“sa-rang-hae 사랑해— I love you”, artwork on student’s desk

The New Puppies

Term 2 began like the previous term: short-handed since we lost two teachers, scarfing lunch in less than an hour, and sprinting through periods 1-10. By the end of the first week, I was exhausted. However, the adrenaline of meeting new students powered me through. 

In our first meeting, I asked each student for their nickname, and to tell me one thing they liked. I told them they could say anything, such as, “I like to play games, I like football.” Many students said, “I like to sleep,” to which I heartily agreed. Some other notable responses to the question, “What do you like?”

I Like…

“I like money.”
“Excellent answer,” I said, approvingly.

“I like Korean girls,” one boy said while laughing (I think his friends dared him to say it to me).
I responded by saying, “Bak-su! Bak-su! 박수! 박수!” to much laughter.

The girls tended to give answers such as “I like K-pop, I like BTS.”
“I like NCT,” said one female student, and she proceeded to name all 23 members!

“I like American Football.”  This stopped me dead. I have not met one non-American who likes American football. The rage over here is European football, also known as “soccer” in the USA.

So when this boy told me he liked American football, I had to ask, “Who is your favorite team?”
He said, “Baltimore Ravens,” because he likes Lamar Jackson.
“Wow!” I said, genuinely impressed. I nearly high-fived him.

Another student surprised me by responding, “I like the Warriors.”
This prompted my follow-up question, “Who is your favorite NBA player?”
The boy answered, “Steph Curry.”
“Steph Curry is my favorite player too!”
He was so happy, he shook my hand.

Yet another boy told me he likes Son Heung-min.
“Whoa!” I yelled, “Tottenham Spurs!”

Since my male students are obsessed with European football, I’ve had to bone up on football clubs and stats. I adopted Son Heung-min as my player since he is the first South Korean striker to play for an English club. He also happens to have scored nearly the most goals in the Premier League, so others have to respect him.

“Best answer so far!” I said.
This boy too, had to shake my hand.

The Struggle Is Real

Teacher-shortage means stuffing 45 students in a room fit for 25. Students strewn all over the floor, in the aisles…

…camped out in the front of the room. Stunning that not one student complained, although one boy waved a portable fan in his face the entire time.

My Door Like a Wailing Wall

Students appeared at my door with bottom lips stuck out, like puppies attempting to return through the swinging door that previously warmly welcomed them in. One student repeatedly appeared and stood at the door. Then he would walk away. Then he would return and stand in front of the door. Then walk away. As my door is made of glass, I witnessed all of this.

“Which class do you want to keep?”

This question was posed to me by the head teacher upon the conclusion of Term 1. He was going to make our schedules for Term 2, and allowed each teacher to keep one class.

“Which class do you really not want to let go of?”

I wanted to say, “All of my classes!” This was true; I loved all of my classes and enjoyed the bonds that had developed between myself and the students; how the classes had gelled and displayed their unique personalities. There were the naughty-raucous-low-level-English classes—of which other teachers had warned me. Yet these classes had “flavor”, they had personality.

I had one particularly rowdy class during which I was presenting the vocabulary word “clever.” As I was complimenting my students, telling them they were all “clever”, one boy secretly took my whiteboard marker and wrote in jumbo-all-caps, “CLEVER” across the board. It was a joke on me, as I didn’t see it immediately, while the rest of the class giggled and had a good laugh. When I finally did see it, I had no choice but to laugh along; his act was very clever indeed.

There were middle-level-English classes filled with class comedians, with both earnest and not-earnest students. Then there were high-English-level classes in which I was able to teach with more sophistication and depth.

It was like asking a mother which child she wanted to keep out of all of her children. What an impossible decision! For a moment, I actually did start to think about it, but as soon as one class distinguished itself, I would flash on another class that was just as beloved as the first. Thus, I told the head teacher I would not make any requests; I let all of my classes go. I figured, if any classes came back to me, it would be karma.

Another reason I did not hold onto any classes is because I did not want my fear of missing them to tug on them; to hold them back. Whether one believes it or not, everything is energy. Emotions are energy. Missing someone or something is a type of energy that pulls. I did not want to put that energy onto my students. I wanted to let them experience a new teacher, perhaps better suited to them. I didn’t want to hold them back because of my fear. Thus, I gave them their freedom to fly.

Wo still Love Laoshi = I still love teacher

Casualties of Term 2 began immediately. One female student— I will call her “Rose”— the one who wrote “Wo love laoshi” on my whiteboard—came running to me on the first day.

“30/26A! 30/26A!” she was yelling, pointing to my room.
I shook my head with a soft smile, saying, “I’m so sorry, I am teaching B-side this term.”
“No teacher!” she pointed in my room, “A! A!”

