The one where I put on my teacher hat

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Some of you may know already that I have taken up teaching English for grade 5 at a primary school here. If you didn’t know that, now you do. It’s a pretty interesting experience. I thought this portion of my life would come much later. I also thought that me wearing gaudy gold jewelry to look hot would come later in my life as well…but I’m living in West Africa, and the time for both is now. There are 3 5th grade classrooms, with about 50 kids in each. They are with the same teacher for all subjects all day. They have break at 11:30, which consists of them throwing sand at each other in the open area, running up trees, and buying food/cigarettes for the teachers. They come back from break around 12, and break again at quarter to 2 for prayers. School ends at 4 o’clock.

I thought the American education system was jacked up, but that was before I saw an African school. Granted, I do still have some qualms about American education, but in comparison it is a Mecca. The way they learn here is out of crap-tastic books, that are probably from the 1950s, and are extremely biased. The teacher reads, or yells, information from the book and gets the students to repeat it. Those who don’t listen get the metal cane to the ass, or a firm pull of the ear. When I started teaching, I was assured they all knew how to read and write, and knew parts of speech. This is not the case. Most of them don’t know the difference between a verb and a noun. This isn’t their fault, as the way they are being taught is not conducive to learning and understanding concepts, and rather focuses on memorization. For example, when learning numbers, the teacher may make his students rattle off the numbers in order from one to 20. The class would all repeat in a sing-songy chorus, and pretend like they knew what was up. However, if you were to hold up a number 5, they would have no clue what it was. The classroom is small, with desks lined up side to side, making it really easy for the students to copy off one another, and chatter up a storm. There are about 5 out of 50 kids who actually know what’s going on, and then they tell the others…keeping everyone in a cycle of cluelessness.

Today a man who works in the school came into my classroom, with his metal rod, and a face that looked ready to hand out some beatings. When a man who only has one arm comes charging in with a metal rod, you know he’s not planning on digging a garden. Apparently, one of the students in the school was climbing a mango tree the other day during break, fell, and broke his teeth and his wrist. The man said that all who chase after unripe mangoes are foolish, as they will cause pain to your stomach, impale your head, or will make you fall off a tree and break your body. He then proceeded to beat the poop out of a boy who was chasing after unripe mangoes, as a way to teach everyone a lesson. Meanwhile, the other teachers came to watch the beating and found it HILARIOUS. We had a silent moment of prayer for the boy who got injured. All the students were looking to the white woman (me) to see if she would hold her hands out and pray. I said a little hail Mary for the protection of the rest of the students, and that the one armed man would misplace his beating stick.

After all the happiness of my teaching day, I headed to my other teaching gig. I assist in teaching a drama class on Wednesday afternoons at Marina International School. Going there after I have been teaching at Bakau school is like entering another world. Marina is private, and expensive, and a lot of ex-pat kids go there. It’s one of the best schools in the Gambia. It’s really disheartening that socioeconomic standing determines the quality of education, in many areas of the world. Anyway, class today was canceled, so I marched myself back home and flopped around on my bed for a bit. I need a hard drink after being with those little ankle biters all day. My white neighbor and I are going to the store to splurge on some boxed wine and cheese. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!

Quote of the post:
“School days, school days, they’re the golden rule days. Reading and writing and ‘rithmatic, talk to the tune of the hickory stick.” -A song my mom used to sing when I didn’t want to wake up for school when I was little (meaning 15).

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