Monday, June 28, 2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
So that's why I'm here...
It ain’t no secret that I’ve been going through a bit of a rough patch lately. Today as I actively dragged myself out of it to prevent my last month here from slipping away in a bad way, an initially unpleasant situation ultimately reminded me why I am here, and despite everything I’ve bee griping about, why I really do love the place.
After teaching my one lesson (I have a pretty easy Friday- not only do I finish with my official duties after the first hour of the day, the class is one of the best group of students to teach!) I pounced on the surprise rain reprieve and set out on a run. Since most of the trails were sure to be waterlogged or practically little rivers themselves, I decided to stick to the paved roads. I headed north up a residential side-road. Just as I was about to pass a woman walking I tripped on a grate past some train tracks and re-twisted my ankle.
I’m a klutz and over the years have found numerous and ridiculous opportunities to sprain or twist my ankles. Back in March though, the week before I left for the Dolomites, I REALLY sprained it. It’s taken a long time to heal and every-once-and-a-while still gives me some trouble. So, after I rolled it and felt the instantaneous shooting pain of a re-injury—like waking up some kind of angry sleeping beast—I was pretty sure that I had taken about twenty steps back in the healing process and had foiled my hiking plans for the next day. I pulled over and sat down on the curb for a second to assess the situation.
The woman I had been on the brink of passing stopped walking and asked me (in Slovak) if I needed help, or if she needed to go find help somewhere. I insisted I was fine, and tried to express that it was a simple ankle re-roll. She then asked where I was from, and I discovered that her daughter lives in Toronto Canada, and has two amazing children, “Max a Zovey (Max and Zooey)”. When I was able to stand I hobbled next to her as we continued up the road. She asked where I was going, what I was up to, etc. When we parted ways at her gate she told me that on the way back I should stop by for some coffee.
I proceeded to get in a pretty decent jog. The paved road eventually morphs into a forest service road, so I did get a little gentle trail running in after all. It started raining on me, at first simply spitting but eventually picking up force. As Becky, one of my fellow Americans says though, “once you’re out it doesn’t matter.” Truth. In fact, for the first time in a while I was actually enjoying and appreciating the rain.
On the way back I was contemplating whether or not I was actually going to stop at this complete stranger’s house. I’ve been a guest in Slovak homes, and sometimes the overwhelming hospitality can turn into a hostage-like situation pretty quickly. Was I ready for that? Or did I just need to generate some good ol’ endorphins solo?
As I was about to pass her house (I was soaking wet, I didn’t want to get her house dirty, and oh, yeah, I didn’t even KNOW her and there’s that whole language barrier…) I decided to stop at the last second. I opened the gate, cautiously ascended the steps and pushed the buzzer with a green bell on it. I didn’t hear any sound from within, but you never know about these doorbells. I waited around for a good solid minute, then, almost relieved, descended the steps and headed back out into the rain to finish my run. What was I thinking; it would have been a bad idea anyways….
Not twenty strides away I heard a shout and the woman was at her kitchen window signaling to me. I re-approached the house and tried to convey that I was wet so maybe I should just wait on the porch. She insisted I come in—which I expected—but told me just to leave my shoes on instead of slipping into a pair of house slippers—which I did NOT expect. Between knowing how Slovaks feel about shoes in the house (not good) and my own mother (really not good) I cringed with every step I took knowing that I was leaving a trail of wet shoe prints on her immaculate floors.
We entered her kitchen; she sat me down and started boiling water for instant coffee and cutting an inevitable slice of cake despite my protests. She also brought over envelopes with pictures of little Max, Zooey, and her daughter and son-in-law skiing back home in Canada and on vacation in Cuba. She’d gesture at a particularly cute picture, or elaborate on where the happy family was vacationing.
I spent about a half hour or 40 minutes in this woman’s house, and I never did catch her name. We talked about what I was doing in Slovakia and I found myself elaborating on my whole long and involved connection with this country. After feeling like my zeal for being here and the validity of my project had recently gone a little stale, this helped revive it. She told me more about her family, here bi-annual visits to Canada, and a surgery she had had there which I think we were able to agree was on her thyroid gland. She told me about her afternoon plans to go to Brezno to buy boots for one of her granddaughters, and filled me on a great place in Tisovec to get some shoes if I ever need them. The whole interaction took place in Slovak, and I was even struggling through (and probably butchering) some past-tense. Nevertheless the message was received and she seemed to understand everything I was trying to say, even about old Slovaks being hard workers—especially in the Orava region both she and my grandma’s family were from. It felt like we were actually communicating, beyond the small talk I so-often have with strangers or the cleaning women at my school. And I was doing it by myself, without the aid of one of my students for translation.
Outside again on the porch I thanked her profusely while she rubbed my cheek, said it was nothing, and hoped there’d be a second time. She showed me the right doorbell to use on my next visit. After closing the gate behind me I stuck in one of my earphones and Cat Steven’s “the wind” was playing, one of my ANTHEMS and the perfect song to hear at that moment! I was totally jazzed.
At first I thought I had re-injured my ankle, that despite my efforts to improve my situation here I had actually made it worse. But if I had just jogged by that woman, and had not instead been engaged in conversation our happy little meeting would probably never have transpired. The piece of cake probably canceled out my run, but the social interaction, subtle reminder of why I’m even here in the first place, and of course getting out for a while kept the balance in the positive for sure.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
I might have to jump off Hradova
I am becoming the laziest girl! Case and point: Last night, after the 5th year graduation and reception ceremonies at EGT, and the weekly “Friday Night Lights” Bible study which I currently live for, after the lovely walk to the lake I took with Liptak because the evening was so pleasant and I just wasn’t ready to be confined to my box yet; I should have sat down at my desk and done some serious work. I need to get out another installment of “These Slovak Lives.” I need to write up my experiences as an ETA for a compilation the Slovak Fulbright ETA’s are putting together. I just cracked open Faulkner’s “A Light in August” for an ambitious re-read. Instead however, I borrowed the Kiara Knightly version of “Pride and Prejudice” from Liptak and proceeded to stay up until midnight watching the film and all the bonus material. Then, this morning I slept in until 9:00 because I only had one class to teach at 12:20.
This isn’t me, this isn’t how I operate. I like to be busy, I like to have stuff going on, and I like a little less alone time. “Stuff going on” doesn’t have to be busy-body mile-a-minute distractions. It can mean anything from having plans to meet up with someone for coffee, a hike or bike ride, to meeting some kind of academic or professional deadline. Heck, it even means breaking down camp and hiking all day. Right now I am drowning in scads of free time but not the good kind, and I’m running out of ideas of how to spend it. I feel like I am stagnating.
Part of this is just life I am sure. I come from a large family, all through college I was on a crew team which means very close and constant quarters with a small group of girls, and I never had less than three other roommates, usually 5. This past summer I lived with a group of 12-13 other humans 24-7 for three weeks at a time, and I saw my co-leader every day from early June through August 10th. Half the time we slept in the same tent. To expect such constant social contact for the rest of my life is unrealistic, especially since I like to travel and jet off to new places. But I think I’ve literally started talking to myself, or maybe not talking to myself but just saying things out loud when there is nobody else around. Like if I’m on an (amazing) solo hike, or I’m sitting in my apartment alone at dusk feeling like I am squandering daylight and life by sitting at home alone.
But what else am I supposed do to? Working out has recently become my main release/ focus. When the rain lets up (or sometimes in the rain) there are great hikes to go on and plenty of loops to be run. I’ve even started using our school gym regularly again. But you can’t hike too far alone here because there have been some pretty fresh sightings of bear tracks (Liptak took some rad photos, maybe posted on her blog?) and I don’t know, when you’re already feeling funk-a-fied it is just so easy to say no if you are the only person holding yourself accountable.
From today I believe I have 38 days left in Slovakia. At once that seems like too much time, and not nearly enough. During the M-F grind where I am barely needed and required to do very little but don’t have time to jump on a bus and go explore somewhere else I wonder if I’ll last that long. In moments like this morning, when I was trapped in un-restful but debilitating sleep until 9:00 in the morning because frankly, what else was I going to do, 38 days feel like eternity. Yet when I count the weekends left, and try to schedule in all of the adventures I still need to have or people and places I need to see, or just realize that July 2nd really is an expiration date and closes the Slovakia chapter of my life (at least for the foreseeable future), I feel like I’m wasting time just looking at a calendar—that’s so soon! I still need to climb a big mountain in the High Tatras, go to the folklore festival in Hel’pa, see some famous caves of Slovakia and make gulas over a fire with my friends and family in Brehy for the last time!
So, instead of boring you with my extended complaining about lacking motivation and inspiration I think I should end it here. But sweet God, if you have any suggestions (or a job for me when I return to Colorado in July…) then let me know! I just have to keep reminding myself that this is an exceptional learning experience, and essentially exactly what I asked for.
