The sleeping child (II)

Back in the days when I was teaching literature in lower secondary, I introduced the students to a poem by John Walsh entitled "The Bully Asleep." Basically, it is about a group of students who were plotting 'revenge' on a bully who made their lives miserable. The best opportunity came when he fell asleep in class.

The idea from the poem befits the image of J, who had his head on the table. He was snoring away softly, oblivious to the laughter that was building up around him.  J. may not be the terrible bully as portrayed in the Walsh's poem, but there are are striking similarities.

This afternoon, when grassy Scents through the classroom crept, 

Bill Craddock laid his head Down on his desk, and slept.

The children came round him: Jimmy, Roger, and Jane; 

They lifted his head timidly And let it sink again.

‘Look, he’s gone sound asleep Miss’, Said Jimmy Adair; 

‘He stays up all the night, you see; His mother doesn’t care.’

J's story? 

Well. he does fall asleep when the humidity levels in the classroom reached almost an unbearable level. It was a usual sight to have him slumped over. I did not know which was better honestly. For you see, when J is awake, he talks endlessly. He must always have the last word. He is a bright child; and has a sharp wit. He has a good range of vocabulary; so some of the 'barbs' I throw at him are easily deflected. Even when told to keep quiet, he will attract attention with needless gestures; with a kick to the table, or by scraping his chair.

Yes...he does stay up all night. At least that was what his form teacher told me. And the fact that he lives a considerable distance from the school often finds him falling asleep in buses...and he is inevitably late for school on numerous occasions.

‘Stand away from him children.’ Miss Andrews stopped to see. 

‘Yes, he’s asleep; go on With your writing, and let him be.’

‘Now’s a good chance!’ whispered Jimmy, And he snatched Bill’s pen and hid it.

 ‘Kick him under the desk, hard; He won’t know who did it’

‘Fill all his pockets with rubbish – Paper, apple-cores, chalk.’ 

So they plotted, while Jane Sat wide-eyed at their talk.

I do not need to really tell you that J does not endear himself to his peers.  Negative attention is still produce some form of response from others - so in his loud, brash ways, J attracts all the wrong kind of attention. He is boorish, crude, and rubs people the wrong way.  He is not a bully in the conventional sense - it's his ways that puts people off.

Not caring, not hearing,Bill Craddock he slept on;
Lips parted, eyes closed –Their cruelty gone.

‘Stick him with pins!’ muttered Roger.
‘Ink down his neck!’ said Jim.
But Jane, tearful and foolish,
Wanted to comfort him.
In short, J is not a person that you would warm up to easily.  There were days when I feel exasperated by his endless distractions.  He hardly has books in his bag, has no papers nor books, and comes to class with the dirtiest-looking rag of a T-shirt ever.  When asked for his shirt, he would pull out a crumpled, yellowed school uniform  and grumbled that the weather was too hot to be wearing one.

But as I watch him sleep; with the exam paper left undone, a few things struck me...

This was a child...
whose fighting parents have declared that neither one wanted him
where the roof over his head was taken away because of the adults defaulting payment
who came to school sometimes without the money to fill his stomach

This is a child...
....this is a sad....sad....sad...sad...child.

Sleep J...if it calms your troubled soul....

The sleeping child (I)

This is a reflection of something that happened recently. I wrote about it, but never got to the point of publishing this entry...As I invigilate the exams, I am bound to find some of my students falling asleep, with the heads on the table.  This was what went through my mind as I looked at this particular child.

She is beautiful...so I had made the assumptions that the genes must have come from either parents.  Tall & willowy, with dark eyes which framed her heart-shaped features perfectly.  The only problem with her was that she was frequently absent from school.  There is no real explanation as to why medically, even though her absence was always covered by a legitimate medical certificate.

She appeared with her mother in school recently.  They were seated along the stone seats along the corridor while waiting to speak to the form teacher who was in the classroom. I made my way to the woman whom I assumed was my student's mother.  It was then obvious where she got her exotic good looks from - the only difference between mother and daughter was just the colour of their skintones - but otherwise, t.hey were almost the spitting image of each other.

I should have read the body language more carefully. The girl was sitting away from the mum, fiddling endlessly with her handphone, while the mother was sullen; obviously unhappy at being made to come to school to discuss about her child.

