Thursday, February 23, 2012

Sometimes teaching just takes

It has not been a good week overall.

1. I had to tell two different upper level classes how disappointed I was in them with them not handing in work. Last week I sat down with one -- a group of Lower Sixes who have just chosen English Literature as one of their three A-Level subjects, emphasis on the chosen and had all failed the test because of simply not reading, who last week did not hand in their homework-- and at the beginning of the lesson in disappointment, asked, "Why are you here?" and then told them how they were destroying my love of teaching... well, not in so many words, but pretty close.

2. My matron (who lives in the hostel and looks after the girls as a "mother" figure and is old enough to be my grandmother) was not here on time on Monday when girls were being dropped off from the long weekend and the head of Boarding found out and told me I have to "speak strongly" to her about it... still haven't done that.

3. I feel even busier this term than last year and seem (somehow!) to have less time to plan creative lessons or to create new lessons and creating is one of my favourite parts of teaching and if I can't do it occasionally, I just don't feel fulfilled.

4. I had to be stern to a little Form One sent by the matron who had dropped the iron and broken it as she looked so sad and I just wanted to give her a hug and tell her it was okay--I've dropped many a thing in my day--but I can't because I'm supposed to be in charge and holding them all accountable and sometimes my job is to just look stern.

5. I missed a class. Yes, I just didn't go. It is a class that has been added to my teaching schedule and so I looked at an old timetable but still. And they had a party.

6. I spend most of my free time marking books, or thinking about marking books, or feeling guilty for not marking books.

7. I counselled two different girls with two different problems and I can't solve either of them.

8. To add insult to injury, I've ended up with 3 Lower Six classes (I asked for extra because I loved them so much last year) and they all seem to be a particularly uninspired lot who don't do their homework or think or care much about anything.


On the other hand, the last couple days have had some bright moments:

1. Toby--the resident campus dog--went crazy in one of my lessons, running around and barking at all the girls (usually he is very well-behaved and sleeps under someone's chair) and I thought, yet again, "This would never happen in the States."

2. One of my Form 3s complimented my colour combination of skirt and top (it's amazing what a compliment from a teenager can do to your self esteem!).

3. I had a lively, engaging discussion with my Upper Sixes about Introduction to Poetry by Billy Collins and marveled how one year group can be so different from the next. These are my L6s from last year, my favourite class then, the level I am despairing over right now. My U6s last year where my most dreaded, painful class and having any kind of discussion with them longer than two minutes was major work.

4. We sent off Amnesty International letters today to the North Korean UN Representative about closing Yodok Prison Camp and I think I may have made them think about the important uses of English outside of English class (shocking revelation, let me tell you).

5. I walked past one of my classes as they were having a Maths lesson and when they saw me (their teacher busy shutting the windows) they all waved excitedly--probably because I was a welcome distraction from vectors but, at this point, I'll take what I can get.


So I guess while I love this job and I know this is absolutely where I want and am meant to be right now, I'm realising just how much it takes from you and how little it leaves at times.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Roses

It’s the day after Valentines and I’m thinking of roses.

On Saturday I stopped by Strathhaven shopping centre to get some veggies for the week (one green pepper, some beans, a Chinese cabbage and 2 carrots – it’s odd shopping for one person). I was slowly putting my things back in the car because I was kind of hoping Mum’s Mango Man (yes, she has a Mango Man) would descend upon me at that moment when you are stuck outside your car, caught in between getting in and driving away very fast and putting away your groceries – a moment I try very hard usually to avoid and one Zimbabwean fruit sellers are highly skilled at capitalising on. Today though, I wanted mangoes.

The Mango Man was refilling his bags on the other side of the parking lot and I was trying to decide if I would completely rewrite shopping parking lot rules and conventions and drive over to him, when the Rose Man found me. I know this Rose Man. He and I go way back. He knows I’m a sucker and will probably buy some discounted roses from him (business is always bad, he’s always desperate, I’m always a sucker and the roses actually are pretty cheap). We have a nice acquaintance – this time he didn’t even bother asking if I wanted roses. We talked for a couple minutes about business (bad) and how much money people had (none). I tried to be positive and point out that Tuesday was Valentine’s and that was sure to be good for his line of business. He wasn’t convinced. It’s hard to hope once you’re out of the habit. I asked how much his roses were and bought a yellow bunch. 20 for $2. A bargain.

