Happy Easter from Cypress. Don't mess.

The LAST WEEK

Ah, my last week. I can hardly believe it. Before I forget… happy belated Easter, everyone. And Family Day. And Good Friday. Tomorrow, meanwhile, is Freedom Day here in South Africa, marking the celebration of the first national democratic elections… which took place in 1994. But now for a shorter trip down memory lane.

Last Thursday marked my last day at Cypress Primary. The entire week was equal parts incredible kindness and subterranean sadness. I would actually prefer not to chat about it too much, because I have a feeling my words will fall short (just as I thought they did upon describing my last few days in Tanzania). Nothing cheapens real life’s best memories like a rotten summation. I’d write a haiku, but I’m rubbish at those, too.

Let’s just say there were a lot of tears, speeches, songs, and kisses. Not to mention the white-table-cloth health-food-spread I received from the staff in the break room, the Cypress Primary wine glasses I received from one parent (to which my first graders inquired, “Umm, Miss Sarah, do you drink alcohol?”) and the home-made leather earrings I received from another. I read “Green Eggs and Ham,” one final time. I spent the entire morning in a haze of hugs, traveling from classroom to classroom to say my final farewells, rounding all of it off by camping out in my own 1st grade dreamland, where each of my students came up and whispered they loved me, one at a time, before I made my way to the exit.

I climbed back in the van at the end of the morning still somehow believing I’d be back the next week… but Monday has come and gone and it just isn’t so. As sad as it is, though… that’s okay. The reality of the situation is that it was a nearly perfect three months, and now its time to move on. I had closure in spades. I mean… just look at this classroom library corner. And check out these smiles (and gang signals. And tomfoolery. Typical). It’s been a wonderful ride, and I won’t ever forget it. Thank you, Cypress School.

Later that very afternoon, I got a chance to cry a little bit more when I visited St. Georges Cathedral in downtown Cape Town. Currently, in the crypt below the cathedral, there is an amazing exhibit of photos and video taken during the major protest periods of Apartheid and, more specifically, the Peace March of 1989. It’s hard to believe that not so long ago, such a quiet, old building stood in the forefront of monumental rally cries for justice. If you get the chance, visit this place yourself… and get the cool chick with one million earrings to give you a tour. There’s nothing like her present-day passion and a solid clip of Desmond Tutu speaking about the “rainbow nation” to get me all choked up. The fact that I had just said goodbye to approximately 700 children earlier that day didn’t help either. But there’s really nothing like a good cry, is there? Not if you’re doing it for the right reasons.

I’m two days into my last week with Cross-Cultural Solutions (for now… ha). It’s been a terrific run – the quickest as well as the fullest six months of my life, I’d go so far to say. I’m blown away with all that’s come to pass… all of the people I’ve met, sites I’ve seen, and children I’ve high-fived. It’s incredible. As Cypress is closed for the holidays, I’m spending my last few days as a CCS volunteer hugging and feeding sick babies at a children’s hospital in Athlone. Not a bad way to go out, huh?

"Can-Village" Venture

The week before last, I volunteered in a township north of the city called Blikkesdorp ("can village," in Afrikaans) -- a far cry from the neighborhood I normally work in, which, quite honestly, isn't that nice to begin with. Picture a sea of shacks, all crowded against each other in rows upon rows upon rows. That's literally what it is. Blikkesdorp is a "temporary" housing area where the government has forced thousands of people to relocate, like refugees in their own country, while they endeavor to build cheap housing for them elsewhere. Around 14,000 people (men, women, and, unfortunately, incredible amounts of children) crowd into these tiny tin and plastic shacks under the pretense that they'll eventually receive a shoebox-sized house from the government on the "other side of the tracks"… but some of them have been on a waiting list for YEARS. Seriously, years… “temporary” years of squatting and waiting and wondering, sometimes patiently, sometimes not.

Every morning, Monday through Friday, two friendly, weather-beaten locals -- Oaty and Stanley -- sat and chatted with us before all the children of Blikkesdorp seemingly popped out of the sand like dessert daisies, ready to play. Oaty is fifty years old and a resident HIV/AIDS awareness volunteer in the Blikkesdorp community. He and his family have been on the waiting list for government housing for TWENTY-THREE YEARS. Can you imagine? Twenty-three years of being told your house is “on the way,” with no end in sight. The system is so corrupt, it's ridiculously sad.

