Not a Teaching Blog, but a Food Rant

I grew up in downtown Victoria. I have fond memories of stopping at the Dutch Bakery as a child to get a treat with my parents. But, especially recently, my memories are better than the actual product. My main complaint is with their whipped cream and butter cream icing. These are both inferior. The whipped cream is not very creamy, and the butter cream, I'm pretty sure, isn't made with butter, but lard, and this makes it too thick. So, my family has a story that we refer to as the un-tellable story. We have memories of delcious black forest cakes from the Dutch Bakery. For my parents birthday, they purchased one of the $20 smallish cakes. It was hideous and disappointing. The cake was so dry. There was no whipped cream. And, to top it all off, the 2nd day, the box was FILLED with fruit flies. My mom, being abrasive when upset, called and complained. She was told, "That's how we make it and have always made it. Don't order it again." Now, we know this isn't how they always made it. I called back, sucked up all the sweetest I could muster, and told the women I think they forgot to put the whipped cream in. She invited me to bring it back it. I did, but was informed that it was fine, and I would not be getting full refund (despite the fruit flies and the fact that she had already thrown it out). They gave me a $10 store credit, which I figured was better than nothing. Here's my point. A blackforest cake has a formula. The formula includes whipped cream, chocolate cake, and cherries. When I buy a black forest cake, I expect these things. The rude manager told us that using the butter cream/lard combo instead of whipped cream is just how they do theirs. If you ask me to make you chocolate chip cookies, and I make oatmeal raisin, and then you complain, I can't tell you, "Well, that's how I make my chocolate chip cookies!" That is ridiculous! Give it a different name. Now, let's never speak this story again. This all being said, I still will stop in here for a treat. The Porcupines are my favorite since the Eclairs have gone down hill.

My Favorites

Whoever said that teachers don't have favorites is full of s***.

"WHAAAAAAAAAAT?" your eyes bug as you stumble back a few steps.

Sorry. I realize that was blunt.  However, I hope my bluntness has shocked you into seeing my truth.

All teachers have favorite students.  If a teacher tells you they don't, they are liars.  Or, failing that they are liars, they are around students who are NOT their favorites and feel uncomfortable and rude naming others as numero uno in front of numero whomp-whomp.

I don't have a favorite. "Boo, hiss, your a liar!" Did you really just say that to me?  You are not paying attention! I don't have A favorite.  I have many favorites!

Generally, I think that my favorite students are kids who I think that if I were also a student, I would be friends with.  Or, sometimes, my favorites are kids who are so quirky, funny, sarcastic, talented, smart etc beyond their years that they don't exactly fit the "norm", sometimes to the point of being an outcast from the peer group.  Now, maybe I would have also been friends with these kids, but, let me not fool myself, I wouldn't have understood these kids at that age either.

I have a few fav kids in grade 9.  These are kids who can talk to an adult, joke around, like interesting books, and are down-and-out fantastic people.  I have a couple favs in grade 10.  They are energetic, friendly, and kind.  I have a few favorites in grade 11.  They are creative, passionate, and witty.

But...sadly...most of my favorites are in grade 12.

Why does this get the big ol' suck-sticker?  Because they are graduating in about a week.  This means they wont be around anymore!

These boys and girls have been my greatest teaching pride, joy, and learning experience.  When I taught grade 8, I had a serious tight-knotted bond with a few of my students.  We were a honest and caring family.  But, until I taught last years grade 11s, I had never had the same type of respect and bond with an entire class of kids.

Now, not all of my fav kids were in the one class.  For example, one of my Japanese TAs is graduating this year.  However, the vast majority were from ONE wonderful class.  The smartest, kindest, wonderfullest girls I have ever met, hands down. (Hey girls, stay single a few more years.  I have a brother. We could be family?) The most thoughtful, courageous, talented, funny boys ever born (to the point where I have asked a mother to adopt me on multiple occasions). These kids had work-ethic second to none, abilities beyond my own, and a future so full they might need to skip lunch.  This isn't to say there weren't a few snafus (water-bottle anyone?) and times I yelled at them, but I am still lucky to have worked with them.

