A few nights ago, I was visiting the parents of friends (Dita--who lives downstairs from us, and helped us get this apartment), the father--who is from Tetovo (or at least a village nearby) but met, fell in love and married a woman from Croatia (who now speaks Albanian but with a very clean sound--but plot full of dialect. it's really fascinating to listen to her speak because her accent--at least to my 'expert ear' sounds foreign (as if I am one to talk), while the way she speaks is utterly of Tetovo.) Anyhow, he (Dita's father) looked at the both of us (his wife and I) and smiled, saying, 'you two, you are original strangers. While he [indicating is son-in-law Dita's husband who is from Albania], he's a cousin. but you? [followed by a head wag]."
No, Siree, we're no counterfit strangers, but the real deal.
Since Zeko and I started dating, the subtle/gentle/inquisitive/totally baffled/laughing interrogations have only increased because for so many the idea of choosing this community, is, well a sign of clinical insanity. Dita's father also joked that one day, he and his wife and I would have to go to the psychiatrist, so that we (his wife and I) could be checked out (although unfortunately--I really enjoyed their company--they just went back to Croatia, so our trip to the psychiatrist will have to wait).
Especially when the alternative is the States (however hyped and glorified through hours of hollywood/pop culture/endless murmur of televisions). How crazy must I be to want to stay here?
And I know that even having the right to choose (and the right to un-choose) rooting myself here, that knowledge in and of itself, makes me more able, more comfortable with the idea of "investing" in Tetovo--although honestly teaching has been so exhausting that I don't exactly feel like I have a lot to invest in anything. And yes--there are so many ways in which I see (even through the foggy lens of the language barrier, which makes just about everything a little blurry around the edges) problems in this community--but thus far, I've found the support I need (and hopefully provided it as well) to navigate some of these cultural minefields without too much damage to the mind, body or spirit.
And I also love teaching.
I feel a little bad for Zeko--because all (literally) I want to talk about are my students--their mannerisms, their ticks, things I'm planning, problems I'm having: Zeko gets them all--and usually the unfiltered, unprocessed, raw version, the first words that spring from my mouth when I tumble through our apartment door. And he's a champ (not only for this, though). Not only for being the unceasing receptacle, sometimes translator, and constant support (oh so constant)--but genuinely is interested in helping in whatever way he can--from helping translate test questions, to trying to figure out a solution to the scheduling problems we were having at the beginning of the year (he offered we go home and make a grid and then move beans around. at the time (we spent so much time worrying about making the schedule work), it sounded like divine wisdom. and I'm sure would have worked, but we found another solution. But for next year: saved by the beans. Mark my words.)
I'm teaching 11th grade English and Social Studies at a private school here in Tetovo--and we're approaching the end of quarter 1 (strange how time just zoomed ahead, looking neither to the right nor left. and us passengers, hanging onto our purses and umbrellas and stacks of student papers for dear life--which brings to mind a scene of the Professors from Gormenghast. Thanks again Ned, for bringing those books into my life). Of course there are the rocky days--where for whatever reason the dynamic in the classroom is out of whack, students want to test boundaries, or students want to complain (justly and unjustly) about the amount of work they have, or debate their grades. and on those days--especially with 6 hours of class, and with a total of 38 students (there are two groups of 11th grade students, and I teach each section English and Social), days can get long.
But luckily, those days have been few and far between. and usually, time spent teaching--while exhausting physically/mentally, is also replenishing. rejuvenating. inspiring. amusing.
Like today: one of my students (mind you, an eleventh grader) in social studies class--when I started to erase the board, said 'jo, ne(ne)!'--which translates literally as 'no, Mom!' The entire class started to laugh--as did I, eraser posed to start wiping words out (thinking: 'is that really what I just heard?' Although, for the record, I do call them dude). I think E. might have been a little embarrassed--but honestly I was touched. My classes have a wide range of language proficiencies--and especially with the students with whom there is a wider language gap/barrier, I worry (endlessly. Just ask Zeko) about if I'm reaching them, if anything of what I'm saying/we're doing is settling for them, if I'm able to maintain their interest and curiosity (and spark their imaginations! I know, my expectations of schooling/education/teaching/being a teacher are high), and if what I'm asking them to produce for me is adequate to allow them to express their mastery of the content, if they feel comfortable asking questions...the list is never ending.
and being called Mom in class, while perhaps not the best indicator of whether or not manifest destiny (one of our topics for today's social studies class) makes any sense at all, at least, to me, says something about the dynamic I'm building with my students. I'm just not sure what exactly that is, or how to interpret it.
