Time-Slips: Another Type of Homesickness

A few nights ago, Zeko asked me "so where did you think you would live when you grew up? where did you imagine living?"

and the question stumped me just a bit--in part because I have immense difficulty imagining the future (my response was "well. I don't imagine growing up--so the city was always irrelevant.") But giving it a moment's thought--I realized that the answer (if not growing up is not an option, as I am realizing it, sadly, is not with each passing day) would in some way be, 'well. outside the US.'

I've been fortunate enough to spend significant parts (and episodes) of my life abroad: with all the joy/pain/delight/culture shock that brings. While sometime exhausting, the stimulation of being surrounded by new languages, cultures, histories, ways of being and thinking delights and fulfills me.

However. there are passing moments when I see (and thus realize) the pitfalls of being part of a community (spiritually/emotionally/somewhat socially)  which I am physically absent from.
 This morning I got a facebook friend (oh how I loath how they have co-opted the word friend. but that's another conversation) request from the parent (T.) of a kid I grew up with (D). D. (T's son) and I were always one age group apart--growing up with younger siblings of my friends, but still a member of our childhood cohort--and someone whose path I cross every so often back home. Since I've been gone, T and D lost their wife/mother W. to cancer. The first photos I saw of T.s on fb were of the sign at the gate of the cemetery in our village, just behind the church. followed by flowers, with her name, inscribed on the grey granite just legible beyond the petals.

 As kids, we would play among the gravestones, or walk there for gossip or talks, or just to run and shout out child-energy. in elementary school, on memorial day, we would walk from the school to the cemetery to look at the graves of veterans, racing to find the oldest grave; to read the tombstone which a white pine has grown up against, blocking the inscription; to find the grave of the freed slave, laid to rest in our valley. Later, in high school, those stones marked the long walk home from the bus. as an adult, my mother and I have walked countless loops, starting and ending in front of this cemetery, with those stones marking the end and beginning of conversations, seasons, years.

This morning I realized, this place--however overlooked--is an integral part of my sense of place--my feeling of home.

Westminster West is an small enough community that births and deaths are rare--although as the community ages, and the young people (myself included. myself included) move away, community members passing is becoming more frequent. But W. wasn't aged and my childhood was full of her broad smile, her laugh, her Thai food, celebrating Loi Krathong and the dancing lights of our pumpkin lanterns drifting down the Connecticut carrying our blessings for the future (a far cry from the lights on the Mekong, I imagine, but still a beautiful sight).

Although W. passed a year ago this next week--her funeral was this summer, and stumbling across these photos of the family, friends from West West, a landscape so familiar--except for the name on the grave, which, even though I know she has passed makes me gasp, for just one second. Scrolling through these images in a kitchen 4,500 miles away from that little cemetery surrounded by pines, with the square steeple of the church against blue August skies, I weep. For her passing. For T. and D. and for the hole she left in their lives, in our community. For all those missing W.s presence.
and part of me cries for me too: for this absence of home--which I don't feel daily, but rises up out of these photographs, these moments when something changes--permanently. and I am not home to feel it, to experience it, to internalize it, nor to support (and be supported by) these people I love.
and it's a variety of homesickness for which there is no antibody--not to be cured with comfort foods.

(interlude while men come to change the window in our apartment).

It's moments like these where I notice the passage of time, in nearly quantifiable ways. More specifically, I notice the progression of days in places where I am not physically, but still feel integrally connected, spaces which still comprise a fundamental part of me. and where I feel 'slippage' between the present (or at least my present) and the present of places I cannot (and would never want to) let go of, I feel slightly disoriented--as if my north star(s) shift their position in the night sky. These places: my home, in many ways, remain unchanged in my memory, preserved in some internal time capsule; an exhibition in a museum; sounds, smells, movements captured by this novice anthropologist, collecting the traditions of her own life, compiling them into an archive. And when I miss home--these are the relics I paw over, the stories I revisit, the tastes I savor. but this place, this community, this Westminster West is a living tradition. and contained within that life, that vivacity (as it must be) is also death.

The problem--at least as I see it--has little to do with resisting change, but being unaware of it. being excluded physically from so many of the processes which make a community a community, which give it color, texture, substance, and (I think we can argue) meaning. and how to straddle two communities divided by language, culture, space, mentality (although what exactly that means--although it gets used oh so frequently to explain how/why things are the way they are--still puzzles me) and 4,500 miles.

This is not to say that I regret choosing to live abroad. but sometimes, that I wish that these two homes were just a little closer together.

A Single Story of the Past

The past is not something fixed with an independent existence, a once-and-for-all set of events. The ‘past’ is the remembered past, and as such, it is something that is constructed and reproduced in a multitude of ways. In other words, what we refer to as the “past” is our historical memory a particular period of the past that is possible to hold.

From the perspective of conflict transformation, people can have too much of the “wrong” type of memory. With such memories the pain of the past never dies and the “ill” memories are reproduced and transferred from one generation to the next, into a future that has already been determined." --TrasnConflict, describing the work of The Center for Research, Documentation and Publication.

It's a provoking idea--not only as a history teacher, where the verb 'is' (or it's equally static relative 'was') appears just a bit to frequently--that we are (always) playing an active role in (re)making the past. And that not only do we possess our memories, but we choose--at least at a subconscious level--what to remember and what to forget. Oh Milan Kundera.

And, just engaging in a bit of retrospection, I see this process within myself--the choosing of what aspects of the past to celebrate, those to let slip to the side. The past--our experienced past, as well as transmitted (from relatives, culture, schooling...)--is received with the same subjective lenses through which we experience the present. Yes. Ok. on some level, I cannot dispute the existence of facts. Yes! Things happened in the past: things are built, destroyed, maps made, lines drawn. people killed. but the language with which we describe, memorialize, remember, reify these events--those simple words hold a world of subjective interpretation. did he die? was he killed? was he murdered or executed? a martyr or insignificant casualty of the cause? an insurgent? a civilian?

None of these words change the hard truth that he (she/it/they) are dead. but alter significantly how we make sense, how we explain this particular event. and which story, which narrative we choose to insert it into.

And one of the challenges of history is that there does not necessarily need to be one question, nor one answer. The way we approach the question--and the manner in which it is answered, is again, dependent on the questions we want to ask--and perhaps the answers (or kinds of information) we want to receive. One event can--and will be--remembered in a plethora of manners. And that the manner in which events are remembered depends (in part) itself on history.

Except--and one of the eternal challenges in contexts of oppression/violence/post-violence--is that these memories seem/do/act to serve concrete purposes--within the lives of individuals, and, perhaps in a slightly different manner, within the trajectories of communities, societies. Trauma--for individuals, especially when compounded with current/persistent/perceived oppression (often related to that trauma) makes it so much more challenging for that aspect of identity to be placed back within the spectrum of identities we all hold. new experiences, new understandings of events are then interpreted and catalogued within the context of this injustice.

(for example: in this, a patriarchal society, I feel my identity as a woman challenged in this community, which makes me even more acutely aware of (and willing to defend) my women-ness--this is the aspect of my identity that gets brought to the forefront, and shapes my perception of interactions, my understanding of history, of dynamics within society. It becomes increasingly difficult to take of my 'woman glasses' (and in turn substitute them for another pair, another perspective) until I feel I can express my femininity/womanhood without question, without challenge. And. just to be clear, this is an example, and perhaps a small one, for while the patriarchal system is certainly problematic, and ever-present--it perhaps is not the epitome of discrimination in this community.)

And this is also not to imply that these, my perhaps utterly obvious notes on trauma, pass undetected by folks at TransConflict, or the CRDP. but I'm still trying to understand how, through what processes, through what channels of education (formal and informal) can we equip people with the strength, courage, ability, belief in the reality of change (if we only make it) to critically examine our constructions of history--personal, communal. and constructively explore the wealth of identities available.

which brings me--perhaps in a very circuitous route to a TED talk from a few years ago, which still haunts me: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's The Danger of a Single Story. While she's exploring these issues within a different context--confronting colonial legacies in East Africa--but her insights on assumptions informed/(mis)guided by our single stories still provoke me.

And what I find so powerful about her talk--is that she also turns to scrutinize why and how others (namely the West/America) created single stories of the African continent (how did these stories come to be? what was their purpose? their function within larger contexts of domination/control/imperialism...)--and then how were these stories used to 'know' (or think they know), to define, understand her. How were these stories written onto her, by others.

In seeing how she created her own single stories--she could understand how others constructed their single stories. Seeing, identifying, challenging single stories is inherently a reflective practice, that confronts the systems of power interwoven through society, internalized by individuals. She says, "Power is the ability not just to tell the story of another person, but to make it the definitive story of that person...The consequence of the single story is this: it robs people of dignity. It makes our recognition of our equal humanity difficult. It emphasizes how we are different rather than how we are similar."

Sometimes, walking this line (or at least trying to) feels like a cop-out: in many sticky situations, this feels like the easy route to take, the easy words to say: 'but from the perspective of...'. It's hard words to take a stance with, or take a stance from, if the primary assumption is that there are always multiple grounds to stand on--and that each plot a person stakes out for themselves, has some justification (however crooked, twisted, misinformed or illogical--or at least crooked-seeming from another's perspective) we all draw our conclusions somehow. But. these conclusions change, shift, are burned and born again as our perspectives grow, modify, molt, grow new feathers. take flight.

There Is No Big Picture, Yet

First-Year Teaching Fatigue.

Now. Before I begin let me just clarify: this is not fatigue of teaching, but fatigue from teaching.

Which, in my book, are entirely different things.

Even with parent meetings which kept us at school until well past 6 pm last night, and even with an entire weekend ahead (and with the end of the quarter looming--for both teachers and students) I know some part of me is excited to see my students again--Monday morning bleary-eyed, rumbling along at half speed, and to carry on.
There are those moments--when I ask a student a question and you can see their brains starting to churn, mulling over ideas--old and new--trying to find the connections. and that expression--not totally present with us in class, but wandering off somewhere in the outer-reaches of the cerebral cortex, to me is just beautiful.

So. what I want to write about has nothing--or at least very little--to do with the teaching part of teaching.

I knew that this would be challenging for me from the get-go: but one of the hardest parts of teaching for me is turning off teaching: stopping myself from thinking about teaching day in and day out; stop replaying lessons in my brain, scrutinizing them for hidden hints for how to teach better; stop worrying about homework or lesson plans or documentation for the Ministry of Education. Even though my body goes home at the end of the day, sometimes it takes a while for my brain to disengage from schooling and make that same journey home.

and I'm finding that this is getting exhausting. like get in bed at 7:30 on a Wednesday kind of exhausting. almost to tired to walk the block and a half from the apartment to the corner store to get milk for the morning coffee. although--for the record--I haven't been reduced to taking the lift the two flights up to our apartment--that still seems ridiculous.  (the time change hasn't helped at all, either. nor the 5am call to prayer).

I'm sure that the challenge is also compounded by being in an dual-immersion language context (and being an introvert) and that other than holing myself up in our apartment, everything; from going to the store to buy milk to going out for coffee, to sitting with the neighbors chatting or eating dinner, to just walking around town involves some sort of language-input-processing (and then sometimes switching between languages). I miss the true quiet of nature--which finding usually involves a drive up into the mountains. I think because last year I trained my brain to take as much in as I could, to use every waking second, every instance of language contact to soak up just a few more words, I'm also having a hard time 'turning off' that stimuli as well. or finding the energy to stay fully engaged. because--by now, I can follow a lot of what gets said--but there's always details which are just beyond my grasp. things I can't quite catch. and the more I understand, the more I want to understand even more. it's a vicious cycle.

I think part of the challenge ahead is shifting the way I use energy in the classroom--so that I'm not depleting my stores quite as quickly, part of it is finding/making time/energy to do things unrelated to school which fill me with satisfaction (like taking an online course on political theory with Zeko. and again I wonder 'just how did we find each other?' or learning songs to sing while I'm waiting for the bus to come, or making pickles (so delicious!)) and part of it is patience.

Sharr, near Leshnica.
a different sort of 'big picture' 

Talking with Nicole--one of the Elementary School teachers, and one of the other two Americans at the school, she noted that first year teaching is even harder because you don't have the benefit of seeing the big picture: "there is no big picture your first year" she said. "You're making it."So I don't have the instant gratification of seeing my students improve, because Monday to Tuesday, to Friday to Monday, the changes are incremental: sometimes invisible, and sometimes I get just a glimmer that something is changing somewhere. and I know, or at least I hope, these small changes are adding up. But really I don't know. because I don't know fully where my students (and here I am again. talking about my students. I promise I will write something where the word student does not appear. not even once. but it may be challenging) started from. Or what they were like last year. So my students can see their 'big picture,' especially the ones who were struggling last year, they see their grades improve. But to me, this is just the way they are. I would never have guessed that some of my students--who to me are focused (or as focused as 11th grade guys can be) responsible, on the path to becoming mature individuals--were receiving Ds and Fs last year, having major behavior problems, constantly in the principal's office. And no. of course this dramatic change is not my doing, but theirs. Maybe I'm helping. maybe not. That's not exactly the question, at least for me. but how to I help. more. better.

it's a hard question to turn off.

and if anyone has suggestions or ideas--especially with coping with fatigue: I'm ready to hear them.

so with that said: I'm going to clean the apartment. tune out and listen to NPR. catch up with the world.

Original Strangers, that's what we are

A few nights ago, I was visiting the parents of friends (Dita--who lives downstairs from us, and helped us get this apartment), the father--who is from Tetovo (or at least a village nearby) but met, fell in love and married a woman from Croatia (who now speaks Albanian but with a very clean sound--but plot full of dialect. it's really fascinating to listen to her speak because her accent--at least to my 'expert ear' sounds foreign (as if I am one to talk), while the way she speaks is utterly of Tetovo.) Anyhow, he (Dita's father) looked at the both of us (his wife and I) and smiled, saying, 'you two, you are original strangers. While he [indicating is son-in-law Dita's husband who is from Albania], he's a cousin. but you? [followed by a head wag]."

No, Siree, we're no counterfit strangers, but the real deal.

Since Zeko and I started dating, the subtle/gentle/inquisitive/totally baffled/laughing interrogations have only increased because for so many the idea of choosing this community, is, well a sign of clinical insanity. Dita's father also joked that one day, he and his wife and I would have to go to the psychiatrist, so that we (his wife and I) could be checked out (although unfortunately--I really enjoyed their company--they just went back to Croatia, so our trip to the psychiatrist will have to wait).
Especially when the alternative is the States (however hyped and glorified through hours of hollywood/pop culture/endless murmur of televisions). How crazy must I be to want to stay here?

And I know that even having the right to choose (and the right to un-choose) rooting myself here, that knowledge in and of itself, makes me more able, more comfortable with the idea of "investing" in Tetovo--although honestly teaching has been so exhausting that I don't exactly feel like I have a lot to invest in anything. And yes--there are so many ways in which I see (even through the foggy lens of the language barrier, which makes just about everything a little blurry around the edges) problems in this community--but thus far, I've found the support I need (and hopefully provided it as well) to navigate some of these cultural minefields without too much damage to the mind, body or spirit.

And I also love teaching.

I feel a little bad for Zeko--because all (literally) I want to talk about are my students--their mannerisms, their ticks, things I'm planning, problems I'm having: Zeko gets them all--and usually the unfiltered, unprocessed, raw version, the first words that spring from my mouth when I tumble through our apartment door. And he's a champ (not only for this, though). Not only for being the unceasing receptacle, sometimes translator, and constant support (oh so constant)--but genuinely is interested in helping in whatever way he can--from helping translate test questions, to trying to figure out a solution to the scheduling problems we were having at the beginning of the year (he offered we go home and make a grid and then move beans around. at the time (we spent so much time worrying about making the schedule work), it sounded like divine wisdom. and I'm sure would have worked, but we found another solution. But for next year: saved by the beans. Mark my words.)

I'm teaching 11th grade English and Social Studies at a private school here in Tetovo--and we're approaching the end of quarter 1 (strange how time just zoomed ahead, looking neither to the right nor left. and us passengers, hanging onto our purses and umbrellas and stacks of student papers for dear life--which brings to mind a scene of the Professors from Gormenghast. Thanks again Ned, for bringing those books into my life). Of course there are the rocky days--where for whatever reason the dynamic in the classroom is out of whack, students want to test boundaries, or students want to complain (justly and unjustly) about the amount of work they have, or debate their grades. and on those days--especially with 6 hours of class, and with a total of 38 students (there are two groups of 11th grade students, and I teach each section English and Social), days can get long.
But luckily, those days have been few and far between. and usually, time spent teaching--while exhausting physically/mentally, is also replenishing. rejuvenating. inspiring.  amusing.

Like today: one of my students (mind you, an eleventh grader) in social studies class--when I started to erase the board, said 'jo, ne(ne)!'--which translates literally as 'no, Mom!' The entire class started to laugh--as did I, eraser posed to start wiping words out (thinking: 'is that really what I just heard?' Although, for the record, I do call them dude).  I think E. might have been a little embarrassed--but honestly I was touched. My classes have a wide range of language proficiencies--and especially with the students with whom there is a wider language gap/barrier, I worry (endlessly. Just ask Zeko) about if I'm reaching them, if anything of what I'm saying/we're doing is settling for them, if I'm able to maintain their interest and curiosity (and spark their imaginations! I know, my expectations of schooling/education/teaching/being a teacher are high),  and if what I'm asking them to produce for me is adequate to allow them to express their mastery of the content, if they feel comfortable asking questions...the list is never ending.
 and being called Mom in class, while perhaps not the best indicator of whether or not manifest destiny (one of our topics for today's social studies class) makes any sense at all, at least, to me, says something about the dynamic I'm building with my students. I'm just not sure what exactly that is, or how to interpret it.


The class where I got called Mom is also my homeroom, who I see for 15 minutes every morning (and then sometimes 4 hours of class later throughout the day), and read announcements. And even though usually those 15 minutes are spent prying students eyes open (and mine, sometimes, I will be honest)--I'm starting to get a feel for their personalities, and I think, they for mine.
And I really enjoy letting myself be surprised by my students--and they surprise me all the time. Today--to celebrate the beautiful fall weather--we went outside for the last part of class and made skits about the short story we're reading. and like any first--taking a group of students outside for the last 30 minutes of the school day was a little bit daunting--and yet. rather than just basking in the sun--or running away (I think my subconscious fear) or revolting now that they had gotten what they wanted (to be outside on a nice day), they brought their books, make their skits, and then performed them. and we laughed. one group even asked me to be in their skit--and yes, to play the Mom (sensing a theme here? hmmm). and then even offered to help me take the books back to the classroom at the end of the lesson.

and watching them take on this small task--and see how their eyes smiled just a little (although some were clearly nervous) to be 'on stage,' taking on a new character, with all our attention focused on them, makes me impatient to do more with these students. to see what other talents they have, that I am thus unaware of. what other surprises they have in store.

Trust-Fall Teaching

This morning I read an article about teaching, and like any good article about teaching it both inspired me--and has forced me to spend some of this morning in critical reflection of my own teaching and that meeting point between a teaching philosophy and a teaching practice (and the challenges of making them overlap).

The article (How a Radical New Teaching Method Could Unleash a Generation of Geniuses by Joshua Davis) explains how conventional teaching--and conventional assessment!--are nearly antithetical to the 'natural' (and I use this word with several grains of salt) ways children learn (through experience, experimentation, curiosity!) from a neurological point of view. He then follows one teacher, Juarez Correa in a school in Mexico, and how, through changing the ways in which he tasked students--and his role in the classroom--enabled students to take responsibility (and above all, interest) in their learning. And, like most happy teaching stories--yes, the students even do better (and not just better) on the State standardized tests.

And yes. For my educator-self, stories like these are fairy tales--not in the sense that they are unreal (for they very much are real) but have this gossamer sheen to them, and I find myself wishing that one day, I might have that kind of impact on a student's life. And I know, much of the process--especially from Correa's perspective was him changing his role in the classroom. Him relinquishing the traditional/typical position of power teachers hold in the classroom, hold over students, hold over 'knowledge' (or perhaps more importantly, information).

But for me--especially now, up to my elbows in the good and bad of teaching high school students (more good than bad, I think)--the pieces that I am curious about are the perspectives from the students--and what kind of challenges Correa faced asking students to change not only how they saw or understood the role of the teacher in the classroom, but how they shed some of the ingrained characteristics of what it means to be a student. Because, the second half of 'teachers are in control of the classroom' is that 'students are subservient to the teacher' (in perhaps more harsh language than typical). Correa's (radical) modification of his practices as a teacher had/has to be accompanied by an equal (if not greater) modification of students' understanding of their role in the classroom--and changing of their expectations (most importantly, of themselves, but also of their classmates, and teacher).

And so, what I see Correa doing--on one level--is placing radical trust in his students.
Trust that they can and will fill the spaces vacated by him--the teacher--as he changes his role in the classroom. Trust that they will change their expectations of themselves, trust that they will motivate themselves --rather than receive motivation from the teacher. Trust that they can take responsibilities in the classroom which they never dreamed they would have.

And this trust, in turn, is a powerful thing to receive--to feel trusted by someone usually "more powerful" than you.

And it is this trust that I seek with my students. and I know (said with a sigh) that this trust--and changing behaviors in a profound way--takes time (and patience). Time for the teacher--and time for the student. And that these two clocks may not be perfectly synchronized--especially with the cross-cultural 'time zones' (or perhaps jet lag is a better metaphor) which my students and I face, we have to be patient with each other. But it gives me something to hope for. and for a Sunday--with a week of teaching ahead, hope is a rather beautiful thing.

Where have all the people gone?

One year ago today (--ish. Eid--or as we call it here, Kurban Bajram (the feast of the Sacrifice commemorating when Abraham didn't sacrifice his son Issaac/Ismail for god/Allah/whatever name you would like to use, and instead sacrificed a lamb) isn't a fixed date, as it is a fixed number of days after the end of Ramadan.
So with that tangent aside, one Kurban Bajram ago, Evan, Tasha and I woke up, and proceeded to walk two kilometers through what is usually 'hopping' studenty-peopled Tetovo, where you can't step without either passing food (how many places sell burek between the university and the qender?) or building equipment, usually encroaching out into the sidewalk, all without seeing a soul. Nor, for that matter, a place to eat breakfast.

Just two months into living here--it was eerie to wake up in a bed, in a building, on a street, in a town that I thought I was 'getting to know' and have it feel like I had entered an alternative universe.
And after that day, I always wondered: just where did all those people go? how can what sometimes feels like thousands of people just disappear, overnight? where are the traffic jams? the honking cars? the kids running between strolling pairs on the sidewalks (who always, it seems, are walking at 1/4 speed)? where did all the merchandise, usually spread out over square meters in front of stores, where did it disappear to? the mannequins? the bananas, cucumbers, the men selling plastic trinkets and peanuts? the noise of the traffic (oh so markedly absent from the soundscape of my new apartment--and a welcome change)?

I knew that Bajram is a big family holiday here--and that people (mostly men) go visiting the various branches of the extended (and my god. When they say extended, they mean extended. ) family. But the math didn't quite add up for me: if Tetovo, a city full of people, hasn't gotten any bigger, and  the number of people has remained the same (these two remain constant), and people are moving between outposts of the family clan--wouldn't there still be people out and about? perhaps not on the scale of your hum-drum Wednesday morning, but some middle ground between quasi-post- apocalyptic ghost town, and cars parking on the sidewalks because there isn't enough parking space?

And today--I think I unraveled some of the mystery.

Having the apartment to myself for the majority of the day (as Zeko is one of the people zipping from halle (father's sister) to teze (mother's sister) to daje (mother's brother) to xhaxha (father's brother) to another halle, another teze, another daje another xhaxha, and thus it continues (and then to their children...I think he said he ate more than 20 pieces of baklava over the last Bajram (and I'm surprised that much sugar didn't knock him out)), and assuming that I'd also have the roads to myself (who's going to be out pleasure driving on Bajram?), I went out to see the fall foliage (for the record: still no comparison to Vermont) on bike.

And biking down these usually sleepy quiet roads, there I found the traffic jams: seven, eight cars in a line zipping from Halle to Teze to Daje to Xhaxha (although they use a different word here (Mingj?) all riding their Baklava-induced sugar high, and all, I suspect, a little surprised to find me there on my green bicycle.

It's an interesting testament to how connected families remain--something I'm still trying to wrap my head around--as I have five first cousins, and my knowledge of the extended family ends there, and also to how much the population has shifted towards the cities--places like Tetovo, contributing to the fullness of the city (and the housing/infrastructural shortages)--and yet pillars of the family still remain in the villages. I hadn't been able to see this connection between the urban and the rural quite so clearly until this morning.

And it also speaks volumes to the extent to which personal/face-to-face contact matters in this culture/community. it's not enough to just send 'holiday's greetings' cards--with messages about all events of significance in the family--at choice times during the year (and not to imply that this is the extent of our means of staying connected as a family--or on a broader, American scale) but sitting down and having tea. eating the Baklava. taking the time to nourish these relationships--in this manner. it's a generosity with time that I know will take me a while to get used to. because--hand in hand with generosity with time, is patience (and waiting). and in so many ways, our cultural understanding of time (as having fixed quantity. as being precious (time is money, or so they say), as moving in a linear, organized manner) leads me to this inexplicable impatience, especially around unspecified periods of waiting--when in so many other ways I can be oh so patient.

I guess it's a good thing, then, that I've got another year here, to keep working on it.

The god of small things

Or the things of small gods. Or maybe small gods of things.

I'm not quite sure which one yet.

(but my postmaterialist self (thanks Malvi) is somewhat skeptical about the second two)--but this isn't going to be about the God of Small Things--saddelicious as it is by itself.

But the close of the semester has also been somewhat saddelicious--or maybe frusturatingdelicious, because it's brought to the surface a lot of the tensions I feel with a) assessment in general and assigning something as dynamic as person/their work and growth over the past 16 weeks with something as staticemotionless as a number (but then having to rationalize to them those impersonal numbers, and 'take ownership of them'), and b) the academic culture here, especially around assessment.

Today was, shall I say, hopefully me hitting rock bottom. And after almost starting to cry because a colleague really doesn't know how to read other people's emotions, and therefore didn't quite get the message that I was done with him lecturing me about how bad my albanian was, and how studying Albanian grammar was pointless (because we all have 'human grammar' so why try to learn the grammar of another language?. yeah. not the best conversation to have today, especially because Albanian grammar is not exactly intuitive, or predictable--at least to my novice eyes. and it's damn hard for me to learn through emersion without some sort of vague gramatical frame to throw my language-encounters up against).

Durres--not to confuse anyone.
Tetovo still doesn't have the sea

And this week has also just been a extended conversation with various people about how broken elements of the educational system are here--and how little people think they can do about it. how powerless we are--which to me also can imply the 'why bother resisting when they'll just find some other way to override you? so just play by their rules, however shitty they are and make the whole process shorter' attitude. and my consciousness, well, it hasn't been beaten just yet. and it won't shut up.

Durres

These issues--especially around academic cultural differences--are made even more 'real' by my growing realization that I will be here for (at least) another year. I signed a contract yesterday to teach 10th and 11th grade Social Studies (what!? teach the Russian Revolution? the age of enlightenment? the cold war!? imperialism? the 1960's? I can't wait) and 11th grade literature (suggestions welcome! the idea is to tie the literature into the social studies curriculum. which sounds super cool) at a local private school. After what feels like an eternity (but was really just a month. how does time feel so fastslowfastslow) of saying 'I will sign it,' 'I will sign it': it finally happened.

Which is thrilling.

But especially in light of these tensions I'm feeling around being engaged in the academic culture here, this also means that these problems aren't going anywhere fast because neither Tetovo nor I am up and leaving just yet, so we (you and I, Tetovo, you and I) are going to have to find a way to live in peace together.

Durres

But [Enter stage right: God of Small Things], going out, spending time with my thoughts and the whirl of my bicycle wheels, and the wildflowers, I realized that tensions or not, if I can only, just for one moment, pull my gaze up out of my gradebooks and e-mail, and really see. let the light, the boys throwing rocks into the river yelling after me 'but where are you from?', and backlit wheat into my brain, that's when this tension starts to be resolved on its own. because its easy to get lost in technology,  wrapped up in the impersonal rapidfire communication of end-of-year madness, overrun by the cold numbers we distill our students down to (and the ferocity and coldbloodndness with which they fight back (this week students have said 'oh. I can't do your required course work (second chance to pass the class) because I need to go dress shopping,' 'but teacher I tried. and that's what grades are for [wink wink]' 'but you're course is just an elective (so why should I have to work for a grade)? and, the kicker 'I signed up for a class with you [meaning my co-teacher] not Claire'--and after a week of hearing these things, I begin to question what, if anything, we accomplished in the past 16 weeks. or if it's really all about a number--and nothing more).

and that kills me. these are future teachers--what about love? what about curiosity? what about change? or hope? quest for knowledge? what is delicious, and what is our quest for it? we spent so much of the course identifying the specific problems the students felt they encountered in their own educations, and spoke with such passion about how these were the things that needed to change--and I know. it's hard to find this harmony between theory and your own daily practice--in any regard. change starting at home is never easy (speaking as a woman living in the Balkans this rings even truer). but where else can it start? how can I be both empathetic with them, and also push them to push themselves?

and from this place, yes.  it's true. I can forget about beauty, and just see the factories--spewing smog and graduating students. and trying to turn a profit.

and today--I think because I had hit this wall--I logged out and went to go find everything that I've been missing: smells, colors, flowers, honking horns, textures, grit, exhaust fumes, sheep herds, and all. and just be.

and somehow, this quietness of just drinking in what is around me, this is what keeps me sane. and keeps me rooted here. it's these small details that remind me, that yes, life is also beautiful. if we only let ourselves see it. let our selves live in it.


.

life as the school shepherdess: let's do this with dignity

if anyone told me teaching was like herding cats--folks, I must have missed it.

But now I know. oh lord do I know.

(so for anyone else who missed the memo) Teaching is like herding cats. but even worse, because honestly, what would you want with a room full of cats (one cat is plenty enough for me)?

Classes finished nearly two weeks ago, but I'm still trying to track down student work--I've sent e-mails  I've re-sent e-mails, sent e-mails in all caps and I'm almost to the point where want to just lurk around the rooms where students are taking exams and not let them leave until they give me their work). And, yes, while I understand that doing work isn't always the highest priority (spring, graduation looming, end of classes...) I also don't quite comprehend the logic of failing classes this close to graduation--especially for something as stupid as not turning in a 3-5 page paper. In part because I think students are used to being able to strong-arm their way into passing--perhaps without actually deserving the grade.

Tomorrow I have consultation hours for one of my classes--so students can come and talk about their grades--and honestly I'm nervous. Because students put on their 'aggressive face' and I whip out my 'stickler-for-rules-bitch face' and, well, the combination isn't always pretty.

But I think 'how to have a disagreement with professors' is going on my list of topics I'd love to talk to students about (along with the usual suspects of plagiarism, how to see a thesis when it hits you in the face, and how to hit other people with your thesis, the beauty of revision)--because it's one of the teacher/student dynamics that I've experienced here which has been really unsettling for me.

And, sadly, I think a lot of teachers feel compelled to play along by this game--or at least by these rules. It's hard to actually fail students--because there are plenty of second chances (make up exams, summer school) and so I think there is some pressure to just move them through (someone actually said as we were talking about final exam results 'remember. there is summer school. do you want to be here for it?' suggesting that students should be passed along so we don't have to sit here and swelter with them for two weeks over the summer (and instead pull out our hair about them next year). Which I'm not sure is the best attitude towards student assessment--but it also does put teachers in rather uncomfortable positions. Furthermore, there is something inherently unfair about giving students a chance to receive the same credit for a 16 week course over two week intensive in the summer. firstly, some ideas take time to mature. secondly, the math just doesn't add up (to me at least. I'm sure the university has some logic behind it. whether or not I would agree with it is another story).

And after ranting about this situation last night (with a lot of really loud hand motions), Zeko took my hands and said--and it made me so happy to hear this from someone-- don't give in, and furthermore you shouldn't.
yes. you have principles. and we have principles for a reason--and we can live by/with/inside/for them.

and I'm brought back to Kropotkin's quote: "Think about what kind of world you want to live and work in. What do you need to know to build that world? Demand that your teachers teach you that." 

The inverse of it though, is that as a teacher we also have responsibilities/the responsibility to teach for the kind of society we want to live in, the world we want to work, to be in. It's not just student responsibility--it's civic responsibility, to be engaged in this dialogue about what kind of society we really want to build together. As a teacher--especially teaching a class called 'Education and Society' I was always grappling with this question of how/if/will what I'm teaching--a verb I have some disagreements with, but anyhow--what I'm sharing with students is what we need to build this society, and to assess what the realties/problems/challenges are on the ground which shape/impact(/control? although I fear using this word only reifies how out of their control people see reality as, so take it with a grain of salt) reality now. 

Which then--to bring this full circle--also makes this period of the semester so so so much more frustrating because we've spent the past 16 weeks talking about what it means to be a student, a teacher, hidden curriculum and implicit messages. meritocracy (and some of the problems posed by systems based on merit)--using education to really change society, and the importance of dignity and maintaining dignity, respect. and then, it seems, this process of grades--of assessing someone (a livingbreathingspeakingwalkingbeing) with a number--all of this gets flung out the window, baby, bathwater and all. and as a teacher, I object to having to do this, but ok folks. let's do this with dignity. 

Telling our stories, one square at a time

Friday was the official last day of school at SEEU--although there's still a bit of time until graduation-- final exams and the like to finish up (and a stack of student work to read). but I'm starting to realize that my 'Fulbright experience,' whatever that is supposed to mean, is starting to wrap up (as if experiences have neat endings or beginnings. but my fulbright-companions/comrades getting on planes and up and leaving, well that feels kind of like the end of something). and it's an odd transition place to be in--because yes, I'm transitioning out of something--but I'm not leaving. I just moved into a new apartment, and am thinking about buying things like appliances--decisions which don't exactly index 'end' of an experience.

but this also is the end of my first year of teaching. and that. well that feels like something--I just haven't quite figured out how to articulate what yet.

On Thursday, the final day of my final class (Mapping, Cartography and Geography) my students gave presentations of their final projects (basically identify something in the community (or their home community if they weren't from Tetovo) that they wanted to explore further through the process of making a map.) Some of my students choose the awkward public square in the center of Tetovo, which was 'redone' (although this term usually indicates progress, where as in this instance, it seems to be 'regressive' (thank you, Jeremy. it's taken me a while, but, yes. you were right on the whole regressive thing) change) about a decade ago. And it was one of those instances where my students started to say the most profound things, but I couldn't tell if they knew how much they were blowing my mind with their observations. and so didn't want to react too strongly, in case it shut them up.

Previously, the square--at the heart of the city--had a fountain, green space, some statues. Now it's this vast expanse of concrete, where at night, people come out and rent small cars for children to drive around. it has a strange feeling of an free-form amusement park--but not a public space.

One student said, 'squares [but I think you could expand this to talk about public space in general] are supposed to tell the story of the city. But what story does our square tell?"

"Emptiness," was the response.

The square is oddly ahistorical ('you can't tell anything about our city's history from this square,' one student noted), a void as it were, without any place-specific markers that situate this square within the center of Tetovo--geographically as well as socially. From the man selling cotton candy, to the guy with the plastic toys that make all sorts of noise, to the cigarette buts, and old men sitting on the park benches in silence, it looks like just about any other square, in any other city.  Although--it should be noted, there is a large screen where companies  blast advertisements in flashy neon hues (so hell, it's certainly a consumerist/capitalist space--another  observation my students made--that the square was just used for personal profit--either as a 'market place' for lots of plastic crap, or a political market place--for holding rallies, and the such. ), and around the 28th of November (big holiday time around here, celebrating Albania's centennial) a huge banner of a local  Albanian politician (now deceased) was unveiled--although I don't know if it is a permanent installation or not. So, yes, the space is marked, in various ways--by the languages used, the gender norms enacted there. Which then begs the question--retuning to my students' observations--'whose story of the city' will the square tell? and does the marked absence of a story reflect Tetovo's contested histories? There are plenty of other smaller parks around the city with their relics of socalist-realist art--stoic women, chiseled men, all gazing off in the distance with a determined look on their faces, ready to conquer anything and everything. Yet these bodies, these markers, these narrators have left this stage, the space where the story of the city is told, acted and reinacted. and now we, bags of popcorn and wisps of cotton candy in hand, are waiting for another story to begin.

one tube of toothpaste at a time

Some people (ahem, J. Alfred Prufrock) measure out their lives with coffee spoons.

I measure time in toothpaste tubes.

Which, for those of you who have ever seen me totally lost in thought while brushing my teeth, probably comes as no surprise. But I mean this quite literally. I have measured my time here in Macedonia with tubes of toothpaste. being a hippie, I brought my hippie-dippie toothpaste with me to Macedonia, and over the past almost eight months--crazy to see written on the page. how has it been eight months already?--have slowly worked my way through them, one pea-sized dollop of toothpaste at a time. I started in on my third (and final) tube at least a month ago, but watching it slowly empty has really hit home just how long I've been here, although I've certainly got enough left to last me until July (I hope).

and my plan is to head home and replenish my stock (and say hi to Grandma!)--and then come back to Tetovo.

It isn't quite finalized yet, but I'm planning/hoping on signing a contract in the next week to be an English/Social Studies teacher (11th grade) here in Tetovo at a private school for another year. I realized that I wasn't quite ready to leave just yet, and this really hit home as I started to apply for other jobs, start looking at grad school programs, started to plan a life outside of Macedonia, and it just didn't feel right. So a month ago, I met with the director of the school (based on the American educational system--whatever that means. Dad poignantly asked, 'so what version of history will you be teaching--and what version of history am I [he's a 4-6th grade teacher] teaching?' I love my family), met with the principal, sat in on classes, and slowly started being able to see myself there, started imagining ways in which I could fit into this community. the school is quite new--this is their second year--so part of my job is going to be doing a lot of faculty/admin development, specifically helping design and facilitate an English and Social Studies department and start creating the structures through which faculty discussion/learning/collaboration can happen. Thus far, the people I've spoken to have been really receptive to exploring new ideas, and I think being there will not completely satisfy, but certainly speak to my creative side. and there are already a lot of exciting things going on--place-based education in the 7th grade, for example. (and my heart sings just a little).

I do have my concerns about working at a private school--because the quest for profit can change/impact priorities--but the problem is that priorities, especially in education, can be influenced by all sorts of things in the public sector as well. however, the cost of the school certainly limits access. but I'm planning on continuing my classes at the American corner with my kids (their faces lit up when I mentioned I was applying for a job here, and I can't wait to see them grow and change over another year), and hopefully exploring ways in which my students (my students? jeez. i'm not quite sure I can call them mine just yet) can become more aware of and sensitive to their community. and civically engaged and conscious. and start bridging some of these gaps between school and community.

and there are so many resources out in the community which I think can be utilized--if teachers (with a little creativity) are only given the flexibility and freedom to do so. For example, beautiful parks up in the mountains (so why doesn't my class adopt a park and go up there once a month to keep it clean, to have a picnic? get some fresh air? get a little dirty? develop habits for taking care of natural places, for getting out from the glare of the screen, for watching the seasons change?

and this year, I think I've still kept this label of 'teacher' at at least arms length--most of my students are my age, and yes, I get to grade them, but I identify so much more with them as colleagues than students (and I hope it's reciprocated--but they're probably a bit more aware of the differentiation of power between us). so again, now, I'm grappling with this label of being a 'teacher' and all that entails. and just hoping that I'll be patient enough with them and myself as I grow into this new aspect of my life.

so. I'm only planning on bringing another three tubes of toothpaste with me back to Tetovo, but as Bill Bryson says, 'there's always a little more toothpaste in the tube. Think about it.' 

'it doesn't matter if you're a boy or a girl, it matters what's in your h-h-heart'

This morning I finished 'teaching' The World in Claire's Classroom for the first (and definitely not the last) in my days as a teacher. And every time I watch the film, I am dumbfounded by the profound, deep, complex, wise things these first and second-graders not only think but say, express, communicate. if only more people (more teachers especially) took the time to ask them what they thought, and then listened to their answers.

there's a beauty to the simplicity of language, but the complexity of thought children use.
and how empowering it is--for someone from an early age--to feel, to believe that their voice is worthy, their voice is heard. their opinions are desired and respected. and have the same legitimacy as the voice of an adult. 

And watching the film (for any of you in Grinnell there's a copy there, and a copy here in Tetovo: please ask, and I will gladly lend it to you! I'm not sure if it's available on-line anywhere, but hunt it down. it's worth it. and I'm not just saying this because it's about my home), my heart swells with gratitude for the place I call home, and the people I call home. And that someone (or someones--Lisa and Alan, a million thanks) had the foresight to know, to anticipate that Claire Oglesby is a woman to capture. because she lives not only in the film--but I see bits and pieces of her in everyone who watches her, who steps into her classroom, internalizes that atmosphere, that community. and to me, there is nothing more beautiful than hoping that my students now carry a piece of her, her wisdom, her care, her compassion with them too, into classrooms, homes, communities here.

I know that there are so many barriers to creating the respectful community illustrated in the film, but the film--I think (I hope)--at least offers the possibility, the hope and the knowledge that this can exist. it has existed. and can be created again.

After watching a portion of the film with our class last week, Zeko said "this is the school I dreamed about."

Me too, I wanted to reply. Except that this dream is also my reality. and each time I watch the film I'm reminded of how and why I believe that schools, schooling, it can work! there are ways to translate critical pedagogy, critical theory into critical practice. and that knowledge, that hope, that dream is my pedagogical/philosophical north star.

it's also amazing to me how the same issues which resonated with my seven-year-old-self--issues of gender equality, of being heard, of marginalization and the human/emotional impact of that, of having space to be vulnerable-- are still the issues that resonate with me now. A friend (Ned) who I haven't been in contact with in over five years, recently told me--'but we still know each other because, honestly, how much have we fundamentally changed since high school?' and at first I was baffled by that thought--of course we've changed since high school! but now, watching the film, I'm starting to wonder--have I changed since second grade? or am I still that same child, still that same woman?

and I think for a long time, I was uncomfortable with the truthful (my truth, that is) answer to that question because (I perceive that) for so many people that scene defines me as  'the girl that wanted to be Gandhi but wasn't.'  (which I'm coming to see isn't that bad of a legacy to carry with you (but it's taken me a long time to get here). and again, I hear Vahido's voice 'are you going to be a peacemaker?', so striving to be Gandhi--or more accurately a Gandhi. at times (most of the time) it feels like too tall of an order, but at least it gives me something to aspire to become) but my truth, what resonates for me from this scene, from this film is that I am still that person--still someone moved/frustrated to the point of tears by injustice. and that's ok. even if my tears, my hiccuping voice is captured on film. that's not something to be ashamed of.

and with sweet memories of Claire so vivid in my mind, today I'm especially grateful to be her adashe, to share her name. and I have a feeling I'll always be Little Claire. and hopefully, walking in her footsteps.

Bon Appetite!

couldn't resist: the neighbor's cow in Sanski Most

Back in 2011, when our study abroad group spent a week in Kosovo, I remember before we left Belgrade, one of the host-moms packed an obscene number of sandwiches for E. to eat on the road. and we all laughed a little--can't find Buba's cooking in Prishtine--and then this memory got packed up and stored away. Fukushima happened, we became caught up in the intricacies of Kosovar history, politics, symbolism. Taking it all in. I'm sure somewhere on the road, the sandwiches got eaten.

and then a few weeks ago there was a milk scare here--not because of crazy bacteria (or the evil eye, as the case may have it), but problems with the nutrition (and toxins) regional cows were/are exposed to, (some fungus in their feed) and traces of them in their milk. although there is no open discussion of the impact of the war on nutrition, soil fertility, I can't help but think about this latest food scare through a (the/ my?) post-conflict lens (Skopje also won't release data on air quality--so I get the sense that issues/data around health are somewhat sensitive.)
 It's a terribly uncomfortable truth (for myself included--as an avid vegetable consumer)--but I think, decades later,  we're still eating war.

still eating what happened on this land, what our landscape has endured, has internalized. living with the consequences of the violence we have inflicted on it. literally* figuratively. afterall--everything goes somewhere. (and I hear Patti's voice in 2008, laced with alarm and shock--'they're finding traces of human DNA in the Miljacka River in Sarajevo' presumably from the dead still in the hills).

On the most immediate level, it totally confounds the 'eat local' paradigm I adopted working on an organic farm (and living next to Monsanto--not exactly a beloved neighbor and shame for signing the Monsanto Protection Act),  or at least raises a strong critical magnifying glass up to it to examine all of its contours and complexities, and begs the question 'what are we eating when we eat local? and what are the limitations or implications?' it makes spring--these first spinach crops, first carrots, bevy of tractors out tilling, sowing seeds--so sweet and sad. (not to say that there aren't plenty of toxins in the soils/environment back home--just to be clear, or that there aren't plenty of other sources of poisons trickling into the soils). But, I think being so preoccupied with the social/relational/spatial implications of violence (to use/modify Basso's terms 'the way the war eats us,' the way wars/experiences/trauma works on us the way stories worked or 'hunted' individuals in the Apache community),  I hadn't stopped long enough to to approach the issue from a totally different, perhaps more 'grounded' perspective--the ways in which we eat war.

But. what is more troubling for me is that this yet another way in which wars/violence lives in/inhabits places long after the peace agreement, after the armistice, after we all agree to stop killing each other, rebuild the family house and be neighbors again (an oversimplification, indeed. yet--I'm realizing that reconstruction of community (my passion and if you really want it, more thoughts on return than you can shake a stick at, or better yet Vahido's thesis (what an inspirational person (his thesis really is worth a read!) on a total tangent--they're organizing at CIM [Centar za Izgradnju Mira] a project collecting oral histories in Sanski Most about individuals who confound these nationalist/ethno-centric metanarratives. talk about the power of place/the potential of place-based study in post-conflict settings. I'm in love)) is but one part of the process--holistically speaking. after all, communities are built on something, they stand on something--not just someones). and so how we live with the war, how the war continues to impact post-war life (let alone quality of life) is one of those issues lurking beneath the surface (trying so hard to not make some soil puns right now). one of those inconvenient truths, that sometimes feels easier not to talk about. because it is so close to home. and kind of hits you right in the gut.

it's another time when I hear Vahido's voice, "it's just war by other means."

and war at the most personal level, at that--we all need to eat.

Even those (especially those!) born after conflict--they're ingesting the war too. And granted--the war, or remnants of war, aren't the only health risks here (broadly speaking), but it's one of the ways wars endure.

*and let me just reiterate--I'm not a scientist. I don't have the data. I'm not sure the data is even out there (really--who would want to find that out? or fund that study? and then would it be possible to publish freely?)--but if it is, please let me know. Ben--I feel like you would know where to find it.

a few images

 the afternoon light these past few days has just been to die for--accentuating new greens, fresh snow on the mountains, turning clouds pink and orange.

the magical place where we got our bicycles

looking back towards SEEU

the birds at the hamam

Gostivar: Where all the old folks have great wrinkles around their eyes, bananas are pricey and the baklava is above average

Vucko returns?

Yes I'm going to wax poetic about Gostivar for a little--so anyone from Tetovo, kindly plug your ears and sing loudly to yourself, if you'd rather not hear it. Because I took a little (long really, but we'll get to that) trip to Gostivar today and was pleasantly surprised.

The running joke around here (meaning in Tetovo) about Gostivar is that it is the largest village in Tetovo, and that when the Olympics are held in Tetovo (only one winter-olympic cycle away, I'm positive--maybe we can have Vucko II?), Gostivar will be our (our? look at me!) Olympic Village. And yes, Gostivar does have a really different feel than Tetovo--the buildings are shorter, the sun is brighter, it's definitely got a different sense of City planning--with roads weaving around. There's also a sizable Turkish (which has maintained a sense of identity since the Ottoman times. In my other studies of the Balkans, I don't remember hearing a lot about other self-identified Turkish communities (it certainly was used as a derogatory term in BiH during the war) but does anyone have an explanation for why Turkish communities assimilated or didn't assimilate in various regions in the Balkans?)  community in Gostivar, so all official signs are in three languages, and many shops are at least Albanian-Turkish. And while they've got their fair share of ugly new (or new in the 70's as the case may have it) buildings (my favorites are the ones with tons of reflective mirror-windows which are tinted slightly blue or yellow), there were also a lot of really beautiful old doors, facades, plaster, and some really beautiful old faces (I'm thinking of one of the most beautifully wrinkled old women, selling eggs at one of the main intersections. I was to shy to ask if I could take her photo.) And after biking to Gostivar from Tetovo (30 km one way google maps tells me), well Gostivar looked like paradise.

"our" mountain (the one just above Tetovo) is the pointy one to the left of the tree

After a few snow-flakings yesterday, today was unbearably beautiful (smog and all) and there's a road out of Tetovo which I've been hoping to explore. One of the things I realized once I hoped on the bike is that, until the bicycle, my "Tetovo" had been as big as I could walk comfortably--or had need to walk. and really no bigger. It had several main arteries (Ilindenska and Iliria--which meet at this awkward oblong traffic-circle between the city square and the House of Culture--another delightful (and frigid) relic from the 1970s), and numerous side streets, but I rarely passed out of the city limits. And with a bike--my sense of scale has completely shifted.

Although perhaps today it shifted just a little too rapidly.


Anyhow, so there's a road leading over the highway (actually right at the end of campus) which leads "away"--and from where I've seen some of the most dramatic clouds since coming here. I knew vaguely that this road ended in Gostivar (the next biggest town between here and Struga--so a little further west of Tetovo), and headed off. and just kept going. and after a while it just seemed crazy to turn around--having a destination helped motivate me. And most of the time it was totally lovely--pleasantly crisp air, a lot of men out in their fields spreading manure or just moving things. flocks of sheep, the first green on some of the willows by the various streams that cross the plain/valley (this road took me over to the other hills, across the valley from Tetovo, so I got to see the entire range in it's new-snow glory. stunning). It was interesting, however, to note which language was crossed off of the signposts announcing the village's name--and then in which villages that hadn't happened (I wonder why: not enough hooligans? actual acknowledged/accepted diversity? and what kinds of insecurities prompted the crossings off in the first place) But man, I think a woman on a bike (riding alone at that) is really rare in these parts--about 25 k in, one guy actually stopped me and said (I think--we had some serious language barrier issues) "your face is really red." I'm hoping it was out of concern, otherwise, I think that's not exactly a winning pickup line--but probably not one he'll have many opportunities to use again, so perhaps not worth complaining too much about.



but I'm seeing just how concerned people are about what others think of them--in part because if/when you stand out, people let you know--they honk, call out to you, or perhaps the worst, just stare. Which is so interesting to me, because young people especially complain about not having enough private space--generally people live with their parents until they get married, and then the wife will move in with her husband's family. "public space"--the cafes, streets, squares and parks often times operate as "private space"--where else are teenaged romances going to happen--and that people would all for (to a degree) some privacy. except that everyone watches and presumably everyone also gossips. So it's hard to be--or feel--alone here. Which is what I loved about getting out on the road today--peacefully pleasantly alone. until I passed by a cafe--full of menfolk basking in the sun--and then I felt very much not alone (and very much alone, lone biker, lone woman).

Gostivar--what to say. The first thing I saw on the road in from Cajle was a totally abandoned factory--which makes me wonder what Gostivar was like a few decades ago (I also noticed, passing through all these villages, the remarkable number of empty storefronts along the main road--which makes me wonder how these communities may be hit by the economic crisis two-fold, through impacts on local economies, and impacts on the diaspora who send remittances home. I really want to map the openings and closings of stores in Tetovo--because I feel like there's a lot of turnover, and much of it feels totally unexpected, although perhaps that's because I don't know how to read the signs foreshadowing liquidation.) Gostivar also  has a beautiful (clean!?) walkway along both sides of the Vardar river--which just gushes. Like I can just imagine white-water rafting on it in a few months (although the high volume of water may also be due to the snow-melt).  there are is a surprising lack of supermarkets--or they're just a lot better disguised than in Tetovo--or perhaps I was hungry enough that I just couldn't see them for the life of me. The baklava (what Gostivar is also known for) is good--although baklava and biking are not my favorite combination (I think I asked for about five glasses of water--and should have asked for about 15). Honestly, the hardest part about Gostivar was convincing myself to get back up on the bike, but those two km from Tetovo's city limit to home were probably the longest of the day. but the best part of reaching Tetovo was being home.

We'll see how my body appreciates this excursion tomorrow.

what's in a number?

my google stats tells me that one of you, shortly, will be my 900th blog-viewer.

and more than anything I'm touched that you have taken time out of your day to read about me and mine, to chronicle these past months with me. it means more than I can say to be able to share, to process, to give voice(/or at least word) to the turbulentdelightfulfrustratingbeautifulfastslow Tetovo Days/Dite Tetove/ Tetovo Dena with you all.

Like international womens' day (can't we just call it 'peoples' day--and celebrate everyone? or even better, 'living day' and celebrate life?)--I'm not just saying this because there's a nice round number ahead, but because having a nice even number is a good excuse to say things that often feel awkward or out of place at other times.
So.

Faleminderit/fala/blagodaram/thanks for being part of this expedition with me

'A do ti dua ti dua ti dua' and other misheard lyrics

why are these building so ugly and so beautiful?

One of the first questions my students always ask me is "don't you get bored here? What do you do for fun?"

And now I can reply 'I ride my bicycle' (I'm still taking suggestions for stock Balkan names--maybe Skenderbeg? Golce Delcev? Man on the Horse?...). But seriously--I've fallen in love (perhaps not head-over-heels, but a gradual 'it's growing on me' and then it just keeps growing on me) with being here, with my life here, with living here. I even asked Fulbright if I could extend my contract for another year, because I feel like I'm just getting into the swing of things, and am loathe to up and move (granted I still have over four months here--so no need to start my goodbyes yet). Sadly, that won't be possible.
Although as another Fulbrigher in Kosovo joked, we can always get married here. and with this bicycle now... no but seriously. I think being a woman here--especially a woman raised in different cultural norms, and from a line of feisty women, nonetheless--would be challenging. I see a lot of my colleagues, especially the younger women, really pressed between cultural gendered norms and their own ambitions to be a professional academic. But, as a colleague joked, my parents are (!) coming in late June, so might as well kill two birds with one stone.
(I jest I jest. I'm not demija shopping just yet (Demija are these elaborately embroidered wedding clothes that are specific to Albanians in Tetovo--and I have a budding love-affair with them, although I'm going to my first wedding (and a demija will be worn (perhaps not by me) so well see how it looks in the flesh and blood)).

But one of the things which I'm coming to realize is that I love the thrill of being immersed in a new landscape: linguistic, topographic, cultural (hence my oodles of pictures of hills and trees and sky.) Let alone two linguistic landscapes (or three, or four--although I don't hear Turkish or Roma spoken all that much). and I always try to explain this to my students--that it's nearly impossible to be bored when there's language to be learned. And there is always language to be learned. (Especially when you sleep with a dictionary next to your bed).

           







I remember back in September attending a
poetry reading in Macedonian and Albanian, and it being the first time that I really just relaxed into Albanian--I didn't worry about understanding, or being intimidated by not being able to speak, to communicate, or not being able to engage with people in their first language, but just sat in the dark and let the words wash me. and I found that while Macedonian feels like a language with a lot of right angles (sounds like Cyrillic looks ш, ц, ж, џ, х, ч --beautiful in its own right!), Albanian is a round language, with all sorts of vowels that kind of roll around in the mouth, before landing on the ear. When walking through the streets (yeah) [Jethro Tull anyone?] I think I had been so preoccupied on not understanding, on that 'deer in the headlights' look when people would ask me something in Albanian and I had no idea what was going on, that I couldn't step back and see the language.

Being a person constantly lost in thought, I was, and still am, terribly conscious of mother-tongue pride--not to mean or to imply that one should not be proud of or attached to their mother tongue--and I love the appreciation I see on peoples faces when I try to speak their mother-tongue (even if I completely butcher it), but, especially as an outsider--it can be challenging to know which language to use with whom. Or, hear stories of the daily 'injustices' (and I use that word oh oh oh so carefully--but sometimes that is the way it has been described to me) of not getting to use one's mother tongue, instead opting for the wider lingua franca (I see this even at the Language Center where I work--where 99% of business is conducted in English, and yet a miremengjes or a dobro ytro brings a little glint to my colleagues' eyes, a sweet smile). Another place where I experience this tension is walking up Kale--and as I approach each fellow-walker, I never know what language to use to say hello--not that it's a big deal. But I like to know.

 So--while speaking Serbo-Croatian gave me a huge leg up communicating here (most everyone speaks Macedonian, another language on the South-Slavic spectrum), I didn't feel totally comfortable only speaking one language here. And yet--was unable to speak any other language. And, being in a predominantly Albanian-speaking town--it's hard to eavesdrop (one of my primary language-learning strategies) when I can't distinguish up from down--figuratively speaking.

 And it was in those moments, back in September, listening to local poets, when I realized that somehow I had been afraid of Albanian, or carried some anxiety about it as I walked through the streets, as I got to know my Tetovo. And that that anxiety prevented me from just seeing it, from accepting it as this unbelievably rich, beautiful collection of sounds, symbols, a new system for meaning-making (be it a grammatically complex one).  and seeing that I was afraid--that there was something, lurking, subconsciously which was inhibiting me--well a lot has changed since then. but I guess that's the lovely chart of culture shock.

Kale and beyond

while my Albanian hasn't totally taken off--I think I mistakenly told a colleague that his son should come live with me in America (not what I was trying to say!)--it's a delight. Mujo--who works in the Language Center at the university, and whose job, it seems, is mostly dealing with student complaints/requests--always has a minute to explain something to me, Suzana--my officemate--is teaching me Albanian one recipe at a time (now I just have to cook them!), even the three women who clean the offices always wait patiently as I search for the right word (or, as the case usually is, a word, the right one or not--usually by the end of the day my language skills aren't at their best). The guy who I bought oranges from a few days ago, or the women in the bakery across the street from my house who have been my ever-patient teachers of how to say the number 2 (dy--an u with rounded lips, kind of outside of the mouth? I'm still working on it. it also means that I just try to buy lots of things in twos--just to practice a little more). Malvina--who gracefully bridges both Albanian and English--reads me Albanian poetry and then translates it (my favorite was  'all the men are sitting out under the trees, making the rules, even while they know that the women do all the work [make the community run]'), or will yell out translations of song lyrics when we're listening to music.

However--I still have my language mishaps: for at least a week I though that the song 'Faleminderit" by Elita 5 (a Albanian rock band which made their mark in the 80s but are still beloved) was "faleminderit (thank you) Chamberland (as in Neville Chamberland? 'an interesting figure from history to thank, but...') when really it is "Faleminderit qe me le (Thank you for leaving me--a bit of a different message). I've also convinced myself that 'A do ti dua pergjithmone' (will I love you forever?) are the correct lyrics when really it's 'se do ti dua pergjithmone' (I will love you forever), which again, changes things just a bit.

Last Wednesday, with my kids class at the American Corner, we've now got both Albanian speaking and Macedonian speaking kids--which means that a lot of translation happens (which I actually think is really cool, watching these kids jump from language to language--we're also going to work on learning 'we are the world' and then translate it into as many of the local languages as possible, for Earth Day. if anyone knows ASL for We are the World and wants to make a fool-proof video of it and then send it to me, I really want to teach them a little ASL (also--does anyone know how _SLs operate in other countries/other languages? do people sign Albanian SL, or Macedonian SL? (they must!?)), but they asked me to tell a joke, first in English, and then attempt in Macedonian and Albanian. Probably my speaking was more amusing than the joke itself--language/culture-based humor doesn't translate well.


My Macedonian--sadly--isn't too active, just because I don't have a lot of opportunities to use it, and don't hear it spoken as much (although I do have one-on-one classes each week with a professor at the university, which is wonderful), and there are plenty of soap-operas subtitles in Macedonian (which means that I have to watch the soap opera). Whenever possible, I try to write, read, speak, listen but it's hard because language circles don't always overlap very much. Not because there are distinct spheres where one uses one language, and not the other (except perhaps for government institutions, but even the Ohrid Framework Agreement I think stipulates that Albanian can be used as a language of state affairs in communities like Tetovo) but because we are social beings--and people go to places where they will find their friends. And at least right now, especially because schools are separated by language of instruction, I'm not sure how prevalent cross-linguistic social groups are--but I'm sure they exist.
 I think if I were here for longer, I'd really like to devote some more time to serious study of Macedonian, maybe spending more time in Macedonian speaking communities/circles, just to develop a feel for it (there are all sorts of surprises, like slight stress differences between Macedonian and BCS, which I can't seem to grasp or remember).

Anyhow--should run to work. even just for the last hour.
enjoy the photos of Tetovo's cloud-drama

Zen and the art of Teaching/why I bought a bicycle

After my last post in the height of culture shock, Todd wrote to suggest I adopt the "zen approach"--which honestly I think deserves its own chapter in Larsen-Freeman's 'Techniques and Principles in Language Teaching.'

Zen.

how beautiful. and how true--what other options are there? I can't build or break the academic reputation of a university, I can't make my students do things which they aren't prepared for. in nine weeks, of course I can do something--even somethings--but I can't do it all. I can only do what I can do. the trick is figuring out what I can do--and what I can enable or encourage others to do. because for me zen is also about pushing things forward, about growth.

In so many ways, striving for zen I think describes my approach to culture shock in general here--working to not let things 'get to me'--and when they do, having lots of conversations in public places where I just make loud hand motions-- and, by the same token, doing what feels right to me without caving into fear. I often hear people speaking about, or from, a place of fear--and not of huge things, but fear of the mundane, fear of the day to day; fear of walking alone (let alone at night! gasp!), fear of stray dogs, fear of becoming infertile from sitting on pavement, or having my kidneys freeze because my shirt isn't tucked into my pants, fear of the omniscient/omnipresent all-judging eye (of the neighbors, people on the streets, colleagues and strangers alike).

And so, yesterday, Malvina and I bought bicycles. Even as I reject materialism--pedaling away, I felt like I had just bought freedom.

However, most of the other people on bikes are
1. men, and
2. elderly

so Malvina and I stand out just a bit. and I realized that we basically have two options:
1. let standing out bother us--and not ride, or
2. smile and bike on

even in the rain.

Wowie Zowie: Academic Culture Shock

And yet again--a big wet slap in the face of academic culture shock. Every so often I get walloped with one. and every time I am surprised. and taken totally unawares.

 I like to think that I'm finding my 'Tetovo legs' as it were, that I'm figuring out the steps to the dance here, when to pause, shift weight, lift the ankle, smile to myself and then charge on, . And just like dancing the oro/valle (I'm sure someone can tease apart the differences but I can't), I find myself wrapped up in the rhythm, finding what feels like my own kind of grace.

And then suddenly Dischord (for any of you who haven't read the Phantom Tollbooth; (h)ajde!) taps me on the shoulder, startling me, and sometimes I trip, regain my poise and carry on. and sometimes I take a nose-dive.

Today brought one of those 'total disbelief' culture shocks--my students (now in their 4th year of study) have never done independent research.

Asked to teach them academic English--I put together a syllabus to work on writing literature reviews because, after reading a lot of papers from colleagues and students (and my own work!), I think it's a skill that could use some particular attention. I asked my students to log onto EbscoHost--which the university subscribes to (much to my delight)--poke around and find 10 related articles (pick something that interests you!), pick 5, read, analyze and then synthesize (over the course of the semester, mind you).
and my students came to my office today saying they had never been asked to do independent research before.

'Can you teach us?' they asked. 'I can show you,' I replied, 'but I don't know that I can teach you.'

I know part of what is coursing through my veins right now is the mismatch between my expectations (and my feelings of being in just a little over my head sometimes) and what reality presents me with. But (what a dangerous word) part of me isn't quite ready to let go of my expectations--or at least let go of them all the way.

other than just being shocked--I find myself thrown back to square one 'how how how do you teach people to be independent learners? to be curious learners? to throw obsession with grades out the window and fall in love with ideas, thinking, reading, questioning?' and I guess research can be driven by the paper, the assessment, just getting it done because it needs to get done (goodness knows we've all done it). but that isn't the kind of research I want to teach.

so if anyone's got suggestions: I'm all ears.