One might think that a country lending itself neither to plumpness nor facial hair would very likely be lacking any apparent affection for that swollen saint named Nicholas. However, Santa is alive and well on the snow-free, but still festive, streets of Hanoi, perhaps thriving like never before as his gutty girth has been whittled down to a slimmer, healthier stature, that is in all but his plush personas. He can be seen zipping to and fro atop his suggestively merry motorbike dropping off Christmas cargo throughout the city. One can only guess what’s inhabiting these precious packages, but chances are it ends with the suffix “emon.”
I had the pristine privilege of riding next to one these decorated delivery boys last Monday, on my 3 speed super cycle that would make any eight year old quake with envy. As most of my general knowledge comes from movie trilogies staring Tim Allen, I was fully aware of the awe-inspiring opportunity that was trailing alongside me. All I had to do was cause him some fatal accident and swipe his business card, a series of actions that would allow me to usurp his yuletide notoriety. However, as soon as this rabid realization began its sweet repose in my mind, I was soon flooded with a wave of sweet recollections of everyone’s favorite wonderboy, JTT. And before I could again raise my head above the water from that rushing river, swiftly flowing down from all things Allen, my ticket to that jolliest of jobs had since left me far behind, pedaling aimlessly.
Well, despite the failure of this seasonally sadistic exploit, I, like my fellow American teachers, was in fact able to spread some Christmas cheer by hosting a few holiday blowouts here at the guesthouse. Beforehand, to prepare, I watched all four House Party films, taking meticulous notes on how to have a truly enjoyable celebration at one’s place of residence. Unfortunately though, contrary to commonly held conceptions, there isn’t much of a thriving hip-hop scene here in Hot-Noi. However, with our powers combined, five ordinary English teachers were able to supply a series of parties that would rival any Gatsby get-together.
The site of these Super Sweet 2000’s was our rooftop, overlooking the busy street of Chua Long. Enough blinking lights were strung throughout this sky scraping structure to give Pottersville a run for its money, sans all those sketchy jitterbug dance joints. However, we did clear off some space for the Charleston, just in case any attendants were afflicted with such aspirations. Then, to further enhance the future festivities, snacks were baked, a process that is nearly nonexistent in Nam. Since you can’t fry or boil a cookie, these morsels were placed in our tiny toaster oven one small, but brimming, batch at a time.
When the students arrived to partake of the party pleasures, they seemed consistently surprised by the amply festive ambience of the place. As some type of gift seems to be the customary commodity for guests, in the individual or collective sense, the refreshment tables filled quickly with local edibles that accentuated the atmosphere. The most popular of these were bulging bags of crustacean flavored crunchies. I’m pretty sure that if you deep fried air, and then smeared it with a healthy helping of prawn residue, you’d have the culinary equivalent of these oceanic delights. But honestly, despite everything about them, they are tasty.
The activities, mostly themed in accordance with the holiday at hand, ranged from Christmas carols to the telling of the Christmas story to simply hanging out. I can’t overemphasize the celebrated slot that singing occupies in Vietnamese culture. As such, most people here have quite impressive pipes. In regards to the party, this ingrained affection rewarded the songs with the favored place on each night’s roster. However, in addition to these varied vehicles of Christmas spirit, some important misconceptions were also mended. That is to say that it’s not the baby Jesus baby who plunges down chimneys and that popular seasonal salutation isn’t “Very Christmas,” but you are close.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
You taught me language; and my profit on't is, I know how to buy Oreos from across the street"
During my junior year of high school, each day, I was able to attend a freeing forty-minute fast from the mundane matters cluttering the life of your token 16 year old.
What will Carson Daly ever do after TRL? Doesn’t matter.
What’s the Morgan-Freeman-like (and thus wiser) choice, truth or dare? Doesn’t matter.
Would “Battlefield Earth” be a good theme for prom? Absolutely, but still, for the time being, it doesn’t matter.
This adolescent oasis, amidst a just-post-pubescent desert, was Spanish class.
Upon my maiden voyage into this port of strange new words, I was allowed to choose a new name, and with it came a new identity. I was, for that short daily docking, Julio, and, as such, all those cares bound with that old vessel were scraped off like barnacles. In this harbor, I became the perfect mix of Enrique Iglesias and Optimus Prime.
Almost immediately this portable persona was privy to a vast vocabulary of fairly foreign terms. That is when I realized the greatest tool of Spanish lexical liberation: the suffix “o”. Suddenly, car became carro. August became agosto. I felt like Snoop Dogg or Ned Flanders, with my very own “izzle” and “ino”. It was if Julio had uncovered the Rosetta Stone deep within the dunes of dandruff and bleach that capped the landscape of my gel encrusted cranium.
However, here in Asia, as I struggle to grasp Vietnamese, these Miracle Worker type moments are solely a thing of the past. I have since forfeited the know-how of that seductive Hispanic Autobot, and, in its stead, have taken on the role of an American Caliban. Every Tuesday and Thursday, I hobble out of my dark dormitory dwelling and learn at the feet of my own personal, and very patient, Prospero, who asks only the penance of a small cup of tea which has been gathered from my fourth floor island. That is to say that one of my students from the institute has been kind of enough to tutor me twice weekly in this new tongue.
Not surprisingly, Vietnamese is pretty far removed from English. If you charted them on one of those family pedigrees they would have roughly the same relation as Ted and Tina Turner. As such, the acquisition of this language is quite the complicated process and its sounds and structures must sometimes sit for a while, neatly stacked on some mental shelf, before they ferment into expressible fluid phrases. However, when they do, and the person across from you, receiving a spurt of decreasingly awkward auditory input, understands the sentiment of your statement, it’s a great feeling. It might not be Helen Keller at the water pump, but it’s close.
Perhaps, from a native English speaking perspective, the most difficult source of dissonance encountered when deciphering Vietnamese, is the set of tones that distinguish each and every word. The language is comprised of short words, all measuring about one syllable in length, but each of these is assigned one of six tonal identities: a level pitch, a rising pitch, a lowering pitch, a lowering pitch followed by a rising pitch, a quick breathless stop, and one that seems to stretch the word into two broken syllables over a down and up pitch procession. For example, if you say “cho” with a level pitch, it’s an infinitive/verb meaning “to give.” However, if your voice rises, it becomes “dog”. When observing communication, this choral characteristic is a wonderful thing, as each exchange sounds rather songish. It almost makes you anticipate snapping and knife fights around each corner. On the other hand, when you’re given the mic, it’s easy to feel like Bob Dylan preparing to perform “Chorus of the Bells.”
Still, the country of Vietnam has to be the best classroom for Vietnamese. That is unless Muzzy decides to start distributing language learning laser discs of this nation’s mother tongue. Until then though, this is the place to be. But, believe it or not, when you’re an English teacher living a few mere meters from the university grounds, most of your conversational companions tend to push for exchanges that will provide them with English experience. However, whenever I’m craving an unhealthy and prefabricated American commodity, I can always wade through the steady current of motorbike traffic to the open air vendor across the street from the guesthouse, and there, I have the privilege of practicing 15 different ways to ask for a Coca-Cola.
What will Carson Daly ever do after TRL? Doesn’t matter.
What’s the Morgan-Freeman-like (and thus wiser) choice, truth or dare? Doesn’t matter.
Would “Battlefield Earth” be a good theme for prom? Absolutely, but still, for the time being, it doesn’t matter.
This adolescent oasis, amidst a just-post-pubescent desert, was Spanish class.
Upon my maiden voyage into this port of strange new words, I was allowed to choose a new name, and with it came a new identity. I was, for that short daily docking, Julio, and, as such, all those cares bound with that old vessel were scraped off like barnacles. In this harbor, I became the perfect mix of Enrique Iglesias and Optimus Prime.
Almost immediately this portable persona was privy to a vast vocabulary of fairly foreign terms. That is when I realized the greatest tool of Spanish lexical liberation: the suffix “o”. Suddenly, car became carro. August became agosto. I felt like Snoop Dogg or Ned Flanders, with my very own “izzle” and “ino”. It was if Julio had uncovered the Rosetta Stone deep within the dunes of dandruff and bleach that capped the landscape of my gel encrusted cranium.
However, here in Asia, as I struggle to grasp Vietnamese, these Miracle Worker type moments are solely a thing of the past. I have since forfeited the know-how of that seductive Hispanic Autobot, and, in its stead, have taken on the role of an American Caliban. Every Tuesday and Thursday, I hobble out of my dark dormitory dwelling and learn at the feet of my own personal, and very patient, Prospero, who asks only the penance of a small cup of tea which has been gathered from my fourth floor island. That is to say that one of my students from the institute has been kind of enough to tutor me twice weekly in this new tongue.
Not surprisingly, Vietnamese is pretty far removed from English. If you charted them on one of those family pedigrees they would have roughly the same relation as Ted and Tina Turner. As such, the acquisition of this language is quite the complicated process and its sounds and structures must sometimes sit for a while, neatly stacked on some mental shelf, before they ferment into expressible fluid phrases. However, when they do, and the person across from you, receiving a spurt of decreasingly awkward auditory input, understands the sentiment of your statement, it’s a great feeling. It might not be Helen Keller at the water pump, but it’s close.
