An Important Tangent from Stela's Story

There is still one more post to be written about Stela and the evolution of S&S Mozambelleza, but I'm taking a break to process through some different recent conversations. I know you'll miss Stela, but get over it because this is gunna be good.

As I wrote in this post, things have been feeling pretty normal around here lately. I have a healthy, productive routine, I feel confident in my teaching-math-in-Portuguese abilities, and nothing super thought provoking has really come up lately. This past week, though, a few moments have happened that have reminded me of the cultural differences that will likely always be present among myself and my Mozambican colleagues and neighbors. I want to tell y’all about them now. 

The English Test

This week was National Exam week in Mozambique. Every secondary school gives national exams to tenth and twelfth graders, kind of like our standardized testing in the States. Depending on the subject, the test lasts between 90 minutes and two hours. Tenth graders have two tests each day for three days, from 7am-noon (including breaks). Twelfth graders have the same setup except it goes from 12:30pm to 5:30pm. Students are not allowed to bring anything except a pencil and a pen into the classrooms with them; they must bring their IDs; they will be turned away if they are late; they are given an answer sheet, one piece of scratch paper (stamped with the school’s official logo); and the test itself. Tests come in sealed envelopes and can only be opened once the bell rings for time to start. When the seal is broken, before the tests are distributed, students clap (when I asked why they said “I don’t know, we just do”). Two teachers are assigned to each classroom, and must stand the entire time. They are not allowed to bring phones or books. They must pace the rows to discourage students from cheating. They cannot talk to each other. They can answer students’ questions about instructions but not about material. Teachers and students must stay in the classroom until the ending bell rings, and it doesn’t matter if they finish early. Teachers cannot proctor the discipline that they teach, to avoid the temptation of helping students perform better than they would on their own. 

Does the tone suggest that this was a serious-kind-of-like-the-military ordeal? It should. It was very strict and students knew it and teachers knew it and everyone did what they were told and tried not to disturb the flow of the process. 

On Thursday morning, the English exam happened, and I do not teach English so I was on the schedule to proctor. I find out which room I am assigned to and go there to start passing out materials. Right before the test starts, a chefe (boss) enters the classroom and tells me that I am not allowed to look at or interact with any of the students. I ask why and the answer is “because you know English”. Ok, I said, then can somebody else take my spot? If I can’t watch out for cheating or answer student questions, there’s not really a point to me being in here. And he said “we only have English teachers left, so you must be in here—it’s the rules”. 

I tried to explain to him that I would not give students answers because cheating is one of my biggest pet peeves ever (I don’t know how to say pet peeve in Portuguese, but I tried to convey the idea as best I could). And his response was “Ha de transmitir”. It might get transmitted. Referring to my knowledge of English. And while there is a gazillion logical arguments against this line of thinking, I had neither the energy nor the vocabulary to try to make a case. So the conversation ended, and I sat in the front desk, facing forward, not telepathically sending my English abilities to students, or doing anything else for that matter, for exactly two hours and zero seconds.

What. (eyeroll emoji). 

The Value of a Tomato 

There is a tiny little shop near by house that sells essentials like eggs, bread, tomatoes, onions, baking powder, cookies, and whiskey. It’s only a 2 minute walk from my house, which beats the hell out of the 15 minute walk to the market. A Mozambican convenience store, right smack in the middle of my neighborhood. #winning 

I went there on Friday to buy some bread to make an egg sandwich for lunch, and decided I wanted to buy a tomato to put on my sandwich as well. This shop sells tomatoes at 4 for 20 meticais, so I brought 5 mets for one tomato and 4 mets for one piece of bread (bringing exact change helps me avoid buying shitty coconut cookies every time I go there, which is like every day). I asked Mamá Maria for one pão (bread) and one tomate. I handed her the plastic bag I brought with me along with the 9 mets. She asked me if I wanted two breads, and I said “no I would like one bread and one tomato”. A confused look crept onto her face.

“Falta”. Not enough money. I said, no it’s right, 4 for bread and 5 for one tomato. And she said “Tomate está vinte”. Tomatoes are twenty. I said, I know, but that’s for four and I am only asking for one. And she said “um está dez. Meia de vinte é dez.” One is 10. Half of 20 is 10. And I said, “so 10 mets for two tomatoes, or 5 mets for just one. I only want one”. And she said “falta cinco”. You’re five mets short. I said, senhora, if four tomatoes cost twenty mets, then one tomato costs 5 mets. And I only want one tomato.” 

And she nodded her head and so I thought we were on the same page. She put one tomato in my bag and didn’t ask for anymore money. But then, before I turned to go home, she said “but I only did that for you, and only this one time” with a big smile on her face. I could tell she truly thought she did me a favor and gave me a big discount. Five mets off. I then explained “but one tomato does cost 5 mets, so I paid your price.” And she laughed and said “ok filha. Meia de vinte é dez.”  Ok child. Half of 20 is 10. I was a little sad that she thought I was trying to pull a fast one on her, because we are friends and her kids love me even though they don’t always know my name, and I wouldn’t try to jip her out of five mets (~six cents). But I also have had enough interactions with Mozambicans to understand that she wasn’t likely to budge. Her mind was made up: 4 tomatoes are 20 mets and less tomatoes than 4 will cost 10 mets. I smiled and said thank you and that I would see her tomorrow. She said thank you and that was that. 

This interaction might seem silly and not exceptionally noteworthy, but it reflects a larger issue that I’ve experienced with my students in my classroom: students have been taught to learn math by rote memorization instead of understanding how numbers relate to each other when mathematical operations are applied. Mamá Maria didn’t understand that 20 mets gets you 4 tomatoes so 10 mets will get you 2 because of her fundamental understanding of division or ratios; she knew this because somebody told it to her and she remembered it. So, when another, different instance of division came up, she didn’t know how to process it. Because I’m the only freak that would want to buy a single tomato, she’s probably never been presented with the situation and was never told the “answer”. So, she took the answer that was closest to this similar-but-different case: 10.

This happens in my classroom with my students more often than not: students can tell me the right answer, but not the process to get to that answer. They may get one problem right but the next, slightly different one wrong. This lesson for me happened early and blatantly, and forced me to slow down my lessons to ensure that I reviewed why an answer is right, why 8 divided by 2 is indeed 4, or how multiplication can be viewed as repeated addition. I try to nail home the point that understanding the process to getting to the right answer is often more important than the actual answer. There is a lot to be learned between the problem and the solution—both in math and in life. 

This short but meaningful conversation reminded me that even though math is known as a universal language, there are huge differences between how it is taught here vs in the States, which directly affects the application of it. Therefore, simple things like this that are obvious to me, are not for them—and it’s not due to a lack of intelligence on the part of the learners. 

Women’s Health

Note: the verb conquistar in Portuguese means “to conquest” and it is often used to describe a man pursuing (hitting on) a woman. Do you already hate the word? Good, me too. 

