Well. It's been a disjointed sort of week.
First of all, Happy Thanksgiving, my American friends. I at least got to teach about the food. I celebrated by having Gluehwein at the Celle Weihnachtsmarkt, which opened today.
Second of all, it looks to be another long post. I need to start writing more regularly again so that this doesn't become a regular occurrence.
Monday: Lesson Planning with Karolin
Since Monday is my free day of the week, I rode with Karolin, the teacher-in-training, to The Coffee Shop, a...coffee shop in the Altstadt to which I had never been but Karolin frequents. Though I spoke in stilted Germanglish, which eventually turned into more of English with some German on the side (I really did continue to try), we had a rather enjoyable time getting to know each other. However, our main objective was to set up our lesson plan for this Thursday's Thanksgiving lesson, and I will add that Karolin does have what it takes to be a successful Grundschule teacher. The nice (and very surprising) thing for me, though, was that she actually picked up the bill for the both of us, and, though it was under five euros, I repeatedly told her that I'd pick up the check the next time. She just smiled and shrugged it off.
Karolin is a very sweet woman, only about a month and a half older than I am, and seems rather enthusiastic about her future job. She has a very quiet nature about her, but not like the kind that I have: instead of discouraging conversation, Karolin's quiet seems to encourage it. She's the typical, tall, willowy, and white-blond Northern German, and though the children are still a little wary of her because of her newness, I'm sure that they will warm up to her soon, since her personality is appropriate for dealing with the young'uns.
Anyway, the lesson was planned, and we set off to take over the world.
Wednesday, Part I: Wild Things
There are two parts to this Wednesday: a good part and a rather poor part. We'll start with the good part, since it happened first that day.
I had mentioned a couple of weeks before to Frau Doehrmann that I wanted to plan a lesson around one of my favorite children's books, Maurice Sendak's Where the Wild Things Are, for 2a. I think she was happy to hear me say that, since now she knows that I actively want to do more in the classroom than I have been doing. I spent last week drawing and coloring the flashcards I was to use, along with planning (er, the night before the lesson) an activity for the students to do after the story. I drew two versions of an unfinished wild thing, and they were to complete it through my dictation. I was more than ready to tear through this lesson.
And, well, what do you know? It was quite smashing. With Dylan's help, I was able to get the children to understand what I was reading to them, but my favorite part of the lesson was when Frau Doehrmann and I decided to let the kids decide whether they want to follow my dictation or do their own thing when it came to completing their wild thing. Regardless of what choice they went with, their wild things were awesome. You do not even know just how awesome they were. And I loved it that the students who were listening to my dictation then proceeded to argue with me in the fact that the monster should have just two legs instead of the three I said. And the fact that Linda didn't know which color to give her monster, so I suggested her favorite color. Which was pink. And she totally colored her wild thing pink.
These kids are awesome.
Wednesday, Part II: Half a World Away, and Look What Happens
So, I had mentioned earlier that the second part of Wednesday was not-so good. This is because that Dr. Stephen Szilagyi, one of my English professors at UAH, had died the night before.
Shit.
I won't go into the reasons behind his death, but suffice to say that he was found unconscious a week or two ago, but at that time he had been expected to recover. Earlier this week a good friend told me that he had slipped into a coma, had renal failure, and wasn't thought to survive the weekend. Dr. Szilagyi passed away the 24th.
It's...surreal. I took two of his classes, enjoyed them, and probably wrote some of my better English papers under his instruction. I was usually concerned that he would keel over during class, though, as he mostly appeared sickly and weak. His was the last English class I ever took at UAH, it being Restoration Lit. I can still remember the dank basement room where we held class and my dismay that there were no windows to help with the drone of his lectures, even though, for the most part, I enjoyed the class. And I remember the last time I saw him: it was at Dr. Mebane's retirement party, and he and I chatted briefly about my Fulbright grant and what I was going to do while teaching little kids. (I also remember that he was more than a little soused.)
I suppose another reason why it's hit me a little hard is because I'm not in Huntsville with others who knew him. I know that my being there wouldn't help anything and that I can't help being here in Germany, but it does make me want to be back with my Huntsvillians (or Huntsvillains, fools--oh, yeah, you saw what I did there) for a sort of mutual support. I left Alabama hoping that something like this wouldn't happen while I was gone--not just to Dr. Szilagyi, but to many people...and I feel sad for losing an esteemed professor.
