First Impressions, Last Impressions

Well, the crazy adventure of teaching ended yesterday. I had a wonderful last day, full of beautiful cards made by my kids, plenty of hugs and even a few tears (but surprisingly not from me! I already had my cry at school on Monday). In cleaning out my locker, I found the notepad I used for my initial Hindi classes and in the beginning of the school year. Inside were some of the first impressions that I jotted down after my first few weeks:

• Teachers expertly pouring water in their mouths without touching the bottle
• Newspaper laid under shiny tiffins filled with yellow, orange and green curries with okra ("lady fingers"), potato and eggplant. In a second tiffin, rotis, torn gracefully apart, fingertips touched with yellow from the turmeric
• Brightly colored clothes, all in matching suits, flowing saris and dupattas, bangles on wrists, bells on ankles, rings on toes, and jewels in ears and noses. Hands with mehndi and foreheads with sindoor and bindis
• Empty bulletin boards, white walls and partner desks meant for two but crammed with four
• Children smiling, desperate for my attention, shoving papers and hands in my face, calling my name when I'm mid-sentence
• Children wanting to sing and perform, knowing which children are good singers and dancers
• Flooded halls during rain, chaotic arrival and departure via any and every means of transport short of camels and elephants
• Hot chai in the morning, burning my fingers and tasting of spice
• Laughter at my foolish attempts to say their names, blushing when I call on them, always standing and sitting and standing again, so EAGER to please, to tell me about themselves, to be in my favor
• Signing the attendance book, everyone cutting in line with no regard or awareness of my presence
• Children always waiting for permission to enter, serving and fetching for teachers
• Wet footprints when it rains, dusty footprints when it doesn't

As a thank you and farewell to my students, I edited a video from the several hundred photographs and dozens of videos I've taken over the past year. Below is a slightly edited version of the video I showed to my students during the last week of classes. It's a little long, but I recommend watching the whole thing...Enjoy!

And it's on to bigger and brighter things! Namaste, Navyug School.

Have Yourself A Hindustani Christmas

I spent my last few weeks of school before the break educating my students about the US holiday season. This of course began with a lesson about Hanukkah, and became, in effect, an introduction to Judaism. I began by explaining that I am not a Christian, that for the same reason Muslim students celebrate Diwali as a cultural, rather than religious holiday, I don’t celebrate Christmas in the way they’ve seen in movies and on TV. For many of the kids, this fact was a tough pill to swallow, so, being a visual learner myself, I drew a timeline that looked something like this:

I attempted, with limited success, to help them see that Judaism was a religion way before Jesus was born, and therefore Jesus has nothing to do with the Jewish religion. Then I asked why Christians celebrate Christmas, what the holiday commemorates. Answers to this question ranged from “Jesus birthday” to “Santa Claus” to “Ma’am, Christmas!” I did my best to clarify that the fact that Jesus is not part of the Jewish religion means that Jews are not going to celebrate his birthday as a religious occasion. I then told an abridged version of the Hanukkah story in which I had the kids do different hand motions when they heard certain words such as “Maccabees” and “oil,” and explained the miracle that is believed to have occurred. The good thing about teaching Hanukkah in India is that the holiday has many similarities with Diwali, from the lighting of oil lamps in the entrance and windows of the home, to the general celebration of light triumphing over darkness. I brought in my menorah, which the kids of all ages were fascinated by, explained the purpose of the shamash, and led them in a few rounds of the Dreidel Song and I’m A Little Latke. To hear Indian schoolchildren singing about dreidels and latkes was enough to endear me even more to them, despite the frustrating experience of explaining something so outside their frame of reference.

The next two weeks were all about Christmas in the classroom. Last year’s ETA had taught the kids some songs, and they were eager to practice their Christmas repertoires. What I found was that they knew some different words to songs like Jingle Bells, making the classroom sound like a confused cacophony when some sang the words they knew and others read from the lyrics I had written on posters. Teaching songs to my students is generally a fairly hilarious experience, as they generally have an intense amount of enthusiasm and no ability to regulate the volume of their voices. The melody is seldom distinguishable over the majority of students who just scream the lyrics at the top of their lungs, with or without a rhythm. This was especially true when I tried to teach some of the more advanced classes the Jingle Bell Rock. For kids who are such great dancers and singers, it’s hard to understand why they have such a difficult time following the tunes and rhythms I teach, no matter how much repeating or rhythm clapping I do.

