"So, Refilwe, You're Retarded?!"

by Erin Gannon

When I was in second grade I went through a bunch of tests and was eventually told that I had a learning disability. The word “dyslexia” meant very little to me but as I got older and started to see clearly that my mind really did work differently than others, “dyslexic” became a word that described me, a part of my identity.

I was raised in a family where my father was involved with disability rights issues for his entire career. Growing up I knew many adults with all different types of ability and disability and I was raised with a universal respect for people. When I was identified as dyslexic, my parents sat me down, explained to me that this was how my mind worked and I should never be ashamed of it but I should also never use it as a crutch. This conversation with my parents created a simple framework for understanding myself as a person with a learning disability – there are things I cannot do but there are many, many things I can do and I am proud of my mind which is indivisible from my disability. I went on to study art education and I did my Master’s thesis on the intersections between disability rights and art education practices. I chose to locate the rights of all people with disabilities in both my personal and professional lives.

I brought my belief in disability rights with me to South Africa, packed along all of my other cultural baggage. I knew support for people with disabilities in rural villages would probably not be at the same level as the support people get in the US, but I didn’t know what to expect.

Very early on the simple fact hit me that if I attended the schools in our training village (or in my current village, or really in most villages) I would never have learned to read. I would have probably dropped out of school by the end of primary school. I would surely have been told I was “slow” and possibly been beaten for my inability to keep up with the “clever” students in my classes. The educators in my life are incredibly hard working and dedicated, but they are under trained and the concept of a learning disability is pretty far outside of their life experiences. Kids like me get lost in the chaos of trying to educate children in rural villages.

Once, I tried to explain learning disabilities to an educator I had been working closely with. She was complaining that there was a girl in her class who was “clever” but “refused” to understand some simple maths problems. I had worked with this kid before and although I’m totally not qualified to diagnose LD in a student, I did see some indicators that seemed to point to a learning disability. I explained that some people have learning disabilities and that this as a sort of gap between their intelligence and their ability to perform in certain areas. The educator looked at me and said, “So, she’s retarded?”

I responded that a learning disability was a different thing than mental retardation and that mental retardation was defined by a low IQ. I then took a deep breath and decided to do something I regularly do with Americans but had never done with an African, I told her about my dyslexia.

She seemed to think for awhile, she searched me with her eyes, and then she asked, “So, Refilwe, You’re retarded?!”

It was clear that she felt betrayed, she had been taking guidance and forming a friendship with a person who was mentally retarded. In that moment I was also wounded because I realized everything we had worked on had been undermined by my honesty. Also, undoubtedly we come from a culture that values intelligence and to have mine questioned was a matter of pride. It was an emotional moment for each of us. She felt betrayed, and I felt a little too close to my days in middle school when classmates had yelled, “short bus!” and did grotesque impersonations of people with cognitive disabilities as we left our LD tutor’s room.

I went on to try and explain further, I found some articles on learning disabilities and how to best serve children with learning disabilities in your classroom, I talked to the principal about the appropriate channels for educators to follow if they suspect one of their learners had a Learning Disability but in the end my efforts sort of flopped and no matter what I did I never managed to repair my professional relationship with that educator.

There is a fair amount of humiliation involved with having dyslexia and hiding it. I still shake when I have to write on a board in a workshop I am giving for fear that I will spell something wrong even though I have typed everything and spell checked it. In taxis I avoid the front seat like the plague because the simple computation involved in taking the money is beyond me. I do my best not to let my teachers see me counting on my fingers. I use all the hiding mechanisms I used in grade school because once again I’m trying to “pass” as someone without a learning disability.

I continue to be open with my Peace Corps colleagues about my dyslexia but I have made a choice to not share my status as a person with a disability with my South African colleagues and learners. This is probably not the most constructive thing, of course there are opportunities for education and growth in my sharing with South Africans about my life as a person with a learning disability. All things considered, though, I have made this choice in an effort at self preservation and a preservation of my professional status within my schools. It’s an extremely personal decision what parts of your life you chose to share in a culture that is not necessarily understanding of some differences. It is also important to your happiness and mental health to identify what battles you want to fight and which things are simply outside of what you will address in your service.

