where your education closes doors, when it should be opening them

I have heard, time and time and time again, how the 'education system is screwed up'. Many times. I've watched the Sir Ken Robinson video, I've discussed it with friends, and the book I'm reading now - 'Linchpin' - skims over it too. And I've always kind of agreed - I remember ranting a bit about it when I did an issues thing in year 9 about the nation curriculum. But there are times when you can talk about something a lot without it really hitting you. Like advocating for the death penalty, until you know someone  personally who's being put on death row. And then it's personal.

Well, this just got personal.

So right now, my sort of excuse for a job is tutoring. I have three students. One is a girl in year 12, for English - let's call her Vera. I have another kid in year 8, who's a family friend, and I'm prepping her to take an exam for a selective entry school (*growl*). She will be henceforth known as Zena. And lastly, I just got a new year 12 student for History, but we won't worry too much about her. Mostly, this is about Vera and Zena.

Selective entry schools. I hate them. With a passion. I know hate is a strong word, but for the amount of unnecessary pressure they cause, I think they can take my hate. I had to try out when I was in year 8. They have a policy where they don't take more than 12 kids from any school, and my school met that limit, so I didn't get in. I know I would have gotten in otherwise, because they sent me a letter explaining this, and they said that if I really wanted, I could apply through another way. But I sabotaged this application, because I had decided that I was not going there, that I could do well in my below-average public school, and  I would prove it. The arguments I had with my mother, the tears - bad memories, man. But I proved it, didn't I?

Yet it came back to haunt me with little Zena. Zena... When she started tutoring with me, she was really quiet and reserved. She's still pretty impassive, but I think it's her natural state. Our relationship has evolved, in the sense that she talks to me more, and she's even brought in her school homework, which makes me giddy because it means she actually thinks that I help her...

Anyway. Selective entry schools. Firstly, they don't do anything. I have friends who have gone to these schools, who have told me that these schools don't do much for them. Really, there's a higher level of competition, but in the end, the school doesn't have to do much because they already handpicked the smartest kids around, so it's sort of guaranteed that they're going to do well. And more often than not, these kids already attend jizbillions of tuition classes, so it's not like they have to put in a lot of effort. So these nerdy kids go into this high pressure environment with a million extra classes on the side, and they get good results because really, they've had it written for them their whole lives, and when it's all said and done, the school looks great because all their kids did well, and they take credit for it, but they didn't actually do much for the kids because those kids were already going to do well anyway.

And then you have All Other Normal Schools that take in all students and cater to all needs, and people think they're not so great because there isn't a 90+ average in VCE, but in fact, these school are just doing their job by accepting everyone and giving them all an opportunity. Selective entry schools are missing the point of schooling in general - it's not about pumping out the highest achievers, it's about giving everyone the foundation of a good education to pave whatever path they want in life. If it's something academic, that's great. If it's not, well, that's just as great.

No matter what people say about my school, and God knows what they say now considering the shooting of Numan last year, the arrest of two more this year, plus the death of one who went overseas to apparently fight for ISIS - all boys I knew personally, two I went to primary school with... this is a whole other crisis... BUT. No matter what they say, I think my school is a good one. I think we are limited in resources, and the students have difficulty seeing it, but the teachers really try to help you get wherever you want to go. They try to help you achieve your personal best. They help you when it comes to academics, they help you get into TAFE, they help you join police academy or whatever. They do it without judgement. And I appreciate that.

Anyway. Selective entry schools are stupid, they serve no worthy purpose, and I hate them. Let me talk about the kind of pressure this puts on kids.

On the weekend, Zena went to one of the specialised tuition centres that train kids specifically for selective entry schools, to sit a practise exam. She brought the exams and results to her next class with me so we could go over them. She was disheartened by her results.

So I know from experience that these exams are pretty harsh. I had to attend tuition a month or so before doing the exam myself, and at first, I was absolutely distraught because I did terribly on each practise test - like, barely scraping 50% at times. And then I learnt that this was pretty average in the class, if, at times, above average. And then I was mortified.

But taking a look at the practise tests now - I was downright horrified. Disgusted. Let's talk about her reading comprehension test. It runs for 30min, with no extra reading time. There are 50 questions. Did you see that? 50. That's already less than one minute per question. But now keep in mind that it's reading comprehension. Now tell, where the Hell is she supposed to find time to read the damn passages before she tackles the questions?

