Autogestione (self-management)

No matter how many times the profs half-explain it to me, I still don't fully get it. This is the week of autogestione, which means the kids run their own lessons. Or study by themselves. Or don't run their own lessons and hang out in the hall, buying packaged snacks and shots of espresso from the vending machines and drawing hearts on each other's faces. Either way, if they want they can kick out the teacher and take over class themselves.

BUT don't think that you can hang out at home, or godforbid explore the city, do something adventurous. You must be at school. Maybe the kids will want you, maybe they will decide to have lessons. You never know. I waited a little bit with Ms. R because she wasn't sure whether the kids in her 2G class would decide to autogestire or not. Probably not, she said, because she had heard they wanted to paint their classroom instead. Still, we waited until a little before the class started when we could see the registro, which had the records of the previous lessons that day. Sure enough, autogestione. No class.

It was nice to have a bit of a break, however. I hung out in the teacher's lounge all morning, figuring out my schedule for the next few weeks, planning tutoring for this afternoon, reading Absalom, Absalom! (I gave it as a gift to Fabbro, then realized that I didn't remember it at all and better re-read it).

The profs were feeling gregarious. Ms. R came up to me to ask me what I was reading. Then later, while I was at the computer, she asked me to borrow it. Then she asked what I was doing on the internet (finding photos for story prompting). Then she came and sat by me while she read so she could ask me about words she didn't know.

Ms. S also came to talk to me while I was at the computer, which delighted me because even though she always has lovely ideas for our classes together, sometimes she is a little cold towards me. She told me about a K-12 creative writing organization called 826 Valencia in San Francisco, as well as other organizations whose newsletters she subscribes to. She talked about the city with such a longing, I hadn't known she had lived there. We agreed to do something with creative writing in our next classes together. She seemed very happy, excited.

Every conversation seems to start with an almost-accusatory "What are you doing?" What is that American up to now? They're just curious.

Ok, now I know: Autogestione = bonding with profs

Teacher's pets and favorites

Never the twain shall meet...

FAVORITES
I've been thinking about the teacher/student dynamic a lot in these past days. For a teacher, what is playing favorites? Is having favorites okay? Because I definitely have them. I try my absolute best not to show it, but I have them. For example, there's a girl in one of my younger classes, A, who always has a smile on her face, wears brightly colored sweaters and turquoise pants, does her best to speak in class, and plays in a band. If I were 15, I would want to be best friends. Does it show in my face when I walk in the class that I am in love with her? I sure hope not. I don't look at her more than the others, I call on (torture) everyone as equally as I can. But after a sometimes full and stressful week, a smiling face like hers plus the seemingly genuine desire to learn absolutely delights me, and I look forward to that class.
Alla fine, though I may have favorites, I won't play favorites.

TEACHER'S PETS
I haven't encountered too many teacher's pets in these months (perhaps because I don't actually give grades), but the quality of the few I've encountered has been quite high. For example, R, a handsome boy at Parini passionate about cooking, sailing, and French classics, never misses an opportunity to ingratiate himself. He's the first to help me if something isn't going right (like when the CD player wouldn't work, cazzo, I'm 22 years old, I shouldn't need help with these things!). Today as I arrived in class, I gave the erasers a sideways glance and commented that they looked very white, someone must have made lots of mistakes. He immediately collected them and took them to the window to beat them against the sill, only to discover that they were, in fact, white erasers. I can't help but smile. No one has ever run to clap erasers for me before, but it ain't gonna help him pass the FCE.

It's a delicate balance to maintain, the democracy of the classroom. Every student has a right to my attention, and I try to give it equally, even though to some I would like to give more, and to others I would like to give less...

Our families

Today in my 4th year class with Ms. B (finally I get to return to her class), we improvised. I had thought that it was my first time with the class, so I thought I would do my usual introduction, my life story, ask them their life story sort of deal. I told this to Ms. B as we were running in opposite directions down the hall, and she gave the okay over her shoulder. In the next period though, she stopped me and said, "You've already seen this class before!" Oops. I had thought my schedule had changed, but it was the same class I had alternated seeing the last section. I was just confused. So we decided to talk about our families. Luckily, by this point I am pretty good at improvising.

I told them about my family, how my great-grandfather had named my grandmother, one of four girls, Benny Jean because he wanted a boy. How my grandfather traveled Alabama as a pastor, moving from parish to parish ("What? I don't understand. He works with sheep? Like in Sardegna?"). How when they got divorced, my grandmother went to college and became a social worker. How my mother left Alabama, became a professor, and traveled to South Carolina. How my father was raised by his mother, after his father died of a heart attack, in the heart of Minnesota. How he traveled the northeast and then to South Carolina, also as a professor. My brother, a half brother whole feels like a whole one. Me. But we had already been over me.

These are the stories of two of my students...

N is Rwandan. His parents fell in love while on a school trip to San Francisco, and when they got back they got married. They had three children, including N. the youngest, before they moved to Italy "because there was a war." They stayed together for a little while before they divorced. His father went to London, where he remarried and had other children. His mother stayed in Milan, where she worked for a firm, and raised the children. I asked N if he went to London often, and he said never, he didn't know his father. His oldest sister works in a bank and wants to be "an important manager." His other sister studies at Politecnico with his brother. I said, "Oh, so you're the baby of the family," and he replied, "Yes, but I'm the tallest. I beat my brother at basketball."

A is Italian. He claims his parents met while working together in the United States, fell in love, and got married in Las Vegas. Ms. B and I didn't believe him, "Are you kidding?" but he swore it was true. I asked him how his parents met in the U.S. and he said, "I don't want to know, I don't want to think about it!" I asked him if he had any pets, and he said a big dog named Timmy, but don't blame him for the name because it's his mom's fault.

The stories you hear...

P.S. Today as my regular reward candy, Ms. R gave me truffle-flavored white chocolate. I found it pretty gross, I don't dig truffles. I fear offending her, but I also fear the replacement of the usual chocolate-covered cherry or PocketCoffee with mushroom chocolate. Dilemma.