Earlier this month I arrived at the Primary Teacher’s College to teach the Year One students. Normally, I see the female students outside sweeping the driveway. But, this particular morning the students were sweeping around girls kneeling in the driveway. Some of them were shuffling forward, but others were just kneeling there. I stopped in front of a group of four girls, “Good morning. Why are you kneeling?”
They looked up at me, glanced behind them toward their tutors (the Ugandan word that describes people who teach at the college level), and looked down at the ground. Putting on my best teacher voice, I asked again. Looking toward their tutors I followed my question with, “they’re not looking over here.”
“We are late.” One of the girls responded.
“I don’t understand. Why are you kneeling and not in class?” The girls just looked at me.
Instead of asking again I headed towards the two women standing on the opposite side of the driveway.
I greeted both women, as is customary, and then asked, “why are the students kneeling on the ground?”
The tutor looked at me, “because they are late.”
“So, every time they are late they have to kneel? How will they get to class if they’re kneeling?”
“They’re not supposed to be kneeling. They’re going to class on their knees.”
“You mean they’re crawling on their hands and knees to class? Like babies?” I couldn’t keep the dismay out of my question. Both women looked at me, so I quickly followed it up with, “what time was their class supposed to start?”
Looking at her watch, one of the tutors responded, “7:30.”
I looked at my watch. It was just after 8am. “How often does this happen?” I asked as I gestured towards the students moving slowly to class, crawling over the gravel and dirt, trying not to get their clothes dirty.
“It will only happen once. They will learn their lesson and won’t be late again.”
The Deputy Principal walks over to us and one of the woman walks away.
The woman standing next to me starts to talk very loudly and very quickly at the Deputy. I take this as my cue to leave.
I say, to no one in particular, “I’m taking my students to class. I want to start class now.”
I walk over to some of the students kneeling on the ground. I tap them on the shoulder.
“Let’s go.” The seven young women stare up at me.
“Stand up. It’s time for class.” I stare at them. One of the students breaks eye contact and looks at the tutors I had just left behind. They’re still arguing.
“Now.” I say, with extra emphasis on every letter.
Realizing the opportunity they were granted, the young women stood up and walked quickly to class.
I watch them walk through the door to the classroom. I look around to see if there are any more students that were supposed to be in my class kneeling outside. I don’t see any.
I wait for one more moment to see if the tutors are going to say anything to me about taking the students to class instead of waiting for them to crawl on their own. They don’t notice.
I walk to class, cross to the front of the room, pull out the chalk, eraser, and squeaky ball from my backpack. I write PHONICS = SOUNDS on the board. I turn back around, ask “what does this mean?”, and toss the ball to the first person who raises their hand.