Three day weekend – pfffffffftttttttttt!
Malcolm X Day is a public holiday in Berkeley, and there is much that could be said of that, but what it translates to most immediately is a three-day weekend for me. Or, rather, it should. Instead of enjoying the pure bliss of an extra day of respite, or at least a day to whatever it is that I want to do, I will be spending anywhere from four to eight hours sitting for the CTEL exam. Oh, and it cost me around US$300 for the privilege.
What is the CTEL, you ask? It is the California Teacher of English Learners Exam. As someone who started teaching before CLAD/BCLAD and then left the state to teach in Nevada for nearly a decade before going overseas to teach English Learners (see what I did just there?) I am absent a specific “credential” that is required for me to teach in the state of California. Basically, I need to prove that I have the skills and knowledge to teach non-native English-speaking students.
Did I already mention the part where I taught in Asia for more than five years? Or that I started teaching in the SFUSD, a district with some 60 languages in their EL program? Or that I taught in schools that were hugely Latino for years on the other side of the Sierra?
I assume you can glean my irritation with this situation. [To be fair, my HR people really tried to find a way to grandfather me into this, but the State of California is not having it. Apparently five years of teaching English in foreign countries does not really make one qualified to teach English in America.]
In terms of practical knowledge, the test is quite easy, especially as I have been teaching ELs for well over a decade. The answers are logical, and I am well-practiced in the strategies and pedagogy that the CTEL promotes. But, passing this test will be another animal all together. It is not about practical knowledge or pedagogical expertise. It is about the language of three sets of “standards” that are meant to be incorporated into our teaching: One must be able to cite the ELA (English Language Arts) standards, as well as the supplemental RLA (Reading Language Arts framework) and the ELD (English Language Development instructional program) by name and number. Oh, and there are also the CTEL standards….
In a nutshell, all students are meant to make AYP (that would be Annual Yearly Progress) and meet the benchmarks in the ELA standards that indicate grade level proficiency. The ELD standards serve as “a guide to instructional intervention” designed to move those ELs not meeting grade level proficiency towards said grade level proficiency. And the RLA? Well that is a blueprint for how to implement that ELA standards. The CTEL standards are there to measure the standards and quality of teacher effectiveness.
Frankly, it is all a lot of BS that makes me want to SMH and IMHO is a total waste of time.
I am not convinced that knowing who is behind the different theories of language acquisition and development is going to make me a more effective teacher in the field. In any way. Further, I am unclear on how spending all this time trying to remember their names and their theories (Krashen and the imitation and learning hypothesis, Skinner and his behaviorist theory, Chomsky’s innateness theory with its LAD and CPT, Piaget’s cognitive theory, Bruner’s interactionist theory) when I could be cogitating on effective pedagogy (and my own lesson planning for my real, non-theoretical, students with whom I have only a few weeks left to get through more curriculum than is possible…)
And, while these guys all have interesting things to say about how and why people learn language with more, or less, success, it all comes down to the same stuff - always.
- Younger is better because young learners learn in more authentic ways
- The more time and support and validity you give to people’s native cultures and languages, the more comfortable they are trying to learn a new one and the better their attitudes are
- When people are around other people who speak a language they are trying to learn, they learn more
- When you help people understand how words work in a new language and how they are connected to their own, they learn faster
- And, as my graduate advisors always said, repetition is the heart of education
Anyone who has done any teaching, particularly with non-native English speakers (or in several instances that I can name, NON-English speakers) knows these things instinctively. Create a comfortable and fun and positive environment and people are willing to try harder (duh), answer questions, provide raw materials for learners to experiment with be it new words or pictures or movies or comics, or whatever. Talk. Talk to each other. Ask questions. Listen. Clarify. Engage.
It is basically an instruction list for any teacher, or any human really, who wants to engage with others.
So, there you go, now you do not have to buy any review books. [But you better get a hold of those standards - the four sets combined are more than 250 pages of 8.5 x 11 paper.] I did buy a book however. And my goodness, what a huge waste of my money and the paper used to print it. It was about ten pages in, into a book that is supposed to be about how to teach English, that I started to notice the typos. Forget basic editing errors of tense, subject-verb agreement and spelling, this book called Noam Chomsky “Chromsky”, confused “self-confidence” and “self-doubt”, juxtaposed letters in acronyms and mislabeled diagrams. To be fair, it was called the Monkey’s Guide, perhaps I should not have relied on my native speaker’s tendency to assume an idiom there and really understood that more literally.
