The place and people who make me truly me

After weeks of not thinking about it in order not to drag it out or get too excited too soon, all my siblings are here!

It is hard to describe how important they are to me and who I am. I realise that, like when I am in Zimbabwe, I am more truly me when I with them.  It doesn’t hit me until we are together again and I can say something and be understood and replied to in a way that is obvious that my surface and deeper meaning were heard and understood that I am really only truly me in the place I love and with the people I love. And that is a beautiful thing.

I grew to love Calvin college; I grew to love many people there; I even grew to appreciate (love is a little strong) the United States. But, I was never fully me there. I’m not sure I ever could be. We are so mysteriously connected to, formed and given existence by the place and people we are most intimately surrounded by.

For me, that place is Zim. There are many aspects of it that drive me crazy, and many days I grapple with unbelonging doubts but even within those aspects and doubts, I am comfortable here and me here in a way I never have been elsewhere. This place makes me. It allows me to be. And when the people I love most in the world meet me in this place, I am almost whole.

Bad days don't usually start with dog walks

I'm feeling a little grumpy. Read on with caution.

It had been a lovely, quiet weekend at home until this morning. I arrived home for the weekend late Friday night after a school function, greeted by... oh yah, no one. Even the dogs hardly acknowledged my existence - and that is a very bad sign. Maybe my bad weekend started there.

But Saturday was lovely. Ange was at hockey all day, Ben (the house-sitter during the week) was out, Mike was in Bulawayo playing hockey and I had the house to myself. I woke up early (for a Saturday at least) and took the dogs for a walk on the golf course. They've been in withdrawal because Mum and Dad are gallivanting in North America and they are sorely pining for their morning walks with Mum. On the weekends that I am able to come home, I take them. The mornings right now are crisp and fresh and the nip in the air has attitude but hasn't yet become mean. The golf course is quiet before 8am and after walking around for about half an hour as the birds' voices begin to thaw out and the sun starts to creep onto the fairways and the glistening dew slyly winks at you, you feel grateful to be alive and positively happy. This morning half an hour after arriving at the golf course I felt there was nothing positive about being alive and mad. Okay, slight exaggeration (not the mad part) but I'm grumpy remember? It lends itself to exaggeration.

The walk started okay. I had to leave earlier and hurry because church is at 8. Pre-walk prep is never fun. It's cold out and as soon as you make a sound in the kitchen the dogs are alerted. Saku (huge Boerboel cross) races to the kitchen window and begins bouncing half a metre into the air every 40 seconds or so. Cute. No. Now you have to go outside and the bouncing continues except there is now no window between you and it. Then you have to find your crocs which, if you didn't put them up last night (which you probably didn't) have been relocated by Bingley (tiny animal-shelter toy-pom)... somewhere. Then you have to pick up the old blankets which you hung out to air yesterday but forgot to bring in over night and are now damp. Carrying blankets, dodging bounce and excited pom you need to get to the car (you've probably forgotten the car keys inside). After letting yourself in (and closing bounce and pom out) you try to lay the blankets over the seats with the doors closed. Things get easier from this point on. There is only one more stretch to get through bounce and pom to the back door. Once open, the dogs jump in and all movement dies as they sit staring, waiting, sometimes salivating, in anticipation.

At the golf course things started well. I let the dogs off the lead a little way in and they went crazy because it was even earlier than usual and the smells were so much more exciting. I saw the stray pack of dogs that roams the area in the distance and we did a wide circle in the opposite direction.

On the way back I noticed a jogger coming up behind us. He stopped running when he saw us (Saku is very large). I waved to him and called the dogs to the far side, opposite him. Fine and dandy. He continued jogging, but quite slowly and the dogs were ahead. So for his comfort I called them back and gave them some attention while he passed us towards the gate. But when I looked up from my attention-giving task, lo and behold, he was running towards us. Yes, towards me and the dogs. And when he saw me look up he said, "So what do we do now?" Well, the dogs knew the answer to that question. Here was something even more interesting that attention-giving hands: a stranger, running and speaking! So, naturally, they went to investigate. We aren't entirely sure how Saku reacts to strangers; we try to keep the two parties separate. But we do know he's a bit of a coward and when feeling threatened he gets aggressive. And strangers, well, we know how they react. This one was holding a golf stick (not sure if he was a golfer who liked to run between shots, or a runner who needed protection) and suddenly looked panicked.

