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This morning I read Green Eggs and Ham to a group of my sixth graders while standing in an empty classroom. They sat on the floor or leaned against the wall. There were no desks.

To be clear, we usually have desks. At the beginning of every “typical” school day, I walk in and my students stand as I wind my way through the sea of bodies squished behind desks to the blackboard. I greet them, they sit, and I begin writing the lesson on the board. They copy what I write into their notebooks. This routine is familiar to me by now; I’ve been teaching in these classrooms since October.

My students typically sit cramped in rows of four to a desk, although the class has been growing increasingly spacious since January. Some students run out of money and can’t come back. Others, bored with the system, hot and uncomfortable and tired of trying to squeeze into an overheated cement block, just stop coming. Part of me doesn’t blame them. The classrooms are hot and crowded and noisy. Students talk over each other, and because they aren’t scared of me, they don’t often stop talking when I ask them to. Other times, I’ve come to school only to find that the person who has the key isn’t here, so we’re not learning today, or there’s a meeting, so we’re not learning today, or the other teachers aren’t all here, so some of us are not learning today. There are some weeks where I don’t teach at all. If I had to walk miles to and from school every day like most of my students, I would probably give up too.

Still, yesterday I was filled with motivation to deliver a compelling lesson. We didn’t learn last week; my school hosted a local sports competition. Students and teachers and school directors from all over had some, camped out in classrooms and competed in soccer, track, and field. Most of the mess had been cleaned up the day before. However, as I got to school and saw all the students in their crisp Monday uniforms sitting idly outside, I knew something was up. It appeared that someone had forgotten to return the desks to the classrooms, so there were no places to site and copy inside.

Well I have spent enough time learning in stairwells and outdoor auditoriums and on floors and beanbag chairs to know that desks are not necessary. Sometimes they’re even inhibiting. “We are still having class, damn it,” I thought to myself. I didn’t want to go home. I’m tired of giving up and going home.

But without the desks, my students felt uncomfortable. They couldn’t copy down a lesson, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want them to copy today. I just wanted them to listen. I pulled out a book, Green Eggs and Ham, and wrote the first few pages on the board.

I wasn’t sure how the reading would go. After all, green eggs and ham aren’t even a real thing. But there I was, standing in the middle of that cement block with a Dr. Seuss book in my hand and forty pairs of eyes on me and suddenly I felt scared, exposed. What if they laugh at me? What if they make fun of what I’m trying to do?

I read slowly and loudly, animating my voice and gesticulating wildly to hammer home the meanings of certain words. I did “the librarian thing,” that thing I have watched countless adults growing up do, where you read a page and then parade the open book around the room so everyone can see what you’re talking about.

I realized that Green Eggs and Ham is awesome for pronunciation practice. Halfway through, my students started repeating: “not, not, not.” I’m not sure if it was intentional or not.

“I do not like them,” I repeated again and again and again.

“Zaho tsy tia” I heard them whisper to each other. They were translating.

I finished the story and asked if it was clear. They nodded. Then I asked if someone could explain it to me in Malagasy. Eyes darted awkwardly around the room. “Ok, should I read it again, then?” They smiled and nodded.

Give me a needle.

“I don’t have one.”

Ok, then give me a knife.

My ten year old host brother eyes me suspiciously. “You really don’t have a needle?” Wait a minute. I go inside the house. I did have one at some point, but it seems to have disappeared under piles of rubble, clothes and books, a hammer and nail, stacks of student exams. I sigh and go back outside. “No needle.” “Ok, give me a knife,” he responds. I stare at him. “Why??” I ask incredulously. “Are you going to cut part of your finger off?” He has a wound on his thumb. “No. I’m going to make a needle out of wood.”

Oh. I never would’ve thought if that.

I go inside and get my paring knife and give it to him. I watch him whittle down a stick until it’s sharp and fine at one end. Then he raises his swollen thumb and pokes it. Out oozes disgusting, grey-green pus. He winces, but doesn’t say a word.

“Can I have some hot water?” he asks me. Yes! Of course. There is something I can contribute. I have no idea what his maladie is or how to treat it, but dammit I can give him some hot water.

