by 
To cut a very, very long story short, in the summer of 2010 I found myself in South Korea teaching English at a primary (elementary) school. It was an unexpected, life-changing, often surreal, and usually enjoyable experience. With one exception. Class 6.3.
Ah, Class 6.3, the third of the three sixth grader classes I taught. My last class of the week on a Friday afternoon. Due to the unique Korean way of calculating birthdays, a sixth-grader could be anywhere from 11 to 13 years old, which meant the spectrum of attitudes in a class of twenty-five could run from the “still cute and tweeny” all the way to “full-on hormonal ravaged monsters”, stubble included. And 6.3? You know that mental image that springs to mind when you hear the word “youths”? That was them. They would’ve fitted in very well outside any British shopping centre, or under any bus shelter.
It wasn’t just their age, but their accompanying demeanour. In general they were disengaged, bolshy, they laughed at me when I bumped my knee on the desk. They merely smirked when I give them my very serious I-am-not-happy raised eyebrows/looking down angrily face. Every instruction was met with a sigh, the likes of which would probably supply a wind turbine with enough power to light a whole street. We respectively bought out the worst in each other. They were bored and projected un-teachableness; I gave up on positivity. They adopted a closed learning mindset; I developed a closed teaching mindset. Those Friday afternoon classes were simply an exercise in attrition: get through it without anyone dying and we’ll consider that a success.
At the end of March 2011—seven months into this teaching equivalent of trench warfare —an opportunity presented itself for me to gain the upperhand. Somewhat unprofessionally perhaps; although not if we adopt a very literal reading of the “teaching a lesson” element of my job description. The scene was set, and the next day I put my quickly hashed out plan into motion.
2pm. Friday. 6.3 assembled outside my classroom. They should have been in a line. Instead, they milled. Out I went to greet them, a face like thunder.
“Hi Teacher Vicky!” the nice ones trilled, and, “Hi Teacher Bicky” the more youth-like ones sneered.
“Class 6.3. I am not happy,” I said. “You had better come in very quietly and sit down.” Naturally, they barged in, books and pencil cases clattering everywhere, chins a-wagging.
I slammed the door. They looked momentarily concerned, but got over it quickly and resumed ignoring me. I took my place at the front of the room.
“Class 6.3, I have some bad news. The Principal is not happy with you. She says your English is not good enough and we have a problem.” They greet this with as much couldn’t-care-less as expected. “So we have to do a test.” This they react to. With a groan.
“Yes, a test,” I continue, getting more dramatic. “Luckily for you, it is very easy. However, if you fail there will be serious consequences.” We take a moment to check their comprehension of “consequences”, before I continue, “And most importantly, if you talk during the test you will immediately receive zero points.”
I moved round the classroom handing out the test papers, explaining, “The test has three parts: part one is a reading test, part two is a listening test, part three is a spelling test.”
I had briefed my co-teacher—a young, kind, teaching assistant, who only one month into the job, hadn’t acquired the world-weariness of a veteran of eight months such as myself. She was to look stern throughout; offer no assistance to their inevtable pleas for clemency or help, shrug, and pull a lot of “it’s your own fault” faces as the children worked through their tasks, the first of which was a seemingly straight forward wordsearch.
A wordsearch which contained none of the words listed.
“Right. That was easy wasn’t it?” I said brightly, once the timer had counted down.
“Teacher! Difficult!” they wailed.
“No talking!
“OK, onto part two. This is a listening test. Please look at the TV, and write down any verbs you hear.”
I switched on the monitor. So busy were they trying to write down words that they didn’t notice that on the screen, penguins were taking flight and zooming to land in the jungles of South America.
“Well, there were at least thirty there, so I hope you got them all. Now remember, there is to be no talking during part three, the spelling test.”
I began to reel off the vocabulary for the spelling test. Each word delivered twice in robotic monotones. By now the children were starting to take this test business a little bit more seriously. Heads down, they craned to hear what I would say.
“Number 1: This. This.
Number 2: Was. Was.
Number 3: Not. Not.
Number 4: A. A.
Number 5: Real. Real.
Number 6: Test. Test.
Number 7: Happy. Happy.
Number 8: April. April.
Number 9: Fools. Fools.
Number 10. Day. Day.”
I gave them a ten-second countdown to finish off, check their efforts, and then instructed them to swap answer sheets with their partner.
“So, as I said, this test is very important. If you score less than eleven, I’m afraid you have to come to extra English classes. Every day. From 3pm until 6pm.”
The class descended into uproar.
“No teacher! I have Academy after school.”
“Teacher. Not fair!”
“Teacher, make it lunchtime?”
“I’m sorry, but this has come from above,” I said. “It’s extra lessons, 3 ’til 6pm. But I’m sure you all got more than eleven points. It was so easy.
Let’s start by checking the answers to the spelling test. Co-Teacher C— will check your listening and writing answers whilst we do that. So, what was number one?”
We work through the answers one-by-one, writing each word on the board. Then my co-conspirator, I mean co-teacher, handed back the other papers, which of course all had a score of zero. I gave the class a moment, instructing them to, “Please add up your scores.” And then,
“So hands up, who got more than ten? No-one? Oh dear. That is surprising. Who got nine?” A few hands went up. “Well, sorry, extra classes for you. Did anyone get seven or eight?” More chagrined hands in the air. “Extra classes. Did anyone get less than seven? Well you definitely need extra classes.”
I turn to my colleague, who is stiffling a giggle.
“I just don’t understand why they found it so difficult. It was a very easy test. Lets go through the answers of the spelling test again.” I point to the board, the kids shout out the words.
“This. Is. Not. A. Real. Test.”
“One more time!” I encourage, with facetcious-laced enthusiasm.
“This. Is. Not. A. Real. Test. Happy. April. Fool. Day.”
And then, finally, one kid clocked it. You could see the light bulb above his head flick on. He started to laugh. He turned to his buddy, and Korean words raced out of his mouth, the quickest I’d ever seen. I can only imagine what he was saying; something along the lines of, “Gadzooks! Why, that wily creature hoodwinked us a right one there! By the beard of Zeus, she be smarter than us all!’
Word spread round the classroom. Their faces were a picture; a mixture of laughter, hurt, and indignation.
“Awwwww! Teacher!”
“Bad Teacher!”
“No! No! No!”
“What?” I said, as innocently as I could.
I think a few lessons were definitely learnt that day.
