A Final Post and A Big Thank You

As my flight descended last night into JFK I spent the last half hour in the air sifting through my brain. As we approached New York I saw the oh-so-familiar sight of the Empire State Building and of course it felt like I had never left. And so I sifted. I treated my brain like flash cards calling up a place and then forcing myself to think of a corresponding image. Burma - picture the first guesthouse I stayed in in Yangon. Chiang Mai - picture what my classroom looks like when the students are going crazy. Sirimankalajarn - my street in Chiang Mai, picture the turn onto my lane. Rinsuk Place - my apartment building, picture the laundry man downstairs hanging his wash out for the day. New York - picture this. As we got closer and closer to New York I was of course overjoyed but also worried that my past year would slowly disappear and so I recalled as much as I could as fast as I could. Just to make sure it was still there. Just to make sure I had done that.

It's strange being home. In many ways it feels like I never left. But then, I find my head filled with people, thoughts, memories that could never have existed in my life here before. It feels as if everything has more depth, like there is now a new dimension to my experiences as I am suddenly able to see my life here and my life there as just one combined life.

I have been thinking a lot about labels for the past few weeks. How quick we are to classify and box. When you are young the labels are smaller. There are the kids with brown eyes and the kids with blue eyes, there are the righties and the lefties. But, you are all from the same city and probably even from the same neighborhood. You leave home, you go to college and suddenly you are labeled as the place you are from, "oh you are a New Yorker." Am I? I mean I know that I am but I have no idea what that means to you. You leave school, "oh you are a Princetonian." That's true, but I don't know what box of yours that puts me in. And then you leave your country and you are suddenly representing an even bigger pool, "you are an American?" I'd never really thought about that part before, but yea I am.

I have brown eyes, I'm a rightie, I'm a New Yorker, I went to Princeton, and yes I'm an American. They're all boxes and labels, ways of simplifying a person down to sound bytes. But yes, they are truths and when pursued they are important. Now that I'm home I have a new label. "You lived in Thailand." Yes I did. But I have no way of ever knowing what that means to you.

After this year of exploration, self discovery, serious personal growth and pushing myself beyond any of my known limits the one hard and fast truth I have left with is that there is no way to box people. That we are all more similar and more different than anything we could ever imagine. While I type these words there are people in every single country in the world typing words. Different words, but we are all typing and expressing. As I breath we all breath. There is much to be shared and only the structure of boxes to keep us from sharing.

The perfectionist within me wishes to wrap up all my experiences in one tidy post. The realist knows that that is impossible. I am still frayed at every edge, the country I was living in is still devolving into complete civil unrest, my luggage is strewn about the house. Nothing is tidy.

But everything is full, and interesting, and filled with questions.

Today

I just received a facebook chat from one of my students, "I'm scared." She wrote. "And I'm so embarrassed." Facebook has been the only way for me to stay connected to everyone in Thailand now that I'm gone. "What is happening to our land of smiles?" One student wrote. "Peace when?" wrote someone else. "Thailand needs peace!" "Oh, Oh, I'm so embarrassed."

The shame and embarrassment that they are expressing speaks volumes about the Thai people. When I first arrived in Thailand every person I met was concerned with whether or not I felt safe. "We take care of you," they always said. "Tell your parents that we take good care of you." You took excellent care of me and now I just wish that I could take care of you.

The fighting has spread to Chiang Mai and I received various emails from students with photographs of a central Chiang Mai bridge on fire. Currently spray painted across that burning bridge are the words, "UN help please!"

The US consulate sent an email warning of "burning tires and firecrackers" being thrown in front of the Chiang Mai governors home and all I can think of are the millions of people who feel "embarrassed" and "scared."

There are countless ways to say you are sorry and countless ways to say you are sad, but those assertions won't change facts and unfortunately, unless somehow monumental, won't do much for fighting.

Red, yellow, or whatever color shirt you wear, it is really only the heart beneath that can spark actions which will give peace a chance and answer the calls for help. Please.

Beginning the goodbyes

I left Chiang Mai yesterday. I refuse to say that I left Chiang Mai for the last time. Instead I will say that I left Chiang Mai for the last time on this Asia stint.

As for now I am in Indonesia for 2 weeks. Spending time with family on this side of the world before I make my way over to the other.

It's hard to know what exactly to say as I think about Chiang Mai. I don't think it has sunk in that I don't live there anymore. I am no longer Ajarn and my apartment now belongs to someone else.

Leaving is bittersweet. In one sense I am ready to go home. To speak English, to see all the people who have over the last year only become voices via skype or words on my gchat. On the other hand it is hard to say goodbye to the first place you felt like a grown up, the place you first had a job and a rent to pay on time, electricity bills and work clothes.

I will miss ancient women Thai dancing in the market place, the smell of dessert waffles coming from ever street stall, fried eggs on all my food and driving my motorbike through crowded streets. I will miss countless things that I won't even realize I miss until some March morning in New York City when it's 33 and raining and all I want is noodles from a street stall and a morning hot enough for 3 showers before noon.

The idea that Chiang Mai is now just a memory does not sit easy. But at some point everything becomes a memory and the only agency we are left with is the ability to live, in those moments, as if all of it is forever.

