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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Dumilani. Mamuka tjini? This is a greeting in Ikalanga, a language spoken by the Bakalanga of Botswana and Zimbabwe. More on this language later. “But aren’t they being denied human rights?” I wrapped up last week still visiting at Tloga Tloga Junior Secondary School. I got to see a couple of math classes, eat lunch with students and comfort a crying kid who was being made fun of by his friends. I miss being in the lives of children directly some days. Class sizes at Tloga Tloga are pretty large, about 45 students per class, give or take a couple of learners. Almost all students are generally engaged, and yet, young people are young people everywhere and when cold called, “Ughh sorry. I wasn’t actually paying attention.” Classrooms are barren, desks are metallic and classrooms are packed. Sometimes a bright yellow bird might fly in for the lesson too. The teachers often have their backs turned to the class as they write notes, students frantically jot down without a needed reminder. I infer from the tear tracks and soaked tissue that the student I comforted, had tears and snot running down his face for quite awhile, before I came over to him as his teacher wrote integers on the dusty chalkboard. I asked if the boy, maybe 12 years old, wanted to talk to me. He initially said no until I placed my hand on his back. He then said, “Well ok. I found out my friends are making fun of my appearance behind my back.” This little boy had the charm and cute chubby cheeks, of that dependable friend sidekick in tween movies. I told him the other kids were some jealous haters. He didn’t understand what I meant by haters, so I told him they were just jealous because he was so handsome and intelligent. “You’re right.” I then did a breathing exercise with him, and he ensured me that he felt much better. The teacher finally noticed he was crying, came over to ask what was wrong, and he sat up almost immediately, “I’m fine, ma’am.” I then attended a moral education class of 15 and 16 year olds. The topics of the day were, capital punishment and the UN Declaration of Human Rights. In Botswana, capital punishment by hanging---students were able to state the exact measurements of the ropes used for hanging--- is still the law of the land for the most serious crimes. The teacher asked what my thoughts on capital punishment were, and I spoke honestly. I told the class I didn’t think that nations should be allowed to punish their citizens by killing them. She quickly told the class that capital punishment was used as a deterrent in Botswana, and then briefly mentioned the NGOs who rally against capital punishment in Bots, before quickly dismissing them as not understanding the need for the killings. The teacher then switched gears and began discussing the UN Declaration of Human Rights, a new topic for the day. Again, she recited the articles of the document and recorded them on the board for students to write down, while she elaborated on them. One of the articles is on the right of people to change nationalities. A student asked about Zimbabweans and why they can’t easily become Batswana. The teacher responded, “Zimbabwean men take advantage of Batswana women, and so they must wait 10 years.” A different student then asked, “Aren’t we denying their rights?” The teacher quickly responded with a smile, “No we are just delaying them.” For as much as I disagreed with this teacher on most things, she was an engaging lecturer and a lovely person with whom I had a cup of rooibos, the tea of choice in southern Africa, after class. “I love how Trump wants to introduce Christianity in schools.” Saturday, I was invited to go to the village of Ngwaketse with a teacher from Tloga Tloga, who runs a motivational speaking collective for students/schools who are struggling in their studies---at least that’s what I gathered. We left around 6:30am for the long drive, toward central Botswana, a beautiful, hilly, rural area, whose streets are populated with goats, donkeys and cows, and whose water streams are the beginning of the diamond mining district. We took a pickup truck with 6 of us crammed in the tight seats. The ride was going well, until one of the motivational speakers unasked, decided to share her opinion of Donald. “I think Trump is the best president you’ve had.” It’s 6:30am, and I hadn’t had coffee, so I chose my words carefully, as I know, you know, we all know, how I can get in a debate about which I feel strongly. I told her, “I disagree.” “From our perspective he’s great,” she responded. Another speaker in the car, an engineer, said, “No he doesn’t. He seems horrible and stupid.” “I agree.” I responded. The Donald fan then goes on to tell me that the reason she supports 45 is because he