Jane Goodall

Jane Goodall flies on the eagle, her white hair spiraling loose from its low bun, bristling in the wind of wings and the call of the chimpanzee.
She is slight and sweet with thin lips, kind eyes, and long limbs reminiscent of her constant subjects and her closest friends.
At the age of four, she hid in a haystack for hours to discover how the hen lays her eggs since explanation could not parallel witness.
Even Jane waited tables to save up enough money to board a ship and wave goodbye to life before dreams came true.
Her mother camped beside her in the jungles of Africa on her first journey, for how could a girl of 23 go unaccompanied into the wild.
Jane wonders where indigenous wisdom has gone – why the elders no longer meet to discuss the fate of the world; why each decision is made based on selfish immediate gratification.
She laments that we have somehow lost the connection between the clever brain and the human heart.
Jane says hope is a seed growing into a shoot, powerful enough to break through brick walls with its sheer will to survive.
She is a believer in the indomitable human spirit and the resilience of all things livng.

Half-baked

I've reconciled myself to the fact that this half year will be half-baked. Everything I attempt will not be fully realized as I'm functioning within the constraints of a system I've not had the privilege to devise. But I am determined suddenly to use the next few years here to design what I want out of drama - to start fresh next year with the potential created by this half-baked half year... because everyone likes a cookie even if it's undercooked and in its nascent form there is still the sweetness of what could be once fully gestated in the oven of my imagination. I remember my musings on "could be" in graduate school - the world an open possibility once the mind can grapple with what if, a blossom of creativity, a birth of possibility. I hear West Side Story lilting in my mind.

Heavy Sky Morning

The sky hangs heavy this morning, portentous; the weight of rain sagging the clouds towards Earth in a kiss of grey, blurring boundaries. I too feel heavy and boundless, smothered over with too many emotions to distinguish. Grey has feeling - betwixt and between the light and the dark. Each moment changing shades but never quite reaching one pole or the other. Juxtaposing the opposition in its own shade, in its own way. I hesitate, a breath between strength and fear, wondering where I stand. Thus, I sit at another computer, in another country, on another morning, with another storm thundering in my waking dream.

Goodies?

In case anyone wishes to send me old fashioned letters or goodies (i.e delicious chocolate bars or cheap dvds or anything else I can use to amuse myself when my head isn't spinning like a top or distract myself when I'm missing home), my address is as follows:

Ms Eve Kagan
The International School of Uganda
Plot 272 Lubowa, Entebbe Road
P.O. Box 4200
Kampala, Uganda
Phone: 256-414 200374/8

You must use registered mail (DHL is best) so don't send anything too heavy or it will cost a fortune and the truth is you can get a lot of fine things here I'm just a glutton for reminders of home these crazy days.
All love

The Prophet and the Poet

"Issa is the prophet Jesus," explains my hired taxi driver. "For Muslims, Jesus was a prophet." So Issa, the prophet Jesus taxi driver, steers Eve, the first woman and sign of life, through the maddening traffic of Kampala on a rainy Saturday morning. What a ride. Issa's voice is warm and smooth, like coffee with milk and sugar, yet it is his high falsetto laugh that wins me over - shocking, piercing, genuine, like that of a little girl shrieking in delight. A crescent moon scar from eyebrow to cheekbone graces the left side of his face, the side that turns towards me as we fill the time between moving inches with broken English conversation. "Dancing Queen" by Abba plays on the radio and he drums his finger against the dash as my foot flops in and out of my sandal with the rhythm of that silly delicious song. Issa has five children, one wife, one Toyota Corolla taxi, and more passengers in his lifetime then he could possibly count. For some reason I feel grateful to be one of the many this morning.

It suddenly strikes me that here I am in Uganda in the midst of it all: the motorcycles whirring around us with ladies sitting side-saddle in colorful skirts and flip-flops, the goats roped to fences bleating their woes, the children running in front of cars in street-crossing that resembles trench warfare, the bum on the street with his hand outstretched in the universal mudra of poverty, the guards at the bank with shotguns aimed at poorly tiled hallway floors, the boys on the median selling newspapers and phone cards at your car window like old-school drive-in diner waitresses minus the roller-skates, the hustle and bustle of the markets where mangoes topple in towers reminiscent of Pisa and bananas grow the size of your thumb, the life that teems regardless of the hour and the day and the time and the year all over this crazy beautiful world.

