I remember the day Rich and I bought our washer and dryer. We had just moved out of our apartment and were spending loads of time overcharging our credit cards with things that we “needed” for our new, seemingly huge house in suburbia, Metroplex. The washer and dryer were of particular importance because we had this conversation:
“So, we just bought a washer and dryer.”
“Yep.”
“That probably makes us grown-ups.”
“Uh huh. Next we’ll be talking about health insurance and goiters.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah. Cool!”
Fast forward ten years and we’ve reverted back to being college kids.. at least when it comes to doing laundry.
The English, as I may have mentioned in almost every previous post, do things differently. They, like most other Western nations, wash their clothes in a machine, but then they hang them on a line to dry, unlike the good ole modern Texas suburban way of washing and drying in two separate machines. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time wondering about the logistics of line drying. Questions like, “How long does it take for clothes to dry?” lead to “What happens if it rains?” and then, ”If it rains, do you start the laundry over again or do you just leave it out to dry? What about mildew? Bugs? Underwear thieves? What happens if you are drying your underwear and company pops by? Do people buy underwear with this in mind? What would mine say about me?” And so on.
At first I felt some relief about having a washer/dryer combo in my kitchen (which is where they are kept in this country) because I wouldn’t have to learn the answers to the series of ridiculous questions that take my thoughts prisoner. I felt relief until I learned that my washer/dryer has about 75 thousand settings with symbols that may as well be hieroglyphics except that hieroglyphics actually use pictures that some archeologists, with much research and studying, may be able to understand; that it takes, without exaggeration, six hours to wash one small load of laundry if you actually figure out a combination – a series of poking buttons and prayer - that makes the machine work; and that drying, according to my machine, is something akin to lightly breathing upon the sopping wet clothes and then breaking for tea.
I do not have a garden or any outdoor space to dry my clothes which means that I have to string wet laundry on every surface of the house and will it not to sour. Unless I time it correctly and turn the clothes every twenty minutes or so, the clothes do, in fact, sour and I have to start over.
On one of my few and far-in-between jogs around my neighborhood, I saw a little launderette and decided to try it. I gathered together my bundles and paraded them down the street, in front of Café Rouge where people sit sipping glasses of wine and people watch, past the tiny corner Tesco where folks step over each other (with all the polite "pardons") to get their groceries, and one block further. Inside were 6 washing machines and 6 dryers: Four quid to wash, one pound twenty to dry. The washers have four options – hot, warm, cold, or delicate. They take twenty minutes to wash. Drying – hot, warm or cool – takes fifteen. I loaded, paid, and waited. I settled in and reacquainted myself with the game of Hearts on the computer, and halfway through the rinse cycle, I realized that I was enjoying myself. A lot.
I now look forward to laundry time. I get grading done as I wash. I read and play games. I think and am still for 35 minutes per visit, more time than I ever spent being still at home when I worked on other things while the machine whirred in the background. My neighbors walk by the launderette’s open door and some even smile. I’ve begun recognizing them. This is my community full of people who do normal things like laundry!
Maybe I’m nostalgic about feeling like a college kid again. Maybe I’m being overly sentimental about what it means to be here rather than to visit here. Maybe in the winter I will take all of my sappy sweet feelings back and bitch about how horrid it is to trudge all the way down to the launderette in the bitter cold to wash towels. But for now, I’ll enjoy it.
Today is laundry day!
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Actually LIVING here
Then other day I received an email from a dear friend who wanted to know all about where I live and what it is like for me here. She, more than most, understands how amazing it is that I’ve made this particular move to London, as she’s been here with me a couple of times and has seen the way I light up the second my shoes hit England’s glorious spongy grass. Also, she was among those poor souls who survived my first, most vulnerable year teaching when she was twelve. Now she’s twenty five.
