Lundi 05.02.07 Roll up for your Irish education
For someone who hasn’t given much thought to my week’s lessons I don’t seem as fretful as I thought I would be. The fact that I’m still absorbed in Charlotte Brontë’s The Professor as we pull up to Chateauboeuf highlights my willingness to let things fall into place (or fall on their face) and it also puts our heavy weekend into perspective; I’ve been reading this 200 page text for the past week. Well the book’s days, or rather hours, are numbered – as is today’s lesson; numbers.
Some kids know their numbers but there are the odd few who still struggle with anything below twenty. There’s no need for a warm-up in Madame Caruge’s class as she has some news to warm our wary senses. She was missing for the end part of last week because her house was broken into that Tuesday. She had just popped next door for a natter with her neighbour but, as she wasn’t in she returned home 10 minutes later to find herself face-to-mask with a high-haired local with a bandana over his face and her bijoux collection in his hands. He hit her on the shoulder with a hanger and then fled with her finery. She lives in Zac and she asks the class if they know a guy matching her assailant’s description.
Madame Caruge’s misfortune fuels my impromptu number lesson as we talk about the Emergency Services and their relevant phone numbers; 15 - SAMU/Ambulance (Service d’assistance médicale d’urgence): 17 – Police: 18 – Fire Services and/or Asphyxiation Ambulance Unit.
We work with numbers 1-30 and the kids are game to continue counting up to one hundred which many spit out as tenty. Two thousand and seven also makes an appearance as does 999 and 112 to wrap up the urgent numbers.
We play listen&write the number and look&match the ticket before advancing on to codes, networks, mobiles and fixed lines and phone numbers in general:
What is your * number?
My * number is …………
What is your home number?
My home number is 0596……
What is your mobile number?
My mobile number is 0696….
I distribute the tickets and ask:
Who has number _____ ?
To which they reply enthusiastically:
I have it!
To demonstrate the usefulness of such a question I illustrate it with some items; an elf, some sticks and my hen cut-out which I then use for the rhyme 1,2 Put on my shoe…
For the next exercise each kid takes a blank page and writes a home number on one side and a mobile number on the other. I get them into pairs and they work together at the board in front of the class as one asks the other’s number while writing it down on the blackboard. It tell them to foresee the code so they can concentrate more on the number itself; all Martiniquan mobiles start with 0696 and landlines, home phones in particular, are mostly 0596. I’ve already made my own examples and some kids have to ask if my sheet contains my real mobile number. I respond in the negative but m some of the furtively take note. The last minutes of the class are used for dictation. I read out a number, they transcribe it and finally reveal it. I explain the use of double and treble numbers and I throw in a few examples.
The younger kids are only able for numbers 0-12. We repeat them, touch them and circle them with coloured chalk and tick them with coloured chalk before adding the tickets with the corresponding words. We do similar exercises with these tickets and use team games to get everyone involved and interested. In one class the Girls take on the Boys and get creamed; both by boyish roughness and young male minds.
One of the kids in Isabelle’s class has a new watch which keeps beeping. It’s a timely sign and I ask him what time it is before we launch into the reading the time on my cardboard clock cut-out.
I then get each child to divide a sheet of paper into four squares, on both sides. I call out numbers – starting with a sequence of three numbers and then a random selection. They write them down and when everyone has finished they display them and I reveal the numbers on my flip-book.
To end the class we play BINGO. I have to resort to French to tell them how to play it. I’m soon inundated with boisterous Bingo Hall enthusiasm as some kids win and cry BINGO while others whinge or cry wolf…
I’m giving a presentation on Ireland in Cluny Convent this afternoon, as part of their Semaine de Langue, so I pop into Madame Bois’ classroom to stock up on all things Irish. I feel, and probably look like, a Nomad as I travel to Rond Point with my packed schoolbag and my brimming carrier bags.
Nicola’s running a bit late as the buses are as full as my bags are so I decide to join the queue without her. I tuck into my chicken and garlic potato dish and Nic soon arrives to see me reading an old, tatty St. Patrick’s Day magazine which I procured earlier. It’s a 1999 edition but it looks so ancient – it’s a real Irish relic.
Nic goes back to school for 13,30 and I make my way to the convent. It’s only a 20 minute walk from Rond Point but the afternoon heat combined with my formal attire and the heavy bags make it a tiresome trek. The convent is a long, large yet cheerful buttercup yellow building with a cloistered walkway on both sides leading to the arched entrance. I present myself at the reception and settle down on a shaded bench to sort out my aides.
An usher soon arrives and I’m lead into the staffroom, offered refreshments and left to converse with the language co-ordinators and other random members of staff who present themselves to me. Many have been to Ireland. Of course some have been to Dublin, Galway, Belfast, Cork and Kerry but one lady lived and taught in Armagh from 1971-1973. The school took both Catholic and Protestant pupil and she tells me how she would bring the students on weekly excursions to the city’s cathedral and church; the Catholic pupils would wait outside the church while the Protestants prayed and likewise the Protestants would sit outside the cathedral while the Catholic pupils attended Mass.
With so many teachers being so well travelled and versed I’m not surprised that many of them have such a superior command of English; even the Philosophy and Geography teacher talk to me in perfect (if American) English.
