It's 5 pm. I sit in a dark classroom and watch Oggy and DeeDee. With me today are: a few Portuguese peasants, a male nurse, two Flamenco dancers, Zorro, a cat, a group of pirates and a very small old woman drowning in a salt-and-pepper wig.
It's Carnaval and, after all the excitement, lessons are impossible. Enter Oggy and DeeDee, who appear to be a version of the Itchy and Scratcy show. Multi-coloured violence, eye watering, and yet the kids watch with utmost nonchalance. The two other teachers present tap on computers. Everyone's tired, slumped in their chairs. I'm floating in a post-stress daze. Kira's been fretting all week, chirping excitedly, telling everyone she was 'going as a gypsy girl.'
'Mum, shall we see what I can wear?' - the phrase most heard since last Saturday. 'Tomorrow' – the phrase most uttered.
Finally, we looked – on the night before the Carnaval parade, which is VERY RESPECTABLE INDEED. It could have been – please keep it in mind – ten minutes before the parade.
She went as A Mongolian Princess (or just A Mongolian Person; if that's still too much, maybe only An Aspiring Mongol?) She wore golden silk pijamas, a red dragon vest and an arctic hare hat from Russia. She doesn't know it was pijamas, let's keep it like that.
The parade was on Thursday morning, market day in Monsoonville. The entire infantile population of the region was marched through town in Carnaval clothes, in a rain of confetti and a blur of jolly music.
Henry – our little Down Syndrome boy – was leading the parade, beating merily on a huge drum.
Everyone was ecstatic. Kira's white hare hat was shedding so much hair it looked like snow. When the kids ran out of confetti, they hit on a great plan: pat the hat; white bunny hairs would fill the streets at once.
P.S. It's now Tuesday evening, and Kira's off to her third Carnaval parade. She's wearing her third costume so far (after Mongolian Princess she became a Bride and now a Flower Fairy, but not yet a Gypsy Girl). The masks and music are the same. The white hare hat is bald.
Tuesday 8 March 2011
Monday 28 February 2011
Valentine's Day
.. became Valentine's week. Isn't it funny / silly / strange that it's got such a big place in the calendar and culture, here and in the UK... If you are in love, gasping and burning with love, why wait until February 14 to show it?
And should Valentine's Day find its way into the school curriculum?
Kids are hilarious and impenetrable when it comes to love. On the one hand, it's an untouchable subject. The go into hysterics at the mere mention of the subject. On the other hand, showing affection is casually part of their lives, they expect it and distribute it about with equanimity.
As illustrated by Valentine's day. I decided, last minute, not to skip it – we would be crafting Valentine's cards, which the kids would decorate, write (in English!) and give to their prospective Valentines.
All week: teach new words, write rhymes and expressions, cut cards, draw, decorate, glue, fold, fold, fold.
As they worked, the kids gossiped avidly about the 'love' stories around them. All was revealed: who was whose 'namorado' or 'namorada'; that there had been a 'wedding' in the school already; that lots of girls were 'in love' with the groom (but also very good friends with the bride!); what presents their fathers had given their mothers; and that there may be romance in the air, between the Computer Technology Tutor and one of the Sports Teachers.
There were squeals and shouts. There were flaming cheeks and hidden tears. There was laughter to cover everything...
When they finished their work, the kids – even those previously overwhelmed by shyness – walked casually to their idols and handed the cards as if they were maths worksheets or weather reports. They were received with official nods and hand shakes. No one around made any comments.
One kid (the 'groom'!!) received 8 Valentine's cards from his colleagues, and more from outside his class. He collected them proudly and without preference. Another strange thing, carried over into adulthood: this boy is neither the most handsome, nor the funniest or cleverest kid in school. Not the coolest by far. What explains the flaps and flurries of attraction surrounding him?
The messages inside the cards were standard, copied-from-the-blackboard platitudes. The best turned out to be a compilation created by one of the most distracted and annoying 4th year kids. Makes you wonder if great works of art might not be the result of random moments of madness, idleness or rebellion:
'I like chocolates
Violets are black
Roses are blue
Catarina is red
I like you.'
And should Valentine's Day find its way into the school curriculum?
Kids are hilarious and impenetrable when it comes to love. On the one hand, it's an untouchable subject. The go into hysterics at the mere mention of the subject. On the other hand, showing affection is casually part of their lives, they expect it and distribute it about with equanimity.
As illustrated by Valentine's day. I decided, last minute, not to skip it – we would be crafting Valentine's cards, which the kids would decorate, write (in English!) and give to their prospective Valentines.
All week: teach new words, write rhymes and expressions, cut cards, draw, decorate, glue, fold, fold, fold.
As they worked, the kids gossiped avidly about the 'love' stories around them. All was revealed: who was whose 'namorado' or 'namorada'; that there had been a 'wedding' in the school already; that lots of girls were 'in love' with the groom (but also very good friends with the bride!); what presents their fathers had given their mothers; and that there may be romance in the air, between the Computer Technology Tutor and one of the Sports Teachers.
There were squeals and shouts. There were flaming cheeks and hidden tears. There was laughter to cover everything...
When they finished their work, the kids – even those previously overwhelmed by shyness – walked casually to their idols and handed the cards as if they were maths worksheets or weather reports. They were received with official nods and hand shakes. No one around made any comments.
One kid (the 'groom'!!) received 8 Valentine's cards from his colleagues, and more from outside his class. He collected them proudly and without preference. Another strange thing, carried over into adulthood: this boy is neither the most handsome, nor the funniest or cleverest kid in school. Not the coolest by far. What explains the flaps and flurries of attraction surrounding him?
