Thomas, My Friend

The first lesson of the day, which we’ve dedicated to Vocabulary, ends at 10:30. Ten-thirty exactly. Doesn’t matter if kids are tracing the alphabet on the crappy photocopies I made in Addis; doesn’t matter if “CAT,” “HAT,” and “BAT” are being scrawled on the whiteboard by hands too small to hold the marker properly … Beza taps her watch and scolds: “Deb-bie. Time.” Ho hum.

            I relinquish. The kids probably are burned out after an hour; the air in the room is stagnant with 5-year-olds’ smells; and there are other things to learn. Onward. The kids dutifully and enthusiastically line up at the door to file outside.

Afternoons usually include a story from the meager selection
of books in the classroom. Sometimes we have "library" and
the kids can select a book to engage with for a while; I'm
they don't have this opportunity at home.

            I typically don’t go outside with the kids; my first duty is to run to my notepad to see if I overlooked anything that morning so I can consider whether or not to salvage it for a future day. Then I furiously scribble notes to capture ideas that were borne of shocking success or abysmal failure. I'm in a tunnel for a few minutes with my scribbling, only vaguely aware of the joyful yelps and squeals wafting into the room from the courtyard below. I might instinctively start organizing a brainstorm I have for the next vocabulary class by gathering some of the meager resources (flash cards, construction paper, Where the Wild Things Are) or ferreting through the innumerable activity books volunteers have brought for a worksheet I remember seeing somewhere before I forget to look for it. Before I know it, kids are skipping back into the room: “Good morning, Deb-bie!” one will undoubtedly exclaim.

On Monday afternoons, we take a walk around
the neighbor to say hello to neighbors and
find shapes and colors in our surroundings.

            Robin takes the next hour—11:00 to 12:00 (that’s the Western time … in Ethiopia it’s 5:00 to 6:00)— numbers and what the heck to do with those things. It’s typical for her to divide the class into four groups of knowledge so that she, Beza, and I can try to tackle one thing at a time. The most proficient group (Lemlem, Frewhiwot, Fkadu, Abete, Sintayhu) might work on some addition problems, while the group that struggles (Hiwot, Bahilu, Malkamu) is still be identifying “quantities” and which is bigger/smaller. The middle set (Yabra Boy, Yabra Girl, Meseret, Hayder, Tomosgen) could be working on figuring out which numbers are missing from a sequence. All tend to crib off one another’s work, which we’ve tried to dissuade by strategic chair arrangements; more interpretative help from Beza (“Beza, please tell Meseret in Ahmaric that she may not use Hayder’s paper to do her work”); and creating individual worksheets within each group so that they can’t copy. These methods combined with positive reinforcement (see reference to Starbursts J) seem to provide solutions and, interestingly, have moved all 13 of these kids another couple of inches along in their progression.

The last two—Yabsra Little and Kalid—form their own group for all activities: numerals have little meaning to these two: “What number is this?” I might ask, squatted down in front of their desk while pointing to the numeral 2. Yabsra Little may say anything from “M” to “5” to “My name is Deb-bie.” Kalid seldom responds at all. They can both count in a sequence (“One, two, three …”) but must always begin at “one.” Robin and I tend to rotate from our “learning” groups to these two to try to at least keep them occupied or at best impart some knowledge. Tracing numbers, coloring numbers with the day’s color (which they generally can’t identify), or circling any chosen number repeatedly … whatever we can think of. This past week, Robin showed me a sheet of scrawled numbers that she swears Kalid did all by himself … I’m still in shock and thrilled to have evidence of hope. In any case, they earn stickers and high-fives just like everyone else.

At noon, the numbers lesson closes. Kids again file out of the room to wash their hands. In the meanwhile, Buza trods in with red plastic bowls lined with gray-green injeera. She whittles down the stack she balances by setting one at each chair, then leaves the room to retrieve her pot of lentil soup (shira). As the children return to the classroom and reoccupy their seats, she dispenses a ladleful to each child. At Beza’s command, one child leads a songful prayer and they dig in, tearing off a piece of the injeera that hangs over the edge of the bowl with their right hand and using it to shovel into the porridge to capture enough to make a mouthful. This goes on in silence until the first child raises their empty bowl above his or her head and exclaims in a sing-song chant: “FIN-ISHED!” At that, Beza gets up and begins re-distributing leftover shira to students who are done or are willing to eat more.

After another hand washing, the children retreat to a dark room on the ground level where they find their place on the bare foam mattresses that litter the floor for an hour nap.

Thomas the Tank Engine is apparently captivating, even when
you can't understand a word of George Carlin's narration!

