I’ve been thinking for more than a week what I should put in this last entry; how to sum up three trips to a place that has become a kind of second home. To try and gather my thoughts, I looked at what I wrote during my final days of trip one and two—and I discovered something.
I’m in a very different place now.
The first two trips I felt terrible about leaving, about saying good bye to the kids, about leaving a place where I felt I was doing a bit of good.
Fast forward two years and I’m ready to move on. I don’t hate it here and I’m not leaving defeated—but I just know I’m ready, ready to leave, ready to try something new, ready to move on. I won’t ever forget the kids, the seemingly small moments at Eluxolweni, at Amasango or on the dirt roads of the township that have had such an impact on my life. I’ll never forget, and perhaps someday life will lead me back to South Africa—but it won’t for a long while.
I’m ready tomorrow, for the first time of these three trips, to board flight 6261 with non-stop service from O.R. Tambo Johannesburg International to Washington Dulles with no regrets, knowing I’ve done the best I can, knowing that some of the kids I’ve become so close to over the past two years will make it—they will. I also know some won’t.
I’ve never really known—or accepted—that some kids you’ve poured time and energy and your heart into won’t make it. It’s a painful truth; but it is the truth. You can’t save everyone from years of neglect or abuse or even from themselves. You can try—and should, but you won’t win them all.
I feel that is one of the most important realizations of trip number three: some of these kids will somehow find the strength to break the cycle of despair and of hopelessness that’s gripped generations in their families; some of the kids somehow manage to keep that fire within themselves alight; they can see beyond the poverty; they know they’re not guaranteed a future, but they won’t stop fighting for one.
Others will drop out; some (if they haven’t already) will become alcoholics and drug addicts. Some (if they haven’t already) will become fathers and neglect their children the same way they have been neglected. Some will never make it out of the tin shack and some will forever be stuck. Some will forever be victims of circumstance and of themselves.
I’ve said farewell to the students of Amasango and will be going this afternoon to say good bye to the guys at Eluxolweni. I wish them the best of luck. I hope they figure out how to piece together their lives. I hope they don’t forget the times we’ve spent together over these past two years. I know I never will.
But for the first time in two years, I’m ready to move on. I’ll never forget—but I’m ready to leave.
Showing posts with label Eluxolweni. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Eluxolweni. Show all posts
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Sunday, March 9, 2008
"People are fundamentally good. We are made to reach for the stars."
My head was down, scanning the sand for any colorful shells or smooth glass that the tide had tossed onto Port Alfred’s windswept beach—about an hour from Grahamstown.
I saw a boy leaning against the wooden barricade that separates the beach from the parking lot. The boy, about 5 meters away was staring intently in my direction, seemingly watching my every move. A bit intimidated, a bit confused, a bit curious, I walked closer.
“Jason!” said the boy.
It was Lindispho: an Amasango student/Eluxolweni shelter boy who left Grahamstown in December for Christmas—and never returned.
I’ve often wondered what happened to him. I’ve always hoped he was okay, but I’ve never been really all that certain he was okay. Here he was, more than three months later, looking good. Sure, his clothes were worn and dirty, but he didn’t look addled by drugs, and he wasn’t drunk.
Lindispho would approach me each day at Amasango and, with an enormous grin, say “I hate you.” He’d pause for a bit of dramatic suspense—even though I knew what was coming—and then finish: “Because you’re white!”
The thing is, the smile never left his face and, by the time he’d get to the word “white” he was laughing hysterically, and, reaching into hug me, continue with “What’s up my white papa?”
It began that way every morning. I’ve really missed his inappropriate, yet well-meaning, remarks.
But here we were now, not having seen him for three months, not having known what had happened to him, not knowing if he’d still be the same, I walked a bit closer and said “I hate you” holding out my hand to shake his.
A grin formed across his face, then a laugh, then “because you’re white.” He pushed my hand out of the way and reached in to hug me.
I invited Lindispho over to where my three friends were. Lindispho and I chatted for a while about nothing in particular.
Then I asked the question I really wanted to, but didn’t want to ask initially. “You coming back to Grahamstown?”
He put his head down, “After Easter.” I don’t like it when they put their head down. Lindispho, most of the kids actually, can’t lie looking you in the eye. Some of the more hardened ones can. Some of the more hardened ones could probably stick a knife through you , looking at you double over and feel nothing. But many of the kids who haven’t lost everything still can’t look you in the eye and lie. “After Easter” means nothing if it isn’t said with a bit of eye contact. Lindispho’s wasn’t.
I asked him if he’d be willing to show my Swedish friends around the township. I told him I needed his help. These Swedish students were leaving Tuesday and had never seen the township and I thought he’d be perfect. None of that was a lie. He agreed to be our tour guide and we loaded into the car.
We drove into the township passed signs like these announcing the expansion of low-income housing.
You know you’re in the township the moment the pavement ends. Crater-size potholes replace the tar; people dressed in third and fourth hand clothes walking everywhere, emaciated dogs wandering the streets shared by goats and cattle. We passed the AIDS clinic, the school, some homes and got to his street.
He looked at me and said “You want to see my house?”
“Do you want to show us your house or would you rather just show us around the township?” I replied.
“I’ll show you my house,” he said.
We parked on the side of a dirt road that has seen better days. I put the gear lock on the shifter, rolled up the windows, told the girls to keep their purses in the trunk, locked the doors, set the alarm.
Lindispho looked on “When you going to realize it’s fine here Jason?” he said with a laugh.
“When you going to come back to school,” I answered.
“I told you, after Easter,” he said, again looking away as he said it.
We walked down a grass path, passed a couple other shacks and arrived to a one-room building that had been pieced together with random pieces of metal.
“Come in,” he said.
The dirt floor was met by cardboard boxes that had been sliced open and put against the walls to cover the holes. The roof had dozens of small holes where the metal had been slit open, Magazines dotted the floor: Cosmopolitan, Newsweek, African Leader. Magazines, I’d discover, he found at the garbage dump. It was Hell-on-Earth. And it was this 15-year-olds home.
We spent the next twenty minutes in the township, before setting off to lunch. I invited Lindisipho to come with us, never thinking for a minute he’d turn down a free meal. He didn’t.
We arrived. We talked. I told him how he needed to come back to school. He said okay. We left. We went back to the township.
I said, “When you coming back to school?”
“After Easter, I promise Jason,” he said looking me straight in the eye.
I looked in the rear view mirror as he walked back into the township, the dust gathering at his feet as he made his way down the dirt road.
I felt defeated. I knew he was going back to that one-room shack from hell.
I felt vindicated. He had looked me in the eye. Maybe he’ll come back. Maybe he will.
I saw a boy leaning against the wooden barricade that separates the beach from the parking lot. The boy, about 5 meters away was staring intently in my direction, seemingly watching my every move. A bit intimidated, a bit confused, a bit curious, I walked closer.
“Jason!” said the boy.
It was Lindispho: an Amasango student/Eluxolweni shelter boy who left Grahamstown in December for Christmas—and never returned.
I’ve often wondered what happened to him. I’ve always hoped he was okay, but I’ve never been really all that certain he was okay. Here he was, more than three months later, looking good. Sure, his clothes were worn and dirty, but he didn’t look addled by drugs, and he wasn’t drunk.
Lindispho would approach me each day at Amasango and, with an enormous grin, say “I hate you.” He’d pause for a bit of dramatic suspense—even though I knew what was coming—and then finish: “Because you’re white!”The thing is, the smile never left his face and, by the time he’d get to the word “white” he was laughing hysterically, and, reaching into hug me, continue with “What’s up my white papa?”
It began that way every morning. I’ve really missed his inappropriate, yet well-meaning, remarks.
But here we were now, not having seen him for three months, not having known what had happened to him, not knowing if he’d still be the same, I walked a bit closer and said “I hate you” holding out my hand to shake his.
A grin formed across his face, then a laugh, then “because you’re white.” He pushed my hand out of the way and reached in to hug me.
I invited Lindispho over to where my three friends were. Lindispho and I chatted for a while about nothing in particular.
Then I asked the question I really wanted to, but didn’t want to ask initially. “You coming back to Grahamstown?”
He put his head down, “After Easter.” I don’t like it when they put their head down. Lindispho, most of the kids actually, can’t lie looking you in the eye. Some of the more hardened ones can. Some of the more hardened ones could probably stick a knife through you , looking at you double over and feel nothing. But many of the kids who haven’t lost everything still can’t look you in the eye and lie. “After Easter” means nothing if it isn’t said with a bit of eye contact. Lindispho’s wasn’t.
I asked him if he’d be willing to show my Swedish friends around the township. I told him I needed his help. These Swedish students were leaving Tuesday and had never seen the township and I thought he’d be perfect. None of that was a lie. He agreed to be our tour guide and we loaded into the car.
We drove into the township passed signs like these announcing the expansion of low-income housing. You know you’re in the township the moment the pavement ends. Crater-size potholes replace the tar; people dressed in third and fourth hand clothes walking everywhere, emaciated dogs wandering the streets shared by goats and cattle. We passed the AIDS clinic, the school, some homes and got to his street.
He looked at me and said “You want to see my house?”
“Do you want to show us your house or would you rather just show us around the township?” I replied.
“I’ll show you my house,” he said.
We parked on the side of a dirt road that has seen better days. I put the gear lock on the shifter, rolled up the windows, told the girls to keep their purses in the trunk, locked the doors, set the alarm.
Lindispho looked on “When you going to realize it’s fine here Jason?” he said with a laugh.
“When you going to come back to school,” I answered.
“I told you, after Easter,” he said, again looking away as he said it.
We walked down a grass path, passed a couple other shacks and arrived to a one-room building that had been pieced together with random pieces of metal.
“Come in,” he said.
The dirt floor was met by cardboard boxes that had been sliced open and put against the walls to cover the holes. The roof had dozens of small holes where the metal had been slit open, Magazines dotted the floor: Cosmopolitan, Newsweek, African Leader. Magazines, I’d discover, he found at the garbage dump. It was Hell-on-Earth. And it was this 15-year-olds home.
We spent the next twenty minutes in the township, before setting off to lunch. I invited Lindisipho to come with us, never thinking for a minute he’d turn down a free meal. He didn’t.
We arrived. We talked. I told him how he needed to come back to school. He said okay. We left. We went back to the township.
I said, “When you coming back to school?”
“After Easter, I promise Jason,” he said looking me straight in the eye.
