Creativity is a luxury, right? Think about the sensations and emotions that anchor you to the moment, those that bind you like gravity and disable you from thinking about anything else. Hunger or thirst or feeling oily because you haven't bathed in four days or itchy because you're freckled with mosquito bites or uncomfortable because your shoes are in shreds and you have to flex your toes to keep them on your feet. Think about anxiety and fear and fatigue and pain. Honestly consider how these feel, and now don't you agree that creativity is a perk?
Because when you're feeling these things -and there's no food or water or bath or better shoes or perspective to quell your anxiety or NSAIDs to ease your pain- there isn't really any leftover energy to devote to harnessing your imagination. There isn't actually much utility in breaking the mold, tinkering with your future, thinking outside the box.
I am so lucky.
Because when I was little there wasn't a career my friends and I didn't sample, nor a game we didn't play, from the comfort of our homes. We were interior designers and chefs and teachers and veterinarians. We built hotels, homes, and entire cities via computer games. We were sports broadcasters during recess, we wrote limericks for fake TV commercials. My cousins and I invented, evolved, and played the "Level Game" in our basement, the sole purpose of which was, quite literally, to create obstacle courses for one another. And then to overcome them.
In school, we went on field trips. To museums and to poetry slams, to the nature center and to historic sites. We wrote short stories, longer stories; essays, longer essays. And we read; we read and we read. Our reading assignments took us along the Oregon Trail and the Silk Road; we went on witch hunts in Salem, sat for tea with Jane Eyre; we went on the Odyssey, learned why the caged bird sings, read Anne Frank's letters, attended Jay Gatsby's parties. We also explored magical lands: Terabithia, Hogwarts, Middle Earth. We solved mysteries. Yes, we spent a lot of time indoors, surrounded by 4 walls. But we saw the world.
So it takes a second to think about how the children of the villages of Northern Malawi, who spend the majority of their days outside, who in some ways have no boundaries or walls, are confined. Are anchored.
Having the time and energy to make believe is one thing, but knowing the boundaries of what exists so that you can tiptoe beyond them is part of it too.
When we would visit villages in the jeep, the children would literally drop everything and run after it: this was the activity. What do the children of the villages do for fun? I asked Wilson, the graduate student who helped us with our surveys. The children were on holiday from school before the new year, so maybe they had more free time than usual, but by the last day I couldn't bring myself to wave out the back window anymore.
Because when you're feeling these things -and there's no food or water or bath or better shoes or perspective to quell your anxiety or NSAIDs to ease your pain- there isn't really any leftover energy to devote to harnessing your imagination. There isn't actually much utility in breaking the mold, tinkering with your future, thinking outside the box.
I am so lucky.
Because when I was little there wasn't a career my friends and I didn't sample, nor a game we didn't play, from the comfort of our homes. We were interior designers and chefs and teachers and veterinarians. We built hotels, homes, and entire cities via computer games. We were sports broadcasters during recess, we wrote limericks for fake TV commercials. My cousins and I invented, evolved, and played the "Level Game" in our basement, the sole purpose of which was, quite literally, to create obstacle courses for one another. And then to overcome them.
In school, we went on field trips. To museums and to poetry slams, to the nature center and to historic sites. We wrote short stories, longer stories; essays, longer essays. And we read; we read and we read. Our reading assignments took us along the Oregon Trail and the Silk Road; we went on witch hunts in Salem, sat for tea with Jane Eyre; we went on the Odyssey, learned why the caged bird sings, read Anne Frank's letters, attended Jay Gatsby's parties. We also explored magical lands: Terabithia, Hogwarts, Middle Earth. We solved mysteries. Yes, we spent a lot of time indoors, surrounded by 4 walls. But we saw the world.
So it takes a second to think about how the children of the villages of Northern Malawi, who spend the majority of their days outside, who in some ways have no boundaries or walls, are confined. Are anchored.
Having the time and energy to make believe is one thing, but knowing the boundaries of what exists so that you can tiptoe beyond them is part of it too.
When we would visit villages in the jeep, the children would literally drop everything and run after it: this was the activity. What do the children of the villages do for fun? I asked Wilson, the graduate student who helped us with our surveys. The children were on holiday from school before the new year, so maybe they had more free time than usual, but by the last day I couldn't bring myself to wave out the back window anymore.
They do lots of things, he told me. They hunt for mice and rodents, they make small models out of the dirt, they fish.
And the little girls?
The little girls tie a rope to the tree and jump over it.
I thought back to what Rosa told us at dinner the week before, about her 4-year-old. Lena likes to make believe cook, she makes nsima out of mud.
In the moment I thought this was sweet, just as for a while the site of the children running after the car, after the White people, didn't faze me. But honestly? What if the village children's creativity is stifled by what they can't even imagine? If Lena wants, she should be pretending to be a doctor or a teacher or a lawyer or a fashion designer or a cook or anything she wants. Because pretending comes first.
Next time, I bring books.
Hoping I'm wrong, and aware that the above has a lot of holes,
R
I thought back to what Rosa told us at dinner the week before, about her 4-year-old. Lena likes to make believe cook, she makes nsima out of mud.
In the moment I thought this was sweet, just as for a while the site of the children running after the car, after the White people, didn't faze me. But honestly? What if the village children's creativity is stifled by what they can't even imagine? If Lena wants, she should be pretending to be a doctor or a teacher or a lawyer or a fashion designer or a cook or anything she wants. Because pretending comes first.
Next time, I bring books.
Hoping I'm wrong, and aware that the above has a lot of holes,
R
You have us all thinking -- than you!!!!
ReplyDeleteIncredible perspective. We have so much to learn. Beautiful piece. ❤️
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