The Telltale of a Young Teacher
Remembering my first teaching job reminds me of how naïve I was. The MSU-OVCAA accepted me as a summer lecturer for MSU-Marantao, a place I have never been and thus I was totally clueless of what was ahead of me. I was assigned to teach English to incoming first year high school students. Those students, by the way, came from provinces and so they didn’t have a strong foundation in their basic education. I also noticed how poverty-stricken my students were; some would were their clothes twice like wearing the same dress in two days and I even see them while they walk to school. There was even a time when I scolded one of my students for being so late and then when he explained, I wanted to slit my throat—he had to fetch water for his family and he did something like going to the highlands to do the fetching. I also caught that same student stealing ice candy from the canteen because he didn’t have a single peso with him.
Anyway, during my first day of teaching, I walked inside my class confidently. I looked at my students and introduced myself. The whole time I was speaking, my students were clearly shocked because I only spoke in English. I admit that that was part of my plan, to impress my students so that they could tell their friends how good their new English teacher was. After my introduction, I enumerated my class rules and the first one is the “English only policy”. Imagine how my barriotic students’ eyes bulged. No one spoke and no one moved. I, the naïve new teacher, felt proud and successful in my first day of school.
How did I learn that my first successful day of class was actually a total failure? I was sitting in the old faculty room of the school and overheard some of my students telling their friends how good their English teacher was but they have a very big problem: they couldn’t understand her.
“ Mykapasapasang eh kapag English so teacher ami na kay dadun mambu a sabotun ami run. Mataan ka kyada ami”
I was doomed. (Haha!)
The second day came and I asked them to introduce themselves individually. Again, no one talked and no one moved. Then I realized, the kids had to see that I can relate to them, that I understand them, and most of all—it’s okay to commit mistakes. It was an English class but I felt the need to speak in Tagalog and the moment that I did it, they all lightened up and I was able to force them to stand and introduce themselves until I longer needed to do the forcing. Yes, I was finally successful.
When I began teaching them formally, things became laborious. The kids didn’t have books and so I had to write my discussions and examples (everything!) first. It was a sacrifice for someone like me who do not write on the blackboard but I had to, I needed to. During discussions, I would ask them to give examples but most of the time they would only change the name or the place of the example written on the board. And so I had to ‘extract’ the examples from them. When I taught them how to use the present tense, I asked them what do they do at home every day, or every night and when they copied their classmates’ examples I would joke that I no longer liked that example and I wanted to hear a new one. When I also started using their names in my examples, they followed and I saw that they were actually learning. I did this for six hours every day of the six-week summer class. I wrote on the board, ‘extracted’ examples from my students, and to some extent, I became a theater actress and a stand-up comedian.
The painstaking experience of teaching those kids did not end there. My classroom was the usual dilapidated rooms in the province. There was an almost ruined blackboard, one chair, and one table which were probably provided during the 1980’s ( I am not exaggerating). The kids had to bring their own chairs because if not, they have to sit on the floor. And that happened. I was checking the attendance of my students when I noticed that one was sitting on the floor. And so I stood and gave her mine. The same thing happened in my other two classes and yes, I stood and gave my chair to the kids again. I actually almost regretted because I stood for six hours and my feet were so sore but then again, at that point, I realized that my responsibility to those kids was not limited to teaching them only. I had to care for them.
At the end of the summer class, I was honestly relieved because I no longer need to wake up very early and travel to Marantao. My pain of writing everything on the board had come to its end and my throat can finally rest from long discussions, from trying so hard to make the kids learn.
The other teachers cried with their students when it was time to say goodbye. I didn’t. I finished my lecture, looked at my students, and dismissed them like it was an ordinary school day but no one moved and no one talked…again. I was perplexed and asked them what’s wrong. They said: won’t you say good bye to us? And I answered: I just did. I smiled at them and wished them good luck for their final exam. Some students stood and said ‘ Ma’am you’ll surely miss us!’ and the rest agreed. I told them I won’t.
It wasn’t a lie. I never missed them. Don’t get me wrong, I taught those kids and I cared for them. But I didn’t want to attach myself because I knew I was going to leave and will probably never see them again or even know if they progressed. I won’t know if my top 1 late student no longer fetches water for his family and so he is no longer late in his classes. I won’t know if my student who drove his father’s jeep to a wall has come to his senses and comes to class regularly. I won’t know if Jabbar, my nosiest student, used his talent of talking in participating in his class instead of disturbing his classmates. And I won’t know if Nassief has graduated and started his dream of becoming an engineer. No, I don’t them miss them at all but I will forever remember them not only because I taught them but mainly because they taught me that my job is a noble one.
Rayhanna Conday Ditual
