The Teacher: Beyond Intelligence  

"Mero ta  Moj cha Yaar,"- “I am having extreme fun” – my friend Ramesh replied when I asked him about his well-being over the phone. Ramesh and I had been intimate friends since childhood, growing up in the same countryside, studying together at the local college, Ramesh was always the top student; his intelligence was far superior to that of his peers, a fact reflected in his academic results as well.

After earning his bachelor's degree, he headed to Kathmandu to pursue further education and continued to shine in his academic journey. He excelled at the top of his master's degree program at a prestigious university. His academic achievements were the talk of our village, and we all celebrated his success.

However, during the conversation, Ramesh revealed another side of his life. "During the day, I teach at three different private colleges as a part-time English teacher in Kathmandu," he admitted. "But mostly on Friday nights, I spend time drinking whiskey at bars in Thamel with some students. They pay for everything since they belong to rich families."

I couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment. Somewhere deep down, those words compelled me to question the ethics of his professional life, as they seemed to reflect a lack of wisdom and character despite his engaging classes, knowledge, and the success of his students under his guidance.

Some philosophers argue that wisdom is a broader term than intelligence. Wisdom includes ethical values and actions, and those who possess wisdom can distinguish between wrong and right. 

However, despite being a teacher who is supposed to be full of wisdom, Ramesh’s choice to visit bars and drink with students made me feel that he lacks such qualities. During our conversation, he also mentioned that he does not feel the positive burden of duties and responsibilities, as he is a part-time teacher and most of his fellow teachers are unfamiliar with him. 

"Who comes and goes doesn’t matter. No one knows except the person who hired you," he said. Ramesh is a clear illustration of the moral deficiencies prevalent among many teachers today. It is truly disheartening to realize that they undermine the integrity of the educational system.

The conversation made me ponder what makes a good teacher. Is intelligence the only criterion for being a good teacher? What about wisdom and character? What is the right process for selecting teachers? Do educational institutions train teachers to be honest and moral? How can they motivate teachers to be duty-bound and self-disciplined? 

In recent years, with the rise of science and technology, teachers have become more resourceful and knowledgeable than ever. 

However, it is crucial for them to also embody wisdom and good character. The role of a teacher is not only to impart academic knowledge but also to serve as a role model for students. The impact of a teacher on a student's life spreads beyond the classroom; Teachers’ values, ethics, overall personality, and character absolutely influence students.   

Therefore, the following considerations should be made during the selection process and after the selection of teachers.

Selection of Teachers

When selecting teachers, the education institutions should initiate a mechanism to evaluate candidates' ethical values, in addition to their excellent academic qualifications. The mechanism could include thorough background checks, psychological well-being assessments, and interviews focusing on ethical issues. By doing so, schools can ensure they are hiring teachers who are not only knowledgeable but also capable of serving as positive role models for their students.


Teachers’ Trainings beyond Curriculum and Methodology
 
Educational institutions often focus teacher training solely on curriculum, syllabus, and teaching methodologies. However, training should encompass more than these aspects. It should also cover ethics, self-discipline, and teachers' roles and responsibilities.


The cushioning role of the principal

The principal should create an environment where teachers feel that the institution is their second home by bridging the communication gap among staff members. Rewarding good behavior can motivate teachers to strive for excellence in all aspects of their roles. Additionally, the principal should make teachers feel like the school's true foundation by recognizing them as valuable employees. Fostering a sense of permanence and belonging will encourage teachers to dedicate both their hearts and minds to the organization.

This can be achieved through regular meetings, team-building activities, and, if needed, one-on-one positive counseling.
In a nutshell, the role of a teacher goes beyond imparting academic knowledge. Teachers should serve as role models embodying wisdom, good character, and ethical values. 

Therefore, educational institutions should prioritize selecting teachers who possess these qualities and provide professional as well as ethical training to help them grow in all aspects of their profession. Thus, schools can ensure that teachers are highly motivated, duty-bound, and self-disciplined. This, in turn, will have a positive impact on pupils. Over time, students will grow into individuals with strong moral values and ethical standards.

