Scars

 

“the way you speak of yourself
the way you degrade yourself
into smallness
is abuse” ― Rupi Kaur

 

I think one of the worst aspects of a teacher’s career is watching children struggle – struggle to keep up, struggle to be cool, struggle to just seem alright. Over the years I have seen too many children crying on the inside.

Sometimes the reasons for this heart-wrenching struggle seems valid – to me. Sometimes they do not – to me. But who am I to say? And this moment of revelation always comes as a shock. Why did I not understand?

There was a student, for instance, who would always sit at the back of my class, with his head down on his folded arms on the desk. If I commented on it, he would glower at me sullenly, and go back to his favoured position after a few minutes. It bothered me. I tried to liven up my classes with lots of games, lots of stories. No go! The head stubbornly remained down. I even thought for a brief moment – I am ashamed to admit – that I should ignore him and get on with it. Thankfully, I thought the better of it almost immediately. So I started lurking around the class, to see if I could catch him in a good mood (he was always kind of sullen, bordering on insolent) and have a chat.

I lurked and lurked, but could never find a good moment to talk… there were always other kids around.

Finally, I waited at the gate to find him alone. Of course, he saw me waiting and turned tail, ready for flight. But I was determined. I caught up with him and insisted that we have a chat. He stared at the floor. So I came out with it directly: “Why do you always sleep in my class?” He refused to look up. So I added, “It hurts, you know.”

He met my eye for a split second. And then his sullen answer left me reeling: “Everyone laughs at my pimples.” There it was, out in the open. Dourly matter-of-fact. It took me a moment to process that he had been literally hiding his face for fear of being laughed at, possibly teased. I searched his face and – this is absolutely true – found exactly one zit. “Where are the pimples? Have you been missing out on my classes because of one zit?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.

“You won’t understand,” he replied, and stood waiting for me to let him go.

At that moment, I didn’t understand. From the perspective of my age, I didn’t understand his 15-year-old one.

But later I did. I understood why he dragged his feet, why he looked pained (I had mistaken it for sullenness), and just how difficult each day must be for him. I understood that the mirror was probably his nemesis before the start of each day.

But most of all I understood his struggle of getting through each day, based on the appearance or disappearance of a spot on his skin.  

P.S: We all tried to help, we even roped in some of his peers to do so. And these kids were stellar in rising to the challenge. But sometimes I still wonder about him. For zits is a passing phase. I can only pray that nothing else has taken their place…

So very sheer is self esteem sometimes.