This Christmas has been a different one. Actually all my Christmases over the last few years have been different. Many have been very good and memorable, but they have not been the traditional ones of my childhood. This may come as a surprise to some of you, indeed it was a surprise to myself - I who strive to be open-minded and to accept new ideas and ways of thinking - but I think I like traditions. Yes, I know, it comes as a shock.
We were staying this year with an Indian family who we became good friends with when they were living in Zimbabwe and who are living at the moment in Dublin. They have moved around a lot and subsequently do not have a lot of Christmas traditions of their own because many years are in new places, with new people, so their Christmases are always different and often take on flavours of the places they are in - this year we had brussel sprouts along with Indian delicacies and drank mulled wine with brownies (okay, so the brownies are not particularly Irish, they just happen to be going through a brownie phase. We didn't complain.).
As we were talking around the table about Christmas memories that we each had, we realized how many traditions we as a family have. Mum's German heritage comes out most strongly at Christmas time and for me, Christmas tastes like stollen and lebkuken and prunes with diamond donuts (yes, I imagine they do have a real name; no, I don't remember it). There's our Christmas Eve supper of cheese and crackers, chips and dip and salami and chutney (a feast in the days growing up when cheese and chips were luxury food items that we didn't get during the year) when we read the Christmas story; stockings (literally Mum's old pantyhose cut in two) that appeared on the bottom of our beds in the middle of the night filled with more treats of sweets, small gifts, chips and complete with an orange in the bottom and a balloon in the top. I remember the feeling of that stocking on the bottom of the bed, the thrill of brushing your toe against it, half asleep in the early hours of the morning and hearing the crinkle of the wrapping of something that just must be good, and dragging it out to the lounge to be opened all together. We always opened gifts early Christmas morning as we ate sticky cinnamon rolls warmed in the microwave before heading to the Christmas Day service. Christmas lunch was always a hodge podge of people who didn't have anywhere to go and who managed to be such an odd and different combination that it always seemed to be the perfect group. Boxing Day was always extended-family day with everyone's leftovers combined to form another spectacular feast, more gifts and often a competitive Chinese auction (white elephant game) where the spirit of giving and love and family loyalty was set aside for an hour or two as we all battled to end up with the nicest junk.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised that these traditions are so important to me, because I suppose it is what comes with these traditions that makes them so important. There is a deep security and contentment in the constancy of traditions and I think that this is tied to the memories that are embedded into those traditions: being flooded with moments and feelings attached to a cinnamon roll or a crinkling stocking or the smell of cloves and pineapple glaze on the Christmas ham. That is a powerful thing. I do like traditions. And I think there is plenty of room for adding new ones to the old. Hmm, twelve months to get Mum used to the idea of mulled wine...
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Monday, December 19, 2011
London Glimpses
I have been here almost two weeks and although I feel that might make me even less of an expret than someone who has never been here, but I thought I'd share a few things I've seen, glimpsed, in the last 10 days anyway.
1. Although in this city you can find people dressed in absolutely anything and ranging from designer clothes to very worn, second hand ones, I always feel underdressed and like I really should wear more makeup than I ordinarily would just to feel okay. Its a daily mind battle to convince myself not to give in to the social pressure to throw on every vaguely fashionable piece of clothing or accessorie I own to try to measure up.
2. Londoners are remarkably friendly and helpful. The few interactions I have had with strangers - socially and as a customer - have been very pleasant; not at all the brusque, stiff upper lip treatment that is stereotypically expected of the British.
3. Saw 2 little boys, about six, happily pulling the middle finger at the car behind their bus. Their huge, innocent grins suggested that they merely knew that they would achieve some sort of strong reaction and I'd like to think they did not know what they were doing but even if so, how sad that they already know this sign and its implications.
4. We watched a fascinating scene between two drivers. A very fancy white car crossed on-coming traffic in order to enter a side road. Although I don't think it was dangerous, the on-coming driver of a delivery truck had to slow down somewhat and leant on his horn (do I say horn or hooter or beeper as a Zimbabwean? my lexicon is confused!) as he approached the fancy car. Well. Fancy-driver stopped his car in the middle of the road, got out and shouted abuse at the "arrogant ***", saying he could "SIT THERE ALL NIGHT". I was waiting for the delivery driver to get out and for a full blown, perhaps physical, fight to begin. And yet delivery driver just sat in his car while fancy-driver rained anger on him. After a moment, fancy-driver got back in his car and delivery-driver skirted around him on the pavement. It was fascinating. I am confused about the delivery-drivers lack of reaction, especially given his hooting in the first place. Power issues at play? Class even? Very interesting.
5. Christmas is different here. As in the States, consumerism still rules and there is lots of pressure and chance to spendspendspend! But the endless Christmas jingles that plague you ceaselessly are not here. Christmas music, yes, but much less Santa Claus, reindeer and elves. Its nice.
6. There are whole vegetarian rows in the supermarkets here! So wonderful. And although the restaurant menus I have looked at still only have a couple vegetarian options, they are marked with a V, so we're on the radar here. In Zimbabwe you might get a salad or a cheese sandwich. If you're lucky. Also, there are 7 recycling categories... what a place! I would move here except it rains in winter and I can't imagine living some where it rains in winter!
1. Although in this city you can find people dressed in absolutely anything and ranging from designer clothes to very worn, second hand ones, I always feel underdressed and like I really should wear more makeup than I ordinarily would just to feel okay. Its a daily mind battle to convince myself not to give in to the social pressure to throw on every vaguely fashionable piece of clothing or accessorie I own to try to measure up.
