Check email. Check coursebook. Review plans for classes--classes which may or may not be consecutive--which will begin in T-minus 27 minutes. Determine whether additional materials need to be printed or photocopied. Commit plans, which have previously remained in your head, to a sheet of paper, folded in half. (It's important to you that this sheet with the Agenda, the Announcements, and the Homework is small. It makes you feel as if everything is more doable. It gives you confidence because there's a finite space to fill up, and it reminds you that you have the ability to improvise when needed.)
Read email. Make mental notes. Mark most emails as unread because you'll deal with them later.
Put computer to sleep. Unplug headphones, mouse, ethernet cable, and power-supply cable. Put computer, coursebook, student workbook, paper-clipped handouts, and half-sheet plan for lessons in computer bag. Wrap up power-supply. Put that in bag, too. Take one more sip of tea from mug. Pick up bag and head out of the office.
Walk along the balcony/corridor, hearing the din of students' voices on the ground-floor below. Say good morning in English and Turkish to a slew of coworkers. Go to the teacher's lounge to get attendance sheet from pigeonhole. Go downstairs.
Say good morning with a friendly tone, but without a smile, to any students who have arrived in the classroom. Set up computer. Make sure the SmartBoard is off by checking this minuscule, hardly transparent button to see whether it is green or red. Type in computer's password. Take the HDMI cable and the USB cable from bag and plug them both into the computer and the wall. Turn on the Smartboard. Hear it make a comforting noise, indicating that it will work. Try touching the projector screen. See that the SmartBoard is actually not working. Switch USB ports. Listen for sounds indicating whether it will work. Sometimes they're there; sometimes they're not. Resolve yourself, annoyed, to the fact that it doesn't seem to be working today. Take pen, marker, clock, and (just in case it magically begins to work) the SmartBoard pen from your computer bag. Write agenda, today's homework assignment, and announcements on the board. Say good morning to more incoming students. Feel a sense of pressure as you note the time and realize that it's T-minus one minute or so. Wonder where half of your students are, but try to be grateful for the punctuality and the bright-eyed looks from the ones who are there.
Begin teaching. Try not to get annoyed by late comers. Try to be patient when students knock on the door before entering. It's not a knock indicating that the student will wait for permission to enter. It's a knock that announces, I'm gonna enter in about one second. And then they enter.
Teach. Use weird, idiosyncratic hand motions to try to make new language more comprehensible. (Ignore the small, nagging voice in your head from your friend who once observed your class and suggested you're hand gestures make you resemble the Abominable Snowman. Ignore the other small nagging voice that reminds you that one of the gestures you're making--as far as you have been informed--indicate that someone is ****ing in the *** according to local interpretations. Ignore the final voice that reminds you that "um," the way you pronounce it, denotes a certain part of female genitalia in Turkish.)
Focus on more important things. Look for instances of students genuinely doing a good job. Praise them. Correct instances of language use that are developmentally appropriate for the class as a whole and individual students. Somewhere, sometime, in each lesson, get a positive, unassailable morsel of enjoyment out of something.
Finish classes. Return to office. Put stuff down. Try to scare up a couple coworkers to join as you make you're way up the campus-road to the cafeteria in the student center at the top of the hill.
Depending on a variety of factors, do your best to make interesting and/or humorous conversation with those around you. On some days just listen. Wait in line for your meal. Scan your ID card, and feel a little pang of guilt because you get this lunch for free. However, your Turkish colleagues don't because it wasn't explicitly mentioned in their employment offer. Sit down at a crowded table, and turn your tray sideways when necessary to make room for others. Eat. Pay attention to the time, especially where you've got afternoon lessons to teach. Finish up. Put your tray in the dirty-tray rack. Walk back down to the English prep-school building that you call home.
Teach in the afternoon.
Return to your office. Take care of what feels like a million administrative issues--recording attendance and participation, answering emails, checking homework, etc. Look over coursebook, and put stars next to activities you'll include in your lessons the next day. Work on specific "materials office"-related assignments, because that's your "committee" for the time being. Do some planning for your American literature class, whether it's putting together a PowerPoint, designing an activity, or grading. Eventually note that most of your officemates have left because the evening has begun encroaching. Hear the office door open, and see the top of Jena's head over the bookcase that obscures your view of the entrance to your office. Make eye contact with her. Know that it's time to go.
Shoulder personal bag. Turn off lights. Lock office door. Find Jena. Head home.
Saturday, November 22, 2014
Saturday, November 15, 2014
A Day in the Life - Part 1 - Getting to School
What is a typical day like?