In the approximately 45 seconds that passed there ensued many commands from me as I walked as fast as I could without alarming man or dog:

"Saku, wait. Stop."

"No, don't run. Just stay still"

"Bingley, come. Saku, no. No!"

"The little one's fine, just stay still"

"Saku, stop, wait. Saku."

"Just ignore him, it will be fine."

"Saku! Bingley! Come!"

"It's okay. Don't worry."

"Saku!"

I will say for the jogger, he was very brave. He didn't run. I caught up to them eventually and grabbed Saku who, while not stopping, waiting or coming at least had not done anything else. I got the dogs on the lead, the jogger went back the way he had come (I hope having learnt a lesson on what not to do when meeting strange dogs) and we got into the car, me breathing fury born of relief, the dogs... positively happy.

Opening eyes: a beginning

This year, as you may have noticed if you have read any of my blogs since January, has been a bit difficult. It has been wonderful in many ways too, but with a particularly snooty, prejudiced L6 Language class and a crazy schedule that leaves little time to be creative I've wondered, again, why I'm here at this time. Here I should insert that I am so grateful for this job. It is teaching me a great deal about teaching and people and myself, and it is a privilege to have such a good job in a country where 70-80% of the population is out of work. I am grateful. But I find myself increasing frustrated at the attitudes of many of my students towards those outside their circle - generally a wealthy, upper-class circle. And I wonder why I'm here in this privileged place with a privileged job. At the beginning of my time at this school, I decided that one of the reasons was to try to open the eyes of some of the students in my class to the world of the other around them.


This holidays I got in touch with Rafiki Girls Centre, an organisation that meets in our church and provides practical skills education to 16-18 year old girls who have, for various reasons--financial, ability--not been able to pass or write their O-Level exams. Acting as the equivalent of a high school diploma, this exam decides the future employment, training or education opportunities for students in Zimbabwe. The Centre takes in 2 intakes of about 15 girls every year and they each choose a practical course to follow: catering and hospitality, cosmetics, cutting and design, hairdressing, and others. Most of the girls have lost at least one of their parents and many look after younger siblings. I spent the holidays thinking and planning how I could create a lesson that would open the eyes of my L6 Language students (the same age as the Rafiki Girls) even just a little to the lives of other young women who, due to no fault or action of their own, are in very different circumstances. Rafiki very kindly agreed to allow my students to come and interview their girls. After a couple weeks of writing good interview questions and preparing them to ask and listen well, and giving them a few hard talks about leaving their superior attitudes in the bus and going with open minds and ears, we went to Rafiki on Wednesday.


My girls were nervous but excited. I was just nervous. Although I had tried hard to prepare them well, I was terrified that my girls would not take this seriously and that the impact of it would fall flat. I knew they would be outwardly polite, but I was concerned that inwardly nothing would change or be moved. I was (am) under no false illusions that this one conversation would lead to radically changed attitudes and worldviews and that their superiority and prejudice would just magically fall from their hearts and minds as they listened. But I hoped that it might be a beginning. That they would be challenged. That they would meet, talk and listen to a real person who belonged to the group they had such strong opinions about. It is a lot harder to hold to certain beliefs and attitudes about yourself and an other when the other tells you her story. Stories are hard to argue with. There was a lot at stake. But I was not in control. And oh how I love to be in control. So, I was praying hard.


And it went so well.


I cannot see into hearts (thank goodness) but as I stood watching discreetly in the doorway of the large hall where pairs of girls sat, talking, listening, and laughing together, pairs who would never have exchanged greetings, never mind life stories in our segregated world, I felt so grateful, and so hopeful.

The actual writing assignment part of the lesson hasn't even happened yet (and that could still flop), but in my eyes, that part is of minor importance.