Update

My mother asked me why I haven't been blogging. The reason: My life has been reduced to hours of watching Glee and putting my belongings in ziploc bags.

My days in Chiang Mai are numbered to 5 and as my Monday morning move out gets closer and closer the hours I spend sending pictures of my shelving units to interested classified ads readers only grows.

I'm not yet ready to wax poetic about the wonder that is Chiang Mai so instead I will tell you that I am safe and sound. Happy and healthy. Exploring the weird fat deposits that have accumulated on my body after a year of eating rice, and enjoying the new Asian mullet that was cut into my hair today.

Consider this post a warm up. More to come but for now I have more band aids to put in baggies and enough backlogged episodes to get me through the next few days. So hello America. I will be with you before you know it.

Long Winded

Oh Little Blog I have neglected you. But not out of lack of love, or stories. Simply as a result of the thick Bamboo Curtain that has shielded Myanmar from the modern world for the last few decades.

Right now I sit in the military occupied city of Bangkok. This is not the country I know. But this morning I sat just across the border in the former Myanmar capital of Yangon.

Helen and I (for those of you who don't know, Helen is one of those spectacular and irreplaceable friends I've had since babyhood) traveled through Myanmar/Burma for 10 days. I wish you could have been there. I wish everyone could be there.

I could fill this post with countless of those classic "traveling through Asia" moments. Bus rides I wish had never happened, scorpion filled roads, rats in places you never want to see rats, the calamity of miscommunication. But what my trip to Myanmar deserves is an attention to the people who live there.

Crash history courses (and Lonely Planet "background" sections) will tell us that the people of Myanmar have lived with what can only be described as a military dictatorship for the last two decades. Their elected leader, The Lady as she is called, has been put under house arrest by the government essentially for winning the election and so the people of Myanmar are forced to endure communism and a military presence that threatens their very existance. Their is extreme poverty, which sadly becomes routine as you travel, but their is also extreme oppression and humanitarian crises which under no circumstances ever become routine. A few examples. The countryside is ripe with unfound landmines. The military will take villagers and have them march through areas of suspected landmines, so when the villager blows up the military will know where the landmines are. People are killed and captured on a routine basis. Speaking out against the government is not an option. And years ago when a democratic political party was elected to office the current leading party had all of the newly elected officials either captured or killed. There is nothing fair going on here.

The people we met were often ready to talk. A local man who we met in a restaurant called "Pancake Kingdom" began a conversation with us saying, "perhaps one day our government will be as intelligent as dogs." He then went on to tell us about the Burmese's record for zero political prisoners. "This is not true," he said. "In our country you are not allowed to own a television. But if you obey the leaders no one will disturb you for owning one. If you speak out against the government you will be arrested and imprisoned for 7 years. But not for speaking out against the government, they will say it's because you own a television." For this reason the Burmese government is able to tell institutions like the UN that they have no political prisoners.

Even with this as their life backdrop the people of Myanmar were some of the warmest I've ever met. To give you a visual the land is virtually untouched. Or, as it seems, forgotten. Men and women all wear skirts, and everyone walks around with a thick layer of face paint in a multitude of designs, triangles on the cheeks, stripes by the eyes, which they use as sun protection. Electricity is scarce and I will say there is nothing eerier than walking through a huge metropolis at night in pitch black. As soon as you leave the city all homes are thatch roofed huts. And everywhere you turn are people bathing in the street. Using the only water they can find. Lathered from head to toe and always laughing or singing.

Helen and I were novelty items. Western faces are definitely new, (even though I saw more Ah-Nold movies in Myanmar than ever before in my life.) Everywhere we went mothers woke sleeping children so they could see us, entire families would crowd around us for photographs and this was always followed with "hello!" "what country you!" We would say "USA." They would say "Obama!" or "good country!" and then give us presents. Food, little stones, hats. Anything.

A rickshaw driver asked me where I was from. When I said "New York" he looked at me very solemnly and said, "I'm so sorry for 9-11." When you are standing in a blacked out city in the midst of men bathing in the streets and barefoot babies playing with whatever they've found, that condolence means more than I think it ever has before.

One night we went to see a comedy troop which has been repeatedly imprisoned and put on house arrest for speaking out against the government. As the group of 60 year old brothers who comprised the group made jokes in their front room (no they are not allowed to leave their house) it was impossible to ignore the reality of the situation. Here are people, performing by the light of a generator, on house arrest, forgotten by the rest of the world, physically, financially and even emotionally oppressed by their government. And all they really want to do is laugh.

Santiphap

In Thai the word for peace is santiphap. At this point it is something that everyone here is wishing for.

If the news is something you avoid the headlines here are the red shirt protests in Bangkok. Sparknoted to it's most vulgar simplicity the Red Shirts (a group of Thais mostly comprised of the lower and middle classes) are unahppy with the current prime minister and are holding protests until he steps down, or a fair election is held. Their foes are the wealthier and more elite Yellow Shirts. The current prime minister is supported by the yellow shirts, the previous prime minister (who was ousted and fled the country) is supported by the red shirts. Over the last few days the situation has escalated more and more. Over 900 are wounded, 21 have died and the red shirts have taken over numerous buildings, streets, hotels, malls in Bangkok and government buildings even here in Chiang Mai.

