Students Define Happiness and Education

Teaching teenagers, especially in a foreign setting where earning their respect means warring against their conception of you as a classroom pet or play-toy requires a very special, high-potency brand of patience that I can only sometimes barely muster up.

But then occasionally, like in the eye of a hurricane, you get to observe a provactive thought intoxicate their minds and change their hearts, if only for a grain-of-sand sized moment.  

The senior (high school) students, my Armenian counterpart and I converse about the meaning of happiness and education on a random Monday afternoon in our freezing cold classroom with its dilapitated walls and desks. Half of them are half-way present in the conversation, but truthfully (despite my smile and dramatic commitment to the topic), half are not.   

The girls in the class offer their definition, albeit reluctantly, of happiness: happiness means having family, friends, health, etc. (where the et cetera only includes circumstantially-based satisfaction).  We ask them if there is a way to be happy without any one of those things, and they say no.  

As the conversation then shifts to education, we find that the students mostly agree that education means learning to become better people.  But how? And why? 

Not a whole lot of input.  My counterpart then bravely posits her own feelings on education:  “Education is freedom,” she says, and elaborates.  Everybody’s listening now.    

It’s the perfect segue into discussing mental freedom, or the ability to think for yourself, so we bridge the discussion with our previous ideas about happiness.  “Isn’t it possible then,” we argue after a few students' comments, “through education, to gain the skills necessary to experience a kind of happiness that is entirely independent of circumstance?”

Mental wheels begin to move, engines begin to stir.  

We want them to understand that education doesn’t only mean “schooling.”  Education can mean developing an agile, resilient mind that enables us to imagine and create happiness that depends on nothing but our inner world or inner spirituality to bring forth peace.  Education teaches us to think.

I think maybe next time we’ll re-enact the “walk against conformity” scene from Dead Poets Society to get them observing where their ideological thoughts really come from.  This is just the begining of our discussion, but already they’ve proved the value of the topic being discussed.  After this discussion, for example, one of the students came up with the following definition for the concept of love:

"Love is the sense by which we either love or die." She then went on to explain how love can either figuratively kill us or bring us life.

Beautiful! They’re thinking, transcending, wondering and questioning, and it’s all just a pleasure to witness.

I’m going to try to get this link translated into Armenian because it is a wonderful depiction of how choice can determine our circumstance, instead of the other way around:  

 http://www.filmsforaction.org/watch/this_is_water/

Close-Knit Beauty

Sitting inside a live portrait of cross-cultural bliss beside my host mother, I contemplate just how “right” everything feels. 

I mean, look at this design!! 

Between teaching class and English conversation club, I sit wedged between a pleasantly warm wood stove to my right and my beautiful host mother, donning her everyday house dress, to my left.  In the wake of a delicious Armenian meal – a savory mixture of beans, canned tomato-juice,  potatoes, and rice  – Anush sips her tea and teaches me to knit a hat.  Meanwhile, an Armenian television drama fills the silence in the background.  Anush oscillates between patiently explaining the meaning of several words I can’t understand from the TV and tolerantly fixing my knitting errors whenever I clumsily drop a stitch.  

Anush has been knitting and crocheting since she was five.  She can now sit and thoughtlessly create a handmade skirt of consummate skill using only her thick, clearly-spends-a-lot-of-time-gardening fingers and a tiny crochet hook in just one evening.  

Incredible Pattern

Together we’re going to try to sell some of her best work, because it’s simply fantastic.  And, after she had taught me several new stitches and a really interesting new design (if you can teach me to knit you can teach anyone), I realized that she could be sharing these skills with other young villagers who would like to learn as well.  If fact, she could do some knitting lessons with other villagers to make extra money to buy more yarn for her own work, which she could then sell  in larger cities or towns.  Anush loves the idea. 

This moment captures the beauty of cross-cultural, or even just cross-person, relationships.  We've all got a set of skills just waiting to be shared with the world; sometimes, we just need some outside support to begin to recognize those gifts. Anush, for example, didn’t realize how special her talent was until she saw how painstakingly slowly I struggled to stitch two simple knots together.  

