Moments later and I’m at the gates
of Phạm Ngọc Thạch primary
school. Reminding Tuan I’ll see him again at 10.15, same spot, I walk
quickly through the entrance and into the micro chaos within. Hundreds of tiny
kids in white and blue uniforms mill about screaming and playing, oblivious to
the unknown luxuries of lie-ins, lucid dreaming or breakfasts-in-bed. As I make
my way to the staff room, almost having to duck under the main arch, they spot
my adult form crossing the yard, white shirt, white helmet and white skin.
Instantly tides of miniature people spill towards me, heads knocking against my
knees and thighs, tipsy eyes looking up giddily. Doling out high-fives in their
hundreds and thousands, the chosen ones fall back into the tide, contented, as
others untouched, rush forward to replace them in seeking my palm. Eventually,
I reach the other teachers and catch my breath, as the kids drop off screaming
and laughing and vibrating with joy. Graham, a tall, shaggy haired and
well-built forty-something Kiwi teacher, and my only other ‘Western’ colleague
here, is joined by a handful of younger Vietnamese female teachers wearing the
traditional, colourful áo dài dress- exuding elegance, calm
and poise in these schizoid surroundings. Graham’s lived in the city a long
time, probably too long, and he smiles welcomingly but heavily as he fills me
in on bits and pieces of local miscellany and sweetly sings ‘there was a
farmer had a dog and bingo was his name-o’, encouraging me to use it in
class over the next few weeks. Ms. Pham, my teaching assistant, arrives and
opens up optimistically with a bright, full smile, though she too is worn and
sleepy eyed. She and Graham engage in some awkward cross-cultural nonversation;
he stubbornly sitting on his country’s old ways and she on hers, as they smile
and nod, straining with courtesy. I busy myself with my books, thinking of how
many ways I can feed ‘Is this your bag? Yes, it is. Is this your teddy bear?
No, it isn’t’ to the children without it quickly developing the taste of cod
liver oil.
At 7.00AM Ms. Pham motions for me to
follow her to class. Graham and I nod and earnestly wish one another good luck,
as if preparing to scale a trench wall at The Somme. Nearing the door, I see
the anticipation of tiny faces peering out at me as I cross the yard. I step
inside and the class are on their feet to greet me, rocking lightly against
their hardwood desks. First up is Grade 2A- all roughly six years old and
barely waist height. Little round faces with Harry Potter glasses, goofy gaps
in their teeth and tufts of hair sticking out north, south, east and west
giggle and beam, while I open up my bag of tricks. Turning, I speak loudly and
clearly- ‘Good morning class’. ‘Gooood morning teacha’, they all reply in
chorus. ‘How are you today?’ ‘I’m fine, thank you, an’ you?’ ‘Fine’ I shout,
giving them the thumbs up as the responses ‘soulless’, ‘subhuman’ and ‘broken’
slip away in my mind, enthusiasm gradually growing. Miss Pham suggests a song
to kick things off and they all break into a rendition of ‘What’s the Weather?’
to the Tune of ‘Oh My Darling’:
‘What's the
weather? What's the weather? What's the weather like today?
Is it foggy, partly cloudy, is it raining or is there snow?
Is it windy, is it cloudy or is there sun shine today?
What's the weather? What's the weather? What's the weather like today?’
Is it foggy, partly cloudy, is it raining or is there snow?
Is it windy, is it cloudy or is there sun shine today?
What's the weather? What's the weather? What's the weather like today?’
