There and Back Again: A Teachers Tale

Monday; so glad to be back to school. It is, after all, the reason we’ve come, and it seems so meet so sporadically. Now all classes are shortened to ½ hour to allow time in the school day to practice folk dance for the August 15 independence day celebration. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Independence_Day_(India)

We had orientations, and days off, and shortened classes and everything BUT school. I feel a bit claustrophobic and homesick at the hotel, but never at school. The teachers are warming up a bit and opening up a bit, but the children are—much like the students at home–a breath of fresh air. They just make you smile. Back home, there have been many occasions when I have come to school angry or depressed or in a foul mood for one reason or another, and the kids invariably make me smile. It’s one reason to be a teacher. It keeps you, by necessity, an optimist.

The kids here are just absolutely wonderful. The depth and power of cultural mores is stunning. At home, most kids are great—even the attention hogs and the stinkers are likeable once you get to really know them. There is, on occasion, a student with profound problems, but after13 years of teaching high school I can count on one hand the number of kids who have failed to charm me. While that is true, it is also true that in American culture, you need to get to know the kids. It takes a bit of time for them to trust you, to warm up to you. To some degree, you have to earn their respect. I find that all it takes is a seriousness of purpose, fairness, and a genuine interest in hearing what they have to say. I think it’s a fair enough pact.

The kids here, on the other hand, demonstrate—so far to a person—a respect for authority (a smile and a good morning, m’am every single time!) and an implicit respect for education. I am stunned. I keep looking for that one child who can’t or won’t meet my eye, who is suspicious of the stranger, who needs to warm up. I have yet to find her.

In conversation with teachers in the staff room, though, they agree with my analysis of children—they say Indian children are the same; they also need to get to know you; you also have to earn their respect. I guess the layer of politesse is just more prominent in this culture than in ours.
Monday I teach only two classes. Subha lets me observe her first class in the morning (the first class I’ve been permitted to observe here.) It is just as I had imagined. Lovely and charming Subha has a grace and ease with the girls—clearly a great deal of affection flows between them.

And they engage earnestly and sincerely with her as she works though a text with them. In spite of the large numbers and the short period, the class is interactive and productive.

Then I meet Julie Roy’s 8th grade class for the first time. This week, our introductions have a bit more structure. I ask them to write “auto-bio poems” (Thank you Carolyne White!) They go like this:

[your first name]
[four descriptive traits]
Sibling of
Lover of
Who feels
Who needs
Who gives
Who fears
Who would like to see
Resident of
[last name]

The kids are more creative and follow instructions much more easily than kids at home typically do. And their poems are touching. Descriptive traits include loving, honest, caring, and usually a nod to naughty. They want to see everything from the Northern Lights to Robert Pattinson to the United States. Some want to see peace in the world, some a greener planet, others want to see their parents happy. There are fears of reptiles, snakes, their parents, an uncle and terrorists. There are many declarations of love for the city and the country, and many declarations of gratitude for being alive in this beautiful world. They would, as Frank McCamley would say, “cheer the heart of a wheelbarrow.” (Did I quote that accurately, Frank?)

And Subha’s first-language 10th graders are wonderful, too. We write and share auto-bio poems, and they are focused during the writing portion and open, creative, and sweet during the sharing portion. The only time I have to correct them is when there is talking when someone is sharing. But the room is huge, the class is large, and some of these children speak barely above a whisper. Correction: some of them clearly whisper. I have to put my ear close to their mouths to hear them. When I ask the others to be respectful and listen they do, even though in many cases they clearly cannot hear a thing.

By Tuesday morning, I have finally met all of the classes I will teach except one (14 of them!). The 12th grade class I teach last is a class of 90!!! (A few are absent.) The teacher stays in the room (some teachers stay, some leave, some ask my preference, some ask permission to stay) and provides a microphone that works only sporadically. I have every girl read her first name and her most creative or significant line from her poem. Everyone has an opportunity to speak (although I can hear and/or understand maybe 1/3 of them). It’s a large-scale, group auto-bio performance! School is over early for independence day-dance practice. Ashu and I watch them practice today:

I don’t see as much as I’d like, though, because as they practice, groups of girls keep coming up to me to talk. They want to know all about me; they want me to know their names. They want me to remember their names. They give themselves simple nicknames so that I can remember them. I tell them that I need a list. Seeing the names will help (might help?) me to retain them.

Wednesday: MONSOON! It is our first significant rainfall (it has rained briefly nearly every day.) and the ground quickly turns in to pools. Teachers and students carry umbrellas; the hall outside the staff room is colorful with drying umbrellas. I have to be careful not to slip on some of the floors that have the potential to be very slippery when wet.

Monsoon pictures from Aysha (see Team India group on facebook):

It is one week since I have arrived at the school. I still need help navigating the various buildings, nooks and crannies. I haven’t been to the same class twice yet. I have one last group to meet (I didn’t get to the first class last Wednesday.) It is a 6th grade class, and I greet them and apologize for brief introductions (I do take a few questions—more of what’s my favorite color, what movie actress do I like, how do I like Kolkata….). Some of the girls have prepared a song about the rain to welcome me:

We then read through Langston Hughes’ poem, A Dream Deferred. I ask them if they know about race relations the U.S. They look blank. I ask them if they know that in the United States Black people used to be kept as slaves. Oh yes, they nod vigorously. Did you learn about our Civil war—yes, yes, and Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves—yes. They know the Emancipation Proclamation. (How much would any American student know anything about Indian history? I suppose some would know about the caste system.) Well, I tell them, there was lot of work to be done even after the slaves were freed. White people were still very prejudiced against black people and there were separate schools, water fountains, restaurants—much like the untouchables in your caste system. They nod vigorously. We have a brief discussion of the anger embedded in the poem. They copy it into their notebooks. We will follow up on it in a subsequent class.

When I have a similar discussion with a group of older students, they are very, very interested in the congruencies between our system and theirs. But when I suggest that they, with positive economic growth and their efforts toward democracy, are perhaps on a positive trajectory while we have hit some roadblocks—our debt, our Democrat/Republican impasse, our de-funding of education and health care programs, they don’t buy it, telling me that it is very clear that their government is corrupt.