This isn’t me, this isn’t how I operate. I like to be busy, I like to have stuff going on, and I like a little less alone time. “Stuff going on” doesn’t have to be busy-body mile-a-minute distractions. It can mean anything from having plans to meet up with someone for coffee, a hike or bike ride, to meeting some kind of academic or professional deadline. Heck, it even means breaking down camp and hiking all day. Right now I am drowning in scads of free time but not the good kind, and I’m running out of ideas of how to spend it. I feel like I am stagnating.
Part of this is just life I am sure. I come from a large family, all through college I was on a crew team which means very close and constant quarters with a small group of girls, and I never had less than three other roommates, usually 5. This past summer I lived with a group of 12-13 other humans 24-7 for three weeks at a time, and I saw my co-leader every day from early June through August 10th. Half the time we slept in the same tent. To expect such constant social contact for the rest of my life is unrealistic, especially since I like to travel and jet off to new places. But I think I’ve literally started talking to myself, or maybe not talking to myself but just saying things out loud when there is nobody else around. Like if I’m on an (amazing) solo hike, or I’m sitting in my apartment alone at dusk feeling like I am squandering daylight and life by sitting at home alone.
But what else am I supposed do to? Working out has recently become my main release/ focus. When the rain lets up (or sometimes in the rain) there are great hikes to go on and plenty of loops to be run. I’ve even started using our school gym regularly again. But you can’t hike too far alone here because there have been some pretty fresh sightings of bear tracks (Liptak took some rad photos, maybe posted on her blog?) and I don’t know, when you’re already feeling funk-a-fied it is just so easy to say no if you are the only person holding yourself accountable.
From today I believe I have 38 days left in Slovakia. At once that seems like too much time, and not nearly enough. During the M-F grind where I am barely needed and required to do very little but don’t have time to jump on a bus and go explore somewhere else I wonder if I’ll last that long. In moments like this morning, when I was trapped in un-restful but debilitating sleep until 9:00 in the morning because frankly, what else was I going to do, 38 days feel like eternity. Yet when I count the weekends left, and try to schedule in all of the adventures I still need to have or people and places I need to see, or just realize that July 2nd really is an expiration date and closes the Slovakia chapter of my life (at least for the foreseeable future), I feel like I’m wasting time just looking at a calendar—that’s so soon! I still need to climb a big mountain in the High Tatras, go to the folklore festival in Hel’pa, see some famous caves of Slovakia and make gulas over a fire with my friends and family in Brehy for the last time!
So, instead of boring you with my extended complaining about lacking motivation and inspiration I think I should end it here. But sweet God, if you have any suggestions (or a job for me when I return to Colorado in July…) then let me know! I just have to keep reminding myself that this is an exceptional learning experience, and essentially exactly what I asked for.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Do I live in Slovakia, or Costa Rica?
Many a morning or late afternoon lately I've found myself wondering if the climate is not a little more tropical here... Krasny.
And then there was Darkness...
This might be taken the wrong way, but as a child I was deprived of power outages. We always had a generator, so even in the most inclement of weather once you heard that buzz kick in you knew you were on reserve power. There was no stash of candles, flashlights or extra batteries. We didn’t have to entertain ourselves sans-electricity, our regular rhythm of life was in no way disrupted. I sort of feel like I missed out.
Wednesday night I was watching a movie with my fellow Americanska ucitelkas (female American teachers. I may have conjugated some of that wrong…). In about the last third of the movie (Stranger than Fiction) it started raining outside. I thought about how nice it would be to cross the hall, crawl into my bed, and listen to the rain through an open window. A few minutes later a far-off thunder begun to rumble, which was exciting because there hasn’t been much thunder since I’ve been here, mostly just precipitation.
Suddenly, a red flash (perhaps tinged that color by the garish orange blinds in our apartments) lit up the room and was immediately —if not instantaneously—accompanied by the loudest CRACK of thunder I have ever heard. It sounded like it was right above the building. The lights in the in adjoining room went out, thought about coming back on, before the fuse most definitely decided to be blown. The entire town was washed in a thick blackness, except for the mine on the hill which obviously is equipped with generators.
After bumbling around in the dark for a while and locating my headlamp I set about finding the few candles I have. Over New Year’s my kitchen light blew and since it was a holiday I had to wait a few day to get it fixed. Especially in the winter there is plenty of dark-time here, so instead of just camping out in my bedroom I decided to find alternate illumination sources. I found some empty beer bottles (don’t worry, you save them up and then return them to the store for a small refund. It’s not like I’m some crazy lush drowning in empty bottles…) and jammed some candles I had purchased into them. As I believe I mentioned in earlier posts I don’t have the most furniture, and candle sticks are definitely not part of my Spartan décor. So I improvised, and the bottles worked fantastic. Anyways, I bring this up because since January I haven’t really felt the need to light them, and just this week I was contemplating throwing them out—half-burned candles and all.
Glad I didn’t. Those two candles served as my primary light source, as the other candle I have is near the end of it’s life, and the essential oil burner thingy I have is more for vaporizing pleasant scents of lavender and cypress—my attempt at neutralizing the more unpleasant odors of cigarette smoke and grease that creep under my doorframe and saturate my existence with stink—than providing light.
Anyways, back to the power outage. At this point it was about 10:00 at night. I had lit my few candles, opened one of my windows, and crawled into bed to listen and take it all in. Even though my computer had a solid battery charge I refrained from pulling it out and listening to ambient music. I was going to BE in this blackout! I also could have just gone to sleep, 10:00 is an entirely reasonable time for me to retire, and maybe I should refrain from telling you how often I go to bed before then… And since I like to sleep in the dark I don’t really need electricity for that.
But it was the novelty of the whole experience—the only reason I could possibly be so tickled by the blackout is because like I said, it hasn’t really happened to me a lot. It feels so pastoral I guess- like this mandatory timeout from the sky. But I only get internet at school, and as of late that has been incredibly sketchy and unreliable. When I see that blank screen or failed connection however I don’t think “oh yay! This is so great! Guess I’ll just have to sit around and wait till it works. Board game anyone?” Instead I get practically belligerent and want to damage things or at least say angry words.
Also, my power outage lasted all of an hour if that (some people in Tisovec claim to have been powerless all night). I got to play with my candles and feel “off the grid” but before I was even done writing about the ordeal in my journal the refrigerator started to buzz again and the kitchen light flicked on of its own accord. If the blackout had lasted longer, if I had needed to shower in the pitch black or couldn’t charge my computer anywhere or make coffee in the morning I probably would have been over it. It wouldn’t have been so cute anymore.
Wednesday night I was watching a movie with my fellow Americanska ucitelkas (female American teachers. I may have conjugated some of that wrong…). In about the last third of the movie (Stranger than Fiction) it started raining outside. I thought about how nice it would be to cross the hall, crawl into my bed, and listen to the rain through an open window. A few minutes later a far-off thunder begun to rumble, which was exciting because there hasn’t been much thunder since I’ve been here, mostly just precipitation.
Suddenly, a red flash (perhaps tinged that color by the garish orange blinds in our apartments) lit up the room and was immediately —if not instantaneously—accompanied by the loudest CRACK of thunder I have ever heard. It sounded like it was right above the building. The lights in the in adjoining room went out, thought about coming back on, before the fuse most definitely decided to be blown. The entire town was washed in a thick blackness, except for the mine on the hill which obviously is equipped with generators.
After bumbling around in the dark for a while and locating my headlamp I set about finding the few candles I have. Over New Year’s my kitchen light blew and since it was a holiday I had to wait a few day to get it fixed. Especially in the winter there is plenty of dark-time here, so instead of just camping out in my bedroom I decided to find alternate illumination sources. I found some empty beer bottles (don’t worry, you save them up and then return them to the store for a small refund. It’s not like I’m some crazy lush drowning in empty bottles…) and jammed some candles I had purchased into them. As I believe I mentioned in earlier posts I don’t have the most furniture, and candle sticks are definitely not part of my Spartan décor. So I improvised, and the bottles worked fantastic. Anyways, I bring this up because since January I haven’t really felt the need to light them, and just this week I was contemplating throwing them out—half-burned candles and all.
Glad I didn’t. Those two candles served as my primary light source, as the other candle I have is near the end of it’s life, and the essential oil burner thingy I have is more for vaporizing pleasant scents of lavender and cypress—my attempt at neutralizing the more unpleasant odors of cigarette smoke and grease that creep under my doorframe and saturate my existence with stink—than providing light.
Anyways, back to the power outage. At this point it was about 10:00 at night. I had lit my few candles, opened one of my windows, and crawled into bed to listen and take it all in. Even though my computer had a solid battery charge I refrained from pulling it out and listening to ambient music. I was going to BE in this blackout! I also could have just gone to sleep, 10:00 is an entirely reasonable time for me to retire, and maybe I should refrain from telling you how often I go to bed before then… And since I like to sleep in the dark I don’t really need electricity for that.
But it was the novelty of the whole experience—the only reason I could possibly be so tickled by the blackout is because like I said, it hasn’t really happened to me a lot. It feels so pastoral I guess- like this mandatory timeout from the sky. But I only get internet at school, and as of late that has been incredibly sketchy and unreliable. When I see that blank screen or failed connection however I don’t think “oh yay! This is so great! Guess I’ll just have to sit around and wait till it works. Board game anyone?” Instead I get practically belligerent and want to damage things or at least say angry words.
