No Place To Home

Today's Thoughts... (special happy birthday to a special birthday somebody!)

When I started the house search for myself and my hopeful-soon-to-be roomie TaReva, we had some basic notions of what we desired in a happy humble abode— electricity, internet, running water, sunlight, security, cooking space, living space, sleeping space, and maybe a dash of greenery by way of a garden or verdant stoop. We were asking too much, far too much. After seeing approximately 26 ½ houses (one we didn’t even make it inside; we just bolted at the gate), I was starting to lose hope. The house was too small. Too big. To empty. To cramped. Too far. Too close. Too unperfect. We’re being picky, we admonished ourselves. Get over it! It’s just a place to sleep and eat after all. I mean, isn’t it?

Forget that we’d gone through View who tried to get us to move onto a farm 2km outside of town and once led me to a gate from which we ran (she, in 4 inch stilettos no doubt) as a snarling hound gave chase at the front gate. Suffice it to say, we told View buh-bye quite a while ago. And then there was Nat; she was a real sweetheart, truly. Except Nat wasn’t so good with directions, and never quite understood that motorbikes simply can’t do the things cars can, like Idk whip it down the highway at 120 km/hr because “this way only take 20 minutes to house, na!” So after seeing her sixth house and spending 45 minutes driving around in the blazing hot season sun, baking, browning, burning to a crisp, sweating unforgivingly, and fuming at her “just a little this way, that way, na” directions, I told Nat we would no longer be needing her services. Of course, there was Oh and Woh and Wee and Yip and Yay, but no such cry of joy ever escaped my lips while I was with them. Uh-uh. Not a one.

Ready to accept defeat, we then met April. Oh April. I should have known something was screwy with this one when she made me meet her at a bookshop and drive her on my moto to the house we were viewing. When I asked where her own bike was, I got a nebulous, “oh not here. Somewheres. Drive this way.” The entire 10 minute ride was pretty much her criticizing my driving (you been here one year! Hahaha. No way! Joke! Joke!) to her wigglinggg, wriggling, and bouncing on my seat (so much so that the next day my seat lock broke and I had to get it serviced) to her obnoxiously pointing out that my bike was spewing black smoke and is that what it always does? Thanks, April. Thanks.

We pulled up at the house and…I had seen it before… the day before in fact. She looked surprised, alarmed, and then pissed that apparently her client was double-teaming the agents on his townhouse. In silence we drove back to the bookshop, bouncing all the way, and she barked at me to meet her at a new house the next day. So foolishly I did. Well actually considering that my bike was broken, I missed the first day’s visit which TaReva attended, warning me of monkeys and Elvis Presleys. So the second day, I arrived. It was an okay house. Nice amenities—kitchen, three bathrooms, jungly walkway to the front door, bungalow. But I immediately noticed precisely what TaReva had mentioned—a giant glass display case filled with monkey memorabilia and faux-autographed framed black and whites of the King (and not his Majesty of Thailand though he hung overlooking all near the door). There were large blown up posters of Elvis and other 60s performers, black and whites of old times Chiang Mai, and primate paraphernalia like cups and bowls and door hangers and figurines EVERYWHERE. We briefly thought for a moment of hanging the King next to the King, but then figured that’d be deemed blasphemous or sacrosanct at the least.

But April assured me it all could go (except His Majesty), that the family had once owned a pub and these were the remnants. Okay… But then there was the problem of the window, 5/6 of which was blocked by the ENORMOUS glass display case. “Can come down,” April nodded smiling. No worries. That’s when I noticed the door… or rather lack thereof. At this, several bells went off, particularly imagining the pregnant pause when I would tell my parents that I moved into a house without a door. I could hear my mother’s warning voice calling me by my full name. That was all the motivation I needed. I called TaReva.

“We can’t,” I heard myself saying over the phone. “I mean, there’s no door. It’s just a screen with a padlock. There isn’t even any glass.” But TaReva suggested let’s come in and talk to the landlords; see what we could work out with sensible people. So today we went and met the sensible folks that built a house without a door, mounted a glass case in front of a window, blocked off a driveway by planting a tree, and decorated their living space with 52 hairy apes (I counted). Needless to say that went great. The case was there they said to hold the figurines and photos. Could it be moved? I mean, the house felt sort of cave-like as it was. Of course not because the scorching rays of the sun would pierce through the three inch glass on the window and like a microscope to a hill of ants, sear the flesh from our bodies in the daylight hours. Sorry, they said it’d be too hot. Pretty much exactly like that. As for the door, they laughed. Security? A thought that hadn’t occurred to them. To much work to put in a proper door or glass panes. Maybe a curtain? How about a nice curtain? Padlocks are so strong after all. And that pesky tree in front of the gate, well that has to stay. Because it’s there already of course and that’s where it lives. The tree, not you. It lives there.

