Non, c'est PAS rigolo de péter..!

As each week progresses, I seem to get more and more into the teaching side of life in France. Perhaps it is because I am more familiar with the kids. Perhaps it is just down to getting more experience. In any case, with four regular private pupils and one after-school charge on top of two schools, teaching is a large part of my life here. I am brutally aware that I am not a natural born teacher, and although as with a lot of things, practice makes perfect, I am unsure as to whether I will ever become a really good teacher.

For example, I watch Marjorie, a teacher in her late twenties and just finishing her teaching ‘formation’, and am so impressed at her teaching methods. Having spoken to her at the beginning of the year about whether teaching was her calling and, in particular, why she chose to teach the special needs class. In actual fact, she kind of ‘fell’ into this sort of specialised teaching, yet despite this she has completely excelled and is a fantastic CLIS teacher in her own right. Through a combination of tenuous links and well-timed job openings, Marjorie is now a highly trained, and highly competent, teacher of the CLIS class. In fact, she is due to sit her final exams (where an outside assessor sits in on her class for an hour and a half) in early May, after which (I think) any additional training will be for a well-deserved pay rise.

To me, Marjorie represents the best kind of teacher. She is completely no nonsense, but is kind and is hugely fun at the same time. The major difficulties that I have encountered lie in a) explaining something for the nth time without sounding exasperated, b) trying to establish where problems lie when a student just doesn’t seem to be able to understand something, and c) avoiding succumbing to favouritism. I know that all the teachers with whom I work have a hell of a lot more training, but Marjorie just seems to breeze over each of these problems. For example, arriving at the CLIS a little early this morning, I watched as she explained the rules of subtraction. First using little cubes (split into ‘dizaines’ and ‘unités’) to explain how you can borrow one from the dizaines if you don’t have enough unités et cetera (i.e. 51 – 39) she then transfers the sum onto the board. The students draw columns that represent tens and units, thus although there are no more little cubes in the equation (‘scuse the pun) there remains a heavy visual element. After two more examples, the students are left to work out the final example on their own at the board, and use a mixture of numbers and pictures to fathom out how to ‘borrow’ from the tens. The teaching method is so logical, and the students seem to progress without even realising it. It’s definitely something for me to take as an example, and even if I think I am getting nowhere with my classes, it’s a massive treat to watch how teaching really should be done.

On a lighter note, school is damn funny. There are so many moments where I am about to die with suppressed laughter at something a student has said or done, or their indignation, or the wonderfully naive way they behave towards one another and towards the teacher. I think I am especially spoilt as a language teacher, because some of the mispronunciations are absolute classics. Obviously, I can’t think of any off the top of my head, aside from the ruder ones (Try saying “Can I take a sheet?” with a French accent...), but I assure you, there are hundreds.

However, perhaps the funniest two hours I have had so far were during a whole school singing rehearsal on Tuesday of this week. Already, having ‘whole’, ‘school’ and ‘rehearsal’ in one sentence does not bode well for anything even marginally productive or successful.  Try cramming around 200 under 12’s into one modest gymnasium on a rainy Tuesday morning and asking them to concentrate for two hours. Major fail. The whole rehearsal was spent separating trouble-makers, hissing ‘chuuut’, glaring at chatterboxes, and physically removing errant class members and leaving them outside with the shoes and coats to ‘think about what they’d done’. One kid was moved so many times for distracting his neighbours that he made the full circle of the hall and ended up back in his original place. Another spent the whole time making faces and Michael Jackson-esque poses in the mirror, much to the despair of the poor teacher in charge. The problem child of the school – you can tell I am not in a hard-core inner city school, there is only really one problem child – took it upon himself to sing louder than any other child in the room. Well that’s great, right? I mean, enthusiasm is so much better than apathy, isn’t it? Perhaps not. Somehow, he managed to place each note exactly one semitone higher or lower than the actual pitch. Carnage. Later on in the day, when the younger ones had gone back to class and it was only the CM2’s left (who, incidentally, were a lot less well behaved), one mistimed fart meant that the whole rest of the rehearsal was a shambles. Not going to lie, I can’t stop laughing even when writing this, you can imagine how hard it was to maintain an ‘I’m a teacher and am very serious and responsible and farting is not funny’ expression when the deed was done.