Perhaps, from a native English speaking perspective, the most difficult source of dissonance encountered when deciphering Vietnamese, is the set of tones that distinguish each and every word. The language is comprised of short words, all measuring about one syllable in length, but each of these is assigned one of six tonal identities: a level pitch, a rising pitch, a lowering pitch, a lowering pitch followed by a rising pitch, a quick breathless stop, and one that seems to stretch the word into two broken syllables over a down and up pitch procession. For example, if you say “cho” with a level pitch, it’s an infinitive/verb meaning “to give.” However, if your voice rises, it becomes “dog”. When observing communication, this choral characteristic is a wonderful thing, as each exchange sounds rather songish. It almost makes you anticipate snapping and knife fights around each corner. On the other hand, when you’re given the mic, it’s easy to feel like Bob Dylan preparing to perform “Chorus of the Bells.”
Still, the country of Vietnam has to be the best classroom for Vietnamese. That is unless Muzzy decides to start distributing language learning laser discs of this nation’s mother tongue. Until then though, this is the place to be. But, believe it or not, when you’re an English teacher living a few mere meters from the university grounds, most of your conversational companions tend to push for exchanges that will provide them with English experience. However, whenever I’m craving an unhealthy and prefabricated American commodity, I can always wade through the steady current of motorbike traffic to the open air vendor across the street from the guesthouse, and there, I have the privilege of practicing 15 different ways to ask for a Coca-Cola.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
All anyone's listening for are the mistakes.
“You both look very great.”
This was the congratulatory commendation that slowly freed itself from my over-enunciating lips with a much too rigid rhythm. It was addressed to the young couple currently commencing their matrimony in the large and ardently adorned banquet hall. Their attire was surprisingly Western. One was draped in a flowing white wedding dress and the other in a stylish black tuxedo. They could easily have been extras in “Baby Geniuses 3: All Grown Up and Intelligently Getting Married To Each Other in Standard American Wedding Garb.” That is when Hollywood wises up and actually decides to make this surefire blockbuster.
(Confession: I originally had that as Baby Geniuses 2, but when I checked my sources, I found that a sequel had already been made. So instead, I offer up this suggestion as the long awaited finale of, quite possibly, the most import cinema trilogy ever created.)
“You both look very great.”
I’m not really sure why these five words seemed like good choices to string together into some short expression of meaning, but I am fairly positive that this awkward acknowledgement was a strong strategy in drawing even more curiosity to the lone whitey at the wedding. It was as if George Lucas took a break from writing unnatural sci-fi romances to airmail me a line of stiff comic book banter.
Still, I have a defense.
Being in a country that displays differing proficiencies of your native tongue, you never quite know how any one English comment will be received by your listening audience. As such, I usually tend to err on the side of the rudimentary. In the best instances, it facilitates friendly conversation. In the worst, it can be construed as condescending. In the mildly unfortunate, it takes the above form, showcasing a less than vivacious vernacular that barely rivals that of Jodi Foster wandering the woods as Nell. However, a charming Liam Neeson, tirelessly dedicating himself to some small verbal victory, is nowhere to be found. Instead, all I have is a large man sporting a greasy ponytail and a pair of big-and-tall potato sack pajamas. He goes by the name by the Qui-Gon Jinn and has to call his mom every three hours or so.
Given this broad constituency and the inevitable brevity of this celebratory exchange, perhaps the safest statement would have been something from my small, but always growing, Vietnamese vocabulary. However, I was invited, along with an entire class of international relations majors, to this festive affair by one of my students, who was the younger sister of the groom. In turn, as a response to that irrationally insecure need to valiantly validate myself amidst unfamiliar situations, I felt additional pressure to qualify my position as an English teacher. In the end though, I cracked and all I managed to do was reserve a seat with R.L Stine at the kids’ table. But with such intentions, it serves me right.
I later found out that both members of this newly formed union had quite impressive English abilities. The bride in particular had just returned from a two-year stint at a university in New York, bringing back with her a newly awarded masters degree. In light of such accomplishments, maybe I could have stepped up the word choice a bit, shedding my Boo-Radley-like swagger. Maybe I could have used an adverb, or even a compound sentence.
This was the congratulatory commendation that slowly freed itself from my over-enunciating lips with a much too rigid rhythm. It was addressed to the young couple currently commencing their matrimony in the large and ardently adorned banquet hall. Their attire was surprisingly Western. One was draped in a flowing white wedding dress and the other in a stylish black tuxedo. They could easily have been extras in “Baby Geniuses 3: All Grown Up and Intelligently Getting Married To Each Other in Standard American Wedding Garb.” That is when Hollywood wises up and actually decides to make this surefire blockbuster.
(Confession: I originally had that as Baby Geniuses 2, but when I checked my sources, I found that a sequel had already been made. So instead, I offer up this suggestion as the long awaited finale of, quite possibly, the most import cinema trilogy ever created.)
“You both look very great.”
I’m not really sure why these five words seemed like good choices to string together into some short expression of meaning, but I am fairly positive that this awkward acknowledgement was a strong strategy in drawing even more curiosity to the lone whitey at the wedding. It was as if George Lucas took a break from writing unnatural sci-fi romances to airmail me a line of stiff comic book banter.
Still, I have a defense.
Being in a country that displays differing proficiencies of your native tongue, you never quite know how any one English comment will be received by your listening audience. As such, I usually tend to err on the side of the rudimentary. In the best instances, it facilitates friendly conversation. In the worst, it can be construed as condescending. In the mildly unfortunate, it takes the above form, showcasing a less than vivacious vernacular that barely rivals that of Jodi Foster wandering the woods as Nell. However, a charming Liam Neeson, tirelessly dedicating himself to some small verbal victory, is nowhere to be found. Instead, all I have is a large man sporting a greasy ponytail and a pair of big-and-tall potato sack pajamas. He goes by the name by the Qui-Gon Jinn and has to call his mom every three hours or so.
Given this broad constituency and the inevitable brevity of this celebratory exchange, perhaps the safest statement would have been something from my small, but always growing, Vietnamese vocabulary. However, I was invited, along with an entire class of international relations majors, to this festive affair by one of my students, who was the younger sister of the groom. In turn, as a response to that irrationally insecure need to valiantly validate myself amidst unfamiliar situations, I felt additional pressure to qualify my position as an English teacher. In the end though, I cracked and all I managed to do was reserve a seat with R.L Stine at the kids’ table. But with such intentions, it serves me right.
I later found out that both members of this newly formed union had quite impressive English abilities. The bride in particular had just returned from a two-year stint at a university in New York, bringing back with her a newly awarded masters degree. In light of such accomplishments, maybe I could have stepped up the word choice a bit, shedding my Boo-Radley-like swagger. Maybe I could have used an adverb, or even a compound sentence.
Monday, November 26, 2007
I have measured out my life with instant coffee packets
I apologize to Frankie Muniz, but the following post is PG 13.
…………………….
Each morning I rise to the same rousing routine, which, sadly to say, centers around a harrowing addiction I like to call the beverage breakfast. I peel off my limited edition “Caroline in the City” comforter, walk over to Scott’s bed, softly kiss his forehead, make sure he’s bundled up tight in his bounty of blankets, and then make fast for the faucet. I turn the tap and am met with a friendly flow that’s home to a microscopic wonderland. Now granted, there are some times when I start to think that yeah, my intestines have had it way too good for way too long. That maybe I should joust them off their high horse and lap up a bit of this thriving ecosystem. But in the end, as in all situations, I find my mind wondering to that aquatic epic written and directed by Kevin Costner, and I realize that water has already hurt enough people. So I fill my water cooker to a strange line that reads “0.5L” and boil the contents.
Then, as all of those well meaning pathogens, which could have met a perfectly happy end living it up in some delightful Petri dish, are fatally scorched, I try also to put to death all of my many impossible longings. Most notably would be the desire for a more expansive roster of East Asian imports.
However, I am constantly surprised by those enticing entities that the U.S. has chosen to send to other side of the world. These are the true American ambassadors, and you won’t find them stamping visas at any embassy, but rather, lining the shelves of the many markets that situate themselves throughout the city. In this case, I have had to forgo my fondness of a fresh brew from that wonderful well, known as the coffee maker, and instead, resign myself to mixing this newly liberated liquid with a packet of instant powder. I’m not sure why the former has never really caught on here. Like any good American complaint though, this can be directed at the French and their freedom press, which is strangely popular here.
Most Americans, from my experience, don’t usually flock to instant mix, but for whatever reason, it reigns as the import of choice. This cultural divide of preference doesn’t end there though, but sometimes expands as one moves from the field of consumable commodities to those of a more expressive nature.
Last week, on Thanksgiving in fact, a first year student approached my desk in the following inquisitive fashion. She held out a legal pad with the phrase “long ass games” neatly written on it in perfect penmanship. She asked me what it meant and I had no answer. I gave “ass” the semantic benefit of the doubt, figuring that this phrase must be drawing on some strange outdated meaning. In turn, I was clueless and told her as such. However, she still wasn’t satisfied, even when I gave her the standard response that typically results from being backed into a linguistic corner. “I’m sorry, it must be some term not used in American English.”
