Dismissal

Foreign Languages Department.

The first morning of class was over. I packed up my things. They watched.

“We’re finished,” I reiterated.

No one budged.

“You can go to lunch now,” I encouraged. “Please, don’t wait for me. You’re free to go.”

Smiling politely, they remained in their seats.

It took me a minute to collect everything, hurrying as they watched. I’d heard of this before, but that didn’t make organizing my papers under sixteen gazes any less unnerving. Besides, I felt bad for them. They were hungry; they would be late to the canteen; still they waited. Finally I threw my bag over my shoulder, grabbed my teaching crate and stepped out the door.

Like a choral exhale they stood and filed out after me.

This repeated at the end of day two.

And at the end of day three, at which point I exploded, “Enough of this! I’m an American teacher. This is an English class. Everyone stand up. Stand up. Come on, I’m serious! Up! Okay – now, everyone out the door. Yes, yes, out. Go on out. This is how it works in America. Good job! Have a great lunch.”

The fourth day it took a little coaxing, but they shuffled out before me without a scene.

Friday they needed no coaxing at all, just waltzed out with full smiles and chatter, like pros.

And suddenly I missed it. That little show of respect, though awkward, had been affirming – but there I’d gone and blustered it away. Should it have taken them longer to adjust? Maybe waiting for the teacher was a formal practice they would just as soon drop. Or what if (gulp) they found it easy to walk out due to a lack of respect for me?

Rather than prove myself a cool American teacher, I wondered if I’d cast off a measure of their esteem.

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