A Box Full Of Stories

7/19/2011



The only two things I really remembered about school were the things that horrified me. OK, there were three. The first was the Super Volcano. And the Super Volcano story went something like this. My 7th grade teacher leans against his desk and begins to roll up his sleeves. He whispers to us, "It lies in Yellow Stone." We lean forward to hear more. "And it's over a thousand years over due to explode. It will be the end of mankind. And it will all start in the US." That year my father decided a family trip to Yellow Stone would be a good idea. I thought otherwise. The second horrifying memory I have was Ntzchi. Junior year in High School my Philosophy teacher relished the idea of tormenting us just before spring break. "What's the point of anything? Of life?" He asked us. I remember sitting back and letting that question seep into my naïve, little, brain cells. What IS the point? I thought in horror. Suddenly my 11th grade crush didn't seem to matter anymore. My dreams of making the world a better place seemed pointless now. He had destroyed any optimism I had left in my angry adolescent teen years. "Now, enjoy your spring break." He laughed rubbing his hands together. And finally, the last BUT CERTAINLY NOT LEAST, there was Stacey Davis. Stacey Davis was the epitome of cool, and of course, I was not. And for any teen, not being cool, was worse than any super volcano or bitter philosophy teacher.

To sum up school for me- I HATED it. I hated the teachers. I hated the students. I hated the hallways that reeked of sterile BO. I hated the fat secretary who wore rings on every little fat finger and greeted every student with the most insincere smile. Where the Red Fern Grows, Catcher in the Rye.. all may be wonderful memories for you- but there was something about reading them inside a gigantic textbook that told me to just skim and scam and watch Saved by the Bell instead. And now, ironically, today I am here trying to teach students to appreciate a school library, asking them to question their surroundings, to open their eyes, to wonder about the world and how it works.

Two years ago I asked them, "What do you want to see change in your country? In your culture?" They would respond, "Simphiwe, how can we question the only thing we know? What else is there?" I have tried to teach questions more than answers. We read newspapers, books, watched documentaries on civil war, animals, tribes and cultures all over the world. But how do you instill curiosity in a culture of obedience? How do you wake a zombie?

And today, with the last class I will teach at Siphofaneni High School, I again ask them, "What do you want to see change in your country? Your culture? They hold their hands high, "We want to be heard." "We want to look our elders in the eye." "We want to be able to elect our MPs." "No more Dlamini power." Suddenly, they had answers and even more importantly, MORE questions. People ask me, "Simphiwe, what do you teach? Are you teaching Life Skills? HIV prevention?" I correct them, "I try to paint, as best I can, an unbiased picture of the world for these students." I wanted everyone to realize that we are all connected. I beg them, encourage them, annoy them until they ask the question, "Why?" The more new things I threw at them the more I saw curiosity come out. Which eventually, I hoped, would lead to growth, understanding, tolerance, and eventually compassion. Peace Corps told us to keep our politics, sexuality, and religion inside. We had to memorize the THREE GOALS OF PEACE CORPS. 1. Sustainable development 2. Share your American Culture 3. Learn their culture and bring it home to teach others. But when talking with staff, goals 2 and 3 never got much attention. Instead we were encouraged to work with numbers, flip charts, power point presentations, NCP buildings, and libraries. But this was never me.

"Simphiwe, are you a Christian?" They ask me. And I tell them- always, "I don't know what I believe." To which they always respond, "But how? Why?" And then I explain. I explain with pictures, films, books about OTHER religions- other ways of living. Peace Corps would tell me to keep this inside." You have no opinion Simphiwe. You are Simphiwe. You are NOT controversial." But I am. And so- I show them. I may never be Swazi, they may never be American. But there is a commonality between us. We can be atheist and still be good. We can be gay and be great. I watch my male, PCV, gay, friend withering away. “I hate keeping this a secret. It’s killing me. I don’t like pretending. Living a lie. I’ve done that enough in my life.” He says to me. "Can you imagine?" I ask. "For two years you have established great relationships with your host family and Swazi friends. They see you and respect you. Now can you imagine right before you leave- you say to them that you're gay?" I understand the security risk, but the only way to grow and learn is to be around something new.

I fear for this generation of Swazis. They have all the ingredients for a very messy, violent, and chaotic rebellion. Extreme poverty alongside extreme wealth, an economic collapse, high rates of alcoholism, the indifference of the outside world, extreme jealousy of the successful, the lack of trust in relationships, a parentless generation, hierarchical centralized power, entitlement based on surname, and a generation of defeat and blind obedience. All it takes is for one brave, charismatic, lunatic whispering into the radio and the zombies would follow.

Yes. I thought, spoke, and communicated in controversy. I pushed, questioned, and demanded from these students. I tried to wake the zombie. But I was good at it. I had a way of understanding a groups' thoughts, gestures, and comments. I knew how to move them from topic to topic with ease. I understood where the line was and how to avoid it. Over the past two years I have watched their hands move away from their mouth as they spoke. The girls raised their chins and began to look directly at me. We no longer feared each other.

I return home to Mamba. With just a few days left we try to see as much of each other as we can. Today, he takes me back to my first family in Nkiliji. Its been months since I've seen them. Make ("Ma-gay"- mom) grabs my chest and kisses me on the neck screaming, "Swani (baby) Swani!" As she always does. She embraces Mamba and he shakes Babe's ("Ba-bay" Father) hand with the utmost humility. We take a seat in the living room and the three of them speak their language as I speak mine (playing with and talking to the cat). Mamba looks my direction and asks, "Do you know what they just asked me?" After two years I still don't fully understand SiSwati but instead have learned to read gestures and mannerisms. "They just asked you how many cows you will give them for me." I answer. Make and Babe laugh. "15?" Babe asks. I nudge Mamba, "Come on. You can do better than that." For three hours, we take advantage of Mamba, and speak effortlessly together with him translating. But the sun is setting and we have to hurry back to Siphofaneni to spend my last night with the children on that homestead. Tomorrow Peace Corps will pick me up in their white chariot they once dropped me in. They will take me to Mbabane to begin the closing out process during my last week in Swaziland. In just a week I will no longer be a volunteer.