Seriously, the kids are absolutely great, and the teachers even more so. There is a sort of wonderful unspoken confraternity between all the teachers – all of them are constantly looking out for each other and ready to give support and help when it is needed. One of the teachers, clearly at the end of her tether with a couple of the exceptionally energetic members of her class, was promptly shooed away by Hervé, a lovely replacement teacher, who took hold of the situation to give her a brief, if not very well needed, respite. Likewise, the staffroom chat is absolutely hilarious. 99% female, there is definitely no lack of gossip in the Ferdinand Buisson salle de profs. In fact, they’re still completely ripping into me for Scotland’s abysmal performance in the Six Nations. I long for the day when the cuillère de bois isn’t mentioned. Or for when they stop laughing at how my boyfriend is from Wales, and the ‘Pirate Bang Bang’ (pronounced ‘bong bong’) is also Gallois. (“Est-ce qu’il a une jambe de bois, ton copain?! Haaa” ! Seriously. It’s not that funny.)

Although, with work, I still feel miles out of my depth, and I despair at whether my students really know the difference between ‘toes’ and ‘nose’, I feel hugely lucky to have this experience. In school, nothing stops. I am constantly observing, listening and, most of all, learning from both my colleagues and my students. I reckon that, come the end of June, I will have been learnt a lot more than I could ever dream of teaching. And for that, I’m grateful. 

No really, what am I doing here?

Frankly, I'm delighted at just how useful having a music degree is turning out to be...

Next week's work... making être and avoir fun.

Carnaval, School Meals and a Lot of Loyalty

“Comment-on dit ‘Mardi Gras’ en anglais”

“Tuesday Fat.”

“Euuhh.. no.”

Having now plunged into the dark depths of Lent (day three and already my dreams are filled with rivers full of melted chocolate... it’s going to be a long forty days!), it was interesting to note how the French mark this date. One thing that continues to leave me stumped here is the separation between sacred and secular festivals, and especially how that division is played out in schools – the playground for French secularity laws.

Mardi Gras and Mercredi des Cendres (Shrove Tuesday and Ash Wednesday respectively) are religious, right? Ash Wednesday in particular symbolises the beginning of Lent, and it notable (and named) after the Christian practice of putting a cross of ashes on the foreheads of churchgoers as a sign of penitence. I know that even in the UK, Shrove Tuesday i.e. Pancake Day, by far overshadows it’s more important yet far less popular festive companion. Yet, in my mind at least, the two are inextricably linked. This makes it a little difficult at school as although you are obviously allowed to teach about religion and religious festivals, you’re not allowed to ‘celebrate’ them.

Hmm..

Yes I don’t really get that either. How come we are allowed to spend over a week making Christmas decorations yet at the first mention of Carême, teachers sit up straight, start listening and shoot me ‘be careful you’re treading a very fine line here’ stares while the students automatically loll back in their seats – ‘oh, don’t worry, it’s Christian’.

Anyway, that is beside the point, and I am sure I will have a lot of time to ponder this paradox come Easter. However, what I did want to mention is the way in which Mardi Gras is celebrated in France, something that I was extremely grateful to be a part of. Arriving at school on Tuesday to be confronted with a Buffalo Bill running round the playground, followed closely by two Spanish dancers and the Karate Kid, I was completely stumped. Turns out, Mardi Gras is also a day for deguisement in France and not only that, but it also linked to the widely celebrated Carnaval. In fact, having spoken to some of the teachers about the festivities, ask any child on Shrove Tuesday why they are dressed up, and they will reply ‘for Carnaval’, rather than for Mardi Gras. Although linked to Mardi Gras and traditionally held in Roman Catholic societies, Carnaval, in a similar way to much of our Yuletide celebrations it has started to take on a much more secular guise, as exemplified by Sarlat’s ‘Cinema’ theme for the 2011 Carnaval.

Unfortunately, Saturday afternoon rehearsals in St Geniès meant that I was unable to attend, but word on the street is that despite the driech weather, everything went smoothly and there was confetti, flour, eggs and silly string in abundance. Another reason for my non-attendance on Saturday evening was that I was fortunate enough to attend a Soirée Années 80 organised by the Amicale Laïque de Temniac. Essentially, the evening consisted of an (extremely long) apéro followed by a sit down dinner interspersed with a lot of dodgy dancing to 80s pop. With over 200 people in attendance, it was a logistical nightmare but contrary to expectations, everything went unbelievably smoothly. Taking place at La Caminel, a restaurant/campsite just 2km from the school, an enormous hall housed four long tables, with a DJ and dance floor at one end. Although the electrics short-circuited about 6 times in the evening, it was an impressive demonstration of good humour, bad dancing and, as the whole shebang was organised by parents of pupils at Temniac, extra-curricular dedication. Kudos to the servers, (Ludo Perusin included... much to his dismay!) who had to squeeze between the tables with tureens of piping hot soup, trays of magret de canard, bowls of thick chips and plate after plate of cheese.