The class where I got called Mom is also my homeroom, who I see for 15 minutes every morning (and then sometimes 4 hours of class later throughout the day), and read announcements. And even though usually those 15 minutes are spent prying students eyes open (and mine, sometimes, I will be honest)--I'm starting to get a feel for their personalities, and I think, they for mine.
And I really enjoy letting myself be surprised by my students--and they surprise me all the time. Today--to celebrate the beautiful fall weather--we went outside for the last part of class and made skits about the short story we're reading. and like any first--taking a group of students outside for the last 30 minutes of the school day was a little bit daunting--and yet. rather than just basking in the sun--or running away (I think my subconscious fear) or revolting now that they had gotten what they wanted (to be outside on a nice day), they brought their books, make their skits, and then performed them. and we laughed. one group even asked me to be in their skit--and yes, to play the Mom (sensing a theme here? hmmm). and then even offered to help me take the books back to the classroom at the end of the lesson.
and watching them take on this small task--and see how their eyes smiled just a little (although some were clearly nervous) to be 'on stage,' taking on a new character, with all our attention focused on them, makes me impatient to do more with these students. to see what other talents they have, that I am thus unaware of. what other surprises they have in store.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Trust-Fall Teaching
This morning I read an article about teaching, and like any good article about teaching it both inspired me--and has forced me to spend some of this morning in critical reflection of my own teaching and that meeting point between a teaching philosophy and a teaching practice (and the challenges of making them overlap).
The article (How a Radical New Teaching Method Could Unleash a Generation of Geniuses by Joshua Davis) explains how conventional teaching--and conventional assessment!--are nearly antithetical to the 'natural' (and I use this word with several grains of salt) ways children learn (through experience, experimentation, curiosity!) from a neurological point of view. He then follows one teacher, Juarez Correa in a school in Mexico, and how, through changing the ways in which he tasked students--and his role in the classroom--enabled students to take responsibility (and above all, interest) in their learning. And, like most happy teaching stories--yes, the students even do better (and not just better) on the State standardized tests.
And yes. For my educator-self, stories like these are fairy tales--not in the sense that they are unreal (for they very much are real) but have this gossamer sheen to them, and I find myself wishing that one day, I might have that kind of impact on a student's life. And I know, much of the process--especially from Correa's perspective was him changing his role in the classroom. Him relinquishing the traditional/typical position of power teachers hold in the classroom, hold over students, hold over 'knowledge' (or perhaps more importantly, information).
But for me--especially now, up to my elbows in the good and bad of teaching high school students (more good than bad, I think)--the pieces that I am curious about are the perspectives from the students--and what kind of challenges Correa faced asking students to change not only how they saw or understood the role of the teacher in the classroom, but how they shed some of the ingrained characteristics of what it means to be a student. Because, the second half of 'teachers are in control of the classroom' is that 'students are subservient to the teacher' (in perhaps more harsh language than typical). Correa's (radical) modification of his practices as a teacher had/has to be accompanied by an equal (if not greater) modification of students' understanding of their role in the classroom--and changing of their expectations (most importantly, of themselves, but also of their classmates, and teacher).
And so, what I see Correa doing--on one level--is placing radical trust in his students.
Trust that they can and will fill the spaces vacated by him--the teacher--as he changes his role in the classroom. Trust that they will change their expectations of themselves, trust that they will motivate themselves --rather than receive motivation from the teacher. Trust that they can take responsibilities in the classroom which they never dreamed they would have.
And this trust, in turn, is a powerful thing to receive--to feel trusted by someone usually "more powerful" than you.
And it is this trust that I seek with my students. and I know (said with a sigh) that this trust--and changing behaviors in a profound way--takes time (and patience). Time for the teacher--and time for the student. And that these two clocks may not be perfectly synchronized--especially with the cross-cultural 'time zones' (or perhaps jet lag is a better metaphor) which my students and I face, we have to be patient with each other. But it gives me something to hope for. and for a Sunday--with a week of teaching ahead, hope is a rather beautiful thing.
The article (How a Radical New Teaching Method Could Unleash a Generation of Geniuses by Joshua Davis) explains how conventional teaching--and conventional assessment!--are nearly antithetical to the 'natural' (and I use this word with several grains of salt) ways children learn (through experience, experimentation, curiosity!) from a neurological point of view. He then follows one teacher, Juarez Correa in a school in Mexico, and how, through changing the ways in which he tasked students--and his role in the classroom--enabled students to take responsibility (and above all, interest) in their learning. And, like most happy teaching stories--yes, the students even do better (and not just better) on the State standardized tests.
And yes. For my educator-self, stories like these are fairy tales--not in the sense that they are unreal (for they very much are real) but have this gossamer sheen to them, and I find myself wishing that one day, I might have that kind of impact on a student's life. And I know, much of the process--especially from Correa's perspective was him changing his role in the classroom. Him relinquishing the traditional/typical position of power teachers hold in the classroom, hold over students, hold over 'knowledge' (or perhaps more importantly, information).
