can i just be done?

Fact for the day: Goodbyes are draining.

Today was the staff fun day at the school. I played soccer for the 2nd time in my life, anchored in tug-of-war, and emceed a singing and dancing competition. It was so fun to go out on a good note. Saying goodbye to everyone was not easy, though I had gotten the heavy-hitting ones over with yesterday.

This evening I was actually double-booked. First I had dinner with friends from church, the people with whom I watched Parent Trap last weekend. Their 8-year-old daughter wanted to learn the movie's secret handshake tonight, and I was happy to oblige. After that was a piggyback race all over the house, reading books, and animal charades. When bedtime came around, I learned that goodbyes aren't any easier on 8-year-olds. It was pretty tough to say goodbye to that fabulous family. After dinner, I buzzed over to Bible Study with more church friends and said more goodbyes.

Tomorrow morning I'm going to the airport early to say goodbye to my flatmate Jan who will be heading to UK for the summer. Then I'll be packing like mad.

In the afternoon I'm headed to a friend's house for some friend time and--hopefully--some pool time, too...even more goodbyes.

Which is not to say that I'm numbering my friends as goodbyes, but it's that nagging thought at the back of my head: You're my friend, I love you, our goodbye will be tough.

By the time I get home, I suspect it won't only be jet lag that makes me exhausted...these goodbyes are really doing a number on me, too.

i take it back

That last post I wrote? About trying to keep it together?
I take it back.

Not only have I NOT kept it together today, but I no longer
feel I NEED to.

A received an encouraging email which included the following:

"You can let yourself feel all those emotions and let them break you, knowing that they are so strong because you have been blessed so abundantly with TWO homes on this earth. You don't have to pick. You can belong to both if you want."

I have been blessed--incredibly--by this year in Africa. I got neck-deep in culture so quickly that this place does have a certain feeling of home to it. I will always feel like I belong here, even if I didn't spend years and years. I forget that God blessed me with a heart big enough to encompass two cultures, and forcing myself to pick one isn't fair to me or to God who made me this way!

So in the name of not keeping it together and not needing to, let me tell you about my un-kept-together evening.

Mrs. O hosted a lovely sendoff party for the 4 of us departing teachers. In ICS's 12 years, never have they sent forth so many teachers at once...not a lot of turnover here.

Every teacher from the whole school gathered for a small program (all events have programs here...complete with an emcee!), good food, gifts, goodbyes, songs, cake and ice cream, and pictures! I thought it would just be fun and laughter, and while we had that, it was also incredibly emotional. Everybody was crying!

I was put on a "hot seat" where people could say things about/to me and share stories, which was incredibly touching. One of the teachers, Mrs. A, described me as a strong, brave, and bold woman, and there was a hearty "mm-hmm" from the others - how affirming! Another teacher commented that I adjusted more in my several months than she did in several years. Still another said I have an important teacher quality - the ability to get down to my students' level and then to bring them up. A few of them remarked that they expected me to marry a Nigerian man (no surprise there!) since I have so embraced the Nigerian culture.

It was so rewarding to hear that my coworkers recognize the efforts I've made to adapt. As we say in Nigeria, "I tried-o," which means that I gave it my best and was met with some degree of success.

Later in the program, they asked the 4 of us to stand together and receive a prayer of blessing by Mr. O, who's on the school's advisory board. He began to pray this incredible faith-filled prayer, sending us forth, blessing us, and empowering us for what God has next. When he began to praise God for his mercy which has gotten us to where we are and will continue to guide us, I totally lost it.

God's undeserved love is really the core of my feelings about this year. It's only by God's grace that I stumbled upon the advertisement. Only by his mercy that I didn't totally suck as a teacher. Only by his mercy that I didn't fall sick with malaria or schistosomiasis or giardia or typhoid. Only by his grace that I fell in love with my students and they with me.

Right, so I'm bawling through the prayer. Not polite little tears rolling down cheeks, either. The really ugly crying with the splotchy swollen face and the snotty nose and mascara-y tears. U-g-l-y. It's been a long time since I've ugly-cried, because it's so unpleasant.

After the prayer came the hugs. I'm a really touchy-feely person, but somewhere in the last 6 months, I've started giving that up (NOT HEALTHY) because I didn't want to get too attached (AGAIN, NOT HEALTHY). Somewhere in The Five Love Languages, I'm sure Gary Chapman explains how detrimental it is for a physically affectionate person to deprive themselves of their primary love language. I refer you there.

So I received all these meaningful hugs tonight--not sideways, not A-frame, not 8-year-old neck-strangling hugs--but real, genuine, tender hugs from women who love me and have watched over me and taught me and guided me. It was more than I could take, honestly. I just cried and cried and cried. I would get it all cried out and and stop the gasping breathing long enough to thank these women for what they've done for me and for just being them, and then another woman who has played an important role in my last 10 months would come up and I would start all over again. Again, it's the ugly cry.

When put in perspective, though, it has to be an ugly cry. This is an ugly goodbye. It's not against my will...I mean, I did sign up for this when I didn't renew my contract...but it doesn't make it easy or cut-and-dried or even professional. My job this year has been incredibly relational and personal, so the goodbyes have to be, too. And considering that I may never see some of these women again, it has to be ugly, too.

