P.

I know that as a teacher, you’re not supposed to have favorites.  But let’s be honest, we’re human, and there are those few students who just seem to bury themselves a little deeper into your heart than others.  P is one of those students.

I remember the first time I saw her.  It was a Wednesday, and she was supposed to have reported for her first day on Monday.  It was a month after the term had already started and we were having issues with new family’s being given spots and then not showing up, so we had been enforcing a pretty strict “no show, no spot” policy.  Since it had been three days and we hadn’t heard anything from P’s mother, we had given her spot to another student.  I remember the feeling of helplessness as this desperate mother explained that they had left for a funeral over the weekend and were unable to inform us since the school was closed.  Thankfully Charity was there, so I took them to the office where P’s mother pleaded for her daughter’s chance to attend Haven of Hope.  She promised that they were committed to school and P would be here every day.  So we gave her a spot.

And P HAS been in school every day.  That first day, she seemed totally overwhelmed as we quickly threw her into a new uniform and shoes and I showed her to her seat.  She just kept staring at me as if thinking, “Is this silly white lady REALLY going to be my teacher?”  She has the biggest, most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, and since she barely knows any English, most of her communication is done through those eyes.  She laughs with her eyes, says yes with her eyes, shows utter confusion with her eyes and declares victory with her eyes. 

For those first few weeks of school, she was so quiet it was easy to forget she was even there.  She still is by far my quietest (and most well-behaved) student in class.  But she’s more than just a quiet girl.  She is slowly opening up to me and the other students, and she is absorbing everything.  Sometimes during class when things are chaotic, I just catch her eyes and we smile, as if we know what the other one is thinking.  During break time, I normally sit in the classroom to work on planning or grading, while trying to get a few moments of peace and quiet.  It doesn’t really work, cause I inevitably have a crowd of students surrounding me, wanting to see what Teacher Amy is doing.  And because she’s one of the smallest students, P somehow always manages to wiggle her way right to my left.  She just stands there silently and ever so slightly rests her hand on my leg.  It’s like she wants to be near me.  And she looks at me with those big eyes, and all I want to do is pull her into my lap and hold her close.  Those eyes.  It’s like they’re just begging me to love her.  And I do.  Cause it’s so easy.

Yesterday, the class was taking a test, which P needed me to mostly read aloud.  She waited SO patiently while I checked the other students on reading until I finally had a ten-minute block that I could focus on her.  She nervously giggled at herself when she didn’t know the answers and excitedly looked to me when she DID and it was probably the sweetest ten minutes of my day.  She is learning; and we both knew it.

Which is why today when I read through my morning attendance sheet and discovered that P was absent, I was utterly shocked.  Yes, she had a runny nose yesterday, but nothing that seemed too serious.  I wondered if she had misunderstood my announcement the day before when I said that Friday was a holiday, so Thursday would be our last day of school.  But then the craziness of our last day got the better of me, and I moved on with the 28 students who WERE in class.  Our morning of tests was pretty normal and then I dismissed the students in groups to get their lunch.  We said our prayer and I sat down to eat my nshima and soya chunks when I saw a woman enter the gate of our schoolyard.  The kids all yelled, “Teacher, Visitors!” at the same time, which is a fairly normal occurrence.  I didn’t recognize the woman, so I thought perhaps she was here to visit Teacher Esnart or the woman who makes our lunch.  But she seemed lost.  And then a second, older woman entered the gate carrying a girl as if she were sick.  I saw the black school shoes first, and knew it was one of my students.  My heart dropped and I thought maybe it was another of my absent students who I’m fairly certain is HIV+ and had been very ill yesterday.  But then I saw P’s face.  She was crying.  And although she was wearing her school shoes, she was not wearing her uniform.  The first woman tried to explain to me in Bemba why they were here, but I couldn’t understand.  I quickly went to get Esnart, and she came to help me translate.  I listened and understood words like “father” and “Chingola,” a town about 2 hours away.  And then I heard Teacher Esnart saying words like, “Sorry,” and “God loves you,” as she stooped down to hug P.  She stood up to explain, but I had already figured it out.  P’s father has passed away.

