One of the greatest things about life is that it’s a great teacher; the lesson is always there if only you take the time to recognize it. The lessons don’t come in any particular order, as life does all of its own lesson planning. In the end, you simply choose to recognize the moment and learn from it, or you seal your mind off from the learning experience at hand.
Because I am no longer pursuing formal education for the first time in twenty-two years, I have been trying earnestly each day to maintain the mindset of a student, recognizing the lessons that life is throwing my way. Without professors guiding me along a particular path, as outlined in a printed syllabus, my syllabus writes itself as I choose to learn from different moments: it’s scary, exciting, and definitely a change to be learning exclusively in this way!
One of the lessons that I’ve been working on involves adaptation and confidence- my job serving as the instructor. When I applied to be a Living Language Assistant for the French Ministry of Education, I did not quite understand the nuance of a nine-month contract. With a nine-month contract I am more of a language teacher than anything else, despite the fact that I do not possess more qualifications from the other assistants. It seems astonishing that the French government would have so much faith in nine-month assistants, charging us to teach classes without any real pedagogical training beyond our five standard training sessions, journée de formation, mandatory for all assistants.
Despite my lack of confidence to teach, this is France; there will be no changing of the signed, sealed, and delivered paperwork stamped with a June 2010 end date. As a result, my experience has turned into something slightly different than I imagined, “assisting in English classes 12 hours a week.” But maintaining the student’s mindset, I’ve made an effort to recognize this moment as one to adapt, which will in turn build confidence. Once I get my materials together and plan out the lessons that we’ll be covering through the end of June, I’ll be more confident in teaching knowing that I adapted to the situation, and in the end I’ll have helped to build the English foundation of my students.
Beyond preparing for class, the little French kiddos serve as my teachers almost every class. One day they helped me to question my thoughtfulness after bringing in a bag of American candy corn to be used as markers during Halloween bingo. Without thinking twice I started to hand out it, until the teacher stopped me and asked me to list off the ingredients. Many of the students in the class were Muslim, and without having grown up in a community with a large Muslim population, this was not something that had even crossed my mind. Although none of the kids were upset, and the candy corn ultimately received the seal of approval, the students reminded me that I can make no assumptions; I don’t want to give the impression that Americans are insensitive, even if it’s just over a piece of candy corn.
Another lesson the students continually teach is not to take life too seriously. Laughter, smiles, dance, and play make life worth living, after all. When we listen to Raffi and shake our sillies out before class, the looks on their faces demonstrate the true importance of letting your hair down and having fun for the moment. Even though they are kids, being an “adult” and dancing right along with them has helped me to rouse my inner child. During training last week our pedagogical director, Madame Waren-Jean, read a story aloud about a witch and her cat, Willie; the book illustrated different colors through the premise that the witch continued to change the color of the cat’s fur to suit her own needs. By the end of the book, Anne and I were in stitches; the poor cat climbed a tree because he “was so ridiculous,” sporting a coat composed of such a large array of colors that he felt embarrassed. I tell you this caveat both because it’s funny to imagine two “adults” laughing hysterically over a picture book, and to make a point: the little French kiddos have the right idea about life. It doesn’t always have to be serious, and sometimes it’s ok to laugh out loud, really hard, even if you’re “all grown up.” There’s no point in being so serious about life that shaking your sillies out cannot paint a smile on your face.
I’ll leave you with a final, difficult lesson that I’m still working at mastering: twenty-one unruly, screaming eight-year-olds who leave you with high blood pressure and a headache. While most of my classes are either wonderful or on the tolerable side of well behaved, I do have one class, the Devil Class, that I dare say could not be any more difficult. At times I wish I could just throw in the towel and tell my supervisor that they’re utterly impossible, but in doing so I would also be throwing away the greatest opportunity of learning and change, both in behavior and English. There are twenty-one Anglicists in the class, and I have them all to myself for forty-five minutes each week while their teacher works with the Germanists in a classroom downstairs. They are in CE2, equivalent to third grade, since they still have two more years in école primaire before going to college, French middle school.
Although they are older than my littlest pupils in CE1, one grade level below, this class at École Paul Langevin is so misbehaved and apathetic that they cannot muscle through half of an exercise that the little ones finish in fifteen minutes. Instead of listening to me or sitting quietly at their desks, a third of the class torments another third of the class who then spring out of their seats, coming up to me at the front of the class as rapporteurs, tattletales, while the remaining third just sit covering their ears, complaining they are mal à la tête. Me too, I tell them, trying not to roll my eyes. At this point of the class, one of the little girls approaches me with downcast eyes, telling me to slam the yard-stick against the blackboard to get everyone to shut up; it works when their teacher does it. This totalitarian approach works for about thirty seconds, just long enough to tell them they need to have enough respect to vous me, instead of using the informal tu, and more importantly that they are passing up an opportunity to learn English from an “expert.” But holding their attention and raising my voice in both English and French proves ineffective. The scene is so out of control it’s almost comical; this class epitomizes the fact that I have no real teacher training, and I do not have the capacity to control twenty-one eight-year-olds who are more interested in getting away with breaking the rules and not having their name written on the board than actually learning anything.
At this time cannot I pinpoint exactly what I’m learning from the Devil Class, beyond recognizing that stressful, loud situations can cause you to have high blood pressure and a headache for the remainder of the day. I hope that as the year goes on, however, these kids will really come to understand they are lucky to have a native speaker in their classroom, and to be learning another language at such a young age. Throughout all of my years of French education in high school and university, I’ve only had a handful of native speakers leading my classes. I know this is the American norm, especially if you start learning in high school, but my accent still has a long way to go as a result. If you’re interested in finding out whether or not the Devil Class decides to take advantage of their learning situation and to see what else they teach me beyond patience, please stay tuned. I promise that it won’t be a lesson acquired without excitement, be it yelling, screaming, or asking the kids to copy “I will not disrespect my fellow classmates” thirty times in their cahiers, notebooks.
A final thought: Eric Carl read-alouds and Raffi sing-alongs do not constitute a bad day, nor do turkeys made out of traced hands. I’m just still getting the hang of learning on the fly, not in a classroom, and without the aid of a syllabus printed out at Boatwright Memorial Library. Here as some possible lessons I’m sensing for the future: working in a different environment, culture, city, finding a balance when teaching something so simple that it becomes complex, and realizing no set standards occur in practice; they’re base exclusively in theory. If you’re interesting how these lessons pan out, stay tuned; I’ll update you as the life havrais unveils its’ various lessons.
À la prochaine, mes amis!
Monday, November 23, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
A new adventure au Havre
Forty-one days ago I arrived in the City of Lights with all of the gear I suspected one might need as an English teaching assistant on a nine-month contract: two blue whale-like suitcases and a backpack, half my size, filled with The Cat in the Hat, A Charlie Brown’s Thanksgiving, and two bags of sucrose pulp, candy-corn that had been smothered beyond recognition, among other things. My “I really just want to look French s’il vous plaît” guise proved to be less than convincing: not only did my pack give it away, but I wore a look of eagerness, characteristically non-French, all over my face. I’d always dreamt of coming back to la belle France, and this time I was back for good… or at least the next nine months. The fact that I’d be leading classes of twenty something rambunctious 8-year-olds hadn’t yet sunk in. My mind, instead, wandered back and forth between a few simple questions: how rusty was my French? When would I be able to pick up a cheap bottle of Bordeaux at the local Carrefour? Was looking “à la mode” worth towing around two forty-nine pound suitcases?
Spending a few days in Paris proved to be useful in answering these questions, and reminding me exactly why I had fallen in love with France the first time around. Yes, my French was rusty, but not rusty enough to convince strangers of my American origins every time that I opened my mouth. It did not take long to find a bottle of delicious Bordeaux, and after surveying the Paris fashion scene, my only regret was not finding some space in those suitcases for my jean shorts, to accompany all of those black tights that had found their way into my suitcase. The best part about being in Paris, however, was not seeking out the answers to these questions, but realizing that dodging people along the busy streets no longer felt foreign: it felt like home.
