It was as if someone had eaten a thesaurus for breakfast and spat this collection of words – loosely reminiscent of sentences – onto a piece of paper. “Pursuit of excellence.” “Flag-bearer of free thought.” “Education ecosystem.” “Integrity, perseverance and…” wait, “awareness”! What did that even mean? Was this a school for zombies? Were the students coming to school in a coma?
She established her authority by using unnecessarily complicated jargon, even when her main target audience was uneducated five-year-olds. Even I, at 30, had to read that letter three times to understand it. What exactly was being asked of me? To shape her future? Sure, if you count amoebas as a shape. Because that was now the shape of my own life. Fluid and directionless. Meandering and ambiguous. Confused. And not to mention, quite asexual lately.
But I knew I was being ungrateful. It was a skill I was best at. I had a gratitude journal sitting by my bed waiting for my inauguration, and that offer letter would have been a good place to start – but instead I looked at the letter with absolute disdain. Volunteering to spend eight hours of my day surrounded by snotty little monsters? No thanks!
Of course, I knew what a great opportunity it was. Parents fought bloody battles to get their children into CVS, and many made pilgrimages to say thank you when they were successful. I had seen bumper stickers on cars that said, “Proud CVS Moms,” “CVS Dads,” “There’s No Such Thing as a Perfect Parenting, But My Child Goes to CVS,” and so on. So, calm down! It’s just a school!
The only thing my own school could ever say was, “Convent girls in short skirts can kick you where it hurts.” But the education system had gone through quite a transformation over the years, as my best friend Dodo told me. Teachers were nicer now, classes were experiential, grades were no longer the only measure of learning, children’s overall development was encouraged, and parents suddenly seemed to care a lot more about their children and actually believe that the power of words works better than the power of the chappal.
But this doubt nagged at me. Did I really do that? Did I choose this life?
Was I Selection surrounded by tiny human beings I did not give birth to? Did I choose to get up at dawn and board a yellow bus that would take me to a facility I had often referred to as “prison”? Did I choose to discipline eight-year-olds when I myself had spent most of my school years in detention? Did I choose to hold them accountable for not doing their homework when my imaginary dog kept eating mine? Did I choose to maintain discipline and absolute silence in the classroom when my legendary paper-passing skills would have put any social network in school to shame? Did I choose to volunteer to be a teacher, disciplinarian, and rule enforcer?
Unfortunately, the answer was yes. I had bills to pay, things to buy and places to visit. And no other job would give me six weeks off in a row so I could pursue my true passion – traveling. I had 27 stamps in my passport, a huge map of India on my wall, covered in travel pins, souvenirs and magnets, framed and hanging in my living room… and yet I wanted more. Even if it meant slaving away half my life as a primary school teacher. So, with much reluctance – and forced gratitude – I completed the immigration formalities.
The result was that I was catapulted like a rocket into a series of excruciatingly boring training courses – something I hadn’t expected. It was ironic that I had to study to become a teacher. But I went through the whole program as a dedicated foot soldier – soft skills training, technical training, conflict training, personality training and so on. And just when I thought I was doing quite well, I was summoned to the principal’s office, as is my tradition. Before the semester had even started!
Memories flooded my mind as I walked through the sterile, silent corridors of the administration building. The classrooms across the building were a parallel universe of chaos. All schools felt the same. And, oh, the countless visits to the principal I’d made as a student for things I’d done and things I’d not done! The “not done” was mostly about homework, and the “done” was everything else. The tingling anticipation of what my punishment would be this time—if Dad would be called again, if I’d be grounded, if I’d get away with just a stern warning. I’d been so glad to put those days behind me. But here I was again—and my life had come full circle for me. Although, for a change, it wasn’t as a failing student, but as an “empowered” teacher, as we’d been defined in our “Proud to Teach” training module.
I reached the end of the hall and entered the brightly lit, immaculately clean glass cubicle, filled with the scent of Elizabeth Arden perfume. My new employer motioned for me to sit down, and I obediently did. She really exuded authority. And she always had, Mrs. Mehta, my former math teacher at my boarding school and now principal of Champion Valley School. She had come a long way. And so had I, I had to remind myself.
Excerpt courtesy of The fabulous mothers of Champion Valleyby Zarreen Khan, HarperCollins India.