They want to know how I like Kolkata. When I say that I love it—that it is a beautiful, lush city brimming with people, vibrant with color, they look askance. What about how dirty it is, what about all of the beggars, the crowds? They have a point. Well, I told them, I suppose that as a guest I’m looking at the city through rose-colored glasses, but you just have so many, many more people than we do. It’s really a total immersion into humanity—rich and poor, educated and uneducated, Indian and non-Indian—it just pulses with life. They don’t buy it. What do you think of the dogs, they ask; of the traffic (okay, they have me on that one) of the pollution?

We’ve been anticipating the cancellation of school on Thursday all week. There is to be a political rally at the local stadium. The democratically-elected left-wing communistic government that had been in power was unseated in May, and the newly elected party is holding a rally tomorrow. It will be in the stadium right near our hotel and they are anticipating an influx of people from outside of the city, and gridlock. The school decides to open just for the morning (perhaps so the teachers do not have yet another make-up day) but Ashu and I are told not to come. It might be too difficult for us to get back to the hotel though the gridlock. I am so disappointed—another day in and around the hotel—so much to see and do, so many kids to talk to, so many classes to teach, and it continues to come in dribs and drabs. Ah well, perhaps I can catch up on my blog.

From The Times of India:

Meanwhile, braving the rains, thousands of Trinamool Congress workers and supporters were arriving in processions at the Brigade Parade ground here for the party’s annual Martyrs’ Day rally which would also mark the party coming to power in the state with a massive mandate ending over three decades of Left rule in West Bengal.

In other news, Subha has been reading Kristof & WuDunn’s book, Half the Sky, and asks if I remember reading about Urmi Basu who runs a shelter for trafficked women in Kolkata. I do—and she tells me that she knows her. In fact, we can go to visit her shelter, New Light, on Friday. There are no classes (!) as it is the run-offs for the big quiz tournament on Saturday. There will be 30 schools here competing for six slots, the final six compete on Saturday (Frank—I wish you could have seen their quiz teacher (yes!) in action), but neither Subha nor I have duties on Friday during the semi-finals, so she has gotten permission to leave with me (and Ashu, and anyone else in our group who wishes may accompany is) and we will visit Urmi’s shelter. She also knows a local environmentalist who worked very closely with Mother Teresa, has written one book on her and is writing another, who is willing to give us a tour of her various sites. This will make the day off on Thursday a bit easier to take.

Thursday is another monsoon. There is a significant leak in my room so I have to move to a new room—a pain; one settles in quite a bit in two weeks…. I sleep until 8 (guess I’m past the jet lag) and eat with several other teachers. We watch the heavy rains as we eat a late brunch. Several of us go to the bar/lounge area to blog, write, engage in various computer-related work, then some of us gather in Bree’s room to watch a DVD of the work that Sister M. Cyril Mooney has been doing at Loreto Sealdah Day School. I wonder that she has not received the Nobel Peace Prize yet. The programs and initiatives at that school are extensive and the most radical I have ever heard of. Fifty percent of the children are middle class/privileged, 50% are from the poorest in the city. Sister worries that the poor will adopt the value system of the affluent and talks about the “cycle of affluence.” She wants the affluent to learn to empathize with the poor, to stay here in India to make change. The doors of her school are always open, anyone is welcome. She has programs for the rural villages, for children working in the brickyards. Two hundred fifty homeless children sleep in the school building at night (they were homeless; the building stood empty after school hours…why not?) Be sure to read about it online, and I will report back as I see more of this exceptional program.

Tomorrow off to meet Urmi Basu!

Halleluiah!!! Glorious day! I slept through the night. Yesterday’s crazy taxi ride and the dinner ensured that I did not take a nap—for the first time since we’ve been here, and Lena gave me two Tylenol P.M. (It seems that I am the only one who travelled without any sleep aids. That’s a mistake I won’t make again.)

I put a notice on facebook to see if anyone wants to go to the Botanical Garden.

The students at my school said that I really need to see the Great Banyan Tree (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Great_Banyan).

Audra is the only one who wants to go—everyone else is burnt out, mostly on shopping. Some want to or need to work, some want to stay at the hotel and take advantage of the beautiful pool and courtyard. It is a well-deserved and much needed break for them, but I’m finally rested and want to see at least one site, particularly since it is Sunday and the crowds and the traffic are lighter than any other day. We are learning that between the heat and the crowds, its best to return to our hotel/home base between excursions.

We have to take a taxi to the Botanical Gardens as it is on the other side of the river. Our first offer is for $700 rupees (about $12.50) to take us both ways and wait for us. We turn him down and go with a scrappy-looking little man with the whitest teeth I’ve seen in India. He bobs and weaves through traffic, centering the car over the line the entire way. He is as expert as any of the drivers at careening around cars, horses, cows, chickens, bicycles, and people on foot.

Audra and I get concerned at the possibility that it might be hard to find a taxi after we tour the gardens and we agree to pay him 500 rupees to wait and take us back. He agrees to return in an hour and leaves. We have given him no money.

We find the Great Banyan tree shortly after we enter. At first I am disappointed. I wanted to see the enormous center trunk of the tree, but it was removed in 1925. Audra points out that I’m only about 100 years too late. But the never-ending branches with legs dropping to the ground, forming arches and hideaways—any child’s dream—are beautiful and as we go further in they take on a mystical quality. We cannot stop taking photos, trying to capture the ethereal beauty.

We have used half of our hour, and try a path that promises a view of the river Hooghly, a tributary of the Ganges. We do get a glimpse of the river, pass the padlocked cactus house, and then make our way to the main gate.

The taxi driver told us that the gardens were big, and now we believe him. We’re running late—but have confidence that he will be waiting—after all we promised to pay him 500 rupees and we’ve paid him nothing yet. We get to the main gate—and discover that we did not come in the main gate. Who knew? Audra shows a man a photo of the gate arrived at. He points us in another direction—and tells us that it is a 40 minute walk! We are sweating now (it rained a bit and the humidity was rising) and already late. We wondered how long he’d wait for 500 rupees. When would he give up on us? We power-walk to the other gate—quite a sight to the local people at the gardens—hoping our American pace causes a dramatic revision of the 40-minute prediction. We make it in 20 minutes, retrieve our desperately needed water bottles, and head out of the gate. We are barely through when a man waves to us and points to OUR TAXI DRIVER, his white teeth flashing. Hello old friend.

Professional development. The bane of existence for teachers. It’s Saturday, and the teachers at St. John’s Diocesan are scheduled to be there from 9 until 4, so Ashu and I are going—at least for the first half. We’d like to see some of Kolkata also, so we’re not sacrificing the entire day.

