How an Ethiopian classroom mirrors my life

When you enter an Ethiopian high school classroom you notice a few things. You will probably be overwhelmed of the differences in the room to what a classroom is in the United States. You might first notice the desks, broken and scattered around the room in no order, you might notice the windows with no glass, letting in the breeze and the only source of light, you might notice the cinderblock walls (and sometimes ceilings) covered in drawings and writing from students, you might notice the floor covered in paper shreds, trash wrappings, broken chalk, and dust, you might notice the blackboards with holes and warped with handwriting from last days lesson covering the board, or you might notice something new that my eyes have flitted over.

As compared with an American classroom, this probably seems like a mess, a room in complete disarray. That’s the classroom when it is empty. Once you add the students, a teacher, and all the material goods (text books and exercise books) they bring with them, the room seems to become even more chaotic and less organized. The desks that were silent suddenly become noisy as they are dragged to groups, they become heavy under the weight of more students than you would think could fit there, the dust on the floor gets spread around on blue uniforms and plastic shoes, the windows and door that are open suddenly become life lines with 70 students all with body heat radiating off, and the chalk board becomes filled with notes from another lesson as students begin to copy whatever words are on the board into their books.

This might seem impossible to an unpracticed Ethiopian. I came in as a teacher the first day and it took my breath away. The idea that I was supposed to teach in an environment like this seemed crazy and overwhelming. I hadn’t even stood in front of my 70 students yet, and I already felt faint. I still have days where I dread walking into those rooms, where I don’t feel like it is “mine” at all, although I have taught in the same 3 classrooms all year. Where are the posters with encouragements on the wall, the desks with kids names taped on with 1 kid to a desk, the dry erase board where my notes from the lesson before slide right off, the trash bin where old tissues and tests can go safely? They are back in the comfort zone of America. That’s where they are.

I have had a lot of time to reflect on my life over here. Only teaching 3 classes a day gives one plenty of time to stare at walls, listen to Ethiopian music, or drink coffee. Even when I am engaged in a conversation, my mind is racing, thinking “This really is my life. What am I doing here? How cool is this? What would someone back home say?” I seem to find meaning in everything I do, everything I see. Each person, each cup of coffee, each book, holds something new to me to symbolize this journey I’m on. That includes the classroom, in which I spend most of my time in my new home (besides my house).

An Ethiopian classroom mirrors my life over here in a lot of ways. You might be asking yourself how. Well, if you keep reading I will answer that question for you. My life at first glance can seem like it’s a mess. Not for any particular reason, but when something is so different from how it used to be, it can seem a bit overwhelming. It might seem unorganized, and just plain difficult to work in. This most resembles my life at school. Not having a steady calendar, being told when days off (officially and unofficially) are, when meetings and tests are scheduled, or when we have things we have to turn in. The frustration of being in a classroom where your ideas are opposite from what is expected can be shown in the scattered classrooms in which we are expected to get results.

The walls and desks with writing over them symbolize how memories and moments are written in my head and heart forever, even if scribbled on it without meaning. I have experienced a lot over here and met people, who I may never meet again. The kindness of a stranger on a bus willing to help me bargain for the correct price, a restaurant owner who charges me less than the price on the menu, a waitress who always gives me a smile and knows my order when I walk in, a post office worker who sees me on the street and tells me I have a package. These are the people who play a small part in my life, but who none the less help my life become easier and happier. They might not know their acts of kindness stick with me, but they do—like a name or saying written in pen on a classroom wall.

The broken windows without glass and the doors that often swing open and closed are just another reminder over here of how a simple thing can help with a bigger problem, and how sometimes it really is the little things. It is becoming hot season, and with that it is becoming unbearably hot. Even the Ethiopians are complaining about the heat, and they are used to it (and don’t show sweat!) Teaching in hot season is extremely difficult because the students are already restless, this just makes them either more tired or more talkative (it depends on the group of students). That means the broken windows and open door are the only way to let in that slight breeze and air flow that will help stifle the heat of a room with 70 bodies in it. Like the door and windows that let in a light breeze to help with heat, every little thing counts over here to make your day a little better. Yes, things can make days worse and I have plenty of those. Some days I just want to curl up in bed and be transported back home to America (I have a lot of those), but some days I have to remind myself of those open windows- like twirling kids, being greeted by smiles, jebena buna, rain on the roof (when I’m at home), a cold beer, special fuul, or talking to friends. Those are the slight airflow and breezes given to me by the open windows and doors, I just have to recognize them and not over look how important they are.