It's basically designed to fail kids. It's impossible to excel. It's just...

It... It...  makes them feel stupid because they don't realise it's impossible.

Can you see how cruel that is?

I mean, it's not even just this tuition thing. Think about VCE. You can't get a perfect ATAR, only close. And that system is all about ranking. I mean, let's say a vast majority of one cohort worked super hard in preparation for an exam, and they all got 90%. Well, that just gets standardised so that when they get their results, it gets scaled down because it becomes average. How is that fair? Why must we take down a generation because so many are smart? Why can't we embrace their effort?

Even university. A few weeks back, I was in a tutorial, and everyone was expressing their frustration over the recent results that had come out. I was feeling quite good because I did well (it's my blog, let me brag ^_^ ), but then I listened to the tutor talk to the others, and ... ugh. Basically, she said that if everyone did well on their exams and whatnot, the higher ups would tell them that their assessment wasn't 'sensitive enough'. So in fact, no one should feel bad about getting an average mark, or a credit, because, well, average isn't bad. And I'm not saying average is bad. It's just that the way this tutor spoke, she was basically saying that they design tests with the expectation that most people won't do particularly well, and we should be satisfied with that. It's that... attitude. That attitude that you can't ever shine, so don't bother.

And sometimes they don't even seem to care about their subjects. In one unit, last year, the staff in our tutorials said at the start that they didn't expect people to show up to lectures or the tutorials, which weren't compulsory. For our assessments, they said that we wouldn't need to put in too much effort - they even told us that we could keep all our notes open when we do the quizzes. I've had similar experiences this year too. Now, how do you expect anyone to be motivated if you can't even fake enthusiasm for your own subject? If you, who teach it, don't value it, why should we?

Do you see what I'm saying, or am I just in an irrational rage about everything?

So let's get back to Vera. For English, you have three main types of written pieces that you do - a text response, a language analysis, and a context piece. A context piece is really a written piece of your own choice, which responds to a prompt about a theme that you've studied for the year - the main ones being Identity & Belonging, Encountering Conflict, and Whose Reality? I don't know if there's another one... But basically, you study them with a few texts, and it's got a lot of philosophical aspects to it.

So my kid is doing Identity & Belonging, which is what I studied. I coached her into writing a creative piece, a sort of made up reflection. Her writing has really improved since I started tutoring her, not because of me in particular... I think it's just that the school she goes to isn't so well off, according to her, and because her peers aren't too bright, the teachers are focused on bringing them up to speed, and they don't challenge them that much. But I've been challenging her, and she's basically risen to the challenge. She has deep ideas. She expresses them well, because I've helped her to expand her vocabulary, and so now she has more words to say what she wants to say. I'm so proud :')

So she does her SAC for context, and she gets her result. It's a B+. It's not bad, all things considered, but we had hoped for more. But then she showed me the feedback. There's literally ticks everywhere, there's positive commentary on the clarity and depth of her ideas... So where'd she lose a whole grade? On the marking rubric, the only 'negative' or 'critical' thing this teacher had to say was that she was too 'wordy'. Well, I didn't know what she meant by that in relation to the piece, because it looked reasonable to me. I know what loquacious looks like. I've tutored kids, and seen peers writing, and believe me, I know loquacious. As for word limits, technically there aren't any for any of the essays you're supposed to do. It's your own judgement call - in the end, they're going to look at your response, the quality of them, and how well you express them. If you can do this in less words, good for you, and if you can do them in more, that's fine. As long as you finish on time. So she can't have taken off a whole grade for it being too 'long', because there's no such thing as too long - if you wrote it within the time limit, well, that's that. Does that make sense?

So I got Vera to ask her teacher what she meant by that. Her teacher basically said that for example, where one person might say 'let's have lunch', Vera's approach was a bit 'when the sun is at its peak on the third day of the week, let us convene under the ancient oak at the park in the corner of the city for a simple meal, yadda yadda yadda'. What is that? That is loquacious.

I understand that. Except this piece wasn't like that. It was a creative piece, for God's sake, so it had description in it. But it wasn't irrelevant or frivolous. It had a point. It was art, and it suited the mood of her piece. Besides - even if you were to write this as an expository, I would think that you would still have to be quite descriptive if you want to break down your ideas for this kind of topic. Identity and Belonging has the potential to be really deep, so you really can't just leave it at 'let's have lunch'. You need to explore it. Heck, that's the whole context title - exploring issues of identity and belonging.

