Learning Lessons

By Jonathan Jansen

It is probably the question I get asked most often by students: how did you achieve what you did? There is an urgency to the question and more than a little self-interest. If I can figure out how he made it, the student reasons, then maybe I will know how to chart my own path. It was always difficult to provide a simple answer to a long and complex journey. So I often leave the inquiring student with a pointer here or a caution there. Never enough to really account for lessons from learning and life...' Jonathan JansenJonathan Jansen doesn't regard the achievements he has made in academia and his contributions to public intellectual life as his own rather, he sees these accomplishments as a product of the hard work and sacrifices of family, friends, teachers, colleagues and mentors around him. Jansen recounts, in his indomitable way, how the people in his life invested love, direction, encouragement (and even money) to make his journey possible in the hope that his story may give inspiration and direction to generations of young people taking their first steps in adult life. Yet, cautions Jansen, this book is not a what-to-do' checklist to leverage learning for success in life as every journey is different, every circumstance carries unique challenges, and every personality manages difficulty in various ways. What the book offers is the chance to learn from the moves and mistakes that others have made along their way to achieving great things in life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bookstorm
• Release date: Nov 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781928257875

Jonathan Jansen

Prof Jonathan Jansen is a leading South African educationist, commentator and the author of several books including the best-selling 'Letters to My Children'. He is the former vice-chancellor of the University of the Free State, where he earned a reputation for transformation and a deep commitment to reconciliation. He is married with two children.

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Introduction

The question I probably get asked most often by students is: How did you achieve what you did? There is an urgency to the question and more than a little self-interest. If I can figure out how he made it, the student reasons, then maybe I will know how to chart my own path. It has always been difficult to provide a simple answer for a long and complex journey, so I often leave the enquiring student with a pointer here or a caution there. Never enough to really account for the full breadth of lessons I’ve taken from life.

Of course, the question itself makes me uncomfortable. I do not regard my accomplishments as my own. Whatever I have achieved is through the hard work and sacrifices of family and friends. That is not even false modesty; it is a fact. I am humbled by and grateful to the many who invested love, direction, encouragement and, yes, money to make my journey possible.

Then there is the simple reality that by my own estimation, what I have achieved is not mind-blowing. I know for a fact that any number of young people reading this book can do so much more. In addition, I stretch myself by holding up scholars who have made much greater strides in their careers; they are my inspiration, my models of success. However, to the extent that my story may inspire and offer direction to generations of young people concerned with living and learning, I am happy to share my journey.

That question often posed to me has been researched before. One of my doctoral students did a study on the life histories of prominent black scientists in South Africa. How did these great men and women achieve so much in their lives, despite the hardships experienced under apartheid? Her findings were fascinating: while each scientist had a somewhat unique journey towards greatness in their discipline, there were some common threads. One that stood out was a family who invested everything they had to ensure the success of their children. Interestingly, it was not only hard-earned money that made up that support, but also the constant encouragement, guidance and moral support along the journey from school to university to a senior scientific position. What that study did not do, however, was draw out the lessons learnt by these accomplished scholars about life and learning – which could be useful to generations of students to come.

Naturally, you cannot read this book as a checklist of ‘what to do’ to leverage your learning for success in life. Every journey is different; every circumstance carries unique challenges, and every personality manages difficulties in various ways. However, it is possible to learn from the moves and the mistakes that others have made along their way to achieving great things in life. That is what this book offers.

Of course, all of this raises the question of what counts as success. I certainly do not mean material wealth, although earning enough to enjoy the good life is something every human being wants and works for. More than money, success means achieving that deep satisfaction that what you end up doing in your career is exactly what gives meaning and direction to your life. For example, no teacher – whether at school or university – becomes wealthy. And yet there is nothing that gives me more fulfilment than being able to teach complex things to smart minds in ways that open up worlds of possibilities.

I have seen that definition of success so often in the lives of others – like my colleague André, who is a paediatric surgeon. You can see the joy in his face as another prem baby (whose life only a few months ago hung in the balance) now smiles and kicks and clasps the mother’s finger. Or my friend Setlogane, who uses the resources of his company to bring high-level mathematics and science teaching to the rural areas of central South Africa. When you watch his face shine as the A symbols are announced at a fancy gala, you just know Seth would do this job for free. And how can I not mention my favourite psychologist, born without arms and shortened legs, entrancing her audience with a story that helps so many people see their own problems in sharp perspective? Nicky can hardly conceal the joy and success she has achieved in her vibrant career.

