Hello, my lovely Friends!
I hope this e-mail finds you all healthy and happy and maybe
even suntanned! Sometimes I forget how white I really am, and then I catch a
glimpse of myself in a window or in a photo next to a bunch of Africans. I look
like an albino next to them, no wonder they spot me from miles away and shout
“Hello white person”!
The Health and Sanitation Department paid a visit to the
school last week. Much to the surprise of the Director and the Reverend they
found many things that needed attention. The stagnant water in the trench
running from the spout of the water tank was one. There is a huge metal pot
that is supposed to be placed under the spout, but rarely is. The kids turn the
spout on and off, as they please to get a drink or to wash their bowl, their
spoon, etc. The faucet has a lock on it, but that was broken off within the
first week of the tank being installed. When the run-off water is collected
they use it in the compound to keep the dust down or the kids wash their hands
in it. They were also told that the toilets were neither sanitary nor
sufficient for the amount of kids that are enrolled here. The dormitory in the
far back was considered to be too small and the dirt floor harbored jiggers.
None of these things were a surprise to me, but the Director was up in arms
over it all. “We meet the standard; we are far ahead of many of the other
schools in the area!” He explained to me. During the stressful week that
followed they began the construction of another pit toilet, the man digging the
hole uses only hand tools; shovel, sledge hammer, crow bar and a pick axe to
break and remove the massive rocks embedded in the ground. The effort is unbelievable;
as we stand watching him one day the Director nonchalantly tells me that this work
will kill this man, that he will die young because of his work. He tells me he
is paid 15,000 Shillings per day, almost $6. It’s a pretty good daily wage,
considering that many in the country live off of less than $1. Per day. This is
the same man who didn’t show up for work for an entire week earlier in the
school year. When he took his dose of “de-wormer”, which most people take
semi-annually, he had worms so bad they were crawling out of his nose! I was
also told this nonchalantly over dinner one night. My series of questions that
followed that statement went something like this…”PEOPLE are de-wormed?” That’s
when I realized more than ever how good it is that I am a “temporary vegetarian”.
The next question was, “Coming out of his nose?!” They told me that he must not
have de-wormed himself in a long time, or maybe never before if they were that
bad. It’s recommended you take the pills twice a year. Months later, when I see
this man, I still picture the Director wiggling his fingers in front of his
nose to indicate the worms coming out of it. The surprise visit from the Health
and Sanitation office also prompted them to move and/or improve three of the
“bathing” rooms for the students. These rooms are nothing more than tin sheets
enclosing a small, rocky space where they squat with their basin and wash
themselves. There were rocks added to the floors to improve the drainage and
two new ones were built to accommodate the girls. When the director asked me,
“is that dorm in the back really that bad?” I briefly wondered…”is this a trick
question?” I had to choose my words carefully. I pointed out that when it
rained water ran in on the floor making it a muddy mess and that you couldn’t
pass between the bed and the wall so you had to climb over the beds. Then I
reassured him with what I realized about the dorms myself, that many of the
students preferred living here than living in the conditions of their own home.
When I first came to Amazing Grace I thought the dormitories were a sad and
pathetic place to live, especially for kids. They have bunks three high with
barely enough space to walk between them, dirt floors, dingy blankets on the
beds with a trunk for storage on top of the bed. Not even enough space on the
floor or under the bunks to stash the trunks. The bigger kids have to curl
their legs around their trunks and their school books stacked on the bed. There
are no shelves or dressers, no pictures, posters or mirrors. Just rough bricks with cement, there’s a
string in the corner which everyone has their clothes draped over, the people
in the top bunks have their clothes strewn over the rafters. Many of the younger ones share a bed, two or
three kids sleeping on one mattress. Despite all this, now I realize they prefer
living here. When the term ends and it is time for the children to go home for
three weeks, many of them don’t want to go. They tell me they will miss their
friends and the teachers tell me that many of them don’t have mattresses to
sleep on at home nor do they get fed two big meals and porridge every day. It’s
all about perspective; “suddenly those dorm rooms don’t look so bad.” I explain
to the director.
Christine is READING! They are beginner books, but she is
getting better. When she reads, she looks up and smiles at me. She can see the
pride in my face; I can see the pride in hers. When I smile back at her, she
gets shy and hides her face in her hands. Being a border has given her
more time to focus on school work and not worry about fetching water,
collecting firewood and cooking for the family. She runs around the compound
happily chasing her friends, like a third grader should. They are about to have
another three week holiday, so she will be back at home with her brother and
her never-ending chores. I dream that
she will be even more motivated and focused when she returns.
On Saturday night I showed up at the school around 8 p.m.
I’m never there are night, so the word, “teacher Bonnie is here” got around
quickly. The 150 borders that live at the school are soon all eying the plastic
bag that’s in my hand. “Oh no”! I think, they think I’ve brought them
something. I show them all it’s just my tennis shoes and the P7 girls run to me
with open arms. It was their idea for me to come and spend the night with them
so that we could go running early Sunday morning. It’s the only day of the week
that they have free time and since I’ve showed up on a few Saturday mornings to
take the boys running, they want their turn too. They suggested a few days ago
that I come and sleep in their dorm with them, I didn’t make any promises. When
I see their surprise and delight I am reminded of my nieces and nephews. When I
show up at their door for a visit, the first question I’m usually asked is,
“Auntie Bonnie, can you spend the night?” The P7 students are in class until 10
p.m. on Saturday night, it is one of the reasons parents want them to be borders;
they have more “class time”. When we finally head to their dorm, they have a
bed for me on the bottom bunk; they explain that Helen and Edith will sleep together
so that I can have my own bed. As I lay down I pray to God that I don’t sneeze
during the night because I might knock myself unconscious on the bed above me,
it’s just a few inches from my face. It is a big building and when you stand on
the top bunks you can see over the wall into the dorms of the younger kids. So
the kids from the P3 and P4 dorm are sitting on top of the brick wall watching
us and there is a chorus of “Good night Teacher Bonnie’s” as we finally lay
down. I have a night filled with soft snores around me and blaring lights on
above me. I’m grateful I’m on the bottom, so that it’s at least a little dark.