But for me--especially now, up to my elbows in the good and bad of teaching high school students (more good than bad, I think)--the pieces that I am curious about are the perspectives from the students--and what kind of challenges Correa faced asking students to change not only how they saw or understood the role of the teacher in the classroom, but how they shed some of the ingrained characteristics of what it means to be a student. Because, the second half of 'teachers are in control of the classroom' is that 'students are subservient to the teacher' (in perhaps more harsh language than typical). Correa's (radical) modification of his practices as a teacher had/has to be accompanied by an equal (if not greater) modification of students' understanding of their role in the classroom--and changing of their expectations (most importantly, of themselves, but also of their classmates, and teacher).
And so, what I see Correa doing--on one level--is placing radical trust in his students.
Trust that they can and will fill the spaces vacated by him--the teacher--as he changes his role in the classroom. Trust that they will change their expectations of themselves, trust that they will motivate themselves --rather than receive motivation from the teacher. Trust that they can take responsibilities in the classroom which they never dreamed they would have.
And this trust, in turn, is a powerful thing to receive--to feel trusted by someone usually "more powerful" than you.
And it is this trust that I seek with my students. and I know (said with a sigh) that this trust--and changing behaviors in a profound way--takes time (and patience). Time for the teacher--and time for the student. And that these two clocks may not be perfectly synchronized--especially with the cross-cultural 'time zones' (or perhaps jet lag is a better metaphor) which my students and I face, we have to be patient with each other. But it gives me something to hope for. and for a Sunday--with a week of teaching ahead, hope is a rather beautiful thing.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Where have all the people gone?
One year ago today (--ish. Eid--or as we call it here, Kurban Bajram (the feast of the Sacrifice commemorating when Abraham didn't sacrifice his son Issaac/Ismail for god/Allah/whatever name you would like to use, and instead sacrificed a lamb) isn't a fixed date, as it is a fixed number of days after the end of Ramadan.
So with that tangent aside, one Kurban Bajram ago, Evan, Tasha and I woke up, and proceeded to walk two kilometers through what is usually 'hopping' studenty-peopled Tetovo, where you can't step without either passing food (how many places sell burek between the university and the qender?) or building equipment, usually encroaching out into the sidewalk, all without seeing a soul. Nor, for that matter, a place to eat breakfast.
Just two months into living here--it was eerie to wake up in a bed, in a building, on a street, in a town that I thought I was 'getting to know' and have it feel like I had entered an alternative universe.
And after that day, I always wondered: just where did all those people go? how can what sometimes feels like thousands of people just disappear, overnight? where are the traffic jams? the honking cars? the kids running between strolling pairs on the sidewalks (who always, it seems, are walking at 1/4 speed)? where did all the merchandise, usually spread out over square meters in front of stores, where did it disappear to? the mannequins? the bananas, cucumbers, the men selling plastic trinkets and peanuts? the noise of the traffic (oh so markedly absent from the soundscape of my new apartment--and a welcome change)?
I knew that Bajram is a big family holiday here--and that people (mostly men) go visiting the various branches of the extended (and my god. When they say extended, they mean extended. ) family. But the math didn't quite add up for me: if Tetovo, a city full of people, hasn't gotten any bigger, and the number of people has remained the same (these two remain constant), and people are moving between outposts of the family clan--wouldn't there still be people out and about? perhaps not on the scale of your hum-drum Wednesday morning, but some middle ground between quasi-post- apocalyptic ghost town, and cars parking on the sidewalks because there isn't enough parking space?
And today--I think I unraveled some of the mystery.
Having the apartment to myself for the majority of the day (as Zeko is one of the people zipping from halle (father's sister) to teze (mother's sister) to daje (mother's brother) to xhaxha (father's brother) to another halle, another teze, another daje another xhaxha, and thus it continues (and then to their children...I think he said he ate more than 20 pieces of baklava over the last Bajram (and I'm surprised that much sugar didn't knock him out)), and assuming that I'd also have the roads to myself (who's going to be out pleasure driving on Bajram?), I went out to see the fall foliage (for the record: still no comparison to Vermont) on bike.
And biking down these usually sleepy quiet roads, there I found the traffic jams: seven, eight cars in a line zipping from Halle to Teze to Daje to Xhaxha (although they use a different word here (Mingj?) all riding their Baklava-induced sugar high, and all, I suspect, a little surprised to find me there on my green bicycle.
