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FAQ: For being a photographer who creates nude images, some people might think you are harmful to children. How do you defend yourself?
Answer: Children should receive sensible supervision from parents and first of all, to respect others of differences. It’s fundamental critical thinking to not unnecessarily judge other fellow humans. If you are not ready to teach a child to think logically, don’t have one.
#respect #basic #humanrights
【教書育人，立德樹人】(English writing below)
「李老師，怎麼我看妳都不會發火的？看來我要跟妳修行，學學妳的耐性！」
上星期，一位同事突然冒出這句可愛的話語。
我教書不知不覺已有十一年, 教了至少兩百多個學生。教導小朋友和我的客人，其實沒什麼分別，一樣都是迷糊，一樣需要一位老馬識途的老師來引導，有些小孩其實比大人還懂事。在這引導過程中，我嚴厲時，客人、孩子是否能受教，就看他們對我的信任和自身的學習態度了。
身為老師，臨場反應和懂得變通是很重要的，而我自己對這三項事也很堅持：
一、我不稱讚學生的外表
有些父母會把幼小的女兒打扮得很漂亮，頭髮綁得美美，每星期穿著不一樣的蓬蓬公主裙，頭上還戴著一個小皇冠來上課。但穿得再美麗，我絕不對她們說：「哇！可愛啊！漂亮啊！美麗啊！」
課室不是選美的舞台。我不想學生們的心靈建立在外表上，內心卻是空洞的。沒有被李老師稱讚漂亮的孩子，心裡會怎麼想呢？以後她們也要打扮漂亮來上課嗎？父母若沒這經濟能力呢？
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某小一生喜歡打扮清涼，總穿著牛仔熱褲和無袖露臍裝。她向我喊冷，被我狠狠地訓：「妳來上課，妳知道課室有冷氣，為什麼妳沒有穿好來或帶外套？妳看老師也沒穿妳那樣的衣服，妳的朋友也沒有。每個星期老師在講課，妳冷到分心，又一直打斷老師的課喊冷。那妳告訴老師，這是妳的問題還是李老師的問題？」
她默默地說：「我的問題。」
「是妳的問題，妳就自己去解決，不要把妳的問題推給老師，妳這樣是很自私的。」
那天下課，我提醒她母親讓孩子帶外套上課。她母親得知後，就說：「哎呀，她啦，每次都要穿成那樣，說那樣才美！」
「媽媽，孩子不懂，需要家長的提醒。我已告訴孩子了，請媽媽協助。」
那也是那小女孩在我課堂上，最後一次喊冷了。
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那天是新學年的第一堂課。
這小孩躲在課室門外，無論媽媽怎麼勸和哄，她都一直哇哇大哭，不肯踏進課室。所有的孩子都已就座，唯獨她。我看著她那嬌小的身影，心想要上課了，總得想個辦法。
我走到門外，伸出我的手，說：「下午好，我是李老師。妳可以告訴我妳叫什麼名字嗎？」
孩子一把鼻涕，一把淚地說出自己的名字。我便驚呼：「XX，哇！妳知道嗎？妳的頭髮好漂亮啊！卷卷蓬蓬的！李老師好喜歡啊！是媽媽幫妳梳頭嗎？還是妳自己梳？」
就這樣，一問一答中，我慢慢地把孩子牽進課室了。那是我第一次，也是最後一次稱讚她的外表。我是真心覺得她的自然捲髮很漂亮。據聞，這孩子到別班補課時，還是會哭得唏哩哇啦，唯獨來我班。她自己也說不上為什麼。我想，也算是我們師生間的一種五行的緣份。
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二、我注重孩子的禮儀
某次有位同事說，助我的課是一種享受，因為學生的秩序好，功課也好。
我要求孩子進到課室，要向老師打招呼 （很多都不會），上課時不許講話，也不準以英語和同學溝通，交上作業，要放整齊。要上廁所，要先站好才問老師：「李老師，請問我可以上廁所嗎？」而不是一邊拉著褲子，一邊嚷嚷：「我要去廁所！」
禮貌，是最容易行的善，也是我們人類最初學的善。
在這方面，我很有原則。同事問我，為什麼注重學生們的體統和禮貌？
我說，這才能製造一個好的學習環境，對老師來說，教書愉快，對小朋友來說，學習也愉快。懂得說謝謝，懂得說對不起，懂得謙讓，可以促進人與人之間的關係。將來他們長大後，我希望他們好的禮貌，能為他們贏來好的人緣，工作起來，很多事情會比較順利。
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三、我對能力強孩子的要求
每一個班上，都會有些小朋友天資聰穎，一教就會。完成功課彷彿電光石火般的速度。
問題是，年紀小小就比同學們卓越時，會忽略了互相幫助的重要。
有一次，一位已完成功課的學生被我安排去協助班上較弱的同學。她教到一半時，發出很不耐煩的聲音，馬上被我喝止。
「妳也會有做錯功課，或不會做功課的時候，李老師每一次都教妳，有沒有這樣地喊過妳？」
她扁著嘴搖搖頭。
「那妳為什麼沒有學習老師教導的態度，去幫助妳的同學？」
她說不出話。
「妳很聰明，老師很開心，妳的學習能力很強，但老師希望妳的聰明不只是為自己，也能夠去幫助比妳慢的朋友，就好像老師用我們的聰明來幫助你們，大家一起進步，這樣的聰明才是最厲害的。」
天賜於你大能力，你就要學會擔當比較大的責任，種下善因，將來依舊有這因緣能有大智慧。
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這十多年來，教了兩百多個學生，遇到很多不同類型的父母和莘莘學子。我當然也曾被一些孩子推倒，抓傷，甚至大聲吼叫，也曾親眼看到同事被學生用鉛筆挫傷手掌，鮮血淋漓，嚇得我在那兒大呼小叫。
很多父母有空生，沒空教，沒能力教，這是事實。我無法用我的玄學本領來改善他們的家庭問題，雖難免有遺憾，但在四面牆的課室裡，我盡我教書的能力，幫助家長們培育他們的孩子。
無論是客人還是小朋友，在我心中，從來都沒有壞學生，只是我還沒找到最適合的教導方法而已。
今年我遇到很多很棒的老師，都很努力地貢獻給小朋友。感恩有她們的陪伴，也很感謝父母們這一年裡送給我的禮物。
我們都是人類靈魂的工程師，大家再接再厲，一定能賦予孩子們一個非常健康的生命成長過程，讓他們擁有既美好又有意義的回憶。
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"Teacher Lee, why do you never get angry? I must learn spiritual cultivation from you to learn your patience！"
Last week, a colleague adorably said that to me out of the blue.
I have been teaching for 11 years unknowingly. Teaching my clients and young children are not very different. Both are equally clueless, both need the guidance of an experienced teacher. Some children also turn out to be more sensible than adults. In this process of guiding, when I am strict, whether the clients or students can accept the teachings, will depend on their trust in me and their personal learning attitude.
As a teacher, adaptability and spontaneous reaction are very critical. And these are the three matters that I am very principled in:
1) I do not praise the outer appearance of my students.
Many parents will doll up their daughters for class. Some little girls will come with fanciful braids and in different princess frocks every week. There are some who even wear a sparkling tiara. No matter how prettily dressed they are, I never exclaim at them, "Wow, how cute! How pretty! How beautiful!"
A classroom is not a stage for a beauty pageant. I do not wish for the young children to build a strong mindset based on external appearances, and have an empty heart. For the children who do not get praised on their appearances by me, what would they be thinking? What if they too wish to dress up next time? What is going to happen if their parents do not have the financial ability to support their vanity?
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One P1 girl liked to dress in denim shorts and sleeveless cropped tops. Very often, she would complain of coldness. Once I got very stern and told her, "You know that the classroom is air-conditioned. Why did you come to class without a jacket? You do not see me dressed like you, your classmates do not either. Every week, you would get so cold that you cannot focus in class and would interrupt me often with your complaints of coldness. Tell me, is this a problem you or Teacher Lee created?"
