The Professor

I had my second day of teaching tonight, and it went very well. A few hours before, I gave a privat lesson, working with a man one-on-one, and then I went to the headquarters of the school at around four, prepared my lesson, and, at around ten to six, walked over to the building where the class is held.

Three more students arrived today. First, the new students introduced themselves, and then we did a group exercise where all the students filled in the blank of a sentence stating what they will do with their English. The class continued on with similar discussions and exercises, and even a game working on listening skills. It's a different experience, sittin at the front of the classroom with the chalkboard at your back, the students looking attentively at me, most the students anyways. To my own suprise, I fell right into the role of teacher; it fits me well, though I wish I could be teaching Lit rather than grammatical structures.

And I embrace and cringe at the fact that I hear the voice of my own teachers and mentors and favorite authors on style and writing channeled through my speaking, my gestures and scratching on the chalkboard. I've come to realize, in the few classes I've taught, that writing on the chalkboard is a fine art--avoiding smuding chalk on one's sweatshirt, writing at a equal level so your sentence doesn't gradually take a grade down, and erasing without suffocating in a cloud of dust. The eraser here is a giant spunge. At any rate, I can take solace in the fact that title, as teacher at a secondary school, is Professor.

Don't pay attention to the writing--a person should be shot for using words like "solace" and terms like "one's sweatshirt"--but it's late and I'm going to bed.