A Historic and Memorable Day
I love an awkward group photo! The Sanni dream team prepares to leave for Monrovia. We took this photo at my house right before praying and piling into the car. In the back row left to right Prince, Me, George, and Junaitor. In the front Fredrick, Romeo, Emmanuel, Festus, and Philicia.
It was an amazing few days with the students. We left promptly at 8:00 the morning after prom (much to my surprise and delight) and as the car pulled out of Sanni Emmanuel piped up, “Ms. RB, this is a very historic and memorable day!” I turned around with a smile, “I couldn’t agree more!”
We got to Ganta and everyone wanted to get out and look for food so the driver stopped. Philicia’s Pa met us outside ECO Bank and she posed seriously in her blue leopard-print dress while he took her picture with his phone and lavished her with bread and tea for the trip. He was beaming and she was bashful. It was really cute.
Then we couldn’t find Romeo. “Runny belly,” George whispered. Oh no! Ten minutes later he returned and, assuring me he was alright, we moved out. Not ten minutes past the checkpoint he was looking rough again and Junaitor called for plastic. “We need to stop!” I begged the driver. Romeo had his head out the window puking. He got down and disappeared into the bushes for another ten minutes. He got back in the car but when we had to stop again fifteen minutes later I forced him to go up front and let me take his spot in the back. The driver gave him some tablets and he started looking better.
…then George started wilting and hanging his head between his knees. The road was in rough shape, muddy and full of pools. “You allllright?” I asked quietly. He just shook his head. “Please put him down,” I asked the driver again. George leapt past me and barely made it to the bushes, ten people stopping their work to watch him empty his stomach. He returned to the car with defeat written all over his face. Just the day before he’d swooned about someday sitting down in an airplane and here he was, barely able to leave Nimba County. I tried to comfort him, but he just closed his eyes and buried his face in his bag.
When we finally reached Kakata they were overwhelmed. “Ayyyyye! We’re going inside the fence! Today is really a new beginning!” I remembered how to find the GB shop and before long they had bounced back. The girls went back to rest but the boys begged to see the city, “We can’t go back to Sanniquellie and tell them we rested!” I walked them through the market to my family’s shop then showed them Lango Lippaye (the government school), the Margibi County Field, Booker Washington Institute (BWI), and Kakata Rural Teacher Training Institute (KRTTI).
They were in shock.
“Ms. RB, why didn’t you tell us everything was so… fine?” they asked. I told them our school and town were alright and they should feel proud that they had accomplished so much with so much less. “When these students visit Central High,” I said, “they will know you are strong and be impressed. Don’t feel discouraged. Feel proud of where you come from.”
As we left the County Field, with its fake turf and fine facilities Festus looked at me and shook his head. “Really, I am angry,” he said, “We have all the resources in our county, at our fingertips and under our feet. Why do they have all our money?”
Great question and one I wish I could answer.
“In America,” I replied, “we write letters to our big people when we’re vexed. Maybe you should ask Prince Johnson.” They thought for a second then laughed. We all knew the answer.
“When you become big people,” I said, “and you will, you must remember how you feel today and you must make better choices for your people. And I don’t mean Nimba County. All must be equal. All must be for Liberia. You are getting me?” George clapped, “Exactly!” “We will make you proud, Ms. RB,” Emmanuel said grinning, “When we are big people we will make you proud.”
I turned to face him, “You already do.”
At BWI they marveled at the campus. A lot of construction has been going on the past year and a new three-story building was nearing completion. “Ms. RB,” Emmanuel asked, “how many stories? I’ve never understood how to count the one on the ground.” There are very few two story buildings in Sanniquellie. Monrovia will be a shock in the morning.
