9.7.08
nearing the end
My last weeks of work in the UK are now winding down. The days are long, but time seems to slip through my fingers. The idea of leaving here is, at this point, somewhat surreal. While I miss home and I want to go home, it is hard to imagine not being here. This is all part of my life now; it is not easy to imagine my days without all I have come to know in the last 9 months. I know that I should be looking forward to what comes next - but it is not easy to step with the left when the right foot is still in the air.
19.5.08
take-away
Why is it that when you are living away and you decide to go home you settle in more than you could before? And why is it that you have to miss home until you buy your return ticket and then you immediately miss where you are? I'd like to just take it all with me - every person, every experience, and every place I've grown to love... I'd like to wrap it all up in a blanket, and carry it home.
14.3.08
answers
I often spend time wondering if teaching is what I want to do, and sometimes I come up with an answer. I had a moment the other day - it was one of those moments that might seem so insignificant to someone else, but in their seeming insignificance mean a lot to me as I question daily why I am doing what I am doing, wondering if I am here for the right reasons. I suppose this is not unique to me - I am sure a lot of people encounter this struggle. But I do love those moments - those that remind me why I am here... those moments when I feel I was able to get through. Those moments are nice.
16.2.08
Half Term
Apparently I managed to get through the whole half term after christmas without posting a single word or photo. I guess I was pretty busy.
Since the Christmas holidays I have been working full time at a girls school here in Birmingham, and will be staying on at the school until the end of the school year (in the UK that means mid-late july!). My position is a long-term supply position, covering for one woman who has gone on mat-leave, and one woman who retired; I am teaching english, Hospitality, Travel and Tourism (vocational course), and ASDAN. The last two programs were started at the school in order to offer something different to those students who had difficulties in the regular academic classes. I have much to say about the programs, but am not sure this is the appropriate place to express my feelings about them, so I shall choose my words with care.
One problem I find is that a number of the girls do not actually choose the programs themselves, but they are put in the programs by the school. There are a number of challenges that come with this. One is that there is a real lack of interest in what they are doing. Vocational courses can be wonderful programs; but they are wonderful programs when the vocation is one that the students have interest in. Another problem is the students' awareness that they were put in the program because "we're stupid" (these are the words of one of my students, not mine). Although we have streaming in Canada, it feels different than it does here. Here is seems more blatant, magnified; here it reflects the more pronounced class divisions.
Five of my six classes here are in what is referred to as the "bottom set", or as a colleague has referred to one of my classes, the "hopeless" students. But I enjoy teaching my students, and have luckily not been jaded by the attitude of so many of the teachers that must be in it for the paycheck. Yes, I am continuously challenged in my day-to-day work. The attitude of many of my students presents a constant battle; but who can blame them for having a dismissive attitude towards a system that has for years told them they are not good enough? How can you be upset with them when you yourself see how the system creates an environment where the interest in GCSE scores has less to do with student success than they do with school funding?
The first half term for me felt long. I find it difficult to not take my work home every night, and easily find myself consumed in an endless amount of work and reading. Combining my first year of teaching with teaching abroad has definitely been difficult for me. I find it difficult to allow myself time to do other things - something I have to work on, as the life I led in the last five weeks is not one I want to continue. Balance is the goal. Although I prefer our own education system for a number of reasons, I have found this to be a great and interesting learning experience. I still have quite a bit more time here and, I am sure, much to learn.
Since the Christmas holidays I have been working full time at a girls school here in Birmingham, and will be staying on at the school until the end of the school year (in the UK that means mid-late july!). My position is a long-term supply position, covering for one woman who has gone on mat-leave, and one woman who retired; I am teaching english, Hospitality, Travel and Tourism (vocational course), and ASDAN. The last two programs were started at the school in order to offer something different to those students who had difficulties in the regular academic classes. I have much to say about the programs, but am not sure this is the appropriate place to express my feelings about them, so I shall choose my words with care.
One problem I find is that a number of the girls do not actually choose the programs themselves, but they are put in the programs by the school. There are a number of challenges that come with this. One is that there is a real lack of interest in what they are doing. Vocational courses can be wonderful programs; but they are wonderful programs when the vocation is one that the students have interest in. Another problem is the students' awareness that they were put in the program because "we're stupid" (these are the words of one of my students, not mine). Although we have streaming in Canada, it feels different than it does here. Here is seems more blatant, magnified; here it reflects the more pronounced class divisions.
