I’m assuming that if you are reading this, you know me, and that if you know me, you know what a cantankerous son of a bitch I am about most things, especially children. Of course, I am of the opinion that most children are monsters, and that most knuckle-draggers, who define a greater proportion of the planet’s population, shouldn’t have children, let alone reproduce. But not out of loathing, no – it’s a matter of principle: there are just too many damn people around as it is. But that’s another story. Of course, because of my crusty nature, I am also of the opinion that children just aren’t punished……what’s the adverb I’m looking for here?......well, punished – period. I thought American children were bad, but after seeing Turkish children behave….*sigh*. Let’s just say they spare the rod and willingly spoil their children here. Of course, boys are given preference and free reign to do what they like without consequence here, unsurprisingly. Girls are almost equally undisciplined, but usually tend to be more well-behaved than the boys, perhaps due to their secondary social status.
What do I mean? Well, this usually means that – in public at least – children whine and scream and complain unchecked. When a child misbehaves I’ve never seen a parent do more than say absentmindedly, “Stop, don’t do that,” while the child carries on making a fuss like the wild beast it is. As soft as parents are these days in America, at least parents back home would give that kid a proper shaking up for prolonged misbehavior, if nothing else. And I can’t figure out for the life of me why children are given seats on public transportation here – if they’ve got all that energy, they can stand. I think this treatment of children has a lot to do with the whiny, childish nature of adults in this country because, let’s face it, most people really never grow up here, and so Turkey is a bit of a Never Never Land in that regard.
So naturally when my boss asked me to cover a children’s class this Saturday, I was apprehensive – no, reluctant. First off, the most experience I’ve had with children was helping a college roommate watch his niece for a few hours, and also playing with a toddler who was one of my mother’s friend’s daughter, for the sake of giving her mother some free time to chat with Mum. The closest thing I’ve had to classroom experience with children was my first job as an ESL teacher, at a summer program in Brooklyn in 2009, teaching Italian teenagers. However, despite this, hours have been low lately, so I agreed to do the class. It was only a one-time thing, and I figured even if I fucked it up, I’d still get paid for it, and I could probably add it to my resume by hamming it up a little.
When I walked into the class there were about fifteen ten year olds running about, drawing, yelling, laughing, whining. This ought to be interesting, I thought, but as soon as they saw me, they all scurried to their seats and sat attentively. Interesting.
Well, I can’t remember the last time I felt nervous in front of a class and froze, perhaps my first day as a teacher, but it happened to me again as soon as all those kids sat down and looked at me. I suddenly realized that I hadn’t planned anything for this lesson, hadn’t taken note of the suggestions my head teacher had emailed me for the class, and hadn’t a clue about what they knew or didn’t know. Actually, I didn’t even know if I was in the right room or not. “Hi,” I smiled.
“What’s your name?” one girl asked me.
“Kyle. Who’s your teacher normally?”
“Arzu.” There were two teachers named Arzu, so I didn’t know if I was in the right Arzu’s class.
“What does she look like?” Blank stares. Apparently, they weren’t taught to describe what people looked like. Excellent, I thought, and went from there - describing people, that's 2 hours right there. I’m good once I find my groove. They were a bit surprised, and pleased, that I spoke Turkish, and truth be told their English was actually very good. Really good. And they were enthusiastic, eager to learn, asking what certain words meant and how to say certain sentences. When I asked a question, they nearly killed each other to be the first to answer it, and they asked questions nonstop. And they didn’t complain, not once. Yes, these children didn’t whine about anything. And how smart they were!! (Really, now I am convinced that a group of children is a potentially dangerous thing – they can be supernaturally clever when they work together). Perhaps the most surprising thing was when, near the end of the lesson, one child asked if they could sleep:
"Do you always do that?" I asked.
"Yes," they said.
"Ok, if you want," I replied.
"Thank you, teacher," they said, and laid their heads on their desks and were completely silent for 5 minutes. Utterly. Amazing. Most of my students are, however, the complete opposite – whinging, unenthusiastic idiots without a drop of creativity who complain and screw around on their phones and talk nonstop, never listening; one time, frustrated, I challenged them to try to keep their mouths shut for 5 minutes. I think they got to 40 seconds. Yeah - these kids are the kind of students I need, I thought.
For the next three hours I taught them some new things and we played a great deal of games, during which the room was nearly destroyed and could apparently be heard two floors down. When class was finished, I was tapped (it takes a lot of energy to manage a class full of ten-year-olds) and the classroom looked like a warzone, but I was satisfied - it’s not often I feel great after a class, and as I left work on a high, I found myself wishing that I could always teach kids, and lamenting I would have to return to my normal, droll adult pupils the next day. Why can’t they be that well behaved and enthusiastic? Why can’t I come back and teach kids again? Wait, is this really me talking? Will I ever have the chance to go back and be where the wild things are once again?
