29.12.2006
IMPEDIMENT TEACHER
IMPEDIMENT TEACHER
http://www.netsaga.is/media/files/Boogaloo.mp3
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The principal of the primary school in Keflavik that year was a real noble and gentle man.
Once he made a phone call to my home and asked for me;
off course he knew about my accident as half of the villagers, and he was also aware of that I'd finished junior college.
-Hello namesake! Olafur principal of Barno (the childrens´school) on this end.
-Hello Olafur.
Quite astonished I return the greetings of this popular VIP at the same time as some wondering thoughts go through my insignificiant mind, such as:
What is he phoning be me, an unrelated man?
-How are you, namesake?
-I have no reason to complain, I answer instantly and try to hold my head high.
-Would you want to do me a great favor, young man?
-Ye, of course I would if I possibly could?
-In short, because of the great number of teachers that are sick
I need an impediment teacher in the morning, the principal informs me.
-But don't I have to prepare myself, I ask gladly and grateful to the man that bears the same name as I for this unexpected but pleasant proposal.
Instantly I realise that this will be a good variation in my rather dull life; when everybody's at work or school, I had nothing to do other than reading the Morgunbladid, going for short walks when the weather was okay and swimming in the lunch-break with my father.
-No, no, impediment teachers can't do that, but I shall have copied some assignments that you might present to the class in the morning.
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I arrive at school eight o'clock the next morning.
When I enter the teachers' lounge in the building, where I had myself been a pupil a few years before I immediately recognize a few of the old staff and give them a nod and the others as well.
The principal comes to me, shakes my hand and hands me a pile with Icelandic language-assignments for the kids I was supposed to teach or rather keep quiet.
Then we walk along to the school-room, where the pupils in this fifth class have already gathered in a row in front of the door.
Some murmuring noise goes through the group when the kids discover that today they'll get a new teacher.
The principal hushes on them immediately, introduces me and tells the group that I'll be their teacher until their regular teacher gets well.
Thus spoken he opens and lets them flow into their seats.
-Good luck, namesake, he says at the same time as he puts out his hand and directs me to the teacher's table.
When he's left and closed the door leaving me alone, thoughts of a confused man go through my head:
-Am I any man for this job, I ask myself where I'm standing facing 25 kids that seem able to make mincemeat of me.
I try my best to shake these foolish thoughts
out of my head and begin work.
-Well, kids! Here on the timetable I see that in the first hour you're supposed to read. When I was in elementary-school we were supposed to read aloud for the rest of the class...
-Pardon me teacher, one lad's high voice shrieks from the table in the corner, and embarasses me the novice teacher.
-Yes how can I assist you son, I give my best answering the kid being the authority as well as a friend.
-Aren't you going to read the checklist, he asks me.
-Ye right you are, I was just coming to that, I reply.
I open the list where the teacher keeps the pupils' names and various information about them, such as their diligence. I read aloud the first name:
Andrjes?
-Here, replies the same and grins at my pronunciation. And my name is Andrjes, but not And-res he informs me and seems quite pleased with himself having reprimanded the teacher, and he runs his eyes over his class-mates looking for some verification of his own prominence, but he just gets the girls' chilly look.
-Oi! You just ain't funny Andreeees, some of the girls reply in a manner that shows that they have long since become tired of everlasting interruptions from the class' peace-disturber.
In my mind I mock when remembering how I used to behave myself when I was his age.
Obviously there's one in every class, someone who yearns for attention.
Suddenly I realise that I've forgotten to swallow my saliva before I started reading.
One of my long coma's consequences on Intensive Care was a reduced formation of saliva, which causes the blurring of my speech, even so much that people that don't know me think I must be heavily drunk.
To the date when I'm writing this, approximately twenty years after that terrible event on September twentieth 1975, still I'm troubled by my enormous saliva-productivity which forces me remembering to swallow before I use my organs of speech.
But often I don't remember to swallow, and therefore I often make the impression that I'm not of a sound mind when having a conversation with novices, or I'm asked if I'm drunk.
Unquestionably this is a pity, especially when my appearance is significant, e.g. in the numerous occasions I've been in job-interviews.
With an empty mouth I begin the reading anew:
-Anna?
Yes!
-Berglind?
While waiting for her reply I use the opportunity to swallow.
This way I keep on reading to the end of the list in some kind of a military habit instead of finding the number by counting.
Then I put up the face of a true teacher and swallow before I ask:
-Kids! Where are you in the
reading-book, while I turn the pages of that book in my hands.
-We had reached page 81, a girl with glasses and long dark hair replies.
She sits closest to the teacher's table.
-Well then won't you begin our reading today, Rakel.
And she starts before I'm able to locate the page in my own book.
