What the Teachers do to Me, or, Why work in Places no one Knows?
August 9, 2014
I am in the midst of day two of a course for classroom teachers in American Samoa through the University of Hawaii. Day two for me, but the beginning of the third week for the teachers. Yes, you read that right, I completely missed the first two weeks because I committed myself to programs in other parts of the world at the same time. However, that makes for a different story. In this tale, I focus on the brief and amazing journey of local teachers who, like me, become engaged in a new world that opens up all sorts of transformational experiences.
Day two. After two weeks of reading about drama, trying out activities together and exploring a story in play form, these teachers suddenly encounter me. And I, them. The encounter occurs in an elementary classroom that stares out over the Pacific Ocean. Let that not fool you. As beautiful as the mountains are that tower near that ocean, so the heat is hardly tolerable. In this tight, concrete room, where have of the louvers are broken and the sun stares evilly through the screen, three out of four overhead fans twirl lazily about. One squeaks out its resistance. The fourth doesn’t even try, stubbornly as frozen as I wish kids would be when we do image work in drama.
Despite the fact that the teachers need to fan themselves vigorously and gulp desperately in small breaks between activities, they laugh, they dive into the activities and they listen through the think heat to how drama might benefit their students and enrich their classroom work. The teachers gulp down these material eagerly as well. They see the rich possibilities for their students, who they repeatedly note, ‘love to move. They are Samoan and Samoans love to be dramatic.’
Day two. As the class comes to its end, as the teachers perspire profusely. I reach for my water bottle for the millionth time as the teachers quickly and noisily create images of bats urinating on a princess. (Sorry, reader, you’ll have to read the actual legend to know the significance of that exploration.) They are in a frenzy of joyful learning and, just moments later, talk about how they enjoy this journey.
Having just lead sessions for an international teaching artist group in Brisbane and another such at a conference in Denver and having, in between, worked with teachers in Southern India, I have to say that the more geographically remote experiences draw me in. Messy they are, sometimes. Challenging, too, of course, because overhead fans don’t work, heat fights us and lights wink on and off. But in these places, none of that generally matters or truly phase people. What does matter are the interactions. The joy of sharing. The intensity of the new and exciting. These are not places in which I will gain fame, but they are places where the teachers and I famously get along and discover wonderfully moving moments.
I’ll admit that when the heat makes a couple of them drowsy, or the newness of the experience requires heavy repetition to make sense of it, I get a little frustrated. But the genuineness of excitement trumps all of that. When a teacher shows up on the second day with a first draft lesson plan, or a young teacher asks if she’ll get a chance to take this class again in the future, then I know I have chosen correctly. And when they cut loose and dive into the experience much as young people do, it just cannot get much better.