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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Mhoro (Shona for 'hello'---it'll make sense later on)! Out of office because that's what the director at the Ministry of Education, responsible for granting me permission to enter Batswana schools is. But, still staying busy. Today I made all of your "African" dreams come true---my feet are dusty from a walk at a nature reserve whose buildings had brown, grass roofs. I went on a game drive and saw some large, strange, seemingly prehistoric animals that we associate with this continent, and I drank a Stoney ginger beer.
"Go Sharpo!" Since I've last posted, I've very much settled in Gabs and have dived deeper into study---not of anything particularly specific, but I'm absorbing everything I can (I was called a sponge once this week, and it wasn't the first time I had received that nickname in my life). At this point, I've read much of the history of Botswana, beginning with the first Bantu speakers on record of being here---historians think they arrived here around 200ad. While there have been and continue to be many groups that call this peaceful, quiet place home, the dominant group is the Tswana. The first president after independence, was of course Tswana, and Setswana is the only other language you'll hear on the radio and TV besides English. This is very different than in South Africa, which has 11 official languages. While everyone I've encountered identifies strongly as Batswana--meaning their national identity is heavily tied to a Tswana identity, they might come from different ethnic groups. When I first met my advisor, I noticed that her surname seemed Xhosa to me. She assured me that I was right. That she is Xhosa. That she speaks a lot of Xhosa. But, Setswana is her language of preference. She tells me, "I am Motswana." I find this to be unique when thinking of other African countries I've visited and studied, and I believe a lot of it has to do with white supremacist fueled turmoil that has been characteristic of the region, southern Africa, for centuries now. Botswana didn't want that mess. Their way of avoiding mess has been through a national identity that is explicitly African, through problem solving and conflict resolution that is never rooted in anger or aggression and intentional instruction around peace. Well, I think. As of now, through my study, through observing people cutting in and out of traffic and never getting honked at and through my eyes, which have yet to witness even a slight argument. "The forces that unite us are intrinsic and greater than the superimposed influences that keep us apart."---Kwame Nkrumah, from Africa Must Unite, 1963 As I've explained, I'm interested in afrocentric approaches to teaching and learning. I'm interested in compiling these findings in a way, yet to be determined (although I have some ideas), and pulling them from throughout this continent and the black diaspora at large. Because of this broader goal, during this study stage, I've been absorbing information, languages, poetry and music from the surrounding countries here in southern Africa. I've been reading about Namibia and their struggle for independence (happened when I was 2), and their pan-African choice to always promote the singing of the African Union Anthem alongside the national anthem. I'm studying san, specifically, Ju/'hoansi, educational practices that happen in the Nye Nye region there. I'm reading colonial legislations that have impacted schooling, like the 1953 Bantu Act in South Africa, which ultimately legalized apartheid in education. I'm reading Red Cotton, poetry by South African, Vangile Gantsho. I'm still talking regularly about what I'm learning, new words I pick up, and my failed attempts to vosho with those lovely beings I was so lucky to encounter and befriend in that country to the south of me. I've connected with, and already learned more from, former 'Deis classmates in Angola and Mozambique in the hopes that they can help me continue to spin my sticky, ever curious web. I've been fascinated with Zimbabwe. "I don’t feel like a foreigner if I am performing in South Africa, or any other African country, because I am an African. As long as I am anywhere in Africa, I am home."