"hello is so easy... but goodbye? goodbye is very hard miss sinead"

I've been through a few break-ups in my life, but saying goodbye to South Africa feels like the worst one of them all.  It's a lump in my throat when I wake up in the morning, the echo of my bare walls and empty closet, the pain in my heart when I go through my photos to pick a couple to print for the people I love.  It's tight hugs from the boys at St. Theresa's, one last bunny chow with our feet in the Indian Ocean in Durban, handmade cards from the learners at St. Leo's who, in January, couldn't speak a lick of English.  It's that inevitable knot in the pit of my stomach on the final drive to St. Theresa's, St. Leo's, Gogo Gloria's house, church in Kloof, passing the Siyakwamukela eThekwini sign on the drive into Durban.




Pinky, in Grade 4, said it best.  "Saying hello is so easy!  But goodbye?  Goodbye is very hard, Miss Sinead."


South Africa has shown me just how much love my heart is capable of... but there is no doubt that I will be leaving a large piece of it here when I go.




.

saying "siyabonga".

Happy Thanksgiving!  While we won't be celebrating with a big turkey dinner until Saturday, I've been thinking a lot today about being thankful, and how unbelievable it is that Thanksgiving is upon us once again.

It's one of my favourite holidays, though a relatively new addition to the Cloughley Repertoire of Excuses for Massive Eating.  When we first moved to the US, Thanksgiving was a foreign concept and an excuse to take the few days' off from school or work to visit somewhere we hadn't seen yet: Chesapeake Bay, the Virgin Islands, Colonial Williamsburg.  There was also the memorable year when Dad attempted to serve pheasant to our not-yet-developed palates.  As the years passed and my parents' collection of fellow ex-pat friends grew, we gathered at someone's house for a dinner in the late afternoon, replacing our extended family with similarly isolated immigrants.

But then we returned to our comfortably insular selves, and the past few years have seen Thanksgiving morph into a family celebration all our own.  Our day usually consists of serving lunch at the Trenton Area Soup Kitchen, then lolling around with a few glasses of wine while the turkey cooks, followed by dinner and more wine, then falling asleep to our latest Netflix in the basement.  At dinnertime, each person goes around and mentions something for which he or she is thankful.

Last Thanksgiving feels so long ago, but here I am, one year later, eating samp and beans for dinner... and through the haze of my end-of-school-term exhaustion, feeling very thankful.

Things For Which I Am Thankful (or Will Be In 13 Days) 2010:

1.  The post-volunteer luxury it will be to be able to say No

2.  The ability of my family to remain loving and such an unbelievable comfort to me no matter where we happen to be

3.  Every single child at St. Leo's for bringing a love into my life that I didn't know existed (and that I didn't know my heart was capable of containing)

4.  My faith

5.  Insoles for running shoes that give them a new lease on life when new shoes are out of my financial reach

6.  The Great Avocado Saturation of South Africa

7.  Every letter, card, mix CD, and bag of coffee I got (or got lost) via mail this year

8.  My health and the health of everyone I love

9.  Skype

10.  The ability to read and write, and other advantages of a good education

I think I'm still thankful for the ways I felt blessed prior to this year, but it is the overlooked privileges that I appreciate today.  As the Zulus would say, Siyabonga Baba.

Enjoy your turkey/tofurkey!

.

what it's worth.

"To Shinad

Hi Shinad How are you me I am fine.  I would like to tell you something.  Shinad at first I did not like white people because of aparteid but I have realise that you must not hate somebody just because of the colour.  You must not judge some body the colour of the skin, and since I have relise that you are a good person and you are a kind person.  And even you are not near me I will always love you.  You show me the love that my parent never show.
Shinad I love you with all of my heart

From: Hlengiwe"


.

at a loss.

I've been sitting here for about an hour, scrolling through the hundreds of photos I've taken over the past few weeks.  With this fancy new camera and very little time to read a multipage manual and actually figure out how to take good photos, I've just been taking craploads and hoping that some turn out okay.  There was Heritage Day at St. Leo's and St. Theresa's, various community outings (and spider sightings in our house), and the day I brought my camera to school "just in case".  I ended up spending twenty minutes doing a Grade 7 boys' photo shoot, and now, looking through these pictures, I'm meditating on the 23 days I have left here and wondering to myself how I can possibly feel so excited and relieved to have the end in sight... but also, feeling so sad at the prospect of leaving these kids, most of them probably forever.