“No, that can’t be. I read it in an American novel.” She crumbled my only defense. I wasn’t going to get off that easy.
“What novel?” I asked, expecting to hear the name of some classic American text that has long regaled its readers with its tales of heroic Michael Landon-esque pioneers. I figured the phrase alluded to some type of contest in which children gathered around the tallest donkey and attempted to be the first to mount the creature.
I was a bit naïve.
She removed a piece of paper from a notebook she was carrying and pointed to a set of underlined words etched near the top of the page. “How Stella Got Her Groove Back.” I suddenly felt sorry for Tennessee Williams and any other author whose fictional Stella had just been internationally dethroned by this new protagonist, doing all that she could to get her “groove” back.
At this point I had a better idea of what this fragment in question might mean. I told her that, in American slang, sometimes “ass” is placed after an adjective to amplify its meaning. Then, just so I would be able to sleep at night, I advised her never to use this grammatical device in the classroom.
In light of all this, you have to give T.S. Eliot the nod. I think he summed it up pretty well when he wrote…..
“In the room the women come and go
Talking of Tony Orlando.”
…………………….
Each morning I rise to the same rousing routine, which, sadly to say, centers around a harrowing addiction I like to call the beverage breakfast. I peel off my limited edition “Caroline in the City” comforter, walk over to Scott’s bed, softly kiss his forehead, make sure he’s bundled up tight in his bounty of blankets, and then make fast for the faucet. I turn the tap and am met with a friendly flow that’s home to a microscopic wonderland. Now granted, there are some times when I start to think that yeah, my intestines have had it way too good for way too long. That maybe I should joust them off their high horse and lap up a bit of this thriving ecosystem. But in the end, as in all situations, I find my mind wondering to that aquatic epic written and directed by Kevin Costner, and I realize that water has already hurt enough people. So I fill my water cooker to a strange line that reads “0.5L” and boil the contents.
Then, as all of those well meaning pathogens, which could have met a perfectly happy end living it up in some delightful Petri dish, are fatally scorched, I try also to put to death all of my many impossible longings. Most notably would be the desire for a more expansive roster of East Asian imports.
However, I am constantly surprised by those enticing entities that the U.S. has chosen to send to other side of the world. These are the true American ambassadors, and you won’t find them stamping visas at any embassy, but rather, lining the shelves of the many markets that situate themselves throughout the city. In this case, I have had to forgo my fondness of a fresh brew from that wonderful well, known as the coffee maker, and instead, resign myself to mixing this newly liberated liquid with a packet of instant powder. I’m not sure why the former has never really caught on here. Like any good American complaint though, this can be directed at the French and their freedom press, which is strangely popular here.
Most Americans, from my experience, don’t usually flock to instant mix, but for whatever reason, it reigns as the import of choice. This cultural divide of preference doesn’t end there though, but sometimes expands as one moves from the field of consumable commodities to those of a more expressive nature.
Last week, on Thanksgiving in fact, a first year student approached my desk in the following inquisitive fashion. She held out a legal pad with the phrase “long ass games” neatly written on it in perfect penmanship. She asked me what it meant and I had no answer. I gave “ass” the semantic benefit of the doubt, figuring that this phrase must be drawing on some strange outdated meaning. In turn, I was clueless and told her as such. However, she still wasn’t satisfied, even when I gave her the standard response that typically results from being backed into a linguistic corner. “I’m sorry, it must be some term not used in American English.”
“No, that can’t be. I read it in an American novel.” She crumbled my only defense. I wasn’t going to get off that easy.
“What novel?” I asked, expecting to hear the name of some classic American text that has long regaled its readers with its tales of heroic Michael Landon-esque pioneers. I figured the phrase alluded to some type of contest in which children gathered around the tallest donkey and attempted to be the first to mount the creature.
I was a bit naïve.
She removed a piece of paper from a notebook she was carrying and pointed to a set of underlined words etched near the top of the page. “How Stella Got Her Groove Back.” I suddenly felt sorry for Tennessee Williams and any other author whose fictional Stella had just been internationally dethroned by this new protagonist, doing all that she could to get her “groove” back.
At this point I had a better idea of what this fragment in question might mean. I told her that, in American slang, sometimes “ass” is placed after an adjective to amplify its meaning. Then, just so I would be able to sleep at night, I advised her never to use this grammatical device in the classroom.
In light of all this, you have to give T.S. Eliot the nod. I think he summed it up pretty well when he wrote…..
“In the room the women come and go
Talking of Tony Orlando.”
Saturday, November 17, 2007
I'm Going Back to Charm School
This upcoming Tuesday, November 20th, is Vietnamese Teacher Day, and it’s not just some Hallmark sponsored holiday created to sell seasonally specific stationary. However, that’s not to suggest that there will never be a Teacher Day Television Channel that loops syndicated servings of Mash and Walker Texas Ranger. Regardless, it’s a genuine celebration of appreciation for the country’s educators, a role that, in accordance with Vietnam’s Confucian tradition, cannot be overemphasized.
In some of the more traditional cities and towns that comprise this land, a country trying so hard to find its place between the teetering tension of modernization and heritage, it’s not uncommon for an educator to carry the lifelong title of teacher, (thay for men and co for women) even when conducting the most casual of conversations with former students from many years past. Quite simply, once a teacher, always a teacher.
As one who has clumsily stumbled into this pristinely prized position mainly on the crude credential of growing up in a country of English speakers, such devotion is quite a sobering notion. As a teacher, you convey much more than the subject or process preceding each number on some school issued scholastic schedule. Every action, in and out of the classroom, becomes an important part of the course’s curriculum, completely independent of whether or not it ever appears on any administered exam. This holiday is a testimony to that fact.
Last Thursday, a class of first year students presented me with a brightly colored bouquet, which, judging by the floral stockpile accumulating here in the guesthouse between the five of us, is the standard token of educational appreciation. As a guy, it was a new experience receiving such a gift, but luckily, that day, I happened to be wearing a flannel pants suit, which, of course, was sleeveless. I mean nothing makes a better canvas for a tat of your own face than a huge bulging bicep. Needless to say, I still felt tough.
On Tuesday, our classes are cancelled, and in their stead, we will attend an assembly held in honor of the institute’s academic antagonists, otherwise know as, the teachers. Taking place in the nation of Vietnam, the ceremony will, surprisingly enough, be conducted in Vietnamese. In turn, as is the regular routine, I will follow the cues from those surrounding me in the stands, and, from their example, attempt to smile and laugh and nod and clap at the appropriate times. They could be telling me that only films like Over the Top, which expose what the once glorious sport of American arm wrestling has sadly become, are true forms artistic expression. It doesn’t matter, if the audience agrees, then so do I. But seriously, and in all honesty, I really am looking forward to the event.
However, I do have some possible ideas of how this occasion could be momentously manifested back in the states. Here it goes.
On Tuesday, TBS will air, in their prime time slot, a special showing of that moving movie that made all of us realize that regardless of how different our backgrounds may be, all of us, if taught by someone with just the right amount of enthusiasm, endurance, and scripted sass, can in fact slay that daunting demon called calculus. Additionally, each commercial break will begin with short clips of dialogue between Lou Diamond Phillips and his high school drama teacher. Lou will explain that, above all else, this man showed him that the name Diamond shouldn’t be monopolized by some spandex laden lead singer who is, coincidently enough, “hot for teacher.”
...........
Also, Congrats to Jess "Blade" Feller who just got engaged. I'm sure she will be really good at matrimony.
In some of the more traditional cities and towns that comprise this land, a country trying so hard to find its place between the teetering tension of modernization and heritage, it’s not uncommon for an educator to carry the lifelong title of teacher, (thay for men and co for women) even when conducting the most casual of conversations with former students from many years past. Quite simply, once a teacher, always a teacher.
As one who has clumsily stumbled into this pristinely prized position mainly on the crude credential of growing up in a country of English speakers, such devotion is quite a sobering notion. As a teacher, you convey much more than the subject or process preceding each number on some school issued scholastic schedule. Every action, in and out of the classroom, becomes an important part of the course’s curriculum, completely independent of whether or not it ever appears on any administered exam. This holiday is a testimony to that fact.
Last Thursday, a class of first year students presented me with a brightly colored bouquet, which, judging by the floral stockpile accumulating here in the guesthouse between the five of us, is the standard token of educational appreciation. As a guy, it was a new experience receiving such a gift, but luckily, that day, I happened to be wearing a flannel pants suit, which, of course, was sleeveless. I mean nothing makes a better canvas for a tat of your own face than a huge bulging bicep. Needless to say, I still felt tough.
On Tuesday, our classes are cancelled, and in their stead, we will attend an assembly held in honor of the institute’s academic antagonists, otherwise know as, the teachers. Taking place in the nation of Vietnam, the ceremony will, surprisingly enough, be conducted in Vietnamese. In turn, as is the regular routine, I will follow the cues from those surrounding me in the stands, and, from their example, attempt to smile and laugh and nod and clap at the appropriate times. They could be telling me that only films like Over the Top, which expose what the once glorious sport of American arm wrestling has sadly become, are true forms artistic expression. It doesn’t matter, if the audience agrees, then so do I. But seriously, and in all honesty, I really am looking forward to the event.
