Eating weeds

I watched with curiosity as three women wandered through the low brush, gathering what appeared to be weeds  near the ditch.  A couple disappeared behind the stack of split logs, squatting to pull the greenery from the root, then standing again to look for more.  The round, green leaves were lush, and I could see some yellow flowers sticking out between the clutches of shrubs.  I wondered if they were simply pulling weeds, but they were too selective over which was picked and which stayed planted, gathering handfuls into their shirt fronts.

After they had picked all they could find in the area, they carried their findings inside.  When I finally wandered inside, I discovered what all the greenery was for:  dinner.  And this isn't the first time this has happened.  I have watched the children do the exact same thing – scatter around the yard, going as far as the fence, looking for edible greens.  What looks little more than overgrown weeds is turned into nourishment to supplement nearly every meal.  I didn't realize that much of the greens we ate at nearly every meal came from simply going out into the yard and picking them as they grew wild.  Much of the greens also come from the market in town, but whenever we needed more, a quick jaunt outside proved successful and delicious.

  They've even gone into the nearby field to pick Morning Glories – just the flower heads to turn into tea when boiled in water and strained.  A week ago, one of the girls had come running up to me, "P'Lissa! P'Lissa! Take to kitchen please," she said as she shoved a clear plastic bag into my hands.
"Why?  What is this for?" I asked confused.
"The kitchen. The kitchen.  To eat."
"You are going to eat this?"
"No. Drink.  Make into tea.  Very good."  She told me as she caught her breath.
It had taken me some time to figure out her pronunciation of "kitchen" but once I realized what she wanted, I took the full bag to the kitchen with me. They were beautiful flowers, and part of me wanted to put them in a vase if it weren't for the fact that the heads were plucked clean off without the slightest stem.  An hour later I wandered back into the kitchen and out onto the patio where the flowers had been shredded into individual pedals, cleaned, and left to dry in two large, shallow, rattan trays.  I never tried the tea, but the pedals were gone by dinner.  And never seen again…

Thai School experience

It's a wake up call.  I'm currently in the middle of my second day in a small country Thai school and I definitely don't fit in.  Yesterday was probably the longest day in school and I was only there from 10am-4pm.  Let's back up to yesterday for some explanations...(June 11 -- I started writing this, then forgot. Oops.)

While staying at Ban San Faan children's home just east of Chiang Mai (I'll talk more about BSF later), one of my duties is assisting another volunteer at the school right up the road.  We teach two classes of kindergarten in the morning at the children's home, then head over to the school just down the road to teach 1st-3rd grade.  Since English is the foreign language, these children know startlingly little.  Third grade was full of children ages 5-16 -- THIRD GRADE.  I couldn't believe the age differences!  I wanted to pull the students aside and ask them why they are in 3rd grade.  I wanted to pull the Thai office staff aside and ask if they were put in the wrong class by mistake.  Surely in a school this small (77 students, 1st-6th grade), they can rearrange the students according to age so boys with mustaches aren't sitting next to 7-year-old girls in pig-tails.  Most of all, I wanted to ask someone "What are you thinking?" and get a response that makes sense to me.  But then I had to remind myself that this is Thailand, and things rarely make sense to my Westernized brain.

Because of the huge differences in age and English knowledge, the students were majorly distracted and weren't paying attention to anything we were trying to teach.  It didn't matter how many times we read the same instructions ("Color four leaves green"), only about five of the 16 students would be paying attention, and then only one would actually pick up a green colored pencil.

Well this morning, I was asked to come in early to be formally introduced to the student body during flag raising/prayer/announcement time.  Everything was said and done in Thai.  I couldn't understand a word of it.  Okay, maybe a word or two....but I digress.  When asked if I wanted to say anything after I was introduced, I fumbled around lamely and only said my name and that I was looking forward to working with 1st-3rd grade.  I understood the rest of my introduction:  volunteering at BSF...teacher from Bangkok...here to help Teacher Randi.  What more needed to be voiced?

