Fifth Grade Follies

In addition to teaching all four levels of high school English, everyday I teach a creative writing class for the middle school 9 week rotation. Right now, and for the next three weeks, I have the fifth graders. In case you were wondering, that's five different classes. Every. day. In case you were wondering. . .that's a lot. Oh, and I also recently began tutoring someone for three hours a week. Brilliant.

In other words, I'm a busy woman. It's virtually impossible to stay on top of things--especially for someone like me, who's already prone to disorganization. Very often, I have to let a class fall through the cracks.

Typically it's the fifth graders. My stack of papers to grade for that class has grown embarrassingly large since the beginning of school.

Only last night, however, did I realize what a potential goldmine I am sitting on. I am only hurting myself by not reading gems like this one, a product of yesterday's assignment.

The Assignment: Describe a wedding from the perspective of a young kid and an older person.

I think someone got a little confused...

"An old person can think that there still young. You can make an old person admit that their old if you tell them they can get a free foot massage my mom own a sauna and she really loves foot massage." *

*grammar and spelling unaltered

Great advice from a fifth grader who shall remain anonymous (to you and me both--he/she forget to put a name on the paper. I wish I knew who to thank).

Proof that I am out of the loop.

According to imdb.com, the number one movie at the box office right now is. . .

Beverly Hills Chihuahua???



Dear Lord. What else am I missing?

Thank you, Jennifer.

This is a work of genius.

That's Miss Merrill to You.

For all of those who never believed I'd make it this far....

I am officially six days into my career as an English teacher.

When I was a student (umm, earlier this year), I always envisioned "school" as a place where the teachers enthusiastically worked together in little collaborative education dream teams, focused solely on the bettermen t of the people they serve, like doctors in a hospital run by nuns, or the White House (present administration excluded). Maybe they met for coffee on Saturdays to discuss education hot topics like differentiating curriculum, or traded classroom management tips over Sunday brunch.

Needless to say, my first week, uhhh...wasn't that. Last Monday was off to a great start, until a girl in first period question asked the telling question:

"So, what are we doing tomorrow?"

Crickets.

First of all, there's the sheer absurdity of calling my early twenty-something colleagues "Mr." and "Ms." (or "colleagues," for that matter). I've tried to focus on the small victories (semi-mastering a new copy machine) and ignore embarrassing defeats (completely forgetting the meaning of the word "predicate" in the middle of a grammar test, mutilating my right heel on the second day from wearing too-small shoes). I turn up my music every morning in an attempt to drown out the voice in my head that sweetly says I have no business teaching high schoolers, that I really don't know anything at all, and that I should probably just go find a job filing papers somewhere. (That, by the way, is the nice voice. The not-so-noice voice usually suggesets that I do something involving a running car engine and a hose).

And if first-time teaching doesn't make you insecure enough, teaching a class of almost entirely francophone seniors who rarely speak English to each other ought to do the trick.

Still, when I'm not succumbing to my insecurities, butchering my African students' names, or pulling my hair out trying to lesson plan, I look out the window, pinch myself, and usually, laugh.

My trip to school every morning consists of walking up a dirt road for about 10 minutes, until I hit the main road that takes me down our hill. It looks out to the valley and beyond, and takes me past dozens of children wearing blue uniforms who wave and smile and shout "Muzungu!" (but they're adorable so I don't mind so much).There are women in wild prints balancing huge bunches of bananas on their heads, women with sleeping babies tied to their backs, and a myriad of other things which scream "Africa" that I wonder if I'll ever get over. I walk until I can flag down some transportation, haggle over the price, then zoom through the valley, past the gas station, and up to school, all the while marveling that I actually live this life.

My trip home from school usually takes place in the dark. But getting there is lovely.

The Five Stages of Grief/Teaching

1) Denial.
Example: blogging/Facebooking/Minesweeper-ing instead of planning for five classes/grading.

2) Anger.

Example: "How much am I getting paid to do this?"

3) Bargaining.

Example: "If I plan for four days, can't I just show a movie on Friday?"

4) Depression.

Example: "Excuse me, good sir, could you direct me towards the nearest cliff?"

5) Acceptance.

Example: "Maybe I won't be the next Ron Clark, but at least I won't be Mary Kay Letourneau."

