One Misstep

My last two weeks or so in Kenya were not the way I imagined the process of saying goodbye. This was all because of a hike I took with my students.

My students were moving fast, agilely climbing over massive boulders and jumping from rock to rock down the steep slope we were on. I suddenly realized that I was going faster than I was comfortable with just trying to keep up with them. I don’t think it was because I was more tired than them necessarily. I was just less sure of my footing on this rough and unfamiliar terrain. Then, with a single step, I braced my weight on a smooth rock, and my foot slipped out from under me, causing my ankle to roll at an unnatural angle against the ground. One rock. One misstep. That’s all it took.

On my hands and knees facing the red soil beneath me, my first thought was, “!#@%* I broke it. I broke my ankle. I hope I didn’t break it.” Then it was, “Of course this would happen. I was this close to making it out of Kenya in a relatively healthy condition, but no. I guess not.” My students, realizing I was hurt, called back the rest of our group who had gone ahead, and they surrounded me asking me if I was okay. I couldn’t respond at first, but eventually I told them I had hurt my ankle. They asked if they could look at it, beginning to stretch out their hands, but I refused, not wanting them to make it worse. So they just stood around me as I tried to breathe and see if I could touch my ankle, and then test its range of motion. I was able to move it around more than I thought I would be able to, which gave me hope that it wasn’t broken. But I still freaked out because we were only halfway down the rocky hill, and I had suddenly realized that I would have to climb down the rest of the way on my ankle. No one could carry me because I probably weighed too much, and the terrain was completely unsuitable for that. Furthermore, there was no way my piki (motorcycle taxi) driver could make his way to me, given that my students and I were making our own path down the slope. So after about 7 minutes of resting, I decided I had enough range of motion to begin moving again. Climbing down ever so slowly over boulders and itchy shrubbery and hiding places for snakes, I was only able to put half of my weight on my ankle because of the increasing pain.

Fortunately, I made it down without any more major incidents, and after limping for about 2 minutes, my students pointed out that I wouldn’t be able to walk all the way to where my piki driver could meet me. I thought, “What other choice do I have?” I then realized that we were standing right next to a couple boats beached on the shore of Lake Victoria. My students then confirmed what they had been implying: They wanted us all to take a boat to the other side of the shore, where my piki driver could pick me up. This suggestion put me in a very difficult position. Per the rules of my program, I was not allowed to go on/in the lake at all–that is, unless I was with my supervisor. This was for safety reasons, as the lake was extremely contaminated with bacteria and parasites that consistently make people sick.

So there I was mentally panicking as I faced the choice between something potentially going wrong in the boat (which would no doubt end badly if I fell in the water) and potentially damaging my ankle worse by walking all the way back to the pier to meet my piki driver. I also had the added worry that someone would see me in the boat and that it would get back to my supervisor. After a few minutes of deliberation, I agreed to go in the boat, but as soon as my students started climbing in, I immediately regretted it. The wooden vessel (similar to the one featured on the main page of this blog) rocked back and forth as they climbed over the planks that served as seats, making me doubt its stability. I had already said yes though, and my students remained convinced that it was the best option. So that is how I found myself hiding under the uniform shirt of one of my students with a swelling ankle as I crossed a contaminated lake in a boat of unknown reliability.

Thanks to nothing short of God’s protection, we reached the shore without incident, and my piki driver drove me back to school, where my students met me later. Upon arriving, I realized with dread that even though this was my last day of teaching for the summer, I had completely booked myself for the rest of the day visiting former students and their families. Since I was nearing the end of my time in Muhuru, I did not want to back out on any of them, so I decided to still visit all of them. Not having the time or materials to even wrap my ankle, I had my piki driver drive me around as much as possible, and I simply limped the rest of the way to wherever his piki could not go. It was probably not a smart decision for me to keep using my ankle right after injuring it, but how could I do anything else when my students were so looking forward to my visits?

Beginning the next day, I rested, iced, and elevated my ankle for 3 days straight, which allowed the swelling to go down from twice the size of my other ankle to normal. However, the first couple days when the physical pain was the worst were actually the most endurable. What I didn’t expect was how much my injury would cost me psychologically/emotionally. Anyone who knows me knows that I am a “people-person” through and through. My time in Kenya was no exception, so I was determined to the most of the last few days I had with my students and friends in Muhuru Bay, whom I didn’t know if I would ever see again. But unfortunately, because of my injured state, I had to forego seeing my students for many days and completely cancel my visits to others. Thus, I was never able to visit some of my favorite students who lived up the exact hill where my injury happened, which was honestly heartbreaking for me. I felt extremely guilty about not being able to say my final goodbyes to certain students I had become so close with and who had cherished our time together so much.

My guilt and sadness were exacerbated by my frustration with having a temporary disability. During the 3 days of rest, I had to resort to being literally carried to places that had taken me less than a minute to get to before my injury. After trying to limp around, I received crutches from the same clinic that confirmed my ankle wasn’t broken, but those were almost worse than limping due to all the stairs I faced at WISER and the naturally rocky terrain of Muhuru Bay. I hated having to ask for a chair everywhere I was. I hated the slowness with which I had to move. I hated the pain in my knee (a chronic problem I had before Kenya) that was exacerbated by using it to compensate for my sprained ankle. I hated being incapacitated. Especially during the 3 days, I hated having to ask my fellow students to open a door for me or go get me something or carry stuff for me. I think they started to hate it to. That’s probably an exaggeration, but much of my depressed mood during the last couple of weeks in Kenya stemmed from noticing that those in my program seemed to be growing tired of my injury. It seemed like they were starting to resent having to do things for me all the time. I sensed that they felt like I should have been over my injury already because ankle sprains usually heal in about a week or so. But there I was limping until the very last day of the program and being pushed through the airports in a wheelchair on my trip home.

At the doctor’s office back in the U.S. I was told that I had torn multiple ligaments in my ankle and that I would have to wear a boot for 6 weeks (WEEKS!), even though I was about to leave in ONE week to study abroad in Chile. It was already stressful enough logistically and mentally preparing for my semester abroad in only 12 days. Added to that were the additional tasks of processing my experience in Kenya; managing my chronic back and knee pain exacerbated by my injury; and trying to manage my physiological reactions to the regimen of 4 different antibiotics I was taking for a bacterial infection I (likely) got in Kenya combined with the anti-malarial prophylaxis I was still taking. In short, this was the last thing I wanted to have on my plate going into my study abroad experience. But there was nothing I could do, so I am currently dealing with…

Having my injury be the first thing people notice/learn about me;

Having everyone stare at my boot every time I was in public;

Having to take a taxi everywhere by myself while my peers bonded and got to know their way around our new host city by walking together;

Having to spend an hour every day doing my physical therapy exercises; and

Not being able to go dancing (one of the things I was most looking forward to being in a Latin American country)

This stuff, on top of all of the adjustments that living in a new country requires makes me think, “What else can I be dealing with?”

People have always told me that studying abroad is never what you think it is going to be, and they sure were right, but I hope I find the strength to somehow make it what I want it to be. Reflecting deeply on it, I think my new appreciation for the challenges that people with permanent disabilities face by getting a small taste of it for this temporary period will be the source of this strength.

September 5, 2015July 4, 2017 by bribri729 Categories: KenyaTags: disability, expectations, goodbye, guilt, health, injury, mobility, pain, struggle, study abroad, transition Leave a comment

“We are just resting”

I should preface this post by saying that my experience with this issue does not give the full picture of it by any means. I am not an expert on it, and my reflections are obviously based on a few personal anecdotes. I was hesitant to write about this topic because I did not want to contribute to the white/Western stereotypical view of Africans in general as “barbaric,” but caning was a significant part of my experience teaching, so I decided to include it. I would like to ask my readers to keep in mind two things: 1.) Caning is not much different than the “spanking” many American parents use at home with their kids. And 2.) This is not the entire story of the educational system in Kenya, or even in Muhuru Bay. This is only one aspect that I saw as a weakness, but there are many other strengths I have not fully discussed. For example, I really admired all of the schools’ treatment of dancing, singing, and preserving traditional culture as equally important as academics for their students—a priority many American schools could learn from.

One of the most complex and nuanced issues I encountered while teaching came up when I was first starting out: the widespread use of corporal punishment in Kenyan schools.

I knew about this cultural practice coming in and had heard that previous DukeEngage students had struggled with encountering it during their time teaching. “Caning” is what I was told it is called in Kenya, and I didn’t know much else about it before coming, other than the fact that it involved hitting the students. My first time witnessing it was my second day of teaching at my first school. My fellow Duke student teacher Tierney and I were observing a morning school assembly before classes started. That day, I remember that our Kenyan contact teacher had asked us as soon as we arrived why we were there so early. I found this bizarre at the time since we had arrived at the exact same time the day before, and he had told us we should arrive at that time every day. Thus, I was confused about by his question, but a few moments later I felt like I knew the reason for it.