Now, she feels empowered by the idea that she has something extraordinary to share with others, and I’ve got a nice new winter hat.  

A Man and His Lemon Tree

Our Peace Corps Security Officer is a large, strapping, gentle Armenian man who simultaneously comforts and intimidates but whom everyone loves.  Vahagn is the volunteer “daddy” who we look to for guidance, protection, and stability.  

The man has won awards for his safety and security practices in Armenia because he not only fiercely defends his volunteers from harm but also shows genuine concern for the welfare of those whom he protects.   

You would not, however, want to be on this guy’s bad side.  He’s enormous, and I’m betting he could tactfully disarm a perpetrator without even trying.  

All that said, he does have one definite soft spot: his little lemmon tree.

One day I was sitting outside on the Peace Corps office patio, when Vahagn made his daily trip outside to monitor the growth of his tiny little tree.  He sauntered outside and we engaged in conversation as he sheapishly approached his  germinating friend.  

“What’s that, Vahagn?” I asked, wondering what could possibly evoke such admiration from a man of his stature and girth.  

“Dis ees my lemon,” he said, matter-of-factly.  “Eet ees finally getting big.”

And so we continued to discuss the growth of this single lemon, which apparently Vahagn had been checking on every day for a year.  He nurtures it and loves it with little regard for the fact that there is only one lemon on that silly little tree.  He delights in his citrus child, and it slowly but surely bares the fruit of his nurture and care.

Vahagn and the lemon reflect a shift in my focus as a result of this weekend's Peace Corps Conference. 

I love going to Peace Corps conferences because they often reinstill passion in and redirect the purpose purpose of a group of idealistic Americans who have come to this foreign place to better themselves and to better others but who have often stumbled over the lumps and bumps of the rough ground of reality in real-time Armenia.  

During our conference this weekend, I was reminded of the importance of relationships in our service.  

One memory in particular stands out.  Richard Byess, a USAID employee in Armenia whom I deeply respect and admire, dazzled the volunteers with words he barely had to think about but which moved me to my core:

“The only real struggle you’ll endure throughout Peace Corps is the internal struggle to stay commited to what you love no matter what happens.”

Amen.  

I had often allowed obstacles to distract me from my dedication to create meaningful cross-cultural relationships throughout my first year of service.  I wanted my tree to sprout thousands of little lemons and look really impressive but failed to nurture the single seed that mattered the most.  This year has already been so much more enriching for me because my service goals have become, once again, entirely relational.  

Lemon trees require an ample amount of light, warmth, and affection in order to thrive.  They also require plenty of time to grow properly.  In fact, a lemon tree can take up to several years to grow its fruit under certain conditions.  

This is what a relationship needs, and this is what volunteers are here to do.  

Pride and Joy

It’s kinda rare, but when you feel it you want to bottle it and save it for a rainy, grumpy day. 

As I watch my students during English club, I feel overwhelmed with maternal pride, warmth, and affection for these kids who have made such an impact on my life.  

Several Armenian teenagers sit happily clicking away on their new Rosetta Stone programs that were generously donated by a friend of mine and finally installed after much hard work.  They are so focused on the task at hand that they barely notice that I’m in the room.  

“The woman,” one of them says to the computer. 

“The WOOH-man,” The girl ardently repeats, hoping her voice will register this time.

“THE WOOOOOH-MAN!” She cries, and the soul-affirming Rosetta “woosh” sounds its beautiful tone as the screen lights up green.  The girl beams with self-satisfaction and proceeds to the next activity. 

It’s so simple, but Rosetta Stone excites these kids and significantly alters the way they learn languages.  They engage with the material, track their progress, and satiate their natural curiosity while gaining technological skills as well.   I watch them become responsible for their own learning and see them laugh while doing it.  

On days like this, the burden of teaching is light and the yoke so very easy. 

Carpe Diem in the 12th Grade

One day in my twelfth grade English class I decided to try something completely different.

