Struggling.

Thursday was a rough day for me. I’m not sure what exactly triggered it, but I suddenly felt the emotional gravity of the week bear down on me. Before landing in Johannesburg, we were all warned about the vast economic disparities we would see in Grahamstown. We were told we were staying in a part of town many of the Inkululeko students’ families would never afford. We would see extreme poverty on top of wealth. While I did notice this on our trips back and forth from the township (housing extensions where most of the black community lives in poverty) to our hotel on High Street, I didn’t fully grasp the way socioeconomic disparities affect the community on not only a systematic but also a very personal level.

The view on the road from the township into Grahamstown
The view from the road on the way from the township into Grahamstown

Of course it is tough to see people living in tin shacks and no, I am not used to seeing high schools that may or may not have running water on any given day, but I didn’t take the time to decompress these experiences. It wasn’t until the second trip to Upstart, the community organization I’ll be working with for the next two weeks that I understood the deeper everyday implications of living in poverty. At Upstart, a handful of my peers and I met a young woman named Julie who had the opportunity to attend great schools while living in the township. Because of her educational background, she has what is called a Model C accent. In other words, she speaks clear English and her native accent is barely detected. This type of accent can be loosely related to code-switching in the US. Having a Model C accent makes a favorable impression on the population in power and may dissuade any questioning of one’s intelligence, compared to having a Xhosa accent. Julie told us stories of what it was like to take a taxi to school in Grahamstown, putting on her “White face” to be accepted by school friends, while at the same time struggling to find a level of social comfort upon returning to the township. She told us about similar identity crises township youth experience when they take responsibility for their education and try to break the cycle of poverty, yet are ostracized and bullied in their home communities for being “too smart” or “anti-social” for taking time to quietly read – an activity that was always encouraged in my own household.

The most jarring anecdote Julie told us was about a high school student who was applying to university but did not have a phone number to put down on her applications. Knowing she needed a cell phone in order to be reached regarding admissions decisions, the young woman “rented” a cell phone from a man in town. In order to keep using the phone, she had to have sex with him throughout the admissions process. Hearing stories of women using their bodies as a mode of trade is always a heavy subject and is not one to be taken lightly. The reason this particular story struck me was because this is what a young person felt they needed to do to apply for college. Though I know of students in the US who may have trouble paying for applications and might struggle to qualify for fee waivers, there is no way to picture such a thing happening stateside, at least not in any neighborhood I’ve been in. I don’t say this to emphasize how “unbelievable” or “crazy” people’s lives are in South Africa, but to try to put into perspective the physically and emotionally violent crimes accompanied with poverty. And in South Africa, poverty is inextricably linked to race.

With these thoughts in my head and with my heart heavy, I found it hard to get ready to attend the fundraiser dinner for Inkululeko. Although I knew I needed to be present at the event since I’m writing the copy for the organization’s annual report and had important people to meet, I didn’t feel stable enough to go out and mingle. I’ve been told many times that I need to work on fixing my face and hiding my emotions while in public and I realize this is a skill I need to work on. But at the time, it wasn’t a feeling that I wanted to ignore or put on a facade to hide. As odd as this may sound, I almost felt like I was having an epiphany of sorts. I desperately wanted to be alone and write, to sort out my thoughts and seriously contemplate the compounding issues I’d recently been exposed to. I found myself questioning a lot about my own life, systems in the US and SA, black consciousness, poverty and humanity as a whole. As both a writer and an introvert, I often find myself needing a lot of time alone and subsequently talk to myself very often. Unfortunately, I didn’t take the time to do so this last week, the week of my life I probably needed it most. Regardless, I got myself together and had a great time at the event. The timing of the fundraiser was aligned with my newfound realization of why it’s important to do the work we do. Although it can sometimes be easy to question the impact of non-profit organizations and philanthropic activities, it’s important to be reminded that the world will not change overnight. As Roger Domingo noted Friday on our visit to GADRA (Grahamstown Area Disaster Relief Association), change happens one person at a time, with the right person in the right place in the right time.

 

Sanele and Sino at An Evening with Inkululeko. Sanele is a student at Rhodes and head of the advisory board. Sino is a current Inkululeko learner.
Sanele, Sino and me at An Evening with Inkululeko. Sanele is a native Grahamstonian, a student at Rhodes and head of the advisory board. Sino is a current Inkululeko learner.