Also, my power outage lasted all of an hour if that (some people in Tisovec claim to have been powerless all night). I got to play with my candles and feel “off the grid” but before I was even done writing about the ordeal in my journal the refrigerator started to buzz again and the kitchen light flicked on of its own accord. If the blackout had lasted longer, if I had needed to shower in the pitch black or couldn’t charge my computer anywhere or make coffee in the morning I probably would have been over it. It wouldn’t have been so cute anymore.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Spring is SPRINGING!!!
In the last few weeks anything and everthing alive has been exploding. Apple, pear, and cherry trees are blossoming and saturating the air with their intoxicating scent, a welcomed change from the more standard smell of burning tire or the like. Daffodils and tulips are cheering up the otherwise drab fronts of gray stucco houses, and people are outside too! The Slovaks have been working hard in their gardens to get the soil tilled and potatoe, tomoatoe, carrot, onion, and lettuce seeds planted to name a few. The rollerbladers have also re-emerged, so I KNOW winter is over!!!
Monday, April 26, 2010
Student Writing Samples
Lately I have been getting some incredibly entertaining writing assignments from my students. My time with the 5th years is already drawing to a close, this is their last week of classes and five bucks says about a third won’t even show up this week (to be fair, some will be testing for University and have already told me so). Some of them are really getting the hang of this paraphrasing thing though, or at least doing more than switching a few words here and there. The following are a few of the better ones, or most entertaining.
“Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-
teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit
poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank
and stood watching the boat disappear on the black
waters of Lethe?
At first I want to say that in my opinion is the beat generation piece of crap. I don’t know but I really like reading some craftily made literary works. This poem was not also my piece of cake, but the ending is really good. Without straight word about age and characteristic of father, we could realize that his father was old man, with lot of experiences. He was “the man” who was encouraging his son. But when we read the rest of this part we sadly find out that he is already death. And the fact that he passed away is described really nicely. It is based on Greek mythology. Charon was man who carried all death to the underworld and Lethe was the river which was border between world of live people and world of those who are already gone.”
“ Paraphrases of “The Gilded Six-Bits,” by Zora Neale Hurston Page – 420
It was day. Nothing more. Joe wouldn't be coming home
as usual. No need to fling open the front door and sweep off the porch,
making it nice for Joe. Never no more breakfast to cook; no more washing
and starching of Joe's jumper-jackets and pants. No more nothing. So
why get up? With this strangeman in her bed, she felt embarrassed to get up and
dress. She decided to wait till he had dressed and gone. Then she would
get up, dress quickly and be gone forever beyond the reach of Joe's looks
and laughs. But he never moved. Red light turned to yellow, then white.
From beyond the no-man's land between them came a voice. A
strange voÍce that yesterday had been Joe's.
"Missie May, ain't you gonna fix me no breakfus'?"
She sprang out ofbed. "Yeah, Joe. Ah didn't reckon you wuz hongry."
Missie May really felt guilty for what had happened. She wasn´t able to look into Joe´s eyes because she knew, that it was bad what she had done. But on the other hand she has never considered Slemmons, the man with who she went to bed, to be better than Joe. When they were talking about him she always assured him that she cannot imagine better man than him and she gave Joe compliments. But what was the reason that leaded her to do that? It probably could be the act that showed her big love to Joe as she only wanted to gain money for her husband and herself but the way she did it is strange. That she felt guilty we can see. She knew that the following day would be different from others before. ,, It was day“- Nothing more, she expected nothing from it, there was nothing to look forward to. She knew, that she needn´t do things and obligations that she did the day before. But there is a turn. Although Joe is hurt he didn´t leave her and stay there as nothing special happened. He didn´t forgive her but wanted to give the chance to their relationship. Reading this passage you can realize that for her it is the harder situation than for Joe, to know that she hurt the man she loved. Everything changed, for example their habits that were important to them and also show the features of Hurston writing. She described in her works the lives of blacks, importance of their traditions.
The Harlem Renaissance is also known as the New Negro Movement that refers to the flowering of African American intellectual life. The center of the black writers was in the Harlem, neighborhood of Ney York City.”
"Zora Neale Hurston – The Gilded Six-Bits
His coffee cup was empty. She sprang to refill it. When she turned from the stove and bent to set the cup beside Joe´s plate, she saw the yellow coin on the table between them. She slumped into her seat and wept into her arms. Presently Joe said calmly, “Missie May, you cry too much. Don´t look back lak Lot´s wife and turn to salt.”
Back in eatonville, Joe reached his own front door. There was the ring of singing metal on wood. Fifteen times. Missie May couldn´t run to the door, but she crept there as quickly as she could. „Joe banks, Ah hear you chuckin´ money in mah do´way. You wait till Ah got stenght back and Ah´m gointer fix you for dat.“
I chose these two paragraphs, because in my opinion they show the shift in Joe´s attitude and also his love for Missy May. In the first one, she is feeling really guilty for what she had done. She thought that Joe would leave her, but he did not. So she feels grateful for him still needing her and she tries hard to be a great wife and do anything he wants to undo at least a bit of what had happened if it is possible. When seeing the coin, which is the symbol of her past actions and of the roots of their present unhappiness, she starts to cry. But he loves her so much, that he tells her not to. Joe uses the allegory of Lot and his wife who turned back when she wasn´t supposed to, and died because of it. I think that he loved her so much that he could not leave her. He probably forgave her and didn’t want her to be so miserable and sorrowful, even though he didn’t forget and wasn’t able to treat her the same way he used to.
In the second paragraph, the change happens. He definitely needed some time to reconcile with the facts, and maybe the child helped it, but the forgiveness was finally “complete”. After a long time he tied up to the old traditions, which I think was a sign, that he really loved her much, forgave her and wanted their relationship to be as it used to be. Her reaction was very happy, since she immediately reacted and kept on the old game."
"F. Scott Fitzgerald – Babylon revisited
Page 375, chapter one, line 7 to 14:
He remembered thousand-franc notes given to an orchestra for playing a single number, hundred-franc notes tossed to a doorman for calling a cab.
But it hadn’t been given for nothing.
It had been given, even the most wildly squandered sum, as an offering to destiny that he might not remember the things most worth remembering, the things that now he would always remember – his child taken from his control, his wife escaped to a grave in Vermont.
Paraphrase:
Visiting Paris again, Charlie remembered much squandered money and his wasteful past life with his wife who is already dead. He had given so much money as notes to an orchestra for playing a single number, or to a doorman for calling a cab. Charlie had handed out his money, because he wanted to show that he is wealthy and he can afford that. But it was worth for nothing. Now, Charlie is feeling badly about that, because he is without money, his child is taken from his control, and his wife is dead. The happiness is gone, and now he is conscious of being lonely and unhappy.
This is a good example of “Jazz age”. It is the period in literature after the WW1, when new inventions and American prosperity made people wealthy. They were discovering a new traditional values and modern trends in social behavior, they started to visit night clubs, and they started to spend their money. It is also Charlie’s case. He came to Europe, to Paris, with his wife, because he had become rich, and because of advantageous currency exchange rate. He enjoyed European life, which was cheap – in compare to the American life, but he squandered much money, started to drink, his wife died. These conditions made him really unhappy and he started to drink very frequently that he was rarely sober. Then his daughter was taken from his control and he became very poor. “Jazz age” was exactly about that. It is about luxury life, fun, social life, and then a great depression, drugs and other negative things."
In my 3rd year British Literature classes we are slogging our way through the introduction-y part of Swift’s “A Modest Proposal.” The teacher I took over for (she went on maternity leave) concluded her section of the course with a test, as to be expected. I had the pleasure of grading about half of these. It was difficult of course because it was someone else’s test, and I didn’t always know how much depth she was looking for, even with the key. It was also helpful and inspiring though because that’s where I got the idea to spend some time on satire in the first place. Most of the students correctly identified satire as a new genre in Enlightenment literature, and Swift as one of the most well-known satirists. But when I asked them “co znamina “satire”?” (what does satire mean) they couldn’t say much more than “ironic,” which was yet another word they’ve learned yet failed to assign any meaning or deeper understanding to. Yep, another amazing example of their capacity to absorb a remarkable quantity of material but have no idea what it means, simply store it away until it needs to be regurgitated. Anyways, the 5th years may be leaving now, but I still have a good ten weeks with the rest of my students, so we are going to DO this satire thing, nice and slow too. When we’re done I am going to show them a clip from “the Onion” about wearing baby skulls (*apparently a satire about blood diamonds or something. Thank you Kehan).
Like I said, the first part was pretty rough going—Swift tends to be a little verbose, and these kids are not used to reading 18th Century English. They’re still struggling with much more basic material. In a few of my classes we just got to the part where he drops the bomb, where he proposes eating the excess infants. When I asked the students what was going on in that paragraph girls looked up at me shocked and said “Cannibal!” and some of the boys, who are usually orbiting around an entirely different planet in their minds, snapped to attention and started chuckling. This is going to be fun.
