Do you English?

“[B]y being so long in the lowest form I gained an immense advantage over the cleverer boys. They all went on to learn Latin and Greek and splendid things like that. But I was taught English. We were considered such dunces that we could learn only English. Mr. Somervell -- a most delightful man, to whom my debt is great -- was charged with the duty of teaching the stupidest boys the most disregarded thing -- namely, to write mere English. He knew how to do it. He taught it as no one else has ever taught it. Not only did we learn English parsing thoroughly, but we also practised continually English analysis. . . Thus I got into my bones the essential structure of the ordinary British sentence -- which is a noble thing. And when in after years my schoolfellows who had won prizes and distinction for writing such beautiful Latin poetry and pithy Greek epigrams had to come down again to common English, to earn their living or make their way, I did not feel myself at any disadvantage. Naturally I am biased in favour of boys learning English. I would make them all learn English: and then I would let the clever ones learn Latin as an honour, and Greek as a treat. But the only thing I would whip them for would be not knowing English. I would whip them hard for that.”

Winston Churchill,  My Early Life, 1874-1904 

         While on hall duty with the World History teacher, Mea Amica, I was gathering some notes on indirect commands when I saw on one of the pages before Chapter 1, the quote from Churchill in bold. I showed this quote, along with a saucy one from Lord Byron, to Mea Amica. She was grading essays from one of her AP classes and was continually frustrated with how poorly her AP students were writing and smiled when she read Churchill's quote. If I could remember some examples of this heinous treatment of the English language, I would gladly share them.  Sometimes blocking out memories like that are the best for a teacher's mental health. 

           I really liked the quote from Churchhill. To me, it would be great to use as PR to sign up for Latin, so I looked it up online and found the entire thing. At first, when I read the whole quote and realized what the context, I wasn't too amused. Then, I thought about it a second more and realized that he has a point. The frustration that not only Mea Amica faces grading essays but every other Lit teacher and I experience with these darling children is the fact that they have the worst English speaking and writing skills ever. 

      I think if I make a poster with the Churchill quote, I won't just use the line in bold, but rather the whole thing. Maybe seeing it everyday will help remind my kids that they have to have a good grasp on the English language before they can succeed in the Latin language. 

Murphy's Law, go home, you're drunk!

Quomodo miserrima vita poterit!

This past Tuesday is a prime example of that for me. I had just gotten lesson plan notebooks for each level that I teach. As I was approaching the intersection with Central Avenue on Highland, I heard a crash behind me. Before I could even process what had happened, the van that was behind me slammed into my car causing a domino effect with the 2 cars in front of me. I got out of my car to see what had happened. After assuring the lady who hit me that I was okay, I called 911 and noticed the red mustang who had caused the vehicular tsunami was down at the intersection trying to flee the scene. The police arrived shortly after and after about 20 or so minutes of standing in the cold and soon drizzling rain, the driver of the mustang was arrested by the D.U.I. task force (or whatever they're called).

 My poor Ford Focus is totaled. The back of my car was slammed into so hard that the body itself started to buckled. It looks like the back of an older lady with osteoporosis. The back axle is bent and both passenger side doors are jammed shut.

For the past three days I have been so keenly aware of the absolute kindness of my co-workers. My classroom neighbor has given me a ride for the past three mornings and even brought me home one of the days. One of my BFF brought me home yesterday after a very stress-relieving run at the gym. She even let me use her truck this weekend, so I'll have some freedom. It this species of kindness, along with the sweetest  note and Starbucks gift card that one of my darlings gave me this morning, that makes being car-less a little less unbearable.

Tomorrow, the insurance adjuster/assessor is coming to officially determine whether my car is totaled or if it can be repaired. We'll see how that goes.

I guess Grad-school students have to graduate from their high school cars.

Semper spes est. 

Reflecting Too Much Can Make Eyes Cross.

Reflection is a tool that teachers are expected to practice regularly. It helps us to evaluate what we are doing correctly and what things we need to improve. It also gets our heads out of the paper-grading, conference-conducting, bus-lunch-hall-box office- Latin club duty sand trap. There are moments, however, when being ambushed with this “self-analysis” is the least helpful tool, especially coming from 3^rd parties who claim to have never really seen what you do in your classroom.

            There is reason I never joined the military or any other profession that practices an egotistical, machismo model of management. I don’t do well with arbitrary authority. I’m head-strong, intelligent and clever enough that people should pray that I work for the forces of good and not evil. So, it’s safe to say that when I’m told do to some “self-analysis” with no other constructive criticism or feedback, I become little more than mildly upset.

            Telling me about students who never come to get help yet complain about not understanding, or parents whose children are passing with A’s in my class and then get upset that I don’t respond immediately to their incessant and unnecessary emails, doesn't help me self-analyze. Telling me that my friendly disposition is a character flaw, doesn't help me self-analyze. All this does, is infuriate me. And fight back.