I looked in the rear view mirror as he walked back into the township, the dust gathering at his feet as he made his way down the dirt road.
I felt defeated. I knew he was going back to that one-room shack from hell.
I felt vindicated. He had looked me in the eye. Maybe he’ll come back. Maybe he will.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
"Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood."
"Bird's eye view"
10th grade pupils watch drama from the third floor of Nyaluza.
Fingo Village Location, Grahamstown East, South Africa.
"Friends"
Nyaluza pupil Sanele (my favorite student) and I outside Nyaluza Secondary.
Fingo Village Location, Grahamstown East, South Africa.
"Unarmed response-but just as effective"
My friends/students/security team with my laptop walking across town.
Near Eluxolweni Shelter, Grahamstown, South Africa.
"Drama"
Nyaluza learners perform for the school's culture day.
Fingo Village Location, Grahamstown East, South Africa.
Monday, January 28, 2008
"Everyone rises to their level of incompetence."
I went to court today. It's taken nearly a year, but the South African Criminal Justice system was ready to teach Mango a lesson.
I arrived in court at the time I was told: 8:30 a.m. I sat. And I read. And I sat some more. And I read some more.
Around noon, nothing was happening. The magistrate hadn't arrived. The lawyers were sitting around inside the court room. I went into the court to speak with the attorney and see what the hold up was. The magistrate had been in a meeting for the morning (the three hours I, and about a dozen others had been sitting there for). And now, it was tea time! So, it was time for everybody to take a break from doing nothing all morning--and now begin the afternoon properly...doing nothing. Of course; makes sense to me.
Before cutting for tea, the lawyer informed me that the charges against the stabber were to be withdrawn. The South African Police Service--the people who supposedly protect the people of this nation--did not open the case properly or include statements from the eyewitnesses (myself or about a dozen other children). The court was powerless to proceed.
Mango arrived to court this morning. Mango told me, with a pompous smirk, that he'd be fine and he'd get off. Mango was notified that the charges were withdrawn. Mango smiled. Mango left court. Mango won. Mango can now go collect his knife in the township and stab whoever the hell he wants.
I know the lawyer had his hands tied. He must follow the law--after all it's his job. What I don't understand is why it is so difficult for people in this country to do their job properly. It sounds like I'm making a generalization, and I am. There are some people who I've come across who are remarkably competent, intelligent, productive members of society.
There are also hundreds who just don't cut it. They show up to work late, or not at all.
When they're supposed to be in a classroom teaching, they're having tea.
When a different case was opened earlier this year against a boy who beat another student unconscious, the police were supposed to come and arrest the perpetrator. They never came.
Instead of being able to phone the police when somebody breaks into our homes, we have to push the rapid response button and have Hi-Tech Armed Response (a private security firm) race to our home because the police, those in charge of protecting us, are utterly useless.
I love South Africa. I wouldn't have come three times if I didn't. But, by and large, especially with government organizations, there seems to be a culture of incredible incompetence.
And now, a boy who stabbed a mentally handicapped boy is to walk free. He knows the system: stab whoever you want, go to court twice, and then, since the police will undoubtedly mess something up, walk freely home, gather your knife and continue your violent rampage.
I arrived in court at the time I was told: 8:30 a.m. I sat. And I read. And I sat some more. And I read some more.
Around noon, nothing was happening. The magistrate hadn't arrived. The lawyers were sitting around inside the court room. I went into the court to speak with the attorney and see what the hold up was. The magistrate had been in a meeting for the morning (the three hours I, and about a dozen others had been sitting there for). And now, it was tea time! So, it was time for everybody to take a break from doing nothing all morning--and now begin the afternoon properly...doing nothing. Of course; makes sense to me.
Before cutting for tea, the lawyer informed me that the charges against the stabber were to be withdrawn. The South African Police Service--the people who supposedly protect the people of this nation--did not open the case properly or include statements from the eyewitnesses (myself or about a dozen other children). The court was powerless to proceed.
Mango arrived to court this morning. Mango told me, with a pompous smirk, that he'd be fine and he'd get off. Mango was notified that the charges were withdrawn. Mango smiled. Mango left court. Mango won. Mango can now go collect his knife in the township and stab whoever the hell he wants.
I know the lawyer had his hands tied. He must follow the law--after all it's his job. What I don't understand is why it is so difficult for people in this country to do their job properly. It sounds like I'm making a generalization, and I am. There are some people who I've come across who are remarkably competent, intelligent, productive members of society.
There are also hundreds who just don't cut it. They show up to work late, or not at all.
When they're supposed to be in a classroom teaching, they're having tea.
When a different case was opened earlier this year against a boy who beat another student unconscious, the police were supposed to come and arrest the perpetrator. They never came.
Instead of being able to phone the police when somebody breaks into our homes, we have to push the rapid response button and have Hi-Tech Armed Response (a private security firm) race to our home because the police, those in charge of protecting us, are utterly useless.
I love South Africa. I wouldn't have come three times if I didn't. But, by and large, especially with government organizations, there seems to be a culture of incredible incompetence.
And now, a boy who stabbed a mentally handicapped boy is to walk free. He knows the system: stab whoever you want, go to court twice, and then, since the police will undoubtedly mess something up, walk freely home, gather your knife and continue your violent rampage.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
"You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow, cuz opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo." - Eminem
Nathaniel Nyaluza Secondary School
Fingo Village, Grahamstown East, South Africa
Photos taken on: January 25, 2008
"Look, if you had one shot or one opportunity to seize everything you ever wanted in one moment; would you capture it or just let it slip?" Entrance to Nyaluza High.
"....That's when it's back to the lab again." My classroom at Nyaluza.
"He keeps on forgetting what he wrote down, the whole crowd goes so loud, he opens his mouth but the words won't come out." Wall art, Nyaluza style.
"So here I go, it's my shot, feet fail me not, cuz maybe the only opportunity that I got." Exterior of Nyaluza Secondary.
"I cannot grow old in Salem's Lot, so here I go, it's my shot..." Art class, Nyaluza style.
I'm like a snail, I've got to formulate a plot, or end up in jail or shot. Success is my only muthaf---in' option, failure's not." 8th grade learners in Nyaluza corridor.
"You can do anything you set your mind to, man." Success! Former Amasango learners Xolisani Makelani and Samkelo Maqanda in their Nyaluza uniforms.
Fingo Village, Grahamstown East, South Africa
Photos taken on: January 25, 2008
"Look, if you had one shot or one opportunity to seize everything you ever wanted in one moment; would you capture it or just let it slip?" Entrance to Nyaluza High.
"....That's when it's back to the lab again." My classroom at Nyaluza.
"He keeps on forgetting what he wrote down, the whole crowd goes so loud, he opens his mouth but the words won't come out." Wall art, Nyaluza style.
"So here I go, it's my shot, feet fail me not, cuz maybe the only opportunity that I got." Exterior of Nyaluza Secondary.
"I cannot grow old in Salem's Lot, so here I go, it's my shot..." Art class, Nyaluza style.
I'm like a snail, I've got to formulate a plot, or end up in jail or shot. Success is my only muthaf---in' option, failure's not." 8th grade learners in Nyaluza corridor.
"You can do anything you set your mind to, man." Success! Former Amasango learners Xolisani Makelani and Samkelo Maqanda in their Nyaluza uniforms.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
"A photograph can be an instant of life captured for eternity that will never cease looking back at you."
"Life as they know it"
Exhibition's American opening
January 29, 2008, 5 - 7 p.m.
The Rainbow Gallery, Tower Fine Arts Center
State University of New York College at Brockport
Sponsorship provided by: The SNAP Foundation, SUNY Brockport
Project Advisor: Jason Torreano
"Life as they know it" arrives for its American opening on the 29th of January 2008. The exhibition will run in the Rainbow Gallery at Tower Fine Arts until February 15, 2008. Below is a preview of some of the photographs taken by pupils who attend Amasango Career School in Grahamstown, South Africa. We hope you'll be able to stop by the exhibit.
Exhibition's American opening
January 29, 2008, 5 - 7 p.m.
The Rainbow Gallery, Tower Fine Arts Center
State University of New York College at Brockport
Sponsorship provided by: The SNAP Foundation, SUNY Brockport
Project Advisor: Jason Torreano
"Life as they know it" arrives for its American opening on the 29th of January 2008. The exhibition will run in the Rainbow Gallery at Tower Fine Arts until February 15, 2008. Below is a preview of some of the photographs taken by pupils who attend Amasango Career School in Grahamstown, South Africa. We hope you'll be able to stop by the exhibit.
"In seeking happiness for others, you find it for yourself." - Unknown
I've just completed my first week back at Amasango, and I've begun to realize that, as that old saying goes, the little things...aren't so little.
I was cautiously optimstic about what the new year might hold at Amasango. By the end of last term, all of the fun I used to have at Amasango--and all the joy that came from working at the school--had vanished. All I saw were desperate, violent, miserable kids. I, myself, became miserable, not because all the kids around me were, but because I focused too heavily on the failures, and not enough on the small successes.
The first stabbing of the year occurred Thursday; just a couple days into the new year, but, I've learned if one dwells on the negatives too long, one quickly becomes disheartened and loses sight of all the good that's going on. So, I've discovered I must acknowledge it, deal with it, and then move on. So, in that spirit, yes, there was a nasty fight Thursday. The weapons came out, the guards rushed in and carried away two angry, agitated struggling boys into the passage. But there was more than just a nasty fight this week. This week also saw:
- nearly a dozen guys and girls trading in their Amasango uniforms for a pair of slacks or a skirt, a sweater, a tie and heading off to Nyaluza and Nombulelo High Schools. When everything around them told them they couldn't make it, they ignored everything around them. They're in high school. Not prison. They're getting their education. And I couldn't be prouder, or happier, to know them.
- a 7th grade student--red-faced and clearly on the edge--who's been very violent in the past, running up to one of the school's security guards and pleading with the guard for help. This boy said another student wanted to fight with him but that he wanted to keep the peace. The guard and the student talked. A fight, potentially a violent fight, was avoided. A small success, but a success.
- Zukisani Lamani, a 22-year-old 12th grader fighting through the bureaucracy of the Department of Education. Lamani had been fighting hard to be transferred to a better, higher performing, township school. He wrote letters, he met with the education deparment, he followed up with the education department, he wished, more than anything, to be transferred to Nombulelo High. On Wednesday, his wish was granted.
