"Madame, please don’t take my picture! I don’t like my face."

These were the words of a fifteen year old Tanzanian student of mine.  I rarely take pictures of my school or village but recently decided to create a slide show for the school to view at my going away party.  While most students were enthusiastic and loved being photographed, there was one boy who refused.  This was the conversation that ensued:

Student: Madame, please don't take a picture of me. I don't like my face.

Me: What do you mean? You are a handsome boy.

Student: I know how American people are.  You will show these pictures to your friends and tell them I look like a monkey.

Me: That's not true.  I think Black people are beautiful.  I want to show my family pictures of my students and my village.

Student:  American people are liars.

Me: I am American.  Do you think I am a liar?

Student: Of course.

I found this conversation unsettling for a number of reasons.  I immediately thought about the racism that this child has been exposed to and the prejudice of those who relegate Black people to the status of animals.  I thought about how he has internalized Westernized conceptions of beauty to the point where he actually thinks his face is ugly.  I also thought about the absolute distrust and disdain he feels towards American people.  What had happened to this boy to make him hate the country I call home?

Then I got angry.  I realized that because of my nationality, he felt that I couldn’t be trusted.  I had never lied to him or hurt him in any way.  In fact, this boy is extremely intelligent and I had spent my afternoons tutoring him in English, letting him borrow my books to read, playing English games, etc.  I had gone out of my way to help him and he had the nerve to call me a liar? I was mad and my immediate reaction was to stop tutoring him.  If he couldn’t trust me, why should I trust him?

I quickly moved from feelings of anger to frustration.  My own Black identity was being questioned yet again.  I have always felt a strong sense of African-American pride and two years of being called “White” by Tanzanians had taken its toll.  The insanity of race and racism frustrated me.  I wondered how I could possibly think he looked like a monkey when my closest friends and family members shared the same pigment.  It seemed irrational.  I wanted so badly to make him see that I was like him.  I was Black too.  The racist white Americans who told him that he looked like a monkey have spent generations degrading and dehumanizing my ancestors and continue to oppress Black people in America.  Why couldn’t he see that?  How dare he put me in a group with racist white people?  How dare he call me white? 

It was at this moment that I had to do a quick self-assessment. Why did I consider being called white an insult?  Do I also associate whiteness with racism and prejudice in spite of the wonderful intimate relationships I have with Caucasian people?  I imagine that if I were a white volunteer, the conversation with this student would upset me.  I would want him to know that not all Americans, not all white people are racist.  Not all white people think he looks like a monkey; in fact, many think Black people are beautiful.  I realized that I needed to have a more intimate discussion with this student. I wanted him to see that Black people come in all shades and that all shades are beautiful.  More importantly, I wanted to teach him about the dangers of over-generalizing and stereotyping American people.

The conversation that resulted was one of the best cross-cultural discussions I have had in Tanzania.  I showed him pictures of my friends and family in an effort to teach him two important lessons.  First, Black people come in all different shades, shapes, and sizes.  All are beautiful.  Second, there are many white people that love, respect, and value those with darker skin.  Not all Americans and not all white people are racist.  He then told me about his negative experience at a primary school run by white American missionaries and how they told him he looked like a monkey.  He told me they made him feel ugly and stupid so he hated them as a result.  He said that he thought all American people were the same but after our discussion he realized his mistake.  Then he turned to me with a big smile on his face and said: “Madame, I know you don’t think I look like a monkey.  I look like your brother.  Will you take my picture?” I happily reached for my camera.  

Silencing Myself

To say that I have been a horrible blogger these past five months would be an understatement.  My experiences have become so normalized to me, that I often forget people in America may find my life unique and interesting.  I have silenced myself on many occasions due to the general animosity I often feel towards Tanzania and other traumatic events that I am not allowed to write about because of Peace Corps.   Overall, I do not have a good reason or excuse for my neglect and apologize to the people that enjoy reading my blog.  I will make an effort to update my posts, so look for back dated entries. 

