Always Trust the Eyebrows

Imagine a world...

There is nothing so utterly disheartening as being elbow-deep in grading a stack of severely repetitive papers about early American literature and suddenly realizing that the exact sentence you are reading floated before your eyes yesterday. I riffled back through and sure enough, found a paper with a sentence that curiously matched the one I was reading. The question is, did they cheat? Together, or separately and were unlucky enough to lift the same sentence? Or did they just both take it from the same source and didn’t know how to document it? Still, that was nothing to the paper I looked through an hour later, with English so impeccably store-bought that I read through only the first half a page before wandering distractedly down the halls of the English offices in quest of a prof to take the dirty document off my hands. I’d always wondered how instructors know that someone is cheating. Now I realize that their eyebrows tell them; mine lifted into a quizzical frown before my brain clicked. Always trust the eyebrows.

My high school students are such a delight. They're smart, they're funny, they're earnest, and their looking up to me as some kind of teacher-god doesn't make me uncomfortable as it does with my college students and adult students. And I'm free to up the ante on them, to raise expectations so they deliver more, while my college students are stuck in a rut of poor expectations and poor skills that seem mutually enforced, and I can't do anything about it because there's three profs and a grad student standing between me and pedagogic reform. 

Today we got into a discussion on norms in Norwegian classes; whether it’s anathema to raise your hand often in class. There’s a Norwegian cultural standard called the “Jante Law,” which is the social taboo against pushing yourself forward, and my students joked about it really being the “jente law” –“the girl law” – because it applies more to women than men. Some things never change.

 I learned in class today that native English-speakers are a minority in the English-speaking population of the world. Scary, right? That means English is more often spoken in pidgin than authentic twang. In some ways, it makes my position as a native-speaker more tenuous, less important; if most of the world speaks English with various garbled add-ins from their native language, then perhaps that is authentic English, and my clean Midwestern accent an aberration.

One of my Norwegian friends waxed poetic on me while drunk. He asked me for my favorite quote, and I gave him Tennyson’s “To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield.” But his sudden interest in literature was all a ploy; when I asked him for his favorite quote in return, he said something about true love being complete surrender, and moved his chair closer to mine. Unfortunately, I’m a lit major, and rather well-armed for this sort of thing. “Yes,” I breathed into his ear, “and do you know what Plato says?” He inclined his head eagerly. “That love is a serious mental disease.” Then we talked about rainproof backpack covers for a while.

Teaching Moments: Tombgirls and Whores

Today I led my first lesson with the high school students. They were surprisingly friendly and eager. I remember being a high schooler, and my glee in making my teachers miserable, and the moment senior year when the principal happened to mention that I had made several of my teachers cry over the years. It shook me to the core—before that I’d never considered that students can have such an effect on teachers. Though of course, that was what I was trying to do, to muscle in and threaten their authority (in case my last post didn’t make it clear enough, I have severe authority problems). With me, it was either that or worship the ground they walked on. I can’t help but hope my students take the latter approach to me. 

Anyhow, my students have been gleefully polite and enthusiastic. I gave them a poem to read out loud, about the difficulties of pronouncing the English language, and they read it with all the attendant giggles I’d expected. They were even more confident than the UMD college class I tried it on last year, though that may be because their foreign status allows them to slip up without feeling idiotic. Afterwards, while discussing the poem, we accidentally stumbled into an impromptu class discussion on linguistics and the history of the English language. Very clever kids.

Between them and my adult students at Katten, I’ve had several hilarious moments. One student took me aside and explained that when I pronounced his name with my American accent, it sounded like I was calling him a whore in Norwegian, so would I please use a variant? Another spoke to me last week about what she loves to read in English, and today brought in two fantasy books for me to read because I’d said I’m looking to start reading some fantasy (the first page appalled me with its writing. It’s 1600 pages of junk. But I will conscientiously read each and every one, as a labor of love). An adult student wrote, “I live alone with two cats, where one is missing.” Where did it go? Is it dead, or just perpetually lost? Another wrote, “my little girl is a little tombgirl and loves to climb trees,” which only needs a slight nudge in the right direction to find proper English usage and link up in a long-term relationship. It is such a droll joy to teach English, and I love it! Luff it! Lurv it!

Today was also my first day of co-leading an Amlit seminar for my University of Bergen students. Ingrid, the agreeable Norwegian I’m working with, is working on her PhD proposal on Hilda Doolitle. I think they figured that if they put the two of us together, we might equal one whole professor. Anyhow, we get along great. As I helped run the discussion, I could hear the voices of all my professors in my head. Their perspectives and creeds and teaching tricks all filtered out through me as I worked my way through the classroom, sometimes to funny effect (I’m sure Dr. A from the literature department never met Dr. R from Philosophy, but judging by the cacophony they created in my head, it would not be an amicable meeting).

It was very, very strange to be the only American in a room full of people discussing America. At times I felt like I was eavesdropping on people talking about me. Still, it was excellent fun to have teacher status as I shot my ideas throughout the room. I was amazed at how thoroughly my education enabled me to field questions and make connections. I suppose sneaking books under my desk since third grade has greatly enhanced my knowledge, though I'll try to make sure that if my students do so, they'll miss more than they'd ever get by reading (hah! impossible, you say. ... yeah, I kind of agree).

