Today was my last day of rubbling. There was much I could’ve done with the baby orphanage, helping to move the re-structuring process along, but I felt I needed one last afternoon swinging a sledge hammer and pushing a wheelbarrow. It was a new site we went to and the team leader who was in charge on my very first day of rubbling was now also in charge on my last – it felt very appropriate. And like my first day, she called on me to speak with the homeowner, even though there was a better French speaker on the team than myself. Turned out that the homeowner did not speak French, only Creole, so I had to communicate with her solely in Creole. If pride is what I felt for my accomplishment on the first day for making use of my language, then this was something far beyond that. I had come so far in Creole, enough so to have a conversation (as minimal and George of the Jungle it was) with a local woman. It was a great way to end my time moving rubble.
...
I am beside myself about the orphanage this afternoon. It was the best day we have had in the month I have been here. I could not have asked for more, I could not have been happier to leave any other way. It was as if they knew this was my last time and they wanted to make it as special as possible.
We arrived at the tent with the rain, which most times keeps a good chunk of the children from attending. With such a small group and the rain falling, we decided not to split the children up and to do a full class lesson inside. Half way through the lesson as the rain subsided the tent quickly began to fill. As I mentioned in earlier posts, though the tent is meant for the orphanage the other children (and many adults) from around the neighborhood trickle in, filtering their way throughout the orphans. By the time I was ready for the paint lesson there were over 55 children, 15 volunteers, and at least 15 local adults. That’s almost 100 people in a tent meant for around 20 – 30 people with 4 tables that seat maybe 6 children squished, 8 children when they sit on each other’s laps. That’s a lot of people and not a lot of space. But…it worked. It made it even more amazing.
For my last day I really wanted to do a fun activity. My children back home always loved to paint, especially because I loved to paint with them. Today we used watercolors to paint an ocean sea with a boat (we had just learned modes of transportation) and some sort of depiction of weather (last week’s lesson.) We also took a few minutes to talk about Claude Monet. 55 Haitian children in bare feet with dirty face repeated “Claude Monet” with enthusiasm, and my heart soared.
If you ever spent more than a minute with a child you can imagine the excitement and mayhem of giving that many children something as fantastic and special as a paintbrush and paint. The tables weren’t large enough for all the paper, at least every three children shared one set of paint, and half of the children sat on a blanket on the rubble floor trying to paint in their laps. You couldn’t move around the tent. And the sheer volume of people made for an extremely noisy working environment. You can’t paint with that much noise. I also cringe at the thought of losing my class to racket. Mid-painting I called for everyone’s attention and with the help of all the volunteers and our quiet symbol we were able to stop all the children mid-stroke and get their attention. Quite a feat, believe me.
Normally I leave the orphanage hoarse, having spent the whole time with a loud voice that will reach even the child in the back corner of the tent. This was the first time I lowered my voice. I talked no higher than a whisper and our translator did the same. The surprise of a soft voice and the silence emanating from everyone else brought an extreme calm to this 100-person tent. “When you paint,” I explained, “imagine you are in a bubble. In that bubble it is just you and your creativity. No one can touch you or disturb you. You are free to paint whatever you want.” The children made imaginary bubbles. And then I told them to stay in that bubble so that they - and everyone else - could paint the best they possibly could. For 30 minutes the sound level hardly rose over a peep. I looked around at the massive amounts of bodies in the tiny space, saw them all hard at work lost in their own imagination, and my face glowed with joy. Pure and utter joy. A joy you cannot buy. A joy you cannot define. A joy that comes only now and then like a rainbow after a storm. You have to catch it and hold it in your heart forever because its life is short lived, but its imprint is eternal.
