I started Arabic classes today. It's an incredibly hard language, and I don't want to be presumptuous, but I might be good at it, people. The conversational teacher thinks so. She appreciates that I am willing to make mistakes in oral conversation, which has really always distinguished me as a language learner: my ability to make mistakes. But I have learned to say "I am not Egyptian" in Arabic. In case anyone thought I was trying to pass.
And so the second phrase I'd like to learn is "Back the f**k off" which until now I've had to use in English, and I feel it would be so much more effective to communicate with people in their native tongue. Because we are DAWs (see post below), some people were trying to get a little handsy in the bazaar yesterday. I ignored it when it was just people stroking my hair and even when someone grabbed my thigh, mostly because I couldn't see who it was, but when someone pinched me from behind, I said "F**K OFF" very loudly. (The asterisks are for my dad, folks, he likes to believe I don't use words like this and I like to humor him.) And it seemed to do the trick.
Egypt was partially redeemed, though, when we took a boat ride on the Nile and ate mangoes and apricots. I have to say I geeked out a little. Everyone thought it was cool, because it's the Nile, but they'd have thought the Amazon was just as cool, whereas I was like "This is where the baby Moses drifted! This was all blood once! Those reeds could have been where Miriam hid to watch him!" Yeah, I Bible-geeked on these poor people, who basically humor me without really knowing what I'm going on about. Except for one guy who is doing his grad work at Baylor and also grew up Southern Baptist and between the two of us we can name all the books of the Bible, the 10 plagues of Egypt (that one was all me--we were stuck until I remembered boils), the Old Testament kings, and we were both sword drill champs as kids. I don't think I need to tell you we've really established ourselves as the cool kids in this set.
Cairo is wild and chaotic and energetic, it sounds like a block party every night, with horns honking and people yelling and music playing, and it's great. I can't get over how different it is from my travel in South Africa, though--we are not encouraged to mix with locals, we have a security guard with us at all times, they won't let us out of the building where we study during our lunch break--in fact they won't even let us linger on the stoop--and we have to let someone know where we are at all times. We are the State Department's delicate desert flowers, apparently, but I'm sure my parents aren't the only ones breathing a sigh of relief.
Oh, and our Fourth of July celebration is--wait for it--at the British International School! Could it be any more perfect that Independence Day is being celebrated with the Brits?! Apparently the American Embassy is being reupholstered or something, there's some reason it's not there this year, so the Brits kindly offered their facility. We're going because we're fiercely patriotic and, you know, free booze.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Dirty American Whores
OK, so there are a few posts below that I wrote while in Cape Town but just put up. I'm in Cairo now, where I've been since Wednesday night. We're at a kind of shady hotel, but in a really good neighborhood, since as one of the program coordinators told us, as Americans we're automatically considered upper class, and class is VERY IMPORTANT to Egyptians. I am always aware that being white and American opens a lot of doors, and it's good to openly acknowledge it, but not necessarily in a "GOOOOAAAAAALLLLL!" kind of way. I mean, she was really psyched to let us know that we were all upper-crust as far as the unwashed masses were concerned.
We are also, of course, Dirty American Whores, forthwith shortened to DAWs, in their view. I mean the women in the program, of course--the guys are fine. But the women wear pants, and short sleeves, and we are bare-headed. And those of us who have been to other countries are like whatever, we know that's how we'll be viewed, you ignore it and go about your business. But some of these poor girls are out of the country for the first time and they can't understand why they're being stared at. I very helpfully explained, "We are the Dirty American Whores. Embrace it. And remember that since you can't understand what they're yelling at you anyway, you can let it roll of you." It is funny, though--you can immediately pick out those of us who have been out of country and know that we are objects of interest because we are American women, and those for whom it is a brave new world.
What I have also realized is that it's really hard for American women to be discreet, even when they want to be. We have all been talking about how short-sleeved shirts are usually cap-sleeved, and V-necked, and pants sit low on the hips, so even as you aim to be conservative in your dress--no one's trying to wear a burka, we're just trying not to draw undue attention--you're kind of hampered by American fashion choices. Oh well. Dirty American Whores. And what makes it worse it that when someone smiles at me, I smile back. Women don't do that here, they look away because no one should smile at them, because you shouldn't see them. But I am cheerfully American, and I have a Pavlovian response to smiles, even skeevy ones--I smile back. Whatever, I know I'm a cultural ambassador, blah blah, but they need to know there's another way.
I have been glad, though, that I dyed my hair a darker brown. The blondes are definitely drawing more stares. Although "more" is really relative at this point.
Classes start Sunday. We're just kicking around getting the lay of the land until then. There are some very cool people in this program, which makes all the difference.
