Pop Goes the Savior Complex

Yesterday I had a very interesting experience. I tried to teach grade one. (Note the emphasis on the verb, “tried.”) The last few weeks I’ve spent a lot of time labeling books for the new school library in the headmaster’s office, which gave me plenty of time to overhear the hoots and hollers of the next-door grade one classroom. When I first moved to Chawama, I quickly learned that my understanding of adult supervision did not apply in Zambia. If you didn’t know, my resume shows that I am an excellent adult supervisor of children. I am a Red cross certified babysitter, an experienced nanny, and  a previous employed private school teacher. Most of the money I’ve earned in my life has been from watching other people’s children. It’s what I’ve done. It’s what I thought one should provide to children.

Kids in King David School's yard (Photo taken in October)

Here in Zambia, though, my six year old brother plays outside until dark, with no one checking on him, and he is expected to return home on his own. Our students roam free on school break times, often sent on errands by teachers into the street with the occasional crazy minibuses ambling by. Kids take care of themselves, and the adults around them for that matter. Sometimes during school hours a teacher will have to leave their classroom to talk to a parent, register a new student, or for a personal reason. When this happens, students lead themselves. The older grades pick up the textbooks sitting on the teacher’s desk and start copying notes on the board. Younger grades will be lead by an older student. No substitutes here.

Yesterday for the second day in a row a grade four student was in grade one acting like the teacher. She was imitating the discipline style here, holding her stick to keep order. As I sat there in the headmaster’s office, I couldn’t help but wonder if a child acting like teacher would constitute as child labor? Was child labor happening within earshot? I went back and forth in my head about what to do. Should a 4^th grader be left in charge of 1^st graders? Should the school allow this? Should I allow this?

I put my books down and confirmed with another teacher that the grade one teacher had left the school on an errand and wouldn’t return. I volunteered to take the job. Armed with some newly labeled library books, I stepped into the class.

Man are those kids cute, but what a disaster! Simply a disaster!

I’m not sure if it was the language barrier or just a new teacher stepping in, but I could simply not get the students to be quiet or stay sitting in their desks, which basically meant we couldn’t do anything. At one point I even thought I’d better let them move around for minute so I told them to come to me in the front of the room so we could sing a song or do something active. Well then I just had thirty kids literally hanging on to my clothes and arms and then another ten kids running out of the classroom to god knows where. I had lost control. I tried to teach the days of the week, colors and numbers, but the room was so loud, who knows if they got anything out of it.

I thought of my own first grade classroom and how easy it was to learn with a desk to myself, plenty of school supplies, a carpet to sit on with the class, all the books I wanted, and a university educated teacher.

I want a better learning environment for the kids at King David School, in Zambia, in the US, and all over the world. So often in this experience, just showing up and doing my best has been a triumph and a bridge to my community. But yesterday I was humbled by own inadequacy. I couldn’t give the kids what they needed to learn. The crushing challenges of education in Zambia were once again thrust in my face. And I had a newfound respect for my fellow teachers who maintain some type of order over their classes.

Teaching grade one reminded me that I can’t solve problems by myself. I can’t do it alone. Stepping up and bearing the weight isn’t even enough sometimes. When a problem arises at school or in the lives of one of my friends here, I often wonder, “what can I do?” Should I pay for something? Should I do something? There are many good things about this train of thought, but I wonder if a better question is “what can we do?” We, as in the school and I, that person and I, all you people back home and I, society as a whole and I…what can we do?

I couldn’t save grade one alone yesterday. Consider that savior complex bubble popped. But maybe the grade one teacher and I can work together some other way this year. Maybe years from now, I will remember how hard learning was for students and teachers yesterday, and I will go home and not shut up about it, and inspire others to do something. Maybe I’ll lobby the US government to provide better sustainable aid to Zambia or change its economic policies so that it doesn’t exploit developing countries. Maybe I’ll keep coming back to Zambia and my partnership with King David School will deepen.