Thank you, Dr. Szilagyi, for your classes, for your odd ways, and your rather distinct and creepy laugh. Oh, and how you cracked yourself up. We miss you.
Showing posts with label thanksgiving. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thanksgiving. Show all posts
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
A Thanksgiving Story
A sunny, temperate day. I have cake. Life is good.
No, seriously. Cake = good life.
Let's add to this formula: (sunny day + cake / The Decemberists' The Hazards of Love) x visitors in November and December = quite a damn good life.
In other news, I will be teaching 4b on my own on Thanksgiving day. The story that has been bestowed unto me to teach the kiddies is worthy of note because it is loosely based on the concept that some people wanted to come to America so badly that they sailed on a ship and moved to rich farmland where there's absolutely no trouble at all but the Indians helped them anyway because they're so nice and not being threatened at all and everyone is one big happy family, the end.
Sometimes, grammatically incorrect sentences get the point across the best.
So, here's the school's narration:
The Story of Thanksgiving
Long, long, long ago there were some English people called Pilgrims. They wanted to live in America. So the Pilgrims took a little sailing ship. They called it Mayflower. The Pilgrims sailed and sailed and sailed over the sea. Finally they saw a harbour. It looked like a bowl. There was good farmland. They built houses and called the place Plymouth. The Pilgrims met some Indians. The Indians helped the Pilgrims. They showed the Pilgrims berries, herbs and roots. And they showed the Pilgrims a new fruit. It was called corn. In autumn the Pilgrims had pumpkins, peas, beans and cranberries. And they had cornmeal. They baked bread and pancakes. The Pilgrims celebrated a feast. They invited the Indians. Every year in November the Americans remember those Pilgrims and Indians. They eat turkey, corn, cranberries, sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie. The feast is called Thanksgiving.
(Courtesy of Bausteine - Englisch)
Here's my rendition (which is also not entirely true, as I believe there actually was a plentiful harvest):
In 1620, a group of English Separatists, who, like most other religious sects in the history of ever, sought to establish their own special, exclusive community where they could avoid "relentless" persecution from other special, exclusive communities. They wanted to go to America because it was so cool, and they were really excited by the stellar successes of Roanoke and Jamestown. Therefore, after seeking their safe haven in the Netherlands, 102 passengers sailed across the Atlantic in the Mayflower, where absolutely no one died at all, to the Plymouth area of what would be called the ever-original New England. Of course, no one starved in this fruitful area, and there were no harsh winters where such starvation could occur. At all. These English Separatists knew very well the horticulture of this new land and didn't require the voluntary assistance of a certain fellow named Squanto, a guy who kind of knew what he was doing. So, with the bountiful harvest that came within a year, the Pilgrims, for that is how those lovable Separatists came to be known, invited the Native Americans, who totally weren't suffering depleted numbers from disease and forced relocation, to their first Thanksgiving. Pumpkin pie may or may not have been served, as there are no recorded instances.
And everyone lived happily ever after. The end.
It's funnier if it's said aloud, particularly in my dry, flat tone.
Nothing much else of note, actually. I'm quietly planning for a couple of visits, which is pleasant and stressful all at once, since I'm planning out my expenses as well. This will work out, however. Awesomeness awaits.
It's that time of the year for Halloween and harvest festivals back in Alabama. It makes me a bit whimsical, a bit nostalgic, and a tiny bit homesick. But...that's how it goes, isn't it? I imagine that all of the major holidays will be like this, even perhaps a bit stronger. Things are going well here. I feel a lot better about myself here. I like feeling like there's not too much wrong with me. It makes me realize that, hey, I can be kind of awesome.
Can a location really make one feel that? Can an experience that doesn't really have anything to do with the person involved, but rather with the title of Fulbright Grantee, with the job that the person is assigned, make one feel that? Is the person interesting, or is all the glory designated to the "prestige" that goes along with the type of job this is? Somehow, I believe both are intertwined. The person who is awarded something like this grant either is interesting enough to attain it or becomes interesting through the process of self-realization and the knowledge of what exactly one can endure. This is not something that is just handed to someone. I worked for this grant. But, is my "interestingness" only so because I worked for this? Or because I'm naturally an interesting person?