2. Londoners are remarkably friendly and helpful. The few interactions I have had with strangers - socially and as a customer - have been very pleasant; not at all the brusque, stiff upper lip treatment that is stereotypically expected of the British.
3. Saw 2 little boys, about six, happily pulling the middle finger at the car behind their bus. Their huge, innocent grins suggested that they merely knew that they would achieve some sort of strong reaction and I'd like to think they did not know what they were doing but even if so, how sad that they already know this sign and its implications.
4. We watched a fascinating scene between two drivers. A very fancy white car crossed on-coming traffic in order to enter a side road. Although I don't think it was dangerous, the on-coming driver of a delivery truck had to slow down somewhat and leant on his horn (do I say horn or hooter or beeper as a Zimbabwean? my lexicon is confused!) as he approached the fancy car. Well. Fancy-driver stopped his car in the middle of the road, got out and shouted abuse at the "arrogant ***", saying he could "SIT THERE ALL NIGHT". I was waiting for the delivery driver to get out and for a full blown, perhaps physical, fight to begin. And yet delivery driver just sat in his car while fancy-driver rained anger on him. After a moment, fancy-driver got back in his car and delivery-driver skirted around him on the pavement. It was fascinating. I am confused about the delivery-drivers lack of reaction, especially given his hooting in the first place. Power issues at play? Class even? Very interesting.
5. Christmas is different here. As in the States, consumerism still rules and there is lots of pressure and chance to spendspendspend! But the endless Christmas jingles that plague you ceaselessly are not here. Christmas music, yes, but much less Santa Claus, reindeer and elves. Its nice.
6. There are whole vegetarian rows in the supermarkets here! So wonderful. And although the restaurant menus I have looked at still only have a couple vegetarian options, they are marked with a V, so we're on the radar here. In Zimbabwe you might get a salad or a cheese sandwich. If you're lucky. Also, there are 7 recycling categories... what a place! I would move here except it rains in winter and I can't imagine living some where it rains in winter!
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Silently alone
(To understand this post fully you need to know this bit of information: I'm in London).
I hate being alone, a lot. Even though I knew they would be good for me and my spiritual well being, I avoided Calvin's Silent Retreats like the plague!
In the last two days I've had two experiences that really made me think about this quality (flaw?) more. Yesterday I explored a couple cities in Cambridgeshire that we visited as a family about six years ago and had made a strong positive impression on me. Ely is a small town known for its beautiful cathedral and Cambridge is this bigger town with a whole lot of people who like studying in it, you may have heard of it. I loved Cambridge right off and Ely's charm is prominent in my memory. And yet, as I wandered around these two places yesterday, while I appreciated many of the things I must have appreciated six years ago - the river on the edge of Ely with the hopeful ducks and fishermen, the markets full of fresh things, the atmosphere of life and movement in Cambridge, the old college buildings that are grand and would be intimidating but manage to sit alongside cafes and bicycle racks with casual ease - it was not the same. Okay, this time I was chilled to the bone and trying not to get frostbite or hypothermia, but I think it was something more. I think the fact that I did these towns alone made all the difference. I'm glad I wandered them, don't get me wrong, and I had a great time, but there was something missing: people to share it with.
I've noticed this about myself before and yesterday confirmed it, I don't enjoy doing things alone - travelling and seeing new places being among the biggest. This isn't to say I won't go travelling or see places alone, or that I'll be miserable when I do, just that I don't love it. So I've always thought I hate solitude and silence (hence the no-looking-back run from Silent Retreats).
Tonight I went to a really wonderful church service. The church was called Moot and it is part of the New Monastic movement of churches. I actually went to 3 services today - an Anglican morning one with a Nigerian twist, an Anglican choral evensong, and this one. This was by far my favourite and was one of the most beautiful services I have been to. There were several aspects of it that really connected with me but something that stuck out in particular as I think of my day yesterday was their use of silence. Quite near the beginning of the service there was a five minute period of "Disciplined silence"; and it was lovely. Really. It had been an exhausting day of walking non-stop around South London and the chance to just sit and catch my breath was well-needed. But it was also a chance to catch my breath after a busy week, a crazy final two weeks of the school year, a hectic term and a non-stop year. And a chance to talk to God. Really talk. I don't often just sit quietly and deliberately and it was good. And what made it even more so was that I was in the company of others doing the same thing. I have to admit here that I'm sometimes a cynical church participant as I watch people around me entering in or not entering in to worship. And yet, with these folk I had a sense that we were all there, together, catching up on rest, sitting in silence, talking. There were other creative uses of silence in the service but those five minutes were the pinnacle.
I think what made those five minutes so powerful for me was that although I was silent, I was not alone at all. And I've realised tonight that silence is not something I hate; maybe being alone is (and maybe I have to deal with that) but silence is good and healthy. Good and healthy and wonderful.
I hate being alone, a lot. Even though I knew they would be good for me and my spiritual well being, I avoided Calvin's Silent Retreats like the plague!