A typical day begins with my alarm going off at 6:45 in the morning. The alarm has a standard sound--dee dee dee dee *rest* dee dee dee dee. Even though it is cheap, the alarm provides a wealth of information. It says the time (which I have set to military time, so I don't accidentally mis-set the alarm by forgetting to choose a.m. rather than p.m.). It says the day. It says the phase of the moon (maybe this feature makes the alarm popular in Turkey since Qur'anic holidays are set to a lunar calendar). It says the temperature in Celsius (although I can change it to Fahrenheit if I want to). And it says the humidity percentage. But at 6:45 in the morning, I am prone to ignore all of this information because my mind is preoccupied with a sense of indignation that my beauty sleep has been interrupted and now I must do something.
So then I walk across the living room, and there is Jena, sitting at the table. She is listening to NPR from her ipad, and she is applying makeup. She typically rises at least a half hour before me to do Pilates and to shower.
On some days I shower. On others I don't because I've showered the night before. I just douse my head with the handheld shower nozzle which helps to calm down some of my over-excited hairs that are standing on end after a night's sleep.
I eat a breakfast of yogurt and granola that I have made myself. This is one of my favorite parts of the day. One--I really like granola, especially my granola which I've made from honey, peanut butter, and cashews. And two, as I eat, I do some reading. At the moment, I'm slowly making my way through Moby Dick for a second time, although I'm thinking of changing books soon. While I love the book, it is a bit laborious during some sections. What I get out of it these days is mainly the similarities I see between Ahab and my office supervisor at work. After breakfast, I clothe myself, brush my teeth, pick up my bag, and head out the door.
Jena and I walk together to work on most days. We take the elevator down from our crows nest on the eleventh floor. We say, "Günaydın" to the security man. Usually it's the big guy who knows a little English. Sometimes Jena is turned off by his state of perpetual grumpiness, but it doesn't bother me. He seems bored with his job, and he seems like he's been cursed--due to his English--with dealing with all the "yabancılar" (foreigners) day in and day out.
The weather is getting cooler now, but some days are temperate. This was the case this week. The sky is sometimes grey with clouds, but they are often high clouds that don't give you that claustrophobic feeling the way rain clouds do.
We walk through this maze of square fouteen-story apartment buildings. I would compare it to the setting of the film The Maze Runner, but generally the atmosphere is a bit less gloomy than that. As we walk, Jena often wants to talk about our upcoming day at work and the logistics of winter vacation plans--both of which are extremely stress-laden topics for me. At this time of the morning, I prefer silence or music or the news so that I can disconnect from the realities of my somewhat unstimulating daily existence. I often daydream about what life would be like on a whaling ship. Or I yearn for the ability to travel back in time to the middle ages. (I have accidentally become engrossed in Game of Thrones, and normally I would chastise myself for having such a dependance on a television show. These days, though, I give myself a break and view it as a coping mechanism as I go through the requisite phase of adjustment that accompanies moving to another country and beginning a full-time job.)
We pass by a Turkish elementary school each morning, and in the play-yard kids are often running around. Some kids walk to school alone. Others walk with a parent. It's not uncommon to see a father carrying one of those micro-sized backpacks while his child, all bundled up, follows behind. Oddly enough, Jena and I walk by this school at almost the exact same time every morning. Yet, on some days the yard is mostly vacant. On other days the yard is mostly full. Just this past Friday, their bell--which sounds a lot like the Tetris theme song--sounded as we walked by, and all the children went running to the doors with so much enthusiasm that it made me jealous.
When Jena and I get to the top of this little hill, we cross the busy street to the main entrance of our university. I can't think of a better place for a crosswalk or at least a change in speed limit. Since neither are present, we look both ways with an extreme sense of precaution. I should note, too, that this is a divided road, the kind with a grassy median. Looking both ways sounds silly, right? While crossing to the median, you should only need to pay attention to traffic going one direction, right? Not in Turkey. I have been blindsided more than once by a horn from a car going the wrong way.
After this daily little panic attack of getting across the road alive, we walk through the main entrance of the university where things are a bit more mellow. We pass the security checkpoint for cars, and then we get to these gates--I'm not sure what to call them; they're the metal bars that are waist-high that you use in subway stations that revolve after you put your ticket them and push on them. So we get to these things, and on days when my brain has fully shedded the aegis of sleep, everything goes fine. On days when I can't get the damn things to work, and when my Turkish fails me when the security guy comes to help, I begin my days with a heavy sense of frustration and inadequacy. There's slight consolation in the fact that you have to put your ID against the sensor on your left side while you push through the bars on the right side. So counter-intuitive. So Turkey.