From where I sit in my apartment things appear normal. Bangkok is a 12 hour drive away and the streets of Chiang Mai are bustling as this week also happens to be the biggest festival of the year, the Thai new year. However, it is impossible to avoid the truck loads of red shirts barreling through the city, or the red flags waving from car and taxi windows. Chiang Mai is comprised almost exclusively of red shirts and although they won't shout it from the roof tops they will quietly wear a red wrist band, or red bandana to show their support.

Thailand is usually a place of such softness and peace that this new current feels unsettling and wrong. All we can do is hope for a resolution.

So, paix, paz, pace, peace, ukuthula, hedd, damai, ashtee, santiphap.

In whatever language you've got, please ask for it.

Viet-Nam

Greetings from Saigon.

In Thailand if you are in someone's way they smile at you without saying a word for about 25 seconds, then maybe they will giggle softly into their hands, then they will bow deeply and finally you will notice their presence and move to the side so that they can pass. You will both giggle in embarrassment and nod in respect to one another.

I knew I wasn't in Thailand anymore when after only 10 minutes in the airport a security official physically pushed me over for standing in the wrong customs line. Culture schumlture.

So far my time in Saigon has been completely dominated by my realization of what was actually happening during the Vietnam War. In school we learn about the war very scientifically. We study leaders, and planning failures and treaties signed and ignored. After only a few hours here I saw it from a very different angle. Babies are still born here disabled and disfigured from the effects of Agent Orange spread by our army. Fields are still ruined for farming. And obviously there are the cemeteries filled with headstones from that fateful decade. Sadly our country has those too. Being here with this history hanging in the background has actually filled me with a tremendous amount of shame. I feel sorry.

The day before I left Chiang Mai I went to the American consulate for passport upkeep. After going through security I saw the new trio hanging on the wall for the first time. Obama, Biden, Clinton. What a relief. No vacant Bush, no creepy Cheney, no psyched up Rice. I felt proud to see my president's face hanging on the wall. I feel proud in Thailand everytime someone asks me where I'm from and then they respond with a shout of joy, "Obamaaaaaa!"

But now I'm in Vietnam and when I say I'm American they say, "ok."

So hats off to the three new faces on the wall. Here's to a future that always remembers mistakes of the past.

"1, 2, 3 what are we fighting for?"

Buy Buy

I have been writing many posts about leaving Thailand. Which probably sounds intensely premature, but truly it is what has been on my mind. Perhaps I am a broody Mr. Darcy at heart, perhaps I am an angsty male WB character, or perhaps I am just 22 and confused about "life."

The way I have been remedying my intense in-Thailand-leaving-Thailand nostalgia is by purchasing everything money can buy. Every silly knick knack that I have shunned for the past year is now a possession of mine. Somehow I feel like by purchasing as much as humanly possible I will be able to cram Thailand into my suitcase. Haven't these buddhists taught me anything?

A neon green Thailand t shirt with attched necklace? Sure! A macrame elephant? I'll take it.

I've been doing the same thing with photographs. Taking pictures of things like my doorknob, ("this is so I can remember you doorknob,") my shower curtain, the trash cans in front of my building. Why am I doing this? Don't I know that the only thing I can do is live each day right now and not worry about tomorrow and the day after?

But perhaps this is the curse of having a good time. And maybe nostalgia and happiness just go hand-in-hand. So for now, I'm happy. And probably wearing an "I heart Panda" t.

Journey Home

The happenings of the last 7 hours are slightly odd. I shall report.

Today Lauren and I left Chiang Rai and ventured to the "Golden Triangle," aka meeting point of Thailand, Laos and Burma, the center of the famed opium trade BUT (more importantly to the hords of tourists who are bussed in,) a great place to buy t-shirts and shot glasses! "I smoked opium at the Goldren Triangle." "My sister risked her life in an opium ring and all I got was this lousy t-shirt."

Lauren and I went. It was bizarre but we were glad we went. I shall also note that it is in the middle of nowhere! A dusty street. Nowheresville. We did our visiting. We were ready to leave and go back to the nearby town we had decided to spend in the night in. We were at this point dusty, sweaty, dirty, carrying our luggage and our fruitless wandering revealed that we would not be making it back to the town for a variety of reasons. Most importantly being zero modes of transportation. Spending the night in a border town known for it's opium trafficking was low on my to-do list so we started wandering into buildings asking for taxis, or rides into town. Fruitless. After another hotel search I wandered back into the street. Lauren had flagged down a tour bus and was now calling to me "come on we're going!" From what I gander there conversation went something like this

Driver: we are a private bus.

Lauren: Do you know how to get into town?

Driver: Let me ask my boss....ok come on the bus!

We got on the tour bus and it was filled with 70 year old Asian tourists. A microphone was thrust into our faces. "We will now be introduced to the new friends!" said the tour guide.

