The most important blog post you'll ever read
Today was one of the worst days of my life, but also one of the most influential.
Linda arranged for me to go to school today with one of her friends, Gail, who happens to teach math in Uitenhage township: at an all black school. This friend happens to be white woman in her mid forties with a very nice house in a very nice area of town, so on the drive to school, I asked her what made her want to teach in one of the township schools. Basically, she began teaching there 20 years ago because teachers were not required to coach sports (the only team the school has is rugby, which apparently they’re very good at: they’re the only black school that can give the white schools darn good competition) and she wanted to be able to go home early and spend time with her children and her family.
The townships are areas on the outskirts of the cities that the government forced people to live in. The townships around P.E. were designated for members of the Xhosa tribe (pronounced “Cosa” with kind of a click at the beginning; or not, if you can’t do the click). People were not allowed to leave the township unless they had permission from the government. Even though they’re trying to rebuild parts of the townships, they’re still all black and very poor. As soon as we entered the township, I could instantly see that this used to be a city on it’s own. It was bustling with life; people were streaming down the sides of the road, on their way to school or work. There were little shops along the side of the road, with paint peeling off their signs; and people sitting at the side of the road to sell food they grew or made.
The school can fit a little over 1000 students, and currently they have 1,600 students. With only about 45 teachers, this means most classes have over 60 students. In addition to this, 7 teachers are about to be fired by the government, because they have an excess of “commerce” teachers and not enough to meet the technology demands. The teachers sat in meetings last week trying to decide who among them would be let go. Finally, their union stepped in and told them to boycott the meetings: it’s not fair for this kind of pressure to be placed on them. However, even though the government is firing 7 teachers, they will not pay for more math or science teachers to be hired. Instead, they hire helpers (people who can’t find another job) for about 500 Rand a month (that’s less than $100, folks) to cover the extra classes. The principal only comes to school once a week, if that, and he is leaving at the end of the term (there are 4 terms in a year, and this is the first term right now). They doubt that they will find a replacement.
We walk into the school and I am introduced to several of the black teachers. I hold out my hand to shake hands with the first one I meet, but she pulls me in for a hug. The other teachers also greet me with a hug.
The windows to classrooms are broken, and some of the ground floor windows don’t have bars over them. Many of the locks on classroom doors are also broken: thus, it’s easy for community members and students to hop over the gate at night and hang out in the classrooms. Teachers can’t leave ANYTHING in their classrooms, not even chalk or erasers.
I was immediately struck by the trash, everywhere. Students sweep up the classrooms, the hallway, and the stairs every day, but it just continues to accumulate. Wrappers, cans, newspapers, and other trash is just dropped by the students wherever they go. The little grassy courtyard between two of the buildings is littered with trash.
I quickly realized that the school doesn’t run on a schedule. There were no morning meetings or coffee made for us, luxuries I’ve grown accustomed to at Alex. School is supposed to start at 8 AM, but the bell didn’t ring until 8:15, and even then, the teachers took a long time getting to their classrooms. Many teachers didn’t show up, and the students just sat in the classrooms or outside, talking. I went with another white teacher, Theo, to his classroom around this time. Students were still wandering in at 8:30. The teacher left to track down his students, and I looked around the classroom. It was bare, with the exception of a few desks. Student came in carrying chairs or broken parts of chairs. There is a chalkboard at the front of the room, and a bulletin board filled with graffiti at the back. Actually, there is graffiti on every surface in the room. Most of it is names, but there are some messages like “I hate you” scrawled over the walls. There is a gaping hole in the ceiling. In addition to the trash littering the floor, there is dust everywhere: you can feel it floating through the air. There is shortage of desks and chairs, so students move them from room to room. This classroom only accumulated a few chairs, so students share them, sit on the floor and the desks, or just lean against the wall.
