Usually before school we have a little snack. On most days for breakfasts, we have ham and margarine sandwiches with strawberry tea. We rarely have: cream of wheat with brown sugar and really sweet hot chocolate, peanut butter sandwiches with strawberry tea, and salami and margarine sandwiches.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Sophie’s Blog: The First Day Of School
On the first day of school, Mama woke us up at 6:00 a.m., and drove us to Szulok. Children were holding the door for us as we walked in. Victor, one of the teachers, ran a “What’s your name” game in the school’s tiny gym. After that, we went to our first class. For me, the first class was Hungarian reading, and I was given a Hungarian dictionary which I tried to learn new words from, as the rest of the class read out of a work book. The next class was German, which I really enjoyed. When I had gym, we played dodge ball, and because I’m not very good at ball sports, and people kept throwing the ball at me, the ball touched me first. At about 12:15, one of the teachers called us in with two other boys to have lunch before the 1:00 bus came. The lunch was soup and a second course I can’t remember. The teacher (I don’t know how to spell her name) took us to the bus stop and got on the bus with us. Then we went home and had a snack.
Maisie's Blog: The first week of school
The first day of school was great. It was really fun, except we missed jim for a wile but then we started having it. But it wasn’t very fun. And my teacher speacks a little english.
The bus story. So. I’ve lost two teeth since being here. One was on the bus to school. It’s not a school bus. It’s a city bus, except we’re not in a city. We’re in the country. We catch the bus at 6:54 am, and we usually come home at 1:15. But next week, we’ll stay until 2:00 so we can go to Hungarian dancing at school and not leave before it’s over. My tooth story. Well, my tongue made my tooth go up here, and the bottom was right here, and then, I heard it fall onto the floor or something, but then I saw it, and I picked it up.
Listening to Deer
On Friday night, Zoe, Gabor and Kata took Sophie and I to the Golden Fields to listen to the deer bleating at sunset. Even Zoe was quiet as we passed by tobacco fields and edged through the thickets and looked out into the long, flat pastures towards a small herd, one buck shouting his dominance towards the west and south while another shouted back from somewhere else, and another.
We also saw and harvested a few otherworldly mushrooms. "I'm a mushroom hunter!" Kata said.
We left beneath a blood-orange moon, sheets of fog rolling in from the edge of the fields.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Dublin
Last Thursday's itinerary looked like this:
8:00, interview at the local radio station.
8:55, teach 12k Nyelv 2 and get filmed teaching for TV.
9:40, TV interview.
9:55, show up slightly late to teach 12b Angol.
12:30, teach 11a Angol.
1:45, teach 9k Angol.
2:30, run out of school, get picked up by Lackó.
3:30, arrive at Franky's house in Kaposvár, thank Lackó for the ride.
3:50, leave for Budapest.
6:50, meet Emily at the Budapest airport.
7:30, board a plane.
10:00, arrive in Dublin.
11:00, get to the hotel.
12:00, explore, eat, listen to music, drink, dance.
3:00, return to hotel.
4:00, quiet down, as directed.
5:00, sleep.
The three of us were off to Dublin for Franky's 30th birthday party, where we would revel in the outrageous affability of the Irish, the vigor and cheer of their city, and, how dearly I'm not sure, the unguarded comfort of a familiar language.
Everywhere we went, at any time of morning or night, people were accommodating, unreserved and helpful. The city was beautiful in its own right (though nothing to Budapest) and bookstores and cultural resources many; but for us, the greatest joys in Dublin were its people and its triumphantly rebellious heart.
Pictures below won't reflect this, but here are specific notables: One, miniskirt culture. Every other woman rocked a micro-skirt. Two, drinking infrastructure. At 2:30 or 3:00 when pubs close, streets around Temple Bar flood with vehicles in a regular rush hour: and every single one of those vehicles is a taxi. Bathrooms are also readily available and free at any time.
Our hotel was just off the heart of the city overlooking the Liffey River. We crossed the river in the mornings on the Seán O'Casey walking bridge.
From the westhand view of the bridge, we could see the Custom House, pictured at left. From the right and east, we had this almost ridiculous geometrical sight of the Samuel Beckett bridge, some huge ferris wheel-looking industrial mill in the background, and a dead schooner.
One of the things we observed walking around was that consideration of others, already so obvious in the people we met, extended to the very street signs governing behavior. Whereas most signs I know are terse rebukes and orders, Dublin signs were gentle and fully articulated.
One of the draws of Dublin was being able to celebrate Franky's big three-oh with the MGMT concert. Franky loves and breathes music -- knows it, does it, and follows it, anywhere in the world. In this case, a New York band.
