A Mentor’s Musing: When Students Are Asking

(In which annoying as they can be, they are still pricelessly thought-provoking.)

***

If you haven’t been seeing even a half-hearted book review in this blog, it’s because my profession is taking so much of my time. So please allow me to share some moments of that thing that takes so much of my time.

I was assigned to teach Asian Literature this semester. (Luckily the analyses of literary pieces found on the textbooks are not found on this blog.) And owing to the fact that my students are not Language and Literature majors, we have to steer away from literary theories and in-depth plot and character analysis. This is one of the moments when you don’t have a choice but to simplify things.

In one of my classes, we were discussing “The Will of the River” by Alfredo Q. Gonzales. And one gem of a thought from the essay is that “One should be determined to reach the great end.” In the case of the river Bacong, the focus of the essay, great end refers to the sea. And having this purpose, the river overcame and undercame almost insurmountable odds to reach it. 

The great end. Life’s purpose. Life's goal. Essence of life. Reason for being here. It is perhaps the periphery of the timeless philosophical mind-blower “Who Am I?” It is just inevitable that I ask my students what their great end is. And much to my surprise, I got the following equally surprising answers. Seriously. 

“To graduate.”

“To pass your subject so I can graduate.”

“To be one of the leading people in the field of business.”

“To be successful.”

“To graduate. To be successful. And to die happily.”

The game was already getting old when out of the blue, despite the ruckus that the string of previous answers made, a student blurted out loud enough for the whole class to hear:

“What about YOU Ma’am? What’s YOUR great end?”

Fortunately for me the noise didn’t quite die down. But everybody stopped thinking, alright. And amidst the still buzzing colossal classroom of almost 60 pairs of wide eyes and curious minds, I stood transfixed. What is my great end? My mind raced, as always, and I couldn’t stop a grin from stretching itself to my ears.

My mind seemed to have time-and-space-warped in the speed of light, actually. Back to the time when teachers endlessly asked me every start of the school year what I wanted to become in the future (my answer to which varied from being a doctor to a scientist to a computer engineer) to that moment when I thought I was lost and I told an old friend I actually needed directions as to where the relationship was heading. He told me that I might need Jack Sparrow’s compass. And I asked him where that compass would lead me. Then he gave me a very intent, deep and, I believed, one of the sincerest and most dangerous stares I saw in my entire life, before he answered “To me.”

More flashbacks . . .

When the student repeated the question, (He was so like the Little Prince, believe me.) I was plucked out of my reverie. I realized I have to answer.

“How old are you, class?” I asked. There were a thunder of seventeen’s and some soft eighteen’s and nineteen’s. If there was someone in the twenties, he or she might have been too shy to even consider saying it.

“I’m twenty-five,” I continued. “And much as I’d like to say I wanted success to be my great end, at my age I've learned that success is relative. And perhaps I’ll be too busy dying to know if I’m happy when it happened. All I wanted to do when I reach that great end is to sit in my own library reading books while sipping coffee and watching all the things I’ve built myself. That day I would be so over teaching noisy students who won’t listen. . . Yes, that could be it. A happy retirement.”

And at the back of my head, pictures of green grass, lavender walls ornamented with high bookshelves full of historical and contemporary fiction and children running become less and less blurred.

Yes, that could be my great end.

A Mentor’s Musing: Listening to the Call

(In which a possible illusion-versus-reality inspired moment further reflects my worsening eccentricity.)

***

Before having our Wednesday Graduate classes, my classmates and I usually talk about our work and expectations and apprehensions about teaching. When I encouraged them to apply in a university, they thought I was kidding. But I know there is hope in their denial and disbelief.
“I want to try teaching. You know, I think teaching has been calling me and I have been ignoring it,” one bubbly female classmate blurted happily.
But knowing how much she has doubted teaching as her destined career, I absentmindedly said, “Yes, go ahead. Then you will see if it was really your calling and not somebody else’s you just overheard.”
She smiled. And as her smile widened by every couple of seconds, so as her brows knit deeper.

Goodness. I need a shrink.

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Calling

A Mentor’s Musing: On Teachers and Teaching

(In which the rumination seem endless.)

***

In one of Communication Skills classes, we discussed a story entitled A Classroom Full of Flowers by Janice Anderson Connely. It is one of the many inspiring stories about teaching which highlight the priceless fulfillment it gives despite the herculean tasks a teacher must triumph over. The hanging question for the class was whether or not they would want to be teachers after reading the story.

The story was inspiring all right. But just like any student assigned to read a text longer than five sentences, my students never ran out of excuses for failing to read the story. And so we had to use the classic approach for this situation, we read and discussed the text on the same day. But we managed to get through it.

When the time comes for the hanging question to be answered, I got surprisingly interesting responses. One of my female students said:

“I wouldn’t want to be a teacher. It is indeed fulfilling but teachers do not only teach. They do lesson plans and check papers and bring work home and are always tired. There are other jobs that are as fulfilling but less exhausting than teaching.”

