Oct 3rd, 2000
Korean Students
School progressed and I gradually found a sense of rhythm in my daily motions, or at least this is what I liked to believe as I struggled to overcome a fundamental inability to relate to children. It began during those first few moments when I observed Debbie teacher don a mask of professionalism in her approach to teaching, and decided to move in another direction. I would be different from average. I would attain a level of friendship with my students that other teachers could only gaze at as if they were examining the skies. I really believed this nonsense and perhaps that is why I soon found myself drowning in oceans of children’s shrieks.
If my few months were to be broken down into a symphony, the first movement would be replete with flowing rivers of rich melody in a major key played by the string section (my overtures of friendship towards my students). This would be countered with a banshee-like cacophony of sound coming from the brass section (the children taking advantage of my weakness and calling me insulting names in Korean which I could not understand). The second movement would involve choking sounds as the string section would stand up and try to strangle the brass section with their bow hairs.
It was not too long until I made the executive decision to convert from a socialist to a totalitarian dictator with my younger classes. Our age difference made it easier for me to place an emotional barrier between us that allowed me to establish myself as an authority figure. My first policy initiative was the “rule of three.” Upon the initial infraction, the culprit’s name would be written on the board and a large “X” would be placed next to it. Upon the second infraction, a second “X” would be added next to the first, and the student would be forced to stand in the corner. Upon the third infraction, a third “X” would be thrust into the mix and the student would be forced to leave the classroom. Even if the student’s had no idea what I was talking about when I first explained the policy, they caught on extremely quickly as they began to observe their fellow classmates being rudely thrust out of classrooms.
Before too long, I had managed to utterly pacify my most rowdy classes and I could subdue students by simply looking in the direction of the board when they began to feel restless. During my first three months, ten out of the twelve classes that I was teaching contained students between the ages of 6-12 and my “rule of three” was enough to subdue all of these classes. Once I had figured out how to solve the problem of disciplining my younger students I began to focus on a far more difficult task - how to discipline my two older classes. One of these classes consisted of four thirteen year old girls and the other consisted of six thirteen year old girls.
When I was in middle school, I overheard two teachers discussing trends in student behavior. They both agreed that the most difficult students to teach were seventh graders, who existed on the cusp of childhood and adolescence - a phase in which a barrage of mental, physical, and emotional changes creates an entity unrivaled in its malignity. Seventh grade was the time during which I lusted, hated, envied, disregarded, coveted, abused, and was abused with such great intensity that it was all I could do to prevent myself from crying and screaming on a continual basis. If I had been forced to attend two schools and learn a foreign language from some strange creature that could not communicate nor empathize with me, I probably would have acted the same exact way.
God smiled kindly upon me in one of my classes, and I was blessed with a group of six thirteen year old girls who seemed genuinely interested in learning English and committed to paying attention in class. God must have then grown weary of smiling and decided to play a few rounds of golf during the other class, in which I came to know what it is to be an inanimate object. As I made a futile attempt to teach grammar to the group of four thirteen year old girls, I witnessed as they gossiped about the latest teen sensation, checked their e-mail on their cellular phones, and drew pictures in their notebooks.
Occasionally, I would grow weary with being ignored and attempt to get their attention by saying, “Come on guys, lets pay attention,” which they seemed to interpret as “Look up from your cell phone for several moments and humor me before deciding to talk with your friend about makeup while I try to teach you English.” When good cop didn’t work, I made the very serious mistake of attempting to utilize my “rule of three.”
One girl, Lisa, was particularly chatty and one day I decided to make an attempt to discipline her. As she rattled on to her friend, I stood up and wrote her name on the board with an X next to it. This got her attention and I calmly explained that if she continued to disrupt class, I would be forced to move her to another seat (I didn’t think having her stand in the corner of the room was appropriate). Inevitably, she began to talk again and I abruptly stood up and asked her to switch seats.
“Ok, ok,” she said as she nodded and put her hand up as if to say, “Fine, I’ll take you seriously, now sit down and shut up.”
I remained standing and pointed at a seat in front of the class. Lisa responded by shaking her head and looking down at her desk. The frustration of the past five weeks welled up within me and I decided to walk forward, and pull her forward several feet, so that she was no longer seated next to her friends. Problem solved.
A strange thing happened then, Lisa moved her seat back to its original location and continued to talk with her friends. I began to get that same overwhelming feeling that I had when I walked into my first class, and I reacted in the same manner: by leaving the classroom and tracking down the first Korean teacher I could find. It happened to be Jefferson, who was seated in the teacher’s room, munching on a plate of Kim-Bop.
“Yeah? What is it?” He asked, his mouth full of Kim-Bop.
“Its Lisa. I asked her to move and she won’t listen to me.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Well, I was hoping you could talk to her.”
With a sigh, he got up from his chair and waddled down the hall. He entered the classroom and the group of girls all giggled in unison at his appearance. I decided then that if my authority had not already been compromised by the fact that I had to get another teacher to bail be out of this difficult situation, it would be compromised by the fact that my teacher had a better relationship with these students than he had with me.
“What’s the problem?” Jefferson asked with a smile, which lead me to believe that I was on the losing end of some inside joke. Lisa and him had a short conversation in Korean and I knew that the end result would be Jefferson telling me to ease up on the students as he headed back to finish off his Kim-Bop.
To my surprise, he beckoned her to move her seat. Her grin evaporated and in a matter of seconds, her face was in her hands and she was sobbing uncontrollably. I began to feel increasingly nervous. What had I done? I was only trying to get her to stop talking, I didn’t expect her to act in this way. As I stood there, befuddled, she continued to cry and her friends began to console her, shooting me venomous looks every so often for good measure. Jefferson stood there, dumbfounded as well and I was pleased to observe that there were some things that crossed cultural boundaries, like the inexplicable and irrational behavior of teenagers.
Jefferson offered me a confused look before shrugging his shoulders and walking out the door. I was left standing in a classroom with four thirteen year old girls who wanted to stab me with their mechanical pencils.
I sat down at my desk and re-opened the textbook.
“Okay, let’s all turn to page 82,” I ventured. My request was met with a fusion of quiet sobs and conciliatory whispers. For the next few minutes, I sat there blankly and watched as Lisa continued to cry and her friends continued to console her. I would like to say that at this point, I learned the folly of my errors and never made a Korean child cry again, but that would be a lie.
I more or less spent the rest of the class making a feeble attempt to complete the lesson and couldn’t have been more relieved when the bell finally rang and I could escape the scene of the crime. My last class of that day went smoothly, as if the students could sense that something serious had transpired in the previous class.
When the final bell rang, I walked outside and saw Lisa speaking with one of the supervisors in the hall outside. Alarm bells began to ring in my head as I walked into the teacher’s room and saw Jefferson sitting at his desk, looking thoughtfully at his right hand.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing,” Jefferson answered in his typically verbose manner. “Lisa stabbed me with her pencil.” Pausing for a few moments in order to let me appreciate the full effect of the incident, he added, “These girls are crazy.”
I nodded my head in acknowledgment and prepared to make my telephone interviews before heading out for the day.
