P7 Heaven

I haven’t had a huge amount of experience as a teacher, but I’ve at least sampled a variety of teaching environments. I began teaching through the Teach for America program in a middle school in the Bronx, where punch-ups and drug busts were common, and general mayhem was the order of the day for the majority of my first year. Not fun ‘this is kind of crazy but good life experience,’ mayhem, but demeaning, depressing, ‘how can 12 year old children make me feel so lame’ mayhem. My self-esteem hit rock bottom when, after a particularly riotous ‘English Enrichment’ period, one of my 7th graders presented me with a drawing, swore he wasn’t the one who did it, and quickly disappeared down the hall. The drawing was of the stick-figure variety, and showed a fairly normal classroom scene: blackboard, children sitting at desks, and, oh yes, a woman hanging from a noose next to the door. In case I missed the point, there was a caption: TEACHER GOT HUNG. MS. O’GARA. The silver lining is that I now have a perfect title for my teaching memoir, should I ever choose to write one.

My second year was waaaaaaaay better. I had a new group of kids, my own classroom, and a huge reservoir of anger and resentment towards young adults. I had developed the philosophy that for children to learn anything from me, they first had to be scared of me, and I worked the bitch angle for the first few months. It was effective. But by the end of it all I had experienced what I like to call the Dangerous Minds turn-around. While my students weren’t quoting Bob Dylan and confiding in me about their illegitimate children, I loved them and they loved me and we all learned something.

7th grade cuties in the Bx

Before heading to Uganda, I worked for a few months as the school-based sub at AAH’s sister school in Virginia, Arlington Traditional School. It’s one of the best public primary schools in the country, and was quite an eye-opener. I wandered its pristine halls, past columns of silent children and well equipped computer labs, muttering ‘I never knew it could be like this.’ The resources, the discipline, the lack of armed guards! Everyone passes the standardized tests at Arlington Traditional School. At this point I could go into a long and detailed rant about the absurdity of the blatant racism and inequality in America’s public education system, but maybe I should save that for the memoir.

So, I’d seen the good and not-so-good fruits of American tax dollars, and now I was ready to see what American donor dollars had created in the middle of the mountains in Uganda. Unless you’ve actually spent the hour rattling down the bumpy road from Mbale, shoved on gum boots, made the twenty minute hike up the impassable road, and peered inside the other schools in the area, it’s impossible to communicate the revelation that is Arlington. It sits in the middle of the jungle like a figment of your imagination, a colorful, vibrant, bastion of hope.

The ten months I’ve spent there have helped me clarify some of my opinions about education. My experiences have taught me one major lesson: all the fancy buildings and resources in the world mean nothing if you don’t have quality teachers. I would seriously rather pay a good teacher to sit under a tree in a field without so much as a sheet of paper, than pay a bad teacher to waste everyone’s time in a state of the art classroom. A good teacher accepts responsibility for everything in her classroom, including the attitude of the students. This is maybe the most challenging role of a teacher: working to adjust students’ attitudes so that they stay receptive and interested. During my second year in the Bronx I told incoming new teachers that they should prepare for a year-long fight with their students. We had to be relentless, vigilant, and unceasingly anal if we were going to get them to learn anything. I nicknamed myself Roboteacher. Teachers should be prepared to spend large amounts of money at Kinkos, and a large amount of energy doing epic battles with photocopying machines involving a long ruler and scotch tape. They should buy bags of candy for bribery, and bottles of vodka for sanity. They should try not to confuse the two. Get up at 5am, go to sleep at 12am, and generally look and feel like you’re on your deathbed. Take them on trips, give them stickers, go to their goddamn house and drag them to school yourself if you have to. Teachers have to be like soldiers, freakin General First Class Special Force Marines I tell you!

Of course sometimes, you get lucky.

