The absolute power of… beds

March 30, 2009 at 5:24 pm (English Language)
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I have a new guru.  His name is James Geary.  His short article on beds was in the November 2008 issue of Ode.  Here are my favourite parts:

Beds.  We can’t help but make an impression on them.  Like a child’s finger-painting, the chalk outline around a corpse on the pavement, they retain an image of us.  Think of all they contain – skin, sweat, semen, blood, all the puke and spume of life.  Beds are fossil records of our lives… No wonder they’re a mess!  After all, so much happens there.  We begin and end in beds. (James Geary, Ode Magazine, Vol. 6, Issue 9, November 2008, p.74)

I’ve been procrastinating work by reading Geary’s blog.  While I’m not moved by his current fixation on aphorisms, I like the musings on banal things, like light bulbs and teeth.

When I have a student who is procrastinating with  “why on earth would I have to learn to write properly?”, I try to explain the absolute power of words.  I try to show them how “scared” means one thing, while “petrified” means another.  I try to show them how “mother” is not just the person who hassles them about homework and healthy food, but is a concept which is part of the larger picture of family, and continuation of the human race, etc.

I’ve never though about showing my students the word, “bed”.

It’s pretty rare I find a fellow wordsmith who is equally floored by language.  It seems most people are not stunned into a catatonic state by all the implications of a word.

Long live catatonia!

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It all comes back to bite me

March 25, 2009 at 4:15 pm (education)
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I was re-reading some of my notes – scraps of deep, philosophical thoughts which make a lot of sense while I’m thinking them.  I found this little gem, which I apparently scribbled last fall, when I had way, way too much free time:

As a teacher, I cannot judge people.  I cannot have too many opinions about people or things, because that might interfere with my teaching.  I cannot, for instance, say “War is bad”, as that might imply defeating Hitler was a negative thing, or that the Easter Rising cannot be an interesting study.  I cannot say, “Evolution occurred”, because such things have been proven wrong before.   As a teacher, to judge would be to inhibit my students.  What they like, what they think, what they know is all important.

*snerk*  What the hell was I thinking?  I should know better.

Ten days ago, I went to my first rock concert.  It was not a voluntary outing.  My daughter desperately needed to go see (get this) Mindless Self-Indulgence.  I figured she’d change her mind pretty quick if her only option was to pay for me to come with her.  I tried to backpedal, but she grinned as she handed over her savings….

So there I am, dressed as if I were 13 years old, standing for 5 hours, gripping the back wall of the theatre for dear life.  My daughter has been transformed into some sort of extra-terrestrial being.  There are swarms of teenagers, dancing in such a way that they resemble a pile of maggots on a rotting carcass.

It takes me about 20 minutes to realize I need to stop judging.  While there is no way I am letting go of my wall, I do need to let go of a preconception or two.

I learn.  I learn there is musical talent to be found in the punk genre.  I learn that Jimmy Urine has no shame, which makes for an enlightening performance.  I learn that the pile of maggots has manners, feelings, opinions.  I learn that how one looks to the adolescent crowd is important, but nowhere near as important as the way one behaves.  I learn that other parents also accompany their young teenagers to the concert, and that it’s better to be tolerated as an “acceptable parent” rather than be labeled an “old fogey”, but one should be prepared to be both.

I learn that a punk rock concert is not really so bad.  Loud, yes, but not bad.

My daughter learned, as well.  She learned this is the sort of thing she wants to do on a regular basis, and that punk rockers are her sort of people.  Her father is not amused.  However, parents are nothing more than the ultimate teachers.  I cannot judge, because that may interfere with my teaching.

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The reality of books

March 23, 2009 at 12:22 am (Reading)
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My 13-year-old daughter and I were wasting away Saturday morning, and ended up discussing the books we would take with us if we ran away from home (don’t ask).

My list included the books from my adolescence, with my Vikram Seth and Timothy Findley books thrown in.  I found it interesting that the older books seemed more important than the newer things which I regularly re-read.  Should I ever be expected to go without these books, my heart would break, I’m sure.

My daughter’s list included none of those from my list, despite the fact she’s read them all.  Hers included:

Sweetblood, by Pete Hautman

Blood Brothers, by Marilyn Halvorson

Heart-Shaped Box, by Joe Hill

She also debated taking favourites by Judy Blume and Deborah Ellis.

When I asked her why she would take these books in particular, she answered, “Because these books are reality.”  I, in a stupid moment of parenthood, tried to suggest these books may be an escape from reality, or a preferred reality, but she just gave me one of those withering looks and said, “No.”

When I think about it, I would have answered the same way when I was her age.  The books were what I lived, and the rest of my life is what I survived.

I see my books a little differently, now.  They’re my escape, pure and simple.  They’re no longer formative to my personality (which is forged in steel, damn it).  They’re no longer an optional way to live (even if I have a fleeting moment of wanting to be a vampire).

It made me a little sad, like I’d lost something.  But the conversation also inspired me to write things for her, so she’ll have a wide selection of realities to choose from.  If I have my druthers, she’ll see the books as reality for a long time to come.