Many things have happened over the past five months.  The 2012 school year ended and the 2013 school year began.  I returned to the United States to celebrate Christmas and New Years with my friends and family.  Readjusting to life in America was both exciting and overwhelming.  My students performed extremely well on their English NECTA and I found validation in my countless efforts to become a good teacher.  I had to say goodbye to one of my closest friends in Peace Corps and my favorite students at the school left.  I have felt more emotions than I can list.  There have been moments of extreme loneliness and isolation.  At times I have felt frustrated with Tanzania and with myself.   I have not integrated into the culture nor do I have the language proficiency that I imagined. I have questioned my effectiveness as a volunteer.  On June 12, 2013 my Peace Corps service will end and I return to the United States shortly after.  As I approach my final month here, I realize that I am both excited and sad to leave this place.  

I'm not sure I like who I am becoming...

Like many Peace Corps applicants I had this idealistic fantasy of moving to another country and changing it for the better.  I thought I would change the world and teach people skills that would drastically improve their lives.  I thought I could motivate students to learn and teach them how to think critically. Yet after living in Tanzania for the past year and a half, I realized that the world wasn't changing, my village wasn't changing, my school wasn’t changing, but I was.   This experience has caused me to change a lot and I am honestly not sure if I like who I am becoming. 

I remember witnessing corporal punishment for the first time at my school over a year ago and being completely horrified.  I wondered how I could have a good relationship with teachers who beat students with the same ferocity as cattle and was determined to implement other methods of punishment.  I tried implementing detention, additional assignments, physical labor improving the school environment, etc. I thought that if I led by example and was able to earn the respect of students without beating them, then the other teachers would possibly change their own behavior.   I wanted teachers to see that there was a difference between respect and fear, and that fear is not conducive to learning.  I dreamed that my students would feel comfortable enough around me to ask questions and tell me that they didn't understand something.  Most importantly, I felt that nobody ever deserves to get beaten.  Certainly a failed test or tardiness could not justify physical abuse.   I felt sympathy for the students and wondered how they could succeed in an environment without teachers or books.  If the stick was the punishment for failure and the system was designed for them to fail, then how could an education coexist with an environment free of physical abuse?

A year later, things have changed.  I have seen more beatings than I can count and am sad to say it doesn't bother me anymore.  I used to hold back tears and avoid assemblies so I wouldn't have to witness the abuse.  Teachers would warn me in advance if a student would be beaten so that I could prepare myself.  What I can only describe as a feeling of disgust, terror, and sorrow has become replaced with a cloud of numbness.   It’s as if I am completely detached from my emotions when students are being beaten.  Their looks of terror and cries of pain are met with a blank stare.  Perhaps this is some sort of defense mechanism to make working in this environment bearable, but sometimes I think the students deserve the stick.  I have tried many different forms of punishment and students continue to do bad behaviors.  Teachers have explained to me that African students are different from American students.  “They only learn from the stick,” they say.  I guess students have helped prove alternative punishments ineffective, and teachers have begun beating students on my behalf while I sit and watch. “Madame, the reason students don’t respect you or come to class is because you don’t beat them.  If you use the stick, they will change their behavior.”  If I had a dollar for every time a teacher told me that those students fail or don’t come to class because I refuse to beat them, I would be a very rich woman.  But that’s all I have left:  This moral conviction that physical violence is wrong and a constant refusal to become the abuser.

I have been able to convince myself that I am still a good person because I am not the one hitting them.  As if sitting there watching makes me less guilty.  And I wonder throughout history how many people stood by while injustice was being done.  I've always admired those people on the other side of history, those with enough courage to say “this is wrong.”  I dreamed I would be like them, but I’m not.  I am worried for myself.  I am worried that corporal punishment is becoming so normalized in my life that one day I am not going to see it as wrong or unjust.  I have already lost my emotional response to beating, how much longer before I lose my moral one.  How much longer until I become the teacher holding the stick?

Why is President Obama so thin?

