The Life and Times of the Curious Cockroach

Date: September 19, 2011

After a year of living in Belgium and eight months in France, I thought my French was pretty good. I mean, I could communicate with people. I had all the genders of vegetables and school supplies memorized. Even got some idiomatic expressions up my sleeve.

But this week’s translation class taught me that really, French still eludes me. And probably even hates me a little. But at least I’m not alone. My classmates and I spent a good while arguing over the meaning of the following sentence:

Il a levé le pied avec la caisse.

As homework, we had each looked at the sentence, consulted our dictionaries and/or francophone boyfriends, and came to class convinced that our translations were spot on. Here some are the sentences we proudly produced:

a) He slowed down the car.
b) He vanished with the cash register.
c) He lifted his foot with the crate.

Spot on, all right. After much debate, some of which went on after class, we agreed to disagree. Perhaps one of us was right, or the answer lay somewhere in between. Maybe he lifted his foot with the car, or his foot vanished with the cash register.

I think, really, what each of us were fighting for was a little vindication. That after four years of French classes, we sort of understood something…

Cheerio,
Roachy

‘

Today I wanted to post about my road trip to Forks, Washington (“The Twilight Capitol of the World”), but WordPress refuses to upload my pictures. And what’s a Twilight post without pictures of blood-themed bumper stickers, Team Edward underwear and baby vampire dolls?

WordPress chose the worst time to be uncooperative.

WordPress must be on Team Jacob.

Am not giving up.  Pictures will be posted soon.

Last time on “The Infinite Possibilities of O”: Alyona Andreevna Volkova’s search for a husband through superstitious tricks. The attack of the coffee table, and subsequent reprisal by electric saw. The maiming of every other piece of furniture in sight. Two black cats’ habit of sneaking into apartments and fairy tales at the most inopportune moment. The interpretation of a dream. The search for a bachelor whose name begins with the letter “O”. The encounter at the tea shop.

The gentleman named Oleg traced Alyona’s gaze to his own name tag and blushed. He felt ridiculous, wearing a stiff suit in a shop full loose-leaf tea bins and psychedelic paintings of toads.

“I just got out of a business conference,” he said, almost apologetically.

“Business conference?” asked Alyona and, unable to resist, added, “… right here in Arkash, or in Kiev?”

“Arkash, of course.”

The corners of Alyona’s lips slowly curled into a smile.

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Last time on “The Infinite Possibilities of O”: Alyona Andreevna Volkova attempts to find husband through superstition. Accidentally curses herself with broken mirror. Bedroom walls covered by tiny white spiders. Appearance of squeaky stool and a toad woman named Fortune. The purchase of twenty kilograms of apples as a way of conjuring up future husband’s name in a dream.

“Say what? My electric saw? And just what do you intend to do with an electric saw, young miss?” asked Mr. Kosakov, who stood at his doorway with a mug of steaming tea in his hands.

“Womanly matters, Mr. Kosakov,” said Alyona grimly.

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Last time on “The Infinite Possibilities of O”: Alyona Andreevna Volkova’s nineteenth birthday. Dreadful event in a dreadful city. Examination of hands to assess the effects of ageing. Decision to get married as soon as possible, to avert spinsterhood and future assaults by grandmother’s sand timers. A plan. Two cockroaches scorched by tea kettle.

As Alyona unscrewed the mirror off her bathroom wall, she thought of the day Ukraine’s soon-to-be swimming champion plucked out both eyebrows. His lady fans had been petrified with indignation. They wrote angry letters to the press, calling back the signature brows that had once filled television screens with irresistible, mysterious expression.

“I just needed an edge,” he had told the Kiev Gazette, “or to at least to believe I had one.”

As Alyona slid the mirror underneath her pillow, she felt she truly understood the man. Living in a city where crazed single women were plenty and eligible bachelors were few, Alyona needed an edge just as badly. That’s why she had decided to dabble in superstition, just for a moment or two.

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A story that took shape during a busride with my grandfather, in Kherson, Ukraine.

A large fly rammed itself against the window again and again. The tea kettle emitted long whistles and hoots. Alyona Andreevna Volkova sat at her kitchen table, so busy staring at her own hands that she wasn’t aware of anything else. She flexed her fingers into a fist, then relaxed them slowly, watching her skin stretch then gather between her knuckles. She let out a long sigh.

Older. Starchier. These can’t be the same hands I had the evening before.

Usually, Alyona was cheerful. But that day she turned nineteen.

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You learn more from students than they learn from you.

Before coming to The Village and teaching at a high school and middle school, I thought that the above was just a cliche. I mean, come on, I was going to teach these kids English expressions, slang words, Canadian culture, maybe throw in grammar here and there. I had to teach, and they just had to sit back and be teachable, right?

