A Barbershop I Would Not Recommend

I saw this on the street in Koh Chang. The other funny thing I saw was on a menu. The menu had all the Thai foods dutifully translated into English but there was one Thai dish that had the name in Thai and then for English it was "no name." I somehow imagined a translator getting to this dish and thinking and thinking and then just giving up. There's no way you could describe this dish in English. I was almost tempted to order the "no name" dish; however, being a vegetarian means I can't deal with too many surprises especially if they show up in the shape of some former animal.

Koh Chang Sunset

Motel Misadventures

After hemming and hawing for several days about where I would go for Christmas, I finally decided that I would go to Koh Chang for the weekend. I went to Bangkok Thursday night and did all my favorite Bangkok things: a bookstore, a nice "western" supper at Au Bon Pain, and a 1.5 hour massage.

My life is never without its peculiar troubles and this trip did not prove to be the exception. My "woes" started Friday morning when I tried to make reservations for my motel in Koh Chang. I called Siam Hut and talked with a pleasant man, but I think we had some communication problems.


The conversation went as follows.

Me: I would like to reserve a motel.
Him: A bungalow?
Me: Yes.
Him: On the beach?
Me: Yes.
Him: What time?
Me: 5:00 pm please.
Him: Silence.
Me: Ummmm…Don’t you need my name?
Him: More silence.
Me: Uh…are you sure you don’t need my name?
Him: My name is Nom.
Me: Okay.
Me: Silence.

After this conversation I called several hours later.

We had the following conversation.

Me: I would like to reserve a motel.
Him: Would you like a motel room or bungalow?
Me: Bungalow.
Him: On the beach or off the beach?
Me: On the beach please.
Him: What time will you be arriving?
Me: At 5:00 pm.
Him: Silence.
Me: Ummmmmmmm....Don't you need my name?
Him: More silence.
Me: Okay, goodbye.

I had a pleasant bus trip down to Koh Chang but I couldn't help wondering what would happen if I showed up at Siam Hut. Would I say, "I'm the foreigner who made two reservations at your motel? Look me up under--"no name, bungalow-on-the-beach" The bus company dropped us off at a station. I wouldn't really call it a station. It was a building owned by the bus company where they sold you ferry tickets and motel rooms if you wanted. Even though I was slightly annoyed that I was being not dropped off at the regular station, I decided that I would reserve a real room through this company since the fear of arriving on the island and going from motel to motel looking for a place to stay made me nervous. I looked at some pictures on the wall and I said, "I would like to reserve a room at White Sand Resort." At least I think that is what I said.

A forty minute ferry ride and twenty minute songtow ride later, I got to the beach where my motel was located. I walked along the beach looking for my motel which was (according to the sign on the road) 200 meters down the beach. The sun was setting and I was happy. I couldn't believe my good fortune to be just walking relishing the sunset on the beach. I walked and walked . I walked some more and thought about how though I did not speak the metric it seemed like a lot more than 200 meters. I passed motel after motel and finally (sigh) after I had passed ALL the motels I saw my motel--The White Sand Resort. The resort was beautiful.

I thought to myself, "For 500 baht this place is quite nice." I went to the clerk and handed them my receipt and then filled out the forms. Soon I would be relaxing my bungalow near the water. After a few minutes the clerk said, "You did not reserve a room at this motel. He handed me my receipt and it said, 'The Island.' Ah...fool that I was...I never checked the receipt. The clerk gave me a map of the motels on the island and I sat down in the nice lobby to look at it. I studied the map intently but didn't see my motel. A man, who worked for the motel, came and sat down beside me. He set his can of Singha Beer down on the coffee table and stared at the same map I was looking at. He stared at the map for several minutes and announced, "Your motel is not on this map." He made several phone calls and discovered (actually much to my relief) that my motel existed. He then offered me a ride there.

I looked at the beer he was drinking, I thought about being in a truck with a man I didn't know, I thought about what my dad would say about all of this, and then I thought about the 30 minute walk back to the road and I agreed to go with him. It was a brilliant cost-benefit analysis. Personal safety vs. A Long Walk with personal safety losing out (and I might add the realization that I didn't know where my motel was). He went to get the keys from the staff and gulp he grabbed another beer (gulp) and we drove up a long windy road through the jungle to the main street. Ten minutes later I was at my motel The Island--a run down kind of place up the hill from a construction site. It had a bed, a fan, and a cold shower. It was worth every baht I paid for it.

