Student reviews and the way I talk

This week I’ve been walking around as if I’m a little out of my body. I feel like I’m second guessing how I’m being seen by everyone I meet. I feel self-conscious about what I’m wearing, how I stand in front of class, and mostly, how I talk. I’m gently rebuilding my identity that has been a little shaken. What brought on this week of uncomfortable self-awareness? Student reviews. Any teacher thinking about asking their students to review their classes or theirs teaching: rethink. Or make sure you’re prepared for a week of potentially rebuilding yourself.

I usually love hearing back from my students about how they enjoyed or didn't enjoy the class. I take their feedback very seriously and have used it to tweak my classes and grow in my own teaching after every year because not only do I ask them to critique the class, I ask them to critique my teaching. I've been doing this since my student teaching and value it as an important part of my development as a teacher. Of course, there is always some negative feedback (too much work, lessons I thought were great that they hated, afternoon lessons) and I take it with the positive and work with them both. I am always slightly down after reading these, somehow the negative comments dig much deeper than positive, encouraging ones – much like any kind of criticism, I suppose – but I reread them after a few days and things look better, I’m able to take in the positive comments a bit more and accept the negatives with a cool and calm head. And I’m okay with who I am as a person and a teacher. This year I’ve had a particularly hard time with one class. I haven’t even got to the rereading stage yet.

In between watching myself from outside myself and second-guessing how everyone is viewing and thinking about it, I’ve been pondering why this class’s comments have bothered me so much this year. It was a difficult class to connect with, I struggled all year. However, in my mind we had connected. Apparently not. That bothered me. But I think what has made these comments particularly difficult were a few comments about my voice. I have gone through a lot with the way I talk. From high school when I first picked up a mashed up accent from hanging out with American missionaries to college where a rude American student mocked the way I said “Monster” to coming home to people who couldn’t get over my “American” accent, I have continuously wrestled with the way I sound and the way I would like to sound. I have accepted it now, I kind of sound American, kind of something else. I sound different. And that’s okay. I’ve been in different places, had different friends and I’ve picked up aspects of both. Being called American used to bother me intensely because I desperately want(ed) to be allowed to be Zimbabwean. Today, I’m okay with sounding different and accusations of an American accent roll over me in ways that would make my mother (who usually had to deal with the flood of emotion after someone had accused me of an American accent) proud. But, the two comments that I can’t get past just yet – by a couple students in this class – are about my voice. Obviously I’m still dealing with it and my insecurities about it.

I’ll get over this set of reviews. The second reading, reminding myself of the positive comments (one student said it was her favourite class), will help.

I suppose I don’t have to ask for feedback. But I think it is healthy. I’ve got to find my identity outside of the opinions of the people I teach. And sometimes it’s good to be reminded that not everyone loves me and my teaching.

How to learn humility: 1. Teach a class of teenagers for a year. 2. Ask for their honest feedback about you and the class at the end. 3. Read the feedback. 4. Get upset, and then, get over it.

Dear student, as you leave my class

Dear student, as you leave my class,

allow me to share

some advice and some hopes, I have,

for you.

Don’t leave the words

and their power

Here

As you go

There.

Don’t be so fast to walk away from them,

from it.

I hope for you

that poetry continues to

confuse and delight

with ideas that

challenge and frighten

lift and flood

you.

that stories give you eyes

into spaces you cannotwillnot go,

and force you outside and into parts

of yourself,

of places you are safe.

that characters make you weep

and exalt

and want to be more

than you were before you met them.

I hope for you

--all your life--

that words

make you laugh and cry,

take you to depths and heights of

love, and joy, and pain.

make you wonder

with eyes wide open.

make you better.

Because they are so much bigger than

that exam you’re taking

that essay you failed

Because they will

--if you let them, dear student,--

set fire to your world.

Miss Bell, October 2012

Non-sooty kettle days

And then there are days I want to cry for other reasons

Student A to Student B as I was walking out:

“Do you know what I love about English? ... No tests.”

