A Closeness

Sometimes I feel super close to the people here and other times my heart is at home in Seattle.

Everyday I am confronted with a choice: hold on or let go. It is natural to hold onto home, what I found comfort in and what I expected of my time here. Not only does it feel natural to hang onto the familiar or ‘comfortable’ but in many ways it is easier. It is easy to hold onto happy memories and times of joy, strong friendships and family celebrations. It is easy to hold onto past dreams, past places and past perceptions. The longer that I am here and through the struggles that I face, there is always the idea that home is home and there is so much good waiting for me there. It is easy to idealize it. As happy as I can be here, as loving as my students are and as engaging as friends are, there is still a slight tinge of pain as I remember and hold onto the good that I left twenty months ago. Again and again I have to tell myself to not compare. Like I said though, it is easy to hold onto that which is familiar and comfortable.

What is not easy is letting go. I find that I hold onto expectations. I hold up walls. I hold onto fears, frustrations and fragmented fantasies. The strange thing is that letting go is usually an unconscious action most of the time. I go through my days sucked into a routine and a schedule that I predict will have a certain outcome. Then while I am anticipating, all of the sudden I am overwhelmed with one emotion, then another thought and then an entirely different emotion. One moment, one interaction and one reaction shocks me out of one thought or expectation. Then I have let go of one thing and found myself in a totally different mindset or perspective. I am going, going, going, working, listening or interacting and then out of nowhere a student is opening his or her heart or a community mate is making my sides ache with laughter. Whatever I was doing, was feeling or was expecting is uprooted and I am somewhere else.

Unaware and unknowingly, I have let go.

Letting go is hard, yes, but it is also inevitable. Now, I am not saying that I have let go of that which I love or miss about home but I am trying to let go of that daily expectation of predicting the events or experiences that awaits me once I start my day. I am working on this. I am working on being present and more open to that which is directly in front of me!

Goodness is close and far. It is here and it is there. It is back then and right now.

The Beginning of the End

*Updating this blog has not been a priority of mine for a long time. Yes, it has been many… many months since my last entry. However, as my months here draw to a close,  I realize that I have a lot on my mind and that it is time to start using this as an outlet for some of those ponderings.

Moral of the story, get ready for round two of Shea-blogging.

The BEGINning of the END

The weather is cool and I am in the house soaking up a slight breeze accompanied by the shrieks of children, passersby and salesmen announcing fresh fish and peas by the bag full. This is the last ‘break’ or vacation before I head home. This is the last time to just be and embrace this place before the tornado of classes, terminal exams and goodbyes thrust me into whatever lies next.

The first week of my break started off with the end of my family’s visit to Tanzania. A few days away in Zanzibar’s Stone Town was wonderfully rich in culture and equally eye opening during the Muslim island’s month of Ramadan and in the midst of political unrest as they try to gain independence from mainland Tanzania. Halfway through that week, I said goodbye to Mama and Kaka (brother). Saying goodbye this second time proved to be much harder than expected which is surprising because… if I can live through twenty months without seeing them, then surely four more months seems doable. It has, however, proved to be harder than I had thought!

My second week of break was spent lost in thought. What have I been doing? Did I do enough? Why do I miss my students so much? Why is Tanzania so good and so frustrating at the same time? What can I say is mine, accomplished by me or something that I can be proud of? What about me has changed?

That week was also spent watching movies, reading, tutoring students in English, entertaining a few guests, visiting friends at work and a few trips into town. It was nothing too exciting but peaceful and full of rest nonetheless.

The third week (of this five week break) was kicked off with a visit from a fellow JV visiting from Moshi, Tanzania (up by Mt Kilimanjaro). We visited co-workers in their homes, went to town for delicious Indian food, cooked together and just enjoyed each other’s company. It is always great hearing the different perspectives and experiences of fellow JVs in their respective worksites. Tanzania has over 120 tribes and each region has something different to explore. It is easy to lump Tanzania as one place or one entity but that is like saying Hawaii and Texas are the same!

The end of that visit and reaching the halfway point of the break time flooded my thoughts with a panicked sense of:  I GOTTA LIVE IT UP WHILE I AM STILL HERE! This started and then solidified the desire to travel. All of the sudden I wanted to get out, explore and see as much as possible.

It is easy to get stuck in a bubble and my life has become pretty predictable. It has been a routine combination of teaching, visiting people, questioning and digesting all that I do and see. At some point though, I lost the excitement and drive to go forth and explore.

Moral of the story, my fourth week of this break will be spent in Nairobi, Kenya. Nairobi is the center of the East African Jesuit Province and we have been invited on many occasions to visit. So, two roommates and I are headed there tomorrow. Here’s to exploring again! 

Stuck in Place

It is as if this rainy season in Dar es Salaam has clouded my mind.

The rains have fallen and as I have tried to walk through them, my feet feel stuck in the mud and the rain pounds down over me.

Part of me would like to think that I am stuck in the mud and I am standing still being washed by the freshness of the rain. However, I am just standing here. I am soaking wet in cultural confusion and personal reflection. It is like I am waiting for something to get me moving again.

I keep asking myself, what are you waiting for? Maybe I am waiting for my family to visit. Maybe this low key, standstill is teaching me some lesson that has yet to reveal itself. Maybe I am waiting to go home. Maybe I am waiting for the rain to stop.

Whatever it is, this Tanzanian life has got me stuck. There is so much to think about, reflect upon, challenge, accept, stomach, feel, see and do. I have seen Tanzanians in times of happy. I have seen death, watched mourning and prayed for those in pain. I have taught and I have learned. I have accepted hospitality and attempted to repay it. I have felt fulfilled. I have felt out of place. I have felt ‘in it’ and I do not know when that stopped but things seem to move slower now, fewer things excite my passions and the fire that urged me to get here and to be here is not burning as fiercely.

Tanzania is a wild place. It is not wild in the ways the TV and movies make it to look but it is wildly diverse, wildly dynamic and wildly interesting. Ideas of justice, fairness, work ethic, accountability, generosity, cooperation, community, gender, race, politics, food, religion, ‘The West’ and various other topics cloud my mind. How I defined these things 17 months ago have changed. I know I have changed. Most interestingly though, the question of: what do I do with this creeps up. Maybe this slower time is my chance to take inventory of the things I have witnessed, people I have encountered and emotions I have felt. I know that we all have ups and downs at every stage, in many places and at different times.

So I will stay for now, sloshing in the mud and waiting for that fire to engulf me into another rush of adventure. 

RAIN

As the rain pounds down onto the roof above me and I pull me blanket up over my shoulder, I take in a breath of cool damp air and remind myself how lucky I am. Eleven times zones away, back in Seattle, rain means something very different to me. Seattle rain is constant, enriching and relentless. It creates the beautiful environment of the Pacific Northwest. It shapes the land and determines how, when and where we can access that land. It decides what we wear. It keeps things fresh and green. It cleans, it calms and it is just always there. Rain is a part of life in Seattle. Growing up in the Northwest rain meant recess indoors and damp socks sloshing in my shoes. Walking briskly through soft mist wrapped in a raincoat with hot coffee in my hand are parts of home that I miss. The start of the rainy season in Dar es Salaam brings me back to those memories, habits and cold, wet comforts.

                                                                                                                           

In the early hours of a Monday morning thunder, lightning and sheets of rain creep over the unsuspecting district of Dar in which I live. Here, the rains are less welcomed and despised by those dwelling. This morning the lightning flashes through a greyish-orange sky producing a glow that in unexpected and haunting. The thunder thumps rhythmically as it trumps the morning’s usual sounds of a rooster’s call or a mosque’s call to prayer. The rain wisps its way onto the tin roves in a comforting tap dance echoed above and beyond. It cascades down and slaps the pavement, dust, brush and debris below in a percussive pattern that is deafening and engaging to the senses.

Laying in bed surrounded by, surrendered to and sensing the drowning environment outside, I think about the change that rains bring. The rain changes the weather, the air and the sensation of breathing.

My evening started as an average night of shifting in a light sleep entombed by my mosquito net and beneath a humming ceiling fan circulating a thick embrace of humidity. Drifting in and out of a distracted slumber, the heat and sounds out on the streets beyond my bedroom keep me half asleep and constantly coaxing myself to fall back to sleep. I wake up once, hot and sweating. I wake up again, roll over. I wake up yet again, there is a loud car driving past our house. I wake. I Snooze.

Then I wake up not by sound, not by sweat, not by an alarm clock ushering me up and out. I am not jolted awake. Instead, I slowly regain consciousness in a cold(ish), humming, thundering and pounding storm. The rainy season’s force has set in.

My sleepy thoughts of home, refreshing rain and a life that feels far away drift back into this life as I think about what rains mean in this space. Thinking about this city, my friends, students and coworkers, I realize that this storm is destructive and devastating for countless others. Rains mean water and lots of it in a short amount of time. Unfortunately, that water has no where to go in this city.

Dar es Salaam is a city with no formal garbage collecting system, there are very few drains and rivers are not reinforced with retention walls. Houses consist of tin roofs, open screened windows and shallow septic system. Then of course there is the unorganized, overcrowded system of roads. Infrastructure, or lack there of, is the main issue here. Lack of planning, corners cut and questionable city planning has set up Dar es Salaam situations that hurt people, harm surroundings and hinder development.

The rains are bittersweet. I long for cold afternoons back home but I feel deeply for humid downpours over the homes of my friends, co-workers and life-giving students here. Just as I have oftentimes felt torn between my worlds both here and there, I am torn between my initial emotional reaction to rain and the sad lived reality that it brings to this space and these lives lived here.  

we go, we do and we go to the next

In the states we are programmed and encouraged to seek spaces, places and experiences that can benefit us or provide us with some sort of an outlet. Maybe we seek an outlet to showcase a specific talent or it is a group of people that open our minds or maybe it is something that guides our heart to some kind of fulfilling experience. Whatever it is or who or where it is, we are on the move.

We travel to a classroom to learn. We go to the office to do our work. The church is for praying. The soccer field is for playing. Our friends are for venting to and our families give us stories to tell. We go to a theater to see movies or shows that provide a brief escape from our daily lives. We plug ourselves into iPods or step into art galleries to embrace something beautiful, expressive and creative. We go on vacations for something new and we seek reunions to remember the past.

We go, we do and we go again. The next space, the next place, the next experience.

When I was at Seattle University, I was always on the move. I was working in three different offices, learning various skills in each and balancing it all with the goal of being well rounded and grounded to the many skills, people and places. I worked in the admissions office to better understand professionalism. I went to the orientation office to work with people concerned about the process of transitioning. Then I would travel to the campus ministry office to plan prayers, to engage in discussions or to put together large scale retreats. Add other clubs, campus events, a social life and… academics and you can see how my college experience was about involvement and the going to and coming from all of the spaces. All of that fired my passions and challenged my evolving sense of self.

I do not think that I am alone in this either nor is it a phenomenon found only at the collegiate level. We are always going somewhere to get something, to see someone or to feel some way. As a child it was soccer practice, fieldtrip permission slips, brownie making for bake sales, safety patrol, play dates and Irish dancing competitions. What’s next? Where to? Are we running late? What time does it end? How much longer until we get there? What is the purpose of this? Did you read the invitation?

It would be silly to say that this train of thought did not follow me here to Tanzania. I jumped into my first year with hopes, agendas and idealistic plans. What did I find? The spaces felt different, the places looked different and the people reacted differently. Waking up in the morning, I was out the door and heading full force into my day of lessons, classroom drama mitigation, coworkers questioning, communities discussing and navigating Tanzania and me, then me and Tanzania. I was going, going quickly, looking left and running right toward that space where I could pour out my energy, invest my love into and strive to find that fit.

Did the planets align? Did my ‘going toward’ or make-it-happen-American-attitude manifest itself in the ways that I had expected it to? Nope. Well, in some ways it did. Hard work, a lot of planning, order and structure was a success in the classroom. On the other hand, fast walking, goal setting and scheduling did not foster many deep relationships. I attribute my love for and connections with my students to be at the heart of this contrast. My methodology was successful in the classroom but not necessarily in my life outside of Loyola.

I have been blessed with some wonderful relationships here in Dar es Salaam. They did not come about through the means that I had expected to make them. So, getting back to my original point, I found that my strongest relationships formed in the spaces between my going to and from. Taking the time to stop, say yes to a conversation, meal, cold soda or seat under the shade of a great palm tree, I was embraced unexpectedly by Tanzania.

On my way to school, stopping to speak to an elder, I gained a friend. Heading home from using the internet and saying yes to eating a meal with an acquaintance, I gained a friend. Going the market and inviting someone I encountered on my walk there to join me, I gained a friend. Sharing meals with neighbors enriched those friendships and diving into conversations in Kiswahili that were too advanced humbled me but then empowered my companions to teach, share more and… mostly, something for them to giggle at.

