The Little School That Could

           For the past couple of months, Georgia has been many things to me. Georgia has been fun, it has been exhilarating, scary at times, unrelentingly interesting and unbelievably frustrating. Yet I am an ‘Inglisuri mastsavlebeli’, an English teacher, and Georgia can be everything or it can be nothing, but it must be productive.

            I have an obligation, both contractual and moral, to give the children of this country the best education that I can give. I am not a teacher by profession; besides a 120 hour TEFL course, I have no formal training. What I do have is sixteen-years of primary, secondary and post-secondary education that I fought tooth and nail for from the Government of Canada. Does this qualify me for a plane ticket and a salary? If only you knew what I was working with.

            I am a native English speaker and I have been moulded by the western educational system into what is, almost unfortunately, a capitalist. Because of Stalin and seventy-years of Soviet oppression, what I posses has become a precious commodity to the Georgian Government. If you want to modernize, westernize, and distance yourself from the legacy of Joe Steel, what better tactic than to strike at your countries youth?

            I am here so that the students can hear my voice, so that their little ears can be exposed to the subtle pronunciations of our overly-complex language. I’m here so that I can bring some of my own education into these schools and perhaps influence some Georgian teachers to adopt western methodologies in the classroom. Also, I’m here so that these wonderful people can see a real live foreigner up close and in the flesh. 

For Queen and Country (consulate in Tbilisi)

            My school, a small building with less than 100 students, is in a state of disrepair. I believe it was constructed from the same trees that they cleared the land of before building it. Each room has gaps in the walls, ceiling and floor. If you wish to look outside, forego the window and look to the corners of the room, above your head, or at your feet. The effort that they put into this building, if indeed this is the best that they could do, is both noble and touching, yet it falls well short of anything I’ve seen in Canada or indeed much of what I have seen in the larger cities and towns of Georgia.

            My school has no heating besides the wood stove that the teachers use to heat their morning coffee. Perhaps this is safer, for it also has no sprinklers, fire extinguishers, or axes either. It is October and I am cold; I weigh 175 pounds and I have trouble understanding what these little 80 pound kids are going through right now. The snow starts to fall next month; could somebody send me a parka?   

            The desks and chairs are both miniscule and older than I am. The chalkboards are tattered, scratched and hang limply from the walls. The maps on those same walls don’t have enough countries on them, I don’t recognize the contents of the jars of pickled creatures in the science room, and if another raindrop falls on me while I’m teaching, I’m going to lose my well-crafted teacher’s demeanour.

            My school is dark and there are no light bulbs. I struggle to see the board that I am writing on or the book that I am reading from. Sometimes I struggle to keep myself from yawning. Yet even if there were lights, seldom is there electricity.

            

My school, wonderfully free of cows that day

           The teachers subscribe to the Soviet-era practice of dictation and memorization. Teachers will break the cardinal rule and interrupt the children midsentence to correct them, often incorrectly. It is not uncommon for a teacher to yell at a student for making a mistake, be it a minor spelling error or a mispronunciation. I have yet to witness any physical punishment (besides a little ear-dragging) but I have recently been told by a fellow TLG’er that a little girl in his school took a textbook to the face from a disgruntled physics teacher.
          There is a low level of professionalism. Teachers arrive minutes before class and leave seconds after. There is no lesson planning and there are no office hours. There are no extra-curricular activities, no detention, and no tests. There are no grades, progress reports, or opportunities to reward improvement. I said earlier that I owe it to both myself and to the Government to give these children all that I can give, though I’m not sure how many of my colleagues feel the same way.

            Yet here I am.

            I know it sounds an awful lot like I’m complaining, but it’s important that we, as westerners, understand the reality of the countless children (those who are fortunate enough) who go to school in developing countries. Though I would not be lying in saying that sometimes this school makes me want to find a quiet little corner, clutch my head, and rock gently back and forth until I fall asleep. However, those days are becoming fewer and farther between. Some other TLG’ers have already packed it in, folded their tent, and fled back to the West, but I have barely considered it. The bad days are bad, but I have family and friends, both in country and out, that help me through those. The good days are unbelievably good.  

My little brother and sister on the first day of school

            I never knew it was possible until it happened. Standing in front of a class of eleven-year-olds, eager hands reaching skyward, shouts of “teacher!” filling the air along with laughter from both the students and myself. I jump and I slide and I dance and I sing and I chuckle and I scold but I never yell. They badly want to impress me and the feeling is completely mutual. We are successful together, we make mistakes together but most importantly, we are here together and we have to keep trying our hardest. 

            A chorus of goodbyes signals my exit from the classroom, an even louder chorus of hellos signals my entry into the hall. I walk the short distance to the teacher’s room, I get handed a cup of Turkish coffee and they motion me to sit down but I cannot. I’m too amped.

            I never knew it was possible until it happened; I never knew that teaching could give you a high.

            Over two hundred people have looked at this page so far and with only 4 posts, I’m pretty impressed with you guys. If anybody has any questions, comments, or simply wants to point out some bad spelling, please reach out to me here, over social media or email.   

Kargad!

   Zacho