No offense to the simians and their old world relatives.
So while many of my colleagues, and all of my students, are enjoying a day doing little to do with school, I will be trying to tick off that last little box for the CCTC. And all I can do is sit here and wonder, what would Malcolm X do??
Newsbriefs….
A day (or so) in the life of… well, me.
I came across a funny Twitter post the other day from a favorite blogger of mine.
And I just had to laugh. Yep. Pretty much.
Last Thursday was The Great Shake Out in California. This was a statewide earthquake preparedness initiative that all public offices, institutions, etcetera… were supposed to participate in. This included drills, training, disaster kit making, etcetera… I had seen the fliers around and was a bit surprised that we were not having a drill at school – but no bother, we have had so many false alarms this year, who needs another?
So, I sat on the table in front of my 6th period Government class looking out at them as we discussed the differences of being a good leader and a good politician. Everyone seemed to have a lot to say on the matter. And then… we heard something unfamiliar and I looked out across the faces of these high school seniors and immediately realized that I may be better suited to be a politician that an actual leader. I was watching them as they were watching me and I have to agree with Miguel that it is a shame we were not filming because really, the only thing missing was a copy of My Pet Goat in my hands. That is how ridiculous I was.
Leave it to the heart of the California public education system – Berkeley – to provide the best hands on Shake Out possible. No hypotheticals here, we were shaking, pretty much on the epicenter of a 4.3 quake. Winning.
There was another one when I got home. It turns out that Max does not care for earthquakes. Poor little guy. Matil kept right on eating.
Last Saturday was the first night of the 25th Annual Bridge School Benefit Concert. I am thrilled to say I got to go with three amazing women I have known since my days at UCSD. The show was awesome and continued my run of excellent live music since my return to America, one of the true bonuses, I must say. Highlights of the show included:
- Beck being a family guy
- Meeting the hot guy who sang for Santana
- Eddie Vedder and his ukulele
- Mumford and Sons playing songs I could distinguish (unlike Coachella)
- Dave Matthews making my girls all excited (#48 D? I am impressed.)
- Arcade Fire… loud and in charge
- Neil with them all
It was another great night – thank you D! And seriously, one of the best addictions I have – live music and cool people.
We are finishing up the first quarter at school this week. With a big old bang, I might add… We are right in the middle of Spirit Week. Apparently coinciding nicely with Halloween as everyone tells me I should be very afraid of the impending events. The scariest thing to me is that the decade of my high school glory days has become a dress up day. I completely empathize with how my mom felt back in the 80s when we were having 1960s/hippie day. Sheesh. Talk about recalling the worst a decade has to offer. I also now realize that the whole Foxxy Brown thing was way more 70s that 60s and tie-day is a pretty narrow view of your entire youth, mom. Sorry.
The Occupy Movement is carrying on, and I have to say, in it’s perseverance I think it gains strength. I am pleased to see people making a real effort to make a difference. Still, when I head towards the Haight for my Sunday yoga class I have to say, you little aggressive vagrants are not helping. Running up into people’s faces and yelling “Occupy!” as if you are trying to channel Heath Ledger’s performance as the Joker is not only counterproductive, it is unoriginal. If you cannot tell me explicitly why you are protesting, STFU: this is not some stupid excuse to justify your suspect habits. This is real. Let it be real.
Make it real.
Speaking of which, let us not forget the long overdue shout out to my New Zealand All Blacks on their run through the Rugby World Cup culminating with a victory over France on the 23rd…
And that is all the news that is fit to print.
For now.
A New Situation.
Whenever people ask me about living in Hong Kong they are always curious about the cost of living (well, whenever people my age ask anyhow… there is quite a wide range of questions from the less chronologically proximal demographics). The thing about Hong Kong for me was that it actually was not that expensive. Let me clarify: the necessary costs of living were not that expensive (anyone who knows me is familiar with my tenuous and ambiguous relationship with the need v. want conundrum).
I chose to live in a kind of unusual place, which was not super popular with Package Ex-Pats and true Hong Kongers. Lamma was too far away, they said. The gweilo ghetto, they said. Among other far more odious comments. But it all kept the cost down. I found a great place to live, surrounded be people who stayed removed from the Peyton Place style drama of the main ex-pat hub in Yung Shue Wan. I busied myself with off island activities. By off-island activities I must admit I mean work, at least for the majority of the time I as in Asia. So, I used my home – all 750 square feet of it (with three – yes THREE – bedrooms) – as my place of rest and respite. Unless I was hosting a party, which was known to happen fairly regularly.