In the last two days I've had two experiences that really made me think about this quality (flaw?) more. Yesterday I explored a couple cities in Cambridgeshire that we visited as a family about six years ago and had made a strong positive impression on me. Ely is a small town known for its beautiful cathedral and Cambridge is this bigger town with a whole lot of people who like studying in it, you may have heard of it. I loved Cambridge right off and Ely's charm is prominent in my memory. And yet, as I wandered around these two places yesterday, while I appreciated many of the things I must have appreciated six years ago - the river on the edge of Ely with the hopeful ducks and fishermen, the markets full of fresh things, the atmosphere of life and movement in Cambridge, the old college buildings that are grand and would be intimidating but manage to sit alongside cafes and bicycle racks with casual ease - it was not the same. Okay, this time I was chilled to the bone and trying not to get frostbite or hypothermia, but I think it was something more. I think the fact that I did these towns alone made all the difference. I'm glad I wandered them, don't get me wrong, and I had a great time, but there was something missing: people to share it with.
I've noticed this about myself before and yesterday confirmed it, I don't enjoy doing things alone - travelling and seeing new places being among the biggest. This isn't to say I won't go travelling or see places alone, or that I'll be miserable when I do, just that I don't love it. So I've always thought I hate solitude and silence (hence the no-looking-back run from Silent Retreats).
Tonight I went to a really wonderful church service. The church was called Moot and it is part of the New Monastic movement of churches. I actually went to 3 services today - an Anglican morning one with a Nigerian twist, an Anglican choral evensong, and this one. This was by far my favourite and was one of the most beautiful services I have been to. There were several aspects of it that really connected with me but something that stuck out in particular as I think of my day yesterday was their use of silence. Quite near the beginning of the service there was a five minute period of "Disciplined silence"; and it was lovely. Really. It had been an exhausting day of walking non-stop around South London and the chance to just sit and catch my breath was well-needed. But it was also a chance to catch my breath after a busy week, a crazy final two weeks of the school year, a hectic term and a non-stop year. And a chance to talk to God. Really talk. I don't often just sit quietly and deliberately and it was good. And what made it even more so was that I was in the company of others doing the same thing. I have to admit here that I'm sometimes a cynical church participant as I watch people around me entering in or not entering in to worship. And yet, with these folk I had a sense that we were all there, together, catching up on rest, sitting in silence, talking. There were other creative uses of silence in the service but those five minutes were the pinnacle.
I think what made those five minutes so powerful for me was that although I was silent, I was not alone at all. And I've realised tonight that silence is not something I hate; maybe being alone is (and maybe I have to deal with that) but silence is good and healthy. Good and healthy and wonderful.
Friday, December 2, 2011
One down, a life-time to go
Well, it’s over. I have finished my first, full year of teaching my own classes.
I’m sitting in the garden with the extension cord trailing out the bedroom window to my laptop because it is way too hot to be inside, just returned from a day of staff meetings and a final staff lunch at a fancy restaurant where we ate and drank and were merry until we had to say goodbye to teachers who were leaving.
And now after all the reports and marking and uploading of applications and meetings are done (almost), I can reflect on where this year has brought me.
I think back to the beginning, to January, when I faced down my classes, quickly winning over my eager Form 2s and willing L6s but battling for weeks with my Form 3s, 4s and U6s. There were rough days and sometimes weeks with all those classes. The U6s remained difficult - it’s hard to teach or learn in the final two periods on a Friday afternoon – and there’s only so much Form 4 language anyone can take and we definitely had too much; sometimes even my bright and enthusiastic little Form 2s were just a little too much to take, and my Form 3s were a constant struggle but one I threw myself into because my heart was with these unimpressed, dubious 15 year-olds from the beginning.
But there were more days when I reveled in the joy of being with them, of seeing their eyes light up with a new idea, of reading powerful stories and poems that made me laugh and cry. My Form 2s fell in love with Pride and Prejudice – well, at least Mr. Darcy – this term and despaired at the loss of vocab lessons next year. A few of my Form 3s awoke to injustice around them through a project (the majority of them pulled out their hair in frustration at the torture I was putting them through) And my L6s met me in the midst of hard questions about language and identity and power. One of them said the most important lesson she learnt this year was that an A wasn’t the goal but improving her grade from where she had started from at the beginning of the year was (this was my mantra to them all year that I thought had fallen on deaf ears).
It has been a good year. One full of learning and growing. I am excited to be where I am, at the prospect of more conversations and mind opening moments, of being allowed into the world of these girls all over again.
Two young teachers are leaving our department. It has been a hard few days for them as they have said their goodbyes to students and teachers. I think it is going to be hard to leave this place when I need to. For now, I’m loving the present.
I’m sitting in the garden with the extension cord trailing out the bedroom window to my laptop because it is way too hot to be inside, just returned from a day of staff meetings and a final staff lunch at a fancy restaurant where we ate and drank and were merry until we had to say goodbye to teachers who were leaving.
And now after all the reports and marking and uploading of applications and meetings are done (almost), I can reflect on where this year has brought me.
I think back to the beginning, to January, when I faced down my classes, quickly winning over my eager Form 2s and willing L6s but battling for weeks with my Form 3s, 4s and U6s. There were rough days and sometimes weeks with all those classes. The U6s remained difficult - it’s hard to teach or learn in the final two periods on a Friday afternoon – and there’s only so much Form 4 language anyone can take and we definitely had too much; sometimes even my bright and enthusiastic little Form 2s were just a little too much to take, and my Form 3s were a constant struggle but one I threw myself into because my heart was with these unimpressed, dubious 15 year-olds from the beginning.
