A New School Year

"As good teachers weave the fabric that joins them with students and subjects,
the heart is the loom on which the threads are tied,
the tension is held, the shuttle flies,
and the fabric is stretched tight.
Small wonder, then, that teaching tugs at the heart, opens the heart,
even breaks the heart--
and the more one loves teaching,
the more heartbreaking it can be.
The courage to teach is the courage to keep one's heart open in those very moments
when the heart is asked to hold more than it is able
so that teacher and students and subject
can be woven into the fabric of community that learning,
and living,
require."
--Parker Palmer--

We might not have snow days, but...

On a Monday about a month into the last term, when the rains had just begun, I woke up one morning in the middle of a downpour. Time conscious American that I still sometimes am (or at least, was), I got up to bathe and dress like any other day. I put on sneakers, packed my books in a dry bag, pulled out my raincoat, and intended to head to school.
.
My family was incredulous. "Don't go now. It's raining." (Yes, I can see that.) They assured me that the students wouldn't move in the rain, and that no one would expect me to either. As evidence of this, my three primary school-aged siblings weren't even in uniform yet.
.
I let Maama talk me into staying home later than normal to take tea and macaroni, but then, it was after 8, and I was getting nervous. I was supposed to teach at 8, and I didn't quite believe that no one would move in the rain.
.
As I left, my father insisted on giving me money for a boda, since I refused to stay inside out of the rain. Moving through Bukoto Town, my family's admonitions rang clear: I was the only person out in the rain, and multiple people called out to ask if I didn't fear the rain? (At that point, I didn't, though after a few more encounters with it, I would also choose not to move during storms). There were no bodas around (strange at that time of morning!), but I didn't really mind walking.
.
When I reached school, slightly damp, it was exactly as my family had predicted: the only students around were boarders, and they were studying on their own. Thankfully, my good friend Roy found me and took me to her room in the girls' dorm, questioning me intensely about why I had come to school in the rain.
.
We took tea again. I changed shoes and hung my wet coat to dry. Finally, around 9:30 or so, the rain had stopped enough that the students were coming.
.
By the end of the term, I had learned to roll over and sleep a bit longer if I heard rain when I woke up in the morning. In fact, if I woke up still feeling really tired, I would spend a few moments wishing for the rain to start before crawling out from under my warm covers.

Another Homework

One evening, early in the term, at the last period of the day (4:30-5:30pm), we had already sent the nursery students and P1 up to P2 home. I wasn't scheduled for a lesson, but no one was teaching in the P4 class.
.
Some of the P4 girls came and found me. "Auntie," they said, "come and teach us. Come and give us homework."
.
I let them pull me into their classroom, but once there, I protested. "I already taught you two times today, and I gave you homework before lunch."
.
"Auntie," they told me, "we already finished that work. Give us more."
.
A bit incredulous, "You want another homework?"
.
"Yes, Auntie, give us homework."
.
So, at their persistent request, I gave my P4 class another homework assignment that day.
.
I walked home that evening contemplating how much my students here desire to learn. Their innocent request for more homework (which only some of them actually completed) still makes me grin. I wonder how shocked a teacher would be in the States if a fourth grade class collectively requested an additional homework assignment.
.
And I wonder, too, why the US education system so effectively chases the love of learning out of so many children at such a young age.

I've been in a poetic mood lately...

Jangua Tugende Kusoma
(Quickly, We Go to Study)

Morning breaks lightly among the hills.
Dawn rises quickly as I step amongst dew
and dust.
.
Too early for the young mechanics,
but I bend my knee and speak loudly
to greet the mad woman
and deaf dry cleaner.
.
The night was beautiful, peaceful, restful,
as I slept with those I call
brother, sister, mother.
"Nasuze bulungi"-I slept well,
is all I say.
.
A few steps through town--
burning trash,
babies crying,
children buying chapatis
or washing utensils.
.
Waves and greetings.
"Bye-ee muzungu."
"Bye-ee," I respond,
"Bye-ee, muganda muwana,"
dear brown child.
.
Past the coffee plant,
where young men sweep beans
into the morning sun.
.
Smoke rises as tea boils
on rekindled cooking fires.
.
Now I wander through gardens
of cassava, beans, and g. nuts.
.
A palm tree, tall along the path.
.
Banana plants,
simple in their sustenance,
providing food, fibre, water,
whose leaves take a part
in the dance of life and death,
love and loss.
.
I watch the sun climb above the farthest green hills,
awestruck by the daily beauty.
.
"Good morning Aunt,"
children pull me from my contemplation.
"How are you?"
.
They are fine
in their many-coloured uniforms,
barefoot as they carry
paper-wrapped books,
capless pens,
plastic containers packed with
cassava and sweet bananas.
.
"Quickly," I tell them,
and "study well today,"
drawing happy laughs
as I speak their tongue.
.
Returning again to the road,
remembering childhood folk tales,
I imagine I'm playing a pipe
and wonder how far they would follow me.
.
Greetings continue.
Boda drivers racing to their posts.
Cyclists starting the long trek to Town,
green bananas piled high as they trudge uphill.
.
We all cover our faces
and dodge to the side
as heavy lorries speed toward Tanzania.
.
As we reach the parish hill,
I urge my children onward
and upward.
"Quickly," I remind them,
"lessons are beginning now."
.
Father Grandfather is giving mass up the hill,
the youngest children tidy the compound
with brooms and hoes.
Already teachers are in their classrooms,
the cook's toddler twins splash water in a saucepan.
.
I pull out chalk and a book.
"You are most welcome,
dear Auntie Chrishtine"
as I cross the threshold from dirt to dirt.
.
I smile crosses my face as the 7:00 bell
resounds across the grass.
It is the first hour of the morning,
I am exactly where I belong,
and my day is beginning again.