Teaching Philosophy

My academic and teaching experiences have exposed me to a diverse body of people with varied working and life experiences, strengths, and weaknesses. These experiences have helped me to develop my teaching and interpersonal philosophy in which my belief in people I work with and for is fully based. I recognize that students as well as colleagues I work with have diverse experiences and different ways of interpreting phenomena. Acknowledging this, I expand my instructional techniques considering these with a view to maximizing on each learner’s experience and learning style. I assess students on their individual abilities and perspectives in defining problems thus I recommend solutions.

In the past, I have noticed that when students sign up for a course, they bring to it different levels of knowledge and expectations and desires. Some students come with certain levels of acquaintance with the subject more than others do. Freshmen often feel intimidated by seniors in seminar and classroom discussions. My principal task as the facilitator lies in bridging and easing these differences. Through this, learners and I acquire new insights and understanding through free and open discussions. I try to challenge my students to think independently and explore possibilities and opportunities for growth and development in their personal and academic lives.

Towards the above end, I link materials covered in class with applicability in real life situations. Additionally, I guide students to identify learning needs, encourage their individual, and group participation, where their strengths and weaknesses are respected. For me the greatest challenge about helping students  to learn is not only to help them master the content and deliver it, but in developing and enabling students’ participation, and enhancing their skills in critical thinking, problem definition analysis and problem solving.

In general, I encourage my students to work in groups of no more than three for purpose of developing skills in finding solutions through teamwork and collaboration as they would in society. At the end of each course, in addition to standardized university evaluations, I request students to evaluate my professional performance by listing three things I did well and three I need to improve on. This has helped me move along progressively in my career as it facilitates to the understanding of my students and me better while improving teaching techniques and course designs.

From students’ evaluations, my strengths always seem to be in the mastery and delivery of content and ensuring students’ participation in class discussions, approachable in case of problems, and fairness in grading. My weaknesses range from occasional lateness in grading and returning assignments, to delays in responding to students’ emails. I have learned a great deal from these evaluations. On my strengths, I believe that there is always need to improve, on the other hand on my weaknesses I make sure a previous oversight does not persist.

The greatest satisfaction I derive from teaching is the knowledge that at the end of a course, my students have added some value to their acquired knowledge that positions them to making positive contributions to their communities, their nations, and to humankind as a whole. My research interests are in the teaching and learning of mature students and their coping mechanisms. I think this is because most of my education was realized when I had to manage multiple tasks such being a full time primary school teacher, acting administrator, being a mother to my five children.

Victim of abuse

For all women who have been abused

All my life I wished for a man who loved me,

Life and love would have passed me,

I would never have known what it is like to be lover and be loved,

Now I am no longer an observer, I am also a lover and loved,

I had for the life of me wished for a man who could hold my hands,

To tell me everything would be all right as long as we clung together,

I never heard it from him because he had too many hands to hold,

As such, too many women’s hands to be able to clung together.

I longed for simple things such as to sit on the porch,

Him and I to watch the orange sunset from the porch,

However, I never had it with him,

Because he was, too busy pursuing other women as the sunset.

I longed for a man, who wished to listen to simple music with me,

And I never had that too, and you know why?

Because he was busy giving that to other women except me,

Busy in the clubs, And for me the club was out of bounds and why?

I longed for a man, who would love my natural scents,

Moreover, to tell me it was sexy and sensual,

However, I never had that too, because he was busy as usual,

With perfumes and baths to take away other women’s scents.

I am all-natural woman, who appreciates,

The love and desire of a man,

The man who appreciates an all natural woman?

The one that I am, am I a crazy woman?

No I do not think that I am crazy,

Because I have found a man who desires me naturally,

The who loves me but is not lazy,

To show me quality love unconditionally!

I have found a man, who challenges me intellectually,

Whereas I never sat down to discuss anything intellectually,

Because my ex never had time, as he was too busy actually,

Busy chasing flowers of the world that kept him away intellectually.

I had almost forgotten that I too in fact,

Am among the beautiful flowers, as a fact

And such count as a beautiful flower, that’s a fact

He continuously ignored me, Oh what an effect!

I am challenged intellectually on a daily basis,

By the man in my life as my love oasis,

I can feel myself thriving and have a basis,

No wonder I am surviving in the oasis.

I have been a lifelong educator and learner,  

How could my lover fail to see that learner?

That he had to challenge me intellectually,

And not beat me physically,

Something I cannot fathom up to this day, intellectually.

All my life I drank from a swift flowing river,

All my life as a teacher, a learner, and a giver,

As I was never mentally a stagnant river,

Stagnant waters of the river cause malignant fever

I suppose thats why he was a taker and not a giver.

I could not continue to drink the stale waters of the stagnant pond,

Of his mind that believed in pounding a woman’s body,

Torturing her mind, and soul to possess her body,

To break her forgiving soul, and vibrant spirit so as to own her body.

I am now drinking the fresh waters of the swift flowing mind,

Peaceful person with all the nectar of a human mind,

And sweetness that comes from him and I bear in mind,

I am now in a peaceful world that cares and minds.

 I say thank you, for mistreating me to my abuser,

Otherwise, I would never have tasted these treats,

The softness and tender love of a real man for me,

The man who likes a woman, and like a real man he treats me.

