Reading just for fun?

The after-school program at Tembisa Baptist Church doesn’t have the sponsors that Arebaokeng has. They aren’t even sponsored by the church, which charges rent for the use of their old building and office space in a converted house on the property. But they run a crèche and feed a hundred children a day.

Friends from Grace Baptist Church, Kempton Park, continue to visit one morning a week to sing and play games with the little ones. I don’t think anyone has been reading with the school-aged children since I left.

When I returned last week, I brought my computer so the kids could see a slideshow of the pictures we took before I left in July 2008. I say “we” because they went off with my camera and took better candids than I would ever have gotten! Now they crowded around the computer and squealed with delight at the faces of themselves and their friends, some of whom you can see in the slideshow at the top of the left column.

I read The Christmas Story since tinsel and garlands of evergreen already decorate the shops here. We also read Lulama’s Long Way Home and laughed at the little girl’s clever ways of getting away from the dangerous animals she meets as she tries to find her way home.

“What was the point of that story you read?” one of the caregivers asked when the children were settled with books from the bin I left in 2008.

“It’s just for fun,” I explained. She looked disappointed. “But reading aloud in English helps them to learn the language, and on this page we practiced counting with the silly baboons.”

She nodded.

I continued. “I want them to think of books as fun. The more they read, the better they will do in school.”

A light passed over her face as though reading without a learning agenda was a new and pleasant idea to her.

It was mass chaos as the children read, exchanged books to read some more, or crowded around me to share their reading skills or just to touch my hair. “See how much they enjoy it,” I said. “Why don’t you pull the book bin out every week?”

Just maybe it will happen.

***Please note*** I will be discontinuing this blog after this trip to South Africa. You can continue reading about My Not-so-ordinary World at http://leannehardy.net/blog.htm where I am already posting.  I hope to hear from you there!

Back at Arebaokeng

The Arebaokeng community project has a crèche (daycare / pre-school) and an after-school program for children who have lost parents to HIV/AIDS.  When I lived in South Africa, the children were cared for in an old house.  The dining room/classroom was a garage.  On cold days the little ones crowded into a tiny bedroom with no furniture.  When it rained, the center had to close because the roof leaked so badly there were puddles all over the floor.

Arebaokeng has the sponsorship of Spar, a prominent South African supermarket chain.  They have just moved into a new facility with three classrooms, dining hall, kitchen, office space, a wide veranda and playground equipment.  There is even a promise of computers to come.  And best of all—the roof doesn’t leak!

It was a delight to return and greet old friends.  I read Jane and Chris Kurtz’s Water Hole Waiting to the little ones.  They loved identifying the different animals, and Mama Monkey’s repeated, “Wait!” 

With the older ones I read The King’s Fountain by Lloyd Alexander.  It is the story of a poor man concerned that the king is planning to build a fountain that will divert water from the city so the people and animals will be thirsty.  He asks the scholar to go and explain to the king the damage that will be done, but the scholar is so caught up in his lofty ideas that he can’t get involved with the practical.  The poor man goes to the merchants who know how to speak cleverly, but they are too afraid of the king.  He goes to the strong man, but the strong man is all action without thinking through the consequences.  At last his little daughter convinces the poor man to go himself.  In the end his simple honesty convinces the king not to build the fountain.

Some of Alexander’s language is a little hard for these township children whose English is anything but fluent despite their schooling in English.  They weren’t sure what a fountain was.  There was no picture in the book since the fountain was never built.  Their teacher Liza and I had to come up with a place in the city where there was one they had seen. The lesson I wanted them to get was that even an ordinary person like them can make a difference if he has the courage to speak up and tell the truth. 

“Perhaps someone will say to you, ‘Those people are from Mozambique or from Zimbabwe,’” I explained.  “’Let’s go and hurt them.  They aren’t like us.’”  (Unfortunately the xenophobia that erupted last year is at the point of exploding again due to the pressures of unemployment.) I continued, “If you are like the poor man in the story, you will speak the truth. ‘They are like us inside.  It isn’t right to hurt them.’  Even though you aren’t big and important, you can make a difference.”

The children wanted to know where I have been for so long.  They have no concept of how far America is.  “I’ll be back next week,” I said. Liza suggested that they write letters for me to take to America.  I told them to include a return address if they would like an answer.  Contact me if you would like to respond to one of these eager children.

