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.