Snakes, Saints, and Shenanigans

Or Chaos, Cheerleading, and Crucifixes (A Return to the Classroom)

from the About the Author page in my first book:

“A Classroom in Kyiv marks the beginning of Daniel’s writing journey…he hopes to write a few more books (unless this one flops so badly that he’s faced with no other choice but to return to teaching 8-year-olds).”

The good news: the book hasn’t exactly flopped.

The bad: the royalties trickling in are nowhere near enough to live on.

So it’s back to work.

For the first time since January 2022, I stepped foot into a classroom, this time to teach English and drama to 10-year-olds.

Monday

Sleepless night, but that’s par for the course anyway. Adrenaline and coffee are fueling me. I’m excited and nervous in equal measure.

We kick off in the school gym, where the boss, Padraig, rallies the troops (about 200 kids in total) with choral chants of “We love English!” and “English English we will speak, German German not this week!” I think the message is clear: English good, German bad. Good to know where we stand.

The kids seem to remember “we have stinky feet!” the most. No doubt it’s going to be a productive week of learning.

At first, I was told I'd be teaching 8-year-olds. But there’s a plot twist: I get the older, fourth-grade class.

Day one is a blur. The kids are nice. We play games, do drama activities, mess about a bit. Some even laugh at my jokes, which is promising. The others clearly have no taste.

They’re mostly well-behaved, though I can sense a spot of trouble later in the week.

Tuesday

We're just outside Vienna, doing an immersive English week with a focus on drama and culture. It’s run by an Irish woman and there are thirteen “tirteen” (sic) of us teachers.

Each grade has been assigned a different English-speaking country. First grade gets Australia, second and third grades the USA (why does the US get two grades – imperialism?) and fourth grade has Ireland. With an Irishwoman running the operation and Padraig second in command, there’s no way we’re doing the UK.

I’m happy with Ireland, as a freshly minted citizen, and I’m officially classed as “Irish” for the week, despite not having anything remotely near an Irish brogue. Whatever, the kids barely know.

Except for Hannah, who has an American father and speaks fluent English: “You’re not Irish, you have an American accent!” Cover blown, thanks Hannah.

Turns out a handful of the kids have excellent English. Others can barely string two words together. We’re supposed to have fun, learn some English, and put on a performance about Ireland by Friday. There’s no script. It’s up to me to come up with something. No pressure, right?

“So guys, any ideas?”

Eva doesn’t speak much English but she’s the first to raise her hand (I’m paraphrasing here): “Some of the children can wear white, some green and some orange, and we can be the Irish flag.”

“Great start Eva, but what next? Just stand there on the stage staring at the audience for 5 minutes?”

The classroom teacher is there to assist us if needed. I get lucky with Sophie – laid-back, friendly, and beloved by the kids. Other teachers aren’t so fortunate. Some get old-school disciplinarians who bark orders and crush dreams.

It’s Austria, after all.

Wednesday

Oh dear, were we too loud on Tuesday? Sophie is off sick and in her place is the religious studies teacher. Catholicism is a big thing in schools here, especially outside the city, with all the classroom walls adorned with crucifixes.

Anyway, bad luck – this teacher is not one for clowning around.

In normal circumstances, I’d have routines, rules, some semblance of order (or at least pretend to). But this is meant to be a fun week, so rules, schmules. I’m full of beans and ready to act like a clown with the kids.

We’re stood up in a circle doing vocal warmups and emotion games, and it’s quickly getting noisy. We’re practicing different ways of pitching our voice, and some of the kids are overeager, as am I, flailing around the room, writhing on the floor, moaning in agony as I pretend to have severe appendicitis and a heart attack.

Cue Mother Teresa:

“QUIET! SHHH! LISTEN TO THE TEACHER! LUKAS, NO! MAX, NO!”

Me: “No no, it’s okay, this is the point, let them act!”

Her: “NO! SHHHHH! LISTEN!”

Sophie, please come back. I’m begging you.

Rehearsal time and though the kids are eager to try their hand at improv, that’s a risky bet for the performance. They’re enthusiastic but all over the place. They seem happy to sing and dance and make fools of themselves (just like me).

We’ve been learning about Ireland. In short: it rains a lot, St Patrick killed the snakes and brought Christianity to Ireland, and leprechauns guard a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

So that’s the plan – a potted 5-minute history of Ireland.

Roles are cast: Hannah is narrator, Nikola is St Patrick, Ionut is chief thief, and those with minimal English become snakes, leprechauns, or cheerleading rainbows. Yes, cheerleading’s a thing in Austria. Who knew? But they don’t cheer on sports teams, they merely have their own competitions (I should know this from having seen Bring It On, which is a supremely underrated film by the way).

