Post 7: It's Choral Speaking Not Drama...Or, in Malaysia, Is It Both?

Well, I think I had my first upset at school today: choral speaking.

It has come to my attention that I’ve never actually elaborated on what choral speaking is. It’s really quite a simple concept. Malaysia invented it to help students improve their English. It is a speaking choir. Another way to look at it is as a group speech. Essentially, roughly thirty students stand on a stage and recite a memorized script along with various motions. Perhaps this sounds weird. Until I rehearsed with students at least four times a week for over a month, I thought it was weird. Now, it seems perfectly normal.

Oh, I did want to note before launching into my story about the drama of today that drama at my school appears to be cancelled. Last I was informed, the school does not have enough funds to support drama and its needs for props, costumes, and transport to any location for competitions (everything here is for competitions only; school students don’t go to see dramas). Thus, although Nicole (my fellow ETA) and I wrote a fabulous script, it will be put aside for another time.

This morning seemed roughly like any other morning in Malaysia. I woke up just before six, mentally complained that it was dark outside and that I was sticky, went to the bathroom to wash my face, ate breakfast, had some quiet time, changed for school, and drove my motorbike the five kilometers to SMK Maran 2. However, I was a bunch of nerves even before I arrived at school because my students were having their first choral speaking performance today! AH! So exciting. They had practiced hard for many, many weeks. I still remember our first practice when it seemed hopeless and all the weeks following when my numbers at a practice fluxed from ten to twenty-nine between days. It was a little anxiety-ridden to say the least, but I knew it had paid off. My students had had a rehearsal the day before with me and had sounded excellent. I mean, for them.

Realize that they start out knowing nothing. Half my students when they were asked to join choral speaking didn’t know what choral speaking was. Then, you hand them a three-page long (double-spaced) script in English and ask them to memorize. These kids can’t read the words; they don’t know what it means (not all of it anyway); half of them are too shy to speak just above a whisper. However, the last month and some have been transformative. They’ve learned words, phrases, pages! They know motions. They’re synchronized. They can enter and exit a stage in a uniform manner. These kids are too squirrely to stand still for five minutes so giving a presentation that last longer than that is very impressive. I was proud of their rehearsal the day before. I was looking forward to how it would be received.

After I punched in at school and dropped off my things, I hung around on the assembly grounds (the parking lot on the front side of my school where the students have assembly every morning before class) to start gathering my choral speaking students together and shooting them excited smiles. Several of my students had threatened to not show up on Wednesday when I told them we were going to be performing because they were so afraid. I told them that they had nothing to worry about because we had drilled and drilled and drilled so they just needed to follow Fathin the conductor (see, a conductor just like a choir). They believed me. I even said that if worst came to worst and everyone completely forgot the line or messed it up, Fathin would cue them to stop and then prompt them to start over properly. Everyone knew the plan. Everyone was okay with the plan.

Once assembly was about to start, my students marched nervously into the science lab room just behind the stage and the assembly area to warm up. I asked them to recite quietly so that everyone wouldn’t hear them before their big debut. They sounded good. People were nervous but were following the conducting cues and doing the motions properly. Some of the students were still looking at their scripts which I told them they couldn’t do, but then I had to make an exception for a couple of students who had just joined and still wanted to perform even though they didn’t know all the words yet. I allowed it because I wanted them to have the experience of being in front of people. As most of us know, when you try and perform in front of people, things can go wildly different.

Then it was time.

I climbed up onto the small stage to give a little introduction as my students braced themselves for their big moment in front of their peers. I even broke my rule about speaking in Malay while I was on stage so the students knew to back up a little (blakan sikit) so they’d have a better view of the performance. I was all smiles.

I’m their coach. I don’t perform with them. After introducing my choral speaking group who were going to be doing “The Lost Page,” I got off the stage and went to stand with the other watching teachers (with my camera in hand of course).

The students filed out. They pivoted to face the audience. They watched the countdown 3…2…1… They breathed together and said, “It began…”

I won’t bore you with two pages of script.

They performed well. A few of them were embarrassed or nervous and it showed. They wouldn’t say a line or they’d wipe their face of nervous perspiration or just fidget wildly. That was to be expected. I hadn’t drilled into them proper performance posture so much as the words figuring that once we got the words down, we could work on finessing. One thing at a time. Nevertheless, they made it through. They knew all the words. They reached the end and completed the word “sun” with sharpness. The students bowed and pivoted to exit.

That’s when it happened.

My principal stepped out of the crowd and told them to stop. She told them to go back.

I was stunned. What was she doing?

With the authority of the person with complete control of the domain, she stepped forth slowly with her rattan stick in hand ready to discipline if necessary. Her stride was slow and fluidly beneath the pink silky fabric of her baju kurung.

Then she spoke….in Malay which means I only caught some of the words, but I absolutely knew what she was saying. My kids hadn’t pleased her. Now she was going to scold them. She was going to scold them in front of the entire student body. In fact, she picked a few students out and told them to leave the stage because they hadn’t performed up to snuff (both of them were new students still holding onto their scripts for dear life). She called out others but made them stay.

