down my armpits. Second, what an odd choice of words, because the first lesson I’ve planned is called Animal Bingo. The idea popped into my brain after I woke up from my nap on Saturday. The goal is to teach students the English names of different animals.
After I thought of it, I spent hours making forty Bingo cards. Each one has nine squares and each square has an animal sketch inside. I sketched snakes, dogs, cats, lions, monkeys, and bears. Then I cut up paper into tiny pieces so the students can place the pieces on top of the squares on the Bingo cards. By last night, I had used up an entire sketchpad, and my hand was throbbing, it was so sore.
I follow my headmaster into the standard one classroom. Innocent smiles up at me from the floor.
Hello, Dimples!
And I think that all my work preparing for this lesson was worth it.
Before I can get started, though, Mr. Special Kingsley wants to make a formal introduction. He wipes his forehead with his handkerchief and speaks to the kids in Chichewa. They jump up, throw back their shoulders, and belt out a welcome song for me. As they sing, I count them.
One, two, three … thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine
. I’m not even halfway through counting when I get a sick feeling. I don’t have nearly enough Bingo cards.
I do a quick scan of the floor and gulp. There are at least a hundred and twenty students in this room! Even if they work in pairs, there aren’t enough cards to share. And their song is almost through. If I can’t teach them toplay Animal Bingo, then what on earth am I supposed to do? As the song ends and the students sit back down, I turn around to ask Mr. Special Kingsley this question, but he’s gone. Never mind bending in the breeze like a palm leaf, I must have been hit on the head with a coconut. What was I thinking!
I make a break for it but Innocent beats me. He stretches his arms and legs as wide as he can across the doorway to block my escape. Over Innocent’s shoulder I spot our headmaster, a small blue dot strolling back to his office. Innocent’s bright pink bottom lip rolls over. He furrows his brow.
“Freckles!”
he shouts.
“What?” I croak.
“Freckles!” say more than a hundred students who sit side by side on the cracked concrete floor grinning at me, shiny white teeth against shiny black skin.
I really need to sit down, but surprise surprise, there isn’t a chair anywhere in sight. Instead, I cough and cough. For a minute, I can’t stop. Innocent issues his order again: “Freckles!”
I grab my heart pendant and grind my teeth into the dent.
And suddenly, here’s my mother. All of her. She’s wrapped in her green bathrobe, pointing to her face. “Freckles, Clare,” she says, as if I’ve gone thick in the head. “You know, these things. My beauty marks. And yours.” She dots her finger across her own face
.
I stare in disbelief
.
“Teach the children freckles,” she says. “It’s simple, really.” Then she laughs a fluttery laugh, like an elm leaf spiraling tothe ground in a breeze. There’s no doubt about it. It’s really my mother speaking to me, teaching me
.
“Frrreckles!” I shout, and point to the little dots on my face.
“Frrreckles!” the students call back.
I sigh. “That was pretty good,” I say.
“Yes, it was,” Mom says. “That’s my girl!” She beams proudly
.
I step away from the doorway to the middle of the room. My finger trembles while I point. “Nnnnose,” I say.
“Nnnnose,” they repeat.
I take off my sandal and wiggle my foot. “Ttttoes,” I say.
“Ttttoes.”
“You’ve got it! You’ve got it!” Mom says. She leans against the classroom wall to watch
.
After five minutes, I’ve burned through everything from
fingernail
to
eyelash
to
tooth
. By the time Mr. Special Kingsley returns with the chair from his office, my mother’s gone. “I shall sit on the side here and complete my work while you teach,” he says. “If you require help, please do
After I thought of it, I spent hours making forty Bingo cards. Each one has nine squares and each square has an animal sketch inside. I sketched snakes, dogs, cats, lions, monkeys, and bears. Then I cut up paper into tiny pieces so the students can place the pieces on top of the squares on the Bingo cards. By last night, I had used up an entire sketchpad, and my hand was throbbing, it was so sore.
I follow my headmaster into the standard one classroom. Innocent smiles up at me from the floor.
Hello, Dimples!
And I think that all my work preparing for this lesson was worth it.
Before I can get started, though, Mr. Special Kingsley wants to make a formal introduction. He wipes his forehead with his handkerchief and speaks to the kids in Chichewa. They jump up, throw back their shoulders, and belt out a welcome song for me. As they sing, I count them.
One, two, three … thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine
. I’m not even halfway through counting when I get a sick feeling. I don’t have nearly enough Bingo cards.
I do a quick scan of the floor and gulp. There are at least a hundred and twenty students in this room! Even if they work in pairs, there aren’t enough cards to share. And their song is almost through. If I can’t teach them toplay Animal Bingo, then what on earth am I supposed to do? As the song ends and the students sit back down, I turn around to ask Mr. Special Kingsley this question, but he’s gone. Never mind bending in the breeze like a palm leaf, I must have been hit on the head with a coconut. What was I thinking!
I make a break for it but Innocent beats me. He stretches his arms and legs as wide as he can across the doorway to block my escape. Over Innocent’s shoulder I spot our headmaster, a small blue dot strolling back to his office. Innocent’s bright pink bottom lip rolls over. He furrows his brow.
“Freckles!”
he shouts.
“What?” I croak.
“Freckles!” say more than a hundred students who sit side by side on the cracked concrete floor grinning at me, shiny white teeth against shiny black skin.
I really need to sit down, but surprise surprise, there isn’t a chair anywhere in sight. Instead, I cough and cough. For a minute, I can’t stop. Innocent issues his order again: “Freckles!”
I grab my heart pendant and grind my teeth into the dent.
And suddenly, here’s my mother. All of her. She’s wrapped in her green bathrobe, pointing to her face. “Freckles, Clare,” she says, as if I’ve gone thick in the head. “You know, these things. My beauty marks. And yours.” She dots her finger across her own face
.
I stare in disbelief
.
“Teach the children freckles,” she says. “It’s simple, really.” Then she laughs a fluttery laugh, like an elm leaf spiraling tothe ground in a breeze. There’s no doubt about it. It’s really my mother speaking to me, teaching me
.
“Frrreckles!” I shout, and point to the little dots on my face.
“Frrreckles!” the students call back.
I sigh. “That was pretty good,” I say.
“Yes, it was,” Mom says. “That’s my girl!” She beams proudly
.
I step away from the doorway to the middle of the room. My finger trembles while I point. “Nnnnose,” I say.
“Nnnnose,” they repeat.
I take off my sandal and wiggle my foot. “Ttttoes,” I say.
“Ttttoes.”
“You’ve got it! You’ve got it!” Mom says. She leans against the classroom wall to watch
.
After five minutes, I’ve burned through everything from
fingernail
to
eyelash
to
tooth
. By the time Mr. Special Kingsley returns with the chair from his office, my mother’s gone. “I shall sit on the side here and complete my work while you teach,” he says. “If you require help, please do
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