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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)