Finally, in my 2nd year English class we just took our Module 6 test on “People.” This mostly included physical characteristics, personality traits, and some good ol’ multi-part verbs because those are in pretty much every unit (did you have ANY IDEA how many multi-part verbs English has? It eats the Slovaks BRAINS!) Now, I am just teaching these kids their standard English class (GAH! Lord help them…) which more or less means I take them on a guided tour through a book, orating exercises and reiterating instructions. Even when it is not assigned though I think it is important to incorporate a good amount of writing into the curriculum, because just taking “matching” or “fill in the blank” tests isn’t going to help them attain fluency in English. Therefore, on the test they had to analyze a few pictures. The first one was actually the lady on the cover of the most recent Saint Mary’s magazine (Thank you SMC…). It was a pretty good close-up, and the kids could really explore their newly-expanded lexicon with words like “fringe” (bangs), “wrinkles,” “fair complexion” etc. For the next question I let them choose one of three photos. They had to physically describe the person/people in the picture, then speculate about what he/she/they were doing. Earlier in the year I was having a blast developing my teacher-drawing skills, but I’ve fallen out of practice or just couldn’t get inspired enough to create these images, so I used a few “star sights” or whatever those pictures that constantly-creeping paparazzi get of actors off-the-clock are called. My mom left a stash of tabloids here on her recent visit, who’d of thought publications bereft of any academic credit—or maybe any credit at all—would aid me in stretching these young minds…
The photos I selected: One was of Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise watching some kind of sporting event. They are sitting together but focusing on something across from them (i.e. game). Tom looks intense, Katie has her chin resting on her hand and looks a little whimsical. Not too many kids chose this picture, but out of the ones that did only one girl (who knew who they were…) thought that it was a married couple. Most of them said things like, “they must be good friends but they are not in love,” or that maybe they would be in love in the future. They often sighted a lack of physical contact as the cause, which I guess makes sense to them based on all the hickeys and practically dry humping I’ve witnessed lately. Apparently young Slovaks equate relationships with a strictly physical meaning.
Another picture was of Johnny Depp walking around wearing blue and white striped pajamas. I think it is supposed to be from a movie set or something. One of my favorite little students wrote this:
“Picture 2: the man in the foto number 2 is wearing pyjama (pyzamo). He has shoulder-length, dark brown hair (really dark brown, maybe closed to black). He has beard and moustage too. He has type of cool style beard. He look tyred. He is wearing white blue pyjama.
I think: He is walking and thinking about what he will get on (some extra clothes) :D and he sees himself in mirror he is scaried He look really bad. He had hard night. He is also think what his wife do, because his wife isn’t at home. She is traveling and last night she slept in a motel. He also must do some extra work in house (ex. Cook dinner, clean house) He lives in flat and in the picture he is walking over hall. This day is really bad and hard for him!”
Another one of my excellent students wrote about the same photo, saying:
“This tall man has dark brown hair in shoulder length. They are curly. He has oval face with moustache above lips and beard. His lips are not very big, but they are not very small too. Apart from lips are hidden by moustache. He has dark eyes, maybe dark brown or black. His eyebrows are like men’s. Thick and near eyes. He has darker skin complexion. He is in ther thirties.
I think he just woke up from his bed, because he is in pyjama. He only take his trainers and go out. His face show that he is cheerful and probably not bad-tempered, because his smile is real and his happiness is going out of his person. He is confident, because he doesn’t care about what people are saying about him and his clothes. He is maybe artist, because these people are crazy enough do things like he. He might think about where he is going, because of hand in his hair, what looks like thinking. For him is comfortable going out in something like pyjama and because of this crazy thing he can’t be shy—He hasn’t got a girlfriend because she never agree with his clothes, but maybe she is crazy like he. His life is good. I want to say him “bon appetite” because he might be on his way to breakfast. He is a little bit sleepy so he need a caffe.”
Finally, the third photo, and the one most of the students wrote about, was of one of the guys from “Jersey Shores” or whatever that show is called doing tricep-dips on a bench on a beach shirtless. He’s got tats, and the sun is in his face so he is scowling just a little. Aside from the slobbering teenaged girls that said little more than “he is beautiful, his muscles are so beautiful” (yeah, I took off points…) a handful of boys wrote about this picture too. Perhaps a disclaimer is necessary—Slovakia is still a remarkably homogenous society, and this includes physical characteristics as well as mentality. Racial profiling is more of a given than a controversy starter, the reasons of which are so complicated and so sticky I can’t even begin to go into them now. But basically when average Slovaks see a person with darker features he/she immediately thinks “Roma/Gypsy” and the whole laundry list of connotations that comes with. Behold…
One girl wrote this:
“That guy looks very scary for me. He must be angry. I think he is exercising because he hasn’t another thing to do. He might be in a prison yard. He must exercise every day. On his body has tattoo. I could see it because he had not T-shirt. He has only green trousers and red shoes.
He has short brown hair nice oval face but his eyes are brutal and brown. He is well-build He could be in jail because he might have a fight with another guy from his gang…”
But wait, then there was this kid’s…
“This man look well build and really strong. He has pretty big muscles. He has tattoo on his right upper arm and under his arm. He has dark long-brown medium size hair. He has pretty big ears. He doesn’t have a beard. He looks like 18 or 20 years man.
It looks like this man is a street fighter, and he is prepairing for battle now. I think he is from some gang or something, because he has pretty scarrry tattoo. I think he was in prison too. Maybe he isn’t a gang member. Maybe he is soldier. Yes maybe he is soldier in Iraq.”
I mean, what do you say to that?! More than anything I just want to get these kids generating language (at all levels, 2nd, 3rd, and 5th year). I don’t want to intimidate them into silence with too many corrections, because sometimes getting anything out of them, let alone anything with an ounce of creativity (no matter how prejudiced…) is an epic battle. So, for now I’ll continue making a few grammatical and spelling corrections but overall KEEP THEM WRITING!
“Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-
teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit
poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank
and stood watching the boat disappear on the black
waters of Lethe?
At first I want to say that in my opinion is the beat generation piece of crap. I don’t know but I really like reading some craftily made literary works. This poem was not also my piece of cake, but the ending is really good. Without straight word about age and characteristic of father, we could realize that his father was old man, with lot of experiences. He was “the man” who was encouraging his son. But when we read the rest of this part we sadly find out that he is already death. And the fact that he passed away is described really nicely. It is based on Greek mythology. Charon was man who carried all death to the underworld and Lethe was the river which was border between world of live people and world of those who are already gone.”
“ Paraphrases of “The Gilded Six-Bits,” by Zora Neale Hurston Page – 420
It was day. Nothing more. Joe wouldn't be coming home
as usual. No need to fling open the front door and sweep off the porch,
making it nice for Joe. Never no more breakfast to cook; no more washing
and starching of Joe's jumper-jackets and pants. No more nothing. So
why get up? With this strangeman in her bed, she felt embarrassed to get up and
dress. She decided to wait till he had dressed and gone. Then she would
get up, dress quickly and be gone forever beyond the reach of Joe's looks
and laughs. But he never moved. Red light turned to yellow, then white.
From beyond the no-man's land between them came a voice. A
strange voÍce that yesterday had been Joe's.
"Missie May, ain't you gonna fix me no breakfus'?"
She sprang out ofbed. "Yeah, Joe. Ah didn't reckon you wuz hongry."
Missie May really felt guilty for what had happened. She wasn´t able to look into Joe´s eyes because she knew, that it was bad what she had done. But on the other hand she has never considered Slemmons, the man with who she went to bed, to be better than Joe. When they were talking about him she always assured him that she cannot imagine better man than him and she gave Joe compliments. But what was the reason that leaded her to do that? It probably could be the act that showed her big love to Joe as she only wanted to gain money for her husband and herself but the way she did it is strange. That she felt guilty we can see. She knew that the following day would be different from others before. ,, It was day“- Nothing more, she expected nothing from it, there was nothing to look forward to. She knew, that she needn´t do things and obligations that she did the day before. But there is a turn. Although Joe is hurt he didn´t leave her and stay there as nothing special happened. He didn´t forgive her but wanted to give the chance to their relationship. Reading this passage you can realize that for her it is the harder situation than for Joe, to know that she hurt the man she loved. Everything changed, for example their habits that were important to them and also show the features of Hurston writing. She described in her works the lives of blacks, importance of their traditions.
The Harlem Renaissance is also known as the New Negro Movement that refers to the flowering of African American intellectual life. The center of the black writers was in the Harlem, neighborhood of Ney York City.”
"Zora Neale Hurston – The Gilded Six-Bits
His coffee cup was empty. She sprang to refill it. When she turned from the stove and bent to set the cup beside Joe´s plate, she saw the yellow coin on the table between them. She slumped into her seat and wept into her arms. Presently Joe said calmly, “Missie May, you cry too much. Don´t look back lak Lot´s wife and turn to salt.”
