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.
Sunday, October 20, 2013
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.
Saturday, June 8, 2013
The god of small things
Or the things of small gods. Or maybe small gods of things.I'm not quite sure which one yet.
(but my postmaterialist self (thanks Malvi) is somewhat skeptical about the second two)--but this isn't going to be about the God of Small Things--saddelicious as it is by itself.
But the close of the semester has also been somewhat saddelicious--or maybe frusturatingdelicious, because it's brought to the surface a lot of the tensions I feel with a) assessment in general and assigning something as dynamic as person/their work and growth over the past 16 weeks with something as staticemotionless as a number (but then having to rationalize to them those impersonal numbers, and 'take ownership of them'), and b) the academic culture here, especially around assessment.
Today was, shall I say, hopefully me hitting rock bottom. And after almost starting to cry because a colleague really doesn't know how to read other people's emotions, and therefore didn't quite get the message that I was done with him lecturing me about how bad my albanian was, and how studying Albanian grammar was pointless (because we all have 'human grammar' so why try to learn the grammar of another language?. yeah. not the best conversation to have today, especially because Albanian grammar is not exactly intuitive, or predictable--at least to my novice eyes. and it's damn hard for me to learn through emersion without some sort of vague gramatical frame to throw my language-encounters up against).
 |
| Durres--not to confuse anyone. Tetovo still doesn't have the sea |
 |
| Durres |
Which is thrilling.
But especially in light of these tensions I'm feeling around being engaged in the academic culture here, this also means that these problems aren't going anywhere fast because neither Tetovo nor I am up and leaving just yet, so we (you and I, Tetovo, you and I) are going to have to find a way to live in peace together.
 |
| Durres |
and from this place, yes. it's true. I can forget about beauty, and just see the factories--spewing smog and graduating students. and trying to turn a profit.
and today--I think because I had hit this wall--I logged out and went to go find everything that I've been missing: smells, colors, flowers, honking horns, textures, grit, exhaust fumes, sheep herds, and all. and just be.
and somehow, this quietness of just drinking in what is around me, this is what keeps me sane. and keeps me rooted here. it's these small details that remind me, that yes, life is also beautiful. if we only let ourselves see it. let our selves live in it.
.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
life as the school shepherdess: let's do this with dignity
if anyone told me teaching was like herding cats--folks, I must have missed it.
But now I know. oh lord do I know.
(so for anyone else who missed the memo) Teaching is like herding cats. but even worse, because honestly, what would you want with a room full of cats (one cat is plenty enough for me)?
Classes finished nearly two weeks ago, but I'm still trying to track down student work--I've sent e-mails I've re-sent e-mails, sent e-mails in all caps and I'm almost to the point where want to just lurk around the rooms where students are taking exams and not let them leave until they give me their work). And, yes, while I understand that doing work isn't always the highest priority (spring, graduation looming, end of classes...) I also don't quite comprehend the logic of failing classes this close to graduation--especially for something as stupid as not turning in a 3-5 page paper. In part because I think students are used to being able to strong-arm their way into passing--perhaps without actually deserving the grade.
Tomorrow I have consultation hours for one of my classes--so students can come and talk about their grades--and honestly I'm nervous. Because students put on their 'aggressive face' and I whip out my 'stickler-for-rules-bitch face' and, well, the combination isn't always pretty.
But I think 'how to have a disagreement with professors' is going on my list of topics I'd love to talk to students about (along with the usual suspects of plagiarism, how to see a thesis when it hits you in the face, and how to hit other people with your thesis, the beauty of revision)--because it's one of the teacher/student dynamics that I've experienced here which has been really unsettling for me.
And, sadly, I think a lot of teachers feel compelled to play along by this game--or at least by these rules. It's hard to actually fail students--because there are plenty of second chances (make up exams, summer school) and so I think there is some pressure to just move them through (someone actually said as we were talking about final exam results 'remember. there is summer school. do you want to be here for it?' suggesting that students should be passed along so we don't have to sit here and swelter with them for two weeks over the summer (and instead pull out our hair about them next year). Which I'm not sure is the best attitude towards student assessment--but it also does put teachers in rather uncomfortable positions. Furthermore, there is something inherently unfair about giving students a chance to receive the same credit for a 16 week course over two week intensive in the summer. firstly, some ideas take time to mature. secondly, the math just doesn't add up (to me at least. I'm sure the university has some logic behind it. whether or not I would agree with it is another story).
