Chapter Five: This is the New Year
Good to be in the city. I probably should have come in yesterday, but I didn't. Decided to lie low for the night and catch up on some important letter writing. But it didn't happen. I finished this book I was reading and tried to edit some of this post, but my computer over-heated and scared me.I'm playing hockey tomorrow. I brought my skates and everything. There is absolutely no excuse now for playing bad or falling. None.
Sorry it has taken me so long to get new stuff up. Here's what I came up with. And sorry for ending that sentence (and any others) with a preposition.
I've been at this Internet cafe for too long. Gotta go.
14 January 2006
So… I had too much time at the Internet café the other day and too much money burning a hole in my pocket, so I decided to spend both by surfing the web, catching up on old news via the Chicago Tribune and stalking friends and friends of friends. Below is something I stole and then completed on my own accord later, strictly in terms of my service. Sometimes a girl just needs to fill the gap in time by doing pointless, but utterly exciting, self-obsessed/reflective activities. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
I’m Going To Make My Students Do This Exercise, Too...
I live: in a village called Jety-Oguz, in a country called Kyrgyzstan.
I work: at a school without electricity.
I talk: and people try hard to understand me.
I wish: I was fluent already.
I enjoy: the sun over the snow-capped mountains in the morning.
I look: like I don’t belong here.
I find: if I walk to the bazaar before 5, I can always get a cab home before dark.
I smell: a lot better after my weekly banya.
I hide: my clean underwear in my room, instead of outside on the line to dry.
I walk: around town with my headphones on and feel guilty for owning an iPod.
I write: so that people won’t forget me.
I see: that poverty has many different faces.
I sing: in front of my students, even though I can’t carry a tune.
I laugh: when the Kyrgyz pronouce “village” like “willage.”
I can: see myself completing my service.
I watch: American movies with my family, dubbed in Russian.
I learn: how to be a teacher everyday.
I dream: that I get violently ill sometimes, and it scares me.
I want: my students to want to be in school.
I cry: when I remember that the White Sox won the World Series… and I missed it.
I burnt: a cranberry peppermint-scented candle the other night that my mom sent.
I read: an e-mail from my friend today that said Angelina is pregant with Brad’s baby.
Current read: The Brothers Karamozov, A Generous Orthodoxy and Snow Flower and the Secret Fan.
I love: that there are 58 of us in the same boat, serving in 58 different ways.
I sometimes: get mistaken as a Russian.
I hurt: my little brother Kevin and my sister’s feelings the most for coming here.
I fear: relationships changing.
I hope: people come visit me.
I broke: a piece of chalk the other day in class and swore.
I eat: way too many carbohydrates.
I quit: running because the people stare at me.
I drink: bad, Russian beer on the weekends.
I save: every card and letter that’s been sent my way.
I hug: people even when it makes me uncomfortable.
I play: poker with the PCVs in Karakol and lose.
I miss: trashy magazines, ranch dressing and indoor plumbing.
I hold: on too long.
I forgive: people who said they’d write but haven’t.
I drive: nothing, at least for the next two years.
I have: yet to put sugar in my chai.
I don't: want to get Avian Bird Flu.
I made: coffee cake on Christmas morning.
I believe: in doing things, not just talking about them.
I owe: my host-family 2000 com each month.
I feel: bad for leaving the people I love.
I know: they support me.
I wonder: what they’re doing right now.
15 January 2006
“I’ve gotta rush away,” she said, “been to Boston before. Anyway, this change I’ve been feeling, doesn’t make the rain fall. No big difference as these days, just the same walkaways. Some day I’m gonna stay, but not today.”
I really like the Counting Crows. I got up this morning at a leisurely pace. I’ve been doing lesson plans since 10:30. It’s now 2:04.
I’m pretty excited for this week of classes. I think I would like teaching more if it weren’t so cold and my schedule wasn’t spaced out so much. I think if I start another sentence with “I,” people might start to think I’m a moron. The significant time gaps are what wear me out by 4 in the afternoon. If I had my lessons back to back, I would be a better teacher. Sitting around and complaining to myself about the fact that there is no heat and my classroom has its back to the sun, is getting me nowhere. And I don’t even care if I have six Newsweek magazines to get me through.