I have to say that my first time witnessing caning did not go the way I expected it to. It sounds weird to say, but I was actually expecting the stick used for punishment to be bigger, harder, and/or thicker than it was. I was expecting something that more resembled… you know, an actual cane… than what I saw the teachers using. In reality, the stick was more like a “switch” from an old Western movie. It looked like it still stung, but it was the kind of “weapon” that would leave red marks and scratches rather than bruises, which to me, was a bit more bearable. The school assembly seemed to be about the collection of school fees. I don’t quite remember what made me infer that as I watched the proceedings, but I did, which makes me wonder now: Were the kids caned for not bringing their school fees? I would like to think that would never happen, given the widespread poverty of Muhuru Bay (and just the principle of doing that in general), but I guess I will never know since I never had the opportunity to ask about it.

To be honest, I am rather surprised and a bit ashamed that I was not more bothered by most of the caning. In fact, I was far from wanting to cry or scream or jump in and stop them. Although when the younger kids were targeted with the same force used on the older kids, that was definitely more disturbing, and I looked away. The weird thing though is that I mostly looked away because Tierney did. In reality, I did not really know what I wanted to do. I didn’t know if I should watch the caning or make it very obvious that I was looking away. Which one was more subversive of this practice that I believed was unethical? On one hand, I felt compelled to watch it on behalf of the kids, as a sort of witness of their victimization. On the other hand though, silently watching felt like supporting or approving of what was happening or (worse?) being an impassive spectator/gawker. But then again, looking away felt like denying the importance/significance of caning as an unethical act. In short, my hands felt tied no matter what I did, and I never really wholly decided on one course of action throughout my time in Kenya.

It didn’t help that while Tierney and I were trying to look away from the caning, two teachers came over and after greeting us, immediately asked us if it bothered us to see the kids get caned. Fortunately, I had prepared for just a moment like this. I knew that caning had been a part of Kenyan culture for years and that Kenyans generally don’t see it as unethical (obviously). Adults in Kenya really and truly believe that it is the only way to teach kids discipline and that it is what is best for the kids. Contrary to what one might expect, many of the students also agree, even though they don’t like the experience of it. Furthermore, I knew with almost 100% certainty that nothing I said would change the reality of the situation, except maybe to make it seem like I was looking down on Kenyan culture as an elitist American/Westerner/”white” person. So I just responded, “We do not cane in schools in the U.S.,” and Tierney and I proceeded to give examples of alternative forms of punishment that are used in the U.S. This approach diffused the potentially awkward situation, and allowed us to regain our focus on the day of teaching we had ahead of us.

I had many more experiences with caning after that day, so my opinions and thoughts on it evolved a lot over the two months that I encountered it. For example, at the same school on a later day, I was coming back from the bathroom when I noticed a bunch of my students, along with some younger kids, running around the school buildings on the compound. Suddenly, my student Nelson ran and hid behind the building closest to me, trying to peek out and look around the corner of the building without being seen. His face was intensely focused, but not panicked or scared by any means. I was just about to ask him if they were playing tag or hide-and-seek or something when one of the teachers came running past the building with the cane. I was stunned at how Nelson and the other kids then dared to try to–and in fact did–outrun their teacher on the way back to their classrooms.

That was definitely not how I expected my students to react, and it all happened so fast. I guess I expected the students in general to be submissive and resigned to their fate of caning–if for nothing else, for fear of more caning. I would never have pictured them challenging a teacher’s authority to punish them. But there they had been, right in front of me, doing just that. When the teacher found Nelson, I was amazed to see Nelson even smirk and move like he was playing a game—dancing around as he faced the teacher, trying to predict which way the teacher would go, so he could go the opposite way. It was the most interesting scene to watch. To my surprise, the teacher did not seem embarrassed by his clear lack of control of the students when he finally noticed me, and even stopped what he was doing to greet me. The teacher simply excused himself quickly and proceeded to chase the kids behind the buildings, as I silently cheered the kids’ rebelliousness in the face of this practice. I was further surprised that once the students reached their classrooms, the teacher stopped chasing them, rather than going in and beating them for running. I guess it was because the bell had run and his purpose in trying to cane them was just to get them back into their classrooms.

Another instance at a different school involved me walking into a classroom for my upcoming lesson to find none of my students there. Puzzled, I looked around and began walking over to my Kenyan colleagues to ask about it. On my way toward the teachers though, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that all of my students were lying in a row on their stomachs on the ground. In an initially confused tone, I asked some of the teachers what my students were doing. Laughing, one of the teachers paused before saying, “They… They are resting.” I then looked to my students, and they all said, “Yes, we are just resting,” but then some of them started to smile and giggle. I started chuckling too because I was still very confused by the whole situation, until it dawned on me. I finally gathered my wits and told the teacher, “I want to teach them English now, so I need them in the classroom.” The teacher told the kids to go, and they eagerly jumped up and began running to class. Before I left though, I said to the teacher, “They weren’t resting, were they? They were about to get caned” in a tone that was knowing, but still purposely good-natured. Still laughing, he confirmed that they were being punished for not bringing out their completed assignments to get graded.

Thinking about it, unfortunately, I did become somewhat desensitized to seeing kids get caned. There was even one moment while I was teaching at my last school in which I thought, “I can see why the teachers cane these kids” because I was just that exasperated with them. I immediately shoved that thought out of my mind though, ashamed for having thought it. I began to wonder about the normalizing effect that seeing this violence all the time was having on me. I believe caning definitely had an effect on the students, who not only cringed in preparation sometimes when I moved my hand too quickly too close to them, but were also rather physically rough with each other in general. I never did stop viewing caning as unethical, and I tried to prevent or subvert the caning of my own students as much as I possibly could throughout my time teaching. But moments like these all contributed to my growing understanding of the culture of caning and the viewpoints of different parties involved in the practice. This was probably one of the most significant inter-cultural learning experiences I went through in Kenya, and in the end I am extremely grateful for having had to negotiate with it.

August 21, 2015July 3, 2017 by bribri729 Categories: KenyaTags: caning, corporal punishment, culture, education, ethics, negotiation Leave a comment

Teaching: Reflections and Realizations

Overall, teaching provided me with most of the highlights of my trip, but also with most of the hardships, which in the end, made it the experience that taught me the most in Kenya. The challenges came from various sources and took various forms. While I did have trouble getting my quiet students to speak up and getting the ones who didn’t understand something to ask questions, one of the hardest parts of teaching was neither of these things. It was the lack of real time I had with my students. Every day I only taught for half of the school day, and when it came down to it, I was only with each group of students for two weeks—Nothing, compared to the length of their educational careers or even their time as an 8^th grader. It was not long enough to truly get to know the strengths and weaknesses of each student, the life circumstances that affected his/her academic performance, and what dreams s/he had for the future. Even so, I did my best with the circumstances, resources, and skills that I had.

One of my attempts to compensate for this lack of time was my dedication to going to a different student’s house each day for lunch after I finished teaching. In Muhuru Bay, it is customary for most of the students to go home to eat and then return for afternoon classes. It amazed me how already by the second or third day of class, an overwhelming number of students invited me to their homes. Lunches with my students without a doubt constituted one of the best parts of my time in Muhuru that made it so memorable. It was baffling that so soon after meeting me, my students and their parents eagerly invited me into their homes, a space most Americans would consider more private. In every case, I had to give them a day’s notice so that the family could prepare a (large) meal just for the occasion. I would always follow my students home on foot, which took anywhere from 10 minutes to an hour and fifteen minutes (even though their Kenyan approximation of the distance was always “just near”).

Once we arrived, my perpetual embarrassment over the extent to which they acted like I was the one gracing their home by being there began. I would literally be embraced with loving arms, usually of my student’s mom, as soon as I walked through the doorway. In some cases, the family even slaughtered an animal just for my meal. Since many of my students’ homes consisted of a single small room, the slaughtering made me feel especially guilty that they were wasting a economically valuable animal on me, but it would have been too rude for me to seriously object. As a guest, I was expected to sit at their table to rest until all of the food was brought out to me. Everything was usually freshly made and always delicious. My hosts would laugh at how I had trouble eating food and drinking tea as hot as they did and tease me about how I was never able to eat as much as they wanted me to. My weird American quirks did not seem to get in the way of genuine enjoyment between us though. I truly truly loved all of the families I visited, and was forever finding myself without enough time to make return visits to all of them. This was a huge frustration in itself for me because I knew that equal distribution of resources (of which, I unfortunately was considered one) is extremely important in Kenyan culture. If you give something to one person, the thinking goes, you have to give it to every other person of equal status. Just imagine how impossible this was for me with so many students.

