Wednesday, March 5, 2008 – Ixopo

I visited two schools today, both in a part of Kwazulu Natal Province to which I had not yet traveled. Located about an hour’s drive inland from a point on the coast about halfway between Port Shepstone and Durban, Ixopo is another of those dusty frontier towns in the middle of a mostly agricultural (sugar cane) area. As do other towns, Ixopo has an established downtown area, with low-rise offices, banks, a few modest restaurants (usually a KFC), and other businesses housed in permanent structures. But, also like other towns of its type, the more exciting and interesting part of town stands a few blocks away, still in town but nearer the outskirts. The first words that come to my mind whenever we pass through these areas are “teeming humanity.” Vendors, most operating from small, shaded shelters, sell whatever they think might interest passers-by: fruit, used clothing, tools – the picture is of a poor people’s swap meet. The sidewalks can’t hold all the people, so they spill into the streets, some darting out from behind double-parked cars, where they somehow manage not to get hit by cars maneuvering through it all.

We came to look at another of the rural schools, having stayed here last night at the home of another of the Peers – Mehmood (“Mood”) and his wife Nafessa. He’s an attorney and former mayor of Ixopo, she’s a physician, and they deserve an entry of their own, which I hope to write sometime soon. For now, it’ll have to do for me to say that all of the Peers that I have met share two characteristics: they offer visitors an incredible hospitality, and they have chosen to work for the good of those who most need help.

At Yunus’ request, Mood had arranged for me to teach a class at Little Flower Catholic School, an attractive place which appears to have been well supported by the Catholic Church since its founding in the 1930s (the school was founded in the ’30s, not the religion). I’ve taught at about half a dozen schools in various parts of the country on this trip, I thoroughly enjoy doing it, and I ‘m at the point where I’m totally at ease in front of a class. Moreover, I think that I’m able to convey to the students the ease and enjoyment that I feel. Some classes have had a tight academic focus (the Cold War, the American Revolution, the Civil Rights Movement), others have ranged wider in focus, with me taking questions on various topics concerning American lifestyles, politics and history. Whatever the focus, however, I’m aware that I begin with a huge advantage: being a haole American, I’m different enough to be interesting to students (at least to most of them; there are slackers in South African schools as well).

Until today, I had taught two classes at each of the schools I had visited; today I taught only one, but it was two classes combined into one, consisting of juniors and seniors. All but one of the students was black (the single exception was Indian). The teacher, Gilbert Mxumalo, who had an obvious passion for history, was clearly excited to have me as a guest, and he conveyed that to the students. Though it began inauspiciously, the class proceeded to acquire a rhythm, and it ended in a way I’m tempted to call dramatic.

I hope I can convey this; I’m going to go slowly and methodically through it, because otherwise it’ll be difficult to understand how we got to where we did.

I started as I usually do, with a brief description of where I’m from. I drew a map of the U.S. on the chalkboard, located New York City and Los Angeles, mentioned that they are about five thousand kilometers apart, then I located Hawaii and Honolulu five thousand kilometers from L.A. Most of the students hadn’t heard of Hawaii, but when I mentioned surfing, most faces lit up in recognition.

Then I played what I have come to call “the Obama card,” which I use because it’s a good ice-breaker. I explain what the idiom “name-dropper” means; then I say, “I’m now going to be a name-dropper” (which usually brings smiles and occasionally brings laughter). “How many of you have heard of Barack Obama?” Today only two students (of about 40) raised their hands. I asked one to inform her classmates, which she did (which brought a few more nods of recognition). Then I said, “Well, he graduated from my school, and I was his teacher.” This has never failed to elicit a response, and today was no exception; they seemed eager to be a part of my class.

I do feel obligated to be biographically accurate, so I always mention important facts about my relationship with Barry (he was “Barry” back then): 1) I did not have him as a student in a history course, but rather in an after-school phys ed basketball course (I occasionally joke that I taught him to dunk), and 2) I did not have even the slightest influence on his life; in fact, I’m certain he would not remember me if I met him today. And if by some small chance he would remember me, it would be as the teacher who was such a terrible basketball referee that it frustrated and occasionally angered him. (This, too, provokes laughter.)

