Beautiful Human

In grade school, I was called "f*ggot"—a word that still reverberates through me with a reminiscent ache. My peers did not understand why I stuttered, or why I preferred to draw in silence during recess instead of playing kickball because I liked to connect with art more than I did with sports.

On the first day of 5th grade, I expected to be even more harassed. But something changed.

An animated woman named Ms. Acevedo entered my life as my teacher. The uniqueness of her colored, spiked up hair and energetic voice reflected what she believed to be the most important quality of a human being: individuality. One day, she called me a "beautiful human." I would never forget that. Her unconditional acceptance taught me how to be comfortable with who I am, exactly as I am.

And then she introduced my class to poetry. The first assignment was simply to write about nature for 20 minutes. As I sat down reluctantly that afternoon, I decided I could not possibly enjoy this busywork. However, when I wrote that night—I did not stop. I wrote about the glinting stars and the gentle coo of a bird nearby. I expressed how I breathed in the sharp, dry November wind that caressed my cheeks. I felt limitless.

The next day, I watched her consider my creative piece. As she read my writing, her lips curled into a smile and insisted that I share my piece with the entire class.

I was a boy who had not been recognized nor praised by any of his peers, and on that day, everyone looked at me for the first time with understanding eyes; they acknowledged me. At the time, to be acknowledged was to be respected, and to be respected was solace. And poetry— a craft that made me accept and expose myself bravely–earned me this. …my writing has been a constant since that day. As the years went on, I fell deeper in love with my talent. The superficialities about writing that first attracted me to the subject were staved off. I now use it as an outlet for self-expression and write simply for the sake of it. The respect of others is valued, but not needed. And through shedding my need for acceptance, I am able to find true confidence in my work.

This acquired confidence has geared me to embrace any challenge in life. I'm no longer the quiet, bullied boy who did not speak up for himself. I am now comfortable with how I express myself, and by extension I am comfortable with who I am. I write how I live and I live how I write: candidly, without fear.

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This is an excerpt from an essay I wrote four years ago when applying to college. By acknowledging the beauty within me, my teacher, Ms. Acevedo, helped me flourish. Whether it be elementary school poetry, high school physics, or college biochemistry, my most influential teachers were memorable for how human they were, rather than what they taught. At RKMHS, I was a teacher for a mere nine months. My students were between 10 and 15 years old. I realized they weren’t going to remember a lot of what I taught. Yet nine months was the same amount of time my fifth-grade teacher had with me, and somehow she changed the course of my life.

I made it my goal to be as human of a teacher as possible. I wanted to build my students' comfort and self-confidence, so they could use English to express themselves.

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War

It was pretty hard to do this at first. In India, there is an entrenched hierarchy between student and teacher, and rote learning is the standard. I remember peeking at K’s sixth grade English workbook. She had to answer some open-ended questions about a story. But K didn’t have to think of the answers to the questions herself. The answers were already written in the book. She just had to copy them onto the answer line. These methods may work for certain subjects, but spoken English is not one of them.

It was hard for my students to critically think and speak English spontaneously. They were accustomed to teachers and books telling them what to do, but not very accustomed to writing or conversing with free thought. Students feared punishment if they did not write or speak exactly what was expected of them.

In my first months, I fought a war against the pedagogy my kids were used to. I wanted my students to speak freely, so they could eventually apply English to novel situations. My weapon of choice was excessive friendliness. We spent as much time as we could talking about our lives in English. My students told me their perspectives on current events, TV shows, friends, and favorite subjects. These fun conversations helped them gain confidence, claim ownership over the English language, and think about the things that made them unique. Battlefield casualties included class order, discipline, and the occasional smart-aleck, but they were sacrifices I was willing to make.

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V

To inculcate a love for reading within my ninth-grade class, I introduced my students to "Book Club." They had very little opportunity to view books as sources of pleasure. We chose to read “The Giver,” by Lois Lowry. We discussed the book sitting in a circle, twice a week, for an hour after school. The dystopian book is great fire-starter for controversial discussions on human emotions, freedom of choice, and forbidden romance. There were a few steamy scenes that drew uncomfortable shifts and uncontrollable giggles. They were not used to stuff like that in a school setting.

Because I could not find, nor fund, forty-five copies of the book, I printed it out page by page, providing five new chapters each week. The students became increasingly comfortable dissenting, voicing their own opinions, and ultimately expressing themselves about the book.

Here is a picture taken on our last day of book club.

“Sir, when will you give us the next chapters? Please, please, please, please….” One girl, V, asked this question every Wednesday. She finished the weekly reading within days of my handing it out. She was always ready to explain the plot to other students, and she was the one with the most questions during discussions. Despite her many “please’s,” I never ended up having time to print additional weekly chapters. I kept her waiting until the end. We couldn’t finish the book before my last day. In hopes the students would complete the book on their own, I donated four paperback copies to the class. I also shared the e-book to our Whatsapp group. On a whim, I decided to gift my fifth copy. I started by describing an unnamed student who was always eager to read the next chapters, whose brilliant thoughts fueled our firey discussions, and who helped her peers grow. Then, I asked V to step up and claim her gift in front of the class. Inspired by my past, I wrote this note on the inside cover:

On my last day of teaching, V wrote me a letter that brought tears to my eyes. I will not post all four pages, but here is an excerpt:

“In very less time Dhruv sir you became very close to me. I do not have many friends. I feel that you are my best friend sir…sometimes I feel that you are the only friend that I have sir. Thank you for being such a kind and caring person. Thanks for the letter inside the book Dhruv sir. Thanks for your valuable time. I will never forget all these beautiful days and you Dhruv sir. It’s too long letter but I have compressed all my feelings sir….”

Her vulnerability reminded me of my own past. Perhaps I had, in some small way, transferred the spark Ms. Acevedo gave me.

Just yesterday, she messaged me that she had finished the book.

I was so happy to receive this message. For me, it laid bare the power of encouragement. In hindsight, I wish I had focused more time on locating, extracting, and encouraging each of my students' individual talents. I will remember this for the next time I am a teacher. In addition to V's gift, each of my ninth-grade students got a small note, in which I explained what I thought made them beautiful in my class. I can’t wait to see what they accomplish.