Morning of the big meeting. I couldn’t help but feel like we were just starting a professional basketball game. [Enter Chicago Bulls starting line-up music now] [In the classic announcer voice:]Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome the catalyst of the Computer Volunteer Teaching Team. Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit’s Anne! Although she’s a temporary volunteer visiting from Amsterdam; she was the first to unlock and turn on computers in the past 3 months! Next, we have your MVP from I-SAN-DLWANA: Musamuhle! She’s a young, recent technical college grad with computer skills and decided to start her career volunteering at the primary school. Finally, last but certainly not least, let’s give it up for the strongest part-time volunteer: Simonie! She’s a South African employee at the lodge and decided to help with computers in her little spare time. The music faded in my head but their presence gave me hope that this team would make a computer class a reality, or at least a strong possibility.
We all hugged one another, excited for our first meeting to construct a plan for the following year. The assembly bell rang and we shuffled off to attend before business began. Having a token white person standing among the teachers had become normal. Two, with myself and Anne, the past week was distracting. Three white people (Anne, Simonie and yours truly) resulted in half the learners just starring to their direct left. I cleared my throat many times and gave kids The Teacher Eye that translates across all cultures to “You should be paying attention!” My efforts to have them focus on assembly were clearly a drop in the ocean of foreign diversity. Children picked their noses and starred on.
The children closed their eyes to pray and it became clear that one child was crying. Anne, with the typical Westerner reaction, immediately dove her arms into the crowd and fished out the crying child, lifted her up, wrapped her arms around the child and saved the poor girl. Simonie and a few teachers moved closer to the child; I remained standing by, attempting to restore normality.
The teacher leading assembly continued on without reacting. I tried to listen to her but was interrupted by Anne’s “Awwwww!” and “Sorry my baby!!” high pitched comments. Simonie petted her back, “You okay my darling?” echoing in a baby voice. Yup, all children were now starring at the overreacting white people. The class teacher was asking the child (in an adult voice) where the pain is, what happened, what is wrong, etc. Anne, holding the child’s head to her chest, turns to me and symmetrically asked, “Can you do your Zulu magic and make sure this child goes to the hospital and not to a witch doctor?” I felt like responding, “You know these teachers understand you when you speak English?” but said, “Sure,” instead with a small nod. My exciting Computer Volunteer Teaching Team was turning into a team of freaking out white people. Lame.
The children were excused from assembly and the crying girl was taken back to her grade 1 class with the teacher. Anne and Simonie, looking terrified, ran out of the hall and demanded to see the girl again. “She’s in the grade 1 room,” I said, hoping their drama would simmer.
“Katie, honestly. She must go to a hospital.”
I sighed, “It’ll be fine, guys. They will take care of her. We can go see how things are going and check up on the girl–”
“Yes. We must.”
I took them to the grade 1 class. Anne picked the girl up again and took her to the main office to set her down on a table. “I know first aid. Katie, translate for me.” I wish I had my own First Aid credentials on me to throw in Anne’s face and say that the girl needs to get to the clinic and that this is beyond a first aid concern. I exhaled.
The poor Zulu child was a deer in the headlights surrounded by white people and in pain. A few teachers entered and we determined the girl had a fever, really hot lower legs and feet, and her tongue was in pain. She was feeling sick on the way to school but didn’t miss, like a good kid. The teacher called the girl’s gogo and Simonie offered to take her to the hospital.
As it became clearer that I was getting dragged into this, I spoke up, “Guys, it’s going to be fine. People get sick here and they deal with it. We can go to the free clinic and pick up her gogo on the way if that’s fine. We shouldn’t get too much in the middle of this. We don’t even speak the language, alright?”
The girl lived in my section of town, with the Thusini family. I shockingly was able to confidently assure the teachers that I did, in fact, know where that family lived. The team loaded into the car with a crying, shaking girl.
I hopped out of the car when we were near the house. As I started to bolt for the Thusini rondaval, I thought I’d better make sure I’ve got the right home. “Sisi,” I said to the girl, “Uhlala lapho, yebo?” (Sister, you stay there, yes?)
