So, I have an issue with the word "flaite." In training, we were led to believe this word conveys the meaning "sketchy" in Chilean Spanish. To me, sketchy means someone who is a little nuts and not to be trusted, or else a gang-banger or a drug dealer...someone you would not want to trust with your money, or bring home for Christmas dinner, that sort of thing. Often, when something or someone is sketchy, your gut tells you that something about the situation/person just isn't right, but you often can't name it. So you say sketchy instead.
After more than five months in Chile, I do not believe the word "flaite" means "sketchy." In fact, when most Chileans say "flaite," what they really mean is "poor." Let me explain.
Our first three weeks in Santiago, the other American volunteers and I called lots of different things "flaite," trying hard to fit in to Chile and feel cool by using the local slang. Chileans get a big kick out of gringos using their slang. The first time I really encountered a Chilean using the word was the night we all went out for my birthday. My friend was in the process of getting to know her future boyfriend, and I was in the process of trying to hook up with this beautiful Chilean boy as a birthday present to myself. As we were all standing outside the club after it had closed, trying to decide who was going home with whom and how this would all be accomplished with as little embarassment as possible, my chosen boy of the evening nodded to my friend and her future boyfriend and asked, "Why do American girls always like flaites?" My unenlightened response at the time is that we couldn't tell who is flaite and who isn't. Chileans can look at someone and know if they are flaite, but we can't. Even now that I understand how the word is used, I still can't spot someone and know if a Chilean would call them flaite.
Since my friend has been with her boyfriend, in some manner of speaking, for at least three months now, we have all gotten to know him and his friends, and we generally see them at least once a weekend, either separately or in some sort of group. And usually when we are with these boys, something happens to us that reveals the distaste the greater population of Chilean disco-goers feel toward our "flaite" friends. Sometimes it is a glance of disgust, or other times it is much more direct, like the first time my host brother met the boyfriend in question and told me that he is flaite. Friday night, it happened again, and for some reason it finally hit a nerve and I have had enough. Watch out, because I am all fired up now.
We were at a disco called Bronco, on the edge of town, at the invitation of my cousin Nacho, who was hosting some sort of fund-raising event there. I rolled out with a couple of our "flaites," my host brother, and the other four gringos, and was delighted to find upon our arrival that this boy I have been trying to sink my claws into on and off for two months was in attendance. I chatted with him for awhile, then we went our separate ways until I ran into him again in the beverage line. The problem with this particular boy is that he is by far the most attractive Chilean I have met in the last five months, but for the life of me I cannot understand what he is saying. I blame in part the loud music of the places I always see him at, but I will be damned if he doesn't talk so fast that all his words bleed together and resemble nothing of the Spanish I have managed to pick up here. We are a pretty comical pair, because he cannot ever understand my American accented Spanish either, so I am pretty sure our conversations are him saying something, and me responding to what I think he said, and we are probably never on the same topic or having any sort of exchange. I am always telling him to slow down, and then he repeats exactly what he said at the same speed; it is infuriating! Then I say something, and he stares at me blankly. After gathering that he was going snowboarding this weekend, the conversation moved on and he said something to me that I couldn't recognize. I told him I didn't understand, so he repeated it, and I still didn't get it, so I just grinned at him for an awkward minute and then changed the subject. We parted ways again, and I turned around to find my friend, one of the flaites, standing behind me. This particular flaite speaks English well, and he informed me with dead eyes and voice that my love interest had just asked me why all my friends are losers. I was so ashamed, first, that he would ask me something like that, second, that I didn't understand enough of what he said to counter him, third, that my friend had heard and obviously had his feelings hurt, and fourth, that after such a comment I was still attracted to such a creature.
This comment pissed me off on so many levels. To begin with, skipping over all the obvious injustices and highlighting how it affects me, this moment reinforced for me how difficult it is to make friends in Chile. The society operates on social rules that none of us clearly understand. People are curious about us but in general not really interested in getting to know us on a personal level; we are more collected as an oddity than befriended. We don't have a lot of options when it comes to friendship. And to be honest, the flaites are the only ones that seem interested in moving past the one-night hookup, or not even going there in the first place, and just hanging out, or dancing, or having asados or coming to game nights. Whatever their motivations are, I can't know, but it feels much more genuine than it does with the non-flaites. They make a concerted effort, and we have inside jokes, and ultimately, we have fun together. Meanwhile, these boys that seem to think they are above the flaites are the ones that don't call us back, or hook up with us while they have girlfriends, or steal money from us, or want us to walk all the way across town to their houses because they don't want to pay for a collectivo to the centro--which is way different than not being able to. Why is it always that the people who actually have money are the cheapest, while those who don't are sometimes more generous?
So yes, as I said, this whole confict is really about money. Which is a pretty obvious conclusion, but ashamedly one that I hadn't really come to because I hadn't really closely thought about it. I demanded answers from Felipe this evening as to why the hottest boy ever would say something like that about people that are obviously my friends. Felipe kept evading my questions, and I knew I was making him uncomfortable, probably because I was exposing his snobbery--after his initial comment about my friend's boyfriend, the two have become pretty good pals. Finally, he told me the way they can all tell who is flaite is by sight--how they dress--and by speech--how much slang they use and swearing they do. This is similar in the U.S.--think about your reactions to girls scandalously and cheaply dressed, baggy jeans and wife-beater tank tops, or a white boy that mimicks ebonics, for example. However, I feel like in the U.S., people of good upbringing at least know it is rude and politically incorrect to stereotype, and thus try to hide their reacitons and comments. Not so here. It's all out there--at least if you are a gringa trying to meet new people.
So then I get upset about the injustice of it all, about how my friends who have no control over who they are born to and their economic situation are socially punished because their parents aren't educated enough to demand that they speak properly and cannot afford to buy them expensive clothes. And about how my attractive Chilean acquaintances will never know how hard our "flaites" actually work, that some of them go to school and have jobs and will one day live better economically than their families do now. I feel like in the United States we have similar reactions and judgements of poor folk, but everyone loves a good "pulled yourself up by your bootstraps" story, and I feel in general hard work is more respected and appreciated in the U.S. in the climb from poverty. From what I see, my middle class Chilean "friends" have never had jobs and don't generally enter the workforce until after graduation. They drink and party and snowboard and shop. And afterward, they never seem to have enough money on their phones to call me back.
The worst part, as my friend pointed out tonight, is that the social strata pervades how the "flaites" see themselves. My friend's boyfriend is always saying that she deserves better, she deserves someone who can buy her things, or that they should be able to afford taxis so she doesn't have to walk. I read it on my friend's face when he overheard the comment at Bronco. It kills me because I love these guys, and they don't deserve the pressure and judgement of poverty! No one does, for that matter, but to actually see it pain your friend is unbearable. One night in a downpour, we were all at a bar, four Americans and five "flaites," and we decided to go to our favorite trashy club to dance. We passed several awkward minutes cowering under the eaves outside the club, staring at each other. They didn't want to take a cab, because if they did they wouldn't be able to afford drinks. But they couldn't say it out loud. So it took those of us that don't have to worry about those kinds of decisions five full minutes to figure out the situation, and suggest that we wanted to walk, and convince them that we actually like walking in the cold rain, because it reminds us of home. And them not believing us anyway, but appreciating the effort.
What is equally interesting is when our "flaite" friends warn us about other flaites we encounter out and about. It's like that part in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn when the younger poor kids get bullied and insulted because they are poor, and then grow up and in turn become the bullies, making the same economically-based taunts that were directed at them. It's also interesting to me how kids learn to recognize class distinctions, even before they can really name them. I remember hating this girl in fifth and sixth grade. She really annoyed me for a number of reasons, but mostly I picked on her because she didn't have clean, nice clothes, she was always messy and kind of smelled, and seemed really needy of attention. I think about her all the time now, as I realized after I grew up that she was just poorer than the rest of us.
Another of the gringos reacts to this injustice in a different way, which seems rather inappropriate and yet kind of true. He said something to the effect of he doesn't really understand the attitude the middle class kids take with us or why they even mention "flaites" to us, because since we are Americans, the whole country is "flaite" to us--which I fully acknowledge is a misleading, simplistic, untrue and potentially harmful statement. However, I know what he was trying to get at. What he meant was that economically, all five of us volunteers here are better off than the middle class kids who complain to us when we hang out with poor people. Obviously, this is not true in every case, and it feeds into the stereotypes that I try to avoid. But he does have a point.
I get really pissed at the power money has over our lives and over the shape of our destinies. It always fascinates me how money is essentially an idea rather than something real. I will probably be exposing my ignorance of economics here (sad after several economics classes in college--oopsey!), but it seems to me that since we went off the gold standard, money has value because we say it does. And therefore, we are allowing something that has no intrinsic worth, and is only good and valuable because we say it is, control so many aspects of our life. We let it hurt people's feelings and we let it control standards of living, so that some of us have to struggle and others enjoy haute couture and expensive holidays and mansion homes. And it doesn't even mean anything! What seems even more ridiculous is that there are jobs out there where people trade curriencies back and forth between countries, and somehow fortunes are created by this! How does this happen? And how do these traders live with their meaningless contributions to society? (The answer: quite comfortably, on private yachts.)
