To Teach and Learn

I met many challenges, many I never anticipated as a teacher. But at the top of the list, without any doubt will be teaching how to write an argumentative essay. I had no idea but I had to teach it, it was totally frustrating and scary at that time. The English curriculum was new and so was I. But that was not the problem, the problem was no getting any help because most teachers were new to the curriculum and the orientation program missed the teachers at PHSS. The scariest situation for a new teacher is letting your guard down, in this case, mine was having no idea about the essay and hoping my students would not ask me about it every day. The teacher's guide (BHSEC English) didn't help because it doesn't have even the slightest diminutive tip/hint on the essay. The essays given for study in the textbook were confusing. And I cursed the damn essay/s and the people who wanted teachers to teach this essay. I later found out the curriculum specialist themselves (national)

The Bhutanese have a superstition that certain women have negative spirits (cultural gender discrimination).  These bad spirits are called soendae. The soendae live within a person and thrive when they are able to make other people sick. The person who is the host has little knowledge of the negative spirit living within her. When a soendae has visited a person, that person becomes sick or sometimes even die if the remedies are not carried out in time. When one washes his or her body with a herb called tsoe (rubus), scratches appear on the part of the body that has been exposed to the soendae . In certain parts of Bhutan, it is also believed that the soendaes maneuver in the form of small flames, hopping and wiggling from place to place. And if one is brave enough to whack it with a stick, the host becomes sick the next day. Bruises appear from the beating received. It is also believed that soendaes have groups and they sit for meetings before they proceed with their

Now that winter has come, I like the cold weather while teaching. The cold weather is my ally in the classroom. The cold keeps my students awake and active and it, in turn, keeps me energized. I tell my students that we draw our enthusiasm for the lesson from each other. Though teachers and students volley the lesson's mood and progress, the teacher has the maximum strike. If they look dead it sucks the energy out of me but if I am dead then there is no other ignition to light up the fire in the classroom. If I see my students cold and shivering but very alive, it gets me going. That is why the cold is good in the classroom because it eases my effort. It an oxymoronic idea to have the students feel cold and fire at the same time. So, the Cold creeps into my classroom and I welcome it. It sits on a chair and is with us. Some of the boys wrap their kabneys around their bare knees as the Cold comes and caresses them. The caressing is kind in a strange way. It doesn't have the w

Students can go to amazing imaginative limits to create nicknames for teachers. They are sometimes arbitrary but sometimes quite logical. The word soera means gift in Dzongkha. Twelve years ago, I first heard the nickname Soera . I was a student then. It was a nickname for Lopen Gembo Tshering. Over the years his nickname has changed to shakam (dried meat) because of his lean physical stature. I am not sure whether the students today still know him as Lopen Soera but when I was a student many only knew him as Lopen Soera and not his real name. Like anyone with a nickname story, Lopen Soera also had his. Every time his students misbehaved in his class, he would smile and tell them to come and receive their soera . His old face would conjure a tired smile as he flexed the bamboo stick. His other soeras were also unique and became quite popular with the other teachers. During study hours if he caught you polishing your shoes or combing your hair and not studyin

My annual school concert kickstarted yesterday and the hi-light of the show, for me, was the tapori dance. It was absolutely entertaining and the crowd loved it.  This morning I wondered about it and looked it up on Wiki. And this is what I found;  Tapori  literally translates into  vagabond  or rowdy in  Hindi . Street thugs in  Mumbai  were perhaps the most notable taporis. Their unique style of speaking Hindi was called tapori language. They also had a unique style of dressing, which they called as tapori style. Tapori culture though resented by many is widely imitated by many as humorous or comical. It has found acceptance in Bollywood  films including " Rangeela ", "Gol Mal", and " Chasme Buddoor ". [1]  They are the equivalent of  gangstas  in  Hollywood  films. The tapori dance is very fast and it has a Tollywood (South Indian) flair to it.  The taporis spice up the annual concert at my school and it looks as though they

Above me, I have a UNICEF year planner (calendar) and on it I read, "Our Children, Our Investment". Below this line, "A nation's future will mirror the quality of her youth- a nation cannot fool herself into thinking of a brighter future when she has not invested wisely in her children" - His Majesty Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck, King of Bhutan. I stop to think about it and write few lines that wing my way because I am a father, a teacher and a citizen of my country and the World. These words ring so very true that I find my purpose renewed in life. On the calendar I see pictures. I see a young girl drenched in sweat but smiling like the flowers smile at sunshine. Her eyes squint as her face cajoles a beautiful smile that is full of hope. I also see kids playing football, galloping with energy and in innocence, warming up for the future they are to give us. With pure energy, they exhibit undaunted spirit for our future. Three children stand with sm

I have no internet at home.  When we first moved to our house I desperately tried to get internet and television connections. I bought a satellite TV receiver but the location of my house and the signal didn't comply. I and two of my friends from school carried the signal receiver and made rounds of my house and surrounding, searching for the TV signal but the signal was illusive and shy. My friend, the TV expert, concluded that the signal was blocked by a hill above my house. For the internet connection I requested a friend of mind, a Bmobile employee, and even wrote an application to the manager but my location and area was not on the Bmobile investment list. So, the post I post on my blog are squeezed through little windows of time I find in my teaching schedule. Though I enjoy being able to post, I must say it takes away my time. The time that is meant for notebook correction and continuous assessment marking. Without the internet and television, me and my family, are ignora

As a student I never thought how my body language, my facial expression and my participation in the classroom would dictate my teacher's enthusiasm in teaching me and my friends. May be it was because the teaching then was only about the teacher. The students had to simply listen. I sometimes wonder how I would have been if my teachers had involved me in the learning. I was always a quiet boy in the class. Even when I knew the answer I would muffle my desire to speak out. But as a teacher I cannot stand zombies in my classroom; there are few in every class. Their dreamy eyes droop like rich poppies, heads are supported in their cupped palms, loosely sit in their stiff wooden chairs and I can always tell who smells dead in my class. It is sometimes interesting to have zombies in the class because they give you the excuse to stop for a while and talk about things other than the textbook. Everything is interesting but the text. But the teaching must go on. So: 1. Attentio

Our Dzongkha Lopen walked into the classroom and we stood up to wish him. We were doing revision and each student had to memorize stanzas of the poem-like text, write it on the board, read it and explain it to the class. He nodded and we took it for permission to sit down. Though the day was bright and pleasant, it contrasted with his mood. We could tell he wore his wrathful face that day. I was nervous and scared, as it was my turn to write and explain the stanzas. He sat on his chair and called my name after running through the name list. I walked up towards the blackboard and received the chalk in my cupped hands from him. He gave me a mocking chuckle that, to me said, “Here comes the stupid no-nothing tsagay (fool)”. I had not memorized my stanzas, though I had some idea about what they meant after consulting with a friend who was good at Dzongkha.   I did what I had to do. When I finished my task, the first look on his face was sheer bewilderment. He