If you've enjoyed RR of Arabia, check out the sequel! New location, new format, same blog style. The adventure continues at http://robersontrain.blogspot.com.

Hope to see you there...

The UAE and me

Tonight is my last night in the UAE. I've dug through the layers of the two years here and have come full circle. My apartment is as empty as it was when I arrived, jet-lagged and clueless 22 months ago. I'm repatriating a lot wiser in more ways than one. If my last post was a heartfelt journey through the deeply personal, I think I'll leave on a jauntier note.

What I'll miss about the UAE (besides people, that is a given...):

--The call to prayer, especially the sunset edition. Unlike many places, Abu Dhabi broadcasts the call from a central location, so every mosque starts and stops at the same time. This increases the volume, though you don't get that "multiple clock tower" effect of many calls building, overlapping, then slowly fading away. Here, every call has a different style or setting (not quite a tune). The evening call to prayer starts out with a mournful, sustained, three-note sequence sung by one heck of a tenor. It's beautiful, and I have not heard it's like anywhere else in the Muslim world.

--The Corniche. This Gulfside promenade is a perfect walking path/people-watching venue where the whole world meets, from the richest CEO to the poorest construction worker. Everyone in Abu Dhabi can take a stroll down the Corniche.

--Funky architecture. It started with the sailboat Burj al Arab (that iconic hotel in Dubai) and has gone on to

encompass buildings that twist, lean and look like Frisbees. And they haven't even build the Louvre and the Guggenheim yet.

--A dash of Gulf excess. Just a dash. Though Ski Dubai and the water parks make me a queasy if I think about them too much, there is a certain Gulf panache around here that even Vegas can't touch. Maybe it's the three Porsches regularly parked on my street (not to mention the Mercedes, Beamers, Lexi and even a Bentley and Ferrari) or the full-on fireworks displays put on from time to time by the neighbors. Maybe it's the free concerts and lavish art exhibits; the bling on women's abeyyas; the tallest building in the world, the man-made islands in whimsical shapes, the chilled pools and dizzying array of fine dining options. Or, let's face it, every blade of green grass in this desert nation. Like all excess, it's not good for us. But there is something admirable in the self-confidence it takes to pull it off.

The UAE is such a wonderfully strange place--a country that has emerged from the desert in a generation and continues to find its way through the twists and turns of our era. I will always be grateful for the chance to see it in its prime. Thank you, Abu Dhabi.

With love,

RR of Arabia

New leaf

I'm moving back across the world in less than a month, a fact I conveniently forget much of the time, as I enjoy the last few weeks of the school year, walks with K on the Corniche, the ritual weekend cappucino and my favorite supermarket chicken biryani for lunch. Soon, though, it will be impossible to ignore the looming deadlines, the packing to be done and the hard goodbyes. Transitions have never been easy for me. Unlike the broken-in fuzzy slippers of the present, the Great Unknown of the future seems to glower in the shadows, and my hamster brain spins all sorts of what-ifs. I also get sad, regardless of how right the change seems to be. A chapter of my life will end when I board my flight to Austin in the early morning hours of June 8, and nothing in this lifetime will bring it back. I have friends, admirable, brilliant, well-adjusted people, who cannonball into the pool of life's changes with a c'est la vie and a rebel yell. I'm the one easing into the shallow end, squealing and clutching the ladder.

And surely the same one, 10 metaphorical minutes later, paddling around, hardly remembering what the fuss was about.

I'm old enough now to know this. For the past few months, I've been slowly peeling away the layers of my life in Abu Dhabi and living with the blank slate of the next step. Without losing too much sleep. I have sorted stuff, researched shipping methods, packed a few boxes and given away my furniture. Soon, the boxes will go, the bank account will be closed. My residence visa will be canceled; my cell phone deactivated. I'll leave a forwarding address for the school and pick up my last check. I'm not looking forward to saying goodbye, but I'm at peace.

I have learned so much these past two years. So much that I can hardly remember the person I was when I arrived, though I've recovered a few artifacts while packing that serve as reminders. I found an untouched bottle of 200 Wellbutrin tablets tucked in my bedside drawer, a vivid symbol of the year I spent on anti-depressants before easing off of them just two weeks before leaving for Abu Dhabi. I brought them with me just in case, but I am no longer dealing daily with unrelenting feelings of failure and shame. I came across the copy of The Giving Tree, a good-bye gift by a former colleague given with love and the very best of intentions as I was leaving San Francisco. To her, it was a tribute to the sacrifices I made for her and for the school where I worked. She even got our team to sign it, like a yearbook. What she didn't know was that I have always hated the story of The Giving Tree, with its co-dependent tree and sociopathically grabby boy. I will keep it always as a reminder never again to drain myself of life until I become nothing but a stump.

Today, I feel the opposite of stump-like. I feel balanced in a way that leads me to believe that I will not get sucked down the workaholic rabbit hole when I start my new job in Austin, even though I will be working for the same type of school as before. And it's not just because I've had an easy schedule at a well-funded private school for two years. It has helped to rest, but I was rested after the first semester. It didn't make me feel at home in Abu Dhabi. What's made me feel balanced as a person and a professional has been the discipline of setting boundaries and sticking to them--and discovering that I can still be an effective, respected teacher and a full member of the community. It feels weird to call what amounts to saying no repeatedly a "discipline," but that's what it is. Not becoming department head. Not leading my grade level team when asked. Telling my principal and the curriculum coordinator that I didn't want to return to administration until they stopped asking. Saying no to subbing for my whole first year. I came to Abu Dhabi with the goal of being a classroom teacher and learning about how to live without burning out. Period. Turning off all the "should" voices and sticking to that has given me a huge boost of confidence. It's almost as though I now believe I can take of myself. Whether I do or not remains to be seen, but I know I can. Whereas I wasn't so sure before, given my years of Giving-Tree-like self abuse.