The venue was incredible. It was lavish and baroque, with red and gold threaded everywhere. It was also shockingly small -- when the set was finally over and everyone left, the standing floor below the balconies and box seats turned out to be very slight.
And it was thrilling to be at a rock concert after so long. You can click on this link for a playable setlist of the Dublin concert. Most of the pictures below, by the way, I stole from Emily's Facebook page. Thank you, Emily!
8:00, interview at the local radio station.
8:55, teach 12k Nyelv 2 and get filmed teaching for TV.
9:40, TV interview.
9:55, show up slightly late to teach 12b Angol.
12:30, teach 11a Angol.
1:45, teach 9k Angol.
2:30, run out of school, get picked up by Lackó.
3:30, arrive at Franky's house in Kaposvár, thank Lackó for the ride.
3:50, leave for Budapest.
6:50, meet Emily at the Budapest airport.
7:30, board a plane.
10:00, arrive in Dublin.
11:00, get to the hotel.
12:00, explore, eat, listen to music, drink, dance.
3:00, return to hotel.
4:00, quiet down, as directed.
5:00, sleep.
The three of us were off to Dublin for Franky's 30th birthday party, where we would revel in the outrageous affability of the Irish, the vigor and cheer of their city, and, how dearly I'm not sure, the unguarded comfort of a familiar language.
Everywhere we went, at any time of morning or night, people were accommodating, unreserved and helpful. The city was beautiful in its own right (though nothing to Budapest) and bookstores and cultural resources many; but for us, the greatest joys in Dublin were its people and its triumphantly rebellious heart.
Pictures below won't reflect this, but here are specific notables: One, miniskirt culture. Every other woman rocked a micro-skirt. Two, drinking infrastructure. At 2:30 or 3:00 when pubs close, streets around Temple Bar flood with vehicles in a regular rush hour: and every single one of those vehicles is a taxi. Bathrooms are also readily available and free at any time.
Our hotel was just off the heart of the city overlooking the Liffey River. We crossed the river in the mornings on the Seán O'Casey walking bridge.
From the westhand view of the bridge, we could see the Custom House, pictured at left. From the right and east, we had this almost ridiculous geometrical sight of the Samuel Beckett bridge, some huge ferris wheel-looking industrial mill in the background, and a dead schooner.
 |
| Grafton Street |
One of the things we observed walking around was that consideration of others, already so obvious in the people we met, extended to the very street signs governing behavior. Whereas most signs I know are terse rebukes and orders, Dublin signs were gentle and fully articulated.
While I was admiring the well-mannered poop signs, Franky was enamored of a tweed shop, and we were all a little in love with one of its owners, pictured below.
We also visited more traditional tourist sites, such as the Dublin Castle, the Christ Church Cathedral, Trinity College, and the Kilmainham Gaol, pictured below in order.
In addition to seeing these places, we were able to spend some time with cousins of Emily's. They served as guides, friends, and an up-close corroboration of the intelligence and kindness we seemed to encounter everywhere.
While there is much to describe, including the full-roomed singing of "Sweet Caroline" on the third floor of a pub at two in the morning, or the incredible art we freely encountered in museums around the city, or the five pounds of battered fish and potatoes we each bought and ate in the rain, or how much I love dancing and how much and how late I was able to do it, I will come to a close with a focus on two specific events: a rock concert and a science exhibit.
One of the draws of Dublin was being able to celebrate Franky's big three-oh with the MGMT concert. Franky loves and breathes music -- knows it, does it, and follows it, anywhere in the world. In this case, a New York band.
The venue was incredible. It was lavish and baroque, with red and gold threaded everywhere. It was also shockingly small -- when the set was finally over and everyone left, the standing floor below the balconies and box seats turned out to be very slight.
And it was thrilling to be at a rock concert after so long. You can click on this link for a playable setlist of the Dublin concert. Most of the pictures below, by the way, I stole from Emily's Facebook page. Thank you, Emily!
The science exhibit, meanwhile, is a running museum at Trinity College. In this case, the exhibit is called "Biorhythms," and it is an interactive exhibit that explores the relationship between sound and emotion. We were cocooned in insulated sound bags, remixed in shouting chambers, monitored through galvanic skin response during "Kol Nidre," played with sound modulation on a crazy touch screen, and we left that place knowing that the world was a fantastical and stupefyingly magnificent place.
On the last day, the streets were thick with the red coats and umbrellas of Gaelic football fans, going to support county teams in the finals. The red left me green.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
First teaching week
It has been a big journey here already. Sometimes I am not aware of the fact that I am in a foreign land, but mostly the surreal feeling is a hard one to shake. This is why, for example, going into a store and walking out without having anyone explain themselves in disgust can be so satisfying.
