October 6, 2024

For one of the introductory engineering classes I took during either my freshman or sophomore year at the University of Delaware, there was a visiting professor from Italy by the name of Gianni Astarita.  That’s the only detail that I clearly remember about the class.  The subject matter was engineering, to be sure, and perhaps it had something to do with fluid mechanics, but that class faded rapidly from my memory.  Except for his name and the way he spoke.  He had a pretty strong accent.  I don’t doubt that he was very smart and quite qualified to teach the class.  And given the power dynamic, I would readily concede that I was in way over my head.  I was still learning calculus, so whatever the subject matter might have been for Professor Astarita’s class, I just remember being bewildered.  One thing that really threw me for a loop was when he talked about the need to “double-up” an equation.  As I said, I was still a neophyte when it came to calculus, so this notion of “double-up” an equation seemed to be among the mysteries of calculus that hadn’t been revealed to me yet.  Over the course of a couple of weeks, my mind would wrestle throughout class, trying to grasp this concept of “double-up” an equation.  I don’t remember if the revelation came to me directly or through one of my classmates, but suddenly the fog cleared when I realized that he was saying that we must develop an equation.  Sadly, that hard-fought victory brought no satisfaction, because I still had no clue how I would go about developing an equation.

Fast forward almost 50 years, and now I am the visiting teacher who talks funny.  I can completely empathize with my students whose English language training has left them woefully unprepared for a funny-talking American, especially the Form 1 students (AKA seventh grade) in my computing class.  I’ve written about this before, but, sadly, the situation did not improve over the course of the last school year.  I reached an unspoken truce with the handful of students who would put their heads down on their desks and just check out during class.  The self-appointed classroom police were dumbfounded that I would turn a blind eye to such willful disrespect.  I, on the other hand, appreciated the fact that the sleepers weren’t actually disrupting the class, unlike those who chattered constantly, or repeated everything I said in a cartoon-like voice, or got up and walked around the room for no apparent reason while my back was turned.

One Friday afternoon in June I was marking homework at my regular table not far from the Form 1 classroom when I heard some lovely, angelic, choral singing.  On the school calendar, Friday afternoons are for PE and sports, although any teacher who has the energy can organize an activity for interested participants.  The singing that I was enjoying was from about a dozen voices who were practicing a song – maybe it was a hymn – over and over again.  Rather than being tiresome, it was a pleasure to hear the voices blend together so well.  It turns out that one of the teachers, who had been in an award-winning choir, was coaching the students.  Afterwards I complimented him on his efforts and told him how much I enjoyed hearing the music.  Then I stopped in the classroom and complimented the girls (I think it was all girls) as well.  They were pleased to get the encouragement and one of the girls (one of the “sleepers” in my class) asked me if I sing.  I admitted that I do like to sing a little bit so, at their insistence, I sang a couple verses of Travelin’ Shoes, to which they responded enthusiastically, clapping and cheering.  It was fun to make a connection, no matter how small, beyond the usual staid teacher-student relationship.

After class the following Wednesday afternoon, the “sleeper” who had asked me to sing a song asked if she and some of the other girls in class could come to my house on Friday afternoon to cook fried rice for me [see Note below].  There were ample reasons to say no: I didn’t expect I would want to eat what they cooked; I expected that they would make a mess; and I know from experience the pandemonium that will arise when I allow a group of JHS students into my house.  But there were at least two compelling reasons to say yes: I realized how much courage it took for this girl to approach me and make this request, especially given her limited skill in the English language; and I felt that if I declined the offer or suggested postponing the event, she wouldn’t have asked again and I would have missed an opportunity to bridge the gap between us.  So, after a brief hesitation, I said yes.

My concerns about allowing a group of girls into the house were well-founded.  How many girls can it take to prepare fried rice?  Apparently, the answer is eight, even though my kitchen can only reasonably accommodate three people.  First on the agenda: “TK, can we use your Bluetooth speaker to play music?”  As one who enjoys listening to music while I cook, I could hardly deny that request, although I would not have chosen the energetic dance music that they put on.  Next was an avalanche of other requests: “TK, can we use one of your onions?”, “TK, we need a knife.”, “TK, we need oil.”, “TK, we didn’t bring enough rice.  Can we use some of yours?”, “TK, we need two eggs.”, “TK, TK, TK, …”

How long does it take to cook fried rice?  In this case, about three hours.  What I wasn’t aware of was that the girls weren’t just cooking for me.  It took about an hour to serve me a plate of rice, which I found to be pretty tasty.  Sated, I thought that the girls would soon finish cleaning up and be ready to leave.  But when I walked back into the kitchen, I found that they were well into preparing a second, larger batch, both for themselves and for some of the other teachers.  I did a doubletake when I saw that they were using one of my laundry tubs to mix the sauteed vegetables with the cooked rice.

By this time, the boys in the class had gotten wind of what was happening at TK’s house.  I think their first interest was food, although a gathering of girls was an obvious attraction.  Fortunately, I had locked the doors ahead of time.  The girls pleaded with me to admit one particular boy, so I relented just for him.  He wasn’t actually involved in any of the cooking; I think he was valued for his dancing skill.  The rest of the boys crowded the windows, clamoring to get in, adding to the cacophony.  “TK, please, I need a drink of water!”  Some of the girls took pity on the boys and took water out to them, which meant I had to be the bouncer, monitoring who was coming and going.   Did I mention pandemonium?

At long last, the girls had finished cooking and were well into the clean-up process.  They washed all the dishes and even mopped the floor, although that had the effect of converting the oil drops that had spattered onto the floor into a uniform oily sheen throughout the kitchen.  I ended up rewashing all the dishes and mopping the floor again.  The next day I found fried rice in random spots around the kitchen.  It was easy to find the rice – I just had to look for the clusters of ants scattered around the room.

It was an exhausting experience, but I’m glad I did it.  I learned a lot by observing the girls.  The “sleeper” who made the request was a natural leader – she clearly knew what she was doing and she directed the other girls in all phases of the food preparation and cooking.  Others were good followers, although they voiced their opinions and asked questions.  One confirmed my impression of her role as a clown.  The girls were fascinated to see what the inside of my house looked like, especially the kitchen (maybe the flush toilet was a strong second).  They asked about the unfamiliar ingredients I had, such as olive oil, sesame oil, rice vinegar, cinnamon, cumin seed; and they were shocked by what I didn’t have: what, no Maggi?? (a flavor enhancer sort of like a bouillon cube), no fresh hot peppers??.  I enjoyed talking with them casually, trading information about our different approaches to cooking.  I’m sure it made me more relatable in their eyes, and we were comfortable talking with each other, in spite the language barrier.

To be honest, referring to my student as a “sleeper” might be unfair to us both.  Our fried rice session occurred about a month before the end of the school year, and throughout that year I had been constantly trying new things in my computing class in hopes of making it more interesting and relevant to the students.  So maybe by that time, she wasn’t a sleeper.  Today we’re one month into a new school year.  There’s a new crop of students, a new crop of sleepers.  Perhaps I’ll try … anything BUT a group cooking session.

Note: I don’t know the origin of Ghanaian Fried Rice, but it is a common offering on menus.  I imagine it was introduced by the Chinese, who are more numerous in Ghana than westerners.  The ingredients of Ghanaian fried rice aren’t so different from the Chinese dish; however, I prefer the Chinese version.