しばらく更新できずにいましたが、ここ数年使っていたMBPが故障して自宅での作業が滞っていました。ターゲットモードでも認識できないので、データのサルベージができるかどうか地元の専門家への依頼になるでしょうね。
ここ数年はクラウドで「現在進行形」のモノを扱っていたので、生業の実務は職場の窓機で、教室＆自宅ではiPadがあるのでそれほどの支障は生じていませんが、従来型のプロバイダーを通して送受信される「メール」環境を、新しく入手した旧型のMBP（変な物言いですが、ターゲットモードでFirewire接続できるホストとしての機種が必要だったので旧型なのです）へ移行するのに四苦八苦しました。プロバイダーはいまだにniftyを使っていて今どきpopじゃないPOPサーバー。メールの送受信ではSMTP 認証に一本化で、しかもIMAPは有料のオプション扱いなので、iCloudメールの送受信でトラブり、SMTP 認証でトラブりで、電話サポート。mac OSでの最新アプリには対応していないので、操作手順などはわからず。プロバイダー側でできることとしてブロックを解除してもらって、再設定。問題はなくなったはずが、認証方式の不具合でログインできず。「あとは林檎さんへ」ということでしたのでお礼を言って電話を切り、結局は自力で解決しましたとさ。
ここひと月は、本当に怒濤の日々、波乱万丈でした。
本業のロウイング（漕艇）では先週の新人戦。久しぶりに公式戦に出場できたことが大きいですかね。中国大会には進めませんでしたが、それでも一歩前進。後ろ向きで前に進んでいる競技ではありますけど。
プライベートでは、もっと大きなイベントもありました。１０月初旬の博多での「原田知世様デビュー３５周年記念ライブツアー」。妻と二人でお祝いに行ってきました。妻と二人で見るのは広島での朗読会 (with 伊藤ゴロー) の on-doc 以来。博多でホールのライブというのもpupa を見に来て以来です。広島の新しいホールも気にはなっていたのですが、妻と二人なのでアクセスも考慮し、第１希望：博多、第２希望：広島、第３希望：京都で申し込んで、見事第１希望でチケットを入手。４時開場、４時半開演というスケジュールなので、会場から徒歩で行けるお寿司屋さんを予約し、遅めの昼食を済ませ、近くの市場を覗いてから会場へ。かなり前の方の席で真ん中の通路からの２席。通路側を妻に。客層は私と同世代か、ちょい上位の男性が多いわけですので、前の人の頭があると見難いでしょうから、と思ったのですが、前の席の人もきっと通路側にちょっと顔をずらして見るんでしょうね。
私がアーチストとしてharatomo様を聴いているのは1992年の Garden以降なので、アイドル時代には見ていませんが、これまでに私が見たharatomo様のどのライブよりも表情が豊かでした。眼福。サイリウム振りながら泣きっ放しの私に妻は苦笑しながらも「男性が皆幸せそうな顔してたね」と。幾つになっても「時かけ」させてしまう笑顔に感謝。
今回のツアーもこの博多からは10月なので、「もし歌わなかったらどうしよう？」と思いながらも、しっかり「トリコロール」を配して出かけましたとさ。
ツアーもファイナルの東京が残っていますので、詳しいことはその後ででも。
２月には WOWOW での放送も決まったようです。
http://www.wowow.co.jp/music/tomoyo/
とにかく、35周年、おめでとうございます。
さて、
話は変わって生業の英語教育へ。
私はよく、教科書や学校採択教材、市販教材やテストの文章が「エイブン」レベルで書かれているのに、それを修正せず、その「エイブン」を元にして音読やら暗唱やらを課したりする授業や活動を批判しています。そこで学ぶ者は一体、いつ、つながりとまとまりの適切な英文と出会うのかを教えてほしいです。
その一方で、数少ない（？）教科書や教材で提示される「適切に書かれたつながりやまとまりを備えた良質の英文」なのに、その表面をなぞったような読みと理解の結果を「再話（リテリング）」と称して、お粗末な「エイブン」に変換し残す活動も、本当に再話と言えるのか、要再考だろうと思っています。
「訳読」を排したのは結構ですが、そのテクスト（ことば）を「本当に読めているのか？」を顧みることのない活動に意味・意義はありますか？「本当に読む価値のある英文なのか？」「消化吸収する価値のある英語表現なのか？」の吟味を経ずに、どんな「インプット」が得られると期待できるのでしょうか？
「模試のやりっ放しはダメ」などと言って、復習で何度も黙読や音読させたりする人は、この過去ログにある模試の第6問の「英文」を読んでみるといいですよ。
http://d.hatena.ne.jp/tmrowing/20171012
夏の英授研で見た授業研究で使われていた「教科書」の英語の扱いも以前取り上げましたが、あらためて「原典」を読んでみると、教科書のイントロで摘み食いしたようにまとめている「書き換え方」の問題でもあることがよくわかります。 そして、そちらの方が大きな問題かもしれません。
過去ログはこちら。
http://d.hatena.ne.jp/tmrowing/20170815
原典とされる “I am Malala” から 私がずっと疑問に思っている、「 “steps” とは一体どこにあるものなのか？」を確かめるために、長文を抜粋引用。
I Am Malala: The Girl Who Stood Up for Education and was Shot by the Taliban
Malala Yousafzai & Christina Lamb. 2014. Weidenfeld & Nicolson
The day when everything changed was Tuesday, 9 0ctober 2012. It wasn't the best of days to start with, as it was the middle of school exams, though as a bookish girl I didn't mind them as much as some of my classmates.
That morning we arrived in the narrow mud lane off Haji Baba Road in our usual procession of brightly painted rickshaws sputtering diesel fumes, each one crammed with five or six girls. Since the time of the Taliban our school has had no sign and the ornamented brass door in a white wall across from the woodcutter's yard gives no hint of what lies beyond.
