putting the
washed sheets
on the bed
in a storm
while listening
to stories of
survival and optimism
on a podcast from kenya.
trying to shake
this funk because
a friend sent a
concerned message
about how these poems
all sound worrisome
and empty and sad,
trying to find a small
win with the small win.
driving to get a haircut
and schmoozing with
the barber and later with a friend
over for greek food and cocktails
and a mellow pinot noir.
sitting with disfunction
past. present and future.
the girl in the podcast
spoke of finding a baby
in the trash and of the
hole that was left in her
tender heart after it died,
and here you are wondering
why smiles are hard to find
when you’re on holiday
procrastinating on the
self-improvement projects.
Showing posts with label Daraja. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Daraja. Show all posts
October 18, 2021
291/365
July 10, 2021
191/365
it’s a dull grey saturday. just noon. thunder rumbling through the throw of clouds intermittently releasing a lightening bolt like some primordial metronome keeping time through centuries. the girls each have a pack for friends over. sitting in the darkness of their rooms cackling in the comfort that there are people who accept them for who they are and who they are becoming. the frightening formation of identity keeping them all busy.we are reading in the dim darkness of the day, my wife and i. the quiet a gentle salve from the rock and roll energy of the previous night. i saw a photo of you with a group of masai men. you short one leg and still engaging warriors. we’ve passed the wanderlust baton for decades. i yearn to grab it and join you on that deck. the two of us approaching fifty. watching the trucks raise dust at dusk bootlegging khat to ethiopia- you’ll tell me for the millionth time, as if I don’t hang on your very word. the stories we tell ourselves of ourselves are myths now. your young red beard from your first trip. my time in mozambique. the attack in tanzania. the two of in kenya. bathing my first born in a bucket at your house, before we took her to see the jane goodall chimps and lions and a lake’s worth of flamingoes, darkened by ample shrimp. your anguish is on my mind. knowing the pain of not being able to choose all the starfish to throw back in is weighing heavy on your heart this week. do me a favour. go down to my banda. open the doors. shake out the sheets. clear the spider webs.run the water. and think of me for a short while. i’ll be there again as soon as i can.
February 19, 2018
privilege is
Privilege is the ability to leave, while others remain trapped by circumstance.
Privilege is choice and freedom and the ability to navigate between worlds. Privilege is the ability to voluntarily immerse yourself in the suffering of others, for the sake of self-righteous empathy. Privilege a photo op. Privilege is walking to the well to see how heavy forty litres of water can be and imagining ten kilometres, knowing that in a few days you will be taking twenty minute showers and eating Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. Privilege is getting to know a person only by listening to their tragic stories and framing their existence by their net worth. Privilege taking a break from your week of roughing it with a nap by a pool and honey glazed, rosemary butter nut squash. Privilege is living by a different set of rules because of your birthplace and passport. Privilege is donating your left overs and feeling good about yourself, because you think you are helping. Privilege is having your lunch, fresh sandwiches with brie cheese, waiting for you on the way to the airport. Privilege is feeling guilt and shame, but doing little about it, convincing yourself that you are doing more than others. Privilege is looking out the window, sipping clean water and watching the latest Hollywood movies, as the airplane leaves and takes you home.
Privilege is knowing that you will not sacrifice more than you have to in order to maintain your privilege.
February 11, 2018
bridges
I dreamt in chunks last night,
my exhausted body unable to move
each limb sawed off like a sad branch
laid in a pile of lifeless lumber.
My mind, however, was awake
and wild in dreams of wonder:
Does wood remember being a tree?
Paper of wood?
Books of memories before they were stories?
The dreams were intense and world blending:
Jason was there and we were in a fancy restaurant,
me agog over some nice wine and the cut
of an helium tomato, yellow in this case,
and he asking for his fifth glass of water.
It is known in our circles that he is seldom
impressed or aware of the subtilise of tomato flavours.
In my dream I wonder
if his disdain for fine dining
is still the case,
seeing that we haven’t eaten
in a restaurant together,
fancy or not,
in years.
In my other dream, my students are there.
We are in Italy and I have patched them together
as a quilt I hope will take.
I am hosting a parent event in a piazza.
The sun is bright and everyone is enjoying
tomatoes and wine.
The blanket of kids I have woven have found skateboards
and are doing alie-s and jumps on the ancient cobbled streets
wearing hats and sunglasses.
Looking cool and confident
as kids their age should be.
The parents are getting drunk and singing each other love songs.
I am a bridge that spans many worlds,
keeping it all together, unsure of the exact location of the center.
I am a web of spans held together by fragile wire.
The distances may vary,
but these connections are taut and made of steel.
I must confess I am awake now, at least I think I am.
Ready to face the conscious part of my consciousness.
I envision the day lived in chunks as well.
I am in my room at Daraja,
The pre-dawn sounds of howling dogs, chirping birds, and rooster crows
are a symphony unconducted music.
The room is dark, expect for the tunnel of
light cast from my laptop.
Outside the window,
the inky sky is fading into shades
of lavender like bruised human skin.
It is six am and I am sure I will not sleep more tonight.
My limbs have awoken and the pile of wood
has been reconstructed into a moving tree.
Yesterday, today, tomorrow are a jumbled mess.
Film scattered on the floor
waiting to be rewound and led through
a projector.
On the bus ride, Sarah and I talked about a persons
tolerance for discomfort
and the privilege of choice
that leads to freedom.
We watched as an old woman, perhaps fifty years old
back hunched over till her chin touched her knees,
carried a pile of soon to be fire wood, trudging
along the side of the highway.
This display of injustice and discomfort
is not new to me, but I wondered how many
of the kids behind me on the bus had ever
considered this woman and her place in the world.
How many of our kids and had wanted to
stop the bus and ask the woman if they could carry the wood
for a while, and help her stretch her back with the latest yoga moves
and perhaps offer her a glass of wine
and a yellow heirloom tomato covered in chunks of Himalayan sea salt
and maybe offer her a ride in an air conditioned car,
perhaps a Porsche SUV, to a warm safe bed with goose down pillows
and sheets with a thread count that screamed luxury.
How many of our kids considered
going back in time when this woman was twelve years old
and finding ways to get her into a classroom, with a book in her hand
and a teacher guiding her choices and removing her from a husband or even father
telling her what to do,
giving her sanitary pads and offering her a menu of choices
that are often only reserved for the educated and the privileged like us?
I wondered if any of our kids made the connection
between the girls they would meet in a few hours and the woman on the road.
Between their own privilege and the battle against poverty.
Between the world of dreams and reality.
Between the dark night and the dawn.
Between problems and solutions.
The day is about to begin.
I’m a first draft poem of mixed metaphors
unbound like an old film on the floor.
I was awoken in the night
by the urgency of this creation.
I wonder what I’ll do with it next.
my exhausted body unable to move
each limb sawed off like a sad branch
laid in a pile of lifeless lumber.
My mind, however, was awake
and wild in dreams of wonder:
Does wood remember being a tree?
Paper of wood?
Books of memories before they were stories?
The dreams were intense and world blending:
Jason was there and we were in a fancy restaurant,
me agog over some nice wine and the cut
of an helium tomato, yellow in this case,
and he asking for his fifth glass of water.
It is known in our circles that he is seldom
impressed or aware of the subtilise of tomato flavours.
In my dream I wonder
if his disdain for fine dining
is still the case,
seeing that we haven’t eaten
in a restaurant together,
fancy or not,
in years.
In my other dream, my students are there.
We are in Italy and I have patched them together
as a quilt I hope will take.
I am hosting a parent event in a piazza.
The sun is bright and everyone is enjoying
tomatoes and wine.
The blanket of kids I have woven have found skateboards
and are doing alie-s and jumps on the ancient cobbled streets
wearing hats and sunglasses.
Looking cool and confident
as kids their age should be.
The parents are getting drunk and singing each other love songs.
I am a bridge that spans many worlds,
keeping it all together, unsure of the exact location of the center.
I am a web of spans held together by fragile wire.
The distances may vary,
but these connections are taut and made of steel.
I must confess I am awake now, at least I think I am.
Ready to face the conscious part of my consciousness.
I envision the day lived in chunks as well.
I am in my room at Daraja,
The pre-dawn sounds of howling dogs, chirping birds, and rooster crows
are a symphony unconducted music.
The room is dark, expect for the tunnel of
light cast from my laptop.
Outside the window,
the inky sky is fading into shades
of lavender like bruised human skin.
It is six am and I am sure I will not sleep more tonight.
My limbs have awoken and the pile of wood
has been reconstructed into a moving tree.
Yesterday, today, tomorrow are a jumbled mess.
Film scattered on the floor
waiting to be rewound and led through
a projector.
On the bus ride, Sarah and I talked about a persons
tolerance for discomfort
and the privilege of choice
that leads to freedom.
We watched as an old woman, perhaps fifty years old
back hunched over till her chin touched her knees,
carried a pile of soon to be fire wood, trudging
along the side of the highway.
This display of injustice and discomfort
is not new to me, but I wondered how many
of the kids behind me on the bus had ever
considered this woman and her place in the world.
How many of our kids and had wanted to
stop the bus and ask the woman if they could carry the wood
for a while, and help her stretch her back with the latest yoga moves
and perhaps offer her a glass of wine
and a yellow heirloom tomato covered in chunks of Himalayan sea salt
and maybe offer her a ride in an air conditioned car,
perhaps a Porsche SUV, to a warm safe bed with goose down pillows
and sheets with a thread count that screamed luxury.
How many of our kids considered
going back in time when this woman was twelve years old
and finding ways to get her into a classroom, with a book in her hand
and a teacher guiding her choices and removing her from a husband or even father
telling her what to do,
giving her sanitary pads and offering her a menu of choices
that are often only reserved for the educated and the privileged like us?