I think I am extra sensitive about poverty-based prejudice because, although I can say I had a comfortable existence growing up and enjoy more than my share of prosperity, there were uncomfortable moments in my life because of money. When my parents got divorced as I entered junior high, and one household was split into two, and thus two budgets had to be supported by single parents, things were pretty tight. I am so obsessed with fashion now because in 7th grade I only had one pair of pants, and some of the other kids at school used to make nasty remarks to me about it. I remember always being nervous and feeling guilty about asking my parents to buy me school supplies, and I would mentally prepare for the discussion, like what I needed it for, why it was necessary, where we could find the cheapest one, how I would make a return on the investment, how I would pass it on to my brother when he entered Mr. Slevett's class in four years--even if it was just a set of pens or a calculator! That sort of stress is created by us, by placing value on coins and paper--we create the value, and then as an extension we create the stress! It sounds pretty rediculous to me, but when the whole world buys into the system, how do you make it stop?
I will start my resistance by refusing to use the word "flaite." Now, I will only use the word "friend."
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Professional Development
Lest I give the impression that I do nothing here but party and travel and get sick, I feel I must relate some recent anecdotes regarding my work situation.
I have been surprisingly pleased with my teaching in the last month. This change of heart is most likely attributed to the attitude adjustment I experienced as a result of our mid-service conference the first week of July in Santiago. Not only was it great to be reunited with the volunteers that live in Los Angeles, Chile and our program directors, but it gave me a focused time to reflect on my experiences here, both professional and personal, and set some goals for the short time I have left. It was really hard to reflect on what was not working, take personal responsibility, and ask myself, no matter the situation, what I can do to improve it. It was also nearly impossible to confront the reality of leaving here, a fact that is always in the back of my mind but physically hurts to consider seriously. However, I was able to set some clear goals, such as being braver about improving my Spanish, not letting my dread at facing certain classes doom me from the start, and being more creative and intentional in my lesson planning. I have been particularly successful in the first and last goals.
I feel like I am at a good place with my students right now. I have been here long enough now that I have gained their trust, and I feel like a majority of my students look forward to my classes. I have tried really hard to come up with lessons that will be fun, spark their interest, and inspire them to learn and use English. It is a very difficult process, especially when a lesson you have planned to use all week bombs in the first class and you have to improvise your way through it as well as quickly revise for the next class, as happened with a recent attempt to play Pictionary.
However, when a lesson goes well, you feel so accomplished, especially when your students use English and seem happy to be participating in class. For example, I invested in a bingo game recently because I realized in an earlier lesson about dates and times that my students didn't really know their numbers. I played a game with all my classes to reinforce the numbers, and they loved it, not only because there were candy prizes but because it was a way for them to test how much they understood when I spoke (the differences between, for example, sixteen and sixty is very difficult for them to hear). I was really excited because they would always ask me to repeat numbers, but I wouldn't answer them unless they asked me in English. By the end of class, they were all asking, "Miss, could you repeat that please?" and "Miss, did you say thirty-five?" It was so cute with their accents, and I was sort of stunned at how accomplished it felt to have us exchanging information in English only, even for something as inconsequential as a bingo game. If it seems like a small victory, all I can say is that it is a huge, huge accomplishment for me as a teacher and for my students as well. And I honestly think they were proud of themselves and excited to be communicating in English only. I wish every class was as successful as that one. Now, before I start some of my classes, the students start chanting "Bingo! Bingo!" which always cracks me up.
I have come to love certain students deeply and I know there are going to be small Chilean holes in my heart when I walk away from Liceo de Niñas. There is one particularly tall, goofy girl in one of my sophomore classes that is rarely on task, but she is so funny and loveable I cannot for the life of me toss her out of class. On the other hand, she is very sharp when she focuses, and is often one of the first students to understand a task and be brave enough to try it out or remember a phrase from a previous lesson. Another of my favorite students is one of those kids that needs constant attention, and she is constantly busy, yelling things out in class and getting up from her seat to look out the window and comment on the action. She enters my classroom three times a week and cheerfully yells, "Hello Miss! How are you?" and responds to my queries with equal merriment. There is another very sweet girl that, in that awkward way of teenagers that want to befriend their teachers, is always hovering around me, asking strange questions just for the opportunity to talk to me, and asking me for advice about her personal life. And there is another incredibly smart and precious sophomore that told me about a tough home situation that brought tears to my eyes. She lives with her grandmother, who apparently goes out of her way to discourage this student from seeking higher education and constantly tells her that she is an ugly, bad child. At these moments, I feel I am having a lasting impression here, and if even these four students remember anything I have taught them, about English or about life, all the struggle of teaching here will be worth it.
Of course, there are constant challenges that make me count the days I have left of teaching in Chile (61). It is amazing that teenage girls are the same everywhere in the world in key ways. Their haughtiness and disrespect mirror that of many of the girls I taught in AmeriCorps. Teenagers from lower economic classes are the same, too. They are listless and appear lazy, although I believe it is just because they do not have examples in their lives that hard work can pay off. They seem greedy, although I know it is only because when you are poor, you have to fight for everything you can get. For example, when I award winning teams candy, many of the girls beg for candy if they didn't win, or complain when I give them only one piece instead of two. I always smile at them and say, "Or, you could say 'Thank you Miss Tiffany for giving us candy today!'"
The girls that annoy me the most are the ones that pointedly ignore my activites and instead spend every moment I am not hounding them to work applying makeup or looking at magazines or text messaging. But they don't believe education will help them, and don't understand that it is up to them to put forth the effort to make it pay off. I do see their point; Liceo de Niñas is a poor, public school, and it is clear that my students do not have the same resources and opportunities as other schools. This was completely evident at our regional debate competition, where the teams we competed against were crisply attired and had folders and notecards emblazoned with school logos. My students looked shabby, with messy hair and unkempt clothing and papers or notecards that were wrinkled and stained. The contrast was clear to me, and I know some of my students noticed as well.
The way I deal with students that don't want to be in my classes is more passive than some of the other volunteers. I do not like tossing students out of class, especially since inevitably a power struggle ensues, and the last thing I want to do is get into some sort of power struggle with a snotty and stubborn teenage girl. As long as they are not being disruptive and distracting other students that would otherwise be paying attention, I let the students stay in class and waste their own time. At these moments, I feel all I can do is acknowledge that my job is to give them information and try to make English class interesting and fun; it is up to them to take what I give them and act on it. Especially with teenagers, it has to be their choice to do something with their education. Unfortunately, because of the barrier of language, I am rarely able to talk to students individually and discover their personal stories and tragedies, like I was able to do in AmeriCorps. What many of my students really need are social workers, like the foster child who moves from house to house and is constantly fighting with the family she stays with. Before I knew of her situation, I thought she was an incredibly rude young woman. I can only assume that many of my other most insolent students are in similar situations. Many in my toughest classes are very angry that they are poor, and thus feel they are entitled to handouts in any way, shape or form, be it grades, candy, or the chance to use their class time as they choose. I worry about these students most, even though they treat me horribly.
I had a telling moment in my most difficult class. I have to work hard to pump myself up before they enter my classroom because it is my last class on Wednesdays and Thursdays and very late in the day, so both the students and I are uninspired, tired, and irritable, and in general their behavior is worse than all the other classes I teach. I was excited to start class on this particular day, because I had a lesson that had worked well in other classes and that I thought would be particularly fun for this difficult group. However, many of the students (in this class and others) like to ignore me, and I believe they do not do it to be intentionally disrespectful. Other teachers in the school let them get away with this behavior as well. In this group of students, about four students tend to enter the classroom and almost every day turn their chairs around so their backs are to me and they can talk to their friends behind them. No matter if I am ready to start class, the message is clear: it is their time, not mine, and if they are not ready to work, they will not, despite my repeated entreaties of "Okay, class, let's get started," or, "Girls, can I please have your attention?" To be honest, it makes my blood boil and I would be lying to say I haven't fantasized about slapping the shit out of them. So, this particular day, I was doing everything possible to get their attention, talking to them, clapping, walking up to them and helping them turn their chairs around (they just turn their bodies around again anway), all to no avail. Finally, exasperated, I whistled at them. Well, that got their attention. One of the girls said, "Miss, we are not dogs," in Spanish, to which I responded in English, "Well, you are not particularly acting like human beings today." (I am sometimes grateful that they generally cannot understand a thing I say, because moments like this when I can vent my frustration through sarcasm does a lot to save lives in the classroom). In order to get my point across to them, I wrote the word "respect" on the board, since the Spanish translation is very similar (respecto) and I knew they would understand. Then another girl started lecturing me in Spanish about how I need to respect them. I nearly exploded...who is the adult in the classroom? So I just said, "Out!" and pointed to the door. She stormed off and spent the rest of class taking her frustration out in the hallway by pounding on the walls. I ignored her behavior and we ended up having a very productive class after. (The next day the girl apologized, and I explained to her--in Spanish so she would understand--that I was very sad because I had a fun activity and I had wanted her to participate in class.)
