Dear Friends,
What did the dog say when he sat on the sandpaper?
That's one of the jokes that came to mind last Thursday when my students invited me to play my own game. Before I give you the answer, let me throw you a bone and fill you in on how and where this dog's been philosophically sitting as of late.
Second semester is in full swing, and I've decided conversational English may be the best kind of English to teach. With no semblance of a syllabus, no curriculum, no heavy textbooks that often succeed at shackling feet rather than opening minds, I am standing at the helm of my class ship, charting the waters that lie ahead, rolling with the waves. And it feels good. This year I've come to remember and appreciate the definitions and utility of the words "standards" and "goals" in their purest forms, not as beastly words of burden shrouded in the dark cloak of bureaucratic schoolspeak but as vital concepts of purpose and value. To put it simply, my persistent goal this year has been to engage my students in conversation using the English language. I know standards are being met when mouths are moving, heads are nodding, and smiles are spreading across faces.
In so many ways, this year feels like swimming in deep water without trunks. Not much to hide behind, but once you get over the initial shock, such reckless abandon! And such freedom.
Of course self-exposure is jointly the teacher's most constant threat and greatest ally. It's a phenomenon that I'm pretty sure my friends who work outside of the realm of education may not understand. The contact, in fact the entire relationship, between a teacher and a student is originally constructed on a raw, involuntary basis. The student does not enter the classroom because he wants to, at first. He's been assigned. The same applies to the teacher who did not select the student to be there in the first place. (And oh, sometimes don't we wish we could?) The relationship is pre-arranged and under such circumstances, if there is to be accord, let alone enjoyment, both parties must agree to try to like each other. Only one thing is certain, and that is the number of days both teacher and student must share space.
Of course it behooves the teacher to create a space that is conducive to learning. Creating rules and carrying out procedures are certainly main components of the process but this teaching year has confirmed what I sensed years ago as a novice: the teacher must become the space.
"Fill the space!" my mentor advised me in my earliest days of teaching. He was right. And filling the space requires nothing short of full-frontal exposure. Day after day after day.
I'm aware that "conversational English" has an air of ease about it. True, in terms of time and grading, there's more of the first and less of the second. And still teaching conversational English to non-native speakers brings with it its own set of peculiarities. You can lead the kid to the classroom but you can't make him speak. Any teacher can copy and hand out worksheets and any student, with a speck of self-motivation, can sit and work through the problems. But, when it comes to speaking -- a form of communication without an eraser or delete option, a form so out-there and audible and therefore so emotionally-laden -- the climate control needs to be working impeccably.
(I want to note that it's precisely because of my students' former instructors who through drill, textbook, worksheet, and everything short of guillotine laid the foundations of English grammar and language that my students are able to engage in conversational English at this level at all. For many of them the unchained atmosphere of conversational English is a welcome reprieve from bookish English, but is there any other way to get to Point B than traveling -- arduous though the roads may be -- through Point A?)
Writing educator Rick Wormeli is a hero of mine. Through his research and experience, Wormeli has come to the conclusion that people learn better when they are emotionally connected to the material at hand. (In this regard, I've always felt blessed to be a language arts teacher. Must be difficult to make neutrons tug at students' heartstrings.) According to Wormeli's mantra, two of the most memorable emotions are fear and pleasure. Since most school's no longer support the pedagogical idea of corporeal punishment, scaring students is often out of the question. As I suspected, my Halloween-themed attempt at startling my students by reading an original ghost story by candlelight was met with more giggles than gasps, which nicely packaged the activity as a memorable, pleasurable experience for my students. Fear is a funny thing.
Humor sliced on chocolate (or any kind of food, really) is a powerful motivator and impetus of pleasure. I frequently serve both in my classroom. These last few days this dog has pulled out an old trick along with a big bag of M&Ms. Actually, because Latvia like much of Europe has not caught on to the American ideal of "supersization," I pulled out many mini-bags of M&Ms.