Leaving “home” for Normandy’s great unknown heightened my anticipation for the coming year and presented me with more serious questions than those of wine, fashion, and accents. I wondered what life would be like living en provence while working for the French government, a bureaucratic monster of seemingly unfathomable paperwork? The train ride to Rouen with my friend and former abroad accomplice, Katie Pendery, provided few answers until we met her contact, Sophie, at the train station. After a brief tea chez elle, Sophie took us to Katie’s new residence, an apartment adjacent to her new place of employment, Lycée Guy Maupassant. The high school, built on a hill well out of town, overlooks Fécamp, a Norman resort known for its production of Benedictine liquor and high cliffs rising over the Alabaster Coast’s rocky beaches. Spending a few nights in Fécamp provided a small glimpse of the French life en provence; outside of Paris, people seemed really friendly, helpful, and welcoming! Although Normandy wasn’t “home,” it didn’t seem half bad.
After Katie saw me off at Fécamp’s train station, so small that it could be mistaken as a little white house, I steamed towards my new home in Le Havre, accompanied only by my enormous pack and the blue whales. Upon arrival, my contact, Janick Chéret, welcomed me to the city with a smile and a sign that read Laura MUSSER and Anne WOOTTON, the name of my to-be American colocotaire. Once Anne’s train arrived directly from Paris, the three of us turned Janick’s little Ford four-door into a jigsaw puzzle of luggage and bodies. Barely managing to squeeze into the car, Anne and I sped off to 22 rue Claude Monet where we’d be sharing an apartment for the havrais chapter of our lives.
Meeting a new roommate can be overwhelming, especially if your first face-to-face dialogue occurs while you’re sandwiched along the house wares aisle of a French grocery store… right before dinner. I’ll always be thankful that it was Anne with me in the Super U that Monday evening. After exchanging “what are we doing here?” looks, we settled on a few items and retreated to our new abode. Since our first night, we’ve cleaned out the broken clown-face lamp, a hangover of old colocataires past, lamented about the humidity level that leaves the entire apartment in a perpetual state of damp, and added some struggling basil plants, 22 rue Claude Monet has really become home. At the end of long days teaching, nothing beats turning the brass skeleton key of our apartment and opening the door unto a relaxing evening chez L. MUSSER et A. WOOTTON. As we continue to practice the French joie de vivre, we’ve come to realize that no evening is complete without an attempted culinary masterpiece, an empty bottle of red wine, crumbs of a baguette from the boulangerie just up the hill, a carton of Rondèle cheese, and variations of Imogen Heap songs on repeat.
While I always have Anne and our cozy domicile to look forward to upon arriving home, the days teaching are more tricky and tiring than I had anticipated. I did not realize the full impact of selecting a nine-month contract, noted in a small caveat on the application I completed last January. Nine-month primary school teachers, en fait, have a role more similar to English Teacher than Teaching Assistant. Because I have a nine-month contract, my responsibilities go beyond being a native English speaker in the classroom twelve hours per week: I must develop a unique sequence of units for each of my classes. Once I decide on the units, I’ll have to write lesson plans and come up with corresponding activities that will coincide with the goals set forth by the French Ministry of Education. During a meeting with Janick about the upcoming year, I discovered that I’ll be teaching English in four different schools around Le Havre: three classes at Ecole Raspail, one class at Ecole Pauline KERGOMARD, one class at Ecole Jules FERRY, and one class at Ecole Paul LANGEVIN. Between these four schools, I will work with over 120 students, twice per week in forty-five minute sessions. After observing my future classes and talking to my new colleagues, I deduced that I will be the only adult in the room for two of my six classes. Based upon the behavior of the students, I question my ability to teach these French youngsters any English at all if these schools also expect me to play The Law. On verra…
I’m still at the beginning of my teaching journey in Le Havre, especially since the vacances de Toussaint have put all school-related activities on hold since October 24… but I’m not complaining. I promise to include more stories about my time in the classroom, reconciling the manner in which the French way of life is fitting into my own, and other possibly interesting observations I’ve made in the past forty-one days. For now, I hope that I’ve simply been able to create a small mental painting for you as I set up my “new French life” in Claude Monet’s old atelier and dwelling place (hence the name of the street!).
Until next time my friends, à la prochaine mes amis.
Spending a few days in Paris proved to be useful in answering these questions, and reminding me exactly why I had fallen in love with France the first time around. Yes, my French was rusty, but not rusty enough to convince strangers of my American origins every time that I opened my mouth. It did not take long to find a bottle of delicious Bordeaux, and after surveying the Paris fashion scene, my only regret was not finding some space in those suitcases for my jean shorts, to accompany all of those black tights that had found their way into my suitcase. The best part about being in Paris, however, was not seeking out the answers to these questions, but realizing that dodging people along the busy streets no longer felt foreign: it felt like home.
Leaving “home” for Normandy’s great unknown heightened my anticipation for the coming year and presented me with more serious questions than those of wine, fashion, and accents. I wondered what life would be like living en provence while working for the French government, a bureaucratic monster of seemingly unfathomable paperwork? The train ride to Rouen with my friend and former abroad accomplice, Katie Pendery, provided few answers until we met her contact, Sophie, at the train station. After a brief tea chez elle, Sophie took us to Katie’s new residence, an apartment adjacent to her new place of employment, Lycée Guy Maupassant. The high school, built on a hill well out of town, overlooks Fécamp, a Norman resort known for its production of Benedictine liquor and high cliffs rising over the Alabaster Coast’s rocky beaches. Spending a few nights in Fécamp provided a small glimpse of the French life en provence; outside of Paris, people seemed really friendly, helpful, and welcoming! Although Normandy wasn’t “home,” it didn’t seem half bad.
After Katie saw me off at Fécamp’s train station, so small that it could be mistaken as a little white house, I steamed towards my new home in Le Havre, accompanied only by my enormous pack and the blue whales. Upon arrival, my contact, Janick Chéret, welcomed me to the city with a smile and a sign that read Laura MUSSER and Anne WOOTTON, the name of my to-be American colocotaire. Once Anne’s train arrived directly from Paris, the three of us turned Janick’s little Ford four-door into a jigsaw puzzle of luggage and bodies. Barely managing to squeeze into the car, Anne and I sped off to 22 rue Claude Monet where we’d be sharing an apartment for the havrais chapter of our lives.
Meeting a new roommate can be overwhelming, especially if your first face-to-face dialogue occurs while you’re sandwiched along the house wares aisle of a French grocery store… right before dinner. I’ll always be thankful that it was Anne with me in the Super U that Monday evening. After exchanging “what are we doing here?” looks, we settled on a few items and retreated to our new abode. Since our first night, we’ve cleaned out the broken clown-face lamp, a hangover of old colocataires past, lamented about the humidity level that leaves the entire apartment in a perpetual state of damp, and added some struggling basil plants, 22 rue Claude Monet has really become home. At the end of long days teaching, nothing beats turning the brass skeleton key of our apartment and opening the door unto a relaxing evening chez L. MUSSER et A. WOOTTON. As we continue to practice the French joie de vivre, we’ve come to realize that no evening is complete without an attempted culinary masterpiece, an empty bottle of red wine, crumbs of a baguette from the boulangerie just up the hill, a carton of Rondèle cheese, and variations of Imogen Heap songs on repeat.
While I always have Anne and our cozy domicile to look forward to upon arriving home, the days teaching are more tricky and tiring than I had anticipated. I did not realize the full impact of selecting a nine-month contract, noted in a small caveat on the application I completed last January. Nine-month primary school teachers, en fait, have a role more similar to English Teacher than Teaching Assistant. Because I have a nine-month contract, my responsibilities go beyond being a native English speaker in the classroom twelve hours per week: I must develop a unique sequence of units for each of my classes. Once I decide on the units, I’ll have to write lesson plans and come up with corresponding activities that will coincide with the goals set forth by the French Ministry of Education. During a meeting with Janick about the upcoming year, I discovered that I’ll be teaching English in four different schools around Le Havre: three classes at Ecole Raspail, one class at Ecole Pauline KERGOMARD, one class at Ecole Jules FERRY, and one class at Ecole Paul LANGEVIN. Between these four schools, I will work with over 120 students, twice per week in forty-five minute sessions. After observing my future classes and talking to my new colleagues, I deduced that I will be the only adult in the room for two of my six classes. Based upon the behavior of the students, I question my ability to teach these French youngsters any English at all if these schools also expect me to play The Law. On verra…
I’m still at the beginning of my teaching journey in Le Havre, especially since the vacances de Toussaint have put all school-related activities on hold since October 24… but I’m not complaining. I promise to include more stories about my time in the classroom, reconciling the manner in which the French way of life is fitting into my own, and other possibly interesting observations I’ve made in the past forty-one days. For now, I hope that I’ve simply been able to create a small mental painting for you as I set up my “new French life” in Claude Monet’s old atelier and dwelling place (hence the name of the street!).
