They Do Not Like Green Eggs and Ham

 

 

by John Schaidler

 

 

 

I felt unexpectedly drained and defeated as I turned the page and intoned, with forced enthusiasm:

Would you eat them

in a box?

Would you eat them

with a fox?

The incessant, clanky drumming of rain on the metal roof had finally stopped. I knew they could clearly hear me, but my words hung in the hot, humid air of the library—uninspiring, dull and joyless.

Kwame fidgeted in place, uncrossing and recrossing his legs. Alua elbowed his sister, imploring her to slide over and give him some space. I felt the itchy tickle of sweat on my scalp and forehead. Kwame and his two friends, whose names I didn’t yet catch, wordlessly got up and walked away.

I’d totally lost them.

Undeterred, I melodically pressed on, pointing to each object as I read the word, rotating side to side so everyone could see:

Not in a box.

Not with a fox.

Not in a house.

Not with a mouse….

I glanced up. Seventeen blank faces stared back. I took a deep breath and continued.

I would not eat them here or there.

I would not eat them anywhere.

I would not eat green eggs and ham.

I do not like them, Sam-I-am.

Alua’s sister pinched him. He smacked her in the leg. She immediately retaliated, punching him square in the shoulder. “Okay, okay,” I said gently, “that’s enough, you two.” Another kid stood up and left, unapologetically. Two more quickly followed. I sighed and closed the book. “Why don’t we take a break and…?” The rest of the children scattered in all directions, seizing the opportunity to get away from my mind numbing read-aloud.

I was baffled and heartbroken. Dr. Seuss is one of my all-time favorite authors, an undisputed genius. Green Eggs and Ham is one of my all-time favorite books, an unrivalled classic. This was what I’d signed up for. This was why I was here. This was what I’d dreamt of the last several months.

I stared at the dusty floor, trying to retrace my steps and figure out where I’d gone wrong. Just 45 minutes ago—waiting for the library to open—we’d all been laughing and smiling, playing the local version of jacks under the metal eaves as the rain pelted down. Earlier in the day, we’d all played soccer in the rutted, grassless field in front of the community center.  I’d made fast friends with them all. It was like I’d known them all my life. But suddenly, here in the library, book in hand, I was just another boring teacher plodding my way through another boring text, reconfirming the fact that reading was an utterly boring chore.

Months ago, back in the States, the phone interviewer had asked me, “What’s a successful development worker’s most important trait? What will you bring to the ‘Ghana Read and Play’ session?”

Without a moment’s hesitation I’d said, “Humility.” Hearing a positive sounding, “Hmmm,” on the other end I quickly continued. “I think it’s important to remember that I am a guest. It is a privilege to live and work in the host community, not a right. I am there to learn, as well as teach. I need to always ask questions, not think I have all the answers. I need to leave my Western biases behind and be fully present, prepared to look, listen and learn, respectfully and appreciatively.”

Bam!

Perfect.

Nailed it.

I secretly high-fived myself as the interviewer asked the next question. Rarely has anyone been so proud of his own humility. Right then and there, despite my good intentions, despite the words that I’d just spoken, despite everything I knew about the vital importance of making truly authentic cross-cultural connections, the seeds of my Western “superiority” were sown and quickly taking root. Now, on the lonely wooden bench of Humjibre’s Community Library six thousand miles from home, my deeply entrenched Western notions were bearing bitter fruit. They did not like Green Eggs and Ham.

In my unthinking rush of excitement, I thought I’d done everything right. I’d gathered the kids around me, greeting them in Twi—“Wo ho te sen?”—and telling them my name—“Me din de John”—but I’d blown right past the first step. I hadn’t even bothered to ask a single question or tried to figure out what the kids wanted and needed. Instead, enticed by the bright orange cover of one of my favorite childhood books, I’d plucked it from the shelf and unconsciously decided I knew what was needed. Never mind what the kids thought. Never mind the goal. Never mind the desired outcomes. We were going to get there by reading Dr. Seuss.

Ennngh.

Wrong.

Less than halfway through the story my audience had vanished, thoroughly disenchanted. Like the foolish, self-absorbed protagonist in any number of folk tales I read and heard throughout the years here I was, paying the price of false modesty. Why challenge my ingrained assumptions when I knew I had all the answers? So much for “humility.” I stared at the distinctive reddish-orange mud caked on my shoes—the color of no other dirt I’d ever seen in my life—and thought about the book in my hands.