Getting Real

Alright time to get real... my stomach is doing flips from some weird food, my bed is hard as a rock (even with the comforter as a pillowtop), there was a roach the size of a golf ball in my bathroom and fire ants marching across the bathtub, the internet is down, the students are giving me hell and all I can think is how badly I wish I could trade places with them, the water only works on occassion, I feel totally underqualified for this job and I'M LONELY!
I had to just get that out there because I don't want you to think it's all poetry and light. I wouldn't want to lie and say the transformation of minds is simple or beautiful. Change is difficult. We struggle against the new even as it unfolds before us everpresent. I try to go breath to breath, moment to moment, but sometimes the air is suffocating, sometimes it gets caught in the lump in my throat (a lump of fear, regret, sadness, suffering), sometimes it's all just reflex and awareness jumps out of the mind like the spiders on my bedside table. It's all happening. The bittersweet of the moment. The pain and delight of choice.
The now. The now. The now.

Color your World

The local paint company says, "color your world!"
What color should I choose?
The motled green skin of the mango or the bright orange of its meat?
The brick red of the earth or the deep brown of the skin?
The bright fuschia of the flowers or the dull white of the plastic bags?
The ice blue of the mid-day sky or the indigo of the evening?
The haunting grey of the storm clouds or the shocking pink of the dawn?
The blood red carcass of the goat or the mangy golden fur of the street dogs?
If voices had a color perhaps I would paint the music in the air of Uganda - the birds and children and whispers in languages my ear is yet to comprehend.

"Best Lesson Ever"

"Miss, miss, best lesson ever!" shouts one of my 10th graders. The lesson: Augusto Boal and power in the Theatre of the Oppressed. We began with an activity called "chairs and power" in which each student placed their chair and their own body in what they considered to be the most powerful position in the room. One by one the students and their chairs mounted bookshelves and tables, even the concrete overhang above the classroom door. Once all the chairs and students were in place the discussion on power exploded - I simply facilitated by asking who in the room held the most power. From time to time I quieted everyone down, particularly when the overlapping voices were too intense, so that each student could be heard:

"Miss, power is the ability to hurt others."
"No, no, it's the ability to manipulate others."
"Manipulate others in any way."
"How about just the ability."
"It depends on what you mean by power: strength, unity, intelligence, numbers, money..."
"Power is to be remembered after you die."
"No one person can have power alone."
"Yeah, power is union."
"We have no power as students."
"But if we all got together couldn't we have power?"
"Those two have the most power because they look like a king and queen on the throne and all the rest of us are the snipers protecting them."
"Why do we keep refering to this as a dictatorship? Couldn't the room be something else other than a kingdom?"
"Miss, power is an illusion."

Our activity/discussion lasted 40 minutes. I realized had some other teacher or administrator walked in to see the students literally climbing the walls and arguing over power and oppression it might have been the end of my career as a teacher - it would have been worth it!

Little Delights

- 4th-graders jumping up to stand beside me in the circle
- Afternoon thunder and fresh sprinkling rain
- True multiculturalism
- "That's my new favorite teacher"
- A hug from my husband
- Planning political theatre revolutions for grade 9/10
- Lake victoria glittering below the lush green fields
- Motorcycle taxis named after our pup
- An international talent show
- A glimpse at what may become our first house
- Fresh banana bread from the canteen
- "Are we gonna get to act today?!"

Routine laughter

Walking to school with the masses en route to work... heavy heads hang with the weight of late nights and early morning dreams still lingering in the corners of eyes glazed with what might be. Suddenly there is routine to my life - a morning commute Africa style, not quite the hustle and bustle of a subway or freeway but somehow that familiar look on faces painted with the stasis of struggle to survive be it in a boardroom or a streetside market.

I wonder if the laughing bird is mocking my hubris, thinking I might transform young minds through drama. Perhaps I too have fallen into the trap so beautifully expressed by Freire: the banking concept of teaching in which the teacher holds all knowledge and deposits it into the empty receptacle of the student mind with no regard for the intricacies of what comprises each individual - seeing all as void of content. Did I think I would fill these minds with a passion for theatre? Was I so blind to my own arrogance thinking they would open arms to the art I love? "Ha ha ha hahahaha," says the bird. I can't help but laugh along with him.

