Power of the Pen

Today's Thoughts...

After what I thought was a very successful class on the social commentary and pseudo-feminist analysis in Gilman’s “The Yellow Wallpaper,” I heard the words that would make any teacher groan: why so serious? Well, in a piece about the effects of psychosis on a woman tumbling into mental deterioration, I suppose one might think that the story might be a bit… serious.

But this is typical commentary for any piece I examine with my kids that doesn’t end with a hearty guffaw or have some secret murderous twist to freeze their hearts in their chests. Often, I hear my students complain not simply that the language is difficult (a deserved statement perhaps when dealing with Shakespeare and ESL readers); not that the concepts are too complicated (as one may be wont to say when digesting Dickens or Hawthorne or Brecht); and not even that the material is too dense (a ten page short story consisting of a series of pithy journal entries hardly warrants the nomenclature of the “tedious text” category). No, my students merely put up a fuss because (surprise, surprise!), sometimes life just ain’t all that purdy.

Now I’ll be fair. Sometimes, we do discuss particularly depressing pieces (excluding the pieces on depression per se). I often find myself explaining some major historical occurrence that, despite the indelible mark stamped upon the West, has left barely a trace this side of the Pacific. For example, the Holocaust.
My students all know what occurred during World War II; they can recite the victors, regurgitate the dates, and recount some tales of woe from these places called concentration camps. Never mind about the atrocious scientific testing on people herded about like cattle. Forget the tales of terror, hiding out in secreted annexes. There was a Hitler, but no frighteningly calculating individuals who went home to their wife and kids every night. There were camps, but no chambers that sucked the life from their inhabitants. That’s just it— it’s simply a veneer of knowledge. For them, these things existed, occurred, but behind a smoke screen, after which the movie was over and everybody lived happily (if brokenly) ever after. The End.

Now how exactly is that going to work in a literature class exploring the depths of mental turmoil and the weight upon the nuclear family unit in Williams’ Glass Menagerie, of the Civil Rights movement in America and the struggle of Black America in Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun, of the perils of reader censorship and the future brain drain of modern society in Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451? I was already chastised once for thinking these kids could read more than two books in a semester (nearly graduating seniors though most of them are). Now what? Am I saying they can prod the depths? That there’s somewhere deeper to go? That it might be possible in some far stretches of the wild, wild imagination to envision a hypothetical situation not yet determined to exist in which these students, my pupils might comprehend a greater world than the sphere they’ve been bubbled in? Time and tests will tell.

Good literature is supposed to teach us about the world. Good literature is supposed to teach us about ourselves. So when you ask, ajarn, why so serious? My answer?

Unfortunately, sometimes life is more than just smiles.

Deja Vu

Today's Thoughts...

So I’ve started teaching again.

I said, I’ve started teaching again!

This is the part where smoke and thunder fills the sky and some unseen voice tells me my destiny is doom, doom, DOOM! You know? The booming voice of fate that informs me that I have made the fatal error and—gasp—remained in stasis dare I say for another semester? Right. Nada. Didn’t hear a word from the skies.
What I did hear this week, however, was the raucous applauding and cheering as I walked into a classroom of students I had never met; the giddy giggles and explosions of AJAAAAAARN! as I pass through the halls; and the gentle murmur of approval from my fellow faculty colleagues. Man, it feels good to be home.

As it is, I sacrificed the chance to flee back to the Atlantic and a world of sticky oil spills and stickier health care bills. I stayed. I stayed. And it feels good. I miss my family a TON. My little brother, well not so little I guess at sixteen with a mustache and muscles to boot, finally got his first summer job selling hotdogs and concessions at the baseball stadium. I feel like a Mommy missing her kid’s first day of school. One of my best friends just graduated, countless pictures of her beaming in her cap and gown all over Facebook. I missed the jolly old year-numero-uno Reunions for my graduating class. A lot of things are happening at home, but even more things are happening inside of me right here.
Watching the newbies come in—teachers fresh off the boat, so to speak, with eager eyes and broad smiles ready to soak up life in the sun on the sands of Thai shores—I suddenly feel old. Correction, I feel ancient.

Some huge stone has been placed upon my back and suddenly, I buckle under its massive weight. I am a year out. I am a year out with no career or grad school plans, at least not remotely concrete ones, in sight. Did I make the wrong decision to escape to a land of coconuts and smiles? Should I be squeezing my way behind a desk at a 9-5 or cramming the contents of classic literature or political theory in the hallowed halls of an institute of higher higher education? I made this choice and now… I’m coping with all the particles that come with living with it.