And after ranting about this situation last night (with a lot of really loud hand motions), Zeko took my hands and said--and it made me so happy to hear this from someone-- don't give in, and furthermore you shouldn't.
yes. you have principles. and we have principles for a reason--and we can live by/with/inside/for them.
and I'm brought back to Kropotkin's quote: "Think about what kind of world you want to live and work in. What do you need to know to build that world? Demand that your teachers teach you that."
The inverse of it though, is that as a teacher we also have responsibilities/the responsibility to teach for the kind of society we want to live in, the world we want to work, to be in. It's not just student responsibility--it's civic responsibility, to be engaged in this dialogue about what kind of society we really want to build together. As a teacher--especially teaching a class called 'Education and Society' I was always grappling with this question of how/if/will what I'm teaching--a verb I have some disagreements with, but anyhow--what I'm sharing with students is what we need to build this society, and to assess what the realties/problems/challenges are on the ground which shape/impact(/control? although I fear using this word only reifies how out of their control people see reality as, so take it with a grain of salt) reality now.
Which then--to bring this full circle--also makes this period of the semester so so so much more frustrating because we've spent the past 16 weeks talking about what it means to be a student, a teacher, hidden curriculum and implicit messages. meritocracy (and some of the problems posed by systems based on merit)--using education to really change society, and the importance of dignity and maintaining dignity, respect. and then, it seems, this process of grades--of assessing someone (a livingbreathingspeakingwalkingbeing) with a number--all of this gets flung out the window, baby, bathwater and all. and as a teacher, I object to having to do this, but ok folks. let's do this with dignity.
But now I know. oh lord do I know.
(so for anyone else who missed the memo) Teaching is like herding cats. but even worse, because honestly, what would you want with a room full of cats (one cat is plenty enough for me)?
Classes finished nearly two weeks ago, but I'm still trying to track down student work--I've sent e-mails I've re-sent e-mails, sent e-mails in all caps and I'm almost to the point where want to just lurk around the rooms where students are taking exams and not let them leave until they give me their work). And, yes, while I understand that doing work isn't always the highest priority (spring, graduation looming, end of classes...) I also don't quite comprehend the logic of failing classes this close to graduation--especially for something as stupid as not turning in a 3-5 page paper. In part because I think students are used to being able to strong-arm their way into passing--perhaps without actually deserving the grade.
Tomorrow I have consultation hours for one of my classes--so students can come and talk about their grades--and honestly I'm nervous. Because students put on their 'aggressive face' and I whip out my 'stickler-for-rules-bitch face' and, well, the combination isn't always pretty.
But I think 'how to have a disagreement with professors' is going on my list of topics I'd love to talk to students about (along with the usual suspects of plagiarism, how to see a thesis when it hits you in the face, and how to hit other people with your thesis, the beauty of revision)--because it's one of the teacher/student dynamics that I've experienced here which has been really unsettling for me.
And, sadly, I think a lot of teachers feel compelled to play along by this game--or at least by these rules. It's hard to actually fail students--because there are plenty of second chances (make up exams, summer school) and so I think there is some pressure to just move them through (someone actually said as we were talking about final exam results 'remember. there is summer school. do you want to be here for it?' suggesting that students should be passed along so we don't have to sit here and swelter with them for two weeks over the summer (and instead pull out our hair about them next year). Which I'm not sure is the best attitude towards student assessment--but it also does put teachers in rather uncomfortable positions. Furthermore, there is something inherently unfair about giving students a chance to receive the same credit for a 16 week course over two week intensive in the summer. firstly, some ideas take time to mature. secondly, the math just doesn't add up (to me at least. I'm sure the university has some logic behind it. whether or not I would agree with it is another story).
And after ranting about this situation last night (with a lot of really loud hand motions), Zeko took my hands and said--and it made me so happy to hear this from someone-- don't give in, and furthermore you shouldn't.
yes. you have principles. and we have principles for a reason--and we can live by/with/inside/for them.
and I'm brought back to Kropotkin's quote: "Think about what kind of world you want to live and work in. What do you need to know to build that world? Demand that your teachers teach you that."
