Drop In
I said if I could get through this month, everything would be okay. I spent most of this last day of March in bed. I did it. I called in a sick day, which gets taken off my ten precious casual leave days. I woke up this morning with a pounding headache and a terrible stomach – the kind of pain that seizes you for a moment and then releases, only to start its cycle over again. I tried to mentally talk myself into going to school, thought a shower might help, but by 8 am, I was still feeling sick and called my principal. Back to bed it was.
From my bed in my house, which is about a six-minute walk from the school, I could hear the bell better than when I’m in the classroom teaching. The bell to start social work, the bell for morning assembly, the bell for first period. And then I fell asleep, waking up often, maybe because of the bell. Then I heard the lunch bell, a longer continuing bell pounding to signal the release from four consecutive classes. Usually at this time in the workday, I, too, am looking for an escape just as much as the students, maybe more. I laid in bed and felt guilty for missing these class periods, for allowing the students to stall. There was homework due, I had a fun activity planned for my 5A class.
After reading for a bit, I finally pried myself from the bed around 2 pm. The cloudy, drippy morning had turned into a sunny day. I made myself some food and started watching a movie. I was giving into laziness and boredom, allowing myself to be as unproductive as possible. My stomach had long stopped hurting and I wondered if the pains were caused from something I ate or the thought of school itself. Did I sleep so long because of my headache, or because I’m actually depressed and only my body is admitting it? I hate confessing it to anyone except Scott, but teaching in Bhutan is more of a chore than a challenge or reward. The act of doing it is numbing. I try to not let it get to me, affect me. I do not enjoy teaching. Period.
I was vegging out to a mindless movie and around 3:40, the beeping of the doorbell startled me. I was expecting the internet person at 4:30 – maybe he had come early. I ran to the door, opened it, and found five students at my doorstep, two of them from my homeroom class – Sonam and Karma. Both girls have taken a strong liking to me. In the states, they’d be considered teachers’ pets. Here, they are my saviors in the classroom. Without them, I wouldn’t think any of my students were trying.
“What happened, ma’am?” “Are you okay, ma’am?” “We were so worried, ma’am.” It was a mash of words and concern from Sonam and Karma. The class had apparently been scared that something terrible happened. They were worried about me “like a parent worries about their children, ma'am.” I told them I was fine, that it was just my stomach, that I was feeling better and just needed time to rest. What got me weren’t their words, although they were very kind. It was their faces, the looks on their faces when I opened the door – of utter worry and love. And so in the midst of their questions and concerns and my assurances that I was fine, I started to cry. I tried to hold it back, but I couldn’t. A few tears came falling down, and my students, innocently, pointed them out. I must’ve looked like a mess to them. In my pajamas, crying. I tried to get them to leave as quickly and as gently as possible. I thanked them, told them I’d see them tomorrow, closed the door, and cried some more.
From my bed in my house, which is about a six-minute walk from the school, I could hear the bell better than when I’m in the classroom teaching. The bell to start social work, the bell for morning assembly, the bell for first period. And then I fell asleep, waking up often, maybe because of the bell. Then I heard the lunch bell, a longer continuing bell pounding to signal the release from four consecutive classes. Usually at this time in the workday, I, too, am looking for an escape just as much as the students, maybe more. I laid in bed and felt guilty for missing these class periods, for allowing the students to stall. There was homework due, I had a fun activity planned for my 5A class.
After reading for a bit, I finally pried myself from the bed around 2 pm. The cloudy, drippy morning had turned into a sunny day. I made myself some food and started watching a movie. I was giving into laziness and boredom, allowing myself to be as unproductive as possible. My stomach had long stopped hurting and I wondered if the pains were caused from something I ate or the thought of school itself. Did I sleep so long because of my headache, or because I’m actually depressed and only my body is admitting it? I hate confessing it to anyone except Scott, but teaching in Bhutan is more of a chore than a challenge or reward. The act of doing it is numbing. I try to not let it get to me, affect me. I do not enjoy teaching. Period.
I was vegging out to a mindless movie and around 3:40, the beeping of the doorbell startled me. I was expecting the internet person at 4:30 – maybe he had come early. I ran to the door, opened it, and found five students at my doorstep, two of them from my homeroom class – Sonam and Karma. Both girls have taken a strong liking to me. In the states, they’d be considered teachers’ pets. Here, they are my saviors in the classroom. Without them, I wouldn’t think any of my students were trying.
“What happened, ma’am?” “Are you okay, ma’am?” “We were so worried, ma’am.” It was a mash of words and concern from Sonam and Karma. The class had apparently been scared that something terrible happened. They were worried about me “like a parent worries about their children, ma'am.” I told them I was fine, that it was just my stomach, that I was feeling better and just needed time to rest. What got me weren’t their words, although they were very kind. It was their faces, the looks on their faces when I opened the door – of utter worry and love. And so in the midst of their questions and concerns and my assurances that I was fine, I started to cry. I tried to hold it back, but I couldn’t. A few tears came falling down, and my students, innocently, pointed them out. I must’ve looked like a mess to them. In my pajamas, crying. I tried to get them to leave as quickly and as gently as possible. I thanked them, told them I’d see them tomorrow, closed the door, and cried some more.
posted by Siapiau | 9:41 PM
1 Comments:
Well, at least when you were crying, you were at home!!!!
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