I don’t regret my hectic, stressful time with those bouncy grade ones. I would even do it again. But next time I won’t think that my shiny badge in adult supervision makes me such a preferred candidate. There is so much I don’t know. So much.

Funeral

The transition was quick. One minute kids were racing past me on the street, trying to get a glance at the weirdo white person. I would pass them again, and they would zoom ahead for one more look, and few shouts while they were at it. My CYF (Christian Youth Fellowship) joked that they would start charging one kwatcha for people to see me. Then the mood changed. As my sister belted out a sorrowful tune, the choir joined in. Another man started chasing away the kids with a stick. We had reached a house visited by death.

A woman younger than fifty in our congregation had died the previous day. She was very active in the women’s guild and a very faithful woman. The mood at the house was somber. I immediately saw Rev. Tembo hugging and consoling a weeping woman. Men and woman sat around the sandy brown brick house. The community had gathered and would stay at their vigil for the next three days and nights until burial. We continued to sing as we approached until we reached the inside of the house. All the furniture had been removed from the inside of the house, and ladies in chitenges lined the empty walls. Traditionally all the men sit outside on the furniture and the ladies stay inside. We sang to the women and then a man read a bible verse and offered some words. We raised our voices again as we left, passing the women washing dishes and preparing food for all the people gathered.

The CYF went again the next day, and then many of them slept at the house for two nights. When they arrived at the church for the service, many had come straight from the house. When people started to arrive for the service at our church I was teaching 8^th and 9^th grade English. Our classroom is attached to the church sanctuary so we heard the hymns begin, the buses roll into the church yard, and the deep yet high cries of wailing women.

When I entered the church myself I saw that the women who I assumed were family and close friends sitting on a large reed mat on the front left side of the church. Many wore matching chitenges. The CYF choir was in a circle in the front singing song after song. The melodies of the women’s choir floated in from outside at the entrance of the church. One of the teacher’s desks from the school had been adorned with lace clothes, awaiting the coffin. After many, many minutes of waiting, the church men and women—elders and deacons—in their black bottoms and white tops carried the body of their dear friend into the hall. Rev. Tembo led them down the aisle until they laid her on the table. The church women surround her and sang, before sitting on the floor in the same circle of mourning love. Rev. Tembo offered prayers and a fiery sermon, which included the fiery pit from Revelation. He told the people that every action on this earth is weighed when our time has come. Is our name written in the Book of Life?

Then an elder announced how people would be transported to the cemetery. Everyone had a ride and was assigned their mini bus or in my case the back of a Zesco (Electrical Company) pickup. All the food at the home and transportation to the gravesite is all part of funeral expenses for the family. Expenses can get very high, and people even have to be aware of those who squat at the funeral house just looking for free food.

After the announcement, the casket was opened and people viewed the body as they left the church to head to their vehicles.  She looked very peaceful in her church uniform. I left the church but still heard the aching sobs of the women.

The back of the pickup truck was an interesting experience. Most sat on the edge of the sides of the pickup. My friend offered me a seat there but I turned him down to sit on the bottom. I often see these large groups in the back of trucks sailing down the streets of Lusaka and I always wonder how many end up falling off. I had just watched a television commercial the previous night with the statistic of 2,000 Zambians dying each year from road traffic accidents. Driving is dangerous here and I didn’t want to risk it. But ever since I’ve had this lump in my stomach from my decision. It was a moment I separated myself from my friends. Zambians do that, but I don’t I guess. I don’t regret my decision, but it was a realization of difference and of safety standards. That kind of travel wouldn’t fly in the US. The police wouldn’t allow it. But they do it here because cars and transportation are expensive and life is treated with less care. Not because the lives are worth less, but because the resources aren’t there to treat those lives with the care and respect they deserve.