The woman next door who holds our tables for us between classes came over for the entire lesson and after we exchanged numbers. We hugged several times and neither of us wanted to leave. My favorite little boy who is partially mentally disabled, showed up for the first time in weeks. Again, he must’ve known I was leaving. I hugged him tightly; so proud of all the work he had done today, so proud of his beautiful spirit. His smile, the brightest I have ever seen, was a sign of the hope for the future. I think about his future and how hard it will be for him; Haiti does not have any resources for children with disabilities and no education on the subject (to have a disability is a curse- most likely the reason he is an orphan, having been abandoned.) My heart breaks for the rough life he will have. But in that moment, his face beaming and his hand in mind, I took in only his soul and his smile and I prayed God keeps His hand on him until He calls him home.
We climbed on the taptap all 15 of us, me standing on the bumper gripping the bed door tightly with one hand and waving ecstatically with the other. A little boy hobbled after us, waving and smiling for about 100 feet and then fell back. The taptap turned the corner, leaving a piece of my heart right there with the orphan children of Leogane. I choked back the tears – today was too beautiful to cry, even if they were tears of joy.
Showing posts with label teaching. Show all posts
Showing posts with label teaching. Show all posts
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Day 26: The Freedom to Choose
The orphanage I’ve been working with these past few weeks is mainly for older children (average ages between 4-12.) The other orphanage HODR has been working is the “baby” orphanage where children range from infants to a few children around 9 and 10 years. This morning was the first time I visited the baby orphanage and I saw how opposite the two orphanages were. This second orphanage is exactly what you think when you think orphanage – the children sleep there and spend all of their time there. I wish I could say wonderful things about it, but I left there feeling incredibly low.
The top floor of the orphanage was destroyed; a piece of scrap metal covers the hole to the roof that the stairs lead to – the only thing keeping the children from climbing onto the “roof.” All of the children and staff sleep in a tent in the front yard. There are around 30 children in the orphanage and I can’t imagine how more than 15 people sleep in this tent. The structure is one big room, a small room with a few metal cribs that are completely full of clothes and junk and one has some files in it which I assume are the children’s files, another room for clothes and food (all of which are thrown about in heaps and piles because there isn’t a single shelf or storage unit anywhere), a bathroom that the children don’t use (they go to a hole outside behind the house), and another room we weren’t allowed to see. The children do not go to school. The people who run the orphanage claim that another NGO comes in to teach them English a couple times a week, but another volunteer said she has yet to see that happen. Even if this NGO came, they would teach the children English which is a futile attempt in my opinion because a majority of the children don’t even know how to speak in Creole yet.
The children literally spend all day in the one big room where they simply lay on the floor and roll around. Remember that these children aren’t all babies, and yet they have nothing else to do and nowhere else to go so they just roll. The infants don’t get enough attention so their muscles are tight and they only stretch when our volunteers come. Children who wet themselves stay wet unless we adamantly point out that they went to the bathroom in their clothes. At that point if they do take notice, the staff only take off the soiled clothes and let the children run around naked, still dirty.
All of the kids are starving for attention and love (and food - they eat some sort of mush military meal that is mainly a sugar rush from which they quickly come down hard.) Many have developed mental and emotional dysfunctions and anger problems. Some of the older children operate on a far lower mental level then their age would deem appropriate. And a chunk of toddlers still haven’t learned to speak or communicate at all. One boy about 9 years old lays around all day with a blank stare, not communicating with anyone. I fear for the thought of his life when he is too old to be taken care of in the orphanage anymore.
Before I go any further, I don’t want you to think this is all the fault of the people who run the orphanage. They are under-staffed, with limited to no resources, no money, and not enough space. They are doing the best they can with what they have and are always trying to learn more to help the children and themselves. But how do you support 30 children in Haiti when you can’t even support yourself?
I walked into the orphanage and lost my heart right there. One little boy walked to me instantly, put his hands up, and crawled onto my lap not to leave again until the end of the day. Each time I tried to put him down he’d cry and scream. So I didn’t put him down. Truthfully, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to ever put him down. I could’ve walked out with him and brought him home with me without ever thinking twice. When it came time to leave I finally had to free myself from his grasp which was one of the most heart wrenching things I have experienced in the past month. I laid him on the floor, kicking and crying, and he caught hold of my finger with his tiny fist and held on for dear life. I nearly started balling myself.