What I know for sure is that merely accumulating wealth for yourself is not going to give you a deep sense of achievement and success – unless, of course, you share your resources with those who have less, or target those who could lift themselves out of hardship through a carefully considered investment.

I have witnessed that kind of giving with Oprah Winfrey and how changing the lives of hundreds of girls at her Johannesburg school afforded deep meaning to her life as a philanthropist. Having seen Oprah up close and working for her over several months, I can assure you there is a sincere heart beating there and a genuine concern for the lives of others.

I suppose there is no greater motivation for writing this book than the many, many students whom I have seen make simple mistakes in their youth and never recover. They become hardened and even bitter over the course of their lives. Most times, it is because they genuinely do not know what to do in a crisis or how to manage a conflict or where to go for help. The difference, in other words, is knowledge.

In this regard, you should never underestimate the difference that knowledge makes in determining your life chances. If a young person is middle-class with savvy parents who have access to networks, that individual has a much better chance of landing the right job or earning good money than someone who is poor. For a comfortably middle-class person, a mistake need not be catastrophic for the individual because there are always resources at home to tide you over until the next opportunity comes knocking. However, for a young person from a working-class home, with parents who never had the privilege of a university education and whose family members are themselves struggling, one missed opportunity could mean the end of a chance at achieving the good life.

Needless to say, whether you are rich or poor, there is no guarantee of a fulfilled life and a satisfying career if you simply do not want to do the right thing. This means that personal determination is critical as a first step towards achieving your goals. If you sit around at home and hope for someone to come knocking at the door with a bursary for studies, or train fare for work, or an application form for university, this book will not help you. Reading the book is a solid start but then you must take action. In other words, what this book offers is a roadmap – but the journey is your own.

Let’s start.

LESSON 1

Pay attention

‘I never knew that the point of a gun is that cold.’

Stanley Ndimande, a taxi driver from Benoni, was about to be hijacked as he stopped to offload the last two male passengers in his 10-seater vehicle. One man locked the doors and the other kept the cold gun to his head while Stanley’s girlfriend was in a panic at the back of the taxi. ‘That gun was cold,’ he says again as we talk.

Stanley panicked and, in the congested traffic, simply could not find the reverse gear to get out and drive in the direction indicated by his kidnappers. In the struggle to reverse, a South African Defence Force Hippo vehicle forced its way through the stranded cars towards the stalled taxi. One soldier started to beat Stanley for holding up the traffic.

At this point, the two hijackers jumped out and one of them shot a soldier in the stomach before fleeing into the nearby bush. Stanley and his girlfriend barely survived.

You would not have noticed Stanley Ndimande in a crowd. The former taxi driver decided to save up money to embark on studies away from home in the coastal city of Durban. There, he was quiet and unassuming as he went about his work at the University of Durban-Westville, photocopying materials for the lecturers to make some money to support his undergraduate studies.

What I did notice was that he was forever smiling, always going to his next task at a half-sprint and more eager than most to learn. He paid attention to detail – to his work and most of all to his studies. I decided to employ this first-in-the-family university student as my research assistant so that he could learn real skills.

It started badly. ‘Would you fetch me this journal from the library?’

Stanley panicked. ‘I had no idea what a journal was and I wasn’t going to tell you that I did not know,’ he tells me years later.

I insisted that he study abroad but the application form asked for ‘a statement of purpose’. He did not know what that was, but recalls that I helped him write one.

Over time, his confidence grew and as the country slid from apartheid to democracy in 1994, Stanley, like so many other black students, reclaimed his first name, Bekisizwe. I was so impressed with both his academic talent and his humanity that I wrote to the famous professor (and now friend) in curriculum studies, Professor Michael Apple at the University of Wisconsin: ‘Michael,’ I wrote, ‘I have an ex-taxi driver from Benoni whom I am sending to you for doctoral studies.’

‘Send him,’ came the reply.

This ex-taxi driver is now a professor of curriculum studies at the University of Texas at San Antonio, writing his own books and critically reviewing my own in international journals. This kind of thing happens when you pay attention.

