Usually the teacher played a name game on the first day of class, or she made name cards for our desks. Mr. Mwila placed a sheet on Rukia’s desk. He told her to write her name in the first row, first column, then pass the sheet to the person behind her.
I waited for the sheet to reach my desk. There were only two male teachers in our entire elementary school, and none of us expected to have one until junior high school. I couldn’t see why we needed a male teacher. Male teachers were for classrooms with rough and rowdy boys who needed a firm hand to keep them in line. The boys in our class were bigger pests than they were rough and rowdy. Last year Mrs. Peterson kept them in line easily with her pine “board of education.” Mr. Mwila didn’t carry a pine board. There was something about his voice that made the boys in our class straighten up and sit taller. Except for Ellis Carter. The sloucher.
He looked to Lucy and said, “Miss . . .”
“Lucy Raleigh,” she said, happy to be called on.
He nodded. “Lucy Raleigh. You asked about Miss Honeywell. Now, I’ll answer. Have you heard of exchange students?”
“Yes,” Lucy answered. “When a student from here, the US, switches places with a student from another country.”
Mr. Mwila clapped his hands once. “I couldn’t have said it better.”
Lucy blew on her nails and dusted her collar.
“Your Miss Honeywell and I have switched places,” he said. “We’re exchange teachers. She’s in my country, Zambia, and I’m here with you.”
Sounds of amazement spread across the room. Miss Honeywell was in Zambia, sharing her fun projects with students who didn’t know how lucky they were. It wasn’t fair.
“It is only for a year,” he said. “I’m excited about this opportunity, but I’ll be glad to see my wife and children this time next year.” Then Mr. Mwila finally gave us a real smile as if he was embarrassed or had said more than he meant to.
He crossed to the center of the room and pulled the map of the world down over the blackboard. He grabbed the long, wooden pointer from the chalk ledge and aimed it at an area that looked like a bitten-into golden pear, near the middle, southern part of Africa. “This is my country. Zambia.
“Four years ago at the Olympics, our athletes went to France as Northern Rhodesians while a revolution was under way in our country. By the end of the Olympic Games, those same athletes left the stadium with a new flag and a new name: Zambia.”
He said revolution on the first day of class, just like Sister Mukumbu had taught us about revolution and spinning and changing on our first day at the People’s Center. But he didn’t ask us if we knew the meaning of revolution, so I couldn’t raise my hand and define it for the class. It was as if he expected us to know the meaning, along with the other words he used, like decorum.
Instead of asking us how we spent our summer, he told us more about his country. He answered questions about mining, and silly Tarzan questions about witch doctors and wild animals. While things were going well, he said, “Now class, suppose Zambia was the main subject of a report. . . .”
We all groaned. Our new teacher expected us to think about writing reports while Miss Honeywell’s new class was making papier-mâché volcanoes with bicarbonate lava.
“What could some of the minor topics of our report be? I will give you a hint. I spoke of at least five subtopics. Who can name a subtopic?”
Mr. Mwila’s eyes shone brightly at us. He expected twenty-four hands to shoot up, but not one hand rose. Not even Rukia’s or Michael Sandler’s. We thought we were learning about the place where Miss Honeywell was, not preparing to write a report on a country we hadn’t heard of before Mr. Mwila brought us up to our classroom. The room went silent.
“Come, come, grade six,” Mr. Mwila said. “You know these subtopics. Jump in. Name one.”
Rukia raised her hand. Mr. Mwila glanced down at his classroom sheet and said, “Rukia.” He said it with the same teeth-baring smile he used to say his own name.
“Can one of the subjects be the early settlers in Zambia?”
“Indeed it can,” Mr. Mwila said. “Early settlers in Zambia. Who else will we hear from?” He searched the room for another raised hand, but everyone kept their hands down, and Rukia knew better than to raise hers again.
“Ah!” he said. He pulled the map back up, took a piece of chalk, and made two horizontal lines on the board. A vertical line went under the horizontal line on the right side of the board. “Girls’ team, one point.”
I knew what he was doing. The Black Panthers warned us about this in summer camp. Divide and conquer. Separate the people and make one side think they are different or better than the other.
But girls were better than boys.
Mr. Mwila’s plan worked. Hands shot up on the boys’ side, starting with the Jameses, Enrique, Anthony but not Ant, Upton, and Michael Sandler, the smartest of the three Michaels. Then Ellis Carter raised his hand to show boy-team solidarity although he sat on our side. It was a wonder Mrs. Peterson had promoted him to the sixth grade with the rest of us. Ellis did his homework and passed his quizzes fine. But call on him to speak and you could barely hear his voice. Except when he sang that stupid dolphin song at me. I put an end to that dolphin singing.
