“I am terrible?” they ask, pointing and looking at me inquisitively.
“Yes, I am ANGRY!” I reply, glowering at their dirty devilish faces.
This exchange is occurring nowadays with alarming frequency. I suppose I should be somewhat satisfied that a) my students even bother to notice my feelings; and b) they can vocalize them to some extent in English. But why, oh why, do they have to torture me so? My classroom has become even more chaotic than a playground—at any one moment, I am engaged in an utterly hopeless attempt to imprint some basic English skills in their defiant skulls while simultaneously breaking up multiple physical fights; glaring at and occasionally sharply reprimanding students who continue carrying on conversations, often at top volume; confiscating distracting pencils, books, and papers; yelling at students who continuously deface my tables with their pencil scrawls, despite my constant reminders that tables are not paper; reminding them that the computers and keyboards placed so invitingly in reach are not in fact for their use (the constant keyboard clacking grates my nerves); and trying to ignore the students who invariably start crying. In short—disaster reigns supreme. And it does not stop after class, oh no no no no. I say goodbye, thankful my forty minutes of torture are up and perhaps have helped them learn one new word, and while most of the class thunders out of the room, leaving a wake of eraser dust, chair booby traps, pencil stubs, and forgotten papers, some thoughtful others stay behind and quickly tear down my board and hound me with questions and hands and voices. Demanding, always. I am afraid I am losing my love for the wee ones, and if that flees me, then where does my future lie?
My co-teacher has asked me three times this week about my plans after July. We had a somewhat long talk about it today—I told her I would probably go home, and she asked, “What about us?” I said Hongsan would get a new ETA, hopefully, and I would leave plenty of instructions and teaching materials for her. She replied that wasn’t what she wanted—she wanted me. Does she not see my twenty times weekly humiliating schooling by pint-sized gangsters? Either she is severely delusional, or even this is preferable to the English program they had in place before. As much as I wish to join her on the cliffs of utter insanity, I think I will snatch any tatters of self-esteem and dignity remaining by July and flee, flee. Back to exchanges with children who may call me fuckface, but can at least understand me. Back to my mountains and days of aimless wandering. Back to my family. Back to multi-tasking on MY terms.