The inverse of it though, is that as a teacher we also have responsibilities/the responsibility to teach for the kind of society we want to live in, the world we want to work, to be in. It's not just student responsibility--it's civic responsibility, to be engaged in this dialogue about what kind of society we really want to build together. As a teacher--especially teaching a class called 'Education and Society' I was always grappling with this question of how/if/will what I'm teaching--a verb I have some disagreements with, but anyhow--what I'm sharing with students is what we need to build this society, and to assess what the realties/problems/challenges are on the ground which shape/impact(/control? although I fear using this word only reifies how out of their control people see reality as, so take it with a grain of salt) reality now.
Which then--to bring this full circle--also makes this period of the semester so so so much more frustrating because we've spent the past 16 weeks talking about what it means to be a student, a teacher, hidden curriculum and implicit messages. meritocracy (and some of the problems posed by systems based on merit)--using education to really change society, and the importance of dignity and maintaining dignity, respect. and then, it seems, this process of grades--of assessing someone (a livingbreathingspeakingwalkingbeing) with a number--all of this gets flung out the window, baby, bathwater and all. and as a teacher, I object to having to do this, but ok folks. let's do this with dignity.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Telling our stories, one square at a time
Friday was the official last day of school at SEEU--although there's still a bit of time until graduation-- final exams and the like to finish up (and a stack of student work to read). but I'm starting to realize that my 'Fulbright experience,' whatever that is supposed to mean, is starting to wrap up (as if experiences have neat endings or beginnings. but my fulbright-companions/comrades getting on planes and up and leaving, well that feels kind of like the end of something). and it's an odd transition place to be in--because yes, I'm transitioning out of something--but I'm not leaving. I just moved into a new apartment, and am thinking about buying things like appliances--decisions which don't exactly index 'end' of an experience.but this also is the end of my first year of teaching. and that. well that feels like something--I just haven't quite figured out how to articulate what yet.
On Thursday, the final day of my final class (Mapping, Cartography and Geography) my students gave presentations of their final projects (basically identify something in the community (or their home community if they weren't from Tetovo) that they wanted to explore further through the process of making a map.) Some of my students choose the awkward public square in the center of Tetovo, which was 'redone' (although this term usually indicates progress, where as in this instance, it seems to be 'regressive' (thank you, Jeremy. it's taken me a while, but, yes. you were right on the whole regressive thing) change) about a decade ago. And it was one of those instances where my students started to say the most profound things, but I couldn't tell if they knew how much they were blowing my mind with their observations. and so didn't want to react too strongly, in case it shut them up.
Previously, the square--at the heart of the city--had a fountain, green space, some statues. Now it's this vast expanse of concrete, where at night, people come out and rent small cars for children to drive around. it has a strange feeling of an free-form amusement park--but not a public space.
One student said, 'squares [but I think you could expand this to talk about public space in general] are supposed to tell the story of the city. But what story does our square tell?"
"Emptiness," was the response.
The square is oddly ahistorical ('you can't tell anything about our city's history from this square,' one student noted), a void as it were, without any place-specific markers that situate this square within the center of Tetovo--geographically as well as socially. From the man selling cotton candy, to the guy with the plastic toys that make all sorts of noise, to the cigarette buts, and old men sitting on the park benches in silence, it looks like just about any other square, in any other city. Although--it should be noted, there is a large screen where companies blast advertisements in flashy neon hues (so hell, it's certainly a consumerist/capitalist space--another observation my students made--that the square was just used for personal profit--either as a 'market place' for lots of plastic crap, or a political market place--for holding rallies, and the such. ), and around the 28th of November (big holiday time around here, celebrating Albania's centennial) a huge banner of a local Albanian politician (now deceased) was unveiled--although I don't know if it is a permanent installation or not. So, yes, the space is marked, in various ways--by the languages used, the gender norms enacted there. Which then begs the question--retuning to my students' observations--'whose story of the city' will the square tell? and does the marked absence of a story reflect Tetovo's contested histories? There are plenty of other smaller parks around the city with their relics of socalist-realist art--stoic women, chiseled men, all gazing off in the distance with a determined look on their faces, ready to conquer anything and everything. Yet these bodies, these markers, these narrators have left this stage, the space where the story of the city is told, acted and reinacted. and now we, bags of popcorn and wisps of cotton candy in hand, are waiting for another story to begin.Thursday, April 25, 2013
one tube of toothpaste at a time
Some people (ahem, J. Alfred Prufrock) measure out their lives with coffee spoons.
