I've spent the last mind numbing hour looking at shoes. I'm forever wishing for a more stylish pair that might somehow offer comfort as well. I'm not shopping, however. Instead I am sitting through an infamous Monday meeting inspecting my colleagues' footwear. Their crisp, clean fashions leave me feeling dowdy and un-chic. I move on to noticing hairstyles and skin quality, trying to arrange people by age. I follow the conversation loosely, focusing more on accents and word formations than content.There is a certain way you must shape the mouth to get those French sounds out correctly and I notice the subtle differences. Perhaps it has to do with region of origin. France is a country after all, and my colleagues weren't necessarily neighbors there and they don't all come from Paris.
I know nothing about France and so I can't begin to sort them by geographical locations. Instead, I move on to jewelry. And eye wrinkles and laugh lines. I try to sort them into cliques and wonder who hangs out with who and what their differences are. I begin to notice some subtle (or, subtle to me at least. Everything is subtle coming through the haze of another language) signs of disagreement in philosophy and perspective. A rife among them. It is smoothed over with jokes and laughter in an attempt to ease rigid temperaments and restore professional harmony.
I tune back into content for a bit. This particular meeting is called the counseil du cycle and it involves teachers from each cycle meeting to discuss the students in their grade. Teachers present concerns, strategies attempted and propose solutions. In concept a great idea, in reality it risks turning into a complaining fest. The division occurs because a pair of teachers have recommended a student skip a grade and went ahead and got director and parent approval before the counseil had a chance to review. Members are not happy about this breach in protocol. Humor restores the collegiality but not before I've had a chance to witness who's who in each camp.
I spend some time trying to discern the different learning disabilities they speak of- this being my concentration. The super regulated Frech system of education appears to have a prescribed series of interventions for each dys-.
While it's all fascinating, I feel useless. I don't contribute to the conversation and have long since stopped my inner commentary on the matters. No one asks for my opinion, nor is it ever expected. I ponder my desire to participate. Does it stem from having something new and genuine to contribute or just from a need to feed my ego? I spent the first half of the year nurturing my humility and stifling my natural tendancy to jump in with ideas from past experiences. I was overcome with the distinct sense that nothing I tried to share would be met with merit.
The second half of the year I have found myself feeling more disspirited by my uselessness. The Monday meetings are hard to sit through when I think of all the more efficient ways I could be using my time. While there are few expectations of the English teachers, I have implemented my version of best practices and programs - though I know students will not continue them the following year. I rejoice in gains students have made- and that are clearly shown on the assessments- but there is no one to share them with.
Contrary to popular image, teaching is not really me in my classroom alone, but me in a group of colleagues developing a continuum of learning that students follow- like a path through a forest of knowledge. Except in this case, my path is an ill used short cut, over grown with weeds and tangled briars. We've chopped our way through to a fairly decent clearing but there is no one to lead them on from here.
I turn back to the footwear. There is an assortment of high heels, cushy soles and flip flops. All that's missing is a decent pair of hiking boots.