--Oliver Mtukudzi I've met many Zimbos while in this southern corner of the world. We know that people migrate when there is political and/or economic unrest and uncertainties in their countries---this is of course the case with Zimbabwe right now. It's not as if there are more than them statistically than Batswana or South Africans, but I think I've met so many of them because they are markedly warm, friendly and brilliantly astute. Zimbabwe is my current neighbor to the east. The country has 16 official languages, but in addition to English, Shona and Ndebele are mostly used. Shona is spoken by the majority. I've been reading Shona folktales that teach lessons about nature and the environment. I've also been reading studies on attempts to incorporate Shona culture into schools in Masvingo, put out by my dream university, Great Zimbabwe University-- a melting pot of afro-centric intellect and thought. I have to read and learn more about Ndebele heritage but know that the language is very similar to Zulu because the Ndebele people descended from followers of a Zulu general who arrived in Zim in the 19th century. Personally, I've befriended a taxi driver who has helped me get around, named Kuda. Kuda is Shona, and he has been teaching me some phrases here and there in Shona, it shares some similarities with Swahili, a language I already speak, and he's shared with me stories about his children and their experiences with school. I saw him today, days after his and many other Zimbabweans, favorite singer, Oliver Mtukudzi sadly passed away. The timing seems cruel---Mtukudzi, beloved not just by people in Zim but throughout the region, has passed during a time in which people are being brutally attacked and censored by their government for protesting bleak, unlivable situations. Kuda tells me of a time he actually met Mtukudzi, and how humble he was, how proud he was to meet a fellow countryman who was a fan of his work. Kuda tells me why he gravitated to Mtukudzi's music instead of toward Thomas Mapfumo's work, which was more political in nature. If his wife weren't Tswana, Kuda would return to his beloved home, despite the present day problems. Poverty In the midst of absorbing, I've also been preparing for a week I'm about to spend in the kingdom of eSwatini (Swaziland) at a school. Borders don't make sense to me in general and especially not the arbitrary ones Europeans drew after torturing, enslaving, and general havoc wreaking here. I enjoy jumping them and seeing the lingual and cultural similarities, differences, evolutions. Anyways, this Swati school has asked me to help, while I'm there learning, with a class of middle schoolers, who are discussing misconceptions about Africa. I made a GoogleForm with questions such as, "Mark all the things that began in Europe (art, literature, etc.);" "What's the first thing that comes to mind when you think of Africa." I sent the survey to former, current and my colleagues' students. The misconceptions are pretty ludicrous, and I'll write more on them at a different time. However, most all of the children surveyed are black American students, and most wrote, "poverty," "war," or "wildlife," as the first words that come to mind when they think of Africa. All these children, at least in my experience, understand that their ancestors came from Africa. I can't help but think their negative associations and stereotypes with Africa also help inform their negative senses of self. How can they disassociate their ideas with Africa from how they see themselves? I imagine they can't, and that's something I want to keep exploring. Bana (Setswana for children) A long rambling post, from a long rambling week. Tomorrow I'm spending the morning in a tutoring center, which uses traditional practices to push the thinking of the bana. Apparently the best chess player in the country will be there, and no I will not be challenging her. Then I have a playdate with a 6 year old daughter of a new friend. I'm looking forward to her telling me why she had to beat up a bunch of boys the other day at the pool. I feel joyful and blessed, and I hope you feel the same. -Tess (but what is your Tswana name? You're sure just Tess?) Raser
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Dumela and compliments of the season. "Neither here nor there." This phrase is used frequently in Bots and in South Africa. I actually had to urban dictionary its meaning because I have been understanding it differently depending on how it is used, and I also feel that we don't really use it. According to the world wide web, it can mean, "not important or relevant," "besides the point," or even "betwixt or between." Let's use the third meaning for this post. I feel a bit "betwixt and between." My work is betwixt and between at this amorphous stage too.
