There are days when I seriously doubt whether or not my kids are learning anything. Well, that’s a nice way to say it. Sometimes I wonder why I bother. And yet, there are days when I know why I do.
Recently, the 7th graders have been learning about Ancient Egypt. They have (erroneously) learned that archaeologists are scientists who study artifacts. They also learned what an artifact is. Now, as some of you know, I’m an honorary archaeologist with a bit of experience in the field. And, as some of you might know that while it’s important to me that my kids learn their English, it’s maybe more important to me that they develop their critical thinking skills. With that in mind, I developed a very special project for them, one which took me weeks to prepare. (I’m kind of slow.) They would be archaeologists themselves. Of course, they also had to work on summary writing because that’s the skill in this week’s lesson plan.
People can’t just call themselves archaeologists without a little training. Without boring you with the details, we discussed how it’s possible to learn a whole lot about ancient people by examining the objects with which they were buried. We looked at some of the artifacts from the Sutton Hoo ship burial. I had my reasons. They were purely selfish. But the kids got the message. Afterwards, they were ready to look at some artifacts of their own and make their own interpretations.
Last weekend, I prepared the artifacts. This of course included going to the labyrinth of stores around the Spice Bazaar looking for stuff. Then I spent hours making little things out of air-drying clay and digging through the bits and pieces odds and ends that I tend to collect and put in jars. I concocted 5 bags of artifacts, all from one cemetery, one each belonging to a man, a woman, a girl, a boy and a shaman/priest-like figure. That all but the last are related by common artifacts could be noticed by the more attentive members of the groups.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been artsy-fartsy, so I rather enjoyed my play time and am very proud of my handiwork. I made little babies wrapped in blankets, dolls, axes, shields and swords, bull heads with gold-tipped horns, flutes, masks, toy chickens, and cooking bowls. I found ceramic toy horses I had made a few years ago, tiny crochet hooks, little bells (no whistles), earrings I no longer wear and a whole bunch of other bitty things. Most of the ready-made artifacts were waiting in jars on my bookshelf. I lined my artifacts up on the table and giggled at them before carefully placing them in Ziploc baggies.
Before beginning the project with the kids, I gave them a little lecture about how much work the project took me, and how I had to trust them with the things I had made, therefore they must handle them with care. Then I set down the rules. No one could complain about who was in their group. The designated group leader was responsible for receiving and returning all the intact artifacts. They had to be quiet and respectful, and they had to take detailed notes.
And it worked. My first group was so good, I almost cried. OK, that’s an exaggeration. All the classes who participated were serious, careful and thoughtful. They asked lots of questions. They experimented with different hypotheses. They got it, even the one slower group who had earlier in the week earned my trust. One group with the little girl’s bag learned that maybe archaeologists can’t put together all the pieces of the puzzle. Sometimes, they can’t make decisive conclusions because the evidence just doesn’t make sense. In one class, the group with the protective objects correctly identified their owner as a shaman. (It’s the same word in Turkish.) I almost kissed Mehmet for that one. Another class understood that the family consisted of a mother, father and two children with only one hint: the same kinds of beads were in the mother and daughter’s bags. God love ‘em but I was proud of my kids.
Yet with joy comes sorrow, and my success today was tempered by my group of hopeless kids.
I have one class of 16 students. It’s the smallest 7th grade class because it is the worst on several levels. Each and every one of these 12 boys and 6 girls has some kind of learning and/or behavioral disorder. There’s a near complete range of psychological ones as well. Forget learning English. These kids have difficulty understanding their mother tongue. Don’t get me wrong. I actually like some of them and am fully aware that they did not choose to be the owners of their respective disorders. It’s a good day if I send no one to the office, don’t give a written warning or don’t send for the assistant principal to haul someone out for a lecture. I’m happy when the level of chaos remains low. Two of them recently took to calling me a terrorist. “You terrorista. You live Kurdistan” followed by something spoken so rapidly in Turkish that I could not understand a word. I got the gist. (This is not the group that I previously allowed to talk about the PKK. I ain’t that dumb.) Because I knew that these kids would torture me if I responded angrily, I just told them to sit down and be quiet. My teaching partner gave them a good talking to in Turkish for me. Bless her.
These are the kids on whom the administration has given up. The vast majority of them do not belong in this factory of a school, yet it is nearly impossible to expel them due to laws in Turkey governing education. The boy who last year brought a knife to school and this year a shotgun shell might have been expelled after many reports, but only after a series of psychological tests. It doesn’t take a trained expert to understand that the boy does not comprehend the difference between right and wrong.
