2nd End

Somewhere in the desert winds, my school found a way to put an end to another semester. The sound of it was not unlike a slamming book that then was thrown to the floor with triumph and exhaustion. It is finished. Read. Perhaps not always read well. But read.

The second semester (there are three) is always the toughest semester. We have long exams (called compositions) that are three days of all the material of the year. Students get lost in the wave of it. It swallows and drowns many of their grades. Some stay afloat but only enough to drift exhaustively towards their final semester. Of course, then there is Loukmane.

Loukmane is that rare specimen that teachers secretly dream of. Attentive, participatory, engaging and without ego. The kid could be Napolean. French speaking. Short. Brilliant. Yet, it seems he'll follow his own path far from Waterloo. He got a perfect grade in Math and near perfect in English. A feat in and of itself, but to do it without arrogance and, Lord knows, without being a smart-ass (something I could never do)... as I said, teacher's dream. I would vote him Emperor.

Loukmane is by no means the one bright light in my classes. Edisonian glows in a village with no electricity radiate from each class, a dusty orange here in Burkina. Perhaps getting to know a culture and its luminosity is best accomplished by teaching their children. So much becomes evident from the front-class perspective. Individual personalities. Group behavior. Cultural norms. You are there for the parties and feasts, then the bad days. It is an array of all set without force. The jobs of students and teachers hold off portions of awkwardness. They are allowed to gawk and so am I, as long as the lessons are finished. It is reasonable and understood. Something that is disturbing in friendships but in the class is understood and necessary. Worst comes to worst, we have reasons beyond the lighted spectacle to continue on with the days lessons, even if our eyes have yet to grow use to each others' tinted glow.