I introduced myself, and then immediately spoke about the daughter's progress in class.  She listened without interrupting whatever I had to say. Then suddenly, she asked me this question:
"I know about her studies...But I want to know. Don't school's teach values anymore?"

I was taken aback. That was a question that I did not quite expect. Then she went on.
"It seems that all the school cares now is about results.  But what are you teaching the children?"

That put me in a spot. I did not know how to answer her.  But before I could answer, the daughter interjected.
"Why do you ask my teacher stupid questions?"..It was more of a bark.

"See...no point I send her to school...to be educated. Look how rude she is."

"I'm rude? What about you? All you care is for yourself...You are nothing but a cold-hearted b**ch!"

Whoa! Where did that come from?
The bitter exchange was so fast and unexpected that I was stunned...The daughter stamped her foot and walked away.  Strangely, the mother, sat up , ramrod stiff, and refused to utter a single word. Her face was one of total self-control. She was so red that she looked as though as if she was going to burst at any moment. At that point, the form teacher came out of the room, and invited her in.

I went after the child.  I found in, sobbing in the toilet.  When she saw me, she wiped away her tears.
"Please don't say anything, please. Don't make me apologise. I am just telling the truth.  That woman may have given birth to me, but she has not done a single thing to deserve the title of mother. I hate her."

A lot more transpired after that.   But I cannot elaborate it here.  But eventually, I managed to get the girl back to the classroom, seat her next to the mother, where they spent the next twenty minutes in stoic silence.  And when the session was over, the mother left the classroom in a hurry.  The girl followed behind. But they went their separate ways. It left me with many unanswered questions.

How did things reach to such a state?  How could a 16-year-old habour such animosity towards her mother?  And how....how did the mother 'lose' her child?

Today, the child fell asleep.  As she had her head on the table, I reflected...such innocence in her moments of repose...But, when she wakes up later...what will happen with this child?

Knee-jerk Reactions

I know that I made the choice to step down. Now, someone has taken over.
While I understand that changes are inevitable, I hate it when I find myself cornered, and having to justify the actions I have taken in the past.

I acknowledge there are loopholes. I know that there are flaws.
I must know learn to bite the bullet when the feedback given are less than favourable.
That I know.

But my grouse is this...why is it none of this was ever raised to me personally?
Now it seems as if the arrows are shooting at me from every direction.

I will shoulder the responsibility of my actions.
It hurts, but I understand the need for improvement.

I only wished it was not a personal attack.

Hunger

This is what I wrote which trying to motivate the kids to do their essays.  It is not 'original' in the sense that it is based on the poem that I used to teach years ago.

"You better come down.Dinner's getting cold." Mother yelled for the umpteenth time. So far, none of the children responded. They were probably lost in their virtual world, and lost track of the time again.

She sighed. She wondered if she ought to go upstairs and bring them down.  She had taken the trouble to cook a delicious meal that evening - chicken rice, vegetables and steamed fish.  After all, the doctor had advised her to watch Boy-Boy's diet. He has been deemed as obese. She had been upset. To her, he has yet to lose his baby fat.

Her eyes caught sight of what was going on on that little TV in the kitchen.  The documentary on Channel 12 was featuring the situation in Somalia.  The famine-plagued country was torn apart by civil war.  There were images of tiny babies - with sunken eyes, hollowed cheeks and bloated stomachs - victims of malnutrion.

"The Red Cross is appealing for donations" the commentator's coice droned. Numbers kept flashing across the screen.  But Mother did not quite notice .  She was busy pouring a large cup of Cola for Boy-boy. It was going to be a treat. He has been pouting eversince the she had to cut back his food.

The boy in question came into the room, and immediately sulked when he saw the food on the table. "I want MacDonald's!" he demanded, his chubby cheeks puffed in anger.

"But darling, You had that yesterday. Today it's your favourite chicken rice." she coaxed.  But he glared at her, grabbed the glass of fizzy drink she had unconsciously offered, and walked off.  She wondered about the battles she will now have with him.

Then something on the screen caught her attention again. The scenes were graphic.  Skinny, bony women carried half-dead infants in their arms.  But she could not understand why the TV was showing pictures of naked women. How can the board of censors allow this? It was a good thing that Boy-boy has left the room.

