Medieval dialogue

Whatever happened to the medieval tradition of teaching through dialogue?  Conversation?

When I have a room full of kids who are in no mood to work, I let them talk.  Not because I’m too lazy to argue with them about working (okay, maybe a little), but because they are inspired by discussion.  The other night, we had Sex Discussion Part II, which began with an inquiry as to the pronunciation and meaning of the word “mated”, took a left turn at “Oh, I think I have three boy fish and one girl fish in the same tank”, led to how sex is used by the media (because someone thought the group of fish reminded him of an ad where both sexes were lying around like dead fish), and ended (when he finished giggling and blushing) with Endymion understanding how sexual attraction and sexual roles affect the characters’ relationships in Hamlet.

I like the light-bulbs over their heads.  Light-bulbs mean they do the reading and writing I want them to do.  Just as it does at my family’s dinner table, discussion inevitably requires someone going to get a book to prove their point, or to look up something to prove someone else wrong.  Someone writes something down because they don’t want to forget it.

I’d like to have the kids choose a subject, or maybe several subjects.  We’d go to the library and get a big pile of good books on the subject (some with pictures, some with nice fonts, some with packing tape on the spine because they were so good they’d been read to death).  We’d put that pile in the middle of the room, and bring out the tea and cookies.  We’d sit around reading for a while.  Then, we’d discuss the subjects, connect them, re-shape them, make some decisions, change those decisions, and finally come to a fair understanding of what we had learned.

Everyone would have read the same books, and would be discussing the same subjects, but they’d all have something different to offer.  A different perspective.  A different point which interested them.  A connection someone else hadn’t noticed.  The discussion would be much more educational than a lecture (which only offers one perspective), or a research project (which also only offers one person’s perspective).  If we had two or three people taking notes, we’d have a reasonable record of all the things we covered.

I don’t think anyone refutes the effectiveness of dialogue, or else we wouldn’t teach Plato and Aristotle.  I think maybe it’s just gone by the wayside in favour of “more efficient teaching”.  We’re trying so hard to shove x amount of information into the students’ little heads in x number of years, and we’ve lost the best ways of doing so.

Seriously sidetracked

One of my older Chinese students found this blog, and directed me to it because she needed help with some of the language.  After we discussed the language, she wanted to talk about the philosophy behind it.

In North America, we expect the adolescents to be angst-ridden, traumatised, dark; in China, that’s considered a bad thing.  My student is fairly happy-go-lucky, but she also has a sense of fairness; she is often angry with her school for lying to the government about the amount of homework the teachers give (the government’s limit is 2 hours per day, while the school actually gives 5 hours per day).  My student really liked the line,

But with integrity, honesty, compassion and hope.

I guess I’m more adolescent than I thought, because I really like this line:

We do what we can with the blunt instruments meted out to us.

I like almost all the rest of Erisian Review’s writing, too.  I want to try her bread recipe.

Getting sidetracked

I’m supposed to be writing about verb form use, not blogging.

I keep getting sidetracked.  This morning, one of my students was asking about the phrase, “rhyme or reason”.  That got the John Denver song in my head (but I found a better version).  A little more sidetracking led me here.

Why am I writing about verb form use?  Is that really what I want to use my language for?  Are there not more important things to be teaching the world?

Eviscerated

In person, I’m not very expressive.  I don’t talk a whole lot.  My face is always “pensive” (as someone, trying to be polite, once told me).  I’m not much for spilling beans, as it were.  In print, it’s a different matter; I can sell myself, explain myself, explain other people, tell them what to do, etc.  I’m quite comfortable doing it.   It’s unfortunate I can’t teach on paper.

When I took up teaching, I rather held to the “keep it business” perspective.  I’ll tell my students a little about my home life or offer my opinions if I think it will make them more comfortable (and therefore get me that much more leverage), but at no point do I feel like “sharing”.

The last 24 hours have been the Day of Evisceration.  I feel like my guts are just splattered all over the ground, ready for extispicy.

