A Fishy Story 

Believe it or not, but I do have a real, live, actual friend - his name is David.  Well, sometimes he is not my best friend; sometimes he is an enemy and a bit of an utter swine.  At these moments,  he takes especial joy in telling me how dull San Francisco is compared to London - he visited for about ten minutes a couple of decades ago - or how ugly it is compared to his  newish home town, the fantastically beautiful, Bath.

Well, I do my best to defend my adopted city and my newish home town, El Granada.  Bath is stunning, but it is not Florence, Bangkok or Bruges.  Bath does have nice galleries but we have the Legion of Honor, which has drawings by Sandro Botticelli and paintings by the weirdly delightful Bernardo Daddi (the Master of the Sneaky Eyes). 

Then there are things that never ever happen in Bath.  For example, driving along Highway One last night we noticed the sky darken ominously and looking up we saw that this was caused by thousands upon thousands of utterly demented pelicans.  Looking down as we passed Miramar, we saw a corresponding sinister darkness rising up from the depths of the sea.

Reaching for the rosary I always keep in the glove box along with a copy of the Bhagavad Gita and an antique Tibetan prayer wheel, I told Laura that this was almost certainly the apocalypse - the pelican is an ancient Christian symbol - and we had better start setting our messy affairs in order and get down to some serious praying.  She gave me one of her odd looks and told me that it was just an anchovy surge and that I should stop being hysterical.

Armageddon or fishy surge, we decided it best to watch possibly cosmic events unfold from the comfort of a comfortable chair in the most excellent Miramar Beach Restaurant.  Even if - as I strongly suspected - the dies irae was at hand, a couple of gins and tonic would make things feel a bit better.  I sent a text to David telling him that we had a grandstand view of the end of history and that you don’t get that in bloody Bath.

Well, it was just an anchovy surge.  Ever so slightly embarrassed, I decided to take massive revenge by eating each and every one of the little fishy sods.  We agreed that they were pretty tasty - especially served on well buttered toast with a spicy tomato sauce.   I sent yet another text to David telling him that we may not be witnessing the apocalypse as such, but Half Moon Bay had incomparably  better  anchovies than Bath.

Early on Saturday morning, we  set off on our anchovy hunt, but we were too late.  A bunch of Buddhist Monks had bought the entire catch for $1,000 and liberated the lot of them.  Now, you don’t get that in Bath or even London.

Teacher Unappreciation Week - Part 3: Why do you stay?

The above question appeared in a post I wrote about teaching. If you, gentle readers, don’t entirely mind I’ll create a new one based on it.

It is an interesting question, which lends itself to many interpretations. For example, We could go down a philosophical path and wax lyrical on what Heidegger calls ‘thrownness' or about Camus and The Myth of Sisyphus.  However,  I have a hunch that this is not what is intended and I have more than a hunch that I will be the victim of domestic violence if I get ‘all professorial’.  The question  is not so much about wielding bare bodkins, but  more on the lines of “Why would any teacher remain in such an underpaid, grueling and unappreciated profession?” 

Why do teachers stay? Aside from the fact that many don’t (there is a high attrition rate), many of us actually quite like children and enjoy trying to foster their intellectual and even moral development.  Then there are the friendships you make along the way with fellow teachers, parents and other colleagues. Note: I don’t mention love of subject as time and sheer exhaustion generally precludes research and deep reading.

That being said, the hours are long, the pay atrocious and not all students are bundles of utter delight.

Why do you stay?  Well, one answer might be the fact that teachers make a large financial sacrifice to get their jobs. After years of study, there is a natural reluctance to chuck the entire thing in. Sure, some do overcome this inertia and escape into far better paid jobs in, say, human resources or programming but these are the exceptions.      

Another reason why we stay might be exhaustion.  I always think of Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London in this connection.  He was talking about employees performing menial jobs in restaurants, but much the same applies to teachers. Low paid and exploited workers just don’t have the energy to up sticks and start all over again. This is totally unlike the case of tech workers, who feel no compunction about pursuing ever higher salaries.

Then there is something that almost constitutes brainwashing.  We are constantly being told it is our duty to work inhuman hours and - even - to take on tasks that are time consuming, unpaid and unrelated to teaching per se.  We are inundated with paperwork and supervisory tasks … and it is the ‘expectation’ - a loathsome word -  that these will be done even though this means that marking and lesson preparation is relegated to weekends or the wee small hours.  It is expected that a teacher’s free time is entirely disposable and teachers, themselves, expendable. Most fall for this line out of fear for their jobs and performance evaluations and are too shattered and far too timorous  to cast off the mind forged manacles, the rope of sand.    

Teachers need the help of others as they are largely too bone-weary to look after their own interests.  This is not charity, but in the interests of your children and society.  Way back in 1987 Allan Bloom wrote The Closing of the American Mind.  This was to do with the decline in university education but it applies to all teaching.  The door is almost closed, but there may be just a chink of light left.  Please, please give it a good shove and while you are at it certain district offices and offices of education could do with a good kicking. Teachers need to be better paid, less overworked and far more respected.

This is the Day the Banana Slugs Have Their Picnic

“Don’t worry. My husband will do his Hannibal Lecter face. That would keep anyone away”

The client glances at me and quickly looks away slightly ashen. “That would certainly work,” she says. “But that’s just his normal one! Do ‘the face’, Mark.” I comply, assuming a grotesquely sinister half-leer and bulging my eyes. The client has to steady herself. Once recovered, she agrees that ‘the face’ would be a pretty major deterrent and we head off for the shoot.