I haven’t posted anything for two weeks. I haven’t been particularly busy or anything, I just didn’t feel like writing on my computer. Journaling for my own enjoyment, on the other hand, was accomplished.
Over break I went skiing again. Like actually skiing-skiing, not boarding. I haven’t gone in over 2 years, so that mere fact made it that much more exciting. Just like riding a bike. The first time down I was totally pizza wedging, but after one run, I found my groove and braved the highest run and moguls. There were 6 of us, and by afternoon we befriended the owner of the mountain’s son. He’s a mixture of everything. Greek, Persian, Russian, Ukrainian and whatever else. And he speaks nearly perfect English. He took us to the backside of the mountain to explore, and this is when N. thought it would be a good idea to ski where there was no path. Up to our chests in snow, literally rolling down the mountain was his idea of a good time. When I was clearly about to start crying, he’d look over at me and say, “You’ve got to be tough, Colleen. You can be tough. I’ve seen you be tough. Be tough.” And so I was tough. Forty-five minutes later, we made it down alive. I fear had we taken any longer, cannibalism may have surfaced in the face of survival of the fittest.
Even though skiing roughly costs $20, I get “paid” in com, so in reality I can’t really afford to go every weekend. N. Brought his own skis, and I’m beginning to wish I did too. I’d save big bucks and be able to buy that Russian fur hat my dad has been harassing me to invest in.
The third quarter of classes started on Thursday. I should have dedicated more time to lesson plans over break because I feel I was somewhat under prepared for the two days I taught last week. I did tongue twisters for pronunciation practice and then tried to get my students to grasp the concept of “sometimes, always and never.” The most challenging part of teaching so far has been trying to decipher my students’ levels. My 5th graders are more fluent than my 9th graders, but then again I have 2, 9th graders who understand me, and so 98% of them just sit in their chairs with a blank look of confusion for 30 minutes. My lessons are supposed to be 45 minutes long, but no one comes on time and lately the bell has been ringing prematurely.
I was so bummed the other day when the cafeteria was closed during my 2-hour break. One of the teachers handed me two letters from America, and instead of reading them over a cup of chai like I was hoping, I had to read both in the icebox, which is my classroom.
My host family told me that I only have a month and a half longer of the brutal cold. I think they were sick of my complaining, so they busted out the calendar and pointed to January and February and then mimicked the act of shivering. When they pointed to March, they relaxed and said, “Juloo,” warm. Then this morning, my Apa told me that in Siberia the temperature is like 30 degrees colder than it is here. I got the clue. No more complaints.
Let’s see… so last week I finished Little Green Men, American Taboo, Fahrenheit 451 and This Is Not Civilization. I started reading 1984, and I have yet to finish The Brothers Karamazov. For some reason when I start reading a book that succeeds 400 pages, I struggle immensely to complete it. This morning, however, I read a whole 20 pages. Alyosha’s Elder just died. Tear.
I finally bought a pair of Kyrgyz sweatpants. The dudes wear them at all hours of the day, and now I get to, too. They’re actually a good pair of fake Adidas. Even the spelling is correct. The other day in class I noticed one of my students jackets read, “Adidac.” And that’s funny because in Cyrillic the letter “C” makes the same sound as the English “S.” Oops.
I don’t think Pat McGee gets enough credit.
“As I lay here in bed, your smile fills my head...
If I could get away, I’d be there in a day. You’d be wearing that smile I haven’t seen for a while…
Check the mail just hoping to find, another note from you would ease my mind…
I can picture you now, standing outside your house...
Long for the day when there’s no goodbyes. Wish I could see you, I’d wipe the tears from your eyes, tell you everything’s all right, lay down, say to you, “Goodnight.”
I made a phone call from my cell phone last week to America. It was definitely a stupid move, but at least I had the pleasure of waking Becky up in the middle of the night. She told me later, via Facebook, that she had to check her phone 3 times the following morning to make sure it wasn’t a dream. The two minutes I actually talked to her drained about 200 units from my phone. Then to top it off, I got a harsh e-mail from my brother Sean on his birthday, asking me why I hadn’t called to wish him a “good one” on his 21st. Little does he know, I took a taxi into town on Saturday the 14th (the evening of his 13th) and called his phone. Birthday Boy didn’t answer, so I had to leave a message instead. I think he forgets that only 1/3 of the villagers in Jety-Oguz actually have working telephones, and for me to call the US from my phone is not just foolish but ridiculously expensive. Happy Birthday, Brother. When I get home, I’ll buy you a drink.