"Just don't be a dumb ass" This was my first official week as Fulbright DAT. It began with a massive extermination project of the ancient but resilient group, the cockroaches, in my new apartment. After that scary project, I woke up Monday morning excited to further explore sweltering Gaborone (Gabs as people call it). My mom's former student, Moabi, a documentary film maker, eclectic space creator, TV director, extraordinaire, showed me around the UB campus and some parts of Gabs I had yet to see. We went book shopping, and I was disappointed to find that most of the books in the bookstore fell into several categories---Christian/religious, on business, or were South African. I'll write more on religion, arguments on "modernity" and consumerism in Bots in future posts, when I'm better versed. Also, very few texts were in Setswana, which I was hoping to find, as I enjoy learning languages through literature. Instead, I picked up a collection of short stories all taking place in Soweto (which holds a dear spot in my heart, but is not Motswana). Wednesday, I met with my adviser at the University of Botswana, a sleepy, quiet campus still, and she introduced me to my mentor, others in the department and gave me my office. Everyone is very generous, accommodating--like, stop everything we're doing and find Tess a computer mouse, and give her a proper Tswana lunch, accommodating. Later in the week, I went thru a very American security briefing--simultaneously casual, joke-y and fear mongering. I met with the program officers of Fulbright in Bots, who can barely do their job, as they are still furloughed and/or forced to come to work without pay or permission to do the bulk of their jobs. I then traveled to a very large village about an hour away from Gabs called Molepolole, to accompany another embassy person to her post. There is a lot of traffic to get to Molepolole because of the frequent cow, goat or donkey crossings. I've made some new Batswana friends who have been showing me all the lovely spots, I was advised not to go to in my security briefing, such as a beautiful man-made dam--an ideal place for watching one of the world's best sunsets, but heavily frequented by Afrikaners who left South Africa, I'm guessing toward the end of apartheid, but I'm not entirely sure. "Hey Ms. Raser. It was many fights since you left" Also this week, my students back in Chicago have been messaging, emailing and commenting on my teacher Instagram and Facebook pages. They're struggling to make some good choices in my absence. A few fights have broken out between people I would never even think ever considered fighting, and of course some of the children have recently been impacted by the gun violence that is disturbingly always present in their lives. It is because of their contact this week, that I decided to read a stack of letters they wrote to Batswana students, that I brought with me. Students were prompted to write about life in America, which for them is life in their few blocks of west Englewood in Chicago, in their dreams of money and exploration and in their player mode in Fortnite. Not surprisingly, every student wrote about an aspect of beauty of Chicago---deep dish pizza, the lake, museums---coupled with, "but they shoot here;" "I think they shoot people because someone in their own family probably been killed;" "we have a lot of homeless people; " when it's hot out, they shoot the most." It's currently 95 degrees here, and that's not as hot as its been or will get. Tomorrow there is a high of 102 degrees. There are no shootings, no fighting and no real arguments I've seen. In fact, peace and being peaceful, is something, in which, Batswana take pride. Now, I think sometimes civil unrest is healthy and necessary for the progression and/or empowerment of people, but more on that in future posts, once I learn more. However, peace is a great thing and Botswana is a peaceful country with police officers who do not even carry guns. "Laleme le le lengwe ga le a lekanela" Today, I'm grappling with my joy---joy from this adventure, discovery, joy from the warm sun, and mostly, the joy that comes with a freedom I feel whenever I'm on this continent to carve out my own black identity, that is truer to the person I am as opposed to the person I often feel expected to be. This morning a student wrote me, "Can't wait for your comeback." My "comeback"--something I've already fantasized postponing, postponing and postponing, until a "comeback" will be only a visit. I'm just sitting with this feeling and meanwhile, hanging up their letters as a reminder of why I'm here doing this work in the first place. Anyone who knows me, knows how much I love to study---writing a 120 thesis, after intense fieldwork, interviews and yearlong research, was one of my favorite life moments. This week I've been deep into study--mapping out which schools I plan to visit not just in Botswana but in the region. I'm studying how Shona culture is taught in urban schools in Zimbabwe, exploring traditional Khoisan (Basarwa) practices that are still being implemented throughout the Kalahari desert, and reading about Namibia's attitude toward Pan-Africanism as seen through their classroom pedagogy. Betwixt and between study sessions, I'm walking thru the sandy, quiet city, passing by children in ironed school uniforms and lanky cows. I'm exploring tailor shops with hanging Leteishi or shweshwe fabrics and eating seswaa and sorghum porridge. Peace and well-wishes to you all! -Tess Laleme le le lengwe ga le a lekanela 'Mholoweni! Sawubona! I'm back in Botswana but am awaiting the government shutdown to end so that the US embassy can give me security clearance so that I can start visiting schools. In the meantime, I'm reading, exploring (sort of...it's 98 degrees/39 degrees and a sprawling city without a car).
