Je voudrais de jus d'orange

I never expected Ghana to be the place of language overload. Yet,  I have heard more languages spoken in the town of Kasoa than I did in the international city of London.  My kids' families speak Twi. Many of the candidates speak Fante, which is closely related to Twi.  My students are learning French, and occasionally there are songs in Latin. In Accra our taxi drivers usually speak Ga. Jamie and I regularly converse in Spanish. I've committed to reading Grammar Girl this year simply because my English skills are now such a mixture of languages and accents that it has definitely shaped my mind and writing.

Despite the fact that my polished English skills sometimes escape me, our multi-cultural climate is exciting. One night recently after the candidates arrived from their month-long absence of a retreat and visiting their families, we all sat around eating popcorn and drinking soda (in the dark because of course the power went out).  Because we didn't really have enough lights to play Jenga or Rubikub, we started rapping. That's right, rapping. Sister Mary E. played the spoons to a tune in Portuguese. Sister Lillian gave us a jingle in Swahili, Cynthia chanted in Hausa, while Jamie rapped in Spanish. I threw in some English and away we all went.

I've found several French books in our library which has reignited my desire to actually learn this lanaguage. So I found a blog that is helping me learn basic phrases like "taisez-vous" and "Je voudrais de jus d'orange" I feel like I can add these to my repetoire of phrases I remember from high school French. (okay, so I only remember one phrase from French class and that translates to "do not touch me because you are a little fish." I actually had to use it once, but that is another story for another time)

Anyway, Jamie and I have been working on learning languages among learning how to live in Ghana.  Last night, for instance, I also discovered how to make fresh orange juice.  I was so excited that Monica let me help her in this endeavor.

The kitchen was messy, but the three of us had fun. Our orange juice was yummy, the conversation was excellent, and I added to the experience by learning to say "Je voudrais de jus d'orange" in French.  I consider it all: the multiple languages, the making of orange juice, the interruptions by my favorite Ghanaian six-year-old (who's current favorite activity is to hide places and jump out and scare me) part of the experience.

Market Day

It was an exciting week. Jamie and I gave all ten of our midterm exams, graded all 400 of those tests and then hosted a workshop on library resources and lesson planning.  (Did Lizziey really make all of the teachers pretend to be superheros during said workshop? Yes, she did.)  We introduced short "i" words to our after school remedial reading group and attended a workshop on early childhood education.  In between doing all of those things we found some time to teach.

At the end of our busy days, Jamie and I often indulge ourselves in recreational activities. It almost always involves drinking coffee on our veranada. It usually involves philosophy.  It sometimes involves playing the guitar and sketching. But last night God gave us an even better gift than the ability to engage in conversation over Betty Friedman's orginal ideas on the Feminist Mystique: God gave us rain. It poured from heaven, cleaning our windows and spilling over onto the veranda.  Jamie and I soaked it up. Then, we had a dance party.  Somewhere in our glee, Jamie decided to say "I think we should go to Accra tomorrow to get our packages."

In my typical fashion I rolled my eyes and pouted. (Being the youngest in my family, I've always been really good at pouting. Teaching fourth graders has allowed me to perfect that trait.) And then I said, "well maybe," and continued to dance to my playlist of Lady Gaga and Lily Allen while some African drumming from a nearby church service accompanied.

This morning I woke up from the previous night's coffee coma ready to go. On the way to the kitchen we ran into the candidates who were getting ready to go to Accra. Jamie said, "Hey, would you stop by the Circle post office for us?" They agreed, so we were excited that we didn't have to find the Circle post office by ourselves.

But then an even better thing happened. Tuesdays and Fridays are market days, but they are also school days. I teach school, so I rarely make it to the market. But this morning we headed to the kitchen and found out that Ama was getting ready to go to the market. We invited ourselves and off we went!

We had some fun exploring New Market with Ama.  We didn't buy anything, as we went looking for cloth and didn't find anything comparable with the quality of Grandma in Accra (an elderly woman who sells batik fabrics).  So eventually we hopped on a tro-tro and went to the Kasoa post office.

Kasoa's Only Traffic Light. Do not call it a stop light, or the tro-tro driver will get very confused and have no idea where you want to go.