I mean, this goes back to the whole 'schools kill creativity' thing, right?  I don't think all schools do that. Just some schools,  and in particular, some idiotic teachers. When I was in year 12, yes, my teacher was wary of letting kids do creative for context, because he understood that it could be difficult to come up with something brilliant and original on the spot. But he humored whoever wanted to try it, including myself, and let me say it again - I did  well. What's important is that he let us make our own choices, because to him, it wasn't about doing it a certain way to get a certain grade; it was about achieving your own personal best, something you could be proud of. And he was happy if you were.

So I guess this rant touches on many little things to do with schooling and education, a bit here and a bit there. Let me sum it up for you:

1. Don't waste your time with selective entry schools. They suck. 

2. There are some institutions, some schools, some teachers, that just - for whatever reason - drag you down. Sometimes they do it because it's a system they're used to, sometimes it's because they think they're doing what's best for you. Sometimes they don't know what they're talking about. But they suck too.

3. Don't let people make you feel stupid. Wherever you go, whatever you do, put in a 100%, and you may reap the rewards, or you may not. The point is, you need to feel like it's your best, because you can't rely on these systems or people to appreciate you. You need to appreciate yourself. Own your genius, whatever kind it may be. 

Erm... take feedback too. I don't mean that people should always hug you and tell you you're awesome just because you did the work. Sometimes you are wrong, sometimes your ideas have a flaw or two. That's okay. Take it and improve. But don't let people limit you. Don't ever let them hold you back.

Man, it feels good getting that off my chest.

Peace in,
Laila

The Good News

Ohkay, I was supposed to do this yesterday, but I was unexpectedly detained at my aunty's house after tuition....and I came home at 9pm, and after a day of helping them move into their new house, I was sort of exhausted. But today, people. Today. 

Today I tell you about the FORMAL!!!

Firstly, I'll confess that there won't be many photos. I realised it kind of reminds me of my time in Sri Lanka, like, those memories are so precious I can't bring myself to share them. Only, I'm still going to write about it. And I mean, it just feels weird. I haven't shown photos of moi before, and I just can't bring myself to do it now. Also, I don't think photos captured the 'spirit' of the night, and... I have an embarrassing confession. Well, it's more of an embarrassing realisation, because I didn't actually know I was doing it.

Well, basically... I pout.

Okay, not like this. A little more subtle.

='_'= I didn't/don't mean it! I realised this retrospectively. For the whole night, I actually thought I'd mastered some semblance of a normal smile, but only recently, going through all the photos, I realised it was not a normal smile at all. It was a POUT. EW. I FEEL LIKE SUCH A TEENAGER. But in my defense, I think it's kind of... genetic. 'Cause as I was looking at the photos, I realised this sort've-smile looked kind of familiar... and when I checked some photos of Sri Lanka.... turns out I have a second cousin who does the same thing. So there.

Okay, this post is not about pouts and photos, it's about THE FORMAL.

So for those who don't know, I guess the way to explain what the formal is is to say it's... basically like the Australian version of the prom/grad? It's a dance, on your final year of high school, with the girls in pretty dresses and the guys in their tuxes, and there's a limo (or in our case, a party bus), fancy food, photoshoots and funny awards (like 'Most Likely To End Up In Prison'). It's sort of a celebration of the final year, a glamorous night to dress up and be merry.

And mine just went perfectly. Really. If I was talking about it, like actually talking, I'd be gushing. I don't think I ever gush. And I'd probably be starry eyed, and maybe even a little giggly.

... okay, not giggly. Don't think I can do giggly.

So it was last Friday, and we 'unofficially' got the day off. I mean, they say it's still a school day, but it's more of a joke because clearly it's going to take a whole day for a girl to get ready, and clearly no guys are going to be coming if the other half of the year level isn't. I didn't understand why it took a whole day to get ready, until I heard the appointments everyone had, from 9 in the morning... hair, nails, tans, eyebrows, makeup... blah blah blah. I can tell you now I was spared most of that, thank God.

(Fun note: my friend Jasmine actually asked me how I was doing my hair... I was like, well. Well. I think I'm going to get streaks in, I'll probably straighten it, but maybe I'll curl it instead, and then I'll pull it in some fancy bun... and then I'll undo that all and put on my headscarf.)