With a wave of her rattan rod, she told my students to perform again. Perform properly. Be serious, she said.

I was absolutely mortified. As soon as she had stepped out, my heart began pounding. I contemplated stepping forward in front of all the students and teachers at the school and cutting the principal off. How dare she treat the students that way! This was humiliating! When students perform (well or not) you let them come onto the stage, do their thing, and leave. Then, if there is room for improvement, you talk about it in privacy afterwards. Not so.

It broke my heart to see their grim faces as they braced themselves to begin again.

“It began

In the jungle

In the middle of Malaysi—“

My principal interrupted them again. I don’t even know what it was that time that displeased her. She was standing next to the conductor so she was much closer than I was. She called on a few poor students and told them to speak louder. She compared them to other students in the group who were louder or more on time or whatever. I don’t know.

The shaming continued.

She told them to start again.

I was close to tears. I was so upset. I knew exactly what was going through the students’ minds as they tried to tune the principal out enough to summon courage and repeat again what they had said so many times. They had said it over and over again until their throats were dry and their voices couldn’t bear it anymore (two hours is a long time to practice the same speech). Other students were watching my reaction. I’m pretty sure they knew I was agitated. I put on my own brave face, walked to the back of the students so that only those performing could see me and tried to be an explicitly encouraging presence from afar while turmoil built inside.

Once they finished their second run-through. The principal had yet more to say. She walked up to one of the boys in front and called him by the name of a character from a folk tale (I found out later) who is known for being stupid and looking like an idiot. This was all attributed to how he was wearing his traditional hat – songkot. She pulled it off his head and jammed it back on. The students in the audience tittered nervously. She continued on her icy rampage for another moment or two before finally allowing the students to escape in as much dignity and formality as they could muster from the exit we had rehearsed.

I was not happy.

I pursed my lips and shuffled (as only you can shuffle when wearing a baju kurung) and headed back for the science lab where my students were slowly collecting themselves once more. I beckoned those who were lingering and lost somewhere behind the stage but not back in the room.

Upon entering the room, I saw one of the boys being embraced and consoled as he openly cried with humiliation. I felt awful and said I was sorry over and over again. I don’t know if his brain’s translation center was shut down though since he was just crying with a certain expression of helplessness. Then, taking a breath, I climbed onto the lecturing platform in the lab room (it’s just a lab table that’s slightly elevated so you can see demonstrations better). I raised my voice as loudly as I dared without having it crack with emotion (I was pretty close to tears) and asked for all the students to come closer so that we could…debrief.

As they drew near, the door opened. Who should walk in but the principal! I could not take it. I could tell by her face that she had more to say to my already-mortified kids. No. I was drawing a line. I didn’t speak up for them in front of the entire student body because I have some semblance – some understanding – of Malay propriety. However, now we were behind closed doors. She was not going to tear down my kids where I could protect them. My Malay is not good. My principal’s English is not good either. However, she understood the message of me holding up my hand and saying as nicely but firmly as I could, “Can you please wait outside? I need to speak to the students alone.” If she detected any fury, maybe she thought it was intended for the students. It wasn’t.

Now, to try and rally the troops again.

Doing it without crying was going to be impossible, but I plowed on. Almost all my girls were already in tears. Once I started speaking amidst my own tears, it just got worse. I tried to tell them I wasn’t crying because of them. I was crying because of what was done to them. Again and again, I tried to tell them that I was proud. I thought they did great. I tried to say as simply and clearly as possible that the principal was wrong. What she did was wrong. I think they understood. I told them that we would do better and could do better and that we were already great. I asked if they were okay and if I could do anything. Many just continued to cry quietly and dab their eyes on their tudongs (head coverings).

My co-teacher and mentor both said their pieces to them as well trying to be encouragements. They were far from flustered. Why? Because the principal was like this all the time. They were used to her drastic measures. When I was informed of this, I told my co-teacher (the Malay teacher and coach for choral speaking) that that still did not make it okay. He still seemed perplexed why I was so upset and teary. He said that he thought Americans were supposed to be tough. For the record, I still believe I am tough. I just cry. They are not mutually exclusive.

…Okay, maybe I’m not so tough.

That was my morning.

From there, I had to try and get all my grief out so that I would be ready to teach. Indeed, a few phone calls later, a wash of the face, and about forty minutes before my first class, I was in better spirits. My students helped do the rest. Throughout the day, as I did spirit checks with my various choral speaking students, many of them also came up to me and asked if I was alright and begged that I wouldn’t cry anymore. I had to explain over and over that I cried because they had been crying and I felt their woes. I’m still not sure if they understood.

All the same, after hearing one of my male students say that his “heart cry on the inside” amongst other things, I hope to speak to my principal about what happened today. I want to be diplomatic. I want to actually do the “ambassador” part of my job here. I am an English Teaching Assistant, but maybe that doesn’t always mean I’m teaching English. I can also teach other things while speaking English. I think a lot of teachers do. We shall see.

I hope that I have choral speaking students on Friday when we practice again despite obliterated self-esteem. The competition is still a month away. Wish us luck!