advocated for putting Christianity into schools. I then try and explain that technically the US is secular, meaning we have a separation of church and state because we are multicultural and multireligious. “As a Christian though, I believe that it’s important that we spread Christianity.” At this point I became a little frustrated, “But we have Muslims, Jews, Hindus, Sikh, Atheists, Scientists. They shouldn’t have to be exposed to something in which they don’t believe.” “I’m part of the missionary church. It is our job to show those people something else.” At that time I glued my eyes to my phone and opened up a Times crossword puzzle so that I wouldn’t go off in a cramped car, bumping up and down a dirt road. “Presentation Matters” When we finally reached the event, there were maybe about 150 teenage students in their uniforms sitting on plastic chairs under some trees in their school campus---school campuses are generally open because of the warm weather, students walk outside to classrooms. The motivational speakers took turns speaking to the students about study skills, grit, confidence, goal setting and taking pride in their school uniforms. Most of their presentations were in Setswana, despite the “English Speaking Zone,” signs I’ve seen at nearly every government school I’ve been to, but from what I could understand, the speakers’ rhetoric was very reminiscent of charter lingo. In fact, charterization and “network schools” that are for profit and operate like businesses, complete with Harvard educated MBAs, are spreading through South Africa, and perhaps other African countries. But, I did befriend a lovely, intelligent, inspiring 9 year old, named Botho. She added me on WhatsApp, and I hope to hear from her again. What’s the connection? There is an odd, sad, phenomenon happening, in which African schools still using a colonial system that was enforced on them, primarily a system that comes from the UK, but outdated, are now reliant on models from the west because African voices have been left out of any conversation around education innovations, in sharing best practices and in research on childhood development. The fact that I am one of only two who were sent to this entire continent as part of the Fulbright Distinguished Award in Teaching Program is problematic. So many Fulbright teachers were sent to Europe, perpetuating the myth and the lie that Europeans and European nations do things better than the rest (read: non-western, read: their former colonies). This bizarre obsession by America with how certain European countries do things, is a complete erasure of the terror, supremacy and colonization that Europe has imposed on this world. Botswana is the only Fulbright placement in Africa because from the US Embassy security briefer guy’s perspective, “It’s Africa lite.” Many Fulbrighters are in Netherlands (colonized South Africa after terrorizing and brutalizing the Khoisan and colonized many other parts of the world), Finland (a relatively, white homogenous nation), a few are in Greece (an early colonizer of Africa), a few Fulbrighters are in the UK (their best museums are just full of things they stole from all over the world as they were enslaving black people, stealing from them and helping the Afrikaans create apartheid). Thus, the problems I observe in the classrooms here, have nothing to do with Africanness, with blackness, with this place but rather with white institutions that were left behind. Being told I need to teach Christianity in schools, comes from a Christianity practiced in missionary churches. There is no institution not touched by whiteness, even in the blackest of places. From the collared shirts down to the knee socks, colonial threads are woven into school uniforms, only made dusty by the sand the children’s ancestors fought to keep theirs. Independences have been won, and yes those are things to celebrate, but the world is still homogenizing, westernizing and capitalism endures. “The language will die out.” Sunday. I went for a hike with a new friend who is Kalanga. I had the misconception that Bakalanga were a minority group in Botswana. This was false. The Bakalanga are a large group in Botswana, mainly living along the border of Bots and Zim. They’ve endured many persecutions from both sides of the border, despite the initial Great Zimbabwe Kingdom being that of the Bakalanga. In Botswana, since their independence in 1964, there have only been 2 official languages---English and Setswana, despite all the other groups that live here. There is only Setswana and English radio and those are the only languages taught in school (besides French…). Because of this conversation, I spent today with linguists at the University of Botswana. One, Professor Gabanamotse, a Tswana woman and expert in Khoisan and Basura languages, is helping