"we are learning from you"

Today marks officially two weeks since I have been teaching. In my first two weeks I have learned a lot. I have had challenges and successes. I have felt lots of joy and lots of frustration. What I have taken to be a very important lesson is this: The education system here in Mozambique is extremely different than the education system of the States; and to be quite honest, it needs a lot of work. However, I have also learned that despite the country I am in, or the education system in which I am working, students are students in all of their glory, desire to learn, extreme sass, occasional laziness, and willingness to listen and follow instructions. Instead of describing the way my school and my students operate with adjectives, I’m going to tell you a few stories and you can choose the adjectives yourself. Hopefully these stories also give you insight about some of the emotions I’ve felt over these last two weeks, and how hopeful/excited/skeptical/nervous I am for next class, next week, and next trimester.

Doors before Chores before Scores

I arrived at school on Tuesday, February 16th, exactly one week and one day after the first day of school. As my last blog post revealed, the school did not have keys to open the doors to the classrooms at our secondary campus the whole first week. Students came every single day and hung around while teachers sat around in the office and nobody learned and nobody taught. 

However, keys were finally obtained on Monday, February 15th (from who exactly I’ll never know). On Tuesday, I got to school at 6:30am expecting to finally teach my first-ever class. At 6:45 students lined up in their turmas and we sang the national anthem while ignoring the giant slabs of aluminum that were laying in the middle of the school yard (old roofs). The roofs were a little weird, but I’ve learned not to question random giant piles of junk since I’ve been here—it happens. This also meant that the classroom roofs had likely been replaced and that was a step forward, which I took as a good sign—I wouldn’t get rained on while teaching fraction multiplication. #littlewin So far we were right on schedule. After the national anthem, the Director de Pedigógica would give morning announcements and then students would scurry off to class, which was supposed to start at 7:00. Instead, the Pedagogical Director told the students that even though the doors were open, the classrooms weren’t ready: They still needed to be cleaned and there were no desks. NO DESKS. In the classrooms. Each classroom comes “fully equipped” with desks and a chalk board, so literally 50% of the materials were missing from the classrooms. When he said that, I assumed no classes and that we would all hang around for a little bit, then leave, then come back tomorrow hoping that someone from district services got their ass into gear and brought the damn desks. But I was wrong. 

Instead the students were told that it was their job to get their own desks from the boarding school and after the rooms had all the desks they would need to clean them themselves. The Director even made a deal with the students: if they helped load the giant slabs of tin onto a truck to be taken to the boarding school, the truck would wait and drive their desks back to our campus. If they didn’t help with the slabs, they would walk desks from the boarding school about 5 blocks in the sand to our campus. Only boys were offered this deal; all the girls had to carry their desks on their own. Bullshit.

All of these chores were to be completed right now in their uniforms of cleaned and pressed white button-down shirts and black bottoms. Because that makes sense. 

After this announcement, students got to work either loading slabs, carrying desks or cleaning classrooms. I waited around for three class periods (over 2 hours) before realizing that this work would not get done before noon, so I wouldn’t be teaching any classes today. I went home a little surprised and a lot disappointed. Literally one week and one day of student learning was lost because of logistics. #oyemozambique

Hino Vezes Sete (Anthem Times Seven)

Over the past three days, I have sang the Mozambican National Anthem seven times (well, ok fine. Half sang it and half mouthed watermelon pickles because I don’t know all of the words yet). That’s more than two times per day. Why, you ask?

Each morning the students start by singing the National Anthem at 6:45, followed by brief morning announcements, and start class at 7am. On Tuesday, the chefe was not impressed by the way the students sang the national anthem, so he made them sing it again—slower, louder and more annunciation. The second time it sounded much better. I thought that meant we would move onto a different topic and get to class on time. WRONG. (I’m wrong a lot here because pretty much all things Mozambican are unpredictable). He said it was better but that he still saw some students in the way back who weren’t singing at all. We sang it again and he told the students that if he saw someone not signing, there would be consequences. The third time, everyone must have been at least pretending to sing (heh, like me) because he said “okay fine” and we moved on to getting yelled at about uniforms. Morning announcements are always so uplifting. 