They’re not completely stupid though. They’re smart enough to know that since I don’t speak Turkish, they can pull things that they would not dare with other teachers. Today while they were working in groups, drawing pictures of the warrior king from Sutton Hoo, I turned around to see one of the girls smack a boy. She was provoked, but I didn’t see the provocation. As she had been verbally warned several times, I sent her to the office and gave her a written warning. I later discovered from the principal, who is extremely supportive of me, that they had a little bet going on during the class. The boys were deciding which of the girls in the class would get pregnant and by whom. They’re 13. Indeed the girls were scandalized, but they were not innocent in the matter either.
Yes, it’s sad and hopeless.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Potentially Stupid
Two of my six 7th grade classes are extremely difficult. Forty minutes with a variety of learning difficulties and behavioral disorders can make me want to hang myself. (I’m doing research on how to deal with ADD. Hopefully it will help both me and the kids.) Yesterday, I did something that was potentially stupid but at the same time very positive with one of those groups.
As you may know, 12 Turkish soldiers were killed near the Iraqi border on Sunday. The following day, many of the kids in one of my classes were excited about the prospect of military retaliation. In particular, A felt it was good and necessary to kill terrorists. He expressed his enthusiasm by shooting a roomful of imaginary terrorists with a gun formed by his hand. Without giving my opinion on the matter, I managed to settle him and several students who vocally supported his actions.
Yesterday, A entered the classroom with a colored map of Turkey, Iraq and surrounding countries. Before the lesson began, he excitedly tried to tell me what he thought was going to happen, what he thought should happen and where the terrorists were. He was trying so hard to express himself in English that I didn’t want to discourage him. At the same time, if one student holds my attention before the lesson begins, the rest of them go completely nuts and are difficult to settle down. I asked him to sit down, but promised we would talk about it later.
I gauged the mood of the class. All of them were interested in what A had to say and wanted to talk. Had I thought that any one of those students would be offended or upset, I would not have touched the subject. The kids clearly felt a need to talk. While the topic is a sensitive and potentially offensive one, I decided to change the lesson plan on the spot. I called A to the front of the class, and told him he could be the teacher for a few minutes. It was his responsibility to tell the others to be quiet if needed. He went through his routine.
B (these are their first initials) who is normally silent unless called upon, felt compelled to join A at the head of the class. He too tried to express himself in English. When the effort was too difficult and his thoughts flowed too quickly, he fell back on Turkish. T translated for us. Everyone listened. No one imitated gunfire. There was more interaction in English during that lesson than in any other before. Although I do not agree with A, B, T, Y nor C’s opinions, I was really proud of them for their effort. And while I don’t agree with them, I think it is important to give kids a forum in which they can express their opinions if they are not violent or overtly offensive. Clearly, their opinions are shaped by their parents and I was therefore careful to remain neutral.
A produced a handwritten list of 100 kids from the 6th-8th grades who wanted to join the Turkish soldiers. Not all of the names were boys’ names. I found that quite interesting.
I found it odd that the PKK was not directly named for the first 15 minutes of the discussion. Whether they assumed we all knew who was responsible for the 12 deaths, I don’t know.
According to A, the terrorists live in Istanbul, Izmir and Ankara. They spend the day in the city and at night go to the mountains to train. Where exactly those mountains are, he could not say.
While remaining neutral, I started to ask them questions. “Who is in the PKK?” “Americans, Russians...” I was the one person who mentioned the word Kurd. Blame was placed on Americans. “The Americans do this, they do that...” I interrupted to remind them that I’m American. A look of surprised realization came over T’s face and she quickly apologised for offending me. I told her no offense was taken and that although I am American, I do not support what my country has done and is doing in Afghanistan and Iraq. Additionally, and I think they understood, I told them that I would never say that Turkey was good or bad, or that the PKK is good or bad. (Really, I’m in no position to say. Nothing is black and white, I haven’t lived with this reality before, and I never want to be one of those foreigners who steps in to say how things should be run. Additionally, I do not pretend to understand the situation.)
I asked if they knew what the PKK wanted. I drew a really bad map of Turkey and made a circle where I think the PKK wants to establish their own country. IP corrected me, took my chalk and drew a line down the middle of my map. When I asked them why they wanted their own country, they stared at me blankly though they understood the question.
To be honest, not much of the discussion made sense to me, yet this was the first time there was a sustained discussion in my class, and it was the first time of few of them voluntarily spoke. For that reason, I was very proud of my kids and told them so. It’s not often they receive compliments.