I challenge my man intellectually,

And he promises me the same perpetually,

That is so refreshing actually,

To be drinking these waters so refreshing perpetually.

I am happy my body longs for that soft touch,

The one my body expects it night and day,

Than cringe from my man’s touch,

For my body and pleasure are his night and day.

Joys of teaching

Real Life stories from my primary school teaching days

I have always intended to chronicle the stories of children I taught that changed me as a teacher and an educator. So many years have gone by and as they say procrastination is the thief of time. It has stolen my time. I wonder where the years have gone. I have always procrastinated on writing about my daily stories on what I experienced with the children I taught from 1975 until 2000 when I took a break away from the repetitiveness of the classroom. I had many happy experiences, equally sad experiences, some heartwarming and equally heart-wrenching experiences in my career. All in all the experiences fabricated the story of my teaching life and painted a more colorful and enjoyable experience. I have decided to share some of the stories I still remember and the ones that made an impact on my life as a primary school teacher and a mother. For the reader some of the experiences could be fun, for the primary school children they could be relatable, to the parents this might be a revelation to what goes on when your child is in school, and to teachers probably they could be a reflection of their experiences as well. Some of the readers might recognize themselves in these stories. I have used pseudonyms for the students rather than their real names. However, every story tells the truth and I hope you enjoy these stories.

You are going to eat me!

This happened early on in my career. I was teaching in Chitungwiza in 1981. I had been allocated a Grade One (1) class. I was by then a mother of two young children. I used to enjoy all my students and I believed in reinforcement of schoolwork through homework for all of them at the end of the day. That particular day I had stressed that, my students do their homework that evening. I had also jokingly threatened that those who failed to do their homework I was going to the eat the culprits in school the next day.

The following day the first thing on the agenda was to check their homework. As I went round checking on their homework I noticed that one of my best pupils Tapiwa was crying. When I inquired why Tapiwa he was crying, his simple innocent answer was Makundidya…‘You are going to eat me!’ I remember that I laughed so hard and all my students laughed along with me. It was days like that which made my profession more meaningful and an enjoyable way for making a living. Trust a child to take things literally. I had never thought any one would believe that I would eat them per se, but trust a child to believe anything!

My mother is dead!

This story pulls at my heartstrings even today as I write it down. This was in the early 1984 and I had moved to Chakari from Chitungwiza. We had school assembly every morning and inspected the children for hygiene. When I came to this particular boy, his clothes were so dirty that I was disgusted. There was an odor from his body, which I could not stand. Instead of questioning him, I made a flippant comment to the effect of whether his mother was home when he left for school. I questioned why she sent him to school dirty as a pig. I continued to insult that boy and am ashamed at the disgrace I put him through. I went further and inquired whether his mother was dead or merely lazy a lazy woman.

The boy did not answer; he simply broke down and cried. I could not believe it and when I asked why he was crying as though I had beaten him up. In his young innocent frightened voice, he respondedin one simple word, vakafa “My mother is dead.” Immediately I felt ashamed of myself. I wished the ground would open up and swallow me for my insensitiveness to this poor little boy. In my own eyes, I could not deny I had seemed insensitive and not caring. My heart went out to the boy.

Immediately I hugged him to my body despite the bodily odor and the dirtiness of his clothes. I consoled the boy as best as I could. I assured him I would take him to my place to give him a bath. I carried out my promise and I always made sure I encouraged him. From then on I learned not to pass careless remarks and risk appearing insensitive to the students I taught. I knew from that experience that my students were human beings and that they felt the same heartaches at loss of a loved one just as adults do. I learned to treat my students throughout the years with respect, care, and love.

Siniganiza-I-do-not-think/care

This was a real name from one of the mid 80s students, I taught in Chakari. This little boy was of Malawian descent. His name was Nyanja translated to mean I do not think or care. I could not imagine a parent giving their child such a name. It was a Grade Three (3) class. I had first heard his name during assembly when new kids were being allocated their classes and teachers for the year. When I heard he was going to be in my class I laughed. I could not imagine what I was going to teach a child who neither who thought nor cared.

Initially my attitude towards the boy’s name influenced my low expectation of his performance as a pupil in my class. Occasionally I would overlook his outstretched arms, as he eagerly wanted to participate in class. I usually turned a blind eye until one day going over their written tests.

At the end of every month, I gave review tests to assess my students acquisition of concepts covered. When I was marking his English test, I thought maybe it had been a fluke of good luck. I paid particular attention to his Math. The boy had nailed all the 20 mathematical questions I had given them. I could not understand the irony of his name. I realized it was only a name and had nothing to do with his intelligence. How many times have we as teachers been influenced by such mundane aspects of the children’s lives. It was a lesson I carried all my life never to judge a book by its cover.

Please translate Come to school in the morning!

In Zimbabwe from the late 1970s to the late 1980s, there was such a demand for education. This was just before our independence and soon after when education was free for all for once. In order to cope with the high demand the education bureaucracy hatched the idea of the hot session. The hot session aimed at accommodating two classes in one classroom a day. In some schools, one class would have classroom access in the morning from 7.30 a. m -12:30 p. m. The afternoon session started from 1.00 until 5.00. Every two weeks the two sharing classes would alternate the learning time and space. Whenever necessary if the teachers had some personal businesses to attend to they would swap sessions. That was the case on the particular day I told my students “tomorrow we come to school in the morning.”