At the gravesite another funeral was finishing as we arrived. My heel almost touched the mound of fresh dirt over the man I could here being talked about behind me. The grave was beautiful, covered with roses, but as that funeral goers left, women stooped around the grave and broke each flower. My friend leaned over to me to explain that people come around and take the flowers and sell them anew if you don’t break them.

We all stood around as the church ladies and men carried the coffin to the hole in the ground. Soon all the young men around me bumped past me to get to the coffin. No one had asked them, but they all volunteered to help lay the coffin in its place. We sang and prayed some more and then our friend was lowered into the ground. Rev. Tembo cast the first dirt into the pit, but then again all the young men around me made their way forward and took turns shoveling dirt. After a layer of dirt, a man started hitting the inside of the pit with his shovel. Then cement was put into the ground. The hitting was to break the coffin just a little and the cement was to protect the coffin, both precautions for thieves trying to resell coffins.

When the mound was left, the church women surround it, knelt down, and sang as they patted the dirt smooth and strong. Their voices and touches were a moving last goodbye. Next an elder started calling people’s names to come forward. Three men stood and handed these people roses to stick into the mound. Women of all ages were so distraught they needed to be carried to and from the grave. Were they the woman’s mother, daughter, granddaughter, sister, niece? I wasn’t sure, but they were in pain.

For a moment I looked into the sky and realized what a beautiful day it was. The sky was blue with billowing white clouds, perfect colors to offset the green that has cloaked Zambia since the rains have come.

Abusa and Amai Abusa—the pastor and his wife, Rev. and Mrs. Tembo, my Zambian mom and dad—laid the last rose.

As we drove back to Chawama we missed the street to my house and unbeknownst to me, we headed back to the woman’s house. The church people gathered and paraded into the house once more for song and prayer, this time lead by Abusa. The church escorted the family home again, this time without their loved one. Then people waiting in groups around the house, under the tent with all the living room furniture, and even up and down the street outside, waited for their communal plates of nsima and relish.

By this point I was mentally exhausted. Funerals always make me remember the people I lost in my own life and start to fear about others to follow.  I even feel a weird guilt about this woman’s death. Her funeral reminded me how unfair life can be, how death is a reality. Hearing of her final illness even made me wonder if poor health care, a reality of poverty, created by a system I participate in, lead to her death. Poverty cuts short the lives of so many good people.

I was struck by how much this funeral brought the church community together. They slept at the family’s house for days. They cooked and cleaned. They carried their friend. They physically buried her. They prayed and sang for her. The cried, they sweat, and their hands are left with dirt. The family was there in numbers, but the church held this woman’s body until the last moment. Until the very end.

LITERALLY AWESOME

Last school term I would incessantly ask myself the same question. How am I supposed to teach these kids how to read if I don’t have any books? The school gave me a single textbook per subject, only enough for the teacher, and I mimicked my colleagues’ strategy by copying the information in that textbook on the chalkboard as my only means to dispense information. Copied words on the chalkboard was the only source of reading material for the children. This process is extremely slow, tedious, and even painful for my hands, and doesn’t leave much time for actual reading, let alone critical thinking and discussion. The poor reading level of my students is the unfortunate testament of this issue.

Now on the first day of this new term, I had a very different question to ask. I walked into the headmaster’s office, and what I now calculate to be over five hundred books were leaning against the wall. Over 500 books. Storybooks. Chapter books. Books for babies. Books for early readers. A few pieces of classic literature. Science and nonfiction books for all ages. Books. Books. Books. Turns out those boxes piled up in the office last term were exactly what I was looking for. Most of the books were donated to King David School by a church in Longmont, CO who has a longstanding relationship with Rev. Tembo’s congregation. Some came to Zambia just last November after his trip to the States.

I was flabbergasted by this turn of events, but didn’t it give much thought because I was trying to figure out what the heck I was supposed to be doing on this first day of school. Many students attended but many were absent. The day was reserved for cleaning out classes and I spent the first part of the morning chaperoning this process as the headmaster, deputy, and headteacher deliberated and assigned classrooms and grade levels to teachers.

