At the back of the class, someone is listening

IN MY chequered career, alternating between journalism, publishing and design, I had been — for almost two years — responsible for introducing young minds to the wonders and possibilities that exist in the world of architecture. It was not something that I took lightly. I find teaching a weighty responsibility — not due to the workload, but the fact that one is dealing with actual "human beings" whose minds would more or less be influenced by what I would say and do.

A graduate of architecture, I was trained to interpret a design brief and provide solutions. Who will use this space, this building? Problems of circulation, access ... Consider the aesthetics. Cost. Yes, architects are trained to create spaces, physical structures for people to live and work or to enjoy art and culture. Sometimes, the brief calls for the design of more ominous structures — like a prison, for example. Like it or not, these are problems to be solved.

Most of the time, architects deal with clients, consultants — and of course contractors (the bane of their existence) and on-site workers. Architects — unlike teachers, lecturers, nurses or doctors — do not really have to deal with people in close proximity on a daily basis. Like surgeons, they are thought to be aloof and detached.

A college friend of mine said, "You can tell an architecture student from the photos they take." Architecture students like to take photos without people, observing how light enters the building and the juxtapositions of linear and planar elements. People just get in the way of the "perfect elevation". Architects like "control". Drawing on a blank piece of paper, he has control of his "idea of the world". (Of course, the client has control over whether this "world" will be built or not.)

Based on my experience and observation, dealing with people is not one of the architect's strongest attributes. As an educator, however, I had to deal with people — young people (with too much energy, and sometimes too much belligerence) — on a daily basis. Sometimes, I wished they were stick figures on a piece of paper that I could control.

I have to confess that the reason I had accepted the teaching position was not for "the love of teaching". It definitely wasn't a "calling". I had wanted to explore and formulate my own ideas about architecture and that required being part of a faculty. Teaching was what I had to do, not what I wished to do. But the strangest thing about the brief experience is that I have come to understand why, despite being described as a "thankless profession", teaching does have its own rewards.

A few years ago, on the way to the Petronas Twin Towers, I bumped into a former student — a tall young man from Kenya — at the LRT station in Wangsa Maju, Kuala Lumpur. I had left the teaching post at a university college in Cyberjaya (Malaysia's Silicon Valley) for a publishing job; he was visiting friends and sorting out papers before leaving for Manchester, UK to further his education. Needless to say, I was very surprised — and impressed. I didn't think he would make it.

He was enrolled in one of my design classes but he was almost invisible, sitting quietly at the back of the class. Most of the time, I suspected, his mind was elsewhere. His attendance was hardly stellar. When I pointed that out, he said that at the time, he was really young and foolish. He was influenced by a Malaysian Chinese girlfriend who kept distracting him — he had had "too much of a good time". Back then, he ruefully admitted, having the latest mobile phone was more important than buying a reference book. He showed me his current "cheaper" mobile phone. "Look, I've grown up," he said. His "dose of reality" came after the wealthy father of a close friend died. It seemed that the father was not as "well off" as the friend had thought. Overnight, the friend lost his financial support. That woke him up, he said, and he decided to focus on his studies instead of fooling around.

"But I remember what you said," he told me. I was shocked. He actually remembered something I said in a class that he hardly attended? Apparently, I said something like, "You must have passion in whatever you do".

When they first enrolled, most of them were "clueless" about what the course entailed but I didn't want to dictate what they should or shouldn't do. My teaching method was based on my experience as a student at the Birmingham School of Architecture where basically, you can do whatever you want — you set your own limitations. In a design class, the process matters more than the end result. How you get from A to Z is more valuable than the finished product itself.

A university education is hoped to provide a person with the ability to think independently, make tough decisions and to stand by that decision. One of the most difficult things a design student would have to go through is to defend his work to a group of examiners in an open "crit", with his fellow students in attendance. All eyes would be on him and he has to say: "This is my proposal and I stand by it."

At the station, commuters were rushing all around us. He stood out. Not just because he was different — or tall. He had a "presence",which was not there before. Looking at him then, all "grown up" and confident, so full of purpose, so different from the quiet young man who sat at the back of the class, I thought: Did I have a part - however tiny - in this "evolution"?

The memory of this meeting was actually triggered by the recently Oscar-nominated movie, The Blind Side, a true story about Michael Oher, the fumbling, uncertain teenager who eventually becomes a football star. While Sandra Bullock has top billing as the lead character Leigh Ann Tuohy, a rich, big-hearted woman who takes a homeless young man under her wings, Quinton Aaron is more memorable as the gentle giant, Michael Oher.

Oher came from "the wrong side of town". Growing up, all the odds were stacked up against him - his mother was a drug addict and his father had committed suicide. He was considered "slow" but a dedicated teacher soon discovered that he was "not stupid"; only he does not know how to learn. On his test papers, Oher had not written anything other than his name. Giving him a verbal test, Oher's teacher discovered that he actually knew the answers. Sitting quietly in class - expressionless - Oher had actually been listening!

Oher had gone through eleven institutions in his first nine years of education. He was always absent and had to repeat some grades. Malcolm Forbes, publisher of Forbes magazine says: "Education's purpose is to replace an empty mind with an open one." Being shuffled from one foster home to another, Oher did not live in an environment stable enough for him to acquire knowledge. However, with love and support from Tuohy and her family who provided stability and also contracted a personal tutor for him, Oher overcame his emotional and mental handicap to graduate high school and was later enrolled at the University of Mississippi on a football scholarship. Oher is now playing professional football with the Baltimore Ravens.

As an educator, it is possible to become detached from those who really need help. Every student is a person with history, family, a background, a life — not just a name on the attendance list. To go beyond giving a 40-minute lecture and delve into why a student is not doing well in a particular subject instead of just subscribing it to mere "laziness" require going out of one's "comfort zone".

I do not know whether I would ever go back to teaching. There is still a lot I need to learn and experience outside academia. However, I shall never forget the accidental meeting with that young man from Kenya, which I hope will lift the spirits of overworked, almost-jaded teachers and lecturers out there. No matter how frustrating it gets ... At the back of the class, someone is listening.

The Brunei Times