Birds of a Feather Flock Together

Thus far, I have had the chance to attend some pedagogical meetings and sessions ranging from MATE (Moroccan Association of Teachers of English) to the sessions organized at university. I must admit that I learnt so many things from them and have somewhat developed my teaching skills just because of them. When I was a student, I also learnt many things from the meetings held at school. However, to my dismay, I have found out that most of these meetings have one attribute in common. The latter is that birds of a feather flock together.

To begin with, I remember once attending a conference on translation at university. Thanks to it, I learnt some basics about this field. As soon as the conference came to an end, discussion began. Here, I noticed that most of those who posed questions were simply colleagues and friends of the presenters. And when a colleague of mine raised his hand to pose a question, no one paid attention to him. I believe it was simply because he was not a bird of the same feather.

The fact that when the coffee break came and the presenters and those who posed questions sat around the same table confirmed that they were really among the birds in question. Frankly, I do not see any point in sitting with those one already knows. Sitting with others from different universities and places helps us broaden our knowledge. Also, how can one share and exchange with others if we do not make others’ acquaintance and try to share the same table but with different members?

The same problem brings me back to last year when I attended a Mate meeting. I liked everything about it except the fact that birds of a feather flock together there too. Before the conference started, we were all asked to get membership cards, the thing we did. Afterwards, we were each offered a pen and a notepad to write on. One of my colleagues came late that day and got into the conference room and asked me for a pen. I had to give it to him, and I used a pencil instead.

When the coffee break came, I went to ask for another pen. It was here when the one in charge of pens and notepads went angry at me. I explained everything to him, but he refused to give me another one. Here, I thought that had I been one of the eminent members of that association, I would have got as many as pens as I wanted. I then understood that I was a simple teacher whom no one knew there. I was also understanding, for that person might even have mistaken me for a student. For him, students are birds who have a different feather.

Most of those present chose to have lunch with those they know and with those who have the same tastes. And if you happen to sit with them, no one talked to you or seemed to share with you his teaching experiences. The same thing is the case when the time of taking photos comes. Some group photos include only the members and no outsiders.Broaching on this doesn’t mean uttering complaints. It rather means describing them as mere birds that flock together because of the feather they have in common.

As a teacher trainee, I could not stand some of the trainers just because of this. They do not listen to their trainees’ viewpoints. Unfortunately, some of them behave so, for they think that trainees are merely trainees. The latter’s voice is not something special and is not worth being considered.

At last, I have come to the conclusion that the meetings where people are expected to make new acquaintances, exchange experiences, and stand together against the problems their field faces have turned out to be the melting point where only birds that have the same feather have to come to the fore.

How I Lived then

Now that I have turned twenty-four and that I celebrated my twenty-fourth birthday the other day, I can not help reminiscing about my childhood days. Though still young, I feel that I am getting older day after day. I might well attribute this strange feeling to the remarkable changes I have undergone all these years. In reality, I am no longer the person I used to be fourteen years ago, nor was I then the person I am today. Completely different personalities, actually!

It was in 1994 when I entered school; I was seven then. The first thing I was amazed by when I first entered my class were the posters hung on the classroom wall. I would say that they sum up my past life and the one I am currently leading. I quite vividly remember some of the posters. Whenever my teacher asked us to write down the lesson, from time to time I cast some glances at the pictures in the posters. I so much appreciated them and beholded them with every awe.

The first one to the right was quite gloomy-looking. In it, there was a red bus with passengers inside and a new pupil outside holding a satchel on his back hurrying up and talking to the bus driver. At the time, I had no idea what a bus was for, nor did I know why the new pupil appeared to be in a rush. Suffice it to say that I enjoyed the scene. Like any of my fellows, I was a fair pupil. I raised my hand when the teacher asked us simple questions, but at other times I just kept staring at the poster in admiration.

Only later on did I know that the new pupil was going to be me, no one else, for I was the only one in my village to pursue my studies. Owing to poverty, some travelled to different cities to work and help their family. I also wanted to do the same then, but no one offered me work. Others travelled abroad because they were born with a silver spoon in their mouth. I felt so sad to see my ex-fellow pupils leaving me one by one. After a certain period of time, I had to enter secondary school and took the bus with new pupils from other villages.

In the second poster to the left, there was a city made of glass with different lights ranging from green to red. So many times did I hear of a city, but I had never visited one by the time. Though I was born in Tangiers, I don’t remember it so accurately to know what it was like. Meanwhile, my mother recounted to me the important places, streets and markets there. At first, I thought that once I graduated, I would work in the village like any other bricklayer or mason. That is why I did not make a fuss about visiting a city.

As soon as I earned my Baccalaureate degree, my family moved to El Jadida. Only then did I know that the city in the picture was merely going to be El Jadida. In the latter, I spent indelible moments, studied at the faculty there, graduated from it, and became a teacher at the age of twenty-two. Notwithstanding, I still look back on the other posters on the class wall and try to rack my brains to remember them all, but in vain. I have looked forward to the posters describing the position of teacher and writer, but I failed to remember them.

