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epitome of incomprehensibility
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Did this once a week during my first degree at Concordia at nearby community centres.
Tyndale St. Georges in Little Burgundy had a structured program: kids would come from school, do a gym activity, get snacks, and then go into classrooms to get extra teaching as well as to do homework on their own.
During the teaching part I'd be a floating agent, ready to answer anyone's questions. In the second part I'd sit down with one student who needed extra help - the same one the whole semester, or maybe the whole year - and go over their homework with them.
Then this would repeat with another group of kids in another language. French first, then English. Or maybe English and then French.
Abdel in the French group was grade-two age but taking grade one in an "accueil" program, a "welcome, we'll supposedly go easy on you" program for the children of recent immigrants. His family came from Egypt. The danger was that he'd have to repeat the grade, falling behind by two years instead of one.
At first I was nervous. Both of us had to communicate in our second language. I told him I spoke more English than French, so I might make mistakes. He accepted that and showed off the few words he knew in English - proud if disconnected nouns.
The only project he seemed worried about was the presentation he had to do for Black History Month. I wondered if the reference to African heritage confused him, since he was the only kid in that class who wasn't black. And he was from Africa.
But it was more that he'd never heard of MLK or any of the other people the teacher mentioned. So this white Canadian gave him more examples, thinking that would help.
He nod-nod-nodded, and proceeded to pick an athlete I'd never heard of.
Jade was my student in the English class the next year. Abdel's age, maybe a year older. She wasn't doing that badly in school, but people had a hard time getting her to do her homework because she had ADHD and had trouble focusing. So I gave her small goals. I said things like, "Finish this page and I'll let you draw for five minutes."
The teacher was pleased, thought I had a special knack for dealing with her. (I_did_not_know I had ADHD myself yet.)
Jade liked my drawings. I was flattered when I saw she'd copied one of my doodles, a girl wearing glasses with a string of beads and pendants dangling from each side of the glasses frame. (Tried that in real life once. Looked kinda cool, but proved annoying.)
That Black History Month there was something new to talk about: Barack Obama. The teacher asked her class what was so special about him and another little girl put up her hand, going, "I know, I know! He's the FIRST PRESIDENT OF AMERICA!"
The next community centre, Project Chance Cavendish, did things completely differently. It was in an apartment complex for low-income mothers who were going back to school or doing work training; the kids didn't have a specific program, just a craft and activity table. And I was there for a shorter time, so I don't remember it as well.
But it was worth it, and not just for gaining work experience. Not just for the stories either. More the process of teaching, learning, communicating.
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