Canadian Thanksgiving?

Writing for the Matador Network on my memories of Canadian Thanksgiving and what it meant then and what it means now.

Hibernating Bears and Music Festivals

Writing in the local paper. Local Issues with a global take. I never translate literally and the editor trims at will to make it fit. Here's my version, then theirs.

While it seems that summer doesn’t quite want to let go, it’s that time of year again. The time of year when the croaking of storks, ringing of church bells and clanking of processions are replaced by sounds that are normally heard on the banks of the Liffey, Tajo or Mississippi. Autumn in Caceres means music. A time of year when every other weekend the old town fills up with thousands of people taking advantage of the somewhat cooler evenings in order to enjoy the sounds of eclectic Pop, Irish music, Jazz and Blues in the open air. The normally quiet UNESCO core comes alive with this exchange of cultures from around the world and the more intimate nature of these concerts allows for more relaxed viewing than when the masses invade the city in spring during WOMAD. Children dance and get up close to the band in the calle Moret during the welcoming street party for the Blues festival, amazed that three or four people can get together and create so much fun. The steps in the Plaza Mayor become an impromptu stage as the Irish Fleadh says goodbye for another year and the city vibrates with the positive feelings ringing behind long after the stages have been packed up for another year. But as autumn turns to winter, the nights get longer, the weather becomes less inviting and the clanging of the bells once again becomes the old town’s primary soundtrack, what happens to the music? Unlike the storks that come once a year or the penitents taking the saints out for an airing in spring, music stays with us year around, sliding from the city’s squares indoors to the intimate places where music is born. Every weekend, live music pulses inside one of these rhythm temples, keeping alive through the darker months of winter those beats that give so much life to the city. But if the throngs that danced and laughed in Santa Maria don’t come out to hear it? Unlike the bears of my homeland, music, the musicians that play it and the brave souls that promote it can’t hibernate and without the support of music lovers throughout the year…well it might not make it through the long winter. 

An Odyssey

The regional newpaper HOY has been hosting a series of articles on the state of the University of Extremadura. I was asked to contribute and rather than offer an in-depth academic analysis, I opted to tell my story and experience of working there. 

First the English version:

It came as a complete shock to me. It was during my first weeks teaching in Filosofia y Letras at the University of Extremadura and one day as I walked into class, I noticed a thick, heavy tome weighing down the table in front of one of the young students.

Being curious by nature, I wanted to see what young people were reading beyond Harry Potter. But perhaps what drew my curiosity even more was the size of the book. It was as thick as a dictionary yet from afar I could tell that it was a novel and not a reference book. I walked over and asked the student what they were reading and couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw that it was James Joyce’s Ulysses. I cautiously asked the student if they were reading it for pleasure and was completely floored when he answered that it had been assigned to them to read in another subject. 

Not that it’s a bad book. After all, it is considered to be one of the most important works in modernist literature in English but one that is also extremely difficult to understand, even for educated native speakers of the language. It is a book that makes Goytisolo’s triologia de Alvaro Mendiola look like easy reading and here was an English student that was still struggling with basic verb tenses being asked to read and analyze it. 

I found myself asking, why would something so incredibly dense and difficult be assigned to learners who were just beginning to explore the language? I wondered what possible interpretation could be expected from the learner when even a dictionary would not help clarify some of the puns found in the opus? Was the student being asked to analyze the book on his own or was he simply being asked to memorize what others had written about it? I found myself feeling sorry for the students and began asking myself what exactly was the purpose? A doubt that would continue to plague me while I taught at the University. What were we trying to achieve with these students?

Informal surveys over the years have shown me that at large majority of the students enrolled in the English program at the University had done so because they wanted to become English teachers and those that hadn't would probably end up doing so anyways. Yet the program they were studying had only one elective/optative subject in the whole four year degree that dealt with applied linguistics and not one that specifically focused on methodology or language acquisition. Could this glaring oversight be due to the fact that the next step was a rather expensive Masters that would, in theory, convert the graduates into professionals? Here we had students being assigned Joyce and musty Victorians when they would never use anything even remotely similar in their hoped-for jobs as English teachers. Modern concepts such as corpus linguistics were beginning to creep into the teaching but only to show stylistic patterns in the works of writers long since dead who would never have dreamed of something like Twitter and how it is influencing the way the language is used today. And my doubts were raised again, what is the purpose? Were professors meant to be teachers or researchers? And if they are meant to research, should that research necessarily be related towards what the field of language teaching and acquisition in order to ensure that their students were as up to date as possible? Were these due to an inherent disregard for being 'teachers' and even teaching within the University?