When she asks, “Tell me about your new 'hood! What's the vibe? Who lives around? What goes on? Have you had any more shut-downs because of the Olympic cycling? What's your take on teaching and what-not? What's your take on it "all"? How is it looking at the US from the other side of the Atlantic?” she doesn’t expect, nor does she deserve, the canned answer I realized I’ve been nonchalantly wielding about: “It’s great! I love it! School is fine. It rains here sometimes which is new and different for a nice girl from Texas.”
The worst part is, I’m not sure I truly know the answers, yet, other than, ”Nope. No more shut downs because of Olympic cyclists.” Knowing the answers would mean actually paying attention to each moment – living in it -without being distracted by routine. I’d like to try and do that better and possibly share what I’ve experienced.
I’ll start with the laundrette.
When she asks, “Tell me about your new 'hood! What's the vibe? Who lives around? What goes on? Have you had any more shut-downs because of the Olympic cycling? What's your take on teaching and what-not? What's your take on it "all"? How is it looking at the US from the other side of the Atlantic?” she doesn’t expect, nor does she deserve, the canned answer I realized I’ve been nonchalantly wielding about: “It’s great! I love it! School is fine. It rains here sometimes which is new and different for a nice girl from Texas.”
The worst part is, I’m not sure I truly know the answers, yet, other than, ”Nope. No more shut downs because of Olympic cyclists.” Knowing the answers would mean actually paying attention to each moment – living in it -without being distracted by routine. I’d like to try and do that better and possibly share what I’ve experienced.
I’ll start with the laundrette.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Considering September 12th
(Hi Mom, don’t read this..)
Somehow I find it blasphemous to post this on this, the 10th anniversary of September 11th which, as you will quickly point out after reading this, is ironic on so many levels. So I won’t. I’ll schedule it to post tomorrow, a day that is not marked nor marred, neither memorialized nor mentionable.
Here’s the thing: I feel incredibly conflicted about September 11th. At this moment, Facebook, along with other mainstream media, is incredibly cluttered, heavy with the weight of questions like, “Where were you on the day?” over a link to an interactive pin site where everyone with an internet connection can pin a note showing where they were when the planes hit the Twin Towers. You can zoom in on Ground Zero in particular and read what folks witnessed then and how they are feeling now. The pins are even color-coded: Red pins represent the fearful; purple ones indicate anger; light blue pins are selected by the hopeful; dark blues are for the heartless, unmoved; and green are for people who feel secure. You can imagine what colors are most represented.
In addition to the sad posts, there are the patriotic ones: pictures of mountains, eagles, and, of course, the ever popular undulating Stars ‘n Stripes. And how many people changed their profile pictures to one of the iconic images, the flag flying over the wreckage, for example, or a NYC FD fireman’s hat? Listed are” inspirational writings” that say everything from the misplaced, “God Bless our Troops” to highly inspirational quotes by the likes of 9/11 figureheads like George W. Bush: "I can hear you, the rest of the world can hear you and the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon."
Fortunately, I haven’t seen any wholly disparaging quotes about Islam or any Middle Eastern countries. In fact, I found this from one of my lovely former students who happens to be a Muslim American:
“Tomorrow, on 9/11, I'll mourn the nearly 3,000 lives lost, the over 6,000 injuries, the infrastructural carnage and devastation in NYC, and the humiliation of my country, all perpetrated ignorantly in the name of MY religion.
And on 9/12, I'll mourn the nearly 1,000,000 lives, the 10's of millions of injuries, the infrastructural decimation in three countries, and the humiliation of my religion, all perpetrated ignorantly in the name of MY country.
May God guide us all.”
This is both sad and inspirational (and overwhelmingly apt, in my opinion).
I had the audacity to repost it as a reply on another person’s statistically incorrect post that was decidedly one-sided. She summarily deleted my response, I’m assuming because it allowed the notion that the US shares some culpability with regard to loss on this day. Maybe it’s because I said the words “Muslim” and “friend” in the same sentence. Who knows? In any case, her prompt censoring led to my swift and final friend dismissal.
Literally, I am a virtual outcast when it comes to my feelings about what should be remembered on a day like today. I am annoyed by all of the 9/11 pomp and pageantry and am almost completely intolerant of the boastful, blind patriotism that is attached to all of it. It's everywhere!
