(so this is a teaching blog, right? Well actually yes. I am in the middle of writing a piece on the esl/eap schism. It was getting a little hard-edged, though, so I decided to spend some time in the relatively tranquil waters of world politics)
I’m not a very politically active person, but I did go to Oka during the crisis — twice.
The first time was like a slightly gritty summer camp. After all, it is beautiful there; we fell asleep in a pile around a campfire, and there was probably drumming.
When we went back a week later, the visitors had left. It was still beautiful, but there were lines of soldiers on the tops of the hills.
We were not quite sure what to do: we weren’t really making ourselves useful, but we had a feeling of obligation, that we could not turn away from what was happening. The air buzzed with foreboding…
And then, a confrontation broke out between the soldiers and a couple in a car. The two were arrested, and the soldiers moved to take the car away.
But we knew there was a child in the car. We rushed forward to intercede with the soldiers and they pushed us back.
And then we just, well, fell apart. In our defence, we were youngish and sleep-deprived, and we’d never had that many guns trained on us before.
While we were sobbing and shivering, a woman appeared out of one of the dells. Her calm presence made me think she was a clan mother, but she was a visitor too, a Quaker lady* from Nova Scotia. She had emerged not out of the woods, but out of the Oka cheese outlet, which was, amazingly, still open.
She spoke calmly with the soldiers , and they agreed to release the child into her care.
Later on there was a hearing — we are white and middle class, and one of us was hit by a solider. This meant I had the chance to meet the Quaker lady again. She told me about how she had spent her day with the little girl. Little mundane details like how they had a picnic. I remember being a touch impatient: I wanted drama; I wanted her to shake her fist at the sky and curse the military imperialist complex, but she just wanted to talk about Oka cheese.
It was only much later that I realized that she didn’t need the grandiose statements because she had moulded her whole life into an act of resistance. Her faith and political beliefs were embodied in everything she did. Even her choice of residence was an act of resistance: she had moved to Canada in protest against the military actions of the US government.
I’ve been thinking about the Quaker lady lately, in these unmoored times when I’m wondering how to be. How to navigate this world where frightening things are happening on our borders. How to be of use; how to make my life a useful one. I think it’s time to cultivate some of her patience and humility, to practise waiting and listening. Sometimes the act that we need to perform is not a grand gesture, but something as simple as taking responsibility for a frightened child, or providing transportation somewhere — or not providing transportation — or passing on a message, or moving a file to another folder, or sitting on the floor in some airport. The thing about these Boschian times is that we just don’t know. Part of that is that we don’t know how we will be able to make ourselves useful. Just that it probably won’t be at the head of a march.
This is not a post against the marching. I went to the Toronto march last weekend, and it was wonderful in ways I can’t yet put into words. What I want to say is that the marching was almost certainly the easy part…
* her words
Yes I know that this is not the only conversation we should be having about the election. Maybe it’s not even the most important one. But it’s the only one I feel qualified to contribute to.
I love the poem Ulysses,* the driving rhythm of the poetry, the solitary courage of the speaker — even the arrogance speaks to me at a certain level. I hear its lines in my head many times throughout my day. I guess in a way, we all want to be Ulysses.
But it wasn’t always like this. When we were learning the poem in high school English class, the teacher asked us whom we identified more with, Tennyson’s hero or The Lotos Eaters.(She was the cool teacher.)** Full disclosure here, I hadn’t actually read the latter poem; I was going totally on my memory of that section of Little Town on the Prairie where Laura finds the Tennyson book hidden away in her mother’s sewing.
Even so, I was firmly in the camp of The Lotus Eaters, even if it was a little tl;dr. Now it was the 70s, so slacker culture was in full swing, but it was more than that — I actively hated Ulysses.
When I was younger, the question had been easy: “Where are the girl characters in this book?” Now, my cool girl persona didn’t permit me to ask the question out loud, but I had an awkward feeling when I read the third line, the only mention of any woman in the poem. “Matched with an aged wife I mete and dole” –I felt embarrassed and uncomfortable when I heard these words, but there was no accessible way to articulate or even make sense to myself of what I felt.
