The Magic of Duct Tape

So this weekend I went to the village (PK-10), as usual, where my older kids (8-10 years old) are always a highlight for me. They’re incredibly noisy and all over the place, but without a trace of mean streak in them. So it always ends up being fun despite the craziness (this is one of the few boisterous groups that don’t have a violence problem). That, and they’re hilarious together.

One boy in particular is incredibly smart. Jorghinio, nine years old, lives in this completely impoverished area and dreams of becoming a doctor. I believe he can make it if he really wants to, because he’s so incredibly smart and good-natured, and I doubt the country won’t fund his university studies if he ever applies for scholarships when he gets to that point. Again, though, he’s nine – he’s got time to decide. But this kid is, without a doubt, gifted.

Back to the story. We were working on reading comprehension stuff in the carving hut (the only enclosed space with a decent table). No one was carving at that point, nor giving lessons, so we were free to use it. This weekend, as usual, these five kids were bouncing off the walls. They were just NOT quieting down. But, lo and behold … Jorghinio (who is usually the loudest) saw my big duct tape roll, which I had brought for kite-making afterwards, and piped up: “Hey! Can I have a long piece of tape? I’ll stick it on my mouth. I know that when I talk, I get everyone else talking. So if I shut myself up by taping my mouth, we may be able to finish the work!”

So I taped his mouth shut.

The four other kids then jumped up to me and said “Me too! Tape my mouth too!”

So I taped all of their mouths.

And they also wanted me to tape their hands together like handcuffs, to add a challenge to writing their answers. So I obliged. (The strangest things can spontaneously become a game.)

And so I began reading true or false questions, where they vigorously nodded or shook their heads to answer, and scribbled away “f”s and “v”s (faux & vrai) on their worksheets.

At that precise moment, one of the French sculpting students, a 50-ish year old strict-looking lady, walked in on me, looking for the sculpting teacher.

She basically froze in the door frame. Looking at me. With five kids with their mouths taped shut and their hands tied.

You can imagine how I tried to talk myself out of that one.

Thank God the kids looked like they were enjoying themselves.

Of Zen, Craftmanship, and Weekend Plans

I need to learn how to chill out. Seriously. I am, as a person, very nervous. Sometimes it blows out of proportion. I get scared for the smallest things, and I don’t realize the effect it has on my attitude, my self-esteem (and therefore my performance), and my sleep (and therefore health).

Sometimes stressful situations will roll off my back like water on a duck. Other times I’ll freeze out of fear. I still don’t know what makes me trigger, but it’s really getting on my nerves. I’m afraid that my nervousness and my fear comes through during some of my classes, and that maybe I end up destabilizing the kids. Isn’t the whole point of these classes for them to feel good about themselves and to have fun? Having a nervous and fearful teacher won’t give that effect. I need to zen-out.

That being said, I have another artistic outlet that I realized I haven’t explained yet.

I’m learning how to carve. Saramacca-style. They call that “Tembe”, which is interesting, as the word “tembe” is also used for any other craftsmanship, including hair-braiding. (Hair-braiding here is an art. Seriously.)

So for the past few months, I’ve been slowly designing a chess board with Saramacca designs on the edges. My teacher has been VERY patient with me. Wood-carving demands for precision and arm-strength. I’m definitely lacking the necessary arm-muscle, so it doesn’t take long for me to get tired! Therefore, I’ve been bringing my chess board home and working away at it little chunks at a time. I am now finished drawing and outlining everything with a thin cut. The next step that I’ll be taking today is sanding down the pencil marks, and then I start digging for real. (The 32 squares’ outlines have been dug out already.)

“In the Baha’i Cause arts, sciences and all crafts are counted as worship. The man who makes a piece of note paper to the best of his ability … is giving praise to God.” — ‘Abdu’l-Baha, The Divine Art of Living, p.65

This is something we’re discussing today with the older kids at PK-10.

Other items on this weekend’s menu:

• Kite-making
• Little celebration for the younger kids since they finished their “chapter” (which included putting a jewel on a crown every lesson – the crown is full, so they get to make themselves a crown – they’ve been looking forward to this …)
• Feast at the Doekoe’s house on Sunday night (“the Doekoes’” is the family with my adored five girls youth group – this is the first Feast they’ll be hosting in a long time, so in all, everyone’s excited)
• Sanding down my chess board
• Maybe getting my hair fully braided. We’ll see. Irène (friend at PK-10) has done a successful test last week.

100 Days and LSAs

I have a funny little gadget on my Facebook page that’s a day countdown. I added it in December just for laughs – it is now counting down how many days there are left before I go home. Apparently I’ve just hit the 100-day mark.

I realize I was supposed to post on Monday, but Monday became a crazy administrative day. I mean, crazy.

I shall back up and explain.

In the Baha’i Faith, there is no clergy. Administrative affairs are taken care by a body of 9 members elected in each community (ex., Montréal has a group of nine elected administrators, Ottawa has one too, etc.). This group is called the Local Spiritual Assembly, and it changes every year.

When we do the elections, we can’t do campaigns. What happens is that people vote for the 9 members they personally believe would be of the most help on the Assembly that year. This means it’s your job to go out and meet as many people in the community in general so as to have a good idea on whom to elect. Again. No campaigning. Everyone 21 years old and over is eligible. (So if you want this to feel a little closer to home, let me say that I’m eligible to be elected, and that a friend of mine of my age has just been elected on the Laval Spiritual Assembly.)

Every country then has a National Spiritual Assembly, which is elected by delegates from each region of the country. And then there’s the members of the Universal House of Justice, that are elected every 5 years, and who take care of the affairs of the Faith worldwide.

What does all of this have to do with my Monday being crazy?

