19 September 2006
posted by j at 9/19/2006 02:11:00 PM

Picture this. A dog on guard. An intruder breaks into the house. The dog, without a second thought, pounces on and bites onto the leg of the intruder without letting go. Freeze that scene for a moment. The picture of the dog valiantly hanging on to that mouthful of leg, while the intruder frantically attempts to shake the mongrel off in vain....the stubborn hanging on...



Got that scenario in your mind?





Ok.




Yesterday, this picture came to mind as I dealt with a student from that dreaded sec 4 class. That class has the ability to SAP all my energy for the day. Seriously. And it ain't funny. This particular boy hadn't appeared in school for ages. Each time he comes, he creates trouble for the teachers by strolling around the classroom like nobody's business, talking loudly and incessantly, refusing to do work, arguing and making irrelevant comments to the teacher when asked to work or sit down and being defiant when made to do anything he didn't feel like doing. All in all, he can be a real pain. Yesterday, he kept doing all of the above. HE. JUST. REFUSED. TO. DO. WORK. I tell you, i was on the verge of emitting steam. He also said that there was no point my forcing him because he wasn't going to be coming anyway, since his father said that he created more trouble coming to school. I was adamant. "NO! As long as you're in school, you have to do your work!" I nagged, scolded, bellowed, cajoled. You name it. I just insisted and insisted and insisted. I wouldn't take no for an answer. I was undeterred by any argument or excuses. I gave him some leeway, but bottomline was still there. I. WANT. THE. WORK. DONE. No blanks. No rubbish. Properly done work. He promised he would bring the work today. Even if he wasn't coming to school proper, he was to drop by to give it to me.

And you know what? He submitted it today.

Don't you think the imagery of that dog hanging on to its mouthful of leg sounds like me? I felt that way, you know. Ferociously clinging on to that leg. Ridiculously stubborn sometimes. But yah, that's me.
 
17 September 2006
posted by j at 9/17/2006 10:18:00 PM

There it was. A big, gaping wound. It had been so long since she'd gotten one of those. For a time, wounds like this one were fast in coming. She had been inexperienced in the game, a loser in competitions. Each fall had been painful, with injuries which had not only hurt for a long time afterward, but had also given her scars for life. After a number of those competitions, she'd decided that it was time to rest. To take a break from the rat race. She'd also decided it was about time she stopped getting injured in the fray.

There it was. A big gaping wound. Surely it must hurt. It was strange that for the first few minutes, she had felt nothing at all. Perhaps one can get immune to everything. As long as it happened often enough. And perhaps as long as one trained oneself to steel oneself against feeling the pain. Afterall, she had long cultivated the habit of detaching her mind from things which bothered her. Even physical pain. It was easy, once you got the hang of it. It was like shutting your mind from the pain, and willing yourself to think of other things. Of course, there was some element of self-denial, convincing oneself that it didn't matter at all. It worked for most things. Physical pain, as well as emotional pain and even mental stress. And as time passed, it got easier. Really it did. Life was also much simpler that way. The only drawback perhaps was that people thought her a cold fish. An unfeeling person who could stop herself from getting emotionally attached to people and things by sheer willpower. At least, that's what it seemed to some. On the surface, she could often project a certain image. There were things in life she genuinely found joy in, and she showed it. Wounds, however, were another part of her life she wanted kept in her cupboard. Every once in a long time, while in solitude, she would sit in silence and think. Recalling how it felt to have fallen, and to have lost in the competition. The emotional humiliation. The sense of loss. Wondering where she had gone wrong. Wondering what people thought of her. The humiliation and disappointment would translate to an almost tangible, physical pain. It helped that she had a physical wound each time, to distract her. Each time, afterward, she would swear never to enter another competition again.

There it was. A big gaping wound. It was starting to hurt. A searing pain. She wanted to swear but stopped herself. Why and how, had she gotten into this one? Didn't she promise herself never to enter another competition? Truly, one would reap the consequences of one's bad decisions or lack of discipline and foresight. And to think she'd always prided herself on her logical thinking and strong will. Enough. Time to detach herself from the pain. Just like she always did. As long as she shut that cupboard, she could get on with life. Never mind the scars. As long as she didn't look at them, it was alright. She hated hurting. Hated falling. Hated inflicting injury on herself. Hated causing others to fall and hurt themselves too. Both hurting others and being hurt were just as painful, but in different ways. But being the selfish person she was, if given a choice, she would rather others hurt instead of herself. Hence, the detachment. But when others brought the issue up and pointed fingers at her, the guilt would mount.

"But what's wrong with detaching myself? What's wrong with protecting myself? I'm not deliberately hurting anybody!"

And inevitably, that line of questioning would lead her to revisit the cupboard and relinquish the detachment. And then, a fresh wave of pain, along with the vulnerability would wash over her.

There it was. Again. A big gaping wound. Perhaps the time would come soon, for her to embrace the pain, and heal. But when? And would that be better than the other way?
 
04 September 2006
posted by j at 9/04/2006 09:51:00 AM

Sometimes, I hear news about some of my ex-students from my previous form classes. I hear about how they are smoking, or how they got caught for certain offences, or how they have changed for the worst...and even though I don't teach them or see them much anymore, I feel sad. And I wish I could have done something, though I'm not sure what. And I can't help but wonder what went wrong. What caused the change? Was there anything more that could be done to salvage the situation? Sometimes, I make the futile attempt to seek the student-in-question out, just so I can talk to him/her and find out more about what caused the change. Sometimes, I feel that perhaps them knowing that someone still cares DOES make a difference to them. But I really don't know that for sure. More about that next time.