So I spent the day cleaning the house, and around 2pm, Creepy Z came along. Makeup lady.

I hate makeup, I really do. My sister had specified that there was no way I was getting out of it, and my mother was backing her, and I kind of knew there was no way I could get out of it, so I resigned myself to letting her paint my face. I'll admit though, that a) it kinda feels nice when makeup is getting put on you... all tickly and stuff. When it's actually on, not so much. And b), Creepy Z is amazing, and although I didn't dare look in the mirror the whole time, I trusted she would do a wonderful job, and from what others said, it was.

(Fun note: did I mention all the appointments? Yes, every girl had a makeup appointment with some specialist or expert or whatnot. Mine was done by a girl one year level below me... no one noticed the difference. Hahaha.)

So anyhow, because my face has almost never been touched by makeup, Creepy Z had to experiment a few times, and during that time, 'Furby' came along. The 'hijab stylist', or my sister's friend. She I love the most, because she totally had my back with the simplicity thing. You see, my dress was this.... 

It was unbelievably hard getting a picture of the whole thing; it's so long...

Behold, my very first 'selfie'. Now, see how long it is?

And my sister wanted gold, gold, gold. I may not be a fashionista, but I really couldn't see how gold worked. So anyway, my sister was shoving a gold bracelet over to start with, and then Furby was like: 'Oh, come on, her dress is all like Game of Thrones, and this bracelet is all Kuch Kuch Hota Hai... no. Just no.'

(Btw, I actually love KKHH... just saying :P )

So anyway, I was spared the gold - I had to wear some rings (that were thin, and they got put together to be look like one) and that was okay, and I wore a black bracelet too, which was also okay... and that was it. The hijab that Furby did was ahmazing, but um, I absolutely cannot find a picture of it - as in, on anyone else. I'm not really familiar with 'hijab styles' anyway, I kinda just usually wear mine the one way, so yeah... but it was pretty, like, black, but then she tied this similar dark reddish one around and made a flower out of it and and and, you guys...

I FELT LIKE A PRINCESS.

There, I said it ='_'=

But I can't help it. For once, just for once, I felt pretty perfect. Not exceptional... just, you know, nice.. so in my element...

... until I wore those heels. See, people, there's a reason why they tell you to practise wearing heels weeks earlier. Wearing them for the first time five minutes before you leave is a dreadful ordeal. DUDE, THEY WERE SO HIGH, I COULDN'T SEE THE GROUND. Okay, I'm kidding, but they were just awful, I was swaying and stumbling, and I still do not get the point of heels. Unfortunately, I had no time to get out of it, because I had to go pick up Star...

... and she looked like a modern day Cinderella. She was sort of offended, but really. Her dress was the same blue as Cindy, and her hair was pinned up (but not defying gravity, just... pinned up) and she had this shawl around her and she looked so lady like and everything!

Anyway, we headed to the Captain's house, where our group was meeting up, and I was just awestruck by how lovely everybody looked. I mean, I'd seen photos from the deb last year, and when the girls put on makeup... they looked awful. But this year, they all had it right - not too caked, and you could still recognise them. And the boys, the boys - a group of them had arranged their ties to be colour-coordinated, so that they made a rainbow, and it was so cute ♥

Then came that terrifying walk to the party bus, and I had to hitch up my dress and hang onto anything I could find for dear life, and I made it. I can't say I liked the bus bit much. In my head, no matter how many times everyone stressed it was a party bus, I could only picture it like a normal bus. But a party bus means the seats are along the sides, facing each other, and it's sort of squashy, and I felt uncomfortable with the boys, but what to do? There was a little TV playing all these old songs that I listened to as a child, but in that oblivion when all those dirty words never meant anything... and at that moment they did, unfortunately, and I was sort of mortified. Also, there were no windows. What is that?! Way to induce claustrophobia.

But we got there in one piece (the Cookie Monster from one of my old posts got sick, poor guy :P ), and people were milling at the elevators, waiting to go up, and there was lots of gushing. Then we got up there, and we had to go through security. Um, yeah, last year's group were apparently very Bad. 

