Today I worked with one of the other English teachers, and he had me read a series of diary entries from a young Irish immigrant girl named Shannon Ryan. The students in the class are sophomores, so they struggled to understand the text when I read aloud.
The text began: "March 2, 1892. My name is Shannon Ryan, and I'll be sixteen next May..." It then continued on to say that her father had recently died and she was going to American on the HMS Shamrock, hoping to find work, but that she would be heartbroken to "kiss Ma goodbye."
The teacher then asked a series of questions about what the students understood in the text. Apparently, they had more difficulties than either the teacher or I had anticipated. Here are some of the more, ummm...entertaining...answers:
PROF: What will Shannon Ryan do before she leaves for America?
STUDENT A: She'll do Mardi Gras?
PROF: Mardi Gras? How did you get Mardi Gras? Sarah, will you read the passage again?
ME: "I dread having to kiss Ma goodbye."
PROF: Ma goodbye. Not Mardi Gras.
PROF: Where is Shannon Ryan when she leaves for America?
STUDENT B: At the airport!
PROF: It's 1892!
PROF: What's the name of the ship?
STUDENT C: The Titanic!
ME: It's 1892!!
But it's not only the students who embarrass themselves; it's also the teachers (*ahem, me*). Nothing has been as bad as Tuesday's nightmare class session. I was with the same teacher, and he was starting a unit on art throughout history. Now, I've always been bad at art -- always. I enrolled in an Art History class in college, hoping that I might improve, but if anything, I've become worse because I now have too many names and time periods to remember. But still, that does not excuse what I said on Tuesday.
First, the teacher showed an ancient South American sculpture, and I was able to quasi-identify it. Then he showed a picture of a Renaissance painting, and I was able to talk about it intelligently (it's the awe-inspiring command I have over the English language). Then he showed a picture of the Mona Lisa. Oh man, I thought, if these students don't know what this is, they're in trouble!
Pride goes before what again?
"And Sarah, who painted this picture?" The teacher asked me. An all too easy answer, but I couldn't believe the words that actually came out of my mouth: "Van Gogh." What did I just say?
"What did you just say?" The teacher asked me.
"Well, I said Van Gogh..." The students were starting to giggle.
"Wait," the professor said. "How do you pronounce it?"
"Van Gogh. How do you pronounce it?"
"Da Vinci." Oops.
The whole class was giving me this awkward look, like I'd just said with absolute confidence that I was afraid of falling off the face of the earth.
At the end of the lesson, the teacher recapped everything that the students had learned during the session. He put up the picture of the Mona Lisa, and asked his students, "Sarah said something wrong about this picture. What did she say?" (*insert long, exhaustive sigh here*)
The mocking didn't end there, but carried on after class and into the teachers' lounge. Even the teachers giggled, and I stopped defending myself. How can one defend a moment of total mental vacancy? Of course, I knew it was Leonardo da Vinci! I knew that. I've seen the darned thing! Oh well. Life goes on.
At least I didn't say it was Leonardo DiCaprio.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Let Them Play Pictionary!
Ever since the elections have been over, I have struggled to find something “fun” for my students to do in class. My main struggle? Getting them to speak English instead of French. Since the juniors and seniors have an oral exam at the end of the year, I have been trying to imitate what the exam will look like. Because the exam will either have a picture or a written document, I usually bring in either a cartoon or an interesting newspaper article, and we discuss it as they would during the exam. Seems like a novel idea, except for the fact that they tend to drift back to French after the first sentence or two. And that would be fine, I suppose, if the exam were in French. But it’s not.
Despite my attempts to tell them that they will not pass the exam if they only speak in French (and, if they don’t pass, they may be held back a year), they still continue to avoid English as much as possible. This frustrated me, so I decided that I needed to give them a break and do something fun.
Hence the introduction of Pictionary into the classroom.
I chose words that they would know but that would be funny to see them draw – words like, “sports car,” “lion,” “dinosaur,” “ear,” and “sunglasses.” Sure enough, the game was a hit. The first class that played was standing on top of chairs and desks within a matter of minutes, yelling the words in English so loud that I worried another teacher would come in and tell us all to settle down.
Of course, the competing teams would yell at each other in French (“That’s not what that is!” “Look! We’re ahead of you!”), but their answers were all in English. I had finally succeeded in a) getting them to speak (mostly) in English, and b) getting them to have fun in class.
Next, I’m going to try Family Feud, and see how that works out. Then maybe Scattergories.
