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!
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, February 12, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Bicycle Built For Two
Today's Thoughts...
Last weekend, Lili and I, love it though we do, needed a bit of a break from Chiang Mai. The conversation went something more or less like this:
(Friday Night over burritos at El Diablo)
Me: I’m feeling sort of restless. I want to DO something this weekend.
Lili: Me too. Now that I’m done work, I want to see something new. Like what?
Me: I’m not sure. I’m not up for the beach.
Lili: Nah. Too far, dude. Maybe something cultural?
Me: Hmmm.
(Saturday Afternoon lying on my bed)
Me: (on phone) What’s up?
Lili: Just out for a jog.
Me: Cool, cool. So you want to go to Sukhothai? It’s halfway to Bangkok but it’s got some pretty cool ruins.
Lili: Totally. I’m there. When do you want to leave?
Me: Like now?
Lili: Awesome. See you at the bus station.
Ahh, Thailand. Land of the Get-Up-And-Go. So here’s where we went…
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Teachable Moments
Today's Thoughts...
Well I thought that a lesson on product launching as a segment of my marketing game in Public Speaking would be fairly innocuous. Students had to simply survey their peers and teachers about a given product-- deodorant, face wash, toothpaste, toilet tissue-- and come back with their findings. Do you like it soft/minty/fresh/fruity? What adjective comes to mind when you think of it? What person(s) come to mind when you think of it? The point was, basically, to devise a persuasive speech and commercial to gear your product towards a target community in need or better yet, want, of it. Simple, right? Hence my teachable moment.
One group returns, bright-eyed and eager with their report on deodorant. Sipping my morning cup o' joe, I listen and smile, nodding, tallying their points. People think of deodorant as refreshing, freshening, drying, whitening (this is Thailand, remember, a place where like perhaps some two thirds of the world people take the time to whiten their pits). Check: two points. People love that deodorant can keep them smelling fresh, keep them dry, provide a delicious aroma to waft from beneath their arms. Check: two points, er, one point-- aroma? Delicious? Hmmm. What people does it make you think of? At this, one of the students presenting clears his throat and sort of mumbles a reply. "Speak up," I urge him, my face half buried in my notebook as I track their score. He mumbles again. I swivel on my stool to face him, smiling. "What did your group find out," I press, ignorant to his discomfort. "Well, ajarn," he starts. "The people it makes you think of is the Turkish students because they smell not so good all the time. I mean, some of them, smell not so good all the time. I mean...," his eyes dart to the sole Turkish student in our class. He quickly fashions an apology-- "No, not you. I mean, like other kids, who need... to... er... wear deodorant."
The rest of the class chatters on, oblivious. I freeze, coffee mug in hand. What did they call this at AACLDS-- a teachable moment? Okay, okay, what do I say? My brain is racing. I nod to him, giving him permission to squirm to his seat as the next group rises. My Turkish student and I lock eyes and instantly I'm in his seat, seven years ago, sitting in my Social Justice classroom sophomore year of high school. Girls in green skirts are chatting all around me as our teacher writes two words on the board-- AFFIRMATIVE ACTION. Strawberry blonde ponytail bobbing, the girl in front of me quickly raises her hand to answer the teacher's query-- "What is affirmative action?" "Well, it's when Black and Spanish kids get to take the spots of smarter White kids in school just because they're minorities." I feel myself cringe, sinking lower in my chair. All the pale faces in the classroom turn to face me; I suddenly feel like its one of those I-went-to-class-in-my-underwear dreams. My teacher turns beet red and the strawberry blonde ponytail slowly swivels to face me, her face one color from the tip of her nose to the ends of her hair. "I mean kids who don't work hard, not like you," she stammers. I excuse myself to the rest room and don't come back. My teacher is silent.
I blink and see my student's eyes once more. Allowing the remaining two groups to report, I gather my faculties and slow my spinning thoughts. As the final students take their seats, I turn to the board and write one word on the board: STEREOTYPE. I turn to face the class, already steadily copying. "What did we say you never want to do when you speak before a large group of people?" I ask. Pages flip, a hand goes up: "Alienate your audience." "And what is the best way to do that?" Another hand: "Offend someone." "What is a stereotype?" Blank stares. One student raises his hand uncertainly: "Making an opinion about a whole group based on rumors or what a few people have done or do." His textbook answer suffices. I look to the student who had read the earlier presentation. "Now I know you were reporting from what your interviewee told you, about Turkish students and the deodorant, right?" He nods. "Well, no fault to you, this is a good example to show one way of accidentally alienating and offending not only your audience but your friends..."