How cool is this? He’s studying in Austria this summer, and my friend Heather is still going to be in Bulgaria, researching child prostitution. So I was thinking, it would be silly of me not to take some vacation days and go visit them. I know I have to get through the rest of the school year, but the thought of seeing two people I think the world of, is just so damn exciting.
Sorry for saying “damn,” Dad.
Oh, and last weekend I spoke to my parents on the phone. They call almost every Sunday night. My dad actually said, “So it’s pretty cool that I got a shout-out on your blog, but I see that Mom gets more than I do. That’s OK, I guess.” What’s this? My parents are measuring my love for them via Blogger? I think that might the lamest thing I have ever heard. Already I get crap from other volunteers for even having this excuse for writing in the first place. Whenever I decide to leave the other PCVs for whatever reason, one of them never fails to say something along the lines of, “Hey, Colleen, are you going to update your blog? You better, you’re audience is waiting.” Little do they know, it’s the truth. Right?
So what if it is just my parents.
16 January 2006
My dad sent me the World Series 2005 on DVD. I wasn’t even aware that it was possible to actually buy it, but there it was, sitting there at the bottom of the box I picked up from the post office earlier this afternoon. I just finished watching it. I cried throughout the entire production. Maybe I was just releasing built-up emotion, but there’s something to say about good baseball: It can bring a person to tears. I’m a sucker for smart boys, a nice, hot cup of black coffee and amazing sport’s feats. If you ever want to steal my heart, it’s a pretty safe bet taking me to a baseball game.
True Love. True Story.
I couldn’t help but laugh as I got caught in rush hour traffic, walking home from school. Cows everywhere.
I spent all day yesterday preparing lesson plans for this week. The most challenging part I think is remembering what my students know and don’t know. I must have gone through 300 note cards, writing the English translation of certain Kyrgyz words. I hope they’re effective.
I took my Christmas decorations down last night. It was a little sad, but I got over it quickly, realizing that it never actually felt much like the holidays anyway. I guess I did get three recent presents in the mail, and to top it off, they were all wrapped, so that did help with my Holiday Spirit. A pair of “What’s your sign?” pajamas from my Godmother, the book Snow Flower and the Secret Fan from my Aunt Julie and the Macally Podwave for my iPod from my little brother Timmy. He wrote the cutest note ever, spreading goodwill.
Twenty children’s books were sent to me in English, and I just spent the last half hour reading stories with Bekoo, my little host-brother (Enee). I miss being a littler girl, sitting in my mother’s lap, reading The Berenstain Bears. Sometimes I forget that I’m 22 and doing that would be really weird.
I’m cold.
17 January 2006
I don’t know if you even noticed, but I added another sub-heading to the site. I feel like a sucker for writing it. So much for my $30,000 a year education at one of the finest journalism schools in the nation and the four years I spent learning, exercising and appreciating our First Amendment. My professors would be ashamed of me. If I said, “They made me do it,” would that erase your rapidly decreasing impression of me? (See: 2006 Handbook for Volunteers, 39.)
I remembered today that there were a few things I put-off for “another day.” In addition to the obvious heading incident, my list of New Year’s Resolutions, which fronts as my long-term and short-term goal setting also was abandoned. My dad and my college coach always told me putting goals in writing is the first step in accomplishing them. In case you care, here’s what I came up with.
