Dear dedicated reader,
Today I was, no joke, interviewed by National Indian news.
The principal had, with a very excited manner for someone usually so formal, informed me a few days ago that this might happen. I had no idea what a tamasha (spectacle) it would be.
I was sitting happily in the guesthouse after my 3rd period class with 9D when a peon (this is truly what the school calls these men!) was dispatched to my house and I was told that “Sir” wanted to see me.
With some foreboding I followed the man across the courtyard to the principal’s office. I thought perhaps word that my 3rd period class had been a little rowdy had somehow gotten back to the principal, though how this would have happened was beyond me. Instead, when I arrived I found it to be full of men. One slightly chubby man with a mullet introduced himself as a reporter for Z-News.
“You have heard of Z-News?” He asked me, expectantly.
I obliged. “Oh yes,” I replied enthusiastically. “When I was living in Delhi.” He nodded with satisfaction.
The principal said to me in his stop and start English, “These men are here –“ He was interrupted by the reporter.
“Listen, we are here because we are hearing that now Americans are coming to poor public schools to teach English and we want to broadcast this nationally, okay?”
I didn’t realize he wanted a response until I saw his face. “Oh fine,” I said, nodding. “Yes, that’s wonderful.”
The principal valiantly tried to continue, “These men will come –“
Again, he was interrupted, this time by a man in matching denim shirt and pants. “We are going to come film your class, okay?”
“9C,” the principal added assertively.
They looked at me. “Great, wonderful,” I said again, not really knowing exactly what to say. I knew this was an incredibly big deal for not just Kadod High School but for the Foundation as well and I wanted to be obliging.
The principal added, “So, now we will go to 9C.” I was confused; I wasn’t supposed to take that class until 5th period, over an hour from now with a lunchtime for students to go home inbetween.
“So, I will teach them…now?” I asked.
“Yes, we’ll bring the book and the chalk and eraser. Go there now,” he said.
“But my lesson plan is in the house…” I pleaded.
He looked perturbed. “You may get it but, uh, make haste!” he said. I nodded vigorously and was off.
When I returned, I met them with my materials at the door to the 9C classroom, easily the dingiest of the classrooms that I teach in. What better tableau, I thought, for them to paint their story on.
There was of course much ado over the set up. First, the teacher whose period it really was had to be unceremoniously kicked out of his class. I looked at him apologetically and he glared back; I am making no friends on the staff, it would seem. Then they had to plug into the outlet, which in typical fashion was not working. So a power cord had to be run from the computer lab across the courtyard to the classroom. Then they had to shift some of the benches so that they could adequately get in the cameras to film me teaching. The students were laughing quietly amongst themselves until finally they told me I could begin.
I had no idea if I was teach my whole lesson or only a part, so I decided to just proceed as normally as possible. I began with the same three questions I always ask. “What is the date today?” “What is the day of the week?” “What is the weather?” Hands shot up all around the room. Let the TV cameras come every day, I thought blithely.
I asked them to take out their homework. This was the first assignment I had given them and I could see from some of their faces who didn’t have it. I saved them the embarrassment that I had given some students in an earlier class by asking for volunteers to give me each answer, rather than calling on people at random. I knew that the cameras were especially looking to see if the students could understand me and I them, so I tried to make sure that my pronunciation was clear. Jagrutiben was not here today; her husband was sick so she was home with him and I was on my own.
As I moved around the classroom like I normally do, I had to dodge the cameras that would duck in front of the blackboard just as I wanted to write something. They kept going for artistic angles, like through two students or up from the floor. With the cinematic acrobatics they were performing it was hard to keep the students focused on the front, so I tried to call on as many people as possible to participate in the lesson. In the middle, the bell rang for lunch, and the students looked at me pleadingly. I tried to convey with my eyes that I was as trapped by the situation as they were.
After some time, the TV men interrupted my teaching with “Bas,” (enough). I confusedly stopped in the middle of an activity and awaited further instruction. There was some rearrangement of the furniture at the front of the room and I was instructed to sit with the students as my backdrop. Three microphones were held in front of my face and I was shown the questions that I would be asked which were the following:
What is your good name?
How have you decided to come to India?
How are you finding the differences between Indian education and US education?
What do you think is the IQ of the Indian student?
India is known for yoga, meditation. What are you thinking?
India is becoming superpower in a few years. Are Americans scared?
What are you thinking about Indian food? Is it spicy?
This was apparently enough for them. I answered as neutrally as I could, making sure to say good things about all Indian students and the education system. The last thing I want is death threats from Indian nationalists or a letter of termination from the Foundation, which I made sure to mention.
After they finished with me, they asked the students who could speak Hindi and from these 5 were picked. For some reason, I was allowed to stay while the students were being interviewed. They asked them how they understood me and all said they were finding me to be a very good teacher. What else could they say, with the principal, myself and 10 newsmen in the room?
After this, the class was finally dismissed, after having missed the entirety of their lunch period. I felt terrible, but luckily I have them right after lunch, so they were able to take this time to eat. I apologized to them though they seemed quite pleased with their 15 minutes of fame.
It should air next week. Hopefully it won’t have been edited with me saying I’m a sex maniac or some such thing.
Best,
Cat
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
Sunday, June 15, 2008
My First Staff Meeting
Dear dedicated reader,
Today was my first staff meeting at the school.
Indian schools have classes Monday through Saturday which is something which I remembered from my time at college in Delhi. Classes go from 10:45 am, Monday through Friday, and then from 8 am to 11 am on Saturday. Saturday afternoon, as I discovered, is reserved for staff meeting.
After my last very active class of girls on Saturday morning, as the students rushed out of the school around us, Jagrutiben, the local teacher assigned to my classes, turned to me and said, “I will ask the principal if you need to attend, as it will all be in Gujarati.” I nodded and curiously followed her to the principal's office in the main corridor.
The principal said if I did not want to, I did not have to attend. I expressed my desire to come anyway, since I figured that it would be good for the teachers to see me doing as they do, to see that I am, in fact, just a regular staff member like them. Already I had joined in on the snack of samosa and baarfi (a milky Indian sweet) that they had shared in the staff room earlier that day. They took pleasure in introducing me to this ‘newfound’ delight (both were foods that I enjoyed in Delhi many times.) Please do not think me insincere; I’ve just found that it can be easier to make friends when you let people be the experts in their culture and explain it to you.
