So I knew there would be some differences teaching this month to how I teach back home. I mean typically I’m teaching English to college students in a suburb of Boston, not English to 4th graders who live literally on top of a mountain. I just didn’t realize how different the teaching styles would be.
Walking to El Shaddai Primary School
The first day I just observed until they could figure out what to do with me. In one class a teacher hit a student on the palm because he wasn’t following along with the reading. It made me uncomfortable but I grew up in a Catholic town so I’d heard the horror stories of nuns whacking knuckles with rulers. Not awesome but not horrific either.
And then a few days later I was helping check students’ work but I needed to leave the room to something. When I walked back into the classroom, the teacher had a student by the arm and was hitting him unbelievably hard across the butt with a stick. So hard in fact that the teacher had to hold the student’s arm to keep him in place instead of flying forward. It was violent and ugly. I stood there in absolute horror until it ended. I had no idea what to do. I wanted to grab the stick and hit the teacher and ask if that felt ok to him. I wanted to vomit. I wanted to yell. I wanted to grab the student and run. I wanted to run and cry. I felt so helpless.
All the students were still standing in line waiting for their work to be graded. They didn’t look shocked at all. This is their life. This is their normal. If they don’t do the work or misbehave or are even late to school without an excuse they are beat. In my 2 ½ weeks left here what changes could I make?
I went home and cried and cried. I cried by myself, I cried to my team. My heart literally ached for these children. This was hands down the hardest day of the race for me. My heart was broken for these students and just how hopeless it seemed. I told my team I wanted to be assigned to a different ministry but knew I couldn’t because God had me there for a reason.
So I went back the next day and the next all the way till my last assigned day and I loved those kids. I smiled at them, told them how smart they were. I would touch their arm or shoulder when they did a good job or a bad job to show them that touch can be positive too.
I still feel like I could have done more. But I will hold on to the memory of this one boy who when I first got there sat sullen and silent in the second row and by the time I left was smiling and answering questions every class. Hopefully his life has a bit more joy now.
My 4th graders! They range in age from 8-15. If they don't pass English they do't move up a grade.
