Abstract

In Madagascar, I gradually learned a new and intimate language and was drawn into the matter-offact, brusque nurture of Tsihombe women. Once I could leave the classroom, where in my English lessons I attempted to expose my students to some of the life from which I had come, I could step out from the artificial America I had created and into the close circle of Antandroy women. Whether sharing a sweet potato in the market, telling anecdotes during the peanut harvest, or simply sitting in shade to manao tantara, to beat out stories with rock against rock, I was no longer among them but one of them.

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