Teaching

My role as teacher is a recent development. In many ways, it feels natural to me. Of course this might have to do with my audience’s low expectations. According to my audience (a subdued bunch of fourteen to nineteen year olds) I am not an entertainer. In fact, I am to be revered and feared. I am God and they are my hapless victims. They stare at me with their sheepish eyes expecting the worst. I am known to bring fear into their young fragile lives. I will reprimand them for actions they have not committed or committed by mistake.

But, I am a foreigner with a foreign accent and I am an anomaly. I could be God; I could be a clown. They do not know, and I do not know either.

They all stand up at once, making a raucous as they do so. “Good morning sir!” They stand with their backs straight, waiting for the appropriate response. I realize then that this could easily be an infantry of soldiers. They are unconsciously obedient and have no intention of sitting back down. They are patient. Only a response from me will relieve them of this most awkward duty. I have never been called sir. How does one react to such reverence?

“Good morning class,” I mutter back.

They sit down, and the air is once again quiet. I can sense the curiosity in their eyes. Who is this white creature and where did he come from? How will he speak and what will he tell us?

The subject is English and I do not know where to begin. I do not know their names and they do not know mine. On the blackboard I write my name. They try to read along not sure what letters will follow. It is like a puzzle, and only the final letter will reveal the truth. They mess up my last name, pronouncing the “g” strongly. I correct them and they try again; accurately this time making the gods smile down in glee.

Their names are equally foreign to me. I am incapable of remembering them. I am generally bad with names, but again this is all new to me. They introduce themselves with a kind of brevity that is both innocent and unwelcoming.

The room is quiet again. You can hear a pin drop. The air is still cold from the previous night. I’m suddenly aware that the ball is once again in my court. I have to say something, do something; anything that will give the impression that I’m prepared for this. The fact of the matter is that I’m not. My only background in teaching is a two-day crash course in “interactive learning.”

They are looking at me and I feel the seconds tick away into oblivion. What am I to do? On the blackboard I draw a map of Africa. I’ve had a lot of practice drawing this map. I can feel the perplexity in their eyes. I ask them where they come from. Africa is a huge continent, and Tanzania is vast. It’s normal for people to send their children across the country in order to receive a better education. It turns out that some are from opposite ends of the country: places that take two or three days to get to on broken down buses that date back to the seventies. Most make this journey alone, and sometimes they do not see their families for months at a time.

There’s a girl here who lost her mother a year ago, and whose renegade father wants nothing to do with her. She’s on scholarship, and hasn’t seen her family since that fateful day she went back home to bid farewell to her dying mother.

Death I find out is an everyday occurrence for many people.

They ask me where I’m from. That I am from Africa is something they have a hard time accepting. The girls look at me in shock as though I’ve just insulted them. The boys have this look of doubt. Has a trick been played on them? Am I the trickster? On the map I show them where Cameroon is in relation to Tanzania. It is a long and arduous journey across Africa, one that I would like to make one day. Their ancestors made it a long time ago, before the white men came and changed everything. But, this is a foreign concept to them. Why would someone make such a long journey, if not for material wellbeing? In a world where most people struggle to survive, altruism becomes a highly mistrusted and even rejected ideal. They eye it with skepticism, knowing only the despair that surrounds them.

I was on a daladala bus a few weeks ago. It was packed to the brim. A woman got up at her stop, and as she did so, an elderly woman went for the now-vacant seat. But before she could make it, a young man snuck in front of her and sat down. Such is the desperation! Is it this that beguiles man to commit so much injustice? There are many places in the world where there’s only one seat left and where everyone else is left fighting for it. How many seats do we give up?

My first day of class is almost over and I’m beginning to learn their personalities. Agrapina is shy, yet assertive with her eyes. She’s amused at my presence, and can’t help but let her friends know it. Erasto has a perpetual look of fear on his face. He doesn’t say a word throughout the period. Pascazia’s shyness is adorable. She whispers her questions so only she can hear them. She looks away and smiles whenever it’s her turn to say something. Elizabeth never looks me in the eye. In fact, she never looks up. She turns out to be one of the smartest kids in her class.