Now Introducing... the Director!

I am pleased to formally introduce you to the Director of Juna Amagara's primary school in Kishanje:

This is The Director. I'm sure he has another name but we never used it. To us, he was Director. He was given this name because he was so often found wandering the grounds of the school with a stern look on his face, as if he was managing and overseeing the hundreds of students on campus. He has the eyes of a wise 80-year old man. For the length of my stay in Kishanje I saw Director every day at the front entrance to the school digging for rocks in his little red t-shirt.

The very first time that I met Director was in the school's chapel. We were celebrating for the students who had just taken Uganda's exams to continue on to the next grade. The chapel was filled with the clean, uniformed, smiling faces of JAM's sponsored students. When the Director scampered by he immediately stuck out to me.

His big terrified eyes looked up at me as if I were an alien. Would I eat him? Did I have super powers? What was wrong with my skin? I've learned the best way to calm their fears of me is to pick them up and hold them in my lap. Slowly they will relax and begin to explore my hair and finger nails. It really is a romantic experience, introducing a child to another race for the very first time.

The Director was not like other children I'd held. He had nothing on under his t-shirt which carried a horrific stench of urine. He had ringworm on his head and snot crusted to his nose and upper lip. He had cracked toe nails that really must have hurt. After a few songs he fell asleep (he slept for a good hour in my lap before I noticed he'd peed on me). I was in love with this boy.

"Is he a neighborhood child?" I asked, understanding he wasn't in the program because of his clothing.

"Yes, that is a boy we call the Director. He wanders the school."

"He does not go to school with the kids?"

"He lives nearby but he has both parents. They can not pay school fees but after a while we have told them he can come to school if he has pants."

"So he needs pants then." And I walked away with a mission.

Lucky for me and for Director, I had a giant duffel bag stuffed to the seams with soccer clothing that we'd be taking to Rubanda at the end of the week. I'd collected the soccer supplies for the Opening Day Pitch Ceremony at the Murole School. Thanks to so so many generous people in Chicago, I'd been able to bring over 200 lbs. of jerseys, shorts, and boots. The only discouraging task at hand was finding a pair that would fit a 25 lb. 3 year old.

I FOUND A PAIR OF WHITE SHORTS. At the bottom of the bag. They were given to me from a little boy that I love with my whole heart. A little toddler named Leo who played soccer with Lil Kickers in Chicago. It is an organization that teaches gross motor skills to toddlers who will become (maybe) little soccer players. And?? Leo's velcro tennis shoes. The only donations of hundreds given to me that suited a tiny body his size.

The next day Director started Kindergarten. Here was a little boy that would now learn English, begin to read, learn about hygiene and get potty trained, receive 3 warm meals a day and have his basic medical needs met--the removal and prevention of lice, scabies, ringworm, the clipping of toe nails, hair cuts, teeth brushing. 

And so many people think one little pair of shorts won't make a difference.

Church

I was raised Catholic. That meant at the end of every week I had to trade in my muddy overalls and bare feet for a "Sunday" dress. The whole get-up--frilly socks and all-- felt like a prison sentence. Especially when you spent all day Saturday digging for worms, catching frogs, and learning how to spit. It also meant that I'd have to sit still for an hour. After mass ended I had to stand in the hall and let strangers with red lip stick and long-clawed Grandmas pinch my cheeks and ruffle my hair. That wasn't exactly how I wanted to spend the weekend. I mean, they only give you two days free of school, am I right?

A "Sunday" Dress

In high school going to church was part of our curriculum. That meant we only had to go to school til noon on Mass days and we could spend the afternoons at Busy Burger and Mario's Italian Ice. It also meant no homework and rushing to find your friends and comparing your Forever 21 dresses with everyone else's. It was more stressful than you're imagining.

So I suppose I didn't have a real good track record with church when I arrived in Uganda. I mean, I had never, not once in my life, ever, attended church of my own free will and interest.


NOW. Let me just explain how church works in Uganda.

Imagine if we celebrated every Sunday the way we (Americans) celebrate the 4th of July. Imagine that every Sunday you lit sparklers and watched fireworks, stuffed your face with hotdogs and potato salad and watermelon. Imagine that every Sunday people came out of their houses to meet at the parade donning red, white, and blue, waving American flags. That's what church is like in Uganda. Every single Sunday.

No matter if you are a widow, sick, pregnant, have a broken leg. Now matter if you have a beautiful Sunday dress or wear an oversized withered t-shirt as a dress. No matter which dialect you speak. No matter if you are blind or lame or have ever read the Bible. No matter if you can donate to the live auction. No matter how far you must walk to get there. Everybody comes together on Sunday morning.

I had absolutely no idea how many people lived in Kishanje until we went to church. It is a giant mountain with many twists and turns and hidden houses. All the sudden I had over 3,000 faces in front of me. Maybe more.

