She's Outta Control!

Sorry about the loooooooong posts lately. They just seem to grow uncontrollably sometimes.

Liya: The 5-Year-Old Who Stole My Heart

November 27, 2008

Have you ever felt that all your friends are pairing off left and right, leaving you feeling like maybe you should start making a more serious effort to find someone too instead of just letting the river run its course? Nowhere has this feeling been more pronounced than in the tiny, isolated community of teachers here at the school. Not that I fancy anyone in particular here, but just the fact that even in this tiny group, people have been pairing off left and right- it makes me feel like I must be mad not to be jumping on the couples wagon with everyone else. What'd I say about love and the law of gravity back in September or October? It seems to be playing out just the way I predicted, though the particular couples that have formed have been a great surprise. Who would've thunk? 

My own heart has been stolen by a 5-year-old named Liya. I've mentioned her before on this blog- she's the one in my kindergarten class with the great imagination, the whimsical personality. From day 1, she never cried. For the first month or two, she came to school every day wearing 11 little bracelets on her left wrist and silver sandals with a heart embossed on each. Every time we counted hearts that I drew on the whiteboard during math warm-up, she took great pleasure in lifting up her stockinged foot and showing me the silver hearts on her sandals. “Miss Angie, I have heart!” she would say with the excitement and the shining eyes of one who has just made a great new discovery. In the same way, she would tug at my arm and show me her newest discovery- skipping, for instance, from one leg to the other, arms swinging to and fro. She took a great liking to twirling after the time I played “Aquarium” from the Carnival of the Animals Suite for the class and picked out students one by one and waltzed with them around the room to the beautiful tune. I did this in order to show them the connection between music and dancing, and music and counting. Liya took to it like a duck on water. 

Liya has a heart indeed, a great one full of wonder- the heart of an explorer. She also has a great love of treasures, always eyeing my stickers and other prizes with a treasure-seeker's glint in her dark eyes. “Miss Angie,” she'd say tugging at my arm, and whispering loudly with her hand cupped to my ear, “I want 2 cranes! I want 3, no 4 cranes!” and nodding with shining eyes, as if she was letting me in on the greatest idea in the world. This is one of the things I love most about Liya, the way she says everything as if it were a delicious secret, or a great discovery. Last week, she came to school with a new pen. “Miss Angie, look! I have magic pencil!” “Wow, why is it magic?” I asked. I thought it might be a led pencil- the children here only use regular pencils and sharpeners for some reason. But nope, it turned out to be a pen- the kind you click on and off. “I like magic,” said Liya with whole-hearted belief in its existence. Me too Liya! 

I find myself wondering how in the world a child like this was brought into existence and raised. How amazing her parents must be to nurture such an extraordinary kid! It's hard to find out the background of these kids- where they are from, who they live with, etc.- because they are only 4 and 5. They get confused when I ask them what their father does for work. One kid said “computer”. Another kid said “computer games”. “Your father plays games for work?” I asked, laughing inside. The kid nodded uncertainly. He's probably the Minister of Education, or something equally as posh, but his kid just told me he plays computer games all day. One day, though, the first day it rained here in Erbil, I taught them how to say “it's raining”, and told them to go home and tell their father “it rained today!” “Miss Angie!” cried Liya, “I no have father!” “You don't? Where is he? Where's your baba?” She didn't know. She said she had a mother, though, and that she would tell her it rained today. “Okay, Liya,” I replied with some concern. I wondered where her father was, whether he was even alive.

This past week, I brought in my guitar and played and sang for the first time for my KG class. It was a huge hit in general, but no one was more entranced by it than Liya. While other kids around her stood up and tried to touch the guitar and giggled and looked at each other as if it were a huge game, Liya sat in her little chair with an absolute stillness that belied her age. Her eyes were cast in the direction of the guitar, but the look in them made me think her mind was elsewhere. Where, in what sort of fantasy land she was now lost in, I could only wish to know. What her mind was making of the music, I could only guess at, knowing only that it had to be wonderful and amazing because it was all happening in Liya's mind. 

Recently I started rewarding my KG'ers for independent work (finishing their work by themselves), and it's become a source of frustration because now all the kids just copy off the paper of the smart kid next to them and hold up their page expecting a sticker and the usual exaggerated praise. It drives me crazy because I'm busy trying to teach the class, and have to interrupt the flow to praise and reward them, and weed out the ones who just copied off their smart neighbor. “Wait for Miss Angie!” I have started to say to these cheaters. “You must wait for Miss Angie!” My frustration must have shown because one day, when I said “Wait for Miss Angie!” for the millionth time, a little voice piped up and said earnestly,  “I am waiting for you.” It was Liya. My heart melted right then and there for the girl. I wanted to hug her. Instead, I only said “thank you Liya” from the bottom of my heart. And maybe I gave her a sticker, I don't remember.

At the end of the day, I went down to the bus shed for the second time to see my kids off. I saw Shene and Hoz again (and stopped by to give the little midget another lift onto the bus), and some of my 2nd graders, as well as some of the 7th graders whose exam I had proctored earlier that day. Then I looked for bus no. 11, which I knew was Liya and Mohammed #1's bus. “Hi Liya! Hi Mohammed!” I said as I peeped my head into the tent-like darkness. It was the most joyful reunion you could ever imagine! We hugged like long-lost friends, and in a voice bubbling over with excitement, she started introducing every single person on the bus to me, as if I were her father coming back after a long absence, and she wanted to show me every aspect of her life that I had missed while I'd been away. In fact, somewhere in between all the introductions, she told me that her father was coming home today. So he was alive after all! I was so happy for her. And her father. As the last person got on the bus, and it was about to leave, she opened up her arms for a last hug goodbye. “I love you, Miss Angie,” she said. “I love you too, Liya,” I murmured as I held her dark head against my waist, my heart once again melting like ice cream on a hot summer's day. 