Not that Austin is a lateral move. Abu Dhabi was the bunny slope of boundary setting. That's where the well-funded private school thing does come in. Austin will be different. The needs of the community and the realities of public school teaching in a state that is currently writing bald-face lies into the social studies standards will be a true test of this new resolve. I have learned that I am healthier and happier when I put boundaries in place and stick to them. I'm confident I can do that. What I haven't had practice doing yet (as much) is sticking to those boundaries in a situation where I feel other people may be adversely affected (in the short term) by my decision. Is it all or nothing? Could the Giving Tree have stopped at her leaves and smaller branches or is it one big slippery slope? Should you only give what you can renew easily or is a life of "sustainable tree management" acceptable (ie: sacrificing a little more now and then, but intentionally and sustainably)? OK, I might be overdoing it with the Giving Tree metaphor here, but you know what I mean. I suppose finding out is the next step in this journey toward a balanced life in a helping profession. I'm sure I'll get plenty of practice in Austin...

Burj-eye view

The Burj Khalifa (nee Dubai), the world's tallest structure as of this minute, is a sleek, mirror-plated skyscraper that towers above the UAE's newest (and biggest) mall/hotel complex/condo community. This weekend, I traveled to the top on the world's fastest elevator (64 mph!) with K and her brother, who is visiting. My brother, who visited two weeks ago, had previous made the trip solo, but his descriptions and pics couldn't do justice to the experience of being 1, 450 feet above a city without the aid of an aircraft.

The trip also provided an interesting view of the Dubai, both literal and figurative.

To get to the observation deck of the Burj, visitors first must find the access point in the maze of the Dubai Mall, which opened about this time last year to much fanfare. It features an aquarium, underwater museum, a dancing fountain (a la the Bellagio in Vegas), an ice skating/ice go-carting rink (ice go-carting?), an organic grocery store, every shop you can imagine from the four corners of the globe and the country's only Taco Bell. Once you locate the Burj entrance, you are ushered through a metal detector and down several long, windowless corridors that feature displays of the building process and reminders of how far Dubai has come in such a short time. One 3-D exhibit includes an old Bedouin-looking man with a falcon peering off into the "distance" where Dubai slowing (and digitally) is taking shape before his eyes. In the final panel, a comet is shooting into space, implying, perhaps, that not even the sky is the limit. This exhibit ends in a white wall and the line for the elevators. (pictured above is a new of the fountain and the hotel/souk complex right next to the Dubai Mall. You can see where the development stops right at the top of the photo)

The elevators. The lead up, already Disneyfied, infuses the wait for the elevator with a pre-roller coaster feel. The line is even organized into switchbacks, like at amusement parks or airports. There are two elevators that lead up to the observation deck, and there are three different staff people who eyeball guests to avoid overloads. (This may be because an unlucky group of tourists were stranded between floors for 45 minutes in February, forcing a shutdown until just a few weeks ago.) All the ultra-modern decor and careful prep add a frisson of thrill. It makes the elevator ride itself a bit anti-climatic, despite the dim lights, blue flashing arrows and a space-age soundtrack. It was almost impossible to detect any motion, though my ears popped several times. In a mere 30 seconds or so, the doors soundlessly opened and we stepped out onto the platform.

I'm pleased to report that building technology has changed over the years so much so that I could barely detect the motion of the tower from its 124th floor. (The Burj has 160 floors in total.) More than 15 years ago, my father and I clung to the inner walls of the Sears Tower observation deck; he because of the heights and me because of the very noticeable sway on that Windy City day. Although it was windy, the Burj barely moved at all. K explained that tall buildings, including the Taipei 101 (designed by the same people as the Burj) now feature a huge steel pendulum built into the top of the building to counteract the sway. Whatever it was, it worked like a charm.

Dubai spread out before us in all its glory. Sort of. Around the Burj were a thin cluster of skyscrapers lining the main highway, a low strip of housing developments, a few parks and malls, and then the vast expanse of desert stretching out as far as the eye could see. From 1,400 feet, the urban miracle of Dubai looked a little like one of the those movie sets of the Old West with buildings lining Main Street, but nothing but scrub just beyond the swinging saloon door. I experienced the double vision that often accompanies a trip to Dubai. Despite the manic expansion and shiny new feel of the place, I can't help but overlay a more tumbleweedy scene, as I imagine the years creeping by and the money running out. Dubai is doing everything in its power to stave off that day (as is Abu Dhabi), and I don't want to cast aspersions on their efforts. But you don't have to spend much time in the UAE before you get the feeling that large numbers of people just weren't meant to live here; that everything is necessarily temporary because eating 95% imported food, drinking desalinated water and being encased in an air-conditioned bubble for so much of the year simply isn't sustainable. It casts mega-projects like the Burj and the Dubai Mall in a different, almost melancholy light.

Or maybe it's me who is melancholy, since I won't be living in this strange, intriguing place for very much longer. I won't miss the out-of-synch feeling of it not quite being real. I will miss the audacity of the world's tallest building emerging from the sands.

The tao of softball

This post is about fate, karma, change, chance and the physics of force, speed and momentum. I'm not talking about the big universe of supernovas and shooting stars. I'm talking about the universe contained on a green diamond between two baselines, one of the most deceptive simple places on Earth, but one that contains constellations of events that Einstein himself couldn't tame. There are places that boggle the mind, because they are both real and magical at the same time. Venice is one; your neighborhood softball field is another.