Despite my attempts to tell them that they will not pass the exam if they only speak in French (and, if they don’t pass, they may be held back a year), they still continue to avoid English as much as possible. This frustrated me, so I decided that I needed to give them a break and do something fun.
Hence the introduction of Pictionary into the classroom.
I chose words that they would know but that would be funny to see them draw – words like, “sports car,” “lion,” “dinosaur,” “ear,” and “sunglasses.” Sure enough, the game was a hit. The first class that played was standing on top of chairs and desks within a matter of minutes, yelling the words in English so loud that I worried another teacher would come in and tell us all to settle down.
Of course, the competing teams would yell at each other in French (“That’s not what that is!” “Look! We’re ahead of you!”), but their answers were all in English. I had finally succeeded in a) getting them to speak (mostly) in English, and b) getting them to have fun in class.
Next, I’m going to try Family Feud, and see how that works out. Then maybe Scattergories.
When France Feels Like a Third-World Country
First of all, my apologies to anyone who is French and happens to be reading this…
If there is one thing that I despise about France, it is dealing with anything bureaucratic. To put it lightly, they are slow and inefficient with any sort of paperwork. And that is putting it lightly.
One of the requirements of my stay in France is that I obtain a carte de séjour, a long-term visa that allows me to stay in the country for a period longer than six months (which kinda stinks for me because I’m only staying 7 months, but oh well). I must go to the Prefecture to get this done, and it is usually a long and grueling process.
The initial problem comes because there are only 30 tickets granted per day for “foreigners” (read: anyone outside of the EU) and the office is only open Monday to Thursday, from 9-12. Since there are a surprising amount of non-European citizens living in Perpignan (most of which come from Morocco, Algeria, or Tunisia), there are always many people who need to go to the Prefecture each day. The lines are long and filled with people from every corner of the world: the Americas, Asia, Africa, and “Arabia” as the French call it.
I have now been to the Prefecture five times – only once with success. Every other time, I have waited and waited and waited, only to find out that the 30 tickets have already been used up, and that I’ll have to come back another day.
The problem comes on days like today, when the air is so biting cold that even a few minutes outside is hazardous. I bundled up and arrived early, around 7:50 (remember that it opens at 9 am), only to find an already long, long line of people. I saw elderly women in winter coats and felt hats sniffling and coughing in the cold wind. I saw shivering young mothers taking their scarves off to wrap yet another layer around their babies. A woman in front of me told me in French that she was worried about being outside for so long. We were all cold and waiting for the doors to open. Outrageous.
The woman in front of me said that there were people waiting in line who had been there since 6 am. They had already been waiting for two hours in the cold, and had another hour to go! “They can’t do this to us,” she told me, and pulled out a Kleenex. “It isn’t right. We’re all going to get sick or worse.”
I knew that I was already too late to get one of the 30 tickets, but I decided to wait anyway – just in case I got a chance. I hung around and talked to a man next to me who said he was Persian. He told me an incredible story about being in the Air Force in his home country and being kicked out for “dissenting” from the state religion (“more of a philosophy than a religion,” he told me). He then asked if I was a political refugee, and I said no, that I am a language assistant from the States. “Then what are you doing here?” He asked me. “You’re American; the world belongs to you.”
He then continued his story: how he was an interior decorator – an artist, really – and fluent in Persian, French, English, Greek, and Turkish so he could communicate with international vendors in his trade. He was in France because of he was no longer allowed in his home country. “And if I go back, I’m dead,” he said. “The government doesn’t allow dissenters.”
Everyone waiting in that line had a story. Some were from former French colonies, applying for French citizenship. Some were renewing a visa to allow them to stay in France. Some were begging the government to be allowed to stay. And some, like me, are blessed beyond words.
I waited until 8:30, till I could no longer feel my toes and my ears, and I had money in my wallet that wanted to be spent on a hot cup of coffee in a warm café nearby. I had only waited for thirty or forty minutes – certainly not three hours like some of the others. I’ll get up early another day and put on a second pair of socks and another sweater. After all, I have till January to get my visa, so I can wait. And even then, I’m sure I could get by better than the others waiting in line.
Because I’m American, and the world belongs to me. Or something.
If there is one thing that I despise about France, it is dealing with anything bureaucratic. To put it lightly, they are slow and inefficient with any sort of paperwork. And that is putting it lightly.
One of the requirements of my stay in France is that I obtain a carte de séjour, a long-term visa that allows me to stay in the country for a period longer than six months (which kinda stinks for me because I’m only staying 7 months, but oh well). I must go to the Prefecture to get this done, and it is usually a long and grueling process.
