I can think of witches good and bad

I decided to go out like a champion and make all of my students peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches on the last day. And I since I found peanut butter at a French grocery store, I thought most of them would have tried it before, and it wasn't going to be that impressive.

Wrong. I have never been so impressive in my life. "Where did you find peanuts, and what did you use to crush them?" was the most-asked question, especially by children holding a paper and pen.



And out of 400 kids, only one was allergic to peanuts. When I asked his teacher if anyone in that class had allergies and she said his name, he got defensive.

Michael:  "WHAT? NO. NO. No I'm not. I am not allergic to them."
Teacher:  "Your mom wrote on a form at the beginning of the year that you were?"
Michael:  "NO NOT TRUE. I am not allergic, absolutely positively am not allergic to them."
Teacher: "Alright, I guess if you want to eat it you can."

Me: "What?"
Teacher: "He's an adult, he makes his own decisions."
Me: "Isn't he seven?"
Teacher: "Yes."

Another teacher explained to me why, aside from that boy (may he rest in peace), no one is allergic to peanuts - peanut allergies are a European thing. It takes a minute to make sense, but most of the students are from Africa, where peanut allergies aren't as common. And every kid double-checked with me that there was no meat in the sandwiches, because not only would that not be halal, that would be disgusting.

I thought peanut butter would be an acquired taste - but the kids either so respectful or so excited to try something new, that in every class they waited until everyone had been served, then ate the tiny little things in about thirty bites, chewing very slowly and whispering "C'est trop bon..." (It's so good) like it was the finest delicacy in the world.



Anyway, my job is over now. I still have a couple more posts about teaching that I guess I'll put up later. Some might be more relevant to my year as an ex-pat (don't love that word) than one about sandwiches.
If that's possible.

I just remembered

This is my new favorite outfit AND the reason I have this blog instead of a fashion blog.

Also, the hair on the sides of my face doesn't grow longer than a couple inches and is not interested in gravity. My mom says there's nothing worse than having a kid with hair like that. I can think of something worse and it's spelled b-e-i-n-g  t-h-a-t  k-i-d. But now I'm an adult.

Also, while doing crafts this afternoon a girl licked some paste and told me "it tastes like the sea!"

Also, every day I get a hundred requests for kisses, which I change to "How about an American high five instead! Yes!" because I'm not interested in a lawsuit or a virus sampling. Today while I was sitting down, a six-year-old boy sprinted over, grabbed both of my ears, and tried to kiss me on the mouth. I used my lightning-fast reflexes to jump away, and then yelled "How about a high five!" with way more enthusiasm than usual. "You're so beautiful." he answered.

Also, after sing-along in kindergarten, I started to roll up the rug before leaving, but a five-year-old (named Wally) stopped me. "Leave the rug out," he explained, "it's Philosophy Workshop Hour."

Also, my second-favorite class is throwing me a going-away party next week. They're each going to bring in a favorite dessert or beverage to share and we'll have a "light tasting." They're seven years old.

Please don't leave me France.

next week I'm requesting an iPhone.

I hit the jackpot today, gifts-from-five-year-olds-wise. Let's start with this sexy portrait of me:



"Those two circles are for you to color, when you get home," the gift-giver informed me. THANK GOODNESS. Yesterday I finally wrapped up every season of CSI, baked the last recipe in The Joy of Cooking, and read polished off the Library of Congress' collection by authors whose last names start with Z, I was really hurting for an activity tonight.

And then there was this awesome home-made envelope. What could be inside?



THIS could be inside:



Count them, seven silly band drawings, seven trompe l'œil envelopes, and one creative spelling of "Brooke." Maybe.

And here's the best present: a brand new cell phone.



The great thing about this one is - oh excuse me, someone's calling. I wonder who it is?


Oh it's my friend!


She has shocking news!


What, she was just kidding! My friend is so hilarious!!


Man, it would be cool to have friends in real life.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some circles to color.

quack quack quack quack

Today one of the kindergarten teachers was so moved by my rendition of "Five Little Ducks" that he slowly stopped grading, quietly came closer to the group, and sat staring at me in awe until his eyes got watery.

One of the kindergarteners was so moved that he began quacking loudly, making the noises increasingly guttural until it sounded like he was dry-heaving.

We all show our emotions differently I guess.

