Dear Sir Minister Cameron.....

It’s been one of my various jobs, over the past ten years, to teach English as a Foreign Language at a local college, not far from N-o-T.

When I first began, the Government of the Day, in its wisdom, had decreed that EU nationals, asylum seekers and those in receipt of benefits could avail themselves of free English lessons. It was also a time which hailed the start of an impressive influx of people from Poland into the UK. I had started teaching in February, and the following September, at the start of the academic year, my new class numbered some 48 students, of which 60% were Polish. Not so much teaching as crowd control! A number of additional teachers were swiftly recruited, as lessons had turned into a huge game of musical chairs as the number of students increased exponentially week-on-week, whilst the number of chairs and table remained at the same level.

Now, some ten years on, many of the Polish students I knew in those days have returned to Poland, although I still bump into a few from the early days, very settled in the local area.

My classes today are a much more multinational affair. This term, I have 14 students (the numbers now are much more manageable, and have been since the Government stopped free lessons: they were “too successful”). The mix of nationalities mirrors much of what we hear in the media. Of my 14 souls, four are Spanish, two Greek, two Portuguese, one Russian, one Pole, one Slovak, two Indians and a Colombian. The last two years have seen a significant increase in the numbers of students from southern Europe, whilst there are very few Poles these days.

In my local area, which may not be representative of the demographic elsewhere, most of these people are either au pairs, or work in catering and hospitality. A surprisingly large number also work as carers for the elderly or in care homes. I read (when I can’t avoid it) with some confusion and dismay the reports of immigrants being in receipt of benefits, housing, handouts and support, and wonder where these people live. Because I’ve never met any migrants who conform to that profile. 

Not only do they all work, but they give up 5 hours a week after work to attend English lessons. And they work hard at that, too. They attend regularly, they ask for the work they’ve missed if they can’t come, they do homework and they work their socks off in class.  And they pay for the privilege.

Last week, we had a lesson about the EU, the UK and the latter’s current approach (or that of the current Government of the Day) to the former. Mr Cameron’s current pronouncements on the EU and immigration have most of them flummoxed. 

“So”, they asked “if we go home, will English people want to do our jobs?”

“I have never seen an English person apply for a job where I work” said one “until this year. This year we took on three English people. They lasted just 3 weeks”

“ We pay tax and National Insurance” they said “And we don’t use the NHS”

“I expected to come here and be a waitress” said one Spanish girl – she and her partner are in my class “but we both found jobs in IT, which is what we’re qualified in, and they were really pleased to have us”

“ We are contributing to the cultural mix in the UK” they said “And it’s what we love about being here: the diversity”

So I asked them, for homework, to write a letter to Mr Cameron, telling him how they felt and what they thought.

All of them did a great job. They expressed themselves, within the limitations of their command of English, with eloquence and clarity.  At a time when I’ve been questioning whether I want to continue doing this job at all, they made me remember why I love it.

Here’s a letter from a lady who is a grandmother, and whose grandchildren and children are back in Poland. I’d like David Cameron AND Nigel Farage to read lots more letters like this:

Dear Sir Minster Cameron (OK, a bit of work to do here…)
I writing to you, a Polish immigrant, living alone in the UK almost 7 years.

Last time you said that “Migrant jobseekers who don’t bother to learn English will be stripped of benefits”

So I’m learning English, I’m watching only English TV and I’m reading newspapers every day.
I’m working all the time and don’t use the benefits. I’m working in English company, I have a contract for work. My employers are happy of me because I respect my work and carry out their/my diutes well. All this time I pay tax and insurance.

I have many of English Friends at work. We often meet after work. We cook together and talk about English and Polish culture, history, music and literature.

Sometimes we go out to a restaurant, to the cinema or a pup.

I live in this country, sought to make something good for him..And therefore I don’t understand why you don’t like Polish immigrants.

Sometimes, when I’m out and about in Nowhere-in-France, I have the misfortune to come across people, British people, who wax lyrical about “(*)(*^&%^! Immigrants  in the UK” and how it’s “one of the reasons we left”

For me, they’re one of the reasons I stay. And why I don’t think there’s anywhere else I’d rather be. Unless some idiot in Westminster decides to spoil it all.

I love my job..

A couple of weeks ago, I was asked to take on a new class at a local children’s centre attached to a school. It was billed as a “Communication Skills” class, and I was told that there would be seven or eight students with a similar level of English.