With ten more months to go, I hope to see the beauty in the spaces in between. A breath of fresh air on my walk to school, a greeting here and a phone call there sheds light onto the little moments of peace and an authentic presence here that make sense. I expect Tanzania will continue to open my mind to these spaces. I hope that this lesson stay with me and I take it home with me. I look to home, the space there and the space between, with appreciation, excitement and anticipation while I keep living into this very different, oddly refreshing way of existence.

I do not know what is in the space between Dar es Salaam and Seattle but I keep going, I will keep doing and then I will do whatever that is, next. 

The transition of a community.

As many of you know, I am here in Tanzania working through the Jesuit Volunteer Corps. One of the many things that makes this program great and one of the top reasons I decided to apply to this specific program is the two-year mixed communities for first years and second years. JVC International is set up in a way that allows part of the community of volunteers to welcome, incorporate and share what they have learned in their first years with a fresh group of new JVs joining midway through the experience. Last December marked a pretty significant transition.

Yes, I hit the one year mark. One down, one to go. That day of accomplishment was not celebrated by cake or fireworks (shocking, I  know) but it was instead focused on the arrival of two, new members to my community, my life here and the vast network of Jesuit Volunteers.

Bethany Killian and Caitlin O’Donnell arrived in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania on December 5^th, 2011. These two wonderful young women have refreshed this space, my reality with new perspectives, excitement and a willingness to join and enrich my life here. While much of my time here has felt unreal and extreme, the work schedules and expectations of JVs in Dar are based on a long tradition of young men and women serving this small section of Dar es Salaam, namely, Mabibo. That said, I fell into a routine and a way of existing that was both beautiful and challenging.

The things, people and situations that challenged me most last year came at me from unexpected places and I expect new challenges to arise in my second year. It is, however, nice looking forward into the months to come and knowing that those things that weighed me down in the past have been liberated in a way, with time. With more time, the effects of living here will become clearer to me, I hope. I still am unsure as to what I am ‘doing’. What does my post-Tanzania life look like?  What will I put on my resume, for example? Life skills include: a little Kiswahili, taking bucket showers successfully, baking chocolate cakes from scratch, creating lesson plans about basic English or St. Ignatius, sitting on 10 hour bus rides and the ever useful skill of sweating profusely.

I guess the answer lies in the wait. I will wait to see where this second year, this second chance takes me. I will wait to see my family, my friends, my dog and cheap Chinese food. I will wait to understand my place here in Tanzania. Heck, I will wait to see where I truly fit in America. I will wait for employment in the States next year. I will wait to see what this puzzling life I have constructed for myself will look like in one week, one month and especially in one year!

Until then, I will be here in the small section of Dar es Salaam with my new community living into the newness that is this second year.

Think. Fikiri. Hope. Tumaini. Question. Uliza. Wait. Subiri.

I am days away from the one year mark.

I think. I hope. I question. I wait.

Thoughts and reflections from the past year flood my mind. Thoughts of disappointment, struggle, fear, shock and worry overwhelm me. Have I accomplished what I came here for? What have I accomplished and what did I even want to gain from all of this? Am I so blinded by my American desire to gain, achieve and grow that I am missing the day to day successes that confront, challenge and change me for the good?

It is true that my students LOVE me and their English is improving daily. I have friends here. I laugh everyday. I am still fascinated by my Tanzanian host culture. I am learning a new language, seeing a completely different side of the world and getting to know more about myself.

I still find that everyday I hear that small inner voice inviting me home, home stateside.

I think about the people, places and comforts of home constantly. I think about grabbing a beer with my brother and sending my sister a silly text message whenever I want. I think about brisk fall weather and swaying evergreen trees. I think about the holidays up ahead and a world that feels for far away from my current reality.

I think about joys in the waiting. I wait to discover new joys. I wait to receive new joys. I wait to construct new joys.

I think about my new JV community saying goodbye to their families and preparing to join me here. I think about another Christmas away from home. I think about the family dog, Coco. I think about family, their ups and downs, struggles and triumphs. I think about communication, cross-culturally, cross-continentally, criss-crossed and continuously interesting.

I think about constantly learning and the new lessons that a second year has to teach me.

I think, maybe too much, about the future and the evolving sense of home that awaits me in one year from now.

Then I think about the fact that I am here. I remain here while my heart balances gently between a home of raincoats and coffee cups and this space of unending thoughts, hopes, questions, waiting and an ever so slightly, changing Shea Patrick Meehan.

Think. Fikiri. Hope. Tumaini. Question. Uliza. Wait. Subiri.

My life here in NUMBERS

1          times during the week when I use internet.

11        number of monkeys I have seen.

1          number of camels I have seen.

1          number of times, per week, that I eat fish. Every Friday night at dinner with the Jesuits.

6          number of months it took me to realize that the mystery meat served on Tuesdays at school lunch is in fact liver.

4          number of times I have eaten whole boxes on Mac & Cheese sent from home… all by myself.

0          number of times I have driven a car in the past year. 

25        approximate number of cards I have received from my Aunt June and Uncle Tom.

2          number of poisonous spiders (the size of my hand) that I have killed. Number of those I have seen… countless.

3          number of jelly fish stings I have gotten while swimming in the Indian Ocean.

2          number of motor cycles I have been on.

4          times in the past year that I have watched the movie “Love Actually”.

4          number of seasons of Heroes (the television series) I have watched in TZA.

4          number of seasons of Brothers and Sisters (another television series) I have watched in TZA.

4          times during the year when I take de-worming medicine.

4          times during the year when I am supposed to re-apply mosquito repellant to my bug net.

1          number of times I have had malaria.

2          number of times I have had to give stool samples. 

4          number of hospitals I have visited.

6          number of days I have worn contact lenses.

1          days of the week that I shave my beard, Monday mornings.

22        approximate number of pounds I have lost in one year.

2          number of belts that I own which have saved my life this year.

9          number of months since I last cut my hair.

3          number of average of times during the day when a student or stranger touches my hair.

3          number of times I have been to Moshi, Tanzania.

2          number of times I have been to Dodoma, Tanzania.

1          number of times I have been to each of the following places around Tanzania: Zanzibar, Tanga, Lushoto, Sanya Juu.

5          approximate number of visitors coming to Tanzania in the next year.

3          number of books I am in the middle of reading.

2-3       number of scoops of instant coffee I add to a frozen water bottle that I consume each morning. Iced coffee is wonderful.

5          number of minutes it takes me to walk to work.

1,320   number of students at Loyola High School, dare s Salaam.

153      number of students I teach.