"Hi we are from America. Thank you for letting us on your bus." The asian tourists looked pleased. Unclear how this transpired (I think I was in some sort of blackout shock) but it became clear that the bus was going to Chiang Mai and they would be taking us the whole 250 km. How is that possible? How did we flag down a random bus that just so happened to be going back to our home?

The bus ride was heavenly. Plush seats. We stopped for a delicious meal which the Singaporean (they were Singporean) tourists shared with us ever so graciously. I sat next to an elderly Singaporean woman who fed me lots of pork. We shared laughs. We took pictures. They found us amusing and told us we were lucky we found them. Yes, we know.

Then we shopped for dried fruits with the elderly Singporeans and at 10pm were dropped off in Chiang Mai virtually right in front of where we had parked our motorbikes.

I should expect nothing less in this land of smiles.

Chiang Rai

Lauren and I have just arrived in Chiang Rai, a nearby city, for a few days of relaxation and tourism. Upon arrival to the bus station I foolishly called our guesthouse. Below is an artist's rendition of the phone call transcript.

Guesthouse woman: Sawasdee kaaaahhhh
Me: hello?
Guesthouse woman: hello?
Me: hello?
Guesthouse woman: hello?
Me: I am at the bus station. What is the address for your guesthouse?
Guesthouse woman: a dress?
Me: Yes your address.
Guesthouse woman: a dress?
Me: Yes. Your address.
Guesthouse woman: I don't have dress, only room.
Me: I don't need a dress.
Guesthouse woman: a dress?
Me: hello?
Guesthouse woman: hello?
Me: hello?
Guesthouse woman: hello?
Me: Where are you?
Guesthouse woman: No have dress.
Me: You where?
Guesthouse woman: No wear dress!
Me: Where are you?
Guesthouse woman: hello?
Me: hello? You where, you?
Guesthouse woman: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

[hang up]

Sawasdee Kah

It appears that my teaching days are behind me. With a heavy heart I hang my hat. All that is left before I drive away from Payap one last time is a pile of grading and a luncheon with the rest of the teachers. And while America is still two months away I feel like I'm already saying goodbye to the biggest part of my life here.

Today I looked back to my first blog about teaching. On June 8, 2009 I wrote, "Suddenly it was 1 o'clock and I was standing in front of a room full of Thai kids and was apparently supposed to teach them English. What I learned during that class is that Thai University kids are not exactly like American University kids. For starters there was a lot of cell-phone chattery going on even as I was teaching. Also I am referred to as Ajarn Elena (or professor Elena) which is going to take some getting used to."

Well, I'm used to it. And no, Thai University kids are not like American university kids. Here there is no pretension, no sass, no holier than thou attitude. What I need to say about my students is that they are the warmest, sweetest, most kind-hearted people imaginable. No they are not terribly academic but they try (sometimes) and I can leave Thailand with the knowledge that I at least taught them how to properly ask to be excused to use the bathroom. No longer is Payap University overrun with a chorus of "teachaaaaaa, toilet!" Now, there are at least a few members of the community asking, "may I please go to the toilet?" Improvement.

I had individual sessions with each of my students in Conversation as a part of their final exam. They all left saying, "I love you!" "Come back to Chiang Mai!" Broke my heart into pieces. A few of them even brought presents. A panda picture frame, a miniature mug that says "espresso," a small angel which they said was me. I am a sucker for trinkets especially when they are given by teary-eyed girls named Peggy telling me, "have a good luck to you."

The e-mails have now begun. I just got an e-mail from my student Sprite saying, "I miss you na ka. Big girls don't cry." This might be the first time a Fergie reference ever made me tear up.

I could gush for days over the amazing students I got to share my year with. I could tell a million stories of how I almost killed a kid for answering his phone in class (again) or how I left the classroom with sore cheeks from smiling and laughing so hard. But I think I've already done that.

All I know is I never expected to find such friendship and warmth in a land so different. And I can't even begin to speak about my colleagues. New York is far, far, far from here but my students, my fellow teachers, even the once intimidating Ajarn Oyporn have made Payap feel like a new home.

Just now a student sent an e-mail that reads, "I try to do the best as I can do. I hope to see you again. Have a good trip and good luck. I will miss you all the time."

My sentiments exactly.

Just a thought

I just spent $57 on a plane ticket to Vietnam. All I can think is that I just paid money to get into a country that my father, when he was even younger than I am now, did everything he could to stay out of.

Isn't it strange what years will do?

Limbo

It's been a while since I wrote, reason being that my brain has turned quite suddenly into soup. Time is simultaneously moving at warp speed and with an agonizing slowness. I am constantly filled with restless energy and an anxious feeling about what lies beyond, or beneath, (if you are looking for a B list Michelle Pfeiffer thriller.)

Friday was my last day of teaching. Heart warming picture of my AE 374 class is included with this blog. I adore them. However, I'm now in an awkward month of grading, proctoring and over thinking. Down time is not the remedy for a person whose fall back existence is in their own head. Consuming thought #1 is my pending unemployment doom. This subsequently leads to thoughts of me living out a "Grey Gardens" existence, sans the happy memories of posh balls and handsome men, and solely avec the tattered wardrobe and intense crazy.

