I saw him in the market--my old friend. I greeted him, then beckoned for him to come, to follow me. He trusted; he came. At my house he politely sat on the small stoop when I entered, after I finger-spelled "Kalibu"--Welcome.
His face lit up with knowing recognition when I brought out the two books that had come in a package I'd been awaiting for almost three months: introductory sign language texts with lots of pictures and photos of vocabulary. For over an hour we sat, going through the books, him demonstrating the signs or signing "same," and showing me the sign he had learned for the word depicted in the book. Many signs sprang forth from deep within my memory, as I remembered my youngest sister learning to sign as a toddler. How I wished she could be here with me and my friend, teaching and translating! I brought a family picture to point her out to him and communicated that she knows sign. He asked if she is deaf; I said no, but didn't know how to explain Down Syndrome. It didn't matter. We sat there, as the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, learning fast and slow and work and monkey. I laughed out loud more than I had collectively over the past month. Dipping into this language--even just at the water's edge--was so invigorating! And Katito--I've written about him before. I've said his smile could make the world go round, and I'm still convinced of that. I sat there thinking, "I don't know why, but it feels like this teenage boy is my best friend here." Watching his hands speak, I was struck by the sheer beauty--of the language, alternatingly amusing and profound, and of his execution. We could communicate on only a primitive level, though we've had written conversations before. When there's no paper, he uses a finger or a rock to scratch letters into the darkness of his forearm, briefly leaving faint spellings on the skin. We had once, in the market, "sung" the national anthem together, as he signed the written lyrics as I pointed to them. And we'd had a long, fairly confused written conversation during Term 2 about the possibility of him attending school in Term 3, since his family can't currently afford the boarding expenses of the school for the deaf in Kasama. That conversation, involving a lot of coaxing, was followed by one with his older sister, and weeks later, one with his mother at their home. My school head, once a special education teacher, had agreed that he should come and that he would be sponsored by the school--meaning he wouldn't need to pay the K80,000 (roughly $16) school fees for the term. I had been thrilled when he showed up, a week late notwithstanding, in Term 3, and I bustled him into the classroom, asking for a pupil to be his helper, negotiating arguments between the handful of boys who jumped up, eager to help communicate the teacher's spoken words into his notes. When new Peace Corps Volunteers on a mid-training visit chanced by and introduced themselves to the class in their sparkly new Mambwe, the pupils were in awe as I fumbled through finger-spelling their names for Katito.
"I helped get this boy into this classroom," I though. "I have done something here."
And when I learned, the next day, he'd been sent away by another administrator unaware of the previous arrangement, I was crushed--and furious. But I kept my cool, letting another teacher address the administrative dissonance, and accepting that I couldn't force the school to admit him. And, too, as personally defeated as I felt, I reminded myself that the mentality of inclusivity, of every child's potential despite obvious deficits in teaching--it's true that none of the teachers sign, and this school is not the ideal school for him--of the importance of the social aspect of school--these ideas are cultural, and personal, and I can't expect everyone, particularly those with such different backgrounds, to share my views on them.
Now here he was, as the term drew near to a close, sitting on my stoop. And I felt that if he were my brother, my son, my heart could not be more overflowing with love than it already was. Something about him--his heart seems so pure, his mind quick, his smile so ready.
"I can't leave this place," I felt sure. Oh, not that I've been wanting to leave; but the past few weeks have seen a few bouts of melancholy, of ambivalence, of burn-out with the term that had so many obstacles to what I wanted to do--things beyond my control. Not wanting to go, but not at every moment wanting to be here.
Katito brought me back. I can't wait to see where our language and friendship goes. Oh, and Mom--he said to tell you thank you for sending me the books.
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| Katito with me in April 2013, just days before my departure from the village |
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