I went to bed early that night. I was too tired to go eat anything and I was just happy to be in my little room. The next day I got up and watched the sunrise, then slept for a couple of hours, then lounged on the beach, then went back to my room for an afternoon nap, then on the beach again until sunset. There was not much (thankfully) I could say about that day. It was just full of all the peace and relaxation that I needed.

After sunset I met up with Marlise and Daniel (thanks to Laura posting my phone number on their blog--I hadn't gotten the number from them when they told me to call them when I got there). We had Indian food and talked until almost 11:00 pm.

I caught the ferry, then bus, then van back to MC the next day and thus ended my very very short Christmas getaway.

What Could God Not Do Without You?

I came across this poem in my devotions the other day and I was struck by the last two lines of the poem. Read on....

When my master holds
'Twixt chin and hand a violin of mine,
He will be glad that Stradivari lived,
Made violins, and made them of the best.
. . . For while God gives them skill
I give them instruments to play upon,
God choosing me to help Him,
. . . If my hand slacked
I should rob God--since He is fullest good--
. . . He could not make Antonio Stradivari's violins
Without Antonio.

By: George Eliot, Qtd in The Meaning of Prayer

Tiger Monastery

A couple of weeks ago I went with some students on a school sponsored tour around Kanchanburi Province. We stopped at the Tiger Monastery. If you look at my hand in this picture it is only lightly resting on this tiger. He looks calm and asleep but I wasn't going to take any risks!

Random Bits of Poetry

One of the pleasures of being an English teacher is that the most random bits of poetry are in my mind. Today walking back from the cafeteria just the title of a poem came back to me, "Who burns for the perfection of paper." The other night walking around the campus I could hear in my head, "I will arise and go to Innisfree...And a small cabin build there, Of clay and wattles made." The funny thing about the last poem is that I heard it read once on a CD and ever since then the sound of the poem in my mind is in the shaky voice of the old man reading the poem from that CD.

Being a Student Vs. Being a Teacher

I'm not sure if it is better to be a student or a teacher. There are many things I miss about being a student. I miss the luxury of being able to day dream or write letters if a class is boring. Now, if a class is boring...there isn't much to do but (gulp) figure out why my students are falling asleep. I miss only being responsible for myself. I miss the only bad consequences of not planning well, is getting a bad grade. I miss playing hooky. It's a little harder to run away for a day when you need to think about how that will affect your students.

On the other hand, the advantages of being a teacher are plenty. By the time finals roll along, I'm happy. By then, most of my work is done (okay besides the hours of marking that come later). I also like the power to cancel things. If I'm falling behind in my work, than I can cancel some assignments so I can catch up.

And as much as I grumble about how much school and work occupies my mind (I have to make a conscious effort not to worry about classes while I'm at home), I love the constant challenge that being a teacher brings to me. Every day, every class, I'm discovering (sometimes painfully) that there are better ways to go about what I'm doing. I'm forced to grow.

Romeo

An email my dad sent me last week:

Hi Julie,

We are about to walk out the door and drive to Gina's. I had to lol at mother's list I found as to what to bring:

frozen cranberry salad
pie
frichik
Romeo

Oh well he will be on ice. So stay away from Bangkok and India, both don't look too happy lately.

Love,
Dad and Mom

Romeo is our dearly departed cat. He lived with our family for twenty years and when he died my sister wanted to give him a proper burial (they even made a slide show for him), so my parents kept him in the freezer until they were able to take him to my sister's house at Thanksgiving. Some may think my family mad, but if they knew Romeo--they wouldn't. He was such an amazing, loving, weird, wonderful, and delightful cat.

He was massive in his prime (20 lbs/9 kilos) and some nights when he fell asleep on my neck I would wake up choking because he was so heavy. My sister loved him so much that when she started dating her husband who had a cat allergy I asked her, "So will it be Romeo or Oscar?" She told me the question wasn't fair.

Romeo loved to follow us around the house. Whatever room we would move to he would eventually follow. He would watch my dad shave in the morning or he would just sit in the living room with us as we watched TV.

In his old age Romeo grew senile. Sometimes he would just sit for hours staring at nothing. He was also deaf. Despite his senility he was still loving. My last time I was home I spent many hours reading in bed and Romeo would curl up his bony old cat body beside me. I will miss him. I hope pets go to heaven.


"Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow."