We had a long walk back and I could tell they were tired so I took the short cut. That meant we’d pass very close to my family’s house and word would get to my Ma that I hadn’t stopped to see her. So I called and we dropped in for five minutes, as a good Liberian daughter should. The boys marveled at my knowledge of the area and I smiled that I was taking eight Liberians on a tour in their own country. A year ago I couldn’t have dreamed this trip or this day with my students. I could barely find my way home after training! It really is proof to me that anything is possible if you dare to dream big and back it up with some serious sweat.
When we got back they played volleyball until the rain came. I stayed on the porch with Philicia and Junaitor and the boys took their turn relaxing. We hadn’t had any girl time so I was glad it worked out like that. Philicia is very quiet and I wanted to make a very safe space for us to talk. I gave them sample questions to prepare two days ago and I helped them practice, encouraging them to make eye contact and use the interviewer’s name. I nudged my water bottle around the table, addressing it as “Ms. Porter” and they started laughing and asking their honest questions. They are both remarkable women—they just need help presenting that. “I know you don’t want to boast,” I said, “but you are great and she won’t know if you don’t tell her. You are forced to say good things about yourself tomorrow, alright?”
They nodded.
George and Prince came to join us after awhile. The dynamic of two boys and two girls was really good and I got all of them to tell great stories about integrating into a different culture and feeling like a stranger. Apparently George’s parents pulled him from school in 6th grade and sent him to live with an uncle because only local language was being spoken at his school and he wasn’t learning any English. So the next year he showed up at his new school unable to understand… anything. By the next year he was named prefect and remained a prefect up until his graduation, also serving as Minister of Education and captain of the quizzing team. “You are forced to tell this story tomorrow,” I said. “I am almost certain she will ask a question like this. Tell her this story then tell her you’ll do the same thing when you get to Costa Rica and have to learn Spanish.” Prince talked about fleeing to a refugee camp in Guinea with his mother and being unable to even go to the pump for water. He couldn’t speak to the other children and they wouldn’t let him near unless he could say something in French or the local language… which he could not.
“Really?” they asked, “She would care about that?”
After dinner I distributed the transcripts, notebooks, and folders. I’d also spent $35US on WAEC scratch cards so we could print their official test results. I took Emmanuel to the computer, scratched the card and typed in his information.
“SCORE WITHHELD”
I had (somehow) not anticipated this since our scores had been released to Mr. Demy more than one week earlier. I closed my eyes and clenched my jaw. “Be cool,” I begged myself, “Be cool or they’ll freak out.” I settled for a long sigh and, sinking back in my chair, told them to give me their handwritten result slips so I could make photocopies. What else could I really do at 8:00pm the night before? TIA, baby, TIA.
I gathered the boys and did their own mock interviews. Everyone’s eyes were heavy with sleep, though, so we did a lot less than I did with the girls. My two hours of sleep the night before were long used up too and I wasn’t fit for more either. I sent them all to bed and crawled under my own net, falling asleep before I could even read all my email.
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- I love an awkward group photo! The Sanni dream team prepares to leave for Monrovia. We took this photo at my house right before praying and piling into the car. In the back row left to right Prince, Me, George, and Junaitor. In the front Fredrick, Romeo, Emmanuel, Fesus, and Philicia.
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- See? Gotta love the awkward group photo. Here they are in Ganta.
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- Poor Romeo just before I realized he wasn’t really enjoying the trip.
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- The boys at the Margibi County Field in Kakata.
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- …and of course we couldn’t leave without playing small. Festus leaps to block Fredrick’s goal.
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- Prince, Romeo, and Fredrick
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- At the BWI campus in Kakata.
Baby, We’re Going Somewhere
Today we leave for Monrovia! Oh I’m excited! Oh I’m tired!
Prom was yesterday. It was a disaster. Finally at 11:00 I had been there five hours and we weren’t making much progress… so I said I was sorry and left without even giving my speech. I hadn’t packed and hadn’t planned to stay past 9:00, about the time they started. Walking home alone that late was on the list of things I’d be happy to leave Liberia without doing, but it was ok. Prince was horrified and insisted on carrying me or sending George but I couldn’t let them miss their dance and their graduation because of me. I gave him my best “I’m your teacher” face and he shook his head but didn’t protest further.