This week, while a math test was being proctored (but not by me because I am a math teacher), a group of professors and chefes were sitting around shootin’ the shit like all great employees do from time to time. They mostly speak in Changana (local language that I don’t understand) amongst themselves, so I was shamelessly daydreaming about Wendy’s Frostys. Then, one teacher got my attention and said he would like to discuss something with me. I said, ok but please in Portuguese. He laughed and agreed. It started:

“Doctora, é verdade que mulheres têm que ser conquistadas ou não ficam bem?” Doctor (anyone with a 4-year degree is considered a doctor here), it is true that women have to be hit on [by men] or they won’t be well (health wise)?”

Um, what. Well, this should be a fun conversation. 

I, very bluntly because even halfway across the world my life still has a filter paucity, said HELL NO. I would be much better without ever being “conquistar-ed”, thank you very much. Their minds were blown. They said “no, teacher, women like to be hit on in the street and without it they get sad and unhealthy”. I said, absolutely not. I do not like to be cat-called in the street and usually when it happens I get angry and try to ignore it. Não fico bem. I don’t stay well. 

They explained to me that in Mozambican culture, women need to get continuously validated and feel wanted. They said that men in the street cat call women because they know that they need it. I said that I can’t speak for all women, but here’s the truth for me: I like to feel appreciated by my namorado (boyfriend), in a respectful way. I think it’s an important part of a relationship to show appreciation for your significant other and make them feel attractive, valued, etc. And it is true that women like to feel beautiful. But that is very different than having a random man in the street making hissing and kissing noises at you and telling you they love you and want to marry you, all before asking your name. 

They acted offended. Asked if I was “too good” to talk to a man in the street. So then I had to explain that I do enjoy conversing with people, but chatting and being proposed to and two very different things. I am more than just my face and I like to talk about other things than love or marriage or sex. And they seemed confused. They were under the impression that women like direct, strong advances and men look weak if they don’t do it that way. Oye. I again repeated that I cannot speak for everybody but that for me, it’s disrespectful and I only like to be romantically affirmed by a man that I know and trust. I said I would guess that’s true for women everywhere, but if Mozambique has taught me anything, it’s that I can’t assume that people’s views on certain things (or anything really) align with mine. And, I cannot confidently say that other women don’t like to be cat called in the street…perhaps they do and in this culture it is a form of respect and flattery. Probably but not plausible?

They concluded that American woman are different (and from the tone I would also venture to say weird and naïve). And so the rua conquistas (street conquests) will likely continue, much to my chagrin. 

Lightening and Mirrors.

On Friday I got to come home for lunch in between tests because the mães made chicken and I didn’t want to eat plain rice. When I got back from purchasing bread and my single tomato, Adozinda and Mamá Amelia were picking grass from our yard to bring to the nuns’ house to feed to the goats. I went into the kitchen to make my egg and well-earned tomato sandwich, and Adozinda followed me in. She, very worriedly, asked me if we covered our full-length mirror with capulana last night (it stormed badly). I said, no, why? Is that a thing? She’s like, yes when it storms you MUST cover all mirrors with capulanas, or não fica bem (it’s not good). Because I have never heard anything like this before, I asked why. And she said “why what?”. I said “like, why? Is it dangerous to not cover them? Does covering them bring good luck? Or what?” and she said “só porque fazemos aqui”. Just because we do it here.

So naturally, being the math-minded nerd that I am, I said, “so you do things even though you don’t really know why? I’m not going to do that unless I understand why because covering mirrors with capulanas during storms doesn’t seem logical to me”. She said, I’ll go get Mamá Amelia…she probably knows. And I did agree with that part because moms, by nature, know everything.

So Mamá Amelia comes in and tells me that she’s not surprised that I’m questioning this, but that I shouldn’t because it’s true. She explained, very intently, that it’s because mirrors can get struck by lightening and even though accidents sometimes happen, we here in Mozambique like to prevent horrible accidents from happening whenever possible. Behind her, Adozinda nodded in agreement. 

There are a lot of reasons why this is a bizarre “rule”. For one, will the lightening knock on the door and then enter upon invitation to interact with the mirror? (Andy will be mad if I don’t say that I didn’t think of this loophole on my own because it didn’t occur to me that the house would get struck before anything inside of it). What about everything else that has the potential to get struck by lightening such as the tin roofs or the electrical poles? Should we cover all that stuff up with capulanas too? And why would capulanas help if the lightening did strike? I mean, I know capulanas have a lot of uses (dresses, towels, blankets, etc), but I didn’t know that lightening repellant was one of them. Also, our mirror is cheap and is made out of plastic and cardboard, which aren’t known to be good conductors. 

I tried to explain that other things could also get struct by lightening..anything made out of metal has a higher probability than non-metals, so why just mirrors? And they said “because, Mana Sarah, we just should”. 

I’m like, ok but what about the pots and the pans and the spoons and the forks and the stove? 

And she said, “oh to prevent the lightening from striking those things, we just close the curtains”. 

Dead serious. This was in no way shape or form a brincadeira (joke). I laughed before I realized the seriousness of the matter and then made a solid effort to shut myself up. She made me promise to cover the mirrors and close the curtains next time it looks like it’s going to storm, to be safe. She reiterated the fact that sometimes sad accidents happen and we can’t do anything about them, but that it’s important to do what we can to prevent them. 

Instead of continuing in the circular conversation of logic/science and “we know it’s true because it is and it always will be”, I assured her that I would try to remember next time it storms. She said thank you and gave me a hug. Then she laughed because she could tell I still wasn’t convinced. And she’s right…I’m not.

To separate storytime from conclusion, I've added a picture of a Frosty because I want one so bad it's unreal. Please somebody eat one for me but don't tell me about it because the jealousy will kill me. 

This post was not to serve as a way to say “look at how whack some Mozambican lines of thinking are”, but more to bring attention to the idea that the things that seem obvious or universally known to some are not the same things that seem obvious or universally known to others. As silly as I felt about Mamá Amelia believing that closing the curtains would protect the pots and pans but not the mirrors is probably the same amount of silly she felt about me not knowing this simple and obvious truth. 

Also, it brings up the point that if a person or community doesn't have knowledge readily accessible, how are things learned, confirmed, or proven right, or proven wrong? If somebody approached you, and very seriously said "all the tomatoes in your city are infected with this weird disease spread by bugs, and it's very important that we don't eat tomatoes until further notice" and there was no way to confirm that as truth/lie via the internet or news articles or whatever, would you accept it as truth stop eating tomatoes? Probably yes. And probably you would tell your friends and family to help them avoid getting sick too. And pretty soon, whether backed by science or not, nobody would be eating tomatoes and it would become a well-known thing that tomatoes make you sick...It would be easy to conclude that chefe is dumb if he actually thinks that my English abilities could be transmitted to students just by looking at them, but when you look at the root of this belief, it becomes more complicated than smart or dumb. Consider that probably some time long ago a chefe somewhere very seriously told that to a teacher who had no way to confirm it, then that teacher became a chefe himself and told that to his staff...and so on. Without access to concrete scientific knowledge, or the desire to fact check, does it seem so far-fetched that this belief exists? To me it doesn't. 

