I panicked buying bread the other day.
It’s not really worth mentioning except that it kind of illustrates the whole of my existential being lately. It was one of those things: Me standing in a supermarket aisle full of bread – sliced, whole wheat, iron fortified, and baguette – when I heard myself sputter and crack a little.
Anywhere we’ve ever travelled Rich’s philosophy when eating was to order bravely. “Yes, I’ll take the duck spam special!” or “One curry-wurst please”. And of course, who could forget the time when “I’ll take the sprout and tarter sandwich on a penis loaf,” came fumbling out of his mouth? The point is Rich knows to order bravely when on vacation because, as he puts it, “There’s always bread in case I don’t like what I ordered.”
I’m the say way.
(Minus the penis loaf.)
What I mean is change the food metaphor into experiencing anything while travelling and I can honestly say that I’m the same kind of brave.
This morning, I took a leisurely tour around my blogging community, not having been around for a while since I’ve been somewhat preoccupied with turning my world up-side-down. One of my favorite bloggers, K A B L O O E Y, a hilariously dead-pan writer who enjoys the irony in life as much as any realistic mother living in a surrealistic world can, wrote about vacationing this week. She talked about the fact that when, for example, on a cruise, she finds herself conversing with people and sharing experiences with them more than she does in her day-to-day life. She said she would normally rather “juggle flaming batons” than “work a room” in her community and attributes her bravery to the fact that she isn’t held accountable for who she is among folks who don’t send their kids to the same school or other folks she sees on a daily basis.
The second I read that, it occurred to me what happened in the bread aisle. Like K A B L O O E Y, I lose my inhibitions when I travel. The hard truth is I like who I am better when out of town because there is no baggage tied to me. I become more friendly and convivial, and it’s evident. My body feels less deflated, my shoulders straighten for once, and there is color- actual rose colored life- in my cheeks. I love travelling!
Herein lies the conflict: I have never been to England other than in that capacity. My expectations about this place are skewed.
When I dreamed of living here, I thought I might skip down to my little Boho coffee and tea shop every morning under a gray sky, brolly at the ready. I would order a cuppa and peruse the morning paper a little, rolling my eyes at the headlines and willing myself to remember an important and upcoming town event. I would be Rory and Lorelai in one – waving at other locals, witticisms and pop culture references dripping off my tongue. People would say hello to me by name and we would have running jokes about the town eccentric. Then I would need to “dash” to catch a train on which I could sit and meditate through what my day would be like at work before I had to actually immerse myself in it.
Instead here’s the reality: Every morning I have to hurry like a mad woman to get the family out the door and Jack to his nursery. Rich practically runs Jack around the block while I stumble to the car in heels not meant for cross-country, cobble stone marathons. I don’t mind the drizzle, except that holding a brolly and coffee and my school bag while tripping down a street isn’t ideal. I get into the car, parked blocks away, and white knuckle my way down a very tiny lane to pick up Rich who tries desperately every morning to swiftly drop off Jack despite the lovely child-minder’s efforts to engage him in conversations about the best way to trim the hedges and a very kind man named Mr. Innocent.
I don’t go in because I’m much more whimpy than Rich and will stay and listen politely instead of interrupting to say that we’re late and I’m sorry but we can’t talk right now. Rich can do that. And when he does, he leaps into the car and we hurry up and wait in traffic for twenty minutes (if we’re lucky) on the way to work, dodging cyclists and buses anytime the rpm goes above 0.0. Forget a leisurely morning. Forget speaking to anyone. Forget “dashing” and/ or meditating, and insert soul crushing anxiety about being on time to work.
(Oops, here's an aside:
After one particularly difficult day at work, we picked up Jack and promised him milk and cookies at the Boho tea shop downstairs from our flat. He bounded in like a playful puppy and into a chair by the counter. Before I could get there, he stood up so that he could see over the counter-top and enthusiastically said, “Milk and cookies, please!” to the attendant. The second I thought, “Look how comfortable he is here,” and “this is a lovely hang out for us after school!” the lady at the counter turned to me and snarled,
“We do not allow shoes on the furniture here.”
End aside)
The reality of all of this manifested itself in the bread aisle at Tescos. I’m not on vacation. I live here. No one, including me, is obligated to be anything other than routinely deflated – by our jobs, by our frantic schedules, by our rent payments.
Don’t get me wrong. I love it here. Most days I'll stand on anyone's chair and freely wave my Union Jack. I’m glad to be buying bread, and possbibly this is the most brave thing I've ever done, other than raising a child. It's worth it to be here.