No one—not even A-Ban, the head teacher, or Subha, who is also clearly a teacher leader in the school, knows the topic, and in fact it is unusual—they only have one or two of these days each year and they’ve already had one so the question is what is this mysterious extra PD day all about. Is it something special?

I called Subha to ask how they dress for PD. In the states we dress casually for those days—jeans- level casual. Fine, that’s fine she responds. But I am not sure—she is unwaveringly accommodating. My question is not if I can wear jeans—it’s how do they dress…. I need to phrase my questions more carefully.

The streets are clear today and the taxi ride is half as long as during the week. We still can’t figure out why the fare is 100 rupees (about $2.50) in the morning and 50 rupees on the way home. The staff is arriving as we do—punching in at the front office just as they do during the work week, and wearing saris! And the men are wearing ties. Shoot. Ashu is wearing a plaid button-down shirt and I am wearing jeans. Of course they say it’s fine, but darn it.

The speaker is Amitabh Mohan, a psychologist from Human Learning Systems India. His presentation is called “Quality in Teaching through Motivation.” He seems to be a very practiced presenter. He opens without a word, typing instructions on PowerPoint that everyone should write down 10 statements describing him. Not physical attributes—personality traits. I can’t do it—I write down only those things I can know from nothing more than a few minutes of watching someone. I write things like “silent; mute?” “male,” “workshop leader,” “a puzzle.” They are neither personality traits nor statements, but it’s the best I can do.

I refrain from smart-aleck statements like self-centered & silly. He uses these statements for a little warm-up exercise. He tells the teachers that their statements say more about them than about him (he’s got a point, right?) asks them to read their descriptions of him, and then does a brief analysis of their personalities. It seems like fortune–telling. The analysis he does of most of them would be equally applicable to virtually every person in the room. But the teachers are so polite, so amicable. Subha volunteers her answers and they are all descriptive statements—and all high praise for this “esteemed and accomplished presenter.”

This warm-up lasts an hour and a half. We’re behind schedule already. Ashu and I planned to leave at noon to join the rest of the group for a walking tour of the city, but the school planned on us for lunch today, and we don’t want to be rude, so we stay.

Kolkata time and Cleveland time are two entirely different entities. We continue to learn that lesson over and over.

The 90 minutes after the break are not much different. We do a personality inventory and given scores for passive, aggressive, and assertive, he does what he jokingly (except it’s very accurate) calls a behavioral horror-scope. Again the teachers are polite and amicable. I tell Subha that the American teachers would be having fits that their time was being used so inefficiently. I’m hopeful that the afternoon will be meatier. There is some interesting material in his handout on motivation among various personality types that looks interesting—and clearly applicable to classroom practice.

We have lunch—a delicious hot lunch, and Ashu and I leave.

We want to meet up with the group who we think are taking a walking tour of historical sites of Kolkata. We call, and they tell us they are at government center which I presume is a historic site. After a very long taxi ride during which our drive stops at least four times to ask directions, and Ashu gets increasingly frustrated, we discover that government center is a mall.

They had decided to go shopping. So I shop—for about 20 minutes, before they’re ready to go. But I make my first non-food purchases in India. I agonize over a couple of shirts—and go to get Keturah for a second opinion on one of them, then cannot find the store again. That was foolish. The one shirt was 395 rupees, the other 250. That would be $8.70 and $5.50. Clearly I should have just grabbed the top I liked. But 500 just sounds like so much….

The taxi ride was fascinating, though. Our driver was genuinely trying to find this place, and at one point we had 5 or six middle-aged men next to the car, reading my text with the name of the place and heatedly discussing where this place is.

On Monday Subha reports that the afternoon session was, in fact, more meaningful, and presents Ashu and I with certificates attesting to our attendance at Amitabh Mohan’s workshop.

Dinner tonight is at Laura’s teacher’s flat. It will be, for most of us, our first look at a Kolkatan home. The two teachers are lovely, the food delicious and very filling—most of us cannot even finish what’s on our plates. It’s a great treat—homey, local, delicious and relaxed. Several of us have trouble staying awake—hopefully these are the final vestiges of jet lag.

The view of the city from their flat is great:

Back to school.

I went to bed early yesterday (10-ish, quite early for me) and so woke up at midnight (!). I stayed in bed until 3, then got up and worked. The morning coffee was greatly appreciated.

It’s Friday, and my second day at the school. Subha is at a Fulbright alum workshop (Really? They couldn’t have scheduled that better?) and so I am in the capable hands of her department. The lovely and now-familiar face of Anuradha Banerjee (who friends call A-Ban) greets me. First I will go to Mrs. Naik’s 8th grade class, then after the late morning tiffin (short snacks) break, Mrs. Banerjee will escort me to her 6th grade class, then to Alka Bhatti’s 8th grade class.

Many things became clearer today. First, the classes do NOT meet only once per week. Many of the main classes meet every day. The one class per week schedule was created to give us a gentle load. The news that the classes meet more frequently is, of course, good news for the kids’ learning, but it is awful news regarding the issue of grading. These teachers give feedback constantly. When the news came down on Wednesday that there was no school on Thursday due to the transportation strike, Mrs. Banerjee’s first thought was that she can get a lot of grading done. The stacks of orange notebooks are ubiquitous. These are the stacks in my immediate periphery today:

(Notice the “tiffin box” next to the stack. That’s for the snack during the 11.10 tiffin break, during which everyone has a small snack. Today one of the teachers shared “laddu”(“something round”) with Ashu and I. It’s a sweet round dessert made from, she told us, dal. Mrs. Chrestien has made arrangements for Ashu and I to get a snack–a sandwich and cup of chai each day during the tiffin break.)

With 60-90 kids per class, and 6-7 classes per day, that’s 360-630 essays to grade—in a single day. And they report that they do read every one. And I watch them do it. These are not short little answers or perfunctory paragraphs. There are pages here that these teachers are carefully editing.

I still have a powerful desire to observe classes. Context is everything and going in to teach them (they want me to teach the way I do at home) without observing how they do it here is a bit discombobulating. I’m very interested in comparative studies, and this fits that model. It is much more meaningful for me to share my methodology in the context of what I see them doing, as in “oh, that’s what you do; here’s how we do that, or here’s how I would handle that.” Without the context in which to compare/share, whatever I choose to do seems rather generic. It may or may not be similar to what they do, it may or may not be familiar, and it may or may not make sense to the teachers or the children.

