Little Peter

I opened my eyes to the panoramic view of Mandalay- flatlands leading to hills rising up in the distance. It was nice to meditate in the midst of the late afternoon bustle of sunset seekers. A young girl approached me, selling a plastic sleeve of postcards. She wore a dress with cartoon bears and the words "Cookie Bear" splashed all over it. I was getting used to the experience of interacting with young Burmese vendors. I looked up and smiled at her, unperturbed. She sat down next to me and let the postcards drop into her lap. The usual friendly banter I used to disarm child-vendors was unnecessary. "Where are you from?" she asked. "The US," I told her.

Kittie Zan, as my group came to know her, told me about her five siblings and about losing her father last year. Kittie Zan's rich brown eyes shone and her smile spread easily across her face. She seemed to take great joy in speaking English and emitted a confidence and ease I rarely encounter in people. I bought some postcards.

Twenty four hours later, Kittie Zan is still with us. We've all fallen in love with her. After leaving Mandalay hill last night, she accompanied us to dinner. When she found out there were two Peters in the group, she began calling us all Peter. White Peter, in his white shirt, Black Peter in his black shirt, Smoking Peter, who quit smoking last week. Today, I'm still Yellow Peter, though I'm wearing all blue. She's our Little Peter, our translator and Bodhisattva. Her laughter lifts our hearts and her tiny hand- could she really be thirteen?- slips easily and tenderly into ours as we explore Mandalay. We've been teaching English at Phaung Daw Oo (Pan, like Spanish word for bread, DA, OO), the school Kittie Zan attends one day a week. We converse with students and teachers and provide tips on pronunciation. Yet, after meeting this young, brilliant, barely educated child, I can't help but wonder what it really means to be a great teacher.