[Sushant Kumar B.K. is a Nepali poet, translator, educator, and freelance writer from Gulariya, Bardiya, Nepal. He holds two degrees: an MA in English Literature and Political Science. He primarily writes poems in English and Nepali. His poems have been featured in national and international anthologies, magazines, newspapers, and online portals. He can be reached at sushantacademia@gmail.com.".]

             The Costco Generation

The world is a famine place, a drought place

a war-torn place, a place we have made over

into a place of hunger and displacement. We

watch it all on TV, keep up as best we can. We

try to stay out of it all, very easily we look away

change the channel, fix a snack, reassure our-

selves. There’s nothing wrong with us. We are

the Costco generation, the Walmart generation

the all you can eat generation. We shop our fill

through aisles and aisles stacked to the ceiling

giant sized, jumbo sized, larger portions of all

we need or might need. We fear running out, so

we fill our cupboards and freezer and look for

the best deal, look for the best deal. We are ex-

ceptionalism in action, being exceptional and

living in it, acting it out. While the rest of them

seem to get it all wrong, stay homeless and stay

hungry, have wars playing out within their borders.

We, on the other hand, make war elsewhere and

send the weapons to fight in them. We complain

about the homeless and spend fortunes on diets

so we can look the part and live for almost for-

ever. We fill out the surveys, write online reviews,

spend countless hours on social media trying to

keep up enough to respond. This is the Costco

generation, warehouses full of all the things that

define us, make us over – leave us like this.

                  Terrorizing

We’re learning about terrorism from

the best of ’em, the worst of ‘em

Isis, Hezbollah, and Hamas, the better

known groups, and those smaller ones

and individuals who often claim

responsibility for some attack, explosion

or the assassination of some political figure

anything to get to be part of the news on

our various news networks, claim it and

get the fame, the recognition they need in

the terrorist game. We watch it go on

24 hours a day, yesterday, last night, this morning.

It’s like an out of control weed, a pandemic,

a bit of climate change that is drying us out

leaving us the shell of our former selves.

Now we have become students of death, in its

various forms, destruction for its own sake.

We’ve become helpless talking heads that

are watching the world come apart, and we

are terrorizing ourselves with it.

        Modern Medicine

Check-In and Check-Out for

Interventional Pain Medicine

shares a waiting room with

the Check-In and Check-Out

for Endocrinology and Bone

Density Scan, so there’s sort

of a crowd checking-in or out

most of the day. This is a quiet

crowd, mostly older folks who

probably know what’s coming.

The diabetics cluster around one

end of the room, while the rest

spread out, some alone and some

have a driver along, the pain meds

they get numb up a knee or hip

or other joint making their drive

home a bit of a problem. This is

contemporary medicine with an

assortment of cheerful nurses and

aids and over-serious receptionists

near a sign reminding us not to harm

health care works – it’s a crime to

hit or spit on them or even threaten

them – this is modern medicine and

modern patients are ready to take each

other on – this is the waiting room.

J.K. Durick is a retired teacher, taught for years at Trinity College of Vermont and after that for many years at the Community College of Vermont. He and a friend started following the pandemic by writing a poem for every day – we now have run out of pandemic and have written 1618 and plan to continue till we run out.

The Memories

He can’t 

Write away

The memories

But he can

Write through them

And that’s

Not just

A big deal,

It’s everything.

Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. “Rescue Dog,” his fifth book, was published in May.

DECREATION

It is one moment past midnight

on the 8th day of morning.

Our Styx ferries become consumed

with the burning of bibles.

Seven heavens eighten themselves

and shrink and infinitize.

In this silent Babel

the sciencemagic we learned

while head over heels upside down

from hanged Marut and Harut

is finding and losing its feet.

Apocalypse collapses.

Ahuramazda unities

vanish darkness into bright.

Medusa’s pale horse Pegasus

comets Quetzalcoatl;

Fenris swallows the Eighth Archon

and then pukes and pukes him out.