She replied quietly, "I created."
"Since you created this problem, then you have to solve it yourself. Do not push your problem to me. That is very selfish of you."
That day after class, I reminded her mother to pack a jacket for her. After knowing what happened, her mum said, "Aiyah, she lah, always want to dress like that, say like that then pretty."
"Madam, the kid does not realise that, so she needs the reminder from her parents. I have already spoken to her and I seek your assistance."
That was the last time the little girl ever complained of coldness in my class again.
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It was the first lesson of a new academic year.
This child hid beside the classroom door. Regardless how her mother advised or coaxed her, she cried non-stop, refusing to step inside the class. All the kids were already seated, sans for her. I looked at her minute figure, and looked at the clock. The class got to start soon. I had to think of a way.
I walked out of the classroom and stretched out my hand, "Good afternoon, I am Teacher Lee. Can you tell me your name?"
In between her blubbers of tears and mucus, the child told me her name. I exclaimed, "XX, wow! Do you know that your hair is very pretty? It's curly and bouncy! Teacher Lee likes it a lot! Did Mummy comb your hair for you, or did you do it yourself?"
Just like that, in our mini Q&A, I slowly led the child into the classroom. That was my first and last time complimenting on her looks. I sincerely do think she has really pretty natural curls. From what I heard, when this child goes for make-up lessons in other classes, she would still cry like a baby, except for my class. She couldn't tell me why either. I guess, this is an elemental affinity of our teacher-student bond.
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2) I value manners in my students
A colleague once told me that assisting me in my class was an enjoyment, as the class had good order and the children could do their work well.
I insist that children must greet the teachers when they enter the classroom (Many don't). They are not allowed to talk during lessons, and definitely not in English. When they submit their work, they have to do it neatly and not throw it onto the teachers. If they wish to go to the restroom, they must stand properly and ask, "Teacher Lee, may I go to the restroom?", and not grab on to their pants and yell, "Teacher, I want to go toilet!"
I am very principled on this, and my colleague asked why the extra emphasis on propriety and courtesy?
Courtesy is the very first form of kindness that we humans learn, and it remains as the easiest kind deed to do.
My reply was: so that we can create a conducive learning environment, that the teachers enjoy teaching in and the children revel learning in. Knowing how to say thank you, sorry and giving way can enhance inter-personal relationships. When these children grow up, my hope is that with their good manners, it pave the way for better relations with people, and life will be much easier for them at home and at work.
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3) I have expectations towards children of stronger abilities
In every class, there will be some children that are especially smart. They learn fast and finish homework at the speed of lightning. Problem is, when they are better than their peers at a young age, they do not always understand the concept of helping one another.
Once, I asked a student who had finished her work to help her weaker classmate. Halfway through, she made loud exasperation sounds and I immediately put a halt to her behaviour.
"There will be times when you do your homework wrongly or do not know how to do. And every time when I teach you, have I ever shouted at you?"
She pursed her lips and shook her head.
"Then why did you not learn my teaching attitude to help your classmates?"
She could not say a word.
"You are very smart and I am happy that you have strong learning ability. However, I hope you do not use your cleverness only for yourself, but also to help your friends who are slower than you. Just like how we teachers use our cleverness to help all of you, so that everyone can improve themselves together. Such cleverness is the most amazing kind."
When Heaven bestows great abilities onto you, you have to learn how to shoulder greater responsibility. As you plough these seeds of kindness, you then regain the affinity for great wisdom even in your next rebirths.
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Having taught 200+ students in over a decade, I have met many different types of parents and children. In this journey of teaching, I have had students who pushed me down with force, scratched me and bellowed at me. I once witnessed a fellow teacher, who had her palm stabbed by a student with a pencil. It was somewhat an accident, but still...