In your service you will probably encounter people with disabilities. One UN estimate put the worldwide percentage of people with disabilities at about 10% and stated that that number is higher (and harder to measure) in developing countries. You will also encounter a variety of circumstances that people with disabilities are living in. My host brother has Downs Syndrome and lives the typical lifestyle of a young man in the village, working on the families’ mealie fields and hanging out at the shop. I also know a family with a child with a severe cognitive disability and he is living at home with limited opportunity but unlimited love from his family. I know kids who have dropped out of school and we will never know if it was a learning disability that prevented them from succeeding. Disability is one of my “cultural lenses” Peace Corps is so fond of talking about and so this colors my experiences here.

Erin is a volunteer with the Education program in Northwest Province.

If you are interested in writing something for the Diversity Blog, please e-mail Jade (jade.lamb@gmail.com) or LaTosha (parkld82 at gmail dot com).

I didn't like hiding, it wasn't me.

by Justin Mitzlaff

Flashback......Justin's life.....Pre-Peace Corps......GAY! Yes, you read it right, my life was gay. I worked at a gay and lesbian non-profit organization. I worked with queer youth, I helped to establish GSA's (gay straight alliance) in Kitsap and Mason County schools, a majority of my friends were gay and lesbian and if I was at an event or volunteering for one, it more and likely was for gay and lesbian people. It was a time of my life where I was very proud to be gay and everyone knew I was gay. There was nothing holding me back and I wasn't afraid to tell people who I was. It's a part of my life that I now miss very much.

Life now...hmmmm. It's of course nothing like it was before this whole crazy adventure began. It's so hidden, so unlike me. During PST, only the people in my group knew that I was gay. It was so hard, especially since I had developed a wonderful bond with my host mom. I wanted to tell her so much of who I am, the real Justin. I didn't like hiding, it wasn't me.

When I go to my site, Mentz, I told my host sister that I was gay, because we had become really good friends and she wasn't buying the whole, I don't want a girlfriend they are just trouble routine. She was very accepting of who I was and we often sat in my room and giggled and gossiped about the guys in the village. It was fun, but a part of me still didn't enjoy having to hide from the whole village of who I really was.

I did meet quite a few guys in Mentz who were straight, but like to have sex with men. They had no grasp or concept of the word bisexuality or gay. They just knew that gay was bad! Most of them were in shock when I told them that my family knew that I was gay and were just fine with it. For the few who were gay, they said they would never ever tell their family or friends. It was heartbreaking to hear and see these guys who would never be able to come to terms with themselves because of the society around them. But it wasn't all sad. I could go into many of the funny stories and phone calls that came along with meeting and befriending many of these guys. They definitely made my experience in Mentz fun and interesting.

Sadly, I had to leave Mentz and now live in the town of Barberton. Barberton is a town of many different people... White, Black, Indian, Colored and Chinese. It too is stuck in a stigma that being gay is bad bad bad. Once again, I have met a few guys who are gay, but they would never tell their parents or friends.

I know one guy in town who is openly gay and the town always isn't so nice to him because of it. All the other closeted gays think they are the only gay guy in town. They can't believe that I know so many others. Yet, they don't want to meet each other, in fear of people and family finding out. It's sad...it makes me want to do something for them. But where on earth do I even begin with starting something like that. I want the queer crown here to be open and proud!! But like the gay and lesbian movement in America, I have a feeling it’s going to be something that will take a great amount of time.

My heart hurts for these people...I understand their struggle and desire to be themselves. And no matter how hard it is for me to be somewhat closeted here, I always know that I can go back to America and be open and gay as hell again. The people here, in the villages and townships, these small towns hidden from the big cities, will probably spend most of their life hidden...a thought for me that is just so heartbreaking. I can only hope that the gay movement in South Africa becomes strong in the near future and that those who are LGBTQ can be free and open.

Justin is a CHOP (Community HIV/AIDS Outreach Project) Volunteer in the Mpumalanga Province. He is also a member of DIversity Committee.

If you'd like to write something for the blog, e-mail Jade (jade.lamb@gmail.com) or LaTosha (parkld82 at gmail dot com).

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Thanks, and have a Happy New Year.