Until next time my friends, à la prochaine mes amis.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Culture Shock and Caring Chains
I agonize about the imperfections of my skin. I brood over all of the emails that I needed to send. I stress about figuring out my life plan. I fret over scoring well on the LSAT. I stew that John Mayer was coming to town the day after I leave for school. I panic about changing my major. I distress about driving 350 miles down to Richmond when gas is almost $4 a gallon. I begin thinking that the glass might actually be half empty. Can’t a girl get a break?
The moment these negativities enter my head memories of things seen, heard, and smelled immediately counter my bad attitude. At least I have means to afford something as simple as face wash. How can I complain that I have emails to send? Not only do I have my own computer, but my unlimited wireless access virtually puts the world at my fingertips. What’s so stressful about having options for my life plan? I can be whatever anything my imagination dreams up, within reason. And it’s not like the LSAT is a one-shot deal. Honestly missing John Mayer’s concert is not a life or death situation so clearly that’s ridiculous to be upset over. Changing a major isn’t that big of a deal because it won’t have too great an impact for graduation. And sad to know that gas is so expensive. But really, how bad can life be when you have a car and the opportunity to attend a university six hours from home? I guess when you frame things in this manner the glass is more than half-full; it’s just about to overflow.
It’s amazing the perspective that I’ve acquired living and working in Cambodia. One of my biggest fears coming home is losing that perspective, a fear far more founded than the other concerns that have recently been on my mind. I know that I’ve been blessed in more ways that I can count, but it’s exhausting to constantly have the overflowing attitude all of the time. Perhaps this is culture shock manifesting itself in the lenses I use to view the world. Through my old lens these problems seem legitimate; it doesn’t seem ridiculous to be a little self-conscious or worried about the future or doing the right thing or being able to pay credit card bills. But the new lens I acquired in Cambodia puts all of these concerns, annoyances, road bumps, and worries in an entirely new light: they’re glowing in frivolity.
After returning from such a unique experience it seems as though my life before Cambodia was merely paused. Now that I’ve returned things resumed where they left off; the music is playing again where it stopped three months ago. I’m still worrying about the same things, thinking about the same things, working on the same things. Nothing seems to have changed; I have not grown as a person, and I have not become more aware. The more that I become absorbed in the way things were before I left, the more quickly my perspective is disappearing because the noise from my previous life is drowning it out. All of the lessons learned and revelations revealed seem to have crystallized into my Cambodian past, immobilized and inaudible. But maybe all hope is not lost.
The other day a pause allowed my Cambodian lens to put things into focus while I rinsed off the dishes. I wondered why I needed to wash the dishes twice, once in the sink and again in the dishwasher? The water I used to rinse the dishes alone surely amounted to enough clean water for an entire Cambodian family for a day or perhaps longer. Even now it doesn’t seem right that I can thoughtlessly use more water for dishes than a family might have for a week. Although I don’t know what to do about the dishwasher, I do have affirmation that my Cambodian lens is not completely downed out, and it’s not crystallized. It’s just undergoing culture shock.
While I figure out a plan to conserve water and stay open to the thoughts that culture shock places in my head, I’ve decided to be proactive about making sure that my Cambodian lens stays in focus. I cannot let it crystallize into my memory alongside fried rice noodles with chicken and vegetables, biking around on an orange pushbike, discovering the wonder of the Angkor Empire, mispronouncing Khmer words, seeing hundreds of smiling faces at Amelio School almost every morning and afternoon, or smelling like citronella every hour of the day. Preserving my perspective not only helps me to grow, but it provides me a means to share my experiences with others in the hope that they, too, will want to become involved with Cambodia in one way or another. This is where the Caring Chains come in.
Caring Chains is a new, easy way to get involved and support CFC. The idea came to me while I watched some of the girls at Amelio School make macramé bracelets, a skill they had learned from a group of Belgian volunteers. The students really seemed to enjoy making the bracelets, and in very little time they were able to make bracelets that resembled the one that I’ve been wearing since I bought in Guatemala over a year and a half ago. The entire summer I’d spent time brainstorming about “the next big thing” that CFC could use to raise awareness; I wanted to come up with something that would become as well-know as the LIVESTRONG bracelet. While Caring Chains might not be made out of thin, stretchy rubber, but they certainly have a similar effect and they come in many different unique styles. The $10 from each Caring Chain has a huge impact supporting the children and teachers involved with CFC. It can pay one English teacher’s salary for 2 days, buy 2 school uniforms, feed one child rice porridge breakfast for 390 days, or provide 20 toothbrushes to ensure the children’s dental health. Most importantly each Caring Chain sold provides a sense of hope through education.
Even though life pressed play and this series of globetrotting stories has come to an end, I’m going to stay dedicated to helping Caring for Cambodia’s efforts. If you’d like to contribute by raising awareness about the situation in Cambodia please share the things that I’ve shared with you. You can also purchase one of the Caring Chains that was made by one of the students at the Amelio School; the entire $10 donation will go back to Cambodia through CFC and used in the way that it is needed most. And last but not least, I must thank you all for your continuous support. I could not have gotten through everything with all of the love and encouragement that you infused in me to take a change and make a difference.
The moment these negativities enter my head memories of things seen, heard, and smelled immediately counter my bad attitude. At least I have means to afford something as simple as face wash. How can I complain that I have emails to send? Not only do I have my own computer, but my unlimited wireless access virtually puts the world at my fingertips. What’s so stressful about having options for my life plan? I can be whatever anything my imagination dreams up, within reason. And it’s not like the LSAT is a one-shot deal. Honestly missing John Mayer’s concert is not a life or death situation so clearly that’s ridiculous to be upset over. Changing a major isn’t that big of a deal because it won’t have too great an impact for graduation. And sad to know that gas is so expensive. But really, how bad can life be when you have a car and the opportunity to attend a university six hours from home? I guess when you frame things in this manner the glass is more than half-full; it’s just about to overflow.
It’s amazing the perspective that I’ve acquired living and working in Cambodia. One of my biggest fears coming home is losing that perspective, a fear far more founded than the other concerns that have recently been on my mind. I know that I’ve been blessed in more ways that I can count, but it’s exhausting to constantly have the overflowing attitude all of the time. Perhaps this is culture shock manifesting itself in the lenses I use to view the world. Through my old lens these problems seem legitimate; it doesn’t seem ridiculous to be a little self-conscious or worried about the future or doing the right thing or being able to pay credit card bills. But the new lens I acquired in Cambodia puts all of these concerns, annoyances, road bumps, and worries in an entirely new light: they’re glowing in frivolity.
After returning from such a unique experience it seems as though my life before Cambodia was merely paused. Now that I’ve returned things resumed where they left off; the music is playing again where it stopped three months ago. I’m still worrying about the same things, thinking about the same things, working on the same things. Nothing seems to have changed; I have not grown as a person, and I have not become more aware. The more that I become absorbed in the way things were before I left, the more quickly my perspective is disappearing because the noise from my previous life is drowning it out. All of the lessons learned and revelations revealed seem to have crystallized into my Cambodian past, immobilized and inaudible. But maybe all hope is not lost.
The other day a pause allowed my Cambodian lens to put things into focus while I rinsed off the dishes. I wondered why I needed to wash the dishes twice, once in the sink and again in the dishwasher? The water I used to rinse the dishes alone surely amounted to enough clean water for an entire Cambodian family for a day or perhaps longer. Even now it doesn’t seem right that I can thoughtlessly use more water for dishes than a family might have for a week. Although I don’t know what to do about the dishwasher, I do have affirmation that my Cambodian lens is not completely downed out, and it’s not crystallized. It’s just undergoing culture shock.
While I figure out a plan to conserve water and stay open to the thoughts that culture shock places in my head, I’ve decided to be proactive about making sure that my Cambodian lens stays in focus. I cannot let it crystallize into my memory alongside fried rice noodles with chicken and vegetables, biking around on an orange pushbike, discovering the wonder of the Angkor Empire, mispronouncing Khmer words, seeing hundreds of smiling faces at Amelio School almost every morning and afternoon, or smelling like citronella every hour of the day. Preserving my perspective not only helps me to grow, but it provides me a means to share my experiences with others in the hope that they, too, will want to become involved with Cambodia in one way or another. This is where the Caring Chains come in.