For us girls that doorway was like a magical entrance to our own special world. As we skipped through, we cast off our headscarves like winds puffing away clouds to make way for the sun then ran helter-skelter up the steps. At the top of the steps was an open courtyard with doors to all the classrooms. We dumped our backpacks in our rooms then gathered for morning assembly under the sky, our backs to the mountains as we stood to attention. One girl commanded, "Assaan bash!” or "Stand at ease!" and we clicked our heels and responded, “Allah." Then she said, "Hoo she yar!" or "Attention!" and we clicked our heels again.
"Allah."
The school was founded by my father before I was born, and on the wall above us KHUSHAL SCHOOL was painted proudly in red and white letters. We went to school six mornings a week, and as I was a fifteen-year-old in Year 9, my classes were spent chanting chemical equations or studying Urdu grammar, writing stories in English with morals like "Haste makes waste" or drawing diagrams of blood circulation---most of my classmates wanted to be doctors. It's hard to imagine that anyone would see that as a threat. Yet, outside the door to the school lay not only the noise and craziness of Mingora, the main city of Swat, but also those like the Taliban who think girls should not go to school.
That morning had begun like any other, though a little later than usual. It was exam time, so school started at nine instead of eight, which was good, as I don't like getting up and can sleep through the crows of the cocks and the prayer calls of the muezzin. First my famer would try to rouse me. “Time to get up, Jani Mun,” he would say. This means “soulmate" in Persian, and he always called me that at the start of the day. "A few more minutes, Aba, please,” I'd beg, then burrow deeper under the quilt. Then my mother would come. "Pisho," she would call. This means "cat" and is her name for me. At this point I'd realize the time and shout, "Bhabi, I'm late!” In our culture, every man is your "brother'' and every woman your “sister." That's how we think of each other. When my father first brought his wife to school, all the teachers referred to her as “my brother's wife," or bhabi. That's how it stayed from then on. We all call her bhabi now.
I slept in the long room at the front of our house, and the only furniture was a bed and a cabinet which I had bought with some of the money I had been given as an award for campaigning for peace in our valley and the right for girls to go to school. On some shelves were all the gold-colored plastic cups and trophies I had won for coming first in my class. Only a few times had I not come top---each time when I was beaten by my class rival Malka-e-Noor. I was determined it would not happen again.