You can just imagine how much it hit me. I often marvel at the bacteria-like multiplication ability of student papers and quizzes plus other documents in my shelf I start to wonder how big a teacher’s shelf should really be.

The discussion went on and another very classic reason why teaching is considered more of a calling than a career was discussed: salary. And then I asked them if they believe that a bigger paycheck would make education better in the Philippines. One young man wearing baggy pants and baggy university shirt and who walks as if he’s the reincarnation of Fernando Poe, Jr. raised his hand to answer. He said:

“It depends, ma’am.”

You see, students nowadays like to answer in installments. And whenever this situation arises I tell them that much as I would hate to cause their disappointment, I am not, and will never be, a pawnshop.

“I don’t think so, ma’am,” he continued, “Because it also depends on the students.”

Very true. Especially when the only thing they have to do to assure a fruitful discussion the next session was to read, a task they would chose to ignore. I saw another female hand in the air.

“I think it does, ma’am,” she said, “Most teachers choose to work out of the country because of the salary. And they are more often than not the best teachers. Filipino students will be taught by them if they will receive high salaries here.”

That actually reminded me of Mrs. Josette Biyo in a leadership seminar I attended to when I was in the university. She mentioned that teachers working abroad would rather stay in the Philippines to teach if not for compensation reasons. Filipino students, they believe, are easier to handle. And whenever a foreign student creates trouble (punch a classmate on the face or set another girl’s hair on fire during lessons) they will mutter _______ (insert currency on the blank) to themselves like a mantra.

Let me get this straight. I love being in the classroom. I have always thought that I belong in the classroom way back my university days. But my fleeting blissful moments in that sacred place would always be confronted by the fact that my job doesn’t end there. And never will. During these ruminations I am always reminded by the advice my college literature professor told us English majors: Corporate institutions are best for the youth for when you are young, you are energetic, idealistic and ambitious. Educational institutions, on the other hand, welcome the older ones with wider arms. When you grow old you become relaxed, practical and wise.

I would really like to succumb to the seductive thought of thinking about all these the whole night, then read Book 2 of Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy, or even write another blog post about the first book. But I realized I have consumed a good twenty minutes for this one and I still have papers to check.

The Blogger in the Jungle Called the “Teaching Profession”

(In which I try to fit in and . . .)

***

10 lesson plans, one journal critique, PowerPoint presentations, grades to compute, papers to check, and more importantly, more than fifty books waiting on the pile and on the shelves. I kept on saying I was busy. And I thought I really was. Until I became a teacher.

Yes, finally. So if ever someone from the 58 people who have followed me for the last 5 months or so notices the lack of post since . . . ehem . . .October 21st, the unsolicited excuse is hereby offered. I was busy. So terribly busy I’m going to die. Well, almost.

***

If there’s one thing I feel good about teaching, it’s teaching. Speaking in front of people and seeing the bewildered expression on their faces whenever they learned something new, or the enjoyment they couldn’t hide when the lesson turned out to be fun is utterly priceless.

And if there’s something about teaching that drives me crazy, it’s the paperwork. And the deadline, of course. Oh I forgot dealing with difficult people consisting of, but not limited to failing students and their guardians. Whenever I encounter things like these, I remember what my IELTS student once told me:

“I think you don’t like people. You like reading and writing and being alone. But yes, you like talking. So I think you will fit better in publication, or media. But not much in teaching.”

So now I’m looking at this rushed piece of work driven by the urgent need to reclaim a fragment of my previous blogging self and I wondered whether what the student said was true – that I’m a better writer than a teacher. But if I am a better teacher than a writer, as what I want to believe, then why do I feel so . . .?Perhaps that’s for another post.

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Busy teacher

A Mentor’s Musing: On Teaching Writing IV

(In which we are both tested.)

***

Today, in our IELTS writing class that has already run for more than a couple of weeks, I was once again baffled by Janice’ inability to come up with a 150-word essay about a line graph after twenty minutes. And when the inevitable shock and frustration showed on my face, she manifested an unconcerned countenance, explaining she actually didn’t expect to finish the task under time pressure.

Of course I was incredulous.

“You know, I already know I won’t finish it. Just like before.”

“And do you think that’s positive?” I can’t help but ask. I really try my best not to sound condescending so I didn't ask if that's is really something to be proud of. I wouldn’t want to be trained that way, either. All of us have our own pride to salvage.

“I know. But I think writing is not my goal. You know? If I fail IELTS, I will take speaking and reading test when I go back home. So writing is not really my priority. I think having writing everyday is not what I want. So now I’m confused. And I think, if I memorized a lot of academic expressions, I will write better,” she confidently lectured.

For more than two weeks, it filled me with happiness that her organization is improved at some instances. That she can defend her ideas and actually makes a concept map before writing. But IELTS is a timed test. Either you vouch to accomplish the tasks within the time limit or you quit. But I didn’t tell her that.