I left the orphanage very low. And very overwhelmed. There’s so much to do. Shelves and storage to be built. Chairs and tables to be made (there is one tiny picnic style table for 30 kids and no chairs.) They do not have nearly enough books and the very few they have are not even in Creole. How can children learn when they don’t even have books in their own language? Or books at all? And our program with the children needs an incredible amount of structure. Overwhelmed indeed.
The afternoon was spent building a new, more structured program. It took some persuasion to convince the other volunteers who work on the class that structure is possible. It is easy to find excuses why children can't learn or why something won’t work. This orphanage offers a million and one reasons why these children could never achieve anything. But excuses are just that. Children can and want to learn. They crave structure, no matter how far “lost” they may seem. Yes, it would be difficult. Yes, it would take a lot of time and patience. Yes, it would be a long road. But, yes, it could happen. With all my heart I believed this program could run as smoothly with as many educational components as the orphanage we run on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It’s just a matter of faith. It’s holding children to higher expectations, because rolling around on the floor all day is not their greatest achievement. It’s difficult, though, to expect so much from children who have so little. But indeed it is through expectations that they can and will succeed.
It makes me want to stay even longer, thinking of how much work needs to be done and how I could help re-format our time with the children. And yet, it also makes me glad to leave thinking about how much work needs to be done and how heartrending it would be to walk through those doors each week. I get to leave. In a few days I will get on a plane and leave this all behind, leave all these children behind. They don’t get to leave. They don’t get a choice. This life has been handed to them. How easy it would be for me to leave and forget all of this sadness, because oftentimes ignorance is bliss. But the feel of that little boy’s hand gripping my finger has left a permanent imprint on my heart. I couldn’t look the other way now even if I tried.
The top floor of the orphanage was destroyed; a piece of scrap metal covers the hole to the roof that the stairs lead to – the only thing keeping the children from climbing onto the “roof.” All of the children and staff sleep in a tent in the front yard. There are around 30 children in the orphanage and I can’t imagine how more than 15 people sleep in this tent. The structure is one big room, a small room with a few metal cribs that are completely full of clothes and junk and one has some files in it which I assume are the children’s files, another room for clothes and food (all of which are thrown about in heaps and piles because there isn’t a single shelf or storage unit anywhere), a bathroom that the children don’t use (they go to a hole outside behind the house), and another room we weren’t allowed to see. The children do not go to school. The people who run the orphanage claim that another NGO comes in to teach them English a couple times a week, but another volunteer said she has yet to see that happen. Even if this NGO came, they would teach the children English which is a futile attempt in my opinion because a majority of the children don’t even know how to speak in Creole yet.
The children literally spend all day in the one big room where they simply lay on the floor and roll around. Remember that these children aren’t all babies, and yet they have nothing else to do and nowhere else to go so they just roll. The infants don’t get enough attention so their muscles are tight and they only stretch when our volunteers come. Children who wet themselves stay wet unless we adamantly point out that they went to the bathroom in their clothes. At that point if they do take notice, the staff only take off the soiled clothes and let the children run around naked, still dirty.
All of the kids are starving for attention and love (and food - they eat some sort of mush military meal that is mainly a sugar rush from which they quickly come down hard.) Many have developed mental and emotional dysfunctions and anger problems. Some of the older children operate on a far lower mental level then their age would deem appropriate. And a chunk of toddlers still haven’t learned to speak or communicate at all. One boy about 9 years old lays around all day with a blank stare, not communicating with anyone. I fear for the thought of his life when he is too old to be taken care of in the orphanage anymore.
Before I go any further, I don’t want you to think this is all the fault of the people who run the orphanage. They are under-staffed, with limited to no resources, no money, and not enough space. They are doing the best they can with what they have and are always trying to learn more to help the children and themselves. But how do you support 30 children in Haiti when you can’t even support yourself?
