When I’m wrapping up a lesson or concept in class, I ask my students, “Est-ce clair?” Is it clear?

“Oui, Madame!” they shout back in unison. More often than not there’s one goofball student who responds with, “Yes Madame! I compreesh!” Volunteers hear this all the time: compreesh. It’s an English oops, a Franglais fail, that I don’t bother to correct. Like so many other things in Benin I’ve come to overlook and ignore, I am numb to the word, compreesh.

After teaching in Benin for over a year now, I’ve realized that I let things slide. I overlook things I can’t change and ignore things I don’t understand or don’t want to deal with. Maybe it’s because I don’t care enough. Take compreesh for example; I could take the time to knowingly say to each student who uses compreesh, “Understand. I don’t understand. Repeat. Understand,” but I let it slide because it makes me laugh. On the other hand, I can also think of plenty of things gone ignored because I care too much.  It’s definitely easier to ignore things that bother you rather than confront them – at least that’s what I’ve told myself for the past year every time I’m overcharged for food, called a “yovo,” or waiting for a taxi to leave. When these situations are over and I’ve made it through them by biting my tongue, the amount of patience, humor, or grace I’ve shown is always what I feel best about. I rarely feel that good about my sloppy confrontations.  

Today, for instance, I had an argument with a member of my school administration that left me feeling rather lousy but also enlightened. To preface this story, I should explain that I have an incredible relationship with my colleagues. I’ve heard horror stories from other volunteers who have to work with ignorant, rude, unsupportive, close-minded, disrespectful or lazy administrations. The men I work with at CEG Bouca are none of those things, (including the comptable, or the school’s accountant, who’s about to be portrayed as the villain in this tale). My colleagues have shown me nothing but patience and respect as I’ve become accustomed to new practices and adjusted to certain policies. 

One policy I’ve had a hard time coming to terms with is chucking students out of class when they haven’t paid their school fees. A few times a year, the comptable goes to each classroom and reads off a list of boys who still owe the school money, their contribution, they call it, and all those boys are immediately sent home. As the girls’ school fees are covered by the government as incentive to educate the daughters of rural community members, this practice only affects my male students. Last year, I bit my tongue several times as I watched the comptable kick out over half my class. The boys leave and then come back for the next lesson, whether they’ve paid or not. Ineffective, I thought, not to mention, stupid, disruptive and a waste of my time to continue teaching to a half-empty classroom. So, after a year of remaining passive to a practice that irked me to no end, today I decided to say something.

I was team-teaching with Taïrou, a fellow English professor, when the comptable enters the room, asking to interrupt. He begins reading off names and the boys slowly collect their things and leave the room. One of the boys is the director’s son. When the comptable realizes this, he tells him to sit back down with a chuckle. Another boy is also allowed to stay because his father is a professor. I think this small bit a political play is what motivates me to step outside and call all the boys back to the classroom. The comptable meets them in the doorway and is prepared to give them hell when I tell him, I did it. I tell the boys to sit down and finish copying the board. They all hesitate – weighing the seriousness of my expression with the possible fury of the comptable. “Move it!” I shout sternly, in English, and the boys promptly return to their seats. The comptable says, Are you going to pay for these boys?  I arrogantly reply, “Combien?” How much?  He laughs and says, You don’t understand. 

I understand, I say.  It’s your work–

He interrupts me, You don’t understand my work.

“Je comprends! C’est votre travail. Mais c’est mon travail aussi,” I say carefully. I understand. It’s your work. But it’s my work too.

Taïrou comes out and looks more uncomfortable than he normally does. The comptable looks at him and asks him to explain to me in English why he’s kicking students out. 

“He says he wants to send the students–” Taïrou starts to translate.

“Je comprends. I understand. I just want him to wait until after class.”

I look at the comptable and tell him this in French but, with Taïrou there, he’s depending on him to help us communicate. Which infuriates me. If he would speak to me directly and not Taïrou, this conversation would be easier to follow. So I keep interrupting them. Then the comptable looks at me and says, in English, “I am your Papa.”

I scoff – not only because he’s made himself look ridiculous by speaking to me in his middle school English, but mainly because I realize what he’s trying to say is that he’s my superior. At that point, I’ve had enough – this conversation is pointless and I’ve gotten what I wanted anyway: my students back. So, I abandon the conversation and go back in the classroom.

I’m worked up and pissed off. But this wears off in about five minutes and dissolves into worry that someone is upset with me and what that means for the rest of my day. After a few minutes, Taïrou comes back in the classroom and says, “Even I wish they would leave the students to finish the lesson first.” He also tells me that he was asking the comptable to not kick his brother out of class because they haven’t paid yet. I ask Taïrou if the comptable is angry at me. He says simply, “No.” I actually believe him. Beninese people don’t really have the drive for grudges – and then I feel a little stupid and insignificant that even my most ridiculous outbursts have no lasting impact on people here.