But there were more days when I reveled in the joy of being with them, of seeing their eyes light up with a new idea, of reading powerful stories and poems that made me laugh and cry. My Form 2s fell in love with Pride and Prejudice – well, at least Mr. Darcy – this term and despaired at the loss of vocab lessons next year. A few of my Form 3s awoke to injustice around them through a project (the majority of them pulled out their hair in frustration at the torture I was putting them through) And my L6s met me in the midst of hard questions about language and identity and power. One of them said the most important lesson she learnt this year was that an A wasn’t the goal but improving her grade from where she had started from at the beginning of the year was (this was my mantra to them all year that I thought had fallen on deaf ears).
It has been a good year. One full of learning and growing. I am excited to be where I am, at the prospect of more conversations and mind opening moments, of being allowed into the world of these girls all over again.
Two young teachers are leaving our department. It has been a hard few days for them as they have said their goodbyes to students and teachers. I think it is going to be hard to leave this place when I need to. For now, I’m loving the present.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Deadlines
I've missed several in the last week.
First, my Form 2 reports. Due Wednesday, 12:30pm. I was only a few hours late in the beginning but then thought I could do it at home with the school's new, fancy web-based report system... but no. And then the internet was down the next day at school (which was handy because it meant that the rest of the deadlines following my missed one could not be kept, so I had a bit of undeserved extra time).
On Friday my Form 3 reports were due, 12:30pm. By that stage I was exhausted from marking, overwhelmed at the thought of keeping my deadlines, and mad at the authorities for scheduling a Literature essay-based exam on the last day of exams and expecting all 100+ scripts to be marked in 48 hours and reports based on those marks in the next morning. So that fact is, I could probably have stayed late into Friday afternoon and finished and only been a few hours late... but I didn't. I went home. (And got them in first thing Monday before anyone was the wiser).
Okay, so its not a good habit to miss deadlines, I realise that, and in the past I've always been an almost ridiculous stickler for the rules, but the fact that I was so relaxed about missing these school ones (the first was sort of not my fault, or at least less my fault than the second which was totally a choice and my fault) shows something quite cool. I'm comfortable at W. I feel confident in my position here, so much that I realise that first, missing deadlines occasionally is probably not the end of the world and second, if there are near world-ending ramifications such as being shouted or frowned in next week's staff meeting... I probably will survive.
So missing deadlines at school, not a good thing, but being comfortable and confident in a place, definitely a good thing.
And a worrying thought that I'm not going to deal much on: this blog post is two days late and I feel more guiltly about that than missing my report deadlines.
First, my Form 2 reports. Due Wednesday, 12:30pm. I was only a few hours late in the beginning but then thought I could do it at home with the school's new, fancy web-based report system... but no. And then the internet was down the next day at school (which was handy because it meant that the rest of the deadlines following my missed one could not be kept, so I had a bit of undeserved extra time).
On Friday my Form 3 reports were due, 12:30pm. By that stage I was exhausted from marking, overwhelmed at the thought of keeping my deadlines, and mad at the authorities for scheduling a Literature essay-based exam on the last day of exams and expecting all 100+ scripts to be marked in 48 hours and reports based on those marks in the next morning. So that fact is, I could probably have stayed late into Friday afternoon and finished and only been a few hours late... but I didn't. I went home. (And got them in first thing Monday before anyone was the wiser).
Okay, so its not a good habit to miss deadlines, I realise that, and in the past I've always been an almost ridiculous stickler for the rules, but the fact that I was so relaxed about missing these school ones (the first was sort of not my fault, or at least less my fault than the second which was totally a choice and my fault) shows something quite cool. I'm comfortable at W. I feel confident in my position here, so much that I realise that first, missing deadlines occasionally is probably not the end of the world and second, if there are near world-ending ramifications such as being shouted or frowned in next week's staff meeting... I probably will survive.
So missing deadlines at school, not a good thing, but being comfortable and confident in a place, definitely a good thing.
And a worrying thought that I'm not going to deal much on: this blog post is two days late and I feel more guiltly about that than missing my report deadlines.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
PAIN: Invigilation
Along with exams comes invigilation. Last year, I started teaching right before Cambridge exams began in November. I listened as teachers bemoaned the duty of invigilating these exams with, I thought, over-exaggerated consternation and drama. Honestly, all you’re doing is supervising a bunch of girls while they write an exam. How terrible could that be? Well, having been inducted into my first round of public exam invigilating and well into my second, let me tell, it can be pretty darn terrible.
Cambridge is, as I imagine many other examining boards are, very strict on how invigilation must be done. An invigilator may not do anything else other than invigilate. This consists of walking (you are not really meant to stop moving) around the room watching attentively for cheating students (and supplying extra paper, tissue paper, string to tie papers together, picking up dropped writing utensils). Not difficult. No. But do you know how unbelievably boring walking around watching people write, racing other teachers to get to the raised hand, with nothing to do, for anywhere from 40 to 120 minutes, is? Well, let me enlighten you: it is awfully painful. You scoff? Believe it. I never knew doing nothing could be so painful (I knew there was a reason I avoided all those "Silent Retreats" at Calvin!).
So, in an effort to survive the eternity of walking in a daze around the room (who expects us to see cheaters after an exhausting hour of nothingness?) like zombies, you come up with some interesting ideas.
String braiding with the little pieces of string for tying papers together
Origami stars – made with thin strips of smuggled in paper
Statistics – work out what percentage of Maths candidates have two or more calculators
Races – first invigilator to find a certain number or word
Bets – with fellow zombie guess which month has more candidates born in it, count them up (based on students’ statement of entries on their desks) and see who wins
String hide and seek (our latest favourite) – spend the time hiding little bits of string (very surreptitiously) around the room, next invigilator has to find them
Jess, a friend and fellow zombie-walker, created a Facebook support group called “People Against Invigilation: PAIN”.
