On my second week of the program, I moved from observing to assistant teaching classes. I ran exercises teaching the students how to “blend”—for example, for the word “star,” we would ask them what each letter sound (not the name!) was (s, t, a, r), and then they would segment each sound starting from the top of their arm to the bottom. Then, we would have them brush their arm from top to bottom while saying the sounds together faster and faster, until they formed the correct word. This ties their kinetic movements to the process of putting together a word, and allows them to pronounce words they had never seen before using only the combination of letters they are given. According to the Jolly Phonics curriculum, this way of reading is more beneficial than other methods, such as whole word learning, because it doesn’t require that kids memorize every word they are expected to know. Of course, there are still some “tricky words” that break pronunciation rules that they have to memorize, but those are much fewer in number than trying to build their entire vocabulary off of memorization.
Classroom management is challenging, but in an expected way. Many times I was in charge of teaching the kids how to queue for the toilets, to properly wash their hands with soap, to remind them to listen to the lesson instead of talking amongst themselves, and to keep their hands and feet to themselves during lessons; I’d even say that these teaching moments comprised the majority of my role as assistant teacher, rather than the actual material of the lesson. But that’s the bargain you strike when you work with kids this age.
I also conducted some one-on-one reading and writing “breakouts” during class when a kid was having particular problems with a certain concept. It’s interesting because, here, it feels like there is much less of a “touch barrier” between teachers and kids. When I was a counselor for summer camps in the U.S., we were explicitly told we couldn’t touch the kids unless there was imminent danger, and we had to ask for permission first and only physically restrain as a last resort. Here in Singapore, that idea is quite different. Many times, I was told to “help the kid write,” which meant holding their hands and writing with them. Often, when a kid was reading, they would come up to me and, if they were shy, hug me and hide their faces by burrowing into my side. During times when a kid was struggling from behavioral issues and kicking chairs and the wall in the classroom, I was told it was perfectly okay to physically restrain him until he could calm down (gently, of course, by enveloping him in a bear hug).
I used to think that the primary goal of teaching is to impart knowledge and wisdom. And, to an extent, that is the primary goal of post-secondary education, especially in an environment as aggressively career-driven as Columbia’s. But after spending more and more time with these kids, who look up to us not for our knowledge but for our ability to make them feel safe and cared for, I’ve been thinking about my role as a teacher a little differently. I think that the primary goal of teaching is really relationship-building: to earn the trust of your pupils, and ensure that you continue to protect them and guide them in a way that ensures you deserve that trust. The lessons come and go; it is not the end of the world if a kid takes an extra week or two to learn how to combine “c” and “h” to make “ch.” But that trust, that sense of safety they feel around you (if you’re doing your job well), is irreplaceable. And as an education is ultimately about building character, helping them become a person who can live a good life, I think it is of the utmost importance that we, as educators, never break that fragile and precious trust.