Tommy Grimm
Katikamu Parish, Uganda
Throughout my time in Uganda, it’s been difficult to see students often divided between the have’s and have-not’s. There are the boarders, who live at the school in the dormitories, and the day-scholars, who walk to and from school every morning and evening. The boarders use the school classrooms to study every night with dependable light and power. Many day-scholars walk long distances, have household responsibilities like cooking and cleaning, and have to study by lantern at night (when there’s money for kerosene!). I’ve heard many day-scholars say they wish they were boarders.
There are the students who eat at lunchtime, and those who do not. I hate seeing students littered along the school perimeter, standing despondently, while other students line up expectedly with plates in hand in front of the school kitchen. Boarders are required to pay the meal fees, but for many day-scholars, the lunch fee is the first thing sacrificed among the educational expenses.
There are the students with parents, and those without them. There was a visitation day a couple weeks ago, when parents have the opportunity to visit their students at school, to meet their teachers, and to inquire about their children’s grades. Some parents could be seen walking across the campus with bags full of cookies, fruit, and supplies (accompanied with a pocket full of money for the lucky kid, no doubt). Poorer parents brought nothing but rice and meat to share with their child for one meal, providing a break from the regular meal of cornmeal and beans. Some kids didn’t have any parents show up, either because there wasn’t enough money for the travel expenses, or because there is no mother and father, and the guardian has too many obligations to visit. One girl who I’ve become good friends with told me that she usually stays in the dormitory the whole day; the sight of all the mothers makes the memory of her deceased mother too painful.
The examples are legion. There are those who have party clothes for a special occasion, and those stuck in their school uniforms. Those who have money to enter the school dance, and those peering in from the windows outside. Those who have strong enough grades to attend university, and those whose prospects upon graduating are dim.
I hate this reality, but I’ve found it inevitable, even in my interactions with students. When I walk through campus, there are those students whom I recognize, and those whom I don’t. I only know the names of a fraction of the students, despite my best efforts. And then there are the ones everyone knows I’m closest to, and everyone else. I try not to play favorites as much as I can, but I can’t be friends with over one-thousand students. I don’t want to exaggerate my importance to the students, but I know they notice whether the American knows their name or not. They ask me why it is I don’t know their name!
Needless to say, this dichotomy is uncomfortable for me. However, for the students, it’s a part of life. There’s no agony over the separation—for them, of course there are the rich and the poor, the beautiful and the ugly, the sons and daughters and the orphans. It’s a reality they become accustomed to at a young age. You can’t hide differences in a small village with open doors and shared possessions. What I’ve been left grappling with is not how these striking disparities exist in Africa and not in America, but how they’re casually disclosed in Africa and well-hidden in America. Life is unfair, but I’d rather forget that, and I’m able to back home. For a church to embrace the rich and poor, the privileged and the marginalized, maybe what’s is needed is not only a hopeful imagination to envision a different world, but also a dogged courage among those on top to face reality, with all of its needs and indictments.
(The above picture was taken in a nearby village at an annual Catholic celebration for a Ugandan martyr born there. I’m with Nagalema Grace, a student at the primary school where I teach. Grace has become a great friend to me.)