I wondered if any of our kids made the connection
between the girls they would meet in a few hours and the woman on the road.
Between their own privilege and the battle against poverty.
Between the world of dreams and reality.
Between the dark night and the dawn.
Between problems and solutions.
The day is about to begin.
I’m a first draft poem of mixed metaphors
unbound like an old film on the floor.
I was awoken in the night
by the urgency of this creation.
I wonder what I’ll do with it next.
February 8, 2018
Coming Home
Four years ago while an Ebola scare blanketed western Africa, I was in the process of trying to get a student trip to Kenya. The Daraja Global Concern group at my school was in its second year, and I was eager to find a way to take as many kids from Singapore to Kenya as I could. I knew that Paris was closer to Western Africa than Kenya was to the disease, but parents didn’t seem to understand this geography. Additionally, the high cost of the trip, the fact that it was the first time it had ever been offered, and because the GC itself was little known, made recruiting very difficult. In the end, after weeks of stress, ups and downs many conversations with kids and parents, the trip was on the verge of being cancelled. We just didn’t have the numbers to make it viable.
We needed a miracle.
We were lucky to get four. Their names are Paula, Shruti, Georgina and Jenn. These four amazing women, educators and friends, decided to take a chance and pay their own way to go. We took five kids, a mom and five teachers. And just like that the trip was launched.
And earlier tonight, I finished packing for our fourth trip. Since that first trip, every year the numbers have increased. We have taken the entire Psillides family, more parents and more kids. This year we are maxed out at nineteen participants, including a teacher, and a mom and two kids from Dover. We are able to afford to take three official teachers, Martin and Sarah, and I am super excited to be taking four G7 kids from my cohort. I cannot wait to see their growth on this trip.
I have written at length about this campus and the magic of the Kenyan landscape. I have waxed poetic about the power of meeting these girls. But honestly, the best part for me is watching the young people from UWC South East Asia realise that everything they ever thought about Africa is false. I love watching them take in the pace and smells and interactions with the people on the Daraja Academy campus. I love watching our kids run from the geese and milk the cows. Plant the cabbage and sort the beans.
And to be perfectly honest and selfish, I love returning to my room, the one I have stayed in on every trip, dating back to the first time I went with Kaia years ago. I love watch the red dust gather between my toes and watching the stars drape the sky every night on my way to bed. I love the porridge and the beans and the ice cold Stoney when the weather's hot. I love catching up with Ruth and Chris and Stephen and Charles. I love sitting on the Jason’s porch and reminiscing and future planning. Basking in the notion that we did it. We arrived. This is the world we imagined when we were young and stupid and full of mistakes. We knew even as teenagers that we were meant for this world that we have created.
In closing, I was scrolling through Twitter tonight, slowly becoming enraged by military parades and sexual assault and racism, and like most nights I was feeling helpless and ineffectual, but then I remembered that in a short time I would be in Kenya, with students from a school dedicate to peace.
I remembered that the weapons I have chosen to fight the forces of greed and ignorance and injustice are at Daraja. What better force that these young women to create a world that is the opposite of everything I hate about the current forces in power in the US and beyond?
The work we do, however, small and seemingly disconnected, the work of connecting people from different classes and genders and races, is the work that will bring down the forces of hatred. The love we plant and foster and share through committed, authentic and sustainable relationships with communities that mirror our values, is what will save us all.
There is no need to feel helpless. We cannot change the entire world on our own, but we can dedicate our time, energy and money to small communities around the world. This friendship building will teach us everything we need to know to fight the forces of greed and oppression.
Find your people and spend your life committed to hearing their voices and doing your part.
See you soon Daraja. I’ve missed you.
December 15, 2016
Moments
I just read an essay by Patti Smith about performing, watched a few poems by Billy Collins and an article about how teaching is like performing about Teller from Penn & Teller. All three were shared with me by friends. Thank you friends for knowing me and bringing valuable content to my heart and mind.
I walked a lot today. Didn’t take he crutches and made a few trips to the library and the canteen and now there are sharp shooting pains and swelling. I am ready to run now. Swim. Jump. Skate and be back to normal. But I still hobble and gimp.
We went to dinner at Etna’s and I had a Negroni and some wine. I am deep into my vegan cheating stage until the new year- my pasta had cream and we shared Tiramisu and a Cannoli. It was delicious and the guilt was faint due to the exhaustion of the day.
Some times when I talk to one six grader about anything, a small mob of 5 or 6 will also gather around and listen- eyes wide and expectant. As if I might have some of the secrets of the universe. They seem so grateful for an adult who will listen to them and take them seriously. I guess in a way the feeling is mutual.
Tomorrow is a half day and I am excited to be in a joyous celebratory mood. Community day. Food. Gifts. Goodbyes and at 3:40 Rogue One in Imax 3D. It is extra sweet because the Nazis are trying to #dumpstarwars, and I will revel in everything that angers them- strong female protagonist and people of color rebels fighting a white-supremacists patriarchy. I am especially excited about Forrest Whitaker’s performance.
We watched School of My Dreams during our Daraja meeting today and I was fighting back tears thinking of you all in Kenya. Can’t wait to be back on campus in a few short weeks. It feels like forever since I have been back “home.”
It is 9:23 and my warm, clean, safe bed for which I am eternally grateful is not too far away.
I walked a lot today. Didn’t take he crutches and made a few trips to the library and the canteen and now there are sharp shooting pains and swelling. I am ready to run now. Swim. Jump. Skate and be back to normal. But I still hobble and gimp.
We went to dinner at Etna’s and I had a Negroni and some wine. I am deep into my vegan cheating stage until the new year- my pasta had cream and we shared Tiramisu and a Cannoli. It was delicious and the guilt was faint due to the exhaustion of the day.
Some times when I talk to one six grader about anything, a small mob of 5 or 6 will also gather around and listen- eyes wide and expectant. As if I might have some of the secrets of the universe. They seem so grateful for an adult who will listen to them and take them seriously. I guess in a way the feeling is mutual.
Tomorrow is a half day and I am excited to be in a joyous celebratory mood. Community day. Food. Gifts. Goodbyes and at 3:40 Rogue One in Imax 3D. It is extra sweet because the Nazis are trying to #dumpstarwars, and I will revel in everything that angers them- strong female protagonist and people of color rebels fighting a white-supremacists patriarchy. I am especially excited about Forrest Whitaker’s performance.
We watched School of My Dreams during our Daraja meeting today and I was fighting back tears thinking of you all in Kenya. Can’t wait to be back on campus in a few short weeks. It feels like forever since I have been back “home.”
It is 9:23 and my warm, clean, safe bed for which I am eternally grateful is not too far away.
November 3, 2016
The Fervor and The Peace
“Darling, remember when you come to me
I'm the pretender and I, what I'm supposed to be
But who could know if I'm a traitor
Time's the Revelator”
Gillian Welch
I was a blur at work today. I wouldn’t have recognized myself, even if I had two minutes to look in a mirror. I was running from the second I arrived on campus. I don’t share these list of events to brag. I am not sure why I share them. I am not saying that everyone in the world is not just as busy. I am not promoting busyness as some sort of point of pride. It just helps me unwind to name the things that had me thinking and working and energised all day. I want to know what is responsible for this state of near collapse, as I sit with the wine and the soft guitar music soothing my soul.
It is through our work, our labor, physical or intellectual that we grow. The events of my day are not meant to be complaints or boasts, but simple acknowledgements for how I spend the seconds, minutes and hours of my life. I arrived a bit early at 7:25:
Tomorrow is Friday and we have a great dinner planned. The weekend is upon us, and as we march into November, I am reminded of the Redwoods from the summer. The hours on the road. The streets of Bend, Oregon. The cabin. The calm. The rest. The ease.
I am grateful to have both- The fervor and the peace.
I'm the pretender and I, what I'm supposed to be
But who could know if I'm a traitor
Time's the Revelator”
Gillian Welch
I was a blur at work today. I wouldn’t have recognized myself, even if I had two minutes to look in a mirror. I was running from the second I arrived on campus. I don’t share these list of events to brag. I am not sure why I share them. I am not saying that everyone in the world is not just as busy. I am not promoting busyness as some sort of point of pride. It just helps me unwind to name the things that had me thinking and working and energised all day. I want to know what is responsible for this state of near collapse, as I sit with the wine and the soft guitar music soothing my soul.
It is through our work, our labor, physical or intellectual that we grow. The events of my day are not meant to be complaints or boasts, but simple acknowledgements for how I spend the seconds, minutes and hours of my life. I arrived a bit early at 7:25:
- Student of concern meeting.
- Covered half a mentor class
- Ran to the Parent Coffee Morning I was facilitating.
- Caught up on email
- Planned and re-planned the times and dates for the grade 6 trip to Tioman
- Met with one of the members of the grade 6 team for a check in
- Grabbed a salad to go for lunch
- Ran Daraja meeting (getting closer to assigning role and moving toward goal setting)
- Taught two eighty minute classes
- Ran Off Tangent our literary magazine (One of the most student driven things I have ever done. They are simply amazing)
- Came home read with Skyelar
- Listened to Kaia’s Math homeshare
- Had dinner.
- Got over guilt of not running.
- Got kids ready for bed and sat with them to fall asleep
- Sent off a few emails
- Started to organize some Movember stuff
- and now…the music is quiet. Not much left to so but stare at some entertainment. Something from Netflix or youtube.
- Read a few pages and sleep.
Tomorrow is Friday and we have a great dinner planned. The weekend is upon us, and as we march into November, I am reminded of the Redwoods from the summer. The hours on the road. The streets of Bend, Oregon. The cabin. The calm. The rest. The ease.
I am grateful to have both- The fervor and the peace.