“Cha.” (No.)
Damn, I thought, Why are there only 5 different surnames in my entire village?! I picked her up and explained to the whities that I had the wrong home. I carried her and followed her winding directions to the other side of the section. I found her gogo and explained that I had a car to take her to the clinic. She thanked me and carried her little one to another home. I returned to the car and instructed them to drive closer so we didn’t have to delay. Gogo and the girl had been inside for about 5 minutes when I decided to walk up to the house and check out things. I was invited in and found a witch doctor pulling out various plastic bottles, a broken bull’s horn, and porcupine bristles. I was offered a seat on the bed.
After another 10 minutes, Anne and Simonie peaked their heads through the door and entered. Simonie stood next to the Sangoma and outwardly displayed her judgment while Anne sat down next to me. The Sangoma dipped the bristles into the bottles that an American would label ‘empty’ to soak up any reminding oil. He instructed her gogo to hold her still, then took this muthi (traditional medicine) and poked the bristles into her skin. He pierced the skin up and down her legs, around her feet, up her back, down her arms, over her head. The girl screamed and alligator tears rolled down her cheeks. Anne sqeezed my hand. “It’s fine,” I whispered. Blood beaded all over her limbs. All I could think was that her worn out school uniform was so thin from having to be washed countless times because she probably only has one or two dresses she must re-wear daily. Simonie walked out during the second round. The three women in the room looked at me and laughed at the fact that Simonie was scared by this medicine. The poor girl looked back at Anne and I, puffy face, blood dripping down her legs, arms restricted by her gogo. Her red eyes seemed to be crying out to us: SAVE ME. Her legs began to shake as the ‘healing’ continued. The healer would pause, and see if she could put weight on her feet. If not, he would stab on, focusing around the problem foot. When he would put the tools down and let her stand, I could almost hear Anne silently cheering with me, Come on, girl! Just put more weight on it. Make it stop! We remained for the entire process, including the bull’s horn ‘treatment.’
The truth was that my gut was screaming out to grab that girl and slap that traditional healer across the face for hurting her. I was with Anne and Simonie on this one. I didn’t agree with hurting a child that was already in tremendous pain. I’ve learned to control my reactions, make them more culturally acceptable. But that never changes what makes your stomach churn.
Soon enough, we loaded up with the gogo and the child and drove them to the clinic. They sat down in the packed waiting room. Simonie looked at me, “Will they have to wait?”
“Yeah.” I responded as I realized that it may be hours.
“And when they are done, how will they return home?” Simonie continued.
“As they usually do, by foot.”
“All that way?” Anne worried.
“Yup.”
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Friday, October 21, 2011
I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream for ICE CREAM!
In our first Scoops competition, Grade 6 and Grade 5 tied. Unfortunately, I had only purchased enough ice cream for one class. Grade 6 savored their ice cream, all 78 of them, on the 30th of September, the day before a week-long break. Teachers anticipated that they would also get ice cream and were slightly disappointed that I hadn’t bought enough to serve them as well. Although it may have been a cultural no-no, it felt wonderful to expressively say, “Oh, I’m sorry. You are going to have to read more to your class if you’d like ice cream.”
With the school break and my trip to Pretoria, I asked the principal to buy ice cream and distribute it to Grade 5 on the Monday after break. I sent plenty of text messages reminding him of this, left a long note on his desk with the bottle of chocolate syrup as a paperweight. Now, you may think that I’m babying the principal a bit by over communicating about a silly ice cream task. I have learned otherwise and found unfrozen ice cream sitting in the fridge (not the freezer) upon my return two weeks later. Without ruffling my feathers, I verified that indeed the ice cream was now milk then brought the cartons to the store and asked if they would refreeze it. I’d come back in a few days for the 3-week-late celebration. Maybe this wasn’t the best kickoff to a project.
Today, on October 21st, Grade 5 finally received their ice cream party. This may have disappointed the average American being much later than promised; these kids celebrated. Each one bowed, formally accepting their glass of ice cream, while exclaiming, “Thank you!” After all were served, I entered the classroom where 40 learners were smiling and licking their glasses clean. I looked over at their class cone and dramatically gasped, “You have only one scoop for October! Grade six has six scoops right now! Would you like more ice cream?”