I measure time in toothpaste tubes.
Which, for those of you who have ever seen me totally lost in thought while brushing my teeth, probably comes as no surprise. But I mean this quite literally. I have measured my time here in Macedonia with tubes of toothpaste. being a hippie, I brought my hippie-dippie toothpaste with me to Macedonia, and over the past almost eight months--crazy to see written on the page. how has it been eight months already?--have slowly worked my way through them, one pea-sized dollop of toothpaste at a time. I started in on my third (and final) tube at least a month ago, but watching it slowly empty has really hit home just how long I've been here, although I've certainly got enough left to last me until July (I hope).
and my plan is to head home and replenish my stock (and say hi to Grandma!)--and then come back to Tetovo.
It isn't quite finalized yet, but I'm planning/hoping on signing a contract in the next week to be an English/Social Studies teacher (11th grade) here in Tetovo at a private school for another year. I realized that I wasn't quite ready to leave just yet, and this really hit home as I started to apply for other jobs, start looking at grad school programs, started to plan a life outside of Macedonia, and it just didn't feel right. So a month ago, I met with the director of the school (based on the American educational system--whatever that means. Dad poignantly asked, 'so what version of history will you be teaching--and what version of history am I [he's a 4-6th grade teacher] teaching?' I love my family), met with the principal, sat in on classes, and slowly started being able to see myself there, started imagining ways in which I could fit into this community. the school is quite new--this is their second year--so part of my job is going to be doing a lot of faculty/admin development, specifically helping design and facilitate an English and Social Studies department and start creating the structures through which faculty discussion/learning/collaboration can happen. Thus far, the people I've spoken to have been really receptive to exploring new ideas, and I think being there will not completely satisfy, but certainly speak to my creative side. and there are already a lot of exciting things going on--place-based education in the 7th grade, for example. (and my heart sings just a little).
I do have my concerns about working at a private school--because the quest for profit can change/impact priorities--but the problem is that priorities, especially in education, can be influenced by all sorts of things in the public sector as well. however, the cost of the school certainly limits access. but I'm planning on continuing my classes at the American corner with my kids (their faces lit up when I mentioned I was applying for a job here, and I can't wait to see them grow and change over another year), and hopefully exploring ways in which my students (my students? jeez. i'm not quite sure I can call them mine just yet) can become more aware of and sensitive to their community. and civically engaged and conscious. and start bridging some of these gaps between school and community.
and there are so many resources out in the community which I think can be utilized--if teachers (with a little creativity) are only given the flexibility and freedom to do so. For example, beautiful parks up in the mountains (so why doesn't my class adopt a park and go up there once a month to keep it clean, to have a picnic? get some fresh air? get a little dirty? develop habits for taking care of natural places, for getting out from the glare of the screen, for watching the seasons change?
and this year, I think I've still kept this label of 'teacher' at at least arms length--most of my students are my age, and yes, I get to grade them, but I identify so much more with them as colleagues than students (and I hope it's reciprocated--but they're probably a bit more aware of the differentiation of power between us). so again, now, I'm grappling with this label of being a 'teacher' and all that entails. and just hoping that I'll be patient enough with them and myself as I grow into this new aspect of my life.
so. I'm only planning on bringing another three tubes of toothpaste with me back to Tetovo, but as Bill Bryson says, 'there's always a little more toothpaste in the tube. Think about it.'
I measure time in toothpaste tubes.
Which, for those of you who have ever seen me totally lost in thought while brushing my teeth, probably comes as no surprise. But I mean this quite literally. I have measured my time here in Macedonia with tubes of toothpaste. being a hippie, I brought my hippie-dippie toothpaste with me to Macedonia, and over the past almost eight months--crazy to see written on the page. how has it been eight months already?--have slowly worked my way through them, one pea-sized dollop of toothpaste at a time. I started in on my third (and final) tube at least a month ago, but watching it slowly empty has really hit home just how long I've been here, although I've certainly got enough left to last me until July (I hope).
and my plan is to head home and replenish my stock (and say hi to Grandma!)--and then come back to Tetovo.