153      number of students who constantly remind and redefine my ideas of patience, determination and love.

39        number of students that I am the homeroom teacher of.

45        number of students in Arts & Design Club of which I am the club patron.  

4          number of days I have spent in parent-teacher conferences.

1          number of staff meetings we have each week.

8          number of Jesuits who work at Loyola.

60        approximate number of teachers at Loyola.

7          number of older women who work at Loyola who have crushes on me.

2          number of those women who are nuns.

2          number of school-wide, outdoor assemblies we have each week.

3          number of students who have promised to come home with me next year.

12        number of students who performed songs, dances or poems in our last class together. Celine Dion, Justin Bieber and Lil’ Wayne never sounded better.

4          number of co-workers that I can call my friends.

6          number of students who have requested to be my friend on facebook.

0          number of students I have accepted to be my friend on facebook.

10        (in the AM) time of the day when I have my favorite meal: Tea Break. Tea with milk and doughnuts.

26        number of lessons per week I taught last term.

12        number of English Writing classes per week.

6          number of Oral English classes per week. 

6          number of Values classes per week. 

2          number of Catholic Religion classes per week.

3          number of people in my current community/house.

9          number of Jesuit Volunteers currently serving in Tanzania.

4          number of people who will be in my community/house.

3          age of the person I last celebrated a birthday with.

3          number of guests who came over to celebrate my birthday last October.

300      amount in Tanzanian shillings it costs to take a bus into town.

9          number of Maasai shukas I own.

2          number of articles of traditional-ish clothing Muslim men wear that I own.

980      number of songs on my iPod.

76        number of Christmas songs I have in my iTunes account.

5          number of times I have gone out for dancing.

3          number of memory cards full of pictures I have taken.

6          number of shirts I have made out of CRAZY Tanzanian fabrics.

45        number of pairs of socks I brought to a humid, tropical country.

20        number of pairs of socks I have yet to use.

3          number of hours on average it takes to wash three weeks worth of my dirty clothes by hand.

2          number of hours on average it takes for the sun to dry my hand washed clothes.

2          approximate number of gallons of water an average bucket shower requires.

4          approximate number of hours it takes to collect, boil, cool and then filter drinking water.

3          approximate number of hours it takes to sort rice and beans for rocks, sticks or insects, to cook and then prepare for a meal.

14        number of bus rides lasting more than 8 hours I have taken this year.

105      number of minutes an average Catholic mass runs.

4          number of guests we had over for Thanksgiving.

7          number of dishes served at our Thanksgiving this year.

2          number of new tattoos I want to get when I return home. Sorry Mom/Dad.

7          days of the week that I think about something relating to Disney movies or parks.

2-4       number of meals I prepare from scratch per week.

5          number of days it usually takes three of us to finish a jar on peanut butter.

3          number of times I have eaten Ethiopian food this year.

2          number of times I have eaten pizza this year.

1          number of cheese burgers I have had this year.

1          number of times I have carried a goat into a wedding.

1          number of times per week that I eat French fries for dinner.

358      number of days I have lived in Tanzania.

384      number of days I have left in Tanzania.

A Ride of a Lifetime?

You may have running water and dependable electricity but you do NOT get random days off in the middle of the work week for Muslim holidays. Today is a Wednesday and I am sitting at home cooking rice and beans and enjoying a wonderfully relaxing day off.

Life in Dar es Salaam is moving along in what feels like slow motion on the daily but when I look at the calendar I realize that my time here is flying by! Sometimes I think that being at home with Iced Americanos and all of the cheese that I want would be great. Things here just do not come easily and while I appreciate that haunting realization that ‘I am probably becoming stronger and a more well-rounded as an individual’ I still yearn for many of the comforts back at home in the States. I am not saying that things, foods and comforts of America are the true source of happiness, mine or others, but I miss certain things that I took for granted.

Prime example: Transportation

I miss the freedom of getting into a car and going somewhere on a whim. Leaving the one-mile radius of my home is an all day adventure by bus usually involving a goal of buying an item for our house, a trip to the post office to send a letter or the occasional trip to visit students, beaches or a new part of the city. Buses are crowded. Buses are crazy. Buses are called Dala dalas. Buses drive on sidewalks. Buses don’t follow stop lights. Busses ARE urban Tanzania and very much so a part of my reality here in Dar!

Buses are recycled school buses shipped over from China. The busses were meant to carry very small children to school. (It is common to find painted walls depicting playgrounds, cartoon animals and the like on the insides of these moving mad houses). Each bus has about 25 seats (usually bolted to the floor) but the average trip into town packs close to double the capacity. These human sardine cans of wheels serve as the main form of transportation for the inhabitants of Dar.

One learned and observed realization of this place has showed me that Tanzanians pride themselves as being a peaceful country founded on the ideas of harmony and unity. Interestingly, however, if you choose to board a dala dala during rush hour, prepare yourself to experience the unexpected! Old women being elbowed, children being stepped on and drivers stepping on the gas while patrons are only halfway up the steps and onto the bus! There seems to be no mercy on these buses.

Oh, and did I mention that people pay to ride these buses!

So, with my knees jammed up against the half-bolted seat in front of me, it is the norm to share that bench with one or two others. There is almost always a small child within arms reach (or resting on my own lap) staring at or crying on account of my presence. (Mind you that child is crying because my skin is the oddest/scariest thing he or she has ever seen). All of that just to buy sponges to wash dishes or to send a letter.

To add to the fun, children are not the only ones staring. It is extremely rare to see a white person, mazungu, riding a dala dala. So, not only am I holding a strange child who is crying at the sight of me but I am sweating in a seat made for a tiny Chinese child while dozens of Tanzanians look at me like: ‘wow, he must be lost’. On a recent trip back form the beach I even had to ask a group of women to stop pulling on my hair… At first I thought that it was the wind blowing my luscious locks but when the brushing feeling on the back of my head shifted from stroking to yanking… I knew that something was up. I turned around to see a woman chatting it up on her cell phone and confused as to why I was upset about her pulling on my hair. I told her to stop, immaturely reached out and touched her hair and turned back around leaving her confused and shocked by my own reaction to the situation. (Yes, I pulled her hair. Not my most shinning moment but I had to show her how awkward the whole thing was and… that was the first thing that came to mind!)

Best ways to find humor in the situation include:

1. Making faces at children.
2. Staring back at the Tanzanians who think I am lost and then greeting then in Kiswahili.
3. Joking with old people. (I find that this is a cross-cultural trend that old people just like to talk and have young people listen to them).
4. If the children do not respond to jokes or faces, I find that pretending to cry myself usually confuses them so much that they stop crying.
5. Looking out the window. This is my standby. I never fail to see someone or something interesting, entertaining and unexpected walking the streets of Dar.