After roughly another half hour, the class ends and the students gather their books. I notice as my former presenter approaches his Turkish classmate. Words exchange, nods, some smiles, and what only can be called a handshake-man-hug. (You know when guys slap hands and pull into something akin to a one-armed hug? That.) I smile. My Turkish student smiles. Sighing a deep breath, for the first time I notice the beads of perspiration running down my face and neck; I realize I might just need some deodorant myself.
Well I thought that a lesson on product launching as a segment of my marketing game in Public Speaking would be fairly innocuous. Students had to simply survey their peers and teachers about a given product-- deodorant, face wash, toothpaste, toilet tissue-- and come back with their findings. Do you like it soft/minty/fresh/fruity? What adjective comes to mind when you think of it? What person(s) come to mind when you think of it? The point was, basically, to devise a persuasive speech and commercial to gear your product towards a target community in need or better yet, want, of it. Simple, right? Hence my teachable moment.
One group returns, bright-eyed and eager with their report on deodorant. Sipping my morning cup o' joe, I listen and smile, nodding, tallying their points. People think of deodorant as refreshing, freshening, drying, whitening (this is Thailand, remember, a place where like perhaps some two thirds of the world people take the time to whiten their pits). Check: two points. People love that deodorant can keep them smelling fresh, keep them dry, provide a delicious aroma to waft from beneath their arms. Check: two points, er, one point-- aroma? Delicious? Hmmm. What people does it make you think of? At this, one of the students presenting clears his throat and sort of mumbles a reply. "Speak up," I urge him, my face half buried in my notebook as I track their score. He mumbles again. I swivel on my stool to face him, smiling. "What did your group find out," I press, ignorant to his discomfort. "Well, ajarn," he starts. "The people it makes you think of is the Turkish students because they smell not so good all the time. I mean, some of them, smell not so good all the time. I mean...," his eyes dart to the sole Turkish student in our class. He quickly fashions an apology-- "No, not you. I mean, like other kids, who need... to... er... wear deodorant."
The rest of the class chatters on, oblivious. I freeze, coffee mug in hand. What did they call this at AACLDS-- a teachable moment? Okay, okay, what do I say? My brain is racing. I nod to him, giving him permission to squirm to his seat as the next group rises. My Turkish student and I lock eyes and instantly I'm in his seat, seven years ago, sitting in my Social Justice classroom sophomore year of high school. Girls in green skirts are chatting all around me as our teacher writes two words on the board-- AFFIRMATIVE ACTION. Strawberry blonde ponytail bobbing, the girl in front of me quickly raises her hand to answer the teacher's query-- "What is affirmative action?" "Well, it's when Black and Spanish kids get to take the spots of smarter White kids in school just because they're minorities." I feel myself cringe, sinking lower in my chair. All the pale faces in the classroom turn to face me; I suddenly feel like its one of those I-went-to-class-in-my-underwear dreams. My teacher turns beet red and the strawberry blonde ponytail slowly swivels to face me, her face one color from the tip of her nose to the ends of her hair. "I mean kids who don't work hard, not like you," she stammers. I excuse myself to the rest room and don't come back. My teacher is silent.
I blink and see my student's eyes once more. Allowing the remaining two groups to report, I gather my faculties and slow my spinning thoughts. As the final students take their seats, I turn to the board and write one word on the board: STEREOTYPE. I turn to face the class, already steadily copying. "What did we say you never want to do when you speak before a large group of people?" I ask. Pages flip, a hand goes up: "Alienate your audience." "And what is the best way to do that?" Another hand: "Offend someone." "What is a stereotype?" Blank stares. One student raises his hand uncertainly: "Making an opinion about a whole group based on rumors or what a few people have done or do." His textbook answer suffices. I look to the student who had read the earlier presentation. "Now I know you were reporting from what your interviewee told you, about Turkish students and the deodorant, right?" He nods. "Well, no fault to you, this is a good example to show one way of accidentally alienating and offending not only your audience but your friends..."