The Bus Shed

November 26, 2008

The bell rang. End of school! I wandered through the hallway heading back to my KG classroom, but on the way, I ran into some of my 2nd graders. “Miss Angie!” They cried out, waving furiously. I yelled out their name and waved goodbye with equal vigor. These days, whenever they see me, they demand “where is my crayon?” By which they mean “crane”. Sometimes, if I'm in a classroom, I tease them by grabbing the box of crayons and saying “you want a crayon? here it is!” Other times I tell them that my cranes are special, and that they must earn them. I tell this to Mahmoud now, who has had trouble learning his times tables and so has been unable to earn the coveted origami bird. “Hrmph!” he grumbled in mock anger, his large eyes glowering darkly under knitted brows. As we continued to chat, I followed him down the stairs that I knew led to the bus shed, a set of stairs that I had never descended since my arrival at the school. Curious now, I rounded the corner and followed him all the way down. 

“Wow, this is so cool!” I cried as I entered the bus zone. It felt like entering another world. A hidden, underground cave lined with cement floors and walls, and dimly lit by fluorescent lights, the bus shed was lined with 3 rows of sea green-and-white shuttle vans (no yellow school buses here!), and teeming with the voices and shouts of excited school children, some who, like the drivers, waited patiently inside their bus, others who ran around, expending their cooped up energy before loading, or else having last minute chats with their friends who were on different buses. This was a side of the school I had never seen before, a side of the kids I have only had glimpses of as I ran into them in the hallways or played with them during the short breaks and lunches and right before the start of school. Kids outside of the classroom environment and in this strange cave-like one full of cute little buses with rounded corners. I felt a bit like Harry discovering Diagon Alley for the first time, or like the kid in the Christmas movie discovering Santa's workshop with all the elves.

“Angie!” I heard a familiar voice call out my name. There was Farhad, our first shuttle driver who I hadn't seen in 2 months! He'd been transferred to this new post because of his habit of showing up late all the time. “Ca va?” he greeted me in French. I nearly responded in Kurdish- that's how natural it's become. He took something out of his pocket- it was a pink crane. “Did you make this?” he asked. I sure did, but how did it end up in his hands? Turns out, one of my 2nd grader's father- the school accountant- had given it to him. And how did it manage to leave the care of his daughter in the first place? Hm...I would have to ask Shano in class tomorrow if she meant to give it away. 

“You've got to teach me how to make this,” said Farhad. “Will you teach me?” “I don't know,” I replied with a Mona Lisa smile, “I can't be giving away all my secrets.” I told him I'd think about it, then turned as I heard my name being called, this time by a shriller, squeakier female voice. There was cartoony Shene standing with two of her busmates! Her dark brown pigtails sticking out like mini fountains from either side of her head, her dark eyes were wide with excitement at spotting her teacher in this other teacherless world. A tentative smile spread across her pale face as she waved, and it grew wider as I waved back with equal surprise and enthusiasm.

Normally, when I interact with my KG'ers, I admit that some (sometimes a lot) of my enthusiasm is feigned. There are only so many times you can react with true enthusiasm at the spiderman backpack that the kid is showing off to you for the 60th time. But they do this every day! Every day at the end of the school day, they come up to my desk proudly holding up their backpack for me to see. At first, I was like “did they get a new backpack?” But nope, it's the same damn backpack- Spiderman, the princess cat one, Barbie, Batman, or the Disney princesses one- the same goddamn backpack every time! The only somewhat interesting ones are Mohammed #1's (a WALL-E backpack!) and Muhammed #2's (Ninja Turtles).* My enthusiasm for the backpack routine waned quickly, but I continue to oblige them with a “Wow! Cool backpack!” because I realize that the recognition from the teacher, in the form of Wows, high-fives, stickers and smiles, means a lot to them. 

This exaggerated enthusiasm- as well as exaggeration of all manners of expression from happiness to sadness to anger and shock, and so on- is essential to teaching KG. As soon as I realized the importance of exaggeration, and also, when I began to accept their goldfish attention spans and bribery as a method of getting them to behave, my teaching began to go a lot smoother. I'm beginning to have fun in the classroom again, and actually after a short time, that feigned enthusiasm has begun to translate into some genuine enthusiasm, strangely enough. The connections between the mental and physical expression is more intimate than I previously realized. Just by smiling outwardly a few times, you begin to feel happier inside. And just by saying “Wwwooowww!” and widening your eyes, you begin to actually feel truly amazed inwardly. 

Because I spend so much time with my 5-year-olds, sometimes I catch myself doing the same exaggerated expression of enthusiasm with my own peers, which was a little embarrassing at first. But then I think, maybe dealing with 25- and 35-year-olds should not be so different from dealing with 5-year-olds? Who knows...I just know now that physical expression has a serious effect on one's mental state. It makes me think that maybe a person is not defined by either his mind or his body, but by both. Brain shapes the body, and the body shapes the brain, and one's self could not be whole, nor defined completely while either is amiss. 

Here in the underground bus shed, however, my surprise and enthusiasm were 100% genuine. I was just as excited to see my kids as they were to see me, their teacher. I waved as some of my 2nd graders ran by. I heard my name being called yet again and saw little Hoz, whose spiderman backpack is nearly as big as he is, running from his bus as fast as his short little legs could carry him. “Hi Hoz!” I cried, giving him a big smile. He was so tiny! I resisted the temptation to scoop up the mischievous little midget in my arms, and instead put my arm around his head and followed him back to his bus. At the door, I peered inside. Ooh, it was so dark! But in a comforting way, like those blanket forts that we used to build when we were kids. I thought how exciting it must be for a 5-year-old to be traveling on this bus with seats taller than them and a cozy, enveloping darkness, and busmates to sit next to. Only remnants- bits and pieces of this bus and daily bus ride home would be remembered years later, vaguely floating about in their memories like drifting clouds, perhaps inserting themselves like stray picture slides into their dreams. 

