Americana

In honor of Thanksgiving last Thursday, we had a little American adventure for P.E. last week. Usually I go for the soothing, non-contact options when I'm teaching P.E.- especially since my experience with 'Chase the Teacher' with KG1 in my first year. Mistake. Involved a lot of blood and nurse's visits. We frequently partake of yoga, hula hooping, obstacle races and the like. Last week I thought I'd give something a little more traditional a try. So, though my hand-eye coordination ranks alongside that of a blindfolded penguin and my own gym class experiences range from mildly traumatic to soul excoriating levels, I thought I might try a little sporting action with the boys while the girls were at swimming.

Considering I have twenty boys in my class, I thought baseball would be the perfect sport to try. This also considers that baseball is the only sport I understand the rules of and don't overly fear resulting traumatic spinal injuries in children.

[After they have 'warmed up' by walking, marching, skipping, and tiptoeing around the cushioned play area]

Me: Today I will teach you a new game. It's very fun and it's a game we play in my country.
[Excited glances and whispers dart up and down the line]
Me: Who knows what baseball is? Has anyone seen baseball on TV? Have you heard of baseball?
[Two or three hands go up, tentatively. Probably the same hands that would go up if I asked, 'Who knows who is the Prime Minister of Kyrgyzstan?']
Me: Ok. Who knows cricket? (Immediately 12 hands shoot up) Good. It's like cricket! I will show you.

Honestly, once they had the cricket reference, I barely needed to show them anything. (Probably better really). Mark my words, MLB, I have discovered an ore of untapped baseball talent. Dodgers short on fielders? Head to Karachi. Cubs need pitchers? Look into Colombo's classrooms. These kids had serious talent. Beaned it out of the enclosed areas and had the ball knocking off KG2 doors all around us. Every time. I figured I'd have to let them hit four or five times each....most of them hit the ball on the second swing. They loved it and can't wait to play next week at P.E. now; as one little one told me,
"Thish baysheball berry nishe!!!"

From the mouths of babes.

Happy Thanksgiving

This year, I'm thankful for many things. Old friends and family, new opportunities, work, the internet, and Turkish Air. Finding the local parade online was the highlight of many turkey-less Thanksgivings abroad. (Chicken is a sup-par substitute). We did have dinner with all the other trimmings, even cranberry sauce (though sadly not the kind with the ridges of the can on it- which we all know is the best kind). It was still Ocean Spray though! Just in a jar.

Enjoyable though Dubai is, I am itching to get home at Christmas. Three years is just too many Christmases to miss. So, Turkish, thank you. When December 16th rolls around I'll be sitting in Ataturk, which is like the most expensive airport in the world, for a seven hour layover without a single care. I woke up on Friday and found an online Christmas station and played it the instant I woke up (and I'm not one of those people). Point being, I'll be spreading Christmas cheer loud and clear for all to hear -isn't that how that goes?- this year. 

At work things are going....well, they're going. Challenges continue to abound. Namely that I got a new student added to the roster; one who speaks neither Arabic nor English (nor French nor Tamil nor Urdu nor Mandarin nor any other language spoken by a child in my class) AND who has never set foot in a school before.  *Sigh* He IS trying, and in all fairness to him, very hard. But at the end of the day he struggles to comprehend the most basic of directions. 

Me: Please sit. Sit. In your chair. Chair. [points fruitlessly to chair] Please. Sit. 

Him: *Cocks his head quizzically* 

Me: [Sigh and start to mime. Again.] Sit, chair, sit. Stand, up, stand. Sit. Stand. Sit. Stand. Sit. Stand. 

Him: Ahhhhhh! Seeet! St-staand? Staaaand. Seeeet. 

Me: GOOD! Yes! Sit! Sit. Thank you.

Note to self: While learning this, keep him away from the boy who has a speech impediment so he doesn't run home saying "Sh*t! Chair! Sh*t! Sh*t."   