Oh, SUPER PROUD MOMENT: Our year level is the only one in years who didn't have a single drunk. Yes! No one. See, every year, some idiot thinks it's funny to ge stoned and show up. They get sent home. I don't get the point of it; I mean, a) you miss out on the party, b) you're not even going to remember it. What a waste. But we didn't have a single one of those x)

So we get there, and it wasn't opened yet, so everyone was cramped into this foyer, and some people were getting their professional shots done, but the line was really long, plus we didn't want everyone watching, so our gang decided to save those photos for later. Then more of our friends caught sight of us, and there was a lot of screaming...

(Fun note: I'm pretty much the only one in high school who refuses to do 'casual dress days'. I'm just so lazy, and if it's for charity, I'd rather just give the money then get that kind of thing in return. So when people see me in 'normal' clothes, i.e. not school uniform, I tend to send them into shock. Sometimes there are spasms involved. I'm pretty sure people just assume I go home after school, plug myself in, shut down and recharge throughout the night for the next day...hm.)

And everyone was just like ZOMGSQUEE, YOULOOKSOPRETTY, ILOVEYOURDRESS, ILOVEYOURHAIR, ILOVEYOURMAKEUP, ILOVEYOURSHOESEVENTHOUGHICAN'TSEETHEMUNDERYOURDRESS, SQUEE, SQUEE, SQUEE, SELFIEEEE!

Yes, we were like this for pretty much the whole night.

I think that was the best part of the whole night: that atmosphere. I really think every girl felt like a princess (they all looked like it, that's for sure), and everyone was just so happy and fluffy and totally on Cloud 9...Compliments were flying, everyone wanted to talk to everyone, everyone was hugging, everyone was gushing, and it was just awkward pouts smiles all round.

So we get past that stage, into the actual venue, and the photographer wanted to take a group photo with everyone... which was near impossible, but we managed with people sitting, squatting, half squatting, three-quarter squatting, standing, and standing taller... you get the picture. Then we dispersed, to our seats.

We got our entrée - this cheesy pasta thing. Obviously it had some fancy name that I don't know about, but it tasted delish. The captains got up to do the awards, but there was this moment they called the Captain and I up, to thank us for helping (we made the sashes and the placecards), and at that moment, I had kicked off the killer heels under my table, so I had to scramble to get them on, and then stumble across the dance floor to the stage with everyone watching. Yeah. Mortifying. But I got a box of chocolates for my efforts.

The awards were announced, and then we went back to our seats. The DJ started playing some music, and this girl took a teacher to the dance floor and a few people joined, and it slowly turned to 'mingle time'...

Lotsandlotsofmingling.

Then it was dinner, and there was a choice of fancy chicken or lamb with fancy vegetables. Delish.

Then the party really started, and everyone was getting on the dancefloor. I am not a dancing person, certainly not in public...

(Fun note: the last time I was at a party that involved dancing, I spent the night hiding under a table, and a chair...)

... but I learnt the key was to remember everyone looks just as stupid as you, and as long as you don't think about it, you'll be okay. Oh, and it helps to have enthusiastic friends. Us girls made a group and I was bopping along while they pulled off these stupid moves, and we admired my friend Chamsi (who we'd forced this guy to bring along) who knew the words to every single song, like, every single song. From this century and the last. And every now and then, I'd shout above the hubbub to ask her what she'd just said to some song, and she'd pat me on the head and be like: 'Don't you worry.'

Lotsmoremingling. 

Our legal teacher had told us, the day before, that the key to a 'good formal' is when everyone is enthusiastic and chatty, and not taking photos the entire time. You have to mingle. So we mingled. Then they did the award 'Beauty and the Beast', which was decided by the teachers - oh, I forgot to mention, the theme was Hollywood. Nobody really takes it too seriously, but it manifests itself subtly in different ways, like the funny awards. So 'Beauty and the Beast' was a replacement for the King and Queen, and CAPTAIN GOT BEAUTY! I'm so proud of her, but also, duh. She deserved it; she looked so classy ^_^ And the guy who got Beast - no one saw that coming, but when he got it everyone thought duh as well.

