If I had to be one of the characters in A.A. Milne's The House At Pooh Corner, I think I might have to be Rabbit. He's not necessarily my favorite character, but I must say I feel a connection with him.
Rabbit certainly does not struggle with low confidence. He is an animal that is full of the idea of his own importance, and convinced that the world needs him desperately. Like Rabbit, I rather enjoy giving orders and being the center of attention, especially if it's admiring attention by people who assure me that they can't possibly carry on without me! Today it struck me that maybe, just maybe one of the reasons I decided to become an elementary school teacher was so that I could have a roomful of little people who HAD to listen to me and do what I say!
Here's a taste of classic Rabbit from The House At Pooh Corner.
It was going to be one of Rabbit's busy days. As soon as he woke up he felt important, as if everything depended upon him. It was just the day for Organizing Something, or for Writing a Notice Signed Rabbit, or for Seeing What Everybody Else Thought About It. It was a perfect morning for hurrying round to Pooh, and saying, "Very well, then, I'll tell Piglet," and then going to Piglet, and saying, "Pooh thinks - but perhaps I'd better see Owl first." It was a Captainish sort of day, when everybody said, "Yes, Rabbit" and "No, Rabbit," and waited until he had told them.
"After all," said Rabbit to himself, "Christopher Robin depends on Me. He's fond of Pooh and Piglet and Eeyore, and so am I, but they haven't any Brain. Not to notice. And he respects Owl, because you can't help respecting anybody who can spell TUESDAY, even if he doesn't spell it right; but spelling isn't everything. There are days when spelling Tuesday simply doesn't count. And Kanga is too busy looking after Roo, and Roo is too young and Tigger is too bouncy to be any help, so there's really nobody but Me, when you come to look at it. I'll go and see if there's anything he wants doing, and then I'll do it for him. It's just the day for doing things."
I've had days when I felt like that. Have you?
Showing posts with label Chinese students. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chinese students. Show all posts
Friday, February 10, 2012
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
The Little Emperor
This was written April 11th, 2007 about one of my most challenging students in China - who was only 4 years old! I just found it in a file and decided to share it.
An authoritative little voice echoing through the halls announces Tommy's* arrival. Floating up the stairs behind him is the patient, indulging voice of his mother, coaxing, pleading, and occasionally giving gentle reprimands which go unheeded by this 4-year-old "little emperor." Tommy's in charge of his little kingdom, and he knows it. As soon as he steps into a room, he surveys his new territory, like a general scoping out the area under his command.
But when Tommy enters my classroom for his evening English lesson, the battle of wills begins in earnest. Because in my classroom, I'm in charge. It's not a democracy. It's a monarchy. And the teacher is the ruling monarch. This little emperor has to learn that he can't rule my classroom as if it's his kingdom. So as soon as I hear his determined footsteps approaching, I take a deep breath and paste on a smile to greet him cheerfully as he marches in the door.
Tommy's always the first to arrive. I could set the clock by his dramatic entrance. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 4:40 p.m. he shows up for his English class - a full 20 minutes before class begins. If I'm not in the classroom on the 2nd floor, he'll come marching up to the 3rd floor office or computer room to search for me, with his weary mother always a few steps behind.
The very first time Tommy came to class, it was only the Father's grace that kept me composed and firm as he challenged every instruction, defying me to my face. He refused to participate in the songs and activities, he made faces at me, and he said very rude and disrespectful things to me (I could only understand some of it because it was all in Chinese, but the intention was very clear).
An hour had never seemed so long. As soon as the last student left, I locked the door of the classroom, turned on some music on my CD player, put my head down on my desk, and cried. For a good 5 minutes. Then I had to compose myself and prepare for my next class - which began in another 5 minutes. And I must confess, that night I pr-ed that Tommy would never come back.
At first I thought my pr was being answered. Tommy didn't come back. For 2 weeks. Then he suddenly showed up again, with as much attitude as ever. And the battles began again.
For all his stubbornness and defiance, Tommy is a very smart little boy. His English ability is more on a level with the 6 and 7 year olds than the 4 and 5 year olds. And if he wants to he can work quite diligently on the phonics worksheets or writing activities in class. But if he decides he doesn't want to something, woe to the person who tries to persuade him otherwise.
I insist that the kindergarten students ask for things politely in class, in simple English, saying "Eraser, please," instead of yelling the demand across the room, and saying "Thank you, Teacher," when I give them something. Tommy needs to be reminded of this every time.