Her beautiful sonorous girl's voice resounds as music to my ears and for the next minute I sit listening to her with wide open ears.
-Thank you Rakel, I inform her when she's finished reading two paragraphs, your reading is quite excellent. And the next one! Snaehvit (clean as snow) is it not?
-Svanhvit (white as a swan) was it the last time I knew she corrects me and gets giggling twitters amongst her mates.
-You're right, Svanhvit was it. Pardon me. Will you do me the honours?
She reads the next two.
Thus I manage making everyone read before the bell rings at the end of my first lesson.
In my oppinion there was a striking variation in the pupils'
reading-ability leaving the boys quite far behind the girls, but surprisingly the peace-disturber in the corner is best of all using amusing changes in his accent.
Two or three read stuttered and a few others weren't much better.
I don't remember such much of a difference in my classmates' reading-ability when I myself was in the fifth grade and had a teacher who was the librarian's wife back in the sixties.
Perhabs the reason is obvious; then the pupils got distinguished into classes by the speed of their reading, but after 1974 with new laws for children's schools discrimination suddenly became illegal.
In my next lesson I was supposed to teach arithmatic alias mathematics as it's called nowadays and still I had an easy time keeping the children good and quiet.
When the bell rang for the longest pause at the end of the second lesson and the going was still without a hitch my self-confidence had reached its peak.
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-Well, how was it, son the principal asks as soon as I enter the teachers' lounge hoping to get a cup of coffee.
-No problemo (quietly I swallow) there's nothing to it, I reply proud as a cock.
-Well my friend , that's quite nice to hear, my benefactor carries on in his gentle and soothing voice. I wasn't quite sure whether you had enough strength for working as a teacher so shortly after the accident. But certainly one can't expect you to be able to prepare yourself like a qualified teacher.
-Nei, nei, I put in at the same time as I reach out for a cup and saucer.
Put them under the cock on the big electrical coffee pot and then with too full a cup I'm thinking of taking a few steps to the sofa where two of my "mates" are already sitting.
But obviously too much of a task for me, as spastical as I am.
I am in need of all finer movements.
Alias Pinocchio, especially at the times when I really have to avoid any mistakes.
My nerves just go berserk.
Bomm, the first step.
The leg reaches the floor so roughly that it trembles.
I'm able to do this!
I try to tell myself
At a snail's pace I take another step, while staring into the cup, wishing warmer than I'm able to describe, that I could avoid making a fool of myself here on my first day.
The turbulence in the cup has become so gigantic, and its rattleing on its bolster, that my heart is beating with frenzied speed, but I just strengthen the bite on my lower lib.
By the third step I notice that the fingers have started to tremble.
WILL I MAKE IT?
A feeling of sheer anxiety and despair overwhelms me.
I'm trembling allover, but instead of spilling coffee on the floor I'm able to slam the cup on the white-covered table infront of the sofa.
I'm on the verge of madness watching the jingle and turbulance, where I'm standing crestfallen watching the waves finally calming down in the cup.
I'm feeling quite sure everyone's watching the odd gestures of the disabled man, but haven't the guts to look up to observe.
Instead I plump myself down at the end of the sofa, trying to look as normal as I'm able to, reach out for my cup which is now covered in coffee-reins and a Danish.
Because the quietness on the crowded sofa is getting to be miserable I try to start some conversation.
Only one of them seems willing to take part, a veteran teacher, a thin-haired, slender and kind man.
I remember when he was teaching in this school when I myself was a pupil here.
When taking a small draught of the piping hot drink I get burned.
Automatically I reach out for the small milk-jug standing on the table and over-fill the cup.
Having the consequences that time when I take a sip I spill over myself and the clean table-cloth.
-Andskotinn (damned) I cursed myself quietly and I can feel how I blush allover.
When the coffee-woman comes rushing with the rag I gaze on her with my apologetic look.
I only notice pity towards me, when she says:
-Next time you want to have coffee just ask me for help.
In my oppinion this offer is preposterous;
so very depreciatory.
She's obviously not aware of the fact that the worst gesture towards a handicapped person is when you indicate that he's not able to do whatever others find just normal to do.
Soon the clatter becomes stronger in the lounge, but surprisingly I keep quiet for a while but I regain myself, happy when the bell rings for the next lesson.
The principal turns to me and asks what's next on the new teacher's schedule.
-Communionology, I reply really not having the slightest idea of what this subject comprises.
-Ya, by reason of your lack of experience in these learnings just tell the pupils to write about a trip they had last summer.
-And then, I ask feeling quite sure that nothing will happen that I won't be able to handlet without assistance.
-Just allow them draw pictures at will, says my namesake and claps me lightly on my back when I start walking towards just another adventure.