Back in eatonville, Joe reached his own front door. There was the ring of singing metal on wood. Fifteen times. Missie May couldn´t run to the door, but she crept there as quickly as she could. „Joe banks, Ah hear you chuckin´ money in mah do´way. You wait till Ah got stenght back and Ah´m gointer fix you for dat.“
I chose these two paragraphs, because in my opinion they show the shift in Joe´s attitude and also his love for Missy May. In the first one, she is feeling really guilty for what she had done. She thought that Joe would leave her, but he did not. So she feels grateful for him still needing her and she tries hard to be a great wife and do anything he wants to undo at least a bit of what had happened if it is possible. When seeing the coin, which is the symbol of her past actions and of the roots of their present unhappiness, she starts to cry. But he loves her so much, that he tells her not to. Joe uses the allegory of Lot and his wife who turned back when she wasn´t supposed to, and died because of it. I think that he loved her so much that he could not leave her. He probably forgave her and didn’t want her to be so miserable and sorrowful, even though he didn’t forget and wasn’t able to treat her the same way he used to.
In the second paragraph, the change happens. He definitely needed some time to reconcile with the facts, and maybe the child helped it, but the forgiveness was finally “complete”. After a long time he tied up to the old traditions, which I think was a sign, that he really loved her much, forgave her and wanted their relationship to be as it used to be. Her reaction was very happy, since she immediately reacted and kept on the old game."
"F. Scott Fitzgerald – Babylon revisited
Page 375, chapter one, line 7 to 14:
He remembered thousand-franc notes given to an orchestra for playing a single number, hundred-franc notes tossed to a doorman for calling a cab.
But it hadn’t been given for nothing.
It had been given, even the most wildly squandered sum, as an offering to destiny that he might not remember the things most worth remembering, the things that now he would always remember – his child taken from his control, his wife escaped to a grave in Vermont.
Paraphrase:
Visiting Paris again, Charlie remembered much squandered money and his wasteful past life with his wife who is already dead. He had given so much money as notes to an orchestra for playing a single number, or to a doorman for calling a cab. Charlie had handed out his money, because he wanted to show that he is wealthy and he can afford that. But it was worth for nothing. Now, Charlie is feeling badly about that, because he is without money, his child is taken from his control, and his wife is dead. The happiness is gone, and now he is conscious of being lonely and unhappy.
This is a good example of “Jazz age”. It is the period in literature after the WW1, when new inventions and American prosperity made people wealthy. They were discovering a new traditional values and modern trends in social behavior, they started to visit night clubs, and they started to spend their money. It is also Charlie’s case. He came to Europe, to Paris, with his wife, because he had become rich, and because of advantageous currency exchange rate. He enjoyed European life, which was cheap – in compare to the American life, but he squandered much money, started to drink, his wife died. These conditions made him really unhappy and he started to drink very frequently that he was rarely sober. Then his daughter was taken from his control and he became very poor. “Jazz age” was exactly about that. It is about luxury life, fun, social life, and then a great depression, drugs and other negative things."
In my 3rd year British Literature classes we are slogging our way through the introduction-y part of Swift’s “A Modest Proposal.” The teacher I took over for (she went on maternity leave) concluded her section of the course with a test, as to be expected. I had the pleasure of grading about half of these. It was difficult of course because it was someone else’s test, and I didn’t always know how much depth she was looking for, even with the key. It was also helpful and inspiring though because that’s where I got the idea to spend some time on satire in the first place. Most of the students correctly identified satire as a new genre in Enlightenment literature, and Swift as one of the most well-known satirists. But when I asked them “co znamina “satire”?” (what does satire mean) they couldn’t say much more than “ironic,” which was yet another word they’ve learned yet failed to assign any meaning or deeper understanding to. Yep, another amazing example of their capacity to absorb a remarkable quantity of material but have no idea what it means, simply store it away until it needs to be regurgitated. Anyways, the 5th years may be leaving now, but I still have a good ten weeks with the rest of my students, so we are going to DO this satire thing, nice and slow too. When we’re done I am going to show them a clip from “the Onion” about wearing baby skulls (*apparently a satire about blood diamonds or something. Thank you Kehan).
Like I said, the first part was pretty rough going—Swift tends to be a little verbose, and these kids are not used to reading 18th Century English. They’re still struggling with much more basic material. In a few of my classes we just got to the part where he drops the bomb, where he proposes eating the excess infants. When I asked the students what was going on in that paragraph girls looked up at me shocked and said “Cannibal!” and some of the boys, who are usually orbiting around an entirely different planet in their minds, snapped to attention and started chuckling. This is going to be fun.
Finally, in my 2nd year English class we just took our Module 6 test on “People.” This mostly included physical characteristics, personality traits, and some good ol’ multi-part verbs because those are in pretty much every unit (did you have ANY IDEA how many multi-part verbs English has? It eats the Slovaks BRAINS!) Now, I am just teaching these kids their standard English class (GAH! Lord help them…) which more or less means I take them on a guided tour through a book, orating exercises and reiterating instructions. Even when it is not assigned though I think it is important to incorporate a good amount of writing into the curriculum, because just taking “matching” or “fill in the blank” tests isn’t going to help them attain fluency in English. Therefore, on the test they had to analyze a few pictures. The first one was actually the lady on the cover of the most recent Saint Mary’s magazine (Thank you SMC…). It was a pretty good close-up, and the kids could really explore their newly-expanded lexicon with words like “fringe” (bangs), “wrinkles,” “fair complexion” etc. For the next question I let them choose one of three photos. They had to physically describe the person/people in the picture, then speculate about what he/she/they were doing. Earlier in the year I was having a blast developing my teacher-drawing skills, but I’ve fallen out of practice or just couldn’t get inspired enough to create these images, so I used a few “star sights” or whatever those pictures that constantly-creeping paparazzi get of actors off-the-clock are called. My mom left a stash of tabloids here on her recent visit, who’d of thought publications bereft of any academic credit—or maybe any credit at all—would aid me in stretching these young minds…
The photos I selected: One was of Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise watching some kind of sporting event. They are sitting together but focusing on something across from them (i.e. game). Tom looks intense, Katie has her chin resting on her hand and looks a little whimsical. Not too many kids chose this picture, but out of the ones that did only one girl (who knew who they were…) thought that it was a married couple. Most of them said things like, “they must be good friends but they are not in love,” or that maybe they would be in love in the future. They often sighted a lack of physical contact as the cause, which I guess makes sense to them based on all the hickeys and practically dry humping I’ve witnessed lately. Apparently young Slovaks equate relationships with a strictly physical meaning.
Another picture was of Johnny Depp walking around wearing blue and white striped pajamas. I think it is supposed to be from a movie set or something. One of my favorite little students wrote this:
“Picture 2: the man in the foto number 2 is wearing pyjama (pyzamo). He has shoulder-length, dark brown hair (really dark brown, maybe closed to black). He has beard and moustage too. He has type of cool style beard. He look tyred. He is wearing white blue pyjama.
I think: He is walking and thinking about what he will get on (some extra clothes) :D and he sees himself in mirror he is scaried He look really bad. He had hard night. He is also think what his wife do, because his wife isn’t at home. She is traveling and last night she slept in a motel. He also must do some extra work in house (ex. Cook dinner, clean house) He lives in flat and in the picture he is walking over hall. This day is really bad and hard for him!”
Another one of my excellent students wrote about the same photo, saying:
“This tall man has dark brown hair in shoulder length. They are curly. He has oval face with moustache above lips and beard. His lips are not very big, but they are not very small too. Apart from lips are hidden by moustache. He has dark eyes, maybe dark brown or black. His eyebrows are like men’s. Thick and near eyes. He has darker skin complexion. He is in ther thirties.
I think he just woke up from his bed, because he is in pyjama. He only take his trainers and go out. His face show that he is cheerful and probably not bad-tempered, because his smile is real and his happiness is going out of his person. He is confident, because he doesn’t care about what people are saying about him and his clothes. He is maybe artist, because these people are crazy enough do things like he. He might think about where he is going, because of hand in his hair, what looks like thinking. For him is comfortable going out in something like pyjama and because of this crazy thing he can’t be shy—He hasn’t got a girlfriend because she never agree with his clothes, but maybe she is crazy like he. His life is good. I want to say him “bon appetite” because he might be on his way to breakfast. He is a little bit sleepy so he need a caffe.”
Finally, the third photo, and the one most of the students wrote about, was of one of the guys from “Jersey Shores” or whatever that show is called doing tricep-dips on a bench on a beach shirtless. He’s got tats, and the sun is in his face so he is scowling just a little. Aside from the slobbering teenaged girls that said little more than “he is beautiful, his muscles are so beautiful” (yeah, I took off points…) a handful of boys wrote about this picture too. Perhaps a disclaimer is necessary—Slovakia is still a remarkably homogenous society, and this includes physical characteristics as well as mentality. Racial profiling is more of a given than a controversy starter, the reasons of which are so complicated and so sticky I can’t even begin to go into them now. But basically when average Slovaks see a person with darker features he/she immediately thinks “Roma/Gypsy” and the whole laundry list of connotations that comes with. Behold…
One girl wrote this:
“That guy looks very scary for me. He must be angry. I think he is exercising because he hasn’t another thing to do. He might be in a prison yard. He must exercise every day. On his body has tattoo. I could see it because he had not T-shirt. He has only green trousers and red shoes.