I’m about to embark on week three. Week one wasn’t too bad. One lady was clearly more advanced than the others: I did a class on parts of the body and visiting the doctor, and at the end I found out that back in her own country (Japan) she’s a nurse.. Oops! The three Polish students can speak a little but write next to nothing. This was demonstrated when, on filling in their registration forms, all three ticked their ethnic origin as being “White Irish”. The Romanian lady understands some things, but can’t write either, so I had to fill in her form. I spent a good five minutes trying to extract her date of birth from her, including miming rocking a baby and singing “Happy Birthday to you” whilst she shuffled through her purse, bringing out her National Insurance card (no birthdate) and a handful of supermarket receipts (ditto). We got there in the end, but I was beginning to see the magnitude of the task ahead.

Week two was a surprise. Half the students seemed to have decided to bring a friend, so my seven had grown to eleven, of whom three spoke not a word of English. Now things got difficult. If I gave the more advanced ones something to do, the non-English-speakers sat silently looking lost, and if I spent time with the beginners, the more advanced group had finished their work and were discussing other things.  The Polish and Bangladeshi contingents help each other, so that works. The Romanian lady brought her friend, so they can at least sit together for moral support. The Hungarian lady went rigid with fear every time I looked her way. The Venezuelan lady, who came with her husband (he speaks English so he went home), sat looking petrified and then gave me a bear hug at the end and said “Thank you”..although I’m not quite sure what I did!

They can all introduce themselves, so that was a start. By dint of struggle, I’ve learned that between them they have 26 children, all or most of whom were born in the UK, and many of whom must therefore speak English, but that hasn’t helped their parents.  They’re all really lovely people and anxious to learn, so the onus is on me to deliver, but this one’s a real challenge.

It’s only two hours, but if anyone’s driving around the Surrey/Berkshire borders tomorrow at about lunchtime and sees a woman in a little car, gripping the steering wheel with a glazed expression and with her hair sticking out all over the place, don’t worry. It will mean I’ve survived another week.

Documentation, Dead Birds and Darkness

Yesterday was a funny old day back in Nowhere-on-Thames.

It was the day of my once-in-a-blue moon teaching observation at college, so my boss was due to attend my evening class and check whether I’d forgotten how to teach.  As I’ve said before, I hesitate to use the term “teacher” to describe myself, lest I am found out, so I always assume that THIS will be the occasion when the finding-out happens.

The worst part of the process (for me, anyway) is that there appears to be an unhealthy obsession with paperwork.  There’s nothing (in my view) more likely to stifle any spontaneity and naturalness in a class of students than someone who is following a lesson plan so prescriptive that every move, activity and behaviour is documented and timed. However, someone in the Department for Education and Skills, or whatever it’s called this week, has decreed that we need to document everything, and It Shall Be So. 

Armed with my seven page Scheme of Work, my  three page Lesson Plan (later deemed “lacking in detail” – give me strength!) I was about to sally forth and be observed, when the reason for the cat’s incessant mewing revealed itself. He was sitting on the stairs in a small cloud of feathers, tucking into a bird. Yeuk!

This was not good news.. I was planning to arrive at college a little earlier than usual, so as to prepare for my class and appear calm, organised and ready long before the appointed hour. I had NOT factored into my plans the extra time required to dispose of a dead bird and a duvet’s-worth of feathers, or to scrub the resultant stains from the landing carpet. The cat sensed my displeasure and did a runner. I arrived at college with enough time to spare, but a little warmer and more frazzled  than planned.

The college part went well. I’d organised a food tasting in order for the students to learn some new adjectives to describe tastes, textures and give opinions, and they seemed to have fun. The Italian students were particularly impressed with haggis, to the point that one of them willingly took all the leftovers home for his dinner!

Arriving home in the car, I approached the front door to find the house in darkness. I initially took this as a sign that TH had decided to have an early night, and made a mental note to remind him that my eyesight is not good enough to find the keyhole in such gloom.  Eventually, after several abortive attempts to insert the key in the lock, I succeeded, only to walk in and see TH sitting at the dining table bathed in candlelight. Ran a mental check…not my birthday or TH’s, too early for Mothers’ Day, too late for Valentine’s Day, Wedding anniversary next month…”We’re having a power cut”, said TH.

It was the strangest power cut I’ve ever experienced. After a candlelight search of the Yellow Pages (lucky I hadn’t thrown them away: who uses them any more when Google is so handy?) we found a number to call, and a recorded voice told us that we were in the same boat as most of the Greater Nowhere area.  A “Problem” had been discovered and was being investigated. This was especially odd, as our immediate neighbours’ house was bathed in light, as were several of the houses opposite. Neighbours were, despite the lateness of the hour, milling in the street, trying to see what was going on. One house opposite us, divided into flats, had power to the ground floor flat, but upstairs was in darkness. Another neighbour, driving home, had crossed a bridge over the M4 motorway just as a whole section of it plunged into darkness as the street lights went out.