The messages inside the cards were standard, copied-from-the-blackboard platitudes. The best turned out to be a compilation created by one of the most distracted and annoying 4th year kids. Makes you wonder if great works of art might not be the result of random moments of madness, idleness or rebellion:
'I like chocolates
Violets are black
Roses are blue
Catarina is red
I like you.'
Monday 21 February 2011
School Under Siege
Last week I didn't write any posts. I was busy watching scruffy workmen taking over the school, armed with electrical drills and long black wires.
At the beginning of term we were told they were just finishing the work they'd started during the winter holidays. They would return in the summer holidays.
Last week, all of a sudden, a roof was stripped of tiles and new tiles were laid, all in the sunny calm between two showers.
By Wednesday, there were workers doing noisy stuff outside (pressure washing the walls of my classroom) and inside (drilling next door).
By the second break on Friday, I had been given my orders to move to another classroom. Twenty minutes later, my classroom was stripped of chairs, tables, all materials and the shelves where they'd been sitting.
My new classroom is small, has an impressive echo and a toxic new false ceiling. The thing - white, pristine, recently installed - sends out waves of chemical poison. Kill-by-headache.
Yesterday the drilling was so loud and so close that no one word could be heard, despite the impressive echo and regardless of the language. Besides, we had a worker perched on scaffolding, painting the windows outside the classroom. Without the incessant drilling, he could have learned 'Head, shoulders, knees and toes'.
Why? Why now? Why?
And, by the end of the day, I had my answer. The contract has gone to a family member of someone influential. The family member is a little strapped for cash therefore the work must happen NOW. Dash the hundred and eleven children trying to learn something in a bright and quiet place. Dash their stressed and migrained teachers. Take over their classrooms and choke their corridors with black wires and sacks of cement.
What we need is a bomb shelter and a DVD player. Alternatively, a glorious spring with sunny days and flowers and new grass. They can be our classrooms.
At the beginning of term we were told they were just finishing the work they'd started during the winter holidays. They would return in the summer holidays.
Last week, all of a sudden, a roof was stripped of tiles and new tiles were laid, all in the sunny calm between two showers.
By Wednesday, there were workers doing noisy stuff outside (pressure washing the walls of my classroom) and inside (drilling next door).
By the second break on Friday, I had been given my orders to move to another classroom. Twenty minutes later, my classroom was stripped of chairs, tables, all materials and the shelves where they'd been sitting.
My new classroom is small, has an impressive echo and a toxic new false ceiling. The thing - white, pristine, recently installed - sends out waves of chemical poison. Kill-by-headache.
Yesterday the drilling was so loud and so close that no one word could be heard, despite the impressive echo and regardless of the language. Besides, we had a worker perched on scaffolding, painting the windows outside the classroom. Without the incessant drilling, he could have learned 'Head, shoulders, knees and toes'.
Why? Why now? Why?
And, by the end of the day, I had my answer. The contract has gone to a family member of someone influential. The family member is a little strapped for cash therefore the work must happen NOW. Dash the hundred and eleven children trying to learn something in a bright and quiet place. Dash their stressed and migrained teachers. Take over their classrooms and choke their corridors with black wires and sacks of cement.
What we need is a bomb shelter and a DVD player. Alternatively, a glorious spring with sunny days and flowers and new grass. They can be our classrooms.
Thursday 10 February 2011
The Cuecas Con
'Teacher, may I go to the toilet'?
I hope you like the sound of this particular sentence. As a teacher, you will hear it a lot. A few things will happen.
a) One person will say it, clutching their stomach. They'll go. They'll come back. Lesson will continue.
b) One boy will say it. As soon as he's out of the door, another boy. Then another. If you allow them, you'll soon find yourself in a room full of girls while the boys' toilets are the new party venue.
c) Same scenario, gender reversal. Girls are just as capable of deceit and illicit parties. (These migrations will happen when there's challenging work ahead, like dictation or having to remember the months of the year. Or having to think up AWHOLESENTENCE.)
d) Wiser, you'll let X go, then immediately say to Y that he can only go when X is back. This will result in much cramp miming and, occasionally, minor spotting accidents.
e) There will be the occasional full half hour when no one remembers to play this card; this usually happens when the lesson is particularly gripping; you'll know, and give a nod of thanks towards the upper left corner of the classroom.
And now a new one: in the youngest group, midway through the class - a very little girl asks to go to the toilet. Off she goes. Another little girl asks to go. She goes too (I always let the littlest ones go immediately, they're not yet on first names with their own bladders). Another little girl asks to go. I go with her to the door to have a look for the previous two. I can see the second girl dashing about inside the toilet waving her arms. I beckon, she comes reluctantly.
'What happened to you?'
'Number two', she says unafraid. There seems to be no shame about confessing to such pastimes, around here. The word itself sounds innocent, a bit like 'cocoa'! (Number one, however, sounds like two times 'she': 'she-she' - which always creates a stir when we practise personal pronouns...)
'Where's your friend?'
Still unafraid, and loudly in front of everyone: 'She peed in her pants and on the floor. Now she's in the toilets waiting for her mum.'
Nobody bats and eyelid, but all the girls proceed to ask, and go, to the toilet. To visit their friend, I presume, and see the scene of the crime.