I am happy. I am also intermittently lonely, no matter how many incredible friends I surround myself with. I love teaching. I also feel unfulfilled at times when I’d rather be measuring out spike tape on a stage than recording attendance in a class. I don’t know if I made the right decision. What is right anyway? Right now? Right not left. Righteous minded. Right is relative. I made a decision and I think it was a good decision and at the moment I am just waiting to see, thank you very much. What does autumn hold as the green green banana leaves change…well… remain their perky green? Your guess is as good as mine. But right now, for the moment, I think here is a good place to be.

Kreng Jai

Today's Thoughts...

Kreng jai. It took me quite a while to figure out just what those words meant. Kreng jai. I don’t mean a literal translation. A monkey could decipher that (albeit an exceptionally intelligent monkey perhaps.) Kreng jai. Those were the first words that stuck in my head when I came to Thailand nearly a year ago. Kreng jai, na kha. I was huffing or fussing over something, visibly frustrated and on the brink of tears. Funny thing is, I can’t even remember what I was upset about. I just know it was the first week of school and jet-lagged, overwhelmed, and terrified of the year ahead, I sat at my desk with my head in my arms trying my damnedest not to cry. Breathe, I kept telling myself. Just breathe. At that moment, our secretary walked by, her too-high high heels clicking loudly on the marble tile as she approached. She beamed at me, her bright pink lipstick peeled back to reveal a glistening toothy grin. It was true what they say—the Thais do have good dental. Gradually, I forced my lips to curl skyward. Yes? Part of me wanted to shout: “What?” What more do you people want from me? I’ve traveled for 36 hours, slept for about six and now am nearly through a week of suffering the mind-boggling labor of trying to determine what the heck it means to teach. WHAT!

But I didn’t say that. She started to hand me a piece of paper but thought better of it. “Mai pen rai,” she mumbled, backing away. Suddenly I felt guilty. “Wait,” I offered. “Mai pen rai, she repeated. Kreng jai, na kha.” With that she clicked away the way she had come. She carried a letter she had painstakingly penned to her future fiancé, an American lieutenant, that she wanted me to proofread. Well, that part I didn’t learn until some time later. In fact, her words fading from my mind, it was quite some time later that I figured out what she had meant and felt all the worse for it. Two weeks later, I pulled out my already weathered Thai dictionary to search for the meaning of kreng jai. Kreng jai. Kreng jai. I flipped until I found the right page. Kreng jai, or cool heart. ‘A foremost concept in Thai society, kreng jai refers to the sentiment of avoiding any and all situations where you might put someone else in the position of losing face, or being enmeshed in a difficult situation, the resolution of which might give a poor impression of the individual in question.’ In other words, she had backed off because she did not want to make me look bad. She could tell I was tired. She could tell I was frustrated. She knew I didn’t want to be bothered. And asking this small favor of me, she equally knew would give her kreng jai for having put me in the awkward position of doing something I didn’t want to do, or refusing her and coming off as an unapproachable colleague. Kreng jai. Sigh. Smacks of something of a distant past. Funny I think of it now.

When I decided to come to Thailand, my parents were hesitant for all the reasons that parents are about sending their children to wander in foreign lands. But I wasn’t going back to Africa—been there done that. I was steering clear of the Middle East—try though I did to convince them otherwise. I was going to Asia, to Thailand, the land of sunshine, smiles, and some damn good pad thai. Nothing ever happens in Thailand. To them, they were sending me to the safe zone. I look at the images now plastered on the TV screens of broadcasts the world wide. Thailand is a war zone. Thailand is a land of destruction. Thailand is burning. Thailand is in shambles. Scanning the gory images, I barely recognize the country I’ve come to call home, however un-Home Sweet Home it may appear at the moment. And to think, a few months ago I’d actually considered leaving because I thought Thailand looked too easy on my resume. I needed a place with some tension, some heat! Ha. And yet, knowing as I do of the horrors unfolding a few hours away; frustrated as I am by being locked down on a military curfew; uneasy as I feel for the tension weighing heavy in the air, to me, Thailand is still the land of smiles and sunshine, hard as that may be to believe.