Students from B-side had already entered my room and found their seats.
Again, I shook my head, “I am so sorry, A-side is with Teacher ___________ this term.”

She looked at the door of her new classroom with horror. I don’t blame her. That teacher is the teacher whom I described in my previous blog post. During the speaking test, he scolded his students for forgetting their script, looking disgusted and disappointed.

It is not an insignificant point. Rose had asked me to work with her heavily to prepare her for the speaking test. She has rudimentary English skill, and she knows it. But she put in the effort. In our classes, I would see her repeating the vocabulary and dialog with such vigor, her neck veins popped out. I winced to think about her doing the speaking test with her new teacher.

Rose pointed to my room and said, “Rian! Rian เรียน! เรียน!” meaning, “I study here! I study here!”

I shook my head with great emotion, as if denying a puppy to come home.

Rose was reeling. I could literally see her brain absorbing the confusion, the shock, the helplessness. She stomped into my room where my new students were already settled.

She shouted, “Teacher jai-dii! ใจดี! Teacher jai-dii! ใจดี!” It was at once an announcement, a scolding, and an accusation—as if to ask—“What have you done to deserve this teacher?”

She begged me to let her change rosters and be in my class again.

I resisted a strong urge to hug her because:

1) It’s against Covid-19 protocols.

2) I feared I would break down and sob, and really kidnap her into my class.

I have stated before that taking this job has been the revelation of my life. It has awoken fierce maternal instincts that previously existed only for my dogs. The relationships I have formed with my students is no joke. That’s why I handle them with utmost care, respect, and gratitude. These students can truly become attached, such as Rose. I felt her strong pull.

I kept my gaze steady with a gentle smile, beaming love from my heart. “Sa-rang-hae Rose!” I said.

For Rose’s part, having put her classmates on notice, exited my room and padded down the hallway to her new teacher.

Jai-dii: jai ใจ means “heart”, and dii ดี means “good”.

*    *    *

*Note: 2 weeks later, I was standing outside my door, welcoming my students.

At the other end of the hallway, I saw Rose pop out from her classroom. Her teacher—with his back to me—put his hands on his hips while Rose kept pointing at me. She had intended to come say “Hi”, but her teacher brusquely shooed her back into the room. That girl is crushing my heart.

Reunited And It Feels So Good

As I did not request to keep any class, I left it to karma to see if any classes did come back to me. So, did any of them return? Why yes—the Cologne-Splasher and Nipple-Flasher classes (which begs the question, what kind of karma do I have?)

The Nipple-Flasher class is also the Reverent-God-Bless-You class. These students would routinely sit outside my door and wait for me to arrive from lunch break. Or, they would enter my room on their own and set out all the books and prepare the room for me like dutiful children.

One student repeatedly appeared and stood at the door. Then he would walk away. Then he would return and stand in front of the door. Then walk away. As my door is made of glass, I witnessed all of this.

I swung my door open. My students were seated on the ground, some finishing their lunches.

“Come in!” I gestured. They didn’t move. “You can come in,” I said. They still didn’t budge. “You can come inside, or stay outside, up to you,” I explained, as we still had twenty minutes until class would start.

One boy asked tentatively, “A?”—as in— A-side?

“A!” I confirmed.

The boy pointed in my room to re-confirm.

“Yes, in here!” I waved my arm into my classroom.

The boy laughed with a mixture of glee and relief, and quickly ripped off his shoes. A second boy also let out a noise of happiness and amazement, and scrambled up from the ground. I understood why they had remained motionless when I had invited them in; they had been given the wrong room number on their schedules, so they didn’t know I would be teaching them again. Soon, all of my students had sprinted into my room where we marveled in mutual affection.

I felt sorry for their friend who belonged to the B-side class. He had been part of their group, but as my students raced to enter my room, they had literally kicked their shoes into his lap (he was seated right next to my door) and abandoned him without as much as a backward glance.

GI Joe: Miniatures

Another class that came back to me is a class of first-year high-school students. They sit in numerical order according to Thai custom.

The first two rows are occupied by boys whose bodies have yet to mature; they look like spindly spiders. Likewise, puberty has yet to strike their voices. These boys operate like petite army soldiers whose job it is to shout everything at the top of their lungs. When I greet the class, the boys lead the charge.

“STAND UP!” they order their classmates, “GOOD AFTERNOON TEACHER!” they shout as if auditioning for junior ROTC.

When I introduce the vocabulary, they shriek at the top of their lungs, “LEAP! FLIP! LEDGE!” I ask them lesson-specific questions, such as:

“Who do you live with?”