Hoz was standing in front of the bus steps that must seem like mountains at his height. “Do you need a lift, Hoz? Here, raise your arms way up! Ready? One, two, three, up we go!” I lifted up little Hoz and his big backpack into the bus- a little too high. The older kids laughed as his feet dangled loosely in the air, trying to reach for solid ground. “Woops, there we go! Bye Hoz, see you tomorrow!” He grinned, very Shene-like. I wondered if they were related. The same smooth, dark hair and eyes, the same pale complexion, and the same smile. This school is full of brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins and cousins of cousins, so it was possible they were related. But with the KG'ers, it is hard to figure out who is related to who. They all say “so-and-so is my brother,” even if they look nothing alike. It took me a few weeks to realize that by “brother”, they meant “friend” because the Kurdish word for “friend” is brader, which sounds a lot like brother. 

*There are a lot of Mohammeds at this school. One of the first grade classes has 7 Mohammeds in a class of 25!

Farther From Home, Closer to Turkey

Thanksgiving evening in Iraq. As the last bit of cornbread batter sizzles and crackles in the frying pan, the homey aroma of cooking oil wafts through the apartment, and Julie Andrews' voice sings enchantingly, clear and sweet, from my mac. A feeling of tranquility falls over me, despite the fact that it is a lonelier Thanksgiving than most. I'm cooking alone in my little kitchen, whereas in the past few Turkey Days, cooking had been a team effort. Jess holding down the 20-lb turkey, Sarah wielding the needle and injecting the bird with oil like a crazed medic, and me stuffing it with garlic chunks. 

This year, at the school, the main course (the turkey) will be provided by the school cafeteria along with some side dishes, and the Americans will provide the rest, potluck-style. What could be easier than cornbread? I had thought as I glanced through the recipe online yesterday. Today though, as I stand in front of the elevator door holding the baking pan with both hands, the pale liquid batter sloshing precariously along the sides, I can't help being slightly worried about its outcome. I'd been unable to find the main ingredient that makes cornbread “cornbread”- the cornmeal- and had to settle for corn flour. According to the others, the two products, though similarly named, are totally different, and a cake made of corn flour was a recipe for disaster, not for Grandma's Famous Buttermilk Cornbread. 

But given no alternatives, I had decided to go ahead with the corn flour, and so there I stood waiting for the elevator that would take me upstairs to the 3rd floor restaurant, listening to the voices of my co-workers echoing through the hallways above, and wondering if burnt milk had a terribly overpowering taste. It had frothed over my pan like a rabid dog when I left it unattended in order to prepare my corn flour. A couple minutes later, my bowl of homemade buttermilk likewise frothed over as I added the baking soda, spilling foul-smelling acidified milk all over my kitchen floor. 

Before I could ponder these near-disasters any further, though, my reflection split in two and I stepped carefully into the elevator, trying not to slosh the batter. As the elevator crawled upwards, I studied my reflection in the mirror and noted that the redness of my eyes had returned with a vengeance. The New Yorker keeps saying that I look high as a kite, though I've smoked nothing more than some shisha since I've gotten here. Once again, I'd like to express my wish that our eyes, like our teeth, came in sets of two. Wouldn't it be cool if our “baby eyes” fell out when we reached say our mid-20's, and were naturally replaced by a brand new set of adult eyeballs? Our teeth are weird that way.

My teeth in particular grew out in fairly decent shape- not too big, not too ragged. But I've discovered that my teeth are rather big, by Middle Eastern standards. My friend here calls them “rabbit teeth” (with affection, I assume!). He himself, like many Middle Easterners, has very small, badly cared-for teeth. The importance of dental hygiene has yet to reach this corner of the world. 

Anyway, dental tangent aside, upstairs, I stuck the baking pan in the only oven we have in the apartment complex, beneath two delicious-looking pumpkin pies made by the lady with the cats. (One of them died- one of her cats, not her pies- and its feline corpse lies buried in the small garden plot in front of her balcony.) Later, when I came up for the dinner a little late, everyone was already gathered around in a circle holding hands and doing the cheesy Thanksgiving thang- what are you thankful for? When it came around to my turn, I said the first things that popped into my mind- first, my co-workers, then Little Liya, and then the edible appearance of my cornbread- which ended up dec, and even drew some compliments! Despite being quite starchy/chewy in the middle.

Here's to giving things a go, even when disaster looms hairily close! We must trust in that quantum possibility that things will turn out ok. This is my faith- aha! Finally I have an answer to that question! Do you believe in God? No, but I do believe in quantum mechanics! But really it's just a projection of my faith in myself onto some external theory. I wonder if all faith is just a projection of faith in oneself onto a separate entity to make the task at hand seem momentarily less daunting? It's a temporary shifting of burden.

The rest of the dinner was great! Unfortunately, the one Iraqi who could understand English failed to understand the meaning of Thanksgiving (”I don't get it, I just don't get it! Isn't this the holiday where your forefathers murdered a bunch of innocent people and stole their land and...why would you celebrate such a thing???”). Only a couple of the Lebanese staff came, but all the Brits came, just as we attended their Guy Fawkes Night festivities a few weeks ago, and so did the Canadians, and one of the Pakistanis even came bearing her famous rice dish. 

All in all, Turkey Day 2008 was a very international affair, and I was impressed that we were able to find the fixings for a traditional Thanksgiving feast here in Erbil: we had the turkey, mashed potatoes, starchy cornbread with chili and mac&cheese, corn with white sauce, and 2 absolutely fabulous homemade pumpkin pies made from real pumpkin! And besides that, we had the non-traditional fares: pasta salad, poppyseed loaf, a scrumptious chocolate cake, roasted chestnuts, and Pakistani rice. What we missed: cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes, and the all-important stuffing! Too bad they don't sell Stovetop around here- I love Stovetop! And last but not least, what I missed: my green-capped bottle of cock sauce. Oh Sriracha! It's all about you, isn't it?