For the second week of Christmas celebration, I cut out large Christmas trees out of poster paper, put a star on top and had the kids write Christmas wishes on smaller stars and circles I cut out of paper. Most students wished for “happiness in all world” or “family happy healthy,” while others opted for BMWs and bicycles. My favorite wishes were the ones claiming a desire to “become a cricket,” missing the crucial “er” that would make this statement less Kafka-esque. 

The icing on the Christmas cake, however, came when Sean, my fellow ETA who works down the street from me, showed up during 8^th period one day dressed as Santa Claus, complete with a giant sack brimming with candy. Though he had told me he would come at some point dressed as Santa, a suit which he had requested his parents in Seattle to send him for exactly this purpose. Sean planned his entrance for weeks, buying speakers and creating a special Christmas playlist to blast music from his stuffed stomach as he walked around spreading Christmas cheer (read: candy). I was sitting on the playground with my 7B class when a whole group of kids came running up, shouting, “Ma’am! Sean Sir! Santa Claus is here! Sean Sir has lots of toffees!” I walked around to the front of the building to see Sean in full Santa getup, swarmed by my students, his beard in shambles around his face and his sack weighing him down like an anchor. He walked around the playground with me, children hanging from his every limb, chanting, “Santa Claus! Santa Claus! Santa Claus!” and a few of them even having the presence of mind to sing the song we had practiced, “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” After circling the building, we went inside moments before the final bell rang, teachers and students alike poking their heads around corners to see what the commotion was about, Sean going out of his way to make sure each teacher got some candy. We walked up to the staff room so I could get my stuff, thinking that the kids would still respect the sacred rule of not entering the staff room, but alas, the allure of Santa was irresistible and the kids flooded in. I was nervous that the other teachers would be annoyed, but the way that Sean made sure to get them candy made them smile and laugh at the absurdity of the scene. We made our way out of the school as the bell rang and kids streamed out of their classrooms to join the swarm of Santa sycophants. 

By the time we exited through the main entrance, the entire school, students and teachers alike were abuzz with excitement, gathering round and reveling in the madness. I couldn’t believe how even the sternest of teachers, the men who smack students left and right and have perma-frowns, the shrill women with their sharp noses and annoyed sighs seemed delighted by the presence of this candy-bearing character. We set them up for a photo before Sean was swept away by the principal’s assistant, a man of medium height with a thick black moustache and hair dyed bright red with henna. He had Sean stand in between himself and the principal so I could take a photo, and then proceeded to hound me every day afterwards for a copy of the picture. I don’t think he could have been more excited if the Prime Minister was visiting. As Sean and I tried to make our escape, the kids continued to swarm around us, to the point that some of the teachers had to physically hold them back. Crossing the street to get an auto, the kids surrounded the vehicle, reminiscent of those images of the Beatles or Elvis leaving concert venues, unable to move forward in their cars because of all the screaming fans. We finally moved forward, the auto wallah laughing as the music continued to chime from Sean’s stomach and the happy cries faded into the background.

But the adventure wasn’t over. Up the elevator we went to the metro station, the people sharing the elevator cracking up. When we emerged, the few children in the station came up to Santa with stars in their eyes, amazed and awed by what they were seeing, even more so when toffees were handed to them by Santa himself. We boarded the metro, and Sean gave out candy to all our fellow passengers, kids and adults alike, who were so thrilled to receive it…I couldn’t believe how happy it made these grown adults to receive pieces of candy from a man in a red fat suit. Sean kept the music playing, and we danced when a particularly upbeat song played, to the extreme amusement of the other metro riders. Everywhere we went, people stopped and stared and pointed, but in such a happy and excited way, I felt like I was in the movie Elf.

I love Christmas lights, but other than that, the holiday has never really appealed to me. The music is nice for a while but I always get so sick of it and there’s something about Christmas that always felt exclusive to me. But Indians love themselves a celebration, no matter the religion or tradition. It felt nice to be able to embrace the holiday through the novelty and joy experienced by those around me.