My most sit-at-the-back, homework-skipping, uncaring student (who had just given a presentation the lesson before where I cringed at some of the stereotypical language callously coming out her mouth) came up to me afterwards,
"Miss Bell, can we do this again? It was SO fun!"
Another said she was "humbled".
I eavesdropped on two of my students in the bus on the way home and heard them exchange stories.
My deputy head had some of my students for a lesson after we got back and wrote me an email, "Congratulations and thank you for opening the girls eyes as well as inspiring them. You have made such a great impact on them and have changed the way some of them view the world."

Any good that came/comes wasn't me. Only God changes hearts and minds, and hopefully this is a small beginning towards mind/heart change.

Words are powerful; you can't argue with someone's story.

First week of term: boards, wikis, and carpets

One week late... again. This whole "one blog a week" deal is not going so well...

Second term started on Tuesday and we are in the full swing of school already. Just this week:

1. We started cataloguing books for a book drive we did last term for a primary school in Mbare, a high density area of Harare. We had some fantastic student volunteers ('tis the season of recommendations and volunteering looks oh so good on a college application) but we underestimated the amount of books we had collected and how long it would take to "catalogue", even with our basic (and flawed, as we discovered) system.

2. I've marked 2 Language papers of Form 4 homework - only 2 Upper 6 essays, 2 more Form 4 papers, a L6 project and a Form 3 project to go. Yay. Why do I give holiday homework again?

3. Our headmaster has left (he's South African and his work permit was not renewed) - I have not had  a single term at this school yet that hasn't been marked by some major staff change or drama. The day after his last day, the first day of term, we had an emergency staff meeting where the chairman of the school board sternly told us who would be coming to fill in while they look for another head and informed us the two deputies would be leading the school until then and they had full powers to exercise "Disciplinary Sanctions" against any - wait for it - staff member who did not comply with their authority. "Disciplinary Sanctions"?! First of all, what the heck are "Disciplinary Sanctions"? I'm tempted to be non-compliant just to find out!  And secondly, who does he think we are that he feels the need threaten us with "Disciplinary Sanctions"? Why do we have boards again?

4. I introduced two of my classes to wikis. Over the holidays I spent some serious time working on a couple for two of my exam classes (a wiki is a website that can be edited collectively by a group of people, the largest example of which is Wikipedia). I had used a wiki with my student teaching class in Michigan and it was very successful - students were able to discuss with each other online and post comments and questions about the book leading to, I think, a greater depth of understanding and enjoyment of the text. I had removed all thoughts of online/internet/computer teaching from my planning when I came back to Zimbabwe - you cannot count on every person having access to internet, but this holiday (after being inspired by some English Journal reading) I decided that we can make it work. We have a computer lab, so surely the boarders can have access to internet there, and this is a wealthy school - almost every student will have internet at home (or, even more likely, a smart phone with access to it) and they are all on facebook all day long so 15 minutes of wiki conversation shouldn't be arduous. I spent a lot of time on the wikis making the home page attractive, creating pages for notes on characters and discussion questions. And, on Tuesday morning when I showed my classes, did the faces of my students glow with anticipation and awe as I revealed our new private wiki? Did the room start to buzz with comments as they turned to each other in glee? Did they call out in a grateful chorus, "Oh Miss Bell, thank you for all that hard work and time you put into that wiki and giving us space to take ownership of our learning, to interact with each other and our texts in a richer, different way leading to a greater depth of understanding and enjoyment of this play"? No. There was no glow, buzz or chorus. Why do I think up new, creative ways to teach again? Don't worry, my students are going to use these darn wikis and they're going to enjoy it, whether they like it or not.

5. The new carpets that the matron and I ordered for the hostel were installed while I was teaching and now I have to tell the matron that the carpet that she oversaw being installed into the front hall of our hostel was not meant to go there but in the common room and so, no, she cannot ask the Head of Boarding if she can have the old front hall one for her room because the old front hall one is not old and needs to go back in the front hall. I'm doing role plays for that conversation in my head.


