Erica on Education

Last week I began my internship at Thandokhulu Senior Secondary School, a high school for students ranging from 8^th-12^th grade. 

The students are predominantly from Khayelitsha, the largest black township in the Western Cape. Personally, I was given two 11^th grade English classes to teach. Leah and I were thrilled when we realized we’d have our own classrooms! My passion for English, writing, poetry, literature, and teaching are all culminated into this one internship, and I couldn’t have been happier when I learned that I would be able to teach my own classes. More importantly, I would be helping students prepare for their Matric by teaching English. All of the 12^th grade students, or the graduating students, must take an exam in English called the Matric, so having English lessons is extremely important, as each one of these students must pass the Matric in order to qualify for any university or job. In so many words, the Matric exam determines the rest of their lives—a horrifying concept when you think about it, as these Xhosa speaking students are forced to take an exam that determines their future in a language that is NOT their own. Even more horrifying when you put that together with the fact that the Matric is offered in Afrikaans and in English, so it is ONLY the black students who have to take Matric in their second language as opposed to their first. Though the apartheid government ended 15 years ago, the Matric exam is a clear example of why the racial stratification that took place in South Africa is still negatively impacting the nation’s people today. To deny a certain group of people the right to take an exam in their own language, and then to have their scores pinned up against the scores of white and ‘classified colored’ students scores when competing for a university education, seems to be a clear violation of human rights—and yet, it is accepted all over the country as the “norm”.

Entering Thandokhulu, we were told our job would not be easy. We were told: “You will have 55 students in each classroom”. We were told that there were hardly any resources, that the classrooms were small, that there wasn’t enough chalk, and that for 1,056 students there were only 30 books in their “mobile library”. And though I knew that 55 students is a large number of students for one teacher, and though I understood the school was vastly under-resourced, it didn’t really hit me until I began teaching. I walked into one of the smallest classrooms I have ever seen to have 55 students staring up at me—assessing me, first by the color of my skin. “What are you teaching?” a student asked. But before I could answer, another student said: “She’s teaching English, stupid.” After hushing the class and telling that particular student not to call someone else stupid, I realized that I had automatically been judged by the color of my skin: she is a white, American woman and so she must be teaching us English. And they were right. Upon realizing this, I had a sick feeling in my stomach. How many others have come to “help” at Thandokhulu? Will these students just view me as some white woman taking them on as a “charity case”? Will my work even make a difference, especially in light of the fact that I am only here for 3 more months?   All questions which I may never have answers to.

I began teaching them essay writing, and allowed them all to choose a topic that interested them to write on. At first, the students seemed taken aback when I told them they could choose their own topic. I guess it was revolutionary to allow the students to have, and voice, their own opinions. As I walked around the classroom to help the students, I half expected to see essays on the World Cup or sports or after school activities they enjoyed, but instead what I saw were essays on teenage pregnancy, drug use, the difficulties of staying in school when your family needs you at home, HIV/AIDS, abortion, etc. The fact of the matter is that a student in the United States may never have thought to write about such pressing matters, however because these students face these pressures and these awful realities every day of their lives, they aren’t afraid to confront them or tackle them, even in an English class as they brain storm paper topics.

We did a practice essay on the board: “Should teens stay in school? Why or why not?” I thought that most students would discuss reasons TO stay in school, but instead, in all 4 of the classes I taught that day, the first answer to the question was, “No, teens should not stay in school.” I was shocked—not because they said no, but because of how incredibly legitimate their reasons were for staying out of school. “I could be staying at home to take care of my younger siblings because my parents are no longer around due to disease or death” or “I could be helping my family instead of wasting time here” or “The teachers don’t really care about us here” or “I have children myself that I need to be raising.” After finishing the reasons NOT to stay in school, I immediately had the students give me reasons TO stay in school and I think that seeing the contrast may have helped some of the students see the other side: that education breaks the cycle of poverty, that if they work hard they will be able to go to university and begin working and earning a living, that school helps them stay away from drugs and crime, and that it provides them with so many opportunities. One of my friends wisely told me in a letter from home: “It’s the students who are on the verge of dropping out that you are most likely to reach, Erica. It’s those particular students that are just looking for something, anything to convince them to stay.” I hope I can help them find that something.

Again, I question myself. What am I doing here in South Africa? I wrote a poem the other day and one stanza says:

What am I doing here?

Am I a tourist with calloused feet

From walking among shards of broken memories and tentatively putting my feet in the sand of islands that were prisons?

I want the answer to that question to be “no”. I am not a tourist. I am here to affect change. I am here to give hope. I am here to inspire and to be inspired by the incredible young students I am meeting. Hope. I’m here because of hope, and I’m here fighting for hope. I know that during my time here I will be discouraged. Discouraged by uninterested, unmotivated teachers who do not inspire their students to learn. Discouraged by corporal punishment and unjust exams and a country not living up to its constitution. Discouraged by students who have so much potential but let themselves fear failure. But I am encouraged, too. I am encouraged because I know that after 4 months I will leave South Africa a different person, never allowing myself to forget the stories of the people I am meeting. I am encouraged because for every student who said they should drop out, there was another student who talked of the kind of positive future that education would bring to him or her. I am encouraged because I believe there is a kind of healing and reconciliation in the nation that most people cannot wrap their brains around, and that, with a lot of work and continuing education, there really can and will be equality for all South African peoples.

While I was grading essays yesterday, I came across an essay a young girl wrote about failure sometimes leading to success. She wrote: “I know of several people who made the decision to commit suicide after failing their Matric exams. This is wrong. If you’ve failed, tell yourself that you will work even harder to get what you want. If you want to succeed, you cannot give up. You will not fail if you just have faith in yourself.” It is necessary to address both parts of this quotation: one, that failing the Matric exam for some students creates a feeling of utter hopelessness, a feeling that can even lead to suicide because of all of the weight that is placed on the Matric exam. However, despite this incredible pressure, this intelligent young girl also pointed out how important it is to work hard and remain positive when facing the possibility of failure. She writes, “I have learned that failure can lead to success—that failing should only make you work that much harder to get where you want to be.”  This kind of attitude is one that all teenagers here, and everywhere, should maintain, and I’m of the belief that with the help of motivated, hopeful, charismatic, and encouraging teachers, these students are really capable of incredible things.

Recently I have begun to read Graeme Bloch’s, The Toxic Mix: What’s Wrong With South Africa’s Schools and How to Fix It. In it he writes: “Education is about our common humanity as South Africans in a global world. This is no small thing in a world and a continent beset by recession, endless wars, and hatred… Education helps us, together, to solve the pressing issues of the day, from economic to political and social crises, from global warming and ecological disaster and war... Education has to change society. Like some holy spirit, its influence must reach everywhere to initiate people into the good things that society can offer; education must help us to participate and improve in every field of human and social endeavor.” The more time I spend in South Africa, the more I appreciate Bloch’s theory of education. It has to be top priority. After all, these young people are South Africa’s present, and more importantly, they are South Africa’s future.