My name is Fumani. I also go by the names “madam”, “ma’am” and “mistress” — bestowed upon me by my pupils despite my insistence on a title-free environment.
That the learners disregard my first name is a combination of habit (no one ever knows his or her teacher’s first name and must duly block out that information should he or she stumble upon it) and respect (for an elder, like myself — cringe).
So never mind about my name, the important identifier here is what I do — I teach history to high school pupils between grades 10 and 12.
Let me clarify: I teach an elective class with a specific focus on African history. I am not a qualified teacher. I have been convinced, however, that I may have something to offer.
So this is how it all began — I arrived at the school one morning in January this year, requesting to see the principal to discuss a proposal I had drawn up for an African history course.
No, that’s not how it began. Some background: I live about five minutes away from the school where I now teach. Despite being able to see it from my front door, I was not aware of its internal dynamics or some of its defining features, such as its name.
This is testament to my own disconnection from some of the physical realities that surround me. Nevertheless, my awakening was to come last year when my neighbour became one of the school’s pupils, I mean learners.
I always harboured ambitions of being a teacher but figured I’d have to wait until I’d retired from more financially rewarding employment before venturing into the realm of poorly remunerated, socially meaningful work.
Lest I mislead you, I have not fully succumbed to the latter, perhaps morally superior, option. And yet even I, one with a clearly contradictory set of values, couldn’t help but be moved to action by my neighbour’s constant accounts of life at this near-invisible site of social reproduction.
The more predictable stories about this seemingly typical “township school” included tales of overwhelming resource inadequacies, the questionable competence of some teachers and the shocking levels of ill-discipline among the learners.
What I did not anticipate were stories of teachers whose version of firm words to an underperforming class included remarks such as “Ni dom!” (“You’re dumb!”) and “Into eniyaziyo ukuba preg!” (“All you know is to fall pregnant!”). And, indeed, it was my neighbour who convinced me that, apart from a lack of academic focus and some genuine learning inabilities that emanate from resource-poor home and school environments, what many of his peers lacked was simply a sense of confidence. In his words: “Some of the kids have let poverty get to their minds so they don’t have that sense of self-worth or belief in their abilities.”
These narratives provide less popular insights into what may be going wrong at our schools. They reveal a potential underlying psychology of worthlessness that is prevalent across the underprivileged school community.
This, the seemingly embedded psychology of worthlessness, is the problem that drove me to get involved sooner rather than later. Whether I needed such a complex framing of the problem to compel my involvement is another story. Admittedly, my past will also show that I’m capable of engaging with problems of world poverty from privileged hippie enclaves without being even mildly crippled by such deep contradictions.
But I’m not alone in this behaviour. I know many lay commentators like myself whose theoretical wells never run dry when it comes to diagnosing global ills in general and problems with South African education more specifically.
If anything, my theory of embedded psychological worthlessness should provide an indication of my talents in this area.
However, to be fair to myself and the many couch-based education experts I know, we talk so much because we care even more. We understand that the realisation of all the ideals our country believes in — freedom, equity and justice — is deeply tied to the goings-on inside that much berated yet near-sacred space — the classroom.
So here I am, a self-made teacher, compelled by my made-up theory and a reality that persists regardless of our collective ramblings.
I’ve chosen this route because, even if I turn out to be an appalling teacher who cannot actually transmit knowledge content, then I’ll certainly be an ace at conveying to my learners that they are capable of knowing.
One of the fundamental injustices I’m hoping to tackle is epistemic injustice. By this, I mean that what I intend to teach my learners is not only who Kwame Nkrumah was but also, more importantly, that they can know that and more. I want them to know that they have a unique historical purpose to use their understanding of the concept of time and their attendant knowledge of history to transform today into a better tomorrow.
This calling is not unique to their peers in Europe (which one of my grade 11 learners believes to be the capital of Egypt!) but is universal to all human beings.
This is what I believe I and my community of couch-based education experts can offer by getting involved. Because here’s what I figure — I’d rather sink with this ship than float on an unmanned iceberg. You coming along?
Fumani Mthembi heads the social development unit of Pele Green Energy and moonlights as a teacher and education activist