- a boy who's been very difficult, very full of drugs, very untrustworthy in the past became a boy who seems to have turned over a new leaf. He came to school every day this week with a clean face and clear eyes, rather than puffy eyes and a face riddled by drug abuse. He turned in a fellow student who was stealing books from Amasango. In the past, he would have been an accomplice. Now he's an informer.
The people who come to Amasango amaze me at their uncanny ability to come to school and smile; to be happy, to not let all the bad bring their spirits down. They see the fighting, the stabbings, and its aftermath of blood and tears, but they have learned, perhaps, the only way to survive in these conditions is to focus on the good.
I'm learning too.
Here's to an amazing first week at Amasango, Grahamstown, South Africa.
I was cautiously optimstic about what the new year might hold at Amasango. By the end of last term, all of the fun I used to have at Amasango--and all the joy that came from working at the school--had vanished. All I saw were desperate, violent, miserable kids. I, myself, became miserable, not because all the kids around me were, but because I focused too heavily on the failures, and not enough on the small successes.
The first stabbing of the year occurred Thursday; just a couple days into the new year, but, I've learned if one dwells on the negatives too long, one quickly becomes disheartened and loses sight of all the good that's going on. So, I've discovered I must acknowledge it, deal with it, and then move on. So, in that spirit, yes, there was a nasty fight Thursday. The weapons came out, the guards rushed in and carried away two angry, agitated struggling boys into the passage. But there was more than just a nasty fight this week. This week also saw:
- nearly a dozen guys and girls trading in their Amasango uniforms for a pair of slacks or a skirt, a sweater, a tie and heading off to Nyaluza and Nombulelo High Schools. When everything around them told them they couldn't make it, they ignored everything around them. They're in high school. Not prison. They're getting their education. And I couldn't be prouder, or happier, to know them.
- a 7th grade student--red-faced and clearly on the edge--who's been very violent in the past, running up to one of the school's security guards and pleading with the guard for help. This boy said another student wanted to fight with him but that he wanted to keep the peace. The guard and the student talked. A fight, potentially a violent fight, was avoided. A small success, but a success.
- Zukisani Lamani, a 22-year-old 12th grader fighting through the bureaucracy of the Department of Education. Lamani had been fighting hard to be transferred to a better, higher performing, township school. He wrote letters, he met with the education deparment, he followed up with the education department, he wished, more than anything, to be transferred to Nombulelo High. On Wednesday, his wish was granted.
- a boy who's been very difficult, very full of drugs, very untrustworthy in the past became a boy who seems to have turned over a new leaf. He came to school every day this week with a clean face and clear eyes, rather than puffy eyes and a face riddled by drug abuse. He turned in a fellow student who was stealing books from Amasango. In the past, he would have been an accomplice. Now he's an informer.
The people who come to Amasango amaze me at their uncanny ability to come to school and smile; to be happy, to not let all the bad bring their spirits down. They see the fighting, the stabbings, and its aftermath of blood and tears, but they have learned, perhaps, the only way to survive in these conditions is to focus on the good.
I'm learning too.
Here's to an amazing first week at Amasango, Grahamstown, South Africa.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
"Now you say your trust's gettin' weaker, probably coz my lies just started gettin' deeper." - The Black Eyed Peas
I was walking home a couple days ago and came across former Amasango pupil *Zambuxolo.
I couldn't quite remember his name. I'm stopped a dozen times a day by kids who want money, food, clothes or just somebody to talk to, and I wasn't particularly keen on slowing down for this guy since I really didn't know him that well. My plan was to smile, acknowledge him, shake his hand then keep walking toward home.
I smiled. I acknowledged him. I shook his hand. But he stopped, he wanted to talk.
I asked him how his Christmas and New Year was.
He said "Not fine" and pointed to his neck.
I had seen the cut about 2 inches below his chin. It was the very first thing I noticed when I stopped. It ran like an "X" along the side of his neck, as if he'd been sliced twice.
I wasn't going to say anything about it though unless he brought it up.
"What happened," I asked, already knowing the answer.
"Somebody stabbed me," he said.
"Here," pointing to his neck, "And here," pointing to the area near his heart.
"Who?" I said. "Who stabbed you?"
He put his head down.
"Who?" I repeated. "Anybody I know?"
"No, nobody from Amasango."
"Okay," I said. "Well, I'm sorry. You have a good day it was nice seeing you and - "
He interrupted me, "here's the hospital report."
He thrust a couple pieces of paper into my hands.
I glanced at it. It listed his name, his age-or perhaps approximate age. On the second sheet was a diagram of the human body where somebody had marked where Zambuxolo had been stabbed.
It also had a section for "comments on arrival." There was just one word in that section: "Drunk."
I looked back up at him. I knew he was trying to get my sympathy. He knew I hadn't seen him much since my first visit to Grahamstown.
He's played the begging game long enough to know I'm approached by a dozen people a day and that he'd have to set himself apart from the crowd. He'd really have to be suffering to get bread or money out of me.
He also believed that if he played his cards right, if he played the role of "poor innocent stabbing victim" he might be able to squeeze 5 or 10 rand out of me.
"It says here you were drunk when you got to the hospital," I said.
"No," he shook his head. "No, no no."
"Well," I said, patting him on the back. "The hospital doesn't just write that for the hell of it. I'll tell you what. I think you and your friends were having some fun. You were drunk. They were drunk--and that's when this," I said pointing to his neck, "happened."
I continued, "I'm sorry it happened (it wasn't just a phrase I put out there, I was sorry it happened to him), but don't get drunk."
"I wasn't drunk," he repeated. "I wasn't drunk. I was stabbed."
"You were stabbed...while you were drunk," I retorted. "I'm sorry that this happened to you though. You didn't deserve that."
He was silent for a moment, thinking about his next move--he gave up with the "I wasn't drunk" line, and, then as I predicted,--"I'm very hungry Jason," he began.
"Sorry, buddy," I said, handing him back the papers. "I gotta go. It was nice seeing you and I hope you feel better."
I walked off.
My first visit here I would have felt horrible for this boy. I would have bought him half the supermarket all while thinking, poor him. Poor boy. Just trying to get by and this happens.
I wasn't happy to see the wounds on his neck, but I wasn't distraught over them either.
He got drunk. He likely got into a fight--and this time, ended up drawing the short straw.
He's alive. He'll heal up, and likely get stabbed, or stab, again.
I think I've gotten too comfortable with the misery here. I didn't have much time for him. I don't believe most of their stories. And it's too bad. Some of them could be telling the truth, but so many of them don't.
Perhaps he wasn't drunk and was sleeping in his house caring for some homeless puppy when a crazy, enraged, drunk thug broke in and sliced his neck and chest with a sharp blade. It's possible. It's happened before here.
Or, the more likely story is that he and his friends were drunk, they got into a fight over something stupid and the knives came out. There was probably a heated exchange of words, and then one boy stabbed Zambuxolo, becoming the perpetrator, before Zambuxolo made him the victim . That happens more than you know.
It was a sad story, but not a unique one.
18 months ago, he would have gone home with a hundred rand worth of groceries.
Two days ago, he got my time, but not even a rand out of me.
*name has been changed.
I couldn't quite remember his name. I'm stopped a dozen times a day by kids who want money, food, clothes or just somebody to talk to, and I wasn't particularly keen on slowing down for this guy since I really didn't know him that well. My plan was to smile, acknowledge him, shake his hand then keep walking toward home.
I smiled. I acknowledged him. I shook his hand. But he stopped, he wanted to talk.
I asked him how his Christmas and New Year was.
He said "Not fine" and pointed to his neck.
I had seen the cut about 2 inches below his chin. It was the very first thing I noticed when I stopped. It ran like an "X" along the side of his neck, as if he'd been sliced twice.
I wasn't going to say anything about it though unless he brought it up.
"What happened," I asked, already knowing the answer.
"Somebody stabbed me," he said.
"Here," pointing to his neck, "And here," pointing to the area near his heart.
"Who?" I said. "Who stabbed you?"
He put his head down.
"Who?" I repeated. "Anybody I know?"
"No, nobody from Amasango."
"Okay," I said. "Well, I'm sorry. You have a good day it was nice seeing you and - "
He interrupted me, "here's the hospital report."
He thrust a couple pieces of paper into my hands.
I glanced at it. It listed his name, his age-or perhaps approximate age. On the second sheet was a diagram of the human body where somebody had marked where Zambuxolo had been stabbed.
It also had a section for "comments on arrival." There was just one word in that section: "Drunk."
I looked back up at him. I knew he was trying to get my sympathy. He knew I hadn't seen him much since my first visit to Grahamstown.
He's played the begging game long enough to know I'm approached by a dozen people a day and that he'd have to set himself apart from the crowd. He'd really have to be suffering to get bread or money out of me.
He also believed that if he played his cards right, if he played the role of "poor innocent stabbing victim" he might be able to squeeze 5 or 10 rand out of me.
"It says here you were drunk when you got to the hospital," I said.
"No," he shook his head. "No, no no."
"Well," I said, patting him on the back. "The hospital doesn't just write that for the hell of it. I'll tell you what. I think you and your friends were having some fun. You were drunk. They were drunk--and that's when this," I said pointing to his neck, "happened."
I continued, "I'm sorry it happened (it wasn't just a phrase I put out there, I was sorry it happened to him), but don't get drunk."
"I wasn't drunk," he repeated. "I wasn't drunk. I was stabbed."
"You were stabbed...while you were drunk," I retorted. "I'm sorry that this happened to you though. You didn't deserve that."
He was silent for a moment, thinking about his next move--he gave up with the "I wasn't drunk" line, and, then as I predicted,--"I'm very hungry Jason," he began.
"Sorry, buddy," I said, handing him back the papers. "I gotta go. It was nice seeing you and I hope you feel better."
I walked off.
My first visit here I would have felt horrible for this boy. I would have bought him half the supermarket all while thinking, poor him. Poor boy. Just trying to get by and this happens.
I wasn't happy to see the wounds on his neck, but I wasn't distraught over them either.
He got drunk. He likely got into a fight--and this time, ended up drawing the short straw.
He's alive. He'll heal up, and likely get stabbed, or stab, again.
I think I've gotten too comfortable with the misery here. I didn't have much time for him. I don't believe most of their stories. And it's too bad. Some of them could be telling the truth, but so many of them don't.
