If you had only one more day, what would you do?

I was lucky that I could say goodbye to my village. Knowing I only had one more day, this is how I spent it.

How joining the Peace Corps saved me (my testimony)

So I am home a whole 5 months earlier than expected due to political instability in Guinea. It was the hardest thing I've ever been through, being torn out of my village, listening to women wailing in my concession, as if they were mourning a death. But after all the trials and uncertainity if I could return to my village, I finally found some peace knowing that I had the time of my life as a Peace Corps volunteer. There is so much that I learned during this time of self-discovery, little things like how to properly peel fruits and vegetables, or bigger things like how to speak French, but there is one main thing that I got out of joining the Peace Corps. It was how I needed to live out the rest of my life.

This is something I wrote while back in Guinea:
Being sick abroad really tests your strenth and will. There is no comforting mother, no relief with cold water or a toilet to sit on, no assurance of proper medication. But there is God to lift up my head (Psalm 63). When I am weak, I am strong. And no where else have I been my weakest. It was living in West Africa that made me realize how much I love Christ.
I am a confirmed Catholic. I remember how God had called me my freshman year of college. That was one of my happiest years of my life, when the holy spirit lived within me and my brothers and sisters who were also becoming confirmed. But the evil ways of the world used doubt, hypocrisy, and temptation to cloud my need for Christ. And I'm sad to admit I haven't been able to renew this relationship until my Peace Corps service. An old Peace Corps motto is, "Life is calling. How far will you go?" but really God was calling. It's like He knew I needed this time, this quiet time with Him, away from all my distractions. This time to prepare me, to train me in how I need to live the rest of my life. There are days I feel crazy, like I've had enough rice and sauce, missing my nephews, getting water from the pump to drink and bathe with. But God's timing is perfect and I trust Him. Even if His plan has taken me worlds away from everything I know and love.
And Guinea is that. A muslim country with no access to running water, electricity, and even worse...a Christian bookstore. But the more I prayed for growth and guidance, God not only sent it to me in the form of books and music from Charmie, Russ, and Cerisa, but in the form of something I could actually bike to in under 20 minutes. The Lutheran missionaries came back from their vacation right at the knick of time. Soon other Christian Peace Corps volunteers started to find each other. We would send each other letters in how to pray for each other. But I even began to see Christ work in the people in my village, non-Christians. After living in a concession of huts for over a year and a half I believe Americans can learn a lot from the family unit in Guinea. It is exactly this familial love that makes the idea of orphans non-existent, depression a rarity, or civil war from igniting like it has in Guinea's neighboring countries of Sierra Leone or Liberia.
Love is the answer translates to God is the answer. And with any answer, effort needs to be involved. That is why I fell away from Christ over and over again. I didn't take the time to be with Him. "You will seek Me and find Me when you seek me with all your heart" is painted on my hut wall, right above my study desk. The more I dedicated myself to this task the more I realized the truth in it. The Word became alive, like a personal letter to me from a best friend, something I look forward to reading every morning. And soon enough I began to feel His hand work in my life through a child's smile or from the wetness of a raindrop. Tim, the Lutheran missionary, wrote this on my hut wall, "No one has seen God, but if we love, we can see Him in each other." 1 John 4:12. This has never been so real to me until now, and I will pray that you wil be able to feel Him holding your hand in your daily life, as He has in mine.

The Beautiful Truth

Looks beautiful, doesn’t it? This is sunset behind the Peace Corps bureau in Conakry. I’m sitting at the beach bar that many volunteers frequent for their “cold” beers and pizza. Like how a cover of a book can be deceiving to the eye, this picture conceals the truth. But I will reveal the littered waters full of plastics of all sorts from food packaging to toilet seats. I will point out that silhouette of a man in the corner who seems to be praising the scenery, but in reality is talking to an imaginary audience induced by his mental state. I will admit to being scared of the sickly looking stray dog that lays under my table hoping for my attention just as much as for my pizza.
This is what I see after being away in America for two weeks and after having been gone for almost two years. This is what I feel: confusion. It’s like I went through a time warp and my concept of reality was lost in another dimension. I went through reverse culture shock while I stood in Time Square or even just standing in the candy aisle of a Rite Aid. But I didn’t plan on coming back to Guinea and going through culture shock as I lit a candle, used a latrine pit, or worried about clean drinking water again.
I found myself getting upset because I wanted the easy life again. I cursed the night along with this country when all I wanted to do was flip a light switch to see. Have I lost my strength and patience in just two weeks?
I don’t know, but I’ll tell you what my best friends back home think I’ve lost. They said I have lost my butterfly wings. Peace Corps allowed me to see with my idealistic eyes, but Guinea wiped them anew. I was reminded to look at things objectively, allowing me to exercise my scientific mind. And what I’ve observed is that looks truly can be deceiving. I remember that night I stood in Times Square was the first night during my visit to America that I cried myself to sleep. Being in the capital of consumerism may be as beautiful to someone as a sunset on a beach, but to me it was a delusion. I won’t expand any further on this so as to avoid the idea I’ve become a misanthrope, but I’ve learned that there is always beauty in truth, no matter how ugly that truth may appear to be.