I am living my dream in England, but it turns out, that like any place that isn't vacation, there happens to be an inhibitive reality here. I've only just realized it.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Sunday, August 21, 2011
The Condition of my Back
Probably I shouldn’t write about my school in any form that can later be downloaded and printed off for lawyers to peruse for my trial – the one that happens after I’ve completely cracked and phoned every student or parent who was ever mean and told them what they could go and do with themselves. And you know I would never actually mention names in my writing.. mostly because I can’t remember them. HOWEVER, I do need to mention the fact that tomorrow I step into an entirely new academic dimension – one where there is no mask about privilege ruling supreme, where kids are treated as royalty, probably because they actually are royals.
Tomorrow is the first day of school.
Before I go into specifics about the knots in my back, I should mention a particular time in Montezuma, New Mexico, a day where all stress induced back aches disappeared and I felt free. Montezuma is host to a gorgeous international school where they occasionally hold what I affectionately call “teacher camp” for international teachers. It was a usual IB training with booklets and coffee breaks, but because it was in the mountains, there were also obstacle courses and “trust game” activities. For me and some newly made friends, there was spinning and dancing in an open field under the stars on a particularly magical, musical night. There was laughter and camaraderie, and skinny dipping in hot springs. It was lovely breathing fresh, crisp air and being so alive! It was a time when the teachers felt like kids again, where we actually felt important, like what we do for kids in the classroom matters.
At this camp, not only did I learn what I would consider the true nature of IB – organic, inquiry based learning where marks are given for ingenuity and insight, not taken away for mistakes – but I learned that I HAD to be part of the international teaching community. It was my niche, something I already knew about myself but hadn’t, until then, understood the urgency. The school in Montezuma was a scholarship school which to me said “level playing field.” In other words, everyone had an opportunity to play. No one had to pay. Everyone was valued and valuable.
Unfortunately most international schools are not like Montezuma. Most international schools have an agenda, the top three being religious, governmental, or for profit. This isn’t a new revelation. In fact it is the same in the states in public schools whether we care to admit it or not. It’s the wealthy elite enjoying excellent education via privatization and neighborhood privilege while the poor marginalized are left to beg for their intellectual bread. Generally international schools are for kids whose parents are “relocated” by their jobs or who have choice (i.e. money) about where they get to go to school.
My longing to be part of the international teaching community – and fitting in with those who are free spirited, educational gypsies - went to war with my integrity about what I think education should be: something organic, equalizing, and rooted deeply in community. I signed up anyway, giving-in to my selfish (perhaps that’s too strong of a word) need to feed my personal desire instead of huddling in the trenches with those who are fighting for the ideal promised to us as part of “the American dream”, and which is, in my opinion, a basic human right.
So back to my back. It hurts. Tomorrow is the first day at my new international school, and I’m stepping across the threshold with stories about how certain crown princes must carry their cell phones at all times in case of diplomatic emergencies; how certain affluent mothers squealed at seeing a washing machine for the first time and asked the dorm parent who would be doing her son’s laundry; how certain kids go for walks on sunny days instead of coming to class because they’ve never had to adhere to anyone else’s agenda; how the school is elite academically because they know the “strategies” involved with squeezing out the best test scores for programs like IB and AP, organic learning be damned; how the parents tend to overstep their bounds by being too involved.
I have to admit I’m afraid. Mostly I’m worried about connecting with my kids. Tomorrow is the first time I will be formally acquainted with elitism beyond anything I’ve ever seen (and I’m from Texas, folks!). I know kids are kids. I’m sure I will connect with many of them. I also know that most people are good people as Desmund Tutu reiterated regardless of what's in or not in their bank accounts. Also, the nature of my school almost forces community because we are all new here- teachers, students and parents alike. Still. This is most definitely a surreal leap.
I hope I’m cut out for it.
Tomorrow is the first day of school.
Before I go into specifics about the knots in my back, I should mention a particular time in Montezuma, New Mexico, a day where all stress induced back aches disappeared and I felt free. Montezuma is host to a gorgeous international school where they occasionally hold what I affectionately call “teacher camp” for international teachers. It was a usual IB training with booklets and coffee breaks, but because it was in the mountains, there were also obstacle courses and “trust game” activities. For me and some newly made friends, there was spinning and dancing in an open field under the stars on a particularly magical, musical night. There was laughter and camaraderie, and skinny dipping in hot springs. It was lovely breathing fresh, crisp air and being so alive! It was a time when the teachers felt like kids again, where we actually felt important, like what we do for kids in the classroom matters.