This weekend, the JV girls team at my school traveled to Doha, Qatar, to play a tournament with five other international schools in the region. We went last year and got third. We went this year and took fifth (even though we were the only ones to beat the team who came in first). The fact was, we had lost our experienced pitcher, and a single season is not long enough to train another, given the number of regular-season games before the tournament (three, two of which we won). Standings and scores, however, are almost beside the point when discussing softball. As a coach, I know I'm supposed to want to win. And I do want to win, because winning is more fun than losing if that is the paradigm on the table. But this weekend, I was blown away by the beauty of the game well before the match that decided our last-place ranking.

My love of softball reaches back to elementary school and an early appreciation of a single basic truth: Softball is a game of skill, strategy and strength, like all sports. And softball is so much more than muscle mass and a good playbook, which is where the magical part comes in. In softball, anything can happen, and often does. The weakest player can tower above the greats in the blink of an eye. A whole game can turn on a butterfly effect, like the centimeters that separate a foul from a base hit or a ball from a strike. After practice is over, pep talks given, warm ups completed and the game begins, all a player or a coach can do is sit back and watch it unfold.

I most love the small moments, the hero moments, like our right fielder catching a ball up against the fence to prevent a grand slam: the crack of the bat, the endless arch of the long ball, the collective intake of breath from both dugouts...then the reach of the glove and the look on the face of a struggling player who realizes what she has done. It's a scene that's been rhapsodized and romanticized by writers and filmmakers through the years until it seems a cliche to non-fans--and yet I promise you, Hollywood technicolor cannot touch the true victory of such a moment. I would argue strenuously that no other sport so graciously distributes access to pure triumph. Softball throws open the curtain and allows anyone to step into the spotlight normally reserved for superstars.

It's no accident, then, that baseball and softball are common metaphors in the American narrative fueled by a rabid belief in progress, achievement and hope, along with a dash of kooky optimism. That the game is pretty much confined to the New World, and not just philosophically, is clear as a coach of an international-school team where some of the girls have been playing since kindergarten, and others aren't quite sure which base is which. One of my favorite players, however, is a sophomore and a native of Spain who is so thoroughly European that she threw a fit when I told her my shoe size was 8 1/2 rather than 38 (the Euro version). Yet she has played this most American of sports since 6th grade (having learned it here) and wouldn't dream of skipping a season. She also leaps into the air to catch a fly ball, regardless of her field position, jumping toward it, even as it races to her. It's a technique that lends itself to graceful plays, along with the occasional dramatic miss. Softball, however, is not a game where you tell your players to stop moving toward the ball, regardless of how artistically they choose to do it.

I returned to school today and had to face the questions, from the athletic director as well as other competitive sorts. In the league my school is in, last-place finishes are not common occurrences, and no one expected us to lose (including us, obviously). We'd had the best season in a long time. I understand the impulse, and tried not chafe. For competitive people, it's embarrassing to come in at the bottom. It makes me sad, though. I couldn't rewind to the moments that would allow them to move past the many walks of our rookie pitchers and arrive at our victories. The catches and leaps. The physics of tag outs, slides and line-drive shots. The confluence of fate and skill that leads, time and time again, to Possibility with a capital p. For me, the magic contained in those moments transcends the outcome. I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Bangkok hits

I'm not even going to try to say anything new about Bangkok. Millions of travelers (including most of you) have already experienced this pulsing, organic capital on the banks of the Chao Praya River. I say 'pulsing' because light and sound careen off the soaring, windowed walls of skyscrapers, down along the elevated Sky Train tracks and vibrate among the temple towers and tin market shacks. I say 'organic' not in the environmental sense, but to evoke an image of the vibrant green of the tropics meshed with the tentacles of urban sprawl all seen through a steamy haze of wet season humidity.

Bangkok is a living city, and there's nothing cooler than a living city, where history can co-exist with people who are alive right now, and need to get from point A to point B, find a podiatrist, buy toothpaste and hold down a job. As with many living cities worth a visit, the modern and the traditional meet in Bangkok in fascinating ways. People make sweet offerings of bottled sodas (complete with straws) as well as incense and marigolds at neighborhood shrines. Ronald McDonald's hands are molded into a respectful greeting at the door of his restaurant. The malls and the old-style markets are both packed, as are the temples and the bars. Writers much more skilled than I have pointed out Bangkok's seeming contradictions through the years (see the lyrics of "One Night In Bangkok" from the musical Chess for a nice summary), but what do you expect of any place after customs melt, blend and change over centuries? It's simply a function of being alive, organic, if you will. And, as previously mentioned, Bangkok tops the charts in that particular category.

It has also, apparently, inspired an outbreak of purple prose, so I'll back down a bit and resort to a list of Bangkok's greatest hits as experienced by K and me over six days, much of which was spent at a teaching conference (useful, but not your typical Bangkok, although the Royal Orchid Sheraton is quite a lovely experience, I won't lie...), with a few days at a much more low-key hotel in the exact middle of the Red Shirt demonstrations near the Democracy Monument. Impassioned speeches and calls to action (in Thai) added to the uplifting soundtrack of the trip, which also included international backpacker techno tunes and traditional Southeast Asia stings.

