First day nerves
Of course the children were nervous. They were starting a new school where they knew nobody and would be taught in Basque. So it came as a surprise when it was me who left the school gates in tears this morning. It felt like I’d rewound the clock eight years to the day I first returned to work after maternity leave. What was I doing to my children, sending them into this room full of strangers in the full knowledge that they wouldn’t enjoy it and telling them I’d be back in four hours? But just as in childcare the children not just survived but thrived without me, I suspect the same will happen here, it just might take some time.
The school teaches mainly in Basque with a bit of Spanish and English on the side. Everybody here is bilingual with Basque and Spanish. H and J don’t speak a word of Basque but they study Spanish for an hour a week at their school in London. So as long as people want to communicate through song and on the subject of days of the week, parts of the body or dancing fruits, they will be well away. If they expect a sentence with a verb in it, however, they might be out of luck.
We had a tour of the school last week. It was the Easter holidays, but the headteacher arranged to meet us there and show us around. First impressions are of a school that is happy, full of ideas, but short on resources. The concept of learning through play isn’t something that stops as soon as they start teaching children to read, it is a philosophy that threads its way through the years.
J’s maths class, for example, is arranged into different areas: one part is a shop where they purchase materials (with plastic money) such as wool that they can take over to the home area to weave with.
For literacy, theatre plays an important part. Even at H’s age, there is a separate room with a rudimentary, homemade stage where children put on shows for other classes.
When the children are working in class, they do so in ‘workshops’, groups of four or so working together.
On paper, all of this sounds good for H and J: it’s fun, and there will be plenty of people on hand to help explain what’s going on. But in reality there is the one big issue: they don’t speak Basque. I don’t really expect them to learn it either, and I’ve told them so. School here is an opportunity to make friends and if they get any more out of it, then that’s a bonus. And, let’s be frank, while I love the fact that San Sebastian has its Basque identity, it’s Spanish I want them to pick up.
But it’s Day 1, they don’t speak Basque or Spanish and the chances of them having made a friend in the four hours we’ve been apart are slim. I return to pick them up fully expecting them to tell me they never want to go back. I’ve got my sunglasses on in case those tears well up again.
J is out first, running full pelt across the playground and up into my arms. “How was it?” I ask, but just receive a tighter grip around my neck in reply. His teacher has followed him over. “He did OK,” she says. “Obviously he can’t understand anything yet, but he played with the other children.” I put him down. “Was it fun, did you play some good games?” I ask. “It was a bit weird,” he says. “The only game we played was like tag, but we had to stamp on each other’s feet.” OK.
H is out next at a far more sedate pace, albeit with J running up and waving his arms in her face. “So,” I ask with quite a bit of trepidation, “how was it?” Her answer amazes me, “Really good,” she says — and she means it.