"When you return to Botswana, please don't say, 'fokoff'" The rest of my time in Cape Town was exceptional.....sure Cape Town is exceptionally beautiful...where else are you surrounded by mountains, painted in flowers and in front of the Atlantic and Indian Oceans? Nowhere else. But no, Cape Town was exceptional of course because of its people. I navigated Cape Town through the eyes of my dear friend, sister even, who I just met last week--Mandisa (wrote about her in previous post), a Xhosa woman and lecturer at University of Cape Town, one of South Africa's best universities and through Sarah Henkeman, a conflict and social justice researcher who put together a beautiful book, Disrupting Denial: Analysing Narratives of Invisible/Visible Violence & Trauma. As well as through the eyes of Sarah's son, Josh, who is my and Mandisa's age, and Sarah's many friends, who contributed to this lovely, important book, which eloquently and authentically does work to decolonize the narratives of apartheid that were dished out in the West. As we know in the US, institutional racism does not simply dissolve with new regimes, black presidents and the collapse of monuments. Trauma runs deep and this book explores those traumas in South Africa. PLEASE BUY THIS book: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07GCT7L12/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?_encoding=UTF8&btkr=1 "Good night! I love you." Mandisa, perhaps the warmest, most sincere, lovely person I've ever met (absolutely no hyperbole), as I've mentioned before is from Port Elizabeth and fell in love with Cape Town at a young age before she recently settled there. Her Cape Town is a complex place that one must navigate with the most optimistic eyes, the most open heart and always using public transit. She shows me Kirstenbosch, and its gardens, her favorite trees, while accurately criticizing who gets to access its surrounding community. She shows me how to collect stunning purple shells on the beaches of Muzenberg, while observing the ways in which the beaches are divided, and which beaches are considered safe. She takes me West African drumming on Long Street, points out its trendy restaurants and shares with me her observations of how the street and its life changes based on the time of day and the laborers' schedules. Mandisa also accompanies me to Khayelitsha to visit Molo Mhlaba, a network of Pan-African girls schools (previously wrote about). On the way, she points out her noticing that it is impossible to get to Muzenberg beaches, relatively close to Khayetlisha, with less than three buses, which makes me think of redlining in my own city and ways white supremacist societies keep black people out across the world. Seeing Cape Town through the eyes of Mandisa is a treasure. Molo Mhlaba : "As black women, we don't have land. So the name, in a way, is about us taking the land." More on Molo Mhlaba---molo mhlaba in Xhosa means, "hello land" or "hello earth." The interior walls of the school are a deep magenta, and as far as schools I've been, it's relatively quiet but not oppressive like a "level zero" charter school. Little girls in pink and purple smile and greet us as we come into their classrooms, and teachers seem incredibly happy too. Things seem to run smoothly, even though the school year has just begun. I love this school, and I love the black women who conceptualized the school, who run the school, who fundraise for the school, who teach in the classrooms, and who cook for the children. This school and its model should be replicated and then of course the leadership of these schools should be given to black women local to the communities in which the schools will sit. Please support them: https://molomhlaba.org/get-involved/ "They're mostly from the white group" Getting to know the people of mixed race, classified as "coloured" during Apartheid, most set my experience in Cape Town apart from the other cities I visited. I climbed Table Mountain with a guide, put in that group, who grew up in District 6, whose residents were forcefully removed during apartheid. He shared with me his experiences of spending time in the mountains as a child and his father's activism during apartheid. I was his only client that day, and he expressed that he was happy to get to climb with another person of color, as he normally just climbs with white people. I love nature, and I've often felt that the reason black and brown people generally do less "nature things" is because of how being outdoors was associated with labor and often forced labor. My guide, Miles, shared this sentiment, and we really bonded exchanging stories about race, hiking and our love of the flora and fauna we passed along the way. We promised to take a trip to Alaska together one day, and both agreed that our 5 hour climb and descent was not enough time spent together. Sarah's