When my opponents cannot afford to lose

I recently had a FaceBook conversation with the mother of a college friend. She is remarkably experienced with the American education system for her remarkable young age and resplendent beauty [Mrs. Convey I am speaking of you]. Between discussing her famed tomato sauce recipes, she commented that American students have it too easy. I believe she means to say we pamper our students and guard their self-esteem in such a way that we end up blinding them to the realities of the world. The students in my classroom do not have the luxury of such sheltered blindness – or ignorance if you prefer. If my students were guilty of such apathy that I remember seeing among American students, they would be kicked out of school and into abject poverty before once watching SportsCenter or Hannah Montana [or Boy Meets World for those from my generation].

Let me explain.

Nearly half the kids from each grade earn failing marks and get held back each year. That is to say that half of my English students are taking first year English for the second consecutive year. In my math classes, half of my students, for the second year in a row, are failing to wrap their minds around the concept of negative numbers. It frustrates me know that I am failing to transfer knowledge from myself to my students, the ultimate goal of education. It hurts even more knowing the grave and eminent consequences awaiting students who fail to grasp the concepts.

A student is allowed to repeat a grade one time without consequence other than burdening his family with an extra year of tuition fees. A student is barred from school if held back a second time. Being a math teacher, I calculated with minimum effort that one in four of my students will not be allowed to return to school after this year. When grading tests and giving multiple consecutive failing marks, 7 out of 20, 5 out of 20 and even 1 out of 20, I can’t help but think that I am contributing to the termination of my students’ education. It doesn’t take an overly compassionate person to understand the frustration and anger I feel when my students fail to do homework, sleep in class or in general fail to recognize, or perhaps have repressed, the gravity of their situation. Keep in mind my students are malnourished, ragged clothed and often smelly 6th and 7th graders.

This is the context in which I need to play the game. What game you ask? It is really no game at all and the manner in which is played is by no means playful. The objective of the game is simple. The students try to gain every point possible regardless of the morality of the means. That is to say come test day, if my students realize that their laziness has caught up with them and remembering that they failed the previous two tests, they no longer hesitate to cheat if the opportunity presents itself. With one hundred kids to a class and three to a bench, the opportunities are plenty. 

I recognize and understand my students, my opponents and friends. For me, victory would be to see each of them earn the right to move on to the next grade. This will not happen as the resulting log jam would cause the entire system to implode. So my redefined victory is to give the right, to those who have earned it, to pass. This means recognizing those students who have worked hard and grasp the concepts. This is easy at first. But the difficulty comes in separating student number 75 from 76. The former will pass and continue to be educated. The latter will be relegated to a life in the fields. [I shall argue the fault in assuming a life in the fields as undignified later.] This decision will be mine to be made come May. For now, it is for me to punish the cheaters and corner-cutters, allow the students to work hard, and accurately reward those who do. This is my game. A good life.

I think I'll shower today...or brush my teeth

Describing life in village is a difficult task. Simply saying that I live without running water, plumbing, electricity or climate control provides enough shock value. Even though this might be my token summary of my experience upon return, it does little to describe my actual life. To describe my emotions and reactions to things I see every day is too ambitious a task to start and finish in one sitting. This is why I have found telling short vignettes the best way to provide windows into my life.

Stories that come to mind before my computer dies (1:45 and counting):

Where I sit

Under a secko terrace on a plastic chair, I am listening to Ben Harper enjoying a four day weekend. I biked 15K to Kyle’s house to enjoy the company, cold drinks and internet at a nearby gold mine. The stone well directly in front of his house and in my clear view is frequented by girls and women. I thought today that I could make my millions with a workout DVD called “The Strength of Africa.” I would simply take common exercises that people do in the states and rename them according to the daily activity people do here that work the same muscle. A lawn mower would become a well bucket heave. A woman now at the well is in the middle of here tenth set as write these very words. I counted. A lat pull-down and lateral shoulder raise would be combined into one super move: the tô pulverizer. I could continue but the cleverness of these names is lost on both Americans and Africans alike as Africans don’t understand working out and Americans don’t understand Africa. Kiss those millions good-bye. So are the thoughts of where I sit.

“ID Please” – said Pooh Bear

I live very close to the intersection of Burkina Faso, The Ivory Coast, and Mali. A recent surge in moto smugglings has necessitated checkpoints along the back routes connecting the three countries. The main road running through Loumana is one of these back routes. On my way to market at a nearby village, I came upon one of these checkpoints. I had really had nothing to worry about considering I was on my bike and had the proper paperwork. Nonetheless, armed uniformed strangers make me nervous. I waited my turn with ID and paperwork in hand. Approaching my turn, I noticed the soldier wearing a winter hat. This was bizarre to me considering I was on the verge of a heat stroke. Even more bizarre was that the hat had round yellow ears. Facing the soldier, he asked for my ID and paperwork. I handed them to him and saw looking back at me, not a soldier, but Winnie the Pooh. The hat was fully equipped with fuzz, moving plastic eyes, and fluffy ears all belonging to my childhood hero. He told me to be on my way. “Ookayyyy,” I said in the best Eor voice I could muster. Thankfully, the joke was lost on the soldier. I rode off smiling and less intimidated by the AK-47.

Two big men in a small sinking boat

I was given the opportunity to meet new families grace to the generosity of the Hammond family, They donated filters which my mom brought with her during her visit. Working with the local clinic and an elder, we chose families who have many kids and drink dirty water. [I will write more about this project later]. One of these families was the village fishermen.

Loumana is situated next to pretty rock formations and cliffs. Nestled next to these is a man-made barrage stocked with fish. The barrage is of good size and its’ location make it a good place to have a picnic. Unfortunate I did not discover my village had a beach until after my mom and sister visited.

After discussing the water filter with the fishermen and his family, he invited me to join him the following morning to go fishing. I did just that the following dawn. I met him at his house and followed him during the thirty minute hike back to the barrage. I have never been much of a fisherman, so the novelty of fishing, let alone in Africa, had me quite riled up. In the back of my mind were images of a YouTube video of lions and crocodiles fighting over a wildebeest. Didn’t that take place in Africa?

Arriving at the shore, there was no sign of danger, or a boat. Instead there were several shipwrecked canoes with their noses poking out of the water. The fisherman indicated as to which one was ours. I chuckled eager to get things under way. He bailed out the water, not all of it, and told me to hop in.

I should take the time to note that this fisherman is the one man in all of Loumana that might weigh more than I do. And this boat, or shanty pirogue, reminded of an annual cardboard boat-building contest at Taylor Lake. A contest in which I refused to participate knowing the basic laws of buoyancy and common sense. The same red flags that kept me from getting in the cardboard boats were hoisted at full mast climbing into the pirogue.

We pushed off, me sitting and him standing in back. Being on the water was peaceful and a stark contrast to the dry dustiness of Sub-Saharan Africa this time of year. For two hours, he checked his nets for fish and I bailed out water to keep us afloat. I left that morning with a sack full of fish and a new friend, my first fishing buddy ever.