I didn’t think I would be a cat person after my first encounter back in elementary school with Scruffy—the cat exiled to my basement who once bit me in the nose—but I can definitely use the companionship.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
I can has Panama kitty?
I’m afraid this will have to devolve into a blog about kittens. Last weekend, my host mother’s granddaughter brought home a kitten in a cage. It seemed cruel at first, but I realized they were protecting her from the dog Negra, who needed to take some time to get used to the presence of a new pet in the house. Since Cristal has gotten out of the cage, she has taken to sleeping on my lap when I’m trying to read, nearly following me into the bathroom, and batting at my English classroom posters with her tiny paws. It’s cute, except when her claws dig into my thighs.
(Hiding in yers bathing suits, glaring)
(Sprawled out on the bench, lounging)
I didn’t think I would be a cat person after my first encounter back in elementary school with Scruffy—the cat exiled to my basement who once bit me in the nose—but I can definitely use the companionship.
I didn’t think I would be a cat person after my first encounter back in elementary school with Scruffy—the cat exiled to my basement who once bit me in the nose—but I can definitely use the companionship.
One Step Forward, Two Steps Back (Written May 19, 2012)
According to Peace Corps, the first three months of our service as designated as observation, a time for us to become accustomed to the school system, determine what needs to be accomplished and how best to carry out those plans. At least, that’s what they imagine it should be like. However, going three months without doing any substantial work in the classroom is pretty agonizing. So we (or at least I) try to get in there slowly, bit by bit. I have managed to slip into a few lessons. What’s better, the elementary school teacher assigned as my counterpart has picked up on some of the techniques I’m using, i.e. speaking English in class aside from just the vocab, asking questions, using gestures, and getting the kids involved.
Examples: (teaching 4th, 5th, and 6th graders school locations)
Do we go to the bathroom in the principal’s office? (while bending down as if to go)
No, we don’t.
Do we play baseball (while swatting an imaginary baseball with an imaginary bat) on the playground?
Yes, we do.
It may not seem like it, but compared to how they were learning the material before, this is really groundbreaking stuff. My counterpart has been incorporating that into his routine little by little with marginal success. It’s a start. I guess that’s why we’re here for two whole years. Other teachers are coming around and asking me for input in their lessons, probing me for creative ideas. I, however, wanted more. So I tried to set up my own classes for middle and high school students in the afternoon, after their normal school day was over.
First, I gauged interest by having students sign up, writing names on a list. That list got upwards of 150 students. Then I determined a schedule: I split the kids into groups based on their grade, and had two groups for a few grades. It ended up being seven groups, quite a load. Then, when I came to the principal for her approval, we had to do some rearranging. It turned out that I couldn’t hold class after 3pm. I could have only two one-hour classes starting at 1pm. I wanted to meet each group twice a week, but with the changes, some groups suffered. She and I worked all that out, but then she dropped another bomb: I had to get permission slips from all the students´ parents before their kids could participate. Another setback. The students´ homeroom teachers were willing to help distribute the permission slips, but I could only hope the kids would turn them in.
So on May 1 I started class. The groups were around 12-17 kids each, very manageable. Some turned in their permission slips on the first day. They seemed excited to be there. We even sat down and decided on class rules on the first day. Things seemed to be going well. Then life happened. Class sizes dwindled as the appeal of spending time with the American morphed into the obligation of actually having to do some work in class. The kids started getting restless, all touchy-feely with each other and unwilling to speak, seeing as how it’s something they pretty much never do in their other English class.
(Sometimes, you work really hard on this activity with the verb "to be" and then your kids don’t even get excited about it. So you feel the need to take a picture of it to feel accomplished.)
Also, with crazy school schedules, the classes weren’t consistent. One week there was no class Monday because of Panamanian Labor Day or a free day because of the death of a former President. Another week no one would show up Friday because of a school anniversary in the next town over, which only a handful of students attended. But the rest figured, If they’re not going, why should I? On a few occasions I had to cancel class because out of, say, 13 students, only six showed up. After planning activities for full classes, having class with so few students was a waste of my time and theirs.
Finally, I got fed up and went to the principal again. Calmly, with her deadpan stare, she said, "This is the way it is. If the kids don’t show up, throw them out. (I like the sound of that.) But for now, things are getting hectic with school anniversaries and trimester exams. You should probably just cancel class until the new trimester starts (June 11).” So I did.
