minutes running, he introduced himself as the teacher of the English course at the school. In our conversation, he talked about how he was so pleased to be able to talk to an American as not all Americans he's met before were so open and willing to converse. Shortly after that, he asked me to give a speech to his English course the next day.Just as quickly as he gave his proposal, I refused it. I told him I had work the next morning at the health clinic and that it was my last weekend with my family at Sebikhotane, and therefore, I had no time. As if he could read right through me, he appealed directly to my conscience and told me that it was a once in a lifetime opportunity that his students could learn about the civil rights movement of the United States from the lips of an American-- especially now right after the election of Barack Obama: "the idol and paragon of all people of color". I told him that I don't know enough about the Civil Rights Movement to give a speech on the topic. He then guilted me with his disbelief that an American wouldn't know the story of Martin Luther King Jr and the history of the Civil Rights Movement (dates, locations, and everything) by heart . He assured me that I could speak to the class in English and that I would walk out with time to spare to get to work. Not wanting to be the mean American that many Senegalese claim to envision of those who inhabit the United States, I finally gave in to his "offer".
I walked home kicking sand in all directions-- not only because its fucking difficult to walk on sand or because by then it was pitch black at night with no street lights to see the dips between sand mounds, but-- from anger. I was enraged that that man dared to use guilt to put me in such a situation and also pissed that I could be guilted to put myself in a position with which I was so uncomfortable. I didn't say hi to one person I walked past on my way home to my host family's house-- which is a huge social faux-pas in Senegal. Though, in retrospect it was probably a good decision on my behalf considering the amount of anger bubbling inside me and what could have potentially spewed out of my mouth in my broken French.
After buying a new card of credits, I called up those who replied to my text and with their help, started to write my speech. I told myself I would only spend one hour on it because it would not be fair to my family nor myself to be completely absorbed by something that really shouldn't have concerned me. When I finished, I sat in the salon with my host siblings, chatted, and watched Spanish/Italian soap operas as we usually do. Towards the end of the night I whipped out my notebook and worked on my 20-page final research paper. At that point, I was only on page twelve.
The next morning I arrived at the school at 7:45AM, ready to give my speech. In typical Senegalese fashion, the teacher did not show up until 8:10AM. I started my speech in a Senegalese manner, thanking the audience for the opportunity, then introducing myself, and then my topic. I very briefly went over the civil rights movement, then made mention of head figures like Martin Luther King Jr, Malcom X, and Rosa Parks, and proceeded to discuss what I felt was most important-- the fight for human rights by way of equality between races first. While talking, I made sure to enunciate and speak slowly, throwing in hand gestures as much as possible to help with the students' comprehension-- a few tips I personally picked up as the non-native French spe
aker and non-native Wolof-speaker in this French colonized country whose native language is Wolof.When I finished talking, the level of the students' English was made obvious by their nervous smiles and semi-blank stares. They applauded, the teacher thanked me, and then he asked me to say it again in French. After a moment's hesitation in which I silently cursed at him in my head with every insult in every language that I knew, I summarized my ten minute long speech as best as I could in French. When I finally finished talking, I half expected him to then ask me to say it again in Wolof. Thankfully, he didn't. By this time, there were ten minutes left for me to walk from one end of the village to the other in order to get to work on time at the health clinic. Despite the teacher's promise that I would get to work on time, it seemed clear to me that I would be late for my last day at the health clinic. As I tried to grin and say goodbye to the teacher and be off on my way, he told me that I must meet the school's headmaster to let him know of my "guest appearance." As he dragged me across the national highway to the other building of the school, I decided that my fight was lost and there was no way that I would get to work on time. After meeting the headmaster, he said it was imperative that I met the village's mayor. In the process, I also met the school's treasurer, secretary, and the teacher's own cousin and brother.
By the end of that experience, I finally walked away from school fifteen minutes late for work and the words "when in Senegal"(...let a guy completely take advantage of the fact that you're American?) burned into my mind.
***(neither picture has any relevance to the experience described in this entry. The first is just a picture of two of my host brothers studying at home. The second is a photo of the Koranic school by my house.)
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