Gobble Gobble to All,

Archimedes

The Lazarus Project

Really interesting article in the Science Times discussing the possibility of resurrecting animals that have been extinct for zillions of years! Or so. Including wooly mammoths and even Neanderthals, an early human species! I've always wondered what barriers were stopping scientists from carrying out such experiments, besides the ethical ones. It seemed so simple- if you have the DNA, then surely you can clone the animal that it represents. But no, it is not that easy! The DNA must be in "good shape" (which it usually isn't), decoded, not invaded by bacteria, and technology does not yet exist to synthesize a whole genome.

The article linked above discusses an alternative way of resurrecting these extinct species- not by synthesizing the genome, but by taking the DNA of a living relative and successively modifying this live DNA at all the places where it differs from the DNA of its ancient relative. For example, scientists can take the DNA of an elephant and modify it little by little (generation by generation) at the 400,000 sites where it differs from the DNA of the wooly mammoth, and then bring it to term at the last stage of modification inside a surrogate elephant mother. 

If this method works with the wooly mammoth, it would technically work for the Neanderthal. Can you imagine if yours was the DNA that was cloned in this manner hundreds of thousands of years into the future? 

Another thought: wouldn't it be cool if we found the remains of Jesus and resurrected him? (I mean Him.)

And hey!  Neanderthal specimen were discovered right here in the Zagros Mountains of Kurdistan! Inside the Shanidar cave site, 10 Neanderthal remains were found, two of which may indicate that Neanderthals ritually buried their dead, and one of which may indicate that they took care of their sick and injured. 

We Are Family! (I got all my sistas with me!)

I love Blogspot. I love opening up to my Eureka homepage and checking up on my "fellow babblers" to see what's going on in their lives lately. For me, Blogspot is like my intimate home away from home, and my fellow babblers are like a family that I can take with me wherever I go. Thanks Blogspot, and thanks for blogging! 

Hoot hoot!

Archimedes

Rollercoaster Movie

Wanted: an awesome movie! The one with Angelina Jolie and pasty white James McAvoy? Awesome awesome awesome! The action is incredible, and so are the Alias-like twists and turns like a crazy rollercoaster!

System of Tens

If God had 11 fingers, would he have given 11, not 10 commandments? But then again, God doesn't have any fingers. Only man has 10 fingers. I'm tempted to see this as evidence that humans created the 10 commandments. That Moses, what a cunning fellow! People sure were gullible back then- the 10 commandments from “God”, a virgin birth,...

Paper Crane Magic

Recycling is far down the list of priorities for developing countries like Iraq. Since my first teaching day, though, I've been amassing a stack of scrap paper in my black storage box- photocopies, old lesson plans, and so on- and the stack is growing cancerously. Useless though it may be, it pains me to have to throw all this paper away. What to do with all this paper?

An idea has been smoldering in the back of my mind for a few days now, and today, I finally put my saving scrap paper plan to action: I dug out the cheap set of watercolors I'd found at one of the “malls” here, and set to work cutting the papers into perfect squares and painting them beautiful shades of  purple, blue and pink bleeding into each other. After waiting a few minutes for the paint to dry, I started folding and soon, a tiny, graceful paper crane sat in the palm of my hand.

I had learned how to make origami cranes one summer in Korea. It was one of the 3 skills I picked up specifically during my summers in Korea in the days of yore, along with hula hooping and Korean jacks. My aunt showed me and my siblings how to make them, telling us the related myth: if you make a 1000 cranes, and then make a wish, it will come true. I never made it past 500 or so, but I still have those cranes I folded so long ago out of cool fractal-ish origami paper you could buy at the local toy shop. 

Who knew such a random skill would come so in handy more than a decade later? My 2nd graders are currently learning their times tables, and I had to think of a way to get them to practice practice practice! And so I offered them a prize: If they could memorize all the tables from 1's to 12's, then I would give them extra stars and a paper crane. I held one up so they could see what they were in for, and the kids grew breathless with excitement. Just as, more than a decade ago, my aunt told me the myth of a 1000 cranes, I related the myth to my kids in an enticing, mysterious voice, and the effect was amazing. Now, my cranes are all the rage among my 2nd graders as well as my KG's, whom I'd also brought into the origami fold. 

Not gonna exaggerate- for some kids, the excitement was ephemeral, and as soon as they went home, their motivation to practice multiplication tables was lost despite the unique prize. But for others, the crane incentive has had a radical effect. One kid memorized all the way up to 12's plus some squares (13*13, etc.), and the most brilliant one in the class memorized all the tables and all the squares up to 21*21. That was magical, the day I tested him in front of the entire class. Others have tried, and though they still make mistakes and hesitate, I can tell they are working hard for that crane. Paper cranes must hold some sort of magical property. 

Lately, I've been having a really tough time controlling my KG class. I don't know what happened, but they just don't shut the hell up anymore for more than a minute. Frustration mounted to a dangerous level, very dangerous, but now it's cooling down again, and I'm starting (again) to accept the fact that 5-year-olds have the attention span of a goldfish, and there is little I can do about it besides continuously bribing them with stickers, and now, cranes. For a long time, I detested the idea of having to teach them by bribing- it seemed an unhealthy way of developing a child's morale: “be good, only because you want that sticker!” Like holding a carrot in front of a donkey's nose. Wasn't it unhealthy to play on a child's greed? 

But the way one of the teachers here explained it made sense: at that age, they only understand external rewards, and they've yet to internalize it. Or something. It made sense at the time. The idea is that you're training them to be good, at first with tangible rewards, and slowly they will get used to acting “good” and you will no longer need those external rewards. Shoot, even my 2nd graders need external rewards like stars and cranes. I guess it takes a while. 

