The first day comes. They enter my room. Some nervous. Others dreading the start of school. The little girls and one boy who enter enthusiastically, sit in the front, and love the teacher as soon as I say "welcome". Everyone is on their best behavior for the first hour. Then true colors start shining through. The kid who can't keep a grip on his pencil and knocks the supply bin down twice in the first twenty minutes... just makes me smile, "Oh, he'll take some extra patience." The little girl who knows very little English, but surprises me when she gets to work before I start typing on Google Translate. She'll melt my heart all year as she learns English so fast. There's the boy whose hair is spiked with gel and his shirt tucked in. He sat in the front row and works diligently. A little nerd and so stinkin' cute I love him instantly. The kid with the English accent - always adorable for the American teacher. The little girl who struggles in school, but begins working hard right away. They're all here.
I call them "my kids". They feel like that in some ways, as I spend 6 hours a day, five days a week with them. Really they're just on loan. Or entrusted. As I work at a private international school, in a city where parents have several English-speaking options, I am honored that I get to teach these kids. It's very humbling. Especially when my students speak three languages fluently, translate for the adults around them, and still have respect for their native English-speaking teacher who speaks ONLY English. Humbling.
But the best job in the world. "My kids" for the next nine months.
No comments:
Post a Comment