My Introduction to Schools in Grahamstown

This morning marks my third full day in Grahamstown, South Africa. While I’m still trying to mentally compress everything I’ve experienced, I definitely want to share a little bit of what I’ve done so far.

The program coordinators have partnered with the Community Engagement (CE)  office at Rhodes University to help organize trips to volunteer/tour around the city of Grahamstown. Yesterday morning, I went to Luzuko Methodist Preschool outside of the township. On CE shuttle, I met a woman doing graduate studies at Rhodes and she was from Gwinnett County, Georgia – right outside of Atlanta, of all places. Speaking to her introduced the idea of going to graduate school overseas to me, but that is a topic for another day.

There was one staff member at the preschool named Pam. Although she said there were three full-time staff members, one woman was maternity leave and the other hadn’t reported to work in some time, so that left Pam to manage two classes by herself: one pre-K and one class of 2-3 year olds. The absence of the other staff members also meant Pam couldn’t perform her full job functions, which were supposed to include home visits with parents when appropriate situations arose.

The Luzuko Methodist Preschool

I spent about two hours with the class of 2-3 year olds and it goes without saying that they were absolutely adorable. Earlier in the day, my peers and I had a first hour-long Xhosa lesson so we had very minimal verbal communication skills. Although the language barrier was frustrating at times, we eventually realized it wasn’t necessary to communicate via verbal language. Matt, the Deputy Director and Curriculum Advisor of Inkululeko was with us in the classroom and he started leading songs and activities with the children with ease (he’s lived in SA for about 7 years, but is originally from the US). Seeing the comfort Matt had with the children started to rub off on the rest of the group. Although I couldn’t understand the words to the songs, it was easy to follow and I eventually caught on: these are the days of the week, these are the months of the year, this one is head-shoulders-knees-and toes, etc. With leadership from Matt and one of our community liaisons who served as a translator, we taught them the Itsy Bitsy Spider and head-shoulders-knees-and toes in English.

 

Pam provided commentary throughout the period, noting many recent years of classes have had trouble remembering some days of the week. For example, they remember Monday, Wednesday, Saturday and Saturday, but could not remember the others. She’s observed this trend for some time, but isn’t sure what the explanation behind it is. After reviewing the material, Pam said the children would dance to one song, have snack, use the toilets (there was no indoor plumbing in the main building,) and then have recess. When she put on the CD, Katy Perry’s “Roar” was the song that started playing, which we all enjoyed. Some of those little girls were really getting into dancing. I was so impressed.

At snack time, some of my peers were excited to see the children pull out healthy snacks from their backpacks: juice, apples, bananas and simple sandwiches. There weren’t any potato chips or fatty foods in sight. Michelle Obama would’ve been so happy. One of the little girls sat next to me and started chatting away. Without remembering any Xhosa besides molo for “hello,” I couldn’t do much but smile and nod. I noticed one of the girls sitting in a corner eating a boiled egg, but didn’t think twice about it. However, Pam said something to the young girl, and explained to us that she was from one of the more well-off families in the group. The school recently asked all of the parents to only pack fruits and simple foods in the lunches because the poorer children would not eat their own food if they saw students with better food than them; they were embarrassed. Receiving this information from Pam made me think of the most simple ways class is seen in society. I never would’ve thought an egg would draw attention as a sign of money, but these children noticed. Even at such a young age, they knew what was different and seemingly better. In what I interpreted as a similar attempt to ameliorate the display of class within the school, they also asked the parents to purchase uniforms for their learners. If they didn’t or couldn’t purchase the uniform, the parents were asked to take their children to another school. But all of the other preschools in the area implemented the same policy, so it was basically ineffective and the students went back to their original schools. The parents wouldn’t buy the uniforms regardless. I only observed a few learners wearing the black and purple uniform, but the girl with boiled eggs was one of them.


Today, I spent two hours at the Amasongo Career School, an alternative school for “street kids.” We received a tour of the school from the principal and met with the pottery teacher and one of his pupils. Many of my peers, including myself, purchased mugs, teapots, and other ceramic pieces. Half of the proceeds went to the Friends of the Amasongo School charity and the other half went to the student who made the piece. We all thought this was a great cause and the pottery was awesome. Although I have much more to say about my experience at Amasango, I will leave this link to further explain the school itself and perhaps elaborate more on the trip later.

Amasango Career School Seeks Adequate School Structures: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0K8cj-fUaa8