“Salem School Recycles!” Fun Day

Pictures paint 1,000 words- Here they are…

 

 

 

 

                  “Prepping"

Grade 3, the “Hot Steppaz” sang their “reduce, reuse, recycle" song

Probably asking them something like “How long does a bottle take to decay?”

Lining up to paint bins!

Our story made the news too! Starts about 10 minutes into the broadcast! Thanks CVM, Sandals Earth Guard, Sandals Foundation and Plastic Recyclers of Jamaica!

http://www.cvmtv.com/videos_1.php?id=1275&section=watch

Next day: May 23, Labour Day

^ This man also painted the words on the recycle bins (I did the symbols)

I painted the small words at the bottom

Must…Stay…Positive…

So it just so happens that 48 hours before the Recycling Fun Day that I’ve been planning for two months, I deduced that my computer had a virus when my e-reader was swiped clean and was told that school was not, in fact, keeping on Wednesday. 48 hours from now. The day of (my) the Fun Day.

“Will teachers still be coming? Will as many students come? What about keeping the start time organized? How many people are actually helping me with this? God I hope there’s music and minimal chaos and- shit! what if it rains?”

…Yessah, for those big reasons and ~10 smaller reasons, I’d love to complain right about now and I did my complaining to my mother before writing this post (thanks mom!) so I choose not to subject you, dear reader, to the nit- picky, woe-is-me self that lurks under the surface. I write of course to tell about about the “ah-hah!” moment.

In an ideal world, this is a fun day that attracts parents to cheer on their children, learn the valuable lesson that the students have been learning about for the past 4 weeks and see something their children are doing, academically. Last week I spent about 2/3 of the school day at the school (the other third preoccupied by walking there and back). I taught a version of a “reduce, reuse, recycle” lesson to every classroom and gave them coloring sheets with the words “I Recycle Because…” and a blank line. The pictures were of the recycle logo with the 3 R’s written on it. At the Recycling Fun Day, a secondary competition will see who’s picture (and reason for recycling) wins. My committee will tape these pictures all over the CDC Office as decoration.

In an ideal world, school keeps on Wednesday, I’m currently still very into the book I was reading and people come to meetings I hold. Meaning this, my friends, is not an ideal world. Yeah, freaked me out too.

So I had a minor freak-out moment and, unfortunately, I bet money I’ll have at least 10 more before Wednesday. The nature of the beast and all that, but as I sat in my kitchen listening to music and going over the coloring sheets, I thought of my ideal situation, of the parents looking at the office walls, proud of their children, and I remembered my elementary school experience.

My public school memories of parent teacher nights were always flooded with excitement because our arts and crafts would be on display. My parents would come home telling me how much they loved my project or my poem and I would feel proud and thusly empowered. This is not a feeling I believe my students have very often as praise does not flow easy in the Jamaican household. But I still want my students to feel that kind of pride for their work. And I want the students who didn’t try to see what it looks like when you do.

And there you have it, the thing I’ll be talking about when I mutter “It’ll be ok, it’ll be ok, it’ll be ok…” over and over to myself tomorrow, and Wednesday. The fact is that the school where I work does not create an environment where accomplishments are openly shared with parents, or among the students. If students come to this thing, which I highly suspect they will regardless of school being open, they will be able to see their works of art displayed in a public setting. They might point and show a friend: “that’s my one!” or they may ask to have it taken down, childishly embarrassed, fishing for praise. Which I will give, where it’s warranted.

Here’s the positive spin in a nutshell: I’m throwing a party for a group of kids who have been enthusiastic, dedicated and open to learning, making them feel accomplished, proud and empowered. Ok, I can be satisfied with that. 

Lessons Learned

In my mind, the recycling project has three main audiences: Students, Shopkeepers/Business owners and the wider public of the community. Knowing that most ideas are the most successful seeds if planted in children, I started with the school-wide bottle collecting competition. Students are competing by grade to see which class can collect the most bottles, and the winning class will be determined at a celebratory recycling Fun Day on May 22nd. The class will win the price the bottles are sold for and many classes are already planning field trips to the beach.

This tactic already feels successful; Beeston Spring has never looked cleaner as the kids comb from hill to gully, from yard to shop searching for bottles. The adults and teens of the community have been watching the school picknie going at it, some perplexed and some satisfied- and I fill them in when they ask: “Wuh yuh mek mi picknie dem do?”.