“Ellis Carter.”
Ellis, who was caramel red to begin with, got a little redder. He stamped his foot.
“Come, come. The boys have yet to score a point.”
Ellis mumbled, “I lost my . . . lost my . . . forgot my . . . what I was going to say.”
“Girls,” Mr. Mwila said.
The chorus of Jameses, Michaels, Anthonys, and the rest told Ellis he stunk now that he was a girl.
“What about our turn?” Michael Sandler asked Mr. Mwila.
“Your representative has spoken,” Mr. Mwila said. “In your football terms, he punted.”
We girls didn’t really know football terms—American or any other kind—but we understood our teacher. Then all of us girls raised our hands. My subject was going to be political change and revolution. I couldn’t wait to say exactly that.
“Frieda,” Mr. Mwila said.
“Is another subject foot—” She stopped in the middle of her thought. “Is another subject the national pastimes in Zambia?” After all, Mr. Mwila spoke of more activities than football, and Frieda must have figured out how a list of activities made one subject.
Mr. Mwila made another tally under “girls” and we began to cheer. Ellis put his head down on his desk.
“Boys,” Mr. Mwila said, “there is still an opportunity for redemption.”
The boys shouted, “Redemption!” when I knew half of them didn’t know what redemption meant.
“If you correctly supply another subtopic, you’ll be rewarded with a bonus point and you’ll be equal to the girls.”
The girls’ team called out that it was unfair to give the boys a bonus point. Mr. Mwila only said, “Decorum,” and the boys laughed.
“Who will take up the call for the dignity and redemption of the boys?”
The girls booed but the boys waved their arms like flags. Then Michael Sandler called out to his side like a football coach, “Only if you know the answer,” and half of the boys lowered their flags.
“Well then,” Mr. Mwila said, “perhaps you’d like to supply another subject for the point and the bonus point. You are . . . Michael Sandler.”
“That’s my name,” Michael said.
“Mr. Michael Sandler,” Mr. Mwila said. Lucy grinned.
Michael cleared his throat. “A subtopic to a report about Zambia is: What are the chief exports of Zambia?” His answer sounded so right, and he said it like Huey Newton addressing the masses. The boys cheered. Mr. Mwila raised his hands and we immediately got quiet.
Lucy turned to me and winked. Didn’t she know that Michael S. liked Evelyn Alvarez?
“Michael Sandler,” he said, “I didn’t say ‘export’ and yet you used the right term. You have earned the point and the bonus, and the boys are now equal to the girls.”
The boys cheered, but Michael Sandler didn’t join in because he caught Mr. Mwila’s joke.
But then the joke was on us. We spent the next period writing paragraphs about Zambia, choosing one minor subject.
I didn’t want to be the class goody but I couldn’t help myself. At the end of our first day I told Mr. Mwila, “My mother’s name is from Africa.”
He smiled and said, “Miss . . .” He didn’t have his name sheet and hadn’t learned my name.
“Delphine. Delphine Gaither.”
“Yes, yes. Delphine.” Another smile. His eyes were kind. “What country is your mother from?”
I was a little confused but answered, “America.”
“I see,” Mr. Mwila said, although I wasn’t sure what he could see.
I couldn’t remember the country she’d said her name was from but I knew it was the land of our ancestors. I knew it sounded like Aruba but I didn’t think that was right.
I gave the only answer I could give with certainty. “Her name is Nzila.” And when I said it I smiled without meaning to.
“Ah!” said Mr. Mwila, recognizing the name instantly. “Your mother was born on the road. It must be a fascinating story.”
I looked at him strangely. I didn’t know what to say.
“The hospital is far if you live on the outskirts, so many children are born on the way. Nzila’s also popular if your parents travel. Some stories about the name are funnier than others.”
I was still stunned and asked, “Doesn’t it mean blowing away the dust from the surface, or something about truth?”
Mr. Mwila said, “Is that what your mother said?”
There I was nodding, because I couldn’t speak. That was what I deserved for throwing myself and my mother on display like Vonetta would. All it got me was a mother who lied about what her stupid poet name meant. Big Ma and Pa were right to keep Cecile from naming Fern any ooga-mooga names.
Dear Cecile,
How are you?
I am not fine.
My new teacher is Mr. Mwila from Zambia in southern Africa. Mr. Mwila told me the truth about Nzila when I told him your African name. He said Nzila means born on the road. It does not come from Aruba, the land of our ancestors. It comes from Zambia. It has nothing to do with the truth.
It isn’t fair to tell us your name means blowing the dust off of surfaces when it means born on the road.
At least I know better.
Sincerely,
Delphine