At last years graduation ceremony, I was proud. I had helped (I hope!) many struggling boys get their English credit to walk across that stage.  This year, I felt more than simple pride.  Sadness, for seeing these guys go.  Hope, knowing what they will do for the world.  Glee, the future is exciting for them. A million more emotions.

Congratulation to all my favorites! To the rest of you, you did go too I guess...

Odd Duck

I am not a racist person.  If you think that by being a wee bit politically incorrect (which I will be in the following post) is a be-all end-all that you can judge a person's character by, please stop reading this post now.

So, no, this post is not about people eating dog.  Although, as a follow-up to that, my lovely Japanese assistant did ask me if it is true that Chinese people eat fetuses.  How sick is that?  I promptly told her that what other's do is none of our business and that maybe fetuses taste good.  Who is she to judge?

Ew. Totally kidding.  I used it as a teaching moment to discuss how groups of people who have disagreements sometimes say things about each other that are meant o make the other group look bad or are meant to be hurtful.

This story is about French-Canadians.  Well, not all Frenchies, but specifically one odd duck.

I have met many wonderful French-Canadians in my life.  However, a large number of these individuals were the type of person one could describe as slightly strange, although not to the point where they cannot function in polite society.

Back to my story of today...

I am great friends with the amazing teachers who sponsored me on my practicum.  I worked my buns off for them--well, not literally since I gained 20 pounds in the 5 months--and they reciprocated my hard work by essentially employing me as their substitute for a year.

At the end of the year that I was a sub, there was a teacher barbeque that I attended with all the teachers from the school.  We were all sitting around, enjoying some finely crafted beef dips out of paper plates and bowls.  I was seated beside my former sponsor teacher whom I will refer to as Mama.  She was seated beside a teacher from the French immersion program, Odd Duck.

Mama: Um, that was very nice food.


Odd Duck: Oui, that was delicious.


Mama: Let's clear some room for dessert.  Can I put my bowl in your bowl?


Clearly, everyone else around understands that she is trying to clear the garbage from the table by stacking the paper bowls.

Odd Duck: I do not understand.  Bowl in my bowl?


Mama: You know. Like ***puts her hands one on top of the other**** bowl smoochie.


Odd Duck: (in a huff) Uhg, I am a happily married man.


With that, Odd Duck got up, stormed off, and left Mama with her jaw hanging open.  She turned to me, speechless.   Please keep in mind, this is after the teacher had worked with Mama for a year.

How weird is that?  I say, the Odd Duck is swimming in his own pond.

Cultural Stereotypes

Setting: A couple weeks ago, ESL class

Context: As an ESL teacher, I get special leveled ESL materials. One of these is a magazine/newspaper written for adults but at a low level. I like to let my kids spend some time reading the articles that interest them like you and I would with an average newspaper.  However, I also make them choose one article that they would like to read to the class and discuss.  This generally goes off without a hitch: practice reading and decoding, work on pronunciation, and engage with a multi-cultural class in discussion where everyone is expected to form opinions.

Cast: This class is very small.  I have an assistant who is a spectacular grade 12 girl from Japan.  There is a boy and a girl from Mexico, a boy from Thailand, three boys from China, and two boys from Korea.  One of these Korean boys is new to Canada but adjusting rapidly as he adopts a pithy attitude and a rebellious streak.  I'll call him Korean Jim.  His name isn't Jim, but the name he selected is equally as staunch.

Ms. B: So, let's look at one final article. My favourite article was this one on page three that discusses the documentary The Cove.  *insert discussion on the article, what this movie is about etc* Did anyone see this movie?

The class begins to discuss practices of their cultures that are not common world-wide.  We decide we should watch this film, as long as our TA is okay with it, which she is.  We discuss Canadian practices that are frowned upon and/or debated.  We talk about seal hunting and whaling.  As we put away our newspaper, Korean Jim pipes up.

Korean Jim: Mrs. B? In Korea, we eat dog.

Now, because of his thick accent, it sounded more like this: Een KOR-E-A, we. eat. DAWG.

Ms. B, naturally curious, having heard this but never having been to Korean, asks: What kind of dog?

