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.
Tuesday 25 January 2011
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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