However, what really made the night was the presence of many of my little élèves from Temniac. Having overcome their shock that ‘Eeemogène’ was seen somewhere outside of the school walls and after a lot of awkward giggling bisous, they actually came around to the idea and by the end of the night I was happily dancing with a crowd of red-cheeked little ‘uns, chatting to one of my formerly-painfully-shy private pupils, and being harangued by a gang of my CE1’s running up and down between the tables. Many thanks go to the Perusin’s who invited me, paid for my ticket, kept my glass full, and were unbelievably good company. Second family? Geeze, I have fallen on my feet.

And as a final word, having been called a ‘rugby slut’ (you know who you are Mr Thomas), I just wanted to point out, club rugby is so different here. I promise. The impressive loyalty to club rugby in this part of the world is something that I have never before encountered. For a start, the players are passionate about their game; playing seriously, yet managing avoiding the sort of egotistical conceit that taints so much modern sport, and obviously having a complete ball in the meantime. It is completely unpaid, aside from receiving free food post-match and the occasional expenses reimbursement. Each player has his own job, own life off the pitch, yet still trains twice weekly and plays each Sunday. It slightly reminds me of club rugby as described by Welsh hooker Bobby Windsor in his autobiography ‘The Iron Duke’ (Thanks Cel!)

However, what really strikes me is the dedication of the fans! 5-hour round trip to Bordeaux to watch an away match? No problem. Yesterday saw a mini armada of cars charging along the A89 to support Sarlat CASPN as they took on Gradignan. And this was not out of the blue. I went along with the ‘girls’, a ride that turned into a hilarious day-trip in itself as we stopped off at Beynac, Bergerac, various service stations and (ahem) McDonald’s en route. Delphine, our designated driver, has missed only two matches this whole season. Nadine and Daniel Perusin brought another car-load, and (despite getting lost in the process) uncle Gerard, neighbour Gailou and a cohort of other ‘dads’ helped fill out the Sarlat support. With constant shouts, cheers and a lot of singing, whether home or away, it is no wonder that CASPN Seniors have conceded one defeat in the whole season. Fingers crossed for the final two matches - on verra...! 

For more info.. have a wee look at www.caspn.fr

Standard Grade Art – A

Thought I’d share very quick note as I am near dying with laughter at just how appalling my artistic skills have become. It’s the start of another week and, as per usual, I am completing lesson plans with 25 minutes to go before I leave for school. Oop. Last minute... euhh perhaps?

At Temniac I am blessed (read – cursed) with the class from hell. Aged 7 and 8, they are absolutely charming kids but for some reason, all of them together is a nightmare. Despite being a mere 45 minutes, each class is hell; everything we do in class goes in one ear (if I’m lucky) and charges straight out of the other about 3.2 milliseconds later. Progress is but a miserable pipe-dream, so I am reduced to just doing games and songs (as advised by the bedraggled maitresse) with them as it is the only thing that they will respond to. So having completely failed with learning parts of the body last week, today I thought I’d put a more exciting spin on the lesson by taking them outside to draw outlines of their body in the playground  and label each part. It’s sunny, that’ll take up some time and (fingers crossed) they might learn something. I needed a crib sheet to show them the spelling slash give them the answers as otherwise we’ll go nowhere, hence the absolutely abysmal attempt (below right) at drawing ‘the human body’. Green t-shirt and purple shorts? Suspicious ‘strawberry-blond’ hair? Hands that look as though they’ve come straight out of a Quentin Blake sketchbook? Unusually muscled arms? What the hell was I thinking?   Oh dear.

At least if the lesson doesn’t work, they’ll definitely have something to giggle about! 

PS As it's such a nice day I thought I'd throw these in for good measure...

View from my bathroom windae - back of the house/farm

Chev and the view from my door.. s'haat y'all!