We are also, of course, Dirty American Whores, forthwith shortened to DAWs, in their view. I mean the women in the program, of course--the guys are fine. But the women wear pants, and short sleeves, and we are bare-headed. And those of us who have been to other countries are like whatever, we know that's how we'll be viewed, you ignore it and go about your business. But some of these poor girls are out of the country for the first time and they can't understand why they're being stared at. I very helpfully explained, "We are the Dirty American Whores. Embrace it. And remember that since you can't understand what they're yelling at you anyway, you can let it roll of you." It is funny, though--you can immediately pick out those of us who have been out of country and know that we are objects of interest because we are American women, and those for whom it is a brave new world.
What I have also realized is that it's really hard for American women to be discreet, even when they want to be. We have all been talking about how short-sleeved shirts are usually cap-sleeved, and V-necked, and pants sit low on the hips, so even as you aim to be conservative in your dress--no one's trying to wear a burka, we're just trying not to draw undue attention--you're kind of hampered by American fashion choices. Oh well. Dirty American Whores. And what makes it worse it that when someone smiles at me, I smile back. Women don't do that here, they look away because no one should smile at them, because you shouldn't see them. But I am cheerfully American, and I have a Pavlovian response to smiles, even skeevy ones--I smile back. Whatever, I know I'm a cultural ambassador, blah blah, but they need to know there's another way.
I have been glad, though, that I dyed my hair a darker brown. The blondes are definitely drawing more stares. Although "more" is really relative at this point.
Classes start Sunday. We're just kicking around getting the lay of the land until then. There are some very cool people in this program, which makes all the difference.
Still in top form
A couple of recent incidents, just so you don't think I've lost my form:
1) Father Terry drove me out to Khayelitsha recently and was asking after my (nonexistent) romantic life. And I was saying, you know, I don't stress about it too much, but it's a little disheartening, because I'm funny, I'm bright, I'm pretty cute--and then I realize that he has only ever seen Traveling Shannon, which is to say Scrub Shannon, with no makeup and a baseball cap and wind jacket. And I am inexplicably seized by a desire to make it clear that I Do Not Always Look Like This. So I blurt out, "I mean, you haven't seen it here, but at home I'm totally cute! I have good hair and my clothes fit and--I'm really cute with a little bit of effort!" And he, poor man, is saying, "Yes, of course you are!" And I think, I am an ASS. Really no way to salvage that one.
2) I was waiting for the elevator the day we left for Cairo and we had the morning free. I'm feeling particularly buoyant, listening to my iPod; I have just run 5 miles, so I'm feeling strong and high-spirited, if a bit flushed and sweaty, and I am heading to the swimming pool, so I am wearing my bikini top and short shorts. And the iPod is playing booty-shaking music, so I doing the full-on booty-shaking dance, because I think I am alone in the hallway--until I turn around, mid-dance move, and three guys in my program are staring at me. Fortunately the elevator arrived then to swallow me in my ignominy. Because I am an ASS. And damn you, Ciara, for making such irresistible booty-shaking music.
1) Father Terry drove me out to Khayelitsha recently and was asking after my (nonexistent) romantic life. And I was saying, you know, I don't stress about it too much, but it's a little disheartening, because I'm funny, I'm bright, I'm pretty cute--and then I realize that he has only ever seen Traveling Shannon, which is to say Scrub Shannon, with no makeup and a baseball cap and wind jacket. And I am inexplicably seized by a desire to make it clear that I Do Not Always Look Like This. So I blurt out, "I mean, you haven't seen it here, but at home I'm totally cute! I have good hair and my clothes fit and--I'm really cute with a little bit of effort!" And he, poor man, is saying, "Yes, of course you are!" And I think, I am an ASS. Really no way to salvage that one.
2) I was waiting for the elevator the day we left for Cairo and we had the morning free. I'm feeling particularly buoyant, listening to my iPod; I have just run 5 miles, so I'm feeling strong and high-spirited, if a bit flushed and sweaty, and I am heading to the swimming pool, so I am wearing my bikini top and short shorts. And the iPod is playing booty-shaking music, so I doing the full-on booty-shaking dance, because I think I am alone in the hallway--until I turn around, mid-dance move, and three guys in my program are staring at me. Fortunately the elevator arrived then to swallow me in my ignominy. Because I am an ASS. And damn you, Ciara, for making such irresistible booty-shaking music.