The final leg of the walk is pleasant. There are relatively few cars on the street that heads past the auditorium, past the library, and up into the main part of the university. Usually the bread guy drives by. He's one of the bakers who works for the bakery in the bottom floor of the apartment building next to ours. He's pretty patient when I practice my Turkish with him. There's another guy who rides by each day on a bike. I don't know what his job is, but you can tell he's got his ducks in a row. His bike is old, the kind that has a basket in front and those handle bars that bend back toward the rider. He has this piece of plastic, cut from a water bottle and attached to his mudguard. Clearly, he knows from experience that the mudguard, as originally manufactured, isn't working as well as it should. And when he rides up to the university, he does this little move to get around these speed bumps set in place for the cars. The speed bumps are made from these three or four-inch pieces of hard yellow plastic that are attached to the asphalt in two staggered rows. When the bicyclist gets to them, he maneuvers his bike just so between them and doesn't get jostled at all.
To our right on the sidewalk is a small park area. There's a green area that has flowers of various colors along its boarders. There are a few benches under free-standing arches. The scene is symmetrical: a path on the right and one on the left head to two staircases that circle up behind a wall at the far side of the park. Two small waterfalls splash down rocks on either side of the green area. On warm days students hang out here. In the beginning of the school year, there were concerts here as well.
Between the auditorium and the library, you can catch glimpses of the open area down the hill that belongs to the large state-funded university nearby. The university is growing, constantly erecting new buildings; yet, for the time being, there is a magnificent open area that is free from development. It provides a counter-point to the monstrous apartment buildings surrounding its borders.
Our building, the "hazırlık," is the first building on the left, after the main road curves up a steeper hill. Jena and I walk down the sidewalk to the front doors. Sometimes I keep an eye out for stray puppies because coworkers have found them here before. The front doors of our building are sliding glass doors, like those you'd find in a grocery store, but ours are bigger and free from advertisements. They don't have the most sensitive sensors, so sometimes you have to watch your walking pace so that you don't end up running your face into the glass. When the doors don't open, you take a step back and wave your hand up at the black ball at the top. It's not a huge deal, but the action makes me feel like a helpless idiot, nonetheless.
Once inside, we head up some stairs that are beside this strange amphitheater area that is never used for anything official and that faces a wall. The wall crowds in a little too closely on the stage area, and the wall is covered with wallpaper that makes it look like the wall is made from stone. But it's not. I've checked.
Our shared offices are on the top floor of the building, and when we get there, Jena always turns to me and says, "Have a good day." It's very sweet of her. My "You, too." sounds lackluster in comparison. But it's hard to get a longer phrase in because she is quick to disappear into her office, which right at the top of the stairs. I wander down the hall--to my left are more offices and a couple computer labs, to my right is a handrail because the hallway is actually a balcony that looks over the foyer and the amphitheater. When I get to the door at the end, I head in and begin my work day.
A typical day begins with my alarm going off at 6:45 in the morning. The alarm has a standard sound--dee dee dee dee *rest* dee dee dee dee. Even though it is cheap, the alarm provides a wealth of information. It says the time (which I have set to military time, so I don't accidentally mis-set the alarm by forgetting to choose a.m. rather than p.m.). It says the day. It says the phase of the moon (maybe this feature makes the alarm popular in Turkey since Qur'anic holidays are set to a lunar calendar). It says the temperature in Celsius (although I can change it to Fahrenheit if I want to). And it says the humidity percentage. But at 6:45 in the morning, I am prone to ignore all of this information because my mind is preoccupied with a sense of indignation that my beauty sleep has been interrupted and now I must do something.
So then I walk across the living room, and there is Jena, sitting at the table. She is listening to NPR from her ipad, and she is applying makeup. She typically rises at least a half hour before me to do Pilates and to shower.
On some days I shower. On others I don't because I've showered the night before. I just douse my head with the handheld shower nozzle which helps to calm down some of my over-excited hairs that are standing on end after a night's sleep.
I eat a breakfast of yogurt and granola that I have made myself. This is one of my favorite parts of the day. One--I really like granola, especially my granola which I've made from honey, peanut butter, and cashews. And two, as I eat, I do some reading. At the moment, I'm slowly making my way through Moby Dick for a second time, although I'm thinking of changing books soon. While I love the book, it is a bit laborious during some sections. What I get out of it these days is mainly the similarities I see between Ahab and my office supervisor at work. After breakfast, I clothe myself, brush my teeth, pick up my bag, and head out the door.