Anyway, we got around to taking our professional shots. I really didn't want single ones, but the photographer lady was so forecfully enthusiastic, so I had to, and then Toothpick was standing behind her making faces, and the poor lady couldn't understand why I was glaring at her... and then I really did intentionally glare at her 'cause she wanted me to smile with my teeth and I absolutely cannot do that. So there was that. Then we had our girl group photo, and then we had our little 'original accelerated class' photo - like, people from my year 9 class. We managed to get some of the others, who had moved schools, to come along as well, and it was just so cute to be together again :)

And the whole night just flew by, it did. Little snippets are just stuck in my head. Like when the boys who were dancing in the middle of the dance floor picked up Raman and made him crowd surf - over such a small group,  you can't really, but it was cute. They did it to some other guy too. Oh, my super amazing English teacher, who had sworn he wouldn't hit the floor - well, he showed off some his moves later in the night too. All of us girls trying to take one group photo. Oh, this guy who'd worn a top hat and monocle. Dessert: crepes with raspberry syrup and ice cream. Teetering but never falling over in those heels. Toothpick attempting to insult me by saying that I completely ruined the ladylike effect by holding onto the wall when walking, but me grinning because that meant he thought I looked ladylike to start with.

Seriously, one of the best nights of my life. I had no inhibitions, I felt great, and you could just tell everyone else did too, and it really feels like a fairytale. I'm so going to miss everyone *sniff*

This night is sparkling, don't you let it go

I'm wonderstruck, blushing all the way home...♥

Peace in, 

Laila

Aliens and ghosts, and a prince with a golden palace

This is a tale about sheer stupidity. Okay, maybe that's harsh. This is a tale about someone who truly cannot appreciate - no, understand or comprehend creativity. It left me sort of speechless, in a gobsmacked kind of way. Kind of like this:

See? She doesn't look too happy, huh? Flabbergasted.

But this speechlessness tends to follow after the many, many ... minutes ... of arguing and talking in circles, which I will now explain.

(Agh, the 'minutes' totally took the drama out of it, didn't it? *sigh* )

You see, I have a bone to pick, with my French teacher. In fact, I've actually already picked this bone with him, a million times over, and still I cannot decrease the annoyance I have for him. First, just before I begin, I feel like I need to tell you that when I first started high school, in my first French class, he told us he was a prince.

...

...

I mean, seriously. Yes, you  read the title. He even claims he has a golden palace. I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, to some extent, but in the sense that I'll-believe-it-when-I-see-it. But you just don't tell high schoolers this in general, not unless you can definitely prove it, because they will take the mickey out of you, big time. For a guy who's been teaching for ages, you'd think he'd know that. And come on, our school is considered to be in the slums - what prince would teach here? But no, he says he's still awaiting the day of his grand return. No joke.

And because it's been what, six years? and not one shred of evidence has turned up, I just... can't... take... him... seriously. That is why, when you read about our 'debates', you'll notice that I can talk to him in a sort'veaggressive, straightforward manner, whereas usually I'd just be awkward and submissive and die.

So basically, it started with a story. For all the LOTE exams, you see, one of the requirements is to produce a written piece, in whatever language. They give you a range of prompts to choose from, and these can vary from informal/formal letters to articles to journal entries. And short stories. Usually, the teacher encourages us to stick to letters, because it's relatively easy and you get a lot of marks just for mastering the structure. But our teacher, this year, decided that we ought to practise some other styles, just in case the prompt for a letter doesn't show up. He had all the prompts from the previous years, and he told us to pick one of the story ones and write it up as practise.

Here's my prompt, word for word, quoted off VCAA:

2003 French Exam:

Question 30

You have decided to enter a story writing competition run by a daily newspaper. You are to write an imaginative story entitled ‘Lost in a big city’.

Is that absolutely clear? Okay. Right. Lettuce continue.

So my teacher tells us to write around about 250 - 300 words. Note that's hardly enough for a complex story, and note that we're learning French second hand, and we've had a history of dreadful teachers, so complexity in this foreign language may just be a little bit hard to master. 

My story was mainly descriptive, but the essence was that there was a little girl, she was lost in the city (ta daaaa!), she was scared, she was awaiting her parents but no one showed, and at the end, the next morning, she's dead. The end.

It's not supposed to win an award or anything, okay? So anyway, it was like, even before he started reading, he'd made his decision that he wanted to hate it. 

Il pleut à torrents, the story starts. "Why is it raining?" he asks sceptically..

"Umm... why can't it be raining?" I counter.

"You are right," he nods. "Let's continue." I'm sort of like:

 So we continue. He makes some general corrections, and then we get to the part where I 'introduce' the character, like this: Elle s'assoit sur le bord.

