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/ |
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 |