“First, we don’t have a writing task everyday. In fact, we spend most of our time on vocabulary practice and essay analysis. I understand that you aim for a superior academic vocabulary. And I am telling you, you have the capacity to produce an academic essay – “

“But it is not enough. You know? When I read sample essays, I do not feel frustrated. I feel that the words are important for me. So if I memorize them, I will be better.”

I took a deep breath and told her what I think.

“You know, I also read essays by writers younger than I am, writers who did not even major in English. And I feel frustrated about myself. So when I see a writing style or a vocabulary so awesome, I incorporate it with my own. You’re right. They are helpful. What I’m trying to say is that although I understand your predicament, we still have to stick to our goals. Do you know what our difference in that matter is?” I asked. And with that she looked suddenly stunned.

“I have all the time to spare and contemplate on my writing. You are making do on a limited time to be prepared for an exam. I wanted you to remember the right structure of writing. That is what the usual writing tests are for. I understand that you have a difficulty remembering vocabulary at times, and during the test, you will be too tensed to remember words. And the last thing you need is an unfinished essay albeit with superiorly academic vocabulary. The tasks are for you to be more familiar with writing styles. The time limit is for you to extract what you learn under time pressure. It really surprises me that I seem to be more pressured than you actually are.”

“I know”, he sighed, “but I don’t want to just to finish essay with basic words. I don’t want that.”

In my imagination, I can see her painstakingly searching for words to use in her essay. In her dismay of using late learner, she spent 5 minutes coming up with opsimath and another 5 minutes for somnambulist instead of sleepwalker. Those thoughts furthered my apprehension for the future so I discarded them immediately.

Thus the two-hour class intended for writing tests have been utilized in an open forum, an unfinished essay and an unspoken promise of a cycle.

A Mentor’s Musing: On Teaching Writing III

(In which I am slowly memorizing a monologue day by day.)

***

In teaching the academic essay, we use samples as they make discussions easier. The objective is not to set a standard, but basically to present the wide variety of styles and ideas and all the thrilling possibilities of the written word. But recently, I felt as though this objective wasn’t met, at least in my class. That I have been misunderstood. Or that I didn’t make sense to the student. Or maybe I am wrong in all aspects.
Consider that the student isn’t a beginner. She/He knows what her/his targets are and just want to polish the skills to achieve that. So I give her/him a topic to write about, usually a homework. Then the next day, we edit the work together. Then we analyze the sample essay which, of course, has the same topic as her assignment. And then after a tedious series of comparison and contrast and structure analysis, I was shocked by one of the biggest (and surprisingly, the most repetitive) question I received upon analyzing a sample essay with my student.
“So you mean my style is wrong?”
Of course my answer is always no. But how should I answer that particular question asked by a student who doesn’t seem to acknowledge the fact that there are gray areas in writing? Well, this is what’s running in my mind now.
For example, on the subject of cyclones in rural areas, N.V.M. Gonzales wrote:

The storm had come. The thatched wall shook, producing a weird skittering sound at each gust of wind. The sough of the palms in back of the hut – which was hardly the size of the deckhouse barrel, and had the bare sand for floor – sounded like the moan of a lost child. A palm leaf began to dance a mad, rhythmless dance. . .

Given the same assignment, my version would be:

A terrible storm shook a small and shabby-looking house, creating a sound that resembles a haunting wail. And the background is a swaying green pandemonium.

(Now I suddenly regret choosing N.V.M. but it still renders the effect I was trying to point out. Anyway, I know my example is literary but I know you get the point.)
“The thing is that every writer writes differently. The fact that we all have different opinions about a certain idea proves that. And then there’s the other fact that we think differently,” thus goes my usual explanation. “The samples here are just guides; they are not standards. In the end, you will choose your own style and vocabulary with the knowledge that it has to answer the topic. There is no strict rubric regarding the exact paragraph structure and writing style intended for a certain question.”
And of course, N.V.M. Gonzales has a better way of saying that.

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Trees Writing an Essay

A Mentor’s Musing: On Teaching Writing II

(In which I once again had to listen to her evaluation.)

***

First she evaluated the test I made. Today, Mileah criticized the textbook we’re using in our reading and writing class. Since she passed the level test last week, we are now on a new book. And because she will only be staying for a month, we found the idea of using the fourth book in Our-Previous-Book series impractical due to its length. So instead, we decided to use the third in Our-New-Book series.

The book unfolds with a chapter on description. I thought, and she greed, that since it combines reading, comprehension and vocabulary, grammar and specific writing skills, the book is cool. The first reading selection was about a famous Indian landmark. Then a list of vocabulary from the reading, arranged according to parts of speech, then a fill-in-the-blanks activity wherein the students are supposed to choose the answer from the list. On the page that follows were a set of pictures that appeared to be a step-by-step tour guide of the Indian landmark, which I made her answer as an assignment, by the way. This was when she started evaluating.