We walked to the meeting, which was to take place on the other side of the school in one of the larger engineering classrooms. When we arrived we were the last ones to come, the room already filled with teachers sitting in neat rows at the desks, men on one side, women on the other, all waiting for the meeting to begin. As we walked to the back, it felt as though 70 pairs of eyes watched as I took a seat next to Jagrutiben.
Soon, the principal arrived, followed by his 3 senior administrators. As they entered, the teachers stood, just as the students do when I enter a classroom. As we sat down again, I felt Jagrutiben’s arm poke purposefully into my side. I looked at her, and she swiveled with her head, indicating that I should look forward. When I did, I saw that the principal was gesturing for me to come to the front of the room. Thinking that he wanted to introduce me as new staff member, I obliged. When I reached the front, he indicated that I should take the open seat next to his senior administrators. So much for seeming like “one of the gang”…
The biggest disadvantage of this seat was that all of the teachers in the room could see my face as I listened to speech after speech from the senior administrators in Gujarati. While Gujarati and Hindi are similar enough that I understood the general gist of the talks, often I would look out at the audience to see laughter and smiles at some joke that had been cracked that I could visibly not understand. After a while, the lull of the spoken Gujarati combined with the heat of the midday had made my eyelids heavy and I found myself repeating over and over in my head, don’t fall asleep, don’t fall asleep…
I was jolted out of my open eyed trance when Mr. Gamit, the senior administrator and English teacher who had come to meet us at the train station, turned to me in what seemed to be the middle of his speech and said, “Since you cannot understand, I will tell you what we are talking about.” After five minutes or so of translation, during which the audience of teachers sat silent, he said to me, “And now, Catben, can you say a few words to these teachers about how you are experiencing here?”
I froze. “Um, right now?” I stammered.
“Yes,” he replied with a smile.
“I, uh…”
“It’s okay,” the principal cut in. “She can do it next time, I think.” Saved! Oh thank you!
With that, the principal rose and dismissed the meeting. Oh great, I thought. Not only did I narrowly miss out on awkward public speaking, but my translation was holding up the dismissal of the entire meeting.
I can’t say I am looking forward to my reception in the Ladies’ Staff Room come Monday.
Best,
Cat
Today was my first staff meeting at the school.
Indian schools have classes Monday through Saturday which is something which I remembered from my time at college in Delhi. Classes go from 10:45 am, Monday through Friday, and then from 8 am to 11 am on Saturday. Saturday afternoon, as I discovered, is reserved for staff meeting.
After my last very active class of girls on Saturday morning, as the students rushed out of the school around us, Jagrutiben, the local teacher assigned to my classes, turned to me and said, “I will ask the principal if you need to attend, as it will all be in Gujarati.” I nodded and curiously followed her to the principal's office in the main corridor.
The principal said if I did not want to, I did not have to attend. I expressed my desire to come anyway, since I figured that it would be good for the teachers to see me doing as they do, to see that I am, in fact, just a regular staff member like them. Already I had joined in on the snack of samosa and baarfi (a milky Indian sweet) that they had shared in the staff room earlier that day. They took pleasure in introducing me to this ‘newfound’ delight (both were foods that I enjoyed in Delhi many times.) Please do not think me insincere; I’ve just found that it can be easier to make friends when you let people be the experts in their culture and explain it to you.
We walked to the meeting, which was to take place on the other side of the school in one of the larger engineering classrooms. When we arrived we were the last ones to come, the room already filled with teachers sitting in neat rows at the desks, men on one side, women on the other, all waiting for the meeting to begin. As we walked to the back, it felt as though 70 pairs of eyes watched as I took a seat next to Jagrutiben.
Soon, the principal arrived, followed by his 3 senior administrators. As they entered, the teachers stood, just as the students do when I enter a classroom. As we sat down again, I felt Jagrutiben’s arm poke purposefully into my side. I looked at her, and she swiveled with her head, indicating that I should look forward. When I did, I saw that the principal was gesturing for me to come to the front of the room. Thinking that he wanted to introduce me as new staff member, I obliged. When I reached the front, he indicated that I should take the open seat next to his senior administrators. So much for seeming like “one of the gang”…
The biggest disadvantage of this seat was that all of the teachers in the room could see my face as I listened to speech after speech from the senior administrators in Gujarati. While Gujarati and Hindi are similar enough that I understood the general gist of the talks, often I would look out at the audience to see laughter and smiles at some joke that had been cracked that I could visibly not understand. After a while, the lull of the spoken Gujarati combined with the heat of the midday had made my eyelids heavy and I found myself repeating over and over in my head, don’t fall asleep, don’t fall asleep…
I was jolted out of my open eyed trance when Mr. Gamit, the senior administrator and English teacher who had come to meet us at the train station, turned to me in what seemed to be the middle of his speech and said, “Since you cannot understand, I will tell you what we are talking about.” After five minutes or so of translation, during which the audience of teachers sat silent, he said to me, “And now, Catben, can you say a few words to these teachers about how you are experiencing here?”
I froze. “Um, right now?” I stammered.
“Yes,” he replied with a smile.
“I, uh…”
“It’s okay,” the principal cut in. “She can do it next time, I think.” Saved! Oh thank you!
With that, the principal rose and dismissed the meeting. Oh great, I thought. Not only did I narrowly miss out on awkward public speaking, but my translation was holding up the dismissal of the entire meeting.
I can’t say I am looking forward to my reception in the Ladies’ Staff Room come Monday.
Best,
Cat
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Monsoon Zoo
Dear dedicated reader,
This morning, I killed a mosquito by clapping my hands together over it while it buzzed through the air. When I opened them, the palm of my hand was smeared with the blood that had been bloating its small insect body.
I debate whether to add such details to this account. But lest you think my life here is all fun and minor cultural misunderstandings, I think it is important for me to tell you about the zoo that has become my house since the monsoon rain started.