During the break, I told a few of my fellow teachers about the class. They were horrified. I later told the assistant to the foreign language department director that we had a discussion about the PKK and terrorism and that the kids were amazing. She didn’t recognize the students’ accomplishment in English; in fact, I don’t think she even heard I said it. Understandably. Without getting angry, she firmly told me never to talk about it again, the subject was too sensitive and I could expect angry phone calls from parents. I went back to the teachers’ room fearing that I would be called into someone’s office the following day to answer for my actions, knowing that my students and I nevertheless experienced something positive.
No parent has called so far. I will never touch the subject in class again.
My second potentially stupid action is to post this story on a blog. I’m not so paranoid to think that some government association will track me down to question me about what I’ve written, but I do know that I’ve opened myself to negative criticism, not to mention being called stupid.
As you may know, 12 Turkish soldiers were killed near the Iraqi border on Sunday. The following day, many of the kids in one of my classes were excited about the prospect of military retaliation. In particular, A felt it was good and necessary to kill terrorists. He expressed his enthusiasm by shooting a roomful of imaginary terrorists with a gun formed by his hand. Without giving my opinion on the matter, I managed to settle him and several students who vocally supported his actions.
Yesterday, A entered the classroom with a colored map of Turkey, Iraq and surrounding countries. Before the lesson began, he excitedly tried to tell me what he thought was going to happen, what he thought should happen and where the terrorists were. He was trying so hard to express himself in English that I didn’t want to discourage him. At the same time, if one student holds my attention before the lesson begins, the rest of them go completely nuts and are difficult to settle down. I asked him to sit down, but promised we would talk about it later.
I gauged the mood of the class. All of them were interested in what A had to say and wanted to talk. Had I thought that any one of those students would be offended or upset, I would not have touched the subject. The kids clearly felt a need to talk. While the topic is a sensitive and potentially offensive one, I decided to change the lesson plan on the spot. I called A to the front of the class, and told him he could be the teacher for a few minutes. It was his responsibility to tell the others to be quiet if needed. He went through his routine.
B (these are their first initials) who is normally silent unless called upon, felt compelled to join A at the head of the class. He too tried to express himself in English. When the effort was too difficult and his thoughts flowed too quickly, he fell back on Turkish. T translated for us. Everyone listened. No one imitated gunfire. There was more interaction in English during that lesson than in any other before. Although I do not agree with A, B, T, Y nor C’s opinions, I was really proud of them for their effort. And while I don’t agree with them, I think it is important to give kids a forum in which they can express their opinions if they are not violent or overtly offensive. Clearly, their opinions are shaped by their parents and I was therefore careful to remain neutral.
A produced a handwritten list of 100 kids from the 6th-8th grades who wanted to join the Turkish soldiers. Not all of the names were boys’ names. I found that quite interesting.
I found it odd that the PKK was not directly named for the first 15 minutes of the discussion. Whether they assumed we all knew who was responsible for the 12 deaths, I don’t know.
According to A, the terrorists live in Istanbul, Izmir and Ankara. They spend the day in the city and at night go to the mountains to train. Where exactly those mountains are, he could not say.
While remaining neutral, I started to ask them questions. “Who is in the PKK?” “Americans, Russians...” I was the one person who mentioned the word Kurd. Blame was placed on Americans. “The Americans do this, they do that...” I interrupted to remind them that I’m American. A look of surprised realization came over T’s face and she quickly apologised for offending me. I told her no offense was taken and that although I am American, I do not support what my country has done and is doing in Afghanistan and Iraq. Additionally, and I think they understood, I told them that I would never say that Turkey was good or bad, or that the PKK is good or bad. (Really, I’m in no position to say. Nothing is black and white, I haven’t lived with this reality before, and I never want to be one of those foreigners who steps in to say how things should be run. Additionally, I do not pretend to understand the situation.)
I asked if they knew what the PKK wanted. I drew a really bad map of Turkey and made a circle where I think the PKK wants to establish their own country. IP corrected me, took my chalk and drew a line down the middle of my map. When I asked them why they wanted their own country, they stared at me blankly though they understood the question.
To be honest, not much of the discussion made sense to me, yet this was the first time there was a sustained discussion in my class, and it was the first time of few of them voluntarily spoke. For that reason, I was very proud of my kids and told them so. It’s not often they receive compliments.
During the break, I told a few of my fellow teachers about the class. They were horrified. I later told the assistant to the foreign language department director that we had a discussion about the PKK and terrorism and that the kids were amazing. She didn’t recognize the students’ accomplishment in English; in fact, I don’t think she even heard I said it. Understandably. Without getting angry, she firmly told me never to talk about it again, the subject was too sensitive and I could expect angry phone calls from parents. I went back to the teachers’ room fearing that I would be called into someone’s office the following day to answer for my actions, knowing that my students and I nevertheless experienced something positive.