She’s 7.  And her dad is dead.  I wanted to cry.  I wanted to sit in that dirt, pull her into my lap, and cry with her.  But more than anything, I wanted there to be no language barrier between us.  I wanted to be able to say something, anything, and have her understand.  But I couldn’t.  All I could do was ask if she wanted to come in and eat her nshima before she and her aunt left to meet her mother in Chingola, the town where her father would be buried.  She took my hand and we went inside.  Of course, all my rowdy students had been watching from the classroom windows during the exchange and were curiously waiting to hear why P had shown up 3 hours late without her uniform.  I wanted to protect her from their questions and comments, so while she was washing her hands, I simply told them that her father had passed.  Thankfully, the students understood (probably because many of them KNOW the pain that comes with the loss of a parent) and the room was quickly silent.  Most of my students are a few years older than P and she hasn’t made too many friends, but either way, Haven of Hope is family and she is one of their own.  I saw the understanding and grace in their faces and it made me love them even more.

Yesteday P was mixing up the English word for “eyes” and “ears” and today she is in Chingola to bury her father.  Yesterday she was one of my 6 students who had perfect attendance, and today she might be forced to move to Chingola so her father’s family can take care of she and her mother.  I know it’s selfish, but I’m desperately praying that she gets to stay in Luanshya.  I’m begging God to give me more time with her, because I see so much potential.  She and her mother’s dedication to Haven of Hope is rare and beautiful, and I would be heartbroken if today was the last time I’ll ever see her.  I’m asking God to let me continue being her teacher so that I can help her learn English and one day tell her how much she means to me.  But more than anything, I’m hoping tonight she knows that even if these next few days are harder than her tiny self can possibly fathom, there is a silly white lady 2 hours away who loves her, and a giant God up in Heaven who loves her even more.

Mother.

Today I got to play the role of “mom” more than usual, and I loved every second of it. 

(I haven’t done such a detail-oriented post before, so I hope this isn’t too long!)

We are at the end of the rainy season here in Zambia, which means it’s the period when malaria is most prevalent.  I have definitely learned that quickly this term, as it seems I send at least 2 students home in taxis every week because they are violently vomiting over the pit outside.  Charity is our resident nurse and she usually has one student in her office sleeping on a carpet on the floor, because they would rather be sick at school than at home.  Today was one such day.  One of my quietest Grade-One girls was feeling sick early on in the day, and slept most of the morning with a high fever.  Then as we started eating lunch, I noticed that Little Boy (whom I mentioned in the last post) was being abnormally quiet and not eating.  In my limited Bemba, I tried to ask him what was wrong or what he wanted.  He didn’t say a word.  I asked him if he was sick, and he said no, however, when I touched his tiny body, I realized he was burning up.  I told him that he WAS in fact sick, and I took him into the office to sleep next to his classmate.  

After a few phone calls and sending neighbor children to go get the students’ guardians, I sat in a room with two feverish children, Teacher Esnart, Little Boy’s grandfather and Little Girl’s mother & two little sisters.  Teacher Esnart explained that Haven of Hope pays for the students to go to the clinic, but they have to go to the one in town where we have an arrangement.  Little Boy’s grandfather sincerely wanted to take him, but he works as a house-guard and he had to clock out and ride his bike to school to check on his grandson, and he didn’t think he could take off any more work to take him to the clinic.  Little Girl’s mother seemed overwhelmed with her other two young daughters but she said she would take her daughter tomorrow.  I looked at these two sets of guardians, who so clearly love their children and WANTED to take care of them, and I realized that I wanted more than anything to help relieve their burdens.  So I volunteered to take the kids.  We had them fill out paperwork to give proof of consent and I hopped into a taxi with Little Boy and Little Girl. 

We arrived at the Dr’s office and the kind, elderly nurse took the kid’s temperatures and weights.   They were both so perfect as they silently obeyed her orders to remove their shoes, step on the scale, and sit with the thermometer under their arms.  Little Girl’s fever had broken while at school, but she was still at 100 degrees, while Little Boy was at 102.  She then took us to the back room where we sat and waited for her to prepare the malaria tests.  There were a few winces and tears, but both kids did great as she pricked their fingers to collect some blood samples.  The tests both came out positive, so we had to sit and wait while the nurse prepared three different kinds of medicines that the children will have to take for the next few days.  She gave them their first doses and some special kind of liquid that would boost their energy. 