Anyway, back to my original thought: that ability to go anywhere, whenever I want is seemingly impossible. Mobility in this life is limited in terms of experiencing other areas, realities and sites outside of my immediate neighborhood without hassle! At the same time, I am blessed by the people of this neighborhood. I am energized by the mamas cooking on their doorsteps, the children playing soccer against our front gate and seeing the shift of people as they stop staring plainly at me as an outsider and start seeing me as a part of this small, bustling part of Dar es Salaam.

Freedom Criers

Last night I watched the movie “Freedom Writes” with Hilary Swank. About halfway through the movie I found myself crying… almost uncontrollably. Now, I am not really known as being a ‘movie-crier’. In fact, that was only my second time ever crying during a movie. Was this my first time seeing this particular movie? No. Is Longbeach, CA during the LA Riots similar to Mabibo, Dar es Salaam? No, not really. Do Hilary Swank’s character and I really have that much in common? Nope. Then I am still left with the question of why was I crying and why am I now feeling inspired to write about it!

Teaching is such an emotional experience. Each and every day I try to give something new and somewhat helpful to my students in terms of lessons, conversations and extracurricular activities. Some days, however, I wonder if the language skills, writing techniques and grammatical exercises are my real purpose here or my true gift to my students. Yes, the lessons are tiring and the tasks that I am expected to perform are sometimes obnoxious but the times in my day that keep inspiring and challenging me to do better are part of a bigger picture.

I have been the teacher to seek stolen rulers. I have been the teacher to dry tears when exams are failed. I am the teacher at parent’s funerals. I am the teacher who gives high fives and not slaps of the ruler to the back of the hand, the arm, the back, the legs. I am the teacher encouraging art projects. I am the teacher making birthday cards. I am myself and I am the odd teacher out.

Education here, in my views, weights heavy in punishment and light on encouragement. Hearing that the majority of my students will not graduate from the high school that admitted them and feeling that I am the biggest advocate for these young individuals is daunting, even depressing. I am lucky to go to work everyday and laugh, smile, learn with and love my kids. However, what is really enough and is it possible to do more?

Balloon Balog

I knew that these two years would be eye opening and formative, however, over the past seven months the lessons have been like a non-stop water balloon fight… YES, a seven month water balloon fight.

JCV Dar es Salaam: an epic battle of fun, craziness and bursting thrills (on the hottest day of summer).

I am not saying that living here is a battle of us versus them. There are no real sides of this adventure. Sure there are different angles, views and lenses that we look through but this experience is much more like a free for all! New ideas, understandings and people are constantly throwing themselves at me, rushing onto my radar and thrusting some new lesson into my heart.

Every time I am hit with a new altering understanding, I barely have time to wipe the water and bits of balloon and I can see a huge, ready to burst orb of wisdom hurdling at me! The ‘I thinking I’m an introvert’-balloon. The challenges of living in community balloon. The Kiswahili-balloon. The family back at home balloon. The missing things, food and people-balloons. The cooking fun new meals-balloon. The hetero normative balloon. The my kids drive me crazy and I adore them at the same time balloon. The co-worker-balloon. TANZANIA-balloon.

Hearing the stories of students becoming orphaned, experiencing a failing healthcare system, riding on overcrowded, unsafe city buses, missing home and seeing friends struggle to find employment are just some of those stinging hits that make the balloon fight overwhelming and daunting. Then there are the balloons that uplift and inspire such goodness. Weekends spent roaming through the city with Cat (my community mate), students singing covers of popular American songs during Oral English classes, visits at home from my students, limited but engaging conversations in Kiswahili and invitations to share meals with Tanzanians are those huge hits that soak you to the bone and inspire a laugh attack so deep from within that your whole body becomes overwhelmed with love and giddiness at the same time!

Each balloon can good and bad, wet and awkward, expected but surprising none the less and such an awe inspiring reminder of how dynamic my time here is. This Tanzanian water balloon fight ends in about 16 months and I am so torn between the thrill of it all and the desire to catch my breath that I find myself lost. Lost in a chaotic summer-time brawl!

While I may be lost in my thoughts and reactions toward Tanzania at this point, I am slowly finding my way and beginning to navigate through this water balloon blast of an experience. Who knows what will happen to me in the months to come or even I will learn tomorrow BUT I am standing at the ready! Bring it on Tanzania.

What is Africa?

What is Africa?

What is it like to live in Africa?

What makes someone or something African?

You might think that having lived here in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania for the last seven months I would be able to answer these questions.

You might think that I now have an insider’s view of this part of the world.

You might think that I understand or gasp or even belong to Africa in a greater sense.

The majority of my time here has been spent learning. Learning language, learning about people’s lives, learning about myself, learning to be far from home, learning about Tanzania, Dar es Salaam, my neighborhood called Mabibo. One of the most interesting lessons that I have been reflecting on lately has to do with the vastness that is Africa.

Growing up in America and being educated through the eyes of the Western world, certain stereotypes, prescribed ideas and visions of what Africa is has influenced my views within this experience. Of course! Enculturation, media and tendencies toward ethnocentric understandings are universal. We see the rest of the world through the eyes of our own culture. (This is one of the running themes of anthropology classes that I took during my undergrad). That being said, my understanding of Africa were largely based on things like The Lion King, Save the Children infomercials and calls to action clubs on my college campus. Have I heard the phrase ‘hakuna matata’? Yes. Am I faced with poverty and children in need? Definitely. Are there actions that the West can take that could bring effective aid to Africa? Yes.

I am embarrassed to admit this in many ways that it took moving abroad and living in a place so different from my own home to start truly appreciating the diversity and vastness of this world. Trying to explain what is African or who is African is impossible. I am still learning, seeing and feeling the extreme differences that make each person, tribe, country and location within the continent unique. Thinking about the experiences of Africans in Libya or Sudan and then comparing that to the longstanding peacefulness of Tanzania, I am struck by the vast differences of ‘life in Africa’. Wars rage, revolutions erupt, peace endures and Africa continues struggling to overcome the effects of colonialism imposed for centuries. As new forms of marginalization and oppression infiltrate African soil through big corporations, farm subsidies and neocolonial pressure, countless cultures strive to maintain their identities in this constantly changing world.

