Gray Sky Voting and Election Aftermath

Although we didn't get the sunny skies CENI promised, war has been averted, and trouble seems manageable, or at the very least, delayed.

When millions of people went to cast their votes on Monday, they found that many important things were missing from the polling stations: ballots and ballot boxes, ink, instructions, observers, and competent and trained poll workers. Due to the late arrival of crucial materials and the difficulty in getting clear information about where and how to vote, voting continued on Tuesday and Wednesday helping more people cast votes despite the violence and intimidation which left many attacked and several opposition supporters gunned down by the presidential guard, polling stations burned down and trucks carrying ballot papers attacked. There have also been widespread complaints of pre-filled ballots, minors registered to vote, and individuals registered under several false identities.

I personally know several people in Kinshasa who were able to vote, many for the first time, fairly easily. I know others who were sent from one polling station to another for hours as officials denied them ballots despite their legitimate voter registration cards. In other neighborhoods of Kinshasa things were worse and there were more severe troubles in other regions.

Nonetheless, SADC and the AU declared the elections a success. The Carter Center offered a more balanced analysis of the logistical problems of the elections and the breaches of voters' rights. However, it is unclear if the irregularities will matter in the final count (although I certainly think they matter overall).

Last week I received a text message from the regional security officer at the US Embassy. It was one of those boilerplate messages that was not meant to be sent so what I received read: "In the aftermath of November 28th elections in DRC, the possibility." Sounds like a haiku, no?

Although the existential tone and the fact that the message was sent were both unintentional, it was timely in its own odd way. None of us really know what is going on and conflicting information and speculation abounds. Opposition leader Tshisikedi is ahead. Incumbent Kabila will win. One or the other will or will not accept defeat with or without violence. Official results are not supposed to be announced until Tuesday, but news keeps pouring out about the race.

Text messaging has been down since yesterday. The prevailing belief is that the government is trying to keep people from organizing and communicating. We are not supposed to leave the compound right now and the school will now be closed until at least Thursday.

All remains quiet. Keep eyes and ears on the news.

You Don't Need a Weather Man to Know Which Way the Wind Blows

But apparently the head of the electoral commission of DRC can stop rain via sheer will.

And I quote, "There will be no war, there will be no trouble. There won't even be rain on November 28, we're going to stop it."

http://mg.co.za/article/2011-11-18-high-hopes-and-low-blows-in-drc-election-battle/

I'll get back to you on election day with a full weather report.

Bourbon, Bananas and Excuses

So, I've been gone for awhile. This is largely due to the day on which I accidentally poured bourbon straight on my keyboard. This happened, believe it or not, while making banana bread. I can explain, really. I poured too much bourbon in the batter and tried to pour it back out into a cup. The cup was on my keyboard. Ok, that part, I can't explain. I had to sheepishly tell IT Guy that I got my keyboard wet and ruined a bunch of keys. I later admitted, that it was, in fact, a corn-based whisky demise. He said, "Thanks, it's best that I know exactly what I'm looking for." "Oh," I replied, "in that case, there is a little bit of banana in there too." Anyway, this made all non-essential typing a huge pain but my keyboard is back and better (and cleaner) than ever.

Hello, again.

Gotta Wash Down Those Mud Pies with Water

Friday Morning Score:

Congo: 1
Teacher: 0

After a blissful week of reading and loving Kinderclassic, Mrs. Wishy-Washy, I decided that Friday morning we would make our own lovely mud to go along with our final reading of the week of this tale of animals romping in the mud and scrubbed in the tub by the illustrious Mrs. Wishy-Washy before-you guessed it-bolting straight back to the mud again. Why make mud? The initial reason was fun but I knew there had to be a sounder pedagogical reason other than my love of dirt and water.