me connect to the Naro in the Kalahari Desert. I’ll be heading to the Kgalagadi region soon. She speaks several Khoisan languages, but prior to popular belief, their languages (known for their clicks) differ largely from one another. I then spent a couple of hours with Professor Batibo, who I immediately bonded with. He’s Tanzanian, (where I have previously lived) and I think he was happy that I spoke KiSwahili. I’m spending tonight reading one of his books on language decline in Africa. There are 2,200 languages spoken in Africa, which breaks down to about 40 per country, but many countries only recognize a couple languages as national languages. Namibia is doing a better job, Professor Batibo told me, of how they are preserving and honoring their languages---They have 26 national languages, and so far have been promoting, at the education level, 16 of them. I’ve been reading a lot of Kwame Nkrumah who wrote extensively about the importance of honoring and including all ethnic groups in Africa as a tool of nation building. Focusing on one or two “global” languages, is incredibly capitalist and only serves the West. “Colonialism and its attitudes die hard.”--Kwame Nkrumah It seems bleak. Yes, I know. But there is huge resistance, endurance rather and adaptation. On my Sunday hike, we passed, what seemed to me, like the Church of Zion, a church that was founded in this part of the world in response to missionary churches. The early practitioners, of what were called Ethiopian churches, disagreed with the Eurocentricity of the Christianity they were taught. I’ll link to the Church of Zion----followers of this church go up into the mountain on Sunday adorned in robes and sing. I don’t know much about them so I’m not advocating for or against them, but from my perspective their practices are rooted in spiritual and indigenous belief systems. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1O4-h08Q7Pw I believe that children here are excellent listeners, not only out of fear of corporal punishment or because they value education more than American children, but I think because of the tradition of oral storytelling on this continent. People are able to both listen attentively, eyes locked, expressions matched to your words, listening, and are able to tell stories really beautifully. Black from Books: What am I reading? I once was told, as an insult, that, “I learned to be black from reading books.” It happened about 10 years ago. To this day I still like punk music, eating kale, doing outdoor shit like hiking, I love a lot of white people and yes, I’m socially awkward---especially at parties. I feel comfortable, now that I’m almost 30, not listing the “black things” that define me in contrast---but one for the sake of this post---I love black voice in fiction, non-fiction, poetry, in literacy in general. I was thrown this insult, in the middle of a “discourse” with a Nigerian-American, brilliant student at Brandeis. We were arguing about agency in the black community--if memory serves me right, she was arguing that poor black people are not victims of their conditions but need to take more personal responsibility. I disagreed, and listed all the -isms and examples of structural inequality--probably used very, very specific examples from texts I had been studying, as I know can be an annoying but successful debate tactic. In response, she just laughed at me, and told me that I wasn’t really black but learned how to be black from reading books. It shut me up. I probably rolled my eyes or something attitudinal to front like her commend didn’t upset me, but it did. I think still about it every now and then. I didn’t learn to be black in books, but I have learned and am continuing to learn what connects me and us with and across the black diaspora. I’m reading a lot daily here, and I’ll share some of what I’m reading in case any of you, of any color, is interested in reading more too. Consciencism----Kwame Nkrumah (political philosophy, Ghana) What Do Science, Technology and Innovation Mean From Africa? Edited by Clapperton Chakanetsa Mavhunga (non-fiction, Zimbabwe) Go Tell the Sun----Wame Molefhe (short stories, Botswana) Soweto Under the Apricot Tree-----Niq Mhlongo (short stories, South Africa) Red Cotton----- Vangile Gantsho (poetry, South Africa) Botswana, the Future of the Minority Languages----Herman Batibo (non-fiction, Tanzania/Botswana) Language Decline and Death in Africa: Causes, Consequences and Challenges----Herman Batibo (non-fiction, Tanzania/Botswana) African Belief and Knowledge Systems: A Critical Perspective----- Munyaradzi Mawere (non-fiction, Zimbabwe) I love all who read this blog. Thank you. Ke a leboga. Asante. Ndaboka. Waita hako. Enkosi. -Tess