To emphasize my point, I think about how different Seattle and Spokane, Washington are. Then compare Washington State to the State of Mississippi. Even more drastically but still within North America, Mexico City and Anchorage, Alaska. Diversity. It is easy for me as an American to say: “Seattle and New York… different worlds”. Likewise, prior to moving to Tanzania I didn’t think twice about saying: “yeah, I would love to see Africa” or “Africa seems so interesting to me”. It is amazing how blanketing and overwhelming those statements are. Africa is HUGE! There are Africans with skin whiter than mine. Some speak French, others Bantu languages. Some live in villages made of mud and thatched roofs while others dwell in high rise condos. Some eat with their hands and others with fork and knife. There is just so much diversity that I feel inspired to learn more!

It is also a struggle to understand the diversity of Africa as many of the stereotypes that I had about Africa are true of or are within Tanzania. Tanzania contains the largest peak in Africa, Mt. Kilimanjaro. Some of Africa’s most famous, most impressive Nature Reserves, National Parks and Conservation Areas are here in Tanzania. The Serengeti, elephants, giraffes, lions, zebras, cheetahs and so on dwell here. The Maasai are one of the most photographed, studied, preserved and fascinating tribes in the whole world. (My anthropology professors cited this culture in almost every class I took). Tanzania is full of fertile farmlands and natural resources. You can fine tropical islands, deserts, mountain ranges, grasslands and forests. Tanzania is also part of the developing world making it impossible to overlook the extreme poverty and lack of infrastructure.

Tanzania has a lot going for it and I am blessed to witness so much of it. However, as learn more about this country, I find myself wanting to question more and more my biases and then dive deeper into seeing Africa in a more holistic sense. (Don’t worry mom, I am still planning on coming home at the end of my service... no cross-continent expeditions are planned as of yet). I do find myself being challenged to keep learning. I continue to push myself to see more, ask more questions, listen more, eat more crazy foods and so on! I guess in a way I am also challenge anyone reading this to see and think of Africa in a different light, as I am striving to do. Friends, have your views of Tanzania and Africa changed since you started reading this blog?

Surprise Attach

“Shea, your students are at the door.”

“Who? Students? Like plural?

“Um… yes.”

“How many?”

“Um…a lot.”

I walked outside to see a flood of six students waltzed through our gate and into the compound. Let me stress that these are not just any students but actually a gang of some of my most rowdy, rambunctious rebels. Yes, the circus began at three pm on a Saturday afternoon.

Don’t get me wrong, I may call them rebels but for every comment said out of turn and every joke that breaks the focus of the class, these same boys are hardworking, fun loving and more loving than I could ask for. Also, random visits while most likely illegal in the states due to child protection laws are all too familiar. We average at least two visits from students on an average weekend. They usually do not travel in packs of six, however!

Loyola High School is currently in the middle of terminal exams and the twelve days straight of testing is wearing on students and teachers alike. It was a pleasant yet unexpected invasion of these over-energetic, study-crazed students. Once I got over the shock, I turned to Cat my community mate and could think of only one thing. “UNO?” I said. “You read my mind!” She responded with a smile.

As soon as she and I got the game, the living room and the boys set, another know at the door pulled Cat away. She returned to the living room with one of her students who had decided to stop by with the goal of teaching Cat (also known as Miss Catherine) how to make henna tattoos from scratch. Yes, this fifth grader walked up, pots and pans in her school bag ready and excited to teacher her favorite teacher how to do this beautiful Muslim tradition.

There we were playing cards in the living room and cooking up henna in the kitchen.

In one room we played UNO for over an hour until my boys, whose attention spans are currently even shorter than usual, got restless and requested a break to play football (soccer) outside in our compound for a little while. Don’t worry, however, the football match was only an intermission as round two of UNO continued for another hour or so.

The card game UNO is our go-to, let’s entertain these guests activity. This simple, yet wildly entertaining game conjures up memories of trips to the Oregon Coast with siblings and my aunt and uncle, Thanksgiving Day afternoons and power outages passing time with the family. It is crazy to me how this game, with its Spanish name has entertained me, my family, my community mates and countless East Africans. Talk about spanning cultures!

All in all, it was a good visit from my kids and though they could and would have stayed all weekend, two and a half hours of UNO and football had taken its told on good old Mr. Patrick. Reluctantly, we parted ways and they promised to visit at least two or three times during our upcoming month-long break, a promise that I fully expect will be followed through. About fifteen minutes after that amidst Cat’s students drawing henna tattoos on Cat’s hands, there was another knock at the gate and another one of my students had ventured over with the intention of teaching me a card game. This student, orphaned at the age of eleven and currently living in a youth hostel, has visited several times over the past few months. He is incredibly kind, insanely polite and extremely gentle. (If I were to admit to having favorites, he would probably be on the short list). We played cards for a while, practiced a little English, joked about my knowledge of Kiswahili and made plans to hangout during the June break. (It looks like I am already busy for the break!)

After cleaning up the house a little and Cat saying goodbye to her student, it was all too fitting that there was another knock at the door with a student Gretchen (the third member of my community) at the door. Uno? No. Henna? No. Jenga? Yes. A rousing battle between teacher and student commenced. After the fourth round, the score was tied, two wins each. Finally, in a dramatic showdown, Teacher Gretchen rose to the top as the day’s winner as her student’s turn brought the Jenga pieces crashing down onto the coffee table.

A surprise invasion of students turned out to be a wonderful way to spend a Saturday. Amidst correcting exams, proctoring tests, and calming the stresses of students and teachers for over a week, I have felt overwhelmed and bogged down by work. This random Saturday full of visits reminded me to of the bigger picture. I am here to be a teacher but I am also here to love and learn from these incredible individuals. All children, and especially our students, have a wonderful way of reminding us to see and embrace the joy that fills this world.

Carry here, carry there

The things that we carry say a lot about ourselves. Sometimes it feels like what or where of how we carry defines us. That which we carry can help us fit in better. On the other hand, these things can make us stand out and not fit in.

During a recent spirituality night, a component of the program where my fellow volunteers and I reflect on our experiences, I thought about this question. The prompt was: choose two pictures and think about the dynamic between those images here and back in the United States. I chose one picture of an iPod and another of a Maasai warrior. The Maasai are a prominent tribe from Northern Tanzania who still wear traditional clothes and are known for their strength as warriors. (I have become fascinated and in awe of these people).

Anyways, looking at these two images, I got caught up in thinking about what we carry both physically and emotionally. The Maasai carry walking sticks, daggers and a forceful strength. In their plaid clothes called ‘shukas’, these men and women walk through city streets bridging a span of time and tradition. Then there is me, living my days teaching and growing with a small part of this huge city. Each time I see one of these elegant yet rugged warriors, I am shocked back into realizing the gift that is my life here.