In the afternoon, I’m teaching a make-up class, or what they call rattrapages, when the comptable comes to the door and asks to interrupt “encore.” I’m wildly confused. Was I not clear that morning? I meet him at the doorway, put my hand up, and say, “No.” He looks at me like I’m the funniest thing he’s ever seen. I ask him to step outside with me and I can tell he would rather ignore me. He doesn’t understand why I’m giving him such a hard time today. I ask him to please wait until after class because this is rattrapages. He says, “Je ne comprends pas ‘rattrapages.’” I smugly think, Now who doesn’t understand? I explain, in French, that the students didn’t have to come. We are having class because they missed class last Wednesday. If he sends them home, I will just have to reschedule another rattrapages.

I continue by saying, I don’t understand why you’re here. We already had this discussion this morning. He suggests that I speak to the director, stops making eye contact with me and pretends like I’m not there – which in Benin means: We’re done here.

I walk towards the director’s office in a huff. Habib, another English professor and my Peace Corps assigned counterpart, is sitting in the shade grading quizzes. He stops me and asks, “What’s the problem?” I tell him and as I explain I watch my male students file out of the classroom one by one. I’m livid.

“I don’t want him to do that!” I say, gesturing my arm angrily towards the boys and letting it fall hard against my leg with a dramatic smack. “I just want him to wait until the end of class!” 

Habib tells the boys to wait there and accompanies me to the director’s office.

I walk in, knowing that if anyone will sympathize with me – it’s the director. Having worked with Peace Corps volunteers before me, my director is used to Americans and their “good intentions.” But when I explain my situation in as much detail as my limited French allows, the director laughs and basically says, Ashley. Leave him alone.

My face is practically purple I’m so angry. I make the only power move I have. I flop my notebook down on his desk and say, If he sends the students home, I’m going home too. The director matches my stance by standing up with the desk between us. He says, Ashley, no! You don’t understand. He looks to Habib to explain something to me and I say, for what feels like thousandth time that day, “JE COMPRENDS!” I understand! 

And suddenly, I’m defeated. I’m tired. And I realize I won’t be able to say another word without tearing up – and if you think crying in front of your boss in America is awkward, imagine doing it in the land of no emotions. I sink into the chair and just… stop. I am not going to get what I want and I don’t want to go back to that classroom feeling like a loser. So, I just sit. I still don’t understand what possessed me to start this fight today – after a year of saying nothing, not even questioning why it had to be done this way.  The director sits down and looks at me. He commends me for wanting to work but says this is how it has to be. He pauses and looks around for Habib but he’s left. I can tell he wants to tell me something important so I perk up. 

He says, It’s not just your class. It’s ALL the classes. It’s not just your students. It’s ALL the students. He shakes his head and continues. I don’t know if you can understand.

For a beat, I think of flipping the desk over and shouting, “Are you fucking kidding me? I. UN. DER. STAND!” And that’s when I realize, for the first time, it’s not a matter of whether or not I understand his French. He’s wondering if I can possibly understand Benin and how things work here. He points to his arm, his skin, his dark brown flesh and says, That’s the reality of the African. It’s our life.

And that, I actually don’t understand. No matter how long I live in this country, I will never be African. I will never be Beninese. I will always have a can-do attitude and a Ms. Fix-it approach to every problem – or what I perceive to be ineffective. Because I am American and Americans always think there’s a better and faster solution, a better approach and a better life. And we’ll do everything in our power to improve anything. That’s just how we are – and that’s how Benin is not. 

He explains to me in the simplest terms that the students were warned on Monday that they would need to pay their school fees by the end of the week. And, additionally, the week before that, he announced the impending payment to the students’ parents who came to a meeting with the director. They were warned in advance. I ask, one last time, why they can’t be sent home at the end of the lesson. And he explains that if they don’t send them home when they should be in class, their parents won’t ask, “Why aren’t you in school?” And if the parents don’t inquire, the students will never bring up a matter involving money.

And that’s the moment, I really do understand. Of course the parents aren’t going to remember to give money to their children. Adults don’t just give children money here. Of course the students aren’t going to ask their parents for money. Sending them home in the middle of the lesson provides them with an opportunity to be force the topic. That’s just how it is here. C’est l’Afrique.

Is this Benin’s downfall when it comes to development? Perhaps. Then again, I’m the one who just barged into my boss’s office and made demands without taking the time to know all the details first. I’m the one who forgot how to have a conversation. I’ve been speaking at people and not to them. My director, on the other hand, reminded me of how a classy and respectful human being treats their colleague and their friend. And that’s also when I realize that no one thinks I am stupid for not understanding – he’s just never had to explain this to anyone before.

After a few minutes of pouting in front of his desk and us both laughing at the comptable’s expense, the director leads me out of his office. He stops at the doorway, holds up his finger, and says, “Tu dois enseigner même si pour un seul élève.” You must teach even if it’s just for one student.

As I walk back to my classroom, trying not to hang my head, Habib brings one of my students forward and says, “You see? He was just sent home and now he has come back with his contribution!”

And I really do see. I finally compreesh.

 

Originally written November 24, 2013.