Two Weeks, Two Days, and a Rose Is Enough

I’m writing from my little metal desk here at Destiny. I’m in my office, a 7ft. by 7ft white room, with two chairs, a barred window, and lots of papers. I can see through the window that it’s raining. The rain is slicking down the stone courtyard, creating a pattering rhythm that’s putting me in a thinking mood. And through the thin walls, I hear their voices—shouting and subsiding.

And it’s been two weeks. Two weeks and two days in Ethopia, but two weeks as a teacher. And it’s appropriate that I’m writing on the two-week anniversary of becoming Mister Chris, because it’s been the must potent part of my life here. In these walls, in these small square, white-washed rooms, is the Ethiopia I know.

It’s been frustrating sometimes. Conor McWade came late last week, and he’s been such a blessing. That’s sometimes cliché to say, but I’ve been checking to be certain that I mean it when I use it, and I mean it for him. He has been a blessing. This weekend we were in a minibus, coming back to Tor Hiloch and talking about our placements here, and our place here. And it’s been strange, because he’s at Asco, the orphanage for HIV/AIDS children, being a baller and working in the orphanage’s pharmacy to prepare the ARVs (anti-retroviral drugs) for the little tykes. And I wish I could be with him there. And Matt Keshian, another blessing, is building a business plan for a leper colony. And I wish I could be with him there. And the other Cherokee volunteers, they’re giving themselves to people and organizations all around the city. And I wish I could be there too, but I can’t. Because I’m teaching 27 classes a week at Destiny Academy.

Since starting to teach, I’ve caught myself craving a Romantic experience. That’s Romantic with a capital “R.” The lucidity thing, right? A rich realization. A memorable moment. An unbelievable occurrence. Something to take home—a story.

And if I’m honest, I’m craving a story because I’m craving something that’ll impress you. Make you think that I’m some hero. It’s difficult to confess, but it’s true.

I’m tempted to think that I’m not doing enough. Or, at least, that it’s not Romantic enough. This morning, at six-something a.m., pushing myself through a throng of Ethiopians and into a minibus, passing decrepit and destitute people on the streets of Mexico, I thought that. I thought, “my Ethiopia is so small. What am I doing? Where’s my story?” Someone should’ve slapped me, because this is not new to me…

(an excerpt from an journal entry earlier this year)

“My life is a constant clash between Romanticism and Authenticity. I want to live a Romantic life, a beautiful life full of meaningful moments. So I create expectations—I write my life—and expect that everything will occur according to the Romantic story I’ve written in my head. Because the story is already written, any changes in the story come as disappointments. Expectations cause a sense of entitlement, and expectations are inherently closed (closed to change). Any change in circumstances that deviates my life from the expected story is a disappointment. Because to me, nothing can be better than the story I’ve written in my imagination. Living like this, I’m living in the past, in nostalgia or regret, and in the future, in expectations, but not in the present. Because for the Romantic (me), the present might be disappointing. This is what I mean by a Romantic life, a life cycling through expectations.

But isn’t that sad if my life is just what I expect it to be? If there are no surprises and nothing to learn? I’d rather be reading the story that God is writing rather than writing my own. And that life is an Authentic life. And living authentically, the beauty of life and the meaningful moments come naturally, because you’re perspective changes. Rather than creating expectations, you’re creating hopes. While an expectation is closed (any change will be a disappointment), a hope is open. Hopes transcend the circumstances of life, so that even if life surprises you, you’re still able to appreciate it for what it is, rather than being disappointed for what you wish it was. It’s living now. I believe hope is a faith. And hope in Christ? I’m still figuring this out, but I think it means more than just a saving faith. I think it’s a living faith, a faith that tangibly responds to the circumstances of our life. It’s faith that God knows better, and loves us better than we love ourselves. If our hope really is in Christ, then our joy is invincible. And that joy envelops every change in our lives, so it becomes another reason to rejoice, because it comes from him.”

Those are my thoughts. It’s a difficult lesson to live, but this isn’t new.

(I’m leaving Destiny now, so to be continued).

(It’s nighttime now, late late in the Cherokee house. Continued).

Someone should’ve slapped me, but God is good. Today, two weeks in, he reminded me of what my life is here in Ethiopia.

It’s three weekends of wandering through the city, two weeks of teaching, and spread throughout are surprises.

It’s yesterday, when we went hiking on top of Intoto, a mountain on the outskirts of Addis Ababa. Right when we reached the top, it started to rain. And Conor, Nathan (another Vanderbilt friend), Austin, and I took cover in a little pool-bar tucked into the trees. We played pool with some Ethiopians, and laughed, and danced to Drake, and beat them (yeah!), and waited for the rain to stop. And when it did, we walked out onto the Intoto road and, coming over the crest, we saw sweeping scenes of green fields, old metal shacks against the wooden fences and winding dirt roads, little children charging us so excited to say hello, and everything glazed in fresh rain. And we breathed. I mean breathed. For the first time in two weeks, I couldn’t taste the air outside. No smog and no smoke from trash fires. Breathing was enough.

It's tonight, when we went to a Habasha place with Ethiopian food and dancing. We did the food. It was delicious—so much Injera. And we did the dancing. All. Night. Long. Ethiopian dance is all about popping your shoulders. Lot’s and lot’s of poppin’. And we GOT it tonight. We got serious stage time. First, the group got to do some shoulder-popping with the professional dancers on stage. Then, I got to go on stage and do a silly bull-dance with one of the guy dancers. And then, a girl dancer came to our table and did a sassy head-dance, and we did it back. She started laughing, and so did our neighboring tables, and soon the restaurant became a raucous place of shoulder-popping and head-banging and I didn’t stop dancing and laughing until we left the place 3 hours later. Dancing was enough.  

But most of all my life now is teaching. Today, in 6^th and 7^th grade, we read a Reader’s Theatre. Some students didn’t listen, but that’s okay, because the students that did loved it (thanks, e.) In the 5^th grade, we did some reading comprehension, and the classes were crazy to read. Crazy. They stretched themselves up in their seats and shot their hands up high and flapped their fingers around and said “Mister Mister, me next, pleeeaaassseee!?” And in the 4^th grade, we went over our vocab and imagined ourselves a feast, with the “Big ice cream! Big banana! Big mango! Big Doro Wat!” And then, 3^rd grade.

3^rd grade, that’s when it hit me. I took photos of them in class being crazy, and then we read some stories about treasure-hunting. Smiling, sitting in their desks with their orange sweaters and their dark eyes. I loved being their teacher. Then the bell rang but they said “Nooo Mister!” so we read some more. The other teacher came to the door so I collected my things and I screamed “I love you class!” and they screamed “we love you too!”

And I’m their English teacher, and that’s enough. I don’t know how much they’ll learn from me—I’m here for only a little, and there’s little curriculum material left to teach (I taught the last page of their textbooks last week.) But my hope is that I’ll be there to love them in the little things. To teach them whatever I can—creativity, my language, writing. To belong to them for 27 periods a week. This doesn’t need to be Romantic, because it’s real. Two weeks in, and I love being a teacher, because I love them. 

As I was about to leave, Fenetim, a precious little girl with big brown eyes, called me over to the corner of the 3^rd grade classroom and handed me a little package of folded papers. I said thank you and she smiled and tucked her head and turned to the side. I put the package in my pocket and left, up the stairs, into my office, and on my little desk I unwrapped it to find a note, two sketches, and a small, pink rose.

And that’s enough.

-Chris