If you don't know already, I teach English as Foreign Language for a Foundation Program at a premier university in Oman. The best thing about the university where I teach is my students. They are the best of the best from their cities and villages. Most of them are on scholarship - earned by being the top of their graduating classes. Now, it may seem that my students would, therefore, be prime examples of stellar pupils.
Not to say that they aren't good kids - most of them are excellent. However, you have to understand:
1) Oman's formal education system is only 43 years old, roughly.
2) Many of my students come from tiny villages in the desert and at the tops of mountains where water is still brought into town by a series of fancy (and beautiful) aqueducts called falaj. These are cemented ditches that run down the sides of the mountain, bringing fresh mountain water from the top to the homes below. It's a marvel to see.
Taking this into consideration, I should also mention that I teach the second-to-lowest level in the Foundation Program. This is by choice. Let's say that when my "kids", as I affectionately refer to them, start out, their English rivals that of a 2nd or 3rd-grade native English speaker. Some of them may be at a 4th or 5th-grade level...but not many.
Are you getting the picture yet? Let me add some more imagery.
It just so happens that most of the students in the lower levels of the Foundation Program are males. That's right. Seventeen- and eighteen-year-old boys.
Coming into focus?
So, I teach English at a premier university to classes that are dominated (because females tend to score higher on entrance exams) by teenage village boys.
And if you've never been to Oman...or outside of your own home...you might not realize many 18-year-old college freshmen boys have the maturity-equivalent of a bunch of 6-year-olds. In Oman, we have a word to describe them: rubsha.
Rubsha is a word that means rowdy, unruly or incorrigible. Now, don't get me wrong - a lot of these rubsha boys can be the most respectful, hardworking students in your class.
And then there are the two in mine.
At the beginning of every new semester, a teacher gets a feel of her class. As she tries to learn names and faces, she also tries to determine who's going to be the "I know-I know", who's going to need some prodding to participate, and who's going to need to be separated by week three.
I have to admit, I didn't pick these boys as troublemakers at the start. Sure, they talked a little bit too much, and on occasion, I had to remind one or both of them to bring their books or put away their phones. But overall, they were pretty good kids.
In fact, one of them was so quiet that I thought he didn't understand a word I was saying. I referred to him as "Yes" because every time I asked him a question, he would grin like a fool with big, brown eyes and say, "Yes!" while nodding his head. I knew he was lost, but I just stayed patient until he would catch on. He's a cute, short little guy who plans on becoming a lawyer. So, I'll call him Lawyer.
Then there's his best friend. He doesn't appear to be a hard worker, but he's a good student. He speaks well and appears to understand most of what's going on. His sense of humor is unrelenting, and I sometimes get the feeling he's being a smart butt. But it's okay, because his skills are very good - and that's a great thing, because he wants to work in Tourism. I'll call him The Big One - not because he's big, but because the other one is small.
They come from different ends of the same village about two hours outside of Muscat. I knew they were close early on, but it wasn't until just recently that I learned they're nearly inseparable.
It wasn't until after midterm exams ended a couple of weeks ago that I started to see a problem emerging. These two boys just wouldn't quiet down in class. At first, I just told them to stop talking and focus on their assignment. But it didn't stop.
At last, I told them to move apart. Well, that lasted all of five minutes. One had forgotten his book and needed to share with the other, and they had continued to talk and laugh even though I'd separated them. This kept on for a little while, through all the class activities, until I was fed up.
"Listen, guys," I said. In this culture, you have to be firm but kind. "I think you've had enough class for today."
They both looked at me, oblivious to what I was alluding to.
"I think you should go outside and have a cup of coffee."
The class started to murmur, and a few people laughed, but the boys didn't move. I knew the Lawyer didn't understand, but I was curious as to why The Big One hadn't argued back at me. Then it hit me that neither of them understood I was kicking them out. Finally, one of the students told them in Arabic that I wanted them to leave.
Lawyer grabbed The Big One's books and put them on his desk. He started to get up. The Big One held his arm and looked at me. "No, Miss. Sorry, sorry. We don't talk."
I relented and let them stay, separating them again. Not that it mattered. They continued on throughout the last half hour or so. After class, they came up and sat with me, and I told them I was disappointed. They seemed apologetic, so I thought it wouldn't happen again.
Well.
I just can't seem to get these two to settle down. It's only gotten worse from there.