I had some personal business I needed to attend to in the afternoon. Though it was my class’ turn for the afternoon session, I stressed to my pupils that they had to come in the morning. English is the official language in Zimbabwe. Examinations are set in English. Parliament debates in English. All official business uses English. Consequently, I encouraged my students to speak English as much as possible as I knew Shona and any other indigenous languages had ample time in their homes. I made it a habit to speak to my students in English.

As I was dismissing my class, my colleagues were waiting for me by the door. One of them asked whether I was not going to translate for my pupils benefit to Shona. She laughed and stated that most kids would not turn up in the morning. I told her I was not going to translate. I further stated that I taught the way I meant to go, as this was early in the school year. I told her my kids had to get used to the use of the English language.

The following morning, I had five children who were absent. I concluded that out of the 50, only five had failed to understand my language of communication. My colleague came to check and was amazed that only five had not turned up. When the five later came to school it was not due to misunderstanding my language of communication but due to various reasons. Anyway, my colleague tried the same with her class and more than ten pupils were absent. Her kids had been used to translations and never bothered to learn English, to know a language you have to speak it and understand it. My conclusion was never to translate for my pupils as a result; they had no option but to learn English. My motto was start the way you mean to go!

No radio lessons for Gilmore!

Gilmore was one of the smartest kids I ever taught throughout my teaching career. Every week, in primary school we had radio lessons, for either music or English. By the time, I taught Gilmore it was my 18^th year or so in the field. I had conducted radio lessons on average twice every week. No student up to then had ever questioned how the voices were transmitted to us through the radio. Early on that year I had noticed certain reluctance in Gilmore to participate in the radio lessons. On that particular day, he told me the reason. Gilmore told me he could not understand how a grown person could fit into a radio and be able to conduct the radio lessons. He claimed whoever was teaching was too big to fit into the radio. I understood his query. Gilmore thought real people were sitting inside the radio. I took advantage of his concern and curiosity.

Sometime after school, I recorded all their voices on tape. We had different things recorded on tape, as individuals, in pairs, in groups, and as a class. It was an exhausting exercise but well worth it. Some of the pupils were afraid to speak into the microphone, and others had to be persuaded. I later replayed their voices back to them on the radio. The exercise did a lot for different personalities. Even listening to various recordings conducted brought about lots of discussions. Later I asked Gilmore whether he had to fit into the radio. He smiled and thanked me for the practical explanation. I also explained about airwaves and how they carried voices all over the country. I wish I had kept in touch with Gilmore as I wonder what he became in life. All students we teach are individuals as such we have to nurture and accommodate their individual differences!

Never mark the child present when actually absent!

My first year of teaching after teacher training I was deployed to teach in Domboshava. I had a Grade One (1) class of 46 pupils. The students ranged in ages from six to seven and a half. Domboshava was not my local community. My accommodation was within the school grounds. Interaction with the local community was minimal. It was in May after our April school holidays. The first day I conducted the roll call one of my students whom I shall call Kuda was absent. I asked the students whether they had seen Kuda during the school holidays and none had. I thought maybe he would be back by the following day.

I marked my student present for the day and continued to do the same for the next three days. I did not want to be bothered with the addition of the absentees at the end of the semester. I had struggled with balancing my register the previous semester. As such, I had resolved none of my students were going to reflect their absenteeism in the register at all for easier balancing of my attendees at the end of the term. Luckily or unluckily, every Friday the registers were submitted into the school principal’s office for review.

The following Monday, my school principal brought the register personally to my classroom. I began to question myself inwardly why he had not sent the messenger. After handing me the register, he asked me whether I knew where Kuda was. I told him no. Only then did my heart sink. I knew I had done something wrong. He asked me why I had marked the child present for the last three days. I looked stupid but what he said next made me feel very bad. He told me that the child had passed away a week after our schools had closed. I was flabbergasted at myself. I learned the hard way to never mark children present when they were not physically in the room. I hated subtraction, addition, and all the operations, that were a nuisance in balancing the register but they would have saved me the embarrassment of marking a dead student present. That semester I taught myself to love the operations. I would teach Math first thing in the morning and in the end, it was my favorite subject to teach. Don’t be a teacher who learns the hard way.

Five cents and how are you?

For the longest time I would greet my children in class and never thought about how they responded to my greeting. One day I decided to greet them individually and just hear their voices. They all used to chorus their responses to me. Somehow, I felt the way of greeting my pupils did not bring them closer to me. I just greeted one by name and the next and the next. It was when they responded to How are you that I felt I had not heard them correctly. The first student answered Five cents and how are you?  I became curious and continued to ask them all and they all responded the same.

I showed them a five cent coin and asked what the difference was between what they were saying and the word Fine. Y pupils were quiet and had no idea what I meant. They were second graders. This was a clear indication that they had never seen the word fine written down and had no clue what it meant. It was a lesson for me to always connect the spoken word to the written word and make sure I heard each child enunciate the words to me.

That misspoken word took me to the time I was a primary school student myself. One of the teachers had taught us to sing If you are happy and you know it clap your hands. The last line If you are happy and you know it and you really want to show it if you are happy and you it clap your hands. All the time until I was training to be a teacher I had always sung it as If you are happy and you know it the mushalishalishu, and had no idea what it meant or if there ever was such a word. I clearly felt sorry for all English as Second Language speakers. Sometimes they just say words and have no idea what they are saying.