Here's to the ugly cry, to the women who have helped make me who I am at this moment in time, and to the place I can finally admit feels like home.

just 3 days.

keeping it together...sort of

It's all over but the crying, folks.

8th and 12th Grade graduation was Thursday evening. I was on the committee to plan it (It seems we have committees for everything in Nigeria!) and emceed the event, too. We graduated our own Grade 12 for the first time in ICS history. In the past, it's been correspondence diplomas with University of Nebraska Lincoln.

According to the family-oriented priorities of the school, parents were involved in the diploma ceremony. Each family was called to the stage as their child accepted their diploma. When you only have 16 graduates, you can afford to take the time!

I was full of pride in these students, though part of me didn't feel I had the right. I've been with these kids for the past 10 months. Some of the teachers present had literally watched them grow up--one teacher said the 8th grade grads had been in her preschool class! I don't have that kind of history with these kids, but I'd like to think I've made a difference in some small way.

Following the ceremony, we took pictures and I started the goodbyes. I teach a pair of sisters, one in grades 6 & 8, and they left graduation to go to the airport on their way home for the summer. I said goodbye to the younger one, and she absolutely broke down. It was crushing, to be honest. There were several other goodbyes like that one.

(It occurs to me that I'm having trouble finding words to express these emotions associated with leaving and saying goodbye. I apologize for my imprecise attempts.)

Friday morning, we had an awards ceremony followed by class parties, and closed by 11am. The whole morning was an out-of-body experience. It felt like one of those suspenseful movies scenes where time is running out and you can't make it last long enough. Actually, that's what it literally was: not enough time. Never enough time.

I walked around to each of my classes and told them how much I loved being their teacher and how much I'll miss them. I hugged almost everyone except for a few shy ones and said goodbye. I did the same thing with my little ones in Grade 2. Anne wouldn't let go. She wouldn't let go, you guys. I died a little inside.

Lastly, I said goodbye to my own Grade 11, which was hardest. They are such amazing kids and they're going to be such amazing adults. Those 4 meant the difference between a terrific and miserable first few weeks of teaching. I will forever be grateful to them for making my job so easy. I pray (and pray and pray) that in one year, I'm able to come back for their own graduation. I can't wait to see where they go next in life--they'll probably change the world!

After all the goodbyes, I left with another teacher to spend the afternoon with some of the women from school. I started crying as we pulled away from the school, knowing it was the last time I would see it alive with students. Then I went to a henna party with the others. It was a busy afternoon and full of conversation and things to keep my mind off the sadness.

In hindsight, I didn't plan the afternoon well. I didn't anticipate my overemotional state. I should have planned to stay at the school as late as necessary, given myself time to cry it out, and then gone to hang out with my friends after collecting myself.

It's not like me to suppress emotions; for one thing, I'm bad at it, and for another, I don't think it's very healthy. I like to feel what I'm feeling - good, bad, or in between. So, I guess if I had to do it over again, I'd do it differently. The activity of the afternoon kept my mind off it, which was beneficial in its own way. Plus I've got some killer henna on my hands and feet...pictures soon.

I'm steeling myself for a total breakdown in the airport next week. I apologize in advance to the people who drop me off, the students on my flight (there will be a couple), and the unlucky passenger sitting next to me in 32 J.

pretending to know how to play football

It is a favorite ICS tradition to host a friendly soccer (football) competition between staff and students. I was recruited for the female staff game, but declined out of fear: I have never played soccer before. Honestly, I have not.
I only know you're not supposed to touch the ball with your hands. Which seems so ridiculous to me...as in, if the ball is coming for my face, I'm supposed to hit it back with my forehead...yeah, that makes perfect sense. I suppose I'm too conditioned for American football!

In the course of the evening, though, I changed my mind. Partially because this is my only chance to do this and I want to milk these last 3 weeks for all they're worth. Also because I don't get much physical exercise these days: my sense of safety precludes my running around the neighborhood, and I don't get to the pool very often. Soccer seemed tame enough.

Right, so I changed my mind and showed up for the game in shorts and tennies...blissfully unaware that the rainy season has converted our pitch (field) to a mudfest. My students were talking smack from the moment they stepped out. As if it was difficult to guess, I'm not very good at smack talk, so I think I scraped the following together:
"Oh, yeah? Well...I know American football and I'm going to body block you. Yeah. So there....Oh, and I control your grades, so be careful." I know, right? Real smooth, Miss Maggie.

A couple of the boys gave me a quick tutorial on how to kick using the top bit of your foot and not the actual ends of the toes (who knew?!) and how to pass using the inside of your foot. I practiced passing back and forth then took a shot at the untended goal. It went in and all the younger kids (Grades 2-5) that had gathered for the game cheered for me. It was cute, but the real work was just starting.

I wish I had a good memory and could recount all the times I slipped on the mud, or watched a ball sail right past me, or struggled to catch up with my students as they chased all over the field. It was humbling to be sure. I got a couple good passes and discovered that if I scream at the person with the ball as they're getting ready to kick, they get flustered. I don't know if they do that here in Nigeria, but I put my American-football-cheering lungs to good use. It worked a couple of times.