Short-Term:
1. Learn pronunciations of Russian numbers up to 1,000.
2. Complete actual, daily lesson plans for the month of January.
3. Use my students’ names more in class.
4. Find a way to stay warmer in school.
5. Carry on a descent conversation with Kyrgyz teachers in hall, “lounge” or on the street.
6. Give the post office ladies sweets.
7. Tell my Apa politely that I can’t eat her soup anymore because it makes me sick.
8. Write hand-written letters to my recommenders and World Wide Schools teaching partner.
9. Meet with counterpart to establish needs of school and/or community, new hours and clubs.
10. Get through an entire episode of that one, ridiculous Brazilian soap opera, dubbed in Russian.
Long-Term:
1. Complete actual, daily lesson plans on a monthly basis.
2. Pass Advanced on IST Kyrgyz LPI, and then Advanced-High by MST.
3. Be able to address Russian-speaking people at the bazaar, instead of avoiding their booths.
4. Finish The Brothers Karamasov this year.
5. When the weather gets warmer, find a good running route and then run at least 3Xs a week.
6. Win a round of poker.
7. Go horse-trekking from Osh to Naryn with PST group (and whoever else is game) over summer.
8. Play hockey and go skiing until ice and snow melts.
9. Share more. Give things away freely. Be OK with less.
10. Accept the reality that the public banya is just that: public.
11. Send Kyrgyz traditionals to friends and family (remember birthdays), including pop-culture notebooks.
12. Stop fearing the skittish dogs.
13. Learn to cook a Kyrgyz meal.
14. Teach an American meal to host-sister and/or Apa.
15. Get grant(s) for school and/or community.
16. Sleep in a yurt.
17. Help student(s) pass Olympiad, etc.
18. Convince Kyrgyz that drinking cold water and sitting on cold concrete is OK.
19. Visit every Oblast PC will allow.
20. Catch a Kyrgyz fish.
18 January 2006
On my walk back from school this afternoon, I passed two teenage girls in the street, who stopped me to have what they would call a “stimulating” conversation. It went, word-for-word like this:
Girl 1: Good evening.
Girl 2: Good evening. [At this point, I was in utter shock because for the first time, someone used the proper greeting for the precise time of day… For weeks, all I’ve heard has been, “Good morning, Dear Teacher!”]
Me: Good evening. How are you?
Girl 1: I am fine, thank you. How are you?
Me: I’m well.
Girl 2: Let us get acquainted.
Me: Ooooooook. [Here I should make it clear that I was in literally stopped in my tracks, listening to the words coming out of their mouths.]
Girl 1: My name is Dinara.
Me: My name is Colleen.
Girl 2: My name is Aidai.
Girl 1: Nice to meet you.
Me: Nice to meet you too.
Girl 2: Where are you from?
Me: I am from Chicago.
Girl 1: Is it very beautiful in Chicago?
Me: Of course. But it is a big city.
Girl 1: A what?
Me: A BIG CITY. NO MOUNTAINS.
Girl 1: Oh. How old are you?
Me: I am 22.
Girl 1: I am 17.
Girl 2: I am 17. How long will you be living in our Kyrgyzstan?
Me: I will be living here for two years.
Girl 2: We like you.
Me: Thank you. Who is your English teacher?
Girl 1: Darhangul Eje.
Me: Ah, I think she has the best students. Your English is very good.
Girl 2: Excuse me. Repeat, please.
Me: I said, “I think she has the best students. Your English is very good.”
Girl 2: Oh, thank you.
Girl 1: Goodbye. So long. See you tomorrow.
Girl 2: So long.
Wow, I’m almost certain the writers of their English books would be so proud had they had the opportunity to eavesdrop.
I think I’ll go do some sit-ups. If I had my field hockey stick, I’d work on my ball handling. A soccer ball sits on my closet shelf, waiting to be used come spring. I’m such a little kid. I’m kind of excited to play with my students when the weather gets warmer, but I’m a little scared that my actions will be frowned down up by my colleagues. Almost every teacher is over 40, which means I’m most likely their children’s teacher. And the teachers that are closer to my age are all married and pregnant. Here lies my dilemma. The students are used to the Soviet style of education, meaning the teacher is strict and the students obey. So not the style I am accustomed to. So chances are I might lose my students’ respect by playing games with them, but then again, I might gain it for treating them like real people. We’ll see. I’m game.