September 22, 2016
Friday Not Friday
Today really felt like a Friday. I have that end of the week exhaustion, but I have still a Friday to complete. Not too much to report from the Little Red Dot and less to pontificate about. Work was work. I have the Daraja Global Concerns group at lunch and Off Tangent after school. Taught a few classes and put out a few small fires. Then a Daraja trip info night for parents. (We are pretty close to our numbers and had a few parents sign up right after the meeting.)
Our Daraja Crew (Shruti, Paula, Jenn, Georgina) was there to support and we went out for dinner and a beer after. Good conversation and good food. It is always a pleasure to hang out with these amazing woman. I usually just sit and listen and observe how different their friendships are compared to men. I crack the occasional joke and then they say something like, “you can come too Jabiz.” It’s always a good time.
Now. Time for sleep. Other thoughts and posts are still brewing.
Our Daraja Crew (Shruti, Paula, Jenn, Georgina) was there to support and we went out for dinner and a beer after. Good conversation and good food. It is always a pleasure to hang out with these amazing woman. I usually just sit and listen and observe how different their friendships are compared to men. I crack the occasional joke and then they say something like, “you can come too Jabiz.” It’s always a good time.
Now. Time for sleep. Other thoughts and posts are still brewing.
September 12, 2016
Pig Parts
I took Kaia to Vivo City today to get a cover for my new iPad and damn near lost my mind. It was jam packed crowded and took nearly 40 minutes to find a spot. Kaia read in the back while I huffed and puffed and sighed loudly and swore a few times. It was an exercise in patience, and I think I passed because we eventually parked and laughed about it as we made our way up the stairs, but it was touch and go for most of the time. Nothing like losing your shit in front of your kid, to the point where they see you at your worst animal state.
It didn't help that I was starving, so after I got the iPad cover we braved the chaos of Vivo to find a Japanese noodle shop that actually had vegetarian Ramen. In my heart of hearts I knew that the broth could not possibly have been veggie, but I swallowed by guilt and ordered it anyway. Damn cravings. Assuming the “don’t ask don’t tell approach.” It came and it was delicious and Kaia actually had some noodles and we chatted and enjoyed an ice cold 7-Up and some fried Tofu on the side.
On the way out, as we were paying, Kaia noticed that they were selling some pork bone packages for homemade broth. She looked at me and said, “You don’t think that was in our broth do you?” Busted. From that moment, I could taste nothing but death and bones in my mouth. I feel instantly sick by the thought of pig parts in my soup. “At least I only had the noodles. You were slurping up the broth.” This girl pulls no punches.
I have been pretty lax on my commitment to veganism since summer. Eating donuts and muffins and all kids of baked goods recently, but this pork fiasco was a good reminder to tighten things up a little bit. There is always a give and take with me. I have never been super militant, but I have been letting too many things slide lately and the veggie Ramen was just too much today. Poor Kaia, was super grossed out that she had inadvertently eaten some pork as well.
It’s one thing to have a Starbucks muffin and pretend like everything is fine, but it is another thing to actually see pig bones in plastic packaging and imagine them floating around in your soup. Nice reminder.
…
Met up with Claire, Shruti, Georgina and Georgia tonight to talk some broad brushstrokes about the Daraja Academy GC in Middle and High school. We each have nearly 25 participants and even had to turn many kids away. I am so stoked that we have reached this level of stability and that I am working with teachers who are so commitment and dedicated to this cause and this school. We had some food and drank a few beers and discussed the larger issues we want to cover and possible events for the year. There are some good things coming down the pipes and I cannot wait to see the kids this week and get them on board as well.
…
Finally watched the first episode of Stanger Things and so far, even after only one episode, it is living up to the hype.
The Raiders won their first game.
I am over my short flu/cold/whatever it was.
It didn't help that I was starving, so after I got the iPad cover we braved the chaos of Vivo to find a Japanese noodle shop that actually had vegetarian Ramen. In my heart of hearts I knew that the broth could not possibly have been veggie, but I swallowed by guilt and ordered it anyway. Damn cravings. Assuming the “don’t ask don’t tell approach.” It came and it was delicious and Kaia actually had some noodles and we chatted and enjoyed an ice cold 7-Up and some fried Tofu on the side.
On the way out, as we were paying, Kaia noticed that they were selling some pork bone packages for homemade broth. She looked at me and said, “You don’t think that was in our broth do you?” Busted. From that moment, I could taste nothing but death and bones in my mouth. I feel instantly sick by the thought of pig parts in my soup. “At least I only had the noodles. You were slurping up the broth.” This girl pulls no punches.
I have been pretty lax on my commitment to veganism since summer. Eating donuts and muffins and all kids of baked goods recently, but this pork fiasco was a good reminder to tighten things up a little bit. There is always a give and take with me. I have never been super militant, but I have been letting too many things slide lately and the veggie Ramen was just too much today. Poor Kaia, was super grossed out that she had inadvertently eaten some pork as well.
It’s one thing to have a Starbucks muffin and pretend like everything is fine, but it is another thing to actually see pig bones in plastic packaging and imagine them floating around in your soup. Nice reminder.
…
Met up with Claire, Shruti, Georgina and Georgia tonight to talk some broad brushstrokes about the Daraja Academy GC in Middle and High school. We each have nearly 25 participants and even had to turn many kids away. I am so stoked that we have reached this level of stability and that I am working with teachers who are so commitment and dedicated to this cause and this school. We had some food and drank a few beers and discussed the larger issues we want to cover and possible events for the year. There are some good things coming down the pipes and I cannot wait to see the kids this week and get them on board as well.
…
Finally watched the first episode of Stanger Things and so far, even after only one episode, it is living up to the hype.
The Raiders won their first game.
I am over my short flu/cold/whatever it was.
August 16, 2016
Sper Sweet
Wow! That last hour was intense. Wrote some pretty lengthy emails about school stuff. Followed by writing up some materials to get kids excited, and hopefully signed up for our Daraja trip in late January. (If any teachers at UWCSEA want to go on the tip as a paying participant, pleas let me know. You can ask Claire, Jenn, Paula, Shruti, and Georgina how great it is!
Anyway, my eyes are shot and my brain is mush. I was able to squeeze a run in today, but it felt like crap. I have not run for so long that getting ready for another half-marathon in December feels like torture. My run today was short and slow. I barely could get to 4km without walking and finished with a miserable 6km.
But it is back on the regiment. Although I was weeping and achy, it felt good to slow down my brain and push the school thoughts out for a while.
Now it is time for a tall glass of water, perhaps some wine, chocolate and reading for a while. It has only been two days, but I am looking forward to getting a work-flow organized that doesn’t feel so frantic and urgent. At the moment it feels like it all has to be done right now. And I am pretty sure that is not sustainable.
It was good to teach today. With all the administrative stuff taking up mental real estate, it was refreshing to remind myself why any of us do what we do. We love kids. Teaching and learning.
My classes were super sweet and I am falling in love with grade 6.
Oh and Learning 2 is around the corner.
May 3, 2016
Full Speed In The Scorching Sun
I was pretty angry twenty minutes ago. I don’t get angry very often, and twenty minutes ago, I wasn’t angry per se, just annoyed and frustrated to the point of acute irritability. I was pissed.
Paypal was the source of my prickliness. I was trying to pay for something that would only take Paypal and for a variety of reasons it wouldn’t work. Wrong email for the wrong card. Forgotten password. Wouldn’t send a password retrieval form. I really wanted to pay for this thing and the website would not work and I became angry. Seems silly when you spell it out like that.
I kept yelling, “What the hell!” to no one in particular, but since Mairin was the only one within ear-shot, I guess I was hoping she might be able to fix it. I tried a million different things: different emails, a new card, trying to pay outside of Paypal, but nothing worked. I was about to give up when twenty minutes later- Twenty minutes (it might have been less and I exaggerated the time in my state of rage) I finally got a password reset email and voila it was all fixed and paid for.
And after my grumpiness dissipated, I was left with the shameful sense one feels when they have been quick to anger. “Really?” We ask ourselves, “You were that worked up because a website didn’t work exactly right immediately? That is how petty you have become?”
So what was I paying for you might ask? I just registered for the OSIM Sundowner Half Marathon.
Go big or go home. Although I have never actually run more than 12km, I am going to give this 21km a try. There is another half-marathon next December in Cambodia that I want to run, but that seemed so far away and another 10km at this time didn’t feel satisfying enough. So the logic is- I will test this one out and get a baseline time. See if I can even do it. I figure I will run 10km hard, try to push myself to about 15km and walk the rest if I have to, just to see what it feels like. Then I will train from now until December to run the Cambodia race full on.
Having said that I still have a month to get ready for this run as well. I am pretty excited and the very idea of it is motivating me to get out there and run hard. Thanks for pushing me Jeff.
…
I’m a big fan of the hand written thank you note and compliment. I never give them, mind you, but I love getting them. Yes, I see the idiocy in that statement, and I hope to build a habit where I thank and compliment people using hand written notes, but in the meantime I will bask in their greatness when directed at me.
I entered my classroom today to find a small card on my desk from a peer at school who mentioned that they appreciate my passion and hard work. It was short and sweet and perfect. In our everyday busy lives a simple compliment can go such a long way.
I really want to work on writing notes like this more often. I hope to write them to my own kids, Mairin, my students, and of course my peers. I need to get my hands on some nice cards in preparation.
…
I was walking across Tent Plaza after I had eaten lunch today, on my way to the stairs for some down time in my room before class started, when I noticed three grade eight girls running full speed in the scorching sun. They were playing tag. I am not sure what it was about seeing grade 8 girls playing tag- it might have been their obliviousness to the heat or their sweat or what others might think, or I might have been moved by the fact that they were free and childlike and beautiful as they did what they wanted, unconcerned with the normal BS that a grade 8 girl must surely go through on a daily basis. They were smiling, laughing, and shrieking with joy. For those of you who work with or have worked with grade 8 girls, I can assure this is not “normal” behaviour, but I so wish it was.