Runaway Cow

I forgot to mention! Have you ever seen a cow run? Neither have I! Until last weekend that is, when during the drive to Sulaimaniya, we drove past a whole herd of cows running! Am I the only one that finds this fascinating?

Hidden Gems

In the mood to get out and explore, and inspired by reading about Obama's forays into “the center of people's lives” during his early Chicago days, I decided to head out myself into town. I wandered through the crowded bazaar streets, and tried to keep my eyes on the ground before me so that 1) I wouldn't trip over the rugged, unpaved paths, and 2) I could avoid the wall of stares. I decided to leave the bazaar fairly soon for some breathing room, and headed to the citadel, but they didn't let anyone in after 5, and so I turned back and just wandered along the main roads teeming with orange-and-white taxis zipping by, past a colorful bomb wall, through some alleys where only a few shops were open because it's Friday today, their day of rest, and ended up at a square of sorts, at the center of which stood a huge statue of a turbaned fellow. I asked the armed guard patrolling the street who it was.

“Sher Mahmoud,” said he, using a guttural r similar to the French r. I found this strange because the Kurdish language as far as I knew did not contain the guttural r sound.

“Sherrr Mahmoud?” I asked.

“Sherrrrrrrrr Mahmoud!” he said. We stood there spitting at each other until I realized (soon enough) that he was probably saying “Sheikh”. Hm, I've always wondered how that word was pronounced. Now I knew! I asked if he was a renowned person in Kurdistan, and he nodded vigorously. Hm, who was this guy? I'd have to wait to Wikipedia it to find out that he was the leader of several Kurdish uprisings in British-controlled Iraqi Kurdistan during the 1920's, former governor of Sulaimaniya (the former capital of Kurdistan), and self-proclaimed King of Kurdistan- a kingdom which lasted all of 2 years before the British bullied him into exile in India. In the meantime, I asked the friendly guard the way to Minaret Park, and he pointed me back toward the bazaar. I thanked him and headed toward the park, though it was already growing dark by then. 

Outside the park, I peeped in through the gates and smiled to myself at the now-familiar sights and sounds of Iraqi Kurdistan glamour: lavish fountains, neon-bright Christmas lights strung haphazardly over trees and lampposts, and cheesy American ballads (think Celine Dion, Whitney Houston, and okay Chris de Burgh, he's not bad). When I first experienced this brand of glamour so particular to Kurdistan, I had the impression of a child playing dress-up, adorning herself with an assortment of oversized sequined and ruffled dress, strands of gaudy jewelry, floppy hats with plumes, high heels 5 sizes to big, and bright red lipstick smeared all over her face- all in the hopes of looking like a lovely lady, grown-up, refined, and elegant. Now, after having witnessed this look at the fanciest restaurants and parks, in all the Dream Cities (I've been to 3 so far), and in all 3 major cities I've visited so far in Iraq, the look is finally growing on me. And haven't I always wished for a fantasy land in which Christmas lights were kept up year-round? 

One thing is for sure: living in a developing nation has trained my eyes to see beauty in rubble. It's easy to see beauty while standing atop Mount Rainier, or sitting on a log at Golden Gardens Park in Seattle, or standing on a hill in San Francisco overlooking the bay. But in a place like Iraq, aside from the gorgeous sunsets and orange moons, one has to search deep within the rubble, look past the monochrome light brown, the ubiquitous dust, the Western knock-offs, half-constructed buildings, the trash, and the childish glamour, in order to find the beauty within. It may lie in the chaos of the bazaar; in the unearthly light that shines into Lenge, making the covered women shoppers look like dark angels; in the first pink rose to appear in the sad little plot of muddy garden outside your balcony window; in the courageous intent behind the childish glamour and Western knock-offs and painted bomb walls; in the clear blue eyes of the wrinkly old face; and in the hearts of strangers who invite you into their humble homes and bestow gifts upon you.

At the park, I met a family from Duhok with two adorable 4-year-old twin boys. Twin meeting twins! Their names were Mohammed and Ahmed- typical Muslim names. We wandered through the fountains and Christmas lights together and tried out the sports park (a playground outfitted with gym equipment; I've only seen one other, in Redwood City, CA), see-sawed illegally on the seesaw built for tots until they kicked us off, and sat on a bench eating knock-off cheetos. While we attempted to chat with my broken Kurdish, I saw one of the little boys struggling to pull down his jeans. I pointed to him, saying “toilet? toilet” to the mom, and the next thing I knew, the little dude was shooting a stream with a length to match his (albeit short) height, straight out into the grass. Hm...I'm gonna think twice next time I consider taking a seat in the grass, or on any public grounds for that matter. In the beginning of the year, as we drove through the city center in our shuttle, we counted two boys defecating in plain sight right onto the sidewalk, surrounded by people. We were told this was NOT the norm in Erbil, but that was twice in one trip! And don't forget the drunkards coming back from the Edge. Who are we kidding? We're savages, plain and simple. 

Rediscovering Self-Reliance

Lately, I've become more withdrawn. At first it was because of my cold, and then it was because of a particular experience that made me realize that I was becoming too reliant on others. Regardless of the reason, though, now, in the evenings, I spend a lot more time alone in my room rather than in the company of the other teachers. 

There's a certain danger in being alone too often: it gives you room to think uninterrupted, and makes you more aware of the isolation that was so jovially masked by the voices and laughter of your former companions. Last night, I realized  I missed this illusion of comfort and belonging cast by the others, and so I went up to the Balcony Bar for a bowl of curry and a dose of team GB (Great Britain). They really are the best.