son, Josh, briefly shared with me what it's like to grow up with the "coloured" classification, with the knowledge of having blackness in your blood and genes, and how you are read in post-apartheid Cape Town. You are followed by security and sometimes forbidden from entering your white friends' homes. And yet, you may even feel conflicted because you know you occupy a space that is "superior" to other groups because of the nastiness of the still pervasive racial class system and hierarchy that apartheid created. We discussed the complexities of race and passing when you leave SA and are read as black in most other parts of the world. Enough of SA for now, although I already have plans to return soon to see loved ones and to visit a school in eSwatini (Swaziland). Hopefully by the next time I write, the government will be open, not mostly for my sake, but for the sake of all those who are working without pay because of an old rich white man, who should never lead anyone, having a temper tantrum. Nqwenela-----Tess (anique) South Africa: “Black consciousness is an attitude of the mind and a way of life.” --Steve Biko South Africa. One of my most favorite places I’ve been. I could write a novel about all that I’ve learned, experienced and encountered these couple of weeks here, but nobody comes to a blog seeking that so I’ll be as concise as can be. Although, I warn you that this is long. These past two weeks I (oddly) met, befriended and became again (oddly) close to brilliant people. Here are some of my teachings they've given me. Johannesburg: “Cmon guys, it’s now or never” JoBurg. Not a physically beautiful city. As you know, upon getting to JoBurg, I befriended some friends of a dear friend. They reside in Soweto. Together, we shared a house music dance floor in Soweto, cooked pap and ate Kota, a tasty hood snack reminiscent of what I can find in hoods across the Black world....my time with them culminated in two distinctly South African things...1) an argument that exposed the ugliness and subtlety of white supremacy—-a conflict that resulted in two black people name-calling the other “fat” and the other “dark skinned.” 2) Them traveling 45 minutes by bus just to see me off at the bus station. Bongani, a friend of one of my favorite humans in Chi, gave me an insightful tour from above the city, and it was a a gift to meet Bongz early on. This man knows the history of the land, the laws, ethnicity, politics, every building, block, neighborhood, and parallel to Us history. I learned that when white South Africans in the us, claim they left SA because they disagreed with apartheid, they are likely lying and left as a way of preserving their wealth. I learned that the Swati make a nutritious sorghum packed variation of pap, and the more commonly eaten maize version, was a food of apartheid--designed to be filling but lacking in any sort of nutritional value. Bongz theorized, and I agreed that the classification, "coloured people", while in a higher position in their own country than black Americans have in ours, might have some commonalities to us—they’re a relatively knew ethnic group, “created” as slaves. They don’t have claims to land that are all that old. They emulate black "hood", our mainstream visible, culture but don’t have much interaction or regard for black Africans, generally speaking. More on them later when I get to Cape Town, a place where "coloured" are in large numbers. The only thing I disagreed with, was his recommendation I eat tripe--a Zulu speciality. White Americans warned me about JoBurg before I left—-of its crime, of its ugly architecture. I think what they meant to say was, “it’s black.” Beautifully & distinctly black. It was my favorite city in SA, and for better or for worse, see myself returning there many times. A Bus Ride To Durban: “I should teach you Afrikans” I didn’t sleep much in JoBurg. I was too busy learning Zulu phrases, filling in the gaps that remain after going to the Apartheid museum and understanding what exactly the group “coloured” means. So, I was excited to sleep on the 8 hour bus ride. That didn’t happen for two reasons...1) an Indian toddler pulling my hair and screaming behind me (she was headed to Durban, the home to the second largest group of Indians outside of India—-they brought here essentially as indentured servants). 