“Kammijande, what class is this?”
“English.”
“Oh! So it is. Was that English you were just speaking?”
“…haha...”
“Was it?”
“No, Miss.”
“Ah ha. Please speak English in English class. We need to
practice, practice, practice.”
“OK, Miss.”
This dialog has been repeated so many times since January
that I now only have to say, “What class is this?” to receive a resounding
“Ohhh, OK, OK, Miss,” from the rest of class. Does it inspire them to speak English?
Not for very long.
All day, every day I hear chitter chatter in Otjiherero.
Students answer my questions in Otjiherero while staring at me like I’m a
tap-dancing dinosaur. I ask them to repeat it in English. They repeat it in
Otjiherero.
So, when I overhear students talking to each other in or
outside of class in English, I practically pee my pants with joy. Even if it’s
just an accusatory “Where is my book?” accompanied by a smack over the head
with a pencil case.
Now, that being said, I try to keep a firm grip on my
classroom.
You and your friend are being disruptive? You get split up.
Throwing pens? Go pick that up, and sit up front with
Teacher.
You are shouting offensive comments at one another? Oh, hell
nah.
Shout rude things in English,
though, and I will secretly be doing a mental Irish jig of celebration (while
halfheartedly telling you to knock it off).
For instance, today in class I once again had a learner
answer my question in Otjiherero, rather than English. Immediately, another
learner, Grace (also known as The Peanut Gallery), pipes up, “Speak in English,
you idiot! Why you not speaking in English when Miss May only speaks English?
You are just making noise! You cannot be like that in speaking Otjiherero. You
must speak the official language. You are just wasting time. Time is money.”
I’m sure she would still be on her tirade had I not asked her to close the
mouth, please and thank you. She’s like that, that one. But the whole time I
was thinking Yeahhh…get it, girl. Look at you telling people off with almost
correct grammar.
I almost teared up.
Perhaps this makes me a bad disciplinarian. Or perhaps this
means I’d rather see my students finally get a grip on English before I leave
this year, whether or not that grip is deemed socially appropriate by refined
company.
At this point, if you can call me a fat, self-righteous pig using
correct pronunciation and grammar, I will applaud you.
Not that that has ever happened.
But one can dream.
In completely other news, I got to celebrate this 4th
of July weekend with my fellow American volunteers (before getting ill and
having to return to Opuwo) with burgers, booze, and a playlist of classic
American anthems. I was in charge of making the freedom fries in Jamie’s
toaster oven. They turned out pretty good, but put me in a room full of friends
with a whisky in my hand, and the whole food-cooking thing tends to get away
from me. Luckily, Ashley was on toaster oven guard duty, and I was able to cram
the burned pieces in my mouth before anyone noticed my inadequate culinary skills.
Then I started dying a horrible stomach death for the 100th time
this year, and my night became less than star-spangled-awesome.
As I’ve previously mentioned, my brain may love Namibia, but
my body hates it.
Hoping for a week full of English insults and no more medical
problems.
And to get you through the week, here's a picture of the weirdness that comes barging through my door 15 times a day.
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| Happy Tuesday. |
