What’s in a name?

My first name is quite simple and straightforward, as far as names go. Some might even call it bland, or blah, or double blah. Luckily I’m blessed with a last name that overshadows its precursor – it gives others the opportunity to make witty remarks like, Todd [pronounced tod] [. . .] WAIT! Get it? Anyway, more on the sentence that is my name later, back to Todd. One syllable, four letters, though it’s pronounced the same using three: T-o-d – I have only my vanity to thank for insisting others spell it with four. Nevertheless, some Mongolians struggle to make the necessary sounds to produce T+o+d in a succinct manner. My host mother still refers to me as T-o-o-d, even in text messages, ‘Ehj (Mum)! You’re embarrassing me! Now all my friends call me Tood! or ToodleMcStruedle! or toodEtood!’ but she’s my host mom – so what’s a volunteer to do? And really, what’s in a name? This question springs to mind a once foreign now familiar word, one I CAN pronounce clearly and identify accurately in Mongolian, “Gahdad.” The root of the word ‘Gahda’ translates as, ‘outside.’ I learned this word shortly after arriving to inquire about weather forecasts. However, as I continue to walk here-and-there, to-and-fro, whichever way the dust blows – I recognize Gahdad in the wind with increasing regularity. Gahdad, much like its root suggests, refers to a foreigner – someone from the outside. I happen to be a stereotypical Gahdad. I’m much taller than the average Mongolian; I sport a lighter complexion, lighter hair, a gangly walk, a long, crooked nose, blue eyes – all the trappings of a Gahdad. Sometimes when I’m out n’ about with a Mongolian friend I become such n’ such’s Gahdad. Naturally Mongolians don’t distinguish between a Russian gahdad Indian gahdad Mexican gahdad … – that’s the nice thing about gahdad’s – they’re all the same. So forget about the who’s and what’s and where’s and when’s and why’s that shed light on the (wo)man behind the mask, communication crumbles, stereotypes set in, and people are dammed to remain gahdads to one another, thereby further preserving the state of our respective worlds – flat. Blah!

And did you know I struggled in the classroom during my first go-round? Yes sir, I was no more a teacher than I am a Mongolian. I was a gahdad – double blah! I wasn’t speaking my students’ language – and I’m not talking about English. I was reminded of my gahdad status during classes as I gazed at pews filled with confusion, doubt, and worst of all, utter indifference. I thumbed through the teacher’s Talmud, desperate to find a sign that would lead to the salvation of my forsaken classroom. Lesson plans, group activities, computer software, games, bribes, Hail Mary’s – unanswered prayers. I was scheming and blaming and punting and praying and despite satisfactory reviews from counterparts and cohorts I knew in my heart of hearts I was failing. Like our fallen progenitors, I had succumb to temptation and bitten the teacher’s forbidden fruit – I was making excuses.

In truth, I was so busy trying to think like a teacher, look like a teacher, walk talk n’ act like a teacher, I’d forgotten to be a human. I don’t mean to suggest that teachers aren’t human, some aren’t, of course, but that’s the few, not the many. I pray. If I refuse to forfeit my humanity outright during that semester, I must confess I was a humane misanthrope. How else to explain presiding over classrooms day after day, week after week, month after month for an entire semester and learning only a handful of names! I didn’t bother with names or personal stories because let’s face it, all students are the same. So what,’s in a name? After all, I was focused on the big picture of Mongolia’s sinful education system. Teachers were trained to mimic the style and methodology of their godless Soviet comrades. They preached to their classes like the Pope rules the Vatican, righteous untouchable infallible. ‘Tisk tisk Mongolia!’ Here’s a gahdad to show you the light. But don’t trouble him with Peter Paul John and Judas – they’re all the same – and he has ‘work’ to do. I was treating my students like gahdads in their classroom, in their community, in their country – all in the name of a greater good.

But just as I was blessed with a surname that trumps the blandness of my first, my personal salvation resides in my faith that I’m not a full-time jackass, only part-time. As I slowly awoke from my first semester coma, I came to appreciate what’s in a name. Second semesters, like baptisms, wash away sins of the past and give the sinner a second chance in our postlapsarian existence. At the outset of this semester I gave each of my students a 3x5 index card. On the inside of the card I asked them to write their name, age, number of family members, hometown, hobby/hobbies, favorite ‘something,’ someone they would like to meet, future ambitions, and a destination they’d like to visit. On the outside of the card I asked them to write their name in big block letters, fold the card in half, and place it on their desk. On one side they wrote their full name ‘Ayruunzaya’ and on the opposite side they wrote a shorter name, ‘Zaya.’ At the beginning of each class I select a few students to, ‘Please tell us about yourself.’ As the semester progresses, my plan is to introduce additional questions/information to include in our introductory activity. In addition, I no longer mindlessly ‘shh’ the entire class, I ask Muhkbaatar to please listen to Erdenesuren while he speaks and so on. Their reaction to this humane classroom treatment has exceeded all expectations. Attendance is up. Enthusiasm is up. I’m up. Born again. I’ve made a U-turn. And I’m happy to report that my students are following me on the road away from perdition.