Bottom line: I got my butt kicked by my students. It doesn't bother me, though, because it was actually fun. The ladies on my team were hilarious and encouraging and some of them were REALLY INTO IT. I smashed into a few of my students, got stepped on many times, and took a direct shot to my right kidney (that was fun). The best part was when one of my students baited me into charging her, and at the last second, stepped out of the way for a MALE student waiting on the sideline to completely sideswipe me. I'm going to have a killer bruise on my shin...can't wait for the battle scars to show up in time for graduation!

In the end, we lost 2-1, with the students' winning goal scored in the last 10 seconds. We celebrated with them, had a good laugh, and headed back to class.

Side note: When a very white girl exerts a very large amount of energy in a country very close to the equator with a very high level of humidity, her face becomes very red. I'm pretty self-conscious of my athletic abilities as it is, but imagine my horror at all the small children (and there were SO many) gathered around me after the game, pointing and giggling: "Miss Maggie what's wrong with your face?" "Miss Maggie you look like a lobster." "Miss Maggie, will your face stay like that?!" (and my personal favorite: "Miss Thomas, you were terrrrrrible!") I assured them my face was just part of being as white as I am, and while they believed me, they still stared at me like an exhibit in the zoo.

It was a fantastic afternoon, and while I may or may not be able to get out of bed in the morning, it was so so so worth it.

semester exams & itchy hands

Who has two thumbs and hates semester exams? This girl.

I gave 4 semester exams today. I started Grade 6 with a growing chorus of, "This is going to be a great test. This Is Going To Be A Great Test! THIS IS GOING TO BE A GREAT TEST!!!!" They thought it was a fun way to kick off a 7:30am exam. :-)

It became apparent that my 3 seniors had studied very little before their exam. Nonetheless, I felt really bad about their passing rate (or lack thereof). Unfortunately for them, I didn't see much effort put forth to actually learn the information, which makes me less inclined to curve it favorably. (Teachers can I get an Amen?) I dropped 3 points from their exam partially because I'm such a softy but really because of the 3 questions on which I actually stumped myself. You know it's bad when...
Lucky them, they're taking another exam on Tuesday. I'll try to make that one passable--because I'm nice like that.

Have I mentioned that my hands have been uncontrollably itchy since I woke up this morning? No rash, no bumps, no redness, no new soaps, creams, or jewelry. Still itchy. On the inside. Oh the strange ailments I get in Africa. Honestly...you'd think I was making this stuff up.

in which the students become the teachers

Sometimes, I get tired of hearing myself talk. I grow weary of warning students to stay seated. I'm especially over the whole I'm-saying-this-for-the-tenth-time-because-you-weren't-listening-the-previous-nine charade. And I really, really, hate when I waste time quieting kids down instead of accomplishing my lesson objectives.

So I told Grade 8 that I was done being the teacher for a little while. I told them they would be stepping up. One of my more talkative students shot his hand straight up and shouted, "I'll help you teach first!" Okay, step 1 accomplished: Get them excited.

Our selection for the day included 6 poems from authors of different backgrounds (mostly something hyphenated American), all surrounding the theme of dreams. This group of students is especially imaginative, and I hoped they'd attach to the theme since they all have high aspirations in life.

They paired off, picked a poem, and read their poem for meaning. While they discussed, I wrote a smattering of poetic devices on the board, which they were shocked to discover they had learned throughout the course of the year together. For those who aren't poetry junkies like me, poetic devices include things like metaphor, simile, imagery, onomatopoeia, allusion, alliteration, symbolism, theme, mood, tone, rhyme scheme, etc. Step 2 accomplished: Give them the tools for success.

The students worked together to find examples of the above literary terms present in their poems, then presented their ideas to the rest of the class. I sat in a desk in the back with the rest of the students and listened. Step 3 accomplished: Give them the power to express ideas.

To be fair, the poems were not very straightforward. Although it may have been frustrating for them, I piggybacked on their presentation of basic concepts with some insights of my own (or some insights from the Teacher's Edition...hehe). The students listened--for the most part--and when they didn't, the presenters were free to wait for the others' attention. Step 4 accomplished: Give them the freedom to demand respect.

I tried this method not entirely because I'm tired of always being the teacher, but also because I completed my self-evaluation this week, and allowing students to present their own work is something I fell short in. Today's teaching tactic was just a step in empowering my kids towards self-confidence. Because that's the bigger lesson here. I'm not primarily a Literature teacher. I'm a teacher of confidence, of esteem, of dignity, of respect. If my kids learn those life lessons, something tells me everything else will fall into place.

But learning to identify personification and imagery never hurt anyone, either.

beehives & cateyes

It's Spirit Week at ICS. I forgot about Monday's Color Riot (clashing colors), but I was really ready for today's 60s/Nerdy Day.

I did some research on 1960s hairstyles and makeup, raided my closet (which is now a pile on the floor of my room) and stayed up until 11:30pm getting it just right.

Truthfully, my beehive hairdo and cateye makeup looked pretty legit! My outfit was rather haphazard, but what are you gonna do...my options were pretty limited. At least I rocked the boatneck and the earrings. Everybody loved it...not many of the teachers dressed up, so the kids thought it was great.

I'm working on pictures, but unfortunately, my connection is really bad today. I managed to get a new pic up on Facebook, however, so check there.

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.