Recently, when my Chinese assistant gave him a pencil for the worksheet, I gently prompted Tommy, "Say, 'Thank you, Teacher'." He immediately turned on me with flashing eyes and retorted in Chinese, "I WON'T say thank you! She hasn't given me an ERASER yet!!!"
Other times I repeatedly tell him to apologize to me or to another student for grabbing something or hitting and he stubbornly refuses to apologize, or yells "SORRY!" in my face like a verbal attack.
I've never seen such complete disrespect for authority in such a small package. He's yelled at me, slapped me, and even spit in my face! And the most maddening part of it is seeing his mother (who is always hovering nervously in the background) do nothing about it.
But I rejoice in the small victories. One night I was thrilled to see Tommy working steadily and quietly on his worksheets. He only had to be reprimanded a few times that night during "The Wheels on the Bus" song. And I almost hugged him when he said, unprompted, "Thank you, Teacher," as I handed him a pencil! I was careful to praise him often for his good behavior and I gave his mother a glowing report at the end of class. I was rewarded by a genuinely cheerful, "Goodbye, Teacher!" and a mischievous grin as he left. He can be pretty cute sometimes. I'm actually starting to like the little rascal.
I wonder how often the Father is tempted to give up on us completely. We can be pretty unlovable sometimes. We stubbornly insist on doing things our way, ignoring His instructions, thinking we're running the show. We laugh when He corrects us, we mock His words, and we've even been known to slap Him and spit in His face.
"While we were still sinners, (much worse than little Tommy), Chrst died for us." Did He wonder if we were worth it? Did He lock the door at night, put His head in His arms, and cry over our stubbornness?
My struggles with a willful 4-year-old in an English class in China seem very small comparatively. If the Father could love ME and even die for me when I'm such a sinful mess, I know He can give me the grace to love even little Tommy.
*Not his real name.
An authoritative little voice echoing through the halls announces Tommy's* arrival. Floating up the stairs behind him is the patient, indulging voice of his mother, coaxing, pleading, and occasionally giving gentle reprimands which go unheeded by this 4-year-old "little emperor." Tommy's in charge of his little kingdom, and he knows it. As soon as he steps into a room, he surveys his new territory, like a general scoping out the area under his command.
But when Tommy enters my classroom for his evening English lesson, the battle of wills begins in earnest. Because in my classroom, I'm in charge. It's not a democracy. It's a monarchy. And the teacher is the ruling monarch. This little emperor has to learn that he can't rule my classroom as if it's his kingdom. So as soon as I hear his determined footsteps approaching, I take a deep breath and paste on a smile to greet him cheerfully as he marches in the door.
Tommy's always the first to arrive. I could set the clock by his dramatic entrance. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 4:40 p.m. he shows up for his English class - a full 20 minutes before class begins. If I'm not in the classroom on the 2nd floor, he'll come marching up to the 3rd floor office or computer room to search for me, with his weary mother always a few steps behind.
The very first time Tommy came to class, it was only the Father's grace that kept me composed and firm as he challenged every instruction, defying me to my face. He refused to participate in the songs and activities, he made faces at me, and he said very rude and disrespectful things to me (I could only understand some of it because it was all in Chinese, but the intention was very clear).
An hour had never seemed so long. As soon as the last student left, I locked the door of the classroom, turned on some music on my CD player, put my head down on my desk, and cried. For a good 5 minutes. Then I had to compose myself and prepare for my next class - which began in another 5 minutes. And I must confess, that night I pr-ed that Tommy would never come back.
At first I thought my pr was being answered. Tommy didn't come back. For 2 weeks. Then he suddenly showed up again, with as much attitude as ever. And the battles began again.
For all his stubbornness and defiance, Tommy is a very smart little boy. His English ability is more on a level with the 6 and 7 year olds than the 4 and 5 year olds. And if he wants to he can work quite diligently on the phonics worksheets or writing activities in class. But if he decides he doesn't want to something, woe to the person who tries to persuade him otherwise.
I insist that the kindergarten students ask for things politely in class, in simple English, saying "Eraser, please," instead of yelling the demand across the room, and saying "Thank you, Teacher," when I give them something. Tommy needs to be reminded of this every time.
Recently, when my Chinese assistant gave him a pencil for the worksheet, I gently prompted Tommy, "Say, 'Thank you, Teacher'." He immediately turned on me with flashing eyes and retorted in Chinese, "I WON'T say thank you! She hasn't given me an ERASER yet!!!"
