every moment a lesson

Coming to Mozambique, there was no question that I would be offered different perspectives on things. I wasn’t sure if it would be some things, or all the things, but I knew I would leave here different…and I hoped, and still hope, different in the best way. These past few weeks have encouraged me to challenge myself in the way I see people and situations, both inside of and outside of the classroom. 

My thoughts…

…On Cheating.

I have no tolerance for it. In the States cheating is more than just “frowned upon”, it’s forbidden. If you get caught doing it, you not only receive a bad grade, but you could be kicked out of school,for good. “Cheating is bad” has been ingrained in our noggins since we were old enough to understand what cheating was. Teachers would make us use folders to make a fort on our desks so our fellow classmates couldn’t peak at our work. Some college professors make you submit papers to a certain website to ensure a student didn’t purchase his/her work. Looking over your mate’s (I’m reading a book set it Ireland right now by Tana French) shoulder to double check that #8 was in fact C could get you sent to the princpal’s office…or worse. So, naturally, coming here I already knew that cheating was going to be something I just plain and simply would not tolerate.

I gave my first test last week, four weeks into the school year. Over those four weeks, we learned exactly six vocabulary words relating to mathematical logic. We did what seemed like gazillions of practice problems. We reviewed truth tables multiple times. We decided if simple statements such as “My name is Sarah” were true or false. We did the same for numerical statements such as 1+1=2. Four pages of a text book over and over again until I thought the students were so bored they might die. Then we played a Jeopardy style review game—they went nuts for that. I wrote on the board the list of topics that would be covered on the test. They had a week and a half to study. The average scores of each of my classes were: 10, 12, 11.6 and 10.4 (all scores out of 20 points). Even though students were able to stand up and recite the information to me before and after the test, what they wrote down did not match what they actually knew. And I didn’t—and still don’t—understand the disconnect. 

I also gave 22 students a grade of exactly zero points, for cheating. I warned them before starting the test that if I saw them copying work from another student, I would take their paper, give them a zero and ask them to leave. There would be no room for discussion and they would not have the opportunity to retake the test. I gave verbal and non-verbal warnings to students before taking their papers and drawing big fat tragic red zeros on the top of their papers. I am a fun, nice, incentive system-implementing, joke-about-my-portuguese, sometimes-speak-in-English-on-accident, want-to-know-my-students-as-people, patient teacher who prefers to lift my students up rather than highlight their faults and ignore their accomplishments (like many of my colleagues tend to do).  Yes. I am all of those things, and I am proud of that. But I also have expectations of honesty and hard work. And if you as a student, cannot adhere to my simple and fair expectations, you can leave right now. Becsuse if you’re going to earn your grade dishonestly, why try at all?

#endrant

…On Beauty

I made a friend named Sonia. She is 12 years old. I met her because one day her mother approached our gardener, Valiente, and asked if I could help her because her daughter is fat. (Did I mention that she is 12 years old?) Her mother said that she wanted her daughter to come exercise with me because she needs to lose weight. As a person who has relatively recently “recovered” from an eating disorder, I can boldly say right now that that’s pretty fucked up. Sorry for the language, but if you read my blog post about mental illness, you understand why this topic causes me to cuss like a sailor. Anyways, I agreed to work with her, mostly because I wanted to combat the negative feedback she was getting from her family about her body. A 12 year old girl, even in a country like Mozambique—or perhaps especially in a country like Mozambique—should not be scrutinizing her own body, or having her body be scrutinized by others.

Our first couple sessions were pretty informal. We did jumping jacks, high knees, plank, lunges, squats, windmills, arm circles, etc. It was pretty much like middle school gym minus balls (soccer balls, footballs, or boys’ balls…because it was just Sonia and I…see what I did there?). 