At this camp, not only did I learn what I would consider the true nature of IB – organic, inquiry based learning where marks are given for ingenuity and insight, not taken away for mistakes – but I learned that I HAD to be part of the international teaching community. It was my niche, something I already knew about myself but hadn’t, until then, understood the urgency. The school in Montezuma was a scholarship school which to me said “level playing field.” In other words, everyone had an opportunity to play. No one had to pay. Everyone was valued and valuable.
Unfortunately most international schools are not like Montezuma. Most international schools have an agenda, the top three being religious, governmental, or for profit. This isn’t a new revelation. In fact it is the same in the states in public schools whether we care to admit it or not. It’s the wealthy elite enjoying excellent education via privatization and neighborhood privilege while the poor marginalized are left to beg for their intellectual bread. Generally international schools are for kids whose parents are “relocated” by their jobs or who have choice (i.e. money) about where they get to go to school.
My longing to be part of the international teaching community – and fitting in with those who are free spirited, educational gypsies - went to war with my integrity about what I think education should be: something organic, equalizing, and rooted deeply in community. I signed up anyway, giving-in to my selfish (perhaps that’s too strong of a word) need to feed my personal desire instead of huddling in the trenches with those who are fighting for the ideal promised to us as part of “the American dream”, and which is, in my opinion, a basic human right.
So back to my back. It hurts. Tomorrow is the first day at my new international school, and I’m stepping across the threshold with stories about how certain crown princes must carry their cell phones at all times in case of diplomatic emergencies; how certain affluent mothers squealed at seeing a washing machine for the first time and asked the dorm parent who would be doing her son’s laundry; how certain kids go for walks on sunny days instead of coming to class because they’ve never had to adhere to anyone else’s agenda; how the school is elite academically because they know the “strategies” involved with squeezing out the best test scores for programs like IB and AP, organic learning be damned; how the parents tend to overstep their bounds by being too involved.
I have to admit I’m afraid. Mostly I’m worried about connecting with my kids. Tomorrow is the first time I will be formally acquainted with elitism beyond anything I’ve ever seen (and I’m from Texas, folks!). I know kids are kids. I’m sure I will connect with many of them. I also know that most people are good people as Desmund Tutu reiterated regardless of what's in or not in their bank accounts. Also, the nature of my school almost forces community because we are all new here- teachers, students and parents alike. Still. This is most definitely a surreal leap.
I hope I’m cut out for it.
Friday, August 19, 2011
The Toilets Don’t Flush the Same and Things More or Less Awkward
So first of all, I’ve learned a new way to greet people.
Here people give a robust “Hi-yuh!” Which sounds to me like (or in my mind, has the same number of syllables as) “How are ya?”
It’s weird because when I hear, “Hi-yuh!” I want to respond, “I’m fine! How are you?” But that answer gets odd looks, especially since no one actually asked about my well being. What’s worse is when things are stressful, and in walks someone who says, “Hi-yuh!” and I’m all, “Well, shit. I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed, you know? I mean, I like it here and all, but things will be much easier when my bank account works or when internet is installed. You know?”
And they’re all, “Right. Ok then. I’ll just grab this breakfast bun and.. I’ve got to fly now.* Bye, bye. Bye!”**
So the correct response to “Hi-yuh!” is “Good morning” or a simple. “Hi”. Sometimes I get it right and say, “Hey, how’s it going?” which is somewhat more rhythmic and less awkward.
Next, I feel the need to address the fact that I cannot get a town coke here. Anywhere. There are a billion towns around these parts and all of them sell coke.. but not a town one. And for those of you who don’t know me, my mom, or my Mimi, you should learn that a town coke is a fountain drink with good ice – semi-crushed. I would even go as far to say that a town coke has to be from Dairy Queen or Sonic – a treat when you’re out driving the drag or when you need a little pick-me-up. Gas station fountain drinks don’t count.
And they don’t have them here in England.
In fact, no one seems to drink anything other than orange juice, coffee, pints, or (hot) tea. Bottled water is around, but I rarely see anyone having any. I remember Christine and I having a lengthy conversation about this once. I theorized that perhaps the reason the English don’t have Big Gulps or other embarrassingly large beverages is because the whole country is pretty much hydrated. “After all,” I said, my fore-finger in the air, “it does rain almost daily there.” Plus (and I forgot to tell Christine this) the grass is really sponge-y in England. Perhaps the Brit’s skin is like the grass and absorbs water from the air. (Some of my synapses may, in fact, be retarded.)