Just after I killed the mosquito, it was time for me to take a shower. Stepping gingerly inside the room attached to the outside of the house, I switched on the light and caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Slightly larger than my left hand, a white colored lizard lay frozen still, just above the shower head, staring at me with its beady little eye. I froze too, eyeing back. Steeling myself, I pushed the switch on the water heater, not five inches from where the lizard was waiting. It scampered through an opening in the wall, across into our bathroom. “Great,” I thought. “That’ll be fun.”
Wearing sandals in the shower keeps my feet from stepping on the water-logged bodies of dead insects as I shower in the morning. A veritable bug-morgue, they litter not only the floor of our shower room, but our sink also has become a wing repository, small appendages sticking especially to the white Dettol soap in our soapdish.
Putting on bug spray before taking a shower would be futile, so I have to accept the risk posed by so much exposed skin in a place as watery as the shower (water breeds mosquitoes). Though taking a shower is arguably the best part of my very sweaty day, it is also the most nerve-wracking. As I finished showering and went to dry my hair and dress again, more movement caught my eye, just under the hinge of the door to the outside. A lizard? No, this time, a small, rock-colored toad who made a little obliging hop to let me know exactly where it was. My exit from the shower could be described best as a panicked run. I frightened Lartha with my quick entrance into the kitchen. She was carefully putting dishes from the dish rack back on the table.
“Kyaa hua?” She asked me, concerned. (What happened?)
Embarrassed, I laughed at myself. “Kuch nahii,” I replied. (Nothing).
Returning to my room, what should I see but a small lizard, happily situated on my pillow. It couldn’t be bigger than my thumb. This time, I stayed calm. I walked back out to the kitchen and retrieved a small metal container, which I used to trap the lizard against the wall and take it outside. I was proud of myself. This is a feat I would not have been able to accomplish 3 years ago (and if you were with me in India then, you know this to be true!)
Outside, as I turned around, I saw a forehead-sized brown moth with a giant wingspan resting just below the switch to turn the outside light on. I considered, for a moment, getting a newspaper to swat at it, but the prospect of missing and contending with its unpredictable flight pattern after such an attack stopped me.
This is a mere sampling. Throughout the day, we must contend with any or all of the following:
More lizards, large and small
Beetles just larger than an American quarter
Any number of mosquitoes
Chameleon sized lizards which climb the tree just outside our house
Giant, black faced monkeys which climb the roof of the school
Stray dogs
Goats
Hens or crowing roosters
Donkeys
And, of course, errant cows.
At least the plate-sized spiders are only in the mountains of Mussoorie. I hope.
Best,
Cat
This morning, I killed a mosquito by clapping my hands together over it while it buzzed through the air. When I opened them, the palm of my hand was smeared with the blood that had been bloating its small insect body.
I debate whether to add such details to this account. But lest you think my life here is all fun and minor cultural misunderstandings, I think it is important for me to tell you about the zoo that has become my house since the monsoon rain started.
Just after I killed the mosquito, it was time for me to take a shower. Stepping gingerly inside the room attached to the outside of the house, I switched on the light and caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Slightly larger than my left hand, a white colored lizard lay frozen still, just above the shower head, staring at me with its beady little eye. I froze too, eyeing back. Steeling myself, I pushed the switch on the water heater, not five inches from where the lizard was waiting. It scampered through an opening in the wall, across into our bathroom. “Great,” I thought. “That’ll be fun.”
Wearing sandals in the shower keeps my feet from stepping on the water-logged bodies of dead insects as I shower in the morning. A veritable bug-morgue, they litter not only the floor of our shower room, but our sink also has become a wing repository, small appendages sticking especially to the white Dettol soap in our soapdish.
Putting on bug spray before taking a shower would be futile, so I have to accept the risk posed by so much exposed skin in a place as watery as the shower (water breeds mosquitoes). Though taking a shower is arguably the best part of my very sweaty day, it is also the most nerve-wracking. As I finished showering and went to dry my hair and dress again, more movement caught my eye, just under the hinge of the door to the outside. A lizard? No, this time, a small, rock-colored toad who made a little obliging hop to let me know exactly where it was. My exit from the shower could be described best as a panicked run. I frightened Lartha with my quick entrance into the kitchen. She was carefully putting dishes from the dish rack back on the table.
“Kyaa hua?” She asked me, concerned. (What happened?)
Embarrassed, I laughed at myself. “Kuch nahii,” I replied. (Nothing).
Returning to my room, what should I see but a small lizard, happily situated on my pillow. It couldn’t be bigger than my thumb. This time, I stayed calm. I walked back out to the kitchen and retrieved a small metal container, which I used to trap the lizard against the wall and take it outside. I was proud of myself. This is a feat I would not have been able to accomplish 3 years ago (and if you were with me in India then, you know this to be true!)
Outside, as I turned around, I saw a forehead-sized brown moth with a giant wingspan resting just below the switch to turn the outside light on. I considered, for a moment, getting a newspaper to swat at it, but the prospect of missing and contending with its unpredictable flight pattern after such an attack stopped me.
This is a mere sampling. Throughout the day, we must contend with any or all of the following:
More lizards, large and small
Beetles just larger than an American quarter
Any number of mosquitoes
Chameleon sized lizards which climb the tree just outside our house
Giant, black faced monkeys which climb the roof of the school
Stray dogs
Goats
Hens or crowing roosters
Donkeys
And, of course, errant cows.
At least the plate-sized spiders are only in the mountains of Mussoorie. I hope.
Best,
Cat
Thursday, June 12, 2008
The Ladies' Staff Room
Dear dedicated reader,
Being a teacher means something very different here than in the USA.
I have to be on my guard. I cannot be caught doing anything improper or informal here. Already I am unusual; I sit on the porch and read my book when the students come out to the courtyard for any of their three recesses during the day (if only the Boston Public Schools could take note!). The other teachers stay hidden in the forbidding Ladies’ Staff Room.
The Staff Room was, until yesterday, uncharted territory for me. After each class, Jagrutiben, the local Gujarati teacher who assists the students with understanding me in my classes, would say to me in her shy, spoken English. “Okay, I go to Ladies staff room. Meet you next class?” Every time she would say so, I’d feel a twinge of guilt. Until my visit yesterday, I had not met any of the other lady teachers except the principal’s daughter-in-law, Sejalben who is another English teacher and has been very kind and helpful.