But during announcement time the students were given a tongue-lashing such as I've never heard before.  And to make it most effective, it was all done in Thai.  You see, after Monday's kerfuffle with the 3rd graders, we went back to the home and explained (okay yes, complained) that the students were misbehaving so badly and didn't listen to a word we said; stating that it was extremely difficult to teach them anything when they weren't paying attention.  So announcement time was spent berating the students on behaving badly and not respecting teachers like they know they are supposed to -- especially the foreign teachers who are volunteering to teach them English.  I wanted to disappear.  I wanted to run away.  I wanted to apologize to the students for ratting on them.  I felt sorry for the kids.  But I mostly felt sorry for me; standing there in the middle of the open hallway with the students lined up on either side listening to a Thai scolding of a lifetime.  They knew who tattled -- it was my direct supervisor (the manager of the home) who was telling them not to be naughty little students.  I tried not to think about what she was actually saying to the students, but I caught a word here and there as they fired out of her mouth.  Students...bad...teacher...try to help...know how to be good to Thai teacher...learn English.  And then after ten excruciating minutes of feeling unbelievably exposed, the 'announcement' time was over, students were wai-ing, and I was excused to go back to the home to teach the Kindergarten classes.  During the short walk back to the home, I vowed never to tattle on my students again.  I would handle discipline in my own way within the confines of the classroom.

The life of a teacher is never dull

From a few months ago...

In the past I've posted about the hilarious things my students have said in class.  Often though, the things they say are rude and ill-thought out.  Today, for instance, after telling my students I wasn't feeling well and they would have a substitute for the second half of the day, there was a chorus of "Yesss!" with a smattering of "Why, Miss Lissa?" or "Why are you going home? What are you going to do?"  To that I replied, "I'm going home to throw up."  A subdued, "Oh," is answered and I left the students to their substitute (my principal), and gave them strict orders to be on their best behavior as I left the confines of the classroom.

These types of responses are typical here, and I've grown accustom to answering with sarcasm or wit.  I no longer care that my replies are less than professional, and having my principal in the classroom didn't deter me from telling my entire class that I was going to throw up.  I did hold back from saying that they were making me sick, though.  You can only kid so far with them..

On Pomp and Circumstance

Graduation was this afternoon.  Watching the seniors walk across the stage one by one in their black robes, square hats, and wavering smiles always causes me to reflect over my choice to become a teacher.
I commented to a fellow teacher after the ceremony that hanging out with these seniors makes me want to be friends with them.  Real friends -- not teacher-friends.  "Does that reflect on my level of immaturity? Why am I looking for friendships in kids ten years my junior instead of people my age?" I asked.
"I think it shows just how right you are for teaching older kids -- I mean, you actually want to hang out with them.  For the same reason I do better with the little kids.  I never know what to say around high schoolers."

Needless to say, hearing her say that brought me no small sense of relief since I'll be moving up to high school next year.  What's special about next year is that I'll be teaching the same students I had my very first year here.  As exciting as it is to teach my first batch of 8th graders again, I have to admit feeling apprehensive about moving up to 11th grade.  You see, being around 8th graders for three years has caused me to develop an air of silliness.  I do wonder if I've become too immature to interact with high school kids as an adult.
This silliness has shown me how much I truly enjoy middle school kids.  I never thought I would like the middle grades (granted I have 8th graders).  In fact, I specifically said -- years before I entered the education program -- that I would be willing to teach elementary or high school, but I will not teach middle school.  Talk about the devil's playground.  Oh yes....the Lord has a wonderful sense of humor sending me to Thailand to teach middle school.  His plans certainly prospered me and gave me a hope and a future like He promised in Jeremiah 29:11.  I have been truly blessed by these last three years in the middle school, and I wouldn't trade them for the world.
All this to say...I'm going to miss the middle school.  I'm going to miss the petty behavior issues, the repetitive questions, the gullibility, the unabashed childishness, and most of all their eagerness for all life has to offer without fear of consequences.

