The Bus Shed

November 26, 2008

The bell rang. End of school! I wandered through the hallway heading back to my KG classroom, but on the way, I ran into some of my 2nd graders. “Miss Angie!” They cried out, waving furiously. I yelled out their name and waved goodbye with equal vigor. These days, whenever they see me, they demand “where is my crayon?” By which they mean “crane”. Sometimes, if I'm in a classroom, I tease them by grabbing the box of crayons and saying “you want a crayon? here it is!” Other times I tell them that my cranes are special, and that they must earn them. I tell this to Mahmoud now, who has had trouble learning his times tables and so has been unable to earn the coveted origami bird. “Hrmph!” he grumbled in mock anger, his large eyes glowering darkly under knitted brows. As we continued to chat, I followed him down the stairs that I knew led to the bus shed, a set of stairs that I had never descended since my arrival at the school. Curious now, I rounded the corner and followed him all the way down. 

“Wow, this is so cool!” I cried as I entered the bus zone. It felt like entering another world. A hidden, underground cave lined with cement floors and walls, and dimly lit by fluorescent lights, the bus shed was lined with 3 rows of sea green-and-white shuttle vans (no yellow school buses here!), and teeming with the voices and shouts of excited school children, some who, like the drivers, waited patiently inside their bus, others who ran around, expending their cooped up energy before loading, or else having last minute chats with their friends who were on different buses. This was a side of the school I had never seen before, a side of the kids I have only had glimpses of as I ran into them in the hallways or played with them during the short breaks and lunches and right before the start of school. Kids outside of the classroom environment and in this strange cave-like one full of cute little buses with rounded corners. I felt a bit like Harry discovering Diagon Alley for the first time, or like the kid in the Christmas movie discovering Santa's workshop with all the elves.

“Angie!” I heard a familiar voice call out my name. There was Farhad, our first shuttle driver who I hadn't seen in 2 months! He'd been transferred to this new post because of his habit of showing up late all the time. “Ca va?” he greeted me in French. I nearly responded in Kurdish- that's how natural it's become. He took something out of his pocket- it was a pink crane. “Did you make this?” he asked. I sure did, but how did it end up in his hands? Turns out, one of my 2nd grader's father- the school accountant- had given it to him. And how did it manage to leave the care of his daughter in the first place? Hm...I would have to ask Shano in class tomorrow if she meant to give it away. 

“You've got to teach me how to make this,” said Farhad. “Will you teach me?” “I don't know,” I replied with a Mona Lisa smile, “I can't be giving away all my secrets.” I told him I'd think about it, then turned as I heard my name being called, this time by a shriller, squeakier female voice. There was cartoony Shene standing with two of her busmates! Her dark brown pigtails sticking out like mini fountains from either side of her head, her dark eyes were wide with excitement at spotting her teacher in this other teacherless world. A tentative smile spread across her pale face as she waved, and it grew wider as I waved back with equal surprise and enthusiasm.

Normally, when I interact with my KG'ers, I admit that some (sometimes a lot) of my enthusiasm is feigned. There are only so many times you can react with true enthusiasm at the spiderman backpack that the kid is showing off to you for the 60th time. But they do this every day! Every day at the end of the school day, they come up to my desk proudly holding up their backpack for me to see. At first, I was like “did they get a new backpack?” But nope, it's the same damn backpack- Spiderman, the princess cat one, Barbie, Batman, or the Disney princesses one- the same goddamn backpack every time! The only somewhat interesting ones are Mohammed #1's (a WALL-E backpack!) and Muhammed #2's (Ninja Turtles).* My enthusiasm for the backpack routine waned quickly, but I continue to oblige them with a “Wow! Cool backpack!” because I realize that the recognition from the teacher, in the form of Wows, high-fives, stickers and smiles, means a lot to them. 

This exaggerated enthusiasm- as well as exaggeration of all manners of expression from happiness to sadness to anger and shock, and so on- is essential to teaching KG. As soon as I realized the importance of exaggeration, and also, when I began to accept their goldfish attention spans and bribery as a method of getting them to behave, my teaching began to go a lot smoother. I'm beginning to have fun in the classroom again, and actually after a short time, that feigned enthusiasm has begun to translate into some genuine enthusiasm, strangely enough. The connections between the mental and physical expression is more intimate than I previously realized. Just by smiling outwardly a few times, you begin to feel happier inside. And just by saying “Wwwooowww!” and widening your eyes, you begin to actually feel truly amazed inwardly. 

Because I spend so much time with my 5-year-olds, sometimes I catch myself doing the same exaggerated expression of enthusiasm with my own peers, which was a little embarrassing at first. But then I think, maybe dealing with 25- and 35-year-olds should not be so different from dealing with 5-year-olds? Who knows...I just know now that physical expression has a serious effect on one's mental state. It makes me think that maybe a person is not defined by either his mind or his body, but by both. Brain shapes the body, and the body shapes the brain, and one's self could not be whole, nor defined completely while either is amiss. 

Here in the underground bus shed, however, my surprise and enthusiasm were 100% genuine. I was just as excited to see my kids as they were to see me, their teacher. I waved as some of my 2nd graders ran by. I heard my name being called yet again and saw little Hoz, whose spiderman backpack is nearly as big as he is, running from his bus as fast as his short little legs could carry him. “Hi Hoz!” I cried, giving him a big smile. He was so tiny! I resisted the temptation to scoop up the mischievous little midget in my arms, and instead put my arm around his head and followed him back to his bus. At the door, I peered inside. Ooh, it was so dark! But in a comforting way, like those blanket forts that we used to build when we were kids. I thought how exciting it must be for a 5-year-old to be traveling on this bus with seats taller than them and a cozy, enveloping darkness, and busmates to sit next to. Only remnants- bits and pieces of this bus and daily bus ride home would be remembered years later, vaguely floating about in their memories like drifting clouds, perhaps inserting themselves like stray picture slides into their dreams. 

Hoz was standing in front of the bus steps that must seem like mountains at his height. “Do you need a lift, Hoz? Here, raise your arms way up! Ready? One, two, three, up we go!” I lifted up little Hoz and his big backpack into the bus- a little too high. The older kids laughed as his feet dangled loosely in the air, trying to reach for solid ground. “Woops, there we go! Bye Hoz, see you tomorrow!” He grinned, very Shene-like. I wondered if they were related. The same smooth, dark hair and eyes, the same pale complexion, and the same smile. This school is full of brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins and cousins of cousins, so it was possible they were related. But with the KG'ers, it is hard to figure out who is related to who. They all say “so-and-so is my brother,” even if they look nothing alike. It took me a few weeks to realize that by “brother”, they meant “friend” because the Kurdish word for “friend” is brader, which sounds a lot like brother. 

*There are a lot of Mohammeds at this school. One of the first grade classes has 7 Mohammeds in a class of 25!