There are a lot of little Baha’i communities in French Guiana around the town where I’m staying. These communities, most of them, don’t have access to mail easily, can’t come to town easily, and many are illiterate. So come election day (April 21st), they need help.

Now. Usually some people from our town go around to give them a hand for the day. But these wonderful people are getting ready to leave the country to Haifa for the election of the Universal House of Justice as I type, and so they were a little overwhelmed with travel preparation on Monday.

So it’s Philip and I that took the rickety old little car, a bunch of pencils, papers, ballots, money for food, and went around the Maroni region for about 10 hours assisting 10 different Local Spiritual Assembly elections (and in most cases, breaking ties) (we even needed tie-breaking sessions for some tie-breaking sessions a few times).

In all, a busy Monday. And I’ve been trying to catch up with my week’s class preparation ever since.

Of Lizards and Tiled Floors

Yes.

I know.

I’m writing less and less these days.

It’s not for the lack of events, that’s for sure.

I even passed the five-month mark and didn’t write anything about it. Darn.

Perhaps I don’t write as much because many of the events are better said in comic form and am saving them precisely for that medium. So I’m giving a small update, comic form, and then I’ll figure out the things I want to type out on Monday.

Socio-Economical Reasons to Be Here …

As I look back to my previous posts, I realize that I failed to explain the political and socio-economical situation of my area in French Guiana. This information may help clarify the type of life and relations I have with the surrounding population, and more specifically explain the nature of the French classes I give (and as to why they’re not lessons given in a classroom setting with a predetermined curriculum).

Of course, everything I say is what I’ve either heard, noticed, or directly experienced. There may very well be articles out there contradicting what I say here, but I don’t feel like debating today, so I’m telling you straight up: if you want to verify my information, go right ahead – and if you feel there are things I should correct, feel free to inform me.

So, here goes.

French Guiana is an oversea department of France. Everything here is ruled by French laws. Everyone born within its borders can apply for French nationality, granted they can speak French and intermingle with the French population.

The currency used are Euros, and the prices are high, as everything sold here must be approved by the European Union. Even if we’re right next to the border of Suriname (previously known as Dutch Guiana, but who has claimed independence since … the 70’s? Not too sure.), where things are very cheap, French Guiana needs to import everything, from car parts to toilet paper, from Europe. So – high prices (and in Euros, to top it all).

The population here is widely mixed. There are Creoles, Native Amerindians, French/Europeans, Surinamese, and Chinese (Hmong), in general. The Surinamese (Maroons [a mix of African descendants of the slave trade], Guyanese, and Native Amerindians) are an especially large group in St-Laurent. This is for a simple reason: in the 1980’s and 1990’s, there was a civil war in Suriname. It lasted longer than anyone had anticipated, as I gathered (this impression comes from the fact that I heard many stories from people who were either attacked, involved, etc etc). So, the Surinamese fled to the closest border: French Guiana (more specifically, St-Laurent, my town, as it’s a border town).

For the first few years, the French government decided to ignore their presence in the department. Everyone figured the Surinamese civil war would stop soon enough. But it didn’t – and the refugees after a few years began their life anew in French Guiana. Unfortunately, it was done so illegally – no papers, no protection from the government. Just – go in the forest, build a new village, forage for yourself. The children born then were denied education in French Guiana as they were not official French citizens.

Recently, perhaps during the last ten to fifteen years, the French government had to admit that these families weren’t going anywhere. So, any minors born and/or living in French Guiana, either legally or illegally, were finally granted permission to attend school until they became majors. They would then need to apply for their French nationality. At this point, if they can prove they live and studied in the department and speak reasonable French, and have avoided any trouble with the authorities, their nationality is pretty much guaranteed.

The problem is with their parents. A whole generation has been denied education during the war (this generation being mine and the previous one). So these people, along with their parents and grandparents, cannot speak French – and therefore can’t apply for their French nationality. This is a problem because they are constantly under threat of being deported, they can’t legally work (and don’t have an education, so aren’t proficient for a lot of the jobs anyway), they can’t buy land or a house – their garbage can’t even be picked up by the city (basically they are denied all the rights of a citizen -all except hospitalization, thank goodness). So they build small shack-like houses around the city, and move whenever they have to. And St-Laurent, where I am, whose population used to be between 600-800 before the civil war, is now at 20 000, with 10 000 living around in those small houses. To give you an idea.

Back to speaking French: the refugees and immigrants need to ask for either a long-term visa or a French nationality in French. That means understanding what the office says to them in French, and replying coherently. Most of these people who have been denied education have never read in their lives, and don’t know how to study or learn subjects, nor languages. So for them it’s especially hard to learn French, unless they’re gutsy and throw themselves into the fire (and there are some I know who do this, which is great) – especially for the women, as they usually stay in their house all day and attend to their 5 – 10 children and cooking (which is a nice simple way of living, but it sucks if you’re afraid of being deported half the time). It’s therefore hard to integrate in the French society to learn the language if you don’t go out at all to intermingle.

That’s when I come in: all the French lessons I do are part of a non-profit organization, SuriFrance, that offers French classes to anyone who wants them – but for free. So I go around in those little camps and small houses by bike, set up a class time and location for their friends and neighbours (so these classes usually happen in someone’s house), and spend an hour or two per week with each group (which are mostly women). And part of the project is really making a program that’s aimed at that specific population, to teach them verbally things they would need to know to get around. Some are at the point where they want to learn how to read (syllable dictations can be fun, apparently). At this moment, I am now looking at how one applies for a visa and a French nationality so I can teach them what they may be asked, and how they should answer accordingly. No easy task.

But let me tell you, I’m going to feel damn useful if I succeed.

(For more general info on St-Laurent, click here)

(For more general information on the Suriname civil war, click here)