At the end of the class, I myself pass by the girls' toilets. Unlikely as it may seem, the girl's mother IS there, changing her 'cuecas' (knickers). Behind her, a cluster of cleaning ladies and children. Our girlie must be petrified with embarrassment - I think - but then I catch a glimpse: she's lording it on the toilet seat, smiling broadly and joking with the rest of them. In the end, mission accomplished: there is a party in the loo, a big one!
But I have the last smile, I reckon. After all, this 'cuecas' trick must have limited viability, right? One can't just go on using it into early adulthood...
Which leaves us with all the rest.
I hope you like the sound of this particular sentence. As a teacher, you will hear it a lot. A few things will happen.
a) One person will say it, clutching their stomach. They'll go. They'll come back. Lesson will continue.
b) One boy will say it. As soon as he's out of the door, another boy. Then another. If you allow them, you'll soon find yourself in a room full of girls while the boys' toilets are the new party venue.
c) Same scenario, gender reversal. Girls are just as capable of deceit and illicit parties. (These migrations will happen when there's challenging work ahead, like dictation or having to remember the months of the year. Or having to think up AWHOLESENTENCE.)
d) Wiser, you'll let X go, then immediately say to Y that he can only go when X is back. This will result in much cramp miming and, occasionally, minor spotting accidents.
e) There will be the occasional full half hour when no one remembers to play this card; this usually happens when the lesson is particularly gripping; you'll know, and give a nod of thanks towards the upper left corner of the classroom.
And now a new one: in the youngest group, midway through the class - a very little girl asks to go to the toilet. Off she goes. Another little girl asks to go. She goes too (I always let the littlest ones go immediately, they're not yet on first names with their own bladders). Another little girl asks to go. I go with her to the door to have a look for the previous two. I can see the second girl dashing about inside the toilet waving her arms. I beckon, she comes reluctantly.
'What happened to you?'
'Number two', she says unafraid. There seems to be no shame about confessing to such pastimes, around here. The word itself sounds innocent, a bit like 'cocoa'! (Number one, however, sounds like two times 'she': 'she-she' - which always creates a stir when we practise personal pronouns...)
'Where's your friend?'
Still unafraid, and loudly in front of everyone: 'She peed in her pants and on the floor. Now she's in the toilets waiting for her mum.'
Nobody bats and eyelid, but all the girls proceed to ask, and go, to the toilet. To visit their friend, I presume, and see the scene of the crime.
At the end of the class, I myself pass by the girls' toilets. Unlikely as it may seem, the girl's mother IS there, changing her 'cuecas' (knickers). Behind her, a cluster of cleaning ladies and children. Our girlie must be petrified with embarrassment - I think - but then I catch a glimpse: she's lording it on the toilet seat, smiling broadly and joking with the rest of them. In the end, mission accomplished: there is a party in the loo, a big one!
But I have the last smile, I reckon. After all, this 'cuecas' trick must have limited viability, right? One can't just go on using it into early adulthood...
Which leaves us with all the rest.
Saturday 5 February 2011
Sally's Desk
Yesterday the third year and I reached a new dizzy height of linguistic excellence. The following sentence was produced, sans prompting:
'There are two blue rulers on Sally's desk'.
Forget the semantics (no, it doesn't refer to two depressed dictators and believe me, it's much better than 'There are two pink rubbers on Sally's desk') - now pay attention to the major grammatical obstacles hidden to the casual native glance.
'There is' or 'there are'. I myself had no idea that the singular and plural forms of the verb 'to be' could be so impenetrable to so many. In fact, had I known how many times I'd have to repeat the mantra: 'when you have one object: there is, when you have two or more - there are', I would probably be sedated in an asylum rather than reliving the memory through a blog.
'Two' - 'How many rulers are there, Francisca?', 'Count the rulers João', 'One....two.' Let's say it together: 'two'. 'Two rulers' dear, not 'rulers two'. Etc.
'Blue' - 'blue rulers' dear, not 'rulers blue'... The number, the colour, the object: 'two blue rulers'. At this point my tongue is numb at the sides and curling inwards.
'On' - revision of the entire 'on', 'in', 'under' lesson, with props and miming.
Sally, surprisingly, poses no problem, but 'Sally's' is another matter. We have done the possessives already and we get there in the end, but here's the thing: when I say 'Sally's desk' I suspect that some of my little friends see one desk shared by two Sallies. They don't find anything strange in this, and nod just as fervently as the ones who've sussed out by now that we're talking about a desk that belongs to this Sally person.
'Desk' however. Desk, oh desk.
'Dex' - they say happily.
'Desk' - help me, my patient heart, stay with me, sanity!
'Dex'.
'OK, say Dessssss...'
'Desssss......'
'Good, now say Desk'.
'Dex'.
'Once again.... desssss.....k'.
'Desssssss...sex'.
We'll take it from there on Tuesday.
'There are two blue rulers on Sally's desk'.
Forget the semantics (no, it doesn't refer to two depressed dictators and believe me, it's much better than 'There are two pink rubbers on Sally's desk') - now pay attention to the major grammatical obstacles hidden to the casual native glance.
'There is' or 'there are'. I myself had no idea that the singular and plural forms of the verb 'to be' could be so impenetrable to so many. In fact, had I known how many times I'd have to repeat the mantra: 'when you have one object: there is, when you have two or more - there are', I would probably be sedated in an asylum rather than reliving the memory through a blog.
'Two' - 'How many rulers are there, Francisca?', 'Count the rulers João', 'One....two.' Let's say it together: 'two'. 'Two rulers' dear, not 'rulers two'. Etc.