Upper 6 student – yes, of the ones I love, who has been doing English for 6 years and who chose the subject for A-Level as one of her 3 subjects to study for 2 years:

“Miss Bell, something has been bothering me. What is Literature? I know what Accounts is, but what is Literature?”

Me: --------.

Me: “I know you’re tired and its hot and it’s after lunch [who ever thought that lessons after lunch in Zimbabwe were a good idea?] but I have to teach you and you have to learn.”

“Can’t we all just sit? We can learn communication skills.”

Written on the board by Form 2 teaching her new vocab word to the class: “willy”.

Me: [hmm… student teaching never quite prepares you fully. What would Mr Vande Kopple do?]

Student on board: "Definition: cunning.”

Me: [Phew.] “Ruth, there’s only one L.”

Me: “And that is the end of the lesson.”

Class: Applause.

But I suppose you can’t have the sooty-kettle days without a whole lot of non-sooty kettle days in between.

A sooty kettle

I have a post in my "in progress" document about how much I love this place and my students and how hard it is going to be to leave when I have to but it is proving hard to write... so for now, there's this.

Today two of my L6 (12 Grade/Juniors) students arrived at the staffroom door holding two pot plants.

I said, "Oh thank you", facetiously, ready to call the Biology teacher for them to hand the pot plants to.

Oops. Turns out one of them was for me.

Last week another teacher and I organised a "Sixth Form Evening: a night of poetry and drama" that included some creative presentations of the texts (drama and poetry) that they are studying. We invited other schools who are studying the same ones and after a week of stress and panic managed to pull off a not-technological-hitch-free but eventually-smoothish evening. I enjoyed it and the girls involved made me so proud with their work, enthusiasm and passion. It was one of the triggers for my how-to-leave-this-place post.

Enter flower pot. Not just any flower in any pot. A purple flower in a sooty kettle. I almost cried. Here's why.


Time's Fool
by Ruth Pitter

Time's fool, but not heaven's: yet hope not for any return.
The rabbit-eaten dry branch and the halfpenny candle
Are lost with the other treasure: the sooty kettle
Thrown away, become redbreast's home in the hedge, where the nettle
Shoots up, and bad bindweed wreathes rust-fretted handle.
Under that broken thing no more shall the dry branch burn.

Poor comfort all comfort: once what the mouse had spared
Was enough, was delight, there where the heart was at home:
The hard cankered apple holed by the wasp and the bird,
The damp bed, with the beetle's tap in the headboard heard,
The dim bit of mirror, three inches of comb:
Dear enough, when with youth and with fancy shared.

I knew that the roots were creeping under the floor,
That the toad was safe in his hole, the poor cat by the fire,
The starling snug in the roof, each slept in his place:
The lily in splendour, the vine in her grace,
The fox in the forest, all had their desire,
As then I had mine, in the place that was happy and poor.


It's one of our poems.

Darn you, students.

Flea market shopping

 Two days ago I had a bad day. I’ve reached the final week of holidays. I’m fairly prepped for my classes that begin next week. I’ve run out of interesting save-money-and-food home projects (tomato paste, pureed garlic and ginger, blanched spinach all packed and labeled in the freezer). I don’t have a wide social life (to put it mildly) and I was feeling extra sorry for myself. To top it all off, I went for a haircut which I do only every 3 months or so, and so especially look forward to. Not this time.

First, the hair dresser told me I had a very dry scalp.

“Your scalp is very dry. Do you know that?”

Now I do, thanks.

“It’s actually coming off. If I do this--- it just comes off.”

Thanks, I got it. I’ll use better shampoo.

“It’s really not good for it to be sitting there.”

I really do get it.

“I mean, I don’t mean to be rude but…”

Hm.

Good thing we weren’t anywhere public like a hair salon or anything.

Then she didn’t listen to how I wanted my hair.

“So you want it in a bob?”

Uh, no.

The result is quite depressingly bob-like.