Gonna Be a Bright, Bright, Sunshiny Day

The week has finished. I'm still standing. It's a miracle.

Accomplished:
Wrote 3 tests and corresponding review sheets
Conducted 3 review sessions
Proctored 3 tests
Dragged myself Spanish Club
Completely winged it...excelente
Avoided minor disaster on playground monkey bars
Planned a Poetry Cafe
Rehearsed for Poetry Cafe
Decorated for Poetry Cafe
Emcee'd Poetry Cafe
Cleaned up Poetry Cafe
Survived Friday

Thursday was probably the longest day of work ever (7:00am-8:30pm) but one of the most fulfilling, too.

Thursday morning I worked with my ESL students. We laughed together while playing word games. They finally trust each other. It's been an issue since January, when we added a pair of Portuguese-and-Russian-speaking brothers to our group. On Thursday, they translated for each other, Spanish to Portuguese to English and back again. Victor has found enough confidence to speak up, even though he still forgets to say "and" in English. Philip turned 14. Gabriel's favorite subject is now English Grammar. And sweet-spirited Issel tells me every day that I'm her favorite teacher, even though it sounds a lot like I'm her favorite t-shirt.

The rest of the day was devoted to Poetry Cafe-related preparation. The actual event started at 7 pm, in the dusky heat.
Can I describe for you the beauty of 30 students in Grades 6-12 finding not only their inner source of poetic expression but also the guts to stand up in front of 100 people and share that poem? How about the determination of an additional 30 student servers, bringing tea, coffee, and snacks to 100 guests?
Which is to speak nothing of the students who worked behind the scenes, listening patiently and giving constructive feedback to poets, writing menus, designing posters, lighting candles, preparing server badges. I literally burst with pride for my students...no for real, the seam on the sleeve of my dress split when I bent to pick up something!

Our Poetry Cafe was so beautiful. It didn't have the white tablecloths, tea lights, and paper lanterns that I pictured, but it was beautiful in its own way...checked tablecloths, plastic chairs, and powdered cappuccino mixes notwithstanding.
I'm not usually good at delegating to my students, but they totally took ownership and the result was fantastic. It was truly their night. I still put in a ton of work, but it was so worth it to see them shine.

I feel like I've been unintentionally depriving myself of good days, like I'm allowing my stay/go decision to hang a black cloud over my head. Thursday blew that cloud away. It was like God whispered, "For one day, forget the decision. Go ahead, remember why you love living here. And be thankful." And I was. For the day itself, for my students who surprise and amaze me, for this place that brings me joy.

Resignation, Evaluation, and Blooming Where Planted

I've reluctantly accepted that teaching is not my favorite hobby. Unfortunately, my voice is too loud and my fuse too short to be a good combination in a Grade 6 classroom.

Believe me, I'm trying. I'm trying to change my tone of voice. I'm trying to push my level of patience well past limitless. I'm failing quite miserably, to be honest. The amount of times I lost my temper this week is embarrassing and shameful. I'm a grownup; I should have better control.

The truth is I'm tired. I'm frustrated with my kids for being kids, and frustrated with myself for that. I really wish I could love this job AND have the incredible patience for it. In short, I've totally broken my New Year's Resolution. Crap.

Then I had my formal teaching evaluation. The superintendent observed 2 of my classes last week and later gave me the written feedback. You guys, the writeup actually contained the phrase "born teacher." The whole thing was so shiny and positive it could have been a gold star. Can that possibly be true, this week's meltdowns notwithstanding?

If she's wrong, it means my students are the issue. When she's there, they're angels. When she's gone, I burst a blood vessel.
If she's right, however, then teaching is something I may do well, but don't love doing.

Allow me to convey how much this catch-22 sucks. If I stop teaching, it will feel like a waste. I can see my students finally connecting to literature, and to walk away now will feel like abandonment. If I stay, burnout will be a very real issue for me. I don't like the idea of being that teacher who's really good when she's in a good mood, and terribly ineffective when she's mad.

I wish I loved teaching enough to make it enough to stay. I don't.

Edit: Despite my leanings, I have not made a final decision yet.
I'm holding out until the deadline. Bear with me.

Snapshots from Today

"Miss Maggie, you a fresh-lookin' girl. [About 5 minutes later:] You know you're my favorite teacher, right?"
That's from one of my 6th-grade students. A male. Obviously.

"Miss Thomas, today is the last time you will see me. I'm moving back to South Africa tomorrow. Thank you, Miss Thomas."
A different 6th grade student. Energetic and full of life, his absence will definitely send shockwaves through our classroom.

"Everybody shout big hawewuyah."
This is from the 2-year-old son of a colleague, whose father, not surprisingly, is a pastor.

And finally, this memo, received just minutes before our early release (11am):

"To: All Staff
From: Mrs. O
Re: Security Alert

Don't read this loud of leave it where students will see. Also don't show signs of panic.

Today is Armed Forces Remembrance Day and there is a big gathering at Eagle Square. Roads to that venue blocked from all directions. Also some unrest over the political situation. Also avoid going near the central Mosque, mosque at Maitama & the one near Banex. Some protesters are there.

Lastly, be extra alert in case we need to do lock down or safe haven, and be sure all students are picked from their classrooms at 11:00 a.m. None are to be found in the hallways. Thanks."