I still love technology

Me: (holding bus flashcard) What is it?
Class of four-year-olds: Buuuus!
Me: Good! In English, we say BUS
Class: BUS!
Me: Good! (holding wheel flashcard) What is it?
Girl: A DVD!
Me: No, it's on a bus...
Girl: A CD!
Me: It looks like one, but it's on a bus - it's une roue.
Class: Oh! Une roue!
Me: Good! In English we say WHEEL.
Class: WHEEL!
Girl: A DVD!

what we should be talking about is ice cream flavors.

After a couple months of teaching, I kind of have the hang of it. Every day we learn a couple words, a sentence to use them in, and then I pass out a worksheet and the kids label the new vocabulary. Sometimes I design them on my computer, but most of my schools don't have printers, so most of my worksheets are homemade. And after the kids fill in the new words, they always ask the same question. "Can we color this?" And I love it, for four reasons.

1. Let's be honest: coloring kills a lot of time.

2. It's pretty flattering. My drawings of jeans and rain clouds and ball-point pens aren't masterpieces, but the kids think they look awesome, and it's kind of makes my day that they want to color them.

3. If someone has to color, I'm glad it's not me. Things look better colored but I HATE coloring. I joined the Coloring Club in fifth grade, at a particularly low point in my life I guess. Everyone in it was really awesome, and it didn't involve catching a softball or knowing whether or not Doc Martens were cool, so I thought, why not?

But when I showed up at our first meeting (a sleepover party) and we all compared coloring books, the other girls laughed so hard at my inability to stay in the lines that you could barely hear the Spice Girls cd playing.

"Ha-ha-ha!" I tested out my fake laugh. "I tricked you guys and brought a coloring book I did when I was little! As a joke!"
"Oh, thank goodness! We were going to say, if you really color this bad you definitely can't be in Coloring Club."
"No don't worry, I did this when I was three."
"WOW! That's impressive!"
"Did I say three? I meant, like, a normal age when someone would color at this level."
"Oh, ok that makes sense. Brooke you're hilarious! It's so funny to bring a coloring book you did when you were little, before you knew how to color!"

I never told anyone I had bought that coloring book the week before and spent many sleepless nights coloring as carefully as I could. I did tell them that I sprained my wrist in a fried egg accident and wouldn't be able to color for weeks, if not months. And that was the end of my Coloring Club membership.

4. Most of all, when they ask to color something, it reminds me that they're kids. School in France is so disciplined. And the kids are so quiet, so respectful, so not kids. They raise one finger to ask a question, use rulers to carefully underline titles in their notebook, and call their teachers "Master." Instead of having pen pals or decorating their classroom like a rain forest or designing the ideal spaceship, like I did in fifth-grade, they write long dictations in their immaculate notebooks, carefully blotting out badly-written letters with white-out.

For most of class, I feel like I'm not an elementary school teacher but an accountant, presenting an annual report to a group of shareholders. They listen carefully, taking copious notes as I present "bread," "apple," and "cheese." They adjust their ties. They nod politely.

And then, at the end of the lecture I pass out a bar graph of our spending, and they all raise their hands and ask "Excuse me, Brooke? Excuse me? Can we color this?"


Here's our latest worksheet. One kid made the ice cream pistachio and lemon ice cream with hazelnuts, and if that isn't awesome I don't know what is.

French kids don't get fat

When I applied to teach in France, I was required to send a list of previous teaching experience, time working with kids, and language instruction. What they should have asked for was an acting reel - maybe a stand up routine, or a scene from a silent film.

Today we sang a song about feelings. Each verse has a list of emotions, that I say and act out, and the class repeats. The repeating is fun, because they mimic me exactly. If I tuck my hair behind my hear between words, they tuck their hair behind their ears. If I accidentally shiver for the word "tired" then look embarrassed and somewhat frazzled and quickly yawn instead, I get to see that repeated by thirty children.

And there is always one kid who shouts out the French translation. This is fun because it helps the kids who may not understand, and mostly because it's hilarious when he's wrong. Like in the second verse of the song, which has four emotions:

Me: I'm happy! (point to my face, smiling)
Boy, in French: I'm happy!

Me: I'm good! (thumbs up)
Boy: I'm lonely!

Me: I'm great! (fists in the air)
Boy: I am POWERFUL!

Me: I'm fine (nodding contentedly)
Boy: I'm skinny!

You could argue that even if they don't understand the songs, at least they're getting good practice with English pronunciation. But their favorite English word in "the wheels on the bus" is the sound the windsheild wipers make: swish swish swish. So, at least they like English? And at least my acting is improving.

look out world

There are 26 French children who know the English alphabet that didn't know it this morning. Please hold your applause.