After roughly another half hour, the class ends and the students gather their books. I notice as my former presenter approaches his Turkish classmate. Words exchange, nods, some smiles, and what only can be called a handshake-man-hug. (You know when guys slap hands and pull into something akin to a one-armed hug? That.) I smile. My Turkish student smiles. Sighing a deep breath, for the first time I notice the beads of perspiration running down my face and neck; I realize I might just need some deodorant myself.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Home Coming
Today's Thoughts...
Wow. It has been quite some time since I’ve written. December was a blur, but I’m back. Back to the web world, back to the blog world, back to Chiang Mai. It’s strange you know? I expected to feel like a fish out of water going home after being away, but truthfully, nothing really changes. The people who loved you still love you. Your room is still your room. Your pillows are just as soft. Well, sometimes your brother grows ten inches and suddenly sprouts a thicket of dark fuzz he’s calling a mustache. And occasionally your father develops something of a social life and your mother learns to take a break and breathe every once in a while. Stuff like that. But otherwise, things are pretty much the same, just as you left them seven months ago.
It’s being back that’s strange, the part that for so many months has begun to make sense, suddenly unravels, the very fabric threatening to tear. Why are you getting on a plane to travel literally to the other side of the world? Why are you cranking, kicking, pumping in vain to get a two-bit second-hand motorbike to start? Why are you deserting hot water showers, meals that don’t involve rice, and weather that actually changes every so often to come back to… to come back to what exactly? That’s what I asked myself as I hopped on the first of five planes back to this place. That’s what I asked myself as I clambered into a tuk tuk outside of Chiang Mai International Airport. What am I doing here? (A little depressing, no?)
Then I got that damn bike to start and went whirring down the highway, the warm air on my arms and cheeks. Then I saddled up with my copious bags and papers and strode into a classroom amidst giggles (yes, college students still giggle) and noticed the “Welcome Back!” sign written in highlighter and hanging from my podium. Then I stepped into a little bar with international football (soccer) games in full gear, Europeans cheering, Americans tucked away at the rear, me clanking bottles with some of my closest compadres in this tiny town of a city. But it was when I called my father, tears in my eyes, desperate to cling to some shred of sanity, to find a method to my madness and a reason for the growing doubts that hung over me like a petulant cloud in rainy season, then and only then did I start to see. “It takes a lot to be there,” he said, the Skype connection struggling to carry his words to me. “You know, not everyone’s out there doing what you’re doing. It’s hard. Very hard. You're far away, but you’re making it work. That’s all that really matters.” I couldn’t tell if it was the connection fading or his voice: “I’m proud of you.”
Going back home will always be going back home, you know? Home is the place where my parents are, where my brother stays, where the people I love will always love me back—- my grandmother dutifully reading this blog, my aunt writing me snailmail letters from 10,000 miles away, my Visi chicas who I know will never leave my side no matter how far I stray, my cousins, my uncles, my people. My home. Yes, going back will mean precisely what it has meant these past few years of college; it will mean all of that till I’m wrinkled in the face and gray in the hair. But returning to Chiang Mai is something different. It’s not about leaving home and the place where I am loved. It’s about coming back to the place where I belong. And I think for the moment, it’s where I’m supposed to be.
Wow. It has been quite some time since I’ve written. December was a blur, but I’m back. Back to the web world, back to the blog world, back to Chiang Mai. It’s strange you know? I expected to feel like a fish out of water going home after being away, but truthfully, nothing really changes. The people who loved you still love you. Your room is still your room. Your pillows are just as soft. Well, sometimes your brother grows ten inches and suddenly sprouts a thicket of dark fuzz he’s calling a mustache. And occasionally your father develops something of a social life and your mother learns to take a break and breathe every once in a while. Stuff like that. But otherwise, things are pretty much the same, just as you left them seven months ago.
It’s being back that’s strange, the part that for so many months has begun to make sense, suddenly unravels, the very fabric threatening to tear. Why are you getting on a plane to travel literally to the other side of the world? Why are you cranking, kicking, pumping in vain to get a two-bit second-hand motorbike to start? Why are you deserting hot water showers, meals that don’t involve rice, and weather that actually changes every so often to come back to… to come back to what exactly? That’s what I asked myself as I hopped on the first of five planes back to this place. That’s what I asked myself as I clambered into a tuk tuk outside of Chiang Mai International Airport. What am I doing here? (A little depressing, no?)
