LYNN
Elementary Education Undergraduate |
LYNN
Elementary Education Undergraduate |
This is my last formal blog about Zambia. The truth is, I could’ve written 30 blogs. There are many things I never touched on: our amazing weekend safaris, the size of monster truck driving spiders, the fact that I ate every native dish that was presented to me, including Ifinkubala (caterpillar salad), and the wonderful people who became part of our daily lives (Benson, Kelvin, Chef Zein, Mwanssa, Patrick). I could have written an entire blog just about the stunning sunsets. African skies are a sight to behold and if I was a painter, I would probably spend the rest of my life trying to capture a fragment of the beauty I walked beneath for three glorious weeks.
I could have written a whole blog about our nightly “family dinners” and riding in the bus together multiple times every day. These were the two things that bonded the 13 of us and turned us from a class at Buff State into a family. Interesting conversations and friendships formed during these portions of our days. I could have written about the children. The children at every single school we got to visit or teach at. And the children I saw on the streets where six year olds were in charge of 3 year olds because adults were out trying to make a living. How is it possible that a nation of children stole my heart so very quickly? One thing I loved and must mention, was the friendships I made. I’ll readily admit I never once expected to connect on the level I did with the people with whom I traveled across the globe. I was not concerned about fitting in because I get along with everyone, but I truly did not expect to become FRIENDS with these people. I tend to hold people at arm’s length, and it takes a while for me to let people who are over 4 feet tall into my heart. At some point over drinks, and on a crowded bus, over long conversations and ridiculously silly shared jokes, whether we were buddied up for teaching, exclaiming over wildlife, or racing through a mall grabbing coffee and finding an ATM, something happened over three weeks in Zambia – I let my guard down and made some life-long friends. Those friendships are a souvenir from Zambia that didn’t cost me extra Kwacha, and didn’t need room in my suitcase, but will certainly be with me for life. I cannot believe that at this time last year Zambia wasn’t even on my radar. I’m so grateful I went to the Teacher Tailgate in September in search of information on getting my master’s degree. Who would’ve guessed that a chance meeting with Dr. Hashey would have lead me on the adventure of a lifetime. I’ve spent months thinking my IPDS Zambia experience was a once in a lifetime experience and when would I ever have the opportunity to do something like this again. I kept thinking this was a one and done for me. I’d return from Zambia, get a teaching position, and live happily with my memories of three weeks in an unexpected paradise. Upon reflection, I realize Zambia was a door opening on opportunity for me. This is my life-path now. I’m meant to continue exploring education (and literacy) in other countries. I want to know what education looks like in other countries in Africa, South America, Australia, and Asia. I want to visit other countries, immerse myself in their culture, meet the people, taste their food, understand their customs and traditions, and I want to see their classrooms and learn about their education system. I want to study how literacy is affected by learning to read in a language other than their primary language, or ‘mother tongue’. I want to work with other schools and collaborate. I learned from the classrooms in which I observed and taught here in Lusaka. There are things I’m taking home with me for my future classrooms. And there are things I think I can share too, especially as I gain experience as an educator and continue my education. This leads me to my greatest rumination. Something unexpected occurred both at Libala Primara, and at the Special Needs Resource Center at UNZA: in my conversations with the educators and administrators at those two facilities, I realized I have a little information and experience of my own to share. I’ve already talked about the differentiation and positive reinforcement Mr. M. began implementing at Libala Primary. At the Special Needs Resource Center, I had the opportunity to talk at length with the Kindergarten teacher and the Grade 4 teacher. I was able to share some things that worked for our classroom when working in my 8:1:1 SpEd classroom in Ken-Ton. I was lucky enough to work with a master in Behavior Management and Classroom Management. I learned just as much from Christine in the 7 years we worked together, as I did at Buffalo State University. Christine was always generous in explaining to me why she utilized certain techniques and what the philosophies were. And through some informal conversations, I was able to share some of that with educators in Zambia. This got me thinking. I’m already set on getting my Master’s Degree in ENL. What if I chose to get my doctorate in socio-emotional classroom climate? What if I were to follow my dream of teaching elementary aged students, but during February Break or summer vacation I could travel to other countries, learn about their education system and act as a coach or mentor, teaching other educators how to implement some simple things so that you’re able to check-in with students and instead of REacting to their emotional needs, you’re able to address them positively from the start of the day. There are things I don’t even know are out there, that I could share with other schools, and in so doing, those schools will escalate their academic output exponentially, since a happier calmer child, is a child ready to learn. Imagine if a class could do better academically just because of a daily schedule being posted in the room so students can see what’s on the docket for the day and what can they expect next. These little things make a huge difference in a classroom. I have yet to look into doctorate programs. I’m still processing parts of my trip and also concentrating on studying for my upcoming certification exams, and applying to districts to hopefully secure a teaching position in the next 8 weeks. What I do know is this: Zambia was my first, but not even close to my last opportunity. Zambia opened the door of Possibility to me and I’m very excited about it! I cannot wait to see where the wind takes me next with my new vision of what I can be doing with this one precious life I get to live. I do know I owe it all to Zambia and the people who took me there. Zicomo, Dr. Hashey and Mrs. Lavin. Thank you for having the vision you had. Zicomo, Zambia. Thank you for welcoming me to the land of smiling people and open arms. I’m so grateful.
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My whole purpose in coming to Zambia was for the opportunity to TEACH in Zambia. I had no idea what to expect but I was excited about it! I was excited about the math lessons I had prepared with the math team, Mary and Jared. I was excited because I was certain that we’d found the universals in Math so we could make connections with the pupils. I was hoping to be placed in any grade from 2nd to 5th. The challenge in 1st-3rd was they didn’t speak English, and lessons would be taught in their local language. I was eager to experience that since my plan is to get my Master’s in ENL and I wanted to immerse myself in a class where I really didn’t understand the language and had to figure out what was going on, just as my future students would have to do. I felt this would make me a better teacher. I was crazy excited about both the opportunities I was hoping to experience. What’s that Robert Burns quote about the best laid plans of mice and men? Oh yeah…they go awry.
