Memoir as a Pedagogical Strategy in College Composition
Lately I have been browsing memoirs, and I am now actually reading one (Jennifer Armstrong's Minus Morning). Memoir-writing is a rewarding field because we like listening to other people's stories; it's a way to understand our lives better by learning how others have lived theirs. So in the spirit of memoir-writing, I will share (in the hope of perfecting, but not embellishing) an experience I had with the English Language at Gwavachemai Secondary School in Zvishavane, Zimbabwe. It's a story that I often share with my composition students to inspire them, a pedagogical strategy I used to get the student's attention.
At Gwavachemai I was part of the English Police. Since I wrote good essays, and I got A's in English, my teachers always made me the class monitor. You had to be good in English to be a class monitor, because the job involved reporting to the teacher in good written and verbal English, and sometimes class monitors distributed course content (that is, taught the class) when asked by the teacher to do so. I was a perfect fit. While I did not enjoy the authoritative aspects of the job, that occasional bossing around of fellow students, I liked the role of English Police,which came with being a class monitor.
All students were required to speak in English on school grounds. Remember, Gwavachemai is located in Mototi Village in Mazvihwa, one of the...well, not so developed rurals areas of the district. But all students, in the interest of quality learning, had to use English on campus. My job then was to monitor that they used it, and, if they dared to use Shona, and in a few cases, Ndebele, the English Police cited them. I had a notebook for use outside, then a cardboard card to use in the classroom. On the card were inscribed the words "I spoke in Shona". I would listen for the first offender, whom I gave the card and whose name I jotted down. This student would listen for the next offender, who would receive the card and had his/or her name noted. On good days, I collected up to ten names to give to the teacher. So what happened to the offenders?
At the end of the day, the lists of names from each class would go to the head master. Back then we didn't have a head master at Gwavachemai. We had a Teacher-in-Charge (TIC) who played the role of head master. An uppertop was not set up to have a full-fledged head master, the TIC's were like transitional power-wielders who passed the position on to the next elligible teacher,they knew how to deal with the students who had broken the English-only rule.
The students would be called to the TIC's office to be thrashed. Then they were sent to mould bricks for an hour. Our school was still in construction, so this source of labor was necessary, and the English Police were to keep busy, to be productive, to meet quotas. Once, I broke the record of writing the most names of Shona-speakers. That's when I got in trouble.
I was walking home alone one day, since by then I had lost a few friends because of being part of the English Police. I had just crossed Mutorahuku ravine, which divides Gwavachemai Secondary and Mototi Primary school, when I turned and noticed a group of older boys, most of whom were tall and chubby, all notorious Shona speakers, jogging towards me. At first I didn't think they were running for me, so I continued walking, although my heart was already playing its drums.
"Hey! Englishman!" one of them shouted. It was Ranga, the school's accomplished fighter. There was no mistaking the fact that I was the only Englishman within range, so I turned to smile as a form of greeting, then I turned to resume my walking, already hoping this was just going to turn out to be a dream. The jogging group must have consisted of seven people, all headed for one Englishman.
Stop, Englishman!"
I continued walking. As far as I could tell, there really was not Englishman anywhere near. English Police, maybe, but certainly not an Englishman in the whole school.
"Now you are really beginng to work me!" said Ranga, who was closer to me than I had thought.
"You better do as you are told, Dickens!" Peter, who, under normal circumstances, was one of my friends, said.
They caught up with me, then they formed a menacing circle around me. Now I had to say something about their use of Shona, since we were, technically, still within the school zone, but before I opened my mouth, Ranga pushed me backwards, and as he was about to strike me with a massive fist, Mako, the true leader of the group, said, "Just warn him today. No need to start anything, Ranga."
There was silence, as I attempted to break my way through the circle.
"Listen, teacher's pet," began Ranga, "this is just a warning. The next time you decide to write some silly notes in your stupid police book, think twice."
"No, that's not how you say it, Ranga," said Mako. " Just tell him that he needs to think twice the next time a teacher asks him to be an Englishman."
Ranga repeated the words exactly. They stood there waiting for my reaction. And I felt I had to say something, of course, about their use of Shona within the school zone, to give them a sort of warning since I wasn't going to write down their names this time. I was about to explain this when the group suddenly dispersed, and then I realize that they had seen VaNduna, the TIC, crossing the stream on his bicycle. When he when got where I stood he slowed down and said, "Everything okay, Cigar?" He called me Cigar because at some point I had jokingly told people that my name was Ems de Cigar.
"Yes, everything is," I said.
"Keep doing the good work."
"Thank you."
He sped away away, whistling his usual after-work song that the village knew very well, which I knew was always whistled in Shona, even on school grounds....
[The End]
This, the shorter version of this incident, is what I share with my students sometimes, and of course, it sparks discussion about language and power. The pedagogical value that it offers is priceless; it somehow puts the students at ease and leads to healthy class discussion. Of course, some usually tell me they think it's a very sad story.
They look at me and say, "Why?"
"Why what?" I ask.
"Why were they forcing you to learn English?"
