I am continually impressed by the students I'm teaching! So often, adults don't take kids seriously. School is about authority figures (teachers) handing down the right answers and students accepting those answers as truth. Who cares about their ideas, right?
This philosophy is the Anti-BELL. As a science course, we emphasize discovery and finding the answers for yourself. As an instructor, I guide the lessons and facilitate discussion and ask questions. I try not to give any answers because who knows if my answers are right?
So anyway, this afternoon was Lexi's lesson on "Orange Meditation." With almost no introduction, we each took a cold, fresh orange and found a comfy spot to sit. For fifteen minutes, 29 high school students sat silently with an orange in their hands. Pondering, wondering, imagining. They took their time to peel and eat the orange. As I sat there with my own orange in my hands, thinking alternately about how strange-in-a-great-way this was and how amazing that high school kids were actually into it, I was impressed. When I was in high school, would I have willingly meditated on an orange? There's so much pressure to be "cool" in high school, and sitting still eating an orange for fifteen minutes is pretty far from "cool."
After we all finished our oranges, we talked about everything that had gone into the fruit: sun, rain, wind, farmers, pickers, trucks, oil for trucks, dinosaurs for oil for trucks, bees, refrigerators, money, and on and on. And over and over again, these kids said: "I'm worried about the world. I want to help."
And that's the "cool" thing about experiential learning--they will help because we're all in this together and we're in it until we discover the answers.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
Martians Must Be Vegetarians
Good news for asparagus lovers: your favorite veggie may be able to grow on Mars.
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/27/science/space/27MARS.html
Now I'm all for sustainability and reducing your eco-footprint, and planting asparagus on Mars would do nothing for either of those. Imagine the transportation costs to import vegetables from outer space! Imagine how not-fresh they would be when they arrived almost a year later. Imagine all the preservatives--yuck. Even worse than the taste of asparagus itself. Would you be willing to fork over (no pun intended) millions of dollars for Martian asparagus?
Maybe it's a good thing there's no water on Mars to complement the perfect soil. We can't give up on Earth yet, which is also good seeing as my job security is based on the assumption that Earth is essential. That would certainly make BELL difficult if we suddenly had to teach about outsourcing asparagus agriculture and other Martian endeavours.
Speaking of which, thirty kids come tomorrow. High school seems a little foreign (or shall I say, in keeping with our theme, alien?) but I'm incredibly excited. Who wouldn't get excited about two weeks of wiffle ball, tag, hammocks on the beach, hiking, and no homework?!
Take me to your leader, kids. Oh wait. That's me.
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/27/science/space/27MARS.html
Now I'm all for sustainability and reducing your eco-footprint, and planting asparagus on Mars would do nothing for either of those. Imagine the transportation costs to import vegetables from outer space! Imagine how not-fresh they would be when they arrived almost a year later. Imagine all the preservatives--yuck. Even worse than the taste of asparagus itself. Would you be willing to fork over (no pun intended) millions of dollars for Martian asparagus?
Maybe it's a good thing there's no water on Mars to complement the perfect soil. We can't give up on Earth yet, which is also good seeing as my job security is based on the assumption that Earth is essential. That would certainly make BELL difficult if we suddenly had to teach about outsourcing asparagus agriculture and other Martian endeavours.
Speaking of which, thirty kids come tomorrow. High school seems a little foreign (or shall I say, in keeping with our theme, alien?) but I'm incredibly excited. Who wouldn't get excited about two weeks of wiffle ball, tag, hammocks on the beach, hiking, and no homework?!
Take me to your leader, kids. Oh wait. That's me.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Lyme disease? Poison ivy? Bring it.
It's almost a relief to be moving back out to the "wilderness" and away from the city. I still find myself homesick for the stars and sand of Botswana. I still (by necessity--I have no laundry detergent) wash my clothes in the sink with a bar of soap. I can't get used to all this going out to restaurants, to shops, to ice cream, bowling, ball games, etc. Seeing my closest friends spend money freely and easily on food, clothes, technology, and other random bits of soon-to-be-clutter is a bit unsettling. I find myself still in Frugal Mode, where my Botswana mindset reigns: if I buy this treat, will I be able to eat dinner tomorrow?
