South

I arrived in Montreal on Saturday.

Since moving to the North, I have considered going South to be one of the hardest parts. After a few months in the same village, I get accustomed to seeing the same 572 people everyday. It's not often that I see someone I haven't seen before, and when I do he/she is easily recognizable as such.

When I arrived at Trudeau airport, I stood around with the Inuit from Wakeham with whom I had traveled, and waited for my luggage. After saying goodbye to them, I began the long, awkward walk to to cab stand. The stimulation was more than a little overwhelming. I saw many nameless faces, and began to look for people whom I recognized.

I thought to myself, "Montreal has three million people, idiot. You don't know anyone here." Nevertheless, I searched and searched for something familiar, and began to realise that all of us, the thousands of us there, were basically alone in a crowd.

The cab ride to Pointe Ste. Charles was equally unsettling. My taxi driver spoke not to me, but to someone on his cell, only pausing to ask me for directions and to inquire whether I wanted the flat rate or to go with the meter. I am usually loathe to have the conversation that everyone has with him, the one about his business, and about how many crazy drivers there are in this city. Nevertheless, not having this interaction alienated me further, forcing me to stare out the window at all of the passing advertisements.

It's the consumerism that really gets me. Last year, when we came down for the union congress (which was a waste of my time, but more on that another day) Sophie and I walked up and down Boulevard St. Laurent and wondered at the plethora of stores selling stuff that people don't really need. How is it possible that these places stay open. Can we really buy that much stuff? I can only imagine how overwhelming coming South would be for an Inuk.

When I arrived at our friends' house (we're subletting our apartment) I had been thoroughly shell-shocked. I was supposed to go to Parc Mont Royal to a good-bye barbeque for a friend who is moving to New Delhi on Wednesday. I called his cell. He didn't answer. I left a message, saying that we wouldn't be coming because Noah had not napped and would probably not be in good spirits by the time we got there. This was true; it would certainly have been a difficult outing. But it wasn't all. After arriving somewhere familiar, where friends were waiting to catch up, I couldn't bring myself to leave the cozy environment. It just takes some time to adjust.

Today, The adjustment period abruptly ended. We went shopping and I spent a thousand dollars.

Final Exams

I'm leaving to take my paternity leave on Saturday. Sophie and Noah left today on the first plane which has left here for Kuujjuaq, from where we can fly down South, in six days.

Last Friday, a blanket of fog rolled into Wakeham bay and has sat there, stagnant, for almost a week. Through rising and falling barometric pressure, through 40 km/h winds, it has sat there.
Once or twice, it has opened up enough for the plane to land en route to Salluit, which has hardly helped everyone who is wishing to go to Montreal. Anyway, this post is supposed to be about my students' final exams. You will be able to read enough about the fog some other time.

Last week, I made my students' final exams. It was a humbling experience. I was going through our review materials, and I couldn't help but think to myself, "is that really it? Is that all we accomplished?" This year, I had a critical mass of students advanced enough to make me feel that we progressed. Indeed, we plowed through a lot more Math and Lanuage than I did with my students last year. Howver, we still completed surprisingly little. Disparagingly little.

Last year, a couple of French teachers who had been teaching many years in the South spent a year in Wakeham. These two ladies never assimilated into the limited social scene offered by the teachers, but I had one or two close moments with them. At the end of the first term, I was making my report cards when Josée, to whom I had barely said two words, walked in. She could see disappointed look of humility (or humiliation) on my face and comforted me.

"I've been teaching a long time," she said, "and the end of the term feels the same every time. I get sick to my stomach wondering what I'm doing right and wrong, and if I'm choosing to teach the right things. Just relax."

She was right. Every time it comes to summative assessments, I feel as if I'm much harder on myself than on my students. This time, as I was being humbled once again by my own examinations, I guess I subconsciously made it my mission to push the students harder during the exams.

Yesterday, during the Math examination, they pushed back. They were less than receptive. One student in particular refused to do anything, even things that she and I both knew she was capable of doing. I tried to encourage her. It didn't work. I tried just letting her do her thing. That didn't work either. At one point, she began making some noise, and she wouldn't stop. I had to ask her to leave. On the way out, I tried to get her to work on the test outside the class. No dice. Infuriated, but trying to hold some sense of calm, I said, "You're doing this to yourself." She looked down, turned, and walked away.

When I went home for lunch, Sophie knew something was wrong as I walked in the door. I explained how I had been more furious with my students than I had been all year, especially with the one who refused to do her exam at all.