The desks that are broken and can be moved at any moment show me that I have control, although not complete control over my life over here. I can move the desks to a position I want, I can assign students seats to only have 4 kids to a desk, I can attempt to make the room my own, with this small bit of rearranging. This is much like my own life. I can choose who I become friends with, I can choose whether to spend my time in my house or out of it, I can make a decision about how to respond to harassment from children and adults. That is all under my control. However, what is not under my control is how the desks are treated and looked at once the students come into the class, or when I give up the classroom to another teacher. Chances are, they will be used as a sketch pad, they will have too many students seated on the bench, they will be moved so friends can talk to each other, and my students probably won’t sit in their assigned seats, no matter how many times I move them. I might be under the illusion I can change my classroom, but in the end all I can control is how I react to what it looks like in reality. This is also a window into my life. I can do everything that’s in my control to set up my life how I want it over here, but in the end it won’t look like that. People will change or leave, things will happen that make my life a little messier or different, events won’t happen or will happen but not when I’m there, and things I thought were simple, ideas and visions I had will change completely. No matter how much I try to control what happens around me, all I can control in the end is how I react to what happens.

Last, those blackboards. The blackboards are rough, most have holes in them, and none of them are clean from the previous lesson. No matter how often you erase, there will still be remnants of words from weeks ago, chalk dust settled in the cracks where the boards meet, lines where the students are too short to reach when they ask to erase the board. My students like being hands on and so they like to ask me for the eraser as I come into class, to be the first one to get their hands on it and erase the board. At the beginning of the year I welcomed this, as chalk got all over my clothes (I’m not a super neat person, but I did enjoy keeping my clothes semi-clean) and it saved time. I never understood why my students wanted to erase the board, but as I have been here longer I have begun to see the satisfaction in it. They probably don’t have the same philosophical thoughts on it- they probably just want to get out of their seats. But my joy is from something else.

I like seeing the words from the past erased, I like starting new and writing with a piece of chalk MY words on the board. This might seem silly and even crazy, but when I erase the words or pictures from another teacher and class, I seem to be saying, “This is the past, it’s time to start new.” I did this when I got on the plane here, and I try to do this every night when I go to sleep. I don’t mean to say I erase the past completely, that’s the beauty of blackboards. The trace of what was written is still there, the chalk dust is still on the ground, and the words are written in exercise books. The past will always be there, and it helps guide us. The past lessons help my students study for their exams and the past lines help me keep my board in order. But when I start a new lesson and write my own words in my own handwriting I am showing that I am writing my now and my future. I can’t help what was in the past, but I can write the rest, no matter how messy the chalk might be. I might have dust on my hands that rub off on my clothes, I might have to erase part of my board, I might be making up what I’m writing as I go, because my notes don’t work, but I’m the one writing it.

Ethiopian classrooms can seem like a mess, they can look like a hurricane came through overnight, every night, and they can be stifling hot and sometimes just too frustrating to be in. But there is a certain charm about them. It might be almost impossible to see, but if you look closely you might get a hint of what I’m talking about. My life is the same general idea. You might not be able to always see the charm, but its there if you look closely.

Celebrating Easter... Ethiopian Style

One of the things I loved about the first few months in Ethiopia was that everything was new and exciting. Every day something happened that made me go “Wow, this is my life,” or “That’s very different from how things are done in the US.” I’m used to comparing my life here to back there, and the differences are enormous. But after awhile, things that still blow people’s minds back home seem more common place and normal here. Seeing goats, donkeys, cattle, and chickens around my neighborhood is “normal”, not having power, network, or water for days is “normal”, having 70 kids in a classroom meant for 30 is “normal”. Although it might be all new and exciting to people back home, for me I am finally settling into a life with all its quirks. The great thing about holidays is that it is new for me too. Every holiday and celebration over here is that shiny new thing again that I get to experience for the first time.

