by Jay Howard
Simile and Metaphor
I was never quite sure if they subconsciously thought that a conversation couldn’t be overhead by other people if they were huddled in a small group, or if they thought teachers were deaf, or if they really wanted us to overhear what they had to say. Wouldn’t say it to my face, I suppose, so it was a way of getting their complaints across. Or maybe they wanted to emphasise I was one of the opposition. Us and Them.
Whatever, I wasn’t in the mood for it, not to hear in passing, “Oh, God, she’s in today! I was hoping she’d been run over by a bus or come down with something nice like rabies.”
They were in my last class of the day and were obviously looking forward to it with the same anticipation I was. I didn’t need them to tell me they found the weekly assignment boring. I’d read enough of their submissions to get the general drift.
There was a host of topics I would rather have covered, or covered the ones we were given in a different way, but there was the little matter of a syllabus to cover. ‘The student must demonstrate…’
I felt stifled, never mind them.
Every week I heard the moans and groans, knowing full well that I’d make an equivalent groan for each and every one of them when it came to marking their work. I’d never imagined, in my youthful enthusiasm, that it would all boil down to obeying the edicts of the bureaucrats who had probably never taught in their lives, leavened with the growing mountain of admin every time some bright spark had another cracking idea to make the statistics look good. Theirs or ours?
My pressing problem of the moment, as we all headed off to lunch, was that particular group’s weekly assignment, had they but known it. They didn’t want to do it, but I hadn’t even written it yet, and the clock was ticking inexorably. Yes, I had a stock of ‘suitable’ assignments, handed down teacher to teacher, year to year, that could be adapted as necessary, but I was as desperate to capture their interest as they were to be interested. However, I’d met the stage before any writer’s block they might experience. I’d met the barrier of a blank mind for even setting the assignment they were to write about.
I could feel the frown lines becoming permanent. I’d look awful long before I got to retirement at this rate.
First things first. At least I could be sure of achieving something positive today if I nipped into town now and got all the bits and pieces I needed instead of having to make a special trip in on Saturday. Weekends were all too short as it was. Not having a proper lunch break would do nothing to improve my temper by the time I stood in front of Biko group but they’d have to put up with it.
Biko group! We were no longer allowed to use A to D to distinguish between the groups in case the little lovelies got a complex about not being A graded. The very concept of streaming was anathema in today’s political climate. This group was supposedly named for Steve Biko but they’re not stupid – they were still aware that they were the B group, capable but not the best.
The town was extra crowded as it was market day. I love ambling through a good street market, trying to spot the special bargain or that unusual item you can never find in the shops. Even without making a purchase the banter with the stallholders was fun. I hated rushing around like this. ‘Extra hour in bed,’ I repeated to myself on a loop, like a mantra.
Last stop – there’d just about be time. I made my selections at top speed (never mind the differences between the brands – that shoe polish was the right colour, those laces the right length) and stood fuming at the counter while both assistants took forever to serve the woman ahead of me, more interested in their own conversation than in doing the job they were being paid for.
Come on! I’m going to be late at this rate!
I was still guaranteed to be back in class before the last of the stragglers of Biko, though. I’d love to be able to exclude late students, they were so disruptive for the rest of the group, but that was yet another practice that was not allowed now. We are totally hog-tied when it comes to enforcement of discipline. However, it is increasingly easy to find ourselves being disciplined.
My temper was fraying rapidly under the influence of such bleak feelings of impotence, but suddenly my attention was brought back to the present location. The assistants, bless them, solved one of my problems without ever knowing it. Perhaps I should make it a habit to listen in to other people’s conversations?
Biko group settled much more quickly than usual. Children, and I still consider them to be children at fifteen, even though I try to treat them as the adults they think they are, are very quick to pick up on other people’s moods. They don’t often let on, they just use this knowledge to their own advantage. Today they sensed something was different while I stood at the whiteboard. I hate that I can’t use blackboards and chalk any more: apparently it can be construed as ‘racist’. So why is ‘whiteboard’ not racist? Black and white are colours that relate to more than just skin colour. Will it become an offence to use the word ‘black’ unless you actually are? Anyway, I wrote on it ‘He hadn’t got the sense of a shovel’. That puzzled them a bit!
“OK,” I turned back to face them. “Today I am scheduled to check your knowledge and understanding of simile and metaphor, a subject that I know has really captured your imagination.”
Pause to allow the expected griping to die down.
“While I was shopping today – quiet, Richard: it has been known for the male of the species to shop as well – I overheard two assistants talking. One of them said, ‘He was trying to force his foot into the display size 8 shoe and I know he’s got size 10 feet. Some people haven’t got the sense of a shovel.’”