One of the problems I find here is that there is not a clear system of discipline. There are "inspectors" who are responsible for discipline, but often it seems they talk to the kids and then just send them back to class. There is no detention, and many students don't care if their parents are contacted (which generally they are not). Many of my students live in a boarding house on campus during the week because they live too far out in the surrounding countryside and making the hour or longer commute to school each day is not realistic. Thus, many students are without the influence of their family during the week. So, in genearl, there is nothing to threaten students with when they misbehave, and my only option is to throw them out of class, which I hate doing because it feels in some way like giving up on them.
Another issue that I feel exacerbates the problem is the issue of classroom ownership. In general, the space in the classroom seems to belong to the students, because they stay in the same room all day while the teachers rotate between rooms and come to them. Therefore, there is an entirely different attitude that tends to give much more power to the students than to the teachers. And the teachers, who are largely overworked and underpaid (they usually teach 45 hours a week, not including planning time, which means many teachers plan very little), rarely seem to have the energy to stand up to the students. And since almost all of them are products of this system, I am not exactly sure that they see much wrong with it. They complain about student behavior all the time, but seem sort of resigned to the reality. But for me, coming from an American system of education that, yes, has insolent, lazy, and poor students but from my experiences a far more orderly, fair and disciplined system, every day is incredibly challenging.
So yes, the last month of teaching has been going very well, but can I say that I enjoy teaching English in Chile? Sadly, no. I cannot wait for my work here to be over, which is mostly because of the terrible relationship I have with my coteacher (which I will post about soon). It is sad that every other aspect of my life in Chile has been incredible and the only complaint I have, the only moments where I feel like I am beaten, is in my professional life. I remember telling my friends and family before I left how excited I was to teach English, and how I thought I would be really good at it. I have grown remarkably as a teacher here, and am amazed sometimes at my creativity. It has been an incredible learning opportunity, and in terms of my patience and controlling my temper (two areas I know many people were hoping I would grow in!), I have made extraordinary personal progress, of which I am very proud. But, to be honest, I have had enough professional growth for now. The real challenge will be to keep up my current positive outlook and hang on to the feelings of success for the next three months. I hope I can do it with at least modest success.
I have been surprisingly pleased with my teaching in the last month. This change of heart is most likely attributed to the attitude adjustment I experienced as a result of our mid-service conference the first week of July in Santiago. Not only was it great to be reunited with the volunteers that live in Los Angeles, Chile and our program directors, but it gave me a focused time to reflect on my experiences here, both professional and personal, and set some goals for the short time I have left. It was really hard to reflect on what was not working, take personal responsibility, and ask myself, no matter the situation, what I can do to improve it. It was also nearly impossible to confront the reality of leaving here, a fact that is always in the back of my mind but physically hurts to consider seriously. However, I was able to set some clear goals, such as being braver about improving my Spanish, not letting my dread at facing certain classes doom me from the start, and being more creative and intentional in my lesson planning. I have been particularly successful in the first and last goals.
I feel like I am at a good place with my students right now. I have been here long enough now that I have gained their trust, and I feel like a majority of my students look forward to my classes. I have tried really hard to come up with lessons that will be fun, spark their interest, and inspire them to learn and use English. It is a very difficult process, especially when a lesson you have planned to use all week bombs in the first class and you have to improvise your way through it as well as quickly revise for the next class, as happened with a recent attempt to play Pictionary.
However, when a lesson goes well, you feel so accomplished, especially when your students use English and seem happy to be participating in class. For example, I invested in a bingo game recently because I realized in an earlier lesson about dates and times that my students didn't really know their numbers. I played a game with all my classes to reinforce the numbers, and they loved it, not only because there were candy prizes but because it was a way for them to test how much they understood when I spoke (the differences between, for example, sixteen and sixty is very difficult for them to hear). I was really excited because they would always ask me to repeat numbers, but I wouldn't answer them unless they asked me in English. By the end of class, they were all asking, "Miss, could you repeat that please?" and "Miss, did you say thirty-five?" It was so cute with their accents, and I was sort of stunned at how accomplished it felt to have us exchanging information in English only, even for something as inconsequential as a bingo game. If it seems like a small victory, all I can say is that it is a huge, huge accomplishment for me as a teacher and for my students as well. And I honestly think they were proud of themselves and excited to be communicating in English only. I wish every class was as successful as that one. Now, before I start some of my classes, the students start chanting "Bingo! Bingo!" which always cracks me up.
I have come to love certain students deeply and I know there are going to be small Chilean holes in my heart when I walk away from Liceo de Niñas. There is one particularly tall, goofy girl in one of my sophomore classes that is rarely on task, but she is so funny and loveable I cannot for the life of me toss her out of class. On the other hand, she is very sharp when she focuses, and is often one of the first students to understand a task and be brave enough to try it out or remember a phrase from a previous lesson. Another of my favorite students is one of those kids that needs constant attention, and she is constantly busy, yelling things out in class and getting up from her seat to look out the window and comment on the action. She enters my classroom three times a week and cheerfully yells, "Hello Miss! How are you?" and responds to my queries with equal merriment. There is another very sweet girl that, in that awkward way of teenagers that want to befriend their teachers, is always hovering around me, asking strange questions just for the opportunity to talk to me, and asking me for advice about her personal life. And there is another incredibly smart and precious sophomore that told me about a tough home situation that brought tears to my eyes. She lives with her grandmother, who apparently goes out of her way to discourage this student from seeking higher education and constantly tells her that she is an ugly, bad child. At these moments, I feel I am having a lasting impression here, and if even these four students remember anything I have taught them, about English or about life, all the struggle of teaching here will be worth it.
Of course, there are constant challenges that make me count the days I have left of teaching in Chile (61). It is amazing that teenage girls are the same everywhere in the world in key ways. Their haughtiness and disrespect mirror that of many of the girls I taught in AmeriCorps. Teenagers from lower economic classes are the same, too. They are listless and appear lazy, although I believe it is just because they do not have examples in their lives that hard work can pay off. They seem greedy, although I know it is only because when you are poor, you have to fight for everything you can get. For example, when I award winning teams candy, many of the girls beg for candy if they didn't win, or complain when I give them only one piece instead of two. I always smile at them and say, "Or, you could say 'Thank you Miss Tiffany for giving us candy today!'"
The girls that annoy me the most are the ones that pointedly ignore my activites and instead spend every moment I am not hounding them to work applying makeup or looking at magazines or text messaging. But they don't believe education will help them, and don't understand that it is up to them to put forth the effort to make it pay off. I do see their point; Liceo de Niñas is a poor, public school, and it is clear that my students do not have the same resources and opportunities as other schools. This was completely evident at our regional debate competition, where the teams we competed against were crisply attired and had folders and notecards emblazoned with school logos. My students looked shabby, with messy hair and unkempt clothing and papers or notecards that were wrinkled and stained. The contrast was clear to me, and I know some of my students noticed as well.
The way I deal with students that don't want to be in my classes is more passive than some of the other volunteers. I do not like tossing students out of class, especially since inevitably a power struggle ensues, and the last thing I want to do is get into some sort of power struggle with a snotty and stubborn teenage girl. As long as they are not being disruptive and distracting other students that would otherwise be paying attention, I let the students stay in class and waste their own time. At these moments, I feel all I can do is acknowledge that my job is to give them information and try to make English class interesting and fun; it is up to them to take what I give them and act on it. Especially with teenagers, it has to be their choice to do something with their education. Unfortunately, because of the barrier of language, I am rarely able to talk to students individually and discover their personal stories and tragedies, like I was able to do in AmeriCorps. What many of my students really need are social workers, like the foster child who moves from house to house and is constantly fighting with the family she stays with. Before I knew of her situation, I thought she was an incredibly rude young woman. I can only assume that many of my other most insolent students are in similar situations. Many in my toughest classes are very angry that they are poor, and thus feel they are entitled to handouts in any way, shape or form, be it grades, candy, or the chance to use their class time as they choose. I worry about these students most, even though they treat me horribly.
I had a telling moment in my most difficult class. I have to work hard to pump myself up before they enter my classroom because it is my last class on Wednesdays and Thursdays and very late in the day, so both the students and I are uninspired, tired, and irritable, and in general their behavior is worse than all the other classes I teach. I was excited to start class on this particular day, because I had a lesson that had worked well in other classes and that I thought would be particularly fun for this difficult group. However, many of the students (in this class and others) like to ignore me, and I believe they do not do it to be intentionally disrespectful. Other teachers in the school let them get away with this behavior as well. In this group of students, about four students tend to enter the classroom and almost every day turn their chairs around so their backs are to me and they can talk to their friends behind them. No matter if I am ready to start class, the message is clear: it is their time, not mine, and if they are not ready to work, they will not, despite my repeated entreaties of "Okay, class, let's get started," or, "Girls, can I please have your attention?" To be honest, it makes my blood boil and I would be lying to say I haven't fantasized about slapping the shit out of them. So, this particular day, I was doing everything possible to get their attention, talking to them, clapping, walking up to them and helping them turn their chairs around (they just turn their bodies around again anway), all to no avail. Finally, exasperated, I whistled at them. Well, that got their attention. One of the girls said, "Miss, we are not dogs," in Spanish, to which I responded in English, "Well, you are not particularly acting like human beings today." (I am sometimes grateful that they generally cannot understand a thing I say, because moments like this when I can vent my frustration through sarcasm does a lot to save lives in the classroom). In order to get my point across to them, I wrote the word "respect" on the board, since the Spanish translation is very similar (respecto) and I knew they would understand. Then another girl started lecturing me in Spanish about how I need to respect them. I nearly exploded...who is the adult in the classroom? So I just said, "Out!" and pointed to the door. She stormed off and spent the rest of class taking her frustration out in the hallway by pounding on the walls. I ignored her behavior and we ended up having a very productive class after. (The next day the girl apologized, and I explained to her--in Spanish so she would understand--that I was very sad because I had a fun activity and I had wanted her to participate in class.)