I know he is trying SO hard and I honestly can't imagine how sad and frustrated and exhausted he has to be at the end of the day. (Well, I kind of know about the exhausted part). I have to keep reminding myself of this so I don't lose it with him, or the rest of them when the class devolves into chaos as I try to help him get a grasp on these most basic of things while the rest of them try to solve subtraction problems. I know he'll get there in time, I just wish there was something I could do to tell him that and make it easier for him.

The other kids are trying to be friends with him and it's adorable and slightly heartbreaking. The day before he came to school I decided to give them a little warning. Mostly for his own sake actually so they wouldn't run up to him and start poking him like some specimen in their fascination:

Me: Now class, tomorrow we are going to have a new friend in our class! We must be very nice to him and help him learn because he is coming from another country and he won't be able to speak to any of us. Yes?

Student 1: Miss, where he from? He speak Arabic? 

Me: No, he doesn't speak Arabic. He doesn't speak English either. Or French. He might be sad because he won't understand us so we must be very nice and help him.Yes?

Student 2: What he speak? He speak Iran? 

Me: No, he's not from Iran. He doesn't speak Farsi. [Briefly wonder how this child who IS from Iran doesn't know the name of his own language] The important thing is that we help our new friend learn just like we did when we first started in school before, right? We will show him good ways to behave and how to do everything in class. 

Student 3: [Disregards raising his hand in total shock] MISS! You mean he know NOTHING? How he know NOTHING?!

Needless to say, this conversation did not go according to plan but it seems they took the message to heart anyway. His name is unfamiliar to most of them, so I will spontaneously hear, "MISS! Our new friend needs help!" or "MISS! Our new friend is standing!" or "Miss Matrisha (yes, a child genuinely calls me that and no, no amount of persuasion that my name is PA-tricia is  dissuading him) our new friend already take his lunch!" 

I spotted 'our new friend' at playtime wandering with one of the boys whose own English is negligible speaking and gesticulating with abandon, then the other boy did the same. I would love to know what both of them were talking about/thought they were talking about because neither one can communicate with me, much less each other. 

Entertained as always. 

Back to School- Part 3

There's good, bad and ugly of our new home in Dubai.

Here's how it is:

97% humidity. In 110 degree heat. Serious. Imagine how sexy my hair looks these days.

Our apartment has a gas oven. Every time I cook images of Sylvia Plath rise up unbidden. Anyone who knows me can only guess how my stove checking has increased tenfold.

My saintly patience and extra effort with Mr. One Hundred the Nudist from last year has been rewarded by the universe with the special class this year. Little to no English.
Right now we're at
Me: "Now. Class. Open. Your. Books. Open. Your. Books. OPEN. Your. Books." [Supplemented by repeated mimetic instructions.]
Students: *Crickets and blank stares*
Don't even ask about when it's time for, "Now. Let's. Turn. To. Page. 29. Page. 29. Page. 2. 9. Page. 29."

Which is one thing. It's another when I'm expected to be ON PACE with the curriculum (which requires fluency and literacy- something most of these kids lack in any language) by mid-year. At this point, I have more success as a mime. Give me strength. At least there is no sociopathic biting nudist this year.

Besides the gas oven our apartment is fantastic. All new, with new furnishings and appliances. And a flat screen TV. Shiny. AND our kitchen has a marble island (love). The bedroom closets are huge, which is great, but covered with floor to ceiling windows, which is weird. Huge bonus- almost all six of them are mine.

There's tons to do in Dubai, everything is more accessible, the beaches are gorgeous and practically free, and we filled up the tank of our car for 13.00. Thirty gallons for thirteen dollars. Amazing. 

Chapter 1

So it's been a busy month, yet again. April and the beginning of May have seen concerts come and go, a new job gotten, and a few chapter titles for the book that begs to be written out of this experience. 