Perhaps he wasn't drunk and was sleeping in his house caring for some homeless puppy when a crazy, enraged, drunk thug broke in and sliced his neck and chest with a sharp blade. It's possible. It's happened before here.
Or, the more likely story is that he and his friends were drunk, they got into a fight over something stupid and the knives came out. There was probably a heated exchange of words, and then one boy stabbed Zambuxolo, becoming the perpetrator, before Zambuxolo made him the victim . That happens more than you know.
It was a sad story, but not a unique one.
18 months ago, he would have gone home with a hundred rand worth of groceries.
Two days ago, he got my time, but not even a rand out of me.
*name has been changed.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
"With no place to go, no place to go, to dry her eyes. Broken inside." - Avril Lavigne
The door bell rang around noon yesterday.
I went over, looked through the eye hole, unlatched the chain and the lock and opened it.
"Hi Thulani," I said. "What's up?"
Thulani is the boy who had been living with us for the past two-and-a-half months or so. He's the boy who had been beaten and was afraid to return to the township for fear that he might be killed.
"Nothing," he said. "Where's Mama?"
"She's not here right now," I replied. Before I could even offer that he come in, he was already in the door, and walking toward the lounge.
He sat down in the red-upholstered chair in the corner of the room and began talking.
"I think I'm going to go back to P.E. (Port Elizabeth)," he said.
"Why," I said, sad, but not all that surprised at what he had just said.
"If Mama can't get me a place to stay, I'm going to go back to Port Elizabeth," he repeated.
It was classic Thulani. He was threatening to do something, hoping that this threat would make us spring to action and be sympathetic to his cause. He didn't need to threaten me. I'm already very sympathetic.
His excuses for wanting to leave ranged from peoples' negative comments toward him when he has an Amasango uniform on, to wanting to see his mother, to having been in grade nine in Port Elizabeth schools only to be pushed back to grade five in Grahamstown.
He gave all these reasons for wanting to leave, but the underlying problelm is that this boy is homeless. He's got nobody to look out for him. He's got no place to stay. He'd been living with friends in the township over the holiday, but family is returning, and the shack he's shared with these people is getting too crowded. He's got to move on.
Though he's threatening to go back to Port Elizabeth, I really don't believe he wants to go. I think he might, if something's not done, return to the place he fled from more than a year ago, but I think he realizes that city doesn't hold the solution to his problems. After all, he wouldn't have run away to Grahamstown if everything was going so well for him in Port Elizabeth.
Thulani had been living with us for nearly three months. When he began staying with us, social services had guaranteed him a spot out of Grahamstown in three days time. Three months down the line, and there's still no light at the end of the tunnel.
I hope Jane does allow Thulani to come back and stay with us. Yes, we fought when he was living in the house. Yes, it was stressful. But Thulani was told by social services he'd be gone in three days, and told by Jane that he'd have a place to stay until social services re-located him out of Grahamstown. Social services hasn't come through, and it isn't Thulani's fault.
Thulani is a guy who really has tried so hard to make it. When he began with us three months ago, he was a hardened street kid. He still is--but he's made enormous strides.
In his first days with us, Thulani had been going into withdrawal from mandrax. His left leg would spasm so violently he'd either fall, or, have to make his way to the couch until the shaking subsided. His whole body would shake for a couple minutes, he'd try and hold his leg down and would moan. The pain looked excrutiating. It would stop, but then it would start back up again in an hour, in three hours, or the next day. He got off the drugs. The withdrawal symptoms weren't pretty, but he did it. He kept up his end of the bargain.
When he first arrived, he'd just go the fridge, and without asking, help himself to whatever was in there. He'd take half a loaf of bread that was to be shared by four people, or drink half a bottle of juice, and when he was confronted about it, he'd stomp out of the kitchen and refuse to speak. After some time of living at 31 Bedford Street, Thulani would ask to have a couple slices of bread--and would accept it if he could only have three slices and not six.
Thulani kept up his end of the bargain. He's stayed in school. He has gotten off the drugs. He's gotten much more polite. He's kept his word. Social services hasn't.
I hope when Jane returns Thulani again has a place to stay.
He's tried. The system has failed him.
I went over, looked through the eye hole, unlatched the chain and the lock and opened it.
"Hi Thulani," I said. "What's up?"
Thulani is the boy who had been living with us for the past two-and-a-half months or so. He's the boy who had been beaten and was afraid to return to the township for fear that he might be killed.
"Nothing," he said. "Where's Mama?"
"She's not here right now," I replied. Before I could even offer that he come in, he was already in the door, and walking toward the lounge.
He sat down in the red-upholstered chair in the corner of the room and began talking.
"I think I'm going to go back to P.E. (Port Elizabeth)," he said.
"Why," I said, sad, but not all that surprised at what he had just said.
"If Mama can't get me a place to stay, I'm going to go back to Port Elizabeth," he repeated.
It was classic Thulani. He was threatening to do something, hoping that this threat would make us spring to action and be sympathetic to his cause. He didn't need to threaten me. I'm already very sympathetic.
His excuses for wanting to leave ranged from peoples' negative comments toward him when he has an Amasango uniform on, to wanting to see his mother, to having been in grade nine in Port Elizabeth schools only to be pushed back to grade five in Grahamstown.
He gave all these reasons for wanting to leave, but the underlying problelm is that this boy is homeless. He's got nobody to look out for him. He's got no place to stay. He'd been living with friends in the township over the holiday, but family is returning, and the shack he's shared with these people is getting too crowded. He's got to move on.
Though he's threatening to go back to Port Elizabeth, I really don't believe he wants to go. I think he might, if something's not done, return to the place he fled from more than a year ago, but I think he realizes that city doesn't hold the solution to his problems. After all, he wouldn't have run away to Grahamstown if everything was going so well for him in Port Elizabeth.
Thulani had been living with us for nearly three months. When he began staying with us, social services had guaranteed him a spot out of Grahamstown in three days time. Three months down the line, and there's still no light at the end of the tunnel.
I hope Jane does allow Thulani to come back and stay with us. Yes, we fought when he was living in the house. Yes, it was stressful. But Thulani was told by social services he'd be gone in three days, and told by Jane that he'd have a place to stay until social services re-located him out of Grahamstown. Social services hasn't come through, and it isn't Thulani's fault.
Thulani is a guy who really has tried so hard to make it. When he began with us three months ago, he was a hardened street kid. He still is--but he's made enormous strides.
In his first days with us, Thulani had been going into withdrawal from mandrax. His left leg would spasm so violently he'd either fall, or, have to make his way to the couch until the shaking subsided. His whole body would shake for a couple minutes, he'd try and hold his leg down and would moan. The pain looked excrutiating. It would stop, but then it would start back up again in an hour, in three hours, or the next day. He got off the drugs. The withdrawal symptoms weren't pretty, but he did it. He kept up his end of the bargain.
When he first arrived, he'd just go the fridge, and without asking, help himself to whatever was in there. He'd take half a loaf of bread that was to be shared by four people, or drink half a bottle of juice, and when he was confronted about it, he'd stomp out of the kitchen and refuse to speak. After some time of living at 31 Bedford Street, Thulani would ask to have a couple slices of bread--and would accept it if he could only have three slices and not six.
Thulani kept up his end of the bargain. He's stayed in school. He has gotten off the drugs. He's gotten much more polite. He's kept his word. Social services hasn't.
I hope when Jane returns Thulani again has a place to stay.
He's tried. The system has failed him.
Friday, January 4, 2008
"One goal. A second chance." - Gridiron Gang
It was a cold, wet day in Grahamstown for much of yesterday. It was the perfect day to sit inside, relax and watch a movie.
Simphiwe Matina and Samkelo Maqanda came with me to the video store. I figured they could choose a movie and we'd all watch it together at Eluxolweni. They chose "Gridiron Gang," a movie based on a true story about tough, incarcerated inner-city kids and a guy who wants to save them from returning to prison or ending up in a pool of their own blood on city streets.
The solution he comes up with for saving them? For changing their lives? For attempting to solve all the problems and baggage these kids come to prison with? Start a football team.
I began watching this with the kids and began hating it. It starts like any other Hollywood movie or TV show: chaotic scenes of young, mostly black males shooting guns in an American ghetto, getting nabbed by the police, then going to a place where somebody saves them from themselves. This individual is generally a pretty, white, female.
It's been done so many times before: by having them journal about their problems (Freedom Writers, 2007) or getting them involved in a play or after-school activity (Boston Public, 2000) or merely caring (Dangerous Minds,1995), or being tough on them on the basketball court (Coach Carter, 2005). While Coach Carter didn't feature a nice, white lady as the savior of all ghetto kids, it still presented an unrealistically easy answer to an incredibly complex problem.
I used to love these movies. The longer I spend with the kids at Amasango and Eluxolweni, the more I dislike them.
While I don't think any of the events these films depict are bad--I mean--at least these people are trying. I hate the fact that these movies make people believe in boiler plate, overly simplistic solutions: by having kids journal about their problems, or having them get involved in a play you're going to miraculously change all of their lives. It presents incredibly unlikely scenarios. By having some nice, white lady come in and having these "gangstas" write about their lives, they're all going to come into class and say "Yo white lady, you tight. I neva thought 'bout my life like dis till you gave me dis journal and shit. You fo real yo. Thanks miss. Word."
You might help to change the lives of some of these kids. But journaling or playing basketball or football, sadly, won't erase the years of abuse and neglect kids in America, or South Africa, have dealt with.
I thought Gridiron Gang would be exactly the same as these movies I've seen before. I thought Gridiron Gang would have these kids get on the football team and then, by the time the credits roll, they'd all ride off into the sunset together to the latest 50 Cent or Kanye West tune. I was wrong.
Dwayne Johnson ("The Rock") plays the main role. He's the one who sets up the football team. He's the one who tries to tell the kids that they're not destined to live the same lives as their parents, and he's the one who narrates the last five minutes of the movie where the viewer finds out what has happened to some of the kids on the original team.
A couple go off to college, a couple finish high school and find work, a few others don't finish high school, but still manage to get jobs, some resort to gang life and are back in prison, and at least one ends up dead.
It doesn't make for a Hollywood ending. It doesn't feature slow motion, smiling images of the kids accompanied by some smooth, R. Kelly ballad about peace and love and happiness. It tells a story about how it really is. It tells a story about one guy who did his best to help out some lost kids--and who did amazing things with these kids.