Another big trial I faced occurred at the last school I taught at. I did not know why, but my kids there seemed to be much less interested in actually learning than the students at my previous two schools. They were more concerned with goofing off and making fun of my American accent than focusing on the lesson. It didn’t help that some of the leaders of the mischief were the oldest kids in the class. I tried a lot of different ways of convincing them to pay attention – group competition, positive reinforcement, student-led lessons, certain punishments like taking away extra free time – but I never found a magical strategy that worked. Consequently, each day was more exhausting than usual, and I eventually got to a point where I did not want to go to school in the morning just to become frustrated. I wanted to scream at them, “I’m trying to help you! Let me help you!” because I knew the consequences of their failure to pass the looming K.C.P.E. (the Kenyan Certificate of Primary Education). The K.C.P.E. is a national exam every 8^th grader has to take that is the sole determinant of whether he/she is permitted to attend high school or not. I also knew that this particular school’s test scores were consistently the lowest in Muhuru Bay, which is one of the lowest-performing school districts in Kenya.

However, now, looking back at that desire to scream at my students kind of makes me laugh. There I was, the do-gooder, getting mad at the people I was trying to help for not letting me help them in the way I wanted to or thought was best.

Even though the DukeEngage program I signed up for was supposed to be focused on education as a social determinant of health, maybe these kids didn’t need a teacher most at that moment in their lives. Maybe they needed a friend more, especially since many of them were HIV/AIDS orphans. Honestly, this revelation is kind of coming to me now, and I didn’t realize it while I was actually teaching at that school. The more I consider it, the more I wish I had realized this possibility when I was there though… Not to say by any means that I was cold or mean toward these students just because they didn’t listen, but maybe I was a little too stressed out over their slow educational progress when I could have been focusing more on my relationships with them as individuals. That is another regret I am just realizing that I have, and what can I say? People make mistakes, and maybe this was one of mine.

Reflecting on my time as a teacher, although I really enjoyed the experience of it in Muhuru Bay and I would do it again in a heartbeat for many reasons, I have realized that I do not enjoy actually teaching in a school setting that much. This is for various reasons, but mainly because it is exhausting and frustrating. It was exhausting because even though I am an extrovert, I found it extremely tiring to stand in front of a classroom and talk all day (well until lunch), every day. To have to work to command the attention of my students might have had to do with their age group, but I think it has more to do with the fact that I am just not someone who loves having the attention of a group solely on me all the time. Thus, I feel like I did not enjoy teaching a full classroom enough to outweigh the energy and effort it cost me. Equally as important, I found it extremely frustrating to have to choose between not letting the kids who are struggling fall behind and not wasting the rest of the students’ time/holding back the kids who are excelling. I know this dilemma might have been related to my particular schedule in Kenya or other circumstances specific to what I did, but I still feel like it is an issue that will come up in any instance of teaching. It was also frustrating not being able to give each individual the attention he/she deserved, as a student and as a child. In my previous experiences as an academic tutor, I was able to verify when someone understood something or not and was able to go at the individual’s own pace, but in teaching large groups that seems very difficult, if not impossible. One of the most valuable things I learned from my teaching experience is that I do not want to be a teacher in my long-term career.

August 21, 2015July 3, 2017 by bribri729 Categories: KenyaTags: assumptions, education, family, food, frustration, students, teaching Leave a comment

Becoming a Teacher, and Then More

As my first official day of teaching crept closer and closer, my pre-departure worries came back strong. I sought relief from the anxiety eating through my stomach and chest anywhere I could. Fortunately, I was finally able to receive advice about teaching in Muhuru Bay specifically from a few peers who had taught in the WISERBridge program last year and had returned to WISER this summer to do research. I decided that since I knew literally nothing about what I was supposed to be teaching on the first day that I would not even try to teach. I would just get to know the kids and build rapport with them. To my pleasant surprise, this strategy ended up working out as well as it could have.

Upon arrival, my first impression of the school was, “Is this it?” A fellow Duke student who had been to the school before had told me that it was huge. Of course I knew he had been talking about the number of students at the school, but it didn’t seem like there were enough classrooms for that many students. If we had not gone through the gate with the name of the school painted on it, I don’t think I would have realized that the compound was a school. Once Tierney, my fellow Duke student teacher, and I left our piki (motorcycle taxi) drivers, our arrival process involved a lot of waiting in offices, meeting the head teacher (principal) to sign “the guest book,” and finally meeting our contact teacher. Turns out our professor had been right when she warned us that Kenyans really do prioritize formal greetings and protocols. Our contact teacher was the person who told us a little more about our parameters for teaching, which I had been eagerly awaiting. Teacher Johnson, as the kids called him, was very friendly and helpful, although he seemed half-distracted by the students coming in and out of his office. I was so grateful for this distraction though because it gave me a chance to meet some of the kids. Equally excited and embarrassed, they greeted us and bashfully accepted our outstretched hands, engaging us in the traditional 3-part Kenyan handshake. I was dying to know if I would be teaching some of these students, who giggled as they ran out the door.

Teacher Johnson seemed to have a good idea of where he wanted to place us. Eventually, the teachers of the subjects Tierney and I were expected to teach also found us and told us about the curriculum we would be following. At this first school, I taught math (which Kenyans call “maths”), English, and science to two classes of about 27 8^th graders each. As Teacher Johnson took us around to the classrooms to meet the kids, I began feeling more comfortable as I realized that the classroom setting was pretty informal and I now had student textbooks and a schedule to rely on for lesson planning. I began to see myself doing this, that is, being capable of teaching. When I was finally left alone in the classroom with the kids, to my surprise, I easily found my confidence and immediately began playing some ice-breaker games with the kids. The games went very well and allowed me to discern two important things: the ages of my students (which ranged from 13 to 21 years old) and the fact that one class was more rambunctious than the other. All of my kids seemed enthusiastic, responsive, and engaged though, which I was extremely grateful for.

I surprised myself by coming back to WISER feeling pretty good about my first day of teaching. I think it helped that Tierney was with me and that she had also been feeling a little nervous about everything. Overall, I can say honestly say that from that first day through the rest of the summer, I gained a greater appreciation for the incredibly important role of being a teacher. Staying up late making lesson plans by the light of a headlamp, coming up with classroom activities I could do without access to most materials we take for granted in the U.S., and maintaining a productive learning environment in my classroom while still being culturally sensitive and well-liked were all skills I struggled to hone.

Even in these very “normal” tasks though, I had to work hard to maintain confidence in the work I was doing due to internal and external pressure to always do better. Compounding the typical pressure I put on myself to excel was the constant stream of references made by my students and Kenyan colleagues to a Duke student who had taught at my schools the previous summer. Nadia was her name, and every Kenyan I met who knew her was convinced we must be sisters because we “looked so much alike” (in other words, they recognized our shared characteristics of dark brown hair and tan skin that were different than our fellow Duke students). I heard countless times, “We hope you’ll be as good of a teacher as Nadia was.”… and from one of my students, “Nadia was my best friend that anyone could have.”… “We loved Nadia.” … “She was so free and social with everyone.” In short, I quickly learned that Nadia had been beloved by her students and Kenyan colleagues alike. Initially, listening to these comments didn’t phase me, and I simply laughed it off. After all, I was glad Nadia had made such an impact. But after a while of hearing this constant stream of her praises, I felt like I was starting to develop an inferiority complex. However, luckily, as I got more used to teaching and built greater and greater rapport with my students, I was easily able to find my rhythm/teaching style and reject the idea that I had to live up to the reputation of someone else.

Looking back, I was extremely fortunate in that at the first two schools I taught at, most of my students were lively, curious, and genuinely loved to learn. A lot of them had big personalities, and their humor made the classroom environment fun even for me. One of my favorite students was named Nelson Mandela. He first introduced himself to me as “The King” of the class and once told me he wants to be a dancing comedian/artist when he grows up. He was 18 years old, so he acted “tough” at times around the other kids, but deep down he was really caring and considerate. Another one of my kids was named Collince. He was a 7^th grader at one of my schools who was in charge of ringing the school bell when a class period was over. It was slightly amusing and adorable how he took his job so seriously, with a quiet kind of leadership. Finally, the student I was probably closest to was a girl named Renny. She was only in 8^th grade, but she was mature beyond her years compared to her peers. She was always my helper, but did not fit the superficial stereotype of a teacher’s pet. Our relationship was more one of me trusting her to get important things done because I knew she was responsible enough to handle it. At the same time though, she was super chatty and fun like any other girl her age. Because of this, I felt like I could talk to her in almost the same way I talked to my Duke friends.

I was honestly amazed at how well I was able to connect with my students as friends and mentees beyond the classroom. I am so thankful I had the students I did–even the ones I did not get to know as well–because it contributed to the experience I had. However, I have to admit that sometimes I think I was not fully prepared for the intensity of some of these relationships. One of the things I felt most guilty about was my inability to help my students with some of the most serious struggles in their lives. For example, once one of my female students, whom I did not know very well, asked me if they did female circumcision in the U.S. I told her no, and she proceeded to tell me about how her parents wanted her to get it done soon. I asked her if she wanted to get it done, and she gave me a firm, “No.” I asked her, “What happens if you refuse to get it done?” “Your parents will kick you out and abandon you” was her very prompt reply. She then asked me… “What should I do?” and looked at me with eyes that truly expected an answer. I mentally panicked. I personally believe female circumcision is objectively immoral, but I wanted to tell her not to agree to it because she did not want to do it more than because I, as an outsider/foreigner/American, thought it was wrong. But at the same time, I didn’t want her to follow my advice only to be disowned by her family with no source of income or way to go to school because I am not the one who would have to live with those consequences. In the end, I just told her that I wasn’t sure because I had never had to face a decision like that and that I would talk to my own mentors to see if I could get better advice for her.

I did talk to my own mentors who told me two important things that I wish I had known before the girl talked to me: 1. Often girls can appeal to the chief of the area where they live for him to declare that she does not have to get the procedure done (because it is illegal in Kenya). 2. There are actually many NGOs in Kenya that take in girls like my student who are disowned for this very reason. Because of a series of unfortunate and unexpected events though, I was not able to see this particular student again after that day, something that remains one of my biggest regrets in life. I was devastated once I realized I would not be able to get back to her about her dilemma, even though it was completely out of my control. I can only hope that she eventually discerned the right thing to do, became informed about her options, and stood up to her parents for the sake of her health and well-being, even if it may cost her their support.

Despite feeling guilty for not having been adequately prepared for that important moment, I cannot deny the honor and appreciation I felt that my student trusted me enough to ask me about this issue that had clearly been troubling her. I have no doubt that this interaction was a moment of genuine human connection, as were much of my interactions with my students and their families. Let me emphasize that adjective again: human connection. Although people say we come from different worlds (i.e. “first-world” vs. “third-world”), I find this moment to be proof that we don’t. I spent an entire summer learning why I do live in the same world as the people in the community of Muhuru Bay, and that’s what made it real and fulfilling. So, thank you to everyone who contributed to that experience, especially the teachers, students, and other community members I met through my role as a teacher, and later engaged with as a mentor, friend, and eventually “daughter.”

August 21, 2015July 3, 2017 by bribri729 Categories: KenyaTags: expectations, female circumcision, human connection, students, teaching Leave a comment

Finding Droplets of Rain in the Desert

The one word I would have used to describe my spiritual life before I went to Kenya was:

Dry.

It wasn’t because of a sudden dramatic event. No spiritual disaster happened that sucked out all of the zeal I felt for God. It was more like global warming: a slow but damaging process, whose effects can be denied. Just like denials of global warming though, my attempts to ignore or deny that I had become empty inside when it came to my faith—something I long have held as a priority in my life—were futile and contradicted the facts.

The truth is I don’t know when I started simply “going through the motions” at mass or resenting my duties as a social coordinator in the Duke Catholic Center. I don’t remember when I stopped feeling guilty for sins I seemed to commit repeatedly or started missing my chances to get them absolved. I don’t even remember when I began forgetting to pray. The longer the time periods between my prayers got, the less motivated and the less worthy I felt to pick the habit back up. I also convinced myself that I had more important things to worry about than my fading spiritual life… exams to get through, chronic and acute pain to manage, applications to study abroad programs to finish, and problems at home to deal with. I had convinced myself that neglecting my spiritual well-being was what I had to do that minute or that day or that week in order to just survive and get to the next one. Unsurprisingly though, that pattern never stopped… until I found myself 1,000 miles from God and unsure about how I got there.

I feel like a lot of it stemmed from the kind of life I led at Duke, particularly during this past year. Over the course of the fall semester of my sophomore year, I felt like a burden was increasingly weighing on me, heavier and heavier, until it culminated in the spring. My parents, my sister, and my friends kept telling me, “Don’t work so hard,” “Take a break,” “Focus on your health,” “Chill out,” but the Duke life had me in a mode where I couldn’t seem to stop going no matter how hard I tried. It is funny because before I came to Duke, I remember people from other schools telling me that Duke was too competitive, and after visiting, I didn’t believe them. I still didn’t believe them until this past school year in fact, but now I know what they meant by it. The type of competitiveness I experience at Duke that drives me to excel to the point of barely surviving each day is not the desire to do better than my peers, but to do better than myself. It is the drive to live up to my own expectations that always seem greater than my finite capabilities. It is not even about the grades I make either; it’s about living up to my unspoken promise to myself to try my best in everything I do… Completing all of my assignments thoroughly, spending enough time with my friends, helping out random strangers who need it, going to meetings for extracurriculars, keeping up with my physical therapy and maintaining my long-term health, forming good relationships with professors, calling home enough because I know my parents miss me… the list is endless. Over the years I have cultivated this perfectionism of mine to a degree that I am not proud of, and a lot of times, don’t even admit. But I think being at Duke with an endless amount of new and exciting opportunities has unfortunately only honed it more. Maybe that’s another reason why I wanted to deny any problems with my slowly disintegrating faith life: I didn’t want to acknowledge another failure in an aspect of my life—let alone the aspect of my life that was supposed to be the most important.

I remember keeping the truth about the growing distance between me and God to myself for a long time. At the end of the fall semester, I told myself that the rest of the school year would be different. I would take a step back from everything pulling me in a million directions and just not care so much. I would focus more on the bare bones of what I thought was important in life, namely my faith. Not surprisingly though, that plan quickly fell apart. Sure, I was a leader on the Catholic Center’s main retreat during the spring, which was a genuinely rewarding experience, but I felt like even in that, my focus was more on the people at the retreat than on God or my relationship with Him. I think I justified it by telling myself that one way to get closer to God is through community with others, especially when they are centered in Him. This is true, but I think I was just trying to convince myself that my emptiness toward my faith had been adequately filled by my relationships with God’s people, which was a lie.

Finally, I spoke to one of my really good Catholic friends about it. The conversation was not planned, but I welcomed it because I had really been needing to vent my feelings and thoughts to someone for a while–I just hadn’t realized it. Fortunately, my friend was very understanding and was able to empathize because he had been struggling in his faith life too recently. He gave me some really good advice, and honestly I thought I could follow it. I definitely tried to. But by the time I looked up from the Duke grind at the end of the spring semester, I was still feeling… nothing… and thus, more defeated than ever.

So how is all of this connected to Kenya?

Well, as I’ve told some people, by the end of my sophomore year, I was ready for a change, a different pace, a new phase in my life as a whole. I was hoping that that anticipated change would extend to my spiritual life as well. I really felt that the catalyst for this whole process of turning back to God would be my big trip for the summer: DukeEngage in Kenya. A summer of connecting with new people in a new place, doing things I had never tried before, sounded like the perfect way to experience God in a new way. Maybe connecting to Him in a new way was what I needed to re-plug myself into my faith life. I was especially hopeful since I knew the community I would be living in for the next 2 months was extremely religious. Although I knew most people were not Catholic in Muhuru Bay, but rather Seventh Day Adventist, I felt like their faith could and would be inspiring to me. I was all ready for that wave of emotion, inspiration, and sheer beauty I thought I would experience upon reviving my faith life through them.

To put it bluntly, my trip did not exactly produce the results I had imagined or hoped for.

I went to a church service almost every Sunday with the WISER girls while I was in Kenya. The service was held in the dining hall at WISER, with the windows and doors open to the cool morning breeze and nearby greenery. The high ceiling of the dining hall and the fact that the girls wore their official uniforms really did make it seem like a church, albeit, a very different one than the Duke Chapel. Like many other things in Kenya, the space in which the girls worshipped had a feel of being more raw, more homey, and more filled with love/enthusiasm/passion (whatever you want to call it) than its American counterpart. The service was an incredible part of my experience at WISER and something I looked forward to every week, but what made it remarkable was not the location. It was the fact that the service was run entirely by the WISER girls, including the delivery of the sermon. It was the pure happiness the girls exuded in their very presence—their smiles, their clapping as they sang, their dancing as they processed with the Bible to the front of the room. Above all, it was the joyous chorus of voices that filled the giant room and even resounded past the windows and doorways into the world. The voices were so beautiful and full of love for God and union with each other, one could not help but be captivated by them. Not to mention, the girls were also objectively amazing singers. Every Sunday I sat and admired, wishing I knew the words to sing along with the WISER girls just so I could be more a part of the beautiful transformation of that dining hall into a church. With the help of the girls, I eventually learned the words to some of the songs in English and Kiswahili and was able to sing their choruses. I can honestly say that my time spent in the physical and mental space of church with the WISER girls was one of the highlights of my trip.

Well wait, if the weekly church service was so wonderful, what was the problem? I think the problem was that even when I was there, I did not think that much about God. That sounds counterintuitive and awful, but it was true. I listened to the girls sing. I tried to sing along. I listened to their sermons as much as I could. I tried to think of something to say at the end (they always asked us to say some words of wisdom/greeting to the WISER girls), but in absorbing and experiencing all of that I somehow lost focus on what it was all for. Of course the sermon would sometimes remind me and so would the words to some of the songs, but whenever that happened, I didn’t feel like God was present with me. I just felt like I was registering the idea of Him—like He was “over there” somewhere with the WISER girls—rather than experiencing Him personally and immediately. I don’t really know why this happened, but I think my incredible experience at church mainly stemmed from the pleasant stimulation of my senses. And maybe this was spiritual in a way after all, especially since I found the whole experience so meaningful that it has stuck with me. But every time I walked out of the dining hall at the end of the service, I thought, “Nope, my spiritual revival didn’t happen this time.” Maybe it was the beginning though.

