Being "Teach-uh" in East Africa

(OR: Working at Step Up: Amka Branch, Part 1)

So the original Step Up Nursery School, the one founded in 1995 by Mama Naseem, looks sort of like a hole in the wall between two buildings on a dirt road... the doorway appearing somewhat like an entrance to a dark, metallic cave. Upon entering, however, it's more like a colorful, boxy maze. Each wall of the hodgepodge collection of adjoining rooms is covered in brightly painted murals and posters, displaying the ABCs, different shapes, diagrams of body parts, and other various images ripped from magazines. Each are varying levels of educational, and many are hand-painted or drawn. There's even a Risk gameboard framed on one of the walls. Nearby, a giant bulletin board filled with pictures of past volunteers smiles down at anyone who enters.

In each room, 2-4 long cement or shiny wooden desks and benches cover the floor, facing blackboards filled with subtraction problems and English vocabulary words. It makes for a cheery -- though chaotic and somewhat cramped --learning space in Africa. Mama Naseem both works and lives on the premises, and a handful of other teachers and the occasional volunteer both male and female teach in the other rooms (and hallways), making use of every inch they have.

Beautiful tiny children jovially pop in and out of the spooky cave front door every morning -- wearing, it seems, the same outfit or two every single day, often looking wildly over-dressed for the African heat-- to greet our approaching volunteer van with smiles, waves, and cheers of "Teacher! Teacher!" (which sounds more like "Teach-uh! Teach-uh!"). All-in-all, a truly simultaneous heart-melt and heart-break vision to start every day.

This is not where I work, though, really.

I've been placed at the new Step Up Nursery School, Amka, the first extension of the original which opened only in January of this year. It is located in a similarly poor neighborhood, only about 15 minutes away. At first glance, the differences between the two schools, however, appear to be many, and I'll be honest, I fell for them hard the first week and a half. The gateway out front is painted pink, but other than that, there is ZERO color, for instance. There are no posters, no murals, and no gameboards, as far as I can tell. There is a beautiful little yard, and a brand-new gray-cement building. The older kids who come to get extra help before secondary school are taught in the one classroom inside. The nursery school kids? Oh yeah, they learn on the front porch.

By "learn on the front porch," I mean there are two long wooden benches and desks placed in front of one large blackboard that leans against the cement wall. That's it. No rugs, no crayons, NO BOOKS. Not one. Welcome to preschool! How fun!

I have to tell you, it's pretty disheartening. Or at least that's how I felt until halfway through this week. I've been in many preschools in my day, and this one's looking pretty sad. Brand new, which is awesome... but totally lacking. While none of this has changed since my arrival... I've decided to buck up and look at it as a sort of... challenge.

Now, I don't have much money, and the CCS "donation policy" is pretty strict about what you can give to your work placement (because if we, the volunteers from the West, just throw money and resources at them every time we show up, they'll begin to depend on it, and the program will no longer be sustainable on its own), so I'm not planning on emptying out my bank account to buy this place toys, markers, and a colorful paint job. But what can I do?

The nursery school kids who reside on the porch are officially ALL MINE. Seriously, I am now their teacher, as the school itself only has one and he's pretty preoccupied with the older students inside learning algebra. These kids come from poverty stricken homes covered in dust. Many of them have grown up witnessing that the best and quickest way to solve a problem is by hitting someone. Some of them only eat one meal a day, and it's the cup of porridge I serve them at 11am.

So, this is a summary of my emotional and mental progression since I arrived:

Day 1: Holy smokes, this is devastatingly sad, daunting, and unreal. What am I doing?
Day 2: I am selfish, spoiled, and ill-equipped. Also, why did I think I could control a room (i.e., porch) full of preschoolers, let alone teach them anything, in a foreign language? And with no resources? Ha.
Day 3: How do I get them to stop beating on each other? And where did they get all these razor blades? Wait, are they actually using them to sharpen their pencil nubs?
Day 4: Maybe if I continue to learn some key Swahili phrases like, "Please sit," "Write this down," and "Stop hitting him," I won't flounder so much. Maybe I can actually teach them a song, too... they are preschoolers, after all... And maybe if I bring in some books, I can give them something really special...

During the first few days, I fell into a huge hole of guilt, responsibility, and unrealistic expectations for myself. And let me tell you, it's a slippery slope. Then, finally, after an epic weekend on safari, camping under the stars, I started reworking my inner-questions and personal expectations. Sarah, why did you come to Africa? What can you actually accomplish here? What is the most important thing you can give to these kids?

I, Miss Yale, can instill in them a love for learning. I can help them believe that school is a safe and happy haven. I can make them feel proud of the work they've accomplished. And I can share with them my passion for reading. And that is exactly what I intend to do.