One day a week, I get a good dose of sunshine.
More than warming my computer-humped back and keyboard-cramped fingers, it illumines my mind. I leave the enclosed room where my desk top (and for emergencies, my laptop) and I sit snugly together, and for three to six hours I come eyeball-to-eyeball with the young and the restless: college students in a transnational business school.
Depending on the trimester, I teach the subjects—Case Studies in Advertising, Business English, Strategic Marketing and Management—which consumed me in my other life. Okay, it’s a way of conveniently reliving past glory in the corporate world which I turned my back on when I plunged into my second act.
It’s also a diversion I seek out because it teaches me the one thing I am still learning despite two decades in the business world: patience.
It’s not that bad, really. For where in the world can you have a captive audience who hangs on to your every word (I exaggerate; make that every other word) and wonders aloud why the textbook says otherwise.
I remember my very first day. I wore my red power suit and talked with the stance of someone who’s been there, done that. In seconds I got questions coming from some part of the world I never thought existed, and suddenly, I was at sea. I made a mental note—these punks couldn’t be treated like peers or clients. In marketing language, they’re a niche target: a handful, inquisitive aliens whose knowledge of advertising is “that icky shampoo ad on MTV” or the “blah billboard on SLEX” or the “cool dude on radio” and say it with unabashed vigor.
I had to go back two decades and started pointing out the differences between a headline and a tagline; a storyboard and an audio-visual script; Copy Research and Research and Development.
These days, instead of saying, “Trash that thought, it stinks,” I say, “Hmmm, that’s interesting, can you explain it a bit more,” meaning it.
In teaching, one has the luxury of time: to nurture, to motivate, to lead, to listen, and most of all, to watch—as your students grow before your eyes—and to look forward to a future when they become excellent men and women in the workplace, better than I ever was.
If that isn’t sunshine, what is? And here’s more—a page from my journal some trimesters ago.
“Your parents named you well,” I tell her after reading the essay she wrote about herself in my English for Business class. She beams. That’s my first encounter with Sunshine, one of the eight 17-year-old freshmen in the classroom.
From day one, Sunshine has been a ray of, guess what, sunshine. She has that sun
ny glow—listening intently, giving her opinions on the subject being discussed, informally leading any of the case study groups she is assigned to, and smiling brightly. She also gets an A in every quiz. And when she is called upon to talk about her work, she does not present. She performs.
I’ve had outstanding students, achievers who put pressures on themselves. But only one is named Sunshine; she who has such a sparkling demeanor it shifts your mood from crabby to cheery. And it intrigues me that someone with that name would reflect the word so uncannily. A walking metaphor, Sunshine is.
No cloud, dark or dense, seems able to hide her spark. In one of the school’s activities—Parents’ Night—she regales the audience with her sweet singing voice and dancing prowess.
“Is there anything you can’t do?” I ask facetiously, facing her. Then I ask further, facing her mom, “How does it feel to have such a multi-talented daughter?
“Blessed. I feel really blessed,” she grins, her pride showing through her eyes.
In teaching, one has the luxury of time: to nurture, to motivate, to lead, to listen, and most of all, to watch—as your students grow before your eyes—and to look forward to a future when they become excellent men and women in the workplace, better than I ever was.
If that isn’t sunshine, what is? And here’s more—a page from my journal some trimesters ago.
“Your parents named you well,” I tell her after reading the essay she wrote about herself in my English for Business class. She beams. That’s my first encounter with Sunshine, one of the eight 17-year-old freshmen in the classroom.
From day one, Sunshine has been a ray of, guess what, sunshine. She has that sun
ny glow—listening intently, giving her opinions on the subject being discussed, informally leading any of the case study groups she is assigned to, and smiling brightly. She also gets an A in every quiz. And when she is called upon to talk about her work, she does not present. She performs.I’ve had outstanding students, achievers who put pressures on themselves. But only one is named Sunshine; she who has such a sparkling demeanor it shifts your mood from crabby to cheery. And it intrigues me that someone with that name would reflect the word so uncannily. A walking metaphor, Sunshine is.
No cloud, dark or dense, seems able to hide her spark. In one of the school’s activities—Parents’ Night—she regales the audience with her sweet singing voice and dancing prowess.
“Is there anything you can’t do?” I ask facetiously, facing her. Then I ask further, facing her mom, “How does it feel to have such a multi-talented daughter?
“Blessed. I feel really blessed,” she grins, her pride showing through her eyes.
I muse, Sunshine has her genes.
The rest of the days during the trimester have been pretty much the same. Suns
hine always shines.
Then comes a major class activity which I had created to help my students tackle the final exam, moderated in London. I nicknamed it “Mock Test” because it mimics the tone of test which was to happen in two weeks.
I expect Sunshine to get an A. She does.
The following day after giving my students back their papers, I get a text message from Sunshine. “Miss, there has been an error in my grade. I’d like to show it to you tomorrow.”
Gee, what nerve, I say to myself. My impulse is to text back, “You got an A. Anything higher than that won’t make any difference!” But my once-a-week teaching stint, and aging, have tamed my temper and tongue. After counting from one to ten, my fingers text back, “Ok, see you tomorrow.”
I see her in the lobby, beaming as usual and rushing to me with her test paper in tow. We take the nearest bench.
“Miss,” she says, without missing a beat, “you made a mistake in your addition. You gave me additional four points!”
With this new, and correct, computation, Sunshine’s grade goes down to B. That’s a first, that can’t be.
I blanch and pale, like a castaway who has been kept in a dark, musty dungeon too long.
On impulse, I hug her—a gesture instructors are discouraged to make (in the campus at least) to give that student-teacher relationship a semblance of respectability. “Good girl!” But it is an act far better than what I had in mind—bang my head on the wall.
In her final report card, I write in the space that says, Comments: “Apart from excellence, Sunshine also means: integrity.”
Yes, one day a week, God’s grace allows the sun to shine on me, and I find a new meaning to the word sunshine.
The rest of the days during the trimester have been pretty much the same. Suns
hine always shines.Then comes a major class activity which I had created to help my students tackle the final exam, moderated in London. I nicknamed it “Mock Test” because it mimics the tone of test which was to happen in two weeks.
I expect Sunshine to get an A. She does.
The following day after giving my students back their papers, I get a text message from Sunshine. “Miss, there has been an error in my grade. I’d like to show it to you tomorrow.”
Gee, what nerve, I say to myself. My impulse is to text back, “You got an A. Anything higher than that won’t make any difference!” But my once-a-week teaching stint, and aging, have tamed my temper and tongue. After counting from one to ten, my fingers text back, “Ok, see you tomorrow.”
I see her in the lobby, beaming as usual and rushing to me with her test paper in tow. We take the nearest bench.
“Miss,” she says, without missing a beat, “you made a mistake in your addition. You gave me additional four points!”
With this new, and correct, computation, Sunshine’s grade goes down to B. That’s a first, that can’t be.
I blanch and pale, like a castaway who has been kept in a dark, musty dungeon too long.
On impulse, I hug her—a gesture instructors are discouraged to make (in the campus at least) to give that student-teacher relationship a semblance of respectability. “Good girl!” But it is an act far better than what I had in mind—bang my head on the wall.
In her final report card, I write in the space that says, Comments: “Apart from excellence, Sunshine also means: integrity.”
Yes, one day a week, God’s grace allows the sun to shine on me, and I find a new meaning to the word sunshine.
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