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.”
Monday, November 26, 2007
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.
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