It isn't quite finalized yet, but I'm planning/hoping on signing a contract in the next week to be an English/Social Studies teacher (11th grade) here in Tetovo at a private school for another year. I realized that I wasn't quite ready to leave just yet, and this really hit home as I started to apply for other jobs, start looking at grad school programs, started to plan a life outside of Macedonia, and it just didn't feel right. So a month ago, I met with the director of the school (based on the American educational system--whatever that means. Dad poignantly asked, 'so what version of history will you be teaching--and what version of history am I [he's a 4-6th grade teacher] teaching?' I love my family), met with the principal, sat in on classes, and slowly started being able to see myself there, started imagining ways in which I could fit into this community. the school is quite new--this is their second year--so part of my job is going to be doing a lot of faculty/admin development, specifically helping design and facilitate an English and Social Studies department and start creating the structures through which faculty discussion/learning/collaboration can happen. Thus far, the people I've spoken to have been really receptive to exploring new ideas, and I think being there will not completely satisfy, but certainly speak to my creative side. and there are already a lot of exciting things going on--place-based education in the 7th grade, for example. (and my heart sings just a little).
I do have my concerns about working at a private school--because the quest for profit can change/impact priorities--but the problem is that priorities, especially in education, can be influenced by all sorts of things in the public sector as well. however, the cost of the school certainly limits access. but I'm planning on continuing my classes at the American corner with my kids (their faces lit up when I mentioned I was applying for a job here, and I can't wait to see them grow and change over another year), and hopefully exploring ways in which my students (my students? jeez. i'm not quite sure I can call them mine just yet) can become more aware of and sensitive to their community. and civically engaged and conscious. and start bridging some of these gaps between school and community.
and there are so many resources out in the community which I think can be utilized--if teachers (with a little creativity) are only given the flexibility and freedom to do so. For example, beautiful parks up in the mountains (so why doesn't my class adopt a park and go up there once a month to keep it clean, to have a picnic? get some fresh air? get a little dirty? develop habits for taking care of natural places, for getting out from the glare of the screen, for watching the seasons change?
and this year, I think I've still kept this label of 'teacher' at at least arms length--most of my students are my age, and yes, I get to grade them, but I identify so much more with them as colleagues than students (and I hope it's reciprocated--but they're probably a bit more aware of the differentiation of power between us). so again, now, I'm grappling with this label of being a 'teacher' and all that entails. and just hoping that I'll be patient enough with them and myself as I grow into this new aspect of my life.
so. I'm only planning on bringing another three tubes of toothpaste with me back to Tetovo, but as Bill Bryson says, 'there's always a little more toothpaste in the tube. Think about it.'
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
'it doesn't matter if you're a boy or a girl, it matters what's in your h-h-heart'
This morning I finished 'teaching' The World in Claire's Classroom for the first (and definitely not the last) in my days as a teacher. And every time I watch the film, I am dumbfounded by the profound, deep, complex, wise things these first and second-graders not only think but say, express, communicate. if only more people (more teachers especially) took the time to ask them what they thought, and then listened to their answers.
there's a beauty to the simplicity of language, but the complexity of thought children use.
and how empowering it is--for someone from an early age--to feel, to believe that their voice is worthy, their voice is heard. their opinions are desired and respected. and have the same legitimacy as the voice of an adult.
And watching the film (for any of you in Grinnell there's a copy there, and a copy here in Tetovo: please ask, and I will gladly lend it to you! I'm not sure if it's available on-line anywhere, but hunt it down. it's worth it. and I'm not just saying this because it's about my home), my heart swells with gratitude for the place I call home, and the people I call home. And that someone (or someones--Lisa and Alan, a million thanks) had the foresight to know, to anticipate that Claire Oglesby is a woman to capture. because she lives not only in the film--but I see bits and pieces of her in everyone who watches her, who steps into her classroom, internalizes that atmosphere, that community. and to me, there is nothing more beautiful than hoping that my students now carry a piece of her, her wisdom, her care, her compassion with them too, into classrooms, homes, communities here.
I know that there are so many barriers to creating the respectful community illustrated in the film, but the film--I think (I hope)--at least offers the possibility, the hope and the knowledge that this can exist. it has existed. and can be created again.
After watching a portion of the film with our class last week, Zeko said "this is the school I dreamed about."