Time, like energy, can be neither created nor destroyed, so where has all the time normally spent socializing flown? My books have been at the receiving end of a lot of this spare time. I'm currently reading Obama's first book, “Dreams from My Father“, and it is quickly becoming a favorite. He is a lyrical writer, and his story, though remarkable (as in not your average growing up story), has flavors of the familiar. Not so much the particular experiences he had growing up, but the feelings and realizations that he describes in such a personal way makes it easy to relate to. You come out of the book feeling like that could have been your story.

I once heard or read that the reason why Obama is so popular is because he has a way of making each person see himself or herself in him, and this turns out to be true. During his college and early Chicago days, he was just as confused, his future just as uncertain; his sense of not belonging just as strong, or stronger even. There was no indication of something so impossibly grand as the US presidency in his future; only an idealistic desire to make a difference- to make a change- in a community. There are points in his life that makes you think that he could have turned out to be nothing more than your neighborhood shopkeeper, or a druggie even, or a company man, had he not had this one conversation or that one experience that made his life veer along a different, but equally uncertain, path. It's no lie: life is a series of chance occurrences. This is the other Uncertainty Principle.

The less random forces, though, that pushed and pulled his toward what would eventually be the 2008 US presidential campaign were his gift for articulation combined with his idealism, his searching nature, and his intense desire to feel like he belonged, to be able to define himself. The best thing about the book is that you come out of it with a certainty that all that talk about change and hope and unity that some pundits disregard as empty words actually comes from a place deep within his heart. They are not artificial political gimmicks. They are not themes created specially for the campaign. Rather, they are themes that defined his life and many of the decisions he made, starting from his youth. His story is encouraging: even in the most uncertain of times, don't abandon your youthful idealism, it says. 

Besides my books, this more withdrawn Angie has also been of service to my job and my students. My work lately has become a huge focus of my life, and I spend a good deal of time thinking of how to explain this or that math concept to my 2nd graders more clearly, what methods are best for them whose native tongue is not English (and so they have trouble with word problems), how to get them to practice their multiplication tables. During the day, I've been using my break hours to hang out with my students and get them to practice their times tables, and after school, I've been sitting one-on-one with my slowest student to give her even more help. I'm becoming immersed in my work- why? There is no grand reason, no “children are our future” bullshit. Simply, I really really want them to do well on their upcoming exam, and I believe most of them have what it takes to do well. That is all. 

I Hate Homework

Never again will I give such a long homework assignment. It's taking forEVER to correct these things! If only they didn't make so many mistakes. Or do extra problems incorrectly. Their enthusiasm is great, but the skill is not all there yet.

Skinny President

Funny Times article here.

"Yesterday morning, I woke up to a new world. America had elected a Skinny Black Guy president..I never thought I’d see the day. What were the chances that someone who looked like me would come to lead the most powerful nation on earth? Slim. No one stepped up for a long time. Michael Jackson was black and skinny, but also pretty weird, and after a while he wasn’t even black any more, although he did retain his beanpole silhouette. We thought we had a winner in Chris Rock, but then he started in with his infamous “There are Russians, and then there are ... Georgians” routine and we decided he was too raw for the national stage."

Inflection Point (Graphically Speaking)

October 22, 2008

Today marks a turning point, I think, in my teaching experience here. For the first time since I started, I have begun to think of my little kids as actual human beings. For the first time ever since September, I found myself relaxed enough and on top of things enough to sit back and observe my kindergarteners interacting- not with me, but with each other. I watched as little pigtailed, cartoony-looking, cartoony-voiced Shene told some little anecdote in Kurdish to the other 4 kids at her table. I watched, amused, as troublemaker Jotiyar took a chip from his neighbor without asking, before intervening in order to teach him to ask before taking. I watched as pumpkinheaded Abdulrahman showed off his spiderman socks to his neighbor, while they sat shoulder-to-shoulder against the wall, waiting for the bell to ring, signaling the end of the school day. 

My 2nd-graders are no less adorable, and much more fun to work with because I get to teach them much more complex concepts than abc's and counting, and more importantly, they are so amazingly enthusiastic about math class, it's both gratifying and so hard to believe. When I tell them they've got math twice in one day, they actually cheer. It's really an American educator's dream come true to hear kids cheering and yelling “I love math!” without the least drop of sarcasm. These kids are really something, and here in Kurdistan, teachers are loved unabashedly by the students. Boys, girls, it does not matter, they come up and throw themselves at you for hugs and kisses, and stick stickers all over you, and give you candy and pictures they drew, and the girls fill their notebooks with “For Miss Angie” messages adorned all over with hearts. It's really really unreal, and I wish to god that teachers were considered and treated with half as much love and respect in America. The job is so much more enjoyable when your students treat you like a rock star.

They are so enthusiastic in class that I've had to train them to tone it down a bit. Whenever I  would ask a question, they'd practically explode, wanting to be the one to give the answer, bouncing in their seat and waving their hand frantically in a very Hermione-ish matter. “Calm down, you guys sound like a bunch of puppies!” I said one day. Now I only have to say “What did I say about no puppies?” and they remember to stop bouncing and whining. Kids, I've learned, are very malleable- like puppies actually. Unlike old dogs, you can teach them new tricks very easily, as long as you spell it out for them and repeat it over and over again for a couple weeks. Tell them exactly what you want from them, and they will listen. 

This job is not easy, but one major upside to it is that I never find myself drowsing on the job. It may be hard to get up every morning, but once I am up and in the classroom, there is no room for lethargy. Of course, there is plenty of room for fatigue- the feeling of being spent of energy- but I have never once felt sluggish or sleepy because the job of standing in front of a classroom engaging young kids into learning is such an active one. This is a huge difference from some of my previous jobs in which I would, for example, be sitting in front of a computer wondering if I was moving near the speed of light because time seemed to be moving so so slowly, counting the minutes until my lunchbreak, and drowning in meaningless, mindless, repetitive, purposeless drudgework. 