Thailand is still Thailand, whatever the smoke, guns, and mayhem the TVs display. Whatever the goings-on of a patch of land no bigger than an NYC borough, of the waves of red shirts, red flags, red trucks, red blood that spread through the cities and countryside, Thailand remains Thailand still. In truth, my greatest fear is not getting hurt, but getting stuck. Being trapped with nowhere to go. Having to wait it out in a city under siege. You see, to foreign eyes (and ears and mouths and noses and all sorts of bodily appendages), Thailand is the land of coconuts and smiles. Where ping pong shows and ancient temples line the same streets. Where the smooth paved sidewalks of cosmo Bangkok sit alongside the rolling hills of an idyllic lush northern countryside. Where people giggle at their mistakes and laugh to keep from crying. But the Thais aren’t laughing any more. For so long, too long, this country has hidden its pain behind a veneer meant as much to lure the hordes of obscene and curious tourists as the steady capital flowing in from foreign banks. Meant to cater to the crowds that line their beaches in dental floss bikinis, boasting their Singha and Chang tanks with something one can loosely call ‘pride.’ Kreng jai. Not anymore. Mama, the dirty laundry is hanging out to dry.
People are speaking up, shouting back, demanding that right be right and wrong be wrong. But it’s not just some proletarian revolution like the media would have you believe. Nor is it Cambodia, nor Vietnam, nor any other nation of SE Asia. Thailand is the land of the Thais and as recent months have shown, smiles and wais aside, there’s a whole lot more to Thailand than fancy ads and promos can show.

This struggle is not just about some ages-old feud between the serfs and the aristocracy. It is about a people and a place that is tired of the manufactured smiles and plastic grins. That is ready for some change, whatever that may take. Yes, there is fighting. Yes, there are protestors that have rallied and to the shock of the Western world, held firm for over two months until now. But no, not all of those people are poor farmers waving their pitchforks in revolt. Nor have all of those people have donned masks and taken to the streets, a trail of arson in their wake. Destruction and democracy do not go hand in hand for everyone in the crimson tide.

Let’s set the record straight. There are problems. They might get far worse before they get better. But at this particular junction, it seems time to put kreng jai to the test—to speak up, speak out, and risk losing face while the world watches on.
Santiphap, Thailand. Santiphap. Peace be with you wherever this may lead.

Colors of Cambodia

Today's Thoughts...


A few weeks ago, as a belated Valentine’s Day/anniversary/why the heck not? trip, Dylan and I plodded (literally) our way to Cambodia, just across the Thai border. Now, I’ve never considered myself one for overland adventures (I mean, who wouldn’t rather enjoy a nice bag of crisp pretzels, pop on some headphones, and snooze while your airbus traffics you across the skies?), but travel ain’t cheap on a Thai budget, so the bus and train and taxi and bus (you get the picture), it was.

The journey started on Friday night with me hopping on an overnight bus to Bangkok from Chiang Mai at around 6:30pm. Running my usual half hour behind, I raced to the street outside of my apartment, threw my bag into a songtaew and got ready to race to the bus station at 6pm. Then he said something about nurng roi ha sip baht (150 baht!) and I was like: Hol-la, Hol-la, Hol-la, not happening. So my cheap self and bag jumped out of the moving songtaew and hailed a tuk tuk to a much more favorable price. We flew to the bus station. Not an overstatement considering that we made the 30 minute journey in about 17. Now that’s what I call service.

Okay, so I’m on the bus, snug in my seat with 4 minutes to spare, ready to get a move on. Then a group of unidentified Euro tourists race up, a mother and two girls around my age. Look, now I know I’m not one to say anything about the farang backpackers through Thailand, but sometimes I swear they exist merely to make life more complicated. It irks me to no end. Either they’re stumbling around piss-drunk in their Chang and Singha beer tank tops or they’re practically shouting in insultingly rudimentary English as if the members of the Thai hospitality service are either deaf, dumb, or some combination of the two. I promise you, never in my life have I been nor do I ever hope to be one of such people. This was a group of the latter sort. They rushed up, with thickly accented English I barely understood, gesticulating madly that the bus had to wait. Kindly, the Thai workers agreed and helped them to load their belongings. We are now 12 minutes off schedule. As the women unstrap their sweaty packs, men half their size hoist and tug to get the oversized bags to squeeze into the luggage under compartment. The women are still babbling in nearly incomprehensible English. 18 minutes behind. I press my ear to the glass to hear them better. I hear something about fodder. Ah, they are hungry. No wait, that is incorrect. Father. Yes, there is a father. Someone is shouting about gum. The Thai ticket checker appears nonplussed; she might actually be flushing. Gum? What gum? Oh, no, come. The fodder is coming. 25 minutes. The worker is shaking her head and pointing at a watch, the universal symbol for GET A MOVE ON!

Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to leave behind the fodder anymore than they do, but time is money and I’ve got a train to catch in Bangkok at 5am, so we need to move. They’re already late just getting to the bus. There are two more buses tonight. As if on cue, a tuk tuk speeds up to the curb and a very large, very red man steps out. The fodder! There are hugs, kisses, and stern fingershaking, laughter (GET ON THE BUS PEOPLE!) and people start to clamber aboard. Bags are being rearranged with painstakingly slow care. But wait, there is still a problem. Wrong seats. They have not been assigned seats together and this is a problem. The mother is now over-gesticulating again with that maddeningly loud voice trying to explain how they had purchased seats together. The now pinkish red attendant finds two pairs of seats and they appear contented at last. The bus pulls off… 37 minutes late. I jam my earphones into my ears and settle back for the nine and a half hour trek.

At 4:30am, I arrive in Bangkok at the Mochit bus station and race to the platform where Dylan is waiting. Sometime during the night it was decided that it was foolish to take the long train, however scenic, and instead we would zip into Cambodia by government bus #999. Best choice ever! You know all those fake border scams and detours on the way to Poipet from Aranyaprathet main station? Well, not at all thanks to some good ol’ guvment cheese! We got a tip off, got on the early 5am bus and rolled into Poipet, at the border no less, around 10am. After being certain we were being scammed, and wasting half an hour wandering around in the hot sun, sweating, we realized that we were in fact at the real and true border. Passports at the ready, we left the Thai side with no hiccup at all. Once we made it to the border and the Visa on Arrival table, again we circumvented reality, certain that the Cambodian official who demanded 1,000 baht was scamming us. Well, he was. The visa is $20 and $20 only no 100 baht processing fee or any other processing fee for that matter. So we coughed up the $20. How the swindler managed to nab two ten baht coins from my otherwise bare coinpurse is another matter. Anyway, be firm, look confused, smile, and explain that you have changed all your baht and have only the $20 USD fee and then get your stamp and off you go!

So we posed beneath the border sign, avoided the yellow shirted oh-so-friendly-and-helpful guides around, and managed to get our visas stamped in the Visa Arrivals chamber (after you get the actual visa on arrival and pay at the booth with the Cambodian officials), took photos outside of some of the HUGE casinos in the border limboland, and then got into a taxi we got for ourselves after walking just a short ways from the visa terminal. DO NOT take the “government free bus” they offer. We saw where it dropped folks off— at an empty terminal along the road to Siem Reap with only a few expensive hawking cabbies around. So for $35 USD, we assured our driver that we would NOT pay for gas/petrol, that we wanted to go to Siem Reap, that we did NOT want to stop at all, and that we would ONLY pay $35. After a brief stop for the driver to take a leak where Dylan was propositioned through the window by a young girl offering to show him the toilet, we made it to Siem Reap! 21 hours over land and counting… ;P



We stayed at the Shadows of Angkor II the first night with its tiny pool and good Wifi and then Popular Guesthouse our second and third nights to save on some much needed cash. Good choices all around. Clean and that’s the number one priority. Both had good food in their restaurants. The city of Siem Reap is small, but cute and I loved it. Extremely relaxing, albeit overrun by tourists, but filled with friendly Cambodians who speak remarkably great English many of them (at least in comparison to other parts of Asia… not saying any names), thanks of course to the overflow of tourists each year. We loved loved the deliciousness of the appetizers and cheap beer (Angkor Smooth so smooth! So smooth!) at the Khmer Family Kitchen. And then there is the temple complex. What to say? Profound, moving, absurdly well-crafted, impressive, awe-inspiring, worthy of the Ancient World Wonder that it is. We saw several of the temples in the complex, making the most of a three day pass by seeing two full days, a sunset, and a sunrise (a total of four actual days in the park). We visited: Bayon Temple, Angkor Wat itself, Ta Phrom, Kabal Spean, Bantey Srei, and the minor temples of the Leper Kings and Elephants. By far not a comprehensive view of everything, but I loved it all just the same.



Bayon— one of the older sites in the whole of the Angkor complex. Impressive for the featured heads of the king who commissioned its building that took place over decades in phases because he feared he would die and never see the full completion.



Ta Phrom— the Tomb Raider complex. The temple here was Dylan’s favorite because of the ridiculous jungly vegetation sprouting out of it all over. Trees literally consuming the temple. Has to be beautiful at night in the moonlight. Below: Dylan as Larry Croft, Tomb Raider.