Five of my six classes here are in what is referred to as the "bottom set", or as a colleague has referred to one of my classes, the "hopeless" students. But I enjoy teaching my students, and have luckily not been jaded by the attitude of so many of the teachers that must be in it for the paycheck. Yes, I am continuously challenged in my day-to-day work. The attitude of many of my students presents a constant battle; but who can blame them for having a dismissive attitude towards a system that has for years told them they are not good enough? How can you be upset with them when you yourself see how the system creates an environment where the interest in GCSE scores has less to do with student success than they do with school funding?
The first half term for me felt long. I find it difficult to not take my work home every night, and easily find myself consumed in an endless amount of work and reading. Combining my first year of teaching with teaching abroad has definitely been difficult for me. I find it difficult to allow myself time to do other things - something I have to work on, as the life I led in the last five weeks is not one I want to continue. Balance is the goal. Although I prefer our own education system for a number of reasons, I have found this to be a great and interesting learning experience. I still have quite a bit more time here and, I am sure, much to learn.
22.1.08
des questions
There is any number of reasons why people travel. Some people are running; some people are searching; and some people are just being. When you are traveling – or spending extended time away from home – you may find yourself wondering where you fall on the scale. Depending on my day, or on my week, I see myself as being anywhere along that scale; nothing is constant, least of all my emotions and feelings about being away from my family. I experience constant ups and downs depending on the company I have been keeping, the work I have been doing and the places I’ve been. (And, of course, there is that always enjoyable PMS time… which does nothing but aggravate any emotion I might be experiencing. However, this does lead me to wonder what things would be like without that magnification of emotion. Would things seem dull if I missed out on that monthly surge of swollen senses? For it isn’t always a terrible thing to experience with such force those turbulent feelings…)
At the beginning of January I went on a quick jaunt to London, my first since arriving here in the UK. I had a lovely time; in fact, it was more than just lovely. But there were consequences to this trip. As some of you know, my father has a lot to do with my reason for coming here. While it was something I had wanted to do for many years, it was my brief visit to London about 5 years ago that really solidified my desire to come to the UK. On that visit I experienced one of those terribly cheesy – so-cheesy-it’s-hard-to-admit – moments when I felt I connected with something. To put it plainly – and in short – in London I felt my dad (or thought so much about him I thought I felt him… as much as you can “feel” dead people).
So, five years later I decided to take the trip back to the UK and this time for longer. Decided to do a little soul-searching, if you will – and not just for my own, I suppose. Only Birmingham hasn’t been a repeat of my time in London. It has been good – don’t get me wrong. It has been a wonderful experience; it has been a learning experience in so many ways. But when I got off the train in London, on a Friday afternoon at Marylebone Station, I arrived at home.
I barely spent two days in the city: I had a lovely visit with some family who were there, did a bit of wondering and shopping, and climbed to the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral. But it was enough to remind me why I came to the UK in the first place. It was very difficult coming back to Birmingham; I honestly did not want to. I was upset, wishing I had gone to London, rather than here. I wondered what the heck I was doing in this city.
At this point I have a bit of a better view on the situation. I have been enjoying my job (despite the daily challenges, some of which I could do without); it is a wonderful opportunity I am grateful to have had. But I miss London: I miss the feeling of home (as much as you can experience that away from your proper home), and the feelings that I have that have led me here. There is a heaviness that I feel when in London, something weighing on my heart – one of a comforting weight: the weight of a handmade quilt on a tired body. For now, however, London is something I have to look forward to.
At the beginning of January I went on a quick jaunt to London, my first since arriving here in the UK. I had a lovely time; in fact, it was more than just lovely. But there were consequences to this trip. As some of you know, my father has a lot to do with my reason for coming here. While it was something I had wanted to do for many years, it was my brief visit to London about 5 years ago that really solidified my desire to come to the UK. On that visit I experienced one of those terribly cheesy – so-cheesy-it’s-hard-to-admit – moments when I felt I connected with something. To put it plainly – and in short – in London I felt my dad (or thought so much about him I thought I felt him… as much as you can “feel” dead people).