Although I gladly attended these church services throughout my entire stay in Muhuru Bay, I continuously asked the WISER teachers when the Catholic priest would be coming. Apparently he only came on the last Sunday of every month, and I wanted to make sure I attended a Kenyan mass at least once before I left. I yearned for this for anthropological reasons, wanting to see the similarities and differences between a Kenyan mass and ones I attend in the U.S. However, more than that, within the context of the overall trip, I felt like the specific event of a Catholic mass here in Kenya would be the catalyst to my desired transformation. “I need it,” I thought. I was even more convinced of this because as I processed and reflected on the first half of my trip, I had not thought to talk to God about it even once… not to thank Him, ask for His help, or even pray for someone I had met. Leave it to me to go to one of the most religious communities in Kenya and be even less likely to pray than in my normal routine. This reality deeply disturbed me, but somehow I felt too ashamed to do anything significant about it. I didn’t change much after I said a quick prayer in the moment of realizing the silence I had given God up until that point in my trip. I just waited for that mass. “Everything will change with that mass,” I thought. It had to. As a Catholic, I believe very much in the power of the Eucharist, the center of our faith. I had to believe everything would change. What else did I have?

After weeks went by of the WISER girls telling me, “The priest will come next week,” divine providence stepped in, allowing me to go to a Kenyan mass the last Sunday I was in Muhuru Bay. I went and it was… very pleasant and interesting.. is how I would describe it. It was heartwarming to see many of the WISER girls I knew and loved participating in the same sacrament as me, knowing they believed the same sacred truths. The priest was very nice, and I even got to have a fascinating intellectual discussion with him and two Catholic WISER teachers about the intersection of Catholicism, culture, global health issues, and change over lunch afterwards. Nevertheless, I was disappointed in the end in the sense that I did not feel moved by the experience of Mass like I had been hoping for, counting on, and needing. By “moved” I guess I mean emotionally? But no, that doesn’t sound exactly right. What I was imagining was so much more than that: I wanted my soul to be moved… And it wasn’t. My attempt to make Kenya the catalyst to the renewal of my faith seemed to have largely failed.

I ended the trip extremely complacent in the seeming non-progress I had made in reconnecting to God. The fact that I faced some unexpected challenges at the end of my trip did not make the prospect of going home to my same below-average spiritual life (but this time in a more secular environment) any easier.

But then I got home and was welcomed into the arms of all of my close relatives at my “welcome home” barbeque. Not only did they shower me with affection, cards, and even a few small gifts, but something else they kept saying really got to me. I figured that my parents (definitely at least my mom) had prayed for me during my time in Kenya because that is how she is, but I honestly didn’t expect much else. Come to find out, every single member of my family had been praying continuously and fervently for my health and safety throughout my entire trip. While some of their concern with my safety likely stemmed from believing in negative stereotypes about the country I was in, there was no doubt incredible love in their dedication to sending up constant prayers for my protection. Being Mexican as they are, they even kept candles decorated with Our Lady of Guadalupe and San Juan Diego lit everyday on my behalf. The love embodied in these acts was heartwarming because it was so unexpected, but also because it was overwhelming.

As I sat at the table surrounded by my family members, my comprehension of the magnitude and intensity of the prayer circle that had been going on at home in my honor grew. This was even more inspiring given that some of them typically never pray and others have personal vendettas against the Catholic Church. To me, the fact that they were able to overcome their own struggles in/rejection of their faith for love of me was an incredible testament to the power of God. I don’t know how my family members would articulate what they did and why. To me though, it seemed like no matter what their past experiences were with religion or God, they were still able to recognize the power and goodness in prayer for another. If not, why would they have turned to it for this? Maybe it’s only habit given the intensely religious nature of the Mexican culture they grew up in, but to me, the whole situation was an inspirational manifestation of the work of God when I really needed one.

Many people I know have the same instinct my family members exhibited: to turn to prayer/God when they are in need. While I think it is a shame that we often have to be drowning before we look to God for help, I think that tendency is something I can actually learn from. In my struggles over the course of this school year (academic, friend-related, family-related, and spiritual) and even in Kenya when I faced problems, I have had the tendency to shove God further and further out of my consciousness so that I could focus better on tackling my problems (or so went my logic). I know why I do this, too. It is because of the fierce independence I hold so dear to my sense of self. I want to do it on my own. I can do it. I feel like I have to do it on my own. But in reality, I suck at solving the problems in my life… by myself at least. If I am being honest, I need the support of my friends, my family, my mentors, but most of all of God.

Regarding the problem of my spiritual dryness and distancing that I have discussed in this post, ironically it seems like the only person I can turn to for help is God. I have heard many people say, “It’s easy to be __________ (a leader, an athlete, etc.) when everything is going well. The real test comes with hardship.” I know that statement is just as true when I put the word Catholic in the blank, and I need to start acting like it. If my faith is really that important to me, I will push through this spiritual hardship by ceaselessly pursuing God, rather than trying to avoid it. Let’s put it in perspective, too. It’s not like I am on the pathway to crucifixion like Jesus was. The metaphorical cross I am carrying is nothing compared to that. So I know He will pull me out of this void, this desert, this complacency I am in if I only persist in re-centering my gaze on Him.

Fortunately, I think I have already begun to do so. Looking back on my small religious experiences in Kenya, they really were glimpses of God that I did not recognize at the time… as were other aspects of my experience… such as the unexpected friendships I formed, the WISER girls’ inspirational drive and thirst for life, the prayers and small but meaningful gifts my students’ families showered on me when I bid them good-bye for the last time, and the beautiful culture and languages I learned so much about. It is little moments like these that may not seem significant or explicitly religious I think that will eventually lead me back to God. So now I guess it’s time to be open to more of them.

August 20, 2015July 3, 2017 by bribri729 Categories: KenyaTags: church, complacency, faith, God, perfection, struggle Leave a comment

Welcomed to the Beat of a Drum

My first week in Kenya was not ideal in terms of allowing me to adapt to the lifestyle I would be living for most of the summer. The nine other Duke students on this program and I were driven around to different hotels that were all “the safest” (i.e. most luxurious) in their area. I remember thinking more than once that I had never even stayed in hotels that nice in the U.S. When we were not lounging in the beautiful lobbies or patios of our hotels “recovering from jetlag,” we were touring cities or bead-making factories or buying souvenirs. While the almost constant moving and various tourist-y activities we did were interesting and helped distract me from my arrival anxiety, they did not give me the time or space to become properly acclimated to the life I was going to lead for the next two months. At the time though, I tried not to let the fact that arriving to Muhuru Bay would probably be more of a culture shock than arriving to Kenya worry me. I just told myself, “Well there’s nothing I can do about it, so I might as well just live the moments as they come.”

When we finally arrived at the WISER school, our home base for the summer, we were greeted with an official welcoming ceremony, which the WISER girls orchestrated and starred in. The elaborate production unfolding before us made it clear that our arrival was a significant event centered on us as the honored guests. Coming into the ceremony with lots of smiles and uncertainty, we quickly settled in and watched performances that I later learned the girls had choreographed and written themselves. Each “form” (i.e. grade) did their own performance, as did the student council members. There were no accompanying instruments or music, with the exception of a single drum. It all felt very raw.

I know this is not what I’m “supposed” to say in an ideal world, but to be honest my dominant feeling during the ceremony was initially… hot. I had so been looking forward to this ceremony and meeting the WISER girls (my professor had really talked it up), and when it was finally happening, the things I most noticed were the flies trying to land on my body and how good the cold water bottle in front of me would feel pressed up against my face. Furthermore, it took me a while to get into the girls’ style of song and dance, as it was just unfamiliar. I could eventually tell that as a group, they were good singers. However, throughout their performance, my American eyes seemed to focus on what I thought to be small mistakes here and there. My “American vision” also picked up on the fact that the WISER girls did not seem super smiley—the sign I usually look for to indicate that someone is happy/excited to see me. Finally, when the girls were announcing acts, I noticed that they seemed very soft spoken and shy. I do not know why all of these small details are what stood out to me, but they were the center of my focus at first during the welcoming ceremony.

When I thought to glance at the WISER teachers and principal though, my perspective changed. The beaming pride on all of their faces made it obvious that the girls were living up to their teachers’ expectations. This made me reconsider the things I had just registered in my mind as imperfections in their performance. For example, my attention had been focusing on the fact that the group dances were pretty “off-sync.” I had been evaluating the girls’ performances according to my unconscious subscription to the American cultural dance norm that places priority on synchronization within a group. Looking at them again, I realized that maybe Kenyan dance does not place as much of a priority on synchronization… or any at all for that matter. Or maybe what I observed was simply due to the fact that the girls hadn’t had enough time to practice. Or maybe the girls are just girls and understandably not professionals. Or maybe… why the hell does it matter? Why did I expect things to fit my American standards of “perfect”? Why was I focusing on these stupid details that were distracting me from the beautiful meaning of the moment?