This PC experience in general has challenged me to acknowledge when I am looking at things solely from my American-seeded perspective, and challenge myself to see that same thing from the perspectives of the Mozambicans I live beside. To observe without judgement in order to optimally understand how viewpoints, culture and values develop, become ingrained and are lived out. These 4 seemingly bizarre happenings occurred within 48 hours of each other, and it was a light but very real reminder of just how much culture, environment and circumstances affect beliefs, perspectives and ultimately a person’s way of living. 

Also, it makes me wonder what are the things that I do that are ingrained as being “right” or “important” that somebody else with a very different background would think absurd. 

Right. True. Normal. Obvious. Important.

All subjective adjectives, and I am lucky to be in an environment where I am reminded of that regularly. 

The Story of Stela, Part II

After committing to this project, the first task was to think of a name for our online store, so that I could effectively run a small GoFundMe campaign. I wanted Stela to feel like the huge part of this that she would become, so I told her it was her job to think of a name. I encouraged her to be creative and bring some ideas back and we would talk through them together. After a couple days of thinking, here’s what she came back with:

A Alfaiataria dos Vestidos de Manjacaze de Stela e Sarah

The Tailor Shop of Dresses of Manjacaze by Stela and Sarah

….catchy, right? Wrong.

I told her it needed to be way shorter, and easily understood in English. I told her I like the idea of being descriptive, but that we needed to minus some descriptive words and add some creativity. Then, she asked for help because she doesn’t know a lot of words in English. She also said that since language is a part of any culture, she thought we should have at least some Portuguese or Xangana in the name, so that it would come across as authentic. I agreed. 

I threw out some ideas: Sewn by Stela, Stella Belleza, Dresses by Stela, etc. She stopped me and said, “if my name is going to be in there, yours must be too. This isn’t just me, and we can’t do this without you”. I was flattered, and willing to compromise: S and S. I showed her the “&” symbol for “and” and she thought it was pretty. So, we had that to start. She liked the idea of adding Mozambique or Moz to the name, and I liked the idea of beauty or belleza because that’s pretty much the goal of dress shopping, right?

We thought of “Mozambique Chique”, “Mozambeauty”, “Mozambelleza”, “Mozamchique”, “Vestidos de Moz”, and many more. We were throwing out some clever but also some really ridiculous ideas…laughing at the bad ones and writing down the good ones. 

Finally we decided on S&S Mozambelleza: “Belleza” is a Portuguese word but is well-known to many English speakers, it’s Mozambique specific, and it includes the initials of both creators. 

S&S Mozambelleza. I like it. We like it. 

After a short and successfully generous GoFundMe campaign (THANK YOU TO ALL THE DONORS!), Stela and I were off the purchase materials needed to make our first round of dresses. We decided to meet at the bus stop at 8am on a Tuesday morning, soon after we reached our GoFundMe goal, to head to the “big city” of Xai Xai (the provincial capital of Gaza) to purchase capulanas, lining, buttons, zippers, and thread at wholesale price. 

There are two reliable ways to travel out of Manjacaze: a chapa (a small van that should hold 12 people comfortably but usually fits at least 25), or a big bus that runs on a schedule, leaving Manjacaze at 8am, noon and 4:30pm daily. It makes trips solely between Manjacaze and Xai Xai. It offers more space for the ride, it does not wait to fill up before it leaves, it uses a nicely paved road instead of a bumpy dirt road, and it is 10 mets cheaper than a chapa. Really it’s a no brainer: take the bus every time. So, because the bus doesn’t wait, I told Stela she needs to be on time: 7:45am, in case it arrives early. 

8am rolls around and there is no Stela to be seen. I message her and ask where she is and she replies “estou aqui perto” (I’m right here close by). But, in Moz language that could mean 30 seconds away or 30 minutes away. Then at 8:05 the bus pulls up as I’m messaging Stela another time…I really don’t want to miss this bus and have to take a chapa. So, I get the cobrador’s (person that collects the money on the bus) attention and tell her my friend is really close, can she please wait. She asks me how close and then demands to call my friend to see exactly where she is. About three minutes later, I see Stela in the distance sprinting up a hill with her youngest son Nosled on her back, sweating profusely. THERE SHE IS! The cobrador smiles, Stela boards the bus, panting, and off we go. 

Within 30 seconds of sitting down and situating Nosled comfortably on her lap, she begins to rifle through her purse and pulls out some crinkled up papers. “I did some drawings of dresses we could make, and I want to know what you think.” She had dozens. Her excitement to show me the dresses and start our “little” (not at all little, as I’ve come to learn) project was obvious. 

Before arriving in Xai Xai,we make a game plan: we will choose 4 different patterns and purchase 6 capulanas of each pattern. That way we can make 6 short dresses, or 4 long ones out of each pattern. It will definitely be enough to get us started. We start at her favorite wholesale capulana shop, where capulanas are hanging all across the ceiling and the full length of all four walls. We point to ones we like, discuss for a little, and move on. After about 30 minutes, no decisions were made and we leave empty handed.

We wander around the section of central market that has small stand after small stand of capulanas of all styles and colors. As Stela is browsing capulanas, she holds up my arm alongside hers to see how the colors will look on black and white skin. It was a subtle but no less adorable gesture. She says that orange “não fica bem” (doesn’t stay well) on white people skin and that “cores vivas” (lively colors) work well for both. I completely agree with her. We decide on two capulanas with very traditional African designs and two capulanas that have more of a universal print. One is navy, one is bright royal blue, one is pink and red, and the fourth is teal and maroon. We have a good range of colors and styles, and are satisfied with our choices.  Next we head to a different shop to purchase the not-so-fun stuff: lining, zippers and thread. That takes pretty much no time at all, but the shop owners are more than pleased with the quantity we purchase. When we leave they are encouraging us to come back soon. 

So, three hours after arriving in Xai Xai to purchase so much fabric, we head back to Manjacaze with a backpack full of colors and designs. 

The next phase of the project is to decide the styles of dresses we want to make. We decide that since we have four capulana designs, we should make four different styles of dresses—we will photograph each dress in a specific print, but offer all dresses in all prints on our site. I tell her that the next thing we need to do is design the dresses. The idea is that we separately design (for me it’s find on Pinterest, for her it’s design from scratch) four different styles, then we can come back together and collaborate until we agree on the final four. This will ensure that both American and African tastes are included in the final product. 

A week later, we bring both of our ideas back and discuss them. 

Idea One 

Stela likes it, except for the buttons down the front. She says it reminds her of something you should wear while baking a cake LOL. She suggests putting the zipper in the back and adding a solid piece of fabric around the waist to serve as a belt. I love the idea and we agree and move on. 

Idea Two

Stela shows me a dress she already has made as one of her ideas. It is really cute, and aligns nicely with a style that I chose as well. She has in mind the capulana she wants to use, and how to make it “less boring”. She wants to use the Teal capulana and the contrasting Maroon part as a belt and to embellish the bottom and back—“simples em frente, interestante atraz” (simple in the front, interesting in the back”. I encouraged her creativity, assured her the Americans would love this style—because it’s different but not TOO different—and we moved on. She seemed proud. 