Ideas of ways to fill spaces of nothingness welcome.
Cambridge is, as I imagine many other examining boards are, very strict on how invigilation must be done. An invigilator may not do anything else other than invigilate. This consists of walking (you are not really meant to stop moving) around the room watching attentively for cheating students (and supplying extra paper, tissue paper, string to tie papers together, picking up dropped writing utensils). Not difficult. No. But do you know how unbelievably boring walking around watching people write, racing other teachers to get to the raised hand, with nothing to do, for anywhere from 40 to 120 minutes, is? Well, let me enlighten you: it is awfully painful. You scoff? Believe it. I never knew doing nothing could be so painful (I knew there was a reason I avoided all those "Silent Retreats" at Calvin!).
So, in an effort to survive the eternity of walking in a daze around the room (who expects us to see cheaters after an exhausting hour of nothingness?) like zombies, you come up with some interesting ideas.
String braiding with the little pieces of string for tying papers together
Origami stars – made with thin strips of smuggled in paper
Statistics – work out what percentage of Maths candidates have two or more calculators
Races – first invigilator to find a certain number or word
Bets – with fellow zombie guess which month has more candidates born in it, count them up (based on students’ statement of entries on their desks) and see who wins
String hide and seek (our latest favourite) – spend the time hiding little bits of string (very surreptitiously) around the room, next invigilator has to find them
Jess, a friend and fellow zombie-walker, created a Facebook support group called “People Against Invigilation: PAIN”.
Ideas of ways to fill spaces of nothingness welcome.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Six-word memoirs
Someone once challenged Hemmingway to write a short story in six words. So he did:
“For sale: baby shoes. Never worn.”
In 2006 Smith magazine challenged their readers to write their own six-word memoirs.
In October I challenged my L6s (17 year olds) to write their own six-word memoirs along with the back story. The back stories stayed private, I was the only one to read them, but the six words were all put into a powerpoint for our final lesson. The memoirs they wrote ranged from funny to thoughtful to heart-breaking. It is amazing how much you can put into six words and I feel privileged that they shared these stories with me – some deeply personal. Some of the things that they bring with them and have to go home to, that they hide behind hard work and good-natured smiles, that they have to cope with and still be expected to hand in homework and study for exams, are unbelievable.
Here are some:
“Experiences,” names given to our mistakes. --Jo
Newspaper Classifieds – Urgently needed: Braille Instructor --Ru
Can’t love what you didn’t have… --Sa
Love is patient. Love is kind. --De
Pink cozzies don’t make it better. --Se
High School Musical is a movie. --Ki
Blow out your candle – never mind… --Ch
Natural Selection: Survival of the fittest. --Pr
A little firefly glowing in darkness. --Ru
I swim because I want to. --Ni
Muffins, Best Friend and Worst Enemy. --Sh
Laugh out loud, let it rip. --Ta
Life. What it has to offer. --Ku
Friends all made it, I didn’t. --Ru
Best Friends Forever. Forever… CUT SHORT! --Me
My teacher made me do this. --Ch
Dearest God: Bring Daddy Back… Please! --Li
Darkness isn’t what I’m afraid of. --Ca
Wanted: That elusive place called home. --Miss Bell
“For sale: baby shoes. Never worn.”
In 2006 Smith magazine challenged their readers to write their own six-word memoirs.
In October I challenged my L6s (17 year olds) to write their own six-word memoirs along with the back story. The back stories stayed private, I was the only one to read them, but the six words were all put into a powerpoint for our final lesson. The memoirs they wrote ranged from funny to thoughtful to heart-breaking. It is amazing how much you can put into six words and I feel privileged that they shared these stories with me – some deeply personal. Some of the things that they bring with them and have to go home to, that they hide behind hard work and good-natured smiles, that they have to cope with and still be expected to hand in homework and study for exams, are unbelievable.
Here are some:
“Experiences,” names given to our mistakes. --Jo
Newspaper Classifieds – Urgently needed: Braille Instructor --Ru
Can’t love what you didn’t have… --Sa
Love is patient. Love is kind. --De
Pink cozzies don’t make it better. --Se
High School Musical is a movie. --Ki
Blow out your candle – never mind… --Ch
Natural Selection: Survival of the fittest. --Pr
A little firefly glowing in darkness. --Ru
I swim because I want to. --Ni
Muffins, Best Friend and Worst Enemy. --Sh
Laugh out loud, let it rip. --Ta
Life. What it has to offer. --Ku
Friends all made it, I didn’t. --Ru
Best Friends Forever. Forever… CUT SHORT! --Me
My teacher made me do this. --Ch
Dearest God: Bring Daddy Back… Please! --Li
Darkness isn’t what I’m afraid of. --Ca
Wanted: That elusive place called home. --Miss Bell
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Being a Lady
It is not ladylike to walk and eat or drink at the same time. You learn something new every day. W* is all about molding young ladies of excellence. Or something like that. It’s all a bit vague. But becoming a lady is definitely part of the goal. Last week they were lectured about acting like ladies (my Form 2s – 14 year olds – responded by greeting me for our after lunch lesson as “Lady Bell”, I think they missed the point). In our staff meeting we were reminded to make sure girls do not walk and eat at the same time because “ladies do not do that.” Ladies walk demurely, in silence, from lesson to lesson, not eating.