The State Department has plans for me
So we had a day-long orientation for Cairo, where I will be studying Arabic for two months, on Monday. There are 30 of us, and the group is weighted a little more heavily toward grad students than undergrads, so we have already sorted ourselves into the "over-25s" and the youngsters. At one point in orientation, the girl next to me said, "I'm really glad to see there's an age spread." "Yeah," I agreed, "I was afraid everyone would be 19, and I'd be the old lady at 30."
"Oh, but you look young, so you'll be fine," she said.
I LOOK young? You know I almost stabbed her in the eye with my pen. I AM young. Ridiculous child.
Orientation included a panel that should have been called "The State Department Has Plans for You." Turns out it is costing them about $17K a head for each of us this summer, and the panel was about career options in--surprise!--the foreign service. They've probably got retinal scans and blood vials on all of us already.
Here's the thing: I am an academic crackhead. EVERYTHING is interesting to me. When they spoke about careers in foreign service and how you would have to study Arabic for at least 10 years to be proficient, I go, "That is AWESOME! How much would I love to do that? I could totally be in the foreign service!" And I have to remind myself that I have that reaction to every new career option that comes along: I could totally be a historian! Or a clergy member! Or an attorney! Or a public health specialist! Or an AIDS educator! Or...and then I have to remind myself, Self, you already know what you are really, really passionate about, so let's not get sidetracked. But it's hard, because I feel like I am dominated by my inner 4-year old who is like "I want to be an astronaut and a ballerina and the president of the world" and doesn't realize those first two are mutually exclusive careers and the third doesn't exist.
So I will probably not join the foreign service. But let's not rule anything out.
"Oh, but you look young, so you'll be fine," she said.
I LOOK young? You know I almost stabbed her in the eye with my pen. I AM young. Ridiculous child.
Orientation included a panel that should have been called "The State Department Has Plans for You." Turns out it is costing them about $17K a head for each of us this summer, and the panel was about career options in--surprise!--the foreign service. They've probably got retinal scans and blood vials on all of us already.
Here's the thing: I am an academic crackhead. EVERYTHING is interesting to me. When they spoke about careers in foreign service and how you would have to study Arabic for at least 10 years to be proficient, I go, "That is AWESOME! How much would I love to do that? I could totally be in the foreign service!" And I have to remind myself that I have that reaction to every new career option that comes along: I could totally be a historian! Or a clergy member! Or an attorney! Or a public health specialist! Or an AIDS educator! Or...and then I have to remind myself, Self, you already know what you are really, really passionate about, so let's not get sidetracked. But it's hard, because I feel like I am dominated by my inner 4-year old who is like "I want to be an astronaut and a ballerina and the president of the world" and doesn't realize those first two are mutually exclusive careers and the third doesn't exist.
So I will probably not join the foreign service. But let's not rule anything out.
Last Day in Cape Town
Today was my last day in Cape Town. I walked around the botanical gardens, went for my last cup of coffee at Seattle's Best, where they were so sad to see their best customer go that my coffee was free, and chatted with Father Terry. Before I left, I said, "I want a blessing." I mean, that's part of the gig as a priest, right? I figured he'd just rattle off a brief prayer in his offices, but he said, "Meet me down in the cathedral." He put on his collar, and then I knelt in front of the altar in this great church that has been such a voice for justice and joy--in short, such a voice for the gospel, in this broken, beautiful place. He made the sign of the Cross on my palms and forehead, and said, "In the name of the God who created you, the Christ who died to redeem you, and the life-giving Spirit who breathes on you" before speaking a blessing over me. Seriously, Anglicans do it up right. When they bless you, you know you've been blessed.
Then we walked out in the brightness of day, and he hugged me and said, "All right, girl--safe home. Take care of yourself. And don't be too good." I believe I will keep him as a friend, which is the very best thing I could have brought back from South Africa.
Headed home in the evening. 48 hours until I head to DC and then to Cairo.
Then we walked out in the brightness of day, and he hugged me and said, "All right, girl--safe home. Take care of yourself. And don't be too good." I believe I will keep him as a friend, which is the very best thing I could have brought back from South Africa.
Headed home in the evening. 48 hours until I head to DC and then to Cairo.
Shoes and Jackets
My mom and some of her friends sent money so I could buy winter coats and shoes for all the kids at the group home where I have been volunteering. So now every kid has a coat and shoes, and they are ridiculously cute.
Working with the kids has been an interesting experience. In some ways it's been very like working with homeless kids in the U.S.: same emotional outbursts, same desire for affection, same core loneliness. And frustratingly, same lack of expertise on the part of many caregivers. The caregivers at this home are wonderful, nurturing people, but like at home, childcare doesn't pay much, so you're not getting people with masters' degrees in child development. I've already posted on how they discourage volunteers from holding the babies because "they'll get spoiled," so now let's talk about education.