Idea Three

Stela shows me another dress that she made as a final project at seamstress school. I immediately fell in love it with. It has a deep embellished front and an open back, with a long skirt that splits up the middle. I imagine it being worn at a special occasion in the States, one that people would say, “that’s an amazing dress, where did you get it?”. However, when she actually made the dress in the fabric we decided upon, it didn’t translate very well. It was very busy—too much embellishment, to the point of looking like a costume. This was one of the first times I had had to give negative feedback to Stela about her work, and I was very nervous to do so. I said, “Can I say something? I don’t want to offend you but I have an opinion.” And she responded, “yes, tell me, whatever it is we will make it better.”

So, I told her a few things about the dress I wanted to change: the neckline in the font needs to be deeper, the neckline embellishments needed to be eliminated and the slit is too high in the front (like, really, somebody’s crotch would hang out). She took the feedback like a true professional: These are good ideas. I will make the changes and show you. At our next meeting, changes had been made and it was a much better, well-finished version of the original (and it’s fit it’s model perfectly—likely because the model was Stela). We were both really pleased with the outcome of this dress, but even so Stela had some ideas on how to make the next one even better. I always appreciated her forward-thinking and thirst for excellence.

Idea 4:

I chose this dress because it demonstrates that the cut will look good in print, it had a small sleeve, and the style of simple and classic. Stela agreed and we didn’t discuss much, except to choose the capulana print. It almost seemed too easy to decide—and that’s because it was. What Stela produced looked nothing like the picture (flashbacks to online dating, anyone?). It didn’t have a v-neck, it didn’t have sleeves, and it did have an a-line skirt (he didn’t have a rugged beard, he didn’t have all the muscles, and he did have bad breath). It was a pretty dress, but not at all what we talked about. Also, in my opinion, it was too simple and did not have enough of a wow factor to be sold online for 85USD. 

So we started talking. I said, “Stela this is well-made but not what we talked about”. She said “I know, and it’s because the sleeves didn’t look good in this type of fabric so I cut them off”. I told her it was a fine look but we needed to spice it up and make it special. She cut a v-neck and suggested a slit. We already had a dress with a slit so I suggested we do something interesting with the back. We agreed to cut geometric holes to go with the triangle in the front. It worked—gave the dress an extra “umph” to make it unique but not too funky. 

And with that, our four styles were created, fitted to the models [read: the most beautiful models in Manjacaze and maybe even the world], and photographed.  The photography session was likely my favorite part: Stela and Adozinda had a blast. They exuded happiness and confidence (as you can see in the photos below). Tess is a wonderful photographer and her fancy camera sure as heck helped. 

  

After some editing, a lot of learning-as-we-go on the Etsy platform, our first four listings were published and we were up and running. I worked individually on most of the technical stuff because Etsy is in English and Stela isn’t too savvy with computers.

I showed Stela the store, and we worked together to develop what we call “the story of Stela”. She can’t believe her dresses are on the internet. To date (after two months), we’ve sold 8 dresses and have had three very happy customers (the other five dresses are still being processed). Upon showing her a picture of the first happy customer in her dress, she lit up like a Christmas tree and said,

“Que lindo! Todas as Americanas vão querer a parecer assim!”

“How cute! All the Americans are going to want to look like that!”

I told her good job. She told me she’s glad we are a team.

A very functional, collaborative team is exactly what we’ve grown to be.

www.etsy.com/shop/ssmozambelleza

The Story of Stela, Part I

This is the first of three posts about how S&S Mozambelleza came to be. Enjoy!

It’s very rare that I talk to people here that can see past the “right now”...and for good reason. Day-to-day survival is the main focus for many families: I imagine it would be very difficult for a person be able to think in the “big picture”  or “long-term” if their basic needs are barely being met.

When I talk to people about what they want for themselves, it’s rare that I hear something besides the following: More money for my family; a reliable water source; rain so my crops can grow; a new roof so I don’t get wet inside when it rains; electricity; to work. These are all very important things. So important, in fact, that bigger, broader, long-term ideas such as higher education; a job that pays an hourly wage; to be a good role model for my children; seeing the world; to help my family and community avoid malaria; etc. are things that just simply don’t get mentioned. If asked, I’m sure everyone would say they would want everything on the list of things I just mentioned—but without the basics—food, water, shelter—ain’t nobody got time to worry about the other stuff. 

Also, having big dreams when your situation is a slight step above hopeless is more depressing than it is inspiring. Having a dream where you can honestly tell yourself “if I work my ass off really hard for a long time, and some luck swings my way, I could do this” is very different than “there’s just absolutely no fucking way”. Right? So I understand why my neighbors and friends are hesitant to let themselves imagine a life that has more opportunities than what Manjacaze currently offers. Eschewing disappointment is human nature.

[Also, please note that these are my insights after having conversations about this with Manjacaze residents for just about a year, so take that for what it’s worth.]

Then, one day my roommate comes home with a very well-made capulana tunic, and I ask her who made it for her. And she tells me “that seamstress that has all the capulanas hanging up in the little loja (store) on the road that goes to the nun’s house”. (Addresses and/or business names aren’t too common in these parts.) So, I take a capulana to her—I need a dress for my grandpa’s celebration of life ceremony. I drop off my capulana and start chatting with her. I learned that her name is Stela. She tells me that she has three kids, and that her husband who is a primary school teacher. I learn that she is not from Manjacaze, but rather Maputo, the nation’s capital. I ask her which place she likes better, and she says:

“Well, I came here because my husband is from here. Most of my family is still there, and sometimes I think I left a lot of opportunities there in Maputo. But, love was stronger so I came here”. 

While that’s a reasonable answer that probably wouldn’t invite many more questions in the States, here it’s different. When I heard that she had other ideas for her life, or perhaps even dreams, I wanted to hear more. It was unexpected and refreshing. So I asked, “what do you think you could do there that you can’t do here?”. 

“I want to be a known seamstress. I want people from not just Manjacaze to know my work and wear my dresses. I want people from everywhere to feel beautiful in my dresses. If I’m going to be here and be a seamstress, I want to be the best seamstress. There’s not a lot to learn here in Manjacaze that will help me get better, but I want to get better”. 

How’s that for a change of pace? I loved that answer. Although I know that money is tight— for example, her kids wear clothes with holes, and meat is a special treat because of the price, and she is a woman in Mozambique (typically have far less opportunities to thrive than men), and her brothers have asked her for money on more than one occasion that she’s had to decline—she will could see past the right now and hope for something bigger. That takes strength, and a sort of inner fire. 

So I left feeling 1 part happy that I met a woman who wasn’t afraid to dream, and 1 part sad that her dreams may very well just stay dreams. Humph. 

Fast forward a few weeks, and I cannot get Stela’s story out of my head. I wanted so badly to support her dreams somehow and keep her fire ablaze. I felt like we had that conversation for a reason and even though I tried to ignore it, it just kept coming back, saying “Sarah why not give it a go?”. As I thought through ideas, I realized it was going to be a lot of work…I’ve never really tried to sell anything in my life. I’m not creative. I can barely keep a personal budget, and we live a six-hour trip from the capital city (which is the only place that offers specific materials and services that a clothing business would need). Oh yeah, and we, like, don’t have money. 