This was a question that emerged after a conversation with some of my fellow teachers.  What began as a joke about an ugali eating competition quickly turned to a discussion about wealth and body fat.  In Tanzania, having a large stomach and being fat is often considered a good thing.   If you are large, it means that you work in an office, don’t have to walk everywhere, and have a constant food supply.  In other words, you aren’t poor.  You don’t have to work on a farm or do physical labor to survive. While I have seen some animosity towards large Tanzanians who take up too much room on a bus or dala, I think they are generally respected.  At my school, the Headmaster and Director are both overweight.  They are highly valued and teachers think that their size shows they are successful men.  The conversation became even more interesting when a teacher said, “Why is President Obama so thin? He is one of the most powerful men in the world; shouldn’t he have a bigger body?  His wife is also very fit.” They could not understand why the Obama family was fit even though they were extremely wealthy and did not need to do physical labor.  I explained that in America, people want to be fit because it is not healthy to be too fat.  I also told them that in America, poor people are fatter than rich people.  My colleagues were shocked! 

After this conversation, I started to think a lot about America and our obesity epidemic.  In so many parts of the world, size and body fat are linked.  People who are impoverished often do not get enough food to eat and are malnourished.  Yet, in America, those living in poverty often live off of high calorie diets. In Tanzania, many people have gardens and grow the foods that they eat.  In America, people consume more processed foods.  I am living in an extremely poor country, but I wonder if there are things the American people can learn from Tanzanians.  Obesity definitely does not seem to be a major killer here…

Subjects Taught in School: English, Math, Kiswahili, Biology, Physics, Chemisty, History, Geography, Civics, and ABUSE

One of the things about Tanzania that I have always hated is the disrespect and abusive treatment of women.  Tanzanian women are so strong and hardworking. They are often the ones working on the farm, selling fruits and vegetables in the market, carrying buckets of water, cooking, cleaning, washing clothes, taking care of children, etc.   I have a lot of respect for the women here, yet they are constantly victims of physical, emotional, and psychological abuse. It makes me so sad because I am powerless to help them.  Peace Corps warned us early on not to get involved in these matters because our own safety could become a concern. As a result, over the last year I have learned to put on headphones to drown out the screams of my neighbors being beaten at night.  And I have learned not to stare when the Momma whose shop I frequent has a black eye, busted lip, and bruises all over her body.  Witnessing abuse in the village was bad enough, but seeing it at my school crossed the line. 

As a teacher, I am not only trying to teach my students English, but also discipline and respect for each other.  I was horrified today when I found out that one of the male students was being punished for beating a female student over a disagreement about the cleaning schedule.  I am the only female teacher at the school, so I was happy to see that the male teachers thought the student should be punished.  However, they didn’t seem too upset about it.  Beating girls was a normal thing for boys to do.  I know that abuse is common in this culture, but it seems like I am the only one upset about it.  I remember a few months ago a boy in my class slapped a girl in the face and the class was SHOCKED that I was upset about it.  The students just laughed and could not seem to understand why the boy was being punished.  The saddest part was that the girl did not understand why a boy slapping her was unacceptable.  My students think I am a weird American, but they are aware of the things that make me angry.  This was the one and only time a boy hit a girl in front of me, and they know that I won’t tolerate it.  Unfortunately, they don’t understand why this behavior is wrong.  How can I teach them abuse is wrong when they go home and see their father beating their mother?  It is so normal in this culture that my students are desensitized to it in the same way corporal punishment doesn’t seem to affect them.

I am fighting a losing battle against corporal punishment at this school.  There is too much teacher turnover for me to convince anyone that students shouldn’t be beaten.  Yet, when it comes to boys beating girls in school, I think they deserve corporal punishment.  I didn’t even cringe when this student was hit with a stick.  I suggested to the teacher that the next time they should let the girl who was abused give the boy his punishment under the supervision of teachers.  They liked that idea.  But I know that people who are abused often become abusers themselves and I wonder if corporal punishment is teaching my students physical abuse is okay.  If anyone has any suggestions on what I can do to stop this trend, I am all ears. 