"Who's this?" my teacher asks.

"It's the character," I say. "Keep reading." He looks doubtful, but he does so anyway. He gets to the end, and then he sort of sighs, and places his hands on the table.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I just don't feel it."

I'm like, "Sorry?"

"You just didn't answer the question," he explains. I raise my eyebrows.

"There's no question, sir," I reply.  "It just says write a story entitled 'Lost in a big city.'"

"Yeah, but you must answer the question," he says. "You must say who is lost in the city, why they are lost in the city, how they came to be lost in the city, and how they get out of the city."

"No, they don't ask for that," I say firmly. "It says write a story entitled 'Lost in a big city'. How I choose to interpret that title is my choice."

"Yes, but a story needs to have a problem-"

"Mine does."

"- and it needs to have characters-"

"I do have a character."

"Where?" he asks. I point to the part where my little girl is.

"You are right." Pause. "But you say she is wet and cold but she is not lost."

"Yes she is," I say, then point out the line where it says 'Solitaire dans le monde, perdue dans une grande ville.' He looks at it, nods, and sighs.

"You are right," he says. He pauses, and sighs again. "But I don't feel it."

In fact, I ought to add that this expression turned up a million times during this conversation.

"What don't you feel, sir?" And I'm clearly exasperated at this point. There are no niceties.

"You didn't answer the question," he says.

"There is no question!" I all but snap, gritting my teeth. And then we're talking in a circle, again, as he goes over all the nonexistent questions I didn't answer and all the things he didn't feel, and we come to another impasse. I try for some perspective.

"Look," I say, as patiently as I possibly can. "I think I know what you want. You want the standard story formula, with the beginning-middle/conflict-end layout, right? And you want everything to be clear as crystal, with no questions left at the end. This is just a different style."

"I know what you are trying to do, Laila," trying for his some perspective himself. "You want to create some tension, some suspense, but I just don't feel it." (Teeth grinding) "You see how she dies at the end? It's like you just want to shut it there. So there's no questions."

"Okay, look, whether or not there are questions or whatever, the point is, it's my story," I say. "I have a creative licence and I'm entitled to use it. I'm writing for this imaginary contest, and however I respond to the prompt is my choice, and they put very few limits on it, so I took advantage of that. Your problem is that it doesn't suit your taste. But sir, if you liked a good romance and I didn't write one, is that my problem? The examiners are going to grade this based on spelling and grammar and structure, as well as relevance. Their feelings don't come into it. I'm not obliged to cater to anyone's tastes. So basically, whether or not you 'feel' it is irrelevant."

**I'm taking a moment to stress that I don't always talk to my teachers like this. In fact, I never do. It's just this one guy gets on my nerves, and also - and I do respect him for this - he allows me to speak to him so. If he ever said LAILA YOU'RE BEING RUDE SHUT UP DETENTION!, trust me, I'd never go this far.**

So after that, he basically said he still doesn't feel it, but I am right, and that is the end of that. NOT. That's the end of my little episode with him, and I learnt from there that I ought not to be adventurous. We had another practise after this one, and the whole class was to write on the same prompt. That is:

Write a short imaginative story for the newspaper France Soir about what happened during the night of a power failure.

I wrote my story in a relatively boring fashion (which earned his full approval), but this other guy decided to make a ghost story out of it. My French teacher's response was: "That's bull****."

At first, I decided to stay quiet. I push his buttons a lot, you see, on a range of other topics, (agh, he's just so freaking arrogant I want to slap him with the Punishment Salmon), so I thought I'd best keep my nose out of this one. But he was just such a meanie bo to this guy, and he decided to bring up the perpetual stupidity of this story the next day as well, and then, I just couldn't stand it.

So I'm like, "Sir, what's wrong with a ghost story?"

"It's not realistic, and it's not relevant," he said. "Ghosts don't come for power shortages."

"But it's an imaginative story, so they could," I said. 

"No, they can't," he said abruptly. "It's bull****. Ghosts aren't real."

"According to you," I said. "Some people do believe in them, and it's not for you to make the final decision. Besides, that's not the point. The point is it's an imaginative story, and he can write what he wants, even if it includes ghosts."

"But it's not relevant," he said. 

"He can make it relevant," I replied. Then he smiled in that 'look at you, you poor confused girl' way.