Anyway...this year, I was very touched to receive cards and presents from not just my present students, but also from those I used to teach a year and 2 years ago. They remember me!! So happy... I did not just walk out of their lives the moment I stopped being their teacher. One of the best Teachers' Day gifts I received this year was a huge card given to me by my form class from last year. The card was by no means expensive or superbly beautiful. It was just a plain piece of drawing block. Yet, it is precious to me because of each and every person who wrote me a little something. They even gave me a copy of a photo which we took together as a class last year. Honestly, I 'invested' a lot in this class last year. They were rowdy and noisy and difficult. Many had different problems, whether it was with family or friends or otherwise. Disciplining them took a lot out of me and they often gave me headaches with all the noise they made. But in the 2nd half of the year, things settled down somewhat, and both they and I got used to each other's ways. And in spite of the occasional troublemaker which every class is bound to have, I genuinely liked my class. For their responsiveness, spontaneity, sincerity and genuineness. They failed in many ways, in the eyes of the world, and many felt condemned by others or even their own family members. But I know that, for many of them, though the end product was a 'failure', they really did try. And to me, that's what's important. Sometimes it's not the end that matters, it's the process. And sometimes as teachers, we need to recognise our students' efforts, because there are some who give up easily. And unless we encourage them and let them know that their efforts are appreciated, they'd never want to take another step forward to try again.

I remember one particular boy in my class. He never gave me any problems because he was generally quiet. But then, neither did he shine. He was just one of the many faces in class, one I hardly noticed because I had my hands full with all the troublemakers. Exams came and went. And on one particular day after the exams, I was summoned to the office because a parent was waiting to see me. It turned out to be this boy's mother. She was almost distraught. She could not understand why her boy did not shine, in spite of all the tuition he was given, in spite of all the 'hard work' she put into him. Invariably, a mention of the boy's elder brother would slip into the conversation. And I began to realise that she was, subconsciously or consciously, comparing the 2 brothers. And I began to feel sorry for him. I know what that feels like, trust me. It wasn't a good feeling growing up in a family with lots of high-flyers and having relatives always asking how I did for the exams. In fact, it was downright hurtful when my mother once remarked that I was a disgrace to her for doing so badly at school and putting her to shame in front of our relatives. I still remember that incident to this day. And at that moment in our parent-teacher meeting, I began to get an inkling of what the problem with the boy might be. I tried gently to ask if she often compared her 2 sons with each other. I also very delicately tried to suggest that perhaps she should not do that too much. I'm not sure if any of the things I said got through to her. She seemed more interested in making her points known. You'd be surprised at the reasons why parents want to talk to teachers. Some just want an audience for their rantings. Pathetic right? Anyway, back to the story. After this mother went off, I sought the boy out. And I asked him about things at home. He kept quiet mostly. So I probed a little further. I asked if he was often compared to his brother and how he felt about it. I hit the nail on the head. To my surprise, he started to cry. I felt really sorry for him. But now that the problem was out in the open, it could now be addressed. Sure, I have no power to change anything at home. But at least in school, I could be sure to give him the recognition he needs to make him feel better about himself. I assured him that he didn't have to be like his brother and that he was his own person. He had his own strengths that his brother didn't have. They are different people. Today, he is a student leader. I don't know if things are still bad for him at home, but I'm proud of who he is now.

One of the surprises I got this year, came from a boy from my present form class. He is the troublemaker of my class. Of all the form classes I've had so far, I must say that this is the class that gives me the least problems. In fact, they are practically angelic compared to some of my other classes from previous years. This boy, however, has an assortment of problems. Lateness is just one of them. This term alone, he was late 14 times! Up to date, I think he's been late a grand total of more than 20 times over 3 terms. I've tried calling his home and his parents, but I have never been able to get them. Many times, he's absented himself from school without an MC. When asked for a parent's letter, he simply writes one himself, claiming that his parents can't read or write english. And there's no way I can prove anything because his parents are uncontactable. In fact, I get the idea that they don't really care much about him. He's pretty much admitted that he's not interested in studying and he talks in a manner which most would deem rude. He doesn't bring his work and acts disinterested when given a piece of work to complete in class, doodling in small unintelligible script with his head lolling about on the table. Almost every teacher has complained about him. Sometimes, I really just throw up my hands in despair because I just don't know what to do with him. I've had several confrontations with him where I've kept him back after school to complete work that's incomplete or done badly. I've talked to him reasonably and scolded him harshly. I put him right under my nose in class and asked his friends to talk to him about his behaviour. There are times he got really upset and angry with me for making his stay back. There are also times he promised me he would complete and bring his work on time. Each time he forgot his promise, I'd immediately remind him of his promise. And each time there is an improvement in his behaviour, I'd try my best to praise him in front of his classmates so that he won't feel that he only gets scolded in public. Towards the end of this term, it seems that he has settled down somewhat. For how long, I'm not sure. But I'm pleased that at least he's listening attentively when I teach and he has been bringing the work I want. It's not perfectly done, but I'm happy with it anyway. To me, that's good enough for now. However, because of how harsh and strict I am with him most times, I've always had the idea that he doesn't really like me. In a writing assignment which was given them, he chose the topic "Teachers I will remember". Together with one of his primary school teachers, he categorised me as one of the teachers he will remember. He didn't elaborate much nor did he say much that was positive or negative, and I must say that I was a little bewildered. Afterall, you can remember teachers for both good things and bad right? Perhaps he would remember me because of how harsh I am with him. I left it as that.

On Teachers' Day, one of his friends came running up to me with him in tow. This friend of his was holding a small blue box in his hand. "Teacher, teacher….XX give you wan….Not me hor!" XX looked away with embarrassment. He denied it, insisting that his friend had a share in the gift. Then both ran away. Till now, I have no idea who was telling the truth. My guess is that XX was the one who bought the gift. It's nothing big, but it means a lot to me. I was really touched that he bought me something. Perhaps I'm doing something right after all….