The initial problem comes because there are only 30 tickets granted per day for “foreigners” (read: anyone outside of the EU) and the office is only open Monday to Thursday, from 9-12. Since there are a surprising amount of non-European citizens living in Perpignan (most of which come from Morocco, Algeria, or Tunisia), there are always many people who need to go to the Prefecture each day. The lines are long and filled with people from every corner of the world: the Americas, Asia, Africa, and “Arabia” as the French call it.
I have now been to the Prefecture five times – only once with success. Every other time, I have waited and waited and waited, only to find out that the 30 tickets have already been used up, and that I’ll have to come back another day.
The problem comes on days like today, when the air is so biting cold that even a few minutes outside is hazardous. I bundled up and arrived early, around 7:50 (remember that it opens at 9 am), only to find an already long, long line of people. I saw elderly women in winter coats and felt hats sniffling and coughing in the cold wind. I saw shivering young mothers taking their scarves off to wrap yet another layer around their babies. A woman in front of me told me in French that she was worried about being outside for so long. We were all cold and waiting for the doors to open. Outrageous.
The woman in front of me said that there were people waiting in line who had been there since 6 am. They had already been waiting for two hours in the cold, and had another hour to go! “They can’t do this to us,” she told me, and pulled out a Kleenex. “It isn’t right. We’re all going to get sick or worse.”
I knew that I was already too late to get one of the 30 tickets, but I decided to wait anyway – just in case I got a chance. I hung around and talked to a man next to me who said he was Persian. He told me an incredible story about being in the Air Force in his home country and being kicked out for “dissenting” from the state religion (“more of a philosophy than a religion,” he told me). He then asked if I was a political refugee, and I said no, that I am a language assistant from the States. “Then what are you doing here?” He asked me. “You’re American; the world belongs to you.”
He then continued his story: how he was an interior decorator – an artist, really – and fluent in Persian, French, English, Greek, and Turkish so he could communicate with international vendors in his trade. He was in France because of he was no longer allowed in his home country. “And if I go back, I’m dead,” he said. “The government doesn’t allow dissenters.”
Everyone waiting in that line had a story. Some were from former French colonies, applying for French citizenship. Some were renewing a visa to allow them to stay in France. Some were begging the government to be allowed to stay. And some, like me, are blessed beyond words.
I waited until 8:30, till I could no longer feel my toes and my ears, and I had money in my wallet that wanted to be spent on a hot cup of coffee in a warm café nearby. I had only waited for thirty or forty minutes – certainly not three hours like some of the others. I’ll get up early another day and put on a second pair of socks and another sweater. After all, I have till January to get my visa, so I can wait. And even then, I’m sure I could get by better than the others waiting in line.
Because I’m American, and the world belongs to me. Or something.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
New Videos! New Pictures soon to come!
I have added several new videos to my You Tube page. Go check them out!
http://www.youtube.com/user/leenielouwho
At http://www.flickr.com my user name is sarah.gallup
I have more pictures to add, but I will get to those later. As always, you may email me directly if you'd like a copy of anything or if you'd like me to address something in particular in my blogs: sgallup@pacificu.edu
http://www.youtube.com/user/leenielouwho
At http://www.flickr.com my user name is sarah.gallup
I have more pictures to add, but I will get to those later. As always, you may email me directly if you'd like a copy of anything or if you'd like me to address something in particular in my blogs: sgallup@pacificu.edu
By Request: A Day in the Life of Lycée Aristide Maillol
A view of the Pyrenees from my school.
Apparently, the fame of my blog has been spreading, and it’s being translated into 19 different languages (just kidding). But, by my readers’ request, here is an insight into the more pedagogical aspects of my time abroad. And here, I thought you all just wanted to know the differences between the American and French versions of McDonald’s. Seriously, what kind of Americans are you?
To respond to one of my earlier posts about peer pressure in France, I must say that there is (of course) more than that one difference between American and French students. For starters, the French education system is nearly impossible to understand. Instead of the basic four-year, get all your requirements out of the way, and play sports on the side mentality that we have in the States, for French students, school is genuinely hard work – much like the American university system. They must choose their “track,” whether it is “S” (Sciences), “ES” (Economics, Business, and Social Sciences), or “L” (Language, Literature, Humanities).
