matching tracksuits

Back straight, chest out, shoulders square, hands folded behind the back. Greetings, warm but firm, as everyone comes in.

The Speech, highlights:

I will treat you as an adult, which means that I will respect you and speak respectfully to you. When I speak to you, I will not simply bark an order, but I will speak politely. I use “please” and “thank you.” Most importantly, it means when you speak to me, I give you my full attention. I expect the same. Is that clear? Does everyone understand?

A quick survey shows that some indeed are not listening. Time for the sergeant act.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I asked you a question, and when I ask you a question, you will answer it. When I speak to you, you will listen.”

It’s the best drill sergeant voice I can muster, and I deliver the words in a loud and firm voice.

Silence.

“Do you understand?”

Heads nod, a few “Yes sirs.” A hand up. “Were you in the military, sir?”

Sometimes it’s amazing how well I can act the role.

It can be a look — eyebrows furrowed and mouth slightly askew, or the opposite: eyebrows raised with eyes opened Bambi wide. It can be a sound — smacking licks, a gasp of exasperation. It can be body language — a staunch refusal to look someone in the eyes, shoulders turned perpendicular to another’s body, a tapping pencil. It can probably be even a smell — pheromones released, but undetected by the blunt human nose.

There must be a thousand ways of telling someone, “I don’t want your help, and I think you’re a fool for offering it” without uttering a single word.

At some point we all need help, so the theory goes. But there are a few stalwart individuals who would rather drown than take a proffered hand. There are a few who will refuse swimming lessons even as they stand on the ever-vertical deck of a sinking ship, not take a parachute in a spiraling plane.

“We give help to everyone in the world! When do they help us!? We help bail out this and that country, send aid here and there, notably saved and re-built Europe in WWII. What do we get for our efforts? Hatred.”

Thus complained someone once about how hated America — saintly, in this person’s view — is in the world. Poor us.What do we do when we do get that help?

Hundreds of tons of British food aid shipped to America for starving Hurricane Katrina survivors is to be burned

US red tape is stopping it from reaching hungry evacuees. (commondreams.org)

That’s right — we burn it.

(Thanks to “Chhavi”:http://chhavisachdev.com/blog for this.)

Je ne parle pas français bien. Je me rappelle très peu de ce que j’ai appris dans

l’université. En fait, j’ai écrit ceci en anglais et je l’ai traduit aux poissons de Babel. Cela explique la

bêtise de ce texte.

I don’t speak French well. I remember very little of what I learned in college. In

fact, I wrote that in English and I translated it at Babel Fish. That explains the silliness of this

text.

Not speaking French didn’t stop me from being a French teacher for the day today. Fortunately, I

had two bocks of first year French and only one block of third year. Even more fortunately, the planning

period fell between the third year and first year blocks, so I had plenty of time to do a bit of

cramming.

Oh, for a real Babel Fish, though. Think of the problems that might solve — instant

intelligibility. Think of all the translators and comparative literature scholars out of work.

Teaching

something while not being entirely sure that you’re teaching it correctly is a little like the Engine that

Could — I think this is right, I think this is right.

A few tips for those embarking on teaching a

foreign language you barely remember:

* When in doubt about translation, be honest — “I don’t

know.”
* When in doubt about grammar, be honest — “I don’t know.”
* When in doubt about spelling, be

honest — “I don’t know.”
* When in doubt about pronunciation, mumble.

And thank the maker for an

assembly that cuts half an hour off your last lesson.

Je ne parle pas français bien. Je me rappelle très peu de ce que j’ai appris dans l’université. En fait, j’ai écrit ceci en anglais et je l’ai traduit aux poissons de Babel. Cela explique la bêtise de ce texte.

I don’t speak French well. I remember very little of what I learned in college. In fact, I wrote that in English and I translated it at Babel Fish. That explains the silliness of this text.

Not speaking French didn’t stop me from being a French teacher for the day today. Fortunately, I had two bocks of first year French and only one block of third year. Even more fortunately, the planning period fell between the third year and first year blocks, so I had plenty of time to do a bit of cramming.

Oh, for a real Babel Fish, though. Think of the problems that might solve � instant intelligibility. Think of all the translators and comparative literature scholars out of work.

Teaching something while not being entirely sure that you’re teaching it correctly is a little like the Engine that Could � I think this is right, I think this is right.

A few tips for those embarking on teaching a foreign language you barely remember:

• When in doubt about translation, be honest � “I don’t know.”�
• When in doubt about grammar, be honest � “I don’t know.”�
• When in doubt about spelling, be honest � “I don’t know.”�
• When in doubt about pronunciation, mumble.