…
In the last few days, I have had two groups of fifth graders come see me because they are working on Gender Equality and Education projects for their grade five exhibitions. They ask me questions about Daraja Academy and the work we do as a GC and the work they do as an NGO and school. I have been blown away by their focus, integrity and curiosity. My interaction has had a series of effects:
I am looking forward to working with this age group. They are so earnest and eager and ready to please. Comes as a nice relief after years of dealing with grade 8 cynicism and fatigue.
Reminds me that our grade 6’s are full of ideas, knowledge and excitement. Sometimes I tend to think that they are just babies coming in blank, and this is clearly not the case. I need to speak with the primary school teachers more often and thank them for their work. Also, I hope that the grade 9 teachers realise that are upcoming grade 8’s are also doing amazing things and that they are not starting from scratch. A K-12 school is an ongoing body of work. We are all involved and do our part.
Reminded me of the power of inquiry and unshackling kids from content and curriculum. Why do we not have an end of grade 8 exhibition? Another one at grade 10 and a final one at grade 12?
Anyway, my interaction with these young learners was eye-opening and inspiring. It is always a good idea for teachers to interact with other parts of the school. We get so involved with our own work that we forget or take for granted what other people are doing.
Paypal was the source of my prickliness. I was trying to pay for something that would only take Paypal and for a variety of reasons it wouldn’t work. Wrong email for the wrong card. Forgotten password. Wouldn’t send a password retrieval form. I really wanted to pay for this thing and the website would not work and I became angry. Seems silly when you spell it out like that.
I kept yelling, “What the hell!” to no one in particular, but since Mairin was the only one within ear-shot, I guess I was hoping she might be able to fix it. I tried a million different things: different emails, a new card, trying to pay outside of Paypal, but nothing worked. I was about to give up when twenty minutes later- Twenty minutes (it might have been less and I exaggerated the time in my state of rage) I finally got a password reset email and voila it was all fixed and paid for.
And after my grumpiness dissipated, I was left with the shameful sense one feels when they have been quick to anger. “Really?” We ask ourselves, “You were that worked up because a website didn’t work exactly right immediately? That is how petty you have become?”
So what was I paying for you might ask? I just registered for the OSIM Sundowner Half Marathon.
Go big or go home. Although I have never actually run more than 12km, I am going to give this 21km a try. There is another half-marathon next December in Cambodia that I want to run, but that seemed so far away and another 10km at this time didn’t feel satisfying enough. So the logic is- I will test this one out and get a baseline time. See if I can even do it. I figure I will run 10km hard, try to push myself to about 15km and walk the rest if I have to, just to see what it feels like. Then I will train from now until December to run the Cambodia race full on.
Having said that I still have a month to get ready for this run as well. I am pretty excited and the very idea of it is motivating me to get out there and run hard. Thanks for pushing me Jeff.
…
I’m a big fan of the hand written thank you note and compliment. I never give them, mind you, but I love getting them. Yes, I see the idiocy in that statement, and I hope to build a habit where I thank and compliment people using hand written notes, but in the meantime I will bask in their greatness when directed at me.
I entered my classroom today to find a small card on my desk from a peer at school who mentioned that they appreciate my passion and hard work. It was short and sweet and perfect. In our everyday busy lives a simple compliment can go such a long way.
I really want to work on writing notes like this more often. I hope to write them to my own kids, Mairin, my students, and of course my peers. I need to get my hands on some nice cards in preparation.
…
I was walking across Tent Plaza after I had eaten lunch today, on my way to the stairs for some down time in my room before class started, when I noticed three grade eight girls running full speed in the scorching sun. They were playing tag. I am not sure what it was about seeing grade 8 girls playing tag- it might have been their obliviousness to the heat or their sweat or what others might think, or I might have been moved by the fact that they were free and childlike and beautiful as they did what they wanted, unconcerned with the normal BS that a grade 8 girl must surely go through on a daily basis. They were smiling, laughing, and shrieking with joy. For those of you who work with or have worked with grade 8 girls, I can assure this is not “normal” behaviour, but I so wish it was.
…
In the last few days, I have had two groups of fifth graders come see me because they are working on Gender Equality and Education projects for their grade five exhibitions. They ask me questions about Daraja Academy and the work we do as a GC and the work they do as an NGO and school. I have been blown away by their focus, integrity and curiosity. My interaction has had a series of effects:
I am looking forward to working with this age group. They are so earnest and eager and ready to please. Comes as a nice relief after years of dealing with grade 8 cynicism and fatigue.
Reminds me that our grade 6’s are full of ideas, knowledge and excitement. Sometimes I tend to think that they are just babies coming in blank, and this is clearly not the case. I need to speak with the primary school teachers more often and thank them for their work. Also, I hope that the grade 9 teachers realise that are upcoming grade 8’s are also doing amazing things and that they are not starting from scratch. A K-12 school is an ongoing body of work. We are all involved and do our part.
Reminded me of the power of inquiry and unshackling kids from content and curriculum. Why do we not have an end of grade 8 exhibition? Another one at grade 10 and a final one at grade 12?
Anyway, my interaction with these young learners was eye-opening and inspiring. It is always a good idea for teachers to interact with other parts of the school. We get so involved with our own work that we forget or take for granted what other people are doing.
April 21, 2016
The Tricky Part
The tricky part about writing everyday, is that on the days where you do a lot, the ones that are chalk full of activities and blazing thoughts, you are the most exhausted and not really in a mood to tackle your thoughts and pin them to the page.
Take today for example- I had two classes of read-alouds that went pretty well, and between my three classes I must have conferenced with at least fifteen kids. Lunch time was a high pressure Daraja meeting hell-bent on being productive. All fourteen members showed up, on time, and were busy at work. This is no small feat.
My afternoon included a forty-five minute chat with an independent leadership consultant we work with at school. She is meant to play the role of critical-friend for the admin and mid-level leaders at school. She gave me some good advice and things to think about as I transition into the head of grade role. I am equal parts excited and terrified.
Then Daraja was asked to help run a wine and cheese night for grade eight parents. After some initial miscommunication, the team pulled together and it was a success. The three student volunteers were simply spectacular. I am so happy that after four years of work, our GC is sustainable and effective enough where I can ask for volunteers for two events in one week, and not only do they volunteer their free time at night, but they do it with grace and enthusiasm. Tomorrow night another set of volunteers will help launch our Lit Mag at a launch party the students have planned.
There is a lot to say about the leadership conversation and the beauty of student centered learning, but on a night like this- after I inhaled a vegan pizza from Alt and an entire box of Pizza cinnamon Dough-balls, finding the energy to clearly articulate any of it, feels difficult to muster.
There many thoughts hatched today, many things learned, a few moments of awe and the overcoming of panic, keeping it cool, there was complaining and negotiating, waiting and doing. And now the only thing left to do is sleeping.
Take today for example- I had two classes of read-alouds that went pretty well, and between my three classes I must have conferenced with at least fifteen kids. Lunch time was a high pressure Daraja meeting hell-bent on being productive. All fourteen members showed up, on time, and were busy at work. This is no small feat.
My afternoon included a forty-five minute chat with an independent leadership consultant we work with at school. She is meant to play the role of critical-friend for the admin and mid-level leaders at school. She gave me some good advice and things to think about as I transition into the head of grade role. I am equal parts excited and terrified.
Then Daraja was asked to help run a wine and cheese night for grade eight parents. After some initial miscommunication, the team pulled together and it was a success. The three student volunteers were simply spectacular. I am so happy that after four years of work, our GC is sustainable and effective enough where I can ask for volunteers for two events in one week, and not only do they volunteer their free time at night, but they do it with grace and enthusiasm. Tomorrow night another set of volunteers will help launch our Lit Mag at a launch party the students have planned.
There is a lot to say about the leadership conversation and the beauty of student centered learning, but on a night like this- after I inhaled a vegan pizza from Alt and an entire box of Pizza cinnamon Dough-balls, finding the energy to clearly articulate any of it, feels difficult to muster.
There many thoughts hatched today, many things learned, a few moments of awe and the overcoming of panic, keeping it cool, there was complaining and negotiating, waiting and doing. And now the only thing left to do is sleeping.
April 12, 2016
Get Me In The Game
I woke up from an intense dream this morning. I was on some kind of outdoor-ed trip. It was not clear if I was a teacher or a student, but there were lots of exciting adventurous activities happening: rafting, zip-lines, intense games of paint-ball etc…
But as teams were selected for each event, I was completely ignored. Nobody wanted me to participate or to be on their team. They kept telling me to just chill and stay behind in the room. Catch up on reading. Don’t worry about it they would say. I was furious. All I wanted to do was participate, but I was invisible and when I finally started to make a stink and demand to be included, they became angry and told me to just get out of the way.
I was in the middle of a tantrum, when I woke up.
I seldom get angry in life. I am a pretty chilled and go-with-the-flow kind of guy, but I swear I was short of breath and slightly shaking when I woke up. I am no dream interpreter, but I think it meant that I want to get in it. I want to do it. Get me in the game. I am ready.
…
I’m at the airport now. I just inhaled a Sushi Burrito. If you don’t know what that is, take a minute and imagine what it could look like and I bet you are right. I board a plane to Manila in about thirty minutes and I have Spotlight downloaded for the flight. I spent the last few minutes emailing the chair of my Daraja GC with plans about what needs to be done for our meeting n Thursday. And earlier today I participated in a very productive meeting of our Lit Mag. The magazine is in our hands and we printed a massive beautiful banner to advertise it. We are planning a launch party next week. The reason I am bringing this up is because I am so proud of the student initiative of both these projects.