It was only some years later when I began to help people prepare for oposiciones that I would find a possible answer. In my initial confusion to grasp exactly what topics such as the legal history of the United States had to do with language teaching, I suddenly remembered that book on the table and came to a realization. The University wasn't preparing language teachers or even proficient users of the language but instead was readying them to face an arcane exam which itself has no real tangible meaning in relation to the job they would be asked to do if they somehow passed. Rather than preparing them for the job they dreamed of, they are being moulded for the exam that they have to sit in the future in order to get that job.

I have met and had the pleasure to observe some great teachers, both within and beyond the University. I have also heard of a few brave, questioning voices within the system that are raised now and again, but that are also quickly silenced or isolated. The closed, endogmatic nature of the selection process for university teachers ensures this pact of silence. If you want to get on, and get on easily, you learn to keep your head down and which group you need to join, agree with them or not. A truer version of Pablo Iglesia’s casta would be hard to find.

So indeed what is the purpose? Some would argue that it isn’t to create workers for specific jobs, but instead to focus on producing creative thinkers adaptable to any job and they might be right. Yet the mere word philology sounds ancient and Greek to my Canadian ears and memorizing the analysis of others contrary to this purpose. Others might denounce this utilitarian, practical view of University study as neoconservative thought and the antithesis of the Humanities in general. But then I think of that student facing Joyce, armed with the arguments of others and think, there must be another route in this odyssey. 

*In the Spanish version there is a translation error. It should read literatura modernista en ingles rather than literatura modernista inglesa.

Medieval Tests

Writing in the local paper. Local Issues with a global take. I never translate literally and the editor trims at will to make it fit. Here's my version, then theirs.

After having lived here for more than a decade, I still catch myself looking up in wonder as the last rays of the setting sun hit the Torre de la Yerba in the Plaza. The layers of history present as I walk under the Arco de la Estrella send my imagination reeling only to suddenly be brought back to the present when I see groups of tourists taking selfies under it. That mix of tradition, history and modernity, that ability to meld the past with the present is one of this region’s biggest resources. What I can’t understand though is when some things remain firmly mired in the past, frozen in time like the face of the Amazona that cries out from the facade of the Obispado.

These past weeks, thousands of brave opositores have been struggling through an exam process that perfectly fits in with the 16th century palaces that populate our old town. A medieval system that selects the teachers that will then guide our youth through this new age. I can easily envision a table of cloaked monks sitting in Santa Maria while opositores recite what they have memorized without having to internalize nor analyze the content, just as today’s opositores are asked to do. It’s a system so deeply engrained in Spanish culture that it’s the one issue that is never questioned when the prickly topic of bettering the Spanish education system arises. A curriculum more innovative than those of Finland or Canada could be developed, where investigation and project based learning are the pilars but if the very teachers are still koranically memorizing enormous quantities of what will amount to be useless information in order to get the job, what can be expected of them when they actually reach the classroom? The cognitive dissonance between how they are chosen and how teaching is in this new century is a gulf too wide to bridge.

The past and knowledge of it is important but what is crucial is to know when it is time to move on and adopt new ways of thinking before we truly get left behind. It’s like those warts stuck to the Almohad wall that I see as I walk towards the old town, if they have to go, they have to go.

Vino (or Viñu as it is known locally) in the Sierra de Gata

A place close to my heart, just north of here where the scorched summer earth becomes green once again. Cool water runs off the sierra and where the wines are meant to enjoyed, not examined. Writing in Roads and Kingdoms about a toast to an old friend.

Seeing Sounds in Macmillan's Academy Day in Madrid

WOMAD or WOPAP?

video Jorge Rey

Writing in the local paper. Local Issues with a global take. I never translate literally and the editor trims at will to make it fit. Here's my version, then theirs.