I've had rubsha boys before, but these two take the cake. If only I knew that first day was the tamest they could be.
A few days ago, after separating them permanently (again, not that it matters) and having to hear the daily, "Miss, I can't live without _______!", I was trying to go on with the discussion in class. The Big One was sitting in the back, playing with a couple of glass bottles he'd drank before class.
So, picture it:
There I am, standing in front of the class trying to make a most genius point (I'm sure!) about some skill, when I look up to see The Big One holding the glass bottles to his eyes like a pair of binoculars! I was so dumbfounded all I could do was stop mid-sentence and stare at him.
My students waited a moment before turning to see why I'd stopped. They started laughing at the crazy sight before them. I just shook my head, put my hands on my hips and said, "What is WRONG with you?"
He took the bottles off, looking sheepish, and went back to his book - for a minute. The next thing I know, he's playing with his phone and distracting other students.
Normally, if a student is playing with a phone, I just tell them to put it away. If they continue, I'll walk over with my palm outstretched. Usually, they'll shove the gadget in their pocket and say, "No, Miss. I put away."
This day, however, there was not one thought in my mind to try to avoid embarrassment for The Big One. I marched over to his desk, hand outstretched, and said, "Give it to me. Give me the phone. Give me the bottles - no, both of them - and do your work." He complied, grinning awkwardly.
After class, he came up wanting his phone - and bottles, for some reason (sea voyage?). I told him I was giving it to the first person who could give me a good way to make both him and Lawyer be quiet in class. Yes, even though they've been separated and The Big One seemed to be more concerned with playing Captain, they still talk at one another across the classroom.
I've often wondered, out loud, if moving them to different classrooms would help. But then I get the image of Nickelodeon's "You Can't Do That On Television" stuck in my head:
"Hey, Lawyer!"
"Yeah?"
"What you doing?"
"I'm in the class."
"You like the class?"
"Yeah, I like!"
Separation by class would not deter these two.
So, it seemed that it couldn't possibly get any crazier than The Big One scoping out the classroom through glass bottles.
Until today.
I come into class a few minutes late, and Lawyer is calling my name. "Miss Stephanie! Miss Stephanie!"
"Yes???"
"He took my phone!"
I smile, thinking it's funny that somebody else is confiscating electronics. "Who?"
He named the culprit - well, three, actually. "They won't give it back!"
"I don't have it!" The Big One says. All the students - especially the ones that have been implicated - are laughing.
"Yes, you do! And I will kill you!" Lawyer says.
They all laugh.
Lawyer turns to the front and points at the clock on the wall. "I will give you until...two...two...and...two..." He stops, counting to himself. I see his mouth move as he counts in Arabic the intervals on the clock. "Two hundred..."
Another student next to him says, "Two and a half...." (This is a direct translation of how time is read in Arabic.)
Lawyer ignores him, determined to do it himself. "Two and ten...two..."
"Two and a half..." the other insists.
Finally, Lawyer gives in. "I give you until two and a half. If I don't have my phone....[he breaks into Arabic]....I will kill you after class. At midnight!" He turns to me. "Miss Stephanie, I will kill them at midnight. All three." He names them.
The class is laughing, and I'm rolling my eyes. This is getting ridiculous. "You're going to kill him?"
"Yes."
"How?" I inquire.
"With anything. With knife. With...with gun..."
"YOU have a gun?"
"Ye-es, " he says, in the way he always says it - as though he didn't understand the question.
I sit down at my desk, determined to ignore him and begin class.
But he gets up and comes to my desk. "Miss Stephanie, you have to do something."
"What am I supposed to do? I'm not his mother."
"Tell him give me phone back."
Irritated to my ears with these shenanigans, I finally say, "Listen, whoever has [Lawyer's] phone...give it to him."
Nobody moves. I look at each of the three defendants. "Did you take it? Do you have it?" I ask, one at a time.
They all say no. Lawyer is still standing beside me. I can tell the class is getting restless. This has gone on long enough.
Finally, I look at Lawyer and say one word: Ijlis. Sit.
He hangs his head and sheepishly walks back to his seat. We begin class. For once, we don't have nearly as much disruption as we have had the past several weeks.
I know this isn't over. I know I've got my hands full for the rest of the semester.
All I can say is that when I decided to do this job, I wasn't aware babysitting was part of my job description.
