African Public School Day 1 – Every Child Left Behind?

Layla teaching her class; teacher is returning assignment books.

Anisa and her class. The man to her right is the teacher, Mr. Jatta.

Anisa grading assignments in her classroom.

I’ve come straight to the computer while the dust and heat are still fresh on my clothes. I want to be able to capture some of the colliding impressions from spending half the day at the local public school with my two older daughters. We’re tired and thirsty, but we’re also happy; this has been among the most meaningful few hours we’ve spent – ever. We had planned to stay about two hours helping in some way at the school about half a mile from the house, then head to the beach and relax, and possibly go back a couple hours another day this week. We ended up spending close to four hours and committing to coming back the next two days while Layla and Anisa don’t have classes, and forgot about the beach. They’ve even agreed to arrive tomorrow first thing in the morning – a big statement for my daughters who love to sleep in when they aren’t required to be at school. I can’t imagine they would have agreed to spend so many hours in a “service project” if they hadn’t experienced today first-hand.

The school could not have been more different from what they have seen in suburban US, or in their privileged African private school. No electricity, no toilets, no running water, no crayons, no pens, no extra anything, no well-packed backpacks, children in ill-fitting used shoes and dirty, worn-out uniforms. Not enough pencils to go around. Not enough food. Few children fluent in English, but the lessons are in English. Underpaid, overworked, tired teachers doing the best they know how. And this is one of the “better” public schools.

Originally, Layla, Anisa and I were going to take the Reading Stars program used by a wonderful organization, Greater Philadelphia Cares (www.gpcares.com) to tutor girls in literacy. But when we realized the materials have been donated only for Philadelphia schools and they are not only expensive to buy but also very bulky to ship, we decided we’d just arrive here and see where we could be useful. (This served as a good lesson in the use of appropriate technology and the limits of programs that work well in the US but might not be suitable elsewhere.) So, after a previous visit and tour to the public school in the Bijilo neighborhood/village where we live, today we walked in to the deputy director’s office and asked her to place us wherever we might be useful.

This was easy. Each class is packed with over 40 kids and one teacher, so it seemed everyone needed help. She placed us with some of her better teachers, and each of us went to a different classroom. Layla, 13, arrived in a class of 3rd graders, was shown the lesson about adding fractions and told “please teach this” while the teacher sat on the sidelines. So, on her first day, Layla – with no prior experience – taught math, reading and a science lesson until school let out at 1:45. Anisa, 11, served as a helper in another 3d grade class. It turned out that some of the kids were her age (many repeat grades, or miss so much school that they are years behind where they should be), but they all seemed so much younger, as they are physically much smaller, shyer and less advanced academically. So she corrected papers and worked with the kids who made errors on their math and writing lessons. For tomorrow, she’d like to offer suggestions about how the grammar unit could be better explained.

I helped a first grade teacher, Mrs. Bojang, who spent over two hours having kids copy a table she wrote on the board about counting by ten’s – if they had a pencil. There are no photocopied worksheets, so much time is spent copying into flimsy workbooks. The children sat patiently until their turn was called to come to the front of the room for her to write the blank table in their books to fill in. Without me there helping make more tables, it could have taken over two hours until they could even begin writing their lesson.

With the exception of about eight kids in the class, most seemed to have no idea what they were doing. They could not write verbatim the lesson on the blackboard in front of them. They seemed to make no connection between the assignment Mrs. Bojang had explained and the letters, symbols and numbers they were expected to write down. To one girl who made no progress on her work, the teacher yelled in her face: “you are a worthless girl. You never do your work.” And regarding several of the boys who seemed baffled, she just said “they don’t know anything. Their families are illiterate and they only come to school sometimes.” With so many children in the class, she needed to choose with which kids it was worth spending time on, and on a few, it seemed she needed to take out some frustration.

For each child that got about five minutes of individualized attention, the quality of their work changed dramatically. When it seemed they didn’t understand my English, I held my hand over their hand with the pencil to show them the correct way to write their letters and numbers. It was clear they were not used to such attention. Every kid in this school walks to school, some from as far as 3-4 miles away, and, as was explained to me, many are hungry during the school day. As early as age 4-5 (or younger) children are on their own at home, as the mothers leave early for work or market. The government used to provide two meals a day in the schools, but now, they say this is too expensive, so their kitchen is locked up and no more meals are given out at school. A sizable percentage of children are too hungry and tired to concentrate at school.

Within a very short time it was easy to spot so much talent and potential among these kids. But without the resources and support, do they have any chance of obtaining an adequate education, harnessing their talents, or – dare I even ask – competing in a global economy? A discussion Anisa and I had later today touched on being “born lucky.” Standing alongside these gems really forces us to think about this age-old question: why are some people born into nurturing homes and provided with great schools and a warm comfortable bed at night, and others can only dream about it?