I go inside and fill a pot, then set it on my gas stove and turn on the heat. Outside, my host brother’s thumb is now bleeding, but the pus is gone. This looks like a good sign.

“Just a few minutes,” I say, and I go back inside where the water is already boiling–the secret blessing of self-lighting gas stoves. It’s a luxury here for sure.

I bring a can of water outside to him. He touches it with his unhurt hand. “It’s still too hot.” “Then we’ll wait,” I say, and I sit down beside him. The two of us lean against the wall, staring out over my gate. We wait in silence. I don’t know what to say. There’s still a lot of medical vocabulary I don’t understand, not to mention the types of maladies that can occur here from plants and animals. Living is an occupational hazard.

When the water cools, he pours it slowly over his thumb, a little at a time. I watch him work, his eyes sharp and his hands steady. He’s about eleven years old. Did I mention that?

He shakes his finger. “Pare.” Ready. He blows on his thumb, and that’s that. The worst is over. And now, like so many other things in the country-side, we wait.

I love my students.

Bright eyed, curious, with smiles that fill up half their faces, my students are the best thing about my life here. They’re constantly asking me questions, wanting to know about America, wanting to know about me and my life and my habits. They ask some really great questions.

Which is better, The United States or Madagascar? 

—They’re both pretty great, I respond. For different reasons.

Do people braid their hair in the United States?

–Yes.

Do people grow rice?

–Yes.

Do people walk fast?

–Oh, yes.

Most days, teaching is also the biggest challenge of my life at site. I live in an area with no English resources, and I teach sixth grade, which is the first year students take English as a school subject. The vast majority of my students, therefore, have never heard and comprehended the English language before. Most days I think my voice sounds like an odd mix of Chinese and cartoon character to them. You know the teacher voice in the Charlie Brown cartoons? “Womp womp, womp womp, womp womp.” That’s me.

I like to incorporate songs into my lessons. My students are so musically inclined. They know how to harmonize, how to project their voices, and they have amazing rhythm. There’s a rich cultural tradition of music, dancing, and rohmbo, a kind of rhythmic clapping that’s done in big groups. The first time I tried to clap in class to get my students’ attention, it turned into a group rohmbo with cheers and clapping within thirty seconds. I learned my lesson.

I decided to start with something easy: head, shoulders, knees and toes. We all know the song, right?

Head, shoulders, knees and toes (knees and toes!)

Eyes and ears and mouth and nose

Head, shoulders, knees and toes (knees and toes!)

The words sort of stuck. The motions definitely did. I see students touching their heads and shoulders every day now, but they can’t quite get all the words out. That’s ok; we’ve got time.

 

Some of my sixth grade students

Happy New Year!

We party hard in the Avaratra. New Year’s Day is the biggest day of the year. People started asking me what my New Year’s Day plans were in October. Kind of like when my Aunt Annie asks for Christmas lists before Halloween 🙂

I spent my first New Year’s in Madagascar with my friend and colleague Kodostia and her husband’s extended family. Like Christmas in the States, New Year’s is a time for family to travel to the countryside to be together. We spent the morning cooking and, like every Malgasy meal, there was a healthy abundance of rice.

In the midst of all the cooking, loud Saleki music blared from gigantic speakers and kids, babies and grownups all danced together. It reminded me of being in the kitchen on Thanksgiving morning, drinking coffee with Bailey’s and dancing to “Alice’s restaurant” with my dad and sisters and niece and grandmother and dogs…excitement. 

The mid-morning meal was rice, mango salad and fried chicken, which I obligingly ate. We sat with dadylahy (grandpa), a few uncles and the eldest sister. As we sat down to eat, Kodotsia’s sister-in-law looks at me and says:

Melanie, milia mihina BE.

Which means Melanie, you need to eat A LOT.

I tried my best. But the rice defeated me.

 

 

The rest of the day consisted of much dancing, drinking, and again, eating. It’s the only day of the year I’ve experienced so far where everyone, literally everyone, is celebrating.

Happy New Year from Northern Madagascar.