Cluny Convent is a private school. Ségolène Royal was a pupil here. I ask Madame Doriac, the head language co-ordinator and my neighbour, about the fees and she says that the food fees make up the bulk of the cost at €700 per annum. The tuition fees come to €500 per annum. There are approximately 700 pupils from Kindergarten up to Terminal. There are boys here too – but only from High School level. The uniform consists of red and yellow check skirts and while polo shirts for the younger years and once in High School the skirt is swapped for jeans.
I spy Jasmine, an English assistante, downstairs. Marjorie (IRE), Alex (N.IRE), Karla (US), Sally-Jo (ENG) and Marco (ENG) are also on the list for the week. There are also English speakers from Barbados, Antigua, Jamaica and St. Lucia. Spanish speakers from Bolivia, Venezuela, Puerto Rica and Mexico are also lined-up for the week. Cluny Convent doesn’t have any assistants because as a fee-paying school the Rectorat reckons that public schools should have priority and that private schools should find and pay for its own assistants.
There’s a good vibe in the staffroom and many people express an interest in Ireland and in attending my presentation. However, classes still have to be taken so the only staff member as such at the presentation is Gael who is a minder for a young man called Gilles who has Cerebral Palsy. He’s confined to a wheel chair but he understands me and can answer many of my questions about Ireland. He’s the first in so I give him the giant green sequined Murphy’s leprechaun hat and the tri-colour to wear. I have an array of posters, maps, symbols and postcards which I hang on the board and I have a heap of Irish memorabilia on hand – on the table.
There are 18 students present – two are absent. They’re about 17 years-old. They have been drawn from different classes but are all quiet advanced in English and so they understand everything I say; they have no problem learning a bit of Gaeilge too! There’s a whole lot of Ireland packed into the hour-long class; geography, history, folklore, trivia, music, sport, food, clothes, weather, wildlife, nightlife… I decided to throw in a few different Irish elements which they probably haven’t much knowledge of. Everyone knows about St. Patrick but who knows about St. Brigit? Since her feast day was last week I have done my research and since the presentation is in English I don’t have to cut corners as I did with my own pupils. I also introduce them to the Irish media. I pass around the Irish Times and the Irish Independent before bringing in RTE, Father Ted, Kilnascully and Bosco.
The aim of the presentation is not just to learn about another country and another culture but also to train the ear to a foreign accent and to interact both orally and actively. The students, for the most part, are content to just listen to me. After I’ve touched on a few topics I fire out a few questions and I throw in others on issues which we haven’t covered. I encourage everyone to actively participate in some sense: I pass around CDs and ask pupils to make requests, one girl plays the tin whistle, some guys gets to grip with hurley and Gaelic football, two girls come up to do some Irish dancing and so on…
One guy dismantles my leprechaun. He grins sheepishly at me and the girl beside him giggles uncontrollably. I ask what’s up but they remain grinning and giggling. I move on but when I reach the pot of gold story and look for the leprechaun I find him lying legless beside a tube of glue. I make light of it; the leprechaun, obviously missing his Guinness fix, probably drank too much rum and is now limbless in every sense. Rum is fun but Guinness is good for you I tell them.
There are a lot of Metropole students; both in the class and the school as a whole. During my presentation I mention that I’d like to go to Montserrat for St. Patrick’s Day and it’s only after I’ve left that I think I should have asked if they knew of anyone who sails there.
Madame Doriac is my neighbour and I had expected to get a lift home with her. In true Martinique fashion however this fact has slipped her mind. I arrive back at the staffroom and two teachers; the Armagh advocate and a Spanish Mamma Mia, contact Maria and ask her to come back for me. She hasn’t got far in the post-school traffic and I’m soon picked-up and dropped off to Tivoli. Her little daughter, Marianne, is in the back. She’s a shy yet cute, toothless five-year old. I have my Bosco DVD in my bag and I tell Maria she can borrow it. I throw a book about The Children of Lir into the bargain as it’s a simple, colourful, illustrated, interesting read for children and adults alike.
I spy Nicola in the telephone cabin. Who else would around here would have blond hair, a pink t-shirt and a red face. She looks quite animated yet serious as she mouths something into the handset. I later find out that she has an interview for her H.Dip (Higher Diploma) in French and English at Trinity College in Dublin. Her interview is at the end of February in Dublin. She furnished her application with a letter outlining her current global teaching position and is fretful that Trinity College admin will insist she be present for the interview. Tomorrow will tell.
Arlette hobbles down to us as we’re preparing tea. We reckon she’s going to give out about the smell of scorched onions, stinking fag smoke or the foul Frenchmen we had been harbouring during the weekend... However, she’s in no form to give out as she has other things on her mind. She tells us she went to the doctor and almost fainted at the sight of the needle he produced to take out the arthritic fluid in her kneecap. It turns out she was a bit of a daredevil back in the day. She had a bike as cars were not so plentiful back then. She loved rambling in the hills and mountains and she was a Scout Leader; if I turn out like her later in life someone should send me back to Martinique.
Arlette’s daughter is also in need of medical assistance as she has a slipped disc and is in bed and out of work for an indeterminate amount of time. Arlette will be going to visit her in France for a month. She’ll be leaving at the end of March and when she returns we’ll be gone. We don’t tell her we’ll be across the glistening bay behind her. She’s not our keeper. I pray to my keeper later that night to keep her safe and sound, in mind and body. Others are on my list and I soon slip listlessly into sweet slumber…
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