My experience at Libala Primary was challenging from the get-go. On the first day my teaching partner, Meghan, and I were excited to be placed in a Grade 1 class so we could observe. I definitely got what I was hoping for – total immersion in a non-English speaking class. The teacher was fantastic. She ruled with an iron fist, barking out orders to the 54 uniformed children. They were eager to please and eager to participate, with a minimum of twenty hands shooting into the air to volunteer an answer to each question posed so brusquely. “Madame! Madame,” they’d plead, arms stretching higher, as if that were the sure-fire way to be called upon. This teacher did so much with so little! During the Nyanja lesson, she ran through vocabulary written in crayon on cardboard strips of cereal boxes, utilized as flash cards. In between lessons she sat with me and Meghan to try to explain her teaching philosophy and answer our questions. Guess what. She spoke some English but had trouble understanding our English even when we slowed down our speech and used gestures. It seemed very much the way I speak German and French. I can talk about German food and I can say that every possible French noun is yellow (le chapeau…est jeune….l’autobus…est jeune) but if I had to converse with someone in France or Germany, I’d be hard pressed to get more out of them than where the yellow bus was headed or whether or not I could order potatoes. We did our best to communicate, but it was a tiny bit exhausting. By the end of that day my head ached a bit from trying to understand anything that was going on. I’d accomplished what I’d set out to do: I had totally immersed myself in a class where I understood little of what was going on. I found myself searching the room for clues so I could make connections. Ah! That must be the date written on the chalkboard because one of the months (let’s see…one, two, three, four, five, six…yes! June!) was listed as Cisanu above the chalkboard. I looked to see what the children were doing or saying. I spent hours trying to make sense of the lessons and frankly, it was rather stressful. So, when the teacher also struggled to communicate clearly, I found that even more challenging. Later, we met to choose our placement. (I use that word loosely because Grades 3-6 were not even on the docket of possibility.) After much discussion, Meghan and I ended up with Grade 7 Mathematics. Ummmm, whaT??? I mean I was excited about teaching math but I don’t love middle school and I really don’t love middle school math. Soooo yeahhhhh. But guess what – I could do this! We could do this! I was ready to make the most of this situation. Somebody maybe should’ve told our mentor teacher about the situation, though. Because Mr. M. was even less thrilled than we were. Gender inequality is a real issue in Zambia. It’s one thing to hear about it and read about it. It’s another thing to experience it. We witnessed very, very mild examples of gender inequality up to this point. One thing we noticed was those 15 minutes prior to dismissal, it was time for the children to clean the classroom. When I say children, apparently it is exclusively the female children who do the sweeping and washing of the chalkboard and cement floor (on their hands and knees) with rags. The male children huddle around desks laughing and joking while the female children do “the women’s work”. Truthfully, I was accepting of this, because there were many things in Zambia that seemed as if they were from the 1950s-1970s. Plus, I was the visitor in another country and my place is to observe and respectfully participate. Mr. M. appeared rather unpleasantly surprised to suddenly be the mentor to two FEMALE teachers. We were friendly and gracious to no avail. He did not want to speak to us and did not want us there. We were clearly in his space. I have rarely felt quite that unwelcome. But we persisted. We sat through the classes, took diligent notes on his lesson, and were grateful he repeated virtually the same lesson 3 times so we could get a handle on what we’d be teaching the next day. Before Mr. M.’s last class began he told us he had a planning period afterward. Excellent! Now we’d be able to meet with him and plan our lessons for the next day! Meghan and I smiled encouragingly at each other. Things were looking up! Except they weren’t. When the class ended, he told us it was time to go and the children would be cleaning the classroom. We offered to help and said we’d like to chat with him about the lessons. “Will you be returning tomorrow,” he asked us brusquely. “Yes!” We were all smiles and enthusiasm. His face fell and he literally told us to leave. Outside, Meghan and I conferred and decided the best choice was to try and connect with the science or social studies teachers we’d met earlier that day. Our original plan was to connect with a teacher, but that wasn’t working so we’d stick with a class and then broaden our horizons by working with 3 different teachers. That had been an original option but we’d opted to connect with one teacher. To say we were disheartened was putting it mildly but I was determined to make the best of it. Our current situation was chicken sh!t, but I was determined to turn it into chicken salad. Meghan and I trooped into Libala Primary the next day, unable to locate Mr. M. Hmm. Good thing we had Plan B. We found the Social Studies teacher and she was only to happy to mentor us. Things were looking up! According to the schedule we’d do Social Studies, then Science, and third would be math, where we’d be connected with Mr. M. again. We told the teacher we hoped to learn more about how she taught and have the opportunity to teach. She was enthusiastic and shared her lesson plans with us. We were excited. It was happening! We had turned things around! …and then we were thwarted by the administrator who strode in, told us we could NOT work with the other teachers and marched us (like impertinent school children) into Mr. M.’s class several classrooms away. (For heaven’s sake, how were we supposed to find him THERE??) We’d tried to explain the situation to the administrator, but she would have none of our nonsense. The only person more disappointed by this situation than us, was Mr. M. when she escorted us to his room. He was not thrilled. But I was done with this. I came to Zambia to teach! And I bulldozed my way into teaching opportunities in the nicest possible way. Midway through the first math lesson, I just got up and started working with children to check their work and explain how to arrive at the answer if their math was incorrect. Meghan followed suit. Eventually Mr. M. handed us red pens so we could effectively correct their work the way he wanted it done. By the end of the day he was talking with us. We told him that the lesson he was teaching these 7th graders was not taught to us until our first year of University, which seemed to please him. We talked of other positives in his classroom and then Meghan brought up differentiation since his higher/faster learners seemed bored and restless as he retaught the lesson to lower learners. I explained ways he might be able to differentiate with his limited resources (by writing more challenging problems on the board for the higher learners to solve). I felt we made a connection. It wasn’t teaching a full lesson, but we were communicating. Perhaps he thought we were judging him, rather than learning from him. We did our best to indicate we were so grateful for the opportunity to work with him and learn from him. Part way through the last class he taught, he turned to us and said, “Is this the time I should differentiate? Should I give them harder problems now??” Yesssssss. Yes!! We were collaborating! I knew we’d made even more progress when he told us what his schedule would be the next day, where to find him, and then gently suggested we leave when the cleaning began so we “wouldn’t be disturbed”. Ohhhhhh. Was he trying to be thoughtful? Maybe. We both came away a little more positive than the previous day. The next day, Mr. M. greeted us, and handed us his manual, his plans, and invited us to teach the lesson: converting Base 10 to Bases 2, 5, and 8. I wished I’d had time to prepare but we were both so excited we grabbed the chalk and the manual and set to work. Meghan and I team taught, each taking a portion of the lesson, then handing off to the other one. Mr. M. stood back and