Tuesday, November 9, 2010

nostalgia...but easily forgotten

"Do you miss home?" is the most frequent question I am asked from people in America. Truthfully, I have been missing home a lot lately. I am not quite sure why lately I have become slightly home sick. Maybe it's because it has been almost ten months since I have seen any family or friends from home. Another contributing factor could be that I haven't been able to speak to any friends from home. I miss being able to pick up the phone at any minute and call them. I miss laughing with them until my stomach has had a satisfying abdominal workout. I miss shopping until my legs hurt with my mother and grandmother followed by dinner on the ocean. I miss going to my dad's for a wonderful home-cooked meal and a trip to the Puritan afterwards for a delicious ice cream cone, guaranteed to bump into a few people we know. I miss driving terribly. I love long car rides with the windows rolled down, good tunes playing. I miss iced coffee from Dunks. I miss McDonald's two cheeseburger meals with sweet and sour sauce. I miss Backroom chicken tenders. I miss air condition. I miss going to the movies, and I miss trashy television and magazines. I miss knowing every new song on the radio. It's true, I think of all of these things almost daily. I think about what all of my friends are doing at home. I envision them going out in Boston dressed in the latest fashion trends. I envision my family sitting down for shepards pie. I envision my aunts, uncles and cousins getting together for another baby shower or lake get-together. All of this, all of the food, all of the driving and music blasting... I miss everything dreadfully. Then, I look in front of me into my hut doorway as I am writing, and I see Zambian children smiling in at me doing something so unconventional to them- writing. They stare with curious eyes. They tap their bare feet to my American music. Here they sit at my stoop staring at me, their mazoungu sister, doing nothing, and they are content. Looking at them while missing home, I am acutely aware of why I am here. It doesn't take much for me to believe that I am needed here, but when I think of home I find that I have to remind myself of these reasons often to reassure myself that my time here is worthwhile.
I am especially reminded that my time here is valuable through the children. Everyday hoards of children stop by my hut to read and look at the pictures in the books that I have. They beg me to read to them, flashing the books in front of my face, "Ba Kathy, Ba Kathy, tangai, tangai!" They love learning letter sounds and matching the funny pictures with the odd English words. I read to them almost daily as they gather, their eyes peering just over my knees, grappling to see the pictures. I watch them day by day flourishing with new vocabulary words. The joy of informal teaching on the stoop of my mud hut jostles the home-sickness out of my body. Through the neighborhood children's smiles, clapping, eagerness to learn and thankfulness, I am easily reminded why I joined Peace Corps in the first place.
It's not just the young children that have given me vindication for being here. I exert most of my energy teaching grade eight and nine English and Science. I was apprehensive to start teaching in September. Never having officially taught before, I was anxious. I was also worried about the students not understanding my dubious accent. The anxiousness lasted about three days. The students have an extreme appreciation for me, thanking me daily for my time and even dropping by my hut to make sure I am comfortable in this unknown place. They are curious about me and my life in America. They relish in talking about the differences in culture between Zambia and America. They are thrilled to start a pen pal program. Ironically, talking about home with my students eases my nostalgia, and I feel supported and welcomed by my students. Just like the neighborhood children, their thirst for knowledge awakens my soul and solidifies my happiness with my life here in Mutanda.
My life here in Mutanda has also illuminated me in finding joy in adult education. I encounter many adults through my daily routine who want to join me on my reed mat to learn how to read or how to say something new in English. These wants were expressed so heavily throughout my neighborhood, that together we started a women's literacy club which meets twice per week. The women are overwhelmingly gracious of this free education that empowers them to pass their knowledge on to their children. Their eyes stare at me intensely as they repeat the English words. They embrace their limited vocabularies and laugh at their mistakes. They encourage each other and help each other with the slow process of learning English as a second language. I am enlightened by their enthusiasm to expand their knowledge even in their adult years.
Along with the newly formed literacy club, I meet with the Kabuchimba Women's Group to help them with the start-up of their income-generating project of sewing school uniforms to vulnerable children. All of these women gleam with passion and strength; passion for their language, culture and families. They believe in promising futures for their children and they are fervent to educate themselves to serve as competent role models for them. My conversations with them are interesting and humorous, ranging from knitting to politics to culture to village gossip. Although conversation is limited because of language barriers, these conversations grant me time to really understand the community. I am always filled with elation after a women's group meeting or casual chat with my host sisters or neighbors.
All of these people, these groups of community members, are constantly giving me more than enough reason to be here. Enough reason to depress all feelings of yearning for home and feel comfortable in my bliss here in the village. The people of Mutanda don't realize that while I am teaching them, they are teaching me in return, which, selfishly speaking, is the best motive for living here for the next 16 months. They are opening my outlook on life in more ways then I could have imagined instilling in me a sense of strength, appreciation for simplicity, and gratefulness. As I write this last paragraph, I am being nudged by Kaunda, my nightly neighborhood 8-year-old visitor, to read her a story. I suppose the McDonald's cheeseburger can wait and my nostalgia for home will be stifled once more.