The tutoring centre I work in has an exciting policy about making money, which frequently leaves me with 4 or 5 students, all of different age ranges, all studying different subjects.  Last night, I had Endymion, a Grade 11 student, a Grade 9 student, a Grade 6 student, and a Grade 5 student.  All male; all but the Grade 5 are practicing Muslims.  Grade 9 student, quite intellectually disabled  (and also socially disabled),  had to write a paragraph for health class.  The paragraph was on how one might know when it is time to “do it” with one’s girlfriend.  As Grade 9 student is not able to write a sentence by himself, much less a paragraph, and can certainly not on a subject so intangible, I had to be heavily involved.

I don’t have problems talking to kids about sex, and I do think the subject should be taught in the schools.  So, I was not going to let him just write, “Prom night is a good time to do it.”  However, I had the other students to think about (Endymion could not get any lower in his chair).  I told Endymion go sit in the other room; everyone else claimed they were not bothered by it.  I let the Grade 9 student ask any questions he wanted on the subject of “knowing when”, including asking my point of view.  The younger kids asked some questions, too.   No one asked anything inappropriate, or used unwelcome terminology.  They just asked questions so they could learn.  Why should people wait?  How long should people wait?   What’s the fun in waiting? My opinions seemed to be the most pressing thing to discuss.

Because I am a teacher, I shared.

I thought I had done my Good Teacher Duty for the week; apparently not.  My Chinese student, who is going to the United States in September, is reading Twilight because I want her to know as much as possible about North American culture.  We are reading Carlisle’s story, which begins with Carlisle’s father being an Anglican priest in the mid-1600’s.  This morning, I was quite prepared (and quite pleased) to be grilled about the religious history.  I was looking forward to a discussion on what she thought would happen to the soul of a vampire, or if she even thought such a thing was relevant to mythology.

I wasn’t prepared to hear the following questions from a cultural atheist:

Do you believe in God?  In Jesus?  Why do you believe in God?  Why don’t you tell me to believe in God if the Bible says you are supposed to do that?  Do you say grace before you eat?  How do you pray? …  It went on like that for 20 minutes.

Because I am a teacher, I shared.  Again.

I feel vulnerable, now.  Like I have narrowly escaped being hanged for a thought crime.  I don’t like answering questions about my beliefs on controversial subjects.  Information, I can share; beliefs are to be written on paper and read in privacy and secrecy.

Today, I don’t want to be a teacher.  I hope my students ask me some nice, easy grammar questions tonight.

Book abuse: Head, dented

I am a baaaaad person.

I used packing tape to repair the spine of my copy of Chambers’s Etymological Dictionary of the English Language (A New and Thoroughly Revised Edition, 1888).

When I confessed, I thought my local book pusher was going to have a coronary on the spot.

My logic (and, yes, there was logic involved) was that I do not have the dictionary for the purpose of having a nice, old book which will bring my children thousands of dollars upon my death; I have the dictionary because I want to know where words come from, and for the effort of a drive to the flea market and $10, I can do so.  When the cover fell off, I merely wanted to protect my ability to look up a word, not protect the book from further damage.

I found this lovely little notice on Vespiary Book Binding.  Book binders probably want me hanged.  I take books in the bath.  I put them in bags with many other objects.   I stack them on windowsills, and on tables where I eat and drink.  I let my infants hold real books, not just board books.  My Riverside Shakespeare is holding up one end of my couch (’cause I can’t think what the hell else I’d do with it).  I even forget how to properly pack books in a box when moving them.

Most of the time, I’m not much for consumerism.  In fact, I think the world might be a better place if the Industrial Revolution had not occurred.  However, it did, and I may as well enjoy some part of it.  Thus, there are thousands and thousands and millions of books around; were my Chambers’s Etymological Dictionary to bite the dust, I could find something quite similar to replace it.

I also don’t want books to be put on a pedestal.  They should be accessible to all people, in all places (including bathtubs).

There are the aesthetics to consider.  Do not suppose for one minute I don’t think jewel-encrusted gold with medieval illuminations is not beautiful, but it’s not an everyday thing.  Foxing is everyday.  Dusty, smoky, fingerprinty books are everydayEveryday is an aesthetic.  Everyday is beautiful.  Everyday is what I am, and what my books should be.

The Vespiary Book Binding’s blog on Ronald Searle’s Wicked World of Book Collecting has an interesting viewpoint, but it’s not mine.  The book is merely a catalog of the physical attributes of my library.

