Senegal: Why Teach?

By Nayeli - My decision to trek to another continent and commit two months to volunteer teaching was a surprise to nearly everyone, including myself. Being prone to sporadic forays into the unknown, it wasn't the distance but the occupation that was unexpected. Numerous former classmates can attest to the never ending grudge I held against the entire teaching profession during my high school years. I had a habit of creating a living hell for teachers who refused to see my point of view at the end of discussions or failed to give me points on exams when I felt that points were due. You could say I had a little bit of a problem accepting the wrath of authority. I often tried unsuccessfully to make my instructors earn my respect, instead of the other way around.

So why did I suddenly decide to take up a red marking pencil and join the ranks of my former nemeses? To be completely honest, it was a hastily-made decision, one that I didn't think through entirely before leaving. Go to Africa, teach some English and escape the New England winter? Sure, sign me up! Most people, when given this sort of opportunity, would first ask, "Why?" but I've always been more of a "Why not?" type of girl. When I could think of no good reason not to pack up my bags and get on a plane to Senegal, I packed up my bags, got on a plane to Senegal, and soon after found myself back in the last place I thought I'd ever be: a public middle school. I honestly didn't think it would be much of a problem. After all, I'd already survived pre-adolescence once. However, nothing in all my years of schooling in the American public school system with its flashcards, partitioned cafeteria plates, and gold stars could have prepared me for my first day of class in Africa.

I began my teaching career with eighth grade English. I had only just arrived in Africa and that very morning I was introduced at school, so I was under the impression that I'd just be observing for a few days to get used to the setting of a Senegalese classroom. My first morning, I was presented to the principal and the rest of the staff before it was time for morning lessons to begin. I followed the English teacher, Mrs. Guien to a classroom which was one of eight semi-outdoor cells situated over what appeared to be a landfill but was actually the schoolyard. These eight buildings and the yard, plus a water pump and a few stray sheep comprised the entire educational establishment that was CEM Pikine.

"Good morning class," said Mrs. Guien as she entered the classroom.

The students stood together like a mini battalion and responded together, "Good morning, Missus." Their response was regimented and memorized, I doubt they even understood its meaning.

The same went for Mrs. Guien, who spoke only slightly more English than her pupils. "How are you?" she recited.

"Fine thanks and you?"

"I'm fine. Sit down" They understood that. As the students took their seats in one collective motion Mrs. Guien made her way to a large desk in the corner and set down her things. I began to follow but before I could sit she turned to me and said, "You can teach the class on AIDS." Her tone of voice was declarative rather than interrogatory. I would be teaching the class on AIDS.

Mrs. Guien gave me the length of roll call to prepare a two hour lesson. It thankfully took about five minutes to take the attendance of 75 students, all of whom had names like Haussman Seck-Fall. By the time she'd finished I still had no idea what I was going to say or do with the kids for the remaining hour and fifty five minutes of class. I tried saying something to this effect when I recovered from the initial shock, but it was too late.

"Class, this is Nayeli. She's going to talk to you in English about AIDS." Mrs. Guien turned to leave, adding, "Their main problem is pronunciation," and was gone.

Apparently, Senegalese schools choose to multitask in the classroom and have taken to doing dictations while simultaneously discussing the dangers of STDs.

With a feeling of dread that I can only describe as substitute teacher meets new kid on the block meets first day of junior high, I took a long walk of shame to the front of what was now my classroom and smiled at the children who were now my students.

"Good morning class," I said, because I couldn't think of anything else.

"Good morning, Missus." They barked their response with reflexive precision. And then there was silence again.

"How are you?" Again, original thought failed me.

"Fine thanks and you?" Me? Oh... I'm flailing, panicking and drowning in a pool of my own perspiration thanks, but I'll be fine. AIDS and pronunciation. AIDS and pronunciation.

"Let's begin!"

I started out with some basic facts and figures I remembered from my old P.E. classes, checking for comprehension as I went. It wasn't until 20 minutes into the lesson that I learned AIDS is said, "sid-as" in French and it wasn't until 20 minutes after that that I learned the students actually had some material on this subject in their textbooks.

We read a small informational passage and attempted some recitations. I decided against using context clues to explain the meanings behind the vocabulary words after a veiled girl in the front row asked for the definition of "contact" (context: "sexual contact"). Two hours and a lot of trial-and-error later, most of the kids had successfully mastered the pronunciation of "h" (as in "hemoglobin"), "th" (as in "thermal") and "s" preceded by a consonant (as in "platelets" and "transfusions").

The class handled my impromptu health lesson wonderfully but the day had only just begun. After that first period I went on to review the preterit with both halves of the ninth grade and teach "Parts of the Body" to the sixth. This lesson was by far the easiest, thank god. By the time I faced this last batch of eager adolescents (they don't raise their hands but snap, excitedly in the air when they want to give the answer,) I had to delve deep within my reserves to find the energy it took to lead them in several repetitions of "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes".

Later that day, after classes were over, I was saying goodbye to some of the teachers (Mrs. Guien returned somewhere between "sing-sang-sung, ring-rang-rung" and "eyes, ears, mouth and nose"). I noticed some sort of commotion by the door of one of the classrooms. At first I believed there was some sort of tiff going on and was afraid I would have to call the principal. When I walked closer to see what it was, a girl burst forth from a cluster of her friends who were all gathered together. I recognized the girl as being one of the sixth graders, who had seen me earlier at my most tired, cranky, uninspired point in the day. She suddenly and very bashfully presented me with a bouquet of bright yellow leaves, obviously plucked up from the surrounding trash heap by her group of cohorts.

In an instant it became apparent that while my decision to embark on this educational adventure had been poorly researched, it hadn't been poor. Go to Africa, teach some English and escape the New England winter... and be presented with leaves by students who, because of you, can now tell their head from their shoulders, their knees from their toes?

Don't tell me you still need to ask, "Why?"