The Stepping Stone |
On March 19, Southwestern College students will travel from San Diego to an illegal township outside Cape Town, South Africa. The trip will last 13 days and the mission is simple: Bring as many books and teaching supplies as possible; give the township’s fledgling pre-school a boost; see life from a different perspective; and tell as many people about it as possible. This blog is for that last part. Enjoy. |
Today we only lose complete control of the children twice.
Somewhere during the melee I am turned into a train. A 50-pound five-year-old rides my shoulders yelling “go, go,” kicking me in the ribs and prodding me forward. A line of children grab the back of my pants, yelling “choo, choo.”
Only seconds before I had dignity.
My situation is no worse than the 12 other Southwestern College students volunteering at the township preschool. We are all being manhandled. At one point I find myself falling to the ground under the weight of a giant dog pile. I manage to move a shard of glass to the side before my chest lands on it. Little arms wrap around my neck, choking out my last breath.
If this were a movie, the scene would fade into a flashback and you would see a montage of memories covering the last four days—ever since since we arrived at the preschool. It would look like this:
A child jumping into my arms; a three-year old waddling by on the wrong side of the school fence, seconds later, a volunteer runs by in pursuit; a child’s hand with two ring-worm soars reaches up for a hug; a stray dog sneaks in and sends the kids into a ruckus; my facial expression when I learn the kids do not paint often because there are no sinks; one child runs his thumb across his throat when we try to give him oatmeal—is he allergic to it or threatening our lives?; children running around pretending to be tigers after making paper-plate tiger masks; “You don’t know how scary a classroom full of kids is until they all look at you with their big eyes.”; little fist punch, little feet kick; “I don’t think this is going to turn out good,” a volunteer says after giving the children paint; little fingers trying to push the shutter-release on a camera; children laughing as they play dodge ball; a volunteer calls for help as she tries to pry a pencil away from a three-year-old; the giant steel hinge on the side of a storage-container classroom;
“You don’t know how scary a classroom full of kids is until they all look at you with their big eyes.”
The expression of a girl with sours on her mouth after one of our volunteers pecks her lips with a kiss; hearing the names of African children in your sleep; watching kids play soccer barefoot and thinking “nobodies feet are glass proof.”; watching children brush their teeth and then being warned if a toothbrush has blood on it: “Make sure you put it on the side. I don’t want to contaminate. I don’t know who has AIDS and who doesn’t.”; hearing the program’s mission: “We’re breaking the cycle, evening the playing field…it’s about empowerment, it’s about skill building.”; asking a child to find the photograph of himself and he can’t; asking a child the number that follows six and he says 13; asking a child to name the color of a shape that is red and he says, “red,” and you think, “thank god.”; the bark of a stray dog; the way the children dance when they sing, “In The Jungle Big Fat Mama Cleaning Laundry.”
And when the children finally let me up I look down at a bunch of smiling faces and remember what one of the volunteers told me: “If you want to work with kids, you have to leave your dignity at the door.”