At the start of the year, I made a conscious decision to find ways to create more student-driven experiences for my students. The thinking went that although our academic curriculum might not always allow such freedoms as passion led projects and/or inquiry-based learning in our daily classes, it is vital that we find other ares of the curriculum to make them happen. And our Lit Mag is a great example of this. Paula and I have been very hands-off as a small group of dedicated grade 6-8 boys and girls have created this magazine. They have learned so much from the process. I want to do a more formal write up or even short film about the process, but the whole things reminds me that we can carve places and times to give students ownership of their learning.
I am proud of them. It is a beautiful product and I cannot wait for them to send it out into the world next week.
…
Next time you’ll hear from me, I will be in my hotel in Manila tomorrow night. I am excited to share thoughts and photos of what I can only assume is going to be a tremendous city. The gate beckons.
But as teams were selected for each event, I was completely ignored. Nobody wanted me to participate or to be on their team. They kept telling me to just chill and stay behind in the room. Catch up on reading. Don’t worry about it they would say. I was furious. All I wanted to do was participate, but I was invisible and when I finally started to make a stink and demand to be included, they became angry and told me to just get out of the way.
I was in the middle of a tantrum, when I woke up.
I seldom get angry in life. I am a pretty chilled and go-with-the-flow kind of guy, but I swear I was short of breath and slightly shaking when I woke up. I am no dream interpreter, but I think it meant that I want to get in it. I want to do it. Get me in the game. I am ready.
…
I’m at the airport now. I just inhaled a Sushi Burrito. If you don’t know what that is, take a minute and imagine what it could look like and I bet you are right. I board a plane to Manila in about thirty minutes and I have Spotlight downloaded for the flight. I spent the last few minutes emailing the chair of my Daraja GC with plans about what needs to be done for our meeting n Thursday. And earlier today I participated in a very productive meeting of our Lit Mag. The magazine is in our hands and we printed a massive beautiful banner to advertise it. We are planning a launch party next week. The reason I am bringing this up is because I am so proud of the student initiative of both these projects.
At the start of the year, I made a conscious decision to find ways to create more student-driven experiences for my students. The thinking went that although our academic curriculum might not always allow such freedoms as passion led projects and/or inquiry-based learning in our daily classes, it is vital that we find other ares of the curriculum to make them happen. And our Lit Mag is a great example of this. Paula and I have been very hands-off as a small group of dedicated grade 6-8 boys and girls have created this magazine. They have learned so much from the process. I want to do a more formal write up or even short film about the process, but the whole things reminds me that we can carve places and times to give students ownership of their learning.
I am proud of them. It is a beautiful product and I cannot wait for them to send it out into the world next week.
…
Next time you’ll hear from me, I will be in my hotel in Manila tomorrow night. I am excited to share thoughts and photos of what I can only assume is going to be a tremendous city. The gate beckons.
February 13, 2016
Outside My Window
Outside my window hangs a sliver of a moon, surrounded by a darkness illuminated by infinite stars, and beyond that who knows. Some people call the spirit that fills the infinite- god. I don’t know anything about that, but I do know that there is a force out there and within us all, that’s filled with joy and pure love. It is bigger than the human spirit, as it connects us to all living beings. And on nights like tonight, when we are able to briefly connect with it and allow it to fill our cups, we understand our propose, no matter how long we have strived to name it. Maybe, it is best we simply enjoy it.
Tonight was our last night at Daraja, and we were involved in the weekly talent show. We saw skits and dancing. We recited poetry, and at one point a girl from Spain and another from China, danced a Bollywood number in front of a crowd of girls from ten different tribes in Kenya. An Italian boy performed circus tricks and an old teacher from Iran tried his best to belt out a Leonard Cohen song. And let’s not forget that a ten year old girl sang It’s A Wonderful World. These words cannot do justice to the scene that we witnessed. it is what peace looks like.
And even now, as I write these words from the quiet and distance of my banda, the girls are spending their last few precious Friday night minutes dancing and cheering in celebration. Somewhere in the mix, our kids are dancing too.
Earlier in the day we visited a Masai women’s collective and learned about several of their projects. We had a fabulous lunch in a tree top restaurant, and now our week here is drawing to a close. There is not much I can say without repeating myself from the week. I am just so thankful that we were able to make this trip happen for a second year in a row.
…
I received a letter from one of the girls tonight telling me how much of an impact our visits have had on her. Little does she know that the real impact is on us. I am sure that every person that we brought on this trip will cherish the memories that they’ve made here and Africa is now in their blood. I hope to hear of stories, years in the future, telling me of how they came back to this wonderful place and about all the amazing work they will do.
…
Tomorrow, we say our goodbyes, pack and make the arduous trip back to the airport and back home to Singapore. Ready for school and report comment writing on Monday. I for one miss my family beyond belief this time. I look forward to seeing their beautiful faces and carrying on with this work that we have chosen to do.
Tonight was our last night at Daraja, and we were involved in the weekly talent show. We saw skits and dancing. We recited poetry, and at one point a girl from Spain and another from China, danced a Bollywood number in front of a crowd of girls from ten different tribes in Kenya. An Italian boy performed circus tricks and an old teacher from Iran tried his best to belt out a Leonard Cohen song. And let’s not forget that a ten year old girl sang It’s A Wonderful World. These words cannot do justice to the scene that we witnessed. it is what peace looks like.
And even now, as I write these words from the quiet and distance of my banda, the girls are spending their last few precious Friday night minutes dancing and cheering in celebration. Somewhere in the mix, our kids are dancing too.
Earlier in the day we visited a Masai women’s collective and learned about several of their projects. We had a fabulous lunch in a tree top restaurant, and now our week here is drawing to a close. There is not much I can say without repeating myself from the week. I am just so thankful that we were able to make this trip happen for a second year in a row.
…
I received a letter from one of the girls tonight telling me how much of an impact our visits have had on her. Little does she know that the real impact is on us. I am sure that every person that we brought on this trip will cherish the memories that they’ve made here and Africa is now in their blood. I hope to hear of stories, years in the future, telling me of how they came back to this wonderful place and about all the amazing work they will do.
…
Tomorrow, we say our goodbyes, pack and make the arduous trip back to the airport and back home to Singapore. Ready for school and report comment writing on Monday. I for one miss my family beyond belief this time. I look forward to seeing their beautiful faces and carrying on with this work that we have chosen to do.
February 12, 2016
You Are Home
Although not intentional, I feel that perhaps my posts from Daraja have been a bit too focused on doom and gloom. It seems that perhaps inadvertently, I have been perpetuating the very stereotype of Africa I work so hard to reverse. While it maybe true that certain aspects of what we have seen and experienced in our short visit here leaves the heart heavy and torn a part, there are just as many times, that like a trampoline, the heart soars to unimaginable heights. So tonight, I want to try and capture a few more of the upward bounces.
It was late afternoon and the sun was low in the sky, painting the lush campus a vibrant shade of orange, the coveted time of day that photographers call the soft light, and the girls were having sports time and playing volleyball with our kids. I was on the sidelines taking a few photos, when I started talking to two form two girls named Faith and Faith. Faith Squared I called them. We had not met last year, and usually the form two girls are bit more shy, and so they rarely make first contact. But not Faith Squared, they were curious and wanting to chat, so we talked about their first year at Daraja. One of the girls was from the near the Uganda boarder and she told me how lush and green her home town is. We also talked about running. One of the Faith’s is going to run an 8KM race tomorrow. We discussed distances and times and she mentioned that last year she ran a half marathon. I told her that was a goal of mine, and she assured me that through training and dedication that I too could achieve this seemingly unachievable feat.
I told them that I love coming to Daraja, because it feels like coming home, and Faith said, “It does not “feel” like you are coming home. You are coming home.”
At dinner I spoke to Mary, a form three girl, I had got to know last year. We discussed Kenyan Hip-Hop and she had lots of questions about tattoos. She asked me if I remembered the long talk we had had last year on a hike we took together, and I said of course I did. I complimented her on how much she has grown and how much more sociable she was this year. She smiled shyly, but she was beaming. A simple compliment can go such a long way for all of us. It has been such a pleasure to continue to build relationships with these girls.
Coming back to Daraja after a night in Samburu made me realise what a sanctuary the campus really is, for all of us. All of our crew felt like they were coming home after only a few short days here. Claire and I discussed how being on the road made us feel a bit vulnerable and how upon returning to campus we let out a sigh of relief. The safety and the love of this place is palpable. I imagined what it must be like for the girls, who every break, venture back out into the seemingly endless sea of vulnerability that is their own nation. Then I revelled in the feeling of belonging and comfort they must feel when they return. I thought about how amazing it is that they have such a place and how proud I am of the work we do to make sure that this place exists for them. Even if it is for only ninety girls in this remote corner of the world, this place and places like it are vital.
So while the initial reaction to Kenya might be brunt harshness and discomfort, and while the lives of these girls, and so many others like them, might seem to us, the outsiders, as brutal and difficult, at the end of the day, they are simply living their lives and face struggles like the rest of us. But we cannot only focus on what they have overcome. Not one of us is defined by only our pasts, and it is unfair to look at these girls in that light.
…
Like Faith said, this school and this country are now one of my homes. And like most homes, I know there are people whom I love and who love me here. Much of this love is still young and budding, but like all love it is genuine and built on trust.
I hope the posts I have been writing are not scaring people away from Kenya, but revealing what a wonderfully challenging and beautiful place it is. On the drive home, I was thinking about the scary black man we see in movies, and how they contrast to the kind and gentle men I have met here like Stephen, Outerrie and Chris the head of security. I wish that we made movies about men like these and men like John and Charles who spend their lives working at a school like Daraja. Most importantly, I wish there were movies made about the strong women of Kenya. And I don’t mean documentaries, showcasing their rough experiences, but films that show Kenyans and Africans in the true and honest light that I see them in every time I come here.
