crazy little Philine

November 29

The Devil and God Are Raging Inside Me
Some mornings I wake up, hopelessly lost in attempts of making sense of my life. Lately, life's been a moto ride on an unpaved road, shards of glass and broken bricks hit the wheels unexpectedly, and I'm, as Neruda puts it, a once free foot, in which reality "condemned to live in a shoe, feeling out life like a blind man". So my life really isn't so hardcore, but it is exciting enough and more for me. Here are couple of anecdotes from my weekly experiences.

one
I recieved a new student this last week, one I was told over the last 3 1/2 months, was coming and not coming just about every other week. She arrived in a lacy white dress, ruffles on her sleeves, her eyes big and black and full of mischief. She is Indian, and her father lied to Sharon, saying she was 6 years old, because that is the youngest age you are allowed to be to be permitted to enter the first grade. She then told me, in class that she was 5, and then to Kim, she said she was 4. She is tiny and undisciplined, not deliberately disobedient but obviously unfamiliar with the way school children behave and line up and quit running inbetween the classrooms long after the bell has rung. Her father told me that she only spoke English, which really, translated to, she didn't speak Khmer. At first, when Kim asked her, how old she was, she said, "I'm fine, thank you." (the exact robotic response I get from my Khmer children, who definitely are not yet fluent in English). Kim lived in India for 5 years and spoke to her in Indian and told me that she seemed to understand much clearer in Indian than in English. I brought her into the classroom and did small tests to try and measure her knowledge and experience. She told me she had studied the alphabet, but didn't know the sounds, doesn't know her numbers yet, and when I gave her a paper of vocab words with pictures (merely to review as a class activity) she scribbled all over it and then ripped it in half. It took me a whole period to get her to write sentences, in which she refused to just copy and I had to read her letter by letter. Aliza did her math for her, and by 4th period, she came to saying, "I went caca in the panties..." Her voice was quiet and her words mumbled, and after she repeated it a second time, I caught a whiff of the "caca", and it didn't smell good, took her upstairs to the bathroom, and did my best to repair the damage. We rinsed her underwear in the sink and she continued to go more in the toilet, her legs spread in the air. She would not stop screaming unless I held her dress up and insisted she could not wipe herself. And we returned to the classroom in her satin dress with wet panties, which fortunately hadn't browned from her accident, whispering softly in her ear, "Are you feeling better sweetie?" I don't think she's ready for first grade, but we'll see, I feel as of late, its only too common to find myself in situations that at first feel impossibly unrealistic, and just somehow (by God's grace, care, and sustenance) find a way to make it work.

two
Parent teacher conferences were this last week for first quarter, and a parent came into my room to meet about the progress of her son Chamrong. She is aged widow with many sons, ranging from mid-twenties to 7 years old, tired from her responsibilities, loneliness, and the walk of life. I told her the truth of Rong's behavior, that he keeps quiet, nods that he understands the lesson, is quick to turn in his homework, says he doesn't need help, and then turns in his work completely wrong, at least 50% of the time (which is the on the way to failing 1st grade), and a lot of times I don't have the time to catch it until after class has finished (30 students can be a handful). In my room, she is shocked and discouraged and starts to cry hysterically, her words slurring as she gasps for air, speaking loudly in Khmer, making a language I can already barely understand in the clearest of voices completely undiscernable. I sit there quietly, uncomfortable and confused, "Somtoh!" (sorry), I repeat, "Rong has many good qualities, he's always respectful, always quiet and well-behaved, gets along well with others, I'm sure there is a solution...." She leaves in tears, asking repeatedly that I work on her boy, that I make sure he understands, that I insist he let me help him, and I comply without much confidence. Today she brought me lunch in my classroom, saying she thinks I should stay in Cambodia at least until Chamrong is grown-up, "My oldest son, you can marry," she says, "Do you want a Cambodian husband? He's tall actually, fair-skinned, like a Chinese, do you like that?"