This is the view from classroom.

And, if you must know, it is the view I am looking at this very moment.

Well, that and the literary term posters on my back wall that absolutely refuse to hang in right angles.

The picture really doesn't do it justice. I could try to describe it, but I would end up sounding like some cheesy voice-over in a movie, read by an actress who thinks she knows how to do a Southern accent. So I'll leave it at this: it's lovely. At night, when the hills are covered in lights, it's stunning, even. Perfect for sitting in a lounge chair, sipping red wine or black coffee, and reading Wordsworth.

Unfortunately, I don't believe the aforementioned activities were written into my contract with the school. Instead, I seem to recall something about teaching high school--a job for which, to be honest, I feel completely inadequate. Which probably explains why I am blogging right now instead of planning to teach four levels of English.

Still, I am hoping for some kind of spiritual, organic communion with the hills and the sky outside my door, to energize my teaching efforts and (maybe) make 9th graders care about The Odyssey. Isn't there some scripture about looking to the hills for help?

Dear Lord, I sound more New Age-y everyday.

I guess it doesn't help that I just had a full-length tye-dye dress made for me.

...this kind of mind is not ideal for curriculum-planning.

Muraho!

"Muraho" is "hello" in Kinyarwandan. Wait, or is it "how are you?" Shoot, I can't remember. The one word I know for sure is "Muzungu"--white person. This word is hard to avoid--anytime we walk down the street we hear it in passing conversations, and the kids wave and call it out as we ride on the bus.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am in Africa. . .a fact that continues to amaze me. Really, I am most amazed with myself. I really never thought I was the girl that switched continents for a year-- just the girl who thought something like that would be really cool. Granted, I have friends here, but I didn't know they'd be with me with I signed on. And I know, it's not like I'm entrenched in Baghdad or anything. But still. If I'm allowed to say it...I am proud of myself.

The first few days have been an overwhelming jumble of first impressions, new friends, and new places. I couldn't possibly describe it all and be remotely interesting, so I will give you a few highlights:

1) Plane ride from Addis Ababa (Ethiopia) to Kigali: I sat next to a man with a gold and diamond watch bigger than my head who, in casual conversation, said that his "kingdom is bigger than Rwanda." He, unsurprisingly, does something with diamonds. And oil. He gave me his card at the end of the flight, and, I'm not joking, his email address is "princeofcongo@yahoo.fr." Don't email him; I'm sure he could have me killed.

2) On our second day, we were shown real estate by a man named Dudu--pronounced exactly like it looks. This has been the highlight of our house-hunting experience. (Read: it's not going too well. Prayers appreciated!)

3) The ladies in the marketplace call me "sees-tah." I love it. After years of feeling self-conscious about my utter lack of ethnicity in metro-Atlanta, I move to Africa and finally become a sister.

4) I know the concept of the "line" is predominantly a Western one--that the rest of the world, as I have found it, prefers to clump. But the mass of humanity at the cell phone store the other day tested the limits of what is acceptable for civilized beings. From looking at the Rwandese, you would have thought the fate of the world rested on their ability to be waited on first at the cell phone store. Or, at least, before the muzungus. The woman behind me got closer than anyone who doesn't put a ring on my finger should ever get, sandwiching me between the woman directly in front of me like a deli meat. (Is that too obvious a simile for the verb "sandwiched"? Oh well). But I got my cell phone, and a valuable cultural experience, so all in all it was a success.

5) Last night we ate at....drumroll please...a Mexican restaurant. African women speaking French in senorita shirts, with French Simon and Garfunkel covers playing on the radio. In other words, anything you could ever want in a Mexican restaurant. Oh, and Dora the Explorer was painted on the outside wall. Tres bien.

6) Yesterday we visited a workshop which brings in women from all over the country who have been widowed by the genocide. There, they learn to become master basket weavers, and their baskets are sold to Macy's. And Bono. He, apparently, is a patron. This is probably the closest I'll get to Bono while I'm in Africa. Or ever.

We got to visit with the ladies, take pictures, and take a stab at basket weaving before one of the ladies panicked and hastily retrieved her handiwork. Overall, a terrific day!

With that, I leave you with a totally cliche picture of muzungu + Africans. Enjoy!