Here is my favorite photo of the my trip to India.  It may not be the best photo in a technical sense, but it best captures the spirit of my work as a fifth grade teacher at a tiny village school in Himachal Pradesh.  In the background you can see the other fifth grade teacher, Sam, making sure no one gets kicked in the face during this photo shoot.  Climbing up the wall you can see Vijay, with the thousand-watt smile, and Atul, with the missing tooth, and Kailash, looking down.

Vijay was quickwitted and stylish, and he brought me an almond every day.  This is a pretty generous gift as almonds are not cheap in India.  I met Vijay in town one afternoon when he was sitting with his father, a farmer who was selling vegetables on the side of the road.  He saw me before I saw him, and then he said “Ma’am ji, ma’am ji!” until I took notice.  (Cries of “Ma’am ji” or “Didi” or “Sister” were constant in the classroom, as that was how all of the students got my attention.)  When I looked down and saw him, he grinned at me, the same grin he has in the photo.  I wondered if I should talk to his father, and tell him how smart his son was, but I was too embarrassed to initiate a conversation in Hindi, so I just smiled back at Vijay.  He seemed satisfied.

Atul was more mischievous than Vijay: if I ever left the classroom when something was written on the board, the board would be erased by the time I returned.  Atul always admitted his crime, so I suspect he did it mostly to get my attention.  He also brought me flowers on many days, as well as prasad (sugar clusters) from the nearby temple.  I saw Atul in town one day as well:  I was walking through the main bazaar and someone ran up to me, grabbed my wrist, said “Ma’am!” and ran away.  I looked over my shoulder to see Atul grinning at me for a second before his parents chided him to catch up.

Kailash was also a troublemaker, perhaps because he was one of the smallest boys in the fifth grade.  Sam often had to lift him off the floor and move him to a different place in the classroom, to stop him from hitting the other boys.  That probably encouraged him, really, but sometimes it seemed like the only solution.

All of our students really loved coming to school, even the ones who were lagging behind in their studies.  (To give an idea of what I mean by “lagging,” the smartest student in the class would read in English for fun and could do simple algebra like 10 + x = 15, and the slowest students in the class still did not know the alphabet and had some trouble adding large numbers.  There may even have been a student who could not really count in English, but I never really got him alone to find out for sure.)  The school did not look like much to us, but the kids had never seen anything better.  When it rained outside, it rained in our classroom.  The playground was a patch of dirt next to a pile of bricks and rubble.  There was very little furniture, so the students had nothing to write on but their books.  Every day the kids laid this long, skinny carpet against the wall, which they would then sit on.  Every time they moved the carpet, a cloud of brown dust would fly out of it, so I don’t think it was actually any cleaner than the concrete floor.  All the textbooks in the school had shredded covers and missing pages, not to mention that the content of the English textbook was ridiculously advanced for these students and boring and inaccurate, to boot.  While there was a small amount of electrical wiring in the school building–say, enough for two light bulb sockets–there was only one bulb.

Sam and I were shown the light bulb on the first day, when the Indian teachers interrupted our class for ten minutes to screw it in with an air of great ceremony.  It provided about ten watts of light.  Later, they took it away, probably so they could read the newspaper in their office, which was what they did most of the time.  One day the daily rainstorm came early, and it made our little classroom very dark.  The students were doing math and it was hard to see their papers, so I asked if we could have the bulb back.  The answer was no.

The Indian teachers were one of the most frustrating elements of my work.  Teaching public school is a cushy government job, which basically means it is hard to get fired.  The teachers sat in their office most of the time, ignoring the students.  Every now and then they would come out and hit a kid who was making too much noise during recess, or who had forgotten to bring their plate for lunch, but that was the extent of their participation.  I know it was not the presence of volunteers that made them sit in their office, because we did not have enough volunteers to teach every grade.  The grades that had no volunteer teacher had no teacher at all.  (This is not to say that all Indian teachers are so irresponsible, and there were some people working at the school who I liked.  One day I saw one of the cooks, a skinny older guy, sneak out of the kitchen to comfort a little girl who was crying after a teacher had slapped her for forgetting to bring a lunch plate.  Just to make you cringe a little more, this poor girl also had a raging fever that day, which I knew because she said “Didi, bukhaar!” [Sister, fever!] and made me feel her forehead.  A lot of the students would come to school sick and tell me similar things.  I didn’t know what to do.)

