Happy Naw Roz, my deer!
I feel born again- but don't worry, not in the religious “washed of my sins” kind of way. Tanned and toned, and my brain full of amazing images from the Gulf region, I feel born again- like the green, green grass that has sprung miraculously from the dry, rocky, brown soil of the Kurdistan mountains. The transformation from winter to spring is sudden and miraculous here in Northern Iraq. Since my arrival 7 months ago, I didn't think it possible that anything nice could grow from these stony, bare-brown slopes patched with half-dead grass. Then, along comes March 21st, the day of the spring equinox, and bibidee-bobbidee-boo! Suddenly, Erbil has transformed into the Emerald City. Bright green grass sprouts overnight from the barren hills, even brighter patches of chartreuse-colored flowers bloom from the darker green blades, and the crickets have returned. And so have the flies and the spiders. Gross. I can't wait till the bats return- I miss my little black Bartoks whizzing around over our balconies.
The feelings of rejuvenation and rebirth are redoubled by the noise and color that burst from the seams of this region in celebration of this spring awakening. For the Kurds and other descendent cultures of the old Persian Empire, March 21st marks the true first day of the new year, called Naw Roz. Yesterday, I went out for a walk outside of campus to see for myself how Kurds celebrated their biggest holiday of the year. Surprises awaited me as soon as I turned out of the workers' compound. The spry, green hills, which are normally empty of people except for the occasional shepherd or lone picnic-er, were littered that day with cars, pick-ups, taxis and semis. Huge extended families of brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents sat on blankets eating dolma, rice, flatbread, and boxed cake. Tea boiled over the open fire. Kites flew like colorful angelfish high in the sky among the few puffy clouds that had managed to find their way into the otherwise azure plane.
At the ends of the kite-strings stood little Kurdish boys in their own potato sack outfits like miniature versions of their fathers, grandfathers, and uncles. The women and girls of the families sat or stood like bright jewels in their sequined Kurdish dresses and the accompanying gold jewelry. One of the families waved me over to join them, and as I sat down and made the round of greetings, I noticed that all the girls wore eye shadow that matched their dress- pink, purple, blue, green- even the young ones wore make-up. I immediately regretted coming out in my lame jogging clothes, but honestly, I had a feeling I would always feel underdressed at a traditional Kurdish gathering, no matter what I wore. One simply cannot compete with the layers of glitter and bright colors and loads of jewelry that constitute the traditional Kurdish dress.
Anyway, I sat in my lame jogging clothes and tried to strike up conversation with my limited Kurdish, as they handed me sugary tea in the traditional Kurdish tea cup- tiny, handleless, pear-shaped, and embossed with gold arabesques around the rim. I had just read parts of Leaves of Grass, and so being introduced one by one to each aunt, uncle, mother, father, cousin, grandfather and grandmother, and so on, all sitting on the newly sprouted grass, it immediately called to mind the idea of grass symbolizing rebirth, and I tried to make a comment that the grandparents were like the grass. Luckily, there was grass all around us that I could motion to because I didn't know the Kurdish word for “grass”. Still, I don't know if my meaning caught on. They started up their Kurdish circle dancing, called dopka, and I was entranced by how quickly their tongues moved as they yelled like Xena Warrior Princess- a high-pitched, rapid alalalalalalalala!
Before I knew it, the sun was beginning its descent behind the hills, and it was time for me to go. I thanked them and kissed all the women goodbye on the cheek, and then one of them urged me to kiss her son (who was my age) in the same way, to which I impulsively let down my guard and obliged. The entire family whooped and clapped their hands in glee as I gave him a kiss on the cheek too. The guy was profoundly shaken. I waved goodbye, and they continued dancing to the car radio as I made my way back to the school. Before I turned into the hills where picturesque silhouettes awaited my fanciful vision, I took one last glance back and saw for the first time the colors of the sunset outshone by the moving glittering jewels that studded the grassy green slopes and by the angelfish swimming in the sun-splashed skies. Never forgo a chance to glance back one last time. God, what a vision...
