with home. I haven’t been in three weeks. It’s not that I don’t want to connect or that I am forgetting all my loved ones back in America, but I love being in Selekleka. I love the busyness of market day and running into people I know everywhere. I love having kids run up to me to twirl. I love going to a pool house/suk in the evenings to hang out with teachers and friends of all ages. The weekly coffee ceremony dates and free time with compound friends are precious. Home is where you are loved and love back.

                Maybe it’s just me, or the fact that everyone knows one of my site mates is in America, but more people have asked me if I am homesick and missing America. I do. I miss calling my mom about any and everything. I miss bike rides and baking with my dad. I miss super hero movies and gummy worms with my brothers. I miss my friends and the goofy, fun things we do together. I miss sewing and watching “Mysteries at the Museum” with my grandparents. I miss church. But I’m not homesick.

                 Although no one can be replaced, I do have a landlady who makes sure I have sugar after the famine ended and watches out for me like a parent. Today she made me bread. I hang out with goofy teachers and do fun things. I have friends here that would help me in a heartbeat if needed. I play with children. I text people that care about me. I talk with people about religion. I am safe. I am loved. I love. I am home.











Oh Life November 8

                  Oh life. This wonderful, crazy, hectic, fulfilling, complexing, blessed life I am living right now never ceases to amaze me. Minutes and hours fly by through laughter, tears, headaches, questions, and plenty of dust. I collapse into bed every night eager for the next day to arrive. Now I pause. I breathe. I reflect. I smile. Here are some of my stories. 
         He stands still trying to hold back the laughter that is bubbling up inside him. She laughs as she smears chalk on his charcoal skin. Another girl drapes a shawl over her head as she twirls in her floral dress. A tiny boy rolls up a pant legs and takes off his shoes. All of us in the room radiate the excitement and anticipation for the drama we are about to do.

                   On Friday (08 Nov.) students stayed ten minutes after school to watch a drama by the Civics Club on the importance of English. There was an aging farmer, his wife and child and translator. I was invited to play a forengi. (a foreigner) The scene opened with the farmer and his wife talking about how they don’t have anything and praying to God to send help. Then I walk in, newly arrived in the area and not knowing any Tigrigna, asking where the hospital is. Miscommunication insues to the delight of the audience. While the skit was comedic it was also very true. Many people assume that forengi, foreign people, come with the intent to give handouts. The translator had to explain that I was here for another reason, as many forengies are. In the end, the parents decided that they were going to make sure that their son went to school even in harvest season to learn English. A dream I hope many parents have. 
        

                   Six, colored balls are braced against either side for the green felt field. A lone dark blue one waits at the end for the crack of wood hitting the white one. He bends low. His strong fingers extend as the wood slides over the notch of thumb and forefinger. The backhand tests the feel of wood as his eyes evaluate angles. There is a holding of breath and then CRACK! The game has begun.

         Although every dormitory at Whitworth houses a pool table, I never took up the game. Even if I had, the only advantage it would have here is the proper technique to hit the cue ball. Everything else is different: the rules, the play of the game, the scoring. It’s all foreign to me. The pool hall is owned by one of the teachers and is a popular place for teachers to congregate in the afternoon/evenings. I was called in about two weeks for the first time. Little did I know it was going to become a habit I look forward to.

                 Along two walls of the medium size room are benches that can fit about 6 adults. You have to be aware of the game or you will get a stick or player in your face as the corridors are close. Although one end is opened up to the crisp night air, the concentration, frustration, excitement and bodies warm up the room like a fireplace at Christmas. Even though it’s cramped, it’s a relief. I listen to conversations encouraged by how much more I understand than when I first came. I write down new words in Tigrigna to the delight of those teaching me. Although I am an atrociously horrible player, and crave a sport I am good at (basketball is going to happen a.s.a.p. when I get state side), I love the community and atmosphere that swirls around it. 
        

                  Beneath the bottled water caked in dust stands an orange yellow counter. The scale to one side is forgotten, as there are no products to measure it with now. A glass pane shows ants crawling over expired candies. Tea cups with lemons stand steaming off to one side. It is here we stand. Bending over papers as the evening light turns navy. We laugh as mispronunciation occurs changing meanings, or one decides to act out for clarity the scroll we are looking at. Everything else is forgotten as we piece together letters, words, sentences, meanings. Our pens are eager for new words: His for English, Mine for Tigrigna. 

                  What was the childhood book you had your parents, babysitters, older siblings read to you over and over and over again? When did your brain switch from listening to reading along? “At one magical instant in your early childhood, the page of a book – that string of confused, alien ciphers – shivered into meaning. Words spoke to you, gave up their secrets; at that moment, whole universes opened. You became, irrevocably, a reader.” (Alberto Manguel) I am on the journey to that instant moment.

                  While I started going to the pool hall to develop relationships with coworkers outside of the school compound, my time has morphed into the next room. Here is a suk (also owned by teacher) where he and his younger brother (a delightfully clever Grade 9 student) teach me Tigrigna. Others filter in and out, but we spend hours each night learning new vocabulary. In the last couple days I have been given sentences to translate into English. This is extremely difficult, as I do not know the majority of the words used in the sentences or the grammar rules used to construct complex sentences. However, it is greatly beneficial. I start to see patterns and make connections through the complex maze of letters. Handwriting preferences never were more obvious to me or the affect it has on the learning process before. Most importantly it shows me first hand what my students must think when I hand them a reading passage in class. How can I adapt my teaching to my new styles?