On Wednesday when we again returned to Hino Time, I was crossing my fingers that students would remember the 15 minutes we wasted singing the same song over and over…and over again yesterday, and just do it right the first time. They started singing and it sounded good. I was hopeful. Except then Mamá Gelina (office secretary) left the office and started weaving through the lines of kids. She came back with one girl who had a look of dread on her face. Mamá Gelina had told the girl that since she was caught not singing, she would have to sing it by herself in front of everyone.

Holy.Shit.

The girl stood there for about 5 minutes while other girls got yelled at for mini skirts and lipstick before actually being called on to sing. That’s 5 minutes of preparing to do what as a high schooler is likely your worst nightmare. 5 minutes of thinking about everything horrible that was about to happen. Sounds like hell. I’m sure for her it was that, or worse. 

The chefe explained to the students that homegirl was about to sing the national anthem by herself and that this should be a lesson to everyone because if anyone else is caught not singing, they will face a similar fate, or worse. (But honestly, what could be worse than singing the national anthem by yourself in front of 500 of your peers?! Maybe being naked. Or having to eat an entire cake like the fat kid on Matilda. But other than those two things, I think this wins). 

When it was time for her to sing, it took her a solid three minutes to even be able to say the first word. She was terrified. She would take a deep breath, mustering up confidence to say A Memória (the first words) and then only a tiny little voice crack would come out and she would shake her head and try again with another deep breath. Tears were welled up in her eyes. Her hands were shaking. I’m sure her heart was beating out of her chest. It was awful. I wanted to save her. I wanted to sing it for her. But I couldn’t do a damn thing except stand there and pray that eventually a word would come out. And eventually it did. After three minutes of silence, all eyes on her, she got out the first word, then the first line, then the entire song. The other students whispered and laughed and snickered and giggled through the entire thing. It was painful. My heart went out to her. If the chefe told me to do what she did, I would likely resort to faking a seizure. 

There are a lot of infuriating things about this situation. The damn hino is 5 minutes long because the chorus is sung through twice between each verse (that’s three verses and 6 choruses). That means we wasted so. much. time singing that damn hino. 35 minutes of class time over three days. The chefe says “we have to get this right because it’s our obligation to honor our country every day.” Blah blah blah I say that's complete bullshit. When the student passing rate on national exams is SIX PERCENT, there are other things we should be doing to honor our county. Like sending our students to class and helping them learn. 

Besides that, as educators it is our responsibility to do everything we can to ensure that our students gain knowledge when they come to school. In order to preform well in the classroom, kids need confidence. This poor girl, after being laughed at and humiliated for 5 minutes straight, isn’t going to learn a damn thing when she gets to class. She has just been torn down in the worst way. She’s going to walk into class with self-doubt, wondering every time somebody talks or laughs whether or not it’s about her. She's going to wonder when the day is going to end so that she can curl up in her room and cry. She will not hear, let alone assimilate, a single thing I, or any other teacher says to her that day. 

So now she will probably never miss another word of the Mozambican National Anthem between now and the day she dies. But will she learn today? Probably not. Tomorrow? Probably not. Hopefully by next week some other student will do something ridiculous that everyone will start talking about and she will be back to her normal self, sans spotlight. I just really hope that when another student takes on that girl’s embarrassment burden, we as teachers and school administrators have nothing to do with it.

Students are Good

This whole time I’ve been writing about how I was really annoyed at showing up to school every day for over a week and not being able to teach. And that’s the truth—it was annoying (as you can probably imagine). But each time I learned that I wouldn’t be teaching today I also felt extremely relieved. I was more than a little nervous to teach my first class. Me, standing up in front of 50 students, speaking the same level of Portuguese these students were 10 years ago. I know a lot about math, but how would they trust that I know my shit if I can’t speak the language properly? Would they laugh at me? Would they even listen to me? I didn’t know what to expect or how defensive I would need to be about my level of Portuguese, my knowledge of math, or my ability to teach them well. 

So I walk into my first class, and they stand up greet me: Bom Dia Senhora Professora. And I greet them and they sit down. First, I gave the basic rules of my classroom: 

When I am talking, you are not talking.

If I see or hear your telephone, the first time I will keep it in my backpack for the entire class. The second time, I will keep it with me for the entire morning. The third time, you will not get it back until the next day. 

No cheating. If I catch you cheating I will rip up your work and you will receive a zero. You will not have a chance to explain. 

If I need help with Portuguese you will help me without laughing at me.

When I asked if they had any questions, they said no. I elaborated further about the last one, because I was nervous about it and I wanted them to understand as best they could the situation. I asked them how long they had been learning English. They said 5 years. I asked them if they would be able to come to the front of the class and give a lesson in English to their peers. They all laughed and said no way. I started speaking in English, asking them (in English) if they would be able to understand me if I taught all the math lessons this year in English. They erupted in laughter and after they simmered down, they replied no. I switched back to Portuguese and told them that I started learning Portuguese in September of 2015. They were all quiet for a moment. When I clarified that that was only 5 months ago, guess what they did.

They applauded me. The entire class. When they became quiet again one student stood up and told me that he thinks I speak very well and they can understand what I’m saying. When I asked again if they could agree to helping me when I needed help instead of laughing, they replied yes in unison. We moved on, and so far I have not had any problems. 

Aside from students occasionally helping me with words, or telling me when an article should be feminine instead of masculine, or repeating a word for me with the emphasis on the correct syllable, my students have proven to me in just two weeks that they are kind-hearted.

One day, there was no eraser in the room, so I started using my handkerchief to erase. I hadn’t realized a student left until he came back with an eraser. He put it on the desk quietly, and signaled for me to use that instead. During the break he took my handkerchief somewhere and washed it for me. He told me next time I should ask for an eraser so I didn’t dirty my cloth. I said thank you. A small gesture, but very kind. 

If I call on a student who doesn’t know the answer, nobody laughs. Another student will stand up and answer correctly, as to help save face of the other. I never push it and always thank the student who stands up and gives the right answer.

After class today, one student came up to me and told me I was doing a good job. They said other professors “don’t give us much information” but “we are learning from you”. So far, I don’t think my time here in Mozambique has produced a better moment.

MINI-FESTA!!!!!!!

Today I introduced the incentive system I plan to try out during the first trimester. Here’s what it is:

I have a 400ml-sized tupperware container for each of my classes (four). My dad’s girlfriend (for lack of a better term) sent me beads in a care package— lots and lots of beads. I have made a list of “good things” and “bad things”. When my classes do “good things”, they earn beads in the jar. When my classes do “bad things”, I remove earned beads from the jar. Here is pretty much how the dialogue went today:

Me: To finish the class today, I will introduce a new incentive system. Does anyone know what an incentive system is?

Class: *silence*

Me: It’s a way for me to motivate you to do well during class. We will participate in it together. Here I have a tijela (tupperware). I also have missangas (beads). When you guys do something that I like, I will put a beat in the tupperware. When you do something that I don’t like, I will remove a bead from the tupperware. Here are the ways you can earn beads or lose beads:

Earn beads by:

If a person scores a 19 or 20 (out of 20) on a test. 

If less than two people arrive to class late.

If the entire class brings their homework.

If I only have to ask for a volunteer one time.

If somebody memorizes the greek alphabet and recites it in front of the entire class.

Lose beads by:

Coming to school dressed inappropriately.

If I have to ask for silence more than one time.

If I catch you cheating on homework or a test.

If more than 5 people don’t show up to class at all.

If I ask for an answer “in your own words” and you use my words.

[note at this point they were seeing where I was going with this and I had their complete attention. They laughed when I named the ways to lose a bead because they all knew they were guilty of doing those things. I’m glad my list resonated with them.]

Me (still): At this point are there any questions?

Class: [jumping out of their seats needing to hear more about this whole “incentive system” like, right now] Não

Me: When the jar is filled up with beads, 

we will...

have a….

MINI-FESTA (small party)!!!!!!!! I will bring cake and refreshments (aka Fanta) and we will listen to music and dance for the entire class period. No learning, just fun.

AND THE CROWD. GOES. WILD. 

Seriously: applause, hooting, hollering, the whole bit. Probably a solid two minutes. I asked them to quiet down and asked if they had any questions. They said no. They were so excited. I told them that they would have to work hard to earn their party, that I wouldn’t just give it to them. They said they understood.

As I was leaving, I heard them talking to each other about studying for the test that will be given next Friday. They wanted to earn some beads. Already, it's working.

3 Questions 0 Answers

The process of preparing for the new school year and actually starting the new school year is very different here in Mozambique than it is in the States. Cultural differences have shone through and have lead me to ask some bigger picture questions. 

School Schedule

A lot of work goes into making a school schedule, as you can probably imagine. Each turma of students has 6 periods per day. Each turma needs to have each subject for a certain amount of hours each week. Some subjects cannot be had two consecutive days, while other subjects must happen consecutively. Some teachers teach multiple grade levels and others only teach one. All these factors lead to a very long and challenging process of giving each turma a unique schedule that follows all the rules and avoids overlapping teacher schedules. Last year, there was a program that allowed you to input rules and teacher information, and returned a schedule that fit the bill. Nice, right? Right. However, the one person in the whole school who knew how to use it (and whose computer in which the program lived) no longer works at our school. That means this year we had to do it manually. SO FUN! #sarcasm

I am teaching 11th grade, which is the second cycle (first cycle is 8th-10th grades and second cycle is 11th-12th grades). A team of about 35 second cycle teachers and chefes (bosses) all convened to make the schedule. We sat in a circle of desks for a cumulative 16 hours over two days until each of the 12 second cycle turmas had immaculate schedules. While this sounds all nice and team-worky, there were only really 2-3 people working at one time. The rest of us just sat there doing productive things like staring into space, playing time-wasting games on old school Nokia phones, or sitting in smaller groups outside the room straight up shooting the shit. Because the schedule puzzle was so hard to solve as it is, it left very little room for teachers to advocate for schedule preferences (for example, ‘I don’t want to teach on Fridays’). Once teachers realized there was no room for negotiation, they mentally checked out and waited for the schedule to be completed by the chefes.

Contrarily, the first cycle team of about 35 teachers and chefes chose a different route. They assigned a small group of people to create the schedule, which would later be shared out with everyone else. This means that while I was stuck at school from 730am-530pm one day literally doing nothing except watching people argue about the schedule, my roommate got to go home at 11am because there was a designated group of people staying to do all the work. She told me that other teachers in the first cycle didn’t like this method because someone always “got burned” by having a bad schedule. However, after my experience with second cycle and learning that ain’t nobody got time for preferences, I don’t see how any teacher could intentionally get “burned” because they weren’t a part of the scheduling process. 

Clearly, there are benefits to both methods. The way I experienced had the pros of including everyone, requiring at the very least a time commitment from everyone. It also was the first time some of the teachers were working together so it allowed people to get to know each other and build an environment of patience and cooperation. Additionally, it ensured that everyone took responsibility for the schedule so that if there was an error, we would all take equal blame. The con was that more personnel time was spent than necessary, and most of us spent 16 hours sitting around doing nothing. #notideal The first cycle was definitely more efficient, but because everyone wasn’t a part of the process, some people felt like they got bad schedules, and there wasn’t a sense of teamwork involved in the task. Additionally, the responsibility is fully in the hands of the few people who actually made the schedule, which might give room to more errors and/or heavier blame for errors. Of course, second cycle teachers think that the first cycle method was better, and visa versa. #alwayswantwhatyoucanthave Because I am a volunteer and new to the school, I would have accepted any schedule given to me as “good” and “mine” and wouldn’t have thought twice about it. For that reason, I would prefer the first cycle method as to not waste so much time. However, if I were a veteran teacher at the school who felt confident enough to advocate for the hours I wanted, maybe I would choose the second cycle method. I think this really just goes to show that Mozambicans value both time and teamwork, and when it is necessary to choose one or the other, they make a decision, stick with it, and accept the choice for what it is.  In America, where time is money, the first cycle method would definitely prevail, with few—if any— questions asked. However, do the benefits of teamwork, evenly distributed responsibility, patience and cooperation outweigh the cost of time? Maybe, maybe not. 

First Day of School

I don’t teach on Mondays, but this past Monday was the first day of school. On Monday, zero students learned. In the States this actually might be true as well because the first day of school is typically for meeting your teachers, getting to know your schedule, catching up with friends, showing off your totally awesome (but totally not organic) fruit Gushers at lunch, and getting the semester syllabus. If you’re Sarah Braden and in second grade, the first day of school would also including flaunting your sweet pair of kelly green corduroy overalls that are two sizes too big, causing the bottoms to fit like Jenco capris. #bejealous Overalls or not, rarely do students receive new information on the first day. However, on Monday in Manjacaze, students didn’t learn because the classroom doors were locked. Nobody could get into the classrooms to hold a session. Students arrived in their new clean, ironed uniforms and chatted in the yard for some time before home. Teachers came, greeted each other, chatted in the offices for a bit and then went home as well. 

I got to school on Tuesday morning at 6:30am. Usually every morning at 6:45 students line up in their turmas, sing the Mozambican National Anthem, receive a brief update from the pedagogical director and then go to their classes, which start “promptly” at 7:00am. So I got to school at 6:30 to learn that there would be no classes again today— Still no keys. When a look of disappointment crossed my face, a Mozambican English teacher quickly reminded me where I was. He said: “This is how it is here. You all in America are very organized and very serious. Here we are not. Things like this happen and we just have to wait. It’s just how it is here.” He proceeded to tell me that we could get keys to the classes in the next 5 minutes, or not until next week, nobody knows. If we were waiting for District Services to come to unlock the classrooms—and the District Service building is less than a 10 minute walk from the school—why doesn’t somebody just march on over, ask for the keys and unlock the doors? It’s better to start classes late than not at all right? When I asked why we don’t go get the keys ourselves, Rosario said, “it’s complicated” and gave no further explanation. 

Coming from a society that has a very “go-getter”, “do-faster”, “no-excuses” mentality, it was hard for me to accept this.  Where I (and probably you too if you’re reading this) come from, if there exists a solution to the problem, no matter how much work it takes, you do it and solve it and move on. On Tuesday, however, people just accepted the problem as a problem that would halt run of business until further notice; if that means kids show up to school every day ready to learn for an entire week without receiving one actual lesson, then so be it. This reality was extremely hard for me to sit with. I wanted to go out into the yard, gather students from my turma and do something. Even if that just meant introducing myself, explaining where I’m from and why I’m here, and starting to learn my students’ names. However, that wasn’t an option so instead I just sat in the office with the other teachers for a little while before going home, having accomplished nothing. 

Apparently this same situation happened last year: no classes were given the first week of school. Teachers and students came every day, sat around, and left as a result of waiting for someone else to complete a task that they could have done themselves. I imagine it wasn’t just last year, but likely the year before that and the year before that. Many years of a fake first week of school due to the lack of a “take charge” mentality. When I talk to Mozambicans, they call themselves lazy. They are always waiting for other people to do the work for them. This got me thinking: Laziness requires one of two things in order to live: Either a feeling of complacency or at least minimal satisfaction with the current situation; or hopelessness.

If I’m too lazy to cook dinner, then I must not be that hungry. If I am too lazy to make my bed, I must be okay with crawling into an unmade bed at night. If I’m too lazy to teach a class, I must either not care about or be satisfied with my students’ current level of knowledge. If I’m too lazy to vote, I must be fine with the way things are, or not care enough to weigh in. In all these examples, complacency or minimal satisfaction is present, but if replaced with discomfort or dissatisfaction, motivation would take the place of laziness and things would get done.

To my other point (hopelessness): If I’m too lazy to cook dinner, maybe it’s because I know I’m a shitty cook and I expect that I’m going to burn the food to the point of inedibility, so why bother? If I’m too lazy to make my bed maybe it’s because I know nobody will be sleeping it in with me tonight, so who the hell cares? If I’m too lazy to teach a class, maybe it’s because I believe that my students cannot learn. If I’m too lazy to vote, maybe it’s because I think that no matter who wins, no change will occur that will actually impact my daily life. In these examples, if hope replaced hopelessness, motivation toward action would take the place of laziness.

