15 August 09
At each of the other sites we’d worked at this summer, the closing ceremony had been a bit of rush. Our team had been organizing certificates, ordering who would speak when and all the other minutia that goes into rallying both pomp and circumstance.
Naivasha was a bit of a different animal.
Because, as I’ve said, this is our second year working with the teachers of Naivasha district, they took over some of the role of organizing. This meant setting up a committee to plan the closing ceremony as well.
We were put to shame.
Not only were their certificates, but they re-organized the room so that lunch was served to us at our seats while speakers reflected on the week’s experiences.
The entire team was called up at one point and individual Kenyan participants presented us each with 5 small hand-carved animals as tokens of thanks.
There was even cake.
And there was praying.
That part was a bit jarring. It highlighted a part of the trip here in Kenya that I’m still digesting. Many of the people we met in our time both in Naivasha and Mbita are quite devout Christians.
Indeed, upon our arrival at Mama Jane’s house in Mbita, the first thing we did was circle the living room, hold hands, bow our heads and offer a prayer of thanks for arriving safely.
This wasn’t too surprising as I’ve known many people to offer similar prayers throughout my life.
It was on our first day of school visits when we were introduced to the teacher or Christian and Religious Studies at one secondary school that I realized religion had a much different place in Kenyan education.
Operating under the mindset not simply of the separation of church and state here in the US, but also of recognizing and respecting a plurality of faiths within our schools, I was surprised by the institutionalization of one faith within Kenya’s public schools.
By the same token, our Kenyan colleagues were taken aback by our apparent lack of faith.
I tried to explain to a few friends that people were not without faith, but that it was more of a private piece of who a person is – an individual choice. That was understandably difficult to communicate when talking with people whose religion has been built into their education.
I didn’t mind it so much until one of the last speakers at the closing ceremony, stood to talk about her faith and the place of God in her life. “Your parents and grandparents put God first,” she said, “but now that is not the case.” She referenced the faith of America’s Founding Fathers and said that it needed to return to our schools.
It was one of those rare moments on the trip when gap between the world of my Kenyan colleagues and my own world was readily apparent.
I didn’t know then (and I don’t know now) how to communicate in a conceptualizable way my belief that it is the plurality of beliefs – religious or otherwise – that makes my classroom and most other American public school classrooms such enriching places to be.
A piece of me says not to worry about it. Another piece of me says that is a bigger conversation to be had over a longer period of time. I’m not sure where the majority of my pieces lie on this one.
I do know it was a closing ceremony that pushed me to think more than all the others.
Tag: twbc09
We should be less stuffy
14 August 09
As a sort of culminating activity for the week’s subject-specific sessions, Silvia headed up a showcase evening Friday. The original idea was for the teachers to be able to share the poetry they’d been working on during the week. Not so much a poetry slam, more of an open mic.
At some point, Silvia said, “And there will be snapping.”
The evening was decidedly devoid of snapping.
It was also the most open of open mics I’ve ever seen.
A few minutes prior to its start, as I was finishing my final plate of ugali until next year, Silvia asked me to emcee the event.
My thought had been to stay for the first few poems and then quietly sneak off to bed. It had been a long week and rest was in short supply.
I’m glad that’s not how it turned out.
I stood behind a desk festooned with glowing tea lights, declared the celebrations begun and asked who would like to start.
Now, in a North American setting, it would go something like this: the handful of extroverts would rule the night and subject the crowd to what they wanted to say with applause in between. People would be pretty sure they’d enjoyed themselves, congratulate those who’d shared and some would quietly kick themselves for not participating.
In Kenya, things work a bit differently.
Following my initial call to begin things, all I needed to do after each successive act was say, “Who’s next?”
There was singing, dancing, at least two conga lines, storytelling, more singing and, yes, some poetry.
The evening turned into something that can more closely be likened to a camp jamboree than a teachers’ poetry showcase.
It was while the “All-male Out of Africa Band” was performing (and not necessarily the same song) that I stopped and looked at the assembled crowd.
I want more of this back home.