'Blue' - 'blue rulers' dear, not 'rulers blue'... The number, the colour, the object: 'two blue rulers'. At this point my tongue is numb at the sides and curling inwards.
'On' - revision of the entire 'on', 'in', 'under' lesson, with props and miming.
Sally, surprisingly, poses no problem, but 'Sally's' is another matter. We have done the possessives already and we get there in the end, but here's the thing: when I say 'Sally's desk' I suspect that some of my little friends see one desk shared by two Sallies. They don't find anything strange in this, and nod just as fervently as the ones who've sussed out by now that we're talking about a desk that belongs to this Sally person.
'Desk' however. Desk, oh desk.
'Dex' - they say happily.
'Desk' - help me, my patient heart, stay with me, sanity!
'Dex'.
'OK, say Dessssss...'
'Desssss......'
'Good, now say Desk'.
'Dex'.
'Once again.... desssss.....k'.
'Desssssss...sex'.
We'll take it from there on Tuesday.
Tuesday 1 February 2011
24/40
How did we start talking about weight? It's unclear. Perhaps we were simply analysing Santa Claus' chimney challenge.
Setting: a third year group. Average age: nine.
There are two plump kids in this class. They are much bigger than the rest, with red faces and rounded bellies. It takes them more effort to dash about the playground, they tend to wave their arms about, and one of the hands always holds a sandwich. I've seen sandwiches made of two thick slices of bread with a slab of chocolate in the middle.
They may not run fast, but they can TALK! The classroom buzzes with their chatter.
Just now a very small girl says proudly: 'I weigh 23 kilos', and they both jump in:
The plump boy, just as proud: 'I weigh 40!'
The big girl, just as plump as the boy, just as proud as the others: 'I weigh 24.'
Now, this is glaringly unlikely. In silence, the class glances from the skinny girl, to the big boy, to Miss 24/40. Then back to the skinny girl, who – next to them – looks like a day-old chick next to a pair of fluffed up turkeys.
Our heroine grasps the dilemma and adds with nonchalance:
'I weighed 40 kilos too, last week, but I've dropped down to 24 since. I went on a diet... '
Mute disbelief all around. I hasten to add that we shouldn't be obsessed about weight and diets. I put in a 'healthy food and exercise' mantra for good measure.
'Yes, I ate a few apples' – the big girl continues with glee – 'and now I weigh 24 kilos!'.
Nobody contradicts her. It may be because they're sleepy after lunch, it may be because they're kind. It may be that they don't care, they take everyone as they are.
Whatever it is, it's why I like them, and it's also a good time to change the subject and practice some plurals.
Setting: a third year group. Average age: nine.
There are two plump kids in this class. They are much bigger than the rest, with red faces and rounded bellies. It takes them more effort to dash about the playground, they tend to wave their arms about, and one of the hands always holds a sandwich. I've seen sandwiches made of two thick slices of bread with a slab of chocolate in the middle.
They may not run fast, but they can TALK! The classroom buzzes with their chatter.
Just now a very small girl says proudly: 'I weigh 23 kilos', and they both jump in:
The plump boy, just as proud: 'I weigh 40!'
The big girl, just as plump as the boy, just as proud as the others: 'I weigh 24.'
Now, this is glaringly unlikely. In silence, the class glances from the skinny girl, to the big boy, to Miss 24/40. Then back to the skinny girl, who – next to them – looks like a day-old chick next to a pair of fluffed up turkeys.
Our heroine grasps the dilemma and adds with nonchalance:
'I weighed 40 kilos too, last week, but I've dropped down to 24 since. I went on a diet... '
Mute disbelief all around. I hasten to add that we shouldn't be obsessed about weight and diets. I put in a 'healthy food and exercise' mantra for good measure.
'Yes, I ate a few apples' – the big girl continues with glee – 'and now I weigh 24 kilos!'.
Nobody contradicts her. It may be because they're sleepy after lunch, it may be because they're kind. It may be that they don't care, they take everyone as they are.
Whatever it is, it's why I like them, and it's also a good time to change the subject and practice some plurals.
Tuesday 25 January 2011
Toy Story
Teaching toys today. In my bag I have: a doll, a bouncy ball, a bear puppet and a tiny skateboard. What I don't have is boy toys: cars, trains, planes, robots. And I'm afraid I don't have a kite.
I show the doll: What's this?
They laugh, delighted.
'A Pippi Meia Longa'. I'm impressed. Not just a doll, they know the exact doll category (but do they know the Pippi Longstocking stories too?)
'It's a doll' – I say, passing by each of them and saying Hello in various doll voices. They love this too and I have to do a personalised greeting per child ('Teacher, the doll didn't give ME a pat/pinch/kiss/flick of red hair'). It's surprisingly fun and rewarding for all.
The doll does her lap of honour then I'm back at the top of the class.
'So, what's this?'
Blank faces.
Sigh and start again.
We do the same for each toy. They love the bear puppet ('It's a teddy bear!'). Each name is shouted with great feeling, then just as briefly forgotten. By the time we get to cars (vrooom vroom sounds and dizzy turns), the planes we've just learned (while running around the classroom in ecstatic Titanic pose) are dropping off the radar and Pippi Longstocking is ancient history.
We stop at a total of 7 words (toys, doll, teddy bear, ball, plane, train, car) which I shall have to teach again on Wednesday.
I show the doll: What's this?
They laugh, delighted.
'A Pippi Meia Longa'. I'm impressed. Not just a doll, they know the exact doll category (but do they know the Pippi Longstocking stories too?)
