One week into teaching! That’s right, I have a new name (Mwalimu Tessa), a new school (St. Francis at Kibarani), and a new idea of what “business casual” means (errr, definitely not pencil skirts, flats, and slacks anymore).
My first day of ministry was blessed with 166 cm of rain. A baptism of sorts to be sure. Armed with my raincoat, I skipped, hopped, and waded to the matatu stage called Mwembe Tayari (literally meaning Mango Tree Ready) about half an hour away, trying to avoid the bigger puddles of mud and the dead rat on the sidewalk. After jamming along in my matatu, I crossed two lanes of highway and walked for ten minutes through the village, getting many stares and “Jambos” (how they say hello to tourists) and some “Hey baby” (how they say hello to American girls). I slipped and slid down the hill a bit, realizing that hiking sandals would now be my shoes of choice for schooldays as well as long skirts that show minimal mud splatter.
Once at school, I watched as some of the children arrived. One little boy carried his shiny black school shoes in his hands as he walked barefoot through the mud to school, not wanting to dirty them. He did not complain or whine, he just rinsed his feet off under the water and then carefully put his shoes on for school, ready to learn.
The teaching style here is very rote, heavy on memorization and repetition, something I have never really emphasized as a teacher. I was really only supposed to observe this first week, but when I saw that the kids were not occupied all the time, I took the opportunity to take some diagnostics to see where they were at. It really is a wonder to just watch children, as I learned watching my first graders in Tulsa. Here though, the rhythms and the habits are different. For example, there is no classroom pencil sharpener, so one or two children bring razors to school in rusting pencil boxes and they sharpen their pencil with this blade. I watched one of my students do this and then eat the pencil shavings, even though we have a trash can. Was it hunger that made him eat the shavings? Was it that he didn’t want to waste the shavings? I’m still not sure. But I do know that my students share everything, as if the scarcity of possessions has made them more aware that anything they have belongs to all of them. During break, they play with whatever they can find: a ball made out of string that has been tied together, a rope to climb or jump with made from old tire.
I have had to adjust to some cultural norms. Picture this: a whole slew of students standing up, snapping, and yelling “CHA!” (for teach-cha! of course) after you have asked a question. So far, this has been one of the easier things to remedy. Teaching them how to teach one another and think-pair-share has been a joy.
Another day, I had the opportunity to do home visits, as we were briefly granted some relief from the rain. Dorothy, a mother of three children at St. Francis, and George, a young man who is a catechist in Bangladesh (a nearby informal settlement out of which the Kiltegans are based out of), accompanied me. Most of the parents we visited are single mothers raising between three and six children. To pay school fees and put food on the table, many of them run a small business, meaning that they make and sell the local brew. Alcoholism affects our community heavily. When we were initially going to do home visits, the head teacher (principal) told me that going at 8 AM was not a good idea because people would still be sleeping off their hangovers and might not be as willing to talk. Many of the mothers send their young daughters to go deliver the brew and as a result, the young girls get violated and abused. The homes are one-room, meaning that the kitchen, sitting room, and bedroom are the same place. The bed for the mother and all of the children is foam mattress on the floor (which is usually made of mud). The seats are jerrycans.
After visiting another home made of mud and sticks and some bricks, Dorothy at one point asked me, “Do you see our life?” Not “Can you help us?” not “Where is God?” not “What can we do?” but “DO YOU SEE OUR LIFE?” What a testament to the power of witness. People don’t want help, they want to be seen, to be known. Being seen and known is what most if not all people yearn for. And did you notice that Dorothy said “Do you see our LIFE?” Not lives, but life. Our common life, together. Because this is something we share, like children sharing a razor to sharpen their pencils or taking turns jumping over a shredded piece of tire. Because our life is part of their life and their life is part of our life, whether or not we know it.
There have been and will be many challenges in our life together, but for now, I am thankful to have been invited into the homes and hearts of these children and their families. Thank you for taking the time to see our life and to share in this journey with us.
My first day of ministry was blessed with 166 cm of rain. A baptism of sorts to be sure. Armed with my raincoat, I skipped, hopped, and waded to the matatu stage called Mwembe Tayari (literally meaning Mango Tree Ready) about half an hour away, trying to avoid the bigger puddles of mud and the dead rat on the sidewalk. After jamming along in my matatu, I crossed two lanes of highway and walked for ten minutes through the village, getting many stares and “Jambos” (how they say hello to tourists) and some “Hey baby” (how they say hello to American girls). I slipped and slid down the hill a bit, realizing that hiking sandals would now be my shoes of choice for schooldays as well as long skirts that show minimal mud splatter.
Once at school, I watched as some of the children arrived. One little boy carried his shiny black school shoes in his hands as he walked barefoot through the mud to school, not wanting to dirty them. He did not complain or whine, he just rinsed his feet off under the water and then carefully put his shoes on for school, ready to learn.
The teaching style here is very rote, heavy on memorization and repetition, something I have never really emphasized as a teacher. I was really only supposed to observe this first week, but when I saw that the kids were not occupied all the time, I took the opportunity to take some diagnostics to see where they were at. It really is a wonder to just watch children, as I learned watching my first graders in Tulsa. Here though, the rhythms and the habits are different. For example, there is no classroom pencil sharpener, so one or two children bring razors to school in rusting pencil boxes and they sharpen their pencil with this blade. I watched one of my students do this and then eat the pencil shavings, even though we have a trash can. Was it hunger that made him eat the shavings? Was it that he didn’t want to waste the shavings? I’m still not sure. But I do know that my students share everything, as if the scarcity of possessions has made them more aware that anything they have belongs to all of them. During break, they play with whatever they can find: a ball made out of string that has been tied together, a rope to climb or jump with made from old tire.
I have had to adjust to some cultural norms. Picture this: a whole slew of students standing up, snapping, and yelling “CHA!” (for teach-cha! of course) after you have asked a question. So far, this has been one of the easier things to remedy. Teaching them how to teach one another and think-pair-share has been a joy.
Another day, I had the opportunity to do home visits, as we were briefly granted some relief from the rain. Dorothy, a mother of three children at St. Francis, and George, a young man who is a catechist in Bangladesh (a nearby informal settlement out of which the Kiltegans are based out of), accompanied me. Most of the parents we visited are single mothers raising between three and six children. To pay school fees and put food on the table, many of them run a small business, meaning that they make and sell the local brew. Alcoholism affects our community heavily. When we were initially going to do home visits, the head teacher (principal) told me that going at 8 AM was not a good idea because people would still be sleeping off their hangovers and might not be as willing to talk. Many of the mothers send their young daughters to go deliver the brew and as a result, the young girls get violated and abused. The homes are one-room, meaning that the kitchen, sitting room, and bedroom are the same place. The bed for the mother and all of the children is foam mattress on the floor (which is usually made of mud). The seats are jerrycans.
After visiting another home made of mud and sticks and some bricks, Dorothy at one point asked me, “Do you see our life?” Not “Can you help us?” not “Where is God?” not “What can we do?” but “DO YOU SEE OUR LIFE?” What a testament to the power of witness. People don’t want help, they want to be seen, to be known. Being seen and known is what most if not all people yearn for. And did you notice that Dorothy said “Do you see our LIFE?” Not lives, but life. Our common life, together. Because this is something we share, like children sharing a razor to sharpen their pencils or taking turns jumping over a shredded piece of tire. Because our life is part of their life and their life is part of our life, whether or not we know it.
There have been and will be many challenges in our life together, but for now, I am thankful to have been invited into the homes and hearts of these children and their families. Thank you for taking the time to see our life and to share in this journey with us.