“I tear my heart open, I sew myself shut, my weakness is that I care too much.” - Papa Roach

I spoke with Jane this weekend about my plans for next year.

I was very nervous to approach her about my plans to go to Kingswood College and Nathaniel Nyaluza High School one day per week—and cut back my time at Amasango to just three days. I don’t know why I was so nervous. I need to do this for me, and while I was hoping she’d be okay with my plans (which she was), I was going to proceed even if she wasn’t. Perhaps my hesitation was not only my nerves, but also a sense that I was giving up; a sense that she can take it and has weathered the storm for more than a decade, why can’t I?

I don’t really have the answer to that question. I just know that I’ve learned during these past three trips that I can take a lot. In fact, I’d venture that I can handle this environment better than most people. I’ve also learned that I can’t take it incessantly.

The misery, the despair, the crude remarks about my nonexistent sister, the poverty, the violence day after day has proven to be unmanageable. I love the kids—most of them anyways. I take their problems to heart and it’s worn me out. I keep telling myself that I’m not quitting—that I’m looking away, taking time for myself.

I need to get out, even if it’s only two days a week. I am starting to dislike the person I’m becoming. I snap at the kids over everything. I’m growing increasingly unsympathetic to their stories because so often, those stories are made up to get something they want. I don’t particularly look forward to going in. The joy that I’ve found in this work for so long is disappearing by the day. I’ve become, for lack of a better word, a hard ass. I come in late some days and watch the clock tick down until it’s time to leave. I don’t hate Amasango, but I fear if I don’t get away for a bit, I will begin to despise the place that has drawn me back to South Africa time and time again.

I really think this is the best option for me, for the school and for the kids. Right now, I’m not giving it my all and that bothers me. But I’m tired and I’m worn out and the light at the end of the tunnel seems to, at times, get dimmer and dimmer. The problems these kids face seem to become increasingly insurmountable. The situation they find themselves in looks more and more desperate. The school hasn’t changed, I have.

I can’t take coming in Monday morning and, before assembly hear about a student witnessing his mother being raped, or learning about a boy who was stabbed over the weekend in the township, or about the young HIV-positive girl who was hospitalized. Three days a week will be very manageable, especially if Amasango’s insanity is sandwiched between a smidge of normalcy and hope—something Nyaluza and Kingswood can hopefully offer.

Having Thulani live with us at Jane’s house has been great and confusing and has taught me about myself and with living with a pretty tough guy. It’s also complicated matters further. I’m grateful that Thulani, who’s led a pretty depressing existence so far, is being provided with a safe haven as well as food and clothing. I’m thankful he will be taken care of until he’s sent to a children’s home outside of Grahamstown. But having him around constantly has made any fight that I have left in me disappear. I never leave school or the problems of school behind. The madness begins the moment I step through the gates of Amasango as dozens of kids call my name, some grab me and pinch me to get my attention, others reach into my pockets to see if there’s anything good hidden away. It continues as I walk home, past current and former Amasango pupils begging in town for change or food. Then, I’m treated to an encore presentation once I’ve arrived at my destination. No, home isn’t always Hell—but sometimes it’s close. Everybody needs a sanctuary from the storm and for the past four weeks, my only sanctuary—my home—has been shared by a great, albeit hardened former street child. The storm may die down once I leave Amasango, but its remnants are still brewing, though in a weaker form, once I walk through the door of 31 Bedford Street.

I need an escape. I am meeting with Mr. Mushwana, the principal of Nathaniel Nyaluza, the township high school, tomorrow about working there in January.

A representative at Kingswood College e-mailed me expressing an interest in my ideas.

I love Amasango. I love the kids—but I need to get away from the storm.