Teacher must conquer some pretty big fears in a small city in Thailand

Following my Teaching English as a Foreign Language (TEFL) training in Ban Phe, I was placed in Kainarai Primary School in Lopburi, a small city two hours north of Bangkok.

Lopburi is not particularly famous, and in fact many tourists come to Thailand without ever giving Lopburi a second thought. The tourists who do go may stop in for a day but rarely spend the night.

The truth is, Lopburi’s anonymity makes it a wonderful place to live. The local people there have not been forced to deal with too many obnoxious or disrespectful tourists and as a result have not yet become jaded.

The prices are local rather than tourist prices. And the people are actually happy to see you, interested in learning about your culture and eager to share their own. Lopburi is big enough to have everything you need but small enough to maintain a small-town sense of community.

As the only foreign English teacher for the primary school, I taught 20 classes of 40 to 50 students per class, a total of nearly 1,000 students per week!

You might imagine that this is extremely intimidating for any new teacher. And intimidation was not my only concern. In addition to the obvious work involved in teaching, I also faced the daily challenges of adjusting to a new culture, a new school, working with the Thai teachers and trying to remember 1,000 students’ names (in another language).

As if this were not enough pressure, the teacher placement agency that sent me to Kainarai decided to come and observe my teaching, after only two weeks.

The observation day, a Wednesday, was a typically scorching day. I was dressed in Kainarai’s teacher uniform: a heavy, woven “king’s shirt” (a yellow polo shirt customarily worn by Thai people on Mondays to show respect for the king, also often worn as part of a school uniform) and black pants. I was drenched in sweat and it was not yet 8 a.m.

I chatted with Yui, the observer from the agency, as we walked to class. She asked how my classes were going, and I replied with an unoriginal but safe, “The kids are great.”

I was incapable of carrying on a more in-depth conversation as fear and what-ifs took over all of the sensible space in my brain. Did I bring all of my materials? What if the kids misbehave? Worse, what if the Thai teacher in the room decides to misbehave, distract the kids and shout in Thai, as she so often does? Where are my whiteboard markers? What if I forget the dialogue?

Just when I didn’t think it was possible to sweat any more, I felt a rush of fear and nerves, and in turn, another wave of heat as we entered the classroom. (Even without the heat caused by anxiety, Thai government school classrooms can be sweltering as there is generally no door and no air conditioner, despite temperatures that rise above 100 degrees.)

To my surprise, images from my teaching days in Hawaii flooded my brain, and I remembered how I got started teaching in the first place: I applied for a job that I wasn’t qualified for, went in confident and sold them on my potential and my not-necessarily-related-but-still-applicable qualifications. Dress for the job you want; act like you’ve already got it.

Well, there I was, standing in front of a class of 50 students, a Thai teacher and an observer ... all of them expecting me to be a teacher. If they could believe it, why shouldn’t I?

There is this brief moment when you are standing in front of a class, before a sound even escapes your lips, when you imagine running out, turning back, faking being sick, any scenario that would result in an escape. The only thing you can do is take a moment, take a deep breath and take control of the situation, before it takes control over you.

This day was no different. Deep breath, ready, set —

I am uncertain what was special in the air that day, whether it was someone watching over me or perhaps the planets had somehow aligned in my favor. Or maybe, just maybe, I actually am a (good) teacher after all.

The class went unbelievably smoothly; the kids were eager to participate, they were quiet enough to understand the dialogue and miraculously the Thai teacher sat in the back without saying a word. All was well in my world.

And then I saw the video camera. Maybe it is my American upbringing that threw me into a “Don’t they have to ask my permission?” fit of panic.

Thankfully, the fit was all in my head and very brief. Everything was going perfectly. Why should it matter that Yui was filming me? I ignored the camera and dove into the dialogue activity with the students.

And then out came the giant manual camera. I am completely drenched in sweat. Is she really taking my picture now? But my students were on the ball and kept me smiling, despite the sweat rolling off the end of my nose.

After class, Yui met me outside with the biggest smile on her face. “Thank you!” she said emphatically. “I really enjoyed the class. I love what you did, getting all of the students involved. Thank you for making us so proud!”

Feeling overwhelmed by a rush of emotions, I found it difficult to really absorb her praise. So instead I asked, “What was the video camera for? And why did you take pictures?”

She told me that the pictures would be used for the agency’s Web site and that she wanted to use the video of me teaching to train other teachers! That was indeed one of the best (and most intensely earned) compliments I had received in some time.

At that moment, any nervousness I had felt just moments before was quickly replaced by a sense of accomplishment, satisfaction not only in pleasing my observer and having fun with my students, but also, in yet again overcoming fear — the fear of being judged, the fear of failure, the fear of standing alone in front of a crowd, the fear of making that first noise, uttering that first word that breaks the silence.

Sometimes you just have to take a moment, take a deep breath and take control.

Ashley M. Fitzgerald is a 2000 graduate of Harrisville Central School and a graduate of Middlebury (Vt.) College. She lives on Koh Phangan in southern Thailand, working to set up a school for others interested in becoming certified TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) teachers. “Grown Local, Gone Global” is published every other Sunday. You may send your questions and comments to her at afitzgerald@wdt.net.

There was a particular "uniform" for staff and teachers at my school for every day of the week. Here is what I wore each day:

Monday: yellow "king's shirt," black skirt.

Tuesday: pink "king's shirt," black skirt.

Wednesday: yellow "king's shirt," black pants.

Thursday: permission to wear my own (professional) clothes!

Friday: yellow "king's shirt" and black skirt.

About "king's shirts": To honor the king (His Royal Highness Bhumibol Adulyadej), different colors are worn on specific days, as follows.

■ Yellow is the color of the day the king was born. (Since he was born on a Monday, Thai people wear yellow on Monday).

■ Royal astrologers last year told the king that pink was a good color for his health. Thus, when he came out of the hospital in October 2007, he wore pink. To bring good luck and health to the king, Thais also started wearing more pink. (There is an interesting story on this from the BBC at http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/business/7120561.stm).

The reason for wearing it on Tuesdays is simply that pink is the color for people born on Tuesdays (each day of the week has a color).

■ Black, of course, is the color of mourning, and was worn after the death of the king's sister (Her Royal Highness Princess Galyani Vadhana).

Depending on associations, professions and ranking of the person who died, some people are expected to wear black for 90 days, others for 15 days and others for nearly a year! At my school, the decision was made to wear black (and white) every day for the rest of the semester.

Students have their own uniform schedule, which differs from school teachers and staff:

Basic uniform: The color depends on the school, but generally the girls wear navy and white uniforms and the boys wear white and brown uniforms.

Sports days uniforms: On days when students have gym class or play sports, they wear black track pants and yellow shirts (Although they are yellow, they are NOT "king's shirts."

Scout days: Students also have "Scout Days" when they wear Boy Scout and Girl Scout uniforms.

Mourning dress codes: The students were never made to wear black or black and white after the death of the king's sister. But many businesses, schools and public offices, etc., required their employees to wear black — some for a few days, some for months, and some for nearly a year.

The king's sister's funeral was in November (though she died in January), therefore some people wore black until November! Talk about respect!