Every holiday that is celebrated is talked about for days and weeks, preparations are made, and tales are told about them. What I have noticed though is that so far none of the holidays have risen to my expectations. Maybe it’s because I compare them to how I celebrated in the US, maybe it’s because they were built up by people so much, or maybe it’s because I am just expecting to have earth shattering memories. Whatever the reason though, I have experienced nothing but calm holidays with my land family that consist of me watching TV, eating (and occasionally drinking sewa), and then reading in my room. Don’t get me wrong, those are great days and give me some calm in my sometimes (actually always) weird life. But, I have been hoping for something more.

Fasika or Easter is celebrated a week behind the rest of the world. As you may know, Ethiopia is a week behind the rest of the world in their calendar. Their new year is our September 11 and they have 11 months of 30 days plus 1 month of 6 days (they are also 7-8 years behind us and are currently in 2007). I don’t quite understand; it’s just something I have accepted.

This being so, last weekend was Palm Sunday and Friday was Good Friday. They celebrated both much like the US. Palm Sunday was full of palms being waved by children around town after church in the morning. Another similarity being the US and here is that many children don’t come to school before holidays. Although it’s a less persistent problem in the US, children do miss school for family travel. Here, it’s common knowledge that you probably won’t have class the few days before and after holidays. I had about ½ of my classes on Thursday (about 30 students), which was more than most of my fellow Volunteers. Some Volunteers showed up to locked schools or combined classes. According to teachers and other locals, many students will not come Monday or even Tuesday of next week. Many travel to see their families in villages and other cities, and because of transportation here, it takes a much longer period of time than hopping in a car or on a plane like in the US. Forget the fact that our spring semester is already cut painfully short due to model exams and national exams—that’s a whole other issue.

I learned a couple of things on Good Friday: My compound has like 5 other parts I didn’t know existed, when getting your hair done in Ethiopia expect an all day outing, whoever says beauty isn’t pain has obviously never gotten Tigray hair bumps, it is possible to get an Ethiopian hair style even with “firenji soft” hair, when I’m having sugar withdrawals I crave things like Dr. Pepper and Capri Suns, and it is possible to spend 50 phone birr in 1 day texting Ally, Natanya, Jessie, and Kacey.

I was told by my land family Thursday night that I was to clean my room for Fasika. Now, this is a great idea (it hadn’t been cleaned in a long time), but I did feel a bit like a 15 year old living at home again. I was thinking in my head “no one is going to be coming into my room and I’m an adult,” but all I could say was “Ishi”. I was also told I would be getting my hair done, although I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. Sure enough, Friday morning I had a knock on my door from my land niece. We went with another lady from my compound (who is actually a math teacher at my school) to a salon to get our hair done. The one regret I have from the day: not bringing my book to read.

We went to a salon that was more like a room in a compound with about 20 women all stuffed inside. Fasika is a huge holiday here because it ends a 55-day fast of no meat or dairy, so everyone goes all out. We waited for awhile but my land niece decided it would take too long so we went to another salon that was in an apartment building, but much cleaner and more open. Mahlet (my land niece who is about 20) got her hair done first and then I got mine done. It hurt a lot, because they braid in bumps of yarn that are wound up. My hair is softer than they are used to, and it doesn’t hold like theirs does. Somehow the woman doing my hair managed to braid them in anyways. I actually don’t look as ridiculous as I thought I would.

We waited for Leteesh (the math teacher) to get bumps in hers, and then we met my landlady who went to get hers done after ours. I only got the bumps/braids and they left the back of my hair. The other women had fake curls basically sewn into their hair. My hair is brown and they have no fake hair that matches my color. We finally made it home at 2pm (we left my house around 8:30am). It was then time for some “spring cleaning” where I managed to organize, throw away, and stack most of my belongings. I don’t know where all of this stuff came from—I have more than when I came to country. Everything seems to multiply.

I am grateful to have had my Good Friday experience, even though it was exhausting. My friends around the country were invited to church services and I was bummed to hear that, because I hadn’t been invited to any thing. But then I had an all day affair with my land family (complete with food, buna, and sewa that evening), where as my friends who had been invited to things were never told details or were almost forgotten. I feel awful for them, but we are getting used to being left out of the loop or people just assuming we know what is going on (like the fact you aren’t allowed to eat before going to church, or that no one eats until 5pm on Good Friday). It’s one of those “normals” we are beginning to feel.

