Señorita Franglais

At the end of the academic year 2019, I used "moving out of area" as an excuse to finally (or so I thought) turn my back on teaching. "I'd given it a good go", I would say to friends and family who had seen me struggle through the last few months, as I gave away my French resources and stationery. Part of me certainly felt like I had failed, to have given up on a career so early on, to be the first of my PGCE MFL cohort to throw in the red, white and blue towel. But truth be told, I was beaten. My young, promising ambitions had all but been erased by the monotony of living within the four walls of my own classroom. I rarely ventured up to the staffroom, because why sit alone in a cold, damp room eating your lunch when you could be sat alone in a slightly brighter classroom eating your lunch? As the MFL department had dwindled to two members of staff (from seven, at one point) by the time I qualified, we were not deigned worthy of a staff room and so I often went...

I am privileged because of the colour of my skin. But I haven't really understood what that means until now. I reckon I have known this privilege for a long time. It was wrapped up somewhere in the back of my mind. I have grown up in a world spiked by racism and white privilege. I was 8 when the twin towers fell and the world turned its back on Islam as if an entire religion had been planning the attack in secret. I was 16 when Barack Obama was inaugurated as the first ever black President and split a nation because of the degree of melatonin in his skin. I was 23 when the UK voted shyly in favour of Brexit, partly as pretext for closing our borders to thousands of immigrants who could better our lives. I am now 27 and the immigrants our government was (and still is) planning to send away work hard everyday on the front lines in the fight against Coronavirus. They are our doctors, nurses, taxi drivers. They work in care homes, supermarkets, laboratories.Boris Johnson called them un...

First published by me 2018 I am now a newly qualified teacher nearing the end of my first incredibly hectic, demanding year in a challenging school with great kids. I have made some excellent faux pas that I will most likely repeat at some point in my teaching career, but I’ve also realised that I’m a pretty good mentor when push comes to shove, particularly in my role as year 7 form tutor. Take Jake for example (name changed, obviously). He the kind of kid who gets the most negative comments, frequents seclusion like it’s a home-made lemonade stall, and often finds (rather than gets) himself in trouble. He was first brought to my attention in September, and I thanked my lucky (ish) stars that I wouldn’t have to teach him the future tense in French anytime soon. Once it became clear he was not in my classes, the boy was off my radar. This seemed to be working out just fine, until one year 7 tutor meeting when I sat across from my colleagues and heard the words that nobody with a nice, ...

Hello folks, It has been a while since I last rambled on about anything really, mainly because between balancing two jobs, charity work, a German course, and something of a social life, I just haven’t really had the time. That’s not to say that I do have the time right now. But my crappy laptop, of which I’ve been the un-proud owner for just over two years, appears to have staged its own 48-hour protest and will not let me access any of my work. And, right now, The Scheme 2016 is on my mind like an over-played pop song.   Credit – James Smith Quick recap for those of you who have been out of the Penguin Random House loop. Last year was the first year that any major UK publishing house had offered a longer term paid internship in their offices. Not only are The Scheme finalists paid well, they are given an insight into publishing that you can’t get from a textbook or a degree certificate. They are thrown into the deep-end of publishing with a lot of support. In addition to this...

First published by me July 25, 2015 I’ve always thought it funny that the French for ‘graduated’ is also the same for ‘unemployed’*. I like to imagine that the odd French person might have to specify which category they have fallen (quite literally, in some cases) into. Some French people might even find themselves in both categories simultaneously, living in the sorry state of  je ne sais plus quoi faire . Now, I might not be French (although I *can* pull it off on the Paris Metro so long as I don’t attempt a conversation), but I feel a strong affinity with the  licencié  of today. I’ve graduated after four years of self-inflicted MFL study from a ‘top university’ and am now the proud owner of a piece of paper and a ginormous student loan, the sum of which I am yet to work out. But that’s okay, right? As long as I don’t earn over 15k**, then I never have to worry about that. And if my current state of unemployment lasts more than thirty years, or if I journey away t...

