A Different Kind of Same...

So it’s been awhile since I’ve sat myself down to update this thing.  I’m going to blame it on all the visitors I’ve had over the past month.  It’s not really the case, but they provide a convenient excuse, so I’ll use ‘em. J  Mostly, I just didn’t have the inspiration I seem to think I need in order to blog about my crazy-go-nuts life.  Which apparently, as you can see, I must have now.

I want to tell you about my students.  You know the old adage (how old it really it is, who really knows): Children are the same the world around. Or something like that.  ‘Tis true, ‘tis true.  They are the same. Anyone who’s traveled can attest to that.  However, one thing I’ve also found about children is that they are a great source of learning culture.  All you got to do is observe them and you can pick up all sorts of interesting things.  Take for instance, the other day in class.  I’m happily reading a book about Almasi and the Giant and how smart little Almasi was - the only one in the village smart enough to get rid of the giant. I was feeling quite proud of myself because all the kids were TOTALLY into the book; laughing at the appropriate times, gasping when something shocking occurred. So much so that I was contemplating a change of careers – from preschool to something like public reading. (Does such a thing even exist?) Well, my feeling good was cut short, because kids being kids, one of them let loose a nice loud one. The next thing I know all the kids are up, they each head for the side of the mat, spit, sit back down, rub their noses with two fingers, then look at me with questioning looks as if saying, “Why the fat did you stop reading?”  Because an interesting cultural phenomenon was occurring, that’s why!  Are Zaramo children on to something? To get rid of bad smells, does all one need to do is spit? I’m so going to try it. And follow it up with a good rub of the nose with two fingers, of course.

But mostly, kids are the same…and they say the darndest things.  So I’m walking to school the other day and a little kid starts yelling at me, the same thing every other little Tanzanian kid yells when they see a white person: “Mzungu!” (For those of you non-literate Swahili people, that means “white person.”) Except this kid was a little bit younger than his compatriots and he couldn’t quite get the “z” in the word, so he kept yelling, “Mungu!” (Which, again for you non-literate Swahili people, means “God.”)  I told him that no, I wasn’t “Mungu” – even though I probably act like I think I am.  Try again.

Than there’s the little girl in my class who came up to me during center time and asked me if God had to go to the bathroom in heaven.  You know, Paul never really covered that.  At least, not in so many words.

But my favorite was the day we were talking about what kinds of work our parents did.  Each kid was telling me what their parents did – farmer, cutting charcoal, cooking, owns a store, drives a motorcycle, etc, etc, etc.  One little girl told me in no uncertain terms that her father’s work was to, and I quote, “eat chips (fries), drink soda, and tease Mom.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

I shared the story with a guy at the market and his comment was that she was the only one who had it straight.

I laughed. Again. Shocking, I know.