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Endymion in Africa

March 20, 2009 at 6:24 pm (Reading, education)
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Endymion read Conrad’s Heart Of Darkness (not voluntarily, of course).  While we both agree the novella could have been written in 20 pages or less, he rather enjoyed the story.  He’s quite firm on his opinions regarding one race’s supremacy over another.  He likes Marlow, a lot.  He doesn’t see the attraction to ivory.

His teacher is trying to introduce the class to Post-Colonial Literary Theory.  It was difficult for Endymion to wrap his mind around this, as he’s not a reader, and has never read anything which is considered to be Post-Colonial.  A little history about England and India gave him something concrete to which he could relate the book.  (This he knows, given his heritage.)  He’s interested in the concepts.

Our problem is currently lying in the strong currents of the “in-class essay”:  Endymion has to write 8 paragraphs (his first time writing more than 5) discussing Conrad’s use of narrative conventions as seen through the lens of Post-Colonial theory.  Yeah, this is going to be useful in his adult life. Endymion’s not stupid; he knows the narrative conventions (and can identify them in the text), he understands the basics of Post-Colonial theory (and can discuss them fairly intelligently).  What he can’t do is write 8 coherent paragraphs on the subject without someone doing some serious editing, and he certainly can’t do it in the three hours allotted.  Some benevolent deity must be on our side, though, as the teacher gave the warning just before Spring Break, so we’ve had the whole week to work on it.

I’m highly impressed, and highly amused, by Endymion’s progress since last year.  He had to read Frankenstein, and it almost killed him; two essays were the end of the world.  This year, he seems to have a friend in his English class, and said friend is apparently female.  The efforts put into this year’s work go right off the scale; he’s spent more than 10 hours preparing for this essay.  He has asked me to help him improve his vocabulary, so he sounds like he’s in Grade 12 rather than Grade 8.  He’s trying for an 80% rather than a 65%.

I’m thinkin’ I should pair up all of my students with a member of their preferred sex, but then I’d likely be out of a job.

Conrad should have included more women in his books.

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If Neil could educate the world…

March 19, 2009 at 8:08 pm (Creativity)
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*snicker*

Two guesses as to which one I think is funnier.

A knife in the dark always gets my students reading.

I want to just sit in the corner of his writing room and read everything as he writes it.  It’s a shame to miss something just because he has editors and publisher, etc.

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Passionate playing

March 14, 2009 at 11:50 pm (Creativity, education)
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I grew up in a house full of people who, I now realise, are fascinating.  My family, immediate and extended, are all well-read, well-educated (self- or traditionally-) and never lacking in thoughts or opinions.  As a child, this embarrassed me.  We lived in a small town where people didn’t read something just because it looked interesting, and they didn’t cook Indian food.  At the dinner table, they didn’t have arguments which reached decibels equivalent to those of an airplane engine which then were ended by looking up a term in the dictionary (or, perhaps, several dictionaries, ’cause you never knew when a dictionary had turned against you).

When I get a new student, the first thing I want to know is what interests them.  I always start with the basics: what classes, what subjects, what books do they like?  Sometimes I get a response, but more often I just get a shrug.  When I ask what they would like to go into in university, they frequently don’t know, but they know they’re going to university.

This still floors me.  If you ask any member of my family what they like, you’ve just set yourself up for an hour-long soliloquy.  While some of us don’t know precisely what job we want, we know our interests; we discuss them passionately.

My students don’t generally have a lot of passion for anything.  Or, rather, they do, but it takes a long time to draw it out of them.  It’s not a secret, they just aren’t accustomed to discussing their reasons for living.  When I finally get something out of them, most of the academic problems are solved, because they now have something to read and write about.  A five-paragraph essay on Romeo and Juliet may kill them, but eight paragraphs on automechanics is a breeze.  Reading a book on the history of automechanics is fun.  Comparing and contrasting brake pads isn’t work.

Once the student learns to be passionate about their education, though, I always need to ruin it.  Constantly, there is this frustration lurking in the background: once the student can read and write about a subject they love, they will have to read and write about a subject which bores them.  None of my students are from the alternative education system.  Each and every one of them has to go to a public or Catholic school, read books which don’t interest them, talk about the books which don’t interest them, and write essays about the books which don’t interest them.  There isn’t a time in their schooling when they can read and write about their own passions.  There isn’t really a time in their schooling when they can enjoy learning.

It is unfortunate – isn’t it, Mr. Clemens? – that their schooling must interfere with their education, and their passions.

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What doesn’t kill me, will only make me gain weight

March 10, 2009 at 4:24 pm (education)
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I have an ESL class that just doesn’t work.  Yeah, I know, I’m not Super-Teacher, and cannot expect to have everything go perfectly.  This class, however, is not a matter of one or two students not clicking with me; this is four girls, one boy, and the entirety of the individualised curriculum.

The students are all around 12 or 13 years old, relatively competent in English, and more-or-less forced into these classes by their parents.  While they are all close to the same level in English, none of them have the same learning style, nor the same interests.  The boy has a thing about Harry Potter, which all the girls despise; one girl refuses to speak, or write (‘cepting when it’s homework, ’cause then she can thieve it, and she won’t have any errors pointed out); one girl only likes shopping and dolphins.