* * *

School was a drag. Well-meaning teachers droned on in front of the class. Lots of shouting and commands: Shut up. Line up. Give up that bubble-gum in your mouth. Asking permission to go to the toilet was more about breaking the monotony of the classroom than relieving any urgent physiological need. Some teachers would simply refuse habitual requests and every now and again, a primary school child would wet themselves in the classroom.

Acts of discipline broke the spell of boredom. Like when one primary school teacher with a temper reputation hurled a bunch of keys in the direction of a boy who was talking in class. He ducked, and the keys cut open the forehead of the boy behind him. Teachers did not apologise in those days and parents did not sue educators. In fact, if you came home with a grievance, you were likely to receive another hiding or hear ‘the teacher must have had a reason to beat you’.

More than anything, I looked forward to the two breaks – the short one and especially the long break. The boys divided into two teams. Captains were chosen. The toss happened somewhere during a lesson on fractions or synonyms. Team names followed the two local clubs, Hellenic and Cape Town City, or English teams from far away. When the bell rang, we rushed out into the sand or onto the tarmac – there were no rolling green fields like at the white schools, such as Zwaanswyk High School down the road, and sometimes there was no real soccer ball. A tennis ball gave as much joy to the imagination.

It was at one of those high school soccer games – during ‘the interval’, as we called it – that I saw my Latin teacher leaning against one of the pillars along the corridor outside his classroom. Paul Galant was a leaner – against the blackboard as he taught or against an outside wall as he conversed with his colleagues. This time, he was watching me scramble across the tarmac in pursuit of the tennis-cum-soccer ball. ‘Come here, my boy.’

I was mildly irritated. The game was in the balance – it always was. But I had no choice so I went over to where my teacher was standing. ‘You know, you pretend to know nothing. But I’ve been watching you. You’re actually very smart. You have potential. I will be looking to see how you do in the next test.’

‘Thank you, Sir,’ I said, half-bewildered, and hurried back to the match.

I do not fully know what happened in that brief interaction, but it changed my life forever. I am watching you. You are smart. I will see what happens in the next test. Nobody had ever told me that I had potential, that I was clever. Nobody.

For the first time in my life, I studied for a school test. And I studied hard. My teacher was watching me. From that moment on, I started to rise in the class, from always hovering around the class average to being one of the top three or four students in high school. I was starting to pay attention.

I had come under the influence of a good teacher. My high school had a few teachers like that, who not only taught the subject but found time to encourage you – like Mrs Akoojee, my biology teacher with the grey-blue eyes. She kept telling me, ‘I am expecting an A from you in biology.’ Or Mr Jooste, the geography teacher, who did not even teach me (I chose history) but whenever he saw me, would ask, ‘How are your studies going?’ or say, ‘Good luck with the final exams.’ These were salt-of-the-earth teachers who made all the difference. They were influencers who made an impact if you paid attention.

This is the one lesson about successful learning that made all the difference in my life. I responded positively to those who tried to encourage my learning and who expected much from me. Of course, I could have ignored Mr Galant and continued to be an average learner, doing well enough to pass but not working to my full potential. But I did more and I sought out my Latin teacher’s help in my overall development as a young student.

As a result, when Mr Galant put out a call for athletes interested in the 800 metres (it was 880 yards before South Africa changed to the metric system in 1970), I showed up after school. As with academics, I was fairly average when it came to running. In fact, my younger brothers were much better athletes in the 200-metre and 400-metre sprints (Peter and Isaac, respectively). My youngest brother (Denzil) actually came second in high-jump at the interschool championships. I never came anywhere but I was buoyed by my Latin teacher’s encouragement and so I showed up for practice regardless.

It was hard: up and down the sand dunes until your calves hurt; early-morning runs around the patchy school track, where the thorns constantly cut into your bare feet and the sand held you back. It was hell. But I showed up every morning and every night. Then came the day of trials. The school would choose two learners from every age group to qualify for a specific discipline at the interschool competition, which convened at Greenpoint Track. I still remember the flutter in my stomach that morning as a teacher fired the starting gun. ‘Daar hol hulle!’ (there they go) was the refrain from the sidelines every time a distance race got underway.