Do They Call You Teacher?

'So, what do the kids call you?' - a friend, amused at my job.
'Well... T-shirt, I guess.'
'... and one time this wee guy couldn't remember what came after Tee, and rounded it up to Tia. Auntie...'
'... but mostly T-shirt.'

Full Circle

My mother was a primary school teacher all her life. She was known to burst into childish song without warning, at any point in the day - jolly ABC marches, five yellow ducklings, Santa, springtime, nice little schoolchildren reading their fine books (and occasionally our heroic Communist leaders) paid us random visits in mother's high, wavering voice.

Dad put up with it merrily, a spouse's endearing quirk. I sang along when I was in primary school, cringed through it during my secondary school years, screamed for it to stop when I was in high school, sullen silence and mutiny during uni, sigh and indulgent smile thereafter.

Now I'm known to burst into song without warning, at any point in the day. 'Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle ALL THE WAAAAAY!'

A Day in December

Two months already, since I started here. My hands are cracked and I've got chalk under my nails. My bag is bulging with worksheets, activity ideas, flashcards and Christmas carols. I have an obsession with stationery and I hoard old manuals. Occasionally (but not now) I have head lice, the children pass them around. My locker contains a bottle of water, a box of pencils, and half the school's lost and found section, including skipping ropes, hats, gloves (not in pairs), a brown cap.

Yesterday I was summoned to a meeting of the English Department in town. One other teacher of 'extra-curricular' English turned up. The head of department, a lovely woman, and the two of us made ourselves cozy in the busy staff room of the secondary school.

The annual plans were discussed for about twenty seconds. 'Anything else you might want to mention?' - well I reckon our coordinator has by now removed this innocent phrase from her meeting-musts. What followed was a blizzard of information from the two of us . Fifty minutes into it, when I stopped to draw breath, she had a polite rictus on her face and was nodding manically.

Not that it was boring. It might have been a bit like describing another planet in a different language, but boring it was not. We – many of us with no previous experience or, like me, total foreigners – are sent into classrooms of kids going crazy at the end of their long days of enschoolment. Our classes are not compulsory, but everyone attends, because what parent can possibly leave work before half past five to go spend some time with their kid?

So, by the time we say hello to them on any given day, these kids – aged 5 to 10 years old - have already spent seven hours at school. We must look them in the eye and regurgitate the processed, prepackaged vocabulary of a foreign language, just to keep them quiet for another two hours until their parents finish their jobs.

This scheme – I find out today – was cooked up by a former Minister of Education only four years ago, and might disappear as early as next year, nudged out by austerity measures. It was a bit like putting a few new chicks in the coop . They never get enough food, the other hens peck them mercilessly, there's no space to spread their wings (which are clipped from the start anyway) and when their time comes, everyone's surprised to find there's no meat on the bones.

So we cluck about it for a while and then go back to school. Who cares, I think as I walk to the gate. We just do what we do. I get mobbed as soon as I get in. 'Teacher', they shout, 'teacher, teacher, teacher'! 'Hello' I say, 'hello, hello, hello'. They don't want to say anything specific, just be noticed. Sometimes they ask me to tie up their shoelaces, and hold my umbrella while I do. Someone gives me a drawing. It's Santa Claus, wearing red pijamas and riding a black cat in the sky. He appears to have jettisoned a present and a girl (the author of the drawing?) is there to catch it. The present is large and square and tied with a ribbon that says Hello Kitty. I take the drawing and glue it into my book.

Then the first class of the day files in and I set up the stereo, rearrange a poster, pick up the chalk.

How Did This Happen?

How did I get here?

Two winters ago, an English teacher walked out of the high school and was run over by a car.

Another English teacher stepped in to fill her job and everyone in the 'food chain' shuffled up one step. This left a vacancy in the extracurricular programme of the primary school.

I applied.

I was summoned for an interview at the Municipality. I walked into a cramped office clutching my diplomas. The Head of Education sat at a desk covered in papers. He sat, I stood. He took my application with a grimace.

'So you want to be a teacher. But are you Qualified to be a teacher', he mused aloud, reaching for my paperwork.
'What's this?' he frowned at the first diploma, from Bucharest University.
'This is nothing' he snarled at the second, from Oxford University.
'Useless' he declared at the third, from a TEFL Institute in Edinburgh.

I was speechless. Now, having stood in front of full classrooms hundreds of times and having read some amazing books on education, I realise diplomas don't make a good teacher. But that could not be what my prospective employer meant. If he were that wise, why wouldn't he look at me, talk to me, find out why I wanted to teach? Why did he only want to see my diplomas?

He made to throw them in the bin, but at the last minute let them drop into the A4 infestation on his desk.

I was dismissed. I don't think I said anything more than 'hello', 'goodbye' and somewhere in between, a small reminder that it had been them who'd called me to apply.

A week later, they called again and said: 'When are you coming to sign your contract?'

Two days later, I started to teach.

Friday Fresh Fruit

'The apple is red, but the red has NOTHING to do with Bemfica.'

