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?
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