Learning from the Pen-pals

This short story appeared in the anthologies, Defining Moments and Acts of Emancipation (Plymouth Writers Group, Oct 2004 and Oct 2006 respectively).

Friday, October 1, 2004

 

Christmas break was over and my Gabonese high school students were bored. I could feel it in the air, a fog of discontent curling through the mission where I taught English as a Peace Corps Volunteer. The previous year, my first in Gabon and as a teacher, the students had gotten the best of me. But a second-year Volunteer is an entirely different animal. This time, I knew how to play the game. My former high school French teacher and I had kept in touch through letters, discussing the possibility of a pen pal correspondence. I decided to act on it.

As a sullen breeze puffed through the windows and stirred the air during the second week of the term, I studied my teenaged students’ long faces. “How would you like to do a pen pal program with American students?” I asked. Their eyes sparked to life. Sitting up straighter, they leaned forward as I explained the set-up.

Questions flew. “What should we ask them, Miss Fiona?”

“What paper can we use?”

“You mean you’ll pay for the postage?”

“Can I have two pen lovers?”

Ah, Africans—the sensuality starts young. “It’s pen pal,” I reminded them.

Both groups of students would write in both French—Gabon’s official language—and in English. Through the course of that week, my students worked on their letters, their faces creased in seriousness.

 

By Friday, the students’ letters were ready to send. I looked over them that evening, prior to mailing. All began formally, as befitted a traditional Gabonese correspondence. “I come before you today to express my highest words of adoration to you. I wish to tell you that I love you and am much happy to become your pen pal lover.” From there, the questions grew eclectic. “How many wives does your father have?” “Are you friends with Madonna?” “How many tongues do you have near your family? In my land we have many tongues, but I only speak two of these.”

Many of the students asked for things. “Please, my dear friend of the pen that I love with many hearts, send me Nike shoes in the size of eight or two pairs if it does not derange you.” Or, “Send me please the K7 Polystar numero 5: Vanesa Paradis (Joe le Taxi), I beg your pardon, but you must not forget this.”

During my first year as a Peace Corps Volunteer, these blatant requests for my personal effects or money used to shock me. Nothing was sacred: my tee shirts, tennis shoes, the food I carried home from the store. Faces would pop up at my window, calling out that they liked the music I was playing and please, could they have it? And the cassette player as well? Requests were made cheerfully by children and adults alike, without the slightest trace of self-consciousness or shame. “You are American, you’re rich,” the Gabonese would say, brushing aside my protests that I had little money of my own, just what the Peace Corps gave me as a monthly living allowance.

My Gabonese colleague Lisette summed it up best. “Here in Gabon, if you need, you ask. If you have, you give,” she explained. “That rule has defined African communal living for centuries. It’s what has helped us survive.”

 

I’d told the students to be patient about getting a response to the letters. While we waited, we continued to talk about the United States. The students absorbed everything I shared, almost shouting in disbelief when I told them most families had multiple cars, several televisions and their own washing machine.

They pestered me with questions. “What is Michael Jackson really like?” 

“Hollywood is the biggest city in America, yes?”

“But why don’t men have more than one wife?”

“Some houses really have three bathrooms?! Why would you need so many bathrooms?”

But the golden image of America faded during conversations about how much Americans valued self-reliance and independence. The students were shocked to learn that most young American adults moved away from home after completing school. “But why?” Matthieu persisted. “Why would you not want to live with your family?”

“Wouldn’t you be lonely?” Sophie asked and I looked over at thirty dark faces, passionately curious to better understand the culture of this strange, foreign creature—the American, upon whom fortune has smiled.

 

“You’ve got mail,” Lisette told me one day three weeks later when I entered the staff room. She pointed to an enormous manila envelope filling my cubbyhole. I pulled out the envelope, stuffed with letters. The pen pals had responded.

I waited to show my students until I needed something to counteract their unruliness. When I drew the letters from my bag a day later, the effect was magical. The students’ eyes grew wide as their chatter died off. I savored the moment.

Every student received a letter. I handed them out and watched as the students gazed at this piece of America in front of them. Their faces glowed. A moment later, they tore into the letters. For a few minutes, silence filled the room as they read the mixture of French and English, snickering at the errors in French.

The questions posed by the American students were as entertaining as the ones from my students. “What is it like to live in the jungle? Are you always sweaty?” Or, “I have a pet rat named Herb. Do you have a pet?” 

“Miss Fiona,” Sophie asked, her voice tentative, “what is a pet?” All eyes were on me, eager for the response, as almost every American student seemed to mention a pet as a member of the family. 