I'll try not to be sentimental, but I am treasuring every final moment I have with my middle schoolers before 8th grade graduation in a week and a half.  High school graduation got the ball rolling and my mind reflecting; middle school graduation will just solidify the reality of next school year.

These graduating seniors are special to me in so many ways.  It has been an absolute pleasure getting to know many of them, and an even better thrill becoming friends with them on a personal level.  In a way, I am glad I never taught them, and thus had to tackle a teacher-student relationship before developing a friendship.  For a few of us, we were able to cut straight to being unassuming friends. 
These seniors are ten years younger than me.  While I'm obviously not old enough to be their mom (in fact, they seem more like my younger siblings), watching them walk across the stage felt like watching my own children graduate.  And in a sense they are mine -- they may be the only ones I'll ever have.  And like any good parent, I want so desperately for them to succeed in life.  I want that for all the students -- from my impressionable 8th graders, to the graduating seniors.  Watching them grow and mature reminds me everyday why I chose to be a teacher and why I love my students so much.

Strange Encounters of the Ethnic Kind

All my life I've heard multiple variations of the same question concerning my ethnicity, the most common version being simply, "What are you?"
The older I get, the more I ask that very question. I used to know as a child. It was explicit knowledge. Now at 26 years old, the question is getting harder and harder to answer.

My latest encounter is just one more example:

Pinoy: "I keep forgetting you're half Filipino."
Me: "Haha, really?"
Pinoy: "I wish we knew you are Filipino." Pause, "I wish they knew you are Filipino." She motioned to the group of Filipinos standing a few feet away.
Me: "Well, I am." I didn't know what kind of response to give anymore. "What do I look like I am? Hispanic?"
Pinoy: After a pause, "Yes! You look more Hispanic; not so much Filipino."
Me: At this point, I'm forcing my smile, "Does it matter, though?"
Pinoy: "Well, no. But which side do you favor more? You favor the Filipino side, right? You're more Filipino, aren't you?"
Me: What? Why does she need justification for this strange mindset? "Umm, I guess I'm more American. I grew up in the States, and I don't speak Tagalog." I laugh it off. "That's probably why they don't think I'm Filipino."
Pinoy: She gives an apologetic smile, "Yes, I guess you're right."

While she probably didn't mean to be offensive or insensitive, she was asking me to chose sides in my heritage. What people don't understand is that I wouldn't be me without both sides. Yes, I have the feisty attitude of Filipino women, but I also have the stubborn temper from my German side. Not exactly a win-win situation, but I work with what I've got.
Back to the topic at hand, I've often done exactly the same thing the Pinoy did -- assert one ethnicity over another. There's been times that I've been embarrassed over the thriftiness of my Filipino side (less and less now that I'm living in Thailand) and roll my eyes when it comes to leftovers from restaurants. I've always admired the independence and confidence from my American side. On the flip side, it's been awesome having a natural tan all year long, and being short. But I hate having the American slow metabolism. I love being able to sing with the rest of my Filipino side, as temperamental as it may be.
Whenever I want to side with Asians for one reason or another, I'd pull the Filipino card (and conveniently leave out that I'm only half...); and if I want to disassociate myself from Filipinos, I simply claim I'm American. People don't bat an eye at that one -- I dress American and sound American. Oddly enough, I've been questioned several times as to whether or not I truly am half-Filipino -- even so much as to encounter stark disbelief and denial by Filipinos. As insulting as that may be, it also makes me question who I am. I'm having a harder time straddling two ethnicities fully.

In a world where people are so concerned with where you come from, the story of who I am gets longer and longer. Even when I try to take the shortcut of saying I'm simply "American" there's always the followup question, "Well, why are you so dark then?" -- as if all Americans are white. If I say I'm Filipino, then my accent is called into question. And somehow, saying I'm a Fil-Am causes more questions about my past to arise.