I want inhibitions and self-consciousness lowered and removed from the equation enough to let us celebrate together and create whatever we can create.
I know it can happen at times when imbibed beverages have greased the wheels, but I’m saying spontaneous celebration.
Maybe this is happening other places and I’m not privy to it. If so, and you’re reading this, you know how to contact me. I got a drum in Kenya, and I’ll be happy to bring it with me.
They Understood! (by design)
13 August 09
Last Thursday was a bit of a frustration. I say this because understanding last Thursday is important to understanding the mood with which I took on today.
Last Thursday, I had the charge of leading back-to-back workshops introducing the concept of backward design to Kenyan teachers who admitted afterward they often don’t plan their lessons until they arrive at school, let alone plan entire units of study.
Even state-side, this can be a difficult concept, necessitating 1 or 2-day workshops to effectively communicate the methodology and its implementation. Last Thursday, I had 90 minutes in a poorly ventilated room with teachers who were either waiting to go to their next session dealing with digital storytelling or who had just come from a session on digital storytelling. An hour-and-a-half pedagogy session on a complex and difficult concept wasn’t quite what they were hoping for.
Add to this the cantankerous nature of the Kenyan educational work scheme (Read, “scope and sequence,” though mainly “sequence.”) and you’ve got a party.
That is you’ve got a party if your idea of a party is a hot and sticky room filled with confused teachers who, at times, were clearly just nodding at what the hyperactive muzungu was saying.
Last Thursday dispensed with, one can imagine the feeling in the pit of my stomach when Sunday’s planning session included assigning me the task of leading the backward design session today.
You know what, though? It rocked.
I’ll admit I entered the room with a bit of trepidation. My confidence hadn’t exactly been boosted at Wednesday night’s planning session when Simon, one of the Kenyan facilitators helping with the session, said, “I cannot see the implication for this in our system.” Awesome.
I told Simon he wasn’t the first Kenyan I’d heard that from.
By the end of the session, though, Simon and Mary, the other Kenyan facilitator in the session, were singing a different tune.
I approached them during the session’s second run and asked if they felt comfortable circulating amongst the groups of teachers who were working to backward design their plans for when they return from break in September. Mary gripped my hand, saying, “I am so happy to be learning this.” And I’m pretty sure she meant it.
Simon nodded in agreement and made his assent further known when he stood and told his colleagues “As an architect plans how a house will be finished before it is built, teachers must plan how they want their students to show what they have learned before teachers begin teaching.”
When another participant suggested to his group that they change their planned assessment because it didn’t seem relevant or authentic enough, I think I could have kissed him.
Take that, Thursday!
Will this be on the exam?
12 August 09
As several of the teachers attending this week’s workshops are commuting to Utimishi Academy rather than boarding here, the late afternoon workshops are optional.
Add that to the fact that subject-specific offerings run concurrently with sessions in the computer lab, and it’s easy to imagine attendance in a session on creative writing at 4:30 in the afternoon might be a bit low.
Such was the case for Moses’ session Wednesday.
Determined to make certain Moses had a full house, Silvia and I strongly encouraged the boys who remain here at school during break to join us for the session.
It was a thing of beauty. Teachers and students blended together to a crowd of learners.
Moses rolled through concrete and abstract wording, death by adjectives, vivid imagery and on into poetry.
It was when he asked the students to create their own poems that a certain hitch was thrown into his giddy-up.
Alex, a boy in Form 4 raised his hand.
“Because I am used to the Kenyan way of doing things,” he began, “is this for examination purposes? Or, is it for enjoyment purposes?”
I’ve written and thought quite a bit lately about the exam-centered nature of the Kenyan educational system, but it wasn’t until Alex’s question that its true effects hit home.
Here we were, talking of poetry and creation and beauty (Moses had begun the lesson by writing “Poetry is all that is worth remembering in life,” on the board) and Alex wants to know if this will be on the test.
Moses rolled with it, though, telling Alex that being able to understand and create poetry will surely serve him when he’s asked about literature in a more formal setting.