Flushed and breathless, TaReva pondered aloud about the lack of privacy in the bedrooms with windows that face directly into those of our neighbors (students who dorm in the single rooms next to the house). We then received a fifteen minute schpeel about the hand-picking of the students and their good souls and kind hearts and closed eyes even when you step out of the shower in a towel or change and expose a bra or dance around naked and perform wildly ritualistic pagan ceremonies in the wee hours of the night. Well what about friends, we ventured? What about their friends? Well of course they are not allowed to have friends over, ever. Or to smoke, or drink, or stand outside, or talk after 8. Do those rules apply to our house? Do you smoke? No. Drink? Occasionally. Have friends or menfolk over? I have a boyfriend, I squeaked. Does he live here? No. Will he live here? No. Will he visit? Certainly. How often? Just a few times perhaps. Where is he? Indonesia. Consideration... pause... (why was I holding my breath)... and success! TaReva was not so lucky when she mentioned our guitar-playing, dinner-party having friends. Oh, just maybe six of us, maybe some guitars, yes, and maybe some singing, of course some food, Lauren loves to cook, I’m learning guitar, no no, not late at all, maybe midnight? The conversation screeched to a dramatic halt. I waited as they contemplated. I was sweating and I could feel the drops sliding down my nose. So naturally, I fled to the kitchen as she duked it out.

When I came back, a bit more red in the face and thoroughly ready to go, she re-capped the evening’s arrangements—no the glass case would stay, the tree lived there, the door might have a gentle blowing sheet to shield us from fiends in the night, and perhaps, maybe, in a manner of speaking, they could procure a waist-high bush or spritely shrub to conceal our naked forms in the bedroom windows. But under no circumstances were guests to be allowed past 8pm. The owner has to get up at 3am, so not a chance. So we said our good byes to the nice people and hopped on our bikes. Oh! One more question! April said we could get our own fast Internet plan, is that right? Not a chance. Only one line for the whole compound. Ah, yes. Of course. Gotcha.

Hmmm. I guess I won’t be blogging about our days in the house from hell from the house from hell after all.

Landlords: 1.

April: (-∞) Negative infinity.

Lauren and TaReva, oh-ye-pathetic-souls: Zip.

Sawatdii kha, Profesora Lorena!

Today's Thoughts...

Today I had my first Spanish class. Correction, today I held my first Spanish class. Correction still. Today I held my first Spanish class in Thailand. Ahat have I gotten myself into?

When I asked my students in our introductory lesson why they wanted to speak Spanish, many cited the fact that the language is spoken in un sinúmero of countries around the world, which is totally true. When pressed for exactly which assemblage of countries spoke the language, the immediate responses were, in this order no less: Spain, Texas, Mexico, Brazil, and a country in the World Cup, ah, yes, Paraguay. I hung my head— this is going to be a loooong semester.

To their credit, in our first class, my students were downright exuberant. As per course, I informed them a week ago that under no circumstances would I speak English in class. Solamente en español, I warned frightened faces and horrified agape ‘O’ expressions. True to my word, Spanish only I spoke from Hola when they eagerly filed in to Adiós as they traipsed out—¡Hasta luego, profesora! ¡Hasta pronto! It was only then that I realized that whatever my obsession and amor for the language, it HAS been a year since I have held a fluid fluent convo, let alone taught for an hour and a half without so much as uttering ni una palabra inglesa. It was as daunting a task for me as it was for them, if not more so. So naturally I sprinkled in several phrases of Thai (quite a few I didn’t even know I had) and the occasional Japanese (really, now, it’s been like three years, c’mon). After all, language is just a giant word bank in the left cortex, isn’t it? Spatinglish (or Engsphai?)-- hmm, going to have to work on that. On top of it all, I'm pretty certain I vacillated somewhere between channeling Antonio Banderas and Carlos Mencia. Same, same, but different?