Suan Lum Night Bazaar--Come for the cheesy T-shirts and faux ninja stars, stay for the fish spa! Bangkok's biggest and most wholesome (ie: lots of Gucci knock-offs and not a pimp in sight) night market might be a tourist magnet but it attracts plenty of Thais looking for bargains in the four square blocks of flea market tents. Interspersed between the "teak" Buddhas and racks of flip-flops are islands of calm that offer massages and spa treatments for the price of a Starbucks latte. The fish spa, my personal favorite, features a jumbo tank of those little sucker fish--and they're not just for algae anymore! Your dead foot skin is a tasty alternative, and they detach from the glass walls of the tank in droves as soon as you stick your tootsies in. It feels like an assault of tiny pecks, super ticklish at first, soothing after awhile (pictured left are my very own feet, mid-spa). Also highly recommended: 60-minute foot, neck, shoulder and head massage for $8.

Jim Thompson's House--Who doesn't know a Jim Thompson? This particular Jim was an ex-CIA agent turned textile promoter who came to Bangkok, re-introduced the Western world to Thai silk, cobbled together a compound of eight gorgeous traditional Thai houses then disappeared without a trace in the hills of Malaysia. Conspiracy theories abound, to be sure, especially given that his sister was murdered the same year. The latest, though, is that he was accidentally hit by a truck driver who hid the remains for fear of reprisals. The fascinating back story adds allure to the small museum, Thai art exhibit and pleasant cafe his former residence has become, thanks to preservation efforts by his foundation and the Thai government. K and I were told by fellow tourists that the house was "expensive but worth it." It cost $3 to get in, which hardly breaks the bank in my book, but whatever. It was worth it, especially the ancient Chinese porcelain training potties and the warm wooden floors.

Wat Pho--You haven't lived until you've seen a Buddha recline like the one at the famous Wat Pho. His golden ear alone is almost as tall as I am. All told, the famous mega statue stretches 46 meters (that's 101 feet!) from headdress to heel. Also at Wat Pho are beautiful tiled prayer halls, playful garden statues, lavishly decorated monuments to various kings, and rows and rows of smaller, upright Buddhas in various states of repair, about 390 in all!


Cooking with Angsana--It has long been my dream to 1) go to Thailand and 2) take a cooking class. On our last day in the city, K and I visited the home of Angsana, a Thai cook and savvy businesswoman who has set up a cooking school in her back room. Like the more institutional set ups, Angsana buys the raw materials. Unlike the bigger schools, K and I did all the chopping, pounding, slicing and dicing ourselves (pictured below left). Not to mention the shrimp-head-decapitating, deveining, peeling and sauteing. And the mortar and pestling. And the wok-frying. In other words, we actually cooked for three hours with a chef on call to demonstrate, give advice and step in before a certain someone (me) scalded the heck out of the coconut milk. For one-on-one Thai cooking instruction, there's no one better in the city, I'm sure. Angsana charges a reasonable rate for a private lesson (K and I paid about $60 each, which included a cute apron, recipes and, of course, all the supplies for our luscious three-course meal). Unlike chez Jim T., Angsana really is pricey for Thailand, but K and I both agreed it was well worth it (and $20/hour seems reasonable for private cooking lessons) as well as respectful of Angsana's time. Plus, we were both in awe of her business model: offer a service people want and will pay for, host it in your home, do something you enjoy all day, all within three steps of your two year old and elderly mother. What kind of dream job is that? We were happy to add to the win-win-win of it all.

Tuk-tuks--I heart tuk-tuks! Scooters with a back seat zip around Bangkok with death-defying speed (when not caught in traffic jams). For a mere 90 cents to $3.20 per ride, they are an excellent deal as well as great fun. Again, the Lonely Planet is unnecessarily dismissive, in my opinion. Sure, the drivers will quote a ridiculous price up front, but the law of supply and demand (tuk-tuks are everywhere) gives the rider the upper hand in negotiations, and almost every price comes way down. We also gladly paid a bit more to prevent a "stop" at the cousin or uncle's store (also best negotiated up front). In the end, haggling for a tuk-tuk ride proved more efficient than the regular taxis. The taximen of Bangkok are either the only professional drivers in the world who cannot navigate the major landmarks of their own city or (much more likely in K and my opinion), intentionally get lost to run up the meter. We found, mysteriously, that metered taxi rides cost about the same no matter where we were going. Strangely, once we adopted a tuk-tuk strategy and decided on a non-metered price up front, the taxi driver never once lost the way.

Though there are worse things than getting lost in a city like Bangkok. In a few days, we could only scratch the surface. Which only means there will be more to do next time...Any suggestions? Please leave them here!

A burj by any other name...

This Saturday, the JV girls softball team that I coach had a double-header against our "cross town" rivals in Dubai (and the only other softball program in the country). The girls went 1-1 with a strong second game. Our two new pitchers (8th graders) are off to a solid start, and we have a shot at victory when the opposing team visits us on April 8.

But that is not the main topic of this post. The main topic of this post is our planet's newest tallest building, which dominates the view from the softball field at the American school where we played. Last year when our teams faced off on that same field, the tower was known as the Burj Dubai, and was still skeletal at about the 145th floor. This year it loomed over us throughout the day, the hot sun blazing off its smooth, glassy surface; its tower rising into the sky, a good 1,046 feet taller than its closest rival (the Taipai 101).

It also had a new name.

The Burj Dubai was renamed the Burj Khalifa sometime between the summer of 2009 and its opening on January 4, 2010. This is also, as you might recall, about the same time that Dubai's debt crisis hit with forecasts of gloom and doom for this once-shining light of x-treme capitalism. Burj is the Arabic word for tower. Khalifa is the name of the president of the UAE and the head of the royal family. Of Abu Dhabi. Not coincidentally, said sheikh had just approved a $10 billion transfer into Dubai's empty coffers.

