What I thought I taught

It was a busy Sunday afternoon at Winners, the local fashion bargain spot. I studied the lines and joined the one that seemed to be moving quickly. It was not marked ‘express’ but the speed of the cashier almost made it so. She wasted not a second between scanning, cashing and bagging. There was something familiar about the white teeth in the wide smile, the flip of the smooth black bob and the sceptical almond eyes. It would have been nice if I could have recalled her name but all that came to me was a busy girl in the back of a Grade 8 classroom – gossiping, flirting and, occasionally, paying attention to me.
My turn came soon. As I put my single item on the counter, the girl looked up. Her eyes widened in recognition. Pointing a slender finger at me she shouted for the whole store to hear:
“You! You are that French teacher!”
The checkout line at Winners is hardly where one expects to be picked out and accused. All those around me turned at the dramatic charge. Were they expecting some revelation of language abuse?
“What? What did I do?”
“You showed us The Last of the Mohicans and fast forwarded through the sexy parts!”
“And what did you do?”
“I went home and told my brother to go and rent that movie so that I can see all of it!”
“And did you?”
“Oh, yes, I love that movie. I watched it three times.”
The line slowed down considerably as we got caught up on our lives since the year together at the Middle School in the North end of Hamilton. We had both left la Langue behind but we agreed that it had been a good year.
The Last of the Mohicans was brand new that year. As I watched it I realised it dove-tailed beautifully with the Grade 8 reader, the story of the heroism of Madeleine de Verchères who in 1692 held her father’s fort for eight days against the Iroquois. The reader came in comic strip format with ample illustration and an even balance between narrative and dialogue. It was easy for my students to identify with the fourteen year-old Madeleine and her twelve year-old brothers, home alone, manning the bastions, firing the cannon, rescuing the unsuspecting family of Pierre Fontaine and tricking the enemy with brazenness and noise. The exciting events naturally lent themselves to dramatization. Girls fought over the part of the seventeenth century folk heroine.
“Aux armes! Aux armes! could be heard in the hallways and corridors, normally in the grip of Franco phobia, as groups boisterously practised their re-enactments.
“It’s play as you learn,” I explained unapologetically to the raised eyebrows in the staffroom.
There was, however something about the book that bothered me:  the menacing silhouettes of the Iroquois enemy lurking in the shadows offset the portrayal of the protagonists as courageous and cunning. To my tender sensitivities it looked like stereotyping and I was glad there were no children from the Six Nations in my class. But I did not want to make a political meal out of it so The Last of the Mohicans came as a boon; it would allow my students not only to see the Indians in historical context but would show them that not all Indians were devious and cruel. It would also provide an opportunity to point out the manipulation of the native tribes by their various ‘great white fathers’. In fact, I was hoping the political meal would be made for me.
I realised I would have to rent the movie personally and, not only that, take my own VCR to school since the Board of Education only had BETA players. I also would have to have my rationale for showing a commercial movie not approved by the AV department at the board. Just in case someone should ask. But in that North End school someone seldom asked as long as the behavioural problems were contained. And as the school year was drawing to a close everyone knew, especially in that school, that educational goals took precedence over calming the hormone-driven exuberance of the adolescents in our charge.
I was quite proud that I had found something with a real educational purpose, something that was not just a pacifier. Not like the baskets of strawberries I had picked the year before for ‘fêtes de fraise’, complete with dipping sugar, in sylvan setting well away from the principal’s office. No, this movie would cost less and keep the restive natives calm for three full periods, given introduction, discussion and censorship.
Ah, yes, the famous fast-forwarding. I pre-viewed the movie carefully the night before the first showing making notes of where to cut off the killing and kissing without totally spoiling the suspense and ruining the plot. In the name of protecting the tenderest sensibilities of my audience I noted the scenes where the flying tomahawks, booming muskets and roaring cannons could be minimized. I decided to leave much of the romance of long looks, fond smiles and kindred spirit moments between Cora and Nathaniel in place. My finger would be ready on the remote to curtail the passionate kiss on the ramparts of Fort William Henry just in case it caused the minds of some of my clients to wander to their own fun the night before. To prepare for a discussion on courage and difficult choices, I would play all of Lucy’s last moments before jumping off the cliff rather than surrender to Magua. Duncan’s end would illustrate loyalty and love with a big L. Here I knew I would have to hit the button once more because I could not bear to see the details of Duncan in his wig and uniform going up in flames. I would have to skip to Nathaniel’s merciful bullet. Too bad, those kids would just have to accept that I am a lily livered wimp when it comes to cruelty and violence. I would even discuss why ‘people like me’ love fast forwarding for that very reason.