Interesting note: I can't get used to the credit-based economy here. That's pretty funny because the focus on cash in Botswana frustrated me to no end while I was there. "Come on!" I'd think. "No one carries more than $20 in cash. Just let me use a credit card... please..." I seem to have absorbed that lifestyle more than I realized because now I always reach for cash and forget that yes, everywhere here does accept credit.
I am also struggling with adjusting to the busy American/city/college way of life. People are running all over the place, always with a million things to do. Even my friends. They describe their summer jobs with a disheartened sigh: "I HATE sitting in the lab for seven hours a day. I'm trying to hold down four jobs and I have no time to sleep. Oops, I forgot to eat lunch today. It's okay; I'll just grab an apple and run, I'm late for a meeting."
Really, guys?? Is that what you want? Is this what Americans want to raise their children to be? It disgusts me that I used to think that was normal, even desired, because it meant you were being productive and efficient.
So yeah, I can't wait to be back under the stars in a tent. After battling malaria-ridden mosquitoes, wandering hippos, and the fearsome wait-a-bit tree, poison ivy and lyme disease seem pretty tame. I figure I can handle 35 American high schoolers about as well as I handled 13 Batswana cousins, and maybe after seven weeks on the Narragansett, I'll be ready to try the city again.
Interesting note: I can't get used to the credit-based economy here. That's pretty funny because the focus on cash in Botswana frustrated me to no end while I was there. "Come on!" I'd think. "No one carries more than $20 in cash. Just let me use a credit card... please..." I seem to have absorbed that lifestyle more than I realized because now I always reach for cash and forget that yes, everywhere here does accept credit.
I am also struggling with adjusting to the busy American/city/college way of life. People are running all over the place, always with a million things to do. Even my friends. They describe their summer jobs with a disheartened sigh: "I HATE sitting in the lab for seven hours a day. I'm trying to hold down four jobs and I have no time to sleep. Oops, I forgot to eat lunch today. It's okay; I'll just grab an apple and run, I'm late for a meeting."
Really, guys?? Is that what you want? Is this what Americans want to raise their children to be? It disgusts me that I used to think that was normal, even desired, because it meant you were being productive and efficient.
So yeah, I can't wait to be back under the stars in a tent. After battling malaria-ridden mosquitoes, wandering hippos, and the fearsome wait-a-bit tree, poison ivy and lyme disease seem pretty tame. I figure I can handle 35 American high schoolers about as well as I handled 13 Batswana cousins, and maybe after seven weeks on the Narragansett, I'll be ready to try the city again.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Re-Entry and Re-Adjustment
I love that they call coming back to the States "re-entry." As if I've been in outer space and am flying down through the burning, gaseous atmosphere to once again set my feet firmly on the ground.
I guess that could be pretty accurate. Botswana was in some ways an entirely different world. One of the most interesting readings I did over the semester was an essay entitled "The Values Americans Live By." It was a "how-to" guide for foreigners immigrating to the US. How to survive. How to deal with these crazy Americans. How to understand their culture. American culture is pretty strange, if you stop to think about it. All this super-competitiveness, focus on money and productivity, and independence.
I know, I know, you're thinking: "But those are good things!" And that's the American way to think. In most other countries in the world, time isn't money and asking for help is an important part of building community. In Botswana, the best thing you can do is foster good relationships. "African time" evolves out of this belief: why rush away from lunch with a friend to go meet with a colleague and then scurry from there to dinner with the kids and then back to the office to meet with your boss? None of those relationships will gain anything at all. Instead, spend an extra fifteen minutes finishing lunch with your friend and then if you meet a woman on the street, help her carry her groceries and talk to her. In the meantime, the colleague you're supposed to meet with may be playing an impromptu game of tag with the neighborhood children or discussing politics with fellow office staff.
