Some days are better, some days are worse. Their universe is small but resembles the real world. They fight, fidget, gossip and sometimes they work. Sometimes I'm tired, some days they are. Some days we find a base from which we can take things, sometimes we seem to waste our time together.
There are times when I stand in front of the class, three seconds away from despair. Because I have something to teach them, something I know they must learn. Urgently. Because otherwise we can't move on. But I have no idea how to say it. Because I've already said it thrice. At least. In different ways. In all the different ways I can think of. And they are not listening. Fidgeting. Bored. They're in their early twenties and they learn exclusively for me. I'm the only one who knows the big secret. That they'll need what I have to say in their professional lifes.
And while I do the dance of frustration, metaphorically biting my nails and literally working on a modish ruffled hedgehog hairdo, raking my fingers through my hair while I desperately try to come up with the fifth way to paraphrase what I have to say, one of them silently puts his pen to paper and just does it. Does whatever I've desperately been trying to teach them. It's as though teaching is happening while I look the other way. What triggers it? I couldn't say. Is it one word? It's like the Lego mystery: When you need a red piece of lego with two knobs you have to look for the blue one with four knobs. Everybody knows that. Maybe the straight line to teaching them perspective would be to talk about body proportions?