The same day, in the car on the way home, Angela told me how two girls at her co-ed school down the road almost got into a physical fight—“so unladylike!” she exclaimed with wrinkled nose.
“Why is it unladylike? Why can’t girls fight but boys can?”
I’d like to report that she realised the incongruence of this social more, and we had a mind shaping conversation… but we didn’t.
But really, this lady business distresses me a bit. What is the point? Who decides on what is ladylike and what is not? And why is being ladylike so inconvenient to the lady? And the big one: why can men eat and walk at the same time but women – sorry, ladies – can’t? Delicate constitutions, no doubt. Goodness, it feels like the 1870s sometimes (not that I have a firm grasp of what that decade was like). This lady image is an appealing one to push young girls towards, but what really are we pushing them into? And, why?
Well, fortunately, it’s too late for me to be molded a lady. So I walk down the corridor, and I grab the tea biscuit on my way out of school at 3pm and munch on it as I walk to the car. And I whistle; because I love to whistle. And that's definitely not ladylike.
*I have decided not to refer to my school by name anymore. So from now on it will be referred to as “W” – a random letter that has no connection at all.
The same day, in the car on the way home, Angela told me how two girls at her co-ed school down the road almost got into a physical fight—“so unladylike!” she exclaimed with wrinkled nose.
“Why is it unladylike? Why can’t girls fight but boys can?”
I’d like to report that she realised the incongruence of this social more, and we had a mind shaping conversation… but we didn’t.
But really, this lady business distresses me a bit. What is the point? Who decides on what is ladylike and what is not? And why is being ladylike so inconvenient to the lady? And the big one: why can men eat and walk at the same time but women – sorry, ladies – can’t? Delicate constitutions, no doubt. Goodness, it feels like the 1870s sometimes (not that I have a firm grasp of what that decade was like). This lady image is an appealing one to push young girls towards, but what really are we pushing them into? And, why?
Well, fortunately, it’s too late for me to be molded a lady. So I walk down the corridor, and I grab the tea biscuit on my way out of school at 3pm and munch on it as I walk to the car. And I whistle; because I love to whistle. And that's definitely not ladylike.
*I have decided not to refer to my school by name anymore. So from now on it will be referred to as “W” – a random letter that has no connection at all.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Heat
It is hot. Clothes sticking to your sticky, sweaty skin hot.
Today we had a high of 36C - the highest since 1962, so the rumour is. Everyone is talking about it.
I love it. Four awful Michigan winters eventually replaced with the unbelievable feeling of spring slowly coming back to life have given me new, awakened senses, much more in tune with the air around me than I ever was before. I love how alive my skin feels in this heat.
But some things are that much more difficult in the heat. Sleeping, for one. Lying, limbs spread out on your sheets, windows and curtains flung wide. Hopeless. Also, teaching. "Miss Bell, don't you feel like you're melting?! I think I'm melting!", better than the glassy-eyed glaze that over takes most. At least melting they're still responsive.
Some days I remember it's good to be alive.
Today we had a high of 36C - the highest since 1962, so the rumour is. Everyone is talking about it.
I love it. Four awful Michigan winters eventually replaced with the unbelievable feeling of spring slowly coming back to life have given me new, awakened senses, much more in tune with the air around me than I ever was before. I love how alive my skin feels in this heat.
But some things are that much more difficult in the heat. Sleeping, for one. Lying, limbs spread out on your sheets, windows and curtains flung wide. Hopeless. Also, teaching. "Miss Bell, don't you feel like you're melting?! I think I'm melting!", better than the glassy-eyed glaze that over takes most. At least melting they're still responsive.
Some days I remember it's good to be alive.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Glimpses: the cost of an accent
I’m not exactly sure why I’m at W given what it is and who I am but it is teaching me much about the world and my stereotypes of it. Things are not as simple as I like to think they are.
The other day in my AS Language class (17 year old Lower Sixes) we were talking about one of my favourite topics: language and power, and specifically, how language is power. And it is not only the words you speak that give or deny you power, it is also the way you speak those words.
In Zimbabwe, as in most places in the world, there are various English accents created by various factors ranging from native language to education to ethnicity to social class. As we seem to do so naturally, it is easy to lock people into rigid groups based purely on the sounds of the words that come out of their mouths.
W is a fairly elite, private girls school (yes, it’s true, I am teaching at an elite, private girls school). The majority of our girls come from middle to upper class families, many of them with connections to various significant, influential people in the country involved in important business, politics, and NGOs. Most are Shona speakers, with the “correct” kind of accent. The accent that marks them as educated. We’ve had discussions before about how accents shape perception and very quickly determine who is acceptable and who is not. They tell stories about the good-looking guy who is suddenly not quite so good-looking after he first opens his mouth. By the time they have left, even if they did not start out with it, our girls have the right kind of accent: one that will give them acceptance and privilege.
And yet, it is not as simple as the well-spoken, privileged versus the poor, unprivileged. I’m discovering very few things are simple at all. This accent of privilege comes at a cost. In the same way that the good-looking guy who does not speak correctly is marked and boxed, these girls are marked and boxed. They have lost the fluidity of their native language and feel out of place and uncomfortable when trying to speak it to relatives. Their visits to rural family are often difficult and it is obvious they cannot fit in the same way their cousins can. They are judged by their junior school friends who do not attend such an accent-defining high school and who ask them who they think they are. Their accent opens many doors, but it also limits where they can fit and who they can be in ways that are surprising and, I think, ultimately, painful.
Language is power. Accents give power.
But power comes at a cost.