even took some photos and videos of us! It was exciting! A couple times he stepped in to offer support and offered advice before we went to the next class. It was happening! We were TEACHING! I was totally energized by this situation! By the end of the day we’d taught each of the Grade 7 classrooms and Mr. M. had us video him at one point so he could watch himself teach. This was more exciting than getting to teach! I realized he had been intimidated by us. He was only at Libala for 3 years and he didn’t speak Nyanja, which was the primary language spoken at this school. He was from a different part of Zambia and spoke Bemba. He said the students sometimes took advantage that he didn’t understand their language. By the last class that day, grim, stoic Mr. M. was smiling and even joking with his students. They were also excited about the challenge work. I saw the way they proudly showed him their notebooks. He praised them (another thing we’d talked about the day before). In 24 hours time, Mr. M. had implemented the things we’d talked about with positive reinforcement and differentiation. This was incredible! I was sky-high from the improvements. If we had come here and easily taught, Meghan and I would have been able to say we taught in Zambia. What a great opportunity. Instead, not only did we teach, but we collaborated. By sharing teaching practices and philosophies, we had taken a pebble, dropped it into a stagnant pond, and the ripple effect was great. I wondered if Mr. M. would be so happy with his new teaching practices that he might share them with others at Libala. What if they were shared by him or another teacher outside of Libala Primary?! Our experience exponentially affect teachers and pupils in Zambia improving their classroom climate and elevating their academic achievement. I was so happy I almost couldn’t stand it. I looked at Meghan. “Can you believe this?” At the same time, we looked at each other and grinned, relishing our success. Chicken Salad! Every inch of Zambia is a feast for the senses: sound, sight, taste, touch, and smell. I find myself tuning in, becoming enchanted by this country’s beauty. Each morning I wake to unfamiliar birdsong lilting, twittering, warbling, and sometimes squawking. There is a rooster that crows in the distance somewhere around 5:50 a.m., and then again later, around 7, for those who hit their cock-a-doodle snooze. Next to the entrance of our rooms, there is a small copse of lush greenery where 2 peacocks half-heartedly preen (as if they, too, are working, servicing us tourists here at the resort – I wonder how many kwacha you tip a peacock? A peahen rests in the shade of a bush with the unlikely companionship of a local grey kitty sharing the peafowls’ space. In the late afternoon the peahen can be heard indignantly shrieking, often brazenly strolling into the restaurant, only to be shooed out by the ever-bustling staff at Twangale Park. It barely deters her. Disgruntled, she paces by the pool, complaining to whichever guest is nearby, biding her time until the next attempt to be served at a table inside the restaurant, where she clearly belongs. Walking through the tranquil gardens, I think I smell the faint talcum scent of yellow oleander. The national flower, bougainvillea makes up for its shy honeysuckle scent by boldly creeping along every wall, spilling audaciously into walkways. Although not all of Zambia smells heavenly. When we go out of our resort, the senses are immediately assaulted by the ever-present odors of smoke from trash burning intermittently along the streets, and the acrid scent of charcoal burning. In addition is the noxious slithering of diesel fuel and gasoline permeating the streets of Lusaka. Zambia’s food has a warm dance of spices that ignite my taste buds. My palette is growing accustomed to the aromatics of turmeric and paprika, while cinnamon pairs surprisingly well with whichever pepper is packing such a punch in many of the meat dishes Chef Zien prepares for us. Some of the vegetables boast similar warm spices, including the curry tasting green beans and carrots I’ve grown fond of enjoying with my eggs in the morning. There is also a vinegary taste to some cabbage dishes. All of this accompanied by my daily pillowy dose of nshima, used as a vehicle to get these delicious new foods to my mouth since I occasionally attempt to eat ‘with my hands like Zambians’ do. As far as the feel of Zambia on my skin, I can only say that Zambia feels like sunshine, in both the heat of the sun that shines all day every day, and in the warm smiles of the Zambian people. I have honestly never felt more welcome or at home in any other place I’ve visited and I cannot help but attribute this to the sunshine and sunny dispositions of the Zambians that reside here. Finally, I must wax poetic about the color of Zambia, which is a riot of color, pleasing to the eye. I was already ruminating on the colors of Zambia when the driver of our bus, Carrington, mentioned to Dr. Hashey that the colors of Zambia are representative of Zambia’s flag: a green field, an orange eagle flying over three vertical stripes in red, black, and orange. Carrington spoke with pride. There it was again – the pride of Zambians. Perhaps that is what happens when a country is so young and struggles to come into its own in the world. The colors of Zambia to a Zambian is their flag, similar to how the colors of the United States are the good old red, white and blue. But was that all there was to it? I think not. When I think of my country, red, white, and blue are the symbol, not the colors of my country. Those flag colors are the symbol of Zambia, but they do not embody the colors of Zambia. There is something about the colors that match the people here. Last Monday, while at UNZA, the vice chancellor said something very interesting, “Zambia is a smiling people.” I have found this to be truer than true. But I think it reflects also in the colors of Zambia, which have a Kodachrome effect which sometimes remind me of a postcard of a 1950s seaside resort town on the Eastern Seaboard of America. The primary colors are muted, so as not to be quite so loud, rendering reds down to rusts, and Kelly green down to cactus. Blues cascade from cobalt to a liquid cerulean, and fiery oranges melt down to creamsicle. Likewise, the pastels are ratcheted up, escalating creamy butter to bright lemon, climbing from blush pink up to salmon, and meek blue-green to a diaphanous aquamarine. The colors of this Kodachrome country smile. These colors are everywhere. They grace the powdery stucco walls of homes and spill over walled-in gardens. They swish by in the vibrant Chitenge cloth of women’s skirts, as they maneuver gracefully, proudly, between cars and buses in traffic, balancing trays of oranges, avocados, and sacks of meal upon their stately heads. I gaze out our bus window on our way to another interesting experience. When we are stopped at a signal, I notice an old woman leaning against the rustic brick wall behind her. Her plaits are silvery grey, wound about her head to form a crown, her skin is richest mahogany. Her lips press together grimly, perhaps at the thought of the day stretching ahead of her, yet the corners of her mouth curve up subtly. There is a basket at her feet holding some unfamiliar fruit or vegetable. Her solid moss colored shirt is tucked neatly into her vibrant brown, avocado green and coreopsis yellow patterned Chintenge skirt, falling just above her sandaled feet. She is the epitome of the colors of Zambia – the embodiment of everything I’m trying to put into words. The signal turns green, and we pull away from this stately woman. My eyes drink up the beautiful colors of the thousands of stalls, tables, and blankets lining every street, where the people of Zambia sell their wares: brightly colored vegetables, tempting fruit, the subtle neutrals of expertly woven baskets, the rich deep browns of beautifully carved woods and stones. It seems to me the colors of Zambia sing their own song, mingling with the lilt of English accented so beautifully from Zambian mouths. It is lyrical and sing-song and I’ll never get tired of hearing that sound, or seeing these colors so unique to these people. I think maybe because these diligent, ‘smiling people’ who live such hard lives, putting one foot in front of the other to walk the walk of their long days, yet they smile proudly, elevating