Don't Believe Everything You Hear

Have you ever wondered if your teacher or your boss was just making crap up as they went along? Have you had the moment where you think to yourself, hmmm no that doesn’t sound right, but then just let it go because an authority figure said it was true so therefore it has to be true?  After being a teacher for eight weeks with absolutely no teaching credentials, I think it is time we start teaching our kids to question basically anything a teacher says in this country. I have recently discovered that in South Africa information takes the back burner to personal opinion and mythology, which I often find entertaining but also worrisome. I have taken note of this week’s information blunders and hope you find them as enjoyable as I did.

Turns out South Africa has come up with its own answer to the age old question: is a tomato a fruit or a vegetable? While some people argue the science and say it is a fruit, others argue the fact that they are gross so therefore it has to be a vegetable; South Africa takes a different approach. They just make up their own category. According to a poster that I recently found in the staff room (published in 2010) there are fruits, vegetables, and vegetable fruits. What is a vegetable fruit you ask; well no one could actually give me an answer to that. Maybe people just got tired of arguing about it here and decided to name it both so no matter what you call it you’re only half wrong. Here 50% is way above passing, so now kids can pick either answer and they will be close. Strangely enough avocados and green peppers were also thrown into the vegetable fruit category. I’m not really sure why green peppers would be classified different than red and yellow peppers, which were shown under the vegetable category, but I’m just going to go with it. So now if someone ever asks you if a tomato is a fruit or a vegetable, you always have to option to tell them that in South Africa it is both.

Soon after my discovery of the vegetable fruit poster I began to sneeze due to the two years of dust sitting on top of said poster. After third sneeze the other teachers in the staff room became very concerned for my health. I had a minor cough all week and now I was sneezing, so clearly I was dying. Although I tried to explain that I just had allergies, the concern didn’t end there. Apparently, as I was informed by three very concerned women, there is no such thing as allergies. That’s right people, all those times the doctor told you that you are allergic to pollen, cats, or nuts, they were lying. It’s shocking right, all these years of taking antihistamines was a waste because I obviously have asthma, or maybe pneumonia, or possibly bronchitis, but definitely not allergies because those aren’t real. Luckily for me, it doesn’t really matter what I have because there is some traditional Zulu medicine to cure just about anything. While I stuck to my story of having allergies and not needing to see a doctor or a chemist (pharmacist), the older teachers decided that they knew better than my young naive mind, so today a was greeted with a little home brew to cure all. I know some people out there will swear by traditional medicines, but I am a firm believer in not drinking things if I don’t know what’s in it. I’m also a firm believer that you should never drink something that looks like sludge, and this stuff fell under the unknown and sludge category, so there was absolutely no way I was drinking that crap. Unfortunately it is rather hard to explain why you won’t drink something that looked like a Harry Potter potion gone really wrong to a group of people who truly believe it would cure me. So going with the theme of the week, I just started making shit up. Apparently I am now a firm believer that medicine should not be used unless you are extremely ill, and that Americans believe it is better to just let illnesses run their course so your body can learn to fight it. Turns out lying is a great way to get out of taking the scariest medicine I have ever seen.

This was about the time that I started thinking that maybe teachers aren’t as smart as students think they are. This thought was confirmed after school when I was walking home with a group of grade 8 learners who have decided that I am a walking encyclopedia. These kids don’t exactly have access to the internet so they can’t just Google thinks when they have questions, so obviously the next best option is ask the white girl. Today’s questions focused on pants and animals for their Natural Science class. The questions started off pretty normal about what types of plants can live underwater vs. plants that just need water to live. Then they took a turn for the weird when one of the girls asked what plants can fly. Turns out they were informed during class today that some plants can fly. I wasn’t exactly sure how to respond to that, so I told them I would ask their teacher about it tomorrow, but right now there are 42 grade 8 learners who now think that plants can fly. Maybe my next lie will be, “No mom, Butch didn’t trample over all your flowers because I threw the ball in the garden. The flowers simply flew away”.  A teacher told me it was possible, so obviously it’s true.

The progression of information this week concerns me. In the US we teach kids to at least use critical thinking, so hopefully by 8^th grade they would not buy into the flying plant information, but that’s not how things work in this country. Kids here are taught not ask questions, and to never talk back to an authority figure, so how are they ever supposed to figure out some things people say just aren’t true? 

