It's rather appropriate that the Lesotho word for “to miss” (hopula) contains the word for “rain” (pula), as only rain can describe the character of my tears upon realizing how much I would miss Lesotho. In fact, discovering this linguistic coincidence was yet another thing that made me cry torrentially in my final days there. Even now – a month after leaving – thoughts of kids on donkeys, the red glare of sunset on mountains, or students absent-mindedly picking their noses in class can bring tears of mourning to my eyes.
I'm not usually a crier. A standard tragic movie would provoke some droplets or modest whimpering, but before leaving Lesotho, my lamenting was spontaneous, frequent, and wailing at times. A disease, maybe? I cried at my desk in the staff room, I cried with the drama club girls, I cried while talking to neighbors. When the principal called upon me to speak in front of the school on the last day, I could only squeak out two blubbery sentences to sum up my year with them before retreating out of the spotlight to nurse my convulsions and perpetual runny nose. It was uncharacteristic, embarrassing, cathartic, and perplexing.
My tears were met with a mix of sympathy and curiosity. Long ago, I was asked in class if white people could cry. Another student jumped to my defense, citing, “Yes – makhooa are always crying in the soaps.” Referencing syndicated soap operas proved more effective than my attributing crying to human nature. After the failed farewell speech episode, groups of girls reached out to me with feminine concern, cooing, “Ao, 'Me' Renee, don't cry,” or “The way we are going to miss you,” or my favorite, “Departure is not the same as death” (adapted from the slogan for the graduation ceremony earlier in the semester.)
I know that my crying was rooted in how much my time in Lesotho meant to me, and the degree of both was extreme. The reasons the crying bothered me were because 1) it was uncomfortable and out of my control (typical of Lesotho) and 2) I didn't want to be remembered as “that one who cried.” I can just hear the St. Rodrigue staff room years from now... “'Me' Renee? Ah yes, she cried too much.” Beyond that, crying made me feel childish when I expected to have grown up more over the past year.
Growing up has been an obsession of mine lately. Upon returning to America, I feel pressured to be more of a grown-up or to present a version of myself to this world that is wiser, more self-assured, new and improved in indefinable ways. In truth, though, these things are hard to feel, especially as I stumble through the current job market or try to operate the now “viral” iPhone.
I know that I am now more assertive, that I can better identify when someone is giving me crap and take less of it. I know that I now need more sleep to function than in my college days. I feel slower, behind the times, and more apt to say things like, “What grade are you in now?” to my younger cousins. Surely these are hallmarks of getting older, but then again, I think I've observed a lot of growing up around me in more abstract ways in the past year.
Lesotho as a country, for example, reminds me of a growing teenager in terms of development. It wants to be a self-reliant entity, but is still very much dependent on “allowance” from developed countries. It wants the newest fanciest technology but lacks the infrastructure/foresight to take care of it. Regardless, Lesotho is definitely growing. In my short time there, I witnessed the expanding of the selection in the grocery store in Maseru to include maple syrup and whole black peppercorns, previously only found in South Africa. There are rumors among the ex-pat community that the newly-constructed Pick-n-Pay will sell bagels, and I've seen signage forecasting a movie theatre in the city. I met a Masotho man selling weight loss supplements who said business was picking up, a sure sign that Lesotho is growing up and out.
Even at St. Rodrigue there have been seemingly rapid reaches for advancement. The school computer lab, acquired last year and run by diesel generator, now boasts internet capability. Of course, it may take some Basotho time before it's operational, but it springs from the more dramatic change of a new cell phone tower for the area. It promises cell phone signal for the whole St. Rodrigue-Mpatana community in the coming months, and its stately metal structure is conveniently visible from the “cell phone hill” where Grinnell fellows (including myself) go to make and receive phone calls. That may soon be a relic of the past, as it seems that even nuns and shepherds are proudly maturing into this century.
One of my greatest joys has been watching my students grow up and mature over the course of a school year. With the drama club I formed and moderated, I saw shy timid girls grow in confidence and work ethic. One of those girls, Ntseliseng, was from the A3 class, the lowest-performing and most 'hopeless' of the first year students. With her shining comic performances, she started turning teachers' heads - “Who is that girl? Is she A3?' - and I have no doubt that she will mature into an assertive and compassionate school leader.
In fact, my last day with her class was one of my favorite moments in Lesotho, definitely the most Dead Poet's Society-esque. We had just finished their final assignment of performing poetry that they had memorized for the class. They had really impressed me with their presentations; they spoke with a newfound confidence and jumped over each other to give their classmates supportive constructive feedback. I took the last minutes of class to ask, “So, what have you learned from this assignment?” fully expecting it to fall flat on blank staring eyes. Instead, hands slowly rose as I saw them thinking and visibly making realizations. I cannot describe the warmth of that moment – like the feeling of a gardener who has planted a seed, and covered it, watered it, fertilized it and then gazes in wonder as a small green sprout rises of its own power. As I called upon girls, they unfurled like ferns and stood up to say, “I have learned that I should speak aloud,” and, “I have learned that I should not be afraid to speak in front of the class,” and other things that I had tried so hard to cultivate within them. It was too much for me. I felt a motivational speech coming on:
“Do you want to know what I have learned?”
“Yes, mistress! Tell us, madam!”
“I have learned that you are all capable students.”
(blank stares)
“...do you know what is meant by 'capable'?”
(In meek yet determined disappointment) “No, madam.”
“It means... (writing 'capable' on the chalkboard, underlining 'able') able to do things. You are able to do things. (gathering momentum despite the irony of the moment) So you are all capable students. You were able to stand up in front of the class and speak real, understandable words of English that you memorized. That shows me that you are clever girls. Don't you forget that – you are clever. Don't ever let anyone tell you that you are stupid, because it is not true. You are clever girls, and I am very proud of you.”
Naturally, I cried. The last bit of class was spent awkwardly with me shuffling through my notebook, trying to hide my undermining red eyes, and girls offering to 'accompany' me to the airport and asking how long a bus to America would take.
I didn't expect to fall in love with Lesotho. Day to day, it was a difficult place to live and work. The people struck me as abrasive, and I questioned my presence there on a regular basis. At times, I felt a profound aloneness that only rural and cultural isolation can bring, and looking out at bright faces and contemplating how many were orphaned, HIV-positive, chronically malnourished, or destined to drop out of school was relentlessly depressing. Yet, for every frustration or sorrow, the joy in personal or communal success was double. It may have been in baby steps, but I felt myself stretching and growing every day. My visceral response to coming to terms with the magic of this lifestyle was to cry – a lot.
While seeking comfort on the BoGrinnell bookshelf, I really connected with David Sedaris's words on the death of his cat: “[It] struck me as the end of an era... the end of my safe college life, the last of my 30-inch waist, my faltering relationship with my first real boyfriend - I cried for it all and wondered why so few songs are written about cats.” My personal deluge over leaving Lesotho was also selfishly about mourning the loss of an era for me: the end of traveling recklessly, the last of purposeful employment, my faltering framework of medical insurance - I cry for it all and wonder why Sesotho accordion music is still so enjoyable for me.
So here I am, America – ready to fall back in to your comfortable habits and soldier through my third winter in one year. Lesotho, thank you for everything. I miss you terribly. Thank you also to everyone who has read these reports. Departure is indeed not the same as death (thank you, girls), and though my departure from Lesotho was sad and sodden with tears, it is alive in my mind as a fitting end to an incredible year. Sala hantle, good bye and stay well.