By the end, I was panting, they were cheering, and I had spelled Buenas noches three different ways on the chalkboard. My brain still tingled with the collision of tongues tangling in my head as I walked to my moto and heard an excited student call after me: “Odious, teacha!” I paused, flipped through the catalogues in my head and responded somewhat belatedly, “¡Adiós! ¡Hasta mañana!”

Well, learning takes time.

¡Ay Diós mio!

Skin I'm In

Today's Thoughts...

Every so often something happens to remind me that no paradise is paradise untainted, na? Last night had a blast hangin out with friends for the night. We decided to make our way to one of the more happenin clubs in town. As per usu, bouncing around, dancing about, making friends with random tables of folks, passing drinks around between us and our new compadres— a real night on the town. But there’s always something hiding just beneath the surface on these nocturnal jaunts. Always something that nags at the back of my mind when the liquor’s stopped flowing and the cups have gone dry. Suddenly, I look up and I’m all alone. Every single time.

I don’t mean that there isn’t a massive throbbing, pulsating crowd of hip young twenty-something members of the Thai elite bopping and reveling all around, but inevitably whenever I go out with a crowd of my fair-skinned friends, I can’t help notice that I’m quite frequently, almost always, the one getting no kind of play. Not the kind of coquettish play that of course comes to mind, not looking for that per se, but the joyous banter of a dance floor, the witty commentary and jokes of folks just having a good time—almost zilch. Sure I get talked to when I’m asked if my friends are dating anyone, if they like Thai men, where they are from, how long they are here, usually because my mini modicum of Thai is enough to play Hermes and pass the messages along. I get passed drinks just the same because this is Thailand and we don’t discriminate.

But almost never does it happen (unless the new cadre is of the farang variety) that anyone is interested in engaging with me on any, if admittedly superficial, level. So in these moments, I shake my fro bigger, laugh louder, dance harder, and toss back the glasses just a little faster. Coping just fine, really. Not that I blame anyone—who can? In a hemisphere obsessed with bleaching, powdering, unstaining sun-kissed flesh, where is there room for sun-scorched me?

SHEBA
Curly a-fro
Hair not so straight
I bet you don’t love my sassy gait.
I move to a rhythm, yall don’t hear
I shake my hips with women,
But I’m not quite queer.
I watch you and
You watch me
But you can’t make moves
On this Ebony
Delectable Mahogany, skin smooth and fine
Chocolate, Mocha, Licorice divine
If you only knew what’s beneath these layers
Powerful, intellectual, f the naysayers.
So wrapped up in skin so white
Can’t appreciate this hue of night
Powder those cheeks all day long
Translucent, pearlescent, flesh faded and gone.
Doused in the bleach, tryin hard to conceal
Melanin, my best friend, shit's gettin real.
Calumny and lies
That’s all you spread
Typical, predictable
--That book’s been read.
Wish I could teach you just how to see
Black is beautiful.
Black is me.

Eyes on India-- Installment 4!

Today's Thoughts...

Jaipur is hot. Rajasthan is hot. Typically, the desert is hot particularly in hot season—small fact we somehow overlooked. Boiling (literally my skin felt like it was going to slide off my face), we arrived at the eclectic and wonderful Peacock Hotel. Our jaws dropped. Palatially-sized rooms, strong arctic breezes from desert coolers (sort of like a water-powered aircon unit/fan with something resembling a bird’s nest tucked inside; still uncertain of exactly how the contraption worked), oversized king beds, shimmering bathrooms with no sullied streaks of unknown sources—we were in heaven, Peacock Heaven.

Immediately we plopped down on the beds (after a brief rendezvous on our balcony (a balcony!)) and straightaway passed out. When we woke it was dinnertime, which was the perfect time, chowing down on undeniably delicious curry, paneer, aloo, and even some sneakily weaseled warm and large Kingfisher beers. Subsequently and logically, we then we slept some more. In fact, when I think about it, when not trekking on foot in the searing heat or snapping shots (or shots being snapped of us) at national sights, we spent much of our time in recovery from the heat and chaos, sleeping. Not that I minded one bit.