Strategize, attack, endure, retreat, regroup, plan for the next attack. It’s like I’m going to war. I guess the first time around, I tried to pursue without really knowing my opponent. So I’ll try again next time. If that doesn’t work out, no one can claim that I didn’t put forth an honest effort.
Examples: (teaching 4th, 5th, and 6th graders school locations)
Do we go to the bathroom in the principal’s office? (while bending down as if to go)
No, we don’t.
Do we play baseball (while swatting an imaginary baseball with an imaginary bat) on the playground?
Yes, we do.
It may not seem like it, but compared to how they were learning the material before, this is really groundbreaking stuff. My counterpart has been incorporating that into his routine little by little with marginal success. It’s a start. I guess that’s why we’re here for two whole years. Other teachers are coming around and asking me for input in their lessons, probing me for creative ideas. I, however, wanted more. So I tried to set up my own classes for middle and high school students in the afternoon, after their normal school day was over.
First, I gauged interest by having students sign up, writing names on a list. That list got upwards of 150 students. Then I determined a schedule: I split the kids into groups based on their grade, and had two groups for a few grades. It ended up being seven groups, quite a load. Then, when I came to the principal for her approval, we had to do some rearranging. It turned out that I couldn’t hold class after 3pm. I could have only two one-hour classes starting at 1pm. I wanted to meet each group twice a week, but with the changes, some groups suffered. She and I worked all that out, but then she dropped another bomb: I had to get permission slips from all the students´ parents before their kids could participate. Another setback. The students´ homeroom teachers were willing to help distribute the permission slips, but I could only hope the kids would turn them in.
So on May 1 I started class. The groups were around 12-17 kids each, very manageable. Some turned in their permission slips on the first day. They seemed excited to be there. We even sat down and decided on class rules on the first day. Things seemed to be going well. Then life happened. Class sizes dwindled as the appeal of spending time with the American morphed into the obligation of actually having to do some work in class. The kids started getting restless, all touchy-feely with each other and unwilling to speak, seeing as how it’s something they pretty much never do in their other English class.
Also, with crazy school schedules, the classes weren’t consistent. One week there was no class Monday because of Panamanian Labor Day or a free day because of the death of a former President. Another week no one would show up Friday because of a school anniversary in the next town over, which only a handful of students attended. But the rest figured, If they’re not going, why should I? On a few occasions I had to cancel class because out of, say, 13 students, only six showed up. After planning activities for full classes, having class with so few students was a waste of my time and theirs.
Finally, I got fed up and went to the principal again. Calmly, with her deadpan stare, she said, "This is the way it is. If the kids don’t show up, throw them out. (I like the sound of that.) But for now, things are getting hectic with school anniversaries and trimester exams. You should probably just cancel class until the new trimester starts (June 11).” So I did.
Strategize, attack, endure, retreat, regroup, plan for the next attack. It’s like I’m going to war. I guess the first time around, I tried to pursue without really knowing my opponent. So I’ll try again next time. If that doesn’t work out, no one can claim that I didn’t put forth an honest effort.
Friday, May 18, 2012
La mitad nos sobra (Written May 14, 2012)
My site is quite accessible: about 5km from the two-lane highway called the Vía Interamericana. I am fortunate that buses run from my site to the regional capital of Santiago, which connects me to the rest of the small country of Panama. However, there is no direct bus. I have a sort of checkpoint, a small stop off the highway where the big bus lets me off and a covered pickup truck takes me the 5km south through the winding, hilly terrain. No big deal, except that there are only two trucks, which are driven by a father-son duo. As they aren`t "official" transportation, they determine their own schedules and I often wait extended periods of time at the tiny bus stop for one of them to show up. Occasionally, I get fed up and take alternative transportation...literally anyone who`s driving in to the town. Once I drove in with the man who sells fish and other goods out of the back of his truck (which, by the way, he has been doing for 40 years). A few other times I`ve driven in with men who drive old American school buses now used for various purposes, such as business and government transportation.
