Fair, Firm, and Approachable
Maggie Dineen, 137 YinD
It was a week before the start of the school year. I laid back in my bed with the lights off, my spine decompressing in a painfully euphoric way. Giggles bubbled up from my chest, light and frantic, unsure if they would turn into sobs. I called the person I found most comfort in, opening with,
“Dad, I think I’m emotionally unstable.”
Deep gut laughter met me from down the line, “Mags, you’re not emotionally unstable.”
True tears threatened to spill over the dam I had kept so tightly shut, but a smile cracked on my face.
That day, I certainly felt every emotion I’ve ever experienced in the span of a few hours: excitement, confusion, relief, anger, jealousy, the list goes on. It was a routine day during bpit term (school break), but I flipped through so many extreme emotions, I truly, honestly, felt unstable.
Looking back, what I desperately needed was regulation, equilibrium, and psychological safety. So, while my dad’s initial jest stung, I knew he was right. I would be okay, I just needed to find my center.
Even though I now journal frequently, use meditation techniques, and exercise often, loneliness hits me out of nowhere sometimes. It’s not when I’m home alone, cooking for one, or attending a meeting, only able to understand half of the information. Rather, it is on the bike ride home, where I take the longer route because I yearn for a change, but don’t want to brave it alone.
I turned my bike onto a dirt path, rice fields illuminated by the golden sun. My heart quickened with anxiety and exertion as loneliness crinkled my eyebrows and turned my mouth down. At 4 p.m., the sun is still hot enough to burn, but too early for anyone in the States to be awake. That is, everyone except my Nana.
On the third ring, she picked up.
“Hey sorry I wasn’t sure if you’d be up this—” I rushed out.
“Well of course, it’s already almost 5 a.m. Maggie.” She said brightly.
A heavy weight lifted off my shoulders as my breath rushed out in an exhale.
She asked, “What’s wrong?” as if reading my thoughts.
In those beginning months, I desperately sought solitude, but craved guidance at the same time. I was searching for something that would ground my service, guide my teaching style, and center my priorities. If I didn’t know what I wanted, how would my students know how to succeed in my class?
As I biked through smoke from the burning farm fields, tension released from my traps and smoothed my face. My Nana soaked in my doubts, insecurities, and frustrations with a patient ear.
“What was Papa’s teaching philosophy?” I voiced the question I was nervous to broach.
She hummed in thought, turning over her response. “He was fair, firm, but approachable,” she finally responded.
We sat in silence for a moment, grief thickening the moment.
Her words struck me, like the last puzzle piece set into place after being lost under a cushion. My Papa’s teaching philosophy perfectly captured my goals as a Peace Corps volunteer: to make English learning accessible for every student in my classroom, to set clear roles and responsibilities for their success, and to develop relationships beyond the school environment.
My first week teaching was filled with anxiety and doubt, but those words stayed with me; when three boys walked out of my first grade class, returning later wet and muddy with grins splitting their faces, my mantra centered me.
“What is your name?” I asked the first boy in English, referencing the lesson. They exchanged giggles and flashed their tongues, a distinct Thai mannerism I myself have picked up. I pointed my lips at them and made a short, deep grunt, signaling displeasure–another mannerism that quickly had them sitting up straight. “Next time come to class and you will understand,” I finished in broken Thai.
Doubt pinned my shoulders to my ears–why do those three boys only skip my class? Later that week, I saw my Thai co-teacher sitting under the school’s wooden gazebo, sharing sour mango with a troubled student. They sat there, swinging their legs and watching the other kids play basketball. I realized then that building relationships is at the heart of teaching.
I radically changed the way I approached relationships with my students. I started to play soccer at lunch, teach extra classes on the weekends, and learn my student’s names. I started to feel more settled at my school, and in return, my students started to respect me more. Those three boys still leave class, but not as frequently and not for as long.
Fair, firm, and approachable became my mantra. I remember writing it in the front of my lesson planning notebook, a continual reminder of my service goals. Now, nine months into my service, my Nana and Papa’s words continue to center me past the classroom: fair in judgement, firm in my boundaries, and approachable to my community.
Maybe I’m not emotionally unstable.
