A Birthday Blogpost

Tomorrow is my birthday... I will be 24 years old. This year my birthday won't be reigned in with tickets to "The Lion King" on broadway, tres leche cake at my favorite Cuban restaurant with my best friends, a BBC movie marathon, or a homemade birthday cake from my mother. I won't be receiving any beautifully wrapped presents, surprise cupcakes from my colleagues in the middle of the work day, or flowers from my parents... In fact, it's entirely likely that no one in Ha Selomo will ever know that, for me, another year of life has passed. Yet what I do have this year, is time to think and be thankful.

I am 24 years old. I have accomplished almost none of the "mile markers" my 14 year-old self once longingly dreamed of... I am not married, in medical school, or having children. I do not own my own house, have a well-paying job, an overflowing bank account, or even own a car (since I sold my beloved Honda to my parents a few months ago.) In short, my life today is not what I imagined it would be... It's better.

I am 24 years old, and I have none of the things most American girls dream of. What I do have is:

I have amazing parents, who each in their own way encouraged me to dream beyond convention.
I have 2 hilariously goofy, and absolutely irreplaceable siblings- Each of whom are accomplished and unique in their own right.
I have friends around the world, each as unique as they are inspirational.
I have traveled to 5 of the 7 continents.
I have attended the graduate school of my dreams.
I have moved 12 times in my life.
I have a place to call home, no matter where in the world I travel.
I have studied and loved subjects ranging from Tissue Engineering to Phenomenology.
I have hiked the ruins of Pisac, and sat on Machu Picchu.
I have spent all day curled up in bed with a good book.
I have traveled to over 15 countries.
I have made attempts at learning 6 different languages.
I have mastered one of them. :)
I have meditated with a Mayan priest in a sweat lodge in Guatemala.
I have worshiped to the sound of Masaai song and dance in Kenya.
I have witnessed birth and death.
I have been a Peace Corps Volunteer.
I have cried with and felt love for complete strangers.
I have gotten stuck on a dirt road in the middle of “nowhere” Lesotho, and loved every minute of it.
I have lived in 4 foreign countries.
I have been a high school teacher (1 month and counting!)
I have worked for one of my favorite non-profits- The American Cancer Society.
I have experienced true grief and extreme joy.

I am blessed. My birthday wish is that during the inevitable challenges and occasional loneliness of the coming year,I never forget that much.

With Love from Lesotho… Mary E.

Mud, Manure, and the Curious Case of Cultural Integration. (Part 1)

I never would've thought my most significant experience of "cultural integration" thus far in Lesotho would've come while I was elbow deep in manure and mud. As it turns out, however, getting "down and dirty" with the locals requires just that- Getting down on the floor and VERY dirty.

I was returning from an afternoon trip into town to pick up a package at the post office yesterday, when I passed a group of bo-Me' working on an old house near the village setopong (taxi stop). I greeted them in Sesotho, as is customary and polite, and was quickly ushered over to inspect what they were doing. On this occasion, I was lucky- One of the bo-Me spoke English! They told me they were recoating the house, inside and out, with a new layer of mobu (mud). When I was offered a giant, sloppy basin full of smelly manure mud, one look at their excited expectant faces said that it would be just criminal to turn down this opportunity to do away with some of their cultural stereotypes about Americans. So I grabbed a giant handful, much to their delight and laughter, and began to learn the fine art of smearing mobu. :)

I think they all expected me to wimp out or "get tired" and leave after the first handful (for some unknown reason, all the villagers seem to think that my light skin makes me constantly tired and averse to work) ... But one handful turned into a dozen... And to be honest, I was thrilled to finally be a part of a group of women and a community project! So when we finished with the outer walls, we moved inside to smear the floors with a fresh layer!

