Learning to Lead
Thinking on Leadership and Influence brings to mind recollections of leardership camps I was privileged to go on in my youth. In 2003, a group of learners from a prominent model C school in Capital Park, Pretoria, were taken on a week long leadership camp retreat so as to pick the following year's prefects.
The tradition of taking learners on leadership camp is one of the few applaudable operations of the model C schooling system in South Africa. Generaal Jacques Pienaar Primary was no exception.
I was in that group of hopeful leaders in that year, and in hindsight I will admit that my eyes were fixed sternly on the prize: the Prefect badge. I was eleven years old, and already the alluring call of power had seized and possessed me.
We were taken to a game lodge just outside the township known as Hammanskraal in the far northern outskirts of the city. To go into details about the experience would at some stage turn into fantasy, or what is best captured and expressed by Lord of the Flies. When children rally in song and dance on a Thursday evening when the moon is full in the sky, mischief occurs.
There had arisen a consensus to break curfew, and howl to the moon in delight - seizing the opportunity in some learners having guessed that our educators were off somewhere drinking, and having fun somewhere off the premises.
Kwaito filled the air, Cassablanca met KwasaKwasa - hit songs at the time - were being chanted by all the cooler pupils in unison, drumming rhythmically on recyclebin caps: "Oooooh-woah-oooh-woooaoaooh-iyooaoh" filled the air.
I remember leaving my cabin and seeing what can only now, in hindsight, be described as a ritual dance in progress. I was a part of the song and dance, although I was apart from the song and dance. I did not make the cut for leader in primary school, needless to say: yet the choice would have been a lot different if it were the pupil constituency's vote.
As we were all children, and mostly black, the teachers took it upon themselves to choose from the finalists who were voted for by the grade - which is pretty unethical, in hindsight. I learned then, in grade six, that if a room full of white people were to choose leaders, they would overlook me for my quirks.
That I sat before them meant that my peers had identified me as leadership material. That I did not make the cut then, however, did not define me in latter years.
The following year, I interviewed to school at Christian Brothers' College, though could not fiscally afford to go there for high school.
Thus, four years later, having healed from the wounds of rejections all teenagers learn to cope through, I decided to run for leadership once more. At Langenhoven HIgh School, also in Capital Park, Pretoria, I canvassed hard for a slot on the following year's Representative Council for Learners (RCL). I got 410 votes, I remember, because I had not initially made the cut of democratically elected representatives. It was not until one random day, when I had made rapid peace with this new rejection, that I received a call over the intercom to report to the office urgently.
"Lizzy dropped out, says she wanted to be RCL with her boyfriend, so, you are next on the list," the RCL supervisor said. I was shocked, and asked to see the tally sheet in misbelief. It turns out I was two votes shy of my predecessor.
"So, do you want the slot or not?" the supervisor said, hinting that I was wasting her time in deliberating my lot. Naturally, I took it, and boasted on how I had been 2 votes short all along. Some peers asked where they had fallen on the list, and I frankly told the truth, I had only looked to verify the claim that I was next in line.
A couple of days later, we prefects went on what was called a leadership camp, but proved to be my first team-building getaway. I bonded deeply with my friend Priscah that weekend, particularly on the full moon last evening of camp.
The following year, in 2009, I quickly learned that there were many challenges to leadership during Orientation Week - when RCLs ushered in a fresh batch of grade 8 pupils. Two years prior to matric, in 2007, I had read George Orwell's Animal Farm - and so I was aware of the pitfalls I had fallen into. Power corrupts, and with influence comes an inclination towards corruption. During orientation that week, I was a bully, and I was a paedophile.
My relationship with a grade 8 learner when I was in matric caused me many turbulent moments of moral reflection, because they came at the heavy cost of pursuing my true crush, Trudy - who was, truly, the most beautiful angel in our year. Her demeanor, her faith in God, and her high intellect made her most appealing to me - yet my corruption turned her off. That was the year I first experience Marijuana.
My alma mater had a yearly excursion to The Valley of Waves in Sun City, somewhere in the north west. My white friends John, Luke and Peter, had approached me with the idea to pool fifty rands each into baking space brownies. I roped in my other friend, Mark, and we were the token stoners for the occassion. That trip to Sun City has stayed with me. I remember looking out at the mountains, and hearing them; I remember listening to the music over the radio, and seeing each riff and melody as dancing rays in my mind's eye. Needless to say, I was having the time of my life on weed brownies.
It came out that some learners had been stoned on the trip, and that some of them were RCL's, yet my mind seems to have blanked on whether there were repurcussions or not. Beyond the space brownies, I had become a secret smoker; used my badge to sneak girls out of class for stairwell snogging; and there was the irrelevant fight.
There were also highlights of exceptional merit. At the school pagaent, the Academic committee I was leading raised over eight thousand rands for the school. That was a triumphant day for me. I had pulled off my first fund-raiser successfully, and few things feel as great as handing over eight thousand rands without a cent missing, and being thanked for your hard work.
Two years later, I became enrolled at the University currently known as Rhodes, in what was formerly called Grahamstown. Some would call it an irony that I should fall in love with the place where leaders learn.
