Crossing cultures

Thursday night my key school principal came to my house to discuss a few things. My host mom complained to a teacher who told the principal that I've been keeping food in my room. I didn't when I first came to live here, but I noticed how fast food disappeared when I left it in the kitchen. If you're American, you're probably asking yourself, "Why does it matter if Melissa keeps food in her room?" That is the whole problem.

I, being American, asked, "Why does it matter if I keep food in my room?"

"It's our culture to keep food seperate from where we sleep."

I start imagining dorm rooms with refridgerators back at college and one-room tin shacks that dot my village and fill townships across South Africa. But I keep my mouth shut. "It's not my culture. I am an American."

I could say, "It's not my culture" to so many things. The fundamentals are different. American culture focuses on the individual. My food. My room. My money. The culture of villages on the community, especially large extended families. Everything is shared, no questions asked. Not rocking the boat is an admirable quality.

It's not my culture to formally greet everyone I see. Walking to school each morning requiers greeting 20 people. Once at school I need to greet all the teachers. No longer can I start a conversation with a nod, smile, or "hey." Little children have a formal greeting too; they calp twice then wait for their hands to be kissed or shook.

It's my culture to talk softly unless angry. Now I yell, "Could you talk a little bit softer? You're giving me a headache."

It's my culture to compliment people on their increasing fitness level. Instead, "Ooooo, Lethabo! You're getting fat! South Africa loves you!" is a compliment. I've started to explain that regardless of South Africa's love for me, to never call me fat.

I spend time alone in my room: reading, writing, plotting diabolic plans to stop the music from the shebeen (illegal bar) a block away. But it's not my host family's culture. They think I'm sleeping or sick. They think I'm angry.

My principal and I go to rehash our conversation with my host parents. Mma says that I'll go home for two months in October 2007 but I'll come back to live in the village forever. It takes all my will-power to restrain myself from saying, "No. I miss blending in and strangers ignoring my presence. I miss refridgerators, fans, washing machines, dryers, running water and snow. I want a roof AND a ceiling over my head. I'm tired of hearing what everyone else is doing in the house because the walls stop a foot below the roof. I want disturbing the peace ordinances and neighbors who obey ordinances. I want tex-mex, Chinese and cheese. I want more than one radio station. I'd like to not read tv. If I lived in South Africa, which isn't going to happen, I'd live in a city. With air conditioning. And good internet.

Instead, I smile. "I'm an American. I want to go home."

"You must hate South Africa."

"No, there's just something about where you grew up. Do you want to leave South Africa and never see your family again?"

By now, you must be thinking that I'm miserable and 30 seconds from taking the next plane to JFK international. I'm not. I like my life here. Really, I do. I like sharing and greeting. I see so much potential for South Africa to grow and change. I see all the citizens of this beautiful land entering the first world, not just the ones in cities and tourist hot-spots. The problem is a universal one: culture.

My principal ends the conversation. "I respect your culture. Just go back to doing what you were before." Don't expect exceptions in our culture to be made for you. We're not going to change. Assimilate, Lethabo. Just. Blend. In.

But Americans would never ask anyone to assimilate, right?

Anniversary

August 18th marked a whole year that I've been here in South Africa (October 13th will be my first year of service). I thought this was a good time for a general up-date on how things are going.

I continue to be amazed by my host mom. She likes to be constantly busy (despite her 73 years) and when she finally finished her work in the fields, she started going to funeral preparations or chasing the cows across the countryside. In addition, she continues to do the cooking and washing of clothes (she's smart and has convinced a granddaughter to clean the house for her). My host father has been at the hospital since late May. I get the impression that he's suffering from the getting-old-disease. Getting old is fatal, but nobody can guess when. He was supposed to come back this weekend, but the date keeps getting pushed later and later. I like it in the house when he's not there because it's so quiet!

The road work and my hatred of riding the bike continues. There are conflicting stories that the part of the road that I use will be finished in January or it will be finished in October (just in time for me to leave South Africa!). Unfortunately, almost everyone drives on the new road and it is now just as bumpy and sandy as the detour. At least I have a story to tell to children when they complain about how awful their lives are. I can hear it now, "Well, I had to ride my bike in 110 degree weather through sand and bumps a foot deep!" It's even getting exaggerated already. :)

On the other hand, winter has remained for longer than normal and I couldn't be happier. An average winter day in my village is 40 in the morning with highs in the mid-80s. It's glorious. It makes riding the bike almost pleasant.

In the schools, my teachers have finally started to trust me. They are beginning to tell me what they really think instead of what they think I want to hear. A big step forward. At each school I'm working on a different main project:
Tshukudu: RNCS, revised national curriculum statement. It's a plan designed by the department of education to help the teachers with lesson planning so that their lessons are learner-centered instead of teacher-centered. Really boring but really important.
Ramojapudi: Individual computer lessons for the teachers. 3 of the 17 teachers have used a computer before. The principal hopes that they will be able to do all of their record keeping on the computer by next year. About half of the teachers pick it up really quickly, while others struggle. I thank my Gramma for all her computer questions back at home that taught me a little patience. She should be proud that she is a much quicker learner than a handful of teachers.
Mmera: Writing and implementing a school-wide discipline plan. The plan covers everything from school hours to rules and specific actions to take when a learner misbehaves. This is a continuation of the alternatives to corporal punishment workshop held in May. I'm hoping that between me and the teachers we can eradicate corporal punishment at this school and I can take the lessons I've learned to the other two.
All of the projects at the schools take a longer time than they would in the US. Even though I'm not accomplishing much every week, I hope that the few changes I help to instill last a long time.

Finally, what have I been keeping myself busy with since April? MCAT studying! It's over! I'm free! I actually really liked studying because it gave me a specific goal to do each day and I could go to sleep at night feeling like I accomplished something. I took the exam today. . . I feel like I did after I took a practice exam and I'm hoping the results will be good. I'll find out in October. Of course, the logistics were not without problems. I woke up at 3:45 this morning with a dull anticipation of the test. (Similar to how I'd feel before a steeplechase. Well prepared but anxious to start.) I got ready, slowly, and listened to my iPod. Called a taxi and headed towards the testing center. Unfortunately, neither the driver or I had any real idea where the testing center was and we ended up asking for directions at gas stations twice. The second time he even bought gas. I was freaking out because I was already ten minutes late. When I arrived, I found out it didn't matter that I was late because there was a line to register for the test. Registration involved scanning my driver's license, taking digital fingerprints and a photo. Everything worked great and the workers clicked 'okay' to send the information in just as they realized that my age was 63 on the form! My driver's license scanned wrong on my birth date was 2/26/1943. They assured me that's it's fixed now.

That's as much of an up-date I can think of! Leave a comment if there's something you're dying to know more about that I left out. I miss you all!