And thank the maker for an assembly that cuts half an hour off your last lesson.

“I’ve been sifting through the layers” since this weekend. I’ve thrown away large chunks of my past that I never thought I’d part with. I’ve seen a Gary I had forgotten about, whom I almost didn’t recognize.

Kinga and I spent the weekend at my folks’ place, and I spent some time Sunday going through things that have been packed up for ten years, things I’d saved throughout my adolescence and my parents dragged from house to house as they were house-hopping the last few years. It was all stored in the giant blue plastic storage boxes you see towering above the isles in K-Mart and Wal-Mart — all the Marts, I guess.

Amazing how treasure can turn to trash with the passage of time. In the end, I emptied almost three whole boxes, throwing out everything from old letters to college papers and most everything in between.

Most of what remained was toys from my childhood, things that my mother had saved long after I’d wanted to toss them out. “Fine,” I laughed Sunday. “You’re responsible for storing them, then!”

What was shocking was the number of letters I’d saved. When I was growing up, I had a friend who, after answer a letter, would throw it away. Me, I’d stash it in a box especially for that.

“Why? You’re not going to read it again,” my friend exclaimed.

“I might!” I never did, but it always seemed sacrilegious to throw out something as personal and intimate as a letter. A private, lasting conversation with me, and no one else — how _could_ anyone toss that out?

Very easily, I discovered Sunday.

Also among the treasure and trash was an old notebook that I carried about during college, scribbling random thoughts here and there — a sort of portable journal, for I’ve always kept that on the computer. To flip through it for the first time in probably nine years was to look at myself more directly than I’ve done in a long time. Random thoughts inspired by bumper stickers and books, quotes, silly attempts at being witty, sillier attempts at being deep — it’s all in there:

* I blow moisture from my mouth and nose at 200+ mph and receive a benediction for my efforts.
* Ollie North lost his bid for Virginia Senator, restoring some of my hopes that we are an intelligent species.
* “God is my co-pilot.” Bonhoeffer would hate that. God should be the pilot, not co-pilot. “Co-“ means shared control.
* Perhaps we should spay and neuter some humans.
* If reality bites, can I get rabies from it?
* A poorly organized protest is more likely to appear as a temper-tantrum than a legitimate protest.
* All new cars are beginning to look the same.

One entry in particular was striking, for it took up a few lines and a few moments to write it, but ended up affecting nine years of my life. Indeed, the rest of my life:

bq. I am sending away for information about the Peace Corps. It would be a huge commitment, but I think it would teach me a lot, more than could be learned around here… (Wednesday 20 July 1994)

I ended up staying three and a half times as long as the two year minimum. I met my wife there. I found a second home.

Being bilingual can really be a troublesome affair when trying to teach English — if your student’s L1^1^ is different than your L2. !/images/48.jpg!

Today, while subbing, I worked with a student of Latin origins who spoke very limited English. I speak even more limited Spanish, though I’ve decided I _must_ learn that language. At any rate, I found that while working with her it was a constant and very conscious struggle not to lapse into Polish. “She doesn’t understand what you’re saying,” a voice was screaming in my head, “So use another language.”

Unfortunately, Polish was not terribly helpful.

p(margin-top). The world of ESL is frightful in some ways. The responsibility is enormous.

As an EFL teacher, I was teaching a _foreign_ language, which means it’s not going to be used that often. It’s not often going to be the basis of all other learning. And teaching English as a foreign language also affects the skills stressed. My primary goal for my students was verbal communication. Writing is important, but not nearly as important as speaking.

I confess, then, that I probably didn’t spend enough time with my students working on writing, until the national testing standards changed and forced my hand.

ESL is an entirely different animal. The goal is simple: get students’ English up to a level where they use it as their primary language for instruction. Think about it: it’s re-wiring a house, re-pouring a foundation. No, wrong analogy. It’s adding a second set of wires to a house, putting a foundation within a foundation.

And what do students do in the meantime? If they have limited English, how do they learn science? The idea solution is bilingual education, with L1 gradually being phased out. But the ideal is often just that.

fn1. “L1″ means “Language 1″ — the first language we learn. In my case, English. “L2″ means — well, you can figure it out.