There are 4 school-aged kids at the home, but only two are in school; two are basically being home-schooled, minus the education part. The two who are in school are woefully behind. Ani is 7 and her brother Ctaum is 6, and one day when they got home from school Ani was supposed to practice writing the numbers 1-10 and their names on the chalkboard. She did that, although she's just copying from a chart because she can't read yet, and then she started making up nonsense words, stringing together letters and saying "What does that spell?" Then a new one: "What does this spell?" She was really enjoying herself, until one of the caregivers snapped, "Ani, you are not taking it seriously. If you're not going to copy your lessons, go in and take a nap."
If you have a modicum of child development knowledge, you know what she was doing is a critical preliteracy step. She is making the connection that these squiggles we call letters are each associated with a sound, and when you string these sounds together you get words, and words have meaning. And you learn to make nonsense words before you make real words. Frankly she should have been doing it at 4 or 5, but since she's finally doing it now, let's not shut it down.
In another instance, I was working with CarRlo, who is 7 and has only been at the home a month or so. "He doesn't know anything, he hasn't been to school," one of the caregivers said in his hearing. "He doesn't even know his numbers." Well, true enough, CarRlo can't write every number. But if you put a pile of crayons in front of him, he can count them all. If you take some away, he understands that you have less. If you add some, he understands that you have more. He has the basics of numeracy and he's actually pretty sharp; he just can't yet associate the amount with the number that stands for it.
It is frustrating to watch this and know these caregivers, so well-meaning and so loving, just aren't equipped to help these kids the way they need. And as a visitor and a white person, I can't jump in and say "No, what she's doing is an essential part of learning" or "Actually, he knows quite a lot." I say it to the kids quietly when I get a chance, and I tell the caregivers in private about what I've observed and what might be done to help them. But they're not well-educated themselves and they don't know how to assist kids who have so many gaps--kids who remind me so much of their Star of Hope counterparts.
It has made me really, really glad that Phenias is at KIPP, and really, really despairing that there are just not enough KIPPs for every kid in the world who needs one.
Working with the kids has been an interesting experience. In some ways it's been very like working with homeless kids in the U.S.: same emotional outbursts, same desire for affection, same core loneliness. And frustratingly, same lack of expertise on the part of many caregivers. The caregivers at this home are wonderful, nurturing people, but like at home, childcare doesn't pay much, so you're not getting people with masters' degrees in child development. I've already posted on how they discourage volunteers from holding the babies because "they'll get spoiled," so now let's talk about education.
There are 4 school-aged kids at the home, but only two are in school; two are basically being home-schooled, minus the education part. The two who are in school are woefully behind. Ani is 7 and her brother Ctaum is 6, and one day when they got home from school Ani was supposed to practice writing the numbers 1-10 and their names on the chalkboard. She did that, although she's just copying from a chart because she can't read yet, and then she started making up nonsense words, stringing together letters and saying "What does that spell?" Then a new one: "What does this spell?" She was really enjoying herself, until one of the caregivers snapped, "Ani, you are not taking it seriously. If you're not going to copy your lessons, go in and take a nap."
If you have a modicum of child development knowledge, you know what she was doing is a critical preliteracy step. She is making the connection that these squiggles we call letters are each associated with a sound, and when you string these sounds together you get words, and words have meaning. And you learn to make nonsense words before you make real words. Frankly she should have been doing it at 4 or 5, but since she's finally doing it now, let's not shut it down.
In another instance, I was working with CarRlo, who is 7 and has only been at the home a month or so. "He doesn't know anything, he hasn't been to school," one of the caregivers said in his hearing. "He doesn't even know his numbers." Well, true enough, CarRlo can't write every number. But if you put a pile of crayons in front of him, he can count them all. If you take some away, he understands that you have less. If you add some, he understands that you have more. He has the basics of numeracy and he's actually pretty sharp; he just can't yet associate the amount with the number that stands for it.
It is frustrating to watch this and know these caregivers, so well-meaning and so loving, just aren't equipped to help these kids the way they need. And as a visitor and a white person, I can't jump in and say "No, what she's doing is an essential part of learning" or "Actually, he knows quite a lot." I say it to the kids quietly when I get a chance, and I tell the caregivers in private about what I've observed and what might be done to help them. But they're not well-educated themselves and they don't know how to assist kids who have so many gaps--kids who remind me so much of their Star of Hope counterparts.
It has made me really, really glad that Phenias is at KIPP, and really, really despairing that there are just not enough KIPPs for every kid in the world who needs one.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Apartheid
I went to the Apartheid Museum the other day, which is a really good way to recognize the absurdity of racialized laws, and also a good way to make you feel that your own country has its crap to deal with, but hey, you're not South Africa, and that's gotta count for something.
