Thursday, July 14, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
My Weekly Broken Heart
July 9, 2011
There was a week in April when the majority of the staff at my organization left town for a two-day training. The evening before they departed, one of my co-workers, Adjia, asked me to take on some new duties in their absence. Specifically, she asked me to “écrire,” to write. The center logs every child who comes in the door of the center and what activities they do—both for themselves and for funders. So, someone has to sit at the door with a notebook and pen and “write.” The job also requires supervising the tiled courtyard where the kids play, shower, and do laundry. I had done it before, though never by myself. Nevertheless, I am ever eager to do anything that makes my job seem more like a job, so I cheerfully accepted.
I arrived at the center extra early the next morning to get set up. I found the notebook, a pen, a chair to sit in, positioned the table so I was right by the door, and waited… The best way I can describe what happened next is this: it was like watching a bomb explode—for four hours.
I’m sure you can easily imagine me flustered, hair askew, several children tucked under each arm while I tried to gain control of the situation; but, as a means of survival, my brain flooded itself with a hefty dosage of endorphins[1], leading me to sit demurely on my little blue chair, staring blankly into the chaos. I think the best thing I can say about that morning is no one was mortally injured, though few kids definitely cried. I almost cried, but I survived AND I learned something: there are essentially infinite ways 100+ young, parent-less boys can make trouble when sharing a small space.
Against my better judgment I’ve allowed myself to get roped into "writing" again and again. (It’s kind of everyone’s least favorite job.) I’m sure I am only able to cognize a fraction of what goes on in the courtyard; also I’m trying to make my blog entries shorter, so I’m only going to share my favorite memories from “writing.”
That fateful morning in April began like any other morning I am on writing duty: me sitting by the doorway with a notebook and pen. The center is calm, quiet—even tranquil. As the first children arrive, I begin writing down the name, age, Koranic school of each talibe, as well as what they want to do at the center: take a bath, do laundry, see the nurse, or play. It sounds easy enough, but, given that this notebook is clearly a spiny appendage of the evil Organization Monster, little boys want nothing to do with it. Thus, I often have to resort to (gently) grabbing the shoulders or shirts of talibes who try to breeze by me, unnoticed. I can do the whole, “come here” routine, but the boys usually meet to this sort of beckoning by doing the chicken dance from across the courtyard—literally sticking their thumbs in their armpits and resolutely flapping their elbows against their sides. (The gesture means, “I refuse” in Senegalese.)
Other times, swarms of talibes will come at once, encircling me and yelling their names/ages/schools over one another making it impossible to decipher anything. The come up on all sides, including mounting and hiding underneath the large table I am writing on, to make sure I have no escape. I should also mention these kids only shower once a week (every eight-year-old’s dream), so are absolutely filthy. Besides the dirt, they are usually covered in puss-filled cuts, boils, chicken pox, scabies, whitlow, and/or dried blood and are dripping mucus from their noses or eyes (due to conjunctivitis.) Given the proximity they feel is necessary, the talibes frequently do things like cough directly into my open mouth or sneeze into my hair.
Meanwhile, as I flail wildly trying to write down all information of the new arrivals before they disappear into the courtyard, the talibes inevitably get bored and start entertaining themselves by: reciting the Koran loudly; trying to ask me my name/age/etc.; trying to use the pen I am writing with to draw on any available surface (including, once, my cellphone); hitting each other; climbing under the table to pull on my skirt and/or leg hair; pinching me; grabbing me; slapping me (gently); or yelling loudly and indiscriminately. Perhaps the most frustrating thing in these swarm situations is, after I do write down the information of a talibe, he often refuses to go play in the courtyard but lingers at the table. When one does it, they all do it, creating an impenetrable talibe-wall between me and the doorway, making it that much harder to see kids as they come in or keep track of who I’ve already written down.
Once I manage to get (what I feel) is a reasonable percentage of the children logged in, I will stand up and shoo them into other activities. The courtyard is small, but somehow manages to contain a foosball table, a TV (usually blaring Senegalese music videos), a perpetually deflated soccer ball, puzzles and other games for the kids. If kids don’t have a game, they resort to wrestling with each other or yelling loudly into the open air. They can do their laundry, but this never takes long, given they have only one or two sets of clothes (though they still manage to spill enough water to turn the whole courtyard into a marsh.) When they only have one set of clothes, they wear their birthday suits while their clothes drip dry. Yes, there is a lot of nudity. There is also a shower, a toilet and an infirmary for the kids.
