This is a beautiful sentence

“Away from fierce, isolated and tiresome, workers are skating freely on the frozen river at night…”

One of my students, who is studying Michael Ondaatje’s In The Skin Of A Lion, wrote this sentence while trying to explain a quote.  I don’t read it in the student’s voice (which still has a trace of a Mandarin accent); I read it in the voice of my high school English teacher, which transcends the grammatical errors.  It allows “fierce” to be a self-explanatory noun; “tiresome” permits the workers to take responsibility for their own existence; the s and f alliteration sounds like winter wind.

I have to take this sentence out of her quote analysis, because Ontario secondary schools don’t permit poetry in literary criticism.

Salaam aleikum

Only about half of my students stay with me for more than a semester; a benefit, in some cases, a crushing loss, in others.  This semester, my favourite students come as a pair.  They didn’t arrive in my grade 11 tutoring class that way, but have since discovered they are in the same grade at the same school (although in different classes), and have become close friends.  I often see them hanging around together outside the school.

For reasons which include  – but are not limited to – their privacy, I will not use their real names, but will instead call them by the names I use when thinking about them: “Salaam” and “Walaikum”.  Each and every time they meet, these two cannot finish the entire greeting, but instead mutter the first words and give each other “knucks”.  I used to put it down to adolescent form, but now realise these two finish each other’s sentences, too.

Salaam and Walaikum are worthy of a blog entry because of their learning styles.  Walaikum doesn’t need to be with me: he has an 80% average, but really wants 100%.  Only 100%.  We often have chats about the improbability of getting a 100% in English class, as English is by no means an exact art.  As well as depriving himself of sleep to write the perfect essay, he researches advanced essay writing skills online, and keeps a chart of his teacher’s literary opinions so he can replicate them when necessary.  He got 98% on his last essay, and we had to go through the whole thing to figure out where he might have lost the two marks.  Much as I like him, two hours with Walaikum sometimes leaves me very tired.

Salaam is my typical student: very good at math and science, and bored silly by English.  While he is extremely well-bred and would never say the words, I often get that look of “who cares?” from him.  His average is just under 60%.  He’s only with me because his parents make him come.  He wants to pass English, but only requires that magical 51%.

However, if Walaikum is doing it, Salaam gets curious.  Like a sponge, he just sat there as Walaikum and I tore Lord Of The Flies into little tiny bits and analysed every single syllable.  Salaam is not the articulate type; he doesn’t “do” big words; his preferred reading comprises the sports page and the odd engineering journal.  However, when Walaikum finally loosened his grip on me and turned away to write, Salaam said, “I don’t think the comparison of civilisation and savagery interests me, but I like Jack’s devolution into primitive man.”

Hell, even Walaikum stopped writing to stare at him.

So, because Walaikum could do this stuff, Salaam made a chart of the comments his teacher had made on his essays, asked me for a formula by which he could acheive a level 3 introductory paragraph, and wrote a level 3+ essay.

Now Salaam has had a taste of the good stuff, he’s sounding more like Walaikum.  They’re working on Macbeth, which Salaam has already read.  This week, as Walaikum struggled through reading Act 3, Salaam made a list of potential essay topics, and then asked me to scratch out the topics which would be considered common.  Then he and Walaikum conferred, heads bent together, and decided which topics would be best.  As if they were offering me gold, they gave me the two topics, and waited for the king’s approval.

Their classes had been given Macbeth the day before.  Waleikum’s class had just begun reading Act 1, and Salaam’s class had not even started reading; no essays have yet been assigned.  They’re just getting ready, in case.

He’s a pretty cool guy

Some of my family members are less than enthusiastic about David Suzuki; they seem to think he could be a little more active and a lot less mouthy (just a little projection on their part, if you ask me).

I like Mr. Suzuki.  He’s trying, which is pretty much what I expect of people.

I watched The Suzuki Diaries last night on CBC.  I’m rather impressed by a) Mr. and Miss Suzuki’s global approach to the environment, and b) Europe’s approach to the environment.

