America the Beautiful

It’s been two and a half years since I left this place. And I have loved moving back to Zimbabwe as an adult and starting a life as a working professional back at home. However, since coming to the States last week for an important wedding I have realized that there are some wonderful things about this country. Things that I appreciate a great deal.

1. Bagels and Philadelphia Cream Cheese. Wow. Such a simple combination of bread and dairy but there is nothing simple about these two. I have missed you, bagel and cream cheese.

2. Highways. Oh the joy of driving down a wide, well-kept road at high speeds. Crossing distances safely and swiftly. I am driving on one right now and preparing to post this blog post online from my bus seat. Yes, my bus has wifi. Did I mention wifi?

3. Free high speed internet. Within my first 5 fours in the country I was sitting in MacDonalds skyping my family. Connection fee? One small fries, thank you.

4. Shops with sales and second hand stores. Oh how I and my wardrobe have missed 50% off sales and clearance racks. Yesterday my sister and I found a coat originally for $50 for $4.98. It didn’t fit either of us (we tried) but we bought it anyway and donated it to the store’s clothing drive.

5. Deep conversations about things that matter. Okay, we get these in Zimbabwe, but somehow I tend to have them more in the US.

6. Variety – in people, things and food.

7. The ease of life. Go out and buy a coat. Get to anywhere in a new town using google maps and a GPS. Plan a meal and go out and buy everything you need for it.

8. Good coffee almost anywhere.

And, yet, there are things that I have not missed that also came crashing back very soon after touching down.

1. The feeling that, even though my outside and passport fits in here more than they sometimes do at home, I am a stranger here and that feeling of not quite belonging in large groups of Americans is uncomfortable and sometimes hard to deal with.

2. The way I can’t help my voice changing, ever so subtly, so that people can understand my accent a bit easier. My t’s become d’s, my r’s a little thicker.

3. The way it is so easy to spend money here.

4. Too much choice! That’s another reason my commitment to clearance racks (and vegetarianism!) is so handy.

5. Waste. Of food, space, money and the blindness to it.

6. Bad tea almost everywhere.

Zimbabwe, and Me

I've read two excellent pieces of writing within the last week about Zimbabwe, place and white people and I've consequently been thrown back in time to memories of my own thinking of these topics almost three years ago as I worked through my honours thesis on the topic of white unbelonging.

I've just finished "Shame: confessions of an aid worker in Africa" by Jillian Reilly (2012). A fascinating read. She retells her experiences living in South Africa and Zimbabwe in the 1990s and coming to terms with the truths and horrors of trying to "do good" in places she didn't understand and wasn't ever completely let into or part of.

Over the weekend I read another very well written piece, "Being Accepted at Home", yet to be published, by my sister. I'll post the link to the article once it wins the competition it was written for. The essay was supposed to be about assumptions changed and challenged, or something like that. She wrote about her own story realising her whiteness and the historical and present implications of it as a Zimbabwean living both in and outside Zimbabwe.

I would do both these pieces injustice if I tried to summarise them here. The point is they made me think, as good writing should. Being back in the US for a brief spell has made me remember all the things I actually like about this place (another post about that) but has also very quickly reminded me about what I struggled so much to live with living here. I am so comfortable, almost content, almost flourishing at times, in my life at home right now. Everyone I meet asks when I will be leaving Zimbabwe. What are my plans for the future. I don't have any right now. Vague ideas but no plans and, though I'm not sure how it will happen or what it will look like, I'm beginning to realise that I don't want to leave Zim. I'm beginning to find a place there and the nervous, apologetic feelings of feeling out of place and like I'm intruding in my own country are slowly being replaced by a confident, sure, sometimes angry belief -- that's not quite the right word but it will have to do for now -- that I do have a right to belong, maybe to flourish, there. That no one can tell me that I don't.

The injustice of transport: the place I live.

Two things happened last week that have caused the invisible structures of injustice that are built up around me and my comfortable life to become, for a moment, very, very clear.

Number One.

On Friday morning as I walked to school from my flat I saw a red twin cab truck pull up to the chapel. A white woman got out of the driver’s side and her passenger, a black man dressed in worker’s overalls climbed out the back seat. The front passenger seat was empty. The image smacked of a past we should not be living in and I thought, (I distinctly remember), “Wow, do we really still live in this kind of a place?” Shaking my self-righteous head, I went to work.