While At Times It's Easy To Go Unnoticed...

by Darvis White

While at times it's easy to go unnoticed, once the cover's blown it's another story. All of a sudden voices start to change,
walks start to resemble limps, and of course the n-word gets its mandatory test drive. It's kinda funny because many of my conversations here would have ended in altercations back home. I've been told sternly on more than one ocassion that I'm not a Black American because I'm not wearing a chain.

Yet I usually try to forget the statements people say because remembering them accomplishes nothing except reminding me that I'm nothing like the people I look like. As a volunteer this is probably one of the only times in my life that I feel like I have more in common with people who don't look like me. I actually scared myself the other day when I was hanging with some volunteers and I saw myself in a mirror.

As (chainless) Black American Male it can be tricky dodging the role of representative and spokesperson for an entire demographic. Sometimes I like to shrug my shoulders and say, "I don't know," but then that would only add to the disinformation portrayed in popular media. Race is a complicated issue in the states and it's even harder to explain here. I often wonder if some of my frustrations are specific to South Africa. Or maybe I'm just looking for an excuse.

Yet sometimes I feel like the South African friends I have made here have become converts through countless translations of "Black American language". 

Whether it's explaining what "the crib" means at 12:30am or being introduced to the family of someone whose name you can't remember in a town you definitely don't remember, I find that it's worth it to be patient and share my "culture" with them. It's also ironic that a lot of the things I turned my nose up at back home have become the things I'm proud of now. But I guess that's a part of me discovering who I am in the isolation that I'm experiencing here.

The more something stands out, the more you get a grasp of its definition.

Darvis is a CHOP (Community HIV/AIDS Outreach Project) volunteer working in the Mpumalanga Province.

Now that vacations are ending and work is just inching it's way to getting started, it's the perfect time to take a few moments to reflect on your Peace Corps experience. Why not write those reflections down and submit them to the Diversity Blog? E-mail jade.lamb@gmail.com if you have something you'd like to post, or even just an idea you'd like to cover. Remember, all of our experiences are diverse--and so all can be relevant to this blog.

LGBTQ Resource

Behind the Mask is a webpage that compiles information on LGBTQ issues throughout Africa. Here is their South Africa page:

http://www.mask.org.za/index.php?page=southafrica

It includes an executive summary of the state of LGBTQ rights in South Africa, support resources in major cities including several in Pretoria, and frequently updated news articles on relevant topics.

Complex as the Shades of Chocolate

By Anonymous (name withheld by request of the author)

In reading about South Africa before I came here, I knew that race was going to play an interesting role in daily living. At the time, I decided though that the issue of race wasn’t going to be as much of a focal point for me as it was the culture behind the race that was more important to learn about. However, as culture and race are frequently intertwined, associated, and often conflated with one another, I soon came to find that the politics of one involved the other. So even though I wanted the issue of race to remain ‘at bay’ it didn’t and hasn’t. It is as such that it happened one day…the issue of color and race had finally hit home and it did so through two separate yet related incidences.

The first occurred at home. I was sitting there on my host mama’s couch watching my 9-year-old host sister, who so happened to be practicing her dance moves, twist and turn until she finally ended up doing a split near my feet. She saw the look of amazement in my face and then in a brief but still moment paused what she was doing to ask (in a telling way), “Are you white?”

Now, this is being directed to a 25-year-old woman who has defined herself as a Black American since she could long since remember. This is also being directed to a 25-year-old woman for whom race has played a secondary role to culture for her entire life. The minute she stated this, I could feel a surge of anger rising up in my chest. Anger, directed at the fact that I was being associated and in fact being defined by a classification I never associated myself with being. Anger, also in the fact this definition was coming from a nine-year-old host sister who asked this question so innocently but also so casually and flippantly, as if she was just flicking the question off of her shoulder, like a fly. I always have defined myself as being Black—that wasn’t of question to me—but what was of question was why my nine-year-old host sister was asking me this? I could see that this was a remnant question which lingered from a previous conversation I was having with another 9 year old about where I came from and what I considered myself.