The nearest library, shop, and/or community center is a kilometer’s walk away, so resources and jobs are slim. As you can imagine, there's a lot of unemployment, illness, addiction and crime issues in Blikkesdorp (Oaty’s own son was murdered by another Blikkesdorp resident… but Oaty decided to put his bitterness aside and forgive his son’s murderer, so as not to promote future hatred and violence)... so it's not a prime location to have a quality childhood, to say the least. Thus, an organization called Safeline (which fights to prevent child abuse), recruited myself and another relatively new CCS volunteer, DeAngelo, to help them do a week-long program with the kids during their week off from school (effectively making sure they got a solid meal and had something safe and fun to do, instead of being cooped up in their sad/dangerous homes all week, hungry and at risk for days on end).

It was a challenging week, to say the least -- mentally and emotionally more-so than physically. On any given morning, we were surrounded by 100-200 children, ages 0-12, some without shoes, some without shirts, and all with empty stomachs. We worked outside in the dirt, sand, and sun, the first half of the day devoted solely to Awareness lessons/games. This largely involved us discussing difficult (but necessary) topics like how to avoid and protect yourself from physical abuse (“What do you say if Uncle tries to touch your private parts?”), don't play with knives (“They’re meant for eating time, not for play time”), and what number to call if you are in danger (“1-0-7!”). Sad, sad, sad, but the kids seemed to get a lot out of it. After the awareness programming, we played sports and other games with them to get them moving and having a good time -- this was a challenge merely due to the huge population and age differences, but a blast just the same.

Afterward, we handed out pears and sandwiches in spades and sent them on their way. Ravenous little honey bees, swarming all over us. It makes my chest hurt to think of it now.

To see where these kids are coming from... the "homes" that they live in... that really hit my heart hard, you know? It broke a little more for them every day, and in the weirdest ways. One afternoon, I came home and deliberated endlessly about how much I wanted kids of my own someday, just so I could love the shit of out them (excuse my language). Many of these kids, if not all of them, have been robbed of what we know as a true childhood. You can see it in their attention-starved faces, their skinny arms, their blistering aggression. You can see it as the wind blows sand and garbage around their legs and into their eyes. You can see it when they dangle from the nearby dumpster, looking for extra food or things to play with. One afternoon, I finally gave way to tears upon finding out that one of my very own students from Cypress, a beautiful first grader who has 7 siblings, lives in Blikkesdorp/ Delft. That was too much for me. I see her every day, and I didn’t KNOW. What’s more, she’s talked about seeing me there, during holiday – the songs we sang and the games we played – every day at school since. Hell, I’m crying again now.

Anyway, it was a long but worthy week for me, and for DeAngelo, whose actually from West Chicago (holla, homeboy). He got here only the week before, but as he's volunteer teaching in a school, he had the week "off," as well. A quality guy with a terrific story – I’m honored I had the opportunity to volunteer with him. For all my readers who are people of faith… please give a little shout out to D, as he’s most definitely deserving. Due to some extremely unfortunate and terrifying medical issues, much to everyone’s surprise and chagrin, he and his lovely girlfriend Toy have gone home to the States early (just yesterday, in fact). My heart goes out to both of them.

From Oaty to Stanley, to the Blikkesdorp kids and DeAngelo… it’s been an epic week for models of perseverance, strength, patience and forgiveness. I’m a humbled and heartened buoy in the raging sea of injustice.

Back in Action

I didn't realize how much I missed my kids at Cypress until I walked back into that classroom yesterday. Gosh, they're so beautiful and bright and hilarious.

In short, since I've returned, we've rolled out a donated piece of rug Mrs. P acquired (gray and stained, but still infinitely more cozy, I suppose) in my Library Corner, and hung up all the kids illustrations for Shel Silverstein's "Eight Balloons," making the back half of the classroom far less morose. I also got a lecture from some of the other teachers about why some of the students are acting out in certain ways (such as suddenly laughing like Damien at the top of their lungs) -- "They're meth babies." Oh, my god. Meanwhile, Israel drew a picture of me as "Superwoman," complete with a pink cape, so I'm feeling pretty fierce. This attitude became significantly more important when I had to address the fact that one of my students pooped his pants in dance class today. So yeah, bring on Term 2. I love 1st grade.

Cypress Happenings (and my 60th Post, who knew)

And now comes the end of another week; Week 9 in Cape Town, I can hardly believe it. As I sit here on my bunk bed, sipping hot coffee whilst wrapped up in my Masaai blanket early on a Sunday morning, I allow myself to reflect on the events of this week – and the week prior, come to think of it – and how eventful they were.