I’ve long admired biodynamic farming.  It’s something my parents did, out of necessity, I believe, but it seems to me to be the best way to get what we need.  Psychologists have long known that a monkey, though provided with all the best food and medical attention, will not thrive in an artificial setting; why do we suppose a carrot would be any different?

Is it human hubris which prevents us from using the sun’s energy, preferring, instead, our own fabricated energy?  Just because it requires very little effort doesn’t make it a bad thing.

Now, I wonder about… biodynamic education?  Europe, as with most other things, is way ahead of North America in this area.  Denmark has a great attitude towards education, and is doing radical things like letting the children decide whether they want to sit or stand while they read a book.  What if we North Americans expanded this to allowing the children to learn by being in a natural situation with adults?  What if the children were allowed to absorb certain educational nutrients from the cow droppings, and leave the parts they didn’t like for someone else to learn?

If I could just get Mr. Suzuki to work for the education system….

How does a young person approach a text differently than an English tutor? Why?

Blair Bertrand asked this question in a comment on one of my other posts, and I’ve been thinking about it for some time.  This question doesn’t really apply to my E.S.L. students; I’ll deal with them in another post, another day.  This question is for my North American students, all of whom have been in Canada for most of their lives, and are considered to be fluent in English.

My students, who, logically, are coming to me only because they are having problems in English class, hate reading.  I have a couple who will voluntarily read graphic novels, but about 99% don’t even read the back of the cereal box.  It’s not that they’re stupid, or have any learning disabilities which prevent them from reading: they just don’t like doing it.  They can’t do it.  When they need information, they ask a human being, or watch a television programme.  Some of them are very visual, even to the point of depending on diagrams and pictures for guidance,  but the written word is not a language they use to communicate.

I watch these students, and ask them what they think of the book they’ve just read, or the book they’re allowed to read.  If I ask if they liked the book, they say, “yeah”, but if I ask what they liked about it, they just shrug.  Books are taken in hand with a deep breath, as if they are undertaking the Herculean tasks.

A good number of them are afraid of reading.  It makes sense that, if you don’t like reading, you’re not likely to be very good at it.  All but one of my students are in either the public or the Catholic school system, so their lack of reading has probably resulted in just one-or-a-thousand parent/teacher interviews, and considerable humiliation in the classroom.   If the task can be avoided, it is something to be done with the determination of one avoiding torture.

When I give them a selection of books, and ask them to choose something they might like to read, they invariably choose the shortest text available which is not a poem.  Poetry, they think, has some hidden meaning which they are never able to decipher.  Novels are just hard.  Short stories don’t take too long to read, and are not likely to have too many ethereal meanings or elusive literary devices.

Reading provides no pleasure for my students.  There is no thrill in hearing a particular word; there are no “funny” words or onomatopoeia which make them giggle; there is no chance of getting so lost in a text that you are shaken to find yourself still on earth.

How do my students “approach a text”?  As a chore; as a threat to their general sense of ease and contentment; as something which, like a strange religion, they can never understand.

Why?  Because not everyone can speak the same language.  Just because we call it all “English”, doesn’t mean it bears any resemblance to the spoken language.

I do understand my students: I feel the same way about numbers.

The Druids knew what they were doing

There is a large sugar maple just outside my bedroom window which, had I not been thoroughly indoctrinated into the “no other gods but me” way of thinking, I would worship.

This tree’s leaves turned a rich yellow two weeks ago, and started dropping this week; today, there are about one quarter of them left, all on one lower branch of the tree.

While autumn is my preferred season, I’m a little demoralised by the tree heading into its dormancy period.  When I’m having a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day and Australia is not an option, I depend on the tree for emotional orientation.  When the tree is drowsing under several centimetres of snow, there are only the wolves under the bed to remind me of the purpose of life.

I’m very fortunate the space under my bed is quite small, so not too many wolves fit under there.

The Geranium On The Windowsill

I just picked up my own copy of Albert Cullum’s The Geranium On The Windowsill Just Died But Teacher You Went Right On.  He has managed to say everything I, as both a student and a teacher, have ever wanted to say.

Some brilliant illustrations, too; I have all of those students.