Learning Experience - Essay Example

My learning experience “You don’t spell with your fingers,” father said as we looked at a large book with described pictures of popular pets. “You look at the letters, and try to make out the sound they form.” He added. I looked at the picture, a creature with large eyes, lean body and a long tail. I could tell this was a cat, but pronouncing ‘cat’ was then an uphill task for me. As we spent time on the book, I had mastered all the pets in the book, the different types of fruits and parts of the body. During our session on the parts of the house, I managed to construct my first sentence. Out of the blues, or perhaps I supposed, I said, “mum banana kitchen.” Dad looked at me for a long time with a smiling face, then, as was our tradition whenever I got anything right, he gave a pat, and sent me to the car. This time, I did not find the usual candy he had for me, but a large toy of a learning kit comprising a book and a doll with prerecorded manes of different names for the various animals, trees, types of food, types of houses, professions, cars, among others. This became the darling of my days that I spent at home, listening and repeating what the doll said. Before I knew, I knew most of the animals, insects, houses, foods, cars and professions. I could differentiate between a car and a lorry, a bicycle from a motorcycle, a train from a train, a mango from a banana, among others. Father one day told me, “I will take you to a school where you would learn to speak and write too.” “I will write like the book?” I asked. “Better, much better.” He assured me. “Just like the people you see on the TV,” he added. That was my biggest joy, knowing that I could speak as fluently and comfortably as the reporters. By the time I was of school age, I could grasp a few sentences said on television, especially by actors of local programs. The idea that school would give me the opportunity to learn reading and writing, in addition to speaking like the people on television overwhelmed me. I was so eager to start school that I started assuming my dad being the real teacher and our living room the classroom. “How does school look like?” I started asking dad, days before it was time to enroll. “It is an interesting place, you will find other children like you, they will be fun and a teacher who will teach you all you want to know,” dad told me, increasing my curiosity. Now I was alert more than ever. “Does the teacher know everything?” I kept on with my enquiry. I could not wait for the day I would step into the classroom, with a teacher who knew everything in the world. to me, a teacher then was a god, who knew everything under the sun. Walking into my classroom for the first time, looking tiny but confident was more than jubilation for me. With father and mother by my side, and after taking a photo beside our car, they escorted me to office. Dad went to the senior office, and later emerged with a nicely dressed man, sharp looking and nicely dressed. Although he was in a suit, just like father, could tell he was friendly. He bent low in order to greet me, and then said, “this is a young hero.” Father smiled, gave me a pat on my back, adding, “and a great student too.” “Though the youngest in the class,” said the man, whom I later learnt was the head of the school. “You will be shocked to what the father-teacher has done so far,” she said. The school head led the way to where my class was. The moment I walked in, I felt scared. Despite the elderly lady in glasses coming towards us in a smiling face, other students looked at me with long faces. I felt shy, and looked down. After greetings, father, mother, the two teachers and I had a photo together. My parents left a while later, leaving me under the care of my teacher. The school bus would pick me in the morning at eight, and drop me off at 1 in the afternoon. Learning was not an interesting thing for me in the first days at school. We were supposed to recite most of the things, which dad had taught me. I later started getting engaged in the learning after we started learning writing. The fisrt day in school was however embarrassing for me, when the teacher asked me why I was in school. “To know how to read and write,” I responded. “Just that?” the teacher asked. I did not have another reason why I was in school. If anything, I wanted to know how to read and write, and speak fluently like the reporters. I felt trapped. I did not have any better reason. I tried thinking hard, hoping something could come up, only to end up at a desperate state. I looked up, only to see everybody else staring at me. I broke down in tears. I hated my class and the teacher. At that moment, I wanted to be in father’s arms, but he was far away, perhaps at work, or taken mother out. “Why would the teacher chose me? Why not my desk mate, the girl who always smiled at my shyness?” I kept wondering. I did not pay attention to the rest of the class, as I looked forward to going home in the afternoon and listen to my doll teach me. It was more interesting than my elderly teacher was. Two weeks into the class, my teacher was on me again. During the class, she asked me to spell the word “doctor” and explain the work of a doctor. Although I knew the spelling and the work of a doctor, the first meeting with her gave me a negative attitude. Additionally, I was too shy to answer the question in front of the whole class. I therefore chose to use a soft voice, just as I was used to with father. The teacher perhaps irritated or in an effort to make me shout, ordered me to say it louder. While father would congratulate me, give me presents, the teacher used a stern voice. It scared me to the bone, and I broke down in tears again. This time I cried bitterly, remaining tight lipped for the entire class. Weeks passed by, with the teacher asking me questions, of which I never answered. I was the youngest on the class, yet, she chose me to answer the most difficult questions. I hated the class, and the rest of the students for carrying their burden. When this persisted for a month, the teacher one day appeared at home before it was dark. My elder sister, mother and I were home. Dad was yet to get home. Mother invited my teacher in, and I sunk into my father’s favorite couch. “I hope nothing is wrong at school,” mother said to the teacher, anxious. “Not really,” answered the teacher. “That is good news, I did not expect anything better,” said mother. I smiled. “It is just a trend I have noticed, of deviance, perhaps because of separation with the family,” the teacher broke the news. “What do you mean?” mum asked. “No answering questions and on top of that…” mother asked me to fetch those glasses and help sister in the kitchen. I left them discussing me in the living room. After the discussion, dad walked in, and they had a long conversation. Dad called me, and explained that the teacher asked me many questions because I was bright. Mother congratulated me for being a smart student, and this changed my perception towards the teacher. The rest of my time with the teacher in class was fun and full of joy. I did not encounter any other challenges. With time, I leant reading and writing, and at the age of 10, my teacher realized my talent in composition, encouraging me to write. I developed love for books, especially the Arabic authors such as Ahlam Mosteghanemi, Al Mutababi, Nizar Qabbani and Mahmoud Darwish. This passion has remained within me. I love reading books, and keep on practicing composing own poems. Inspired by my favorite poet, Mahmoud Darwish, I hope that I one day would publish a book, out of the many poems I have written so far. Read More