Classroom management, India-style.
As far as I can tell, many Indian parents come from the ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’ school of discipline. A right spanking is a common sight on Indian streets, as are quick slaps to the back of the head, discreetly employed shoves to the shoulder, or the firm grasp on the upper arm.
Teachers, likewise, have few qualms with using ‘the stick’ to enforce classroom rules. Most staff members at JM carry around their own personal ‘stick’—a thin bamboo switch the circumference of a pinky finger. One teacher has even smartly labeled her stick with her name, so that no other teacher will make off with it.
I first saw the ‘stick’ method of discipline at JM’s upper campus a few weeks into our stay in Tirur. A line of tardy students waited patiently outside the teacher’s lounge until a staff member came along and demanded they hold out their palms. Each did and, in turn, received a swift whack on their hand. Then, with slumping shoulders, they walked to class.
I can’t say I approved that first time or the many subsequent times I saw a teacher take a stick to a student’s palm or an upper arm or even a thigh. (And, let’s be clear: when I say ‘students’, I am talking exclusively about boys. I have yet to see a girl get the stick, though I do not know if it is simply because their behavior is better or because there is a school policy against physically disciplining young women.) I still find it a bit unnerving to see a teacher (again: usually male) whapping away at a cringing adolescent for some unknown offense that the student is pleading against as the sharp blows reign down on his hand or arm. As a teacher in America, I am used to the notion of bearing a misbehaving student with patience and discourse, employing a long list of psychological carrots and sticks, and, at the most extreme, sending the student away to the office so someone with more apparent authority can suffer the problem.
The idea of using a bamboo rod as a form of immediate, physical intimidation is a taboo notion for many American educators, and, I think, rightly so. Corporal punishment was abandoned long ago in most realms of public education. (Though I would be lying if I said I never would have appreciated the handiness of a bamboo switch while teaching in the US.)
Anecdotal evidence at JM tells me the implementation of the ‘stick’ is not a very effective form of punishment. I see the same students getting whipped time and time again, meaning their prior whippings are not a deterrent. And I find the staff, in general, conducts the ‘stick’ method inconsistently. Some teachers resort to it almost daily. Other teachers appear loath to even have one in their hand. Still others joke with it, pantomiming the act of whipping a student and then laughing about it.
With all that said, I cannot report that I have stayed above the fray. Class VIII-D drove me to it.
Class VIII-D is a generally sweet but abnormally rambunctious group of nearly 40 students. The boys are brimming with energy, pinching each other, slapping each other’s backs, yelling across the room, chasing each other, pushing each other out of their benches, and ripping each other’s papers to shreds. The girls—as demure and shy as they are—are entertained by the boys’ antics, thereby encouraging them with their giggles and laughter.
I have found my American methods of discipline wholly ineffective for Class VIII-D. A palm in the air will stay raised for five whole minutes with no abatement in the noise. A few quick slaps to the teacher’s desk will raise a few eyebrows, nothing more. Lecturing in English, of course, does no good with kids who speak barely a word of it. (Lecturing did not work with American kids, either.) A point system garnered interest for a time, but then they grew bored with it.
One day two weeks ago, I approached Bindu—Class VIII-D’s home room teacher.
“This class…very wild. Loud. Playful,” I said, making a clownish face and waving my hands in the air to convey my point.
Bindu looked at me with a smirk. “Yes. Bad class. Bad class.”
“What can I do?” I asked.
“The stick. You need stick,” she said, pulling hers out of a fold in her teacher’s jacket like King Arthur brandishing Excalibur. She tried to hand it to me. I backed away, my palms up as if she were offering me a live cobra.
“No, no, no,” I said. “I can’t use that. The stick? No. Not for me.”
“Not use it,” she said, smiling. “Just show.” She held the stick up like it was a trophy, some primordial token won from another prehistoric tribe. “Show it to them. They are scared of it.”
I felt showing the stick with no intent of using it was not much better than actually whipping kids. Bringing it into the classroom, I felt, set a precedent for my teaching with which I was uncomfortable. Simply having it there in class meant I might use it or be tempted to use it. The students would draw one of two conclusions about me, neither of which I liked: a) I would now possibly whip them, or b) I was just a stick poseur who was too squeamish to actually carry through my threatened intent.
Bindu solved my moral conundrum by shoving the stick into my hand. “Just take it. One time. See if it works. But I need it for sixth period.”
Reluctantly, I took the stick to Class VIII-D. With an odd mixture of satisfaction and dread, I realized the sight of the stick in my hand had an immediate effect. The class, usually so rowdy at the beginning, became quiet in a remarkably short time. The boys straightened their backs and stared at the front of the class where I was standing. The silence of the room made me feel eerily victorious.
During the lesson, I kept the stick in my left hand the entire time. I used it as a pointer at the board. I used it to call out students. A few times, I slapped it against the teacher’s desk with a sharp thwack, to get the class’s attention. In short, Bindu’s advice had been correct. The stick—at least as an agent of intimidation—worked. I did not yell. I did not lecture. I did not feel frustrated. Instead, I felt effective and vindicated. The only tradeoff was that a part of me also felt a little like Bull Connor.
For the next couple of weeks, I borrowed Bindu’s stick before going to Class VIII-D. The mesmeric power of the stick seemed to hold. That class went from being one of my worst headaches to one of the highlights of my day. With the looming presence of the stick, the students’ sweetness overcame their penchant for rowdiness. Their intrinsic affability did not spill over into mayhem.
Yet, I wondered: how long would this work? The first time a student really challenged me or behaved in a way that clearly warranted a whipping, the class would see it was all a hollow threat. The stick, I feared, would then just become another casualty like my other previously tried and discarded methods of discipline.
I must say this is an ongoing experiment. I have continued to bring the stick to Class VIII-D up to the current week and have still had no cause to really ‘use’ it. With only two weeks to go at JM, I foresee that I might possibly get away with this ruse without ever being pushed to a crucial decision point. I just hope the students of Class VIII-D don’t get wise.
It is not a skirt, it is a dhoti. And it was my Valentine's Day gift from Jenna. 
My Valentine's Day 'surprise' for Jenna: cake and a card. 