After these thoughts ran through my head, I tried to stop thinking too much and to just enjoy the performances for what they were. This strategy worked pretty well, helping me abstain from internal judgment and just appreciate this beautiful gift. The girls began smiling a bit more and giggling a lot, which over the course of my two months, I discovered is the way many Kenyans express contentment (a habit is contagious). Looking back, I think that perhaps my initial experience of the welcoming ceremony had been distorted by the immense buildup and anticipation that had been fed to me in the days leading up to the event. Not to say that it wasn’t full of happiness and communion–and ultimately amazing–because it was. I think I just had the expectation of being totally impressed on my own terms by it. I also expected that the girls would conform to my idea of how they were supposed to act and express their excitement over our arrival. Pretty ridiculous, right?

In any case, the ceremony went on, and I was successful at not thinking too much, but just living as presently as I could. However, this success was not purely due to my own abilities. I was actually kind of forced to live in the moment. As soon as they announced that a WISER girl would call each one of us up to the front by name, introduce us to the community, and then proceed to have us show everyone how we dance, all of the Duke students began looking around at each other. Playful dread spread across our faces as we laughed thinking about what was about to happen. I knew that this was the WISER girls’ ice-breaker to make things less awkward between them and us Duke students who sat across from them on the opposite side of the open-air pavilion. These fun(ny) introductions definitely accomplished their intended purpose. All of us Duke students had been prepared to be open to just about anything, and doing random dance moves by ourselves in front of a group of complete strangers certainly fit the definition of “anything.” By the end, we couldn’t stop laughing since our professor, who had been dreading her turn more than any of us, was the last to go.

After the conclusion of the ceremony, we went to go unpack and settle in while the WISER girls went back to class until dinnertime. As soon as I walked into the dining hall, a very vivacious girl named Rosemary reached in front of her peers to grab my wrists and bring me over to her house’s table. (The WISER girls are divided into Harry Potter-like houses). She exhibited more of the extreme friendliness and giddiness I had initially been expecting from the girls, becoming my first friend at WISER and one of the WISER girls I am now closest to. I saw her again later when I went to “entertainment,” a fun activity the WISER girls have every Saturday night. Usually a movie-watching party or a dance party, lucky for me, it was the latter that particular night!

For those close to me, it is no secret that I love to dance. My friends also frequently tell me that I am a really good dancer. I generally accept that, but when I walked into the dining hall that night, with its tables and benches shoved to the side to make room for the “dance floor,” I thought I was going to have my first night feeling like a bad dancer. Ironic given my earlier thoughts during their performance, am I right? I couldn’t help it though. Everywhere around me girls were moving and shaking their bodies to the beats they loved. The windows and doors even had to be opened to let the night breeze pass through, with the girls working up a storm. Rosemary found me immediately and staked a friendly claim on me as her dance partner, quickly whisking me onto the dance floor. It was a rather amusing and slightly confusing experience as I realized that their style of dance was harder to catch onto than I had anticipated. Rather than continue trying to imitate them, I began reverting back to how I dance as I tried to get a feel for the music. The WISER girls were captivated by this and really liked it, asking me to show them how to do what I did. Once they mastered a particular move, they would say, “Show us another! Another one!” It did not take them long to imitate all of my moves well, and eventually I was out of ideas! I asked them to teach me some of their moves and a lot of them I got the hang of, but others I did not even attempt. The physical feat alone of some of the moves the WISER girls did was truly impressive.

This was one characteristic about the WISER girls that caught me by complete surprise. I had learned that the community of Muhuru Bay was extremely religious, with almost everyone being Christian and the majority being Seventh Day Adventist (SDA). So, it took me off guard to see how “provocative” the WISER girls, who have the reputation for being some of the most disciplined high schoolers in the community, were (allowed to be) in their dancing. It is an interesting phenomenon to consider, especially as my understanding of the singing and dancing styles popular in Muhuru Bay evolved. While talking to a teacher at one of my schools later on in the summer, I happened to mention that I had learned about a certain song with the chorus “chini kwa chini” (down go down) from the WISER girls. With amusement, but also with a hint of seriousness I thought, he said, “Ohh… they are teaching you bad things over there at WISER…Those girls are teaching you bad things.” Also, later on in the summer, the girls were preparing some performances for WISER’s graduation, which many members of the community attended. After the dress rehearsal, some girls were told to “tone down” many elements of their performance because it was too “modern” and did not take its intended audience into account. The girls were basically told they were dancing inappropriately for the occasion, which reminded me of my experience attending a Catholic high school where every performance was similarly screened for “appropriateness.” These incidents seemed to confirm my initial expectation of conservatism in dance from the WISER girls before meeting them. It does make sense though that, out of any girls in the community, the WISER girls would have the freedom to bend/break these cultural and religious norms due to their unique isolation at a boarding school focused on their empowerment.

After that first day, I quickly fell in love with the singing of the WISER girls, and after hearing them sing at Church for the first time, I realized they were not just good singers… They were amazing, just like everyone had said they would be. I don’t really know why I did not recognize this the first day I heard them sing, but I think their singing style was just unfamiliar to me. I also found myself moving more and more naturally to the rhythms of Kenyan and Luo (the dominant tribe in the area) music as the summer went on. The WISER girls helped me a lot in that aspect at entertainment sessions and a lot of other celebrations held at WISER, of which dance was an integral part.

The longer I stayed in Muhuru Bay, the more I became enchanted by how integral song and dance were to the local culture. More than that, I was baffled by how almost everyone I met—the WISER girls, my students, and even older adults seemed gifted in song and dance. I also really admired how many of them were willing to show off their talent… Not in an arrogant way, but in a beautiful, non-self-conscious way that I feel like I don’t see often enough in America. Even Kenyans who were not as good fearlessly sang and danced with their peers, who did not seem to judge them at all. I think this reality stemmed from the fact that song and dance seemed to be viewed as gifts to be shared for communal enjoyment, rather than merits deserving of individual praise. After even going to a locale to “go dancing” in the center of Muhuru Bay, I was sold on the music Kenyans listen to. Some of it is from Tanzania, a lot is from Jamaica, and some is Luo music, but I genuinely like all of it. Maybe it’s because the different styles remind me a lot of Latin music—I recognized a slower bachata-like style, a reggaeton-like “club” style, and a more traditional tribal style among Kenyan music (with the latter reminding me of Mexican música folclórica that my grandmother and her sisters used to sing and dance to professionally). In the traditional tribal music, Kenyans even yelled at key parts in songs, a practice resembling the classic call made in different styles of Mexican folk music. In short, I returned from Kenya with an awesome playlist.

August 19, 2015July 2, 2017 by bribri729 Categories: KenyaTags: arrival, dance, expectations, music, religion, song, welcome Leave a comment

What was I doing in Kenya anyway?

I guess I should preface this by answering the question: What was I doing in Kenya anyway? I went to Kenya through a program that Duke runs called DukeEngage. It is a civic engagement program that provides the funding and opportunities for undergraduates to work on various projects in different communities across the U.S. and around the world for an entire summer. I chose to go on this particular trip to work on a project advertised as “enhancing health and education programs for girls and young women in Muhuru Bay, Kenya.”

I chose this program for many reasons, but most importantly because I took a course last year called AIDS and Emerging Diseases, taught by a professor who is the director of this program. I discovered that this DukeEngage program was centered on the Women’s Institute for Secondary Education and Research (WISER), a Kenyan NGO and all-girls high school that this professor and a Duke alum founded in Muhuru Bay. The class connected a lot to the mission of the WISER school and helped explain its existence, as well as how it is helping the Muhuru Bay community tackle some of the problems it faces. In particular, the region of Kenya where WISER is located has the highest HIV/AIDS rates in the whole country and one of the lowest-performing school districts, particularly in terms of girls’ education. Before WISER was founded, no girl from Muhuru Bay had ever gone to college, but WISER is quickly changing that.

I also chose this program because out of all of the programs I looked at, I felt that this one played the least into the “white-savior” paradigm (for a definition of this, see the end of my post “Thanks, but no thanks.” or just Google it). For one thing, the structure and mission of WISER itself reflects a partnership with the people of Muhuru Bay, in which community members have equal say in WISER’s various projects, can express any concerns, and maintain their position as the main beneficiaries of WISER’s work. Furthermore, as I was exploring my options for this summer, I came to know that the director of the WISER program and the type of people this project had attracted in the past were very aware that they would not be saving anybody and that they would be the main beneficiaries of their stay in Muhuru Bay. The structure of this program also seemed more sustainable than other DukeEngage projects that were created with the intention that they would become DukeEngage sites. WISER existed before DukeEngage partnered with it and will continue to exist if DukeEngage students stop coming here for any reason. That much could not be said about the projects at other sites I looked at. This was important to me. I needed to know that the work I would be doing during my summer of DukeEngage would be contributing to a more well-thought-out and effective plan than what I could come up with in 8 weeks in a community whose characteristics, assets, and needs I was unfamiliar with. WISER thankfully provided me with that option.