Then our third session was when I felt like we knew each other well enough to start asking some questions that were really weighing on me. I asked her why she wanted to do exercise with me, and this is what she said: “I want to get smaller because right now I am ugly”. I think in that moment my heart broke a little bit. I told her that exercising is a good way to make your body healthier and stronger. I told her she didn’t need to lose weight to be beautiful; that she already is beautiful. I told her that she is smart. I told her that I like spending time with her. I told her that if she didn’t enjoy doing exercise with me, that we could do other things such as read books, color, go for walks, or practice English. I told her that working out is a healthy habit and that the goal of working out should be to have fun and make your body stronger. I told her that if she worked towards staying healthy, her body would be exactly the size it wants to be.

I told her about my eating disorder. I told her that I used to be very afraid of gaining weight. I told her it controlled my life. I told her that I got very sick because I was very skinny but I was not healthy. I told her I was always tired and never had any energy. I told her I became afraid of food. I told her I did exercise to get skinny and I got very sick and I was sad and tired all the time. I told her I didn’t believe I was beautiful. She told me that she didn’t understand how I could think I was ugly. I told her I didn’t understand how she could think she is ugly. I told her intelligence is beautiful. Strength is beautiful. Being a good big sister is beautiful. Being a good student is beautiful. Being honest is beautiful. Helping your friends is beautiful. And that she has and does all of those things. Every time I see her, I subtly give her affirmations relating to her role as a sister, a daughter, a friend and a student. I tell her that she is beautiful. 

And she says thank you. 

Sonia, her brother Jelson and I after a workout session.

…On Women and Hard Work. And Moms. 

Mana Marta is a woman that lives nearby who has become my friend. Her daughter is 16 and one of my students, her son goes to night school and works during the day. Her other daughter has finished secondary school and is studying higher education in Maputo (the country’s capital). She has one more little boy but he’s always off being a rascal with other neighborhood boys, so I don’t interact with him much. Mana Marta works in the district medical office. She has credentials to be a doctor but got promoted to a job that is similar to hospital management. She is also a singer, and her singing group gets paid to preform around Mozambique. She is a seamstress and is working on making me a dress as we speak. Her husband works for the Red Cross in Maputo and comes home on the weekends. She owns a barraca, which is a small shop that sells things like sugar, flour, whiskey, crackers, sandals, soda, beer, cigarettes, etc. A smorgasbord of Mozambican essentials, if you will. She goes once a week to check stocks and make sure the people who work there are doing their jobs.  She maintains four jobs to support her family. She works from 7am-4pm at the hospital office and spends her other time making dresses, performing and managing her shop. Oh yeah, and being the mother of four children—three of which still live in her house. She is also a wonderful friend and is always willing to sit on her porch and talk to me, correct my Portuguese, encourage me when I talk about teaching challenges, and share her perspective on Mozambican culture. I’m so glad I found her and her family. (Also her daughter got the highest test score out of all of my 200 students so props to her!). 

One day Mana Marta and I were talking about how men in Mozambique like to have multiple wives. She says there are laws prohibiting more than one spouse, but many men do not follow it. I told her I don’t like this, and that it’s better to be a man’s only woman. She agreed, and told me that her church feels that way too—one man and one woman should promise to be faithful forever. We were on the same page.

Then she said “I am one of three”. I said excusemewhat. I have met her husband. He seemed nice and hardworking and benevolent. But the moment she told me that, I wanted to find him and kick him in the gooneys (remember I’m reading a book set in Ireland). Instead of doing that—Maputo is at least 4 hours away—I asked her why she puts up with that nonsense. And she said: I am a mother first and foremost and I need to keep my family together. She said “my children need a father and I cannot take that away from them”. She said that she could not support them by herself. I saw both sadness and strength in her eyes when she told me those things. 

It’s easy to think that women who stay in shitty situations are weak, or not brave, or that perhaps they could do more to better their own situations. And maybe in some cases they could. But Mana Marta is doing everything she possibly can to provide for her family. She has capitalized on every identifiable way that she can use her skills to generate income to support her family. And yet she is stuck in a situation where she is one of three wives and doesn’t like it one bit. But she swallows her personal feelings on the matter, keeps her head up, and works her ass of every single day so that her children go to school with appropriate uniforms, that they have food to eat, and—perhaps most importantly, so that they can have an incredible role model that demonstrates honesty, dedication and hard work every single day.