Jena and I walk together to work on most days. We take the elevator down from our crows nest on the eleventh floor. We say, "Günaydın" to the security man. Usually it's the big guy who knows a little English. Sometimes Jena is turned off by his state of perpetual grumpiness, but it doesn't bother me. He seems bored with his job, and he seems like he's been cursed--due to his English--with dealing with all the "yabancılar" (foreigners) day in and day out.
The weather is getting cooler now, but some days are temperate. This was the case this week. The sky is sometimes grey with clouds, but they are often high clouds that don't give you that claustrophobic feeling the way rain clouds do.
We walk through this maze of square fouteen-story apartment buildings. I would compare it to the setting of the film The Maze Runner, but generally the atmosphere is a bit less gloomy than that. As we walk, Jena often wants to talk about our upcoming day at work and the logistics of winter vacation plans--both of which are extremely stress-laden topics for me. At this time of the morning, I prefer silence or music or the news so that I can disconnect from the realities of my somewhat unstimulating daily existence. I often daydream about what life would be like on a whaling ship. Or I yearn for the ability to travel back in time to the middle ages. (I have accidentally become engrossed in Game of Thrones, and normally I would chastise myself for having such a dependance on a television show. These days, though, I give myself a break and view it as a coping mechanism as I go through the requisite phase of adjustment that accompanies moving to another country and beginning a full-time job.)
We pass by a Turkish elementary school each morning, and in the play-yard kids are often running around. Some kids walk to school alone. Others walk with a parent. It's not uncommon to see a father carrying one of those micro-sized backpacks while his child, all bundled up, follows behind. Oddly enough, Jena and I walk by this school at almost the exact same time every morning. Yet, on some days the yard is mostly vacant. On other days the yard is mostly full. Just this past Friday, their bell--which sounds a lot like the Tetris theme song--sounded as we walked by, and all the children went running to the doors with so much enthusiasm that it made me jealous.
When Jena and I get to the top of this little hill, we cross the busy street to the main entrance of our university. I can't think of a better place for a crosswalk or at least a change in speed limit. Since neither are present, we look both ways with an extreme sense of precaution. I should note, too, that this is a divided road, the kind with a grassy median. Looking both ways sounds silly, right? While crossing to the median, you should only need to pay attention to traffic going one direction, right? Not in Turkey. I have been blindsided more than once by a horn from a car going the wrong way.
After this daily little panic attack of getting across the road alive, we walk through the main entrance of the university where things are a bit more mellow. We pass the security checkpoint for cars, and then we get to these gates--I'm not sure what to call them; they're the metal bars that are waist-high that you use in subway stations that revolve after you put your ticket them and push on them. So we get to these things, and on days when my brain has fully shedded the aegis of sleep, everything goes fine. On days when I can't get the damn things to work, and when my Turkish fails me when the security guy comes to help, I begin my days with a heavy sense of frustration and inadequacy. There's slight consolation in the fact that you have to put your ID against the sensor on your left side while you push through the bars on the right side. So counter-intuitive. So Turkey.
The final leg of the walk is pleasant. There are relatively few cars on the street that heads past the auditorium, past the library, and up into the main part of the university. Usually the bread guy drives by. He's one of the bakers who works for the bakery in the bottom floor of the apartment building next to ours. He's pretty patient when I practice my Turkish with him. There's another guy who rides by each day on a bike. I don't know what his job is, but you can tell he's got his ducks in a row. His bike is old, the kind that has a basket in front and those handle bars that bend back toward the rider. He has this piece of plastic, cut from a water bottle and attached to his mudguard. Clearly, he knows from experience that the mudguard, as originally manufactured, isn't working as well as it should. And when he rides up to the university, he does this little move to get around these speed bumps set in place for the cars. The speed bumps are made from these three or four-inch pieces of hard yellow plastic that are attached to the asphalt in two staggered rows. When the bicyclist gets to them, he maneuvers his bike just so between them and doesn't get jostled at all.
To our right on the sidewalk is a small park area. There's a green area that has flowers of various colors along its boarders. There are a few benches under free-standing arches. The scene is symmetrical: a path on the right and one on the left head to two staircases that circle up behind a wall at the far side of the park. Two small waterfalls splash down rocks on either side of the green area. On warm days students hang out here. In the beginning of the school year, there were concerts here as well.
Between the auditorium and the library, you can catch glimpses of the open area down the hill that belongs to the large state-funded university nearby. The university is growing, constantly erecting new buildings; yet, for the time being, there is a magnificent open area that is free from development. It provides a counter-point to the monstrous apartment buildings surrounding its borders.