Less than 24 hours later, I was cringing in shame: Yes, I really do live in such a place.

On Saturday I was driving out the school gate on my way to the bank and I passed one of the maids that live at the school walking out of it as well. Now, I’ve often given lifts to people who work at the school, but usually I know them. This maid was not one I knew and was not one who was particularly friendly when I had come across her. I didn’t stop. I felt guilty the whole way down the road as I glanced in my rear view mirror and watched her turn onto the road walking the same direction I was going.

As I turned off the smaller road the school was on, onto the main road, I saw one of the lab assistants standing at the corner waiting to catch a combi (mini van that provides public transport) into town, probably the destination of the maid as well. I saw him just as I passed and waved. I did know him and he waved back. With the guilt of passing the maid still in my mouth I turned off the main road to try to turn around and pick him up. It took me a few minutes to get back on the road, turn back onto the small road and try to pass him again, this time intending to stop and offer him a lift into the city. Right as I was ready to turn back onto the main road, a combi pulled up next to him and he stepped on. It was full already but he managed to squeeze in and I watched as he stood next to the conductor, half of him sticking out the open door, as he held on to the inside handle. I drove to the bank in my little corolla with three seats empty.

And then, just to make sure that I had got the message, as I left the bank through the glass exit security door – the one with the double doors that you have to wait in between until you are closed in before opening the outer one – who should be standing waiting in the entrance side, separated only, but very firmly, by a wall of glass? The maid I had left at the gate. She had been going to the exact same place I was in my car of empty seats.

Number two.

On Monday morning I arrived back at school to hear that the daughter and grand-daughter of the man who organizes our all the chairs, cups and rooms for all the functions (kind of the head of housekeeping) that happen at school had been killed in a car accident. The man is called Mr Domingo, not Mr Musona, which is his last name. Domingo is his second name. In a country with a culture that respects elders fiercely and where children traditionally do not even know the first names of their adult relatives, he was Domingo to us and the students here. His wife, a maid, a woman old enough to have a 7 year old grand-daughter, is called Rita.

Their first born was coming in from outside the city to visit her parents here at Arundel where they stay when a tire on the combi she and her five month old were travelling on burst, causing the vehicle to roll. She and her baby were killed instantly.

A teacher friend and I went to pay our respects on Tuesday. We crossed the beautiful sports fields including the newly built hockey astro-turf (the only one at a school in the country) to the far side of the school grounds where we passed through a gate into the area where the people who work to clean and look after the school live. Another world. Today, another world of grief where the differences between them and us glower at us as we sit with Rita on the floor of her small house, trying to think of what to say to a woman who has lost her first born. Her second born comes in carrying the dead woman’s second child, a girl of four who is stark naked and wriggling after her bath. Another child of Rita’s daughter is outside. He is seven.

As we walk back to the school we talk about our privilege. In the staff room, we complain about the terrible roads that are riddled with potholes and bad drivers. We urge our colleagues travelling to Bulawayo and Chinhoyi over the weekend to drive carefully and not at night.

Mr and Mrs Musona’s daughter did not have that choice or privilege.

To visit her parents she had no option but a combi. A combi driven by a driver whose only concern is the speed at which he can deliver his passengers and replace them with more, and then the number he can cram into his van. A van that is, no doubt, in need of serious work but which manages to get past all police road blocks and inspections by paying the unofficial fine of $10 which will not be put into the books. A van whose tire burst, killing her and her child. To get to her funeral, her husband and the two children she left behind got into a similar combi.

I have never driven in a combi in my life.

Yes. I really do live in such a place.

Student reviews and the way I talk

This week I’ve been walking around as if I’m a little out of my body. I feel like I’m second guessing how I’m being seen by everyone I meet. I feel self-conscious about what I’m wearing, how I stand in front of class, and mostly, how I talk. I’m gently rebuilding my identity that has been a little shaken. What brought on this week of uncomfortable self-awareness? Student reviews. Any teacher thinking about asking their students to review their classes or theirs teaching: rethink. Or make sure you’re prepared for a week of potentially rebuilding yourself.