I hope this post sheds some light on the doom and gloom I have been sharing all week. I am sadden to know we are leaving soon and that it will be another year before I can return, but I am enthusiastic and overjoyed that I can bring Kaia and Skyelar here soon. I cannot wait to see their eyes as they take everything in.
…
Dear Daraja Girls,
Thank you once again for opening your home to me and the guests I have brought. I don’t think I can put into words how much you inspire me. I wish there was a way that you could see the beauty that I see when I watch you working so hard for what so many in people in the world take for granted. I wish you could feel the pride I feel when I watch you interact with my students. I hope that when you look in the mirror you see the same girl that I see. One who is poised and articulate. Brave and considerate. Passionate and curious. Kind and loving and open to a world where you know you belong. I wish you knew how many people want you to succeed, because in your struggle and your empowerment lies the hope of so many women around the world, not just Kenya. I hope you understand that you are not alone in your struggle and through your education comes the freedom of not just women, but all people in the world. That as you reach down and pull yourself up to where you belong, you also bring up the hopes and dreams of all people who believe in a better world.
Please do not ever forget that you are not alone working till late in the evening and early each morning. Thousands, maybe millions of girls, are cheering for you. Young and old. Rich and poor. The future of the world depends on free, powerful, independent woman. You are here to teach us all how to be more humane and loving men. Your struggle is not a new or easy one, but I for one have full confidence that you are up to the challenge.
I do not come to Daraja every year to “help” you, although I hope that we can finds ways that we can, I come here every year to recharge my batteries and become inspired by you. You give me hope in a better world. So thank you for that. I love you all and I look forward to seeing you grow into the future leaders of Kenya and the global movement toward peace, justice and equality for all.
It was late afternoon and the sun was low in the sky, painting the lush campus a vibrant shade of orange, the coveted time of day that photographers call the soft light, and the girls were having sports time and playing volleyball with our kids. I was on the sidelines taking a few photos, when I started talking to two form two girls named Faith and Faith. Faith Squared I called them. We had not met last year, and usually the form two girls are bit more shy, and so they rarely make first contact. But not Faith Squared, they were curious and wanting to chat, so we talked about their first year at Daraja. One of the girls was from the near the Uganda boarder and she told me how lush and green her home town is. We also talked about running. One of the Faith’s is going to run an 8KM race tomorrow. We discussed distances and times and she mentioned that last year she ran a half marathon. I told her that was a goal of mine, and she assured me that through training and dedication that I too could achieve this seemingly unachievable feat.
I told them that I love coming to Daraja, because it feels like coming home, and Faith said, “It does not “feel” like you are coming home. You are coming home.”
At dinner I spoke to Mary, a form three girl, I had got to know last year. We discussed Kenyan Hip-Hop and she had lots of questions about tattoos. She asked me if I remembered the long talk we had had last year on a hike we took together, and I said of course I did. I complimented her on how much she has grown and how much more sociable she was this year. She smiled shyly, but she was beaming. A simple compliment can go such a long way for all of us. It has been such a pleasure to continue to build relationships with these girls.
Coming back to Daraja after a night in Samburu made me realise what a sanctuary the campus really is, for all of us. All of our crew felt like they were coming home after only a few short days here. Claire and I discussed how being on the road made us feel a bit vulnerable and how upon returning to campus we let out a sigh of relief. The safety and the love of this place is palpable. I imagined what it must be like for the girls, who every break, venture back out into the seemingly endless sea of vulnerability that is their own nation. Then I revelled in the feeling of belonging and comfort they must feel when they return. I thought about how amazing it is that they have such a place and how proud I am of the work we do to make sure that this place exists for them. Even if it is for only ninety girls in this remote corner of the world, this place and places like it are vital.
So while the initial reaction to Kenya might be brunt harshness and discomfort, and while the lives of these girls, and so many others like them, might seem to us, the outsiders, as brutal and difficult, at the end of the day, they are simply living their lives and face struggles like the rest of us. But we cannot only focus on what they have overcome. Not one of us is defined by only our pasts, and it is unfair to look at these girls in that light.
…
Like Faith said, this school and this country are now one of my homes. And like most homes, I know there are people whom I love and who love me here. Much of this love is still young and budding, but like all love it is genuine and built on trust.
I hope the posts I have been writing are not scaring people away from Kenya, but revealing what a wonderfully challenging and beautiful place it is. On the drive home, I was thinking about the scary black man we see in movies, and how they contrast to the kind and gentle men I have met here like Stephen, Outerrie and Chris the head of security. I wish that we made movies about men like these and men like John and Charles who spend their lives working at a school like Daraja. Most importantly, I wish there were movies made about the strong women of Kenya. And I don’t mean documentaries, showcasing their rough experiences, but films that show Kenyans and Africans in the true and honest light that I see them in every time I come here.
I hope this post sheds some light on the doom and gloom I have been sharing all week. I am sadden to know we are leaving soon and that it will be another year before I can return, but I am enthusiastic and overjoyed that I can bring Kaia and Skyelar here soon. I cannot wait to see their eyes as they take everything in.
…
Dear Daraja Girls,
Thank you once again for opening your home to me and the guests I have brought. I don’t think I can put into words how much you inspire me. I wish there was a way that you could see the beauty that I see when I watch you working so hard for what so many in people in the world take for granted. I wish you could feel the pride I feel when I watch you interact with my students. I hope that when you look in the mirror you see the same girl that I see. One who is poised and articulate. Brave and considerate. Passionate and curious. Kind and loving and open to a world where you know you belong. I wish you knew how many people want you to succeed, because in your struggle and your empowerment lies the hope of so many women around the world, not just Kenya. I hope you understand that you are not alone in your struggle and through your education comes the freedom of not just women, but all people in the world. That as you reach down and pull yourself up to where you belong, you also bring up the hopes and dreams of all people who believe in a better world.
Please do not ever forget that you are not alone working till late in the evening and early each morning. Thousands, maybe millions of girls, are cheering for you. Young and old. Rich and poor. The future of the world depends on free, powerful, independent woman. You are here to teach us all how to be more humane and loving men. Your struggle is not a new or easy one, but I for one have full confidence that you are up to the challenge.
I do not come to Daraja every year to “help” you, although I hope that we can finds ways that we can, I come here every year to recharge my batteries and become inspired by you. You give me hope in a better world. So thank you for that. I love you all and I look forward to seeing you grow into the future leaders of Kenya and the global movement toward peace, justice and equality for all.
February 11, 2016
The Stress Fades
Taking care of and making sure that other people are having a good time and feeling comfortable on a service trip is hard stressful work. Those of us who have travelled quite a bit and know what to expect take things for granted. For example when you show up at your Safari camp and it is in a desolate and inhospitable Samburu landscape, and your camp is a walled concrete “hotel” surrounded by barbed wire and a gravel garden filled with nails, you figure this is par for the course, but when you see the look of sheer terror on the face of the twelve year old Japanese girl you are in charge of and you watch her almost pass-out from heat exhaustion after she listened to the blood drinking practices of the local tribe, you begin to wonder what is going on in her young sheltered mind.
You give her some water and place her in the shade and hope for the best. Eventually, the sun sets and her stomach is filled with food and water and you get into the van and make your way onto the Kenyan savannah and you see an ostrich and an elephant and a crocodile and the clouds become bleached by the setting sun and the golden fields of dry grass swish to the rhythm of the wind and a speckled Falcom alights on a tall Acacia tree, and you know that everything will all be alright.
The stress fades and you realise that you might be responsible for creating memories that will last a life time. You might be planting the seeds that someday may bloom into love for a place and a continent that so many people fear, and because of this fear, detest. You realise that even the most sheltered and protected kids need a dose of distress and discomfort to really understand the state of the world. That maybe seeing seventy-five tiny, dirty primary school kids shovel rice and beans in their mouths as they sit in a tiny bit of shade on a barren sand lot, is just what our privileged kids need to see to understand what we mean when we say that their position of power matters to how they interact with a world outside of their comfort zone.
Maybe they need to hear stories about how young Samburu women must flee their families and villages just to be free from rape and female genital mutilation and childhood marriage. Maybe they need to see that these women, young and old, have had enough and have found a way to fend for themselves, so that when we talk about service in the confines of our beautiful classrooms, we might all do well to remember the shear difficulty so many others deal with in the face of their everyday existence.
Maybe some part of their hearts and minds will be awakened as they drive by houses made of garbage and cow-dung, as they see hundreds of small barefooted children run up to the car smiling and hungry, begging for a wave, some money, an acknowledgement that they exist.
Maybe as they sleep that night in a room that earlier felt gross and uncomfortable, they will realise that it is actually clean, well-lit and safe. That in their bathroom there is running water and that they have access to wifi to check-in on their beautiful lives back home.
Taking care of and making sure that other people are having a good time and feeling comfortable on a service trip is hard stressful work, but at the end of the trip we all go back home and return to our lives- thankful that our week of roughing it is now over. We do not have to eat the porridge anymore or feel guilty at bearing witness to what at the time felt so unbearable.
It’s impossible to foster empathy in people to situations that they have never felt on a visceral level. So we drench our kids in experiences that might make them ill at ease. We force them to push themselves at a young age and look reality in the eye, in the hopes that with their eyes wide open, they will not be able to look away for much longer.
…
You give her some water and place her in the shade and hope for the best. Eventually, the sun sets and her stomach is filled with food and water and you get into the van and make your way onto the Kenyan savannah and you see an ostrich and an elephant and a crocodile and the clouds become bleached by the setting sun and the golden fields of dry grass swish to the rhythm of the wind and a speckled Falcom alights on a tall Acacia tree, and you know that everything will all be alright.