Theo comes back and introduces me to the 40 some students who have showed up to class today. He says that I am from the US and they all hoot and clap. They’re so excited to meet me just because of where I am from. Students in the back are taking pictures of me with their camera-phones. I feel like a celebrity. I tell them a little about where I’m from and ask if they have any questions. The classroom is hot, you can hear students outside talking (either their teacher didn’t show up or they don’t feel like going to class), and everyone inside the class is talking as well, so it’s hard for students to focus and hard for me to hear the questions. I pull out my pictures to show the class and it’s chaos. All 40 students crowd around me, so I hold out my 3 separate photo albums and let them pass them around. One girl told me she wants to marry my brother. I pull out my camera to take pictures and it’s more chaos. Everyone wants a picture taken of them. The students sing a few Xhosa songs for me, and I record a video with my camera. They love it: dancing and jumping in front of the camera, shouting the song at the top of their lungs. When the bell rings, I don’t hear it. I almost doubt that it even rang.
In surprising contrast to the condition of the school, the students all seem well groomed. Everyone wears the required uniform, and although they don’t look as sharp as the Alex students, they still look very nice and clean. Theo is a rugby coach, and some of the boys come to him in the morning to receive a little packet of meal; they mix it up with water and it’s probably the only food they will eat that day.
School is only compulsory until grade 9, but most students choose to continue. It’s very rare for a student to leave school until Grade 12, when they either pass or fail. It’s common for students to fail here, because some of them cannot speak a word of English. But, this is an English-instructed school, and the students were expected to have been taught in English at primary school (where many of the Xhosa teachers cannot speak English themselves). Their parents want them to go here because: 1. It’s the best school in the area, and 2. they realize that English is language of business. And so students are being taught math, science, and literature in a language they don’t understand. These students will get pushed along until they fail matric in grade 12.
Theo teaches History: he showed me the curriculum and topics they have to cover: There were headings such as race, human rights, the UN, American Civil Rights Movement, Apartheid.
The next class period, I went with Gail to her math class. The students don’t even have textbooks: she has to photocopy pages for them, using her own paper or scraps of paper she can find. The school has a copy machine, but doesn’t provide paper for them. In class, only about 10-15 minutes are actually used for real instruction time. There are interruptions constantly. Gail gives me time at the end of class to talk to the students. This is a grade 10 class, which can have students from age 14-20. I got many of the typical questions: Do you know any celebrities? What kind of food do you eat? (Apparently they eat “smilies,” which is a goat’s head cut in half: they asked if I eat things like that in America.) They asked questions about America, and what the schools and kids are like. They also asked me personal questions, like my age, why I’m here, what I think of South Africa, if I’m married or have children. This class is where I started to feel the negative effects of my newfound celebrity as the American. The students wanted to get pictures with me, and as soon as I agreed and they saw the camera, they all came running to that side of the room and jumped into the picture. Everyone wanted to stand by me and touch me and hold my hand and give me hugs. I was okay with the pictures and hugs when there was just one or two students, but with a huge crowd pushing at me, I finally told them no. I know their intentions were good, but I almost felt violated: I am the only American they’ve probably ever met, and they all wanted to be near me and take a piece of me. Then boys would wink and smile at me, flirting from the back of the class. Being a young, white, American female in a chaotic school where the students have never met an American and some students are the same age as me, I started to feel a little scared. The feeling continued when I was walking between buildings and could feel all the students staring at me and taking pictures with their phones, and I even heard some whistles. Most of the students would just politely smile and wave at me, but I couldn’t shake the creepy “celebrity” feeling of being stalked. It’s the only time I’ve ever felt scared at a school. I’ve also heard horror stories recently: for example, on a bus going into a township, everyone attacked the only white man on the bus, beat him, killed him, and burned him. I don’t know if it’s true, but it’s scary to be a minority in a place where you’re clearly an outsider, you don’t understand the language, and you don’t know the culture.
Part of the scared feeling I had at school might have to do with the discipline: there is none. The teachers can’t do anything. They used to have detention, after school and on weekends, but without a principal and no organization, they no longer have that. Also, students just wouldn’t show up. According to the teachers, since corporal punishment was outlawed, teachers have no control over their classes. There’s no violence; I didn’t see any fights or weapons, but there’s just plain chaos.