Thank you

It's hard to explain how my visit home was. I haven't been back in almost 2 years. So much has changed while so little hasn't. The worlds are so different, the difference mainly being the pace of life. I was expecting to be overwhelmed by nice freeway overpasses, supermarkets, and options, options, options, but not by my family and friends. The minute Adam and I arrived at the airport to the minute we were dropped off was a blur of faces, smiles, and love.
We were pressed for time among our grad school interviews, reunions, and tours with visiting friends and family, but we were pushed along to see more faces. It was nice to finally show Adam about all the people I've only been able to tell him about, but I fear that I wasn't able to really show my appreciation for all that was done for us.
For all the time you took off work, studied for those exams a full week ahead, spent time preparing for another big bash, driving out to chez moi, chauffeuring us around LA, traveling on an airplane, and just being there. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your love sent through letters, emails, and care packages have gotten me through my service thus far, but seeing your faces and hearing your voices during my quick visit home, will speak to my heart forever.

A meeting with the village elders

6:45 a.m. on the dot. I hear the drums announce a meeting regarding my school renovation project. As I walk with my counterpart, the village griot, and his older brother, the chief of the village, I can't help but feel an air of importance. I am a foreigner and a woman about to enter the realm of male dominance. The hut I enter is the biggest hut I've ever been inside. And it needs to be to house 35 men, adorned in their grand bubus, islamic caps, shawls, and walking canes. Every piece of mud earth is hidden beneath cow hides and goat skin, giving off the scent of sweet death, which is alluring to the swarm of flies that bounce from our bare feet. As the men give their praises to Allah I notice that the men don't find the flies a nuissance as I do. I immediately feel insignificant among these men. Their faces and eyes, reminding me of dinosaurs, exude wisdom of lives that have seen and done so much. Even their weathered feet tell stories of their farming lives or their countless journeys in the bush. I am nothing.
I wonder if I should have worn a head wrap instead of a french braid, if my shirt's short sleeves are too revealing, or even if the pants I was told to change into are too informal. But my insecurities drown out in my counterpart's deep throated, "Namun" after each statement, signifying that the speaker was heard. I manage to keep up with the council's agenda, even exchanging a few benedictions to follow the formalities. After the last, "Amina" and all eyes have been averted to the next in the circle I don't feel insignificant anymore. I was invited after all.
This meeting was to discuss my work, but sitting here among the village elders made me realize this was more than that. This is the old meeting the new, tradition opening to change, the past allowing the present , fast-paced world to reside next door. I am proud of these men, the protectors of their village, for welcoming a stranger like me.

My saving grace

Since coming to Guinea about a year and a half ago I have been adopted by 3 families. My host family in training, my host family in the village, and the Nortons. All 3 families have done more than their share to make this low maintenance American happy, but only the Nortons can provide for me what I need most. An escape.
Well, they are really an answer to my prayers. The Norton family consists of Tim, Heidi, and their two kids Philip and Leslie. As Lutheran missionaries with ties to the Northwest it has been a blessing to share the commonalities of home as well as for our love for Christ. I kept trying to convince myself that my spiritual needs would be met from going to Friday prayer at my village's largest mosque, hoping the holy spirit would translate the Malinke and Arabic, but the Norton's services in English, French, and Malinke are much more inviting.
One of the biggest obstacles of my service has been language. In fact, the first 3 times I cried were due to my lack of understanding of local language. And even now with how far I've progressed, nothing can compare to letting out your frustrations in your mother tongue. The Nortons have become a sort of sounding board. And with their 10+ years of living and working in West Africa, their support through prayers, their advice from experience, and their comfort through cold water and food have been so helpful with my life au village.
I don't think I could ever muster up the energy to explain to a Guinean how homesick I feel sometimes, especially on American holidays and birthdays. But the Nortons understand; and more than the moist chocolate birthday cake with sprinkles, more than the three-legged races and bobbing for oranges, more than the guest room with a fan and water bed, it's this understanding that makes me remember that home is never far.