***Please note*** I will be discontinuing this blog after this trip to South Africa. You can continue reading about My Not-so-ordinary World at http://leannehardy.net/blog.htm where I am already posting. I hope to hear from you there!

Ubulhe Pre-school

The children were still at lunch when I arrived at Ubuhle Pre-school with Poppy, the Tembisa children's librarian. We sat on small wooden chairs in the main room. Through an open door we smiled at forty or more children seated at low tables, eating samp (hominy grits) and beans from bright plastic plates. As they finished, they came to greet us.

First came three little girls. They were probably four or five years old. Their hair was braided in tight cornrows. Two were obviously twins. "Good day," they said in turn, their brown faces exploding with grins as if they had dared one another to actually speak to the visitors in English.

"Good day," I said although it is not an expression I normally use. "How are you today?"

"I am fine," they replied in unison, pressing against the wall and dissolving in giggles.

A little boy came up the steps from the garage/lunch room. He held out his hand for me to shake. "Good day," he said clearly.

"Good day. And how are you?" I asked him.

His huge brown eyes went blank.

"Say, 'I. Am. Fine'," one of the little girls prompted him, enunciating each word separately.

"I. Am. Fine." He nodded his head with each remembered word.

After that they came more quickly, thrusting eager hands for Poppy and me to shake and reciting the words of greeting they had learned. Some needed prompting by the bigger girls. Some managed all by themselves.

While we waited for the stragglers to finish their lunches, we went on to "My name is ___. What is your name?" They all understood the question, but only the most confident could be enticed to say, "My name is" in front of the answer.

After that we talked about the colors they were wearing. (What is it about little girls and pink?) And body parts.

Still stragglers at the lunch table. I didn't want to start the stories without them.

We stood up and did actions with those body parts. We played London Bridge, a totally new game to them, but one that aroused lots of giggles.

The last children finished their samp and beans and came to the tiny classroom. While the smallest slept on a mattress in the corner, we read Emeka's Gift and counted all the things in the market that he considered taking to his grandmother. But he had no money, so he didn't buy her anything.

"Child, you are the best present of all," his grandmother assured him when he told her.

My librarian friend, Poppy, translated the last bit to be sure the children understood the concept of how precious they are. I'm grateful that she and Annah, the wife of the Assemblies of God pastor and owner of Ubulhe Pre-school, value these children so much. May they be precious to someone at home as well.

Letting Go

Years ago in Mozambique my daughters were concerned about the girls across the street who had no toys to speak of. We went through our things and chose some toys to give away. The neighbors were thrilled, but my daughters were upset later when they saw their former toys left out in the rain and not cared for. Nusha and her sisters were used to doing wonderfully creative things with leaves and sticks and pieces of elastic that didn't need to be put away when they were done. I had to remind myself as well as the girls that when we give something away we have to let it go.

Monday at Tembisa Baptist I asked where the book bin was that I had left in July. It took them a while to find it, making me think it probably wasn't being used on a weekly basis as intended. Eventually they came up with it. The plastic lid was missing, but there was still a large collection of books in good condition. (Maybe too good.) Unfortunately, there were also coloring books and crayons falling out of their boxes, small toys and stray craft supplies--not what the book bin was intended for. When we give something away, we have to let it go, I reminded myself.

Tuesday I returned to Arebaokeng. I was warmly received. The children pulled the plastic chairs into the front yard, and we read a counting book set in Nigeria that I had borrowed from my friend Ruth. Nlhanlha, the young pre-school teacher, sat with us and translated for the ones too small to know any English. She couldn’t find the bin, but brought a stack of books she uses, including many of the ones I had left. She complained that the school kids take the books home to read and then don’t bring them back.

When the school children arrived, they brought their chairs and gathered around before they even went for their meal. There was a larger group than usual, including a number of teens. I read the Easter story and was surprised that more knew what Easter was about than in the group at the Baptist church. They were a bit vague, but by the end of the story they knew we were celebrating that Jesus is alive. “Let’s have more stories about God,” said one of the older boys.

I gave them a short lecture about bringing back the books they took home. “They belong to all of us. When you bring one back, you can borrow another.” I’m not sure they understood the concept, but I tried.

