The bad boy who loved me

I mentioned that I only caught one boy cheating twice.

Well, this post is about him.

Actually, I saw him do it three times. And what do I mean by cheating? I mean that I saw his eyes stray over to the paper next to him during test time. What he may not have realized was that this was pointless; I had an A and B test anyway so cheating this way was almost impossible, but I didn't tell them that. I just told them that cheating was bad and I would take off points for it if they did it.

I watched them like an American turkey vulture.

The first time Ammar cheated, he looked at me right afterwards. I gave him the look and shook my head. He quickly went back to his test and didn't try it again that day.

Before the next test, however, I told them that I had seen one or two of them cheating and that this time I wouldn't let them get away with it. I wasn't kidding. When Ammar did it again, I marched right up to his paper and wrote "-2" in red ink at the top of his paper. The tall nearly-fifteen-year-old knew I meant business. His kumah tilted forward on his narrow dark head as he leaned back over his paper.

But that is only a part of it.

"Teacher, Teacher!" Ammar would call, waving his hand in the air as I asked a question. The kid didn't have a shy bone in his body. If I asked a question, he would almost certainly raise his hand even if he really didn't know the answer. He often didn't, unless it was a number, but I admired his spunk. If I needed a volunteer, I could almost always count on Ammar. In fact, after a test one day I needed four volunteers for a translator drama game, and my four trusty boys I've already mentioned were the only ones either not too shy or not too cool to come forward: Iy, Ali, Abdul-Ahmed, and of course, Ammar.

One day, I asked my students to tell me about traditions at Eid.

"You get money," Iy told me.

"Yes, that is very good," Ammar chuckled. He may not have been a ham like Abdul-Ahmed, but he could see the funny side to anything, and that always made me smile.

Cheating, however, was not Ammar's only problem. He chattered and joked in Arabic repeatedly. The extra homework passed through his hands many times. I spoke to him multiple times about it, telling him that we would have to call his father if he didn't stop.

One day, I broke. I don't even remember what was happening, and of course I don't know enough Arabic to know what he said. But that was it. Next thing I knew I was saying, "Ammar! Someone will call be calling your father today." If you think you know me, you might be surprised by how very serious I could get with my students. He was pretty solemn after I told him this. In a culture where shame and honor is everything and where teachers are actually respected figures, I knew that contacting his family would have an effect.

The next day was a random holiday.

The day after that, Ammar was back. He was not Mr. Perfect, but he was better--at least I imagined it so. I did not refer to his transgression, but since he was the first (and only) student I had actually disciplined, I wanted him to know that I did not hate him. People crave praise wherever they are, and I had been told in this honor-shame society that praise might go a long way in winning students. I wasn't sure if I had praised my students very much or not, honestly. I was so conscious of not wanting to show the boys unprofessional favor while also not showing the girls favoritism, I couldn't tell if I praised them enough. But gradually, I got warmer in my affirmations when a student answered something correctly, and because I was worried that he might think I disliked him, I was most conscious in my praise of Ammar. I had put him down; now was the time to raise him up.

"Very good, Ammar."

"Awesome, Ammar."

"Excellent, Ammar!"

Little did I know that this might actually be affecting him. He did not turn into a star student immediately, but something seemed to change.

One day, a girl brought me a chocolate because it was her birthday.

After Ammar had his fifteenth birthday on the weekend, he brought me a heart-shaped bag of five chocolates.

Now, as my class reached its end and I hadn't received any invitations from my students yet, I decided to do a little shameless hinting, at my sister's suggestion.

"Shall I come to your houses during the Eid and tell your parents what kind of students you are?" I asked.

"Yes, Teacher!"

"Come visit me, Teacher!"

"We want you, Teacher!"

I was blown away by the effusive barrage my students flung at me, particularly from the boys' side of the room

"Give me a time and a place, and I will come visit you. Maybe I can tell A's family how he likes to go to D---. Or maybe I could tell Iy's family that he is a good student, but he listens to the girls speaking Arabic instead of studying in class."

The other boys laughed with me, while my mischievous Iy shook his head and said, "Not good." (Don't worry, he still talks to me.)

Still, despite the flood of flippant invitations, only one student stayed after class to make sure I knew I was welcome: Ammar, the student I had reprimanded, tattled on, and docked for cheating. The student who had the most reason to hate me was the only one who really wanted me to come for a visit.

Of course, when I actually did visit his house, I didn't visit with him. I spent the whole time with his mother and sisters. But I got to see him outside their gate, and he was absolutely beaming.

"I am very happy," he told me. And I realized that I was truly honoring him. And I also realized that this "bad" boy loved me. Not wrongly, but rightly.

But that's not all. On the last day of class, after a girl brought me a beautiful shawl and Iy gave me very nice frankincense, Ammar told me that he had a present he would bring that night to the party.

"But you already gave me a present." The chocolate had only come a few days before that.

No, he insisted he had something for me. This was a gift-giving culture, after all, and I've started to learn that you can't out-give an Arab.

That night, my boys showered me with perfume, lotion, and a real red rose. But I still hadn't opened Ammar's gift; he had hardly even looked at me as he gave it to me and ducked away. It was wrapped in shiny pink paper with hearts and the word "Romantic" written all over it. That might seem weird in American culture, but knowing this culture, it was nothing but sweet in my eyes. But I wasn't prepared for what was inside: a set of new paintbrushes and oil paints.

Here was a boy who had given me a gift that wasn't a typical girl-Teacher present. He had paid attention in class as I said what I liked to do and showed pictures of my artwork. And he remembered: Miss Kayla likes to paint. As I opened it, I saw the thoughtfulness of the boy I had disciplined and gone out of my way to praise.

I almost cried.

Of course, when Kendra described my gift from Ammar to his cousins as we were visiting with them a couple of days later, they laughed and said, "He got those for his birthday!"

Maybe re-gifting takes the beauty out of it, but it doesn't for me. In fact, it makes it more like him. Ammar, the tall dark boy who was sometimes bad but who was thoughtful and funny enough to give away his own birthday present. And who loved his tough teacher.

Abdul-Ahmed might be the most likely to make me smile, and Ali might be the most likely to make my heart melt. But Ammar is the most likely to do both at the same time.