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