There. I said it.
Noam Chomsky, in an excerpt from his recent book, 9/11 – Was There an Alternative?, reminds us that before our country became enamored with our post 9/11 patriotic response, we were the perpetrators of much larger attacks as seen by our own history. He remembers the first 9/11, the one that happened in 1973 when we effectively over- turned the Chilean government and put Pinochet in office, a decision that led to 25 times the horror for the Chileans that 9/11/01 was to us. He notes that our most recent 9/11 war would be considered a crime of aggression, citing Chief Justice Robert Jackson’s proposal that the US (i.e. Bush), according to the textbook definition derived from the Nuremburg Trials, is a first aggressor who invaded another country.
“We are left with two choices: either Bush and associates are guilty of the “supreme international crime” including all the evils that follow, or else we declare that the Nuremberg proceedings were a farce and the allies were guilty of judicial murder.”
To be fair, Chomsky also cites Obama as a participant in the US’s injustices against others, specifically in his decision to execute bin Ladin without a trial - another example of “judicial murder.”
I realize I am being inflammatory at the moment. And perhaps this is the wrong time to bring up all of these points. Contrary to what you are probably thinking right now, I don’t plan on joining sides with the folks who burned an American flag outside of the US Embassy in London this morning (ouch), nor do I intend to further hurt or humiliate anyone who feels the very intimate loss that is associated with this day.
I would like to remind people that there is more to the story. September 11th should be remembered as a one of the most heinous days in US history and should be approached with humility, with empathy, and with an overwhelming reminder of how fragile and lovely humanity is. Perhaps we should be a little less patriotic, boastful, and dare I say, celebratory, and instead use our time to think deeply about what truths are buried in our collective American consciences that we may be compensating for in our allegiance to September 11th.
Somehow I find it blasphemous to post this on this, the 10th anniversary of September 11th which, as you will quickly point out after reading this, is ironic on so many levels. So I won’t. I’ll schedule it to post tomorrow, a day that is not marked nor marred, neither memorialized nor mentionable.
Here’s the thing: I feel incredibly conflicted about September 11th. At this moment, Facebook, along with other mainstream media, is incredibly cluttered, heavy with the weight of questions like, “Where were you on the day?” over a link to an interactive pin site where everyone with an internet connection can pin a note showing where they were when the planes hit the Twin Towers. You can zoom in on Ground Zero in particular and read what folks witnessed then and how they are feeling now. The pins are even color-coded: Red pins represent the fearful; purple ones indicate anger; light blue pins are selected by the hopeful; dark blues are for the heartless, unmoved; and green are for people who feel secure. You can imagine what colors are most represented.
In addition to the sad posts, there are the patriotic ones: pictures of mountains, eagles, and, of course, the ever popular undulating Stars ‘n Stripes. And how many people changed their profile pictures to one of the iconic images, the flag flying over the wreckage, for example, or a NYC FD fireman’s hat? Listed are” inspirational writings” that say everything from the misplaced, “God Bless our Troops” to highly inspirational quotes by the likes of 9/11 figureheads like George W. Bush: "I can hear you, the rest of the world can hear you and the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon."
Fortunately, I haven’t seen any wholly disparaging quotes about Islam or any Middle Eastern countries. In fact, I found this from one of my lovely former students who happens to be a Muslim American:
“Tomorrow, on 9/11, I'll mourn the nearly 3,000 lives lost, the over 6,000 injuries, the infrastructural carnage and devastation in NYC, and the humiliation of my country, all perpetrated ignorantly in the name of MY religion.
And on 9/12, I'll mourn the nearly 1,000,000 lives, the 10's of millions of injuries, the infrastructural decimation in three countries, and the humiliation of my religion, all perpetrated ignorantly in the name of MY country.
May God guide us all.”
This is both sad and inspirational (and overwhelmingly apt, in my opinion).
