I KNOW THERE IS TECHNICALLY A NATIONAL TEACHERS DAY IN THE United States (it’s the Tuesday of the first full week in May, in case you’ve forgotten), but having put two kids through the U.S. public school system, I can say it was never a big deal in Gorham. When Logan and Jackson were younger, I remember sending them to school one year with small gifts and cards to pass out, but that was pretty much it. Over time, the occasion just came and went with all the fanfare of Arbor Day. Now, I suppose it’s possible that some school districts make a big production of Teachers Day … but I’d be willing to bet that even the most lavish American celebrations pale in comparison to the heartfelt extravaganza the kids at the Nong Kha School put together for us.
Teachers Day in Thailand is really a three-day event. At least it was while we were there. The first day was rehearsal, and on that particular day it was hot. How hot? If the small travel clock / temperature gauge I carried with me was to be believed, it was 50 degrees Celsius in the sun. That’s 125 degrees Fahrenheit! To put this number in perspective, the hottest temperature ever recorded on earth is 134 degrees, or just nine degrees warmer. In the shade where I was sitting, it was 110 degrees, which made it by far the hottest ambient indoor air temperature I had ever experienced.
Into this heat, all 280 students were called to an open assembly hall. The hall was really just a supported roof with a half wall all the way around and no windows; it was used as a common area for gym class on rainy days and for the occasional all-school meetings. The kids sat on the cement floor, lined up in neat rows from grades one through twelve, boys on the left side, girls on the right. On the stage before them, there was an elaborate Buddhist altar and a row of chairs. The chairs were where Traca and I and a few other teachers sat, surrounded by electric fans.
What followed was an intense, earnest scene that I seriously doubt many Western schoolkids could duplicate without a stack of discipline problems or possibly even open rebellion. After a lengthy lecture on the importance of Teachers Day, the Nong Kha students came forward, youngest to oldest, in groups of eight. With painstaking precision and sincere little faces, the students practiced how they would prostrate themselves before a statue of the Buddha. Then, shuffling on their knees along a woven banana leaf runner, they moved in front of us, their teachers, where they practiced another very specific supplication before offering us their gifts, which for the moment consisted of slightly embarrassed imaginary hand gestures. This went on for four hours.
The next day there were no classes. It was an entire day set aside for the students to work, unsupervised, on their offerings. The idea was to make an elaborate, stylized creation out of clay, fruit, and real flowers. It was a contest, and near as I could tell, there were no guidelines. The kids just shaped and sculpted and crafted their works of art, gathering in small groups all over the school grounds. We, the teachers, basically hung out all day. We didn’t have to look over the kids’ shoulders and keep them on task. They weren’t being graded on this. They just worked on their own. One group was up until midnight that night completing their masterpiece.
The third day was Teachers Day. No classes. Showtime.
Every student who had been in need of a haircut came to school that day sporting a crisp new do; many young boys looked like monks with their freshly buzzed heads. All clothes were cleaned and pressed. Everyone looked happy. We assembled in the hall, kids on the floor, teachers and Buddha on the stage. When everyone was in position, the bowing, prostrating, and gift giving got under way.
The creativity was incredible. While the youngest Thai kids offered simple arrangements of wildflowers wrapped in palm fronds, the older students went all out, creating complex and beautiful designs, each more original than the next. There were multilayered towers of golden bowls filled with cascading flower garlands. There were intricately folded banana leaves curved like wings on the back of an ornate dragon carved from a pineapple. The offerings were like mini Rose Bowl parade floats, vibrantly colorful with thousands of tiny petals. They were also painfully temporary. In the intense heat, these arrangements would not last the day.
Flowers aside, the real stars of the show were the students. As usual, they were well behaved, but it was more than just their ability to sit still. Maybe I’m giving them too much credit, but their little scrubbed faces were shining with what looked to me like reverence, a sincere, humble respect for their teachers, for my family, and for me. They were bowing at our feet, every last one of them.
When it was all done, one final floral creation was placed in the center of the hall. I thought it was for the winner of the Offering Design contest, but it wasn’t. It was for us. “You like,” Aud told me with a smile. “Go sit.”
Traca, Logan, Jackson, and I sat around a low table as a local priest recited an ancient incantation, designed—I was later told—to keep us safe on our journey and bring us luck in our lives. As he did, the students and the teachers formed a ring around us and a roll of string was unwound, tied to the flower centerpiece and extended until it encircled the entire group. I could not understand the rapid-fire Thai blessing we received, but the feeling in the room was clear. We honor you, it said, and we hold you, for this moment, at the center of our lives.
When the prayer ended, the priest closed his book and tied a small string around each of our left wrists. It’s a tradition in Thai culture. They do it at weddings—all the guests offer strings of luck to the bride and groom—and the sentiment was the same for us. By itself, a single string didn’t look like much, just a white line across the brown of my skin. But a single string was not what our friends had in mind.
We were moved to four chairs, and one by one, in a beautiful receiving line of smiling familiar faces, the staff and kids came forward to honor us, each with a collection of strings to offer. Some boys gave Jackson an actual bracelet, quickly slipping it on her wrist and whispering “I love you” before hurrying triumphantly away. Others attached penny candies to their strings. Most strings were the traditional white yarn that the local monks made, blessed and sold in the village temple. Others were pink. Some were baby blue. As they tied them, they also offered us blessings in their best English. Things like:
“Many luck.”
“Many many maah-nee.”
“Happy happy … everything!”
“I love Tee-cha!”
“Good aftanoon. Many rich!”
It may sound like a simple gesture but it was incredibly touching. Traca was in tears for most of the ceremony, basking in the generosity and heartfelt kindness of these people. Actually, it didn’t take much to push her over the emotional edge. She was experiencing a kindness overload at the time. Her little cabal of female teacher friends surprised her with a custom-made Thai coat, created specifically for her by a local tailor, then presented her with an elaborate fruit carving one afternoon just because they loved her. With those as primers, a parade of more than two hundred sincere well-wishers easily filled her heart to overflowing. But I suppose that was the whole point of Teachers Day to begin with.