"Ms Eve"

Walking through the open courtyards on campus I hear, "Hi, Ms Eve," echoing from little mouths. I'm only just beginning to feel the weight of the word "teacher," the formality, the responsibility, the potential to ignite minds with a passion for creativity. Bright eyes and soft voices - shy girls with crossed arms blocking the buds of adolescence, eager boys bouncing out of their skin with sweat stained hair plastered to their faces. The awkward and the confident mingling as bodies morph from child to young adult. Perhaps these hours together will be an opportunity to step into the shoes of what they may become... Not to say they are all ready and willing, with teacher comes the testing the boundaries (I've heard those gone by have been reduced to tears), pushing hard against discipline to dangle limbs over the edge of disobedience. It seems unreal to give detention in drama class but so be it if the disturbances continue for there is much work to be done and I refuse to sacrifice our short time together for those who will not step in line. We shall see what is in store for Ms Eve as our saga continues: will she be coveted and loved or mocked and hated or a little bit of both?

Dancin' in the Streets

Dan and I walk hand in hand down the red dirt road to the local market, the sun blazing through the low hanging clouds in the late afternoon blue sky. A group of children stand by the road singing and beating a plastic tub as a drum. They spy us as we approach. A small girl in a bright indigo dress jumps to the center and points her fingers at me, a universal invitation to dance. I'm never one to refuse a dance so I shake my hips and we join hands and dance in a circle. The rest of the children run up to us and take our hands, hanging on us, joyful, bright, genuine, a momentary universal connection. Dan and I are left smiling as we wave goodbye and continue down the road basking in the glow of spontaneity.

a tiny princess

a tiny ugandan girl lies belly down on a retaining wall in a bright white dress - the contrast between skin and cloth is stark yet she looks like a disney princess bald head and all. she smiles one of those genuine open-hearted grins known specifically to this part of the world, the kind that lights up your soul and reminds you that we are all one.
our conversation goes like this:
girl: "how are you?"
me: "how are you?"
girl: "how are you?"
me: "how are you?"
girl: "how are yooooooou?!"
me: "how are yooooooou?!"
both: (giggle giggle giggle)

images

barefoot children standing in the red earth slowly turning a rotisserie of small skinned animals glazed in the juice of necessity. baskets of bananas perfectly balanced on heads bald regardless of gender. trash burning on the corner giving new meaning to pollution as smoke rises from a wilting plastic bag. matatus (taxi buses) filled to the brim fighting for space on the road with horns reminiscent of clown cars. faces stern on first glance melt into pure affection with the offer of a smile. giant maribu birds like vultures circling the city as if it were a cremation ground. green everywhere even in this dry season. the sound of life bold and unforgiving and beautiful.

TIA

TIA: This is Africa
lush, green, crickets and birds sounding day to night (most shocking is the laughing bird which sounds almost like the wiked witch of the west with wings), a crescent moon hung in the sky like a bowl spilling stars into the darkness, hot sun pouring golden light through my morning window, cool breeze swishing palm fronds in the evening, a lingering handshake and a genuine smile bring warmth to even the most stern faces from taxi drivers to street children nothing like a grin to change the mood, water that runs only sometimes, power shutting off in the grocery store, the faint smell of bodies and traffic wafting everywhere... this is Africa.

Thus far I've met kindness everywhere from my colleagues to strangers. The school is beautiful and while I'm far from knowing my exact responsibilities or schedule I have a feeling I will slide into place here. Having spent time in India and Nepal, I fall easily into the 3rd world sense of time - there is an ease here, a lack of hurry, a different time table for measuring when and if you give up the hurried worried mentality you find that there is really no need to barrel forward into the future, it's coming at whatever pace you move so why not greet it with a relaxed embrace. My apartment is lovely, though I've seen some of the houses and long already to move into one where there are yards not even Bodha could imagine (with avocado trees and sugar cane). I cannot say I'm without fear but I decided to burn it up for the New Year, to stop indulging in insecurity and to live in a space of "I can" (shout out to Obama who according to Uganda is "made in Africa!"). We are all capable of more - we can give more, learn more, teach more, love more, live more - we can step outside the boundaries we set for ourselves and dip our toes in the unknown without hesitation, even if it is just for a moment, the glimps might change us for lifetimes.