A few words of explanation might be in order. Although we rarely if ever do location shoots, we have been persuaded to do some fashion photographs for an exceedingly shy would-be model. The venue is a bit of forest near Sacramento. Although private, it is popular with walkers at weekends and the owners don’t think it worthwhile putting fences and signs up. The model will be wearing a slinky evening dress and is very self-conscious. My job is to carry the heavy equipment and to stand guard. Everything set up, I find a moderately comfortable stump near a crossing and start to peruse ‘Foxe's Book of Martyrs’ - perfect reading for an early summer morning. It is midweek, so I don’t think we’ll be disturbed. It soon transpires that I was wrong. After twenty minutes or so, a couple of dedicated walkers approach. Backpacks, robust walking boots, woolly socks - the lot. I suppose I could have simply told them the area was private, but inspiration strikes and a slightly different tactic springs to mind. If Anthony Hopkins doesn’t work … this just might. For some reason, they don’t so much as glance at me so I greet them with wild enthusiasm. “Have you heard about the banana slugs? They are great … you lick them and they are totally hallucinogenic! There are oodles of them down there and they are all just waiting for you.” This is, of course, an utter fib. No self-respecting banana slug would be seen dead within a few hundred miles of the place; it is far, far too dry. But my new acquaintances neither challenge my limacological knowledge nor slacken their pace. Strange as it might seem, the pair appear more horrified than enthused about the prospect of a close encounter with the fictitious slugs. I decide to appeal to the woman’s maternal instincts. “They are just so cute! It’s the way they lie on their adorable little yellow tummies and wiggle about like anything. You simply must, must see them”. The only result of this is that they accelerate a bit and shoot past me. I have to warn the photographer and her self conscious model. I burst into song at the top of my lungs: “If you go down to the woods today you are sure of a BIG SURPRISE …” This works. The model has just time to vanish just before the unfortunate walkers sprint by. The poor dears may not have seen any examples of ariolimax columbianus, but I can’t help feeling I gave them a pretty interesting woodland experience.

Teachers-at-Arms

 

It was about 7.40 AM and I pulled into a Starbucks as I was driving to San Francisco. There was a slightly sinister fellow wandering about the carpark dressed in military camouflage and wearing dark glasses. It was only when I got out of the car that I realised he was carrying something that looked like a rocket-propelled grenade (RPG). In a split second I was crouching behind my vehicle stick in hand and shaking from a rush of pure adrenaline (cowardice). What to do? The coffee shop was too far and my phone was in the car. I concocted a desperate plan - he must surely have seen me so I’d wait till he was within range, jump out and bash him senseless with my stick. I cautiously looked round the back of the car and was horrified to see him levelling the RPG in my direction whilst staring menacingly. Terrified though I was, I continued to gaze back while praying to St. Jude. The man released some sort of catch and his device started to blow leaves. Now, although there may be some humour involved in my retelling it, my purpose is not to amuse - I have a serious point. Like most teachers, I have absolutely no military experience and wasn’t even a boy scout. The man was foolish to wear an army-style outfit, but he was utterly innocent and was only perceived as a threat due to my ignorance and my fervid imagination. Had the government provided me with a weapon, I am almost sure I would have used it especially if I thought I was protecting students. Stress would have prevented me from shooting to maim rather than kill and my clumsiness would have endangered other innocents. As a guest in your country, it is not my place to talk politics, but I can’t help feeling there has to be a better way than arming educators.

Fools Rush In Where Angels Fear to Tread

So, a 64 year old albeit strangely youthful Englishman cheerfully strolls into this fortress-like high school in Bayview, San Francisco. It is more than a little imposing: slightly rusty chain-link fencing reaching into the sky, formidable security gates, guards and simply oodles of cameras.  Had it not been for the leafy surroundings and the improbably neat, colourful little houses, I’d have been reminded slightly of a maximum security prison in Britain like Dartmoor or Wormwood Scrubs.  The views of Hunter’s Point and the Bay are pretty nice though.

I go in search of the office, which seems to be locked up.   I eventually gain ingress and chat to the cheerful receptionist.  Rather improbably, it appears that I’ve been assigned to the gym  - I was rather hoping for English or History.  I hobble up to a couple of amazingly tall young gentlemen shoving balls into a kind of net-like thing. 

“Awfully nice to meet you.  Is this what is known as baseball?”

After a little confusion while they sum me up, the kids are extremely warm and welcoming.  They patiently explain that it is something called netball.    One politely asks about my age in a slightly convoluted way:

“I am not asking how old you are or anything.  But how long before you are a hundred?”

I perform a relatively rapid mental calculation and tell him that I’ve got a good 36 years to go.  I ask why he is so interested. He tells me that when I have reached a hundred I get to meet the Queen. I refrain from mentioning that by that time she will be pretty elderly too.

The weeks pass and I look forward to each day.   The students are a bit wild but tractable.  They constantly try to mimic my accent - usually by saying “hey mate” with a somewhat Australian intonation.  Whenever I walk across the ‘blacktop’ I get high fives and fist bumps. 

In class I have my helpers - the tall chaps I met on the first day.  At the end of one lesson, I suggest that they tidy up a bit,.  Nothing much happens, but then a helper translates my request: “The little old guy wants you to clean up your Mother F***** Shit!” I could have hardly put it better myself.

Sadly all this is coming to an end.  My wife has discovered that I am working in one of the most dangerous places in the Bay and is extremely nervous.  The other day, I was waiting to meet her in an adjoining park - a fellow teacher drove by and shouted that  I was ‘frigging’ mad and should get back inside the school posthaste. It seems that there are regular robberies and even shootings in the area.    

“I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled …”.  Were I younger and more vigorous, I should stay.  These children need help.