Batswana think we're crazy for always being so rushed and overscheduled.
And it's true: one of the most striking things I noticed upon "re-entry" was that everyone here goes about life in their own little bubble. You walk down the street and no one says hello as they pass you. You sit next to someone on the Metro and barely greet them with a smile. People are so determined to be independent that it seems like they forget the other 300 million people living here with them.
Also, life here is so cluttered!! No, Mom, I am not talking about your tidy house. But there is so much unnecessary stuff here. I remember talking about how exciting it would be to come home to a full closet after 4 months in the same 5 outfits, but I've more or less been wearing the same 5 or 6 things since I've been back. Do you really need more than that? And the stores! The mere thought of spending a Botswana week's living allowance on a pair of flip flops sent me into an emotional breakdown in the middle of the shoe store.
But overall, it's nice to be back. It's nice to walk down the street without seven marriage proposals a day, and it's nice to know that if I skip a shower one day, no one is going to care (or notice). Also nice: a full refrigerator, washing machines, green grass, free internet (because goodness knows uploading all these photos in an internet cafe would have depleted my entire bank account).
Ahh, yes, the photographs. It's taken me I-don't-know-how-many hours to sort them and upload them and I apologize if they still aren't very well organized or captioned. I did narrow down my 1800 photos to 497 of the good ones. I was planning on also uploading a smaller album for those of you who just really don't care about seeing more than one zebra, but I'm tired of sitting at my computer waiting for photos to upload. I may or may not get to that later. I'm moving on African time, you know.
If you are interested, though, here's the link to my photos: http://picasaweb.google.com/claire.santoro/KeNeKeNnaKoBotswana
I guess that could be pretty accurate. Botswana was in some ways an entirely different world. One of the most interesting readings I did over the semester was an essay entitled "The Values Americans Live By." It was a "how-to" guide for foreigners immigrating to the US. How to survive. How to deal with these crazy Americans. How to understand their culture. American culture is pretty strange, if you stop to think about it. All this super-competitiveness, focus on money and productivity, and independence.
I know, I know, you're thinking: "But those are good things!" And that's the American way to think. In most other countries in the world, time isn't money and asking for help is an important part of building community. In Botswana, the best thing you can do is foster good relationships. "African time" evolves out of this belief: why rush away from lunch with a friend to go meet with a colleague and then scurry from there to dinner with the kids and then back to the office to meet with your boss? None of those relationships will gain anything at all. Instead, spend an extra fifteen minutes finishing lunch with your friend and then if you meet a woman on the street, help her carry her groceries and talk to her. In the meantime, the colleague you're supposed to meet with may be playing an impromptu game of tag with the neighborhood children or discussing politics with fellow office staff.
Batswana think we're crazy for always being so rushed and overscheduled.
And it's true: one of the most striking things I noticed upon "re-entry" was that everyone here goes about life in their own little bubble. You walk down the street and no one says hello as they pass you. You sit next to someone on the Metro and barely greet them with a smile. People are so determined to be independent that it seems like they forget the other 300 million people living here with them.
Also, life here is so cluttered!! No, Mom, I am not talking about your tidy house. But there is so much unnecessary stuff here. I remember talking about how exciting it would be to come home to a full closet after 4 months in the same 5 outfits, but I've more or less been wearing the same 5 or 6 things since I've been back. Do you really need more than that? And the stores! The mere thought of spending a Botswana week's living allowance on a pair of flip flops sent me into an emotional breakdown in the middle of the shoe store.
But overall, it's nice to be back. It's nice to walk down the street without seven marriage proposals a day, and it's nice to know that if I skip a shower one day, no one is going to care (or notice). Also nice: a full refrigerator, washing machines, green grass, free internet (because goodness knows uploading all these photos in an internet cafe would have depleted my entire bank account).