One of the problems I find here is that there is not a clear system of discipline. There are "inspectors" who are responsible for discipline, but often it seems they talk to the kids and then just send them back to class. There is no detention, and many students don't care if their parents are contacted (which generally they are not). Many of my students live in a boarding house on campus during the week because they live too far out in the surrounding countryside and making the hour or longer commute to school each day is not realistic. Thus, many students are without the influence of their family during the week. So, in genearl, there is nothing to threaten students with when they misbehave, and my only option is to throw them out of class, which I hate doing because it feels in some way like giving up on them.
Another issue that I feel exacerbates the problem is the issue of classroom ownership. In general, the space in the classroom seems to belong to the students, because they stay in the same room all day while the teachers rotate between rooms and come to them. Therefore, there is an entirely different attitude that tends to give much more power to the students than to the teachers. And the teachers, who are largely overworked and underpaid (they usually teach 45 hours a week, not including planning time, which means many teachers plan very little), rarely seem to have the energy to stand up to the students. And since almost all of them are products of this system, I am not exactly sure that they see much wrong with it. They complain about student behavior all the time, but seem sort of resigned to the reality. But for me, coming from an American system of education that, yes, has insolent, lazy, and poor students but from my experiences a far more orderly, fair and disciplined system, every day is incredibly challenging.
So yes, the last month of teaching has been going very well, but can I say that I enjoy teaching English in Chile? Sadly, no. I cannot wait for my work here to be over, which is mostly because of the terrible relationship I have with my coteacher (which I will post about soon). It is sad that every other aspect of my life in Chile has been incredible and the only complaint I have, the only moments where I feel like I am beaten, is in my professional life. I remember telling my friends and family before I left how excited I was to teach English, and how I thought I would be really good at it. I have grown remarkably as a teacher here, and am amazed sometimes at my creativity. It has been an incredible learning opportunity, and in terms of my patience and controlling my temper (two areas I know many people were hoping I would grow in!), I have made extraordinary personal progress, of which I am very proud. But, to be honest, I have had enough professional growth for now. The real challenge will be to keep up my current positive outlook and hang on to the feelings of success for the next three months. I hope I can do it with at least modest success.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Valdivia restored my soul.
Visitng Valdivia felt a lot like going home for a weekend. It all seemed very familiar: the foreboding clouds that unleashed brief but devastating downpours, the verdant islands and hills, the abundance of bodies of water (lakes, rivers, the sea) and the attendant seafaring craft, even the hipster-filled cafes.
I arrived in Valdivia at 4:30 a.m. on Friday in the midst of an utter downpour, and was grateful to my hostel owner for hopping out of bed to let me into my room earlier than expected. After sleeping until 9, I wandered around town. The weather cleared up, and I was able to fully appreciate many of the sights before another mid-afternoon deluge chased me back into bed. Valdivia is located on a bend of the Calle Calle River, and due to rampant German settlement in Chile's history, is awash with German-influenced architecture and culture. There is a buzzing little fish and produce market on the riverbank, where sea lions beg for fish scraps like dogs! The male sea lions resemble old men, with their white whiskers, weathered faces, scarred bodies and volatile temperaments. They also make the most alarming sounds when upset. I watched them for a long time, then walked along the river and back. Crossing the Pedro de Valdivia bridge to Isla Teja, a river island, I hit Parque Saval, where I enjoyed the isolation and increasingly grey weather. The entire morning and all the walking I did was invigorating, but my tummy led me back to town for food.
Valdivia as seen from the Puente Pedro de Valdivia.
Sea lions begging at the market.
Lazy!
A view on my walk to Parque Saval.
Parque Saval, where I enjoyed a brisk walk through the varied foliage, lagoons, and a rusty, abandoned playground.
On the way back from the park, I stopped at the market and bought some smoked salmon and produce for lunch. After a long nap at the hostel, where I tried to fight off a headache, I headed out to La Ultima Frontera cafe, where I consumed falafel, green tea, and a half-liter of beer as I read the paper (in Spanish!) and chatted with my waiter. The place was exactly like something you would find in Seattle--contained in a brightly painted house, the walls covered with the paintings and photography of local artists, crazy mobiles hanging askew from the ceiling, and dirty looking subversives with black-rimmed glasses and unkempt hair. Obvio, I loved it!
Saturday brought my favorite kind of weather--bright blue skies, crisp, clean and cold air--the kind of day that feels distinctly autumnal, where you can roam around without getting hot and cranky. I started out my day with a brisk 20 minute walk, across the bridge to the steps of the Museo Historico y Arqueologico.
Housed in a riverside mansion, the first floor was filled with antique furniture, books, paintings, and decorative trinkets. One wall that particularly interested me was filled with early photographs of Valdivia and the extensive family trees of several German immigrant families that populated the area. The staircases were lined with old, brightly illusrated maps, some as old as the seventeenth century, of the South American continent, Chile, the Carribbean, and even specifically Valdivia. They were colorful and interesting, and took me back to my map-studying days in Dr. Earenfight's Spain in the Age of Expansion class. I love imagining the days of exploration, of confronting the unknown, when explorers really struggled to survive. Sometimes I feel like I am missing out on something key to our existence in never having struggled like that.
Upstairs was perhaps my favorite part of the museum, with its exhibits on the Mapuche. The Mapuche were a group of people, also known as the Araucanias, who originally inhabited Southern Chile. They were so fierce and committed to their freedom that they were never conquered by the Inka Empire, faced down 300 years of the conquistadors and the attendant violence and pillaging, and finally today still skirmish with the Chilean state in a search for reparations for the ancestral lands taken from them. I met a man in San Pedro that called the Mapuche a "very difficult people," which I let go though I found the comment offensive. I am obsessed with Mapuche jewelry, and am looking for some silver reproductions to take home. The museum had extensive displays of Mapuche jewelry, as well as photos of it being worn. The Mapuche photography on display was really interesting, and definitely gave me a sense of their pride, grace, and composure. I would like to learn more about this group of people that carried out the longest and hardest fought indigenous struggle in the Americas.
Museo Historico y Arqueologico.
The only picture inside the museum that turned out, since I couldn't use my flash.
The view of the city from the steps of the museum.
I left the museum and caught a micro (bus) to the town of Niebla, also on Isla Teja. I spent some time exploring the Fuerte Niebla, a fort overlooking the mouth of the Rio Calle Calle as it opens on the Pacific. The best part of the fort was the museum inside one of the buildings, where giant wall panels explained the role of historical figures and the site in the conquest of Chile and the battle for independence from Spain, as well as put the area in context of the greater conquest of the Americas. I think I was so thrilled with this exhibit because it mentioned multiple historical figures that I had recently read about in a fictionalized account of the life of Pedro de Valdivia by Isabel Allende (Ines of my Soul). There was no mention of Ines by name, but one panel displayed a quotation praising Valdivia's character, which was marred by two flaws: his hatred of the nobility and his living with a woman he was not married to. I had to ask a fellow museum-goer to clarify this second piece of information for me, since the panels were in Spanish and the vocabulary unfamiliar, but I thought it referrred to Ines and I was right. It was a shame that the only mention of her in the museum was as a stain on Valdivia's reputable character. Women are always blamed for men's whoring around.
Cannons at Fuerte Niebla, circa 1645.
Umm am I in Washington?
Looking down at the fort grounds, where the awesome museum was housed.
After poking around the fort's grounds, I walked about 15 minutes back to the town of Niebla and hopped on a cute little boat to the island you can see pictured above behind the fort. The island or the town (I could never figure out which) is called Corral, and there was another fort over there that I ended up being really happy I visited, since it felt much more like what I expected the remains of a fort to feel like. Everything was crumbling and going to pot, and in the midst of all the ruin, little flowers and ivy and other greenery was growing out of the cracks. I love the images of time exacting its toll on a structure as stalwart as a fort. It withstood battles with Spaniards, but the ivy is going to do it in. I wandered around in isolation for about an hour, enjoying the heavy weight of history on my heart. Also, can I please mention that the structures of the town are built right up to the edge of the fort grounds? Growing up, my backyard had a swing set and a sand box, not a freakin' fort! After I barely got over that fact, I got back on a boat to Niebla, and despite the wind chill, stayed out on the deck for the duration--about a half hour.
