To be honest, after working an 8-hour day, sometimes the last thing I feel like doing is teaching a 2-hour English class. But many times it's the best 2 hours of my work week.
My students live in small apartments with large families. They struggle to find jobs, to pay rent, to feed and cloth their children, and pay back their cost of airfare to the US government. Many haven't seen their families in three or more years, and don't know when they'll see them again. The language barrier prevents me from knowing exactly what kind of traumas they left behind in their home countries. I only know that several wear prosthetic limbs, and occasionally, when the classroom door slams shut, they jump like they're scared for their lives.And yet, they are some of the happiest people I know. They're glad to have a dry home, a warm bed, a country without landmines, enough food, freedom to speak their mind and practice their own religion. Nothing is expected, and nothing is taken for granted.
They are always smiling, always laughing, always eager to shake your hand, thank you, and learn something new. Wednesday nights have become a refuge for me — a dose of reality, a reminder that whatever "problems" I have are surmountable, and a steady source of wonder at the resilience of the human spirit.