At first I was hesitant, but then the ideas just kept snowballing. I looked on Etsy for online shops that were currently selling African-inspired dresses. They were selling between $100 and $300. WHAT. Surely we could sell our dresses for less than $100USD and still ensure Stela earns a fair wage, right? I decided I believed in the idea enough to ask Stela what she thought. Here’s what I told her:

Me: “Stela, I was thinking about the goals you told me about, and I want to help. In the United States we have this website called Etsy, where anyone can go and sell pretty much anything they make. Mostly it’s for clothes, accessories, and art. But really it could be anything. I have the idea that we could try to sell your dresses in the States using Etsy.”

Stela: “What? Mana Sarah…what? Oh my gosh. I would love that. Are you serious?”

Me: “Well, I don’t know how successful we will be because I’ve never done anything like this before. Also, I know it’s going to take a lot of time and a lot of work. We will have to work ahead of time and there’s a risk we might not make any money, even after working hard. But if you see big things for yourself, I want to help you get there. So I’m in if you are.”

Stela: “Nobody has ever believed in me enough to do something like this. I want to try, and I will give it my maximum.”

And there began our journey to creating S&S Mozambelleza. 

“All your dreams can come true if you have the courage to pursue them.”

—Walt Disney

Questions and answers and questions.

Hello! I know that I haven’t blogged in awhile, so I apologize if you’re totally missing my literary voice (sorry Grandma!). The reason I haven’t been writing consistently is because life here just feels normal and nothing super duper exciting or thought-provoking or out of the ordinary has really happened. I’ve settled into a pretty solid routine of teaching, resting, watching Grey’s Anatomy with my roommate, exercising, walking Amêndoa and spending time with my Moz family. I feel good about this balance that I’ve found: it’s healthy. It’s stimulating but not overwhelming; the daily frustrations are manageable and joy continues to show up in even the most unlikely shapes and sizes. 

Normal is a feeling I didn’t expect to have while living here. I am the definition of different from every other person in this community (except for my roommate): An educated white woman. But my life here has become normal. Sleeping under a mosquito net? Normal. Hand washing clothes? Normal. Boiling water with enough time to let it cool before filtering? Normal. Not being able to teach when it’s raining because the sound of the rain on the tin roof overpowers my voice? Normal. Saying hello to every. single. person. in the street—multiple times in the same minute? Normal. 

Then one day last week, I was on my way home from school in the blistering heat and there were a group of bairro crianças (neighborhood kids) hanging out near and climbing a giant tree. This is pretty normal, especially because a lot of our immediate neighbors are still too young to start primary school—they make their own fun using whatever they can find (and boy are they creative). But on that day—likely because of the heat—three of the little boys didn’t have shirts on. And for the first time in gosh knows how long, I noticed their distended bellies, caused by malnutrition. And before I could catch myself I thought “whatever. normal.” and kept walking.

And then I shook my head and crunched up my eyebrows. Like—holy cow. These kiddos could be on those commercials where whoever it is is asking for $0.40 per day to feed starving children. And I just walked by, unaffected. And I have been walking by unaffected for over a year now. It was a shock that I didn’t expect to feel, a stinging slap in the face. Then other things started jumping out at me: The reed house with no windows and only half of a roof. The fact that our gardener’s one room house fits exactly two cots and a giant bag of pig food. People washing their clothes near the water pump every morning on my way to school because bringing clothes to water is much less heavy than bringing water to clothes. Passersby stopping at a nearby well to drink unfiltered water in the midday heat. 

Please note: I’m not writing about these circumstances to evoke pity or guilt. I’m just using this platform to process through this experience called Peace Corps and sometimes that calls for some real talk. 

Then I asked myself, “when did the incredibly-less-than-ideal living situations of my neighbors, friends and students become normal in my eyes?”. And my answer was another question: Did I ever consider it abnormal in the first place? I don’t really remember an initial shock, even when arriving to Namaacha and meeting my host family for the first time. Not once did I think “wow, this is legit poverty”. I don’t remember noticing in real life the broken windows or the holes in the pants that pictures taken a year ago captured. I don’t remember thinking it was weird that Lukenney didn’t have diapers even though he was a not yet potty trained two year old. When I went to open the refrigerator one time at my host house and it completely fell on top of me—the whole door off the hinges—I laughed and hurried to put it back in place before anyone saw…but I didn’t link the wonky fridge door to my family being poor. It was just a broken door and I should really be more careful next time. 

So, as I’m processing through this—my lack of acknowledgement then or now that I’m living in what any American would consider desperate poverty—I wonder if it’s good or bad. Should I have felt worse about the situation of my host family? Should I feel worse about my neighbors who live without electricity or windows? 

And my answer is that likely feeling sad about it isn’t going to change it. But using it as a learning opportunity might. 

The reason why I didn’t think it was weird that Lukenney didn’t have diapers was because he didn’t seem to need them. He wasn’t a child spending days sitting in his own shit. On the contrary, he was immaculately clean, very expressive for his age, happy and given more attention than any other family member. He ate mangoes and danced. He learned what a barriga (belly) was from grandpa and proudly showed his to us at the dinner table. He wrapped a stuffed animal monkey on his back with a capulana and pretended to be like grandma. He liked sugary juice way more than water. The Mickey Mouse stickers I brought with me were the best thing since the toy car the last volunteer left at the house. Despite the lack of financial stability my host family had, Lukenney was a very rich kid. He had love and food and warm baths and toys. He had learning opportunities, two hard-working parents and two grandparents that spoiled him rotten as best they could with the income they made. So, is it true that diapers are a luxury that my host family really couldn’t afford? Yes. That’s true. But did I immediately recognize Lukenney’s lack of paper underwear as a sign of poverty? Nope. Not in the slightest. Because he truly had what every kid needs and contrary to popular belief, diapers don’t need to be on that list. 

And so maybe that’s why it’s easier than expected to overlook the malnourished bellies and the clothes with holes and the houses without windows. The kids with big bellies have smiles on their faces and are running around with their handmade toy cars that use tin cans as wheels. The family without windows sits outside on their straw mat and eats dinner together after a long day. The ladies washing clothes by the water pump sing songs in their local language while they scrub. A camera captured my host father’s shirt with holes and stains, but my memory captured the pride he exuded when he told me that he works at the court. And his perfectly ironed, although a little too big in the booty, work pants. The broken refrigerator door isn’t nearly as big of a deal at the cold cup of sugar-juice Lukenney and I shared at lunch. 

Is life here easy? Nope. Would it be so much more convenient to have air conditioning and running water and a washing machine? Absolutely. Do people here struggle in ways that we can’t even imagine? I believe yes. Would they love to have iphones and brand new clothes and sports cars? I mean, who wouldn’t really? Some people here experience hunger in a way that I can’t even fathom. And 90+% of the population poops in a hole in the ground. Life here isn’t rainbows and butterflies. But does what’s missing define these families? Hell no. What defines them is the support they give each other. The mentality that what I earn is ours, not just mine. That what we have is far more important than what we don’t have. Relationships have more value than things. Hard work is a way of life rather than something to be avoided or dreaded. Mozambique is a relatively young country and I hope it continues to develop in a way that makes life easier for its residents. But experiencing the type of unity and perseverance that is necessary to support a family’s basic needs in this environment is really, really beautiful. 