2) a young white Afrikaner, sitting next to me, and talking at me the majority of the ride. My interaction, albeit a one sided interaction, with this Afrikaner, was my only one up until this point with a white South African. Despite the perception, whites only make up about 8.9% of the total South African population. From my interactions, with let’s call him, Johannes, I learned that they have very little knowledge of the land they have forcefully occupied. was born and raised in JoBurg by a Jewish Afrikaner mother and German via Namibia (so descendant of the Germans who committed genocide against the Harare people), and yet I had seen more of JoBurg than he had. Knew more about the Zulu, Sotho, and Tswana than I believe he’ll ever bother learning. He felt as a white person that he was oppressed. Falsely made claims that land was unfairly taken from white Afrikaners, and that a person deserves to live where they’re born. He said “he’s not racial.” I still don’t know what that means, but he complimented me for speaking English well for a black person, and hence that being why he preferred black American women....because of our English (our first language). He clearly desired black women, as he then said, he hoped to actually marry a black American woman for this reason, and he knew about our culture from watching Madea movies and others similar to them on Netflix. He taught me the vulgar cuss word for ‘vagina’ in Afrikans, cause I guess he thought a tourist needed to know that?? Of course I was then uncomfortable that he asked for my phone number before he disembarked from the bus in some white sounding place, Pietermaritzburg. I hope that to be my first and last interaction with an Afrikaner. They’re such a relatively small, isolated, seemingly ignorant group, that I feel comfortable saying, all Afrikaners are racist. Apartheid began because poor Afrikaners felt oppressed by white British people who colonized SA, and wanted to ensure a racist, colonial, affirmative action for their white brethren. I actually saw two boarding my initial flight to SA, and thought they were American alt-right. They were super aryan looking and had hunting, camouflage print on. No. They were Afrikaners—-they not only share this aesthetic, but share a love of xenophobia, falsely feeling victimized, guns and as Bongz reminded me, making animal jerky. This would be simply a funny caricature if they and the other white people in SA (not hugely different from them) didn’t so wrongly and unethically hold so much wealth, power, igornance and space. Durban: They spoke to me in Zulu, and were surprised when I didn’t understand This was a brief trip. I learned from Rwandan Uber drivers, with whom I could speak in Swahili, that black South Africans, namely, Zulu were also xenophobic toward other African immigrants. They, like Zimbabweans and Ethiopians, experience violent attacks and general shade from Zulu people, mainly for economic reasons. Immigrants are willing to work for less than what the natives are willing to work for....we know this narrative. There are many people from Zimbabwe here, as one could imagine. Durban is a seaside community that is more British than Afrikaner, and they were still horrible to black Africans, invalidating the myth that there is any benevolent white presence in SA, when most of their initial presence was rooted in violence. Durban also taught me more about street harassment. In JoBurg I rarely was alone after my first 20 minutes, and usually was traveling with men, whereas I gave myself a tour of the CBD (downtown area) of Durban. While I never felt unsafe, I was followed, proposed to, cat called, roughly every 2 minutes in that 1.5 hour walk around the city. It was exhausting. And no, I wasn’t wearing revealing clothing or a lot of makeup, for you assholes. Many black women are survivors of rape and assault in SA, and to my understanding, being an unmarried woman who travels independently, can be a marker of being a “loose woman.” This isn’t unique to SA culture. I often think about how hard it is to travel alone as a woman, particularly as a woman of color, as I believe that the fear of the consequence of touching white women is so great, that they are largely more left alone. This didn’t taint my Durban experience. I ate Indian food, a Bunnychow, even though I learned that it came into existent because Indians wanted the business of black people but didn’t want them in their restaurants, so they put their curries in the bread so that blacks could take it to go. From all black accounts I heard, Indian people in SA are very anti-black, violent toward and exploitative of black people. A relic of apartheid-- Apartheid was intentionally designed by its architects. Apartheid wouldn’t have worked if all oppressed groups got equally poor treatment. It worked because the treatment was hierarchal, slightly different, thus groups never united against the white minority/oppressor because they resented and/or felt superior to the other. This mentality and divisiveness still exists between blacks, coloured and Indians. In Durban, I also was invited to a Christian children’s village, by a school founder's, whom I admire, brother in law. It was beautiful and fulfilling to spend time with a funny, kind and intelligent family. I obviously became quick friends with the kids, and the head of the school and I made plans to keep in touch about my project. Cape Town: “We