The great escape

I woke up in the morning expecting some form of sickness but as always, my pregnancy like the previous two was hale and hearty. It was a task catching the school bus which did not wait for us much, as the morning traffic jam was always a threat. The breakfast for the kids and my husband was a mug of chocolate milk and I hurriedly prepared their school snacks.

“Wake up fast or we’ll miss the bus!” This was the regular opening statement for my poor boys who sprang from their beds and followed the morning rituals of brushing and changing. I would run to change myself and just before we left the house, my husband lovingly handed me the iron tablet with the much dreaded glass of milk. “Don’t make a face. It’s important.” And I wondered how many husbands cared enough to love their wives that much.

The summers turned into winters and I became four months pregnant. I was climbing stairs everyday and walking from one block to another all day long. I liked being active and it didn’t matter much that my feet were almost always swollen.

At school, it was a messy year. There were eleven new teachers and each one needed assistance in one way or the other. I would be running after them for their lesson plans and trying to meet all deadlines. Some teachers were intelligent and picked up the school programme quickly, some struggled with new concepts and then there were some who had opted to teach for no reason or rhyme.

My day usually began with a smile and I loved the teachers who walked up to me in time for information and help. I would shoulder my responsibilities as well as some of theirs acknowledging the time restraints. And then of course there were unforeseen emergencies that simultaneously occupied me physically and mentally.

I was regular with my doctor check-ups and she was quite happy with my progress. The baby was becoming heavier to carry and yet the bus could not wait in the mornings. If we missed it, we had to walk about two streets to get picked up near the mosque. This happened several times and despite my husband’s warnings to be careful on the wet winter roads, I would carry my heavy bag, along with my younger son’s bag and practically drag them to the bus stop. Often when we boarded the bus, the old colleagues insisted that I take it easy and be careful with the baby. I loved their attention and concerns and like any pregnant woman, felt important and looked after.

It was my seventh month when complaints regarding Year 3 teachers started to pour in. There had been prior concerns about their sketchy abilities but I had been trying my level best to train them in areas they faltered. Despite my regular visits to their classrooms and discussions on lesson plans, they failed to satisfy the worrying parents.

I called for a meeting with each one individually to get my apprehensions some notice. There were three sections. I thought it was important to give it one last try before allowing the management to take some relevant action. The first teacher I spoke to listened with patience and nodded mostly. She understood the gravity of the situation and was prepared to make an effort. The second teacher was a relatively better one amongst the three. She was intelligent but the poor discipline of her class was a hurdle in her efforts to achieve most targets. We decided to reinvent our discipline programme for her section and she volunteered to find some fun ideas.

The lady in discussion here was a pleasant looking female with no prior experience in teaching. She had joined the school in the second term after the Year 3 teacher left suddenly. She spoke politely but was always on the defensive when spoken to. “I do complete my plans on time. It’s you who makes all the last minute changes and then how do you expect me to follow through?” This was usually her tag line. “How do you expect me to ensure that every child gets it and yet move with the plans of the other two sections?” “You can’t always correct my plans!”

It was quite difficult to get across her and often I needed to keep my calm and help her digest the fact that teachers were skilled men and women who needed to rise to the occasion. Despite stress and in spite of all the pressing issues, a teacher just had to meet a certain level of expectation. She looked at me and said, “I don’t like the way you speak to me. No one speaks to me like that!” I looked at her disbelievingly. Was she really a teacher? 

“You are not helpful at all. All you do is criticize. Each time I submit my plans, you correct them with your red pen as if I am some child.” She had made up her mind. I listened quietly and then replied, “I really don’t understand what it is that you disapprove of? It is my job to guide you with lesson planning. I do sit with you and have been giving you extra time to plan lessons with you. We have in fact planned most of your lessons together. But of course I understand that you will take some time to become independent about it. Till then I’m sorry, I will just have to use my red pen. If you want, I can change the colour, but the purpose is to help you, not criticize you.”

The meeting was futile and the next morning when I met her in the sports field, she was standing with her Year 3 group. I approached her with a smile thinking there should not be any awkwardness between us as we had to work through our issues. She smiled hesitantly and I asked her, “All ok now?” She looked at me in the eye and said, “Yes, of course! I went home quite upset but when I spoke to my husband I realized that you were pregnant and probably having your mood swings!” I was taken aback by her comment. She laughed a little sarcastically and I didn’t know how to respond to her sudden revelation.