One of the worst things I was told today was that this is one of the best schools in the township. I was told by the white teachers how lazy the black teachers are: since they grew up in schools where academics weren’t a major concern and teachers were lazy, they think that’s how school is and they’re now perpetuating the cycle. I don’t know if this is true or if it’s a touch of racism coming out (although before making these comments, both Gail and Theo assured me that they were not being racist).
Again, people made the comment that things were better under Apartheid: something you would only hear from white people! The school was functioning and clean, and teachers and students came to school. At this time, the majority of teachers were white, and although the children wanted the teachers to come to school, in the late 80’s the community did not want white teachers. They had to have police escorts take them into school, and snipers on the roofs to keep them safe while school was in session.
At lunch, several teachers left to go to a memorial service for the grandmother of a student. At the end of break, they still hadn’t returned, so the bell didn’t ring until ½ hour later. That class period only lasted 20 minutes, and since the teachers never did return, many students were stuck without teachers. Around this time, the steady stream of students leaving the school grounds started. I actually didn’t blame them: if the teachers don’t even think it’s worth it, why should they stay?
The worst part is that the teachers hate it there. Everyone complained and complained: it was a horrible environment. By 10 AM, the teachers and the students had already worn me down so much that I could barely stand it. Thankfully, Gail and I left early, since none of her students showed up for her last class.
When I got home, I felt covered in dust and grime. You know the feeling you have on your hands after shopping at Goodwill? I had that feeling all over. I had to shower, brush my teeth, and change my clothes before I began to feel a little better. The problem is that I can clean the dust from my clothes and hair; but I can’t shake the feelings that I got from being in this environment. Sitting in on 5 classes throughout the day, I only saw about 45 minutes of actual teaching. (Admittedly, some of this was due to teachers giving me the floor to talk to the students and so on, but I was appalled by the amount of time wasted and not spent in class). How can students learn like this?
Linda arranged for me to go to school today with one of her friends, Gail, who happens to teach math in Uitenhage township: at an all black school. This friend happens to be white woman in her mid forties with a very nice house in a very nice area of town, so on the drive to school, I asked her what made her want to teach in one of the township schools. Basically, she began teaching there 20 years ago because teachers were not required to coach sports (the only team the school has is rugby, which apparently they’re very good at: they’re the only black school that can give the white schools darn good competition) and she wanted to be able to go home early and spend time with her children and her family.
The townships are areas on the outskirts of the cities that the government forced people to live in. The townships around P.E. were designated for members of the Xhosa tribe (pronounced “Cosa” with kind of a click at the beginning; or not, if you can’t do the click). People were not allowed to leave the township unless they had permission from the government. Even though they’re trying to rebuild parts of the townships, they’re still all black and very poor. As soon as we entered the township, I could instantly see that this used to be a city on it’s own. It was bustling with life; people were streaming down the sides of the road, on their way to school or work. There were little shops along the side of the road, with paint peeling off their signs; and people sitting at the side of the road to sell food they grew or made.
The school can fit a little over 1000 students, and currently they have 1,600 students. With only about 45 teachers, this means most classes have over 60 students. In addition to this, 7 teachers are about to be fired by the government, because they have an excess of “commerce” teachers and not enough to meet the technology demands. The teachers sat in meetings last week trying to decide who among them would be let go. Finally, their union stepped in and told them to boycott the meetings: it’s not fair for this kind of pressure to be placed on them. However, even though the government is firing 7 teachers, they will not pay for more math or science teachers to be hired. Instead, they hire helpers (people who can’t find another job) for about 500 Rand a month (that’s less than $100, folks) to cover the extra classes. The principal only comes to school once a week, if that, and he is leaving at the end of the term (there are 4 terms in a year, and this is the first term right now). They doubt that they will find a replacement.
We walk into the school and I am introduced to several of the black teachers. I hold out my hand to shake hands with the first one I meet, but she pulls me in for a hug. The other teachers also greet me with a hug.