However, I do have some possible ideas of how this occasion could be momentously manifested back in the states. Here it goes.
On Tuesday, TBS will air, in their prime time slot, a special showing of that moving movie that made all of us realize that regardless of how different our backgrounds may be, all of us, if taught by someone with just the right amount of enthusiasm, endurance, and scripted sass, can in fact slay that daunting demon called calculus. Additionally, each commercial break will begin with short clips of dialogue between Lou Diamond Phillips and his high school drama teacher. Lou will explain that, above all else, this man showed him that the name Diamond shouldn’t be monopolized by some spandex laden lead singer who is, coincidently enough, “hot for teacher.”
...........
Also, Congrats to Jess "Blade" Feller who just got engaged. I'm sure she will be really good at matrimony.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Deep like a graveyard. Wild like T.V.
Today I was eating Vietnamese flan (caramen) with a student when he said, at least to my American ears, a very peculiar thing. It was along the following lines. “I want to invite you to my home for dinner with my family, but since my grandmother has recently died, we haven’t been able to fix up the house.”
Okay, at this point, I could do one of two things. Either chalk it up as another strange cultural quirk that’s bound to develop in a country destitute of Nascar and move on. (By the way, Microsoft Word just put a red line under Nascar, and, as such, I’m asking all of you to boycott this obviously Al Qaeda loving computer program.) Or rack my brain and put to use all of those ingenious investigate techniques I learned from that brilliant cinematic masterpiece, Corky Romano.
Needless to say, I chose the latter, and judging by the fact that there are only four hits on the official movie website, I’m sure that Frost would commend me for taking this road less traveled.
With very genuine interest I asked him exactly what he meant, a question he has grown used to and I believe appreciates. I mean without understanding, you’ve got nothing. In turn, I took off my denim tasseled 10-gallon hat, placed it on my lap, hoped dearly that my jeans and the newly touching tassels wouldn’t ignite, and prepared to absorb. This is what I found.
Apparently, when a close family member passes away, certain activities are prohibited for that first post-mortem year. From my newfound understanding, which is anything but a fortified factual Frommer’s, one such action is making your house a more expensive place. Another is attending weddings. This behavioral theme of familial fasting is to allow those surviving loved ones to more fully mediate on the life and memory of that person who has passed. It may, to our Western worldview, seem a bit intense, but you have to admire and respect that devoted dedication.
As is often the case, he was surprised to find that no American cultural counterpart exists and that we have no similar traditions to promote such thoughtful abstaining.
And that’s fine. It’s just culture, a neutral entity. However, as one who also lost a grandmother quite recently, it most certainly drives me to protect that memory more so than before.
Okay, at this point, I could do one of two things. Either chalk it up as another strange cultural quirk that’s bound to develop in a country destitute of Nascar and move on. (By the way, Microsoft Word just put a red line under Nascar, and, as such, I’m asking all of you to boycott this obviously Al Qaeda loving computer program.) Or rack my brain and put to use all of those ingenious investigate techniques I learned from that brilliant cinematic masterpiece, Corky Romano.
Needless to say, I chose the latter, and judging by the fact that there are only four hits on the official movie website, I’m sure that Frost would commend me for taking this road less traveled.
With very genuine interest I asked him exactly what he meant, a question he has grown used to and I believe appreciates. I mean without understanding, you’ve got nothing. In turn, I took off my denim tasseled 10-gallon hat, placed it on my lap, hoped dearly that my jeans and the newly touching tassels wouldn’t ignite, and prepared to absorb. This is what I found.
Apparently, when a close family member passes away, certain activities are prohibited for that first post-mortem year. From my newfound understanding, which is anything but a fortified factual Frommer’s, one such action is making your house a more expensive place. Another is attending weddings. This behavioral theme of familial fasting is to allow those surviving loved ones to more fully mediate on the life and memory of that person who has passed. It may, to our Western worldview, seem a bit intense, but you have to admire and respect that devoted dedication.
As is often the case, he was surprised to find that no American cultural counterpart exists and that we have no similar traditions to promote such thoughtful abstaining.
And that’s fine. It’s just culture, a neutral entity. However, as one who also lost a grandmother quite recently, it most certainly drives me to protect that memory more so than before.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
The Sea is Foaming Like a Bottle of Beer
The three guys sitting quietly by themselves in their parent’s basement that actually read this thing, while taking a break from some intense fantasy role play of course, might actually be interested in knowing a little more about the Vietnamese worldview, a subject I myself am fully under-qualified to even address. However, by simply existing in a new culture and taking on the modest role of a learner, you do, once in a while, stumble upon an experience that illustrates some aspect of this abstract entity that you yourself would otherwise be quite unable to articulate. The following recounts the most recent of these overseas epiphanies.
Last week, our team took a train south to the wonderful city of Vinh in order to observe the lives of teachers from our organization who are participating in the University Teaching Program (UTP). For those of you who are neither familiar with the nearly recent history of the SRV or with the upbeat musical stylings of Billy Joel, Vinh is the largest city in the Nghe An province, the birthplace of Ho Chi Minh. It was a great trip and in accordance with ELI policies, I kept close tabs on Anne and Sandy, the two teachers down there. For the first night, it was honestly a little strange watching them while they soundly slept in bed, but by the second and third night, it seemed pretty natural.
Anyways, for one brief morning, we were able to venture out to Cua Lo, a beach roughly 20 kilometers (okay and just because I’m using the metric system doesn’t mean I’m a terrorist) from Vinh proper. I was able to ride back from this aquatic frolic (can I say that?) with Sandy. She drove me on her motorbike. I was like Tim Allen, Martin Lawrence, William H. Macy, and John Travolta all rolled into one, and she was like their friend. However, during this Eric Estrada-esque adventure, the back tire of the bike sprung two leaks on two different occasions, both of which completely deflated the intertube. With no allen-crescent on hand, I thought we were sunk in a sea of gravelly pavement, but I soon found that in this country, most roads are stocked quite comfortably with workers who are ready to fix your hog at a moment’s notice. The first flat was serviced by a man who ran some type of concession bar at a hospital parking lot and the second by a younger guy who staffed a sugarcane juice stand. In the end, Sandy decided to simply buy a new intertube from the second vender, rather than attempt a second plugging.
As we pulled away from the makeshift service stand, Sandy, in light of the recently suffered circumstances, expressed her frustration with some problems her bike had brought her over the last year and then concluded with compounding cadence that, “There is no such thing as a tune up in Vietnam.”
I thought about this quote for a moment and decided that it was quite an accurate commentary in terms of explaining some things I had observed over the past few months. In this country, it seems that things are in one of two conditions, either they are working or broken, and as a long as whatever you have falls into the former category, then all is well. For example, often when I cycle around the city, I notice bicycles with rusty chains and frames that look as if they won’t make it another block, bikes that I would be weary of even running the smallest errand with. However, as long as they are running and continue to have this capability, then there are no problems. The bike will break down when it breaks down and that is that. In the meantime, use it as it should be used.
This mentality seems to apply to many occurrences I’ve seen here and fits quite well into the laid back and “take it as it comes” philosophy that the culture here functions within. I’d like to write more about that sometime soon as well, because to this high strung American, although sometimes frustrating, it has been a nice breath of fresh air.
…………………….
A few weekends ago, Melia and I were able to go with some of our students at the institute to an orphanage just outside of Hanoi. It was really great seeing them in this setting because it really brought out the best in them. They were giving themselves to others in a way that I would never have seen in the classroom or chatting over tea. Here are some pictures of that refreshing day….
Some of My first year students and some children from the orphanage.
Class K2C.
Melia and Thuan, a girl from the orphanage.
Last week, our team took a train south to the wonderful city of Vinh in order to observe the lives of teachers from our organization who are participating in the University Teaching Program (UTP). For those of you who are neither familiar with the nearly recent history of the SRV or with the upbeat musical stylings of Billy Joel, Vinh is the largest city in the Nghe An province, the birthplace of Ho Chi Minh. It was a great trip and in accordance with ELI policies, I kept close tabs on Anne and Sandy, the two teachers down there. For the first night, it was honestly a little strange watching them while they soundly slept in bed, but by the second and third night, it seemed pretty natural.
Anyways, for one brief morning, we were able to venture out to Cua Lo, a beach roughly 20 kilometers (okay and just because I’m using the metric system doesn’t mean I’m a terrorist) from Vinh proper. I was able to ride back from this aquatic frolic (can I say that?) with Sandy. She drove me on her motorbike. I was like Tim Allen, Martin Lawrence, William H. Macy, and John Travolta all rolled into one, and she was like their friend. However, during this Eric Estrada-esque adventure, the back tire of the bike sprung two leaks on two different occasions, both of which completely deflated the intertube. With no allen-crescent on hand, I thought we were sunk in a sea of gravelly pavement, but I soon found that in this country, most roads are stocked quite comfortably with workers who are ready to fix your hog at a moment’s notice. The first flat was serviced by a man who ran some type of concession bar at a hospital parking lot and the second by a younger guy who staffed a sugarcane juice stand. In the end, Sandy decided to simply buy a new intertube from the second vender, rather than attempt a second plugging.
