Dear dedicated reader,
Privacy is a concept which we seem to have left at home in the United States.
Nothing has demonstrated this to me so clearly as this most recent episode which I will share with you because it is no secret here in Kadod. The principal’s family has made it clear to us that they would like us to rely on them for all our basic necessities, including meals, snacks, our phone, and of course, toilet paper. Now this last necessity we recently ran out of, which brings me to my story.
Earlier, Priya and I had run into this problem before Vanisha and Melissa arrived, but luckily someone took notice before it became problematic and new rolls arrived post-haste; from where, we did not know. This supply lasted until a few days ago when we encountered this problem yet again. This time, we were at a loss. Should we ask the principal’s wife? This seemed an embarrassing topic to bring up, almost like the time when we first arrived when Priya and I could not for the life of us figure out how to flush an Indian toilet*. We tried Lathaben, but she shrugged her shoulders and said we should ask one of the many peons. We all shied away from this task and thus we found ourselves on a quest to find a store in Kadod from which we might procure this necessity. The urgency of this mission was heightened by the fact that a stash of Kleenex which Melissa had brought from the US was slowly running out.
As you may know, toilet paper is not a common household item here. Every Indian toilet is equipped with a small water faucet and a plastic cup, aimed at achieving the same purpose, as I learned in Delhi. The idea of performing such an act with paper is as abhorrent here as the converse is for any Westerner; therefore, it is something of a scarcity.
Wandering the main street of Kadod, we peered into shops from the street way, hoping to catch sight of the object of our mission, tucked away unobtrusively in some shop corner. When we could not find what we desired in this way, it became necessary to appoint one of our group to go in and make the necessary inquiries.
After a few awkward moments, Priya said with a justifiably exasperated air that she would take on the responsibility. Going first to a store with a woman owner that displayed sanitary pads delicately in the corner of the shop window, she asked if the store owner’s inventory extended to this westernized item. The woman apologized in Hindi and indicated that we might be able to find it at the next store up.
The owner of said shop was male, and we hesitated before pushing Priya forward with embarrassed laughter. She used her Hindi to try and make herself understood, but the store owner was baffled as to what she was getting at. “Paper?” he asked, producing sheaves of the stuff.
“Er, uh, no…” she said, embarrassed, leaving the store owner behind with a puzzled expression. We burst into embarrassed giggles as we started away down the street, which were amplified even more when one of the peons who works at the school and had watched Priya’s interaction with the store manager came running down the street, brandishing a packet of paper napkins in his hand. “This! This?” he asked, excitedly, hoping he had found what we were looking for.
This was too much to handle. The tears of laughter came streaming down our faces as we struggled to waggle our heads no in a South Asian fashion between eruptions of giggles.
We went back to the guesthouse and to our Kleenex.
The next morning, Priya came back to the house from her before school spoken English classes carrying a bundle wrapped in a plastic bag.
“Well, we have toilet paper,” she announced.
“How did you get it?” We asked, pleased and puzzled.
“The peon who chased us down last night came by my class this morning with this bundle in hand,” she began. Apparently he had shown up at the door, interrupted the whole class, and unearthed the toilet paper from the bag in front of all the students, shouting loudly in Hindi, “Is this what you were looking for?”
Priya, amidst the uncontrollable laughter of the students, had replied meekly, “Uh, yes.”
At least we now know that to get it all we have to do is ask at the main office.
Best,
Cat
Monday, June 30, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
Cheating
Dear dedicated reader,
The monsoon rain, which has been absent for a week, has returned in the same, unexpected way that it left. This morning, I was baptized by a torrential downpour creating a sheet of water through which I had to walk from the shower to the house.
Through it all, classes continue. The students are dedicated, but sneaky. There is a small, round faced kid named Hitesh that sits in the front of my 9D class.
Standing at probably 4’5”, he is so cute I want to take him home, but every time I turn around, he is up to some kind of mischief, touching my things on the front desk (especially my radioshack clock) or talking with the person next to him or not looking at the textbook. I will come from the back of the class to the front to see that all my carefully placed lesson items have been sloppily rearranged. When I go to chastise him, he beams up at me with a smile that melts my resolve into a puddle on the wood floor.
Hitesh is only one of the 60 boys that I have in my 9D class. The first time I went to take this class, I was warned by Jagrutiben that it was the talk of the staff room, everyone was discussing how the class of 9D was so difficult.
However, when I first entered the room, the class was so silent you could hear a pin drop. I think they had not been warned that the white girl hanging out around the school would actually be their teacher.
Through their class and the other ninth grade classes, I have come to understand how the Indian school system really functions, from a students’ perspective. This is best illustrated from when I first assigned homework. I asked the students to do an exercise from the book where they were given three vocabulary words per question and asked to make a sentence with them. Not only did every student in 9D come back with the exact same sentences, but every class that I teach had, word for word, the same answers written on their papers.
I pondered quickly how to address this with 9D. “So,” I began, “I don’t know exactly how things work around here, but in the U.S., if you copy someone’s work, that’s called cheating. Do you know this word, cheating?”
They nodded. Some said, “Yes, ma’am.”
Satisfied, I continued. “So, tell me, how have you ALL come to have the exact same sentences?”
Silence. Then, Zakariya, the class English prodigy, raised his hand. I indicated that he should speak. “Ma’am, there is this book.” He held it up. “All the answers to all the exercises are in this book.”