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"Sawubona!" Greetings readers! Sorry for the delay in writing. It’s been a busy couple of weeks----I spent last week in eSwatini visiting Waterford Kamhlaba and the weekend in my beloved Johannesburg. I started this week visiting a Junior Secondary School here in Gaborone. I have much to say, so I hope you will stay with me, and even then, I’ll be leaving a lot out. “The cowboys mean we’ve reached our destination.” Before I headed to eSwatini, I had an odd night out. I went to a metal concert. Yes, metal. I actually love punk (I believe that it's radical and anti-establishment and am open to lots of “off brand” music. Metal, not one of them though. In Botswana, there is a strange, beautiful, bizarre subculture---cowboy-goth-metal-headbangers? Apparently, this thing began in Maun with people (and if you’re having a hard time imaging, yes, black Batswana), really into cowboys. They associated their aesthetic with freedom, and began also listening to country music, which at some point evolved into metal music. This concert was near the Botswana/South Africa border, and we passed many cows to get there. As we drove up, I saw cowboys---cowboys (and girls and non-binary people) dressed in head to toe black leather or brown suede. In chaps, in cowboy boots with the spurs, those bullet things they wear, vests, face paint, Iron Maiden tees, and in masks. The music was very loud, but I smiled the whole night. It was actually breathtaking to see that much black joy and liberation in that small, dusty back patio. Men were comfortable touching each other, and some were cool just dancing alone. People moshed, and I stood back, but I always felt safe. In my country, where we are the minority, I feel that there is often pressure to be a certain type of black person, and that there wouldn’t be the freedom to be a black-metal-cowboy. I might have associated cowboys and metal with white folk in the country before that night, but these Batswana metalheads changed my mind. The way they were feeling themselves, the crowd and the music was so black. It was actually almost spiritual and reminded me of a Pentecostal church or something. Not the best way to spend a night before a 6am bus ride, but a way. “I hear you’re from Chicago. I’m a Swati princess if you need anything.” I was invited by a new friend, Tessa, to visit the international boarding school that she teaches at, in Mbabane, eSwatini. Again, you know this place by its colonial name, “Swaziland,” but if you’re interested in decolonization and liberation, stop using that name. The ethnic group that comes from this country and parts of South Africa, are Swati, not Swazi, and they speak SiSwati. eSwatini is a monarchy, a kingdom, led by King Mswati III. Now, I hate borders, and I often use the fact that land doesn’t particularly look different on one side of the border or the other to justify my opinion, that they’re arbitrary and bullshit. However, when you cross the border into eSwatini, things look different. It’s how I picture entering another realm or a magical kingdom---how I imagine Frodo felt when he crossed into Rivendell. The terrain is relatively flat and covered in pines before the border, in South Africa. Immediately after border control, you are in a lush, hilly landscape that feels both sprawling and intimate. It is misty and magical. Quiet and green. eSwatini could be nothing but a kingdom. Tessa, my amazing host teacher, lives in a traditional roundavel home on Waterford’s campus. Throughout the week, I met brilliant students from all over the world. Waterford Kamhlaba is part of the United World College schools. Students come from all over the world, although at Waterford, mainly from the African continent, specifically eSwatini and South Africa. And these students are the cream of the crop. They welcomed me into their classrooms, invited me for breakfasts---I had breakfast daily with a 12 year old student from Tanzania who was happy I could speak in Swahili with him----they discussed complex ideas and were incredibly respectful. Yes, some were very rich, but I’m told many were on scholarship. One evening, I attended the LGBTQ alliance group meeting. They were having a round table discussion on the inclusion of transgender athletes in sports. They spoke on the topic eloquently and compassionately. The teaching styles varied. Some teachers, mainly the African ones, taught traditionally. They wrote copious notes on the boards, and students were expected to write word for word what was said. They always did and were always engaged. The also addressed their teachers as “sir” and “ma'am.” Tessa, the anthropology teacher who hosted me, allowed her students to call her Tessa and her classes were more discussion based. They unpacked white supremacy, modernity, capitalism and all the other isms in her classroom---and to my surprise, none of it was problematic. I cannot