What Is An Education Worth?

“Aii, teeeechaaaaaaa! Teeeecha is hereee.”

I stride through the door and into Sala 3, Turma C - a class to rival all others. It’s also my third class and my second dupla for the afternoon, so I’ve lost the fresh optimism brought by a new day. Upon seeing my white lab coat whip into the room, dozens of students scramble back towards their desks, throwing punches, stealing notebooks, laughing.  I try to ignore the dread undulating in the pit of my stomach, quickly digging into my back-pocket for a huge grin. Students smell fear.  They exploit it unlike any other creature on the planet. Undoubtedly, the first five minutes of each class determine the trajectory of the entire period. If I get my students focused and engaged right away, I always have a wonderful day of teaching. But if the first five minutes are marked by incessant interruptions, brincar-ing, tardy arrivals, or if they’ve collectively decided that they have no interest in learning English that day, I’m in for a looooonngggg day of teaching.

Then I hear it. The rumble of hands slapping desks.

Boom, boom, CLAP!

Boom, boom, CLAP!

Boom, boom, CLAP!

Boom, boom, CLAP!

Believe it or not a beat none other than the “We Will Rock You” rumble begins emanating from my classroom (a brilliant idea I stole from my PCV friend Jamie, holla atcha girl!).

“Helllloooooo teacherrrrr, how are you?”

Sixty excited faces scream-sing at me in rhythm as I walk to the front of the classroom.

“I aaaam fineeee students, how are you?”  I sing-scream back. One voice against sixty.

Alright, so it’s fair to say that the odds aren’t exactly in my favor for about 3 hours every day.  

But then, the odds my students have in overcoming everything that is Mozambique – poverty, disease, illiteracy, a shortened life-expectancy (max 50 years), unemployment, continuing political unrest,  and the indelible mark of corruption on everything – just to name a few – are never EVER in favor of the well-being and success of my students.  There’s only luck. Chance. Coincidence. Even the hardest working, most intelligent, and promising young person can live a life of anonymity and squandered potential solely due to the numerous systemic barriers to his (esp her) mobility.

Rewind to a conversation I had with a student yesterday.

Edilson is 16 years old. He lives in a village called Murrure 6 miles away. He used to walk two hours each way to school until he recently began living with a local family in Mapinhane and working for his keep. He's a diligent student, but doesn't have the canny instinct some of his peers do with English. As such, he comes by for tutoring nearly every week. Last week, after our neighborhood water pump broke (again), I also decided to ask Edilson to start fetching water for me, and thus help him make a little extra money, money he’ll probably actually donate to his church as he’s quite pious. One particularly hot morning after Edilson returned with a brimming bucket of crystal-clear cool water and set it in my kitchen, he helped himself to a chair. This surprised me a little. Usually he has better manners. He just kind of slumped into it and looked up at me, thinking, hesitatingly.  

“Professora,” he started.

"Siiiiiiii,” I replied expectantly, smiling.

“We have a lot of indisciplinados in class. They are loud. Annoying. They have no respect.”

“I know Edilson, I am trying to do better in disciplining the trouble-makers. Did you not see them working on the school machamba (farm) last week? I sent them there.”

“Yes, I know Teacher. But you’re still too nice. I want to learn English. I don’t want to sit there and wait for people to be quiet. Yesterday I told everyone in class that they can do what they want to me, beat me up or whatever, but next time they are disrespectful to you I’m going to the Director.”

“You have a big heart Edilson, and lots of courage. But I am the one who should go to the Director. And I don’t think we are at that point yet.”

“Teacher,” Edilson interrupted impatiently. “Let me tell you why I am at school. After I finished seventh grade, my father sat me down and gave me two choices. Either I could continue going to school or start working in his shop. Either, he said, was honorable.  But, I didn’t even have to think. I told him I wanted to go to school.”

"Why was that, Edilson?”

"Because Teacher, I am the first in my family to go to school.”

“What?”

“Yes, my father – he only went to school through second grade because of the war.”

The War. He says it the way my Oma always did about World War II. How do I keep forgetting? Is it because there’s a shroud of normalcy to this place now? That there's no one who lives old enough to really keep the memory of it so vivid?

“They had to abandon their school when the war arrived in here Mapinhane. Bullets came through his school’s windows. He can read and write in Xitswa. He’s very good at that. But he doesn’t know much Portuguese. My mother never went to school either. Neither did my grandfather. I, I am truly the first!”

“What do you want to do after you finish school Edilson?”

“Teacher, I don’t know. But I will know one day, I have time.”

Whoa.

It’s easy I think, in the day-to-day bartering and negotiation that comes with being a PCV teacher – the pedaling of goals and dreams, and of ideas like volunteerism and compassion, for both our students and for ourselves – that we forget the big picture.

Yes, it angers me that when after grading a stack of 300 exams, only half my students score at or above the minimum passing score of 50%. It permits defeatist thinking (“I’m a horrible teacher”). It encourages apathy (“My students don’t care, why should I?”). It tempts one to slide on their personal convictions, no matter how resolute they started (I came here to do what exactly? So much for teaching, this is really just academic triage! Just keep your head above water!”).  It’s the little voice in the back of your mind that whispers, “Pstttt! Hey you! Yes, YOU! Honestly, WHATS THE POINT!? STOP CARING WOULDYA!! You can't help them until they take some personal responsibility and help themselves!”

And to some degree that's true - personal responsibility, that is. There are students that always do their homework and succeed in my class. And there are those who decide never turn in an assignment all year.

But then, us PCVs have to think of the echoes of history that continues to ensnare our students. Our host-communities.  Our host-country.  Fifteen+ years of war. A whole generation lost to violence. A whole generation that lost their right to education. And now that generation is parenting my students. 

It's no wonder then why my kids don't know how to study. Or do homework. Or understand the value of education. We're taught these things by our parents... and their parents were robbed.

Within this context then, the real miracle is that we even have a school at all. That despite all that has happened here (and only ended 20 years ago), we have a relatively functioning, productive educational system. That despite ALL its problems - however infinite in number they are - there are some families like Edilson's that see education as a real solution to the long-term development of Mozambique and the betterment of their lives, even if the future is uncertain.

That must be the strongest form of faith I’ve certainly ever witnessed.

And so, today I quieted the kids down as best I could. I turned back towards the board. I made them work. “Okkkk everyone, we have LOTS of Exercises today!” I announce enthusiastically, and dig my chalk deep into the chipped surface of the blackboard. It feels good.

I glance back at Edilson, who’s sitting front row now, grinning, but who refuses to meet my gaze. He instead begins scribbling away in the ratty pages of his notebook.

The rest of the class groans.

Well then. I guess I must be doing something right.

Benedita and Zulmira, two of my 9th grade English students