Privilege is something that Teach for America made me very comfortable talking about. White privilege, economic privilege, heterosexual privilege, able-bodied privilege...it goes on and on. And for a long time, I thought I knew what that meant, whether it be greater access to educational opportunities, less prejudice, more opportunities at economic advancement. Being here in Kenya, there is a certain temptation to look at the poverty around me -- the 44 to 90 kids per classroom (I really still cannot believe that and I've seen it), the 10 x 12 ft homes people live in, the heel-sized holes in the dirty socks of the children -- and to say, how lucky I am that I grew up in America. How lucky I am that I have had the opportunity to go to college, to travel and see the world, to live the American dream. And this is all true. I am incredibly lucky, but the thing is, these kids are incredibly lucky too in ways that I am not. I think when we get into that mindset of the haves and the have nots, we fail to see the lessons that can be learned from our friends here, we fail to see the areas in which we are impoverished and in which they are privileged.
I spent all of this past Saturday with Kenyans from 4 years old to 29 years old. In the morning, we went to the Learning Center Curt and Anita run. It is incredibly humbling to be corrected over and over and over again by little ones (who still inexplicably love pirates and cannot read Amelia Bedelia) that not only you are speaking Swahili incorrectly, but you speak it so badly that they cannot even figure out what you are trying to say. The more polite ones just look at me with raised eyebrows and very confused little faces while the others laugh riotously at my attempts (my favorite little mischief makers are the ones who inevitably laugh and point). I have grown accustomed to learning from both, repeating over and over again, knowing that I am not saying it remotely correctly but trying anyway. I am coming to believe that I am inventing a new language altogether as I am speaking neither Swahili nor English. Most people in Kenya speak at least three languages (Swahili, English, and their mother tongue) and they speak them well. My English is grammatically incorrect almost always and I rely on autocorrect more than any person with a college education ever should. However, the children and I have come to the point where we communicate in the language of play and silliness, sort of abandoning both English and Swahili (temporarily, I promise!). One little one and I played in the ocean, splashing and chasing in the bright Mombasa sun. She didn't know English and I certainly don't know Swahili, but when I ran, she chased me, when she splashed, I splashed. And together, we laughed and squealed because love seems to translate, doesn't it?
I think the thing that has given me the most pause though, is the difference between how Kenyans and Americans treat meals. There was a point in my life when I was extremely proud of the fact that I would work while eating lunch and dinner, that I did not have a moment to spend on something as basic as refueling my body, so I would grade papers and run copies while eating. At my language school, tea and some sort of snack are brought to the classroom for us to enjoy everyday. My teacher always says, "Stop. Eat. Enjoy," because inevitably, I will want to continue the lesson with a tea cup of chai in one hand and my pen in the other. One of my teachers told me, "It is very un-Kenyan to not pay attention to the food in front of you." Food, the act of nourishing one's body, is an event here, something to be given the respect of your attention. It is something to be savored, an everyday celebration of life.
One of my new friends, Arafa, recently showed me how to cook Swahili food. One of the main ingredients of the food we made was coconut milk. Now, that sounds easy enough, but let me tell you that coconut milk probably takes more effort to make than anything I have ever made in my life. It took about an hour and a half of constant work to make, grinding the coconut and then adding water and squeezing all of the sweet juices out of the shavings again and again and again until the water turned a milky white. This sounds like a lot of effort for something that you can just pour out of a can, but this time has been some of my favorite in Kenya so far. There is something very beautiful about preparing food that a friend had plucked from a tree for a group of people you had just met that day in someone else's kitchen. It's the definition of community, this idea that all you have belongs to all who are around. Having been a Rachel Ray fan, a lover of shortcuts and using canned soup as sauce, this was a different way of cooking for me, but I was surprised by how natural it felt. It was as if this is the way I should have always been cooking, being constantly aware of the earth the food came from and the pleasure that comes from seeing the food evolve from individual ingredients into something that sparks the imagination and tickles the soul. We used up almost all of the coconut milk that day on two dishes, but the simply joy of that day and the sense of community is a touchstone of something very true and real that I will return to again and again.
I spent all of this past Saturday with Kenyans from 4 years old to 29 years old. In the morning, we went to the Learning Center Curt and Anita run. It is incredibly humbling to be corrected over and over and over again by little ones (who still inexplicably love pirates and cannot read Amelia Bedelia) that not only you are speaking Swahili incorrectly, but you speak it so badly that they cannot even figure out what you are trying to say. The more polite ones just look at me with raised eyebrows and very confused little faces while the others laugh riotously at my attempts (my favorite little mischief makers are the ones who inevitably laugh and point). I have grown accustomed to learning from both, repeating over and over again, knowing that I am not saying it remotely correctly but trying anyway. I am coming to believe that I am inventing a new language altogether as I am speaking neither Swahili nor English. Most people in Kenya speak at least three languages (Swahili, English, and their mother tongue) and they speak them well. My English is grammatically incorrect almost always and I rely on autocorrect more than any person with a college education ever should. However, the children and I have come to the point where we communicate in the language of play and silliness, sort of abandoning both English and Swahili (temporarily, I promise!). One little one and I played in the ocean, splashing and chasing in the bright Mombasa sun. She didn't know English and I certainly don't know Swahili, but when I ran, she chased me, when she splashed, I splashed. And together, we laughed and squealed because love seems to translate, doesn't it?
I think the thing that has given me the most pause though, is the difference between how Kenyans and Americans treat meals. There was a point in my life when I was extremely proud of the fact that I would work while eating lunch and dinner, that I did not have a moment to spend on something as basic as refueling my body, so I would grade papers and run copies while eating. At my language school, tea and some sort of snack are brought to the classroom for us to enjoy everyday. My teacher always says, "Stop. Eat. Enjoy," because inevitably, I will want to continue the lesson with a tea cup of chai in one hand and my pen in the other. One of my teachers told me, "It is very un-Kenyan to not pay attention to the food in front of you." Food, the act of nourishing one's body, is an event here, something to be given the respect of your attention. It is something to be savored, an everyday celebration of life.
One of my new friends, Arafa, recently showed me how to cook Swahili food. One of the main ingredients of the food we made was coconut milk. Now, that sounds easy enough, but let me tell you that coconut milk probably takes more effort to make than anything I have ever made in my life. It took about an hour and a half of constant work to make, grinding the coconut and then adding water and squeezing all of the sweet juices out of the shavings again and again and again until the water turned a milky white. This sounds like a lot of effort for something that you can just pour out of a can, but this time has been some of my favorite in Kenya so far. There is something very beautiful about preparing food that a friend had plucked from a tree for a group of people you had just met that day in someone else's kitchen. It's the definition of community, this idea that all you have belongs to all who are around. Having been a Rachel Ray fan, a lover of shortcuts and using canned soup as sauce, this was a different way of cooking for me, but I was surprised by how natural it felt. It was as if this is the way I should have always been cooking, being constantly aware of the earth the food came from and the pleasure that comes from seeing the food evolve from individual ingredients into something that sparks the imagination and tickles the soul. We used up almost all of the coconut milk that day on two dishes, but the simply joy of that day and the sense of community is a touchstone of something very true and real that I will return to again and again.