Kiki Barry meets Happy Gillmore

High school. Just thinking about high school brings back a slew of emotions where I was acutely aware of my surrounding and overwhelmed by insecurity. Pretty enough? Cool enough? Smart enough? And are my friends pretty, cool, and smart enough? But four years later, you’re out the door and you’re done with all that nonsense. Unless you follow one of two paths: Young Life leader or Peace Corps Volunteer. Lucky me, I’ve managed to follow both, yet no matter how “done” with high school I am according to that diploma, I keep coming back for more.

Which leads to yesterday afternoon.

My friend Souleymane had invited me along to go see his school and scope it out. I was excited at the prospect of seeing the empty campus, meeting the principal, and seeing where he spends his day. But when he comes to get me at my house he’s wearing his backpack.
“Souleymane, what’s the backpack for?”
“My notebook.””Why would you need a notebook just to visit school?””Oh, Kiki, did I forget to tell you? We’re going to my economics class.”
And then all of a sudden, I had no option, but to grab my own notebook and pen and head to class.

Standing around a cluster of worn-down cement buildings, awaiting the teacher who showed up to class 30 minutes late, the aura of high school insecurity was tangible. Even myself, who has already graduated from high school AND college was suddenly painfully aware of ‘what others might be thinking.’ I guess some things don’t change no matter how rich or poor you are. But then I caught myself worrying about my coolness level and laughed- because as a PCV I have no hopes of fitting in; either I’m rockstar cool or devastatingly an outsider. Or perhaps both at the same time. Anyways I decided to aim for the “rockstar cool” route and started chatting up the students. There was an overwhelming majority of boys, and the students in the equivalent of “senior year” of high school ranged from what looked like 17 to 27 years old. I met the philosophy teacher who was wearing a psychedelic lime green and navy blue patterned suit, dragging on his cigarette as he taught his class. And then before I knew what was going on, I heard a stampede. Running. Screaming. Fighting.

What the heck? All of a sudden about 100 self-conscious crazed adolescents start charging one of the buildings. You would have thought they were handing out 50 Cent concert tickets. But no, the professor had finally arrived and unlocked the classroom. Well shoot, I’m trying to fit in too so I start elbowing and shoving my way into the classroom and then I find out what we’re fighting for: seats. In this classroom are crammed together tables and benches, built for two, sat in by three. I share with my 2 friends. And before everyone is stuffed into this cement block of a classroom the professor starts mumbling some mumbo jumbo and people are frantically writing down every word. For lack of anything better to do, I also took notes. And this is how it went: the professor showing up half an hour late comes to class and spews out in less-than perfect French a lesson he had written. And students copy it down verbatim. And I’m talking verbatim. So when Souleymane has to go pray the 5:00 pm prayer, Abdoulaye takes notes, and then they switch off. But in all the frenzy, they’re lucky they can catch up and recopy from me and other students. Literally, it was 90 minutes of frantic chaos. And nothing was explained, just dictated. Apparently the teacher will explain the lesson next class. But what kind of system is that? Maybe because they don’t have text books, they have to write their own text book one day and then study the next? I don’t know, it’s crazy. And the classroom was so hot and uncomfortable that it takes a true devotion and willingness to be there. We don’t realized how spoiled we are in our own personal desks with pretty illustrated textbooks and air conditioned classrooms. I mean, I feel utter shame at how I habitually skipped classes at the plush R.H. Smith School of Business with fold-down padded chairs in a beautiful auditorium with microphones and beautiful lighting and air conditioners and projection screen televisions. These kids would die for something like that.

Anyways, I got to be in high school again yesterday and it was painfully awkward and uncomfortable at times, but what is high school if it’s not like that? Not to mention I learned how the Bretton Woods System impacts the structural adjustments of Guinea. Whatever that means … I guess I’ll have to go back to class to decode my scribbled down notes.

Otherwise, things here are great. My friends surprised me Sunday morning by taking me on a picnic to the woods. And then got a hold of my camera and did a photo shoot, again. But this time they busted out the model poses and were even taking off their shirts. If GQ got a hold of these guys, they’d be receiving a sure ticket to America. They’ve got the looks, the walk, and the poses. How am I so lucky?

Also... HAPPY BIRTHDAY CARA!!!!!! Miss and love you tons, thanks for the beautiful letter and Kiki's Kicks CD. Having not gotten any new music for 6 months and utterly sick of everything I own, this CD has been on replay and will probably wear out by the end of the week.

Love you all. Peace.