Hello Paul.

Meet Paul. Paul is one of the students I work with at the special school I’ve been at for the last four months.

Hmmm, now that I think about it, maybe “work with” is a vast overstatement…

But, Paul is different. When I first encountered Paul, he was laying on the floor trying to eat his shoe. The educator in the classroom was ignoring him and so were the other students. I watched him for quite awhile. He intrigued me. He didn’t do much all day (like most of the kids at my school) but he never seemed unhappy. Usually he would be led into the classroom by one of the older children, placed in a chair and he would begin chewing on the desk or a nearby chair, eventually making his way to lying on the floor, his shoe in his mouth. I was told that he was “blind, deaf, mute and stupid,” by one of the educators.

Since most of the children lack real diagnoses on the state of their mental capacity, most of the kids are “stupid,” “mad,” “not normal,” or just plain “crazy” in the esteemed opinion of my supervisor, The Principal.

Paul, however, is different. Because he is “blind, deaf, mute and stupid” according to The Principal and therefore not able to act as a servant to the educators, he is completely ignored most of the time. Don’t get me wrong, Paul is a little bit of a hard situation. He isn’t potty-trained so he has to use diapers; he doesn’t eat by himself so the educator (or I) has to feed him his two daily meals. He can’t get anywhere without being led very slowly by the shoulders.

In the four months that I’ve been observing the on-goings of my school, I’ve noticed that most of the children are probably far behind their true abilities. But what would I know, right? I have a journalism degree. I’ve never been around special-needs kids very much before I got to South Africa. Heck, who am I kidding, most of the time…

I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE HELL I’M DOING!

Being that what it may, I know that these kids could be far ahead of where they are now if the educators would actually put away their tea cups, get some special education training, and actually try. It’s a far-fetched idea, I know. Silly me, but I’m a dreamer…

I’ve decided to experiment with this theory and work with Paul, the Most Lost Cause of All the Lost Causes. My experiment was simple. I know that I’ve been told he’s mute and deaf, but the fact that he laughs sporadically and moves away from the educator or The Principal as she yells at him makes me think that perhaps he can hear and use his vocal cords just fine. Brilliant.

So I pulled him off the floor, dusted him off, took his shoe out of his mouth, sat him down next to me and just talked to him while I fed him his porridge. I didn’t do the baby voice; I didn’t over-simplify things; I didn’t try to speak in Setswana; I just talked to him. I know, it’s silly. He doesn’t speak English! But, the more I thought about it, he doesn’t really speak Setswana either, in fact, he doesn’t really speak anything. So what’s the harm?

After a couple of meals “together,” I started noticing that whenever something would fall on his shirt I would say, “Oops!” or “Oh-oh, Paul!” and he would laugh! As if on cue! He thought it was funny. Wait…he thought I was funny.

Victory!

Ok, small victory…but it kept me motivated.

So last week after I finished feeding him his breakfast, I said, “Yay, Paul!” And he copied me by saying, “Yaaaaaaaayyyyy” and then promptly burst out in an evil laugh, “Brahha-ha-ha-ha!” Which in return, made me burst out in my evil laugh, “Brahha-ha-ha-ha!” Which we both found funny, so we burst out in a real laughing fit.

And that’s how Paul and I became friends.

Eventually he started answering my “Helllloooo, Paul” with a “Helllloooooo.” Followed by a round of evil laughing. For our own amusement, of course.

So when the week ended, I was on cloud nine. Finally, something I could do since I’ve been placed in an environment that has made me feel completely and utterly useless and incompetent.

Then Monday comes and at morning assembly, I see that the educator that usually works in the classroom I work in is out. Immediately I want to fake sick and go home. Although I know I can’t (shouldn’t) handle the classroom alone, and The Principal knows I can’t (shouldn’t) be left alone, I’m always left alone. So, begrudgingly, I head to the classroom and try to show no fear to the 11 students waiting to torture me for the next three hours.

Two hours later, after I feed Paul, laugh half-heartedly at our evil laughs, get spit on and kicked by a student, and stop another kid from setting a table on fire, I realize that I’m not fit to do this.

I’m not a teacher. I’m not a teacher’s assistant. I’m just a girl from Texas who thought she could take some pictures with some cute African kids and maybe help with HIV/AIDS education.

What am I doing here?

I’m trying my hardest to keep the kids from doing inappropriate things with each other while realizing that though I’ve only read about behavior like this in books and news stories that don’t end well; I know that this shouldn’t be happening. I watch the kids try to smack each other with sticks, books, and feather dusters and realize that kids of this age shouldn’t think that violence is the way to communicate.

The worst part is that even though I know that this isn’t how children who have never been abused or borderline neglected should act; I can’t say anything to any of the educators. I can’t talk about it to Peace Corps. I can’t explain it to anybody and expect anything to change.

The hardest part for me, the girl from Texas, to understand is that I will never really be able to change it. I once heard from a Peace Corps staff member that I’m not here to change culture. Is this culture?

I remember listening to my South African language instructor explain that child rights laws are made so that young girls can marry whoever they want and children can get their parents arrested for no reason. I distinctly remember hearing that “the only way to teach an African child is to beat them.”

And, unfortunately, a beatee becomes a beater. I see the cycle everyday as I see the educators and The Principal smack the kids and then the kids smack each other.

I see Terrance, the feisty kid who screams a lot, try to get on top of other little boys and pull down their pants.

I know what a lot of people are thinking as they read this. They’re surprised, they’re saddened, they’re mad at me for not doing something to stop it.

What I can say is that I can hide the feather dusters, the sticks, the books. I can pull Terrance away from the other little boys and give him the sternest “no” I can muster. I can try to explain in a “culturally sensitive” way that the kids are inappropriate with each other, but all that will lead to is The Principal coming in, hitting Terrance till he pretends to be asleep and she’ll laugh at me for not being able to handle the kids alone as her and her scary eyebrows walk out of the classroom.

And what happens when I leave? What happens on the weekends? What happens when I can’t be here to keep my mouth shut so the kids won’t be beaten or abused, even if it costs me a few headaches and a couple of kicks from one of the feistier kids?

And Paul…

I can talk to Paul and laugh with Paul and maybe even teach him how to drink from a sippy cup and eat with his hands now, but will anybody continue helping him when I leave? Will anybody talk to him? Will anybody do the evil laugh with him until he genuinely laughs?

All signs point to no.