The Journey of a Uniform Skirt

She snuck in sheepishly, knowing she was one of the last to arrive. She glanced shyly in our direction before sliding onto the bench, her skirt catching on the corner of the wobbling wood. It was a skirt I had seen many times before. On the glossy pages of the Land’s End uniform catalogue that lay on coffee tables in fully furnished, air-conditioned sitting rooms. Swinging from the hips of girls waiting listlessly in the car park of my cousin’s school when I would go to pick him up. Girls who stood in clumps, the breeze brushing the hem of the plaid skirt against lean, pale legs. Legs waiting to climb into minivans that would shuttle them to after-school soccer or music lessons, or maybe back home to collapse on the couch in front of the TV.

The skirt would be shed for comfier play clothes, thrown into a laundry heap in the corner of the room. Washed, ironed and re-worn, washed, ironed and re-worn until finally the legs had grown too long and it was put aside in the basement with other clothes to be given away. Somehow it had made the journey, from the open, airy corridors of its first owner’s school to this Ecole de la Rue (Street School) in an impoverished neighborhood in Dakar.

This girl on the bench across from me had worn the vibrant green and yellow plaid all day. It was a unique piece amongst the other girls’ outfits, its Western pleats and straight, patterned lines anything but uniform on the streets of Dakar. All day she attended the local public school, sitting patiently through lesson after lesson. And now she had transitioned from one classroom to another, as she voluntarily spent her evening at the Ecole de la Rue for extra support and review.

The Ecole de la Rue in Dakar serves many noble functions. Primarily, it operates as an option of informal education for older children who never enrolled in public school, or for children whose families move frequently between city and villages, their movement directed by the ebb and flow of the economy. The school relies on one man’s dedication and financial investment, as well as gifts from donors or volunteer teachers. During the day the students, who attend for free, follow the public school curriculum. The hope is that once a solid academic base is built and they better understand French, they can transition to the typical public schools. The Ecole de la Rue allows children who never started schools because their parents did not enroll them, or because they were enrolled in only a Koranic school (see post: L’Empire des Enfants), a chance to catch up and join their peers in the classroom.

In the evening, a wide variety of children, older teenagers, and adults come to continue their studies after a long day at school or at work. The curriculum covers homework help, English language instruction, and a review of the day’s concepts. Despite the long hours which the young students have already put in at the public school, they eagerly attend the Ecole de la Rue in the evening, with their notebooks perched on their laps and their pencils at the ready.

Visiting the school floods one with the conflicting and overwhelming feelings of both hopelessness and hopefulness. The private school uniform skirt is a poignant reminder of the inequality in the world. Its past wearer did not learn on a wobbly bench, sandwiched between two other students at a different academic level. She did not have to shoo away a pesky rooster who kept disrupting the order of the classroom. The air did not hang heavy with the intermingling smells of burnt wood, car exhaust, and livestock. But, despite these imposing adversities, there is still support in the Senegalese girl’s life all because of humanity’s potential for generosity and selflessness.

Founded in 1979 by a man whose first name translates to “Hopelessness,” the Ecole de la Rue has managed to remain strong through decades of difficulty. In traditional Senegalese culture, if a mother repeatedly has a child die in the first few days after the birth it is believed to actually be the same baby playing a trick on his or her parents. Therefore, undesired names such as Hopelessness, Rags, or Garbage are given to the baby at the birth to signify it is not worth much so it should not keep causing such a fuss by dying.

The students at the Ecole de la Rue are so fortunate that “Hopelessness” finally did decide to stay on this Earth, because he has dedicated his life to a needy cause. After harvesting salt at Lac Rose as a young man, he took his savings and opened the school out of a love for children, education, and the French language. He kept repeating how much the students “love to learn,” but I know a love of learning is often in the teacher’s hands, born through meaningful instruction and an instillation of the belief that education matters. Despite the incredible opportunity the school affords, he still must fight to convince some parents to send their children, especially their daughters, to the school.

When it is time for the students to “graduate” into the official public schools, he works with administrators to enroll the children, a difficult task since many lack an official birth certificate. His curriculum is thorough and his instruction experienced, but he must deal with the frustrating migrations of many students. They might leave to visit their family village for months at a time, during which period they often regress academically.

…

When I played imagination games of school as a young girl, much of my game revolved around the classroom ‘accessories.’ I carefully typed up worksheets, fashioned projectors out of tissue paper and flashlights, and stockpiled Highlights magazines to use as workbooks. While classroom resources certainly enhance the learning experience, much of the beauty and power of education is found in its simplicity.

It might not be fair that the uniform skirt’s second wearer has to learn in a classroom where the only teaching tools are a chalkboard and a pack of colored chalk. But, in the faint light of the evening in the warmth of the outdoors she is multiplying her opportunities. With each math fact copied in her worn notebook and each repetition recited dutifully she is affording herself the chance to grow beyond her life right now. And all it takes is a few benches, a couple pencils, and an educator who cares deeply.