I was a little taken aback by his honesty. “I see,” I said, stalling for time while I tried to figure out how to respond. “So, you all copy out of this book?” There was a mixed, ashamed of response of yes ma’ams and no ma’ams. “Okay. So, from now on, write your own sentences, or I will give you a zero on the assignment.”
My favorite part about this threat was that it actually means nothing. The marks I give carry no weight – the only mark that counts is what they get on the state administered exam at the very end of the year. But the students don’t act like this is true – One of them came to ask me why he only got a three out of four on the last test.
I have repeated this threat to all of my classes – to some avail with the better students, to no avail with the students who have nothing to lose, which is many. One third of 9D failed my last test. I tried to hold office hours and require the failing students to come but this idea was shut down Sejalben and Jagrutiben who say this is not done in India and it would be unfair to the other students.
Extra help as unfair – I’d never really thought about it this way. What a meritocracy.
Best,
Cat
The monsoon rain, which has been absent for a week, has returned in the same, unexpected way that it left. This morning, I was baptized by a torrential downpour creating a sheet of water through which I had to walk from the shower to the house.
Through it all, classes continue. The students are dedicated, but sneaky. There is a small, round faced kid named Hitesh that sits in the front of my 9D class.
Standing at probably 4’5”, he is so cute I want to take him home, but every time I turn around, he is up to some kind of mischief, touching my things on the front desk (especially my radioshack clock) or talking with the person next to him or not looking at the textbook. I will come from the back of the class to the front to see that all my carefully placed lesson items have been sloppily rearranged. When I go to chastise him, he beams up at me with a smile that melts my resolve into a puddle on the wood floor.
Hitesh is only one of the 60 boys that I have in my 9D class. The first time I went to take this class, I was warned by Jagrutiben that it was the talk of the staff room, everyone was discussing how the class of 9D was so difficult.
However, when I first entered the room, the class was so silent you could hear a pin drop. I think they had not been warned that the white girl hanging out around the school would actually be their teacher.
Through their class and the other ninth grade classes, I have come to understand how the Indian school system really functions, from a students’ perspective. This is best illustrated from when I first assigned homework. I asked the students to do an exercise from the book where they were given three vocabulary words per question and asked to make a sentence with them. Not only did every student in 9D come back with the exact same sentences, but every class that I teach had, word for word, the same answers written on their papers.
I pondered quickly how to address this with 9D. “So,” I began, “I don’t know exactly how things work around here, but in the U.S., if you copy someone’s work, that’s called cheating. Do you know this word, cheating?”
They nodded. Some said, “Yes, ma’am.”
Satisfied, I continued. “So, tell me, how have you ALL come to have the exact same sentences?”
Silence. Then, Zakariya, the class English prodigy, raised his hand. I indicated that he should speak. “Ma’am, there is this book.” He held it up. “All the answers to all the exercises are in this book.”
I was a little taken aback by his honesty. “I see,” I said, stalling for time while I tried to figure out how to respond. “So, you all copy out of this book?” There was a mixed, ashamed of response of yes ma’ams and no ma’ams. “Okay. So, from now on, write your own sentences, or I will give you a zero on the assignment.”
My favorite part about this threat was that it actually means nothing. The marks I give carry no weight – the only mark that counts is what they get on the state administered exam at the very end of the year. But the students don’t act like this is true – One of them came to ask me why he only got a three out of four on the last test.
I have repeated this threat to all of my classes – to some avail with the better students, to no avail with the students who have nothing to lose, which is many. One third of 9D failed my last test. I tried to hold office hours and require the failing students to come but this idea was shut down Sejalben and Jagrutiben who say this is not done in India and it would be unfair to the other students.
Extra help as unfair – I’d never really thought about it this way. What a meritocracy.
Best,
Cat
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Welcome!
Hello Everyone! Welcome to the Summer 2008 blog!
My name is Vanisha Gandhi and I am interning with the Nanubhai Education Foundation for 10 weeks this summer in Kadod! I’m extremely excited to be here! Before I start describing some of my experiences in Kadod, I will tell you a little bit about myself: I’m a junior at Stanford University and I am majoring in Human Biology with a concentration in Health, Education, and Development in Underserved Communities. In addition to serving as an intern for the Nanubhai Education Foundation, I have also received a Haas Summer Fellowship to conduct research on curriculum at Kadod high school in hopes of starting a project-based summer enrichment program.
So Priya (the other Intern) and I have been teaching Spoken English classes for students in the 9th standard at Kadod High school for about a week now. All of the students are so enthusiastic and motivated to learn. Everyday, we teach 2 classes of 9th graders in the morning, and 1 class in the evenings. We have been studying the past, present and future tenses with all the students for the past week. We’ve also been practicing vocabulary by reading Dr. Suess books like “The Very Bad Bunny,” which was a huge hit, and by playing the favorite games of Hangman and Pictionary! We’re also starting our Autobiography Project. The 9th standard students are writing about their lives using the past, present and future tenses, and then they are illustrating their autobiographies!
When we’re not teaching, Priya and I’ve been hanging out in the Computer Lab (which is huge!) with Dhirenbhai, Nitinbhai, Shilpaben and a few of the computer teachers at Kadod HS! We’ve also been talking with the math, Gujarati and Sanskrit teachers at Kadod HS, and shadowing classes to learn about how the education system in Gujarat works. All of the teachers are extremely nice and helpful—they even promised they would teach me how to read and write in Gujarati!