Priorities

I've had a frustrating past few weeks at school. There are several reasons for this, the most significant being that there is an inspection of the school happening this Friday, the 30th. It's not clear to me exactly who is doing the inspection--I think it's some people from the New Delhi Municipal Council, maybe some Navyug people or other Board of Ed bigwigs--but I know that it's a really big deal. The administrators at school are freaking out, having all kinds of meetings and trying to make sure the school is in tip top shape. Unfortunately, their idea of tip top shape is not exactly the same as mine. Before I knew about the inspection at our school, I had heard about the one at Tangi's school because the vice-principal had her bring in her laptop so she could do mad amounts of paperwork for them. She said the day of the inspection was awesome because the kids had been so scared into behaving well that she had very productive lessons.

I knew something was up at my school when all the bulletin boards started changing. The school consists of two square blocks with courtyards in the middle. On each side of each of the three floors of the blocks is a bulletin board, minus the floor with the primary school, making a total of twenty boards, plus a few extras here and there. After having the same displays up since I visited the school in August before I started, that looked like they were already well past their prime, the boards were suddenly cleared. Kids showed up outside to hang new drawings with themes and many a spelling mistake, on topics like global warming, corruption, and love for your parents. Pre-made borders for bulletin boards don't exist here, so the kids make do by cutting very large sheets of colored paper into long strips, accordion folding and cutting it to make one long snowflake that they place around the edges. In addition to the boards in the halls, each classroom contained two small and one large bulletin board which also had to be decorated. When I say the past week and a half has been dedicated to decorating bulletin boards, I mean that every single day since I came back from Mumbai I've had students borrowing my scissors, cutting paper during class and going back and forth between class and the supply room to get paper like ants scurrying to a picnic. For the past three days, the art teacher has been directing the decoration, with three tenth grade boys in tow. To be clear: these three boys spent three whole days out of their class and decorating bulletin boards. Because of the inspection.  The icing on the cake came yesterday when I was teaching a class of seventh graders. When I walked in, the class teacher was there, and the kids were in full decorating mode, drawing and snipping and gluing away. I told them they could keep working on their stuff as long as they were sitting in their seats and not talking (as much as they can reasonably not talk). I had planned a whole lesson about Hanukkah, and was excited to be able to share such a fun and important part of who I am to kids who have never even heard about Judaism at all. The kids were surprisingly interested once I started talking about it; I drew a timeline of BC and AD, illustrating how Jesus was born in the year zero and Judaism began almost 2,000 years before that, which is why I don't celebrate Christmas (the main point of confusion, as "all Americans celebrate Christmas"). I had busted out my menorah, passing it around and showing the kids, when the class teacher entered the room, with two girls who had asked to go see her. "Please let them do their decorating," she said, and left. As soon as she said that, the kids jumped out of their seats, took out either their crafting materials or their homework, and set about doing whatever they wanted. I was so frustrated--there was no way I would regain control of the class in time to finish the lesson, and the teacher had just made it clear to the students that my class was of no importance compared to the crucial task of decorating the bulletin board. I just sat down and stopped talking. After about five minutes, one girl, Anju, came up to me. "Ma'am," she said, "you're not going to teach us?" I gestured to the chaos around the classroom and told her there was no way. "But those girls aren't decorating," she said, pointing to three girls in the back who were unoccupied. I told her that if she wanted, they could pull chairs up to the teacher's desk and I would tell them the rest of the Hanukkah story. Sure enough, five or six girls came up and squeezed into a few chairs to hear me speak. It was so sweet and validating, which made the teacher's interruption that much more irritating. How can it be that in a school, making the board nice is more important than education?

Then on the metro on the way home, a lady wanted to give me her seat during rush hour, when people will elbow you in the face if it means they will get a precious place to sit down. I was confused until she said, loudly, in the packed train car, "But you're pregnant, aren't you?" Nuff said. Though what I should have done was taken her seat and then told her I wasn't.