That evening, the teachers and I took the shuttle van to the speedway, but we got stuck in a Cairo-like traffic jam because of all the families driving home after their picnics. Every car was packed with families like a VW stuffed with clowns. Kids sat dangerously at the tops of huge semis, boisterously waving and giggling and yelling in revelry. Entire buses were packed with people clapping and yelling like Xena, with a passenger standing in the front, conducting the revelers with an imaginary baton. New Day and I screamed simultaneously as we both saw the strangest vision of a woman in black Muslim robe and scarf wearing a twisted goblin mask over her face. The flag of Kurdistan- red, white, and green, with a yellow sun in the middle- poked out proudly from every car stuck on the road. Families still camped in the dark with actual tents pitched on the hills overlooking the highway. Someone on the bus claimed he even saw some kids swinging at the end of a construction crane. In the dark fields, I saw a family dancing around a fire, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand...
March 26, 2009
The Accountant and His Three Daughters
I made a visit to the home of the school accountant, whose daughter is in my 2nd grade math class, the splitting image of her father- brains and all- except with long hair. It was a smaller house than others I've been too, but the coziest. I felt so at home as I played with his three daughters. The smallest one is only a year and a half and she loves to catch and throw things- balls, socks, food. The best thing about the parents is, they don't freak out when the baby does this, and simply vacuum the mess up at the end of the day before spreading out the blanket on the floor for dinner. Despite the lax attitude of the parents, the kids are not spoiled at all. The house is comfortably messy, and there are blankets spread out on the floor at the foot of the parents' bed for the kids to play on. The two older daughters adore their youngest sibling and I laughed out loud as the three of them started dancing Kurdish style to the Kurdish music that had been dubbed over the Three Chipmunks movie.
Later, I wandered outside to where the mother was making deep-fried lamb with her aunt, and the three of us chatted about many things in the dark with the sound and smell of sizzling meat until my haunches were numb from sitting on them for so long. Religion is such an important element in the lives of Kurds. It's not just about truth- it's their culture, and as well they really do believe it is the “right“ path. Yet, they didn't condemn me when I told them I wasn't religious, let alone a believer in their Allah. They told me about the mother's uncle who was at the moment lounging on the couch inside, but in another lifetime had been a prisoner of Saddam's party for two years, a victim of hangings and beatings so bad he lost an eye. The uncle kept pulling out ID cards and showing them to me. One of them showed him as a member of the Kurdish Political Prisoners Group. He seemed like one of those grandfatherly figures who had lost an eye in war and seen many tragic things and lived to tell the tales with jolly detachment.
After dinner, we had tea, and then I taught the oldest daughter several card games. Not surprisingly, she caught on to them really quickly, and I found myself actually enjoying the company of an 8-year-old until it was time for me to go home. As we said goodbye, she reminded me to bring my contact solution over next time so I could sleep over. I just might do that.
April 1, 2009
Kid-tonic & the Board Effect
Yesterday, during Lady's Night at the “Sheraton”, I felt sad and annoyed about many things. Then, on the way home, the taxi driver proffered his ring and pinkie finger onto my leg while the other three fingers held onto the stick shift. The annoyance turned into anger, the sadness swelled into tears, and I ended up bawling myself into a drunken stupor on my couch until sleep finally overcame me.
I considered calling out this morning, but I'm so glad I didn't. Teaching is teaching me how to compartmentalize. As much as they wear me out, my kids make me so happy. I don't think I'll ever have a class as smart and animated as my 2nd graders, no matter how many decades years I end up teaching. And damned if I ever met kids as adorable and loving as my kindergardeners.
I took pictures of them today while they played outside, but none of the pictures captured the little mannerisms of each that has made me grow so attached to them this past year. I can't bear the thought of leaving them (except for this one spoiled rotten attention-seeker whom I'd kick out of my class this very day if I could), but it's going to happen in less than three months! Wow...
...they've changed me as much as I have changed them. Empathy, as much as I value it, has always been a weak trait of mine, but these days the first thing I notice when I walk into a classroom is a sad kid among all the happy ones. When I see a kid crying, I see myself during times like last night, and then my heart goes out to them because I know exactly how they feel.