Back to carrying and the reason for this post: where we go and how we go there can look or feel different depending on what we carry. While I like the image of one of these Maasai men with an iPod clipped to his delicately beaded belt, the two feel worlds apart. The unfamiliar and the familiar, however, are shifting as the hours, days, weeks and months define my perceptions, understandings and, simply put, me.

As I walk through the streets and walkways between houses of Mabibo, I do not carry the same things that I did in Seattle. Five months ago, walking to work with an iPod in one pocket and a wallet with an ID, atm card, credit card and so on, was somewhat of a security blanket. These items seemed essential and made me feel normal. There I was, securely stable and successfully striding toward my next destination with my things, my comforts.

Here, I rarely carry money, I haven’t an iPod and security is not the feeling that guides my path. What do I carry here? I currently carry thoughts of exams, exercise books and enthusiastic students; to-do lists, to-email lists and to-pray for lists. I carry friendships new and old. I carry uncertainty. Above all, however, I carry hope. Hope for my children. Hope for this new life. Hope for those I love back home.

I guess if I can conclude with my first statement that what we carry is that which defines us, I am defined by my thoughts, my to-do lists and my hope.

Lastly, to anyone who is reading this, I hope you are well. I miss home and I miss you. There is not a day that goes by that I am not overwhelmed with thanksgiving and gratitude for the people who have inspired and supported me. So, I thank you, I love you and I hope you feel a bit closer to me and my life here in Tanzania after reading this!

Coexistance

An ant crawls across the wall, interrupting my gaze as I attempt to focus of correcting tests. I have two options, squash or look away and continuing marking exams. To squash every bug that interrupts my life here in Tanzania would be exhausting to say the least. What do I do then? I co-exist. This idea of co-existing has infiltrated my thoughts over the last several days.

I currently co-exist with many things: people, insects, sounds, smells, sights, emotions, and so on. I have come to realize, however, that I co-exist in one of two ways. I live in an existence that is either ‘next to’ or ‘with’ these individuals, bugs, etc. What is the difference? Well, I am not quite sure but there is a feeling, an emotion and/or a connection that separates the two forms of existence.

For example, I live surrounded by ants, cockroaches, rats, mosquitoes, spiders, centipedes, millipedes, praying mantises, bees, flies, chickens, roosters, fire-flies, crows, stray cats and other living things that I do not even know the names for. I pick ants out of my coffee cup and fend off roosters on my walk to school but shy away from a real interaction with or appreciation of these ‘creatures’.

I then think about Dar es Salaam, this city that I now call home. This half-Christian and half-Muslim metropolis is a fine example of this first definition of co-existence. These two faiths live next to one another, in peace BUT just that, next to the other. Muslims sell rice and beans to Christians who feed their children who then play soccer next to a mosque that sounds the call to prayer. People just exist next to one another in most respects. The Catholic lives next to the Muslim. The Muslim student goes to Loyola High School (a Catholic, Jesuit institution). The follower of Jesus sells vegetables to a restaurant owned by a follower of Muhammad. Utilizing goods, appreciating the other’s presence and seeing the ‘other’ is a form of existence. A co-existence of sorts. Allah or God, they/we/humanity co-exists.

As these five months have slowly welcomed me into this new life in East Africa, my understanding of what, who, how and why I exist here has been shaped. I struggle defining what I live next to and what I live with in terms of existence. I can say definitely that I live next to insects or bugs and that I do not live in depth or intentionally or ‘with’ them. I live in a strong, powerful and meaningful co-existence with the natural surroundings; appreciating, respecting and loving the beauty of the natural world. People, however, are much more of a challenge to figure out. Community mates, co-workers, neighbors and strangers alike, challenge me to question this dichotomy and dynamic. Do I live next to you or with you? With whom do I affect, reach, connect, join, walk with, understand and/or exist WITH?

I am a very small part of this community while this community is a very large part of me.

In my heart, I exist in this place wholly but in terms of space, I occupy such a small fraction of this community. Everyday is a lesson and each lesson draws me one step closer to understanding this question of: With what, where, with whom and how do I exist in my new life here?

Look

Look left, look right.
I look upon, I am looked at.
Eyes wander, gaze, stare and glance.
Eyes look at me, my clothes, my skin, my everything.
My students see me, my community mates see into me but how do people shift to seeing me as me.
life in this new place is full. Full of sights to see, people to meet and experiences to live.
Life in this new place is different. Foods, clothes, smells, manners and mannerisms.
Life in this new place is a challenge. A challenge to experience poverty, a struggle to wittiness death, a pain to see hunger.
Life in this new place is beautiful. A simple hello, the honest wonder of a student, the small triumphs that inspire me, enliven me, strengthen me.
I look left and I look right.
I do not fit in but I still belong.

Can I fit in? Will I fit in? Should I fit it?

I look upon, I am looked at. As looking becomes seeing, I am becoming a new me, a new teacher, a new American, a new volunteer, a new person of this ever exciting, intensely fascinating world.

To what, to where do I look next?

Really Long March Blog Entry!

Part I ~ Busy, why so busy?

If you have been a follower of my thoughts and my blogs then you are aware of the fact that it has been over a month since my last blog update. For a while I thought that I just didn’t have much to say and that my life just consisted of teaching, grading, writing/creating lesson plans, cooking, reading, washing laundry, blah, blah blah and blah. In the past week, however, I have realized that maybe I do have something to write home about!

I have been busy, very busy. When I first learned about JVC as junior at Seattle University on my first trip to Belize City and even through the application process, I imagined my time as a JV to be relaxing and full of time to reflect and kick back and meet people and just live a calm life. BUT it turns out that teaching actually allows for little to no free time!

Then I got to thinking about what it means to be busy and what it means to be totally immersed in a new life. I realized that I really am living and working in Africa. Yes, it took me this long to actually feel like I was fully immersed into my placement. I guess it just did not feel real for a long time. I mean, I spent nine months applying, accepting and preparing to move to Africa only to get here and spend two months in shock over that same fact! I LIVE AND WORK IN AFRICA. Wait, what?! Um, yes. Yes, Shea Patrick Meehan, welcome to a new chapter in your life and welcome to Africa. Man oh man.

All of this really came to a head this last week. After months of slowly getting used to teaching, a new professional space, new coworkers, foods, a language, a community, washing clothes by hand, cooking from scratch, sweating in the sun (and shade and, well, sweating everywhere) and so on, I entered into the last week of Loyola High School’s first quarter of 2011. The end of the quarter was crazy!

