Hopes and Fears of Coming Home

I've been thinking a lot about what I will take away from Nigeria--figuratively and literally--and what I am prepared to leave behind. It's sobering, but I'm sharing it here so that you, my friends, family, and cheerleaders (HI MOM) can anticipate the changes in me when I step off the plane on June 18th.

I'm going to need closure. Lots of it. This place has endeared me to her people, her traditions, her fashion. Yes, there will be things I won't miss, but they will be grossly outweighed by the things I will carry with me forever.

Some of the things I hope to leave behind include my assumptions about Nigerians, my fear of international travel, my ignorance of the teaching profession, and my innate American-centrism.

I plan to bring back an appreciation for the generosity I have been shown here and a desire to pay it back forward, the self esteem that comes from cutting it in a third-world country, a closet full of Nigerian clothes, and at least 2 bags of pounded yam flour.

By the time I return, I hope to have found the words to describe how blessed I feel to have shared in this life for the past 8 months. I hope to demonstrate my ability to tie a hair tie (no, for real). I hope to testify to the warmth of a people who have been unfairly represented by a greedy administration and foolish religious radicals.

I hope I leave behind my need to schedule everything, my impatience with the speed of life (and the desire to move at break-neck speed in the first place), & my taking clean water for granted.

I hope I will always be willing to drop everything for a friend in need and to express sympathy as genuinely and persistently as the Nigerians do.

I hope I come home a stronger woman with direction and purpose, with compassion and generosity, without rose-colored glasses about life outside the U.S., but with hope and optimism for life in general.

Ultimately, I hope I come back to Nigeria someday.

All these hopes come hand in hand with fears, naturally. I fear that I will forget what it feels like to be loved unconditionally by a classroom of 2nd-graders. I fear that my pictures and blog posts have been wholly ineffectual in communicating the beauty of this place and its people. I fear the strange glances when I use the exclamation, "Kai" in public. (Because, I promise you, that is permanently cemented in my vocabulary. No two ways about it.)

Full Disclosure: I fear that my family and friends will not understand the heart and passion and longing I feel towards Nigeria. I fear that I will be tempted to write off this year as a "gap year" between college and the rest of my life. This is my life. It will never not be part of my life. I'm honestly not trying to be melodramatic here, but there's no going back. I can't undo the impact this year has had on me (though I suspect time will lessen it).
I positively THREW myself into this life and this culture and the fact that when I raise my voice in my classroom, it comes out in a perfect native Nigerian accent is not because I'm an actress and faking it but because that is the genuine Miss Maggie Angry Voice. I perfected it here and so that's what it sounds like.
Frankly, I checked my Americanness at the door and have tried to learn this culture by living it. Maybe that's going to make me one mixed-up mess of a returning expatriate, but I wouldn't trade it. I don't want to change it. I'm just afraid that a) people back home won't understand that/have little patience for it and b) I will eventually forget it, too.

I'm pretty sure that the first time someone says to me, "Yeah, but you were only there a year," I'm going to burst into tears (I'm steeling myself for this comment to occur frequently). Because in the grand scheme of my young life, a year is a big deal. Especially one that has changed a lot about me and helped me see who I really am and who I want to be.

So please, I beg you, have patience with me. Cut me a little slack when I cry watching the news, or complain about the availability of papaya, or give into the desire to wear Nigerian clothes for no reason except that a part of me will always feel at home here and I want to preserve that part for as long as I can.

in which miss maggie misses

A friend from church asked me last week the 5 things I will miss most about Nigeria.

In no particular order, they are as follows:
- That moment when a student "gets it." It feels like watching knowledge literally light in their eyes.
- That moment I don't feel completely out of place. It happens more frequently these days, but it still strikes me each time I do something right, culturally speaking. I will miss feeling like I fit in around here.
- Making a palpable contribution to society. There is such power and simplicity in replying, "I am a teacher" in response to the question, "What do you do here in Nigeria?" It gets me every time.
- The fruit. Seeded watermelon, pawpaw (papaya), sweetsop, guava, pineapple, and mangoes, mangoes, and more mangoes. I'm in real danger of crying when mango season comes around again and I'm not here to enjoy it.
- The contentment that comes with living a simpler life. I go to work, I come home, I rest, I catch up with family and friends back home. Sometimes I go out with friends, sometimes I go shopping at the market, but mostly I'm at home, working, watching movies, drinking tea, and reflecting on how amazing this life is that I'm living and how fortunate I am to be here, doing something I love. That "something" being learning a new culture and sharing my love for literature with kids who think I'm cool.

