AAAAArgh. I HATE Tuesdays. They are much, much worse that Mondays because:
A. On Mondays I go for curry after work, so it never feels like the weekend was that far away.
B. My day off is Wednesday - so on Tuesday the holiday feeling is tantalisingly close...so close I can feel it...but I still have 6 hours left at work.
C. Worst of all - I teach teenagers on Tuesdays. If there is one species of student (mind you, they are all sub-species of ooominbeenz, really) I hate - it's teenagers.
I don't mind teenagers in their natural habitat - like parks, or car parks (why?-they can't even drive)... or shopping centres. They can look as menacing as they want, quite frankly. It's actually heartening to see them thrive in the wild - where they are able to roam free, as they hunt down their precious alcopops.
No, no ... the problem I have is when you get teenagers in confined spaces. Like classrooms. Such feral creatures are not designed for classrooms. They positively rebel against the very thought. Worse still, they seem just suspiciously too quiet in a classroom. It's a well known fact that the quiet ones are trouble - and all my teenagers are disturbingly quiet.
In fact, I think they are plotting something. I wouldn't be surprised if the world suddenly becomes dominated by spotty oiks with half a brain and monosyllabic linguistic skills.
Anyway, sometimes they are so quiet I forget they are there. Have a little doze...quick forty winks. That's when they pounce. They start doodling in their books, throwing balls against the wall, picking their nose, planning strategies for world domination... things not permitted when they should be talking, goddamit. How am I meant to teach conversational English if the little horrors never speak?
Other teachers claim they can be trained, coaxed out of their shy shells, even. I just don't believe them. I truly believe that something has happened to them upon becoming a teenager. I think there are malevolent forces at work.
I think... that evil fairies come in on the eve of their 13th birthday and climb into their grimy ear canals. Then, they drill holes into their brains - precisely in the area that controls language - and let the holes drain away all the knowledge they've acquired before this age. Slimy black gunk oozes out of their brains, slowly haemorraging all previous lingustic skills and any semblance of intelligence.
On waking on the morn of their 13th birthday the teenager becomes monosyllabic - and manages at most a grunt for hello. They also lose the ability to comprehend other people speaking (like some kind of enforced temporary deafness - which would also explain why their music has to be so loud) and resolve the issue with the ubiquitous "Uh?".
Don't be fooled, though. The "Uh?" doesn't mean they are asking you to repeat yourself, it means that regardless of what you say (in any language, speed, phonetic form, volume or intonation) they will be unable and unwilling to understand you. Moreover, unless you, too, undergo drastic measures (drilling a hole into your brain, and the like) then you will also be unable to understand them. Frightening.
Then they join my class, and collectively grunt and mumble and plot to take over the world and replace it with an online role-play game. And I have a little nap while they formulate their plans.
That's what I think, anyway.
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2 comments:
You do remember being a teenager don't you? We're not that old! And I don't remember plotting in class - well, except maybe against Mr Brown in modern studies!!
Ah yes, I was reminiscing about that with one of my friend's sons t'other day. He's now 14 and Mr Brown teaches him for Modern Studies, too. Scary or what? I told him about the day the boys at the front of the class nicked the remote control and kept changing the channel when Mr Brown wasn't looking. Oh how we laughed. I think I may just have planted the nascent seeds of nasty practical jokery thoughts in that poor innocent child's mind... mwah hahaha
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