I walked into the orphanage and lost my heart right there. One little boy walked to me instantly, put his hands up, and crawled onto my lap not to leave again until the end of the day. Each time I tried to put him down he’d cry and scream. So I didn’t put him down. Truthfully, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to ever put him down. I could’ve walked out with him and brought him home with me without ever thinking twice. When it came time to leave I finally had to free myself from his grasp which was one of the most heart wrenching things I have experienced in the past month. I laid him on the floor, kicking and crying, and he caught hold of my finger with his tiny fist and held on for dear life. I nearly started balling myself.
I left the orphanage very low. And very overwhelmed. There’s so much to do. Shelves and storage to be built. Chairs and tables to be made (there is one tiny picnic style table for 30 kids and no chairs.) They do not have nearly enough books and the very few they have are not even in Creole. How can children learn when they don’t even have books in their own language? Or books at all? And our program with the children needs an incredible amount of structure. Overwhelmed indeed.
The afternoon was spent building a new, more structured program. It took some persuasion to convince the other volunteers who work on the class that structure is possible. It is easy to find excuses why children can't learn or why something won’t work. This orphanage offers a million and one reasons why these children could never achieve anything. But excuses are just that. Children can and want to learn. They crave structure, no matter how far “lost” they may seem. Yes, it would be difficult. Yes, it would take a lot of time and patience. Yes, it would be a long road. But, yes, it could happen. With all my heart I believed this program could run as smoothly with as many educational components as the orphanage we run on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It’s just a matter of faith. It’s holding children to higher expectations, because rolling around on the floor all day is not their greatest achievement. It’s difficult, though, to expect so much from children who have so little. But indeed it is through expectations that they can and will succeed.
It makes me want to stay even longer, thinking of how much work needs to be done and how I could help re-format our time with the children. And yet, it also makes me glad to leave thinking about how much work needs to be done and how heartrending it would be to walk through those doors each week. I get to leave. In a few days I will get on a plane and leave this all behind, leave all these children behind. They don’t get to leave. They don’t get a choice. This life has been handed to them. How easy it would be for me to leave and forget all of this sadness, because oftentimes ignorance is bliss. But the feel of that little boy’s hand gripping my finger has left a permanent imprint on my heart. I couldn’t look the other way now even if I tried.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Day 18: The Illusion of Safety
People often compare their hurt to other’s. Comments such as “yes, I may be suffering but there are people in the world who have no homes or no food.” It’s easy to downplay your conditions based on worldly conditions. But I think it is a very thin, and most times hardly visible line, which separates perspective from reality. I once read in a book something that has stuck with me for many years since. The lead character, whose husband was away at war, was missing him terribly. She feared daily for his life but felt guilty for this since there were many women who had actually lost their husbands in the war. Her father asked her if she cut her thumb and someone else cut her thumb off, would that make the pain she’s feeling less real because it wasn’t her whole thumb. I have meditated on that many nights since. We may not be suffering as much as many others around the world, but that doesn’t mean our suffering doesn’t exist or isn’t valid. I am learning more and more that suffering is suffering no matter what form it comes in. A broken heart may show it’s ugly face in millions of different masks, but a broken heart is it still. Though, in our pain, it is important to keep some perspective, and that is where the very thin, almost invisible line appears. I still have no idea when I cross it. Do you?
This morning I woke to the terrible news that one of the younger international volunteers, who sleeps two tents away from mine, suffered a horrific family tragedy. I was affected by it all day; devastated by how affected by it he must be. It is easy to believe you live in a bubble where bad things don’t occur. It’s even easier to believe that when you’re in a place half a world away helping other people heal their pain. It just doesn’t seem right. Then again it never does. But you don’t think such terrible news can reach you so far away. As if you’ve crossed outside it’s dreadful borders and beyond it’s grasp. But the truth is you never are far from it, never far enough. And hurt is hurt, no matter where you are; no matter what form it comes in. Hurt is hurt. Whether by earthquake or by phone call at 2am. Hurt, dear reader, knows no border and no language barrier.