I crawled under the covers around 4:00. Yep, I’m planning to crash all week. I haven’t pulled two almost all nighters in one week, well, ever before. But it’s worth it for my kids.
I’d gone to campus earlier in the day and spent time with them while they were cooking and practicing their dances so I didn’t feel too guilty leaving. Besides, they were getting drunk and nothing had happened except fighting with the DJ for over an hour. Saye Z. put some music on his phone and held it up while about five of us danced in a circle. Success I guess.
“Ms. RB,” he said, “this program is disgraceful. Who is their sponsor?” I pointed to myself. “But… but… you’re our sponsor!” I just nodded. “Ohhhh no!” he laughed and shook my shoulders.
Sorry yeah.
The one really cute thing that happened before the machine spoiled was the passing of will. All the senior ministers in student government stood up and called up their replacements. They talked about what they accomplished during their term then turned to the new appointee, “So now I pass my will to you. May you accomplish everything I did and even more.” I could have cried as George, in a fleece vest and stocking hat pulled down to his eyes, screamed into the microphone rapper style and basically knighted Newton, Lee, and a group of about five others. It was a drunken pep rally for education: awesome.
I smiled remembering the conversation I had with him and Festus on my porch the day before. We were talking about Costa Rica and their future next year. “Georgie, my peking,” Festus said, “You can’t deuce WAEC and deuce our class to go back and sit down in Gbonnie. We are going somewhere.” Oh, my boys, I will do everything in my limited power to make sure you get all that you deserve and more. I told them that. I told them whatever happened we would keep working and we would keep trying.
And we will.
Work Like an American
Two red pens, one Peace Corps Volunteer, and more than one hundred hours of work produced four hundred grade cards and grade sheets. Oh, and that’s not mentioning the cups of Nescafe!
Yesterday was rough. I was up most of the night before making grade sheets and went to campus for our faculty meeting with a pounding headache. It was the first day I wore jeans to school and, frankly, I half hoped they’d be offended.
“You want me to do an American amount of work? Fine, but then you have to deal with me being an American. That means I’m going to wear ‘trousers’ and speak my mind. That’s right, I have legs and, frankly, one of these days I’d like to use them to kick your ass.” As I trekked to campus I wrote a passionate speech on the theme “you should be ashamed.” It was pretty good… and pretty offensive. So I settled for my jeans and t-shirt, hoping they’d see they’d finally pushed me too far.
Everyone turned when I walked through the gate and a few raised their eyebrows. I waved obligatorily and sat down twenty feet away to finish my cards. One teacher had submitted his grades just the night before and I’d spent the night calculating his averages with a flashlight tucked between my neck and shoulder (fun fact: solar calculators don’t work by candlelight). My speech was still fresh in my mouth and I didn’t want to risk letting it spill out in conversation.
Some of the 11th graders huddled around me and thanked me for my hard work. I smiled tiredly, “Do you believe I love you now?”
The meeting finally started an hour later and by then I was sure I had a fever. My nose was running, my head was pounding and I sat propped against the wall using my big pink scarf as a blanket. No one else seemed cold but I was freezing and they just wouldn’t stop talking. I was obliged to speak on behalf of my classes several times and, simply for lack of energy, stuck with my “I am an American” theme, squeaking out clear fast English. This is unusual for me and they looked at me wide eyed. I doubt they understood half of it. I crumpled back in my bench and tried not to watch the clock.
When we finished four hours later I finally unloaded the grade sheets and was obliged to take some pictures for the graduation program. “I beg you hire someone to make it,” I said with eyes half closed and head pounding, “I not allllright and we’re travelling Thursday. I’ll put the pictures on my computer stick and carry it tomorrow.”