The week before this one was the last week of Term 1 for the public schools, meaning they had this entire week after off, so my time spent at Cypress Primary felt an awful lot like the last week of school before summer break in the States… i.e., very little academics were accomplished, haha. You could almost smell the discarded crayons melting in the sun. Each day held a new and different activity and an air of anxious prep and celebration. I spent almost all of that Monday helping count thousands upon thousands of Rand coins brought in by the students in tiny plastic bags, as their largest fundraiser of the term (and perhaps the year) was to be held on Tuesday. Fundraising is imperative at Cypress (and indeed many South African schools, not unlike in the States) as the government only gives them a small amount of money in order to pay its overworked staff, among other things. Thus, money acquired from junk-food and holiday-fun-crap sales during the week are used to pay an entire Cypress teacher’s salary every month… and she already accepts a reduced salary at that.

This particular fundraiser and school-spirit builder is called “Big Walk,” wherein every student who brought in the required amount of cash (a whopping R250) would walk a humongous lap around the neighborhood with their class Tuesday morning… getting a little more exercise into their routine and demonstrating Cypress’ presence to the Athlone/Bridgetown neighborhood (an important point to make in a crime-ridden area). Picture a hap-hazard parade of small children in green and yellow, walking in pairs (sometimes) and chanting songs (my class) about love, kindness, and fish (their favorites). It was certainly a sight to see, full of the standard repeated stops for shoe-tying, piggy-back rides (in my case, as one student was always “much too tired to go on”), and the emergency pee-break.

The walk itself was fun, but the whole thing was a little bit too much for me (too much what, I’m not quite sure, however, as I haven’t yet found an apt adjective). 250 Rand Bucks, as I like to call them, are kind of a big feat for many of these kids, meaning too many of them were excluded in the day’s festivities in some way. While many of the teachers bent the rules a bit, allowing students to walk as long as they brought in some money, however small, it didn’t change the fact that upon returning to the school, only children who had managed the full R250 were given a box of Kentucky Fried Chicken for lunch.

Yeah. I know what you’re thinking. First of all, yes, there are KFC’s in South Africa, and people think it’s legit delicious… and healthier for you than McDonald’s! And, yes, after a walk to promote exercise, among other things, they rewarded 5-13year-olds with a box of greasy fried chicken and French fries. That happened. But only for the ones who could shell out the “big [Rand] bucks.” Every other student had to sit at their desks and watch the rest of them eat it. SERIOUSLY? The kids who need food MOST are the ones who cannot afford Big Walk fundraiser. More than one of my kids cried that day, at any rate. How fun.

Anyway, after a short debate, Mrs. P and I decided that our first graders were kind and small enough that sharing our chicken and chips was entirely feasible, so everyone split and dried their tears. It was also Nikita’s 6th Birthday, so the fact that she brought in “party packs” for everyone (essentially a “goodie-bag” of sweets and plastic toys, and an obsession of all South Africa grade-schoolers, not unlike Dragon Ball Z) helped immensely in dissolving the gray cloud of chicken-induced-envy that had settled over Room 1B.

Wednesday I had the pleasure of doing something entirely different with the 5th and 6th graders, hopping on a bus and going on my first South African field trip. After a short ride to a Cape Town art school & gallery (or "the other side of the tracks"), students were broken up into groups and filed into art studios where they were taught various forms of art by different, engaging artists. It was amazing! As loud and disorganized as Tuesday had been, that’s how quiet and tame Wednesday became. Each student got so wrapped up in their artwork, utilizing materials they’d get at school only in their wildest dreams, they barely spoke to one another. They left that day with underwater watercolors, pastel radiating patterns, and humongous smiles, among other things. And then, of course, their bus broke down in the parking lot, so they were stuck there for a few more hours.

Thursday, meanwhile, was filled with an entirely different kind of art – marching band music! The principal of Cypress knows somebody who knows somebody, so suddenly the South African Army Marching Band, Cape Town division was setting up camp on the blacktop that morning. For a little over an hour, I was transported back to my middle-school-band days (how embarrassing) and the entire student body sang, clapped, and danced to rousing renditions of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” “Mama Mia,” “Waka Waka” and “Smooth Criminal”… no joke! Any chance I get to twirl one of students around or wildly march them up and down an aisle is a good one; even better when they start doing the moon walk or robot. These guys don’t get to act like kids with reckless abandon nearly enough. One of my students even answered a review question correctly and got to go up and play the tambourine with the percussion section – oh happy day!