Our reserves replenished, we took to the streets of Jaipur the next day. Suddenly every rickshaw driver was our best friend, every rickshaw our own private “Indian helicopter.” It was hot, the streets long, but we pressed on, politely declining every overeager offer for a ride. Wandering down a random alley, we found ourselves in the midst of one of the inner city’s bazaars. Suddenly the street narrowed to a shoulder by shoulder width and people suddenly appeared bursting from the crannies, cracks, and crevices of every building in sight. The mouth-watering smells luring us ever deeper into the fracas, we stopped at a firepit on the side of the street for samosas. Giggling children, gaping adults, shifty-eyed youngins— all stared in wonder, snickering behind their hands. A small child tried to thump my rear as he passed, chuckling with his friends. I turned and bum-bopped him right back. He squealed, jumped, and raced on laughing.



Fried savories devoured, we wound our way on through the silver market, the gold market, the metal market, the clothing market, the shoe market, the meat market, the veggie market, the market market stopping only to climb our way up the dizzying spiral staircase of a large minaret to see the city skyline. Our tireless guide (and by guide I mean the rando dude standing at the base of the minaret who followed us up and explained in lilting tongue something about a fort and a king and a son and a death and many things I found difficult to concentrate on while gazing into the exquisite midday horizon. Eeerrrrttt! Rewind. So when have you heard me tell a story that didn’t have some rando-crazy-nuh-uh-hold-up kinda ridiculousness goin on?



Oh we wound our way through the streets alright, bobbing and weaving in and out of gorgeous sari fabric shops and precious blacksmith handicraft stalls (prompting my purchase of a several kilos miniature brass theater mask—when am I going to use that again? Right. Never.) And that’s when Allison noticed her. A young woman, not more than thirty, in a faded blue sari, walking not more than twenty paces behind us. I thought she looked a little off particularly given her wild and untied/unbraided hair, so uncharacteristic of most women we saw, but I shrugged and ignored it…until we saw her behind us after nearly half an hour of our wanderings. That’s when I noticed her mildly unfocused gaze and battered appearance. We both turned around stared at her with that cold excuse-me-can-I-help-you? face, but she just stared off into space as if she couldn’t see us. Five minutes later, she was still there. We stopped again, glared again, and this time made gestures for her to get-going. Not a moment’s hesitation, she walked closer, further still. Allison was getting agitated and for that matter so was I. She turned and shouted something at her. People looked, but she did nothing. Didn’t ask for cash, didn’t want a photo, didn’t try to snatch our purses, didn’t appear to want to shank us—I mean our thusfar vocabulary in random street interactions was exhausted and we could find no meaning to her madness. Yet she crept uncomfortably close still. It was unsettling.

Finally, we both turned around, marched to her, which certainly took her by surprise, and demanded to know who she was and what her deal was. Allison threatened to call the police (both of us fully aware that meant nada) and I told her that if she was going to follow us for nearly two hour she darn well better have a good reason for it and grrr! She stared back with sneering eyes (yes, sneering eyes). (A test! Aha! She DOES speak English!) Did we offend you? Hurt you? Wrong you in someway? She just stared. Well, if you've got nothing to say, then GO! I bellowed. She jumped a little and backed up a step. GO! Allison repeated. Still sneering with those now very clearly focused eyes, she backed away only to hide behind a wall and glare. I sighed, shook my head, and that’s when I spotted the minaret. So as Mr. Bubbly Bopping tour guide droned on about something I barely remember, I was searching not merely for the beauty of the Jaipur skyline, but for the trail of our sulking, slinking, spectral companion in the crowds below. Deciding the coast was clear, we descended once more into the melee. Encounter one of five million of inexplicable strangeness.

Eyes on India-- Installment 3!

Today's Thoughts...

It was 4 a.m.: we saddled up like camels preparing for our sojourn across the seas of sand. Combing our way through the dark, we arrived at the New Delhi Railway Station. True to Lonely Planet’s word, the day before every tout and uncle within sight swore till they were blue in the face that no tourist office existed in the ND Railway station. That we had to go to a special office, their special office. That there was a fire; that it was their lunch break; that rabid chimps had taken over the office and held hostage all inside (not as far-fetched as it sounds when I started to notice the oddly copious hordes of primates in Indian train stations). Whatever, we said, we want to see this for ourselves. And we saw it alright, in the form of two tickets issued by an official tourist office employee, posted price to boot. At 4 a.m., tickets in hand, we arrive at the station, sleeping babies and grannies and mommies and poppies everywhere. By about 5 a.m., our train appears to arrive. In our spare time, we had made a friend, a young guy heading to Jaipur to publish his new book on Rajasthani fabrics and the legacy behind them.