Straight lines, class monitors in front

Anyway, another way of preparing for the inspection is making sure the assembly is totally up to the highest military standards. On Friday, the morning assembly, which rarely lasts more than 15 minutes and has never gone over 25 minutes since I've been there, went on for two hours, skipping the first two periods. Why, you might ask? First, every kid "not wearing proper uniform" was made to stand on the other end of the field. You might think this would be embarrassing, except that literally half the school had to move. Girls whose hair was in any style other than two braids were considered in improper uniform. While the rebel one-braiders and colored sneaker-wearers stood in separate lines, the remaining students responded to the art teacher's barked commands of "Attention! Stand at ease!" by shuffling their feet together and apart. Then, as they do every morning, they sang the national anthem. Only I guess they didn't do it with enough spirit because they were made to sing it again, louder this time. And then again. Apparently the third try was acceptable because it was the last of the day, and I hoped this signaled, as it usually did, the end of the assembly. Not so! The entire school was told to shift and stand in lines parallel to, rather than perpendicular to, the concrete. When this was still too squished, the students were moved again to stand perpendicular, only this time on the other end of the field where they could spread out. Each time they moved, fifteen minutes were spent getting the lines perfectly straight and in order from shortest to tallest students within the class. Eventually, the uniform rebels joined the others, leading to more line rearranging and standing. After an hour and a half, one of the teachers told me to just go inside and have tea, which I happily obliged. The war that had been waged on one braid had succeeded--every single girl came in on Monday with their hair in two braids, even the sixteen year olds who looked like they had forgotten how old they were when they did their hair that morning. This video shows the insane "exercises" the kids do as part of their We Are The Perfect School routine:

The emphasis on what I feel are superficial attributes of the school really drives me crazy. There are so many kids who are struggling, who want to learn or maybe don't want to because there is no effort to reach them. Kids who are deemed less smart or good or capable or willing, for whatever reason, are given up on without a second thought and taken out of class for three days to decorate boards instead of preparing for their (life determining) exams. There was a staff meeting Friday afternoon during eighth period in which every teacher was present. To be clear: every teacher in the school, on a normally scheduled day, left their classes to sit at this meeting. The first item on the agenda, I kid you not, was the principal going around to every class teacher with his observations about the boards in their classroom. "8th B, border incomplete. 9th A very nice job. 7th A incomplete. 6th C needs plastic covers," etc... I wanted to scream! Is it really possible that the inspectors will come and say, "Well the school is alright but the border on the bulletin board in 8th A wasn't quite finished," or, "Gee, we'd love to pass you but so many girls had their hair in only one braid!"It's so frustrating to feel like I have so much that I can and want to give and just can't because teachers are coming in to tell me to stop the lesson to let the kids decorate the board, or what happened in my class later in the day when the class teacher came in the middle to escort all the students to get inoculations (another weird cultural difference--kids get immunizations and check ups at school). There is such a different conception of teacher vs. student responsibilities. During the lunch period, 10th and 11th graders are made to patrol the halls, making sure kids stay outside. And don't get me wrong--anyone I worked with at Clear View can tell you that I love me a good bulletin board and will spend lots of time creating them. But to prioritize the things that are marginally related to the overall objective of the school, which I'm pretty sure is always education, is to do a disservice to the children, and it's hard for me to stomach.

Today during my free period, I walked by an empty room off the foyer and saw through the large window the majority of my 8th A class (which I LOVE). They motioned for me to come inside, where they were sitting with their books around them doing "copying" work, which consists of them writing down verbatim the answers given to them by teachers to the questions in the book. I sat cross-legged on the floor with them and chatted, especially with a few boys that are smart and sweet and goofy. I suddenly felt a wave of sadness when I thought of having to say goodbye to them in a few months, with little hope of seeing or hearing about them again. At one point, the principal walked by, and all the kids quickly hushed up, until they saw him smile at the scene of me on the floor schmoozing with them.  Later, when I was signing out for the day, he told me how nice it was to see me spending time with them like that, how good it was that they were getting to know me better. It was the first genuine piece of positive feedback I've ever received from him. In India, you win some, you lose some, and you do your best to keep your priorities straight in the meantime.