I was really proud of myself for the completion of my Saturday outing, since I had managed to avoid paying thirty-some dollars for a boat tour to the sites, which would have been far more convenient. But for roughly six dollars in transportation costs, I got to see the whole spread at my own pace, complete with feelings of independence and self-satisfaction. I'll pay six bucks for that any day! I celebrated by hopping off the colectivo a few kilometers from town and visiting the Kunstmann beer factory. Chile has pretty crappy beer, but its one saving grace is Kunstmann, a German beer that is proof of the influence of German settlement in the South. I drank the amber Toro Bayo and ate crudo, a strange German delicacy of raw beef "cooked" in lemon juice. Unfortunately, it still had the consistency of raw beef, and while I love raw fish and even the near-raw pile of beef Bethie and I get for Ethiopian food, the texture sort of weirded me out. But I will try anything once!
A view on my walk from the fort to the boat launch.
The little settlement on Corral where my boat landed.
The grounds at Castillo de Corral.
These gun banks are from 1764-1767.
On the boat from Corral to Niebla, for Mom and Dad. It is the only picture of me on this trip, because if there is one thing I hate, it is hassling people to take my picture when I am traveling alone.
After a failed attempt at a nap, I cobbled together a dinner in the hostel, where I fell into conversation with a character from New Zealand. Minutes into our conversation, I discovered he is a new volunteer with the Ministry and has lived in Osorno for about two weeks. He had a lot of questions and concerns, and it was really fun to talk to him with a bit of authority as a volunteer with some experience behind her! I ended up inviting him out to La Ultima Frontera where we split a bottle of wine and had a chat. He, like just about everyone I meet, knows a lot about American politics. He thinks 9-11 was a government conspiracy and that our two-party system is crap. I learned that New Zealand has a female prime minister and was the first country in the world to award women the right to vote. I had never met a New Zealander before! I asked him his opinion on Americans, American culture, all of it, and he said that he loves a lot of things about our culture, and that because it is a culture of excess and power, it has a wealth of innovation in art and music, but that our government is seriously screwed up and that Americans in general don't seem to care much about the rest of the world or what our policies do to it, and that most of us seem content to live in blissful ignorance. This is one reason why I love to travel...the exchange of ideas and learning about other people's points of view and ways of life.
Another reason I love to travel can be summed up by Carmela Soprano when she visits Paris in season six of The Sopranos. I can't remember the exact quote, but she says something like, "The amazing thing about traveling is it makes places real to you. It's like none of this ever existed until we came here and saw it." That is exactly how I feel when I visit a new place, as if it failed to exist until I became a witness to its existence, which will now endure forever as a part of me. Now, Valdivia, and the other parts of Chile I have seen, are real, whereas before, they existed for me only theoretically.
Another thought: Learning Spanish is the best decision I have ever made. The world just got twice as big for me.
I spent Sunday in relative isolation, indulging in a decadent hot chocolate (Valdivia is known for its chocolate--again, thank you, German settlement!), wandering the city and walking along the river, devouring sea bass, and seeing a movie. This weekend was exactly what I needed. We have family staying with us in Chillan right now, and it is next to impossible to find a moment to myself, especially in the midst of a curious ten year old Chilean raised in America and his friendly grandmother. Every so often, I get the feeling that part of my soul is dying, which sounds dramatic but there is no other way I can explain it. At these moments, I know I need to retreat from the people I know and love and my daily routines and just be by myself, think things over, try something new, and most importantly, not interact with people who know me. That way, I don't have to voice what is on my mind or feel pressured to focus on other people's problems, which sounds selfish but I can assure you it is quite healthy. Plus, there is something so rewarding about striking out on my own, and knowing that I can survive, find my way around a new place, find food, make acquaintances using another language. At these moments, I am reminded that my most valuable possession is my independence. So thank you, Valdivia. I needed that.
Some cool church, right across the street from my favorite Valdivian pub, probably so you can close down the bar and walk across the street to atone for the night's sins, all in one fluid motion.
Valdivia is the first city I have visited that just has, like, parts of castles lying around town. It is a new phenomenon for me; I guess I need to go to Europe. This is the Turreon de los Canelos, from the 17th century. Yep. Right in the middle of power lines and cars. A freaking turret!
I arrived in Valdivia at 4:30 a.m. on Friday in the midst of an utter downpour, and was grateful to my hostel owner for hopping out of bed to let me into my room earlier than expected. After sleeping until 9, I wandered around town. The weather cleared up, and I was able to fully appreciate many of the sights before another mid-afternoon deluge chased me back into bed. Valdivia is located on a bend of the Calle Calle River, and due to rampant German settlement in Chile's history, is awash with German-influenced architecture and culture. There is a buzzing little fish and produce market on the riverbank, where sea lions beg for fish scraps like dogs! The male sea lions resemble old men, with their white whiskers, weathered faces, scarred bodies and volatile temperaments. They also make the most alarming sounds when upset. I watched them for a long time, then walked along the river and back. Crossing the Pedro de Valdivia bridge to Isla Teja, a river island, I hit Parque Saval, where I enjoyed the isolation and increasingly grey weather. The entire morning and all the walking I did was invigorating, but my tummy led me back to town for food.
Valdivia as seen from the Puente Pedro de Valdivia.
Sea lions begging at the market. 
Lazy!
A view on my walk to Parque Saval. 
Parque Saval, where I enjoyed a brisk walk through the varied foliage, lagoons, and a rusty, abandoned playground. 
On the way back from the park, I stopped at the market and bought some smoked salmon and produce for lunch. After a long nap at the hostel, where I tried to fight off a headache, I headed out to La Ultima Frontera cafe, where I consumed falafel, green tea, and a half-liter of beer as I read the paper (in Spanish!) and chatted with my waiter. The place was exactly like something you would find in Seattle--contained in a brightly painted house, the walls covered with the paintings and photography of local artists, crazy mobiles hanging askew from the ceiling, and dirty looking subversives with black-rimmed glasses and unkempt hair. Obvio, I loved it!Saturday brought my favorite kind of weather--bright blue skies, crisp, clean and cold air--the kind of day that feels distinctly autumnal, where you can roam around without getting hot and cranky. I started out my day with a brisk 20 minute walk, across the bridge to the steps of the Museo Historico y Arqueologico.
Housed in a riverside mansion, the first floor was filled with antique furniture, books, paintings, and decorative trinkets. One wall that particularly interested me was filled with early photographs of Valdivia and the extensive family trees of several German immigrant families that populated the area. The staircases were lined with old, brightly illusrated maps, some as old as the seventeenth century, of the South American continent, Chile, the Carribbean, and even specifically Valdivia. They were colorful and interesting, and took me back to my map-studying days in Dr. Earenfight's Spain in the Age of Expansion class. I love imagining the days of exploration, of confronting the unknown, when explorers really struggled to survive. Sometimes I feel like I am missing out on something key to our existence in never having struggled like that.
Upstairs was perhaps my favorite part of the museum, with its exhibits on the Mapuche. The Mapuche were a group of people, also known as the Araucanias, who originally inhabited Southern Chile. They were so fierce and committed to their freedom that they were never conquered by the Inka Empire, faced down 300 years of the conquistadors and the attendant violence and pillaging, and finally today still skirmish with the Chilean state in a search for reparations for the ancestral lands taken from them. I met a man in San Pedro that called the Mapuche a "very difficult people," which I let go though I found the comment offensive. I am obsessed with Mapuche jewelry, and am looking for some silver reproductions to take home. The museum had extensive displays of Mapuche jewelry, as well as photos of it being worn. The Mapuche photography on display was really interesting, and definitely gave me a sense of their pride, grace, and composure. I would like to learn more about this group of people that carried out the longest and hardest fought indigenous struggle in the Americas.
Museo Historico y Arqueologico.
The only picture inside the museum that turned out, since I couldn't use my flash. 
The view of the city from the steps of the museum. 
I left the museum and caught a micro (bus) to the town of Niebla, also on Isla Teja. I spent some time exploring the Fuerte Niebla, a fort overlooking the mouth of the Rio Calle Calle as it opens on the Pacific. The best part of the fort was the museum inside one of the buildings, where giant wall panels explained the role of historical figures and the site in the conquest of Chile and the battle for independence from Spain, as well as put the area in context of the greater conquest of the Americas. I think I was so thrilled with this exhibit because it mentioned multiple historical figures that I had recently read about in a fictionalized account of the life of Pedro de Valdivia by Isabel Allende (Ines of my Soul). There was no mention of Ines by name, but one panel displayed a quotation praising Valdivia's character, which was marred by two flaws: his hatred of the nobility and his living with a woman he was not married to. I had to ask a fellow museum-goer to clarify this second piece of information for me, since the panels were in Spanish and the vocabulary unfamiliar, but I thought it referrred to Ines and I was right. It was a shame that the only mention of her in the museum was as a stain on Valdivia's reputable character. Women are always blamed for men's whoring around. Cannons at Fuerte Niebla, circa 1645.
Umm am I in Washington? 
Looking down at the fort grounds, where the awesome museum was housed. 