Lessons were learned:

• -        A Kindle is rubbish by candlelight
• -        A gas hob is a godsend as long as it doesn’t take you over an hour to remember that you    can light it when there’s no electricity
• -         Never  hide your candles in the darkest corner of the house
• -         Torches are only useful if they contain batteries

TH and I retired to bed to sleep through the power cut, trudging upstairs like Mr and Mrs Wee Willie Winkie with our candles and glum expressions.

This morning, normal service had been resumed, but it seems we were without power for a good seven hours. The only positive thing was that, owing to my absence in Nowhere-in France last week, TH had eaten his way through most of the contents of the freezer!

The Wrong Kind of French

It’s that time of year….you know, the one where someone from Network Rail  or some BBC reporter stands in a street full of snowdrifts and tells us we’ve got no trains/electricity/gas/sanity because of “the wrong kind of snow” (who knew?). Over much of the UK and Europe, people have been waking up (or even going to bed) to a blanket of white. Most of them seem to have eschewed the idea of grabbing a blanket, hot water bottle or extra firewood in favour of a camera. Facebook is a veritable winter wonderland of “views from my window” shots of whiteness. I am typing this very blog entry whilst gazing out onto my white-ish back garden. Spots of colour are peeking through, though, ‘cos it’s already melting. I’d add a photo but it’s already too late and one person’s snow-covered garden looks very much like another’s, so I feel I’m sparing you.

But I’ve just found out that the snow isn’t the only thing of which we can have a wrong kind. No, apparently, there’s also the wrong kind of French. 

My morning scan of some of the Internet’s vast number of Francophile forums revealed that a number of  people appear to be having problems mastering the French language because, back in the UK, they’d poured their hearts and their money into learning the wrong kind of French. And to top it all, the French haven’t been sent the memo, so they’re being most uncooperative and speaking some lazy colloquial version of their own language, showing no regard for those who have learned proper French as she is spoke.  In a typo sent from heaven, one person complained that her French acquaintances appeared to be speaking “patios”.  An interesting thought, but about as unlikely as a talking conservatory.

I’ve been to this place called Patios, though. And no, it’s not a Greek Island. People aren’t speaking patois as often as they are slang, and I well remember having to come to terms with the realisation that French slang has an alternative word for almost everything. On my first long-term stay in France in the mid-1970’s, I met so much slang that I was initially convinced I’d been sent to the wrong country. After a while, though, it does fall into place. And it’s not nearly as confusing as discovering that your college tutor, happily married to the same woman for a fair number of years, calls his wife “Vous”. Now, if that doesn’t fly in the face of what the textbooks say, I don’t know what does.

Now that I’ve become what might loosely be described as a “teacher” (I admit to feeling somewhat embarrassed to use the term in case a real teacher comes along and I get found out), I do see both sides of this situation. Of course, when we learn a foreign language, we are taught the correct way of using the grammar and of forming sentences with grammatically proper structures. But, as we know with our native language, rules are made to be broken. I’ve just counted the number of sentences in this post that start with a conjunction, for example, and if I was a better person, I might feel shame. But I’m not ;-)

With my adult learners, though, I seem to run into a regular problem. Many have a strong foundation in French, well-remembered from their schooldays. They also have the benefit of maturity and wisdom commensurate with their age. Why, then, do they so often seem to go into some sort of mental meltdown if I tell them that they MAY have learned to say “X”, but that the majority of French people say “Y”?? Sometimes, I will get as far as being able to convince people to use a more relaxed and informal turn of phrase, only to meet them again for the next lesson and find that they’ve reverted to speaking like Louis XIV because that’s what they learned thirty years ago.

There is a beautiful illustration of this phenomenon in one of my favourite French films ever, “Etre et Avoir”,  (To be and to have) the story of a teacher in a single-classroom school in rural France. Originally made as a documentary, it charts a year in the life of this school and its extraordinarily dedicated teacher, Georges Lopez. If you haven’t seen it, I encourage you to do so. Even with subtitles it’s well worth watching.  It contains the following scene, which goes some way to show that the French do try, very hard and from an early age, to learn the RIGHT kind of French, but unfortunately, the wrong kind of French is deeply ingrained. Meanwhile, this side of the Channel, we’re learning the right kind of French and, if numbers of British migrants to France increase enough, who knows, one day we might be able to save the French language from dumbing down…..

I can’t find a clip of this with English subtitles, and you’ll need to watch it from about 2 minutes 20 into the clip, but the children are using the word “ami” or “amie” (friend) to learn the difference between masculine and feminine noun endings. However, one small boy is NOT prepared to give up easily on using the word “copain”  (mate). He will probably be in his late teens by now (as the film was released in 2002), and actively engaged in confusing well-meaning British people who have learned all about “ami” and “amie”, but are blissfully ignorant of “copain” and “copine”…