Those of us who heard of the renaming and know a bit about politics in these here parts laughed ruefully at the news. Because the UAE might present a united front on the international stage, at, say, the Olympics or the U.N., but back at home, the emirates lead decidedly separate lives. They have their own royal families whose hands-on style of governance is a constant reminder that this country remains a patchwork of tiny sheikhdoms. Renaming Dubai's symbol of economic prowess after the sheikh of Abu Dhabi is tantamount to renaming the Boston Red Sox, the Boston Yankees. Yet as extreme as this comparison may seem to baseball die hards, it only hints at the vast amount of crow that had to be eaten by Dubai in order to suck it up and agree to the name change. You can only imagine the conversation as it unfolded. I've attempted to recreate it here, cutting through what must certainly have been days and days of ornate Arabic and desert etiquette.

Abu Dhabi: We have about $10 billion lying around and for the good of our collective image, our honor as Emeratis and to keep the creditors from tearing us all apart bit by bit, why don't we lend it to you. More tea?

Dubai: Don't mind if I do. Here, try some dates. Wow...that's really cool of you guys. How can we ever repay you?

Abu Dhabi: These dates are delicious! Well...there's just this one little thing...

And so the Burj Khalifa was born. No one has yet added 'The biggest naming gift in history" to the list of the tower's many world records, but it must be up there. So far, the Burj has been plagued by vacancies (30,000 apartments and nine different hotels!) and dodgy elevators (which, when not stranding tourists between floors, shoot up and down at speeds of 60 km/hr). But, it IS the world's tallest building. At least until the next one comes along...

Life as pi

Today is March 14, otherwise known as Pi Day. As you surely recall from middle school math, pi describes the ratio of a circumference of a circle to its diameter and begins with 3.14 (March 14, 3/14, get it?) Math nerds love it for its irrationality, meaning it can't be expressed exactly as a fraction. Some even memorize digits of pi as a sign of numerical prowess. I like that it's called a transcendental number. There is a technical math definition behind the word transcendental as used in this case, but the metaphorical implications cannot be ignored, especially when you realize that pi is a mathematical constant that never ends and never repeats. 'Nuf said.

Pi Day, and pi, has long been beloved of my sister Bec, who got married yesterday. (There was even a pi-shaped ice sculpture at the reception with a -.o1 underneath, a charming and geeky tip of the hat to the actual wedding day, 3/13) Like all siblings, Bec has been a constant in my life. As the next in line in the birth order of our sprawling, often irrational modern family, she was my first experience as a big sister. Whenever I hear third-trimester moms marketing the role of older sib to a dubious first born, I have to smile. Whatever my parents said to me as a two-year-old worked like a charm. I have inhabited the role of big sister so thoroughly I shudder to think of landing in any other spot on the family tree.

That being said, the marriage of one of my little ones is an occasion for some serious nostalgia, not to mention a poignant twinge, as the number of family members who share my last name dwindles. (In fact, as of today, I remain the only hyphen-less R of my generation.) It was impossible to look at Bec, dressed up in a bridal gown and ballet flats and not remember the girl who crawled through the bushes and backyards of our neighborhood, began a life-long love affair with baseball at age 10, and blazed a trail of extroversion through her young adult years until our family bulged at the seams with FOBs (friends of Bec) from all corners of the globe. Being at Bec's wedding was better than a college reunion, in that it featured multiple layers of her life through the years. As a sister, I've had a front-row seat for most of it. It was cool watching her flit between groups, all gathered to celebrate her big day. Family buzz about Bec's wedding has always featured big crowds. The actual event was so much more intimate than we had all pictured, not because there weren't 200+ people on the guest list, but because they all seemed to get along so brilliantly.

Bec is the sister I am closest to in life experience (we are only two years apart, attended the same schools and have traveled to many of the same places), but perhaps farthest away from in personality. With her, though, it has never mattered. We have always been the best of friends. It's like that, I think, with family at its most functional. Or maybe it's like that when you meet someone the day they are born and live with them for the next 18 years, building each moment on a solid foundation of love and exuberance. You take the same life experiences and live them different ways. You develop wildly divergent gifts and talents. You connect about some things and seem to live in alternative dimensions about others. So many changes, beginnings and endings, seasons, years and eras. What's one wedding but another decimal place in the string of life's memories, never ending, never repeating...and yet remaining a constant that defines reality, independent of time and space. Totally transcendental.

Just like pi.

Congratulations Bec and Chris...you are off to a great start!

RR of...

It's been almost two years since I headed out into the Great Unknown of Arabia, anticipating a move to a place that seemed foreign and a bit forbidding. I wasn't sure about the locals, as interested as I was in getting to know them and perhaps smashing a few stereotypes along the way.

This week, I found myself right back where I started from, anticipating another move as a stranger in a strange land. I'm heading to a place where the locals are just as foreign, where the role of religion is just a wee bit menacing, and where the native dress is both fascinating and very odd.

This June I'm leaving the familiar mellow of Abu Dhabi. And moving to Texas.

It's true. This Californian-Persian Gulf transplant is putting down roots in the Lone Star State. Lest you think I've completely lost my mind, I'm going to Austin, which is weird, wonderfully progressive and full of likeminded teachers. But it's still Texas, as many a relative has helpfully pointed out. It's the state of W and high school cheerleading scandals, chainsaw massacres and cowboy boots, big chili cook-offs and big hair.

And then again, to veer away from the knee-jerk reaction, it is also the home of the country's first out lesbian mayor (Houston! True!), a world-famous music festival (Austin) and the Alamo. What more do you need?