He has short brown hair nice oval face but his eyes are brutal and brown. He is well-build He could be in jail because he might have a fight with another guy from his gang…”
But wait, then there was this kid’s…
“This man look well build and really strong. He has pretty big muscles. He has tattoo on his right upper arm and under his arm. He has dark long-brown medium size hair. He has pretty big ears. He doesn’t have a beard. He looks like 18 or 20 years man.
It looks like this man is a street fighter, and he is prepairing for battle now. I think he is from some gang or something, because he has pretty scarrry tattoo. I think he was in prison too. Maybe he isn’t a gang member. Maybe he is soldier. Yes maybe he is soldier in Iraq.”
I mean, what do you say to that?! More than anything I just want to get these kids generating language (at all levels, 2nd, 3rd, and 5th year). I don’t want to intimidate them into silence with too many corrections, because sometimes getting anything out of them, let alone anything with an ounce of creativity (no matter how prejudiced…) is an epic battle. So, for now I’ll continue making a few grammatical and spelling corrections but overall KEEP THEM WRITING!
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Sexy Boy
So every Tuesday I take the 6:50 bus to Brezno in the morning, and usually
I get in a good little erg (rowing machine) sesh at the Hotel Academy, and maybe do a little fresh produce shopping, before taking the 5:07-ish bus home.
In Slovakia, a lot of bus drivers—and truck drivers—trick-out their dashboards with personalized décor. I’ve seen windshields trimmed in flags of Slovakia, or banners of darn-near naked women decoratively draped above a pile of grime-covered stuff animals trapped in the chasm between the dashboard and the windshield. There’s the bus with a hanging disco ball to jazz up the otherwise drab cab area, and I can’t leave out the bus with the thoughtful dream catcher, maybe for those naps the co-drivers take in alternate shifts on overnight cross-country journeys. From taking the same busses I’ve been able to surmise that most of these people drive the same rig all the time. It’s not like they assemble in a lot every morning and draw straws for who gets the “good” bus that day.
Aside from knowing just how they like their seats adjusted, or if third gear tends to stick a little, it is only natural that these men (I’ve yet to see a female bus driver) are inclined to dress up their “offices” with a little signature style. Just like office cubicles the front end of a bus is pretty non-descript but a lot of hours get racked up there. It’s better if there is something nice to look at. And you can tell quite a lot about a person from the way s/he chooses to decorate…
For example, ever since I’ve taken that 5:07-ish bus, the regular driver has been known amongst some of my fellow teachers and I as “sexy boy,” and not for any dark-horse crush we harbor (some women love a man in uniform…) but rather for his interior decorating.
In “sexy boy’s” rig the giant sun visors are lined with tasteful upholstery fringe—a white lace chord trimmed with blue and white tassels. An angle Christmas ornament with a golden gown, wooden wings and a shock of blonde hair bounces back and forth in cherubic exultation. Some kind of coin affixed to a string gently sways back and forth next to it, and hanging from a suction cup a tiny cardboard cutout is enshrouded in a white infant’s t-shirt proclaiming “Sexy Boy” in electric blue.
The bold (or at least random) t-shirt in contrast to the rest of the subdued ornamentation is not the only juxtaposition; “sexy boy” doesn’t seem to belong in the driver’s seat of a public bus.
Physically he seems much younger than most Slovak bus drivers—maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. He has a slight build—no paunch to stretch an ill-fitting polyester uniform over, or practically rest in his lap as he criss-crosses the Slovak highway infrastructure day in, day out. In fact, he always looks put together, and his attire is never slovenly. His angular jaw is accentuated by a well-trimmed goatee and the buzz cut he keeps his light brown hair in makes his Bruce Willis-esque hairline actually look good instead of unfortunate. His chic rectangular glasses give him an intellectual air and make me wonder what’s going on in his brain while he makes laps around Central Slovakia. All in all he is well-kept, and appears as if he should be some urban hipster, working as an IT specialist or accountant and having intellectual or snide conversations about sub-cultures with equally yoked people, not a bus driver in rural Slovakia.
One day a few months ago the bus pulled up on schedule, the familiar tassels clanging into each other as the bus eased to a stop. But instead of handing my fare to “sexy boy,” there was an imposter at his post! At first I though sexy boy was simply sick, or maybe he had jury duty or something (do Slovaks do that?). For the next three weeks though he failed to appear so I resigned myself to the fact that he was no more. There was nothing wrong with this new guy—he drove just fine and didn’t make me overly car-sick. But the bus décor just didn’t seem to match—or rather not match—him quite as well.
Last Tuesday, I climbed the steps of the 5:07-ish bus, and to my surprise sexy boy was at the helm! He even seemed more chipper than usual, but maybe that’s just because I hadn’t seen him in a while. Just like old times he tooted his horn and gave a friendly wave at every passing bus, making sure to greet his fellows in the brotherhood of public transportation. He also had the same long conversation with one of his buddies on the two-way radio all the way down the switch-backs from Zbojska to Tisovec. Yup, sexy boy is BACK!
I get in a good little erg (rowing machine) sesh at the Hotel Academy, and maybe do a little fresh produce shopping, before taking the 5:07-ish bus home.
In Slovakia, a lot of bus drivers—and truck drivers—trick-out their dashboards with personalized décor. I’ve seen windshields trimmed in flags of Slovakia, or banners of darn-near naked women decoratively draped above a pile of grime-covered stuff animals trapped in the chasm between the dashboard and the windshield. There’s the bus with a hanging disco ball to jazz up the otherwise drab cab area, and I can’t leave out the bus with the thoughtful dream catcher, maybe for those naps the co-drivers take in alternate shifts on overnight cross-country journeys. From taking the same busses I’ve been able to surmise that most of these people drive the same rig all the time. It’s not like they assemble in a lot every morning and draw straws for who gets the “good” bus that day.
Aside from knowing just how they like their seats adjusted, or if third gear tends to stick a little, it is only natural that these men (I’ve yet to see a female bus driver) are inclined to dress up their “offices” with a little signature style. Just like office cubicles the front end of a bus is pretty non-descript but a lot of hours get racked up there. It’s better if there is something nice to look at. And you can tell quite a lot about a person from the way s/he chooses to decorate…
For example, ever since I’ve taken that 5:07-ish bus, the regular driver has been known amongst some of my fellow teachers and I as “sexy boy,” and not for any dark-horse crush we harbor (some women love a man in uniform…) but rather for his interior decorating.
In “sexy boy’s” rig the giant sun visors are lined with tasteful upholstery fringe—a white lace chord trimmed with blue and white tassels. An angle Christmas ornament with a golden gown, wooden wings and a shock of blonde hair bounces back and forth in cherubic exultation. Some kind of coin affixed to a string gently sways back and forth next to it, and hanging from a suction cup a tiny cardboard cutout is enshrouded in a white infant’s t-shirt proclaiming “Sexy Boy” in electric blue.
The bold (or at least random) t-shirt in contrast to the rest of the subdued ornamentation is not the only juxtaposition; “sexy boy” doesn’t seem to belong in the driver’s seat of a public bus.
Physically he seems much younger than most Slovak bus drivers—maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. He has a slight build—no paunch to stretch an ill-fitting polyester uniform over, or practically rest in his lap as he criss-crosses the Slovak highway infrastructure day in, day out. In fact, he always looks put together, and his attire is never slovenly. His angular jaw is accentuated by a well-trimmed goatee and the buzz cut he keeps his light brown hair in makes his Bruce Willis-esque hairline actually look good instead of unfortunate. His chic rectangular glasses give him an intellectual air and make me wonder what’s going on in his brain while he makes laps around Central Slovakia. All in all he is well-kept, and appears as if he should be some urban hipster, working as an IT specialist or accountant and having intellectual or snide conversations about sub-cultures with equally yoked people, not a bus driver in rural Slovakia.
One day a few months ago the bus pulled up on schedule, the familiar tassels clanging into each other as the bus eased to a stop. But instead of handing my fare to “sexy boy,” there was an imposter at his post! At first I though sexy boy was simply sick, or maybe he had jury duty or something (do Slovaks do that?). For the next three weeks though he failed to appear so I resigned myself to the fact that he was no more. There was nothing wrong with this new guy—he drove just fine and didn’t make me overly car-sick. But the bus décor just didn’t seem to match—or rather not match—him quite as well.
Last Tuesday, I climbed the steps of the 5:07-ish bus, and to my surprise sexy boy was at the helm! He even seemed more chipper than usual, but maybe that’s just because I hadn’t seen him in a while. Just like old times he tooted his horn and gave a friendly wave at every passing bus, making sure to greet his fellows in the brotherhood of public transportation. He also had the same long conversation with one of his buddies on the two-way radio all the way down the switch-backs from Zbojska to Tisovec. Yup, sexy boy is BACK!