I had the audacity to repost it as a reply on another person’s statistically incorrect post that was decidedly one-sided. She summarily deleted my response, I’m assuming because it allowed the notion that the US shares some culpability with regard to loss on this day. Maybe it’s because I said the words “Muslim” and “friend” in the same sentence. Who knows? In any case, her prompt censoring led to my swift and final friend dismissal.
Literally, I am a virtual outcast when it comes to my feelings about what should be remembered on a day like today. I am annoyed by all of the 9/11 pomp and pageantry and am almost completely intolerant of the boastful, blind patriotism that is attached to all of it. It's everywhere!
There. I said it.
Noam Chomsky, in an excerpt from his recent book, 9/11 – Was There an Alternative?, reminds us that before our country became enamored with our post 9/11 patriotic response, we were the perpetrators of much larger attacks as seen by our own history. He remembers the first 9/11, the one that happened in 1973 when we effectively over- turned the Chilean government and put Pinochet in office, a decision that led to 25 times the horror for the Chileans that 9/11/01 was to us. He notes that our most recent 9/11 war would be considered a crime of aggression, citing Chief Justice Robert Jackson’s proposal that the US (i.e. Bush), according to the textbook definition derived from the Nuremburg Trials, is a first aggressor who invaded another country.
“We are left with two choices: either Bush and associates are guilty of the “supreme international crime” including all the evils that follow, or else we declare that the Nuremberg proceedings were a farce and the allies were guilty of judicial murder.”
To be fair, Chomsky also cites Obama as a participant in the US’s injustices against others, specifically in his decision to execute bin Ladin without a trial - another example of “judicial murder.”
I realize I am being inflammatory at the moment. And perhaps this is the wrong time to bring up all of these points. Contrary to what you are probably thinking right now, I don’t plan on joining sides with the folks who burned an American flag outside of the US Embassy in London this morning (ouch), nor do I intend to further hurt or humiliate anyone who feels the very intimate loss that is associated with this day.
I would like to remind people that there is more to the story. September 11th should be remembered as a one of the most heinous days in US history and should be approached with humility, with empathy, and with an overwhelming reminder of how fragile and lovely humanity is. Perhaps we should be a little less patriotic, boastful, and dare I say, celebratory, and instead use our time to think deeply about what truths are buried in our collective American consciences that we may be compensating for in our allegiance to September 11th.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Out and About
Visit pics on the Flickr of last week ends whirlwind road trip to Bristol for the International Kite Festival, Glastonbury Abbey, and a ride on a refurbished steam engine! :)
Monday, August 29, 2011
On Buying Bread and Other Existential Crises
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.
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.
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
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Shoe Shocked
Muslim culture’s tradition of taking off one’s shoes at the door before entering someone’s home leaves this Western girl feeling insecure and uncertain about how best to move forward. In my culture shoes are essential. I’ve been taught that feet are dirty, that you can’t walk into a restaurant, convenience store, or any kind of market without them or if you do, you take a serious risk of either being kicked out or at the very least reprimanded by clerks and/or forthright patrons. It is an unwavering rule – No shirt, No shoes, No service. I’ve even found myself having acrimonious thoughts towards little children who sashay barefoot into places with their thoughtless mothers. How could any responsible mother allow her child to be subject to the many hazards and germs that foot to floor contact elicits? Worse, how could any responsible adult let another person leave germs and other hazards behind for unsuspecting, shoe clad people to muck through? If it weren’t a big deal, then why do shoe stores offer hosiery for trying on shoes? “Forget your socks? No problem. Have a footie,” reads a sign at DSW. It comforts me. At least I know that if someone tried on a pair of shoes I might buy, I can rest assured that probably no one’s stinky feet have actually touched my inner soles. Even in my childhood household, shoes were required in the kitchen, just as hairbrushes had to stay out.
It is these thoughts that hung over me as I stood on my sweet Muslim friends’ doorstep yesterday. Without more than a couple of natural movements, four people breezed through the front door, leaving their shoes in a nonchalant, cluttered pile. I, on the other hand, hesitated.
