September, they had learned what numbers, letters, and words were. The childrenâs names were posted in bright colors on the classroom walls. Martin recognized his name. At home he tried to decipher the words on the measuring cup: âSugar,â âFlour,â or on the box of laundry powder: âOMO.â
He didnât seem to think there was any difference between
The Cat in the Hat
and other childrenâs books, and he couldnât understand why his mother didnât want to read more than a page a day with him. But by the end of November, after three weeks had gone by, at the rate of a quarter of an hour a day, he was reading. He didnât need help anymore to get his fill of stories, he got lost in books.
This was a dream memory for Ãdith: she remembers giving a gentle nudge at the right time, nothing more, putting the textbook down in front of Martin and showing him the twenty-six letters and a few basic diphthongs, that was all, other than that all you had to do was line the letters up to combine them. As far as teaching went, it seemed no harder than showing someone how to string pearls, how to combine the colors and shapes to make a pretty necklace.
All of which confirmed that you donât teach children a thing, you just give them the means to teach themselves. You turn the pages of an early reader, and the children make their own way through it.
And even years later she could recall the bliss, still vivid, of sharing a secret of happiness with an eager little boy, like the fairy in the tale giving the awestruck child the key to the garden of delights.
Ãdith suspects that with a woman who is over sixty it will be something else altogether. She has read as muchâhasnât everyone?âand that is what annoys her, the way most received ideas do. After all, Fadila knows a lot more than a four-year-old boy does, she speaks French, she has common sense and sheâs motivated.
With Martin, Ãdith had relied on
The Cat in the Hat.
She couldnât have taught him to read without some sort of teaching aid. Doing one page at a time: that had been the method, the program, and the entire learning process. She will have to find the appropriate textbook for Fadila. The cat and his hat might be fine for a child, but not for a very capable older woman.
Ãdith has a young cousin who works with asylum seekers, and Ãdith remembers she used to give literacy classes in the past. A very pretty redhead with green eyes, an English teacher, who rides around Paris on her bike as a matter of principle, come rain or shine. Ãdith calls to ask her about teaching material.
Sara remembers that they had used photocopied handouts, in a given order; the method was fairly traditional. She didnât keep them, but she knows of some specialized associations, she still has some names and phone numbers in her address book.
The volunteers Ãdith manages to get hold of donât know of any miracle methods. One of them suggests making up a method on a case-by-case basis, another suggests she use schoolÂbooks. A third one recommends she try the big educational bookÂstore on the rue du Four.
The illustrious bookstore has nothing for helping analphabets. The sales assistant looks like a pontificating doctor, and informs Ãdith that there is a difference between analphabet and illiterate: âFirst you have the people who have never learned to read and writeâtheyâre analphabets. Then you have the illiterates, who learned but have forgotten. You said this person is from Morocco? Try LâHarmattan bookstore over on the rue des Ãcoles. They specialize in Africa. As you can tell, from the name.â
Â
The two encyclopedias Ãdith and Gilles have at home do not make any distinction between illiterate and analphabet. Ãdith decides to try LâHarmattan anyway: do they have any books for teaching an adult how to read? âItâs not like she ever learned and
He didnât seem to think there was any difference between
The Cat in the Hat
and other childrenâs books, and he couldnât understand why his mother didnât want to read more than a page a day with him. But by the end of November, after three weeks had gone by, at the rate of a quarter of an hour a day, he was reading. He didnât need help anymore to get his fill of stories, he got lost in books.
This was a dream memory for Ãdith: she remembers giving a gentle nudge at the right time, nothing more, putting the textbook down in front of Martin and showing him the twenty-six letters and a few basic diphthongs, that was all, other than that all you had to do was line the letters up to combine them. As far as teaching went, it seemed no harder than showing someone how to string pearls, how to combine the colors and shapes to make a pretty necklace.
All of which confirmed that you donât teach children a thing, you just give them the means to teach themselves. You turn the pages of an early reader, and the children make their own way through it.
And even years later she could recall the bliss, still vivid, of sharing a secret of happiness with an eager little boy, like the fairy in the tale giving the awestruck child the key to the garden of delights.
Ãdith suspects that with a woman who is over sixty it will be something else altogether. She has read as muchâhasnât everyone?âand that is what annoys her, the way most received ideas do. After all, Fadila knows a lot more than a four-year-old boy does, she speaks French, she has common sense and sheâs motivated.
With Martin, Ãdith had relied on
The Cat in the Hat.
She couldnât have taught him to read without some sort of teaching aid. Doing one page at a time: that had been the method, the program, and the entire learning process. She will have to find the appropriate textbook for Fadila. The cat and his hat might be fine for a child, but not for a very capable older woman.
Ãdith has a young cousin who works with asylum seekers, and Ãdith remembers she used to give literacy classes in the past. A very pretty redhead with green eyes, an English teacher, who rides around Paris on her bike as a matter of principle, come rain or shine. Ãdith calls to ask her about teaching material.
Sara remembers that they had used photocopied handouts, in a given order; the method was fairly traditional. She didnât keep them, but she knows of some specialized associations, she still has some names and phone numbers in her address book.
The volunteers Ãdith manages to get hold of donât know of any miracle methods. One of them suggests making up a method on a case-by-case basis, another suggests she use schoolÂbooks. A third one recommends she try the big educational bookÂstore on the rue du Four.
The illustrious bookstore has nothing for helping analphabets. The sales assistant looks like a pontificating doctor, and informs Ãdith that there is a difference between analphabet and illiterate: âFirst you have the people who have never learned to read and writeâtheyâre analphabets. Then you have the illiterates, who learned but have forgotten. You said this person is from Morocco? Try LâHarmattan bookstore over on the rue des Ãcoles. They specialize in Africa. As you can tell, from the name.â
Â
The two encyclopedias Ãdith and Gilles have at home do not make any distinction between illiterate and analphabet. Ãdith decides to try LâHarmattan anyway: do they have any books for teaching an adult how to read? âItâs not like she ever learned and