Madame Mutinta, Basisi in Training

Basisi=teacher
Basicikolo=pupil

I, Mutinta, am both. I may be Ashley to you, but my new titles have range. I used to just be the mukuwa (which I just found out means "white" and "good"). But now I'm basisi to my grade 8 and 9 students. I'm madame to the many people I meet along my path. I'm a basicikolo to everyone trying to share and impart their "easy" language, food, and culture. And I'm also answering to Mutinta, which makes me more Tonga than ever. It's pretty generic in terms of the southern province of Zambia, but it fits well since the meaning is "one among the boys"...no no, not like that :) but in the family structure. Most of the girls who are fortunate enough (in my case and opinion) to grow up in the midst of brotherly love are usually given this name. And I'm content with it considering the other common names I've heard in my classroom and throughout the village...Trouble, Nobody, Girl....I got lucky :)

With names like that and the difficulties of daily survival, no wonder my kids struggle. I've been teaching for about 3 weeks now, and am feeling infinitely more adept now than I did the first few days, But each moment is a learning experience, and I'm continually trying to figure out what my presence means in terms of roles and expectations. In some ways I have been eased in, but the transition process was also a lot quicker than I had anticipated. But then again, things rarely happen as we expect them to, so in I jumped!

From day one I knew that my heart would break for these young, deprived children (and adults who are just now completeing basic education because of poverty, their parents, or pregnancy). The stories I hear are unbelievable. I'm in awe of the resilience I see in so many who walk long hours to the school grounds which lie just a stones throw from my neighboring home. It was quiet and empty initially, but as term three began the 3 blue and white buildings of small concrete classrooms filled to the brim, and the dusty central courtyard was bursting with the excited voices of pupils skittering about in their deep red uniforms. Most stumble in around 6:30, they've been footing for many kilometers, and they're feet will show the daily trek even more as the months pass. Abuot 1/2 don't have shoes, and most barely manage to fit into their button up shirts that have been tattered and worn from use. Their stomachs are usually empty when they arrive, adn returning home finds them with minimal sustinence, or empty shelves. But as they come to school in packs, they are expected to use what little energy they can muster to work manual labor as well as exercising their minds.

The dust swirls as their tiny bodies bend in half (never at the knees) with handfuls of straw being used to sweep up the classrooms before the days begins. They are summoned to the flag in the central quarters, and the bi-weekly assembly begins as the colorful Zambian flag is raised high. The children meld into a semi-circle in preparation for the national anthen, and yet again I'm awe-struck at the vocal capability of these youngsters. They break into the noisy cows, chickens, and guinea fowl, with their bilingual harmony. First the national language (english), then the tribal language (Tonga). The headteacher approaches as the sun rises up behind him, and slowly he greets them. Silence. They know who's in charge. They know who sets the rules. And they know who will come after them with a good whipping in they don't abide. Immediately the bright eyes of all 700 odd students go down in submission as my host Dad's voice booms. His words seem stern and serious, but what would I know? Except then he switches to english, and I try to fill in the gaps. "The person we have been waiting for has arrived" he says, turning toward the single file line of us teachers, his gaze fixed upon my white skin. Shoot, I thought, I might have to speak. His large hands gesture for me to join him in front and I step up to the flag to flash a smile at the mess of beautiful faces in front of me. I was the only one though, since the solemn stature and expressions were their sign of respect. "Good morning" I shyly said to the crowd in front. "Good morning madame" they retorted in strong unison. My introduction seeming completely overemphasized in my mind, but I realize that my presence seems like a hugely positive step for them. What it is I'm expected to of is still unclear to me, but I try to make it back to my feet after all of my attempts and failures.

So day one began as observations. I sat in the back of the room scribbling down my own notes as my soon to be grade 8 pupils squeezed in tightly to classroom #7. Lots to take in, so much to sort through in my mind, and a plethora of preparations to think about. But I have time, I thought. I'll be observing for at least a few days. But no, no, the plans for the following day burst my bubble of comfort. I was quickly initiated into teaching on day two as I walked into the classrrom full of bustling 8th graders, expecting to join them as a pupil. But the teacher was nowhere to be found. I had been feeling as though my own tardiness would be noticed, but was reassured by her absence. That, however, lasted for about 2 seconds as all 40 stood at attention waiting for my instructions. Confused about what I was supposed to do next, I told them to take a seat, and wait for me to return. But as I checked in the headmaster's office next door, I found all the other teachers seated in a meeting. Bewildered, I leaned down to the woman I was expecting to meet in class, and asked what to do. Immediately, her face insinuated what was to come. "Just go ahead and teach" she said, looking back down at her lap full of work. Hmm, ok, well what about books? I thought. But she pointed quickly to the shelf and directed me as though she could hear my thoughts. So there I was with 80 minutes to teach about decimal numbers. I flipped thruogh the pages quickly to mentally organize a lesson plan, but I realized in short order that getting them to understand any words coming out of my mouth woudl be the first task. English is a problem for these village kids who have basically no foundation for language skills, much less their general school work. But after a rough first try, I've learned a lot about teaching, and abuot meeting my students where they are at.

I have students in their 20's with children, kid's who've been abused or neglected by their parents, orphans who get passed around by family members who don't want to, or can't take them in, and girls who's parents try to marry them off for the dowry instead of paying their school fees. Each one has a story and each one understands life in ways I can't imagine. And because of many poor examples, they often make poor choices and are considered "useless" in the eyes of their frustrated teachers. But mostly it's the lack of opportunities that keeps many from improving their lives, much less their grades. So what in the world am I supposed to do?? I wonder. How do I connect with them, and show them that I care, that I want to know them, and my heart aches for each challenging story. It's been difficult to crack a life-time of cultural responses that because of hierarchical procedures of respect, or something else, stifles my attempted humor, and turns down my smiles. The first days left me feeling defeated, and I walked home amazed each day at how difficult supposedly simple lessons seemed to be.