No parent has called so far. I will never touch the subject in class again.
My second potentially stupid action is to post this story on a blog. I’m not so paranoid to think that some government association will track me down to question me about what I’ve written, but I do know that I’ve opened myself to negative criticism, not to mention being called stupid.
Misconceptions
Recently, I had a phone conversation with my dad. He jokingly asked me how life was in the Middle East. As with many jokes, there was an underlying sense of anxiety to it. Slightly offended, and wanting to set things right, I firmly reminded him that I don’t live in the Middle East. Technically, I live in Europe. While Istanbul isn’t as “European” (whatever that means) as say, Paris or London, it’s not Beirut either. I live in no more danger than in New York or Bloomer, Wisconsin for that matter so don’t worry about me Dad.
On a recent trip to the United States, two of my ultra-conservative, hyper-Catholic (we are meant to suffer in this world so we can gain an eternity of happiness) relatives made derogatory references to my proximity to Muslims. With mouths squeezed into sphincters “So, how are those Muslims treating you?” and “Whatever you do, don’t let those Muslims get you down.” In both instances, my back went stiff and all the hairs on my neck stood straight. I wasn’t nice to the first relative by coldly stating that there were stauncher nationalists and more narrow-minded people in the same room as we were. Their beloved Christian, god-fearing George Bush and friends are far more dangerous to all of us than the man from whom I buy dried figs. I was too aggravated to deal with the second. I can’t unpaint that black and white world, a world in which there is only one true god and all other people regardless of religious affiliation will burn in the hellfire of damnation.
It’s already established that I’m going to hell in a hand basket.
On a recent trip to the United States, two of my ultra-conservative, hyper-Catholic (we are meant to suffer in this world so we can gain an eternity of happiness) relatives made derogatory references to my proximity to Muslims. With mouths squeezed into sphincters “So, how are those Muslims treating you?” and “Whatever you do, don’t let those Muslims get you down.” In both instances, my back went stiff and all the hairs on my neck stood straight. I wasn’t nice to the first relative by coldly stating that there were stauncher nationalists and more narrow-minded people in the same room as we were. Their beloved Christian, god-fearing George Bush and friends are far more dangerous to all of us than the man from whom I buy dried figs. I was too aggravated to deal with the second. I can’t unpaint that black and white world, a world in which there is only one true god and all other people regardless of religious affiliation will burn in the hellfire of damnation.
It’s already established that I’m going to hell in a hand basket.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Some days are just good
It’s Wednesday. Wednesdays are my worst days at work. I teach six out of eight school hours. Three of those are with my two most difficult classes. Two of those hours are back to back. If I can get even one of these groups to open their notebooks by the fifth time I’ve told them to do so, I will have achieved a great goal.
Despite Wednesdays, I do enjoy my job teaching 7th graders. Yet, there’s something missing in the order of an intellectual challenge. At heart, I’m an art historian. I miss researching and teaching it. I miss the kinds of questions we ask of objects, wrapping my brain around what something built/painted/constructed/sculpted might just mean and why, not to mention how those things are made. And I miss talking about such things with other people who care about them. Rather than just complain about it in my recently developed lazy fashion, I decided to find a project. I am now going to learn about Anatolian kilims. Just for fun. No papers to write, no tests to take, no proving to anyone that I am a dedicated student.
There is a very special carpet and rug shop in Ortakoy, run by a kind and generous woman. She’s one of those elegant and graceful people who would make me feel like a huge bull in a tiny China shop if she weren’t so very nice. Once I sat in her office for a good while, sipping tea, staring at a kilim hanging on the wall and wondering why its weaver made some odd design choices. On a whim, and possibly because it’s Wednesday, I decided to venture to Ortakoy, tell her (the shop owner, not the long-dead weaver) about my project and ask for her advice. Since it’s a bit presumptuous for a relative stranger to ask someone for advice out-of-the-blue, I brought pastries for her and her family for “iftar,” the meal that breaks the sun up to down fast during Ramazan.
I was warmly greeted. I was warmly thanked for the pastries. I explained my project and why I needed to have it. She was excited and pleased, maybe because I had asked for her help, probably because she loves kilims, even more than rugs. She led me to her book shelf and pulled out a large volume. Lovingly, she opened the pages, pointing out illustrations of how wool is cleaned and certain patterns are woven, and charts of various ingredients for dyes. The symbols, she said, are not the most important thing. Oh no. It’s the wool and how it is prepared. I was convinced. Reading is a good way to start, she said, but the best way to learn is to watch the making of the kilims. (That’s a project for further down the road.) She assured me that it would not be a bother if I came to ask questions. I left after a story or two and happily walked home to Besiktas.