My Chambers’s Etymological Dictionary is beside me as I write this; my cat is on my other side.  I can’t really say which one I will miss more when it dies, but I can assure you they will both die.  Then, with a sad but strong heart, I will get more pets.

Ampleforth’s wisdom

I’ve been re-reading Orwell’s 1984, for a grade 12 student.  Though it’s not one of my favourite books, I like it well enough.  Haven’t read it since, let’s see, oh, 1984….

When Winston gets arrested and sent to prison, he meets up with the poet Ampleforth.  Ampleforth is in for poetry crime: he left the word, “God”, at the end of a line in a Kipling poem, because he couldn’t find another word to rhyme with “rod”.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” he (Ampleforth)said, “that the whole history of English poetry has been determined by the fact that the English language lacks rhymes?” (Orwell, 1984)

Apparently, that thought had not occurred to Winston.  I don’t like Winston, much.  Of course, I don’t rhyme my poetry, but I do get frustrated when poets repeat words, or strangle a rhyme out of something non-existent just because they’ve decided to follow some ridiculous rule.  Ampleforth’s thought occurs to me on a regular basis.

The new thought (okay, new for me) which rattled my little brain was that our society is not much different than Oceania.  There are words we are not permitted to use.  No, North Americans aren’t likely to be imprisoned for using a word, but they will lose their jobs, be ridiculed, be ostracised.  I’m not referring to a thought (although, go ahead and tell everyone at work there is a God and you’ve seen his face, and see what happens); I’m referring to actual words.

I’m not allowed to teach my students certain choice words.  Yes, curses are on the list, but also anything refering to sex, bodily functions, specific religions, alternative lifestyles, any word which might be used as an insult; the list is actually fairly long.  At the tutoring centre I work in, a six-year-old boy was literally yelled at for figuring out what happens if you put an “f” in front of “art” (I wasn’t yelled at, but got an extremely disapproving look for congratulating him… and snickering).

The whole history of the English language, my dear Ampleforth, has been determined by people who like to make rules.  Why don’t we make a few more arbitrary rules (who, by the way, gets to decide which words are polite and which words are not: the same people who decided leaving your hat on indoors was rude?) and install some telescreens?  Perhaps then we will achieve our Utopian society.

I’m re-reading Brave New World next.  If there are Thought Police, they’ll be on my case in no time.  I am The Savage!

The pen is the mightiest, but we knew that

I love it when I have tangible proof I have clicked with my students.  It’s not a requirement for a good relationship, but it’s really nice for my ego.

My students frequently assume  little things from me: my vocabulary, my taste in literature, my preference for Jasper (not Edward), my one-size-does-not-fit-all approach to education, the way I write my 7s and Zs in the European style.  The best part is when they insist on writing with my pens.  Last night, I was watching Endymion take notes, and it made my little heart sing.

Black liquid ink pens: a sign of true love

Black liquid ink pens: a sign of true love

I use black liquid ink pens.  Generally, I buy them from the dollar store; quality is not really an issue.  The pens have a practical use, in that most students find my writing easy to read if it’s black ink on white paper.  I also like the texture of the writing, the feel of the pens, and the smell.  If I can’t have a quill and home-made ink, I want this type of pen.

My favourite students have all adopted the use of black liquid ink pens.  They don’t become my favourites because they use the pens; the favouritism occurs first.  The advocacy for black liquid ink pens just seals the bond.

Naturally, my students’ adoption of my pens is strictly due to their devotion to me, but I wonder if other students would choose black liquid ink pens for another reason;  I wonder if part of our “literacy problem” is the lack of aesthetics in writing.   Students are taught to write in pencil, make their letters the same way each time they write them, conform to standards set by an institution.  When they get older, they have to use ballpoint pen, or type, because legibility is the main issue; teachers don’t have time to squint at papers when they have several hundred of them to mark.

What would happen if we handed each kid the writing implement of their choice (a purple crayon for Harold, of course), let them choose their writing surface, didn’t follow any stupid rules about margins or font size, and let them doodle if the spirit moved?

What would have happened if Frederick Franck or Nick Bantock had given up on aesthetics and followed all the rules?