Live in the Present

Life au village is something very hard to describe to someone. But whether you live in a mud hut in an African village or in a studio apartment in Brooklyn, there will always be things that you find simply irresistible or downright sad. As I get closer to the end of my contract of being a Peace Corps volunteer, I find myself anxious to go home, especially since the mango season is ending and the mosquitoes and humidity are becoming more of a force to reckon with. But at the same time, I know that I must not forget the home I have established here, a home that I love and will always hold close deep in my heart. Because I know that when a rude driver, a forgotten smile, or another month’s rent triggers my memory, I will find myself wanting to go back home to Guinea. The following list is something I wrote to help me live in the present and to cherish the time I have left.

I know I complain about it now----------but I will miss…

a high carbohdrate diet that consists of mostly rice----------eating the most natural, non-hormone induced foods that are ridiculously inexpensive...

my neck and back aching, raw knuckles over using a washboard----------laundry day aka swimming with the kiddies in the Niger river...

not being able to eat a sweet and tart, crunchy apple----------mango season...

losing sleep and hair from taking malaria prophylaxis---------the most vivid dreams I've ever had. What? I don't have television or any means of watching the latest Harry Potter movie!

walking through my muddy village during the rainy season----------having the bullfrogs sing me lullabies until I fall asleep...

taking bush taxis anytime in fear of losing my life----------interacting with Guineans in the closest quarters. I've met some of my best friends from traveling.

Burning my hands as I eat rice and sauce with my family---------Eating communally, 10 to a big bowl and not caring about germs. This was a big step for me since I was obsessive compulsive and a microbiology major before coming to Guinea...

Being told in Malinke "May God make you big and fat" and "May God give you lots of breast milk" while being grabbed accordingly in either the gut or the breast ----------Having people wish that God grant me anything. Benedictions are a daily part of life here...

Staying out until 11 pm every night watching the news, drinking tea, and having my ears blown off by loud Guinean music or Akon----------Hanging out with my boys, N fa Mou and Monsieur Diallo...

Hearing "Hee-how" whenever I walk in a big city because everyone thinks I am Chinese---------Having so much attention. I'm like a celebrity...well more like a Disney Character...

Fearing that a donkey stampede might catch me off guard as I go around a hut----------my watch donkey. When I return home I always get a "hee-haw" greeting without fail. It always cracks me up, making me think of Donkey from Shrek. Wait does the donkey think I'm Chinese too?

Happy Father's Day!

I am so Daddy's little girl. When I think of my dad I think of two words...cool and reserved. He is a quiet man by nature, especially when there is talk about girl stuff. And there is always girl talk because he was the only man in a household of four women. I don't know how he did it:) But when there is a party, he is always the life of it. Yup, my dad is the coolest man I know, cool and reserved.
When his daughters need anything or are going through some hard times, this quiet man speaks up. And when dad says anything, we know it is serious. My sisters and I kind of freeze in awe, like "Whoa Dad said that," as if we were witnessing a historical moment. No further inquiry is made and the deal is sealed because Dad said so. My dad demands respect, and we give it with allegiance.
Having been away from home for over a year now I haven't been able to see my Dad. But I have been able to feel him and his sincere love for me. As many of you know, I am trying to renovate the school in my village. An email my dad wrote in behalf of my project somehow slipped past me and I haven't been able to thank him until now.

Dad, your unconditional love and support has made me the woman I am today. You are my rock and during my loneliest of times, like when I was traveling alone or when I was going through boy trouble, I felt safe. I never felt alone. I felt you protecting me and it was then I knew I didn't need anyone else. I love you dad. Happy Father's Day from the 2nd little Iggy.