I stopped at the bakkal (convenience store) across from my apartment. It was just after fast-breaking. Ahmet Bey and his helper were hunched over their meal, a pan of eggs and pastirma (a salty, dried meat), a dish of pickled vegetables and bread, set on a low, paper-covered table. I respect those who fast and do not want to interrupt their long awaited meal. As I was setting 2YTL on the counter for a carton of milk, Ahmet told me, in no uncertain terms, to sit and eat. His assistant brought me a fork with which I ate from the same pan as these friends. Last year, one of my Turkish students critically called Turks uneducated and primitive because they often eat from the same dish. I disagree. Maybe I misunderstand this ritual, but I like how it makes us hunch together, both literally and figuratively. But god help me, I’m the messiest eater and had dropped more than one chunk of pastirma in my lap. I don’t think anyone really noticed. After a glass of hot tea, I thanked Ahmet and excused to go home.
I weighed my Wednesday work day against my random experiences and decided that overall, some days are just good.
Despite Wednesdays, I do enjoy my job teaching 7th graders. Yet, there’s something missing in the order of an intellectual challenge. At heart, I’m an art historian. I miss researching and teaching it. I miss the kinds of questions we ask of objects, wrapping my brain around what something built/painted/constructed/sculpted might just mean and why, not to mention how those things are made. And I miss talking about such things with other people who care about them. Rather than just complain about it in my recently developed lazy fashion, I decided to find a project. I am now going to learn about Anatolian kilims. Just for fun. No papers to write, no tests to take, no proving to anyone that I am a dedicated student.
There is a very special carpet and rug shop in Ortakoy, run by a kind and generous woman. She’s one of those elegant and graceful people who would make me feel like a huge bull in a tiny China shop if she weren’t so very nice. Once I sat in her office for a good while, sipping tea, staring at a kilim hanging on the wall and wondering why its weaver made some odd design choices. On a whim, and possibly because it’s Wednesday, I decided to venture to Ortakoy, tell her (the shop owner, not the long-dead weaver) about my project and ask for her advice. Since it’s a bit presumptuous for a relative stranger to ask someone for advice out-of-the-blue, I brought pastries for her and her family for “iftar,” the meal that breaks the sun up to down fast during Ramazan.
I was warmly greeted. I was warmly thanked for the pastries. I explained my project and why I needed to have it. She was excited and pleased, maybe because I had asked for her help, probably because she loves kilims, even more than rugs. She led me to her book shelf and pulled out a large volume. Lovingly, she opened the pages, pointing out illustrations of how wool is cleaned and certain patterns are woven, and charts of various ingredients for dyes. The symbols, she said, are not the most important thing. Oh no. It’s the wool and how it is prepared. I was convinced. Reading is a good way to start, she said, but the best way to learn is to watch the making of the kilims. (That’s a project for further down the road.) She assured me that it would not be a bother if I came to ask questions. I left after a story or two and happily walked home to Besiktas.
I stopped at the bakkal (convenience store) across from my apartment. It was just after fast-breaking. Ahmet Bey and his helper were hunched over their meal, a pan of eggs and pastirma (a salty, dried meat), a dish of pickled vegetables and bread, set on a low, paper-covered table. I respect those who fast and do not want to interrupt their long awaited meal. As I was setting 2YTL on the counter for a carton of milk, Ahmet told me, in no uncertain terms, to sit and eat. His assistant brought me a fork with which I ate from the same pan as these friends. Last year, one of my Turkish students critically called Turks uneducated and primitive because they often eat from the same dish. I disagree. Maybe I misunderstand this ritual, but I like how it makes us hunch together, both literally and figuratively. But god help me, I’m the messiest eater and had dropped more than one chunk of pastirma in my lap. I don’t think anyone really noticed. After a glass of hot tea, I thanked Ahmet and excused to go home.
I weighed my Wednesday work day against my random experiences and decided that overall, some days are just good.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
How to take a shower
Some apartments in Istanbul that were built in the 1970s and ‘80s were equipped with very basic bathrooms. For example, the shower consists of a shower head and a drain on the floor. These may be situated close to a toilet. In subsequent years, the bathroom may have been modified. Mine is one of those. A square plastic “floor” with a shallow rim sits below the either hand-held or stationary shower head. It is surrounded by a curtain suspended by a rod held by a chain from the ceiling. Because the room is small, and due to the above-mentioned modifications, taking a shower requires preparation.
Except during the hottest days of summer, turn the water heater dial to 2. While waiting for the little light to turn green, make and leisurely drink a cup of coffee and contemplate the day ahead.