Diwali at School

I've been doing so much traveling that I haven't had a chance to update you on what's going on in my Delhi life! Last Monday, before we left for Mumbai and the day before Diwali, we celebrated the holiday at school. Of course, half the students and teachers didn't show up that Monday because they were preparing for the holiday, but that's neither here nor there. Diwali is a festival of lights--the Hindi word for it is Deepavali, deep meaning light and avali meaning a row. The holiday is a big deal, especially in Delhi, where people light so many firecrackers in the weeks leading up to the holiday that if you closed your eyes, you'd swear you were in a war zone. It was more than a little terrifying....but so is India, I guess. There are several stories about why the festival is celebrated, most having to do with various gods slaying various demons. If it weren't for all the terrifying firecrackers wielded by children ages 0-30, it would be a really lovely holiday. 

Jyoti prepares the Diwali altar for the stage

Diwali altar

The kids were all abuzz with excitement, those in the chorus wearing white with red scarves.

Some of my girls were wearing fancy, sparkly saris in bright colors, while an eighth grade boy was walking around shirtless, dressed as Hanuman, the monkey god.

The assembly consisted of songs and dances, and was, from start to almost finish, adorable.

Sakshi and Prachi twirl it

The tinies did a dance too!

A group of my students from eight, ninth and tenth grades did an AMAZING dance that they choreographed themselves, portraying many major gods and representing their stories. Jasmeet, in the yellow pants was Ganesha, the shirtless Jaswinder is Hanuman, and others include Kali, Ram and Sita.

Final pose, displaying all the gods.
From left, Kali, Durga, Sita, Ram, Hanuman

The last 30 minutes of the assembly was a steady procession of teachers going to the podium to call other teachers on stage to thank them. The self-congratulatory display seemed like it would never end. 

Who doesn't love patting themselves on the back?

 In the few periods left after the assembly, my students busied themselves painting the plain clay diyas, oil lamps used to celebrate Diwali. Sometimes those kids just rock my world.

Love these littles.

These cuties made a Diwali display and then brought in teachers one by one
to surprise them by shouting "Happy Diwali!" when they entered. 

Mansi appreciates Madpreet's artistry

Finished diyas

In all, it was one of the best days at school I've had so far, and made me appreciate those kids all over again. To see the rest of my photos from Diwali at school, click here.

Independence Day Assembly

One last thing before I go-- here are some pictures from the independence day assembly this morning for your perusal/enjoyment.

Sea of children

Second grade class! Note mini Gandhi, and that's Nehru all in white.  Adorable!

Me and Rishabh.  Isn't he the cutest?!

El Ma'am

August is off to a great start.  With five days of teaching here under my belt, I can (hopefully) safely say that I'm going to enjoy teaching here and will definitely learn a lot.  I'm teaching at a school that is part of a consortium of schools here in Delhi, called Navyug, located in central Delhi on Mandir Marg.  In Hindi, mandir means 'temple' and marg means 'street.'  The street is aptly named because there are two Hindu temples on it. One, called Lakshmi Narayan, is very large and is located across the street from my school; the other is called Kali Bari, and is smaller but apparently quite popular.  To get to school, I walk out to the main road and flag down an auto rickshaw to take me to the metro station.

[The task of getting an auto to take me at a reasonable price first thing in the morning is easier said than done. Two out of the four days I have been at work, it has been pouring rain.  The first time it rained I got lucky, but the second time I stood and waited in the downpour for 25 minutes before running up to a high school student who managed to nab a free auto and pleading with him to drop me off at the metro.  The first day of school was the first day of the major power outage, which affected my daily life in that the metro was shuttered and closed when we showed up.  I took an auto for 100 rupees (on the meter!) and ended up being one of the first teachers to arrive, as everyone else was also stuck because of the metro.]

I then travel nine stops from Haus Khaz metro station to Rajiv Chowk, in Connaught Place, the main metro hub in central Delhi.  I switch from the yellow line to the blue line, travel one stop and emerge at Ramakrishna Ashram Marg, an area that straddles the boundary between New Delhi and Old Delhi. The first thing you see when you get off the metro is dozens of bicycle rickshaws eagerly awaiting your arrival. I always feel conflicted about the cycle rickshaws, and have yet to take one, because the thought of paying someone so little to do such a strenuous, backbreaking job feels wrong to me.  On the other hand, I know these guys are lucky to have a job, and would jump over each other at the chance to accept my fare.  These quotidian dilemmas are a part of my life here, not least because of the striking dichotomy between those who have and those without.  In any case, because I am either running late or it is pouring rain, I take a second auto from the metro station to school, about a kilometer or two.