Me too, I wanted to reply. Except that this dream is also my reality. and each time I watch the film I'm reminded of how and why I believe that schools, schooling, it can work! there are ways to translate critical pedagogy, critical theory into critical practice. and that knowledge, that hope, that dream is my pedagogical/philosophical north star.
it's also amazing to me how the same issues which resonated with my seven-year-old-self--issues of gender equality, of being heard, of marginalization and the human/emotional impact of that, of having space to be vulnerable-- are still the issues that resonate with me now. A friend (Ned) who I haven't been in contact with in over five years, recently told me--'but we still know each other because, honestly, how much have we fundamentally changed since high school?' and at first I was baffled by that thought--of course we've changed since high school! but now, watching the film, I'm starting to wonder--have I changed since second grade? or am I still that same child, still that same woman?
and I think for a long time, I was uncomfortable with the truthful (my truth, that is) answer to that question because (I perceive that) for so many people that scene defines me as 'the girl that wanted to be Gandhi but wasn't.' (which I'm coming to see isn't that bad of a legacy to carry with you (but it's taken me a long time to get here). and again, I hear Vahido's voice 'are you going to be a peacemaker?', so striving to be Gandhi--or more accurately a Gandhi. at times (most of the time) it feels like too tall of an order, but at least it gives me something to aspire to become) but my truth, what resonates for me from this scene, from this film is that I am still that person--still someone moved/frustrated to the point of tears by injustice. and that's ok. even if my tears, my hiccuping voice is captured on film. that's not something to be ashamed of.
and with sweet memories of Claire so vivid in my mind, today I'm especially grateful to be her adashe, to share her name. and I have a feeling I'll always be Little Claire. and hopefully, walking in her footsteps.
there's a beauty to the simplicity of language, but the complexity of thought children use.
and how empowering it is--for someone from an early age--to feel, to believe that their voice is worthy, their voice is heard. their opinions are desired and respected. and have the same legitimacy as the voice of an adult.
And watching the film (for any of you in Grinnell there's a copy there, and a copy here in Tetovo: please ask, and I will gladly lend it to you! I'm not sure if it's available on-line anywhere, but hunt it down. it's worth it. and I'm not just saying this because it's about my home), my heart swells with gratitude for the place I call home, and the people I call home. And that someone (or someones--Lisa and Alan, a million thanks) had the foresight to know, to anticipate that Claire Oglesby is a woman to capture. because she lives not only in the film--but I see bits and pieces of her in everyone who watches her, who steps into her classroom, internalizes that atmosphere, that community. and to me, there is nothing more beautiful than hoping that my students now carry a piece of her, her wisdom, her care, her compassion with them too, into classrooms, homes, communities here.
I know that there are so many barriers to creating the respectful community illustrated in the film, but the film--I think (I hope)--at least offers the possibility, the hope and the knowledge that this can exist. it has existed. and can be created again.
After watching a portion of the film with our class last week, Zeko said "this is the school I dreamed about."
Me too, I wanted to reply. Except that this dream is also my reality. and each time I watch the film I'm reminded of how and why I believe that schools, schooling, it can work! there are ways to translate critical pedagogy, critical theory into critical practice. and that knowledge, that hope, that dream is my pedagogical/philosophical north star.
it's also amazing to me how the same issues which resonated with my seven-year-old-self--issues of gender equality, of being heard, of marginalization and the human/emotional impact of that, of having space to be vulnerable-- are still the issues that resonate with me now. A friend (Ned) who I haven't been in contact with in over five years, recently told me--'but we still know each other because, honestly, how much have we fundamentally changed since high school?' and at first I was baffled by that thought--of course we've changed since high school! but now, watching the film, I'm starting to wonder--have I changed since second grade? or am I still that same child, still that same woman?
and I think for a long time, I was uncomfortable with the truthful (my truth, that is) answer to that question because (I perceive that) for so many people that scene defines me as 'the girl that wanted to be Gandhi but wasn't.' (which I'm coming to see isn't that bad of a legacy to carry with you (but it's taken me a long time to get here). and again, I hear Vahido's voice 'are you going to be a peacemaker?', so striving to be Gandhi--or more accurately a Gandhi. at times (most of the time) it feels like too tall of an order, but at least it gives me something to aspire to become) but my truth, what resonates for me from this scene, from this film is that I am still that person--still someone moved/frustrated to the point of tears by injustice. and that's ok. even if my tears, my hiccuping voice is captured on film. that's not something to be ashamed of.
and with sweet memories of Claire so vivid in my mind, today I'm especially grateful to be her adashe, to share her name. and I have a feeling I'll always be Little Claire. and hopefully, walking in her footsteps.
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