My Mother Mrs. Musandipa

In Zimbabwe, schoolchildren use school uniforms. In 1994, I was a teacher at Sir John Kennedy School. The requirements were school uniforms from head to toe. Sometimes class teachers would not realize that some students did not have appropriate uniforms. As such, school prefects were utilized during school breaks to check on missing pieces of proper school uniform.

My middle daughter never took anything lying down without fighting back. One day she was a culprit and did not have her hat during break time. She was still new to the school. As one school prefect was preparing to jot her name down for breaking one of the school rules, she started slowly saying, My mother who is Mrs. Musandipa…..and before she completed the sentence the prefect recognized the threat in the sentence and told her to walk on.

In the evening as she was narrating the story to me we all cried our eyes out. She would never have her name written down for detention or anything if she could avoid it from the top of her head. She managed to counter attack and always got away with a lot. Sometimes I thought she would never make it through her education! Some battles in life we do not need to fight for our children let them figure out and negotiate things on their own!

Thank you to my abuser!

Thank you To My ABUSER

For all the times you struck me, you gave me strength,

For the times you fathered a child outside our marriage you gave me my marching orders

 As for the denial of such, you gave me purpose.

In as much as I would love to hate you, it is beneath me.

Instead, I thank you for making me realize I could live my life without you and realize I am a resilient woman of stature.

I am strong and better because now I know better Thanks to you I am now an educated abused woman!

Chikunguru, 07/07.....zuva rekurangarira

Kuyeuka Hama Dzedu Dzakatungamira,

Taungana nhasi isu vana VaNjanji

Tichikuremekedzai Baba Njanji

Nemudzimai wenyu Selina mwana waMutopo,

Mamukomba zvino mwanakomana wenyu Foshi

Uyo aikudai kunge ndiye aiva ega mhodzi yenyu,

Maidei naNjodzi varikwavo kunze kwemusha kwamakavadyara,

Naivo vanofara nokuti ndivo vava nemi Baba namai

Asi vatungamirwa nemukoma wavo

Zvino votariswa nedangwe raNjanji Stephen,

Akaramba kudyarwa ega kunze kwemusha

Asi nhasi ava neshamwari dzake Maidei naNjodzi

Dangwe renyu ravabata maoko kutevera anatete vavo

Nhasi uno vakakombwa nehanzvadzi dzababa vake Herina veVherenika

Vese vakavhumbamirwa naKuvi mwana waVhuramai

Anova ndiye nyakutumbura mhuri,

Iye Kuvi neziso rerudo achinyemwerera

Nemazino ake akachena kunge mukaka mukanwa osekerera

Pamwe nahama dzake dzemusha wesewaMusoko,

Kuvi mwanasikana WaMusoko

Tinoisa maoko kwamuri mese, tichikurangarirai nhasi

Nekutiberekera Kuvi uyo akapa upenyu kumhuri

Uyo akatiberekera Njanji Baba uyo akawana Selina amai vedu

Nhasi ndichirangarira vese handikanganwe chisekerere wenyu Savior

Uye makatora zuro rino

Achisiya mapudzi ake asina kana kukora,

Pamusoro pazvo mukati haafambe ega,

Kusina mazuva Nyarai muzukuru wenyu mukamuita muperekedzi,

Misodzi isati yaoma mukatorazve,

Chido chemwoyo hama yangu yePadyo Sisi Tracy,

Nhasi ndinoshaya zororo pfungwa dzinondiwandira,

Ari mupenyu Tracy aiti ndashaya mukoma wekutaurira,

Zvinondirwadza pamwoyo, ndisinganzwisise

Nhasi ndazvinzwisisa zvaaireva,

Achiripo ndaiturira kwaari,

Nhasi handichisina mukoma wekuturira,

Mhezi yepamwoyo isina makwenyero, inondivava,

Chititarisai isu mapunha enyu pano pamusha

Nemumative ese enyika kana mhiri dzemakungwa

Vana vapera kupararira, semashizha

Asi seshiri ndinoziva havakanganwe

Vanoziva kuti mudzimu weshiri uri mudendere

Akombwa zvino makuva evakuru pamusha apo nepwere

Akakombwa zvino nemanhanga aVerenika, naHerina, naNjanji

Handikanganwe zuva rakadyarwa dangwe raTabhoyi, Rudhu

Iwe Herina uchiridza huhwi, muchuru sebere ratorerwa mwana

Kuti inga vana vadiki vapera pamusha

Wakaoneiko tete vangu hanzvadzi yababa vangu,

Iye zvino zvuru zviye zvadyarwa mapudzi ari kuparara,

Zvino isu sevana vapenyu toti kwamuri,

Chivatarisai imi mese muri kumafuramhepo

Nerudo chivavhumbamirai mapunha enyu,

Vagokurangarirai nendyaringo dzamakavadzidzisa

Nemisodzi nekugunun’una vanokurangarirai

Mese vakuru nevadiki vemumusha uno

Isu vana venyu vamakasiya tichingochema,

Asi tichiziva kuti imi makatungamira,

Nesu inguva chete tichatevera hedu,

Zororai henyu murugare mese imi muri kuchamhembe.