It also realistically shows that a football team isn't the sole solution to these kids problem. A touch down doesn't make their problems go away. It can help some kids get involved with something other than drugs and violence, but it cannot--and will not--help them all. Bravo Gridiron Gang, for not caving to the cheesy sentiments that Hollywood so often portrays in movies about inner-city life.
Simphiwe Matina and Samkelo Maqanda came with me to the video store. I figured they could choose a movie and we'd all watch it together at Eluxolweni. They chose "Gridiron Gang," a movie based on a true story about tough, incarcerated inner-city kids and a guy who wants to save them from returning to prison or ending up in a pool of their own blood on city streets.
The solution he comes up with for saving them? For changing their lives? For attempting to solve all the problems and baggage these kids come to prison with? Start a football team.
I began watching this with the kids and began hating it. It starts like any other Hollywood movie or TV show: chaotic scenes of young, mostly black males shooting guns in an American ghetto, getting nabbed by the police, then going to a place where somebody saves them from themselves. This individual is generally a pretty, white, female.
It's been done so many times before: by having them journal about their problems (Freedom Writers, 2007) or getting them involved in a play or after-school activity (Boston Public, 2000) or merely caring (Dangerous Minds,1995), or being tough on them on the basketball court (Coach Carter, 2005). While Coach Carter didn't feature a nice, white lady as the savior of all ghetto kids, it still presented an unrealistically easy answer to an incredibly complex problem.
I used to love these movies. The longer I spend with the kids at Amasango and Eluxolweni, the more I dislike them.
While I don't think any of the events these films depict are bad--I mean--at least these people are trying. I hate the fact that these movies make people believe in boiler plate, overly simplistic solutions: by having kids journal about their problems, or having them get involved in a play you're going to miraculously change all of their lives. It presents incredibly unlikely scenarios. By having some nice, white lady come in and having these "gangstas" write about their lives, they're all going to come into class and say "Yo white lady, you tight. I neva thought 'bout my life like dis till you gave me dis journal and shit. You fo real yo. Thanks miss. Word."
You might help to change the lives of some of these kids. But journaling or playing basketball or football, sadly, won't erase the years of abuse and neglect kids in America, or South Africa, have dealt with.
I thought Gridiron Gang would be exactly the same as these movies I've seen before. I thought Gridiron Gang would have these kids get on the football team and then, by the time the credits roll, they'd all ride off into the sunset together to the latest 50 Cent or Kanye West tune. I was wrong.
Dwayne Johnson ("The Rock") plays the main role. He's the one who sets up the football team. He's the one who tries to tell the kids that they're not destined to live the same lives as their parents, and he's the one who narrates the last five minutes of the movie where the viewer finds out what has happened to some of the kids on the original team.
A couple go off to college, a couple finish high school and find work, a few others don't finish high school, but still manage to get jobs, some resort to gang life and are back in prison, and at least one ends up dead.
It doesn't make for a Hollywood ending. It doesn't feature slow motion, smiling images of the kids accompanied by some smooth, R. Kelly ballad about peace and love and happiness. It tells a story about how it really is. It tells a story about one guy who did his best to help out some lost kids--and who did amazing things with these kids.
It also realistically shows that a football team isn't the sole solution to these kids problem. A touch down doesn't make their problems go away. It can help some kids get involved with something other than drugs and violence, but it cannot--and will not--help them all. Bravo Gridiron Gang, for not caving to the cheesy sentiments that Hollywood so often portrays in movies about inner-city life.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
"To him who is in fear everything rustles." - Sophocles
I arrived back in Grahamstown late on December 23rd. I had returned to the "City of Saints" just before Christmas so I could spend the day with the kids from Eluxolweni.
It was drizzling and dark and the bustle and movement of High Street during the day is replaced by a deserted, ominious, wide-open street filled with closed buildings, curbs scattered with trash from the day and the occasional lighted store front.
I grabbed my luggage and began down High Street. The street was utterly silent except for the rolling of the luggage wheels along the slick pavement and the occasional splash when I'd step in a puddle.
When I heard a bit of rustling, I immediately looked up. I'm a bit too nervous sometimes. My mind plays tricks on me; I feel like somebody's about to emerge out of the darkness and take my suitcase at knife point. I trick myself into thinking it will actually happen.
I glanced around and spotted a figure standing in the alleyway. I could see only the shadow of a rather tall, skinny looking guy. He walked out of the alleyway, approached me and, once he was under the street light, said "Hello Jason."
I knew this guy. It was Thanduxolo. He was a former student at Amasango. But I was, perhaps, more terrified once I realized who it was. This boy is a very smooth talker, but he's one of the scariest kids I've encountered during my time here. Many of the kids at Amasango are violent, but I'm not frightened by most of them. This boy scares me, terrifies me--and with good reason.
Last time I was here, he was the one plotting to stab me and take the laptop. He's been accused of stealing from the school. He's been credited with fashioning weapons out of seemingly ordinary objects and beating people with them. In May, a student came to Amasango terrified, bruised and bloody claiming Thanduxolo had looped a belt around a metal cup and beat him because Thanduxolo believed this boy was an informant.
He's asked Thulani, the boy who lives with us, whether he's ever stolen from Joanne, Jane or myself, and told him he's stupid for not having tried. He's asked if Thulani knows the code to the Hi-Tech armed response alarm at Jane's house. He's asked the name of the three dogs at Jane's house, likely, so if he decided to come and steal he could call the dogs by name to quiet them down. He looks innocent, and that, perhaps makes him even more dangerous.
"Hi Louie," (he goes by Louie most often, not his Xhosa name, Thanduxolo.) I said, trying to conceal the fear in my voice. "How are you?"
"I'm fine thanks," he said, gazing down at my bag.
I thought to myself "here we go." I've been lucky and haven't been robbed during my three visits here. I suppose it's my turn to be formally welcomed to the country, undergo my initiation and have my bag stolen.
"What are you doing out here now?" I sputtered.
"I'm a car guard," he said.
I laughed in my head, but certainly didn't let that laugh escape. If anything, this boy would be one who would be breaking into cars, not somebody who should be guarding them.
Thanduoxlo continued, "can I help you carry your bags?"
I didn't want help, especially from him, but I didn't have much choice.
"Sure," I blurted out. "But I'm not giving you any money for doing it. But you are more than welcome to walk with me."
Looking back, I don't know why I said that to him. If he were to bring a knife out of his pocket, he could have the money, the luggage and whatever else he might be interested in taking.
I'm sure many people reading this think "You should fight back Jason and not be such a baby." People who subscribe to that argument either are incredibly brave, almost to the point of being stupid, or have never experienced the depravity some of these people are capable of. The knife, with many of these criminals, isn't just to scare you. It's to stab you--to kill you--if you don't hand over what they want. It's happened thousands of times across the country; innocent people fighting back and dying for their material possesions. I decided long ago if I'm ever asked for anything at knife point, I'll give it to them. They can take my clothes or my iPod. I'll at least walk away unharmed.
"Okay, let's go." Thanduxolo said, taking the handle of my luggage and beginning to roll it down the street.
I asked him what he was doing for the holidays. He told me he wasn't doing much.
I asked when he might come back to Amasango. He told me he likely wasn't coming back.
I kept my eye on where his hands were, and got nervous if they ventured even remotely close to his pockets. They didn't.
We kept walking. We kept talking. And talking. And talking. Thanduxolo was talking quite a bit. He wasn't asking me when Jane might return or about the dogs. He was just telling me about his life. It was what I would describe as a non-threatening conversation. It was bordering on pleasant.
We were nearly at the end of the street and I told him I could take my stuff the rest of the way. I didn't want him anywhere near the house. He smiled. I thanked him, and we went our separate ways.
The entire walk lasted no more than ten minutes, but it was a ten minute walk I won't soon forget. That 10 minutes went from me being terrified of what he might do, to me actually enjoying--albeit cautiously enjoying--his company. He really seemed like he just wanted to talk. He could have robbed me. Nobody was around.
I really believe he just wanted some company. Somebody to listen. Perhaps if he had, as a child growing up, had somebody to talk to, he wouldn't have grown into the monster he's become. He wouldn't have become yet another stereotypical South African street child: male, poor, prone to criminal activity, often violent, drug-addicted. It's almost as if those 10 minutes walking down High Street were 10 minutes he tried to reclaim of his otherwise lost childhood.
He could have taken my bags. He could have threatened me. He could have, slyly, asked how "Mama Jane" was doing and when she was going to return to Grahamstown. He did none of those things.
He just talked--and helped me carry my bags.
It was drizzling and dark and the bustle and movement of High Street during the day is replaced by a deserted, ominious, wide-open street filled with closed buildings, curbs scattered with trash from the day and the occasional lighted store front.
I grabbed my luggage and began down High Street. The street was utterly silent except for the rolling of the luggage wheels along the slick pavement and the occasional splash when I'd step in a puddle.
When I heard a bit of rustling, I immediately looked up. I'm a bit too nervous sometimes. My mind plays tricks on me; I feel like somebody's about to emerge out of the darkness and take my suitcase at knife point. I trick myself into thinking it will actually happen.
I glanced around and spotted a figure standing in the alleyway. I could see only the shadow of a rather tall, skinny looking guy. He walked out of the alleyway, approached me and, once he was under the street light, said "Hello Jason."
I knew this guy. It was Thanduxolo. He was a former student at Amasango. But I was, perhaps, more terrified once I realized who it was. This boy is a very smooth talker, but he's one of the scariest kids I've encountered during my time here. Many of the kids at Amasango are violent, but I'm not frightened by most of them. This boy scares me, terrifies me--and with good reason.
Last time I was here, he was the one plotting to stab me and take the laptop. He's been accused of stealing from the school. He's been credited with fashioning weapons out of seemingly ordinary objects and beating people with them. In May, a student came to Amasango terrified, bruised and bloody claiming Thanduxolo had looped a belt around a metal cup and beat him because Thanduxolo believed this boy was an informant.
He's asked Thulani, the boy who lives with us, whether he's ever stolen from Joanne, Jane or myself, and told him he's stupid for not having tried. He's asked if Thulani knows the code to the Hi-Tech armed response alarm at Jane's house. He's asked the name of the three dogs at Jane's house, likely, so if he decided to come and steal he could call the dogs by name to quiet them down. He looks innocent, and that, perhaps makes him even more dangerous.
"Hi Louie," (he goes by Louie most often, not his Xhosa name, Thanduxolo.) I said, trying to conceal the fear in my voice. "How are you?"
