Not ok

For some reason, the Declaration of Independence came into my brain today as I was standing outside my classroom before lessons began. I was probably about the age of some of my students when I learned those famous words that Thomas Jefferson penned: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

Those words are still powerful today. As a young, budding American student learning these words, I remember feeling excitement, as if opportunities to be free, successful and full of bliss were gems just waiting for discovery at any moment. And I was right. I’ve had many moments of liberty, of accomplishment, of feeling content. I’ve had so many opportunities, especially when it comes to education. For the past three days teaching at King David School, I look back at my experience in elementary and middle school and wonder why ever complained about anything. I had all the pencils and notebooks I wanted. I had a whole library of books available to me. I had teachers trained at top-notch institutions. I had toys and a playground. I had so much, and I have since gotten so much.

But right now, at this moment writing this blog, which I briefly had to pause to kill a cockroach in my room, at this moment, I am pissed. I am angry. And I keep having these moments everyday in my life here in Zambia where all I can do is repeat over and over again: This is not ok.

If you think life on this earth is fair, you are wrong. You are wrong. You are wrong. You are wrong, Life on this earth in the way humanity currently organizes itself is not fair. The tools my students have for learning is chalk, a chalkboard, thin notebooks, and a few pens. That’s it. As a teacher, I have access to overused, outdated textbooks that don’t even comply with the recent change of curriculum in Zambia’s education system. So when they go take their tests, which determine if they can continue with school in grade 7 and grade 10, my students won’t even have the books that teach to the test they must take.  These children are beautiful. Their smiles are warm. Their laughs are contagious. They run and sing. The 6^th graders want to learn so much that they arrive at school and sit waiting in their desks before the class is even supposed to begin. They just sit waiting, calling out their teacher’s name. These kids have potential. These kids are smart. And they deserve better than they are getting. I feel helpless that I can’t really give them what they need. They don’t need to repeat or copy more words they don’t understand, but with such limited resources, a lesson that doesn’t surround memorization of ideas they don’t know and understand is nearly impossible. I loved school because I knew it as a place to explore, to read and read and read some more, to get excited when hearing about times gone past, to learn and get top marks. It turns out I loved school because I had resources. I want resources for my kids here in Zambia! Where are they, world?

My emotional rage at unfairness doesn’t just stop at the walls of my school, but extends across the compounds of Lusaka.  As I’m adjusting to living my life here in Chawama compound, essentially a slum, I never know how to feel. I can focus on the people. They are joyful, vibrant, full of harmonic song, and blast loud, African pop music. They invite me to their homes, this stranger with white skin, and want me to eat a whole sleeve of Eet-Some-More shortbread cookies with Fanta to wash it down, then show me the room next to their living room, which turns out to be a huge chicken coop (inside their house), they then proceed to insist on giving me a live chicken as a gift (a great honor for a guest), and then proceed to feed me an entire Zambian meal. They are generous and they have a lot to give. But they don’t have jobs. They probably don’t have running water, let alone purified water that would keep them from so many illnesses. They live in poverty.  And it is not fair.

Beautiful people like Zambians will continue to live in poverty unless societal systems change. If you are sitting comfortably right now and you think this isn’t your problem, think again. Injustice somewhere threatens justice everywhere. Even though I feel so far away and am missing sooooooo many people back at home, I thought to myself today, these are my people. Even though I feel so different here, so alienated in some ways because I can’t speak Nyanja very well, the people all around me are my people. They are my people, just because they are people. They are people on this earth. God’s people. The Earth’s people. People. We should love and care for people. Just because.

This unfairness is not ok.