It’s like when I studied Anglo Saxon in second year university. Again I wanted to ask, “Where are the girl characters?” but nobody was asking that question at U of T in the early 80s.* ** I dealt with my anger by avoidance, and getting an extremely poor grade in my Old English course.
In those days, I didn’t consider myself a feminist: I was a cool girl and I didn’t need women’s rights. I could keep pace with the boys around me. I would rather get a C in an English course than admit what was bothering me.
All this changed when I had my first child. Suddenly equality was not a given: it became something I had to fight for. And I realized that feminism was simply that.
So there’s a whole chunk of the story that deserves its own blogpost, or even its own blog, but here I am, 47/50 on the Buzzfeed Feminist Scale. **** It’s been a journey through feminism, and also through reading, and I’m not sure how it happened, but now I love Ulysses. It’s become part of the fabric of my life as I age. *****
*Tennyson here as opposed to Joyce. The latter work is the source of its own dysfunctional relationship, but I’ll save that for another post.
**for which I hated her.
*** and yes I know now that the Angelina Jolie monster does actually play quite a large role in Beowulf. In university, though, I never made it far enough through the thorns and swords to find out.
**** Well who can honestly say that she has never criticized another woman’s clothes or makeup?
***** (I just had to squeeze this in because it makes me so happy.) For my parents’ 50 th anniversary, my father wrote this poem, which recuperates and reclaims the original Ulysses in a true love song.
I started this piece at the beginning of the summer but abandoned it because I didn’t want to jinx things. Now summer is over, and things did become more challenging than they were when I first started this post, but the strength and resilience have remained.
So I finally finished my post about summer school , and now it’s summer again.
Well, you might be asking, how’s it going? Are you students still triggering bizarre introspective journeys while you are supposed to be managing a debate on greenspace in Toronto?
And the answer is no. Summer school is summer school — this pastiche of charming moments and, yes, sullen disregard. The latter is still a challenge to me and I occasionally ask myself if I have exactly the right kind of personality for teaching teenagers. However, it doesn’t feel as personal any more. At the moment, the dominant reaction is irritation rather than paralysis.
On another level too, I feel that something has been exorcised. That idea: I would hate to be a student in this class* — it’s not a comforting one. It had been lingering at the edges of my consciousness throughout my teaching career. I thought I could suppress it by refusing to confront it, but things don’t work that way. This wraith generated a vague sense of guilt that undermined my confidence as a teacher.
Well, there was a point this term where I thought to myself, “I actually don’t care if you don’t like this class, because I know that what we are doing right now is exactly what I would have loved at your age.”
The feeling was short-lived, which is a good thing because a) I like anchovies and tapenade and garter snakes and maybe you don’t and b) you know, you really should care if the students don’t like the class.
Still, it was a moment of strength and pride.
So something happened to cauterize this psychic injury. Was it indeed a Jungian moment? Did I face the full embodiment of my greatest fear and in the act of confronting it vanquish it?
Or was it perhaps in the writing that the Jungian journey became real? As I wrote that post over the intervening months, I found the story shaping itself in my mind. Perhaps the actual classroom moment was just the seed of the experience. Perhaps the true catharsis came later. Was it in articulating the emotions, in mapping the journey, that I truly came to understand and manage the conflicts going on inside me?
It’s getting a little chicken-or-the-egg here. Short answer: things are better; evil teenage-self seems to have receded; summer school is done and part of me can’t wait for next July.
*serendipitously, I happened upon this piece by Hana Ticha while I was writing this post.
There’s a thirst to starting to learn a new language, a glee when one deciphers a new word independently. It reminds me of the way my children laughed when they first made that letter-sound-meaning connection.
I’m learning Arabic — my first new language since my teens. And yes, the language brain is not what it was, but “tho’ much is taken much abides” as the wise poet said. * What I didn’t expect was to be having so much fun.