So that was the equation. I had a fairly inexpensive living situation (about US$800/month), which was compounded by transportation costs (a boat was required to get off the island) that ended up being about US$300/mo. I pay upwards of US$1500 in San Francisco for about 500 square feet and comparable transportation costs (not matched by service at all, thank you very much Bart.) I spent about US$1100 on the most basic costs there and here it is about US$1800. Another important variable in this equation however, concerns salaries and additional costs of living.
In terms of absolute values, there is not a huge difference here. Though, I would say it is significant and there are other little things here, like banking fees are stupid (I am talking to YOU Wells Fargo), I pay a fee for Netflix (possibly worth it, though I think more expensive than just buying my pirated discs over there), vet care is more expensive, and there are a few other miscellaneous costs I foot here that I did not there. However, behold the chart below.
State of Emergency: Have you heard it all before?
This week was the “week of action” organized by the California Teachers’ Association, which included a series of demonstrations, protests and rallies. While in some ways I find this kind of grass-roots action inspiring and invigorating, I found myself feeling frustrated as a San Francisco resident who teaches in an East Bay community that is basically a satellite of the Cal community. It was the definitive “preaching to the choir” conundrum. The people who are willing to hear about the current crisis in education already support education in every way that they can. It is very frustrating.
The situation is pretty simple. As a nation, we have a compulsory education requirement, and as such, we promise to provide a free public education to our people (I am not using the term ‘citizen’ here intentionally, though the D.R.E.A.M. Act is a topic for another discussion altogether.) The idea of public education goes way back. Way, way, WAY back. Thomas Jefferson was the first leader to propose a universal public education system in the late 18th Century. In spite of the fact that the state of Texas has voted to remove Jefferson from their curriculum (would that I had not already expounded so prolifically on irony!) most of America seems to think Ole T.J. is worth considering at least to some degree. If you, like Texas, have found him to be a little too “Out there” for your more modern sensibilities, do consider that a few others who vouched for public education around the same time were Benjamin Rush, Noah Webster, Robert Coram and George Washington. They can’t all suck.
Once the United States began trying to stand tall on its own feet, it seems that education did become somewhat of a priority and the elitist approach of the traditional European approach was counter to the whole “Democracy” gig they were trying to pull off out here.
And then, we were off and running.
Far West Flower Fest…
Walking at Point Reyes National Seashore near Inverness with Ron on a grey Monday.
Deconstructing my California mythology
I am back in my hometown, or at least the town that was my home for more years than most other places, and during those dangerously formative years. It is pretty cool to be here: everyone can do with a soft landing spot. And now I am looking around and comparing the apparent reality to the mythology I have been carrying around with me as an expat these past few years. Everyone has a million opinions, suggestions and warnings for the expat who chooses to repatriate. The information varies wildly depending on who is offering it (what their state of mind is, where they are, when they left home, why they are in the places they are… your basic 5 W’s of life.) I have heard that there is some sort of expat re-entry shock. 48 hours in I am not feeling it. Some of my expat friends chalk this up to the fact that I always said I would come back to California, but I am not sure. It could just be that California is a nice place to re-enter. I have also heard that people who go domestic after an extended international foray find the life they left far more provincial than they remember. Fortunately (I guess?) I was always snobby enough about Petaluma that I am well familiar with its provincial nature.
I have held a lot of ideas in my head about the America I would return to. I certainly knew it was not the easiest time to come back, but sometimes you just have to jump. For a good amount of time I have been listening to people say “all Americans are fat,” “all Americans are dumb,” “all Americans are racist,” “all Americans are lazy,” “all Americans are exploitative imperialist bastards…” Of course, anyone who starts a sentence “all…” has issues (which in this case is a euphemism for being an idiot) and so there is really no reason to rebut them or engage in any way, because they are not going to hear you. But for my friends who are interested in conversations about why I would want to come back to the US, I have always been willing to share. I want to live in a place where I am not surrounded by smokers, I really, really loathe cigarettes. I want to live in a place with clean air. I want to be closer to my family. I want to live somewhere I can date. Yeah, I said it, and Imma cop to it.