I usually love hearing back from my students about how they enjoyed or didn't enjoy the class. I take their feedback very seriously and have used it to tweak my classes and grow in my own teaching after every year because not only do I ask them to critique the class, I ask them to critique my teaching. I've been doing this since my student teaching and value it as an important part of my development as a teacher. Of course, there is always some negative feedback (too much work, lessons I thought were great that they hated, afternoon lessons) and I take it with the positive and work with them both. I am always slightly down after reading these, somehow the negative comments dig much deeper than positive, encouraging ones – much like any kind of criticism, I suppose – but I reread them after a few days and things look better, I’m able to take in the positive comments a bit more and accept the negatives with a cool and calm head. And I’m okay with who I am as a person and a teacher. This year I’ve had a particularly hard time with one class. I haven’t even got to the rereading stage yet.

In between watching myself from outside myself and second-guessing how everyone is viewing and thinking about it, I’ve been pondering why this class’s comments have bothered me so much this year. It was a difficult class to connect with, I struggled all year. However, in my mind we had connected. Apparently not. That bothered me. But I think what has made these comments particularly difficult were a few comments about my voice. I have gone through a lot with the way I talk. From high school when I first picked up a mashed up accent from hanging out with American missionaries to college where a rude American student mocked the way I said “Monster” to coming home to people who couldn’t get over my “American” accent, I have continuously wrestled with the way I sound and the way I would like to sound. I have accepted it now, I kind of sound American, kind of something else. I sound different. And that’s okay. I’ve been in different places, had different friends and I’ve picked up aspects of both. Being called American used to bother me intensely because I desperately want(ed) to be allowed to be Zimbabwean. Today, I’m okay with sounding different and accusations of an American accent roll over me in ways that would make my mother (who usually had to deal with the flood of emotion after someone had accused me of an American accent) proud. But, the two comments that I can’t get past just yet – by a couple students in this class – are about my voice. Obviously I’m still dealing with it and my insecurities about it.

I’ll get over this set of reviews. The second reading, reminding myself of the positive comments (one student said it was her favourite class), will help.

I suppose I don’t have to ask for feedback. But I think it is healthy. I’ve got to find my identity outside of the opinions of the people I teach. And sometimes it’s good to be reminded that not everyone loves me and my teaching.

How to learn humility: 1. Teach a class of teenagers for a year. 2. Ask for their honest feedback about you and the class at the end. 3. Read the feedback. 4. Get upset, and then, get over it.

Dear student, as you leave my class

Dear student, as you leave my class,

allow me to share

some advice and some hopes, I have,

for you.

Don’t leave the words

and their power

Here

As you go

There.

Don’t be so fast to walk away from them,

from it.

I hope for you

that poetry continues to

confuse and delight

with ideas that

challenge and frighten

lift and flood

you.

that stories give you eyes

into spaces you cannotwillnot go,

and force you outside and into parts

of yourself,

of places you are safe.

that characters make you weep

and exalt

and want to be more

than you were before you met them.

I hope for you

--all your life--

that words

make you laugh and cry,

take you to depths and heights of

love, and joy, and pain.

make you wonder

with eyes wide open.

make you better.

Because they are so much bigger than

that exam you’re taking

that essay you failed

Because they will

--if you let them, dear student,--

set fire to your world.

Miss Bell, October 2012

Non-sooty kettle days

And then there are days I want to cry for other reasons

Student A to Student B as I was walking out:

“Do you know what I love about English? ... No tests.”

Upper 6 student – yes, of the ones I love, who has been doing English for 6 years and who chose the subject for A-Level as one of her 3 subjects to study for 2 years:

“Miss Bell, something has been bothering me. What is Literature? I know what Accounts is, but what is Literature?”

Me: --------.

Me: “I know you’re tired and its hot and it’s after lunch [who ever thought that lessons after lunch in Zimbabwe were a good idea?] but I have to teach you and you have to learn.”

“Can’t we all just sit? We can learn communication skills.”

Written on the board by Form 2 teaching her new vocab word to the class: “willy”.

Me: [hmm… student teaching never quite prepares you fully. What would Mr Vande Kopple do?]

Student on board: "Definition: cunning.”

Me: [Phew.] “Ruth, there’s only one L.”