'It's a doll' – I say, passing by each of them and saying Hello in various doll voices. They love this too and I have to do a personalised greeting per child ('Teacher, the doll didn't give ME a pat/pinch/kiss/flick of red hair'). It's surprisingly fun and rewarding for all.
The doll does her lap of honour then I'm back at the top of the class.
'So, what's this?'
Blank faces.
Sigh and start again.
We do the same for each toy. They love the bear puppet ('It's a teddy bear!'). Each name is shouted with great feeling, then just as briefly forgotten. By the time we get to cars (vrooom vroom sounds and dizzy turns), the planes we've just learned (while running around the classroom in ecstatic Titanic pose) are dropping off the radar and Pippi Longstocking is ancient history.
We stop at a total of 7 words (toys, doll, teddy bear, ball, plane, train, car) which I shall have to teach again on Wednesday.
Monday 24 January 2011
Blue Monday
Professora Margarida is depressed – she walks into the classroom at the end of my class, white and silent as a ghost, scary for someone as loud and vital as her. The children gather around her until she starts to look like a tall grey shepherdess in a field of lambs.
Then, just as silently, she starts kissing them one by one, with tears in her eyes and a kind word to each. 'How could I ever leave you?' she says and maybe this is a continuation of another scene I've missed. I am spellbound. The kids flock even closer, to be kissed, they lift their little faces towards her, this woman who knows them better than their parents, and who – maybe they even sense it – needs them now.
Once she's kissed them all, she turns, looks at me. 'Any of those for me?' I can't think of anything else to say. And then she comes and gives me a big kiss and hug, and suddenly I know what it is. 'Maria dos Anjos, right?' I ask and her eyes brim over in response. It's exactly a year today since her friend, also a primary school teacher, died of pancreatic cancer. A wonderful, joyful woman, a great teacher and a loyal friend.
I remember Margarida sobbing: 'Get up Maria, please Maria get up now!' after the moving hearse, a year ago. She tells me in a strangled whisper how she took flowers to the cemetery yesterday. 'Maria was calling me' she says. 'She missed you', I reply as if we're talking of an elderly aunt.
Then she and I, laden with the children's pencil cases and notebooks, take the little flock upstairs, to their next class.
Then, just as silently, she starts kissing them one by one, with tears in her eyes and a kind word to each. 'How could I ever leave you?' she says and maybe this is a continuation of another scene I've missed. I am spellbound. The kids flock even closer, to be kissed, they lift their little faces towards her, this woman who knows them better than their parents, and who – maybe they even sense it – needs them now.
Once she's kissed them all, she turns, looks at me. 'Any of those for me?' I can't think of anything else to say. And then she comes and gives me a big kiss and hug, and suddenly I know what it is. 'Maria dos Anjos, right?' I ask and her eyes brim over in response. It's exactly a year today since her friend, also a primary school teacher, died of pancreatic cancer. A wonderful, joyful woman, a great teacher and a loyal friend.
I remember Margarida sobbing: 'Get up Maria, please Maria get up now!' after the moving hearse, a year ago. She tells me in a strangled whisper how she took flowers to the cemetery yesterday. 'Maria was calling me' she says. 'She missed you', I reply as if we're talking of an elderly aunt.
Then she and I, laden with the children's pencil cases and notebooks, take the little flock upstairs, to their next class.
Tuesday 18 January 2011
Works
I hold up a yellow pencil: 'What's this?'
Eventually it is determined that we're looking at a yellow pencil. Up goes a blue ruler: 'What's this?'
'It's a ...Grjooooooooooojshhh...' A loud drill, nearby.
We stop. The entire group of tiny kids, bundled up in their winter coats, sit still, frozen, with the most comical looks on their faces: curiosity, alarm, a dash of excitement.
The drill continues. I try to say something above it: mumble-mumble-mmmh. They don't hear a thing, nor do they seem to be in a mood to listen anymore. Grand.
I have a look along the corridor: workers in blue overalls drill the walls outside the classroom. As they're drilling, they're having a good look at us through the windows above the doors. On their faces: curiosity, a dash of excitement. They too are catching a glimpse of an alien world (and my magic touch, naturelment).
'What are you doing?' I ask.
Installing smoke alarms, it appears. 'In case of fire' – they hasten to specify.
'Has there ever been any fire?'
'No.'
Pause.
'But the law.'
Pause.
'Requires.'
Then, demonstrative, shrill, neverending:
' Grjooooooooooojshhh... zzzzzzzzzzooooooooojjjjjj'.
So there.
I go back into the classroom and we sing a big long loud song.
Eventually it is determined that we're looking at a yellow pencil. Up goes a blue ruler: 'What's this?'
'It's a ...Grjooooooooooojshhh...' A loud drill, nearby.
We stop. The entire group of tiny kids, bundled up in their winter coats, sit still, frozen, with the most comical looks on their faces: curiosity, alarm, a dash of excitement.
The drill continues. I try to say something above it: mumble-mumble-mmmh. They don't hear a thing, nor do they seem to be in a mood to listen anymore. Grand.
I have a look along the corridor: workers in blue overalls drill the walls outside the classroom. As they're drilling, they're having a good look at us through the windows above the doors. On their faces: curiosity, a dash of excitement. They too are catching a glimpse of an alien world (and my magic touch, naturelment).
'What are you doing?' I ask.
Installing smoke alarms, it appears. 'In case of fire' – they hasten to specify.
'Has there ever been any fire?'
'No.'
Pause.
'But the law.'
Pause.
'Requires.'