'What colour is this?'
'It's red, but it looks yellow on paper!'

With pride: 'Teacher, for the colour orange I drew an orange'.

Belligerently: 'Teacher!'
'Yes?'
'Não sei que toilet?'
'You mean May I go to the toilet?'
'Isso mesmo. Ummm, yes.'
'Yes, you may'.
'Obrigada. Ummm, thanks.'

Urgent matter: 'Teacher!'
'Yes?'
'Do I write in pen or pencil?'
'Pencil is always better. If you make a mistake you can rub it out and start again.'
'O.K.'
That same moment, the child sitting next to this one waves his hand desperately: 'Teacher?'
'Yes?'
'Pen or pencil?'

'Tell me a number between one and five. In English.'
'Seis'. (Portuguese for 'six')

At the end of the day, teeth brushed, Kira in bed, lights off. Silence. Then she asks:
'Mica, can you die of stress?'

Lords and Ladies

Lords and Ladies

After meetings and discussions, a decision: There Shall be a Christmas show this year! Parents are invited.

This is a big deal. Every school show so far has been planned, rehearsed and performed just for us, children, teachers, cleaners and cooks – most of whom had already been bored stiff at rehearsals and made costumes and brought the snacks too.

I've always wondered why no parents? Christmas, Easter, End-of-Year – and never a parent in sight. Their kids are already away most of the time. Why aren't they breaking the gate down on the last day of term, invited or not, demanding to see their kid in a show?

Anyway, a few English carols are on the menu, and we are rehearsing. The fourth years are learning Away in a Manger. We read the words, we translate.

We get to 'the little Lord Jesus'. 'O pequeno menino Jesus' they say what their carols say. The little baby boy Jesus. 'Lord doesn't mean menino' – this one should be easy. 'Senhor, they shout devoutly, o pequeno Senhor Jesus'. Muito bem, excellent. By the time we get to 'the little Lord Jesus asleep in the hay', many are misty eyed with the beauty of the scene.

I take them a step further. OK so 'lord' is 'senhor', what is 'senhora'??? They don't know. 'Lady', I say and smile, so glad to see that look of delight and understanding burst on their faces. So foolish of me.

'Lady Gaga'! they shout, they are so pleased to have found such an illustrious example. Some jump and chant. O senhor Jesus e a Senhora Gaga!

I think we're getting right into that Christmas spirit. We'll sing 'Away in a Manger' and 'Alejandro', possibly together as an energetic pop-soul mix, set against fluorescent straw bales and dumb beasts dressed in tan leather.

What's in a Name

Why Hazelschool?

School? That's easy, what with the blog being about schools and learning, teachers and children.

Hazel? Translate into Portuguese, you'll get 'aluno/aluna'. Now change dictionaries: pick the Romanian - English if you please. Check 'aluna'. Two exciting things will immediately happen (well, depends how much of a language nerd you are): one - you will find that there is a Romanian word 'aluna'. Two - you will find that its English translation is 'hazelnut'. Hence Hazelschool.

Why the roundabout title? Won't help with the blog traffic but I couldn't resist it. An article I wrote last year might explain. It was called 'Herds of Hazelnuts', here it is:

'I teach English in a Portuguese Primary School. Two words are used here with great frequency: 'pupils' - both raw material and product of all schools, packaged of course in 'classes'.

Here’s what makes things interesting: I am Romanian. You know the Portuguese words for ‘class’ and ‘pupil’? Well, the Romanian language has also got them. Same spelling, same pronunciation, completely different meanings. I believe the name for this linguistic occurrence is ‘homonym’. As follows:

Turma –

English translation of the Portuguese word: Classroom
English translation of the Romanian word : Herd

Aluna –

English translation of the Portuguese word: Pupil
English translation of the Romanian word: Hazelnut

In a usual, daily conversation, this is what I hear:

“What herds have you got today?”
“Oh, H2 and H4.” (H for Herd?…)
“Poor you. Those are big herds, and difficult.”
“Yes. Very noisy hazelnuts.”

Or:

“Can I have this worksheet photocopied for Herd H3?”
“How many hazelnuts?”
“17.”
“Not 18? Who’s absent?”
“X. She’s got the flu.”
“Oh. Poor hazelnut.”
“Yes I know.”
“She’s a good hazelnut. I’m sure she’ll catch up.”

Or:

“What have we got here?”
“A hazelnut with a sore knee.”
“How come?”
“She was pushed by another hazelnut.”
“From her herd?”
“No. Another herd”.
“Why?”
“He said this hazelnut took his chocolate bar.”
“Hazelnuts eat a lot of chocolate don’t they?”
“Yep. The parents of some hazelnuts send them to school with three bars of chocolate every day.”

Etc.

Every time a conversation such as this comes to an end, a peculiar philosophic question presents itself. What am I? A part-time shepherd? An occasional gatherer? A Nut Cultivator? Tree hugger or toreador?