School Renovation Project

This is the school I've been working at for the duration of my service.The bigger building was built during the French colonial period but it sadly looks in the same condition as the second building which was built a little over 10 years ago. There are only 5 classrooms for 6 grades. Just this morning, after I had a meeting with the Village Renovation commitee, I tripped over a pothole on the terrace. This place is so different than the last school I worked at in Valencia, Ca. It really breaks my heart that this is a school, but the teachers and students work with what they have.
Please if you are interested in helping out, check out this link: https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.donatenow&
Scroll down on Guinea and you will find out how you can help.

To My #1 Fan

My mother is the most fun, caring, and crazy woman I know. Many of you know how hard it was for my mother to let me join the Peace Corps. In fact, I almost didn't get invited because of her passionate love for me. We fought, we cried, and we grew. Somehow we have become closer through all of this. She sends me tons of care packages, calls me every Saturday, and has given me the courage to fight through my fears. She is the reason why I am here.
Mom, I love you so much and I can only hope to be half the woman you are one day.
Happy Mother's Day!

Downer blog...sorry.

I just saw a man beat his wife. It started just like usual with women yelling. But I couldn’t believe it. I still don’t believe it. What remains is the woman crying. When he struck everything went quiet and everyone left.
All I can think about is how I feel. How is living like this going to affect the way I live the rest of my life? Will I care more? I realize how desensitized I have become from living here for over a year now. It’s so unfair because what matters the least is what I feel.
I feel so far when I’m in it but nothing counts when it doesn’t happen to me.
Even when I found out about Ciara’s (my first host family’s newest addition) death, nothing really hit because she wasn’t my baby. Well, in the eyes of my host family, she was technically my god-daughter, but our absence in each others’ lives didn’t make it real. I didn’t feel the burning, stinging pains after having been slapped in the face like that woman did when her husband hit her. I waited and even wanted to feel it, but nothing. I felt ashamed more than anything because I didn’t hold my responsibility of being a good god-mother. What could I have done living on the opposite ends of the country? How am I to respond to, “It’s the will of Allah!” To scream God doesn’t mean for us to die from preventable diseases like malaria!
But who am I to scream when nothing bad has happened directly to me? Bad things happen to everyone, good or bad, so it’s a matter of when for me. So when it happens what if I can’t handle it? But than I remember God knows how much we can handle. His timing is perfect. He doesn’t cause our sufferings, he uses it.

Morockin’ my World

I had been looking forward to March especially after having concluded that my December vacation to Mali wasn’t quite the relaxing vacation I needed. I shouldn’t have been surprised though because my fellow Peace Corps friends and I did it backpacker style, with no concrete itinerary and trying to save money by sleeping on buses. Also our days were filled with climbing over steep rock passes, sleeping in random villages built in the rock face, and climbing down steep rock passes. It was awesome, being able to see the cultural similarities with a neighboring country, but I was ready for something completely different.
I didn’t expect to be so blown away by this last trip to Morocco. Morocco has it all from fine cuisine of olives and steaming tajines to impressive architecture like the Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca to name an example of the many. The Berber style music was tantalizing enough to give courage to the most timid tourist into bargaining with a street vendor. And the people were so generous, calming my “Lonely Planet” alert status. Food, art, and heritage-the main indicators of a rich culture worth exploring---Check!
But the best part of any trip is the company. My very, very special friend Adam invited me to travel to Morocco where we’d meet his parents, Lynn and Roger. It felt so good to be with his parents. The presence of any mom and dad must be universal because I felt so at home. While Lynn and I relaxed at the hammams (Turkish baths where huge, hairy, naked women throw hot buckets of water on you, lol), Adam and Roger enjoyed ice cold Casablancas and unexpected 4 course meals. We had our share of laughs like when Lynn thought a Moroccan passerby said his daughter “has a big mustache,” when what he was trying to say was that his daughter “ has her big master’s degree?” And we had our share of scares like when Abdul our driver would keep us on our toes every time we got into the car.
Oh did I mention we had a driver? I felt so spoiled being able to see so much more of the country because of having our own transportation. Also all the accommodations we stayed at were so comfortable and beautiful. We had a really nice stay at a riad, a traditional house, in Marrakesh. Imagine trying to find a hotel in a maze of slums and when you get to the marked door you are weary until the door is opened, revealing a hidden palace. It truly was a unique experience.
Each day was full of activity, wandering around Roman ruins, sampling olive oil and argon oil straight from the press, and visiting tiny villages up in the High Atlas where people made their homes inside the mountains. Being able to sip on mint tea at the end of the day was always a treat, but having a nice comfortable room to stay in was extra special for me (I’ve been sleeping on a straw mattress for 14 months, give a girl a break!). You better believe I took advantage of the blowdryers, candies placed on my pillow, and the fitness centers. That was what a vacation should be like!
Thank you so much to Adam, Lynn, and Roger for letting me Morock’ n roll with you guys