Saturday was less of an adventure, because there was no significance to the day. It was much like a “normal” day, with one exception. Because of the breaking of the 55-day fast, everyone (and I mean everyone) was buying chickens, goats, and occasionally cows to take home to slaughter for Easter. I didn’t even venture to actual market, but walking from my house to meet friends for lunch on the main road, I walked past probably 100 goats being walked like dogs by their perspective “owners” in all different directions, chickens were being carried by the legs, and I even saw a few cows being herded. I am used to seeing animals like this, especially on market day. But the extent and number of animals I saw surprised me. It reminded me that Easter was in fact the next day. I was then reminded of this again when I arrived back to my compound to a goat tied to a tree outside my room, bleating and hoping that I would cut it free instead of keep it tied up (sorry buddy, no can do!)

As I have experienced with everything else, but especially holidays over here, no Peace Corps experiences are the same. My friends in small towns tend to get more invites, they venture out of their houses, and they eat a lot of food on holidays. I was hoping Fasika would be different for me this time. That I would go to different houses, eat 10 meals, and have lots of visitors. It seemed that’s how it would go leading up to the day. But sadly, my day was a pretty calm one. I mean, I enjoy calm and knowing what is going on. But there is something to be said for a completely new experience, which Fasika wasn’t for me.

I fell asleep Saturday night around 10pm to the sounds of the church, animals, and my land family cooking. I woke up around 2am for the bathroom and heard the churches and animals still (I’m used to the churches and animals, but not to this volume). I then woke up around 6am (thank you natural alarm clock), and decided to get dressed and ready. I had no idea what my land family’s plan was for the day and didn’t want to be the odd one out. So I got dressed, put on make up (well foundation, blush, and mascara) for the first time since swear in, and plucked my eyebrows. As soon as I opened my door and window my land family invited me in for food.

My first round of doro wat (chicken) was done by 8am followed by my first round of sewa and buna. I was the only one in a traditional dress- my land family were all wearing their “regular clothes”. One of my land ladies Almetu changed into her traditional dress to go somewhere, and I luckily got pictures with her. She showed me how to wear my nutella (the traditional scarf). I wanted pictures with my entire land family, but my landlady never changed into a traditional dress, and my land niece changed but left promptly after.

I had another round of food at around 1:30, but the rest of the day was spent relaxing, watching TV/listening to music, and napping. You could tell they were all exhausted from the past week. I napped a little as well, although my time was taken up by reading “Anna Karenina”. I started it a few weeks ago, and pushed through almost half to finish it! I missed the sheep being slaughtered again, which was fine with me. I always know when they are going to kill it, because guys come in with overalls and knives. I have managed to avoid actually watching a sheep slaughter, and I would like to keep it that way.

I am currently sitting in my room at 7pm on Easter after having changed out of my traditional dress. Although it was a big hit with my land family and the compound neighbors that came by, I sadly didn’t have an opportunity to show it off to anyone else. Both my land lady and counter part want me to wear it to school tomorrow, so I guess I will be “habasha” in the class tomorrow, although like I stated earlier in this post, I won’t have many students. I am not sure if I will be invited in for more food or festivities. Things look like they are winded down- although the meat remains uncooked.

The interesting thing about holidays over here is they are all celebrated the same. No matter what they are celebrating, no matter how your site celebrates it, they are all full of food, drink, and TV. I sometimes wonder how they can handle doing the same thing every holiday, until I looked at how we celebrate holidays in the US and I realized we do the same thing. Yes, we have a variety of foods that they don’t have, but we celebrate holidays with food, drink, and TV as well.

I was a little upset that not “more things happened” on this holiday. I have friends who almost die from doro wat overload, have blisters from walking to so many houses, or don’t get home until after dark. I had none of that. But as my friend Jessie so amazingly pointed out: “Nothing happened? You got your hair braided, a beautiful dress, ate good food, finished book, took nap, avoided hill of death! Lots happened.” Sometimes I get into my head what experiences can and should be, without remembering that every experience is different, new, and amazing in its own way.