It should be noted that I am safe here in the school, working on lesson plans. All my students have left securely with their drivers, and the one who takes a taxi to and from school has a safe route to her house. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened here, and yet it's the first time the Nigerian-ness of Nigeria has intruded on my everyday life. It's a weird feeling, but I'm thankful for my continued safety.

These things make me LOVE being a teacher

I got a love letter today. Tiny Asmau, a grade 5 girl, dropped it on my desk while I was out teaching. Letter like this makes everything else about living in Nigeria worthwhile.

Dear Mrs. Thomas
How are you? Hope you are fine. I just wanted to tell you that You are the best teacher that i ever seen in my whole life.

You are so kind and you are so beautiful.

And 1 more thing, Thank you for teaching me kindness.

And, I love you, I love you, I love you.

I wish you a nice day.

Yours faithfully
Asmau M...

My heart just melts.

What's in a Name?

Forgive the Shakespeare reference in the title, please. I AM a Literature teacher, after all.

There have been 5 babies born at ICS this fall, and I think we're expecting 4 more before the end of the January. It was a group effort, but seriously...I wonder what's in the water?!

Mrs. N, one of the teachers who leads Drama Club with me, had a baby girl last week. This is girl #3, and when I saw the big sister, E, I congratulated her and asked her sister's name. E frowned up at me, arms encircled around my waist, and said, "I don't know yet. Duh."

Okay, so actually, she didn't say "duh," but she might as well have by the tone of her voice.

Sensing a need for some culture-divining and quick, I stopped by the Science Lab to talk with Mr. D, Mr. J, and Mr. L. They were happy to inform me that in Nigerian culture, modeled after the biblical tradition, babies are not named until the 8th day. On the 8th day, a naming ceremony takes place and the child is given names by their parents, grandparents and other important family members. I suddenly understood why my students distinguish between their 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and sometimes 5th names.

Yesterday was the 8th day and I was so privileged to attend the naming ceremony. The parents and grandmother were decked out in lavish Nigerian dress, big head-ties and all. I felt like they were sharing a secret with me: a piece of culture so foreign to me yet so significant to them.

After an hour of praise & worship African-style, the family distributed small slips of paper with the baby's name printed on it. E (the big sister) was sitting on my lap when the slips reached us. She was so excited to finally read her sister's names. I got really excited, too!

Mrs. N's baby girl is named Ogochukwu Chioma Keren-Happuch Precious Emenike.

The names all mean different things, but the theme is God's goodness and preciousness. Obviously, 2 are Nigerian but Keren-Happuch is Hebrew (it's the name of Job's youngest daughter born after his trial).

After we heard the explanations of the names, E smiled up at me and told me she plans to call her baby sister Keren. I think she'll be outvoted - everyone kept referring to the baby as Chioma after the initial announcement.

Then the most marvelous thing happened. They prayed each name of the child as a blessing over her. It was like the West's baby dedication, but it was all tied up in the significance of the names. I've never seen anything like it and I can't really do it justice but it totally choked me up.



That same evening, a Nigerian friend of ours stopped by. He's been instrumental in furthering my understanding of culture, so I was telling him about the naming ceremony and he taught me how to properly pronounce the Igbo names (i.e. the w in Ogochukwu is silent). I asked him for Nigerian names of my own and he was happy to oblige:

Enemi and Agifa.

These names, pronounced ey-ney-MEE and ah-gee-FAH, each have special significance. Enemi is a true friend or companion. Agifa refers to that which is precious, like a pearl. (I had previously told him that my name is Greek for pearl.)

I'm not going to change my name while I'm home Christmas or anything, but these names are really special to me now. It really helps with the whole cultural-adaptation thing.


For those of you keeping track, we're at T-52 hours and 10 minutes until takeoff. Just sayin'.

Prayer / General Update

For those of you keeping up with the, ahem, "prayer concerns" of my life, I have an update.

5-year-old I has been diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. Her prognosis is upwards of 90%. She begins chemo tomorrow, and will continue treatment for the next 3 years. Thus, our pastor's family will be leaving Nigeria to be together in South Africa for the first part of her treatment. I'm so glad they'll be united as a family, but selfishly, I'm sad to see them leave Abuja Ark. There are many questions (When? How? Who?) that will be resolved in the next few weeks. Pray for I's parents to have divine wisdom, for their 6-year-old twin girls to have understanding beyond their years, and above all else, for healing for little I.

Secondly, please pray for my flatmate Jan. She was widowed a year and a half ago, and she's still walking through the grieving process. She's been particularly down the past few weeks, and I suspect the upcoming holiday season isn't going to help things. Pray specifically that she is able to spend Christmas with her son. (While I'm gone, she'll be alone.) I'm very unsure of what role I'm supposed to take to support her--all I'm doing now is listening and trying to understand, which feels very futile--so prayer for me to know how to comfort her is also welcome.