African Women in Diaspora

African Women in Diaspora

 When a friend asked me to write an article on my opinion on African Women in commemoration of the World’s Women’s month for a while I was lost for something to write about yet I always have so much to share. It’s hard to imagine that celebrating African women could be accommodated within a page. Why? Because our history is as broad and as varied as the many countries that compose Africa, therefore, writing on African women within a page is almost impossible. However, I will address a few issues that unite Africa women from Cape to Cairo and Libreville to Mombassa such as; the economic struggles, oppression, underdevelopment, human rights abuses, and the HIV/AIDS pandemic. None of which is new, but these have been promoted and talked about globally and seem not to matter anymore. There is a species of African women who are struggling in the Diaspora. These represent the forgotten ones; they do not belong neither here nor there. Why? The answer is because they dared to dream.

Do you know that African women who make it in the Diaspora are among the strongest in the world? These women had many odds staked against them right from birth, but somehow they managed to live their dreams and turned them into reality. Most of them have worked as professionals yet whilst living in Diaspora is forced into menial jobs that subject them into paucity. Not surprising because African women are used to working hard and poverty. It is rare that you find African women in line for food at food banks, nor handouts at any social services. Whilst they know about these services they are systematically excluded because they are not nationals! In such cases systems render them indirect services whilst disserving their nationals. As Africans they believe in working for themselves and families and proud by nature; therefore, they do not expect anything to be handed to them on silver plates! Why do international leaders make it so hard for them to access jobs in order to keep families together? Why not enable them through friendly policies to live where they choose to live as free human beings?

Yes, why not? Because their stories feed the media frenzy as they narrate and relate about the oppression in these far away countries that are in the back of beyond.  As a result African women reinforce the stereotypes that have already been conceptualized in people’s minds, through the media- The African Women -the ones to be pitied; the ones to compare Western lives to; the others different from us. African women are not lazy, they do not need pity, and they have high ambitions, and have dared to dream. Many times I picture in my mind these lands (Western) and all they have to offer if miraculously resources were exposed to African girls how they would utilize them and take advantage of the opportunities!

is writin. Admittedly I can not deny that there is dehumanizing poverty in Africa but show me a country that does not have people living beyond the poverty line. If I had not been here during last season’s wave of hurricanes surely I would not have believed that the West still subjected its people to such circumstances. In 1997 I witnessed the floods of Mozambique and Zimbabwe and a woman giving birth up in a tree, like a wild animal! That could not be compared to the magnitude of negligence I witnessed during Katrina! I had never seen the negligence of a government that has everything imaginable under the sun yet abandons its nationals to conditions worse than death. The tears of those people, the wailing voices of women and their children are indelible and will never be wiped from my mind and took that me right back to Africa! During those days I cried myself to sleep every night and then it dawned on me that the rich can conceal their weaknesses by highlighting the weaknesses of the poor. The poor are the same the world over as they could be invisible. As women we are human beings, we count, and we deserve to be protected by equal human rights the world over.

My love of reading

The Meaning of the Word Read to Me!

For years and years as a primary school teacher I taught the reading of two


languages to grade school children in my home country of Zimbabwe. My first


year of teaching I was only 18 years, old and I found myself with 50 curious


young children at my hands eager to learn under my competent guidance. I


enthusiastically introduced those children to the reading of both English and


Shona. After all there is a common bond between the English language and


Shona. The English alphabet has 26 letters and the Shona alphabet has only 22


letters. These consonants are the same except Shona does not have the letters l,


q, independent c, and x. The vowels are the same except they sound differently


particularly for a, e, and u. With English being Zimbabwe’s official language and


Shona being one of the indigenous languages and my mother tongue I had all the


drive to craft my children the ability to read. Let me characterize a little bit about


the languages of Zimbabwe. From the north of Zimbabwe the indigenous


language is mainly Shona a combination of Zezuru, Chinyika, Ndau, and Korekore


to the south is Ndebele a combination of Ndebele and Kalanga. The Ndebele


alphabet has x, l, and q but does not have an r. Though I was never taught


Ndebele I can read it fluently without much understanding what I am reading


because my Ndebele ability is limited.

During my years of teaching it was my passion to see those children I taught able to read and write and understand the written word. I wanted them to understand the written word and be able to transform the printed or written symbol into the spoken or acted form. I enjoyed seeing them participate in different world cultures because of what reading could grant them access to. It gave them access to a world beyond their geographical boundaries, beyond their ages, and beyond anything, they could have ever lived. Reading had opened that door to me once as a young child and I never looked back. As such early on in my teaching career I sought to understand my passionate emotions for reading, where they came from, why they were so deeply rooted in my teaching philosophy and my personality, how it came to be and why I so much enjoyed seeing my children able to acquire this exceptional skill. I believe for me to understand this phenomenon I had to understand what the word read meant and still means to me. According to the Webster’s dictionary to read is to -:

 A: look at carefully so as to understand the meaning of (something written or printed, etc)

B: utter aloud or render in speech (something written, printed, etc.) like reading a story to children; or the actor reading his lines in a booming voice.

C: have such knowledge of (a language) as to be able to understand things written in it; be it English, Shona, Nyanja, Ndebele, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, or Swahili.

