Thursday, February 20, 2014
I am the Lorax, I speak for the trees
Monday, February 10, 2014
A Weird Success
A huge part of being in Ghana has been learning lessons about myself and working to improve the way I work in the world. A big part of that is how I develop and maintain relationships, and what I expect to receive as return in my relationships.
Recently, a good friend of mine, Zeinab, came to me crying. She said that the headmistress at her school wouldn't let her take her BECE. I asked her why, but Zeinab said that the head just didn't like her. She said that it was possible for her to take the test at another school, but she didn't know how to get signed up. "Please come with me" she said, and because she's my closest friend in the village, I said yes.
We first went to the closest JHS to our village. We begged a ride on the main road, and alighted in Diare, at JHS A. It's at the southern tip of the town. We walked towards the school for only a minute before a young man, a teacher, joined us. He said we would have better luck at JHS B. We thanked him, and turned our feet that direction.
JHS B is at the northern tip of Diare. We tried to beg a ride, but the street was oddly empty at that time of morning, so we walked all the way through the village to the very northern point.
Waiting for the head there was easy, and we enjoyed a ball of banku. Or rather, I did. Poor Zeinab refused to even sit down. Her fingernails were bitten to the quick and one foot tapped a rhythm on the ground. She was a bundle of nerves. When the head arrived, I met with him in his office and explained the predicament. I was absolutely confident that he would sign up Zeinab for the test. Why not? She is a very smart girl.
But he told me he'd already sent in the list of students taking the test to GES. He thanked me for my time. He indicated the room full of students at old computers and told me he needed to start his lesson. I understood Zeinab's nervous tics.
She and I entered a truck heading south, and she ignored my attempts at conversation. They were very weak attempts. We sat and listened to the driver and mate speak rapid French and I wondered what it would be like to fail Zeinab. I wondered if she would cry.
We alighted in Pong Tamale, a town a bit south from our town, Tunayili. The first JHS was set back from the road only about half a mile, and we walked it with purpose. The round of greeting seemed to take forever, but finally we were able to talk to the headmaster. Sorry, he said almost immediately, I have already turned in my student list to GES. But try the other JHS, maybe they haven't.
At this point I couldn't even make eye contact with Zeinab. It didn't change my life if she didn't take this test, but it changed hers. She is seventeen and form three, and so, if everything went perfectly, she would take the test, score well, be accepted into an SHS, graduate from that, take the next important test, score well, and become...I don't know. A teacher? Sometimes she said she wanted to be a nurse. If she didn't take the test, she could anticipate getting married, probably to a local farmer, having children (lots and lots of children, the village women generally want ten) and then living the rest of her life walking the long hot stretch of land between her house and her farm. So even though this is where I would have given up if it was any other day, she and I walked to the other school.
It was much further from the road than the first had been, and it was forty sweaty and tired minutes before we reached it. A pleasant man named Alex-from-Accra invited us to sit in his chair under his tree while he tried phoning the head.
Unfortunately, the head was away. Alex-from-Accra told me we could either come back the next day (my shirt was stuck to my body, my legs jellied from walking) or we could try another school. Both options seemed bleak. But Alex-from-Accra informed me that he was good friends with the Nabogu head, and that if we went there and dropped his name, we would certainly be allowed to take the test. Pretending hope I didn't feel, Zeinab and I started back down the road.
We caught a ride in the back of a taxi to Nabogu, which is actually closer to my village than Pong Tamale is. From the boot, I jokingly asked a woman if I was invited to her take away containers. I must have looked pathetic, because she handed me a container over my protests and insisted we eat it.
In Nabogu, the head was away. His assistant was called from his home, though, and Elvis and I had a long conversation about Zeinab and what was best for her. Finally, wonderfully, Elvis agreed to sign Zeinab up to take the test with the Nabogu school. Elated and exhausted, she and I sat outside the school and ate rice from the take away container while the students stared.
Days went by, and one morning I was out talking with Amina, one of Zeinab's close friends. Amina told me that Zeinab had been heartbroken when she failed the test. What test, I asked. The pre-BECE test that the headmistress at her school had given her. She'd refused to sign up anyone who didn't pass the pre test, saying it was just a waste of their money.
So Zeinab had lied to me.
I spent a lot of time thinking about this. What I kept coming back to was that day that we spent around five hours walking and greeting and asking for favors from people we didn't know. I didn't just help Zeinab because I care about Zeinab, or even because I think she'd be a great teacher (nurse...?). I did it because I have the power to help people here, and when I use it, when I do things that wouldn't get accomplished without my presence, I feel really good. So that, to me, is a success. No matter what Zeinab scores on her test (or whether she never tells me she failed the pre-BECE exam).