…
On a lighter note. The orphanage had another successful day. It’s amazing to watch the kids grow. To see how much they remember and their excitement at knowing answers. When I’m exhausted and worn down and sometimes even dreading the amount of energy it will take to teach at the orphanage, these children always lift me up. In their bare feet with their smiling faces they inspire in me a strength that I didn’t know was there and an energy I thought was exasperated. I always leave the orphanage completely void of all oomph, but I rest assured that that oomph was left in good hands.
As a teacher, there is no greater compliment than to hear that children respond well to you and that you have a great control of the environment. Because as a teacher there is nothing worse than losing control of your class. It made all the exhaustion of lesson planning time well spent to have the director of the orphanage compliment the success of the new format of the orphanage and plead with me not to leave but to stay permanently with them. If only loans and debt did not exist. If only…
This morning I woke to the terrible news that one of the younger international volunteers, who sleeps two tents away from mine, suffered a horrific family tragedy. I was affected by it all day; devastated by how affected by it he must be. It is easy to believe you live in a bubble where bad things don’t occur. It’s even easier to believe that when you’re in a place half a world away helping other people heal their pain. It just doesn’t seem right. Then again it never does. But you don’t think such terrible news can reach you so far away. As if you’ve crossed outside it’s dreadful borders and beyond it’s grasp. But the truth is you never are far from it, never far enough. And hurt is hurt, no matter where you are; no matter what form it comes in. Hurt is hurt. Whether by earthquake or by phone call at 2am. Hurt, dear reader, knows no border and no language barrier.
…
On a lighter note. The orphanage had another successful day. It’s amazing to watch the kids grow. To see how much they remember and their excitement at knowing answers. When I’m exhausted and worn down and sometimes even dreading the amount of energy it will take to teach at the orphanage, these children always lift me up. In their bare feet with their smiling faces they inspire in me a strength that I didn’t know was there and an energy I thought was exasperated. I always leave the orphanage completely void of all oomph, but I rest assured that that oomph was left in good hands.
As a teacher, there is no greater compliment than to hear that children respond well to you and that you have a great control of the environment. Because as a teacher there is nothing worse than losing control of your class. It made all the exhaustion of lesson planning time well spent to have the director of the orphanage compliment the success of the new format of the orphanage and plead with me not to leave but to stay permanently with them. If only loans and debt did not exist. If only…
Friday, July 2, 2010
Day 13: Heartbreak
It’s been almost two weeks and today was the first day I cried.
There are moments in your life that even the most optimistic viewpoint can’t break through. A few miserable seconds that can destroy your heart without mercy. They don’t happen often. They don’t last long. But their effects ripple into so many parts of your soul you wonder where and when they will show up. Because believe me, sooner or later it’s icy grip always stretches for your throat.
I’d love to write every day and be able to show you all the beauty bursting from inside the ugliness. To be in such devastation and yet find signs of rebirth everywhere. And most days that is true and that is possible. Most days, except today. It has been almost two weeks. That’s two weeks of not sleeping (that’s not Haiti, that just me being a terrible sleeper no matter where I am), two weeks of hard physical labor, two weeks of not getting enough protein and iron to support a body doing so much physical labor, two weeks of living in such an emotionally painful and beautiful country. And it was the hottest it’s been since I’ve arrived (somewhere in the 100’s with humidity so thick you could cut it with a knife.) Needless to say a lot has been building up.
I like to share most things with you. Give you a real taste of what it’s like down here. Who the people are. What their community is about. How they are surviving and healing. How they are still hurting. But there are some things that should never be shared. There are some experiences that no one should witness. And if for some unfortunate reason they do, it is their duty to shelter others from it. Not everything needs to be revealed. Not all hurt is healed through expression.
I don’t know what else to write tonight. I’m having a hard time seeing through the lens of my broken heart. The rain hasn’t fallen in three days. But tonight in between bites of rice, the rain fell deep inside my soul.