So, five years later I decided to take the trip back to the UK and this time for longer. Decided to do a little soul-searching, if you will – and not just for my own, I suppose. Only Birmingham hasn’t been a repeat of my time in London. It has been good – don’t get me wrong. It has been a wonderful experience; it has been a learning experience in so many ways. But when I got off the train in London, on a Friday afternoon at Marylebone Station, I arrived at home.
I barely spent two days in the city: I had a lovely visit with some family who were there, did a bit of wondering and shopping, and climbed to the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral. But it was enough to remind me why I came to the UK in the first place. It was very difficult coming back to Birmingham; I honestly did not want to. I was upset, wishing I had gone to London, rather than here. I wondered what the heck I was doing in this city.
At this point I have a bit of a better view on the situation. I have been enjoying my job (despite the daily challenges, some of which I could do without); it is a wonderful opportunity I am grateful to have had. But I miss London: I miss the feeling of home (as much as you can experience that away from your proper home), and the feelings that I have that have led me here. There is a heaviness that I feel when in London, something weighing on my heart – one of a comforting weight: the weight of a handmade quilt on a tired body. For now, however, London is something I have to look forward to.
16.1.08
A Voyage to Corsica
The holidays this year found me away from home for the first time ever. However, as much as I would have loved to experience a "real english christmas", I was fortunate enough to get away from this little island for a bit and head to another little island. One of the brilliant things about being here in the UK, as many of you know, is the that you are so close to so many awesome places, and travel can be quite affordable... Everything is so close together here - which is something that is so different from home. So, it was Christmas in Corsica for this little vagabond, but happily not a lonesome one. I hopped on a plane and flew to the home of that Napolean character to meet my dear friend Amy and the rest of the Johnston bunch.
The travel day was a long one. My early flight from B'ham was delayed; as I waited, I received a phone call from Amy (who was at the airport in Paris) informing me that there was an Air France strike in Paris (I believe striking may be a national pastime in France). She was pretty sure it was all going to be fine, but wanted to warn me as I was meant to transfer planes in Paris. I went online to double check my itinerary, and discovered (much to my chagrin) that I not only had to transfer airplanes, but I had to get from Paris Charles de Gaulle to Paris Orly Airport. The first airport is not adjacent to the second. They are actually quite a distance apart, to say the least. But I discovered there was an Air France shuttle, and I was optimistic it would not be a problem.
I arrived in Paris, and my luggage was the first to come through on the carousel. I picked it up and headed to find my shuttle, which was supposed to depart every 30 minutes. I found the shuttle stop, parked myself in line, and began waiting… patiently. Time ticked by, and it inched closer and closer to my check-in time for my connecting flight. I found out that there was an accident on the motorway, and for this reason the shuttles were delayed. A few others were also getting connecting flights at Orly, and seemed to be panicking more than I was. Over conversation I discovered their flights were actually later than mine, and began to think that perhaps I too should be panicking. Eventually it began to seem like a good idea to hop in a taxi – the shuttle could come any minute, but better to be safe than sorry. So, along with two other travelers I got into a taxi to take us to the other airport. As we began to drive away, the shuttle bus pulled up. We were now taking the more expensive option; but with limited time it seemed the better idea.
There was quite a bit of traffic on the motorway. Paris on a Thursday afternoon, was one can imagine, is not a good place to be if you are in a car and late. Eventually we got to Orly – I threw my temporary taxi friends 20 Euros, grabbed my luggage, and ran to check-in… 30 minutes before my flight. I by-passed the line to check-in, and ran to security. It was then that I found out my flight to Bastia was also delayed, thanks to the strike. The first time I have ever been thankful for a delayed flight.
Hours later I arrived in Bastia. I thought I was going to miss the last bus from Bastia (the city) to Morsiglia (the town) due to the delayed flight, but I arrived to discover there was no bus. At this point, however, nothing really bothered me: I was in Corsica, and I could find my way to the town. Amy left a message for me with the car rental company, leaving me details about where I was to go, and I got myself a Taxi. The taxi driver I had was, coincidentally, the same one Amy had spoken to earlier that day to ask about prices – and he was kind enough to chat with me, despite my embarrassing French language skills; he was even kind enough to tell me I spoke French well.
The drive was not short; but, almost two hours and 150 euros later I was in Morsiglia with Amy, having a drink and a chat in a 16th century tower. I could not have been happier at that very moment, and for that I am grateful.