their mood. This is reflected in the hues all around them, resulting in the colors of Zambia. Have you ever had that feeling that you *think* you think one thing, but something keeps nagging at you and you’re not sure what it is? Sometimes I don’t know how I truly feel about something until I write about it. In the middle of me journaling about the absurd size of spiders at Mukambi (!!!) and my fear of something I could easily (well, maybe not SO easily) squash with my nice new hiking boot (if I were brave), my brain goes off on a tangent and suddenly I’m writing about the thing I didn’t know I thought from Chikumbuso, yesterday, during a typical stream of consciousness tangent in my journal. What I’m about to say in no way taints the astounding experience I had at Chikumbuso yesterday. I toyed with NOT blogging about it, but part of my Zambian journey has been to be completely authentic…so I’ve decided to blog my thoughts about this. Yesterday, the people at Chikumbuso welcomed us with open arms. They were eager to show us what they do and who they are. As I understand it, Chikumbuso frequently welcomes supporters to their humble abode. As I said in yesterday’s blog, a portion of our fundraising efforts was donated to three of the programs at Chikumbuso: The Daily Feeding Program, the Adopt a Grandmother Program, and the Safe Haven Program. I originally thought we saw the things we saw yesterday because that’s just what happens at Chikumbuso on a daily basis. In retrospect, I think, perhaps, we saw some of the things because they were trying to show us what we had supported with our donations. I appreciate the thought, but one thing didn’t set right with me. Some of us got to participate in the Daily Feeding Program by serving the food to 300 children for lunch. It was rewarding. I loved every minute and felt honored to interact with the women who’d prepared the food, and with the children coming through the line. It was one of my favorite parts of that whole wondrous day. It was also staggering to me to contemplate the task of feeding this many people multiple times a day. This is a program I’ll donate to every year. We also got to meet the grandmother we “adopted”. For a meager $350 this grandma and her grandchildren will receive food, necessities, education, and shelter, if necessary, for an entire year! (That is astounding to me. It seemed an excellent investment to all of us when we made our decision on what to support.) She didn’t speak English, but Benson translated her message to us, as she thanked us and told us her story. She was a proud woman, reminding me of a quiet but majestic lioness. Today I have her photo as my “wallpaper” on my phone to remind me how blessed I am, and what grace and dignity look like. That photo lead me to taking the left turn in my journaling. After we met the grandmother, there were 11 girls in two rows waiting to sing for us. They appeared middle school to high school aged. Then they were introduced to us. These were the girls from the Safe Haven Program. Oh. This introduction hit me like a punch to my gut. A few times over the past week we’d been told that pregnancy in girls as young as the age of 10 was a problem in Zambia. That is a shocking statement, but seeing these girls in front of us, suddenly reality became sickeningly real. In my safe, suburban mind, this Safe Haven Program was for WOMEN escaping a bad marriage or home situation, much like the Women’s Respite Program in Buffalo, N.Y., (helping low-income mothers and grandmothers) or Cornerstone Manor (a shelter for women and children escaping domestic violence). I looked at every single face. These were children. Children. My heart twisted and my stomach lurched. One girl of approximately 14 years of age, wearing a thinly striped jumper over a long-sleeved white shirt, stood with hands gently clasped before her, meekly saying, “we girls want to say thank you for the donations…” and she smiled shyly when kneeling back down with her peers. Some of the girls smiled with their mouths, but their eyes did not smile. Many of the girls looked at the ground. Many had a pained look on their faces. They stood up in their two neat rows and began to sing for us. It was a sweet, Christian song that will forever haunt me. “If God cares for the animals, for sure, I know He cares for me. Thank Jesus, who died for me. Hallelujah, He rose for me. For the promises of The Bible are true, for sure. I know He cares for me.” They sang without joy. They rocked in very small rhythm to the song, eyes cast downward in embarrassment. It could be attributed to the typical embarrassment of any teenager…but these were not typical teenagers. And it cracked my soul. The gaze of our eyes must have burned these girls. I looked at each girl as she sang, trying to memorize her face and tattoo it on my heart, so I could at least honor them with remembrance, in the Chikumbuso fashion. I was overwhelmed. I think we all were. Immediately afterward a couple of my cohorts thanked everyone in the room for sharing their stories and their song with us. Few of us had dry eyes. Then we were all invited up on the platform amongst the dancing, singing, ululating women. We were swept into that incredible experience that defied explanation. It was so powerfully emotional that it wholly absorbed me, which is probably why it took me until now to verbalize my thinking on the girls’ performance. I appreciate that they wanted to show gratitude. But I’m pretty sure that show of gratitude was prodded by the head of the program, or perhaps the director or somebody in charge. I understand that. Their song was meant to be their thank you note. Chikumbuso is a place of love, compassion, and empathy. But there was a huge difference in all the other times that someone from Chikumbuso spoke to us, or a group sang for us. There was incredible pride and DIGNITY in all those other times. Dignity is what was lacking when those girls sang for us. Somehow, their singing translated more into ‘singing for their supper’ (for lack of a better term). And I didn’t love it. They’d already been through enough. We did not donate money to get a thank you. We donated because we desperately wanted to help in a meaningful way. We gave money in a respectful manner on their website to SUPPORT this program. We are all grateful such a program in such a wonderful place exists. There’s no doubt in my mind most of us will continue to support Chikumbuso over the years. The problem, the thing that nagged at me, is that these girls lacked the feeling of dignity that we got to witness and be a part of when the women showed us how they turn the trash of plastic bags into gorgeous treasure. When we learned how they earn a living and contribute to their community. When they shared stories with us and we shared stories with them. When that grandmother shared her story. Every one of those women was cloaked in dignity. It was so beautiful. My thought in sharing this is not in any way to cluck over how a situation was handled. I think it might be just exploring my own feelings of discomfort. I specifically came to this beautiful country to learn about their education system, to collaborate, and teach in a new setting. I wanted to explore the culture here. I wanted to give my own thanks and show my gratitude by contributing where I could, in words, actions, and monetarily, as with the donations, as a symbol of thanks for allowing me to participate. In retrospect, that brief moment of singing with the girls lent me the icky sensation of being a dreaded White Savior. Which is the very last way in which I’d ever want to behave. I may be overthinking this, but it is only in reflection that we can improve our actions, thoughts and behaviors. Teen Pregnancy Facts in Zambia: Teen pregnancy (‘teen’ qualifying as between the ages of 10-19 years old) has declined from 31.6% in 1992, to 29.2% in 2018. It is 37% more likely to occur in rural areas of Zambia than urban areas. Teen pregnancy occurs more commonly in married teens (90% of the time) because girls are pressured into getting married at a young age and subsequently having children. Contributing factors include gender inequality, poor sexual health information, poverty, inadequate education/literacy, unemployment, geography (rural residence), and poor access/use of contraceptives. Early sexual debut (having sex prior to 15 years of age) was also a contributing factor.
