give yourselves a pat on the back...

Undoubtedly the highlight of my week is when orientation is done before 2pm and I get to go to the After School program in Masoyi.
I keep forgetting I’m a teacher. I keep forgetting I was made for the nuances of sentence structure and the fine tuning of essays. I momentarily lose sight of the simple joy of conveying the perfection of multiplication; the tidy little way it always works, always divides, always fits together in a logical sort of way. And so, it’s obvious that the little classroom with a whiteboard is the one safe haven where I feel, if only fleetingly, like I know what to do.
Yesterday I got to go to afterschool.
It begins, as many things in Africa, with a song.
The kids look at their shoes, smiling sheepishly while Lacey badgers them to start a song. No one takes the bait. We wait. Finally, Olga just starts. There is nothing timid about the powerful tune bursting from this shy girl. It fills the room with this melody so captivating that it makes my arm hair stand on end. The boys chime in with loud, deep, harmony that causes tears to spring voluntarily to my eyes. They sing, the floor shakes, and I cry. What else is new?
“Who wants to pray?” Lacey asks. Without hesitation, “Pastor Themba” steps up and with his ridiculously handsome face lifted toward heaven, begins. All I understand is Baba and Amen, but whatever falls between those two words sounds just like poetry. Whatever he says has got to be a sweet, sweet sound: it’s a grown up orphan boy calling out to his only father. It breaks your heart when you think about it, but in the moment it's so pure and full of joy that you get swept along with it.
I decided, after looking at Andisa’s homework, that it’s always fun to learn about percentages and fractions. I begin by drawing my little 100’s graph on the board. The classroom, despite the number of students and the stifling heat, is entirely silent, not a peep. They watch. They pay attention; they very, very timidly raise their hands when asked if anyone has ever seen a % before.
As the little lesson progresses, I find I am spending more time loudly and shameless praising the kids than I am teaching math. But it’s well worth it. The students get a little livelier; the smiles get a little broader. The hands are lifted a little higher and more confidently. Before you know it, we’re all “oooohing” and “ahhhing” at my graphs and patting ourselves on the back exclaiming, “We are so smart!” Before long they are all laughing and shouting out answers.
These are not tricks reserved for Africa. This is just how I like to teach. At home, my students roll their eyes and chuckle. Everyone likes to be praised but at home they can’t openly welcome it – that’s really not cool. It’s an entirely differing thing here. The kids are BEAMING. It’s one thing to say beaming, it’s another thing entirely to look out into a sea of beautiful black faces with strings and strings of the biggest, whitest teeth sparkling back at you. When I set them to work and sarcastically offered my help or a pat on the back, one kid raised his hand for a pat! It was only then that I remembered who they were. Orphans. They have no one to pat their backs. No one who shamelessly praises them or kisses their cheeks with a ridiculous and embarrassing regularity.
I am surprised how quickly things start to feel "normal". I keep forgetting who I am and who these kids are. In the moments I remember I'm not over the heartache; I cry all the time. The tears, however, are now mostly reserved for stories and pictures that convey the beauty of these people. Like a blushing girl who’s figured out 10% of R330. Or a teenage orphan calling out to our Father in heaven. How privileged am I to find myself in their family. How privileged am I to pat the back of my little brother in Christ and tell him, loudly and brazenly, “You are so smart!” It makes me wonder if I have ever said anything else worth saying.