Choose Your Own Path

Summer in the life of a teacher in Pohnpei is a very confusing thing. You are required to go to work every day throughout the whole summer, yet there is literally absolutely no work to be done. (That tends to happen sometimes when your job is to teach children and there are no children present.) The result is a scene that makes work ethic prone Americans, such as me, gawk speechless at the absurdity: the entire staff just sits around. And I really mean that. They just sit. Nothing else happens. At all. Ever. So, after a dramatic and stressful conclusion to the previous school year, this summer set-up left me little hope for a better second year. I spent the whole time miserably dreading the return of students and my own personal hell. (Just what you want from a teacher, right?) I was wholly convinced that things were going to continue to suck even worse than they did at the end of school in May. And believe me, things sucked bad in May. So when in the last week of summer, my favorite co-teacher Hickperson (yes that is his actual name) asked me if I wanted to go to his home one afternoon I was eager to oblige. First, let’s be clear, it was actually his wonderful wife who invited me, as it would be improper for him to ask me. That’s how I knew it was legit. She rode with him to school that day, just to ask me. How can you turn that down? The next day, I came to school ready for adventure. After we pretended to work for a while, Hickperson and I hopped in his car and headed home. By now I know all of his children (most attend the school at which we teach), and they were waiting anxiously for my arrival. I was immediately swept away by the band of children to go swim in the river, which was fine by me. We just splashed around and played in the cool crisp water, then perched ourselves on slick rocks while casually munching bananas. It was one of those things you picture when you go off to Peace Corps on a tropical island. Pure bliss. Then we returned to the house compound, changed clothes and began cooking dinner. The great thing about Hickperson’s family was that they did not treat me like a princess, the way my family does. They plopped me right down next to some women, gave me a machete (yes, a machete), and had me cutting up potatoes. Now let me tell you, that was an exercise in bravery. Against all odds, I came out unscathed and was then assigned to various other parts of the cooking preparation (not excluding the all-important taste-testing). Meanwhile I got to spend real quality time laughing and gossiping with Hickperson’s wife, sisters, cousins, nieces, and best of all, his adorable mother. Before dinner, it was Hickperson’s idea that we should play a game with the kids. It just so happened that the previous day the new Volunteer at my site Matt taught the teachers how to play “Ninja” (it’s a ice-breaker type game you play in a circle where people get to use ninja moves—essentially the greatest game ever), and so that is what we taught the group, and then what we played for the next hour nonstop. I was exhausted, but it was incredibly fun. Finally it was time to feast on the food we’d labored over, and a feast it was. When I was driven home hours later (by both Hickperson and his wife, per social requirements) I was almost in a coma I was so stuffed. I had such a great time I had almost forgotten how not excited I was for school to start in a few short days. But the time finally came, and I trudged into school, not at all ready to face the rude, bored, rowdy students I left in May, but they weren’t there. Instead I was met by hugs, high-fives, handshakes, and smiles all-around. Happy, eager faces, excited to get back to business. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was literal a night and day turnaround from their demeanors at the end of the year before. And when we started class I was met with the biggest surprise of all—they actually remembered English. Students were bouncing off the walls trying to answer questions, and their answers not only made sense, they were superb. After we read Walt Whitman’s “The Road Not Taken” (a poem I must have chosen for my English-learners in their first week back from summer in a bought of insanity), one of my eighth grade hooligans from last year raised his hand (a feat in itself) and said plainly, “So it’s saying we should choose our own path.” As if it was the simplest thing in the world. I just about fell on the floor. I fully expected to have to start over from scratch after my students spent a summer in the English-free environment of their homes, and I was not thrilled about essentially repeating my first year’s work. I either underestimated my students or my teaching abilities, or both. Either way, I was hugely mistaken. It is a relief so palpable that I felt its healing powers immediately. I did, in fact, accomplish something in the past year. Behind their sass and their seeming lack of interest, my students did actually care, did actually pay attention, and did actually learn something from me. Who would have thought? What a much-needed affirmation of not only my reason for being here, but my calling and purpose in life as an educator. (That may sound extreme, but when you’re on a tiny island with next to nothing to occupy yourself, you begin to equate disrespectful students with your own self-worth and abilities.) We’ve already begun building on what we covered last year and with some new tricks up our sleeves, including a killer classroom management rebuff that should help quell the shenanigans. There’s hope for us yet. Everyone always says the second year of Peace Corps is much better than the first, but I just didn’t believe them until now. So here’s to a new school year, full of new possibilities. And whenever I feel discouraged during this coming year, I’ll simply think back to the overwhelming, almost maternal pride I felt when that one student boldly stated, “Choose your own path.” Stay well. --Christy