Now, I too am a dog lover.  Many of you after my own heart may wonder how I could bring myself to talk about this.  I would never engage in eating a dog, but my mind is open enough to understand and respect cultural differences.  I know that few animals are as loyal, loving, and wonderful as a dog, but I have seen people with pet pigs who are just as spectacular.  It is a cultural practice to keep animals as pets, just like it is to eat them. Who are we to judge? 

The Dutch eat horses; Canadians eat narwhal; Koreans eat dogs. 

I am not one to judge the practices, especially culinarily, of other groups of people.  I think I am just as unlikely to ever eat tripe or cockroaches as I am dog.  However, despite not doing it myself, I am still curious.  If you told me you ate a cockroach, my first question would be, "What did it taste like?" Even if you told me it tasted like sunshine and rainbows, I STILL wouldn't try it BUT I would then be able to tell people that cockroaches taste like sunshine and rainbows if it ever came up in conversation.

So, naturally, I wanted to learn more from Korean Jim. He is in Canada learning about our culture (even if all he is adopting is a piss-poor attitude), an I can also engage in this cultural exchange.

Ms B.: What kind of dog?

The answer I am looking for is like pug (please no!), retriever, etc.  I would settle for big, small, old, anything that hints at what type of dog is eaten.

Korean Jim: Male dog. Female dog.

He narrowed it down to all dogs.  Not very helpful.  I decided to move on and never bring pug Norm to visit me.   

Things Out of Context

Again, I am way to tired to write anything comprehension AND comprehensible.  So, again, as more of a musing than a blog, I thought I should I would share a couple of statement that I made.  These were both heard by other teachers.  Of course, the entire conversation wasn't heard, just the one line that, taken out of context could get me in a lot of trouble.

#1: "Good work, but there was a little too much nipple for me."

#2: "Does this mean I get to beat you now?"

I don't think I will elaborate. It is much more interesting to keep you guessing as to how these statement were completely appropriate in everyday teacher-student talk, but trust, both were :)

Quickie

Hi, everyone!  I've been having writers block lately, but I experienced this quick little gem I thought I'd share.  A student said, "Ms. B, you would totally be my favorite teacher...if you didn't assign so many essays."

La Vie Boheme!

So, the following story is not actually a teaching story.  Rather, it is a story about a teacher: my husband, who, for various reasons, will be referred to as "The Butler".  This story takes place about...3 and a half minutes ago.

I was singing.  You may be asking, Why were you singing? Well, you see, for those of you who don't know me outside of my secret identity, I sing constantly.  I sing about what I am doing (i.e. a little ditty I like to call "Getting Dressed"), things I see (i.e. "Waaaaaamart"), random things (i.e. "Epic Ballad on Types of Sauce"), and I also make up parodies (i.e. "Butter Face", although I am pretty sure I got the tag line from Video on Trial, and then added the "She's got no legs or body").

Anyway, tonight I was not singing anything I invented.  I was singing the amazing track from Rent that goes, "500, 25 thousand, 600 minutes.  500, 25 thousand, moments so dear" etc.  Why was I singing this? Well, I had just heard a character on Moulin Rouge yell, "La Vie Boheme".  This reminded me of Rent because of the song "La Vie Boheme".

To back track, and to give The Butler credit, we were watching Moulin Rouge because the other night he took me to see the ballet version, which was awesome.  Thanks, love!

So, here I am singing.  The Butler scoffs, "I bet that isn't even the right calculation."

"Let's see," I respond and keep singing as I open the calculator on my laptop.

"Do 60 times..."

"I know how to calculate this..."

I punch in the numbers.  60 x 24 x 365.

I am a math wiz.

The answer comes up.

"Ha, I knew it wouldn't be right!"

"Um, it says 525, 600."

"Oh.  Right," The Butler blushes.

The point of this story is, ladies and gentlemen, my husband is a world renowned math teacher. He has a degree in astro-physics.  He cannot read six digit numbers. Unconventional? Yes. Non-traditional? Oui. What question does this lead us to? Is this bohemianism or is this bohemianism?

La Vie Boheme!

Insert Foot in Mouth

I think all people have those moments directly after flapping their chops when they wish they would have ran the statement through a preview to see how it would sound out loud.  Then, after the statement has been said, we cringe, back-peddle, look wide eyed around you in anticipation of something pointing out the thing you just said.