And the once-per-week schedule is tough. I know they wanted to spread us around in order that more teachers and more children might benefit from what we bring, but so little of what we do at home is a singular, isolated lesson. There is always an introduction, activities, follow-up activities, assessment, and reflection—there is, by necessity, a cycle that must unfold over time. Isolated little teaching demonstrations are not really congruent with the way we typically plan and teach in the U.S. , unless they can be placed into a context.

But the children are delightful—so very polite and curious. I wish I were a more fun interviewee—I have the curse of the English teacher, seeing multiple layers and points of view in everything. I struggle with their simple questions. My favorite writer? Certainly not anyone they’ve ever heard of, especially not the younger children. Favorite movie? I have a million—which might be recognizable to them? Favorite cartoon character? Rocko’s Modern Life is old in the U.S. and there were many people who did not recognize it when it WAS on! I try to think of a more contemporary and popular cartoon character, but on the spot, I fail. My favorite food? I have so many favorites; do they mean dish or type; what response might have significance to them? So I tell them that in America we like ethnic foods—Thai, Indian, Mexican, and that sometimes we question what constitutes American food—macaroni & cheese and hamburgers? (Pizza is Italian, isn’t it? Wikipedia says Italy got it from the Middle East…. gosh, even that isn’t ours?) The kids are gracious—asking simple, generic questions that any fool could answer in a lovely attempt to get to know me, and I make it difficult. Sigh.

They want to know about our school, our food, our lifestyle. They want to know what I think of Kolkata; they tell me that it is the City of Joy (because of the joyful people, and because their specialty is sweets) and the City of never-say-die. They are clearly proud of their city and country. They want to know what my favorite Indian state is. I have to ask them if West Bengal is a state, then I tell them that it is my favorite. Some want to know if I have chosen their school in particular, others want to know what I think of their school. I think it’s lovely, warm and welcoming.

It is hot and humid in the classroom—even with the shutters open (no windows or screens). We close the shutters and doors to staunch noise. (The kids offered.) On my way back to the faculty lounge, I realize that every inch of me is sweating and my shirt has damp marks. The fan in the teachers’ lounge (Lounge does not see like the right term—I think I’ll go with ‘workroom’ for now. I’ll pay closer attention to what the staff calls it.) is so very welcome. But it makes it hard for teachers to keep paper in place during their constant grading.

Ashu is amazed at the abilities of the 8th graders in math. He says that our 10th graders could not compete, that they would never take on the challenging tasks offered, that the teachers would never ask it—we would consider it too hard, and would anticipate a great deal of resistance.
As I peruse the English books, there are lots of places for critical thinking and discussion. I ask the 8th graders today if they discuss literature in their classes. Oh yes, Mum, they respond. And they demonstrate how one at a time they stand at their seat and contribute to the conversation. My desire for just a modicum of observation raises its head again. I’ll discuss it with Subha tomorrow. Mrs. Bhatti says that I could observe her class—she will check with the Vice Principal to see if it is okay.

Today was Friday, so they collected an onion and a potato from each of the four thousand students to take to St. Joseph’s old age home run by the Little Sisters of the Poor. They have been doing this since 1990. Do the math. That’s a lot of onions and potatoes.

Some of the younger teachers discuss the saris that all of the teachers wear. I ask if it is in order to establish a more formal atmosphere at the school. (Mrs. Chrestien asked Ashu to wear a tie every day; he was dismayed that he only brought four.) They tell me that only old women wear saris and that this is the first time they’ve had to wear them, that it takes a long time to put them on in the morning. One teacher says she has it down to about a 10-minute procedure now, and an older teacher says she can do it in about 5 minutes now. I ask them if they wear salwar kameez at home, they say yes—or jeans.

Bree wore shorts to the monument yesterday and started to feel a few stares—I thought they were subtle at best, at times wondering if perhaps it was mostly in her head until two small boys dissolved into fits of laughter at the sight of us. Their mother hushed them. Then we hit the streets on our way back to the hotel. Most definitely NOT in her head. The proportion of men to women on the streets of Kolkata seems to be somewhere around several hundred to one, and the men’s heads were swiveling on their necks to check out Bree’s legs. Okay she says—shorts are for inside the hotel only.

Tomorrow St. John’s has a staff development program that runs from 9 a.m. until 4p.m. Ashu and I plan to attend the morning. None of the teachers know what is to be presented, and in fact they say they typically have one day like this per year and they’ve already had it, so this is a mystery. What better way to get a sense of the teacher culture than to attend a Saturday professional development session with them?

Along with the wake-up coffee and newspaper (We could get used to this part. Keturah says they will have to drag her out of here screaming in August.) the two daily mangoes, complete with a finger bowl with a floating flower, always makes my day.

I didn’t eat them every day at first, and so started a bit of a stockpile of mangoes in my refrigerator. Ashu suggested I sell them on the street. Today I had an old one on my nightstand, planning to eat it before it got any older. The thoughtful and polite Gourav, the son of two teachers who decided to go into hotel management instead, and who often cleans my room, came in for evening preparations, saw the old mango and offered to get me a fresh one. I said no need, asked if perhaps I should just discard this one, but he insisted on getting me a fresh one. He’d already replaced the two I’d eaten, so today I had five fresh mangoes! They are becoming as intrinsic a part of my afternoon as the 3 a.m. wake up is a part of my morning.

Most of the rest of the group goes out to see a Bollywood movie tonight, but after my late-afternoon mango snack, my body recognizes what it classifies as night, and goes right into coma mode, and I miss the time to congregate. I sleep like I’m dead, ensuring that I will be up again at three. I’m sad I missed it. Apparently several of our group now have a crush on a hunky Bollywood star. Darn it.

Sadly, no school for Ashu and I. Others have had to make alternative arrangements for transportation, some had their day cut short, but the two of us and Bree were, I believe, the only ones with no school. I blogged in the morning (this is time consuming!) then the three of us ventured out to the Victoria Memorial Hall (http://www.victoriamemorial-cal.org/), another monument to India’s colonial past. Subha and her students had given me a thoughtful list of five places we might go in a reasonable order, and Ashu and I thought perhaps we would try walking our route to school—needless to say between recovering (we are all still quite sleep–deprived) and the heat, we made it to only one place. So here, for the most part, is a visual overview of our day.

Enroute to the memorial:

Approaching the memorial:

The grounds:

On the way home from dinner, Subha called. She will be at a Fulbright alum workshop all day tomorrow, and has made arrangements for the other teachers to help me get through the day! I can do this!!!

