Student: Ms Julia I didn't come to class yesterday because I was at the... Bueno, en el urólogo.
Me: Uh... Okay
Student: Pero estoy bien, eh -points at crotch-
Me: THANK YOU for the info
Student: You're welcome :)
Thursday, 16 April 2015
Wednesday, 15 April 2015
TED talk: Rita Pierson
Powerful speaker Rita Pierson tells us about her experience as an educator for forty years.
'Every kid needs a champion', she says. And it's completely true. Even the tough ones, the kids who look at you sideways on the first day of class, the ones that whisper things behind your back, or the ones with grades so high everybody seems to think they're perfect. Even though they're not.
It is a frustrating feeling when you're faced with a 'low-level' group. You have a programme to follow, a goal to accomplish and a crappy salary, and you all know what I'm talking about. Aren't we all tempted by all kinds of ideas, all of which end up resembling the old classic: 'They don't pay me enough for this shit'?
It's true. You're not getting paid enough for what you do. Your grandparents will always remind you that your cousin has a REAL career and he makes A LOT more than you and he bought a MUCH BIGGER house and he spends his spare time traveling AROUND the world. Meanwhile, you walk the thin line between overdosing on coffee and keeping your shit together, you keep your cool during bad days and smile throughout the good ones, and you listen to what Jenny from the first row has to say about her weekend as if she was telling you the winning lottery numbers, and you try to bribe the dead silent students to contribute to the conversation while singing in front of them the Aguilerian tune to 'Say Something (I'm giving up on you)'.
That's what you do. And you do it with pride. Because writing that fucking five on that paper felt much better than anything your cousin has ever felt.
Wednesday, 11 February 2015
Friday, 23 January 2015
Scaffolding
There, it actually happened. After a year and something of dealing with extra practice, extra hours of corrections, mock exams and adolescent self-esteem, three of my so called 'good-for-nothing' students passed the First Certificate. I can't even begin to tell you how proud I felt when I knew. These kids have taken longer than usual to sit the exam, simply because they weren't ready before. Not being ready for something doesn't mean you'll never get around to doing it, but for some reason, nowadays, at least in the school I work, these two concepts are, sadly, related.
Student number one, for instance, is a lovely girl. She's sweet, she's nice, she helps others when she can, she cares about her younger brother... The thing is, until last year, she didn't know what she wanted to do with her life. I told her it was alright, she wasn't even sixteen and she had her whole life ahead of her. For some reason or other, she seemed to click with me and in a matter of months she had decided -against all odds- that she wanted to learn as many languages as possible and go into the hotel management business. As she told me, I tried to imagine her in that kind of environment and I thought she was the right kind of person for it: patient, kind, organized... Why not? Anything that motivates them is a motivation for me. And that goal has definitely helped her stay focused during my classes. Not only did she pass the FCE, but with a B grade! She couldn't believe me when I told her. I've never seen her smile wider.
Student number two is one of those teenage guys with a hieratic expression on their faces. Too cool to be bothered by anything or anyone. I was actually warned against this one. Too strange, they said, too independent. Once I got to know him it was clear that what he wanted was just for us to leave him alone. There is an older sister in the picture. Although I've never met her, her presence just seems to linger everywhere around him. 'She's so much smarter than him, so much nicer, so much better'. How is someone supposed to be smart, and nice, and good, when you're telling them from the start they will never rival their older siblings? Why try? Would you take an exam if you already knew the examiner will fail you? Would you go to the supermarket if you knew it was closed? Why bother? That's precisely the only thing that was wrong with this kid. Once I managed to make him understand he was still someone to expect good things from, everything changed. Apart from being one of the most goal-oriented students I've had, he was funny as hell.
Lastly, student number three. A piece of work, that one. But still lovely. One of those awkward teens who don't seem accustomed to their frames, as if their limbs were too long and their shoulders too broad. With a humongous lack of self-esteem. He seems to go unnoticed by everyone, just being average at everything. He hardly ever volunteers for anything. One day, I caught him drawing during the lesson. I did tell him off for not paying attention, of course, but I couldn't help to notice that he was an amazing artist. The picture he was drawing was magnificent. I was quite surprised, honestly, because he never stood out in anything. We talked about this and I told him he could try and pursue a career related to his aptitudes. Months later, he decided he wanted to study design.
The thing is, after four terms together, they had to leave my FCE preparation class and join the CAE one. I didn't think it would make me this sad to watch them leave, but it's kind of heartbreaking. I could barely hold tears back when they hugged me and thanked me for everything. At first I thought I didn't want to sound like one of those over-motivated teachers in films (à la Michelle Pfeiffer or Hillary Swank) but I couldn't help it and I blabbered it all out: that I was proud of everything they had achieved, that I hoped they'd learnt they were capable of doing whatever they wanted and that I'd never forget them. Everything passed in a blur of hugs and teary eyes and promises to come and visit me every day.
