All through our
life, we’ve been told that if you give your 100% to something, you’ll be
rewarded in return. If you work hard, you’ll see success. If the night is dark,
it means the dawn is arriving soon.
So when I decided to join Teach for
India, I prepared myself for the challenge that lay ahead. “There will be times
when you will want to pull your hair out”, said an Alumnus. Yeah, big deal, don’t we all want to at some
point of time? “You’ll go months without seeing success in your classroom”,
said another one. Not me, I’m going to
give it my all and I will see success. “There’ll be days when you’ll come
home and cry”, said a third. Cry because
some kids are not learning? I don’t think so.
Armed with, what we, at Teach for
India, call ‘uninformed optimism’ (1), I geared up to make a change in the lives of the 35 children that I would be in
charge of. I had hopes and dreams for them – they’d be disciplined, they’d be
the change-makers of tomorrow, they’d be grateful for the new learning that I
was imparting them with, they’d respect and love me. And I, in turn, would give
everything I had to make sure that they could be the leaders that our country
needs and deserves.
Geared up with the will to conquer
the world, I entered my class on Day 1 to see 70 kids (yes 70!) sitting almost
silently and listening to the municipal teacher teaching Math. Oh wow, my kids are great,
I’m going to put them on a transformational life path really soon! I can’t wait
to start!
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| Division A - 35 kids |
*******
Six months down the line, it is impossible for me to even teach in
my classroom, in spite of the fact that the class has been split into two
sections. Strategy after strategy has failed. The minute I enter the classroom,
the kids are unruly and badly behaved. They run around, beating each other,
whacking their friends playfully and their ‘enemies’ with vengeance. Making
them sit for even a minute is a task. The little academic growth that they
showed in the first three months has stagnated.
More often than not, there are times
when I want to pull my hair out and just bang my head against a wall. More
often than not, I come home and sob, wondering if I am in the right place;
won’t they better off with a teacher who can control them and who can make them
study?
There are moments of self-doubt and self-criticism. If my 35 kids
cannot be ‘tamed’, then how is it possible that “one day, all kids will receive
an excellent education”? Why do they not respect me when all I do is shower
them with love? Is my presence even needed in the class? The kids don’t seem to
miss me when I am gone. They know what the class values are, but do not show
them at all. They can recite verbatim what teamwork is, but if I ask them to
work in groups with people they do not like, there is rebellion.
There are times when the emotional stress is so great that all I can
see is a deep, dark abyss with no light at the end. I try to keep my hopes up
that today will be different. Today my kids will be better behaved and will
listen to me. I go into my classroom armed with optimism every day, only to
fail. I go into my classroom armed with belief in my work, only to be reminded
that that “one day” might never arrive. I go into my classroom with hope, only
to return with despair. I research, I talk to others, I read, I try new things,
I adhere to all the deadlines, attend all the meetings, I give my 200%. And
yet…. I fall. I fall down day after day. I see no output or impact. I see no
return on that 200%.
And that, is the bitterest pill to swallow. That is what hurts the
most, because we’ve always been told that hard work leads to success. That
dedication brings reward. That perseverance pays dividends. It goes against
everything that I have ever been taught or learnt or read about. And therein,
lies the challenge.
I would love to end this by saying that my kids are behaving and are
on the track. But they aren’t. I have to still struggle to wake myself up in the
morning. I have to still learn not to cringe when I see that one disruptive
child enter the school gates and smile devilishly at me. I have to still learn
to be consistent with rewards and consequences. I have to still learn not to be
too harsh on myself. I have to still learn the value of patience.
Most of all, I have to learn how to identify that oyster that
contains the pearl, amidst the millions of those that don’t. I have to learn
how to see every small success amidst the sea of failures. I have to learn to
appreciate the fact that though 30 of my kids are ungrateful, there are those five
who are happy that didi (that is what they call me) is in the class. I have to
learn to feel proud knowing that that one child that was initially unruly and
defiant in class now asks me every single day, “Didi, was I naughty today?” I have
to learn to be grateful for that one child who comes up and voluntarily gives
me all the toffees he has in his pocket and keeps just one for himself because “didi
has told me that eating so many chocolates is bad for health”. I have to learn to
feel glad for that one kid who said “I hate you didi, please don’t come to
school tomorrow”, but who was the only kid who called multiple times when I was
on leave, asking if I had reached my destination safely.
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| Omkar - One of my most disruptive, but most loving students. He called me at 10.30 pm when I was on leave, asking if I had reached my destination. |
It is easy to overlook these tiny successes, these minute stories.
It is easy to get buried into the mire of depression and failure and to slowly
start sinking deeper and deeper into the marshlands of self-pity and loathing.
It is easy to say, “I don’t think I can do this anymore”. When life faces you
with two choices, it is always easier to take the simpler road, the road where
you externalise your failures on your surroundings and situation. It is easier
to lose faith and motivation and just listlessly move ahead with the process,
hoping for some miracle.
You need to realise that you are dealing with tiny human beings.
Small packages of flesh and bones that have been neglected and told they are
not worthy enough. Understanding that the child you want to sometimes throw out
of the class because he bullies others is beaten and bullied at home. Being
sympathetic to the fact that kids are sleeping in class because they were awake
all night seeing their father beat their mother. Realising that kids running
around in an unruly manner in the classroom is testament to the fact that they
trust you enough to express themselves and be their most vulnerable around you.
 |
| Division B - 35 students |
Nothing prepares you to deal with this situation. All the rules go
flying out the window, all logic disintegrates into dust and all you can see is
darkness and more darkness. Why then do I continue here, you ask. It’s a
question I’ve asked myself multiple times. Why don’t I just quit? It’ll be less
emotional stress. The pay will be better elsewhere. I won’t have to deal with
ungrateful whiny children.
But then I remember that one boy who confides in me about his family
problems. I remember that one girl who comes and gives me a hug every day. I
remember that one child whose eyes light up when I am about to give a weekly
test. I remember that one kid who groans aloud about the fact that tomorrow is
a holiday. And that gives me hope. That fans the dying embers of dejection in
my heart and gets the fire burning again. That fills me with optimism that
maybe somewhere, in the not-so-distant future, they will, for a fleeting
moment, think about that didi who made them smile and made their time in class
a safe and happy experience. The didi who did not judge them or beat them or
tell them they were useless children who were bound to fail at life.
This is what makes me do what I do, every day or, as they call it at Teach for India, helps me find my why. Trying to find that light in every child in my class, and then making it shine brighter
than it ever has.
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(1) Read about the five transition stages here: http://www.cameronherold.com/blog/emotional-roller-coaster/5-stages-of-the-entrepreneurs-transition-curve/