The Board Effect
Earlier this week, I redecorated the board outside my classroom with a flying theme. “Come Fly With Me to KG1 B,”, it says in bubble letters at the top. Below are cloud-sheep, balloons and soon origami butterflies and cranes will be added. While the rest of the class sat inside watching “Dora the Illegal Immigrant”, I let Liya hang out and watch as I worked on the board and described what I was doing to her. At one point, I asked her to go get some staples for me.
“Staples?” she repeated, looking confused.
“Don't worry, I'll get them,” I told her. I got some staples from the classroom and showed her how to insert them into the stapler.
“How do you know to do that?” Liya asked, her voice full of amazement. This is one of my favorite things about teaching little kids. Even with my older 8-year olds, there has been several moments where they are so amazed that I know something that seems like nothing out of the ordinary to me. When did I not know how to insert staples into a stapler, or how to work a water well, or that there exist numbers before zero or between 0 and 1? My kids allow me to vicariously re-live that time of not knowing, and it constantly reminds me that most things are not ordinary.
They also remind me of homophones:
“But Miss Angie!”
“Yes, Ghaid?”
“Why is it when you teach us something, you always after say 'Does that make cents?' How many cents is it?”
It would have been a horribly cheesy joke about our most recent topic of different kinds of currencies, if only he hadn't been dead serious. But his confusion was genuine, so it was like the funniest thing ever.
I showed the class the board when it was almost finished, and of course all they wanted to do was touch it and tear it apart. I had to give them a brief tutorial on how to avoid this wild animal instinct. My kids are so rowdy, and I've finally figured out one of the reasons why: in both of my classes, out of 26 kids, more than 2/3 of them are boys. What's with that?? And Tara acts rougher than some of the boys so the ratio is nearly 4:1 in my KG class. Gee, what a boys' club!
Not that I mind. Not all the boys enjoy guns and punching and other modes of violence. Mohammed the Algerian- probably the smartest kid in my KG class, and so sweet with huge dark eyes that his face and skinny frame have yet to grow into- called me over at the end of the day when it was almost time to go home, and said “Miss Angie, I-I have a question!” (He has a bit of a stutter when he speaks English.)
“What is it Mohammed?” I asked, leaning towards him encouragingly.
“I-I-I want to fly!” He smiled bashfully as my eyes widened in genuine surprise. I often dream of being able to fly- especially when I'm on a plane looking out the window, or laying on the ground staring up at the immense blue sky-, but obviously...It felt peculiar to hear my fanciful dream being voiced aloud by a 5-year-old, with the earnestness of a 5-year-old. How long had this “question” been simmering in his mind, just waiting for the perfect moment to be asked? Possibly all day since I showed them the board.
“Me too, Mohammed!” I replied with just as much earnestness, “I want to fly too!”
Of course, when the other kids heard this, they all started shouting exuberantly, “I want to fly! I want to fly to KG1 B!” Oh dear, look what my board has started. I hope I don't get calls saying a kid of mine tried to jump off a rooftop.
Sweeping
I just spent an hour sweeping my balcony for the first time in months. It was a fucking sandbox! I could have laid out on it in my bathing suit and pretended I was on a beach in Oman again! Okay, it wouldn't be exactly the same. For some reason, laying in sand is acceptable, while laying in dirt makes you an animal.
Sweeping with the sun setting before you is a very meditative activity. A lot of different kinds if people passed by while I was sweeping: Aslan the Historian and the school principal, a couple security guards. “Choni bashi!” I said as Farhad #2, our shuttle driver ambled by. "Hello, Angie flowers!" Farhad had just learned the word “flower” in his English class.
New Day walked by 1 year older, 1 year wiser, and I asked how her birthday was going; a car whizzed by playing American R&B; a moth fluttered up from my balcony as I swept away its dirt nest; and as I set down my broom for a moment to take a break and stretch my neck, I looked up and saw a crescent moon between the vents, hanging tranquilly in an indigo sky. I think the moon exists to remind us of our place in the universe- which is nowhere in particular.
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