The year was 1998, and I had defied my father’s wishes to work for a paycheck. I decided, after four years of studying long hours and reading until my eyes felt like they were on fire in college, to join the Peace Corps. People ask me why I decided to do it. Why? Easy! It simply felt right at the time. I did not do my research like many other volunteers, and I wouldn’t recommend doing something as life changing as Peace Corps without doing your research. But I just knew it was something I had to do for purely selfish reasons. It was something I wanted to do to make myself a better person. It was as simple as that.
I was assigned to the newly established post-apartheid Republic of South Africa. I worked in three primary schools as a teacher trainer. Now, I could tell you that I loved every minute of it. I could say it made me want to become a teacher and fight for the rights of children everywhere. I could even tell you that I was fluent in Siswati, the language spoken in the region I worked in (a beautiful South African click language that is clearly a force to be reckoned with!). But the truth is, I was scared out of my mind the first few months I was at my Peace Corps site. I dreaded being asked a question in Siswati for fear that someone would discover I was not a native speaker and say, “But you are black! Ooohh! You must be from another country. Where are you from?” For the first time ever, I hated my American accent. I wanted to sound South African. I kept thinking, “Did I really just sign up for this? Did someone drop me on my head as a child and make me lose all sensible reasoning? Did they get my résumé and application mixed up with another volunteer’s application? What in the world am I doing here? What in the heck was I thinking!?” You know, sensible thoughts.
As far as the technical side of my volunteer experience, I cannot even begin to tell you how much the children affected me there. The most amazing children I ever met were in South Africa. All odds were stacked against them, and they still managed to come to school on time every day, walked in torn shoes kilometer after kilometer, to and from school; and wore smiles on their face when peanut butter spread on one piece of bread and milk was served during their lunch break. What did I, a twenty-two-year-old female from the suburbs who was able to have all of her needs and wants granted, have anything to teach them? The gall of me to think I needed to be there to teach them something. What?
After my first day at one of the schools, the kids thought a huge joke had been played on them. They were told a person from America was coming to assist them with their education. They saw me, and said, “She’s not from America! She is black!” I thought, “Sweet Jesus! The jig is up! They hate me already and I haven’t even opened my mouth. Yikes!” But the opposite happened. They were in awe that someone who looked liked them lived in this foreign place called America—the place where, as the kids explained it to me, everyone is rich. A group of seventh-grade girls began coming to me at the end of the day. After two months, there were about seven or eight who would come in for an hour and ask me questions every Friday. The teachers didn’t seem to mind they were coming into the office to talk to me, so I went along with it. They asked me questions any seventh-grade girl would ask: “Do you have children?” “Are you married?” “How many sisters and brothers do you have?” “What music do you like?”