This then lends to the useless self scolding over the fact that these worries about my future are intensely bourgeouis and entitled. That if the future really were a doom i would be concerned with survival and not, you know, happiness.

If you couldn't tell I'm in a strange limbo. It feels like the last days of vacation when you are already thinking about home. Or the first days back home when you are thinking "did I really just spend 2 weeks in Azerbaijan?" Or two months later when you're like "what was that town called again?" I hope that doesn't happen. But isn't it inevitable? Yes perhaps when I am working the Denny's graveyard shift in rural Pennsylvania I will think back to my year in, what's this country called?

Autobiography

I only have one more week of teaching. I am prematurely nostalgic and doing things like taking pictures of my students as they walk in the classroom. This past week in conversation we did a unit on autobiography. They had to write my biography (or what they guessed to be my biography) as well as their own autobiographies. This may sound like a personal excercise in narcissim but, hey, I keep a blog.

Some excerpts from my biography.

"Her father is a General who was the leader of American Army that fought in Iraq. His name is Osama Sheppard." very close.

"She was teacher in Payap University, Thailand. Many students love her because she is kind. When she come back to her country her students were cried and do not want to say goodbye. In Newyork, she broken heart so many time but, now she found true love with engineer."

"She was a police, it seems like she born to be a police. She got a medal of bracy from the president of U.S. because she was fight with the robber and she lost her arm. When she retire from her job. She lived in Hawaii with John and no movement forever."

If I could only be so lucky. And keep my arm.

My students autobiographies were much more than I could have hoped for from a Friday afternoon quiz.

Read on:

"I have a boyfriend since I study high school. We have a dream to have a happy life together."

"And the most important for my family we usually give the best feeling and take care together and my husband honest to me every time. Oh! It is a wonderful life. Filled with love and filled with happiness."

"My name is Thi, I'm a housewife. Now, I am 50 year old. I'm be grandmother! Oh! It's so very fast! I have 2 children and 6 grand children. I'm very happy with my life. I'm very old now so I just stay home with my husband."

"Every Sunday I will have a small party in my house. My husband still promis me that he will love me and he will live with me and family forever."

"I don't know how does my life will go on but one thing that I'm sure is I will travel around the world with my girlfriend until the age of 100."

"Now I have a plan to move to California, spend the rest that I have with my wife. Living simply and happy life are only what I want now."

"My wife is _______. I love her so much because before I saw and spent time with her I broken heart many time and when I saw her and spent time with her I feel she is right for me. She is real love for me. She is sincere and honest with me. I'm very happy with my family."

"I'm famous barista for 10 years. Everyone love to drink a cup of coffee that I made....We are planning to travel to Disney Land in Hong Kong and Japan after my children graduated from University. We will see Mickey and Minnie then I will take photo and hug them."

"I have 3 son which I love them a lot first one is name Twenty second is Thirty and last is Fourty."

"I am Peggy. When I fifty year old. This time I look very old woman. I have gray hair. My family are happy because we stay together in big house that my son bought...I cannot know about the future how long I can stay with them just today we live togeher and make every day happy. That ok."

That ok.

Spooked

There are those afraid of the Big Bad Wolf, those afraid of Virginia Woolfe, but I ain't afraid of no ghost....I wish I could say the same for my students.

It smelled like noodles in our classroom. In a land fed nearly exlusively on noodles and rice I was unphased. Perhaps someone had been eating noodles earlier in the same room. Perhaps someone outside the window was eating noodles. Perhaps right upstairs in the kitchen someone was cooking noodles. There were many options.

A murmer arose through the classroom as students nodded knowingly at one another. "What's going on?" I asked. "There is a ghost in the classroom eating noodles," they said. Totally deadpan. "Ghosts eat noodles?" I asked. "Pred," they said, sharing the ghosts name.

My lesson plan for the day was scrapped as the ghost stories took over. Here is what I learned from the students. The next time you here a bump in the night, it might be one these fellows. At least if you are in Thailand.

Pred: Known for his small mouth, long neck, and large hands. He was a child who disobeyed his parents and was punished in death. His mouth is so small so that he cannot speak bad words against his parents. His mouth is so small that all he does is shriek, not speak or cry. His mouth is so small that he can only eat one grain of rice at a time, or suck up one noodle. Obviously it was Pred who was in our classroom that day.

Beautiful Girl in the Banana Tree: Unclear why she is in a banana tree. The only thing really clear is that she is beautiful and wears a sexy dress.

Pop: A girl ghost who will chase you with hands outstretched like crab claws. Her goal is to eat your liver.

Girl with Intestines: Her real name is Krasuea but they kept referring to her as "girl with intestines." She only has a head and intestines and a flashing heart. She floats. A visual was drawn on the board and when they next class came in they all shrieked and pointed in unison, "Krasuea!" She is dating boy with basket arms.

Boy with Basket Arms: A lengthy debate occured over whether or not they were baskets or woven trays. These help him to fly. Destination uncertain. Possibly somewhere with Girl with Intestines.

These are the cast of ghouls and goblins that haunt Thai dreams. That keep my co-workers from allowing me to stay in the office alone and make the smell of noodles in a classroom very suspicious. Keep a look out for Boy with Basket Arms, (or are they woven trays?), hold on to your liver and make sure to never talk back to your parents or you too will spend eternity eating rice one grain at a time.