Ahh, yes, the photographs. It's taken me I-don't-know-how-many hours to sort them and upload them and I apologize if they still aren't very well organized or captioned. I did narrow down my 1800 photos to 497 of the good ones. I was planning on also uploading a smaller album for those of you who just really don't care about seeing more than one zebra, but I'm tired of sitting at my computer waiting for photos to upload. I may or may not get to that later. I'm moving on African time, you know.
If you are interested, though, here's the link to my photos: http://picasaweb.google.com/claire.santoro/KeNeKeNnaKoBotswana
Sunday, June 1, 2008
59 Hours Later
After a surprisingly epic journey (more on that in a minute), I am home. Err, home number 4--or probably I should say, home number 1. Make Otse, Gabs, and Shorobe homes 2 through 4. My time at home is strikingly similar to a homestay: 2 weeks with a family, helping cook and clean, sharing photos and stories of your other "home," trying to (re-)learn a lifestyle that is not what you're used to.
Like forks. People here eat with forks rather than spoons?? Little tiny things like rice and peas with a FORK? Umm, sure, okay, I can do that, silly as it may seem.
And what happened to tea with every meal?
I kind of miss Setswana, too. I tried talking to Maizie (ntsa ya me) in Setswana because she doesn't understand my words anyway, no matter which language I'm speaking.
But, as promised, the details of my epic journey:
I left "home" in Gabs at noon on Friday, which would have been 5 am central US time. No problems there. My mom dropped me off, waited until I had checked in, and then I hugged her goodbye. My plane was about 30 minutes late coming in (African time, you know) but I watched a bit of my last African soap opera and looked around me at all these makgoa heading to Jo'burg with me. The plane finally came and I got on, pressing my nose to the window to take in all my last glimpses of the country I've grown to love. I wanted to remember EVERYTHING. I looked back at the airport, remembering the night four months ago when I had first stepped off the international flight. I remembered standing right on this same tarmac, smiling for a photo of me and the airplane that brought me here and taking a photo for another girl who I had barely talked to yet but would later become one of my best friends. I remembered going through immigration and offering my Botswana address as that of one unknown Stewart Chirova. I remembered our group's lost luggage. Goodness knows, I remembered a lot as I sat on that airplane preparing to leave.
When the plane started to move, it hit me that I was really going. Maybe forever. Who knows when/if I'll ever be back, if I'll ever see my families again, if I'll ever stroll through the vendors at Main Mall and eat a mango with a swiss army knife again. If I do ever return, it will be as a tourist. I'll never LIVE in Botswana again. At that point, 7/8 of myself wanted to jump off the plane and stay in Botswana, but all 8/8 of me were held firmly in place by my seatbelt and 1/8 of me knew that back in America, I had yet another wonderful family wanting to see their daughter. A family that I was actually pretty excited to see as well.
I got to Jo'burg on time (it's a short flight; easy to make up delays) and found my way to the international transfers area. A quick scan around the room, though, told me that the Delta counter where I needed to check in didn't exist. Hmmm. I went to look at several signs, trying to locate the mysteriously missing Delta, and noticed a white man looking confused.
"Aha!" I thought. "He must also be looking for Delta."
"Sorry, sir. Are you also trying to find Delta?" I asked him. I couldn't decide how to address him, since clearly he was not a Rra and after 4 months, I couldn't remember how Americans greet strangers. Turns out, he was indeed looking for Delta but instead of being helpful in finding the airline, he just kept looking confused and walking around searching for the counter that was obviously not there. I sighed and decided that someone-- me-- had to take the initiative so I went up to a not-so-busy woman at another counter and asked her where to go. The poor clueless man followed behind me. "Oh, what did she say? We're supposed to go over there?"
I know Americans like to do things for themselves much more than Batswana, who are inclined to immediately ask for what they want instead of wandering aimlessly until they find it. On the other hand, I also know that men are notoriously bad at asking for directions. Was this guy being a typical male or was he being a typical American?