Instead, I preferred to stay in the house, feeling shy, like the students in my 9A class about their spoken English. But the house had begun losing it’s charm and I knew that if I didn’t make a move towards the staff room soon it would come off as elitist.
I tried not to get too worked up as we walked through the open air halls of the school. Both staff rooms are on the second floor: one for men and one for women. We climbed the stairs and entered the corridor where the staff room is located.
The first time we walked by, I glanced in, just to make sure it was the right room. I saw some teachers looking back at me. Yup, right room. I kept walking, intimidated. Priya said to me, confused, “Uh, we just missed it.”
With a deep breath, I said, “I know…”
On the second pass, we both lost our nerve. It wasn’t too late to go back to the house… We looked at each other and giggled. This time, we would do it.
On the third pass, we stopped and stepped inside. Mission accomplished.
But, now what to do? I looked around. Lots of empty seats, but assorted things sat on the table in front of each: chalk, grading books, newspapers. I could feel the four or five ladies sitting in the staff room, looking formidable in their brightly colored saris, eyeing me over the tops of their Gujarati newspapers. We took a seat on a small bench in the corner, away from the main table where most of the teachers sat.
I looked around the room uneasily. We really hadn’t planned this far in advance. What to do but just sit here? Priya and I looked at each other; I riffled through my planner where my lesson notes were, pretending to review them.
After a few awkward minutes, one of the teachers said to Priya in Gujarati, “You speak Gujarati?” She motioned for us to come sit at the main table. We took two of the empty chairs. The teachers whose things were left on the table must have been in class.
She asked Priya where she was from, whether her family was from India, what she does in the United States: the usual battery of questions. Like most people, she did not look at me while she was talking. When people don’t think I speak the language, I don’t exist.
I asked her which subjects she teaches in my broken Hindi.
“You speak some Hindi?” she replied.
“A little,” I offered up.
“Well, I teach Hindi.” She replied. She proceeded to introduce the other teachers in a quick Hindi I had a hard time following. I got the teachers’ names, but not their subjects. I did, however, note the English teacher sitting next to her whose name was Mayori.
“What are you doing with the students?” She asked me in English.
I wanted to say, “I wish I knew!” but refrained as I knew that would hardly be appropriate. “Mostly grammar exercises, and spoken English, for now,” I said. She looked satisfied.
“You are teaching the curriculum now?” I asked. Every standard (grade) has a curriculum that we must cover as the teachers. I have not been doing the curriculum so far because I was not sure how to approach teaching the book. When she explained that she was teaching the curriculum, I jumped at my chance.
“May I come see your class, if it is all right with you?” I asked. She said of course, and invited me to her sixth period 12th standard class. I was so relieved. I had been trying to observe a class by asking the principal and his daughter in law for days. They always said of course and that we would talk about it tomorrow. And then, mysteriously, were nowhere to be found.
“What do you do in the USA?” A teacher from across the room asked me, in English.
“I am a teacher,” I said, smiling.
“A teacher. Hm. And how much do teachers make in the US?” She said.
I was a little taken aback. “You mean, what is my salary?”
The other teachers who understood English chimed in. “Do you get paid every month?”
“Every two weeks,” I replied, confused. Why would they care about the frequency of my pay?
But the teacher across the room was not satisfied. “How much is it?”
I tried again, “In America, teachers do not make so much money.”
“But how much?” She insisted.
I cringed. “Twenty three thousand dollars,” I said. There was murmuring all around the room. I tried to qualify this, “But, it’s not very much in the USA because it is so expensive to live…” Too late. They were chattering away in Gujarati now and neither Priya or myself could understand.
When the bell rang and it was time to go to my next class, the Hindi teacher said to Priya, “You should come back here, so that we can get to know you both.”
How excruciating. I mean, of course.
Best,
Cat
Being a teacher means something very different here than in the USA.
I have to be on my guard. I cannot be caught doing anything improper or informal here. Already I am unusual; I sit on the porch and read my book when the students come out to the courtyard for any of their three recesses during the day (if only the Boston Public Schools could take note!). The other teachers stay hidden in the forbidding Ladies’ Staff Room.
The Staff Room was, until yesterday, uncharted territory for me. After each class, Jagrutiben, the local Gujarati teacher who assists the students with understanding me in my classes, would say to me in her shy, spoken English. “Okay, I go to Ladies staff room. Meet you next class?” Every time she would say so, I’d feel a twinge of guilt. Until my visit yesterday, I had not met any of the other lady teachers except the principal’s daughter-in-law, Sejalben who is another English teacher and has been very kind and helpful.
Instead, I preferred to stay in the house, feeling shy, like the students in my 9A class about their spoken English. But the house had begun losing it’s charm and I knew that if I didn’t make a move towards the staff room soon it would come off as elitist.
I tried not to get too worked up as we walked through the open air halls of the school. Both staff rooms are on the second floor: one for men and one for women. We climbed the stairs and entered the corridor where the staff room is located.
The first time we walked by, I glanced in, just to make sure it was the right room. I saw some teachers looking back at me. Yup, right room. I kept walking, intimidated. Priya said to me, confused, “Uh, we just missed it.”
With a deep breath, I said, “I know…”
On the second pass, we both lost our nerve. It wasn’t too late to go back to the house… We looked at each other and giggled. This time, we would do it.
On the third pass, we stopped and stepped inside. Mission accomplished.
But, now what to do? I looked around. Lots of empty seats, but assorted things sat on the table in front of each: chalk, grading books, newspapers. I could feel the four or five ladies sitting in the staff room, looking formidable in their brightly colored saris, eyeing me over the tops of their Gujarati newspapers. We took a seat on a small bench in the corner, away from the main table where most of the teachers sat.
I looked around the room uneasily. We really hadn’t planned this far in advance. What to do but just sit here? Priya and I looked at each other; I riffled through my planner where my lesson notes were, pretending to review them.
