On Friday, my university students had to read an essay about squirrels. After class, one of my Chinese students told me that he had never seen a squirrel before he arrived in Britain a few weeks ago. He then asked me if squirrels are a type of monkey.
I know it’s not nice to laugh at students, but I just couldn’t help it. Monkeys! In England! Imagine that.
Tonight I am marking a huge pile of essays. The university is paying me £5 per essay. Given the quality of these essays and how long it’ll take me to mark them, that equals about 70p per hour. Ka-CHING!
The students must submit a paper and electronic version of their essay. They submit one electronically so we can run it through a database that scans millions of websites and online sources to check it for plagiarism. But I heard a rumor that the students know about this not-so-secret weapon and in their quest to stay one step ahead, have actually taken a step backwards and are now copying out of good old-fashioned books at the library. Yes, real books with dusty pages. So you see, technology is grand…but books are better. Books never let you down.
Today during lunch, a teacher came into the staffroom and exclaimed: “Don’t go outside! There are freaks everywhere! They’ve got magic wands and pointy hats.”
She was referring to the Harry Potter fans who had taken up residence outside Waterstone’s bookshop nearby in Piccadilly. They’ve been camped out for a few days and are waiting to be among the first to buy the new book tonight at midnight.
[Click below to see more of the photos I took outside the bookshop -- as if I could resist this freakshow.]
The mere mention of Harry Potter was greeted with groans amongst the teachers I work with.
“F–k Harry Potter!” this hilarious Scottish guy said. “I hope the little sh*t dies.”
“Yeah, but I want him to commit suicide,” another guy said.
“How?”
“He gets in the car, right. He runs a hose from the back and then –”
“Asphyxiation. I see what you mean, but that’s not painful enough.”
“Then what?”
“Guillotine.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s the only way we could be sure he’s dead.”
Gee, I’m gonna miss working with those guys.
[BTW -- It was my last day teaching at the language school. It was also the last day for many of my students, who are heading back to Taiwan tomorrow. They gave me presents and a few of the boys gave me cards with messages inside that said, "I'll miss you forever," and "It's a big world, so we are lucky to meet each other." If it weren't so cute...it'd be a tad creepy.]
In the lavatories, there are signs on all the walls — translated into 15 languages, from Polish to Arabic — that say:
“Please do not throw dirty toilet paper on the floor.”
Lovely. Tomorrow is my last day there. I’m movin’ on up to the university. It’s been quite an experience teaching at the language school every single day, in a cramped building on Oxford Street, with dirty toilets (ahem) and no air con — which means I get to teach in a steambath of a classroom with lots of smelly teenage boys. Today I didn’t have any water to drink and taught for three hours straight. And right in the middle of a vocab lesson I almost fainted. No joke. It’s sorta like the educational equivalent of a sweatshop. But I still had fun.
Today I just had to take a few photos. The students make signs with tips for each other and hang them up all over the school. Click below to see two from my classroom.
Today a guy from Moldova joined my class. [Where the hell?] He immediately began to complain that he can’t understand my American accent. Whoa! He can’t understand me? Little ol’ me?
Hmph!
He wanted a new teacher and I was only too happy to get rid of him. After the course ended I took him to my boss’s office and she agreed to let him join another class…that just happens to be taught by an Australian.
Ha ha! Good luck, mate.
Today during the last hour of class, my boss observed my teaching. I hate being observed! I get so nervous. To make matters worse, the students can always tell something’s up. A 50-year-old man with a clipboard sitting in a group of teens usually stands out. At the last school I taught (when I was doing my certificate), the students would always try to terrorize me during observation. There was a French guy, Maxence, who would ask me very complicated grammar questions just to be evil. Stuff like that. I expected similar tricks today. You know, someone asking me to spell out tarantula in the phonemic script (which I don’t have memorized and don’t understand very well).
Well, my students certainly acted differently. They were much more quiet and studious. No chatting with their friends, no giggling in response to questions. In short, they were little angels. “Yes Teacher!” they’d say, or “Thank you Teacher!” Freaked. Me. Out.
I hate to generalize, but from my experience, the Asian and South American teens I teach are much more respectful than the Euro-brats I taught before. The teen boys in my class from Taiwan bow every time I hand them something. One of them gave me a gift! For some reason, I can’t imagine an American or British sixteen year-old-boy doing this.
Anyway, I should probably bring a treat to thank them for not ruining my life. Last Friday I brought Jaffa Cakes. Maybe something Cadbury this week. You know…British junk food. All part of their education.
The teaching is going well. I mentioned before that until my university job starts later this month, I am teaching at a language school here in London. There are tons of language schools in London and across the UK. Throughout the year — but mostly in the summer — they are packed with students from around the world who want to learn English. There are so many students in summer that although I just received my CELTA certificate in May, I had three schools that wanted to hire me for the whole summer. It’s so nice to be in demand!
I started on Monday, teaching a three-hour lesson in the mornings. Next week I might also teach afternoons. This is a huge language school, with more than 40 teachers. I’ve really enjoyed meeting them, though they all assume I’m Canadian and refer to me as “the girl with the exotic name.” Yesterday in the staffroom I chatted with two guys about books. Real books, not crap like Harry Potter. Who knew there were still people interested in books?
[Just as an aside, I was browsing some bookshops on Charing Cross Road with a friend yesterday. I told her I hope Harry Potter dies in the soon-to-be-released last installment. Because I do hope the little bastard dies and then the world will be rid of him. But I don't want him to die a quick death -- I'd prefer some sort of horrific terminal illness. Anyway, my friend hit me with her umbrella.]
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