When the water temperature has sufficiently risen, remove the mop and corresponding bucket and the clothes basket stored in the shower and place them under the sink.
Lift the drain cover below the toilet brush holder and place the end of the plastic hose extending from the shower “floor” and behind the toilet over the opened drain. Since we tried to unclog the shower with commercial drain cleaner (the package said the product was safe to use on plastic pipes: unfortunately it deformed the hose) this hose must be propped against the drain cover and the toilet brush holder to prevent a large puddle from forming on the floor. These procedures take less time to perform than to describe and soon become habit.
While taking a shower, be careful to avoid water from escaping the immediate area to further prevent puddle formation.
Accept that no matter how diligent you are, or how carefully you have propped the hose, you will invariably cause water to leak behind and in front of the toilet. This usually happens when you are in a hurry or late for work.
Following your shower, mop the floor, pushing water down the drain. Reverse the above preparatory procedures, i.e. replace the mop, bucket and clothes basket, and turn the water heater back to zero.
Have a second cup of coffee and resume contemplating the day ahead.
Washing clothes in the same room also requires certain procedures, yet in comparison, these are much simpler.
The washing machine in our bathroom is hooked up so that water can enter the machine, but not automatically exit it through a drain. After loading the laundry, remove the hose from behind the machine and place the hook shaped end into the toilet. Failure to do so will result in a flooded bathroom. Adjust the dials to the desired temperature. Push the power button and jam a toothpick in the space between it and the adjacent button so that the power remains on.
Be grateful that you have a washing machine in the apartment.
To be clear, I’m not complaining. I like my apartment, and don’t mind the bathroom at all.
Except during the hottest days of summer, turn the water heater dial to 2. While waiting for the little light to turn green, make and leisurely drink a cup of coffee and contemplate the day ahead.
When the water temperature has sufficiently risen, remove the mop and corresponding bucket and the clothes basket stored in the shower and place them under the sink.
Lift the drain cover below the toilet brush holder and place the end of the plastic hose extending from the shower “floor” and behind the toilet over the opened drain. Since we tried to unclog the shower with commercial drain cleaner (the package said the product was safe to use on plastic pipes: unfortunately it deformed the hose) this hose must be propped against the drain cover and the toilet brush holder to prevent a large puddle from forming on the floor. These procedures take less time to perform than to describe and soon become habit.
While taking a shower, be careful to avoid water from escaping the immediate area to further prevent puddle formation.
Accept that no matter how diligent you are, or how carefully you have propped the hose, you will invariably cause water to leak behind and in front of the toilet. This usually happens when you are in a hurry or late for work.
Following your shower, mop the floor, pushing water down the drain. Reverse the above preparatory procedures, i.e. replace the mop, bucket and clothes basket, and turn the water heater back to zero.
Have a second cup of coffee and resume contemplating the day ahead.
Washing clothes in the same room also requires certain procedures, yet in comparison, these are much simpler.
The washing machine in our bathroom is hooked up so that water can enter the machine, but not automatically exit it through a drain. After loading the laundry, remove the hose from behind the machine and place the hook shaped end into the toilet. Failure to do so will result in a flooded bathroom. Adjust the dials to the desired temperature. Push the power button and jam a toothpick in the space between it and the adjacent button so that the power remains on.
Be grateful that you have a washing machine in the apartment.
To be clear, I’m not complaining. I like my apartment, and don’t mind the bathroom at all.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
I Kind of Hated My Job
My unexplained absence for the past few months has been due to a lack of computer. When I left my previous job, I had to hand in my laptop. (See below.) This is not to say that I have not made some priceless observations. Au contraire. I’ve got them stored right up here. (You can’t see me, but I’m tapping my forehead with my index finger. Not a hammer.)
I’m now writing to you from my new, indeed my very first brand new to me, computer. That I bought it and the office software package all by myself and primarily in Turkish, is a point of pride.
While I take time to organize my thoughts on a recent trip to the States, the end of my first year teaching in a private school, and the 25th high school reunion which I did not attend, I leave you with the following. For obvious reasons, I couldn’t post it earlier.
I Kind of Hated My Job
Due to lack of teaching space in the school, I used to teach on the ground floor of a converted villa. It was alternately used as a ballet room for the little kids, a storage space, the chess activity room, an office for teachers and administrators who wanted to hide for a few hours, and an English classroom. Since the beginning of the year, I fought with the powers that be to respect the space as a classroom. Every week it was something new: cleaners and maintenance people doing little repairs or moving furniture in the middle of class, the chess teacher rearranging everything and trying to muscle his way into the space... My younger students had the attention spans of one tsetse fly between them and didn’t really need such distractions.