Pause again. Let them try and suss out where we’re going with this.
“I can see you don’t have a problem with this expression. It is very vibrant, very evocative. But think about it for a moment. It brings together the animate ‘sense’ with the inanimate ‘shovel’. On its own level it works, but why? Who said it first? Why was it remembered? Who said it this time?”
Good, I’ve got their attention, at least for a while.
“Was it someone of your generation or someone middle-aged whom I overheard? Let’s have a show of hands on this. First, hands up if you think it was someone young who said it.”
Quick count, write it on the board, deduct that figure from the class attendance of the day (never the same as the number of names on the register, especially on a Friday afternoon) and write that down for the middle-aged figure.
“Aw, Miss, I didn’t get to vote!” John complained loudly.
“Perhaps because I don’t want certain members of this group double voting, John. Anyone want to change their vote? No? Right, let’s proceed.
“What I want you to discuss this afternoon is the usage of simile and metaphor among your generation in comparison with how it was used by your parents. English is a living, constantly changing language. What kind of things do you say that your parents wouldn’t, and vice versa? There was no hesitation in your voting just now – why was that?”
Blank looks – bring it back to specifics.
“Make a start with ‘sense of a shovel’. Is it simile or metaphor? How and why does it work so well? Does it only work verbally or would it work in print too? Is its usage just related to age or does class come into it? OK, OK! Before you all jump on me I know we’re supposed to be a classless society now. Let me rephrase this. Do poorly educated people express themselves in the same way that, say, university graduates do?
“Form whatever groups you feel comfortable with for this discussion. You have twenty minutes left for it. I suggest you note down some of the ideas your group comes up with because your assignment is to give me a reasoned presentation of your group’s conclusions. Specifically, I want one thousand words on the usage of simile and metaphor, with reference to socio-economic groups and comparing contemporary and historical usage. Yes, Richard, I will write it on the board.”
I hoped it would be a noisy session, from debate not complaints. I also hoped the adjoinin
g classes’ teachers wouldn’t complain.
-0-
I was very pleased that, after the inevitable exaggerated scraping and banging as they sorted themselves out, five roughly equal-sized groups had formed and eventually the chatter did actually settle down, after several promptings, to the matter in hand. In fact, it got quite heated over in one corner. It was going to be a hard act to follow. I took the opportunity to write the assignment on the board. ‘Compare and contrast, with examples, the usage of simile and metaphor among your own generation and that of your parents. Additional marks will be awarded for a discussion of the effects of socio-economic status.’
“Miss!”
I didn’t need to turn round to recognise it was John again, ever the most vocal of the group.
“We can’t agree if it’s a simile or a metaphor.”
Was it worth making the point once again?
“John, have you ever considered that at the end of this academic year you won’t be here in class for me to answer all your questions? Try to think independently and find your own solutions to problems.”
“But, Miss, won’t you -”
“Yes, I know.” It was always the same. “‘Just this once’, eh, John? I have checked the class dictionary, which as usual is on the shelf at the back. It not only gives very clear definitions of simile and metaphor but also gives excellent examples. I suggest you also refer back to your notes from earlier lessons this week.”
There were grumblings but they did retrieve the dictionary.
“And before you ask, the spellings are on the board.”
I returned to the board to pre-empt the next complaints and listed the various points I had suggested they cover in their analysis. Hopefully they would find themselves with understanding and patient managers in the workplace that was so soon to replace the life at school where mental idleness seemed accepted as the norm.
For once the lesson seemed to pass quickly for all of us. The discussions were continuing even as the bell rang. They were eager to force their opinions onto group consciousness and acceptance and amazingly I had to chivvy the last stragglers out of the door. I felt very satisfied as I gathered my belongings and followed them out.
“You’re looking very pleased with yourself, Chris,” Helen called over the intervening car as we prepared to go home. “Got that Friday feeling?”
“Oh yes! A good Friday, the weekend ahead, and for once I’m looking forward to some assignments to mark.”
“You’d better watch out,” Helen said and laughed. “They’ll be dusting off the straightjackets if they hear members of staff coming out with heresy like that.”
It was actually true, though. For once I was looking forward to the possibility that my students might teach me a thing or two about the language I love, approaching the subject as they were with the very different perspective and insights from another generation. Perhaps this time I wouldn’t have to hand too many of them back marked R (referred) and have them resubmitted time and again until they got the extra marks needed to get past the grading of ‘Not yet passed’. We can’t ever tell them they’ve failed, oh no!
Yes, I was feeling good. Hope springs eternal.
~~~