So I tied my hair up and decided to go flea market shopping, also something I do infrequently but always enjoy. Our main suburb flea market (as opposed to the huge city ones) sells everything from elephant statues to five inch heels. My favourite stalls though are the second hand clothes. People, women usually, buy huge bundles of clothes that have been collected in developed countries (donated usually, sometimes you can even find the Salvation Army price tag on them) and then resell them individually. In the city markets you can get tops for $1. At our suburb one they’re $5. I’m happy to pay that because I know that’s about what I’d pay in the States for a second hand top and because I know that I’m helping someone make a living. In this economy if I get a little jipped in the process, I’m okay with that.

Anyway, Ange and I headed off. First stop, the shorts man (one of the only men I’ve seen in the second hand clothing business) who has branched out into tops as well. Ange found a cut off jackety thing and I found a top I thought would look good on Mum.

Stop number two was my favourite stall. Set in the corner of the market it had everything: all kinds of tops, trousers, dresses, skirts and a huge pile of extras (usually the plus size clothing that wouldn’t fit on the hanger but sometimes an unusual skirt) and, two extra special feature: a changing room made of a sheet draped over a wire (but open to the world on the other side which down below opened onto the street and a parking area so you need to change with caution) and a mirror. The mirror was also a challenge to use because it was tied to the corner (so that no one walked off with it perhaps) and you had to crouch in between the wooden slacks and try to imagine what your dress looked like with you standing up straight.

Ange and I sifted through all the racks, piling potentials on our arms as we waited for the change room to become vacant (they don’t give you numbers, once you’re in, you’re in and the next in line just have to wait). As soon as the lady looking for black tops left we jumped in to secure our spot and spent a pleasant 20 minutes trying on and sorting into piles: no, maybe, yes.

Having narrowed down our finds we went to find the seller. The other reason I like this stall is that the women manning it don’t seem particularly interested in selling their clothes. This might seem a strange attribute to enjoy in flea market stall sellers unless you’ve been to an African or South American flea market in which case you’ll understand completely. The generally observed techniques of flea market selling involve manipulation, coercion, guilt-tripping or a combination of all three. I do admire flea market sellers – it’s a hard way to make a living, especially in a country where people do not have a lot of excess cash to spend, and they do it well. That said, I avoid the extra pushy stalls if I can. Having paid for our tops (and got a discount on a shirt that had been repaired by its previous owner) we headed to try find Ange a dress that she was looking for.

One stall over we found dresses! Oh dear. Nice dresses that tempted me as well! And it turned out to be manned by the same uninterested seller. Perfect: no pushy seller and we could use her change room and mirror. Feeling guilty because we had already bought several tops but really wanting the dresses we had found, I prepared myself to bargain. I enjoy bargaining and I think I do okay at it but not great. I think it’s in part because I’m not as ruthless as you need to be to get an amazing bargain. I can’t bring myself to go too low knowing that I do have money and they do need it. I do know, however, that flea market prices are always inflated I try to get a little off if I can.

Anyway, I figured out my starting price and went to find our uninterested selling friend. Fortunately I had two advantages on my side: a small stain I had found on one of the dresses and the fact that we were buying more than one (and had already bought from her that day). All points in my favour. Unfortunately, she had more: experience, amazing delivery and the actual control of the price. The dresses all cost $15 originally.

“So can I buy this one for ten because of the stain [Scramble to find the stain, look a little awkward. Mistake] and the others for twelve each, since I’m buying three?”

“Ahhh.. ten! I will lose my job!”

Another advantage she has over me: this is not her stall; she is able to go down only so much and only she knows how much that is. Whether this is true or not is irrelevant.

“Okay, how about twelve for each?”

This was a mistake. I raised too high too fast. I know I’m beat.

“Eeeeiii!”

Advantage number 5: excellent emotional exclamations that seem to suggest I’m asking her to throw her third son into the deal as well.

“Give me thirteen for the two and twelve for the one with the stain.”

“Okay.”

I know when to admit defeat.

I got a $2 discount for the top with the repair job, and saved myself $7 on the dresses. I also got a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon with Ange trying on and experimenting, finding deals and negotiating prices. My spirit was lifted. A bargain.

The flowers are smiling

I’ve been sitting in the garden for the last couple hours reading poetry.

