Spilling Sand - Starting at the Orphanage

My new students are haunting me. Which is unexpected from such small gorgeous faces. I had a very long freaky dream last night that climaxed with being chased into someone's backyard shed, then lifted by a giant and shook violently until the window popped open and suddenly it was a giant John Cusack's face angrily staring into mine, until his mother called for him to park his jeep somewhere else in her yard. He sheepishly put down the shed and let me go, while I cursed him for messing me around and went to retrieve the scattered contents of my backpack. Was I walking home from school? What's going on here?

I can't help but suspect that a dream of being shaken and confronted up close and personal in my face was inspired by my teaching experience last night. Since I visited the orphanage, I can't stop thinking about those kids. I imagine their faces, energetic and eager, and I constantly imagine where they are at any given moment. I can't stop thinking what a life would be like without a mom or dad to go home to, to tell about school that day, to get a hug or a pat or at least some one-on-one attention. I'm comforted to see the clean, spacious center with its wide courtyard, playground and clean classrooms; the loving director and teachers; the organized schedule each evening when the students return from school ... but as much as I see them smiling and happy at this place, I will never wrap my head around the unavoidable fact that each and every one of these kids was left on a doorstep or even a dumpster, or the parents are still around but poor or in prison, and the kids have no parent to go home to at night. They are home.

Those kids ate me alive last night. A room full of rowdy 10-year-old boys with a new teacher who is pitiful in Arabic and speaking an alien language to them does not strike the most fear or discipline into their hearts. When the manager and other teachers popped in to restore order every 15 minutes, I felt guilty and embarrassed, and after my classes I apologized to him in my savage-like Arabic.

"I'm sorry because I am not strong in the classroom."

He said they, the teachers, were the ones who were sorry because the students are difficult, because they have no mothers. I assured him that all the kids in the world behave like this, especially with a weak teacher to lead them. No, no I'm not upset, I promised - mainly because I'd forgotten about wanting to kill myself just 30 minutes into the first class. As I'm thrown back into a classroom atmosphere (I've been too spoiled teaching private lessons), I remember the fond feeling of trying to grab at these young people's minds who slip through my grasp like sand through your fingers. It's frustrating. It's infuriating. I know that if only I could make the atmosphere controlled enough, they could start learning and absorbing what I teach them. I bring a lesson plan with games and coloring and charades and speaking practice - but it's lost on them if they just crowd around me in the front of the class or jump over each other's seats or beat each other with their notebooks. Some teachers would come in and shout and get them all seated, even scare them, but once they were left with only me, they were laughing and springing around again. One teacher even came in with a plastic stick and started smacking some kids on the arms, making them shriek in that way that always made my skin crawl. I'll request the no-slapping reinforcement next time; it was creepy to witness even though I'd heard it happens in some schools here in Egypt. Officially it's been banned by the Minister of Education, but from what I hear he's as neglectful as the other ministers so we shouldn't expect any enforcement from him.

My class of 9-year-old boys was manageable, because they're "less naughty" the teacher said - which was all the more embarrassing when order began to deteriorate as she left me alone with them. It was a temporary mayhem though, as she returned and helped me ask "What is this?" and elicit the response "This is a ..." from the students as they stuck their pictures on the board in alphabetical order, then created actions for each. We were very un-PC in kicking a football for "boy" and running our fingers through our hair flakily for "girl". The biggest hits were growling for "wolf" and clapping our hands like a canter for "zebra" and, surprisingly, sniffing our fists and saying "ahhhh" for "flower". They dwelled on "nails" each time to demonstrate hammering the tops of their friends' heads to push them down into their seats. Turns out these kids are really fast learners once you have their attention. So this is my new challenge - every Sunday and Tuesday night - finding enough classroom presence to establish structure and hold onto those little minds of spilling sand.