A selection:

I'm feeling a little short on words tonight.




.

smooth criminals.

St. Theresa's often has little assemblies for parents, foster parents, and caregivers who come to collect the boys when it's time for holidays.  Back in March, before the beginning of Easter break, my boys in Cottage 4 prepared this little number for a rapt audience.  After lots of rehearsing and covering their left hands in glitter to look like a glove, they took to the stage.
From left to right: Bheki, Sihle, Khumbulani, Philani, Llewellyn, and Eugene... and Michael Jackson of course.









It may not be Thriller, but it's as close to a Halloween post as I could come-- springtime in South Africa is not exactly festive for today's celebrations.  Happy Halloween, ghouls and goblins!


.

pineapples in heaven.

Mlungisi Mzobe was buried on a Saturday in October, in between the morning sunshine and afternoon storms of springtime in South Africa.  He was just eighteen years old.
I only spent a few scattered hours with him here and there; the funeral was the most time Mlungisi and I ever spent together.  During the strike, when Becky was visiting, we helped Mary-Kate bring a few of the healthier patients from the Respite Centre to the shopping centre for ice cream.  Becky and I sat with two guys, both named Mlungisi- one older and one younger.  They both insisted on large plain vanilla soft-serve but with the chilly August wind blowing in through the door of the shop, were too cold to finish.  We got lids and they brought their ice creams back to put in the fridge for later.  Mlungisi was happy to answer the simple questions we asked him about where he came from and his family, and when he asked about my life, he could not for the life of him understand why I would want to be a teacher in Molweni.
The next few times I saw Mlungisi, he was in bed at the Respite.  I remember he had the most graceful, slender fingers that would rest on the blanket of his bed.
When he got moved to a private room, he knew the outlook wasn't good; patients didn't just get moved to private rooms for increased privacy.
I would run in to pick up Mary-Kate or Meg from work and go to say hello.  Once we had to run out to Spar to pick up some Sprite for him.  He never failed to request food or drink from the careworkers-- there was the time he asked for a pineapple and just kept it by his bedside.  I don't think he ever ate it.  Or when someone would make a run to KFC; he couldn't eat fried chicken, but he'd order something and just have it next to him on the bed.  It always reminded me of a book I read as a child, where a man who couldn't afford food would satiate his hunger on the smell of dinners being prepared in the alleys behind restaurants.
A couple of weeks ago, after he'd been moved out of the private room and back into a regular bed, Mlungisi was discharged from the Respite and transferred to St. Mary's Hospital.  I was sad that I wouldn't get to see him anymore, but hopeful that the transfer meant that all his hard work was paying off; that his CDC count was climbing, that his TB wasn't the dreaded MDR variety and that he was finally back in control of his own body.
He died on October 14th.
All the other people who had come to say goodbye were doing so to a body they no longer recognized.  Though his smile and those long, slender fingers were the same, the sickness had sunken his eyes, shrunken his skin, and worst of all, frightened such a kind, caring young man.  That's what upset me the most-- Mlungisi was terrified of dying.  I think that's what kept him fighting and hanging on.
In the photo that his family placed on his beautiful coffin, I hardly recognized Mlungisi's face.  I'd never seen him look so healthy.  But it served as a reminder that no matter how sad I felt at Mlungisi's funeral, my grief was minor in comparison to that of his gogos and siblings, the friends he grew up with, his fellow students who came in their uniforms.  School uniforms don't belong at a funeral.
Mlungisi Mzobe will never be a father, never watch another soccer match, never run around causing trouble with his friends again.  And he never did eat his pineapple... but I'm pretty sure that they have pineapples in heaven.

Phumula no thula, Mlungisi.



.

overheard in south africa.

We've been working on Alphabet Books with Grade 4 for the past few weeks, and today we tackled the letters L, M, and N.  First we brainstorm a list of words that start with each letter, then each table chooses one to write a sentence about and illustrate.


Teacher: Ok, so what starts with the letter N?
Learner: Nice... noisy... ninja!
Teacher: Yes, ninja starts with N.  Good.  Now think of a sentence using the word "ninja".
Learner (without missing a beat): Bruce Lee is a ninja.


I will never, ever understand the way in which Bruce Lee and Jean Claud Van Damme have infiltrated Zulu culture.


.