I see many of my own mother’s qualities in her: strength, compassion and love…and a “do anything for your kid no matter what” mentality. It’s quite beautiful, and I am glad to be her friend. 

Joy and pain and everything in between.

When you’re little, you don’t really pick up on who is “good” and who is “bad”. Sometimes, even, you think you know who is “good” or “bad”, but it’s for all the wrong reasons—the person that makes you eat broccoli at dinner is “bad” and the person who lets you eat ice cream for breakfast is “good”. But as kids, characteristics like honesty, wisdom and selflessness don’t really play a role in our judgement of people. At least not regularly.  But then as we grow up, that changes. We slowly begin to realize that people who tell lies likely won’t make good friends; people who can help us grow do. And people who are only looking out for themselves? Well, they can hang out with themselves...alone. Throughout my high school years, college years, and adult life, I like to think I’ve surrounded myself with some pretty incredible people. Fellow athletes, sorority sisters, math nerds, neighbors who become best friends, colleagues, etc.  While my social circles throughout the years have changed, the people that I have become closest to posses some of the most beautiful qualities: honesty, a desire to give back; silliness; dependability; drive; and empathy. The list goes on. I am so proud to know, have grown from, receive love from and give love to my closest friends and family. They really are some stand-up folks.

But then every once in awhile, someone enters your life—or in my case has been there since the very beginning and you eventually notice—who is a perfect pearl in the midst of all the already-gems that your life has produced. Somebody who you think “wow. that person is good in the best way. I hope, by some immaculate alignment of the stars, that I can be like them someday”. If you haven’t experienced that yet, I hope that you do, because it’s really beautiful. It took me a long time to realize that I have a few perfect pearls in my life. People who I hope to continue to be more like as I grow older, because of their compassion; giant heart; knowledge about the world; impact they have had and continue to have on others’ lives; the choices they’ve made and their ability to overcome obstacles. This “why list” could go on, and on, but I think you get my point. 

Two of my pearls are my Grandma Ginnie and my Grandpa Nick. 

I think it took me until college to realize that my grandma and grandpa were amazing people, and not just because I was their only granddaughter and they did what most grandparents do best—spoiled me. It was because they are two of the most beautiful, classy, respectful, giving people I have ever known. Every choice they make is thought through carefully, every word they say is with love, and the way they treat each other is with more respect than a typical marriage calls for. They are both incredibly hard-working people, attentive and loving parents, reliable friends, and if you happen to be a stranger who somehow intersected paths with them, you should consider yourself lucky. I’m sure they impacted you in some positive way, even if very small.

Likely you’ve noticed by now that this post doesn’t have squat to do with Mozambique. That’s true, but I encourage you to keep reading. There is something far more beautiful, albeit tragically sad, on my heart. This past Sunday, during the wee hours of the morning, Grandpa Nick passed away after being diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer only three weeks before. I woke up to a text message from my mom yesterday (Monday) morning telling me the news. I was crushed. Having never lost anyone super close to me, I was hit with a bunch of emotions at once: shock, panic, regret, guilt, worry, and extreme sadness. As the day passed and I called on some of my closest friends to listen to me cry, I was able to process through the news and gather myself. And now I realize that, even though it sucks now and this hurt comes from a place in my body that I didn’t know existed and it feels like it’s tearing my heart to shreds and it might never go away, I am lucky to be feeling it. This pain is real and overwhelming and breathtaking, because he was one of the best people that I have ever known. If he wasn’t so great, if our memories together weren’t truly magical, or if he had had any less than a tremendously beautiful and positive impact on my life, I wouldn’t be hurting this much. Every ounce of pain is worth every ounce of love we have poured into our relationship, and right now, even though it sucks worse than anything, I wouldn’t trade it if I had the chance.  