Enter the current P7 class of Arlington. If I was given god-like powers to design the perfect group of students, I’m confident I would produce that class. They have the perfect combination of discipline and spirit, diligence and mischief. When you tell them that you need them to listen, they are instantly quiet. When you ask them to participate, they are rowdy and contradictory and interested and thoughtful. I’ve spent a lot of time conducting reading classes with them this year. It’s like a dream. I can concoct activities that require movement and discussion and self-directed learning and random groupings and they always step up to the plate. The levels of English vary in the class, but everyone tries and everyone is curious. We spent a few weeks reading a Ugandan novel about a young woman who has to drop out of school because her parents are dying of AIDS. A large part of the plot concerns this girl’s growing romance with a former playboy, who becomes a one-woman man under her influence. I asked the P7s to pretend they were the boy, and write a love letter to the girl. My oh my. Shakespeare step down. “Your body is like an empty glass, ringing with beauty.” “You are the star of my life.” We read a book that contained an anecdote about the sign language symbol for “I love you.” Several of them still flash it any time I walk into the class. They make fun of my accent, and each other. They wonder if my hair is real, or a wig. They wonder if I can take them to America. They come to school at 7am and leave at 6pm and still would like more work, please.

The P7 all-stars

The Ugandan primary school system puts a huge amount of pressure on children. It is essentially seven years of learning that culminates in one final exam: the PLE. Students sit four PLE papers: English, Social Studies, Mathematics and Science. Any random fact that has been taught, from P1 to P7, is fair game. I can find no logical system behind the content of the questions. For example:

1. Mention one disadvantage of building in a wetland.
2. Suggest one way of improving the labour force in Africa.
3. Mention one reason why the Equator is marked 0̊
4. In which way does God communicate with his people?

That’s social studies. There is one right answer to every question, even on the English paper. Any error in spelling, grammar, or phrasing automatically makes an answer wrong. I would sum up the preparation process as the memorization of thousands of pieces of information, all in your second language. But it’s the key to your future in Uganda. Here you have to apply for secondary school, and PLE results determine your options.

Our P7s just completed this torturous process. In the weeks leading up to the exam they were in a constant state of revision, and their teachers were bleary-eyed and nervous. But the kids were high-spirited; the end was in sight. They had taken a total of eight mock papers, and most were confident. We had a blessing ceremony, where we invited their parents to come and show their support, heard many words of wisdom and encouragement, and prayed vigorously (or at least pretended to). Arlington hosted the exam this year, so the students were able to sit in a familiar environment, and enjoy the same break and lunch snacks they always do. The rest of the school had to remain closed, and teachers weren’t supposed to come near the premises for fear of awakening the suspicions of the ‘invigilator’ from Kampala. Sounds like a character in a Harry Potter book if you ask me.

P7 lads at their blessing

At 4:15pm on the 4th, they all emerged into the afternoon sun, tucking their little ‘maths sets’ into their pockets and comparing answers. There was unanimous agreement that Social Studies was the hardest paper this year, while Science was the easiest. They horsed around and we took lots of pictures and gave out candy. They planted a symbolic tree, to illustrate the fact that the students’ roots are at Arlington, but there are no limits for their branches. Everyone felt they had passed the exam, and odds are they are right. Arlington has a 100% pass rate on the PLE so far. Bududa District has about 115 primary schools, sits hundreds of students for the PLE each year, and in 2005 managed to get only three students scoring in the first division. Then Arlington came on the scene, and out of our first candidate class of thirty, we got fifteen first divisions and fifteen second divisions. Based on my experience with this year’s P7s, they will more than uphold this record.

Enthusiastic tree-planting

Candy: works every time

Officially, these students are now finished with their primary education. They really should just sit back, relax, and wait for the results to come out in January. But they don’t want to do that. They’re coming back to school, to take classes on life skills and get ready for the science fair and hopefully have the odd reading lesson. They wouldn’t stay home if we asked them to. It’s hard to say what exactly has created this positive attitude in the kids. I know that a large part of it comes from the experiences and teaching they’ve had at Arlington for the past four years. I also think that part of it is the in-born good nature that is so common in the Ugandans I’ve met. They’re also a group of kids who gel really well, and work as a team. I know these kids would be a pleasure to teach regardless of their location: the barren Bronx classroom, the high-tech Virginian computer lab, or the concrete room in the jungle. I feel lucky to have had the opportunity to interact with them, and they have a high position on the growing list of things I’m going to miss.