It’s a Shocker.
I have a friend in Hong Kong who I have mentioned here before… I call her Frenchie. Because she is French. Not original, but catchy enough that it has become a bit of a nom d’jour. Or I could just be feeling self-important. Regardless, I mention Frenchie tonight for this reason: We have nothing in common. Seriously. It has become somewhat of a joke because it is pretty much a guarantee that if I like something she will hate it, and I have to say, if she likes it, I think it is pretty much garbage. Ironically, this has actually worked to our advantage and having our one commonality be that we have a shared mutual disregard for the preferences of the other turns out to be something pretty significant to have in common. She is the perfect one to share food with – she loves what I hate. We will never fight over the last anything because for sure if she wants it, I definitely do not. I like cats, she says she likes dogs (though she refers to N & M as her niece and nephew… or wait, that could be me… I don’t even remember). She likes pâté, I like vegetables. She likes bright colorful clothes, I like black. She likes heavy reds, I like Pinot. She likes the outside of the brie, I like only the middle. She hates to plan, and you know how I feel about that. She thinks the internet is crap, (and though I am starting to see her point of view there, I am resistant to giving it up…) She likes white chocolate, I like the darkest you can find. She hates the word “fuck” and counts how many times she hears it in the American movies she cannot stand but watches to humor me, and well, you know how I feel about the world’s most versatile word… You get the idea; we are a veritable Bert and Ernie. And yes, I am certainly the Bert.
Anyhow, on the odd chance that we ever do agree on anything, we always laugh, and it is a guarantee for a good conversation.
Tonight, Frenchie brought a movie over to watch – and it could not have been more perfect for the two of us. It is called “Bottle Shock.” [Imagine my surprise on seeing the DVD cover that it was called Bottle SHOCK as ever since she has been talking about this film I thought she was saying Bottle SHOP. Just one more area where we make it work - I cannot count the times where one of us has told an entire story to the other only to realize at the culmination of the long and inevitably circuitous and detailed account, the other has no appropriate response to offer as comprehension was lost from the second sentence. Now we just look at each other and say, "You have no idea what I am talking about do you?" And carry on.] But Bottle Shop Shock was an interesting call.
The premise of the movie is about the introduction of delicious (me) rubbish (Frenchie) California wine into the snobby (me) discerning (Frenchie) wine culture of France. And it was pretty good. The movie made me incredibly homesick with the sweeping views of the Napa and Sonoma Valleys – I come from one of the most amazing places on the planet – and I think for Frenchie the scenes of Paris and France in the Seventies had the same effect. It was a funny shared sentiment. While we watched the movie we shared a bottle of Sonoma County Zinfandel. We both liked it. We also had some cheese and crackers (I ate the middle of the brie, she the rinds.) And we had some black pepper Boursin as well, which we both agreed was inferior to the garlic variety. We were freakishly in synch.
Oh, and we totally agreed on the presentation of the Brits in the film, but then, that is one of our few and far between standard shared sentiments. [As when Alan Rickman's character says, "Because you think I'm an arsehole. And I'm not, really. I'm just British and, well... you're not." A mutual nod took place. Or when Dennis Farina's character says, "Where I'm from, they call it a left-handed compliment. They don't have a name for it in England: it's too ingrained in their culture." We both totally get it.]
The film has a great cast [and the California rental car is a Gremlin, seriously, rad] - and though it is admittedly lighter fare than say, Sideways (not to mention lacking Thomas Hayden Church – though Farina is a good call, I can’t ever really dissociate him from Get Shorty…) it is a fun little film along with which to throw back a nice bottle of a California vintage.
And you might just realize that the things you think are so different might not actually be all that discernibly oppositional in nature at the end of the day.
Describe The World You Come From. Are you kidding?
The University of California asks the following of all of their potential Freshman:
Describe the world you come from — for example, your family, community or school — and tell us how your world has shaped your dreams and aspirations.
I have been spending a lot of time contemplating this directive over the past few months as a great many of my students are applying to the University of California’s various campuses. Well, actually, only three of the campuses are Hong Kong Approved [meaning they have enough name brand appeal]: Berkeley, UCLA and UCSD (go me!) But a lot of students are applying to those three.