There are moments in your life that even the most optimistic viewpoint can’t break through. A few miserable seconds that can destroy your heart without mercy. They don’t happen often. They don’t last long. But their effects ripple into so many parts of your soul you wonder where and when they will show up. Because believe me, sooner or later it’s icy grip always stretches for your throat.
I’d love to write every day and be able to show you all the beauty bursting from inside the ugliness. To be in such devastation and yet find signs of rebirth everywhere. And most days that is true and that is possible. Most days, except today. It has been almost two weeks. That’s two weeks of not sleeping (that’s not Haiti, that just me being a terrible sleeper no matter where I am), two weeks of hard physical labor, two weeks of not getting enough protein and iron to support a body doing so much physical labor, two weeks of living in such an emotionally painful and beautiful country. And it was the hottest it’s been since I’ve arrived (somewhere in the 100’s with humidity so thick you could cut it with a knife.) Needless to say a lot has been building up.
I like to share most things with you. Give you a real taste of what it’s like down here. Who the people are. What their community is about. How they are surviving and healing. How they are still hurting. But there are some things that should never be shared. There are some experiences that no one should witness. And if for some unfortunate reason they do, it is their duty to shelter others from it. Not everything needs to be revealed. Not all hurt is healed through expression.
I don’t know what else to write tonight. I’m having a hard time seeing through the lens of my broken heart. The rain hasn’t fallen in three days. But tonight in between bites of rice, the rain fell deep inside my soul.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Day 6: Full Circle
* Editorial Note: 1. Despite what you may think, especially if you know me well, the “torrential downpour in more ways than one” comment from the prior post did not refer to crying. Surprise, surprise. Though I may be a Kleenex commercial’s target audience, I don’t think I have enough emotion left to even form a tear, and I would feel both rude and disrespectful to cry in the middle of a country that has lost so much and I have yet to see a single tear hit their dusty ground. *
Yesterday I forgot to mention a beautiful fact about the “house” we were working on. The homeowner, Mitel, had told me that his wife, child, and three others had been trapped under the fallen rubble after the quake. Him, his brother, some neighbors, and a few children from the school down the road helped to un-bury them (can we take a moment to let that sink in…they had to UN-BURY their family from under their house.) All five people were rescued without any casualties. All buried, and yet all survived. Amazing. He finished his incredible story with “God is good.” Yes, indeed God is.
...
I made a bold move today for a “newbie” but a rather simple and practical move for myself. I signed up as team leader for the orphanage. Working with the local orphanage (which is not what you think when you think of an orphanage – it’s just a tent with 4 tables) takes place on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Tuesday I went for the first time and after 2 minutes I couldn’t help but take charge. Maybe it’s the teacher in me, but there’s nothing worse than seeing children losing attention and talking, squirming, and getting out of their seats. I will have none of that. Especially when it’s so easy to engage them, mainly because they all really want to be there. I tried not to step on anyone’s toes, but I also had to remind myself that we weren’t here for the ego boost of volunteers, but for the education of the children. So when it came time to sign up for Thursday's jobs, I jumped at the chance to lead the group.
In our pre-meeting talk one of the volunteers asked, “Didn’t you just get here?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re leading the group?” Clearly she doesn’t know me well. I don’t like to do most things unless I can lead them (annoying, I know, but I wouldn’t have gotten to where I am without that quality.)
“Yes.” I said firmly. She didn’t speak up again.
The class went wonderfully well. During the classes the kids learn about animals, numbers, colors, and the alphabet in English. I find that children always learn better when they are able to do, whether it’s writing, drawing, making something…whatever. So, I came up with a project for the children to make cat necklaces. They got to glue the ears to the face, draw in the appropriate parts, and wear the cats around their necks. Very simple project. But they loved it. And they got to take it home with them, which they loved even more.
Glue. Something we take for granted. The look on their faces when they got to use glue, many for the first time. I held a little boy's hand and helped him squeeze the glue onto the edge of the ear. When the gooey mess came out of the bottle he nearly toppled over from surprise and excitement. His eyes were as big as a deer's in headlight – he had never seen glue before.