Anyway, I had 3 hours to kill in the Jo'burg airport so I bought my last mango smoothie and sat down to people watch. Finally I got on the plane to Atlanta, along with about 250 other people. These people included: one man working for an environmental consulting firm in the States who is a great advocate of nuclear energy and spent about 15 minutes discussing my solar energy research project as we waited in line; one guy born in Durban in South Africa who lives in the States 6 months of every year and was excitedly telling me about his plans for Carnivale; a group of seemingly 1 million 17-19 year olds coming back from a mission trip in Swaziland; and a woman coordinating a youth development project in Malawi.
The flight went on forever but was uneventful. We got to Dakar, Senegal, about 3:30 am Botswana time and then took off from Africa for good. I slept a little and then--halfway across the Atlantic Ocean-- a horrible realization hit me.
I was not flying out of Atlanta until Sunday, June 1st.
Somehow, as I had been changing my international flight and trying to make a connecting flight to St. Louis, I had gotten dates confused. I suppose that's what happens when you're rushed at an internet cafe and you don't have an airline ticket with an arrival date on it, only the emailed confirmation of a flight number and departure time. I had skipped May 31! When I arrived in Atlanta at 8 am on Saturday, 30 May, I would have 30 hours to wait until my plane took off. And in this country, I'm not even old enough to rent a car or a hotel room yet.
Well, four months in Botswana did teach me a thing or two, and one of those things is that public transportation is never simple and schedules never go as planned. So I didn't panic. I cringed, embarrassed at my mistake (I swear, guys, I actually am intelligent, nevermind the soup story and my skipping May 31), and then tried to go back to sleep. Things would work out, I was sure. They always do, whether your bus hits a cow or your combi never comes or you're stuck in an airport for 30 hours.
Ahh but I didn't actually stay in the airport. My smart American mother realized the mistake about the time I did probably, but unlike me, she had access to a telephone. She called up a good friend in Atlanta and made arrangements for me to stay at her house. My first night in America was not in my own bed, but I did get to shower before coming home. Lucky for my mom; after 27 hours of being in transit from Gabs to ATL, I was dirty and disheveled and ridiculously tired.
And that is why it took me 59 hours to get to St. Louis from Gaborone. But I am here now, and although I am less dirty and disheveled, I am just as ridiculously tired. As I write this, it is 3:30 am in Botswana.
It is nice to be home, though. I haven't showered with a towel in 2 months, I haven't turned on my computer since January, and going through my closet here is like Christmas! So many clothes! I hardly know what to wear.
Like forks. People here eat with forks rather than spoons?? Little tiny things like rice and peas with a FORK? Umm, sure, okay, I can do that, silly as it may seem.
And what happened to tea with every meal?
I kind of miss Setswana, too. I tried talking to Maizie (ntsa ya me) in Setswana because she doesn't understand my words anyway, no matter which language I'm speaking.
But, as promised, the details of my epic journey:
I left "home" in Gabs at noon on Friday, which would have been 5 am central US time. No problems there. My mom dropped me off, waited until I had checked in, and then I hugged her goodbye. My plane was about 30 minutes late coming in (African time, you know) but I watched a bit of my last African soap opera and looked around me at all these makgoa heading to Jo'burg with me. The plane finally came and I got on, pressing my nose to the window to take in all my last glimpses of the country I've grown to love. I wanted to remember EVERYTHING. I looked back at the airport, remembering the night four months ago when I had first stepped off the international flight. I remembered standing right on this same tarmac, smiling for a photo of me and the airplane that brought me here and taking a photo for another girl who I had barely talked to yet but would later become one of my best friends. I remembered going through immigration and offering my Botswana address as that of one unknown Stewart Chirova. I remembered our group's lost luggage. Goodness knows, I remembered a lot as I sat on that airplane preparing to leave.