Recently, a good friend of mine, Zeinab, came to me crying. She said that the headmistress at her school wouldn't let her take her BECE. I asked her why, but Zeinab said that the head just didn't like her. She said that it was possible for her to take the test at another school, but she didn't know how to get signed up. "Please come with me" she said, and because she's my closest friend in the village, I said yes.
We first went to the closest JHS to our village. We begged a ride on the main road, and alighted in Diare, at JHS A. It's at the southern tip of the town. We walked towards the school for only a minute before a young man, a teacher, joined us. He said we would have better luck at JHS B. We thanked him, and turned our feet that direction.
JHS B is at the northern tip of Diare. We tried to beg a ride, but the street was oddly empty at that time of morning, so we walked all the way through the village to the very northern point.
Waiting for the head there was easy, and we enjoyed a ball of banku. Or rather, I did. Poor Zeinab refused to even sit down. Her fingernails were bitten to the quick and one foot tapped a rhythm on the ground. She was a bundle of nerves. When the head arrived, I met with him in his office and explained the predicament. I was absolutely confident that he would sign up Zeinab for the test. Why not? She is a very smart girl.
But he told me he'd already sent in the list of students taking the test to GES. He thanked me for my time. He indicated the room full of students at old computers and told me he needed to start his lesson. I understood Zeinab's nervous tics.
She and I entered a truck heading south, and she ignored my attempts at conversation. They were very weak attempts. We sat and listened to the driver and mate speak rapid French and I wondered what it would be like to fail Zeinab. I wondered if she would cry.
We alighted in Pong Tamale, a town a bit south from our town, Tunayili. The first JHS was set back from the road only about half a mile, and we walked it with purpose. The round of greeting seemed to take forever, but finally we were able to talk to the headmaster. Sorry, he said almost immediately, I have already turned in my student list to GES. But try the other JHS, maybe they haven't.
At this point I couldn't even make eye contact with Zeinab. It didn't change my life if she didn't take this test, but it changed hers. She is seventeen and form three, and so, if everything went perfectly, she would take the test, score well, be accepted into an SHS, graduate from that, take the next important test, score well, and become...I don't know. A teacher? Sometimes she said she wanted to be a nurse. If she didn't take the test, she could anticipate getting married, probably to a local farmer, having children (lots and lots of children, the village women generally want ten) and then living the rest of her life walking the long hot stretch of land between her house and her farm. So even though this is where I would have given up if it was any other day, she and I walked to the other school.
It was much further from the road than the first had been, and it was forty sweaty and tired minutes before we reached it. A pleasant man named Alex-from-Accra invited us to sit in his chair under his tree while he tried phoning the head.
Unfortunately, the head was away. Alex-from-Accra told me we could either come back the next day (my shirt was stuck to my body, my legs jellied from walking) or we could try another school. Both options seemed bleak. But Alex-from-Accra informed me that he was good friends with the Nabogu head, and that if we went there and dropped his name, we would certainly be allowed to take the test. Pretending hope I didn't feel, Zeinab and I started back down the road.
We caught a ride in the back of a taxi to Nabogu, which is actually closer to my village than Pong Tamale is. From the boot, I jokingly asked a woman if I was invited to her take away containers. I must have looked pathetic, because she handed me a container over my protests and insisted we eat it.
In Nabogu, the head was away. His assistant was called from his home, though, and Elvis and I had a long conversation about Zeinab and what was best for her. Finally, wonderfully, Elvis agreed to sign Zeinab up to take the test with the Nabogu school. Elated and exhausted, she and I sat outside the school and ate rice from the take away container while the students stared.
Days went by, and one morning I was out talking with Amina, one of Zeinab's close friends. Amina told me that Zeinab had been heartbroken when she failed the test. What test, I asked. The pre-BECE test that the headmistress at her school had given her. She'd refused to sign up anyone who didn't pass the pre test, saying it was just a waste of their money.
So Zeinab had lied to me.
I spent a lot of time thinking about this. What I kept coming back to was that day that we spent around five hours walking and greeting and asking for favors from people we didn't know. I didn't just help Zeinab because I care about Zeinab, or even because I think she'd be a great teacher (nurse...?). I did it because I have the power to help people here, and when I use it, when I do things that wouldn't get accomplished without my presence, I feel really good. So that, to me, is a success. No matter what Zeinab scores on her test (or whether she never tells me she failed the pre-BECE exam).
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