Now that I've fulfilled the sentimental quota for the day, I leave you with a humorous story:

I took a dozen 5th-, 6th-, and 7th-graders to a U.N. World Book Day event here in town. We took the school bus and drove down Embassy Row (so cool to see all the different embassies! The American one lived up to its nickname: "The Fortress."). We were one of 5 or 6 area school represented. All the students had read a small biography of Nelson Mandela and the Honorable Minister of Petroleum something-something came to discuss the story with them.
Madam Minister highlighted the story in which Nelson Mandela received his first name from an English-speaking teacher who couldn't pronounce his birth name Rohihlahla. The entire audience clicked their disapproval of the renaming. Madam Minister asked the students if any of them had ever had their name changed by a teacher.

One of my 5th graders stood up. (Skewer me now, please and thank you.)

My student told everyone how his teacher couldn't pronounce his Nigerian name so she called him Chris instead. Madam Minister spoke to him, but was looking at me as she said: "Well, I hope your teacher is here today and I hope she realizes that it's not okay to take someone's name away from them just because you can't pronounce it."

You guys, I just about died.

After the student sat down, I leaned over to him and said, "D---, that didn't happen at ICS, did it?" To which he replied, "No, miss. That was at my old school in the UK." To which I nodded grimly and considered that the damage had already been done. Not that it even needs to be said, but I was the only white woman in the room, and everyone gave me cold looks the rest of the day. Even the kids from other schools looked at me with deep accusing eyes; "Name Changer," they all seemed to say.

Oh, it was awful all right. In a hilarious sort of way.

Fish heads and learning to laugh at myself

I eat chicken. Lots of chicken.
I eat chicken to avoid eating bush meat, or goat, or undecipherable bits of fish.

I eat so much chicken, I'm about to cluck.

To maintain a little variety, I occasionally bake fish, or grill hamburgers, or fry up some pork chops.

My flatmate Jan bought some frozen fish tails (scales and all) and set it out for me to bake last night. And by some, I mean about 2 kilos' worth of frozen fish tails.

I broke open the package and pried two tails off the top of the stack. Then I experienced a tiny panic attack at the mouth-open, jelly-eyeballed, shockingly-lifelike intact fish heads underneath. 4 of them, looking up at me.

IT FREAKED ME OUT.

I put everything in a ziploc bag, shoved it back in the freezer, and made spaghetti instead.

in which the teacher struggles

As a brand-new teacher, I'd like to think that a small part of my educational philosophy goes something like this: "To encourage young minds in the skills of critical thinking, analysis, and persuasion." I truly do want to see my students think on their feet and defend their own positions on topics as varied as they are.

I just cannot, for the life of me, figure out how to grade essays in which the argument is based on flawed logic.

I have a particular student in mind: one of those pensive, quiet thinkers who doesn't say much until questioned and then you realize they've absorbed every word you've said. He's a sensitive young teenager with an uncommon sense of right and wrong. This kid is so black-and-white, I feel like 8 shades of gray, pale next to his resoluteness.

He wrote an essay this week on the topic of homosexuality and gay marriage. He fulfilled all the requirements of the essay: length, format, proper sources; he took a position and he argued it, which is exactly what I asked for. God love him, that's a tough topic for most, not least of all, such a young student. I truly admire his pluck.

It's just that the majority of the argument was ineffective; based on assumption, not fact. His suggested solutions were improbable. While I respect him and the topic he's trying to tackle, I have to strike a balance of feedback somewhere between "That's absurd" and "Good for you for making the attempt."

[In a brief but requisite disclaimer: this has nothing to do with his views on the topic, and everything to do with the logic he uses to argue his position.]

CALLING ALL TEACHERS: How do I continue to fulfill my educational philosophy and support this student with enormous potential while, at the same time, pushing him towards a higher level of analysis? How do I encourage him truthfully without crushing his spirit? (because crush I most certainly could.)

At Wheaton, my English profs would have written me a brief but gut-punching marginal comment and I would have reworked my argument by returning to commentaries by accomplished scholars, borrowing logic, and developing a critical but compelling argument of my own. But this is high school. He's 14.

I'm in over my head here. Help.

cheaters never prosper

...unless they're in government.

(Just kidding. Today's political humor brought to you by an American not living in America.)

I assigned essays to four classes over Easter Break. I know, I know, who gives homework before a holiday? But knowing these students, they need the extra time to do the research and writing process. A full week with no class seemed like a good opportunity. Besides, it was only a rough draft due when they returned from break.

Then a student who ordinarily struggles to put together a complete sentence produced a 3-page, single-spaced persuasive essay on the causes and solutions of air pollution.

WARNING DANGER RED ALERT

Hello, plagiarism.

I started typing in words and phrases into a Google search, and up popped the Wikipedia article. Directly copy and pasted. He didn't even bother with an introduction. Or a conclusion, for that matter. He literally stopped at the end of the third page, even though he was in the middle of an argument against gas engines. I took my highlighter to every word that was not his own.