Xhosa women aren’t going to just put up with anything” While white Americans (and some black too) deterred me from going to JoBurg, they couldn’t stop recommending things for me to do and see in Cape Town. I still have several more days in Cape Town, and yes it is objectively beautiful. There is an eerily, looming mountain range that hugs the city, there’s blue ocean, with beach penguins. The city feels, in some senses, European, although I’ve been avoiding its European residents. I'm staying with a family friend who was identified as a coloured or as some prefer to be called "camissa" during apartheid, as her Sotho father was lighter skinned, and yet she self identifies as black for political reasons. We would identify her as black in the US. I had dinners, coffee dates, with her and her camissa friends who were generous in sharing their experiences with me. The thing that is baffling to me is that apartheid successfully segregated them, and still does, yet they created no real distinct culture. They speak their own version of Afrikans, and they have traditions rooted in the Anglican Church, but they didn’t preserve the cultures with which they are mixed (black African, Malay, Chinese, Muslim, Indian, Dutch, Portuguese, etc.) so they don’t know what their ethnic background is. Hoping to pass for white was some of their goals, as a mechanism for survival, and those heritages were not typically preserved. We share this history in the US. Now many of their communities are riddled with gang violence and alcoholism, but in many cases they’re able to “advance” more than blacks if they’re able to perform South African whiteness. In Cape Town, I've also spent time with these incredible Xhosa women who have founded a Pan-African girl’s school in the rural, impoverished Khayelitsha region. I had reached out to a founder, Athambile, on Facebook about a month or so ago. I admired her form a distance and it turns out, she had known of Wakanda curriculum and had been admiring me. Had a lovely time talking shop, and sharing experiences of being a black woman teacher with her and her colleagues before being asked to teach there alongside them. I’ll be visiting the school later this week and sure it is so magical, I’ll have a whole post about the experience. I visited Robben island, which would’ve been overwhelming had I not been with a group of black American professors from Minnesota. A former political prisoner tours you around the prison, and I’m still thinking about how I felt about the experience itself. I went out with a new friend and his friends, and watched an argument about whether or not there is equitable access in Cape Town for blacks between two skilled debaters. I made another dear new friend, Mandisa, again a friend of a friend (Facebook is amazing sometimes). Mandisa is an Afro-pessimist, badass South African woman who introduced me to the beautiful musical practices of Zulu cult like religions, like the Shembe, and shared the Zeitz, a beautiful museum with me. Being black in Cape Town is different than I imagine it is in JoBurg. Cape Town feels whiter, feels richer and harder to navigate for the “woke.” Whereas JoBurg is very black, very “woke” and has safe space for progressives and queer people. Cape Town feels posh and like a playground for the wealthy, but of course we know that the people maintaining those playgrounds are always people of color and frequently black. The disparity is striking, across SA, but for me, particularly here. Whereas JoBurg has more Zulu, Sotho, Swati, & Tswana. Durban, mainly Zulu, Cape Town is a Xhosa city. Americans might know Xhosa for its clicks, and as Mandela’s ethnic group. I’m still here in this beautiful city, having drinks with other new friends, sharing meals with groups of powerful thinkers and of course also just enjoying the sun. Today I went on a tour with a conservationist, and just one other person, to see and learn about penguins on the eastern side of the peninsula. I also experienced the chaotic, lively, train system, in which vendors are quickly selling fruits and kids in school uniforms have just finished their first day of school for the new year. Traveling and my ability to quickly make friends and relate to people from different backgrounds/culture when I am traveling is perhaps my life’s greatest blessing. I often think I have more friends outside the US than there. However, nowhere has quickly clicking with people been easier for me than here in South Africa. I'm still contemplating why that is and what this is about this gorgeous, stunningly confusing place is. I’m excited for these next few days of learning, eureka moments, breaking bread and sharing hugs and love before my real journey begins in Botswana. Love you all. -Tess (or as Troy has named me, "Nomzamo") Happy New Year! I cannot believe that I've only been in southern Africa for four days....