Not quite. For a twenty-year-old who had never worked with kids/teens before (and no, there was no younger sibling guinea-pig), the experience turned out to be a lot more difficult than expected. But I got a lot out of it, and I can now say it myself: my students taught me more than I taught them. And that’s no cliche.

My main role as Language Assistant was to get my students to practice their oral English as much as I could, while their English teachers took care of the grammar bit. So here are my observations and recommendations that never made it into the Work Journal.

Working with pre-teens (Ages 11-13)

• Boundaries, boundaries, boundaries. As soon as I stood in front of my middle school students without a teacher at my side, they tested my boundaries. At first I took this personally … What? I don’t look scary and authoritative enough as I am? Is it the way I talk? Is it my hair? … It only took about seven months (out of my eight-month contract) to realize that it really didn’t have anything to do with me. They were just kids faced with a new teacher, trying to make sense of the weird limbo. Every teacher has his/her own limits and rules. These students were just trying to figure out mine, by getting as close to the line as possible until I reacted. Nothing personal.

• How to set boundaries, boundaries, boundaries. Have clear rules, and for heaven’s sake, STICK TO THEM. “If you talk out of turn two times, the third time you’ll have detention” is one basic example. If you cave in to Johny’s puppy eyes, even if it’s his third warning, you are breaking your own rules. That means you lose credibility in front of everyone. Your rules will evaporate. And sooner than later, the kids will eat you alive.

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November 15th, 2010
Location: high school
Activity: surrogate mothers in India, medical tourism, video + discussion
Classroom enthusiasm levels: low

Haze of tobacco in front of high school doing wonders for stress levels, should really consider taking up smoking.

November 18th, 2010
Location: high school
Activity: not applicable (n/a)
Enthusiasm levels: non-existent (literally)

Some teachers on strike. No one showed up to class.
Apparently strikes are against President Sarkozy’s attempt to bump retirement age from 60 to 62.

December 2nd, 2010
Location: high School
Activity: n/a
Enthusiasm levels: v. high, but not inside classroom

Students now on strike too. How lovely that they are so far-sighted and are already thinking about their retirement. One student showed up to class, but only to ask me if I wanted to go on strike as well. Said I feared Ministry of National Education would deport me back to Canada.

Spent rest of class looking out of window, twiddling thumbs, watching my students making picket signs in courtyard. “RETIREMENT AT 62, MY ASS”  and “SARKO, YOU’RE FUCKED” were some of the more popular ones, apparently.

Then it looked as though students were barricading school doors with garbage bins, so decided it was time to vacate the premises.

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Dear Reader,

I am pleased to tell you that I’ve been asked to write a guest post for An Ache For The Distance (http://www.saharanscot.blogspot.com), a blog written by a Scottish traveler named Stuart Mathieson.

We’ve both taught abroad, so I figured it would be only fitting that I write the post about work. Also, seeing as I’m safely across the pond and back in Vancouver, Canada, I can finally write about my students without fearing scandal in The Village.

Below you’ll find the guest post, which consists of excerpts from a work journal I kept during my sojourn in The Village. Let’s just say that putting an utterly inexperienced 20-year-old in a room-full of hormonal French kids led to some pretty funny, and pretty terrifying, experiences. (All names have been changed)

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October 14th, 2010
Day: -3 (3 days before teaching)

Am officially in France. In France!!! Am v. excited. Three days before work starts, but am not nervous. Probably because have no idea what work will involve, since no one responded to my twenty emails during the summer holidays. Am guessing that here in this Southern French village everything is chill, everyone is chill, and work in general will be chill.

Have this image of what being a Language Assistant will be like. Image goes like this: 1) will sit cross legged at back of classroom, dressed smartly,  glancing at teacher from time to time, giving an important nod at this or that; 2) will receive subtle looks of curiosity and wonder from students, from time to time, 3) will be called on to correct this mistake or that 4) will organize maple-syrup-tasting parties, from time to time, 4) will have ample free time, to be used mostly for eating and other types of exploration.

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Date: May 22nd, 2011
Written while living in The Village

Apart from my colleagues and students, nobody in The Village spoke English. So when it came to French language immersion, it was as authentic as you could get. This post is dedicated to the awkward, unpredictable, and immensely amusing world of language immersion  – from my initial experience in Belgium to my time in The Village in France.

Witness accounts:

Immersion veterans have different ways of describing the experience. Some say it’s like having a double ear infection, where your head is filled with muddy sounds and you cannot distinguish one word from the next. Others say language immersion is like being dropped into an aquarium, where everyone communicates via gurgling noises, and whenever you try to speak, you realize that the gas mask stuck to your face makes the task mighty difficult.  And there are still others, who prefer not to talk about the experience at all. Personally, I think of language immersion as a battlefield, and no grammar boot camp back home can truly prepare you for it.

Stage 1: Shock, Seclusion, Pain

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