वापस स्कूल करने के लिए स्वागत करते हैं

That is “welcome back to school” in Hindi. (I hope—my source was the Internet!)

My first day of school! Here at last.

Lateness should not be an issue. My 3:20 rising time seems to be the standard. I’m embracing it—blogging and organizing pictures in the morning. The truth is I’m too tired to do it in the evening, so maybe this will work. I’ll just have to go to bed earlier. The coffee that arrives with the morning wake-up call helps too, although it too highlights the discrepancy between our digs here at the luxury hotel and spa and everything that surrounds us here in the heart of Kolkata. It is a refuge that several teachers have commented on—to the effect that teachers don’t travel like this—businessmen and the wealthy travel like this. We are grateful for the pampering.

So by the time Ashu and I convened in the lobby to wait for our driver, I’d been up for 5 hours.

I was worried about making it through the day. There was no need. There was enough action and excitement to carry me through several days. (Staying awake through dinner was another story. I looked around the table at a lot of flagging eyelids. It was a demanding day for everyone.)

So 8 a.m.: Subha had told us that we were to be picked up between 8 & 8:15. I’ve been getting used to Kolkata time—remember the photo shop that was supposed to open at 10:30? But, I reasoned that school is one place where timeliness will be paramount. After all, we are talking about a school of 4,000 girls, 60-90 in a classroom, 40 minute periods (at most—some are 35). Back at home we are always talking about “effective use of instructional time.” (Time is money!!! Remember? And we have a habit of referring to “wasted” time. Do we use metaphors in all the wrong places?)

At 8:20 I called her, and her relaxed and cheerful response was—yes, yes, the driver left 5-10 minutes ago, and there is traffic (there’s always traffic—with one exception that I will get to at the end of this post). My first impression is that the school is absolutely beautiful. Aqua-washed stucco buildings surround an open courtyard.

The greenery is lush. One of the first charming sights is the primary school lining up in the courtyard:

When we arrived, we walked past a beautiful, detailed mosaic maid from flower petals in honor of the occasion of our coming.

The class office bearers greeted us with garlands of flowers (heavy garlands of fresh flowers) and presented them in a brief ceremony that included candles and an anointing of our foreheads. Anisha, the school captain (who reminded me so much of any of our most poised and talented girls) ran the show along with the Vice Captain Toshita, the games captain Madhurima, and the social secretaries Smita, Soulina and Mohona.

On our way to the office of the rector we passed through the primary building where we met Mrs. Sen, the head of the primary division.

As we walked by the classrooms, every head was craning for a look at us—the visitors. If I waved, sixty little hands and sixty smiles were the result. As we walked through the halls, all but the most shy would greet us—“good morning, mum,” over and over. If I could take the time to return the greeting and ask “how are you?” the response was a delighted smile, and a “fine, how are you?” Even the shy girl would get brave and offer her greeting, hoping for a personal response. Maybe the burden of stardom isn’t so bad!

Then it was time to meet Mrs. Rosita Chrestien, the rector (she’s much more than a principal—a lifelong educator who worked with Mother Teresa, and is responsible for the warm, inclusive philosophy and atmosphere of the school) where we had tea and met the vice principal (akin to our role of Curriculum Director or Dean of Studies) Mrs. Carolyn Lionel.

We learned a bit about the long and colorful history of the school (the Archbishop of Canterbury visited last year!) and shared descriptions of our schools. I shared some of my own photos and a magazine and a bit of literature from Gilmour Academy (www.gilmour.org) but they had already thoroughly checked it out on the web. I gave Mrs. Chrestien a copy of Dave Lucas’ new book of poetry (http://www.ugapress.org/index.php/books/weather/) and Ashu presented her with a beautiful photography book featuring North Carolina.

Subha has been telling me bits about Mrs. Chrestien and how much she respects her. I hope that I have the opportunity to spend a bit more time with her, perhaps get her perspective on education. I’d love to learn the story of her career. (http://stjohnsdiocesanschool.org/page_2_principals_desk.html)
According to Subha, she took more time with us than is typical.

The school mission and commitment to service reminds me very much of Gilmour’s mission. One of their most arresting programs, initiated in 1990, has become a tradition. Each Friday, each child brings in one onion and one potato. The girls collect these in large sacks and each week they deliver 4000 onions and 4000 potatoes to St. Joseph’s old age home run by the Little Sisters of the Poor which is just down the street from the school. http://stjohnsdiocesanschool.org/page_21_social_services.html

Next we went to the third (fourth?) floor to the AV room where half the faculty had convened to meet us. They had me lead (I didn’t know where I was going!) and I walked in, only to notice a few minutes later that I was the only one in the room with my shoes on. Somehow I managed to walk past the 60 pairs of shoes on the floor and not even notice—much less think of taking off my own. They assured me that it was fine.

In a wonderfully thoughtful ceremony, we were introduced by Mrs. Lionel who embarrassed us by reading selections from our bios, and we were given an overview of the school from the office bearers who had obviously painstakingly memorized their parts. Several girls sang for us—beautiful voices and beautifully rendered songs in Hindi, Bengali and English.

A bit later the art teacher also sang for us. Each teacher stood and introduced him or herself (two men, approximately 60 women—but that was only half the faculty. I assume the other half was tending the flock.) Their subjects included physics, English, Bengali, Hindi, psychology, geography and more. Many teachers announced that they taught several sections of 11th and 12 levels (their 12-grade system is akin to ours)—and 5th! We had tea, and it was time to move on to the faculty room and wait for my first class.

Right now, I’m scheduled for 2, 3 or 4 classes (out of eight 40 minute periods) on any given day—but I’m learning that all of that is very fluid. For the first day, I would go into three classes (if it’s too much, let me know, Subha says—are you kidding? I’m used to three 90-minute classes in a row. This is a piece of cake—even in the oppressive heat.) The faculty is very friendly, and they promise to keep me company, but they clearly use any time they have to grade. They have stacks of kids’ composition books in front of them, and they waste no time. They are warm and friendly to me, but I’m pretty sure that I am taking their precious work time.

The first class I’m scheduled to attend is VI-D—a group of 6th graders. It begins at 11.30—immediately following the 11.10-11.30 break (there is no passing time here). Ashu and I are presented with a sandwich and tea at 11.20—and I’m wondering how on earth this is going to work. They are all sharing the snacks they brought from home—with us and with each other. Here, too, they are relaxed about the time. At the appropriate time, they move in that direction. It seems that the kids are good—it’s not a big deal if you aren’t there right at the exact moment.