The school also had, and as far as I know still has, a cat. He was a dirty -should- be -white -but - sidewalk –colored, and was "adopted" by the school when he was a kitten. The director is so full of himself that he baptized the cat with a feminine version of his own name. Unlike the director, the cat dropped a pair of testicles, but retained his given feminine name. The housekeeping staff left food for him during the week. A constant presence in the school, he habitually slept directly in the middle of the floor in front of the first floor staircase, ignoring children and teachers who would carefully walk around him. For a few weeks, he took it upon himself to spray the desks in the English department offices, rendering it impossible to work in them. We were going to take up a collection to get him snipped, but he must have gotten wind of it because he subsequently chose to mark the 6th grade room instead.
One Monday morning, I went to the villa early to set up a projector to watch Bowling for Columbine, and to chase out the two women who usually worked in there until after I brought my students to it and reminded them that I had a class. (They were always shocked that I was going to use the room for teaching purposes. Clearly, a teacher leading 8 students carrying notebooks wasn’t much of a clue.) Much to my surprise there was one desk in the room. Hmmm. How to hold class with one desk and no tables? I found the principal, in whom I had little confidence, who feigned surprise at the lack of proper classroom furniture. Indeed she was the one who instructed the staff to move them in the first place. She decided to look for a different classroom for me, as if one would magically appear in a broom closet. I told her I didn't need desks immediately as we were watching a film, but when and if she did find some, to replace them during recess so as not to interrupt my lessons.
The kids were happy to relax, and asked permission to use the large pillows stored on the side of the room opposite the classroom area. (The room was quite large as it was the bottom floor of a converted house.) Two minutes later, the girls had installed themselves in the place farthest from the projector to concentrate intently on something. Ah, it was the cat. As if it was a rare treat to caress a filthy creature that they saw roughly 20 times a day. I noticed that there were food and water dishes and a litter box in the corner. Hmmm. It did not bode well.
I gave the group my usual, "look at this face and tell me how happy it isn't about wasting time therefore don't aggravate me anymore" speech. Because I can be quite threatening, they complied and soon we were watching the film projected against the whiteboard. Not 3 minutes later, the cat started to traverse the floor with one leg twisted underneath and behind him. Michael Moore became priority number two. Slowly, the cat dragged himself to the litter box where he proceeded to make a deposit of the same number. Of course, all eyes were on him, including mine. My classroom had become a large kitty box. Since the smell of cat deposit makes me want to lose all 3 of my morning cups of coffee, I opened windows as the cat continued his ass-scraping, post litter box journey across the floor. Perhaps prompted by my angry reaction, one student asked the rhetorical question "And this is supposed to be a classroom?" Because the students were concerned about the cat, I'm not so cold-hearted that I didn't notice something was wrong, and because I wasn't going to get anything done otherwise, I told one of the girls to pick the cat up gently, set him on a pillow and pay attention to the movie.
During break I shot an e-mail to the principal to tell her that the lack of desks was disrespectful to me and my students, and that while I have sympathy for injured animals (we later learned that he had been hit by a car over the weekend and was put in the room by the security guards,) my classroom was no place for a cat to relieve himself.
Sometime during recess, a few desks were replaced in the room and I could proceed with my young tsetses as usual. I had warned them that the cat would be in the room, that he was injured, and that they were in no way shape or form to bother him. 10 minutes before class ended, the friendly maintenance man entered the room with a cardboard box, put the cat in it and took him outside. The litter box full of presents was, of course, left in the corner. It took me a few minutes to redirect the attention of the boys, my flightiest of tsetse flies, and a long moment to calm my anger.
When I left, the cat was sitting in the box near the exterior door of the villa.
When I returned to the classroom two days later, the litter box and deposits remained. I resisted the temptation to tip its contents on the principal’s desk.
Post Script
1. I want to emphasize that not all aspects of my job were intolerable. The majority of my colleagues were (and probably still are) remarkable people.
2. Despite the fact that some of my students had the attention span of a tsetse fly, I do love them and will miss them.
3. The cat was subsequently taken to the vet hospital where his broken hip was repaired. For about a month, he kept a low profile but recovered nicely. He was not, however, fixed.
I’m now writing to you from my new, indeed my very first brand new to me, computer. That I bought it and the office software package all by myself and primarily in Turkish, is a point of pride.
While I take time to organize my thoughts on a recent trip to the States, the end of my first year teaching in a private school, and the 25th high school reunion which I did not attend, I leave you with the following. For obvious reasons, I couldn’t post it earlier.
