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!)

An outsider welcomed

Today, a longtime friend of JVs stopped by the house and invited us over to his house. His older sister was getting married and he and his family invited us for the celebration. Our friend is Catholic and comes from a very large Catholic family but his sister was marrying a Muslim man which makes for a controversial yet exciting time for both families. While the city is about half-Christian and half-Muslim, interfaith marriages are not common. Each respective tradition lives side by side one another but does not usually marry into another faith, so this experience was out of the ordinary and wonderful at the same time.

As we walked up to the house and into the celebration we were overwhelmed with love. in upwards of one hundred people were crammed into a small space outside of the bride's parent's home. We were immediately the center of attention as three white people, wearing African-made clothes entered the scene and were funneled into a line for food. as we waited in line, I looked around only to make eye contact with every guest (as they were staring at me). An outsider.

I got my huge place of rice, meat, banana and vegetables and was escorted away from my community mates and over the the 'men's section' of the party. Men and women eat and celebrate in different locations. So, I sat down on a mat under the warm sun and began to eat as a men from both sides of the wedding party looked at me with excitement and confusion. As I looked in the direction of the 'woman's section;, I saw my community mates sandwiched between mothers and babies and grandmas and sisters dancing, eating and chanting in a fit of pride!

As I sat there, eating, I realized how unique this experience was. At that time, the bride's father asked the groom's father to share in a dance, a custom that was both shocking and beautiful at the same time. this wedding had not father daughter dance, no cake or champagne, no classic oldies songs with children and elders sharing in a dance, no white dresses or black tuxes.

Instead, I looked onto a crowd of smiling faces wearing brightly colored clothes, sharing in dances, feeding one another and celebrating the joining of two young people. There was no specific 'faith or religion' present but rather just a party. A party with friends and family. A party to show love, join in love and continue in love. I then realized that no one was staring at me anymore. The scene was not about me. it was about love and in some strange way, some foreign way, some unexpected way, I was welcomed into that love.

The gathering escalated as the bride exited her parent's home wearing a beautiful golden gown, veiled and glowing under the warm sun. She was surrounded by her family, her parent's family. They were crying with her, pulling her and begging her to stay. To stay with them. On the other end of the yard, the new family, her husband's family was chanting, smiling and inviting her to join them. This tug-of-bride when on for about a half hour. Music blaring, tears flowing, smiles flashing. It was emotional, even as an 'outsider'.

The bride finally said goodbye to her family and started on a slow procession to a car that would take the bride and her groom away.

The music was so loud. The colors were so intense. The tears were real. The laughs were genuine. The people were present. The love was apparent. The wedding was there, real, honest and pure.

As the car drove away, the husband's family disbursed and the bride's family remained. As we got ready to leave, the bride's father pointed at me and encouraged me to dance with him. Of course I started dancing. I danced and my community joined. Then the whole family join. The dancing was incredible. The music was catchy and we, the Dares Salaam Community, looked GOOD. Really good.

We stayed for a while, mingled with the extended family, played with kids, shared in a few drinks and shared in the after-party. I felt truly welcomed. We were appreciated. We were a part of the whole celebration. We were no longer 'stared at' but instead 'looked on upon' with acceptance, pride and friendship.

Today was a day of love. It was about sharing in the love between two young people, between two traditions and between many friends.

We, the outsiders, were welcomed in. Welcome, Karibu. Karibu Tanzania. Karibu, upendo. Welcome, love.

Time for love or love IS time?

In reflecting on how I spend time, embrace time and live into the moments of my day, I am realized that my perception of time is changing here in Tanzania.

I have been in Tanzania for two and a half months, the longest I have ever been away form home. Time. 

In thinking about the ways in which I spend my days, it sounds simple. I wake up at 6:30am. I got to school. I teach 4-6 lessons a day. I go home and maybe cook a meal from scratch, do my laundry by hand or go for a jog. I work on a lesson plan or two. Then I go to bed and do the same the next day. Time.

Weekends may include a trip into town, a meal with a neighbor or planning out lessons for school. Then on Sundays, we go to a two hour mass in Kiswahili and the hot African heat. Time.

It sounds simple and it is. It is also draining, overwhelming and daunting at times.

Days, weeks and now months have gone by and I already find myself relying less on schedules, goal oriented tasks and checklists. This is not to say that I do not still have goals or dreams for myself and this experience. In fact, my dreams grow and challenge me in good ways everyday. I dream about knowing Kiswahili, about my student’s success, about life at home, about life changing me here, about seeing God in new places, about establishing a new network of friends, Tanzanian and volunteer alike, about seeing love in a new way, about everything and nothing. I dream about time changing me and encouraging me to grow.

