What a difference a "hey!" makes.
Anyone who’s experienced more of Munich than just a Bier and a Breze knows that you can’t be meek to live in this city. But what most expats probably don’t know is that sweet-faced, bright-eyed schoolchildren are as tough as their parents. As an English teacher in a public school in north Munich, I initially thought teaching third- and fourth-grade Münchner would be no different from schooling prepubescent Americans. Boy, was I wrong. Contrary to American teachers—who encourage friendliness, team work and a relaxed teacher-child relationship—Bavarian teachers will tell you that if you aren’t willing or able to crack down and bear some fangs, children will walk all over you.It all started with my first day. Armed with stacks of brightly colored flashcards, depicting body parts, fruit and vegetables, I entered the courtyard of the sprawling, gray stone school. All was still. Not a child in sight, the swing set left idle in the shade, a few scattered balls in evidence of that morning’s play—the only sound was that of my own heart beating as I fearfully approached the large, glass front doors of the school. The lesson began, and, within ten minutes, my idea that all children are cute and harmless was dispelled. I had clearly stepped into “kinder-hell.” After fending off jeers about my name (“No! It is not like Homer Simpson!”), being hit by a paper airplane, being made a laughing stock for incorrectly translating the word for cherries as the word for church (Kirche instead of Kirsche), having to separate two fighting boys before they killed the girl sitting between them, the word “murder” did cross my mind several times. And with the language barrier, “law enforcement” was not an option. I was ignored and misunderstood.
By the third week, I was convinced that trapped inside these innocent exteriors were, in reality, clever little monsters with loving sides they chose not to show. Their sole purpose was to make my life a living hell. Flashcards whizzed toward my forehead and my loudest pleas for order were met with blatant disregard. When I asked a student to “touch something purple,” the class erupted in fits of uncontrollable giggles—I later learned that Popel is the German word for snot. That same morning, Jörg pinched Claudia and broke the skin—tearfully, she spoke to me in rapid-fire German that I couldn’t understand, while three boys began tackling each other on the floor and screaming “Aua!” (“Ouch!”). Standing in the midst of the chaos, ready to wail, I decided that something had to be done: something drastic. But, what? Obviously my ecstatic beaming and nodding, pointing to body parts and repeating “legs? legs! that’s right! legs!” like a madwoman was not winning the respect of these kids.
So, I determined to transform myself. No longer would I be an American living in Munich: I had to become a richtige Münchnerin. My head held high, I marched into school the following Monday morning, flashcards in hand, ready to be the Englisch Lehrerin all children feared, loved and respected all at once. (I was also equipped with gummy bear bribes.) Out with pedagogical teaching! This was WAR! Approaching the double glass doors, my brain emitted calming thoughts in a last wild attempt to mask my nerves: I am a calm, capable, intelligent woman— deep breath— I am able to attract the attention of a room full of nine-year-olds and exert ultimate power and control while channeling my “inner German”—deep breath—I want to run in opposite direction but cannot as first demon child has spotted me from the window and is pointing and shouting something in German to the other children.
But I was not afraid. I was ready. And surprisingly, I was also successful! Having learned a few choice German phrases— Das reicht jetzt! (That’s enough now!)— and, having devised a penalty plan employing the use of red and yellow cards à la soccer (red card = NO MORE English), I meant business and it showed. Kids began approaching me before class to explain that their grandmother/aunt/sister/dog speaks English, too. And while battles still erupt in the classroom (these are nine-year-olds, after all), a stern reprimand and an I-won’t-take-that-guff expression seem to do the trick. Yes, patience is a virtue, but I think a lack of it is even better. And, though I haven’t been in Munich long, learning how to handle Bavarian youngsters has helped me in my dealings with older locals. So watch out, Munich! There’s a new teacher in town. And you’re going to learn English whether you like it or not.
