Nostalgia

Today I found myself away from my usual classroom, for a day off-timetable. Instead of teaching, I met with the parents of my tutor group to discuss their progress in ten minute appointments. As my English teaching room was otherwise engaged, I was stationed in a technology workshop to hold these meetings. Chatting to adults balanced on plastic stools was a somewhat surreal experience, but by far the most unusual thing about today was the sense of nostalgia I felt.

You would think, having worked in several schools now, that I would have overcome the feeling of 'being back at school'. In fact, I don't recall even experiencing it when I arrived at my first teaching placement. Oddly, it was the smell of sawdust, the sound of band-saws and the sight of desk-clamps which brought my school days flooding back.

I remembered the toucan puppet I made, with its moving wings; the trowel I carefully moulded in metalwork and how smooth my wooden CD rack felt after what seemed like months of filing and sanding. I found myself telling the kids how surprised they will be when they look back in what will seem like a matter of weeks and realise they have left school long behind. Some, like me, will undoubtedly return, unable to wholly separate themselves from the subjects they love. Most will be left with a tangle of memories, only to be washed back by the smell of sawdust.

Empathy

 ¿lǝǝɟ noʎ ǝʞɐɯ ʇı pıp ʍoɥ ˙ʎllɐɹnʇɐu ǝɯoɔ ʇ,upıp ʇɐɥʇ ɥʇıʍ pǝlƃƃnɹʇs noʎ ƃuıɥʇǝɯos - ʇɹoɟɟǝ lɐǝɹ ɐ sɐʍ ʇı 'ʇı pǝƃɐuɐɯ ʎllɐnʇuǝʌǝ ǝʌɐɥ noʎ ɟı ɹo ¿ʇ,uplnoɔ ʎldɯıs noʎ punoɟ puɐ ƃuıɥʇǝɯos pɐǝɹ oʇ pǝıɹʇ ɹǝʌǝ noʎ ǝʌɐɥ

woH tuoba siht? I naem ti SI hsilgnE. uoY nac daer hsilgnE. sihT tsum eb ysae, thgir? woH wols era uoy?! ylsuoireS - t'nera uoy enod tey. enoyrevE esle si ydaerla dehsinif.


.annoyed little a get to beginning you're bet I'll ?Lost ?Inadequate ?stupid little A ?now right feeling you are How ?you for easier Any .one this try Let's.

How about this? It's in English - give it a go...

Frustrating - isn't it?

I - along with many people, I'm sure - take for granted the fact that I can read pretty efficiently in my own language. Reading is an act I love and cherish. I have always been a prolific reader and it is my adoration of curling up with a good book to escape into someone else's world that has led me down most of my chosen paths in life. Books guided me through childhood and my school years; literature led me through A-levels in English and History to a degree which encompassed both; stories of far away places inspired me to travel and my love of language, communication and storytelling is the reason I wanted to become a teacher.

Today I had ten minutes with a young boy that simultaneously broke my heart and reminded me of why I love to do what I do.

This particular boy - let's call him J - is 11 years old and he cannot read. Not in the way you and I say we can read. He can make out simple words. The. It. You. Me. He gets confused between.is.as.and.at. This string of letters on the page - n.i.g.h.t - makes no sense to him.

Today I thought I was going to have fireworks with J. I don't teach him for English - he is a member of my tutor group - and he walked into the ten minutes I get with him after lunch like a bear with a sore head.

I haven't seen J for a while at tutor time. On a good day he gets internally isolated before lunchtime (usually for refusing to do what someone has asked and swearing at them). On a good day. On a bad day he will kick off so badly that he is temporarily excluded from school. So when J made it through to tutor time today, I knew that would have taken most of his energy and he probably didn't have much patience left. He stormed into the room, slammed his bag down and scowled at me.

Silent reading day.

In fairness, it took a bribe to get him to fetch a book: 'There are sweets in the cupboard with your name on. But you don't get them unless you follow every one of my instructions.' He thought about it. And then he fetched a book. And then he started reading the words aloud to me. Word by painful word he struggled and struggled through a paragraph until the ten minutes were up. He didn't slam the book down. He didn't refuse to carry on. He didn't give up.

He earned his Haribo. And my respect. If I couldn't read any of the work anyone put in front of me for seven hours a day, I'd be kicking off and swearing too.

Brightening my day today...

I consider myself fortunate to work as a teacher in a wonderful school which is surrounded by trees and greenery. One of the benefits  is being able to spot an array of wildlife from my classroom window. Today’s blessing came in the form of a cottontail bunny, resurfacing after the snow and frost, to spring about giddily once the children had left for the day. This put me in mind of a childhood favourite – Peter Rabbit – and brought back many happy memories of snuggling under the duvet with my edition of Beatrix Potter’s collected tales. 

‘I am sorry to say that Peter was not very well during the evening.   His mother put him to bed, and made some camomile tea; and she gave a dose of it to Peter! 'One table-spoonful to be taken at bed-time.’

Very wise advice indeed!

I still have my copy of the tales, although it is now rather battered and worn. It remains tucked away, in the hopes that if I have children of my own, they too will enjoy its magic.