This past Saturday I got fed up with waiting and hitched a ride in a bus labeled Alcoholes del Istmo. I assume it`s some sort of company that governs the regulation or distribution of their beers and liquors, their Balboa and Seco Herrerano and all that. What I didn`t know was that it was currently being used as a party bus. I stepped on and wondered if is was actually for Alcoholics of the Isthmus: beer cans everywhere, vacant expressions, and everyone wearing hats, for some reason. On the bus men were clamoring for my attention. When a gringo comes to town, everyone knows about it. Men were introducing themselves to me in relation to their kids, my students: I'm so and so`s dad or grandpa. I shook several hands (and got lots of limp fish, but that`s a rant I should save for later). I got lots of invitations to come and eat at their houses. One guy, who monopolized my time, insisted on buying me a Pepsi. At least that`s what I gleaned from the conversation, since his speech was almost unintelligible. When he got off the bus, he tried his hardest to give me a dollar, which I refused. That was weird, I thought. Why is this poor man giving me money? (He probably really wanted to give me that pop.)
A theme emerged from the men`s disparate conversations. They were extremely welcoming, although in an off-putting, almost threatening way, since they were drunk. But they were (mostly) accepting, welcoming me into their community in their own way. Another man went off on what has become a pretty standard speech: "We don`t have much, but we`re happy." I`d heard it before, but what made his unique was a phrase that stuck with me: La mitad nos sobra, which means Half is more than enough. I think that is a succinct way to describe their attitude. People here know what they`ve got (not much), but they live comfortable and fulfilling lives. Half of what some people have is plenty for some others. For a brief moment, he made me feel guilty for ever wanting something I didn`t need. Now I`m trying to find a way to incorporate that into my life, to make less more. It`s coming slowly.
As a side note, Half is more than enough is my new motto when it comes to bucket baths, my new standard method of bathing. Other Peace Corps volunteers and I are becoming masters of water conservation and efficient use.
This past Saturday I got fed up with waiting and hitched a ride in a bus labeled Alcoholes del Istmo. I assume it`s some sort of company that governs the regulation or distribution of their beers and liquors, their Balboa and Seco Herrerano and all that. What I didn`t know was that it was currently being used as a party bus. I stepped on and wondered if is was actually for Alcoholics of the Isthmus: beer cans everywhere, vacant expressions, and everyone wearing hats, for some reason. On the bus men were clamoring for my attention. When a gringo comes to town, everyone knows about it. Men were introducing themselves to me in relation to their kids, my students: I'm so and so`s dad or grandpa. I shook several hands (and got lots of limp fish, but that`s a rant I should save for later). I got lots of invitations to come and eat at their houses. One guy, who monopolized my time, insisted on buying me a Pepsi. At least that`s what I gleaned from the conversation, since his speech was almost unintelligible. When he got off the bus, he tried his hardest to give me a dollar, which I refused. That was weird, I thought. Why is this poor man giving me money? (He probably really wanted to give me that pop.)
A theme emerged from the men`s disparate conversations. They were extremely welcoming, although in an off-putting, almost threatening way, since they were drunk. But they were (mostly) accepting, welcoming me into their community in their own way. Another man went off on what has become a pretty standard speech: "We don`t have much, but we`re happy." I`d heard it before, but what made his unique was a phrase that stuck with me: La mitad nos sobra, which means Half is more than enough. I think that is a succinct way to describe their attitude. People here know what they`ve got (not much), but they live comfortable and fulfilling lives. Half of what some people have is plenty for some others. For a brief moment, he made me feel guilty for ever wanting something I didn`t need. Now I`m trying to find a way to incorporate that into my life, to make less more. It`s coming slowly.
As a side note, Half is more than enough is my new motto when it comes to bucket baths, my new standard method of bathing. Other Peace Corps volunteers and I are becoming masters of water conservation and efficient use.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
A Great Lesson Finally Sinks In
Throughout the course of my life I`ve learned quite a few things. Unfortunately, a lot of that mysterious information has remained stagnant in my mind for years and years, and is only just now starting to really click. I suppose life`s lessons only make sense once you`ve really experienced life.