Sunday, April 18, 2010
BURLY! Off Road Weekend in Tisovec!
I mean, I'm not really in love with off-roading—I see it as sort of a hassle and I'd rather just tromp through mud with my own legs or on a bike, but I ain't never seen the town like this!
Since Thursday night the center of town has been unofficial campgrounds, a festival-like atmosphere is permeating the place and after the week of rain the sun is out and the sky is blue! People are OUTSIDE!!! WOOOOOT!
Check out some of these photos, whether or not you like off-roading you have to admit some of these guys are studs…
Monday, April 12, 2010
Blaaah...
Forgive the long period of silence, but I’ve been feeling rather blah lately, the only thing “epic” has been my level of confusion and disenchantment. Part of this is due to finally coming out of a long, dark winter, plus my craving for Colorado and my people. A large part is because whatever I’m trying to accomplish with my “classes” right now seems utterly unproductive and pointless. In the three or four weeks since I’ve had the reins I have not had one complete week of classes, and even in best-case scenarios I would only see most of my classes (all 5th year American Lit and 3rd year British Lit) once a week for 45 minutes.
Once a week, 45 minutes! Yeah right! If you jog for 45 minutes once a week, is it going to do a dang thing for your cardiovascular system or in anyway impact your physique? Or if you go on a bike ride, lift weights, play tennis or even speed walk for only three quarters of one hour every seven days, it is going to make dent on your health? Heck no! So how are we supposed to accomplish anything lasting or worthwhile in such brief and infrequent meetings?
And so it goes, the rookie teacher becomes a little disillusioned when the weight of reality sinks in. Some of the rose colored tint has rubbed off, that once hopeful glimmering optimism is a little tarnished and the whole world no longer feels like it will be redeemed because of one literature class.
ALE (“but” in Slovak—I’ve totally assimilated the word into my vocabulary…) Not everything is in vain, there are some good things going on. Perhaps I should start with a little context—these students are studying American and British Literature primarily to absorb facts about authors and texts (rather than any literary content) for the Maturita, which is the high school exit exam they take during their 4th and 5th years of gymnasium. It most closely resembles a giant final where the students have to stand in front of a panel of teachers and regurgitate facts they’ve memorized throughout high school.
I was an English major in college, mostly because literature blows my mind, I love to read it then “make it modern!” according to Barry Horwitz. If I’m about to tell you why a certain author had a certain effect on the world, or why a poem belongs in a certain genre, I want to be able to say why. I want to look at those “Form points” (yeah “attacking literature”! I’m totally using my binder from Mr. Hilbert’s AP English class as a supplement) to find the “Content.” So, in my class we read. Instead of a cursory overview of “The Great Gatsby” we read the short story “Babylon Revisited.” Then we paraphrase, or take a paragraph or passage and put it into our own words, trying to pick out what is really going on in the literature and why it is important.
At first I got mostly plot summaries—“This story is about… In this story the main character…” But as we progress forward, tweak it and I clarify more and more what I’m looking for I’m getting some really great stuff. Even when the content is not fully there (English is these student’s second language after all, and they have NEVER been asked to read let alone paraphrase literature before…) it is so awesome to see some students bending and stretching themselves. On account of limited class time and a lack of resources I’ve been utilizing e-mail to get them the texts and get me their homework. The e-mail is great because it allows me to actually be able to decipher what these kids are writing (reading handwriting is HARD! And Slovaks make their “t’s” weird), but it also allows me to reply to students individually, and fast.
When I grade I am a huge comment writer- questions all over, interesting stuff underlined or highlighted. Getting a marked up assignment a week later though has sort of lost the thunda. Even if I manage to get these kids fired up during class any flame of excitement or inspiration is sure to be thoroughly extinguished by the time we meet again. When I can pop up in their little mailboxes though, and demand some clarification directly (even if I keep saying the same thing—“why did you choose this passage? Why is it important, what does this tell us about Fitzgerald? What about the Jazz Age, can you connect this to another author/work we’ve read?), the kids often feel called out and obliged to respond. While many of my comments are meant just to keep their brain juice percolating so they can dig deeper next time, a handful of students have actually edited their initial assignments or replied to my questions and a thoughtful dialogue ensues.
British Lit is with the 3rd years, so on top of not having the most amazing English comprehension yet, they are trying to wade through a mess of “thee’s” and “thou’s.” The first thing I did with them was to read Shakespeare’s sonnet 130 (“My mistresses’ eyes are nothing like the sun…” paired with Edmund Spencer’s sonnet XV. These students haven’t really read much poetry, let alone talk about different structures of poems, so we’ve been having a blast. Check out a few paraphrases below.
So yeah, not everything is working out perfectly. And even when I seem to be moving in a positive direction I get assailed by bouts of self-doubt—what am I even DOING! I’m not qualified to teach these kids… I have NO IDEA what I’m talking about! But I guess you start where you are and go from there, and even if I’m not imparting all of the correct information on these students at least I’m getting them to speak English and use their brains a little right? And secretly I think they’re having fun too.
Once a week, 45 minutes! Yeah right! If you jog for 45 minutes once a week, is it going to do a dang thing for your cardiovascular system or in anyway impact your physique? Or if you go on a bike ride, lift weights, play tennis or even speed walk for only three quarters of one hour every seven days, it is going to make dent on your health? Heck no! So how are we supposed to accomplish anything lasting or worthwhile in such brief and infrequent meetings?
And so it goes, the rookie teacher becomes a little disillusioned when the weight of reality sinks in. Some of the rose colored tint has rubbed off, that once hopeful glimmering optimism is a little tarnished and the whole world no longer feels like it will be redeemed because of one literature class.
ALE (“but” in Slovak—I’ve totally assimilated the word into my vocabulary…) Not everything is in vain, there are some good things going on. Perhaps I should start with a little context—these students are studying American and British Literature primarily to absorb facts about authors and texts (rather than any literary content) for the Maturita, which is the high school exit exam they take during their 4th and 5th years of gymnasium. It most closely resembles a giant final where the students have to stand in front of a panel of teachers and regurgitate facts they’ve memorized throughout high school.
I was an English major in college, mostly because literature blows my mind, I love to read it then “make it modern!” according to Barry Horwitz. If I’m about to tell you why a certain author had a certain effect on the world, or why a poem belongs in a certain genre, I want to be able to say why. I want to look at those “Form points” (yeah “attacking literature”! I’m totally using my binder from Mr. Hilbert’s AP English class as a supplement) to find the “Content.” So, in my class we read. Instead of a cursory overview of “The Great Gatsby” we read the short story “Babylon Revisited.” Then we paraphrase, or take a paragraph or passage and put it into our own words, trying to pick out what is really going on in the literature and why it is important.
At first I got mostly plot summaries—“This story is about… In this story the main character…” But as we progress forward, tweak it and I clarify more and more what I’m looking for I’m getting some really great stuff. Even when the content is not fully there (English is these student’s second language after all, and they have NEVER been asked to read let alone paraphrase literature before…) it is so awesome to see some students bending and stretching themselves. On account of limited class time and a lack of resources I’ve been utilizing e-mail to get them the texts and get me their homework. The e-mail is great because it allows me to actually be able to decipher what these kids are writing (reading handwriting is HARD! And Slovaks make their “t’s” weird), but it also allows me to reply to students individually, and fast.
When I grade I am a huge comment writer- questions all over, interesting stuff underlined or highlighted. Getting a marked up assignment a week later though has sort of lost the thunda. Even if I manage to get these kids fired up during class any flame of excitement or inspiration is sure to be thoroughly extinguished by the time we meet again. When I can pop up in their little mailboxes though, and demand some clarification directly (even if I keep saying the same thing—“why did you choose this passage? Why is it important, what does this tell us about Fitzgerald? What about the Jazz Age, can you connect this to another author/work we’ve read?), the kids often feel called out and obliged to respond. While many of my comments are meant just to keep their brain juice percolating so they can dig deeper next time, a handful of students have actually edited their initial assignments or replied to my questions and a thoughtful dialogue ensues.
British Lit is with the 3rd years, so on top of not having the most amazing English comprehension yet, they are trying to wade through a mess of “thee’s” and “thou’s.” The first thing I did with them was to read Shakespeare’s sonnet 130 (“My mistresses’ eyes are nothing like the sun…” paired with Edmund Spencer’s sonnet XV. These students haven’t really read much poetry, let alone talk about different structures of poems, so we’ve been having a blast. Check out a few paraphrases below.
So yeah, not everything is working out perfectly. And even when I seem to be moving in a positive direction I get assailed by bouts of self-doubt—what am I even DOING! I’m not qualified to teach these kids… I have NO IDEA what I’m talking about! But I guess you start where you are and go from there, and even if I’m not imparting all of the correct information on these students at least I’m getting them to speak English and use their brains a little right? And secretly I think they’re having fun too.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Tour d'doors UK edition
One of the very first pleasant surprises in the UK was all the awesome front doors. When I finally find somewhere a little more permanent to live I’m pretty sure I’m gonna need one of these. Red is cool, but I think the blue is better.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Fika: Getting Coffee, or "Getting Coffee"?