Many parents have the time to give birth to children, but do not have the time and ability to teach. That is a fact of reality. It is always with a slight regret that I cannot use my Metaphysics ability to help them manage their domestic issues, but within the four walls of a classroom, I do my best to help parents groom their children.
Be it my clients or these young children, in my heart, there is never a bad student. Sometimes, it is just that I have yet to find a teaching method that is most suitable for them.
This year, I met many great teachers who are working very hard to contribute to the children. I am thankful to have their help, and also thank you to the parents who have showered me with gifts this year.
We are all engineers of the human soul. Let's work hard so that we can give the children a very healthy growing up process, and that their childhood memories will be beautiful and meaningful.
An incredibly beautiful, sad, brave, wise, inspiring post by Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg. Early this year, I read her book 'Lean In', a book encouraging women to achieve their dreams and ambitions, and was so grateful it was written for such a time as this. I especially loved her chapter about David being so supportive of her. I'm still stunned by all that's happened to them.
Here's to beating the heck out of Option B.
Today is the end of sheloshim for my beloved husband—the first thirty days. Judaism calls for a period of intense mourning known as shiva that lasts seven days after a loved one is buried. After shiva, most normal activities can be resumed, but it is the end of sheloshim that marks the completion of religious mourning for a spouse.
A childhood friend of mine who is now a rabbi recently told me that the most powerful one-line prayer he has ever read is: “Let me not die while I am still alive.” I would have never understood that prayer before losing Dave. Now I do.
I think when tragedy occurs, it presents a choice. You can give in to the void, the emptiness that fills your heart, your lungs, constricts your ability to think or even breathe. Or you can try to find meaning. These past thirty days, I have spent many of my moments lost in that void. And I know that many future moments will be consumed by the vast emptiness as well.
But when I can, I want to choose life and meaning.
And this is why I am writing: to mark the end of sheloshim and to give back some of what others have given to me. While the experience of grief is profoundly personal, the bravery of those who have shared their own experiences has helped pull me through. Some who opened their hearts were my closest friends. Others were total strangers who have shared wisdom and advice publicly. So I am sharing what I have learned in the hope that it helps someone else. In the hope that there can be some meaning from this tragedy.
I have lived thirty years in these thirty days. I am thirty years sadder. I feel like I am thirty years wiser.
I have gained a more profound understanding of what it is to be a mother, both through the depth of the agony I feel when my children scream and cry and from the connection my mother has to my pain. She has tried to fill the empty space in my bed, holding me each night until I cry myself to sleep. She has fought to hold back her own tears to make room for mine. She has explained to me that the anguish I am feeling is both my own and my children’s, and I understood that she was right as I saw the pain in her own eyes.
I have learned that I never really knew what to say to others in need. I think I got this all wrong before; I tried to assure people that it would be okay, thinking that hope was the most comforting thing I could offer. A friend of mine with late-stage cancer told me that the worst thing people could say to him was “It is going to be okay.” That voice in his head would scream, How do you know it is going to be okay? Do you not understand that I might die? I learned this past month what he was trying to teach me. Real empathy is sometimes not insisting that it will be okay but acknowledging that it is not. When people say to me, “You and your children will find happiness again,” my heart tells me, Yes, I believe that, but I know I will never feel pure joy again. Those who have said, “You will find a new normal, but it will never be as good” comfort me more because they know and speak the truth. Even a simple “How are you?”—almost always asked with the best of intentions—is better replaced with “How are you today?” When I am asked “How are you?” I stop myself from shouting, My husband died a month ago, how do you think I am? When I hear “How are you today?” I realize the person knows that the best I can do right now is to get through each day.
I have learned some practical stuff that matters. Although we now know that Dave died immediately, I didn’t know that in the ambulance. The trip to the hospital was unbearably slow. I still hate every car that did not move to the side, every person who cared more about arriving at their destination a few minutes earlier than making room for us to pass. I have noticed this while driving in many countries and cities. Let’s all move out of the way. Someone’s parent or partner or child might depend on it.
