Peace Love & Polygons: Dallas No. Kansas No. Manjacaze Yes.

I wrote before about integration—what it is or isn’t and how long it takes and how do you know if you’re “integrated” etc. After approximately nine months at site, I wanted to write a [hopefully insightful] update on where I’m at in terms of that incredibly abstract goal that all PCVs have called integration.

By definition, integration means the intermixing of people or groups that were previously segregated. Although we typically think of “segregation” as being between races, and it’s true that my community is large majority black, and I’m obviously white, this is not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the intermixing part. I want to be a member of the community that is more than just physically living here in my beautiful almost-paradise quintal (fenced-in yard) and my flushing toilet. I want my neighbors to know me, know why I’m here and know about the work I do. I want my students to understand what makes me super happy with them, or so angry with them that I can’t spit out Portuguese so I scream at them in English. I want to contribute projects that are not only needed by the community, but are also driven by it. I want my colleagues to trust that I care first and foremost about my students’ learning, and follow my lead in terms of commitment to the job.

Back in January, in this post, I mentioned some ways that indicated I was taking baby steps towards integration:

Some neighborhood kids know my name is Sarah.
I made one friend (Filipe).
A Mãe in the market says hi to me.
I had a conversation with some men and we didn’t talk about sex and marriage the entire time.
I did some work at school, which didn’t require much of my abundant intelligence. (That was kind of a joke kind of).
People comment on my Portuguese.
People acknowledge me when I run, but don’t laugh at me.
I hear more “Sarah” than “Mulungu”.

And, in retrospect, after living here for a month and a half, I think that was a good start. But now, 7 months and 2 school trimesters later, I have some more updates. And they are exciting and make me smile. I hope they make you smile too.

I Feel Like a Real Teacher with Medium-to-High Effectiveness.

The proof is in the pudding…or the protesting…

Andy and I went to Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe to run a half marathon in early July. I took a full week off of school, which was approved by the school director. I left each Chefe de Turma (boss of the class) with materials that should be reviewed and worked on while I was out. I would be collecting their work when I returned from my trip. All went well. Then, I was invited to a Let Girls Learn conference in Maputo only a week later. My director said that I, along with my counterpart Amada and a student Berta, could go as long as I had another 11th or 12th grade math teacher cover my classes. Fair enough. I appreciate that my school director holds me accountable for my work, while also understanding that there are other things I want/need to do over the two years I am here. So I asked my Delegado (the dude who is in charge of all the math teachers for 11th and 12th grade) if he could help me get my classes covered and he said that it wouldn’t be a problem.

So, with plans for my classes to be covered by either Arçéncio or Sombolai (note I am the only female math teacher out of 14 at my school #proud #letgirlsbemathnerds), the only thing left to do was to tell my students to expect one of those two dudes next Friday because I had to go to Maputo for Peace Corps work. I assumed that their reactions would be something like “okay whatever, prof. Most teachers don’t show up anyways so we probably wouldn’t have noticed or cared”. But instead, here’s what happened:

Me: Okay guys listen up. I know I was just gone last week, but I will be missing Friday as well. I have to go to Maputo for a conference and the director gave me permission as long as another teacher comes to give my lesson. So, on Friday either Arçénio or Sombolai will be here teaching in my place. Está bem? Is that fine? (I assumed that was a rhetorical question).

Students: NOOOOOO!!!! TEACHER NOOOOO! We can’t learn anything from them! They can’t teach us anything that we will actually understand!

Me: What? They teach math so they already know what they’re doing. Não estou a entender. I am not understanding.

Students all quiet down, and Nélcia, daughter of Mana Marta, stands up and explains:

Nélcia: Teacher. We can’t learn from them. We had them in other years and they don’t teach us, they just talk and don’t explain. Não apanhamos a informação. We don’t grasp the material. Só podemos aprender de Professora Sarah. Não os outros. We can only learn from Teacher Sarah. Not the others. [Other students loudly agree] Sim, é isso! Yes. That.

Well, after experiencing a brief moment of pride-inducing speechlessness, I made an agreement with my students that I wouldn’t have the other teachers teach anything new, and that they would just practice topics we already learned.

Roughly the same dialogue happened when I told my other two classes the plan for that Friday. While it made me feel a little uneasy about missing class, it also was very reassuring. I found a way to present my material that allows my students to really grasp it, instead of just writing confusing notes and hoping for the best on test day.

I mean, that’s the most important job of a teacher, right?

Some of my favorite students.

Sarah Novele?

I have a family here in Manjacaze. I’ve talked about them a little before, but the longer I live here, the more part of the family I become. The Novele’s, Mana Marta, Ércio (21yo), Nélcia (15yo), Selma (12yo) and Lindo (7yo), live about a 5-minute walk away from me. To paint a picture of their house: The main structure is L-shaped and made of all reed without windows. There is a tin roof and open-air gaps separate the roof from the walls. There is one door for entrance, which doesn’t quite fit in the door frame so it’s a struggle to open/close it. The smaller part of the L is Mana Marta’s room, divided off by a curtain. The larger part of the L is divided into two sections by another curtain: One section is the fridge, kitchen table, chairs, and television. Pots, pans and utensils hang from the walls. The other section is a room with one bed, where Nélcia, Selma and Lindo sleep. There is a small round hut made of mud and reed where Ércio stays. A separate small structure, also made of reed and tin is where the cooking takes place. They call it a kitchen but in reality it’s a room with some coal. They live here happily, and I visit enough that I have to stop and think before realizing that, yes, my favorite family lives in poverty. Now, 9 months in and quasi part of the family, I just see it as their house, where I sometimes watch American rap videos with the kids.

Mana Marta and I have had multiple conversations about Mozambican culture; her husband, his other two wives, and her dissatisfaction with the whole situation; opportunities for women, or the lack thereof; the civil unrest that’s currently happening in the northern part of the country; my mom and dad and multiple step dads and step moms; the fact that I only want one kid; my current relationship with Andy and my past relationship with Dave; the fact that her son dropped out of school (10th grader at age 21) and how I’m pissed about it and so is she; her ability to be a positive role model for her daughters, and many, many other things. She helped me grieve the death of my grandpa Nick. Nélcia helps me plan my lessons by giving me insight on what the students learned last year. Selma chases after me when I’m on my way to the market and shows me who has the best and cheapest carrots for sale. Lindo never really knows what’s going on, but calls me Tia Sarah (Aunt Sarah) and wants me to have a good opinion of him…

I know this because one time I was hanging out watching TV at the Novele’s and it was bath time for little Lindo. He absolutely did not want to take a bath. I ask him if he was afraid of the water and laughed at him. I sang “Lindo tem medo de agua!” Lindo is afraid of water! He told me that wasn’t true, and when I told him to prove it…he stepped into the bucket on the ground ouside took a bath. Nélcia gave me a high five, Lindo got clean and Ércio shook his head at us. Whatever, it worked.

They all know my family members by name, including Lucy, and ask me how they are doing. I know that I can stop by their house anytime of the day and I will be welcomed and fed. When I bring paper and crayons, I’m the best Aunt there ever was. If I stop by for ten minutes, tell them I’m having a busy week, they wish me luck and send me on my way. Mana Marta asks me to cut my hair and give it to her, although by now the answer will be a no indefinitely. It feels normal and casual and comfortable, although Mozambique is still in many ways a foreign country to me.

Me, Mana Marta, Nélcia.

Mana Marta, Selma, Me.

One day, when we were sitting on a concrete stoop that sits in their yard, Mana Marta told me that when it’s time for me to leave, she will cry. She said that she will never forget me, that the way I carry myself is respectable and that she’s lucky her daughter has me as a teacher. She told me that even if I left tomorrow, people would cry. People know me here, they love me and they care about me. She said that the community knows that I have faith and heart even though I don’t go to church.

I told her not to cry yet, we still have over a year to go.

Integration Indicators

There are always little hints that remind me that slowly but surely, I am integrating into this Manjacaze community. Seven months later, these happenings look a little different than they did when I first arrived with the single task of “integrate”. Some of these things might seem inconsequential—and probably would be in the States—but here, they are little wins.

Sometimes kids on the street try to run next to me when I pass. Some days I enjoy it and we run together for a mile or so, and other days I just need time to run by myself. Now, when I say “não hoje” (not today), they know to leave me to run on my own.
I choose to spend free time with my Mozambican family, instead of always staying at home with my comfortable American roommate.
I know enough Portuguese to joke around with my colleagues…and they actually think I’m funny sometimes*.

*twice.

I don’t have to psych myself up to teach every lesson. It’s becoming more natural, and therefore more enjoyable.
Three separate secondary projects have started in their own time and as a response to student/community interest. REDES, English Theater and Mozambelleza (more on this to come—stay tuned!). I stopped trying to force projects that I thought would be beneficial and instead worked with other community members to develop some cool and fun things.
I buy bread from the same lady every day. She calls me amiga and knows that I want one bread and 5 bajias (if I need plástico). If I brought my own plastic bag, she gives me an extra bajia to make it an even 10 mets.
The lady that washes our clothes and cleans the kitchen has a son. His name is Mindo. He is almost 2 years old. On Fridays when they come, he lays in my bed and I give him kid books to “read”. He calls me by name and is slowly learning that when he speaks Xangana, I don’t understand a word he’s saying.
I’ve ignored the carpenters that hit on me and kiss at me long enough that they don’t do it anymore (unless I’m with another white chick).
My colleagues take interest in how I teach and motivate my students. A couple of them have sat in and watched me teach, and a couple others have started half-assed incentive systems (hey, it’s a start).
I feel comfortable walking down the street. I still do not have any anonymity, but I’m slowly getting used to it. I have more friendly days than bitchy days, and more often than not I welcome a random conversation with a stranger.

So, am I “integrated”? Did I reach my goal? I don’t know. How do you measure something like that? There isn’t a Finish Line to be crossed here. But I can definitely say that I’ve made progress. Patience, an open mind and an open heart are the main contributors. Hard work is a secondary contributor. Living among welcoming, beautiful people a necessity.

Dallas isn’t home. Kansas isn’t home.

Manjacaze is home. I like that.