Still, that Alex was torn between his natural creativity and curiosity and his perceived need to regurgitated what he receives in school speaks volumes.
I worried he hadn’t taken Moses’ words to heart until the end of the session when Moses asked if the participants wanted to share what they had written.
Alex volunteered first:
Across the Indian Ocean,
Lapses of the reimental blue waves against equatorial gold shore,
Grits of sand like smithereens,
Mother Nature at her uttermost,
Golden field rays with rich viramin,
Sweet sunny weather;
A Faira fisher man rows, rows away from shore,
Boar moving mermaidously.
The white-capped wadawidan drums of goatskin fill the ambience.
Choirs of angels on earth, with beat alone.
A spotted swordfish cannabar, peony and violet essence.
The African Coast, home.
In the deep vaults of my mind.
I think things might be ok here.
Feeling Thirsty
10 August 09
Things are a little different in Gilgil. For one, workshops are starting Tuesday and running through Saturday. For two, this is the second year a TWB-C team is working with teachers here. For three, our ICT team has joined with the other subject-area team on the ground here in Kenya to form one uber-team. (Perhaps that’s over-selling it, but I like using “uber” as a prefix.)
For the uninitiated, TWB-C works on a 4-year model of capacity building. The first year, a team works with local teachers in areas those teachers have identified as high-need. The second year, the TWB-C teachers and local teachers run the workshops together. The third year, the local teachers plan the workshops and TWB-C teachers fill in and help as needed. By year four, the local teachers should have it all under control and only a few TWB-C teachers will be around for program analysis and to gather feedback.
The teachers here who are returning from last year to help organize the workshops are great.
During a subject-area meeting between the team’s English teachers and local returning English teachers today, I got to see what a difference a year makes.
“The Kenyan teacher has to change,” Samuel told us, “I want to see a different Kenya.”
I’m fairly certain any North American teacher could stick their country in those sentiments and have them ring just as true.
Another teacher, Nduati, said, “We subject our students to a lot of torture by always standing at the front of the class and giving them ideas.”
Agreed.
Overall, the meeting was one of hope. Noble remarked, “What they’re saying means we’re doing good.” I hope so.
Kenya, from what I can gather, is on the precipice of moving away from its restrictive exams-based system toward one that values creativity is centered around the needs of the students and has them working collaboratively in multiple modalities.
The U.S., from what I can gather, is sliding down the hill of moving away from a student-centered model that encourages creativity toward one that is, well, what the Kenyans are moving away from.
In a way that’s not nearly as sarcastic as I wish it was, I wonder if maybe our downward slide will end up as a positive because it will force U.S. teachers to be as thirsty for change as the Kenyans.
I’ve learned in running that if you wait until you are thirsty to drink, you are already dehydrated. I’m not sure I like the metaphorical implications.
Mama Sarah
8 August 09
I’ve had a bit of a self-imposed embargo on writing over the weekends here. I’ve figured the stray thoughts that pop up on Saturday and Sunday can work their way into Monday’s writings.
Today was just too good.
On our drive from Mbita to meet up with the other TWB-C team in Gilgil, we made a detour.
I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Kogelo, Kenya. I highly doubt it.
The team decided it would be fun. Well, that and everyone in Mbita said we should go. Well, that and it’s the location of Barak Obama’s paternal homestead.
We pulled up to the gate around an otherwise unassuming farming compound and the police stationed on the grounds asked us to sign in and present our passports.
We obliged.
A sort of cognitive dissonance existed in the fact that we were presenting our passports outside a house that could have been the neighbor to our home of the past week.
We walked up to the house and a guide of sorts showed us to where President Obama’s father and grandfather are buried. It was a little surreal.
“If you’d like to take a seat, Mama Sarah is finishing breakfast and will greet you shortly,” our guide said, gesturing to some chairs that had just been stationed under a grove of mango trees.
I thanked him.
“Shall we go?” Sharon asked a few moments later.
“Well, the guide said if we’d like to take a seat, we can meet Mama Sarah.”
“Who?”
“Mama Sarah. Obama’s grandmother.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Are you serious!”