So perhaps instead of asking myself “why am I not more sad about these circumstances”, I should ask “where can I get more of what they have?”. 

Some typical Moz houses.

He so cool. 

Mmmmangoes.

Lukenney and Grandpa.

Having fun in unlikely places.

HOME.

So, this week for the BloggingAbroad.org blog challenge, I was supposed to write about my home. You all have already seen pictures of my house, so I didn’t want to recap that again. Instead, I wanted to use this platform to discuss whether or not my house here, the place where I sleep and I eat and I bathe, has yet become my home.What does the word “home” mean? Is it different than the word “house”? Let’s look at the definitions:

Home: The place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.

House: A building for human habitation, especially one that is lived in by a family or small group of people. 

The definitions aren’t very different, but the connotations that accompany each word are. The way we typically use the word house in English is to refer to the physical structure purposed with giving people shelter. Home is the comfort, familiarity and memories that come with living in the same house for a long time. 

There are also two words similar to this in Portuguese:  Casa, house, and lar, home. However, casa and lar are not used in the same way that house and home are used in English. Casa refers to the house of your family, where you grew up, or where a single (unmarried) person currently lives. Lar specifically refers to the house you move into with your spouse after you marry. So a person doesn’t have a lar until they get married, whereas everyone who has nightly shelter has a casa of some kind. Further, your casa as a child is your parents’ lar. Your lar as husband and wife will be your children’s casa until they get married and move into a lar of their own. Do you follow?

So, in Portuguese, the transition between casa and lar is pretty straightforward. It’s my casa until my hubby and I move into our lar together. However, in English, the difference between house and home is based more on feelings and less on timeline/life events. When does a house become a home? In American culture, it is entirely possible for a person to make a house into their home without getting married, right? But if holy matrimony isn’t the thing that helps to know when our house becomes a home, then what is it? 

It is when there are 18 pictures on the fridge, stuck on there with 18 magnets you bought as gifts for other people but never gave to them? Is it when at least 4% of the carpet is spotted with tinges from the crackle of the fireplace? When you finally remember which switch in the bathroom is for the fan and which is for the light 24x in a row? When there are more framed pictures on the walls of your kids/dogs/friends than of actual artwork (or blank space)? When the microwave has gunk splatter that’s just going to be there forever, and you’ve officially given up the scrubbing battle? Or when every single piece of home decor is just the way you want it (for now)?

Yes, I am a math person. I like concrete measurements of progress much more than abstract ones. But, this idea of house to home can’t really be measured in the way that math nerds like to measure. It just becomes a home when it does.

Which leads me to my next question: I’m NINE DAYS away from hitting the “year-in-Moz” mark, and I wonder if my house in Manjacaze has yet become my home. I haven’t gotten married, so it’s for sure a casa and not a lar. But, in English, is it a house or a home?

Is it the place where I sleep and I eat and I bathe, or is the the place where I live live? 

I think, after much time settling in, it has become my home, and here’s why:

• I haven’t locked my keys inside my room since the first month living there.
• My room has pictures of Lucy and family and encouraging hand-written letters from home that I refer to on a daily basis.
• We have a place to put coffee grounds and eggshells to improve the quality of the soil in the garden. When I go to other volunteers’ houses, I feel weird throwing eggshells and coffee grounds away.
• I have a morning routine that is flawless: It allows time for bath water to boil, for coffee to be made and drank, to almost forget something important and have to come back for it, and time to snuggle with Amêndoa.
• Tess and I have our specific chairs we sit at when we eat/study/watch Grey’s. Mine is the one on the far side of the table, facing the door. Hers is the chair on the left side of the table. 
• I have a drinking water routine: I boil water in the morning, put it in a pot to cool during the day, and put it in my water filter at night. It filters overnight so that every morning I am greeted with clean, drinkable water.  
• I have become used to people that work with/for the nuns coming in and out of our yard at all hours. Wether it be to replace part of our reed fence with cement blocks, the orphans feeding the pigs, or Mamá Amélia coming to water the garden, I simply say hi and continue with my day. 

That being said, I think that home in English not only refers to the structure itself, but to the community as well. So, what makes a city a home city? I think even in English, a home city is where your family lives, or where you grew up (or both). For me, it’s the place that makes me reminisce about senior prom; Thursday night volleyball games; lung-burning track practices; my first feels-like-you-got-punched-in-the-gut break-up; Rueben the English Bulldog; my mom and my dad and I all living in one house together even though they had been divorced for 14 years; prohibited basement drinking parties; and Thanksgiving dinners. In that sense, Brecksville/Independence, OH definitely is my home city, and Manjacaze never will be. 

But the comfort level I feel here, in this city even only after 10 months of living here, is pretty amazing. I think it would take just as long to feel comfortable moving to a new city within the United States, so I’d say I’m doing ok considering I’m halfway around the globe and very few people here know anything about American culture besides for Hollywood’s portrayal of it. 

And surprisingly, only after 10 months, there are already things to reminisce about, that bring a smile to my face when I think “remember when…”

• Remember when we didn’t have a house to live in and Alex and I were sharing a super small room, with two twin-sized beds and all of our luggage?
• Remember when the first batch of puppies was here to greet us when we arrived?
• Remember when we took the longest way possible to walk to school because we didn’t know the shortcut…and it was the middle of summer…and that damn road had no shade…and it was awfully hot even at 8am?
• Remember when my shower actually worked? oh…that’s a sad one because now it doesn’t. Bucket baths every day…
• Remember our first Christmas here, with sparklers and puppies and a mini-christmas tree and Jameson and Cards Against Humanity?
• Remember when we didn’t have school for a week because nobody could find the keys to the classrooms?
• Remember when I was semi-afraid of Valiente (our gardner)?
• Remember when Amêndoa caught a chicken but didn’t kill it so we had to wander around the neighborhood trying to find its owner? (We never found the owner). 
• Remember when I thought it was an ok idea to hand wash 30+ pieces of clothing at once? Ha, yeah right. Now 10 is my limit. 
• Remember Project Runway nights? We would watch multiple episodes of Project Runway and eat an entire pan of cake. It. Was. Awesome. 

Puppies Round 1

The anonymous chicken and the convicted murderer.

Puppies and Christmas Tree

Sparklers on Christmas

And finally, I don’t think it would be right to talk about the word home without talking about the most important thing that makes a house a home: Family. I have that here, for sure.

Adozinda (our maid) is part of the Manjababes Residence family. She is always looking for ways to help us keep the house in tip top shape. She washes my socks even when I don’t give them to her. She washes the curtains in the living room without having to be asked. She deep cleans our fridge at least once a month. She brings her 3-year-old son over and I lend her books to help him learn Portuguese. He knows me by name and absolutely loves Amêndoa. He can now count to four. 