Caring Chains is a new, easy way to get involved and support CFC. The idea came to me while I watched some of the girls at Amelio School make macramé bracelets, a skill they had learned from a group of Belgian volunteers. The students really seemed to enjoy making the bracelets, and in very little time they were able to make bracelets that resembled the one that I’ve been wearing since I bought in Guatemala over a year and a half ago. The entire summer I’d spent time brainstorming about “the next big thing” that CFC could use to raise awareness; I wanted to come up with something that would become as well-know as the LIVESTRONG bracelet. While Caring Chains might not be made out of thin, stretchy rubber, but they certainly have a similar effect and they come in many different unique styles. The $10 from each Caring Chain has a huge impact supporting the children and teachers involved with CFC. It can pay one English teacher’s salary for 2 days, buy 2 school uniforms, feed one child rice porridge breakfast for 390 days, or provide 20 toothbrushes to ensure the children’s dental health. Most importantly each Caring Chain sold provides a sense of hope through education.
Even though life pressed play and this series of globetrotting stories has come to an end, I’m going to stay dedicated to helping Caring for Cambodia’s efforts. If you’d like to contribute by raising awareness about the situation in Cambodia please share the things that I’ve shared with you. You can also purchase one of the Caring Chains that was made by one of the students at the Amelio School; the entire $10 donation will go back to Cambodia through CFC and used in the way that it is needed most. And last but not least, I must thank you all for your continuous support. I could not have gotten through everything with all of the love and encouragement that you infused in me to take a change and make a difference.
Friday, August 8, 2008
It's About Time
ESOL: Time Unit. Time change. Eastern time zone. Phnom Penh: UTC = 07:00 hours. Time crunch. Timely manner. Only time will tell. Where did the time go? Time-consuming. Timing is everything. Time’s up. Excuse me, what time is it please? Another time. I don’t know the time. I have no time. Time is of the essence. We’re out of time. It’s time to go. It’s about time.
I think it’s about time to share my experiences working with Caring for Cambodia, time to be a tourist and not a teacher, time to move up, time for things to reach their culmination, time to learn, time to come home, and time to reflect. I started writing this as I sat aboard the crowded Paramount Express double-decker bus between Siem Reap and Phnom Penh, but I am no longer coasting along National Road 6, sitting in my compact seat on the overcrowded bus traversing bumpy two-lane highway. I’ve been home just over a week now, so I guess that means it really is about time.
My last official day interning with CFC was Monday, July 21. After spending one week assisting with the administration of Rosetta Stone assessments at the other CFC schools, Bakong and Kong Much, I returned to the Amelio School for one final morning with Kimchhoeurn. This time I supported Kimchhoeurn as she modeled for the other CFC English teachers, Sinat and Chandra, how to teach the ESOL: Time Unit that I had written and we had taught together at Amelio School. The English for Students of Other Languages unit proved more difficult to write and create than I imagined. Now that it is written, bound, and shelved alongside the other CFC resources, I admit that I’ve come to appreciate teachers’ planning periods. Teaching proves time-consuming work, particularly when you’re teaching for over seven hours each day like the teachers do in Cambodia, six days each week no less.
After hand-drawing clock faces on twenty bingo cards, making three color-coordinated sets of the time concentration game, cutting out clock faces into fraction pieces that further explain the concepts of half and quarter hours, laminating pictures of watches and cutting up watermelons, I think that it is safe to say that the ESOL Time Unit was a small success. If you question any of the children, grades 3 through 6 at Amelio School: “what time is it, please?” or “what time do you study Khmer?” I believe that at least 80% of the students would be able to answer both accurately and more importantly, with confidence. It may not seem like a big accomplishment, but teaching about the time itself took time; it was no small task. The students began by learning different instruments of time such as “wall clock” and “watch.” They then learned to distinguish between digital time, the “one with the numbers,” from analog time, the “time with the face.” Once the students had mastered that, we focused on counting to 60 and then counting by 5s, understanding how the numbers corresponded with different places around the clock. Once almost all students understood those concepts, the long and short hands were introduced separately, only put together to “make time” when the students understood the difference between them. The children practiced telling and making the time using their personal paper-plate clocks, playing the time concentration game, and quizzing one another with the time bingo game. They learned fractions like “half-past three” and “quarter to six,” which the students put to practical use in sets of time questions and answers: “when do you go to school?” “I go to school at _ _ : _ _” and “when do you eat breakfast?” “I eat breakfast at _ _ : _ _ .”
Writing such an ESOL Unit, or any teaching unit for that matter is neither my forte nor my area of expertise. Although I’d worked with lesson plans last summer as a Team Leader, adapting them to fit the interests and strengths of my students each conference, I’d never formally written a lesson plan. Under the direction of one of CFC’s master teachers, Kaye Bach, I was able to come up with something that was both manageable to teach from an educator’s standpoint and both interesting and practical for the students. Just as rewarding as working with the students to learn “time” was modeling with of Kimchhoeurn, the English teacher at the Amelio School. I learned countless things from interacting with the children and writing lesson plans, I know that I learned just as much working with Kimchhoeurn. While we come from opposite sides of the Earth, we have more similarities than meet the eye. We are both 21 years old and continually asking questions, being curious, and trying to becoming better so that we might be able to find our places in the world. I know her words were genuine when she said that I taught her a lot, but I hope that she knows how much she taught me and how big of an impact she has improving the lives of so many children through education.
When I wasn’t working with Kimchhoeurn modeling the Unit, administering Rosetta Stone assessments, showing interactive DVDs about basic hygiene, working with volunteers from Belgium, acting as a guide for visitors, introducing Soy Sophea to new English words through conversation, or teaching Sarik to make statistical graphs on Excel for the Ministry of Education on CFC’s behalf, I was engaged in conversation with Savy. Savy works as the CFC Country Director and Superintendent of all of the CFC Schools; he oversee basically all of CFC in Cambodia. Despite his constantly busy schedule, Savy provided me with “go-to” support for everything- obtaining teaching supplies, answering questions about day trips and visas, taking me around to health clinics when my eye swelled, and everything in between. He was more than my “boss,” he and Mom, his wife, became my good friends. During my last few weeks in Siem Reap, Savy and I did a good bit of talking about CFC, Cambodia, and the current situation of both the organization and the country. Throughout our conversations we tossed around new ideas and brainstormed ways to get more people involved with CFC, how to teach English in a more conversational way, and strategies to make the CFC’s new shop at the Night Market stand out above the others, all in five minutes time. And that’s only a snippet of our conversations about Caring For Cambodia. Our other discussions could have gone on for hours, and at times they did.
When I began writing this particularly entry on the bus to Phnom Penh, my mother, her friend, and myself were overcrowded on account of the upcoming elections. The elections, which began in 1993, happen once every 5 years; they were scheduled for Sunday, July 27, causing all Cambodians to return to their home province for the weekend in order to cast their votes. Even though we weren’t returning to Phnom Penh to cast our votes, it was exciting to know we were in the capital city when the historic voting was taking place. Two days following the election, waiting to board my Tokyo-bound plane towards home, I read in Singapore’s newspaper the “Straight Times” that CPP, the Cambodian Peoples’ Party, had won the election in a landslide victory. This came as no surprise to me. Despite the emergence and increased popularity of other political parties the CPP has maintained its control of the Cambodian government. I saw CPP campaign parades that stretched kilometer after kilometer down the streets of Siem Reap and onto the roads around the temples within Angkor Thom and beyond. I heard rumors. Four journalists were killed before the election for the information they had shared with the public. Perhaps time will change things?
It is precisely this sort of situation that both discourages my hope for a better tomorrow all the while affirming the work that I have done with CFC to help educate the children. In our conversations, I would continually ask questions because I could never understand how anything could be accomplished when things appear corrupt. Why is it that millions of foreign aid dollars seem to disappear? Why is it that there are people living, and dying, in extreme poverty? Perhaps there is a disconnect between the people, their needs, and the millions of dollars of aid? I think that is a conversation for another time. While this situation portrays the situation in Cambodia as almost hopeless, it gives me hope that an organization such as CFC, working to promote the education of Cambodia’s children, can really make a difference. Perhaps when it’s their generation’s turn to lead the country, the children sitting in classrooms today will be able to harness their knowledge to direct both Cambodia and its’ resources exactly where they are needed most. But only time will tell.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Shades of Meaning
I used to consider independent and self-reliant synonymous; in my mind they were equivalent terms. After residing in Siem Reap for six weeks, however, I realize my almost error in diction and definite error in thinking. Even though there are similarities between these two words, their fundamental differences hidden beneath their shades of meaning prevent synonymy.
