Na-Na and the English Alphabet

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I came to realize today that I haven't really told any of you too much about the orphanage, and what it is we (try) to do there. I realized this today as I was sitting on the floor, three children on my lap, two playing with my hair, and one searching my pockets. Several thoughts went through my head: 1.) White people hair really is strange. 2.) I had no idea it would be like this. 3.) Get out of my f*&^* pockets! To that end, I thought I would give all of you back at home an idea of a normal day at Ahado Christian Orphanage.

After about a 25 minute walk through town, shouts of "yevu!" coming at us from all sides (we can dodge them now, matrix style) we arrive at Ahado. A big piece of plywood acts as the gate, and it is pulled aside to allow us to enter. Kids bumrush us from all sides immediately. They were taught our names on the first day, so they cry out, "Sistah Cha-lut! Sistah Cha-lut!" (My students at home can't even remember my name, referring to me instead with the ubiquitous "teacher.") Some lose their ability to stand once they grab our arms, relying instead on their massive arm strength to carry them from place to place on the branches of our upper extremities. Once they clip on, they are impossible to un-clip. Then Mr. Mickey arrives. He tells the kids to line up, according to their age. This involves a lot of kicking, hitting, pushing, and blank stares, but eventually some lines start to form.

Morning devotion! They sing to the heavens, swinging their arms with the music, some with eyes closed and clasped hands. Some mouth words and make sounds but have no idea what they are saying. English really hasn't caught on yet. After a quick march to the classroom (a mud-brick hut with thatched roof) they sit on whatever they can find, whether that be chairs, benches, tables or each other, and we begin the lesson.

Enter frustration. If these kids have ever had formal instruction, the teachers felt that rote memory and repetition were the only way to do it. This is why, when I ask how many vowels there are, I get the following answers: "Alphabet!" "Letter!" "R!" (This is after teaching them, for about twenty minutes, how many vowels there are and what they are. They are even written on the board at the time of the question.) It is insane. I have pointed to the letter "d," said "d" out loud, and then asked them what letter it is. No clue. But, can they recite the entire alphabet in order? Of course. Just don't ask them to do anything else. They are being cheated out of an education, to be sure.

The highlight of all of my days is a small boy named Na-na. His real name, they tell me, is Constant, but he refuses to answer to it. He has some sort of large lump on the back of his spinal cord, which is obvious when you look at how quickly he reacts to movements. He only has started talking to me within the past few days, but he follows me around and smiles when he sees me in the morning. That smile, I believe, would be enough for anyone.

When the bus picks us up for lunch, I am either covered in dust, pee, or both. I hop on with the rest of the volunteers, and Dela, our driver tries to make it out without hitting any small children, as they mob the bus everytime we leave.

The upside? I know of at least four children that are being adopted within the next three months. One of them, Michael, is four and is headed to New York. I sat watching him today, so thankful that at least he would be given a chance to get a good education, drink clean water, have parents. To be sure, when you sit on the floor and let the kids take you over, piling on your lap and pulling at your pockets, the situation seems helpless. It seems that way, of course, because it is. But man oh man, the smiles!

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