As such to me reading became my personal tool that could open any doors to


things that I needed to know. Reading would make me know about the universe,


learn about history, understand the human body, know more about my country,


understand religion and its practices and many other current events. Reading


became my favorite pastime. The only sad thing was I never had enough books to


read then because the only place I could have access to books was school and


way back then we were never allowed to take the books home because we had


limited stocks.

I took this personal journey to find out when I was first introduced to the written word. If my memory saves me right I remember the first time anyone ever read to me was in Sunday school reading from the bible. The bible verse I recall up to this day which I was made to memorize and commit to memory was Luke 2 verse 40: The child Jesus grew. He became strong and wise and God blessed him. (Of course that was in Shona my mother tongue: Akakura Akasimba akazara nenjere nenyasha dzaMwari dzikava pamusoro pake). Then I remember some nights when my grandmother would read the bible to me. She would also take out her Anglican songbook and we would sing hymns of praise together. By the time I started school I had already developed love for reading. I think by this time I was only six years old and I had not started school. By the time I was introduced to my first school book it had colorful pictures and the printed work.

Even as I attended my first grade in school I remember most of what I read in school. It was as though everything would have been photographed to memory. I was taught about individual differences then, (I am me and you are you…Ini ndini, Iwe ndiwe) about family (father, mother, baby, sister), about community (you, us, we, they), about God, and the world around us. I would recite everything to my grandmother when I got home in the evenings because from the time I was 5 years old my father opted me to take care of his aging mother. I would help her keep the house clean, fetch water, firewood, and perform all the traditional female chores girls of my time and era performed. Prisca (not that we were ever allowed to call grandparents, parents, and for that matter any adults by name) my grandmother would let me just go off the top of my head reciting all the reading I would have participated in at school, because we were never allowed to bring books home so I made the best while in school. In school, I had the opportunity to look carefully at the printed symbol and the written word became alive to me. It spoke to me and I understood its language and what it said to me on a personal level. I was never shy to read aloud and as such that helped speed up my reading skills. Because the more frequent I was called upon to read the better I became.

I progressed diligently with my school work. I excelled in every grade and the most impressive things I remember were all the responsible hard working teachers who taught me in grade school and how they each contributed to my world. I know they were hard working because most of them taught two classes a day one from 8- 12 and another from 12-4. Who else but some hard working people could dedicate so much time to 6-10 year olds every day Monday through Friday? On top of that, the classes were huge I recall there would be not less than 50 pupils in each class. In fact, in my eyes it was not just a career but a special calling for them to dedicate so much of themselves to our education. Even today, I stand in reverence to those men and women who were responsible for my early education. Male teachers mostly taught me and they were wonderful. It was only in Standard Four that I was taught by a female teacher. It was then that my love for reading was further developed and entrenched in what became to be a life long love for reading. This teacher was a close friend to my eldest brother and I think they encouraged each other to broaden our reading horizons. I had a dependable advocate to this passion in the person of my eldest brother Rhoderick. Amazingly, I now know he was only in high school then and I think he understood what we stood to achieve through reading. The saddest part is he only lived to be 21 years old, as he died during our liberation war. Up to this very day I never cease to wonder what an impact he would have made to the world and his own child’s life had he lived even to be just thirty years old. I always hear of people speaking of their heroes. When it comes to my education and my reading prowess my brother Rhoderick was my hero.

When I was in Standard 4 my brother introduced me to the world of literature. He bought me books that I read over and over and over because I enjoyed and believed those stories so much that I thought my own world would be transformed just by reading the books over and over. Among the books he bought for me were Oliver Twist, Lorna Doone, Pride and Prejudice, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn only to name a few. I enjoyed white Christmases where I would never have witnessed any but wet ones; I rode on the tram cars when all I had ridden on were the public buses. I read about the world war when my world then was simply trusting and innocent. I had my first book review in Standard Four and I remember the first big words (the jaw breakers as we called them then) in my vocabulary were arrested and released and my classmates were in awe of me and asking what the words meant. Even as I write now my chest swells up because of the pride and joy I felt then as it resurfaces to the top as though I am reliving everything. I enjoyed the attention it brought me. I found power in the written word. I participated in drama, fantasy, and fairy tales because of the doors that opened to me through reading. I read anything that my hands could grab hold of, comics, children’s story books, the bible, religious literature; nothing legible was safe from my prying eyes and curious mind. My mind was like a little sponge absorbing as much it could.

As a teenager, that passion for reading would land me in trouble with me lecturers, many times, than I can remember. I would escape into my reading world during boring class lessons consequently, I would lose track of time. I would become absorbed in my own world playing a role no matter what I read I always chose a role for me. I remember in one particular class and during that period reading a comic Murder is Sweet during the geography lesson period. The teacher called on me to answer a question and when he realized I had a book under my desk he came over and pulled it from my nervous fingers as he showed it to everyone. If there was anytime I was ever embarrassed for doing the wrong thing at the wrong time it was that day. He proceeded to the front of the class and held my comic showing it to the whole class as he imitated a sweet innocent voice, she thinks murder is sweet. Luckily my complexion does not blush I think I would have blushed to death…and poor me the floor did not even attempt to open up to swallow me and save me the humiliation.