“Mmmm . . . I think . . . this exercise is not good,” she began.

“What do you mean? It’s boring?”

“Uhmm”, she hesitated, “I know it will . . . make me understand this place but . . . I just look at the story again to answer it. I think it’s unnecessary,” she uttered in between her signature air-sucking motion.

“Well, it’s good that you know what that’s for. But since the lesson is about describing a place, this activity was made to widen your imagination – so you can imagine the inner structure of the landmark. And besides, not all students are comfortable imagining through text alone. That’s why there’s a picture there,” I explained.

Mileah just nodded and we went on to the grammar activities in the book that were comprised of adjective and preposition exercises as well as sentence construction activities executed by utilizing the aforementioned parts of speech. Here was where another section of her thoughts came in.

“But this is easy,” she said.

“Then that’s good,” I remarked, trying my best not to sound sarcastic.

“But I just have to copy from the story and make sentences using the adjectives,” she complained.

“Who says you should just copy from the text? The activity asks you to create sentences – grammatically correct sentences, by using the adjectives. But that doesn’t mean you should be contented in using the exact lines from the article or using basic sentences.”

“Mmmm. . . Okay,” she conceded, or so I thought.

Because when we reached the writing part, where she was supposed to choose to write one out of five topics and read the writing pattern on the next page, she once again bluntly accused the pages of being unnecessary.

“This is same as Korean. I know how to write. Why it says how to write?” she asked.

“Well, this is a reading and writing class,” I answered matter-of-factly. I looked again at the text arranged in numerical order. Think of a place that you want to describe. . . It must . . . have meaning to you. . . Create a sketch . . . Make a list of adjectives . . . Decide on a theme or sense that you want to create . . . Start drafting. . . What’s wrong with these?

“Yes, but it is just like Korean. I want to learn English. I already know this. You know? I passed university. I made essay in university.” Then she motioned her hand in a gesture to show how long the essay was. “But this is just English, not Korean. If I learn this, I feel I don’t learn English. Only writing,” she said as she was flipping the pages from beginning to the end and back.

I breathed in. this is going to be one tough explanation.

“Okay – “

“I think Our-Previous-Book 3 is better,” Mileah said. I held up my hands.

“Okay. But you have to understand first what a level test is for. The reason why did a level test is to check if you understood Our-Previous-Book 3. And you did. Congratulations.

In Our-Previous-Book 3, I allowed you to write essays at your convenience. But being able to write using basic sentences is no longer what we are aiming in this book. It has a lot of exercises from different language skills and questions that are asking you to create more complicated or sensible answers. If we left the fundamentals, there is no other way but to go to a higher lesson.”

She nodded, still flipping the pages.

“Writing has universal rules. We write using the same elements, only different languages, and therefore different grammatical structure. But we basically use the same writing pattern – we think, we picture, we decide. And for every kind of essay, there’s a different pattern.

The patterns there weren’t made to make you appear stupid. In fact, they are guides so you can make more sophisticated writings. You know the basics – introduction, body, conclusion, topic sentence, supporting sentences, general statement, thesis statement, the list goes on. But the question is no longer about your ability to use them in a beginner’s way. You have got to improve your style. That is what the book wants from you – a better writing style.”

Again, she nodded, her eyes fixed on the book and her fingers busy flipping.

“And about you not learning English. What do you think are you learning then?”

“Ahmm, anyway . . . I think you don’t understand my saying . . . but . . . hmmm. . . ”

Oh no! So I don’t understand at all?

Maybe I really don’t. I don’t understand why the book is unnecessary. All she has to do was to read and understand how to write effectively. And do it. Without an overload of accusatory questions or remarks. Writing is doing. Learning is, too.

She silently flipped the pages until there’s no more leaf to flip. I looked at the clock and told her we still have five minutes before the class ends and that she can do her thing. She fumbled her notebook and began writing.

A Teacher’s Musing: On Teacher Writing and Reading

(In which she has the remarkable bluntness to ask – which is. . . okay.)

***

I feel utterly guilty for suspending the draft of my research proposal in lieu of the freshest, newest teacher experience I have for today. Consider this a news flash in the middle of a peaceful lunch or merienda.

So I have a new student named Mileah. She’s cute and bubbly. But compared to the conversational competence of Gerald and Jack, she has a long way to travel. But nevertheless she’s using the same book that Gerald did – a reading and writing book. (You may want to click here and/or here to know a couple of things about the book . . . and Gerald.)

And today is our first testing day. The test includes identification, enumeration and event sequencing for the stories we have discussed involving colors and colorgenics, superstitions about numbers and the Hawaiian way of celebrating Thanksgiving. For the writing part, there were identification tasks wherein she’s expected to name what part of the essay or paragraph is being described. The last one involves three paragraphs and she’s supposed to encircle the main idea and underline the supporting details. Yes, I know that sounds elementary.

