The English Lesson
A short story inspired by Katherine Mansfield’s ‘The Singing Lesson’
Tired. Tired. The feeling nobody is allowed to be upfront about. With exhaustion -suffocating, sheer exhaustion- hidden behind her professional smile and moving deep in her whole body, Miss Spectacle, the English teacher, carrying her books on her chest, treads the dim hallway that leads to the classroom at the end, the one with large windows which overlooks the inner slums of the city, the rough part of town against which the fancy campus of the private school, the only green area in the shanty town is safeguarded with tall concrete walls, much like the Berlin Wall, and security guards in their cabins by the gates.
The Spanish teacher of her own age passes by in a rush. “Miss Spectacle,” she hears her say. “We’re almost there. Hang in there. We’ll make it,” speaks sotto voce, in a sarcastic Spanglish drawl. The eighth and the last lesson of the day is around the corner.
“Have a good one!” says she, rolling her eyes slightly.
Clearing her throat, she enters the class and shuts the door. Her implicit instruction is understood as she notices Hasan, one of the students at the back, shouting “Sh-sh! Sh-sh! Places, places!” in a domineering manner, which Miss Spectacle normally finds amusing but not today. Not today. His cute chubbiness and ear-piercing voice cannot make her smile. She doesn’t bother to do anything else, apart from waiting in silence. Gradually, the fourth graders will hush down. She approaches her desk by the window and stops there to greet them when she is convinced that she has gained everyone’s attention.
“Good afternoon, everyone!” she says, with a calm scratchy voice. Her throat turns into a sandpaper whenever she utters a word.
“Good afternoon, Miss. Spectacle,” they reply, almost roaring. It is clearly seen that they are in a good mood and no way as tired.
“You may sit down,” she says. When they do so, she glances through their desks to check if their materials are ready -notebooks, English course books and pencils. Most students already stay put looking eager to advance with her next instruction while some others still keep fidgeting on their chairs. The icy fluorescent light hits their tanned faces and their glowing reflections are bounced back onto the twilight scenery of the early winter nights through the translucent windows; magnified, and ephemeral. Their desks, arranged in rows, overlap the cluttered jerry-built shacks with windows blinking.
“Well, well, well, you seem to have had a good time on holiday,” she exclaims with a poker-faced expression. “Look at you! You are sun-kissed and glowing!”
“We’ve been to Maldives!” shouts Hasan without raising his hand and gets his first warning.
“Everyone, remember we don’t speak without permission!”
Hasan blushes and says sorry while the others raise their hands enthusiastically, like cartoon characters holding strings of a balloon and flying upwards into the sky.
Miss Spectacle points at Selin. “Where were you on holiday?”
“We went to Switzerland to ski.”
“Good for you. Good.”
“Elif, what about you?”
“We were in Porto Rico, swimming. I swam in the ocean.”
“Sounds fantastic. Fantastic.” “Everyone, I am looking forward to listening to all of you but we need to get it started.” Other students drop their hands and rustle in disappointment.
She looks at her watch. There is still half an hour to go. She is not in the mood but she tells them that they will play a game. They all cheer. The rules are simple. She divides the class into two groups to compete against each other and she invites two volunteers from each group to come up.
“All you need to do is to guess what your friends are doing.” “Alright?” “They will act silently and I want you to guess what they are doing.” “The group with more correct answers will win.”
“So, will they speak to you?
“No!”
“Will they act silently?”
“Yes.”
“Will you guess what they are actually doing?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Now take your time to name your groups.”
“Dragons,” shouts one of the groups when they are ready.
“Sounds great!”
“Spidermen!” shouts the other.
“Are you all men?”
“No!”
“Okey okey, spider students!”
“That will do! Ok. Let’s get it started. We are running late.”
They all start gently. Cheerfully. They watch and say. “I know. She is picking apples.” “No, no, no.” They try again. Then again. Soon come screaming voices. Noise. Desks and chairs squawking. “She cannot do it. She cannot act.” In comes ambition. Greed and mercilessness to lead the game. They know what to do to win. And they do it. Students with their tiny bodies fill the aisles, jump and cheer until the end when Miss Spectacle announces the winner. And it is at that moment when Selin cries out complaining “Their last question was too easy! Unfair! This is unfair!” In comes losers’ rage. And the winners won’t give up. Two groups both in defense of their rightfulness are almost in a fight. They find themselves in a heated argument about who should win. They are out of control.
“Shush! Shush!” Miss Spectacle interrupts and tells them off for being in such an uproar losing her temper. “Give it a rest!” she says raising her voice. It takes them a while to calm down. When time is up and the students are all dismissed, she collapses in her chair. And she is struck by her reflection through the window blurred in translucent concrete. Impersonating the students, she mumbles to herself “Unfair, this is unfair.” She gets her stuff together. And off she goes. Onto the shuttle. Into the alleys. Shattered.
Written and illustrated by Güzin Ayan
P.S. Inspired by Katherine Mansfield’s ‘The Singing Lesson’. Sometimes teachers are just tired.