As we pulled away from the makeshift service stand, Sandy, in light of the recently suffered circumstances, expressed her frustration with some problems her bike had brought her over the last year and then concluded with compounding cadence that, “There is no such thing as a tune up in Vietnam.”
I thought about this quote for a moment and decided that it was quite an accurate commentary in terms of explaining some things I had observed over the past few months. In this country, it seems that things are in one of two conditions, either they are working or broken, and as a long as whatever you have falls into the former category, then all is well. For example, often when I cycle around the city, I notice bicycles with rusty chains and frames that look as if they won’t make it another block, bikes that I would be weary of even running the smallest errand with. However, as long as they are running and continue to have this capability, then there are no problems. The bike will break down when it breaks down and that is that. In the meantime, use it as it should be used.
This mentality seems to apply to many occurrences I’ve seen here and fits quite well into the laid back and “take it as it comes” philosophy that the culture here functions within. I’d like to write more about that sometime soon as well, because to this high strung American, although sometimes frustrating, it has been a nice breath of fresh air.
…………………….
A few weekends ago, Melia and I were able to go with some of our students at the institute to an orphanage just outside of Hanoi. It was really great seeing them in this setting because it really brought out the best in them. They were giving themselves to others in a way that I would never have seen in the classroom or chatting over tea. Here are some pictures of that refreshing day….
Some of My first year students and some children from the orphanage.
Class K2C.
Melia and Thuan, a girl from the orphanage.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Here's to Mr. Iococa and His Failed Experiment the DeLorean
You never know when or in what form you may get a glimpse of American culture. Yesterday, in one of my speaking classes, the students were working in groups, discussing the possible changes and advances that may take place in the world by the year 2045. (The date the textbook set was 2025, but it’s about 20 years old. Let’s just say that the cover of this text has the silhouette of a man with one of the most unbridled and majestic moustaches you will ever see the outline of and that the picture that accompanies this activity was chocked full of flying cars.) Along with articulating these speculations, they were also given the task of making the following judgment: is this a change for the better, for the worse, or neither and why?
One group suggested that time travel would, by this time, be a reality. When asked if this development would be a positive influence on society, one student said no. His reason was that this would allow people to go back in time and gamble unfairly on past sporting events. I asked him if he got this concept from a certain move sequel and he said yes. I have never been prouder.
When all is said and done, I have to agree with him. Sorry Biff, but due to people like you, the Flux Capacitor is just a little too risky. Take it from me, because thanks to about a dozen time zones, I’m actually writing this from the future.
One group suggested that time travel would, by this time, be a reality. When asked if this development would be a positive influence on society, one student said no. His reason was that this would allow people to go back in time and gamble unfairly on past sporting events. I asked him if he got this concept from a certain move sequel and he said yes. I have never been prouder.
When all is said and done, I have to agree with him. Sorry Biff, but due to people like you, the Flux Capacitor is just a little too risky. Take it from me, because thanks to about a dozen time zones, I’m actually writing this from the future.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Culture Club part 1 (but not the Boy George kind…for the most part)
When making that sometimes painful transition from fanny pack toting tourist to actual resident, there are a few things you can do to cope with the cultural stress. One option is to remember that you are not alone in this process and that others all around the globe are awkwardly fumbling into strange new lifestyles. For example, Michael Jackson made the leap from the magical world that is the Never Land Ranch to the Middle Eastern country of Bahrain, and judging by his recent lack of publicity, I have to imagine that things are going pretty well for the King of Pop. Sure you can make excuses as to the cause of his successful adaptation. You can speculate that Bahrain is a country lined with zoos and glove shops from coast to coast and that architects there never really warmed up to the prospect of a second story balcony, but in the end, you have to give Michael the nod and face the music (especially the song Billy Jean because the video had light-up sidewalks).
The other option is to take note of those things which seem a bit frustrating when set against your own arbitrary biases that America has endowed you with, intentionally choose to look past these things, and ultimately chalk them up to that neutral entity known as culture. Plus this isn’t really a subject you can tackle egocentrically because, as Newton taught us, for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. If I’m frustrated, chances are, the person across the table is experiencing that same negative affect and thankfully, the Vietnamese are an incredibly gracious people, always willing to give me some operational slack, a mentality that deserves emulation. Besides in the end, not to underestimate that force that culture brings to any situation, people are people and we’re all doing the best we can the best we know how.
However, sometimes I fall short of this standard and take advantage of what I like to call the Zach Morris Effect. Go back with me, if you will, to a high time of ripped jeans, neon colors, and hair parted down the middle, the era that launched the just post-pubescent phenomenon known as Saved by the Bell. The lead character was a charismatic heartthrob named Zach Morris who had the ability, with a snap of his finger, to pause time at any moment as a means of narrating his current dilemma and aiding those viewers who had perhaps missed certain key points amidst the intricate plot twists. In his case, all of the characters were frozen in times, and often, just to stick it to his jocky counterpart, he would undue a button or two on Slater’s silk shirt. Yes, Zach could be absolutely vicious.
In Vietnam this finger snap manifests itself in the following way. My students here in Hanoi have quite an impressive English proficiency and many Hanoians know at least a little English and then again, many residents have little to no working knowledge of this ridiculously confusing language. When communicating with these two latter groups there is a mutual ability for each side to speak freely and fastly in their own native language without any fear of their international counterparts comprehending what was spoken (I mean I’m learning Vietnamese, but it’s a tough process, and at this point, unless we’re dealing with numbers or salutational inquiries, people really have to slow down for me to get even an inkling of meaning). As such, I’m able to offer narration on any situation as if the person I’m commenting on isn’t even there, which can be a really dangerous privilege because often these comments are the sarcastic products of cultural frustration.
For example, last night five of us went out for dinner and while we we’re ordering, four different employees were huddling around our table in an uncomfortably close sort of way. One man kept pointing to the menu and speaking to Melia (our American Korean teammate who often gets pegged by the nationals as Vietnamese) and when somebody asked what I thought he was saying, I responded with, “Well judging by his outfit, I can only imagine that he’s describing 19 different ways to say denim in Vietnamese.” It was a spiteful comment and not what an ambassador of any sort should be saying, but it’s a coping mechanism I often fall into. I myself though take no personal responsibility for such episodes and blame it all on Mark-Paul Gosselaar. Okay not really, but seriously, it’s an area I need help with.
.........On another note, here's a link to view some pictures of the team. They were taken by one of our two team leaders so they're mainly just pics of the team hanging out and not us with our students (the latter being something I need to put more of on here because that is really my lifeblood here).
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=8978&l=cd31e&id=612313582
The other option is to take note of those things which seem a bit frustrating when set against your own arbitrary biases that America has endowed you with, intentionally choose to look past these things, and ultimately chalk them up to that neutral entity known as culture. Plus this isn’t really a subject you can tackle egocentrically because, as Newton taught us, for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. If I’m frustrated, chances are, the person across the table is experiencing that same negative affect and thankfully, the Vietnamese are an incredibly gracious people, always willing to give me some operational slack, a mentality that deserves emulation. Besides in the end, not to underestimate that force that culture brings to any situation, people are people and we’re all doing the best we can the best we know how.
However, sometimes I fall short of this standard and take advantage of what I like to call the Zach Morris Effect. Go back with me, if you will, to a high time of ripped jeans, neon colors, and hair parted down the middle, the era that launched the just post-pubescent phenomenon known as Saved by the Bell. The lead character was a charismatic heartthrob named Zach Morris who had the ability, with a snap of his finger, to pause time at any moment as a means of narrating his current dilemma and aiding those viewers who had perhaps missed certain key points amidst the intricate plot twists. In his case, all of the characters were frozen in times, and often, just to stick it to his jocky counterpart, he would undue a button or two on Slater’s silk shirt. Yes, Zach could be absolutely vicious.
In Vietnam this finger snap manifests itself in the following way. My students here in Hanoi have quite an impressive English proficiency and many Hanoians know at least a little English and then again, many residents have little to no working knowledge of this ridiculously confusing language. When communicating with these two latter groups there is a mutual ability for each side to speak freely and fastly in their own native language without any fear of their international counterparts comprehending what was spoken (I mean I’m learning Vietnamese, but it’s a tough process, and at this point, unless we’re dealing with numbers or salutational inquiries, people really have to slow down for me to get even an inkling of meaning). As such, I’m able to offer narration on any situation as if the person I’m commenting on isn’t even there, which can be a really dangerous privilege because often these comments are the sarcastic products of cultural frustration.
For example, last night five of us went out for dinner and while we we’re ordering, four different employees were huddling around our table in an uncomfortably close sort of way. One man kept pointing to the menu and speaking to Melia (our American Korean teammate who often gets pegged by the nationals as Vietnamese) and when somebody asked what I thought he was saying, I responded with, “Well judging by his outfit, I can only imagine that he’s describing 19 different ways to say denim in Vietnamese.” It was a spiteful comment and not what an ambassador of any sort should be saying, but it’s a coping mechanism I often fall into. I myself though take no personal responsibility for such episodes and blame it all on Mark-Paul Gosselaar. Okay not really, but seriously, it’s an area I need help with.
