We come to these countries expecting to collect money from trees. Nobody tells us that before you find the tree, you might have to babysit its owner’s children, look after their grandmother and braid somebody’s hair.
The money tree remains under investigation.
Recently, I saw my ethics and Ubuntu professor in San Francisco, dancing her lungs out to traditional dances from tribes she doesn’t even belong to.
My professor!
The same woman who taught us about identity and belonging was now demonstrating that belonging is optional, but knowing the next step is essential.
I wanted to ask, “Madam, when did you learn this?”
But her knees had already answered: We learn on the job.
That’s the part of moving abroad nobody puts in the brochure. You arrive thinking you know yourself, then survival introduces you to six other versions.
You’re a babysitter. You’re a caregiver. You braid. You clean. Apparently, you also dance—although this information was previously unavailable to you.
Someone asks, “Can you do this?”
Your mouth says, “Yes.”
Your brain says, “Since when?”
Your hands say, “Please open YouTube.”
Back home, you may have been a well-known psychiatrist or professor. Here, you discover that you can discuss human behaviour and change a diaper. Sometimes the human you’re studying is actively refusing to wear it.
We’re cleaning poop, soothing babies and discovering talents our own mothers never noticed.
Not because the work is beneath us, but because the dream came with more practical assignments than expected.
We came looking for money trees. We found a crash course in ourselves.
And the teaching method?
Learn on the job—or starve.
My professor clearly understood the assignment. I’m still looking for the gloves.
N
L
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