Martha Rial, Post-Gazette
	Amina Muya, 15, adjusts her headphones while reciting the tongue twister "How much wood can a woodchuck chuck" in the world language computer lab at Schenley High School. Muya, a Somalian Bantu. came to Pittsburgh with her family last summer from a refugee camp in Kenya. The Series Part One: Confusing, but hopeful first day

In the secluded quiet of his basement classroom at Schenley High School, Muya Muya jiggled his legs in restless frustration. He and the other five Bantu Somali students had just experienced the bumping, grinding chaos of their first football pep rally and now they were back in the basement, charting the day's high and low temperatures.

Two floors above, the thunder of the Spartan marching band's drums still shook the school's crowded hallways where other students were joking and chatting before dismissal.

"I don't know why the others are playing and we're not playing," Muya, 17, said in a low voice as his group's teacher, Kathy Ramos, walked by his desk. "Next game, we want to play."

Muya, his 15-year-old sister Amina and their friend, Sowdo Darbane, began their first day of school in the United States at Schenley in September, and were soon joined by Ehedo Sekondo and Bahati Muya, both 16. Last month, a sixth student, Halima Abdulla, 18, joined the class.

All six are Muslim; the girls conceal their hair beneath scarves and their legs beneath pants and long skirts, and Thursday the fasting Bantu students stayed in their classroom at lunchtime to ease their observance of Ramadan.

All the students but Abdulla, who immigrated in September, arrived in Pittsburgh in July from the refugee camps in Kenya where they had spent most of their childhood. An ethnic minority barred from education, land ownership and prestigious jobs such as government work in their native Somalia, the children are among more than 14,000 Bantus who fled Somalia amid civil war in the early 1990s.

Most immigrant and refugee children with limited -- or in some cases, nonexistent -- English skills are placed in classes in English as a Second Language. Those children, however, studied science, social studies and other subjects in their native language.

The Bantus, although they attended some English and math classes in the refugee camps, still lack much of that basic knowledge, according to their teacher, Ramos. So unlike most students who take English as a second language, they are separated from their peers for most of the day to catch up on some basics -- from the existence of dinosaurs to the difference between bar and pie charts -- as well as language skills, she said.

"We had to start with how many hours are in the day, how many months are in the year," Ramos said. "We had to start at the very beginning. It's all just brand-newness and amazement."

And while her six students are teenagers who want to be part of high school life, they also need their own teacher and additional support to keep them from turning against school in frustration, she said.

"You need someone who really is going to be an advocate, someone who will know you really well and know your family, rather than going from room to room not knowing what's being said," Ramos said.

In Ramos' class last week, the students practiced the vocabulary of clothing -- "it's big, it's heavy, it's warm, it's a coat," she told one girl, who never needed a coat in Africa -- the differences between nouns and verbs, the intricacies of double-digit subtraction.

And in the classes such as gym, art and music that the Somalis do share with other Schenley students, they continued their education in American culture.

Thursday, a music class turned into a discussion group, with Muya as the feature attraction. Muya, at ease even while speaking English before a group of native speakers, answered one question after another from his music teacher about life in Somalia -- What does the country look like? Is the food spicy? Do the women carry heavy loads on their heads?

Amina, however, soon turned the questions back to the teacher.

What work do women do around the house? Why don't women cover their heads? Do men and women become friends before they marry?

"Do the parents choose for her?" asked Amina, whose culture traditionally dictates that parents arrange marriages for their daughters.

No, said her music teacher, Angela Abadilla. Why? Amina pressed.

"It's the culture of freedom. Once you're 18, you can do what you want to," Abadilla said. "Women are more strong these days."

Hmm, Amina said with a smile, considering this.

But divorce in America is higher than it has ever been, Abadilla continued.

"If people are not happy they just -- ," she made a splitting motion with her hands. "Even if there are children."

The smile left Amina's face.

"That's not good," she said.

After the lunch hour -- during which the Somalis, who are not allowed to let even a drop of water pass their lips until sundown during Ramadan, studied in their classroom -- Ramos announced a surprise: an all-school pep rally before Friday night's football game.

What's "pep rally?" Muya said.

Called to the auditorium a few minutes later, Muya and the others soon found out.

Inside, the marching band was pounding out a heavy drumbeat as the school's 1,300 students gathered, shouting a cacophony of taunts and greetings. On stage, a dance team in red shorts kept the beat with swaying hips and flashing legs as the auditorium filled to capacity.

Students' voices roared, reaching ever higher as students jumped to their feet and yelled at the freshman, sophomore, junior and senior classes in succession, followed by the girls' and boys' track, volleyball, soccer and football teams.

The Somalis, seated in one row together, craned their heads for a better view of the stage, holding their hands over their ears and watching in near-silence. The girls applauded as Muya joined the rest of the soccer team on stage, then ran back through the crowd to his seat.

Following the lead of the other students, Muya and the girls also tried to climb onto their seats for a better view, only to immediately clamber down again at Ramos' urging.

But by the time the Spartans' drill team came out to dance to hip-hop favorites, the entire high school was in full cry.

Later, back in the basement, Amina would point out that she could barely hear the music for the shouting: "I like the music but I don't like the way. I'm not ready for that."

But as the drill team pounded through its gyrating routine on stage, Amina and her friends looked more ready than they might have realized. One by one, they stood up on their seats again to see the show, just like everyone else.