Lastly, the next two weeks are going to either fly by or creep very slowly. Whichever the case may be, I need grace to make it to December 12th. This Friday is the Christmas program at school, for which I am the emcee (M.C.?). I'm pretty nervous about appearing in front of everyone, just because I am the new kid on the block...I feel like this is my opportunity to prove to the parents that I deserve to be here educating their kids. Not to put too fine a point on it. :) Somewhere in following week, I have to gather all the information for my visa, pack up my stuff, teach a full week of lessons while maintaining patience and sanity, and try to squeeze out 2 more sets of curriculum so that I don't have to bring work home with me. Then I have to jam 30 hours of travel into a 24-hour day, hopping through 6 cities. Weather permitting. (Speaking of which, I have a 7-hour layover at Heathrow...do I have any readers in London who want to help me pass the time?)

I am so thankful for this chance to be reunited with my WHOLE family (both sides of extended family, too!), get my fill of friends, watch movies with my brother, and generally stock up on some American love for the next 6-month push. I also can't wait to know what it feels like to miss Nigeria. In August, I felt a pull towards this mysterious place, and now that I know all the life that it entails, I can't wait to feel a pull towards familiarity.

Thanks in advance for your prayers. Can't wait to see you!

Crazy Hazy Days

The weather is definitely changing in Abuja. Firstly, the rains have stopped. As a result, things are dusty and dry. Secondly, I can't see the rocks anymore. Every morning on my way to work, we cross a bridge and looking east, I can see Aso Rock in the distance. The view is magnificent, and really starts my day off on the right foot. Lately, though, I haven't been able to see it at all because the mists hang so heavy in the air. "Mist" is just a euphemism for dust, but it does remind me of fog.

My weekend has been full of school, as usual. As you all know from my previous complaints, Friday was a working holiday at ICS. The kids didn't come in, but we had a day-long meeting and got home only slightly earlier than usual. Then this afternoon, the PTA put on a Family Day Out at the local Palmetium (park/plant nursery). They sold food and had a jumpy castle (I don't know what else to call it!) for the kids. It was even nice to see my students outside the classroom in a more relaxed setting.

On that note, it's still strange to me to be on the flip side of the teacher-student relationship. When I was a student (pre-college), I rarely saw my teachers outside of school. The proverbial "seeing your teacher in the grocery store" scenario never happened to me, but I think it would have been weird. I try to keep that in mind as I interact with my students...how many of them were weirded out by seeing me in jeans today?

This upcoming week is another Muslim holiday, so we won't have school on Thursday or Friday. I'm giving 5 tests on Monday, too, so I really only have to plan lessons for 2 days this week. It might not seem like a big deal, but trust me, these are the simple joys in my life these days.

I'm keenly aware that Thursday is also a holiday back home, albeit for different reasons. If memory serves me, this will be the very first Thanksgiving holiday I have spent without my family, and I'll be missing the fellowship of Mom's kitchen on that day. I'm going to make the best of it, however: Jan and I have decided to host our own Thanksgiving dinner at our flat and invite some of our neighbors.

Planning a holiday meal in a country which does not recognize said holiday poses some challenges, but we're making do. Turkey is almost impossible to come by, but some church friends have access to the U.S. Embassy's recent shipment of holiday turkeys (yep, all the way from the USA!), and we should be getting ours tomorrow. I don't know how big it is, but we're paying $56 USD for it, so I hope it's a good size bird!
Our menu so far includes: mashed potatoes, corn (out of a can; the Minnesotan girl in me just died a little), vegetables, dinner rolls, Jan's homemade stuffing, and an apple pie (we couldn't find pumpkin, but there's nothing as American as...). Mrs. O volunteered to bring Nigerian cranberries and ice cream to go with our pie. If I can track down a can of cream of mushroom soup, I might try a green bean casserole, too. We're also going to pay through the nose for real butter, but I'll be darned if I'm going to make mashed potatoes with anhydrous milk fat and emulsifier!

It may very well feel like going through the motions, because what is Thanksgiving without my family and American football?, but it is still a good practice; I have much to be thankful for this year. God has blessed me with comfortable surroundings, a solid job, Christian community, and the ability to communicate with people back home. Nigeria is definitely at the top of my list. Not getting malaria is a close second, however.

Prayer Request: My work permit/re-entry visa has not arrived yet. I've been told I'm at the whim of the Nigerian government, which doesn't make me very comfortable. Please pray that I will hear back from the consulate this week in regards to my visa. I really would like to go home for Christmas.



3 weeks from right now, I'll be on a plane. But who's counting?

Staff Training Day

Did you ever wonder what happened on those "Staff Training Days" in high school or the "Faculty Development Days" in college? I'm on the inside now, so let me fill you in:

Meetings.

It's really boring. I mean, I'm wearing jeans and there aren't any students here, so it can't be all that bad. But it's in Nigeria, which means that time is irrelevant. Which means that I arrived at school ON TIME at 7:30 for what I was told was an 8am meeting only to find out that it was, indeed, a 9am training meeting.

Silver lining? I'm blogging while I wait for the show to start.

Update (2:21pm local time): Okay, so the meeting wasn't that boring. Especially because I received some good tips for lesson planning, ate Chicken Republic, and hung out with my friends. Yep, just like going back to school.

Dead Poet's Society

Today I walked into my 7th grade Literature class as Emily Dickinson.

What a riot.

I don't have access to any outrageous 19th-century costumes, but I wore all white and took off all my jewelry. I even swept up my hair in a classic cover-the-ears bun (what my dad would call the "schoolmarm look").