The following information was gathered from a study printed in 2023 in Reproductive Health Journal. Phiri, M., Kasonde, M.E., Moyo, N. et al. A multilevel analysis of trends and predictors associated with teenage pregnancy in Zambia (2001–2018). Reprod Health 20, 16 (2023). https://doi.org/10.1186/s12978-023-01567-2 https://reproductive-health-journal.biomedcentral.com/articles/10.1186/s12978-023-01567-2#Tab2 For more information on the programs I referred to in this blog, please visit: Chikumbuso https://www.chikumbuso.com/safe-haven Women’s Respite Program https://womensrespite.org/programs/ Cornerstone Manor https://www.211wny.org/provider/5783/ My heart isn’t big enough to contain all the emotions I felt at Chikumbuso. A non-profit women’s collective, K-7 school, and safe community for single moms, students, widows, and grandmothers. Chikumbuso offers skills training, meals, shelter, education, and support for this community, and is supported by donations, and the beautiful bags, purses, beaded jewelry, and household items made by the ladies and youth in the skills training program. That’s the short summary of Chikumbuso. Now I want to tell you about the heart of Chikumbuso. We arrived early in the morning, eager to visit this marvelous place we’d read about on their website. We were so inspired by what Chikumbuso was and what it stood for, we’d used a great deal of our fundraising to donate to three of their programs: the Daily Feeding Program, the Safe Haven Program, and the Adopt a Grandmother Program. As our bus pulled into the courtyard, we were greeted by over a dozen women singing beneath a covered porch. Benson (Dr. Mkandwire) and Mwanssa, both our liasons from UNZA accompanied us. “This is for you,” Benson said to us, smiling widely. “They are welcoming you!” We stepped off the bus in wonder, moved by the beautiful singing and smiling faces. As each one of us took the final step off the bus we were welcomed warmly. There were introductions all around and then we were asked to turn our attention to the group of young school-age children, standing in neat rows with their teachers behind them. They were smiling or tentatively waving at us. Once we’d all turned, they broke into the sweetest song of welcome. That was only the beginning of me losing my heart to this community. We split into two groups and were lead on tours. Each time we entered a classroom (which was a separate cement stucco-like building with open windows and dessert-like colors of the South-West) the children stood at attention, chanting in their lyrical sing-song, “Good moR-ning, vee-si-toRs!” Many of the classrooms, including the Kindergarten, Grade 1, and the Computer Lab (housing a dozen outdated desk-top computers) were donated by The Rotary Club. The Grade 7 Class was studying for their Grade 7 exams, which would decide if they qualified for university, or would learn a trade in college. Imagine having your life path decided at twelve years of age. Along the tour we got to see the thatched roof, outdoor kitchen, where all the food was cooked. Several women sat on a bench against a wall, snapping the ends of beans. In the background two women washed laundry in a metal tub, pinning children’s garments to a clothesline. The air filled with the biting, smokey odor of charcoal burning beneath giant vats of nshima and beans in their respective pots, being patiently stirred by 2 women wielding huge wooden paddle-like spoons. This food would soon be dished into brightly colored, 30-gallon Rubbermaid totes, from which some of us would serve the school children lunch. They lined up, holding out their metal plates or plastic trays for their portions of beans, cooked greens, and nshima (a maize-based staple of Zambian diets made from a mealy-meal with a consistency thicker than mashed potatoes, but not as dense as a dumpling. Nshima is served with most meals, presumably because it sticks to the ribs and fills the belly). I was astounded this is how they prepared the food that served Chikumbuso, three times a day. It was primitive, but effective. Once again, this country demonstrates how much they can do with so very little. Later, I got the opportunity to dish out the nshima to at least 100 children, I delighted in greeting each child and talking with them, much as I used to do as an aide on “bus duty”, greeting each child as they arrived at school. It was always my favorite way to start the day. There was definitely a learning curve to scooping the nshima into the large gnocchi-like rolls. The bin of white nshima was hot. Every time I dipped the scooper into the bin, hot steam reddened my knuckles. Roll, roll, scoop, plop. I tried to get it right. Most of the children seemed happy. Some responded to my greetings and chatter and smiles. In the courtyard,dozens of children formed a giant circle, dancing, clapping, chanting, and singing. I eventually joined the joyful circle. We laughed and danced, clapped, played ball, learned the chants, echoed the songs, and tossed the ball. We were elated to be included. My heart was jubilant. There was so much hope and mirth. So much joy! I was so light in spirit, feeling as though I were sailing on sunshine and smiles. Earlier we’d had the opportunity to learn a bit about what Chikumbuso does for their skills training programs. At the end of our tour, we were in the Sewing Center which housed pedal sewing machines. Some of the women and youth were taught to sew. One of the young men spoke to us, telling us that thanks to his training he’d be able to follow his dream of becoming a designer and a tailor. A woman, Beauty, shared her story. Her husband had died in 2012 and she didn’t know how she would support her 10-year-old son. She had nothing and no place to go. She learned to salvage plastic bags, cut them into strips, weave the strips into a kind of yarn-like material, then crochet the plastic “yarn” into bags and purses. I was taken by Beauty’s story. She said something very important. “I love plastic,” she said, her rich, burnished wood-brown eyes shining, “plastic saved my life. Everything I have is because of plastic.” This was striking for me. Over the years I’d become preoccupied with reducing and eliminating as much plastic as possible from my daily life, trying preserve the world for my grandchildren and their great grandchildren. I’m highly concerned about the over-production, consumption of plastic, and throw-away attitude of the United States. Now, listening to Beauty’s story and how plastic had saved her life, I was overwhelmed. She had literally taken trash and turned it into treasure. Perspective is imperative. Beauty’s story was completed by the director of Chikumbuso, who shared that Beauty’s son had just graduated with his law degree! While Beauty shared her story with us, 8 or 9 women were sitting companionably on an elevated platform covered with a vast red, crushed chenille type of fabric. They were each in some stage of turning the plastic bags into purses and bags. They were quietly humming and singing. This scene reminded me of the book, The Red Tent, by Anita Diamant, in which the women in biblical times came together in “the red tent” when they had their period. In the book they loved this time as it would bring them closer together, talking, weaving baskets and rugs, doing needlework, and sewing. These women at Chikumbuso were doing a similar thing, coming together to make beautiful products to earn money for this community. They had such pride in their work! After Beauty shared with us, we were invited to learn how to make the bags. As each of us was offered a hand to join them up on the platform, that woman would ask us to share our story with her. It hadn’t occurred to me they might want to know about us. I loved that we were genuinely sharing. The women broke into louder song, always thanking God, always singing praise Finally, later in the day, after we’d learned, served, and played, we gathered again where the women worked. They began singing and dancing and had us join them on the platform again. They took each of us by the hand, inviting us to learn their songs and showing us what their dance movements were and why they did them. This part of the day was so raw and emotional. It was the one part of the day nobody took photos or videos of. It was too important. At one point I managed to pull my attention from Joyce, who was showing me her dancing. I was singing and dancing, my cohorts and the professors were singing and dancing. I had tears streaming down my cheeks. I wasn’t sad but I was overwhelmingly emotional. Joyce had tears streaming down her face as well. So did Beauty. And Esther, Rhoida, and Agness. So did every one of us dancing and singing on that platform. This seemed a rite of passage. It was primal. Somehow it changed each of us. We would never be the same after this moment and after this day. The people of Chikumbuso had transmuted our hearts, supplanted our view of the world, and altered our fingerprints. We would never be the same, in the best possible way. For more information and/or the opportunity to support Chikumbuso: https://www.chikumbuso.com/ Today illustrated the spectrum of resources in Zambian education. We visited the American International School and got to see how the children of the wealthy get educated in Zambia. The disparity between the privately funded American Int’l School and what we witnessed in the government funded Special Needs Resource Center is staggering. The truth is, I know this is no different from a similar spectrum in the United States where we, also, have a staggering disparity between the schools for children of the wealthy and those who have the very lowest government funding for education. Just because we have a similar situation, though, does not make it okay.