I know we'll all move on and eventually they won't even remember me; it's the way it's supposed to be. And it's alright. Even though I can't help to worry about them, as if they were still my responsibility, I know they will be alright. And so will I. For the moment, I still have six other students who think they are quite worthless. Nobody wants these groups because they're lazy, unmotivated and average, but I just happen to think they're the best. Even if it hurts when they go, just knowing you have been a piece of their scaffold makes up for all those hours of work.
What can I say, I just love this job.
Student number one, for instance, is a lovely girl. She's sweet, she's nice, she helps others when she can, she cares about her younger brother... The thing is, until last year, she didn't know what she wanted to do with her life. I told her it was alright, she wasn't even sixteen and she had her whole life ahead of her. For some reason or other, she seemed to click with me and in a matter of months she had decided -against all odds- that she wanted to learn as many languages as possible and go into the hotel management business. As she told me, I tried to imagine her in that kind of environment and I thought she was the right kind of person for it: patient, kind, organized... Why not? Anything that motivates them is a motivation for me. And that goal has definitely helped her stay focused during my classes. Not only did she pass the FCE, but with a B grade! She couldn't believe me when I told her. I've never seen her smile wider.
Student number two is one of those teenage guys with a hieratic expression on their faces. Too cool to be bothered by anything or anyone. I was actually warned against this one. Too strange, they said, too independent. Once I got to know him it was clear that what he wanted was just for us to leave him alone. There is an older sister in the picture. Although I've never met her, her presence just seems to linger everywhere around him. 'She's so much smarter than him, so much nicer, so much better'. How is someone supposed to be smart, and nice, and good, when you're telling them from the start they will never rival their older siblings? Why try? Would you take an exam if you already knew the examiner will fail you? Would you go to the supermarket if you knew it was closed? Why bother? That's precisely the only thing that was wrong with this kid. Once I managed to make him understand he was still someone to expect good things from, everything changed. Apart from being one of the most goal-oriented students I've had, he was funny as hell.
Lastly, student number three. A piece of work, that one. But still lovely. One of those awkward teens who don't seem accustomed to their frames, as if their limbs were too long and their shoulders too broad. With a humongous lack of self-esteem. He seems to go unnoticed by everyone, just being average at everything. He hardly ever volunteers for anything. One day, I caught him drawing during the lesson. I did tell him off for not paying attention, of course, but I couldn't help to notice that he was an amazing artist. The picture he was drawing was magnificent. I was quite surprised, honestly, because he never stood out in anything. We talked about this and I told him he could try and pursue a career related to his aptitudes. Months later, he decided he wanted to study design.
The thing is, after four terms together, they had to leave my FCE preparation class and join the CAE one. I didn't think it would make me this sad to watch them leave, but it's kind of heartbreaking. I could barely hold tears back when they hugged me and thanked me for everything. At first I thought I didn't want to sound like one of those over-motivated teachers in films (à la Michelle Pfeiffer or Hillary Swank) but I couldn't help it and I blabbered it all out: that I was proud of everything they had achieved, that I hoped they'd learnt they were capable of doing whatever they wanted and that I'd never forget them. Everything passed in a blur of hugs and teary eyes and promises to come and visit me every day.
I know we'll all move on and eventually they won't even remember me; it's the way it's supposed to be. And it's alright. Even though I can't help to worry about them, as if they were still my responsibility, I know they will be alright. And so will I. For the moment, I still have six other students who think they are quite worthless. Nobody wants these groups because they're lazy, unmotivated and average, but I just happen to think they're the best. Even if it hurts when they go, just knowing you have been a piece of their scaffold makes up for all those hours of work.
What can I say, I just love this job.
Wednesday, 21 January 2015
Clean Slate
Hola, me llamo Júlia y soy profesora.
¡Hoooola Júuuulia!
Todo empezó hace unos siete años, cuando me encontraba perdida entre artículos de Sinfield y manuales de fonética, perdiendo mechones de pelo y acordándome de los muertos de todos aquellos que me habían insistido para que me apuntara a Filología Inglesa.
Un consejo para todos aquellos que os plantéeis esa carrera: huid. Sin mirar atrás. Más que nada porque la cosa ya está mal, y así me ahorro la competencia. Guiño guiño.