I have also found myself thinking about time and my use of it in relation to others. Time, and thinking of it as ‘mine’ has been a topic of internal discussion over the past week. Saying things like: “a waste of time”, “your use of my class time”, “time is of the essence”, “it is time to focus”, “how long will it take”, has made me realize that I do not respect of give enough credit to time and presence and the experience in front of me.

Time is so much more than a schedule, checklist or string of events that fulfill goals.

Right now, time is all about the process. The time it takes to make tortillas from scratch. The time it takes to listen to a student complaining about another student stealing his or her pen. The time it takes to plan a lesson on how to explain values such as: respect, diligence, relationship and charity to students who know very little English. The time it takes to learn simple Kiswahili sayings. The time it is taking to write this reflection ON time. The times I have wanted to write but have been unable to because of blackouts. The time, the time, the time. Time is such a mysterious construct and part of life!

Can I control any of this time business? Can time be tamed? Is my time being spent worthwhile? What would my life look like if I took an inventory of the time I used or spent doing something new, unexpected or out of my control?

Today I taught a class called Current News. It is one period a week for each of the sections of pre-form one (HDP) that I teach. We basically do mock news broadcasts with stories that change each week. This week’s topics were Sports and Entertainment. The students loved it. I heard stories ranging from Manchester United football (soccer) to the musical genius that is Celine Deon. (Also, several students prepared songs that they sang to the class. They honored the music of boybands, High School Musical, early 90’s hip/hop and other classics). So many students wanted to share that there was a long waiting list of students sitting (impatiently) for the chance to present. With about eight students still to go, the bell rang and class was over. I asked the class if they enjoyed the lesson and with an overwhelming response they yelled: Yeeessss Mr Paaaatttrrriiiiccckkkk. And then a student from the back of class asked if we could stay and do more! It was time for Tea Break (my favorite time of day consisting of tea, coffee and a snack at 10am). Stay during ‘my time’? Miss tea break? Despite the intense internal struggle and love for tea break, I decided to stay and we finished the rest of the presentations. Their smiles and cheers instantly validated my decision. Time well spent. Time that made a difference. Time that meant a lot to me and those students of HDP C.

Later that day, this reflection on time was continued. I received a slip from one of the Jesuits instructing me to go to the post office because a package had arrived. When you receive a package of a certain size or weight (four or more pounds), you must go to customs and collect the package. Now, the office is only open during weekdays until five and it is in the heart of the city center. So, on Friday, I left school early, grabbed my passport, my wallet and a water bottle and then headed into the city. We live in Mabibo, a neighborhood about ten kilometers outside of the downtown area. I hopped on a dalla dalla (city bus) and headed into town. I waited in a few lines, paid the customs fees, claimed my package and then hoped on another bus headed home. All in all, two busses, two long walks and three and a half hours later, I walked into our house and opened a package from my family full of candy, peanut butter, macaroni and cheese and some other treats. My exhausted, excited smiles was that of accomplishment for having made it to and from town and that of receiving a package of love from home. But the time. Thinking about time it took to prepare the package, the month that it took to travel here and the three and a half hours it took me to retrieve it.

Time is about the process as much as it is about the result. 

I am learning this more and more each day. I am learning to be more patient with myself, my students and my new life here. I am learning to appreciate how long that which seems simple really takes to effect or affect us. I am learning to look at time more carefully, to think about time more respectfully and to appreciate time more genuinely.

How are YOU spending or using your time today?

More insight into life here!

Visit my community mate Cat's blog: http://www.catkeating.blogspot.com/

She has pictures and many wonderful things to say!

Learing from a Sister

The other day I saw teaching my students the difference between singular and plural. How can you make this interesting? Answer: a song. What song: “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes”. If you point to one shoulder, singular, two, plural. One knee, two knees. Okay, you get it. To make sure that my students understood the parts of the body, I also gave them the homework assignments of drawing the body and then labeling the different parts. This all sounds pretty easy, interactive and simple yes? Well, things got a little interesting. You see, in my classes there are a few nuns. Yes, sisters. Women of God. Nuns. They are between the ages on 20 and thirty five and act very different from the rest of the students who are as young at twelve.

So we sing. We label. We learn. The I ask if any students have any questions. One sister raises her hand, stands up and asks her question. Standings about eight inches taller, thirty pounds heavier and fifteen years older than the others sitting around her, she has a presence to say the least.

“yes, sister” I ask.

Eyes locked with mine and in all seriousness, she grabs her breasts and says “what is this?”

I freeze. She was right, this was not covered in the song or my lesson.

“Um… your shirt” is all I could manage.

“no” she responds quickly.

I begin to sweat. Fear and awkwardness take over. The rest of the class is laughing.