I'm happy about teaching at a school from the same network as I taught before and even happier to be switching subjects. I'll be teaching 6th grade nonfiction studies, a fancy name for history with a focus on writing and researching (all topics close to my heart). I'm excited about the position, excited about the school (which is in its second year), excited about moving to a place where I can serve low-income students of color AND bask in the sunshine most of the year. As a former San Franciscan, I am continually awestruck by the size of an apartment I can get for under $1,000/month (and Austin is considered woefully pricey by Texas standards). I'm also excited to know a few folks in town, former colleagues who share my educational orbit.

Right now, from a safe distance of 8,000 miles, everything looks rosy. It will be very hard to leave Abu Dhabi when June rolls around, but I also know it's the right time. I'm ready to meet the natives...

Addendum: books for the young reader

By popular demand (OK, my good friend Ange and my mom--but that's enough for this blog), I hereby submit my book list for the young reader. With two caveats.

Caveat #1: These are some of my favorite kids books. Some I loved as a kid. Some I've loved as an adult. Some I love as a teacher. Obviously, the ones I loved as a kid might not play as well today. I've included them nonetheless. You know me. You know your kids. You make the call.

Caveat #2: Once again, these do NOT in ANY WAY represent even the merest fraction of all the great books for kids out there (or even all the great books for kids I've read). These are a selection of particularly excellent and enduring works that have stayed with me through the years. If you'd like a recommendation targeted for your particular child (or for yourself), feel free to email!

Mid to upper elementary

• The Endless Pavement--Jacqueline Jackson (grade 2-6)
  

My favorite childhood book of all time. It's out of print, but it might be at your library. It's...well, it's a post-apocalyptic, dystopian view of a mechanized Earth taken over by sentient cars. And what happens when a young girl finds the last apple tree. Yes, it's written for kids. Yes, I loved it so much I lied to my teacher so I could check it out of the library more than once. It's a picture book (really!), but the reading level is at least 2nd grade.

• Sahara Special--Esme Raji Codell (reading/interest level: grade 3-6)
• Because of Winn-Dixie-- Kate DiCamillo (grades 3-5)
• Superfudge--Judy Blume (grades 3-6)
  
• The Watsons Go to Birmingham--1963--Christoper Paul Curtis (grades 4-8)
• The Gammage Cup--Carol Kendall (grades 4-6)
• My Father's Dragon and series--Ruth Stiles Gannett (grades 2-5)
  
• The Shredderman series--Wendelin Van Draanen

A GREAT series for boys grades 3-6 (the reading level is on the easy side...the interest level would remain high throughout elementary school) Girls will love them, too. Would also make good read aloud for younger kids.

• The Phantom Tollbooth--Norton Juster (grades 4-8)

For your budding grammar nerd

• The Great Brain series--John D. Fitzgerald (grades 3-6)

One of my all-time favorite series growing up. I'm relieved (though surprised) that they haven't made a movie of at least one of these books. They are so good and so funny. Also would be good to read aloud to younger kids.

• The Encyclopedia Brown series--Donald J. Sobol (grades 3-6)
• A Wrinkle in Time--Madeleine L'Engle (grades 4-8)
• The Wolves of Willoughby Chase--Joan Aiken (grades 4-6)
• Cheaper by the Dozen--Frank Gilbreth (grade 4-6) SOOO much better than the movie...
  
• James and the Giant Peach, The Witches and Danny, Champion of World--Roald Dahl (or anything else by him, but I loved these the best) (grades 4-6)
• Mrs. Frisbee and the Rats of NIMH--Robert C. O'Brien (grades 4-6)
  

Middle school

• The Hunger Games and Circle of Fire--Suzanne Collins

Two of the best middle school fiction books I've read in a LONG time. Very strong, independent girl protagonist, complex issues, empathetic/realistic take on oppressive violence. Very powerful and moving. As an adult, I could not put them down. I'd love to teach them. My students are just discovering them, but the reviews are good so far.

• The Lightning Thief (Percy Jackson series)--Rick Riordan
• The Golden Compass and His Dark Materials series--Philip Pullman
• The Chronicles of Narnia--CS Lewis
• The Princess Bride--William Goldman
• The Giver--June Lowry
• Ender's Game--Orson Scott Card
  
• The White Mountains (and series)-John Christopher
• The Dark is Rising (and series)--Susan Cooper
  
• Hatchet--Gary Paulson
• The View from Saturday--E. L. Konigsburg
  
• Harry Potter series--JK Rowling (duh)
• Summerland--Michael Chabon
• The Hobbit--JRR Tolkein
  
• To Kill A Mockingbird--Harper Lee

Enjoy!

Book list!

Because reading is my primary hobby, I'm frequently asked for book recommendations. Inevitably, I go completely blank whenever these questions come my way. I don't know what it is about being asked for one's favorite book or favorite song (favorite quote, favorite recipe, favroite movie, etc) that leads to shutdown, but it's true. In the case of books, it's a matter of overload, of eager titles flooding my synapses in an effort to be remembered to others. But it doesn't matter why or how, if the person requesting a rec is met with a blank stare.

I realized that I need to be a little more thoughtful and strategic when offering book recommendations. This was revealed in a recent conversation with K, who I constantly bombard with titles, usually unsolicited because she already has a long list of books she wants to read. In recommending a particularly stunning novel I just finished, I distinguished between my "ordinary" book recommendations and this one, which I really, really, really recommended. I mean, really.

This led to a conversation about other books in the same category, and I realized I do have a list of books that have provided such joy and food for thought over the years that I wish with all my heart I could go back and read them again for the first time. I would love to share them with you because I want you to read them immediately--and because it'd be nice to record them somewhere, so I don't have to run a blank the next time I'm asked.

