The Lessons of Children

Last summer I volunteered to teach in a government-run school in an impoverished rural district of Southwestern Uganda called Kanungu. Despite the reality that few of my students owned shoes or uniforms that weren’t threadbare and riddled with holes, my students were the ones who reminded me to always smile. There are two children in the heart of Kanungu who will stay engraved on my soul for the rest of my life.

The first was never in my class. Her name, I found out after my pathetic attempt at inquiring in the local language, is Peace. She was the first student I noticed, because in a sea of purple uniforms, she wore a bright yellow dress. Now it may be that her family couldn't afford the standard purple gingham, and perhaps the Sunday-school style dress was a hand-me-down from a relative or a lucky market day find; but in hindsight I am convinced that little bolt of sunshine was a cosmic 'pay attention here' sign. I think she was about nine years old, but she was always the one to serve the baby class children their porridge lunches, handing out cups and wiping chins, and she always wore a smile. I would always greet Peace, and then the small smile became a grin. Whether it was pleasure at the recognition or amusement at the muzungu's poor attempt at the local language, I may never know.
The other pupil emblazoned on my heart is Wilson, the P6 boy who could be president someday. This boy has such a desire to learn, but beyond that he has an innate sense of true kindness. In my first week of teaching his class, I stumbled horribly between adapting my American tactics to his Ugandan classroom. Despite my gracelessness, Wilson would always volunteer, and never mocked me when I asked him once or twice to translate my directions for the less English-fluent students. He was rapt when I tried reading to the class, eyes wide as he imagined the fictional picture I was trying to paint with foreign words.This young man will always teach me more than I can ever offer him.