(sidenote: after the tro-tro ride, but on the way to the post office, I saw a pretty dress. Since I can't officially go wedding dress shopping yet, Jamie let me go into this shop on the main street in Kasoa to look at the pretty dress. The owner let me try it on by simply moving a rack of clothes in front of me. I'm sure that no one noticed the half naked 5 foot 8 inches tall white girl trying on a formal white dress in the middle of Kasoa.) 

Oh the post office. First of all, we open our mailboxes with skeleton keys. Skeleton keys make me feel like I am part of a novel where the main character is participating in an act of greatness like hiding former slaves on the Underground Railroad or finding buried treasure on an island full of danger. Jamie and I wandered behind the post office, over the gutter where chickens are pecking through the trash and black muck, through a narrow alley way and unlocked our tiny PO Box. We took out the overflowing loot and stuffed it into our satchel and went inside to plunder the world's smallest post office for even more blunder. Oh the treasures we found! I received a box and an envelope full of books and dictionaries. (I've been praying for dictionaries. I read my 4th graders Frindle, and now they need dictionaries. Funny how that happens)  My mom sent me a Valentines Day box full of chocolate. Some dear friends of mine sent me a note with a box of fabulous goodies: including Nutella, Parmesan, peanut butter, POP ROCKS, Slim Jims and the world's cutest sewing kit.  Jamie and I are so thankful for those who remember us even though we don't always do the best job of staying in touch.  It seems that whenever we need a little something something, a package or a note from home arrives exactly when we need it.

Signals On!

Basic Three (B3) is sorely trying my patience. They are threading on very... thin... ice...

Mid-term exams begin this Friday, which means that mid-term reviews for exams will be going on all week. This is easier said than done, especially when your students seem to have learned absolutely NOTHING since the school term started. Don't get me wrong you still have your 2 or 3 students who always know what is going on (at least I know I didn't just imagine teaching the material), but the rest of the class obviously attended school at an alternative parallel universe. I mean, how else can you explain the "deer in headlights" look they give you when you ask a simple question (like "What color is the close button on a window?") ? Or better yet, the outrageous answers that prove that they didn't even listen to the question (Umm...ahhh... Madam! UP!). Ok so the real problem is not the alternate parallel universe, the  real problem is that they don't pay attention... to me!
This is not a relatively new problem for B3. At the end of the first term I noticed that my once "best-behaved class" was quickly becoming my "worst-behaved class". So I made the resolution to start tough and strong this term. I implemented routines and activities that would capture my class' attention and help creatively re-direct their focus back to me (without shouting or threats). I even tried some olds techniques, like "signals on" (which gets them to sit and look at me). They worked really well... for a whole week... Now, what?! Well, "if at first you don't succeed, try and try again". Which I did, with different approaches and yet the same end results! And now, I am left frustrated, exhausted and angry with B3 and their behavior.
The plain truth is, I love B3. I don't particularly feel fond of them right now, but I do love them. That is why their behavior hurts even more. I want them to do good, be good, and succeed both in my class and in life. It hurts (much like a slap in the face), not because they ignore me, but because in doing so they are missing out on so many wonderful things, the very things they learn from me. I have a lot  that I wish to teach and share with them, but there is only so much I can do for them. Only they can fill in the answers in their homework and exams. All I can do is try my best to prepare them for those tests by teaching them the material they will need to know, and hoping that when the time comes they use that knowledge to pass the test. I cannot, as much as I might want to, put myself inside them and do the work for them, they need to learn from me but do the work themselves...
And THAT is what God wants from us as well. Except that in this case He is the teacher, and I am the B3. As Oswald Chambers puts it "We don't consciously and deliberately disobey God-we simply don't listen to Him". We don't listen because we are so busy and concerned with "other things" that God's instructions never even reach our ears. We don't listen and it is DISRESPECTFUL. I might want to take the easy way out and say: "I didn't hear anything, so it's not fair that Im in trouble now!". But think about it for a minute. If a teacher can stand up in front of class and EXPECT the pupils to listen and follow directions, then why can't God expect the same from us? It is not the teacher's fault if the student chooses to doodle on their notebook during class and consequently misses writing down the homework assignment. The good teacher will always look out for the students whose attention has wondered and call to them  ("Jamie, did you hear me?"). How many times does He have to call us back to Him? How long until we finally learn to listen and pay attention to everything He says? If we love Him, shouldn't we stop whatever it is we are doing and listen as soon as He makes a sound? Don't you want to pass the class?...

God please forgive my insensitivity and disrespect. I am ready to listen, my signals are on...
Jamie