wave

So today, at last, after a few days of hasty harried typing and phone-calling, I finally gave Sister Margaret my 7 page UNICEF project proposal. When I went into work on Tuesday, worried about requesting an extension on the proposal, Sister Margaret kindly told me to ignore the higher-up’s demands, and to take a few more days. Apparently, the woman at the church who controls things around here has been very secretive about information in the past, and Sister M. didn’t think that she was being honest about the deadline. So, early Tuesday morning, Sister Margaret dropped me off at Game City, and I spent an hour or two wandering the wal-mart like aisles, taking notes on the cost of classroom materials, cleaning supplies, etc. I also made a phone call to UNICEF Gaborone, and confirmed that there never was and never will be general project proposal deadlines. Thanks.

Tuesday afternoon and all day Wednesday were spent asking a few more questions and muddling through the mixed up figures I’d received from the church. The UNICEF people were unresponsive to my email inquiries regarding proper proposal structure (the guidelines I’d received originally were a little too basic) so I did my best to craft a simple, yet specific enough request for a little over one million pula (divide by six for a dollar amount.) This number was based on an ideal projected budget for the Sept. 2008 – Sept. 2009 school year, and included the purchase of a new combi and a continuation of the yearly 10% pay raise for all staff (to encourage retention). It also requested funding for a new mini-jungle gym and more food, along with other necessary items. I drew up excel spread sheets for all the categories (that took some time, considering my amateur use of the program) and also attached copies of the student profile forms that I hope can be implemented.

When I handed it to Sister Margaret, half of me wanted to snatch it right back again. What if I didn’t ask for enough? What if I asked for too much? What did I leave out that could have helped? Everything about it felt so shaky and unreliable, and aside from the formal language, there is nothing I’m really be sure about. I did my best to present accurate figures, but between funding guesstimates and my lack of business/financial/etc. experience, I could only use logic and grammar to convey our best request. To tell the truth, if I were UNICEF, I’m not sure that I would be okay with funding an organization like Kamogelo that lacks so much in terms of financial accountability. I know they have before, so I have hopes that they will again, but goodness gracious it all makes me anxious. Never before in my life have I ever so seriously considered the benefits of an M.B.A (dad, don’t laugh).

Going a little out of order in the day’s chronology, our combi ride back from work today was kind of hysterical. We hopped the Mogoditshane 7 as per usual, and settled into the second row bench seat to gaze out the window and listen to radio static and American pop songs. Two stops later, however, our calm was interrupted by a man in a white hat and yellow tinged eyes, who sat down in the front seat. Glancing back at Abby and me as the combi started rolling, he began to speak loudly in Setswana with his friends, obviously about us, his eyes flickering between our faces. His voice was slightly sniveling and I could only imagine the jokes he was making (his friends were in stiches) and Abby and I both began to fume. “Stop.” we told him when he began to swing his hand at us in caressing motions but instead he began to whine, “babies babies, you are soooo beautifullllllll, I will marry youuuu, I want to marry youu.” Well, Abby and I were slightly overwhelmed and completely trapped (the car was packed and moving) and we began to shake our heads vehemently, but five minutes later, with an unbroken stare, he was still going strong. “Baby baby baby give me your number, soooo beautifull, give me your house number,” he droned. At this point, discomfort transitioned into comedy and we began to laugh uncontrollably at the absurdity of his aggression and persistence. “I’m married,” Abby told him, flashing a silver ring that circled her right middle finger. He continued on. “babbyyyyyyyyy, baby, baby, soooo beautiful.” “I have a baby” I told him. He paused for a moment, slightly taken aback but continued all the same. Finally, after another five minutes, he quieted down and left us to our laughter. This is nothing of real note or consequence, I just find daily interactions like this to be completely baffling.

And now, what I’ve been stalling. I’m having a hard time finding words to write about this – not because I lack the adjectives, but because I’m afraid to turn a child’s pain and sadness into just another snippet of my experiences, a page in my journal. In one way, I see writing as a means of suspending a moment, making emotions available for first time experience or voluntary reliving. However, I also see it sometimes as the attempt to shrink and capture those things that happen inside us, things of such immensity that I’m afraid to diminish them with small words and sentences.

Around 10:30 this morning, I attempted to fill up some down time in class with a review of the ABC’s. The kids still constantly confuse T/J/I (can you blame them?) as well as S/Z and M/W, so repetition seems the best solution. About halfway through the alphabet, somewhere between M and Q, Chris stood up in front of me, and extended his right middle finger. Glancing down, I noticed a slight discoloration and some strange swelling, but as he didn’t seem to feel any discomfort (he was smiling in his presentation,) I asked him to sit down and wait for Z.

Following the conclusion of this 26 note concert, I took Chris into Sister Margaret’s office, where she and a social worker were conversing. They spoke to him for a minute, and he muttered back at them, eyes downcast and feet turned inwards. Based on Sister Margaret’s clicking noises, I could tell it wasn’t ringworm or a rash, and I anxiously awaited the translation. Finally, she looked up to me and said “this is abuse.”

“What?”

“This is abuse. His mother got angry with him and burnt him with plastic from the fire.” I was speechless for a second, then choked out some questions. Apparently, he wasn’t doing anything wrong, she just began scolding him and then dripped a hot plastic bag on his finger, causing pretty bad burns. The social worker clucked at the offense, moaned about how it is a shame that she won’t be at the school tomorrow to speak with the parent, and Chris and I were left to walk back to the classroom.

In the few steps from the office door to our own, I felt a world of things collide. My emotions were rising in my throat and I wanted so badly to crouch down on his level and look him in the eye and hug him and reassure him and remind him that people love and that people can be kind and that when things are right in life you can feel safe with your family and especially the woman who birthed you. Yet, it was in silence that we walked over to the outdoor spicket, where I motioned to him to hold his finger under the cold water. It was the only thing I could think of to do that would in someway acknowledge his injury, and reinforce his decision to tell me about it. My tongue lay limp in my mouth, and by the time I’d decided that it didn’t really matter if he could understand what I said to him, so long as the tone was kind, he was running back into the classroom, smiling and yelling again.

These kids are so incredible, and so full of life – so willing to ignore every bad thing around them in favor of playground laughter and silly faces – and I’m sitting here with tears running down my cheeks because I just don’t understand what I don’t understand and I don’t understand, not understanding to the point of a lot of raw nothingness. And this is not because I’m some great humanitarian – I struggle constantly with selfish desires and procrastination and laziness and all those things that effect how much I give and how much I help and how much pride I can have in my work – it’s just that I’m here in it, so it hits me now. To me, it’s just this giant tidal wave that keeps on rolling, and if you stand on the sand long enough, it will wash you under too.