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.
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