Towards the end of the first hour she seemed uneasy and started to mutter something. It turned out she was telling me that when she studied for the test, she didn’t expect that she should have memorized the stories. Memorize. That struck me as though I am a terror teacher who adheres completely to the absolute power of rote memorization when it comes to influencing test scores. Or the creation of tests itself. She strongly claimed, albeit in a very cute way, that those questions involving memorization do not actually improve any skill.

Wow. Not that I have never received such complaint. But to tell me it doesn’t improve any skill? And that was also ironic considering that it came from someone from a country where students are expected to memorize roughly a hundred words in at least a week for the sake of widening their vocabulary. No and I’m not even talking about vocabulary usage. Just plain memorization of the term and the definition and poof! That’s a test!

Now, that reminds me of Gerald. And honestly, I have to be thankful that I am now dealing with a considerably shy girl and not that obstinate lad. But nevertheless I still gave the speech that I guess would continue to be handy for as long as I work here – that the class is also a reading class and readings were not done to be kept in the dark corners of one’s memory. It has to be utilized and therefore understood. That memorizing doesn’t necessarily mean understanding. That the test doesn’t require them to write in verbatim. That we have discussed the stories a lot of times. That there is a reason why there are comprehension questions at the end of every article or essay in the book. That there is a reason behind the mere existence of an article or an essay in a textbook other than to fill space.

She said she understands. I hope so. Now how am I going to clarify the scope and limitation for my research proposal again? Ah . . .

Well . . . There’s Still Good News

(In which I try to be optimistic.)

***

On Studying

I got back to school recently and though I was only enrolled for two subjects, it felt like I was studying full-time because of the tons of readings to be done, essays to be written and reports to be studied. But I don’t mind. It sometimes feels better to be the student than to be the teacher. Somehow, being guided by an authority is more secure than being the authority itself. It’s nice to feel this security even just once a week. Let’s leave it at that.

On Teaching Online

We don’t work for eight hours straight. No, we don’t. We’re one of the lucky people who have their own rooms, have considerably long breaks, can access the Internet during those breaks and still get paid for doing so or for virtually doing nothing. That was cool. Until they noticed how really long my break is and decided to put an end to my luck.

Yesterday, I was told to teach a high school student grammar and writing from 6pm-8pm. That’s right. That’s how long my break has been. Apparently, good things never last.

On Teaching the New Boy

The student wants grammar and writing and Brent International School. He shows me his essays and book reports to point out that he knows how to write but that his grammar puts him down. He shows me his report card and his folders to show that he’s not a bad student. He’s not, really. So I told him to just do advance reading and ask me about the things he doesn’t understand. Well, that’s a tough challenge for both of us but that’s what really happens when a student has big goals.

On Teaching the Old Boys

Gerald has been patient with his writing and the boring class time. (And I have been, too.) Jack has been patient with my tardiness for as long as I can remember. I told him about the new project I am on and confessed that I am thinking of giving up the class with him. Incidentally, he was thinking of the same thing and we came up with a consensus. Oh! The beauty of having laziness on both ends!

On Blogging

The best thing about this blog’s being personal-turned-bookish is that it can always go back to being personal when I have nothing book-related to post. It’s convenient . . . and cathartic.

Photo SourceOptimism

A Mentor’s Musing: On Teaching Writing

(In which he finally wrote.)

***

We reached the chapter where my student, Gerald, is supposed to study narration, finally, after days of procrastination due to the combined bouts of nostalgia, lovesickness and plain laziness. I was so thrilled to teach that I discussed the four major modes of discourse despite of myself, much to the surprise of the wide-eyed East Asian man whose attention shifted from the whiteboard to the sports article on the PC monitor. I know not which he’s feigning attention to but I care not as well. He had his days of unproductiveness; it’s about time that I lift the curse he caused!

Knowing the importance of time and place in a narrative, I told him how he could use order to show sequence.

“In your story, you should always pay attention to the order. Which comes first? Which do you want to narrate first?”

He nodded, and glanced at the monitor.

“Oh soccer!” I muttered under my breath. “Okay, about the order, you may use the chronological order or the reverse chronology. You could also use some flashbacks.”

He nodded, looked at the monitor and clicked on a link.

“Gerald!”

“Yes! Chronology! I understand”, he assured me.

“Well, for the sake of discussion, the chronological order shows how a story transpires from the past to the present or from first to last. The reverse chronology, however, works from the present to the past or from the last to the first.”

“Why should we use that?” he asked.

“What?”

“The reverse.’

“Well, it depends on what the writer’s purpose is. Joel Gross in his book The Books of Rachel used the chronological order to link different Jewish families from the past to the current. Susan Vreeland’s Girl in Hyacinth Blue is presented through the reverse chronology to trace the origin of a painting. So you see, the purpose is the thing.”

