I was only supposed to teacher assist a group of multilingual 6 year olds
But on the first day, Teacher Thomas fell sick
So i was asked to handle the full load
No lesson plan, no clue what to do.
"Just roll with the punches Chanell and something will come to you"
Now at this age, i don't recall much,
But one thing i remember is a child's love for drawing and such.
"Take out your colored pencils.
Today we address going to create,
a picture of our family,
and it'll be great!"
I passed out white papers, pencils and Crayolas
Then began to sketch my dearly missed family,
With zeal and fervor
But with sad eyes, each child looked from their papers, then to me
and one by one they said
"Teacher, i don't know."
Of course you do, i thought, simply draw your sister or mother, or
baby brother.
Minutes ticked and tocked by,
papers all blank,
and slowly but surely my heart deeply to sink.
"Teacher teacher, i don't know…"
Said over and over and over again.
I had no choice but to take a deep breath and figure out plan B in my head.
"Okay students, don't worry about your family,
Draw whatever you want,
Whatever in your mind you see.
A lady bug, a mouse, a princess, a house.
A shoe, a canoe, a stew, a rue.
Your favorite animal.
A vicious Dragon.
A clear blue sky.
A sea lion.
A dandy piece of candy.
A one man marching band.
A long nose toucan
A magical frying pan.
On and on my list of suggestions grew
And at a moment's pause their little voices cried
"Teacher teacher, I still don't know what to do."
Never have I ever seen imaginations so uncultivated
So creatively unemancipated,
So deeply unelated,
So clearly regulated.
Well in the end what did i do?
I drew a picture on every single paper.
And their response:
"Teacher thank you,
we know what to do,
now tell us what color to use."
I wish this were a poem crafted from the depths of my imagination,
But even then, i wouldn't have the heart to fictionally write of such
a deprived situation.
Later i discovered that there are no dance classes,
no painting courses,
no creative outlets,
nothing.
I played music for my class during some free time, encouraging them to
bust a move, and they watched me, because they didn't know what to do.
Each day my heart incurres a new bruise.
So in my prayers i bruise the enemy's head
Calling for my Abba Father to break the oppresor's chains
For there is something a-rye about a society whose children cannot dream
Whose women are oppressed
Whose laws exploit the weak.
But as for what little change i am called make…
My hands are on the plow.
My God is a creative God, and He speaks creatively through me.
I believe this is the God I have been sent to share with the Malay children
To open the minds and hearts of their created spirits
To prepare a way for the proclamation of His goodness.
Malaysia is a closed nation. But I know someOne who can open it.