After poking around the fort's grounds, I walked about 15 minutes back to the town of Niebla and hopped on a cute little boat to the island you can see pictured above behind the fort. The island or the town (I could never figure out which) is called Corral, and there was another fort over there that I ended up being really happy I visited, since it felt much more like what I expected the remains of a fort to feel like. Everything was crumbling and going to pot, and in the midst of all the ruin, little flowers and ivy and other greenery was growing out of the cracks. I love the images of time exacting its toll on a structure as stalwart as a fort. It withstood battles with Spaniards, but the ivy is going to do it in. I wandered around in isolation for about an hour, enjoying the heavy weight of history on my heart. Also, can I please mention that the structures of the town are built right up to the edge of the fort grounds? Growing up, my backyard had a swing set and a sand box, not a freakin' fort! After I barely got over that fact, I got back on a boat to Niebla, and despite the wind chill, stayed out on the deck for the duration--about a half hour.I was really proud of myself for the completion of my Saturday outing, since I had managed to avoid paying thirty-some dollars for a boat tour to the sites, which would have been far more convenient. But for roughly six dollars in transportation costs, I got to see the whole spread at my own pace, complete with feelings of independence and self-satisfaction. I'll pay six bucks for that any day! I celebrated by hopping off the colectivo a few kilometers from town and visiting the Kunstmann beer factory. Chile has pretty crappy beer, but its one saving grace is Kunstmann, a German beer that is proof of the influence of German settlement in the South. I drank the amber Toro Bayo and ate crudo, a strange German delicacy of raw beef "cooked" in lemon juice. Unfortunately, it still had the consistency of raw beef, and while I love raw fish and even the near-raw pile of beef Bethie and I get for Ethiopian food, the texture sort of weirded me out. But I will try anything once!
A view on my walk from the fort to the boat launch.
The little settlement on Corral where my boat landed. 
The grounds at Castillo de Corral.
These gun banks are from 1764-1767. 
On the boat from Corral to Niebla, for Mom and Dad. It is the only picture of me on this trip, because if there is one thing I hate, it is hassling people to take my picture when I am traveling alone. 
After a failed attempt at a nap, I cobbled together a dinner in the hostel, where I fell into conversation with a character from New Zealand. Minutes into our conversation, I discovered he is a new volunteer with the Ministry and has lived in Osorno for about two weeks. He had a lot of questions and concerns, and it was really fun to talk to him with a bit of authority as a volunteer with some experience behind her! I ended up inviting him out to La Ultima Frontera where we split a bottle of wine and had a chat. He, like just about everyone I meet, knows a lot about American politics. He thinks 9-11 was a government conspiracy and that our two-party system is crap. I learned that New Zealand has a female prime minister and was the first country in the world to award women the right to vote. I had never met a New Zealander before! I asked him his opinion on Americans, American culture, all of it, and he said that he loves a lot of things about our culture, and that because it is a culture of excess and power, it has a wealth of innovation in art and music, but that our government is seriously screwed up and that Americans in general don't seem to care much about the rest of the world or what our policies do to it, and that most of us seem content to live in blissful ignorance. This is one reason why I love to travel...the exchange of ideas and learning about other people's points of view and ways of life.
Another reason I love to travel can be summed up by Carmela Soprano when she visits Paris in season six of The Sopranos. I can't remember the exact quote, but she says something like, "The amazing thing about traveling is it makes places real to you. It's like none of this ever existed until we came here and saw it." That is exactly how I feel when I visit a new place, as if it failed to exist until I became a witness to its existence, which will now endure forever as a part of me. Now, Valdivia, and the other parts of Chile I have seen, are real, whereas before, they existed for me only theoretically.
Another thought: Learning Spanish is the best decision I have ever made. The world just got twice as big for me.
I spent Sunday in relative isolation, indulging in a decadent hot chocolate (Valdivia is known for its chocolate--again, thank you, German settlement!), wandering the city and walking along the river, devouring sea bass, and seeing a movie. This weekend was exactly what I needed. We have family staying with us in Chillan right now, and it is next to impossible to find a moment to myself, especially in the midst of a curious ten year old Chilean raised in America and his friendly grandmother. Every so often, I get the feeling that part of my soul is dying, which sounds dramatic but there is no other way I can explain it. At these moments, I know I need to retreat from the people I know and love and my daily routines and just be by myself, think things over, try something new, and most importantly, not interact with people who know me. That way, I don't have to voice what is on my mind or feel pressured to focus on other people's problems, which sounds selfish but I can assure you it is quite healthy. Plus, there is something so rewarding about striking out on my own, and knowing that I can survive, find my way around a new place, find food, make acquaintances using another language. At these moments, I am reminded that my most valuable possession is my independence. So thank you, Valdivia. I needed that.
Some cool church, right across the street from my favorite Valdivian pub, probably so you can close down the bar and walk across the street to atone for the night's sins, all in one fluid motion.
Valdivia is the first city I have visited that just has, like, parts of castles lying around town. It is a new phenomenon for me; I guess I need to go to Europe. This is the Turreon de los Canelos, from the 17th century. Yep. Right in the middle of power lines and cars. A freaking turret!
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Unsettled
I feel the need to post, although I realize as I write this that I don't actually feel like sharing the things I feel compelled to talk about.
So, I will commence with a short list of things that are bothering me:
1. being far away during a family health crisis
2. a series of bad decisions I made last Friday
3. a lingering cough
4. high blood sugars
5. a terse exchange with my coteacher
6. the debate tournament, for which I am the school coach
7. yesterday's junk food binge
The last couple weeks have been really hard for me, actually. I have started to miss home, which I think has been an odd sort of relief, because I was wondering if I ever really would miss home. I tell people I miss home all the time, but it was more out of habit or that I thought they needed to hear it. But now, it is official.
On the other hand, I have been really proud of my Spanish recently. I am feeling a lot more fluid in conversation, something else that I was starting to doubt would ever happen. Tonight I participated in a lengthy conversation at onces, and yesterday Felipe and I talked about Latin American politics, and for the first time I felt like I shared a little something about myself with him. Also, Felipe said he would help me download and burn all the episodes of my favorite Chilean telenovela, Don Amor, so I can watch in when I get back to the US. It's really, really good, but I fail to watch it every night. However, I can't lie. I do miss American television.
Also, to end on a good note, I bought a ticket to Valdivia for next weekend. We have a federal holiday on Friday, so for the three day weekend, I have decided on some alone time in a new place. Not to wallow, though. Valdivia is supposed to be the most beautiful city in the Lakes District, and as I am currently reading Isabel Allende's Inez of my Soul, a historical fiction about the life of Pedro de Valdivia and his lover, it seemed appropriate. It will probably rain in Valdivia. I like that.
So, I will commence with a short list of things that are bothering me:
1. being far away during a family health crisis
2. a series of bad decisions I made last Friday
3. a lingering cough
4. high blood sugars
5. a terse exchange with my coteacher
6. the debate tournament, for which I am the school coach
7. yesterday's junk food binge
The last couple weeks have been really hard for me, actually. I have started to miss home, which I think has been an odd sort of relief, because I was wondering if I ever really would miss home. I tell people I miss home all the time, but it was more out of habit or that I thought they needed to hear it. But now, it is official.
On the other hand, I have been really proud of my Spanish recently. I am feeling a lot more fluid in conversation, something else that I was starting to doubt would ever happen. Tonight I participated in a lengthy conversation at onces, and yesterday Felipe and I talked about Latin American politics, and for the first time I felt like I shared a little something about myself with him. Also, Felipe said he would help me download and burn all the episodes of my favorite Chilean telenovela, Don Amor, so I can watch in when I get back to the US. It's really, really good, but I fail to watch it every night. However, I can't lie. I do miss American television.
Also, to end on a good note, I bought a ticket to Valdivia for next weekend. We have a federal holiday on Friday, so for the three day weekend, I have decided on some alone time in a new place. Not to wallow, though. Valdivia is supposed to be the most beautiful city in the Lakes District, and as I am currently reading Isabel Allende's Inez of my Soul, a historical fiction about the life of Pedro de Valdivia and his lover, it seemed appropriate. It will probably rain in Valdivia. I like that.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Socks, sweaters and scarves
So, if you have any sense at all, you may have noticed that I have been blowing up my blog all week, and are beginning to wonder if I ever have to work in this country. By now, my blog should have given you the overall impression that no, I don't work that much in Chile. However, this week my lack of attendance is related to my health. Let me explain.
A few days before I left for vacay, my throat started to hurt, but I tried to shake it off as an allergic reation to the mold that is growing on the walls of my bedroom. (Yes, it is true, sad times. My walls are made of concrete, and they manage to hold Chillan's abundant moisture better than a sponge.) However, my sore throat followed me north, but I refused to give up a day of my carefully planned vacation to sit in a clinic. However, after a week or so on the road, things cleared up nicely, which I attributed to the dry climate I then found myself in.
When I came back to Chillan last weekend, all was well. I went to work on Monday (and had a fabulous day of teaching, by the way), and afterwards it was sunny out so I went for an hour-long walk around the city. As night set in, though, my old ache was back, along with some new ones. My joints were achy in the way they are before the flu hits. And I was dead tired. I thought maybe my vacation was just catching up with me, that I was sore from hauling a giant backpack around for two weeks, who knows why. I declined plans with Stacey around 8 and went to bed early. However, my sleep was haunted by nightmares of my throat closing as I steadily breathed in the mold on my walls, so my sleep was fitfull at best.
