A Teacher's Travels & Search for Math/Science Theorems that aren't Named after White Men |
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A Teacher's Travels & Search for Math/Science Theorems that aren't Named after White Men |
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Moments
There are moments that are so vivid that you remember your exact outfit,how your clothes felt on your skin. You remember every smell and sound. I have had so many of those small and beautiful and subtle moments here. I often wish I could go back and actually replay them over and over again. I even do, in my imagination, on long bus rides, or during my long quiet walks in Gabs Then, I arrive somewhere, live another new invigorating real life moment, and spend the next leg of my journey, replaying this new moment. While I live very presently, I also am constantly experiencing the past in my imagination--both my lived past and what I feel was the past that predates the one I know. This past week wasn’t as action packed as previous weeks---students were on midterm break, I rested in Gabs, and then spent some time with friends in JoBurg. It was a needed break and time to catch up on writing and reading---Professor Batibo, the Tanzanian linguist, handed me a stack of articles on the Khoisan !Xoo language, the state of vitality of Tshwa and Ikalanga in Bots, among other topics before I heded to JoBurg. “How do I get more free books?” For the past fews days in JoBurg, I’ve been so lucky to spend time and befriend so many brilliant black intellectuals, and young black professors. The famously bubbly and brilliant, Mandisa, was in town and introduced me to her friends who include----an author of a beautiful poetry collection, Red Cotton, an incredible visual artist/dj, an anthropologist who specializes in black boyhood, a Kenyan professor who focuses on childhood on the African continent, a literature scholar who studies diasporic literature. I loved just listening to them discuss their projects and their perspectives. I saw a play based on the poetry collection, Surviving Loss. Of course Mandisa knew the publisher of the collection. I enjoyed listening to a group of Xhosa intellectuals joke about and discuss their ancestral lineage, while eating chicken legs and fat cakes. I feel very lucky to be learning and laughing among these brilliant people, despite being, from a US context, “just a teacher.” I connected with one of my newer friends, Lethlogonolo, who hosts an excellent, excellent literary podcast called Cheeky Natives. Of course I was happy to stroll through Neighborgoods Market with my dear friends from Soweto, while joking about relationships, accents and food, and stopping for an occasional dance to an extra “vibey” song like “Iskhathi.” I’ll be heading back to Gabs with three new books, knowing four new words in Venda, and warmed by at least ten new hugs. “You look like you’re mixed with every tribe from this continent.” When I travel, people assume me to be different ethnicities. They speak different languages to me, usually not English first, as they’re trying to figure out “what I am.” This isn’t new. When I was younger, when people, usually from immigrant backgrounds, would ask what I was, I would lie--I’d make up crazy mixtures, of ethnicities I knew nothing about, and I would generally leave out any Black identity. As I got older, people caught on to my deceit, and luckily I became prouder of my blackness. I’m not offended by people beginning conversations with me in Setswana, IsiZulu, Afrikaans, Portuguese or English. Race is situational. The world was once Pangea. But over the past few days, I’ve felt a bit withdrawn because I think I’m envious of well my South African and Batswana friends can trace their lineage. They have native tongues other than what has become the universal world language, my mother tongue. They have traditions. They know who their ancestors are. Remember that little Motswana boy who proudly told his class, “She doesn’t worship ancestors because there are no ancestors in America.”? I’m thinking thru, even struggling thru my thinking, in what Pan-Africanism means when the experiences of those descending from the colonized really differs from the experiences of those descending from the enslaved. Luckily, I randomly met an Ndebele man from Zim, on the JoBurg streets, who has lived all over the continent. He took an interest in my project and on the Maboneng sidewalks, taught me about Matobo National Park--which is an Ndeble area in Zim. There are rock paintings at the Matobo Park that show indigenous maps of the stars. There is a mountain top important for dancing for rain----every time someone does a rain dance atop the mountain---it rains. He reminded me of my bigger picture goals. I might not quite understand what exactly it is that bonds across the diaspora, but I still believe there is definitely something. I’m also trying to figure out where us wandering, nomadic global citizens should ever settle, if such a place exists. So, alas, what I hope my project will turn into---- Project Plan-ish I hope to create a way to connect teachers across the diaspora teaching from an Afrocentric lens and/or using indigenous knowledge systems. I hope for a creation of a membership based platform, primarily web based but that will be made accessible for those without web access. The format will have a clickable map in which diasporic educators of all sorts can click into a region or country, and explore indigenous ways of teaching, lesson plans, in indigenous languages, stories from the area, created by people from those groups. The format will be similar to teachers pay teachers as well, so that teachers may sell and purchase lesson plans/curriculum that fit a certain afro-centric criteria.
Moments I had a replay moment yesterday. I heard Italian music so asked if the shopkeeper was Italian. He corrected me, “sono Siciliano.” “I am Sicilian.” We begin to speak in Italian, and a tall, brightly adorned man walks over, and greets the Sicilian in French. I said to him, “Ca va bien,” and he tells me he’s from Senegal. A Zimbabwean joins us, I greet him in Shona, and after I talk about Bots, he shared his experience living there. We are soon joined by a young man who grew up in Milan, back to Italian, but who is half Egyptian and half Tunisian. He asks if I knew many Tunisians in Sicily. I assured him that I do from my work there. I cannot trace my ancestral lineage too far, nor can I trace family traditions centuries back, but I can replay moments like these, coming into contact with the world, learning, listening and loving. Happy March to you all! Off to dance to Black Coffee on a Jozie street.
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AuthorFulbright Distinguished Award in Teaching Archives
April 2019
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