Now, when you are a teacher, there are 30 people starring back at you ready to point out any mistake you make and/or laugh at you.  And of course, if you say anything at all inappropriate or that can be interpreted in a perverted way, you will never live it down.  Every slip of the tongue, Freudian or otherwise, comes back to bite you.

And, for teachers as well as every single living human being, once the thoughts have become words, there is no replay button, no do-overs, and no mute.

So, it was the first day with my new class.  This class is all international students who are in Canada to learn English, have an adventure, get away from something at home, or a combination of those things.

I haven't seen a class list for this class yet.  There are eight kids in it.  I am joking around with the group, who are from a variety of countries: China, Japan, Brazil, Mexico, Macao. We are getting to know each other as I am working on calming their nerves. They are all worried about fitting in, making friends, etc: you know, the usual things that teenagers worry about.  I couldn't imagine being as brave as these kids are: being 14-17 years old, leaving your support system (friends, family, school), and going to a new school where you don't speak the language.

We have another student; let's call her Sailor Moon.  Sailor Moon has made many Canadian friends, as well as dating may Canadian boys.  I have always joked with her that her English has improved by leaps and bounds because she speaks to these boys.

So, as I am talking to my new class, I joke, "You guys know the best way to improve your English?"

"How?" they chime in eagerly.

"Get a Canadian boyfriend," I deliver the punch line, and then expand to the student sitting furthest away, "Or, in your case, a Canadian girlfriend."

The student sitting furthest away responds, "But I am a girl."

"Wwwhaaaatttt?" I stammer before I can stop myself, barely holding in the following statement of "YOU ARE?" Instead, I continue with, "Oh, I'm so sorry."

Later that day, I tell T-buck about what happened.  "Oh, sorry," he laughs. "I should have told you.  I asked her to see her passport in the summer so I could check for sure." You see, the only feminine aspect of the girl in questions is her name, which can be simply because the family accidently picked a name usually not applied to the gender when they recently selected English names.  But, no, not in this case.  She is actually a girl.

S**t Money

The title gives this entire entry away.  In fact, the title is the most comedic part of what I am going to say.  If you are here for a chuckle, stop reading now because it only goes downhill after the title.  Can't you tell yet?

Okay, okay.  I will get on with this teaching tale now.  I refer to this as the Tale of the S**t Money.

The only character in this is me.  My SS9s were also there, but they had very little to say.  It was one of the many days when I lecture.  The topic was a fabulous lesson (nawt!) called Why Everyone Hated Charles I. Okay, it wasn't really called that, but I need to give it a name and that was the general topic I was at when this event occurred.

So, there are tons of reasons that Charles the First--at least I hope it was Charles I, the more I write the more, I am doubting my over-exposed memory.  There were terrible deeds, taxes, and even the Secret Court of Star Chamber, which I always mess up and call the Chamber of Secrets.  He collected money by charging tonnage, poundage, and ship money.

Yes, you read that right.  SHIP (S, H, I, P) money.  Not s**t money; ship money.

But, like how you just reacted, my class was also positive I said s**t money.  Clearly, what sane person's mind does not automatically hear s**t money when someone says ship money?  1) Whoever says ship money? and 2) What the heck is ship money anyways?  (Look it up if you really want to know; I am not going to pollute my blog with that information. Oh, wait, no, I am talking about s**t money again.)  Anyway, tomorrow slur the phrase "ship money" and see what people hear.  I guarantee that they will hear s**t money.

So, my class exclaims, "What did you just saaaaaay?"

And I reply, "Ship p p p p p money."

They respond, "Oh, we thought you said...."

"I bet I could guess.  No shippppp money.  But actually, interestingly enough, in ancient Rome, there was actually a urine tax." I then detoured for about 5 minutes talking about urine tax and the Roman Empire.  So, when I am done, I turn back to the board to write the last point I just spoke about, ship money.

I turn and write.

I turn back to the class and continue with the lecture. 

I notice that the kids who can see the board are sniggering. I turn and look at what I just wrote.  Plain as the nose of Adrian Brody's face, there is what I just wrote.  All caps.  S**t money.

"Eiiyia," I moan, scream, mumble as I fumble for the eraser.  I finally manage to erase the word.