Concerts were great this year, loved being able to get past the nursery rhymes into real songs this year. We sang Let's Go Fly a Kite, Surfin' in the USA (complete with swim caps and goggles), and I had them doing a yoga demonstration for the parents. They rocked the yoga, even if the parents were clueless and it was something different for them anyway. I wanted to go with Colors of the Wind for our song, but I thought that might be a little toooo crunchy. So great success anyway, no tears at all and no dramatic crises of children being pushed off the stage or bared backsides (yes, really, you will understand why this pleased me shortly). 

And I got a new job in Dubai for next year, so I'm really looking forward to moving out there.

Now, on to the novel. A few people have mentioned that this would make great reading, and considering the zillion absurdities I encounter on the daily I'm starting to agree. 

Chapter 1: Bare Ass Bandits

*9:20 am. Standing in the window of my class watching them settle after snack. Notice one boy adjusting his pants. Think nothing of it. Open door.*

Twenty seven voices: "MISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!! When you are gone Mohammed* remove his pants! Mohammed shake his butt! Mohammed show off his BUTT! He remove his pants AND underwear."

Stunned silence on my part. I turn to the substitute lunchtime teacher, (a brand new, innocent, shining girl whose dreams of teaching were probably shattered by the last month in my classroom) and much as she can see in my eyes that I'm willing this to be an exaggeration, she leans forward and whispers, "Miss, I'm sorry but it's true. Mohammed removed his pants and underwear and was showing off his butt. I'm sorry but I can't control him." *Sigh* Sweetheart, welcome to the club. These days he crawls around the room on his hands and knees grabbing girls' ankles under the desks while they're trying to work. Or spinning around on his back singing to himself. He hasn't opened a workbook in weeks. Or sat in a chair really. (It's possible that his father is a deaf mute based upon his reaction to information like this, i.e. to stare at a fixed point over my left shoulder. Come to think, he could be blind as well considering I have never seen his eyes, as in almost nine months he has not yet deigned to remove his Ray Bans, indoors, in my presence.)

Effff. How do I even deal with this? First of all, if he took off everything, his butt was not the only thing he was showing off. This boy is almost six years old. He clearly wants attention, so I don't want to give that to him in abundance. But at the same time, he is exposing himself in the middle of the room at snack and I certainly don't want a five-year-old-nudist epidemic on my hands in this country.  So I can't ignore it. I also can't help verbalizing my inner monologue at this point, "What's thisssss? Mohammed. What's this? Why are you doing this? Do you know, this is haram! What would mama and baba say?" Funnily enough, I think we both know the answer to that question is that they would say nothing. Which is why things like this are happening. The internal continuation was filled with more colorful invectives and many variations of the plea, "What, please, WHAT did I ever do to deserve this? What could possibly be worth this much karmic punishment?"

Did I mention this is the day of the concert? *Sigh*

Stay tuned for more tales of Fahad the Fondler, Talal the Toilet-Face-Shover and don't forget Chapter 2: YOU LIE!.

Fourmoreweeksfourmoreweeksfourmoreweeksfourmoreweeksfourmoreweeksfourmoreweeksfourmoreweeksfourmoreweeksfourmoreweeksfourmoreweeksfourmoreweeks

April Fool's

Today I told the kids about April Fool's Day. They didn't understand it at first, but then once they got they embraced it and ran away with it.

Me: "In my country, today we tell jokes to each other. We trick each other. It's called April Fool's Day."
(Twenty five hands in the air)
"Miss!! In your hair you have two snakes!!"
"Miss!! On your face you have a spider!"
"Miss!! Under your desk there are five elephants!"
"Miss!! You dropped something from your bag."
"Miss!! I forgot my book today."

HAHAHAHAHA MISS! No Miss! We joke at you!!! April Fool!

Any help?

Well I know it's been quite some time since I've blogged but it's been an overwhelming few months in the classroom.