After a few awkward minutes, one of the teachers said to Priya in Gujarati, “You speak Gujarati?” She motioned for us to come sit at the main table. We took two of the empty chairs. The teachers whose things were left on the table must have been in class.
She asked Priya where she was from, whether her family was from India, what she does in the United States: the usual battery of questions. Like most people, she did not look at me while she was talking. When people don’t think I speak the language, I don’t exist.
I asked her which subjects she teaches in my broken Hindi.
“You speak some Hindi?” she replied.
“A little,” I offered up.
“Well, I teach Hindi.” She replied. She proceeded to introduce the other teachers in a quick Hindi I had a hard time following. I got the teachers’ names, but not their subjects. I did, however, note the English teacher sitting next to her whose name was Mayori.
“What are you doing with the students?” She asked me in English.
I wanted to say, “I wish I knew!” but refrained as I knew that would hardly be appropriate. “Mostly grammar exercises, and spoken English, for now,” I said. She looked satisfied.
“You are teaching the curriculum now?” I asked. Every standard (grade) has a curriculum that we must cover as the teachers. I have not been doing the curriculum so far because I was not sure how to approach teaching the book. When she explained that she was teaching the curriculum, I jumped at my chance.
“May I come see your class, if it is all right with you?” I asked. She said of course, and invited me to her sixth period 12th standard class. I was so relieved. I had been trying to observe a class by asking the principal and his daughter in law for days. They always said of course and that we would talk about it tomorrow. And then, mysteriously, were nowhere to be found.
“What do you do in the USA?” A teacher from across the room asked me, in English.
“I am a teacher,” I said, smiling.
“A teacher. Hm. And how much do teachers make in the US?” She said.
I was a little taken aback. “You mean, what is my salary?”
The other teachers who understood English chimed in. “Do you get paid every month?”
“Every two weeks,” I replied, confused. Why would they care about the frequency of my pay?
But the teacher across the room was not satisfied. “How much is it?”
I tried again, “In America, teachers do not make so much money.”
“But how much?” She insisted.
I cringed. “Twenty three thousand dollars,” I said. There was murmuring all around the room. I tried to qualify this, “But, it’s not very much in the USA because it is so expensive to live…” Too late. They were chattering away in Gujarati now and neither Priya or myself could understand.
When the bell rang and it was time to go to my next class, the Hindi teacher said to Priya, “You should come back here, so that we can get to know you both.”
How excruciating. I mean, of course.
Best,
Cat
Monday, June 9, 2008
My First Day of School
Dear dedicated reader,
Today I took my first class at the school.
All day, I paced the guesthouse, anxiously waiting for 5th period to come when I was to take the 9C section. I am taking Melissa’s classes this week until she comes, teaching all four 9th standard sections, 60 students each. Periodically throughout the day, the two computer teachers who look to be about our age, Dhirinbhai and Nitinburanbhai, came by to set up our internet and to check on us. When it finally came time to take my first class, Dhirinbhai came by with an umbrella to usher Priya and myself to the 9C room.
In India, the students do not change classrooms; the teachers do. So, when I walked in, all of the students were already sitting there, crammed into their desks. I was surprised; it was a co-ed class, with girls in neat blue tunics and white shirts on one side, and boys in khaki pants and white button downs on the other. They sat 3 or 4 to a bench, looking squished and curious. They all stood as I entered, which is customary. I put down my lesson plan on the table provided and my portable radioshack clock so I could time my activities.
“Good afternoon,” I said to them loudly. They looked at me, confused, still standing. I motioned for them to sit.
Dhirinbhai jumped in. He explained quickly in Gujarati, “This is Ms. Cat and Ms. Priya. They are here from US to teach you.” Then, he left.
Sixty faces looked up at me expectantly.
“Please repeat,” I insisted. “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon,” was repeated in a mixed, half-hearted chorus of voices. I looked over the students. They seemed so young. Some were as small as the smallest sixth graders I had taught at the Gavin.
“How, uh, old are you?” I asked.
“15,” the chorus replied. Unbelievable, I thought to myself. There was a lot of random giggling as the students continued to eye me, sizing me up.
I introduced myself as Miss Biddle. I made them repeat this a number of times, which led to more giggling. When I went to write this on the board, I turned to see it covered in Gujarati script, but with no eraser and no chalk. I cringed. My whole lesson had been based around having these two items.
Priya saw me falter and quickly went out in the hall to see if Dhirinbhai could get these items.
When she returned, Principal Mahida was with her. The students immediately JUMPED to their feet and a loud chorus of “Good afternoon, Mahidasir,” could be heard.
He addressed them sternly in Gujarati for 2 or 3 minutes. I stood by, shifting my weight, hoping the students couldn’t see that I had no absolutely no idea what he was saying. He turned to me after he finished and explained that he had told them that they were very fortunate to have teacher from America here to teach them and that they should be very good and cause no problems and learn English well. I have a feeling there were two or three threats thrown in there that he did not translate for me.
After he left, I was again faced with sixty expectant faces. What to do?
I started to explain that if they want to ask a question, they need only raise their hand. They looked at me blankly, some said “yes ma’am.” I started in again uneasily, explaining that if they did not understand, they could ask me to repeat. More stares.
Finally, I said in Hindi, “You all speak Hindi?”
There were many smiles and a resounding chorus of “Ha-ji” (yes, miss).
I laughed. “All right,” I said in Hindi, “I have been told by Mahidasir that this is the smartest class. I don’t speak Gujarati and only a little Hindi, so in my class, only English will be spoken. Understand?”
They nodded. I added, in English, “You will learn better that way.”
I erased the board and proceeded to set up the activity that I had planned. I made a list of question words, a list of verbs and a list of nouns (such as father, mother, brother, sister, India, USA, movie). I explained that I wanted the students to take words from each list and make questions to ask me and Ms. Priya. I had Ms. Priya do an example. The students looked at me uneasily.
I waited. There were some mutters as the students read through the list to themselves or to their neighbor. The silence paid off. The smallest boy in the class, sitting in the front row, raised his hand. I signaled that he should stand.
“Whatisyourfather?” He said quickly and sat back down. I tried not to let my confusion show on my face.
