Iceland review - 2007, Síða 97

22 ICELAND REVIEW
Walking through the halls of Verslunarskóli, Iceland’s
premi er private high school, is like walking through
an H&M fashion show online f lash advertisement.
It’s one thing to hear per capita statistics about how
the country is one of the most aff luent nations in the world, almost
homogeneously white, practi cally free of the outside world’s woes like
illiteracy, poverty, race wars, and epidemic disease. However, it’s
another experience alto gether to see these capitas paraded out in front of
you in full blond-hair ed, blue-eyed and Diesel-denim living color.
And I am here to teach them English.
Foreign language instruction at the secondary school level has a
check ered past. While it is a valiant effort to expand young minds tow-
ards new linguistic horizons, the station of beleaguered language
teacher ranks only marginally above that of band member or grounds-
keeper in the great pyramid of high school hierarchy. This caste
system has been burned into my social consciousness from my years
in American educational institutions.
I recall Señora Acosta plodding into homeroom like a pack mule,
lugging her portable cassette player, stacks of laminated cards, a donkey
puppet named Burrito, and a crate brimming with other colorful lang u-
age-instruction paraphernalia. Her efforts were futile and we knew it,
and she knew we knew it. American teens don’t learn Spanish besides the
inadvertent overlaps with the Taco Bell menu and Speedy Gonzales
cartoons. But still she toiled on, the Sisyphean fate of unsuccessfully
forcing Spanish on unwilling teens: the same colors, farm animals, greet-
ings and salutations, and that birthday song – year in and year out.
The teacher I am meant to substitute has left me with a lackluster text-
book called Aspects of Britain and the USA f illed with prosaic articles
and grainy pictures from the 80s of people in baggy sweaters, afro
perms and shoulder pads. The instructions are to cover British insti-
tutions: an imprudent decision. Beyond the Sex Pistols and Quality
Street candies, my American comprehension of the UK is hazy at best.
After resorting to Wikipedia for a crash course on the monarchy
and the houses of parliament, I delve into the text and am appalled
by the vocabulary the kids are meant to grasp: anachronistic, consti tuti -
onalism, obiter dictum. The chapter ends with questions most seman-
ticists would have a hard time hashing out: what is the difference
between convention and custom? I don’t know, to be honest. Franti-
cally I search for a teacher’s key and picture Señora Acosta enjoying
a sinister belly laugh with Burrito as I f lounder.
Walking into the classroom with 25 teens sitting behind laptops,
on cell phones, listening to iPods, reading a school paper that looks
like something Wallpaper designs, it dawns on me that the age gap
between teacher and student is astonishingly small. Icelandic high
school goes to 20 and I stand in front of them, a font of wisdom, at
28. Someone is even wearing the same shoes I’m wearing. But I try
to furrow my brow, walk with purpose, and put up the most bookish
facade I can muster.
“Good morning. My name is Mr. Moody –” I announce over their
chatter in a voice that commands attention if not respect.
“We were told your name is Jonas,” a narrow-eyed, slip of a girl
broadcasts suspiciously from the front row. My attempts to establish
boundaries are foiled. With head cocked and a wily smirk she adds,
“And that you’re from Canada.” Now she’s just pushing my buttons.
TEACHING AN ELEPHANT
As a substitute teacher for a day, Jonas Moody instructs Icelandic teens in the international language of imperialism.
PHOTOS BY BENJAMIN CROTTY
DAY IN THE LIFE