"So that you would have me as your English teacher," I say; then there is laughter, and we move on to introductions and topic sentences. But for purposes of critical pedagogy, stories like this help students to start connecting what they are learning in my class to their own experiences with English; our discourse attempts then to draw global parallels in the topic of language and power, but what I get out it are enthused students who have their own stories to tell.
At Gwavachemai I was part of the English Police. Since I wrote good essays, and I got A's in English, my teachers always made me the class monitor. You had to be good in English to be a class monitor, because the job involved reporting to the teacher in good written and verbal English, and sometimes class monitors distributed course content (that is, taught the class) when asked by the teacher to do so. I was a perfect fit. While I did not enjoy the authoritative aspects of the job, that occasional bossing around of fellow students, I liked the role of English Police,which came with being a class monitor.
All students were required to speak in English on school grounds. Remember, Gwavachemai is located in Mototi Village in Mazvihwa, one of the...well, not so developed rurals areas of the district. But all students, in the interest of quality learning, had to use English on campus. My job then was to monitor that they used it, and, if they dared to use Shona, and in a few cases, Ndebele, the English Police cited them. I had a notebook for use outside, then a cardboard card to use in the classroom. On the card were inscribed the words "I spoke in Shona". I would listen for the first offender, whom I gave the card and whose name I jotted down. This student would listen for the next offender, who would receive the card and had his/or her name noted. On good days, I collected up to ten names to give to the teacher. So what happened to the offenders?
At the end of the day, the lists of names from each class would go to the head master. Back then we didn't have a head master at Gwavachemai. We had a Teacher-in-Charge (TIC) who played the role of head master. An uppertop was not set up to have a full-fledged head master, the TIC's were like transitional power-wielders who passed the position on to the next elligible teacher,they knew how to deal with the students who had broken the English-only rule.
The students would be called to the TIC's office to be thrashed. Then they were sent to mould bricks for an hour. Our school was still in construction, so this source of labor was necessary, and the English Police were to keep busy, to be productive, to meet quotas. Once, I broke the record of writing the most names of Shona-speakers. That's when I got in trouble.
I was walking home alone one day, since by then I had lost a few friends because of being part of the English Police. I had just crossed Mutorahuku ravine, which divides Gwavachemai Secondary and Mototi Primary school, when I turned and noticed a group of older boys, most of whom were tall and chubby, all notorious Shona speakers, jogging towards me. At first I didn't think they were running for me, so I continued walking, although my heart was already playing its drums.
"Hey! Englishman!" one of them shouted. It was Ranga, the school's accomplished fighter. There was no mistaking the fact that I was the only Englishman within range, so I turned to smile as a form of greeting, then I turned to resume my walking, already hoping this was just going to turn out to be a dream. The jogging group must have consisted of seven people, all headed for one Englishman.
Stop, Englishman!"
I continued walking. As far as I could tell, there really was not Englishman anywhere near. English Police, maybe, but certainly not an Englishman in the whole school.
"Now you are really beginng to work me!" said Ranga, who was closer to me than I had thought.
"You better do as you are told, Dickens!" Peter, who, under normal circumstances, was one of my friends, said.
They caught up with me, then they formed a menacing circle around me. Now I had to say something about their use of Shona, since we were, technically, still within the school zone, but before I opened my mouth, Ranga pushed me backwards, and as he was about to strike me with a massive fist, Mako, the true leader of the group, said, "Just warn him today. No need to start anything, Ranga."
There was silence, as I attempted to break my way through the circle.
"Listen, teacher's pet," began Ranga, "this is just a warning. The next time you decide to write some silly notes in your stupid police book, think twice."
"No, that's not how you say it, Ranga," said Mako. " Just tell him that he needs to think twice the next time a teacher asks him to be an Englishman."
Ranga repeated the words exactly. They stood there waiting for my reaction. And I felt I had to say something, of course, about their use of Shona within the school zone, to give them a sort of warning since I wasn't going to write down their names this time. I was about to explain this when the group suddenly dispersed, and then I realize that they had seen VaNduna, the TIC, crossing the stream on his bicycle. When he when got where I stood he slowed down and said, "Everything okay, Cigar?" He called me Cigar because at some point I had jokingly told people that my name was Ems de Cigar.
"Yes, everything is," I said.
"Keep doing the good work."
"Thank you."
He sped away away, whistling his usual after-work song that the village knew very well, which I knew was always whistled in Shona, even on school grounds....
[The End]
This, the shorter version of this incident, is what I share with my students sometimes, and of course, it sparks discussion about language and power. The pedagogical value that it offers is priceless; it somehow puts the students at ease and leads to healthy class discussion. Of course, some usually tell me they think it's a very sad story.
They look at me and say, "Why?"
"Why what?" I ask.
"Why were they forcing you to learn English?"
"So that you would have me as your English teacher," I say; then there is laughter, and we move on to introductions and topic sentences. But for purposes of critical pedagogy, stories like this help students to start connecting what they are learning in my class to their own experiences with English; our discourse attempts then to draw global parallels in the topic of language and power, but what I get out it are enthused students who have their own stories to tell.
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