Other times I repeatedly tell him to apologize to me or to another student for grabbing something or hitting and he stubbornly refuses to apologize, or yells "SORRY!" in my face like a verbal attack.
I've never seen such complete disrespect for authority in such a small package. He's yelled at me, slapped me, and even spit in my face! And the most maddening part of it is seeing his mother (who is always hovering nervously in the background) do nothing about it.
But I rejoice in the small victories. One night I was thrilled to see Tommy working steadily and quietly on his worksheets. He only had to be reprimanded a few times that night during "The Wheels on the Bus" song. And I almost hugged him when he said, unprompted, "Thank you, Teacher," as I handed him a pencil! I was careful to praise him often for his good behavior and I gave his mother a glowing report at the end of class. I was rewarded by a genuinely cheerful, "Goodbye, Teacher!" and a mischievous grin as he left. He can be pretty cute sometimes. I'm actually starting to like the little rascal.
I wonder how often the Father is tempted to give up on us completely. We can be pretty unlovable sometimes. We stubbornly insist on doing things our way, ignoring His instructions, thinking we're running the show. We laugh when He corrects us, we mock His words, and we've even been known to slap Him and spit in His face.
"While we were still sinners, (much worse than little Tommy), Chrst died for us." Did He wonder if we were worth it? Did He lock the door at night, put His head in His arms, and cry over our stubbornness?
My struggles with a willful 4-year-old in an English class in China seem very small comparatively. If the Father could love ME and even die for me when I'm such a sinful mess, I know He can give me the grace to love even little Tommy.
*Not his real name.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Today I want to go back to China
I think it started this morning when I was looking at a photo of some of my old students. I was sipping my morning coffee after a breakfast of Cheerios and Kix (I couldn't decide which, so I had both) when suddenly I was overcome by the desire to be in China again with those kids in the photo.
It's a picture we took of my 9-11 year old students for publicity purposes, to make fliers and advertisements for our school. The colored papers on the wall in the background are covered in smiley-face stickers and shiny stars - my system for rewarding good behavior. The kids are attentive and look eager to learn as they raise their hands to answer a question. Even my roly-poly 9-year-old troublemaker who always sits on the far right (closest to the door) looks like a good student in that photo!
A photo can be deceiving. It only shows one brief, silent, motionless moment of life. When you look at this photo, you can't see Rudy's mischievious pranks on the girls, or Daniel's continuous squirming. You can't hear Sally and Diana's incessant giggles, or David's whispered jokes to Rudy. And you can't feel the alternating moments of frustration, weariness, and pure joy that overwhelm you as you attempt to teach English vocabulary and share the Father's love with these wiggly, inattentive, yet loveable children.
So this morning, as I drank my coffee at the dining room table in my parents' house in Virginia Beach, my heart was in a small city in northeast China. Once again I was in a noisy classroom with unpredictable kids who often drove me crazy and made me want to give up teaching forever. But there were moments which I often forget - moments like this one in the photo, in which everyone is attentive, everyone is obedient, everyone is focused, everyone is happy.
And even though I know that moment is one in a million, that one moment makes me want to hop on a plane and fly back to the East, just t
o hug those crazy kids again. And I just might.
It's a picture we took of my 9-11 year old students for publicity purposes, to make fliers and advertisements for our school. The colored papers on the wall in the background are covered in smiley-face stickers and shiny stars - my system for rewarding good behavior. The kids are attentive and look eager to learn as they raise their hands to answer a question. Even my roly-poly 9-year-old troublemaker who always sits on the far right (closest to the door) looks like a good student in that photo!
A photo can be deceiving. It only shows one brief, silent, motionless moment of life. When you look at this photo, you can't see Rudy's mischievious pranks on the girls, or Daniel's continuous squirming. You can't hear Sally and Diana's incessant giggles, or David's whispered jokes to Rudy. And you can't feel the alternating moments of frustration, weariness, and pure joy that overwhelm you as you attempt to teach English vocabulary and share the Father's love with these wiggly, inattentive, yet loveable children.
So this morning, as I drank my coffee at the dining room table in my parents' house in Virginia Beach, my heart was in a small city in northeast China. Once again I was in a noisy classroom with unpredictable kids who often drove me crazy and made me want to give up teaching forever. But there were moments which I often forget - moments like this one in the photo, in which everyone is attentive, everyone is obedient, everyone is focused, everyone is happy.
And even though I know that moment is one in a million, that one moment makes me want to hop on a plane and fly back to the East, just t
o hug those crazy kids again. And I just might.
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