Despite all the frustrating parts, the kids were adorable and their enthusiasm for learning really made my work easy.  I wish I had stayed four more weeks, or longer.  I almost feel like I could do that kind of work my whole life, if I only I weren’t so attached to people who don’t live in India.

Posted in India, teaching, travel | 1 comment

These links have been gathering internet dust in my bookmarks folder, except for the first one which is fresh.  Enjoy.

The Alchemy of Curry is a great post by cookbook author Raghavan Iyer at jugalbandi that makes me excited to go to India and try new food there.  Look at those photos, and that chart!  I want that cookbook.

This article on McCain’s temper will make you worry.  Just in case you want something else to worry about.

I am looking forward to reading some of these articles on molecular gastronomy by Pierre Gagnaire and Hervé This.  (Link in French.)  Joe and I missed a chance to see Hervé This speak in Paris–he gives a free lecture once a month–because, of all things, we had to work.

This is old news, I know, but I forgot to write about it earlier:  I have been slowly, slowly making my way through these 763 six-word song reviews.  I have liked almost everything he gives five circles.

This photo will amuse you, unless you are my mom.  Then you will be worried, because your daughter is going to a tiger reserve in India.  But she’s pretty sure nothing will happen.

This job leading a group of high school students on an international trip really appealed to me.  It doesn’t pay much but your travel is covered.  I started a job application with them and never finished because I decided to go to India instead.  But it sounds like a great program to me, and if I don’t work in the summer during graduate school, I might apply again.  (Not working in the summer seems pretty unlikely to me, too.)

Some flickr photos of Himachal Pradesh, where I’m going in a few weeks.  The low temperatures are now down to 66ºF, which is better than the 88ºF I was seeing a few weeks ago.  The high temperatures aren’t even that close to 100ºF any more.

Posted in blahblahblah, internet | 1 comment

Barely a week after saying goodbye to all of our new friends in France, I had to say goodbye to all of my friends who were graduating from Centre today.  Now Danville is empty and sad.  Not to mention nothing like France.

I’m sorry I haven’t written anything here for ages.  Moving out and flying home were both hectic, and then once I had arrived there were people to see who were all going to graduate and leave me, and then there were vaccinations and visas to be obtained for my upcoming trip to India.

Yes, India.  I haven’t even finished uploading pictures from France yet, and already I’m planning to go somewhere else.  After hearing this in conversation, lots of people have rolled their eyes and said “Of course.”

Anyway, now I’m going to distract myself from the thought that I might never see my friends from college or Dijon again.  Maybe later, if my life calms down a little bit, I’ll tell you about the end of our stay in France.

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I passed this sign while walking down Rue de la Liberté a few days ago, and it took me awhile to figure out what was wrong with it.  Later I went back and photographed it, as proof that it’s not my fault if I mélange the French and the English un peu, okay?

Posted in English, France, French | 4 comments

Before arriving in France I was instructed to be pushy and aggressive and to yell at any uncooperative bureaucrats until I got my way.  Imagine my surprise when the dreaded titre de séjour (residency permit) process was finished without any delays and all of the clerks at the Préfecture were fine.  Opening a bank account and signing the lease were a little bit of a hassle, but nothing so outrageous as I had imagined, based on all the horror stories.  Those aren’t my favorite pastimes back home, either.  Getting the housing aid from the CAF and using the healthcare system here have also not been very hard.  It’s true that the MGEN, our insurance company, sent us the forms for our carte vitale about six months too late.  However, the carte vitale is just a convenience, it’s not necessary to have one to see a doctor or get reimbursed.