Now to all you who imagine that smearing mud sounds like child's play, you could not be more mistaken. Even after smearing mobu for 2 or 3 hours, I had not mastered the technique for the keeping the floor and walls perfectly even and hole-free, that the okhoona (grandmother) beside me made look so easy. Its a skill Basotho women have mastered, and as someone who lives in a mobu-walled rondaval, I more than understand what a valuable building method it is. For one, building materials, such as wood or other "processed materials," like bricks, are hard to come by or very expensive. What Lesotho does have, however, is rocks and dirt! And my rondaval combines the best of both to yield a home that is low-cost, warm in the winter, and cool in the summer. So I'm just here to tell you, don't judge it til you’ve lived in it! My little house might look "primitive" to some Americans, but I absolutely love it!

Another important note about life in a African village, is that word travels FAST... And boy did it ever, when the news was that Me' Limpho (ie. me) was covered in mobu, resmearing the floors of an old house. I swear that every villager for a mile turned up to poke their head through the window, and laugh hysterically while rambling excitedly a Sesotho, "She is a Mosotho now!" And as always, they wanted to take endless pictures of me (as if everything I do is unbelievably entertaining.) In fact, it is entirely likely that every camera phone in Ha Selomo now has a picture on it of me in a considerable state of mud-covered filth. :)

The other, slightly more unfortunate, consequence of my new status as "expert Mosotho mobu smearer" was in the romance department. I assure you it was quite unintentional on my manure-covered part, but apparently my foray in Mosotho house chores was quite the statement of my suitability as a wife. And let me tell you, more than a few bo-Ntate in the village stopped by to "try their luck" (most for the umpteenth time) with the makhooa, now turned Mosotho. I believe I received 6 confessions of love in the span of 3 hours. Now, needless to say, my dream proposal of marriage/love has never, in theory, included manure and mud... So alas, they all left disappointed. Yet, in the future, I shall have to remember to avoid such "turn on's" as covering myself in cow manure. :)

Despite the unwanted attention, the afternoon was absolutely wonderful. It's the kind of opportunity for "cultural integration" that every PC volunteer waits and hopes for... The moment when you really feel embraced by your community. Not because you are an American, or rich, or even because you are actually good at smearing mobu on an old house, but because they (and you, for that matter) realize that for better or worse you are there with them, making it work, one day at a time. It's not always glamorous; it may be something filthy like getting covered in manure to help restore a neighbors' house, complaining with the other bo-Me' about a broken water pump that you all have to endure every day, or suffering through sweltering heat in a tin-roofed classroom with your students... But you are invested in making the community a better place with them, because it's YOUR community now, too. And that unspoken understanding was what I finally reached that afternoon... Mud, manure, and all.

With Love from Lesotho – Mary E.

Classroom Management and the "Menacing Mom" Voice

My delight that my students are moving out of the "terrified deer-in-headlights" phase and into relative comfort with me has been quickly curtailed by the presence of a new frustration. They're getting comfortable with me, and hence pushing the limits of what I will allow in my classroom. While some classes are further along in "testing the boundaries" (particularly my Form B students), I imagine all of my classes will, at some point, follow suit. In the case of my Form B's, they (especially the girls) delight in mimicking me, whispering during class, and speaking Sesotho (which is strictly forbidden at the High School, and is of further insult because I can't understand what they are saying.) Needless to say, it has to stop.

My exposure to Basotho techniques for discipline at my school thus far, however, has not left a wide range of options for my use. This is because the prominent method of discipline (for most rural schools in Lesotho, including mine) is corporal punishment. I should preface this by saying that all of my Basotho colleagues are wonderful, caring people, but corporal punishment (for anyone whom this practice offends) is the cultural norm. It is commonly practiced at home and at school. Teachers regularly carry sticks (of varying lengths, and sometimes surprising widths) as a form of intimidation both within and outside of the classroom. Students are beat for a range of infractions, from arriving late to 7am study or the daily assembly, for talking in class, for late assignments, or just generally for being rowdy or uncooperative.