Obama-rama

No electricity. Only one satellite TV in a ten mile radius. An eight hour time difference. Can we still watch the results of the 2008 American Presidential election, live?

Yes we can goddammit.

We were a small but committed group of Bumwalukanians who devised the plan to watch our man win the White House last week. We’re eight hours ahead in Uganda, so we were looking at an allllllllllllllll-night event. But the Ugandans were buoyed by the prospect of watching a son of their soil (basically) step up to arguably the most powerful position in the world, and the Americans were buoyed by the prospect of watching their country get itself back on track after eight years of border-line insanity.

The excitement had been building for quite some time in Uganda. Obama dominated the local media, there were pins and t-shirts for sale in Kampala, and “do you support Obama” replaced “are you married” as my most frequently received inquiry. For the Ugandans who don’t know that much English, a simple “OBAMA!” with a thumbs-up and a grin communicated the same message. Confidence was high, and it was infectious.

A Ugandan newspaper on election day

Teacher Godfrey has a satellite dish, and is one of the more ardent Obama supporters around, so choosing the venue was easy. Electricity remained a problem. The school is currently in the ironic position of having installed an expensive solar/battery back-up system that is malfunctioning and now blocking all types of electricity from reaching our facilities: solar, battery, or main power line. Also our generator basically exploded. It’s been a frustratingly powerless few weeks around here. BUT the new FIMRC rep (Mike) is a big Obama fan, and FIMRC has a functioning generator, so we did a little switcheroo. I wasn’t present for the actual connecting of the generator to Godfrey’s house, but I’m told it involved naked wires, toothpicks, and a high risk of electrocution. After a few alarming sparks and dimming of the lights, the TV burst into action and we were off.

The initial cast was: teachers Godfrey and Nelson, Andrew (the Bursar), Godfrey’s girlfriend Ruth and her son, me and Mike, Stuart (the headmaster’s son) and assorted neighborhood children. The children chugged sodas and guzzled sugar cookies, providing a perfect opportunity for me to unveil the new word I’ve invented: chuzzle. Think about the possible frat party usage! They begin to crest a frenzied sugar high around nine o’clock, horse-playing around and singing and partaking of the general aura of excitement without the slightest clue as to what it was all about. Mike broke out his laptop and played the Obama song, a Jamaican reggae homage to the future president. A team of committed adults had spent several hours sourcing beer in the area, and were finally rewarded when a soaked and mud-splattered motorbike driver arrived with a crate of Senator—a local beer which has now been renamed ‘Obama.’ Ruth had prepared a huge dinner, and we all ate and chatted and watched the early news coverage.

Harry’s happy to be a part of this mysterious fuss

Andrew wants YOU! to vote for Obama

After dinner the children experienced fairly rapid sugar crashes, and were dispatched to their various beds. We adults turned our full attention to the TV, and flicked between Sky News, Al Jazeera, and BBC World. It was only about ten o’clock, and it dawned on us that we had five solid hours of informative, but repetitive news coverage ahead before any polls closed in the US. The four different sources of carbohydrates we had all just consumed did not help the sleepiness factor, nor did the fact that my body clock is now firmly set on ‘granny mode,’ and my eyes usually start drooping around nine-thirty. Mike was the first casualty, dropping off on the sofa with a full glass of beer in his hand. The inevitable happened: he awoke with a start, spilling a fairly large quantity of beer on his lap, and resignedly went to take a proper nap in Andrew’s room. I was fighting the good fight, but fading fast. A phone call from ex-volunteer Charlee pepped me up, and Stuart and I made a plan to begin consuming caffeine at 1:30am. I also kept myself alert by occasionally switching to the African equivalent of MTV, ‘Kiss Network,’ which only appears to have access to Pussycat Dolls videos. As much as they exemplify everything I hate about America, they are strangely hypnotic. You can also play fun games by betting how many seconds of the video will pass before they begin shedding clothing and do their signature ‘power-v’ strut. Stuart has the energy of a nuclear power plant, and probably could have powered the TV himself if we’d figured out a way to plug his fingers into the wall. Nelson soldiered on bravely, and Andrew took a table-top nap. Godfrey displayed a variety of methods in his battle against sleep. At one point he went and sat outside on the cold, rain-soaked verandah, listening to BBC on his radio at quite a high volume. The pinnacle came, however, when he began spooning heaps of instant coffee into his beer, a combination both ingenious and disgusting. Despite my cries of protest, Godfrey doggedly drank only beercoffee for the rest of the night.

