SOPHOMORES

I remember eyeing the sophomores enviously. I sat alone in the dining commons watching the sophomores reunite with their friends after what looked like a blissful and exciting summer. Being a freshman is awkward, you don’t know where your classes are, you are clinging to anyone who might be your friend and just generally keeping your head above water. I can compare living in Lesotho to being a freshman, except mutiply by one hundred and ten.
This past week I’ve watched my new students roll in and I empathetically (and a bit smugly) feel like a sophomore. I knew I’d arrived when I watched three confused pupils sit in the middle of the road with all their belongings unsure of the next step. I guided them toward the office in broken Sesotho, smiling and trying the reassure that doe-eyed frightened-small-creature look off their faces.
Last year I stumbled into classes with no curriculum, no handle on school culture, little Sesotho, and scared sightless (ahem). This year I may have little more direction, but I am comfortable in my Mosotho skin and don’t mind when students laugh at my Sesotho or I’m unafraid to yell at male students who cat call “heeey mommi." Though the dining hall imagery does not quite translate to rural Lesotho, the familiar greetings of my colleagues and returned students makes comfort more tangible.