Next came the hard part.  The nurse wanted to give them an injection to bring the fever down, so I had to take them back one at a time to receive a shot in the rear end.  I now have a tiny glimpse what it’s like to take your child to get injections.  It’s AWFUL.  Little Girl went first, and she just kept looking at me, trying to be brave.  She laid on the bed, grabbing my hand so hard, but as soon as the shot was in the tears and whimpering started.  I wanted to cry myself, but I just kept telling her what a big girl she was and “Chapwa!  That’s all!  That’s all!”  The crying stopped soon after the injection, but then came Little Boy.  His fear was even more evident and I wanted nothing more than to take it away.  I wondered to myself how many times he’s had to have injections due to his HIV status.  I wondered if he ever gets angry with God.  I wondered if he knew just how incredibly brave I think he is.  The nurse gave him the shot and he cried the most sad, pathetic cry I think I’ve ever heard for about ten minutes.  It broke my heart.  I think the hardest part was seeing my Little Boy, normally smiling and following my around like my shadow, so quiet and in pain.  All I wanted to do was make it better.

We left the doctor’s office and I asked the kids if they were feeling hungry yet.  They both said yes, and I realized I wanted to do something special.  We went to the local grocery store, bought a few bags of fries and some juice boxes and headed back to my house.  These two were the first to ever visit Teacher Amy’s house, and they knew it.  We walked in and they weren’t quite sure what to do.  I had some markers lying out from a poster I was working on, so Little Boy quietly asked if they could color.  I made room on my table, gave them each a piece of paper, and got out my computer to pop in “The Emperor’s New Groove” while I made lunch.  Suddenly the silence was broken during a particular funny part of the movie that prompted Little Boy to blurt out Little Girl’s name, followed by a long strew of Bemba words.  Little Girl looked at me and we both laughed.  I simply said, “I think Little Boy is feeling better!  He seems like himself again.”  The kids stayed for about an hour while we ate and finished the movie.  It was so encouraging to see how much better they felt after getting their medicine. 

After we finished, Charity graciously came to pick us up so that she could drive them home instead of me paying for a taxi.  We first met Little Boy’s grandparents at the school, where I met his grandmother for the first time.  It was so good for my heart to see how much they both love their grandson.  I can’t imagine how hard it has been to lose both their daughter and son-in-law, but they have stepped in to fill those roles for Little Boy in such a beautiful way.  I explained all the instructions for the medication, Little Boy’s grandmother tied him up in a chitenge (piece of cloth) on her back, and the three of them left to go home.  I know some of my students come from very difficult families, so I was overwhelmed with thankfulness that at least I was sending Little Boy home with two people who love and protect him as much as they can.  We then drove Little Girl to her house that is fairly close to the school.  By this time it was almost 6:00, but no one was at home.  Thankfully her neighbor, mother to 2 of our other students, was at home and she promised to relay the instructions on to Little Girl’s mother.  And with that, we were done for the day. 

I had no idea when I woke up this morning that this is what I would be doing, but I am so incredibly thankful.  This is why I came to Zambia.  I did not come to go home after school and sit on my couch and surf through facebook.  I came to do life with these children.  They are my mission 24/7, not just while we’re at school, and today I got to make that a reality.  I got an unexpected and uncommon period of 2-on-one time with Little Boy and Little Girl, and it was precious.  I got to show their families that I’m not just some white girl who teaches their kids; I am here to stand beside them and help love these children in any way I can.  I am starting to break down the walls that tower between me and the people of Zambia, and I could not be more excited.  God is at work, and I’m ready for whatever comes next.

My little boy.