To my utter dismay, last summer, I paid the school a visit, peered into the broken windows for long, and found that all the posters had peeled off a long time ago and that new ones have supplanted them. I went forlorn and while clenching the bars of the window out of fury, someone patted my shoulder. I looked around only to find a ten-year-old boy smiling at me and asking me about the posters.

“Hi Sir! What do you think of the posters we drew this year?”

“ Wow, they’re really amazing ; great job !” I said.

I went home immediately and from that time onwards, I felt gladder than before simply because there is still a pupil who takes a keen interest in the posters hung on the class wall. I am certain that one day this ten-year-old pupil will sooner or later be in dire need of them so as to contemplate how he once lived.



Great Talkers vs. Little Talkers

Gone are the days when most of us thought that the best teacher in a school was the one who talked too much in class, whereas now it is universally agreed that the best teacher is the one who talks less in class and who instead gives the students the chance to speak more. Speaking should then be typical of learners rather than language practitioners while teaching. However, from time to time, I hear some teachers in their classes talking all the time, and seldom do they let their students speak.

Perhaps, they do so to show of their linguistic capabilities in front of both their students and their colleagues in other classes. I still vividly remember once reading a quote by one of my favourite philosophers, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, which runs thus: “People who know little are usually great talkers, while men who know much say little.” This is what we call a paradox, something contradictory at first sight, but when we look back closely at it, we find that it is really true.

The fact that people who know too much talk little and those who know little talk much is due to several reasons. One of the latter is that those who know much feel that what they know is not necessary to say and thus desist from saying it. For instance, a writer may not tell you when to use punctuation marks unless you ask him simply because he has gone beyond this stage and feels that there is no use in explaining. He who knows much thinks that other people know the same as he does and believes that there is no point is repeating what he knows.

On the other hand, those who know little have to talk greatly, for they have to say something they have just learned. We all know that learning something new makes us so excited about it and induces us to seek every opportunity just to say it. It is the very case with great talkers. This, of course, brings me back to my university days when some of my ex-classmates talked all the time in class, but they rarely said something meaningful, precise and to the point. Afterwards, I discovered that they did so poorly in the exams they sat for which confirmed that their talking was merely a sign of little learning.

I would stress that I am not generalizing here; rather I am talking about the majority of little talkers and great talkers. Most importantly, a well-informed man of course speaks about his opinions, but he doesn’t do so as greatly as does an ignorant man. This disproportion is attributed to the fact that a well-informed man has so much to say and then holds his tongue because he very well knows that no matter how much he broaches on a certain issue, he will not say something which is everything it should be.

As regards an ignorant man, he thinks that all that he knows is so important and as a result begins to impart it to anybody he meets. The man in question can be likened to a poor man who has just won a lottery. If the latter doesn’t inform all people that he has become rich, he will not be able to sleep peacefully that night. However, a rich man doesn’t need to inform people of his social status either because he has become so out of his constant efforts or because he is already born with a sliver spoon in his mouth.

In 2004 and 2005, as a high school student, I had the chance to be taught by two different teachers of French in the respective academic years. The first one was a plain-looking, modest teacher. The second one was an insolent, great talker. The difference between the two is that we learned a lot from the former who taught us French lessons in a good, simple and patient manner, while we learned nothing from the latter because he talked greatly fast, insulted us for being inconsiderate, prided himself a lot on his pronunciation and his remarkable fluency, and was very impatient with our learning of the language.

However, towards the end of the academic year, we students learned that the first teacher was a writer and a poet, having been the author of nearly 10 books. The teacher in question gave those who excelled in French that year some of his books without even mentioning that it was he who wrote them. We only knew that when we saw his name written on the books cover. As for the second teacher, he was a mere braggart who never produced something in the language he ‘taught’ us. Later on, we even learned from some of his ex-classmates at university that he used to be such an inveterate cheater.

Day after day, I learn more and more about life, and the lesson that I have learnt these days is that most great talkers are merely braggarts and creepers, while little talkers are wise, modest, and knowledgeable. As the saying goes, still waters are deep. Or as Edgar Allan Poe once described a genius as someone who shudders at incompleteness and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be. Following is the poem that I once wrote about the topic in question.

The Pencil Sharpener

I took a pencil that I have sharpened for years,

Put it to use,

But has produced nothing of use;

Only my days it often sears.

Enraged, I broke it

As it was about to end;

I took a new and longer one

I sharpened it once;

The pencil, still sharp

While I keep using it up,

At this stage,

My spirit has never aged.

I Still Live for One Star

Why do I stand in awe in your presence?

Perhaps, I just feel transfixed as you soar;

Give me the chance to learn more of your lore.

O star! the uncharted lands you lit, hence;

Fill me with the fuel to forsake the current land

Surely, you are the last star, so lend me a hand.