The church building doesn't fit that many people. The pews are for the eldery, pregnant women, women with infants, then the aisles fill up with the tiny bodies of toddlers and Kindergarteners. Everybody else stands in the back, around the windows and outside. Jammed in so tight that you can't sit down or sneeze, holding hands with the stranger next to you you begin to dance as if your bodies are connected.

If you don't fit in the church, you still have church.

At the live auction people present whatever they can to the altar. Live chickens, stalks of sugar cane, bags of sprouts, a potato, a hand-written letter, an empty plastic water bottle, a bottle cap. Then you dance again and again and again until you can't stand any longer.

The joy that filled that church is unbelievable. It is nothing I will ever witness again until I return. Can you imagine how Easter and Christmas are celebrated? Baptism celebrations last days. Weddings can last a week. This is a community that loves one another and finds happiness in being together.

 

One of my secret fears before attending church was being only one of three white people in the building.  At church I would meet the entire community--adults I had not met, children who were not sponsored by Juna Amagara, people that had never seen a white person before. In the beginning I got a lot of curious stares, children were crying trying to figure out what I was.

By the end of the ceremony I had hands all over my body, my hair was braided, I had kisses planted all over cheeks and arms and hands--a whole number of kids hanging on my back, climbing in my lap. And then 3,000 black people prayed to welcome me into their family, declaring me African too. I don't think I will ever be able to feel the way I did that day again. It was absolutely a once-in-a-lifetime emotion. Tears down my eyes with two babies in my hands I joined the procession out of the church forever transformed.

MY heaven.

And to leave you with a smile...

Let's Redefine The Word "Poor" As I've Come To Know It

When I returned from Uganda I began teaching 5th grade in Chicago. Most of my students came from homes that Americans might say were broken or struggling. Immediately I fell in love with all 27 of my students. As the first weeks flew by I began to learn more and more about their lives. Parents had lost jobs, teen sisters were expecting babies, grandparents passed away, a student spent the weekend at a shelter, most were on food stamps, many did not have access to school supplies. Most of them called themselves "poor."

Now I have a strong aversion to this word. Granted, I have never been poor, in a financial way, so maybe it is wrong for me to say that. But I have had experiences with people that the world declares "poor" and have found that while they may be "poor" financially, they are rich in infinite ways. I wanted my Chicago students to understand that while their families may be struggling, they have so many great things to still be grateful for!

During International Week our grade was assigned Africa (woohoo!) and I chose Uganda for our classroom to study and present on (of course). I planned an activity for each day that week, starting Monday morning with a powerpoint presentation of all of my photographs. Here's how some of our conversation went:

Student: These kids look very, very, very poor. And dirty with no shoes. It is so sad, I would not want to live in Uganda.

Student: Why don't they have a kitchen or TV? Do they drive cars and have cellphones?

Me: Yes, where I visited they did have kitchens and cars and cellphones, they just look a little different than ours do. They didn't have TVs in their homes, but if you go into the city a lot of restaurants and hotels had TVs. I bet a lot of families in those cities have TVs too.

Student: So these were just the really poor people?

Me: What do you mean by poor?

Student: That they have no food and no clothes.

Me: Ah, but don't you see in the pictures? They are wearing clothes and we are cooking food. Don't they look healthy and happy?

Student: Yes, but they look different. Not like us.

Me: Well we are different! You are Mexican and I am German, and we live in America. This little girl is Rwandan and she lives in Uganda. You see? We are all different a little bit.

Student: Yes, she is black like me. They are all black. Some really dark.

Me: Exactly! And do you think maybe we are also very similiar?

Student: No because we have more and we go to a good school and play Wii and use computers and have a lot more money.

Me: Hmmmmm. I think you are very similar to these kids. What are some of your favorite things?

Random students: Pasta! Soccer! Football! Ice cream! Swimming! Basketball! Reading! My friends!

Me: O wow! You are very, very similiar you see. The children in Uganda LOVE to play soccer. They can even play without shoes! It is so hard to do, they are so talented! They can juggle the ball between their feet and never let it touch the ground. They can even build their own soccer balls when they can't find one, out of clothing and things they find.

Student: That's recycling! We recycle!

Me: Exactly! And you know what? The kids in Uganda LOVE food too. They eat noddles and rice and corn and pineapple and bananas and meat and chicken and desserts too. We made homemade donuts when I was there with chocolate and sugar, and we made popcorn on a fire. They taught me a lot about food and growing healthy, natural produce in gardens.

Student: So then we do all the same stuff. They go to school and have uniforms. They are singing and dancing like we do when we play the radio. I mean, they are exactly the same as us. They have to brush their teeth and do homework and stuff and they have friends and families exactly like us.

Me: Exactly! Now do you see? People all around the world are a little bit different and do some things differently, but really when we look very closely, we are all very similar.

Student: We are all people no matter what.

*tears welling in my eyes* holy breakthrough*

Student: I would love to go to Uganda now. They have more than we do. They have better animals and their land is prettier. We can't go hiking and do gardening here. Maybe I can teach them Wii and they can teach me dancing.

Student: Can we write letters to them to become friends? I want to learn their language. It's so much cooler than ours.

On Tuesday we started drafting letters to send to 5th graders at New Times School in Kishanje. For months I had been fighting these kids to write just a page for their assignments and now they were turning in 5-6 page letters! The teacher in me was so proud of this breakthrough with their writing, revising, and editing. In the letters the kids entrusted very valuable information to their new friends. I could tell that this was a cathartic and precious moment for my kids. They had a pen pal they could truly confide in. The letters that returned three months later made me cry. Here's an example:

"Hello dear American friend! I joyously greet you in the name of God! That he has made a true miracle by sending this new friend to me. I have dreamed many years about America. How is it there? I want to tell you that my family also is not a mum and dad. It is my eldest sister and our little cousins who live here. We share a hut with my neighbor who I also call uncle. You see? It is who we love that make our family. Is it like that also in America?"

*More tears*

On Wednesday we did African crafts. We made dolls, necklaces, and basket weaving. At this point the kids are absolutely in love with Uganda, speaking Rukiga phrases and carrying their textbooks around on their heads.

On Thursday we talked about diversity. My favorite topic. Duljo once again wrapped up this lesson in the most perfect way, as he does (he's my golden heart thinker):

"No matter what color your hands are all over the world, they do all the same things."

And so it only seemed natural for all of us to create a banner for the hallway that said that. Each student picked a different color for their hand print. When they dried we wrote all of our unique qualities inside our hands. What was left was a beautiful masterpiece of diversity.

On Friday we preformed our Rukiga dance for the school. After the dance ended my students came up to me and begged to learn about all the countries in the world. "We can write letters to kids everywhere!" they begged. Now that is teaching global education.

So now is the question. What does it mean to be poor? Different? Outcast? Labeled hopeless? How does that affect the way our world operates? These ways that different cultures see each other? They can't drive. They smell bad. They are lazy. They are mean. They have a bad religion. They have different hair. They wear weird clothes. They are illegal. What if we just always said, "They are people, just like me?"

Too idealistic? Too bad, I have bigger dreams for the future generations of our world.

I Hate Showers

It’s been over a year now since I’ve been in Kishanje. That means it has been over 365 showers (that math may be overly optimistic) since I was caked in the chalky red dirt that covers East Africa. And I really, really, really miss being dirty.

That probably doesn't bode well with your Clorox-wiping, disinfectant-spraying, Tide-stain-removing, Swifer-sweeping American habits. And trust me, I get it. We don’t exactly find dirt and grime glorious in this country. But boy, does this girl miss being dirty.

I was in Uganda for 25 days and for the entirety of my trip I wore the same long skirt and flip flops, washing my hair only once. In fact, I’d grown a couple of little dread locks in my “kitchen” that I was very proud of. “Bathing” meant I just threw a little water on my face.

I know what you’re thinking—gross.  I totally agree. I’m sure I looked like a creature out of Ah! Real Monsters when I got off the plane in Chicago. My hair was so dirty it stuck straight up, I looked super tan but upon closer inspection…it was dirt. I can tell you 100% I’ve never been happier in my whole life.

Once I was home every shower I took was heartbreaking. I couldn’t bring myself to scrub my feet, only let each shower slowly removed the tinted red shades on my toes. Watching the red water swirl down the drain solidified the fact that I was miles and miles away from a place I now wished was home. 

All that dirt between my toes was from endless games of soccer. Barefoot among sticks and rocks and thorns, playing long after the sun had set and families were home for supper. 

It was from climbing Mt. Muzungu…using my toes to dig into the ground to steady myself on the steep incline. Sweating and begging for it to end while Grandmas with water jugs, babies, and bricks on their heads raced passed me laughing at the white girl. 

Hiking down to Lake Bunyoni, hoards of children coming out of the trees at every turn to say hello. Dipping our toes into the warm water of the lake, splashing each other and sharing fruit snacks. 

The dirt on my toes symbolized each and every footprint I left on that mountain. Each and every toddler that grabbed my toes in awe, wondering why they were a different color.

 

Prince laughing hysterically at my white mutation.

The dirt disappearing from my feet scares the daylights out of me. It terrifies me that my memory is going to follow suit. Each day I indulge in the Kardashians, mimosas, Nordstroms, a manicure—am I letting my experience in Uganda slowly be wiped away? It’s always this time of year when I start planning my next trip abroad. 

Some days like today I just want to leave my cubicle, jump on a plane, and runaway to Kishanje. In 24 short hours I could have a baby tied on my back, necklaces around my neck, a drum in my hands, children at my feet, holding my friends hands and braiding their hair. I could be teaching students that want to learn. If there is a heaven, if there are angels, I promise you, they are in Kishanje.

Tukutendereza Jesu

Jesu Orimwana Gwandi-ga

Nebaza, Omolokozi