I bought candles, tissues, and pepper soup and somehow made it home. “Ms. RB is resting!!” I changed the note on the door. “Do not knock! See Mr. Demy about your grades.” I crawled in bed with the radio and read People magazines from February until I fell asleep.
Notes, however, are great for people who can read.
“RB? RB?! RB-OOOO!?” I heard Grandpa’s voice through the front window. “Grandpa, I’m resting,” I called back weakly. They simply screamed louder now, thrilled to receive confirmation of my existence inside.
I got up and we stared at each other through the screen, Angel, Pape, and Maya lined up on the bench so they could reach. “RB! My ma na born small sister!” Grandpa exclaimed. “We must dance for her!” I unlatched the door and came outside. They squealed and surrounded my knees. Grandpa was the only one wearing pants. Sure. I could use some baby time.
Pape and Maya started playing with a football even though they can hardly walk and, well, it was pretty great. I kept kicking it to Pape and he kept picking it up to chunk at me except he never quite got the part where you let go and each time flung his body full length on the ground. He never cried, though, each time getting up confused but smiling. “You strong boy,” I said, brushing him off.
I finished some wash that had been sitting since the day before and did the dishes. I was finally starting to feel a little better when people I didn’t know started appearing at the house. “I heard you have my result. When am I going?” Excuse me? They meant EARTH University and they wanted me to answer why they weren’t selected. I was as polite but curt as I could be and sent them away. Grandpa could tell I was vexed (clearly we spend too much time together) and said sadly, “All these people coming give you hard time, RB. We should hide?”
Great idea. Great idea-o.
I finally had a quiet night to relax since my students cancelled study class to prepare for prom. It was perfect.
Pinch Me
These painted cuties showed up at just the right moment. I’ll put down my work and come outside for that!
This has been the week of miracles. Right after I returned from Monrovia I received an email that eight of my students were being interviewed by EARTH. I literally ran around the dark house screaming, almost knocking and spoiling my computer. And they got the good ones! They took George and Festus, Emmanuel and Fredrick, Prince and Romeo, Junaitor and Philicia.
George will finally see Monrovia!
Peace Corps is helping me figure out transportation and lodging for everyone and, man, it’s a dream even if no one wins the whole thing. …the only problem is we’re missing graduation. I think I’m more upset than they are, though. “You can’t sacrifice the uncertain for the certain,” George said solemnly when I said I was vexed, “We must go, Ms. S, we must.” He is our WAEC deuce and also the deuce for our class so it’s a huge deal for him to miss it. It’s like being the valedictorian and acing the SAT in America. He makes a speech and the guest speaker might give him money.
Have I mentioned just how much I love him lately? It is my personal mission to help that kid find the future he deserves, whether that’s in Costa Rica or somewhere closer to home.
WAEC results finally arrived Friday and that was a dream inside a dream. Sixty-seven out of eighty-seven passed and only one person in the entire class failed math. It can’t be true! I still hardly believe it. Unfortunately this is Liberia and there isn’t exactly a computer print-out I can check. The bad always sneaks in with the good, though, and the one failure in math was Romeo. He’s our student council president so the entire class is shocked and devastated. I immediately contacted EARTH to see if he could still interview. Thankfully they said yes, although I doubt he has a real shot now. At least he won’t have to be devastated twice in one week.
The sixty-seven students who passed have swarmed me, coming to the house with their results, calling, texting, and hugging me on the street. They’re all convinced it was me. I shake my head and try to convince them there is no secret ingredient. They didn’t need a white woman to chase them around; they needed something to believe in. They needed confidence in themselves and my presence just happened to give them the hope they needed to succeed. I’m grateful and humbled to have played any part at all.
