that end of term feeling

I always struggle at this time of year. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy it - I just find it difficult.

No one feels like doing any work - the holidays are mere days away. Half the class are already taking an early vacation and the course has been covered. The kids that are still here have just been watching DVDs all day and crave mental stimulation -- time for Mr C's 20 things you can do with scrabble.

Number 20 in 2o things you can do with scrabble is actually play scrabble itself. I leave it until last because it's always a little depressing when the teacher gets beaten by a twelve year old.

its marching season in london

I was covering an English class today. The pupils had been reading Buddy by Nigel Hinton.

It's a story about a boy who blames himself when his mother leaves home. His dad starts getting into trouble and things go from bad to worse.

Despite being pretty much a staple text wherever I've taught I've never managed to teach a class long enough to cover it from start to finish.

I'm not even sure where it's set. I just assumed London.

Anyway the class were drawing images from the novel. One particular pupil drew the house on Croxley Street where the action happens. Clearly wherever the book is set, judging by the painted kerbs, it's a loyalist area.

rainbows and sunsets

Kylie over at eclectrica writes about her stalker rainbows, how she felt they were there for her personal enjoyment. I feel the same about my sunsets. Every one of them unique, every one of them beautiful. Every one of them there just for me.

There's something about the awesome power of creation to blow our minds that... um... blows my mind. When I see the ugly sides of the human condition I often notice the vastness, complexity and beauty of the world around me and it never ceases to amaze me.

sectarianism to racism in three easy steps

I have rarely felt such extremes in my pride/shame of being Northern Irish as I have done in the past few days. In the space of a few hours I have felt horror that overt racism has become reared its ugly head in my province, relief that it was immediately condemned roundly by large numbers of press and public alike, then shame when the backlash happened and a series of bitter voices were heard on radio phone ins and news reports claiming that “they should go back where they came from”, “coming here and taking our benefits”, “they shouldn’t be here, that’s all I have to say on the matter,” “stealing our jobs while our own teenagers are struggling to find anything to do.”

For those who don’t watch Northern Irish news I should offer a quick spot of exposition. Last week over one hundred Romanian nationals fled their homes in Belfast after being attacked and intimidated by locals. The particular area of Belfast is known as the village. It’s a working class loyalist area popular with migrants attracted by the cheap housing. Racist incidents have been occurring there for years but this particular episode and some other high profile attacks have brought it to the national media attention.

And this one has had more of an impact on me than any that came before. While the petty squabbling and small minded ranting was going on in the big city, far from me and those I know, I was able to pretend I couldn’t hear it – persuade myself that I was living in a much more tolerant society than we had seen before. But this time it’s bit a lot closer to the bone – I know one of the Romanians involved, and I am terrified for her.

This particular girl is an ethnic Roma – a group that have been persecuted throughout Europe, and beyond. She is no stranger to abuse. I don’t think I’ve come face to face with anyone who has put up with as many hardships as she has in her life, and come up smiling again and again. So the fact that the collective nerve of her community has snapped and they are so scared they feel they have to sleep on a Church floor for safety… well, it takes a lot for that to happen.

I was speaking to her only a day before this all happened. She was in good spirits, as usual. She was always very positive about her situation and thankful to the “friendly” locals who had helped her settle in. I was always surprised by her attitude. I have been with her when people have ignored her, glared at her, hurled insults at her from across the street. I’ve seen it – and yet she didn’t seem to. She seemed to take it all as some of the challenges we face in this life that lead to blessings in the next. Her faith leads her to believe that anything that happens now is only temporary and as such can be endured. But more than that – she believes that through suffering come opportunities for blessing. She talks occasionally of times when the Police have stopped her when she was selling papers on the street to check her credentials. She smiles as she recalls the members of the public – strangers – who came to her side to make sure she was alright and accuse the officers of harassing her. This unexpected support, though rare, has more effect than a thousand dirty stares.

But I still cannot understand the anger people feel towards her. There is a lot of dangerous ignorance shading the public perception of this girl and her community. Far from “stealing our benefits,” this girl works two jobs to help support her family – neither of which the locals would belittle themselves doing. She lives in a grossly overcrowded house with no housing benefit. She wears clothes that she bought in a charity shop while standing in the rain earning money to pay for her baby sister’s shoes. She gets no benefits. It is a horrible irony that most of the people complaining about these immigrants actually receive far more government aid than the people they are complaining about. In fact, through the work they do and the rent they pay a lot of Roma contribute more to society than a lot of their neighbours.