Real life Boogeyman

I've been afraid for the first time ever while living in the village. I've been avoiding the main routes every morning when going to the school. I've been riding my bike extra fast to and from the garden. I've even been hiding behind n na ( my host mom) while going to the marche. You would too if you saw "the conde". There will be days I don't see the conde but the constant beat of drumming makes you imagine the flash of dried grass and mask between the huts. The drumming starts in the morning and ends in the evening, always indicating where the conde is lurking throughout the village. I am grateful for the signal, giving me a clue as to how I may avoid crossing paths with the it but I hate the feeling it leaves me with all day. If you've seen Jumanji, Heart of Darkness, or Lord of the Flies, the drum beats give you that loathing feeling that something bad is around the corner. And the conde is just that because it can run fast, is masked with human or animal like features, and hits you with sticks. All I've ever seen the conde do is chase villagers around threating to whip them. While it's supposed to be funny,I find it frightening. I was a victim one day, screaming my head off as it clung onto the back of my bike.I thought I lost it at a point until I look back and it was still running alongside me. Scary!!!
Although I’m still scared of the condé I have a new found respect after discovering “it” or “they” can dance. Mask dances are sacred rituals of West Africa which more than often turns into social entertainment. I sat in awe as I watched 4 condés dance to the beat of drums, displaying their deftness and agility. It was like watching lyrical gymnastiques with an urban edge. Their head to toe costumes made of dried grass makes them look like Cousin It from “The Adam’s Family” combined with Big Foot. 2 condés wore masks that were intricately designed using metal and mirrors to portray a human like face while the other 2 had the head of an owl and a warthog.
The faster the beat the crazier they dance, billowing up clouds of dust, reminding me of how lucky I am to be here and witness something that’s been happening for hundreds of rains. Watching the drums talk to the condé is so unreal. After having watched the dance for almost a week I feel like I have picked up on the traditional language of percussion. The conversation can make the condé mad, happy, or excited coercing it to jump high over the drummers, but not until the last moment, where you think it is going to tackle them to the ground. My favorite is when 2 condés dance facing each other, as if they were mirror images.
When something the condé does pleases you, it is customary to run up and throw 500 FGN at it. Some run away immediately after their offering, fearing the condés’ stare but many do a little dance making the crowd go wild. Men stomp at the ground and do back flips while the women do their hysterical dances of flapping their arms, using their clothing to exaggerate the already exaggerated move.
I admire this culture so much. They laugh with all their gut and they dance with abandon. If I leave Guinea with anything I hope to bring those qualities with me. Those drums have spoken to me, daring me to talk back, telling me there is no reason to be shy any longer. The more wildly I flap my arms, mimicking the women, the more I hear the drum speak words of approval. And as I dance in front of my whole village I feel their laughter and joy speak straight to my heart.