The set sun eludes prediction.

No west exists to rise from.

CARNIVAL OF LOVE

The bearded lady

has two lovers,

the apeman and the geek.

Their sex is crazy,

peeling rubber

on high wires and the street.

When bearded lady

becomes mother

to a new circus freak,

the lucky baby

has two others

to help him feel unique.

FOWL WEATHER

Six ducks in a pond

swimming through a warm sweet spring rain–

pond is duck is air.

STILL STRANGERS:

EROS

IN EROSION

After years

of wear, she would sew

with those sharp dead

beads, new thoughts

into the threadbare pattern of memory,

and he solder

his older, darker, thoughts into place….

… Long ago…

they learned to slaughter

their eager laughter and tear

their deepest tears out of each’s other,

they taught themselves to utilize their exquisite words

like hamhamhammers and broadswords–

then, their mutual wounds

they wound all about their lives like poison ivy.

(Each just one more bothersome

clone to the other…)

But

There had been a time

,once,

before the tiny

mutiny,

when they were still strangers

to anger,

when they could lie naked,

sun-baked upon the jurassic sands

or beside the slow hearth,

unearthing new treasures from their together,

when, in some safe

cafe, their yes

-eyes could swallow entire

their sweet menus

of Venus

and for many an hour

pour their love

from lip to mouth like milk from a pitcher to a glass.

But that time passed…

Strangely

angel-like, two

naif

waifs

blown

down,

unable to unwind all the ivy accumulation

in a rugged wind – they just

shrugged, unable to face down

the demons of their facetious selves.

(This is not simply

to imply that they weren’t determined.

But, over time, stubborn assiduity becomes undermined,

especially when connubial cement lacks

reinforcement.

So, by fragile grapevines, over

tangled ravines,

the values they were hanging onto

kept changing.

They were unable to forge a structure anew

or to forget old collapse.

Neither the heights of their dear science nor

the weight of alerted conscience,

And not Keats, and certainly

not Yeats,

could keep the crevices in their isolate selves

from inventing the devices of their together’s undoing.)

Beached,

they discovered the sea:

inequal parts nausea and mystery.

HIGH COUP

O moon, so distant…

I’m not smokin’ in Tokyo,

my poem will not fire.

“Revolution bursts

sunlight on stained stainless steel:

your yolkcolored hair.”

Night’s vaunted Shakespeare:

just flaccid Little Willie,

cold to geisha stars.

“Nestraw hair – egg’s eye

blue – honeyed limbs; trunkhugging

bearcubeMe:     climbing.”

Sake enflames verse

(you say), arouses rhythm,

kindles rhymes sublime–

mine (old drunken whore)

fires up unsuccessfully,

sucks relentlessly,

till we fall asleep.

And Basho the monk remains,

red raw poem limp, still.

…

IN SOLITARY 

1. SAMIZDAT*

 Writer’s craft: manacled to conviction 

           like any zek to his sentence, 

            like a blatnoi to a pen

: assaults its own position 

: like a gaybist missionary, assassinates its friends

: like any other virgin –

just another bloody period, 

and another conception ends.

2.  YOUR BODY TELLS THE HIGHWAYMAN 

If prose is just a page running across your face, 

poetry is the line lying between your thighs.

Your body tells the highwayman’s short story life:

The drama of poems at the point of conception, 

but just one more hackneyed form in execution.

3.      LIFE/SENTENCE

 key in the cake –

(in music, truth hid?)

oh,

the poet’s prison is 

the rhythm of his

poem 

                        starved, 

                        scarred – 

he makes his

break

*inspired by Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag Archipelago

…

Nothing

I have never existed

Before

Being Here

I will never exist

Here again

After this

Everything else is just

Something that happens

In between nothing

When life takes an empty turn,

The performer collapses off the stage

The fire put on for the cremation burns down the script

The actor has nothing left to do in this drama

From all the glories of human pursuits,

Each of us can only take our portion of nothing

Gaurav Ojha

Kathmandu, Nepal