I have learned how ephemeral everything can feel—and maybe everything is. That whatever rug you are standing on can be pulled right out from under you with absolutely no warning. In the last thirty days, I have heard from too many women who lost a spouse and then had multiple rugs pulled out from under them. Some lack support networks and struggle alone as they face emotional distress and financial insecurity. It seems so wrong to me that we abandon these women and their families when they are in greatest need.
I have learned to ask for help—and I have learned how much help I need. Until now, I have been the older sister, the COO, the doer and the planner. I did not plan this, and when it happened, I was not capable of doing much of anything. Those closest to me took over. They planned. They arranged. They told me where to sit and reminded me to eat. They are still doing so much to support me and my children.
I have learned that resilience can be learned. Adam M. Grant taught me that three things are critical to resilience and that I can work on all three. Personalization—realizing it is not my fault. He told me to ban the word “sorry.” To tell myself over and over, This is not my fault. Permanence—remembering that I won’t feel like this forever. This will get better. Pervasiveness—this does not have to affect every area of my life; the ability to compartmentalize is healthy.
For me, starting the transition back to work has been a savior, a chance to feel useful and connected. But I quickly discovered that even those connections had changed. Many of my co-workers had a look of fear in their eyes as I approached. I knew why—they wanted to help but weren’t sure how. Should I mention it? Should I not mention it? If I mention it, what the hell do I say? I realized that to restore that closeness with my colleagues that has always been so important to me, I needed to let them in. And that meant being more open and vulnerable than I ever wanted to be. I told those I work with most closely that they could ask me their honest questions and I would answer. I also said it was okay for them to talk about how they felt. One colleague admitted she’d been driving by my house frequently, not sure if she should come in. Another said he was paralyzed when I was around, worried he might say the wrong thing. Speaking openly replaced the fear of doing and saying the wrong thing. One of my favorite cartoons of all time has an elephant in a room answering the phone, saying, “It’s the elephant.” Once I addressed the elephant, we were able to kick him out of the room.
At the same time, there are moments when I can’t let people in. I went to Portfolio Night at school where kids show their parents around the classroom to look at their work hung on the walls. So many of the parents—all of whom have been so kind—tried to make eye contact or say something they thought would be comforting. I looked down the entire time so no one could catch my eye for fear of breaking down. I hope they understood.
I have learned gratitude. Real gratitude for the things I took for granted before—like life. As heartbroken as I am, I look at my children each day and rejoice that they are alive. I appreciate every smile, every hug. I no longer take each day for granted. When a friend told me that he hates birthdays and so he was not celebrating his, I looked at him and said through tears, “Celebrate your birthday, goddammit. You are lucky to have each one.” My next birthday will be depressing as hell, but I am determined to celebrate it in my heart more than I have ever celebrated a birthday before.
I am truly grateful to the many who have offered their sympathy. A colleague told me that his wife, whom I have never met, decided to show her support by going back to school to get her degree—something she had been putting off for years. Yes! When the circumstances allow, I believe as much as ever in leaning in. And so many men—from those I know well to those I will likely never know—are honoring Dave’s life by spending more time with their families.
I can’t even express the gratitude I feel to my family and friends who have done so much and reassured me that they will continue to be there. In the brutal moments when I am overtaken by the void, when the months and years stretch out in front of me endless and empty, only their faces pull me out of the isolation and fear. My appreciation for them knows no bounds.
I was talking to one of these friends about a father-child activity that Dave is not here to do. We came up with a plan to fill in for Dave. I cried to him, “But I want Dave. I want option A.” He put his arm around me and said, “Option A is not available. So let’s just kick the shit out of option B.”
Dave, to honor your memory and raise your children as they deserve to be raised, I promise to do all I can to kick the shit out of option B. And even though sheloshim has ended, I still mourn for option A. I will always mourn for option A. As Bono sang, “There is no end to grief . . . and there is no end to love.” I love you, Dave.
