jeudi 30.11.06 Mosquito-Men IN BLACK II
It may be the last day of November but it certainly isn’t the last day of the mosquitoes; in fact it’s as if they have discovered me for the first time. My drainpipes are dotted with numerous nasty nips. They’re not so numerous that I can’t count them but after twenty I begin to feel a bit nauseous when I think about all the blood they’ve drained. Bloody Roger Moore’s. Not only to they suck out your blood but they also leave a little oral offering; these miserable blood-suckers leave a miniscule vial of vile of their mossie mucous embedded in your skin and if you itch it just won’t stop so it’s better not to give in. I’ve a wild desire to itch. Just one. Just once. Just do it. I use the end of my umbrella to scratch my foot. Its relief of a sort but it’s short-lived. A tingling grows beneath my skin. The redness spreads. The itch returns. What the hell. I itch around the red glossy swell. The bus lurches alongside the footpath and my scratching ceases.
Today I am continuing with professions and the family. Last Thursday was the fourth Thursday in November so that means it was Thanksgiving time in America. I was otherwise occupied last week so today I tell the kids about the Pilgrim Fathers, the Mayflower, the stuffed turkey and pumpkin pie which bring American families together for this yearly tradition. I mention that Irish and British people do not celebrate Thanksgiving but this year I went to an American friend’s home to join in on the celebrations. This brings us back to the notion of the family and I introduce my mother, my father, my brother, my sister, the baby, my Grandfather, my Grandmother, my Aunt, my Uncle and my cousin with the help of my cardboard cut-outs and flashcards. I place them in a hierarchal family tree formation. We play listen and touch individually and in teams. Not surprisingly Mother and brother seem to cause the most problems.
The next part of the class involves professions or jobs. I have face cut-outs and flashcards to illustrate various professions and figures and so I stick them on the faces of my family as I introduce each person and their relevant profession; nurse, builder, farmer, policeman, footballer, dancer, Queen, Indian.
Nurse. Farmer.
A nurse. A farmer.
My mother. My grandfather.
My mother is a nurse. My grandfather is a farmer.
She is a nurse. He is a farmer.
I point to each face cut-out, then to a family member and I finally affix the professional face on the individual and get the kids to repeat the above sentences after me.
After that I call out a sentence eg. He is a policeman or My uncle is a policeman, and the kids shoot-up their hands if they know which person it is. They then come up and point to the policeman or my uncle and repeat the phrases. Is he/she right? I ask the children, and most of them reply while others just sulk because they haven’t had a turn.
I should have laminated my cut-outs as they’re getting plenty of use this week. Father already has a missing eye – the Blutack took it away. And cousin’s left leg must have also got mauled by the Blutack bulldog.
Finally I write the title of each family member under their accompanying figure. The children repeat, repeat and repeat until they’re as blue as Blutack. It’s copybook time so under the date goes the title My Family and in the middle of the page they each draw themselves – a circle, two eyes and a mouth suffices:
J
ME
And as I remove each cut-out figure I replace it with another smiley, speckled, curly-haired, bald, spiky-haired, toothy, lippy or big-eared chalk face. The females are drawn in pink chalk and the males in blue. Me, baby and cousin get green chalk grins as they are neutral terms. The pupils are keen to copy the exact colours I use so this exercise works a treat yet even though I start off explaining why I’m going to use pink and blue for the females and males respectively I still get the odd child who pipes up in a moment of revelation that all the girls are pink and all the boys are blue. Bravo!
Claude’s class are in good form today – they’re not their usual sluggish selves. Madame Caruge’s class still insist on using rap-artist and singers names for their teams – Snoop Dog and Pussy Cat Dolls. I rechristen them Dogs and Cats. Madame Thaly is not in today so her class is dispersed. Some of them are in Madame Acina’s class but Madame Acina herself seems to have been replaced by that young male trainee teacher.
His name is Alwin – it’s pronounced like a girl’s name. His name, his cursive writing and his earring could have had me fooled but at the end of the class he asks if he can speak to me. With 60 beady eyes set on us we shuffle over to the door. I actually think he’s going to give me some new-age teacher advice about being sensitive towards children’s family situations (I asked the children to take down ALL the family members even if they didn’t apply to them). But no. He asks me out instead. “What are you doing this weekend?” he asks in French. “Pas grand chose,” I reply, relishing in his following nervous numbness.
For a while there I was nearly fooled into believing that not all Martiniquan men are mosquito-like but Alwin instantly goes down in my book as another parasite – straight out of Paris and under my skin in a tick. I remember back to the first conversation with him where he told me that I looked like a girl in the IUFM. It was a strange way to strike up a conversation especially when I was only passing by the classroom and he had to stick his head out the window to talk to me.
This time round I let him sweat it out in silence for a while. Madame Thaly isn’t in so I’ve Scottish Football Association classes to get on with. I pipe up that there’s a party in Acajou on Saturday and I may go; but he still says nothing. I actually think he’s shy and I save him wasting more class time and jot down my number adding that if the party plans don’t work out I’ll probably just go for drinks with some friends. Like the leech he seems to be becoming he perks up, hands me his details and asks if he can see me; as in just me, not with a group. Negative. Awkward, inappropriate and unprofessional to the core. I say goodbye to the pupils and Alwin and skip out of the classroom and over to the office where another mosquito-man is waiting for me; it’s a parasite parent. Imagine, leeches in the school and all; in my day we had head lice but at least you didn’t have to be civil to them. I pop into Madame Do to ask about Christmas holidays and Odile offers to fix me up with a calendar of all the upcoming events.
Back at home I’m inundated with calls. It doesn’t even cross my mind that I may now have a French-speaking stalker – but I don’t. The secretaire, Madame Profit, from the Rectorat, offers to call me tomorrow should Madame L’Inspectrice not be in that afternoon. I also get two calls from a CAF contact who is processing my dossier. She’s full of official-speak but it’s good to know that someone’s already seeing to my application for a rent refund. James is also on the blower. I texted him earlier about going to his place in Saint-Marie next weekend. However he is having a dinner with his institutrice and some other scholars that Saturday. “Sorry but any other time,” he adds apologetically. My phone doesn’t get a break as Nicola is firing texts my way – her latest eye-candy is on the bus again. He is attractive but he isn’t my type. My guy’s probably typing-up a multitude of essays, pouring over some tough texts and studying simultaneously. If only he could read my mind…
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