One of my favorite recurring scenes happens whenever an older boy (maybe 15) brings in a flock of five- to eight-year-olds for their weekly shower. I once worked at a summer camp where I observed little boys are happy to go four weeks or more without bathing (if it had been permitted.) The little boys in Senegal are no different, thus the older ones are forced wrangle them into the shower six or seven at a time (it’s a big shower). Much like how I used to stuff all my filthiest clothes into a washing machine, close the door and hope for the best, the older talibe will fill the shower with children, throw in some soap, turn the water on, hold the door closed. Moments later the bathroom door will explode open and the newly showered kids will scatter, still dripping, as if they were escaping from a burning house.
Now add up everything I just described (the swarming, grabbing, coughing, wrestling, playing, loud music, yelling, impromptu soccer games, wet clothes on low-hanging lines, flocks of dripping-wet kids) and then multiply it by 100. This is what that first morning in April was like. There is also the whole issue of rationing soap to the kids, which I won’t get into except to say it leaves pretty much everyone (including me) dissatisfied.
In spite of how it sounds, I wouldn’t necessarily call the mornings I spend in the courtyard with the talibes bad—though I wouldn’t say they’re good either. It’s usually overwhelming and always exhausting, but it also feels like the most sincere/needed aid I’ve given in my Peace Corps service. I never experience the all-too-familiar, what’s-the-point despair too many PCVs have to battle on a monthly if not weekly basis; because the point of my work is right there, coughing in my mouth, exploding from the shower, dripping snot as he waits to see the nurse.
As my language has improved, I’ve gotten to know the talibes as individuals (and as they’ve gotten to know me). They now know I won’t let them get away with the pinches, slaps, or the pulling of leg hair and for the most part have stopped trying. I’ve identified a couple of the older, more helpful talibes who I can always call on to aid me ration soap or make sure I’ve recorded every name. The kids have started to recognize me outside the center too, which I love. Now, instead of rushing up to me to demand money, they rush up to me to shake my hand and ask where I’m going.
The talibe may seem tough as nails on the street, sticking their chin up as they demand “100 francs,” but in this tiled courtyard it is painfully clear they are just children. They squeal with delight over a game. They cry when they are left out. They climb into my lap or put their arm around me before offering me some of the bread they are chewing on.
Sometimes I take it upon myself to organize a drawing activity for them, which is basically as chaotic as the courtyard scene, just add colored pencils into the mix and replace “rationing soap” with “rationing paper.” Some kids just scribble wildly, in what seems like an attempt to use as much paper as quickly as possible. Others will work quietly and thoughtfully all morning to complete self-portraits, pictures unidentifiable animals, or boats. But no matter what they draw, they double over in smiling embarrassment when I “ooh” or “ahh” at their work. One little boy just sits at the table, watching and insisting in a mouse-sized voice he can’t draw. Another will wait for other kids to abandon their work before presenting the drawing to me as his own. I suspect he is just hungry for any kind of praise.
Other favorite memories:
A few weeks ago, as I was leaving the center, I felt one of the kids tugging on the back of my bag. I whipped around in annoyance, thinking he was trying to open the pocket. “Hamsatou!” he said, “You can’t go out on the street with your bag like this.” He was closing it for me. My heart melted.
Another time, as I was sitting by the door, recording names, and old woman came to the door begging for money. I tried to dismiss her with the usual may-Allah-pay-you handclasp, thinking to myself, “Lady, you came to the wrong place.” But before she could leave, one of the talibes gave me an I-would-expect-more-from-you, parental nod as he handed her 25 francs from a small pouch tied around his stomach. These kids are teaching me so much.
Like I said, this is the most rewarding work I’ve done in the Peace Corps, possibly in my life. I rarely feel a day at work is wasted, and if I ever do, the feeling vanishes when I think of those boys. I can’t say with any conviction I’m making their lives better, and certainly not in the way you could film or put on a resume, but if I’m changing their worlds at all—it’s worth it to me; because these boys certainly changing mine.
Also (knock on wood) I haven’t gotten conjunctivitis, yet.
[1] According to Wikipedia: endorphins are released to prevent nerve cells from releasing more pain signals, allowing animals to feel a sense of power and control over themselves and to persist with activity for an extended time, like writing down the names of talibes—I was that animal.
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