Me: “And that is the end of the lesson.”

Class: Applause.

But I suppose you can’t have the sooty-kettle days without a whole lot of non-sooty kettle days in between.

A sooty kettle

I have a post in my "in progress" document about how much I love this place and my students and how hard it is going to be to leave when I have to but it is proving hard to write... so for now, there's this.

Today two of my L6 (12 Grade/Juniors) students arrived at the staffroom door holding two pot plants.

I said, "Oh thank you", facetiously, ready to call the Biology teacher for them to hand the pot plants to.

Oops. Turns out one of them was for me.

Last week another teacher and I organised a "Sixth Form Evening: a night of poetry and drama" that included some creative presentations of the texts (drama and poetry) that they are studying. We invited other schools who are studying the same ones and after a week of stress and panic managed to pull off a not-technological-hitch-free but eventually-smoothish evening. I enjoyed it and the girls involved made me so proud with their work, enthusiasm and passion. It was one of the triggers for my how-to-leave-this-place post.

Enter flower pot. Not just any flower in any pot. A purple flower in a sooty kettle. I almost cried. Here's why.


Time's Fool
by Ruth Pitter

Time's fool, but not heaven's: yet hope not for any return.
The rabbit-eaten dry branch and the halfpenny candle
Are lost with the other treasure: the sooty kettle
Thrown away, become redbreast's home in the hedge, where the nettle
Shoots up, and bad bindweed wreathes rust-fretted handle.
Under that broken thing no more shall the dry branch burn.

Poor comfort all comfort: once what the mouse had spared
Was enough, was delight, there where the heart was at home:
The hard cankered apple holed by the wasp and the bird,
The damp bed, with the beetle's tap in the headboard heard,
The dim bit of mirror, three inches of comb:
Dear enough, when with youth and with fancy shared.

I knew that the roots were creeping under the floor,
That the toad was safe in his hole, the poor cat by the fire,
The starling snug in the roof, each slept in his place:
The lily in splendour, the vine in her grace,
The fox in the forest, all had their desire,
As then I had mine, in the place that was happy and poor.


It's one of our poems.

Darn you, students.

Flea market shopping

 Two days ago I had a bad day. I’ve reached the final week of holidays. I’m fairly prepped for my classes that begin next week. I’ve run out of interesting save-money-and-food home projects (tomato paste, pureed garlic and ginger, blanched spinach all packed and labeled in the freezer). I don’t have a wide social life (to put it mildly) and I was feeling extra sorry for myself. To top it all off, I went for a haircut which I do only every 3 months or so, and so especially look forward to. Not this time.

First, the hair dresser told me I had a very dry scalp.

“Your scalp is very dry. Do you know that?”

Now I do, thanks.

“It’s actually coming off. If I do this--- it just comes off.”

Thanks, I got it. I’ll use better shampoo.

“It’s really not good for it to be sitting there.”

I really do get it.

“I mean, I don’t mean to be rude but…”

Hm.

Good thing we weren’t anywhere public like a hair salon or anything.

Then she didn’t listen to how I wanted my hair.

“So you want it in a bob?”

Uh, no.

The result is quite depressingly bob-like.

So I tied my hair up and decided to go flea market shopping, also something I do infrequently but always enjoy. Our main suburb flea market (as opposed to the huge city ones) sells everything from elephant statues to five inch heels. My favourite stalls though are the second hand clothes. People, women usually, buy huge bundles of clothes that have been collected in developed countries (donated usually, sometimes you can even find the Salvation Army price tag on them) and then resell them individually. In the city markets you can get tops for $1. At our suburb one they’re $5. I’m happy to pay that because I know that’s about what I’d pay in the States for a second hand top and because I know that I’m helping someone make a living. In this economy if I get a little jipped in the process, I’m okay with that.

Anyway, Ange and I headed off. First stop, the shorts man (one of the only men I’ve seen in the second hand clothing business) who has branched out into tops as well. Ange found a cut off jackety thing and I found a top I thought would look good on Mum.