Kabal Spean— not actually in the Angkor Complex, though included in the pass. For this, a 1500 meter hike up a shaded mountain slope to the River of a Thousand Lingas running at the top. So a linga is an ancient symbol of the penis and a marker of fertility carved often near the center of some temple complexes. It’s all over Kabal Spean and is matched with a female symbol that is shaped like a box. Promotes fertility and abundance.





Bantey Srei— also not in the Complex, but included in the three day pass is this beautifully carved gem, certainly my favorite. They say it had to have been designed and sculpted by a woman because no man could accomplish the intricate details adorning it. Far more of a site of ruins than some of the other sites, less intact, but beautiful with its clay reddish hue and incredible patterns and designs. So much life in it!



Angkor Wat— finally the big Mama temple herself. Angkor Wat does live up to her hype, let me say that. She is impressive for sheer scope and size, diversity, and majesty. Not my favorite of the temples for character and charm, but it is impossible not to be wowed or at least humbled in her presence. Thinking of these builders centuries and centuries ago, bringing stone from a quarry some 500 km away. Ridiculous. I was blown away so we went here twice— at sunset and at sunrise. Sunrise over Angkor— well worth the wake up. Unbelievable and the pictures don’t do it half the justice.



This is a shot of bullet holes in the temple, hold-overs from the brutal Khmer Rouge days when people fled for their lives into the womb of the Temple for sanctuary. Apparently nothing is sacred in war.



This is my proof that I have found the missing link. Black people in Asia. She's called an Apsara. Look at those lips! Don't even get me started on the hips. Goodness gracious. I'm bout to write me a book on that one.

And thus we came to part ways with Angkor and Siem Reap and make our journey southward to Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia. After six fairly pleasant hours, we arrived. It’s hard to imagine how just a few decades ago, this same capital city was sacked by the Khmer Rouge, turned into the focal point of their operations of detention and torture, “liberated” (a term here used loosely) by the Vietnamese, and then occupied by the same until 1989. Talk about history. You can see it on the faces of its people. Because it’s not enough to merely witness the beauty of man, it is necessary to observe the treachery of the same, so we went to the Killing Fields and the museum of Tuol Sleng at S-21, the primary torture facility in Phnom Penh during the bloody short-lived rule of the Khmer Rouge. You see, socialist in inspiration and fanatics in execution, the Khmer Rouge had a well-worn plan in the history of political upheaval— the poor keep getting poorer, so let’s oust the rich and develop a Marxist liberation of the proletariat. Well, the Khmer Rouge took the Marxist doctrine to the purist of states, determining that other nations had missed the point of the revolution. It was not necessary merely to extract high society, it was necessary to exterminate high society from father to son and mother to daughter. Let not that apple fall too far.

So the campaign began. Return the people to their pure state of agricultural life. Turn the economy into an inwardly focused unit, excluding much contact with the outside world, and focus on the production of rice. Move everyone from the overly urbanized cities into the countryside into forced labor for their nation. Everyone, as in communist belief, will look the same— dark trousers or skirt and top, red neck scarf, and simple shoes made of reused tires. Anyone educated or affiliated with the former government and ruling class— abolished, eradicated, wiped clean. If you wear glasses, get rid of them. If you have a pot belly, suck it in so you look bone thin. If you speak other languages, silence your tongue. We will start again.



Thus the conversion of a beautiful high school into a torture and killing facility where classrooms were fitted with bars and desks and chalkboard replaced with electric prods and stool buckets: S-21.



When prisoners were sufficiently broken and tortured, if not dead, they were then passed on to Cheong Ek, the Killing Fields just outside of the city. But be sure to turn up the volume on the loudspeakers in the “Magic Tree” a euphemism for a tree whose sole purpose was to bear the speakers that blared marching music to distort the sounds of the screams of people as they were bludgeoned to death and tossed into crude pits once their throats were slit. Bullets were of course too costly. Same fate for babies and parents. Children, most easily done away with, were held by their ankles and bashed against the Killing Tree once or twice until their precious skulls leaked red. Others were tossed and speared on bayonets. Clothing was taken from bodies to be reused for the next victims. Now at the site a monument stands erected of 8, 895 of the skulls found at this site alone, not counting many graves that have been left untouched at Choeng Ek and elsewhere in the country. So much for the revolution.



Our trip was memorable, if nothing else, and eye-opening. Including the experience of spending our last night in the capital sleeping on a converted massage mat in a massage parlor. I would not trade the experience for either Siem Reap with its ancient wonders nor Phnom Penh with its gory past. Cambodia is an ever-changing country, making its way in modern society and with a history like that of Cambodge, it’s not hard to imagine what glory may one day be restored.