At least three years have passed since I remember walking into their home, not noticing that everyone had removed their shoes but me. Several hours into the visit I realized my error. Of course, the family was too nice to mention it, but I felt incredibly rude for being insensitive to that particular cultural norm. I remember trying to tuck my clunky shoed feet underneath furniture so as to hide my faux pas, and yet all I could stare at was everyone else’s toes.
And here, again, came the moment; it was time to behave as everyone else did and take off my shoes at the door. I felt like the others were watching me in anticipation. I was sure they were thinking, “Will she do it right this time?” or “Remember last time when she left her shoes on? They were sliders. She easily could’ve removed them!” or “Westerners. How arrogant!” Of course they weren’t thinking those thoughts. They’re much too kind to expel that kind of venom. Plus, rationally I am aware that not everyone has such specific memory about my flaws as I do. It probably wasn’t important to them in the first place. Still, as if I were stepping over a gated fence, I put one foot through the door and then the other. I slid into the nearest chair close by, and leaned down to take off my shoes. I kicked them to the side into the pile at the door and quickly curled my toes under my feet, afraid to look up and see if anyone noticed my angst.
Just then, a neighbor apparently walked by, as all of a sudden one of the little girls popped up and said, “Look! It’s so and so and her son!” She was pointing out the window behind me and hopping up and down excitedly. Everyone else perked up, too, looking around my form out the window. “Invite them in,” my friend said. “Yes do! Hurry!” another echoed. The little girl ran out of the front door, skipping over the pile of shoes, and insisted that her neighbors come in for a moment. Of course they did, as the hospitality of Islam encourages, and they also took off their shoes, adding them to the pile.
The woman stayed for a cup of tea and immediately drummed up a conversation about the circumcision of her 9 year old son which would be happening next week. She asked questions about what circumcision entailed, specifically, how to keep the “affected area” treated and dressed immediately after the procedure, and what the benefits of having it done were. They talked about the Islamic philosophy of circumcision, of characters in the Bible who had it done (one very specifically with an axe while he was in his nineties), the fact that someone’s grandfather did the procedure so rapidly, that he engaged in a competition with a local medical doctor to see who could circumcise the most boys in the fastest time. It was a circum-size-off! Boys lined up in two rows – one for the doctor, one for the grandfather, and someone ran a timer. Apparently, and according to the reenactment gesticulations of “snip and throw,” everyone in the living room smiled and nodded, one person even applauded, at the news that the grandfather won by a landslide.
During this entire conversation – which happened to be as bizarre and non sequitur as it is to you, the reader, as it was to me, the listener - all I could think about was finding a pair of socks.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Tid Bits
#1 – So it turns out that early morning in England gives one license to try their hand at driving like Mario Andretti, a reckless one. Take my nervousness about looking in the correct direction – which in my estimation, is the incorrect direction, as cars drive on the other side of the road. A lifetime of looking left and right for safety becomes null and void in a land of roundabouts and zippy drivers. The product of my insecurity is me on a curb doing something akin to the pee pee dance: Go now. No wait. Go now. No wait. Now! … Wait! (and so on).
I’m a curb dancing Saturday Night Live sketch - funny at first, but then it drags on far too long, until it’s just sadly annoying. You wonder why you’re wasting your time watching, yet you hope the next one will be better so you leave it there.
Please give my regards to Tina Fey. And please, in my obituary do not include either of the phrases “Girl who couldn’t cross,” and/or “but then she did.”
#2 – Military time, which is how everything here is timed, is confusing for a non-math type. That is all.
#3 – “Half of five” v. “half past five” v. “half five” = what the hell time am I supposed to show up at the train platform?
#4 – Yesterday I went to visit my dear friends Mark and Ilham and their two gorgeous, hilarious daughters. In this endeavor I:
A. Found on a map and then walked to the train station in Weybridge.
B. Bought the right type of ticket to London (a single to Waterloo and then a travel card (for the tube) to Southgate).
C. Enjoyed a very pleasant evening with a family I adore and who treat me so kindly, like one of their own. I spent the night there and traveled back today. (Throw your hands up at me.)
