It was interesting being a teacher in San Jose during the 1980s. Schools were changing very rapidly; some of us older teachers remember the influx of “boat people”, refugees who escaped from one of the camps and whose children were entering our classrooms. Naturally, it provided all kinds of new cultural interactions, from moments robust and sublime to silly and improbable (some never to be recorded!) on the academic and schoolyard side of the ledger.
I subbed for a lot of years before going back to school for a teaching credential. I learned a lot as a sub which stood me in good stead later when I finally had my own class; as a sub I visited the classrooms of many a talented teacher and of course I learned a lot from all the silly mistakes I made. Oh yes, in teaching making mistakes can be part of a teacher’s growth. Eventually, I got a little cocky perhaps, having learned to trust my judgment to see me through should a unique or unexpected situation arise.
There were a few times, however, when I was still left speechless. I had nothing else to add to a certain kind of moment; when that happens, it feels physically like you are being left without the power of speech. I’ll give you a for instance:
I was subbing for a third grade teacher in a lower socio-economic school, as people used to politely phrase things to allude to communities with widespread poverty. That year I was noticing all the new kids from Vietnam and this classroom, which a few years previous would have been entirely Hispanic, now had some fresh faces, mostly Vietnamese.
One boy’s name was Kong. He had an earnest face with freckles, somewhat stout and strong in his build, noticeable even at such a young age. He also had a great smile when he was happy, balanced by an equally grave intensity when angry. Then his face seemed to heat up and even glow just a little. He was always calm in the classroom but I began hearing about his scuffles outside.
Over a period of time, when I was asked to sub repeatedly for the same class, I got to know the kids and even had time for a conversation or two. I felt bad for Kong. He was smart and a good kid, well-mannered, but getting into fights at recess over his name. I pulled him aside one day to have a man-to-boy talk with him. He told me kids were teasing him, calling him “King Kong” and other such and he intended to make them call him by his rightful name.
I listened and then offered him some wise teacher advice:
“I know your name is Kong. You have every right to be called by your name. But fighting is not the way to go. It can get you in trouble and hurt your reputation as a student. It is not unusual for kids new to this country to shorten their name or pick a nickname. For example, have you ever thought about calling yourself Ken or Kenny? It might make things easier for you and you won’t get into so much trouble for fighting. What do you think?”
He stood in front me and without blinking but with a characteristic burst of energy stated clearly and emphatically to me: “My name is Kong and I will make them call me by my name!” And he held out his arm and made a fist and held it up for me to see, with steel and fire glinting in his eyes with the pure strength of his intention.
That is one of the times I was left speechless. What could I say? Kong had thought the matter through to his satisfaction and he had made his decision. He listened to my advice politely but it did not change his mind in the slightest. There would be no Americanized or bastardized corruption of his name to “Ken” or any other random name.
Counting my years as both a sub and teacher, I figured out once that I had seen thousands of kids. Out of this massive ocean of faces, only a few truly stay with you “morning, day, and night”: you never forget them. Kong is one of those. Indeed, he is near the head the list.
Kong the student taught this teacher a lesson, one I never forgot. Some things are worth fighting for and proper respect for your name is one of them. For this small boy recently arrived from Vietnam, this is where he drew the line. We each have a name given to us by our parents; it therefore has special meaning and we should never let anyone degrade or distort it.
Dear reader: if you have the time and can risk the embarrassment, don’t just read the next line with your eyes; say it out loud with as much dramatic emphasis as you can muster to do full justice to this small boy’s prideful response:
“My name is Kong
and I will make them call me
by my name!”