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to post about this—my grandpa (who wasn’t the biggest fan of computers and didn’t really “get” the whole “internet thing”) or my hurt (like I said, paralyzing). But then I thought about all the people in my circle who didn’t have the privilege of knowing this man, and I want to share some of the beautiful moments we had together and some of the lessons that will stick with me forever. I don’t think any handful of stories, or adjectives, or even interactions can demonstrate how incredible Grandpa Nick is, but I hope this post will inspire you to be a little more like whatever it is you’re wanting to be. Some lessons from Grandpa Nick that have helped me become the woman I am, and hopefully will speak to you as well:

Be intentional about noticing the little things. They matter.

Grandpa Nick found great joy in noticing the little things. Whether it be a rambunctious squirrel hanging upside down from a bird-feeder, Grandma Ginnie’s new rhinestone-studded jeans, or my dad’s embarrassing sunburn after a long day at the pool, Grandpa Nick noticed. Not only did he notice, but he let himself take in all the details of the situation. When I was little he would point out a squirrel far off in the yard, predict that it would come eat bird food out of the feeder, and we would watch its every move out the back sliding door. He would narrate our very own here-and-now squirrel adventure until it scurried off out of sight. While there are probably millions—literally millions— of squirrels in Minnesota, Grandpa noticed one in particular and made a moment out of it. We both got lost in this seemingly meaningless story together for 2, 5, 10, however many minutes before going on with our day. One random squirrel eating the wrong type of food on a summer day in Minnesota may not seem like much, but I’m writing about it now, years later, which must count for something—a lot if you ask me.  

I used to love to draw when I was little. I would visit them each summer and winter and with me I would bring a whole array of markers, crayons, colored pencils, etc. I remember sitting on the couch with Grandpa Nick multiple times explaining my drawings to him. He would study the curve of my letters, challenging me to write and rewrite words I did not know. He would ask me questions about why I liked certain colors better than others. Asked me why I colored a house purple if in real life it was brown. He would ask me to write in print and in cursive and we would compare the differences. Looking back, I understand now that this was his way of getting to know me by speaking my language. His desire to understand the thought process of me, when I didn’t quite understand my own thought process, was large and intentional. At the time I likely thought I was participating in drills to become a better student, but now I know it was his way of learning about me and how my brain works. Not only was he really great at noticing the little things, he was really great at making me feel not only noticed, but understood. I don’t think everyone has that ability, but he sure did.

Pick your battles.

One of my earliest memories with grandpa Nick is playing catch. We were at Leech Lake, in Minnesota tossing the ball back and forth and I had not yet learned how to use a mitt. I was really good at throwing and catching bare-handed, but he wanted me to learn how to catch like a true baseballista. But I didn’t want anything to do with it. He gave me the mitt, I tried to use it a couple of times, and then I would throw it in the grass and continue to use my bare hand. He kept encouraging me to try the mitt, because once I got the hang of it, he said, I would be even better at catching the ball. But I kept saying no way. Finally, he dropped it and let me continue to catch with my bare hand and we had a great time that summer playing catch every single day for two weeks straight…without mitts. Fast forward to 7th grade fast-pitch softball, final game of the summer, one out to go, and I caught a line drive back to the pitcher (me) with my right bare hand to win the game. Thanks grandpa; I’ll give partial credit to your letting me get away with not using a mitt for an entire summer. 