"Aw, I already wrote that down. In pen," a kid whines.

But, needless to say, on the next unit test, they all got the question about ship money correct.

The Bottle Diet for 19 Year Olds Only

BackgroundFirst off, I don't know if water-bottle is spelled like that, but I figure I have already started with it that way (yesterday) so I might as well continue.


Secondly, I was going to tell a story where I swore (sort of *gasp, horror*) in front of my grade nines, but I am in the theme of water-bottles so I thought I would continue with another bottle story.


Have I ever told you that I am an English as a Second Language teacher?  No? Well, I am.  I share a room with a teacher whose job is much more complicated than mine. And of course, by share, I mean that when I got my job they didn't really tell me where to go, and because I relied so heavily on T-buck, I have kind of just moved in--at least until they give me somewhere to go.


So, our jobs: I deal with about 20 fairly high functioning English Language learners who are residents of Canada; T-buck deals with about 60 learners of varying backgrounds and abilities who are staying in home-stays to go to our school.  His job keeps him VERY busy (and p.s. he also has four adorable kiddlets...B-U-S-Y).


Characters
Me


T-buck


Ester: a very odd Korean exchange student.  Yes, Ester is her name.  No, I am not spelling it wrong. Yes, I realize Ester is usually spelled Esther.  Yes, I realize an ester is a chemical compound.  I am using her real name, which I have never done before and will possibly never use again, because she is now safely back in Korea.  Can we move on now?  


Anyway, Ester was a very odd duck (picture a four foot tall anime character, glasses and all).  T-buck and I referred to the way she spoke as "Ester-speak".  Every fifth word or so would be in Korean.  Then, when we would tell her to speak English, the next word would inevitably be a swear (we think) in Korean.  I generally could understand her, and would often translate.


Here is one very odd conversation we had:

Ester: Uh, Mrs. B? (Now, for this to have the full effect, you have to put her accent in there, so it sounds more like Mishhus Bey.)


Ms. B: What's up, Ester?

Ester: Do you have any empty bottle?

Ms. B: What? (generally my first question when speaking with Ester)


Ester: Well, I have two empty bottle but home-stay recycle dem.

Ms. B: What kind of bottles?

Ester: Like wine bottle, beer bottle.

Ms. B: Uh, what for?

Ester: You know, for like diet.

Ms. B: What?

Ester: You know, like diet, loose weight.

Ms. B: What does that have to do with a bottle?

Ester: You know, you take and do this.

She makes a motion like she is rubbing a bottle up and down her thighs, kind of like kneading bread with a rolling pin.


Ms. B: Hun, I don't think that is going to work.

Ester: Yes, I do.  My mother say so.

Ms. B: Um...okay.  I will bring you a bottle tomorrow.

Ester: Two please?

Ms. B: Sure...

Ester: Tank you!  See you tomorrow!

The next day...


I give Ester two EMPTY beer bottles; hey, she is 19 and COULD have bought the bottles herself, but she doesn't drink, so I figure beer bottles are fine.


Ms. B: Here you go, Ester.

Ester: Ah, tank you!!!

One bottle in each hand, she starts walking out of the classroom.


T-buck: Um, you can't walk out into the hall with empty beer bottles in you hands.

Ester: Why?!? I nineteen.

Finally, after much convincing, she puts the bottles in her bags and leaves.  Needless to say, I did not notice any weight-loss.  




But still, I keep doing it every day.

My Finger is Stuck

Setting: Grade 11 English, wonderful students, beautiful sunny day


Characters: 

• Rouge: a lovely, kind, intelligent, well-dressed young woman who is likely to be the next Canadian Idol (well, maybe not next, but someday she will be)
• Crusher: the vice-principal, who, despite the name, is not nearly as scary as he sounds.  He is quite humorous and helpful
• Ms. B: moi; as always, the prologue, exposition, and denouement

Ms B: helping students, moving through the room, doing an excellent/extra-special version of my job

Rouge: Uh, Ms. B, can you come here?

Ms. B: Sure, Rouge.  You need help?

Rouge: Uh, no.  It's not the work at all.  I get it.

Ms. B: Okay, what's going on then?