The stress fades and you realise that you might be responsible for creating memories that will last a life time. You might be planting the seeds that someday may bloom into love for a place and a continent that so many people fear, and because of this fear, detest. You realise that even the most sheltered and protected kids need a dose of distress and discomfort to really understand the state of the world. That maybe seeing seventy-five tiny, dirty primary school kids shovel rice and beans in their mouths as they sit in a tiny bit of shade on a barren sand lot, is just what our privileged kids need to see to understand what we mean when we say that their position of power matters to how they interact with a world outside of their comfort zone.
Maybe they need to hear stories about how young Samburu women must flee their families and villages just to be free from rape and female genital mutilation and childhood marriage. Maybe they need to see that these women, young and old, have had enough and have found a way to fend for themselves, so that when we talk about service in the confines of our beautiful classrooms, we might all do well to remember the shear difficulty so many others deal with in the face of their everyday existence.
Maybe some part of their hearts and minds will be awakened as they drive by houses made of garbage and cow-dung, as they see hundreds of small barefooted children run up to the car smiling and hungry, begging for a wave, some money, an acknowledgement that they exist.
Maybe as they sleep that night in a room that earlier felt gross and uncomfortable, they will realise that it is actually clean, well-lit and safe. That in their bathroom there is running water and that they have access to wifi to check-in on their beautiful lives back home.
Taking care of and making sure that other people are having a good time and feeling comfortable on a service trip is hard stressful work, but at the end of the trip we all go back home and return to our lives- thankful that our week of roughing it is now over. We do not have to eat the porridge anymore or feel guilty at bearing witness to what at the time felt so unbearable.
It’s impossible to foster empathy in people to situations that they have never felt on a visceral level. So we drench our kids in experiences that might make them ill at ease. We force them to push themselves at a young age and look reality in the eye, in the hopes that with their eyes wide open, they will not be able to look away for much longer.
…
The mountains in the distance fade into gentle shades of purple and grey, the clouds white and smeared across the sky. Their is silence and distance from the world. An Ornyx grazes quietly, swishing its tail, a bush is alive with butterflies. I’m standing up, arms crossed and face out of the pop-top safari van. Wind blown hair. Arms sun drenched. Bouncing on the red dirt road. You are alive and you are aware enough to know it. You are alive and you are aware enough to know it. You are alive and you are aware enough to know it.
I’m slightly embarrassed by my smile, but I cannot hide. Eyes closed, it’s all I can hear over he sound of the engine: You are alive and you are aware enough to know it.
I’m slightly embarrassed by my smile, but I cannot hide. Eyes closed, it’s all I can hear over he sound of the engine: You are alive and you are aware enough to know it.
February 10, 2016
Precious Spots
The rain started as soon as we were ready to begin. The small room off the hotel courtyard turned dark and uninviting, but everyone agreed that the rain was a good omen. I was sitting with the administrative staff of Daraja about to start a round of student section interviews. There were thirteen girls and their families waiting to be interviewed for a chance to change their lives.
It felt daunting to be part of such a process. I felt honoured and humbled to be present, but also a bit guilty. What gave me the right to choose who gets in and who has to find another way to build a future.
The girls were fourteen most of them and they were all scared and nervous. But they reacted to this fear in different ways. One was painful shy and quiet, her voice inaudible over the sound of the rain. I knew from talking with Jason that a “Daraja” girl showed confidence and signs of leadership before she even walked onto the campus. This girl, we all knew from the opening few moments didn’t have much of a chance. How could she when there were hundreds, thousands of girls through Kenya vying for the few precious spots.
The next one was loud and full of smiles, but broke down in tears when she spoke of her father leaving the family and how her mother could only find “casual” work digging on other people’s farms. When asked what it means to be a leader she said, “A leader serves other people and allows them to be the people they are meant to be.” I liked her a lot, but there would still need to be stiff conversation about what she was more deserving than the other eleven girls waiting outside.
I thought a lot of the cycle of poverty and the state of the “developing” world. I thought about how a man could have a family and abandon them to fend for themselves in a society he knew does not value women. I thought about how angry I often am at injustice, but also at my own hypocritical self-righteousness. Who am I to judge these men? What do I knew of their own fears and damage?
I was due back at Daraja to meet up with my students, so I left the rest of the interviews for the rest of the team.
…
So bummed I had two more entries on this post, but they didn't get saved and the document I was working on shut down.
We are off to Safari, so the next entry may be delayed.
It felt daunting to be part of such a process. I felt honoured and humbled to be present, but also a bit guilty. What gave me the right to choose who gets in and who has to find another way to build a future.
The girls were fourteen most of them and they were all scared and nervous. But they reacted to this fear in different ways. One was painful shy and quiet, her voice inaudible over the sound of the rain. I knew from talking with Jason that a “Daraja” girl showed confidence and signs of leadership before she even walked onto the campus. This girl, we all knew from the opening few moments didn’t have much of a chance. How could she when there were hundreds, thousands of girls through Kenya vying for the few precious spots.
The next one was loud and full of smiles, but broke down in tears when she spoke of her father leaving the family and how her mother could only find “casual” work digging on other people’s farms. When asked what it means to be a leader she said, “A leader serves other people and allows them to be the people they are meant to be.” I liked her a lot, but there would still need to be stiff conversation about what she was more deserving than the other eleven girls waiting outside.
I thought a lot of the cycle of poverty and the state of the “developing” world. I thought about how a man could have a family and abandon them to fend for themselves in a society he knew does not value women. I thought about how angry I often am at injustice, but also at my own hypocritical self-righteousness. Who am I to judge these men? What do I knew of their own fears and damage?
I was due back at Daraja to meet up with my students, so I left the rest of the interviews for the rest of the team.
…
So bummed I had two more entries on this post, but they didn't get saved and the document I was working on shut down.
We are off to Safari, so the next entry may be delayed.
February 9, 2016
Be kind. Smile. Be open. Listen. Be honest. Share
Today was less emotionally draining, but no less intense, than yesterday. My heart and mind are constantly being pushed and pulled into configurations that render them unrecognisable. One second I am filled with an urgency of hope and optimism that feels euphoric, and the next I’m left gutted by the impossibility of the road ahead. To talk with, not only the girls at Daraja, but the teachers and parents and students from UWCSEA about our shared experiences, is a feat of great intensity.
I watched a group of our kids weed an organic farm. Smiling and sweating, intent on their purpose. Baking under the relentless Africa sun, lathered in sun screen- some laughing and cracking jokes, while others were lost in their private reveries.
I listened to a group of Kenyan girls learn about and discuss the structure of British colonial rule in Kenya and Eastern Africa. I marvelled at how they tried to make sense of a system that was so archaic and cruel, a system that still impacts their lives in such real ways.
I observed a group of young people from Spain, Japan, The Netherlands, China, England and Kenya contemplate the best strategies for conflict resolution in a WISH class. (Women of Integrity, Strength and Hope). They shared their ideas in small groups and shared back as a whole.
I was interviewed by a young girl for her Media Club newsletter about my thoughts on how to stop corruption and whether or not students should be given more access to technology. Her poise and passion left me inspired by the power of a brilliant and determined mind.
How do we allow our world to function without the input of so many talented and amazing people? Where could we go if we gave everyone a chance to determine the kind of world we want to live in?
I ate lunch and dinner tending to relationships I planted last year. Adding another layer of trust and understanding with each meal and conversation.
I watched Claire pull herself out of the hole she was thrown into after she sat in on a few rounds of student selection interviews. She was shell shocked by the power of giving some girls a chance, but at the same time she was destroyed by the reality of saying no to so many others.
I ate Ugali. I took a ten minute power nap. I listened to our group compliment each other as we all shyly looked away, empowered by what was being said.
It really is so much more simple than we make it out to be. Empower people by loving them and telling them why you love them. Listen to them. Encourage them. Trust them and allow yourself the vulnerability to be trusted by them.
I watched a group of our kids weed an organic farm. Smiling and sweating, intent on their purpose. Baking under the relentless Africa sun, lathered in sun screen- some laughing and cracking jokes, while others were lost in their private reveries.
I listened to a group of Kenyan girls learn about and discuss the structure of British colonial rule in Kenya and Eastern Africa. I marvelled at how they tried to make sense of a system that was so archaic and cruel, a system that still impacts their lives in such real ways.
I observed a group of young people from Spain, Japan, The Netherlands, China, England and Kenya contemplate the best strategies for conflict resolution in a WISH class. (Women of Integrity, Strength and Hope). They shared their ideas in small groups and shared back as a whole.
I was interviewed by a young girl for her Media Club newsletter about my thoughts on how to stop corruption and whether or not students should be given more access to technology. Her poise and passion left me inspired by the power of a brilliant and determined mind.
How do we allow our world to function without the input of so many talented and amazing people? Where could we go if we gave everyone a chance to determine the kind of world we want to live in?
I ate lunch and dinner tending to relationships I planted last year. Adding another layer of trust and understanding with each meal and conversation.
I watched Claire pull herself out of the hole she was thrown into after she sat in on a few rounds of student selection interviews. She was shell shocked by the power of giving some girls a chance, but at the same time she was destroyed by the reality of saying no to so many others.
I ate Ugali. I took a ten minute power nap. I listened to our group compliment each other as we all shyly looked away, empowered by what was being said.
It really is so much more simple than we make it out to be. Empower people by loving them and telling them why you love them. Listen to them. Encourage them. Trust them and allow yourself the vulnerability to be trusted by them.
Be kind. Smile. Be open. Listen. Be honest. Share
However, simple these ideas seem to be, it is important to remember that they take time. Relationships are not built in seconds, but in years. And no amount of asking a person to tell you their story is going to connect you any faster.
We are never one story. We are never defined by our traumas or our resilience. We are a web of stories that often intersect more that we realise.
So yeah, today was less emotionally draining, but no less intense.