I prepared a worksheet with a who’s who and appropriate questions about the role of the different Indian groups, the difference between the French and English armies – uniforms, weapons and manners, the difference in style between Montcalm and Munro, the use of French and what Madeleine and her brothers would have thought about the movie. A thoughtful worksheet was the customary validation for time spent on what could be labelled edutainment. It was also a useful tool to restore focus in case the collective mood should become restless and required pulling together.
My new shiny VCR gave me a lot of credibility amongst a group quick to discard anything old-fashioned, be it manners or possessions, and embrace the new and trendy. Next to the Board of Education’s clunky BETA machine, mine looked positively revolutionary. I kept control of my remote at all times and took my time over pauses and ignored any protests over skips. I still remember them as good lessons where we not only discussed curriculum related issues but also had some searching explorations of courage, friendship, love and betrayal.
That was what I thought I taught. Lin, the cute cashier at Winners, as we now know, remembered it differently.

The North End of Hamilton, with its cheap rent and industrial opportunities, was where many an immigrant family began its quest for Utopia. Here they would start the first family business where everyone worked around the clock in order to gather the deposit for the first family home. And that home was often on the Mountain, the name given to that part of Hamilton to the south, above the city on the Niagara escarpment. I once took my children on a house hunting tour of the mountain and they spontaneously started singing Little Boxes. But to many beginning Canadians living in one of those ‘boxes’ meant they were on the way to the better life for which they came. Forget Victorian stained glass and the psychic energy of generations, which turn a house into a home. Forget mature trees and shady avenues; the houses on the south Mountain had reliable plumbing – no daily water pumping- and uninterrupted electricity. Pete Seeger’s sardonic singing of Malvina Reynolds’ social comment meant little to people who had removed themselves from systems of inconvenience and injustice. They were on the whole cultural refugees wanting a better life for their children. Never mind the ‘ticky tacky’; ‘coming out the same’ was what mattered. It was on the Mountain where I taught the ‘pretty children’ of many an immigrant family.
Once on a visit to South Africa in the late 80’s, I had a curious telephone conversation with my High School biology teacher. He had become a senior administrator in the Transvaal Department of Education, the ministry running white schools as opposed to the Department of Bantu Education in charge of black schools.
“So, you’re teaching in Canada now?” he asked, intrigued.
“Yes.”
“And tell me? He sounded hesitant: “Are they all white?”
The naiveté floored me.
“No, they come from all over the world. From Africa, South and Central America, South and South East Asia. And of course there are lots of white kids too.”
“Really?”
The amazement in his voice prompted a little lecture:
“Yes, you know. It’s not difficult. Every child has a name and a brain. And that’s where I direct my teaching. After a while you don’t even notice the colour or cultural difference.”
“I’ll remember that. We might have to do it over here some day.”
The concept of the ‘rainbow nation’ was still a few years away but that was how I felt about my students on the Mountain. They were my rainbow children, the hope of the global village.
One such was Samira. Every day she sat right under my nose, her neat little dancer’s body diminutive in the front desk. I’m a front desk person myself so I approved of her choice though I never had a problem filling a desk. Dark curls framed her heart shaped face, her large liquid black eyes taking in the props on my cart of tricks – I was itinerant without a classroom of my own. The tidy arrangement of pens, pencils and books showed me Samira was ready for any question or game that might come her way. Her homework was always perfect, her accent not half bad and her sense of humour a source of amusement to all especially when it came to dramatics and role-playing. She could invent situations around phrases like ‘au secours’ and ‘ça suffit’ that had everyone in stitches.
At ‘Meet the Teacher Night’ her parents who were from Delhi told me she was learning a lot and I agreed. I thought I was teaching her a lot of French. Imagine my astonishment when, towards the end of the year, she came out with this remark:
“Madame, you have two kinds of eye-shadow.”
“Oh, yes, Samira?”
“Yes, when you wear black or blue, you wear the grey shadow. And when you wear green or brown, you wear olive green.”

Geoff did not pick a front seat; he was placed there to keep him from being distracted and distracting. He often came to school pale and tired. He seemed conflicted about the image of himself he wanted to convey to the world, shifting between punk and bat caver. Gel was applied to his hair for different effects, Kiss and Alice Cooper tee-shirts alternated with plain black and traces of kohl could often be seen around his wary eyes. The constant in his wardrobe, however, were his Doc Martens that he displayed in various ways, blocking the aisles on either side of his desk, stomping through the hallways and, occasionally, kicking a locker or even another person. Some military relative must have had shown him the art of spit and polish because the toes of those Doc Martens possessed all the optimism their owner lacked.