Why So Serious?

Today's Thoughts...



If anyone knows Thailand, you know that as the self-proclaimed land of smiles, turning that frown upside down is not only a catchy motto, but a life adage strictly adhered to by most Thais you will meet. Life is meant to be enjoyed, not lamented, relished, not despaired of. These past few weeks it has been hard to keep that practice in play. Every few days another friend disappears. It is like graduating all over again. People who were daily staples, you called up for dinner or popped into town with for some market browsing— gone, on planes, buses, trains, thousands of miles away from here. Right now, the grand total stands at a count of seven and the toll keeps rising with each passing day. Hasty good byes and tears and hugs with names and faces that ten months ago you struggled to remember. Some will be back in the coming months as the next semester gears up. Some I may very well never see again so wide as this great big ole world is.



It was an emotional day today and I was not prepared for it. I proctored my last exam today, with a class of my beloved Conversation sophomores whom I have taught for the entire year. Perhaps what most nearly broke my heart was the flood of gifts left on my desk all day long. Something like Christmas in March, I’d say. I am now the proud owner of several pairs of earrings, a Turkish whirling dervish, an adorable keepsake notebook, a Thailand commemorative elephant placard, a headband, and a beaded cloth necklace. Oh, kids.



I’m confused, befuddled, perplexed, baffled on so many levels I can’t describe it all. I have loved teaching this year, absolutely loved it. It’s energizing and exhausting, it’s harrowing and humbling, it’s inspiring and enervating-- it’s amazing. Getting to not only know, but touch the lives of so many young individuals. Being given a torch and told to run the race, I am both awed and honored to have performed the job I have been able to perform. But what will become of me now? Do I ride the wave out for another semester, keep plugging away at those midterms and devising crazy classroom schemes to keep students engaged? Do I tuck tail and hurry home, back to “the real world” where everything is silk ties and starched skirts? Do I bury myself in a load of books once more, reliving the Princeton days grad style? And Asia? What of Asia? Do I seek high and seek low for the next opportunity that will fall in my lap or do I hold tight to the bonds and connections I’ve formed here, dig myself into the cocoon of Chiang Mai and keep breathing that fresh Northern Thailand air? Where do you go from here?



As one of my young girls sat in front of me, salty tears streaming down her face, she asked: “Will I ever see you again?” “Of course,” I hastily replied. Of course. Yes, of course. Right?

“See you later, alligator,” she managed with a weak smile.
“After while, crocodile."

I held back my tears.

Reach for the Stars

Today's Thoughts...

As the semester draws to a close, my grading rises with each passing day. I am currently approximately three feet behind—a pile of papers ungraded, tests untouched, and long forgotten group exercises wasting away in the myriad folders and drawers I have crammed them in for the past four months. This is not going to be easy …

But a few gems to break the monotony: An Assignment on Rhetorical Technique. Can you point them out?

Student 1: Education is the tool that can help you step forward. It is like the sun that always lights up the dark. Education is a key. Education is a way. Education is everything.

Student 2: University is like the house of education where I can get the knowledge as much as I want. In addition, University knowladge can be my guide to lead me to get the successful and university knowladge will stay with me all my life. When I have a problem, I can think and then Bing! [insert drawing of a lightbulb] and I can solve all the problems, so education is like a valuable diamond for my life.

Student 3: University is like the ladder you have to go over to your dream. If you want to have a good job, you have to study in university. University is the land of freedom. University is the land of wisdom. And university is the land of everything. Your heart will cry if you do not attend to the university.

Student 4: Education is the heart of knowledge. It has no boundary. It has more than plenty. University is the apex of education. Nowaday, the world is full of competitions. The people struggles like the fish swimming in the vicious ocean. You need to be skillful like a veteran solider in the bloody battlefield. Mistakes could “Bang!” you away from the job like being shot to death. To be survived in evermoving world you need to attend university.

No plagiarism involved. Student 4 also does a mean Elvis impersonation.

EDUCATION! Get it NOW!

Somewhere over the rainbow…

Today's Thoughts...