The next day I got up with great difficulty, showered, and tried to eat. My eyes teared up as I tried to swallow my bread, so I decided to skip breakfast and just go to work. I usually enjoy the brisk walk to work, but after I had more or less wandered a block and a half away from my house I realized it was not going to happen. I called in sick to my host teacher, tried to figure out where the nearest hospital was, and by 10 a.m. I was at the reception desk at Clinica Chillan.
I had a moment of panic and utter loneliness as I teared up at the reception desk, trying to spit out the sentence, "I feel like my throat is closing," which sounded dramatic, but I wanted to make sure they saw me right away. I apparently had nothing to worry about because I was like the only patient in there. I met with a doctor, who examined me, asked me some questions (I told her about the mold), and then informed me I have bronchitis. Apparently, the draining of my sinuses caused by an allergic reation (hello, mold!) got infected somewhere south of my nose. The cure, by the way, is penicillin, but in the form of a giant shot to the ass, which I had heard horror stories about from two other volunteers that had already been through this mess. I tried to assure myself, thinking, hello, I am diabetic, you can't scare me with a shot! It did hurt, I am not going to lie, but it was not as bad as the time I had to get a numbing shot in my toe so I could get a wound scrubbed out.
Since then, I have had a glimpse of old age, since I am taking like 20 pills a day. My first two days of being sick were terrible. Bronchitis, which I can't ever remember having, hurts like a bitch! But by Thursday, I was feeling better and more than a little full of it. Being shut up in the house has started to wear on my spirit, and as accomodating, helpful, and caring as my host mama and our housekeeper have been, I miss my mommy! When I am sick, my mom is the master of setting up a bedside table filled with various liquids, complete with straws. The best thing about my mom is that she has the good sense to get me all set up and then get the hell out of there and let me sleep! This is not the case in Chile. While I am not necessarily hassled by my family, our housekeeper has these little habits that only annoy me when I spend way too much time in the house (during illness or paro, for example). First of all, in the morning, she stands outside my room and whistles. It's not even a whistle, really, because there is no tone but she definitely blows air in a highly annoying fashion. And she must have the lung capacity of a whale because it is loud! And then, she will stand at the window outside my bedroom door and talk to or yell at our dog! I am like, hello! It's 8 a.m., I am sick and I am trying to sleep! Can I get a little peace and quiet please!
This is all somehow less annoying, though, than the conventional wisdom she impresses on me, which I find totally inappropriate for my situation. For instance, I was trying to tell her and my host mama that I am allergic to the mold in my room, which is what caused the bronchitis, so can we please find a way to clean it? (I only asked for help because I need to borrow the portable heater to dry the walls, otherwise I would have just done it myself.) Then they launch into some tangent about how the heaters on buses spread infections and make people stuffed up, and that's probably where I got the infection since I was on so many buses over vacation. They completely ignored my comments about the mold, and if I had more energy and wasn't feeling like garbage, I probably would have exploded. Every day of my illness, by the way, Zuni has been hounding me to dress warmly. Every time I am not feeling well, she believes it is because sometimes I don't like to wear socks in the house. (This, by the way, is because I have sweaty feet and if they are always in socks, I get athlete's foot. I know, gross!) One day, I came out of my bedroom in the middle of a nap to go to the bathroom without anything of my feet and she literally reeled back, clutching her breast, and gasped. Because I had just woken up and was crabby, I ignored the whole incident. But then the other day, I was wearing a t-shirt in the house without a sweater and she commented again about how I would never get better without a sweater on. I told her I was too hot (because I was, for once!) and that I would put on a sweater when I got cold. She just shook her head at me, like, crazy American girl! The most hilarious moment, though, was when she told me I should be wearing a scarf at all times to protect my throat from the cold. I wanted to scream, "It is an infection! There are bacteria in my body! It has nothing to do with whether or not I am wearing a scarf!"
I don't want to make it sound like, "Wah wah, I have people that care about me, and they want to help, and I hate it." This is just one instance in which it is trying to be 25 years old and living with a family that does everything for you. I love them and all their quirks. When I am sick, though, I want to be left the hell alone, not constantly hassled about my sartorial choices.
On the other hand, my current situation has only increased my love for Felipe. First of all, he fixed my ipod! I don't know what he did because he doesn't even have itunes, but he plugged it into his computer and it sprang back to life! He came home yesterday and I told him I was going crazy because I had been in the house for three whole days with Zuni and his mother, and he just laughed and said, "I understand you." Which I appreciated. Also, I informed him of the mold situation and my attendant allergies, and he came in, wiped the mold away with an old rag, and said that tomorrow we will bring the heater in and rearrange the room so the walls will dry. I told him everything in my life is better when he is around, and I meant it. I mean, he fixed my ipod!
Actually, this whole episode of getting sick and getting it handled made me kind of pleased with my Spanish. I was able to communicate what was wrong with me and get the appropriate information, and I only had to ask for clarification a couple times. Even though I felt awful, I was kind of smiling to myself as I left the clinic on Tuesday.
So, they gave me licensia for a five days, which means I am supposed to stay in bed. Obviously, it also means no English classes. Pucha! Especially since in my last couple weeks of teaching, I feel I have finally hit my stride. More on that later.
A few days before I left for vacay, my throat started to hurt, but I tried to shake it off as an allergic reation to the mold that is growing on the walls of my bedroom. (Yes, it is true, sad times. My walls are made of concrete, and they manage to hold Chillan's abundant moisture better than a sponge.) However, my sore throat followed me north, but I refused to give up a day of my carefully planned vacation to sit in a clinic. However, after a week or so on the road, things cleared up nicely, which I attributed to the dry climate I then found myself in.
When I came back to Chillan last weekend, all was well. I went to work on Monday (and had a fabulous day of teaching, by the way), and afterwards it was sunny out so I went for an hour-long walk around the city. As night set in, though, my old ache was back, along with some new ones. My joints were achy in the way they are before the flu hits. And I was dead tired. I thought maybe my vacation was just catching up with me, that I was sore from hauling a giant backpack around for two weeks, who knows why. I declined plans with Stacey around 8 and went to bed early. However, my sleep was haunted by nightmares of my throat closing as I steadily breathed in the mold on my walls, so my sleep was fitfull at best.
The next day I got up with great difficulty, showered, and tried to eat. My eyes teared up as I tried to swallow my bread, so I decided to skip breakfast and just go to work. I usually enjoy the brisk walk to work, but after I had more or less wandered a block and a half away from my house I realized it was not going to happen. I called in sick to my host teacher, tried to figure out where the nearest hospital was, and by 10 a.m. I was at the reception desk at Clinica Chillan.
I had a moment of panic and utter loneliness as I teared up at the reception desk, trying to spit out the sentence, "I feel like my throat is closing," which sounded dramatic, but I wanted to make sure they saw me right away. I apparently had nothing to worry about because I was like the only patient in there. I met with a doctor, who examined me, asked me some questions (I told her about the mold), and then informed me I have bronchitis. Apparently, the draining of my sinuses caused by an allergic reation (hello, mold!) got infected somewhere south of my nose. The cure, by the way, is penicillin, but in the form of a giant shot to the ass, which I had heard horror stories about from two other volunteers that had already been through this mess. I tried to assure myself, thinking, hello, I am diabetic, you can't scare me with a shot! It did hurt, I am not going to lie, but it was not as bad as the time I had to get a numbing shot in my toe so I could get a wound scrubbed out.
Since then, I have had a glimpse of old age, since I am taking like 20 pills a day. My first two days of being sick were terrible. Bronchitis, which I can't ever remember having, hurts like a bitch! But by Thursday, I was feeling better and more than a little full of it. Being shut up in the house has started to wear on my spirit, and as accomodating, helpful, and caring as my host mama and our housekeeper have been, I miss my mommy! When I am sick, my mom is the master of setting up a bedside table filled with various liquids, complete with straws. The best thing about my mom is that she has the good sense to get me all set up and then get the hell out of there and let me sleep! This is not the case in Chile. While I am not necessarily hassled by my family, our housekeeper has these little habits that only annoy me when I spend way too much time in the house (during illness or paro, for example). First of all, in the morning, she stands outside my room and whistles. It's not even a whistle, really, because there is no tone but she definitely blows air in a highly annoying fashion. And she must have the lung capacity of a whale because it is loud! And then, she will stand at the window outside my bedroom door and talk to or yell at our dog! I am like, hello! It's 8 a.m., I am sick and I am trying to sleep! Can I get a little peace and quiet please!
This is all somehow less annoying, though, than the conventional wisdom she impresses on me, which I find totally inappropriate for my situation. For instance, I was trying to tell her and my host mama that I am allergic to the mold in my room, which is what caused the bronchitis, so can we please find a way to clean it? (I only asked for help because I need to borrow the portable heater to dry the walls, otherwise I would have just done it myself.) Then they launch into some tangent about how the heaters on buses spread infections and make people stuffed up, and that's probably where I got the infection since I was on so many buses over vacation. They completely ignored my comments about the mold, and if I had more energy and wasn't feeling like garbage, I probably would have exploded. Every day of my illness, by the way, Zuni has been hounding me to dress warmly. Every time I am not feeling well, she believes it is because sometimes I don't like to wear socks in the house. (This, by the way, is because I have sweaty feet and if they are always in socks, I get athlete's foot. I know, gross!) One day, I came out of my bedroom in the middle of a nap to go to the bathroom without anything of my feet and she literally reeled back, clutching her breast, and gasped. Because I had just woken up and was crabby, I ignored the whole incident. But then the other day, I was wearing a t-shirt in the house without a sweater and she commented again about how I would never get better without a sweater on. I told her I was too hot (because I was, for once!) and that I would put on a sweater when I got cold. She just shook her head at me, like, crazy American girl! The most hilarious moment, though, was when she told me I should be wearing a scarf at all times to protect my throat from the cold. I wanted to scream, "It is an infection! There are bacteria in my body! It has nothing to do with whether or not I am wearing a scarf!"