Mamá Amélia is the woman that comes over every day to water the garden, and she too is part of the Manjababes Residence family. The nuns use food from the garden to feed themselves, the orphans and the nuns-in-training. She always stops and chats (and chats and chats and chats) if I’m home when she arrives. She always leaves veggies on the table for us.  She helps find and cover holes that Amêndoa makes in the reed fence as an attempt to escape the yard. She once told me that even though I’m pretty, that’s not what matters. What matters more is that my heart is pretty, and she knows that it is. 

Valiente is part of the Manjababes Residence family. He tells me good morning every morning. He got mad when I didn’t know there was a well in our yard until two days ago…and proved that the water was drinkable by drinking it straight out of the bucket. When I make cake I ask him to try it and he always says it’s good, even if it’s burnt. 

Mana Tess, the Health Volunteer that lives here, is also a part of the Manjababes Residence family. She’s the person I nerd out to when I think of a creative way to teach a lesson. She’s the person I bitch to when something annoys me to an irrational extent. She lets me make fun of her poor peanut butter making skills. We practice yoga together every night. She understands how annoying it is to be sexually harassed by Mozambican men every day, and what it feels like to not have the right words in the right language to say what you want to say. When I excitedly showed her my new tattoo 17x in one day, she didn’t roll her eyes. We are to each other a daily reminder that progress here is being made, but that it’s still ok to feel lost sometimes.

Mindo, Adozina's son

Mamá Amélia

So, is my house my home? I think in many ways it is. While Manjacaze will never be my home city, the house where I live is also the house that keeps many of my PC Moz memories, and where my current Manjababe family lives. And on the ridiculous, happy, sad, blissful, frustrating journey that is Peace Corps, I’m so grateful to have a home here. 

My Why

I decided to participate in a blogging challenge hosted by blogginabroad.org. Each week for the next 10 weeks, I will be given a prompt to respond to. I’m excited to be encourage to dig into new and different perspectives, and have the opportunity to view my experiences here through slightly different weekly filters. 

The first prompt is called “Your Why” and the goal is to recap the reason I came to Mozambique as a Peace Corps volunteer in the first place. This is especially fitting because I’m 17 days out from being here for an entire year. 

When I decided to join the Peace Corps, I wanted to….drum roll please…make a difference! 

But first, I should give you a little bit of background on why I wanted Africa, and why I was willing to commit to two years:

In 2009, I traveled to Lesotho with a group of service-oriented Wittenberg students, led by an RPCV and one of the best teachers I’ve had the privilege to learn from, Dr. Scott Rosenberg. During this trip, we built playgrounds; painted the walls of kids’ rooms in orphanages; moved cinderblocks up a hill so that the foundation of a house could be made; dug put latrines and constructed chicken coops. As I said, we were a group of 30 college students all really wanting to make a difference. And, we left feeling like we had. 

Playground: Check.

Panted Walls: Check. 

Cinderblocks: Check. 

Latrines: Check.

Chicken Coops: Check.

Chicken Coops.

Playgrounds.

Then, I returned to Lesotho for two weeks in 2014 with a group of Bloom Africa voluntourists. Andrew Steele (a student who was part of the 2009 Lesotho group and founder of BLOOM), brought 7 of us with him on a two-week trip to check in on some projects.We were also able to revisit some of the work started by our 2009 group. I was really, really, really hoping to see young kids playing on the playgrounds we made and kids living in the rooms that we painted and chickens growing healthily in the coops that we built. 

Buuuuut they weren’t. The playgrounds were no longer there, and I assumed that community members took the wood and used it for more critical projects. There were no chickens living in our chicken coops because the coops didn’t hold up. We didn’t check in on the orphanages to know if the kids loved the colorfully painted walls, but in retrospect they were probably too worried about their next meal or dose of ARVs (AIDS medicine) to really “appreciate” the artwork. To say the least, I was super bummed. I wanted to come back and see evidence that our ’09 group did indeed make a difference. And instead I was just irritated, angry and disappointed. We spent most of the 2014 trip having conversations with different community members and learning—from the residents—which directions our projects should take in order to be both beneficial and sustainable. 

It was at the end of that 2014 trip that I realized: If I’m really going to make the impact I desire to make through international service, I’m going to have to live in a community for longer than one month—longer than 6 months, really—to understand the people and culture and needs well enough to respond. So, between early 2014 and mid-2015, I had a voice in the back of my head whispering “Peace Corps Peace Corps Peace Corps”. Two years sounds like both a very long time, and a very short time, depending on the way you look at it. Two years away from family, friend, Lucy, and an actual income: long time. Two years to learn and understand the perspective and needs of a community well enough to be able to create sustainable, outcome-reaching projects and see them through: not that long…perhaps, even, too short. 

I wanted to live somewhere long enough to be able to immerse myself in the culture, the people and the day-to-day. I had been to Lesotho twice, and although the country captured my heart, the longest period of time I was there was a month…and that’s definitely not long enough to truly know a place. 

So I did it. I applied and jumped through 1,000 medical clearance hoops and quit my job and sold my stuff and moved to Mozambique. Why? To make a difference, duh! But more specifically, to live in a community long enough to become part of it. To introduce new ways of teaching that can be fun, engaging and relatable. To learn from the residents what they need and why. To see firsthand the capacities they have and challenges they face. To work alongside active, motivated community members in order to create sustainable projects that directly respond to those needs and challenges. 

So here I am, quickly nearing the “year in Moz” mark. 

1. Am I on my way to completing my Why? 

2. Is my Why still the same, or has it changed? 

3. Is my Why even feasible? 

Answers: Yes, I think so. Kind of. Yes, definitely. 

My Why hasn’t really changed. Each day I strive to make some progress, even if very little, on understanding my neighbors, students and colleagues. I try to embrace the culture, accept it and respond the challenges through the lens of Manjacaze’s culture (although more often than not it’s way more frustrating than it sounds). Because I’ve been trying to do that for about a year now, projects have started taking shape organically, lead not only by me, but by other community members as well. 

Evidence to make me believe I am completing my Why, albeit slowly:

My Students are Learning.

I came to class as Princess Sohcahtoa on Tuesday, in order to teach the trigonometric functions Sin, Cos, Tan. Sohcahtoa is an acronym to remember which sides of a right triangle work with which functions: Sin: Opposite Hypotenuse Cosine: Adjacent Hypotenuse Tangent Opposite Adjacent. SOHCAHTOA. Get it? So, I showed up as Princesa Sohcahtoa and explained how I obtained my royal name. It had to do with surprising my father, the king, with my vast knowledge of right triangles. The students LOVED it. They laughed, they joked, and most importantly, they answered all of my subsequent practice questions correctly. They told me that they had learned about Sin Cos Tan in previous years, but this time they would surely not forget it. 

Princesa Sohcahtoa

I Don’t Get as Mad When Kids are Don’t Show Up to Meetings.