Zawsze bede tutaj tylko emigrantem. Nie wazne czy legalnym czy nielegalnym zawsze bede sie czula emigrantem i bede sie identyfikowac ze wszystkimi Polakami, Meksykanami i wszystkimi, ktorzy przyjezdzaja tutaj w poszukiwaniu lepszego zycia. Coraz czesciej slysze jak Amerykanie traktuja i co sadza o nielegalnych emigrantach i przykre to jest ale jak na razie widze, ze opinia o nich jest jak o Cyganach w Polsce. Tutaj gdzie mieszkamy jest bardzo duzo Meksykanow, na pewno w duzej mierze sa tutaj nielegalnie a wszystko co zle w miescie to nielegalni emigranci z Meksyku. Wszelkie utrudnienia w biurach, kradzieze i rozboje to na pewno Meksykanie, taka panuje powszechna opinia (to tak jak w Nowym Targu Cyganie – wszystko co zle to oni).

Amerykanie z duzym lekcewazeniem wypowiadaja sie na temat nielegalnych emigrantow tutaj ale nie zdaja sobie sprawy, ze to oni wykonuja tutaj najgorsze roboty. Albo zdaja sobie sprawe ale wydaje im sie, ze taki jest porzadek rzeczy i dalej narzekaja na nielegalnych. Jak mijamy jakies roboty drogowe tutaj to 90% robotnikow to Meksykanie. Ale to jeszcze nic, w ostatnim “Przekroju” jest wstrzasajacy artykol o Polakach, ktorzy pracowali przy oczyszczaniu “strefy zero” w Nowym Jorku po 11 wrzesnia 2001 r. Okazuje sie ze ogromne ilosci azbestu, ktore tam unosily sie w powietrzu i ktore ci robotnicy wdychali teraz daja o sobie znac i ludzie ci umieraja jeden za drugim doprowadzajac wczesniej siebie i swoje rodziny do bankructwa, gdyz bezlitosny system zdrowia w Stanach blyskawicznie oproznia ich kieszenie. I Mozna sie teraz pytac kto pozwolil im tam pracowac bez odpowiednich zabezpieczen i dlaczego teraz nikt im nie pomoze ale jakie to ma znaczenie oni juz poswiecili swoje zycie dla Ameryki z bardzo praktycznych pobudek. Teraz nikt tego nie bedzie nawet pamietal bo o takich rzeczach sie tutaj nie mowi, nie brzmia zbyt dobrze i zle swiadcza o tym “wspanialym” kraju. “www.przekroj.pl”:http://www.przekroj.pl/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=391&Itemid=49r Z drugiej strony sa jednak ludzie, ktorzy znajduja tutaj swoj raj. Wczoraj poznalismy kobiete, ktora przyjechala tutaj z Izraea. Ona stwierdzila, ze pan Bog sie pomylil, ze kraj mlekiem i miodem plynacy to wlasnie Ameryka i ze ona sama jeszcze w zyciu nie czula sie tak bezpiecznie. Tutaj odnalazla swoje szczescie.

Trudno sie dziwic, ze ktos kto przyjezdza z Izraela ma wlasnie takie odczucia. Prawda jest jednak taka, ze te kobiete sprowadzil tutaj pewin amerykanski, dobrze sytuowany biznesmen i on ja tutaj utzymuje. Przez ostani rok nie musiala pracowac, przyzwyczajala sie do nowego srodowiska, teraz zaczyna myslec o powrocie do pracy. To na razie pierwszy tego typu przypadek emigranta w Stanach jaki znam. Przwaznie ich poczatki sa nieco trudniejsze, i momo, ze jest duzo latwiej niz w miejscu z ktorego przyjezdzaja to tez jest im ciezko.

Why is it that whenever I’m playing bridge and everyone says, “This is my last hand,” and runs off right after the cards are dealt, I get “a hand like this one”:/images/47.jpg?

What do you say to a student when he says to you aggressively, “You don’t have to get up in my face like that!”? How do you respond when in fact all you were doing was trying to be “reasonable” and explain why you were calling him down in the first place, and doing it by squatting down to be at eye-level with him, talking to him like a man? Is this blatant disrespect, or something else?

I’m not even sure I know what it means to be “in someone’s face about something.” I’m assuming that it means the chest to chest, strutting peacock type of testosterone-laden behavior I saw myself as a student many times. Of course I wasn’t doing that when students said those lovely words to me, so what’s going on?

An invasion of someone’s personal space is the only explanation I can come up with. In trying to be respectful — and I do believe teachers should be as respectful to their students as they expect their students to be to them — it seems I crossed an unknown, unseen boundary and caused offense. Or perhaps he was just testing me, seeing what he could get by with?