Dark Humor

There is nothing funny about genocide. No one's laughing at political unease, 9-11, Dachau or Darfur. In truth I feel bad even writing these words as there are certain topics for which it will always be too soon.

In my Mass Media class we are currently studying a unit on Film. As part of the curriculum I wanted to show a film with media relevance, something serious, yet gripping enough for my rambunctious crew. With the slim pickings offered in the Payap library I settled on Hotel Rwanda. Knowing my students would have no idea of a few essential facts (namely that Rwanda is a country,) I devoted last week to history lessons and background information.

Nervous for how to broach such a weighty topic I thought back to my freshman year seminar on Humans Rights in Literature. Our tiny professor would sit in front of the room painting horrifying yet simple word pictures in his Kenyan lilt. While we wide-eyed students listened on to tales of events that brought us such unrest and shame for treating them so academically.

I entered the classroom passing out a sheet I had created with notes on Rwanda. 1 million dead in 3 months, cultural divides first introduced by the Belgians who didn't stay around to see the massacre they made.

I wrote on the board; "Hutu." A quiet giggle escaped from the back of the room. Followed by a shake of stiffled laughter until I turned around and everyone in the room was smiling. "What?" I said. "In Thai," my students told me, "Hutu means butt hole." The word "butt hole" surprised me and suddenly I was smiling too. We shared a laugh, perhaps only I realizing the black comedy of the situation.

"Tutsi," I wrote. This time no one even tried to hold in their laughter. A loud class wide guffaw shook the room. "What!" I turned around facing my laughing students. "In Thai," they told me, "Tutsi means Tranny."

"So," said one bright student, "What you are saying to us is that the butt holes killed the trannys." The class shook once again. People like Palmmy and Pom held one another in uncontrollable laughter and I tried my best to reign the class back into composure. Finally I gave in. "Just shout!" I said. "Get it out of your systems so that it's not funny anymore." The students spent a few minutes screaming "Hutu" and "Tutsi" scandalizing a million different cultures for a million different reasons. They left the class without the quiet reflection I had anticipated but it seems that the film may have altered their amusement.

We have only watched half of Hotel Rwanda so far but already those 2 words aren't funny anymore. Instead of sophomoric laughter at the mention of Hutus and Tutsis their eyes now widen unblinking. "Not a true story, Ajarn?" "Yes a true story," I say. "Why so cruel, Ajarn?" "I don't know," I say.

So forgive me Kigali, for the potty humor at your expense. But do know that there are now at least 35 more minds itching with the thought of, "why so cruel?"

Ode to J.D.

Last Thursday J.D. Salinger died. Last Tuesday my American Literature students finished reading The Catcher in the Rye. When Michael Jackson died all of Thailand mourned. When Salinger died the 7 students in in my class did. "Ajarn he died!"

Today I had the unhappy task of telling the final student in my class who was still in the dark. Her eyes widened nearly to the size of fists, "really?" she whispered.

My students do not know much about Western literature. Their mother's never tucked them in to the lilting sounds of Anne of Green Gables and required reading in 8th grade was not Steinbeck. However, the authors they know they hold onto like dear friends. Whenever Edgar Allan Poe is mentioned they share a knowing smile, and today when I brought in our next book (A Streetcar Named Desire) their eyes lit up at the sight of the authors name. "The Glass Menagerie!" They said beaming. They surprise me sometimes.

Jason sent me a New Yorker quote which resonated so fully with my class' Salinger experience:

""Catcher"defines an entire region of human experience: it is - in French and Dutch as much as in English- the handbook of the adolescent heart."

My students may be Turkish and Thai and 24 years old, but their hearts are certainly adolescent. As one student in my class wrote in his weekly reading response,

"When I read this story I found something from my life, I used to behavior like this against teacher too, I was stubborn and messy student in high school, that in this way me and the boy are similar."

Pardon the errors but the heart is all there. So, from my students to Salinger, a deep thank you for allowing them (and me) to realize that growing up is growing up. Whether you are a prep school city boy named Holden, the son of a Thai farmer or a stubborn Turkish high schooler, sometimes we all have the urge to push the envelope, to get into trouble, to try a new life on for size.

Food Diary

For as often as I think I am deathly ill, rarely am I actually even a little bit sick. If I think back on my 22 years I can recall only a few instances of real infirmity. There was a Miami night in which I spent about 12 hours vomiting smoothie into a bucket. A bout of strep throat which wsa caused most definitely by my thesis. And lice. But does that even count?

I am currently on the mend from being actually sick. Rare, rare, rare. All I know is that I threw up a lot and then watched Law and Order for approximately 24 hours. Lauren in her wise way advised me to make a food journal of what I had eaten over the past few days to find the culprit of what I have decided was food poisoning. Easier said than done.

My mind immediately went to a meal this weekend during which there were live worms in my hot sauce. Live worms. Swimming. In the hot sauce. Served to me in a restaurant. Under the guise of food. Naturally I didn't eat them but even the proximity could have been the culprit.