One of the greatest lessons came in high school during a ninth grade Economics class. The woman who imparted the knowledge was a teacher of mine named Miss Rogers, a person whom I consider a great educator in her own way and my only teacher-turned-friend. She had a reputation in the school for being a bit odd, perhaps eccentric. People silently compared her to Miss Cleo for her hair wraps and clothing choices, complained about learning nothing in her class, and were confused about her teaching methods, one of which including giving extra credit for attempting to teach her dances like the Harlem Shake. I took an immediate liking to her because of her uniqueness. Aside from teaching me to knit, I thank her profusely for teaching me this important lesson. In her classroom she posted a phrase, ridiculously simple and yet the most profound thing I`ve heard regarding interpersonal relationships: People are different. Back then I was a good student, and a bit sophomoric. I thought I knew it all, so to that statement I replied, "Well, duh! Of course people are different!" Only after years of life`s experiences have I come to truly understand its meaning. And my time in Panama has really helped it all fit together.
I`ve spent a lot of time here being really frustrated about one thing or another. Things move at a much slower pace. Often, I feel like people aren`t actually listening to me, but instead waiting for their turn to speak. A fellow volunteer observed that several community members try to take advantage of us and don`t always look out for our best interests. Our teachers occasionally seem unwilling to change their methods and mistake our suggestions for haughty, presumptuous American sense of superiority. I wonder if people know why we the Peace Corps are here and what it is we do, or rather, what we try our best to do. All these things had me bogged down and I asked myself a million useless questions: Why don`t these people even try to recycle? Why do they look at me weird for drinking plenty of water and insisting on eating fruits and vegetables instead of simply consuming fried foods and starch? Why does it often seem like these teachers don`t take their job seriously, or want to improve their lacking English skills? Why do Panamanians shout on the bus when I just want quiet and then clam up when I ask them to speak up in class? Why did they just sit back and let those puppies die? Why? And then it came to me. Why do they do all these things? Because people are different.
The beauty of that phrase is that you can just leave it at that. In those cases where things didn`t work for me, I kept trying to understand why people are the way they are. Often it is helpful to investigate cultural or religious differences that might provide reasoning for people`s actions, but sometimes, it`s just not going to make sense to us because of our subjective point of view. Accepting the inconvenient, yet universal truth that people are who they are, different from you, and won`t always change just for you, can help you avoid a world of frustration. However, it takes a really long time for it to sink in. I still get bent out of shape about a lot of things, but that phrase is gradually becoming my mantra. Building up thick skin will help make life less stressful. I just have to continue doing the best I can do and let people do things their way. Hopefully, our efforts can create some synergy. If not, meh. At least I tried.
So thanks again, Miss Rogers. I get it. People are different.
One of the greatest lessons came in high school during a ninth grade Economics class. The woman who imparted the knowledge was a teacher of mine named Miss Rogers, a person whom I consider a great educator in her own way and my only teacher-turned-friend. She had a reputation in the school for being a bit odd, perhaps eccentric. People silently compared her to Miss Cleo for her hair wraps and clothing choices, complained about learning nothing in her class, and were confused about her teaching methods, one of which including giving extra credit for attempting to teach her dances like the Harlem Shake. I took an immediate liking to her because of her uniqueness. Aside from teaching me to knit, I thank her profusely for teaching me this important lesson. In her classroom she posted a phrase, ridiculously simple and yet the most profound thing I`ve heard regarding interpersonal relationships: People are different. Back then I was a good student, and a bit sophomoric. I thought I knew it all, so to that statement I replied, "Well, duh! Of course people are different!" Only after years of life`s experiences have I come to truly understand its meaning. And my time in Panama has really helped it all fit together.
I`ve spent a lot of time here being really frustrated about one thing or another. Things move at a much slower pace. Often, I feel like people aren`t actually listening to me, but instead waiting for their turn to speak. A fellow volunteer observed that several community members try to take advantage of us and don`t always look out for our best interests. Our teachers occasionally seem unwilling to change their methods and mistake our suggestions for haughty, presumptuous American sense of superiority. I wonder if people know why we the Peace Corps are here and what it is we do, or rather, what we try our best to do. All these things had me bogged down and I asked myself a million useless questions: Why don`t these people even try to recycle? Why do they look at me weird for drinking plenty of water and insisting on eating fruits and vegetables instead of simply consuming fried foods and starch? Why does it often seem like these teachers don`t take their job seriously, or want to improve their lacking English skills? Why do Panamanians shout on the bus when I just want quiet and then clam up when I ask them to speak up in class? Why did they just sit back and let those puppies die? Why? And then it came to me. Why do they do all these things? Because people are different.