The school was not far from my home and I used to walk, but since the start of last year I had been going with other girls by bus. It was a journey of just five minutes along the stinky stream, past the giant billboard for Dr. Humayun's Hair Transplant Institute where we joked that one of our bald male teachers must have gone when he suddenly started to sprout hair. I liked the bus because I didn't get as sweaty as when I walked, and I could chat with my friends and gossip with Usman All, the driver, who we called Bhai Jan, or "Brother." He made us all laugh with his crazy stories.
I had started taking the bus because my mother was scared of me walking on my own. We had been getting threats all year. Some were in the newspapers, some were notes or messages passed on by people. My mother was worried about me, but the Taliban had never come for a girl and I was more concerned they would target my father, as he was always speaking out against them. His close friend and fellow campaigner Zahid Khan had been shot in the face in August on his way to prayers and I knew everyone was telling my father, "Take care, you'll be next."
Our street could not be reached by car, so coming home I would get off the bus on the road below by the stream and go through a barred iron gate and up a flight of steps. I thought if anyone attacked me it would be on those steps. Like my father I've always been a daydreamer, and sometimes in lessons my mind would drift and I'd imagine that on the way home a terrorist might jump out and shoot me on those steps. I wondered what I would do. Maybe I'd take off my shoes and hit him, but then I'd think if I did that there would be no difference between me and a terrorist. It would be better to plead, “OK, shoot me, but first listen to me. What you are doing is wrong. I'm not against you personally, I Just want every girl to go to school."
I wasn't scared, but I had started making sure the gate was locked at night and asking God what happens when you die. I told my best friend Moniba everything - We'd lived on the same street when we were little and been friends since we were toddlers and we shared everything, Justin Bieber songs and Twilight movies, the best face-lightening creams. Her dream was to be a fashion designer although she knew her family would
never agree to it. So she told everyone she wanted to be a doctor. It’s hard for girls in our society to be anything other than teachers or doctors if they can work at all. I was different-I never hid my desire when I changed from wanting to be a doctor to wanting to be an inventor or a politician. Moniba always knew if something was wrong.-Don't wony,- I told her. The Taliban have never come for a small girl.”
When our bus was called, we ran down the steps. The other girls all covered their heads before emerging from the door and climbing up into the back. The bus was actually what we call a dyno, a white Toyota Town Ace truck with three parallel benches, one along either side and one in the middle. It was cramped with twenty girls and my teachers. I was sitting on the left between Moniba and a girl from the year below called Shazia Ramzan, holding our exam folders to our chests and our school bags under our feet.
After that it is all a bit hazy. I remember that inside the dyna was hot and sticky. The cooler days were late coming and only the faraway mountains of the Hindu Kush had a frosting of snow. The back where we sat had no windows, just thick plastic sheeting at the sides which napped and was too yellowed and dusty to see through. All we could see was a little stamp of open sky out of the back and glimpses of the sun, at that time of day a yellow orb floating in the dust that streamed over everything. I remember that the bus turned right off the main mad at the army checkpoint as always and rounded the corner past the deserted cricket ground. I don't remember any more.
こうして、読んでくるからこそ、彼女の「日常」生活が理解でき、ここでの引用の第３段落の記述・描写があるからこそ、"steps" の絵が描け、彼女たちの思いがわかるるのだと思います。さらに、このあとに続くことになる凄惨なテロの描写とのコントラストをくっきりさせるためにも、細かな風景描写、情景描写は必要不可欠なのだと思いますよ。
でも、ここまでで既に英文は約1400語。もう十分にレッスン一つ分の分量です。
結局、「テクスト」として何を読ませるのか、という根本が問われているのだという認識が作り手にも、授業者にもないことが問題かと。話題を振るだけのために、「手記」を使っているだけで、本文はといえば「…について」の文章だけを延々と読ませているわけです。それなのに、読後に「意見」を求めることには大いに問題があると思っています。
いつもの繰り返しになりますが、「読んでいるときくらい、読みに集中したほうがいい」ですよ。
本日のBGM: ときめきのアクシデント （原田知世）