Teaching in a new school with new classes in a school culture whose most fundamental rules and habits I don't anticipate, feel or inhabit, surrounded by a language I don't know and tune out, instructing in a subject for which I've had no training or experience, collaborating with colleagues who carry twice the load and shouldering therefore a guilty and insistent desire to make good, together with reluctance to overwhelm myself further, have made for an exhausting beginning, and one difficult to track in writing here.
I am teaching 14 lessons (16 the first week with subbing responsibilities) for 45 minutes each, which is about 8-12 lessons fewer than other teachers. Eleven of these lessons are with eleventh and twelfth grade groups I see once a week; three are with ninth graders in the Marketing program. The groups are small, between 8 and 12 students; and until one of the teachers returns from England with another set of students, I have about 135 students.
My role, as defined by the principal and vice principal, is to expose students to plenty of English conversation, as well as to American history and culture, while students' primary English teachers hammer out the textbook.
I was told that students would be reticent and quiet. On hétfő, my very first two classes were very much this way, especially the ninth grade students whom I would end up seeing every day, and I think my own fears and shyness just wired up the wigglies: I was dry, dry, dry. But I took to heart advice I'd received from several places, to be myself; and after learning to slow down a great deal, and gesticulate like a French mime, I ended up fully engaging the last two groups and having a good time myself. I also broke another recommended rule and spoke some Hungarian in the class, very bad Hungarian, hammed it up, in fact, which seemed to put students at their ease.
I believed the next day, kedd, went very well, including the ninth grade class that was a dud the day before; but it turns out I was in the midst of learning something very important. After hearing that the students were quiet and that hopefully the American would break the ice, I took out all the goofy in my bag and smashed the hell out of the ice. But while I was engaging and students were comprehending more and more willingly practicing English out loud in front of others, I wasn't necessarily teaching a language. Here's how I learned it:
The third day, szerda, I saw the ninth graders again, and by this point they were almost wild. They were like ninth graders I've ever met everywhere. One was outwardly defiant. Some had come late. And in the middle of this, I realized that my usual responses to bad behavior were worthless in a foreign land. I knew something about a student notebook that teachers were supposed to request and sign; but the ninth graders spoke almost no English at all, and I didn't know off the top of my head the Hungarian word for the book, let alone the Hungarian phrases I was supposed to use to communicate with parents there. I also knew I could write something in the form notebook, called the napló, kept in the faculty room downstairs, but I was already overwhelmed and making mistakes in permanent marker there. So big gestures and big humor might put students at ease, but I must call on far more to fulfill my role here.
On the fourth day, csütörtök, my approach was more balanced with the ninth graders. I felt better about this. But after four days I don't see much progress from the ninth grade students themselves. I've told the other teacher, Krisztina, that I want to use the textbook with these guys in close concert with what she's doing: their English and my knowledge about teaching language are both at such early stages that I think we both could really use the text to bridge the gap. This means that I will be hounding the other teachers of ninth grade Marketing group with very specific collaboration needs. But hopefully we will start seeing something out of these kids.
Some more general observations about my first teaching week are much more precious than these specifics, because as soon as I get used to the things that amazed me the first day, they're gone; yet these may be the most fascinating and important differences of all.
Students stand when I come into the room. Not only this, but students do not ignore teachers when walking through the halls, nor do teachers ignore students: whether we know each other or not, students halt their conversations, make eye contact, and say, "Jó napot kívánok," and I say the same thing. It's a breathless walk through the halls: I wish you a good day, I wish you a good day, I wish you a good day. Even when it's first thing in the morning and should be saying, "Jó reggelt" instead, I rarely hear good morning at school, because once at school, everyone's in the thick of a day. So if I'm going to walk the halls, I better get my jó napot on.
And students do rise when the teacher walks in the classroom. Between classes, teachers all go to the teacher's room, where all our desks are lined in rows, and we talk and scramble, drink water and run to the bathroom or for a smoke. Breaks are ten or fifteen minutes. When the late bell rings, we're in the faculty room together, and then we make our way up to whatever we have scheduled for that lesson that day. This means, all the students are in the room, and the transition to begin is the teacher's entry: students all rise; the teacher says, Good morning, or good afternoon, please be seated; and then the class can begin.