Staffroom talk had it that some family crisis was responsible for Geoff’s identity troubles. I walked away before the specifics; I always ran away from such revelations, imagining my own children being discussed in a similar manner in a staffroom in another part of the city. All agreed that he was performing below potential and we all encouraged him in our various ways ‘to do better’. I attempted to boost him not in French class but in the one strand of music I taught that year.
The music curriculum was designed to have all Middle School students play instruments. There was an elaborate scheme to rent anything from tuba to piccolo and an energetic young person to teach however many hundreds of students to perform jazzy versions of themes from the movies, folkloric medleys and the required rasping rendition of Oh,Canada on formal occasions. The plan looked great on paper: everyone would rent an instrument, look after it and remember to carry it to school on the appropriate days. Marcy, our energetic young person in charge of the band program soon discovered the snag.  There were some that just did not have what it takes to sustain being a band member. She presented her problem to the principal and he called me.
“You have Primary Vocal Music Part One?”
It almost sounded like an accusation. I knew I should not have been bragging to Marcy or play Bach on her out of tune piano during lunchtime.
“I do. And Orff Part One. But I can’t do anything with that here in Hamilton; they prefer Kodaly here.”
I could see he had no idea what I was talking about.
“Orff and Kodaly are different methods of teaching Primary kids.”
“Oh, so that’s why you ended up teaching French? But you’re qualified to teach music? This Orff? What is it?”
I seized the opportunity to expand on the creative, joyful nature of the method. The principal was a little suspicious of ‘creativity’ but I had worked with him long enough that my brand of creativity did not mean chaos. I saw his eyes light up when I told him how the Orff method allowed for different personalities and levels of ability.
“That’s exactly what I’m after,” he said, “you know Marcy has a problem with a number of Grade Sevens who just can’t hack band? The number has been growing. I’m convinced she has tried everything to motivate them and encourage them to be responsible. But you know these characters..”
He rattled off some names, including Geoff. I taught them the whole of Grade Seven French that year; I knew those on his list to be struggling, lost kids, mostly boys.
“So?”
“I was thinking that if I give one of your Grade Seven classes to Natasha to teach then you could teach Marcy’s rejects some music. I’ll put you in the portable at the back. I don’t care what you do with them. Just teach them something and keep them out of trouble.”
And so I did. No one came to that portable all year: neither the principal nor any of the Kodaly or band people from the Board of Education. I taught those ‘rejects’ my own invented plan and had a ball.
I made an agreement at the outset that ‘we would teach each other’: the lessons on Beethoven, Mozart and Bach were alternated with presentations on Kiss, Iron Maiden and Pink Floyd. I appeared connected because my own children were listening to the same music. I introduced them to the ‘elements of music’ and was delighted when I saw them apply vocabulary like tempo and dynamics in their presentations. There was a unit on sound that culminated in the making of instruments.  A ‘talent show’ was the reward for work well done and included some sync singing, keyboard playing and even Geoff with his electric guitar.
Then I decided to have a talent show of a different kind. It was not my own talent I was going to show but that of my son, the sitar player. He had been taking lessons in Toronto for a few years and had acquired a tabla machine, which meant that he could sound like the ‘real thing’. I persuaded him to do the show by calling it a ‘demo’ rather than a ‘performance’. We even found a short film at the Board of Education film library to support the demo.
I asked all the South Asian students to wear their party clothes and dismissed ‘but the other kids will laugh at us’ with ‘ this is a chance to teach them about your rich and ancient culture’. To my surprise many of the girls showed up in bright, bemirrored little shalwar suits and punjabis and there were even a few boys in smart kurta pyjamas complete with vest. I kept an eye out for potential hecklers but found only curiosity and, perhaps a little envy.
Marcy was glad of a day off and gave her room over to the occasion. My son would use her large desk as a dais. I saw Geoff watch as my son took off his Doc Martens and, slowly, first the white sock and then the black –wearing odd socks was a harmless eccentricity I did not fight. Soon the audience was in the embrace of the mesmerizing sounds of the evening rag, Jhinjhoti. My son is a natural teacher. For more than an hour he played and demonstrated and explained as he placed his footprint on the multi-cultural map.
Walking back to the portable, Geoff joined me, obviously wanting to talk. He had never sought a conversation with me.
“Did you like the sitar, Geoff?” I asked encouragingly.
“It’s not the sitar, Madame, it’s your son. What is he?”
His voice was filled with wonderment.
“Is he a punk or is he a rocker?”
“He is his own person, Geoff.”