Stop number two was my favourite stall. Set in the corner of the market it had everything: all kinds of tops, trousers, dresses, skirts and a huge pile of extras (usually the plus size clothing that wouldn’t fit on the hanger but sometimes an unusual skirt) and, two extra special feature: a changing room made of a sheet draped over a wire (but open to the world on the other side which down below opened onto the street and a parking area so you need to change with caution) and a mirror. The mirror was also a challenge to use because it was tied to the corner (so that no one walked off with it perhaps) and you had to crouch in between the wooden slacks and try to imagine what your dress looked like with you standing up straight.

Ange and I sifted through all the racks, piling potentials on our arms as we waited for the change room to become vacant (they don’t give you numbers, once you’re in, you’re in and the next in line just have to wait). As soon as the lady looking for black tops left we jumped in to secure our spot and spent a pleasant 20 minutes trying on and sorting into piles: no, maybe, yes.

Having narrowed down our finds we went to find the seller. The other reason I like this stall is that the women manning it don’t seem particularly interested in selling their clothes. This might seem a strange attribute to enjoy in flea market stall sellers unless you’ve been to an African or South American flea market in which case you’ll understand completely. The generally observed techniques of flea market selling involve manipulation, coercion, guilt-tripping or a combination of all three. I do admire flea market sellers – it’s a hard way to make a living, especially in a country where people do not have a lot of excess cash to spend, and they do it well. That said, I avoid the extra pushy stalls if I can. Having paid for our tops (and got a discount on a shirt that had been repaired by its previous owner) we headed to try find Ange a dress that she was looking for.

One stall over we found dresses! Oh dear. Nice dresses that tempted me as well! And it turned out to be manned by the same uninterested seller. Perfect: no pushy seller and we could use her change room and mirror. Feeling guilty because we had already bought several tops but really wanting the dresses we had found, I prepared myself to bargain. I enjoy bargaining and I think I do okay at it but not great. I think it’s in part because I’m not as ruthless as you need to be to get an amazing bargain. I can’t bring myself to go too low knowing that I do have money and they do need it. I do know, however, that flea market prices are always inflated I try to get a little off if I can.

Anyway, I figured out my starting price and went to find our uninterested selling friend. Fortunately I had two advantages on my side: a small stain I had found on one of the dresses and the fact that we were buying more than one (and had already bought from her that day). All points in my favour. Unfortunately, she had more: experience, amazing delivery and the actual control of the price. The dresses all cost $15 originally.

“So can I buy this one for ten because of the stain [Scramble to find the stain, look a little awkward. Mistake] and the others for twelve each, since I’m buying three?”

“Ahhh.. ten! I will lose my job!”

Another advantage she has over me: this is not her stall; she is able to go down only so much and only she knows how much that is. Whether this is true or not is irrelevant.

“Okay, how about twelve for each?”

This was a mistake. I raised too high too fast. I know I’m beat.

“Eeeeiii!”

Advantage number 5: excellent emotional exclamations that seem to suggest I’m asking her to throw her third son into the deal as well.

“Give me thirteen for the two and twelve for the one with the stain.”

“Okay.”

I know when to admit defeat.

I got a $2 discount for the top with the repair job, and saved myself $7 on the dresses. I also got a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon with Ange trying on and experimenting, finding deals and negotiating prices. My spirit was lifted. A bargain.

The flowers are smiling

I’ve been sitting in the garden for the last couple hours reading poetry.

That sounds so noble and admirable but I must admit why I am sitting in the garden reading poetry. The power is off, so I can’t work on my school prep which I should be doing inside. And, as much as I love the idea of randomly reading poetry in the garden, and as much as I would love to be a random poetry reader, I’m not one, anywhere. I am reading my AS Literature class’s set poetry. I told them to read all the poems we haven’t covered yet, annotate and think about them this holiday. So I’m making sure my students aren’t ahead of me.

But I am glad to be in the garden reading poetry. It is warm – hot if you sit in the sun. There is a breeze at the back of my neck that is cool, despite the warm sun. Some very noisy birds are arguing in the trees above me – arguing, definitely not singing which would sound so much more poetical but not nearly so real. The breeze is making the banana leaves above my head dance their shadows over my book and computer. And the flowers are smiling.