The Man at the Hotel

Every month, PCVs like to meet up in our banking town and eat food that is not the typical Tanzanian cuisine we find in the village.  In my case, this means no ugali and beans.   One of our favorite places is a really nice hotel that we are too poor to stay at.  They have a lounge/bar with wireless internet, a television, outlets to charge all of our electronic devices, and good food. The staff is nice to us.  They know that we are poor volunteers and don’t mind us sitting for hours on the computer while ordering the cheapest items on the menu. 

On Saturday, I was sitting with a group of other PCVs in this hotel lounge when another “mzungu” walked in.  “Mzungu” usually refers to a white foreigner (or in my case a pigmentally challenged foreigner) and the man who walked in upheld every negative stereotype one might have a white foreigner.  He made his entrance known by yelling at all the waiters and staff for a menu.  Although the staff speaks pretty good English, I think it took them a second to comprehend why they were being yelled at. So of course this made the man yell louder.  I have never quite understood why people think that yelling in English will make someone understand them better, especially if their native language is different.  I know that Tanzanians yelling at me in Kiswahili makes no difference.  Whether they are whispering, speaking normally, or screaming, I still have no idea what they are saying.  I imagine it is the same with English.  I am not sure which country this man was from, but he was an ASSHOLE!  He kept yelling at the waiters for no reason and was extremely disrespectful.  He asked for salt and then when they brought the salt, he yelled at them for not bringing pepper.  When he was finished he yelled for the bill.  I don’t understand why he couldn’t ask for things politely and felt the need to treat the staff like worthless animals.  I imagined I was in South Africa watching an Afrikaner disrespect the black servants during apartheid.  This man was clearly racist and I watched the pained faces of once happy staff members.  They looked almost afraid of this man and I was horrified, disgusted and embarrassed by his behavior. 

I soon realized that Tanzania was becoming that older brother who you don’t always like but secretly love. I found myself becoming protective and defensive.  It’s okay if I spend my days frustrated and criticizing Tanzanians because I live here, but how dare you come into this country and act as if all Tanzanian people are inferior to you.  It made me sick to watch.  I can understand why the staff and waiters don’t mind us sitting in the lounge for hours. We treat them with respect and even try to communicate with them in Kiswahili.  I found this man’s behaviour extremely embarrassing because he made all foreigners look bad, but I wasn’t as embarrassed as the white PCVs I was with.  This was one of those moments where I was extra proud to be an African American.  This wasn’t a cultural difference, the man was a racist asshole and I was not about to claim any similarity to him.  Besides, if I was his waitress I’m sure I would have received the same disrespect. Our eyes met as he stood up to leave and I saw a look of disgust as if he was asking himself, “Why is this colored girl surrounded by white people?” I laughed at myself as he walked out of the hotel.

I Thought I Would Love It Here

Dear Friends, Family, and anyone else who follows this blog:

     I apologize for not keeping this blog updated or writing anything for the past few months.  I have been having an extremely difficult time living in Tanzania and am constantly questioning my purpose for being here.  In all honesty, this experience is not what I had hoped for.  I had delusions of returning to the “motherland” and being accepted by Tanzanians due to my African American heritage.  This is so far from my experience that I am amused by how naïve I was.   I have found myself in a unique position that sets me apart from many other Peace Corps volunteers.  Many Tanzanians think that I am white but I am not quite white enough to be treated with the same respect as other volunteers. 