"It's her only power," Sophie responded. "She wasn't going to pass it anyway, right? It's the only thing she can choose to do in that situation. Maybe you just can't make her do something she doesn't want to do. And why do you care so much? You have to try to encourage them, but it's not worth getting stressed out."

I hadn't really thought about it like that before. Why did I care so much? I know that this girl is not going to pass the year, even if she passed the test. I realised that it wasn't her who I was caring about at all (although I do care a great deal for her) but rather I was too preoccupied with how the students' performance on the exams reflected on my abilities as a teacher to really care about her. Once again, my frustrations were stirring, just the same as every time my students (and thus I) are assessed.

I went back to school in the afternoon and calmly administered the second part of the test. The girl didn't do that part either, but at least I didn't inadvertently make her feel worse by telling her it was her choice not to pass. Or maybe it made her feel better. Agency is a weird thing.

If I don't write for a while, it's because I'm in Costa Rica.

A new member

I would like to congratulate a couple of my closest friends, Philip and Renée Giammarioli. Renée gave birth to 6 lb. 12 oz. Dante yesterday at 2:30 p.m.

I have a few friends with whom I can say things like "that's a nice way to bond with him" and "don't you just love the way he smells?" without sounding completely gay.

Welcome to the club Phil. We actually get to raise these little things.

James.

Noah's Video Pick of the Week

I am 30

A couple weeks ago, I turned thirty. We had a party at my house. Sophie really outdid herself. She made me two cakes: one in the shape of a 3, the other a 0. We ate sushi, drank some beer, and had a wonderful time.

The day before my birthday, my students and I went fishing. It was the perfect May day.
+5, sunny, and no wind. We headed out from the village at around 10:00, and arrived at our destination by 11:15. Almost immediately, we all began to remark how warm it was. The day before, I had promised my students that if they did not come fully prepared, with winter boots, parka, hat, and mitts, they would not get to go. These kids know I'm a man of my word, so even though it was ridiculously warm, they were ready to go to Antarctica.

The sky was beautiful. The sun was strong. It had been so warm for the past week that when we arrived at our destination, called ippikutaaq (I have no idea what that means), we did not need to drill holes through the eight-foot-thick ice (thank God). All we needed to do was to shovel the snow off of the surface of holes that our guide had drilled the week before.

It only took me a few minutes to realise how strong the sun was, and only a few minutes more to remember that I had forgotten something extremely important: sunblock. "I'm fucked," I thought to myself. "Oh well," I reasoned, "I've been to tropical countries and gone without sunblock. I don't really burn other than my nose anyway."

So, after we shoveled off a few holes, the kids began to fish. Some of my students were very successful.

Others just stood around and smoked.

After a little while, my lips began to burn a little, and the Inuit guides began to remark about how warm it was for May 1st.

"Oockoo! (hot)"
"Illai. (a few words in Inuttitut)... global warming... (more Inuttitut)."

After the initial wonder about the weather, we began to make the most of it. One of our guides even used the unusual combination of snow, meltwater, and ice, to make an aquarium/swimming pool.

It was an amazingly beautiful day, and other than the intermittent tingling of my dried-out lips, I completely forgot about the power of the sun. I began to ride my ski-doo with no hat, no gloves, and for a time, in just a t-shirt.

After fishing all morning, the guides took my students hunting for ptarmigan. I spotted a few, wishing I had a gun, or that I was Inuk, so I could shoot a couple and provide for my family (I didn't catch any fish). One of the guides, Papikatuk, even showed a couple of the kids how to shoot, and they shot their first birds.
One of them was his daughter. He was so proud of her, who shot and killed her first ptarmigan with one shot.
I love hunting birds. I haven't done it in years and years, but on May 1st, I was a little jealous of the kids and guides who were providing for their families. But what the guides were doing for these kids was worth my infinitesimal sacrifice, so I didn't ask to kill one. Besides, it was a beautiful day, and I was out on the land, somewhere I hadn't been before.


Then, I got home. As soon as I walked in the door, I knew. The cool air was no longer blowing on my face. My skin became tight and hot. I had a nasty burn. I went to school the next day, expecting to be ridiculed. It was embarrassing. However, the Inuit, who wear a tan (which means they were out on the land) like a badge of honour, were more than sympathetic. Indeed, the sun was so strong that day that even some of my students, who don't even know what sunscreen is, had their first sunburns.

Although my pride was saved, my face really hurt. I was in constant pain for a couple of days. I couldn't sleep. The only relief I could find came out of a tube of lanolin, which Sophie used for the few weeks of breastfeeding. I awoke at night with the thought, "there's nothing more sensitive than a cracked nipple."

A couple of days later, I peeled. It was disgusting.