september 6

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage for the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.
-St. Augustine

First week of school, and it has, literally, been the hardest and most exhausting week of my life.

I have been assigned to teach the 1st grade, on my lonesome, I teach 31 children (it is a law in California, that a first grade class cannot have more than 20 kids with one teacher), who, along with their parents, don't speak any English. We are given English books for every subject, and are told that we cannot speak any Khmer in school. We are an all-English, international school. How will they learn? These kids are 6 years old, they do not know English, I do not know Khmer, and I am expected to teach them all, all 31 little bodies, who inhabit as much or more (less disciplined) youthful energy as any kid their age.

I had 2 days to set up my classroom, (cleaning and decorating) and do all of my lesson plans. Yes, I wrote them, but after the second day of school, when I finally recieved workbooks and textbooks (and I still haven't recieved my English books), I had to change them, and I have been, day by day.

I try to plan games, and they don't understand the instructions. Their textbooks come photocopied from American schools, for children whose first language is English. They run wild, and I scream til' I lose my voice. I feel mean, hopeless, and unprofessional. I am asking God, I need courage to change the things I can -- I need to accept the things I cannot -- I need wisdom to know when I can and cannot. And can I? That is the question. Can this be done? Are these expectations realistic?

I need a miracle.

Sharon, the principal here, is strict and straightforward, blunt, organized, hardworking, and sort of manipulative. I see her say things to Cambodian teachers just to get a reaction out of them. She teaches my Reading class, because I'm filling in and teaching 8th grade Math. The second day of school, she sees me in the library. "Your students don't know how to spell their names." She says sternly, "They need to know how to spell their names. They should have known this already. Some didn't even know what their last names are. Why don't they know?" She says this accusingly to me, like I am responsible for all of their knowledge from the one day I previously spent teaching them. I don't know if they've learned anything new this whole week from me. It's all been review. Sharon says she hopes they'll get so frustrated they'll just learn English. But how long will that take? And what will my class be like til' they do. Hopeless chaos. That's what I feel.

A man at the gate of the mission, sat on his motorcycle and waved to me. "Hello teacher," he said, "You teach my daughter, Aliza," he says, with a heavy Khmer accent, "in the first grade. Please help her. Please pray for her. I live and work very far away. 200 miles away (so she lives in the dorm, at 6 years old! yikes!), and I work so much to be able to help her learn. Please help her. Please pray for her," he repeated again, "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

And as he drove away on his motorcycle, I started to cry. Can I help these children? All of them. I want to help them all. I see potential in them. I love each of them already. I know their names and their faces. They have a wonderful spirit about them, they're curious and mischevious and imaginative and alive. I see them laugh, play, fight, sing at the top of their lungs, dance in the isles of desks, climb out the windows, and break all the rules. They're beautiful and horrible, irreverent, excited, reckless, fearless, fun. They're children, and I intend to do the best I can, all year. But I just feel like my best is not enough. Is it enough?

I've been sick all week. I barely eat, and I throw up everything I eat anyways. Diarrhea. Feverish and shivering in the night time. I don't tell anyone of my conditions. Only my roomates know. But I am too busy, I keep working.