The most amazing moment came when the classroom full of Haitian children -ranging in age from under 1 to 11, some covered in dirt from head to toe, a couple so small they didn’t even have pants or underwear on - sat straight up with one finger over their mouth and the other hand up in the air. They had just learned that was the symbol for "I’m quiet and ready." And there they sat, quiet and ready, showing me the signal when two days ago it took a hundred “shh’s” and “be quiet’s” from the local volunteers to get their attention. This, dear reader, is a teacher’s great joy – to get a classroom full of students at attention and perfectly quiet. Especially children that the staff said was "hard to control." Once again, they clearly have never met me before. Difficult children are my specialty. I love the challenge. But most times it's just about meeting the kids where they are without assuming you know where they come from.
Amazing how somehow or another it always comes back to children and teaching. Apparently everything really is full circle.
Yesterday I forgot to mention a beautiful fact about the “house” we were working on. The homeowner, Mitel, had told me that his wife, child, and three others had been trapped under the fallen rubble after the quake. Him, his brother, some neighbors, and a few children from the school down the road helped to un-bury them (can we take a moment to let that sink in…they had to UN-BURY their family from under their house.) All five people were rescued without any casualties. All buried, and yet all survived. Amazing. He finished his incredible story with “God is good.” Yes, indeed God is.
...
I made a bold move today for a “newbie” but a rather simple and practical move for myself. I signed up as team leader for the orphanage. Working with the local orphanage (which is not what you think when you think of an orphanage – it’s just a tent with 4 tables) takes place on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Tuesday I went for the first time and after 2 minutes I couldn’t help but take charge. Maybe it’s the teacher in me, but there’s nothing worse than seeing children losing attention and talking, squirming, and getting out of their seats. I will have none of that. Especially when it’s so easy to engage them, mainly because they all really want to be there. I tried not to step on anyone’s toes, but I also had to remind myself that we weren’t here for the ego boost of volunteers, but for the education of the children. So when it came time to sign up for Thursday's jobs, I jumped at the chance to lead the group.
In our pre-meeting talk one of the volunteers asked, “Didn’t you just get here?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re leading the group?” Clearly she doesn’t know me well. I don’t like to do most things unless I can lead them (annoying, I know, but I wouldn’t have gotten to where I am without that quality.)
“Yes.” I said firmly. She didn’t speak up again.
The class went wonderfully well. During the classes the kids learn about animals, numbers, colors, and the alphabet in English. I find that children always learn better when they are able to do, whether it’s writing, drawing, making something…whatever. So, I came up with a project for the children to make cat necklaces. They got to glue the ears to the face, draw in the appropriate parts, and wear the cats around their necks. Very simple project. But they loved it. And they got to take it home with them, which they loved even more.
Glue. Something we take for granted. The look on their faces when they got to use glue, many for the first time. I held a little boy's hand and helped him squeeze the glue onto the edge of the ear. When the gooey mess came out of the bottle he nearly toppled over from surprise and excitement. His eyes were as big as a deer's in headlight – he had never seen glue before.
The most amazing moment came when the classroom full of Haitian children -ranging in age from under 1 to 11, some covered in dirt from head to toe, a couple so small they didn’t even have pants or underwear on - sat straight up with one finger over their mouth and the other hand up in the air. They had just learned that was the symbol for "I’m quiet and ready." And there they sat, quiet and ready, showing me the signal when two days ago it took a hundred “shh’s” and “be quiet’s” from the local volunteers to get their attention. This, dear reader, is a teacher’s great joy – to get a classroom full of students at attention and perfectly quiet. Especially children that the staff said was "hard to control." Once again, they clearly have never met me before. Difficult children are my specialty. I love the challenge. But most times it's just about meeting the kids where they are without assuming you know where they come from.
Amazing how somehow or another it always comes back to children and teaching. Apparently everything really is full circle.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)