Her teenaged daughter came bouncing into the room.  She too looked at the food in disdain.  "You know I can't eat this, Mummy! I'm on a diet. All this food will make me fat!"

Mother looked at the spread left untouched on the table. She sighed.  She would have to eat dinner alone - again.  But then, something on TV pulled her eyes back to the screen.  This time, it was the images of scrawny children, picking up leftover scraps from the filthy ground - mixed with dung and waste.


"Eeewwww...How disgusting!" she commented. The sight had turned her stomach. She now has lost her appetite.  She was no longer hungry.

But she, was not going to waste food. She had always disliked keeping food overnight.  So she carefully packed up the food and fed it to the stray dogs in the neighbourhood.  Then she picked up the familiar number of MacDonald's delivery, so that Boy-boy would not go hungry that night.

(written - 6 October 2011)

You are what you write...

I have a hobby which allows me to decipher a person's character...that is, if I want to.
The ability to 'read personality traits'  through one's handwriting is NOT fortune telling...yet each time, when on a whim, I reveal to some of the students their character, they are taken aback, and then have the misconception that I can foretell what's going to happen to them.

Graphology is the art and science of analyzing handwriting.
It started off as a hobby to while my time away back in the days when I was in varsity. Someone was offering to teach the craft, and I signed on for workshop. It was fun.

Of course, I am not an expert in it.  But I would say I know enough...to keep the students'  during the moments when things get a little dull in class. Some people get freaked out if I reveal certain aspects of their behaviour...though this craft is combined with some degree of perception and close observation.

There are many things that can give you away...
the degree of one's slant, the size, the pressure, the font, the loops and curls, the sharpness, and so on.
I do know that some companies which believe in graphology ask their potential job holders to send handwritten resumes, so that they can 'verify' the true character of a person.

I have one disclaimer.
Though I have this knowledge, I do not use it to 'probe' into the characters of my students.
It does not work like that...

My only wish is that those with minute writing, and messy scrawls would really use large neat script...that's the kind of writing that I want to be able to read!

Want me to read yours?

I am an Imploder

Kaboom!
That's why I suddenly jolted me up. It's around 3.45am now. I had been awake for more than an hour already.

I had not wanted to be reliant on medication.  No anti-depressants, no sleep-inducingvalium. I had thought that the tiring events of the day would allow my weary body to rest.
I guess I was wrong.

Kaboom!
One may not usually remember much of dreams.
But it had felt that a time bomb just went off in my mind.
Sleep was not restful at all.

The fragments of the day's events became a jumbled mess in my mind.
The scoldings, the fretting, ...the whole litany of unspoken words that remained imprinted were looking for an outlet.
Twice today, I had to walk out of the classroom.
Not because of anger, but because of tears.

It's that time of the year.
Wondering if I had done enough...if I had done my part
If I had been keeping to my 'amanah'

I cannot help but be emotionally involved...though it is their future; their lives.
I cannot switch off, and not wonder about the 'if onlys'

Dear God,
Guide me...and give me the wisdom to know my place, and my limitations.
Help me find the inner strength.
and...bless me with much needed sleep.
Ameen.

When sleep becomes elusive

I need to sleep...
Somehow, due to some hormonal changes, and the worries I carry in my mind, I have been finding it hard to get my rest. Oh, I do fall asleep around ten - that is more out of habit rather than anything else. But, lately, from one to four, the body clock re-sets itself. I am awakened by some thing that keeps on playing in my mind.

At the same time, that's when I find myself feeling very warm. Mind you, I sleep in an airconditioned room, but I will be drenched in sweat. Once, I got up and took a bath, but this would not be good for the joints in the long run...now that arthritis has set in.

I have tried praying...
But I found myself more alert than ever. I wanted to mark, but the eyesight is not very good at that time of the night.  So I have spend fruitless hours surfing the net mindlessly, hoping to look for a cure for the insomnia.

The doctor prescribed amitriptyline...
I know,...it's more on an anti-depressant which is supposed to help  me relax...If it was the other GP, he would have given me valium...so far, it only worked once this week..cos in total, I had less than 4 hours of sleep.

Panda eyes, sallow skin...
and extremely poor concentration during the day....this is bad.
Sleep is truly a balm for the body and mind...
I need to sleep.