"I tried so hard, can't seem to get away from misery. Man I tried so hard, but always be a victim of these streets." - Bone Thugs N Harmony & Akon

I met Simphwio, a seventh-grade Amasango student on High Street this morning as I walked to school. He looked dirty. He looked as though he hadn't cleaned himself in a couple days. He looked sad and a bit agitated. Usually when he's in a mood, he wants nothing to do with me, but today, he walked along with me down the street. I asked him why he hadn't been to school in a couple days. He told me he needed money because his mother was in the hospital with TB. He's been washing cars in town, selling cigarettes and begging to try and come up with the cash.

I asked about another boy I haven't seen in some time: Thembanakazi, who, when he sees me, often smiles, grabs my hand and says in his South African accent, "DOLL-AHHH! You are very rich Jay-SEN! You have many DOLL-AHHHHS." He makes sure I acknowledge him, then laughs and walks away. Thembanakazi is in jail. He skipped a court date for a robbery and he's now in prison. His bail is set at 300 rand. Nobody seems to be able to come up with the cash to pay it, so Thembanakazi will sit in prison for a while.

Today when I got in, there was an unusually tense meeting in Jane's office. I dropped my bag in the storage area-the only really secure place in all of Amasango, and left as the argument got heated. The one boy in the closed door session, who's pretty big and pretty tough, stood up and tried to walk out of her office. When the security guard stopped him, he started wailing. He sounded more than angry though. It wasn't just an "I'm leaving because I'm pissed off" scream. He sounded incredibly upset, in pain and vulnerable. I know for certain this boy's mother had been dying of AIDS last time I was here. I don't know if she's dead yet. I don't even know if that's what the meeting was about. I only know I heard his wailing as I made my way out of the passage to grade six.

On the way to the art room, a sixth-grader put his arm around me and asked to talk. He wanted to talk about his friend, fifth-grade student, Samdilkze. Samdilkze wasn't in school today. He rarely misses school and behaves most of the time, projecting a carefree demeanor around the kids and I. Samdilkze can do very good impersonations of former South African President Nelson Mandela. Usually when I see him, it's just as I walk through the gates of Amasango, past his classroom. I wave as I walk by the door.

He often will leave class to greet me. I shake his hand and say "Hello Mr. Mandela." He smiles back and says "Hello Jason, Welcome to Amasango. How are you today" in his best Mandela voice. Samdilkze's classmate sounded worried when told me that Samdilkze, his classmate and our friend, fought back against an abusive step-father last night or the night before and now is in police custody.

I don't know why I've managed to take it this long, but I think-and fear-Amasango is starting to catch up with me. I can't take the misery anymore. I can't take hearing about the boy who's washing cars to help his mother who has TB. I hate hearing about student after student whose mother has died of AIDS and whose father has served as little more than a sperm donor. I feel for Jan, the girl who doesn't know what to do with her baby; only that she wants it to have a "better life than I had." I wish I could bring back the boy's mother who was murdered at the hands of her boyfriend. I wish two brothers at school never had to get the news that their alcoholic mother got into a drunken rage and stabbed their aunt to death in the township.

I e-mailed a friend this afternoon who used to work at Rhodes Community and Social Development Office to see if she knew anybody in other schools where I might go and work a couple days a week. Part of me wants to see how other parts of South Africa operate. Part of me wants some degree of normalcy and predictability. Part of me cannot take the hatred, the violence, the misery that exists at Amasango--even though all these things are sandwiched between triumphs.

These kids are survivors. They are resilient. Seeing their problems, seeing what life has handed them and seeing how they push ahead is one of the most inspiring experiences I've ever had. It's also one of the most draining.

I think, no, I know, life has toughened them much more than it's toughened me. They can take it--though, they don't have much of a choice but to take it. I've come to realize that I can't.

I can't take the misery and the pain five days a week at the school and then get a double dose on the weekend at the shelter.

I hate people who ignore problems, but I'm convinced that everybody has a threshold for other peoples' pain. I think I'm close to reaching that threshold. I will still go to Amasango. I'll go three days a week.

I don't want to ignore the problem, but I do think I need to look away. The kids can't look away from their problems. I wish they could, but they can't. I can. Even if it's just twice a week. I will know the misery that exists just down the road, but I won't see it.

I think I need to look away.

Not forever. But for a while.