“Yes. Please stop.”
We sat down.
Twenty minutes later, the door to the main house opened and a woman came out to let us know Mama Sarah would be coming out soon and to ask us to sign the book. (In Kenya, everywhere you visit has a book.)
Five minutes laster, Mama Sarah, a large, dark woman in the Kenyan equivalent of a housecoat appeared with her cane and sat facing our semicircle.
Some turkeys who had been entertaining/threatening us whilst we waited, let out a few gobbles.
The woman I took to be Mama Sarah’s aid made introductions and then asked us each to introduce ourselves.
We did.
She asked the assembled group if we had questions.
We sat noticeably silent.
Sharon looked at me, as I’ve proven to be the team’s go-to inquisitor. The thing was, I didn’t really have any questions. For all intents and purposes, we were sitting in an an elderly woman’s front yard after arriving unannounced.
Lois, who was sitting next to me, leaned in and said, “You have a smart question?”
I told her I was working on it.
Knowing President Obama has only been to Kenya twice in his life, it wasn’t as though I could pump this woman for information on baby Barack.
To make matters worse, the more aggressive of the two turkeys was taking what I interpreted to be an aggressive stance. I was trying to come up with an intelligent question while running the hypothetical of what kind of international incident might occur if I kicked the President’s grandmother’s turkey in the face and whether or not claiming self-defense would help.
Finally, I asked the only question that seemed to matter, “How has your life changed since the president’s election?”
Her aid translated my question and Mama Sarah responded in Kiswahili, saying she was seeing more visitors and was happy to greet them. Other than that, things were pretty much the same as pre-election.
John asked what advice she had for teachers.
“Teach them well, and teach them respect.”
I can dig that.
With no further pressing questions and the ability to say we’d been there, the team posed for a group shot around Mama Sarah and we loaded the van to leave.
As we rolled away, I was a bit relieved that Mama Sarah had been a normal Kenyan. I like the idea of our president coming from everyman stock.
A little wikipedia research later on revealed that Mama Sarah wasn’t President Obama’s biological grandmother. Rather, as polygamy is a fading practice in Kenya, she was his grandfather’s third wife. The president’s biological grandmother, his grandfather’s first wife, is now deceased. Still, as is the practice, children of polygamous unions refer to each of their fathers’ wives as their mothers.
Passion or Sense
7 August 09
I could live in Mbita.
As I stood in the soccer field outside of the Suba Centre, during our last day of workshops, this thought returned. It wasn’t the first time the thought had appeared.
It was the first time I let myself believe it.
The work Dan Otedo and Paul Oduor are doing with the Suba Teachers Guidance and Counseling Association and the Suba Youth Resource Centre respectively is something I would like to be a part of.
I don’t want to bring change. I’ve been quite cognizant of that since our trip began. The moment we begin to think of ourselves as bringing knowledge to the teachers we’re working with here is the moment we fall into the trap of seeing teachers as vessels transporting knowledge.
Perhaps even more than when working with students, it is incumbent upon us to be fellow learners at every moment.
What I want to do is help those who are bringing the change. Dan and Paul have vision that allows them to see what can be here. I want to help make that road smoother.
One night, Paul explained an ongoing argument with his mother over his dedication to the SYRC over finding paying work. “On the one hand,” he said, “I can understand why I should do something sensible as she wants. On the other hand, though, I feel a great passion about the Centre and do not want to leave it.”
Stuck between passion and what is sensible. How can a person not want to make smoother the journey of one who works for the betterment of the world?
When we were in Cape Town, Khanyiso, one of the leads on the EduNova team, said, “The good work has begun,” as we were parting one day.
I responded by telling him the work would always continue. I knew this to be true before leaving home. The scale of the work is greater, the urgency much more personal than five weeks ago.
I could live in Mbita.
That Damned Silver Bullet
3 August 09
Muhammad is an administrator for Suba District schools. As he put it, he’s responsible for the hiring and sacking of teachers. In the time we’ve spent together, I’ve found him to be a genuinely good person.
During our first workshop session in Mbita, I learned Muhammad had no idea how to work with a computer.