And so here they sit, seventeen and strung out on college applications: “The World They Come From.” How best to approach such a task? Can you answer the question with a single answer? Can anyone definitively say, “I am From X” anymore? The students I work with are (generally) multinational, multilingual, transoceanic, multiracial people. Few of them could say they have lived in one place for their entire lives. Where are they from? Is it where they were born? Where they started school? Where they finished school? The country from which they received their [first] passport? The country their dad is from? The place their grandparents are from? How about where their mom is from? A very smart man once told me, it is always a question of scale. [I ♥ geographers.]
And that is only the first step.
I gotta say, I am truly envious of these kids in some ways. This topic is one I have dreams of writing a dissertation about. Seriously. I find it fascinating.
A Festivus for the Rest of Us!!!
I work too much. This is not a cool thing to say right now as everyone is facing the impending doom of the financial crisis, but the fact remains: I.Work. Too. Much. The costs of this are significant on my health and well-being. So, it is time to, as my friend Dr. Paul Starrs would say, “Take a cure.” And I am going to do just that.
So here I go, my own personal Festivus. Details as of yet are not firm, but the itinerary is looking to include:
- Street Scene
- Burning Man
- Races in Del Mar
- Everything in SF
- SD North County and then some
- P-Town – going old school
- Sandpoint Parental Connection
- Seattle…
- Bodega Bay mas familia
- Reno (sometimes you have to take one for the team)
- Santa Fe mas familia
- Monterey y mas familia
I’m gonna be like The Man in Black himself…
Reminders.
Once upon a time there was a girl who thought that things should be a certain way. And she believed that because she thought they should be, that they would be. [We forgive this girl certain sillinesses because she was in her twenties...] This girl was sort of a late bloomer into the girlie ways of things but it was okay, by the time she hit her twenties she had a boyfriend, which seemed to be the point of all things at that juncture for some reason.
So, she was successful. Things were as they should be.
But then she got a little bit bored. A big transition was approaching: she was graduating from college and would be heading to Europe for a while, and then off to unknown, but certainly thrilling and impressive and amazing things, that should be. She decided to remedy this feeling of moderate angst by taking a road trip and seeing a Show, as she did. She would meet her friends and hang out and smile and dance and laugh, as you should. And there would also be this other rather interesting individual there who she had met at another Show long before… sleeping on the floor in a crowded hotel room in Northern California… was it the Ramada? Who knows, but she certainly remembered the boy on the floor.
After being deposited at a very specific entrance to the Show she met her friends and the boy was there. And it was nice. She believed this was now how it should be.
And so it was.
She graduated a month later, spent the summer playing in the Southern California surf and then headed home for a week before heading off off to the Mediterranean where obvious adventures awaited. While biding time in Northern California she turned 23 and went to see Peter Gabriel with the boy from the floor who made her smile and tickled her brain.
Then she went to Europe, because travel is what she wanted to do. More than anything: to travel and to take pictures. Many years later she would forget that this had always been what she wanted to do, but right then she knew, as you should.
While she was in Europe she listened to very specific music: and though now it seems too obvious a ploy to name the music as the boy, who is now a man, might read this story but let us anyways. The Grateful Dead; The Stereo MCs; Peter Gabriel. Over and over and over again.
When she came back from Europe she was very disoriented and amiss. She took this out on the boy who stood by her all the while. As he should have. She talked about all the things she would do one day. All places she would go. When she met his family, he told her later that they liked her a lot, but that they worried.
Why?
Because they think you want something you can’t have. Here.
What? No…
She couldn’t imagine that he wouldn’t be able to give her everything that she wanted. That was how she thought it should be. So that is how it would be. But she never really asked him. And then it happened: she decided that she had to do something else and she didn’t ask him and it made him angry and confused. As it would have, and of course, as it should have.
Twelve years later, she found him on an insidious internet social network and she dared to say: Is it you? She had looked for him before but it was now that she found him because it was now that she could, so she would. Yes. It. Is.
Now can we be friends?
He has made a beautiful life for himself… a beautiful family and a beautiful wife. He is happy and peaceful. And they talked and said what they should have said a long time ago. I am sorry. And she looked at his life with a bit of benevolent envy and so he gave her the gift of a lifetime:
He said: You are doing what you always said you wanted to do, remember?
And then she did.
And she smiled right where she was.
A song.
I know a guy who writes songs.
And these songs are really good.
And one night we walked away from a party in pajamas to look at the Pacific Ocean.
And then he wrote a song about me.
Thank you John…
Congratulations to you and Judi……
See you soon someday.
Amanda