The napló system, where we must record our daily lessons in a book and track the sequence of the lesson and various attendance and behavior issues even when we're collaborating within that sequence with a couple other teachers who may or may not be up to date and the napló may or may not be in its cubby and every student group has a different napló and some lessons are with combined groups and so need to be recorded in separate naplós for single lessons and we must write in ink even when I'm always writing the wrong thing in the wrong spot because maybe it's angol, but also maybe it's Nyelv2 instead, and am I in the right napló because I thought I had 12 Gymnasium but I had 12 Water-Management instead, is a little baffling.
I have a lot to learn.
Teaching in a new school with new classes in a school culture whose most fundamental rules and habits I don't anticipate, feel or inhabit, surrounded by a language I don't know and tune out, instructing in a subject for which I've had no training or experience, collaborating with colleagues who carry twice the load and shouldering therefore a guilty and insistent desire to make good, together with reluctance to overwhelm myself further, have made for an exhausting beginning, and one difficult to track in writing here.
I am teaching 14 lessons (16 the first week with subbing responsibilities) for 45 minutes each, which is about 8-12 lessons fewer than other teachers. Eleven of these lessons are with eleventh and twelfth grade groups I see once a week; three are with ninth graders in the Marketing program. The groups are small, between 8 and 12 students; and until one of the teachers returns from England with another set of students, I have about 135 students.
My role, as defined by the principal and vice principal, is to expose students to plenty of English conversation, as well as to American history and culture, while students' primary English teachers hammer out the textbook.
I was told that students would be reticent and quiet. On hétfő, my very first two classes were very much this way, especially the ninth grade students whom I would end up seeing every day, and I think my own fears and shyness just wired up the wigglies: I was dry, dry, dry. But I took to heart advice I'd received from several places, to be myself; and after learning to slow down a great deal, and gesticulate like a French mime, I ended up fully engaging the last two groups and having a good time myself. I also broke another recommended rule and spoke some Hungarian in the class, very bad Hungarian, hammed it up, in fact, which seemed to put students at their ease.
I believed the next day, kedd, went very well, including the ninth grade class that was a dud the day before; but it turns out I was in the midst of learning something very important. After hearing that the students were quiet and that hopefully the American would break the ice, I took out all the goofy in my bag and smashed the hell out of the ice. But while I was engaging and students were comprehending more and more willingly practicing English out loud in front of others, I wasn't necessarily teaching a language. Here's how I learned it:
The third day, szerda, I saw the ninth graders again, and by this point they were almost wild. They were like ninth graders I've ever met everywhere. One was outwardly defiant. Some had come late. And in the middle of this, I realized that my usual responses to bad behavior were worthless in a foreign land. I knew something about a student notebook that teachers were supposed to request and sign; but the ninth graders spoke almost no English at all, and I didn't know off the top of my head the Hungarian word for the book, let alone the Hungarian phrases I was supposed to use to communicate with parents there. I also knew I could write something in the form notebook, called the napló, kept in the faculty room downstairs, but I was already overwhelmed and making mistakes in permanent marker there. So big gestures and big humor might put students at ease, but I must call on far more to fulfill my role here.
On the fourth day, csütörtök, my approach was more balanced with the ninth graders. I felt better about this. But after four days I don't see much progress from the ninth grade students themselves. I've told the other teacher, Krisztina, that I want to use the textbook with these guys in close concert with what she's doing: their English and my knowledge about teaching language are both at such early stages that I think we both could really use the text to bridge the gap. This means that I will be hounding the other teachers of ninth grade Marketing group with very specific collaboration needs. But hopefully we will start seeing something out of these kids.
Some more general observations about my first teaching week are much more precious than these specifics, because as soon as I get used to the things that amazed me the first day, they're gone; yet these may be the most fascinating and important differences of all.
Students stand when I come into the room. Not only this, but students do not ignore teachers when walking through the halls, nor do teachers ignore students: whether we know each other or not, students halt their conversations, make eye contact, and say, "Jó napot kívánok," and I say the same thing. It's a breathless walk through the halls: I wish you a good day, I wish you a good day, I wish you a good day. Even when it's first thing in the morning and should be saying, "Jó reggelt" instead, I rarely hear good morning at school, because once at school, everyone's in the thick of a day. So if I'm going to walk the halls, I better get my jó napot on.
And students do rise when the teacher walks in the classroom. Between classes, teachers all go to the teacher's room, where all our desks are lined in rows, and we talk and scramble, drink water and run to the bathroom or for a smoke. Breaks are ten or fifteen minutes. When the late bell rings, we're in the faculty room together, and then we make our way up to whatever we have scheduled for that lesson that day. This means, all the students are in the room, and the transition to begin is the teacher's entry: students all rise; the teacher says, Good morning, or good afternoon, please be seated; and then the class can begin.
 |
| Faculty Room |
I have a lot to learn.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)