Post-dinner crash

The hours between midnight and 3am passed in a surreal daze. Godfrey started a small fire when he attempted to use a kerosene stove to heat water, but that was the height of the drama. By 3am everyone had finished with their naps/beverage experiments/music-video watching, and we were ready for some hardcore poll result action. We settled on BBC World as our network of choice, because they had a loveable British fuddy-duddy leading the commentary and some pretty down and dirty debating going on. Also, a UVa. Politics professor, Larry Sabado, was one of their guests (wahoowa!). Andrew sat down with a notebook and pen, determined to keep his own record of the electoral votes, because he remembers what those bastards in Florida did to us in 2000. Godfrey didn’t quite have a handle on the electoral votes system, and was dismayed when the Kentucky/Vermont results left the scoreboard in McCain’s favor. He began flipping through the news networks, vowing not to stop until he found one that showed Obama winning. Of course, he didn’t have to wait that long.

Andrew keeps track of the votes.  Nelson keeps track of his inner eyelids.

They announce Pennsylvania for Obama

To say that everyone in the room was sober at the moment when Obama’s electoral vote count went over 270 would be stretching the truth. In fact, downing a plastic baggy of locally made hard alcohol was the specific celebratory act chosen for that moment by some members of the crew. I, thankfully, had nothing harder than caffeine in my system by then, but was still caught up in the general euphoria. There were many man-hugs, back slaps, and furtive tears. The Obama song was on high-volume repeat. The kids of the house were awake after a refreshing night’s sleep, and back in party mode. It was approaching 7am, the sky was getting light, and curious children poked their head around the door on the way to school to see what all the noise was about. As McCain gave his concession speech, a smattering of staff members and neighbors came to join the party. I have rarely seen that much beer being opened at 8 in the morning.

Obama goes over 270

Watching Obama’s victory speech was a roller-coaster of emotions. A certain staff member, who shall remain nameless, was shirtless and performing traditional African chants and dance moves throughout the speech. Something that sounded like “HE’S A MATERIAL!” was a frequent comment from the above-mentioned person, accompanied by several hard slaps of the leg. I was somewhat distracted by this, and missed some of the speech while trying to calm the guy down. I was also in complete awe of Obama’s speaking abilities—no notecards or anything. See I’ve largely missed out on all the Obama fever in my time here, so he’s still kind of new to me. And then he got to the part. You know, the part. The 106 year-old lady, and all the changes she’s seen, and yes we can, and what changes will his children see, and yes we can, and . . . . . .

Both mzungus in the room were in tears at that point.

I don’t know if I could have picked a better situation in which to watch America elect Obama, for lots of reasons. Probably the easiest way for me to think about it is to imagine what it would have been like if he lost; the disappointment, the crisis of faith that would have been written on all my friends’ faces. Not everyone that I watched the election with knows much about American politics. Tax policy and universal health care might be under their radars, but the fact that millions of mzungus across the ocean saw fit to put a man with black skin, coming from a village only about 80 kilometers away from here, in their highest political office, is not. I know that Obama now faces a long, hard struggle to live up to the hype and correct policies that have veered alarmingly off the rails. But he is already a symbol of great hope and optimism over here. As one editorial in a local newspaper said:

“Obama’s victory is a sign to the world that change does not come out of fear of the unknown and effort to cling to a comfort zone but collective faith that things can change if we are bold enough to confront them.”

Watching the whole electoral process unfold struck another chord for Ugandans, namely the contrast they see between the American system and the troubles on their continent:

“And John McCain conceded defeat and congratulated his opponent. This does not in any way make him any less of a great man in his own right, a leaf African leaders must borrow.”