Saraswati, the goddess of knowledge,
adorns the entrance to the school

When I enter the school, it seems that every child in the building has to come up to me individually or in the pairs they often walk in, to say "Good morning, Ma'am."  The words 'sir' and 'ma'am' are possibly the most overused words in the average Indian's English vocabulary, and when this year is over, I can almost guarantee that it will be my least favorite word in the language.  To avoid confusion, I told the kids my name was El, which immediately transformed into ElMa'am (all one word).  There is such an air of formality within the school, from the way the kids greet you to the fact that they are conditioned never to enter a room without asking for permission, even if they just left to use the bathroom.  It completely throws me off to be constantly interrupted by kids wishing to enter their own classroom, when I have only been in the room a grand total of three minutes.

On the first day, I was met by Sudha, my coordinating teacher, an English teacher who looks about 30ish, who is very sweet and very quiet.  I went with her to her classes that day; each teacher generally teaches six out of eight periods a day.  Sudha was extremely helpful, making it clear to the kids that I was to be respected and regarded the same as herself or any other teacher.  Some of my fellow ETAs were not so lucky, given no time to observe and a schedule of back-to-back classes to teach by themselves on the first day.  The other teachers were very nice too, asking me about myself and patiently pronouncing their names several times until I could say it right.  The first teacher I met, other than Sudha, was Sushama ("Sooshma"), an English teacher whose father had been in the foreign service and had lived in Ireland and Trinidad as a child.  The day began with an assembly, which was signaled by a student beating a bass drum and each class lining up on the grass outside the school.  The children sang songs, presumably patriotic, and there was also a short prayer for which each student closed their eyes and placed their hands together.

The school is structured around three identical courtyards.
The hallways are all open balconies with green space in the center

There are aspects of the school that remind me very much of the school I attended while living in Israel as a child.  The long periods of time during which kids are left completely to their own devices, the school layout and its use of outdoor space, the sometimes harsh manner with which teachers deal with children, the kids' sense of freedom and cockiness that accompanies a lot of independence from an early age.  While I have not personally witnessed it at my school, some of my fellow ETAs describe some harrowing incidents of teachers physically punishing students, smacking them across the face or on their hands.  The kids are very physical with each other, both affectionately and aggressively.  The other day a boy slapped another boy's face so hard, I thought the sound was loud enough to reverberate in the room.  Another aspect of the classroom dynamic that is very difficult for me to adjust to is the use of peer monitors.  Every class has one or two students who are designated "monitors" and are placed in charge of the students in lieu of teachers.  They take it upon themselves, as it seems they are expected to, to discipline other students, yelling at them and hitting them at times. From my perspective, these monitors are often extremely disruptive to what I'm trying to do, in that they feel rules don't apply to them.  They are often the ones out of their seats and walking around the classroom during lessons, which encourages other students to do the same and leads quickly to chaos.  They are good kids, but many of these monitors seem to enjoy their power too much.  It seems at times that teachers and authority figures pit kids against each other, encouraging them to tell on each other for the most trivial transgressions and rewarding some at the expense of others.  The truth is that as frustrating as it can be to maintain order in the classroom, after working at Clear View, the naughty kids, the ones that demand more attention due to inappropriate or disruptive behavior, are generally my favorites.

