Some time in
June, Caroline decided that life in the private sector was not for her and she
really wanted to go back to teaching.
After ten years of advising teachers how to teach effectively and
informing schools how to organise their affairs, she wanted to see if all the
theories and techniques that she had been advocating actually worked.
She would
return to the role of main scale teacher that she last performed nearly twenty years ago. I think it’s rather noble and admirable of
her - but barmy.
“Look at
this,” Caroline said to me one afternoon in August, just before she started her
new job. “How do you think I pronounce
that?”
I looked at
the piece of paper she was holding and the word she was pointing at: Gerewarifucha. It was one name in a list
of names.
Caroline told
me that this was the name of one of the Year 7 maths class she would be
teaching. I could see the potential
difficulty. A lot hinged on the way she
pronounced the last five letters. Should
the ‘ch’ be as in “church”, or as in “chasm”?
There’s also a boy called Xavier
Kuntis. She has decided to
pronounce Kuntis to rhyme with Spoontis.
I suggested
that she should do what I did some thirty-five years ago when I had to call the
register in a class I had never come across before. As I was calling out the names, I looked ahead
and saw that someone was called, “Kamaljit”. I recognised that this was an
impending problem. How should I say it
so that it sounded nothing at all like “Camel Shit”? My solution to this looming disaster was to
deliberately leave it out.
“Is that
everyone?” I asked breezily, when I had finished. “Did I miss anybody out?”
“Yes, me,” said
a tiny girl.
“Oh, I’m
sorry,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Camelshit.”
Some Irish
names are only there to confuse and make life difficult for the English. The first sixth form class I ever met at
Creighton School had in it a girl called Badb. She let me try about six times to get it
right and eventually told me that it was pronounced Bibe, rhyming with jibe.
In later years I taught Niamh, pronounced Neeve and Cian, pronounced Keen.
Hindu and
Turkish names often caused me problems.
Pronouncing them as they are written is usually the right way but it
always made me feel uneasy.
Ufuk is a Turkish name and there is only one way to say it but the secret is
to say it in a tone that does not make it sound like a statement or a question.
We had a
Japanese girl at the school some twenty years ago called Fuku but she was never put in the
same group as Ufuk. I was worried that if they ever came too
close to each other they might behave like magnets. The outcome could have either been highly
embarrassing or even, possibly, repelling!
Some parents
are so far off the wall as to be possibly certifiable. I told you in “Poetry in the Raw” of the
school in Cayman that had twin brothers both called Jamal Whatmore after their
father. I never met those boys and nor
did I ever meet the brothers Lord-Peter and Sir-Paul Rollinson that a friend of
mine tried to teach. Apparently, they
both (egged on by their mad mother, I suspect) insisted on being called by their
full names. My friend always referred to
either one of them as “Rollinson”.
I went to
visit another school once for a discussion about something or other with the
Headteacher. When I arrived, he wasn’t
ready to see me.
“He’s having a tather difficult meeting,” his secretary told me. “But he shouldn’t be much longer.”
Eventually the
door opened and out came a huge woman with tattoos all over her shoulders and
neck. Behind her was a boy aged about
11, wearing a tracksuit and with a skinhead haircut. As they walked away the Head called out to
him.
“This is the
last time, Spike. If there’s a next time
you’ll be excluded.”
Spike!!! That poor kid never had a chance. Some people shouldn’t be allowed to
breed. Are some parents so insensitive
that they don’t foresee the problems that they cause for their children?
I was at
school with Vincent Drury and his younger sister, Victoria. I have to initial something at least once a
month. I bet Victoria was keen to get
married. I consoled my mate Paul
Drummond by telling him that the reason Vicky would never go out with him was
because of his surname and he told me that she wouldn’t go out with me in case
she ended up as a car!
Caroline once
taught A-level maths to a class that included an Indian boy called
Hardeep. How could that ever be a
problem? Easily!
Every time she
said his name when calling the register, the rest of the boys sang the next
words of the Bee Gees song “… is your love, how deep is your love?”
She tells me
that they were perfectly in tune and even after a couple of years they never
tired of it.
Caroline was a
student at Birmingham University and students there obviously found little to
do in their spare time as she and her friend Gabi collected the names of
students doing name/appropriate courses.
They knew:
Sue, who was reading law,
Beryl, who read
geology,
Carol and Melody in the music department,
Mark, who was studying to be a
teacher in the education department,
Oscar reading drama,
Esther, who was
studying chemistry (look it up) and
best of all
Nick, who was reading applied criminology.
This ‘game’
started when Caroline found that in her maths group there was a Max and a Min - an English boy called Maxwell and an Indian student
called Minesh. The rest of the group
insisted that they always sat together with Max on the left and Min on the
right.
We never
played that game at Durham but I did study geography with Clifford Hill. By shortening his first name you have two
geomorphological features.
Caroline met
the class with Gerewarifucha in it today.
She did as I suggested and left her out as she read down the list.
“Is that
everyone?” she asked when she had finished.
“Did I miss anybody out?”
“Yes, me,” said
a girl.
“Sorry,”
she said. “What’s your name?”
“Gerry.”
“Is that your
full name?” asked Caroline.
“No, but I’m
always called Gerry.”
“So what's
your full name?”
“I don’t
really know. It’s a long name and nobody
ever uses it. I don’t even know how to
spell it.”
When I was
five and in my infants’ class and had disappointed the teacher, she would refer to
me as ‘Terence’. I was ‘Terry’ only when
I was good (which was most of the time,
honestly).
I have suggested to
Caroline that if Gerry ever achieves less than she could or if she ever
misbehaves in any way, she should convey her displeasure by calling her ‘Gerry-Wary-Fucker’.
I have just laughed out loud at Camelshit. Brilliant!
ReplyDeleteI’m sure you will enjoy the relevance of my favourite letter ever:
ReplyDeleteH.M. EMBASSY
MOSCOW
Lord Pembroke
The Foreign Office
London
6th April 1943
My Dear Reggie,
In these dark days man tends to look for little shafts of light that spill from Heaven. My days are probably darker than yours, and I need, my God I do, all the light I can get. But I am a decent fellow, and I do not want to be mean and selfish about what little brightness is shed upon me from time to time. So I propose to share with you a tiny flash that has illuminated my sombre life and tell you that God has given me a new Turkish colleague whose card tells me that he is called Mustapha Kunt.
We all feel like that, Reggie, now and then, especially when Spring is upon us, but few of us would care to put it on our cards. It takes a Turk to do that.
(Signed)
Sir Archibald Clerk Kerr,
H.M. Ambassador.
REALLY GOOD BLOG - I laughed out loud. Shows what a sad person I am.
ReplyDeleteReally enjoyed this one Terry. I have taught : Everard Dick , Jerome Golly ( from Nigeria ) , two front rows in the scrum included - Abbot and Costello and at another time - Shakespeare and Homer.
ReplyDeleteMy sister's PE teacher was Annette Ball.
ReplyDelete