I did not answer any of their greetings--a risky move considering the nature of this culture--and instead wrote "My name is Emily Dickinson" on the board and sat down in the front of the classroom. Just like that, nervous laughter started bubbling up from my students.

We've been studying a poem of Dickinson's for the past week, and yesterday I asked them to come up with questions to ask her if she were to suddenly appear in the classroom. When I gave them the assignment, I didn't even know I was going to dress up and pretend to be her. It just sort of happened. But in my limited teaching experience, it's the changes you make to the lesson plans you already prepared that get the best reactions.

So there I was, trying hard not laugh, feigning a weird accent so they would hear the difference between my own speech and this character's. I began to take questions from them, introducing myself to each student as if I'd never met them before.

It was really cool for about 30 minutes. Then one student started talking nonstop, and another complained that he was bored now. But for the most part, once they got over their initial disbelief ("Miss Thomas, you're really freaking me out, o!") they asked me all their questions and I had a grand time pretending to be my favorite poet.

When I exhausted their questions, I excused myself, went to the library, put on a scarf and all my jewelry, and returned to the classroom, where I pretended like I knew nothing of Emily's visit. I ignored all of their comments: "But it was you! You had the same clothes!"

I love days like today, when I can look into my students' eyes and see curiosity, discovery, and an interest in poetry. These days are rare, but when they happen, it reminds me that I do, in fact, love teaching Literature.

The Birds and the Bees

Heads up! Today's update is a frank look at Nigeria's cultural attitudes towards sex. Younger readers, redirect your browsers now. :)

I unwittingly entered into a discussion about sex today with a fellow teacher. It was one of those kinds of conversations that completely broadsides you and makes you say How did we get here?--one that I consequently couldn't escape. So, since I couldn't back out, I stepped up. And I learned a lot about Nigeria's general attitude towards sex. Some of it was shocking, and most of it was saddening.

Mr. L works in the science lab at school. He's 25, and the coworker closest in age to mine. We've become friends, but in that culture-clash way where I still occasionally leave our conversations confused about what just happened. Please factor that element into today's story. This bature still doesn't understand Nigerian humor. Or their idea of water-cooler conversation.

He told me the story of last weekend, in which he traveled to visit a relative, which happens all the time for Nigerians with family outside of Abuja. When he arrived, he found a woman staying in his uncle's house (again, not out of the ordinary, since most Nigerians are very generous). His uncle also decided to travel, leaving Mr. L alone in the house with the woman.

One can piece the story together from there, but the crucial detail is that Mr. L denied any fault. He says she made herself available to him and his actual words were: "Well, you know, I'm a man and I can't help myself."

Oh, how grieved I was to hear this. Unfortunately, it's not the first time, either. It seems that in Nigerian culture--and even in the Church--sons are raised believing that "boys will be boys" and are therefore not held accountable for their sexual actions. I have heard many stories of Nigerian men being unfaithful to their wives, and I don't know what makes me sadder: that men think this is normal behavior, or that their wives think this is normal behavior.

Back to the story, though...

Mr. L then asked me what I thought about his story. Baffled, I asked him if he felt any regret over his actions. He said he did indeed feel guilty. I advised him to never let something like this happen again, and to definitely not return to his uncle's while the woman was there. He agreed that that was good advice.

I asked if he had a girlfriend (he alluded to one in a conversation last week), but he said no. I bridged the cultural gap by explaining to him that where I come from, we would call that cheating, and it would be grounds for the woman to leave the man. Mr. L actually laughed at the thought. In Nigeria, it all depends on the woman, he told me. As long as the man still makes time for the girlfriend, most women (in his estimation) don't care who their men are sleeping with.

But really, what does one say to that?

In a society so touched by Islam--a religion which allows a man to take 4 wives "as long as he loves them equally," and to divorce them by saying the words "I divorce you" on 3 separate occasions--I find Mr. L's story a drop in the bucket. This is the one point of cultural diversity I have tried to "appreciate" but cannot. I draw the line at a cultural practice which encourages men to dishonor their women by breaking the marriage covenant and which teaches women that their right to be cherished by one man is subservient to his sexual impluses. If for no other reason, the fact that this principle is so culturally ingrained in Nigerian men will be the reason I would not marry a Nigerian man (and oh, how it has been overtly suggested to me).

On a religious note, the standard is supposed to be different amongst Nigerian Christians. It's supposed to be, but often isn't. I heard recently the story of a woman who discovered that her husband, a pastor, just fathered a child by another woman. What do you with a situation like that?

Don't even get me started on the double standard between male infidelity and female infidelity. I'll give you a hint: in one scenario, no action is required, and in the other, public shaming and scornful divorce is the consequence.

My life be like...

Not every day is adventure-filled. Not every day is boring.
Here are some highlights from recent days.

1. Remembering that my monthly internet subscription runs out at midnight tonight. If I switch ISPs now, I just might be able to use Skype Video. Hmm...to switch or not to switch?