I also tell them that although Barry appeared to be an intelligent kid, his passion then was basketball, not academics, and that if I were to think back on the thousands of students I’ve known and make a list of the five hundred who I thought might someday be running for president of the United States, there’s no way that Barry would have made the list. “So,” I say, “for those of you who think you may not be a great student, it’s never too late. Barry was your age when I knew him, and look how he has changed over the years. With any luck, you, too, will have some years ahead of you.” (By the way, with the scourge of AIDS spread across this country, I am always aware of how significant the words “with any luck” are for these students.)

So having played the Obama card, I moved on, but not with the ease that I had in some of the other classes. I told them that I’d prefer to respond to questions they ask rather than try to guess at what they might be interested in, but these kids were shy, and only a few asked questions. At one point, after I had asked them for their opinions on the affirmative action program in South Africa and gotten no response, Gilbert (the teacher) stood up in exasperation. “Don’t embarrass me,” he said. “You know about affirmative action; you have written papers in English about it.” I tried to soften his criticism by saying that I too have reprimanded my students when they have been too shy to ask questions of guest speakers (in truth, I haven’t actually done it, but there have been times when I should have).

I decided to try another strategy: to let them play teacher and me play student. I have learned quite a bit about South African politics since I’ve been here – it’s easy to learn quite a bit when one starts out knowing nothing. And I’ve been interested in the current unpopularity of President Thabo Mbeki, for though he doesn’t have the common touch that Jacob Zuma, his tainted but popular and likely successor does, he seems like a decent sort to me. So, mentioning that I’ve learned something about South African politics but still feel like I have a lot to learn, I asked them to explain why Mbeki is so unpopular. “Is it just because Mbeki can’t dance?” I said. I had heard this phrase before; it has been used as a metaphor to describe Mbeki’s formality and stiffness, and my using it had three positive results: 1) it let them know that I knew and cared about their nation’s politics, 2) it provoked howls of laughter from the kids, relaxing the atmosphere, and 3) it gave the students a discussion topic that they cared about. They cared, by the way, because most of them are Zulus, and Mbeki, a Xhosa, has been accused of staffing the important government posts with Xhosa to the exclusion of the Zulus, which my students were not at all reluctant to explain and condemn.

So at this point I felt that the ice had been broken with at least the majority of the class. By this time, incidentally, we had gone past the class period, and Gilbert had phoned the principal and received his permission to extend it another period.

I had another question for them, and I told them I was genuinely searching for an answer and that I hoped they could help me find one. I know about the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and its emphasis on forgiveness for the offenses of apartheid, I said. But tell me, how do you forgive? Are you able to forgive? I didn’t receive any answers to these questions, but I don’t think that their silence stemmed from a shyness or lack of interest on their part; rather, I got the impression that they had never – or rarely – considered the question, given the fact that they themselves had not experienced apartheid. So I decided to risk a new, more to-the-point, far more controversial one. I said, “In case you haven’t noticed, I have white skin” (laughter). “How do you feel about white people?” I asked. Again I don’t quite know why, but again I got the strong feeling that they had never been asked this question in a classroom setting before – maybe because the ambiance seemed to get more serious. A student raised his hand and I called on him, but before he could speak, I said something like, “Now keep in mind that I would not have asked this question if I didn’t want to hear the truth from you. I didn’t come to South Africa as a tourist; I came here for an education. I want the truth.” “I like white people,” said the student who had raised his hand. I don’t recall his explanation, but it seemed, if you’ll pardon the pun, pretty white bread.

Then a girl in the back right-hand corner of the room raised her hand. She had been one of the most verbal and articulate in the class till this point, but she spoke briefly and without explanation. “I hate white people,” she said. Then a boy in the rear left corner of the room, one whom I had called upon for an earlier response and with whom I felt good vibes, said, “I also hate white people. They act like they are superior to us” (quite a few nodded their heads in agreement). Then another said that he liked white people because he liked their technology (!). After that, I got one reply from each side, but subtle facial reactions from the silent ones gave me the impression that the ones who expressed dislike were speaking for at least a good part of the class. Then the girl who had declined to give an explanation raised her hand. “Have you heard about the four boys from the University of the Free State?” she asked. I said that I had…and here I need to digress for a bit. Last week, two videos made by four white male college students surfaced. One shows the students duping five black maids into eating meat that had been urinated on; the other shows one of the students (from behind) urinating into a teapot, before serving the tea as well. The students later claimed that it was a trick video made to shock their friends and that they really hadn’t urinated into the food and drink. But as I knew when I read the story, the message had been received by people like the thoughtful girl in my classroom and the damage had been done. I don’t remember her exact words, but she said that she felt that the actions of the four boys symbolized the way many whites felt about blacks (I do recall that she, too, used the word “superior”).