My job as one – or more, or all – of the above comes to an end in June. Before that, I shall try to write a little more about it. A ‘Herds of Hazelnuts’ series (two code-words to remember). Why? Because I noticed how fascinating this society of hazelnuts is, how it actually makes my job quite interesting (taking the herds to the watering hole? transferring some taste into those hazelnuts?), despite all the grief and headaches I carry home with me.

Allergy and addiction in one – exactly as expected from bullfights and nut products.'

What's Going On?

This is my third year working as a teacher in a small school in the North of Portugal. During this time I've been noticing a few things:

Working as a teacher is not the same as being a teacher.

Children – not only in this country - spend most of their childhood away from home. This is more than strange: it's sinister. And everyone seems happy about it, except perhaps the children who don't get a say.

And where do they go? To school. Here, they normally open a book and learn only what is in that book, page by page. If they raised their heads and looked out of the window, they'd see, at different times, leaves turning yellow, forest fires, rain, a family of magpies, a sleeping cat, a harvest of olives, a hawk hunting in the sky, cherry blossom. They're seldom close to these things in real life, and here only the rebels raise their heads from the book and catch a glimpse. When they do, most don't know what they're seeing.

The children are rarely asked to do something from scratch. Take drawing: instead of starting with an empty page, the book gives them a complete drawing and shows them where to colour and what colours to use.

Kids don't go along with it peacefully. They misbehave. Teachers catch the flak and are not being paid any risk or stress allowance, although they should.

Some teachers are wonderful, and some really DO try, but they struggle inside multiple straight jackets: the national curriculum, assessments, inspection, daily bureaucracy. There is little time left to make a difference, after ticking all the boxes.

Teachers: people with families and money worries and lots of other kinds of stress. Look at me

I teach English as an extra-curricular activity. In essence, I am Insignificant – and to quantify my own insignificance: each child sees me two or three times a week, for 45 minutes. I teach an optional discipline. Results don't matter, and there are no exams (I'm delighted to say) or pass requirements. I get paid about ten euros per class (before tax).

My first year was dizzy. The second, a nightmare. In the third year, this one, I'm surprised to discover that I love the kids and I love the teaching.

I've also been reading about education. I read that the modern education system is designed to churn out a pliant workforce and an army of consumers for the future. Creativity is actively discouraged and blind acceptance is injected daily in the subconscious. One ant will strive all its life to be identical to all the other ants and, once there, will be unquestioningly happy.

All deeply upsetting, especially here in the trenches.

Something needs done. I was watching the pre-schoolers shuffle back to class the other day. Some of them are still in nappies. They are here for nine hours daily. 'Look at them', another teacher told me. 'They can't even walk or talk properly and the parents send them here and forget about them.' 'How can they?' The teacher shrugs. 'Echhh. Always the same story: work, have a coffee, work some more. Find someone to babysit. The state stole their children and they're happy about it.'

The state stole our children (we stole one of ours back but that's another story). And for two hours a week I kidnap those held in this little school and take them to my classroom to learn English.

During my school breaks, I'm starting this blog, to talk about them . If, during their coffee break, any parents wanted to know what's going on, they could follow the link and read. It's not much, but it's more than the school report.

When I Grow Up

Cristiano is quiet , a rare moment. Earlier he was trying to punish his pal Dario, on my behalf, for fidgeting and distracting the whole left side of the room. He pushed Dario's head down onto the desk, to 'sleep'.

I say 'When you are a teacher, you can decide how to deal with noisy kids. Not now.' He nodded and frowned and frowned and frowned.
'Is this red or yellow' I ask the class pointing to my red pen. A red pen is to a teacher what a scalpel to a surgeon, or a ladle to a cook.
Cristiano's hand shoots up.
'Yees?' Chuffed he's finally paying attention to the lesson.

'I don't want to be a teacher' he says firmly.

Away with you, colours of the rainbow. This is too interesting.
'Why?'
'It's too hard, and too boring, and the kids never listen.' My life, summed up by a 5-year old. Not bad. He continues:
'I want to be a goalie.'
'But that's the same', I remark. 'Hard when they shoot at your goal, and boring when they don't.'
He doesn't believe me and doesn't dare contradict me, so he just sits frozen, trying to stare me down.
In the meantime, I'm still holding up my red pen, and there are 16 hands in the air.
'Yees?' Come what may.
'I want to be a cook.'
'Vet.'
'Hairdresser.'
'Person who tells the weather on TV.'
'Singer, singer, singer!'

I am spellbound. In this class of 17 we have: 2 bakers ('because bread is healthy'), 2 vets (one of whom is scared of large animals), 2 cooks, 2 hairdressers, 4 football players (the one with no teeth is the attacker), one goalie, then the surprises. A plump little girl is the singer. A quiet and minuscule boy is the weatherman. Both candidates to National Television are – truth be told – far from beauties. Ella wants to be a gynaecologist ('a doctor who takes out babies') – how I wish I were so sure and clear so early on.

Finally, little Tania peeps up:
'I want to be a teacher.'
Thank goodness for that. I can't keep doing this much longer. My hand still holds up the red pen, and it's beginning to hurt.