Welcome to my life. It includes drinking alcoholic drinks at 8:30am, taking a nap with an 800 page book in an Ethiopian living room, getting compliments when walking into a room with a traditional dress on and hair done, and spending time with a land family that has turned into a surrogate family over here. Happy Easter/Sibuk Fasika. One down. One more to go.

Why am I the lucky one?

I often wonder to myself where I would be if I had grown up with different parents, in a different city or state, or if I had been born into a completely different life. This is a not a thought that I really concentrated on when I was younger, for my thoughts generally revolved around my own life; I was not a very philosophical child. I did think about others and their lives, but never in a way where I put myself in their shoes. I saw the news and heard about how others were not as fortunate as me, but I never really connected that to my own life, because I enjoyed my world I lived in and it just didn’t cross my mind that stepping into others shoes would help me grow and expand my own world.

I grew up with parents who valued education and therefore I received an incredible education at good schools with teachers who inspired me in the classroom and out of it to achieve as much as I could while helping others. I grew up with a family that showed me unconditional love, belonging, how to work for what you want, inspiration, acceptance, and strength. I grew up with friends that quickly turned into family, with memories, support, strength, and balance tied together with laughter, tears, heartache, and achievement.

(Taking a cue from the wise Rory Gilmore) I grew up in 2 worlds, fictional and my own. I took to reading from a young age and I would rather escape into a world of words and characters not of my own when I want to take my mind off my current reality. I grew up amongst quirky characters, hidden gems, problems that would be solved by the end of 300 pages. I found homes in the fictional worlds that I longed to be a part of. I, of course, loved my own life, but sometimes an escape was just what I needed to remember the person I wanted to be.

When I went to UNM I went through recruitment, not knowing what was going to happen, and actually being quite stubborn about joining the house I was a legacy at. Turns out becoming a Chi Omega was the best decision I ever could have made. Through my 4 years I made countless friends, bonds, and memories. I became more of the woman I wanted to be, I met girls who are my greatest role models and inspirations, and I found a support system that is only second to my blood family I’m grateful enough to have. I made so many memories, experienced so many things, and I strive to live out the symphony every day.

However, these are all still using the word I, they are all about me. Yes, I was born into an incredibly charmed life. I was brought up in a house where I was constantly told I could be anything, as long as I worked for it. Nothing was handed to me, but it was within my reach because the opportunity was there. As I grew up, I began to realize through exploration and experience that not everyone was as fortunate as me, especially not other girls. Watching the news it occurred to me how few women were in politics, how often females were the victims of news stories, and how beyond my little world I grew up in, females were not being told the same things I was.

Documentaries are meant to tell facts and stories of real people, places, and things. They are made to pull at heartstrings and get those watching them to really think about issues, but feel a certain way about the issues. Recently a lot of documentaries have been coming out about female issues around the world. “Miss Representation”, “Born Into Brothels”, and “Girl Rising” are all powerful films about different parts of life for people around the world, and the issues that girls and women face in male-dominated societies. I watched “Miss Representation” before I came to Ethiopia and it seems to apply more to the Western world. Here the issues of females and how males rule their lives are much less about the media and them having high powered jobs, than them having jobs and rights at all. I watched both “Born Into Brothels” and “Girl Rising” while in Ethiopia and they struck me for different reasons. “Born Into Brothels” is much more about bringing children who are born into unfortunate circumstances out of that, but “Girl Rising” is about female empowerment and how important it is to educate girls.

In my mind, girls’ empowerment, strong female role models, and girls’ education are no brainers. With all the statistics out there about how educating girls can uplift entire communities, economies, and countries it blows my mind that the world still ignores them and sticks to their preconceived ideas of gender. Although there have always been both men and women who stand up for the rights of everyone, recently there seems to have been an upsurge in strong role models and voices for those who don’t seem to have any. I appreciate that fact, but it is sad that many girls and females still remain voiceless. Not to say this is a purely female problem—poverty, ignorance, and awful circumstances are a world problem with men and women. But being a woman, I feel particularly drawn to the plight of the girls with little voices.