Then I did the same with the next paper. And the next. And the next. 10 essays later, I was disappointed and frustrated. And a little bit stupefied that these kids actually thought they could pull one over on ol' teach here. I mean, two of them copied from each other. How dumb do they think I am?

Then again, that's not a fair rhetorical question. The better question is: how lazy are they? They had 11 days to type a 2-page double-spaced essay with two sources, neither of which could be Wikipedia. (They were astonished by the concept of reliable and unreliable resources.) It wasn't even a final draft! Only a rough draft!

Thus, their copying directly from Wikipedia told me that they were lacking in motivation. And I was determined to give it to them.

The next day, I passed back the 16 essays, 10 of which had yellow highlighter markings. I asked everyone who turned in an essay to stand up. Then I asked everyone who didn't have any highlighter to sit down. They totally bought it. They thought it was a game. While I theoretically cannot condone the shaming of a child, I spoke directly to the standing students and gave them a speech that went something like this:
"You're standing because the words in your essay aren't yours. They are someone else's and you copy-and-pasted them and put your name at the top. If I wanted to read what someone else thinks about these environmental issues, I would have gone out to Wikipedia, or GoogleNews, or CNN or BBC and read their articles. I want to know what YOU think. I care what YOU think. I want to hear YOUR ideas for solutions."

I then cautioned the entire class: anything highlighted must be deleted from the essay. For 5 students, this meant starting completely over. They have the rest of the week and the weekend to produce a final draft. If there's any further plagiarism, they'll receive a zero.

This sort of situation brings up some real issues for me in regards to standards of excellence here in Nigeria. Cheating, excuses, copying, missing work, late work, laziness: some teachers just smile and shake their heads, but I can't do that.

If you ask my Grade 6 for my test-taking mantra, they'll chant for you: "Talking = Cheating = Failing." If you ask my Grade 12 for my late work policy, they will tell you: "No late work. If it's late, it's a zero."

I know I'm the only high school teacher with a late work policy, but I can't compromise. These students can be held to a high standard. I agree I must make reasonable expectations for them, but expecting them to turn in work when it's due is not unreasonable.

Because we're starting the last quarter of the school year, I gave my students the following pledge:
No more zeroes. I will make sure of it. I will push you until you bleed. [The boys grunted their approval.] I will push you until you cry. I will push you until you hate me. [One girl in the back cried out, "We could never hate you, Miss Thomas!"] You will not fail my class this term. Cue the inspirational music...

But so help me, if those final drafts are plagiarized, I'm going to be handing out big fat zeroes, whether I want to or not.

Cooking and other Adventures

Truth be told, I'm not a chef. I feel a little gypped in this category of genetic skills...it seems only fair that I should have gotten my mom's ability to create kitchen miracles (and if you've tasted her pizza or spaghetti, you know what I mean by "kitchen miracles"). Alas, it seems those skills went to my brother instead.

Jake began outshining me at the age of 5, when he would whip his own sauces at the Mongolian Barbecue while I was meticulously measuring out one scoop of ginger water, two scoops of soy sauce... It was pretty much downhill from there.

I mean, let's not mince words here, folks: I can be pretty disastrous. I once made a loaf of bread that tasted more like a salt lick (looked like one, too...). I also remember botching cookies from a recipe. Cookies! Recipe! My goodness, how much more inept can a young woman be? My matriarchal ancestors are rolling in their graves.

Senior year of college was an improvement. I baked a loaf of banana bread once that tasted okay. I made Sesame Chicken Pasta that was decent. Wild Rice Soup was a hit. Spaghetti was my fail-proof standby. Barbecue Baked Chicken was a reliable meal, too. And Top-Your-Own-Baked-Potato is pretty hard to mess up.

I started to feel better about my culinary skills. Not Le Cordon Bleu, but not hopeless.

Then I moved to Nigeria, where not only is everything metric (uh, how many grams are in an ounce again?), but recipes? Yeah, right.

So I found myself in a new country, unaware of what's available. No concept of prices. No standard measuring cup to be found. Guesswork became a part of every meal, and you know what? I'm not doing too bad.

I now make fish, and spaghetti (of course), and some mean chicken wings. I've roasted chickens and a turkey...I even slipped cloves of garlic under the skin. I mean, come on, how Le Cordon Bleu is that?!

I've blogged before about my (mis)adventures in pie-baking, and while Betty Crocker gets most of the credit, at least I know I can roll out a pie crust using an old gin bottle filled with peanuts! And my students all know and love my muffins...they sold out at a Student Council bake sale in about 3 minutes. (But again, most of the credit is due to Betty Crocker.)

