Quetzalcóatl's Mortality
by Anwar Ali
Every now and then
teachers need a reminder to continue what they do.
They never know who may be looking up
at them.
The Aztecs were
awaiting the god Quetzalcoátl when Hernán Cortés landed on Mexican
soil. Cortés’ blonde hair and fair skin gave him a god-like aura
that the Aztecs instantaneously revered, confusing him with
Quetzalcoátl. Arriving in Cali, Colombia to teach English to
school children, I felt like Cortés -- faced with the realization
of mortality.
They had been
anticipating my arrival for close to a month. The first glimpse I
had of them was during the morning recess break. Upon entering the
main doors, the brick building divided into two sections of
classrooms, both surrounding a cement courtyard. The younger
children were outside scurrying about in one patio, while the
older students mingled, gossiped and flirted in their own recess
space.
I approached the patio where the primary students gathered,
rejoicing in their temporary escape from the cell-shaped rooms. At
first a few students, then quickly many more, identified that an
alien face was observing them with equal curiosity. The boldest
ones drew near to ask if I was the new teacher. Some even dared to
touch me and then dart away, as if I were forbidden. Soon all the
children in the courtyard swarmed around, each wanting to have a
chance.
It was in this courtyard where I would occasionally be persuaded
to conduct class. There, upon an ubiquitous plea, I made frantic
attempts at activities that strayed from tedious grammar lessons.
Often, I too wanted to escape the straining heat trapped in by the
brick-walled greenhouse, intensified by the children’s bountiful
energy after lunch. It was emancipating to be away from those
confines – or classrooms as they are traditionally known – where
the windows faced the dusty, mundane street above their heads and
they were required to sit for precious minutes on end.
Instituto Nuestra Señora de la Asunción (INSA) is a private school
belonging to the neighborhood Andrés Sanin in Cali, Colombia—a
diamond buried in a discarded layer of economic strata. But I did
not realize that then; not in those first few moments, when the
kids glimmered with impenetrable promise and I could hardly begin
to fathom the assortment of problems they would bring with them to
school everyday—problems that strained their tiny shoulders even
more than the books on their backs. Yet, even when I scolded them,
they were affectionate—unconditionally. Every day, I would receive
a small gift from my students: a candy, a drawing, a smile, a hug.
It took two months before I realized my affinity for the children
and the school was no longer a temporary lack of cognition. It was
self-diagnosed as a case of acute affection. Yet it was temperate,
regularly subdued and even abandoned – an affinity I was
challenged to nurture.
There had been times when I had to question my reason for enduring
the countless futile hours I spent, struggling to make myself
heard in front of a disobedient, non-attentive audience; times
when I had coldly ignored their boisterous greetings while I
walked away from the classroom in contained fury, self-absorbed
and frustrated. I had indignantly brushed away their outstretched
hands as they neared to display their fondness for me, trying to
send them a message I knew they would not understand. They forgot
so effortlessly my tiresome rants, laborious scolding, demands for
silence and pleas for co-operation. They watched these tantrums
more with curiosity than fear because I was simply not that
convincing. They even had the audacity to advise me, the teacher,
that I needed to be stricter with them. Who was nurturing whom?
Was this a trial run in parenting? But, in spite of all that
transpired in the classroom, the unconditional love still
remained. I learned to forgive them after every aggravating,
throat-straining session. They were, after all, children.
Indeed, I was faced with the exhaustive challenge of
tranquillizing hyperactive children, lesson after lesson. For a
period of time, I resigned to the fact that there was not a way to
prepare for the imminent battle in the classroom. I doubted my
ability to neutralize their mischievous attacks.
In spite of making progress, especially with one of my third grade
classes, I crumbled. I could no longer offer to 3A the game show
activity that drove them to intense competition; the one in which
I would allow each row to choose the name of their team. I would
give each team a question and several would blurt out the answer,
including rivals from the other rows, when only one was to answer
by raising a hand. The winning team would roar with satisfaction
when the bell rang, bellowing at the top of their lungs a song of
triumph.
Nor could I try to keep my eye on what happened behind me when
writing at the whiteboard, like when the other students provoked
Kevin Gallego, or his twin, Duvan, or both, in the Grade 1B room.
Kevin would retaliate aggressively and Duvan would wander outside
to the patio; but not before pushing his weight around, much to
the amusement and fear of the others. Meanwhile, the rest of the
children would run hysterically around the room, or draw on the
whiteboard, or gather at the desk of another classmate, as if they
had earned free time.
Sometimes I would sit motionless at the desk hoping the bell would
sound. I could not find the stamina to stand when my energy had
been depleted. The constant disappointment eventually broke my
spirit. Each time I lost control of the class it punctured the
fragile confidence I had in my starkly unproven teaching abilities
and uncharted methodology. And my face began to reflect it.
Everyone from my colleagues to my very own students started to
notice that my enthusiasm had vanished. I felt I was not prepared
for this. When I was given a chance with the older children, I
failed once again. I could no longer face the humiliation of a
work companion entering from next door to bring order to the
chaos.
A fourth grade assignment on “Why English is Important” was
foretelling. One girl’s response read (in Spanish): “In English
class we learn many nice things like the verb T.V.” When I was
voted Best Elementary Teacher, I could not understand why.
This epic would come to an end. I decided that when I lost
interest in what I was doing it was time to leave. I began to
wonder why I bothered with English lessons when I could have
brought them so much more.
They were naturally stunned by the news that I would not be
returning. On my final day I was handed the microphone during the
assembly after lunch when the kids lined up for announcements in
the patio. There, I stood for the last time. I tried to tell them
how I hoped they had learned something from me. But I could not
say much. The winds were melancholic that day. The whole day they
begged me not to leave and embraced me at every opportunity they
could. Some even promised in the messages they wrote to behave if
I came back.
In spite of my humble descent from the pedestal I was abruptly
placed upon, there were times that were encouraging, times when I
thought I was making progress, promising moments when they were
silent and attentive and allowed me to conduct the class. But the
next day would be another struggle. The disposition of a child is
hardly predictable.
At INSA, I discovered mortality. I was not the compassionate
Quetzalcoátl in any of his enigmatic incarnations even though I
had been summoned to reign. I was not going solve all, or any, of
their problems. I could not even teach them the peculiar language
I spoke. I was not the mythical answer to their problems, but
maybe we exchanged something beyond English lessons that I did not
appreciate at the time.
© Anwar Ali, 2004
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