A leetle bit more muhnaay

So after months of fruitless searching (yip, months. I’m sure it’s due to my very dube french CV) I’ve finally found a second job! With only twelve hours scheduled work a week, and somewhat unreliable private pupils (who seem to swing between ‘intensive’ or ‘extremely sporadic’ lesson preferences. The concept of regularity doesn’t seem to exist here), I have been desperate for something to improve my French and fill the holes in my already shallow pockets. So it was much to my delight when one of my colleagues, Mme Poux, came bounding in with a lightbulb flashing above her head asking whether I would be interested in au pair-ing for one of her friend’s children. The family, the Blavignats, actually have four children but, as in our house, three have flown the nest as it were and then there was one. M et Mme own an office in town (called AFP – not actually sure what it does. Something to do with houses I think. By the way, I’m definitely lying. I have no idea) which is situated just off the main street in Sarlat. They live in the most fantastic house adjacent to the office, which is like some sort of fairytale tower. As both office and house are located in the heart of the medieval town centre, they aren’t built in the way that we are used to, and the width to height ratio is almost unbelievably asymmetric. Four floors high, you enter the house through a tiny door at the bottom and are immediately confronted with an extremely thin (people were smaller in the ‘olden days’ yeah?) winding staircase. The bottom floor is the bathroom. The first floor is where they ‘live’ i.e. contains the kitchen, miniature dining room, rabbit hutch (!) and a glass window that opens out onto a walled roof terrace. The second floor is just a door into Enzo’s room (my new charge!) – jam packed with books, a desk, a drum kit, and a ladder leading to his bed above. Opposite his room is a scary looking door marked APF which leads to the top floor of the offices. Although we knew not to disturb his parents and their employees, I’m sure that our rather enthusiastic djembe playing (he has a full size djembe..!) probably carried to the offices next door. As you climb the stairs to the third floor, there is a secret hatch which you crawl through to get to the ‘top half’ of Enzo’s room. I doubt that I am explaining this very well, but essentially, he has one of those ‘top-half-only-bunk-beds’, but instead of being just a bed, it continues round the top half of his room and opens onto a kind of mezzanine area complete with bean bags, books and a miniature television. Definitely every 12-year olds dream. I was amazed – thank god my limited vocabulary of adjectives (which essentially consists of ‘cool’) was enough to assure Enzo that I was genuinely impressed! Continuing up the stairs, you reach the top where one door opens onto his older sister’s bedroom, now used for storing things, and a ladder leading to a suspicious looking hatch, I am told, opens onto a bedroom shared by his brothers. Phew. What a house! I was completely enamoured. But I can imagine that although it’s not far off magical, it could pose a problem in that it is highly impractical. Carrying shopping up those stairs must be a nightmare, I have no idea how they managed to get any furniture at all into the house, and hoovering would be less like housework and more like an Olympic sport.

In acutal fact, the family are reaching the final stages of building a new house on the outskirts of Sarlat. Measuring 1000 m², and complete with tennis court, indoor pool, Jacuzzi, the works, I am assured that this new house really is the house of dreams. After three years work, they should be moving in before the summer, which means that I will hopefully be able to see the move through. Mme Blavignat seems to have definitely had enough of living en ville, and she was continually apologising for her ‘petite’ house, much to my surprise.

Well, medieval fantasy or luxury complex, I am extremely lucky both Madame Blavignat and the little Enzo are charming, relaxed, and extremely welcoming. So from now on I will be picking up Enzo from school, staying with him for a couple of hours and helping him with homework, perhaps doing a couple of English lessons with him, and taking him to his various evening activities. Not only is it great to have a little bit of extra cashish, but also another great boost for the French - Enzo chatted non-stop from the moment I arrived! I only have one worry... and was definitely tossing and turning about this last night. I don’t understand his homework at all!! Yesterday was Maths and English. Maths: OK, that’s pretty hard. Angles, yeh I’ve done angles don’t worry. Oh god. Maybe.. um.. all angles = 180°? Or is it 360°? Oh dear. I DON’T KNOW THE ANSWER! At least, as Enzo informed me, maths is his best subject. So hopefully next time I won’t have to help. Worse still was English. Honestly, it was a nightmare. He asked me what the auxiliary was. I said I didn’t know. I’m a native English speaker and I couldn’t do a 12-year olds grammar homework. Seriously. This is worrying.

I guess it’s time for me to dust off my old GCSE folders and re-learn all that highly useful information that, somehow, seems to have slipped my mind. Hum.

And PS. The girl from Pau (at badminton) is called Aude. My bad. Total legend.