.........On another note, here's a link to view some pictures of the team. They were taken by one of our two team leaders so they're mainly just pics of the team hanging out and not us with our students (the latter being something I need to put more of on here because that is really my lifeblood here).
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=8978&l=cd31e&id=612313582
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Eleanor Rigby vs Penny Lane
Here are some pictures from the last two months: two of the average Hanoi landscape, two of my students, and one of our team in China at the Great Wall. Let me know if there are specific kinds of things you want to see pictures of on here. Gregg, I know you're looking for shots of the architecture and I will soon deliver.
A lot has happened since the last post.
When we first arrived in Hanoi, the institute put us up in a hotel. However, about a week and a half ago we moved into the school's guesthouse. It's right next to do the school, and, in turn, demands only a short walk to class that affords certain privileges a ten minute bicycle ride cannot. Case in point, I’m now able to bring a hot cup of coffee to my 7am classes on Mondays and Tuesdays, a cargo I was never brave enough to carry on my sweet three speed ride. True, I do wear a helmet on my bike, but that’s only so much protection. For example, that kind of bravado could have scalded my teaching arm. Such an injury might have taken off some arm hair, which would probably be a good thing in a country where body hair is about as common as a reference to Andrew Dice Clay, but it’s still not worth it. Besides, if it didn’t make Robin Williams self-conscious to be here, then what do I have to worry about.
In this guesthouse, I share a room with Scott, a good friend whom I met in Nam during my summer teaching stint in ’06. It’s modest and adequate and comfortable. In many ways it’s like living in the dorms again, which I really like. We have an adjoining bathroom that, when we first moved in, had a pretty bad leak (actually leak is too weak of a word, it was really more of a spurt shooting out of the wall). On top of that, the tank on the toilet was broke and couldn’t fill up, rendering that cathartic act of flushing impossible. However, Scott, with the amazing ingenuity of that basketball coach who finally put Air Bud in the game, took the two problems and cancelled them out. He used a bucket to catch the spurt and then emptied the contents into the tank. I was honestly impressed. He found that creative third way.
This new location is also great for relationships. You can never underestimate the power of proximity. I see my students all the time now as I’m out and about living in Hanoi. Last Saturday I simply walked outside my place and met a group of students for lunch. We had a really good time. Most of them are from provinces outside of Hanoi so they actually live in the next building over. It’s referred to as the student hostel. The main course was a soup called Lau, a meal with quite the selection of ingredients. I asked them specifically about one strange looking piece of meat that they had deposited in my bowl. It was beige colored, cut into a wide but then strips, and covered with small spiky bumps. Stupidly, I asked them what it was before I ate it. They said it came from the cow’s stomach. Without asking any further questions, I wrapped it in veggies, counted to three, took a few cautionary bites, and swallowed hard. A few days later I found out that it’s called tripe and it’s the lining of a cow’s udders. That’s right, they’re not just for milk anymore.
That's about all for now, but I'll write more soon. Also, those on my newsletter list....I'll be sending in my first edition to ELI headquarters this week so hopefully it will arrive at your door about two weeks after that. I apologize for not sending one out sooner. There are some things in it that I can't wait to share with you.
Take care and keep in touch.
A lot has happened since the last post.
When we first arrived in Hanoi, the institute put us up in a hotel. However, about a week and a half ago we moved into the school's guesthouse. It's right next to do the school, and, in turn, demands only a short walk to class that affords certain privileges a ten minute bicycle ride cannot. Case in point, I’m now able to bring a hot cup of coffee to my 7am classes on Mondays and Tuesdays, a cargo I was never brave enough to carry on my sweet three speed ride. True, I do wear a helmet on my bike, but that’s only so much protection. For example, that kind of bravado could have scalded my teaching arm. Such an injury might have taken off some arm hair, which would probably be a good thing in a country where body hair is about as common as a reference to Andrew Dice Clay, but it’s still not worth it. Besides, if it didn’t make Robin Williams self-conscious to be here, then what do I have to worry about.
In this guesthouse, I share a room with Scott, a good friend whom I met in Nam during my summer teaching stint in ’06. It’s modest and adequate and comfortable. In many ways it’s like living in the dorms again, which I really like. We have an adjoining bathroom that, when we first moved in, had a pretty bad leak (actually leak is too weak of a word, it was really more of a spurt shooting out of the wall). On top of that, the tank on the toilet was broke and couldn’t fill up, rendering that cathartic act of flushing impossible. However, Scott, with the amazing ingenuity of that basketball coach who finally put Air Bud in the game, took the two problems and cancelled them out. He used a bucket to catch the spurt and then emptied the contents into the tank. I was honestly impressed. He found that creative third way.
This new location is also great for relationships. You can never underestimate the power of proximity. I see my students all the time now as I’m out and about living in Hanoi. Last Saturday I simply walked outside my place and met a group of students for lunch. We had a really good time. Most of them are from provinces outside of Hanoi so they actually live in the next building over. It’s referred to as the student hostel. The main course was a soup called Lau, a meal with quite the selection of ingredients. I asked them specifically about one strange looking piece of meat that they had deposited in my bowl. It was beige colored, cut into a wide but then strips, and covered with small spiky bumps. Stupidly, I asked them what it was before I ate it. They said it came from the cow’s stomach. Without asking any further questions, I wrapped it in veggies, counted to three, took a few cautionary bites, and swallowed hard. A few days later I found out that it’s called tripe and it’s the lining of a cow’s udders. That’s right, they’re not just for milk anymore.
That's about all for now, but I'll write more soon. Also, those on my newsletter list....I'll be sending in my first edition to ELI headquarters this week so hopefully it will arrive at your door about two weeks after that. I apologize for not sending one out sooner. There are some things in it that I can't wait to share with you.
Take care and keep in touch.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Some real conversation for your....
I’ve been thinking about Jack Kerouac’s book On the Road lately. In the novel, Sal Paradise goes back and forth, from one ocean to another across the American landscape, many times in hopes of finding exactly what his last name so blatantly suggests. In the end, he finds that there is no perfect place and that anywhere you are, you have to deal with the same personal, interpersonal, and spiritual stuff. Sal realizes this, albeit with some resignation, but his friend, Dean Moriarty, never does and foolishly keeps looking for a place that doesn’t exist. As such, Dean lives in a state of unquenchable, but very fleeting excitement, and leaves damaged roots everywhere he goes.
I think that’s kind of what that book is about, but it’s been about a year since I read it, and maybe I’ve made it into something it isn’t. Regardless, it’s been a comforting thought. I mean in the end, we should never feel completely at home anywhere we go. We’re all, every single one of us, foreigners. There is something bigger and something better, and it’s those longings in us that can’t be fulfilled that let us know that this is true. So in the present, let’s not make this an excuse for complacency, but instead go to where the need is and meet it the best we can. There is no paradise here on this globe that you can escape to, but there are places everywhere that you can help make at least a little better.
I listened to a talk by Rob Bell yesterday called “Heaven and Wine” on Melia’s ipod. It was amazing and I would encourage everyone to check it out. Our focus has to be here. It’s Gnosticism to only think of the beyond without working to change the present. The now (the physical) can be made good and it’s every single person’s responsibility to aid that process.
Such things might be contradictory and maybe that’s because I’m just typing as fast as my thoughts are coming, but in the end, the relation of the finite to the infinite is a bit paradoxical. Kierkegaard (the king of the paradox), in Fear and Trembling, says the standard is the knight of faith, and not the knight of infinite resignation. “A purely human courage is required to renounce the whole world of the temporal to gain the eternal; but this I do gain, and to all eternity I cannot renounce it – that being a self contradiction. But a paradox enters in, and a humble courage is required to grasp the whole of the temporal by virtue of the absurd, and this is the courage of faith.”
With all of this in mind, I’m grateful to be here in Vietnam and I’m also grateful that all of you are exactly where you are. Derek Webb, in an interview with Donald Miller, (which might just be my favorite sound bite ever) talks about brining people a taste of what is to come. His example: there are 300 million without drinking water in Africa. By helping to build wells in these struggling communities and empowering the people to continue the work, we are giving them a taste of paradise. By helping to meet their thirst, we are giving them a glimpse of a place where there is no thirst. With this in mind, let's all act both locally and globally.
I hope all that made since. It’s been a tough, but good, week as I continue to adjust to my role here and all these things have been heavy on my mind. Maybe some of the things I said were wrong according to that most abstract, but still important, of sciences that oftentimes burns more bridges than it builds, but, once again, it’s just what I’ve been thinking about lately.
Be brave, be courageous, and be bold. As C.S. Lewis says in A Grief Observed, “Only a real risk tests the reality of a believe.” And of course, thank you so much to all of you who have helped me to get here and have kept me in your thoughts. Without you, this risk wouldn’t be possible.
Sorry this post wasn’t funny, but as the T.V. theme song used to say, “Different Strokes rule the world.” That show, believe it or not, was Different Strokes. So thank you for your wise words Gary Coleman.