"An Historical" Moment

I could not help drawing a parallel between the gracious words of John McCain's concession speech, in which he called the much younger Obama “my president”, and the words of Sir Ector who bowed down at the feet of his adopted teenage son Arthur, and called him “my king” with equal humility and nobility. I'm so excited to see what is to come in the next four years! 

They asked in the news, “where were you when history was made today, when the first black man was elected president of America?” I was as far away from history in the making as one could get (and in fact, I was celebrating the British political holiday, Guy Fawkes Night, standing around a huge bonfire with the other teachers, watching a burning effigy of Guy Fawkes and eating jacket potatoes), but the excitement was contagious even all the way over here in Iraq, thanks to CNN and BBC. 

One major difference I noted while watching their various broadcasts was the global reach of his election's effects compared to previous president-elects. Not only citizens of America, GB, and other world powers celebrated ecstatically, but also Kenyans and Indonesians and even the Japanese of the town of Obama! I'm currently reading his first book, “Dreams from my father”, and I am amazed by all the different cultures he was exposed to as a boy.

Also, I just discovered a serious reason to hate Sarah Palin: she says an historical, pronouncing the 'h'! That is just wrong! If you're going to say “an”, you should treat the next word as starting with a vowel sound, as 'istorical; or else, just drop the act and say “a historical” like a normal human being! And that's human, not 'uman'!

Running Into Colors & Canines

Politics aside, today I ran for the first time outside of school grounds, and it was the most magical run ever! I ran through the workers' compound and made a right-turn into the setting sun. It's orange glow was visible just over the tall slopes of the smooth, dimpled mountains that define Khanzad's geography, but it disappeared from view as I ran closer to the mountains. Then, as the path curved again to the right, it moved the mountains aside and suddenly, the view opened up into a wide sea of the most beautiful, ethereal-looking colors that faded into one another like a series of dreams. From a certain spot, the cables looping from pole to pole looked exactly like the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. 

I turned right again and ran through an opening in the fence and into the mountains, heading for a peak which would afford me an even better view of this evening's roj awa.

By the time I headed back, however, night was falling, and suddenly I got scared shitless by the wild dogs that started barking at me from either side of the road. Dogs here are not adorable, nor fluffy or pettable. They are short-haired, long-legged, mean-looking and wild, barking and roaming the mountains and plains and city alleys with abandon. &%#@! I think I will borrow a Kalashnikov from one of the guards for my next run. Prepare to die, ye deranged canines!

Blackout

Once in a while, the generator shuts down momentarily, and the entire campus and the security station on the mountains just beyond are left without electricity. I'm not sure why it happens, but it's been happening more frequently lately-  nearly every day. 

Speaking of which, the lights just went off again! I'm sitting in complete darkness on my balcony, save for the light coming from my laptop, and the light of the full moon casting its glow upon the mountains in front of me. Eerie! And now the bugs are flocking to the only light source currently available- my laptop screen. Yuck. 

For some reason, whenever the lights go out, the residents of the apartments feel the urge to emerge from their rooms and step out onto the balcony, as if they were expecting something exciting to happen outside because of the lack of electricity inside. Well this time around, there is nothing spectacular going on out here, but two nights ago, when the lights shut off once again, I stepped out onto my balcony and into the ocean. 

So it seemed. The immense night sky was of a dim blue hue and clouded in such a way as to give the illusion of the deep sea. Sea foam-like clouds rippled all the way down to the hills, and with no lights around, the landscape felt muted and much more vast, yet enclosed. Infinite, yet bounded.

We, the residents of the apartments, stepped out onto the ground below, shadows and silhouettes in this peculiar fishbowl universe, gazing upwards and at each other and oohing and ahhing at the peculiar sky and the darkness.

The blackout is temporary. Soon enough, the lights flicker back on, and it is back to our usual business- lesson plans and whatnot. Watching bootleg movies, or football, reading, eating Cerelac baby food, popping black market Valium pills, cleaning, or just chillin on our pink beds and thinking of home...

The Early 20's Defined

Being 22/23 years old means that feeling that if you sleep for one minute, life will pass you by and leave you in the dust. This age is both thrilling and exhausting. Just the mere idea of being alive is a miracle, just the mere thought of life pumps even more life into your veins, and makes you want to jump up and make your voice heard throughout the infinite corners of the world which in your 23-year-old mind is teeming with life and possibilities of places to go and people to meet and adventures to stumble into. You wonder how anyone can waste a single minute doing this boring thing called “sleep”, in which your eyes are closed and your body is still. But eventually, you learn that sleep is important, rejuvenating, and puts you in a better mood during your daily tasks, and that opportunities to do it can be hard to come by. Realizing this, you begin to treasure every one of these chances to get some...zzz's I mean. This is the age of 24. I am 24! I love love love sleeping. But it is 3:52 am- why am I awake? Good MORNING, WORLD!

Something Akin to Fear

October 8, 2008

Today, one of my 2nd graders raised his hand and said, “Miss, you are a funny woman.” Heh. I think I come off as somewhat of a strange character compared to their former teachers who were much more grown-up looking and probably avoided (accidentally) sliding towards the whiteboard in flip-flops, and saying things like “Nechirvan, why do you have such a hard time sitting? Is your chair on fire? Do you have needles in your pants?” Maybe it's no surprise that they can see right through my stern, severe teacher act. It was unfortunate at first, because it meant they were not scared of me, the way their former teachers scared them into listening. But with the help of the Star Chart and lots of feigned severity on my part, and constant reminders, 85-90% of the time, they listen now. And still they fight to give me stickers and hugs and high-fives every day, so it can't be because they have suddenly become scared of me. Kids are strange creatures. I was one once! 

You've Been Stickered!

Connected Again!

OMIGOD internet is back in the apartments! 