Christine politely didn’t roll her eyes (too much) and reiterated the fact that while here she just carried a huge water bottle everywhere. “I just slammed it on the counter like I owned the place. Everyone else be damned. Yep, “she said, “this is my ginormous beverage. Deal with it. What?!” ***
Lastly, I must mention driving. And with the word “driving” in England I should also say, “Holy shit!” because damn. I spend the majority of the time in the car with my buttocks clenched. Why? Because every moment on the road in England is a “close call”. Actually, what I’m learning is that unless you actually bend in the side mirrors (a feature that all cars have here), you aren’t really close. But tell that to me as I’m inching between an American sized lorry and a cyclist with a baby on board, in a lane meant mainly for Kate Moss to saunter down and we’ll talk about the medical benefits of butt clenching.
“CURB!” is the word I mostly yell seconds before I rip my passenger-side rims into one.
*Seriously. That’s another thing. They say “I’ve got to fly, now” and all I can think of is Gandalf falling into endless doom in mines of Moria and the hobits burying their heads in their hands, forever altered by their immense grief.
** And they say “Bye” at least three times, fading out on each one, especially if they’re hanging up on a phone conversation. I think it’s kind of poetic.
***Probably this is a paraphrase
Here people give a robust “Hi-yuh!” Which sounds to me like (or in my mind, has the same number of syllables as) “How are ya?”
It’s weird because when I hear, “Hi-yuh!” I want to respond, “I’m fine! How are you?” But that answer gets odd looks, especially since no one actually asked about my well being. What’s worse is when things are stressful, and in walks someone who says, “Hi-yuh!” and I’m all, “Well, shit. I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed, you know? I mean, I like it here and all, but things will be much easier when my bank account works or when internet is installed. You know?”
And they’re all, “Right. Ok then. I’ll just grab this breakfast bun and.. I’ve got to fly now.* Bye, bye. Bye!”**
So the correct response to “Hi-yuh!” is “Good morning” or a simple. “Hi”. Sometimes I get it right and say, “Hey, how’s it going?” which is somewhat more rhythmic and less awkward.
Next, I feel the need to address the fact that I cannot get a town coke here. Anywhere. There are a billion towns around these parts and all of them sell coke.. but not a town one. And for those of you who don’t know me, my mom, or my Mimi, you should learn that a town coke is a fountain drink with good ice – semi-crushed. I would even go as far to say that a town coke has to be from Dairy Queen or Sonic – a treat when you’re out driving the drag or when you need a little pick-me-up. Gas station fountain drinks don’t count.
And they don’t have them here in England.
In fact, no one seems to drink anything other than orange juice, coffee, pints, or (hot) tea. Bottled water is around, but I rarely see anyone having any. I remember Christine and I having a lengthy conversation about this once. I theorized that perhaps the reason the English don’t have Big Gulps or other embarrassingly large beverages is because the whole country is pretty much hydrated. “After all,” I said, my fore-finger in the air, “it does rain almost daily there.” Plus (and I forgot to tell Christine this) the grass is really sponge-y in England. Perhaps the Brit’s skin is like the grass and absorbs water from the air. (Some of my synapses may, in fact, be retarded.)
Christine politely didn’t roll her eyes (too much) and reiterated the fact that while here she just carried a huge water bottle everywhere. “I just slammed it on the counter like I owned the place. Everyone else be damned. Yep, “she said, “this is my ginormous beverage. Deal with it. What?!” ***
Lastly, I must mention driving. And with the word “driving” in England I should also say, “Holy shit!” because damn. I spend the majority of the time in the car with my buttocks clenched. Why? Because every moment on the road in England is a “close call”. Actually, what I’m learning is that unless you actually bend in the side mirrors (a feature that all cars have here), you aren’t really close. But tell that to me as I’m inching between an American sized lorry and a cyclist with a baby on board, in a lane meant mainly for Kate Moss to saunter down and we’ll talk about the medical benefits of butt clenching.
“CURB!” is the word I mostly yell seconds before I rip my passenger-side rims into one.
*Seriously. That’s another thing. They say “I’ve got to fly, now” and all I can think of is Gandalf falling into endless doom in mines of Moria and the hobits burying their heads in their hands, forever altered by their immense grief.
** And they say “Bye” at least three times, fading out on each one, especially if they’re hanging up on a phone conversation. I think it’s kind of poetic.
***Probably this is a paraphrase
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