He makes me laugh probably more than any of my other students.  We’re talking belly laugh.  And almost every day he sneaks up to me, tugs on my shoulder so I bend down to his level and proceeds to tell me a VERY long story, entirely in Bemba.  He looks at me with expectant eyes, waiting for me to respond, only to have me (yet again) shrug my shoulders and say, “Shum fwile, buddy!  Shum fwile!”  (aka: I don’t understand!)  And even though he KNOWS he’s supposed to be outside during break time, he is always in my classroom looking for ways to stick close to me.  “Teacher, I rub the board?  Teacher, I throw the pencil shavings?  Teacher, I clean the cups?”  Some days he can be my little angel; other days he comes to school ready to fight.  He must have a whole colony of ants in his pants and he doesn’t know the meaning of “raise your hand!”  Some days he makes me want to pull out my hair.  But then he smiles or giggles or quietly sits down beside me as I work on grading, and he’s my little boy again.

And today I found out there’s a very good chance he’s HIV-positive.

I knew the statistics when I moved here.  I know there’s a very good chance that more of my students are also positive.  Charity and I have even talked about students we are concerned about, based on their chronic illnesses.  But actually having it confirmed?  Knowing that this little boy who sits in my classroom every day is facing a life of stigma and hardship?  That changes things. 

AIDS is heartbreaking enough when it’s adults who have to deal with the terrible consequences of their choices; but kids?  It’s almost unbearable.  These children are born into this world with no choice.  Their fates are handed down to them because of someone else’s mistakes.  People who were supposed to take care of them messed up, and most of the time they aren’t even alive to make it up to their precious children.  As is the case with my little boy.  He’s a double orphan.  Both of his parents are gone, most likely due to the virus.  Thank God he has a grandmother who loved him enough to get him tested.  She loved him enough to ignore the stigmas and the prejudice and the fear that this virus has brought to the people of Zambia.  The stigmas that make people ignore the signs and deny the possibilities.   She was one of the few who chose to get her child tested.  And now she knows.  

But he doesn’t.  He doesn’t even understand.  He doesn’t understand why he has to go to the clinic every month to get weighed and poked and prodded.  He doesn’t understand why he has to take medicine every day.  And when Charity asked him if his little sister also takes this medicine, he simply said, “Nope.  She’s not big enough to swallow pills.”  In his little boy brain, the only reason he takes this life-sustaining drug is because he’s big and his sister is not.  Because how on earth could you explain something like this to a 6 year old boy?  How on earth can you explain the gravity of it while still offering him hope?  I pray that my loving God will give his grandmother enduring strength the day she finally has to tell him the truth.

Today my heart is heavy and I’m reminded again why I am here.  It’s so easy sometimes to believe the picture that my Zambian friends put forth.  They are forever smiling and full of life; but inside is often a world of hurt far beyond my comprehension.  It’s easy to read the statistics.  It’s easy to convince yourself that you know the repercussions.  But even if my little boy IS the only one in my class who is HIV-positive, I know that every other child in the room has been affected by AIDS in some way.  I feel it every time I have to ask my students whom exactly they stay with.  Are they one of the lucky ones who still have a mom or dad at home, or do they stay with an aunt, uncle, grandma, grandpa, sister or brother?  I feel it when I look in the Zambian science books and children are being taught to stay away from sharp objects, not just because they are sharp, but also because they could pass on life-ending diseases.  And sometimes the weight of it is too much to bear.  It’s hard to look into the eyes of little boys and girls who live in this world of pain and teach them how to subtract 29 from 45.  It’s days like these that I wish God would miraculously make me fluent in Bemba so I could simply hold my students and help them understand just how much I love them. 

But today, all I have is subtraction.  And sight words.  And English vocabulary.  And the story of Moses.  And every day I have to believe that even if I can’t erase all the heartache in my students’ lives, I can help them build a better future.  I can help them learn English and I can help them read and I can teach them about the Bible and maybe, just maybe, these tools will help them break the cycle.  And maybe if they can subtract, they will be able to run a small business from their homes and help support their families.  And maybe if they can read, they will truly become educated about this virus that seeks to destroy their country.  And maybe if they can speak English fluently, they will be given the opportunity to attend college where they will study to be doctors who help fights AIDS.  And maybe if they hide the story of Moses away in their hearts, they will never forget that God hears our cries and He will send a deliverer some day.

And THIS is why I’m here.