The windows to classrooms are broken, and some of the ground floor windows don’t have bars over them. Many of the locks on classroom doors are also broken: thus, it’s easy for community members and students to hop over the gate at night and hang out in the classrooms. Teachers can’t leave ANYTHING in their classrooms, not even chalk or erasers.
I was immediately struck by the trash, everywhere. Students sweep up the classrooms, the hallway, and the stairs every day, but it just continues to accumulate. Wrappers, cans, newspapers, and other trash is just dropped by the students wherever they go. The little grassy courtyard between two of the buildings is littered with trash.
I quickly realized that the school doesn’t run on a schedule. There were no morning meetings or coffee made for us, luxuries I’ve grown accustomed to at Alex. School is supposed to start at 8 AM, but the bell didn’t ring until 8:15, and even then, the teachers took a long time getting to their classrooms. Many teachers didn’t show up, and the students just sat in the classrooms or outside, talking. I went with another white teacher, Theo, to his classroom around this time. Students were still wandering in at 8:30. The teacher left to track down his students, and I looked around the classroom. It was bare, with the exception of a few desks. Student came in carrying chairs or broken parts of chairs. There is a chalkboard at the front of the room, and a bulletin board filled with graffiti at the back. Actually, there is graffiti on every surface in the room. Most of it is names, but there are some messages like “I hate you” scrawled over the walls. There is a gaping hole in the ceiling. In addition to the trash littering the floor, there is dust everywhere: you can feel it floating through the air. There is shortage of desks and chairs, so students move them from room to room. This classroom only accumulated a few chairs, so students share them, sit on the floor and the desks, or just lean against the wall.
Theo comes back and introduces me to the 40 some students who have showed up to class today. He says that I am from the US and they all hoot and clap. They’re so excited to meet me just because of where I am from. Students in the back are taking pictures of me with their camera-phones. I feel like a celebrity. I tell them a little about where I’m from and ask if they have any questions. The classroom is hot, you can hear students outside talking (either their teacher didn’t show up or they don’t feel like going to class), and everyone inside the class is talking as well, so it’s hard for students to focus and hard for me to hear the questions. I pull out my pictures to show the class and it’s chaos. All 40 students crowd around me, so I hold out my 3 separate photo albums and let them pass them around. One girl told me she wants to marry my brother. I pull out my camera to take pictures and it’s more chaos. Everyone wants a picture taken of them. The students sing a few Xhosa songs for me, and I record a video with my camera. They love it: dancing and jumping in front of the camera, shouting the song at the top of their lungs. When the bell rings, I don’t hear it. I almost doubt that it even rang.
In surprising contrast to the condition of the school, the students all seem well groomed. Everyone wears the required uniform, and although they don’t look as sharp as the Alex students, they still look very nice and clean. Theo is a rugby coach, and some of the boys come to him in the morning to receive a little packet of meal; they mix it up with water and it’s probably the only food they will eat that day.
School is only compulsory until grade 9, but most students choose to continue. It’s very rare for a student to leave school until Grade 12, when they either pass or fail. It’s common for students to fail here, because some of them cannot speak a word of English. But, this is an English-instructed school, and the students were expected to have been taught in English at primary school (where many of the Xhosa teachers cannot speak English themselves). Their parents want them to go here because: 1. It’s the best school in the area, and 2. they realize that English is language of business. And so students are being taught math, science, and literature in a language they don’t understand. These students will get pushed along until they fail matric in grade 12.
Theo teaches History: he showed me the curriculum and topics they have to cover: There were headings such as race, human rights, the UN, American Civil Rights Movement, Apartheid.