I don't want to make it sound like, "Wah wah, I have people that care about me, and they want to help, and I hate it." This is just one instance in which it is trying to be 25 years old and living with a family that does everything for you. I love them and all their quirks. When I am sick, though, I want to be left the hell alone, not constantly hassled about my sartorial choices.
On the other hand, my current situation has only increased my love for Felipe. First of all, he fixed my ipod! I don't know what he did because he doesn't even have itunes, but he plugged it into his computer and it sprang back to life! He came home yesterday and I told him I was going crazy because I had been in the house for three whole days with Zuni and his mother, and he just laughed and said, "I understand you." Which I appreciated. Also, I informed him of the mold situation and my attendant allergies, and he came in, wiped the mold away with an old rag, and said that tomorrow we will bring the heater in and rearrange the room so the walls will dry. I told him everything in my life is better when he is around, and I meant it. I mean, he fixed my ipod!
Actually, this whole episode of getting sick and getting it handled made me kind of pleased with my Spanish. I was able to communicate what was wrong with me and get the appropriate information, and I only had to ask for clarification a couple times. Even though I felt awful, I was kind of smiling to myself as I left the clinic on Tuesday.
So, they gave me licensia for a five days, which means I am supposed to stay in bed. Obviously, it also means no English classes. Pucha! Especially since in my last couple weeks of teaching, I feel I have finally hit my stride. More on that later.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
New Haircut, New Life Outlook
Wanting to make a fresh start this semester has started, symbolically, with a haircut.
Due to recent, though minor, male-related disappointment, my best buddy Becca suggested I go for something "sassy," so I found a gay highly recommended by two friends and told him to do what he wanted, with some general guidelines, which included "short" and "messy"--sadly I don't know the translation for "sassy." The result was a stacked bob which, after I went home, put some oily gunk in it, and shook it out, I decided I am pleased by.
Here are the before and after pics. Please forgive the slightly humiliating, myspace-esque self-portraits. There is no excuse.
BEFORE:
AFTER:
The first one is the "sassy" shot I was going to email to Becca, but it cracked me up so I had to put it on the blog.
Long hair on me is like a bad relationship: I never realize how horrible it is until after it's gone.
The boys better watch out this weekend! (Primarily because I have bronchitis, but I am in a man-eating mood.)
Due to recent, though minor, male-related disappointment, my best buddy Becca suggested I go for something "sassy," so I found a gay highly recommended by two friends and told him to do what he wanted, with some general guidelines, which included "short" and "messy"--sadly I don't know the translation for "sassy." The result was a stacked bob which, after I went home, put some oily gunk in it, and shook it out, I decided I am pleased by.
Here are the before and after pics. Please forgive the slightly humiliating, myspace-esque self-portraits. There is no excuse.
BEFORE:
AFTER:
The first one is the "sassy" shot I was going to email to Becca, but it cracked me up so I had to put it on the blog.
Long hair on me is like a bad relationship: I never realize how horrible it is until after it's gone.The boys better watch out this weekend! (Primarily because I have bronchitis, but I am in a man-eating mood.)
Isla Damas Excursion, Part II
For the second half of our boat tour, we were dropped off on another island, which we spent about an hour exploring. It was really fun to get out and tear around the island, although it would have been nice to pass more time there. Sarah and I would like to go back someday and camp on the island, as we saw some other travelers doing. There were a lot of interesting landscapes to explore, and after climbing to the top of the highest point on the island together, Sarah and I spent the last half of our hour doing our own thing. I, true to form, went climbing around on rocks in the water, looking for sea creatures.
This is what I imagine the Caribbean to look like with the white sand and brightly colored water, but no, we are in Chile. We also so otters in this bay!
This is the giant rock on the island, which Sarah and I climbed to the top of.
Island landscape. This is also where I spied a green and black lizard.
Views from the top of our perch.
The bay where the boats waited for us.
Buddies at the top!
Me encouraging people to learn English from the top of a giant rock.
More pretty views.
I found this bone on the beach. I think it is a fin of a dolphin, but I thought those were made out of cartilage...maybe this is only sharks. Man I need the Discovery Channel again! Nevermind, I was curious so I googled it and it is cartilage, so I have no idea what this is...a South American prize to whoever can help me figure it out!
Sarah and I are boat buddies!
Our tour stopped at this cute place for lunch around 3, by which time we were all famished. We ate seafood empanadas, white fish and rice with salad, and drank strawberry juice. After lunch, we visited a beautiful beach where instead of sand, the entire coastline was blanketed with shells and occasionally rocks. We briefly explored and poked around at the shells.
The beach of shells:
Omg I love shells!
At the end of this tour, it was clear that there would be no way to top such an adventure and it would do no good to try. That night we ate pizza in town and relaxed at the hostel. Sarah left us that night andMegan left me the next morning, so I had one more day to enjoy La Serena and some much needed alone time! I ate the free breakfast at the hostel (which was amazing, by the way: bread, kiwi marmalade, goat cheese, salami, tomato, and tea!), then went back to the Japanese garden and passed about two hours reading and enjoying the sound of running water. I spent the afternoon shopping for gifts for friends and family, then in the late afternoon went back to the mall for more fruity yogurt. I saw The Dark Night by myself, which I loved, by the way (Heath Ledger is amazing, I am so dismayed that he is no longer around to shower the world with more inspired performances). It was really odd, actually, after the movie, listening to a mother explain to her young son that the actor who played the Joker died. Whaaaaaat? the kid yelled, shocked. I feel you, kid. I feel you. I spent the remainder of the evening packing my bags, finishing my book (Middlesex, a reread, and an incredible novel), and chatting with the two Brits I was sharing a dorm room with. (Sometimes I think it would be so nice to be European. I have not met one that speaks less than three languages.) I was sad to see it all end, but it was nice to get back to Chillan, although I spent 13 hours on the road on Sunday.
So, after such an amazing vacay, I am totally addicted to traveling. In four short months, I will be on the road again, and though I cannot imagine saying goodbye to Chillan, I am already getting excited to explore more of this vast, beautiful, interesting continent.
This is what I imagine the Caribbean to look like with the white sand and brightly colored water, but no, we are in Chile. We also so otters in this bay!
This is the giant rock on the island, which Sarah and I climbed to the top of. 
Island landscape. This is also where I spied a green and black lizard. 
Views from the top of our perch.
The bay where the boats waited for us. 
Buddies at the top!
Me encouraging people to learn English from the top of a giant rock. 
More pretty views.
I found this bone on the beach. I think it is a fin of a dolphin, but I thought those were made out of cartilage...maybe this is only sharks. Man I need the Discovery Channel again! Nevermind, I was curious so I googled it and it is cartilage, so I have no idea what this is...a South American prize to whoever can help me figure it out!
Sarah and I are boat buddies!
Our tour stopped at this cute place for lunch around 3, by which time we were all famished. We ate seafood empanadas, white fish and rice with salad, and drank strawberry juice. After lunch, we visited a beautiful beach where instead of sand, the entire coastline was blanketed with shells and occasionally rocks. We briefly explored and poked around at the shells.The beach of shells:
Omg I love shells!
At the end of this tour, it was clear that there would be no way to top such an adventure and it would do no good to try. That night we ate pizza in town and relaxed at the hostel. Sarah left us that night andMegan left me the next morning, so I had one more day to enjoy La Serena and some much needed alone time! I ate the free breakfast at the hostel (which was amazing, by the way: bread, kiwi marmalade, goat cheese, salami, tomato, and tea!), then went back to the Japanese garden and passed about two hours reading and enjoying the sound of running water. I spent the afternoon shopping for gifts for friends and family, then in the late afternoon went back to the mall for more fruity yogurt. I saw The Dark Night by myself, which I loved, by the way (Heath Ledger is amazing, I am so dismayed that he is no longer around to shower the world with more inspired performances). It was really odd, actually, after the movie, listening to a mother explain to her young son that the actor who played the Joker died. Whaaaaaat? the kid yelled, shocked. I feel you, kid. I feel you. I spent the remainder of the evening packing my bags, finishing my book (Middlesex, a reread, and an incredible novel), and chatting with the two Brits I was sharing a dorm room with. (Sometimes I think it would be so nice to be European. I have not met one that speaks less than three languages.) I was sad to see it all end, but it was nice to get back to Chillan, although I spent 13 hours on the road on Sunday.So, after such an amazing vacay, I am totally addicted to traveling. In four short months, I will be on the road again, and though I cannot imagine saying goodbye to Chillan, I am already getting excited to explore more of this vast, beautiful, interesting continent.
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