I say “teacher” loosely. I'm not even a real teacher. The extent of my commanding abilities lay in that one year I co-coached junior varsity girls' basketball at my old elementary school when I was 16. My obsessive adherence to English language and grammar has aided my friends when they need assistance with essays, and with foreign-exchange students needing homework checked or a slang word explained. But, regardless of my past “teaching experience,” I am a native English speaker that has come to converse. And apparently, that's enough for them, and credible enough that they rise when I enter a room.
There's still a lot to get used to here. I began this draft while sitting on the green tiled-floor of the balcony of my hotel room, that overlooks clusters of roofs and narrow alleyways. The power has gone out, now about thirty minutes, so I'm sitting with the last of my battery, a pirated copy of 1984, and a glass of Dalat red wine. My dinner that I started is sitting on the desk, hoping that the power returns soon so that the rice cooker can heat the vegetables and tofu I've sliced. Against my willpower that I so strongly had maintained, I've resorted to clawing at a few particular vicious bug bites that I have driven red and raw with my nails. I lick my wounds with copious amounts of White Tiger Balm.
I knew that when I came, I would be experiencing some variation of culture shock. I don't ride the elevators because of the frequency of these rolling brownouts, and I opt to walk up the six flights of stairs to my room. I'm terribly claustrophobic, and the idea of being trapped in a tiny, mirrored box for a half-hour. I boil my drinking water. I have to learn to be firm and painfully ignore the tiny, adorable little fan girls that approach me in the street to try to hock me their wares. I have to understand a new way of life, even if that means seeing people piss in the streets as a common occurrence.
But, I still cannot believe the adoration for teachers.
I've co-taught two classes so far; a level-four reading class, and a second-level speaking class. I've tutored a couple girls already, and this morning, I went to Crazy Kim's bar for the first time. Within moments of being introduced by the volunteer teacher, Frank, students were already barraging me with questions about Alaska and myself, calling me "Teacher," and asking me to write my name in their notebooks, so that they could further commit to memory the name of another pale-skinned foreigner who cloisters in the back to enunciate the difference between "dare" and "there."
It's fascinating and humbling. When I encounter young people in town or at Kim's, their jaws drop, their eyes widen, and punctuate their exclamations of "Wow!" with broad grins and giggles. All of that in response to my simply saying, "Oh, I teach at the university." I don't even have teaching credentials, or ESL certification. I'm younger than some people I tutor. Until recently, I was a bum of a college student, working at a coffee shop and a restaurant, slinging joe and wine for tips, and lazing my way through CLEP tests to finally get my degree. I don't even have a dress or a nice skirt in my wardrobe in Anchorage, and suddenly, I'm something that matters. Someone who has status. Cripes, I still laugh at fart jokes, and I've no shame when it comes to picking my nose. What on earth have I ever done to deserve this??
I am inspired, not by something from within, but the students I'm surrounded by. Their enthusiasm, their desire to learn, their laughter and jovial teasing of each other is enough to make this worth something. I surge with pride when a shy girl can finally roll the uncomfortable pronunciations off of her tongue, and share a laugh when I can clarify something for an eager boy who wants to know meanings of a certain idiom. I'm constantly in awe at the speed of their acquisition and their application, as it's something I've never seen in the States.
Perhaps when this is all said and done, after I've done my stint, and encountered dozens of people that I can help, that maybe I'll have earned that respect. Maybe after hours of teaching and correcting homework and pronunciation, and after endless conversations and candy-filled games, I'll have earned only a fraction of what they think I deserve. Because right now, they grant me with far too much, and I ought to work hard for that. I need to make it worth their while, and live up to the expectations they have laid out for me. They deserve respect and admiration and awe, and I want to make sure they know it.
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