            The second summer of grad school is swiftly approaching. Sadly and Luckily, I don’t have sufficient funds to do the full 9 hours. So my plan, like me, will have to be flexible. I’ll first have to get a part-time job somewhere. It really doesn't matter where. In the midst of this part-timing, I’ll first attend the ACL Institute at the University of Memphis (Not too far from M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I). Then, I hope to attend the Conventiculum Latinum at the University of Kentucky to practice building my conversational skills. Then, try to find a way to pay for AP training for Latin, so the higher can no longer deny me, or my students WHO ASK FOR AP EVERY YEAR, my AP Latin class for the 2014-2015 school year. Lastly, though technically in the midst of all of this, take the Teaching Methods class at UGA.

            These will be my weapons, for I will win this war against unsolicited orders for self-analysis. Those who thought I wouldn't fight back, that I was too young or naive to take a stand, the joke is on you. When someone’s asks “Who’s the boss?” the answer will always be me.

            If you have experienced my same struggle as a teacher and you want to contribute to the cause, you can donate anything to my Paypal account. All donations will receive a personalized “Thank you” note and also my eternal thanks. 

Semper contra ignoratiam pugnabo.

Magna Mater, the great Sybil, is dead. It’s for the good of the Republic.

            Epiphanies and realizations are not as instantaneous for me as they may be for others. In truth, the only instantaneous thing about my brand of epiphany is the awareness that a change needs to happen, not necessarily how to do it. That for me happened a few weeks ago at a Latin Club meeting before Thanksgiving break. In a futile attempt, I used that meeting as a practice for one of our novice Certamen teams for a tournament that following Saturday. The other Latin members were meant to act as the other teams with which they would be competing. After repeated requests and pleas for them to be quiet and take this practice seriously, even after a rant from one of my officers, they continued to talk and be rowdy and socialize. I resigned myself to a desk next to the buzzer machine and waited for the long hand of my clock to hit the 2.

            There have been other instances where it seems like my students have been drinking from the Lethe River after each new lesson:

            “How do we know what endings to use?”

            “I don’t know what order to put the words in?”

            “I don’t understand the endings.”

What they have yet to realize is, that these older grammar concepts have not once been shelved to make way for the newer ones, but rather continually build on top each other.

            The apex of my frustration came last night at the Holiday Bazaar. Keeping true to what now seems a stale pattern for Latin Club, we sold baked goods and hot chocolate. Apart from the loyal contributors, who often also remember to bring things on Mondays, I had to purchase the remainder of the items so that we would have things enough to sell. Even then though, with the other clubs, who also were selling baked goods, it is very possible that we made less than what would make at a Monday sale. Getting my kids to help clean up was just as laborious. Then after some random comments about some of the other teachers, the epiphany finally came full circle: it’s me that needs to change.

            I need to stop playing mother to my children; stop treating them as if they were mine with the unconditional love only mothers seems to be able to create. I am not a mom and don’t plan to be for a very long time. These children are not my babies therefore should no longer be treated as such and I need to stop be treated with the same level of indifference that some of my kids treat their own mothers.

            In my eyes, Latin is no longer a family, but a nation. A nation of Roman citizens who are to be governed by a single entity: me, the Ferox Imperatrix. We will learn as a people, fight as a people, and be glorious as a people. Justice, wisdom and passion will ignite the apathetic spirits and minds that had once reigned. Complacency is no longer an option.

Magna Mater est mortua.

Ferox Imperatrix est nata.

           

            

Ad forem vadam

in caverna pulsata tympana audiemus
caeci in cordibus nostris movebimus
parvi augebimus

luces nostri rectores erant
saltantes contra mures
illuminantes fabulae
numquam comprehendamus


in meis trementibus cruribus
Ego ad forem ambulabo
non solum videbo
sed etiam intellegam
quo steti.

Hearts and Pomegranates

Definitions: 

The Heart - a hollow, pump-like organ for blood circulation, composed mainly of rhythmically contractile smooth muscle. 

The Pomegranate - a chambered, many-seeded, globular fruit, having a tough red rind skin. 

In my uselessness post summer, class, move to new house, I've started listening to Spiritus Me Moveat, whom I like to think is my own personal Muse. Images of hearts and pomegranates seem to continually appear in my mind. I love the realism of organs and anatomy, which is why I need to take more figure drawing classes. I also love the vibrancy of pomegranates and their rich color. 

They seem to go together in so many other ways as well. The stories of Hades and Persephone and then Apollo and Daphne and just Cupid in general seem to be the ones at the forefront of my mind. 

Let's see where this goes. 

Aurea mediocritas

A good mother will always say "everything in moderation,"
        a bona mater instead prays aurea mediocritas. 

Another will utter "life's not fair,"
       the mater familias mutters vita est dura. 

Brave fathers have no problem standing with courage,
        while the pater familias commanding cum fortitudine.

Sisters share the greatest laughs and darkest tales,
         mea soror spares no fabella.

My soul tells me right from wrong,
          mea anima compels me protinus.

My mind and heart are my inspiration,
        meae mens pectusque sunt mea musa.