Silence… silence… sweaty silence…

“your chest, your chest. This is your chest” I say this and immediately turn around and begin to write the word on the board and to compose myself. At this time, she finally removes her hands from the front of her blouse and sits back down.

Saved. Survived. So awkward.

Flash forward a few days:

It is Sunday. Kiswahili mass. I am sitting in between Cat and Gretchen at St. John the Baptist struggling to follow along. By the time the Liturgy of the Eucharist comes around I am exhausted and wishing that the norm was a one hour mass and not a two hour  mass. BUT, I look up at the alter only to see that same sister from my class helping the priest prepare communion. At least I think it is her? Of course she is now in full habit and nun-wear! Yes that is her. Wow. As I walk up to take communion all I can think is: two days prior she was standing in the middle of the classroom touching herself! Sorry, God, I know that I should see the Divine in all things but this is weird. So weird. I take communion from her, shocked, and a little uncomfortable.

Yes. That really happened. From a lesson on the human body to a whole new meaning of taking communion!

Classes: Creatively Controlling Chaos

Main points of this blog update:

• I survived my first week of teaching at Loyola High School
• My first English lesson:

Hello, my name is Mr. Patrick. I am from America. I am 23 years old. I stay in Mabibo, Dar es Salaam. I go to Loyola High School and I am in HDP.

• I am teaching 25ish lessons a week with about 40 students in each.
• Student profile
• 12-15 years old (except for 4 nuns in their mid-twenties)
• Three sections or classes of Pre-Form One (middle school age) and one section of Form One (like freshman year of HS).
• Pre-Form One is called “The Human Development Program” (HDP). This is a year to prepare students for High School. Mainly to learning English because government run primary schools are taught in Kiswahili and all Secondary/High Schools are English speaking.
• Differences between Loyola HS and my HS experience:
• Good differences: mandatory tea and snack break at 10am, AWESOME outdoor assemblies twice a week, free lunch and much more.
• Challenging differences: corporal punishment, learning/teaching students in their second or third language, exam based evaluation over performance/competence, knowing no one, being an OBVIOUS minority and SO much more.

Rather than boring both you and me with a class by class, day by day reflection, here are a few insights into this week that will hopefully paint a picture of what I saw, heard, felt and attempted to teach:

1. Babysitting or Classroom Support? I am a class teacher for HDP “C” which is the equivalent to being a homeroom teacher where I take attendance, check uniforms, answer questions and support the class in whatever they need. On Tuesday I was teaching English to HDP “A” when two girls from my HDP “C’ walked right in and stated explaining how someone had stolen money out of one girl’s back pack totally interrupting my class and fully expecting me to drop everything and conduct a thorough investigation to find the thief. Barely able to hide my laughter at the ‘seriousness’ that was in front of me, I asked them to come to my office at break time to figure it out. When they came to speak to me later that day, we were unable to find the culprit and unfortunately he or she is still at large.
2. Game Face. Wednesdays the students have two periods where they split up into Catholics, Muslims or Protestants and go to Religion Classes. I was told to teach Form One Catholic Religion. On Wednesday at 9am I was given a syllabus with five bullet points and then at 10am I went to teach the first lesson. I walked into the classroom (which seats 45 students) as it began to fill up. About fifteen minutes later, there were almost 90 students in this classroom. At this time the head of the department walked in and said, “you may need a bigger classroom… or another teacher to help you…” I thought: REALLY!?! Someone is playing a trick on me. This is my first week. I have no idea what I am doing AND there are 90 students staring at me. Thanks.
3. Let’s Make a Deal. On Thursday a student walked up to me and said:

“I heard a rumor that people from your country only stay for two years”

“Well, the people that come with my program stay for two years, that is true”

“This is not fair” She responded, looking angry and very offended.

“Why not?” I said.

“Because, I will be at Loyola High School for the next 6 years and you have to stay” She was getting rather heated at this point.

I then tried to explain that I would want to see my family and friends after two years and she gave me a very frustrated look then said:

“Let’s make a deal, you can go see your family in two years BUT then you have to come right back and stay until I graduate!”

Feeling trapped, I told her: “I will think about it”.

Of course I could continue on with stories from the week about mispronouncing names, students staring blankly at me, my inability to understand the student’s accents and their inability to understand mine, administrators/fellow teachers informing me or introducing me to ANY Caucasian visitor to Loyola (and referring to or asking if we are related, colleagues or from the same place), sexism in the work place, homophobia in the classroom, an amazing sense of school pride, an inspiring tradition of work by Jesuits and Jesuit Volunteers, the start of new friendship with staff and students alike and on and on and on…

In the classes, amongst the chaos and with a little bit of creativity on my end, Loyola High School has welcomed, shocked, challenged, shaken and inspired, yours truly, Mr. Patrick.