Chatting and rubbing our puffy eyes, we slog our way onto the train. We walk the length of the train and platform, with no luck at finding our “air con chair seats.” Disheartened, we assume we’ve been had and head to the car marked with the number on our tickets. A frightening-ish bunker in the wee light of the morn with dozing bodies stretched everywhere, pools of spittle on the floor, and remnants of what I expect must have been last night’s samosas, ah and Mr. Cockroach, the erstwhile tenant of our car. But something doesn’t feel right. Allison inquires if this is the train to Jaipur. Blank stares. Now the first thing that struck me when I got to India was the abundance of English speakers, a foreign concept coming from the khas and kops of Thailand. I tried my luck on a small child—no dice. Our friend did as well and turned to us in confusion— this is the train to DEHRADUN! As in about a gazillion kilometeres north of Rajasthan. His eyes appear panicked. Bloody hell.

We turn to exit and notice that our path of egress has been blocked by other entering passengers. Everyone is suddenly crowding quickly… the train is moving! We push and nudge our way politely to a door. A man stands mouth-wide, gaping at us as he washes his face and shaves in the sink. Allison makes a hurried gesture to the door. He continues to stare, holding his razor. Our friend waves his arms wildly. The man does not budge and the train has gained speed. I turn heel, and squeezing Allison’s hand run in the opposite direction. A single small child is the fatality of this action. Dazed, he lies on the floor, clearly puzzled as to how he got there in the first place. We jockey and elbow past him and the rest of the cabins occupants. I pause at the door. The tracks are now whizzing beneath us. FREEZE. This is the part where I say, “These are the things I’m sure if I ever knew were to exist when I came to Asia, I would solemnly swear to NEVER do.” This is the time when I do them.

Our friend acts first and tosses his bag to the platform, jumping off into a sort of jog. I follow suit, chucking my oversized pack to the ground and reaching for his outstretched hand as he now runs to keep up with the train. We tumble to the platform. I turn, but too late to offer a hand; Allison is in the air. Wordlessly we all rise and gather our scattered belongings. After a moment’s pause, a garbled loudspeaker announces that the train to Jaipur will arrive one hour late. This is Asia after all. We take one look at one another and burst into hysterics.

Passersby stare bewildered and perturbed. We are perturbed. It is something like 6 a.m. Crying with laughter and tears, we collapse onto our bags, our hearts finally keeping pace with our breathing. This is why I came to India.

Morning March

MORNING MARCH
in tribute to the robed figures of the dawn

Burnt with a tinge that touches the sun
The smell of vermilion, a thousand golden orbs
A flame when it dances, blistering heat
Evanescent glow, celestial globe as it sinks
The sound of tangerine, a rush of sanguine winds
Russet, carmine, cerise, a blush of brilliant peach
Gracefully billowing
Constantly winnowing
Light from dark
Truth from life
Higher they climb
Olympian conference
On dorado peaks they sit
Honeyed towers of praise
La paz.

Eyes on India-- Installment 2!

Today's Thoughts...

After a mildly harrowing taxi ride from the airport, we arrived smack dab in the middle of Main Bazaar, in the Paharganj neighborhood aka backpacker-soulsearching-on the journey tomyinneryogi hangout of the city. Already spent, sweaty, and starving, Allison and I deposited our belongings in shady, sheisty, just plain sketchy digs that went by the name of Hotel Downtown. It was downtown alright. Grimy walls, rickety stairs, stained hallways that screamed something from a slasher film—yep, that was our place which Allison assured me (pause for the gentleman at the desk who hacks a loogey in her direction, er, to the trashbin at her side) came highly recommended as a sweet cheapie by a close previous companion (who a few days later, bless her heart, came down with a nasty case of bed bugs from another sweet cheapie down south). So I shrugged, albeit hesitantly, and chalked it up to my ignorance of South Asian mores and anyway it was a steal and anyway all hostels in the country sort of make your skin crawl. Eh, a little grime never hurt anyone, right?
We half stumbled our way down the small alleyway the hotel was located in, out to the main street. I promptly dove behind a cucumber pushcart to avoid the large wildebeest hurtling my way. Correction—cow. The large COW hurtling my way.