No, it is not simple. I’m getting glimpses of why I’m here.
The other day in my AS Language class (17 year old Lower Sixes) we were talking about one of my favourite topics: language and power, and specifically, how language is power. And it is not only the words you speak that give or deny you power, it is also the way you speak those words.
In Zimbabwe, as in most places in the world, there are various English accents created by various factors ranging from native language to education to ethnicity to social class. As we seem to do so naturally, it is easy to lock people into rigid groups based purely on the sounds of the words that come out of their mouths.
W is a fairly elite, private girls school (yes, it’s true, I am teaching at an elite, private girls school). The majority of our girls come from middle to upper class families, many of them with connections to various significant, influential people in the country involved in important business, politics, and NGOs. Most are Shona speakers, with the “correct” kind of accent. The accent that marks them as educated. We’ve had discussions before about how accents shape perception and very quickly determine who is acceptable and who is not. They tell stories about the good-looking guy who is suddenly not quite so good-looking after he first opens his mouth. By the time they have left, even if they did not start out with it, our girls have the right kind of accent: one that will give them acceptance and privilege.
And yet, it is not as simple as the well-spoken, privileged versus the poor, unprivileged. I’m discovering very few things are simple at all. This accent of privilege comes at a cost. In the same way that the good-looking guy who does not speak correctly is marked and boxed, these girls are marked and boxed. They have lost the fluidity of their native language and feel out of place and uncomfortable when trying to speak it to relatives. Their visits to rural family are often difficult and it is obvious they cannot fit in the same way their cousins can. They are judged by their junior school friends who do not attend such an accent-defining high school and who ask them who they think they are. Their accent opens many doors, but it also limits where they can fit and who they can be in ways that are surprising and, I think, ultimately, painful.
Language is power. Accents give power.
But power comes at a cost.
No, it is not simple. I’m getting glimpses of why I’m here.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
The other side of the pool
Tonight was our interhouse swimming gala at school. When I was in high school the interhouse swimming gala was one of the worst days of my year. Every year. I approached these days with knots in my stomach. There were never enough actual swimmers to compete in every race for the house and my best friend and I spent our time sitting way in the back trying to blend into the bench. We never quite learned how to do this. Even if our names weren’t on the list the day before you could be certain that someone would be absent or conveniently forget their costume or suddenly develop some strange, deadly disease that was passed through water, and we would be called on by some nasty, clip-board-bearing prefect to fill in. Of course, we were too much of a pair of goody-two-shoes (or just simply too terrified to dream of breaking any rules) to have forgotten our own costumes and no one would tell us where to pick up those deadly diseases the night before. So we swam, every year. Sarah was better than I was. Sometimes she came third or fourth! I came sixth or seventh depending on whether there were six or seven swimmers. Humiliating. If I we had a perseverance cup, I would have got it. But no, there wasn’t even a perseverance cup to hope for in the end. Just humiliation. Year after year. And, to top it off, our school was co-ed. Swimming galas are already a bad idea but having them at a co-ed school is just cruel and unusual punishment. Just at that time when you are self-conscious about absolutely everything about yourself they make you get in a costume and try to swim in front of boys and all the other girls who are way prettier and way more popular that you. And everyone, every single person—parent, student, teacher—at Les Brown pool is watching you. Contrary to what you would assume, they do not watch the person coming first, or second, or third, they don’t even watch their daughter or their sister or their girlfriend. No, , no, they watch you. Like hawks watching a poor, little, defenseless baby rabbit. You can tell galas were traumatic moments in my life.
But now – oh the happiness – I am a teacher. Ha! Now I sit on the other side of the pool. I give out the little disk with the number 3 on it. I get wet only when a dive fails to be executed quite right. I drink tea and chat to colleagues about which swimmers are their favourite students. I clap for the girl who wins the perseverance cup. Next year I’m going to get the number 6 disk. Those are my people.
Oh, it is good to be here, on the other side.
But now – oh the happiness – I am a teacher. Ha! Now I sit on the other side of the pool. I give out the little disk with the number 3 on it. I get wet only when a dive fails to be executed quite right. I drink tea and chat to colleagues about which swimmers are their favourite students. I clap for the girl who wins the perseverance cup. Next year I’m going to get the number 6 disk. Those are my people.
Oh, it is good to be here, on the other side.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Wednesday already?
Well, it’s Wednesday again and one week since I last posted so that means I’m due, again. I knew setting myself a required time frame in public for posts was a good (and bad!) idea.
Driving home I was debating what I was going to write about, what I could write about. My weeks are crazy these days. A lot is happening but not a lot is necessarily worth telling. It is three weeks before our public exam students go on study leave before writing their international Cambridge exams and that means lots of extra marking of revision papers and essays. My favourite. (I always thought people made too big a deal about the woes and horror of English marking… they don’t). Plus, my part time assistant position in the Careers Department just became full time when the Careers counsellor had to unexpectedly take sick leave and ‘tis the season of university applications – ho ho ho. I’m giving my ESL students their oral (Cambridge!) exam tomorrow and not sure if either they or I am actually prepared for it. And on top of that I’m trying to still be a partly decent teacher to my non-exam/non-university-applying students – one of whom is a student newly arrived from China so totally lost in computers and Geo and Physics (but acing her Maths and keeping that teacher on her toes). Incidentally, ever wonder who the bright spark was who decided you go “up” and “down” a valley when you don’t mean “up” or “down” at all? When I tried to explain this to Susan, she looked at me in bewilderment, “But why?!” But why indeed.
