Day 7: On Connections and Forgetfulness

Day 7: On Connections and Forgetfulness

“You shoot first Teacher Chris.”

I grab the overinflated black rubber basketball and arc it high, too high, and it smashes against the top of the wooden back board. I’ve found myself in a very casual game of make-it-take-it.

“Shoot again Teacher Chris, you can do better.”

Damn. Okay. Fine.

I sink the next two and miss the third – a better percentage than I could have expected – before passing the ball back around for the girls to shoot. A few minutes later, I suggested we play a game, and they jumped as if they had been patient hosts waiting for the suggestion. Threes, I almost utter, before quickly correcting “3 players versus 3 players?” Slang is a hard thing to unlearn.

The tempo and energy amplified immediately as Natasha, Blontine, and Heidi began crashing the boards and flinging elbows to clear space. What a change from the focused, soft-spoken girls who I had seen share calculators and notebooks all week. Or maybe it wasn’t so different. The girls seem to apply the same intentionality and energy into each activity throughout the day. I have seen focused intensity during computer and math classes, at public speaking club, and now on the basketball court. Simply put, the girls of Maranyundo seem to be present.

Being present. Lately, this phrase has begun to find it’s way into our discourse. The exponential rise of technology in our lives has introduced myriad distractions and interruptions into our personal lives, as our virtual spaces evade our physical spaces. Our smart phones, tablets, and computers have seized hold of both our private and social moments. We can not longer eat food without first taking a picture, and in the last year we have seen the rise of apps like periscope or facebook-live where individuals are broadcasting their life. In comparison, this past week in Maranyundo we have seen no vibrating notifications or emails. No snaps or tweets. Students here (despite loving selfies and wishing they could have their phones) use the computer lab sparingly and only during specified times.

Is this the “right” way to deal with technology? I don’t know, but the asymmetry in technology access has provided us with an interesting comparison. While there are a thousands other factors involved, we have noticed that the classroom, the dining hall, and the quiet time all look very different at Maranyundo. And most importantly, the student to student interaction looks very different. When describing the girls here, we keep using words like generous, warm, and connected.

The American working definition of connected:

-"Are you connected?"

-"Yup thanks for the wifi password. Just opening the google doc now."

Will this change? Of course. Our residence is next to a construction site that will include a new computer lab for the school. Wireless networks are expanding across the globe as a new expected form of infrastructure. And I want to be clear, I believe access to technology is a good thing. But as the access to technology grows, will we see a global replication of the zombies we see on our american sidewalks and dinner tables? In the US, when I run into people walking down the sidewalk absorbed into their phone screens, (WWT, walking while texting, should be the next ticketable misdemeanor) I find myself dreaming about a refocus on nature and a retreat from technology. My far-flung hopes of neo-transcendentalism aside, Maranyundo has provided a respite for those of us who enjoy the serenity when our phones die.

--

She had large brown eyes, and when she smiled she tilted her head downwards in an attempt to hide. She was swimming in an oversized blue t-shirt, beige shorts, and black Nike basketball sneakers. Her name was Blontine, and she and I were matched up.

She was good. Small and quick. She was serious about the game and the girls around her knew it. I realized why they had asked me to cover her. At one point, she stole the ball from me in the corner, and dropped back to hit a deep two. I laughed and gave her a high-five. She couldn’t hide her smile.

The language on the court was Kinyarwanda, but Blontine and I communicated through a different shared language: one of rote movement, sneaky eye contact, and the smile of an inside-joke. We were playing a different game from everyone else. We understood that we both understood.

In the next ten minutes, “threes” turned slowly into “sixes” and the half-court was packed. The key had transformed into a Vishnu-like chaos of arms and legs, and passes were being squeezed into tighter and tighter spaces. We weren’t keeping score but I was on a private mission to get one of the players on my team to score. She was the worst player on the court--at least according to the other girls. I could tell immediately by the way her sad, eyes followed the ball wistfully as the other girls avoided passing to her.

I had spent most of the game on the outside trying to sneak a ball into my scoreless friend in the scuffed black dress shoes, but nothing was working. Frustrated that I couldn't get her the ball, I did something I hadn’t done all game. I drove into the hole, creating a narrow little passing lane for her, and fired a pass through the small hole in the crowd.

Snap. A head jerks back. The game freezes.

Like the entire game, Blontine had read my every move and snuck out of the crowd to intercept the pass. The ball had come faster than expected and caught her square in the face. The drops of blood from her nose revealed that this wasn’t going to be a walk-it-off moment and with cruel abruptness the game ended. I caught some “why did you have to do that?” looks before I began walking Blontine to the infirmary.

Just minutes before I had whipped a hard rubber ball into face of 14 year old, everything was just about perfect. The sun was dropping behind the rolling hills and was casting a golden light onto the basketball court. I was surrounded by these incredible young women of Rwandan playing the same game that I grew up playing after dinner with my brothers. The air smelled of distant charcoal, laughter, and the "jay, jay" of a nearby bird. I was thinking about the power of sport to build these connections across race, gender, class, and age. I was basking in the late afternoon light and celebrating these connections, which are as authentic as they are ephemeral.

I am a sucker for these moments-- the ones we believe will never end despite knowing otherwise. We forget that truth. We forget that like firefly chases, pond hockey, and summer camp, this too will come to an end. We forget in order to protect ourselves and our innocence. For when we forget, we are ten years old again, refusing to end the wiffleball game long after all sun has gone down, or hugging a new friend goodbye saying "we'll stay in touch."

Tomorrow marks our last full day in Rwanda, and our students have begun to feel the end. We have coached them to remain present and to enjoy each moment they get to share with the girls. In other words, we have coached them to believe in the power of now and to deny the inevitable heartbreak of tomorrow. We tell them to be young people - be innocent, vulnerable, and honest.

A game of basketball took place yesterday between two hills in Nyamata. It started by chance and developed into something beautiful. And like most beautiful moments, its ending was predictably abrupt.