The American International School was a dream come true. The resources! I admit I was enchanted by every school supply, every classroom, every teacher, the student work, and the environment of AIS. Each room was filled with inquiry-based centers, naturally sourced manipulatives, play centers, BOOKS, alternative seating, open floor plans, beautiful learning furniture, warm and inviting rugs, reading nooks, and technology. With every step we took deeper into this education Wonderland, I fell in love with the dream of what a school could be. The Art Teacher spoke with us, showing off his astounding art studio classroom. More supplies than I could dream of for an art classroom! The space was bright and organized with plenty of space to work. He had two boards filled with how his lessons corresponded with what the children were learning in other subjects. This is something I always did in Room 123 – make our art and crafts projects coincide with books, lessons, seasons, and holidays, as a form of enrichment. To see a Specials Teacher (art/music/phys. ed) do the same as part of his curriculum was a tiny bit mind-blowing for me. He spoke to us about recent art projects where the children took technology “trash” (old cell phones, game controllers, batteries, etc.) and turned them into “electrical assemblage” robot animals. Likewise, the living creatures constructed from trash like toothpaste tubes and spray bottles, or out of things found in nature like the spider that was assembled with sticks, seed casings and twigs. They were incredible! I loved listening to this teacher talk so passionately about his art program. He was an artist with a private studio whose day job was being an art teacher in this wondrous school. I wanted to go to school here myself. I wanted to TEACH here. …I wanted every child I’d ever known to have the opportunity to go to a school exactly like this. That thought nagged at me, triggering a thought that didn’t fully develop until evening when I’d had time to reflect. I’ve literally never seen a school like this. I’m positive there are schools like this in the States, probably right in Buffalo, but I haven’t seen them personally. What if all schools WERE like this one? What if THIS is what education looked like around the globe? What if THIS was the Universal?? As the day progressed, I had the opportunity to observe lessons and connect with the ENL teacher (English as a New Language). This teacher was an American “ex-pat” of 8 years. She and her husband ended up staying in Zambia and she loves teaching here, with little intention of going back to the States. I found myself wondering if I could do that. If I wasn’t so connected to my grown children and my parents, yes, I would consider doing what this woman was doing. I also got to sit in a Grade 2 classroom, talking at length with the teacher, Andrea Mwulala, the only Zambian teacher with whom I met at AIS. She’d taught in multiple countries, living in Slovenia, Scotland, Tanzania, Kenya, and Cambodia, returning to Zambia to retire, and to open an NGO, Twende Education for All, dedicated to developing education/schools for children suffering from cancer and sickle cell hemophilia. She shared with me her devotion to this pet project. I wanted to talk to this woman forever. Already she’d welcomed me into her classroom (which I’d wanted to observe because I wanted to compare Grade 2 here with my extensive 2nd grade experience in WNY). I’d observed her gentle teaching but firm control of the classroom. I’d talked with her about her teaching philosophy and the challenge of literacy with pupils who did not speak English as their first language. She shared a brilliant thought on why she does not allow erasers in her classroom – so her pupils can witness their own growth when comparing work early in a unit or the school year, with their work at the end of a unit or school year. Her utilization of colored pencils for the children to make corrections, and simply striking out the incorrect word or thought with a simple line, then writing their correction seemed ingenius to me. It’ss something I plan to implement in my future classrooms. Those things alone made talking with Ms. Mwulala a gift. But then hearing about Twende Education for All, I couldn’t believe my ears. Look at this woman giving and giving to her country. She said she came back to Zambia to retire, but now she needed to help fund her new endeavor, and so she took this position at AIS. I wanted to learn more. I wanted to work side by side with this woman. She’s the epitome of a critical thinker and a problem solver. I was inspired and galvanized by Ms.Mwulala. She’d told me to call her Andrea, but I already had far too much respect for her to do so. I also got to sit in on Kindergarten Math Centers with a lovely teacher from New Zealand and her assistant teacher, a gentle man from South Africa. As I chatted with the children, most with charming accents from Australia, France, the U.K. and Canada, I played with math manipulatives alongside them. I moved from center to center to see how these Kindergarten Math Centers were run and what content they were learning. It was fairly similar to what I experienced in WNY in a first-grade classroom. Their math skills were advanced, I thought. I was blown away by their writing samples! The neatness and the ideas were on a mid-2nd grade level. The spelling (very phonetic) was easily commiserate with the end of first grade writing. My initial thought was that these children were gifted, but immediately upon thinking that thought, I knew I was off-track. I had too much to absorb at this wonderful school to ruminate further on this, but I was able to pick up the thread of this thinking during our bus ride back to Twangale Park. We’d gotten into the habit of going around and giving a brief comment on our emotions on whatever we’d just experienced that day while riding back on the bus. Most were gushing about how amazing AIS had been. Many of my cohorts were effusive about how smart and advanced the students were at AIS. Then Daeyana said she was (I’m paraphrasing here) upset and a little angry at the extreme advantage of AIS compared with other schools in Zambia. Yes! That was exactly the thread of thought for which I hadn’t yet found words to match my emotions. Disparity. As others contributed their brief thoughts to our bus conversation, more words began swirling into my thought process: resources, advantages, potential, and opportunity. The children at AIS weren’t more smart/intellectual/advanced than the average Zambian child. They simply had more advantages, beginning with the mere fact of class size, which was generally less than 20 students in each AIS classroom. In addition, I noticed that most of the teachers at AIS were from a different country, and that most of the Zambian born adults were support staff. There was also a dearth in children of color at AIS, with upwards of 80% of the population being Caucasian. The director spoke of a very minor number of scholarships to this school. Judging from the Kindergarten and Grade 2 writing samples I’d seen, the children of these wealthy parents had the opportunity to see various countries and travel throughout Zambia to Victoria Falls and other cultural places. These parents had time to spend with their children doing homework, reading, doing enrichment. These parents had financial means allowing them the gift of quality time with their children. On the opposite end of the spectrum, were children who attended government funded schools where class size ranged from 50-100 pupils in a single classroom. These less fortunate children were often left in charge of younger siblings even if their age was only 8, 6, or even 5 years old. We’d seen this every single day as we drove through the streets of Lusaka, teeming with parents trying to eke out a living selling oranges, avocados, or charcoal balanced on their heads, weaving through traffic in search of consumers for their product. These parents were too busy trying to provide food and shelter for their children to have time to worry about their education. There were simply two totally different worlds of economy, influencing nearly every aspect of parenting, and it would obviously affect most children. The bottom line is this; virtually every child in the world is born with the same potential. The simple difference is opportunity. You can read more about the NGO Twende Education for All here: https://rivaltimes.com/the-little-school-of-andrea-mwalula-a-smile-in-the-abyss-of-childhood-cancer-in-africa/ https://blogs.ibo.org/2018/03/29/providing-schooling-for-students-in-hospital/ https://globalpressjournal.com/africa/zambia/zambia-children-cancer-cant-attend-class-classroom-comes/ As a former teacher aide with 7+ years’ experience in a self-contained Special Education 8:1:1 classroom, specializing primarily in students with autism, I was very excited to go to the UNZA Special Needs Education Resource Center. I love the SpEd community and I was eager to see the education setting for SpEd in Zambia. I found a warm and welcoming, dare I say progressive, school. Despite the very small classrooms, I appreciated how they did so much with so few resources. I could feel the love in that Resource Center and it energized me. Before touring the school, we were treated to a wonderful interactive meeting with Special Education students from the University of Zambia. In addition to some genuinely fun break-the-ice/getting-to-know-you activities, the university students also shared their reasons for pursuing a Special Education Teaching degree. Although the reasons varied slightly, the resounding reason always came back to educating others in Zambia about the reality of people with special needs and eradicating the stigma that follows this population. I was saddened to learn that many Zambians view physical/mental/emotional disabilities as a curse on the family. Some even lump asthma into this category, shying away from people with asthma after witnessing an asthma attack. How can this be, I thought to myself. Each one of the students spoke passionately. I understood their desire to dispel the myths and help this population. I was grateful Zambia had students such as those in this room, who were passionate about helping and wanted to make a difference. Once we began our tour, I ended up in a room whose population was exactly what I was accustomed to working with in good old Room 123 in the Kenmore-Town of Tonawanda School District. This was the first, or entry, class, and the primary goals in this room was for pupils to learn the routines and to follow directions. I have walked in their shoes where this is concerned. With only 3 children, ages 5-6 years old, I immediately felt at home, reminded of some of my favorite students over the years in Room 123. As I observed, along with a couple of my cohorts, I noticed familiar things in this classroom: a poster with numbers up to 20, the days of the week/months of the year, color names. The room was brightly painted, there were a few very utilitarian wooden desks with attached chairs, a white board on the wall, and there was a small area for what I would consider “circle time” or “morning meeting”. Within minutes I realized I was totally relaxed (a sensation I hadn’t yet enjoyed in Zambia). The posted classroom rules were remarkably similar to our classroom rules, with “Listening Bodies to listen and follow directions, Raised Hands, Walking Feet, and Helping Hands to help not hurt”. In this small, sparse, but warm classroom, I was utterly at home. These were my people. The children and the teachers. This was my community, regardless of the country. I found myself at ease as I chatted with the head teacher. We found common ground in the behavior of the students and routine of the classroom. I asked questions about their day. I explained a few things that were similar to my former SpEd room and classes in the States, and we discussed some differences. I longed to sit down and interact with the children, but I also knew how disruptive this is for most of these children. I can remember many times we had visitors in our classroom and even when the children were well-behaved, the aftermath would be challenging for them. Many times, Christine, the teacher with whom I worked, and I would think, “noooo, please do not continue talking to _____. Can’t you see his body language is telling you he’s uncomfortable with this interaction??” I didn’t want to be the cause of that discomfort in this classroom, where we’d been so graciously welcomed. I verbalized my thinking to the teacher and she agreed with me, appearing relieved that I “got it”. In fact, after I said that, she seemed even more open to us discussing ideas. We’d found common ground. I loved that! Aside from all this warmth and love, the thing that really hit home for me is the lack of resources this school had. The rooms were incredibly small – yet they had everything that was absolutely necessary. This classroom was lacking the sensory materials Christine and I took for granted: our sensory bins of dried beans and peas with some plastic animals, dried pasta with foam shapes or letters, fluffy pompoms, sand. This classroom lacked bins upon colorful bins of books, comfy pillows and “stuffies”, and a colorful rug on which to read. This room lacked the plastic manipulatives to learn to tell time, count money, and do other math lessons. No Smart Board. No centers. No bins of toys for free time, or learning toys, like Legos, blocks, and puzzles, to improve fine motor skills. This room compensated in the colorful way it was painted, and in making the most of the things they had. The teachers had made this room warm and welcoming with their own artwork and writing on the walls, save the one poster that was printed. The notebooks I saw the children writing in were slim and only 5”x7”, with thin covers that reminded me of the 1950s. If I’m being honest, a lot of what was happening in this classroom reminded me of Special Education in the 1970s here in the United States. It seemed the attitude toward the Special Needs Community and the resources echoed where the U.S. was over forty years ago. It was reminiscent of when I went to elementary school in the late 70s and early 80s. I thought back to 3 peers usually in my class in my small neighborhood elementary school. James, Patrick, and Sarah went to Resource Room regularly. Looking back, I realize each of them had academic and socio-emotional challenges. When I was in elementary school teachers had little patience for these students, and even at ages 7-10, I knew this was wrong. I would finish my classwork and then try to surreptitiously help Sarah so she could participate with us during Recess, rather than sit with the teacher finishing work. I wanted her to be able to play on the playground with us instead of struggling and being openly shamed that she “didn’t finish her work again”. The public shaming of these students for being unable “to keep up” made me sick to my stomach as a child, and in retrospect, greatly saddens me. It is one of many contributing factors that lead me to Special Education. Upon leaving the Special Needs Resource Center, I was left with a full heart. The people who worked here were doing their best to lift up this community academically and emotionally. After connecting with the university students pursuing their degree in Special Education, I was hopeful for the future of SpEd in Zambia. Every journey begins with the first few steps, and I believe with the passion of these students and how far education has come in Zambia in the last several years, SpEd is well on its way to positive expansion. In the meantime, the government funded Special Needs Resource Center is chugging along like the Little Engine That Could of Zambia’s Education System. I think it can, I think it can. It is already a success story. Upon arriving at University of Zambia, we stepped out of our bus in our ‘Sunday Best’ hoping to be respectful, modest, and put our best foot forward in representing Buffalo State University. How warmly we were greeted! We were met by an UnZa contingent headed by Dr. Mkandwire. We were ushered up several flights of stairs, past curious but friendly onlookers, to a long, sunny, austere lecture room with equally long tables. This is where our learning began. After brief introductions around the table, Dr. M. and his colleague began teaching us about education in Zambia from the Zambian Educator’s perspective. The room was charged with anticipation. We were sponges, soaking up every drop of information. The room overflowed with gratitude all around the table; we were so grateful to be welcomed into this educational experience, and the members of UnZa appeared pleased we were so interested in the education system of their country. I loved the pride in the lilting cadence of their voices as they explained how far education had come since 2021. Next, we were ushered into a rich, stately room, overflowing with concentric rows of heavy, solid wood tables and chairs, lending it a stately effect. As it turned out, this was the room utilized by the Senate when they met. Hearing that made us all sit just a little taller in our seats, I think. The Dean of Education and the interim Vice-Chancellor met with us, taking the head table with Dr. Hashey and Mrs. Lavin joining them. Dr. M. sat at the long tables with us. Once again, there were brief