Most fascinating were the students’ responses to the last question I left them with. To help them formulate Benjamin Franklin, I asked them to offer their idea of a modern-day Franklin: who is the contemporary quintessential American who represents American values. Their answers? Will Smith, Oprah Winfrey, and Obama. Interesting, eh? All rich black celebrities. It suggests a curious conception of America today. I suppose they figure that wealth and fame prove the success of the American Dream, while being an African American makes life sufficiently hard for that old American work ethic to kick in.

After, I went on a glorious bus ride with some Spaniards (we meant to hike Ulriken, but got lost). The land on the way to Åsane is richly forested and craggy and swoops by the side of the fjord. Houses peeked between the kind of scenery that, in the States, would be in a federal park being considered for sale to pay off the National debt. But here, there’s plenty of gorgeous where that came from. After negotiating with the bus driver (he didn’t speak any English, hence our misunderstanding) in preposterously proud-of-myself Norwegian, we came back to Fantoft exhausted and happy nonetheless. 

Introductions

On Monday, I walked into the old, old, old building that houses Bergen Katedralskole. The front doors open on a broad, ancient wooden staircase, that doubles back and divides into two staircases up to the next level, and continues to rejoin and divide in a river of creaky wood until reaching what I can only imagine are turrets that the students use as lockers. Unsure of where to go after I’d climbed the first set of stairs, I looked about for some sign or information desk or object from the twentieth century.

“Kan…?” A man who had been walking across the landing turned back to ask if he could help me (I think. It was in Norwegian).

“I’m looking for Anita, or the English department,” I told him.

“Ah, you’re not, are you, you’re not Hannah?” he asked. Upon my admitting I was, he introduced himself—the headmaster of the school. Lucky hit. And very friendly, just as the English teachers turned out to be.

There are seven of them. We sat in an informal departmental meeting, brainstorming for the coming year. The teachers have varying accents: some, like Anita, speak near-perfect English. Others were difficult for me to understand—which perhaps makes it easier for their students to grasp English. I liked their laidback friendliness. The meeting was an oddly two-tiered experience: I listened to their accents and grammar and the books and movies they suggested, and knew I was making a few of them uncomfortable, or at least hesitant, because I’m so culturally literate as a born-and-raised English speaker, but I also sensed immediately that their competence as teachers and enthusiasm for their students places them miles above me. It feels like the perfect alliance: we’ll all come out with something valuable. After the meeting, one of the teachers asked if I’d help her work out a project about America’s current political situation. I of course agreed, but man will it be embarrassing to explain Michele Bachmann to Norwegians!

On Tuesday the university had its grand opening ceremony. It was picturesque and charming. The entire student body of the University of Bergen crowded into the plaza in front of the University Museum. There were less people than in my graduating class at Maryland.

They sang the Norwegian anthem. Then the Rector –Norwegian for Dean or President— (who was very funny, and invited me to a lunch when I met him at the US ambassador’s in Oslo), began by speaking about the July 22 attacks. He memorialized a student who ought to have continued her education at UiB this year, but had been killed, and affirmed the need to stand strongly united in our diversity. His words chilled and yet uplifted. Then he called for a moment of silence.

As I stood with bent head, trying to imagine what sort of thought could mean anything in the face of such tragedy, I wondered about the sign language interpreter on stage. What had she told her audience? That there would be a moment of contemplation? A moment of normalcy? How do the deaf feel about the non-deaf using their everyday element as a symbol of grief?

The Graduate Reading Room for Foreign Languages

On Wednesday Lene ran an English orientation for all the students in the English department. Pretty basic, except that moment when she introduced me to the class, and I made a quick joke, and they all laughed, and I felt a shiver of excitement run up my spine. I can’t wait to start! I love-love-love a captive audience, learning the liquid loveliness of literature and language-play… or, alternatively, alliterative agony…

I met the other English masters students at a department meeting. They have a limited number of course offerings, but there is one class on literature and science in 19^th C Britain that I am going to take if I have to wreak havoc with every plan that has been made for me (looking at the Katedralskole teaching schedule, I will). Then Lene, Øyunn (an Amlit prof here at UiB), Nat Wallace (the visiting Fulbright prof for the year), Ingrid (another instructor for the Amlit seminars), and myself sat down to plan the American literature seminars,  which the five of us will be teaching in various modes.

Professors and students have very different ideas of the college experience. As we ran over protocol for exams, papers, attendance, power point presentations, laptops, and plagiarism, I couldn’t help but smile at the gap between the teacher and the taught. Some profs have a pretty canny grasp of what’s passing through students’ minds, and teach accordingly. Others look at students as the enemy, to be caught cheating or playing on fb during class or absent throughout the semester. And the funny thing is, most professors are right. If you treat students as straightforward individuals, adults who are present to learn and contribute, they’ll act as such. If you treat them as recalcitrant children, you’ll be surprised at the willingness with which they take you up on it. Anyhow, we ironed out our plans for the seminars, and I’m psyched to start soon.

The cultural surprises of the past half-week:

Not all my Katten students will be taking exams: only a quarter of the class actually take exams. Huh???

Narcotics in the Park (No, that’s not the title of one of the UiB welcome week activities, it’s the reason that all the bathrooms require a swipe card to enter)

People are overwhelmingly friendly here. Perhaps it’s because things are on a smaller scale, so a camaraderie grows up. Either way, I like it.

Jogging in Norway is rather different from jogging in Ohio. Mountains!

This country does not seem to eat tofu.

And man do Europeans wear tight pants!

Some more pictures from Bergen:

 

The whole place swarms with quaint architecture, mountainscapes, and public gardens. You can tell which of us just arrived: we can't put our cameras away!