I'm on an island

I had been feeling down lately, disconnected from the community here (I live in an industrial neighborhood) and watching too many American movies (nothing like two hours of staring at beautiful shoes and delectable food to make me a bit homesick). Luckily, as usual, something came along to flip the balance and remind me of what I love about being here: the kids. I teach an English and art class Saturday mornings at the American Center, and the children have craftily wormed their way into my grumpy little heart, as they have done so often over the past two years. It took us two weeks to feel each other out, but now that we have decided that we can trust each other, I am in danger of bringing about fifteen home as souvenirs. These kids are different than the ones in my previous town; their parents have more money and have a bit more invested in their children’s education (the fact that they are sending them to learn English at a young age is really encouraging), but they still tend to miss out on the personal attention that we lavish on kids in the States: enter the local PCV, who finds them hilarious and loves to encourage their creativity. Kids here don’t usually study art, and their learning style is based on the old French system – copy what is on the board, and memorize it. So when I give them paper and pencils and tell them to draw a tomato, the often tell me that they can’t; I should do it for them. ‘Yes, you can.” I reply. “Noooo.. I’m not good at it. You do it.” They say, slyly pushing paper and pencil into my hand. “Uh-uh, I know that you can draw, start with the bottle,” comes my response, showing them the tomato plants we planted in plastic bottles the week before. “Draw the bottle, and then show me where you think the plant should go.” And slowly, bit by bit the picture comes together. After completion and some congratulations are given, the students have no problems adding an animal or a flower next to their tomato... all hesitation gone (or maybe they just realized it’s more of a hassle trying to trick me into drawing for them).

And, just when I think that there are so many differences between ‘Gasy and ‘Merican cultures, Lova (the boy who works at the Center) brings on one my students over to me after class. “She’s crying” he says, as he backs away towards his computer. “What’s wrong, zandry?” I asked, using the word for someone younger than you. “I’m waiting for my papa,” she replied “he’s still not here.” Last one left after class waiting for her papa to show up. “Oh, that’s no problem” I replied, “he’s just on Malagasy time.” (Malagasies on the coast are notoriously late “I’m sure he’s on the road and will be here any minute. Want to look at pictures of... uhh... Barcelona with me?” (I happened to be checking UEFA scores at the time. “Who is better, Fabragas or Messi?” Luckily her papa pulled up on his moto and whisked her away from my futbol obsessed clutches, but it reminded me – kids are the same the world over. And so are teenage boys, judging by how quickly Lova dumped a crying kid on me and ran away. And it was nice that he thought I could take care of the situation.