What follows is, of course, a totally personal list, offered by a simple book lover. I read about 2-3 books a week and love what I read. These books, however, have blown me away. They stand head and shoulders above a very good field. (I never finish a book I don't like.) There are people who can talk for hours about knitting, stamp collecting or soap operas. I feel the same about these books. (* indicate that reading everything this author has ever written is well worth the time)

Contemporay Fiction
Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell
This is the best book I have read so far in my life. I keep waiting to find its equal, and haven't yet. It is a powerful, cross-genre sonata of a novel that also contains the best final two pages in the English language.
The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver *(and recently The Lacuna! Wow!)
Bel Canto--Ann Patchett
The Girl in Hyacinth Blue--Susan Vreeland
My Name is Red--Orhun Pamuk
The Hours--Michael Cunningham
Imagining Argentina--Lawrence Thornton
A World of Strangers--Nadine Gordimer
Tipping the Velvet--Sarah Waters
Winter's Tale--Mark Helprin
The English Patient--Michael Ondaatje
The Life of Pi--Yann Martel
Possession--AS Byatt
The Thirteenth Tale--Diane Setterfield
Gabriella, Clove and Cinammon--Jorge Amado

Nonfiction
The Shakespeare Wars--Ron Rosenbaum*
This is a delightful, wonderfully written book about a very academic subject. It is not about Shakespeare, but about the vicissitudes (and pitched battles) of Shakespeare scholarship through the years. An alternate title would be "What Would Shakespeare Do?" as Shakespeare's words, verses, even punctuation are elevated (perhaps appropriately) to the level of holy writ. This book shows the stunning power if our (often unconscious) cultural attachment to great works of literature.

Krakatoa--Simon Winchester
The Planets--Dava Sobel
The Soccer Wars--Ryszard Kapuscinki*
The Botany of Desire--Michael Pollan*
The Orchid Thief--Susan Orlean

Science fiction/fantasy
Ilium and Olympos--Dan Simmons (plus his Hyperion series)
I love telling people about these books just to see the looks on their faces. In these two closely linked novels, the few remaining human beings on Earth are caught in the middle of a battle between forces (both good and evil) from Shakespeare's "The Tempest." Meanwhile on Mars, it appears that the Greek gods are alive and well and reenacting the Trojan War, having brought back the heroes of the day (Achilles, Hector, et al) as well as a 20th century historian. Meanwhile on Jupiter, two sentient, literature-loving robots (one basically humanoid, one shaped like a giant horseshoe crab) are speeding toward Mars, drawn by the Shakespearean overtones of "The Tempest" forces as well as the huge output of energy it takes to re-run the Trojan War. I am not making this up, and I tip my hat to the imagination of Dan Simmons, his love of Shakespeare, his take on dystopia and his ability to put monsters, gods and robots all in the same story and make it work.

The Diamond Age--Neal Stephenson*
The Lord of the Rings--JRR Tolkein
The Handmaid's Tale--Margaret Atwood
1984--George Orwell

Mystery/Thriller
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (and series)--Stieg Larsson
Everything a thriller should have (lots of evil, vivid characters with esoteric skills, chase scenes, red herrings and government conspiracies), plus a distinctively Swedish vibe that has the characters taking coffee breaks, being sexually liberated, going on vacation in the middle of the action and promoting the rights of workers and the Euro-socialist safety net all in the same book.

Bangkok 8 (and series)--John Burdett
The Moonstone--Wilkie Collins
Cover Her Face (and series)--PD James*

Memoir/Autobiography/Biography
Night-Elie Wiesel
The first book (read in 9th grade) that reduced me to a puddle of uselessness until I could process what I was reading. It's happened occasionally since, but this is the first. My reaction to this book also prompted my then-English teacher to take me seriously as a student.
Red Azalea--Anchee Min
Wild Swans: Three Daughters of China--Jung Chang
Mountains Beyond Mountains--Tracy Kidder
The Book of Laughter and Forgetting--Milan Kundera

Classics
David Copperfield--Charles Dickens*
Love it in so many ways. Love the Victorian verbosity of Dickens. Love his over-the-top characters that still manage to stay universal. Love the length and breadth of a book like this.
Pride and Prejudice--Jane Austen
Mrs. Dalloway--Virginia Woolf
The Tempest--William Shakespeare* (of course...)
One Hundred Years of Solitude--Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Right Ho, Jeeves (and series)--PG Wodehouse

Happy reading!

Just hamam it!

You haven't lived until you've visited a hamam, otherwise known as a Turkish or Moroccan bath. If you are, as I am, a connoisseur of warm water, lots of soap and a good scrub, the steamier and bubblier the better, there is nothing quite like it in the world. It is also a good reminder that communal bathing is an ancient and perfectly respectable (not to mention relaxing and enjoyable) tradition still practiced in many parts of the world with nothing seedy or sexual about it. This North American former prude is a firm convert.

I was reminded this weekend just how wonderful a Turkish bath can be when I made an appointment for one at a local day spa. My only previous experience was a visit to a historic hamam in Istanbul, where I was shown the ropes by my friend who lives there. On that occasion, we entered a steamy domed room with a centuries-old octagonal marble slab in the center for lounging and washing. Surrounding the slab were fountains in niches along the wall that poured a steady stream of warm water. The dome was punctured with star-shaped apartures that admitted shafts of steamy light from above, completing the sublime, dreamy ambiance. I was sold from the moment I walked in wrapped in a thin red-checked towel and borrowed flip flops. (This is much like the bath looked, except without the random shirtless guys lounging around. Hamams are strictly segregated by gender in most cases.)