I bet if those clerks at the Préfecture had been cheerful, everyone would complain about how they smiled too much.  One day at lunch, some of my colleagues were complaining about the terrible healthcare in France.  It costs too much (!).  You have to wait a long time to see a doctor.  The horrors.  I was too stunned to say anything sassy about how much it costs to see a doctor or buy medicine in the U.S.  I’m not very sassy in French, anyway.

I’ve only had two bad experiences with French bureaucracy.  The first was this summer, trying to get all the paperwork necessary to enter France.  It was frustrating, but it all worked out without any screaming, so it can’t have been that bad.

The second was this week, when Joe and I received a package that we had mailed to the U.S. at our apartment in Dijon. The box was full of books and clothes, and we had sent it home ahead of us so that we would not have to carry extra weight in our luggage.  It cost 40 euros to mail the box but we thought it would be worth it.  I did check on the label that in case of non-delivery, I would pay for our package to be returned rather than “traité comme abandonné.”  I should have known, I suppose.

It was all torn up and there was no explanation why it had been returned.  The mailman was apologetic, and he said maybe if we asked at the post office, they could explain.  So he took the box to the post office, and we went the next day.  The woman at the post office was also apologetic, but she could not explain why our package had been sent back.  She did point out that it had clearly made it to the U.S., as there was USPS blue tape covering all the rips.  She said La Poste could not refund our money because it was the USPS who had rejected our package.  I’m sure if we go in the US, they will tell us it’s all France’s fault.

Then she charged us another 40 euros for our package’s return voyage across the Atlantic.  There was a lot of grumbling in English between Joe and me at this point, but I didn’t say anything to her.  How could yelling at that woman possibly have helped us?  I didn’t want to ruin her day, too.

Seriously, though, 40 euros!  Actually, 80 euros, since our original 40 was wasted as well.

I was most annoyed when the clerk helpfully suggested that in order to get our refund from the USPS, we should keep not only all the forms we had filled out but also the box itself as proof.  We were trying to free up space in our luggage, not bring home more stuff.

Anyway, I suppose it’s good to reflect on this because I’m supposed to be telling one of my classes what has “shocked” me about my stay in France.  So.  (1)  Bureaucracy isn’t nearly as bad as expected.  (2)  People complain about healthcare.

Another mystery is that in some ways, such as willingness to give a large percentage of their salary to the government so that everyone has access to healthcare, the French are very community-minded.  They won’t, however, clean up after their dogs.

Posted in France | 1 comment

Download or listen to Four-Eyed Girl by Rhett Miller.

This morning I had my last class with rowdy, lovable 2de 5, the sporty class whose students assured me last week “We are not the children.”  I made them chocolate chip cookies and they were really pleased.  I was sad to say goodbye, but it didn’t seem to have occurred to the students that we would never see each other again, so we didn’t talk about it much.

Instead we discussed the song above, “Four-Eyed Girl.”  I had them guess what it meant to be “four-eyed,” and almost all of the groups offered the explanation that the girl in question, a teacher, had eyes in the back of her head.  Nobody in this particular class wears glasses–except me, of course, which they don’t know because they’ve only seen me in contacts–so they were unable to put this new expression to use.

The first three groups of students were generally not impressed with the song, but the last group informed me that they were going to sing it.  ”Madame, now we chante!”

Well, okay, if you want.  And they did, with great enthusiasm and lots of air guitar.

Posted in France, funny, music, student responses, teaching | 2 comments

[Here’s a draft I started writing in January, just after we returned from England, and then let collect Internet dust until now.  I have tried to remember our trip accurately, but I’m sure I’ve forgotten lots of the details.  Anyway, better late than never, right?]

(more…)

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Bret’s Angry Dance, Flight of the Conchords episode 12.

On par with Napoleon Dynamite, I think.