I’ve tried many different things with this class.  The idea is to spend 10 minutes on reading, 10 on speaking, and 10 on writing.  Forget the 10 minutes of speaking: it just ain’t gonna happen (unless you want to talk about Harry Potter, and then you get a 10 minute monologue).  The 10 minutes on writing happens if I give them cloze sentences or multiple-choice quizzes.  The 10 minutes of reading can be translated as 10 minutes of sheer boredom, no matter what we read.  I’m currently ignoring the copyright laws and scanning in Bridge To Terabithia.

I think most of it is that I now dread this class.  I find it hard to take (especially at 7 a.m.) yet another half-hour of the kids being bored by me.  I feel sorry for the kids.  I want to tell the parents to set the kids free and save their money: just leave me the boy and we’ll discuss Harry.  I tried suggesting this class be broken up, and each student moved to a class which has students with similar interests and learning styles, but all I got was “I’ll talk to the parents”.  It seems the problem lies in changing the students’ schedules, which are so packed they cannot move 5 minutes in either direction.

I’ve surfed the internet for potential solutions.  I’ve read through ESL teachers’ forums (nothing comes up labeled as “what to do with a bugger of a class”).  The library also offer nothing useful; my options seem to be child-led learning, or marching them through a curriculum.

So, now I’m taking suggestions.  The suggestions can certainly involve nooses, but I’m more likely to accept those involving chocolate.  I know I could get the kids with chocolate if I could see them in person, but this internet stuff is limiting the sharing of calories.

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Better homes and classrooms

March 2, 2009 at 5:40 pm (Creativity, education)
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I learned, somewhere around the time when I was living with 6 male engineers in a slightly run-down house next to the university, that life will always have some tense moments.  I also learned (being the only one in that house with any sense of domesticity) that if things are getting edgy, a clean livingroom and a loaf of bread in the oven go a long way to fixing many problems.  Add a large pot of tea and some chocolate-chip cookies to that, and you’ve pretty much solved the world’s problems.

Naturally, I’ve applied that to my own family life.  While I am, by no means, anything resembling Martha Stewart, the minute the kids start fighting and I start yelling is the minute I give orders to clean the main living areas and go bake something that tastes good.  It is an almost infallible solution.

Our schooling area – at least, the place where we do the “book work” – always has scented candles and interesting things to look at, and is a gathering place for kids, adults and animals.  When the math is not going well, sticking the hamster and a pile of strawberries in the middle of the table seems to break the tension, and allow life to continue.

I have no idea why I let my tutoring room at the centre remain boring for so long.  I suppose I felt it was not my room, specifically, and therefore I should just let it be.  It’s small, has a large desk and 4 folding chairs, white walls, and one sun-bleached print of some landscape so dull I can’t even remember what it is after 16 months of working there.  There is also the limitation put on by the religion of most of my students: no false images (which I have no problem with, other than I really like looking at pictures of people).

I’ve adopted the room.  It started with the owner of the centre fixing the hot water tap on the water dispenser, and a box of Celestial Seasonings Bengal Spice tea.  The kids stood in my doorway, and sniffed.  Just sniffed.  When I finished drinking my tea, they would put the cup close to their noses and sniff.  They whined the day I ran out of Bengal Spice and was drinking plain old Orange Spice.  They tolerate the Cranberry, though, because it smells like candy.

They come to my door, even if they aren’t studying English that day, to smell the tea.  While there, they might look at books, talk to the other students, get involved in whatever conversation is going on.  They read the ingredients on the tea box, and decide which ingredient smells the best.  They leave only when their teachers call them back.

I figured if tea could get them involved, what could decorated walls do?  I printed off some quotes about education (Mark Twain’s “I never let my schooling interfere with my education”, and Mahatma Gandhi’s “Live as if you will die tomorrow, learn as if you will live forever”).  I put up a colourful world map.  I put some palindromes up on the wall.  I made more tea, even though I wasn’t really thirsty.

Last Friday, I had 8 students in my room, when only 3 were supposed to be there.  They were arguing the difference between “schooling” and “education”.  I sat back and let them go, intervening only to hand them a dictionary.  The manager of the centre said they were being too noisy and sent them off to their respective teachers.  They were all back at some point during the evening, to add a remark to the conversation, or to copy down the quote, or to return the Beowulf graphic novel they had hidden in their science book.

On Saturday, a 12-year-old had hoisted a 6-year-old by the waist, and was showing him latitude and longitude on the map.

I remember, some years ago, about a Japanese factory increasing production dramatically by scenting the air with lavender.  I also remember my favourite high-school English teacher’s room was lined with quotes.  I remember my grade 6 teacher’s stuffed owl, perching on a shelf at ceiling-level and eye-balling us.

I’m adding, slowly, more things to the walls; there are many options which don’t involve false images.  I’m purchasing multiple boxes of Bengal Spice.  I’m letting my students’ education interfere with their schooling.

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