Complete with heartfelt actions to
show rain, wind and sunshine, my cynicism melts away and with it the urge to
wonder aloud why kids in Ho Chi Minh City would be expecting snow at any point
in their life cycles. As the sweat dribbles down my back, I pull out a handful
of picture cards showing a teddy bear, a train, a book, a ball, a car, a pen
and an eraser. Teaching them the new words, they all repeat loudly after me as
I drill, drill and drill some more, attempting to penetrate their brains with
the same M.O. as the repetitive pop music that blares from almost every I-phone
in the city. After a minute, I introduce actions and they light up- the fun
begins. They race their Ferraris at breakneck speed, ignoring decent speed
limits, and furiously scribble their pens, wrapping up their great literary
masterpieces. In between they giggle and giggle manically and I can’t help but join in,
giggling too. Remembering vast, dormant reserves of silliness, I
morph into a floppy clown, jumping around the front of the ‘stage’ bouncing my
enormous basketball, as the hysterical giggling fills the room. Suddenly, I
shout ‘freeze!’ and jump to a total halt. The ‘mini-me’s’ mimic immediately, standing
upright and serious, arms straight at their sides and their chins and noses
pointed upwards like military cadets. A second or two later, grins begin to
creep onto their lips as they remember the game. ‘Let’s play’ I shout, like
some menacing drill sergeant. Every soldier stands to attention ‘frozen’ and
awaits the command. ‘Train!’ I yell, and after a moment they all start tugging
on that train bell and chugging along, screaming ‘Choo! Chooooo!’ ‘Book!’ I
yell next, and they all pull out their Wordsworth and Keats and start reading
deeply, flicking through the pages, searching for a key quotation. ‘Freeze!’ I
yell this time and they all twitch and jump to a standstill. ‘Toooo slow!’ I
say smiling and point to three students, who sit down, grinning bashfully. The
game continues and becomes more and more intense until finally two contenders
remain to challenge for the title. Up in front of their classmates, eyebrows
clenched in concentration, they battle it out until one slips up and I raise
the girl’s tiny fist in victory. Typically, the whole crew go bonkers and you’d
swear they’d all won. We clap ‘til our hands are purple and then clap some
more, as I notice there’s still five minutes remaining on the clock. ‘Ohhh...
There was a farmer had a dog and Bingo was his name-o...’
After more of the same mayhem in
another forty minute period with Grade 2B, it’s breakfast time and I simply
can’t get my brain around the fact it’s only twenty past 8. Following Ms. Pham
around the back of the school, we grab two tiny, red plastic chairs and sit
down by the canteen cart, getting a moment’s peace. With my arse no more than
30cm off the ground and my knees sticking up at ridiculous angles, I feel like
Shrek having breakfast in Snap, Crackle and Pop’s kitchen. I get a mini plate
of sticky rice and fried egg with fish and soy sauce drizzled on top. Digging
into the egg with my plastic spoon, I wonder if a fatal stabbing every occurred
with plastic cutlery. Ms. Pham makes textbook ‘Nam nice’ conversation, asking
what I think of her country, do I miss my parents and how long will I stay in
Vietnam for. Sticking to the script I tell her ‘your country is very beautiful,
the people are so kind and warm, the food is always delicious’, ‘Yes I miss
them a lot but we talk on Skype very often’ and ‘until next Christmas or maybe
next Tet’, resisting the cheeky urge to throw in ‘unless I meet the
right girl’. Over here young, educated ‘Western’ guys like me are seen as prize
boyfriends/husbands by a young, educated Vietnamese girl like Ms. Pham and I
sidestep her repeated offers of dinner or coffee every week, pleading overwork.
Relationships are complicated enough with people from your own cultural sphere,
I ponder to myself. The image of Mrs. Pham Mangan’s face on a noisy Dublin bus
after a messy night sinking pints of Guinness with my mates brings a dark smile
to my mouth. We’re soon joined by kids on their break. They say teachers
shouldn’t have favourites but the sight of one incredibly pale child, with
gentle brown eyes and geeky round glasses, dark pensioner-like strings hanging
from the frames, always lifts my mood. Despite repeated lessons and attempts, I
can never pronounce his name 100% spot-on so we’ve agreed, for now anyway, to
call him D. D’s eight years old and intelligent in a dozy, mystical savant kind
of way, I like to think. A tiny, ethereal being who twirls and laughs joyously,
following the pied piper to paradise. His father speaks some English, so he’s
able to chat a bit in his brilliant wavering, slow, high-pitched croak of
voice. ‘Dooo yooou liiiike Lego Ciiiityyyy?’ he inquires tapping each word out
on my shoulder with his funny older gentleman manner. Before I can answer he’s
off, as Gangnam Style bursts out of a giant speaker in the yard and he’s on his
horse, a lone ranger, squealing ‘Oppa Gangnam Style! Op! Op! Op!’