I was watching Harry Potter again recently, and although this might seem like a silly and shallow way of looking at a much bigger problem, this world has given us many ways to look at our own world and improve it. I began to notice how many strong female characters there were in these books and movies. Yes, the main character is a male, and yes much of this fictional world is populated with males, but the most dynamic characters and those who are the most supportive are the females. Ron and Harry wouldn’t last two minutes into their adventures in the first book without Hermione, and (although it takes them awhile), they acknowledge that. Hermione is their voice of reason, their brains, their courage, and their rock. Mrs. Weasley is in the traditional female role as mother, but she is a mother who is fiercely protective over her family and will do anything for them. She shows courage in defending them and the world as a whole. Luna is the quirky character who shows loyalty beyond all measure, and wisdom that might not always show, but that comes to help in ways no one else can. Ginny isn’t the damsel in distress, instead she is a girl who can fight along with the boys and just happens to charm Harry while still holding her own. Professor McGonagall is a bad ass that continuously shows readers that wisdom, courage, and strength can grow with age and will always help others.

Hopefully every girl that reads Harry Potter (or even watches the movies) was able to draw strength from the characters that show females in strong roles. There are many other fictional worlds written by females (and males) that give little girls (and older women) a chance to see females that they want to be. I am thankful to have been able to explore them and look up to those characters.

Back to my current reality though, it’s not as pretty of a picture. Sure, in Harry Potter Hermione, Mrs. Weasley, Tonks, McGonagall, Luna, and others are able to grab wands, fight alongside the men, and even upstage them at times. But here in the Muggle world, the females are still in the home and still not given a chance to show their true potential.

As I wrote in my International Women’s Day blog, I have girls who miss class to take care of their siblings, they are the ones falling asleep at their desks and copying furious notes from their friends because they were up late cooking and cleaning. On the street I walk by men surrounding women, laughing but when I look at the girls’ eyes I know they aren’t enjoying the conversation. Not to say that this whole society is bad and that all women are being oppressed. I have met many strong women who are either comfortable where they are, or have broken out of the mold. There are professionals, women who have chosen not to marry, or those raising kids on their own while working.

When I was young I was under the impression that everyone was as lucky as me, but I quickly realized many people weren’t. Girls’ education is still vastly undervalued, with many having to drop out or fail out to get married, take care of the home, or they are just forgotten in the classroom. I have more girls than boys in my classes, but I am aware that by 11^th grade, many of my girls who are bright and cheerful and brilliant in their own ways will be pushed into the home and will not receive the education they need to break a cycle.

Many children were not born into the right family. Both at home and abroad, children grow up in circumstances beyond their control, whether in foster care, on the streets, in abusive homes, or in places like slums and brothels. If parents aren’t educated, they aren’t going to make the best decision for their children, and unless a child has extreme luck, they stay in the same cycle for another generation, no matter how driven, and strong they are. This is the sad reality for much of the world.

Every time I worry about my own life, begin to complain, or get down on my experience, I remember what others are going through and I draw strength from perspective. Don’t take that as I grow with their pain, because every time I think about someone who is struggling more than me I want to help them. Take that as when I think about those who struggle, I have a desire to help them reach their potential. I don’t know how I will do that, and I know I won’t help every child or woman.

I know what women around the world go through. I know the sexual assaults, the fear, the violence, the oppression, and the constant voice saying, “You can’t and you won’t”. I watch the news, I hear stories, and I see it with my own eyes and hear it with my own ears. I have been lucky enough to have never experienced anything more than a “konjo” on the street or a brush of the hand, but I am acutely aware there is more out there.

I know what children around the world have to deal with. I know the fear, the violence, the oppression, the judgment, and the constant voice saying, “You can’t and you won’t”. I watch the news, I hear stories, and I see it with my own eyes and hear it with my own ears. I have been lucky enough to have never experienced any of those emotions because my home and environment was always filled with love, but I am acutely aware there is more out there.

My goal in life has always been to help others less fortunate than myself, but I never knew how to, and I’m still struggling with it. Sometimes I feel like I’m doing nothing for anyone but myself. (Taking a cue from Mia in Princess Diaries) I have begun to think about how much I use the word “I” and “me”. Reading through this blog that is supposed to be about the world and suffering, I (there it is again) use the words “I” and “me” for most of it. But then I realize, that maybe this is how I help others. If I don’t know myself, what I stand for, and how I want to world to look, than I can’t get others on that path.