Two other pieces of information from the newspaper story I read did not get brought up in class, but nevertheless add outrage and poignancy to this incident (is “incident” a strong enough word to use?). The first quotes Professor and Vice-Chancellor Frederick Fourie: “They (the students) thought it was good, clean fun but it was clearly packaged in a way to say something offensive. The packaging wasn’t innocent.”

Did this man – the vice-chancellor – really say that – that the students thought it was good clean fun? Does he really believe that the same students who had decorated their dorm walls with pictures of apartheid-era leaders think it was good, clean fun? And that the real problem, rather than content, was packaging – did he actually utter those words? Talk about institutional racism….

And this, from the nephew of one of the maids: “Although her job only involved cleaning the toilets and passage, she did their dirty washing and dishes…She loved those four boys. The fact that it was those boys that did it broke her.”

Back to the class, which had become very quiet. I knew enough to not throw out any platitudes, but I had no response for this. I said, “Thank you for the education. I came here to learn, and you have taught me.”

The class ended soon after this – fortunately so because I didn’t know where to go from here (fifteen extra minutes would not have gotten us to the healing stage). Before they left, I again thanked them for the education, and told them how much I had enjoyed being with them. I felt no hostility at all from the students, but I didn’t – and still don’t know where I fit into the equation. I am not a white South African, but I am white. Were they referring to me? Most South African students and adults to whom I’ve spoken know that the U.S. under Reagan supported the apartheid government – in fact I’ve gotten questions from students asking why. (Those few whose knowledge goes back to the 1970s like Jimmy Carter for his stance and efforts to oppose apartheid, by the way). As the students filed out, I subtly moved to a place where the boy who said he hated whites would have to file past me to leave the class. I wasn’t sure what I would do as he passed – offer to shake hands? If I did, would he do it because he wanted to or because he felt obligated by politeness? I decided that I’d look to his eyes for a sign of what to do, but as he passed by me, he avoided eye contact. Actually, I can’t say with certainty whether he avoided eye contact, or was simply engaged in conversation with another student as he filed past – it’s one more complexity about this place that I’ll never be able to resolve.

The articulate girl who had first said that she hated whites made a point to stop and ask me (in what I took to be a friendly tone of voice) if I would be coming back to teach another class. When I said no – that I had to leave for Port Shepstone in a few hours – she expressed disappointment. I know that she had found the class meaningful, and of course so had I. I again thanked her for her comments. Before I could leave, though, another student, who like Barry was, is obsessed with basketball, asked me if I’d like to see the gym. I of course said yes, and he showed me a neglected but impressive sized gym. We talked hoops for a while, then he needed to head to his next class.

It was not yet 10:30 a.m., but we had another school to see: Ixopo State-Aided Primary School. The school signs should have had quotation marks around the words “state-aided” to indicate irony, because there hasn’t been much state aid here, and what little there has been has not always been appropriate.

Ixopo Primary State-Aided School exists on three small, dusty “campuses.” (There’s a strong connection between poverty and dust in South Africa.) The main part of the school sits behind and very close to the largest food store in town. Delivery trucks often block the narrow dirt road which serves as the school’s entrance, and the store’s exhaust fans, which operate continuously, present an audible challenge to learners and teachers. The other two sites are quieter but just as dusty and cramped. The government had sold some of the school’s land to businesses in town, but new construction to be completed in January, 2009 will unite the campus at one site. At that point, however, a new problem will arise because the new construction will leave the school with three fewer classrooms than the three sites currently have (and they are already overcrowded; on the main campus, one small room serves as a library, infirmary, music room – it has a piano, and teachers’ workroom). Moreover, the new school will have science labs and a computer room, but with no guarantee that the government will provide lab equipment, computers, or even furniture. “School administrators and teachers are never asked what they need,” said one administrator. “We are told what we will get.”

When the same administrator told us that only two grades have enough textbooks to provide one per child (the other grades have half of what they need), neither Yunus nor I was surprised. What more surprised us was the fact that amidst all the hardships and disruptions in their school life, these cute-as-can-be kids seemed happy – or at least not unhappy – and remarkably focused. Are they too young to know how deprived they are?