Always under observation

I’ve come to realize that being a Peace Corps volunteer is a 24/7 job when you’re in the village. You’re always being watched, meaning whatever sour mood you’re in can represent the attitude of Americans in general. I’ve learned from the people in my village their view on what a real American is described as tall, blond, rich, vegetarian, who enjoys their privacy and spends lots of time reading and writing. They have small family units, are Christian, and don’t eat rice very often. Oh, and we don’t like huge spoonfuls of mayonnaise.
Even though I may fulfill almost half of their stereotypes I make a point to talk about the diversity of America. Being an Asian-American I share with them on how I grew up eating rice everyday and am very familiar with peanut sauce (in the Philippines it’s called kare-kare). I talk about knowing many families with 6+ kids, just like my family here. I also them about the problems of homelessness, something they can’t fathom, questioning, “Why doesn’t their village feed them?” Nobody would ever let anyone go hungry here.
So the teaching never stops. I’m always under observation. After helping at the school I go to the village garden to water our tree nursery and help n fa with his beautiful plot of tomatoes, eggplant, onions, lettuce, and manioc. And without fail as I’m pulling up water from the well I catch a couple pairs of eyes in my peripheral view. They’ve come to watch the white person…again. I bite my lip in fear of blurting out, “Am I really that interesting?” and continue my work. This is my time of serenity, away from my 83 screaming students.
We get back as the sun is setting, just in time to take my hot bucket bath (heated by keeping in a covered bucket under the sun) and to eat dinner. Around 8:30 n fa and I go to a video club to watch the news. Before going into the crowded room lined with wooden benches we buy a couple of oranges from the vendor outside. Sucking the juice out of them helps quench my thirst, relieving the inevitable heat wave that the half functioning fans can barely alleviate. But I quickly fall in love with the place despite its sauna like atmosphere. I love the darkness of the video club because I am hidden, becoming the same color as them. But the instant there is an American, French, Lebanese, or Chinese person on the television, which happens every night, the whole club starts laughing my name and I feel elbow nudges from n fa. Okay, I get it, I’m white!
After shuffling out of the dusty room n fa, Monsieur Diallo (a teacher at the primary school where I work), and I are led to the café by our flashlights. As the two men walk and talk about the news program, I am carefully translating questions in my head to ask them. For this is my chance to get the answers probing my mind all day from n fa, the village griot, or Monsieur Diallo, a well educated and well traveled teacher.
Last night I listened to Monsieur Diallo’s time in Sierra Leone, being forced to live in a displacement camp for 5 years due to the rebel war. He told me about the times he feared most for his life and I cried inside. He talked to me about the importance of traveling to gain a better perspective of the world and I couldn’t agree with him more. Our conversation really hit me. For as much as I feel like I’m constantly teaching and being watched I am doing much more observing and learning by just getting the opportunity to be here. Sadly, movies like Blood Diamond and Hotel Rwanda set a base of stereotypes of their own for many Americans like myself. But what I’ve concluded about Guineans is that they are happy, loving, and generous people. In fact they appear to be happier than most Americans in general. So getting to form relationships with them is hardly work.

I am only one

There is no better job than being a teacher. Something about seeing young faces light up with excitement is a hard sight to beat. That is why I immediately jumped at the opportunity to help out and teach 73 abandoned 2nd graders at the only school in my village. Their teacher just stopped showing up, which is unfortunately the same story with the doctor of the village.

My first day I was impressed with the respect I was shown. They are such good kids always saying, “S’il vous plait madame” while looking down at the floor and folding their hands over their chest trying to get my attention. They’re eager to participate raising their hands yelling “moi, moi!” And they return from their morning break anonymously placing a banana or bisap (hibiscus juice) on my desk. There are so many moments that make my day.

But there are so many more that make my heart melt where I stand. How can I get upset with a student who is not working because her parents can’t give her the money to buy a pencil? Do I give her the pencil while there are over 10 more students with the same problem? I can’t just give, how is that sustainable? Or what about their poor excuse of a classroom? It’s large enough but 3 to a bench, crumbling walls and their vulnerability to the Harmattan winds are not conducive to learning. Each morning before class they run outside collecting tiny, dried branches to use as a broom in order to tidy up the class.

Or what about the disparity in levels? There are over 70 students in my class ranging from ages 7-11 years old. 70+ students in one room! I get exhausted from doing one round. This is a primary school not some lecture hall at a university. Kids need more individual attention. Or one of the even harder things is the culturally expected punishment in the form of whipping! Sadly, I’ve grown accustomed to it from seeing and hearing it throughout the village. But in an institution that upholds education? I was shocked when a parent tried to talk to the other teachers in encouraging me to use the whip and was actually given one.

How do I even begin to express the weight on my heart? These kids aren’t dumb; they just don’t have the resources to learn. And also there is really no motivation to learn because they’ll most likely become cultivators like everyone else in the family. The more I dwell on these concerns the more hopeless I feel. What can I do? I am only one person.

“I am only one, but I am still one. I cannot do everything but I can do something. I will not refuse to do the something I can do.” –Helen Keller
(My friend, Jess, another PCV, wrote this on the wall in my hut. Thanks babe!

I’ve opted to use the reward system. If their work is above satisfactory I will provide them a pencil. If their work is excellent they will also get a pencil sharpener. That’s a start. But more importantly than providing resources is providing something much simpler. There is power behind a smile, a pat on the back, or in the sincerity of “good work.” My time here will have been well spent if just one of my students gains the confidence to lift his or her eyes from the floor.