D. Felt like a true English girl because I used an Oyster card (that Mark lent me for the tube).
#5 – I went to the Tesco (corner grocery store) and bought tortillas, taco shells, jalapenos, and a celebratory bottle of wine for being able to buy tortillas, taco shells, and jalapenos in my town.
#6 - I'm seriously having trouble with internet access and email - Please bear with me.
#7 – Overall, I really do love being here, but can’t wait until Rich and Jack join me!!! And you, too! Come visit!!
I’m a curb dancing Saturday Night Live sketch - funny at first, but then it drags on far too long, until it’s just sadly annoying. You wonder why you’re wasting your time watching, yet you hope the next one will be better so you leave it there.
Please give my regards to Tina Fey. And please, in my obituary do not include either of the phrases “Girl who couldn’t cross,” and/or “but then she did.”
#2 – Military time, which is how everything here is timed, is confusing for a non-math type. That is all.
#3 – “Half of five” v. “half past five” v. “half five” = what the hell time am I supposed to show up at the train platform?
#4 – Yesterday I went to visit my dear friends Mark and Ilham and their two gorgeous, hilarious daughters. In this endeavor I:
A. Found on a map and then walked to the train station in Weybridge.
B. Bought the right type of ticket to London (a single to Waterloo and then a travel card (for the tube) to Southgate).
C. Enjoyed a very pleasant evening with a family I adore and who treat me so kindly, like one of their own. I spent the night there and traveled back today. (Throw your hands up at me.)
D. Felt like a true English girl because I used an Oyster card (that Mark lent me for the tube).
#5 – I went to the Tesco (corner grocery store) and bought tortillas, taco shells, jalapenos, and a celebratory bottle of wine for being able to buy tortillas, taco shells, and jalapenos in my town.
#6 - I'm seriously having trouble with internet access and email - Please bear with me.
#7 – Overall, I really do love being here, but can’t wait until Rich and Jack join me!!! And you, too! Come visit!!
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Boots Down
So, here’s what I know so far. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve been to the UK on vacation, nor does it matter how much I LOVE London and quaint, small villages around the city; I am a foreigner in a foreign place and I have to learn how to do everything all over again, including learning the language which is far different from the Texican I’m accustomed to.
For example, I am not supposed to say the word “knob” when I close my front door and yell out in frustration, “Where is my knob? Surely British people use them here!” Apparently, the word “knob” means “penis” in England. In one innocent moment of angst, I’ve insulted an entire nation’s sexuality and inspired doubt about my own. All I wanted to do was close my front door without smashing my fingers in the mail slot.
(Side bar:
In my defense about British sexuality, all I have to go on is my friend Peter’s comment about his parents - how they slept in single beds across the room from each other and how possibly he and his brother, Bugsy, were only conceived because his father had, “precise aim.. twice”. Maybe I'm not far off the insult.. Still, this is a proud and reproductive nation. I didn’t mean any offense. Plus, contrary to popular understanding, I’m only curious about my own missing knob when it comes to questions about the Western patriarchy and how shitty it is. If only women had knobs! Maybe then we would be taken seriously.
End side bar)
Other new words include these found in the following sentences:
You can definitely top up your mobile broadband if you pop into the Waitros, bang in the center of Weybridge. Just ask for a 5 pound voucher.
Translation:
You can add minutes to your internet device if you stop by the Waitros grocery store which is located in the center of the town of Weybridge. Just ask for a 5 dollar voucher.
This is probably an obvious translation to a lot of folks, but try understanding it in a thick British accent when you have jet lag, haven’t slept in.. - how long has it been since you slept?-, and can’t determine why your hands are shaking so badly – is it tiredness or too much caffeine? Is it too little caffeine or a lack of food?
Is it fear because you are a lonely foreigner in a foreign place where even shutting your front door is hard?
