I walked into Nathaniel Nyaluza Secondary School yesterday not quite sure of what to expect. The high school, a couple heavily worn buildings surrounded by a high fence, is located in Fingo Village, a location on the edge of the sprawling township.
I drove in with the principal a bit nervous at what I might find. In my mind, I was a bit scared it would be another Amasango with older kids--after all, many Amasango learners who graduate do go onto Nyaluza High. Would I just be walking into another place that has triumph sandwiched between tragedy after tragedy and stabbing after fight after rape?
Washington Mushwana, the principal, drove in, brought me to the office and said "We have no English teacher for the grade eight, grade nine and grade ten learners. She (the teacher) was promoted and we have nobody. That's what we need you to do."
I looked at him, a bit dumbfounded by what he had just said.
He must have seen the look on my face, and he followed it up with "Don't worry, we want you to do the photography project too. Oh yes, we are very excited about the photography project. Give your syllabus to me and we'll get kids for you. Let me show you to your room."
We walked through the schoolyard, up to the second floor. The handle to the classroom was broken. The walls have "Snoop Dog" and Alicia Keys lyrics written all over them. The walls are completely bare. There is a chalkboard, but no chalk. The bell rings. In come the first class: a group of young, entirely black, seemingly eager students.
I have nothing prepared. I really didn't know I was going to teach. I start by introducing myself. I tell them my name is Jason and that I'm from New York. The students immediately think of the New York made famous by 50 Cent and Lil Kim, not my New York. But that's okay. They're engaged; and they are respecting me. I tell them about myself, and then ask them to take out some paper expecting half the class to have none.
They all take out their paper and then look up at me. I ask them to write their name, their age, their hobbies and interests, their favorite and least favorite subjects in school, their favorite music and singers, and then, finally, I have them write three questions they want to ask me.
One light-skinned boy in the back of the room, Sanele, has an enormous grin on his face during most of this introductory exercise. I approach him and ask what he's so happy about. He puts his head down and laughs.
My mind races and my Amasango reflexes kick in. My hand digs into my pocket. False alarm: the wallet is still there. I'm a bit ashamed after I do it, but Amasango has made me that way. I ask him again, "Why are you smiling Sanele?"
He looks up and says, "I've never had a white teacher before. You know? Never. I've never ever had a white teacher before! Welcome to Nyaluza. I've never had a white teacher before," he says with a smile.
During question and answer time another boy stands up, welcomes me to Nyaluza High and says "What did your parents think when they found out you would be teaching in a black school in the location (township)?"
I laughed inside and thought "well, my parents didn't know I was going to teach in a school in the township and I didn't know either until about five minutes ago when your principal opened the door and you all walked in."
I looked up and said "Well, my parents were okay with it. I think the crime and the violence in South Africa scares them from time to time, but they didn't have a problem at all with me being here because it's a black school." It's true. He smiled. He sat down.
The next student stood up. And the next. And the next. We talked till the bell rang.
When I left my classroom and walked down the halls, dozens of kids saw me, smiled, some patted me on the back and said "What up umlungu (white man)?" or "Welcome umulungu!" or just plain old "Umlungu!!!!" They are alive. The school has an energy that rushes through its learners and rubs off on people like me.
Four periods began, four classes of students came and four periods ended. The day featured dozens of memorable moments, a bit of learning both on the part of the teacher and the students--and not one fight, not one stabbing, not one openly hostile remark.
I love Amasango. I know the kids who walk through those gates are some of the most resilient people I've ever met. I also know twice a week at Nyaluza does the mind and the spirit good. I don't walk into a fight. I don't have kids spitting or punching.
Nyaluza learners have got spirit; they've got a desire to learn; and they come to school with pens, paper and pencils--not knives.
I'm convinced that because I was at Nyaluza yesterday, today, I didn't lose hope when the police arrived at Amasango to open a case against a couple students. Nor did my energy evaporate when Armed Response was called because Mango refused to leave the grounds. I remember, there are other kids who are trying; who are fighting just as hard as the troublemakers, but instead of fighting with knives, they're fighting to get an education. I remember Nyaluza when I see situations seemingly devoid of hope. I think of the Amasango students now at Nyaluza and the four periods I taught yesterday. There is hope.
I gave each of my four classes a homework assignment. Write a story, a poem, or a song about their lives and bring it to class on Friday. It doesn't have to be perfect, they just have to try. At the end of the day yesterday, my students came up to me and said "We'll have it for Friday. We'll have that story for you on Friday. Peace umlungu."
Tomorrow's Friday. I can't wait to go back. What up Nyaluza High!