A few weeks ago in Church the minister preached on Matthew 6:

Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? … Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; and yet I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these… But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.

And my mind turned towards my friend. Her faith is sufficient for her. So sure is she that God will provide that she can ignore the madness going on around her. She makes do with the little she receives, safe in the knowledge that she will enjoy riches in heaven. And in that way I find her inspirational. She is happy with enough. How many of us can truly say the same. We are actively ordered not to worry – we are told here and in other passages that what we need will be provided and that what we want isn’t always what we need. I always took that with the qualification that, obviously, God wanted me to have what I wanted and that a little excess was part of the deal – everyone needs a bit of luxury in their lives, no? As the minister pointed out that Sunday how many times have we opened the fridge door, looked in at the shelves full of food and said “there’s nothing here to eat.” switched on the TV, flicked through the hundreds of channels, and said “there’s nothing on.” Looked in our wardrobes (bulging with clothes) and said “I have nothing to wear.” Excess has become complacency has become vulgar dissatisfaction. That isn’t a problem those Romanians have.

And though my friend showed little worry herself – I feel worry for her now. I don’t know where she is now. I have no idea whether she will remain in this country or leave for somewhere less threatening. Part of me wants them to go somewhere they can be safe – but I would hate for the racists to achieve their goal. Some reports have branded Belfast the race hate capital of Europe. That is a horrendous reputation to have – and actually far from accurate - but I can understand why people would say it.
I work in a school where in several hundred pupils there are no black kids, no eastern Europeans, no Hispanics. The cultural diversity is made up of about four Asians and a white American. It has been a similar story wherever I have taught. These kids have never faced other cultures; the closest they ever came was meeting people of a different religious denomination – and look how that turned out. When I asked my pupils their opinion of the Romanians I was literally shocked by some of the comments they came out with.

As I type this two teenagers are facing court, charged with ‘provocation likely to cause a breach of the peace’ and intimidation. They have admitted to involvement but claim it was the first time they have ever done anything like it. If found guilty it will be a small victory for sanity – but will it do anything to change the opinions of those (including many of my pupils) who still believe that immigrants are stealing our homes, our jobs and our society. The court case will do nothing to remove the fear, the paranoia, the ignorance that led to decades of sectarianism in our country and now threatens to manifest itself as racism.



Update (tues 23 June): This morning I heard that the majority of the Roma have decided to leave. Twenty five have already left; seventy five would be leaving asap. Fourteen have decided to stay. I am happy for them and I hope they find peace somewhere. I am sad for our society. We have a long way to go before our Christian actions reflect our Christian preaching
The Church where the Romanians sought sanctuary initially has been vandalised (three twenty year olds have been arrested for that attack) and several people (many teens) have been arrested on race related charges.

I now see a reason to like twitter

A Daily Mail poll which recorded 93 per cent of respondents as in favour of gypsies ‘jumping the NHS queue’ appears to have been removed from its website.
The vote, which yesterday provoked a Twitter campaign urging people to back the rights of gypsies in access to healthcare, was a huge embarrassment for the right-wing paper.

Anything which embarrasses Richard Littlejohn can't be a bad thing. After all he's been embarrassing the country with his small minded little britain mentality for years.

In his article Richard Littlejohn complained that the ’diversity' industry was taking “sadistic pleasure in persecuting the taxpaying majority”.

Littlejohn complained that “gipsies will be allocated a full 20 minutes with a doctor and allowed to bring their extended family into the waiting room”.
In the article he repeatedly ridiculed travellers who face limited opportunities right across Europe, in work, education and with regard to their health needs.
“One of the most striking aspects of the 'mobile community'” he said “is that they tend not to go anywhere - except flying to Florida on holiday twice a year”.

It pains me to think that there are people out there who agree with this man - but it joys me to see that there are a whole lot more who don't.

I still think microblogging is a flash fad which we won't remember a thing about this time next year - but thanks Twitter.

behind us the ocean

I have been terribly remiss in not posting this a long time ago. As many of you are aware I am a huge fan of the poetry of Katia Grubisic. The fact that she is a dear, dear friend is a huge bonus but it doesn't alter the fact that I am blown away by her poetic voice.
This is, as far as I know, the second of her poems to be featured on the Canadian Parliamentary Poet Laureate's website - It's been there for about a year and I've been meaning to post a link to it for about a year, but my good-intention-paved-road is well worn. Anyway, read and enjoy.


Behind Us the Ocean
by Katia Grubisic

Imagine arms you never want to get out of; imagine
a road that rises up to meet you and knows
exactly where you’re set to

before it comes. At the start of the highway, behind us the cliff
and the ocean’s creeping furor,
we photographed the mile marker of atlassed places.

