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?