Then I got that damn bike to start and went whirring down the highway, the warm air on my arms and cheeks. Then I saddled up with my copious bags and papers and strode into a classroom amidst giggles (yes, college students still giggle) and noticed the “Welcome Back!” sign written in highlighter and hanging from my podium. Then I stepped into a little bar with international football (soccer) games in full gear, Europeans cheering, Americans tucked away at the rear, me clanking bottles with some of my closest compadres in this tiny town of a city. But it was when I called my father, tears in my eyes, desperate to cling to some shred of sanity, to find a method to my madness and a reason for the growing doubts that hung over me like a petulant cloud in rainy season, then and only then did I start to see. “It takes a lot to be there,” he said, the Skype connection struggling to carry his words to me. “You know, not everyone’s out there doing what you’re doing. It’s hard. Very hard. You're far away, but you’re making it work. That’s all that really matters.” I couldn’t tell if it was the connection fading or his voice: “I’m proud of you.”
Going back home will always be going back home, you know? Home is the place where my parents are, where my brother stays, where the people I love will always love me back—- my grandmother dutifully reading this blog, my aunt writing me snailmail letters from 10,000 miles away, my Visi chicas who I know will never leave my side no matter how far I stray, my cousins, my uncles, my people. My home. Yes, going back will mean precisely what it has meant these past few years of college; it will mean all of that till I’m wrinkled in the face and gray in the hair. But returning to Chiang Mai is something different. It’s not about leaving home and the place where I am loved. It’s about coming back to the place where I belong. And I think for the moment, it’s where I’m supposed to be.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Beauty of the Bard
Today's Thoughts...
A few words from my Shakespeare class as we attempted sonnets just before staining their literary innocence with the blood and gore of Macbeth…
(From the shyest boy in class)
You are as beautiful as an angel
Who watches me every day from the sky
My dream like we are in a fairy tale.
I always keep it in my mind
Oh my love, you are so noble
I do not dare to propose to you
I am waiting for the miracle
Just to make my dream come true
Do you see your good man?
You will see how I am sincere?
Can do all with my heart and hands
Hope one day you see me here
I just hope my dream comes true
To live together with you.
***
(From the shyest girl in class)
The love that will last forever
When you and me are meant to be
There is a spark when we are together
Some strong bond that we cannot see
I pray to the Angels do not take us apart
Because I’ve been waiting for so long
You are my everything, my heart
The one who completes my love song
You are the star that fulfills the sky
The lost pieces of my jigsaw
When I’m with you I feel I can fly
You have owned my heart of all
The Gods have given us their blessing
That our love will be everlasting
****
(From the most outspoken guy in class)
I don’t know whether this is right or wrong
To hear your voice day and night long
When I close my eyes, your face I see
In my dreams, with you I long to be
I really don’t know what love is
Hope I’ll someday learn from you this
I’m enchanted with everything you are
I really want to be with you there
Your life is to share…
Something tells me that you are mine
What I feel for you will never decline
Sometimes when I think of you, I blush
Have your own way…I don’t wanna rush
I can wait for you all my life.
Suddenly the Bard's words have a whole new meaning in these kids' mouths... :)
Monday, November 23, 2009
Breakin all tha rulez
Today's Thoughts...
When I started to ride my bike, I made myself promise not to break five very simple, very cardinal rules. Everybody else did it, said I, but not me. Oh no. Fearful farang that I am, there’s no way I’d ever…
Rules of the Road:
1) I hereby promise to never squeeze through traffic with approximately 4 to 6 inches between myself and the two pick-ups on either side of me. (Okay, but sometimes, you really don’t have time to wait in line at that traffic light.)
2) I hereby promise to never rideth o motorcy upon the footpath of man (aka the sidewalk). (Again, no time, really just no time.)
3) I hereby promise to never run a red light be it as it may that red lights (not at intersections!) are in fact optional in this city. (If no one else is waiting…I mean you just look dumb.)
4) I hereby promise to never ride upon the highway in reverse. (But really? Are you going to go all the way down to the next U-turn because you missed your turn-off by 10 feet? No, I didn’t think so.)
5) I hereby promise to never be struck by a moving vehicle that nudges me across two lanes and looks at me like I’m the one who caused him grief in his shiny silver Civic while he undoubtedly curses my name to the girl on the other end of his mobile phone. (Seriously. C’mon. I’m on two wheels. You hit ME.)
I hereby promise not to make any more promises. Last time I checked, I was still in Asia. Here, I’m playin by their rules.
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