5/25/08

Prom was a week ago. We put on our best (unstained blue jeans, the button down oxford I hadn’t worn yet, and a $2 tie I borrowed from the principal of the catholic high school), took pictures in front of our limousine (the new school bus), and headed to the party (at the bar). When I got on the bus, the driver offered me some of his brandy. There were a couple of students on the bus. I said, “no thanks, I’m going to prom!” Then he said “you’re going to prom without drinking?” He’s a reliable bus driver. Most of the time.
The party started at 6, but no one was there except the faculty. We were very bored until about 730, when the sun went down. At that point, the odd student strayed in off the streets alone (even though they all had dates, or “partners”). The girls came in wearing giant potato sack mumus over their skanky prom dresses. The boys came in with jerseys and shorts on, with shirts and pants in plastic bags that they changed into after they came in. It was an interesting and revealing cultural experiment. Thankfully, we had police at the door, and nobody dared come drunk, making it much more enjoyable for the faculty.
About half an hour after they had all come in, though, I almost wished they had done some moderate drinking before they came – not really, of course, but they were completely silent the whole time and it was really boring. Their DJ played song after song to an empty dance floor, and between songs they sat in complete silence. At one point, I whispered to the students at the table where I was sitting “this is the quietest party I’ve ever been to!” Ken, sitting about 5 tables away, whispered back, “we can hear you!”
At about 9pm, an hour before closing, a few couples braved it to the dance floor (including an enthusiastic boomer and ashley), the tipping point was reached, and it finally turned into a party. I wonder how many babies were conceived afterwards…

This morning I woke up early to go to church for the first time in a year for the graduates’ baccalaureate service. In fact, the last time I went was for my own baccalaureate service, and I’m sad to say that my own was much more interesting. Probably has something to do with this one being in a language I don’t really understand. The sermon was something about a bowl of cherries. I think he said that life wasn’t one, but maybe just that they were tasty. We were ushered to the ri-belle (white people) section at the front of the church, distributed flamboyantly dyed pandanus fans, and I sat there sweating and vigorously waving a fan at my dripping face for the entire 2 hour service. There was some entertainment – the assistant minister really enjoys singing – whenever the choir (which was very talented) sang he would stand up and literally inhale a microphone and belt out the song celine dion style at the top of his lungs. It was worth the headache. Also, there were decorative cans of processed meat, like spam and tuna, decorating the alter, which I still don’t quite understand. And, at the end, our students got up and sang a song to the beat of a synthesizer, except they forgot the words and just started laughing in front of the 400 or so people in and around the church watching them. It was symbolic.

The other night, the town police officer told me that they were “this close” to finding the person who came into my house. It has been a couple of weeks since this happened, so I was surprised to hear that it was still on his mind. He continued, saying “last night, we saw someone outside your house evening time.” I asked him if he was conducting a stakeout in the bushes, and he smiled and said “yes, we are.” The question wasn’t serious, but I’m pretty sure he was. The young men that broke into Tristan’s house a month ago have been evicted from our island by the Marshallese community. These kinds of reactions have been very reassuring – I don’t have much contact with the Marshallese Gugeegue community, so it’s good to know there is support, even if it’s indirect.

Tomorrow is graduation. They have come out here every day for the last week to practice the ceremony. Their parents have come out here every day for the last 4 days to cover the new ply-wood stage in various forms of foliage. Ladies in mumus braid palm fronds while men with machetes climb trees to cut more down. We even have a red carpet, except it’s green – it’s made from the trees outside my classroom. It’s past 11pm and the bus is still here – workers are setting up tents and chairs, ladies are frantically sewing matching yokwe shirts (yokwe = Marshallese aloha) and mumus for the faculty to wear. The Americans are hiding. Even Laura has taken a back-seat approach to graduation. In this country, it’s all about the ceremonial, and tomorrow will be no exception.