The twelfth graders in our school have absolutely no interest in learning anything at all.  They concern themselves with typical teenage drama, and that’s about it.  Up until a few years ago, twelfth grade didn’t even exist – the school only went to tenth.  So basically, they try to fight the system by rejecting the twetfth grade altogether.

Needlesless to say, these students are particularly hard to reach.  But one day, instead of trying to teach them English (which many of them feel no need to learn because they will never use it), I decided to talk with them about fear.  

“Do you fear what other people think of you?” I asked them in Armenian, thinking they would probably just ignore the question and secretly text on their phones. 

Instead, I was answered by a chorus of “no’s,” followed by some passionate assertions like “I used to, but I don’t anymore,” etc, etc. 

At that point it became clear to me that the most important thing in the world to them was also the thing that they fought most to pretend that they didn’t care about: They would go to any length to prove that they didn’t care what other people think of them because they care so deeply about what other people think of them.

So I invited them, one by one, to come to the front of the class and do something absurd in front of everyone to prove that they didn’t care what others thought of them.

One kid had to close one eye and shout the word “tree” (in English – there had to be some English component), close one eye, and spin in a circle hopping on one leg.  Another had to tell us his deepest secret. Another had to close his eyes and tell us, without thinking, what he wanted most in the world.  And finally, someone just had to dance.  They all did it.

Then it was my turn (I couldn’t get out of doing something if I was about to preach about fearlessness), so I told them they could command me to do anything they’d like and I’d do it.

The class asked me to do an Armenian dance for them, so I did it.  They loved it – they laughed, clapped along with the moves, and one of the boys came up and started dancing with me. 

After that we had a real conversation about where fear comes from and why it is such a big part of our lives.

Their homework was to think of something that they had always been afraid of doing, and then do it.  They could write about it and tell no one, or they could tell the class when they come back. 

Some of them conquered their fears, and some did not.  But all of us learned something that day.  And for the first time, I felt a real connection with these students who put up all sorts of walls when it comes to learning and authority figures.  

Now, when we see each other in the halls, we say “Carpe Diem,” because I told them it means “Seize the day” and that every day we should remind each other to live without fear. 

 They liked that, and so do I. 

Wine Moment: Fully Seen

I can go anywhere and be stared at without feeling irritated.

Being stared at all the time comes in handy when
teaching, however, because you never have to worry
about the kids not paying attention. Except that one kid.

While that may not seem like much of a success, it is.  Up until recently I was always, on some level, bothered by the way that people shamelessly watch me as if my pants are on fire while I walk down the street.  Armenians in this community rarely see foreigners, so when they do, they feast their eyes upon a glorious new treat.  People actually stop their cars and open their doors to steal a better glance at me.

But the discomfort I had to press through to get to this feeling of acceptance had nothing to do with their stares.  It had everything to do with exploring the reason it made me uncomfortable in the first place. 

Why would I ever feel physical tension build and want to run and hide when someone just looks at me, however intensely, for several minutes?

The innocuous spectators are not the problem –  I am.  My discomfort arose from a fear of being truly seen, or feeling truly known.  And unwanted attention, because it falls outside our control, causes us to scramble for some feeble attempt to regain control by physically or emotionally guarding ourselves from the perpetrator.  

But never more.  Ever since the moment I realized the true source of my tension, I’ve been able to work on surrendering it and dwelling in the acceptance of who I am.  What do I care if a person sees who I really am (often gross, sloppy, covered in dog hair)? God sees who I really am, and he tells me there’s no condemnation for those in Christ Jesus. 

That’s good enough for me.

Wine Moment: Integrated.

I'm walking down the streets of Sisian, Armenia, admiring the beautiful fall foliage, with my dog's leash in one hand and four grocery bags in the other.  

A man suddenly looks at me and asks, in Armenian, "Do you know where the nearest bank is?"

A bit startled, I tell him that it's right around the corner in hurried, colloquial Armenian.  

In this simple moment of grocery bags, dog-walking, and giving directions to a total stranger, this place seems more like home than ever.