One spring break in 7th grade, my good friend Nikki and I went to visit Grandma and Grandpa over Spring Break. At the time, our families were both going through hard times and we lived in households that had a lot of fighting. Parents argued loudly and often, and naturally we became a huge support system for each other. One day during our trip to Florida, we asked Grandma and Grandpa if they ever fight. Even in 7th grade we realized that their relationship was peaceful and filled with mutual respect. Grandma replied “I think we fought once…yes, we did have one fight. Back in our first year of marriage.” Nikki and I looked at each other in disbelief. One fight? After over 40 years of marriage? Yes, they said, just one, and it was over before the next day came: Grandpa had gone on a fishing trip with his buddies and grandma stayed home. Grandma was under the impression that he would come home that night, but grandpa was planning to stay overnight and come home the next day. When it started getting dark Grandma was getting worried because Grandpa wasn’t back yet. She called his mother, who in turn called Grandpa and told him he needs to come home because Ginnie is worried (and probably a little pissed too—I added that part myself). Grandpa said that he wanted to stay, but then after talking to an upset Grandma Ginnie decided to come home. And that was the end of the fight. A miscommunication happened, she was upset, he didn’t want her to be upset, so he came home. The end. And forty + years later...not another fight to speak of. 

Don’t Rush. The best things will come with time. 

I could tell you a story about fishing on Leech Lake and how we would wait all day and not catch anything, but it was still fun and worth it because we were together. Or I could tell you the story about how my grandma and grandpa first dated each other’s best friends before realizing that the friends needed to go because they were meant to fall in love with each other. Or I could tell you a story about how my grandpa never rushed my grandma even though she takes forever to get out the door (sorry grandma but it’s true). But one conversation I had recently with him sticks out to me most, so I’m going to tell that one. 

A couple Easters ago, I planned to visit them as I did every Spring, I was going to bring my current boyfriend with me to meet them. Then, before the trip, he and I realized that we were better as friends and Zack didn’t end up coming. At some point during my solo trip, the topic of men/dating/marriage, etc. came up. Being 25 at the time and still single while pictures of engagement rings, wedding cakes and sonograms flood my Facebook feed was not easy. Trying to balance the feelings of being ecstatic for my friends without also wondering what’s wrong with me. I told my grandparents how I was feeling so torn on the topic: Content with my work life, my friend life, my role as a colleague and a friend and a dog-owner, but also missing the romance piece of the puzzle. Feeling as though at that point in my life, I didn’t want to be there quite yet, but it was hard to see everyone else experience a “typical timeline”, on which I was behind. My grandpa gave me wise words. He told me that the friendships I’m building, and the job experience I’m gaining, and the life that I am living is exactly as it should be. He said that he has no doubt that the right man will come along at the exact right time and everything leading up to that will make some sense. It will all just fit. As it should. When it should. My grandma agreed (because who couldn’t agree with that, really?). They both encouraged me to continue to work hard and grow and love and live and the rest will work itself out. It may seem like obvious advice, but it’s so much easier to believe and internalize when it comes from two people who you love and respect so dearly. I remember this advice often and it always brings me comfort. Just be where you are right now, and everything will work itself out.

And considering where I’m at right now, here in Mozambique, my life changing, and hopefully others’ lives changing because of my presence here—I’d say his words are true. 

Never be Ashamed of your Sweet Tooth.

My grandpa is quirky and hilarious and always got really excited about food. That’s easy to do when you’re married for over half a century to a woman who could show up Emerald or Rachel Ray any day of the week. (Grandma’s reading this thinking “oh Sarah, stahp it!” but it’s true). He would get excited about the creamy oyster stew at christmas, cream cheese crab dip grandma would whip up for happy hour, mashed potatoes were everyone’s favorite and sausage-sage stuffing has been eaten every year at Thanksgiving for as long as I can remember. And that would be enough to make the statement “grandpa appreciates good food” true. But when you enter the desserts arena, everything intensifies. 

Whether it be pumpkin pie, peanut brittle, homemade hot fudge with vanilla ice cream, or store bought chocolate chip cookies, grandpa went nuts over desserts. His sweet tooth was no joke, and he was proud of it. If he knew grandma was baking something for that night, he would talk about it all day. Scoops on the Beach is an ice cream shop in Florida, and when I visited we went multiple nights in a row. I think my most favorite dessert memory was us debating on which version of Oreo was the best. We were currently eating the triple-decker kind with one middle filled with regular creme and one with chocolate. We both agreed that we liked them, but they were too different from the original. After also talking about the birthday cak, lemon and mint versions, we came to the agreement that Double Stuffed was indeed the best oreo ever made. Grandma then of course brought them back after her next grocery store trip and grandpa and I went to town. So many Oreos, so little time. 

