“Aminat, are you serious?”

It was only after my friend exclaimed that I realized my error. I was in grade eight, at the school in Senegal I’d attended since kindergarten. We were in French class, learning a grammatical lesson about the plural forms of French words ending with “ou.” I’d asked the teacher to explain the exceptions that didn’t follow the rule, but I had mistakenly posed the question in my native language, Wolof.

The entire class fell silent. The teacher took a lengthy pause before handing me a large sheet of paper. He ordered that I write the phrase “I will never speak Wolof in class” 1,000 times and return it the following day. He seemed almost relieved to finally catch someone not adhering to the school’s French-only policy.

Once students entered the premises of Cours Sacre Coeur,  we were expected to speak only French. Speaking another language incurred a fine of 100 Fr, equivalent to one US dollar: not a large amount, but for children who only received 2 dollars to pay for school lunch, a big deal. If a student failed to comply by the end of the day, they were tasked with writing the assigned phrase 1,000 times, without assistance. Anyone caught aiding the students could face punishment, and the cycle would restart. In severe cases, students could face physical discipline, or they would be required to double their writing efforts. While some teachers allowed leniency, many did not. Mr. Diiallo, my French teacher, was known for being one of the strictest.

Returning home after that class, I felt disheartened and dispirited. I wished I could vanish, free from the exhausting task of writing 1,000 sentences and returning to school. Unwillingly, I began writing, feeling as though I were crafting an entire book. My wrist ached, and there were moments when I couldn’t feel my hands, but I persisted in my determination to complete the task. It took an entire night to finish.

I carefully placed the paper in my bag before leaving for school the next day. When I arrived, I was the first one in class, eagerly awaiting Mr.Diallo, so that I could submit my assignment. When he entered, our eyes met. He exclaimed, “Aminata j'espère que tu a amené le papier.” (Aminata, I hope you’ve brought your paper.) “Sa a intret a etre 1000 motsand.” (it better be 1,000 sentences.)

I opened my bag, handed him the paper, and said, “here you go.” Then, in Wolof, I asked my friend to come and speak next to me. Then Mr. Diallo said in French, “I hope you will never speak Wolof in my class again.”

I was left with a mix of anger and disappointment. The school didn’t educate us about our culture or country, and now it was restricting us from speaking our own language?

Before that day, Mr. Diallo had been my favorite teacher. After the incident, though, everyone in my class tiptoed to avoid repeating the same mistake I had made, to avoid a punishment I had not even fathomed till it happened to me. Meanwhile, Mr. Diallo’s stunning response remained etched in my mind. I couldn’t help but view him differently from then on. He held French culture in higher regard than his own. He consistently emphasized the importance of mastering French, of enhancing our French language skills. He only recommended books centered on French civilization. His words continued to echo in my head: “Forget about Wolof. Learn French, the superior language.”

From that point onwards, I began to see how the Senegalese education system focused on making us more French and distancing us from our own culture. In the city, where most of us spoke French to project an image of prosperity, our schools compelled us to abandon our mother tongue in favor of French. Indeed, Senegal’s history as a former French colony seemed to have made its people not just proud of speaking French, but even desirous of emulating France. This was true not just of the population, but even of the government itself. I couldn’t recall ever learning about Wolof, or our culture, in school. In rare instances where we touched on Senegal’s history, we’d discuss colonization, but teachers would conceal the whole truth about France’s role in our country’s destruction. When interacting with other students, I realized that they wouldn’t afford those not fluent in French any respect and care. To impress others, one had to master French and adopt a European style of dress. Some of my classmates proudly proclaimed that they didn’t speak their native language at all, not even at home or with friends.

I, Aminata, refused to be among them. I understood that if I exclusively spoke French I would eventually lose my native language. I determined to always speak Wolof, even if not at school. From that fateful day onward, I started reading Senegalese books, which were not part of our school’s curriculum, but which revealed our history and heritage. I delved into the films of Ousmane Sembene Thiam, a renowned Senegalese filmmaker: Black Gir, Borom Sarret, Mandat Bi. I also started actively participating in various clubs outside school, especially cultural club devoted to each of the county’s more than 70 ethnic groups. This allowed me to discover more about who I am. I felt like I had won a trophy each time I engaged in these cultural activities. It boosted my self-esteem and made me appreciate my culture even more.

In the city, where most of us spoke French to project an image of prosperity, our schools compelled us to abandon our mother tongue in favor of French.

I also took it upon myself to learn about my culture and the hidden aspects of our history. I went to the local museum, learning more about life in Senegal prior to colonization. As I did, I realized that the issue was more extensive than I had initially thought; even our past and present presidents were closely tied to French interests. Our first president, Leopold Sedhar Senghor, summed it up in his declaration, “I am a Black with a French soul.” As for our second president, Abdou Diouf, he rarely addressed the nation in Wolof, if at all. It was as though they, the leaders of our nations, had been Frenchmen residing in African bodies, with their hearts and souls fully committed to France. While other students embraced this path willingly, I would not. When mother would beg me and my sister to speak French at home, in hopes of improving our proficiency, I’d consistently reply, “Je me sens moi même quand je parle Wolof.” (I feel more like myself when I speak Wolof with my family than when I speak French.)

Ever since Mr. Diallo’s punishment, I have embarked on a journey to preserve my culture and learn more about my ancestors. Rather than conforming to his perspective, I choose to see the vast beauty of my culture and heritage. Indeed, I’ve discovered something new with each summer visit to the the village my grandparents came from, Paoskoto, in the southwest Kaolack region of Senegal. There, I can hear people speaking our native language. It reminds me that, while French may be our official language, it is not our native tongue. We use it for professional purposes, but alongside it, we treasure a multitude of other languages.  Because of Mr. Diallo, I vow never to forsake my culture for someone else’s.