Being the only JV at Loyola after a long succession of wonderful volunteers working in pairs (one first year volunteer and one second year volunteer) has had its struggles to say the least. Most years there has been one JV explaining and supporting the new JV through the intricacies or ins and outs of the site. This year, however, I have been alone which has presented problems for both coworkers and myself alike. My fellow teachers and staff members have been confused and caught off guard at my questions about where things are, why we do this, what that is like and so on. In the English Department where I work I have coined the term, “I am ALWAYS the last to know”. The staff thinks it is funny, I think it is frustrating. Whether it is having to work on a Saturday or turning in grades or how to manage a classroom, “I am always the last to know”. For example, I didn’t even know how to organize, mark and then turn in grades until the day before they were due.

Part II ~ Community in Unexpected Circumstances

When I got to work on Monday morning I went to a staff meeting about disciplining and running a class and went about my day. At break time (around 10am) I received the news that one of the students in my homeroom class mom’s died. That explained his absence from school that day but at the same time it brought attention to the fact that I was unaware of any rituals, traditions and thoughts on death in this new culture. So, I found myself with feelings of sadness and hopelessness as an outsider from another country and as a new teacher in this country.

Monday flew by and I finished up Oral English exams (I tested 120 students with a 30 question test). The next few days I finished marking exams and submitting grades and preparing for the parent-teacher conferences.

On Wednesday while trying to restore order in my homeroom class after a morning of rambunctious insanity, the Assistant Dean of Students came into my class room and asked to see one of my students. She took him outside the class and he immediately came back in to tell me that his guardian had come to pick him up and that he was leaving. As soon as he walked away the Assistant dean of Students closed my classroom door and announced that another student’s mother had died.

In shock and confusion, I discussed with my class what we should do and what was expected in the larger Tanzanian community. Here it is common to go directly to the house to sit with the family and it is expected to make monetary donations. Love through presence and support through solidarity is the most important thing it seems.

So, soon after school, I took four students (talkative, crazy boys) and we went together to our classmate’s home. There were about fifty people just sitting around showing strength and love through their simple presence. My student whose family had just experienced this sad, sudden death came to sit with us. My entourage, his classmates, started out very reverent and respectful and then soon there after, as expected, the boys began to cheer their mourning classmate up with jokes, banter and stories. (This being another example of how boys will be boys no matter where they are of what they are doing). After about an hour we said goodnight to our friend and classmate and headed home.

The next day as a class we made cards and took donations for our fellow Loyolaites (Loyola High Schoolers). This particular Thursday school ended about an hour early in preparation for ‘Mid-Term Break’ and several of my students asked to go visit their classmate again so I promised to take them. To my surprise almost half the class came with me to go visit the family.

There I was, walking through the streets of Dar es Salaam, boarding city busses and leading students to a part of town that was about forty minutes away. Seventeen students and myself made the journey. When we arrived at the house, I gave my students a quick lecture on being respectful and quiet and then we entered the house. The home was not as we left it the day before. There was a loud speaker system with a man speaking, a coffin decorated with purple bows and a mass of over a hundred people mourning the death of a loving mother and caring community member.

Standing there surrounded by my students and full of awe over the scene before me, I looked around and felt once again immersed into this place. It was a moment that surprised me in the sense that something so sad could make me feel so honored and connected. The ceremony went on with songs and speeches and tears with me standing toward the back with my class, my new community, my new strangely fascinating life here in Tanzania.

Hoping to remain an onlooker and respectful participant (as still very new to this place and this way of life), I had hoped to show my respects merely by observing. When it came time to viewing the body, I had hoped to bypass this uncomfortable (personally) part of the gathering. One of my students, however, asked me to walk with her up to see the body because she was too scared to go alone. “But I’m scared too!” I thought. Trying to be strong for her, my class and the student that we were all there for, I decided to go. After passing the body, I saw my student surrounded by loved ones and sitting in a haze of shock and passed on a hug. Walking away I was intercepted by another family member and asked to speak on behalf of Loyola High School. Speaking a few words in Kiswahili and then in English with a translator, I wished peace and offered my respects.

We left soon after and headed back to Loyola.

This was all on Thursday, March 17^th.  The whole day was a lesson on feeling completely close to the people and lives I have become a part of here and at the same time thinking of home. As you may or may not know, this day is St. Patrick’s Day, one of my favorite days of the year. I look forward to it, dress up on it and try my best to spread a little luck and love of the Irish. I had planned a meal of mashed potatoes and Guinness with my community but I instead found myself speaking at the funeral of one of my student’s mother. Surprisingly comfortable with and even comforted by my place, my purpose and my presence that day has made me realize that while life can change rapidly in a matter of months, I have learned a lesson in adapting to and embracing that which is in front of and important to me. At this time in my life I find myself thinking of and loving my students, my days here, my family and friends at home and the daily discoveries that make me more human, more connected and more me.

Part III ~ Meeting the Parents

Awkward, tiring and intense. I spent two days, ten hours each day, struggling through and barely managing to discuss my students with their parents. A list of essential words and phrases in Kiswahili got me through the longs days. Most meetings consisted of me attempting to speak with the parents as the students sat in the middle, heads down, scared of what I would say and hoping for a quick and painless scolding from their parent or parents. Some parents took the meeting times to thank me for my work while others used the time to show their authority and strength in their families by yelling at their student. Some call it ‘tough love’, I call it awkward (for me) and boarder line verbal abuse (for students). After hours and hours of talking at parents and parents talking at students, I tried to remain genuine and clear with parents as mush as I could. Unfortunately, instead of feeling productive or supportive at the end of each day, I felt helpless and empathetic for my students as my lack of Kiswahili and inexperience in the Tanzanian school system made it nearly impossible to foster fruitful conversations. I did realize, however, that I was able to show parents, though briefly, how much I love their students, enjoy their desires to learn and my own desire to support them in and out of the classroom.

There is a light at the end of the tunnel! Finishing parent-teacher conferences means a nine day break and some much needed time for rest and relaxation. Two days into my break, however, I am already planning a little adventure. Tomorrow, Wednesday the 24^th, I am boarding an eight hour long bus ride and heading north. North to Moshi, Tanzania I go! I look forward to a reunion with other Jesuit Volunteers working there, seeing Mt. Kilimanjaro, a new town and a colder climate. (By cold I mean about 70 degrees which is freezing to me and I plan on bringing sweats and a sweatshirt! So exciting!)