There are several African ‘leaders’ who could do us all a favor and borrow that leaf right now.

So altogether the night was a big success; from inadvertent naps and beercoffee to tears and dances. A rather high number of staff members called in sick on Wednesday . . . . but the headmaster was very understanding.  Even after the dust has settled, I still get giddy at the thought of Obama and his family moving on in to the White House.  I feel like I’m going home to a different country from the one I left, and I’m looking forward to it.

David and Goliath

In this scenario, David refers to David Gelvin, the Field Operations Manger (FOM) for the clinic in the village, which was built by Arlington Academy of Hope (AAH), but is currently run by the Foundation for the International Medical Relief of Children (FIMRC).

That’s a lot of acronyms.

That makes the inherent inconveniences and complexities of running anything in rural Uganda our Goliath. I have to admit, I’m on shaky ground with this allusion. I believe that it’s biblical, and I believe that David represents the classic underdog. I have a vague notion of a sling shot being involved, and possibly a Cyclops? Is having long hair somehow relevant? In any case, I know there was a conflict and David surprised everyone by coming out on top—a modest and humble hero. That’s where our David comes in. His year of service with FIMRC ends in early November, and he’s shipping out, or actually bussing out, with only his tiny knapsack on his back. The man deserves a hero’s farewell, and since I don’t sing or drum well enough to participate in any goodbye assembly without embarrassing everyone, this blog entry is my contribution.

I was intimidated by David when I first met him, for two reasons. Firstly, he can do anything. If there is a practical, useful and complex task lurking around, he’s your man. A circuit blew? Call David. The water pump is broken? Get the Davemiester on the phone. Your bed boards make weird squeaking noises that sound like dying dinosaurs? Give D-money a hammer and a nail and your problem is solved. Oh what’s that? You want to design a unique, searchable database that captures the patient information of the sixty or so people that come through the clinic every day and also install a back-up power system that ensures the computer running the database never has to shut down, and train your computer-illiterate staff to operate the system? You guessed it. Davey G’s the guy for you. Unreliable electricity shrinks in his presence. Complicated wiring won’t even show itself. He laughs in the face of non-running water.

David aka MacGyver

In this sense David and I compliment each other nicely. See, I can’t do any of those things. I once asked David to fix my headlamp, because the light had gone a funny color. He took it from me, and gently flipped the optional red plastic covering off the light, using the conveniently placed finger tab. I seriously had been examining the thing for minutes, MINUTES, and had not figured that out. So if you combined us, we would probably level out to a human with about average competence in all things practical.

The second reason I found David intimidating was his quiet demeanor. He doesn’t swagger around, saying things like “See that creative toilet paper-hanging solution in the latrine? Yeah, I designed and constructed that. You’re welcome.” He doesn’t ever bring up the fact that he personally spent hours crawling around the school’s bat/spider-infested attic space while installing the wireless network that I am using right now to post this entry. He just quietly does the job, and then goes for a ten kilometer run and beats me at Scrabble. This quietness perturbed me, as it is so foreign to my own nature. My motto is: when in doubt, talk. I figured he had to be hiding something. Maybe he was filled with resentment and was secretly taking notes on all the times I messed up so he could email them to John Wanda. Maybe he blew off steam at the weekend by going to Club Oasis and getting rip-roaring drunk and waking up in a pool of his own vomit. I mean, the guy had to have a dark side.

Turns out, he doesn’t. Nine months of living together in Uganda have removed the intimidation factor—shaving a guy’s head and discussing the intimate details of his case of scabies will do that—but I am still in awe of David. I understand him a little better now. While I spent the first few months wondering how in the hell I could ever repay David for all the favors he did for me and the school, I have come to realize that problem-solving is his idea of relaxation. He has been known to utter the words “Ruth, when do I get to fix your i-pod?” Or, “Can we please hang the mosquito nets now?” Sometimes I have to gently rebuke him: “David, you can’t fix my excel spreadsheet until after dinner.” Usefulness is his natural state. His constant productiveness still makes me hang my crossword-addicted head in shame sometimes. But as previously discussed, my utility around the house is basically restricted to menial tasks like putting dishes away, and filling jugs with water. I have been known to hang the odd string of fairy lights, but generally, I can’t compete.