“YEEEES!!!” They cried, suddenly realizing that their one scoop wasn’t enough.
“You must read to remain the Scoop champions!” I said, “Well, congratulations for the month of September! You’ve done well. Thank you!”
“THANK YOU!” They waved as I walked out of the class. I trusted that that little statement may spice things up a bit.
I returned to the main office to wrap up my day’s work. Soon a swarm of Grade 5 girls entered and harmoniously asked for a library book. I looked at the clerk, “Is this normal?”
“Yeah. They’ve started wanting to go into the library since Scoops.”
{Insert victory dance here.}
I happily escorted the girls and clerk to the library. He unlocked the door as they chatted about how good their ice cream tasted. I clarified that the rules of Scoops is that everyone in the class must read the books, not individuals. Their heads shook in understanding and busted into the library. Three girls returned a few books and others looked through the shelves singing a song I taught them:
“I scream,
You scream;
We all scream,
For ICE CREAM!!!”
The principal came in and summoned me to the office. After we sorted the latest issue at hand, I brought up the worry of allowing learners to take books home: perhaps the books will return damaged or worse, not return at all. We came to the (obvious) decision that the school must have a system for checking out the books before we allow for any other learners to take them home.
Four boys came into the office a few minutes before the last bell rang. Boys are always entering the office to request a ball; I figured they’d get rejected and a have short talking to because it is too late for them to play soccer. “Please sir. May you borrow us a library book?” I swung my head around the corner to take a look. The Grade 5 boys also wanted a book! The principal apologized and explained that the books cannot be brought home because we cannot lose them. They walked away with their heads down. I leaned up in my chair and smiled. It occurred to me that things were changing. Our problem is that kids want to take books home to read….?! Regardless of the motivation, that’s not too shabby.
The bell rang and I headed out the door. On my walk home, I passed Nomfundo, one of my favorite Grade 6 girls. She was showing off pictures she found in a magazine. She ran up to me out of breath and struck up a conversation. I asked her about what she was showing the children. She took out her Seventeen Magazine cutouts for me to look through. After we discussed every picture, she handed me a first grader book in isiZulu. I took the book and began to read it to her, playing up my need for her to correct my pronunciation. This quickly gathered a crowd of about 15 kids. We walked home together as I read loudly and showed off pictures. They giggled at my struggles with pronouncing challenging words but quickly helped me correct it. By the time we reached home, Nomfundo and I read two books and exchanged many laughs.
I don’t know how all this happened; and I cannot take credit for all this. But it feels like a culture of reading is starting to occur. After all the frustration and anger I’ve experienced towards the lack of reading, I’m finally stumbling upon success. It appears to be sprouting from my least stressful project that runs purely from motivation and encouragement. Although no skills are transferred (Sorry, Peace Corps.) and no sustainability is possible (Whoops!), I believe this little competition is doing a lot of good. Considering the non-reading culture surrounding them, the primary school learners are taking reading into their own hands.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
For the Days When I Forget
Sitting in a traditional Zulu hut with Leadership Academy women
People laugh at me all the time. Yes, at me. I say the world’s dumbest sentences. (“I need to wash the bread” is a common one because the words for ‘bread,’ ‘dishes,’ and ‘dogs’ get jumbled in my brain.) Strangers giggle and point at me when they see me riding in a taxi; 20 black people in a cramped minibus with one white person causes people to scream and chase the taxi for a few minutes. You’d think I was Justin Bieber on tour in Japan or something, especially because it doesn’t even faze me anymore. I am 26 years old going on 15. Mama stopped me on the way out the door on Sunday and made me put on tights because my dress (which went down to my ankles) was a little revealing. I live in the space past humiliation. I’m sure my dad contributed to my comfort with extreme embarrassment, (Thanks, Dad.) and Africa has reduced my ability to care to probably the lowest level imaginable. As much as I can explain my lack of dignity, there’s something about this job that highlights my strengths more than any other job I’ve held. This culture responds to who you are, not what you do. Today, I felt the benefits of that.
