How an Ethiopian classroom mirrors my life

When you enter an Ethiopian high school classroom you notice a few things. You will probably be overwhelmed of the differences in the room to what a classroom is in the United States. You might first notice the desks, broken and scattered around the room in no order, you might notice the windows with no glass, letting in the breeze and the only source of light, you might notice the cinderblock walls (and sometimes ceilings) covered in drawings and writing from students, you might notice the floor covered in paper shreds, trash wrappings, broken chalk, and dust, you might notice the blackboards with holes and warped with handwriting from last days lesson covering the board, or you might notice something new that my eyes have flitted over.

As compared with an American classroom, this probably seems like a mess, a room in complete disarray. That’s the classroom when it is empty. Once you add the students, a teacher, and all the material goods (text books and exercise books) they bring with them, the room seems to become even more chaotic and less organized. The desks that were silent suddenly become noisy as they are dragged to groups, they become heavy under the weight of more students than you would think could fit there, the dust on the floor gets spread around on blue uniforms and plastic shoes, the windows and door that are open suddenly become life lines with 70 students all with body heat radiating off, and the chalk board becomes filled with notes from another lesson as students begin to copy whatever words are on the board into their books.

This might seem impossible to an unpracticed Ethiopian. I came in as a teacher the first day and it took my breath away. The idea that I was supposed to teach in an environment like this seemed crazy and overwhelming. I hadn’t even stood in front of my 70 students yet, and I already felt faint. I still have days where I dread walking into those rooms, where I don’t feel like it is “mine” at all, although I have taught in the same 3 classrooms all year. Where are the posters with encouragements on the wall, the desks with kids names taped on with 1 kid to a desk, the dry erase board where my notes from the lesson before slide right off, the trash bin where old tissues and tests can go safely? They are back in the comfort zone of America. That’s where they are.

I have had a lot of time to reflect on my life over here. Only teaching 3 classes a day gives one plenty of time to stare at walls, listen to Ethiopian music, or drink coffee. Even when I am engaged in a conversation, my mind is racing, thinking “This really is my life. What am I doing here? How cool is this? What would someone back home say?” I seem to find meaning in everything I do, everything I see. Each person, each cup of coffee, each book, holds something new to me to symbolize this journey I’m on. That includes the classroom, in which I spend most of my time in my new home (besides my house).

An Ethiopian classroom mirrors my life over here in a lot of ways. You might be asking yourself how. Well, if you keep reading I will answer that question for you. My life at first glance can seem like it’s a mess. Not for any particular reason, but when something is so different from how it used to be, it can seem a bit overwhelming. It might seem unorganized, and just plain difficult to work in. This most resembles my life at school. Not having a steady calendar, being told when days off (officially and unofficially) are, when meetings and tests are scheduled, or when we have things we have to turn in. The frustration of being in a classroom where your ideas are opposite from what is expected can be shown in the scattered classrooms in which we are expected to get results.

The walls and desks with writing over them symbolize how memories and moments are written in my head and heart forever, even if scribbled on it without meaning. I have experienced a lot over here and met people, who I may never meet again. The kindness of a stranger on a bus willing to help me bargain for the correct price, a restaurant owner who charges me less than the price on the menu, a waitress who always gives me a smile and knows my order when I walk in, a post office worker who sees me on the street and tells me I have a package. These are the people who play a small part in my life, but who none the less help my life become easier and happier. They might not know their acts of kindness stick with me, but they do—like a name or saying written in pen on a classroom wall.

The broken windows without glass and the doors that often swing open and closed are just another reminder over here of how a simple thing can help with a bigger problem, and how sometimes it really is the little things. It is becoming hot season, and with that it is becoming unbearably hot. Even the Ethiopians are complaining about the heat, and they are used to it (and don’t show sweat!) Teaching in hot season is extremely difficult because the students are already restless, this just makes them either more tired or more talkative (it depends on the group of students). That means the broken windows and open door are the only way to let in that slight breeze and air flow that will help stifle the heat of a room with 70 bodies in it. Like the door and windows that let in a light breeze to help with heat, every little thing counts over here to make your day a little better. Yes, things can make days worse and I have plenty of those. Some days I just want to curl up in bed and be transported back home to America (I have a lot of those), but some days I have to remind myself of those open windows- like twirling kids, being greeted by smiles, jebena buna, rain on the roof (when I’m at home), a cold beer, special fuul, or talking to friends. Those are the slight airflow and breezes given to me by the open windows and doors, I just have to recognize them and not over look how important they are.

The desks that are broken and can be moved at any moment show me that I have control, although not complete control over my life over here. I can move the desks to a position I want, I can assign students seats to only have 4 kids to a desk, I can attempt to make the room my own, with this small bit of rearranging. This is much like my own life. I can choose who I become friends with, I can choose whether to spend my time in my house or out of it, I can make a decision about how to respond to harassment from children and adults. That is all under my control. However, what is not under my control is how the desks are treated and looked at once the students come into the class, or when I give up the classroom to another teacher. Chances are, they will be used as a sketch pad, they will have too many students seated on the bench, they will be moved so friends can talk to each other, and my students probably won’t sit in their assigned seats, no matter how many times I move them. I might be under the illusion I can change my classroom, but in the end all I can control is how I react to what it looks like in reality. This is also a window into my life. I can do everything that’s in my control to set up my life how I want it over here, but in the end it won’t look like that. People will change or leave, things will happen that make my life a little messier or different, events won’t happen or will happen but not when I’m there, and things I thought were simple, ideas and visions I had will change completely. No matter how much I try to control what happens around me, all I can control in the end is how I react to what happens.

Last, those blackboards. The blackboards are rough, most have holes in them, and none of them are clean from the previous lesson. No matter how often you erase, there will still be remnants of words from weeks ago, chalk dust settled in the cracks where the boards meet, lines where the students are too short to reach when they ask to erase the board. My students like being hands on and so they like to ask me for the eraser as I come into class, to be the first one to get their hands on it and erase the board. At the beginning of the year I welcomed this, as chalk got all over my clothes (I’m not a super neat person, but I did enjoy keeping my clothes semi-clean) and it saved time. I never understood why my students wanted to erase the board, but as I have been here longer I have begun to see the satisfaction in it. They probably don’t have the same philosophical thoughts on it- they probably just want to get out of their seats. But my joy is from something else.

I like seeing the words from the past erased, I like starting new and writing with a piece of chalk MY words on the board. This might seem silly and even crazy, but when I erase the words or pictures from another teacher and class, I seem to be saying, “This is the past, it’s time to start new.” I did this when I got on the plane here, and I try to do this every night when I go to sleep. I don’t mean to say I erase the past completely, that’s the beauty of blackboards. The trace of what was written is still there, the chalk dust is still on the ground, and the words are written in exercise books. The past will always be there, and it helps guide us. The past lessons help my students study for their exams and the past lines help me keep my board in order. But when I start a new lesson and write my own words in my own handwriting I am showing that I am writing my now and my future. I can’t help what was in the past, but I can write the rest, no matter how messy the chalk might be. I might have dust on my hands that rub off on my clothes, I might have to erase part of my board, I might be making up what I’m writing as I go, because my notes don’t work, but I’m the one writing it.

Ethiopian classrooms can seem like a mess, they can look like a hurricane came through overnight, every night, and they can be stifling hot and sometimes just too frustrating to be in. But there is a certain charm about them. It might be almost impossible to see, but if you look closely you might get a hint of what I’m talking about. My life is the same general idea. You might not be able to always see the charm, but its there if you look closely.