So now I'm stuck saying, "Yeah, I know I look Hispanic, but I'm really half-Filipino." It doesn't help that the only other foreign language I'm comfortable with is Spanish. Like my friends say, I need to embrace my Spanish side and stop fighting it.

It's been harder while in Thailand since my ethnicity has been even more of a question mark. To date I've been confused for: Thai, Singaporean, Cambodian, Malaysian, Hawaiian, Polynesian, Native American, Indian, Pakistani, and my favorite: half black.

Who am I? Who knows? I'm still trying to figure it out. But as one person pointed out, "You're a woman of the nations".

These two books relieved me to know end since it reassures me I'm not alone in my confusion.
Filipino-American Psychology
http://books.google.co.th/books/about/Filipino_American_Psychology.html?id=PrO-YkFy4MkC&redir_esc=y

Struggling to Be Heard: The Unmet Needs of Asian Pacific American Children

http://books.google.co.th/books/about/Struggling_to_be_heard.html?id=wZyIYK1M1ikC&redir_esc=y

I survived today.

Today was a matter of survival. Not in a Hunger Games kind of way, but by all other accounts, I finally reached the end of my rope.

These last several weeks have been one crazy activity after another with very little respite in sight. Yesterday was the Makabucha holiday so we didn't have school. Although I was able to sleep in, there were still things planned for the day that 'needed' to be done. Not 'needed' in the essential way, but needed in the way that I planned to do it. When I plan something I do it. Call it stubborn if you want, but I call it reliable. Well at the end of the day, I worked out for the first time in weeks. Not only did I work out, but I doubled my normal workout routine. Getting done at 9:20pm probably didn't help matters; as tired as I was, it was well after midnight before I was able to fall asleep. I literally had to drag my body out of bed this morning.
That kind of morning called for a rarely-taken coffee. Since I've laid off coffee for quite some time, the effect was a steady attack of the jitters. I was wide awake, but not fully-functional; I couldn't focus on tasks, had little patience with students, and I couldn't stop my hands from shaking. And it just got better. Temper rose to the foreground during the after-school basketball game -- I was upset at the whistle-happy ref, I was upset at the game, but I was mostly upset with myself. By the end of the game, my frustration brimmed over in a few tears. Not to worry, though, I was sweating so badly that the tears blended in.

I can only blame the culmination of tears on the overwhelming schedule I've unfortunately kept up for too long. Ironically, back in college I loved being kept busy -- balancing school work, RA duties, sports, and my social butterfly tendencies. Nowadays, I feel cranky, frustrated, and inadequate if I fail to complete my appointed rounds. Finally today I trudged along through classes, play rehearsal, basketball game, and finally dinner-making.

A true break still won't come for another 3 weeks. I only hope that these next 3 weeks will not simply be a game of survival or filled with coping mechanisms. It's funny how 'required' extra-curricular activities, school work, errand-running, and socializing blend in to a ridiculously full schedule -- one that stresses me out on occasions like this.

Every morning I wake up to a red sun as I get ready for work; watching it rise slowly during the 3 minute walk to school. And every evening I walk home to a red sun beneath the thin clouds before hiding behind the 7/11 at the entryway to my apartment complex.

This isn't my view of the sun, but we do have a bridge just like this in Bangkok.

There's an old rhyme I learned in science class during my middle school home-school days that goes something like this: "Red skies in morning, sailors take warning; red skies at night, sailors delight." This makes me wonder, does the sky look ominous in the morning, and thus make people paranoid about what the day's events may hold? And seeing the red sky at night lead people to believe they will have sweet dreams? Regardless, what does it mean when I see a red sun in the morning and at night?? I'll have bad days but good nights? All things considered, if I had a choice I'd like to have good days and unremembered nights. But I guess we can't have it all.

Through the smog of Bangkok, I see the fury of the red sun. I feel it every day. The moment I step outside my door I am hit with a wall of heat and the sweat that accompanies it.