A cold apple turnover, orange flavored eggs, about a gallon of condensed milk a day for the past 8 months, roughly 3 unidentiafiable "vegetables" at every meal, a smoothie (which brings me back to that Miami night), and fake chicken. Not to mention many odd treats which I won't try to label. So a simple food journal which in America might read things like, "cornflakes" and "yogurt," here has turned into an excercise in the absurd. What have I been eating? Is this food? Is everything ok?

Excuses, Excuses

Just to give you a glimpse. Here are the top five excuses for why my students were sorely unable to come to class today. And by today I mean today. Unlike in Thailand where today could really mean any day throughout the history of time.

5. "Teachhhaaaa I was in the bed!"

My response: what bed?

4. "Teeaaacchhhhhhaaaaaa high blood pressure!!!!!"

Does that mean me or you? Because I'm certain I have it now.

3. "Teachaaa badmitton final!"

Is that a real thing?

2. "Teachhhhha I went to hospital to wash my eye."

Again, is that something that really happens?

and drum roll please....the number one excuse from today Wednesday January 27th, 2010.

1. "Teachhhhhaaaaa I went with her to hospital to wash her eye!"

And there you have it.

Grow Up

Am I hardening in my old age? Is it normal for a 22 year girl to spend nights at home listening to Michael Buble? Is it alright that I'm ready for bed at 10 o'clock and enjoy doing things like sorting my wash? Is it odd that when Selina was visiting she repeatedly mistook my normal clothes for my "gym" clothes? And is it weird that I am doing all of this in Thailand?

It is remarkable how much I feel like I have aged in the last 8 months. In which sense do I mean? Wrinkles and night cream? Or fine wine and cheese. Hard to say. What I do know is that things that once sent me running for the door hardly cause me to bat an eyelash now. While things for which I used to have an amused tolerance now cause involuntary face making. That and I regrettably carry out my days in different variations of the same oversized pants.

A few fears which have gone to the wayside in the last 8 months: airplanes, lonliness, boredom, fashion faux pas. Sure I still hate airplanes but hyperventalating into a paper bag won't get me to Laos. Sure loneliness is scary. But eating a nice meal alone is sometimes just what I need. And the oppressive heat, the unbelievable filth with which my body is caked in after a day of simple life, sends thoughts of skinny jeans and "going out tops" running for the hills.

It took every single piece of my courage to make the choice to move here. I did not like airplanes. I was scared to be away from home. I did not want to leave my friends. I didn't know what to expect. In short, I just didn't want to come. But now as I sit safely in my Chiang Mai home, snuggled cozily into size 12 shorts and an old man t, I am so thankful that I did. And perhaps my new hardness has caused a completely insensitive buckeling under the presence of a certain type of softness.

My new pet peeves center around my daily struggle with fragility, apathy, disinterest. There are only so many times left in my being that I can excuse a person to skip class in order to go to the hospital under the pretense of, "it rained yesterday." Or, "pain in hand." I'm sure many of us have been in situations where it rained yesterday and we currently have a pain in our hand. I just ask you all to make sure that those are not the reasons you cancel your Wednesday.

Last June I was praying for an excuse to avoid Thailand. Rain, pain in hand. But my hands were fine and the day I left it did not rain. If 8 absences at Payap means you cannot take the final exam, I hate to think what 8 months of sitting at home and afraid would have caused me to miss.

Dr. Schmocter

Going to the Doctor in Chiang Mai is always a jolt to the senses. Experience one, if you recall, I was asked by my office to get a general check up at the hospital. "Hospital" is a term to be loosely used when describing the scene of bleeding people on guernies lying in the lobby. Experience two involved a trip to another hospital when I was feeling ill. All of my test results were broadcasted, through what may as well have been a megaphone, to all the eager eared listeners in the waiting room.

Today I tried a clinic on for size. I have a lump in my cheek. Which to a hypochondriac like myself means 1 of about 3 things. Cancer. A rapidly growing benign tumor which will swallow my entire cheek within a matter of seconds. Or the beginnings of some little known skin disease which will consequently be named after me and medical students from around the world will come to analyze me in my home prodding at my cheek with interest and disgust. After nights of WedMD-ing until the wee hours and reading online chatroom convos between people like "cheek doc" and "nastygirl7" I decided a medical professional might be my best bet.

The clinic was clean. There were mod couches and no dismembered bodies in the waiting room. The clocks were functioning and there were no used needles laying on top of the required paperwork. In fact when I entered the receptionist said, "may I help you?" She said that! In English! "May I help you?" The sweetest words I've ever heard.

A nice Indian/Thai man looked at my cheek. Hardened nerve endings were the diagnoses and a cream was given to me. It may be a placebo but sugar tablets and lotion in medical containers work miracles on the hypochondriatic mind.

So thank you Chiang Mai for having this doctor to soothe a worried girls woes. Thank you for not forcing me back into the cavernous pits of the city hospital. And even though my friendly doctor revealed my diagnoses to a room full of wide-eyed listeners I was happy that he did so in clear, unbroken English.