That sounds so noble and admirable but I must admit why I am sitting in the garden reading poetry. The power is off, so I can’t work on my school prep which I should be doing inside. And, as much as I love the idea of randomly reading poetry in the garden, and as much as I would love to be a random poetry reader, I’m not one, anywhere. I am reading my AS Literature class’s set poetry. I told them to read all the poems we haven’t covered yet, annotate and think about them this holiday. So I’m making sure my students aren’t ahead of me.

But I am glad to be in the garden reading poetry. It is warm – hot if you sit in the sun. There is a breeze at the back of my neck that is cool, despite the warm sun. Some very noisy birds are arguing in the trees above me – arguing, definitely not singing which would sound so much more poetical but not nearly so real. The breeze is making the banana leaves above my head dance their shadows over my book and computer. And the flowers are smiling.

About 10 minutes ago I got tired of trying to figure out what the heck R.S. Thomas was talking about in Here, so I put my poetry down and just sat, enjoying the argument above my head, the dance at my feet and the smiling flowers. For some reason, this year the garden seems to be exploding in flowers. Our garden used to be Dad’s domain but recently Mum has stepped out and claimed space in it as well. The result? More flowers than I’ve seen in our one acre garden. It’s like they’re trying to outdo each other in who can plant the most flowers. Mum has her special section that is just crammed with flowers. The other day she said to me,

“Look, my Barbertons are so happy”.

And they were. Flowers are amazing. They just grow and look beautiful. Most of them serve no practical, useful function in the world at all. But they grow. And they smile and they make me smile. I’m so grateful that God cares enough about the earth and me to give us such useless, beautiful plants just because they make us--and Him, I think--smile.

Social Justice: a long, hard road

We’ve just completed a Week of Transformation: an annual youth week that a group of us from several churches put on. It involves a lot of serious teaching, about 4 hours a day. This year’s topics were Worldview (including a biblical worldview of sexuality), The Bible, Leadership and Social Justice.

Last year we had Social Justice as a large theme. A couple of us did some teaching on it and then we organized a service learning afternoon where groups got to see organizations in Harare that are addressing the various issues of social justice. It was a successful day and I think many of the youth were challenged by what they learnt and saw.

We decided Social Justice was important enough to repeat again this year. I spent two days giving some intense teaching about Social Justice to the 60+ 15-25 year-olds we had in attendance. I tried to give a biblical basis for justice first and then to illustrate where they fit in the scheme of things, kicking this second lesson off with an unfair but reality-based, class-divided lunch. We served 10 of them a beautiful lunch, 20 beans and rice and the rest just rice. They were not impressed but it led to some excellent discussion and thinking that provided the perfect intro to my talk on how we should possibly deal with the differences that are built into our lives. And finally, before we went out to visit sites that are doing justice, we talked about the difference between deep justice and not-so-deep service.

But although the afternoon was mostly a success again (barring the usual mishaps and confusions that happen when trying to organize the movement of 75 people to different places all at the same time) I left that night discouraged. The group I went with had gone to a disability daycare centre in a low-income, high density suburb of the city. A centre where mothers of children with disabilities come each day with their children. They cannot work because caring for their children is full time job and they use the centre as a place to support each other and try to start small businesses together. Our guide was a member of our church who works for the micro-finance trust that is also connected to our church and he tried to get our group to respond after we had left, asking them what we could do for this place or similar places that would be sustainable and would work with them rather than at them. With each response my heart sank.

“We could fundraise.”

“We can collect toys and things and go and visit them.”

“We could hold a charity concert!”

The charity concert was the final blow. After two days of teaching, they didn’t get it. They couldn’t distinguish service from deep justice. Now, later, after some sleep and logical thinking, I realise that these are new ideas for many of them. That many are young (I had several of the 15 year olds) and struggle to think outside the box. That the concept of justice verses service is very difficult to practically apply. That the fact that they are even aware of these places and people is a good outcome. But most importantly, perhaps, that social justice is a long, hard road. Changing unjust systems and working towards sustained mercy takes years and years. And perhaps so does people’s understanding of what social justice actually is. And while that is discouraging—both the time justice takes and the time people take to realise what justice is!—I think that it is worth it. And maybe next year, they’ll get it a little bit more.