I follow Ustis out to a far side of the school grounds under the shade of a tree. As I walk, the kids grab my hands and I swing their arms up and down and teach them to skip; they sign my new name. Once we're in the shade, we all make a circle; I tell the kids that music and rhythm can be felt by every human on earth, regardless of circumstance. I teach them eight counts of a semi-'step' routine with the same claps, stomps, and leg taps that we did in the classroom. They can do it very well and almost in unison. For the next part of my lesson, my idea is for them to count or make noise on each beat in the step routine so that they can connect their voices (the vibrations of air meeting their vocal chords) with the rhythm in their bodies. The students are incredibly reserved about this idea, and I realize immediately that my lesson is about to adapt.
The translator at this time is Ustis because the primary teacher, Jillian, is sitting on a bench (which she had the children carry out for her) in the corner by the bushes. Ustis is looking at me as if to say 'I don't know how to translate that they should be making sound'. He signs the word 'try', all-the-while with a huge smile on his face.
I ask them to sit down, and I begin to take their hands and place it on my throat. I know this seems odd, but for these kids making sound is an incredibly vulnerable thing to do.
They are afraid of what they can feel but cannot hear.
They are laughing and hanging their heads, even politely pulling away. I turn to Ustis to let him know that what I'm about to say should be signed to the kids. I tell them not to be afraid of their voices. I remind them that no one else in their class can hear them making the sounds- that it's entirely about their feelings. When Ustis trips up on the sign for 'feelings' (shockingly the Ugandan sign language doesn't have a word for this tabu thing called 'feelings') he turns to Jillian on her bench and asks her in their local language how he might sign something close to 'feelings'.
Jillian saunters over to the circle with her palms on the back of her hips and looks at me like I have three heads. I keep smiling at her and explaining that the feeling of making sounds is very beneficial to both the nervous system and the over-all well-being of the children. She shakes her head at me and tells me that the children don't make sounds. "They cannot" she states plainly.
Ha! Cannot? They did when they were excited about clapping! They did when they were skipping through the school grounds with me! I decide that I need to talk her into at least 'trying' (since I now know that sign) and cross out of the circle to stand next to her. Jillian does not look at me while I explain how wonderful it feels to make sound and that I know this is something different from their normal teachings and I realize it's new, but I ask her to please understand how great it can feel to them. I make a joke about being the 'crazy Mzungu' and lightly touch her shoulder while I laugh at myself, and when she turns to glance at me with a hesitant smile, I discover that Jillian is just as nervous about the kids making sound as the students in her class.
It is at this point that I frankly ask for her permission to try something new….