Rouge: Can we talk in private?

Ms. B: red flags, panic, worry.  Is my girl okay?  Is everything okay?

Rouge: Um...

Ms. B: Let's step out into the hall...

Rouge: Okay...

In hallway.

Ms. B: What's wrong hun.

Rouge: holds up her hand. My finger is stuck.

Rouge has managed to stick her finger into a the circular hole in the middle of a water-bottle cap, the spot where people attach a clip to.  Her finger is wedged in, the entire digit, resting behind her bigger knuckle.  The water-bottle is dangling there, looking almost like it is resting in her palm.

Ms. B: mouth hangs open, mumbles unintelligibly.  Um, why don't I pull on it for you?

Rouge: Okay.

Rouge holds out hand while I pull.  Nothing happens.

Ms. B: Let's take the bottle off.

Rouge: Okay.

We take off the bottle and try to pull it off again.

Ms. B: Maybe we should call Mr. Crusher.

Rouge: Okay.

I have to call from inside the class, so we go back inside.  She sits down, but because she is a fair-skinned ginger, the blush radiating from her allows the class to guess that something wonderfully embarrassing is going on.

Ms. B: (on phone) Um, Mr. Crusher, could you come down to my room please?

Crusher: Is everything okay?

Ms. B: Um, more or less.

Crusher: What's wrong?

Ms. B: Can you just come down here please?

Crusher: Um, okay, I will be right there.

Rouge and I wait in the hall.  Crusher arrives, panting slightly from the trek.  You can see the look of worry on his face.

Crusher: What's wrong?

Ms. B: Um, Rouge has her finger stuck.

Crusher: Let me pull on it.  He tries, but, again, it doesn't work. Let's take a walk, Rouge, and we will see what we can do.

So, I stayed with the rest of the class.  Crusher first took Rouge to the foods room.  There, they butter her finger and try again to pull it off.  Still, the lid will not budge.

Next, they take Rouge to the mechanics shop.  There, they put grease on her finger.  They try and pull the lid off.  It still wont budge,  By now, with all the twisting and pulling, I am sure her poor finger is sore.  Also, I would assume it is also swelling more and more with every tug.

As a last ditch effort, Crusher takes Rouge to the woodwork shop to see if the shop teacher is willing to try any of the machine in the pursuit of getting the lid off.  No dice.  One: liability (if he cut her finger off).  Two: guilt (if he cut her finger off).

Crusher takes Rouge to his office and calls her dad.  She needs to go to the hospital and get this removed.  Her dad picks her up, but they do not go to the hospital. Instead, he takes her home and use a saw (skill, miter, round, square...I have no idea if those are even saws, but I assume it was blade-y, sharp, and moving) in the driveway to free her entrapped finger.

How do I know he did this? Rouge call me in class (still the same class the incident began in).

Ms. B: Hi, Rouge.  Are you okay?

Rouge: Yes, I am fine.  My finger is sore though.  Anyway, I am really embarrassed, so I wont be back today.

Ms. B: Okay, bye.  Hangs up.

Class: Did Rouge get her finger out of the water-bottle?

Ms. B: How did you guys know?

Anyway, the class knew what was going on the entire time.  And, since Rouge could not be anymore embarrassed, I am sure to make fun of her whenever I see her.  Does that make me a terrible person?

Smitty has the Face of an Angel

Did I ever tell you about the time I fainted?

No, fainted for realz, yo!  (Side note: did you like how I managed to properly punctuate that?)

I did.  Not one of those I-am-fainting-because-a-kid-just-blew-my-mind faints, but a real oh-good-lord-what-is-happening faints.

I had been at the school for about a month.  I was always busy since it was my first real contract and ALL the classes I was teaching (English 9, ESL, Comm 11/12) were new to me as I had just moved up from middle school.

It was a Tuesday, second week of October...

So, la-te-da, I am bustling about trying to get all my ESL responsibilities dealt with so I can start tracking properly.  One item I needed to cross off my list was to go over my Annual Education Plans with the Principal. 

However, on this particular day, I am very tired. (I probably didn't get a good night's sleep--which is common for me.)  I am also very stressed.  (Again, common.) I am feeling a little spaced out. (Some might tell me this is also common for me, and I would call these people butts.)