I’m told the lights are left on all night so that if the little kids wake up
they can see. I’m grateful I can see if any rats decide to join me in my bunk!
I am pleasantly surprised, there were no visitors! There are no pillows, but
the end of the mattress is raised just slightly by resting on the frame of the
bed, it’s actually quite a comfortable night.
By 5:30 a.m. I hear kids waking and moving around, at 6:20 I
am hustled out of bed. “Teacher Bonnie, we want to go now. Wake up!” I
reluctantly crawl out of bed, after the “fashion show” last night at bedtime
they have all donned their appropriate skirts with pants or leggings underneath. A couple of them have shorts on and they are
all wearing flip flops. Not a single one of the fourteen girls has tennis
shoes. The teachers openly tell me, “Girls can’t run, they won’t make it very
far.” The girls get shy and turn away. I happily tell the teachers, “of course,
it’s their first time and they’re not used to it. We’ll go “slowly by slowly”. We
run a solid thirty minutes and the girls do great, there’s a couple who lag
behind, but considering they’ve never really ran before it is very good. We
stop at the playground to stretch and do some “yoga”. I’ve introduced them to
Yoga and at their request we have a few minutes of deep breathing and relaxing
before we have to be back for porridge. Considering the hours these kids study,
it is a very welcome reprieve. They ask me if I bathe with hot water, I tell
them that “yes, I usually do.” Expecting, of course, that today I’ll be bathing
with cold water. Much to my surprise
they bring me two thermoses filled with hot water, “one for your tea and one
for bathing.” They treat me like a royal guest, they are so happy for the
change in their schedule, the surprise in their everyday routine. An overnight
guest is unheard of and they are happy to accommodate me. The porridge ties me
over but by 2 p.m. when lunch is finally served I’m famished. These kids study
all morning, seven days a week with only the hot, runny porridge in their
stomachs.
Sunday was “Visitors Day”, one of two days this term when
their parents can come to see them.
After bathing we gather in the compound for “church”, it’s a two hour
service of singing song after song and a short “sermon” by Teacher Brian. Then
they anxiously await their parents. The parents are only allowed to come on
these designated days and the last one was seven weeks ago. The highlight of
the parents visit is of course that they bring them treats. When I ask what
they hope their parents bring, it’s always the same, “bread, yellow bananas and
avocados”. Some of them come to me sad
and tell me, “They did not come.” A few of them even cry because they
were
hoping for their parents to visit and they never showed. I tell them, “I
came
to visit you!” They look at me very serious and ask, “Did you bring me
bread?” I
stay the entire day waiting for Bridget’s mother to show up. Bridget is
the seven year old at school who doesn’t speak. I
tried teaching her some signs, a dear friend, Pam, sent us a book of
signs and a little white board to help her. I tried to assign a teacher
to teaching her some
signs and last week I took her to see the English Doctor and his wife
who’s a
therapist at the “Potters Village”. The Potters
Village
is home to thirty-one babies and is run by an English woman. It is a non
profit health clinic for children under the age of 12, it's a Nursery
school and an orphanage for abandoned or orphaned newborns. For more on
The Potters Village and on Bridget check out the blog, this e-mail was
much too long with it all! When Bridget's mother finally
arrives around 4 p.m. I have a list of questions for her from the
Doctor. She sat up at one
year. She crawled a little while after that. At eight months she had
surgery to cut the muscle under the tongue. She has never spoken, she
cries out
loud. She calls her mother “Mba ba”, she calls her little sister
Maureen, “nee
nee”, Her Mukaka (grandmother) is “ka ka”. Those are the only words she
has
ever spoken. At three years old she walked and “No”, she has never been
abused,
beaten or traumatized. So, we are back to square one. It is a relief.
She hasn’t
chosen not to speak because of some horrific past, she was born delayed.
Today
I stood next to the cooks and as each child received their food, every
single student
had to say “Thank You” in sign language. I tell them, “We’re helping
Bridget”.
I explain that she cannot speak, so when she says “thank you” in sign,
now we
can understand her.
Here there are no special workers or assistants assigned to
Enock who is in third grade and cannot write his alphabet, no one testing him
for dyslexia or any other learning disability. There’s no social worker who
looks after Bridget, who ensures she learns to communicate. There’s no one who
steps in on Christine’s behalf to protect her from her brother who may or may
not be abusing her. There’s no one to advocate for these children. No one to
ask questions, it is a survival of the fittest, a life where only the strong or the lucky
survive. Today two deaf girls came into the office asking for donations, they
want to travel to Kabale to study. I gave them a donation, and then I told them
I needed their help too. I explained on paper that I was trying to teach a 7
year old sign language, and I needed help. The answer to my prayers just walked
right in the door. Peninah is now sleeping and eating at the school, just like a teacher. I’m paying her to be
here for the next week and a half to see what Bridget is capable of learning. I
think Bridget has a mental disability as well, so we’ll see how
much she picks up. Some of the other kids are soaking it up like a sponge and
loving it. Just as I was wondering how I
was going to teach someone sign language when I didn’t know it myself…in walks
Peninah, who happens to be looking for work, like most people in Uganda. Lucky Bridget.
Love and Blessings to you all,
Bonnie
