Damage Control

Sometimes when I teach a class I get caught up in the moment and sort of forget what's going on around me. This holds true for many other things as well. Especially that "forgetting what's going on around me" part.

This mindset can last for...oh, let's say...days. Then, if I have to teach a class, I might get super excited about America's history and all the cool facts I learned on wikipedia and completely space out about the kids' perspective on life. For example, although I had previously learned that the French school system is VERY secular, I momentarily passed over this crucial fact in my lesson planning.

Enter Thanksgiving. Have my students ever heard of such a holiday? No, it's completely new and bizarre to them. Have they ever heard of pilgrims? Not of any kind, not even Catholic ones. Have they ever heard of Indians? Most of the class, thanks to Westerns. But there are some things I (incorrectly) assumed they would have learned by first or second grade.

"The pilgrims left England in the 1600's," I say slowly, holding up a big picture of a man in a funny hat. "They sailed to America to start their lives over."

All the little hands shot up. "Why?! Why did they leave England?"

Well, that's rather simple..."They left England because of their religion. Their religion was different than everybody else's at that time."

Ten seconds of blank silence and frowns as the children struggle with this concept. Naively, I supposed they were attempting to understand the complicated political and religious firestorm that would have driven so many families to make such a long, perilous journey across the Atlantic Ocean. Or something along those lines.

One of the cutest little girls you've ever seen raises her hand. Ah, here we go, I tell myself, mentally prepping for the curveball Cute Girl is about to throw me.

"What's religion?"

Now it was my turn to stare. "You...uh...you don't know what religion is?" You're what, 8 years old?

I should mention that the minute the word "religion" popped out of my mouth, the teacher at the back of the room perked up rather quickly. She swooped in, nervous as heck.

"Children," she gushed in soothing tones as if she were talking about death or nightmares, "I know that many of you don't know what religion is. Do you have parents or grandparents who pray?"

A few hands went up.

"Well, children, religion is about how people pray. It's when one person prays one way, and another person prays another way. And everybody prays to a different god. And then they do bad things to each other because they don't pray to the same god. And that's what religion is. So sometimes, like with the Pilgrims, people leave their country forever so they can pray to their own god." She smiled nervously at the kids and gestured at me to continue.

I must have had an interesting expression on my face. "Uh...okay, well, anyways...all of England was Catholic, and uh..."

Immediately a little boy piped up with, "What's a Catholic?"

I really didn't know what to say. I felt like asking him if he'd seen the six Catholic cathedrals in our tiny village. Maybe he was just so used to them he had no idea what they meant.

"Ummmmm...A Catholic is one type of..." what did that teacher say again? "...person who prays to a god. English people and French people all used to be Catholics." Although apparently not too much anymore, eh?

He still seemed confused, but by now I'd realized that these kids were probably going to be more confused than otherwise before I was done. Teacher Lady was popping up and down out of her seat in the back with every sentence I spoke, ready to pounce for more damage control if I started talking crazy again.

Luckily for her I took a short break from dangerous subjects. In fact, we held on good and solid there for about the next five minutes or so. We had a pleasant conversation about Indians (the French love Native Americans.) There was also a lengthy discussion about corn and the novel concept that no, France had not invented popcorn, that would be Native Americans once again. Then we get around to good old Squanto. They thought his name was hilarious. They shouted it maybe a dozen times in a row and proceeded to jump around making what they imagined to be Indian noises. It was like a bunch of teeny Squanto groupies going nuts all over the place. And just imagine their excitement when they discovered there was a lot more to him than his name!

"Squanto spoke English," I explained, "so he was able to communicate with the Pilgrims."

Cute Girl wants to start more trouble. "How come he didn't speak French?"

Seriously? Okay. "Um. Indians had their own language, you know."

All the little kids went Ooooooohhhh as if I had just announced that Native Americans had wings and tails.

Cute Girl won't leave it alone. "So how come he spoke English then?"

I'm quite pleased at this question since I happen to have recently looked up the answer. "Well," I begin with a smile on my face, "he actually learned English while he was a slave in England."

Speaking of popcorn, Teacher Lady erupted from her chair in a similar manner and fell all over herself trying to calm everybody down while the children murmured in confusion "What's a slave? What's a slave?" "It's nothing!" she kept saying, "It's nothing! It just means that Squanto visited England, that's all it means!" Much as I wanted to laugh, I felt kind of bad for her. I think the teachers here are going to be pretty sick of damage control by the time I'm done corrupting their poor children.