Luckily, at the end of the day, I get to go home to my family and 5-year-old who acts more mature than the college freshmen in my English classes at work.
Not to say that they aren't good kids - most of them are excellent. However, you have to understand:
1) Oman's formal education system is only 43 years old, roughly.
2) Many of my students come from tiny villages in the desert and at the tops of mountains where water is still brought into town by a series of fancy (and beautiful) aqueducts called falaj. These are cemented ditches that run down the sides of the mountain, bringing fresh mountain water from the top to the homes below. It's a marvel to see.
Taking this into consideration, I should also mention that I teach the second-to-lowest level in the Foundation Program. This is by choice. Let's say that when my "kids", as I affectionately refer to them, start out, their English rivals that of a 2nd or 3rd-grade native English speaker. Some of them may be at a 4th or 5th-grade level...but not many.
Are you getting the picture yet? Let me add some more imagery.
It just so happens that most of the students in the lower levels of the Foundation Program are males. That's right. Seventeen- and eighteen-year-old boys.
Coming into focus?
So, I teach English at a premier university to classes that are dominated (because females tend to score higher on entrance exams) by teenage village boys.
And if you've never been to Oman...or outside of your own home...you might not realize many 18-year-old college freshmen boys have the maturity-equivalent of a bunch of 6-year-olds. In Oman, we have a word to describe them: rubsha.
Rubsha is a word that means rowdy, unruly or incorrigible. Now, don't get me wrong - a lot of these rubsha boys can be the most respectful, hardworking students in your class.
And then there are the two in mine.
At the beginning of every new semester, a teacher gets a feel of her class. As she tries to learn names and faces, she also tries to determine who's going to be the "I know-I know", who's going to need some prodding to participate, and who's going to need to be separated by week three.
I have to admit, I didn't pick these boys as troublemakers at the start. Sure, they talked a little bit too much, and on occasion, I had to remind one or both of them to bring their books or put away their phones. But overall, they were pretty good kids.
In fact, one of them was so quiet that I thought he didn't understand a word I was saying. I referred to him as "Yes" because every time I asked him a question, he would grin like a fool with big, brown eyes and say, "Yes!" while nodding his head. I knew he was lost, but I just stayed patient until he would catch on. He's a cute, short little guy who plans on becoming a lawyer. So, I'll call him Lawyer.
Then there's his best friend. He doesn't appear to be a hard worker, but he's a good student. He speaks well and appears to understand most of what's going on. His sense of humor is unrelenting, and I sometimes get the feeling he's being a smart butt. But it's okay, because his skills are very good - and that's a great thing, because he wants to work in Tourism. I'll call him The Big One - not because he's big, but because the other one is small.
They come from different ends of the same village about two hours outside of Muscat. I knew they were close early on, but it wasn't until just recently that I learned they're nearly inseparable.
It wasn't until after midterm exams ended a couple of weeks ago that I started to see a problem emerging. These two boys just wouldn't quiet down in class. At first, I just told them to stop talking and focus on their assignment. But it didn't stop.
At last, I told them to move apart. Well, that lasted all of five minutes. One had forgotten his book and needed to share with the other, and they had continued to talk and laugh even though I'd separated them. This kept on for a little while, through all the class activities, until I was fed up.
"Listen, guys," I said. In this culture, you have to be firm but kind. "I think you've had enough class for today."
They both looked at me, oblivious to what I was alluding to.
"I think you should go outside and have a cup of coffee."
The class started to murmur, and a few people laughed, but the boys didn't move. I knew the Lawyer didn't understand, but I was curious as to why The Big One hadn't argued back at me. Then it hit me that neither of them understood I was kicking them out. Finally, one of the students told them in Arabic that I wanted them to leave.
Lawyer grabbed The Big One's books and put them on his desk. He started to get up. The Big One held his arm and looked at me. "No, Miss. Sorry, sorry. We don't talk."
I relented and let them stay, separating them again. Not that it mattered. They continued on throughout the last half hour or so. After class, they came up and sat with me, and I told them I was disappointed. They seemed apologetic, so I thought it wouldn't happen again.
Well.
I just can't seem to get these two to settle down. It's only gotten worse from there.
I've had rubsha boys before, but these two take the cake. If only I knew that first day was the tamest they could be.
