Kids Will Be Kids

At first glance my school is nothing like a school in America. In the morning, students use grass brooms to sweep leaves from the school compound. A 8:00 a.m., when the bell rings for assembly, the students line up to recite a prayer in Arabic and sing Salone's national anthem. No one is to walk while the national anthem is being sung. (I made the mistake of not freezing in my tracks as soon as I heard the first words of the anthem once and everyone was shocked by my audaciousness. Of course, I was forgiven due to my ignorant status as a foreigner.) After the last lines fade, late comers hoping to avoid six lashes with the dried reed canes try to sneak into assembly among the other students. Meanwhile, the primary school children drag their desks and benches outside under the trees because the school building that collapsed has yet to be rebuilt. From the outside, no one is going to forget that we're in  a rural African village school. Inside the classroom, some of the differences begin to melt. It is true that the education system and the style of teaching are vastly different here. It is true that limited resources pose unique challenges. However, the kids are the same as kids in America in many ways. You have the know-it-alls, the under-achievers, the kids who really want to learn, and those who spend an unnecessary amount of effort causing problems. You have the frightened JSS I students who are just leaving primary school and the JSS II students who will be graduating this year and think they own the school.

Teaching makes me wonder what my own high school teachers really thought of us. At times, I honestly cannot comprehend why students are acting so obnoxious or are so horrified by the amount of work I give them. (Which, by the way, is nothing compared to the amount of work my own high school teachers gave) In other instances, I find the antics of trouble-makers more amusing than irritating. In order not to loose face as an authority figure, I stay relatively stern in class. However, at times, it is difficult to keep a straight face in class when students cause problems. One afternoon, I turned around from the chalkboard to see Fatmata's face covered in chalk dust. "What happened?" I asked. "It is this boy," she says, throwing the duster at Umani.
"Don't mind them," Isata tells me. "He is her boyfriend." Oh fine, as long as it's just flirtatious banter, go ahead and wack each other over the head with the eraser, I think, wishing sarcasm could translate language barriers.
"Give me the duster and write your notes," I say. I turn back to the chalkboard partly to continue writing the definition of metaphor, and partly to hide my amused smile.

No matter where you are in the world, it is true what they say - kids will be kids.

I only laugh so as to keep from weeping

Yes, I am entitling this blog entry after a line from a Knight's Tale. (What? It's a great movie)

To be honest, I am rarely on the verge of tears when I resort to laughing at inappropriate moments. It is only in retrospect that I realize I am laughing at things that really aren't very funny. Or funny at all, for that matter. That being said, laughter is great preventative medicine. It keeps you in a bright mood when you would otherwise run the risk of becoming bitter and frustrated. So I want to share an example of the times "I only laugh so as to keep from weeping."

One Friday morning, I left my house with my empty rubber bucket in hand and headed towards the pump. Friday is the Muslim holy day so we don't have school. This means for me Friday is "brooking" day - or the day I use my two rubber tubs and a little plastic bag of powdered "Africana" soap to wash all  my clothes. I was never a fan of doing laundry in the US even though it is ridiculously easy to throw all your things into a washing machine, but for some reason I enjoy the methodical process of scrubbing my clothes by hand and beating them against a rock to work out any stains. Thus, with my bucket in tow I proceeded to the well to get my brooking water. Nine year old Ibrahim stopped me to ask in Mende where I was going. I replied that I was going to get water, to which Ibrahim answered something that sounded to me like "there is no water."

"What?" I asked, thinking that perhaps I had misunderstood him.
"Wata no de." He repeated in Krio, thus I clearly got the message that there was no water at the pump.
"Okay, I'll go across the street."
"No, that pump is broken too."
"So where do you go to get water?"
"We can't get water."
"You can't get water?"
"No, we no de get again!" (We won't get water again!)

For some reason I found this completely hysterical. A little boy was telling me that they would never get water again in the village. It was only after suppressing my laughter that I realized it wasn't actually a funny situation. The idea that the entire village could be without a clean water source was actually rather horrifying. Of course, this was not the case. There are other water wells on the outskirts of the village so I went there to fetch my water. I did decide to put off brooking my clothes not knowing when the pump would be fixed. I figured it was important to conserve water, since wells run the risk of going dry, especially now that it hasn't rained for a few months. I was mildly surprised that the pump nearest to my house was fixed within 48 hours. Apparently the threat of "we no de get again" was not a laughing matter, so people got straight to the business of fixing the well.