I don’t know how to change the world; I don’t even know how to change those closest to me. How do I tell the girls from my 1^st grade class in the US that hair and makeup aren’t as important as knowing how to read, how do I tell the 9^th grade girls in Ethiopia that they don’t have to get married and have kids if that’s not what makes them happy, how do I tell my fellow Peace Corps Volunteers that nothing that happens to them is their fault, it’s our society and world we live in that blames the victims. My difficulty I’m finding, is those words are almost impossible to utter because no one will believe me no matter how strong I believe them myself.

We live in a connected and global world. We live in one where words, pictures, and ideas spread like wild fire. This has many advantages, but it has disadvantages as well. Messages can be broadcast and given to girls and boys, men and women, of all social standings and beliefs in a second, but people tend to concentrate on the worst of things. If you give 9 praises and 1 criticism to a friend, that friend will only remember the 1 criticism. That is the same for news. If you share 9 pieces of good news and 1 piece of bad news, a week later most people will remember that 1 piece of bad news. This is applicable to gender and equality as well. If you have 9 people telling women they are worth it, they can do it, and they deserve everything, and you have 1 person oppressing women, telling them they are worthless and trash, the world will listen to that 1 person. Sadly, the numbers don’t work like that. We still live in societies where most of the strong voices are of men and most are not empowering women.

Again, not to generalize that all men are bad, all women help each other, and that being in the home is bad. I know many men who are in full support of female empowerment, who believe women hold the future, and who help gender equality both in words, thoughts, and actions. I know women who don’t help and support each other, but instead tear each other down with criticisms, tensions, and competition. I know plenty of women who are in the home and love their jobs and roles, and I know plenty of men who do the same.

Gender roles are not always bad, and not everyone conforms to those. But, until we reach a point where everyone has a say in what they want to do, who they want to be, and everyone has the same opportunities, we as a human race have some work to do. I am lucky and blessed. I am the person I am today because of my circumstances and environment. I have support and a goal. But, not everyone is as lucky as me. I ask you to take a minute to look at your own life. What are you thankful for? What are you blessed with? What is lucky in your life? Than ask yourself how you can help others grow their list. How can you help a little boy struggling at home to increase his list of thankfuls? How can you help a girl who is about to be pulled out of school change her path? How can you help a woman in an abusive home make herself happy? Not everything is in our control. I know that. We can’t change the whole world. Not everyone can be happy, and there will continue to be sadness. But, how can you by yourself, and how can we as humans, help each other to make each others’ lives just a little bit easier, and make another person’s happiness grow?

Rain... It's the little things

“It’s not about waiting for the storm to pass… It’s about screaming with the thunder, running with the lightning, and learning to dance in the rain”

I don’t know who coined that phrase, but it’s one that I have used many times in my life to both help myself and to pick up others around me. Now, I’m not saying to actually do those things. Thunder and lightning can be terrifying and dangerous, but the idea and sentiment of the quote is one that I fully agree with.

I grew up in a place where it rarely rained. The desert of the United States, New Mexico. Rain is such a rare sight, that when it does rain it covers my Facebook newsfeed. No need to actually look out the window to see the weather, no need to watch the news (although they get it wrong a lot anyways). Rain was always something that was special to me. I always loved the idea of rain, it was just always beyond my reach. The only thing I seemed to know about rain was that it turned already awful New Mexico drivers into even more dangerous ones, and no one wanted to be out driving in those conditions, when it was even a faint drizzle.

My favorite memory of rain was on a trip to Washington D.C. with my youth group. We were staying at a “youth hostel”—really just a hotel for traveling groups. There was a rec room and TVs in the rooms- I mean what could be better than that? We were assigned to stay in the rec room and write a reflection journal about our travels that day when another group (a 4H group) came in to announce it was raining. My girls and I quickly abandoned our journals on the chairs we were sitting in and ran outside. We literally danced in the rain, laughing, splashing, and enjoying our moment. We had grown up together, and knowing we were all going our separate ways was difficult to take sometimes. The rain splashed on our skin and clothes, my glasses were a wreck, but the water was warm (although hard). We got back inside and had to explain to our youth leaders why we hadn’t followed their instructions. We finished writing our reflections and headed up to bed, soaked to the bone. That was more than 5 years ago, but I can still feel the rain and the memories. Rain brought happiness to us that evening.