No, coñas a parte... ¿Qué iba a hacer con mi vida? No hay trabajo de 'filóloga', así que te queda la docencia o el sector editorial. Sinceramente, no sabía cómo entrar en este último así que me apunté al carro de los 'wannabe' teachers. Con mucho asco, porque ya sabéis que la gente es jodidamente entusiasta cuando es joven, y tanta compañera con voz de pito encantada de trabajar con niños me sulfuraba profunda y cáusticamente. Después de la carrera, me tocó pagar 2600 euros para un máster que prefiero no recordar... Todo en lo que podía pensar durante aquél curso era en qué coño hacía yo allí, en lo mucho que se había gastado mi familia para que yo estuviera allí y en porqué el número de personas delante de la máquina del café es inversamente proporcional a los minutos que te quedan antes de empezar la clase. En fin... Durante el período de prácticas seguía sin estar segura de cuál era mi función en toda esa vorágine de notas, reuniones, power points y adolescentes apestando a mandarina. Hasta que repartí esas estúpidas redacciones sobre el futuro que mi grupo de segundo de ESO había escrito, una mierda de tema, la verdad.
No recuerdo cómo se llamaba. ¿Claudia? ¿Anna? No sé. Era tímida y le costaba el inglés. Lo único que recuerdo es la manera como abrió los ojos cuando vio el 9 en rojo, me miró por encima de sus gafas de pasta y sonrió, enseñando unos brackets con gomitas de colores. Y ahí lo supe: no podía tirar para atrás.
¡Mierda, iba a ser teacher! A currar durante horas que no entran en contrato, a corregir exámenes hasta las tantas de la madrugada, a lidiar con adolescentes hormonales que te escupen en clase y luego lloran cuando te vas... No sabía cómo, no sabía dónde, pero supe que eso era lo que quería hacer durante el resto de mi vida. No es sólo enseñar inglés, el idioma es simplemente el vehículo. Es todo lo que acompaña el proceso de adquisición de la lengua. Es el contacto con ellos, el rifi-rafe constante, la negociación contínua. Las broncas, los morros, los deberes... Todo eso no significa nada una vez llega el momento en que puedes volver a ver esa sonrisa con gomas de colores.
¡Hoooola Júuuulia!
Todo empezó hace unos siete años, cuando me encontraba perdida entre artículos de Sinfield y manuales de fonética, perdiendo mechones de pelo y acordándome de los muertos de todos aquellos que me habían insistido para que me apuntara a Filología Inglesa.
Un consejo para todos aquellos que os plantéeis esa carrera: huid. Sin mirar atrás. Más que nada porque la cosa ya está mal, y así me ahorro la competencia. Guiño guiño.
No, coñas a parte... ¿Qué iba a hacer con mi vida? No hay trabajo de 'filóloga', así que te queda la docencia o el sector editorial. Sinceramente, no sabía cómo entrar en este último así que me apunté al carro de los 'wannabe' teachers. Con mucho asco, porque ya sabéis que la gente es jodidamente entusiasta cuando es joven, y tanta compañera con voz de pito encantada de trabajar con niños me sulfuraba profunda y cáusticamente. Después de la carrera, me tocó pagar 2600 euros para un máster que prefiero no recordar... Todo en lo que podía pensar durante aquél curso era en qué coño hacía yo allí, en lo mucho que se había gastado mi familia para que yo estuviera allí y en porqué el número de personas delante de la máquina del café es inversamente proporcional a los minutos que te quedan antes de empezar la clase. En fin... Durante el período de prácticas seguía sin estar segura de cuál era mi función en toda esa vorágine de notas, reuniones, power points y adolescentes apestando a mandarina. Hasta que repartí esas estúpidas redacciones sobre el futuro que mi grupo de segundo de ESO había escrito, una mierda de tema, la verdad.
No recuerdo cómo se llamaba. ¿Claudia? ¿Anna? No sé. Era tímida y le costaba el inglés. Lo único que recuerdo es la manera como abrió los ojos cuando vio el 9 en rojo, me miró por encima de sus gafas de pasta y sonrió, enseñando unos brackets con gomitas de colores. Y ahí lo supe: no podía tirar para atrás.
¡Mierda, iba a ser teacher! A currar durante horas que no entran en contrato, a corregir exámenes hasta las tantas de la madrugada, a lidiar con adolescentes hormonales que te escupen en clase y luego lloran cuando te vas... No sabía cómo, no sabía dónde, pero supe que eso era lo que quería hacer durante el resto de mi vida. No es sólo enseñar inglés, el idioma es simplemente el vehículo. Es todo lo que acompaña el proceso de adquisición de la lengua. Es el contacto con ellos, el rifi-rafe constante, la negociación contínua. Las broncas, los morros, los deberes... Todo eso no significa nada una vez llega el momento en que puedes volver a ver esa sonrisa con gomas de colores.
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