So Friday was the HUGE Lollipop Night event at school; a seniors good bye party where “lollipop” was the cleverly devised theme. “What is lollipop?” I asked my students. They rolled their eyes and laughed. “Colorful, ajarn!” Ah, but of course. Colorful. Well what if I don’t have anything colorful enough? I wondered. Never fear! The next day, one of our primpedest and chic students strolled in in her clickity heels and long shimmering lashes with a bag of goodies for Elena and myself. We chose our wares separately and tucked him away beneath our desks. Would we be shamed into oblivion by our Atlantic-side peers? Possibly. Oh well.
Friday night came and sheer pandemonium was unleashed. Lollipop photo booths. Students in psychedelic colors—neon green shirts and skirts, yellow hair ribbons and bows, purple shoes, red laces, the works. Elena and I strolled in in eerily matching red dresses with flowers and polka dots respectively.

Impromptu Lollipop Twins. Go figure ;P



We could have never guessed what the night ahead would hold— singing, dance routines, comedy sketches, band sets— all performed, planned, and executed by our remarkable talented students.




It was truly classic.





Pin-ups, lollipops, and scandalous poses-- whole lotta lolli lolli!



Somehow we managed to be on campus from roughly 9am until 10:30pm without so much as batting an eye. Monday starts my last week of classes.










I’m really going to miss this place.

My Funny Walentine

Today's Thoughts...

Valentine's Day is on Sunday. At school, it is today.

This post just made its way to my wall from one of my loving students:

"Hi !! my beloved teacher ::

have a good weekend,on the other hand, Tmr i must join a sufficient economy of our faculty :: wooo !! miss u so much " see u on Monday ^^"

Did I mention I just saw her two hours ago?

Today, I also received a small brownie, an orange, and a stout bottle of soy protein milk.

My heart warms.

Ivory Towers

Today's Thoughts...

I love meeting new people. That’s what life overseas is about— plugging into the expat community as it grows and just livin it up. New faces, new places. You know the drill. So the other night I made some new friends. Really cool people. Enjoyed them a lot. Now you know whenever you get talking out here with recent grads like yourself, the inevitable topic comes up— where did you go to school? Now back in the States, I usually danced around this question. “I went to school in New Jersey.” “Er— a little place not too far from Trenton.” “I was on the East Coast for my four years.” Whatever I can eek out really that doesn’t sound pretentious or even remotely stuffy as tons of people always seem to assume about certain schools in the Northeast. Honestly for four years, you would have thought I was ashamed. Sort of whispering the name and cringing like at any moment I was expecting to get caught on Candid Camera and was desperately trying to avoid it. Here in Thailand most of the folks I meet are from so many places all over the globe that it never really matters if I drop the P-bomb every once in a while, so I usually don’t hesitate. It’s really no biggie. Every once in a while though, that’s not exactly the case.

Take the other night at dinner for instance. Fab dinner. Great folks. Like I said. Well I struck up a conversation with a really cool guy and as usual the convo turned to his recently graduated status. “Where’d you go?” I asked. He replied about a school just outside of C--, a city in the States. Awesome! “I thought about N--!” I chimed in before I could stop myself. Eeerrrr! Squeeze on the breaks, lady! I hadn’t felt this one out yet and here I was plowing full steam ahead into the dreaded topic. Here goes. Naturally, he went down the path of circuitous explanation— why his school was really great (I hadn’t denied such a thing at all), why N-- was absurdly overpriced (okay, can't deny that), and ultimately why his decision to go State rather than shell out the thousands and thousands necessary for N-- was the best choice he could have possibly made (again, no contest; I don’t know his life’s story). He of course summed it up: “I got a great education for four years for the price they pay for one. Ha. They’ll be payin their loans off the rest of their lives while I’m living mine. You see, it’s like that with all those upper level schools and the Ivies.” Red light. Red light. Mayday. Mayday.

“Really?” I asked, lifting a quizzical brow as I sipped my water. “Do go on.” “Well you know they just pay so much and it’s not worth it. It’s like they’re just paying for a name on a piece of paper and what does that mean any way?” “Job security?” I asked. I was not bristling. I repeat I was not bristling. “Well, not even. Look at the market now. Where you came from doesn’t matter. You all end up in the same place.” “Totally.” I nodded. He had a point. Here we were, in the same place, a tiny rickety food stand in Thailand. He pushed on. “Yeah, so I think you’re better off just steering clear of all that debt and getting a solid education elsewhere.” I remarked that I had a friend who was currently getting his PhD at N--. “What in something obscure like Near Eastern Studies?” he laughed. Actually, yes. He graduated from Georgetown and speaks Arabic fluently. He’s also lived in Morocco and Senegal where he worked on his Fulbright scholarship and plans to become a college professor at Brown." (Alright so I added the Brown part; forgive me.) “Oh, well don’t get me wrong N-- is a good school," he interjected. I merely smiled. “Where did you go?” he asked, eyes on his plate, now searching for a safe topic. Looking him in the eye, I told him. And cue... silence. Talk about awkward turtle.