I have grown a lot from the leader I was before coming to university. Admittedly, I acknowledge Leadership as an intense privilege; and I feel that those who carry the mantle need to be willing to bare the burdansome weight of defending the right decision - and the line is very thin.
The tradition of taking learners on leadership camp is one of the few applaudable operations of the model C schooling system in South Africa. Generaal Jacques Pienaar Primary was no exception.
I was in that group of hopeful leaders in that year, and in hindsight I will admit that my eyes were fixed sternly on the prize: the Prefect badge. I was eleven years old, and already the alluring call of power had seized and possessed me.
We were taken to a game lodge just outside the township known as Hammanskraal in the far northern outskirts of the city. To go into details about the experience would at some stage turn into fantasy, or what is best captured and expressed by Lord of the Flies. When children rally in song and dance on a Thursday evening when the moon is full in the sky, mischief occurs.
There had arisen a consensus to break curfew, and howl to the moon in delight - seizing the opportunity in some learners having guessed that our educators were off somewhere drinking, and having fun somewhere off the premises.
Kwaito filled the air, Cassablanca met KwasaKwasa - hit songs at the time - were being chanted by all the cooler pupils in unison, drumming rhythmically on recyclebin caps: "Oooooh-woah-oooh-woooaoaooh-iyooaoh" filled the air.
I remember leaving my cabin and seeing what can only now, in hindsight, be described as a ritual dance in progress. I was a part of the song and dance, although I was apart from the song and dance. I did not make the cut for leader in primary school, needless to say: yet the choice would have been a lot different if it were the pupil constituency's vote.
As we were all children, and mostly black, the teachers took it upon themselves to choose from the finalists who were voted for by the grade - which is pretty unethical, in hindsight. I learned then, in grade six, that if a room full of white people were to choose leaders, they would overlook me for my quirks.
That I sat before them meant that my peers had identified me as leadership material. That I did not make the cut then, however, did not define me in latter years.
The following year, I interviewed to school at Christian Brothers' College, though could not fiscally afford to go there for high school.
Thus, four years later, having healed from the wounds of rejections all teenagers learn to cope through, I decided to run for leadership once more. At Langenhoven HIgh School, also in Capital Park, Pretoria, I canvassed hard for a slot on the following year's Representative Council for Learners (RCL). I got 410 votes, I remember, because I had not initially made the cut of democratically elected representatives. It was not until one random day, when I had made rapid peace with this new rejection, that I received a call over the intercom to report to the office urgently.
"Lizzy dropped out, says she wanted to be RCL with her boyfriend, so, you are next on the list," the RCL supervisor said. I was shocked, and asked to see the tally sheet in misbelief. It turns out I was two votes shy of my predecessor.
"So, do you want the slot or not?" the supervisor said, hinting that I was wasting her time in deliberating my lot. Naturally, I took it, and boasted on how I had been 2 votes short all along. Some peers asked where they had fallen on the list, and I frankly told the truth, I had only looked to verify the claim that I was next in line.
A couple of days later, we prefects went on what was called a leadership camp, but proved to be my first team-building getaway. I bonded deeply with my friend Priscah that weekend, particularly on the full moon last evening of camp.
The following year, in 2009, I quickly learned that there were many challenges to leadership during Orientation Week - when RCLs ushered in a fresh batch of grade 8 pupils. Two years prior to matric, in 2007, I had read George Orwell's Animal Farm - and so I was aware of the pitfalls I had fallen into. Power corrupts, and with influence comes an inclination towards corruption. During orientation that week, I was a bully, and I was a paedophile.
My relationship with a grade 8 learner when I was in matric caused me many turbulent moments of moral reflection, because they came at the heavy cost of pursuing my true crush, Trudy - who was, truly, the most beautiful angel in our year. Her demeanor, her faith in God, and her high intellect made her most appealing to me - yet my corruption turned her off. That was the year I first experience Marijuana.
My alma mater had a yearly excursion to The Valley of Waves in Sun City, somewhere in the north west. My white friends John, Luke and Peter, had approached me with the idea to pool fifty rands each into baking space brownies. I roped in my other friend, Mark, and we were the token stoners for the occassion. That trip to Sun City has stayed with me. I remember looking out at the mountains, and hearing them; I remember listening to the music over the radio, and seeing each riff and melody as dancing rays in my mind's eye. Needless to say, I was having the time of my life on weed brownies.
It came out that some learners had been stoned on the trip, and that some of them were RCL's, yet my mind seems to have blanked on whether there were repurcussions or not. Beyond the space brownies, I had become a secret smoker; used my badge to sneak girls out of class for stairwell snogging; and there was the irrelevant fight.
There were also highlights of exceptional merit. At the school pagaent, the Academic committee I was leading raised over eight thousand rands for the school. That was a triumphant day for me. I had pulled off my first fund-raiser successfully, and few things feel as great as handing over eight thousand rands without a cent missing, and being thanked for your hard work.
Two years later, I became enrolled at the University currently known as Rhodes, in what was formerly called Grahamstown. Some would call it an irony that I should fall in love with the place where leaders learn.
I have grown a lot from the leader I was before coming to university. Admittedly, I acknowledge Leadership as an intense privilege; and I feel that those who carry the mantle need to be willing to bare the burdansome weight of defending the right decision - and the line is very thin.
Comments
Post a Comment