"I'm fine thanks," he said, gazing down at my bag.
I thought to myself "here we go." I've been lucky and haven't been robbed during my three visits here. I suppose it's my turn to be formally welcomed to the country, undergo my initiation and have my bag stolen.
"What are you doing out here now?" I sputtered.
"I'm a car guard," he said.
I laughed in my head, but certainly didn't let that laugh escape. If anything, this boy would be one who would be breaking into cars, not somebody who should be guarding them.
Thanduoxlo continued, "can I help you carry your bags?"
I didn't want help, especially from him, but I didn't have much choice.
"Sure," I blurted out. "But I'm not giving you any money for doing it. But you are more than welcome to walk with me."
Looking back, I don't know why I said that to him. If he were to bring a knife out of his pocket, he could have the money, the luggage and whatever else he might be interested in taking.
I'm sure many people reading this think "You should fight back Jason and not be such a baby." People who subscribe to that argument either are incredibly brave, almost to the point of being stupid, or have never experienced the depravity some of these people are capable of. The knife, with many of these criminals, isn't just to scare you. It's to stab you--to kill you--if you don't hand over what they want. It's happened thousands of times across the country; innocent people fighting back and dying for their material possesions. I decided long ago if I'm ever asked for anything at knife point, I'll give it to them. They can take my clothes or my iPod. I'll at least walk away unharmed.
"Okay, let's go." Thanduxolo said, taking the handle of my luggage and beginning to roll it down the street.
I asked him what he was doing for the holidays. He told me he wasn't doing much.
I asked when he might come back to Amasango. He told me he likely wasn't coming back.
I kept my eye on where his hands were, and got nervous if they ventured even remotely close to his pockets. They didn't.
We kept walking. We kept talking. And talking. And talking. Thanduxolo was talking quite a bit. He wasn't asking me when Jane might return or about the dogs. He was just telling me about his life. It was what I would describe as a non-threatening conversation. It was bordering on pleasant.
We were nearly at the end of the street and I told him I could take my stuff the rest of the way. I didn't want him anywhere near the house. He smiled. I thanked him, and we went our separate ways.
The entire walk lasted no more than ten minutes, but it was a ten minute walk I won't soon forget. That 10 minutes went from me being terrified of what he might do, to me actually enjoying--albeit cautiously enjoying--his company. He really seemed like he just wanted to talk. He could have robbed me. Nobody was around.
I really believe he just wanted some company. Somebody to listen. Perhaps if he had, as a child growing up, had somebody to talk to, he wouldn't have grown into the monster he's become. He wouldn't have become yet another stereotypical South African street child: male, poor, prone to criminal activity, often violent, drug-addicted. It's almost as if those 10 minutes walking down High Street were 10 minutes he tried to reclaim of his otherwise lost childhood.
He could have taken my bags. He could have threatened me. He could have, slyly, asked how "Mama Jane" was doing and when she was going to return to Grahamstown. He did none of those things.
He just talked--and helped me carry my bags.
Friday, December 7, 2007
"When loved ones are near....it's the most wonderful time of the year."
The school year at Amasango Career School has come to an end. The teachers, the principal, and myself have a month long reprieve from the insanity that seems to consume your life day in and day out when school is in session. Sadly, while most of the adults at school will spend these five weeks traveling around South Africa, visiting family and friends, relaxing on farms nestled amongst gently rolling mountains, eating big holiday meals and recuperating, many of the kids we work with will stay in Grahamstown; nothing much will change for them.
And while life for the staff becomes less stressful—the lives of some of Amasango’s most desperate students become even more desperate. The one place these youngest, most fragile members of Grahamstown society can turn to for a talk, for some food, for protection or for a second chance is gone for all of December and half of January. They need to make it on their own. They need to survive without Amasango.
About twenty-five Amasango pupils are lucky. They live in Eluxolweni. They’re truly on “summer break.” They’ll continue to get fed each day, have a roof over their head and have clean clothing to put on their backs each morning after their shower. They’re free to do what they want during the day, without having the hassle of school looming over them.
The rest of Amasango’s student body will spend the holidays in the township. Some, undoubtedly, will have a fun-filled Christmas season. Others, too many others, though, will spend the “most wonderful time of the year” begging outside supermarkets and restaurants relying on the kindness of strangers. Some will resort to pick-pocketing and breaking into houses. Many are predisposed to this type of criminal activity, but I’m convinced some will do it out of desperation. Some will get caught and go to prison. Some won’t.
I’ll be away from Grahamstown for much of December. I’ll be spending time in nature reserves, on farms and in the homes of friends from Rhodes. I’ll be sure my bedroom door is locked, the alarm is on and my computer is hidden away. I’ll enjoy my holiday break—and I’ll hope that no burglar turns his sights to 31 Bedford Street.
Wishing you a very happy start to the holiday season from the divided world of South Africa.
And while life for the staff becomes less stressful—the lives of some of Amasango’s most desperate students become even more desperate. The one place these youngest, most fragile members of Grahamstown society can turn to for a talk, for some food, for protection or for a second chance is gone for all of December and half of January. They need to make it on their own. They need to survive without Amasango.
About twenty-five Amasango pupils are lucky. They live in Eluxolweni. They’re truly on “summer break.” They’ll continue to get fed each day, have a roof over their head and have clean clothing to put on their backs each morning after their shower. They’re free to do what they want during the day, without having the hassle of school looming over them.
The rest of Amasango’s student body will spend the holidays in the township. Some, undoubtedly, will have a fun-filled Christmas season. Others, too many others, though, will spend the “most wonderful time of the year” begging outside supermarkets and restaurants relying on the kindness of strangers. Some will resort to pick-pocketing and breaking into houses. Many are predisposed to this type of criminal activity, but I’m convinced some will do it out of desperation. Some will get caught and go to prison. Some won’t.
I’ll be away from Grahamstown for much of December. I’ll be spending time in nature reserves, on farms and in the homes of friends from Rhodes. I’ll be sure my bedroom door is locked, the alarm is on and my computer is hidden away. I’ll enjoy my holiday break—and I’ll hope that no burglar turns his sights to 31 Bedford Street.
Wishing you a very happy start to the holiday season from the divided world of South Africa.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
"I'm gonna soak up the sun, I'm gonna tell everyone to lighten up." - Sheryl Crow
Pictured: Amasango grade seven pupils on their yearly outing.
Location: Port Alfred, South Africa
Date: December 4, 2007
[ "I'm gonna soak up the sun" - Samkelo Maqanda on highway to Port Alfred, South Africa ]
["It's not having what you want, it's wanting what you've got." - Athenkosi Ntlokwana and friend in Port Alfred, South Africa ]
["You have a fancy ride, but baby, I'm the one who has the key." - Vacation homes in Port Alfred, South Africa ]
["Don't have no master suite, I'm still the king of me." - Bulelani Mnqanqeni in Port Alfred, South Africa ]
["I'm gonna soak up the sun, before it goes out on me." - Siyabulela Dwani, acting Chef for the day in Port Alfred, South Africa ]
[ "I'm gonna soak up the sun...so I can rock on." - From left, Simphiwe Matina, Xolisani Makelani and Bulelani Bete in Port Alfred, South Africa ]
Location: Port Alfred, South Africa
Date: December 4, 2007
[ "I'm gonna soak up the sun" - Samkelo Maqanda on highway to Port Alfred, South Africa ]
["It's not having what you want, it's wanting what you've got." - Athenkosi Ntlokwana and friend in Port Alfred, South Africa ]
["You have a fancy ride, but baby, I'm the one who has the key." - Vacation homes in Port Alfred, South Africa ]
["Don't have no master suite, I'm still the king of me." - Bulelani Mnqanqeni in Port Alfred, South Africa ]
["I'm gonna soak up the sun, before it goes out on me." - Siyabulela Dwani, acting Chef for the day in Port Alfred, South Africa ]
[ "I'm gonna soak up the sun...so I can rock on." - From left, Simphiwe Matina, Xolisani Makelani and Bulelani Bete in Port Alfred, South Africa ]
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
"I'd rather suffer out of knowledge than laugh out of ignorance." - Gary Hassler
Today, I went with Amasango's grade seven learners to the beach at Port Alfred--about a 45 minute drive from Grahamstown.
The beach was beautiful. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, the day was filled with warmth and sun and laughter, and the kids, up until our final minutes at Port Alfred, were perfect.
It was when the day was winding down that two boys got into a verbal altercation. The scuffle escalated into a fight, which escalated even further. When the fight was finished, one of the boys had stabbed another with a sharp double-pronged kitchen utensil, slicing his forehead open and cutting along his left temple.
Since I've been in South Africa, I've been thinking a lot about the the unrelenting violence at Amasango. It's impossible not to think about it. You see it everyday. I've also thought how much of the world is completely set apart from this violence and bloodshed--and the effect this separation has on the mindsets of people.
Take mainstream American movies and video games as two examples. I'm not talking about "Mario Kart" or "Legally Blonde Two." No, I mean the ones that have people getting stabbed, shot, or in some other way, mutilated and tortured. I've never really enjoyed these types of movies or games, but I've come, over time, to hate them.
It's sick that people are entertained watching other peoples' misery. It's undeniable though: suffering sells. Most people who go to these types of movies aren't going because they love the script and the complex interplay between the antagonist and the protagonist. Nor are the majority of people who spend hours at their game consoles playing "Mortal Combat" interested in the graphics. No, they love the violence. The love seeing blood spill out of bodies.
Some people probably enjoy the virtual control one has over others in these video games. Others likely feel macho and manly watching movies where people get stabbed and are left to die.
These people should come to South Africa. I can say, from experience, seeing two people really try and kill one another is not pretty. It's one of the worst scenes anyone can really imagine. Having witnessed a number of nasty fights during my three visits here, it's torturous to watch attempted murders. I don't know why people enjoy watching it so much on TV.
Of course, most of America--most of the world--is incredibly set apart from it--but it's still sick. While the majority of people who live in America and across the globe don't have to deal with the violence, they surely know about it. Hollywood has provided an invaluable education in showcasing human misery, and the depth of human depravity. The only difference is, at Amasango, once the fight is over, the credits don't roll. You don't just shut off the TV and go get a pizza. You don't "move on to the next level" simply by pushing enter on your game console remote. You've got to deal with two people who, at this moment in time, want the other person dead.
Live in an environment like Amasango--then go watch blood being spilled on screen and see just how wonderful it is.
