School Days

I met my real students this past week—two classes—sixth and seventh grade. Amazing how much better behaved they are from the fifth graders. I still have my discipline problems, but I feel much more like a teacher than a babysitter, which as you can imagine is an enormous relief. Forms and syllabi are trickling in as well, but the textbook shortage remains unresolved. I think this issue is a chronic one, so I am in the process of adapting my plans to such a fact. One thing to celebrate: we do have a copy machine!! And I get a whole ream of paper to myself.

The classrooms themselves are concrete like the rest of the nicer buildings in my village. The walls are barren except for the occasional posters commemorating Namibian Independence or advocating HIV prevention. Students share old and often broken desks and many sit two to a chair. This is done naturally without comment. Just as it is natural to trade pens, pencils, rulers, and glue sticks throughout class. They toss the items to each other across the room despite my protests—frowning at me as if they do not understand my objections. This is how things are done—how can I expect them to do their work any other way?

Eight periods are taught in a day—forty minutes each. I often teach six to seven periods, sometimes less, meaning double periods of math and English are common. I'm also the music teacher—those of you knowing my utter lack of musical talent are sure to be laughing at this moment. And I'm the librarian (yes, Alice—the librarian)—hopefully you're not laughing too hard now.

Even in the short time I have known them, many of my students have become very real to me—no longer a sea of unfamiliar faces with wide staring eyes and curious expressions. There's Daniel, a sixth grade boy who can hardly read or write. He copies diligently, but cannot answer a single question. He looks up at me with an embarrassed smile eagerly pushing forward his notebook, hoping for, but not expecting, my approval. In music class, however, he comes alive—his deep voice urging the others' on. Sometimes he leans back in his seat, closes his eyes, and he seems utterly in love with the sound he creates. Other times he taps his hands on his desk, his feet pounding on the floor—a perfect beat. This is easy. This makes sense. He doesn't need those inscrutable symbols on the board—doesn't need multiplication tables that only confuse. This is where he belongs.

There's Uzapo, a seventh grade boy, with smooth dark skin, big eyes and round cheeks, and a hand that loves to shoot into the air. And his competition, Uakaseka, skinny and tall, always one of the first to volunteer an answer. He is the class leader, raising the flag at assembly, quick with English, and fast on the dusty soccer field.

There's Tjizakuje (yes, I can even pronounce that), a tiny and extremely bright seventh grade girl. She guesses readily and listens intently. Never afraid to shush others so she can hear what I have to say. During PE (which at the moment consists of circling the soccer field made of dirt and bits of broken bottles) she is one of the last to sit down to rest. I have yet to see her tired.

(Tjizakuje)

There's Naftaline and Enly—two girls stuck together like glue. Tall and pretty, often walking with a trail of other girls behind them—the closest thing to popularity I have seen here.

There's Marlon, a short, scruffy boy—known to his classmates and the teachers as a thief. He stares at me with indifference, waiting simply for the day to be over so that he can resume his favorite activities: terrorizing the younger girls and taking what he feels entitled to—even if it does not belong to him.

And then there's Funa. A third grade boy who has befriended me. A miniature ten year old with crooked teeth and a contagious giggle, he stops by my house begging to play computer. He pops up while I'm washing dishes and asks me to go to the library. And he comes to walk me to school in the morning wanting to know my plans for the day, hoping he can be a part of them.

(Funa)

Funa thought it was so strange when I told him how much I missed my family and friends back home. His parents are in Windhoek, and during the year he lives here in a traditional Herero homestead (made of mud) with his grandparents. "You miss them? You cry?" his eyes wide with unbelief. "Sometimes," I told him. "Some days are bad. Some days we all need to cry." But not today. Today is a good one.

See you all next week.