The next audience to tackle then, my mind assumes, would be the shopkeepers. So I organized a date with my friend at Plastic Recyclers of Jamaica and he agreed to come have a business discussion with our shopkeepers regarding bottle exchange rates, practices and overall recycling education. I made invitations and hand delivered them to most every shopkeeper in the community, explaining the who, what, when and why and answering questions/ educating. I got phone numbers from every person I talked to so that I could send them a reminder text message and I scheduled the meeting tactfully, in the morning, before many of the shops open.

My mind felt good, everyone seemed interested and most people asked questions. Everyone gave me their cell number. I sent a reminder text the evening before the meeting with no problems and in the morning I woke early to sweep the veranda of the meeting place. Meeting time was ten and I sent a second reminder text at 10:30 when not a soul had shown up… no big deal, it’s Jamaica time… 10:35…10:45…11am…still no one. Plastic Recyclers Man (PRM) arrives ten after eleven and my mind is worried, embarrassed and livid- this is the part where I wish I was better at hiding my feelings. Showing disappointment so poignant and being (almost) 24 years old is kind of like that year when you were 7 and you thought for sure you were getting a pony for your birthday. Eliciting “you’re too young to understand reality” responses which, are of course, condescending in nature and not particularly uplifting.

Everyone has this experience, especially in the Peace Corps, call it a coincidence, Murphy’s Law, the nature of development work, whatever. Chances are if you want to make a difference there will be a moment while you do it that you think “WHY do I even bother?” It’s during those times that a supportive project team is imperative. With the arrival of PRM my project team became twice as helpful.

I was in no mood to be a happy and supportive community member at this point, but I knew the only other option was to actually go to every shop and talk to them individually. PRM  brought several sandwich bags of shredded bottles and a football jersey to draw the line between the raw and final products, and to explain his role in the process. After going to the first shop, I realized that perhaps this was even a more effective method as community members were around while we gave our shpiel and were so informed of the project and its benefits. I watched PRM give his rap, and had it memorized by the end of the day, and he left me with a shredded bag of bottles. Now I have ammo for the PTA meeting today where I get to explain to everyone “Wuh mi mek ee picknie dem do.” and more importantly, WHY.

So it turns out that seemingly major failures can, in actuality, become a generally regarded success. A lesson learned, life, thanks again.

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answer to last post’s question:

“Today Is A Happy Mango Day”

After feeling the cool breeze from the steely dark rain clouds moving slowly around the perimeter of Beeston Spring, I went outside to take some pictures of a brightly contrasted mango tree in the yard. Circling to the back I came upon him fervently collecting the fruits under the tallest common mango saying “I never came out this morning, I could have carried these to mummy!” As we collected from the ground, they fell from the canopy, some half eaten by birds, some perfectly intact. Silence, ruffled feathers, thump, silence, silence, thump and a bright yellow streak falls by my periphery. It may not have rained water, but it seems to be raining mango. He bends in the tall grass with an armful of the sweet, warm fruit: “Today is a happy mango day” he says excitedly to no one in particular.

~The red leaves in the above tree are “springing”, they are new and they will mature to the same green on the left side.

 

* Who can find the second Ball Plate in the breadfruit tree?*

Picture Updates

I should post some pictures since I went away two weekends ago and other stuff has happened…

The Yard, School, Sunsets and Bonfires VIEW SLIDE SHOW DOWNLOAD ALL

A Cure For The Common Cold

I think one of the most amusing things that we as Peace Corps Volunteers deal with in Jamaica is a complete lack of respect for germ theory. Not that hygiene is particularly disregarded, but superstition is more of a reality. Can we as Americans politely point out that getting stuck in the rain will not make us sick? Of course, but that won’t stop every community member you pass in a light rain urge you to walk faster to home lest you get sick. It also will not stop any community member who got stuck in the same rain to declare the next day that the rain wet them up and they are sick today. I have yet to figure out if this is purely psychosomatic or a medical anomaly but either way, it happens.

These idiosyncrasies are entertaining and sometimes perplexing when one is in good health (picking ones nose in public here is a commonplace, going barefoot inside will cause your auntie to make you wear your slippers or you’ll catch cold) but I got an insiders look this past week when I actually did catch a cold.

It was the typical sneezing, snotting, earplugged head cold that ends with coughing, a headache you just can’t shake and that same damned ear showing no signs of easing up on the pressure. In Jamaica they would say that you “kech a flu” the minute they hear you sneeze- in American we all know means you’re practically dying of fever and sore joints and can’t leave your bed, not the case here. I will proclaim that I may have had lyme disease, scarlet fever, whooping cough, strep and two cases of shingles but I have never had the flu, bronchitis or pneumonia so… there’s a point in there somewhere.