Spelling Bees

Yesterday was English Day at Payap. A day for students to practice their English skills through games and general merriment. Aka yet another excuse for people to do things like where pants to work and have fine American delicacies such as mashed potatos in a styrafoam cup covered in chili sauce. I for one was designated as one of the ladies of the Spelling Bee (or "Spelling Bees" as it was donned.) We three lonesome Western teachers in the department were honored with such duties based on our fine mastery of English pronounciation.

The Bee proved much more popular than I could have hoped for. Round One. First Word: "Meal." This knocked out about 90% of the contestants. Things progressed from there. There was a heated fight over the word "separate" as well as cries of shock and seeming pain when we announced such words as "receptionist" and "embarrassing." The most important round of the day (grand prize = scrabble) was won on the word "noticeable." And it was won by my student! His name is Mac, or Max, or Mc. I can never keep up.

Travel Log

Just when you think Asia has sailed smoothly into the world of modern travel, when you think the jet fleets here rival those of any American company, when you are convinced you are well-versed in the art of taxi bargaining and inter-Thai connections...you take another trip.

Selina and I went to Koh Lanta last weekend. Beautiful beaches, coral reefs for days, lush mountains and seaside grub. Idyllic and serenly Thai our days were spent seashell collecting and mosquito swatting. The trip back to Chiang Mai from this southern destination would take 8 different means of transportation in order to traverse the few hundred miles. This we knew. But who could have filled in the details?

To get back to the mainland from Koh Lanta involves two ferries. One to Koh Phi Phi and then a connecting ferry to the mainland of Phuket. We boarded our first ferry. Half sunken and water logged yet spacious and functional. We assumed a connecting ferry in Koh Phi Phi meant "a connecting ferry in Koh Phi Phi." Instead what would have been more accurate is "a connecting ferry about a mile and a half off shore from Koh Phi Phi." We felt our ferry smash against what could have been in iceberg under different circumstances. Instead it was our connection. "Oh they're saving time!" we thought, as the cigarette infused Thai skippers tied our crafts together and we jumped from one to the other in the middle of the rocky sea. The connecting ferry was ladden with people, which ultimately made it clear that this midsea connection was in fact only a means to load about 100 more people than capacity onto this half submerged craft. Inside the cabin looked like some sort of refugee camp. Naked babies cried in the arms of sunburnt women and about 3 bodies to every seat, water bottles rolling around on the floors. I decided that I wanted to be on the deck when the boat sank so as to have a better chance of survival. So there I sat. Planning escape routes and pointing out the nearest land points as we bubbled our way to Phuket. Making it safely, but just.

Our flight back to Chiang Mai was on a craft probably first flown by the Wright Brothers. There was a blade slot in the bathroom, and the faint smell of the 1950's in the air. Once again we made it, but I certainly held my breath for that one.

But who is to say that these modes are wrong? Perhaps my purified water and seatbelt upbringing needed a firm jostling. Perhaps the antiquity and shoddiness of these crafts is something I should learn to embrace and expect. Although the Thai man next to me chatting on his bluetooth midflight reminded me that modernity is out there. It just seems that they might be using it in the wrong places.

Is that you?

The class I teach for the Chinese students is organized like so: I was to teach one section of the students for half of the semester and then switch with another teacher midway through. Today we made the switch. While it was sad to wave goodbye to my antiquated Darolina's and female Albert's it was with amusement and fondness that I met the next crop of Chinese. As I came to the door there was the mandatory gasp from the classroom as they realized that their new teacher was a) not Asian b) American! c) Under the age of 100. It was I who gasped next however as they introduced themselves to me. Now instead of the Herbert's and Herb's I have a room full of dopplegangers of my American life. Students whose English nicknames echo my nearest and dearest and most uncommonly named from home. On paper the new crop of Chinese names to learn are names already I know all too well.

Is that you Sonya? Sleepaway camp pal and Princeton compatriote. Oh no, it's just my new student Sonya Xiongling from Hunan Province. And Selina! My lifelong friend and bosom buddy....here turned into a small Chinese girl with thick bangs. "Annie," I read from the roster thinking of my beautiful roomate and darling friend, but I look up to see a skinny Chinese girl with a thick headband. "Oliver?" But no love interest here. Just a gangly boy with lens-less glasses and a skinny tie. "Andy?" My childhood babsitter flashes to mind, but no it's only Andy Shaoqin an adorable girl from China's south. Naturally scattered in are the requisite Hebe's and Happy's but it is nice to finally stand in front of a room full of people I know, even if only just on paper.

2010

After a 2 week Asian hiatus I have returned, now with the gueststars of Selina and her boyfriend Mason. The holidays in Switzerland were my first forray into the West since June and oh the succulent delicacies I have forgotten I even missed. Cheese, breads, toilet paper in bathrooms, napkins on tables, tap water and edible meats. The sweet sweet Western world.

But here I am back in my Eastern home relishing the bits of all that is uniquely Thailand. Already in only the last 24 hours I have been approached after leaving the bathroom stall by another teacher who asked me if I was "able to perform in there." Have been told by a 24 year old student that his New Years Resolution is to be "a good boy." And have been laughed at by my old woman landlady for my mere existence.

It's good to be back.