During this time, I had a lot of time to think about all the books that were sitting in the headmaster’s office that weren’t being used. How could I make them more accessible not only to me, but all the teachers? I approached Rev. Tembo with an unassuming idea. If we could make it happen, great. If not, that was ok, too. I asked him if it would be possible to make a bookshelf for the headmaster’s office. I knew many in the congregation, and even around Chawama, were crafty. “Ah, that’s a beautiful idea!” he said. “I’ll call the man today.”

Wow, that was easy. Sure enough two hours later the carpenter was in the office taking measurements. A teacher even told me the project could be complete by tomorrow.

With a bookshelf on the way, I started brainstorming ways I could categorize the books and even make a library. I spent my afternoon logging book titles, author’s last names, book subjects, and reading levels to get an inventory of the literature so I can sort it better. Thanks to those who’ve donated, built bookshelves, and organized other details, King David School is getting a library!!! It’s going to take time to organize and to teach the teachers and students how to use it, but I’m so excited! I felt like something was missing from my job last term, like I wasn’t giving enough, and now I feel like that void is being filled.

Now the question is how do I make this resources sustainable? The teachers have had these books for two years, I believe, and have barely used them. Why? “We didn’t know how?” one openly admitted.

And why should they? All books are in English and most titles and characters are unfamiliar to them. Maybe they didn’t have a library or very many books in their school or community. How would they know how to incorporate all these books into their lesson plans when they aren’t mentioned in the Zambian curriculum? How would they have known what book to use when there are so many? If they aren’t used to having books in their lives, how should they know how to use them?

These books are such a gift to this school. But its funny to realize how gifts and donations can do no good at all if the receiver doesn’t know how to use them. Assistance only works when the gift can be used in a sustainable way. We need to think everyday how we can give more and make the world a more equal place, but we need to think twice about how we do that. If we give someone a bandaid and they put it on a wound that needs surgery, we didn’t help. If they put it on a rock, we just wasted a bandaid. The way to remedy this situation is relationship and communication.   When the giver and receiver are on equal terms and know each other they can find out what each other needs, how to give it, and how to use it. These are important issues to ponder, but that said, I’m so glad these gifts were given, even were sitting in boxes for years, because they made my day today!!!!

So stay tuned, lovely reader, as I sort out these issues, and try to learn how these books can be useful to Zambian teachers and students. My inclination is to make the library as streamlined and systematic as possible, but I will try to stay flexible as people react and use the materials. Who knows what the end product will be? Maybe library isn’t even the right term.

On a similar note, I got some amazing new textbooks for grade eight and nine, including a new subject I will teach: Information and Communication Technologies! I’m very excited, but also attempting to remain flexible, as my class schedules are not firm without all students reporting. Right now only one 8^th grader has confirmed their attendance.

After a long time away from Chawama and even what felt like a hectic first few months here, I’m so energized to be back in school and back living and working with such amazing people. It feels good to be looking forward to so many things and having so much to dive in and work on. AMEN!

Fam to Zam

This week my two families united. My family from Zambia and my family from the United States. This meeting came at then end one of the most challenging months of my life. This month was unintentionally spent away from my host family. For very many reasons the arrival of my American family, as I have started calling them—my parents, Mitchell, and Dylan—was just the medicine I needed after a whirlwind of a month.

Seeing people you love after you’ve been apart for a long time is a very interesting experience. You get nervous as you expect them, but then before you know it, being together is like nothing changed. But some things have changed. Brothers grow another few inches and tell mature jokes and boyfriends are more sweet than ever, not afraid to show you how much they’ve missed you. J

Their trip started out with a bang on their first morning as our hefty Toyota minibus got stuck in the Zambian mud after a long night’s worth of rain. It made us late to meet the Tembos, but it didn’t stop us from having a lovely afternoon at a botanical garden and zoo.

