Freya’s creativity, as well as her hand to eye co-ordination are coming on nicely, as her latest offering has to show. The heart was not done by her, though she scrawled a remarkably good Anarchy symbol on the same wall.
Could You Repeat That, Please?
Earlier this week I tried an experiment with the children whom I teach, to find out how much they actually listen to me.
I asked them, some time during a lesson, to stop what they were doing, put down their pencils, and listen to me. Then I said a simple word or sentence in Swedish, and thereafter ask someone to repeat what I’d just said. If that person did not know I’d ask another, and so on until I was given the correct answer. Nearly all the classes passed the experiment on the 5th or 6th attempt.
In a couple of the classes I changed the word after the 2nd or 3rd failed attempt. I noticed that when they realised they were not listening they appeared to become more attentive, and I wanted to know how much of a bearing this “renewed” attentiveness would have on the test.
I obviously expected a better success rate having given them a second chance, but even then it would require a further two or three attempts on their part.
So, why is it that many of the children pay little or no attention to what we teachers say (this is a problem that many of the other teachers in my school experience, at least in the lower years)? I think it is a reliance on the nature of teachers. We want/must try to make sure that everyone understands the instructions of an exercise, and we are willing to repeat ad infinitum until understood by all. A child who does not listen can simply put up his/her hand and receive a personal explanation. So, why bother to listen when required?
I should like to see if their attentiveness can be increased by a twofold plan. Firstly, I shall continue with the “pop-questions”, which will pressure them into listening; secondly, I shall train them by only issuing instructions once. Those who do not listen (understanding is another matter, and the difference is easily heard in the children) shall have to sit there silently while the others carry out the exercise.
The most difficult part of this plan is to remember not to be the crutch they rely on, and stand fast in my decision to give clear, concise instructions once, and only once.
The Circus Returns
I thought I was being smart when, back in June, I ordered the children’s books for this coming school-year. It meant I avoided the rush of mass-ordering at the beginning of the term, and it also gave me the advantage of receiving everything I wanted.
In August I calmly started work, safe in the knowledge that all my material would be waiting for me. It was not.
I spoke to the accountant whom I had given the original order to, and she apologised, thinking she’d mislaid the paper somewhere. I spent a good half-day recounting and figuring out what it was I’d requested, then redid my order, slightly miffed but secure that the clerical error had been an unlucky incident.
3 weeks on and I had still not received any books, so I spoke to the accountant again. This time she went into the headmistress’s office to poke around, and returned with both of my orders, which had been lying amongst a pile of other papers; neither of the orders had been acted upon.
Now, finally, I’m reasonably sure I’ll soon have something for the children to read/write in, but this is another in a long line of fuck-ups that we encounter on an almost daily basis. I can only imagine what a demanding job it is to run a private school; I do, however, expect certain basic things to be sorted out without the kind of hassle that breeds contempt for my boss.
Two Become One (And Yet, Still Two)
My school friend of 25 years, Matt, got married in Luxembourg today, so the family flew out to be a part of his Hindu wedding.
They had flown out a Hindi priest from Birmingham, not that anyone would have known how priesty he was; he was speaking in a strange language throughout the ceremony, and could quite have easily been reciting a string of dictionary entries for all we know. From his emotionless face, the slightly confused state he’d occasionally reveal when not knowing whether to sprinkle something on an orange, set fire to things and sprinkle them with something (maybe the same liquid, I don’t know), or throw rice on the bride and groom and sprinkle them, and the (undoubtedly normal to him, though disconcerting for us Hindu-tourists) dead intonation in his voice, he probably was.
Added to this, the discussions he seemed to be having with other Hindus in the congregation about what to do next (some things traverse the language barrier), plus the frequent pauses to explain to Matt and Carley how they should hold various items of fruit they were handed at various intervals, made for an interesting, sometimes comical, ceremony. I’m glad it wasn’t the three-day version or we’d have been there until Christmas.
Most of the invitees, including us, decided to dress up in traditional Hindu garb, and this, along with the superb decoration and food, made for a fantastic experience. I’m not sure how traditional a Bugs Bunny bouncy castle is, but it gave the children present plenty to occupy themselves.
We had plenty of time to catch up with some long-lost acquaintances Jo and I knew from our partying days in Luxembourg. We kept ourselves on the right side of alcohol (i.e. not too much). This enabled me to last the evening without wanting to go and lie down, and to be able to function properly the next day (where we met up with some of the previous night’s crowd, plus a few others we’d wanted to socialise with).
Considering we only spent one and a half days there we managed to see more people than I’d hoped to, but this was Matt and Carley’s weekend, so we wish you both the best of luck for the future.
Those Little Slices Of Death
I am useless at either dreaming or remembering what I’ve dreamt. I think I dream more than have nightmares, but last night I had the worst of my life.
I had just ran away from crocodiles in a field by jumping over barbed wire, where I met a French lady (with children?). We got talking and walked along a path to a stone entrance, where some officially clad man was taking down/putting up/adjusting police crime-scene tape. He conversed briefly in French, and we continued on our way.
Shortly thereafter we came to some kind of courtyard where a crowd stood/sat idly. I turned to look at wild strawberry plants that were growing on one of the surrounding stone walls that surrounded the courtyard, and when I turned back the lady and Freya had disappeared.
The last part of the dream, before I woke up, involved my running around furiously, knowing in my heart that Freya had been abducted.
It hardly needs saying that I found the whole experience terrible; I can not think of a scenario that equals this in sheer heart-breaking frustration. Still, it was only a dream.