But what is most important about this thirst is that it’s contagious. A group of learners will spread the excitement amongst themselves, and beyond that, to the instructors and school staff. I missed out on the big waves of refugee immigration — from Vietnam and Somalia — but I do remember when the last big group of Colombian immigrants crossed the border and how our halls were alive with the buzz of Spanish and the energy of people for whom learning English was a true survival mechanism. Every week they could see quantifiable progress in their English; what’s more, this progress translated into greater ease that they felt as they settled into their new homes.
In recent years, immigration has been restricted to more proficient speakers. The tone has changed. English classes for most have been a choice rather than a necessity. While this has its advantages — students with more specific ideas of what they want from a class –there is something lacking. We can spend weeks discussing the use of infinitive versus gerund forms, but even if that information stays with them, knowing the difference between “I had trouble doing that.” I got into trouble for doing that” and “I went to a lot of trouble to do that” will not necessarily make it appreciably easier for them to make small talk on the bus.
Surely you’ve seen the news photos of Our Handsome Prime Minister hugging parka-clad children. ** Canada has welcomed tens of thousands of refugees over the past 7 months. Many of them have settled in Toronto, and a great deal of them are at a basic English level. Again, we have an influx of people for whom English is literally a survival need, and who are clearly aware of its importance. I have met members of this community in different settings and in each case I have been struck by the intensity of their motivation to learn.
This could be our opportunity, a chance to infuse new energy into the ESL system, on the level of funding (1 student = x government $), but also on the level of morale. A flood of new students, especially at the beginner level, could bring that contagious thirst that would give all involved a new sense of purpose.
I’m not hearing about that. I think the students are coming. When I talk to colleagues at the Board, some of them tell me that they have seen their numbers leap. But I hear no official pronouncement from the Board welcoming these new learners, no billboards promising broad educational vistas to beaming newcomers. What’s more, I’m bombarded with frustratingly ill-informed messages from the media, stories of newcomers on 6-month waiting lists for English classes, or even one organization dismissing other sources of ESL education as “inadequate” for refugees.*** Even worse, I’m not hearing these claims refuted by the school boards. I have first hand knowledge that classrooms are sitting half-empty. We do have space for those students and we do have first-rate programs for helping them. Why is nobody screaming this from the rooftops?
Community language organizations need to step up, to promote themselves as the best and most accessible option for the refugee community. This makes good business sense, but it’s also common courtesy: we need to let our New Canadians know that they are welcome here. Management also has to improve internal communications. Present this to your employees as an exciting new development, a challenge and an opportunity to learn more about another culture, a real chance to make a difference. Make them see that the work they do is of vital importance — to each individual learner, but also to the country as a whole.
Before you yell at me
Yes I know. I’m essentially an outsider at this point. You may bristle at my easy criticisms. You may argue that in fact you are taking many steps to accommodate these new learners. That’s as may be, but I’m not hearing it from where I am, and I’m pretty close to the ESL world. You should be making a noise that I can hear across the city. Wake up, guys! This is the work that we were born to do.
*this quote set off a chain of memories and associations that evolved into its own blogpost
***not linking or naming the parties involved, but it definitely did happen
So I’ve been talking about teachers and empathy and about the fact that despite all the blather from the cute cartoon figures at the bottom of the well, empathy is not always the best quality for teachers. In the subtly named post Empathy Sucks, I talk about how feeling your students’ sadness can limit your effectiveness by weakening you at the moment when they most need you to be strong.
In this post, though, I’d like to look at it from a different angle: how much do you really want to know about what your students are feeling? I’m happy this idea came along because I was looking for a way to talk about a little epiphany I had when working with visiting teenagers this past summer.
The summer program is where we go to atone for our 8 months of 12 weekly contact teaching hours at full time pay rates. It’s where we go to remind ourselves that there are worse classroom offences than a misplaced citation. Summer teaching is epic — in the rigour it demands, but also in the satisfaction it provides if things actually do go well.