Coming to Ethiopia, rain was a luxury for me that many others in my group were already tired of. We have quite a few West coast people, who all roll their eyes when I get excited about rain. I had to go buy a raincoat and umbrella for this trip because I didn’t own one back home. We arrived in country in the middle of rainy season. We learned to bring our raincoats to practicum, because it would rain on the way home. We learned to wear our Chacos to morning language sessions and change into hiking boots when we went home for lunch. We learned exactly what rain can do to already inconsistent power and cell network—cuts out for hours. We learned that dirt roads turn into sloppy rivers where the only way to cross is getting knee deep in mud. We learned that falling asleep to rain on a tin roof is just as difficult as sleeping through Mosques and churches at 4:30am.

But enough about rain—“rain is a good thing” as many country songs remind us. Wherever in the world you are, rain holds may different things. It can be great for places where water is rare; it can be awful for places that are filled to the brim with water already. Everything is great in moderation, and the idea of water falling from the sky is no different. Depending when, where, and who you go and talk to, “Gods tears” can be blessings or curses.

The idea of the “dance in the rain” quote however has nothing to actually do with rain; it has everything to do with perspective. Perspective on life and on what is happening. Rain can be looked at as bad, but if you decide to make it a good thing, it can be. Remembering that you have the power to change something into something else through your outlook is what the power of rain really has. You can’t change that is raining, but you can change how rain affects your life.

I always tell people, “It’s the little things”. Even back home, I would remind people of that. It can be difficult to remember why you are doing something, what brings you joy, or what good there is in the world when everything seems to be falling apart. Difficult days, difficult times, and hard situations: those are the moments when you just want to curl up in a ball and forget everything. Ice cream, chocolate, wine, a new pair of shoes, a hug from a friend or pet, a favorite movie, and a song to jam out to—those are things that we as humans crave when times get bad.

Over here, the little things can really be the big things. When times get tough, we don’t have all of those escape methods we did back home. We have some outlets, but not that many. Our little annoyances turn into our big monsters in the room. The things we normally find obnoxious or hard to handle can turn everything one day into the worst day. We find ourselves out of patience, questioning our life decisions, and wondering what joy we find here and why in the world we are still in Ethiopia. Those moments come pretty regularly, which can be even worse to realize. You get annoyed, you realize how often you feel this way, and you get more annoyed—it’s a vicious cycle and one that can often be too hard to handle.

My best friend and I were having a week. Nothing seemed to be going right, our lives seemed to be falling apart around us, and yet we were still here. We began to text each other “the little things”. Things that might seem insignificant to people back home, but to us over here they are all too real. These little things that help us remember why we continue to get out of bed over here, why we aren’t back home, why we smile so often, and why this is a helpful experience- even when extremely difficult.

“It’s the little things” are those moments and memories that are tiny, and yet help us remember to dance in the rain. The rain may cut out power and network, it might flood our roads to home, it might cancel flights and ruin crops. But it also smells great, helps grow crops, brings down dust, and cools things down. Everything is about perspective, from little moments to rain, everything teaches us something whether we realize it or not.

-Teaching guard to read and write English

-Kid tells me he doesn’t want 62% again but a 90 this semester

-Eating meal with students

-Twirling my kids

-Good fuul

-Curling up with cocoa and a book

-Letters

-Camels

-Jebena buna

-Packages

-Water

-Tan lines

-Inside jokes

-Valentines

-Incense

-A cool breeze

-Smelly lotion

-Stuffed animals

-Sincere compliments

-Random texts

-Getting called by your name

-A cold drink

-Inspirational words of wisdom

-Clean clothes

-Fresh juice

-Sugar on popcorn

-Working network and power

-Picture from home

-Hot, fresh injira

-Coloring books

-Open windows on buses

-Bourbon Cremes

-Kids laughing

-Waking up when you want to

-Jamming to good music

-Newly painted nails

-Clean hair

-Western toilets

-Machiattos

-Meat

-A mug of tea

-Working Internet

-Finishing a lesson

-Watching a movie at the exact same time as a friend

-Food from home

-Nutella

-Watching CNN or BBC in the teachers lounge

-Starting on time

-Getting flowers from students

-Crossing things off a to-do list