The next day, my dad expertly drove the bus with its additional YAV passengers six hours south to Livingstone. Dylan, Mitchell, and I survived with minimal whiplash from the many nearly invisible speed bumps. We enjoyed high tea and drinks at the Royal Livingstone Hotel on New Years Eve and loved seeing our first wild animals including zebra, giraffe, and impala. We rang in the New Year under a grass hut as it rained around us at our lodge.

The next day the Wisconsinites took a bus, a boat, and then another bus into Botswana to enjoy a river and land safari at Chobe National Park. It is amazing to see strong, beautiful, even dangerous animals out in the wild. I’ve seen many in zoos before, but it’s quite striking to realize that if you get out of the safari vehicle there really is nothing—no glass or cage—between you and a crocodile, hippo, giraffe, buffalo, elephant, or impala (to name a few of the majestic creatures we saw!) We also got the experience of a safari in pouring rain, which was actually quite interesting to see the habits of animals in a downpour. As roads turned into rivers, things got a bit uncomfortable cruising at 50 mph with pelting raindrops coming at your face!

The next day the real adventure began as we took what seemed to be advertised as a nice walk out to Livingstone Island, a stretch of land near the strongest current leading over Victoria Falls. This turned into a near dangerous but exhilarating trek where we had to hold hands to balance ourselves over slippery rocks and rushing waters, too close for comfort to the edge of the raging falls.. We got to swim in the Devil’s Pool where a rock formation under the water provides a seat to sit literally at the edge of the falls. My arm could stretch over the edge. Our feet survived the biting fish, but my parent’s camera did not survive the trip! We ended the day with a beautiful hike around the Zambia side of the falls to really see the view.

Back in Lusaka two days later, I took my people to church at the Chawama prayer house. As the first Sunday after the New Year, the congregation was extremely lively. People often talk quite seriously about how thankful they are just to live another year. The service lasted for almost four hours and included the debut of my gospel hip hop song I’ve been working on and two songs with the Mighty Angels Choir that I actually knew the words and movements to! Of course I had no idea I was performing anything before I got there, but remaining flexible is a constant lesson here. I was so happy my family could see some of the beautiful music that has come out of my beautiful relationships here.

In addition, Rev. Tembo welcomed my parents, Mitchell, and Dylan personally in front of the whole church. The family got many hoots and hollers and dad even appeased them with a booty shake. They felt welcome and I felt whole as two of my families came together. Later, the Wisconsinites finally got to try nshima and heard about engagement and wedding traditions in Zambia from the master storyteller, Rev. Tembo (using Dylan and I as an example of course…)

The next day I was quite nervous about cooking and hosting a lunch at my school so the teachers could meet my family. I didn’t know if I had purchased the right ingredients and I knew I would need to rely on the help of my host sister, Precious. As soon as we got there, Precious and her cousin dove right into cooking and directing my mom and I around the kitchen. They boys enjoyed a walk around Chawama with Rev. Tembo and got to see the crowded Monday market in full swing. We prepared a large table in a classroom and served about 18 people, including the Tembo family. When I asked Mitchell what one of his favorite moments of the trip was, he said meeting and befriending my friend Stephen outside the school. The two guys just a few years apart got to talk about lots of differences in culture.

With only a week and a day, I think my family got a perfect Zambian experience. Rev. Tembo now calls them family, is speculating on where they are in their flight home at the moment, and won’t stop talking about how much he misses them. They got to see the natural beauty of Zambia and the urban, dynamic life in Chawama. They also got to know the other YAVs and Kari, Joel and and Sherri, now collectively our site coordinators.

The last month now feels quite surreal. Did all that just happen? But as is sometimes the case, the surreal sometimes helps you better understand the real.  Having this experience alone in Chawama sometimes leaves me wondering if all this is actually happening. Is this my real life? But now that I’ve gotten to share it with people I love, and somehow things feel more concrete. Now my family has a reference point for this experience that is transforming me. Now that they are gone, I miss them terribly, but what an adventure to share!