26 genius children, 26 letters.
I wish I could say 26 was also the number of times some punk yelled "ZIZI!!!" after we said the letter Z.
But unfortunately that was more like 260.

I made an alphabet poster where each letter is colored with the color that shares a vowel sound.
A sounds like gray, Q sounds like blue, Z-- ("ZIZI!!!") ...thank you, sounds like green.

For a few minutes, R was a mess, because they didn't know any color that sounded like it (not the first time I've regretted omitting chartreuse from the color lesson.) But then one of my favorite weapon-obsessed seven-year-olds saved the day, by pointing out that R sounds like the French word for "firearm". Soon everyone was waving imaginary pistols in the air and yelling "AAARRRR!" I doubt any of them will ever forget that letter. Or be convinced that Americans aren't cowboys.

The gun-brandishing, the "I as in iPod!" and "K as in OK!" and the "ZIZI!!!" chorus - it was a pretty outrageous day. And at the end of it, there were 26 kids who knew the alphabet.

And now you can clap.

nearsighted spinx are my favorite animal

This week I invested in some sticky tack and made my kitchen wall into a makeshift art gallery of all the drawings my students have given me. The exhibit grew pretty quickly. In fact it will either have to be more critically curated or I'm going to have to build an addition by next week. Mostly because of a couple classes where I walk in and the kids all rummage through their desks for anything they could give to me.



Here's one of my favorite pieces from my collection: "I'm thankful for..." by Cooper. For now he's an adorable seven-year-old that often wears a corduroy blazer and Converses to class, but some day he's going to be the art director for a heavy metal band. I like to assume the pictures are things he's thankful for, and the crossed out pictures are things he ISN'T thankful for.



Which would make a translation read something like this.

I'm thankful for my family.
I'm NOT thankful for Yoda.
I'm thankful for my house.
I'm thankful for people who run around flipping people off. Especially that girl with a thousand teeth.
I'm NOT thankful for that girl with the beak.
I'm thankful for sphinx wearing glasses, horse/dog crossbreeds, and two-legged cats.
I'm NOT thankful for two-legged cats with one ear.

my mom's going to make blueberry pancakes

Here is the funny thing about teaching in France: I have no teaching experience. And I've never tried to hide that, from the program or my schools or teachers. I tell them all the time that my only experience with English is speaking it, and my only qualification for working with kids is that my favorite food is candy.

My actual job title is "assistant," to a real English teacher. But for me and all the other assistants I know, that's somehow been interpreted as teaching classes to 400 kids a week, and doing all the lessons completely on my own. So, I'm just making this teaching thing up as I go along. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. If it works half the time I consider that a success. The kids like it, the teachers never complain, and sometimes I'm excellent. (Especially in kindergarten. I'm a natural with five-year-olds.)

Until today, when one teacher stopped me as I walked into her class and told me she had some news.

"I've been talking with some of the other teachers," she said "and a lot of us don't want you to come to our classes anymore."

"Oh, ok." I said, somewhat taken aback by what sounded more like a 14-year-old not inviting me to her birthday party than a grown woman talking to a college student. "I see, English every week does take up a lot of time."


I was rarely invited to birthday parties as a child.

"No, it's not the time at all. The thing is, and it's nothing against you but, you're not a good teacher. In fact you're actually a really bad teacher."

"Alright, that's fair." I wondered why she had felt like she needed to add this, and why she hadn't said anything three months ago. "I've never taught before, and I'm only supposed to be an assistant, but if you're ok without my help that's no problem at all."

"Oh we're MORE than ok without your help." Oh my goodness why was she being so mean. "You just confuses the kids more - it's horrible."

I thanked her again, and didn't bother to remind her for the tenth time that I'm not a teacher. But if I had had more time to chat, say, two minutes and forty-eight seconds, I would have said this:



Then I got a crazy idea that no one wanted me anymore, and the principals would fire me and I would be sent back to the US with a frown-face stamp on my passport. But I went around and did a head count, and the rest of my teachers still definitely want me. Everyone else thought I did an awesome job today. And a boy with a bloody nose walked up to me right before I left and said, with excellent pronunciation: "Good morning, Brooke. I've got a bloody nose."

Granted, it was afternoon. But I don't think he has a horrible English teacher.

yeah don't try and pronounce that.