Patricia was just here, sneaking up on me as I lit my coal pot in the half light. “I came to say thank you,” she said with a big smile, “I am graduating because of you. I was never able to come to your house before because I support myself on the farm before school, but you made math possible for me.” I could have hugged her. “No, Patricia,” I said, “You were always able. You did all the work.” She smiled in the dark, “I know…” Again, I could have hugged her. She continued, “Now that I’m graduating I can take next year off to build my house. They tell me you will still be here. I will feel so happy if you visit me when it is finished.”
I couldn’t help grinning, “I would feel so happy to, Patricia.” I loaned her a book about gems and precious metals and she promised to visit as often as she could.
Dreams are catching in Sanni. I can’t wait to see some start coming true.
Wait small, yeah?
Oh Grandpa-o, you always seem to know how I’m feeling…
It’s been an insanely busy week. I’ve hardly done a thing but make grade sheets. My eyes are tired, my brain is tired, and my patience is wearing thin. I’m doing all of 11th and 12th grade and the students continue to swarm the house asking to see their marks. I can hardly get ten uninterrupted minutes so yesterday I finally put a note on the door and resolutely put on my headphones. I was never going to finish if I had to keep stopping, but it had been raining since night and I had to leave the door open for some light.
Excellent strategy for visitors who are taller than my knees and can read…
On The Road Again
I walked outside one day to see a string hovering in midair. Witchcraft? Nope. They had a giant beetle tied to a bit of string and were ‘walking’ him around the porch.
Man, I travelled a lot last week, spending an estimated 24 hours actually in taxis. I made two round trips to Ganta with the trainees then headed down to Monrovia on Friday. That was an unnecessarily difficult trip, but, surprisingly, I didn’t mind too much. I guess that means I’m integrating, for better or worse.
I reached the taxi stand Friday just as the rain came. Five of us plus one kid (they don’t count) piled in the car and waited for one more… for over an hour. Finally we left only to have the car roll to a stop twenty minutes outside Sanniquellie. No problem. It happens. Everyone else piled out to release water and the driver raised the hood. Fifteen minutes later this was not going well. Pelle flew past in his UN car but he didn’t see me and I had no signal on my phone.
Great.
Just when I was starting to think the trip wasn’t meant to be and I should go home the ol’ ma grabbed my arm, “Le’ go, my daughter. We finding new car.” Two minutes later, as if sent by god, a car passed carrying only two passengers. “There are so many break downs,” the driver explained, “that as soon as I have one or two passengers I go.” We each paid him another $150 and forty minutes later I was finally in Ganta. Thankfully the car filled immediately.
I was forced to break my own rule and sit in the front, but it was for the best since there were two small small babies in the back. The guy sharing my seat was very nice and, under different circumstances, you would have considered our afternoon a date. He sat on my lap. I sat on his lap. He put his arm around me. I put my arm around him. We ate ginger snaps and sang along with the radio. Then, six hours later, we shook hands in Red Light and wished each other well.
The driver agreed to carry me to Mamba Point after some hard negotiation, quickly forgiven once we started talking about Sanniquellie, his birthplace and family home. The entire trip took almost ten hours so it goes without saying it was amazing to take a shower (that thing where the water comes out of the wall?) and put my feet up.
Coming home Monday was the same story.
I got in a fight with the driver before we even left Red Light. He was over charging everyone and said I should buy two seats because I was rich and white. That’s when we started yelling.
“I don’t have money,” I said.
“Yes you do!” he spat, “Give it to me!”
“Don’t be rude or I’ll take another car.”
“Give me your US dollars.”
Just as I was about to shove my way over to a different car, any different car, an ol’ ma put her hand on my arms, “That’s what he make us all pay,” she said quietly, “Let it be so.” I paid and took my seat, soon to be joined in the back by two mas and three kids. Two of the kids were sitting on each other’s lap so it actually wasn’t as bad as you’d expect six people in the back seat of a Toyota Sunny to be. We ate snacks, sang songs, and slumped in a pile to sleep.
“No sleeping, white woman!” the driver yelled, swatting me. He was still annoyed from our earlier argument.