So, at least in my opinion, this first-week-of-school laziness can either be attributed to hopelessness or complacency/minimal satisfaction. But which is it? Are teachers fine with starting off the school year a week behind and having to play catch up all trimester? Do teachers believe that even if they tried, they wouldn’t be able to get classes kicked off on time? Do teachers just not care enough about their responsibility to teach their students to put in the extra required effort? Have teachers just accepted the fact that this is the way it is, because this is how it’s always been, and we just have to shut up and deal with it? I don’t know the answer, and I will likely never find out. (How do you ask questions like that without getting slapped?) It could be all of these speculated reasons, or none of them. I think I’ll just have to be okay with not knowing, and starting classes a week late.

Uniform Requirements

On my first day of school, this past Tuesday, students came together at 6:45 and sang the national anthem and the Pedagogical Director briefly spoke to them (before classes didn’t happen and everyone went home). At the end of his talk, he pulled two boy students with subtle mohawks to the front and publicly told them that they would not be allowed to enter the classroom until they cut their hair. Their peers laughed at them and they lowered their heads—while still maintaining obvious smirks—and said “yes sir” and went back in line. Surely they will return only after they stop looking like hoodlums (one of the boys was wearing a frayed denim vest over his uniform and I secretly appreciated his Mozambican version of the Patrick-Swazey-in-Dirty-Dancing look). This was not surprising to me, because this hair expectation (short and simple) is well-known here. The boys were likely expecting to get called out about it, which is why smiles stayed on their faces even after the reprimand. They probably planned that little show before school started and were happy with the attention. 

Following the boys, three girls were called to the front. Girls are expected to wear white button-down shirts and black skirts that fall below the knees. The three that were called to the front were all wearing white button-down shirts and black skirts. One girl was told her uniform was perfect and that this is what all the girls should come to school looking like. One girl had a skirt above the knees, and she was told that she would not be allowed in the classroom with a skirt that short. (Totally understandable. Remember, no female over the age of 10 leaves her house showing knees). The third girl, however, had a black skirt below her knees and a nicely fitted white button down. I assumed he was going to tell the students that this was an acceptable look as well, but he didn’t. He told her that she could not come to school like that because her skirt was pleated. She was not showing knee and the colors were correct. However, he explained that if everyone didn’t look exactly the same, they wouldn’t be able to assimilate information (he actually used the exact work assimilate) and therefore she shouldn’t even bother coming. This probably made me more upset than it should have. That’s like telling a student in the States that if they came to school with a blue pencil instead of the standard orange one, they wouldn’t be able to learn because their pencil didn’t match everyone else’s. Are you kidding me? That girl will really be sent home if she shows up to school again with a skirt than has unwanted pleats? Not cool. I understand the benefits of uniforms, but when an inconsequential variation of a uniform becomes a barrier for student learning, I have a problem. I also understand that letting students get away with little things runs the risk of students trying to get away with big things that may actually cause distractions in the classroom. But in a country where some families cannot send their children to school because they can’t afford a uniform, this instance seems more than a little bit ridiculous. 

I don’t really know where to draw the line in terms of school uniforms, or other school requirements for that matter. I don’t know how much trouble I would get in with my bosses if I allow students to stay in my class without proper attire. This skirt example also lead me to thinking about other things: if students come without a notebook, do I send them home? What about without a pencil? What about without shoes? In a place where resources are scare, is it morally right to send someone home who is likely lacking supplies because they simply do not have the means to acquire them? Or will sending them home one day push them to find a way to get what they need a be there? The huge risk is that if I send them away once, and they cannot fix the issue overnight, they won’t come back. Is losing a student worth a notebook or a pencil or a pleat? I don’t think so.

All of these insights all before my first real lesson given! Although quite nervous, I cannot wait to stand up in front of my first turma, introduce myself, and dig into the first topic (which happens to be Mathematical Logic). Maybe that happens tomorrow, or maybe next week. All I can do is prepare, and wait to cross the Start Line.