“You mean, what job does my father have?” I asked him.
He looked embarrassed. Oh no, I thought. I’ve just ruined any chance that anyone will want to participate. I quickly continued. “My father is a lawyer.” I said. Then in Hindi, I asked “You understand?”
There were nods and murmurs of “wakil” which is Hindi for lawyer. “Exactly,” I said. I looked at the small boy. “Very good, thank you.” This, apparently, was funny, because there were again scattered giggles.
I waited again. This time a girl raised her hand. She asked me another question, where in the USA we were from. I drew a picture on the board to show them where Nebraska and Philadelphia are.
I waited again. Slowly, some more questions. One boy at the back asked me, “What ees your favorite mowie?”
“Well,” I said thoughtfully, “I like Indian movies. I think, Kabhi Kushi Kabhi Gham.” This made the room erupt in hysterical laughter as they contemplated my watching an Indian film.
The students liked talking about favorites, and so I wrote “My favorite _____ is ______” on the board. They were too fond of giving one word answers, so I hoped to make them speak in complete sentences.
I wrote “animal” on the board, and all of a sudden, the room was filled with the sound of different animal names in English. Lots of the students wanted to participate in naming different animals. My personal favorite was the student who got up and said, “My favorite animal is a Peeeeg.” At first, I could not understand what he was saying until another student shouted at me, “PEEEEEEEG!”
“Oh, Pig!” I said, chuckling. My American pronunciation, I had been told, would be my downfall.
By the time the class was over, we had talked about favorite subjects, favorite colors, favorite movies, favorite actors and actresses. The bell rang and the students jumped to their feet. I was startled and didn’t know exactly what to do.
“I guess I leave now,” I said, unsure.
“Yes,” they said, smiling.
“Okay. See you tomorrow,” I said casually, gathering my things. “Uh, bye.” Not the most powerful of exits.
Outside, I had to take a deep breath. Only two more classes to go for the day. And 52 more weeks in the year.
Best,
Cat
Today I took my first class at the school.
All day, I paced the guesthouse, anxiously waiting for 5th period to come when I was to take the 9C section. I am taking Melissa’s classes this week until she comes, teaching all four 9th standard sections, 60 students each. Periodically throughout the day, the two computer teachers who look to be about our age, Dhirinbhai and Nitinburanbhai, came by to set up our internet and to check on us. When it finally came time to take my first class, Dhirinbhai came by with an umbrella to usher Priya and myself to the 9C room.
In India, the students do not change classrooms; the teachers do. So, when I walked in, all of the students were already sitting there, crammed into their desks. I was surprised; it was a co-ed class, with girls in neat blue tunics and white shirts on one side, and boys in khaki pants and white button downs on the other. They sat 3 or 4 to a bench, looking squished and curious. They all stood as I entered, which is customary. I put down my lesson plan on the table provided and my portable radioshack clock so I could time my activities.
“Good afternoon,” I said to them loudly. They looked at me, confused, still standing. I motioned for them to sit.
Dhirinbhai jumped in. He explained quickly in Gujarati, “This is Ms. Cat and Ms. Priya. They are here from US to teach you.” Then, he left.
Sixty faces looked up at me expectantly.
“Please repeat,” I insisted. “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon,” was repeated in a mixed, half-hearted chorus of voices. I looked over the students. They seemed so young. Some were as small as the smallest sixth graders I had taught at the Gavin.
“How, uh, old are you?” I asked.
“15,” the chorus replied. Unbelievable, I thought to myself. There was a lot of random giggling as the students continued to eye me, sizing me up.
I introduced myself as Miss Biddle. I made them repeat this a number of times, which led to more giggling. When I went to write this on the board, I turned to see it covered in Gujarati script, but with no eraser and no chalk. I cringed. My whole lesson had been based around having these two items.
Priya saw me falter and quickly went out in the hall to see if Dhirinbhai could get these items.
When she returned, Principal Mahida was with her. The students immediately JUMPED to their feet and a loud chorus of “Good afternoon, Mahidasir,” could be heard.
He addressed them sternly in Gujarati for 2 or 3 minutes. I stood by, shifting my weight, hoping the students couldn’t see that I had no absolutely no idea what he was saying. He turned to me after he finished and explained that he had told them that they were very fortunate to have teacher from America here to teach them and that they should be very good and cause no problems and learn English well. I have a feeling there were two or three threats thrown in there that he did not translate for me.
After he left, I was again faced with sixty expectant faces. What to do?
I started to explain that if they want to ask a question, they need only raise their hand. They looked at me blankly, some said “yes ma’am.” I started in again uneasily, explaining that if they did not understand, they could ask me to repeat. More stares.
Finally, I said in Hindi, “You all speak Hindi?”
There were many smiles and a resounding chorus of “Ha-ji” (yes, miss).
I laughed. “All right,” I said in Hindi, “I have been told by Mahidasir that this is the smartest class. I don’t speak Gujarati and only a little Hindi, so in my class, only English will be spoken. Understand?”
They nodded. I added, in English, “You will learn better that way.”
I erased the board and proceeded to set up the activity that I had planned. I made a list of question words, a list of verbs and a list of nouns (such as father, mother, brother, sister, India, USA, movie). I explained that I wanted the students to take words from each list and make questions to ask me and Ms. Priya. I had Ms. Priya do an example. The students looked at me uneasily.
I waited. There were some mutters as the students read through the list to themselves or to their neighbor. The silence paid off. The smallest boy in the class, sitting in the front row, raised his hand. I signaled that he should stand.
“Whatisyourfather?” He said quickly and sat back down. I tried not to let my confusion show on my face.
“You mean, what job does my father have?” I asked him.
He looked embarrassed. Oh no, I thought. I’ve just ruined any chance that anyone will want to participate. I quickly continued. “My father is a lawyer.” I said. Then in Hindi, I asked “You understand?”
There were nods and murmurs of “wakil” which is Hindi for lawyer. “Exactly,” I said. I looked at the small boy. “Very good, thank you.” This, apparently, was funny, because there were again scattered giggles.
I waited again. This time a girl raised her hand. She asked me another question, where in the USA we were from. I drew a picture on the board to show them where Nebraska and Philadelphia are.