About 10 minutes ago I got tired of trying to figure out what the heck R.S. Thomas was talking about in Here, so I put my poetry down and just sat, enjoying the argument above my head, the dance at my feet and the smiling flowers. For some reason, this year the garden seems to be exploding in flowers. Our garden used to be Dad’s domain but recently Mum has stepped out and claimed space in it as well. The result? More flowers than I’ve seen in our one acre garden. It’s like they’re trying to outdo each other in who can plant the most flowers. Mum has her special section that is just crammed with flowers. The other day she said to me,

“Look, my Barbertons are so happy”.

And they were. Flowers are amazing. They just grow and look beautiful. Most of them serve no practical, useful function in the world at all. But they grow. And they smile and they make me smile. I’m so grateful that God cares enough about the earth and me to give us such useless, beautiful plants just because they make us--and Him, I think--smile.

Social Justice: a long, hard road

We’ve just completed a Week of Transformation: an annual youth week that a group of us from several churches put on. It involves a lot of serious teaching, about 4 hours a day. This year’s topics were Worldview (including a biblical worldview of sexuality), The Bible, Leadership and Social Justice.

Last year we had Social Justice as a large theme. A couple of us did some teaching on it and then we organized a service learning afternoon where groups got to see organizations in Harare that are addressing the various issues of social justice. It was a successful day and I think many of the youth were challenged by what they learnt and saw.

We decided Social Justice was important enough to repeat again this year. I spent two days giving some intense teaching about Social Justice to the 60+ 15-25 year-olds we had in attendance. I tried to give a biblical basis for justice first and then to illustrate where they fit in the scheme of things, kicking this second lesson off with an unfair but reality-based, class-divided lunch. We served 10 of them a beautiful lunch, 20 beans and rice and the rest just rice. They were not impressed but it led to some excellent discussion and thinking that provided the perfect intro to my talk on how we should possibly deal with the differences that are built into our lives. And finally, before we went out to visit sites that are doing justice, we talked about the difference between deep justice and not-so-deep service.

But although the afternoon was mostly a success again (barring the usual mishaps and confusions that happen when trying to organize the movement of 75 people to different places all at the same time) I left that night discouraged. The group I went with had gone to a disability daycare centre in a low-income, high density suburb of the city. A centre where mothers of children with disabilities come each day with their children. They cannot work because caring for their children is full time job and they use the centre as a place to support each other and try to start small businesses together. Our guide was a member of our church who works for the micro-finance trust that is also connected to our church and he tried to get our group to respond after we had left, asking them what we could do for this place or similar places that would be sustainable and would work with them rather than at them. With each response my heart sank.

“We could fundraise.”

“We can collect toys and things and go and visit them.”

“We could hold a charity concert!”

The charity concert was the final blow. After two days of teaching, they didn’t get it. They couldn’t distinguish service from deep justice. Now, later, after some sleep and logical thinking, I realise that these are new ideas for many of them. That many are young (I had several of the 15 year olds) and struggle to think outside the box. That the concept of justice verses service is very difficult to practically apply. That the fact that they are even aware of these places and people is a good outcome. But most importantly, perhaps, that social justice is a long, hard road. Changing unjust systems and working towards sustained mercy takes years and years. And perhaps so does people’s understanding of what social justice actually is. And while that is discouraging—both the time justice takes and the time people take to realise what justice is!—I think that it is worth it. And maybe next year, they’ll get it a little bit more.

Change

I hate change. A lot. I'm totally miserable in every new place I go for about the first, hm, two years. Okay, not totally miserable but pretty close. It takes me a long time to adjust to new things. I like to think of myself as flexible and adaptable. And I do adapt. But only eventually.

My brother has just got engaged. (I'm not sure its okay to say that on here but given that he is the least faithful family reader of this blog, I think I'm safe for a little while - no telling, Rach and Jed). Of course, we were, and are, all thrilled. He proposed here in Zim, on a mountain at a game park during sunset. We went on a family holiday right after with him and his fiancee (who we all love and are so excited to have in the family). But... I hate change. The week after they both arrived and I saw my little brother with this girl, cosying up on the couch, whispering sweetly and exchanging loving glances, I freaked out a little.

"Josh is gone!" I wailed to my mother, "We've lost him!"

A bit dramatic but, remember, I hate change. My best friend is about to get married as well (they have both timed their weddings in overseas places remarkably conveniently). She's gone and lost, too.