Then, demonstrative, shrill, neverending:
' Grjooooooooooojshhh... zzzzzzzzzzooooooooojjjjjj'.
So there.
I go back into the classroom and we sing a big long loud song.
Sleep Learning
'We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas
AND A HAPPY NEW YEEAAAAR!!!'
This, our Christmas song, is read, written, translated, sung hundreds of times during December.
In January: 'How was your holidays?'
'Great, but teacher, my parents asked me to say 'Bom Natal' in English and I didn't know how!
'Did you forget?'
'No.'
'Then?'
'We never learned it!'
'Oh but we did learn it!'
'No we didn't!' They are all adamant.
'Let's try to remember. Let's sing that song: 'We wish you a merry Christmas... ' They sing, faultlessly and with gusto.
'Well?....'
Blank stares.
'What's 'Merry Christmas'?
Hesitantly: 'Bom Natal?'
'See?... you knew it all along!'
'Nooo.'
'What was that then? You just sang it, must have sung it a thousand times before Christmas.'
'But that was just a song...'
At this point a delicious, hallucinogenic paragraph swirls back into memory:
“A small boy asleep … (…) Through a round grating in the side of a box a voice speaks softly.
'The Nile is the longest river in Africa and the second in length of all the rivers of the globe. Although falling short of the Mississippi-Missouri, the Nile is at the head of all rivers as regards the length of its basin...(...)
At breakfast the next morning, 'Tommy', someone says, ' do you know which is the longest river in Africa?' A shaking of the head. 'But don't you remember something that begins: 'The Nile is the...'
'The-Nile-is-the-longest-river-in-Africa-and-the-second-in-length-of-all-the-rivers-of-the-globe...' The words come rushing out. 'Although-falling-short-of...'
'Well now, which is the longest river in Africa?'
The eyes are blank. 'I don't know.'
'But the Nile, Tommy.'
''The-Nile-is-the-longest-river-in-Africa-and-the-second...'
'Then which river is the longest, Tommy?'
Tommy bursts into tears. 'I don't know,' he howls.'
(Aldous Huxley, Brave New World)
So? Are we sleep-teaching? Are the kids sleep-learning? In which case, why bother to get out of bed at all?
AND A HAPPY NEW YEEAAAAR!!!'
This, our Christmas song, is read, written, translated, sung hundreds of times during December.
In January: 'How was your holidays?'
'Great, but teacher, my parents asked me to say 'Bom Natal' in English and I didn't know how!
'Did you forget?'
'No.'
'Then?'
'We never learned it!'
'Oh but we did learn it!'
'No we didn't!' They are all adamant.
'Let's try to remember. Let's sing that song: 'We wish you a merry Christmas... ' They sing, faultlessly and with gusto.
'Well?....'
Blank stares.
'What's 'Merry Christmas'?
Hesitantly: 'Bom Natal?'
'See?... you knew it all along!'
'Nooo.'
'What was that then? You just sang it, must have sung it a thousand times before Christmas.'
'But that was just a song...'
At this point a delicious, hallucinogenic paragraph swirls back into memory:
“A small boy asleep … (…) Through a round grating in the side of a box a voice speaks softly.
'The Nile is the longest river in Africa and the second in length of all the rivers of the globe. Although falling short of the Mississippi-Missouri, the Nile is at the head of all rivers as regards the length of its basin...(...)
At breakfast the next morning, 'Tommy', someone says, ' do you know which is the longest river in Africa?' A shaking of the head. 'But don't you remember something that begins: 'The Nile is the...'
'The-Nile-is-the-longest-river-in-Africa-and-the-second-in-length-of-all-the-rivers-of-the-globe...' The words come rushing out. 'Although-falling-short-of...'
'Well now, which is the longest river in Africa?'
The eyes are blank. 'I don't know.'
'But the Nile, Tommy.'
''The-Nile-is-the-longest-river-in-Africa-and-the-second...'
'Then which river is the longest, Tommy?'
Tommy bursts into tears. 'I don't know,' he howls.'
(Aldous Huxley, Brave New World)
So? Are we sleep-teaching? Are the kids sleep-learning? In which case, why bother to get out of bed at all?
Saturday 15 January 2011
The Flu
Everyone's got the flu. Half of the kids stayed home (and yet it appears the economy hasn't collapsed!!..), the other half were sent to school ill, wrapped up and drugged with Calpol (is THAT what saved the economy then???...)
Persistent group coughing drowned every sentence, I was regarded wearily by glazed eyes and a few kids fell asleep on their desks with a clunk. A child walked to my desk clutching his worksheet, to ask a question. 'Yes?' I said and he opened his mouth to speak. Instead, a deep, thorny cough shook him violently and sprayed everything from the second desk to the blackboard. At the end of it he stood dazed, having completely forgotten his question. 'Someone, please, someone march this poor chap home and put him to bed'. This I felt like shouting down the empty corridors.
Then there was the touching incident of Professora Margarida, who's got the strongest voice and character in the whole didactic army. I didn't hear her come in. I heard a banging of books on a desk. 'Who's making that noise' I asked and turned, to find her in the back of the class, hitting a desk with the Class Register to get my attention.
'Who's making that noise in my class?' I repeated as a joke and went to give her a hug and kiss, as usual. She opened her mouth and .... nothing. A strangled small squeak. Too ill to speak. Great. 'I've taken four pills', she gasped. 'How did you manage a WHOLE day of teaching in this state?' - a bit like holding to a frozen cliff for six hours in a blizzard, waiting for rescue, I thought and then I also thought 'I'm next'.
Well, the week is over. I took dozens of Vitamin Cs, and taught in a haze of headache and weariness on Thursday and Friday. That's all I hope.
'We should have shut the school down' - someone concluded on Friday. Photocopier talk. 'Give everyone a chance to get better'. Weekend now, this is our chance.
Persistent group coughing drowned every sentence, I was regarded wearily by glazed eyes and a few kids fell asleep on their desks with a clunk. A child walked to my desk clutching his worksheet, to ask a question. 'Yes?' I said and he opened his mouth to speak. Instead, a deep, thorny cough shook him violently and sprayed everything from the second desk to the blackboard. At the end of it he stood dazed, having completely forgotten his question. 'Someone, please, someone march this poor chap home and put him to bed'. This I felt like shouting down the empty corridors.
Then there was the touching incident of Professora Margarida, who's got the strongest voice and character in the whole didactic army. I didn't hear her come in. I heard a banging of books on a desk. 'Who's making that noise' I asked and turned, to find her in the back of the class, hitting a desk with the Class Register to get my attention.
'Who's making that noise in my class?' I repeated as a joke and went to give her a hug and kiss, as usual. She opened her mouth and .... nothing. A strangled small squeak. Too ill to speak. Great. 'I've taken four pills', she gasped. 'How did you manage a WHOLE day of teaching in this state?' - a bit like holding to a frozen cliff for six hours in a blizzard, waiting for rescue, I thought and then I also thought 'I'm next'.
Well, the week is over. I took dozens of Vitamin Cs, and taught in a haze of headache and weariness on Thursday and Friday. That's all I hope.
'We should have shut the school down' - someone concluded on Friday. Photocopier talk. 'Give everyone a chance to get better'. Weekend now, this is our chance.
Friday 7 January 2011
Sing for the King
The entire school was full of cardboard crowns yesterday. Children spent hours sticking bits of golden paper on their crowns, then wore them with the points upward or - for the more belligerent - downward, like a knight's visor.
It was the Kings' Day, and the song they were practicing at the beginning of the week was belted out with gusto. 'I'm not singing out of interest / I am singing out of friendship / Singing the story of the Kings / to my community!'
Not the most inspiring lyrics, I must say. The story itself - hmmm. The three Kings come bearing gifts for the baby Jesus. They stop outside Bethlehem and have an argument about which of them would offer the first present. A local lord settles the dispute by making a cake and baking inside it a random bean. The cake is cut into three and the king who finds the bean is the first gift-giver. The Bolo Rei - a crown-shaped fruitcake eaten in Portugal around Christmas (read: between November and February!) - embodies the legend.
As I walk towards my next class, I'm pestered by a few petty questions: why a bean? who would give the second present? wouldn't they be fighting about that next? would a second cake be required?
In the classroom, I am faced with 14 kings and queens and 2 knights. The knights, I suspect, are the 2 children who don't want to see what's going on in the English class, never have. I ask about the song. Everyone jumps into formation, according to instruments: two flutes, improvised percussion, two shells rubbed together, a mouth organ, some castanets, pencils-and-desks. They launch into the song, making a huge and merry racket.
It's another ten minutes until we manage to settle down. Just as they start to concentrate on their worksheet (except the two knights who I suspect have fallen asleep behind their visors) the door opens. In comes the janitor holding a little queen by the hand: it's my daughter!!! Everyone stops and turns to look.
'Snack' - the janitor says. I stare blankly. 'She needs her snack' - he repeats. I am dumbstruck - this has never happened before - and turn mechanically to check my bag. Have I got anything??? I am closely followed by everyone's gaze, in tense expectation. Phewww - I find a banana, it looks OK, not too black, not too squashed.
I take it out of the bag as one would a pistol, going 'Ta-doooom' - Kira runs forward and snatches it, everyone laughs. By the end of the class, they're still laughing, still wearing their crowns, the worksheet still unfinished.
Well, there's always tomorrow.
It was the Kings' Day, and the song they were practicing at the beginning of the week was belted out with gusto. 'I'm not singing out of interest / I am singing out of friendship / Singing the story of the Kings / to my community!'
Not the most inspiring lyrics, I must say. The story itself - hmmm. The three Kings come bearing gifts for the baby Jesus. They stop outside Bethlehem and have an argument about which of them would offer the first present. A local lord settles the dispute by making a cake and baking inside it a random bean. The cake is cut into three and the king who finds the bean is the first gift-giver. The Bolo Rei - a crown-shaped fruitcake eaten in Portugal around Christmas (read: between November and February!) - embodies the legend.
As I walk towards my next class, I'm pestered by a few petty questions: why a bean? who would give the second present? wouldn't they be fighting about that next? would a second cake be required?
In the classroom, I am faced with 14 kings and queens and 2 knights. The knights, I suspect, are the 2 children who don't want to see what's going on in the English class, never have. I ask about the song. Everyone jumps into formation, according to instruments: two flutes, improvised percussion, two shells rubbed together, a mouth organ, some castanets, pencils-and-desks. They launch into the song, making a huge and merry racket.
It's another ten minutes until we manage to settle down. Just as they start to concentrate on their worksheet (except the two knights who I suspect have fallen asleep behind their visors) the door opens. In comes the janitor holding a little queen by the hand: it's my daughter!!! Everyone stops and turns to look.
'Snack' - the janitor says. I stare blankly. 'She needs her snack' - he repeats. I am dumbstruck - this has never happened before - and turn mechanically to check my bag. Have I got anything??? I am closely followed by everyone's gaze, in tense expectation. Phewww - I find a banana, it looks OK, not too black, not too squashed.