2. Science experiments in 8th grade. They've been reading a short story by Jack London, in which the main character dies of frostbite. Since most of my kids have never seen snow, they had a really difficult time imagining what bitter cold is. Converting Fahrenheit temperatures to Celsius wasn't enough for them; they still didn't understand how fingers can burn from being so cold.
Being a good Minnesotan, however, I decided to give them a taste of winter. I spent my weekend stockpiling ice in my freezer, and then transported it to the freezer in the science lab at school. When class time came around, I appeared with bowl full of ice and nearly-frozen water, and the kids couldn't wait to play my game.
"Stick your hands in," I told the first brave student, "Just take them out when they feel cold." After only a few seconds, he looked up at me with wide eyes. "I can't feel my hands!" When he finally pulled them out, I told him to tie up his shoelaces--he couldn't. One by one, they took turns freezing their fingers and trying to write their names or tie their shoes, or having competitions to see who could last longest in the subzero water.
Point made.

3. Discussing the Civil War with a Nigerian chemistry teacher. He asked me who fought in the war. "Americans," I replied.
"But they weren't originally from America," he countered. "Where did they come from?"
"Europe, mostly. The first ones came from England," I told him.
"Ah-ah, so the soldiers were British!" he concluded.
"No, they were all Americans, just from the North or the South."
"But who was more American, the British in the North or the British in the South?"
"No, Mr. Joseph, no British. All Americans. From America, both the North and the South."
"But I thought they came from England!"
I'm telling you, I was fighting a losing battle.
It's actually not the first time that's happened. Nigerians I've talked to don't seem to get the "melting pot" concept, like they have trouble differentiating between ethnicity and nationality.
Earlier this week, one of the ladies in Accounts saw my ring (a traditional Irish symbol I purchased in Ireland 4 years ago), recognized the origin, and exclaimed, "Oh! You're Irish!" When I responded in the affirmative (it was easier than answering "1/4 Scot-Irish, actually"), she said, "Okay, so which one of your parents is American?" She had trouble understanding how I was Irish in ancestry, but American in nationality.
Sometimes, a smile and a nod is easier than trying to explain.

4. Going to a Nigerian club. The boys upstairs took me to a local hangout for a drink last weekend. (She drinks alcohol? Yes, I do.) I had to explain to the bartender to how to make a rum and Coke (the finished product was definitely more Coke than rum) and nobody was carded. Not once. Toto, we are for sure not in Kansas anymore.

5. Meeting new people. Today at school, a parent I had never met before asked me if I was "the new one Mrs. O brought over from America." Why, yes, I am the nation's newest import. Good to know I already have a rep at this school. Just wait until the Christmas program comes around and I'm the Master (Mistress?) of Ceremonies. Putting the white girl on stage, indeed.

I love my life. It's crazy and full and sometimes a bit illogical, but I love living it. It makes me feel so alive.

On Being Miss Thomas

When I consider my girlhood aspirations, which included being a ballerina/singer and owning a pony, becoming a teacher was not among them. Indeed, I spent 5 years of my life ensuring everyone that while I majored in English, I had no intention of teaching. It is laughable how mistaken I have proved myself to be.

Now that I find myself in the throes of lesson planning, classroom management, and grading, I have developed a deep appreciation and respect for my teachers from elementary school to college. It is a hard job. It's hard to stand in front of a classroom of--count them--24 6th-graders and command their attention. It's hard to force a discussion on Navajo Origin Myths with 4 11th-graders. It's hard to know what to do when the Nigerian 7th-graders turn against the American and British 7th-graders.

The toughest part of my job isn't actually interacting with my students. It's grading them. I knew coming into this that some of my students would have a better command of English than others. I just didn't expect there to be such a disparity between the ones that do and the ones that don't. In one class, I have a Nigerian child who can't spell "doesn't," another who began learning English in 2008, and another who daydreams in class because he can't follow along in the textbook when we read aloud.

At ICS, we practice differentiation, which basically means that we grade subjectively based on a child's English proficiency. As the English Literature teacher, I feel this pressure most profoundly. Differentiation doesn't mean playing favorites; it means grading a student based on what they know, and depending on the class, up to half of the students are differentiated in my gradebook. Out of 59 students in my 5 classes, up to 30 of them are graded on an individual basis. That's a lot of extra work, but mostly, just extra thought.

I so badly want to see my students succeed. I want to be Miss Thompson from that story "3 Letters from Teddy" in Chicken Soup for the Soul. I want to believe in my students until they believe in themselves. I want to champion in them a love of literature.

But the grades are in on the first round of tests, and it's not looking good. I won't curve and I won't give pluses or minuses. My grading is straightforward, but apparently my test questions are not. After reviewing a particular question on the 10th grade test, I decided to throw it out. Doing so, I learned afterwards, made the difference between a D and C for one of my students. I cannot express the delirious relief I felt when I changed his grade.

I know I'm a new teacher, but in the reading and research I've done, I've come to see that the responsibility for learning rests 100% on me as a teacher (and 100% on them as students, but that's another topic for another time). Based on that principle, a test is a reflection of me, the teacher, and my ability to make my students learn, so I feel the pinch and pain of every D.

I want to make sure my students see that literature can be fun. I'm contemplating a partial overhaul of some parts of my curriculum to allow for a week of supervised fun reading culminating in a book report. I want my kids to love reading as much as I did when I was a kid. Now that I'm teaching, I realize just how much I really do love literature. After 17 years of education and forced reading and college classes and the English major, I'd forgotten. Literature is my passion. I can't imagine teaching anything else.