A Love Story

As I’m sure you noticed, last week’s post was filled with some pretty strong emotions. Sometimes it surprises me how stressful this experience is. Before I left for Africa people told me over and over again that this will be the hardest thing I ever do, but no one can prepare you for what it’s really like. You might be able to prepare yourself for the physical hardships that you will face living in a small village, but there is no way to prepare yourself for the emotional roller coaster that is your Peace Corps service. The smallest thing can make me feel like I own the world, or it can bring me to my knees; I kind of feel like I’m losing my mind sometimes. Last week I was really struggling with the idea that some people obviously don’t want us here. My desire to help people within this area is tainted to some because of the color of my skin, and emotionally that is hard for me to comprehend. Sometimes I look at my classroom and wonder what the hell am I doing here? Kids on one side of the room are hitting each other, while kids on the other side are sleeping, and it makes me wonder if these kids are getting anything out of me being at the front of the classroom.

Then something small happens. Something I wouldn’t have thought twice about in the US, but here it was different, and it showed me just how much these kids will get to experience by having me here. The 14^th of February was Valentine’s Day. As a kid I loved Valentine’s Day. Back when you got to spend the day at school doing crafts, and everyone got a valentine from everyone I thought it was awesome. However, kids here have never gotten to experience the joys of getting little cards from everyone else in their class, or from anyone for that matter. Valentine’s Day was just another day of school with a ten minute lecture about the history of Valentine’s Day before school. There was no bright colored cards, no shy smiles as people tried to sneak notes to each other, no love in the air, until today. It might have been a few days late, but today my grade 5 and 6 class got to experience a little bit of American culture. My wonderful Aunt Nancy surprised me by sending a huge envelope filled with handmade Valentine’s Day cards from the students of Pine Ridge School. There were enough cards for each of my 100 learners to get their first American Valentine.

I went into class as if it was any other Monday. I started both my classes off with their warm-up questions, and then went into continuing my lesson from last week. Twenty minutes before class was out I had everyone put their books away, and explained that today I had a little surprise for them. I explained that in America my aunt is a teacher, and that her students sent a little something for Valentine’s Day. When I pulled out the stacks of red, purple, and pink cards the kids went wild. I never thought a 16 year old boy would get so excited about a heart shaped card that said “Be Mine?” on it, but every single learner couldn’t wait to get their hands on those cards. Some learners wanted to show the whole class their cards and brag about them to everyone who would listen, while others didn’t want to let anyone anywhere near theirs. They opened their cards, read them, and then slid them into the protective plastic cover of their notebooks where they would be safe. It was by far the cutest thing I have seen here. To see the look of pride on their face as they read the cards and put them somewhere safe was heartwarming. To most of us a handmade Valentine would mean nothing. We would look at as if it was cute and then probably not think of it again, but for them you could just see that it meant so much more. It was theirs, someone made that for them and that meant so much more than I can really comprehend. One small act of love and kindness showed these kids that other kids half way around the world know about them, and are thinking of them. Maybe it will help them see that they aren’t alone, and that the world can have some really great things to offer them.

So, thanks to the students and teachers of Pine Ridge I got to spend the day watching kids show their friends their first Valentine’s Day card and trying to explain what “cutie pie” and “U R GR8T” meant. I couldn’t have asked for a better Valentines gift. 

Grade 6

 Grade 5

Hey, You're White!

Has anyone told you that you’re white today? Has anyone stopped you in the middle of the street to tell you the color of your skin, as if you didn’t already know? If not, you should feel blessed. If you can walk down the street and not have everyone yell out “white person, white person” and watch your every move, then you’re lucky. Everywhere I go the word mhlungu is close behind. It is the Zulu term for white person, and no matter where I am or who I am with, it follows me like a shadow. It’s whispered between students, yelled within groups of women, and slurred by drunken men. In rural South Africa I am not Kelsey, I am not a woman, I am not an American, and I am not a sister or a daughter. Here, I am a white person. For the first time in my life I feel defined by something I had no control over, and let me tell you, it is one of the worst feelings I have ever experienced.

I have been in rural South Africa for almost seven months. I have been in my current site for four, and I have yet to go a day without being reminded that I am white, that I am different from everyone else. Like most people out there, I have never been part of the minority. I am a middle class, college educated, white girl. I was basically the queen of blending into the crowd. Then, all of the sudden I chose to get dropped off in the middle of nowhere South Africa, a country that is still in the depths of fighting a brutal battle for equality between blacks and whites. Everyday a new protest breaks out, another union goes on strike, and as volunteers we are in the heart of the communities struggling to rise from the years of oppression. To say some people have developed a little bit of resentment towards white people would be a huge understatement, and with only a little preparation we were sent to live in the middle of it all. It doesn’t matter who I am, or why I am here, the first thing that anyone notices about me is the color of my skin. I can’t hide that I am different; I don’t think I should have to, but I never knew until now how hard it is to be singled out because of one difference.

