I was a junior in high school when I got my second job. It
was an unusual job. I was in an unusual high school, the International School of Bangkok. My father, in a mid-life crisis, had joined the foreign service
division of the Voice of America and it was our first overseas posting.
My mother was beside herself in anger at leaving her home state of North Carolina. Her blood pressure shot up and literally never came down until she stroked out at age 57. My brother, who had just started middle school and wanted a major league sports career, felt he was being deprived of his future, even though his Little League record was less than stellar. My sister wasn’t going because she was in college and engaged to be married.
I was the only one happy to go. I hated North Carolina. I hated my high school and fellow students. And my very inadequate boyfriend was already on the other side of the globe in Vietnam, next door to Thailand. We would see each other twice a year instead of once. It was fine with me.
One morning, just as I was beginning my junior year, a student job was posted to teach English as a foreign language at a business college. I was used to having my own money. I had been working since I was 15 at a movie theater in North Carolina. I had played teacher to my dolls as a child. I thought I could do it. I had nothing better to do on Saturdays. I took the address and negotiated the bus trip across Bangkok to the school offices.
The bus cost a single satang to ride, equivalent to less than a penny, so it was the most economical way to travel, although the buses were always full and you seldom got a seat. People actually hung from the doors and windows and rode on the outside. Sometimes there were caged chickens on the bus. I could also spend a whole 25 cents and take a samlor, which was like a golf cart with a back seat. Or I could go deluxe and spend a $1 and take a blue Datsun cab. But that would be wasteful. The cab drivers, thinking I was a tourist, would ask for $5 or more, and I would have to use the little Thai I knew to tell them I was on to their tricks and knew the going rate for locals.
My mother was beside herself in anger at leaving her home state of North Carolina. Her blood pressure shot up and literally never came down until she stroked out at age 57. My brother, who had just started middle school and wanted a major league sports career, felt he was being deprived of his future, even though his Little League record was less than stellar. My sister wasn’t going because she was in college and engaged to be married.
I was the only one happy to go. I hated North Carolina. I hated my high school and fellow students. And my very inadequate boyfriend was already on the other side of the globe in Vietnam, next door to Thailand. We would see each other twice a year instead of once. It was fine with me.
One morning, just as I was beginning my junior year, a student job was posted to teach English as a foreign language at a business college. I was used to having my own money. I had been working since I was 15 at a movie theater in North Carolina. I had played teacher to my dolls as a child. I thought I could do it. I had nothing better to do on Saturdays. I took the address and negotiated the bus trip across Bangkok to the school offices.
The bus cost a single satang to ride, equivalent to less than a penny, so it was the most economical way to travel, although the buses were always full and you seldom got a seat. People actually hung from the doors and windows and rode on the outside. Sometimes there were caged chickens on the bus. I could also spend a whole 25 cents and take a samlor, which was like a golf cart with a back seat. Or I could go deluxe and spend a $1 and take a blue Datsun cab. But that would be wasteful. The cab drivers, thinking I was a tourist, would ask for $5 or more, and I would have to use the little Thai I knew to tell them I was on to their tricks and knew the going rate for locals.
He hired me on the spot. I thought life was always going to be this easy. I would teach three classes every Saturday morning. I would take attendance. They would listen to an English-speaking person speak. I would turn in grades. I only had to grade them on attendance.
The first year was exciting. The students were thrilled to meet me and treated me with respect even though I was a few years younger. The movie “To Sir With Love” was very popular in Thailand then. They called me Sir. They gave me love. At the end of each semester, they gave me little gifts. We took turns reading out loud from their text books and I would correct pronunciation. They would ask me to explain the lyrics to popular songs. It is not easy to explain the meaning of “yummy, yummy, yummy, I have love in my tummy” by Ohio Express or “do wah diddy diddy dum diddy doo” by Manfred Mann. I tried. They would laugh. They looked at me like I was a fascinating animal in a zoo. They had many questions about American life.
The hardest part of the job was taking attendance because the English translation of Thai names are very long, full of vowels and consonants that phonetically sounded like gibberish. They would laugh at my attempts to get through the roll call, but that was essentially their grade so it had to be done. I never got to the point where I could identify them by name. One hour a week wasn’t enough time to connect, and they all looked alike to me. Everyone’s hair was straight and black. They all wore the blue pants and skirts and white shirts and blouses which were the Thai school uniform.
And I had 120 or more students, divided up into three classes each semester. I made $30 a month, which I picked up in cash from the Buddha superintendent at the end of each month when I turned in my attendance records.
It was a princely sum since I could have a dress custom made for my measurements from a magazine picture, including the fabric, even Thai silk, for $5. A manicure was 50 cents, a pedicure 75 cents. I bought a fake hairpiece for $15 and I could have a mountain of curls and hair loops built on my head for $1.25. If I slept carefully, it would last the whole week. It made me look six inches taller. Shoes and handbags were as cheap as I could get the price down. I had a set to match every dress. Jewelry was a pittance, and we’re talking blue star sapphires set in silver. My family had a live-in maid who cleaned my room, made my bed, and washed and ironed my clothes. Kongkao was paid $25 a month and a bag of rice. Life was pretty good.
Things were great until the end of the second year when I had disruptive male students in my class. This was unusual because the Thai culture is built around showing respect for authority. In American schools, disruptive students were sent out of the classroom. I tried that. Everyone was shocked. Having a conflict was embarrassing to everyone, even the ones being evicted. Face was lost. Theirs and mine. They got cocky and challenged it, but gave up when I held firm. The good atmosphere was ruined after that. Everyone became nervous and uncertain. We laughed less.
I was glad the semester was ending and since I was leaving for college back in the States, I turned in my resignation and didn’t teach the summer session. There was no love for Sir anymore. Buddha Superintendent was sad to see me go. I probably lasted longer than any other American high school student – two years – and had been diligent. The way it ended soured me on being a teacher and I never taught anywhere again.
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