Our building, the "hazırlık," is the first building on the left, after the main road curves up a steeper hill. Jena and I walk down the sidewalk to the front doors. Sometimes I keep an eye out for stray puppies because coworkers have found them here before. The front doors of our building are sliding glass doors, like those you'd find in a grocery store, but ours are bigger and free from advertisements. They don't have the most sensitive sensors, so sometimes you have to watch your walking pace so that you don't end up running your face into the glass. When the doors don't open, you take a step back and wave your hand up at the black ball at the top. It's not a huge deal, but the action makes me feel like a helpless idiot, nonetheless.
Once inside, we head up some stairs that are beside this strange amphitheater area that is never used for anything official and that faces a wall. The wall crowds in a little too closely on the stage area, and the wall is covered with wallpaper that makes it look like the wall is made from stone. But it's not. I've checked.
Our shared offices are on the top floor of the building, and when we get there, Jena always turns to me and says, "Have a good day." It's very sweet of her. My "You, too." sounds lackluster in comparison. But it's hard to get a longer phrase in because she is quick to disappear into her office, which right at the top of the stairs. I wander down the hall--to my left are more offices and a couple computer labs, to my right is a handrail because the hallway is actually a balcony that looks over the foyer and the amphitheater. When I get to the door at the end, I head in and begin my work day.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Contrasts
While I was dreaming this morning, I opened my left eye. The bright morning lit our ceiling, our wardrobe, the window, and my nose. Although my thoughts were deeply somnolent, I commanded myself to touch my nose to guarantee my location as fully present whether within a dream or awake. I felt myself touching my face. I saw no change from my open eye. This test having been tried three or so times, I was condemned to this half-world until I called out to myself, jumping up. I went to wipe my face, though now I saw my hands were deep under the covers.
"We felt very nice and snug, the more so since it was so chilly out of doors; indeed out of bed-clothes too, seeing that there was no fire in the room. The more so, I say, because truly to enjoy your bodily warmth some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast. Nothing exists in itself. If you flatter yourself that you are all over comfortable, and have been so a long time, then you cannot be said to be comfortable any more. But if, like Queequeg and me in the bed, the tip of your nose or the crown of your head be slightly chilled, why then, indeed, in the general consciousness you feel most delightfully and unmistakably warm." -Melville, Moby Dick
We explored ancient ruins today. Four Americans who had pulled to the side of the road in Turkey. To the side of a windy dirt road in the foothills. Across the valley from the mighty snow-capped Mt. Erciyes whose ashes once covered all our surroundings and were compacted into loose rock, easily chiseled. We ascended the foothills and dove in and out of man-made caves. Some were multi-story. Some had shelves, cubby spaces for beds, and chimneys clogged with fallen rock. This landscape is our home for now. It exists in parallel with those homes we left, the state we have in common that instilled us with the dialect and culture that so easily brings us together in this foreign land.
"We felt very nice and snug, the more so since it was so chilly out of doors; indeed out of bed-clothes too, seeing that there was no fire in the room. The more so, I say, because truly to enjoy your bodily warmth some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast. Nothing exists in itself. If you flatter yourself that you are all over comfortable, and have been so a long time, then you cannot be said to be comfortable any more. But if, like Queequeg and me in the bed, the tip of your nose or the crown of your head be slightly chilled, why then, indeed, in the general consciousness you feel most delightfully and unmistakably warm." -Melville, Moby Dick
We explored ancient ruins today. Four Americans who had pulled to the side of the road in Turkey. To the side of a windy dirt road in the foothills. Across the valley from the mighty snow-capped Mt. Erciyes whose ashes once covered all our surroundings and were compacted into loose rock, easily chiseled. We ascended the foothills and dove in and out of man-made caves. Some were multi-story. Some had shelves, cubby spaces for beds, and chimneys clogged with fallen rock. This landscape is our home for now. It exists in parallel with those homes we left, the state we have in common that instilled us with the dialect and culture that so easily brings us together in this foreign land.
Friday, October 3, 2014
Cappadocia
Another epistolary post.
Today Jena and I explored a little of Cappadocia. It's a big area, kind of a region, containing a few towns that's known for its houses and underground cities that are carved into the rocks. Somewhere around 1900 years ago, some of the first Christians hid in the area because of persecution from the Romans, I believe. Now the place is totally touristy, kind of like Sedona, if it had ancient history sites everywhere you look. There are lots of "cave" hotels, for instance, that you can stay in. They're built into rocky mountain sides.