Friday, in comparison, was largely uneventful. No one wanted to do anything since it was the last day before break, and my students were largely rotten, so it was sort of a wash. In retrospect, I think needed it, as the week to come (the one I just finished) was an emotional and mental drain, albeit valuable in every way. More on this later, however, as I’m certain it needs more time to simmer.

In other news, my internship research is going swimmingly, although I'm not even close to finished (in my own mind). The library corner in my classroom was finished the week before last (and it's pretty beautiful -- I ooze with pride over it), so the students have been utilizing it in spades. I'm still trying to find time to visit other classrooms and finish organizing all the unused books and teacher manuals that are stuffed into the dark nooks and crannies of Cypress, but it's looking like one of those jobs that will never come to complete fruition (at least not during my stay).

After a week volunteering in another township, I return to Cypress School tomorrow with the understanding that I only have two more weeks there. Inconceivable! After that, I have one more week of volunteering elsewhere (since the school closes again for Easter/Freedom Day/Family Day/Any Excuse), and then one more week in Cape Town being a bum (living on peanut butter sandwiches and getting my kicks walking around the city aimlessly with empty pockets) before hopping on a jet-plane for the States. Woah. See you soon?

This Time for Africa

Was leaving my last post with that political-march teaser and then neglecting to post for several days exactly the kind of theatrical tormentor I promised I didn’t like and wouldn’t do? Are you mildly annoyed with my run-on sentences and blatantly lame "Waka Waka reference" in the blog title? I’m sorry, that’s terrible.

Anyway, I can now cross off “Take part in a political rally and march to parliament with an indignant but passionate mob in Africa” from my Bucket List. Done and done. And what better cause to do it for than the basic human right to an equal and quality education? Or a campaign for school libraries and other essential school infrastructure, more specifically? Few things come to mind.

The campaign was a long time coming, organized by the local organization Equal Education (check them out on Facebook, they’re pretty terrific). Marching to demand that the Minister of Education finalize and sign the promised Minimum Norms and Standards for School Infrastructure policy by the deadline of April 1st, supporters hoped to finally take the first of many steps in ensuring that all schools in South Africa have every physical resource it needs to successfully reach and educate all learners. Can you believe that up until now, there hasn’t been an official national document outlining and demanding vital physical specifications for school buildings?

“Safe, secure schools with adequate resources must be the starting point” to attaining the goal of quality education for all, declares Equal Ed (in addition to hard-working learners, involved parents, and well-trained and supported teachers). Not that long ago (but long enough, for goodness sake), Apartheid dictated which schools received what resources, and what color people received what degree of quality education. The schools of today still reflect this dark and limiting history. According to a 2009 report by the SA Department of Education, of all public schools in South Africa, approximately 20% of them do not have proper access to water, or to electricity. 11% do not have fencing to keep out crime and violence and 17% do not have sports facilities to keep their kids active and off the street. Most striking, however, is that 90% of schools across the nation do not have stocked computer centres, 95% do not have stocked laboratories, and 92% do not have functional libraries. And the students are exceedingly and painfully aware of it.

Imagine a blazing hot Monday morning in urban southern Africa, a school holiday, the sun beating down on you as you stand among thousands of people (almost entirely school children, the majority of whom are wearing their various school uniforms) in the giant courtyard that is Cape Town’s historical Grand Parade. Not only is this the exact location where Nelson Mandela gave his first speech to the public after being released from prison; it’s now also the place where I watched learners of all colors and ages stand up, cheer, dance, and demand that their voices be heard… all to the tune of DJ Oskido and the band Freshlyground (think Waka Waka and the World Cup), who showed up that day to play and show their support.

After an hour or two of assembling our numbers, some educational rally cries, and the obligatory intense dance circles (in which it became painfully and anecdotally evident that we were the racial minority, and about as white-bread in the dancing world as one can get… not that Lucetta and I didn’t try, haha; I don’t think there’s anything as funny to African teenagers than watching two white girls “dance”), the time came to march to Parliament.

I was nearly brought to tears, readers, after overcoming my initial shock. Inconceivable numbers of marchers (over 20,000, I read later) surrounded me on all sides as we flooded the city streets, stopping traffic in every direction and spanning four lanes across. Hand-painted cardboard signs and banners flew up in students’ hands far and wide, demanding the eradication of mud schools and the right to libraries for study and safe haven. From rally cries to rousing renditions of the national anthem in three different languages, the voices of children, more than anyone else, filled the air with hope and a sense of common ground. I’ve never been more proud to be anywhere, it felt like. Who can ignore such an innocent and earnest crowd 20,000 strong? Hopefully not this government.