I’ve been fortunate enough to play at some of the most famous festivals around the world. From Vancouver to New York, I have seen the stage from the other side and even returned on a few occasions and have been able to appreciate the transformative effect these festivals can have on cities. It would be difficult to image New Orleans without Jazzfest or Chicago without the Blues festival, popular festivals that have become so intertwined with the lives of the cities that it would be impossible to think of one without the other. The music may only last a week but its echo reverberates year round. Could the same be said of WOMAD? True, the festival has brought Caceres to the attention of some around the world but my question is what has it brought back to Caceres in return? Where are the partnerships and initiatives with local associations and startups? After twenty seven years, more than a generation, you would think that some sort of musical partnership would have been formed with an institution like the conservatory to investigate the links between Extremaduran folk music and the rest of the Mediterranean. Or a dance program that explored dances from around the world. How about workshops in schools throughout the year to confront racism? Or instead of complaining every year, how about a plan with the science department of the University to tackle the enormous amounts of garbage and human waste that the festival generates? But no, the English are smart. For centuries they have been selling their brand to lands beyond their isle, reaping the benefits from their colonies and leaving little in return (except their monarchy on occaion). It’s time to ask for something in return. Ghandi, who would have appreciated the original ethos of the festival, once said that the difference between what we do and what we are capable of doing would suffice to solve most of the world’s problems, and here we’re talking about a local scale. The M in WOMAD for music and D for dance should ring throughout the year or if not, the name should be changed to WOPAP. A World Of Plastic And Piss.

A Master Doesn't Necessarily Make you a Master

Writing in the local paper. Local Issues with a global take. I never translate literally and the editor trims at will to make it fit. Here's my version, then theirs.

One of the first questions I ask my students when I start a new course is often one of the most difficult for them to answer. And no, it’s not like a former boss of mine once told me, “The first day of class I look for the most difficult grammar point and then really let them have it.” No, my first question is much more straightforward, yet perhaps even more challenging to answer...that is if the student is being honest with me and more importantly, with themselves. Quite simply I ask them, “Why are you here?” Some go into automatic mode and reply like robots, “because English is very important for my future.” Others with perhaps a bit more experience koranically recite, “because I need it to communicate with clients from abroad.” Then there are those who are brutally sincere and say point blank, “I need the piece of paper.” Not exactly a great start from a learning standpoint but at least they are being honest with me and with themselves. As an educator it pains me to hear this but I completely understand. In a culture that demands paper rather than ability, my class is simply a necessary step (or obstacle) in order to obtain that indispensable piece of paper. For the civil servant position that the student is chasing, they won’t be asked if they can in fact use the language and convert their knowledge into usable skills, what matters is if the numbers in their file tally up more than the next. Rather than checking what they can do, if they are actually good teachers. tourist guides or project managers, if the numbers on the paper add up to more than what the next candidate has, they get the job. Where I come from, your qualifications are important, and of course not falsifying them, but what employers really want to know is what you do for them and their business. You might have a Master from Harvard but what have you done with that knowledge? How have you translated it into a workable skill? Until this focus shifts, cases like the disgraceful Cifuentes Master (among countless others) will continue to remind that this archaic method of measuring ability is just that, archaic. It all brings me back to my ex-boss who never could quite figure out why the students from the States never came back and I’m pretty sure she had more than a few Masters. 

Macmillan Webinars 2018

A new teaching adventure this week, braving the new online, virtual world. I was invited to participate in some online training with Macmillan in Madrid which was beamed to the world.

The first session, Bing, Bang, Boom, Boing and Baa: onomatopoeia and the importance of sounds in the YL classroom, was a fun look at bringing sounds to life. Making the sounds of English visual and while it was aimed at YLs, the main ideas are equally valid across all levels and ages. 

The second session, Harnessing the Image Zeitgeist in a Visual World, or as I had subtitled it in my mind, Grabbing Learners' Attention in a Post-Text World, was an in depth look how images can be more than just pretty pictures in coursebooks. Ways to make classrooms into 2-way streets, which exchanges going in both directions. 

I look forward to exploring more of this type of training in the future. Thanks to all who participated!

Seen from the Train to Madrid...Spring!