“I still don’t get it but, anyway, chronological order is easier.”

“Okay.”

As we went on with the writing activity which includes the writing process, i.e., topic selection, brainstorming, outline making and the rough draft, I almost jumped for joy when he actually wrote a topic outline legibly! And wait, he also asked questions like:

How am I going to write the introduction for a narrative? I’m sure it’s different from an example or a process essay.

How am I going to write the conclusion?

Do I still need to summarize in the conclusion?

I don’t want my essay to be too detailed. Can I just write about the interesting things and explain them?

Okay, you may think that it’s no big deal since it’s a writing class and students are supposed to ask questions like these. But considering that a couple of months ago, his colossal interest in writing revolves around the fact that he didn’t want to follow the correct structure and that he didn’t find an outline of any kind important or that his idea of an essay is a bunch of paragraphs with a minimum of five sentences overflowing with conjunctive adverbs and comma splices, yes, this one’s a big deal!

The formula in a nutshell:

Be lenient and practical. Let the students think for themselves. Make a list of topics to give them options. Don’t use Emerson and Bacon to elucidate. Give your own writing examples and let yourself be criticized. Understand their interest and let them write about it. If they happen to be Korean, let them write about Park Ji Sung and prepare to correct a two-page essay. Well, that’s better than correcting four paragraphs made up of five sentences each.

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Comics

The Girl With a Pink Dream

(In which there’s another cool kid in the tradition of Sandy.)

***

Being given another kid student is enough to threaten me after I witnessed the momentary Wonderful Academy invasion of repulsive and obnoxious male fifteen-year-olds acting like they’re eight. I swear I almost told the manager “No, not another kid!” But fate doesn’t seem to be a monster lately for I was given Jenny, a nine-year-old girl. Sorry boys, girls are generally easier to handle.

The first thing I noticed about this girl (just like about every other female students I had in my class) is her notebook. I have always found the covers of Korean notebooks cute. But more often than not, I need to disregard the cheesy/incoherent lines that usually don’t have anything to do with the cover image.

We started having classes last Friday and two days after, she gave me a gift.

This notebook.

How did she know I am terribly in need of a new notebook? In fact, I have already been writing on margins! Oh! Kudos to her guardian angel!

I have just established my stance on the messages but I gave this one a go. The sentences attempt to be nostalgic but still with the signature incoherence, albeit subtle.

"You are my sweet song and you are a honey melody, the girl who has many pink dreams. I have many dreams and hopes. I feel happiness."

Approximately thirty minutes after thanking her, we talked about the contests she joined, then her dreams.

“Teacher, my dream is to become a pediatrician!” she announced.

“Oh really? That’s nice!” I exclaimed. I’m used to hear children say they want to be a doctor so they could help sick people or help their parents. But I still asked her. “Why?”

She looked at the ceiling, ruminating. Her facial expression embodying her struggle for the perfect words. Then she began.

“I saw the video of Haiti. The . . . the . . .”

“Earthquake?”

“Yes. The earthquake.” she agreed. My heart already melted.

“I saw the hurt children and my mom cried. And I cried, too. So I want to be a pediatrician. There are other kids. And other counties. So I asked my mom, ‘How can I be a doctor?’ and she said ‘Medical school is difficult. If you really want to be a doctor, you have to study hard from now on.’ So that’s what I’ll do. I will study English hard, hard, hard. Then study other things. Then go Harvard!”

I was breathless. I just looked at her typical East Asian face, the several scars and mosquito bites on her arms and the way she messes her bangs when she talks or coolly explains when I noticed her ear skin tag. I wonder how an innocent child could think of dreaming and striving with the inspiration of helping people. Such deep and mature thinking! Then I realized it’s only with a child’s innocence that we see with our heart and think genuinely positive.

“You’re an amazing kid,” I told her. She smiles shyly.

“Poverty” by Martial

(In which the ones who grumble more are the ones who work less.)

***

The ubiquitous complaint regarding assignments and school tasks in a teacher-student conflict is starting to get into my nerves lately. I feel my frustration getting the better of me, slowly but deeply. I still wonder why students still marvel at the amount of homework their teachers give them. When will they accept the fact that it is eternally included in their roles as learners and stop bargaining?

I wasn’t able to contain my impatience any longer when Crystal suppressed a shriek after I gave her a twenty-item assignment on grammar.

“Aaahh! So many homework! Teacher Jean – “ she stopped speaking and started flipping the pages of her huge notebook to show how many words she has to define for her vocabulary class the next day. “And you – “she looked at me deprecatingly and sighed a disappointed sigh.

“So what?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

“It’s so many!” she once again flipped pages to prove her point.

“But you have your dictionary. You use that to get the meaning, right? Just do it. Teachers give homework so you can study and practice what you learned.”

“But I’m tired,” she whined. I tried my best to stop myself from wrapping my hands around her neck.

“Who isn’t?” I smiled instead.