There are four different types of reactions that I get from people in town. There are the people that are thrilled that I am here. Students and gogos all seem to think I am the greatest thing that has ever happened to my village, but outside my village things get a lot more complicated. The increasingly less common reaction I get in town is curiosity. People want to know what a young white woman is doing in a black community. Curiosity I can handle, I expected it. I expected people to wonder why I am here, but I didn’t expect people to question my sanity because of it. I came half way around the world to work in a rural village, to help where I can, and people think I am absolutely crazy for it. Black South Africans are shocked that I would even consider living in a village. They tell me it is not safe to live where they live, that it is too hard of a life for someone like me. They offer to wash my clothes, clean my house, and haul my water because that’s not something I should have to, as a white girl. It is so ingrained into these communities that as a white person I deserve better, they don’t understand why I would ever choose to live as they live, or to be a part of their community. Even the teachers at my school have told me they don’t understand how I handle living without running water even though all of them handle it just fine. Unfortunately time hasn’t really decreased the number of people who think I am off my rocker, but it has decreased the level of curiosity. People know why I am here, they might not understand it, but they know. For many people this is enough. Their curiosity has been dealt with, and they leave me alone.

For other people it doesn’t matter why I am here. All that matters to them is that I am white and they either resent me for it, or feel that I owe them something. Of the two, resentment is the easier to handle. Hell, sometimes I feel like I deserve their resentment. Last week was the end of the month. It is by far the worst time to go to town because it is when everyone gets paid. People flock to the ATMs to pull out all the cash they can, and then the buy, buy, and buy. Gogos are hauling around 25kg bags of rice and corn meal, while kids are carrying racks of fresh bread loaves. Basically it is the African equivalent of Black Friday, every month. I unfortunately was out of food, and decided to brave the chaos in search of a few cans of tuna and some produce. My friend Krista and I were in the extremely long line to check out when we were approached by another cashier, a black cashier. He quickly apologized for the time we had to wait, but offered to open another line just so we could go through. There had to be at least 100 other people waiting to check out, but we were the only ones offered a shortcut. The two white girls with small baskets were being handed a break while black men, women, and children were left to carry their huge loads in line. After we politely declined the offer, the cashier simply nodded and walked away. I suddenly felt like I was in that nightmare where you show up to your high school assembly butt naked. Everyone was watching the white girls who were offered something they weren’t. As if we weren’t embarrassed enough ten minutes later the store manager, who is a white Afrikaner came up to personally apologize that we had to stand in such a long line. If people weren’t judging us before, they sure as hell were now. Not only were we offered special treatment, but we were apologized to as if having to stand in the same line as everyone else was some horrendous burden. I was mortified! Here I am in a country where I am trying to help kids see that the past should not dictate their future and that skin color should not decide ones value, and within ten minutes two different people just told everyone around me that I am better than they are. That because I am white I was singled out as deserving special treatment over every black person in that store. If people didn’t resent me before, they had every right to now. At times like this I understand their resentment, which makes it harder to fault them for it.

What I cannot understand, handle, or deal with are the people who think I owe them something. Somehow this is usually the reaction I get from the drunken men, which just makes it so much worse. They treat me like I am the one that wronged them, and that it is my job to right that wrong. Whether they want money, a job, or my body, they act like what is mine should be theirs, no questions asked. They yell at me, follow me, and try to touch me as if I am a payment rather than a person. To them my skin color is all that matters. No one cares that I am their granddaughter’s teacher, or their son’s neighbor. I am white, and I owe them.

I am white. It’s a fact, but I am so much more than just the color of my skin. I am a teacher, a volunteer, a friend, a sister, and a daughter. I am a person, and if I have learned anything from my time as a minority it’s that no person deserves to be judged by one characteristic. Our differences should not have to define us. We should be able to walk freely without fear of judgment for what people can see on the outside and things we had no control over. Be careful how you categorize people. We all do it, but remember that even by internally defining someone based on what you can see you are devaluing everything else about them. You have no idea how bad that feels until someone treats you like you are worthless based on one small aspect of who you are.