First published by me March 24, 2015 It’s time to move on. I’m sorry that you have to find out like this. Again. But you never pick up when I call. And I swore I’d never return to the place we once called our own, not even after all this time. Besides, I can’t have you getting the wrong idea if we were to meet again. You were never mine to keep; we both knew our time was short. And for a while the taste was sweet. Sure, I knew that other people had fallen out of love with you. I’d heard stories of your long list of ex-lovers. You’d stalked them across Europe and even as far as the States demanding attention, insisting that they return. I thought that this time would be different. You knew the deal. I was always going to walk away, that’s just what I do. I wasn’t looking for forever, just an easy fix. And you fit the bill perfectly with your charm and wit; you had the  je ne sais quoi  others had spoken of. You were elusive – so difficult to access with all of those secret code...

First published by me Nov 6, 2014 Where did you go? Why aren’t you here? I’m beginning to think that you’ve just disappeared. Was it something I said? Was it something I did? Or have you found someone better who you think needs a fix? They told me you’d be back, said I should maybe hold on That we were both just too busy – half a term wasn’t long So I tried to forget, to keep on top of my life In the hope that, one day, you’d be back on my mind “November,” they said, “that’s when he’ll return You know the deal – now please wait your turn.” But that’s just the problem, darling, don’t you see During the past year in France, I was totally free No tests, no Semantics, no reading between lines A year taking advantage of all the things I could find And you promised you’d be back to take me out one night As you waved your goodbyes and I boarded my flight. Now the  année  is over, and I’m no longer  l’Anglaise Tonight I’m missing out on the fire at York Maze And it would be okay ...

First published by me May 25, 2014 When asked whether I wanted to spend the next academic year of my life as a student or a teacher, I made my choice pretty quickly. “I’ll try being a teacher for a year, ta.” The other option I faced was significantly less desirable to me. I simply wasn’t prepared to put myself through an extra year of lectures and seminars when I could pass the Year Abroad without the ‘hassle’. I needed a break. And pronto. British Council provided me with the perfect alibi. Why not be an ‘Assistant d’Anglais’? Twelve hours paid work per week, and I’d be almost guaranteed to meet French people within the first week. (If I didn’t, I’d definitely be doing something wrong.) I didn’t even need to think about a PGCE to be handed a group of students and a classroom key. What I hadn’t expected, however, was just how much this year would teach me. Here’s a few pebbles of wisdom I picked up that I should probably share. 1. Never give up on the kids who don’t understand. ...

First published by me April 2, 2014 I’m breaking up with you. I’m sorry I didn’t say this in person. I just didn’t want to ruin the little time we were able to spend together. But you need to know why this is happening. It started with a handshake, you see. I was new in town, and I met you through a friend of a friend. He said you’d be warm and open – perfect. You said you were  enchanté   to meet me. I believed you. You lied. It started in a different language. I listened intently as words I hadn’t had the chance to digest swirled around the room, full of promise and comfort. I pretended to understand. You asked me a little about myself, nodding along to my private life as if I were an open book you had read many times before. You already knew my story. The question was just a formality. It started with a smile. We sat opposite eachother, blissfully chatting away like two old friends with a great deal of history. You assured me that if I wrote my name and number down, you wou...

First published by me March 31, 2014 On the 19th April, I will be saying goodbye to my students and status as not-quite-qualified-yet-more-than-experienced-teacher for the very last time. To commemorate one of the more challenging years of my life, I have decided to write about how I managed to teach English as a foreign language to one of the most difficult age-groups in the history of the world. Ever. Now, right from the word ‘go’, I jumped into what I thought resembled authority mode, drawing from my past all of the techniques and materials which had worked for my old teachers, and consciously avoiding EVERYTHING that made my old sub-teachers’ lives’ difficult. (I did not want to be that girl.) This post will almost certainly provide some kind of humour to someone out there, even if I experienced none myself at the time. It is,  grossomodo , a collection of memoirs for how not to approach a troisième (year 10) class of French students, told from the pers...