say for the other white instructors I saw, and I’ll just leave my comment at that. Although, I will say one was excellent at mansplaining, asking me questions he then would wander off and ignore while I answered them, discounting peoples’ experiences with PTSD but excellent also at making cheese plates and building a fire. I spent my days in-between class observations talking to teachers about pedagogy, but mostly talking to students. I had a little following of the youngest cohort---the Form 1s---10-14 year olds, I would say, depending on their prior education experience. They acted much younger and more innocent than my students. They were sweet and lovely. Two told me I was so pretty they thought I was a movie star. Another one told me that she was a Swati princess, (remember there’s a King) should I need anything. They always greeted me with a smile, a hug, a “how are you doing, ma’am?” I was floored by their deep respect and engagement. There was little to no work involved in engaging students. I know this because this was maybe the second week I was there for some of the new classes. There was no need for frequent movement breaks, tricks or fancy worksheets. No fancy bulletin boards. No data boards. None of that. Just engaged, curious kids, who were always ready to work and explore. We engaged critically with my 'Misconceptions of Africa' survey, whose results I'll share another time. Surprisingly, many of the misconceptions outside of the continent, exist here as well. I was envious at many points of my trip to Waterford and also sad---sad that my students could never access a school like this, financial scholarship or not. Waterford asked me to give a presentation on my Fulbright work. Instead, I did something a bit different. Throughout the week I was told by people about how unintellectual, racist and problematic the US is. Ok, fine, I get it. But this is because very specific people get to tell the American story. As the British South African principal of this school was telling me about how, “No Americans believe in evolution, and we lack diversity,” I thought of my own experiences with schools---my first Russian friend in 3rd grade, learning my first Korean words from friends in 4th, learning about Saddam Hussein from my Iraqi friend in 5th, my dad trying to pronounce the names in the band concert programs that were longer than 15 letters (they belonged to a Thai student and a half Malaysian/half Armenian student). The Bharatanatyam, the Tinikling, the blues and gangster rap. So, I wanted to tell the story of my American experience, and why that has led me to Pan-Africanism. My presentation was called Pan-Africanism Approaches to Teaching and Learning. I discussed my schooling in Chicago compared to the schooling of my students who are mainly black and if not Latinx. I discussed the history of segregation in the US, the nadir of our black American experience, our resistance and organizing, the roots of American Pan-Africanism, the BPP, my work in Tanzania and in Sicily, (both of which, to me, are Pan-African) my approaches to teaching and curriculum writing, my Fulbright methodology and current findings. The anthropology students loved it, and we shared tea and laughs together afterward. I have a lot more to say about board schools, and Waterford if you care to know, ask! In eSwatini, I also visited a cultural village and learned about teaching from the perspective of someone who teaches in a rural government school. He told me that teaching was not really seen as a valued profession in eSwatini or in South Africa, from his perspective. “My native tongue isn’t even an official language in Cameroon.” After an insightful few days in eSwatini, I left the magical kingdom and headed to JoBurg for the weekend. My first night there, I went to a music video release and concert with my friend Mpho (a singer herself---buy her music---Mpho Sebina) and Thabo. The singer, Blick Bassy, discussed the video concept---it tells the tale of a revolutionary from Cameroon in the midst of violent colonization and takes place in Lesotho--a beautiful Pan-African piece of art. Bassy also talked extensively about his relationship to colonization---with his language, and the fact that it is not an official language of his country. Thabo, who is Sotho, and I discussed the loss of Sotho traditional clothing because he told me that the blankets we associate with Sotho, come from Europe. Later that weekend I spoke with my wonderful Brandeis friend, Isabelza, who was visiting from Angola. She told me how Angolans of her generation and younger only speak Portuguese, and not their native languages. Her’s was Kikongo, and she does not speak it. I then spoke to another friend about schooling in South Africa and how while you might be offered SiSwati in a Nelspruit school, Xhosa in