3/27/06

Considering that I'm more than 3/4 of the way finished with my PCV service, I would've thought that next to nothing could faze me. I suppose that's true, but 'next-to-nothing' doesn't mean 'nothing,' and I'm not sure what to do about a letter I get from a student at the lycée, which for some reason comes to me via the Szobody's. I guess the sender, a guy named Kon-Houdi Djoulla Rodolphe, must've figured, "they're white, he's white, so if I give it to them, he'll get it." When I come over to pick up my phone, Samuel hands me the letter.

"À voir Monsieur Nathaniel Thisman, Professeur au Lycée Maldom Bada Abass de Gounou-Gaya," reads the envelope. My first thought is a flash of annoyance- would it really be too hard to learn the correct spelling of my name? I've never met the sender, but he says he's a student in Premiere S1, a class I don't teach.

"Good morning and my respects sir," it reads in French. "I have the honor to come to the side of your high personality soliciting good will and with my note as an expression of mutual friendship with you."

The absurd formality seems to be a uniquely African thing- I remember mentioning it to a French friend of mine when I was on vacation a few months, ago, and having her fix me with a look like I'd just beamed in from another dimension. I don't know if its origins are in the former colonial society, or simply the rigid traditional hierarchy of Chef de Village, Chef de Canton, Chef de Quartier, and so on, but I do know that it borders on the ridiculous when writing a high-school English teacher.

"Before everything, please receive my respectful and friendly salutations," the letter continues, although apparently the main message ends there. "P.S.," reads the addendum, "the goal of this note is to create a friendship with you, if this is possible. Also, I am very poor, an orphan from my father and mother since 1999. Having seen your high presence, I have asked myself if I can place my case before you. I will wait for a response from you without delay, either positive or negative. Goodbye, and thank you in the name of All Powerful God."

So, I'm just writing to be your friend, but by the way, I'm very poor, and could you maybe give me some money, in God's name? Could this be any more obvious? A student I've never taught, or even so much as met, and who can't even be bothered to learn how to spell my name correctly? And wow, it's quite a coincidence that he comes begging to the one white teacher, huh? I don't mean to sound callous, but the never-ending perception that less melanin equals more money to give away, or be cheated out of really pisses me off.

I'm not sure what the best thing to do is though. The only parallel I can think of with a student going way out-of-bounds like this with me happened last year, when two of my Seconde students came to my house to complain that I'd taken 10 points off of their tests. Of course, I'd caught them cheating, and as always seems to happen here, the couldn't believe that I'd actually make good on my threat to punish them for it, which I said I'd do. That they wanted their 10 points back was annoying enough, but the fact that they came to my house, on my day off, to demand it was inexcusable. In the Chadian (and presumably French) educational system, there is a very clear line between 'teacher' and 'student', and the two are decidedly not equal. Whether I agree with this idea or not (which I do to a certain extent, although certainly not to the degree it's used to browbeat and humiliate students here), that's how the game is played, and I have to live by those rules. In the case of the two students, I told the lycée administration, who then suspended both for a week.

This is my dilemma- hitting up your teacher to change a grade is one thing, but to start begging him or her for money seems just as bad, if not worse. And it wasn't as though this was a joking, "hey can you help me?" sort of thing, but a flat-out, formal request for money, couched in the guise of "wanting to create a friendship." If I use the situation from last year as a precedent, I have to tell the administration. The problem is, though, that I don't want to get the guy in trouble, suspended, or possibly expelled, annoyed though I may be, and I know that informing the Censeur or Proviseur will lead to exactly that. Kon-Houdi, whoever he is, has had a rough time, for sure, and I see no reason to add to his problems. On the other hand, if what he says is true, that he's been an orphan for the past seven years, he's managed to get along just fine without me until now. Why he'd ask me is obvious, but with me being a teacher and him a student, it's incredibly inappropriate, and I have to do something. I decide to ask Marc for his advice. He's a great sounding board for these sorts of things, the subtleties of how to navigate Chadian culture and bureaucracy.

Snapping down the glass lantern shade to extinguish the flame, I grab my flashlight, lock the door, and step out of the hangar in the direction of Marc's house. With no electricity and no moon it's incredibly dark, and I make my way over to where he's sitting by walking towards the sound of Radio France Internationale blaring on his radio, hoping I don't walk into a tree or trip over a brick along the way. Ka-Idi is in his pink plastic chair, and instantly jumps up when she sees me, scooting over to a bench facing her dad. My eyes have adjusted enough by now that I can actually see what's going on. Marc is practicing French numbers with Ka-Idi, 90-100.

"Quatre-vingt dix," he says, 90.

"Quatre-vingt dix," she repeats, slowly and deliberately.

"Quatre-vingt onze," he continues.

"Quatre-vingt onze."

"Quatre-vingt douze."

"Quatre....vingt....douze," Ka-Idi says, stumbling over the syllables. They continue until cent (100), and Marc tells her to go lie down on the "Happy Time" plastic mat where Hophyra and Tanga are already snoring.

We chat for a few minutes about the usual obvious stuff: the heat, what we each did today, etc. After a few minutes, I pull out the envelope with Kon-Houdi's letter.

"I need your advice on something," I say. "I just got this from a student today, can you read it?" I hand him my flashlight.

"Sure." He puts on his glasses, reads for a few moments, and hands it back to me.

"Here's the problem," I say. "I don't want to get him in trouble, but of course I'm not going to give him money either. Do you think I should talk to the administration?"

"No, then he'll definitely be in trouble," Marc replies, confirming my thoughts. "What you should do is find him and talk to him in private. You need to explain to him that you're here to teach English, not give money to orphans. You can tell him that you can help him with English if he wants, but that's it. He needs to know that you have a contract to be here, and the contract is almost finished- it's your job to teach, not be a bank."

"The problem," I respond, "is that if I tell him I don't have money to give him he won't believe me, and..."

Marc cuts me off. "That doesn't matter," he says. "You're a teacher, he's a student. He should know better than to ask you in the first place."

That's what I've been thinking all along, and it's nice to know that Marc thinks I'm on the right track. We chat for a few more minutes, then I say goodnight and head off to the house and bed.

After I finish my class the next day, I find the 1erS1 classroom and clap/knock at the door. My friend Georges, one of the Histoire/Géo teachers sees me, interrupts his lecture, and comes over. "I need to see Kon-Houdi Rodolphe please," I tell him. A moment later, Kon-Houdi emerges from the class.

"We need to talk," I say. "Come with me." He nods.

We go to the Salle des Professeurs, the teacher's lounge, and I find a quiet corner.

"I got your letter," I say. "What I want to know is why you wrote me asking for money."

He doesn't say anything.

"OK," I say. "I'll tell you why. I think you saw me and thought, 'he's white, so he can give me money, even though we've never met.' Is that true?"

He nods again.

"You realize that I could tell the administration about this, and you could be suspended or expelled, right?" I say. A flash of fear shoots across his face.

"Now listen to me," I tell him, trying to sound mean. "I'm not going to tell the administration about this, but you know that that's wrong. You can't ask your teachers for money, and if anything like this ever happens again, I will make sure you're punished. Do you understand?"

"Oui," he says, "Merci."

"OK, you can go," I say. He gets up, and walks back towards his class. To me, this seems like the best solution- even though it's irritating, I have no reason to make life more difficult for him, and he seems to have gotten the message loud and clear. Hopefully, I won't face this sort of thing again in the month or so I have left to teach, but I can't say for sure- life in Chad is full of surprises...

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