Like That When I Got Here

Onur stands in the hallway, his face lit up by euphoria. He looks as though he could easily spread his arms and fly. Onur has just seen his test results and while they were not great, they were good enough. He has passed. Smooth sailing from now on; no more tiresome sessions with his grammar book, no more slogging through present perfect vs simple past, or first and second conditionals. "Thank you so much for everything, tee-cha," he breathes, practically pumping my hand in a rush of happiness. I am touched by his gratitude, but how can I take the credit? He's a smart kid to begin with, and he got out as much as he put in -- I just wish he'd done more.

Ceyda hangs back, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed, her face the picture of misery. She is usually noisy, boisterous, full of silliness, but today she is dead serious, laid low. The last time I saw Ceyda, she was eating baklava and posing for a photograph with a group of girls as giddy and mindless as she is, utterly deaf to my reminders to study. And I'm guessing she didn't study: Ceyda's score was well below the pass mark. "My father will angry," she almost weeps now. "He will too much angry!" All I can do is give her a sympathetic smile and think Don't blame me. She's not a stupid kid by any means, but she is lazy. She got as much as she put in too -- which was precious little.

Teaching can be so discouraging! I can encourage, provide materials, instruct, advise, remind, chastise, nag, and create a relaxed classroom atmosphere. I can analyze what my students need to learn, distill it until it is fit for their comprehension, and do my best to impart what knowledge needs to be imparted. But what I cannot do for my students is study. And sadder still, I cannot get inside their heads and hearts and fire them up with the passion to learn. I cannot inspire those who do not want to be inspired; I cannot motivate those who want to be elsewhere, doing other things.

All of my students have a clear vision of the carrot -- the diploma, parental approbation, a whirlwind of parties, the sheer joy of no more school, even the hazy promise of employment in these difficult times -- but a lot of them are clueless about what it takes from them to achieve that carrot.

And sometimes you get kids that are clueless, period.

"Tee-cha," wailed two girls with mournful expressions during the first week of classes, "we have problem. Repeat students."

"Pardon me?" I asked, flabbergasted. Neither girl had the accent down pat.

"Last year, this class, fail. This year repeat."

"Why do you have to repeat?" I asked.

"Tee-cha trouble!" they chorused, arms linked.

"Teacher trouble?"

They nodded, faces serious.

I smelled a rat: their spiel sounded rehearsed. And their eagerness to blame their teacher for their poor performance struck a warning bell: teachers know there are bad apples among us, but we're inclined to give our colleagues the benefit of the doubt. And all of us with any modicum of experience know that the sure sign of a crappy student is one who blames the teacher for her failure to learn. I'm not saying bad teachers don't exist -- I've had plenty myself. But blaming the teacher straight off the bat is a bad idea.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that," I said evasively. "But all you have to do in my class is pay attention, study, and turn in the assignments. Do that and you will almost certainly pass. Okay?"

"Yes tee-cha, we try!"

Like hell they did. Over the next three months, these two girls huddled together and resisted all attempts to separate them. They refused to speak English, disrupted my classes with their endless chatter, showed up late, concocted an improbable number of illnesses and excuses, and -- on memorable occasions -- slept through whole lessons. More than once I had to send both of them out of the classroom in disgrace; more than once I had to take them outside for a talking-to.

None of it did a lick of good.

Both girls turned in sub-standard homework, at best, failed their midterms and every pop quiz, and out-and-out plagiarized their final compositions, even after numerous warnings about my zero-tolerance policy. I caught one of them climbing out of the classroom window once, and I could not count the times I've arrived back in class after a 15-minute break only to be approached by one or both with an urgent request for the toilet.

I could happily throttle these two girls. They've had every opportunity. I've given them pep talks, nagged them, warned them, coached them, encouraged them whenever I honestly could -- all for nothing. And yet I'm pretty sure that they will write their failure off as teacher trouble.

Still, I wish it were as simple as Study hard and you will pass, fool around and you will fail. In truth, it is more complex, involving things like attitude, aptitude, nerves, and plain old luck.

"Tee-cha!" booms Cenk, my hyperactive, disrespectful class clown and a massive pain in the neck, "how are you?" There is something so hail-fellow-well-met in his tone that I don't have to look at his results to tell he's passed. Not only did he pass, but he did so with a respectable margin. If I'd known he was capable of that much, I'd have worked him a lot harder.

Esra stands behind him, hanging her head in disappointment and embarrassment. She is a shy, sweet girl who has never missed a class; she studies hard, turns in extra work, and never copies others' assignments. Sadly, she tends to panic during tests too; she has failed her examination and will have to repeat the course.

If I can't take credit for Cenk passing, I'm not sure I can take the blame for Esra failing either.

"Tee-cha!" someone behind me calls joyfully, "I am pass!"

It's Özgül, a rather lazy plodder who has spent half her time in class biting the split ends off her long hair.

"Was it hard?" I ask her as we walk along.

"Very hard. But writing part is not so hard."

"Really?" I'm amazed by this. Özgül is one of the kids who could not wait to get out of class. Who would have her sweater on, her bag over her shoulder, and one leg off her chair before I could announce the homework. And she has complained loud and long about the writing assignments being too hard.

"Writing is okay," she says simply. "We did in class so many times."

This one I believe I will take credit for.