Education

Out here you roll with things.

On a Friday night, I was sitting on a mat outside the pagoda with two friends when Mr. Undia, a balding middle-aged Khmer man who frequently wandered into the pagoda, now wandered over to me in shorts and sandals, a cigarette dangling on his lips. He had tar plastered in between each front tooth and as he flashed a smile he invited himself onto our mat. Somehow, I paid for his beers. In a few past interactions, the only conversation piece he seemed to focus his energy on was self-assumed stereotypes of all foreigners based on his few interactions. He welcomed himself into the conversation with more of these ideas. As my disposition grew cloudy he then asked if I would accompany him to the university at which he taught. [Good follow up, I thought.] Wanting nothing more than to sip my beer on the lawn with friends, I was not in the mood to think about teaching.

"Do I need to teach?" I asked without looking at him.

"No, tomorrow students have a exam. You just come with me," he said.

"What time?" I asked.

"6:30 AM."

I pondered the possibility. I could easily see being manipulated into teaching something. Like when Venerable Sokhuen sends me alone into his class with the only instruction being, "its up to you." This isn't some malicious attitude, but when I am not prepared it is sometimes unsettling. On the night of this invitation, I was not prepared to be unsettled.

Even so, I told him, "Okay. But I will need you to make sure I am up in the morning."

"Alright," he said baring his teeth yet again in a smile.

The following morning, a grim sunrise was on my face as I sat with Mr. Undia for breakfast at a folding metal table just outside the school. Another man made his way over to us, with a confident but apathetic step. He was the director. After a few bites of his breakfast, a cup of coffee was brought, and he introduced himself.

"Where are you from?" he asked in an ascending tone. This was his introduction.

"America," I said.

"Ah," he hummed, "Ameri-shit."

"No, America," I slowly rebuttled in a low tone.

"What state?" he said.

"Illinois," I told him.

"North, south, east, west?" he asked.

"Northeast. About 60 kilometers south of Chicago," I said.

"Ah," he said again, "so Northeastern University."

"No, I went to school in Indiana; Indiana Wesleyan University."

"Is that a Catholic school?" he said.

"Its a Christian school," I told him, but I immediately regretted that response. Catholicism is part of Christianity after all. "Its a Wesleyan school to be specific," I added. "A private school."

He asked me more questions, about the pagoda, teaching English, writing the proposal -- the expected questions -- and then one not so expected question.

"What did you learn?" he said casually.

This caught me off guard. It was not that I hadn't thought of this before, just that I've never been asked before. I began to answer but was cut off; it was time to begin my morning at the university, but the question still stuck with me. One sentence shifted my attitude from apprehension to curiosity. Now I was beginning to see him as an educated man; disgruntled but detached from an ineffective system of education.

"What do you think of this curriculum?" he asked me in the office.

I stared at the whiteboard with class names sealed in peeling tape. Four years to a bachelor's degree in management, or four years to a degree in English.

"Its shit," he said before I could answer.

I only smiled.

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I never had to teach that day, but only sat at the front of the class in a blue plastic chair. At a desk, I thought more about the events of this morning. About my reluctance to help, about how tired I was in neverending cultural pressure, and about how bad the education system really is. As my mind fired faster than I could write, I sat in front at a desk no different than those at which students sat, but on mine sat a whiteboard eraser, a stack of tests, and plastic flowers, pink and yellow, fixed in a styrofoam block and placed in a tiny wicker basket. Mr Undia, slightly balding, and slightly bellied came to stand at my side and stared at me. As rising light brought with it heat that creept up to this second storey room, I could see the sweat on his neck as he looked down at me. This time though he smiled not only with his teeth, but with his eyes. I did not want to come this morning, but I'm glad I did. For him it appears that just my presence is a big deal.

Even so, something was missing. He asked me if I could commit to teaching literature. I told him no, but this time I returned his smile with one of my own.

Now, the morning was complete.