Sigh. It’s not that I don’t get it. Believe me I do. I said all the same things when I was college shopping. But having been there, done that, and holding that "worthless piece of paper", I can’t say I regret a single minute-- er, penny.

Tents and Reggae Roots

Today's Thoughts...

Last weekend sort of flew by something like this:

Saturday, 9:30am: A crowd of some slightly hung over, some very hung over, some very sober friends all pile into a rented van to head into the mountains. We are equipped with four plastic bags, big bottles of water, and Dramamine. Check. Three very green looking individuals with large sunglasses nurse bottles of ginger ale and cups of ginger tea. Onto Pai!

1:30pm: Arrival in Pai. Stake out the camp site. Celebrations. Purchasings of absurd quantities of revelry materials. On to set up camp. Literally.

3:00pm: Tents are officially pitched on a large lot near the river. Scenic. 80 baht/ head. Fantastic.


4:00pm: Brunch/lunch/early dinner is sought and devoured. Momentary interlude with some mealy white worms floating in a cup of nam pbla , popular fish sauce served with most rice dishes. Confusion trying to explain the slithering creatures. More green faces. Hunt for a sandwich shop/bakery. Success.

6:00pm: Back to our guest house where Elena, Cresa, and I are staying while friends head to the tents to prepare for the festival night ahead. Wait. Actually, mai mii fai— black out at our guest house Baan Pai. Sighs. Such a beautiful place. Embers glow tauntingly beneath their lamp shades. Several sudden flickers give us hope, but alas, nothing. We resort to stealing candles from the lobby tables. Done and done.


7:00pm: Somewhat dressed, colors perhaps not quite matching, mascara and eyeliner on our cheeks, Elena and I sit like old ladies sipping our Sauvignon Blanc in the restaurant and lounge, clucking and remarking on tourist passersby. Remind me again when we turned 80 and bitter?

8:30pm: Joined by Cresa, we head to the tents and then pile into the ten-person van turned fifteen-person party mobile to head to the festival grounds nearby. Thai pop music videos blare on the in-car TV. The pulsating rhythms greet us at the door. We haggle successfully for lowered ticket prices, hand over a whopping 250 baht each and head inside.


9:15pm: Okay, now I actually head inside after a lengthy Spanish convo with a Brazilian couple and their friend selling their jewelry wares at the entrance to the festival. Advice on India, Brazil, Peru, and life abound. I suddenly feel home again, whisked back to the streets of Latin America. Wistfully, I part ways and run inside to find my compadres.

9:20pm: Inside I find sheer pandemonium. Hay litters the outdoor amphitheater; Chang beer and Sangsom whiskey stands line the sides and farang and Thai alike mill about in yellow, red, and green striped shirts and woven hats and fisherman pants. The faint smell of ganja hangs on the air. Ah, Reggae Festival 2010.


Approximately 2:45am: Music still throbbing in our ear drums, we make our way to the khao soy stand on the side of the road and down hefty bowls of the spicy northern curried soup. Then some random assortment of folks, no final word on numbers, pile back into the party van, some still toting reggae cups and bottles, others sleeping while talking, ridiculousness.

3:30am: Somehow sans Cresa who has gone on a 7-11 hunt, Elena, Becca, and I make our way in the suddenly frigid mountain air back to our guest houses. Within minutes of showering, we’re knocked out cold for the many hours of the night. Rest at last.

10:30am: Cresa, Elena, and I wake to the obnoxious sounds of backpackers shouting a conversation to one another from their opposite bungalows near our own. Something along the lines of: Man with unusually high voice: “So when I woke up this morning and meditated, I was just writing in my journal about going to Laos. I really think it will cleanse me and be such a moving experience.” Girl with feigned (?) enthusiasm: “Totally. I know what you mean. Thailand has just really helped me grow so much in these past three weeks. I might do Vietnam next.” Man: “Be careful of the motorbikes.” Girl: “I know! I really think Thailand needs to have more regulations for that. It’s just ridiculous what some people get away with on the roads here. So unsafe. I’d never get on one of those motorbike things.”

The three of us burst into uncontrollable laughter. Their conversation comes to a sudden stop. I think we might have laughed all the way back to Chiang Mai.