During our first weekend here, Priya, Cat, Melissa and I ventured outside of Kadod! On Saturday, we all went to Bardoli to do some shopping with Dhirenbhai (the computer specialist), his sister and his cousin. We bought lots of new clothes to wear at school and got amazing discounts thanks to Dhirenbhai’s sister and cousin! On Sunday, we all walked to the Causeway, a local hangout that is apparently 2 km away! More on the Causeway in future posts….
Well, that’s it for now, but I promise I will post again soon! I’ll be sure to post lots of pictures as well!
Vanisha
My name is Vanisha Gandhi and I am interning with the Nanubhai Education Foundation for 10 weeks this summer in Kadod! I’m extremely excited to be here! Before I start describing some of my experiences in Kadod, I will tell you a little bit about myself: I’m a junior at Stanford University and I am majoring in Human Biology with a concentration in Health, Education, and Development in Underserved Communities. In addition to serving as an intern for the Nanubhai Education Foundation, I have also received a Haas Summer Fellowship to conduct research on curriculum at Kadod high school in hopes of starting a project-based summer enrichment program.
So Priya (the other Intern) and I have been teaching Spoken English classes for students in the 9th standard at Kadod High school for about a week now. All of the students are so enthusiastic and motivated to learn. Everyday, we teach 2 classes of 9th graders in the morning, and 1 class in the evenings. We have been studying the past, present and future tenses with all the students for the past week. We’ve also been practicing vocabulary by reading Dr. Suess books like “The Very Bad Bunny,” which was a huge hit, and by playing the favorite games of Hangman and Pictionary! We’re also starting our Autobiography Project. The 9th standard students are writing about their lives using the past, present and future tenses, and then they are illustrating their autobiographies!
When we’re not teaching, Priya and I’ve been hanging out in the Computer Lab (which is huge!) with Dhirenbhai, Nitinbhai, Shilpaben and a few of the computer teachers at Kadod HS! We’ve also been talking with the math, Gujarati and Sanskrit teachers at Kadod HS, and shadowing classes to learn about how the education system in Gujarat works. All of the teachers are extremely nice and helpful—they even promised they would teach me how to read and write in Gujarati!
During our first weekend here, Priya, Cat, Melissa and I ventured outside of Kadod! On Saturday, we all went to Bardoli to do some shopping with Dhirenbhai (the computer specialist), his sister and his cousin. We bought lots of new clothes to wear at school and got amazing discounts thanks to Dhirenbhai’s sister and cousin! On Sunday, we all walked to the Causeway, a local hangout that is apparently 2 km away! More on the Causeway in future posts….
Well, that’s it for now, but I promise I will post again soon! I’ll be sure to post lots of pictures as well!
Vanisha
Monday, June 23, 2008
A Small Victory
Dear dedicated reader,
I’ve decided that I like going to the staff room in order to do work. It’s quiet in there, and the soothing sound of the other teachers speaking Gujarati to one another is a nice backdrop to my own study of the language.
The room itself is very simple: a long blockish wood table sits in the center of the room, surrounded by the similarly made wood tables. Furniture here is not delicate; it is made to last.
Today when I came in, Vanisha and Priya were already sitting there. Vanisha’s research includes shadowing the teachers so she can align the summer program that she is designing with what they are doing in school, so building relationships is important. She has the distinct advantage of speaking Gujarati fluently, and has been extremely helpful with my study, verifying or correcting my pronunciation or vocabulary. I laughed and said hello and took my seat at the other end of the table.
Copying over my letters, I listened while she conversed with them. Periodically, they would break into English for my benefit, but the conversation took place mostly in Gujarati. It must be such a relief to make themselves understood completely, something that I hope to eventually develop the ability to do with them.
Towards the end of an hour spent in this way, the math teacher who usually grills me with questions about where I live, how I live, and who will arrange my marriage broke into English.
“We are very much respecting you all. You are coming here to say hello to us, to sit with us, and you are wearing Indian clothing.” She turned to Vanisha and continued in Gujarati.
“She says that last year, the girls who were here for the summer did not do these things and wore Western clothing and that is why the students did not respect them.”
The teacher nodded at this faithful translation of what she had said. “You see, there should be some difference between the teachers and the students, for respect.” I nodded, having heard the same thing from the principal. I was beginning to understand, having noted the students’ behavior when I acted like a teacher versus when I was acting as myself on the weekend or in the market. “This is why we are liking you. You have this difference.”
The teachers offered, furthermore, to help me with my Gujarati anytime. They said the best way to learn was to practice with them. I definitely agree.
What a relief.
Best,
Cat
I’ve decided that I like going to the staff room in order to do work. It’s quiet in there, and the soothing sound of the other teachers speaking Gujarati to one another is a nice backdrop to my own study of the language.
The room itself is very simple: a long blockish wood table sits in the center of the room, surrounded by the similarly made wood tables. Furniture here is not delicate; it is made to last.