Each day gets easier, though. I now am a regular customer at the Café Nero – bang in the center of Weybridge – having been here two days in a row. I have learned how to wash my clothes and get to the bus station. Riding on public transport is still sort of a mystery to me, though. Maybe tomorrow. I've made a little perch of my huge livingroom windows that open to a bustling avenue and I drink wine there while I people watch.
This morning I ate an omelet made by my own two hands and have found that just being in the kitchen with an actual coffee maker, some bananas, and some dish soap is a comfort. It’s my kitchen; those are my bananas next to my coffee pot. That dish soap? I can use it whenever I want because I found the Tesco, bought it using the British pounds that came from my local ATM, and I’ll “do the washing up” with it when I feel good and ready because this is my place, my home.
I suppose I’m getting more comfortable here, and of course I’ve had massive help from my friends, Mark, Gemma, and Olly (saints, all of them!) who have been very tender and supportive through some of my more obvious meltdowns. Even the Vodafone store clerk said, “Hey I didn’t recognize you from yesterday. You look different.”
“Yep,” I think, “I do look different. I stopped shaking, I got some sleep, and I’m headed to my local coffee spot.”
It’s boots down, folks.
For example, I am not supposed to say the word “knob” when I close my front door and yell out in frustration, “Where is my knob? Surely British people use them here!” Apparently, the word “knob” means “penis” in England. In one innocent moment of angst, I’ve insulted an entire nation’s sexuality and inspired doubt about my own. All I wanted to do was close my front door without smashing my fingers in the mail slot.
(Side bar:
In my defense about British sexuality, all I have to go on is my friend Peter’s comment about his parents - how they slept in single beds across the room from each other and how possibly he and his brother, Bugsy, were only conceived because his father had, “precise aim.. twice”. Maybe I'm not far off the insult.. Still, this is a proud and reproductive nation. I didn’t mean any offense. Plus, contrary to popular understanding, I’m only curious about my own missing knob when it comes to questions about the Western patriarchy and how shitty it is. If only women had knobs! Maybe then we would be taken seriously.
End side bar)
Other new words include these found in the following sentences:
You can definitely top up your mobile broadband if you pop into the Waitros, bang in the center of Weybridge. Just ask for a 5 pound voucher.
Translation:
You can add minutes to your internet device if you stop by the Waitros grocery store which is located in the center of the town of Weybridge. Just ask for a 5 dollar voucher.
This is probably an obvious translation to a lot of folks, but try understanding it in a thick British accent when you have jet lag, haven’t slept in.. - how long has it been since you slept?-, and can’t determine why your hands are shaking so badly – is it tiredness or too much caffeine? Is it too little caffeine or a lack of food?
Is it fear because you are a lonely foreigner in a foreign place where even shutting your front door is hard?
Each day gets easier, though. I now am a regular customer at the Café Nero – bang in the center of Weybridge – having been here two days in a row. I have learned how to wash my clothes and get to the bus station. Riding on public transport is still sort of a mystery to me, though. Maybe tomorrow. I've made a little perch of my huge livingroom windows that open to a bustling avenue and I drink wine there while I people watch.
This morning I ate an omelet made by my own two hands and have found that just being in the kitchen with an actual coffee maker, some bananas, and some dish soap is a comfort. It’s my kitchen; those are my bananas next to my coffee pot. That dish soap? I can use it whenever I want because I found the Tesco, bought it using the British pounds that came from my local ATM, and I’ll “do the washing up” with it when I feel good and ready because this is my place, my home.
I suppose I’m getting more comfortable here, and of course I’ve had massive help from my friends, Mark, Gemma, and Olly (saints, all of them!) who have been very tender and supportive through some of my more obvious meltdowns. Even the Vodafone store clerk said, “Hey I didn’t recognize you from yesterday. You look different.”
“Yep,” I think, “I do look different. I stopped shaking, I got some sleep, and I’m headed to my local coffee spot.”
It’s boots down, folks.
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