However, three highlights:

1. Yesterday one of my Form 1 boarders came to show me her new guitar... just because.

2. I saw one of my L6 Language students in another class before our first language lesson and she said to me  excitedly, "I can't wait for Language!" I almost fell over (they are a class that has been very difficult to draw any kind of emotion from, let alone excitement) and then I asked, "Why?" and she said, and I quote, scout's honour, "Because we had such a cool holiday project!"

3. When I walked into my Upper 6 lesson (a class which has been easy to connect with and which, if teacher's were allowed to have favourites...) they just grinned at me. They were happy to see me, so they say--I personally think it more likely to be a combination of first week excitement, second term stress getting to them early, the joke L had just told and the chaplain's sermon that morning that told them that if they weren't happy they would fail--but I'm going to go with they were happy to see me.

8 Steps to Surviving Zimbawean Powercuts

1.       Expect, not the unexpected, but the worst. The unexpected would be an improvement in power, or the switching on of power. The worst might be any of the following:

a.       an announcement by the Hwange power station that provides electricity the country that four units were “off the grid” and power consequently being out for 3 days.

b.      power cuts that last longer than 24 hours and cause freezers to defrost.

c.       the loss of an amazingly well-written blog post because the alternate internet source used did not allow saving.

d.      the oil in the transformer at your local substation being stolen and causing the substation to blow up.

2.       Expect the worse possible timing.

a.       the middle or just before the preparation of supper.

b.      the middle of a shower fed by an electricity dependent borehole*.

c.       the middle, beginning or end of the Wimbledon finals, the season finale of Masterchef, a breaking news report on the fall of ______(insert current dictator’s name).

d.      the middle of your powerpoint/video dependent lesson.

e.      the middle of your wedding.

3.       Make a plan. This plan may come in various forms and stages:

a.       a gas stove

b.      a wood fire out back

c.       LED lights stuck up around the house

d.      a generator*

e.      an inverter*

f.        using dropbox to distribute your powerpoint to your students so that when the power goes they can access it.

4.       Be flexible and learn new skills.

a.       Do not plan meals that need microwaves, grills (gas ovens do not have grills), blenders or toasters.

b.      Learn to cook over a flame.

c.       Learn to take a bucket bath.

d.      Learn to hand wash.

e.      Learn patience.

5.       Ignore all rumours of improvements or positive developments. Remember guideline 1.

a.       ZESA* has not been bought out by a private company.

b.      the power situation will not improve.

6.       Believe all rumours of deterioration or negative developments.

a.       the auditor of ZESA equipment is buying himself a larger generator.

b.      the transformer at your local substation has just blown.

c.       there is no money to buy the transformer that has just blown at your substation.

7.       Don’t get attached to anything. Anything could include:

a.       your favourite white blouse that is now pink after being left in the water of the washing machine that stopped half way through its cycle.

b.      your blog posts.

c.       your cake in the oven.

d.      hot showers.

e.      ironed clothes.

f.        television shows.

g.       access to electronic devices that have to be charged or attached to a power source. Learn to enjoy reading or playing scrabble.

8.       Make friends. These will come in handy as:

a.       contacts for cheap gas stove/generators/invertors/firewood.

b.      lenders of freezer space/water/hot showers/washing machines.

c.       fellow survivors.

*Zimbabwean Power-cut glossary

generator: (n) a machine that produces electricity run by an alternate fuel source such as petrol or diesel and makes loud, annoying noise. The generator is out of fuel.

inverter: (n) a electronic device that changes direct current generally from a battery into alternating current. A small inverter can run your television and lights, a large one can power your house. You need electricity to charge the battery that runs your invertor. The inverter has not been charged: we cannot watch American Idol.

ZESA:     1. (abbrv.) Zimbabwe Electricity Supply Authority. ZESA has just announced that the substation has been overtaken by terrorists.

2. (n) informal a Zimbabwean colloquialism synonymous with “electricity”. The Zesa was out; I couldn’t do my homework.

borehole: (n) the equivalent to an American well. The borehole has finally been connected to the house; now we can have water when we have power.

With thanks to John Bell who helped with the technical language within this blog and ZESA for providing much fodder and helping to make Zimbabweans better people, one powercut at a time.