Today when I came in, Vanisha and Priya were already sitting there. Vanisha’s research includes shadowing the teachers so she can align the summer program that she is designing with what they are doing in school, so building relationships is important. She has the distinct advantage of speaking Gujarati fluently, and has been extremely helpful with my study, verifying or correcting my pronunciation or vocabulary. I laughed and said hello and took my seat at the other end of the table.
Copying over my letters, I listened while she conversed with them. Periodically, they would break into English for my benefit, but the conversation took place mostly in Gujarati. It must be such a relief to make themselves understood completely, something that I hope to eventually develop the ability to do with them.
Towards the end of an hour spent in this way, the math teacher who usually grills me with questions about where I live, how I live, and who will arrange my marriage broke into English.
“We are very much respecting you all. You are coming here to say hello to us, to sit with us, and you are wearing Indian clothing.” She turned to Vanisha and continued in Gujarati.
“She says that last year, the girls who were here for the summer did not do these things and wore Western clothing and that is why the students did not respect them.”
The teacher nodded at this faithful translation of what she had said. “You see, there should be some difference between the teachers and the students, for respect.” I nodded, having heard the same thing from the principal. I was beginning to understand, having noted the students’ behavior when I acted like a teacher versus when I was acting as myself on the weekend or in the market. “This is why we are liking you. You have this difference.”
The teachers offered, furthermore, to help me with my Gujarati anytime. They said the best way to learn was to practice with them. I definitely agree.
What a relief.
Best,
Cat
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Biodata, please?
Dear dedicated reader,
When I came back to my house from teaching class today, there were a number of men’s shoes sitting outside of our door (no shoes in the house in India!). I peered down at one of them and saw the brand: ‘Shoot Out’ with a small, embroidered gun. ‘Lovely,’ I thought.
When I walked in, there were 2 men sitting on the couch talking with Priya and Vanisha. One had hair dyed that peculiarly bright shade of red that comes with applying henna and was wearing a stiff button down shirt. His mustache curled slightly with his lip, which seemed stuck in a perpetual sneer. The owner of the shoes, perhaps? The other also wore western clothes and smiled at me as I came in.
I sat. The sneering man began to address me. It took me a moment to realize that the gargled speech issuing from his mouth was English. I looked helplessly at the other two girls. What in the world was this man talking about? Vanisha intervened.
“These men have come from Ryan International School,” She said, filling me in. “They read the article in the newspaper and are hoping that you could come guest teach some classes at the school.”
“IB programme,” the man gargled at me. I nodded as I was familiar with the program.
I had only a moment to think this through. The Foundation wants us to build relationships with other schools, but something about this whole situation did not seem right. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what though. I decided to play it non-commitally. “That would be fine, sometime,” I said.
The man gargled some more, this time in Gujarati directed at Vanisha. She looked surprised, then looked at me. “He says he’ll send someone to pick us up tomorrow to look at the school?”
“Uh, thank you, but we have to teach tomorrow,” I explained in the slow English I use to teach my classes. He gave the non-commital South-Asian head waggle. I continued, “We can’t come tomorrow.” He nodded and got out his cell phone. I gave Vanisha a confused look. She returned it. Why had the principal let these men come to visit?
All of sudden, I was handed the phone. “Uh, hello?” I asked.
“Hello, who am I speaking to?” A sharp woman on the other end said directly.
I gave her my name. “And your qualifications?” she barked.
“My B.A. and my M.Ed,” I explained hesitantly.
“And your experience?” What?
“I’ve taught for two years in the US,” I said.
“Okay, Catharine, tomorrow you come to the school and bring your biodata.” She explained.
“Well, as I was telling this man here, I can’t come tomorrow because I have to teach here, at Kadod High School,” I said. “Where I work,” I added.
“That’s okay, that’s okay, then you come anytime,” she said.
A thought suddenly occurred to me. “What is this regarding?” I asked sharply.
“A job,” she said in a patronizing way, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.
“But,” I said, “All of us here already have jobs, at Kadod High School, teaching. We explained this also to this man here. We are not interested.”
“I see,” she said. “Well, some time you come visit our school anyway.” Click.
As I handed the phone back to the man, I asked, “Who was that?”
“The principal,” he stuttered.
Ah.
The men were soon on their way, having given us the card, a favorite token of remembrance here in India. My wallet is now full of them. As they left, the man put on his Shoot Out shoes.
The fall out from the articles has been like this. Between reporters calling us inappropriately to say we are beautiful and should come visit them on the weekends to men showing up at our door without permission from the principal to ask about teaching in their private, tribal, or public school, the effect has been far-reaching. We are to build relationships with other schools, but I think, perhaps, not these.
On the whole, however, the media madness does seem to be dying down. And the teachers here did have a reaction, but not the one I expected. We’ll leave that for another time, dear reader.
Best,
Cat
When I came back to my house from teaching class today, there were a number of men’s shoes sitting outside of our door (no shoes in the house in India!). I peered down at one of them and saw the brand: ‘Shoot Out’ with a small, embroidered gun. ‘Lovely,’ I thought.
When I walked in, there were 2 men sitting on the couch talking with Priya and Vanisha. One had hair dyed that peculiarly bright shade of red that comes with applying henna and was wearing a stiff button down shirt. His mustache curled slightly with his lip, which seemed stuck in a perpetual sneer. The owner of the shoes, perhaps? The other also wore western clothes and smiled at me as I came in.