During the reading time, I saw a boy with a plate of mealie porridge and stewed chicken eating with his fingers in the traditional way while he leaned over almost double to read a book spread on the cement at his feet. In the 'old days' when I brought the books from home, I insisted that they finish their food before they took a book. But they aren’t my books anymore. I bit my tongue. I’m glad he wants to read. I'm trying to learn to let go.

Back to Tembisa

Africa. It's never quite what you expect. I arrived in Jozi Tuesday evening exhausted from two long flights. Wednesday afternoon I headed to Tembisa. I knew my way. I've been to Tembisa Baptist Church dozens of times. But that place by the train station where I always leave the asphalt to follow the dirt road along the tracks to the church--they're paving it, and there is no way through.

Paving is good.

No way through is bad.

Of course, there must be a way around, but I haven't been that way before. Try this street. No. They're paving there too. That one? More construction. The streets don't go in straight lines and form predictable squares like back home in the American Midwest. They twist and turn, and there is no point in looking at the street signs, because no one uses their names anyway. They use landmarks like the BP station I'm looking for. Except they have closed the BP station, and the sign is no longer there.

"That must have been it," I realize when I come to where the road goes under the railroad tracks that I wish I had been able to follow. I turn around for the fourth time.

When I arrive at the church, I get what I am expecting--an enthusiastic welcome. Kids spot me through the fence when I get out of the car and come running. We have a round of hugs and hand shakes. (Even the smallest African child knows how to shake hands politely.) They flutter after me as I greet the adults who cook their hot meal and keep things running at the center. They show me the cement slab and brick walls of the new church. And when I pull out the books sent by one of my friends at Solid Word Bible Church, they pounce like kittens on a ball of yarn. Fortunately there aren't a lot of children today probably due to the rain. There are enough new books to go around and soon a row of children, each engrossed in a new book, sits on the steel girder that waits on the floor of the new sanctuary for the engineer to raise it to hold the roof.

"Let me read to you," one girl says. So I listen to part of The Wild and then to a whole lot about sharks and some of another book.

We read until the raindrops begin to splatter on the pages, and we start home. The children scatter on foot. I get back in my borrowed mission car.

"If I turn left at the former BP station," I reason, "I should come to the road that passes near the library."

Bad idea. Did I mention that the streets don't make straight lines and right angles like they do in the Midwest? Twenty minutes later I have no idea how to find either the library or the Baptist Church, much less the road home.

A lot of my white friends would be nervous about coming to an African town like Thembisa alone. I'm not, but "Lord, please get me out of here before dark."

By the time I find the library, it is closing time--too late to visit my librarian friend, Poppy--but it IS still daylight, and from here I know my way home.

Farewell to Tembisa

 

This was my last week taking books to Tembisa. Our South Africa visas expire next week, and my husband, Steve, has a new assignment that will involve lots of non-Africa travel, so we are moving back to the U.S. I swear that the little grand daughter waiting in St. Paul has nothing to do with our decision. Well, not much anyway…

The Vacation Bible Schools of two Indianapolis churches raised funds so that I could leave books with my kids here. Exclusive Books at Rosebank Mall has a wonderful children’s section with lots of Africa-oriented books. They gave me a ten per-cent educational discount that stretched the gift. I was able to leave a plastic bin with more than a hundred books in each place.

Steve came with me this week to carry the bin. The pre-schoolers at Arebaokeng adopted him as ‘Baba’ (Papa or paternal uncle) and he was soon surrounded by little ones pointing at the pictures in their books and wanting to pat his beard, his leg, his bald spot, or just to be touched and held.

Charmain, a woman from our South African church also came along and took pictures. (See Picassa.) She has gone with me once before and is wonderful with the children, especially the little ones. She is looking for a job, but as long as she doesn’t find one, she would like to continue coming to Thembisa to read with the children. It is hard to pray fervently that she would find that job...
 

We presented the boxes of books at the two centers. I have grown used to the kids’ enthusiasm, but for Steve and Charmain it was all new. They noticed how quickly the children finished their food—rice, vegetable stew in a beef sauce and beetroot salad. They returned their plates to the kitchen and washed their hands. The chocolates I had brought as a farewell gift for each child mostly disappeared into their pockets for later since we have a rule of not mixing food and books. Each child chose a book and sat down to read. The new books on snakes, mammals and football were eagerly snatched up. One girl picked the worn copy of Cinderella that was donated a couple months ago. She stood to one side, totally engrossed, reading aloud to herself. I think she has read that book every week since we got it, but her reading is getting more fluent—just like the little girl in Niki Daly’s Once Upon a Time.