Robin and I are served lunch in a small room across from the classroom that for some reason can’t capture much daylight. Before my arrival, Robin had drug a small, unused coffee-type table from the classroom into this space to give Buza something on which to set the rose-ornamented plastic tray that unvaryingly bears a pink thermos of hot water for tea, two cups and saucers, two rolls, and a bowl with rice or pasta or green beans and carrots or cabbage and potatoes. We sit heavily on the partially padded bench, tired and questioning our success from the morning. I bemoan something I skipped or that didn’t go as planned, Robin questions her method to instill the concept of addition … we sip our tea, munch our rolls that we’ve enhanced with the peanut butter I brought from home, stare tiredly at the inoperable computer across from us, and slowly unravel our worries in one another’s accolades and reassurances. About the time we’ve finished our food, we’ve turned the corner from self-doubt and begin reviewing our plan for the afternoon session.

Thomas the Tank Engine is riveting, in case you didn't know. 

When I arrived, Robin indicated that the afternoon session had been dubbed “crafts” by some earlier edict. We were both informed before our arrival that the children love music and that instruments were welcome to play and instruct on. Art, of course, is an important part of African culture. Robin had accomplished some projects such as weaving with paper and coloring, but with scant creative resources available to us (one pair of scissors); zero musical talent between us; an overwhelming desire to impart academic-type skills on the kids; and no knowledge of Africa or Ethiopian artistic culture (I don’t think it’s appropriate, let alone relevant, to color Sponge Bob Squarepants or paint Disney characters, which mean absolutely nothing to these kids. Most workbooks are licensed by some money machine and themed with Pixar characters or holidays … very American or at least Western childhood fodder), I was at a loss as to how to develop a meaningful, educational 90-minute session dedicated to “crafts” three times a week. It kinda bummed me out. I’m in line with millions of others in support of the richness and value of the arts in school—and those opportunities in my elementary and junior-high education hold strong memories for me personally—but here I was making choices that threatened their inclusion for the sake of time and, apparently, “more important” information. Blah. I still haven’t resolved this in my psyche and have some regret that I am unable to contribute more there; apparently this is an area that I don’t ad lib well.

What to do. I knew it was important that we be “looser” than in the morning; kids—humans—learn in myriad ways and the afternoon should provide different sorts of opportunities for engagement. What kinds of things did I do in kindergarten … hmmmmm … if I can remember something I did forty years after the fact, it must have had some positive impact, right? Slowly and with a few hiccups, a plan unfurled to do a variety of activities each day that reinforced, taught, exercised, humored, imagined, and explored:

·      Walk around the neighborhood (apparently unheard of): Shape-of-the-day in gates, houses, architecture; colors in nature (and, regretfully, trash); greet strangers in English (the best episode of this was when two policemen sat patiently across from the neighborhood primary school while each child approached him, shook his hand, and introduced him or herself); practice “left” and “right,” “backward,” “forward,” etc.

·      Story time: We weren’t sure how this would go since the kids’ English is limited. I felt strongly that a story in any language lights the imagination, so we went for it. There aren’t a lot of storybooks available to us and fewer still appropriate to this age group. Regardless, we cobbled together a few options, animated our storytelling, and quizzed kids to count, identify colors, etc. “Engrossed” comes close to describing their interest. Old MacDonald Had a Farm is a favorite that has been repeated. Sometimes “story time” is “library” and the kids can choose their own book from the meager pickings on the bookshelf to sit with for fifteen minutes or so.

·      Activity: Every day we work on a maze, connect-the-dots, or another game-like activity that can both teach letters, numbers, and/or shapes and be colored, which they love to do. We often challenge them to “only color the squares in the picture” or some such thing with varying levels of success.

·      Odds and Ends: There’s always more … Robin once had the kids work on body parts by dressing up Abete in glasses, a scarf, a hat, etc., to uncontrollably giggles; I’ve been taking pictures of the kids with the parent who picks them up to work on “mother,” “son,” “friends,” etc., from the images projected on my computer screen, which I interject with my own snaps of relatives and friends … and Charlie … which the kids enjoy.

Amazingly, despite all trepidation about this 90-minute period, time flies by and we inevitably have to wind things up to meet Beza’s 3:30 curfew for hand washing and dinner. It’s impossible, however—even if we’ve denigrated the deadline—to get the kids out the door without an episode of Thomas the Tank Engine, which I’ve kept on my phone (and therefore computer) ever since Cedar Kimler became part of the Woodward West office environment. I’ve made good use of Thomas while in line to pay a traffic ticket with a screaming 3-year-old behind me; on airplanes with a restless toddler in a seat a few rows back; and with a bored Brenner Whitton on the Hard Rock beach at Dew Tour. Thomas kills it. Even Ethiopian kids gather as tightly to my computer screen as we’ll let them—their heads bobbing faintly to the chant-y theme music, their faces contorting in response to Thomas’s universal facial gestures that reflect his current conundrum—and remain glued through each 11-minute episode. George Carlin, who narrated Thomas storylines for years, must be telling profanity-laden jokes about his unlikely participation in children’s culture worldwide from wherever he sits in heaven, but I have just one word for it: Amen!

Meal prayer: