Friday, October 9, 2009

People Who Need People

I'm in a strange state of ambivalence at the moment - one part of me feels like it wants to stay inside and watch old movies, cook a good meal and drink some good wine, while the other is frantic and anxious for any opportunity to run hysterically from the quiet comfort of my house.

It's 9:00pm on a Friday night, the first day of my 4-day weekend (due to a festival on Monday, school is closed). I woke up this morning after a night of a bit too much vino feeling quite good, considering, and did some yoga before washing up and sitting down to a good breakfast. I realized this week that I'd earned a little more in September than I'd anticipated, so I decided I can squeeze a new winter coat out of this month's budget, and this is the weekend I chose to do my coat shopping. I've now returned from my coat search empty-handed and strangely frazzled from the experience. I feel like crying, and I don't know why.

I really need people. It blows my mind how strong my conviction is to avoid calling people just for the sake of company. I convince myself that I'm happier alone, that I can be more productive if I stay home, that I don't want to stay out late at night and waste the next day's morning, that I'll just be bored when I meet up with whoever for drinks...knowing full well that's a load of BS. Is this social anxiety disorder?? Do I need professional help, or just a good gal pal?

The situation is dire: I will not make it through 4 days of free time without a single conversation with a live, face-to-face human. Just being in the shops today for 3 hours or so, alone with my headphones plugged in to avoid having to talk to any of the shop clerks, was enough to set me on edge. I feel like I want to jump off a cliff. Or into a good chat...preferably with someone who doesn't suck.

Sunday, October 4, 2009

A little gloom never hurt anybody

How personal should you allow yourself to be via blog?? I'm a person who never wanted to be the type of person who blogs (judgmental, maybe?), but I succumbed about 2 years ago, citing the excuse that it's an easy way to update friends and family, all at once, while living abroad. Easy enough justification. Yet no matter how surface-level I try to keep things when I'm writing a new post, some part of me wants to slide into introspection - perhaps due to the cathartic nature of the writing process itself, but I'm afraid it's also because the only time I find to blog is when I'm B-O-R-E-D, (a.k.a. - a little bit depressed).

So, disclaimer: this one is going to be a bit personal, a bit of a purge of self doubts and insecurities and unneccessary worries, although to be point-blank honest about the current state of my life in all sectors (professional, romantic, physical/health), most people have the right to kick me for complaining.

But first, I want to give thanks (to keep things in balance, of course):
Since moving to Spain, I've come into myself. It no longer seems weird to call myself a "woman," and though I don't even know what the world's definition of that is anymore, I'm proud to say I've got my own and I fit it to a T. I'm not afraid of the future anymore, and I'm not sure if that's just a milestone that comes for everyone at a certain point in life or if it's something to feel good about that I've reached it at all, and especially so young. Whatever the reason, I feel secure in myself and my place in the world - and I'm humbled daily by what a big, big world it is, and what a small, small place I hold. This is not to say that I'm naiive, that I think because life is going so well for me now that nothing bad could ever change it all, but just to say I'm thankful to have what I do, and to be open enough to recognize and appreciate it.

That being said, despite all the positive self-development that's happened since moving abroad, I'm shockingly aware as the months drift by of my inequities, namely my glaring lack of a social life. There are things that I want for myself (hello - friends!!!) and that, though I know what I want and how to get it, for the life of me, I can't bring myself to just go out there and get. And I wonder, if I'm so sure that I'm sure about who I am at this point in my life, what's stopping me from making my life not just what I'm comfortable with but what I wholeheartedly want it to be? Some possible culprits come to mind:

1) Laziness
I love my father and that side of my family to a ridiculous degree, but of course love comes with seeing and accepting the faults of the ones you care about. I'm not blind to my father's family's lazy streak - which is so acknowledged amongst the Knox's as to be joked about as if it were an inherited trait. Making light of our faults is fine and all, but I've secretly always been terrified of being lazy. This logically has more to do with my mother and stepfather constantly telling me and my older brother we were lazy-ass good-for-nothings who didn't appreciate what we had. I grew up with my mother and didn't have contact with my father or his family thoughout my formative years, and so never knew their laziness until I was adult enough to see it for what it was, which is fortunate I guess. But in the back of my mind, as scary as it is to admit, I'd be remiss to ignore my inner sloth that, when the heat is on, wants to just retreat under the covers and sleep til 4:00pm, or until someone just happens to come along or call me and I have a reason to get out of bed. It's fine to joke about a behavior as an inherited trait, but I think my laziness is genetic - otherwise, how do you explain my being lazy if I never had the "nurture" side from my father's influence? My mother might be a nut-bag, but she's anything but lazy; my father's Achilles heel is undoubtedly his laziness. So, admission is the first step. Now what??

2) Fear
I think I've always been afraid, deep down to my core, of other people. I'm afraid of what they think, afraid of creating conflict, afraid of disappointing others and missing out on opportunties. Lately, my laziness and my fear have been having fireside get-togethers, collaborating and having a fine old time getting to know one another, so now when one has a 'great idea,' the other's always there to back him up for support. When fear sets out to prevent me from putting myself out there, from strolling down to the neighborhood bar where my friend works just because I have nothing better to do than buy a beer so I can chat with her for an hour, my laziness kicks in and says, "Eh, you'd rather not go down there anyway - the conversation is always mediocre." I justify my own chicken-shitness (fear of looking like a retard in front of my friend because I go in there all the time by myself, so eventually she'll notice I'm probably just lonely or bored - both true) by convincing myself I'm happier to spend almost my entire weekend at home, alone in my room playing guitar or wasting time on the internet. Trouble is, though I'm completely aware of this and I know exactly what I want (to make new friends that I can count on, and to have "social outing options" at least 4 nights a week) and what I need to do to make it happen (go out more, call the few friends that I have more, make myself more available, etc.), something always stops me from it because I feel vulnerable and I hate feeling like that. Fear, like everything in life, is cyclical.

I hate that every time I write about insecurities it sounds like I need to read a self-help book. I guess the point of all this is to chronicle the fact that this stuff is in my head, too, despite the many good things which I write about in my blog, which are in no way diminished by the presence of negativity from time to time. I'm still generally happy, but there's always room for improvement, right? Hopefully, my improvement at this stage will come in the way I want it to, and like everything in life, I'll have to get around to putting some effort into it. Otherwise, it won't be worth a euro-cent.

Saturday, October 3, 2009

Among (many) other things...

October has arrived.

Professionally, this year has been great. For the record, having a full-time position kicks way more ass than piecing your schedule together hour-by-hour in the first few months of teaching, when it's never a complete month's worth of classes anyway so you have to prepare for small(er) paychecks. I'm teaching 4 full-to-the-brim group classes (12-13 students each) at my main academy, and rounding out the week with a few 1:1's for that school and also some for my other school, with three students that I worked with last year who asked specifically for me again this year :) I've hit the ground running as of September 14 with a whopping 22-hrs/week, which ain't peanuts for a teacher's schedule. I count this as a success, and if I ever feel tired or worn out at the end of the day, my solace is in the recollection of the 40+ hours per week that I used to put in when I lived in the States - I truly don't understand why the American population doesn't just up and riot in the streets the way Europeans do about being overworked. I think they'd be surprised how effectively it could change the way of life there, for the better of most individuals. Also a plus this year is the fact that 2 days a week, my day starts at 4:00pm!! And the other 2 days, it's 12:00noon, and then on Fridays I've got one 1:1 class at 6:15pm that's so easy to teach I could sleep through it. Viva Espana!!

As for the specifics of my classes, I couldn't be happier. While 1:1's are my bread and butter (it's like Jerry Macguire when he says, "Send me into the living room - it's my thing."), and while I may have had more than one near nervous breakdown in the first week of group classes this year (going cold-turkey, from no classes for 2 months, outside of cheeky camp kids, to 12 pairs of adult eyes staring back at you which are each paying a shitload of money for your language instruction, can be quite unsettling), I have somehow found my niche in front of groups. Sure, there are days when I feel like planning straight out of a coursebook is a complete and utter cop-out, which of course makes me feel like a failure of a teacher, but most of the time it's days when I still plan out of the coursebook but by being a few simple steps ahead of the students, I can grab their attention and hold it for an hour and a half solid. I'm learning to be less of a perfectionist, I guess, and to cut myself a little slack - meaning, the coursebooks are there for you to use them, so why make work harder than it needs to be by trying to come up with a lesson plan all on your own?? (Note: this is what I have ALWAYS tried and struggled to do, since Day 1 of my TEFL course. BAD IDEA!! It just means MORE WORK, and not necessarily better work.) Meanwhile, I'm still able to answer any quick-fire question thrown my way ("How do you translate the word 'just' into Spanish?" or "Why isn't "helpful" the opposite of "helpless"?), and I get a little rush in my chest, seeing the impressed looks on my students faces when I'm able to just lay it out for them.

In other news, I've moved into a new house - wow, I guess I should have led off with that. I felt like staying in Granada another year was a bit cowardly, so in order to keep challenging myself I set a goal of NOT moving back into Casa de Tina, where I spent the last year and some-odd months. I have fond memories of that place, of course, but then again it had its problems. I arrived back in Granada after a week of much-needed summer camp deflation in Madrid, homeless and about to start work in 5 days. Some friends of Pierre let me crash at their awesome 2-story condo high up above the city while I looked for apartments, and luck was definitely on my side when I called the first ad I saw on Loquo.com for a piso in the Albayzin (my old neighborhood). I went in and immediately fell in love with the place, which had all the charm and history of the Albayzin carmens but was much better cared for and peaceful than my last accommodations. I told the landlord I was very interested but still not sure, and then 2 hours afterwards while walking around and mulling it over, I called and said I'd take it. I've got a private bedroom in a 3-bedroom house (1 of which is the landlord, Ana's, and another which was recently rented to a nice woman from Greece, here studying for her Doctorate), with shared bathroom (with a tub!), salon, and kitchen. The best part - my room opens up with double doors to a terrace that runs the length of the whole house and lets in wonderful sunshine, and there's enough space in my room to do yoga here :)

I'm really happy in my new place, but it's strange how uncomfortable I feel sometimes around my housemates. I guess that's just a part of communal living, and especially doing it in a foreign language, it's bound to be a bit weird at first. But what's funny is how little speaking Spanish plays a part in any discomfort for me now. Sometimes I find myself alone, thinking or mumbling some off-hand comment, and it comes first in Spanish. ("Que fuerte!?") And I never feel pressured or awkward or locked inside myself from speaking Spanish, the way I did when in France for example or when I first got here to Spain - if I struggle for a word, I just blatantly ask what it is and someone tells me. I file it away and move on through the conversation. I guess my tolerance for this comes from more confidence in my Spanish and also from the time being forced to use it, and maybe also from the classroom where I'm constantly reminded and forced to sympathize with how difficult it is to try to express yourself in another language. Anyway, the awkwardness with Ana and the Greek lady (don't even know her name! but we've had at least 5 lengthy conversations so far, makes me feel really bad!) gets better every day, with every occasion that we have to speak to one another (sometimes there's just no need, so I don't initiate - I think this is part of my problem. I'm sheepish.). Ana and her girlfriend, Yolanda, who's here so often she practically lives here, asked me the other day what state I'm from, and when I said not Louisiana but New Orleans, they flipped out! They were asking me all these questions about Katrina and carnaval (Mardi Gras to us cajuns), about the food and the architecture. I told them when the weather gets cold, if I can find the right ingredients, I'd try to make them my MawMaw's gumbo :)

As for negatives, the weather's getting cold now and my skin's drying out. But I've found a loophole for healthcare through the Spanish system, if I can get my landlord to file the paperwork for me, so maybe I'll get to see a dermatologist here in the next few months! Plus a dentist, a gyno, an allergist (!!!). Hallelujah, eh? All is not lost. Also, Pierre will be moving here from France in a few weeks, so I won't be so lonely in my free time anymore.

That's about it, as for updates. Hope this wasn't too boring!!

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Lost in Language

I've been here in Marmande for about 2 weeks now. I've eaten the best petit-fours in Toulouse and I've shopped the biggest sales of the year in Bourdeaux (and guzzled lots of their wine). All the while, I'm picking up French words here and there, which is thrilling and whatnot, but I can't seem to get comfortable with not having a damned clue what's going on in the conversations around me.

I can't ask simple questions of the new people I meet to get to know them better; I can't make small-talk with the lovely people in the boulangeries; I'm lucky when someone in the group knows a bit of either English or Spanish, but I don't get my hopes up, ever; I just put on a placid smile wherever I go (sometimes it's actually genuine) and wear my heart on my sleeve and wait for the human interaction around me to slow down or stop so that I can ask Pierre what the hell was discussed. Sometimes, I wish I hadn't asked. My patience waxes and wanes throughout my struggle to meet people, be myself and make whatever connections are possible with what little language faculty that I have. I find myself feeling so alone, so trapped inside my own skin, the words I'm dying to express just swirling around like a windstorm in my mind, and there's no window to open and let out all the built-up pressure. I get really sad when I find myself in a moment and realize how much I'm missing out on - whether it be random drunken stories told by friends who haven't seen each other in years; subtle nuances in the ways in which people are interacting that would tell me much more about how I should conduct myself here; or just plain small talk between a shop clerk and a customer, the things that make them smile or chuckle or make a strange face as they are buying their groceries. I miss out on all of that because of language, and I figure out some way to guess at the meaning of everything by watching intently like a child. Having your language removed reduces you to a child. It's ridiculously humbling.

I'm taking this as a lesson I need to learn if I want to be a true teacher and especially if I want to travel the world. Here, I'm learning how it feels to have your most self-defining asset (language) utterly stripped from you, to the concern of no one around you, and how to cope with that feeling, manage it, and use it as a tool rather than a hindrance. That tactic I mention above, how I'm learning to pay attention to body language and verbal cues rather than the literal meaning of the sounds I hear - that's a bit of what I'm talking about here. I know I'll be all right, hell I may even come out of this remembering a bit of French! But it's not just a mental process, I guess is what I'm just now figuring out; it's also very much an emotional one.

There's another saddening aspect of learning French for me. I truly love learning new words and hearing the sounds of forign tongues change as I become more and more accustomed to them. But at some point, the French that I heard on occasion which had such a magnetic and alluring mystery to it now just sounds like simple funtional noise, nothing to really marvel at. It's like how people say the more you learn about something, the less you want to learn, or something like that. This feels to me like a coming of age story, like it was inevitable that I had to figure out some time that languages are more than just hypnotic sounds that make my ears perk up to distinguish them or figure out where they come from. Language isn't some mystical, intangible frivolity of nature but a direct, purposeful and unbearably functional manifestation of it. I've always been most fond of art that serves a functional purpose - pottery, if you will, or a decorative coat rack. I guess I should think of language not as one or the other - not a mysterious artform without purpose, and neither a staunch and scientific machine. It's a bit of both - look at poetry, for example. That's one of the aspects of language that most fascinates me, how we can study something to infinity, but at the end of the day there's always something new to learn about it and be awed and inspired by.

Here's to life lessons!

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

France and stuff

Let's see...where to begin? I left Granada last Saturday and spent a total 14 hours travelling by bus to San Sebastian, where I spent my last official night in Spain for the next month. During the ride, I had a connecting bus to switch to but didn't realize it was at a different station in Madrid, so I obviously missed that one, but all I can say about that now is THANK GOD for ticket insurance with ALSA! All worked out in the end and it only meant 1 extra hour of travel time, and NO extra cost to me for a new bus ticket. It was cool to see the andalucian landscape gradually change during the ride. I did the cheesy tourist thing and took pictures from the bus of the sun setting over the green Basque country mountains.

The next day, I crossed the border by car into France and bought cigarettes en la frontera. Driving up the Atlantic coast, we stopped and I got my first view of the Atlantic from the other side. I was thrilled to see signs written in French. We stayed with Pierre's 'aunt and uncle', who are perfectly liberal French hippie types who have a penchant for French beer, an enormous 'herb' garden, and thus a very laid-back approach to life. I spent my first official day in France sitting at a table surrounded by lovely French people, smoking and drinking Rioja and Bourdeaux, eating european pizza, French cheese, and Spanish chorizo in a lovely garden until sundown. There was a break in between where we went to lie in the sunshine near a lake, and I got some guitar time in. I spoke in Spanish the entire time, far too nervous to break out what little French I barely know, but amazingly, my comprehension was quite good! I was able to follow the conversation and participate quite a bit with the help of translation from Pierre, and his aunt spoke decent Spanish so there was that too. I did go to bed more exhausted than I remembered being for a long time - it was the kind of fatigue that comes from being locked into another language, unable to truly follow the conversation of a group of people without putting every ounce of effort into listening and translating and processing the whole time - I think I did pretty damned well, considering we were talking for a total of about 10 hours all-told!

The next day, I got kinda sunburnt on one of the most remote beaches I've seen in my life. We took a break to eat lunch (hamburgers - real, non-Spanish ones!!) and then drove up the coast to the biggest sand dune in Europe (the Dune du Pila). We climbed up the dune and were met with the blazing sun cast over Sahara-sized sand dunes, with the tranquil Atlantic meeting them down at the bottom. Stretching out in the other direction from the ocean were over 300 miles of French forest, one of the biggest in Europe as well. Pierre and I sat on the dunes taking sun for a while, left and said goodbye to our wonderful hosts, and drove 2 hours to his house in the countryside near Bourdeaux. We had one day of chillax-down-time yesterday, and today he's off to work while I try to soak up the Frenchness.

As for talleys: so far, I've tried 3 French beers, all of which were excellent and one of which I was already very fond (Stella Artois); I've eaten locally raised duck confit (amazing) and ground horse (very similar to hamburger but with a distinctively different flavor); I've bought bread at a boulangerie; and I've noticed so many similarities between France and New Orleans, France and the United States, the French language and the English language...this looks to be the beginning of an eye-opening holiday.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

And then there was blah...

I'm rounding out my final trimester of the academic year, it's excruciatingly hot in Granada, and I am awestruck by how ambivalent I feel about leaving this city for two months. On the one hand, I can't wait to escape the heat, the crowds, the super energetic pace of Spanish life; and on the other hand, I have this panic feeling in my guts when I think about it, like I need to spend each day until the 27th (when I leave for France) soaking up all of the familiar Granada that I can get.

The next few months, though only a short interim between this academic year and the next, will be quite a change for me. I'll spend the first month in southern France (where I will know NOTHING of the language - frankly, I'm terrified), then the second teaching again at summer camp. No more running around, trying to make it to class in time. No more crazy nights out with members of the house. When I get back to Granada, all the people living here will have changed, and I'll find a new house to live in and probably put my life at Tina behind me. It's the only way to make a valid distinction between this year and the next, and it's important for me that they feel like different experiences so that I don't get bored :)

Anyway, here's to making the most of what little time you have left! Viva Granada!!

A random anecdote from today:
I was eating lunch on a bench near my bus stop today, sitting in the shade, when a well-dressed Spanish man of about 50 years old or so walked up to me and hovered close to my face, staring quizically into my sunglasses. I had my earphones in and probably shouted bit, "Desculpa? Perdon? Puedo ayudarte??" He said something that I couldn't hear, so I took out my headphones and stared back at him with this confused look on my face.

"Eres Espanola?" he asked me. Then, "Are you Spanish?" (in English this time). I kept talking in Spanish and told him no, I'm not. Yes, I speak English as well as Spanish. "Do you work here?" he asked in very good English.

"In Granada? Uh...no, I study. I'm a student," I lied. (I thought he might be some kind of policeman or immigration officer in disguise...sounds stupid, I know, but this sort of thing has never happened to me, so I panicked.)

"Do you want to work?" he asked.

"Uhm...no, I, uh...what? I'm finishing my exams right now then I'm leaving Granada in two weeks. I don't have time to work!" My mouth was wide open in disbelief.

"Oh, well if you want to work, let me know," he says and walks away, sliding his hands gently into his pockets and sortof confidently stepping around my crossed ankles. The guy didn't say his name ONCE or give me any kind of business card. It's like he thinks he's someone famous and I'll know where to find him if I 'want work'!

The funny thing that occurred to me afterwards was that I don't really know what made him approach me in the first place. Was it because I was eating my lunch quickly on a park bench instead of sitting lazily at a cafe for an hour and a half like most Spanish people? And just what kind of work was he talking about?? Obviously, it must be English related, but how the hell do I know? And if it is English related - how did he just look at me and know I was an English speaker?? Super weird, yo.

Friday, June 5, 2009

Spring to Summer

As usual, I'm long overdue on a little blog maintenance, so this will be my obligatory update on the past two months or so (how long HAS it been? I don't even know...)....

Things in my TEFL world are finally falling into place. Somehow, I've managed to figure out this whole teaching thing and get through each week this Spring like coasting on the nice warm breeze blowing down from the Sierra Nevadas. I don't really have to plan much more than making a mental note of what I want to teach each day and then teaching it - no more endless hours of stress-ridden sleep before an arduous day of lessons; no more worrying that I'm doing my students a disservice by being unprepared. I've realized somehow that all the planning I need is in my head - that's where the good stuff is, and I'm equipped to answer any question a student may throw at me, regardless of how many internet sites I've looked at to get ideas or how many coursebooks I've reviewed and copied to piece together a lesson plan. I think this is normal for TEFL teachers in their first year, because most of the seasoned teachers I've met seem to be nothing more than slacker vagabonds who chose this profession because it's an easy way to make a buck by milking the fact that you're a native English speaker and English happens to be in high demand right now. When I thought of these teachers before, there seemed to be a huge difference between them and me - obviously, they must care much less than I do about their students if they're not stressed and running around trying to make their lessons the best they can be. Somewhere inside my head, the perfectionist in me is always thinking there must be something wrong here if I'm not freaking out about improving my teaching skills every day. But now I realize it's just a matter of experience and the confidence that comes with it. Quite a revelation.

In other news, my whole summer "plan" has been uprooted by a life-changing decision not to move back to the States for quite some time (we're talking years). This came from an opportunity here in Spain that I couldn't pass up, but also from the sense of jadedness and exasperation that I have at present with everything American. Now that I've seen my country from "the other side," had an objective viewpoint on the effects our country has had on the rest of the world...well, let's just say it's intensified the sense of guilt and shame I have as an American abroad. I'm so thankful that most people here think I look Spanish (and my Spanish usually has them fooled too!)

A small side-note on that: I was teaching at Lux Mundi on Wednesday, and we have a new schedule that we were test-running that day, so I ended up with some students that are normally in another teacher's class. This one kid, named Kike,"(pronounced "kee-kay"), who's quite the cool kid in class, overhears me speaking Spanish to some of my 3- and 4-yr old students. And after that, he was constantly in my face trying to get me to speak Spanish in class. He tells me that he wants me to speak Spanish "porque eres nativa" (because you're native)! HahahaHA! (uh, I mean JajajaJA) Then he keeps asking me where I'm from, what's my name (he forgot), etc...and from that point on I only spoke in English. [note: You may think I chose to speak only in English because that's what an effective English teacher should do in that situation, but honestly I didn't want to speak Spanish anymore because I was afraid he'd find me out! Sortof a "quit while you're ahead" strategy.] I love it when people mistake me for Spanish, especially when it's because of my language/accent and not my appearance...it happens almost every day, but it tickles me every time. It's even better when at first they think I'm Spanish and talk to me as such, then once I make a grammar mistake, they give me this confused look like I've not just made a grammar mistake but said some new Spanish expression they're not familiar with yet! I can see the wheels turning in their heads, trying to figure me out, and I absolutely love it :) It further reinforces the feeling that Spain was my destiny - like somehow I was always meant to be here.

Anyway, in case you weren't privy, I'll be here in Spain for a while longer (no complaints here!). I've cancelled my trip home due to logistics and money-saving strategies, which means now I've got a whole summer abroad to play with. The first half will be spent in southern France (Toulouse, to be exact), staying with a friend I met here in Granada recently who lives there. I'm sure I'll have lots of interesting stories from that venture, considering when I try to speak the miniscule French that I know, I always panic and instinctively revert to Spanish. I bet the French people will find that quite interesting :) After France, it's off to Riomundo (Spain) for another summer of teaching at English camp. Camp should be better on all fronts this summer, except of course the FOOD one - I'm planning to bring a full stock of whole grains and produce with me to spare me from the sugar-salt-yet-no-flavor diet provided by the camp (the only thing I can really say about the food there is at least it's free!). Then, after camp I'll have two weeks of vacation before returning to Granada to a new academic year - this time, full-time with block schedules!! (This means fewer one-to-ones, but no more running around town all day wasting precious hours for which I'm not paid. Yay!!)

In short, the Spring has been swell, and I'm looking forward to summer :) Should be good, folks.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

This time...and that other time...oh, yeah, and then there was....

My friend M*, an American girl who is now dating a very, very Spanish man, told me a few weeks ago she got into an argument with her man because he stood her up at the last minute. He'd suggested a few days before that he pick her up in his car one evening after work. Well, he decided to change his mind and not pick her up - which meant she then had to walk all the way home late at night, carrying the several heavy bags of groceries which she'd bought earlier because, of course, she'd thought she'd have a ride home and wouldn't have to carry them. Amidst what I'm sure were very reprimanding comments from M* when they were later arguing, the Spanish b/f dropped this little gem as explanation: "When I say I'm going to do something, it's just an idea - not a commitment or anything."

It's neverending here, the list of times that I've been stood up or had to change my plans because someone else bailed on me (if not a whole group of people). And it aggravates the crap out of me every time, no matter how used to it I am after living here for over a year.

Thing is, I just don't understand it. I mean, I can totally get why it's okay to be a few minutes late here - maybe it's the lackadaisacal way many New Orleanians live seemingly without schedules (always running late, always apologizing to others, and in return always telling others it's okay when it happens to you, etc.). I actually embrace this aspect of Spanish culture - the fact that if I get there a bit early, great! But if I'm running a few minutes late, who cares? Nobody's counting minutes here.

But...to me, being relaxed about tardiness is so different than the "commitment" issue in Spain. I understand that making a commitment, saying you're going to do something, is a bit of an obligation and you should have every right to do it when you damned well please - if you're a few minutes late or have a slight change of plans at the last minute, I'm cool with that. Shit happens, you know? But, the difference for me comes when (and this happens like clockwork, friends, EVERY time...), always at the last minute, people who have said they'd do things with me, who seemed nothing short of thrilled to do these things, not only change plans but CANCEL them altogether, citing a regular handbag of excuses that I'm all too familiar with by now.

And I just don't get it! This is honestly the most perplexing thing I've discovered about Spanish life and culture, and it is simply beyond me.

And I honestly try hard to figure it out - here's a little example of what goes on in my head, with regard to cultural differences: Hm, maybe it's rooted in the language? Maybe the word "plan" in English is different than the word...wait, wait, Spanish has the word "plan" too. Okay, so maybe the definition is different? Do the Spanish have the metaphor "time is money" built into their language? - can you spend time, in Spanish? I think you can, at least my students never make a funny face or tell me I'm wrong when I say "gastar tiempo" - but then that can mean to spend time, or to waste time. Hm.... ok so if it's not in the language, it's definitely in the social attitude as filtered through the language - what the words plan, commitment, idea, date, meeting mean to the Spanish is very different from what they mean to Americans. Ok, ok, so maybe I can understand a bit - it's just a cultural difference, right? But wait! No way, because with every single other cultural difference, I can relate to the Spanish perspective. But this one, I absolutely can not see why this is a preferable way to handle the making of arrangements with other people. It's so selfish! And that's perhaps what's confusing me the most - I can almost ALWAYS understand decisions made out of selfishness. I get it, you know? You gotta "Look out for number 1?" But...oh I'll stop my ranting now.

If anyone's got an anecdote to throw at me, or something to offer a bit of clarity, I'd greatly appreciate it :)

Friday, March 27, 2009

Not for Naught

I've always loved that expression. Let's bring that one back, ok?

This week has been amazing, and it's assured me that, indeed, life comes in cycles. Especially life in Granada, where the every whim of the local peoples seems to be entirely dependent on the weather. Now that the sunshine of Spring has arrived, now that everyone can walk around without their heavy coats and boots, people seem physically and metaphysically lighter. (As I consider this, I am simultaneously wondering if perhaps it's just me that's feeling this way, and whether I'm projecting this onto everyone else??)

Whatever the real case may be, the energy here now, so reminiscent of this time last year here in Granada, is truly inspiring me. With my lightened work load, I've been able to go out and meet new people, hang out with some not-so-new people, and take it easy once in a while during my week. It's exactly what I needed.

In other news, I've gotten some really great reports from students this trimester - FOUR are increasing their hours, they're so pleased with my classes! This really makes me feel good. And it's so much more encouraging than seeing dollar signs add up as your validation for work; I don't care that this means I'm getting more money each month. To know my students are willing to pay their hard-earned money just to have an extra hour of MY instruction. Well...that's humbling. Sigh.... It's taking me back to my days at the Writing Center. I feel good about what I do now, like no matter what challenges I may face as a teacher, I'm good at this - and one day, I will be damned good. That's all I could ever really ask for - just to have others appreciate what I do, to affect people's lives personally, and to know that I may not be the best at what I do, but by god, I'm pretty close.

Anyway, it's Springtime and I'm a teacher. My job defines me, and I define my job. How awesome is that??

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Crowds for Crowds' Sake

In case anyone was curious about whether the Spanish are every bit as enthusiastic as the rest of humanity is about gettin' plain ol' drunk, well...the Fiesta de Primavera (this weekend - basically just a general term for the coming of Spring, not like an organized party or anything) is a prime demonstration of the Spanish lust for the sauce.

Last night there was a huge Botellon, and I kept hearing people mention it all day like it was this big, exciting event not to be missed. When I'd ask someone where it was going to be, they all replied, "El Hipercor." ("Huh??!" I thought - "Why would a big fiesta take place at a supermarket?") Well...it seems a botellon is just a massive crowd of people getting drunk in a parking lot. And I mean MASSIVE. I didn't go, myself, but every single person I talked to yesterday was going - all 15 students from my Business English class, my 2 students preparing for the FCE, and even my 14-yr old student who was going there directly after her private class which ended at 7:45pm.

Obviously, my younger students were not going to the botellon to drink alcohol, just to be with their friends and hang out. So maybe it's not about the alcohol. Spanish people just really effing love to crowd up a place, man.

So, that's one example. Then, there's the Dragon Festival (pronounced with an accent over the O). This, also, was something I kept hearing about all week: "Vas a la Dragon?" Before I ever had a chance to answer someone when they asked me this, a huge group of people would all start speaking excitedly at once, in a mixture of several different languages, and I never even got to find out what the hell it was. When yesterday I finally asked a Spanish girl (A*) living in our house, "What IS the Dragon Festival?" she laughed and said, "Un festival normal." Effing Spanish - so direct! It's like when you ask someone at a restaurant, "What kind of cheese comes with this cheese plate?" - the response to this is always, "Queso normal" followed by a confused look as if you are either an alien or an idiot for asking. So, needless to say, I had to probe A* for more information about the Dragon. What I found out is that it's just another massive group of people, this time not in a parking lot but way the hell out of town, getting drunk and imbibing in illegal substances, sometimes listening to or playing live music. For two straight days.

"No, thanks," I say. I don't know if I'm just too old for this stuff anymore, if I've finally embraced the fact that I prefer to either be around a crowd of people I semi-know or else NOT around a crowd at all, or what. Or maybe it's just that I don't have any friends here that I'm completely comfortable and happy to be around. Whatever it is, it's seriously harshing my social life. I've gotta get on the crowd bandwagon sooner or later, dammit.

the Good Stuff

Woke up early today to a casa tranquila, made myself a nice breakfast and a stout coffee, toked a bit, then took a cat nap in the sunshine. After that, I did yoga in the newly opened salon upstairs in the house, sat in the sun again, took a shower, and then went out for a daytime tapas crawl with two lovely ladies from the house, during which I enjoyed a double-scoop ice cream cone of menta y tiramisu flavors (my only actual goal for today was buying an ice cream).

It's 7pm, my day's not half over yet, and already it's been rock solid. Bring it on, sunny springtime. Bring it ON.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

A long, unexpectedly blessed day...

The word "blessed" has this strange gospel-Christian connotation to it for me (as in, "Leave a message, and have a blessed day!" as said by turbo-Christians on their voicemails, which always gives me a bit of the creeps), but I really can't think of any other word to describe yesterday. Just to be clear, however - the day was blessed by fortune, not by baby Jesus or his father, or any such diety. If anything, it was blessed by the sun and by some really, really nice people.

I got home on Friday 100% depleted - my work week was HELL, and my Friday work kept me out of the house all day from 8:30am til 9pm, and just before my last class at IML, I started to have an allergic reaction at the school after "hoofing it" from one class to the next in the pollen-infested Spring air. I'd taken an antihistimine earlier that day, but it obviously wore off around 5:00pm. Unfortunately, I didn't have any more allergy meds on me except for my epi-pen, and if I'd decided to cancel class and try to make it home before it got too serious, I'd have to either walk pretty far to the nearest bus stop or climb up the monstrous hill to my house; luckily, I had about 45 minutes before my student arrived, so amidst near panic, I decided to try to relax and push through it. I sat completely still in the classroom the entire time, with my head down, unable to breath, face and body writhing in itchiness and completely red, eyes itchy and watery, etc etc...just trying to pretend like all was ok and not panic. Thankfully, this worked, and once my student showed up to distract me from freaking out, the symptoms started to subside. The one great thing in all of that is that I made it through without any antihistimines! Now I know that if I can just calm down in a place that's relatively well insulated and allergy-free, I can slow the reaction and avoid DEATH. Good to know.

Anyway, I got home after all of that and discovered that Daniel and Pils (from Denmark, who have a van) still wanted to go to the beach, as well as Simone (from Beliz). All was not lost! I went to bed early and happy.

On Saturday, I was perhaps a bit too anxious. I woke up at 7am and showered and packed everything I would need for 2 days and a night of camping on the beach. Once everyone else woke up, we not only decided to just come back the same day but also to change the location - instead of Nerja, we'd go to the closer Salobrena because some friends of Daniel and Pils' were going there also. I was fine with this - as long as I had a ride and some company, and as long as I'd get some time in the sun and sand, I was ecstatic.

We made the journey to Salobrena relatively quickly, bought some food and beer, and by 1pm we were sitting on the beach in style. Salobrena turned out to be lackluster - as I'd heard from multiple people I've known who go there often, but it's closer than Nerja and for a simple day trip, it made more sense. After a few hours and an amazing lunch on the beach, we decided to head to Lajaron in the Alpujarras - that's the city where they get the water from; the snow melts from up in the mountains and falls down into natural pools, where they collect it, bottle it, and ship it out all over Spain. We found a beautiful vista with a nearby bar, drank tinto de veranos and watched the sunset. By the time we got home, it was prime tapas time, so I headed out with Daniel and Pils for a few drinks and some patatas asadas at a nearby bar. We got full really quickly and decided to head back to the house around midnight.

All-in-all, a very good day. I had time outside of Granada - two places that I'd never been to but heard a lot about, and there were lots of new people to chat with and get to know. And I still had all of Sunday to get ready for the coming week.

I am content. Time for yoga.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Lows and Woes

M* said something to me today, amidst discussions of the upcoming trip to the beach for my birthday (which was Tuesday), that made me think: I was talking about how I'm always disappointed on my birthday, when I make plans with friends to do something, and everyone seems super excited and into it, and then come the day of, they all bail. When I mentioned this, M* said, "Classic middle child syndrome."

So I'm wondering, now, whether this is all in my mind, or whether there's something more to it. Since the birthday has come and gone, and since I'm just about to reach the summit of my ridiculously busy schedule (the module will be ending soon, which means 15 more hours of "free time" each week), I've been thinking about myself, how I live my life, the people I choose to include in my life and the people I perpetually keep at a distance.

I've realized how long it takes me to make a connection with people - a really long-lasting connection, more than just a random "Hey, me too!" moment once in a while. The thing about my current situation is, I've been really busy lately - the past two months my workload has doubled, and when faced with the option of partying with the people who live in the house and have way fewer obligations than I do (and then feeling like shit the next day at work), I generally prefer to stay home, watch a movie on the internet, and wake up semi-ready for my long day of work. This has resulted in fewer and fewer people I can genuinely relate to, as the people in the house are constantly changing and it takes time and opportunity to get to know the new people who come in. Although I was aware of this when my busy days began, I opted to put my nose to the grindstone, save some money on the nights I wouldn't be going out and partying, and sacrifice the potential friends I might make. The only time I've had available to socialize is on the weekends, when the people who've already made bonds have their own plans and don't even think to include me, because I always say "no." I had to explain the saying, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy" to one of my students the other day, and it was one of those strange, dejavu-y moments where I felt like the universe was talking to me.

So, that's one part of the problem. But it's making me think about deeper problems, and I now realize how the insecurity I always suffered from when I was young still plays a big part in my social interactions. I think I hold people at a distance because I'm afraid they'll judge me, afraid they'll see the American in me creeping out no matter how much I try to conceal it, afraid of...well, just afraid really. So, of course I love my work and love to be good at what I do, no matter what I do but especially now that I do something I love. But that's no excuse to avoid making friends, to put on this confident, "I don't need you" exterior and always do my own thing. Because in the end, doing my own thing means doing it alone. And I'm starting to realize how much that sucks.

So anyway, what's happening with the beach trip is this: I started planning this thing 3 weeks ago. I mentioned it to several people, and they were all excited and even talking about plans for food and alcohol, camping and activities we could do while there at the beach. I researched bus prices and schedules, looked up hostal locations and prices in case it rains, and put up signs all over the common areas of the house to remind everybody. And now that I've seen the weather report (perfect) and there's the possibility of riding in a van instead of the bus (read: FREE), the anticipation of this trip has been the one thing that's gotten me through my hellacious week - I keep telling myself, "Just get through this, and on Saturday, you'll be sitting in the sand, soaking up the sun, without a worry in the world." On my actual birthday, even, at least 4 people flaked out on the casual tapas/drink meeting I'd planned, and I ended up having a relatively lackluster "celebratory drink" with a few friends that I barely know, but I told myself it was okay because we would celebrate my birthday this weekend. And of course, now, 2 days before the trip, I come home and ask a few people if they're still coming, and every single one says they've got something else, some reason that they can't go. One even told me there was talk in the house of, instead of going to the beach, having a house party for two members who are moving out this weekend to a house down the hill. That, honestly, was the last straw - the fact that I've been planning this for 3 weeks, and someone only has to mention another idea for everyone who parties together routinely to jump ship.

And no matter how much I tell myself it's not a big deal, jesus CHRIST am I disappointed, and angry, and depressed, and let down, and upset with myself. Because somewhere inside my head, I feel like it's my own fault for not letting people in, not telling people how much they mean to me on a daily basis, how much it means to me just to have ONE day, one fucking day where people come to not only support me but just to be in the same vacinity as me and enjoy themselves. I don't feel like that's a lot to ask. But I can't be angry with everyone else - all the reasons they've got are valid, of course (money problems, obligations, moving weekend, etc.), but I am angry and I'm just too self aware to try and pretend I'm angry with them. I'm angry with myself. Which makes it all the more disappointing.

Anyway, all truly isn't lost. The guy who owns the van, and his girlfriend, as far as I know are still in. And M* has told me she'll do whatever she can to make it, even if it's just for the day and we don't stay and camp overnight. Even if we have to take the bus. It's just not what I imagined it would be - I had hoped, at best, for 5 or so people from the house to come along. I had hoped to make a barbecue on the beach, camp out in our sleeping bags under the stars, welcome the coming Spring in style. And to finally have time to talk to the people I live with, to connect with them in a way that I never have time or occasion to do because I work so damned much.

Anyway, this is me. Wallowing in birthday self-pity. Waah, waaaah, waaaaaaaaah.

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Grrrr....

I HATE CARS. AND PEOPLE WHO DRIVE CARS. ANGERRRRRRRRR.

Here's a synopsis of my thoughts this afternoon while walking to work today:

'Hmmm, the bus dropped me off with 15 minutes to walk to Rafa's house [Rafa is my student]. Great, I can take my time [the walk takes 10 minutes, more or less]. Wow, I've had this song by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs on my mp3 player for months now, and I'm just now listening to it? Stupid! This song's fucking great! If I were a stripper, this would be my SONG, man. OMG, I'm walking in the outskirts of Granada in only two layers and I don't even need my scarf. Amazing. Look, the weather's so nice, the group of little old men who I used to always see sitting on the bench at the park have returned - and they have a dog with them! Great. That means summer's on its way. I wonder what the old men talk about, all huddled together in their little golfer hats and sweater vests? Hmm, which crossing should I use to get across the motorway? There are about 8 along my way...at the first one on the corner, you have to wait for a green light, which takes like 4 minutes, but then I'd have to run to make it to class on time. I'll keep walking and try one of the other 7 crossings - after all, they've all got BIG BLUE SIGNS which mean that it's MANDATORY for cars to stop and let you cross, so there's no waiting at those...yes, that's what I'll do. Yes.'

Then as I approach one of the PEDESTRIAN HAS THE RIGHT OF WAY crossings, of course I pause and don't just walk into oncoming traffic. There are about 30 cars headed down the motorway, and I lock eyes with the drivers of the first car in each lane approaching the crossing, as I always do for my own safety, to make sure they see me, which today they definitely did - just in time for them to FLY past at warp speed, followed by the other 28 cars, following suit. If I'd stuck my arm out at a 90 degree angle from my body, I'd be an amputee right now.

I generally refrain from flipping the bird EVER, whether it be at home in the States or anywhere, let alone in Spain where I like to be as courteous as possible. I'm rarely brought to such justifiable rage against others that a ridiculous gesture like this seems necessary. But today, oh sweet jesus christ, did I want to pull each of those drivers from their LAZY POLLUTING ASS MOTHERFUCKER automobiles and SMACK them in the face over and over with not ONE but BOTH of my middle fingers.

And THEN, OMG. It happened again, on the way home. TWICE. It seems if one person has a rod up his asshole and just can't be bothered to stop for pedestrians, everyone behind him thinks they shouldn't either. What is UP with that?!? The more I think about it, the more I think every privately owned automobile in the world should be fucking bombed as an environmental and social courtesy. I could blame the drivers, sure, say, "Oh, it's not every driver, just the assholes, and you can't do anything about them...they're everywhere. That's life." But the fact of the matter is EVERYONE has moments like this, where they're just too wrapped up in their own bullshit to realize they're not the only human being on the planet. And as much as we may deny it, everyone's had a moment where they've ignored the poor chicken just trying to cross the damned road. BUT...if we REMOVE the cars, if we REMOVE the road, if EVERYONE is that chicken...perhaps I'd get a bit more empathy, goddammit.

If you read this, please stop for pedestrians, even when you're not required to do so. We ALWAYS notice and appreciate it. Also, just a suggestion: leave your stupid-ass car in the driveway one day and walk to work, or (Gasp!) use public transportation to get there. What a thought?! Amazing!!

Sheesh, I'm angry.

Saturday, February 7, 2009

Viva

I think often of this word, of its contextual meaning in conversation, and then also of its underlying root meaning, life. Somehow, this word encapsulates every feeling I have while living in this beautiful, raw country when I'm disciplined enough to fully engage all of my senses. The smells, the images, the sounds, the tastes, and the physical presence of Spain - these are naturally the things most tangible to me here, and each time I am able to focus my attention on one of these specifically, my mind sighs in reverence and utters a simple, undeniable "Viva."

Throughout all the expected ups and downs of living abroad in a country and culture that is foreign, each day of it seems to bring me closer to myself. I grow more confident in who I was before I came here, who I am now, and who I want to be as life takes me on its twists and turns. I have come to believe that this is a natural effect of travel, one I can't imagine myself living without.

What's interesting about this, what I've realized today in fact, is how these mental changes are manifesting themselves physically, on my body and in my face. Yesterday, while shopping in the city center of Granada due to a cancelled class and some unexpected time on my hands, I half-heartedly decided to try on a pair of jeans in a size 8. Once inside the dressing room, I hung the jeans on the wall and glanced in the mirror, giving myself a quick, "Here goes nothing!" half-smile, and then stared for a few moments at the "skinny" style jeans I had chosen to try to squeeze into. I imagined myself in them ideally, how they might look and feel against my curvy frame, hugging all the right parts of me and comfortably clinging to the rest, making me look undeniably chique like all the near-model-beautiful, stylish women of Spain. I realized in that moment how, no matter how much I try to deny it, I desperately want to fit in here - to look Spanish, to have the natural, easy elegance that so many Spanish women emit, to look stunningly casual and modern in a pair of simple, faded blue jeans. (This, perhaps, would explain my sheer joy whenever someone tells me that I look Spanish.) Immediately following these wishful musings, the more typical image of myself came into view: stepping into the jeans, pulling them half-way up to my chunky thighs and realizing that, of course, they weren't going any further up, lest I need someone to come in and surgically remove them from me. Despite the disappointment of this possibility, I laughed to myself and pulled the jeans from the hanger and stepped into them cautiously, one-leg-at-a-time.

"Like a glove" is the only expression, however trite, that comes to mind to describe the private little miracle that occurred in that tiny dressing room. I'm surprised I didn't shout in triumph or call the attendant over to verify my unexpected results. After nearly 10 years of floating from a size 8, then on through to sizes 10, 11, 12, and 13, I find myself today sitting in a pair of size 8 jeans for the very first time since HIGH SCHOOL. The feeling is of course victorious and triumphant, but most of all I am struck by a sense of wonderment.

I don't know how I've done it. Here in Spain, I have a debatably "healthy" breakfast every day of one scrambled egg, two slices of buttered toast, and a strong coffee with milk and (real) sugar, and I eat pasta nearly every night. If I want ice cream, I don't worry about seeing my thighs and stomach turn to creamy, gelatinous folds of skin - I eat ice cream. If my bake-all-day-long housemate offers me a slice of her fresh-from-the-oven pie or chocolate pastry, I sit down and savor it and wash it down with a tall glass of whole milk. After a long week of teaching, if my body is screaming for a bottle of wine and some oil-soaked tapas, I go for it. I can honestly say that I've never been so NON-conscious of the foods I put into my body, since living in Spain.

The only practical explanation that comes to mind is, of course, exercise - or what I prefer to call physical activity, since the word "excercise" to me has become so unpleasanty connotated in the recent years of diet-obsession. I don't own a car, a fact that I am proud of. I have a relatively busy schedule that keeps me sitting down for an hour or two at a time but then promptly up on my feet again to "book it" to the next class, which usually involves no more than a 15-minute, steady-paced walk, albeit sometimes slightly uphill. I live in the old Moorish Quarter of Granada, notorious for its steep, rocky hills which, when I first arrived here, climbing even at a snail's pace made me feel I might go into cardiac arrest. Now, I take these hills in easy stride every evening upon returning home. I do take the bus quite often, when it's necessary to save time and economically practical, but other than that, I'm on foot wherever I go. This is a part of the Spanish way of life - Spaniards love to be out together, walking around in packs and laughing, window-shopping and sharing the ins and outs of their daily lives with one another.

In this way, I think my gradual weight-loss can only be explained by my becoming more and more Spanish as I live here: not so much in the things I eat, but in the way I eat - not caring about what it will do to my figure but what it will do to my spirits, to my enjoyment of life; and not so much in how much time it takes me to get from point A to point B, but what I do in that time, outside of just getting somewhere as soon as possible. When I walk to someplace I need to get to, I have time to listen to my favorite music, to use it as a soundtrack to the images and people I see on my way, to see the world differenty and myself in it - to muse. These are aspects of the Spanish culture that I want to always keep with me as I go where life takes me - these, and my size-8 waistband! Viva!!!

Thursday, January 29, 2009

I should be a Creative Writing teacher...

apparently. At least that's what my students told me tonight.

I gave a lesson tonight on short story writing to my FCE (First Cambridge Exam) students, who were unthrilled (did I just invent that?...anti-thrilled? non-thrilled? hm...I don't think any of these exist...my English is truly going to shit as my Spanish improves) to say the least. This class is at 8:30pm every Thursday, and it's hard enough to get a coherent thought in English out of my students at that time, let alone a good writing sample for FCE preparation. I thought that by choosing the short story category (which is a possible topic for the FCE), I'd tap into some of their interests and get them more excited about it. Yeah, uhm...not so much. One student dawdled through the whole class and didn't even decide what he was going to write about, let alone finish.

At any rate, after the obligatory grunts and groans once they realized we'd be writing tonight, we looked at two examples of short stories written for the FCE and compared them, talking about what makes a good short story. They were kindof deer-in-headlights until I asked them to think about their favorite authors and books. I asked them to think about why they like to read them. What is it about these authors or books that's so great? Somehow, inadvertently, this clicked for them - probably because it related what we were doing in class to their personal interests. They were throwing ideas at me left and right, and I couldn't write on the white board fast enough. I then turned the conversation to the art of "copying;" I told the students that good writers learn to be good by "copying" their favorite writers. The students started thinking critically about what their favorite authors do that they find so interesting or enjoyable to read - realistic plots, interesting characters, thrilling twists and turns, unusual problems, vivid images, descriptive language...etc etc. I got the students to do pair work while generating ideas for their stories, giving one another guidance as to what their favorite authors would suggest. It worked like magic!

I came up with all of this completely off-the-cuff - my original intention was just to "milk" this one writing assignment into a full lesson, and lo and behold, my passion for creative writing came out, inspiring the students more than I thought possible - and completely unbeknownced to me! It's wonderful when these 'zen' moments happen. Tonight, when the student told me I should teach Creative Writing, I had a realization in the moment and was able to fully appreciate it while it was happening, and not just after the fact.

Anyway, not that I'm actually thinking of teaching Creative Writing, but it's nice to know that I don't actually have to be good at Creative Writing in order to teach it. It's like the whole "I'm not a writer but I know good writing when I see it" argument. Except that I do in fact write...just not short stories. But anyway anyway....

My job is inspiring. I want to scream it from the rooftops :)

Sunday, January 25, 2009

Teaching Lessons

It occurs to me now that I’ve never really talked about my student, “J” (full names are withheld to protect the innocent). But that’s really strange, because J is a really remarkable student. Firstly, J’s level of English is outstanding, probably the closest to fluency that I’ve ever found in a non-native English student. Secondly, the classes that we have together are anything but conventional - this could possibly be due to J’s level of English, which makes our one-to-one lessons together more like those I would have with native speakers, but I attribute most of this to J himself.

To tell you a bit about him, J is a fifteen-year old Granadino, born to relatively wealthy parents (both are doctors) who recently divorced, leaving J and his younger brother (also my student) to live with their father (interesting - that they live with their father). J and his brother are not typical Spaniards - they are well educated, as anyone would expect from privileged children, but instead of accepting what they have been born into with ambivalence, they genuinely appreciate what they have and seem to seize every opportunity to better themselves. One lesson I had with J a few months ago touched on the “nature versus nurture” argument, and as we discussed it, J told me a bit about his upbringing as he attempted to categorize his parents into the “nurturing” or “motivating” categories. [FYI: “nurturing” in this sense meant a parent who supports his/her child no matter what the child chooses to do, while “motivating” meant a parent who is supportive but continuously encouraging a child to try and to excel at as many different things as possible.] J told me that he luckily has one parent of each type - his mother is nurturing, while his father is motivating. As for what results this has yielded in J, he is a self-motivated, outgoing young man who is very interested in philosophy, politics and debate/classical argument, world issues, history, language, sports, music, and videogames (he is fifteen, after all!).

Anyway, J shines above almost all of my other students. He presents me with new challenges as a teacher to come up with lessons that he will find engaging, and once in a while he even catches me off-guard with the questions he asks. This is of course normal with bright students, but I guess I expect it more from native speakers than from TEFL students, which is why it surprises the crap out of me every time. J also has a knack for getting off-topic by engaging me in deep conversations about oh so many random things that, coincidentally, are very interesting topics that I could talk about for hours on end - I think J probably knows this and would rather sit and ‘chat’ for an hour and a half each week than do crummy grammar exercises that he could do in his sleep. Understandable, but still sneaky!

It’s one of these conversations that has me thinking about J tonight, as I just got back from class with him a few hours ago. We were talking about a lot of different things, but what interests me most about my talks with him is how much I learn from him. He tells me about European history, in particular that of Spain; he tells me about Plato and Descartes; and he told me tonight about sexism in the Spanish language and how difficult it is to change people’s minds on the subject, even those of the women who are most affected by it - most Spaniards hold the language as sacred and a part of tradition, like this magical thing that should never be changed or updated. He tells me how “behind the times” Spain is, how they get media (music and movies) months - sometimes years! - after the USA. He tells me how people in Spain tell him he could never be politically “left,” because he doesn’t believe in tradition (to which he vehemently stamps his foot and insists that he certainly believes in tradition, but not to the exclusion of questioning certain aspects of the traditions so that they reflect new understanding and enlightenment). After all, the traditions that we carry on through our lives are a reflection of not only who we were as a society and where we come from, but of who we are now and the image and history of ourselves that we want to portray for the future. J finds bull-fighting horrible, and he equated it tonight with the Roman tradition of putting slave men for the slaughter into a ring with tigers for the entertainment of the upper classes.

We don’t just talk about Spain, though. For every gem that J gives me about Spanish life and culture, I give him one about the English language, sometimes about the differences between American and British varieties and where they stem from - which of course must include some treatment of the respective histories, cultures, and ideologies there. We talked tonight about sexism in English, such as the current feminist arguments against the use of “woman” because it includes or is derived from “man,” and I think it surprised J to consider this for the first time. After he pondered this, he talked about how Spanish doesn’t have a neuter gender - for example, for certain professions which didn’t always include women but now do, the women who now do these jobs must still be referred to by a masculine noun.

Not to get too carried away in recounting all the details of my “lesson” with J tonight, but I just have to say what pure joy it is to have a student like him. It takes me back to my days of tutoring at UNT where I got to go to my Linguistics classes and learn these amazing new things about language and culture, and then just sit down with a student and use that information to help them in their pursuit of the ever-elusive “English.” I personally believe I changed lives in those days with what I taught students - hell, simply explaining the difference between descriptive and prescriptive grammar can do that! It’s students like J, though, that remind me why I’m teaching in the first place. I get to learn just as much as I teach; I get to feel like what I have to share with other people is actually going to change the way they think and live their lives. And it’s with these rare students with whom you have a connection that you genuinely feel like it’s not just the fact that you’re the teacher and they’re the student - you are you, and how you say the things you say to your students is only possible because of who you are, not what you do. It’s completely gratifying and self-fulfilling.

I want to make a constant effort to remember this, to be thankful for every lesson I get with students like J, and to use each one to its fullest potential - for both myself and my students.

Monday, January 19, 2009

Ups and downs...mostly downs

I generally try to refrain from being too negative in my blogs, but I just don't have it in me to be positive today. I've been sick since Saturday, and I ignored the impending doom and decided to stay out late drinking that night, which is always a bad idea. Then, I had an allergic reaction to some falafel from my favorite schwarma shop (which always includes a large amount of wheezing and coughing), and now it's like I've got full-on emphysema, complete with fever and chills.

Anyway, it's just like sickness to bring you to a dark place, make you consider things in a different light and examine your life a different way. An update since my last post: the b/f came to visit over New Years and went back to the States on January 7, and then I had to go back to work the following day. We had an amazing time - got to see most of what Granada has to offer, the big sights in Sevilla (and some amazing tapas bars), plus we were able to fit in a museum and a Malasana pub crawl with my favorite friend in Madrid. All in all, good stuff. We had some amazing conversations over good wine and tapas, just got to enjoy being together in its essence. Unfortunately, after he left, I've been a bit reclusive. And I thought I was getting away with it, but people in my house have started to notice. They've been asking me if I'm just really busy with work, and in response I tell them yes, but honestly my work is the same as it's always been. I feel a bit more stressed by it, but that's just because I need to build up the steam I had going last semester, and that's always tough after the holidays.

In all honesty, I've realized how difficult it is for me to connect with other people. And another key to this reclusiveness is really just the fact that since the b/f came, I'm pretty certain that I am not interested in other men. And this is a good thing - it's good to know, to be sure. But then, he's so far away, while the idea of going back to the States at this point is fairly upsetting. But it wasn't always like this, and I think right now it's a matter of my perspective (which, after two days in bed with a deafening cough, is pretty bleak) - during the summer, it seemed like I made these strange and beautiful connections to so many unexpected people. But now, maybe it's the winter, maybe it's that Granada isn't as magical for me anymore and is really a better "summer town," whatever the reason, I'm feeling taxed by the thought of even a casual "chat" with my housemates. And for that, of course I feel guilty. Like I'm purposefully being anti-social, which is so not like me.

In short, I've got to get over this cold and out of the house and back to myself. Pronto.