And it's not just the book that they don't care about, or the lesson, or the topic, or the grammar point I'm writing on the board because of the hundredth mistake they've made with it... They don't even care about themselves. I thought at precisely 11:56 this morning.
They are the dirtiest group of students I've ever had, clothes unwashed and soiled hair, they sleep and fidget their way through class, smoke and scream their way through the break, and can't be bothered to so much as glance at their books much less take notes from the board by the second half of class. The only question they have for me is in regards to whether they have my permission to leave early. Yes, just go, if everyone leaves early then I can to.
The moment I knew I was defeated was when I chose to look at my watch rather than their constantly vacant visages and debated if I could legitimately end the class twenty-five minutes early. The truth was it had already ended.
I walked in seeping with joyful residue from an awesome yesterday, a pumpkin scone success story for breakfast, and a good prior class, and left feeling like someone had scraped my insides out with a rusty spoon and then beat me with it until my head throbbed.
My headache lingered the rest of the afternoon, through a lunch with students who I loved so much and was so grateful for their contrast to the other class that it could have been heaven, though a mountain of copies to be made at the copy shop down the street where they never charge me full price, lingered through my petition for grace when I saw that one of the beggar children I consider my own bawling on the street corner one shoe off. But by the time those things had passed my head-heart ache was threatening to become a real problem.
A real problem met head on when the very class who had successfully stolen my joy was lined up near the school gate, shouting my name and begging me to accompany them to some dance competition. It would have been too easy for me to refuse. So, of course, and as proof of my slightly psychotic tendencies, I didn't.
I hopped on the bus and by the time we had arrived at the intended location my bag had become a deposit for at least a dozen cell phones and mp3 players weighing so much I had to carry it as one would a package. We walked into the auditorium, up the stairs, over to some bleachers where immediately the class dispersed and I was left sitting with about six of the thirty-two students I had come with. The terrible dancing, pounding repetitive song clips, and microphone crackling Chinese was doing nothing for my headache, nor was the sight of students from this class sneaking out slowly one by one. I asked the student next to me if she liked dancing. No, she replied, I like sleeping and drinking beer.
Finally, it ended, the remaining students materialized out of no where, cell phones were given back to their owners and we crammed onto a bus headed back to our school. I felt sick but was still hopeful for some positive result. On the bus, their singing overpowered the blaring radio and we sputtered through the school gate as they were screaming the English alphabet song to an acute combination of my confusion and amusement.
Back at the apartment with heavy metal door safely shut tight behind me, I sank and my headache intensified dramatically upon the realization that I was no farther along at understanding or reaching out to this class than I had been before a techo song about cowgirls got stuck in my head.
What do they care about?
