6/17/09
Blogger Timmia E Hearn Feldman, Morse College 2012
Written from Toukkhel, Godavari, Kathmandu Valley, Nepal
I’ve been teaching the evening lessons of Class 9 here at the Esther Benjamins Memorial Foundation refuge in Toukkhel, Godavari, Kathmandu Valley, Nepal at once or twice a week for the last three weeks. This is the first class that has been so disorganized, so late, and the first one that Sanjay has bothered to attend. And he only arrived because I saw him going up the stairs and asked him if he was coming to class, and he really had no other choice.
Out of the 103 students here at the refuge Sanjay is one of the few I’ve never talked to before. About sixteen years old and very hansom, I know a little of his story. He was one of the street kids who was picked up and brought here to be educated. His file says that, even as a little boy, he was always a bit of a rascal, but always very sweet, and always smiling. One of those winning smiles that so often get young boys out of trouble no matter what. I’ve never heard Sanjay speak a word of English. Whenever I’ve said something to him, he just grins and walks away, wide eyed as though he doesn’t understand. And yet, he’s in class nine, he must have passed his exams so far, and he goes to the school where half the classes are taught in English.
When he walks into the room he doesn’t have paper or a pen, I tell him to go get one. Looking around at his fellow students to share in the joke that he’s in class and being made to do something, he walks out, grinning at me. Much to my surprise, he returns, with a pencil, albeit broken, and a pad of paper. We begin the lesson, I rather frustrated the it’s already fifteen minutes past six. Five minutes later the last students wonder in, pausing at the door to ask if they can come in, I usher them in and they take their seats. After a brief explanation of a few vocab words, I give them a daily theme to write. The class falls utterly silent for ten minutes. Or, it usually does, Sanjay seems to think that speaking in Nepali while he’s supposed to be writing will go unnoticed by me. I remind the class the the number one rule of English class is that they aren’t allowed to speak Nepali. Grinning, unbelieving, at me, he starts working.
He’s one of the first to finish his work. I go over and check it, surprisingly well written. But then his neighbor, Aakash, the best behaved student in class, says he’s also done. When I read Aakash’s work it’s clear that someone has copied. I ask who. Sanjay just grins, Aakash points at his friend, and laughs. It’s not funny and I tell the whole class that copying is unacceptable. Sanjay doesn’t seem to mind being berated, probably he’s used to it. The rest of the lesson passes, the only incident being Sanjay and Aakash’s insistence on chatting, and a power outage cutting the lesson short.
The following day I arrive in the class room early and set up. Again, surprising me, Sanjay is in class. Today I don’t let him and Aakash sit together. Sanjay has that wicked grin back on his face. We begin by wrapping up yesterdays unfinished lesson. I hand out another daily theme: write a memory. It’s something I’ve been working up to. Here the students haven’t been taught to put their own thoughts into English, only to say standard sentences with their own information contained. I’ve been trying to teach them to think outside the box. After much conversation, many questions, me confirming that several opening sentences are good, and the class settles into silence. Today I’m being assisted in class by Lotty, my fellow volunteer. She’s from England and not a teacher herself, so she sometimes helps me in class. She motions to me and whispers that Sanjay seems to be copying his neighbor’s work. Sighing I stare over at him, I catch his eye and point to his own paper. Grinning, he bends his head.
Soon he’s finished. I go over to check his work. The first sentence is almost identical to the one I’d okayed for his neighbor. Frustration rising, I point to hers and tell him that this is absolutely unacceptable. I’m not even going to check it. Write another, your own words. Unbelieving grin, but he bends again over his work. I’ve checked most of the rest of the class, when he raises his hand again. And I breath a sigh of relief, even as my heart beats faster. He’s written what no one else wrote: a memory about before coming to the refuge. About being a young boy who was a thief, and being caught and sent to jail. So that is how Sanjay ended up here.
The piece is written well, though he’s missed so many early lessons that he doesn’t understand how to use tenses. We’ll work on that. But I correct his mistakes, thank him for doing his own work and compliment him on it. No rouge smile plays over his mouth now. He doesn’t take his eyes off of me for the rest of the lesson, unless to write something down I’ve told them to write. And I have a creeping feeling of accomplishment. I think I’ve won his respect