During rehearsals in the gym, St Patrick slays the snakes, blesses the thieves, scolds them when they try to steal the leprechauns’ gold, the cheerleaders form their rainbow and do a chant (“R! A! I! N! B! O! W!”) and everyone lives happily ever after with a group Riverdance.

Until Mother Teresa interrupts.

“WAIT! STOP!” she thunders. “YOU NEED TO TALK MORE ABOUT CHRISTIANITY!”

“No, no it’s fine, we’re not here to proselytise.”

“NO, NO, YOU MUST TALK ABOUT CHRISTIANITY!”

This is my play, damn it. We’re not here to spread the gospel, lady!

(Sure, we could unpack the St Patrick myth, the symbolism of the snakes, the pagans being wiped out by the Christians, but hell, we’re there for a bit of drama and fun, and I don’t want to get crucified by the Austrian educational authorities.)

Thursday

Still no Sophie, but thankfully Mother Teresa has left and now we have Helena, the special needs teacher, who seems more laid-back. Slightly.

“Sshhh, listen to Daniel, ssshhh, quiet, please, ssshhh!”

“It’s fine, I want them to make some noise.”

“No, sshh, class, please listen to your teacher.”

“THEY ARE LISTENING TO ME, YOU DINGBAT.”

We’re practising vocal range and emotions again, while also playing broken telephone. Helena hovers nervously.

Every teacher will admit there’s always one irritating student we want to strangle, for various reasons, either they’re naughty, a pain in the ass, or in Anna’s case, overenthusiastic, always interrupting, desperate to participate. Enthusiasm is great…in moderation. She’s constantly grunting, clamouring for attention, hand raised so high it might dislocate her shoulder.

Sorry if that sounds cruel, but this girl was doing my head in.

“What now, Anna? Put your damn hand down, I didn’t ask a question!”

“Anna, for the love of God, please!”

Lukas is a nuisance as well, in a lovable rascal sort of way, but the rest are sweet.

Until…rehearsals.

And the real drama begins:

That sums up where things were at the close of business on Thursday. Creative clashes, love squabbles, finger injuries, general tomfoolery, emotional meltdowns, turf wars, badmouthing, hooliganism, you name it. This was Lord of the Flies mixed with Love Island.

I was of little help. I’m terrible for maintaining discipline, but in this case, I was just as bad as them, egging them on and trying to instigate things.

“Luisa, Julia didn’t mean it. I mean, she sort of did, but still...there might be a grain of truth in it. Lia, why are you assaulting Melinda? Let me see your finger, Melinda, it’s probably not broken, you’ll survive…Isabella, go easy on Elin…boys, calm down, listen now, let’s get our act together…Philipp, for the love of God, stop tormenting Anna and Emily, I know they’re annoying, but leave them be…come on now, everyone, let’s put our differences aside and rehearse!”

I attempted to lighten the mood with “If You’re Happy and You Know It” and was met with sinister glares.

Friday

The big day.

And what can I say? Somehow the little shits pulled it off with aplomb and put on a great show. They were better than they’d been in rehearsals. The narrator was in fine form, and St Patrick even added a few lines that were especially witty: “And then St Patrick brought Christianity to Ireland and said some nice stuff about Jesus.”

The rainbow cheerleaders sparkled, even if they didn’t showcase any language skills. The thieves, composed of the class ruffians, behaved themselves and didn’t loot the gym, and Lukas didn’t disappoint. The end of performance Riverdance was a hit, and the crowd loved it, the highlight being me doing my own rendition in front of all the kids. That was my first (and last) attempt at a Riverdance and I shudder to think that there might be video evidence.

During the week, the kids discovered that I’ve written a few books, which they found online. St Patrick, at the end of the performance, grabbed the microphone and shouted, “Daniel Puzzo has written 3 books, buy his books!” I swear I didn’t put him up to that (but I appreciated it – maybe this is my new marketing tactic).

The gym was packed with the entire school and over 200 parents in attendance – even the town mayor turned up.

It was time to say goodbye after a fun, raucous but exhausting week – I’m not used to this working lark. I guess the kids liked me – many were in tears, hugging me, asking me not to leave, to be their teacher forever. Poor kids – they don’t realise what I’m really like, this was only the ‘one-week-best-of’ version they saw. Normally I’m a cranky old git.

Strangely, it was annoying Anna hugging me the most, to the point where I felt awkward and physically uncomfortable – she almost broke my ribs.

Look closely at this card from one of them – it’s hard to read but I can assure you that this is for the ‘beast’ teacher:

Postscript

I could barely function outside of teaching last week. My brain was mush. Friday night, I started feeling rough and over the weekend I was ill, hit with the dreaded lurgy. Those wretched little turds had quite literally made me sick.

The good news: it was only a one-week project.

The bad: it will only make a small dent in my debt.

The good (again): I get to do it all over again at another school in June.

I can’t wait?

Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side.

Come on kids, at least spell my name right!

This is what the P.S. said: