Anatomy of a Stick Figure
This week in class we’re doing anatomy.
It’s a pretty fantastic lesson, in that the kids’ attention span stays focused as they draw faces, bodies, legs and arms, and my attention span is entertained as I get to toss up the lesson with differently styled beards, curly mustaches, incredible pictorial comparisons of cats’ whiskers to the whiskers of men, comparisons of hair buns to Paris Baguette’s sweet hot buns, explanations of fun things they already know but don’t know they know, like mascara and eyeliner and the heels of feet, toe nails and high heels and things that are neat, dimples as compared to pimples, bangs and ponytails, contact lenses and glasses, sun freckles on your face, whose shape may be round, oval or square, thighs, calves, which when single is calf, and the one that really gets a scream and incredulous, “Teacher, really!?”:
Belly button.
And I must say, if I do say so myself, that I draw a pretty adorable stick figure with pot-belly and belly button.
I also love to throw the kids off when I ask, “Beards, good?”, and they all scream in avid response, “NOOOOOO, DIIRRRTYYYY!”, and I tell them, almost as though it were a secret, gathering all their attentions before letting out the words:
“I think they’re cute.”
“GASSSPPP NOOOOOOOOO TTEEAAACHHHERRRR!”
“Yes, true. I love them.” And with a smug, happy smile and a sage, dramatic pause, “So cute.”
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“What is this?” I shake my hand, fist closed, and point to the motion.
“HAND NECK!!!!!”
“Well, in Korean, yes… but… wrist.”
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“What is this?” I point my finger in an upwards motion toward my nose.
“NOSE… TUNNEL!!!”
And with a lingering burst of laughter: “Well… close. Nostril.”
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Yet, the best moment of all is as follows:
A bubble of conversation spreads across the room, and Mr. Choi approaches the chalkboard with a cloud of thoughts gathering across his face.
“Amanda, the students want to know, is chest… here…”, pointing slightly below the neck of the stick figure, “… or….”, as he timidly points to the cross-section of stick figure’s torso and arms, tapping the board a couple times before asking, looking at me with honest and innocent inquisition, and another pregnant pause, “…. or…. here?”
The students, all girls, mind you, roar in laughter and look at me with equal parts confusion, curiosity and expectance.
In honesty, I’m not sure how to answer, though I understand their confusion and waver between asking Mr. Choi to turn around as I draw and label breasts, hoping it is both within cultural bounds and not embarrassing to Mr. Choi and my all-female class, all the while wondering how in fact I would draw the picture (a squiggly line would win), and, in full knowledge that the students would diligently copy the squiggling line into their notebooks, which Mr. Choi would obviously see… or maybe Mr. Choi wants to know, too? And, as my confused, hesitated pause drew too long, Mr. Choi, blushing, spoke abruptly:
“Oh, we understand. Sorry.”
Torn between giggles and bashful looks, teachers and students alike, we decide to move on to belly.
And so the unanswerable question remains, which would be so easy to answer if not for the concern and respect and bashfulness in regards to areas of the body privy to secrecy and thus unable to be labeled on stick figures in public schools.
Maybe their translators can help, but probably not. How could you know which of the great variety of words to use? Language is endlessly complex and baffling. This same issue, so humorously laid bare in my classroom, is manifested worldwide, even within the mother tongue.
It was fun, however, to explain to one bold outburst, a nonchalant, “Oh, that?”, and as I turned to draw smell lines coming out from beneath the arm of the stick figure, much to the shrieking horror of the class:
“That’s an armpit.”