When the plane started to move, it hit me that I was really going. Maybe forever. Who knows when/if I'll ever be back, if I'll ever see my families again, if I'll ever stroll through the vendors at Main Mall and eat a mango with a swiss army knife again. If I do ever return, it will be as a tourist. I'll never LIVE in Botswana again. At that point, 7/8 of myself wanted to jump off the plane and stay in Botswana, but all 8/8 of me were held firmly in place by my seatbelt and 1/8 of me knew that back in America, I had yet another wonderful family wanting to see their daughter. A family that I was actually pretty excited to see as well.
I got to Jo'burg on time (it's a short flight; easy to make up delays) and found my way to the international transfers area. A quick scan around the room, though, told me that the Delta counter where I needed to check in didn't exist. Hmmm. I went to look at several signs, trying to locate the mysteriously missing Delta, and noticed a white man looking confused.
"Aha!" I thought. "He must also be looking for Delta."
"Sorry, sir. Are you also trying to find Delta?" I asked him. I couldn't decide how to address him, since clearly he was not a Rra and after 4 months, I couldn't remember how Americans greet strangers. Turns out, he was indeed looking for Delta but instead of being helpful in finding the airline, he just kept looking confused and walking around searching for the counter that was obviously not there. I sighed and decided that someone-- me-- had to take the initiative so I went up to a not-so-busy woman at another counter and asked her where to go. The poor clueless man followed behind me. "Oh, what did she say? We're supposed to go over there?"
I know Americans like to do things for themselves much more than Batswana, who are inclined to immediately ask for what they want instead of wandering aimlessly until they find it. On the other hand, I also know that men are notoriously bad at asking for directions. Was this guy being a typical male or was he being a typical American?
Anyway, I had 3 hours to kill in the Jo'burg airport so I bought my last mango smoothie and sat down to people watch. Finally I got on the plane to Atlanta, along with about 250 other people. These people included: one man working for an environmental consulting firm in the States who is a great advocate of nuclear energy and spent about 15 minutes discussing my solar energy research project as we waited in line; one guy born in Durban in South Africa who lives in the States 6 months of every year and was excitedly telling me about his plans for Carnivale; a group of seemingly 1 million 17-19 year olds coming back from a mission trip in Swaziland; and a woman coordinating a youth development project in Malawi.
The flight went on forever but was uneventful. We got to Dakar, Senegal, about 3:30 am Botswana time and then took off from Africa for good. I slept a little and then--halfway across the Atlantic Ocean-- a horrible realization hit me.
I was not flying out of Atlanta until Sunday, June 1st.
Somehow, as I had been changing my international flight and trying to make a connecting flight to St. Louis, I had gotten dates confused. I suppose that's what happens when you're rushed at an internet cafe and you don't have an airline ticket with an arrival date on it, only the emailed confirmation of a flight number and departure time. I had skipped May 31! When I arrived in Atlanta at 8 am on Saturday, 30 May, I would have 30 hours to wait until my plane took off. And in this country, I'm not even old enough to rent a car or a hotel room yet.
Well, four months in Botswana did teach me a thing or two, and one of those things is that public transportation is never simple and schedules never go as planned. So I didn't panic. I cringed, embarrassed at my mistake (I swear, guys, I actually am intelligent, nevermind the soup story and my skipping May 31), and then tried to go back to sleep. Things would work out, I was sure. They always do, whether your bus hits a cow or your combi never comes or you're stuck in an airport for 30 hours.
Ahh but I didn't actually stay in the airport. My smart American mother realized the mistake about the time I did probably, but unlike me, she had access to a telephone. She called up a good friend in Atlanta and made arrangements for me to stay at her house. My first night in America was not in my own bed, but I did get to shower before coming home. Lucky for my mom; after 27 hours of being in transit from Gabs to ATL, I was dirty and disheveled and ridiculously tired.
And that is why it took me 59 hours to get to St. Louis from Gaborone. But I am here now, and although I am less dirty and disheveled, I am just as ridiculously tired. As I write this, it is 3:30 am in Botswana.
It is nice to be home, though. I haven't showered with a towel in 2 months, I haven't turned on my computer since January, and going through my closet here is like Christmas! So many clothes! I hardly know what to wear.
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