The beach was beautiful. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, the day was filled with warmth and sun and laughter, and the kids, up until our final minutes at Port Alfred, were perfect.
It was when the day was winding down that two boys got into a verbal altercation. The scuffle escalated into a fight, which escalated even further. When the fight was finished, one of the boys had stabbed another with a sharp double-pronged kitchen utensil, slicing his forehead open and cutting along his left temple.
Since I've been in South Africa, I've been thinking a lot about the the unrelenting violence at Amasango. It's impossible not to think about it. You see it everyday. I've also thought how much of the world is completely set apart from this violence and bloodshed--and the effect this separation has on the mindsets of people.
Take mainstream American movies and video games as two examples. I'm not talking about "Mario Kart" or "Legally Blonde Two." No, I mean the ones that have people getting stabbed, shot, or in some other way, mutilated and tortured. I've never really enjoyed these types of movies or games, but I've come, over time, to hate them.
It's sick that people are entertained watching other peoples' misery. It's undeniable though: suffering sells. Most people who go to these types of movies aren't going because they love the script and the complex interplay between the antagonist and the protagonist. Nor are the majority of people who spend hours at their game consoles playing "Mortal Combat" interested in the graphics. No, they love the violence. The love seeing blood spill out of bodies.
Some people probably enjoy the virtual control one has over others in these video games. Others likely feel macho and manly watching movies where people get stabbed and are left to die.
These people should come to South Africa. I can say, from experience, seeing two people really try and kill one another is not pretty. It's one of the worst scenes anyone can really imagine. Having witnessed a number of nasty fights during my three visits here, it's torturous to watch attempted murders. I don't know why people enjoy watching it so much on TV.
Of course, most of America--most of the world--is incredibly set apart from it--but it's still sick. While the majority of people who live in America and across the globe don't have to deal with the violence, they surely know about it. Hollywood has provided an invaluable education in showcasing human misery, and the depth of human depravity. The only difference is, at Amasango, once the fight is over, the credits don't roll. You don't just shut off the TV and go get a pizza. You don't "move on to the next level" simply by pushing enter on your game console remote. You've got to deal with two people who, at this moment in time, want the other person dead.
Live in an environment like Amasango--then go watch blood being spilled on screen and see just how wonderful it is.
Monday, December 3, 2007
“Growing up is never easy...you wonder what's to come." - The Wonder Years
Farewell grade seven learners....
Location: Gino's Italian restaurant, Grahamstown, South Africa
Date: December 2, 2007
Location: Gino's Italian restaurant, Grahamstown, South Africa
Date: December 2, 2007
Saturday, December 1, 2007
“As we go on, we remember, all the times we spent together. And as our lives change, come whatever, we will still be, friends forever.” – Vitamin C
The school year is finished. Having spent most of my time with the older pupils at the school, I am preparing to say good bye—and good luck—to more than a dozen kids from grade seven who will be attending high schools in the township when school resumes on January 15.
To mark their success, I am taking every student that’s passed grade seven out to dinner at Gino’s, a nice Italian restaurant in the predominately white part of Grahamstown. Earlier this week, I got a list from one of the grade seven teachers with the names of the kids who passed. I needed to know so when, inevitably, a kid shows up who hasn’t passed, he or she can be shown the door. This dinner is to celebrate the success of those who took school seriously and worked hard—and I’m going to be sure nobody is at the table tonight who does not deserve to be there.
I received the list on Wednesday, but the kids are kept in the dark about their success until Thursday night: that’s when Amasango hosts a yearly prize giving ceremony and formally announces those who’ve passed and gives out small gifts to each of its students.
The teacher pulled me into the side office next to Jane’s and began writing the names of the kids who would be leaving. I couldn’t help but look at her master list, a large, checkered piece of paper with the students’ names, test scores, whether they passed or failed, and a section for notes.
Nearly ten had the word “absconded” written in the notes section. Those are the drop outs.
Another one or two students had “did not write exams” next to their names. This means they’d come to school regularly, but for one reason or another, didn’t pitch up for exams. That means that even though they’ve attended school, they’ll be stuck in grade seven for another year.
Two students had “in prison” in their notes section.
The rest had either a pass or fail. I read down the list of names. Masixole Sam—pass. Siyabulela Dwani—pass. Xolisani Makelani—pass.
Masixole came with me in July to the Port Elizabeth airport to say goodbye and then found his own way back to Grahamstown.
Siyabulela Dwani, “Aromat” as everyone here knows him, walks me home whenever I have anything valuable on me. He’s good with his fists—and with a knife, I feel very safe with him as long as he’s on my side.
Xolisani Makelani is all talk. Last year, he stole an avocado and when I called him out on it, he got angry, picking up a brick and threatening to hit me with hit while calling me a “white devil.” Some of the kids scare me when they talk like that. I know with Mr. Makelani, he’s all bark and no bite. And that’s why I like him so much.
The teacher kept writing. I kept scanning the list with my mind wandering to all the times I’ve spent with these kids over the past year-and-a-half.
Nomathamsanqa Gqoza—pass. Simphiwe Matina—pass. Phakamani Fanga—pass.
Nomathamsanqa goes by the name Caroline. Most of the times, the kids pick something close to their real name. Seeing as Nomathamsanqa bears no resemblance to Caroline, I think she simply likes the name. Most of the kids I’ve gotten to know really well have been guys. I spend most of my time at the boy’s shelter, and most of the students at school are male. Caroline has to be one of my favorites though. She doesn’t let the boys push her around, and she’s not fearful or nasty toward men like some of the other girls. She’s spontaneous. She’s always smiling. And I hope she goes very far in life.
Simphiwe Matina I’ve never been all that close with. In fact, most days he treats me like dirt. Many of the kids are opportunists, being overly nice to people so they can a hand in your pocket and grab your wallet. Simphiwe has no qualms letting me know he’s got issues with me. I respect that. I also believe that if I were ever really in trouble, Simphiwe would be one of the first to step up and help.
Phakamani is smart—and loves to cause trouble, but not nasty, knife-wielding trouble, just some good-humored hassles. When I tell the kids I’m going home, Phakamani is the first to smile and say “Go get your sons to walk with you.” I shouldn’t have favorites, but I do. Phakamani knows who they are and loves to rub my face in it, referring to those I really like as my “sons.” I don’t think he realizes that he falls into that category as well. When, I go to the video store, I’ll take Phakamani, and a couple others, with me to select a movie. The store has a small selection of “adult titles” on a high shelf that he’s managed to find and each week, he brings one of the DVDs over and says, with an enormous grin “I want this one.”
I stopped in my tracks when the teacher wrote the next name: Samkelo Maqanda. This kid is an inspiration. I do like them all, but very few inspire me the way Samkelo has. He comes from a desperate, bleak background, but is one of the most hopeful, kind, incredible people I’ve ever met in my life. Ever. He’s only been in grade seven for two terms, and typically, kids stay at least a year before moving on. I looked again to make sure the teacher hadn’t made a mistake. No, he passed. I rushed outside. I never expected to see his name on the list. I was not allowed to tell anybody whether they passed or failed, but I went up to Samkelo and said “Listen, I am taking anybody who passes grade seven out to eat on Sunday. If you pass, please tell Mama Rose (the house mother at Eluxolweni where he lives), that you’re allowed to leave Sunday to go to dinner with me.”
He looked at me “I didn’t pass Jason. I know I didn’t.”
I looked back. “Well, if you did, and you’d like to come, you can come. Please tell Mama Rose.”
“Okay,” he said again. “But I know I didn’t pass. You can take Masixole and Phakamani and them, but I didn’t pass.”
I wanted to shake him and tell him the good news, but I just smiled and turned away. If I hadn’t, I might have told him right then.
I feel like an apprehensive parent. My babies are going off to high school. I’m excited, and I’m sad, and I’m proud. Over the past year-and-a-half these kids and I have really shared in the good times—and the not so good times. I know the majority of you have no clue who these kids are, but a couple of you (some former volunteers) do, and I want to list their names.
So, though there will be no graduation ceremony, be it known that the Amasango Career School in Grahamstown, South Africa is proud to announce its class of 2007. Each student is a living example of how seemingly impossible, desperate circumstances can be beaten. Congratulations and best wishes to…
Bulelani Bete, Siyabulela “Aromat” Dwani, Phakamani Fanga, Ntombizanele Gqola, Nomathamsanqa Gqoza, Xolisani “Matthew Dawson” Makelani, Samkelo Maqanda, Ntombekhaya Marwana, Simphiwe Matina, Thandolwethu Ndemka, Vuyelwa Ntile, Athenkosi Ntlokwana, Masixole Sam and Melikhaya Tambo.
To mark their success, I am taking every student that’s passed grade seven out to dinner at Gino’s, a nice Italian restaurant in the predominately white part of Grahamstown. Earlier this week, I got a list from one of the grade seven teachers with the names of the kids who passed. I needed to know so when, inevitably, a kid shows up who hasn’t passed, he or she can be shown the door. This dinner is to celebrate the success of those who took school seriously and worked hard—and I’m going to be sure nobody is at the table tonight who does not deserve to be there.
I received the list on Wednesday, but the kids are kept in the dark about their success until Thursday night: that’s when Amasango hosts a yearly prize giving ceremony and formally announces those who’ve passed and gives out small gifts to each of its students.
The teacher pulled me into the side office next to Jane’s and began writing the names of the kids who would be leaving. I couldn’t help but look at her master list, a large, checkered piece of paper with the students’ names, test scores, whether they passed or failed, and a section for notes.
Nearly ten had the word “absconded” written in the notes section. Those are the drop outs.
Another one or two students had “did not write exams” next to their names. This means they’d come to school regularly, but for one reason or another, didn’t pitch up for exams. That means that even though they’ve attended school, they’ll be stuck in grade seven for another year.
Two students had “in prison” in their notes section.
The rest had either a pass or fail. I read down the list of names. Masixole Sam—pass. Siyabulela Dwani—pass. Xolisani Makelani—pass.
Masixole came with me in July to the Port Elizabeth airport to say goodbye and then found his own way back to Grahamstown.
Siyabulela Dwani, “Aromat” as everyone here knows him, walks me home whenever I have anything valuable on me. He’s good with his fists—and with a knife, I feel very safe with him as long as he’s on my side.
Xolisani Makelani is all talk. Last year, he stole an avocado and when I called him out on it, he got angry, picking up a brick and threatening to hit me with hit while calling me a “white devil.” Some of the kids scare me when they talk like that. I know with Mr. Makelani, he’s all bark and no bite. And that’s why I like him so much.
