For those of you wanting to help out with my youth centre, I am going to create a list of things that we need or could use from the States on this blog. If you want to contribute, please email me at olivia.burchett@gmail.com and I will give you the address and directions. Of course, if you choose to send anything or help out in anyway, we would be more than grateful! Instructional and learning supplies are very hard to come by here so anything will be appreciated. I am going to break the list down in sections that match the centres we are creating within the room.
ART:
Art therapy instructional books
Sharpies
Ribbon
Glitter
Glue
Colored paper
Pipe Cleaners
Scissors
Felt paper
Brushes
Paint (Watercolor or Acrylic)
Stencils
Crayons
Sidewalk chalk
Anything else you can think of! :)
Math:
Number/counting aids
Ideas to help in basic arithmetic
Rulers
Pencils
Index cards
Science:
National Geographic books/magazines (especially focusing on East Africa)
Environmental education information
Ideas on how to integrate environmental ed into science classes
Pictures of the body (skeletal system/muscular/respiratory system)
All you nurse friends of mine could probably give me ideas, right?
Literacy:
Books!!
Reading aides
Ideas on how to increase student literacy and make it fun!!
As we move along in the centre's renovation and development, I will be posting the proposals Natalie and I have written as well as pictures of the progress. We want you all to be involved, so please if there is anything (especially information or ideas) you could send our way -- you'd create 2 happy Peace Corps volunteers! Thank you for your love and support!!!
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Anniversaries and Reflections
As I approach my one year mark as a foreign resident of Uganda, I have become more aware of how my attitude about myself, my environment and my decision to come to Uganda changes a jillion times a day. Never in my life have I been so conscious of the evolution of my outlook, my goals, and what is important to me. It's really encouraging but terrifying at the same time. I must constantly keep it in check, so as not to become some horrid, jaded expat before the next year is up. It's amazing how fast the time has gone in retrospect, but there were moments when I thought that life was crawling by. For example, my first few weeks in Uganda tested all of my limits, patience, and my perception of myself as somewhat tough. I think it was around week three, last March:
I found myself trying to talk to my Mom on my new cellphone in my room in my Ugandan family's house, bottle of Raid in hand stalking the largest cockroach I have ever seen (seriously it must have been half monkey or something), when the power decided to go out, the connection with my Mom lost, cockroach scattered, headlamp nowhere in sight, and I felt the now familiar rumblings of an American stomach in Africa. It was at this moment that I lost it. Crying, in the dark, inhaling the Raid that missed its mark, questioning myself and my decision to join the Peace Corps.
That was the first of many days that I began to wonder, why did I want to do this? I can't say that I still don't have those moments, even now. The moments come in smaller instances, but they are ever present. The daily attitude battle usually begins like this:
I begin to think, why did Ajambo just call me Mzungu? She knows my name is Olivia, and I have asked her to call me that!! Then my emotions and thoughts start stewing, "it is probably just because I am always going to be the perceived stranger. No matter how many neighbors I know, no matter how much I can talk to the ladies in the market in local language, no matter how many trainings I conduct or workshops I develop, no matter how easily I can light my charcoal stove, I will always, always be that white woman who lives down the street. Or, the Americana. Or the mizungu. Or Nabwire. Never just Olivia."
I understand this some days, yet on others it just makes me furious. I mean, can't I just walk to the nearest vegetable stand and buy eggplants unmolested by 50 people yelling my local name or mzungu?!? I just want an eggplant!!!! But on other days, its amazing how much this same yelling makes me feel accepted and wonderful. When I see the little boy down the street who only wears a shirt (doesn't roll with pants) who stands on his front stoop and waits for me to come by on my daily afternoon walk to town and yells to me, Mzungu! I'm fine!! instead of waiting for me to ask him how he is doing, it lifts my spirits. He just can't wait for me to give my part, he's been waiting all day to tell me he's fine. And that's just fine with me. In this way, I am not a stranger. I am one of the highlights of his day, and he is one of mine. It's our routine. I have a routine! I live in Africa and I have a routine, man life is good.