“MOTHER AND FATHER AND BROTHER!”

“Do you live in an apartment or house?”

“I LIVE IN A HOUSE!”

“Do you have any pets?”

“DOG!” “CAT!” “HAMSTER NAMED MILO!”

When I dismiss the class, the soldiers in the front command the class to “STAND UP PLEASE! THANK YOU TEACHER!” they hollar in unison.

For thirty minutes afterwards, my ears continue to ring as if I’d just attended a metal concert.

Wo Still Love 김 아영 = I Still Love Ayoung Kim

In my previous post, I waxed poetic about my students. However, there was one class I intentionally omitted, not because they are not cherished, but because they are possibly the most cherished. Yes, after I began this post by saying that I love all my classes and can’t choose one child over another, I have to admit this one class is special. Perhaps, a once-in-a-lifetime class a teacher hopes for; where teacher and students suit on every level.

If ever there were a “soul-mate” class, this would be it. It feels as if I could do a data-brain-dump, and every single student would be lock-step with me. The students are only 15 years old, but have acquired an amazing level of fluency—far beyond my senior classes. Not only that, they understand subtlety and nuance, and get my deadpan, ironic, sense of humor.

When the head teacher asked me which class I wanted to keep, I wanted to choose this class. But as I said, I didn’t want my fear of missing them to hinder them and hold them back. So I let them go. Admittedly, it hurt when I saw they were assigned to a different teacher, but if my students flourished under her instructions, then God bless them.

It was the first week of school, and this class went to their new teacher. Directly afterwards, the students found me. One girl wore such a depressed expression on her face that I asked, “Oh no! What happened Lussa?”

She replied, “Teacher, everyone in our class is sad. Everyone is saying we want you to teach us.”

I was so touched. When I looked around, I realized I was surrounded by the students who came to tell me how much they missed me! I had no idea! I knew I loved them this much, but I didn’t know they loved me back this much. Interestingly, this class fell into my lap Term 1 during the commotion of covering classes due to our teacher-shortage (still on-going…). The original teacher had written a note on the roster: “Keep this class.” However, as karma had it, “this” class came to me.

Because nearly all the students came to voice their displeasure, I decided to submit a request to the head teacher to get this class re-assigned back to me. As “luck” or “coincidence” would have it, I was free that period, so it would not be necessary to get into messy re-scheduling issues.

This class has fallen into my lap twice now. As I had done with all of my initial class meetings, I went around the room asking each student, “What do you like?”

The first boy I asked—the boy who wrote my name in Korean above the word “laoshi”—answered, “I like English teachers named Ayoung Kim.” 

I had been in the midst of leaning closer to clarify his response when the class started to laugh. No, I didn’t need him to clarify; I didn’t misunderstand him—I had heard him correctly. He had caught me off guard. I didn’t think my students would be so direct, although I should know it by now based on how they respond to me.

“Good Lord!” I said and clutched my heart. The students were still laughing. After composing myself, I said, “Thank you, I like you too.” My visions of navigating this line of questioning with any shred of elegance unceremoniously crumbled as my cheeks turned the color of fine-wine rouge. 

The next couple of boys said they like to “play games” and “play basketball.”

The next boy is one of the most charismatic, and clever students in the class. He of the “Passwords are like underwear, you don’t have to show” creator—he definitely matches me wit for wit.

Thus, when I asked Dom, “What do you like?”—I was anticipating a sharp-shooting retort.

Dom was smiling as he said, “I like…” and trailed off. It appeared as if he was searching for the perfect thing to say. He took a breath, then blurted out, “You!” 

“Oh!” I exclaimed, as if torched by a burning fire poker. What scant poise I might have held onto had now officially dissolved into an episode of “Teacher Keeps Getting Embarrassed By Her Own Class Activity.” At least I was providing comedic relief to the class.

Similarly, I took a breath, straightened up and said, “Thank you, I like you too.” 

Some people get wine stains on their teeth. Me? I got it on my face. By this time, my cheeks had blossomed into a fully saturated Cabernet Sauvignon maroon. As I had committed to asking everyone this question, I couldn’t cut off and move to the girls. 

With trepidation, I moved to the next boy. “What do you like?” I asked.
He said, “Football.”
“Oh really? Who’s your club?” I asked.
“Spurs.” he replied.
“Tottenham Spurs? You like Son Heung-min?” I asked.
“Yes!” he nodded.
“Yeah!” I cheered.
My digging into European football research was definitely yielding results.

The next boy was not only the smartest of an already exceedingly smart class, but I suspect he scores in genius levels. Tam is overweight by a lot, wears glasses, and sports a bowl cut. One might assume he is the outcast of the class, but in fact he is the most popular. He has an insane sense of humor, with a natural gift for physical comedy. 

