Just Like That

Sometimes, everything changes just like that (imagine me snapping my fingers in front of your face)

For a while now, I had known that this past Thursday was going to be a tough day. Besides all my regular classes, I was giving up my normally free morning to make time available for make-up tests. So though I had plenty of time to wake up and eat breakfast, I knew that my day would start much sooner than I would have liked.

While I cleaned up from breakfast, the first students started to arrive. They arrived alone, in pairs, or in large groups. They arrived in the all-white educacao fisica (gym) uniforms, in the blue and white school uniform, and in capulana (traditional patterned cloth) dresses with capulanas wrapped around their baby. They arrived with their notebooks, their backpacks, their pens, and a couple times without pens. Soon enough my front lawn was full of students taking the makeup exam. Coco isn’t so good with visitors, so I kept her inside, but Zoe was out and about greeting everyone with a playful bite to their feet or dress. Since most Mozambiqueans are very afraid of dogs, many of the students recoiled in terror the first time Zoe lunged at them. But after a short while, and a calm explanation, they’d remember that she’s only a child and can’t hurt them. While I sat in my chair writing lesson plans for the day’s classes, my students sat around me, dutifully taking the test and asking questions about my life in America. The sun was shining, a light breeze was blowing, things were good. Then, just like that, it all changed.

It started with me noticing a test paper being lifted up out of the corner of my eye. As I turned my head to face the student to whom it belonged, I noticed a notebook open beneath the test. Furious that a student would try to cheat while taking a makeup test no more than a yard away from me, I quickly got up in my chair and walked over. With a red pen in hand, I angrily snatched away her notebook and scribbled a “-5” on the page, as I had told them I would if I caught them with a cabula (cheat sheet). After scolding her for trying to cheat, I walked the short distance back to my seat and began to sit down.

While sitting, I began to hear a loud, high pitched, scream coming from pathway in front of my house. Thinking that it was children playing on their way back from school, I thought nothing of it. But the screams kept coming, and they no longer sounded playful. They sounded painful. Standing up to get a better view, all I could see was a bamboo stick swinging down hard at something on the ground, each swing followed by a yelp. Paying no regard to the students still taking their tests, I marched out of my yard and on to the path. Following the screams, I found three boys: one standing by doing nothing, one bleeding from the head, stick in hand, and one on the ground with bruises on his legs. I immediately started yelling for the one with the stick to drop it. After the weapon had been dropped, I ordered them to follow me to my house, so we could clean the wounds. Walking faster than them, I was able to make it inside my house, grabbed some toilet paper, and walked back to my gate by the time they arrived. Looking at the bloody boy first, I grew concerned. The blood streamed all down the front of his face and chest, making it impossible to tell how many, or where, the cuts were. Always cautious about the prevalence of AIDS in Mozambique (1 in 6 by official counts, but probably higher) I gave the boy toilette paper and asked him to clean up the blood himself. As he was in shock, it took some time for him to clean himselff up, but it was clear that it looked much worse than it actually was. After discovering that the two boys were brothers, I asked what had happened. The boy with the bruises tried to explain how he had been provoked, all the while choking back tears. The boy with the blood was still in shock, so he didn’t say anything at all. Not having the time or the willpower to sort out the truth, I told them I didn’t care how or why they had started fighting. I told him that hitting people with sticks is not a way to treat someone. I told that that when we behave like animals, we will get treated like animal. Satisfied with my scolding, I then told them to go home.

Finally, I made it back to my students, and though still shaken, was able to continue with the make-up tests. Immediately after, I started what is my hardest day of the week; 7 ½ hours of almost continuous classes. Though I hadn’t taught the lesson before, my first class went fantastically. The students happily participated in the name asking game “Comment-tu t’appelles?”, took notes in silence, and asked valid questions during the time set aside. But either because I was still unsettled by what had happened that morning, or because I was just tired after a busy week, all my classes went downhill after that. My second turma was rowdy and disorderly, with a single, but notable, incidence of backtalk. The third, which is normally my favorite, was mostly empty, and those that were still there rushing to get out and head home. I then came my first of three night classes, which I entered with low spirits and even lower expectations. Though my adult students started acting as they normally do, my gloomy disposition must have rubbed off on them because soon they were disinterested, bored, and tired looking. After writing the two new verbs and 12 new vocab words up on the board, practicing how to pronounce them, and explaining the homework assignment, I tiredly sat down in one of the empty chairs at the back of the room. Disappointed, dispirited, and stressed, I was at a loss for how I was going to make it through my next two classes. “Mozambqiuean teachers falta (skip) all the time, it’d only be a sign of cultural integration if you joined in”, “A poorly taught class is worse than no class at all”, “you can just make up the lesson next week” I told myself, ready to give up and head home. Then just like that, it all changed.

It was then that the chefe de turma (classroom president) Justino sat down next to me. After asking a couple questions on behalf of some of the students in the class, we got to talking. We talked about what the weather was like in New York. We talked about where he was from and how big a family he had. We talked about if I knew Jay-Z or Kanye West. We talked about how much it would cost to get to Chicago. We talked about how he was the director of one of the primary schools in town. We talked about how I learned my French and Portuguese. With each question asked, with each question answered, with each personal detail shared, some of the exhaustion melted away. As the class ended, we were talking about how so many teachers never show up to class, when he said “Mais sinceramente, muito obrigado senhor professor para sempre assistir a nossos aulas. Nos somos muito appreciativo para su traabalho.” (Use google translate). Taken aback by the compliment, I was at a loss for words, and almost to tears. After a rough day, nothing felt better than to hear a thank you from one of my students, especially a well-respected and intelligent one.

The next two classes went swimmingly. When I was up in front of the class, I was animated and engaged, and the students responded by participating excitedly. When I was seated at my desk, I passed most of the time happily humming or drumming out an upbeat song I had heard the day before. Even when I caught a student cheating on a make-up exam, I just kept on humming while I marked the “-5”, with no change in my demeanor. Once my classes were completed, I went home, had a class of hot chocolate, and went to bed with a smile.

Just like that.

Like this, like that

Like this this, like that

I like it, I like it

Not at all, Not at all

Take it easy

“Like This Like That”- Hideki Naganuma