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Wild and not so Wonderful

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(Part of the Weird and Wonderful World of Teaching Series)

After that first nerve-shredding day of teaching, the idea of returning for a second day was about as appealing as flossing a crocodile.  But there was no getting out of it. 

A parent/child combination awaited me outside the school.  The girl nestled closely into her mother’s side.  “She’s rubbish at English!” declared the mother, breezily, pulling her daughter out for inspection.  “In fact she’s rubbish at everything, but she likes the class”.  The girl looked up at me.  She was 8 and anxious, biting her lip, embarrassed about her rubbishness.  My heart went out to her.  In the classroom, I asked her what she could say in English.  “I’m rubbish at English”, she said, parroting her mother.  I sighed inwardly.  This was what might be called a challenge.  Her classmates filed in then, jostling and joshing each other.  A girl thumped her bag on the desk.  “I HATE this class”, she said.  “I only come because my mother FORCES me.”  She glared at me.  I glared back at her.  “In one hour, I can have an extremely large glass of wine”, I thought.  It gave me the courage to continue.

Three classes down.  Only Thursday’s two to negotiate.  I started off brilliantly by going to the wrong school.  There were two similar-sounding villages very near each other.  My classes were in one, so naturally I went to the other.  By the time I arrived, I was in a state that “hot and bothered” can’t even begin to describe.  A gaggle of parents and squawking children stood in the playground and here was a mother just DESPERATE to tell me that her 10-year old Patrice had behavioural problems and was mega-super-hyperactive.  Oh GREAT.

Before I had even got my books out, Patricia jumped up and scrawled “SALUT CACA!” on the board.  This basically means, HELLO YOU TURD! and I assume that I must have misheard the mother and that it’s not PatriCE who’s the mega-super-hyperactive one, but PatricIA.  At which point, PatriCE leaps up and starts thumping the button to whiz the electric blinds up and down, all the while blowing extremely loud raspberries.  A wilder class you never saw.  I do believe I put my head in my hands.  I recalled the previous teacher’s notes:  “This class is a handful”.  That phrase is what you call a euphemism.  One thing about Swiss children though – they shake your hand and say a polite “bonjour” before running amok.

I was still reeling from the shock of PatriCE/PatricIA when in filed the next class.  Not even a moment’s respite in which to burst into tears!  But God is great indeed – this class was composed of model pupils.  Could it be true?  Yes!  They were 8-10 years old, polite, charming, smart, funny.  They were my saving grace.

After the general ghastliness of the first week, things deteriorated.  Teaching children, I learned, is NOT like teaching adults – wonderful beings who can sit still for an entire hour!  Seven year olds do not possess this skill.  Turning round after writing something on the board, I would find one little pink girl draped horizontally on the desk, Curly Top would be fiddling with an old trumpet at the back of the class, and the other little pink girl would be sitting watching the 9 year-old black boy performing what looked like pelvic gyrations in front of her.  As if things weren’t bad enough, two new boys joined the class – brothers.  One was officially IN the class; the other only there to kill time until his brother could take him home.  Just what I needed – a Loose Boy in the class!  In fact, my blog portrait is testament to my efforts to keep the Loose Boy occupied. 

On a brighter note, Miss Rubbish turned out not to be rubbish at all, just needed more time to think, but she had so little confidence that when asked to speak, she went hysterical and would cower under the desk, trembling in fear.  Her classmate who hated the class hated it more with each passing week.  She was full of anger and cheek.  “You’ve got a COW’S FACE” she liked to tell a classmate.  “And you’ve got PIG LEGS!” came the reply.  Meanwhile, all I wanted was to find a beach somewhere, where I could stick my head in the sand.  There was a new arrival in this class too.  All lovely red cheeks and dazzling white teeth, he walked in, dragging his bag on wheels behind him, like a miniature tourist.  “Do you know any English words?” I asked him.  He replied, all wide-eyed and whispery, “TV?” 

Fabulous!  His classmates had been learning English for three years and he only knew one word.  Sorry – two.  He also knew “hamburger”.  How would I deal with THIS?  The wonderful thing about teaching is that there is always something new to discourage you! 

 


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