Students sit for an exam.

The Dom and Tam show

During a game in which I divided the class into two teams, two students would come to the whiteboard and spell the vocabulary word based on the definition I read aloud. It began as one would expect: The students listened for my clue, and they competed to spell it first. Then Tam and Dom came to the board. 

I read the definition, and Dom began writing furiously. Tam also began writing, but simultaneously began wiping away what Dom had written. When Dom re-wrote the word, Tam slid the whiteboards apart (my board splits in half to slide away) so that Dom’s writing was illegible. Then two more boys from opposing teams joined in to either erase the words, slide the whiteboard back and forth, or just wrestle each other. It ended with a pile of boys in a scrum. All over the word, “Buckingham Palace.”

On another occasion, I had created a grid of twelve squares on the whiteboard. Inside each square was the answer. One student from each team held a paper ball, and waited for me to read the clue. The first one to find the answer and successfully throw the ball into the correct square would win the point. Naturally, the game started out as one would predict. Then Tam and Dom came up. 

Tam grabbed Dom and led him to the back of the class, where they got a running start. They raced each other to the whiteboard and hurled their balls at the grid, but Tam’s ball missed. So he stole Dom’s ball. Dom retaliated by putting Tam in a choke-hold. Then two more boys from opposing teams joined in. This game too, ended up with a pile of boys in a scrum.

On top of all of his talents (or because of them), Tam touts tons of swag. Case in point: In our first meeting of Term 1, he strolled into class blasting Thai techno music from a portable boom box. 
I had looked over at him and said, “Oh, is that how we’re doing it now?” 

He had teased me that first class, asking, “Teacher, do you know about footbon?” 

(Thais in general pronounce the final “l” sound as “n”, eg, apple = appen, Google = Googen).

“Yes, I know about footbaLL,” I replied.

“Do you know about Liverpoon footbon?” he persisted.

“I know about LiverpooL footbaLL,” I enunciated clearly.

“FootboNNN!  FootboNNN!” I realized he was trying to get me, but his demeanor was pure poker game face.

I couldn’t help it and started to crack up. “FootbaLL!” I said while laughing out loud.

“No teacher! Say footboNNN! FOOTBONNN!”

*   *   *
It was Tam’s turn. I leaned over and asked him, “What do you like?” I was awaiting a clever retort, ready to engage in our usual teasing repartee.

Tam looked into my eyes, but he didn’t have that swag. He wasn’t going to make a joke. In a quiet voice, he said, “You.”

From M.S. Summa Cum Laude to $5 an hour: Living My Best Life

I graduated Summa Cum Laude, as one of the top students in my class. I began an acupuncture practice that soon doubled in patient load. I was busy, working up to twelve hours a day, as is common for sole proprietors. My patients were lovely, I was making good money, and I had one weekend day off. Yet, I was empty inside. I couldn’t pretend to love my life anymore. After three years, I went to India, where I stayed at an ashram for three months. To make a long story short, that experience irrevocably changed my trajectory. I returned to the US to close my business, and immediately flew back to India.

Fast forward to my job now: an ESL teacher working $5 an hour for a government high school, where I put in at least ten hours a day.

The joy my students bring me—whether they are in my class or not—cannot be overstated. At the end of a long day, nearly all of it on my feet (and did I mention the bathrooms are on the 2nd floor, and I have a new class in a separate building on the 5th floor?), I lock my door and brace myself for the 25 minute trudge home. By this hour, my shoulder bag feels like it weighs 50lbs. As I make my way across campus, students call out to me.

“Teacher! Teacher! Hello!” I look up—there are my students waving furiously, lined up on the balcony on the 2nd floor in a building across from mine.

“Sun-sang-nim! 선생님!” I turn, and students who had been seated in groups on the ground stand up to bow to me.

“Teacher Ayoung!” my students call to me from across the courtyard where they are gathered on the stage where we have morning ceremony.

“An-young-ha-sae-yo Teacher!” “Good morning teacher!” my students from last term greet me with their palms in wai. I am delighted to wai back to them.

“Teacher, I love you!” a student pulls over on her motorbike to yell this to me as I walk home.

My point in high-lighting these interactions is: My students don’t have to greet me. They don’t have to say “Hi” or “Good morning” or “an-young-ha-sae-yo.” But they do. They seemingly go out of their way to greet me and make contact in some way.

It isn’t a little thing.

It’s everything.

Student presents me with a gift. Every day upon conclusion of class, she would approach and say, “Have a good day Teacher!” Sooo cute!