The Ladies' Staff Room

Dear dedicated reader,

Being a teacher means something very different here than in the USA.

I have to be on my guard. I cannot be caught doing anything improper or informal here. Already I am unusual; I sit on the porch and read my book when the students come out to the courtyard for any of their three recesses during the day (if only the Boston Public Schools could take note!). The other teachers stay hidden in the forbidding Ladies’ Staff Room.

The Staff Room was, until yesterday, uncharted territory for me. After each class, Jagrutiben, the local Gujarati teacher who assists the students with understanding me in my classes, would say to me in her shy, spoken English. “Okay, I go to Ladies staff room. Meet you next class?” Every time she would say so, I’d feel a twinge of guilt. Until my visit yesterday, I had not met any of the other lady teachers except the principal’s daughter-in-law, Sejalben who is another English teacher and has been very kind and helpful.

Instead, I preferred to stay in the house, feeling shy, like the students in my 9A class about their spoken English. But the house had begun losing it’s charm and I knew that if I didn’t make a move towards the staff room soon it would come off as elitist.

I tried not to get too worked up as we walked through the open air halls of the school. Both staff rooms are on the second floor: one for men and one for women. We climbed the stairs and entered the corridor where the staff room is located.

The first time we walked by, I glanced in, just to make sure it was the right room. I saw some teachers looking back at me. Yup, right room. I kept walking, intimidated. Priya said to me, confused, “Uh, we just missed it.”

With a deep breath, I said, “I know…”

On the second pass, we both lost our nerve. It wasn’t too late to go back to the house… We looked at each other and giggled. This time, we would do it.

On the third pass, we stopped and stepped inside. Mission accomplished.

But, now what to do? I looked around. Lots of empty seats, but assorted things sat on the table in front of each: chalk, grading books, newspapers. I could feel the four or five ladies sitting in the staff room, looking formidable in their brightly colored saris, eyeing me over the tops of their Gujarati newspapers. We took a seat on a small bench in the corner, away from the main table where most of the teachers sat.

I looked around the room uneasily. We really hadn’t planned this far in advance. What to do but just sit here? Priya and I looked at each other; I riffled through my planner where my lesson notes were, pretending to review them.

After a few awkward minutes, one of the teachers said to Priya in Gujarati, “You speak Gujarati?” She motioned for us to come sit at the main table. We took two of the empty chairs. The teachers whose things were left on the table must have been in class.

She asked Priya where she was from, whether her family was from India, what she does in the United States: the usual battery of questions. Like most people, she did not look at me while she was talking. When people don’t think I speak the language, I don’t exist.

I asked her which subjects she teaches in my broken Hindi.

“You speak some Hindi?” she replied.

“A little,” I offered up.

“Well, I teach Hindi.” She replied. She proceeded to introduce the other teachers in a quick Hindi I had a hard time following. I got the teachers’ names, but not their subjects. I did, however, note the English teacher sitting next to her whose name was Mayori.

“What are you doing with the students?” She asked me in English.

I wanted to say, “I wish I knew!” but refrained as I knew that would hardly be appropriate. “Mostly grammar exercises, and spoken English, for now,” I said. She looked satisfied.

“You are teaching the curriculum now?” I asked. Every standard (grade) has a curriculum that we must cover as the teachers. I have not been doing the curriculum so far because I was not sure how to approach teaching the book. When she explained that she was teaching the curriculum, I jumped at my chance.
“May I come see your class, if it is all right with you?” I asked. She said of course, and invited me to her sixth period 12th standard class. I was so relieved. I had been trying to observe a class by asking the principal and his daughter in law for days. They always said of course and that we would talk about it tomorrow. And then, mysteriously, were nowhere to be found.

“What do you do in the USA?” A teacher from across the room asked me, in English.

“I am a teacher,” I said, smiling.

“A teacher. Hm. And how much do teachers make in the US?” She said.

I was a little taken aback. “You mean, what is my salary?”

The other teachers who understood English chimed in. “Do you get paid every month?”

“Every two weeks,” I replied, confused. Why would they care about the frequency of my pay?

But the teacher across the room was not satisfied. “How much is it?”

I tried again, “In America, teachers do not make so much money.”

“But how much?” She insisted.

I cringed. “Twenty three thousand dollars,” I said. There was murmuring all around the room. I tried to qualify this, “But, it’s not very much in the USA because it is so expensive to live…” Too late. They were chattering away in Gujarati now and neither Priya or myself could understand.

When the bell rang and it was time to go to my next class, the Hindi teacher said to Priya, “You should come back here, so that we can get to know you both.”

How excruciating. I mean, of course.

Best,
Cat