Today, Yadhap and I made paper airplanes and tossed them around during class. Well, I mostly paid attention and helped the other students while Yadhap threw paper airplanes at me, though occasionally I couldn't help but throw one back at him. I have never been good at making paper airplanes. Mine usually take an immediate nose-dive into the ground, smacking down with remarkable force and crumpling into an unrecognizable clump. But for some reason, today's effort was successful. Maybe it was because I didn't give it much thought. Yadhap was already laboring over his when I arrived, forcing way too many folds into a damp, limp ball of smashed paper. I suggested we each start with fresh paper. As I folded my sheet length-wise, Yadhap immediately began criticizing my work.
"You're doing it wrong."
I folded one corner into the fold.
"That's not going to work."
I brought the opposite corner into the fold, mirroring the first and creating the nose of the plane.
"That's wrong."
For someone who's only seven years old, Yadhap is very critical.
I quickly folded both sides twice, at steep angles from the nose, forming the wings on either side of the center fold. The group of adult students all talked amongst themselves, in Nepali, at the three rows of tables, taking only passing notice of our little paper games.
I held up my creation for Yadhap's inspection.
"It's not going to fly."
"Well, let's just give it a try," I said, releasing it away from the class with a little flick of my wrist.
To my utter astonishment, it took flight across the room in a graceful arc of about fifteen feet, almost as if propelled by an engine, then lowered in a gentle denouement and came to rest nimbly and silently on the carpet under a folding table perpendicular to those occupied by students. I'm not sure who was more surprised, Yadhap or me.
Susan, the teacher, showed up just after this maiden flight, and I turned the bulk of my attention to the speaking, listening, reading, and writing of our students. Yadhap, on the other hand, focused much of his energy on copying the blueprint of my prototype. He brought me every one of his efforts, often interrupting me as I tried to help Saraswati or Bhirka tell me where they were from or when they had arrived from Bhutan. After a while, he started coloring his planes with the crayons he found mixed in with the random toys lying around the room. Each new combination of orange and blue or green and oink had to be inspected and approved by me, then tailored and perfected, then inspected once more. Eventually, when colors bored him he started writing messages to me.
"Look inside it," he said, shoving the now-limp plane into my hand. Inside the soft, shiny paper he had scribbled you are so mean just playing you are really so nice, or don't touch the airplane. His English and handwriting are very good, especially for a third grader who may or may not have had much formal schooling in Bhutan. When the message he put in one of the planes was tomorrow in the plane you will died, I turned it into a grammar lesson, rather than get upset about the content of his message.
"So, whenever you use 'will,' that means the future," I said. "If you say 'tomorrow,' then it's 'you will die.'" (Here I covered up the ed with my finger.) "If you say 'you died,'" (and I covered the will)"with that '-ed,' then it already happened, in the past. See?"
He was unimpressed.