I sat. The sneering man began to address me. It took me a moment to realize that the gargled speech issuing from his mouth was English. I looked helplessly at the other two girls. What in the world was this man talking about? Vanisha intervened.
“These men have come from Ryan International School,” She said, filling me in. “They read the article in the newspaper and are hoping that you could come guest teach some classes at the school.”
“IB programme,” the man gargled at me. I nodded as I was familiar with the program.
I had only a moment to think this through. The Foundation wants us to build relationships with other schools, but something about this whole situation did not seem right. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what though. I decided to play it non-commitally. “That would be fine, sometime,” I said.
The man gargled some more, this time in Gujarati directed at Vanisha. She looked surprised, then looked at me. “He says he’ll send someone to pick us up tomorrow to look at the school?”
“Uh, thank you, but we have to teach tomorrow,” I explained in the slow English I use to teach my classes. He gave the non-commital South-Asian head waggle. I continued, “We can’t come tomorrow.” He nodded and got out his cell phone. I gave Vanisha a confused look. She returned it. Why had the principal let these men come to visit?
All of sudden, I was handed the phone. “Uh, hello?” I asked.
“Hello, who am I speaking to?” A sharp woman on the other end said directly.
I gave her my name. “And your qualifications?” she barked.
“My B.A. and my M.Ed,” I explained hesitantly.
“And your experience?” What?
“I’ve taught for two years in the US,” I said.
“Okay, Catharine, tomorrow you come to the school and bring your biodata.” She explained.
“Well, as I was telling this man here, I can’t come tomorrow because I have to teach here, at Kadod High School,” I said. “Where I work,” I added.
“That’s okay, that’s okay, then you come anytime,” she said.
A thought suddenly occurred to me. “What is this regarding?” I asked sharply.
“A job,” she said in a patronizing way, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.
“But,” I said, “All of us here already have jobs, at Kadod High School, teaching. We explained this also to this man here. We are not interested.”
“I see,” she said. “Well, some time you come visit our school anyway.” Click.
As I handed the phone back to the man, I asked, “Who was that?”
“The principal,” he stuttered.
Ah.
The men were soon on their way, having given us the card, a favorite token of remembrance here in India. My wallet is now full of them. As they left, the man put on his Shoot Out shoes.
The fall out from the articles has been like this. Between reporters calling us inappropriately to say we are beautiful and should come visit them on the weekends to men showing up at our door without permission from the principal to ask about teaching in their private, tribal, or public school, the effect has been far-reaching. We are to build relationships with other schools, but I think, perhaps, not these.
On the whole, however, the media madness does seem to be dying down. And the teachers here did have a reaction, but not the one I expected. We’ll leave that for another time, dear reader.
Best,
Cat
Friday, June 20, 2008
"There should be a gap"
Dear dedicated reader,
One of the major differences between the Indian and American student-teacher relationships has recently been illustrated for me and I want to take a break from telling you about the fall out from the recent media to tell you about it.
Having seen us out and about in the village, the invitations to students’ houses have piled up in recent days. The shy request of ‘Teacher, to my house?’ is one I hear frequently both inside the school after class and outside in the village. We were told by the Foundation that we were to check with the principal before visiting students’ houses, so until recently I have been putting students off with the promise of ‘Soon, soon’ as I’ve waited for the right moment to catch the principal.
However, recently Priya was out in the village to make a phone call at the P.C.O. booth (a shop in which you can make an international phone call in a godforsakenly hot call box) and was dragged forcefully to their houses by a band of girls who we have a hard time going anywhere without these days. A mix of 7th and 8th standard (roughly 11 and 12 years old), Shruti, Divya, Juhi, Komal and Khushboo (whose name I personally find hysterical, as ‘khushboo’ literally means ‘happy smell’ in Hindi) are our village guides, showing us the best place to find this or that, keeping us from being offered outrageous prices by shopkeepers, and so on. At each of the girls’ houses, she met their welcoming parents. Juhi’s parents, she related to me excitedly, had offered to take us around to see the ‘sights of Kadod’ (whatever those may be) in their van at 6 pm the next day.
“I suppose we’ll have to ask the principal,” I said, excited about the trip but curious to see what he would say.
We did not have to wait long to find out, as his wife, elder son, his elder son’s wife (Sejalben, also an English teacher at the school) and his youngest son came to visit at just that moment. While they were over, we mentioned the invitation which had been offered.
Sejalben looked concerned. “Who is the girl? Who are her parents?” She asked, furrowing her brow.
Priya explained that she went to the school and that she was in Sejalben’s 8th standard English class.
The principal’s son said simply, “We’ll have to ask my father, we’ll let you know tomorrow.” After waiting a week for our cell phones with the same promise, I knew how likely this was.
The next day, the girls stopped by our house after school with hopeful faces, saying “Che baje?” (Six o’clock?)
Since we hadn’t seen the principal or his family the entirety of the day, all we could say was, “We’ll see…”
Sitting out on the porch, reading my book, I saw as the principal came inside the gate of the compound and walked up the path towards his house, stopping when he saw me and smiling.
“How…are your classes going?” He asked me in the halting English he speaks in which would be mistaken for hesitancy if I didn’t know better.
“Very well!” I replied, happily. They really have been.
“The students, they… understand you?”