So—the 6th graders. I was most anxious to see what 60 kids in a room looked like. It looks like this:

They are in a room that we would consider small for a class of 25. I go through the door and they all rise and greet me. I don’t see anywhere for a teacher to stand or sit. Subha points me to a desk in the right front corner of the room—literally squeezed in against students’ desks. There is a narrow passage along the front of the room, against the chalkboard, leading to the desk and a small space in which to stand.

Sixty expectant faces look at me—Subha is about to leave me with them until their teacher returns (momentarily). I say hello, and ask them what they’ve been working on in this class. They look bewildered. What have you been reading and writing? They still look bewildered. One obvious smart, energetic class leader takes it on and tries to respond—but we are on a different wave length. I’m getting nervous, thinking that this is about to become a very long 40 minutes. Well 35. Their regular teacher Mrs. Biswas, a very young and beautiful woman (if there were boys here, every one of them would have a crush on her), comes soon and encourages me to just tell them about myself and to ask and answer questions. What do they want to know? The real question quickly becomes what don’t they want to know. We talked school (what are students like in the US?), geography (there ARE five Great Lakes right? And Lake Erie is the shallowest but not the smallest, right? Dang, I should have boned up on geography for this…), Where is Ohio? (About a third of the way into the map from the right? How do you answer that without a map in front of you?) I promised to come back with a list of my favorite writers. One shy girl pulled out her copy of C.S. Lewis and asked me if that was a good author. (Oh, yes, I assured her. I asked if she and her classmates are reading the Twilight series—Subha had mentioned that it is very popular at the school, but I don’t know if 6th graders read that. My young friend said no. I’m not exactly sure what the no was in reference to. Her own reading? 6th graders in general? The quality of the book?)

Then I made a gaff. Subha had told me that the teachers move from class to class—the kids stay put. I knew that, but my subconscious triggers were waiting for the kids to leave. Funny how deeply embedded practices become. So the kids rose to their feet, class was over, and the questions kept coming (there are more than 60 of them after all). I kept answering questions—doing what I do back at home, stealing those between-class moments for some individual attention. Well, Mrs. Biswas was waiting—as was her next class, my next class, and the teacher who would be coming in here next. They are so wonderfully relaxed though—she didn’t seem to mind at all. She gave me the ambiguous side-to-side head-nod. Is it yes? Is it no? You’ll never know.

Next is Subha’s 12th grade class—a rare treat as it is, I believe, a self-selected group of senior girls who wanted to take on an extra challenging language class. It was a small group, akin to a seminar class at home—perhaps twenty in the room. (More accurate details will come in subsequent posts.)

We’re going to do some poetry (Maya Angelou’s “Still I Rise”) and personal essays—much like what I do with American seniors and the college essay. Subha is trying to arrange for us to have an 80-minute period in which to do writing workshop (we’ll have to schedule the AV room).

I think it will be AWESOME. These girls are so bright and so articulate. They want to know about American colleges, and the American system, and American recipes (salads!)—and they have big plans for our time together. They too were full of questions.

My last class is Mrs. Dasgupta’s 12th graders:

This is a large class, too, and they will be studying “Unseen Comprehension.” That means just what it sounds like—I am to choose a paragraph from a text book that I have and they do not. And I ask them questions. There are questions in the book designed to measure comprehension—fill in the blanks, short response (30 words or less) and arranging 5 sentences in chronological order according to the logic of the passage. It’s very literal. But Subha has told me that I can go beyond what the textbook requires, developing questions that go deeper. Most of the passages are factual or informative. Issues are only implicit here—so they are not passages chosen to facilitate discussion—that’s not the goal of the text. But as I listen to Subha and the other teachers, it is their goal. So the passage I choose has to do with drug abuse—something that we can discuss a bit and at least render an opinion on. The passage will have to be copied. I forgot to mention Rosemary, the school secretary, introduced to us by Subha first thing. As in many schools, she is a very important person to know. I’ll be visiting her tomorrow.

At the end of the day, Ashu and I wait for our driver (From now on we will take a taxi. The driver’s wife took ill or something and we won’t have that luxury for the month. That’s okay—I think we have enough luxury and the taxi rides are certainly a big part of the culture.) We are handed a plate with a banana and an apple. We compare notes. He says the the 8th graders, even in these large classes, with only a chalkboard at the front of the room, are doing work that our 10th graders would struggle with back home.

I had been telling him about Stigler & Hiebert’s The Teaching Gap—a processing of the TIMSS study (http://www.iea.nl/timss2007.html), a comparative study of 8th grade math classrooms in Germany , Japan and the US in which the US is shown to be the weakest in terms of application and critical thinking. It seems that we are very directive and work-sheety. We tend to judge other cultures for what we see as a reliance on rote learning and memorization, and like to think that we do a better job of “going deep.” I often wonder how much brain development is lost with our aversion to memorization. We do have a habit of “throwing the baby out with the bathwater,” (see the whole language movement. Never once did it forbid grammar instruction—just asked that it be done in a meaningful context) and I for one wish that I was a bit more disciplined in that way. At any rate—here we were again, looking at evidence (albeit a tiny piece) that maybe we in the US are too lax. Ashu and I found ourselves wondering if the “resources” (“gadgets?”) aren’t a distraction. (See Jane Healy’s book Failure to Connect—it’s dated, but makes a very interesting point still relevant to his conversations.)

So we returned to our hotel/spa, to our refuge, to reflect. There is much to reflect on after only one day. We are excited to get into a routine—but I think I forgot to mention that each class meets only once per week—that’s right—60-90 kids, 40 minutes, once per week, and the math kids are ahead of ours. Okay—that’s crazy. Maybe we’ll that picture will develop differently as our time goes on, but I do have to wonder who is going to learn more here.