To me, the place looks like Bryce Canyon in Utah, although I don't think I've ever been there. The colors here are less spectacular, though. Put another way, it's kind of like the Valley of the Goblins in Goblin Valley, but many of the goblins have been hollowed out for living.
In any case, I thought of you two today because Jena and I stumbled into this place that reminded me a lot of the Fire Furnace in Arches because you couldn't really see where you were going--there were all these waves of rocks and ups and downs and trees and whatnot. There was a mess of narrow trails that went every which way.
Most interesting and scary was this human-made tunnel that went below and through all the rock formations. At times, it was completely black, and since I didn't have a flashlight, I had to use my camera, which produced an eerie orange light for me for a few seconds before the flash went off. At other times there were small holes in the roof that reached to the surface and let some light in. I didn't explore the whole thing because a) I was afraid of the pitch black sections when I could only see so far and so much with my camera, b) I was worried I might trip in the darkness and smack my head, thus leaving Jena with no idea where I was, and c) I had no idea where I'd pop out at times. There were some places where the tunnel was open to a hole above, but the floor of the tunnel was ten feet down or so. What would have really improved the experience would have been a flashlight, so maybe I can go back and do that another day. In fact, I think Jena and I are going back to Cappadocia tomorrow (we have rented a car). We may return to the place we were, but we may just dive into to another area.
Today Jena and I explored a little of Cappadocia. It's a big area, kind of a region, containing a few towns that's known for its houses and underground cities that are carved into the rocks. Somewhere around 1900 years ago, some of the first Christians hid in the area because of persecution from the Romans, I believe. Now the place is totally touristy, kind of like Sedona, if it had ancient history sites everywhere you look. There are lots of "cave" hotels, for instance, that you can stay in. They're built into rocky mountain sides.
To me, the place looks like Bryce Canyon in Utah, although I don't think I've ever been there. The colors here are less spectacular, though. Put another way, it's kind of like the Valley of the Goblins in Goblin Valley, but many of the goblins have been hollowed out for living.
In any case, I thought of you two today because Jena and I stumbled into this place that reminded me a lot of the Fire Furnace in Arches because you couldn't really see where you were going--there were all these waves of rocks and ups and downs and trees and whatnot. There was a mess of narrow trails that went every which way.
Most interesting and scary was this human-made tunnel that went below and through all the rock formations. At times, it was completely black, and since I didn't have a flashlight, I had to use my camera, which produced an eerie orange light for me for a few seconds before the flash went off. At other times there were small holes in the roof that reached to the surface and let some light in. I didn't explore the whole thing because a) I was afraid of the pitch black sections when I could only see so far and so much with my camera, b) I was worried I might trip in the darkness and smack my head, thus leaving Jena with no idea where I was, and c) I had no idea where I'd pop out at times. There were some places where the tunnel was open to a hole above, but the floor of the tunnel was ten feet down or so. What would have really improved the experience would have been a flashlight, so maybe I can go back and do that another day. In fact, I think Jena and I are going back to Cappadocia tomorrow (we have rented a car). We may return to the place we were, but we may just dive into to another area.
Saturday, September 20, 2014
American Literature in Turkey
Disclosure: This is an excerpt from an email I wrote today to a close friend of mine in Flagstaff. Since it's also an overview of one of the classes I'm teaching, I thought it would be interesting to post it. After coming across epistolary literature for my American literature class, like Christopher Columbus's letters, for instance, I have a new interest in the medium. Ideally, I'm not breaching too many privacy concerns.
Yesterday I had my first day of teaching the American lit. class. I had a nice group of eleven students. Honestly, I hope I don't get many more students because I like small classes. My students are an interesting mix with regard to their nationalities: a South African, a Russian (the only male in the class); two Nigerians, a German/Turk, and a handful of Turks. It makes me wonder how one decides to up and come to Turkey for one's undergraduate education. I understand that the school offers a lot of 50-100% tuition-paid scholarships, so that's probably a contributing factor. Like PIE students, though, I can't imagine showing up to a place, having one year (unlike the PIE's two and a half) to become fluent in the country's language and enrolling in classes. Possibly it's easier if you are going into the English Language and Literature major, and you already know English.
In any case, my first class was a long one. The boss said not to give the syllabus and go (like many other teachers do and did); rather he wanted us to make use of the copy machines and keep the students there for the full three hours. And that I did. By the time I was on my fourth PowerPoint, I was like, Holy shit, I do not blame my students for looking worn out. (One of these PowerPoints was actually Syllabus jeopardy, which went really well; it may have been the most engaging part of the class.)