I have daily tasks that I create for myself to push along improving the school and teachers, the systems and the capacity for the staff to use them. I meet with principals, clerks, teachers, and learners. I run from school to school and try to plan to hit one of them at lunchtime so that I eat before 3pm. I often discover a lack of follow-through, miscommunication, no communication, poor time management, forgetfulness, no motivation, lack of participation, poor planning, and cancellations being made to plans and projects people have fully committed to completing. Last week I uncovered that we misordered the yearly school supplies for the second year in a row, that we haven’t planned for nor communicated to the principal about the private school visitors next week, that teachers did not prepare anything for our 3-hour meeting with learner leaders to prepare them for our Heritage Day Tour of the Battle of Isandlwana, that Peace Corps forgot to process my VAST Grant, that my guest speaker was going to be 45 minutes late to my hour-long GLOW Club, that the individual who delivers the keys to the GLOW Club meeting room is not in the village, and that both of my counterparts forgot about the 2.5-hour long meeting about Grassroots Soccer we’ve had scheduled for two weeks. The phrase that takes the cake for most-frustrating-thing-a-South-African-can-say-to-me is: “Khethiwe, we must do this, but we cannot because… So, can you just do it for us?” As one can imagine, this leads to a few headaches. I let these little things build up and block my perspective of what is going well.
I have a community that believes in me. My teachers, principals, and learners believe that I have good ideas, proper execution, and am capable of the work in front of me. I have a loving host family that enjoys my company and begs to play with me, is delighted when I watch television with them, and serves me food when they spend time with me. I can sit around complaining, but the reality is that I get more credit than I can begin to realize. I live and work in a community that is at the heart of the Aids epidemic, in the most populated province in the world, and walk around clean. I get proposed to, not raped like the girls in my community. I hear of funerals on a daily basis, none of them are my loved ones. The Peace Corps Volunteer mid-service slump highlights my frustrations but I still count my blessings.
My Peace Corps supervisor visited today and asked me about my teaching in grade 12. I told her the truth: “Well, I don’t think Peace Corps would fully approve of the way that I ‘team teach.’ The teacher I work with usually assigns me the poems that she doesn’t understand, the learners do not understand, and the pieces she hasn’t covered because they are difficult. I take them home, prepare my strategy for how to introduce and dissect the literature and bring it back to school. I explain my strategy and we review the meaning and context of the poem and I usually teach without her in the room. I know this isn’t transferring skills because I am still doing so much of the work. We have a good relationship. We talk about everything and work alongside each other every day. It’s not so much about teaching –”
“Brilliant.” She cut me off, “Your relationship with this individual is what we want to see. The rest comes from there.” She continued to praise my work and informed me that district officials, who are usually unaware that Peace Corps Volunteers live in their communities, know me by name. “Katie," she said, "people talk about you and your name has reached its way back to me on numerous occasions. You are doing good work.”
I am the worst individual at writing a resume. I forget what I’ve done and don’t know how to put on a single piece of paper what I do. Most jobs judge a person on their performance, which just makes me nervous. When I focus on the performance aspect of my work as a volunteer, I find myself popping a Tylenol and needing a nap. I have been recognized among my community and school district because of my ability to connect with people. I believe that ironically, my lack of self dignity has welcomed in respect, trust, and genuine love from those around me.
In The States, I believe all companies strive to have employees that are good with people and create lasting relationships, but that is often the x-factor that few successfully obtain. Here, in a world far from cultural comfort, that x-factor is the most important variable in the equation. Without the ability to become humiliated, no human connection is made, no understanding of one another is established, and no care for your work will ever be shared by community members. When I joined Peace Corps, I had faith that my sacrifice would come around. Then, I thought that my sacrifice started and ended with what I left at home. I’ve grown to recognize that I sacrifice small pieces of pride throughout the day and this is service. Service, as a mentor once taught me, is when you lower yourself below others; and by lowering ourselves, we are truly lifted up.
Being served umqombothi (traditional beer) by a student leader
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