Unjust illiteracy

Almost everyday I walk into class and do one of the following. I might write a whole bunch of notes on the board. These notes could be about history, including names, places, things, and events far away that a Zambian has never heard about or seen. These notes could be about computers and technology, strange machines they’ve never used. These notes could be long and complicated English vocabulary words I found in our grade eight and nine textbooks.

If I don’t write notes, I hand out papers or books to read. This is a new development this term. We had a printer for a few weeks but then it broke. We now have 500 storybooks for the school to use. I occasionally photocopy some readings and multiple-choice questions at a local copy shop. The readings in the first chapter of the grade nine English textbook were about the history of radio, television, aircrafts, and modern kitchen appliances. They were all extremely Eurocentric. They were long readings, and they had lots of big words.

If I don’t hand out reading material, I might just start talking. I don’t talk like a Zambian. I have an accent. I use American English instead of British English. While I try everyday to talk slowly and use a mix of easy vocabulary that they will understand and advanced vocabulary so they can learn new words, I nonetheless use a complicated vocabulary my students are not used to. When I asked students to write about one difficult thing they encountered this semester. One student honestly wrote, “I could not understand Teacher Hannah. When she askes us if we understand, I just said yes.” True. Honest. A reality. I’m glad he wrote it. And it stings my heart.

I ask my students to read every day. Read these notes I wrote. Read this book I am giving you. Read this poem on the board. Read these homework questions. Read these directions for an exercise.

Everyday I ask my students to write. Write the answers to these questions. Write about this history topic. Write about the computer topic. Write about your life.

Every single day.

And every single day my students must feel so helpless. They must feel so frustrated. They must feel so exhausted. They must feel so bored.

Why would they feel this way?

Because they can’t read and write.

These students are in grade eight and nine, some are as old as seventeen years, and they can’t read and write.

Sometimes this is unfathomable to me. I barely remember a time I couldn’t read or write. I don’t know what its like to not have the means to express myself and understand the communication from others.

I’ve taught for two school terms in Zambia and in both terms it took me weeks to find out who was illiterate. Weeks. That is unacceptable.  I am failing these kids in so many ways.

Can you imagine what it feels like to be asked to read and write everyday and not know how to do it? I just imagine some of these students thinking, “Yeah, you want us to answer these questions. TEACH US TO READ. You want me to write a good essay question? TEACH ME TO WRITE!”

And I’m trying. I’m trying so hard to teach these kids to read and write. But there are so many of them and only one of me.

I am daunted by this grade nine test all of my students will have to take, either this year or next year. Some have already failed and are in grade eight or nine for the second time. This test will expect them to read and write at a grade eight and nine level. I’ve seen practice tests and they would give any American high schooler a challenge. And yet illiterate students take these tests in Zambia every year. And then they fail. And take many years to complete their education. Or they fail and drop out and continue living a life in poverty.

This world is so unjust. These kids want to read and write so badly. They want to succeed. They want to grasp opportunity. They show up to school everyday. Their eyes are on the board, a pen in their hands. Their hands are open to the world, ready to give themselves and work hard. But those hands remain empty. I give them notes and a few books, but it’s not enough. They don’t have books at home that could have helped them to learn to read at an earlier age. They don’t have books at home to teach them now.

What is it like to stare at a page of letters, knowing they mean something… knowing these words unlock the key to success, to a future, to understanding, to so many things? What is like to stare at those words…and unlock nothing, to understand nothing?

It’s messed up. This is messed up.

I’m failing. And if you are reading this I don’t need a whole bunch of emails, saying, oh Hannah, you are doing your best. You’ve given them so much in other ways…blah, blah, blah. I’m sure I would actually appreciate that very much, but instead I invite you to look at this situation and see that yes, I am failing. The challenges to teaching Zambian kids to read in urban poverty are staggering. I want you to see that and feel that with me. I want you see that this is unfair. And I want you see that it’s not just me failing. It’s society. It’s our world. We are failing so many kids everyday. People in this world are not getting their needs met, be it food or education. Why do we the kids with the most resources keep getting more? And the kids who need the most keep getting less?