His personal favors to me, and help around the school and guest house, pale in comparison to the transformation he enacted at the FIMRC clinic this year. On a physical level, he designed and supervised an extension and re-modeling of the building that makes the place feel about ten times as big, and much more professional. If you want to know the exact number of meters of useful space this extension created, you can ask him. I’m sure he has those calculations somewhere. As I mentioned before, he created a database to record patient information that could potentially have dramatic uses in designing appropriate health policy for the district. Oh yes, and he pioneered the use of a back-up battery system so the clinic never goes without power. On our dark, electricity-less nights, the clinic security lights can be seen shining for miles around, inspiring awe or envy depending who you talk to. To take advantage of the constant power, he installed a motion-sensitive security light. This addition completely confounded the night watchman, and he spend an evening camped out on the clinic porch, convinced that some intruder inside was messing with him. All these improvements were made on top of the day-to-day tasks of managing the clinic: keeping the budget, purchasing medicine, taking care of all human resource issues, which David accomplished with a level of organization unprecedented in these jungle hills. So take that Uganda-Goliath.

David aka FMRC all-star

It’s not surprising that David is beloved by many, myself included. David and I get on extremely well. We discovered a mutual love of sarcastic humor early in the year, and have honed our smart-ass skills together. We developed an after-dinner, front porch, cigarette and chat tradition, and I’m fairly confident that we’ve solved about 70% of the world’s problems during these conversations. It’s not that we’re arrogant; it’s just that we know we’re right. My friendship with David is not without its areas of tension. There is a somewhat unspoken battle over my continued use of hot water for bathing. I know he doesn’t like it when I convert new volunteers to my luxurious ways. I’ve analyzed this a lot though, and feel that I’m on solid moral and rational ground when it comes to hot water usage (except for that time that I used the whole thermos right as he was getting ready to make coffee. Sorry!). He also beats me at Scrabble every time we play, despite my English major and crossword compulsion. He is, however, an extremely gracious and supportive winner. He goes out of his way to point out that my score has improved from last time, and glosses over the fact that he beat the pants off me.

My insistence on comfortable bathing and shame at Scrabble inadequacy aside, without David’s steady, helpful hand, generosity, and willingness to listen to me blow off steam, I may not have stuck around Bumwalukani for the whole year. Cheesy as it is, he’s an inspirational figure for me. He marches to the beat of his own drum, but not in any hippy, unproductive way. Ok, when he last lived in the States he shunned the material comforts of a bed, and just slept on the floor. I’m on the fence about that one. I guess it falls into the hot water category of disagreements. He operates under the assumption that he can do anything he puts his mind to, and generally he’s right. But the most remarkable thing about him is that he balances this confidence with a level of kindness and consideration for others that I’ve rarely seen in a person. Avid blog readers may recall the yoga room he created for my birthday. Unfortunately, the resident rat population of the store room did not take kindly to me doing yoga there, and their indignant rustling made achieving inner peace with one leg propped over my head particularly difficult. It’s back to yoga in my bedroom for me, but it’s the thought that counts, and that kind thought was completely characteristic of David.

David aka my Uganda bff

I know David could have found considerable financial success as a Wall Street broker, or real estate mogul, or computer genius. Instead he did the Peace Corps, managed a homeless shelter, spent a summer climbing mountains, and came to Uganda to accept a small monthly stipend and all responsibility for a free clinic. It’s humanity’s good fortune that David chooses to apply his impressive levels of intelligence and competence to unconventional, poorly paying, and extremely helpful endeavors. It was my good fortune that one of those endeavors took him to Bumwalukani, Uganda. I can sometimes be a harsh judge of character, but I have absolute faith in David. I’m not sure what Goliath he’s going to take on next, but I know he’s going to slay it. I’m just sad he’s leaving, and I won’t be around to watch him do it.