I take it out of the bag as one would a pistol, going 'Ta-doooom' - Kira runs forward and snatches it, everyone laughs. By the end of the class, they're still laughing, still wearing their crowns, the worksheet still unfinished.
Well, there's always tomorrow.
Wednesday 5 January 2011
Second Term
January 2011. As I float on a wave of cheap wine and fizz with New Year hopes, a cold rain and three months of hard work looming ahead drag me down again. Work without break and without Moona, who left again for Pakistan yesterday. He left with a spring in his step, he loves his work and journeys to all those troubled faraway lands. I took him to the bus stop and got home in the rain, with a sore head and such heaviness in the heart that making pizza and sandwiches for dinner was too much. Nikita made them. I stared into space, then stared into the computer, then stared into space again, thoughts and images on screens swirled into a tight fog, impenetrable, a drug of sorts. In the oven, the pizza burned.
Here I am, midway through the first week of work, unable to settle and already exhausted. Why are the first days the hardest (at least I hope they are, it would imply that things will get better, right?)... The English language room is occupied by a group whose classroom is being repaired, I'm displaced. I go from classroom to classroom, I hang out in the teachers' lounge, shivering. Between classes, I listen to other people's conversations, canteen orders, pupils' emergencies (a boy fell and split his head open yesterday, later appeared with four stitches, a vast bruise where his left cheek used to be, a proud smile)... Today the janitor discovered The Radio, so I find myself also listening to national gossip and popular music. He goes somewhere, I turn it off. Phew.
Short respite. The blaring music, it turns out, was scrambling the very thoughts that squeezed and crushed me yesterday. They're flooding back now, a heavy march of things to do, relentless: house building, plumbing, electrics, stone work, pointing, finish roof, doors and windows, window sills, plaster, floors, jobs for the Romanians, alambique, new lime pit, garden, trees.
Small breath.
Nikita school, planning, daily schedules, add literature, add writing programme, review current affairs. Music, history, art. Practical projects, electronics, film-making, green roof for his hut. Clear the yurt and camp area. Read LOTS of books.
Another breath.
Kira school, work on reading (Portuguese AND English=, maths practice, lots of it, make a schedule for the Nintendo (i.e. reduce!), send her to bed earlier, give her some house work chores, start piano lessons, art projects, get her to start a diary while Moona's away, maybe also a small garden patch in Troporiz?
Small break. The janitor is back. He's got to do some photocopies for the fourth year. It's the lyrics of a song, he looks at it and starts singing, gets the two girls who brought the page to sing the next verse, at the end goes 'Hmmmph, that's NOT CORRECT', sings again. Doesn't seem to notice the radio's off.
There's more, I know. I have all my own stuff to put on list. House work, teaching work, trying to get a life; this latter point, it includes all the New Year's resolutions and seems to stay on the extra-curricular side of life. Filling the gas bottle takes precedence.
Drrrrrnng. My class is about to start. Teaching the big numbers to the fourth year groups. Everyone wants to know how to say A Million. Then they say: 'Oh I wish I had A Million Euros...'. They're 9 years old and they want a mountain of money.
Thus I teach the big numbers and hope for a small number as I count down to Friday.
Here I am, midway through the first week of work, unable to settle and already exhausted. Why are the first days the hardest (at least I hope they are, it would imply that things will get better, right?)... The English language room is occupied by a group whose classroom is being repaired, I'm displaced. I go from classroom to classroom, I hang out in the teachers' lounge, shivering. Between classes, I listen to other people's conversations, canteen orders, pupils' emergencies (a boy fell and split his head open yesterday, later appeared with four stitches, a vast bruise where his left cheek used to be, a proud smile)... Today the janitor discovered The Radio, so I find myself also listening to national gossip and popular music. He goes somewhere, I turn it off. Phew.
Short respite. The blaring music, it turns out, was scrambling the very thoughts that squeezed and crushed me yesterday. They're flooding back now, a heavy march of things to do, relentless: house building, plumbing, electrics, stone work, pointing, finish roof, doors and windows, window sills, plaster, floors, jobs for the Romanians, alambique, new lime pit, garden, trees.
Small breath.
Nikita school, planning, daily schedules, add literature, add writing programme, review current affairs. Music, history, art. Practical projects, electronics, film-making, green roof for his hut. Clear the yurt and camp area. Read LOTS of books.
Another breath.
Kira school, work on reading (Portuguese AND English=, maths practice, lots of it, make a schedule for the Nintendo (i.e. reduce!), send her to bed earlier, give her some house work chores, start piano lessons, art projects, get her to start a diary while Moona's away, maybe also a small garden patch in Troporiz?
Small break. The janitor is back. He's got to do some photocopies for the fourth year. It's the lyrics of a song, he looks at it and starts singing, gets the two girls who brought the page to sing the next verse, at the end goes 'Hmmmph, that's NOT CORRECT', sings again. Doesn't seem to notice the radio's off.
There's more, I know. I have all my own stuff to put on list. House work, teaching work, trying to get a life; this latter point, it includes all the New Year's resolutions and seems to stay on the extra-curricular side of life. Filling the gas bottle takes precedence.
Drrrrrnng. My class is about to start. Teaching the big numbers to the fourth year groups. Everyone wants to know how to say A Million. Then they say: 'Oh I wish I had A Million Euros...'. They're 9 years old and they want a mountain of money.
Thus I teach the big numbers and hope for a small number as I count down to Friday.
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