Preaching To The Converted

It is a beautiful, sparkling spring day. The university gardeners have just turned on the sprinklers which are making a refreshing tsk-tsk-tsk sound as the water sprays out in crystalline arcs; the mimosa trees are in full bloom, drooping branches groaning under their weight of tiny yellow flowers, the ground beneath them already speckled a bright gold. The temperature is just right, the grass is as green as grass gets, every flower shines like a jewel. But nothing's perfect: the boy and girl in front of me, two stylishly dressed teenagers who have Spoiled Rich Kids practically written all over them, have stopped to light up cigarettes. Even as I watch, the boy takes the empty cigarette pack and throws it over a low wall, right into the middle of the perfectly landscaped university gardens. It lands in a lantana bush and sits there, garish and ugly, among clusters of multi-colored blossoms.

And nobody bats an eye. Nobody runs up to him, outraged and red-faced, demanding that he go back and pick up his piece of trash. He and his elegantly coiffured girlfriend continue their stroll, flicking ash and blowing out smoke.

If I were the Jolly Green Giant, I would grab this boy by his ankles, dangle him over his discarded cigarette pack, and make him eat it. While I was at it, I'd warn his girlfriend to keep a sharp eye on him. I'd be tempted to tell her to go easy on the make-up and not to wear such form-fitting pants too. But I'm a middle-aged teacher who can't get her own teenagers to keep their rooms tidy, so I just walk by, thinking disapproving thoughts.

But this stays in my mind. The beautiful day, the rolling green grass, the scent of lemon blossom drifting across the sun-warmed campus -- all of these are lost to me now as I remember this thoughtless action. The careless way the boy did it showed how little it meant to him. It was one of those tiny things you do so often, you don't even think about -- an automatic reflex, like shifting gears or pouring another cup of coffee. I'll bet if I'd said anything about it, he'd have been surprised.

By the time I've entered my classroom, I'm full of righteous indignation. What if these kids do, by some miracle, manage to graduate, complete their degrees, and enter the World? What then? What if, say, that cigarette pack flinger becomes the owner of a construction company? Do you think a kid who flings his cigarette pack without a by-your-leave is going to think twice about dumping old building materials? What if he is ever in charge of a factory that uses toxic chemicals? So what if all I teach these kids is English; they've GOT to learn that tossing their junk around is wrong.

As it happens, the classroom is in its typical dire state. Some idiot has put a bottle of coke in the waste bin without making sure the lid was on tight; the waste bin is not lined. A quick look around the classroom shows me the usual detritus: shredded paper on the floor, scattered candy wrappers, empty or half-filled water bottles on half a dozen tables, balled-up Kleenexes peeping out of every corner. And it isn't just the students, either: once again the last teacher hasn't bothered to erase the board: every square inch of it is covered with squiggles, figures, diagrams and fulsome explanations in Turkish. Noting my reaction, Özgür and Ahmet -- two of my best students -- leap to erase it, but I wave them back down.

After I've erased the board, I give my students a little lecture. Using easy words. I describe how important it is to clean up after yourself, how anyone can make a difference just by doing their own bit. I point out how irritating it is to have a sticky floor; I draw a picture of a wasp on the board, then a fly, then a cockroach. No one admits to liking these insects. I finish up with a picture of a big smiling world. "Today, after class, we'll all leave this room clean, okay?" I say.

Looking me straight in the eye, they all nod.

But after class, only Özgür and Ahmet remain to help me tidy up. "I hate mess," confides Özgür, who is thrilled to have learned the word. "My room friend big mess, every time."

"My room friend too," mutters Ahmet, lobbing an empty bottle into the waste bin.

So once again, my preaching has failed to reach the right ears. The only people who are committed to helping me are the ones who'd have done it anyway.

Together, my fellow converts and I finish cleaning the room.