And then it was Valentine’s Day. Zimbabwean private schools have a tradition of sending roses amongst each other. A group at the school, usually fundraising for charity, takes orders from its students to send roses to each other and to many schools in the city. So you pay a dollar and send your girlfriend who goes to another school a couple roses, her name is called out in assembly or lunch and everyone sees what a lucky, loved person she is. It’s horrible. I remember high school. By the middle of high school, my friends and I were sending each other roses but before then, those of us who were roseless each Valentine’s felt unlucky and unloved, all day as we watched the lucky and loved walk around glowing holding their wilting flowers. What I would have given for a wilting flower.

Anyway, I decided to send my boarding girls roses (because it actually doesn’t matter who they’re from because no one knows when your name is called out and they might be from, say, a boy, instead of Miss Bell and only you and Miss Bell have to know if you want, it’s mostly about the illusion). I decided to buy my own roses (cheaper and I had missed the pre-ordered ones) so I headed out Monday afternoon after lessons to a group of rose-sellers down the road – not my Rose Man, who was a bit further away. Anyway, this rose man wanted to sell me a bunch for $10! Five times the price of what I had paid on Saturday. Well, I like a challenge. I had facts and knowledge of rose prices on my side; he had the roses and knowledge of my desperation on his. Eventually I got him down to $4 a bunch. Fair, I think, for Valentine’s Eve. So I found a prefect, and got my roses slipped in amongst the official ones.

Yesterday, my girls were happy (I saved a few of them from the “zero-club”), and I have the left-overs in a glass on my bookshelf. They are slowly opening and smell gorgeous. I’m happy, too. But even now, even though I am content with who I am and where I am in my life, and even though I like to challenge accepted perceptions about love and gender and relationships (usually not on Valentine’s day because people aren’t usually in the mood to be challenged about love or gender or relationships then), and even though I have mostly moved on from high school and know that roses on Valentine’s do not make me lucky or loved, I kind of – secretly! – wish someone had sent me roses.

Monday, February 6, 2012

Disappointing poetry

Last week my Form 4s and I tried to figure out the poem "Full Moon and Little Frieda" by Ted Hughes together. It's a beautiful poem that captures the innocence of a child and a moment in time when she interacts with the universe and the universe interacts with and responds to her. It is a tricky poem though: the images are confusing and the sentence structure is not clear. You have to work hard to get to the beauty of the poem. And last week I made them work. I never just give out the meaning of a poem (I don't presume to know many meanings of poems anyway). I make my students annotate and think and write and then we discuss all the way through, often line-by-sometimes-excruciating-line. It is sometimes painful but I want them to learn to analyse poetry for themselves and to think through a difficult poem. It is rewarding to have come to conclusions yourself. You get so much more out of something if you work hard and see the light in the end. And once they see that you're not going to do it for them and that you trust them and their ideas they really get into it, if they have to figure out what the poem means themselves (sometimes they get into it a little too much and come up with some wacky ideas and then you have to gently prod them back onto the straight and narrow).

So, we spent a tiring but thoroughly enjoyable 40 minutes working through "Full Moon and Little Frieda". And they were wonderful. With a few questions and guidance they made some really astute comments about the poem and "figured it out": who the he was, who the you was, the perspective of the author, some ideas what the blood river was (one I had never thought of!), the trembling star and unspilled milk... They started off completely lost and with looks on their faces that said "why would you do this to us on a Wednesday afternoon, Miss Bell?" and by the end I was thrilled with how involved they had been and the ideas they had come up with. I was so proud and got to the end of the 40 minute lesson feeling invigorated and just tingling - you know that feeling, at the end of a really good lesson? Where everything has just fallen into place so perfectly and you couldn't have planned or executed it better? Rare, but oh so good.

After my final "Okay, any last thoughts or comments about this poem?" I put down my poem and said with passion, "Wasn't that a great poem?"

...

And my balloon of love and happiness popped as I was met with groans and sighs, "No... not the best.... the other one was better... ugh." What?!

Oh poetry. Oh students. Will you never cease to play havoc with my heart?



Here's the poem for your enjoyment (don't tell me if you don't):


Full Moon and Little Frieda

A cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket -
And you listening.
A spider's web, tense for the dew's touch.
A pail lifted, still and brimming - mirror
To tempt a first star to a tremor.

Cows are going home in the lane there, looping the hedges with their warm
wreaths of breath -
A dark river of blood, many boulders,
Balancing unspilled milk.
'Moon!' you cry suddenly, 'Moon! Moon!'

The moon has stepped back like an artist gazing amazed at a work
That points at him amazed.

Ted Hughes