However, the fact that I am able to blog about this means that I have got through the dramatic, oh-woe-is-me stage. It's hard to lose people whether it's to college, to new lives in other countries, to different stages of life, or to other people. But the difficulty of losing them and saying goodbye is rich. So say my wise parents.

I texted my Mum after saying goodbye to Jed on Wednesday: "Why didn't you just stop having kids after me? Imagine how happy we'd be."
"Haha," she replied, "Read CS Lewis, no joy without pain"

Around the same time I proposed a new family rule: no praying out loud before people get on planes.
We have this horrible tradition of sending off the Leaver with a prayer. We all huddle around in a circle (bags in the middle so no one steals them while our eyes are closed). Those who can, pray. The rest of us cry. Then Dad says the blessing and we're all a mess. And of course, someone has a camera and wants to remember this awful moment, eyes and noses red and streaming, miserable and pathetic. Great memories. My proposition was denied. Dad said that the moments of deep sadness are what makes life rich and meaningful.

And I'm sorely tempted to choose to have a slightly less rich life. It's tempting to want to protect my poor heart from all this horribly insensitive change around me. To resent people. To deny sadness. To live detached. But, unfortunately, I think my parents are right. Those moments of sadness and sorrow are rich because of what is behind them, because of what they represent. Friendship, love, joy, companionship, memories, moments, life.

And so, while I hate it, I'll accept it. And ask for lots of help and tissue to get through the adapting part.

What could be worse than leaving?

Remember when I said that the people who make me truly me where gathering in the place that makes me truly me? Well, those people, the ones I love most, are leaving and it’s awful.

For four years I was a Leaver. Every year I would return home in June, like a confused migratory bird moving from the finally-warming North American continent to the cooling-for-winter African one (fortunately much easier to stomach than its Northern counterparts) and every August I would pack up, cry on and off for the last week, drive to the airport with my family, have a tearful farewell that included the Bell family traditional send off where you wave to the Leaver as they go through customs and security every minute or so when they look back with raised arm until they step around the last corner you can see in the distance. Then I would sit at the boarding gate, maybe journal about leaving home and Zimbabwe, board my flight, cry a bit as I watched the Zimbabwean landscape disappear below me, turn on my in-flight entertainment and order a drink. In the following weeks (and months!), I would be homesick, call home frequently, write when I could, enjoy every phone call but feel sometimes feel even worse after them when I couldn’t be there for the sounds of home I could hear in the background or when the conversation could only go so far because they didn’t really know the world I was in. Leaving was painful. The most painful thing I’d experienced in my privileged life. And then, last year, for the first time, I was left.

I watched as siblings--including a youngest brother off to college for the first time--packed and prepared, as they got sad but also excited. I watched and remembered my own times of leaving and saying goodbye to places and people. And on the final day, we all drove to the airport and this time I stood on the other side of the barrier. I watched as the leavers walked away and turned for the traditional farewell, arm raised, again and again, until they stepped around that last corner and were gone. And we got into the car and drove home. And there was no in-flight entertainment to distract, no fancy drink to sip, no exciting new place to move into, no strange new people to meet. There was just home. And us. And a space where there should have been another person, with nothing to distract from the normality and routine that hurt because of that space.

Leaving the place and the people you love is hard and painful. But there is something worse.

A Raw Week

This blog was started on July 7, just so you know.

Today is the last day of a raw food week my sister convinced me to join her on. It didn’t take much convincing: it sounded like a great idea – eat super healthy for a week, just cut out cooking and a few precooked things (bread, chips).Not a big deal. You’ll feel great, said the articles, lose weight, be extra healthy. Basically, your life will change. Well, they got that right. I am never doing something this ridiculous again.

Here’s how it went:

Day one: feeling optimistic and excited; enjoying guacamole with carrot sticks and cucumber. A few unpleasant stomach side effects beginning. A headache (could be unrelated). Started a list on my kitchen cupboard of every item eaten – feel proud of all the healthy things on the list and excited to add to it.

Day two: positive beginning, guacamole still tasty. By afternoon stomach definitely not happy (and firmly letting me know). Lettuce wraps with raw hummous for supper. Afterwards nauseous at the thought of carrots. Don’t finish adding to the list. Go to sleep thinking murderous thoughts towards Rach.