I was cross in my mind because of the statement. What did my pregnancy have to do with her inability to plan her lessons? “Ms. Shama, please can you conduct one audio visual class for me next week. It will help me understand the objectives better.” The Year 1 teacher pulled me out of my thoughts. I looked at her and asked her, “Do you have the plan on paper?” “No! The Junior Head wants me to update my corrections and submit the notebooks to her in two days. I can’t seem to find the time to do it.” She was honest. I nodded my head but told her, “You will not sit through the class but will assist me through it ok?” She thanked me. It helped erase the sour experience of the morning.

“Please can you check the Year 3’s for me. Are they writing the objectives on the white board or not? They were reminded again yesterday. Just walk through the corridor and have a look.” It was an instruction from my Head. I was disappointed to see that none of the white boards had any objectives. One of the classrooms was without the teacher and so I entered to speak to the children. I asked them if they had rubbed the objectives from the board. “No Ms. Shama. We never write the objectives. Our teacher says there is no time.” It was the same lady. I ignored the comment and spoke about the importance of knowing what their learning was all about. I addressed their understanding of knowing what they had learnt through the day. I advised them to keep a diary to begin with the habit of jotting down the targets that they achieved everyday in each period. To comment on whether they had grasped the concept or not and let their teachers know about it.

The Sports day had come to an end and I had enjoyed being out and about with the students. The summer heat was setting in slowly. My tummy now showed quite visibly. I was almost 8 months pregnant. “The water content in the sack is too much lady,” said the doctor. “You need to take some rest. Look at the swelling.” I smiled and said, “I’m at school. No chance of a rest!” She smiled back. “Alright then, try to keep your feet up every now and then. The 8^th month is crucial. You have to be careful.” I understood well but could not imagine sitting in my office with my feet up! Work is work, I thought.

“The Headmistress would like to see you.” The secretary called and informed me. I was busy decorating the reception with the Year 1 and 2 project work. The receptionist was admiring my commitment, “The baby is going to be a fighter! No odds will stop him from winning!” I was standing on a chair pinning up the chart paper work. “I hope so! The scans all show him sleeping!”

“What were you thinking? Asking the children to spy on their teacher!” I sat completely stunned by the anger and disappointment. “The teacher is so upset, she might not show up tomorrow!” I was still thinking. What spying? “I did not ask the children to spy at all. I only asked them to write about what they had learnt through the day and show that to the teacher.” I could not believe the nonsense that was coming my way. “But the child was brought to my office by the teacher who claims that you purposely asked her class to report on her activities.” It was too much to absorb. I was being questioned about my loyalty to the job and my commitment to the cause. “It simply appears to be a poor interpretation on part of a child. I’m sure she isn’t lying but I would like to believe that you know me far better than this teacher or child.” I was struggling to keep the tears from flowing. “What impression will this teacher carry from our school now! Your hormones have really played up your mind!” And that was that! I stood up and left the room.

It was nearly home time. I packed up my daily files, picked up my laptop and with a heavy heart walked to the bus. My children were noisy as usual. All seats had been taken and so I fitted in and shared the space in the extended middle seat. “Mama, I’m hungry!” shouted my younger son. I quietly handed him a biscuit pack. “What about me?” My elder one complained. “Please share,” and I closed my eyes to hide the immense pain that I was feeling. Quite a few teachers witnessed my tears on the bus that afternoon and in hushed voices had already calculated the magnitude of the reason, having never seen me cry before.

I carried on with my tasks as usual. In my 9^th month, I stood in the hot sun fulfilling my break duty. I completed all my classroom observations. I was thorough with my folders and files. The computer files were transferred in time. The lockers and chest of drawers were labelled and I tried my best to streamline the lessons for my teachers whom I was going to miss so much.

I left the school premises not knowing if I had contributed enough or had simply failed their expectations. What was most disappointing for me at that time was the camouflage that they had created to disregard my role in the name of my pregnancy. And while the men admired my strength and energy that I carried to work everyday, it was the women who time and again blamed my conflict of opinion and strong stance over issues as a hormonal dysfunction. It was an emotional blow to my strength as a Woman.

I had worked through all my pregnancies till the end. I had never expected any special treatments or adjustments in life. Pregnancy is not a disease. It empowers a woman with the ability to give life. It does not cloud her decision making powers or dilute her capacity to make logic. There are no hormones that can push her to frame untrue stories. No mental imbalance that can elude her from the truth. This may be true for those who find in it, the great escape!