As many Americans are aware, it is against the law in the U.S. to beat a child at school, and culturally, many Americans even believe it is unethical to beat, swat, or spank your own child at home. For all PCV teachers in Lesotho, these disparate views make for a prominent cultural difference. As volunteers, however, we all come from a wide range of belief systems and upbringings. For some, the mere mention of corporal punishment illicits very strong emotions, while for others (like myself), corporal punishment is tolerable or, at a minimum, rationalized. As a child, I admit to occasionally being on the less pleasant end of a spanking from my father. Today, I consider myself a well-adjusted adult and no worse for wear because of a little physical punishment. So while I would never beat a child with a stick (especially a child that was not my own), I understand that it is the cultural norm here, is unlikely to do any permanent harm (if applied judiciously,) and either way, is a Basotho child-rearing practice that is not going change anytime soon.

Even if I was disposed towards disciplining students with a stick (which, for the record, I am not,) it would not matter. As a Peace Corps Volunteer, I am held to the laws in both my host country (Lesotho) and the U.S. So in short, it is illegal for me, as a teacher, to engage in corporal punishment (a fact I have to consistently remind my colleagues when I am offered a stick, and looked at expectantly.) Yet I still have a growing discipline problem. I am stubbornly determined to prove to my colleagues that there are effective alternatives to wielding a stick, and to prove to my students that I am not to be toyed with.

Options that might typically be available to me in the U.S are very limited here. I cannot hold children after school, as many have to walk several hours to get home before dark. There is no detention, and sending a child to the Principal would just be the equivalent of having someone else wield the stick for me. Students here are surprisingly nonchalant about grades, as many fail anyway or drop out- so deducting points is also unproductive. Taking away lunch would be cruel, as for many of my students (especially orphans) it is the only meal they can expect to have every day. Yet I am slowly learning some "tricks of the trade" firsthand and from my PCV peers.

For one, students here HATE being dirty. The idea of soiling an expensive school uniform unnecessarily is repulsive. They also HATE speaking in public. So latecomers to my class are now punished with a good dose of embarrassment when I demand they explain their tardiness to the class/me, and then sit on the floor for the rest of the class. For talking in class, another form of public mockery- standing in the corner with your nose to the wall.

I wish I could say that these tactics have been enough, but it seems they are not. So this morning in my Form B Math class, I finally snapped and pulled out an age old weapon passed down from mother to daughter through the ages... My most menacing mom voice. When combined with a look that chills a child to the bone and an air of extreme disappointment it is proven highly effective- or at least, I hope. I threatened them with the loss of some lunch?break-time the next day... (A rather shocking punishment for them, that I'm hoping will rally the class to police itself lest they have no break during a 9 hour school day) We shall see if it proves enough to strike respect into their young hearts. By the looks on their faces when I left the classroom in a threatening and angry silence, they seem to have gotten the message... Me' Limpho will not be disrespected. But I'm certain the time will come soon enough when I will have to follow through on an awful, horrible promise of "no break" or manual labor during lunch-time. When that time comes, I'll keep my promise... Because I may not have a stick, but I'm confident there's more than one way to discipline a child. :)

With Love from Lesotho – Mary E.

Welcome to Teaching in Lesotho!

I've been a teacher now for 10 days and I'm slowly settling into a schedule here at Linokong High School... It has been a week full of realizations.

The first is that I am now painfully aware that this job will be rife with frustrations, and if I'm ever going to survive I will have to actively focus on the sometimes hidden rewards. For example, I was ready to cry by the end of my Form B Math class last week. After 5 classroom hours of teaching Number Sequences, they seem no closer to grasping the concept of a general rule for a mathematical sequence than I am to understanding my colleagues' staff room chatter in Sesotho. It's frustrating already. I am all too aware that my accent and English confound them. I could have all the good intentions and mathematical brilliance in the world- It would do me no good here. All I receive in return is blank stares and puzzled expressions. It will get better, "easier" even. I know this for certain, but that doesn't mean that this job will ever be "easy." Not for me, and not for them. And I understand that better than anyone... I live in a community where I struggle daily to bridge and understand cultural difference (and sometimes even succeed!), but expressing it is a whole other ball game. I am at the mercy of my inability to speak Sesotho. So I can only imagine how my students feel. Trying to learn Algebra is one thing... Trying to learn it in a foreign language is quite another.