So as I was contemplating all this and wondering where to start if I were to write about something and where I would get the energy after preparing for my oral, marking AS language papers, reading Chapter 8-10 of Pride and Prejudice, and making a priority list for University applications, it started to rain. And then, it started to really rain.
Huge drops hit the roof of my old truck (the one Jed thinks is his old truck) like bullets, making so much noise Ange had to shout her exclamations of amazement (though she's 13 and full of the dramatic so, no doubt, she did this for effect, too). Suddenly it was hard to see and the hard drops turned to hail, pelting us. It was hard to see. Cars slowed and put on their blinkers, “I’m here; I’m not going to stop like I should but please don’t hit me”. I put my blinkers on, too. In the space of a few minutes there were floods of water pouring down the road littered by the rubbish people had piled up outside along the road (we don't have a reliable garbage pick up so people create their own mini dumps all over). We made it home and ten minutes later it was over. Just a torrential rush of water and sound and movement and then, nothing.
I love this place.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
10 things that make me happy in Zimbabwe right now
I am attempting to teach my Form 3s (15 yr olds) that anyone can write poetry and to inspire them to write and use words creatively. We will see how it goes; as soon as I mentioned the word "poem" in the same sentence as "you" and "write" there were horrified and dismayed faces all around. Who taught them they couldn't write? Sometimes I think good teaching is mostly un-learning (thank you, Calvin College) what they have already been taught before they get to the classroom.
Anyway, I'm using a list idea to get them started and to help give them ideas that are relevant to them. Yesterday they had to make 2 lists:
1. Ten things I know are true
2. Ten questions I have (for____/about____)
I'm interested to read those lists.
So, inspired by my own lesson (other times I think teaching is to a large extent how much I learn and change!) I've decided to make a list:
Ten things that make me happy in Zim right now
1. Hearing the sound of sprinklers as I pull up to our gate - a sign the power is on! (The beep of the microwave when it returns brings similar delight).
2. Being let in by a kind person when I am trying to turn right (across traffic ) off busy Second Street extension at 7:30 in the morning on my way to school. The level of happiness of this experience increases when you have sat there as car after car after car drives slowly past without letting you through, and you are about to give up on anything good left in the human race.
3. Ponyo - our ginger kitten who likes to leap onto your leg and claw her way up your trousers as you flail around trying to shake her off without doing further damaged to yourself.
4. Greeting the man who helps in the gardens at Arundel in Shona each morning. I was concerned that our relationship - which is based on my limited greeting knowledge and a comment on the cold weather - would end with winter but fortunately, he is a patient teacher and it is now hot and that is worth commenting on, too.
5. The weather itself - the sticky heat that is beginning to fill the air some days and the smell of coming-rain that tantalizes with hope.
6. Being called "Miss Bell" - it still catches me off guard every now and then.
7. Those rare and beautiful moments when it is not too hot outside, it is not a lesson after lunch or break time, there has not been a visit by a distracting male to the school, there has not been drama in the year group where one or more of them feel unjustly treated, the leaders of the class are for some reason on my side or too tired to lead a rebellion of whispers and looks from the back, the class has not been reprimanded by a previous teacher or come from a test, my lesson plan connects with my students, and suddenly they are all engaged and with me in learning.
8. Being totally stumped by a very simple but ridiculously complex question about a word, a grammar rule or the syntax of a sentence by my Chinese ESL student and laughing together as I admit that I have no idea of the answer and that, no, it does not make any logical sense.
9. Being in a place that is so familiar to me that I usually am not caught off guard by what people say or do. That, of course, is not to say that everything people say and do is positive and does not frustrate me endlessly at times, but that at least I am not surprised by it.
10. Teaching and being taught in my classrooms - the absolute joy of my life right now.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Here goes
So, a little known secret: I have always wanted a blog. Actually, I’ve kind of had three already. Well, almost three. Way back in the day, I tried a family blog when I was in the States and the rest of my family was in Zim. We were all supposed to contribute to it and keep ourselves and all the rest of our friends and family, on both sides of the equator, updated. I don’t think we had one post.
Then I decided to try another collaborative one with various friends who didn’t know each other (but all knew me) and we were supposed to all write a blog about great, important, soul-touching topics that we were all encountering in college and other places. Yah, no posts there either.
My most successful blogging endeavor was with a group of Calvin friends. I started this blog after we all graduated and left for wonderful and different parts of the globe. The blog was called “Patchwork Eats” and the idea was for all of us to regularly post recipes and stories about posted recipes from the different places we were eating. Good idea, hey? I thought so, and it started off well, but this most successful collaborative blog was 7 posts – 4 of them mine – last one 18 September, 2010.
So, I gave up my dream of ever being a blogger. But sometimes late at night the idea still haunted me. And then I started reading Nard Choi’s blog and I was both thrilled, inspired and terrified by the possibility. So even though I know I can never write like Nard and I fear failing with yet another another blog attempt, her commitment to writing and to honestly exploring and recording life through her words makes me want to try too.
And recently that dream that I buried with my recipe for Vegetarian Shepherd’s Pie has started to sneak up on me in the day time when I’m not prepared, and I've been composing blog posts in my mind.
So here goes. A blog. By Rebekah Bell.
The goal: at least one post per week (barring extended travel/work in remote areas, a terrorist attack on Harare, major injury to my right hand, or city-wide power cuts by the Harare city council – just covering my bases) for one year (got to push for some sort of goal).
Wish me luck.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)