Yet, when Lois had the teachers position themselves around the room according to whether they “Strongly Disagree,” “Disagree,” “Agree,” or “Strongly Agree” with the statements, “ICT integration is one of the biggest challenges facing schools in Kenya,” and “The Internet will be in my school in the next 2 years,” Muhammad was with almost every other participant on the “Strongly Agree” side.
He’s bought in to the hype.
Though he and many of the other teachers don’t know how to use a computer (some have never touched a computer), Muhammad has come to see ICT as the silver bullet.
This has been the case with teachers at every conference on technology that I’ve ever attended. “What tool should I be using?” they’ll ask.
My answer, “The right one,” is rarely well received.
My goal during our preparation for this week of workshops was to explore the habits of mind that encourage learning and curiosity in learners and are fortified by ICT.
The essential question, “What if we had known the Internet was coming?”
Seriously, think about it.
If we had known the Internet was coming, that technology would be ubiquitous and that connectedness would be global, how would we have prepared?
My topics to consider this week are “Learning in an Information Age,” “Multiple Intelligences,” “Cooperative Learning,” and “Backward Design.”
I think that list and the ideas it contains is the beginning to my answer.
It’s about ideas, not tools. It’s about taking ideas and adding to them to make them our own.
Muhammad’s sitting on all the tools he needs to change the game of Kenyan education. I’m not sure he’s going to like that.
Remba Pt. 2
31 July 09
As we left Remba Primary, Dan Otedo, head of Suba Teacher Guidance and Counseling Association and our partner on the ground in Mbita told us we’d need to make a detour before heading to the boat.
We’d failed, we were told, to check in with the Beach Management Unit. Protocol dictated, Dan explained, that visitors to the island check in with the BMU as a matter of security.
A spark of sarcasm asked both what exactly they were securing and how thorough they really were if we’d made it from the far end of the island to the school, talked with the faculty, met the students and then started our way back with only the suspicious looks of the island’s inhabitants to hold us back. I kept this to myself.
The Beach Management Unit Office was at the tend of the island near where we’d docked. Making our way meant navigating through the maze of shacks and stalls that had led us to the school. The only comfort came when I felt a small hand in mine and looked to see a little girl from the school holding my hand. As soon as we made eye contact, she slipped her hand from mine and fell back giggling to walk with her friend.
Dorothy, one of the members of SuTGuCA said the little girl had never seen a white person before and had been curious what I felt like.
“What did she think,” I asked.
Dorothy asked my new friend what her impression had been and laughed at her response.
“She says you are soft.”
Putting her childhood side-by-side with mine, I had to agree.
Up a small hill and we arrived at the offices of the BMU. The tin building with a view of what qualifies as urban sprawl on Remba was locked.
“The head of the BMU will be here soon,” said a man who I now registered had been with us since we had disembarked. I had noticed him silently observing in the staff room at the school and just chalked him up as an overly passive teacher.
It turned out he was a member of the BMU and had been the one who had advised Dan of our faux pas in failing to check in when we arrived on the island.
We stood in swarms of sam waiting and pretending not to notice suspicious stares from the locals.
Five minutes later, a large man in shorts and a tank shop approached the office with slender man in dark pants and a bowling shirt by his side. They unlocked the padlock securing the BMU office and made his way inside. Happy to be out of the sun and relatively sequestered from the sam, we followed the larger man inside.
Plastic patio chairs were arranged and we took our seats with the larger man and the man in the bowling shirt seated facing us on a raised platform.
I didn’t really start to feel as though there was reason to worry until I heard Dan respond to the BMU chief inquiry as to why we were on the island.
Remba was our tenth school visit in three days and I had heard day explain TWB-C and our work with SuTGuCA enough to fill in for him should he be taken by a coughing fit mid-sentence. This was not the standard response.
The mixture of apprehension and put on reverence in his voice led me to think we had committed a larger transgression than had earlier been indicated.
The situation was uncomfortable.