Even if they finally do catch on to my accented english and learn a few concepts and ideas, there are few lessons which can be connected tot heir every day life. Not to mention they don't even have books to follow the solely theoretical information I try to impart. For example, I had a period to explain mercury rising in a thermometer, only reailzing afterwards that not one student had ever seen one. I subsequently asked around town, but there were none to be found in these parts. There's also no electricity, so teaching about circuits is complicated with diagram examples only. But after a few frustrating days, I realized i would just have to become more creative with my lessons, and figure out constructive ways of presenting difficult topics. And now that I've learned about the available resources, even the kids are getting excited to come to class. We've flown a moch hot air balloon. They've been on a field trip to my house to catch a glimpse of the internal engine of my car (since none has ever ridden in one). And they sounded good as they peered under the hood of the beat up truck yelling out "spark plug", "inlet valve", "exhaust valve" in their precious accents. They've even counted out strange colorful beads of chocolate in math class to confirm their estimations. And after asking "But Madame, what are these?" they were amazed to savor the tasty M&Ms one by one.

We are beginning to work together, and they are beginning to learn. But the catch up work is overwhelming. Most of their first years of education were close to non-existent, so even though they should be able to do basic math problems and understand simple scientific concepts they are way behind. I've tried to set the bar high though, in hopes that at least a few will rise to my expectations. Even so, many still don't feel like being in school when they can't imagine seeing the fruits of their labor. Participation isn't great, and homework often doesn't make it to my desk to be marked. But as they walked into class sheepishly one day, I reailzed I need to be even more creative in my approach. "I've beat your pupils". I was told the other day. "Don't worry, they'll start to participate now". I heard, as my breath was taken away picturing my students standing out back to be whipped. Not exactly the way I wanted them to learn....

But even though I am met with daily frustrations and challenges, I am amazed to find that each day also brings new joys and reasons to feel encouraged. I peered out my window one day, and as I was sitting home writing lesson plans, I was instantly eye to eye with a handful of my grade 8 students who had perched themselves outside my door. They greeted me adn fingered through their books to open to a page of questions. So I sat with them for about an hour going through the human respiratory system adn sounding out the tough words. And because this became a routine, I decided to create a small club for all those who were seeking a bit of guidance and just needed someone to walk through the information with them. They even created a list of questions per my request, which ranged from what is the function of chlorophyll, to what is the function of a penis :) They want to learn, I find, as they come running up to me at the well in the evenings, grabbing my hands and asking me to teach them something. They are wonderfully curious, but in many cases their perceptive nature has often been squashed downby the oppressive forces of poverty, gender, or cultural norms. But i can see their minds working hard as I try to warm them up before the big race of National exams which will come in a little over a month. They need a push since historically they have done poorly, but in teh moment where we connect and there is consolidation of language and concepts I am happier than I can put into words. (Ndabotelwa - I am happy). And I can see they they too are happy at their accomplishments. I know that the term will end before I know it, since the weeks are already seemnig to fly by, but a small flicker of light is worth the energy to find the wood and build the fire.

Connecting to the students has been a process but its slowly happening as they reciprocally teach me new things every day. But it's also been wonderful to connect with the teachers who live nearby. And now I even have friends! :) The student teachers live next door, a house of boys and a house of girls, who are completing a year of practice so they can finish their final year at University. Some are from neighboring Choma and others are from distant parts lke Livingtone. BUt they've welcomed me into our new community as a friend and fellow teacher. A few have even become my running partners (even though their stamina frightens me) and we've spent some good hours playing cards and bumbing a volleyball around. I've even been invited to join the line up for a nearby wedding, which invovles daily dance practice to coordinate our kicks and steps. Because obviously, you can't have a descent wedding without escorting the bride down the isle in style. 6 or 7 different dances will probably do. Learning new songs is always fun too, as they crack up at my mistakes in Tonga. But once we mastered one song in both english and tonga I was told that we were going to sing it in church on sunday during sharing time. I've seen a number of individuals, duos, or groups step up to sing what they call a "special song", but now I've even experienced the spotlight myself. Luckily my memory didn't fail me as I switched to my new vocab and tried to fill the cement walls with harmony as they always do. I even got some yells, claps, and whistles from teh crowd for my efforts. "you should make that a routine" I was told.

But this sunday won't do, since the week has been busy. I've been left with few hours for a new song because I've been trying to learn a few other things. Namely, driving on the other side of the road! Since my arm is healed, I'm going to put my international driver's liscence to use, and build up my skills at the wheel (which is on the right side). The paths/roads are remenicent of those I've paid to be on off-roading, but the sandy course is becoming more familiar as I squint to see through the cracked windshield of our truck. I've made the trip into town on the bigger truck today though, since we needed to arrive early for the celebration ahead. We hopped on with our contribution to the meal (a live chicken with it's legs tied in a plastic bag). So now I'm here for the "Kitchen party" being thrown for Clare, the bride-to-be. (which is basically a wedding shower, but a bit more directive in terms of expectations of what marriage will bring for her). I'll soon be sporting my new matching chitengi suit, which was made at the tailor last week, and I'll try to fit right into the all-night dance party tonight which will surely be filled with all kinds of good Zambian pop music, and tons of food.

So I'm off to shake my hips, and try to learn yet another lesson on Zambian culture. As soon as I figure out a way to post some pictures, I try to give you more than just a mental picture to laugh at :)

Tulabonana! (see you!)
~Mutinta
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