Above all, I chose to participate in this program because past participants and its director continuously raved about the WISER girls, the students who attend the WISER school in Muhuru Bay. I was told they seemed to be the best at everything – dancing, math, singing, engineering, English, soccer. As I gained more knowledge about their background and current situations, I realized the accomplishments of these girls were even more impressive. In their community, beliefs that girls are not as smart as boys, that they are burdens, that their “proper” role is that of a housewife, that it is impossible for them to be good at math and science, and that it is a waste to educate a girl are commonplace. The WISER girls spent their whole lives hearing those distorted perspectives, being treated according to them, and probably believing them themselves, until they came to WISER. Past participants in the WISER DukeEngage program swore that if they had not been told about these girls’ background, they would never have guessed the struggles and challenges the girls had gone through because they were that successful, that loving, that resilient. My friends who were past participants couldn’t stop talking about how the WISER girls were extremely bright, super friendly, incredibly loving, and the most outgoing people they had ever met. The word that every single former participant used over and over again when describing them was “inspiring.”

Now, with praise like that, how could I not want to spend an entire summer with these girls?

The WISER school runs an educational outreach program in the community that began as a supplementary tutoring program for female and male middle school students who were not doing well enough to even get to high school. Over the years the program, known as WISERBridge, has evolved to consist of various components. One of those components involves DukeEngage students teaching for 2 weeks in each of 16 primary schools partnered with WISERBridge. I signed up to be one of these teachers, not quite knowing what I was getting myself into to be honest.

I realize teaching in primary schools sounds like very typical “civic engagement work.” It is what most people probably pictured me doing when I said I was going to Kenya. So I felt like I should be excited that I would get to be working with kids because most people love that. Although I was excited to a certain extent, more than anything I was anxious. I kind of can’t believe I signed up to be a teacher. I was already pretty nervous about going into a culture with which I had no previous experience after I realized that most of my “cross-cultural” experiences had been with various Hispanic cultures. Add to that the fact that I hate public speaking and the fact that I had no formal experience teaching in a classroom, and you might wonder what I was thinking. I think I did it because I knew I wanted my DukeEngage experience to be challenging. That is partly the point of it anyway. Even so, I almost regretted choosing to do this particular job because my dominant feelings preparing for my trip, up until my first day of teaching was over, were stress and anxiety.

Many people who know me would say, “But you’re so extroverted and friendly! How can you be scared of public speaking?” I don’t quite know why. Why is anyone afraid of anything? I have a feeling my fear has something to do with the pressure of being the sole center of attention. I already put a lot of pressure on myself to live up to my own perfectionist standards, so I think adding to that the weight of other people’s opinions and expectations is too much. I am also very type-A in the sense that I love to be organized and plan, especially for things that I consider big events. Going to Kenya to teach middle school students for the first time ever was a big event for me, but I hardly had any information going in. What specific grade(s) will I be teaching? What subjects? How big will the class sizes be? Will I have another Duke student as my partner? What materials will I have access to? What will the kids be like? The answer to all of these questions was a big fat “I don’t know” until I actually arrived in Muhuru Bay. This stressed me out significantly, especially since I was scrambling to figure out the answer to the biggest question that weighed on me: “How do I actually teach?” I know this almost seems silly, like it should be instinctive or obvious, but I could already feel the pressure I have a habit of putting on myself increasing: I do not want to screw up. I want to be the best teacher I can be for these kids. I do not want to waste anyone’s time. I do not want to embarrass myself.

I went to a short “How to teach in low-resource settings” workshop and other training sessions at the 3-day pre-departure orientation Duke requires us to attend. As soon as I got home, I asked my aunt who is a teacher for advice and even took over her Pinterest account, where she said she gets a lot of her ideas. However, as I scrolled through the endless list of colorful/artsy projects other teachers had posted about, I thought, “There is no guarantee that I will have that… or that…or that… That game is probably not culturally relevant… I wonder if I will have the space for that.” There were too many things I didn’t know and too much I could not plan for. I know that intercultural experiences in general are designed for this: to develop flexibility and adaptability. And I’m usually very excited for opportunities to do that. I think two things made this uncertainty a negative though: the fact that I would be all alone in my moment of performance and the fact that my mistakes could negatively impact people in my host community through no fault of their own.

All of this made for a hectic period of preparation for my trip, especially since I was simultaneously preparing for my fall semester abroad in Chile. When I finally went to the airport, I think it made for a strange goodbye as well. I am not someone who has ever been homesick or finds it very hard to leave my family and home behind to go anywhere. I love the new. I crave it. However, leaving my parents at the airport the day I left for Kenya was the hardest goodbye I had ever said to them. Not even the goodbye after they moved me into college (a pretty big stepping stone) was that hard. It helped that they stayed, trying to be visible to me for as long as possible, smiling and waving at me. They always do that, but man, I was especially grateful for it in those final moments.

At first I could not explain why I felt deep in my gut that there was something different about this trip. Then, I realized that maybe it was because this would be the longest consecutive time period I had ever been away from home (and not at college). I think my family and friends’ perception that this was my “craziest adventure yet” also got to me, and I felt like I had gotten into something way over my head… something I wasn’t really ready for… and that it would be too much for me. Once my parents had disappeared, I hurriedly blinked away the tears that had formed in my eyes as I walked to my gate. Whether they were due to fear, sadness, excitement, anxiety, or some other combination of emotions, I was not sure. I could only hope that my arrival in Kenya would help clear my head, answer some questions, and provide me with some interesting distractions from my worries.

August 18, 2015July 2, 2017 by bribri729 Categories: KenyaTags: DukeEngage, education, empowerment, girls, health, NGO, teaching, WISER, women Leave a comment

Unexpected Blessings

*Real date written: June 18, 2015*

One of the best things about traveling is the unpredictability of it all. I get bored pretty easily with routine and often find myself yearning for new sights, new people, new schedules… anything to switch things up. So I was pleasantly surprised when an unexpected blessing occurred during what should have been a monotonous, even miserable, part of trip: my 14-hour flight from Houston to Doha, Qatar for an overnight layover. As I sat down in my first and probably last business class seat (which I required for this trip due to a medical condition), I became highly conscious of my lack of how things worked in business class. My naiveté seemed glaringly obvious, and I guessed that the man sitting next to me was silently judging me. Seeing as he did not talk to me within the first ten or fifteen minutes or seem very social with anyone, I figured it was going to be a silent ride. I did not particularly mind that possibility, but I am glad I turned out to be wrong.

Mohammed, as he introduced himself to me, was a Pakistani man who appeared to be in his late fifties. He lived in Houston, but was on my flight making a business trip to Saudi Arabia. There was about a 30-year age difference between us, but that did not seem to matter after we exchanged our first couple of words with ease. Contrary to my initial thoughts, he was understanding and gracious in helping me figure out all the gadgets and perks of business class.

From there, we talked about a whole host of random subjects, and not because either of us was trying to be interesting or felt obligated to keep the conversation going once we had started talking. Our interactions and conversation flowed effortlessly, with natural pauses and moments of silence that were surprisingly not awkward—which almost never happens with strangers. Our discussion covered topics from similarities between Islam, Christianity, Judaism, and Buddhism to the power of the mind/positive thinking…from how Pakistani food compares to Mexican food to how his daughter shared my interest in public health… and even the irreplaceable role of good parents and what that means. I was intrigued by the unique, albeit unexpected, insights he provided on almost everything.

I learned that there is a whole chapter about the Virgin Mary in the Koran. And I was surprised to hear that he, as a Muslim man, watched Fox News because he wanted to see exactly what kind of Islamaphobic things people said. I sought to truly understand his interpretation of the proper role of a Muslim wife in the family. He insisted that his wife could work if she wanted to, but he thought that the kids do not get enough attention and care if both parents are working full-time. His premise was that only the wife had the option of working or not working. He believed that the man did not have the option of staying home with the kids because it was the duty of a Muslim man to formally (that is financially) provide for his family. He did not undermine or downplay the importance or difficulty of being a stay-at-home parent, nor did he see that role as a way to repress his wife and keep her out of sight of the public or other men. He recognized it as a rewarding, but challenging job, just like I do. However, he used this perspective to support the cultural norm he subscribes to—that only women can do the work of taking care of the children and keeping up the house. I thought the way he framed his opinion was interesting though: “It is too much work for the woman to work all day at her job and then come home and do the cooking and the cleaning, etc.” This, along with his other statements that followed, seemed to imply that he views his role in housekeeping/child-rearing as one of providing psycho-emotional support for his wife and kids, but nothing more.

