2004-10-06 - 11:52 a.m.

I had to transfer to Sunnyside elementary school when I was going into 2nd grade. The zoning rules changed that summer, so I was no longer allowed to attend North Hill, which was near to my preschool. Formerly, my mother would drop me off at the preschool early in the morning on her way to work. I would wait there until school started at 8:00, and walk over with some of my classmates. Having to leave my friends at North Hill was hard enough, but this was added onto the fear of entering a new environment. I don’t remember clearly, but I’m sure I cried that morning before leaving home. Approaching the school, my new GI-Joe lunch box in hand, I saw relatively few children out front. My initial thoughts were riddled with the fear that I had arrived late for my first day at a new school. I hurried in the front door and also found the halls empty. “Everyone must already be in class,” I thought, and hurried down the right hallway to the classroom I was shown during registration. No one was inside. All the desks were empty, rendering my situation as mysterious as the ingredients of the bean burrito I would be eating for lunch that day. Looking down at the desk to my left, I noticed a piece of colored paper taped to the top with a name written upon it…’Pat Horvath’. I had trouble reading the last name, but understood the meaning of the inscription. The teacher had already assigned our desks and had labelled them accordingly. I wandered up and down the rows of dwarf size tables and chairs until I found the only name I recognized, my own. I then proceeded to sit down and wonder where my teacher and classmates could possibly be.
Walking into Ecole 3 I could almost smell that same fear I had experienced my first day at Sunnyside. Small children lined the walls of the schools interior, waiting to be told what to do. Much to my amazement, walking in I did not hear a single call of “Nasarani” (white man), or “Donne moi cadeau”(give me a present). Whether they were used to the strict discipline of the elementary school, or just partially stunned by first day jitters, the children left me alone. The school guard (basically the guy that beats the children when they are bad) greeted me at the gate and took the tools I was carrying to the garden area. I entered the school director’s office and interrupted a meeting with a parent to say hello. He told me to sit under the shade in the schoolyard, and he would find me once enough students had arrived to begin work on the garden.
As could be expected, the Mauritanian educational system does not operate the same as American. Just because October 3rd is labelled the first day of school does not mean that everyone will be there. The school calendar is organized around the planting and harvesting season. In the more rural areas of the country, often students will not show up for one or two weeks due to a late harvest. In addition, teachers often have fields of their own to manage and may not be present at the arranged time either. The city of Atar does have an agricultural calendar based around the harvest of the dates; however, the bulk of that harvest generally ends around the beginning of September. So why aren’t all the children in school the first day? Because they know that not all the teachers will be there. Why aren’t all the teachers there? Because they know not all the students will be. It is a negative feedback cycle that prevents any classes from starting until the second week. More and More students start showing up until an actual class is formed. So why did I show up the first day? A fool’s hope I guess. The students that arrive the first week are generally assigned to clean out the classrooms and perform other sorts of manual labor. Starting a garden, in my mind, seemed to fit in nicely.
I sat on the chair outside the director’s office and watched the children march in through the front gate. At one point a thin Pulaar man in a dapper black suit walked into the courtyard. He first approached the director and then greeted some of the other teachers that had already arrived. He then advanced towards me extending his right hand. His greeting was in French instead of the normal Hassanyan, and after saluting several other people present; he pulled up a chair next to my own. I soon found out the man’s name, Nyoung, and that he was the 6th grade French, Math and Science teacher. He informed me he had known some of the former volunteers in the area, and was very familiar with Peace Corps. He had even been involved in my schools selection for a Peace Corps volunteer, and was initially supposed to be my counterpart. He had told the director to contact him for the counterpart meeting in Kaedi I did with Miriam in August, but he never received a call and in waiting for it missed his vacation. It is for that reason, he informed me, that he would not be working with me. The director had ruined his vacation so he had informed him he would not be working with Peace Corps. I tried my best to apologize for the situation, but Nyoung explained he knew it wasn’t my fault, however we still wouldn’t be working together. I resigned myself to temporary defeat and again enjoyed watching the children make their way into the school.
At one point a boy wandered in looking very confused, as if unsure where to go. The guard herded him towards the director who then ascertained the child was transferring in from a different town.
“What grade will you be in,” the director asked.
“Second,” responded the child.
“Second? Are you sure you’re not supposed to be in first?” By this time one of the other 6th grade teachers had approached the ring of inquisitors.
“No, I should be in Second.” The director then squatted down and flattened an area of sand. Drawing an Arabic symbol there he asked, “What is this?” The child cocked his head to the side and responded correctly. The director continued with a second symbol and the child again piped up the correct answer. The director cleared his sand pad a third time and asked the child to write the Arabic word for horse. The boy bent over and with slight trepidation stencilled his response.
“That’s write. Good job. You’re going to make a excellent Second grader. Go stand by that door over there”. The boy moved over to his assigned waiting area and the director smiled up at me.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but the boys who will work with you on the garden did not show up today. If you come back next Sunday, then they should all be here.” I shook hands with him and collected my things preparing for departure. On the way out I looked over again at the member of the second grade class, seeing the uncertainty in his eyes. I couldn’t help but see the irony of our situations and be reminded of waiting that first day at Sunnyside.
For ten minutes I had sat in my newly assigned desk, holding back tears. When I was nearly at wits end a middle aged woman with blond curly hair walked in the door and turned on the lights.
“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you out back with the other children,” she asked.
“I’m knew here. I didn’t know what to do.”
“Oh, I see. Normally the children line up out-back before school starts. When the bell rings at 8 the principal lets them in.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling truly stupid.
“Would you like a gummy bear?”
Ten minutes later my classroom was filled, and it had come my turn to introduce myself. “My name is Keith Gaddis.”
My candy toting professor chimed in, “Everyone, Keith is a new student here at Sunnyside so I expect you all to be extra nice to him.”

previous - next