“Oh yes, I think so,” I said, reassuring him. “Also, Jagrutiben has been a great help in making sure that they do. But speaking of the students…” I paused, as he looked at me curiously. I continued, carefully. “Priya and I have received an invitation from the parents of one of the girls to go in their car to see the sights of Kadod, and we were wondering if that would be all right.” I let the idea sink in for a moment.
He paused thoughtfully and then said, “No, I think not.” He cleared his throat and continued. “You see, in India, between students and teachers, there should be a … gap. Students and teachers are not mixing, you see, and parents and teachers are not mixing. Always there should be a gap, for respect.”
I said, “Of course, thank you for explaining to me. I do not know these things because I am not from here so I am always happy to have them explained.” Inwardly, I winced. A gap? But how was this possible to maintain in a place as small as this?
He smiled and continued, “If a teacher is inviting you to their house, you can go. Jagrutiben or another lady teacher. But with students there must be a gap.”
I nodded cheerfully, inwardly remembering my brief visits to the Ladies’ Staff Room.
He turned to go in the house and I took my seat again on the porch, mulling this new information over in my head. Reluctantly, I relayed the news to Priya who was dispatched to tell the girls waiting at the gate. I did not envy her the task. Disappointed preteens are nothing to trifle with.
Since the edict was issued, we have already run into…well, issues following it. But those I will leave for another time, dear reader.
Best,
Cat
One of the major differences between the Indian and American student-teacher relationships has recently been illustrated for me and I want to take a break from telling you about the fall out from the recent media to tell you about it.
Having seen us out and about in the village, the invitations to students’ houses have piled up in recent days. The shy request of ‘Teacher, to my house?’ is one I hear frequently both inside the school after class and outside in the village. We were told by the Foundation that we were to check with the principal before visiting students’ houses, so until recently I have been putting students off with the promise of ‘Soon, soon’ as I’ve waited for the right moment to catch the principal.
However, recently Priya was out in the village to make a phone call at the P.C.O. booth (a shop in which you can make an international phone call in a godforsakenly hot call box) and was dragged forcefully to their houses by a band of girls who we have a hard time going anywhere without these days. A mix of 7th and 8th standard (roughly 11 and 12 years old), Shruti, Divya, Juhi, Komal and Khushboo (whose name I personally find hysterical, as ‘khushboo’ literally means ‘happy smell’ in Hindi) are our village guides, showing us the best place to find this or that, keeping us from being offered outrageous prices by shopkeepers, and so on. At each of the girls’ houses, she met their welcoming parents. Juhi’s parents, she related to me excitedly, had offered to take us around to see the ‘sights of Kadod’ (whatever those may be) in their van at 6 pm the next day.
“I suppose we’ll have to ask the principal,” I said, excited about the trip but curious to see what he would say.
We did not have to wait long to find out, as his wife, elder son, his elder son’s wife (Sejalben, also an English teacher at the school) and his youngest son came to visit at just that moment. While they were over, we mentioned the invitation which had been offered.
Sejalben looked concerned. “Who is the girl? Who are her parents?” She asked, furrowing her brow.
Priya explained that she went to the school and that she was in Sejalben’s 8th standard English class.
The principal’s son said simply, “We’ll have to ask my father, we’ll let you know tomorrow.” After waiting a week for our cell phones with the same promise, I knew how likely this was.
The next day, the girls stopped by our house after school with hopeful faces, saying “Che baje?” (Six o’clock?)
Since we hadn’t seen the principal or his family the entirety of the day, all we could say was, “We’ll see…”
Sitting out on the porch, reading my book, I saw as the principal came inside the gate of the compound and walked up the path towards his house, stopping when he saw me and smiling.
“How…are your classes going?” He asked me in the halting English he speaks in which would be mistaken for hesitancy if I didn’t know better.
“Very well!” I replied, happily. They really have been.
“The students, they… understand you?”
“Oh yes, I think so,” I said, reassuring him. “Also, Jagrutiben has been a great help in making sure that they do. But speaking of the students…” I paused, as he looked at me curiously. I continued, carefully. “Priya and I have received an invitation from the parents of one of the girls to go in their car to see the sights of Kadod, and we were wondering if that would be all right.” I let the idea sink in for a moment.
He paused thoughtfully and then said, “No, I think not.” He cleared his throat and continued. “You see, in India, between students and teachers, there should be a … gap. Students and teachers are not mixing, you see, and parents and teachers are not mixing. Always there should be a gap, for respect.”
I said, “Of course, thank you for explaining to me. I do not know these things because I am not from here so I am always happy to have them explained.” Inwardly, I winced. A gap? But how was this possible to maintain in a place as small as this?
He smiled and continued, “If a teacher is inviting you to their house, you can go. Jagrutiben or another lady teacher. But with students there must be a gap.”
I nodded cheerfully, inwardly remembering my brief visits to the Ladies’ Staff Room.
He turned to go in the house and I took my seat again on the porch, mulling this new information over in my head. Reluctantly, I relayed the news to Priya who was dispatched to tell the girls waiting at the gate. I did not envy her the task. Disappointed preteens are nothing to trifle with.
Since the edict was issued, we have already run into…well, issues following it. But those I will leave for another time, dear reader.
Best,
Cat
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Media Circus
Dear dedicated reader,
Today a student asked me for my autograph.
I have achieved the status of a minor celebrity here. In order to understand how this has happened, I need to fill you in on the media circus that Kadod High School has become in such a short period of time.