Inspiring in spurts--waiting for Rhythm

I finally joined the NCTE (National Council for Teachers of English) and subscribed to their English Journal, a professional Secondary English teaching journal, only three years after my English Education professors started suggesting it. At the time I was a budgeting student who couldn’t afford to relocate rent and food funds to anything of less immediate import. I forgot all my good intentions of joining NCTE and reading the journal after graduating and beginning to work. Having recently awakened to the joys of good journal/magazine writing at my fingertips via my kindle (yes, I caved; it didn’t take much) I suddenly remembered the English Journal and have just spent the last couple hours reading articles on such subjects as digitalk, political power writing communities and motivating students to care about in-class writing.

And now I’m thoroughly depressed. I’m a third of the way through my teaching year, just finished one incredibly crazy first term that I started running and finished in an exhausted heap, and I just don’t know how the teachers who write these inspiring articles have time to, first of all, think up such passionate, creative lessons, second of all, teach planned passionate and creative lessons, and third, write about it! Okay, so some of my lessons this year have tried to be creative and go beyond the text book basics but mostly I feel like this term has been one long circle of assigning and marking with little time to be passionate and create. And if I’m feeling like this… my poor students! I’m not sure what it is. This is my second year; I thought it was supposed to get easier, Professor Vande Kopple? So far, this one is much more out of control than my first.

I long for time to read and think and plan and create so I can question and challenge and prompt and inspire but all I do is assign and mark and edit and administrate!

What is the answer? Is there an answer? Maybe it’s just to wait this time out, to try as much as possible to not be completely sucked into the whirlpool, to inspire in spurts as I come up for air occasionally, and then, when there is a rhythm (oh, please, let that be a rhythm on the horizon!) maybe those spurts can slowly become long, deep, luxurious breaths.

Cat ladies: I think I get it

March was not been a good month for keeping on track with blogging but the holidays have started and I'm slowly emerging from the haze that is the end of term. I'm also alone for the weekend, dog-cat-house-sitting for my parents and I will never admit what channel of DSTV I've been watching for a large part of the afternoon: time to get back on track. But what to write about now there are no lessons or students in my life?

Then this evening I realised how some women end up as "the cat lady".

I was sitting outside on the concrete by the pool (not a pleasant image but the grass has ants and dampness) and the dogs, realising that they, after keeping me company in the lounge all afternoon, had been deserted, came to join me. And Bingley, our little white toy pom who likes to be close and whose advances I had rejected by sitting on my hands, leaned hard against my back. And he felt so real and present and alive. Maybe that's obvious or odd, but I have been thinking about living alone recently, since moving onto campus. I don't think I could ever live on my own in an ordinary situation (such as not living as part of a hostel of 35 high school girls) and in fact, the thought terrifies me a little. And after being alone for a total of, let's see, 2 days and 15 hours, I suddenly realised that maybe this is where some cat ladies begin... and why I might end up as one. (Now my mother's terrified).

Those who know me may find this a bit weird because, while I like animals, I'm not crazy about them like some members of my family, but it is amazing what solid, comforting company they provide, particularly when you are alone. They sit on you. They wait for you to get up in the morning and let them in. They look at you. They need you.

About 10 minutes after I had left the poolside and Bingley's warm back I was washing the dog bowls (one of my least favourtie activities of dog-cat-house-sitting) in the outside sink when I heard loud, rather desperate yowl. Up on the roof was Ponyo, cat no. 1. So I dragged our wobbly old wooden ladder over to the wall and stretched up. She was desperate to come down but not quite sure she could trust me and stayed just beyond reach. Eventually I succeeded in grabbing her by the scruff of her neck and slowly backing down the shaking old ladder (time to up-grade, Dad) with her clinging for dear life to the top of my head. When I lowered her arching, tense body to the ground I stroked her quickly for comfort before she could run. But she didn't, she turned and wound herself firmly around my legs, gratitude personified.

Who knows why the "cat lady" is always depicted alone but I think I know now why she is the cat lady. If I ever end up living alone, without 35 high school girls, I mean, I'm going to do it with cats. Or at least, a dog.