“Dear Chicago, … I got something to confess… Life’s gotten simple since, I think about you all the time, it’s strange and hard to deal… Nothing breathes here in the cold…”
Ryan Adams, “Dear Chicago”
19 January 2006
I still have to teach one more class this afternoon, but for the time being I’m home. For the first time really, my Ata was not home to greet me for tea during my lunch break. It was kind of sad. I left school after secondary ended and walked home with one of my 9th graders, fully anticipating the smile and daily greeting of, “Kizim, kandai?” My girl, how are you? But he was nowhere to be seen, so I had to eat cold rice and drink tea all by my lonesome. Since no one was home, I actually sneaked some apricot jam, which I think the family is saving for when guests come over uninvited and some raspberry jam as well for my tea because one of the teachers said it would cure my cold. It’s not that I believe her; it’s just that raspberry jam sounded so good. I bought a jar as a Christmas present for my Apa, so with a few minutes search, I found my treasure, poured a spoonful into my cup and went on my way. Fruity goodness.
I caught myself pulling an “Office Space” the other day, trying to escape school before I could be seen. I feel bad about this, I do. But I knew a particular teacher was going to ask me to share her 5th grade class, meaning she’d take half and I would take the other. Thing is, I had 6 lessons that day, and wasn’t about to take on another one, one that wasn’t my responsibility in the first place. Maybe, and chances are had she asked me politely a day in advance, I would have agreed, but this two-minutes-before-the-bell-rings crap, is not happening with me. I made it out without a hitch, unlike Peter Gallagher, the film’s protagonist.
I am constantly debating with myself whether I should draw the line somewhere, or just not have one and serve these people fully. Daily my patience and servitude is tested with phrases such as:
1. “Cover this class for me, and don’t tell anyone.”
2. “You let me use your classroom, don’t tell anyone.”
3. “We share lesson now, don’t tell anyone.”
4. “Oh, you free now? Teach this class now, I’m busy.”
5. “I go to Karakol now. Take the grade book and teach this class. Don’t tell."
My mom would tell me I’m being a grump. I am. But truth is, I’m here for my students, and if I am constantly being dragged into the lives of other teachers’ students, I’m spreading myself thin. It’s hard enough as it is, remembering my 100 or so students’ names. Altinbek, Anarbek, Myranbek, who? And I’m also here to make these teachers better, bringing American styles and fresh, new ideas to the classroom. But this should be done in an organized fashion with meetings and everything. Maybe it’s the devil on my shoulder, telling me that I’m enabling them by covering for them, but thing is, most of these favors are things they should be doing themselves. I should have a servant heart. Why don’t I have a servant heart? Where is it? Where can I get one?
I’m listening to Avril Lavigne now. Let’s see what she has to say. I’m going to type the next thing she sings.
“I don’t know how I feel tomorrow. I don’t know what to say. Tomorrow is a different day. Hey yeah, hey yeah. Hey yeah, hey yeah. And I know I’m not ready. Hey yeah, hey yeah. Hey yeah, hey yeah, maybe tomorrow. Hey yeah, hey yeah. Hey yeah, hey yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m not ready. Hey yeah, hey yeah. Hey yeah, hey yeah, maybe tomorrow. And I want too believe when you tell me that it’ll be ok. Yeah I try to believe you, not today. Tomorrow it may change.”
Ahhh, the wisdom.
I think I’ll go drink of cup of Nescafe coffee, before I head back to school.
Looks like I wont have to wait until tomorrow to see what will happen. There’s something about my 3rd graders that make life so much better. They’re so darn cute. When I went back to school for my final lesson of the day, 4th G, I was welcomed by the hall monitor who told me that Gulzat, the teacher I split with, was too busy to teach her class, so it was my responsibility to take on 40, 10-year-olds. At first I was apprehensive, but the second I walked in the door, I was greeted with, “Good afternoon, Miss Colleen!” It was a nice way to start the lesson, so I began to warm-up to the situation. And then 20 minutes in, I looked over, out the window, and saw five of my 3rd graders, lined up across a beam, looking into my class, sucking on suckers and waving to me. When the bell rang, there they were once again, waiting outside my door, only to walk side by side with me back home. As they were speaking to me, all I could think about was the future and what they’re going to be like in 2 years. Would their English be good? Would I be sad to say goodbye? Weird, I know, but that’s what was going through my mind. I’ll take a picture of them next week during one of my fun activities, so you can get a picture of just how awesome they are.
Until then, I heart you.
posted by C @ 3:21 PM
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