Here we were, sitting in front of the head of the very unit we had just learned was turning a blind eye toward the education of Remba’s children – and we hadn’t popped in to say hello when we’d arrived.
Making matters worse was the fact that midday equatorial sun on a tin structure provides a person with a personal understanding of a cake in an Easy Bake Oven.
The BMU chief didn’t notice. In fact, it appeared as though we were keeping him from his nap. As the members of the team took turns introducing ourselves, I couldn’t quite tell if his eyes were open. I felt like Luke sitting across from a possibly-inebriated Jabba the Hut.
After some questions asked for the ceremony of it, Dan spoke up.
“We have some other schools to visit today, sir, so we would greatly appreciate it if you would release us to continue on.”
Release?
While I was attempting to put the word into proper context, the BMU chief nodded his assent and we had sprang to our feet to shake hands and make a hasty exit.
I’m not sure if we were in any real trouble; Dan still just laughs when I ask. What I do know is the state of affairs in this pseudo-governmental building did nothing to show me a reason to hope for the children of Remba.
I’ve had some time since we left Remba, and I still can’t find the hope. I want to.
Remba Pt. 1
31 July 09
When you board a boat from Mbita, the first island you pass is Rusinga. Then, there’s Kibougi, Ngodhe, Takawiri, Mfangano and Ringiti.
When you’re boat pulls approximately parallel to Ringiti and you’re still motoring, there grows in you a sense of understanding for those Old Worlders who believed sailing into the horizon would lead one to fall off the edge of the earth.
Wait about 30 minutes after that point, though, and you’ll realize there’s something out there.
In waters whose ownership incites great debate between Kenya and Uganda rests Remba Island.
As we pulled close, I grew confused. Perhaps, I told myself, we are just stopping here to refuel before we head to whatever island school is next on our itinerary. But Remba was our destination. Existing solely as a base of operations for fisherfolk, Remba stands as a pile of rocks with corrugated tin structures shoved up against one another. Aside from people, chickens, goats and, inexplicably, cows, the bulk of Remba’s population is sam – a type of flying insect that crowds the air and makes opening one’s mouth a dreadful mistake.
We disembarked, surrounded by nonplussed fisherfolk, and I was distinctly aware of my foreignness. While Mbita has taken on a feel of familiarity, this place was not my own.
Our party made its way through the shacks, sheds and sam to the far side of the island to Remba Island Primary School. In the middle of a barren rocky expanse stood two corrugated tin structures larger than any others on the island and divided into classrooms. We ducked inside the staff room to meet the school’s faculty. Five of the school’s 9 teachers sat at desks on a dirt floor grading the school’s end-of-term exams as though unaware of their environment.
Of Remba Primary’s 150 learners, we were told approximately 130 were complete or partial orphans sent to live with female relatives on the island. It was difficult to get an exact tally on the number of pupils at the school, one teacher told us because many students were migrant and moved with the fish. They’d gone to Class 8, the teacher said, but those students had moved so now the school only went to Class 7.
Though the school operated on an inclusion model, it was more out of necessity than design as there was no special education teacher to meet the needs of the school’s 4 deaf and 3 mentally challenged learners.
When he was campaigning, Remba’s MP had promised an allocation of Ksh 500,000 to the school. They’re still waiting.
“Because community members and business owners don’t have children in the school,” one teacher told us, “they don’t see the need to fund the school.”
The closest semblance of government on the island, the Beach Management Unit, was decidedly uninvolved.
The outhouse dug for the school hadn’t been maintained by the community and the learners were left to relieve themselves in the sparse clumps of grass near the water’s edge.
As we stood in the sweltering staff room and I watched the kids through the mesh wire that was standing in as a window, I was keenly aware of a pain somewhere in my heart.
Everything was stacked against these kids. Everything. Cut off from the mainland community that had hosted us so warmly since our arrival, the only thing the children of the island in their favor was their ignorance of what they didn’t have.
No matter the resources lacking at any of the other schools we’d seen so far on the trip I’d felt a sense of growth and hope. All the schools so far would be okay.
I couldn’t see the hope here. I couldn’t see the school’s growth.