A lot of the allure of traveling to the UK was that we would finally be surrounded by English speakers again—we’d understand signage and finally be able to strike up casual conversation with strangers using more than a limited lexicon mostly related to transportation or how much things cost.
Maybe being in Slovakia for seven months has just programmed me to pry into other languages and mine for new vocabulary, but the Swedes we met in York taught me a few words that are not just a different way to say things I already knew, but new terms all together. At least one of them should be straight-up assimilated into all languages, or at least English.
Getting coffee, hanging out, sort-of-kind-of-on-a-date-but-not… I presume ever since the existence of public establishments where pairs of people could meet up and be served a hot drink (because getting hot drink in not the same as getting a pint or some kind of alcohol), the café or coffeehouse venue has been used as a dater-tester scoping ground. Maybe because it cultivates a causal atmosphere and there’s not a lot of pressure—I mean we’re just drinking tea, it’s totally harmless. You can do it any time of day (or even night) and the time commitment is left very open-ended. If you are not feeling the other person you can drain your latte or espresso shot quickly then say how nice it’s all been but you really have to get back to whatever it is you were doing. If however you find yourself on the same wavelength as this prospective, you can sit there and nurse a cup of chai for hours, or get that free refill on your simple cup of drip. You don’t have to stress out about looking smokin’ hot, and if you’re lucky, you will be sitting in giant overstuffed chairs or on sofas.
The trouble with “getting coffee” though is that the safety and neutrality of the above helps amplify the ambiguity of the social interaction—what if one person thinks it is just drinking coffee with someone instead of alone or with a crumpled newspaper, while the other is already anticipating where and when the next date will take place. WHAT ARE WE DOING HERE!?
In Swedish, practically all of the above can be condensed into one [short] word: Fika.
While the term can also be used in a strictly platonic way and happen with pre-established friends or family, fika usually refers to this preliminary step in the dating process. Says Tomas, my Swedish source, “you’re checking it out, but you’re still not sure.” So while you try to get more sure you sip on a hot chocolate, or even a smoothie (I asked if fika was strictly confined to caffeinated beverages, he said it’s not), and there’s probably cookies or something involved too.
On my last day in Edinburgh I sat in a café flipping through a Scottish newspaper and soaking up the atmosphere with the good music, the good coffee, the English…for the last time in a while. Not that I was eavesdropping, but I overheard one of the women who worked there saying, “So he invited me out for coffee—what does that mean? I’m like, seriously, I work in a coffee shop and you want to go out for coffee?” I just had to chuckle. Clearly this guy was trying to initiate something, but like most of us non-Swedish speakers he just didn’t have the right box in his brain or word to concisely express his intentions which are most simply to see about dating her.
He needs fika. He needs a word and concept that will actually support his case, and not just make him look like an unobservant space-cadet. We all need fika. I’m still not exactly sure how the word is used—do you go to fika, have a fika, make fika—just fika? But until I figure out how exactly to use the word I’ll at least know when.
* the photos are of the Swedish (and Japanese guy) we met, some example of potential fika fare but in a friend not dater way, and just some pictures I figured I'd post while I had the space.
York and Edinburgh: spring break extravaganza 2010
I just got back from my first proper spring break in 4 years. My medievalist friend and I spent a week in the UK, more specifically in the medieval (yet also hip and modern) towns of York and Edinburgh. First of all, I never thought the UK was on my radar—too close, too similar or I don’t even know. That presumption has been completely dismantled. Also, about seven months ago, during one of our first real conversations Rachel expressed her affinity for walled cities to me, and her desire to one day venture to York. Funny how things come to fruition.
Over the next week or so look out for recaps, photo clumps (since I can really only do 4 or so at a time and it takes FOREVER to upload I will try to present them to you in some thematic manner) and your standard Whitney ruminations. Enjoy!
Thursday, February 18, 2010
More Ples photos
Hey, these are more photos from the most recent dance I attended.
Further note-- in the first set of pictures, from the last post, the pictures of the fire twirlers, the group shot, and the photo of Heidi and Megan were in fact taken by Rachel Liptak, aka Dame Rachel the Stupid Rad.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
If I Had it to Do Over...Oh Wait, I Do
The cool thing about teaching high school is that in some respects you get a second shot at doing or improving all the activities you didn’t do the first go around. For example, I somehow recently fell into the role of English public speaking coach (primarily to chaperon a group of students to a competition in Zilina), a faculty/American representative in the debate club, and I have also attended a whole handful of dances most closely related to American proms and homecoming, yet still an entirely different animal.
It is sort of ridiculous that I became the defacto public speaking/debate coach, because all the formal experience I have with the realm is a public speaking class I took in 8th grade (your topic is “pasta.” You have two minutes.”), the obligatory speech class from freshman year a high school, and the values debate class I strategically had to take my freshman year seeing as I’d used Mullen’s debate club—and Saint Mary’s Academy’s lack thereof—as my cornerstone argument for attending the school while my dad and I viciously battled over where I’d go. I vaguely remember how to flow a debate (don’t you just take notes?) and when I set out to make note cards for my debut debate phrases like “Lexus Nexus” bubbled right to the surface of my memory. It sort of felt like picking up an old neglected bicycle; the chain is pretty corroded, but with a little TLC I’ll be back in tip-top shape in no time.
This time around I also think the idea of debating is much cooler than I did when I was a self-conscious confused high schooler. Wow, am I an old woman already? I’m starting to echo Rod Stewart, “I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger…”
As far as coaching or teaching public speaking goes, I have absolutely no formal training in that either. Let’s be honest though, I’m pretty comfortable talking in front of groups of people, I’ve even been told I’m kinda good at it once or twice. After perusing some websites in search of legit coaching resources but only finding this woman’s page where she emphasized every other syllable and used the most redundant and over the top hand gestures, I decided that I would just wing it and go with my gut. In preparation for our big meet we met after school a few times, rehearsed our speeches, and I gave tips that originated mostly out of a synthesis between my experiences talking and believe it or not, crew. I told the students to set a timer for their allotted amount of time and while practicing in front of the mirror just start talking. That way they would really know what performing for three, four, or five minutes feels like. We used to do this while practicing visualization—sprawled out on the floor, eyes closed, we’d imagine taking strokes while our coxswain barked us through a theoretical 2K.
When the big day came, we made the there-and-back journey of over 8 hours (with a little engine trouble and a brief period of being lost thrown in for good measure) for 3-5 minutes of speaking and none of the EGT contestants advanced into the final round. Out of 115 participants though, only 12 students proceeded onwards, and they all came from power-house schools in Bratislava where everyone is practically fluent in English. Initially some of my girls (I took six young ladies) were a little deflated, they felt intimidated in front of these hot shots that “spoke like native speakers,” and even threw around some attitude. I think the competition was excellent exposure though, now they’ve seen outside of the cave, they know what could be and what others their own age are already capable of. A few of them were still riding their exhilarated high when we piled back into the school van, already thinking about returning next year and taking NAMES. When I suggest we start up a more regular English olympiada club they all jumped at the idea.
Dancing Queens
As far as the dances go, I somehow never got up the gumption to write about any of the three stuzkovas I attended in November and December. Those events are perhaps best defined as a hybrid between graduation, a bar/bat mitzvah, a debutant ball, and senior prom all rolled into one. In an incredibly stoic presentation the 5th year students are awarded green ribbons which sort of signify their growing up. Believe it or not, these kids mostly manage to keep track of them and affix them to the outside of their jackets or bags for the rest of the year, broadcasting their status as soon-to-be graduates to the rest of the world. I’d loose mine in about ten seconds or leave it on some clothing that went through the wash or something. It’s kind of funny to me because in the classroom some of these students seem like such disinclined zombies, yet they take the whole program and all of the formalities very seriously. For a more comprehensive debrief of stuzkova you’ll just have to wait until next year.
The most recent dance I attended was Ples, which is like prom, except underclassman can also attend. The Slovak version however kicks off at 6:00 p.m. in the town cultural center. Instead of droves of teenagers getting together for a pre-dance dinner a-la-restaurant, the event includes a meaty multiple course meal, because honestly it’s not like there are anywhere near enough restaurants in town to accommodate. Just like Stuzkova there is also a formal greeting toast and some official programming. Some of my students sung a duet together, one 4th year girl’s little brother played a few songs on the saxophone, and one boy performed a few saucy ballroom dance numbers thereby displaying his mad extracurricular skills. The big surprise was the fire twirlers. Yeah, fire twirlers. Bet you didn’t have that at your prom, eh?
After the programming the evening activities alternated between eating and waltzing sessions. That’s another thing—I bet nobody did the foxtrot at your prom—I bet nobody there even knew how. To be fair, most people at Ples weren’t exactly virtuosos of the dance floor, but I was tickled pink to see my students out there giving it a try. And it’s classy, right? Actually, the format of the night is great for would-be wallflowers because it allows you to progressively warm up and ease into the “Disco disco” dancing that doesn’t start until about 1:00 or 2:00 in the morning.
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