Day three: Feeling good! Anything is better than day two. Enjoyed fruit and yoghurt smoothy for lunch. Rach comes to stay – she is going through my day two symptoms. I express sympathy but feel slightly superior that I am through the rough patch. (God laughs at my superiority: He knows day four to six holds). Eat lettuce wraps for lunch – much better today and my work colleagues look impressed by my wraps.

Day four: Not as good as day three. Broccoli salad for lunch – raw broccoli is not wonderful. Decide to try making a cold carrot ginger soup recipe I found on a raw food website. Waste a perfectly good avocado in carrot ginger soup. Force a bowl of carrot ginger soup down, heavily diluted with yogurt. Save the rest for Rach later who is on the can’t-look-at-vegetables-even-if-they-look-like-baby-food stage and is eating muesli.

Day five: The day is fine (but closer to day two feeling than day three) until around five. Then craving for bread/crackers/chips/fried anything sets in. AND horror of horrors: guacamole beginning to taste… plain and not enjoyable! Things have become serious. Depressed. Want real food. Rach and I decide that six days is basically a week and since I’m leaving for a school trip on day seven we may as well end on day six and enjoy a celebratory supper.

Day six: It’s a Saturday but we are marking entrance exams at school. People have brought muffins and cake and biscuits (and 2 apples for me, how sweet). Rach and I both not feeling so bad, but think it is probably psychological since we are at the end. We are kind of disappointed that we do not feel physically different, i.e. better – the articles lied. What was the point? I buy a spring roll for my celebratory supper… am disappointed – think I had built it up too much in my head all week, no spring roll could live up to that. But am happy. Afterwards I eat chips. Life is good.

Overall: I believe, just like we should wear glasses if we need them, we need to accept the progress humankind has made over the centuries as a gift from God. We may have started eating raw, but my goodness, we have evolved and moved on! If anyone is ever tempted: don’t do it. It’s really not worth day two, four, five and six. Trust me.

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.

Holidays and Afternoons-off

I spent the last week trying to come up with a witty--verging on cutting--response for the next person who tells me how lucky teachers are to have holidays and afternoons off. I wouldn't mind this so much if the tone of the speaker didn't almost always imply that, really, teachers have it easy. How unfair it is that all the rest of the world has to slave away 8 to 4 or 9 to 5 while teachers (and honestly, how hard is it to qualify as a teacher?) get to lounge the day away after lunch and get whole weeks off at a time!

I did not come up with any fittingly biting responses because I was too busy spending my afternoons, evenings, early mornings, late nights and weekend marking, prepping and writing reports.

Two weekends ago I had 14 different sets of marking to do on my list. About 3 of those were small sets of less than 5 pieces each but the rest were all full-class marking sets. This weekend I only had 12. And this is before grades and report writing. Not to mention the recycled fashion show I am helping to plan and run with the Environment club, the book drive with the Volunteer club, or the hostel I'm supposed to be running.

I often feel bad and that I should apologise when someone points out the extra time off awarded to those of my particular career and I usually mumble quickly, "Yes, it's great, we are lucky, shame poor you, you hard-working lawyer/doctor/receptionist/banker/waitress," shame-faced and full of sympathy for their terrible, cruel situation and guilt at my light, happy, carefree one. And I wish I had a ready retort that was punchy, to the point, and perfectly explained how, yes, the holidays are wonderful, but a large part of them is spent preparing and marking, reading for the next course, getting over the flu that hit you as soon as school closed because the final weeks were too much for your body, and how, in those final weeks, teachers walk around like zombies, grunting to each other over papers and books and computers, trying to teach students in between, pushing and pushing, until the end, and then, the end is not really an end but the time to pick up the pieces that you couldn't pick up throughout the term because there were 14 or 12 more important things to do...

But I don't--have a clever retort, that is. And I don't think I ever will.

Because I don't think any amount of explanation of what it really takes out of you to teach (and I haven't even mentioned what happens when you venture beyond the surface level of teaching and into...oh my, say, relationships?) would really, truly be understood by someone who wasn't a teacher.

So, yes, I am lucky to have my holidays and apologise for them to everyone else.