School Lunch

“Teacher, is it ‘I went to school, or I have gone to school.’”
Oh man, I offer a guess, “umm, it’s… I have gone to school. Yeah, that’s right, you use ‘went’ only if, umm… if you have finished going there.” Sure.
The guess turns into a fact and the fact is drilled into their heads as a rule. Although I wasn’t 100% sure, I thought giving them something they could remember was better nothing. And I was willing to risk being wrong.
One of the many things I’ve learned in the first few months at site, is that the most important thing you can do in your job is convince people you know what you’re talking about. Appearing to be competent matters as much, if not more, than the accuracy of the information.
As a professor at the Escola Técnica in Assomada, I teach drafting, or desenho técnico, a subject I have very little background in. Everyday, I have to prepare a lesson plan with information I just learned and present it in a way I think will stick. Many days despite having done my homework, I’ll almost always get a question I don’t know the answer to. For example,
“Teacher, is this another way to find the center of a circle?” Crap, that wasn’t in the book. He may be right. But what if he’s not? “Umm, actually, you can’t assume that’s where the diameter is, remember because you don’t have any information about the actual radius.” The night before I came across only two ways in the textbook. Although this kid put up a pretty good argument, I went with my instinct in the moment.
I wondered, am I lying when I tell my students these are the rules of language and there are only two ways to go about finding the center of a circle? Is it disingenuous to teach with uncertainty? Possibly, but what’s the point of teaching if the kids aren’t taught something they will remember.
Teaching, much like writing or having a conversation, is like giving candy to babies. You want to lay the information out there so people will want to eat it up. The more delicious the words sound when they come out of your mouth, the longer people will pay attention and the more likely they will remember what you said.
Sometimes though, I’m wrong. “Teacher, you forgot about the site plan.” Oh man, the site plan, that’s a big one. “Good find, amigo. I forgot. Hey, I’m only human right? I do make errors sometimes.” A look of relief was cast over their faces. “Yeah teacher, you are human. Humans always make erroes.”
Sometimes the candy doesn’t taste right. That’s when it’s my responsibility to apologize.
After sixteen years at the other end of the classroom, I feel as if many of my teachers used a different technique: they preferred serving me, well, school lunch. Most of what was on the plate was served because the state demanded it, not much thought went into the presentation and lord knows it came out as fast as it went in. Now that I’ve entered the professional world, I feel like I’m still holding my tray staring at my food in disbelief.
Over the last four months, I’ve slowly been introduced to how the government operates. An organization that dwells on the importance of being sensitive, not honest, facilitates protocol better than it facilitates ideas, and reaps productivity by instilling fear of failure rather than inspiration by example, the food I’m being served tastes oddly familiar.
Language can taste like anything. What flavors the food is a connection, a successful conveyance of thoughts from one person to another. The smoother the ideas come across, the more people will understand and remember the idea. When you throw in things like legal jargon, lack of communication or plausible deniability, the food starts to lose its taste:

I’d requested to have a bicycle at site. I wrote an email stating how, “having a bike would benefit my community because I’d like to get to know my students outside the classroom...”
I received a phone call from a superior and learned that it’s against Peace Corps policy for volunteers to have a bicycle in an urban city despite other volunteers having ridden bicycles here for years. Promptly arriving in my inbox, the MS450 policy states volunteers can’t have bikes in urban cities. I respond with a case pleading how Assomada is far from urban, that having a bike would greatly assist my community integration and to please reconsider my request. Immediate response, “it’s out of my hands, it’s up to Washington.”
Another superior visits Assomada. I bring it up. “Washington? No, no, no. This is a local matter. Read over the MS450 policy and submit an email pleading your case for how you having a bike would benefit the community. Your case will be weighed against the other volunteers and we will select the volunteers with the best case to receive a bicycle within six weeks.”
My head hurts and I am confused.
I like candy. When I speak, I try to be honest and clear. If I don’t know, I offer a guess but assume full responsibility if I am wrong.
I truly believe decisions can be black and white. The gray area is a place we’ve invented when people don’t want to take responsibility of an issue. I may be new to the system, but it hasn’t taken me long to feel the gray seeping into my skin once again. Confused and bewildered, there’s a certain familiarity to this vagueness of instruction.
I’m back in school again, back in the place our society calls an organization, a place where we do things to fill protocol for our superiors, a place with rules and policies and regulations that conveniently take all decision-making and responsibility from our hands.
I’m not really concerned if Peace Corps chooses to buy me a bicycle or not. It’s the not knowing that makes me uneasy. It’s that gray area that leaves me curled up in a ball feeling sick not knowing what I should do and not having a face to ask.
If I was as vague with my students as some people are with me, I’d be embarrassed to stand in front of the classroom everyday. I’ll eat the school lunch, just please serve me something I can digest.