The beauty of that phrase is that you can just leave it at that. In those cases where things didn`t work for me, I kept trying to understand why people are the way they are. Often it is helpful to investigate cultural or religious differences that might provide reasoning for people`s actions, but sometimes, it`s just not going to make sense to us because of our subjective point of view. Accepting the inconvenient, yet universal truth that people are who they are, different from you, and won`t always change just for you, can help you avoid a world of frustration. However, it takes a really long time for it to sink in. I still get bent out of shape about a lot of things, but that phrase is gradually becoming my mantra. Building up thick skin will help make life less stressful. I just have to continue doing the best I can do and let people do things their way. Hopefully, our efforts can create some synergy. If not, meh. At least I tried.
So thanks again, Miss Rogers. I get it. People are different.
Death Throes of a Puppy (Written May 7, 2012)
When Negra, our host family German Shepherd, gave birth to a litter of four puppies, I could barely contain my excitement. I couldn`t wait to have a canine companion once I moved into a house by myself. Little did any of us know that Negra wasn`t much of a mother. Her innocent little puppies died one by one. The first Negra accidentally crushed under her weight, according to my host mother. The second and third died mysterious deaths, but I imagine it was from starvation, as Negra didn`t breastfeed as often as she should have done. I essentially witnessed the fourth and final death.
Yesterday, May 6, was one of those days. It should have been the end of the weekend and a chance to look forward to the opportunities of the week ahead. However, today turned out to be a holiday, a free day of mourning declared in honor of the passing of a former President. And Sunday is already a drinking day, so with the prospect of a long weekend ahead, the men hit the bottle extra hard. Usually, I would try to go out and visit people over the weekend, but it proved worthless, as all conversation devolved into pissing contests or interrogations about why I didn`t have six Panamanian women carrying my seed. So I tried staying home and reading. Unfortunately, that was a bit unsettling as well. I`m currently reading Into the Wild, which isn`t the most uplifting story. Plus, it was rainy and cold; temperatures dropped to the lowest I`ve experienced thus far. To top it all off, as I had chosen to stay home, I had no choice but to listen to the fourth puppy.
All day he wimpered and whined. I thought he was probably hungry, in need of his mother. After a couple of hours of semi-successful reading, I ventured over to the makeshift cage to see what his fuss was all about. It was disturbing. The puppy was huddled in the corner with an open wound, where the neck meets the skull. Flies were crawling all over him and these wasp-like insects were literally inside him. I had no idea how to help the poor creature and nobody else seemed willing to do anything. Eventually my host mother and I washed him off a bit and moved him under the table of the kitchen area, where he would eventually give out. From when we moved to when we went to bed, he almost never stopped crying. All day yesterday, I listened to the death throes of a puppy.
There`s a very good Spanish word to describe his cries, a word I learned in a book I just read: desgarrador. What I assume is the root of the word, garras, means claws, and suggests tearing, ripping. It means heartrending, and that`s exactly what it was. This innocent little puppy, not even old enough to open his eyes or stand up, died in my presence. I was helpless to stop it because a) I`m not a vet and have no skills in treating animal wounds and b) the closest vet, an hour drive to Santiago, was probably closed or had shortened hours because it was Sunday. If he had lasted the night, today would have been just as hopeless because of the holiday. It broke my heart.
It probably seems silly, but I`d like to dedicate this post to those four little puppies. If this whole rambling post seems ridiculous or stereotypically American for how much I seem to become attached to pets, it only serves to contrast the Panamanian alternative, which around here seems to be the complete opposite: utter apathy.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Small Victories, Small Failures
Every day is unique. Each one is comprised of small victories, small failures, and more often than not, a combination of the two.
Every now and then, I have one of those days...Days when the students don`t pay attention or things get lost on them, even when I speak in Spanish. Days when the heat covers me in a thin layer of sweat and renders me incapable of doing anything. Can`t read, write, sleep, play, nothing. Days when I feel like nothing I do here will have any lasting effect. The pronunciation will slide back to its previous level, teachers will spend the whole class yelling and telling kids to "Copy quicker" instead of engaging them with interactive activities where they might--crazy concept here--speak English. Days when I wonder, "What am I doing here? I don`t belong here."