After comics came the obsession to read love stories. I remember my first year training to be a teacher a classmate giving me a novel Brandy for Breakfast!  Do not even ask me who the author was all I know it was one of those books I enjoyed reading and it opened up another avenue of different literature to me altogether. Probably my first lessons in sex and drink. I would borrow school books from the library to read after lights went out under my covers with my flashlight. Every lunch hour instead of taking a siesta like my classmates, I spent my time in the library reading and pouring my eyes over any book I could get hold of. In all this I was a much-disciplined scholar as I never forgot to do my school assignments as long as there was reading involved I had no problem at all. I continued to excel. However, I never saw myself as excelling to the degree I did until one year as a second year student teacher I was called to receive an achievement price for overall achievement. That was the icing on my cake and motivated me to continue to read in unprecedented terms.

Now I look back to those first reading lessons and realize how far I have come. I have influenced kids to read a book a week and love reading in order to succeed in education. I have taught my own children to love reading and they have all become college graduates. I have staff developed teachers on different reading strategies and believe some of them still remember me for that. I have improved myself academically from the teacher certified student trained as an 18 year old to a seasoned doctorate graduate with national and international scholarship because of reading. So how can anyone succeed without reading?

Summertime!!

My Summer 2009 Labor of Love

Summer brings a lot of nostalgia of the nurturing of plants, flowers, people and even animals I did as a child. Today I remembered what I did summer 2009 and here is what I wrote when summer was almost aver. This summer has been extremely dry but today wa received some much needed showers of blessing!

My labor of love for the summer of 2009 all began with a simple visit to my local farmer’s market in late May with a local male friend I had met online two months prior. I do not usually chat up man online as a rule but I needed someone local to spend the lengthy summer months with, doing out door activities that we both enjoyed. By the way, a purely platonic friendship! Before this particular day we had met only twice in person and both on neutral grounds. We also had several things that brought us together besides companionship that shall be revealed later if I continue to write. I had previously casually mentioned to my new found friend that one of my interests would be to go to a farmers’ market downtown Philadelphia as I was still pretty new to the area. As my friend did not own a car that sort of limited how we could get there because I am not one for driving on the freeways if there is a way I can avoid them. In our daily conversations, I revealed to him that I have certain phobias where highways are concerned with good cause due to previous experiences by the way. As such, my newly found understanding friend suggested we visit a local farmers market before we could venture all of 17 miles on the freeway to Philadelphia. Please do not laugh at me for the fear is as real as it can be.

            I picked my friend up from his home around 11 in the morning that Saturday. In my local town I had seen the local farmer’s market many times in the two years since moving and he suggested we go there. I had passed the same market hundreds of times as I did my errands in the area but had never ventured indoors to check it out. This particular day was sunny with a cool breeze and everything was just perfect for outdoor activities. Outside the market, I saw lots of summer flowers, petunias, impatience, daisies, marigolds, and I felt like I was a kid let free in a candy store. I love flowers by nature and flowers always manage to bring unrivaled happiness to my being. In my heart of hearts, I wanted to have them all, but hey, I had personal limitations such as financial ones, of course. I am a working woman. I was running from one stall to the next trying to formulate my pick.

Next we were looking at all the herbs, the mints, the rosemary, parsley, and basil, some of my favorite herbs. No sooner were we inside that I was pushing the huge food cart filled with different tropical fruits that I am used to such as paw-paws, oranges, mangoes, tomatoes, peaches, and all different types of fruit juices I could grab hold of. Initially the store keeper was not really interested in us as we had to literally drag her outside to help us pick all the flower plants and herbs that I needed. I ended up picking the impatience, a couple daisies, and a few herbs. When our flowers were nicely stored in the trunk of my car and some on the back seat we left. I felt like shouting to the world at the top of my voice that I was going to plant flowers on the little balcony of my one bed roomed apartment! I, Rosemary, an adult person was going to have some fun time playing in the dirt.

            When we got home we were busy digging out the dirt as Americans would call it but I call it soil because it gives existence to animals, plants, bugs, trees, grass, and all other living things that get their sustenance from the ground and human beings included vegetarians or otherwise. My friend could not believe how animated I was. I spent years as a child working the fields for my food and as such, I have a special relationship with the soil. He soon caught on to the excited mood and like two little kids; we let our younger soul’s surface and enjoyed planting the flowers. Within a short time our plants had found place in the nurturing soil but they looked so pathetic! They looked so small and in need of attention. They were not close together and as such to me it seemed as though they would never be able to draw strength and warmth from each other.

 I did not own a hose but luckily, I had my five-gallon trashcan as well as the one-gallon watering can I had picked up from K-Mart. I ran cold tap water into both and balanced the watering can on my head as we began to water my flowers. My friend had never seen anyone balance the water bucket on their heads like that but that had been one of my daily routines growing up in Zimbabwe. Women and girls in Zimbabwean villages start the day by fetching water from wells a mile or so away from the village, so this was no mean feat I had performed but something I had basically done every day of my life as a young girl. I was having the time of my life going down memory lane and sharing my experiences with someone who was living the same through my experiences.

Balancing a water can on my head.