Anyhow, continuing with the story, I replied to her question with a “No, I am Black…where I come from Black people come in all shades and colors.” She responded with a, “But why is your skin white?” She followed this by putting her arm next to mine and after careful inspection, as if with proud justification, declaring, “see, ‘white.’” I could see that this battle with my nine-year-old host sister was going to require a lot more ammunition than my throwing a fit. So I started pointing out examples. I first started out with a picture of a White woman which she had cut out for her homework. I pointed to the white woman and asked, “What is she?” to which she promptly replied “white.” I then pointed to my skin (which is honey in complexion) and said, “My skin looks a lot different from hers,” to which she replied, “But how come your hair is this long?” and she pointed to her shoulder. She was referring to the time she had seen me take my hair out of my twists and had made it into a ‘fro’ to wash it. Now ironically enough, I have always called my hair ‘Shaka Zulu hair’ depicting its stubborn, bold and sometimes even war like characteristics (and for anyone who has seen me in a fro or has done my hair you know what I’m talking about)! I began untwisting one of my twists, combed it out, and said, “see same as yours.” She then said, “but you speak English,” to which I responded with, “Yes, but this is my mother tongue and I speak other languages also just like you do.” It was at this point that I started to wonder whether she was calling me ‘white’ not so much because of my skin color but purely because she knew that I was American and because I spoken English. I however, decided to leave this point to argue over another day.

I then started stating examples of people with whom I thought she would be familiar. After a whole assembly line of people, I came upon two that made her stumble. I said, “So what do you think Alicia Keyes is?” She paused for a moment and said, “Black” and then I said but Alicia Keys speaks English, her hair is longer than mine, and her skin is lighter than mine…so why do you consider her Black?” I then took out a Newsweek and found a picture of Barack Obama and said, “He’s about my skin tone, what do you consider him?” To which she said this time and not asked, “Ok…but you are white!” I replied by saying, “Your skin color does not make you who you are and even though you may see me as white, I am Black so please call me by that if you are going to call me anything.” I could see that the battle hadn’t been won with her yet (and that this is what these two years are for) but it did get her thinking about these terms ‘black’ and ‘white,’ what they meant, and also how people weren’t as simple as ‘black’ and ‘white.’ I hope it began to get her to see that people were as complex as the shades of chocolate and that they came in white chocolate, hazelnut, honey/caramel, milk chocolate, and dark chocolate! ☺

I use this example to show that race is a deeply ingrained concept for many people, as even from the innocent question of a nine-year-old, race can have a deep impact. I also use this to show that the notion of ‘color’ and ‘race’ varies from culture to culture, from continent to continent, and even from nationality to nationality. The notion of being ‘black’ or even being perceived as such, in South Africa, is derived from a long legacy of apartheid which has shaped race to be a concept which is highly relative to social class and culture. In the end, I think South Africa, as with many other nations, is coming to see that you are who you are no matter whether you consider yourself “Black,” “White,” or any other color in this beautiful Rainbow Nation.

E-mail jade.lamb@gmail.com if you’d like to write something for this blog. Submissions on any topic, of any length, are welcome.

Link to AJ's Blog

Check out AJ Kumar's post about his experiences related to being South Asian in his village:

http://ajinsa.blogspot.com/2008/08/lekgoa-and-lekwerekwere.html

Excerpt:

"The Lekgoa and the Lekwerekwere

“Lekgoa! Lekgoa!” the children scream as they run behind me. Well, I guess it’s not surprising; it’s what you expect as the only white person in the village. Every Peace Corps Volunteer is told to expect it. Wait a second…

I’m not white.

There is no mob of little people trailing me in adoration. There is no verbal labeling of “Whitey”. But there is another type of labeling.

My white colleagues may at first find me in an enviable position. As an American of South Asian decent, I fit rather well into my Tswana village. There are roughly half a dozen Bangladeshi and Pakistani shop owners (in addition to the Somali and the Chinese couple). When I showed up in the village, I wasn’t a rock star. People assumed I had come to sell biscuits and cooldrink (pop…or soda…or coke…whatever). Granted, it’s been almost a year now so people have mostly figured out that’s not my shtick. ..."

This is one example of the sort of entry we'd like to post here. E-mail jade.lamb@gmail.com if you'd like to contribute anything, short or long.