I left Chicago at noon on December 30th, headed to Atlanta, then took a 15.5 hour flight straight to Johannesburg. I obviously didn't really sleep on that flight, as I was too busy smiling, dancing to South African house music and studying Tswana. I stumbled off the plane, tired and sore, in JoBurg, only to have to wait for a connection to Gaborone, but I wasn't at all cranky because something amazing happened---instead of aggressively checking and messing with my braids, I was smiled at by the security woman, asked what the style was called and what braiding hair I used. My exhaustion disappeared, and my smile returned to my face. How affirming! I arrived in Gaborone after being welcomed and invited to go on a tour by my flight attendants, then grabbed a cab from a driver named Mashaba. Mashaba, "I love this name Tess so much that when I have my first born daughter, I'll also name her Tess." And headed into the guest house, which I'd be staying in prior to my two week holiday in South Africa and prior to the official start of my program. The guest house, hostess, Gaone (the "g" is a "h" sound) complimented my efforts at Tswana (which aren't amazing) and invited me out with her and her friend for NYE. Of course I went, despite having had been up for 20 hours. We got in at about 5am, I slept as much as I could, until I was awoken by a man I had been emailing with about Botswana---No, not a random man, but he is a high school college counselor, who went to a conference for African educators with a friend of Dawit (helping in my project, with whom I was connected by a former Fulbright). We emailed just twice, and he showed up at my home to welcome me to Botswana and arrange to give me a tour around the city later that afternoon. After the tour, I took a well-deserved nap, and then watched soccer with two Zimbabwean men who live nearby but don't have access to whatever obscure soccer game station we were watching. Later on, I met an Italian ex-pat living in Botswana, with whom I could speak Italian, who showed me a local place for live outdoor music. Again, I got very little sleep, but managed to wake up for my flight to JoBurg, just a 45 minute ride on a tiny plane. I was initially showed around by someone leaving the airbnb I have, then I was approached on the street by an Ethiopian man who asked if I wanted to buy injera. I then explained that I had just arrived, and he invited me to a tasty Ethiopian (maybe the best I've had) lunch with his friends. They then gave me a driving tour of the immigrant and working class enclaves of JoBurg. And as you could imagine, then later on, I met up with more beautiful, generous, exceptionally intelligent friends of friends, who owed me nothing, knew very little about me, but showed up to offer me food, break bread with me, laugh and share mutual admiration for our respective countries' black culture. Four days in southern Africa. Many new, but intimate and close connections to people who just decided to be generous without asking or expecting anything in return. I've never had that experience in the US, despite having it frequently abroad, particularly in less-western places. I'm off to sleep (at least at a reasonable hour) and am thinking about how unbelievably kind and welcoming people across the diaspora are, and how undeserving our colonizers were of that compassion, and how tragic their exploitation of that compassion has been and continues to be. I also reflecting on how cold, at a human level, and odd the US is. I have much more to say about days since I wrote this several back about South Africa. Look out for my next post! How many friend of a friend of a friend of a cousin, have you helped out, talked to or spent time with recently?? |
AuthorFulbright Distinguished Award in Teaching Archives
April 2019
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