During the 14 months I taught at a pair of hagwons in Daegu, I had what seemed like thousands of children troop through my classrooms. There were all kinds of personalities, from painfully shy and introverted to bold and brash. None, though, were more self-confident than Jennifer.
She was perhaps 10 years old in late 2007‒early 2008 when I taught at the Chilgok LIKE School. We got off to a poor start because it seemed that Jennifer challenged me in almost every respect. Unlike many students who crave the approval of “Teacher,” she just did not give a hoot. She was obviously bright and had above-average English skills, but she was not going to cooperate. We kind of butted heads a few times, and I can honestly say she was not one of my favorites at the time. I had enough sweet-and-lovable boys and girls, so if she wanted to be that way was it was her choice.
It was interesting to see how the other children responded to her. One time, she entered the classroom, sat down and began to do her homework. Simultaneously, she was carrying on a long and lively one-way spiel directed toward the others—all in Korean, of course. None of them spoke; they sat and listened intently. I could only watch and speculate about what she was saying.
One of the other kids in that same class was named Lucy. Now Lucy was neither as smart nor as poised as Jennifer. Something that I did not see happened between them at the beginning of a class that left Lucy in tears. I tried my best to ascertain the reason, but Lucy was crying and haughty Jennifer appeared or pretended not to care. Interestingly enough, before the class was over they had somehow resolved the issue and were holding hands. I found this scene very touching.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Jennifer changed. She softened in her attitude toward me. I saw it in the way she began comporting herself. Was she influenced by the fact that I nearly always brought fruit (bananas, oranges, apples, grapes, etc.) into the classroom? She gladly partook. I recall her unpeeling an orange, eating a slice and saying to me with a big smile, “Delicious!”
One time, before class began Jennifer put on a show I will never forget. She said, “Here is a girl dance” and showed us a number of very graceful moves. That lasted about 20 seconds. Then she announced, “This is a boy dance” and stepped, strutted and swayed in a quite different manner. She did these dances without the least bit of self-consciousness. On the contrary—she was glad to entertain me and the rest of the students. I couldn’t get enough: “Show me the girl dance, Jennifer,” and she complied. “Show me the boy dance,” and again she did.
Another indication of how her approach to me had changed came when she briefly reverted to her old ways. Jennifer said or did something I found offensive, and she knew it. But she went running to the girls’ bathroom and refused to come out, so I sent Lucy to fetch her. Jennifer would not budge, sending Lucy back to the classroom with a message. She stammered in broken English, “Teacher, Jennifer say sorry!” I assured her that all was forgiven and that Jennifer should please come back. She did, and the expression on her face conveyed a whole range of emotions that seemed to include shame, gratitude, love and happiness.
In the last few weeks I was at that school, her attitude was always warm and positive. Oh, Jennifer was still smart and brimming with confidence. But the way she looked at me and spoke to me was vastly different from what I had seen earlier. Now, she would come into the classroom and write sweet words on the blackboard. Stand-offish before, she now drew nearer when she could. She had become quite affectionate.
I miss many of the students I taught at LIKE, and Jennifer is surely one of them. Sentimental though it sounds, I wonder how she is doing and what she is doing. I would like to think she has not completely forgotten me. Even if she has, maybe in some way I contributed to her growth and development.
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