Then there are other days. A bad day in class turns upside-down when I go out and play with the neighborhood kids. Although it may have seemed like I couldn`t get through to them in class, I find that my frustration (sometimes visible) has no effect on my relationship with them. They still jump all over me, ask me to play soccer or spin them around like a young father would his kids, or play cards or board games. I go to sleep those nights feeling content, like I might just have some positive effect on those kids, even though it might not have anything to do with English.
I also have another reason to rejoice. I have started giving afternoon classes to the middle and high school students. There were some setbacks along the way. First I had to write up permission slips with the secretary to ask the parents` permission to allow their kids to participate. This was after I had my lists of students all ready to go. That cut the lists down a bit. Then, a scheduling issue arose. The director told me I couldn`t have class after 3p.m., which made accomodating seven groups of students tough, since I wanted each group to meet twice a week. This class only has one hour available a week, and then I`ve already set up that time with another class. Ugh. Rough. It all worked out and I`ve got my classes, although some meet only once a week. The second class for one group of ninth graders, yesterday, the 3rd, was a huge success. I had students who were convinced they couldn`t speak English having a short conversation. Given, it was only, "Hello. What`s your name. My name is _. What`s his name? His name is_." However, it`s more speaking than they`ve ever done in other English classes. That was a small victory. The students proved to me that they`re willing to try. More importantly, they proved to themselves that they`re capable. Big strides, but hard to measure right away.
So there are those good days with more victories than failures, and then the other days, which are the complete opposite. The problem is that, right now, there seem to be three failures to every small victory. But I keep plugging along. I keep trying.
Every now and then, I have one of those days...Days when the students don`t pay attention or things get lost on them, even when I speak in Spanish. Days when the heat covers me in a thin layer of sweat and renders me incapable of doing anything. Can`t read, write, sleep, play, nothing. Days when I feel like nothing I do here will have any lasting effect. The pronunciation will slide back to its previous level, teachers will spend the whole class yelling and telling kids to "Copy quicker" instead of engaging them with interactive activities where they might--crazy concept here--speak English. Days when I wonder, "What am I doing here? I don`t belong here."
Then there are other days. A bad day in class turns upside-down when I go out and play with the neighborhood kids. Although it may have seemed like I couldn`t get through to them in class, I find that my frustration (sometimes visible) has no effect on my relationship with them. They still jump all over me, ask me to play soccer or spin them around like a young father would his kids, or play cards or board games. I go to sleep those nights feeling content, like I might just have some positive effect on those kids, even though it might not have anything to do with English.
I also have another reason to rejoice. I have started giving afternoon classes to the middle and high school students. There were some setbacks along the way. First I had to write up permission slips with the secretary to ask the parents` permission to allow their kids to participate. This was after I had my lists of students all ready to go. That cut the lists down a bit. Then, a scheduling issue arose. The director told me I couldn`t have class after 3p.m., which made accomodating seven groups of students tough, since I wanted each group to meet twice a week. This class only has one hour available a week, and then I`ve already set up that time with another class. Ugh. Rough. It all worked out and I`ve got my classes, although some meet only once a week. The second class for one group of ninth graders, yesterday, the 3rd, was a huge success. I had students who were convinced they couldn`t speak English having a short conversation. Given, it was only, "Hello. What`s your name. My name is _. What`s his name? His name is_." However, it`s more speaking than they`ve ever done in other English classes. That was a small victory. The students proved to me that they`re willing to try. More importantly, they proved to themselves that they`re capable. Big strides, but hard to measure right away.
So there are those good days with more victories than failures, and then the other days, which are the complete opposite. The problem is that, right now, there seem to be three failures to every small victory. But I keep plugging along. I keep trying.