I asked the students to choose librarians to see that the books were put away neatly at the end of the day. At Tembisa Baptist they quickly agreed on Andile and Zindlhe. At Arebaokeng it was a little harder to narrow down the eager volunteers to Gregory, Sipho and Maria.

Gregory, who is about fifteen, wrote me a lovely thank-you note. “Dear: Mrs Hardy, I would like to say thank you for everything you have brought us even the books so that we can read and gain something from that books. And I would to say God bless you and have a nice ride to United State of America and maybe someday we will go there and see that country. And one day you will bring us a new books one day. I wanna say thank you very much, if we have a word in the dictionary I would thank you with it. From: Gregory at Arebaokeng Children Day Care centre.” 

Although I have read Bible stories from time to time, I have never shared the gospel as such or given an invitation to accept Christ. All the children are at least half orphans. Most have lost both parents. Some live with grandparents. Several are heads of households, caring for younger siblings. There is so much more they need to know to succeed in life. But I think they have seen that one mulungo (white person) cares about them, and they have learned that there is a lot of interesting stuff in books.

I will be keeping my eyes open for books they would enjoy. In April and May Steve has to return to Southern Africa; I’ll come with him. It’s nice to know the good-bye is not permanent.

String Mops and Golden Hair

I was worried about European fairy tales giving African girls the idea that blond = beautiful; I am not blond; therefore I cannot be beautiful. (See my May 29, 2008 entry.) Last week two girls, maybe ten years of age, showed up at the after-school club in Tembisa with string mops. If they weren’t new they were at least very well washed. The girls arranged the mops on their heads so that the long gray strings cascaded down their backs. As they delicately brushed the strings back from their faces I was reminded of the torn, cream-colored cashmere shawl my mother let us have for dress ups when I was a child. Gold metallic threads glittered in its long fringe. When I put the shawl over my head, I held my chin higher. I glided gracefully across our basement playroom. I felt beautiful, although I no doubt looked as ridiculous as a child with a mop on her head. The Tembisa girls strutted more than glided. I’m hoping they were imagining rock stars instead of Cinderella. Or maybe that isn’t an improvement…

The Lord is My Shepherd

Today I read Tim Ladwig’s Psalm 23 to my children in Tembisa. The text is straight out of the Bible, but the pictures show the inner city of Newark, New Jersey—not so very different from the inner city of Johannesburg.

When the Psalm says, “Your rod and your staff, they comfort me,” the painting shows a crossing guard with her stop sign on a high pole, helping the children to get safely home from school. My favorite is the view through the window into a lighted kitchen where the children are having dinner with their grandparents. Outside in the darkness lurk the dangerous-looking characters we saw on the ‘valley of the shadow of death’ pages while the text says, “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.”

Last night there were riots in some of the informal settlements (i.e. squatter camps, aka shanty towns) of Tembisa and other townships around Johannesburg. Foreigners were targeted. Not white, American-types like me, but Mozambicans and Zimbabweans, fellow-Africans who are political or economic refugees. In tough times it is easy to blame outsiders for your troubles, and right now the seven million Zimbabweans illegally in the country due to Mugabe's election antics make good scapegoats.

I called Tembisa before I went today. “No, it is fine,” Flora said. So I went. I don’t know what these children saw or heard last night. I can’t guess what they might experience tonight, but the message of Psalm 23 seemed especially apt.

On the way to school, the children in Ladwig’s book pass a church with a big stained-glass window of Jesus as the Good Shepherd. When the last verse says, “I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever,” the picture shows a similar window over the children’s bed. This time instead of a lamb, Jesus holds the children, and instead of trees and streams in the background, there are the streets of the city that we have seen throughout the book.

We talked a little of God’s protection in Tembisa. I don’t know how much the children understood. It was a particularly chaotic day with no adult but me. Some of the boys were loud and rambunctious, but they seemed to identify with the details of Ladwig’s paintings. We read the psalm aloud together. I pray that tonight they will remember.

