usually, i finish my breakfast and sneak out the door before mama sees. she might tell me to wash my face. and i don’t like to wash my face. the porridge is sticky, but i don’t mind.
but today, i washed my face. today is special.
usually, i don’t wear shoes. i finish my breakfast and sneak out the door in just my bare feet. actually, i don’t have shoes, but i don’t mind. my feet are tough and strong. and they carry me where i want to go.
but today, i put on shoes. my new friend gave me a pair of shoes. black shoes. i don’t know how to fasten them yet, but i don’t mind. they are so black and shiny. and today, i am wearing my new shoes. today is special.
usually, i wear a dirty dress. mama washes my dress for me. but it doesn’t stay clean for long. sometimes i fall and it gets dirty. sometimes i spill some porridge and it gets dirty. sometimes i sit on the ground and it gets dirty. but i don’t mind.
but today my dress is mostly clean. and i get to be measured for a new dress. i will have a new dress. and i will wear my new dress everyday. today is special.
usually, when i sneak out the door before mama sees, i forget to take something with me. i have two small hands and i have two small tough feet. they get me into just enough mischief. and i don’t need to take anything with me. usually i don’t take anything with me, but i don’t mind.
but today, i took something with me. i get to carry a backpack today. and in my backpack i have some pencils. and i am so happy. i have a new backpack. today is special.
usually, i go to the school and peek in the gate. i watch the teachers and the other kids. sometimes i even go inside and sit. some of the teachers will let me sit for a long time. if i don’t get into mischief i get to sit for a long time. but sometimes i get into mischief and i’m not allowed to sit any more. the other kids know how to speak. and they know how to read. and they know how to write. i’m good at getting into mischief, but i don’t know how to speak or to read or to write yet.
but today is special.
today i washed my face. and i put on shoes. and i am getting a new dress. and i am carrying my new backpack. today is special.
today is my first day of school. i will learn to speak. and i will learn to read. and i will learn to write. just like the other kids. today is special.
Writing the letter A.
Every Thursday, I go to a local school with Fred. Fred helps with a Sunday school that meets inside the school compound every Sunday morning. For the first couple of weeks we simply went to spend time with and read to the kids, but now I am teaching lessons from the Christian Religious Education curriculum. When we arrive at the school, the children run outside the compound to greet us. Many of the young kids begin chanting, “Teacher Jamie, Teacher Jamie, Teacher Jamie!” They welcome us with hugs and hands and smiles and laughter.
When I walk inside the compound, there is usually a little girl in the director’s office or in one of the classrooms. Her name is Nagawa. Nagawa most probably has Down syndrome. She is seven years old. She grunts when she tries to speak. Usually she boasts a porridge moustache, a dirty but well-loved dress, and bare feet. She often gives me a hug or grabs my hand to follow me into whichever class I am teaching on that particular day.
Last Thursday was different. Nagawa was wearing shoes and a backpack. When I went into the office to greet the director, Nagawa also went inside. One of the teachers told me that Nagawa had begun school; someone was sponsoring her to learn. Nagawa stood with Fred as I heard her recent news. She had begun learning in Top Class (preschool), and within her first week, she was already trying to say her vowel sounds as well as write the letter A. I turned to Nagawa and asked her in Luganda to write the letter A for me. She unzipped her backpack as she looked for a pencil. I offered her a piece of paper, and she determinedly began drawing circles across the page. Then, in an effort to describe what she had just written, she began saying, “Ooo, ooo, ooo, ooo…”
Another little girl, who had also come into the office, stood next to me as she watched Nagawa write. She was anxious for a turn to show me that she had also learned to write, and she grabbed Nagawa’s pencil from her. Nagawa, in turn, hit her. I reached for Nagawa’s hand and said, “Mpisa mbi (Bad manners).” Recognizing her mother tongue, Nagawa smiled and then began rubbing my face, showing me “mpisa nungi” (good manners). For the next twenty or so minutes, Nagawa wrote the letter A and recited her vowel sounds. She also finally let her classmate write with one of her pencils. Nagawa took her pencil and put it in the other girl’s hand. She folded her own hand around the girl’s hand, and began moving their hands back and forth, as if she was teaching her classmate how to write for the first time. After her break time, Nagawa went back to class. And by the time I left, she was being fit for a new school uniform–blue–to match the other children.
