Starting Over

Flowers!

Deciding to attend the head teacher’s monthly meeting was a mistake. After the sixth month at site, I realized attending the powwow did not contribute to my overall health. Beginning three hours behind schedule, the two hours worth of material stretches into five hours. Tangents turn into debates over British English versus American English. My counterpart understands the cultural gap and finds no fault in my absence; he knows I prefer grassroots classroom work to trickle-down effect meetings. So, when I accepted the invitation to attend June’s meeting, he was shocked.

“Cuti? Really?”

“Eebo. Akoto eong alosit aipup aiyala na lukapolok luka isomeroi. Awolio eong eyapie ecarou loebunit kere. Yes. I want to go and hear the head teacher’s conversations. I missed nearly all of last year entirely,” I responded. In that moment, I believed it would be best to attend…

The Friday of the meeting arrived and I rode my bicycle to the host school. Immediately, the head teachers noticed me and began to guilt me like a Greek (or Catholic or Irish or Jewish or any other culture) mother.

“Iwori bo ilosi ijo osomeroka? When are you coming to my school?”

“Iwolio ijo! You are lost!”

Earlier in my PC experience, I hated this scolding but I now take it for what it is: playful. I smiled and took a seat next to my counterpart, thinking I was prepared for what was to come. The schedule was standard:

1. Prayer
2. Communication from Host School
3. Communication from Chairperson
4. Communication from CCT (my counterpart)
5. Reading of previous minutes
6. School Briefing
7. Month plan for Professional Development
8. Closing
9. Prayer

The communications took two hours alone, which prompted me to put my head in my hands and doze into a state of semi-consciousness. (A great coping mechanism.) However, a startling occurrence took place during the school briefings. The Deputy Head Teacher of my home primary school stood and announced the completion of a classroom block for the kindergarten classes. He then explained that Omoding (Adam—me) was heartily paying for the construction and the school was grateful.

I let out a gasp and whispered to myself, “Shit.” My head literally fell to the table and made a slight thump; however, I knew it culturally inappropriate to interrupt his address to make a correction. A flash of previous encounters flashed in my mind: elderly women approaching, palm out, face concocted to look upset, “Ikapun. Money.” Children running around me in a circle screaming, “Penny. School. Penny. School.” Visitors arriving at my house to skirt the issue with thirty minutes of their life stories, only to propose “business.” Church leaders coming to tell me “God sent you to give us money.” Head teachers expressing their expectations for me to “build new schools.” A thorn in my Peace Corps side, my community made great leaps over the last 14 months and presently understands that Omoding doesn’t mean money, it means bush. The Deputy’s report compromised my standing as a man, implying my standing as money.

Frustrating as it may be, I can’t blame him for his lack of awareness. Until the previous week, the Deputy was on sabbatical to care for his HIV positive brother and had no idea that I, along with many community members, wrote and was awarded a grant to complete a block of two classrooms for the kindergarten. I knew that his faux pas was the same as if I pulled the “go back to start” card while playing a board game. I was literally starting over.

Leaving the meeting, I used my American pace (“Omoding, you are a serious walker!) to distance myself from the head teachers as they departed for their respective schools. It was not successful.

“Omoding, I have a proposal for you. We are trying to build some teachers housing. I’ll send you the paperwork.”

“What do you think about giving money for a piggery? It would make good money for the school.”

Back to start.

-[-]-

Seeing the flyer in the Peace Corps Volunteer lounge, my heart skipped a beat: “Extend to Peace Corps China!” It sounded like an amazing opportunity and I immediately started to inquire within: Learn Mandarin. Continue with Peace Corps. Live in an urban area. Teach English at a university. It all sounded like an experience that would add to my rich Ugandan experience. In that moment, I decided to go for PC China and delay a return to America.

A few months later, last week to be exact, I arrived home around five o’clock from a focal school and pulled on my gum boots (think Wellingtons), my work clothes (sleeveless tee, running shorts), work gloves and I grabbed my rake. The students just finished slashing my compound and the grass left behind reminded me of a slaughtered battlefield. Working previously in the Parks Maintenance Department, I raked the grass into a large pile on the side of my house. It stood 6 feet high; my grass grows fast.

The next day was much the same story. I returned home around five o’clock from yet another focal school and prepared myself for yard work. Today, I would weed my flowerbeds and “clean my compound.” Definition: to dig up the grass around the structures of my house, (bathing area, house and latrine) leaving a dirt “patio” area. It keeps snakes away. A few minutes into the work, a group of students gathered to watch the latest movie, “Doubled Over White Man Sweating Profusely.” I should be used to it by now, but I’m not. My house is the one place where I will not tolerate being watched, mocked, stared at, etc. In addition, students are prohibited from entering the teachers’ quarter, clearly marked out of bounds.

“Kolototo ngina. Go away, over there,” I scolded. It worked for five minutes but the troupe returned for Act II of “DOWMSP.” Already tired, I traded Ateso for English, speaking quickly and loudly. “Do you think this is funny? Is my work that interesting? Would you go and watch your other teachers? No, they would beat you! This is teacher housing. OUT. OF. BOUNDS. Get away. GET. AWAY.” I lost control. “GET. AWAY! Now, you little monsters!”

The kids sat wide eyed for a moment and then it happened. They started laughing and mocking me. One boy faked a sob. Another girl threw a clump of grass at me. Yet another girl threw a handful of flowers forward. Flowers from my garden. And then I broke. I held back the tears because if you let them see you cry (yes, I’m talking about primary kids) they will destroy you. They already throw my clean laundry in the dirt and stomp my garden! “Why do they continue to get away with this behavior?” you may ask. I refuse to beat children, which is the medium used to instill respect (what we know as fear).

Something in my eyes, amidst the tears fighting to flow, scared the kids into running. Still in my work clothes and gum boots, I followed them calmly towards the school calling after them, “Do you think I like turning into the crazy muzungu?! No! I most definitely do not!” In the teacher’s lounge, visibly burnt out, the teachers rallied around me and promised to have the students come and work on my compound the next day as punishment.

Walking back to my house, I picked up the grass and flowers thrown by the kids and set off for the grass pile. Tossing them in with the rest of the clippings, I collapsed into the mound, exhausted with constant struggle. Struggle to integrate yet never truly able. Struggle to understand behavior yet never fully knowledgeable. Struggle to separate American racisom from Ugandan ignorance. Struggle to stay true to myself in the face of derision. The grass closed in around me and I hoped for a few precious moments truly alone.

“What the hell am I doing? Don’t be crazy,” I sniffled to myself.

It is the time in my Peace Corps experience to decide post-Uganda plans. The high of village life (the mid-point for volunteers is the honeymoon phase, I swear) compels me to continue my Peace Corps experience in another country. However, sitting in the grass pile, I questioned how much of my desire for China has to do with fear? Fear of going home? Fear of leaving all I know to start again? It was too much: the grass, the fishbowl, the future. Eyes puffed up, migraine set in, rash appeared and nose ran away. My body literally broke so I popped Benadryl to control my allergic reaction and said goodnight.

I awoke the next afternoon at 4 PM, clearly aware of my mini crisis. For the rest of the evening I sat on the couch and reflected on my time after the village. Each possibility instilled fear and I started to panic. In an effort to divert attention, I pulled out a printing of my university’s alumni newsletter and read the article about my experience in Uganda. Snippets of my educational philosophy made its way into the feature, reminding me of my pre-PC self: focused, driven, opinionated, clear about my future plans to work in short-changed urban public schools. Somehow, away from my real world, I lost sight of my intended path. In that moment, I knew delaying reality with China was unhealthy. I need to go home and start yet again.

Back to start.