It is a truth universally acknowledged that in any private school, the end product is not an excellent education experience for the students, but rather, the students having ‘outstanding’ exam distinctions that the parents can brag about.
There was an undiscussed agreement between the school board and student body in my old school: that the students be mere commodities to be sold to existing and prospective parents.
You would see our IGCSE scores being obscenely displayed in advertising banners, along with our academic and sports competition awards — as if they were not our own merits.
Notice how the students are being sold like commodities — not the actual services the school provides themselves. The teachers are not exempt from treating us like commodities too.
Most of the time, when I ask an interesting question, the teacher’s response would be, “That’s not in the curriculum. You don’t have to know that!” clearly indicating the true purpose of school. Not education, but the students’ final exam results that the parents can use to pat themselves in the back.
Like any other curious child, I became extremely disillusioned with the education system. And I was one of the lucky ones, being able to attend an international school. One could only imagine the disillusionment students from Indonesian local schools experience.
. . .
Growing up, I didn’t take my education seriously, and I thought that was a cool form of rebellion. After all, why serve a system that does not serve you? I especially hated English class — the thought of doing another boring Cambridge essay makes my stomach lurch even until now.
I would always get penalized marks for not ‘sticking to the prompt’. Everything else was good except that — so it was really a waste, not to change this minor detail — but I didn’t give a damn about marks. The more I got penalized, the more my future essays deviated from what was expected.
I stopped hating English class, however, after I got Miss Asvin as a teacher. When she first arrived, I thought of her as akin to a lizard. Most teachers are lizards in the sense that if you cut their tail off, they’re going to grow again. As all students know — the lizardry never ends.
Whenever we complain seriously about a teacher so he or she gets removed from their post, the new one occupying it isn’t necessarily guaranteed to do a better job. In fact, most of the time, they’re even worse.
I was wrong this time, however. Miss Asvin was different from my previous teachers. To my surprise, she even thought of my unique prompt interpretations as a sign of creativity rather than deviancy. She even praised me based on that.
She was also the first teacher who took humanities subjects seriously for the student’s development. Before her, my school only focused on business and science — the ‘money makers’, as they are known.
I didn’t find either particularly interesting, so I did just enough to do well within the system — without any vision on what to do with this knowledge moving onwards. Every day in school, we learned things, but we never bothered to think of why we were memorizing them in the first place.
Miss Asvin was different — she introduced the love of learning to her pupils. She had a perceptive eye for identifying students’ natural talents that they might not even be aware of themselves.
Since I was never introduced to the arts as a legitimate study before, I didn’t practice it. But somehow, she identified me as linguistically proficient and encouraged me to pursue writing and debate.
She turned a thoroughly mediocre student — nobody else saw potential in me — into someone who can be proud of themselves. Confidence was the greatest blessing she gave me. After that, she nominated me for debate and writing competitions, leading my ever-growing passion for the community lasting even until now.
I was incompatible with pretty much everyone at school because my old school did not have many students. However, I ended up finding talented friends and inspiring connections outside of school, thanks to her encouraging me to pursue these communities.
As to the silly unrelated questions that I asked teachers — to my surprise — she was not vexed at all. Instead, she praised me for my curiosity. Even when she did not know how to answer my question, she never failed to tell me she will find out for me.
Every student who got the privilege of getting to know her loved her. Whenever she explained a concept or answered a question — no matter how trivial the point is — she would always give a bit more than expected. That, I realized, is the most effective teaching method: To teach without the listener noticing that they are being taught.
There was no disinterest in her classes because we weren’t even aware we were doing the hard, hard work of studying. We didn’t perceive it as studying. Instead, it was learning by unconscious absorption.
Miss Asvin knew not only the art of teaching but also the art of living. She didn’t teach for the sake of instilling more abstract knowledge down the child’s brain but so that the child can live a more fulfilling life with a more open-minded view of the world.
She cured my academic lethargy by telling me,
“Learn for yourself — not the system.”
Thus, she gradually wore down her pupils’ resistance to learning. It was as if she took my brain and washed it away of all resentment towards the academic system and enabled it to view the world in a different light.
. . .
I would not have become a voracious reader if not for her. I would not have had a thirst for knowledge that propels me to discover things if not for her. And I would not have the confidence to take on opportunities when they land on my lap if not for her. Such is the necessity of a great teacher.
Good teachers enable students to absorb tons of knowledge. But great teachers give molded minds new hopes and dreams, ambitions and passions, inspirations and desires. Most importantly, a great teacher must turn students on the brink of giving up feel confident that they can do what they set out to achieve — a gargantuan task for many.
She never belittled my immature adolescent emotions but instead redirected them into proper channels. Regarding resentment towards people who rejected my mediocrity: Why, do not simply sit there and grumble at the world! Do something — prove them wrong! I tell myself now, with her voice in the back of my head.
Even better, she did not see me as any less, even with how I initially started. She saw her students for their potential. When I did something that I was even surprised could be possible, it never surprised her or even amused her. It was like she knew all along, and that expectation set the new standard on how I would spend my days moving forward.
When I had none, she was my friend — looking back, one must assume I’m very nerdy to befriend teachers. “Thanks for listening to my nonsense,” I would tell her, “nobody else would understand.” She would give me a warm smile, and that was how our friendship took root — like a flower growing amongst the cracks of the desert that is our schoolroom.
I realized she was a genius in teaching when I realized she had this contagious demeanor. Whenever she spoke of a passionate topic — be it history, literature, or the arts — she would have this sparkle in her eye. Then suddenly, the students would catch the gleam in their own eyes.
All her pupils became positively enthusiastic in hearing what she had to say and asked questions afterward. This, I realize, was a scarce phenomenon. Usually, with other teachers, we would yawn and play video games — if went uncaught.
“You should read Pride and Prejudice, Celine! If you think romances are horribly written, you have never read the classics,” she would say, with a voice full of excitement, “Jane Austen writes beautifully — it’s such a shame it’s not in the school library.”
I was determined to read more and more, as well as all the other habits she encouraged in me. “Why don’t you take up more debate? You’ll do absolutely splendid, my dear,” she’d say as I still struggled with disbelief.
Within me, an inclination towards many more interests swelled, and I began to excel in several departments — one of them was language composition. I was amazed to find myself writing; it was as if someone else was taking control of my brain.
Until now, I still can’t believe it is natural to have words flow from my fingers. I was so useless back then; perhaps that was before Miss Asvin took control of a particular element in my brain — confidence.
Open up the things laid dormant in the hearts of disillusioned youths — and only then can wisdom flow from them.
. . .
To Miss Asvin, wherever you are now.
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This post was previously published on Inspired Education.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
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