From there, they spend their four years working towards the difficult Baccalauréat (the BAC) exam that is a week-long intensive exam of every subject they have taken. Yikes. Some fail and have to re-take their senior year (called a “belle année,” or beautiful year…heh). If they pass that exam, they have several choices: a) leaving school and getting a job; b) going to the university; c) staying at the high school and getting their BTS degree (not really sure what an American equivalent would be – it’s higher than an AA/AS degree, but…different somehow); d) staying at the high school and working towards entering the Grandes Ecoles (we don’t have an equivalent, but it’s a specialized school for certain subjects that was started by Napoleon).
The students I am teaching are the equivalent of high school sophomores, juniors, seniors, and I do have some of the BTS students who have already passed the BAC. They are students from all tracks; some are studying science, many are studying business, and (sadly) few are studying in the humanities.
In a typical class session, I take half of a regular class. I’ll have anywhere between six and sixteen rambunctious high school kids for about 45 minutes. Luckily, I don’t have to grade anything that they produce, so my job is just to have fun with them and get them speaking English.
For the older students who are working towards the BAC, I am more serious. I’ll bring in documents similar to what they will have on their exam at the end of the year, and we work with it just as they will for the test. Not as much fun, but they are serious students and take it seriously.
For the younger students, I typically share cultural aspects with them. Since, like most teenagers, they love music, I’ll bring in lyrics to songs. We’ll go through the lyrics line-by-line so that they understand what is going on, and then I play the song at the end. They really like that activity.
Other times, I’ll bring in fun news articles I find. I found one on a soup kitchen that opened for dogs in Germany, and we read that as a class and discussed it. I think they had fun talking about how silly a soup kitchen for dogs was during a time of financial difficulty. Each class that worked with that article spent the hour with crinkled up foreheads, and saying “Je ne comprends pas…” (I just don’t understand).
One of my favorite activities began as an impromptu idea. I have pictures with me of Oregon and the Pacific Northwest, so I handed out a picture to each student with the instruction not to let anyone else see it. They then had five minutes or so to write sentences describing the picture. Then, when they were finished, they stood up and read their sentences one by one. After each sentence, the class had to draw what was said. We’d then share our pictures (I’m a lousy artist, which makes them feel better) and laugh and giggle. It turns out to be a lot of fun!
So that’s a brief idea of what I have been doing in the classroom and the history that the students bring to each class session. They are really a fun set of kids, but they have an incredible responsibility regarding their studies that is hard for Americans to understand. Suffice it to say that I’m glad I didn’t have to go through it, and I applaud them for the diligent work they do every day.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
The Elections...à la française
In the time that I have been in France, obviously the most important subject matter has been today's elections. Everyone I have met has asked me my opinion, and who I think will win (as if I have some supernatural ability to discern the future). That question is usually answered by me with another question: "You mean, who do I WANT to win?"
I've also heard students, from middle school to high school, discuss the elections in their classes. Some of their ideas of today's elections, as well as American politics in general, have made me giggle. Some excerpts from what I have heard (complete with French pronunciation). My apologies to any of my students who might be reading:
"The job of the president of the US is hard. The president is in charge of the Army, Navy, and Hair Force."
"I take 270 electoral votes to be elected president."
Me: In which country does a person need to be born to be President of the USA?"
Student: Washington, D.C.?
Me: No. In which country?
Student: Virginia?
Me: *sigh*
"I don't know anything about John McCain, but that's okay. Obama will win anyway. But it doesn't matter. Nothing will change anyway."
And my favorite: "PAS DE FRITES DE MCCAIN! PAS DE FRITES DE MCCAIN!!" (No McCain Fries, No McCain Fries!) = apparently, there is a brand of French fries in Europe called "McCain." Match that with the whole "Freedom Fries" thing, and...yeah. Oy.
I've also heard students, from middle school to high school, discuss the elections in their classes. Some of their ideas of today's elections, as well as American politics in general, have made me giggle. Some excerpts from what I have heard (complete with French pronunciation). My apologies to any of my students who might be reading:
"The job of the president of the US is hard. The president is in charge of the Army, Navy, and Hair Force."
"I take 270 electoral votes to be elected president."
Me: In which country does a person need to be born to be President of the USA?"
Student: Washington, D.C.?
Me: No. In which country?
Student: Virginia?
Me: *sigh*
"I don't know anything about John McCain, but that's okay. Obama will win anyway. But it doesn't matter. Nothing will change anyway."
And my favorite: "PAS DE FRITES DE MCCAIN! PAS DE FRITES DE MCCAIN!!" (No McCain Fries, No McCain Fries!) = apparently, there is a brand of French fries in Europe called "McCain." Match that with the whole "Freedom Fries" thing, and...yeah. Oy.
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