As I was leaving for Southern Africa, my friends and family asked me if I was excited about my trip. I could provide them with a brief synopsis of TABSA’s mission and respond with, “Yeah, I’m excited, but I also have no idea what to expect. I’m not really sure what I’m getting myself into.” While this response may seem unsettling to many, or a turn off to those who need everything to always be planned and within their control, this feeling of the unknown is what drew me in and kept me captivated. Now let me be clear that this “unknown” that I am referring to has nothing to do with the excellent leadership of Yunus Peer and Thokozani Mteshane; the two of them plus their incredible support staff worked tirelessly to ensure that plans were being made, changed, and executed throughout the trip. My amazingly supportive and creative maths team would not have been able to have the success that we did if it weren’t for the leadership of TABSA. Even more importantly, this work would not have been possible if it weren’t for the hundreds of maths and science teachers that came to our workshops during their winter holiday, also not knowing what exactly they were signing up for, but diving head first into that unknown.

On the first day of workshops in East London, during the opening ceremony, we were greeted with many kind words, thanked before we had even begun our work in the classrooms, and welcomed with a traditional song and dance performed by a group of high school students. I wish I had inquired more about this dance, its origins, purpose, meaning, etc., but I didn’t, so now I run the risk of talking about this beautiful performance from an uneducated “white person’s” perspective. Thus, I will describe my personal observations and how this performance immediately reminded me of my work as an educator in the United States.

Gender. Feminism. Body Image. I sat in my seat listening to the sounds of music and rhythm travel down the hallway, getting louder and closer, anticipating who was going to enter the room. In danced a line of singing students, the vocal leader at the front, followed by several shirtless individuals, then a few individuals in white tank tops. I refuse to assume gender based on someone’s physical appearance or perceived sex, so let me tell you that those with female secondary sex characteristics were the ones without shirts, dancing in the front, and taking the lead, while those with male secondary sex characteristics were the ones in shirts, dancing in the back, and following the direction of the female presenting leader. This reversal of stereotypical binary gender norms really struck me. The shirtless individuals were proud and confident, filling the room with a body positive message. I immediately wondered if gender was something talked about in maths and science classes in South Africa, if feminism was a topic of discussion, how the teachers in our workshops were treated based on their gender identity. Perhaps I was looking too far into this. Was this actually body objectification? Throughout the next few weeks, I explored some of these queries by talking to my colleagues during tea breaks and lunch, primarily exploring the question of sexism in the workplace and in the maths classrooms.

Without going into too much detail, one poignant memory I have of a lunchtime conversation was when I brought up whether one’s gender has an impact on their work as a teacher. It was during our week in Bloemfontein, where one of our classrooms of about 30 young teachers consisted of only three women and I felt even more determined to showcase the talent of our intelligent, inspiring female teachers in the room. I was sitting with a man and a woman, when upon response to the question I posed about sexism in schools, the man immediately mentioned that it was not a big deal. Ironically, he proceeded to take up most of the airtime, pointing out how male and female teachers were treated the same. I listened and asked more questions. I took their responses as another observation that led me to wonder how I can embed lessons of equity throughout our TABSA workshops and throughout my classes back in the United States.

Other topics that were always on my mind throughout the workshops were race and privilege. As highly privileged educators in the United States, many of whom work in private schools with small class sizes and a plethora of resources and support, we set out to effect change in a country so raw from the repercussions of apartheid, to help teachers who may have up to a hundred learners in their classrooms. We did our homework and educated ourselves, but we quickly learned that there is still so much more to learn. Would our South African colleagues be open to our ideas? In fact, they were. Would our work have been taken as openly if we weren’t white people from the United States? If we were volunteers from another country? From South Africa itself? Or what if we were black or colored or white South Africans? Why is the Department of Education giving us privileged Americans so much, and can they instead give to their South African teachers and students?

In the United States, the majority of our team would identify as people of color, but in South Africa, we were considered white. This became apparent to us when we were asked to check off our race on a sign in form. The options were “A” for African, “C” for Colored, or “W” for White. I was initially going to check off the “A” box, assuming that “A” stood for Asian. I then thought about checking off the “C” box, as I identify as a person of color in the United States. When I was informed that I should check the “W” box, I was admittedly confused but I hesitantly complied. This wasn’t the first time I was told that I was “white” when traveling in a foreign country, but this time it felt different. I am 100% Japanese American. I am used to people assuming I am from China and I am used to people asking, “But where are you really from?” I am not used to people labeling me as white. Perhaps this was so unsettling because it highlighted my privilege as an American volunteer and made me think about other privileges that I have, and other labels that people assign to me, but ones that don’t feel like an attack on my identity because I have the privilege of being a cisgender woman.

Questions and conversations followed, and I learned more about the complexities of race in South Africa. Divisions among race are rooted deep into the fabric of everyday life and unlike in the United States, where many are hesitant to tell the truth about our past, I found that most South Africans were willing to talk about the history of slavery and apartheid during conversations about racial tensions. I am so thankful to have had the opportunity to travel to different parts of the country with TABSA, then extend my stay in South Africa by spending time in Cape Town, an area of the country that TABSA has yet to explore. In each unique part of my travels, I was able to hear the locals talk about the history of their country, I listened to their stories, and I witnessed the sharp divides that are still present in their society. The effects of apartheid are very much visible and provide the sobering reality that the good work that we do is not enough. Even though our post workshop evaluations come back glowingly positive, I cannot help but wonder what else we can do.

Yes, I am a maths teacher; yes, I learned an incredible amount from my maths colleagues from both South Africa and the United States, but I am happy to say that I have learned much more than new methods, ideas, concepts, and explorations. I will take back a refreshed spirit of collaboration and creativity, a renewed commitment to learn and teach more about race, class, gender, systemic oppression, and perhaps most importantly, I will commit to curiosity and action. If there is one thing that my TABSA teammates and my South African colleagues taught me, it is to be brave enough to ask questions. Everyone around me was always asking questions and I found this so inspiring. Had the welcoming dance taken place as a send off performance instead, I have no doubt that I would have asked more questions. I regret that I did not, but I will cherish this lesson learned. I will do better at sacrificing my comfort for learning and the benefit of others, and I will take action on using my privilege to empower others.

To my South African colleagues, I leave you with a quote from Nelson Mandela. “I cherish my own freedom dearly but I care even more for your freedom…Your freedom and mine cannot be separated. I will return.”