At one level, I find this view problematic because I do not believe that there is anything inherent to being a man that prevents men from being able to help with those tasks that are typically assigned to women. However, I thought his framing of it was noteworthy because I found his recognition of the importance of providing psycho-emotional support, and his assumption of this role, a little unexpected since–even if it is not as tangible as active participation in household chores–this type of support is also typically considered the exclusive domain of women. I saw in this approach a deviation from the “ideal masculinity” that is promoted in American culture: a man who does not have (or at least express) feelings and is simply the “bread-winner.” I was impressed that he explicitly identified this emotional role of his, outside of his duties as an income-earner. His most interesting point on this issue though did not even seem to be directly related: “As Muslims, we believe that everything that happens, will happen…because it is written. So if the wife works or not, everything will come as it will… whether the family has her income or not… so why work?” I never would have guessed that this Muslim belief was relevant to the issue of gender roles in the family/home if I had not decided to open myself up to having a meaningful conversation with this man… even though we were decades apart in age, even though he was a man, even though we came from very different cultures, and even though I could easily have chosen to cut myself off to enjoy a long, quiet flight by myself.

At a certain point we both decided to go to sleep, but before I closed my eyes, I mentally disengaged myself from the outside world and re-entered my inner thoughts. I realized that I was still a little anxious about the magnitude of the journey I was about to undertake, both to Kenya and to Chile later. The same nervousness and homesickness that hit me as I stood on an airport escalator waving goodbye to my parents earlier that day still lingered in my gut. I thought it odd because I can honestly say I have never been homesick before this moment, let alone before a trip even began. However, I decided to sneak a peek out the window on impulse before dozing off and you know what I found? A rainbow…. Like really? I don’t think it couldn have been more perfect. It wasn’t big…I only caught a little patch of it, but it was enough of a perfect blessing, combined with my new friendship with Mohammed, for me to feel confidence and peace about my journey to come. I can only anticipate the greater gifts that I will receive through my DukeEngage experience.

July 4, 2015July 2, 2017 by bribri729 Categories: KenyaTags: cross-cultural, gender, Islam, strangers Leave a comment

Thanks, but no thanks.

*Real date written: June 14, 2015*

I should preface this by saying that the following are my less-than-fully-(in)formed thoughts. They should not be taken as treating the issues involving American public discourse/thinking surrounding an entire continent or the country of Kenya adequately or thoroughly. I am no expert by any means and do not claim to be. I also cannot and do not purport to speak for the people of Muhuru Bay, Kenya. I still wish to share these thoughts, however, in the hopes that they may be valuable to those who read them and that they may shed light on my experience.

As my airplane takes off for what is bound to be a big journey, measured both in miles and in terms of significance/impact on me as a person, I cannot help but think about all of the farewells and wishes I received before leaving.

People always had memorable reactions when I told them that not only was I going to Kenya, but I would be spending two months there. Almost everyone reacted with surprise, but there were different mindsets underlining this surprise.

Some people’s surprise seemed to stem from the unspoken question: “Why would you go there?” To be honest, I was expecting to encounter this mentality… How could I not? It is the mentality plastered all over the media and in almost every depiction of any country in Africa. When most people think about Africa (because according to this mentality, Africa is the country I am going to—not Kenya), they think of diseases, HIV/AIDS, poverty, conflict, crime, and danger. This string of negatives is automatic… almost involuntarily entering the minds of people upon hearing my news…a result of the single story of this continent that dominates people’s conceptions of it.

Unfortunately, many of my close friends and family members exhibited this mentality as well, but in a form that was more covert. Often, my family members reacted with worry and fear. Of course, in one way, these feelings came from a place of love for me. My family members said they were worried for my safety and wellbeing. However, these words were laden with more than concern for me, their relative whom they loved and cared about. They were laden with degrading stereotypes about the place where I was going and the people who lived there. My loved ones expressed exponentially more worry about my safety for this trip than for my trip to Italy the summer before college. Why was that? Why were they scared that I would get severely sick or kidnapped or raped? Even if they did not describe these specific scenarios aloud, I knew many of them well enough to know that they were thinking those details when they repeatedly brought up concerns about my safety. Apparently, it did not matter that there are higher rates of random crime in my hometown of Houston than in the Muhuru Bay community where I will be staying. The facts do not matter. Reality does not matter. Apparently, what matters most is the idea that people have of “Africa.”

It does not matter that the continent of Africa is made up of many countries all with their own strengths and cultures and languages. It does not matter that even within a single country, a diverse array of ethnic groups exists that have called the land home before any Westerner even stepped foot on it. It does not matter that the borders that divide Africa into different countries are historically arbitrary, created by colonial powers that carved up the continent according to their whims of greed. It does not matter that so many African countries are still struggling to obtain a decent quality of life because they have only recently been relieved of the colonial powers that oppressed them for so long. It does not matter that this oppression was not even fully eliminated… that many African countries are still subject to more subtle forms of colonialism—financial and pharmaceutical, for example.

When we treat an entire region of the world as a monolithic swath of land/people, or even worse, as a place only filled with disease and corruption and all things bad about humanity, we dehumanize the people who live there. We completely ignore the facts of history, as well as our own people’s role in causing or exacerbating many of the problems that African communities face, including those in Kenya. Most importantly, we reduce their identity, the whole of their lives, their worth to one of problems. We only see the bad and deny the existence of any good.

To a certain extent, it is not our fault. That is what we have been taught to do… by past generations, by our government, by the media. On the other hand though, I would like to believe that we (my loved ones and I here in the U.S.) are smarter and more loving than that. I believe we have the responsibility to not take the single story of “the tragedy of Africa” at face value. We have the responsibility to really get to know communities, like those in Kenya, that are metaphorically spit on by the rest of the world for problems largely not of their own design.

As offensive as the exaggerated worry/fear of my friends and family is, I would have to say I dreaded a second response more in the weeks leading up to my departure for Kenya. When I told my loved ones why I am going to Africa, their response was, in my opinion, almost worse. Exclamations like “Oh, how sweet of you!” or “Wow, you are such a good person” were difficult for me to take with a straight face. These well-intentioned attempts at praising what I am doing—working with WISER, an NGO that focuses on women’s health and education in Muhuru Bay, Kenya—made me cringe internally.

Just to give some perspective, let’s evaluate the situation here… I am getting to go to another country halfway across the world. I will receive the opportunity to be welcomed with open arms into a community that I have no previous connection to. I will get the chance to befriend some empowered, brilliant, strong and loving girls that attend the WISER school. I will gain the valuable experience of learning how to teach in a formal classroom setting. I will be able to grow and challenge myself by having to live according to a very different sociocultural mindset. I will expand my knowledge about global health and education through experiential learning. I will see wild animals (that I have only seen in zoos) in their natural habitat. Finally, I am getting to do all of this with Duke’s funding. When analyzed thoroughly, it seems rather ridiculous that my friends and family think my host community will be getting the most benefit from my presence in Muhuru Bay. I cannot think of a greater honor and blessing than to be able to come on this trip and have these experiences.

Now, I am not saying that I will have no impact on my host community because that is impossible. Every person always has an impact on the people that he or she interacts with—whether good or bad, conscious or unconscious, short- or long-term. All I can hope is that the relationships I form with people in the community that awaits me have a chance of positively contributing to the incredible work that they are already doing on their own. I just aim to form meaningful connections that at the very least do no harm. Maybe, if gone about with humility and awareness and love, the connections I make can positively contribute to community members’ efforts to reach their own goals. However, I vehemently refuse to assume that I will have a positive impact, let alone a ground-breaking one. This is especially true given that I am still a student who does not yet have any degrees in the areas relevant to my experience and given that I have no previous experience with Kenyan culture. I am approaching this experience as one in which I will learn A LOT and be transformed in more than one way.

It is so difficult to convey all of these thoughts in a short conversation with a friend or family member when I tell them about my trip. The likelihood of encountering these mentalities when I share my plans for the summer is why I began dreading telling people about my trip to Kenya, even though I was so insanely excited for it. I hated the implication that I was some kind of “white savior” who took on the burden of rescuing downtrodden black people in Muhuru Bay who were nothing but victims to disease, poverty, lack of education, etc. out of the “goodness of my heart.” I reject the mentality that people in my host community should be defined by their vulnerabilities and needs, and especially the part of that mentality that holds that I can even begin to try to fulfill them.

I can honestly say that aside from the incredible opportunity that this trip represents for me, the main reason I decided to come to Kenya was to discover the true value in the country and its people—the value that the rest of the world largely denies or ignores. I have come to meet the incredibly friendly and generous individuals that make up this community. I have come to learn their unique traditions and valuable cultural insights. I have come to appreciate the natural beauty of their homeland. I have come to do all of these things in a spirit of humility, wonder, and love that makes me politely reject all of the mentalities I just discussed above. To my friends and family and complete strangers who reacted to my summer plans with these mentalities, I say the following:

Thanks, but no thanks.

I appreciate your good intentions. I really do. But I do not need or want your fear or worry or praise. All I need and want is your happiness for me and your openness to the beauty and value in the people and experiences I will encounter on my trip.

July 4, 2015July 2, 2017 by bribri729 Categories: KenyaTags: Africa, media representation, stereotypes, white savior Leave a comment