Things I May Have Done

Man! now I know how my mom felt teaching me. As I said before, I'm not sure how kosher it is to talk about my kids' bad behavior, so I'll talk about mine. 

Mom just about always had trouble getting my attention. Though the reason was always different, the sequence was always the same. “Jonathan,” she'd say. I would remain blissfully unaware, looking out the window. “Jonathan!” I'd now be intently studying a fly on the wall. “JONATHAN!” I would be leaning over the back of my chair feeling how the blood rushed to my head. “JONATHAN!!!”

“Huh? Oh, did you call me, Mom?” I'd say, smiling.

“I need you to come over here.”

“Okay.” And I would.

“Thank you. Now look at this problem. See, you started with twelve and were supposed to add twenty-two, but you put zero as your answer. How can you add and come up with less than you started with?” *long pause* “Jonathan.”

“Huh? Yeah? What?”

“Did you just hear what I said?” She's feeling tired right now.

“Oh, uh, yeah! Yeah I did.”

“What did I say.” She's feeling even more tired; a smothering heaviness begins to descend upon her.

“Um, you said that I needed to come over here.” (She couldn't argue with that!)

“After that.” The weight is pulling each and every one of her limbs down into the floor by now.

“Oh yes, well, you interrupted me. Then you said that when I'm adding, my answer should be less than what I started with.” Hopeful-triumphant smile.

“You weren't listening. I said even though it shouldn't, yours is. See, when you add, you put things together, you combine. If—”

“Hey! Hey Mom! Do ya think maybe if I get done fast we might be able to go to the park today?”

“No. No, I don't think you'll be getting done early today.” Headache.

“But Mom, you're not listening to me. I said if I get done early. You never listen to me!” Frowny face.

*groan...*

I never stayed in my seat, either. No sooner had she told me to sit down with my feet on the floor than I was crawling up on my desk to talk to Jo, or get an eraser, or “because I can see my work better from up here.” When she had finally had enough, she would talk in “the voice.” Not an angry, shouting voice, by any means, but that voice which anyone anywhere (even Malawi, one would think) would know meant business. As soon as I heard that voice, I sat down flat in my seat and worked very, very diligently...for about two minutes, after which I would totally forget and be back on my desk, or out of it, or writing on it, or maybe watching a hornbill outside the window. I honestly don't think that I meant to be disobeying; I just completely forgot that I had ever been told not to do just about everything I'd been told not to do.

Another thing I did was always ask for help with everything. If my handwriting book had ever asked me (as little J's [seven years & third grade] does him) to “Look in the glossary at the back of your book and answer the following question: How fast can a Canada goose fly?” I would surely have immediately stuck my little hand in the air and waved it around violently. If that failed, I would surely have gotten out of my seat, taken my book, tottered over to the front of the class, sat down on my teacher's lap, looked up adorably (if I had actually been adorable as, say, a certain little Asian living in Malawi is), and plunked my book down on the desk, saying, “How do I do it?” My teacher would then have asked me to read my instructions out loud, and I would have, after which I would have no better an idea of what I was supposed to do than before, so I would ask again. And my teacher would patiently explain that it did, in fact, mean that I was supposed to find out how fast a Canada goose flew. I would have lit right up and said, “Oh! I get it!...where do I find that?” And my teacher would have patiently (never anything but—oh, no—never!) explained that, like it said in the instructions, it was in the back of the book. I would then go back to my desk and seem to be fine, but soon my hand soon have been back in the air, or I would have been back at my teacher's desk asking where in the back of the book it was. And then I would have asked which of the four sentences about Canada geese contained the answer. (All of this assuming that my book had asked me that, which it never did.) Then the process would be repeated for the entire first week. Then, the second week, I'm sure my teacher would have been busy the first day, so I would have asked the other teacher. This would have brought great joy to the first until the first realized that the second had helped me and that no progress had actually been made. That's the way I'm sure it would have gone, anyway, had I been assigned to do it.

All this, of course, left the residing teacher feeling totally drained. “Why, oh, why doesn't he just listen to me?” he—I mean “she” moaned loudly after the first day of class. So the teacher tried enforcing further penalties for misbehavior, and taking out swift vengeance upon all who disobeyed by fining them large sums of their fake money reward that they got for good grades with which they bought cheaply made Malawian toys and school supplies, especially when the student in question responded to attempted correction in poorly done work by interrupting with, “But do I still get money for it?” ...Except that Mom didn't reward us with fake money. I just, um, meant to illustrate the extreme measures she must surely have gone to—but I now no longer remember—to help us learn. Yeah. Anyway, I know exactly how she felt.

---

After pulling my hair out, laughing hysterically with Jen when the stress became too much to bear, and finally writing this post, something happened that pretty much changed everything. It's not that they all behave now, or that it doesn't bother us anymore, or really anything at all external. It's one of those things in life that falls under the category of “something else.” One of those things that can't be explained unless the person being talked to has had one of the same category of things happen in them.

I was at the board explaining some English to D and C. They were not listening to—and subsequently not comprehending—anything I was saying. Though they had asked for my help they were refusing to focus, talking [loudly], and purposely being dense. At least that's how it felt; I really don't know how much was them and how much was me being tired and fed up from, well, a bunch of things. But anyhow, I had finally had enough and chewed them out, and especially D for not listening and not trying. I told them that if they asked for help, they had to listen and actually try to understand. D, as he went back to his seat, said meekly, “I wish you could see Jenny's letter.” “Jenny didn't send you a letter,” I snapped, and he sat down. Jen motioned to me and said, “He sent me a letter,” and handed me this [sic]:

 Dear, Teachers

I need you to help me. I

have some problems on having

to get good grades in my

studies. I have some excuses

on having to get bad grades.

It's time I get good grades.

I want to pass.

                      thank you.

        Love,

          D

I wanted to bawl myself out.

It's not that he shouldn't actually be paying attention. And it's not that it's bad to get frustrated (inside). Nor is it bad to make light of bad days in a blog post. It's that, sometimes, I miss what's really going on. I so often miss that characters aren't one-dimensional. I miss that I'm dealing with real, developing human beings. My students are children of God. Somehow, I am supposed to be their teacher. I am teaching the literal children of GOD, YAHWEH; the CREATOR, who is also my FATHER!

I once told a friend that “a teacher can make or break a kid.” How easy it is to speak in ignorance! But, somehow, those words were true, and one way or another prophetic. I will make D, or break him. I do, as an older, more mature Christian, have tremendous power over the little ones around me, especially those here in my school. Jesus warned us of the great influence we have over children when He said, “If one of you causes one of these little ones to turn away from me, it would be better for him to have a millstone tied around his neck and be thrown into the sea.” The Father has entrusted me with a whole lot more than I had bargained for when I signed up to come over here.

D came to our house that evening, and I sat with him as he alternately asked me questions about his history and got distracted talking about Saladin and soccer. What a good kid; he sees me for what I should be, not for who I am. O God, help me match him.

Pray for me, guys.  :)