Here's what I came up with:

1. Sensorimotor Experience
2. Scientific Inquiry (What the heck is mud? How is it different than wet sand? Why do the roads in Kinshasa wash away in the rainy season?)
3. Become more familiar with the Botanical Gardens (Our campus has gorgeous botanical gardens which we are obligated to incorporate into classroom curriculum. What better source for our mud dirt than the botanical garden? None I should say!)

But Congo beat us to the mud-making when the rainy season began 4 weeks earlier than normal but mere hours after many locals had been predicting for some time. What do you do when the dirt you wanted to make into mud has already turned to mud and the gardens are squishy and swampy? Put on your game face, lay down a parachute to sit on and break out your fancy bag of loam soil. The campus gardeners crowded around our mud-making with bewildered interest. If furrowed brows could talk: Does this Mundele not realize that we have plenty of mud already? If tilted nods could reply: "Mundeles do not think our mud is good enough. They like their mud made of imported loam."

I could have dumped our mud after our jolly experiments but I thought I might as well bring it back to the classroom as an option during Free Play. I carefully ladled the mud into trays, but it nonetheless ended up on every available human and classroom surface. No sweat, says I, mud washes away with water.

Armed with paper towels and soap, buckets and a mop, we slip-slided our way to the sink. No water. For the next 12 hours.

Friday Afternoon Score:

Congo: 2
Teacher: 0

When the Drill Becomes the Procedure

My school has an extensive set of drills, named after rainbow colors, and designed to keep students and staff safe in the event of political unrest. Their frequency has steadily occurred as the elections approach in the not unreasonable concern that things may take a troubled turn, if only briefly. After all, this is DR Congo where 5 years ago the city went on lockdown and students slept at their teacher's houses for 3 nights and cried when "all clear" was called and their parents came to collect them. This is the city where the local college down the hill from my home rioted in response to cities failure to provide them power and water. This occurred specifically on the night when a senior invited her teachers/coaches/mentors out to dinner to celebrate her graduation. Our boss called to tell us to keep celebrating rather than drive home. We turned this into one last teachable moment for the graduate: how to do a tequila shot.

Chaos happens. So when the receptionist flung open my door and shouted "Code Yellow Emergency Drill!" 10 minutes before the dismissal bell rang I figured, "It's probably not a drill." And it wasn't. Today was a demonstration geared toward the upcoming elections, ambiguously titled, "The Peaceful Protest of Rage." It took a slightly violent turn and although the streets were cleared and quieted, "Intelligence sources,"  not to be confused with intelligent sources (though I don't find the two to be necessarily mutually exclusive), decided this was the calm before the storm. In reality, it was the calm before the regularly scheduled hustle and bustle of Kinshasa. Nonetheless, for 25 minutes I entertained the Kinderfolk with songs and rhymes whilst their parents waited outside my door. (This particular drill called for students returning to class and not being released until the streets are deemed safe, no matter if their parent is there and wants to take them the hell home).

In the end it was a little blip in my day and in the daily happenings of the city, but I don't doubt there are more blips on the way. Fingers crossed for small blips all the way.

Accidental Snack

You can judge how a parent will be for the entire year by their response to hearing that you facilitated their child eating the chemical inside of an ice pack. When this child originally asked me to open this plastic pouch filled with a semi-frozen blue substance, I told her it was an ice pack. When she insisted her mother told her she must drink it for snack I figured it was some kind of blue slushy. I snipped off the corner and she took a big swig which she spit out in disgust. Unsure if her gag reflex was caused by artificially flavored high fructose corn syrup or ice pack chemical, I ate a little myself. Definitely ice pack. The nurse told me the confused child would be fine so my only worry was figuring out how to draft an email to Mommy explaining exactly why her ice pack was coming home ruined. Luckily she was understanding for such an odd situation. This is only the second day of school- we have another 181 days of ingestional mishaps waiting to happen!