What is it that characterizes someone as independent? The lexicon authority, the dictionary, attributes the following to an independent person: someone who lives their life “free from outside control, [is] self-governing, not influenced or affected by others, not depending on another for livelihood or subsistence, capable of thinking or acting for oneself, not depending on something else for effectiveness, freestanding.” My personal definition echoes the dictionary’s in that I characterize an independent person as one who is stubborn, stays true to personal ideals and values, and is not so paralyzed in the thought of risk or failure that they their convictions. I also viewed independent people as such because they rely on their own actions to accomplish the things that they deem valuable and necessary. Perhaps, then, an independent person is also self-reliant?
The authority on words defines self-reliance as “reliance on one’s own powers and resources rather than those of others.” While self-reliance is defined in a fraction of the words of independent, my experiences in Siem Reap have taught me that conciseness does not reflect ease, because while independence has multiple facets, something concise like the definition of self-reliance may take longer to understand and employ. Although there are allusions to self-reliance within the rhetoric of independence, their shades of meaning differ just enough to make all of the difference.
Before jet-setting over twenty-four hours aboard four separate aircraft to live in the shadowy remains of the Khmer empire, I considered myself to be independent. Am I stubborn? Without a doubt. And although I do have fears of rejection and being judged, I strive to live by my values by using them to guide the decisions I make every day, no matter how big or small. When I live by my values, I know that I will feel at peace. So I guess the fact that I’m interning alone in Siem Reap for seven weeks is a bit of a testament to my independence. That seems fair. So now the question remains, if it embodies independence does it embody self-reliance? I no longer think so.
By reflecting on my reactions to the sights I have seen, the sounds I have heard, the funks I have smelt, the people I have touched, and the thoughts that have crossed my mind, I’ve come to the realization that I am not self-reliant. I have not yet found my own power and resources. While I embody independence in some ways, I continue to thrive on the power infused in me by those who surround me with their love, their care, and their friendship in the little ways that I cannot find words to describe. So can I characterize myself as someone who is self-reliant? No, and while I may have a different answer in the years to come, this might just be who I am, and I think that I’m ok with that.
To be perfectly frank, this blog seems to epitomize exactly what I’ve been trying to explain. I have literally been pondering and typing away at this entry for a week now, and it’s as though I’m afraid to post because I haven’t had enough time to explain my ideas in a succinct way. It’s not as though I haven’t had time to write it after school or while relaxing on my day off… it’s just that at those particular moments the little connections that infuse love and care made themselves salient to me through emails, skype messages, facebook pokes, and even via excited voices on the other end of late-night skype/cell chats. And maybe it’s not a bad thing that I get my energy and inspiration from the people that surround me. While it’s tough to live without them in a world geographically opposite from their own, things are not as different as I often think. While thousands of miles and time zones stand between physical proximity, I know I remain in the thoughts of those who inspire me even while I’m here doing my thing in Cambodia because no matter how small those little connections mean the world to me.
And I realize that I shouldn’t have the attitude that I can only be sure that people care when I receive their text message or email or facebook wall post. Because even though a random message as simple as “hey how are you?” can completely turn the day around, what’s been truly heart-warming is learning that I don’t need constant reminders of the importance of my friends and family within my life. Their support and hope and love are much too big to be captured and adequately expressed within an email; the power and zeal for life that they infuse in me is much more powerful than anything that can be put into written words or an electronic box on the computer.
In understanding the difference between independence and self-reliance, I’ve learned the shades of meaning in my life spark from the people who surround me, those who influence me and inspire me. Even though I’m independent, I know that the power derived from their care and love is something so powerful that I will never be able to generate it on my own, let alone live without, because it’s something that I value more than I can say. The people in my life have created opportunities for me to become a better person, to make better decisions, and have helped to mold my values. I have to thank them all for making it all that it has become. To those who have infused your care and your love into my life, even if it was via an endearing smile, a warm hug, a friendly text, a long-winded email, a fond memory, or most importantly, in simply being in my life, you continue to create my shades of meaning, shown in the actions that I’ve chosen to take and the person that I continue to become. I cannot thank you enough.
Miss and love you all!
What is it that characterizes someone as independent? The lexicon authority, the dictionary, attributes the following to an independent person: someone who lives their life “free from outside control, [is] self-governing, not influenced or affected by others, not depending on another for livelihood or subsistence, capable of thinking or acting for oneself, not depending on something else for effectiveness, freestanding.” My personal definition echoes the dictionary’s in that I characterize an independent person as one who is stubborn, stays true to personal ideals and values, and is not so paralyzed in the thought of risk or failure that they their convictions. I also viewed independent people as such because they rely on their own actions to accomplish the things that they deem valuable and necessary. Perhaps, then, an independent person is also self-reliant?
The authority on words defines self-reliance as “reliance on one’s own powers and resources rather than those of others.” While self-reliance is defined in a fraction of the words of independent, my experiences in Siem Reap have taught me that conciseness does not reflect ease, because while independence has multiple facets, something concise like the definition of self-reliance may take longer to understand and employ. Although there are allusions to self-reliance within the rhetoric of independence, their shades of meaning differ just enough to make all of the difference.
Before jet-setting over twenty-four hours aboard four separate aircraft to live in the shadowy remains of the Khmer empire, I considered myself to be independent. Am I stubborn? Without a doubt. And although I do have fears of rejection and being judged, I strive to live by my values by using them to guide the decisions I make every day, no matter how big or small. When I live by my values, I know that I will feel at peace. So I guess the fact that I’m interning alone in Siem Reap for seven weeks is a bit of a testament to my independence. That seems fair. So now the question remains, if it embodies independence does it embody self-reliance? I no longer think so.
By reflecting on my reactions to the sights I have seen, the sounds I have heard, the funks I have smelt, the people I have touched, and the thoughts that have crossed my mind, I’ve come to the realization that I am not self-reliant. I have not yet found my own power and resources. While I embody independence in some ways, I continue to thrive on the power infused in me by those who surround me with their love, their care, and their friendship in the little ways that I cannot find words to describe. So can I characterize myself as someone who is self-reliant? No, and while I may have a different answer in the years to come, this might just be who I am, and I think that I’m ok with that.
To be perfectly frank, this blog seems to epitomize exactly what I’ve been trying to explain. I have literally been pondering and typing away at this entry for a week now, and it’s as though I’m afraid to post because I haven’t had enough time to explain my ideas in a succinct way. It’s not as though I haven’t had time to write it after school or while relaxing on my day off… it’s just that at those particular moments the little connections that infuse love and care made themselves salient to me through emails, skype messages, facebook pokes, and even via excited voices on the other end of late-night skype/cell chats. And maybe it’s not a bad thing that I get my energy and inspiration from the people that surround me. While it’s tough to live without them in a world geographically opposite from their own, things are not as different as I often think. While thousands of miles and time zones stand between physical proximity, I know I remain in the thoughts of those who inspire me even while I’m here doing my thing in Cambodia because no matter how small those little connections mean the world to me.
And I realize that I shouldn’t have the attitude that I can only be sure that people care when I receive their text message or email or facebook wall post. Because even though a random message as simple as “hey how are you?” can completely turn the day around, what’s been truly heart-warming is learning that I don’t need constant reminders of the importance of my friends and family within my life. Their support and hope and love are much too big to be captured and adequately expressed within an email; the power and zeal for life that they infuse in me is much more powerful than anything that can be put into written words or an electronic box on the computer.
In understanding the difference between independence and self-reliance, I’ve learned the shades of meaning in my life spark from the people who surround me, those who influence me and inspire me. Even though I’m independent, I know that the power derived from their care and love is something so powerful that I will never be able to generate it on my own, let alone live without, because it’s something that I value more than I can say. The people in my life have created opportunities for me to become a better person, to make better decisions, and have helped to mold my values. I have to thank them all for making it all that it has become. To those who have infused your care and your love into my life, even if it was via an endearing smile, a warm hug, a friendly text, a long-winded email, a fond memory, or most importantly, in simply being in my life, you continue to create my shades of meaning, shown in the actions that I’ve chosen to take and the person that I continue to become. I cannot thank you enough.