Yet the second part of this realization is that there ARE a million tiny, seemingly insignificant, and sometimes difficult to discern moments of success and gratification. Like today, when a quiet little girl, named Rethabile, in the back of my Form A (8th grade) Math class, raised her hand to VOLUNTEER to come up to the board and draw a Venn Diagram. I suppose to appreciate the sheer courage and miracle of this act you would have to understand that my students are petrified of being wrong, intimidated by the threat of corporal punishment in the classroom, confused by 90% of what is spoken to them in English, and just generally nervous they will embarrass themselves in front of the new makhooa (white) teacher. It was nothing less than miraculous when I saw Rethabile's timid hand creep into the air... And even more unbelievable when she shyly made her way to the board and correctly finished the math problem without so much as a glance towards me or her classmates for help. I swear my heart swelled to the size of my chest with joy. That simple moment, that one act, has to be enough to make up for all the frustrations and challenges that stand between me and my students' success.

 
My second realization for my first week as a teacher is that doing this job will require more than my mind, or even my time and energy... It is going to take a whole lot of compassion, humility, and patience. That's because, here in Lesotho, the deck is stacked against my kids. The sad truth is that many of them won't make it through Form E (12th grade.) Most will face truly difficult and life-altering decisions and situations during formative years that should be the most care-free and happy of their young lives. I was reminded of this fact all too abruptly, much like a harsh slap to the face, while in the middle of my Form D (11th grade) Physics class the other day. It was the period just after lunch, and I noticed that 40 minutes into my lecture their attention was waning. My attempts at enthusiasm were met with tired stares.

"You all look so tired! Why are you tired?"

"We're not tired, Madam. We are hungry," they chorused in agreement.

"But why are you hungry? We have just had lunch." I replied.

"Yes, Madam. But there was not much food."

"I am sorry," I answered, genuinely. It was true that newly enrolled students had made it difficult for the kitchen to estimate how much to cook.

"Well you will be able to eat when you get home... I need your attention for the next 20 minutes though."

Throughout the classroom I heard an echo of "Yes, Madam"... But just to my right, sitting in the front row with her head hung low, I heard the tiniest whisper utter, "But what if there is no food at home?"

I wish this was the only student of mine that will ever have to face such a concern, but I live in Lesotho now and these are the burdens of this country's children. My school has more than 40 children who are orphans of HIV/AIDS. Approximately 10-20 girls in our school will become pregnant this year- Many of those will be forced into marriages with older men as a necessity to support their child. Several in my classes are already married with children. Most will grow up without a male presence at home, as good jobs are nearly non-existent in Lesotho- A large portion of the Basotho male population is forced to travel to S. Africa to find work to feed their families. Who knows how many of my students secretly carry the burden of spousal abuse or the stigma of HIV.

It is a heavy thought, and one that increasingly plagues me. As a teacher, my job is to help my students achieve success. Yet how do I do that when the barriers to a sound education are so immense and immovable? Already I inherently know that there is no secret solution, no magical plan of approach. Nothing I say or do in my two years serving in Lesotho will drastically alter the fate of the youth of this amazingly resilient country. I can be unyielding passionate about math and science, and it will never make up for the pain of a hungry stomach.

The good news is that the sense of accomplishment I got when Rethabile's face lit up with a glowing smile of success felt pretty amazing, and more than worth it. So I'll take the little triumphs, work hard, and focus on helping just one child at a time.

With Love from Lesotho – Mary E.