I found myself telling my friend that planting the flowers into the ground was like planting the seeds of a good friendship that I hoped would last a long time. It is needless to say that our friendship has been able to withstand the test of time. It is end of summer as I sit down to write this and we still communicate almost on a daily basis. By the time we were done we were really hungry and it was befitting that I prepared a meal and feed my guest. We ended up having some of my traditional Zimbabwean food which we both enjoyed. In the early evening we relaxed on my couch and let me tell you there was something about doing something relaxing with a friend with no strings attached that just made us comfortable with each other and went to sleep on my couch. Later in the night around ten I drove him back home. It hardly felt as though we had been together close to twelve hours! I was happy I had a male friend whose companionship I could just enjoy without any sexual under currents!

Several weeks after planting.

The following morning I watered my flowers again and spent hours outside looking at them and thinking whether they were going to thrive. As time went by I would talk to them and they responded to my nurturing as though they were of my own making. I told all my family members and friends about my tiny flower garden. I took pictures of my flowers and I sent those pictures of how the flowers were progressing to friends and family alike. I bet you some might have thought I had lost my mind but I think they had the graciousness not to say anything. I paid attention to my plants every evening I looked forward to coming home and watering and looking at my flourishing flowers. Believe you me or not, daily I noticed a difference in my flowers growth, and that made me smile a lot inside.

Suddenly, I had a reason to come home at the end of a busy and crazy filled workday. Besides I was now happy with myself and I suddenly realized that I had let myself go a little. I had put on a little bit of weight and suddenly I found myself having extra energy to wake up early and walk for 45 minutes before I went to work. Within a couple of months I had lost 12 pounds. Unbelievable what a little hobby like caring for a few summer flowers did to uplift my spirits the way I perceived myself and the world around me and how that brought joy to my lonely life.

I forgot to tell you I am a mother of five grown up children. I can tell you as they were growing up every day they brought out the best of me as a young nurturing mother. I enjoyed bathing, feeding, teaching them how to work at home and study at school. I invested a lot of time and energy in my children, I told them stories, I read to them, I sang to them even though I always sang out of tune, and everyday I noticed a difference in each one of my five children’s development that made my cup run over with happiness. I was also a primary school teacher, therefore, I did not only nurture my own biological children, but I nurtured 40-50 young children annually every day for more than 25 years of my life. Nurturing of both my kids and students brought fulfillment to my married life that was full of tormented emotional and physical turmoil. Nurturing in a way kept me grounded. No wonder in my time of solitude I did what came to me naturally I thought of nurturing. Even though I could not be with my children flowers gave me the tranquility and ecstasy I deserve. In the past couple of years I had almost lost touch with my nurturing side living on my own. Can you believe that all it took were a few tiny flower plants on a tiny one bed roomed balcony to awaken the nurturer I had always been. Well what do they say, once a nurturer always one!

All through the summer I watered my flowers on a daily basis. I ate healthy I exercised. I was a couch potato no more. I felt happier inside and my plants grew to be bushes more than 18 inches tall. They were fighting for light, they were luscious green, they were touching each other, and they were drawing warmth and strength from each other. Unbelievable! One day I brought my friend over after a couple of months and his eyes almost popped out of his eyeballs. He was amazed at the change that had taken place in the flowers development. The flowers were a pretty sight to sore eyes. They were huge, touching each other, drawing strength from one another, all fully blooming with beautiful white, pink, lilac, and red petals. It was a pretty welcome sight; it was magnificent to share these flowers with him. I did more than simply share my beautiful blooms with my friend but other people within my apartment complex as well. I remember one day may residents manager met me in the drive way. He could not stop flattering me about the flowers behind my little apartment balcony. He even told me that I definitely had the proverbial green thumb!

Now summer is at an end and the good weather is coming to a close. My soul is not smiling so much anymore. Instead it hurts but like the saying goes, to every season turn, turn, and turn. Every good thing comes to an end. Summer is over and now it is time for winter and every growing plant that cannot endure the cold winter months must die unless they are protected. Almost every night since the weather began to change I found myself pondering what to do with my blooming flowers. What will happen to my beautiful summer flowers, which made me so happy all season long? I hate to see them just freeze outside and die just like that. This was a relationship of joy, labor, and love as such, how can I now let them go as though they had never been? I had to think of something quickly before my flowers were killed by this cruel, relentlessly cold winter weather. I found myself at Wal-Mart. I do not have a lot of extra cash but I have to continue to nurture and protect my beautiful flowers anyway. I bought these two long pots for plants. I knew the pots would not contain all my flowers but I would transplant as many as I could. I have in the meantime transplanted some of my flowers into them and sadly not all. I hate to see those outside as they are going to freeze in the winter cold. However, the transplanted flowers now grace my apartment window ledge inside my lonely apartment. These flowers brighten my room a hundred times over.

The summer might be over but my labor of love with my flowers still continues. It is being transformed into a winter long labor of love once more. The flowers are now housed indoors and I continue to take care of my beautiful flowers. I am only sad I could not house them all but at least some were saved from the realities of the harsh cruel winter conditions. I, however, intend to continue caring for my beautiful flowers.

This relationship revealed and the development of my flowers revealed something to me. No man can be an island. We need strength and warmth from each other. Do not wait for something to change in your life; you have the capabilities and capacity to make a positive change. I had isolated myself after my diagnosis of my terminal illness but this simple project taught me I did not need to be lonely and endure by myself. I can draw strength from all the people around me. I have to look outside of just myself, and see the bigger picture.