I was in the middle of teaching a noisy class when certain factors completely upset me.
In the second to last column, on the left side of the room, sits one of our unruly students. He talks over me. He has to be told many times to turn around, look forward, and stop talking. Yet, there is no real consequence for a boy who talks in class. The lack of discipline only promotes this kind of behavior. Last week, he jumped to a new extreme. While I was explaining an activity, he and his friend ganged up on another friend. His accomplice was sitting two seats behind him, and their victim in between them. No, it wasn't bullying, but it was such a game where the boy in the middle feigned to have no control. The boy to the back held Mr.Supposedly-Powerless's arms, while my main disturber unbuttoned his sweater. It was very cold in the classroom. They were having a great time, but they were having it at my expense. Needless to say, I was fuming at the ears, and I hoped that the contrast between my steam and the cold air in the classroom wouldn't give it away.
When I redirected my attention to the rest of the class, I saw the faces of the students that were trying to pay attention. Yes, among this noisy class there were students that wanted to listen to me, and wanted to learn, and that were being robbed of this opportunity by these three students. The naughty boy's beloved little game was at the expense of these students, too. And among those faces, I met the gaze of one of my most dedicated students. And he also looked disappointed in his peers. Maybe even sad for a second. But his expression was multidimensional. There was in fact another feeling there, and I recognized that look. I recognized that unfocused gaze, that neutral facial expression. He was discouraged to the point of apathy.
I had to keep on teaching once the situation was under control (though it never fully was), but I felt that disconnected, discouraged gaze on me the entire time. It burned as I read a script aloud, it burned as I checked the answers to a quiz, and it burned as I wrote on the chalkboard, but it especially scorched me when the gaze was no longer on me, but behind eyelids. It was at this moment when it hurt the most -- when the boy arranged his arms on his desk, nestled his head within them, and closed his eyes. I felt so powerless. I felt so angry on behalf of him and the other good students. And I was angry at myself. Angry, because I haven't been able to achieve balance in the classroom. Angry, because in reality, it's not up to me. The truth is that the class sizes are too large, and there is no true consequence for an unruly student, and therefore a deep disturbance for those trying in class.
In that classroom, in this school, many logistics are not mine to decide. I could move to another prefecture, but that wouldn't make a difference. In this country, English education as a whole needs major improvements. Students begin learning English in junior high school, yet most can't speak basic English when they graduate high school. I understand that there are rare opportunities to use English in this country, but I believe that the amount of years of study should amount to a basic level of English. I say this kindly, lovingly and with confidence, because I have seen what people in this country are capable of. I have no doubt that this country has the resources and brain power to master a foreign language. And I also have confidence that this country will overcome that obstacle, since the Japanese Ministry of Education is currently working on reforms in English education.
But for now, I am living and working in this struggle. In fact, I feel so vulnerable at times. A few months ago, I was confident in my ability to change certain aspects through program contributions to the school, and through cultural exchange. And while I have implemented some English programs, I can't get past certain barriers. And in accepting those barriers, I feel as if I have grown complacent. And in growing complacent, I am no longer challenging myself, and I realize how vulnerable I am to the system.
I definitely felt vulnerable during this single class. My mood shifted from anger to grief, and for the first time since I've been here, I had to hold back tears in class. Composure is a beautiful thing, I tell you. And it's frightening when you're on the brink of losing it in front of a crowd where you're supposed to be the leader. And so, I decided to focus my attention on my good students. My tone changed by the end of class. It softened dramatically. I made sure to go around and compliment each student who was doing his or her work during the writing activity. I felt such tenderness and love for those students, and I hoped they would feel it, too. I wanted them to know that I was not only aware of their effort, but appreciated it, too. Perhaps they will travel through an environment that doesn't completely nurture their dedication to self-improvement, but they should know that someone believes in their ability to persevere.
During the writing activity, I tried to relay this feeling to my discouraged student. When I asked to see his work, he had his head down on the desk again . Of course, he had finished his work in a fraction of the time that it took for the other students to focus on the task. I handed it back and talked to him for about a minute. I asked him about his English test scores, his club activities, and I complimented him on always participating in my class. He smiled at me, and that gave me hope that he hadn't completely lost interest in the unbalanced, weekly English lesson.
I continue to feel vulnerable. But to feel vulnerable is to be aware, right? And to be aware clears the path for action. The heart of the matter lies in this question: will I be able to shuffle the cards? Or will I have to make do with the cards I've been dealt?
