From the kitschy bunny rabbits that haunt every store window at Easter time to the ancient goddesses of fertility, spring has traditionally been a time representing both birth and rebirth. Well, this year, my heart and mind decided to join in the festivities.
It all started on Thursday, March 3rd. Okay, that’s a lie. It started at some point earlier, but it was only on March 3rd that it was all set into motion. I received, all on one day, a new kindergarten class, a new classroom, a new Korean partner, a new desk, and a new afternoon elementary program. The changes seemed unending. Now, I would like to say that I embraced all these alterations with serenity and cheerfulness... but, I didn’t.
It had taken six months to develop a routine that allowed me to have time for myself, and now, it seemingly just wasn’t possible. I had days when I was at work for twelve hours- planning, cutting, laminating, printing, correcting... all enjoyable work in and of itself, but no way to spend all my hypothetical free time. During this period, I developed a strange aversion to order-in pizza. See, Richard, one of the men who stayed to lock up, would order pizza for himself and anyone who was still at the office past eight. As delicious as it was, there were times when I’d purposely tell Richard I was leaving, just to feel as though I hadn’t stayed too late. Twenty minutes later, pizza fumes would waft through the office and he’d inform me he had ordered vegetarian pizza, just for me.
Dude, I was just going home to cook, I swear.
My most difficult trial has been working with my afternoon elementary students. I leave each class completely sapped of energy and in dire need of some positive vibrations... and the factors leading to my condition are manifold. Firstly, my students are coming to my class after a full day of Korean school. They have already done all the learning their little minds are capable of in a coherent fashion. Secondly, many of these students have never gone through English immersion kindergarten, which means their English skills are quite low. Thirdly, the curriculum they are currently following is in its pilot stages. In other words, no one knows if it’s any good yet. Fourthly, the program is quite rigid in its approach and butts serious heads with my theory that teaching is an art, not a recipe. Every day, I am reminded again of how incredibly irreconcilable the curriculum is with my students' actual aptitude. I wake up every day, hoping to have increased patience towards the situation...
Mercifully, as time has passed, I’ve slowly begun to see the blessings amidst all the chaos. My morning kindergarten class has proved to be an oasis in an otherwise arid education system. Besides having a very supportive Korean partner, I have discovered at least two bona fide hippies, three philanthropists, and a choir of reggae singers. We have considered everything from child soldiers to royal incest. We even had a discussion about how “human” is our animal name. Gasp! The kids dealt with each subject with triple the sophistication of my McGill peers. No insults thrown or fingers flipped. No ad hominem remarks towards the professor. Extraordinary, really.
Essentially, my kindergarten class reminds me daily that teaching is an art, not an act. Just as an artist expresses how the world functions using vivid, intriguing techniques, so must a teacher present new information in motivating ways. Just as an artist tries to keep in mind his or her audience, so must a teacher be able to comprehend where his or her students are and where they can go, in order to take them there.
This artist-teacher scenario is not the only belief I have come to increasingly appreciate. By spending time with these extraordinary children, I have had to continually contemplate who I want to be in life. Am I a taker or am I a giver? Am I a conscious consumer or do I ignore the social injustices that pervade our societies? Will I stand up for what I think is right, or will I fear oppression and rejection? This new class has empowered me. Change is possible. Hearts and minds can remain open. When they ask me what “poor” means, I can teach them what it means to live hand-to-mouth and not fear that I will be labelled a propagandist. When I have to explain why “school is a privilege”, I do so by telling them there are days when Palestinian and Israeli children can’t go to school for fear of their schools being bombed.
“But, Franzi-Teacher, why do the airplanes want to drop a bomb on the school?”
“Because adults, big people like your mom and dad, are fighting. And they know that parents love their children very much, so they want to take you away from them to make them do what they want.”
These are not lies. They are well-known facts that like to be swept under the carpet in the name of that cozy feeling we have in our hearts when we buy a new pair of kicks. They are topics that have their rightful place in the classroom, alongside lights-out-flashlight tag, the silly chair bus, and other shenanigans I’m growing fonder of each day...