Honestly, a lot of the stuff at the museum just brings home how awful American segregation was because there are so many parallels, and somehow you can get so outraged at other people's flaws and forget your own. That way lies madness, friends. And self-righteousness, which is the same thing. So I'd be in the museum going "They separated out the black children and gave them inferior educations--that's AWFUL! Oh, yeah, we did that too." "Look at how they didn't allow people of color to choose where they lived and they paid them less...wait, never mind."
But the craziest part was that when they assigned race to people after the apartheid era began in 1948, and you had to carry a pass book that said your race and where you were allowed to live and work, etc., so much of it was arbitrary that people could, and did, successfully appeal. "I'm not colored, I'm white" and then they'd win. By the way, the prize is getting to be human.
So speaking of colored, that was one of the three main castes under apartheid: white, colored, and Bantu , or black. Colored was the in-between caste: people of mixes origins. While they had nominally greater rights than blacks, they still suffered discrimination, relocation and most of the other ills of apartheid, and were a significant part of the liberation struggle. I've heard it suggested several times that the colored are the people who have suffered the most psychologically, although perhaps not materially. Under apartheid, they were too black to be white, and now that the ANC is running things, they are too white to be black. It's like having a whole social class of mixed-race kids, and they never know where they belong.
Father Terry--you will remember him, children, as the priest who *didn't* arrange for me to meet Desmond Tutu--is colored. He married a white woman when that was still illegal. I believe in order for it to be OK--and this is where we truly see the absurdity of the race laws--she had to voluntarily give up whiteness and become colored. Incidentally, can you even imagine what a weapon that could be in a marital spat? "I gave up being white for you and you can't even walk the damn dogs?" Wow.
I went with him yesterday to drop off some donations to a parish in Khayelitsha, a township outside Cape Town. He was talking about the parish priest, who is black, and the great work he is doing, and then added "He's a great chap, but he's said that colored people have no culture, so I really want to kick his arse." Now, aside from the fact that people saying "arse" is always funny, and that he said it somewhat in jest, there was an undercurrent of hurt there as well. The apartheid government did a really good job of pitting tribe against tribe and black against colored, and they are still reaping the whirlwind.
This country is beautiful and wretched, with such big problems and such vast potential. Like all of us, I suppose.
Honestly, a lot of the stuff at the museum just brings home how awful American segregation was because there are so many parallels, and somehow you can get so outraged at other people's flaws and forget your own. That way lies madness, friends. And self-righteousness, which is the same thing. So I'd be in the museum going "They separated out the black children and gave them inferior educations--that's AWFUL! Oh, yeah, we did that too." "Look at how they didn't allow people of color to choose where they lived and they paid them less...wait, never mind."
But the craziest part was that when they assigned race to people after the apartheid era began in 1948, and you had to carry a pass book that said your race and where you were allowed to live and work, etc., so much of it was arbitrary that people could, and did, successfully appeal. "I'm not colored, I'm white" and then they'd win. By the way, the prize is getting to be human.
So speaking of colored, that was one of the three main castes under apartheid: white, colored, and Bantu , or black. Colored was the in-between caste: people of mixes origins. While they had nominally greater rights than blacks, they still suffered discrimination, relocation and most of the other ills of apartheid, and were a significant part of the liberation struggle. I've heard it suggested several times that the colored are the people who have suffered the most psychologically, although perhaps not materially. Under apartheid, they were too black to be white, and now that the ANC is running things, they are too white to be black. It's like having a whole social class of mixed-race kids, and they never know where they belong.
Father Terry--you will remember him, children, as the priest who *didn't* arrange for me to meet Desmond Tutu--is colored. He married a white woman when that was still illegal. I believe in order for it to be OK--and this is where we truly see the absurdity of the race laws--she had to voluntarily give up whiteness and become colored. Incidentally, can you even imagine what a weapon that could be in a marital spat? "I gave up being white for you and you can't even walk the damn dogs?" Wow.
I went with him yesterday to drop off some donations to a parish in Khayelitsha, a township outside Cape Town. He was talking about the parish priest, who is black, and the great work he is doing, and then added "He's a great chap, but he's said that colored people have no culture, so I really want to kick his arse." Now, aside from the fact that people saying "arse" is always funny, and that he said it somewhat in jest, there was an undercurrent of hurt there as well. The apartheid government did a really good job of pitting tribe against tribe and black against colored, and they are still reaping the whirlwind.
This country is beautiful and wretched, with such big problems and such vast potential. Like all of us, I suppose.
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