A Teacher's Travels & Search for Math/Science Theorems that aren't Named after White Men |
|
A Teacher's Travels & Search for Math/Science Theorems that aren't Named after White Men |
|
"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.
5 Comments
Darlene Heath
2/5/2019 04:25:07 pm
You blow me away, Tess. I'm so proud of the person you are.
Reply
Tess Raser
2/6/2019 11:01:48 pm
Thank you! I learned from people like you in my life!
Reply
Chase
2/6/2019 04:50:30 pm
I've really enjoyed following your blog. We miss you at Wentworth!
Reply
Tess Raser
2/6/2019 11:02:48 pm
aww thanks! I really miss you guys too!
Reply
Dan Powers
2/9/2019 09:05:38 am
I just caught up with your posts since January. Wow! So many
Reply
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorFulbright Distinguished Award in Teaching Archives
April 2019
Categories |