There's a boy in my class who I'm pretty sure has undiagnosed special needs. He's already been in school for two years before this and now we're in the third term and he can't read, write, do sums with numbers higher than 5, or count higher than 15. He struggles to even complete handwriting worksheets now. He can only baby talk, and his Arabic is the same. He's not progressing in the same way or even the same direction as the other kids and even though I know I haven't studied child development in depth, I can tell there's something going on. He just doesn't have the capability that the other kids have for the work load, but the curriculum isn't designed for special needs kids. Special needs don't exist here. And now because he isn't able to do the same work at the same level as the other kids (which is basically what the curriculum requires and his parents want), his behavior is out of control.

On a good day, he just lays on the floor under the desk. Usually backwards over the seat of the chair, but sometimes on the floor under two desks. He meows, makes siren noises, shouts "one hundred!" over and over again for the whole day. And even though I don't want to put him out of the classroom, he's not learning, he's preventing the other kids from hearing, and he's making me want to tear out my hair.

On a bad day, he runs around the classroom holding pencils, waving his lunchbox, pushing kids in the bathroom, hitting one of the eight-month-pregnant assistant teachers in her stomach, trying to escape the school grounds, smacking kids in the face with rulers, and kicking and biting me.

His parents keep saying, "We don't like to yell at him." It's not yelling he needs, it's help. Help that I can't give him. I don't even know where to start, because I don't know the underlying issue. And trying to figure out what that could be has been like trying to use webMD to discover the cause of a mysterious elbow pain. You come away thinking you have either an invisible bruise or joint cancer.
I've had everyone from other teachers, administrators, friends tell me to just ignore him. To put him out of the classroom. Now of course when he's violent, this is what happens. But since this is everyone else's attitude, I feel like who is going to help him if I don't.

Here's a kid who needs to be in the wading pool and this class has pushed him into the deep end without so much as floaties. I know I have a responsibility to the other 28 kids in the pool too, but that doesn't mean I want to watch him drown either.

His behavior has been in a downward spiral since Christmas, which is where my head's been at since. I've tried rewards, praise, stickers, being more forceful, modifying assignments by making them shorter, asking him to only answer 2 or 3 questions instead of 10, to only finish one page, anything I could think of I've tried. He's upset and frustrated too. I'm running out of ideas and not much is working. The only thing I've come across is that he likes Science class because it's hands on, so I bribe him with an extra science when the rest of the kids are doing writing or reading comprehension activities in the afternoons.

Any help?

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas (and National Day)

For those of you who didn't know I'm going to Ireland for Christmas- in 3 days! To be honest, I can't wait to get out of Doha for a little while. I like it here but I'm in a festive mood and Doha's Christmas celebrations leave much to be desired. Even my students asked me last week, "Miss, we will decorate for Christmas in the class??" Sadly, no small ones. Papa Noel is not allowed, even though 75 % of them have told me about their Christmas parties/invited me to them/want to decorate. I think we'll make some Frosty's next week- he's nice and non religious. I am a little nervous for the whole meet-the-extended-Irish-family-including-thirty four aunts and uncles-a hundred and forty-seven cousins-grandparents-whole village-Christmas celebrations but I'm sure I'll survive without too many psychic scars.

One thing Doha does do festively though is National Day. If you recall my post from last year, you will remember that glitter, cars with children protruding from rooftops, enormous national flags, and impromptu street dancing are all involved. National Day is today- and last night Blaine and I walked along the Corniche Road and fortunately saw all of these things again. I have lots of pictures -Here's a few and I'll put the rest on Facebook if you're interested. It's such a strange display- it's a lot like the Fourth of July (my favorite holiday) except on speed because everyone is loaded and gas only costs a nickel anyway.




Reason number 527 I need a vacation:
"Misssssss!Iloveyoutoomuch!CanIgotothetoilet?!YouknowmyfatherisinAffffffffrica?!"
"Omar! Do you know why you're on the sad face list?"
"For talking, Miss!"
"That's right, Omar. So what do you think you should do?"
"Stop talking, Miss!"
"That's right, Omar."
"Okay. Okay, Miss."
[Twenty five seconds later]
"Missssssssssss! I love you toooo much! CanIgotothetoilet?IcanNOTwait!"

Every. Day.