Miss and love you all!
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Everything Happens for a Reason
There seem to be infinite ways of making sense of the world: religion, theories, laws, formulas, love, karma, yin and yang, faith, traditions, knowledge, wives tales, predestination, reincarnation, evolution, what goes around comes around. It’s almost overwhelming to conceptualize even an abbreviated list. When I was growing up I made sense of the world through the traditions and beliefs of my family, largely based upon Catholic teachings. While I still consider myself of Catholic faith, I’m at that point in my life where I need to find my own answers to the fundamental questions that lie at the core of personhood: who am I and what do I stand for? I know that the things I am seeing and experiencing with every waking moment here are helping me to answer these questions, although I’ve only been able to affirm one mantra thus far: everything happens for a reason.
Does everything happen for a reason? It certainly can seem that way when luck is on your side, when the chips fall into place, or even when things are smooth sailing. But what about the occasions when things are so-so, not-so-good, or downright bad? Those things certainly don’t happen for a reason, do they? Why would suffering or pain happen on purpose? I don’t know the answer to those questions, but even when the going gets tough, I truly do believe that the things that we experience, whether or not they happen out of chance or luck or design by a higher Being, they happen for a reason. Only when the door in front closes can the pale light from another room down the hall be noticed.
I can’t say that there’s one exact experience that has lead me to believe that everything happens for a reason because I know that it’s a cocktail of the good and the not-so-good. I would be lying if I said that none of it was a challenge to get through and I never questioned my own mantra, but I do know that it makes me who and what I am. If I could go back in time I don’t think I would change anything that has happened because then I wouldn’t be myself. One of the not-so-great, makes-you-a-little-doubtful experiences came and went quickly just last week here in Siem Reap. Last Tuesday morning at school I was more tired than usual because my neck had been sore the night before and had kept me awake for some of the night. I also had a large, swollen bug bite on my arm that did not quell from the usual Benadryl itch stick. When my right eyelid started to swell rapidly around 10 am, I became unnerved and decided to take the rest of the day off. After some coaxing from a concerned friend I decided to call my supervisor and see the doctor, an activity that I dread even in the States.
Within 48 hours my eyelid was back to normal, the soreness in my neck was gone, and the bite looked like an average mosquito’s feast. The doctor attributed the whole situation to an allergic reaction of some kind, and prescribed anti-inflammatory and anti-allergy medications, which I started taking the very same afternoon my eyelid, had swelled. While the swollen eyelid, swollen gland, and swollen bite did not prove to be life threatening, I guess that one can never be too careful here because you run the risk of “Cambodia catching up to you.” I do not know if this “situation” was so not-so-good that it forced me to question the validity of my mantra, although it’s not something that I would choose to occur on a regular basis, neither here nor in the States. Looking back on the whole incident a week later, I have a good idea why the reaction and subsequent scare happened, and as a result I’ve been able to learn from it. I can’t let my guard down, and I need to make sure that I’m taking care of myself: physically and mentally. While it was a nuisance and proved a bit of a temporary scare, that little allergic reaction happened for a reason, and those few swollen bumps helped to affirm my mantra in the end. However, something even that small has the potential to detract from such a belief, particularly while they are occurring. I certainly didn’t feel the situation affirmed my belief until I was healed.
And while little things like that can initially create doubt and skepticism, some things that happen are so powerful that they come close to shattering even shadows of doubt that things do happen for a reason. All of my doubts were nearly shattered just over a week ago when I ran into a group of women whom I now refer to as my adoptive Oregonian aunties. Their names are Shari, Jill, Marylou, Alice, Susan, and Dorothy; they were all from Oregon and were in Cambodia working through Women of Vision, part of the World Vision organization. By chance, or perhaps by the design of a higher Being, they were staying at the Villa, my guesthouse here in Siem Reap. They happened to be checking in while I was coming home for lunch on Saturday. Hearing American English and seeing US addresses on their luggage in the lobby prompted me to inquire where they were from. I didn’t think that much would come of the question beyond my standard “oh, I’m from Pennsylvania” response and the faint chorus of “It’s a Small World After All” playing in my head. Truth be told, I could not have been more wrong; the moment that Shari and I began speaking in the lobby, my weekend plans were transformed, as was my take on the Khmer culture and its’ rich history.
The six Oregonian women welcomed me into their group with open arms, and asked me to spend lunch with them before heading back to school for the afternoon session that Saturday. They also invited me to venture with them to the temples the next day, which I had yet to see. I cannot thank them enough for their openness, their friendship, or their interest in not only in my work with CFC, but in me as a twenty-something girl spending seven weeks alone in Cambodia. Not only did I enjoy a refreshing banana smoothie over lunch while listening to a sampling of their amazing stories, but I gained their friendship, which in turn enabled me to share with them the awe-inspiring experience of the Angkor temples.
After taking in the aura of the temples of Angkor Wat, Ta Prohm, and the Bayon, I can understand why people travel from the opposite ends of the Earth to see such wonders of the world. These temples were built almost a millennium ago at the heart of the Khmer empire’s capital. Think of DC only a thousand years ago. Also consider that such marvels were constructed in old-fashioned ways; these structures were not built with cranes and cement, but by systems devised using elephants, the current of the river, and interlocking pieces. Even after four years of utter cultural and historical destruction the temples that surround Siem Reap cannot be described in any other way except indescribable. They’re just one of those things that you need to see to believe they even exist in such awe-inspiring form. Their sheer existence after all of the time that has passed and all of the events that have occurred in this world of ours epitomizes the phrase “a picture is worth a thousand words.”
Not only was my temple experience magical to say the least, but it was something unforgettable because of the company that I shared it with. Jill, Susan, and I climbed the steep steps “towards heaven” of one of the temples close to Ta Prohm, along with Brett, Shari’s 18-year-old stepson who had been brave enough to travel with six women for a few weeks. The eight of us arose at 4:30 in the morning to see the temples at sunrise, and we watched the sunset in the sky while sharing dinner and one another’s company over an exquisite dinner at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club. We even had some laughs and good fun while bargaining at the night market, chatting away with some of the stall owners, and doing some shopping at the Artisans of Angkor workshop, before toasting to our acquaintance with one last beer on Pub Street. They left the next day, Monday morning, while I was still at school. Although they were exhausted from their travels, they all made it down to breakfast so that they might wish me well and thank me for a wonderful time in Siem Reap.
I still do not know the significance of our meeting, me and my six adoptive aunties and adopted cousin. Perhaps we crossed paths to share in the wonders of Angkor, creating memories that I doubt I will forget for many years to come? Or perhaps our meeting was more than an amazing day-and-a-half in Siem Reap? The answers to these questions will only come with time. For now all that I can know for certain is that everything happens for a reason, including surprise visits from six aunties that I never knew I had.
Does everything happen for a reason? It certainly can seem that way when luck is on your side, when the chips fall into place, or even when things are smooth sailing. But what about the occasions when things are so-so, not-so-good, or downright bad? Those things certainly don’t happen for a reason, do they? Why would suffering or pain happen on purpose? I don’t know the answer to those questions, but even when the going gets tough, I truly do believe that the things that we experience, whether or not they happen out of chance or luck or design by a higher Being, they happen for a reason. Only when the door in front closes can the pale light from another room down the hall be noticed.
I can’t say that there’s one exact experience that has lead me to believe that everything happens for a reason because I know that it’s a cocktail of the good and the not-so-good. I would be lying if I said that none of it was a challenge to get through and I never questioned my own mantra, but I do know that it makes me who and what I am. If I could go back in time I don’t think I would change anything that has happened because then I wouldn’t be myself. One of the not-so-great, makes-you-a-little-doubtful experiences came and went quickly just last week here in Siem Reap. Last Tuesday morning at school I was more tired than usual because my neck had been sore the night before and had kept me awake for some of the night. I also had a large, swollen bug bite on my arm that did not quell from the usual Benadryl itch stick. When my right eyelid started to swell rapidly around 10 am, I became unnerved and decided to take the rest of the day off. After some coaxing from a concerned friend I decided to call my supervisor and see the doctor, an activity that I dread even in the States.