Pets, aside from stray dogs that hung around neighborhoods, did not exist in provincial Gabon. My translation of “animal familier” didn’t seem to help my students. “Please, Miss Fiona,” Sophie continued, “what is ‘rat’ in French?”

“Le rat.”

Her face reflected her confusion. “A rat is a member of her family?”

“What’s your favorite food?” was another question that puzzled my students. Gabon was a wealthy country by sub-Saharan African standards; there was no widespread starvation. But it was still Africa. Rice and manioc, a local tuber, served to fill the belly. Miscellaneous bits of meat, poultry or fish in fiery sauces provided protein. There was no pizza night, no hamburgers, no burritos or junk food. Food was simply what the Gabonese shoveled into their body a few times a day to sustain themselves. My explanation of the adolescent importance of Big Macs and Hostess Twinkies, Pizza Hut and hot dogs (“No, they aren’t really made of dog”) fell short. The students nodded their heads politely, straining to understand.

“I’ve got a ten-speed bike.” “My dad owns a Porsche.” “My best friend has a swimming pool in his backyard.” The American students described themselves and their lives through their material belongings. That, I realized with a jolt, was how we Americans defined ourselves. The Gabonese talked about love, family, music. Which culture should be learning from whom? I wondered.

At the bottom of the envelope were gifts: wildly-decorated ball-point pens, Scooby Doo pencils, balloons, pads of flowered paper and stickers of clowns, cars, puppies and kittens. The students were slack-jawed at the sight of the treasures.

“It is true then, Miss Fiona,” Matthieu exclaimed. “All Americans are very, very rich.” I protested, stifling the urge to tell him that back in the U.S., these things cost very little. I sensed it would only increase the illusion that the U.S. was a magical place.

After a heated debate, the students reluctantly allowed me to keep a few of their treasures to share with my other classes. How quickly greed came up, I reflected, once there was something of perceived value at stake. I was teaching my students more about the American way than I’d anticipated.

 

In my town of Bitam, a small town scratched out of Northern Gabon’s dense rainforest, the market was the hub of activity and commerce. From an outside table at my friend’s bar-restaurant, I sipped a cold drink and watched the activity in the stalls and maze of alleys and shops. Women glided past, woven baskets of produce balanced on their heads, calling out greetings to friends. Odors swirled around, smoke from countless small fires mingling with cooking oil, trash and rotting fruit. Vendors squatted over their wares spread onto mats: manioc, avocados and mangoes, dried fish and piles of tiny green chilis. This was the life I’d come to know—an infinite source of entertainment, drama, gossip, social activity and life.

When Célèste, the bar owner, wandered over to my table, I told her about the pen pal correspondence. Twenty years prior, Célèste had lived for two years in Chicago and now enjoyed discussing the disparate cultures. “And your students, they enjoyed the American gifts, non?” she inquired.

I laughed. “They think all the answers for life’s happiness lie in America.”

She cocked her head at me. “Do you mean to say they don’t?”

As our chuckles subsided, I grew serious. “I look around here,” I waved an arm at the nearby activity, “and I see a thriving culture that doesn’t rely on electronics, consumerism and hyped-up media for their entertainment. And do you know how I see the U.S., now that I’ve been away for a year and a half?” Célèste shook her head, a smile on her face. “I see a society that keeps grabbing and wanting and acquiring and saying they need more. It’s wrong,” I declared. “All that consumerism, all those people too busy to stop and enjoy the little things. Visiting with friends, taking care of family…. This is what’s important.”

Célèste studied me, hands on her hips, but oddly, still smiling. “What you say may be true,” she said, “but do you think that, given the choice, any of our young people would choose our way in Gabon over yours?” This stopped me short. Célèste’s smile faded. “Do not think of our situation here as noble and romantic, Fiona. Mother Africa is harsh—so much sickness and social injustice.” She sighed and looked around. “But we Gabonese love our country in spite of its flaws. You now recognize your own country’s flaws—this is all part of growing up. But you cannot forget the good that your country produces.”

“So which country is better?” I challenged.

When she replied, her voice was gentle. “Why must you see things in terms of just good and bad, right and wrong? We are simply different cultures, dealing with the consequences of who and where we are in this world.”

The shrieks of a group of small children thundering past, in pursuit of a pair of panicked roosters, caused us both to burst into laughter. “You are very wise, Célèste,” I told her afterwards.

“Ah, but there is always more to learn,” she replied with a smile.

After a year and a half of teaching, I had to agree.

 

© 2007 Terez Rose