The same afternoon that Z-news came to film my class, another set of reporters arrived to interview us in our home. The next day, more arrived, this time in the middle of my 9D class. I was just coming to the home stretch of an activity that I had put a lot of effort into setting up when the principal arrived at my door.
“These men are wanting to film your class,” he said as he gestured for the men to come in and begin setting up.
“That’s…wonderful,” was all I could really say. And it is. The press will be very good for the Foundation and for the school. “Should I just…keep teaching?”
“Yes, yes,” the principal said with a wave of his hand.
I started to continue, but I was stopped by an anxious camera man who told me to stop the activity (a small play that the students were about to perform). He gave me the 9th standard English textbook to hold in my hand with the title prominently displayed and then indicated that I should continue. I felt as though someone should be feeding me lines since apparently the rest of me was open for puppetry. The principal intervened.
“Simply ask the students some simple questions. Simple, and repeat if they don’t understand,” he directed.
The show must go on, I thought. I obliged with some simple questions about the text. The bell rang. Again, the students looked as if they wanted to bolt, but had to sit tight through an entire period of this dog and pony show. The cameramen instructed me to stop teaching and thrust the book at Melissa, newly come from the US only the day before, and instructed her to teach. I must say, having no preparation or any idea what we were doing, she did an admirable job. The students, probably bored to tears by questions about a story we had been discussing for a week, half-heartedly raised their hands.
By the end of the school, the men must have gotten what they wanted because after taking a short personal interview with me and a few students, they left. Last night, I watched two separate airings of myself teaching on the principal’s TV, and another today. This morning, the principal excitedly handed me an article in Gujarati with a large picture of myself teaching my 9C class. All day, students have been saying ‘Teacher, teacher!” and producing out of their pockets folded versions of this same article.
I approached the Ladies’ Staff Room with some apprehension this afternoon. After so much attention, how would they treat me? They have been at the school for years and I have been here only one week. How would they feel about this special treatment? I went in and tried to act normal. They noticed me immediately and the article was summarily placed in front of me. “You are in the paper,” they said generously.
“Yes, oh wow,” I said awkwardly. They smiled, but kept their distance.
Suddenly, two men burst into the room accompanied by the school computer teacher, Dhirinbhai. One came striding up to me and introduced himself, “My name is Hitesh,” he said, “and I’m a reporter. I was wondering if I could talk to you?” He looked around at the surprised teachers’ faces. “Maybe someplace else?”
Oh god. “Uh, yes, that would be fine. Why don’t we go to my house?” Oh god.
At the house, he conducted a strained interview with Vinesha (a newly arrived summer intern), Priya and myself. “So, 50 years ago, they kicked you out of the country,” he said. “And now you are back. How are you feeling?”
“Well… I’m not British,” I said slowly.
“Uh, er, yes,” he replied. “But, uh, you see, foreigners were expelled from this place 50 years ago. And now, you, foreigner, are back. How is that feeling?”
“Um, everyone has been, uh, really welcoming… so…” I didn’t know what to say. The rest of the interview continued in this fashion. After he was satisfied, he thanked us and excused himself. We had just begun to unwind and laugh to ourselves about how ridiculous this was becoming when a peon was at the door saying that ‘Sir’ was asking for us.
Sitting in the principal’s office, he related excitedly that The Indian Express, the newspaper that we read everyday in our house, had called and also was wanting to talk with me if I was willing. I wasn’t really in a position to refuse, so the Principal dialed up “Kumaal” and put me on the phone.
“Hello Ma’am!” the voice on the other end of the line chirped cheerfully.
“Hello…” I said, uneasily. These interviews and their potential for backlash were really doing a number on my confidence level. What if I say the wrong thing?
“So, you are being paid to teach here in India?” He asked.
A thought suddenly crossed my mind as I slowly said, “Yeees.” What if the Indian INS realizes that I am here working when I’m only supposed to be here on a tourist visa visiting friends? Am I going to be deported?
“And how much is that salary?”
What is it with this question? “Um, as much as an Indian teacher makes.”
“In US dollars, you are making how much?”
“I’d really rather not say…”
There was laughing on the other end of the line. “Okay, okay…”
Eventually it was over and the only remaining instruction was that someone was to take a picture of me teaching and e-mail it to him this afternoon. Dhirinbhai took charge of this and yet another one of my classes was documented real time in order to achieve the perfect visual accompaniment for the story.
I am unable to go anywhere in town without someone saying to me in Hindi “I saw you on TV!” Or “Look ma’am, you are in the paper.”
During our spoken English classes, two students slyly tried to get me to autograph their notebooks. “Why do you want my signature?” I asked them pointedly.
“Because, ma’am, you are our teacher.” Oh Lord. This must end soon.
Best,
Cat
P.S. Here is a link the the Indian Express article. Please note that I said none of the things I am quoted as saying! Also, they've confused Melissa with Vinesha and lumped them as one person. http://www.expressindia.com/latest-news/From-US-with-love-Tribal-students-in-Surat-village-get-teachers-from-America/325122/
P.P.S. Here is a link to a second article. In this, my name is, apparently, Kathreen Viddle. http://www.mynews.in/fullstory.aspx?storyid=6207
Today a student asked me for my autograph.