      I am not sure why my appearance is seen as more desirable in this country but I think it has to do with it seeming more attainable to Tanzanians (if they get enough skin bleaching cream and a good weave then Tanzanian women can look like me).  Whatever the reason, it has led to constant harassment from men in town.  I have been grabbed, pushed, and threatened to be beaten for not responding to their advances. Women in this country are not respected and I am clearly no exception.  For a while I questioned why it was so difficult for me to make friends with Tanzanian women my age, finally a friend explained that some of the women were afraid that I would steal their men.  As a result, I have often found myself feeling very lonely in this country.  There is also a high rate of teacher turnover at my school, and every time I make a friend they leave a couple months later.   Currently I am the only full time female teacher at my school and although I do not have problems with other teachers, I am not invited into their “boys club.” Men and women do not usually socialize together in this country and I find that my gender, poor Kiswahili, and work ethic (I mark assignments, teach, and prepare for lessons during the school day while other teachers socialize) makes me a perpetual outsider.  Fortunately, I do not mind spending time alone and have learned to enjoy solitude.  In summary, I have a much better relationship with students than teachers. 

                The other reason I have not written for a while is because Peace Corps censors our blogs and we are not allowed to say anything negative about the government and are discouraged from ranting about the people or culture.  Unfortunately, as time passes it becomes difficult for me to find things I like about Tanzania apart from the natural beauty (mountains, lakes, animals, etc.)  Things that I thought I would get used to bother me more.  I can’t seem to compromise on my desire to be treated with respect even though I am a woman.  Nor have I grown accustomed to invasions of privacy and complete disregard for my personal space. By American cultural values, Tanzanians are extremely rude.  I am frustrated by the government corruption and police officers who demand bribes.  I miss the concept of customer service and the annoyance many Tanzanians have when you ask them to do their jobs.  I am tired of people trying to charge me double the price of things and having to haggle my way down to the actual price.  I hate being lied to and being told things that people think I want to hear (for example being told to wait for food I ordered when they don’t actually have it in the restaurant).   I hate it when people “help” you by grabbing your bags without your permission then demanding you give them money. I miss safety regulations regarding transportation.  And I still have not grown accustomed to how belligerent the culture seems.  Tanzanians praise themselves on being a peaceful nation because there is not civil war, but people yell and each other and fight over the smallest things.  For example, the other day I was on the bus and there was a ten minute argument (screaming match) between a woman on the bus and the conductor because he thought her bag of beans belonged to another person who was getting off the bus at an earlier stop.  He started to take the bag of beans off the bus to give to the other person, but when the women told him they were her beans he put them back.  I still don’t why there had to be a ten minute argument about this.  Recently I have come to the conclusion that the culture of Tanzania is not a good fit for me. 

    In addition to frustrations with the culture, I have had a lot of work related stress.  I feel like a burnt out public school teacher at times.  In addition to a lack of resources (there are no books and the chalkboard is the main teaching tool I have) I am working in a system that is designed for students to fail.  I do not want to insult the Ministry of Education, but there is a huge disconnect between the people who write the syllabus and those that write the mandatory national exams.  The exams do not reflect what is on the syllabus so if they only teach the syllabus then students will fail.  If they teach to the test and don’t follow the syllabus then teachers will get in trouble with school inspectors who want to see lesson plans and schemes of work that match the syllabus.  The exams are in English (with countless grammatical errors) while most teachers use Kiswahili as the mode of instruction. There is a huge shortage of teachers in this country and I have found that most teachers are neither fluent in English nor proficient in the subjects they teach.  So I wonder if students really have a chance at being successful.  I thought when I came here that maybe I could have a positive impact on the teachers, but they do not stay at the school long enough for me to have any real influence. 

    I have been questioning my role here and the purpose of the Peace Corps in general.  In my experience, Tanzanians seem complacent and content with the way things are now.  I can’t make people change if they don’t want to.  Many teachers don’t want to be teachers so it’s hard to convince them to spend more time teaching/ preparing for class and less time socializing.  And in spite of the fact that the national government decided to make the national exams in English I can’t seem to make teachers understand the importance of using English in the classroom.  They are far more concerned with my Kiswahili than their English.  In summary, I am not happy with my service and living in Tanzania. I spend my time bouncing between indifference and misery.  After a year in country, my idealism has been replaced by reality.  Now I am just hoping to have an impact on the lives of some of my students and that has been the main thing keeping me here.  July 16^th 2013 is the earliest date I can officially leave this place. The countdown has officially begun…