I waited again. Slowly, some more questions. One boy at the back asked me, “What ees your favorite mowie?”
“Well,” I said thoughtfully, “I like Indian movies. I think, Kabhi Kushi Kabhi Gham.” This made the room erupt in hysterical laughter as they contemplated my watching an Indian film.
The students liked talking about favorites, and so I wrote “My favorite _____ is ______” on the board. They were too fond of giving one word answers, so I hoped to make them speak in complete sentences.
I wrote “animal” on the board, and all of a sudden, the room was filled with the sound of different animal names in English. Lots of the students wanted to participate in naming different animals. My personal favorite was the student who got up and said, “My favorite animal is a Peeeeg.” At first, I could not understand what he was saying until another student shouted at me, “PEEEEEEEG!”
“Oh, Pig!” I said, chuckling. My American pronunciation, I had been told, would be my downfall.
By the time the class was over, we had talked about favorite subjects, favorite colors, favorite movies, favorite actors and actresses. The bell rang and the students jumped to their feet. I was startled and didn’t know exactly what to do.
“I guess I leave now,” I said, unsure.
“Yes,” they said, smiling.
“Okay. See you tomorrow,” I said casually, gathering my things. “Uh, bye.” Not the most powerful of exits.
Outside, I had to take a deep breath. Only two more classes to go for the day. And 52 more weeks in the year.
Best,
Cat
Arriving in Kadod
Dear dedicated reader,
The last few days have been full of a familiar strangeness that I just can’t seem to shake.
Looking down on Mumbai from the night sky and seeing the lights of the city from my window seat on the plane, I couldn’t help but think that from above, at night, it looked like any other city. I could be landing anywhere in the US.
Coming out of the airport into the pouring monsoon rain with literally hundreds of people around me, though, was enough to know I was India. I was squinting to see if I could locate the person I’d been told would meet me. Sure enough, I saw a sign for “Ms. Cat from Newark Flight 0034” typed and printed neatly. The man holding the sign smiled at me and signaled for me to come meet him around the edge of the barrier separating hundreds of relatives, taxi drivers and porters from those arriving.
Raj’s uncle, Jagdish, could not have been nicer to me. The car ride to his house was pleasant – I was exhausted and therefore didn’t say much. As I looked out the window, I was reminded of how I’d been told that I’d remember the smell of India before I really realized I was there. It was completely true.
When we arrived at the house at 1 am, I was told that I should be up at 5 am because I’d be taking the 7 am train to Surat, where I would meet Priya, one of the summer interns, who was getting on the train at Bombay Central.
The feeling of familiar strangeness persisted as I woke up and went to take my first shower in India. The many knobs, buckets, small water canisters and shower curtain over the toilet instead of the shower actually made me laugh, despite my blurry eyed state. I knew I knew how to use this, but remembering was like cleaning the rust off of my bike.
This feeling followed me as we arrived at the train station and Jagdish began arguing with one of the familiarly dressed in red porters that immediately swooped in to carry my luggage, loading my large suitcase onto the crown of his head and then adding atop it my small one. As I walked through the station to the appropriate platform, that feeling of conspicuous whiteness suddenly returned to me. I hadn’t felt it since I’d been in India last. Even if no one speaks to me, I know I am a curiosity.
When we arrived at Surat after a pleasantly air-conditioned train ride, I was an inconvenience to just about everyone around me as I reached over a well dressed Muslim family to get my bags down from the very high luggage rack. Immediately after getting down on to the platform, we were found by the two men who’d come to meet us to take us to Kadod. “You are Kate??” They said, anxiously. “Where is Priya?” They were not the only ones to find me. Spotting me practically from across the platform, some small children came to ask me for bakshish, following us all the way to the car until one of the men sent to meet us shooed them away.
During the car ride to Kadod, one of the men in the front introduced himself as “Mr. Gamit”. “My first name is too difficult to pronounce,” he declared, “So you will call me Mr. Gamit.” He was an older gentlemen who, he explained to us proudly, was due to retire from his position at the school teaching English in October. I asked him a few questions about the school, to which I received rambling only semi-relevant replies. My accent must be very difficult to understand, or I worry for the English program at the high school.
On the ride, we passed through Bardoli, a town about 15 km from Kadod. I was informed that located there is the biggest sugar factory in Asia. If anyone were to come visit, they would probably stay in Bardoli. It looked very pleasant and I’ll be excited to visit there on the weekends.
Arriving in Kadod, we were ushered ceremonially into our guesthouse inside the gates of the high school. Mr. Gamit showed us our sitting room, our lovely dining room and lastly our bedroom. I couldn’t help but notice that there were only three beds in the house. I took note as a question for later. We were instructed on how to use the fans and lights, and then also shown where we could find the shower and toilet, which are attached to the house, but accessible only by going outside the backdoor and entering from that way. We were told that the principal would be by to see us later, but currently he was away on important business in Bardoli.
We were also introduced to the maid/cook, Lartha, who again took us through the house, showing us our three rooms, this time explaining to Priya in Gujarati what the purpose of the rooms was. On learning that Priya does not, in fact, speak Gujarati, she switched to a mix of Gujarati and Hindi that I had a hard time understanding. She is very friendly and also remarkably beautiful, as Priya and I have commented to each other again and again over the past few days.
Mr. Gamit came to ask us if we wanted a tour of the school, which we agreed to. We got as far as the main office, the principal’s office, and the gents staff room before we were waylaid by another older gentlemen, an English and History teacher at the school, who took us back to our guesthouse and insisted on showing us our accommodations, carefully explaining where we were to sit (the sitting room), where we were to dine (the dining room) and where we were to put our personal things (the bedroom). Any questions, we were instructed, were to be put to Vikram, a boy who came with us who I guess works for the school.
After Mr. Gamit and friend took leave of us, Vikram felt it was very important to show us once more each of the rooms in our house. His tour did have some value add, as he speaks very good Hindi and he showed us how to get into the almari/wardrobe and gave us the keys to do so.