introductions. Then something amazing happened; the Vice-Chancellor was so earnest and awed that we had come all this way to learn from them and experience the Zambian education, that somehow it felt as if our humble cohort from Buff State was being treated as Ambassadors of Education. I think this moment set the tone for our whole trip. We hoped we’d be up to the task. Finally, we were treated to a tour of their Library, which looked remarkably like our own Butler Library at Buffalo State University. The outside architecture was uncannily similar. We filed in, immediately realizing how unbelievably quiet and somber this library was. Back home, our library is the furthest thing from quiet. It is a social place, a hive of Buff State students buzzing about. Our library back home boasts a Starbucks and plenty of comfortable seating, as well as vending machines. Unless I sit in a designated quiet study room at Butler, I cannot concentrate due to the noise in our library. Conversely, this quiet library was filled, FILLED, with hundreds of students occupying nearly every chair, every desk, every possible space in which you could sit. As we wound around the library, slowly escalating floors, past row upon row of book lined shelves, very few students bothered to look up from their studies. As we learned later in our library tour, the students were only allowed 2-1/2 hours/week with the online textbooks, so I’m sure they didn’t want to waste a moment of their time. This is the main lesson I brought home with me today: education is a serious subject in Zambia, especially in the last several years. Education is not taken for granted. These students are serious about their learning, giving their education great value, and the Zambian educators are serious about elevating the education experience throughout their country. Judging from the data that was shared with us today, I’d say Zambia has a lot to be proud of. I’m so eager to explore the schools we have lined up on our itinerary and see this in action. Time is fluid here in Zambia; it stretches like taffy, somehow allowing us more hours per day to do things than I typically feel I have at home. At the end of our 2nd day we were all remarking at dinner how it seemed we’d been here nearly a week already, and yet, it was a mere 48 hours. I’m grateful for the false sense of extra time. The 20+ hours it took us to get here was nothing to sneeze at. While the first flight, over 13 hours from Toronto to Ethiopia, did not seem too long, getting back on a plane for an additional 4 hours from Ethiopia to Zambia was a little harder to swallow. Especially since the 2nd flight was quite full and didn’t award us the luxury of extra seats and plenty of space to stretch out as the previous flight had. It was so exciting getting off the plane and waiting in line at customs with my brand-new passport in hand. I can’t believe that the very first stamp I’m getting in my passport is Zambia! I walked away from the counter grinning ear to ear. It’s HAPPENING, I thought, I’m IN Zambia!!! We stopped at a grocery store where we loaded up on bottled water, some fruit and snacks. The store was remarkably clean and bright, with colorful labels on unfamiliar foods. The condiments seemed exotic, the snack aisle was so colorful and foreign it took on a carnival atmosphere. I reached for a small bag of popcorn, similar to Pirate’s Booty at home. The flavor was “Chakalaka”. I scanned the package for more clues to what “Chakalaka” flavor could possibly be, to no avail. I’m here to tell you I want all my Pirate’s Booty to be “Chakalaka flavored from now on, because I can’t get enough of that peppery, cheesy goodness. Standing in line at the cash register I wondered how much it would cost and handed over my colorful Kwacha, having little idea how much my small bag of groceries and 12 pack of water had just cost me in U.S. dollars. 267 Kwacha seemed an extraordinary amount for my small bag! Now, several days later, I’m more adept at converting my Kwacha; approximately 5 cents on the American dollar. The welcome at Twangale Park was warm and we disappeared into our beautiful rooms to unpack and regroup for dinner. We were relieved, eager, tired from travel, hungry, and so excited. Even though we’d just spent the last 24+ hours together during travel, we weren’t really together. Sitting at the long dinner table in the restaurant at Twangale felt a little like sitting down to a family dinner. This moment for which we’d spent many months hoping, planning, studying, fundraising, conferring, ordering, and packing, had finally arrived. Our dinner had a celebratory air. We ate the delicious food and drank some Zambian drinks. We were so tired, but also energized at the prospect that we were here. We’re HERE! We were reluctant to retreat to our rooms to finish unpacking and sleep. Perhaps we were a little afraid this was all a dream. If it’s a dream, then please turn off the alarm because we haven’t gotten to the good part yet. It’s happening! I’m packing for a trip I never in my wildest dreams believed would come true. I’m going to a different continent, and I get to immerse myself in a different land, a different culture, and, on top of that, I get to TEACH! I’m bursting with excitement. I’m shocked that I’m not nervous. I’m surprised that I’m not anxious. I’m simply overwhelmed with the blessing of this great opportunity. The first thing I packed was my suitcase of donations for Libala Primary. On Monday when we divvied up the school supplies between our suitcases, it felt like Christmas morning to me. I’m a huge fan of school supplies on any given day, but the thought of bringing these supplies to a school that needs them is fulfilling. A few months ago, I read in some other intrepid traveler’s blog, that the children in a Zambian classroom were using their teeth or fingernails to sharpen their pencils. I can’t fully convey to you how the thought of that hurt my heart. At the time I was Student Teaching in a 2nd grade classroom of sweet children, most of whom wanted for nothing. The next day I told them about what I’d read. Their little faces looked pained at the news. I saw, reflected in their eyes, the same empathy I’d felt upon reading that sad little tidbit. Later that day, Penelope asked me, “Mrs. Kluge, are you going to Zambia so you can help those kids?” “No,” I replied, “I’m going to Zambia so I get to experience their culture. Just like when Mahdiya taught us about Ramadan, I’m going to learn what school is like in Zambia and they are letting me have the opportunity to teach them. I get to learn just as much from them as they might learn from what I teach them.” “Then why are you bringing them pencils and pencil sharpeners?” she asked, perplexed. “Because when you are a guest in someone else’s house, you’re supposed to bring a gift. If I came to your house for dinner, I might bring dessert or some chocolates for your mom. If you spent the weekend at my house, you might bring me flowers or some pretty soap for my bathroom. That’s how you say, ‘thank you for inviting me’. When I go to Zambia, I’ll be a guest at their school, so it’s polite for me to bring a gift to say, ‘thank you for inviting me’ and since they need some pencil sharpeners, we’ve decided to bring that to them.” Penelope’s face bloomed with her sweet smile. “That’s a great idea!” Now I am organizing dozens of slim boxes of colored pencils, along with Wipe-off sleeves (lighter and more versatile than bulky White Boards) and a couple hundred Dry Erase Markers into my “donation suitcase”. I love how it looks. I keep thinking about the piles of Composition Notebooks and Post-Its, the pencils and crayons, the deflated balls, all filling the suitcases of my cohorts. In just 29 hours I will be boarding the plane to Zambia with my 2 suitcases (under the 50 pound weight limit) and my plum colored carry-on backpack (pushing to within a few ounces of the 15 pound limit for carry-ons). Despite multiple detailed check-lists, I fret that I may have forgotten something. I doubt there is a Target or a Walgreens that I can scoot to if I’ve forgotten anything important. I’m eager to get to the morning so I can start this amazing adventure. I hope I can sleep tonight. |
AuthorHi! I’m a mom to 3 boys (all in their 20s now) and graduated this May 2023 with my Childhood Education degree. I’m thrilled to be going to Lusaka, Zambia to teach at Libala Primary. As a life-long learner, I’m eager to learn about the culture and education system in Zambia, where I’m certain I’ll be learning far more than I can possibly teach. I can’t wait to bring a little Buffalo, NY to Lusaka, and then take a little Lusaka back to my future classroom in Buffalo, NY! ArchivesCategories |