the dream
We lived in a small, tiny one bedroom situated on the Boulevard and every day I asked my mother, “Est- ce que on pars a l l'école?” Are we going to school? The ruins of the Congolese civil war surrounded us everyday and the country began it’s redevelopment for a better future. But what does a better future mean? Most people would consider it to be about an improved leadership and economic freedom. However, for some us, the future meant “One day, I will go to school.” My mother responded that there was no money for school as she toiled long hours on Commerce for two hundred dollars a month. At the tender age of seven, I understood that money correlated with school as I spent most of my time in a room with no nanny. Dealing with a delayed development, there was no money for a clinical psychologist; actually, that didn’t exist in Kinshasa. Only school was the solution.
“How will I go to school? Everyone is going to school,” I told my mother. My father dealt with bankruptcy as he sat in our humble, little store watching his supplies and electronics catch dust. He would come back home sad, remembering the economic boom of late eighties and early nineties. One drink in his hand and perhaps the sadness will go away. I went up to him and said, “Je veux aller a l'école.” I want to go to school. Frustrated that his daughter only spoke French, he sat in silence staring at her. “How will you go to school? There is no money.”
The electricity went off all the time and we moved to cheaper homes, away from the Boulevard. I became depressed as I couldn’t see myself in school; not understanding that even a nanny costed money and so did transportation. I gave up and said that I would not have an education and perhaps I would die from depression and hunger. My mother was starving and my father was not speaking to us. Lonely, I held on to my plush toy, a rabbit as I prayed to God. But, how did I know of this supernatural being? The local channels would always say, “Give your worries to God.” Congo was known for their adamant faith in God. “We are safe because of Jesus Christ and God.”
I decided to give my worries to God. I sat and I prayed every day for my own room, for toys, and most importantly, to go to school. There were times that I thought of suicide all of the time from loneliness and believing that I was bad luck. “Personne ne m’aime.” No one loves me. “Je veux aller chez Dieu.” I want to go to God.
My mother eventually started making three hundred dollars which meant that once a month $100 would go to my tuition and the rest to my half brother and sister in Canada. My father had no money for this privileged, private garage school. I developed severe learning disabilities from the stress of money, domestic violence at home and bullying at school. I began to believe that I was the cause of all the problems in my family. I was bad luck to the world. This cognitive thought stayed in my mind for years to come, creating damage in my life.
Nonetheless, I really wanted to go to school. My mother would put me in public taxis, beaten up cars as I would arrive to my elementary school that bullied me for being an ESL student. Many times the taxi was not working so I could not go to school. However, I had a dream that we could be happy as a family. Was I disassociating whenever I went to school? No lunchbox and water bottle in my hand and there were days I would look at the other children having their lunch. They had biscuits, sandwiches and packets of chips as well. “Where is your lunch box?” the teacher would ask me. I responded in French, “Je ne sais pas.” I don’t know.
I should be happy that I was in school; however, how do you concentrate when you are severely, disturbingly disabled, counting on your fingers all the way till college.
“You are a dumb child,” my teacher would often tell me.
There was no love here. There was no care. There was no such thing as an education. We were all paying to sit in class to learn nothing and the poorest children sat at the back, trembling. We didn’t understand a word that the teacher was saying. Every zero we received was every moment that we seized. And every day, we hid in the back, not understanding the meaning of school.
“Sonu your English no good,” my classmate would tell me.
“My English very good,” I responded confidently.
In fourth grade, my mother looked at my poor grades and said to me, “Do you not want to study? Do
you want to stay in Kinshasa forever?”
These questions triggered me to wake up and then I understood that education and school meant
freedom. However, to heal my mental health and read the clock would take several years and every day I would recall my mother’s words and stress out about a better future. All of a sudden my low scores of fifty percent began changing to seventy percent and my English ameliorated as these English-speaking children teased me for my accent. I told myself that I was going to be a writer and an artist and I was going to know how to spell properly. Every day, the long hours of studying under the candle light and the perseverance and the decision to pursue my education that my younger self had decided made an impact in my present life.
I sit here presently in my office as my life unravels itself in front of my eyes. What is the meaning of a better future? I remember one statement that I used to say to myself all the time, “I speak for the children who lost their voices.” Thousands of children commute for hours in terrible conditions to attend small schools around the world. Thousands of girls fight for their education rights. Thousands of humans remain uneducated due to war. My story is not that significant compared to theirs. This was a reminder that the journey towards education can be ruthless; however, it is also extremely profound and life-changing. My dream from a very young age was to be a role model for the children who had given up on their education due to their circumstances and to offer quality education at an affordable cost. My parents often remember those gloomy days and it gives them strength to continue on this path of education. In one way, I am the reason that my family established two small schools, French and English to assist children who went through situations like me. I studied psychology so that I could heal the mental health of children, make sure that none of their development
was affected like mine was and could assist to create an educational environment of positivity, love and joyful learning.
To become a doctor is a dream that I had as a seven-year-old. A hope to become somebody that would understand the struggles of the underprivilege, who would be unafraid to work with them and who would continue to pave the path for many others to follow. I hope to acquire the skills at ???? during my doctorate program to not only be a researcher but an inquirer as well. I would be the first female in my family to have not only a master’s degree but a doctorate; something that they cannot imagine right now. Every day, I hear things that females should not have doctorates and that they should stay at home. I am one of those people who defy their regimen and walk with my head up, continuing on my journey of education. I never gave up and I never will give up. Every time someone used to say, “Shikha, you’d go nowhere with your art and your education. It’s all pointless.” I was even compared to being a disappointment to South Asian people because I was studying psychology, a stigma in these places. Every day, I kept going and I never believed that I could be who I wanted to be due to the bullying and the abuse because I was speaking my authentic truth. I just want to make a difference in the world and give hope to someone that has given up like I did so many times. I fell and rose from the ashes to become the person I always dreamt of being when everyone would look down upon me. Education, knowledge and wisdom gave me wings to overcome these barriers and art gave me the ability to speak words that I couldn’t say. I want children to look at me and say, “If she can go that far and make her dreams come true, then I can too.”