There is something to be said of the common cold in the tropics. It really does suck. The humidity is everywhere, the heat makes you feel like your head is in a oven wrapped in pillows- then the rain comes, the air pressure changes, your headspace struggles to keep up and you’re in bed with chills and a cup of tea. So having experienced this on day one, I attempted to relinquish my American belief that “im not really that sick” and did nothing but sleep and read for the next 48 hours. You know the resolve it takes to wake up for work and decide in the hour you need to get ready if you should call in for a sick day? Peace Corps volunteers don’t have that pressure because there is not a single Jamaican that would even question if you actually are sick, or sick enough to not be doing what you need to do. I even started proclaiming over the phone or through my gate at inquirers “I have a flu, I can’t be out in the night dew”, not because it’s the truth but it’s their truth so it still works. 

I can’t possibly tell you which cultures’ tactic is better. While I find the basic disregard for proven science frustrating at all times here, I do appreciate the leniency and sympathy people have for illness- it is healthier and less stressful. I think being sick in a new place is always less comfortable than being sick in a climate controlled environment while dad plays piano and mom makes you lipton soup with extra noodles. Thankfully though, my new place has a fan, people who love me and cock soup, an acceptable alternative in all categories.

Thinking of Home

Since I’ve been in Jamaica, there have been at least three distinct tragedies of mass violence against the civilian population of the United States of America. And I’ve been gone for 12 months.

Since I’ve been in Jamaica, there has not been a single attack by a citizen on a random group of citizens here. Murders, homicides and the typical violence that Jamaica is known for have of course occurred, with a few particularly effed up outliers, but these occurrences have never made me personally feel unsafe. I stay away from violent men, gang related business and drug related situations. I am obviously not a part of the collective population, even the general domestic dispute is avoided in front of me.

But yesterday, a PCF (peace corps friend) with internet called me in case I hadn’t heard about the bombs that had exploded at the Boston Marathon. I hadn’t, of course- I live in an internet-less bubble of Jamaican culture and hadn’t heard the radio since early morning. But my heart stopped and tears filled my eyes as I remembered cheering on my mother at that exact marathon around 7 years ago. My mother and my baby sister are avid runners and my sister runs cross country for Tufts University in Boston. Shit, shit, shit.

A call to my mother calmed my fears, Sis is ok, but she was at the marathon, at mile 24, cheering on a friend. I realized with extreme guilt that my family had had a very stressful and emotional day as their youngest daughter negotiated the panic stricken streets of Boston, unsure of exactly what had happened but knowing that travel the two miles to the finish line was no longer on the to-do list. I wished I’d been there, or at least been aware of the tragedy sooner.

This is not an event that many here can empathize with. Nothing like September 11th, the Columbine shootings or any of the other screwed up things that happen in America happens in Jamaica. Bad people are just not on the side of God here, it’s sad but it’s a truth. And it’s a difficult logic to argue without opening up a whole new can of worms.

Laying in bed last night I was seized with the fear of it happening again, taking my loved one. I’m out of the loop and all I know is that it was a citizen attack on other citizens. Do they know who it is? Has he been caught yet? I won’t know until I reach the internet later today. But in my mind, a psychopath who would murder a crowd of marathon runners, is still at large, and my baby sister is still in the city.

Have you even been to a marathon, dear reader? Well, it’s kind of like being at a street party full of goodwill towards man. It’s one of the most uplifting, motivated and inspiring  events you can attend. The Boston Marathon even more-so, since there is a qualifying time to even run it. No one wants anyone else to fail, everyone is proud of complete strangers and the support system is unanimous. I remember the energy and I don’t need to see the news clips to imagine the complete physical and psychological devastation that ensued.

There is not a single cliché that can calm my nerves today. “All things happen for a reason” “God is good” “The world is good and people are bad.” I don’t truly believe any of that. I honestly believe that people are good, but I think our lifestyles are poison. People become unhinged and mentally unstable because of a disconnect with reality, and America seems to be all about disconnecting with reality and building a bubble of ideal perfection molded by the cacophony of cultural sound-waves that can mess with even the stoniest of minds. I’m not going to go off on my own beliefs in the inherent therapy of nature, and I can’t write anything even resembling succinct re: the state of our country. So I won’t. But, unlike on September 11th 2001, I am old enough to feel that my own bubble of perfection has been pierced by evil. This story is too close to home, and I’m too far away.

My thoughts are with the victims and attendees of the Boston Marathon, may you find peace of mind in time.