Ashu and I are wondering where we might get an onion and a potato for Friday, and we are very disappointed to learn that we won’t have school tomorrow. There is a transportation strike—only for one day, but apparently many of the 4000 students use public transportation to get to school, so we will meet on Saturday, August 6th to make up for tomorrow. Shoot. This is making it very hard to sink into a routine…but it I am also eager to see Kolkata streets without taxis or buses. We might practice our 2.4 kilometer walk to the school; we might take in some of the sights. As cars do not stop for pedestrians here (I’m telling you–the streets are a veritable miracle here. I watch the car heading toward the pedestrian and cannot tell you why they don’t collide. I’m a little worried about my safety (not to worry—I’ll be careful) but I tend to panic when a moving car is coming at me at a good clip and I stop. I think that messes with the elaborate and intricate choreography that is required for this miracle to continually occur. At any rate—so much more to tell; all in good time.

our mentors:

Yesterday we walked down to the USIEF headquarters. Walking through the streets of Kolkata is an extreme sensory experience. Hawkers everywhere, people everywhere…car horns are the music of the street here. They are not the aggressive message that they are in New York or Boston. I think they mean move, I’m here, let’s go…driver use them because they can. The colors, the noise…I think the word cacophony is warranted. I am having a hard time getting a photo that truly captures the crowded, vibrant, color and chaos of the street. I’ll keep trying. Here are a couple:

Of course we passed a parade. It was Monday after all:

Today the only thing on our agenda was a visit to the Foreign Registration office. It could be simple; it could take hours. It is the reason they requested that we bring four extra passport photos along. So we had to stop at the camera shop on the way to get legit passport photos for those who had forgotten them or had variations on official photos. Our mentor here, Sumantu, had arranged for the shop to open at 10:30 so we could get to the FRRO on time. They did not open early—just kept telling us “after 11.” That, we realized, could mean anything. So it was well into early afternoon that we made our way to register.

(Of course) I was one of only two of us who had a stamp on the visa requiring that I register upon arrival. Everyone else who waited for hours for photos and made their way there through crushing heat and humidity was excused, and Keturah and I (with the glorious (thank you!) help of Sumanta and his knowledgeable colleague) filled out the paperwork, which had the look and feel of the 1950’s. I will receive an addition to my visa in 10 days, and will have to surrender it at the airport when I leave.
So after that, tired and hot though we were, several of us decided to venture out for lunch. After that, in spite of the heat and humidity, we decided to take a brief turn through New Market. The vendors are persistent. Very persistent. It’s quite astonishing—the tone never changes, they just keep asking and asking and asking and asking—just come look; my stand is right over here, just come look…. One little boy dogged us for quite a while—so cute, claiming he’s so very hungry. Aysha gave him a Nutri-grain bar from her purse and a few minutes later he was back—with his family! Aysha had one more packet of 100 calorie snacks in her purse.

He saw my camera and asked to pose for a picture.

Sumanta has now asked that we not chat with folks on the street.

I absolutely cannot imagine driving here. What I saw as harrowing cab rides in New York or Chicago are contemplative by comparison to riding in a cab here. There really ARE lines on the street—everyone pretty much ignores them. Cars come within inches of other cars, bikes, rickshaws, and pedestrians. It is a sight to behold. Maybe it will cure me of the nervousness I feel in cars in the U.S Their driving skills are nothing short of miraculous, and I cannot believe I have not seen a fender-bender yet.

The first time a driver turned off the car at a red light (yes, they do have a few red lights—and they do honor those) I thought the car had stalled.

A few miscellanous shots to close this post. More tomorrow when I’m awake at three!

Nomoshkar—greetings. (Namaste is Hindi. We are in west Bengal.)

Today was rough. The time change is kicking my ***. We had meetings and presentations most of the afternoon—the middle of the night according to my circadian rhythms. I was nearly falling off my chair through some of the presentations. Everyone said they were struggling—but I felt particularly conspicuous.

The speakers were terrific, though (what I was awake for!). Niladri Chatterjee, an English professor from Kalyani University and Fulbright alum addressed us first with a photo essay about his beloved home of Kolkata. He described the history, showed us highlights—the New Market, College Street (the book district—calling to several of us English teachers) the Writer’s Building (historically akin to the Counting House in Salem, now a government building), and where to go for great photos of the city (The Blue and Gray restaurant on Lindsay Street.) We heard about the secondary system in India, roles and expectations as we teach in the schools, some medical do’s and don’ts, and had a fun session learning some basic Bangla.(All right = Thik ache)

Then the long-awaited moment—we had dinner with representatives from our schools, which meant most of us met the teachers we would be working with. Subha was everything I expected—she said she recognized me from behind. She is beautiful, smart, political, and outgoing. The school, St. John’s Diocesan School for Girls has a population of about 400. Subha teaches classes of 60, but has one of 90. Yes—90! That’s an entire grade level at Gilmour Academy where I teach. She says that the girls will have no difficulty understanding me, but I might expect a little difficulty understanding them. She is allowing for a great deal of flexibility—giving me classes like creative writing, essay writing, and spoken English. I think she is a true-blue, died-in-the–wool language teacher and so knows that getting to know each other is a critical aspect of the endeavor for any language teacher, and this will take some time. Forty minute classes that meet once per week with 60 + girls. Step one—nametags. Gotta start somewhere.

I went back to the hotel; crashed for the early evening; needless to say I was up before 4.

It is Monday morning, my first morning in Kolkata, and I am composing my first blog entry at (of course) 5 a.m., having opened my eyes at 4. That was, as you may know, 6:30 p.m. Sunday evening in Cleveland Ohio, given the 9 ½ hour time difference. At 5, the sky is getting light and the streets look wet—not a surprise, as it is (of course!) monsoon season. I did bring Olivia’s cute umbrella, her brightly striped rain boots, and Lindsay’s rain jacket.

The hotel, The Oberoi Grand (http://www.oberoihotels.com/oberoi_kolkata/index.asp) is, indeed, grand, and will no doubt be a welcome oasis for the nine of us participating in this project.

The staff at the hotel, and our the USIEF hosts, Dr. Diya Dutt, the Deputy Director and Ms. Shevanti Narayan, the Regional Officer for USIEF Kolkata, and Mr. Sumanta Basu, program manager, have been warm and helpful.

I am, by far the oldest remember of my group. Ashu Saxena, a math teacher from Charlotte, North Carolina, in his early 40’s is the closest to me in age and the only man. I am the only one married, the only one with children. Subha, my teaching counterpart here, is my age and has a daughter approximately the age of my daughters, so I do have a compatriot. My group is lovely and warm, but they have a great deal in common, and I sometimes—only sometimes–feel the distance when we socialize. That may lessen as we get to know each other through this experience. I feel it lessening at times, and then it comes back. The young and single bond is a powerful one in American culture. Three of the group have India ties—another bond that I do not share. It is a wonderfully diverse group, including Audra Agnelly, a chemistry teacher from Dundalk Maryland, Keturah Kendrick, an English teacher from The Young Women’s Leadership School in New York City, Mari O’Meara, an English teacher from Eden Prairie High School in Minnesota. (Mari, 31, was born to a 14-year-old girl in India, adopted as an infant and raised Irish Catholic in Minnesota.) Laura Poeppelman teaches 8th grade English in a suburb of Columbus, Ohio; Aysha Shedbalkar teaches math in suburban Chicago; and Lena (pronounced Lay-na) Tashjian teaches English in Baltimore. Heavy on the English (2 math, one science), heavy on female, predominantly young, suburban, a mix of public and private schools—it’s a smart, friendly, engaged and engaging group.