…On another note, this morning I was at a gathering with a woman from Burma. She broke into tears while discussing the current situation and the lack of safety for the people there. It made that issue so much more real. Please, if you could, keep this in your thoughts as well.
…I’ll post with some pics very soon too, in hopes to describe a little more concretely just what life over here is like.
Take care.
I think that’s kind of what that book is about, but it’s been about a year since I read it, and maybe I’ve made it into something it isn’t. Regardless, it’s been a comforting thought. I mean in the end, we should never feel completely at home anywhere we go. We’re all, every single one of us, foreigners. There is something bigger and something better, and it’s those longings in us that can’t be fulfilled that let us know that this is true. So in the present, let’s not make this an excuse for complacency, but instead go to where the need is and meet it the best we can. There is no paradise here on this globe that you can escape to, but there are places everywhere that you can help make at least a little better.
I listened to a talk by Rob Bell yesterday called “Heaven and Wine” on Melia’s ipod. It was amazing and I would encourage everyone to check it out. Our focus has to be here. It’s Gnosticism to only think of the beyond without working to change the present. The now (the physical) can be made good and it’s every single person’s responsibility to aid that process.
Such things might be contradictory and maybe that’s because I’m just typing as fast as my thoughts are coming, but in the end, the relation of the finite to the infinite is a bit paradoxical. Kierkegaard (the king of the paradox), in Fear and Trembling, says the standard is the knight of faith, and not the knight of infinite resignation. “A purely human courage is required to renounce the whole world of the temporal to gain the eternal; but this I do gain, and to all eternity I cannot renounce it – that being a self contradiction. But a paradox enters in, and a humble courage is required to grasp the whole of the temporal by virtue of the absurd, and this is the courage of faith.”
With all of this in mind, I’m grateful to be here in Vietnam and I’m also grateful that all of you are exactly where you are. Derek Webb, in an interview with Donald Miller, (which might just be my favorite sound bite ever) talks about brining people a taste of what is to come. His example: there are 300 million without drinking water in Africa. By helping to build wells in these struggling communities and empowering the people to continue the work, we are giving them a taste of paradise. By helping to meet their thirst, we are giving them a glimpse of a place where there is no thirst. With this in mind, let's all act both locally and globally.
I hope all that made since. It’s been a tough, but good, week as I continue to adjust to my role here and all these things have been heavy on my mind. Maybe some of the things I said were wrong according to that most abstract, but still important, of sciences that oftentimes burns more bridges than it builds, but, once again, it’s just what I’ve been thinking about lately.
Be brave, be courageous, and be bold. As C.S. Lewis says in A Grief Observed, “Only a real risk tests the reality of a believe.” And of course, thank you so much to all of you who have helped me to get here and have kept me in your thoughts. Without you, this risk wouldn’t be possible.
Sorry this post wasn’t funny, but as the T.V. theme song used to say, “Different Strokes rule the world.” That show, believe it or not, was Different Strokes. So thank you for your wise words Gary Coleman.
…On another note, this morning I was at a gathering with a woman from Burma. She broke into tears while discussing the current situation and the lack of safety for the people there. It made that issue so much more real. Please, if you could, keep this in your thoughts as well.
…I’ll post with some pics very soon too, in hopes to describe a little more concretely just what life over here is like.
Take care.
Friday, September 21, 2007
You just can't take the effect and make it the cause.
Sorry for the hiatus. I'm just now getting over a pretty bad cold that had about a two week duration. They say that when you move to a new environment, like Vietnam, it's pretty common to get sick like this because all of the pathogens are, at least to this denim clad American immune system, pretty novel. I tried to hold out, but eventually I caved and bought some antibiotics. The pharmacy was a glass counter inside of a small street vender shop and David, my team leader, walked me through the process. The majority of the transaction, on my end, was me wincing and grabbing my throat while the young woman across the counter nodded her head. In the end, I paid a wopping 69,000 dong, which is pretty cheap considering Hanoi is pretty expenisive when compared ot most Southeast Asian cities.
Needless to say, a sore throat isn't exactly the perfect complement to a new teaching regiment. However, classes actually went pretty well. All in all, I;m teaching five 2.5 hour classes each week: 1 sophomore speaking class, 2 freshmen speaking classes, and 2 international relations classes for juniors. I enjoy them all, but I enjoy the i.r. classes the most as it's in these classes that we tend to delve into the most interesting discussions, because honestly, we tackle some pretty big issues. For example, this week's lesson was over the Aids crisis and next week's covers the Israeli-Palestinian issue.
I'm also starting to develop relationships with some of the students. I met with a student for tea this morning, then Scott and I had lunch with two Combodian students, and tomorrow I'm touring Hanoi with one of my junior classes. By far, it's the relationships that make my time here the most enjoyable.
I shared this with Sue already, but on another note, and at the risk of sounding corny, lately I've discovered a newfound appreciation for Ira Glass and This American Life. One of the programs I listened to lately was about a man who had invented a special kind of tweezer from which he had made millions. Just recently though he decided that he was going to bring peace to Iraq, so he, all by himself, departed for the middle east, left his tweezer know how back in the states, and took on the sensitive role of a diplomat. You've got to love that mentality.
Needless to say, a sore throat isn't exactly the perfect complement to a new teaching regiment. However, classes actually went pretty well. All in all, I;m teaching five 2.5 hour classes each week: 1 sophomore speaking class, 2 freshmen speaking classes, and 2 international relations classes for juniors. I enjoy them all, but I enjoy the i.r. classes the most as it's in these classes that we tend to delve into the most interesting discussions, because honestly, we tackle some pretty big issues. For example, this week's lesson was over the Aids crisis and next week's covers the Israeli-Palestinian issue.
I'm also starting to develop relationships with some of the students. I met with a student for tea this morning, then Scott and I had lunch with two Combodian students, and tomorrow I'm touring Hanoi with one of my junior classes. By far, it's the relationships that make my time here the most enjoyable.
I shared this with Sue already, but on another note, and at the risk of sounding corny, lately I've discovered a newfound appreciation for Ira Glass and This American Life. One of the programs I listened to lately was about a man who had invented a special kind of tweezer from which he had made millions. Just recently though he decided that he was going to bring peace to Iraq, so he, all by himself, departed for the middle east, left his tweezer know how back in the states, and took on the sensitive role of a diplomat. You've got to love that mentality.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
I want to ride my bicycle. I want to ride my bike.
Okay I finally got a bike (thanks for the bicycle advice on the last post). Unfortunately Gregg, it's not a Trek. In fact, I'm not sure that I could tell you the brand name. All I know is that it's used and it's Japanese and it's silver. Maybe I'll call it the Silver Bullet. It might be a good marketing ad to have werewolves riding them because they say that the only thing capable of killing such a creature is a silver bullet. It would be a cruel twist of mythological irony....the most powerful force in cycle sales. As for pegs, sorry Traever. However, I do have a basket, so I could still take people places, it's just that they would have to have somewhat of an ewok stature.
If there is one aspect of Hanoi that I could never fully articulate to a deserving degree, it would most certainly be the traffic. It's intense and the most common means of going anywhere is the motor bike. I mean I'm pretty sure that if the average Hanoi resident needs to go from his or her kitchen to the bathroom, he or she will take a motorbike. As such, they dot the roads quite densly. However, despite, or maybe because of this, I think my new favorite thing is riding my bike around Hanoi. After my first class at the Institute of International Relations (which I will very soon discuss in the next post) I rode to the school I taught at the summer before last, Hanoi-Amsterdam, to meet up with some old students. It was rush hour and it was crazy and it was great. The students and I had some ice cream and talked about life. We're planning on maybe seeing the new Harry Potter movie (it just opened it Hanoi) this Sunday. Call me a nerd but I love those movies. They're made for people with 10 second attention spans, so it's easier for me to watch without getting distracted by something shiny.
Also, it's awesome to be able to ride a bike and not have some frat guy yell "Hey Lance Armstrong" at you.
What's my bike's name? I believe I have to name it Kit. I just wish it would talk to me like the real Kit talked to Hasselhoff. Speaking of talking automobiles, does anybody remember that show "Heat Vision and Jack" that never really made it. Jack Black played the smartest man alive (his intelligence was due to radiation from the sun) and he had a motorcycle that could talk. Owen Wilson was the voice of the bike. Seriously, what else could the American television viewing audience ask for?
Take care everbody.
If there is one aspect of Hanoi that I could never fully articulate to a deserving degree, it would most certainly be the traffic. It's intense and the most common means of going anywhere is the motor bike. I mean I'm pretty sure that if the average Hanoi resident needs to go from his or her kitchen to the bathroom, he or she will take a motorbike. As such, they dot the roads quite densly. However, despite, or maybe because of this, I think my new favorite thing is riding my bike around Hanoi. After my first class at the Institute of International Relations (which I will very soon discuss in the next post) I rode to the school I taught at the summer before last, Hanoi-Amsterdam, to meet up with some old students. It was rush hour and it was crazy and it was great. The students and I had some ice cream and talked about life. We're planning on maybe seeing the new Harry Potter movie (it just opened it Hanoi) this Sunday. Call me a nerd but I love those movies. They're made for people with 10 second attention spans, so it's easier for me to watch without getting distracted by something shiny.