one in Cape Town and perhaps Zulu in a Durban school, learning English and Afrikaans are preferred. Later that weekend, during lovely rooftop drinks, some of my friends (a Sotho, a Zulu and a Phuti) began making fun of the clicks unique to Khoisan languages. These issues around language are complicated, and I don’t completely understand them yet, although I’m trying my best, but I see them as relics of colonialism, at the very least. But on a positive note, how beautiful that all those people from different groups are friends, and that we shared time, all of us, also with my friend from Botswana who was in town, and my two friends from Chicago. The diaspora is beautiful when we build bridges and friendships. “Now, Now” Today I finally got to start visiting schools in Bots. Due to a connection, not thanks to the Ministry of Education, I visited a Junior Secondary School with a very enthusiastic staff, who were at first pretty indifferent about meeting me when they thought I was a Tswana visitor, and then immediately eager for me to take them home with me when they found out I was American. I spent the day trying to get approval to visit classrooms, with a very helpful headmaster, having tea with staff, talking to students, observing their work, (more on that in later posts) visiting a classroom (45 students, and yes it was quiet) and learning about their curriculum. The most striking thing to me was that moral education is a core subject in Batswana schools. Students learn everything from death/bereavement (including coping and will writing) to sustainability to contraception to animal rights to sexuality (imagine the worse, and that’s what I observed, but I’ll learn more before I write). In theory, I like the idea of a health class that includes discussion of such topics, although I disagree with framing of morals and morality. I’m not sure I believe in morality, actually. The second most striking thing I saw, was a disciplinary interaction between three women staff who were hosting me and two 15 year old boys. It wasn’t the tree branch switch, taller than me and the width of my arm, used for beating the children that shocked me, it was what came out of the teachers’ mouths. The boys, who from my South-Side-Chicago-teacher perspective, were respectful. They were calm. They answered questions with their heads up. They spoke at a reasonable volume without smacking their lips, cussing or rolling their eyes. No chairs were thrown. However, when I asked the teachers what they did wrong to be sent home for not paying school fees, and to have their belongings dumped on the floor, all the teachers would repeatedly mention is, “They’re Zimbabwean.” When explaining to the students why how they behaved was wrong, they would point out, “You of all people should know better because of what you can go back to in Zimbabwe.” One boy teared up, perhaps because his phone had been taken. The other grinned nervously, and was of course accused of laughing at them. I talked to him about how stereotypes hurt, and asked if he ever internalized stereotypes and performed them because if he did, I knew all too well about that. After explaining stereotypes, he said, “Yes” with a sigh of, “Wow yes, you get this.” Now, I’m not a savior. No, I didn’t pay their school fees and will not. No, I didn’t defend them to their teachers either. I just witnessed a very xenophobic moment and understood it because having had lived and traveled to xenophobic places throughout the world. Xenophobia towards other Africans is unfortunately really prevalent in this southern region of Africa. I’ve seen a lot of xenophobic behavior towards other Africans, and then over-welcoming behaviors toward Americans and Europeans, or those they perceive to be Americans or Europeans. There is nothing inherently wrong with their/our teachers and their/our schools in Africa or across the diaspora, except for a huge glaring thing----they/we use a colonized system and seek solutions in other colonial powers. I know Malawi uses American textbooks. I also know that charter schools are run by colonial power structures too. This is not an indictment of black Africans. The more I travel, and the more I learn in life, not just in this experience, the less confident I feel that we can ever heal from and then defeat white supremacy and its lingering, pernicious effects. F*** Colonialism (TW: I’m angry here) The white people I’ve met here (literally besides Tessa Ware-- a great, thoughtful, intelligent human being, must be her name, and the literal only exception), are unbelievably horrendous. On my bus ride back to Bots yesterday, I was forced to watch Leon Schuster movies---I've never seen anything more blatantly racist, and I've watched Birth of a Nation. This guy wears black, brown and yellow face. He portrays all black and brown (coloured) people as stupid, backwards and criminal. It was horrific. I've learned he's one of the highest paid comedians on this continent. Whether they claim Africaness (from Zim, South Africa, etc) or are some American ex-pat living here, whatever, I find them awful. I am admittedly a frequent crier---a film can make me cry, a beautiful plant, a sad moment, but I haven’t cried since I’ve been here, despite feeling a range of emotions. I cried tonight. I cried tonight because the microaggressions of two white people made me cry over some South African wine, which I know came from Stellenbosch, home to vineyards worked by essentially indentured black servants. I cried tonight because a white woman who referred to Xhosa as simply “African,” who claimed she could relate to the Ethiopians who serve food that tastes,“Gross like her stomach lining,” because she too lived in “Africa,” I cried tonight (maybe too a symptom of a long day) because she called me judgmental because I said I found Cape Town racist. She, who had been hired by Mandela to produce film for the nation, told me that my critiques for Hillary Clinton hating black people, were simplistic and that really Clinton hated all people, as a way of pacifying and invalidating me. She also acted as a gatekeeper to information and people that I would like to know and meet, and then conveniently forgot she had made a fake promise to make the connection. Her friend, a white American man who grew up in Kenya, then told me that decolonization was a buzzword concept, and as we talked about language preservation, he told me that Setswana was the language of the elite and that the poor wished to learn English so that they could get a job. He essentially told me I was bougie for believing in decolonization and the death of capitalism. That “real black people” want to be colonized and to continue to be exploited by capitalism. Many of these white people name drop black names like the most valuable of capital when they first meet you. Many are mediocre at best and have the red carpet rolled out for them anyways, so then they hoard power with their inflated egos. Many love black people that bow to them and scoff at any black person who even questions them. I will not bow down to them. I will scoff. I might cry What is to come? I have a pretty cool and big idea for what I want my project to end up as. No, not an academic paper, and no, not a curriculum. Bigger and better! Bye for now---I hope you are all toasty and warm at home.
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
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??
Greetings! I'll be writing my observations, rants and posting some pictures/videos here for you all to read about my Fulbright experience in Botswana. *Please see the about section if you want a better understanding of my project.*
I've been making some wonderful connections with educators, scholars, youth workers & mathematicians from across the Diaspora as I've been preparing for my trip. My mom connected me to her former Botswanan student who is a film maker in Gaborone (the capitol city), who will connect me with San people (hunter gatherer tribal group) so I can learn best practices from them. Last weekend, I had a really fulfilling conversation with an Ethiopian doctoral student about ethnomathematics (a connection made thru a Fulbright alum), who has connected me to an Ethiopian guidance counselor who does brilliant work in affirming Ethiopian students, who is connecting me to a twenty-year teacher in Botswana. We are more connected than we sometimes think, and the world is unbelievable big and complex. Perhaps, a "duh" statement. But I think people forget this, especially when we feel as if it is "Dooms Day" here in the US because of 24 hour news cycle, that our organizing has to be hyper-local, and there is daily Trump drama. While I've attempted stay somewhat in the loop, I've enjoyed spinning my Pan-African web of STEM educators, historians, scholars, scientists, & mathematicians. I'm anxious to see what it'll become, and I'm ready to begin using Tswana, a language I've made a lazy attempt to learn in these months leading up to my departure. I believe in this work and in the brilliance of Black people across the Diaspora. Today I got confirmation that I'm flying out December 30th. I'm due to arrive in Botswana at 9pm on NYE. I'll be back here then when my adventure begins, if only just to share my jet lag with my readers (hopefully not just my mom). P.S. This album "I'm Not Here to Hunt Rabbits," is a very beautiful compilation of Botswanan musicians playing guitar in a really interesting way (i.e. left hand reaches up and over the neck of the guitar). I love it! |
AuthorFulbright Distinguished Award in Teaching Archives
April 2019
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