You probably know the drill: students sit in a circle, each takes five or six pieces of candy, each of which is color-coded. So, red M&Ms may stand for "childhood memories," and for each red piece a student has, she has to regale the others with a childhood memory. Strange how many childhood memories involve blood, vomit, and broken bones.
There were several categories, then, one for each color, and for yellow the attached instruction was "Tell a joke or describe a prank!"
This proved to be especially challenging for many students, illuminating the unstartling but oft-forgotten fact that humor is strongly tied to language. I recall seeing an Adam Sandler movie with a group of Japanese students some years ago. The students sat silent as statues throughout the majority of the film, except for one nondescript moment at the start of a scene when a passenger on an airplane bumps his knee on the attendant's cart being pushed down the aisle which caused the Japanese visitors to convulse with laughter. You'd of thought Steve Martin had entered the room dressed as a snout merchant. The rest of the English-speaking audience sat quietly dazed, wondering what in the world they had missed on the screen.
So, when some of my 10th graders asked me to tell a joke or two, I -- and here's that nudity thing again -- felt totally unprepared. I like to think of my sense of humor as erratic, spontaneous and situational. (Said the man to the woman on their first and final date.) While I seem to carry a stockpile of "Chipman Jokes" -- well-meaning but misdirected quips that hang on the pun side of the family joke tree -- I'm usually not prepared to tell a joke at the drop of a hat. I've been meaning to chew more Laffy Taffy.
But I couldn't let down my constituents.
"Um, okay," I said, speaking slowly and clearly, remembering my students were English Language Learners, "What do you call a sleeping cow?"
Their faces were fraught with expectancy. They were hanging on my every word. With adolescent eye brows raised, no one exhaled.
And no one spoke.
"A bulldozer!" I projected at last, waiting for the (at least) obligatory chortle.
And still, no response. Such sincerity. Such anticipation. Such well-meaning confusion. No clue.
"Well, you see, a bull is a male cow." I might have mooed at this point. "And when you are sleeping" -- hands to face, cocked head -- "you are dozing. Dozing and sleeping are synonyms."
Without averting her eyes from me, a girl in the back row yawned.
"And a bulldozer is large instrument -- but not a musical one... a large machine that, you know..."
"Dozes the earth?" one young scholar suggested.
"Not exactly," I replied. "It -- you know." Bulldozer sounds ensued as my hands pushed thin air. Evidence of Masters degree in Education at work, Ladies and Gentlemen.
The students smiled. "Another!" someone shouted.
"What did the dog say when he sat on the sandpaper?"
********
"Travel at its truest is thus an ironic experience," wrote Paul Fussel, "and the best travelers ... seem to be those able to hold two or three inconsistent ideas in their minds at the same time, or able to regard themselves as at once serious persons and clowns."
Serious clowns.
Not a bad paradigm for teachers.
Of course that sand on the bare bottom can sometimes be rough.
Which is precisely what the dog said who sat on the sandpaper. Ruff.
Yours,
Tim
Clarion Call: The author wholeheartedly welcomes and endorses the submission of jokes, puns, riddles or any other humorous fundiddles from his readership. After extensive psychometric screening and testing of jokes upon unsuspecting peers at cocktail parties and English-speaking passengers on tram-buses, the author will carefully insert selected jokes into his classroom instruction. See Goal XIV, Standards 28-79.
Twilight Zone? Maybe fear really is alive and well in my classroom.
(Student on the right has "future teacher" written all over him.)
d's. (In case you've never heard of it, it's the one that touts the golden arches as it's mascot. Devour enough Mc-e-Dee's and your own golden arches may not fit through the door.) In a recent magazine article, world-renowned Vincent's chef, the British-born Latvian, Martins Ritins was asked if he eats at McDonald's. His response was clear as cholesterol: "I try to stay upwind from them and I cross the street to the other side so that no one thinks I'm coming out of one of them."