On the days I put myself through an emotional rollercoaster of trying to decide whether or not I really belong here, something almost always happens like the little boy with no pants who wants to tell me he's fine. There are days when I go out into the slums to visit with bedridden HIV/AIDS patients in hopes to figure out a way to better address their needs in the community based health system. I spend the entire day walking from hut to hut in the relentless African sun, only to find sick person after sick person waiting for me. When I reach home at the end of the day, I find myself staring into space, lost in thought. Or crying. Or fighting the urge to call home and say, I can't do this anymore. This is the lowest point. I can't find clarity, I can only focus on what is sad or what is unfair. I am not looking for a solution or a way forward, I can only see what I can't do. I can't provide ARVs, I can't save a life. Why am I here? And then there is a knock at the door. I wipe my face and go to see who's visiting. I find my five year old neighbor Simon standing there with a boiled sweet potato in his hands. He says, this is for you Auntie Olivia. Then I hear his family, from the next porch over, say, Come and we eat! And I put on my shoes and eat lunch on their porch. I end up talking about my day with Simon's mother and my frustrations. She reassures me, says yes it is hard. We all feel that way Olivia, but we can't give up hope. And I realize, yes - enough now Olivia. I eat my beans and sweet potatoes and regain my faith in people and my hope for a solution.
The constant struggle to reassure myself and my intentions will most definitly continue until my last day in Uganda. Yet, in being aware of this persistent conundrum, at least I can try to accept what I cannot change and learn how to solve what I have the capability to solve. I cannot ask any more of myself than this. And that is enough.
I found myself trying to talk to my Mom on my new cellphone in my room in my Ugandan family's house, bottle of Raid in hand stalking the largest cockroach I have ever seen (seriously it must have been half monkey or something), when the power decided to go out, the connection with my Mom lost, cockroach scattered, headlamp nowhere in sight, and I felt the now familiar rumblings of an American stomach in Africa. It was at this moment that I lost it. Crying, in the dark, inhaling the Raid that missed its mark, questioning myself and my decision to join the Peace Corps.
That was the first of many days that I began to wonder, why did I want to do this? I can't say that I still don't have those moments, even now. The moments come in smaller instances, but they are ever present. The daily attitude battle usually begins like this:
I begin to think, why did Ajambo just call me Mzungu? She knows my name is Olivia, and I have asked her to call me that!! Then my emotions and thoughts start stewing, "it is probably just because I am always going to be the perceived stranger. No matter how many neighbors I know, no matter how much I can talk to the ladies in the market in local language, no matter how many trainings I conduct or workshops I develop, no matter how easily I can light my charcoal stove, I will always, always be that white woman who lives down the street. Or, the Americana. Or the mizungu. Or Nabwire. Never just Olivia."
I understand this some days, yet on others it just makes me furious. I mean, can't I just walk to the nearest vegetable stand and buy eggplants unmolested by 50 people yelling my local name or mzungu?!? I just want an eggplant!!!! But on other days, its amazing how much this same yelling makes me feel accepted and wonderful. When I see the little boy down the street who only wears a shirt (doesn't roll with pants) who stands on his front stoop and waits for me to come by on my daily afternoon walk to town and yells to me, Mzungu! I'm fine!! instead of waiting for me to ask him how he is doing, it lifts my spirits. He just can't wait for me to give my part, he's been waiting all day to tell me he's fine. And that's just fine with me. In this way, I am not a stranger. I am one of the highlights of his day, and he is one of mine. It's our routine. I have a routine! I live in Africa and I have a routine, man life is good.
On the days I put myself through an emotional rollercoaster of trying to decide whether or not I really belong here, something almost always happens like the little boy with no pants who wants to tell me he's fine. There are days when I go out into the slums to visit with bedridden HIV/AIDS patients in hopes to figure out a way to better address their needs in the community based health system. I spend the entire day walking from hut to hut in the relentless African sun, only to find sick person after sick person waiting for me. When I reach home at the end of the day, I find myself staring into space, lost in thought. Or crying. Or fighting the urge to call home and say, I can't do this anymore. This is the lowest point. I can't find clarity, I can only focus on what is sad or what is unfair. I am not looking for a solution or a way forward, I can only see what I can't do. I can't provide ARVs, I can't save a life. Why am I here? And then there is a knock at the door. I wipe my face and go to see who's visiting. I find my five year old neighbor Simon standing there with a boiled sweet potato in his hands. He says, this is for you Auntie Olivia. Then I hear his family, from the next porch over, say, Come and we eat! And I put on my shoes and eat lunch on their porch. I end up talking about my day with Simon's mother and my frustrations. She reassures me, says yes it is hard. We all feel that way Olivia, but we can't give up hope. And I realize, yes - enough now Olivia. I eat my beans and sweet potatoes and regain my faith in people and my hope for a solution.
The constant struggle to reassure myself and my intentions will most definitly continue until my last day in Uganda. Yet, in being aware of this persistent conundrum, at least I can try to accept what I cannot change and learn how to solve what I have the capability to solve. I cannot ask any more of myself than this. And that is enough.
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