Romeo and Juliet Act 2, Scene 2

Yesterday

Yesterday was Thanksgiving. My parents, sister, nieces, aunts, uncles, cousins, cousin's kids all got together at my sister's house. They probably spent most of the day cooking. My mom would have made frozen cranberry salad with whipped cream, my sister probably cooked the turkey, and my cousin most likely brought some pumpkin pie. I would have liked the eating. I would have liked how I would have had to have sat at the "kid" table with all the other "kids" who are now in their late 20s and early 30s. After the meal I would probably would have sat for awhile just trying to let everything settle. I would have played with my two year old niece and then chatted with my elven-year-old niece. My dad most likely would have suggested we go for a walk. We'd go outside and the first thing that would hit me would be how cold it was. I would have run back in and grabbed my black pea coat and stuffed my hands deep into its pockets. My dad and I would have walked against the wind and talked some. We'd probably have talked about religion or politics or whatever was on our minds. Yesterday was Thanksgiving and I worked all day. I had a pleasant supper with the Americans and honorary Americans, but I wasn't home.

The Ocean

I had a job recruiter ask me which part of the US I wanted to live in. I said, "Either the west coast or the east coast but nowhere in between." I'm not against middle America, but I just need an ocean near by. The farther I get inland the more claustrophobic I feel. Even if I don't see the water on a day to day basis, just the knowledge that it is there makes me happy. I need the ocean to breathe.

The thing I keep forgetting

Silliness is a prerequisite for sanity.

My Office

My socks don't match. I'm just noticing that. I'm sitting in my office...feet propped up on my desk and I just noticed that my socks don't match. One sock is gray and the other is brown. Humph. But the point of this is that I'm IN MY OFFICE.

This office plays a large role in my life (too large). I know how nice it is to take naps under my desk and I know what it's like to be here at 10:00 pm struggling with lesson planning.
I know how fun it is to run around the the school barefoot or in socks. (Who knew that running down the hall and seeing how far I could slide on my socks could bring so much entertainment?) And I also know the madness of how-will-I-ever-get-my-work-done-head-down-on-my-desk prayers.

Well, I'm going now. I need to get out of this place. :)

The Future

Today after class I ran into a friend in the hall. She looked at me and said, "Why are you so happy?" I had to laugh. Well, how can I explain that in a short sentence? I told her and I think this was unnecessary information. "I'm happy today because I realize that the past doesn't have to hold me down." It's not that my past is horrible, but sometimes I get caught feeling like certain mistakes that I've made or certain struggles that I have had will inevitably stay with me.

Lately, I've been telling myself..."the future weighs more than the past". How do I know what I will become? How do I know that my future won' t be something bigger than my past or my present? Why can't I claim that possibly bigger future now?

I want to offer my students the same option I offer myself. How do I know that their future is not going to be something great? I especially want to offer that option to the struggling students in my classes. I want to start treating them more as if they have already arrived at greatness.

Strange Happenings

Today while my students were taking their linguistics exam just when the room was at its absolute quietest some mice in the ceiling above us decided to make a mad dash across the attic. You could hear them scuffling as they went along. It sounded like they were out on some holiday. I had to laugh. Foolish mice. Bad timing.

Feedback

One of the hardest things I struggle with as a writing teacher is giving good feedback. Sometimes all I can think of is "this just sounds right" or "this just sounds wrong." But when it comes down to actually articulating why something is wrong or right, I find myself incapable of saying anything intelligent. I suffer often from grading block!

I suppose the issue of feedback is much deeper than just grading. It comes down to how can I move from doing something to showing how it is done? It's the difference between playing by ear and knowing how to teach piano. I've struggled with this dilemna ever since I started teaching.

I've read many books on writing pedagogy and while the books give me good ideas, they leave me unsatisfied. Maybe the unsatisfaction is partially with myself. "Yes, this is how I teach writing, but how can I do it better?" But I think there's also just more literature that needs to be written about teaching writing.

I guess when I start thinking about that than the next stop is, "Well, what research are you going to do about this?"

I'm rambling. I'm rambling because the reality is I have 20 essays on my desk that need some form of response. I'm going back to my desk now. Essays here I come!!

10 Reasons Why I Like Students

Okay, I'm starting a list of why I like students.

1) Because they are funny
2) Because they talk fervently (in my classroom) in another language and laugh so hard I wonder what they are talking about
3) Because they turn in home work assignments mislabeled with delightful plays on words like: "English Combustion I" or "My first drift"
4) Because they like each other
5) Because each classroom and each student teaches me something new about the world
6) Because they sometimes say the wrong thing like, "I was absent today. Did I miss anything?"
7) Because (sometimes!) they get excited about what they are learning
8) Because they are not ashamed to groan when I give them home work
9) Because they can get so excited about classroom games that they forget they are adults
10) Because I might have never gotten to know them if they hadn't walked into my classroom

Students' Laughing

My favorite time in the classroom is when students are laughing. I don't necessarily mean laughing at my jokes (though I appreciate a polite chuckle here or there), but just genuinely laughing as they work. I see it sometimes when they are working together. One student makes a a funny comment and the others starts to chuckle or sometimes they poke each other in jest. I walk around the classroom watching them and say to myself, "this is how I want it to stay."