...seen from the train to Madrid. Stories behind the Images #nonotfar . . . . . . . . . #dehesaextremeña #dehesa #seenfromthetrain #travelspain #traveling #onthetracks #encina #springtime #sogreen #visitextremadura #travelextremadura #igers_extremadura #campoarañuelo @extremadura_tur @renfe

A post shared by Troy Nahumko (@troynahumko) on Apr 16, 2018 at 9:46am PDT

10 Reasons to Get Up before Dawn

Through the jungle before sunrise with hopes of catching the falls in all their glory. Stories behind the Images. Click on the link in the description for the tale. #nonotfar . . . . . . . . #saltoangel #canaima #angelfall #angelfalls #worldstallest #worldshighest #unesco #worldheritagesite #canaimanationalpark #visitvenezuela #mistandclouds #clouds #analogphotography #gransabana #travelwriting #onceinalifetime

Una publicación compartida por Troy Nahumko (@troynahumko) el Abr 2, 2018 at 12:19 PDT

Water poured out of the clouds down into a limpid pool surrounded by the nearly impenetrable jungle.

It wasn't raining.

Maybe it was somewhere up on the tepui but the clouds that clung to face of the table-top mountain were cottony white, yet still the water tumbled down.

"When can you see the top of the waterfall?" I asked as we swam under the curtain of water falling from nearly a kilometre above.

"It's normally clear just as the sun rises over the range in front but that doesn't last very long." And our guide was right, we had first caught sight of the waterfall as we traced the river along the rough path through the jungle but really had only seen glimpses of it all day between breaks in the clouds as they floated by.

Later that evening as we swung in our hammocks to the earthy sounds beyond the fire, I asked him if he could take me to the see the falls at dawn and he laughed, "Tomorrow's my day off and there's no way I'm getting up that early. If you want to go, just walk that way through the jungle until you get to the river. You'll see them from there."

"Is there a path?"

"Not really from here, but if you just keep going that way, you should get there in about 1/2 an hour."

"What time does the sun rise around here?"

"At about 6:00 I think." Early, even for the jungle.

I continued to swing in my hammock. If I really wanted to see the falls in all their glory, it meant that I would have to trudge for 30 minutes through dense Amazon rainforest with only a small Maglight to guide the way. On the trek leading up to the falls earlier that day we had seen that this was indeed the jungle, complete with snakes, monkeys and ants the size of small mice not to mention the rest of the insects that we keeping up the jungle soundtrack around us.

I turned to my brother who was in the next hammock and asked, "Are you up for it?"

"Well if you insist," he said, draining another of the tepid 20ml Polar beers, "why not?"

Setting my old-style battery powered alarm clock for 05.20, I tried to roll over to get some sleep only to be reminded that I was in a hammock. Catching naps while swinging between two trees can be lovely but if you're not used to sleeping on your back...well, suspended nights can be long.

I must have fallen asleep though because when the alarm went off I was shaken out of a beery sleep. The fire had long ago burnt itself out and darkness enveloped the corrugated tin shelter like a blanket, making it impossible to see where the open shelter ended and the jungle began. I awkwardly tumbled out of my cocoon and shook my brother only to be greeted by a slightly different pitch in his snoring. He was either deeply asleep or had reconsidered.

I was awake and alone but getting into that hammock was little more appealing than what lie beyond the shelter. So I grabbed a bottle of water and a leftover sandwich and started out in the direction the guide had indicated. My tiny Maglight pierced the black just far enough to see a thick curtain of vegetation in front of me and might just give me enough time to make out the colour of the anaconda as I bumped into it. While I don't think it had rained overnight, everywhere I touched was damp and the exposed roots that made for somewhat better footing were slippery footholds above the muddy jungle floor. I listened hard, trying to make out the sound of the river but the night jungle sounds were all that came back to me. With no light above, it was impossible to know if I was moving in a straight line or in circles. Every so often I would slip or have to make my way around the thickest bunches of trees or undergrowth and with no watch, it was impossible to know how long I had been walking.

Then I heard it, the reassuring rush of the river greeted me just before coming to a clearing on a bend the river carved out of the green. On my left a thin line of light broke above the forest's canopy and then a blueish blush started to silhouette the tall trees. To my right, there it was, a thin line of cloud lying across it halfway up, like a revealing bikini that only served to frame its undress.

I must have sat there for a few hours before I heard the rest of the group emerge from the jungle and come up behind me. As they approached I realized that it had clouded over and what had once been a bikini had now turned into a housecoat. "Sorry that you got up for nothing," they jeered but I just smiled.

"I guess the falls are just a little immodest and the show was just for me."