Where the Sidewalk Ends

Mrs. Shea, my first grade teacher, used to read stories to our class after recess. My favorite days were when she selected Shel Silverstein’s poems from the bookshelf that stood in the corner, almost hidden under layers of drying cut-and-paste spelling word pages. I was (and still am!) mesmerized by the goofy words and the black and white drawings scribbled across the pages. A giraffe that stretched another half with rat in his hat, looking cute in a suit, with a rose on his nose? Why not?

Years later, Silverstein still remains one of my favorite poets. Every time I step out of our apartment in Kathmandu, I’ve been reminded of his poem, “Where the Sidewalk Ends:”

There is a place where the sidewalk ends

And before the street begins,

And there the grass grows soft and white,

And there the sun burns crimson bright,

And there the moon-bird rests from his flight

To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black

And the dark street winds and bends.

Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow

We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And watch where the chalk-white arrows go

To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,

For the children, they mark, and the children, they know

The place where the sidewalk ends.

I’m reminded of this because the dusty air that carries the (sometimes not-so-faint) sour smell of trash isn’t quite a peppermint wind. I doubt the taxi drivers know the speed “measured and slow.” And with our current neighborhood construction, there is hardly any sidewalk to boast of at all. It seems we spend more time jumping from curb to curb trying to find where the sidewalk actually begins.

But just yesterday I was reminded about the children in the poem, and in this case, the students I met on my day of “practice” teaching. Two other ETAs, Jeanie and Martha, and I approached the closed door in the neighborhood primary school where we would get our first taste of teaching in Nepali public schools. We were going to teach location prepositions to a fifth grade class. Or at least that was the plan.

We had spent hours over the past few days structuring lesson plans, coloring story cards, and carefully writing out the lyrics to an improvised memorization chant. (FYI, we’ve found you can do a lot with the tune “Mary had a Little Lamb”) But despite this preparation, I felt a little more like a contestant on a game show than a teacher walking into her class. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s see what’s behind door number three…

Swinging it open with a loud “NAMASTE!” we were greeted by thirty pairs of bright eyes and grins that had more space in between teeth than students on the benches. I could almost feel the energy bouncing off the blue cement walls. We’ve been brainstorming activities, games, and songs for the past few weeks, but it wasn’t until we were in front of actual students that teaching became alive.

Yes, there was a crazy 5-minute distraction when a giant (and I mean giant!) wasp flew in through the open window. My off-key singing of our chant was also nothing to write home about. And yet I couldn’t help leaving the classroom with a big goofy grin, inspired and rejuvenated to begin my new teaching assignment next week in Gorkha.

While our made up story about Santosh the elephant looking for the peanut hidden by Sita the mouse to teach prepositions isn’t quite Silverstein material, perhaps it can offer a beginning to where the sidewalk ends.