"You just want to say everyone can write about anything," he said.

"Well, not exactly, but I guess that's true," I said. "It said to write about the night of a power shortage. Literally anything could happen, they didn't put restrictions on it." So my French teacher decided to try another tactic, which kind of contradicted his point about ghosts not existing, now that I think about it.

"But ghosts don't come when there are power shortages," he said. "They're in haunted houses and scary stories like that."

"Well, in thisguy's story, maybe they do show up in the power shortage," I said. "Or maybe they caused it. It's a story. If thisguy wants to make the ghost show up around a power shortage, then he can. They never said you couldn't."

"But he's in year 12," he protested. "He shouldn't be writing stupid ghost stories in year 12. That's for children."

And I'm like, "You realise there are fully grown adults who have written ghost stories and have them published. You know that, right?"

So more talking in circles occurred, me getting increasingly frustrated by his annoyingly narrow mind when it comes to the possibilities that stories can open up. Then he decided that he would go around the class, asking each and everyone what they had written, just to highlight how foolishly outlandish thisguy's idea was. At that moment, I wished I had written about pirates or something - and in fact, that's what my French teacher assumed I had done. He couldn't understand why else I'd be so defensive if I hadn't written a ridiculous story myself. I proved him wrong, in that sense, as my story was incredibly dull, but in wanting another crazy story in my class, I wasn't let down.

A year 11 boy, who was doing year 12 French because it's his mother tongue, said he was writing a story about the end of the world. In my head, I was like yessssss, take that, sir. You love this kid, whatchu gonna say to that one, huh? HUH?!

"See?" my French teacher said enthusiastically. "See what a good idea that is? Why couldn't you do something like that?"

Are you noticing a theme with these gifs?

"So," I said. "Let me get this straight. Thatguy is allowed to write about the end of the [FREAKING] world, and thisguy can't write about ghosts?"

"Yeah, why not?" the prince of the freaking golden palace said. "If the end of the world comes, the power will go out, no?"

Mind you, this is for the newspaper, presumably for the next day, or the day after. Pretty sure if it's the end of the world, no one will be writing stories about it. Because, you know, the world would have ended. I didn't say that to him at the time, because I was too busy looking like Selena Gomez in that gif above (expression wise, just in case you needed that cleared up ^_^ Let's not get started on looks).

Okay, now, my mind is a little blank here, as to how the next point came up exactly, but basically, thisguy was saying something that came to the lines of: "So if I decided to write a story about aliens invading Earth-"

"That's an excellent idea!" my French teacher beamed. "Yes, see, you should write that story. That's a good idea."

"Hold up," I said, after gawking for a moment. And in fact, the whole class was gawking. "Did you just say it's okay to write a story about aliens but not ghosts?...Um... what?"

"Yeah," my French teacher said, in a kind of duh manner. "If aliens come and invade the Earth, what do you think they will do first? They'll cut the power, right? It makes sense."

Yeah, okay, I can't even go on. He was dead serious, to the point that the next day, he brought in a criteria and made us look explicitly at the 'relevance' section, before lecturing us that ghosts aren't relevant, but somehow aliens are. Mind you, later criticism on my SAC story was that I had the structure of the story all wrong because you're supposed to have a introduction, body, and conclusion paragraph. I tried to say that it wasn't an essay, but he didn't believe me. He also took a mark off because apparently you're not allowed to have little individual lines, the kind of standalone sentence one puts to dramatise a specific point. I tried explaining that I had been doing this for years in school, and no teacher has ever told me off for it, but then he made a snarky comment that perhaps I ought to have a 'chat' with my teachers, adding some implication that perhaps they were teaching us all wrong.

Truthfully, I know I must sound angry, but I'm not really. I just... it's like... well, I can't believe he can be so absolutely thick. And then, I just feel sorry for him, because sadly, here is a person who will never appreciate the beauty of creative writing.

There are times I remind myself of 'the children in Africa', when I'm being ungrateful about say, food or something. Other times, I remind myself of those who don't have limbs or something, when I'm not appreciating my health, or I'm being too focused on the superficial aspects of my appearance, or my lack of skill in an area.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, I think of the prince [in exile?] and his golden palace, who teaches at my school, and cannot fathom imagination, and doesn't seem to have a shred of logic either, for that matter, to remind myself that I'm really blessed.

Peace in,
Laila