“I read many many!”

“I also read.”

“I slept 11 last night,” she reasoned out.

“I’m still working when you’re already asleep.”

“Sometimes I sleep twelve,” she uttered one more irrelevant argument.

“I sleep at past one o’clock in the morning everyday,” I retorted.

“But I wake up eight o’clock,” she sighed.

“I also wake up at eight. Travel for at least an hour. Work more than half the day and go home exhausted,” I enumerated to emphasize that no student’s hardship is greater than the teacher’s.

She sighed. I didn’t know if that’s to show understanding or she thought I talked nonsense, as if she was the one who’s in the more reasonable end of the argument.

I wanted to ask her what worries her. I wanted to reprimand her for thinking that her life as a foreign student is the hardest she’ll ever have. Did she really think that sleeping late and waking up early is a burden? Doesn’t she know that there are students who patiently walk along mountain trails, cross rivers barefooted and swim the sea for hours to get to school and endure the same sufferings to get home? That these same students read the dog eared, yellow pages of their textbooks which are at least four years old using a kerosene lamp? And she complains about reading her new, imported textbooks; writing her homework using her Dong-A mechanical pencil; defining words with the help of her touch-screen electronic dictionary and sleeping late and waking up early in a comfortable dormitory situated in a sophisticated city?

It’s becoming a common trait among them and it’s depressing. It’s depressing to hear them grouse about how hard it is to study when they don’t sweat much for their tuition fee and take their studies seriously. Do they even understand how much their parents have to work to send them abroad? Forget that they’re studying in a Third World nation. Some people in this country never even had the chance to sit in a crowded, dilapidated classroom in the distant provinces let alone before a private instructor. And these less fortunate ones would give anything to have a taste of the full-of-hardships student life that our lucky students scowl at. I bet they don’t even know what real hardship is.

***

Poverty
by Martial

When your landlord would not hold your goods
In lieu of rent,
I saw you moving –
Your scrawny red-haired wife was loaded down,
Your gentle white-haired mother, loaded down,
And last, yourself as loaded –
Withered with cold and hunger –
Carrying your household treasures:

A three-legged bed,
A two-folded table,
A broken lamp,
A horn cup,
A rusty stove,
A jar which, surely, once held herrings –
Faugh! – it smells like a dry fish-pond,
A square of strong smelling cheese,
A four-year-old crown of herbs,
A rope of onions,
The resin to restore your mother’s hair
In an old cracked jar. . .
Which corner of the bridge open to beggars,
I wonder, will hold you now?

Photo source:
Walk to school and Crowded Classroom

When My Student Meets Richard Cory

(In which my storybook eyes are not enough.)

***

One thing I like about conversation classes is that the topics may come from anywhere and anyone can say something about it. Depending on the language proficiency of the student, a single topic can last for an hour or two, even days. In one of our classes, Judah and I talked about suicide, the reasons and effects. And because (I think) he’s dead serious about improving his writing skills, I gave a reaction paper about “Richard Cory” as his assignment.

Richard Cory
by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,

We people on the pavement looked at him:

He was a gentleman from sole to crown,

Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked;

But still he fluttered pulses when he said,

"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich, richer than a king,

And admirably schooled in every grace:

In fine, we thought that he was everything

To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,

And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Though I know it wasn’t right, I expected him to criticize Richard Cory’s actions, write about how wrong his choice was. (And I thought I am not very puritan!) But after providing a brief summary of the poem, he wrote:

But I don’t think we should question Richard Cory’s decision. Why would I condemn him? I do not know his sufferings. No one knows my real sufferings, too. His pain might be too much. So I think if he killed himself, he has enough reason and right.

I didn’t mind the part where he advises people to stop caring much about others – they’re old enough. But what struck me very powerfully was his trust in a person’s decision making and his understanding of other’s pain which was (ironically) manifested by his acknowledgement of his own ignorance regarding how others suffer.

“Judah, you mean he did the right thing by killing himself to escape pain?” I probed after I handed him his essay.

He examined the purple ink on his work and sighed. Then he started and peered over the top of his notebook.

“Right thing? I don’t know,” he sighed again and put his notebook on his lap. “But for me, maybe he just thinks the pain is not tolerable anymore so he just wanted to die. People will think, ‘Oh, he’s crazy! He’s rich and all that then he did this? Crazy!’ But what do they know? It’s his life.”

Right then, after I ignored the fact that he evaded my question, I was convinced that our difference does not only lie in our religion or our language. It’s in the difference of our perspective as well. His insouciance was a perfect façade for a soul sensitive to human sorrow.

To question others why they did something – left, broke someone’s heart, ended their own lives – means questioning ourselves about what we know and how much we understand beyond the surface. Besides, pain – real pain – isn’t always skin deep. It doesn’t always show in the contour of one’s face. And reasons, what are they? When are they enough? When are they valid?