Nkiliji Make leans her chin into my chest and I embrace her tiny body. "I love you Swani." She tells me. Tears collect in my eyes. "I love you Ma." Babe grabs my hand and holds it to his brow. "Thank you Simphiwe. Thank you." He says to me. I turn to Mamba trying to speak without tears. "Please, can you tell them how much they mean to me?" Make holds on tight to my waste, swaying back and forth repeating, "Swani. Swani." Mamba smiles back and says, "I think they know Mere."

We drive back to shitty Siphofaneni and I try to keep it together. "Do you understand now why it was so hard for me to go from THAT family to the one in Siphofaneni?" I ask.

After saying goodbye to the kids in Siphofaneni, I tell Mamba, "I'll be right back." I walk back to the spot I've come to fall in love with over these two years. Tucked away in our backyard, a tiny rock sits and waits for me to say goodbye. Normally, my dogs would accompany me but not anymore. In fact, I haven't been back since they died. I sit on my rock now, for the last time, watching the leaves tickle each other, as I've always done. I watch the cows follow the herd boy home. I listen to their exhales of annoyance- like a seal coming up for breath. I realize now, more than ever, the comfort of an exhale. And this was where I had come to do it for years. How many times I’ve exhaled on this rock after a long day. The blood red sun would set and my two dogs would sit alongside me scratching and sniffing. But tonight, I stand here alone- just as it should be- telling myself, "This will be the last time." And this is how it goes for a traveler who's been stagnant for so long. Everything you do, you say to yourself, "This will be the last." So I say goodbye to this spot. To the ghosts of my dogs. And to this rock, "I thank you."

These short, winter, hours come fast and suddenly its dusk. The sun squeezes its way between the leaves screaming at me to hurry home.

I return to my hut to find Mamba lying on my floor. No bed. No chair. Nothing that said I was here. These hut walls once carried images to remind me of the outside world- that it was still there. Walls that carried warm smiles of friends and family waiting for me to come back home. A reminder that I still had a home. But now, cold barren walls surround us. The only comfort lies on a blanket on my hut floor. "Come here." He says to me. He holds me in his arms and we stare up at thatch and again I think, “This will be the last.” He exhales loudly and whispers to me, "This will be the last time you have to stare up at this thatch roof." I roll onto my side facing him now. Surely he can hear the beating of my heart. He smooths back the chunk of hair I always keep on the right side of my face. "There you are." He says. "Why do you always do that?" I ask- annoyed. "Because. I'm absorbing you while I can. As much as I can while I have you." Waves of awareness fold onto me and his lips find mine. Stop thinking- I tell myself. Only feel. Try to just feel. But how can I trust my feelings when they can just disappear like that? When they have hurt so many? I hold on tight to his hands running my fingers across his scars. “I hate my hands.” He says. I open my mouth to say, "I love your hands." My lips ignore my brain and instead whisper, "I love you." My body tenses and I shoot up. "I meant to say I love your hands!" I shout. Bursts of laughter below me, Mamba holds his side laughing. "I hate you." I remind him.

The next morning I run to school to say goodbye to my students. The teachers have yet to acknowledge I'm leaving and when I tell them, they respond, "What will you leave us then?" To which I laugh and ask, "How's a library sound?" Annoyed, defeated, I stomp off. Other volunteers might think of my library attempt as a failure, but I stopped thinking this way a long time ago. I stopped checking boxes and counting numbers- instead I focused on the individual. For weeks up until my departure, after the students had found out I was leaving, child after child had approached me. "Simphiwe, I heard you helped a student. Can you help me?" For years, I had taken them to doctor appointments, connected them with agencies that could help with food, clothing, school fees, and brought all that I could to school with me. I held their hand as they cried to me, "Simphiwe, I don't mean to be a beggar. But I am a parent to my siblings. We need help." So today, my last day, I ask the deputy head teacher to give me 5 minutes, during assembly, to say goodbye to 500 students. I try to keep the tears in when I say how proud I am of them. They've changed my life. I hope they believe me when I say they are not beggars- but survivors. I leave help line information, NGOs numbers, and my personal contact. "To you I am Simphiwe.” I shout. “But the outside world only knows me as Meredith. It has been an honor to be Simphiwe for two years with you."

I know, Simphiwe is no one to you, to other volunteers, or even Mamba. But she meant something to these children- even if it wasn't for long. She tried to be a friend, a teacher, and a parent to those who didn't have any.

Afterwards, I try to leave but student after student approaches me. Every goodbye my heart sunk further and further.

I hope I never forget their faces. I hope they never forget mine.

I only have an hour left before Peace Corps picks me up in Siphofaneni. I open my hut door and see that I've left a tiny box in the middle of my floor. Inside, two years of stories. "Tell me your story." I have asked a thousand students- if not more. And they were all here, in this box. For weeks, I have parted with a lot of things- a lot of people- but this box I couldn't leave behind. I wanted to keep their stories. Forever.

My white chariot arrives to take me back to Mbabane. “Meredith. Are you ready to go?” The driver asks me. “I’m ready.” I say. I pick up my two backpacks, a purse, and one large box full of stories. Here we go, I think.