Robin had read a while ago that most of a conversation is conveyed without words.
She’d dismissed it at the time, citing her own drastic inability to guess at people’s words and meanings without being explicitly told, and when the statistic had floated back into her life, this time with actual statistics and in a fun little infographic, she’d wondered who these people were, for whom words and sentences and voices were only the lesser part of a conversation, dethroned by the nonverbal, tone of voice and gestures and expressions.
It couldn’t be her, she’d decided, and gone on with her life.
But then she’d met her little monsters and had to re-evaluate her own biases. K-1C were a rowdy bunch, hard to teach and sometimes very hard to love.
They liked arguing with each other, and sometimes with her, chattering away in their high little voices, and right from the beginning she’d realised that she’d been wrong. It didn’t take a genius to realise that shouting meant anger which meant pushing would follow, which meant tears, stammered explanations she didn’t understand, and punishments.
For her own ease she’d decided to skip the ending of the routine, nipping the shouting in the bud before it could become a frustrated attempt to understand.
But surely, she’d thought at the beginning, fresh off the boat and green, the colourful statistics reappearing in her life surely it wasn’t like this. Surely a conversation and the nuances to it needed more than an understanding of what a shift in volume meant.
She still carries this belief, standing in front of a class of degenerates, each louder than the last, each with a grasp on English so poor as to be non-existent.
She’s been trying and failing to get them to focus in class since they woke up, and the hard stare, the warning, only worked until the repercussions failed to appear. She’s made kids stand up, pointing and gesturing to the most stubborn, Robbie until he reluctantly complied, though not without a barrage of Chinese, his little face scrunched in disgust, that told her just what he thought of her decision.
A cry from another student, and when she turns to look Merry is enraged, caught in the act of shoving Scott away from her.
She manages to piece together what happened through a pantomime of gestures.
Merry pretend stamps on her own foot while pointing at Scott, which he vehemently denies by shaking his head so violently Robin is afraid it might fly off his neck.
Then it’s Scott’s time to shine, his gestures even more intense than Merry’s, his eyes on Robin to make sure she understands.
Despite being caught in the act, Merry still tries to deny her role in the exchange, jabbering away in increasingly strident Chinese until Robin holds up a hand to stop her in her tracks. Problem understood and resolved with a begrudging “sorry” from either side, and the next time they begin to fuss all Robin needs to do is stand by the behaviour board and look hard at them.
A temporary lull of noise fills the classroom, and Robin jumps on the opportunity to actually teach the kids the content. It’s easy stuff for them, things they’ve learnt before, and a review gives her the chance to make it fun and check their knowledge.
She shows the first picture, a car, and all but Jacob put their hands on imaginary steering wheels, mumble the answer.
She rewards the best, which just meant the loudest, and sees the rest of the students take note.
The next time she shows a picture, the gesture and the answer are both overstated, yelled so loudly she winces. Placing a finger on her lips, they give the answer again in a whisper.
‘What is this?’ she asks them, showing a picture of an item they learnt long ago. They stare at it blankly, and if they know the fear of being wrong is enough to keep them silent.
She motions for students to put their hands up, before making the gesture linked to the picture, and this time the recognition is immediate, hands shooting into the air.
A disappointed look at Merry when she shouts the answer out is enough to make her sit up properly and put her hand up, and she shrugs at Merry’s humph when Robin picks another student, praising him for sitting well and setting the standard for the students.
They begin to become noisy again, and with a clap Robin ends the lesson and calls the students’ attention back to her.
They know the drill after lessons, but she still reinforces it, using her hands to make her instructions clear. Go to the toilet, with a point towards the bathroom. Wash your hands with soap comes with an action like pumping soap and rinsing hands off. Drink water, and she holds an imaginary cup that she lifts to her lips. Go play, circling her hands round each other.
Each sentence the students chant and gesture with her, and when she releases them from their seat, ready, set, go-ing them like it’s the start of a race, she appreciates the quiet in the interim between class and playtime as the students focus on her guidance.
It won’t last long. Her attempts at introducing a noise level system haven’t been going so well, the students recognising the gestures but not yet responding to them, but she’s quietly hopeful.
She settles back onto her chair, takes a deep breath and lets herself relax, watching the students’ hands flail and carve shapes into the air as they converse in Chinese, the exaggerated expressions they stick to despite the comfort of their own language in their mouths, a trinity of tone and gesture and expression that harmonise with their voices and surpass it.
It is conversation, she realises, all of it and all together. This time, when the statistic comes back to her mind, she isn’t so quick to dismiss it.