After a discussion of What is Literature? during the second hour of class, we got into Yankee Doodle. What a dumb song. It was one of the first songs I memorized on piano as a kid, and I have probably played it more than 1000 times. I still think it's totally dumb in spite of its interesting origins. Luckily, though, the ridiculous diction and tune didn't seem like it was apparent to my international group of students. Or, at least they didn't act like it was. They even listened patiently to a professional performance of it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IzRhFH5OyHo
I guess the whole time I was viewing the lesson through the eyes of American high schoolers, who would probably have turned off at the notion of listening to what has become a child's song over time.
When I explained the original context of the song--from the Brits about Americans--one of my students said, "I think it's really sad." I asked why. She said, "You said that every American child knows this song, and it's about how stupid Americans are." That comment made me really happy. And it prompted an explanation of the American reappropriation of the song. I really wanted to say, it's like what rappers have done with the n-word, or what queer individuals has done with a slew of slurs. But without knowing how that explanation would go over, I decided to say it's like having a rock thrown at you, and you catching it instead of letting it hurt you.
I think some students got it. I wish I had a better diagnostic information about my students, but I'll probably get that with their first writing assignment which is due next week.
Anyway, thanks for listening to all this about my first day of class. It's simultaneously exciting and confusing, and it's also a ton of work. I feel like I would have told you all this while hanging out in the kitchen at the old Leroux house. Has the tradition of kitchen hanging out continued? I hope so. I guess it's still warm enough to be in the dining/living room, so maybe that's where you'll are these days.
Aside from work, life here is still an adventure. Lots of daily discoveries. Daily existence kind of reminds me of digging a hole in the backyard as a kid. Some of the stuff you find is worth taking note of (the location of grocery stores, places to go running, amiable street animals to pet); some of it's dangerous (fucking every intersection because of the drivers here, open construction sites, holes in the sidewalk). And some of it is just muck to get through (like taking the hot and crowded public transportation). Overall, it's survivable. The good news is that most Turks are really damn nice.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
That That Surrounds Me
Granola is baking in the oven. The oven came from a generous coworker named Justin who had an extra one. It's like a family-sized toaster oven. Justin gave it to us at work, and I carried it home.
My wrist brace is on as I type. The combination of playing basketball and using a computer mouse at work has left me with a case of tendinitis. The wrist brace makes me feel like a cyborg. First, the pharmacy had to order one. When it came in, it was for the wrong hand. Eventually, I got the right one. The guy at the pharmacy put it onto my hand at the counter. I felt like a child and had to loosen it outside.
Our basil plant is dying on the coffee table. Ela, my officemate, took us downtown one day, and when we were walking past the plant stores, I stopped and wanted to buy it. I gave the man what would amount to a twenty dollar bill. He began to go from shop by shop to get change. This happens often. At the florist. At the corner market. Ela pulled the exact amount out of her purse and gave it to the man. She said to take the basil as a gift. Today I've pruned it and tried to give it more sun. I'm not sure how it will fare.
The card for our internet company sits on the coffee table next to the basil. On the card is a phone number in case I want to call them. I don't. Although I've never tried it, I'm guessing that speaking on the phone in Turkish is not my forte. It's hard enough to understand people in person when I have the help of paralinguistic gestures to guide me. The internet we have now is faster. I can use YouTube. But it cuts out sometimes, and I think it's the wiring in the building. On the night that we began the internet-getting extravaganza, the internet guy showed up to my officemate-and-neighbor's apartment earlier than expected. By the time I showed up our translator, another coworker, seemed as if she needed to go. I rushed to agree to a contract. The guy had me sign some papers and gave me a modem. Then he asked for my passport. I asked how long he needed it. My coworker said, "You'll go with him to the store now." I was in my slippers.
Our new bed is made and to my left in the bedroom. It is a queen, I think. One day this week the security man asked for our key. We gave it to him without knowing why. When we got home we had a new bed.
My legs are sore, although I rested all of yesterday and today. On Fridays the male coworkers play soccer together. I know it's called football here, but in the midst of conversations, I always forget and call it soccer. My coworkers say, "It's okay. We understand." I am fairly worthless when I have the ball. I have kicked the air more times than I'd like to admit. I have touched the ball with my hands. I have taken a shot from six feet away from the goal and despite deliberately aiming to the right of the goalie I have kicked it straight at him. Nobody knows what hackey-sacking is here, but I assure them that I can do that.