“We aren’t your prisoners!” one of the mas yelled, “Let the woman be!”
I motioned to her to let it go and tried to joke with him. It must have worked because by the time we hit Gbarnga he bought me a soft drink and whispered, “Thank you Jesus!” when I told him I was a math teacher. I spoke some Mano with him and he clapped my shoulder, “Ayyyy! Ma sister!”
That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.
We made good time then the kids started complaining their stomachs hurt. One of them slumped over and buried his face in my lap. “Here it comes!” I thought, imagining how I’d show up at Matt’s house unannounced, covered with vomit, and begging to use his bathroom. But that one only cried. It was the girl sitting on his lap who threw up… all over the ol’ ma, miraculously missing me completely. We stopped and tried to clean her off and ten minutes later were in Ganta, where again I waited an hour and a half for a car.
I got home just before dark and ate biscuits on the porch with Grandpa. “RB, I was missing you!”
Me too, Grandpa. Me too.
When in Doubt, Burn Something
Dato was feeling vexed so I brought her to sit with me. She stared into the yard pensively and silently for half an hour then asked to be put down. Allllright.
I spent the weekend working trying to get the house ready for the trainees visiting Tuesday. I’m not sure just how much I accomplished, though.
My students George and Fredrick snuck up and brushed the rest of the yard while I was still sleeping yesterday and it looked great but there was grass everywhere. I raked it into piles and tried to burn it but it was still too green and I smoked the whole neighborhood. Then I tried to clean Krista’s room for them, deciding that would be more comfortable than making someone sleep in the creepy room. I swept and moped and scrubbed and I guess it looks better but I’m still worried they’ll think it’s dirty. Then again, they have to get used to Liberia sooner or later…
I’m both excited and nervous to have them come. It is a lot of pressure to be the first volunteer they meet. Unintentionally they will think of me, my house, and my school as they go through training and start imagining their service.
I hope, for the sake of all of us, it’s a good one.
A Swift Current
I just had a great meeting with the US AID people down at the education office. They will support my project at the prison with lessons, materials, and possibly training for two officers, one to teach Literacy and Life Skills, the other to do Numeracy and Work Skills. They gave me some books to look over and some assessment tests—it all looks great! By the end of the first nine month course they should be able to read simple stories and write simple things. Oh that’d be amazing! It’ll require more than the one hour a week they allotted for it, though, so I hope I can get everyone at the prison as excited as I am.
But, really, where is all my time going? Vacation? Ha! One more year? Ha! Time is racing past like water under a bridge and I just jumped in its swift current.
Annoyance and Frustration (WAEC)
Gloria waits for her turn to sing the anthem for Mr. Demy, an expectedly fun end of year exam.
Today Festus asked me to help him check his WAEC results online. After 20 minutes the page loaded, “Score Withheld.” I texted the Peace Corps office to beg for help, “Aren’t scores out yet??” UN MIL radio had announced they were available a week ago. Sam said some government schools were having their results held until they could prove they paid some fees.
Festus shrugged resignedly while I struggled not to slump on the desk in annoyance and frustration.
F***ing TIA.
No wonder Mr. Demy looks terrible this week.
Great Job!
Gotta love my 11th grade goofs!
Thursday we had a faculty meeting at recess. I walked in late, as usual, and Mr. Demy turned, “Oh hello! We were just talking about you. Everyone give a big hand clap for Sis RB, the only regular teacher at Central High!” Two people weakly put their hands together and I tried to look modest but grateful. It’s always awkward when they point out the obvious… that I’m the only one who comes to work… and then actually… works.
Continuing, Mr. Demy announced grades would be due the Tuesday after exams. This didn’t go over well.
“As for me,” the geography teacher said defiantly, “I will give mine Thursday.”
Mr. Demy pursed his lips and shook his head, “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Then I will make them up.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“This meeting is finished.”
Great job!
life magnanimous 