Wealth. Education. Fame. Richard Cory had them all. But if he chose to end his life despite all these, then Judah must be right – his reasons shouldn’t be questioned.

Teacher Tantrums: Who’s Your SpongeBob?

(In which it was a battle between my student and my endangered patience.)

***

I’ve been suspending this blog entry for a long time since I can’t think of an incident to let it go with. But fortunately, I now have enough reasons to upset SpongeBob fans by including him in this post fueled by a student-teacher fight.

Because of my early shift, I was able to watch SpongeBob. That day’s episode was “Mrs. Puff, You're Fired”. Miss Puff (SpongeBob’s driving teacher) was reprimanded by the superintendent for SpongeBob’s numerous failing grades (1,258,056 times!) She was told that if he failed yet another test, she’ll be fired. She retorted that SpongeBob is unteachable. So they let him took a driving test and Miss Puff guided him with the process, trying desperately to make him remember what to do. In the end, another failed test was added to SpongeBob’s notorious records.

So Miss Puff was fired but instead of sulking over the loss of her job, she was delighted!

“No more SpongeBob!” she laughed in disbelief mixed with relief.

So another teacher took over. He’s a disciplinarian shark wearing military uniform who gave his students this preview of his teaching methods.

“Your spines will break, your teeth will ache. Your eyes will be bloodshot.”

Then he threw two students out for eating and speaking.

In the end, SpongeBob still failed and Miss Puff wept when she realized that she’ll be having SpongeBob in her class again. At least the superintendent now realized how unteachable SpongeBob is.

We were told, as teachers, that if the students didn’t learn, then we didn’t teach. For that reason, we are expected to do our job well and make sure that all students (but I prefer the “majority” of them) will learn. Throughout the class time, we’re also expected to keep our cool and be patient for slow learners. And those things I always tried (and succeeded) to keep in mind (and to practice) . . . until today.

My first student every day is, although not as unteachable as SpongeBob, is definitely not as cheerful and optimistic let alone amusing. He stutters when he speaks and has an attitude as if he’s smarter than his teacher. After having several classes with him in a regular classroom and on telephone as well as hearing the feedbacks from his former teachers, I was utterly convinced that he doesn’t really need the kind of instruction we’re offering. He needs something more special.

As always, I put my best (as well as the most patient and understanding) foot forward in our class. I do not want to be irritated with his antics and mild attacks of arrogance and rudeness. But of course, everything has its limits and my patience isn’t an exception. I didn’t mind if he obviously didn’t listen to me as he kept on giving incorrect answers after another. But he continuously breathed hard on the receiver. And that I couldn’t take anymore.

“Carl, could you please stop breathing hard on the phone? It’s painful to my ear!” I said impatiently.

“W-what? I-it’s not me!” he stammered in defense.

“Then who is it? What is it?” I asked back, my face warmer.

“I-I d-don’t know! I-it’s not m-me! T-the shoo-shoo sound, I don’t know! It’s not me!”

“Ok. There’s no shoo-shoo sound now.”

“I said i-it’s not me! Are you crazy? – “

“- What?!”

Dead air. Silence as cold as the air in the office and as hard as my grip on the table. For more than half a minute no one spoke. The shoo-shoo sound was completely gone. I tried to gather the remaining calmness in me and continued the class. Just two more minutes, I thought.

“Yeah, so Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins even asked their neighbors to do things for them,” I said in an obviously high-pitched voice which made me realize that I’m not a very good liar.

I heard movements in the other line and a button was pressed. I didn’t say more since I know there was no one who’ll respond. I clicked the off button fifty seconds before the class was supposed to end.

I informed the staff about the incident and they promised to check it. After half an hour, Camille dashed in my room, leaned on the open door with her left hand on her left hip.

“What happened? With Carl?”

She’s dead serious. What now? I’m dead meat?

“I listened to the call. It’s your fault!” she said, still dead serious.

“What?” I asked, completely thinking she’s mistaken.

“Yes, and because of that I’m gonna punish you.”

Uh oh. Am I gonna be fired like Mrs. Puff because of the fault of a student?

I looked at her face but couldn’t do that for long because of the hardness of her expression.

“Refresh your schedule!”

I pressed F5 and waited forever for the page to load. The page was slowly becoming clear when she uttered, “Congratulations!” sweetly like a nightingale.

I put my hand on my chest as if in fear of my heart falling. I knitted my eyebrows when I saw her laughing.

“I listened. And I talked to him. I heard the shoo-shoo sound too but he said it wasn’t him. So I told him ‘Do you wanna die or something?’ Haha! But anyway, look at your schedule? Where’s Carl? Congratulations!” Camille gleefully recounted.

I smiled at her but I told her I felt bad with what happened too. I also shouted at him and that somehow made me at fault.

But enough with the guilty trip.

“No more Carl! No more Carl! Haha!”

Photo Source:
Mrs. Puff, You’re Fired!