My Passing Grade

Before arriving to Benin I took on a long-term substitute position for the majority of the second semester. Working at an inner-city school was not easy, but the challenges I faced there—from students openly admitting to not studying for exams to the pressure of trying to do everything possible, short of doing the work for them, to make sure the kids pass—taught me how to cope with the reality of being a teacher. It is a job, which can never be perfected.

The first month and half as a substitute teacher was among the hardest months of my life. I am not sure how I made it through some days without crying in front of my students, and to think through most of my public education if a teacher spoke in a less than a friendly tone it would send me into tears immediately. I realize this makes me appear like a weaker soul.

As a substitute I remember one particular day though. I had to call parents and inform them that his or her daughter or son was failing my class. I called one mother, and after going through my spiel she said, “I have heard all about you from my daughter,” in this accusatory tone that could only be compared to a mother speaking to a boy she has never met and that has just broken her daughters heart. She spoke to me as if I was a child, hitting on my weakness of being only 23 years old—a target the kids constantly reminded me of. She continued, “Have you ever thought maybe it’s you? That you are not a good teacher, and that is why my daughter is failing?” I looked down at her daughter’s grade sheet and saw she had turned in two things since I had arrived in February, it was almost April. I am not sure what words I struggled to get out after she said that, but I could feel the rage in her voice. She spoke to me as if she knew me, and she hadn’t the faintest idea of who I was or what I was going through, and I could tell she really didn’t give a shit, either way. I shut down, and hurried the conversation along in the best way I knew possible. Once off the phone I cried. Several of my students failed the third semester and many because they refused to do work. I didn’t take that as my problem, I can’t grade what I don’t have, and I gave them every opportunity to do the work. The administration did not feel the same way, and I spent my fourth semester really doing everything possible to get my kids to pass.

Before beginning to teach in Benin all the TEFL volunteers went through training, which involved four weeks of teaching local kids through a summer school program, and having other volunteers and Beninese teachers observe you. The first week I struggled to get through my entire lessons. The criticism: I was trying to make sure everyone learned. “You are lucky if half of your class passes,” a volunteer said to me, in a tone which made it apparent that it was acceptable when this happened. In my heart I could not accept this, it was my job to teach, and for me that meant everyone.

My first month at post was among the hardest months of my life. I was faced with classrooms of students whose numbers were growing into the 70s. I was teaching English to students, who spoke the local language and a smattering of French. I spoke French, but my accent I imagine is like listening to the Asian teacher, who speaks English well, but you can’t understand most of the words, well because each word has an added Chinese or Japanese sound to it. Of course the kids snickered. I have perhaps a false sense of entitlement. I am American and know English well therefore these kids should be nothing short of as excited as children waiting in line to talk to Santa for the first time at the local mall. They should have their heads open ready for me to dump my infinite wisdom. I realize the naïveté of this now. Humans are an interesting sort, and by humans at this moment I mean myself. I hate making mistakes, I want to do everything right, but I find myself learning infinitely more by making mistakes. After a lecture about getting to angry with my students from the Beninese school teachers, despite my protests I took it to heart. I also took my kids confusion, and waning interest to heart. I needed to find a way for them to learn, all 70 of them.

Students copy in class. Luckily their pace quickens everyday.

After the first interrogation (quiz), in which I had well over a quarter of my students below passing grades, I set about to make a change. I rearranged every students seat, and put them in mixes of strong and not so strong students. I developed a team strategy, where by each group became a team. My little ones, or 6eme kids, are named after colors, “Team Purple,” “Team Brown,” etc. and my evil ones, or 5eme students, are named after places in Benin, “Team Parakou,” “Team Kerou,” etc. Doing individual work is a challenge with so many kids, who all write at a pace that puts the movement of a herd of snails to shame. I have taken to the theory the kids may learn better from each other, assuming a couple learn a thing or two from myself.

The kids all had their second interrogation a week ago. The numbers improved exponentially. Sadly I questioned some of the students who jumped ten points, comparing their exams to the smart kids they sit next too. I was unable to find foul play. After I finished grading all their exams I had between 10 to 15 percent of my kids failing, out of nearly 300 kids. There are still some not grasping concepts, and I am not sure what has caused the change, but the ones who don’t get it are starting to not want to be left behind. I am starting to understand how to help my kids bit by bit. I don’t want to fail them.

We will be starting our second semester soon, and I have a handful of new strategies I am itching to try with my kids, including hand puppets, balls, and being the craziest teacher in a goofy kind of way. I suppose I did not take the settling for 50 percent passing to heart and improvements in a few students has given me the hope that perhaps I can get all of my students to pass. I love this job. I love the feeling of my kids’ energy as it calms when I come in the room, and as tired as I feel sometimes I love that I try to perfect a job that I know can’t be perfected.