The teacher kept writing. I kept scanning the list with my mind wandering to all the times I’ve spent with these kids over the past year-and-a-half.
Nomathamsanqa Gqoza—pass. Simphiwe Matina—pass. Phakamani Fanga—pass.
Nomathamsanqa goes by the name Caroline. Most of the times, the kids pick something close to their real name. Seeing as Nomathamsanqa bears no resemblance to Caroline, I think she simply likes the name. Most of the kids I’ve gotten to know really well have been guys. I spend most of my time at the boy’s shelter, and most of the students at school are male. Caroline has to be one of my favorites though. She doesn’t let the boys push her around, and she’s not fearful or nasty toward men like some of the other girls. She’s spontaneous. She’s always smiling. And I hope she goes very far in life.
Simphiwe Matina I’ve never been all that close with. In fact, most days he treats me like dirt. Many of the kids are opportunists, being overly nice to people so they can a hand in your pocket and grab your wallet. Simphiwe has no qualms letting me know he’s got issues with me. I respect that. I also believe that if I were ever really in trouble, Simphiwe would be one of the first to step up and help.
Phakamani is smart—and loves to cause trouble, but not nasty, knife-wielding trouble, just some good-humored hassles. When I tell the kids I’m going home, Phakamani is the first to smile and say “Go get your sons to walk with you.” I shouldn’t have favorites, but I do. Phakamani knows who they are and loves to rub my face in it, referring to those I really like as my “sons.” I don’t think he realizes that he falls into that category as well. When, I go to the video store, I’ll take Phakamani, and a couple others, with me to select a movie. The store has a small selection of “adult titles” on a high shelf that he’s managed to find and each week, he brings one of the DVDs over and says, with an enormous grin “I want this one.”
I stopped in my tracks when the teacher wrote the next name: Samkelo Maqanda. This kid is an inspiration. I do like them all, but very few inspire me the way Samkelo has. He comes from a desperate, bleak background, but is one of the most hopeful, kind, incredible people I’ve ever met in my life. Ever. He’s only been in grade seven for two terms, and typically, kids stay at least a year before moving on. I looked again to make sure the teacher hadn’t made a mistake. No, he passed. I rushed outside. I never expected to see his name on the list. I was not allowed to tell anybody whether they passed or failed, but I went up to Samkelo and said “Listen, I am taking anybody who passes grade seven out to eat on Sunday. If you pass, please tell Mama Rose (the house mother at Eluxolweni where he lives), that you’re allowed to leave Sunday to go to dinner with me.”
He looked at me “I didn’t pass Jason. I know I didn’t.”
I looked back. “Well, if you did, and you’d like to come, you can come. Please tell Mama Rose.”
“Okay,” he said again. “But I know I didn’t pass. You can take Masixole and Phakamani and them, but I didn’t pass.”
I wanted to shake him and tell him the good news, but I just smiled and turned away. If I hadn’t, I might have told him right then.
I feel like an apprehensive parent. My babies are going off to high school. I’m excited, and I’m sad, and I’m proud. Over the past year-and-a-half these kids and I have really shared in the good times—and the not so good times. I know the majority of you have no clue who these kids are, but a couple of you (some former volunteers) do, and I want to list their names.
So, though there will be no graduation ceremony, be it known that the Amasango Career School in Grahamstown, South Africa is proud to announce its class of 2007. Each student is a living example of how seemingly impossible, desperate circumstances can be beaten. Congratulations and best wishes to…
Bulelani Bete, Siyabulela “Aromat” Dwani, Phakamani Fanga, Ntombizanele Gqola, Nomathamsanqa Gqoza, Xolisani “Matthew Dawson” Makelani, Samkelo Maqanda, Ntombekhaya Marwana, Simphiwe Matina, Thandolwethu Ndemka, Vuyelwa Ntile, Athenkosi Ntlokwana, Masixole Sam and Melikhaya Tambo.
Monday, November 26, 2007
“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.
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.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
"Sometimes we put up walls. Not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to knock them down."
I ran into a seventh grade student at Amasango last weekend. Simphiwe, a short boy with a light complexion, and some pretty serious anger management issues has never been all that close to me. We usually get along, but that's about the extent of our relationship.
I was walking with a couple shelter guys down High Street with my comforter, a couple pillows and a backpack making my way to Eluxolweni.
Simphiwe came up to me, which in in itself was odd. Ordinarily, when he sees me he walks the other way until I call him. Even then, sometimes he ignores me and slips down a side street out of view. Last weekend was different though. He came right up to me, stopped in front of me and said, "Jason, remember I told you last week my mom was sick?"
I did remember. He walked with me to Amasango last week, but never made it inside the school's gates. He walked me right up to the fencing surrounding Amasango, adjusted his worn out hat so it tilted off the side of his head and walked away.
He explained along the way that he couldn't come to school because he was washing cars in town--to make money to help out with his mother who was suffering from TB in a local hospital. Simphiwe also has a younger brother he tries his best to care for--and a non-existent father.
Back on High Street, the shelter guys were walking ahead and Simphiwe edged closer, "She died."
I didn't know what to do. I looked at him and told him how sorry I was, as if it would make a difference, and told him to come to school to talk with Mama Jane on Monday. He agreed and we left.
He hasn't been at school all week. I haven't seen him all week: not washing cars in town, not begging outside High Street's many restaurants, no where. He's got no mother, no father and a little brother to care for.
It's Thanksgiving today in the United States.
I think we've all got a lot to be thankful for.
I was walking with a couple shelter guys down High Street with my comforter, a couple pillows and a backpack making my way to Eluxolweni.
Simphiwe came up to me, which in in itself was odd. Ordinarily, when he sees me he walks the other way until I call him. Even then, sometimes he ignores me and slips down a side street out of view. Last weekend was different though. He came right up to me, stopped in front of me and said, "Jason, remember I told you last week my mom was sick?"
I did remember. He walked with me to Amasango last week, but never made it inside the school's gates. He walked me right up to the fencing surrounding Amasango, adjusted his worn out hat so it tilted off the side of his head and walked away.
He explained along the way that he couldn't come to school because he was washing cars in town--to make money to help out with his mother who was suffering from TB in a local hospital. Simphiwe also has a younger brother he tries his best to care for--and a non-existent father.
Back on High Street, the shelter guys were walking ahead and Simphiwe edged closer, "She died."
I didn't know what to do. I looked at him and told him how sorry I was, as if it would make a difference, and told him to come to school to talk with Mama Jane on Monday. He agreed and we left.
He hasn't been at school all week. I haven't seen him all week: not washing cars in town, not begging outside High Street's many restaurants, no where. He's got no mother, no father and a little brother to care for.
It's Thanksgiving today in the United States.
I think we've all got a lot to be thankful for.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
"Nobody can do everything - but everybody can do something."
Recently, I was looking through my journal from my first trip to South Africa.
18 months ago, I was an exchange student at Rhodes and I visited Amasango only a couple days a week. 18 months ago I'd spend only an hour or two several days a week with the kids. 18 months ago, I was very new to how everything works in Grahamstown, South Africa.
I was reading through an entry during my first couple of weeks in this country. I wrote about how upsetting it was to see kids begging outside supermarkets, restaurants and gas stations. I have changed a lot since then. I don't know if being at Amasango constantly has made me callous or made me realize I can't do everything.
Every day, I see kids that I work with begging outside supermarkets after school has finished. I'll stop and talk for a bit, but I don't feel the pressure I used to feel to go into the store and buy bread and milk. I give when I can--but I don't feel guilty anymore when I can't. Most days, the kids and I talk for a couple minutes before I carry on walking home to a roof over my head and a full fridge while they carry on begging.
18 months ago, it tore me up not being able to give to every kid I saw. 18 months ago, I'd frequently take long detours to avoid areas where I'd commonly see beggars. I'd try and shield myself from the outstretched hands, the sad faces, the pitiful pleas for food and money.
Now, I walk right down High Street with shopping bags in one hand and a burger in the other--right past all the people begging for food.
I used to feel dirty doing walking down bustling High Street past all the hungry people. I don't anymore, and I don't understand why. It certainly isn't pleasant to see desperate people--but it's not as awful as it was a year-and-a-half ago.
I've almost become complacent to the fact that on the way to school or on my way home, I could pass a dozen people who want the leftover bits of the hamburger I'm eating, or the bread I'm carrying in my bag.
Perhaps I've gotten used to this desperation. Perhaps I've become hardened. Perhaps it's a coping mechanism I've developed over these past three trips.
For better or worse though, a walk down High Street is very different from 18 months ago.
18 months ago, I was an exchange student at Rhodes and I visited Amasango only a couple days a week. 18 months ago I'd spend only an hour or two several days a week with the kids. 18 months ago, I was very new to how everything works in Grahamstown, South Africa.
I was reading through an entry during my first couple of weeks in this country. I wrote about how upsetting it was to see kids begging outside supermarkets, restaurants and gas stations. I have changed a lot since then. I don't know if being at Amasango constantly has made me callous or made me realize I can't do everything.
Every day, I see kids that I work with begging outside supermarkets after school has finished. I'll stop and talk for a bit, but I don't feel the pressure I used to feel to go into the store and buy bread and milk. I give when I can--but I don't feel guilty anymore when I can't. Most days, the kids and I talk for a couple minutes before I carry on walking home to a roof over my head and a full fridge while they carry on begging.
18 months ago, it tore me up not being able to give to every kid I saw. 18 months ago, I'd frequently take long detours to avoid areas where I'd commonly see beggars. I'd try and shield myself from the outstretched hands, the sad faces, the pitiful pleas for food and money.
Now, I walk right down High Street with shopping bags in one hand and a burger in the other--right past all the people begging for food.
I used to feel dirty doing walking down bustling High Street past all the hungry people. I don't anymore, and I don't understand why. It certainly isn't pleasant to see desperate people--but it's not as awful as it was a year-and-a-half ago.
I've almost become complacent to the fact that on the way to school or on my way home, I could pass a dozen people who want the leftover bits of the hamburger I'm eating, or the bread I'm carrying in my bag.
Perhaps I've gotten used to this desperation. Perhaps I've become hardened. Perhaps it's a coping mechanism I've developed over these past three trips.
For better or worse though, a walk down High Street is very different from 18 months ago.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
"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.
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