Ham…? What was I thinking? I’d been in Ghana less than 72 hours, but had yet to see a pig. Yams, plantains, rice and beans are eaten in some combination for virtually every meal. In fact, rural Ghanaian diets rarely include meat of any kind, let alone pork. It seemed highly unlikely any of these kids had ever seen or eaten ham. A train…? Ghana’s railway system essentially collapsed in 1965. The nearest station is in Kumasi, 70 miles away. Most people in Humjibre spend their entire lives in a 20 miles radius, less than a third of that distance. Taking a bus or a taxi is rare. Two percent of the population has ever taken a train.  Sam-I-am…? Think about that for a minute. It’s certainly melodic and silly—a lot of fun to say—but it’s a weird concept to grasp for a native English speaker, not to mention an English language learner.

I flipped through page after page, carefully reading the words and looking at the illustrations. It became increasingly clear how truly foreign this book was. The words and sentences were not overly long or complex, but devoid of their western cultural context, they didn’t resonate at all.  They were virtually meaningless. A bunch of sing-songy gibberish.

I stood up and scanned the room. Every child I saw was either readings his own book, or sharing a book with friends. Everyone was reading something, just not Green Eggs and Ham.

I wandered back to the shelf from which I’d gotten the book. There sat an undisturbed collection of near-mint Western classics: Make Way for Ducklings, The Little Engine That Could, Madeline, Curious George, Where the Sidewalk Ends. Meanwhile, on a dusty mat not 10 feet away, a steady stream of kids borrowed and returned a motley collection of tattered, dog-eared books from a brown plastic milk crate. As soon as a book was returned, it was immediately scooped up again.

Aha!

This was the mother lode. Unsurprisingly, it was a collection of picture books about Africa and Ghana: alphabet books, counting books, books about colors, books about shapes and a book called Nii Kwei’s Day: From Dawn to Dusk in a Ghanaian City, a book I’d happened to read back home in Minnesota in preparation for this very trip. A boy snatched it from the pile and looked up at me, hopefully. “Want me to read it?” I asked. He nodded and gave me the book. We sat on the mat and I started to read. Instantly, we were thronged. Kids excitedly pointed at and commented on familiar words and pictures: broom, bucket bath, football, a distinctive maroon and yellow two-tone Ghanaian taxi. This was what their lives looked like in print. This was a book about them.

In hindsight it makes perfect sense. Beginning readers and English language learners (ELLs) naturally gravitate toward concepts, words and pictures that reflect their daily lives. They are drawn to what professor emeritus at the University of Southern California and bilingual education expert Stephen D. Krashen calls “comprehensible input”—culturally relevant images, stories, poems and nonfiction that directly echo their life experiences.

“When we don’t understand a language, we don’t acquire it,” explains Krashen. “Incomprehensible input becomes undifferentiated noise, signifying nothing. It fails to register in the brain.” In fact, there may be nearly 6,000 books in the Humjibre Community Library, but—as Krashen emphasizes—that’s hardly the point. “The only English that helps is the English that students understand,” a phenomenon I’d just witnessed firsthand. “What matters is the quality—not the quantity—of English exposure.”

This is not to suggest there’s no place for Dr. Seuss in African libraries and classrooms. Certainly, there are a great many African students able to read and enjoy the antics of The Cat in the Hat or boo and hiss The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. It does mean, however, that one brown plastic milk crate of high interest, culturally relevant, reading level appropriate books outweighs sagging shelf after sagging shelf of Western pop psychology self-help best sellers, do-it-yourself home repair manuals, fantasy football and Pokémon guides, Justin Bieber and Taylor Swift biographies and endless copies of The Da Vinci Code—all books I actually saw on the shelves in Humjibre.

There is a book famine in Africa. Most families don’t own a single book of their own. Community and school libraries are sparsely populated or nonexistent. Book stores in even the largest cities are exceedingly rare. We are right to want to help. We are right to donate our used and excess books. But just as we would be foolish and insensitive to alleviate hunger by sending table scraps and crumbs, we are unwise and even unkind to send hopelessly outdated, culturally misaligned or just plain useless books to budding African libraries.

Please, donate new and gently used books to reputable organizations that serve communities in need, but be mindful of your selections. The Western classics you or your children love may not be the best choice. In fact, whatever their utility or worth, it takes a great deal of money, time, effort and coordination to ship books overseas and get them into the hands print-starved children. The quality of your donation likely outweighs the quantity of it. So if you’re unsure what books might be best, ask a bookseller, librarian, teacher or the aid organization itself. There are dozens—perhaps hundreds—of culturally relevant, high interest books from which to choose.  Books that the kids will love and read over and over again. Trust me, when they find a book they like…

   

They will read it in a box.

They will read it with a fox.

They will read it in a house.

They will read it with a mouse.

They will read it here and there.

They will read it ANYWHERE!

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