Within 48 hours my eyelid was back to normal, the soreness in my neck was gone, and the bite looked like an average mosquito’s feast. The doctor attributed the whole situation to an allergic reaction of some kind, and prescribed anti-inflammatory and anti-allergy medications, which I started taking the very same afternoon my eyelid, had swelled. While the swollen eyelid, swollen gland, and swollen bite did not prove to be life threatening, I guess that one can never be too careful here because you run the risk of “Cambodia catching up to you.” I do not know if this “situation” was so not-so-good that it forced me to question the validity of my mantra, although it’s not something that I would choose to occur on a regular basis, neither here nor in the States. Looking back on the whole incident a week later, I have a good idea why the reaction and subsequent scare happened, and as a result I’ve been able to learn from it. I can’t let my guard down, and I need to make sure that I’m taking care of myself: physically and mentally. While it was a nuisance and proved a bit of a temporary scare, that little allergic reaction happened for a reason, and those few swollen bumps helped to affirm my mantra in the end. However, something even that small has the potential to detract from such a belief, particularly while they are occurring. I certainly didn’t feel the situation affirmed my belief until I was healed.
And while little things like that can initially create doubt and skepticism, some things that happen are so powerful that they come close to shattering even shadows of doubt that things do happen for a reason. All of my doubts were nearly shattered just over a week ago when I ran into a group of women whom I now refer to as my adoptive Oregonian aunties. Their names are Shari, Jill, Marylou, Alice, Susan, and Dorothy; they were all from Oregon and were in Cambodia working through Women of Vision, part of the World Vision organization. By chance, or perhaps by the design of a higher Being, they were staying at the Villa, my guesthouse here in Siem Reap. They happened to be checking in while I was coming home for lunch on Saturday. Hearing American English and seeing US addresses on their luggage in the lobby prompted me to inquire where they were from. I didn’t think that much would come of the question beyond my standard “oh, I’m from Pennsylvania” response and the faint chorus of “It’s a Small World After All” playing in my head. Truth be told, I could not have been more wrong; the moment that Shari and I began speaking in the lobby, my weekend plans were transformed, as was my take on the Khmer culture and its’ rich history.
The six Oregonian women welcomed me into their group with open arms, and asked me to spend lunch with them before heading back to school for the afternoon session that Saturday. They also invited me to venture with them to the temples the next day, which I had yet to see. I cannot thank them enough for their openness, their friendship, or their interest in not only in my work with CFC, but in me as a twenty-something girl spending seven weeks alone in Cambodia. Not only did I enjoy a refreshing banana smoothie over lunch while listening to a sampling of their amazing stories, but I gained their friendship, which in turn enabled me to share with them the awe-inspiring experience of the Angkor temples.
After taking in the aura of the temples of Angkor Wat, Ta Prohm, and the Bayon, I can understand why people travel from the opposite ends of the Earth to see such wonders of the world. These temples were built almost a millennium ago at the heart of the Khmer empire’s capital. Think of DC only a thousand years ago. Also consider that such marvels were constructed in old-fashioned ways; these structures were not built with cranes and cement, but by systems devised using elephants, the current of the river, and interlocking pieces. Even after four years of utter cultural and historical destruction the temples that surround Siem Reap cannot be described in any other way except indescribable. They’re just one of those things that you need to see to believe they even exist in such awe-inspiring form. Their sheer existence after all of the time that has passed and all of the events that have occurred in this world of ours epitomizes the phrase “a picture is worth a thousand words.”
Not only was my temple experience magical to say the least, but it was something unforgettable because of the company that I shared it with. Jill, Susan, and I climbed the steep steps “towards heaven” of one of the temples close to Ta Prohm, along with Brett, Shari’s 18-year-old stepson who had been brave enough to travel with six women for a few weeks. The eight of us arose at 4:30 in the morning to see the temples at sunrise, and we watched the sunset in the sky while sharing dinner and one another’s company over an exquisite dinner at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club. We even had some laughs and good fun while bargaining at the night market, chatting away with some of the stall owners, and doing some shopping at the Artisans of Angkor workshop, before toasting to our acquaintance with one last beer on Pub Street. They left the next day, Monday morning, while I was still at school. Although they were exhausted from their travels, they all made it down to breakfast so that they might wish me well and thank me for a wonderful time in Siem Reap.
I still do not know the significance of our meeting, me and my six adoptive aunties and adopted cousin. Perhaps we crossed paths to share in the wonders of Angkor, creating memories that I doubt I will forget for many years to come? Or perhaps our meeting was more than an amazing day-and-a-half in Siem Reap? The answers to these questions will only come with time. For now all that I can know for certain is that everything happens for a reason, including surprise visits from six aunties that I never knew I had.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Break? Or brake.
This post is long overdue, as are quite a few others, but it seems almost appropriate since I have been thinking a lot about time, progress, stress, and their relationship. Is it possible to only have one at the expense of another? Does progress take time? Does progress produce stress? Does stress result from lack of time? Is it just a vicious cycle that we come closer to grasping with each passing day? Clearly I still have not found an answer.
This afternoon I actually decided to stay back at the guesthouse and finish up the ESOL (English Students of Other Languages): time unit that I’ve been co-teaching with Kim Chhoeurn, the English teacher at the Amelio School. The whole unit, from brainstorming ideas to putting them on paper, from making the ideas come to life in the classroom, to ensuring their comprehension, has been more work than I anticipated. Despite my lack of time to even post a blog, I would say that it has definitely been worthwhile. It just seems funny because I don’t even remember if I’ve mentioned much about the progress the students have made in understanding time, or whether I have even mentioned the unit at all. I know I haven’t mentioned that I went to the temples with a bunch of American women from Oregon, or that I cycled to Tonle Sap lake, the largest freshwater source in southeast Asia, with an English girl also named Laura. I guess that I just haven’t had much time? So the cycle continues.
I was thinking about titling this post something like “everything I ever needed to know I learned while peddling my bike” which, in some respects, is true. Spending over an hour pedaling to and from school provides ample time to ponder, and while that seems obvious, having time to think through things is a luxury for me. I simply don’t have the time. School makes it at least appears that way because I struggle to find the time to get more than four hours of sleep each night. It seems ironic that I would be able to do the least amount of thinking while attending university. School. You know, the institution where you’re supposed to expand your mind through thinking? Thank goodness for summer break… a time to think things through. I’ve thought so much about things here in Siem Reap that I actually planned out this entry on the back of the envelope I received containing the receipt for extended visa. I may have written the rough outline almost five days ago, but I simply haven’t had a break to expand on those ideas that cover the envelope I have next to me.
Going back to the importance of the bike, I was taken aback the other day while I was riding home for lunch. Just a few hundred meters from the gate of the Amelio School, near to the divot where I had the mud bath, stood ten children on the side of the road. I couldn’t figure out why they were just standing there; the students are usually like horses through the gate at the start of a race when school is out. When I stopped to survey the situation, I noticed they were having some trouble with their means of transportation: bicycles. In my twenty-one years of life, I have waited for car batteries to be jumped, I have been on airplanes that have needed a few repairs before takeoff, I have waited hours for buses, and I have sat in construction for six hours while twelve men patched up six small patches of road. I have even been on trains that couldn’t move forward because of protesting students sitting on the tracks. Never, however, in all of my years of getting around or being held up, have I experienced a broken-down bike.
On this particular Thursday the chains of two students’ bikes had come off, most likely while they were traversing the divots in the dirt road created from heavy traffic flow (read: the occasional car) after torrential rains. It is, after all, the rainy season. These “potholes” are so big they span portions of road so large that they make Pennsylvania roads look like they were paved smooth out of ice by a zamboni, not out of asphalt by PennDOT. These holes are some serious holes, and if you sneeze when you’re steering clear you might as well take a bath in the mud. If not you might also consider being stranded on the side of the road, broken-down on your bicycle because the chain has come off of the track. While putting chains back onto bikes doesn’t require a certified mechanic, the situation of these two students came close. The porous terrain left the students’ bikes in such shape that the chains wedged themselves between the spokes and the gauges, but the chains were not simply stuck. They wouldn’t budge. Not with yanks, pulls, sticks, bricks, wires or axes. While I mentioned that I haven’t had much time lately, I decided to make time for these students having two-wheel troubles. Even if I wasn’t the one with the solution, the wrench, I felt that moral support was more important than getting back into the air-con for lunch. Forty minutes later I took the opportunity to positively contributed to the situation by handing out handy wipes for all involved: grease-free fingers and good habits just in time for lunch.