Cardiff or Liverpool? you asked. On the sign the mermaid
laughed and we could not help
but follow. Now I can smell you

coming back, the trace in the shirt I wrap around
each same wavering time of night.
Is it a ploy to keep me

going? Meanwhile we never visited the local saint;
he still waits in his cave to slap us upside the head, wise
guy witness to my misplaced faith in a letter

posted from the mouth
of the river. I'll just put man in a car
possibly with troubled eyes, somewhere

between Cardiff and Liverpool. It is night I'll put
and they’ll find you. Would you believe
that, meticulously, fate would have someone else

at that junction, bizarrely suntanned arms
typing in the darkness? There is a typewriter
at the corner and I have been looking.

I can smell thunder beginning. You were there
when I dervished slow-mo in my wedding dress;
you saw me iridescent

like a street in the rain’s silence. Again the mermaid laughs;
we are drowning in it, her upside-down peals of lightning
and thunder that pass, but only diffusely,

into a misspelled late-nite coffee shop someplace
in the southwest. Where for?
Make your car comfortable, I say, take another

notion. Outside it is written
bikers welcome. Nope, we’re here
for the diffusion. I wouldn't worry too much; I accept as true

all kinds of things I shouldn't, you say. When I leave
I take the still-white sheet from the typewriter,
with its carbon and square familiar letters;

I take it all. Off we wander
across our respective suspension bridge
sat opposite ends of the world. Light stabs

through. Our shadows together on the rock face
indicate we are with each other. We are trespassing.
We have not decided for certain. Will we

recognise ourselves? Wear a fake yellow rose,
a mink stole. I will know you. The letters blow off, catch fire
on the way and one more time

the mermaid laughs. The storm has started, I type.
Possibly stormless, I put; in need of wrack
and calm, and you’ll be found. It has started. Enjoy your storm.

________________________________________
© Katia Grubisic.

what do you see?

What do you see when you look at this photo? A car? A particularly clean and shiny car that has been meticulously polished? A car so clean that even the tyres sparkle?

What do I see when I look at this photo? And what do I see when I look at my alphabetised DVDs, and my colour coded post-it stocks, and my overly sharpened pencils?
What do I see?
I see that I have a huge pile of exams papers to mark, of grades to collate, of reports to write; and the king of procrastination is sitting on his throne.

someone shut him up!

Is there anyone out there who likes hearing their own voice. Stupid question really - I know about fifty teenagers who seem to love nothing more than the sound of their own voices - but you know what I mean. How do you feel when you listen to your own voice mail message, or hear a recording of a speech or reading that you performed? I have a feeling that I am not alone when I say that I hate hearing the nasal mumble that comes from my mouth. It bears no resemblance to the voice in my head. The voice in my head is clear, coherent and free of any accent or blemish. The voice in my head is that of an orator, a confident leader of men... I hate the sound of my voice.

So it is with sad resignation that I report my discovery that it is not just the sound of my spoken voice that makes me cringe - my written voice is just as bad.

On two separate occasions comments I made in this blog have found themselves in the Guardian. Firstly some lines I wrote about Steve Irwin were quoted in their print edition the day after his death back in 2006. Then, a few days ago I became "Fellow 'tweechers' have responded angrily..." and "But one teacher-blogger counters..." in an article written by Jackie Kemp for the education section of their online edition, guardian.co.uk. The article 'Teachers banned from Twitter after indiscreet tweet - Council imposes ban after teacher's comments cause outrage in rural community' was about the teacher being investigated for using twitter during school hours in Scotland. I wrote an entry about it a couple of weeks ago.

As I read my quotes I was struck by a single thought - "I sound like a complete idiot." In my attempt to appear witty and clever I came across as anything but. As I read Kemp's article I felt my face turn red and I had a sudden desire to crawl into a corner and hide.

On the plus side she doesn't identify me (good for two reasons. a. Education chiefs won't track me down and put me in front of Joe McCarthy and the House Committee on Un-Educational Activities. and b. No one would attribute the crazed comments to me... well, until I drew your attention to them anyway) and she corrected my lack of commas - thanks Jackie.

one of the joys of a rural school

The school car park during the exams -- in my day a battered up 1979 chevette was enough to get you respect. Now it seems nothing more than tractor will do.

But what confuses me is the New Holland with the silage trailer on the back. Did they take a break to pop in and do a quick GCSE or two before getting back to carting silage? Surely they wouldn't have time...