I have an English Theater group, and we have written a short (10-minute-or-less) script, in English on the theme “Empower Girls, Empower the World”. We will participate in a competition against groups from different cities in Gaza at the end of September. During the meeting when we wrote the script, it wasn’t prohibitive if a student didn’t show up…we would just write their lines without them. However, now that we have everything written and are needing to practice, everyone should to be present. At first, I would get really frustrated with students who came late or just didn’t come at all. I would think it was demonstrative of lacking respect for myself, my counterpart, Filipe, and the rest of the group. 

Then, last week, only 4 students out of 8 showed up to practice. We couldn’t do anything. We sat around for an hour and waited and when nobody else showed up, everyone went home, nothing accomplished. These damn kids have no respect, I thought.

Then the next day at school, I talked to the 4 that didn’t show up, and here is why they didn’t show up:

Nélcia’s mom made her start cooking dinner and wouldn’t let her leave. 

Merídio was on his way out the door when his father told him to go fetch water.

Ramiro was sick with what he thought was Malaria.

Evinêlia was too embarrassed to come because she thinks she doesn’t speak as well as the rest of the students in our group.

After hearing these reasons for their absence (note, I didn’t say excuses), I realized that this had nothing to do with their lack of respect, and everything to do with cultural priorities. After school hours (for these students it’s 7am-12pm), they have an obligation to help keep things running smoothly around the house. Everyone works hard to make sure that their families are fed and clean and have a place to sleep. For Nélcia and Merídio, domestic responsibilities trumped extracurricular activities that day, and probably always will.  Ramiro doesn’t use a mosquito net because his dad took the one he got for free at the hospital and now uses it to catch fish. His family doesn’t have the funds to buy another one. When I talked to Evinêlia, she said that she knows the boys are better than her at English and she didn’t want to be embarrassed. Also, I’m pretty sure she has a crush on another group member, which doesn’t help (think back to your high school days…). I tried to explain to her that the reason she wanted to participate in the first place was to practice speaking and learn more words. She said she thought that she wanted to but now she has too much fear of messing up. Although I wanted so badly to convince her to stick with it, I could tell her mind was made up. Her feelings are a reflection of what happens on a daily basis in the classroom: boys volunteer to answer questions more because they have more confidence. Although I don’t agree with her quitting because she’s nervous, I understand why she did. The theme is “Empower Girls, Empower the World” because it’s a message that needs to be heard and acted upon. 

That day taught me to be more patient with my students and to give them the benefit of the doubt. It reminded me to filter the situation through the lens of this culture instead of projecting my American perspective on my Mozambican students’ actions. 

English Theater Practice: Filipe and Merídio.

I Challenged Stela to Dream Big, and She Accepted. 

Currently Peace Corps is putting a huge focus on girls’ education because girls face many challenges that hinder them from finishing secondary school. As I’ve written about before, girls drop out for a plethora of reasons, including (but not limited to) pregnancy, premature marriage, domestic responsibilities, or financial trouble. The odds really are against them.

In digging deeper into the issue of female drop-outs, I noticed something interesting, yet very sad: girls don’t have high expectations for themselves. On some occasions when I have asked a girl what she wants to do after secondary school, a few girls have told me they want to be a nurse or a teacher or a lawyer. One student, Berta, wants to be a journalist. However, this is not the norm: many of them say “I don’t know” or “I want to have a family” or “I’m going to be a mother”. Girls don’t get exposure to possibilities for their futures outside of what they see here in Manjacaze every day. They see women in the market selling vegetables and calamidades (second-hand clothing); they see women on the street selling bread; they see women in the fields cultivating crops; they see women carting water on their heads from the pump to their homes; they see women with children on their backs and in their arms and walking next to them holding their hands. They see a group of Mães sitting under a big tree once a week learning Portuguese because they missed out on an education when they were younger. They see women as nuns, which is positive, but being a nun goes against so many societal expectations here: nuns won’t get married and have babies, and that is pretty much the definition of a Mozambican female’s responsibility. I imagine that choosing not to do that feels scary and foreign to many girls. 

I miss living in a world where kids are challenged to push themselves, to dream big, to think outside the box. To set goals and work their butts off to achieve them. Here, the mentality is more “this is what my mom did, and this is what my mom’s mom did, so this is what I’m going to do too”. 

Then one day, I found an opportunity to push that envelope. I was dropping off a capulana at a local seamstress’s shop, and we started chatting. I was still very new to Manjacaze and I didn’t know Stela very well. I asked her if she was from Manjacaze; she said no, that she was from Maputo (the country’s capital) and that she moved to Manjacaze to get married. She said that she never planned to be a seamstress and sell second-hand clothes, but since she got married and moved here, she really didn’t have a choice. “There aren’t as many opportunities for work here as there are in Maputo”, she said. She had regret in her voice, as if she missed out on a “better life”, even though she very much loves her husband and has three beautiful children.

I said, “Well, you’re still young. If you could do anything as a profession, what would it be?”

And, after a few minutes of thinking, she replied, “I didn’t plan to be a seamstress, but now since I am one, I’m fine with it.”

WOMP WOMP.

So, I pushed. “Ok, but that’s not what I asked. I said, if you had your choice of doing anything, what would it be? Don’t think em realidade, just pensar grande. Think big.

She thought a little while longer, a smile came upon her face, and she finally said, “well, I actually like being a seamstress now. And I think I’m good at it. What I would really love is to keep learning and getting better at what I do. Then, I would want to sell my dresses outside of Manjacaze and tal vez (perhaps) maybe even outside of Mozambique. I would like for women from anywhere to feel beautiful in my dresses”. 

Now we’re talkin’ girlfriend! 

I told her that was an awesome dream, and I don’t think very far out of reach. She looked at me like I was nuts. 

I asked, “if you were presented with the opportunity to work really really hard to make that happen, would you be willing to? I mean…really really hard.”

She said, “yes of course! You cannot be good at something or have success without hard work. I would give it my maximum”.

That conversation allowed me to see a sparkle in her eye, which is very rare around this town. For one small second, I saw hope, ambition and a desire for more than right now. I was inspired.

Now, Stela and I are currently working to start up an Etsy store so that she can sell her handmade dresses in the States. When I came to her with the idea she cried, and told me she would trust me to lead us in the right direction and follow with strength. Before the day was over, she was already drawing up ideas for dresses. We decided on a name for our store: S&S Mozambelleza (S&S for Stela and Sarah, and Mozambelleza because belleza means ‘beauty’ in Portuguese). We then chose our material, and now Stela is in the process of creating 4 different looks. After the looks are complete and models (our friends) are photographed, S&S Moz will officially open for business.  

I am so excited to support Stela in realizing her big dream. I want not only Stela, but other girls I work with, to understand that Big Things can’t happen unless you Dream Big. 

Stela hard at work with her youngest child on her back.

Stela, her son and me picking out dress fabric.

To end, after about a year here in Mozambique, my Why continues to drive my daily work. Whether it be students, friends, seamstresses, I feel like somebody around here is always teaching me something, and I try to respond with my own teaching as well. 

Am I “saving the world”? Nah, I don’t think so. But am I bringing joy, inspiration, and embarrassingly adorable math nerdiness to my community? I think yes. And that’s all I really need to keep me going.