Written by Khanh Vy.

Britney Spear

It's his birthday, and he's feeling it.

One who is usually placid and still, 'Hero' (we'll call him Hero), on this day, was scattered light on a disco ball.

"Mr. David! Mr. David! It's my birthday! Let's listen to some Britney Spear when we are finish!"

I have occasionally played some pop songs as listening exercises. The Carpenters, Jackson 5, and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer was music I could easily justify. Melodic, chaste, and easily understood lyrics are a requirement. If there's a Britney Spears song with one of those qualities, run it by me please.

"Mr. David, what does 'Radar' mean?" Hero asks simultaneously as he raises his hands.

I'm puzzled.

"It's a name of a Britney Spear song, Mr. David," his trusty neighbor and musical ally explains.

I take out my cell phone and show them the reception bars to demonstrate a radar. A good radar gets you bars, a bad one doesn't. I look at him and the class for confirmation of understanding. Hero has his finger on his chin and delicately nods in agreement. A widening smile broadens his cheeks. The meaning of man's existence, or Britney's "Radar", had now become clear.

I turn around to the chalkboard and illustrate a radar beaming out a signal for the heck of it. It's his birthday, I'll entertain him a little. I turned back around to face the class, and in Hero's hand is a shrink-wrapped Nokia, a black and shiny bar of chromed chocolate. No sooner can I say "You shouldn't bring that to school" does a shockwave of sound surge from his hands. The speakers on phones today are damn strong.

A garble of bass, synthesizer, and female vocals fill the class, bringing smiles to all. Hero has his "Say Anything" moment with the phone in the air.

"No, no, you need to put that away," I say with calm.

"It's his new birthday present!" another classmate informs me.

Before I can tell him to shut it off, his little thumb traces the proper button, and then silence.

"Take out a pencil and a piece of paper," I ask the class, once the music dies.

I hear whispering in the back, where Hero sits.

"Is a 'Womanizer' a man or woman?" asks Hero.

This is a good class, and they know how to pay attention. But never like this. All twelve students' eyes on me, twenty-four pupils the size of bowling balls are suspended in rapt silence.

"I know the word 'Womanizer' has the word woman in it, but it is actually a man. When man and woman become boyfriend and girlfriend or husband and wife, they are together." I hold my two separate fingers together. "One man.One woman. Are there ever two men and one woman married together?"

The class laughs. "No way!"

"And does one man ever get married to two women?"

"No way!"

I pause. In my left hand, I then hold up two fingers. In my right, still one.

"Okay. Is there ever one boyfriend and two girlfriends?" I ask, unsure of the pending answer.

The boys respond "Yesss.....!" The boys' giggling is a little more pronounced than the girls.

"So. If a man is not married and has more than one girlfriend, he can be called a womanizer. If he has two girlfriends, he can be called a womanizer. If he has three-million, four hundred fifty six thousand girlfriends (we just had our unit on Large Numbers), he is a womanizer. Understand?"

The class comprehends with ease. And like Hero, I can see the satisfaction in their faces, that thrill of being able to finally comprehend an adult song.

"Can you be married and a womanizer?" a different girl asks, the strongest English speaker in class.

"Of core [course]. Stupid!" says the boy in front of her. I'm shocked at this kid's rapid response. English class for him is usually spent drawing pictures of mechanical dinosaurs on his textbook cover.

"Now, take out a piece of paper and a pencil. We are going to write some sentences. You have to write five, and I want you to include your family members and write 'FACTS' about them." I diagram it out on the board for easier comprehension.

"Oh my GOD, that's so easy!"
'God' is roared with the might of a lion. Like how the Flintstones were drawn running with only their feet moving, Hero's head and body are perfectly still as he stands up, but his mouth flaps like a kite in a windstorm. "I really like Britney Spear. One! My sister really love Britney Spear. Two! My Dad does not really like Britney Spear very much, Three! My Mom..."

and the City

Yesterday was a national holiday in Vietnam, so the students had a three day weekend. Upon being asked if they enjoyed their break, the majority said nothing special happened, that it was boring, or just declined to say anything. Seems awful early for teenage apathy. Unwilling to accept this jaded attitude, I pressed.

"Not a movie, not anything? The park, ice cream, out playing with your dog?"

A couple of students raised their hand.

"I went to Vincom to watch the...."
"The Rolex."
"It's The Lorax."
"Yeah, The Lorax."

"Oh, any good?"

"She lie! She go to watch Sex and the City!" one of the more loudmouth boys interjected.

The class breaks into laughter, the first sign of life.

I stare at the heckler. He looks back at me, undaunted: "Do you like Sex and the City Mr. David?"

I shook my head. "I've never seen it. You shouldn't, either."

The Rolex viewer, who sits the closest to me, sensed that I abstained from viewing the film for puritanical reasons.

"Mr. David. It's okay. There is no seck in Seck and the City. Only woman's fashions."