Insult Each Other in English, Please

“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 4^th 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 100^th 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. 

Happy Tuesday.