cradle 2 cradle

Nothing should go to waste, right? And you should give people presents they want, right? This is why I ended up going through all of my clothes and bringing back a large suitcase full of it to give to my school. They wanted used clothes—that’s the kind of clothes they usually end up buying since the new stuff is expensive and Chinese (read: bad quality)—and I definitely had it to give.

My principal and I went through the suitcase, deciding what to do.

Tomorrow is proclamation. You see, students here don’t get letter grades. They get a number—a score out of 20. Different classes get different weights (English doesn’t get as much weight as some of the others, sadly—but I’m pretty sure we get more than physical education), and an average is created. Then, during proclamation, every class is listed—in order of score, from the smartest to the . . . underachieving. You do not shoot for an A around here. You shoot for first in class. Based on every subject. And you have this pressure every trimester. And then you shoot for first in class based on all of those trimesters.

Point is, we decided to give a t-shirt to each student who ended up first in class. That’s right. After all your hard work, should you be first in class, you will be rewarded with a shirt from a musical I was in—or a free one that I received at Duke—or a souvenir someone gave me that I never wear. Awesome. I know you wish you were in high school in Mahabo right now.

With the leftover clothing (including all of the non t-shirts), we gave it to the teachers as their souvenir from America. It’s what they asked for, and it’s what they got!

The problem (not really a problem) was that some of it was great stuff and some of it was not so great. And most of it was intended to be worn by women.

No big deal. There are bigger problems here in Madagascar. And I need not remind you of the state of fashion here.

So here’s what we did. We didn’t rank people or draw their names and let them choose what they wanted in order. We didn’t even do the white elephant thing we do every year at my Grandma’s house. No, no. That would be too nice. Then people would actually have a bit of say over what you wear.

Instead, we numbered the clothing. Then we put the numbers in a hat. You drew a number, and whatever item of clothing your number matched, you went home with. It didn’t matter if you went first of last. Everyone had an equal chance at the good and the bad.

The result was hysterical. A young unmarried guy got stuck with a little pink tank top. Ramose got a delicate sky blue top. A sweet older man ended up with a beautiful, flowing skirt—which he promptly put on. And almost all of the women got the boyish t-shirts.

I cannot tell you how much I enjoyed this experience. Not only were they incredibly grateful—clothes are expensive and they don’t make much, and they could always use whatever they ended up with for another family member. But they LAUGHED—every time someone had a turn, they laughed so hard at the result that was rarely a good fit. It was beautiful.

And the best part is that now, whenever I walk the streets of my large village in Africa, I will see reminders of my past life. Soccer. Musicals. Plays. International Baccalaureate kickball tournaments. Duke everything. Even jump rope competitions from elementary school (not a joke). My entire life will flash before my eyes as I walk to the market.

Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but still—it’s a pretty cool thing. Different worlds collide.

And let’s face it—now they’ll NEVER forget me. How can me? My name is on their clothes.