When My Student Called Me UNCLE

When a student calls their teacher uncle, it might appear to suggest a bond of deep intimacy, a sublime friendship, or even an unconditional closeness built over time. For me, however, this experience was both confusing and disheartening, especially in a place like school, where things are supposed to be systematic and organised.

I had been at my new school, Bajothang Higher Secondary School, for just over a week. The experience so far had been a strange mix of reward and confusion.

The reward was that the school is situated in Wangdue district, close to Thinleygang, where my wife works. Despite being married for nine years, with all the required legal documents in order, this was the first time we had ever been posted near each other. After so many years of separate postings, that alone felt like something worth holding on to.

But there was confusion too, and a feeling of hardship. Each day meant almost twenty kilometres of driving between home (Thinleygang) and my school (Wangdue). My mornings began by breaking the silence of a muted dawn, and my evenings ended as I drove home under a murky dusk. The ongoing road construction only made things worse, with frequent blocks, uncleared debris, and openings so unpredictable that every drive became a small test of patience.

To make matters more difficult, I arrived at the new school knowing absolutely no one. Even after being in the school for some days, nobody took the initiative to introduce me to the staff or the students. There was no orientation to the school system, no walkthrough of how things worked, not even the basic courtesy of being introduced as a new teacher to the school family during the morning assembly. 

It was this silence, this simple failure of communication, that led to the moment I still think about. 

One evening as I was driving towards home, a group of my students needed a lift to Lobesa, on the way to Thinleygang. They came up to me and asked, quite naturally and innocently, if uncle could give them a ride. I was not old enough to be mistaken for someone’s uncle, nor did I have any family connection to them. It was, plainly, a result of negligence somewhere along the line. I felt for the school management in that moment, because if I had simply been introduced to the students as their new teacher, the confusion would never have arisen at all. 

Still, I drove them to Lobesa. It did not feel right to make an issue of it in front of them.

The lack of communication was not limited to the students. Even the teachers seemed unaware that I had joined. For almost a week, I had no designated space in the staffroom. I made do wherever I could, working out of empty classrooms, the multipurpose hall, and the science laboratories, carrying my things from one corner of the school to another like someone who had not quite been let in yet.

Eventually, after a week, with a tone of sarcasm, I approached the Staff Secretary and asked, 

“Is it possible to provide me a place in the staffroom? I think I need some place to rest when feet are not strong enough to keep me standing.”

The Staff Secretary looked confused, surprised, and admitted they had no idea I was a new teacher. He had assumed that I was a parent who kept visiting the school for reasons nobody had bothered to ask about. What a funny explanation. 

He (They) may have been right to assume so, given how things had gone, but I chose not to explain myself further. All I wanted was somewhere to work: a desk to plan lessons, a place to keep my stationery, a corner to organise the students’ work. Even now, I find myself adjusting to the irregularities of a system I had assumed would be seamless and professional. Having spent most of my career in remote primary schools, I had expected this urban higher secondary school to be a model of order and efficiency. Instead, I met a level of disarray I had not come across before.

But I understand that growth and survival demand adaptability, and this posting is testing mine through one small trial and error after another. I have come to realise that when the people around us fail to notice our presence, it can sometimes work in our favour. For example, the lack of attention has given me space to focus on my own growth, to observe my surroundings more closely, free from the weight of anyone’s expectations or judgement. 

What first felt like neglect has, in its own quiet way, become an unexpected chance to grow.