I Kind of Hated My Job
Due to lack of teaching space in the school, I used to teach on the ground floor of a converted villa. It was alternately used as a ballet room for the little kids, a storage space, the chess activity room, an office for teachers and administrators who wanted to hide for a few hours, and an English classroom. Since the beginning of the year, I fought with the powers that be to respect the space as a classroom. Every week it was something new: cleaners and maintenance people doing little repairs or moving furniture in the middle of class, the chess teacher rearranging everything and trying to muscle his way into the space... My younger students had the attention spans of one tsetse fly between them and didn’t really need such distractions.
The school also had, and as far as I know still has, a cat. He was a dirty -should- be -white -but - sidewalk –colored, and was "adopted" by the school when he was a kitten. The director is so full of himself that he baptized the cat with a feminine version of his own name. Unlike the director, the cat dropped a pair of testicles, but retained his given feminine name. The housekeeping staff left food for him during the week. A constant presence in the school, he habitually slept directly in the middle of the floor in front of the first floor staircase, ignoring children and teachers who would carefully walk around him. For a few weeks, he took it upon himself to spray the desks in the English department offices, rendering it impossible to work in them. We were going to take up a collection to get him snipped, but he must have gotten wind of it because he subsequently chose to mark the 6th grade room instead.
One Monday morning, I went to the villa early to set up a projector to watch Bowling for Columbine, and to chase out the two women who usually worked in there until after I brought my students to it and reminded them that I had a class. (They were always shocked that I was going to use the room for teaching purposes. Clearly, a teacher leading 8 students carrying notebooks wasn’t much of a clue.) Much to my surprise there was one desk in the room. Hmmm. How to hold class with one desk and no tables? I found the principal, in whom I had little confidence, who feigned surprise at the lack of proper classroom furniture. Indeed she was the one who instructed the staff to move them in the first place. She decided to look for a different classroom for me, as if one would magically appear in a broom closet. I told her I didn't need desks immediately as we were watching a film, but when and if she did find some, to replace them during recess so as not to interrupt my lessons.
The kids were happy to relax, and asked permission to use the large pillows stored on the side of the room opposite the classroom area. (The room was quite large as it was the bottom floor of a converted house.) Two minutes later, the girls had installed themselves in the place farthest from the projector to concentrate intently on something. Ah, it was the cat. As if it was a rare treat to caress a filthy creature that they saw roughly 20 times a day. I noticed that there were food and water dishes and a litter box in the corner. Hmmm. It did not bode well.
I gave the group my usual, "look at this face and tell me how happy it isn't about wasting time therefore don't aggravate me anymore" speech. Because I can be quite threatening, they complied and soon we were watching the film projected against the whiteboard. Not 3 minutes later, the cat started to traverse the floor with one leg twisted underneath and behind him. Michael Moore became priority number two. Slowly, the cat dragged himself to the litter box where he proceeded to make a deposit of the same number. Of course, all eyes were on him, including mine. My classroom had become a large kitty box. Since the smell of cat deposit makes me want to lose all 3 of my morning cups of coffee, I opened windows as the cat continued his ass-scraping, post litter box journey across the floor. Perhaps prompted by my angry reaction, one student asked the rhetorical question "And this is supposed to be a classroom?" Because the students were concerned about the cat, I'm not so cold-hearted that I didn't notice something was wrong, and because I wasn't going to get anything done otherwise, I told one of the girls to pick the cat up gently, set him on a pillow and pay attention to the movie.
During break I shot an e-mail to the principal to tell her that the lack of desks was disrespectful to me and my students, and that while I have sympathy for injured animals (we later learned that he had been hit by a car over the weekend and was put in the room by the security guards,) my classroom was no place for a cat to relieve himself.
Sometime during recess, a few desks were replaced in the room and I could proceed with my young tsetses as usual. I had warned them that the cat would be in the room, that he was injured, and that they were in no way shape or form to bother him. 10 minutes before class ended, the friendly maintenance man entered the room with a cardboard box, put the cat in it and took him outside. The litter box full of presents was, of course, left in the corner. It took me a few minutes to redirect the attention of the boys, my flightiest of tsetse flies, and a long moment to calm my anger.
When I left, the cat was sitting in the box near the exterior door of the villa.
When I returned to the classroom two days later, the litter box and deposits remained. I resisted the temptation to tip its contents on the principal’s desk.
Post Script
1. I want to emphasize that not all aspects of my job were intolerable. The majority of my colleagues were (and probably still are) remarkable people.
2. Despite the fact that some of my students had the attention span of a tsetse fly, I do love them and will miss them.
3. The cat was subsequently taken to the vet hospital where his broken hip was repaired. For about a month, he kept a low profile but recovered nicely. He was not, however, fixed.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
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