I am working on a computer in the teacher's prep room which is a floor below the office.  I am feeling so awful that I am thinking about going home (there is another block plus lunch before I teach, more than enough time to get a TOC in).  For some reason though, I try to stick it out.

I do the following:
1. Make a cup of lemon zinger tea.
2. Go to the washroom.
3. Breathe deeply.
4. Try to stay busy.

I figure it is a case of mind over matter: don't think about feeling sick = not feeling sick.

In the process of completing task #4, I run upstairs to make an appoitment with the Principal's administrative assistant to see the Principal regarding the AEPs.  Tea in hand, I am speaking with Ms. PAA (who is lovely by the way) trying to make said appointment. 

Out of no where, the room begins to spin.  Am I stuck inside a twister? Auntie Em? I wonder.  I say, "Oh, I feel really dizzy," to Ms. PAA as I lean one hand on her desk.

Before she gets around the desk to save me, however, I am travelling down a tunnel of un-love heading straight to the floor.  According to witnesses, I went staright back and landed with a thump--which was confirmed by the rump for days following--managing not to crack my head open because of an empty box.  Bless that box!

So, fainted as I was, I am having a marvelous time.  I am in an I-Pod commerical.  You know: the one with the bright colour outlines when the rest is black? Sadly, I can't remember the song.  I do remember having people calling my name and being really annoyed that I was going to have to wake up.

I opened my eyes.  There was Smitty, leaning over me.  He was my grade 11 Social Studies teacher and, now, my respected colleague.  He has the face of an angel.  He was looking down on me, so concerned.  All I could think of to say was, "Smitty...What the HELL happened?"

"You fainted," Smitty calmly replied.

"I did?!?!" I cried preplexedly.

Anyway, the story kind of becomes less interesting from there.  I cried because I was scared--however, I cry all the time so that wasn't new.  I had to leave the school in an ambulance, freaking out some students.  I was told there was nothing seriously wrong with me.

"It was a vasal-vagal faint.  Please do not come back next time it happens," the doctor told me.  He also added that if you don't faint before you turned 25, you probably never would.  I was 23; just my luck!

Anyway, if I learned anything from this experience, it would have to be that Smitty has the face of an angel.

Oh, and before I forget, the absolute worst part of this was not the I fainted in the middle of the office in my first MONTH of being here and will NEVER live it down; it was that the paramedics thought I peed myself because I spilled that lemon zinger all over myself as I fell, leaving me wet for the rest of the day.

WHAT!?! We have an Exam?

This week is the week that is officially referred to as "EXAM WEEK".  For the vast majority of our grade nine students, this January's exam period will be the first time they write official 20-40%-of-your-overall-grade exams.

I have spoke on the subject of these exams multiple times, especially in my social studies class. As many readers will remember, social studies exams are often very difficult because the test covers a plethora of information that was absorbed over a long period of time.  For my social studies class, they need to be able to remember important facts, vocabulary, people, dates, etc. that they learned between September and January.  They need to recall information about the Renaissance, English Civil War, French Revolution, Napoleonic Era, Industrial Revolution, and early settlement of North American (from First Peoples to the War of 1812).  That is a giant chuck of history.

So, because of this, I have been constantly reminding them that they need to stay up to date with their interactive notebooks (basically a system of left-brain/right-brain organization that is al glued in one notebook making it IMPOSSIBLE to not know you are missing something, as the class works page by page together).  They had a test every chapter excluding the last section, as it is large chunk of the exam, which they were told.

When we came back from Christmas break, the plan was to spend about two weeks on the last chapter, and then a week on exam prep.  We discussed this plan when we came back so the class was up on the speed we needed to work at.  At the time, a couple of kids were shocked and horrified that there were exams.

"What!?! We have an exam," at least two kids exclaimed.

"Yes, kids, it was on your syllabus.  Remember?  All the information about the course and your grade?  First page in the interactive notebook..." I responded calmly.

