You've got to read this

The following is a paper I wrote for writing class a few years ago. It describes my introduction to teaching art, and I thought it was hilarious! In case you get the wrong impression, I do like teaching art, but it can often try my patience. Oh, and I don't mean to insult any of the kids involved either. Enjoy!

Lessons From a Pack of Rascals
By Benjamin Berkompas

Children have always been the same at heart, though long ago they were, by strict rules and standards, much more restrained in manifesting those childlike traits than today’s average kid. The prime of a child’s life is from age 5 to age 8, when they are full of mischief and energy, impatience and inanity, and full to the brim of insanity. Out of all these, impatience, inanity and energy are predominant. When dealing with children in this stage of life, one must choose to either be a tyrant and inspire fear and respect through brutality, or don the less glamorous garb of gentleness and patience, with which to gradually win over the less bouncy side of their personality. Common sense dictates which of the two is preferable—tyrannical dictatorship. But the Bible commands meekness and patience, attributes that are absolutely essential when handling young children. Add 2 teaspoons of determination and you have the perfect mixture.

It was the second day of the Boys Summer Campout, and the weather was blistering. A tarp suspended on metal poles cast its shadow upon the back patio, providing some relief from the intensity of the sunlight, though it in no way lessened the sweltering temperature. Several tables sat under the canopy and upon them lay an assortment of art supplies: bottles of paint, plastic pallets, brushes, water, and paper towels, all awaiting the pleasure of a gang of youngsters who, at that moment rounded the corner in a disorderly array and took their seats. Then a mad frenzy ensued. In an instant, the table was bristling with brushes, strewn with pallets and flooded with water. Once I had collected my wits, I reclaimed the vast spoils of those who had gathered and horded far more than their share, and distributed the materials among the poor. The class began.

I won’t say it was an entirely miserable experience, because that would be stretching the truth. It was one, however, which tried my patience to the utmost. Our goal was to paint rocks, and that’s exactly what we did, using the word “paint” in the broadest possible sense. It would have been easier to take a pair of tongs and simply dip the stones in different colors until the children were satisfied. Most of their creations were abstract, and since many of the kids were entirely in the dark when it came to mixing colors, they created some revolting hues. Some attempted to paint pizza; it looked more like overcooked spaghetti. Others tried to make fish; they looked like underdeveloped amphibians. A few endeavored to paint faces; it looked like Picasso tried his hand at cartooning. Of course, I didn’t tell them this. It’s a teacher’s job to encourage his students and keep his inward groans to himself, hoping that in the future, they might improve. The hope within me faded very quickly.

Not all of the young artists were untalented. It was evident that some had an eye for detail. But their skills were raw and undeveloped, so their work was nearly as juvenile as the rest. As a teacher unaccustomed to working with such carefree, abstract artists, I was frustrated by their ignorance, and unnerved by their startling results. But kids will be kids, so the only thing to do was to be patient, persevering and supportive, letting them just do their own thing. But even art teachers don’t have a limitless supply of energy, and what with scurrying around, giving tips and pouring paint, I soon felt like the only attendant in an 11,000 square foot department store. The first class was tiring, the second was more tiring, and the third was indescribably exhausting. When it was all over, the children’s’ creations were set on strips of newspaper to dry in the sun. Then came the task of sorting them into bags, and trying to give an explanation as to why so and so had one too many or too few. Finally, the last cohort of rascals scampered off to shoot BB guns out front, and I took a well-earned siesta. It had been a strenuous and exasperating afternoon, but now that it was over, I looked back and considered how much worse it would have been if my lid had blown.

Children are nearly insurmountable walls that can only be scaled by gentleness, patience and tenacity. It’s difficult to contain the wrathful impulses that their behavior often provokes, but consider how little it affects them when they do get remonstrated. They fall back into the same groove of behavior as before, and when confronted, they innocently reply, ‘I forgot.’ What can you say to that? “Don’t forget?” When they “forget” again, they’ll just say they didn’t hear you say not to forget. Children have more loopholes than a spaghetti strainer. But kids can’t stay kids forever. When they mature, they will cast off their unreasonable character and will eventually have to deal with children of their own. Perhaps future generations will be successful in training their children to act more politely, behave more peacefully, listen more carefully—the list could go on and on—but I doubt it. After all, kids are what God created them to be, complete contradictions, and full of lessons for those willing to listen.