Two classes remaining- 2C and 2D.
Upstairs for the first group and glinting sunlight filters in through the tall,
smudged window panes. I particularly love this class and they’ll never know how
much; standing by their desks, on tiptoes, taller than they truly are, beaming
affectionately and making me smile uncontrollably into my tie. ‘Hello
teacha’’ rings throughout the room in a cacophony of helium voices. I pull a
blue plastic ball from my bag and the place goes wild; hands cupped and faces
excited and pleading. Throwing it around the room and firing questions at them-
‘how are you?!’ ‘I fine thank you!’ ‘what’s your name?!’ ‘seven year old!’
what’s... your... name?’ ‘my name An!’ ‘what’s your favourite colour?!’
Bluuuuue!’. Another tsunami of high fives all round. Time rushes by in a roll
of squeaky voices, raised hands and proud smiles. With 2 minutes to go, Miss
Pham asks them to sing a song for me and they all prep themselves for their
performance with whispered instructions and quick, knowing nods and they’re on
their feet, ready.
‘Red and
yellow and pink and green,
I can sing a
rainbow
Sing a
rainbow
Sing a
rainbow too’
My breath is heavy in my chest with
the weight of emotion and the lump in my throat and tears in my eyes stone me.
Some of their eyes almost close for the final line and the sweetness of the
sound is pure and transcendent. They could all grow up to be doctors, lawyers, painters,
teachers, depressives, adulterers, drunks or thieves but at this moment it
doesn’t matter at all. All that is important right now is that these children
just really want nothing more than to sing a rainbow and there are fewer things
more beautiful in the entire world than that. Leaving the room, I can’t glance
back enough as they slip away from my view and all the while the intensity and earnestness of
their happy smiles never breaks or fades.
Things are purring along perfectly
now and I feel like I could gather every single kid in Ho Chi Minh City
together in one giant classroom and sing ‘head, shoulders, knees and toes’ on a
loop until next Lunar New Year. I have to make do with only thirty of them
though and 2D stretch their arms and legs with me, warming up for a
sing song.
‘Head,
shoulders, knees and toes,
We repeat it at SLOW motion speed
then like a remote control car running out of batteries and grins crack left,
right and centre as we move our creaky limbs at snail’s pace. Then we go again
and this time it’s LOUD. The opportunity for a 6 year old to shout at the top
of their voice with an adult’s permission is never squandered and they roar the
place down, until I’m worried my ear drums will explode out of my skull in all
directions. To wrap it up we do FAST and the words get lost in a carnival blur
of screeches and giggles, rollercoaster heads bouncing around the asylum. The
simplicity of speeding something up or slowing it down constitutes cutting edge
comedy here and every time I worry they’ll get bored and disillusioned I’m always
confounded by the joy these simple activities create. Towards the
end of the session, a bowl-haired boy up the front starts misbehaving and two
girls, ribbons in hair, exchange words with Miss Pham, before strutting up to
the top of the room and shouting at him disapprovingly in rapid Vietnamese.
They rap their rulers in warning against his desk and with a look of
resignation he agrees to get his act together. My enforcers sit back down,
satisfied and I can’t help but laugh at the efficiency of this discipline crack
team. With a ring of the bell, it’s 10.10 and I’m spent, lightheaded by the
dizzying past 4 or so hours. I say my ‘bye byes’ to all of them with high
fives, low fives, cross fives and double fives and I’m gone, maybe forever, for
all they know or understand. Miss Pham escorts me to the gate and we part with
friendly smiles and courteous nods. We all smile in the same language, they say
and at times like these I can’t argue, staggering out the door, inebriated on
the euphoria of this morning. Tuan is waiting, cigarette clasped between two
fingers, and he’s smiling too. I jump aboard and he turns the throttle to take
us on our way. ‘It sunny!’ he offers enthusiastically, pointing up at a
glorious sun. There’s no arguing with that I think, while beads of sweat
trickle down my neck and my eyes squint upwards and all I want to do is sing a
rainbow, sing a rainbow too.