English Spelling Contest...huh? (Written April 27, 2012)
Everybody has to endure certain things at work, perhaps projects that they don`t agree with, projects that don`t make sense, something like that. That`s my current dilemma. The Ministry of Education, likely in an attempt to bolster support from without, started having a Spelling Contest (since the standard term "bee" doesn`t seem to fit within the exact translation they crave). To me, it makes little to no sense. The student contestants between sixth and eighth grade have enough trouble spelling in Spanish. But instead of doing a spelling bee in the native language, they thought it would be cool to do it in English, seeing as how the government is slowly enforcing English as the nation`s second language. So students learn the alphabet in English (mildly useful). Then they memorize the words, the meanings of which is a mystery to them, since their level is basic at best. I always thought of a spelling bee as a way for a person to improve their vocabulary and learn about roots of words...or maybe I only think that now that I`ve seen Akeelah and the Bee. The pronunciation factors in too, since the judges say the words the kids have to spell. It might as well be Chinese. It`s a ridiculous idea.
And I have the misfortune of being a native speaker of English in this situation. This means I have been thrust into the position of coach, under the assumption that my knowledge of English is the magic bullet. Everyone else also assumes that I will dedicate countless hours to hone these kids` non-existent skills because, obviously, they want to win. I told the teachers outright that I didn`t agree with the idea of the spelling bee. I tried to give them an analogy: "Oh, you`re a Spanish speaker, right? Can you help me translate the Bible into Spanish? I want to teach it to my 4th graders." Crazy to me, but maybe not so much to them, seeing as how they teach Religion classes here. So that flopped. It just doesn`t occur to them that none of this actually helps them learn English.
Sadly, this spelling bee also brings back the horrible memories of my 4th grade Spelling Bee back at Gill Elementary, my first and only...
Announcer: Exclamation.
Me: E-X-C-A...Repeat. E-X-C...(Long pause, knowing I`d made a mistake, wondering whether I should correct myself)L-A-M-A-T-I-O-N. Exclamation. (Of course I corrected myself.)
Of course I also got eliminated because you`re not allowed to change the arrangement of letters already spelled. So I watched in agony as my classmates spelled new words, words I knew I could spell. Words like multiplication and raspberry. I believe those were the last two words, and I`ll never forget. So, maybe, just maybe, I`m still a little sore about that, and that paints my idea of spelling bees in a different light. But still!
All personal affliction aside, it still doesn`t make sense to do a contest in a foreign language and make kids do worthless work just to do it. If their English was better, then maybe it might make sense...but we should be honest with ourselves here.
Update: Since I wrote this post, my counterpart had me hold a little practice session with the kids on a Monday when there was no school. 9:00am. I should have known going in that they wouldn`t show up. But I went and waited. Not one of those brats showed up. Now I am even more miffed about the Spelling Bee.
And I have the misfortune of being a native speaker of English in this situation. This means I have been thrust into the position of coach, under the assumption that my knowledge of English is the magic bullet. Everyone else also assumes that I will dedicate countless hours to hone these kids` non-existent skills because, obviously, they want to win. I told the teachers outright that I didn`t agree with the idea of the spelling bee. I tried to give them an analogy: "Oh, you`re a Spanish speaker, right? Can you help me translate the Bible into Spanish? I want to teach it to my 4th graders." Crazy to me, but maybe not so much to them, seeing as how they teach Religion classes here. So that flopped. It just doesn`t occur to them that none of this actually helps them learn English.
Sadly, this spelling bee also brings back the horrible memories of my 4th grade Spelling Bee back at Gill Elementary, my first and only...
Announcer: Exclamation.
Me: E-X-C-A...Repeat. E-X-C...(Long pause, knowing I`d made a mistake, wondering whether I should correct myself)L-A-M-A-T-I-O-N. Exclamation. (Of course I corrected myself.)
Of course I also got eliminated because you`re not allowed to change the arrangement of letters already spelled. So I watched in agony as my classmates spelled new words, words I knew I could spell. Words like multiplication and raspberry. I believe those were the last two words, and I`ll never forget. So, maybe, just maybe, I`m still a little sore about that, and that paints my idea of spelling bees in a different light. But still!
All personal affliction aside, it still doesn`t make sense to do a contest in a foreign language and make kids do worthless work just to do it. If their English was better, then maybe it might make sense...but we should be honest with ourselves here.
Update: Since I wrote this post, my counterpart had me hold a little practice session with the kids on a Monday when there was no school. 9:00am. I should have known going in that they wouldn`t show up. But I went and waited. Not one of those brats showed up. Now I am even more miffed about the Spelling Bee.
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