It's an interesting testament to how connected families remain--something I'm still trying to wrap my head around--as I have five first cousins, and my knowledge of the extended family ends there, and also to how much the population has shifted towards the cities--places like Tetovo, contributing to the fullness of the city (and the housing/infrastructural shortages)--and yet pillars of the family still remain in the villages. I hadn't been able to see this connection between the urban and the rural quite so clearly until this morning.
And it also speaks volumes to the extent to which personal/face-to-face contact matters in this culture/community. it's not enough to just send 'holiday's greetings' cards--with messages about all events of significance in the family--at choice times during the year (and not to imply that this is the extent of our means of staying connected as a family--or on a broader, American scale) but sitting down and having tea. eating the Baklava. taking the time to nourish these relationships--in this manner. it's a generosity with time that I know will take me a while to get used to. because--hand in hand with generosity with time, is patience (and waiting). and in so many ways, our cultural understanding of time (as having fixed quantity. as being precious (time is money, or so they say), as moving in a linear, organized manner) leads me to this inexplicable impatience, especially around unspecified periods of waiting--when in so many other ways I can be oh so patient.
I guess it's a good thing, then, that I've got another year here, to keep working on it.
So with that tangent aside, one Kurban Bajram ago, Evan, Tasha and I woke up, and proceeded to walk two kilometers through what is usually 'hopping' studenty-peopled Tetovo, where you can't step without either passing food (how many places sell burek between the university and the qender?) or building equipment, usually encroaching out into the sidewalk, all without seeing a soul. Nor, for that matter, a place to eat breakfast.
Just two months into living here--it was eerie to wake up in a bed, in a building, on a street, in a town that I thought I was 'getting to know' and have it feel like I had entered an alternative universe.
And after that day, I always wondered: just where did all those people go? how can what sometimes feels like thousands of people just disappear, overnight? where are the traffic jams? the honking cars? the kids running between strolling pairs on the sidewalks (who always, it seems, are walking at 1/4 speed)? where did all the merchandise, usually spread out over square meters in front of stores, where did it disappear to? the mannequins? the bananas, cucumbers, the men selling plastic trinkets and peanuts? the noise of the traffic (oh so markedly absent from the soundscape of my new apartment--and a welcome change)?
I knew that Bajram is a big family holiday here--and that people (mostly men) go visiting the various branches of the extended (and my god. When they say extended, they mean extended. ) family. But the math didn't quite add up for me: if Tetovo, a city full of people, hasn't gotten any bigger, and the number of people has remained the same (these two remain constant), and people are moving between outposts of the family clan--wouldn't there still be people out and about? perhaps not on the scale of your hum-drum Wednesday morning, but some middle ground between quasi-post- apocalyptic ghost town, and cars parking on the sidewalks because there isn't enough parking space?
And today--I think I unraveled some of the mystery.
Having the apartment to myself for the majority of the day (as Zeko is one of the people zipping from halle (father's sister) to teze (mother's sister) to daje (mother's brother) to xhaxha (father's brother) to another halle, another teze, another daje another xhaxha, and thus it continues (and then to their children...I think he said he ate more than 20 pieces of baklava over the last Bajram (and I'm surprised that much sugar didn't knock him out)), and assuming that I'd also have the roads to myself (who's going to be out pleasure driving on Bajram?), I went out to see the fall foliage (for the record: still no comparison to Vermont) on bike.
And biking down these usually sleepy quiet roads, there I found the traffic jams: seven, eight cars in a line zipping from Halle to Teze to Daje to Xhaxha (although they use a different word here (Mingj?) all riding their Baklava-induced sugar high, and all, I suspect, a little surprised to find me there on my green bicycle.
It's an interesting testament to how connected families remain--something I'm still trying to wrap my head around--as I have five first cousins, and my knowledge of the extended family ends there, and also to how much the population has shifted towards the cities--places like Tetovo, contributing to the fullness of the city (and the housing/infrastructural shortages)--and yet pillars of the family still remain in the villages. I hadn't been able to see this connection between the urban and the rural quite so clearly until this morning.
And it also speaks volumes to the extent to which personal/face-to-face contact matters in this culture/community. it's not enough to just send 'holiday's greetings' cards--with messages about all events of significance in the family--at choice times during the year (and not to imply that this is the extent of our means of staying connected as a family--or on a broader, American scale) but sitting down and having tea. eating the Baklava. taking the time to nourish these relationships--in this manner. it's a generosity with time that I know will take me a while to get used to. because--hand in hand with generosity with time, is patience (and waiting). and in so many ways, our cultural understanding of time (as having fixed quantity. as being precious (time is money, or so they say), as moving in a linear, organized manner) leads me to this inexplicable impatience, especially around unspecified periods of waiting--when in so many other ways I can be oh so patient.
I guess it's a good thing, then, that I've got another year here, to keep working on it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)