Every Child is a Student

When we first approached I couldn’t see her face, her body bent over as she fastidiously swept the sandy, outdoor mat. Her skirt swished from the motion of the action, vibrant African colors blurring together as her knees bent and her arm swatted and swiped. Only when she stood up to adjust her now askew head wrap did I recognize her as one of my students from earlier this morning.

It should have come as no great surprise to see one of my pupils during the evening of visiting. A few teachers from the school Adja Penda Ba were bringing me around Nioro to greet some of the families most served by the school’s mission. In the dimming light and cooling clime of the evening we had now come to the last family for the day.

So far all the children had looked vaguely familiar, but none had been frequenters of the morning English classes I had been offering during the school’s Spring Break. Because of our limited past interactions it was easy to emotionally distance myself from the homes we called upon. We had not actually entered any houses today, though, as the small, tin roof buildings were typically just reserved for sleeping. In an effort to avoid the stifling heat the majority of working, socializing, and eating occurs in the surrounding outdoor areas right outside the physical house. The sandy, open spaces always had similar furnishings- plastic chairs, woven mats, and a large soft cushion in the shade for the eldest family member.

Each visit after the first felt like déjà vu. Playful children were quieted and pulled in to older siblings’ laps while mothers and aunts put aside their dinner preparations to properly greet us. After seats were arranged and conversation commenced, the family fell back into their evening routine. Restless toddlers were set free to run around, their chubby, bare feet kicking up dust. Grandmothers fanned themselves listlessly while mothers sifted through flat bowls of dry rice to remove pebbles and other debris.

Even after almost three months in Senegal it felt surreal to be sitting with each family. Skinny goats milled about while young girls approached the shared outdoor water pump with buckets perched on their heads, everything working together to create a cliché still-life of an African village. But, however cursorily and unbelievably, it was all a part of my own current daily life. Though my home in Nioro lacked no necessary amenities, I passed these other squat houses every day. In the mornings I stepped outside to be greeted by freely wandering animals and children, the latter clad in donated American clothes. Their oversized t-shirts featured the names of local politicians and middle school soccer clubs, all fragments of a world thousands of miles away.

But now, at our last home, I sat in the classic plastic outdoor chair that was cleared for me and locked eyes with this morning’s student. In that moment, I shed the previously formed layer of detachment. Her face broke into a shy smile when she saw me, her modest gaze quickly shifting back to the ground as she resumed her sweeping. I looked around with new interest, taking in the baby with the runny nose on the hip of the young mother, the jug of precious water, and most strikingly the lack of stuff. Beyond cooking and sleeping necessities there was not much else to be found. I glanced over at the adjacent house, noting its door-less front. A thin, tattered cloth hung over the entryway, serving as the only separation between whatever was inside and the sandiness of the outdoors.

It might not have been a war-torn community or disease-ridden slum but it was, undeniably, a picture of poverty. The family explained how, thanks to the generosity of Adja Penda Ba and Open International, they are able to send their young daughter to the private school despite her father’s unemployment.

I looked back at their daughter, my recently acquired student. She had finished her task and, putting the straw broom aside, sat down next to an older girl. Turning her head she whispered something confidentially, which then prompted a stolen glance in my direction. The two then began inspecting a large bowl of groundnuts.

If I had walked into this scene a month ago (before teaching at Nioro) I would instantly make assumptions about her life, her personality, her interests. For someone who grew up with a playroom of toys, a neighborhood park, shelves of books, and myriad other opportunities it would seem to me that this child would have to be somewhat hardened by life. Of course, I would always be privileged to have her as my student but I would expect and anticipate a soberness that comes along with premature exposure to the realities of the world.

After spending a mere two weeks’ worth of mornings with her, though, I knew that she was still in firm possession of a childish curiosity, giddiness, and joy. Just this morning I had watched her hug her partner after they successfully won a nail-biting round of vocabulary BINGO. Her eyes gleamed as I handed the two students their lollipop prizes, and she half-jokingly, half-seriously smacked the curious hand of another girl who tried to make a grab for the candy. When she thought my back was turned I caught her sticking out her tongue to a boy across the aisle who had not been as lucky in the game, but then a few moments later offered him a lick of the trophy lollipop in the customary Senegalese fashion of sharing. She had laughed along with other students when I tried to give instructions in Wolof and smiled proudly when she moved eight spaces in the game of Around the World, clearly displaying her mastery of newly acquired English words.

In summary, she was an engaged, passionate, playful student. Just as smart, just as sneaky, just as adorable as any same-age peer back in my American neighborhood. During our past classes I never thought that this building, not much bigger than a shack, would be what her house looked like. But if I were to just briefly meet her and expect to find a hardened soul I would be forgetting one very important mystery of life: the beautiful hopefulness and innate wonder nestled inside every child.

Sitting in the heat and swatting away lazy flies while watching her deft fingers inspect each handful of peanuts for blemishes, I realized there are many things in the world that I cannot singlehandedly change. The serious, factual realities of her life are, for right now at least, just that- realities. But as the two of us silently listened to the conversations bouncing around us, she affirmed for me my belief that each child is entitled to and profits from a meaningful and joyful education. No matter whether they are driven to school in a leather-seated, air-conditioned SUV or walk the distance in well-worn sandals past donkey scat and trash heaps, it is their right to have their days filled with academic instruction that celebrates learning.

She may be aware of the real world in ways that I never was at her age, but she still shot her hand up in excitement to be the leader in Simon Says. And she silently challenged another boy to see who could smack my hand harder in our quotidian goodbye ‘hi-five.’ Even though her post-school evening is spent sorting peanuts she nevertheless has a scholastic fire burning bright inside.

Before coming to Nioro and interning at Adja Penda Ba I believed that educating some of the world’s most underserved populations meant a different type of education, a different style of teaching. While it is true that my ‘food’ flash card features a picture of ceebujen instead of pizza, and our unit on ‘Around Town’ features vocabulary words such as mosque and market, the joy that can be found in an engaged classroom is still just as vibrant as ever. My students are still sometimes rambunctious, sometimes confused, sometimes overenthusiastic.

With anything involving money we like to feel confident in our investments. Even if talking about charitable donations we want proof about the good that can truly come of our aid. My time here so far has only reassured me that one of the most reliable forms of service, both in time and money, is always in the field of education. Despite their youth, children are some of the most dependable and trustworthy ventures out there. Given the opportunity and given the time they will embrace learning opportunities with an eagerness that adults can only dream of.

Like a vaccine which prevents a malady from ever striking, early intervention in the field of education can help us profit from the energy and malleability of the world’s youngest citizens. Reaching out and connecting to children in the early childhood and elementary classroom can allow us to help solidify their natural curiosities. Providing answers and explanations for those earliest questions is a way to show that there is always a way forward if equipped with the right knowledge.

And, fortunately for people like me, young students are not hard customers. Even despite the toughest moments of classroom disorder, one knowing smile after a child finally ‘gets it’ makes it all worthwhile and gives my own life another layer of meaning.