Every Monday afternoon I teach a class of seven-year-olds, and I swear it is the highlight of their week. As soon as I walk in they whip out their English name tags, and a couple of my most loyal fans have crossed out the English names I've given them and written BROOKK and drawn hearts.

Then I ask "What's your name?" and there's a flurry of little arms going up, and I call on everyone to say their name. Some kids raise their hands twice and introduce themselves twice, so other kids get jealous and raise their hands again, and soon everyone's said their name at least three times, and we move on to colors or carnivores or whatever the lesson is.

And then this little boy with blond hair and eyes as big as North Carolina pipes up, he does it every week, and says "Maîtresse, Maîtresse, you didn't ask me what my name was." His desk is so far forward that sometimes I trip over it, and he's always staring at me. But he never raises his hand, every week he waits for me to seek out his name on my own. And he's so heartbroken when I don't that I just want to ask him his name a million times. And that's the highlight of my week.

Also I got another silly band today. Ignore what I said previously about cockroach families, nothing grows as fast as a silly band collection. Every day a kid sees them on my wrist and freaks out. "You like bracelets?! Here, have this one!" As though there are people who don't like bracelets. Please.



The girl that gave me this pointed out that it's the letter B. "B as in Blugh.., I mean Bduul..., I mean, B as in your name!"

hip hip hooray

A lot of things about my life right now might be more cheerful than most people's. Like when I pack my things in the morning, they include glitter stickers, pictures of dogs, and Yo Gabba Gabba music. I'm greeted with hugs, and I spend every day talking about colors and singing.

But there are some downers.

Yesterday while we were drawing pictures of our families, a stressed out little girl showed me a page already completely filled with portraits. She had three siblings, two half-siblings, and nine cousins. "Do I have to draw my grandparents?" she asked? "They're dead, and I'm out of space anyway." If there is a way to say "passed away" in French, kids do not use it. I told her she was fine.

"Oh no!" shrieked the girl next to her. "We weren't supposed to draw dead people? My mom's dead, but I drew her anyway, just because I miss her so much. Do I have to start over?" I told her that she had done an amazing job, and that it was a beautiful picture of her mom. And that everyone could draw any family members they wanted.

A boy heard us from across the room, and came over to show off his solution. "My dad's dead," he explained, "So I drew his face and then crossed it out!"

Who wants a glitter sticker?

Minnesota, that sounds made up.

As someone who has done a lot of easy things I can say with certainty that there is nothing easier than making five-year-olds love you. I teach them to sing London Bridge, I tell them to stop hitting each other, I remind them if we bite we don't get stickers, and then for some reason, when it's time for me to leave, everything I've done warrants "We're going to miss you ssssso muchhhh, you're so beautiful, I drew this picture of you will you come live in my house? I LOVE YOU." And a million kisses.

And they give me Silly Bands.



And probably head lice.

Speaking of tricking people, and unrelated to head lice, so far I've told four of my new flat-mates that I'm American, not French, and all of them think I'm lying to their faces.

It may not be the start of a great friendship, but it's building my self-confidence.

Hello, hi'm Hamanda.

The only thing my kids love more than glitter stickers and Simon Says is the letter H. In French it isn't pronounced at the beginning of words, and my kids LOVE this new consonant. So much it may need a restraining order. This week we're learning body parts - like head and hair. And hears and harms and heyes. And after about five minutes into any lesson there are so many H's flying around that no one knows what's going on anymore, me especially.

"I have a question," asked a ten-year-old amidst the chaos. "What are hams?"

I'm trying to be more vigilant about pronunciation lately, since I figure that's the only thing I definitely have going for me. So I'm constantly correcting outrageous French pronunciation. No it's not a feeesh, it's a fish. No, it's not sreeee, it's three. And no, it's not hams. I don't know what it is, but it's not hams.

good tidings

I met a student teacher during lunch today - she's French but wants to teach English in elementary schools. After finding out that I teach English, she asked what kind of training I had. I said absolutely zero. She got super uppity, which I understood, because she's a real teacher and I'm just a well-payed babysitter that loves talking about colors.

But then she started randomly dropping English words. Like "I studied English in college and got a Master's in it." with the word studied in English. And I thought that was strange. Because yes she's better at teaching, but why was she getting catty about knowing the word studied?

"So," she said, "where did you learn English?"
"How did I learn English?"
"Yeah, where did you learn to speak English?"

