My Summer Intensives were announced to me half way through July. You might wonder why all my blogs are so far behind the actual date, but I promise to catch up and begin to update more often with more dull and yet informative posts that actually give some semblance of an insight into teaching. But this is not the time.
The new manager has told me I need to see him for training on my summer intensive classes and for a guide to the syllabus. I have been given two classes per week extra, teaching "Newspaper Writing" for three hours per class.
So my manger (the one with the face of a young boy playing pranks on his school mates) comes wandering into my class room to prepare me and give me the materials for this nightmarish new schedule. Apparently I teach them the subject for an hour or so, for 45 minutes they read the materials and in the final hour they make a newspaper article on the subject.
He hands me a piece of paper and says "Here is your syllabus".
I see. The "syllabus" consists of literally one or two words per lesson.
Lesson One: History.
I look up at him. Ah I see, this little whipper snapper is playing one of his pranks. The cheeky little rascal; any minute now he will shake my hand with one of those joke shop buzzers that gives you a shock, or offer me chewing gum that turns my lips blue. I smile at him. "Ah good, so where is the material?"
My manager pauses and says "That's it, we want you to make up the class, find the materials, use your own teaching style, not company ones, your own style"
I wait for the punchline. Oh right it's not a joke.
Well here is the problem boss, I'm not a qualified teacher remember? That's why you can pay me a pittance compared to the other teachers who have taught before or even expressed an interest in nurturing the minds of children.
Remember me? No experience, no teaching qualifications, not even an enthusiastic interview.
What the fuck do you mean use my "style"? My "style" is lounging around my apartment in boxer shorts drinking beer and watching football. Shall I teach the kids in my underwear and get them wasted? My "style" is illegally downloading copyrighted material and listening to violent, misogynistic rap music. How's that for lesson two?
I shake my head and skim through this bulimic syllabus. Lesson Six: Ivy Leagues.
Me: "Erm...I don't know much about Ivy Leagues, what do you want me to talk about for over an hour?"
Foetus/Manager: "Just talk about how big they are in American culture, how much we hear about their importance in the US media, about parents hopes for their kids etc, anything."
Right, there appears to have been a misunderstanding. You want me to talk about a range of experiences and attitudes prevalent in America? That's lovely. Except I'm not from America am I, you infant faced imbecile?
I'm BRITISH. Do you see a cowboy hat perched upon my noble brow? Is there a star spangled banner tie around my cultured neck? NO. Because I'm fucking British.
I know nothing of your Ivy Leagues you oik. Do I sound American? Do I look American? Well? Look at me! I'm wearing a top hat and a monocle. Damn your eyes man, you're sat only 3 feet away from me. As you walked through the door I was pouring myself a cup of tea and as I sit here now I'm preparing crumpets.
What the hell is wrong with you?
He seems perplexed by my issues surrounding Ivy Leagues, but tells me to do my best. I will. Only my best is going to be some of the worst teaching that the continent of Asia has ever been subjected to.
I might make up a pretend league table of different types of Ivy and get the kids to rate them in a series of match ups. So Common Ivy or Himalayan Ivy which is the best? No Kim Jae Yong, Boston Ivy is actually a member of the grape family and not a true Ivy, that's an F for you.
I make my way home to sulk, strip to my underwear and download a film in my own special teaching style.
My dear Monkey Roberts
ReplyDeleteAs I sit here with my cucumber sandwiches, made with thin white pappy bread with the crust removed, and my mug of bovril, I feel for you - I really do.
Perhaps if you had been to an Ivy league school you would know how to give out inane instructions as well? Get your own back and ask about the heritage of the Footlights at Oxbridge. That would stump them.
Poison ivy was always my favourite. I think she patrolled a theme park somewhere from my dim and distant past - or maybe was a superhero. I wish I could remember ... or even care.
Actually, I have been diligently waiting now for another picture of a sandcastle, but .... nothing from you at all - you little tease.