To my left, Jena is writing an email. She is the only person who understands ours trials and errors as closely as I do. And she is amazing. Case in point: We're at the home improvement store, and she knows the centimeter size for fitted sheets. Meanwhile I'm wondering to myself how I can say "Not King" to a store worker. Another example: After getting her haircut, she walked around with me in the sun today helping me to collect small Weeping Willow branches that I think I can make into baskets. I know this doesn't sound like much, but having a hobby, one that is fairly mindless and something that I can do while watching Star Trek, seems very important right now. Before we left, a professor of ours said that that Jena and I were lucky to begin our married life in a new country together. We could grow together strongly that way. Right now it feels like we have.
My wrist brace is on as I type. The combination of playing basketball and using a computer mouse at work has left me with a case of tendinitis. The wrist brace makes me feel like a cyborg. First, the pharmacy had to order one. When it came in, it was for the wrong hand. Eventually, I got the right one. The guy at the pharmacy put it onto my hand at the counter. I felt like a child and had to loosen it outside.
Our basil plant is dying on the coffee table. Ela, my officemate, took us downtown one day, and when we were walking past the plant stores, I stopped and wanted to buy it. I gave the man what would amount to a twenty dollar bill. He began to go from shop by shop to get change. This happens often. At the florist. At the corner market. Ela pulled the exact amount out of her purse and gave it to the man. She said to take the basil as a gift. Today I've pruned it and tried to give it more sun. I'm not sure how it will fare.
The card for our internet company sits on the coffee table next to the basil. On the card is a phone number in case I want to call them. I don't. Although I've never tried it, I'm guessing that speaking on the phone in Turkish is not my forte. It's hard enough to understand people in person when I have the help of paralinguistic gestures to guide me. The internet we have now is faster. I can use YouTube. But it cuts out sometimes, and I think it's the wiring in the building. On the night that we began the internet-getting extravaganza, the internet guy showed up to my officemate-and-neighbor's apartment earlier than expected. By the time I showed up our translator, another coworker, seemed as if she needed to go. I rushed to agree to a contract. The guy had me sign some papers and gave me a modem. Then he asked for my passport. I asked how long he needed it. My coworker said, "You'll go with him to the store now." I was in my slippers.
Our new bed is made and to my left in the bedroom. It is a queen, I think. One day this week the security man asked for our key. We gave it to him without knowing why. When we got home we had a new bed.
My legs are sore, although I rested all of yesterday and today. On Fridays the male coworkers play soccer together. I know it's called football here, but in the midst of conversations, I always forget and call it soccer. My coworkers say, "It's okay. We understand." I am fairly worthless when I have the ball. I have kicked the air more times than I'd like to admit. I have touched the ball with my hands. I have taken a shot from six feet away from the goal and despite deliberately aiming to the right of the goalie I have kicked it straight at him. Nobody knows what hackey-sacking is here, but I assure them that I can do that.
To my left, Jena is writing an email. She is the only person who understands ours trials and errors as closely as I do. And she is amazing. Case in point: We're at the home improvement store, and she knows the centimeter size for fitted sheets. Meanwhile I'm wondering to myself how I can say "Not King" to a store worker. Another example: After getting her haircut, she walked around with me in the sun today helping me to collect small Weeping Willow branches that I think I can make into baskets. I know this doesn't sound like much, but having a hobby, one that is fairly mindless and something that I can do while watching Star Trek, seems very important right now. Before we left, a professor of ours said that that Jena and I were lucky to begin our married life in a new country together. We could grow together strongly that way. Right now it feels like we have.
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Work 9/2/14
work
meetings
people
trips to get water or chai (tea)
constructing a syllabus that is more internally consistent than it needs to be and that will change immediately upon the beginning of classes
distractions
realizing this is the most time Jena and I have spent apart for the last two or three months
trips to the bathroom
trying to remember everyone's names
getting computer errors in Turkish
learning about my "committee"--materials development and curriculum design
feeling competent thanks to four years of graduate education
finding out how to use the bus website
going on a "tour," which was really an excuse to buy plants, a toaster, bread, and salt and pepper shakers
discussing D. H. Lawrence with a Brit
asking Jena how her day was
easily being tired at night
meetings
people
trips to get water or chai (tea)
constructing a syllabus that is more internally consistent than it needs to be and that will change immediately upon the beginning of classes
distractions
realizing this is the most time Jena and I have spent apart for the last two or three months
trips to the bathroom
trying to remember everyone's names
getting computer errors in Turkish
learning about my "committee"--materials development and curriculum design
feeling competent thanks to four years of graduate education
finding out how to use the bus website
going on a "tour," which was really an excuse to buy plants, a toaster, bread, and salt and pepper shakers
discussing D. H. Lawrence with a Brit
asking Jena how her day was
easily being tired at night
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)