I love these contemplations. They give meaning to my life. And, it's not just about me, either. It's about anyone who goes through this sort of process, anyone who pushes oneself to do something that terrifies him or her. It's one of the most awesome things that one can muse about. Can one truly find an answer? Probably not. But, that's okay. Maybe it's not meant to be solved.
No, seriously. Cake = good life.
Let's add to this formula: (sunny day + cake / The Decemberists' The Hazards of Love) x visitors in November and December = quite a damn good life.
In other news, I will be teaching 4b on my own on Thanksgiving day. The story that has been bestowed unto me to teach the kiddies is worthy of note because it is loosely based on the concept that some people wanted to come to America so badly that they sailed on a ship and moved to rich farmland where there's absolutely no trouble at all but the Indians helped them anyway because they're so nice and not being threatened at all and everyone is one big happy family, the end.
Sometimes, grammatically incorrect sentences get the point across the best.
So, here's the school's narration:
The Story of Thanksgiving
Long, long, long ago there were some English people called Pilgrims. They wanted to live in America. So the Pilgrims took a little sailing ship. They called it Mayflower. The Pilgrims sailed and sailed and sailed over the sea. Finally they saw a harbour. It looked like a bowl. There was good farmland. They built houses and called the place Plymouth. The Pilgrims met some Indians. The Indians helped the Pilgrims. They showed the Pilgrims berries, herbs and roots. And they showed the Pilgrims a new fruit. It was called corn. In autumn the Pilgrims had pumpkins, peas, beans and cranberries. And they had cornmeal. They baked bread and pancakes. The Pilgrims celebrated a feast. They invited the Indians. Every year in November the Americans remember those Pilgrims and Indians. They eat turkey, corn, cranberries, sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie. The feast is called Thanksgiving.
(Courtesy of Bausteine - Englisch)
Here's my rendition (which is also not entirely true, as I believe there actually was a plentiful harvest):
In 1620, a group of English Separatists, who, like most other religious sects in the history of ever, sought to establish their own special, exclusive community where they could avoid "relentless" persecution from other special, exclusive communities. They wanted to go to America because it was so cool, and they were really excited by the stellar successes of Roanoke and Jamestown. Therefore, after seeking their safe haven in the Netherlands, 102 passengers sailed across the Atlantic in the Mayflower, where absolutely no one died at all, to the Plymouth area of what would be called the ever-original New England. Of course, no one starved in this fruitful area, and there were no harsh winters where such starvation could occur. At all. These English Separatists knew very well the horticulture of this new land and didn't require the voluntary assistance of a certain fellow named Squanto, a guy who kind of knew what he was doing. So, with the bountiful harvest that came within a year, the Pilgrims, for that is how those lovable Separatists came to be known, invited the Native Americans, who totally weren't suffering depleted numbers from disease and forced relocation, to their first Thanksgiving. Pumpkin pie may or may not have been served, as there are no recorded instances.
And everyone lived happily ever after. The end.
It's funnier if it's said aloud, particularly in my dry, flat tone.
Nothing much else of note, actually. I'm quietly planning for a couple of visits, which is pleasant and stressful all at once, since I'm planning out my expenses as well. This will work out, however. Awesomeness awaits.
It's that time of the year for Halloween and harvest festivals back in Alabama. It makes me a bit whimsical, a bit nostalgic, and a tiny bit homesick. But...that's how it goes, isn't it? I imagine that all of the major holidays will be like this, even perhaps a bit stronger. Things are going well here. I feel a lot better about myself here. I like feeling like there's not too much wrong with me. It makes me realize that, hey, I can be kind of awesome.
Can a location really make one feel that? Can an experience that doesn't really have anything to do with the person involved, but rather with the title of Fulbright Grantee, with the job that the person is assigned, make one feel that? Is the person interesting, or is all the glory designated to the "prestige" that goes along with the type of job this is? Somehow, I believe both are intertwined. The person who is awarded something like this grant either is interesting enough to attain it or becomes interesting through the process of self-realization and the knowledge of what exactly one can endure. This is not something that is just handed to someone. I worked for this grant. But, is my "interestingness" only so because I worked for this? Or because I'm naturally an interesting person?
I love these contemplations. They give meaning to my life. And, it's not just about me, either. It's about anyone who goes through this sort of process, anyone who pushes oneself to do something that terrifies him or her. It's one of the most awesome things that one can muse about. Can one truly find an answer? Probably not. But, that's okay. Maybe it's not meant to be solved.
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