Kala'a & Halloween in Iraq

Yesterday, on Halloween Day 2008, I stood within the fortress-like walls of the oldest continually-inhabited city in human history- the Citadel of Erbil. 

Until then, I had only seen this imposing structure from the bazaar below. It stands atop a steep dirt mound rising 30 meters above the ground that seems completely out of place in the middle of the bustling streets of Erbil city center. Rather than standing awkwardly, though, it gives the city center a feeling of unity because of its circular build and central location; of protection because of its awesome fortress-like walls and lofty place in the clouds, not to mention the humongous stone statue of ??? that guards its entrance; and of pride in ancient glory, it being one of the few structures still left standing to bear testament to the old history of the people of this city.

Like the walls of the citadel (”kala'a”, as the locals call it- meaning “castle”), the position and power of Iraq may have crumbled and deteriorated, especially in recent years- they've gone from the “Cradle of Civilization” to “war-torn developing nation”- but also like the walls of the citadel, Erbil at least is undergoing renovation. It is like a phoenix rising from the ashes, to use a well-worn metaphor, slowly rebuilding its nest twig by twig after its destruction by the various fires of human history. Whether this rebuilding is happening under the guidance of a good power is questionable, because power placed in the hands of most men is doomed to corruption, but what is entirely unquestionable is that the current government is a zillion times better than Uncle Saddaam (not your average Fun Uncle). And so for now, Kurds in general are more inclined to praise rather than decry the Barzanis. 

The sun was just beginning to set as we ventured up the steep dirt path that led to the entrance. We had spent the afternoon searching high and low for Halloween costumes (will you believe it when I tell you how successful we were). When we finally reached the bazaar, we were famished, and so we stopped to grab some really delicious, perfectly salted shwarmas from the nearest shwarma stand. By the time we made our way to the camouflaged man who stood guarding the way to the old castle, dusk was on its way, and so the view from the top of the mound was already incredible. The contrast between the stark, hollow ancient city now empty of inhabitants, and the modern streets below, bustling with electric lights and cars and people and voices and honks and peddlers' shouts of “yek hazar, yek hazar!” struck me immediately, but not as something inharmonious. Just an interesting juxtaposition of two very different times.

The outer walls are carved with lofty, arched entrances and small, curved windows. Unlike architectural specimen of later centuries, this oldest of buildings lacks any sort of artistic touches. No engravings of fleurs-de-lis, no abstract geometric patterns, no curly-cues or arabesques. Just stark, crumbling stone. Once we are within the walls, I am freaked out by the dozens of stray cats that roam the narrow streets and haunt the ancient cobblestone alleys. What a story one could come up with about the lives of these cats that have found a convenient home in this empty “lot”! There are street signs just like a real city, a couple garbage cans, and even arabic graffiti on the walls, but it does not feel like I am standing in a real city. Rather, I get the feeling of standing in a large dollhouse.

I choose a path and walk up, warning the creepy felines to stay away, and soon, I find myself approaching a textile museum. The textile museum is full of colorful locally-sewn tapestry hanging on every inch of the walls, and draped over the rails of the balconies. In the center of the ground floor there is a glass-encased table displaying the different patterns of those Muslim hats (forget the name), one pattern for each tribe of Iraqi Kurdistan. I recognize the family names of some of my students there. A man advises us to go to the antique shop next door, so we head out. 

To my delight, the antique shop is jam-packed like a rich great-aunt's attic with not only tapestry, but shepherds' bags, purses, silver jewelry boxes and genie lamps, paintings, pillows, rugs, figurines, and all sorts of random knick-knacks, all crafted by locals (supposedly), and all for sale! Finally, a place where I can buy some really cool souvenirs (I've found Erbil shops and bazaars to be sadly lacking in authentic goods- almost everything seems to be imported from Syria, Lebanon, Korea, even H&M stores in America! Second-hand of course.). A painting of Saddaam Hussein hangs with the ranks of Talabani (president of Iraq) and other distinguished men of Iraq. A cobalt blue hamsa hand hangs on another wall with the ubiquitous evil eye dangling just under it. The coolest thing I saw was this ivory/porcelain-crafted sword with Arabic writing across the handle and blade. I have no idea what it says, but it reminds me of something from Lord of the Rings or Arthurian legends- magically-crafted swords with spells engraved into them, you know?

After spending some time there, I wander back out to explore more of the citadel, but by the time I step out, it is late and the citadel is closing. The view from the top of the citadel mound is amazing at sunset. Half the sky is awash with brilliant streaks of orange and yellow; the shambly, low-hanging rooftops below spread out for several blocks until my gaze reaches the taller rectangular structures of the unfinished American embassy; the streets below are still lively at dusk; and minutes later, “God's fingernail” has risen now, over the silhouetted rooftops in the distance to the east.  I vow to myself to come here and to the bazaar below every week, and explore every nook and cranny until I know them both like the back of my hand. It's like a giant playground, the coolest place I've seen in Iraq so far. Finally some place to go to other than the damn Edge and the “malls”! 

Not that the Edge is such a terrible place. Later that evening, we headed over there for the annual Halloween party, dressed up in actual Halloween costumes that we found in a little hideaway shop at Lenge bazaar- another fun maze of a place to wander around and get lost in. 

The 5th Edge Experience is characterized by minimal drinking and maximal dancing in outrageous outfits, as well as angry shattering of glass and pumpkin-smashing, and sitting alone on the porch swing by the empty pool outside. I was in the company of a gypsy, a jester, a hippie, a witch, Elvis/Evil Knievel, several black fros, and the usual mercenaries. As for myself? I was dressed as a porcelain clown doll, in a one-piece, orange and white clown outfit with ruffled wrists and ankles, multicolored scrunchies in my hair, red gloss on my cheeks and lipstick, and my green shoes. Happy Halloween 2008!