However, simple these ideas seem to be, it is important to remember that they take time. Relationships are not built in seconds, but in years. And no amount of asking a person to tell you their story is going to connect you any faster.
We are never one story. We are never defined by our traumas or our resilience. We are a web of stories that often intersect more that we realise.
So yeah, today was less emotionally draining, but no less intense.
February 8, 2016
Too Small
I woke up to the sound of birds outside my window. It was almost 6am and I was tired, but could feel that I would not fall back asleep. I tossed and turned a bit, but eventually decided to get up for a run. Strapped on my shoes and made my way out into the crisp pre-dawn darkness.
Out of the Daraja gates, I made my way toward Ol Giri Giri a tiny village a kilometre up the road. The landscape was littered with acacias and cactus, but the soil, even in the darkness, emitted a maternal warmth. The paprika coloured ground was vibrant beneath each step. Slowly, as I made my way up and down the gentling sloping hills, the sun began to make her presence known and my body temperature heated up.
I couldn’t believe it. Where I was. Who I have become. What I was doing. The only sounds: the cooing of some scattered birds. My footsteps one after the other. The day beginning. I didn’t see a soul on the entire run. Six kilometres, alone except for Rasta the dog, who was sprinting back and forth, I ran and let my thoughts cascade out of my mind, forming into tiny dropplets of sweat. My muscles important and alive.
….
Out of the Daraja gates, I made my way toward Ol Giri Giri a tiny village a kilometre up the road. The landscape was littered with acacias and cactus, but the soil, even in the darkness, emitted a maternal warmth. The paprika coloured ground was vibrant beneath each step. Slowly, as I made my way up and down the gentling sloping hills, the sun began to make her presence known and my body temperature heated up.
I couldn’t believe it. Where I was. Who I have become. What I was doing. The only sounds: the cooing of some scattered birds. My footsteps one after the other. The day beginning. I didn’t see a soul on the entire run. Six kilometres, alone except for Rasta the dog, who was sprinting back and forth, I ran and let my thoughts cascade out of my mind, forming into tiny dropplets of sweat. My muscles important and alive.
….
Life is painful. And to be strong might mean the ability to face our weakness and continue to move forward. We sat on the porch in the darkness. Two old friends-brothers, talking about the pain that comes from trying to save the world, right ever injustice. He told me stories about the selection process and the emotional toll of choosing how to save a life. “How do say no?” He kept asking me as if I had the answer. We sat in silence. My thoughts, one after the other, charging onto dead ends. The world might be too big and too damaged to save all at once. But we do what we can in the places in which we inhabit. It seemed too simple and obvious, so cliche that it rendered the simplest solution a moot point out, so we stared off into the night. The tears welled up in our eyes, unaware of the work that was happening down the hill in the classrooms and dormitory rooms so close to us that we could touch them.
…
During spiritual time, I sat with five Kenyan girls and asked them about their beliefs and the Seventh Day Adventist. They asked me about my beliefs and I told them I love Jesus, but couldn’t understand the god of the bible. I mentioned that he seemed too small to me. We sat under a tree alone-together with our thoughts.
Later I watched one of the most awkward and shiest kids I have ever taught, stand in front of twenty-five strangers and lead them in a hymn; he played an electronic key-board. Maybe this god wasn’t so small after all, I thought. The girls sang along knowing each verse and joining him in the chorus.
I think sometimes we complicated things a bit. Maybe the world is too big and our gods too small, but our actions, however small, have to matter for something. Maybe the solutions are that obvious- bring people together and let them eat together and sing songs together and talk about their beliefs. Maybe we just have to…
…
It was a long hard emotional day. And it is late now and dark and quiet again. The words forming and the ideas behind begin to fade- unsure if they make sense or will connect to anyone but me and this blank screen. But without them, the thoughts become too heavy and the world too big.
…
During spiritual time, I sat with five Kenyan girls and asked them about their beliefs and the Seventh Day Adventist. They asked me about my beliefs and I told them I love Jesus, but couldn’t understand the god of the bible. I mentioned that he seemed too small to me. We sat under a tree alone-together with our thoughts.
Later I watched one of the most awkward and shiest kids I have ever taught, stand in front of twenty-five strangers and lead them in a hymn; he played an electronic key-board. Maybe this god wasn’t so small after all, I thought. The girls sang along knowing each verse and joining him in the chorus.
I think sometimes we complicated things a bit. Maybe the world is too big and our gods too small, but our actions, however small, have to matter for something. Maybe the solutions are that obvious- bring people together and let them eat together and sing songs together and talk about their beliefs. Maybe we just have to…
…
It was a long hard emotional day. And it is late now and dark and quiet again. The words forming and the ideas behind begin to fade- unsure if they make sense or will connect to anyone but me and this blank screen. But without them, the thoughts become too heavy and the world too big.
February 7, 2016
Upon A Gust Of Wind
At first it looked like ash or rubbish floating across the road. The bus was quiet as most of the kids had fallen asleep in various position of comfort and necessity. Some baking in the sun, others shielded by sweatshirts or scarves.
Upon a closer look, one could notice that the paper white ashes, were not ashes at all, but a swarm of thin pale butterflies, and with a bit of imagination and perhaps a pension toward romanticism, one could almost believe that they were a flurry of snow flakes, rolling across the road upon a gust of wind.
…
The stars are out again, the way that stars rollick in the darkness when allowed the freedom to escape the lights we create to run our lives. A gentle breeze. The silence of the night and the eerie peaceful calm which is the natural sound of night as a planet rolls toward morning.
My ears are still ringing from the music. Earlier we had a bit of a dance party, watching our kids in various modes of amazement watching the Daraja girls dance without a trace of inhibition. Some of our kids joined in, waving their hands as wildly as they could. Jumping up and down, impressed by how easy it can be to be free. I sat watching, still too embarrased by my lack of rhythm to do anything but be jealous.
Back in my banda. Excited to show another group of people the magic of a school build on nothing but passion, love and a trust in humanity so strong that it becomes a self-perpetuating prophecy.
…
On the bus watching:
The languid ease of not needing to be anywhere at any given time. The chaos of a bus over burdened by people and their belongings. Fifty gallons plastic jugs of water or cooking oil, the necessities of life. Families on motorbikes, babies in slings, and the smiling desperation of selling your bunch of bananas in the noon time heat. Watched a group of young boys playing tag on the side of the road, barefoot and all smiles, wondering when do our kids get to be kids so independently.
My thoughts drifted:
How often do I romanticise the life of people leading very difficult lives? Why are white people so scared of black people? It feels strange to be a minority, a pale face in the midst of so much unknown. So many people are unable to see the true face of reality, because of all the baggage we have been burdened with by our cultures and histories.
…
What were are kids thinking today as they looked out their windows and bore witness to the true face of a place that has only been a myth to them. Were they awed or scared? Were they open to the idea that they could relate to the people outside the passing window, or did they linger on the obvious disparity of their lives and the ones on the side of the road?
I hope that by bringing them here to Africa, Kenya, Daraja, we can show them that people are people are people. And that poverty is not some thing to fear or romanticize. It is the true nature of the world. And the people who pass by through our windows living quiet lives on the side of the road, when we get to them and spend time with them and hear their stories and their songs, will always teach us how to be our better selves.
The only way to overcome fear and its belligerent cousin racism is through exposure.
So here we are on day one, ready to look at our ignorance both new and old with open eyes, open minds and open hearts.
Drama means bridge and we are all Daraja.
Upon a closer look, one could notice that the paper white ashes, were not ashes at all, but a swarm of thin pale butterflies, and with a bit of imagination and perhaps a pension toward romanticism, one could almost believe that they were a flurry of snow flakes, rolling across the road upon a gust of wind.
…
The stars are out again, the way that stars rollick in the darkness when allowed the freedom to escape the lights we create to run our lives. A gentle breeze. The silence of the night and the eerie peaceful calm which is the natural sound of night as a planet rolls toward morning.
My ears are still ringing from the music. Earlier we had a bit of a dance party, watching our kids in various modes of amazement watching the Daraja girls dance without a trace of inhibition. Some of our kids joined in, waving their hands as wildly as they could. Jumping up and down, impressed by how easy it can be to be free. I sat watching, still too embarrased by my lack of rhythm to do anything but be jealous.
Back in my banda. Excited to show another group of people the magic of a school build on nothing but passion, love and a trust in humanity so strong that it becomes a self-perpetuating prophecy.
…
On the bus watching:
The languid ease of not needing to be anywhere at any given time. The chaos of a bus over burdened by people and their belongings. Fifty gallons plastic jugs of water or cooking oil, the necessities of life. Families on motorbikes, babies in slings, and the smiling desperation of selling your bunch of bananas in the noon time heat. Watched a group of young boys playing tag on the side of the road, barefoot and all smiles, wondering when do our kids get to be kids so independently.
My thoughts drifted:
How often do I romanticise the life of people leading very difficult lives? Why are white people so scared of black people? It feels strange to be a minority, a pale face in the midst of so much unknown. So many people are unable to see the true face of reality, because of all the baggage we have been burdened with by our cultures and histories.
…
What were are kids thinking today as they looked out their windows and bore witness to the true face of a place that has only been a myth to them. Were they awed or scared? Were they open to the idea that they could relate to the people outside the passing window, or did they linger on the obvious disparity of their lives and the ones on the side of the road?
I hope that by bringing them here to Africa, Kenya, Daraja, we can show them that people are people are people. And that poverty is not some thing to fear or romanticize. It is the true nature of the world. And the people who pass by through our windows living quiet lives on the side of the road, when we get to them and spend time with them and hear their stories and their songs, will always teach us how to be our better selves.
The only way to overcome fear and its belligerent cousin racism is through exposure.
So here we are on day one, ready to look at our ignorance both new and old with open eyes, open minds and open hearts.
Drama means bridge and we are all Daraja.
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