Also, it's awesome to be able to ride a bike and not have some frat guy yell "Hey Lance Armstrong" at you.
What's my bike's name? I believe I have to name it Kit. I just wish it would talk to me like the real Kit talked to Hasselhoff. Speaking of talking automobiles, does anybody remember that show "Heat Vision and Jack" that never really made it. Jack Black played the smartest man alive (his intelligence was due to radiation from the sun) and he had a motorcycle that could talk. Owen Wilson was the voice of the bike. Seriously, what else could the American television viewing audience ask for?
Take care everbody.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Remember The Magic Hour?
Okay, so it's been about a week that I've been here in Hanoi (or maybe I can take one from the ATL and call it Hot-Noi). Internet access has been sparce and email complications have abounded, but hopefully things will start to run a little smoother in that department since it's my main way to stay connected with everyone back in the states.
I think over these last seven days I've been coming to the slow realization of how much of an infant I am in this country. For example, this weekend I had three goals, none of which were accomplished. I wanted to buy a bike. I wanted to talk to a student on the phone. I wanted to send out another big email.
As for the bike, somehow the bike I was interested in (a used Japanese one) went from the high price of 1.5 million dong (pronounced "dom"....sorry all of you who are eternally 13, myself included) to 2.5 million in the course of a 30 minute bargaining break. All I can assume is that yesterday the international supply of bikes dipped dangerously low. Or maybe they just became the new Razor scooter or Nascar. Are Huffies popular again in America? Regardless, the price was way more than I was willing to spend. By the way, 16,000 dong is roughly equal to 1 U.S. dollar.
As for getting a hold of the student, the folks on the other line couldn't understand me at all, so I wasn't able to make phone contact. Remember when Magic Johnson had that talk show , The Magic Hour, and it got cancelled because he couldn't pronounce the words clearly enough for people to understand? Well, I kind of feel like that. In the end though, it was nothing an email couldn't solve.
As for email in general, it's going to be a learning experience this year I think. Access is just a little tougher than it was back at Purdue. Plus my ELIC enourage account won't send anything right now. Hopefully I can get that worked out.
I was planning on getting together with some old students tomorrow morning, but I had to cancel because of a teacher faculty meeting. I'm hoping we can reshcedule for later in the day. This next week should be a busy one though, full of meetings with old friends, hours of lesson planning and teaching, and the process of continued acclimation to this somewhat familar but still very new culture. Honestly, it's been a great week and I'm excited for what the rest of the year will bring.
Thanks so much for the all comments. It's nice to be able to access this thing again. It's going to be a nice way to keep in touch.
I think over these last seven days I've been coming to the slow realization of how much of an infant I am in this country. For example, this weekend I had three goals, none of which were accomplished. I wanted to buy a bike. I wanted to talk to a student on the phone. I wanted to send out another big email.
As for the bike, somehow the bike I was interested in (a used Japanese one) went from the high price of 1.5 million dong (pronounced "dom"....sorry all of you who are eternally 13, myself included) to 2.5 million in the course of a 30 minute bargaining break. All I can assume is that yesterday the international supply of bikes dipped dangerously low. Or maybe they just became the new Razor scooter or Nascar. Are Huffies popular again in America? Regardless, the price was way more than I was willing to spend. By the way, 16,000 dong is roughly equal to 1 U.S. dollar.
As for getting a hold of the student, the folks on the other line couldn't understand me at all, so I wasn't able to make phone contact. Remember when Magic Johnson had that talk show , The Magic Hour, and it got cancelled because he couldn't pronounce the words clearly enough for people to understand? Well, I kind of feel like that. In the end though, it was nothing an email couldn't solve.
As for email in general, it's going to be a learning experience this year I think. Access is just a little tougher than it was back at Purdue. Plus my ELIC enourage account won't send anything right now. Hopefully I can get that worked out.
I was planning on getting together with some old students tomorrow morning, but I had to cancel because of a teacher faculty meeting. I'm hoping we can reshcedule for later in the day. This next week should be a busy one though, full of meetings with old friends, hours of lesson planning and teaching, and the process of continued acclimation to this somewhat familar but still very new culture. Honestly, it's been a great week and I'm excited for what the rest of the year will bring.
Thanks so much for the all comments. It's nice to be able to access this thing again. It's going to be a nice way to keep in touch.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Ain't no trip to Cleveland
After spending a few days with my good friend Jamila in So Cal, I arrived with Scott (a friend I went to Nam with last summer) at training. We've been at this quaint Best Western situated outside LA in the city of Rancho Cucamonga for about 3 days now. I don't really know much about the city, but I'm pretty sure it's Spanish for Ranch Cucamonga.
Training has been helpful, but it's tough not to fill a bit overwhelmed with all of the information, all of which I'm sure will prove important at some point during this coming year. We kicked off the first full day with personal interviews and the probing was pretty personal. (i.e....Whose your favorite Sheen, Charlie or Emilio?) But seriously, it was a chance to get acquainted with all of the administrative (I've been told by someone that I use that word a lot) details that will form the communications, insurance, and financial policies of the trip. By the way, I want to thank all of you who were able to support this endeavor financially. it means a lot and because of your generosity the fund raising is right on track.
There have been many sessions on cultural relations, all led by people with firsthand experience in this often confusing and counter-intuitive area, but I love it and I suppose I wouldn't be embarking on this experience if I didn't. Plus, on two separate occasions this summer, I watched at least 15 minutes of Jungle 2 Jungle, starring Tim Allen, thanks to TBS's great daytime programming. If all else fails, I'm sure that this cinematic masterpiece will serve as a valuable template. In all seriousness though, some of the curriculum was taken from Richard Nisbett's The Geography of Thought, a book I've found to be a great resource in attempting to understand some of the differences between the western and eastern mindset. I was first exposed to it as a sidenote in a social psychology class I took at Purdue. A few weeks later, I read it and loved it.
The team I'm on consists of seven people. 2 team leaders, David and Nancy (a married couple who have some years experience in Vietnam) and 5 people like me...the other four being Scott and Melia, who have also spent a summer in Hanoi (2 in Melia's case), and Josh and Deena, who will being traveling to this place for the first time. We've really been coming together well and I'm excited for the community that we'll have. Tonight we had a special team dinner at Chili's (that's right, "The New Golf Course" for all you Office fans). Then we went to Barnes and Nobles where we played this game that only Scott is capable of creating. Each of us picked a very obscure topic, told it to the another teammate, and then we all had twenty minutes to research it and give a report back to the group. I gave Scott "the chupacabra" and Deena gave me "Susan Powder." It was unique and defintely entertaining. Expect pics of the group soon.
We leave for China on Monday and will probably get there late Tuesday. From there we're planning on spending about 10 days in China for more intense training and then we should arrive in Nam on August 26th.
Take care everybody. I miss you guys.
Training has been helpful, but it's tough not to fill a bit overwhelmed with all of the information, all of which I'm sure will prove important at some point during this coming year. We kicked off the first full day with personal interviews and the probing was pretty personal. (i.e....Whose your favorite Sheen, Charlie or Emilio?) But seriously, it was a chance to get acquainted with all of the administrative (I've been told by someone that I use that word a lot) details that will form the communications, insurance, and financial policies of the trip. By the way, I want to thank all of you who were able to support this endeavor financially. it means a lot and because of your generosity the fund raising is right on track.
There have been many sessions on cultural relations, all led by people with firsthand experience in this often confusing and counter-intuitive area, but I love it and I suppose I wouldn't be embarking on this experience if I didn't. Plus, on two separate occasions this summer, I watched at least 15 minutes of Jungle 2 Jungle, starring Tim Allen, thanks to TBS's great daytime programming. If all else fails, I'm sure that this cinematic masterpiece will serve as a valuable template. In all seriousness though, some of the curriculum was taken from Richard Nisbett's The Geography of Thought, a book I've found to be a great resource in attempting to understand some of the differences between the western and eastern mindset. I was first exposed to it as a sidenote in a social psychology class I took at Purdue. A few weeks later, I read it and loved it.
The team I'm on consists of seven people. 2 team leaders, David and Nancy (a married couple who have some years experience in Vietnam) and 5 people like me...the other four being Scott and Melia, who have also spent a summer in Hanoi (2 in Melia's case), and Josh and Deena, who will being traveling to this place for the first time. We've really been coming together well and I'm excited for the community that we'll have. Tonight we had a special team dinner at Chili's (that's right, "The New Golf Course" for all you Office fans). Then we went to Barnes and Nobles where we played this game that only Scott is capable of creating. Each of us picked a very obscure topic, told it to the another teammate, and then we all had twenty minutes to research it and give a report back to the group. I gave Scott "the chupacabra" and Deena gave me "Susan Powder." It was unique and defintely entertaining. Expect pics of the group soon.
We leave for China on Monday and will probably get there late Tuesday. From there we're planning on spending about 10 days in China for more intense training and then we should arrive in Nam on August 26th.
Take care everybody. I miss you guys.
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