a year in a week

There are some weeks that have an uncanny ability to summarize a year. I’m not a social scientist that will try explaining why a ten-day span can eerily mirror the emotional and progressive trends of a ten month period. My time in Kazakhstan started with a long trip to a new experience that filled me with apprehension and excitement, nervousness and challenge. As I grew and learned how to teach and speak Russian, I gained confidence. With confidence came more responsibility, and in turn gave me a more satisfying experience. My plans for the future have ebbed and flowed from fairly certain to totally unsure and back again, while my overall satisfaction of my time here has remained high even on the worse days of winter. I’m not a literary genius who can draw all types of metaphorical and allegorical connections between the two, transitioning seamlessly between anecdote and commentary. But given the week I’ve had, it’s worth a page or two to investigate. Let’s back up a ten days.

Last Wednesday night I arrived in Petropavlovsk after an epic 60 hour roundtrip train ride to Almaty for a flu shot. Shortly after my arrival, my counterpart, with whom I teach and upon whom I’ve come to rely, called me at home saying that her allergies had flared up too badly to go to work and that I would be teaching solo on Thursday. I felt a rush of nervousness I hadn’t felt since the first awkward weeks of training as I stood unsure and scared in front of my first English class. I was a bit panicked because of the short notice and lack of plan, but that panic spurred excitement, which in turn brought on productivity. I stayed up late and planned a full lesson of interactive activities, knowing that the kids would have trouble sitting through a lesson of reading and exercising completing without my counterpart there to bark them into obedience. I took my guitar and told my ninth grade class that if they could make it though an entire lesson not using Russian, we would sing a song at the end. It worked. I had one of the most satisfying lessons, and although there were minor behavior issues involving cell phones which I had to take care of, I ended the day feeling good. Really good.

At school I had found out that my Friday classes were cancelled, so I called my counterpart to fill her in and to see if she was feeling any better. She told me that she was going to miss the whole next week in order to receive a treatment at the hospital in the mornings. Knowing that I had the whole weekend to plan and prepare, the nervousness had dissipated and the satisfying feeling of self-reliance had taken its place. As the week rolled on, each completed lesson left me feeling confident in my ability to teach. I was feeling motivated to plan great lessons, and I was glad to assume responsibility for my classes. I realized I enjoy teaching much more when I am in control of the class, not having to share with the local teacher. This rush of great satisfaction reinforced my plan to pursue a teaching position when I return to the US. But the week wasn’t over.

This year, Fridays have been the best and worst day of each week. The eighth graders are simply that – eighth graders. And that means every Friday we have a room full of 15 hormone-gushing, fidgeting, fighting, flirting thirteen-year-olds. Usually my counterpart just takes over and I sit in the back of the classroom while she controls and threatens them (somewhat successfully) into decent behavior. However, Friday is also my English Literature class, as well as my Spanish class. And, just as expected, the eighth graders weren’t going to yield their last day of school to a young foreign teacher. Amidst the not-so-playful hitting and slapping, constant talking, and even spitting on the floor, I felt my high ideals and aspirations about teaching sinking, just sinking. Frustration, exasperation, exhaustion, anger and confusion followed. I ended the day feeling like I had survived a battlefield, but not unscathed. Sitting at my desk between my last lesson and my after-school lit class, I seriously doubted my choice of a possible future profession.

But, like every Friday before that, my smart, motivated tenth and eleventh grade girls (both of them) showed up for the last literature class of the year. We read a text I wrote about here last year, regarding American values and stereotypes. It was great. As we read and discussed each paragraph I felt a new breath of fresh air in the room, and my sunken dreams and plans began emerging from the muck. We finished the class and the girls wanted to stay after to sing some songs I had taught them early on. Of course I obliged, pulling out my guitar to sing Christmas carols, 90s pop hits, even a Bryan Adams song. And although that last hour didn’t erase the previous six, I was no longer lost. I can’t say it put right back on my track of certainty about the future, but it was uplifting enough to make the day worth having come to work. And maybe that’s all I can ask.