Posted in funny, movies/TV/youtubery | No comments

Miles posted this article called Against School, which I read this morning just after reading an opinion piece in the New York Times called Clueless in America.  The two articles make an interesting juxtaposition.  Clearly, something is wrong with our public education.  I wish I could say I had been surprised by either of them, but I was frustrated with public school long before I read these articles.  Why else would I have dropped out?

I went to a Montessori school from pre-school to fifth grade, and I loved it.  In the Against School article, the author talks about his grandfather slapping him for saying he was bored.  One teacher at our Montessori school, still one of the best teachers I have ever had, used to tell us “Only boring people get bored.”

When I entered public school in the sixth grade, I used to go home from school in the afternoon and cry.  I can remember having a conversation with another desperately bored Montessori graduate, that same year, about how the only possible purpose of school was to keep us occupied for seven hours a day so we wouldn’t cause too much trouble out in the world.

I heard some parents talking recently about their elementary-school age child who had recently stopped going to a Montessori school and started going to a public elementary school.  He, too, would come home from school and cry.  After a few weeks, his concerned mother asked him if school was any better, and he responded “I think I’m getting used to it.”

When I arrived at the conclusion of the “Against School” article, and even before then, I was thinking of Maria Montessori’s educational philosophy.

Scientific observation has established that education is not what the teacher gives; education is a natural process spontaneously carried out by the human individual, and is acquired not by listening to words but by experiences upon the environment. The task of the teacher becomes that of preparing a series of motives of cultural activity, spread over a specially prepared environment, and then refraining from obtrusive interference. Human teachers can only help the great work that is being done, as servants help the master. Doing so, they will be witnesses to the unfolding of the human soul and to the rising of a New Man who will not be a victim of events, but will have the clarity of vision to direct and shape the future of human society. - Maria Montessori, Education for a New World

Let them manage themselves, indeed.

Posted in reading, teaching | 1 comment

[This actually happened a long time ago, but while I’m writing, I might as well share it.]

The woman at my school in charge of all the finances, the intendante, is very sweet.  I’ve been to see her a few times to buy lunch at school, so she knows who I am.  She is always smiling and very talkative, and she doesn’t like to pronounce my name so she calls me “la petite.”  As in, one day when I was in her office, she said to herself:  ”Oh, la petite, quelquefois je la vouvoie et quelquefois je la tutoie!”  (Oh, the little one, sometimes I call her “vous” and sometimes I call her “tu”!)

A lot of the professors and staff at school refer to me as “la petite,” actually, since that day the first week when I was sitting in the teachers’ lounge before class and they demanded to know what a student was doing in the teachers’ lounge.  The German assistant is equally petite, but apparently the title is mine.

One day I needed the key to the régie, the little room full of TVs, computers, CD players and other equipment at our school, so I could show my students a film clip.  The woman who is normally in charge of the keys was out, so the intendante came upstairs with me.  She unlocked the door on this dusty closet of technology, and gasped as if she had stumbled into the Cave of Wonders:  ”Mais c’est quoi, tous ces trucs!”  (”But what’s this, all this stuff!”)

Joe and I have adopted this phrase and we say it often–entering a cathedral, opening the fridge, admiring a view on a hike, sweeping out the dusty corners.  Tous ces trucs indeed.

And one last little tidbit:  This morning I offered my class of secondes (sophomores) the chance to name their own teams, given that yesterday so much joy was taken in changing the team numbers.  The first match was the Dream Team versus the Kebab Team.  The second was the Best Team versus The Winners.  Also in the first match, I had a member of the Kebab Team say to his teammates, exasperated after a poor showing, “Maintenant, eux, ils vont faire du speedage!”

Speedage!  I thought that was great.  The whole sentence could be translated as something like “Now, they’re gonna go really fast!” but I don’t think that has as much character as “du speedage.”

Posted in Bourgogne, France, funny, student responses, teaching | 2 comments