Later, as we were sitting on the porch reading, the principal came by. When he first came up the steps of the house, he introduced himself in such an unassuming way that it took my brain a moment to register who exactly he was saying he was. He took us inside our house and it was all Priya and I could do not to laugh as he began to explain that this was our sitting room and we could sit here and enjoy ourselves, etc. He took us through the whole house, making sure that the accommodations were adequate.
By 4 in the afternoon, Priya and I were completely worn out. We had made a few discoveries, such as the internet would not be working until at least Tuesday, that our cell phones were not ready and would not be for at least a week, and that the phone lines were down and that I could not call the US until tomorrow. I fell asleep at 4 pm, not to wake up until the next day.
I would write about all of our adventures on Sunday, as there were many, but this letter in itself is already of overwhelming length, so I will save those accounts for another, dear reader.
Best,
Cat
The last few days have been full of a familiar strangeness that I just can’t seem to shake.
Looking down on Mumbai from the night sky and seeing the lights of the city from my window seat on the plane, I couldn’t help but think that from above, at night, it looked like any other city. I could be landing anywhere in the US.
Coming out of the airport into the pouring monsoon rain with literally hundreds of people around me, though, was enough to know I was India. I was squinting to see if I could locate the person I’d been told would meet me. Sure enough, I saw a sign for “Ms. Cat from Newark Flight 0034” typed and printed neatly. The man holding the sign smiled at me and signaled for me to come meet him around the edge of the barrier separating hundreds of relatives, taxi drivers and porters from those arriving.
Raj’s uncle, Jagdish, could not have been nicer to me. The car ride to his house was pleasant – I was exhausted and therefore didn’t say much. As I looked out the window, I was reminded of how I’d been told that I’d remember the smell of India before I really realized I was there. It was completely true.
When we arrived at the house at 1 am, I was told that I should be up at 5 am because I’d be taking the 7 am train to Surat, where I would meet Priya, one of the summer interns, who was getting on the train at Bombay Central.
The feeling of familiar strangeness persisted as I woke up and went to take my first shower in India. The many knobs, buckets, small water canisters and shower curtain over the toilet instead of the shower actually made me laugh, despite my blurry eyed state. I knew I knew how to use this, but remembering was like cleaning the rust off of my bike.
This feeling followed me as we arrived at the train station and Jagdish began arguing with one of the familiarly dressed in red porters that immediately swooped in to carry my luggage, loading my large suitcase onto the crown of his head and then adding atop it my small one. As I walked through the station to the appropriate platform, that feeling of conspicuous whiteness suddenly returned to me. I hadn’t felt it since I’d been in India last. Even if no one speaks to me, I know I am a curiosity.
When we arrived at Surat after a pleasantly air-conditioned train ride, I was an inconvenience to just about everyone around me as I reached over a well dressed Muslim family to get my bags down from the very high luggage rack. Immediately after getting down on to the platform, we were found by the two men who’d come to meet us to take us to Kadod. “You are Kate??” They said, anxiously. “Where is Priya?” They were not the only ones to find me. Spotting me practically from across the platform, some small children came to ask me for bakshish, following us all the way to the car until one of the men sent to meet us shooed them away.
During the car ride to Kadod, one of the men in the front introduced himself as “Mr. Gamit”. “My first name is too difficult to pronounce,” he declared, “So you will call me Mr. Gamit.” He was an older gentlemen who, he explained to us proudly, was due to retire from his position at the school teaching English in October. I asked him a few questions about the school, to which I received rambling only semi-relevant replies. My accent must be very difficult to understand, or I worry for the English program at the high school.
On the ride, we passed through Bardoli, a town about 15 km from Kadod. I was informed that located there is the biggest sugar factory in Asia. If anyone were to come visit, they would probably stay in Bardoli. It looked very pleasant and I’ll be excited to visit there on the weekends.
Arriving in Kadod, we were ushered ceremonially into our guesthouse inside the gates of the high school. Mr. Gamit showed us our sitting room, our lovely dining room and lastly our bedroom. I couldn’t help but notice that there were only three beds in the house. I took note as a question for later. We were instructed on how to use the fans and lights, and then also shown where we could find the shower and toilet, which are attached to the house, but accessible only by going outside the backdoor and entering from that way. We were told that the principal would be by to see us later, but currently he was away on important business in Bardoli.
We were also introduced to the maid/cook, Lartha, who again took us through the house, showing us our three rooms, this time explaining to Priya in Gujarati what the purpose of the rooms was. On learning that Priya does not, in fact, speak Gujarati, she switched to a mix of Gujarati and Hindi that I had a hard time understanding. She is very friendly and also remarkably beautiful, as Priya and I have commented to each other again and again over the past few days.
Mr. Gamit came to ask us if we wanted a tour of the school, which we agreed to. We got as far as the main office, the principal’s office, and the gents staff room before we were waylaid by another older gentlemen, an English and History teacher at the school, who took us back to our guesthouse and insisted on showing us our accommodations, carefully explaining where we were to sit (the sitting room), where we were to dine (the dining room) and where we were to put our personal things (the bedroom). Any questions, we were instructed, were to be put to Vikram, a boy who came with us who I guess works for the school.
After Mr. Gamit and friend took leave of us, Vikram felt it was very important to show us once more each of the rooms in our house. His tour did have some value add, as he speaks very good Hindi and he showed us how to get into the almari/wardrobe and gave us the keys to do so.
Later, as we were sitting on the porch reading, the principal came by. When he first came up the steps of the house, he introduced himself in such an unassuming way that it took my brain a moment to register who exactly he was saying he was. He took us inside our house and it was all Priya and I could do not to laugh as he began to explain that this was our sitting room and we could sit here and enjoy ourselves, etc. He took us through the whole house, making sure that the accommodations were adequate.
By 4 in the afternoon, Priya and I were completely worn out. We had made a few discoveries, such as the internet would not be working until at least Tuesday, that our cell phones were not ready and would not be for at least a week, and that the phone lines were down and that I could not call the US until tomorrow. I fell asleep at 4 pm, not to wake up until the next day.
I would write about all of our adventures on Sunday, as there were many, but this letter in itself is already of overwhelming length, so I will save those accounts for another, dear reader.
Best,
Cat
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