I have achieved the status of a minor celebrity here. In order to understand how this has happened, I need to fill you in on the media circus that Kadod High School has become in such a short period of time.
The same afternoon that Z-news came to film my class, another set of reporters arrived to interview us in our home. The next day, more arrived, this time in the middle of my 9D class. I was just coming to the home stretch of an activity that I had put a lot of effort into setting up when the principal arrived at my door.
“These men are wanting to film your class,” he said as he gestured for the men to come in and begin setting up.
“That’s…wonderful,” was all I could really say. And it is. The press will be very good for the Foundation and for the school. “Should I just…keep teaching?”
“Yes, yes,” the principal said with a wave of his hand.
I started to continue, but I was stopped by an anxious camera man who told me to stop the activity (a small play that the students were about to perform). He gave me the 9th standard English textbook to hold in my hand with the title prominently displayed and then indicated that I should continue. I felt as though someone should be feeding me lines since apparently the rest of me was open for puppetry. The principal intervened.
“Simply ask the students some simple questions. Simple, and repeat if they don’t understand,” he directed.
The show must go on, I thought. I obliged with some simple questions about the text. The bell rang. Again, the students looked as if they wanted to bolt, but had to sit tight through an entire period of this dog and pony show. The cameramen instructed me to stop teaching and thrust the book at Melissa, newly come from the US only the day before, and instructed her to teach. I must say, having no preparation or any idea what we were doing, she did an admirable job. The students, probably bored to tears by questions about a story we had been discussing for a week, half-heartedly raised their hands.
By the end of the school, the men must have gotten what they wanted because after taking a short personal interview with me and a few students, they left. Last night, I watched two separate airings of myself teaching on the principal’s TV, and another today. This morning, the principal excitedly handed me an article in Gujarati with a large picture of myself teaching my 9C class. All day, students have been saying ‘Teacher, teacher!” and producing out of their pockets folded versions of this same article.
I approached the Ladies’ Staff Room with some apprehension this afternoon. After so much attention, how would they treat me? They have been at the school for years and I have been here only one week. How would they feel about this special treatment? I went in and tried to act normal. They noticed me immediately and the article was summarily placed in front of me. “You are in the paper,” they said generously.
“Yes, oh wow,” I said awkwardly. They smiled, but kept their distance.
Suddenly, two men burst into the room accompanied by the school computer teacher, Dhirinbhai. One came striding up to me and introduced himself, “My name is Hitesh,” he said, “and I’m a reporter. I was wondering if I could talk to you?” He looked around at the surprised teachers’ faces. “Maybe someplace else?”
Oh god. “Uh, yes, that would be fine. Why don’t we go to my house?” Oh god.
At the house, he conducted a strained interview with Vinesha (a newly arrived summer intern), Priya and myself. “So, 50 years ago, they kicked you out of the country,” he said. “And now you are back. How are you feeling?”
“Well… I’m not British,” I said slowly.
“Uh, er, yes,” he replied. “But, uh, you see, foreigners were expelled from this place 50 years ago. And now, you, foreigner, are back. How is that feeling?”
“Um, everyone has been, uh, really welcoming… so…” I didn’t know what to say. The rest of the interview continued in this fashion. After he was satisfied, he thanked us and excused himself. We had just begun to unwind and laugh to ourselves about how ridiculous this was becoming when a peon was at the door saying that ‘Sir’ was asking for us.
Sitting in the principal’s office, he related excitedly that The Indian Express, the newspaper that we read everyday in our house, had called and also was wanting to talk with me if I was willing. I wasn’t really in a position to refuse, so the Principal dialed up “Kumaal” and put me on the phone.
“Hello Ma’am!” the voice on the other end of the line chirped cheerfully.
“Hello…” I said, uneasily. These interviews and their potential for backlash were really doing a number on my confidence level. What if I say the wrong thing?
“So, you are being paid to teach here in India?” He asked.
A thought suddenly crossed my mind as I slowly said, “Yeees.” What if the Indian INS realizes that I am here working when I’m only supposed to be here on a tourist visa visiting friends? Am I going to be deported?
“And how much is that salary?”
What is it with this question? “Um, as much as an Indian teacher makes.”
“In US dollars, you are making how much?”
“I’d really rather not say…”
There was laughing on the other end of the line. “Okay, okay…”
Eventually it was over and the only remaining instruction was that someone was to take a picture of me teaching and e-mail it to him this afternoon. Dhirinbhai took charge of this and yet another one of my classes was documented real time in order to achieve the perfect visual accompaniment for the story.
I am unable to go anywhere in town without someone saying to me in Hindi “I saw you on TV!” Or “Look ma’am, you are in the paper.”
During our spoken English classes, two students slyly tried to get me to autograph their notebooks. “Why do you want my signature?” I asked them pointedly.
“Because, ma’am, you are our teacher.” Oh Lord. This must end soon.
Best,
Cat
P.S. Here is a link the the Indian Express article. Please note that I said none of the things I am quoted as saying! Also, they've confused Melissa with Vinesha and lumped them as one person. http://www.expressindia.com/latest-news/From-US-with-love-Tribal-students-in-Surat-village-get-teachers-from-America/325122/
P.P.S. Here is a link to a second article. In this, my name is, apparently, Kathreen Viddle. http://www.mynews.in/fullstory.aspx?storyid=6207
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)