Little Girls with Books

We are back in South Africa. I am surrounded by little girls holding their books, patiently waiting for their turn to read to me. Most of the boys are with Joel, a short term missionary from Canada awaiting his visa for Zimbabwe. The boys practice soccer moves with Joel, but when they are tired, they too get books and crowd so closely to read that I lose sight of him sitting in the dirt, leaning against the wall of the township church. More children sit on the steps. Each one holds an open book. Most are reading aloud, carefully sounding out each word. English is not their first language. Zulu or Xhosa is. But English will be their key to success in school and the job market.

A boy makes a dismissive gesture at a girl who is reading. He looks over the top of the book, and it is clear that he could read it at twice the speed. The girl stands as high as my shoulder. She’s maybe twelve years old, the age of Jairus’ daughter. Yet she struggles to read a story on an early second grade level.

But she wants to read it. Maybe it is an adult paying attention to her. Maybe it is my exotic white skin. But she is reading.

“She’s doing fine,” I tell the boy and shoe him away. I have to tell the girl some of the words. Prompt her here and there, but she finishes the story and looks at me with pride.

“That’s great,” I say. “We’ll do it again next week.

One of the other girls has chosen a harder book. She points at each word with her finger, but she reads more quickly, with less stumbling. “Ow! Ow!” she cries when the boy in the story is frightened by a spider.

I pat her shoulder. “That’s wonderful,” I say. “You’re reading with expression.” She grins and carries on with the story.

My collection of books is getting dusty, red smudges. Some of the covers are bent in the scramble to see who will read what. I try to watch out for the library books and remind the children that they are borrowed from the library right there in Tembisa. There are two libraries in the township, but both are too far for these children to walk. I hope they will remember and always think of libraries as wonderful places where they can get books.

Library Relationships

“Hello. How are you?” a little girl in a blue cotton school uniform greeted me as I came into the Tembisa township library.

“I am fine. And how are you?” I replied. Whether she had exhausted her knowledge of English or was simply overcome with shyness at that point, I’m not sure, but she giggled and turned away.

I am becoming a familiar figure at various community libraries. The librarians at Kempton Park, the old establish “white community” library, have grown accustomed to my search for picture books with children of color. They presented me with some appropriate books from the ‘withdrawn’ shelf. I read them at Saint Francis, at Tembisa Baptist, and at Arebaokeng After Care. The books found a home at Arebaokeng since those children are the most enthusiastic readers outside the libraries.

Dondo is the lively children’s librarian at Tembisa West. He has been writing stories of his own little girl, an unusually brilliant, curious and creative child, according to her doting father. Located near the community college, Tembisa West Library has a large study room and a special collection for the use of students. It is the newest of the three libraries in this area with a collection much more geared toward African users. That makes it the best place for me to find picture books that aren’t about pink-skinned blonds. It is a favorite after-school hang out. One afternoon this old librarian (me) was delighted to watch little boys racing across the vacant lot to see who could get to the reading room first.

Yesterday when I stopped by to return my last batch of books, Portia greeted me. I had met her at Dondo’s young readers club. She wanted to show me what she was reading—a giddy story of American eighth graders. There are some things kids have in common the world over even if the Southern California setting is a far cry from a Johannesburg township.

I stopped at the main Tembisa Library yesterday as well. I hadn’t seen Poppy, the children’s librarian, since I posted pictures drawn by the kids in her readers’ club on my internet site. She had gotten my note with the URL and said the children were excited to view their pictures on the library computers. She has decorated the wall of the children’s area with the originals.

Poppy once took me to read stories at a local pre-school. As a thank you the children sang a song for me. “I want to know, do you love my Jesus?” I was able to assure them that I do love their Jesus very much. In the car afterwards Poppy and I talked some more and discovered that we are sisters in Christ. “You mean you are born again?” Evidently she expected only a superficial Christianity.

It is frustrating just as these relationships are beginning to blossom to be leaving for several months. Poppy asked if I could help with a special reading celebration next week, but I will be away. She introduced me to a young man, Martin, who is an aspiring writer. I gave him information about the writers club I belong to (mainly white female retirees), but I can’t take him with me to introduce because I won’t be there again until February.

Living in more than one world can be frustrating when I feel like I am never fully a part of any. But it is also enriching. This week we will be with former students and Mozambican colleagues in Maputo. Later in the month we will visit Brazilian friends we have been close to for nearly thirty years and missionary friends we met in Ethiopia in 1976. Heaven will be a fun place when all my worlds come together in one with all eternity to enjoy the relationships.