About a week and a half ago, the exam schedule cam out.  I told my class the room the exam would be in (316); I told the class the time the exam would be at (9-11AM); I told them which teachers would be invigilating (lovely, lovely teachers); I told them the day of the week (Thursday); I told them the date (Jan. 28th).  Then, I wrote all this on the section of the board where I have always written their homework. All the valid and necessary info is in there right?  Maybe more than they really needed? That's what I thought.

My class did a two day prep activity in the library (it was AWESOME), a practice exam, a full block brainstorm on "big ideas" from the course with evidence proving all the times we covered that, and discussed the essay topics, spending two blocks creating outlines.  This was AFTER we I gave them a breakdown of the exam including the essay topics.  This was also AFTER they were given a schedule of all their exams in homeroom the week before.

Today: January 25th.  Grade 9s and 10s go to their classes for a bit more exam prep.  We have one and a half hours.  I have an awesome summarizing activity.

"Morning guys! Are you ready to get finished with social studies?  Just an hour and a half plus the exam and you are all done with this class.  Most of you..." I am interrupted.

"Wait! WHAT?!?" a student gasps looking shocked.

"What's wrong, hun?" I ask.

"We have an exam?"

After that I blacked out.  Not sure if I fainted, went into a rage comma, or died and went to the place only teachers go, but I came back from whatever happened.  All I know is that when I came to, no one had moved (although my hair was grey) and I simply let my jaw hang open before murmuring a "yes" with a nod.

I Like Your Face

You are probably asking yourself, "Where did this hip and crazy new saying come from?"  Well, I will tell you.

First, let me preface this by saying that all great things have an origin story.  Clearly.  Look at Wolverine.  He gets an entire movie to tell his origin story.  Look at Buffy; she got a movie as her origin story before the TV series.  Point proven.

So, like everything great, my blog title has an origin story.

The Scene: My grade 9 English class has been working on literature circles for the last week or so.  Once in a while, a group member will pose a question that encourages quite a debate; once in a while, that debate will become heated, although rarely so heated that I need to step in.


Student 1: Blah, blah, blah, I am right about whatever I am saying about the book.

Student 2: Blah, blah, blah, I am right about whatever I am saying about the book.

Student 1: Well, your face!

Student 2: No, your face!

Student 1: But, I like your face.

Student 2: I like your face, too.

Students resume discussion in a more civilized manner.  The bell goes at the end of the block.


Student 2: Bye, S1.  I like your face.

Student 1: I like your face, too, S2.

Mrs. B: Bye class; I like your faces.

Class: Bye, Ms. B! We like your face.

Note: Student 1, who essentially started this completely denies this happening.  Whenever I say, "I like your face" at the end of the block, he says, "I never said that!" and the class responds, "Yes, you did!"

Is France in England or Montreal?

The scene: grade 9 Social Studies, 3rd block of the day


Topic: Napoleon


Students: A completely normal group of 13/14 year olds, funny, kind, trying to learn 


Background: The class has studied geography, the English Civil War, the French Revolution, and the Napoleonic Era.  As a summarizing activity, the class is watching a DVD on Napoleon.  This DVD includes reenactments of battles.

Mrs. B: thinking, thinking


Class: watching, watching, watching the Battle of the Nile


Mrs. B: Kiddlets, I know I probably don't need to say this, but I hope you all realize these are reenactments of battles.  There is no actual footage.

Student 1: Duh, Ms. B.  What?!? Do you think we think they had, like, helicopters?

Mrs. B: Okay, okay.  Just checking!

10 minutes later...

A clip from a 1936 movie plays.

Student 1: So, wait, is this real footage?

Mrs. B: No, hun.  Still no recording cameras in the early 1800s.

Educational Assistant (EA): Wow, I really didn't think you needed to tell them that.

10 minutes later...

DVD: Napoleon retreated from the English back to Paris.

Student 2: Wait, wait, wait.  Pause. Pause. Wait.  I'm really confused.

Mrs. B: What's going on, hun?

Student 2: I thought that Paris was in England.

Mrs. B: No, Paris is the capital of France.

Student 2: I thought France was in England.

Student 3: No, France is in Montreal.

Mrs. B: Vomits and passes out because she is apparently a terrible teacher.  Still not sure if Student 3 was joking...

Test Blog

I like your face is the new way of saying "goodbye" to people you enjoy seeing regularly and will seen again fairly soon.