Tonight, I made tacos for my Spanish Club tomorrow, after visiting 5 different grocery stores trying to find taco shells! Shredded cheddar cheese cost me $24 (I know, right? $6/package). I got 2kg (4.4lbs) of ground meat for $18. The shells were another $25. The seasoning packets were $8, but I found weevils in one packet, so I had to make do with one less.

I browned another kilo of meat for spaghetti, but realized I didn't have enough tomato paste, so I just bagged and froze it for later. Some of that meat went into the stroganoff I made for myself for dinner, which was really an alfredo pasta packet to which I added mushrooms and onions.

And, to top it all off, I did most of that IN THE DARK! We didn't have electricity while I was dancing my sweet kitchen tango of seasonings, pastas, sauces, meats, and chopping vegetables.

I daresay, I'm not a failure in the kitchen after all. I mean, it can only get better from here, right?

Not Your Mother's Bedtime Story

Once upon a time, there was a brave-faced young woman named Maggie. She put on a good show for everyone that her life was exciting and fulfilling and in turn, everyone assured her that her future was bright.

When the time came for her to stop hiding behind an education and actually start living life, Maggie froze. She panicked and did some stupid stuff in an effort to maintain some semblance of normality. She simply wasn’t ready to grow up.

Then some magical things began to happen. Things started to go all sideways for Maggie. She was unfairly fired from a job she worked very hard at. She had to pack up her life and move very quickly, which was very disorienting for her. Thankfully, there were good people in her life: people who metaphorically helped her steady herself and literally gave her a place to stay.

In the middle of all the sideways business, Maggie tried desperately to find a job, any job. Some of the jobs were silly—jobs she neither wanted nor was qualified for—but she applied anyways. Nothing was coming together for Maggie, and she was sad, yes, but also bewildered. Why wasn’t anything going the way she planned?, she wondered.

After all the sideways parts of her life settled, Maggie found herself back at home, with a family who loved her. It was a good place, a safe place, but not the place for her to stay forever.

Then one day, a woman from across the oceans and the seas contacted Maggie. The woman called herself Mrs. O and she offered Maggie a job and a place to stay. Even though the job was very far away from everyone and everything she knew, Maggie was very excited. She had wanted to learn how other parts of the world live ever since she was a little girl. This was her chance!

After 5 weeks of research and reading, paperwork and packing, goodbyes and farewells, Maggie kissed her family goodbye, got on a plane, and flew 6,000 miles away to her new home, a strange, sunny place called Africa. Just like that, all of Maggie’s fears about growing up and moving on melted away with the African sunshine.

And oh, how Maggie loved Africa! She loved the sights and the sounds, the people and the places. She loved her job, her house, her church, and all her new friends. For the first time in her life, Maggie felt that she was living her life on purpose. Africa was the place she was meant to be, and all those crazy magical sideways things happened so that she would get to Africa; she saw that now.

There were some dark times, too. Just like the scary thundering storms of the rainy season, there were times that Maggie just wanted to run home, to a place that wasn’t so new, wasn’t so hot, wasn’t so dusty. She called her Daddy, who told her he loved her. She called her Mama, who told her she was proud of her. She called her brother, who told her he was a big fan of North America. Because of their encouragement, Maggie knew she could finish what she started in Africa. And the sun broke through the clouds; the wind and the rains settled.

As much as Maggie loved Africa, Africa loved her back. The sunshine gave her more freckles, and the dust made her clean her room more often. The bugs and the lizards made Maggie a little bit braver, and the power outages made her grateful. The traffic made her buckle up. The traditional outfits made her fit in with those around her, and the traditional dishes made her love spicy food. The way Christians and Muslims lived side-by-side in her town made Maggie stop and think, and the ways they fought in other towns not far from her made Maggie cry and pray.

Then the day came when Maggie had to decide whether she would stay in Africa another year or whether she would come home again. She thought of all the ways Africa helped her become a grown-up, of all the ways it pushed her to try new things, and she was grateful for the lessons Africa taught her.

She also thought of everyone back home, everyone who had been praying for her and missing her and standing by her and encouraging her. She thought of other possibilities and new opportunities and she was scared again of what lay ahead. Staying in Africa would be the comfortable choice, the easy choice. Maggie knew what it was like to live life in this part of the world, and as much as she loved it, she knew that now she had to make the next difficult decision.

So she decided to go back home, to a place that was familiar and comfortable, but to a future that was still unknown. She took deep breaths and cried many tears and steeled herself for many long and sad goodbyes to Africa.

She remembered what another wise, brave woman once said: “Never be afraid to trust an unknown future to a known God."

And finally, Maggie knew she'd made the right decision.

Confession

We haven't had power for 2 days.

Last night was so hot, sleep was impossible.

I just sat on the couch and cried.



P.S. A few hours of generator power here and there keeps our fridge from thawing.


Edit: 30 minutes after this posted, NEPA brought light!