The next class period, I went with Gail to her math class. The students don’t even have textbooks: she has to photocopy pages for them, using her own paper or scraps of paper she can find. The school has a copy machine, but doesn’t provide paper for them. In class, only about 10-15 minutes are actually used for real instruction time. There are interruptions constantly. Gail gives me time at the end of class to talk to the students. This is a grade 10 class, which can have students from age 14-20. I got many of the typical questions: Do you know any celebrities? What kind of food do you eat? (Apparently they eat “smilies,” which is a goat’s head cut in half: they asked if I eat things like that in America.) They asked questions about America, and what the schools and kids are like. They also asked me personal questions, like my age, why I’m here, what I think of South Africa, if I’m married or have children. This class is where I started to feel the negative effects of my newfound celebrity as the American. The students wanted to get pictures with me, and as soon as I agreed and they saw the camera, they all came running to that side of the room and jumped into the picture. Everyone wanted to stand by me and touch me and hold my hand and give me hugs. I was okay with the pictures and hugs when there was just one or two students, but with a huge crowd pushing at me, I finally told them no. I know their intentions were good, but I almost felt violated: I am the only American they’ve probably ever met, and they all wanted to be near me and take a piece of me. Then boys would wink and smile at me, flirting from the back of the class. Being a young, white, American female in a chaotic school where the students have never met an American and some students are the same age as me, I started to feel a little scared. The feeling continued when I was walking between buildings and could feel all the students staring at me and taking pictures with their phones, and I even heard some whistles. Most of the students would just politely smile and wave at me, but I couldn’t shake the creepy “celebrity” feeling of being stalked. It’s the only time I’ve ever felt scared at a school. I’ve also heard horror stories recently: for example, on a bus going into a township, everyone attacked the only white man on the bus, beat him, killed him, and burned him. I don’t know if it’s true, but it’s scary to be a minority in a place where you’re clearly an outsider, you don’t understand the language, and you don’t know the culture.
Part of the scared feeling I had at school might have to do with the discipline: there is none. The teachers can’t do anything. They used to have detention, after school and on weekends, but without a principal and no organization, they no longer have that. Also, students just wouldn’t show up. According to the teachers, since corporal punishment was outlawed, teachers have no control over their classes. There’s no violence; I didn’t see any fights or weapons, but there’s just plain chaos.
One of the worst things I was told today was that this is one of the best schools in the township. I was told by the white teachers how lazy the black teachers are: since they grew up in schools where academics weren’t a major concern and teachers were lazy, they think that’s how school is and they’re now perpetuating the cycle. I don’t know if this is true or if it’s a touch of racism coming out (although before making these comments, both Gail and Theo assured me that they were not being racist).
Again, people made the comment that things were better under Apartheid: something you would only hear from white people! The school was functioning and clean, and teachers and students came to school. At this time, the majority of teachers were white, and although the children wanted the teachers to come to school, in the late 80’s the community did not want white teachers. They had to have police escorts take them into school, and snipers on the roofs to keep them safe while school was in session.
At lunch, several teachers left to go to a memorial service for the grandmother of a student. At the end of break, they still hadn’t returned, so the bell didn’t ring until ½ hour later. That class period only lasted 20 minutes, and since the teachers never did return, many students were stuck without teachers. Around this time, the steady stream of students leaving the school grounds started. I actually didn’t blame them: if the teachers don’t even think it’s worth it, why should they stay?
The worst part is that the teachers hate it there. Everyone complained and complained: it was a horrible environment. By 10 AM, the teachers and the students had already worn me down so much that I could barely stand it. Thankfully, Gail and I left early, since none of her students showed up for her last class.
When I got home, I felt covered in dust and grime. You know the feeling you have on your hands after shopping at Goodwill? I had that feeling all over. I had to shower, brush my teeth, and change my clothes before I began to feel a little better. The problem is that I can clean the dust from my clothes and hair; but I can’t shake the feelings that I got from being in this environment. Sitting in on 5 classes throughout the day, I only saw about 45 minutes of actual teaching. (Admittedly, some of this was due to teachers giving me the floor to talk to the students and so on, but I was appalled by the amount of time wasted and not spent in class). How can students learn like this?
posted by Katie | 2:52 AM
2 Comments:
katie we had fun hearing about the township schools. stay safe and keep us posted.
Kt-I can't believe how far you come from small town Elizabeth. I am curious how these kids afford camera phones and uniforms when you talk about them not having any food. Be safe girl
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