Students Plagiarize

Students plagiarize. They plagiarize because they are tired, they plagiarize because they are ignorant, they plagiarize because they are lazy, and they plagiarize because they are overwhelmed.

When I get discouraged about plagiarism (and I do get discouraged when out of a class of 17, 10 students plagiarize), I remember one of the best lessons I ever learned about teaching.

I had been teaching the American Revolution to high school students and it came out that they were confusing the American Revolution with the Industrial Revolution. I told a friend about this class. I said, "I can't believe American students could be so ignorant of their own history!" My friend looked at me and said, "Isn't that why you are teaching them?"

I suppose that sentence has always stayed with me. "Isn't that why you are teaching them?" Students plagiarize--this is why I'm teaching them. I'm teaching them because I want them to care about their learning and their writing. I want them to enjoy their minds and the pleasure that comes from doing something well.

Students plagiarize. It's time for me to roll up my sleeves, pray harder, and learn more thoroughly how to make my students think, dream, learn, and write. God grant me the wisdom.

A Short Poem

Before words
Ideas
Before ideas
Wonder
How can I teach these things?

Polite Underwear

Sometimes I think that Thai men are much more secure in their masculinity than American men. I've seen many Thai men wear head bands (the kind that 12-year old girls wear in the states) with a confidence that surprises me. So last Sunday, as I walked through an outdoor market, I shouldn't have been surprised when my eyes fell on a brand of men's underwear that had a very unmanly ring to it. The brand name was "polite underwear."

Since when did underwear become polite?

Hiding from the Awful Ants

Last night, after a tremendous thunderstorm, the awful ants came out. They are so named by me because they have wings and they can push their little squirmy bodies through screens, fly into a house, then promptly shed those wings so they can get it on on the floor. The wings go everywhere--in your sink, on your toothbrush, in between your sheets. Aghh! And the awful ants never come out in moderation; they come out in hordes.

I could actually hear the the awful ants coming. The storm was abating, and I was standing outside. The night seemed for a moment to get calmer and sweeter. Then just as the thunder was fading away the awful ants took up the tune. Wah!! I could hear the sound of their wings. I ran into my house and turned off all my lights so they couldn't find me. (Does this sound like a horror movie? It is.)

More Than Supper Required

She was a scrawny thing: small, undernourished, needy. My roommate introduced me to her. More like Laka introduced herself to my roommate and I got thrown in on the bargain. Laka was ten years old when I met her. She was in the lower grades of the school where I held my first teaching job. Her family lived down the street from my house, but they were a strange family. . .It didn’t seem like they noticed their daughter very much let alone feed her very well. She seemed to be more like a stray animal than a child.

She would drop by my house at night with a hungry look on her face. I would ask her, “What did you eat for breakfast?”

“Instant noodles.” She would say.

“Lunch?” I quizzed her down.

“Instant noodles.”

“Supper?”

“Instant noodles.”

It was always the same. She had eaten something she cooked herself-- something easy and cheap for a ten-year-old to make.

“Come in.” I would tell her. Then I’d feed her a portion of my supper. Because Laka was small and overlooked she could be awkward at times. I remember she was not ashamed to ask for more food. If I had anything on my shelves she would point at it, “What is that? Can I have it?” If we left anything sitting around she would pick it up. She once grabbed my roommate’s camera and started taking pictures. My roommate and I decided after that if she ate with us she would have to follow our house rules. “No touching” we would tell her. “Laka, ask before you take things,” we would scold her.

My most vivid memory of her was on Saturday afternoon we went for a walk together. I remember she took my hand and held it as we walked down the street. Strangely enough my strongest emotion was shame. I was embarrassed to be seen walking down main street with this child clinging to me. I was worried that people might laugh at me for being so conned by her.

True, I had enough compassion to feed her, but I did not enough courage to love her. True, she always stopped by my house after I was exhausted from work. True, she wanted to spend every Saturday with me (my only day off). True, she was inconvenient. But why didn’t I love her more? She needed so much more than my begrudging offer of supper.