A few days ago, after separating them permanently (again, not that it matters) and having to hear the daily, "Miss, I can't live without _______!", I was trying to go on with the discussion in class. The Big One was sitting in the back, playing with a couple of glass bottles he'd drank before class.
So, picture it:
There I am, standing in front of the class trying to make a most genius point (I'm sure!) about some skill, when I look up to see The Big One holding the glass bottles to his eyes like a pair of binoculars! I was so dumbfounded all I could do was stop mid-sentence and stare at him.
My students waited a moment before turning to see why I'd stopped. They started laughing at the crazy sight before them. I just shook my head, put my hands on my hips and said, "What is WRONG with you?"
He took the bottles off, looking sheepish, and went back to his book - for a minute. The next thing I know, he's playing with his phone and distracting other students.
Normally, if a student is playing with a phone, I just tell them to put it away. If they continue, I'll walk over with my palm outstretched. Usually, they'll shove the gadget in their pocket and say, "No, Miss. I put away."
This day, however, there was not one thought in my mind to try to avoid embarrassment for The Big One. I marched over to his desk, hand outstretched, and said, "Give it to me. Give me the phone. Give me the bottles - no, both of them - and do your work." He complied, grinning awkwardly.
After class, he came up wanting his phone - and bottles, for some reason (sea voyage?). I told him I was giving it to the first person who could give me a good way to make both him and Lawyer be quiet in class. Yes, even though they've been separated and The Big One seemed to be more concerned with playing Captain, they still talk at one another across the classroom.
I've often wondered, out loud, if moving them to different classrooms would help. But then I get the image of Nickelodeon's "You Can't Do That On Television" stuck in my head:
"Hey, Lawyer!"
"Yeah?"
"What you doing?"
"I'm in the class."
"You like the class?"
"Yeah, I like!"
Separation by class would not deter these two.
So, it seemed that it couldn't possibly get any crazier than The Big One scoping out the classroom through glass bottles.
Until today.
I come into class a few minutes late, and Lawyer is calling my name. "Miss Stephanie! Miss Stephanie!"
"Yes???"
"He took my phone!"
I smile, thinking it's funny that somebody else is confiscating electronics. "Who?"
He named the culprit - well, three, actually. "They won't give it back!"
"I don't have it!" The Big One says. All the students - especially the ones that have been implicated - are laughing.
"Yes, you do! And I will kill you!" Lawyer says.
They all laugh.
Lawyer turns to the front and points at the clock on the wall. "I will give you until...two...two...and...two..." He stops, counting to himself. I see his mouth move as he counts in Arabic the intervals on the clock. "Two hundred..."
Another student next to him says, "Two and a half...." (This is a direct translation of how time is read in Arabic.)
Lawyer ignores him, determined to do it himself. "Two and ten...two..."
"Two and a half..." the other insists.
Finally, Lawyer gives in. "I give you until two and a half. If I don't have my phone....[he breaks into Arabic]....I will kill you after class. At midnight!" He turns to me. "Miss Stephanie, I will kill them at midnight. All three." He names them.
The class is laughing, and I'm rolling my eyes. This is getting ridiculous. "You're going to kill him?"
"Yes."
"How?" I inquire.
"With anything. With knife. With...with gun..."
"YOU have a gun?"
"Ye-es, " he says, in the way he always says it - as though he didn't understand the question.
I sit down at my desk, determined to ignore him and begin class.
But he gets up and comes to my desk. "Miss Stephanie, you have to do something."
"What am I supposed to do? I'm not his mother."
"Tell him give me phone back."
Irritated to my ears with these shenanigans, I finally say, "Listen, whoever has [Lawyer's] phone...give it to him."
Nobody moves. I look at each of the three defendants. "Did you take it? Do you have it?" I ask, one at a time.
They all say no. Lawyer is still standing beside me. I can tell the class is getting restless. This has gone on long enough.
Finally, I look at Lawyer and say one word: Ijlis. Sit.
He hangs his head and sheepishly walks back to his seat. We begin class. For once, we don't have nearly as much disruption as we have had the past several weeks.
I know this isn't over. I know I've got my hands full for the rest of the semester.
All I can say is that when I decided to do this job, I wasn't aware babysitting was part of my job description.
Luckily, at the end of the day, I get to go home to my family and 5-year-old who acts more mature than the college freshmen in my English classes at work.
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