The greatest difference, though is the balance of power. With my regular students, things are simple: they complete the tasks we give them, and they go on to U of T; they don’t, and they go home.
In the summer, on the other hand, the causal connections are a bit more tenuous. There are possible consequences for the summer students: if their behaviour is particularly egregious, they might conceivably not get a certificate, and a certain kind of parent might be displeased by this. However, we all know about teenage brains and their pre-frontal lobes*. All these things seem very far away when there’s wheelie chair jousting to be done.
In other words, there is no clear and consistent extrinsic motivation to meet classroom expectations. This can generate warm collaborative classrooms, where everyone — teacher and students alike –feels privileged to be present ,
but it can also lead to bad behaviour when students realize the consequences will be less severe than they would be in their regular schools. This can manifest itself in many ways: hyperactivity, open defiance, and perhaps the most deadly, sullen disregard. This last is less physically exhausting than the others, but it can be the most dispiriting. In fact on one occasion it triggered in me a kind of out of body experience.
Face to face with a particularly unimpressed young person, I felt my world tip slightly, and it was as if I were 15 again. As I saw her lip curve upward into a sneer, I became the young misfit, facing the careless disdain of a member of the cool kids’ group. I felt that for all my knowledge and experience, I had failed to learn the one thing that was most important, the secret signal that would earn me admission to the clubhouse (which back in the day had been a grubby university cafeteria across from the school — the socially elite drank coffee there when we mere mortals went to gym class).
But it wasn’t just that. After all, I might have been a nerd as a teenager, but I was never a happy nerd.
Think Winona Ryder at the beginning of Beetlejuice. I sat in class actively resisting knowledge. Any whimsical attempts to draw me out or make a lesson “fun” merely served to redouble my resentment.
I was cruelly derisive of any attempt on the part of the teachers to relate to us or seem young and current. The sneer appeared on my face as frequently as it did on my tormentors’.
So at that moment I was simultaneously the young victim of my supercilious adversary, and the adversary herself.
I knew that I would never endear myself to her, because I had been her.
There was a moment of horror. I felt trapped in knowledge that I could not gainsay, because it was hard wired into my own memories. I saw my teaching through my younger self’s eyes, and it was not pretty. I would have been an atrocious student in one of my classes. Somehow, through a mixture of genetics and happenstance, this awful student morphed into a reasonably good (no fishing expedition here) teacher,** but traces of the sullen teenager are still active within me — active enough to remind me of the times when teachers were the enemy, with no quarter given. I suppose there’s a lesson there about karma.
And then… it was ok. Somehow the tensions loosened. My Jungian*** journey had reached its goal, and we moved on. There was no heart-warming meeting of minds, but I found a kind of peace. In a way, I had slain the dragon: I had come face to face ( almost literally) with the conflict teaching stirred up within me.
After all, the dragon was something I had sensed all along. I guess that teaching often does involve a kind of suspension of disbelief, the ability to not notice the rolled eyes and fidgets, the kind of heedless pep that enables one to persuade a class of foreign-trained surgeons to engage in the cutting of jack-o-lanterns.****
It was only now that I was strong enough to acknowledge this hostility and face it head on.
And how did this inform my teaching practice? Did it make me more hesitant to employ creative teaching methods, now that I remembered how much I had resisted them? Actually, not really. My teaching persona had evolved in response to the feedback I was getting, even when I seemed oblivious. This was my way of being me in the classroom — and one incident was not going to change it.
It did make me more aware, though. I became aware of the degree of courage that this kind of teaching demanded of me. And I guess that’s a huge part of creativity *****
At the same time, I also found it easier to make my peace with those resistant students; to find space for them in the interactive classroom. I realized that it was not really about me — even if the students thought it was.
After that, though, I’m a little more cautious in my deployment of empathy. The student mind can be a fetid swamp of nightmares and monsters, and that’s on a good day. I will be a little bit more careful not to venture there uninvited.
Teacherpants Empathy Part 2 Coming soon