It wasn’t until later that day that I really thought about the significance of the broken down bikes, after Kim Chhoeurn asked me about the word “break.” While I explained the situation, she asked for clarification on the word break. Could I spell it? I replied by writing it on the white board in front of us. Break: b, r, e, a, k. As I spelled the word out on the white board I remembered that there is another word that sounds the same but is spelled differently: brake. Same same sound, but different meaning. A break is like a pause, and a brake is something that stops suddenly. Only on my way home, thinking about the day’s events, did I realize this coincidence that is the homonym break/brake.
Both break and brake seem to involve a stop or a pause of some sort. A break can be a pause from work, from school, or even a stop from something like bad luck in the sense of a lucky break. It can also be used in the sense of “breaking a bone;” perhaps that could be considered a pause in the bone’s continuity. It will be back together some day, but for now, the bone is broken: the continuity is paused. Brake, like break, has to do with a pause, but in a more abrupt sense. When you use your brakes, you might think of slamming them for an immediate stop. Brakes halt motion suddenly.
I am still sorting through the meanings and significance of this little homonymic coincidence. Although, it seems as though life happens, at least when things start to get busy and stress rears its’ ugly head, because of a series of brakes. Without the sudden halts we make to achieve certain things or deal with others, it is possible that we would keep on going, no stops, forever. Stressed, with no time, and absolutely no breaks until a brake. A forced stop. And while that might be fulfilling in the sense of making progress, does this type of lifestyle produce stress? And when is the stress worth it? Is it possible to take a break before you have to slam on the brakes?
I know that my 40-minute break for roadside bike assistance certainly helped me to think through some things, particularly regarding time and how sometimes schedules must be fluid instead of crystallized. While I slammed on my brakes to pause and scope out the scene, I decided to take a break from my preconceived schedule and offer a hand of support; I allowed my schedule, and my life, for that morning to be more fluid. I had more options. If I hadn’t put on the brakes and stuck to the rigid schedule I have fallen into, I would have never taken a break to offer any roadside assistance… but should it be that way? Should we create such schedules that force us to resent slamming on the brakes rather than enjoy the breaks, no matter what the circumstance like helping out someone in a bind, or in this case a serious wedge? If I ever figure this one out, I’ll be sure to make the time for a break to pass along my findings. I just hope that I don’t have to slam on my brakes first.
This afternoon I actually decided to stay back at the guesthouse and finish up the ESOL (English Students of Other Languages): time unit that I’ve been co-teaching with Kim Chhoeurn, the English teacher at the Amelio School. The whole unit, from brainstorming ideas to putting them on paper, from making the ideas come to life in the classroom, to ensuring their comprehension, has been more work than I anticipated. Despite my lack of time to even post a blog, I would say that it has definitely been worthwhile. It just seems funny because I don’t even remember if I’ve mentioned much about the progress the students have made in understanding time, or whether I have even mentioned the unit at all. I know I haven’t mentioned that I went to the temples with a bunch of American women from Oregon, or that I cycled to Tonle Sap lake, the largest freshwater source in southeast Asia, with an English girl also named Laura. I guess that I just haven’t had much time? So the cycle continues.
I was thinking about titling this post something like “everything I ever needed to know I learned while peddling my bike” which, in some respects, is true. Spending over an hour pedaling to and from school provides ample time to ponder, and while that seems obvious, having time to think through things is a luxury for me. I simply don’t have the time. School makes it at least appears that way because I struggle to find the time to get more than four hours of sleep each night. It seems ironic that I would be able to do the least amount of thinking while attending university. School. You know, the institution where you’re supposed to expand your mind through thinking? Thank goodness for summer break… a time to think things through. I’ve thought so much about things here in Siem Reap that I actually planned out this entry on the back of the envelope I received containing the receipt for extended visa. I may have written the rough outline almost five days ago, but I simply haven’t had a break to expand on those ideas that cover the envelope I have next to me.
Going back to the importance of the bike, I was taken aback the other day while I was riding home for lunch. Just a few hundred meters from the gate of the Amelio School, near to the divot where I had the mud bath, stood ten children on the side of the road. I couldn’t figure out why they were just standing there; the students are usually like horses through the gate at the start of a race when school is out. When I stopped to survey the situation, I noticed they were having some trouble with their means of transportation: bicycles. In my twenty-one years of life, I have waited for car batteries to be jumped, I have been on airplanes that have needed a few repairs before takeoff, I have waited hours for buses, and I have sat in construction for six hours while twelve men patched up six small patches of road. I have even been on trains that couldn’t move forward because of protesting students sitting on the tracks. Never, however, in all of my years of getting around or being held up, have I experienced a broken-down bike.
On this particular Thursday the chains of two students’ bikes had come off, most likely while they were traversing the divots in the dirt road created from heavy traffic flow (read: the occasional car) after torrential rains. It is, after all, the rainy season. These “potholes” are so big they span portions of road so large that they make Pennsylvania roads look like they were paved smooth out of ice by a zamboni, not out of asphalt by PennDOT. These holes are some serious holes, and if you sneeze when you’re steering clear you might as well take a bath in the mud. If not you might also consider being stranded on the side of the road, broken-down on your bicycle because the chain has come off of the track. While putting chains back onto bikes doesn’t require a certified mechanic, the situation of these two students came close. The porous terrain left the students’ bikes in such shape that the chains wedged themselves between the spokes and the gauges, but the chains were not simply stuck. They wouldn’t budge. Not with yanks, pulls, sticks, bricks, wires or axes. While I mentioned that I haven’t had much time lately, I decided to make time for these students having two-wheel troubles. Even if I wasn’t the one with the solution, the wrench, I felt that moral support was more important than getting back into the air-con for lunch. Forty minutes later I took the opportunity to positively contributed to the situation by handing out handy wipes for all involved: grease-free fingers and good habits just in time for lunch.
It wasn’t until later that day that I really thought about the significance of the broken down bikes, after Kim Chhoeurn asked me about the word “break.” While I explained the situation, she asked for clarification on the word break. Could I spell it? I replied by writing it on the white board in front of us. Break: b, r, e, a, k. As I spelled the word out on the white board I remembered that there is another word that sounds the same but is spelled differently: brake. Same same sound, but different meaning. A break is like a pause, and a brake is something that stops suddenly. Only on my way home, thinking about the day’s events, did I realize this coincidence that is the homonym break/brake.
Both break and brake seem to involve a stop or a pause of some sort. A break can be a pause from work, from school, or even a stop from something like bad luck in the sense of a lucky break. It can also be used in the sense of “breaking a bone;” perhaps that could be considered a pause in the bone’s continuity. It will be back together some day, but for now, the bone is broken: the continuity is paused. Brake, like break, has to do with a pause, but in a more abrupt sense. When you use your brakes, you might think of slamming them for an immediate stop. Brakes halt motion suddenly.
I am still sorting through the meanings and significance of this little homonymic coincidence. Although, it seems as though life happens, at least when things start to get busy and stress rears its’ ugly head, because of a series of brakes. Without the sudden halts we make to achieve certain things or deal with others, it is possible that we would keep on going, no stops, forever. Stressed, with no time, and absolutely no breaks until a brake. A forced stop. And while that might be fulfilling in the sense of making progress, does this type of lifestyle produce stress? And when is the stress worth it? Is it possible to take a break before you have to slam on the brakes?
I know that my 40-minute break for roadside bike assistance certainly helped me to think through some things, particularly regarding time and how sometimes schedules must be fluid instead of crystallized. While I slammed on my brakes to pause and scope out the scene, I decided to take a break from my preconceived schedule and offer a hand of support; I allowed my schedule, and my life, for that morning to be more fluid. I had more options. If I hadn’t put on the brakes and stuck to the rigid schedule I have fallen into, I would have never taken a break to offer any roadside assistance… but should it be that way? Should we create such schedules that force us to resent slamming on the brakes rather than enjoy the breaks, no matter what the circumstance like helping out someone in a bind, or in this case a serious wedge? If I ever figure this one out, I’ll be sure to make the time for a break to pass along my findings. I just hope that I don’t have to slam on my brakes first.
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