Shaken, though not broken, I clung tight to Allison as we picked our way through the main drag. No fewer than six motos nearly ran me down, two taxis actually struck me (going at about 10kmh, mind you), and three more cows stepped on my foolishly exposed toes. Steel-toed boots next trip? Check. Sort of like a game of Frogger, we danced across the street, zigzagged around the corner, and found ourselves in front of a dilapidated building. Allison reconsidered her guidebook. We were in the right place. We made our way up the five flights of stairs, I slipped twice on unknown substances, and finally arrived at a quaint and tasty-looking rooftop restaurant. We downed two sweet lassis a piece, a basket of garlic naan, some chicken tandoori, and a delectable bowl of curried chindi paneer (chickpeas and fresh cheese). I nearly melted out of my seat. Most of India was much the same—a culinary banquet at every meal. I may have had three bad meals during my entire stay. Gotta hand it to them, Indians know how to rustle up some mighty good grub. No complaints there!

Reluctantly, we stumbled our way back into the city (spent most of this trip stumbling and bumbling through the country), swathed our faces in moist scarves to keep from hacking from the billowing clouds of construction smoke (all prep for the Common Wealth games in October), and dodged wayward streams of saliva as we headed back to our humble (homey? homely? unholy?) abode. The next morning found us, satiated from an oversized breakfast-brunch-lunch, heading out to meet fellow traveling companions on what we expected to be a whirlwind tour through Rajasthan, the western desert state of the North. Instead, evening found us, sweaty, exhausted, shopped out, and lamentably friend-less as our would-be companions had taken off on their own whirlwind tour the day before without us. With a pout and a sigh, we bought train tickets to Jaipur, the pink city of Rajasthan, and prepared our own bootleg Indian desert (so smart aren’t we in hot season?) adventure. Well, at least the hotels would be cheap, bed bugs and all.

Five Things Mama India taught me my very first day:

1. Cleanliness is overrated
2. Culinary-ness is next to godliness
3. Dodging cars, cows, and streams of saliva that reach inhuman distances= Olympic sport
4. Beauty is skin deep, and hair deep, and sari deep, and Indian women deep
5. Rooftop refuge is a must.

And as a bonus— one hell of a way to spend my birthday. Desert sands, here I come!

Eyes on India—Installment 1

Today's Thoughts...

About a month and a half ago, something really awesome, incredible, and worthy of much fanfare and to-do, FINALLY happened in my life—I went to INDIA. Not really my Motherland, but after four years of gyrating, hip shaking, and exceptional eye seduction in an Indian dance troupe, I feel something likening kinship with the country. A little lowe for Mother India. Thus I began my birthday after spending the night on the floor of the Bangkok airport, straddling two continents as I leapt from Bangkok to Delhi at the start of my grand Indian adventure.

I hopped on my Jet Airways flight from Bangkok, pleasantly surprised and pleased by what I saw. Truly a worthwhile in-flight experience with great service to boot. I had no complaints. I arrived in Kolkata, already a bit wary from the countless warnings and advice from friends, websites, etc. I was ready at arms for anything. After bumbling like an idiot to get through security (“No, miss, this is the man’s security line. Are you a man?” snicker, snicker, a flashing of my dagger eyes.), I finally get my way through the winding woman’s search line, nearly four times the length of that for the men. Come on, ladies, let’s get with the program. After a three hour sulk, starving in the airport, no ATMs in sight to snag cash for a sandwich, hungrily and admittedly moodily at my foolishness for not having cash, I get on my Spice Jet flight. Hahaha, my Spice Jet flight. And oh, was it zesty as ever. (Not really, I just had to throw that one out there).

Delhi. The international arrivals are quite nice, far beyond what I was expecting of a chaotic tumble. I waited for about an hour and half for my friend Allison to show up, and eagerly beaming ran to hug her. Immediately I knew something was up. Bags under her eyes, face slightly flushed, she looked like she’d gone through a number. “How was Mumbai!” I squealed. She smiled weakly and motioned for us to head out for a taxi. In nearly a month’s time, I’d find myself shaking my head at my naivete. Oh, Mama India, how you have changed me.

TBC...

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.