The travel day was a long one. My early flight from B'ham was delayed; as I waited, I received a phone call from Amy (who was at the airport in Paris) informing me that there was an Air France strike in Paris (I believe striking may be a national pastime in France). She was pretty sure it was all going to be fine, but wanted to warn me as I was meant to transfer planes in Paris. I went online to double check my itinerary, and discovered (much to my chagrin) that I not only had to transfer airplanes, but I had to get from Paris Charles de Gaulle to Paris Orly Airport. The first airport is not adjacent to the second. They are actually quite a distance apart, to say the least. But I discovered there was an Air France shuttle, and I was optimistic it would not be a problem.
I arrived in Paris, and my luggage was the first to come through on the carousel. I picked it up and headed to find my shuttle, which was supposed to depart every 30 minutes. I found the shuttle stop, parked myself in line, and began waiting… patiently. Time ticked by, and it inched closer and closer to my check-in time for my connecting flight. I found out that there was an accident on the motorway, and for this reason the shuttles were delayed. A few others were also getting connecting flights at Orly, and seemed to be panicking more than I was. Over conversation I discovered their flights were actually later than mine, and began to think that perhaps I too should be panicking. Eventually it began to seem like a good idea to hop in a taxi – the shuttle could come any minute, but better to be safe than sorry. So, along with two other travelers I got into a taxi to take us to the other airport. As we began to drive away, the shuttle bus pulled up. We were now taking the more expensive option; but with limited time it seemed the better idea.
There was quite a bit of traffic on the motorway. Paris on a Thursday afternoon, was one can imagine, is not a good place to be if you are in a car and late. Eventually we got to Orly – I threw my temporary taxi friends 20 Euros, grabbed my luggage, and ran to check-in… 30 minutes before my flight. I by-passed the line to check-in, and ran to security. It was then that I found out my flight to Bastia was also delayed, thanks to the strike. The first time I have ever been thankful for a delayed flight.
Hours later I arrived in Bastia. I thought I was going to miss the last bus from Bastia (the city) to Morsiglia (the town) due to the delayed flight, but I arrived to discover there was no bus. At this point, however, nothing really bothered me: I was in Corsica, and I could find my way to the town. Amy left a message for me with the car rental company, leaving me details about where I was to go, and I got myself a Taxi. The taxi driver I had was, coincidentally, the same one Amy had spoken to earlier that day to ask about prices – and he was kind enough to chat with me, despite my embarrassing French language skills; he was even kind enough to tell me I spoke French well.
The drive was not short; but, almost two hours and 150 euros later I was in Morsiglia with Amy, having a drink and a chat in a 16th century tower. I could not have been happier at that very moment, and for that I am grateful.
6.1.08
m.i.a.
I admit I have been terrible at keeping up with this blog in the last month, and to those of you who regularly (or maybe semi-regularly) check in on it, I give you my sincerest apologies. No excuses here. I have been busy, up and down, here and there... I have managed to get a few posts started, but have saved them as drafts in their tidy little e-folders. I enjoy the blog, and enjoy letting you all know what is going on here with me without force-feeding you mass emails - but the there is something about "publishing" a post that encourages hesitation with each entry. (Perhaps my self-conscious tendency rearing it's slightly egocentric head?)
Anyway, I am going to try to do my best to get back at it, and update regularly. I owe you all (and myself) a note on the holidays, which I spent in Corsica with Amy and the Johnston bunch, a note on my brief but meaningful visit to London, and a note on my return to work (which is tomorrow)... For the moment I will leave it at this. I have been homesick lately, contemplating all sorts of deep and meaningful things, and dealing with some anxiety about work. I have to go to bed. Whether or not I will sleep is debatable, but I will try.
in the meantime, I leave you with this... hundreds of Santa's, running for the Heart Foundation, down Broad Street in Birmingham.
Anyway, I am going to try to do my best to get back at it, and update regularly. I owe you all (and myself) a note on the holidays, which I spent in Corsica with Amy and the Johnston bunch, a note on my brief but meaningful visit to London, and a note on my return to work (which is tomorrow)... For the moment I will leave it at this. I have been homesick lately, contemplating all sorts of deep and meaningful things, and dealing with some anxiety about work. I have to go to bed. Whether or not I will sleep is debatable, but I will try.
in the meantime, I leave you with this... hundreds of Santa's, running for the Heart Foundation, down Broad Street in Birmingham.
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