The kids are so enthralled by my presence--they swarm around me when I walk down the halls to the point that I feel like I am being followed by a camera-less paparazzi.  It's a little awkward when other teachers witness this, as the kids can't get enough of me just because I am a novelty.  At least once a day, I will be walking towards the staff room for a free period and a pair or group of kids will take my hand and coerce me into teaching their class during their (otherwise unsupervised) free period. I can't go anywhere without kids coming up to me asking, "When will you be in our class, Ma'am?" But what really drives me nuts is the CONSTANT hum of chatter throughout the lesson or activity--there is such a different understanding of respect and attention here that I really think is a cultural difference.  In their extraordinary eagerness to learn every single fact about me, they bombard me with questions: What food do you like?  What are your hobbies? What singer do you like?  Who is your favorite Bollywood hero?  What is your father's and mother's names?  Do you have brothers or sisters? What dancers do you like? What do you think of India? What Indian food do you like? What's your favorite color?  When is your birthday? How many ounces did you weigh when you were born? OK I've never gotten that last one, but the others are questions I have by now answered a million and a half times.  It's not that I mind answering the questions, but when I allot time for questions, there is little patience for waiting for me to call on them.  The second a kid finishes asking his or her question, ten other students stand up with hands raised, saying "Ma'am. Ma'am. Ma'am. Ma'am. Ma'am. Ma'am." I try to tell them that they don't have to say my name, that I will call on them, that I want to hear from them but can't when everyone talks at once, but the thrilling possibility of two seconds of my attention right then is overpowering.  It's hard to get mad at them for being so enthusiastic, but it's absolutely maddening and I find myself yelling all day just to be heard over the echoing din.  When I do call a kid out, whether for smacking their desk neighbor or for being intractably chatty, I am often met with the most adorable body language that ever was, and it's so hard not to smile or laugh while reprimanding a student.  Just as nodding your head means 'yes' in the States, when children are sorry they grab their earlobes and shake their heads, saying "mafkijiye, mafkijiye" (forgive me, forgive me). The sight of contrite boys grabbing their ears is enough to make my heart melt, and my frustration turns into wanting to give them a hug.  

Here's one bulletin board I can't imagine
seeing in an American school!

I have pretty much given up hope of learning even a majority of the students' names.   My schedule is such that I see each class in the 6th, 7th and 8th grades twice a week, and each 9th and 10th grade class once a week.  Each grade has three classes of 30-40 students. According to my calculations, this means that I will be teaching 525 students, multiplying five grades by three classes by 35 students.  525! The kids laugh their little heads off as I struggle to pronounce their names correctly, whether I say it completely wrong or just put the emphasis on the wrong syllable. Some names are ridiculously common and I usually have at least one if not three or four in each class.  Some common boys' names are: Akash, Amit, Manish, Gaurav, Anubhav, Yash, Karthik, Hrithik (pronounced "Ritik"), and Jatin.  Some common girls names are: Simran, Anjali, Khushboo, Kritika, Siksha (I always want to say shiksa), and Maansi. Even if I didn't have so many students for so little time, the names are so unfamiliar to me that it's taking me forever to learn even a few of them.  Also, did I mention how many more boys there are than girls?  It's crazy.  It's striking to note the difference in temperament between the sixth grade girls, who are outgoing and are often the first to respond, and the 10th grade girls who generally keep their personalities quiet and speak when spoken to.  Our instructor who teaches out English Language Teaching classes at USIEF tells me this is not a coincidence, that the transition period from age 10 to 15 is when girls start to really respond to the expectations placed on them by much of Indian society. The girls are beautiful, with thick black braids down their backs and arms ornately decorated with henna, following the recent holiday.  Though shy in the formal classroom setting, as soon as the bell rings they circle around me with questions and things they want to share with me.

As with any teaching job, sometimes I want to give myself a concussion just to avoid having to teach one more class. But most of the time I really like it, and all of the time I am learning, learning, learning.  I wonder if there is any job in the world where you learn more than you do as a teacher.  And really, the more I travel, the more I recognize that at some point, kids are kids.  They love a good laugh and want your attention and need people they respect to tell them they're okay. I have tons more to say about my teaching experience so far, but for now I will leave you with this lovely experience that my roommate Hannah had the other day.  Her class was completely out of control, kids screaming, paper airplanes flying, the works.  She tried and failed several times to settle them down, or even just get their attention, but after 20 minutes of complete and utter mayhem, she resigned herself to standing in the front of the room and covering her ears. Suddenly, a glimmer of hope: a senior teacher was in the hall and saw her standing amidst the chaos.  She came in, approached Hannah, and said, "So...do you have any brothers or sisters?" Because what better time to make small talk than in the middle of a classroom full of hyperactive noisy kids.  Am I right?