Also, that one time I baked him cookies and he told me they were the best chocolate chip cookies he ever had. Then I told him they were vegan and completely blew his mind. He never thought he would like anything labeled vegan, and I proved him wrong. Win!

This past February, just a few weeks before grandpa died, I received this email from grandma. (Background: she hadn’t been baking or cooking much because her arthritis has been bothering her, so she and grandpa would eat in the cafeteria of their living community):

We don’t do big for Valentine;s day, but do exchange meaningful Valentines, which is always a heartwarming renewal of love, even if expressed every day of the year.  I did bake grandpa a homemade cherry pie, which he always liked in February. Surprisingly, it turned out pretty well.

His final dessert was a homemade cherry pie from grandma for Valentine’s day, accompanied with a handwritten valentine. An organic and genuine expression of love. I don’t think he would have traded his last sweet for anything else. 

Things that I will never forget about grandpa Nick:

• The way he would put the car in park at every stop sign or stop light. I think to save gas.
• The way that he escorted grandma to her side of the car and shut her door for her, then ran around the other side to help her out of the car when they got to their destination every single time.
• He said multiple times a day that he would never be able to live without grandma. I believe that’s true.
• He accidentally went to Warped Tour when he was over the age of 80. His biggest take-away from that experience was all the different colors of hair he saw at the event.
• When I went to visit in July before joining Peace Corps, he was eager to talk about Mozambique and he had printed out multiple maps and articles of Mozambique from the internet. He couldn’t believe the nation’s capital was so far south. 
• The way he called me Miss America. More times than calling me Sarah, I think.
• He didn’t like hummus because he thinks the name sounds weird. He likes the way that hummus tastes but can’t bring himself to eat it because the name “sounds gross”. 
• Same as above but with yogurt.
• The time when he admitted that my tattoos are good art work, even though he doesn't condone them. (He also said "somebody take this girl's passport away before she gets more!")
• The way he spit out Almond Milk into the sink one time when I told him to try it. “That’s not milk! I’m never drinking that again! If it doesn't come from a cow you can't call it milk!” he said.
• The way he would give anything to see my dad happy. Anything.
• He made the perfect Manhattan.
• He ate really fast and Grandma eats really slow but he would never dig into the dessert until she was ready.
• His favorite joke: “If your nose runs and your feet smell then you’re built upside down”.

My grandma and grandpa have had Happy Hour every evening for as long as I can remember. Right at 5:00pm they would pour drinks and my grandma would put out appetizers. When I was little I accidentally called it “happy time” once—as a kid I just knew it as awesome snacks meant to spoil my dinner. After only one mistake, it stuck, and for 20 years now grandma and grandpa have had Happy Time every day at 5pm. Their neighbors and friends call it Happy Time and more often than not, someone wanders through their door around 5pm without warning to join them for a drink and some snacks. We have had many wonderful Happy Times together—the best family stories get told at Happy Time, and we all laugh and sip and nibble and it’s the best thing.

My Grandpa’s Celebration of Life will happen on April 20th, and it is called:

Nick Braden’s Final Happy Time.

And that makes me smile. And cry. And smile again. I love him.

I hope that gives you a little glimpse on the special man that Grandpa Nick was. Hard working, respectful, selfless and silly. Like I said before, mere adjectives, or even stories will not do this man justice. I’m happy to have shared little bits of him with the rest of the world, and I hope he’s reading this now from wherever he is, and believing that every word I’ve written about him is done so with love and joy and pain, and with a great appreciation for the man that he was and the lives that he touched.