A Little Delay

I am supposed to be back in Congo by now. But, like the tens of thousands of dollars of school supplies that are sitting in customs waiting for a Congolese signature facilitated by a good mood, I am the victim of New York's own senseless and grumpy bureaucracy. How could I have possibly guessed that although I need to get my fingerprints cleared by the State Education Department and complete 200 practicum hours to get my special ed license, I need to get my fingerprints cleared by the City Department of Education to be allowed to student teach? It doesn't matter that the city department of ed is under the jurisdiction of the state department of ed or that there is only one FBI doing the fingerprints for both. That would make too much sense. "But can't the state department of ed send the city department of ed your fingerprints?" a naive young teacher might ask. "Of course, [idiot]!" the mole-studded HR personnel screams at you over the counter, hoisting her girth out of the way to pass you no less than 4 forms. "10 days!" she screams again, over the sobbing of countless broken-hearted teachers-to-be who have all had their immediate futures wrecked by this evil woman. My friend starting her fifth year banging her head against the wall of PS *** says she wishes she could tell me that it was a fluke, that things weren't like that all the time, but sister, they are that bad and worse and no amount of standing on your tiptoes and banging your little fist on the counter is going to change anything.

All that's to say is that by the time things took their own sweet time straightening out, the school where I was supposed to student teach had closed for the summer. I was reduced to cold calling dozens of summer and year-round schools trying to market my free labor. I found two placements, changed my flight so I would have time to accumulate enough hours and marvel at my own good fortune.

I have thus spent most of my summer vacation teaching for free. Actually, make that, paying to teach, since Touro College, aka, Disfunction U charges tuition for student teaching. I'm sure that's not uncommon, but that doesn't mean it's not annoying. So I have spent my days trying my hand at early intervention on the Upper East Side (the incredible, amazing birth-3 scheme that gives babies and toddlers with disabilities their best shot at either "catching up" or simply starting their formal education on the best possible foot). This often involved a two-year old with Down's Syndrome gurgling all over neck instead of putting shapes into the bucket, but who was I to deny him? Gooey times, we had. Sweet and gooey times.

My other site was an ABA school for children with autism. Did I mention it was an ultra-orthodox Jewish school? It was. I live in Congo. The culture shock of moving to Africa does not compare to working with teachers younger than me with marriages. And wigs. And children. Multiple, intentional children who need their mommies to pump breast milk whilst they try to have a casual conversation with me in the curriculum room. These conversations mainly consist of grilling me about why I don't live with my parents and what the heck a Congo is.
                   Congo? Where's that?
                   Congo? Can you be more specific?
                   Kinshasa.
                   I mean is it in South America?
                   Um, well that's a continent, so that would be less specific. Nevermind.
                   Are there blacks there?
                   Is that a real question?
                   How come you know how to speak English?
                   Oh dear.

The teacher dress code is good for: not having greasy men talk to you on the subway, not having college students with clipboards ask you if you have a minute for gay rights, planned parenthood or to save the children and also good for baffling you (stockings are allowed under skirts, leggings are not). The teacher dress code is bad for sitting on the floor and heat waves. OY!

ABA (Applied Behavioral Analysis) is THE autism buzzword. Mainly, I guess, because it works. Using data and formally observed behavior to plan student learning- sounds great! Problem is, this particular school's version of it really sucks the fun out of learning. Way too much sitting. Way too much treating kids like lab rats in a giant maze of literacy and math and social skills who will do anything you want for an Oreo. So I wouldn't say I learned a great deal about ABA, except how I wouldn't want to use it. I did get really good at spot the wig, a game I played out of the unlikely combination of boredom and fascination.

So I am at the tail end of my extra week in the city. I have been taking advantage of warm, fresh bagels, pizza slices on the corner and mint chocolate chip gelato. In my summer time neighborhood, Astoria Park has become my second home with a track where people put their babies in the long jump pit while they run intervals and women in burqas play ultimate frisbee. And since I teach in Manhattan and Brooklyn I have made sure to get my last fixes of Central Park and Union Square, Brooklyn Lager and the Brooklyn Bridge.

48 more hours. Congo here I come!