I explained that I'm American; it's my first language. And she said she had thought I was French. After that entire conversation. Which can mean only one of two things:

1. I AM AWESOME AT SPEAKING FRENCH!
2. Everyone got drunk at lunch again.

I want it to be the first, but unfortunately the second happens almost every day.

If you're happy and you know it

Yesterday, armed with smiling and frowning flashcards, I attempted to teach a group of 5-year-olds to say "I'm happy." I secretly had a second goal that no one would bite anyone, but I didn't want to get ahead of myself.



"I'm happy." I said, holding up a flashcard. "Now you say it."

Yellow! Blue! I like gorillas! Your hair is beautiful! Is it Thanksgiving again? Can we dance? How do you say pink? Can I keep those flashcards? He said a swear word! I had a hamster and it died!

"Those are all great comments guys. Let's try this again. Repeat: I'm happy."

And finally something clicked with the boy on the edge of the bench. He grinned at me, threw his hands in the air, and shouted "I'M HAPPY!" with a perfect accent. His classmates stared at him in stunned silence.

So he proudly translated for them: "It means 'I love you.'"

now she's hit the big time

Whenever I tell the kids that class is over their response is a cumulative "Deja!?" (Already?) followed by tears and desperate last-minute hugs as I pack up my things and leave the room.

Once I'm out I stand in the hallway for a few seconds. I listen to the muffled applause and screams of "I love Brooke!" I check to make sure I have my jacket. I wipe the chalk dust off my hands. And I fight the temptation to run back in yelling ENCORE! to the delight of my screaming fans.



I haven't done it. Yet. But I realized maybe comparing myself to the Beatles isn't that far-fetched - our fans have a lot in common. Like the bizarre fan art - the little pictures of me and British flags drawn on scraps of paper.



And the fact that while at school I'm constantly being chased after by packs of screaming fans clinging to my legs and trying to kiss me.



And when I cross the courtyard and the preschoolers I teach are playing in the preschool cage, they try to claw their way over the fence like wild animals, screaming "ELLO GOODBYE!"



"Don't let it go to your head." you say. "Why are they drawing British flags when you're American?" you ask. But I only get one year as a rock star, and I'm going to enjoy it. So if you have any more questions to ask me, I'll be on hopscotch square 7 during recess, signing autographs.

and now for something you'll really like

I thought I had already heard the most bizarre things kids could be thankful for, until a ten-year-old girl was making her list yesterday, and asked me for the translation of a "bald mouse."

Me: A bald mouse?
HER: Yes a mouse that is bald.
ME: Can you describe it some more?
HER: Well, it's like a mouse, but it can also fly, and to fly it spreads its arms.

If you speak French you already know what this animal is so please don't laugh at me. Actually, everyone, please don't laugh at me. I told her it was a flying squirrel. And she thanked me and wrote it down, and I made a mental note that she was crazy. But then I got home and looked up "bald mouse" and it's a bat.

And it wasn't that funny until I thought of my alternate-reality Batman: FlyingSquirrelman.
All the alternate-reality super-villains are trembling in fear right now.

how old are you?

Today a kid asked how to say underwear in English and got sent to the corner.

It was the teacher who sent him to the corner. I didn't take any disciplinary action. Because when I held up a flashcard with the word "pumpkin pie" and the entire class screamed "PUMPKIN PEE!" I laughed for almost a minute before regaining composure and correcting their pronunciation.

So who am I to judge.

I am thankful I flipped through that French firearms handbook over the weekend.

This week I'm bringing Thanksgiving to France.

Today my students wrote "I'm thankful for..." on a piece of paper and then drew pictures to complete the sentence. If they already knew a word in English they could label it, which is probably why all of them were thankful for cats. And then I helped translate their other favorite things.



One major, and mysterious, difference between French kids and American kids is that almost all of them were thankful for sheep. Also they wrote long lists of their family members with (deceased) written after the deceased ones. It was very sweet.

And then there were the things that were the same as American kids. "How do you say pistol? It's a semi-automatic." asked one adorable boy, pointing to the barrel of the weapon he was most grateful for. How do you say flames? Parachute? Tank? Half the class was thankful for tanks. Grapple gun? Spear? Machine gun? Assault rifle? Before you congratulate me on my French weapon vocabulary, let me clarify I was looking at very detailed drawings.

Besides the requests for the translation of zombies, Manga comics, Rhianna, hamsters, cherries, and crocodiles; every kid wanted to know how to spell my name.



Bless your hearts.

And thank goodness for tanks.