Teaching little kids English at a French school requires one thing: lots of photocopies. Recent favorites include color-it-yourself numbers, “Dick and Jane” and a scary page from a 1990 yearbook. With the right amount of energy and a not-so-sincere smile, these pages are portals into the magical world of the English language. Or not, because sometimes it’s just too hard to get to the machine.
With classes spread out all day, I have to do my photocopying in chunks. This was nearly impossible to accomplish at first, because the photocopier is precious, and it requires a code. Each teacher has a personal code, not to mention a different number of students. I had an aneurysm every break I spent chasing down teachers, frantically asking them for their codes and could they please remind me how many students they had. Now I just use the principal’s code and copy in bulk. This would make life easier but for the fact that some seem to feel that I’m not really entitled to photocopying privileges at all.
Let’s call this teacher Clara. I don’t even work with Clara, and she was friendly when I sat in on her class once. But when it comes to photocopying, there are no allegiances. Recently she hovered behind me as I started a set of copies so that I would stop the machine and let her go ahead of me, only to have her take 10 long minutes. Normal photocopying etiquette says that you wait your turn, and if you do go ahead of someone it’s because you need to make only one copy. Think of the grocery store line.
But then later that day she came up behind me, stood there for about 10 seconds and asked if I had a lot to do. I assured her I was almost finished, which I was. Luckily I was still around to hear her complain about the paper always being out. It was obvious she blamed me even though I had been using a different size paper. Is it possible that one day I did take up too much time and now she is suspiciously watching me every time I key in the code? Ah, the intrigue of the photocopier. How did it come to this?
Since my job position is vague and at best depends on the mercy of the “real” teachers at best, I constantly feel the need to be smotheringly polite. Recently I’ve resorted to near-invisibility, taking my breaks in the deserted halls so I can have a Coke and read. It may sound pathetic, but it’s preferable to suffering the teacher’s lair, home of the ma?tresses, who simmer over their coffee and prattle about all sorts of school-related drama. Initially I attempted friendliness, but my non-flamboyant personality soon sank into the mire of a foreign domain. I took to finding the chair nearest the corner and started reading instead of listening to the conversation.
Now, though, I’ve chosen the hall over the awkwardness of not belonging. You see, I only enter each teacher’s class once a week for less than an hour. Some seem more than happy to have me, while others just can’t be satisfied. Keep in mind that these teachers are intimidating. I don’t remember my elementary school teachers, but I know that they didn’t have waist-long hair, wear massive amounts of eyeliner and leather pants, have nose piercings or speak in tobacco-ravaged voices.
But I can’t feel any shame in this job, because when you’re teaching the alphabet, singing the alphabet song to the tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” is unavoidable. If you ever teach the parts of the human body, belting out “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes” complete with motions is necessary. And once you’ve crossed that line you can never really be embarrassed again. When Christmas rolls around, you have to teach carols, and so I eagerly tried to teach the students “Jingle Bells” and “O Christmas Tree.” My singing career was consistently cut short, however, by one teacher who kept telling me I was singing too low for the kids. I’m thrilled that I am willing to sing at all and here she is, making “up” motions with her hands. Finally, I told her that she could take over if she wanted to. I haven’t done any songs since. I’m currently working up the courage to try again, although apparently I should be practicing in the higher register.
No matter how friendly and grateful some of the teachers may be, I avoid them all. And because they don’t feel the need to include me in their discussions (which may be justifiable), I really have nothing to say to them. I mean, what would I say? I hear teaching the past tense of irregular verbs is tough? The geography book left out Eastern Europe? How about the weather? Besides a friendly hello and any little questions about what they think is best, I race to and from classes, hide during the breaks and disappear at lunch. This would all be fine, except for one problem: the photocopier calls.
Can words even describe the feeling of coming upon the teacher’s room empty and the photocopier on power-save, of being able to copy and slice pages at will, with no one lurking around? Every time I find myself alone with the copier, I breathe a sigh of relief. No pressure to sing higher, figure out the future anterior of a verb in order to appear competent or present a plan for the next lesson. Just me and the machine, where all I have to do is press a button and watch the beautiful copies roll out one by one.
Kathryn King is a junior in the School of Foreign Service and an Associate Editor of The Georgetown Voice. She rediscovered lotion.