As I am the first to experience an upset stomach, I miss the day one shopping trip for salwar kameez (the tunic and slacks worn by worn here when they do not wear the more formal sari). It is compounded by exhaustion. I spend a restless night in my room, but skype Mark and Olivia, and work on my blog—so all is not lost.

As I prepared to travel to Kolkata for a month in an English classroom here, teaching with Subhalakshmi (Subha), already a warm and welcoming friend by virtue of our e-mail exchanges, I developed a handful of questions, the first of which is ‘how many of these will remain relevant once I get there?’ The most compelling questions (I’m tempted to write ‘of course’ here), are those that arise in context. So I’m laying out my questions and reflections, knowing that they may immediately become irrelevant.

My questions include global, local, and personal elements. On a global level, I wonder about India’s emerging democracy. They are climbing out of a caste system, while we seem, in so many ways, to be heading into, if not class warfare, at least a class struggle that we are, for better or for worse, finally acknowledging enough to begin developing the ability to articulate. We have been reluctant to acknowledge the increasingly sharply drawn class divides in American culture given our tightly held notions of democracy. But as capitalism continues to trump democracy in so many ways, not the least of which is the current wave of union-busting (my home state of Ohio, along with Wisconsin, is leading the way) targeting teachers and, in some states police and other service providers, tax breaks for those earning over $250,000 per annum continue “because those people have mortgages to pay and children to put through college.” (http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/thu-march-3-2011/crisis-in-the-dairyland—for-richer-and-poorer—teachers-and-wall-street)

India and the U.S. have much in common—but wonder if perhaps India is on an uphill trajectory, trying to work their way out of (albeit deeply held) social and class distinctions, while we are being forced to acknowledge that in spite of our best intentions, our class distinctions are not only present, but deepening. According to Culture Grams'(www.culturegrams.com)description of India, “High-technology industries lead the way for industrial growth…. Serious gaps exist between the urban wealthy and the poor. … Obstacles to economic growth include outdated or nonexistent infrastructure, lack of educational opportunities, and insufficient economic opportunities for the population. Approximately 25 percent of the population lives in poverty.” (According to the New York Times, citing statistics from the U.S. Census Bureau, the U.S. poverty rate, as of Sept. 2010 is 14.3%.) India is, it seems, one of the few growing economies in the industrial world. Ideologically and economically, they are in growth stages; we seem to be on the downhill side of our euphoric growth. Are we, the youngsters in the world, an aging democracy? If so, it was certainly a short life cycle. Are there lessons to be learned there for emerging democracies?

On a different note, I have many questions about the educational system. My work is centered around the messy project of developing authentically student-centered classrooms. My project, “What Does it Mean to Think Like a Teacher,” builds on Howard Gardner’s notion that children enter their years of schooling with powerful, deeply embedded theories about how the world works. He argues that the only time these intuitive theories are interrupted or changed–the only time we fundamentally alter the way we think–is when we think “disciplinarily.” We change, for example, not when we study grammar but when we think like a writer; not when we read a textbook, but when we think like a historian; not when we memorize the periodic table, or learn a theory or a formula, but when we “think like a scientist.” In this project, I ask teachers to reflect on what it means to think like a writer, mathmetician, historian, etc. More importantly I ask them what it means to ask students of any age what it means to do the same. My goal is to try to equate that with thinking “like a teacher.” I am hoping that this project will resonate with teachers in India; that I can gather some responses from them. We’ll see.

Subha is trying to be gentle with me, and so far has mentioned only teaching creative writing and working with students who might benefit from working with a native English speaker. That is fantastic, and I have the material I use to set up writing workshop in the classroom, but I am also taking along the material we use in our unit on analyzing advertising (focusing on representations of women in ads–Subha’s si an all-girls school), material introducing Socratic seminar to the students, and our school-wide re-reading project in which students read and reflect on a beloved piece of literature from their childhood or adolescence. I’m also bring two copies of Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn’s book, Half the Sky: Turing Oppression in to Opportunity for Women Worldwide, hoping that Subha and I might read it together during the month I am here, and perhaps turn it into a unit of study for students at our respective schools in which we might continue our collaboration.

I am also looking forward to experiencing the culture. Last March I had the good fortune to travel to Ireland on a family trip. There, the consistently warm reception we experienced everywhere we went stood in sharp contrast to the often chilly, sometimes even rude reception one might get in the U.S. Not that there are not many warm and wonderful people in the U.S., but too often they are much like the two young women waiting on several of us at a sandwich shop in Dulles airport on Friday evening. They made no pleasantries, did not meet our eyes, and seemed unhappy with their jobs—particularly when we asked for a cup of water to go with our sandwich. The warm, ice-less water did seem a reflection of their attitude. From all I have heard, I expect India to be much like Ireland where folks are generally warm and glad to see you.

In Ireland, I was reminded of the culture-jolt (not big enough to be a culture shock! Sorry Alvin Toffler.) I experienced when I went to college. I was sitting expectantly in my first class, on the first day, when the professor walked in. My immediate impression was that he was physically one of the funniest-looking men I’d ever seen. He had a beaked nose and uncommon words like stout and portly come to mind. He reminded me of a turtle walking on its back legs. We might think things like that (right?) but in civilized society, we keep our mouths shut (right?). My reaction—one which I’d never taken note of before—was a stiffened spine in anticipation of the whispering and murmuring, the disrespect that I instinctively anticipated coming from the rest of the class. (I’d not previously noted how uncivilized my high school experience was–the fish unaware of the water….) There was no whispering, no giggling, and I relaxed my spine and breathed a sigh of relief. I remember thinking—“That’s right. These people want to be here. The culture will be different.” And it was. I felt the same sort of relaxation in Ireland where I knew that every shopkeeper would greet me warmly and engage in conversation. From all I hear, I expect a similar culture in Kolkata. We’ll see.