Needless to say, the bath in Abu Dhabi was much more prosaic (a small room in the day spa with a square, table-sized slab), but the routine was the same. I entered the steamy room where I sat and softened up for about 10 minutes. I was then scrubbed within an inch of my life by Halima, a very nice middle-aged woman in a bathing suit who took her job very seriously. Armed with a loofah and some olive oil soap, she stripped layer upon layer of dead skin from what I had thought was my perfectly clean, recently showered body. By the time she was done, soggy rolls of epidermis littered the counter, and I felt like a snake who'd shed her scales. That's what it's like in a Turkish bath. You go in thinking you're clean, and come out cleaner than you ever thought possible.

After the scrub down (which doesn't hurt; it's just very thorough), Halima hosed me off, washed my hair and finished with a soapy rub down. My skin was so new, the scrub stung like tiny pinpricks. In Turkey, they use this balloon-like cloth that puffs up into a blanket of bubbles, which is very gentle. At the spa in Abu Dhabi, Halima went more organic and mixed up the soap in a dish, kneeding in the water to make a rough paste. Since I couldn't have possibly been exfoliated any more than I already was, I think it was a skin softener. I emerged after a few more minutes in the steam bath buffed, polished and smooth as a newborn baby.

Now you might be reading this thinking there is no way you would ever consent to being hosed down and loofahed by a strange woman, to say nothing of someone else washing your hair. To which I say, why not? It's a tradition that has lasted hundreds of years, passed down from the Romans and, thankfully, continued in Turkey, the Levantine and North Africa while Europe wallowed in the muck of the Dark Ages. If you ever get a chance, keep an open mind. It's awesome. And, if not, it just leaves more soap for the rest of us...

Lend me your ear

We are doing persuasive essays in social studies at the end of a unit on ancient Rome, in honor of that civilization's tradition of oratory and persuasive verve. In the republic, after all, leaders had to use their voice or actions to persuade others they were right. They couldn't just beat people up and insist on their way (that came later with the Caesar). So, honing one's persuasive technique is a fundamentally democratic act, one that might be good to promote among children who will grow up to be citizens of the world.

Speaking of things that are good for children (or not), I've recently been deeply disturbed by Obama's latest push to tie teacher evaluations to their students' standardized test scores. I totally agree with the president that teachers are vital to the process of education and to the growth and development of their students. Where I profoundly disagree is using something as flawed and potentially child damaging as standardized test scores, especially in the areas of reading and writing.

It makes me want to write a persuasive essay! To convince you, my audience, that I'm right about this, as 'logical' as it may sound to non-educators. What's wrong with accountability, after all? If students are going to be judged by their scores, why not their teachers? What is going on in those classrooms, day after day, and why shouldn't teachers be answerable for their students' results? Why not indeed. As you will see, I am not arguing against accountability. I'm taking on the yard stick itself. How we judge our teachers will make a significant difference in the lives of our children, but we have to make sure we are evaluating professional educators in a valid, meaningful way if we hope to make a valid and meaningful change.

So, here is my thesis statement, my "call to action" (as I tell the kids), my opinion that I would love you to agree with by the end of this essay: Teachers should NOT be evaluated primarily by their students' scores on standardized tests, especially in the areas of reading and writing.

Reason #1: Teachers should not be evaluated primarily by their students' standardized test scores because the tests themselves do not accurately or authentically measure student knowledge or progress, especially in reading and writing. In California, the STAR language arts test is a grueling, three-hour, multiple-choice exam that supposedly assess an array of reading and writing standards. Because there are a minimum of 30 standards in each grade (5th grade has 32), each standard is "assessed" with only 1-4 questions. Therefore, the measure of student's ability to, say, identify the main idea of a passage, often comes down to his/her answer on a single question. Maybe that morning, the student has had a good night's sleep, eaten breakfast and has come to school bright-eyed and ready to test. Maybe they answer that one question correctly that one morning of the year. And maybe that don't. No educator worth his/her salt would ever determine mastery based on the answer to a single question on a single exam. Yet, the standardized tests do this every year. It's wrong to judge student progress using such a measure, and it's wrong to judge teachers for the same reason. Furthermore, most standardized tests do not ask students to do any sort of writing at all, even though they are tested on writing standards! Incredibly, most states equate a student's ability to take a multiple-choice writing test with an ability to write. However, I don't know a single university professor or employer who would accept "E: none of the above" in place of a term paper or job application. In fact, a professor friend of mine often speaks with concern about the lack of writing ability she sees in her freshman survey course. She blames the focus on high-stakes standardized tests, and so do I. These tests do not measure a teacher's ability to teach. They test a long list of standards with one or two questions on one day out of the 180-day school year. And they don't even test authentic writing, a skill that is crucial to a student's later academic and professional career. If teachers are evaluated by these test scores, many will continue to ignore authentic skills in the service of test prep. These teachers will be held up as "excellent" or "acceptable" if their students pass the tests, but the students themselves will not be ready for college or the job market because the tests themselves are the problem.

Reason #2: Evaluating teachers using their students' test scores will hurt low-income students in disporportionate numbers. As we discussed previously, standardized tests don't assess authentic skills like writing. What they do is ask students to apply narrow range of line-by-line editing skills to a text they have never seen before. Teachers of low-income students are often confronted with kids who are far below grade level. In a short amount of time, they must help their students develop necessary skills after years of neglect. With the inauthentic tests hanging over their heads, urban teachers must sacrifice a great deal of time teaching actual writing and reading in order to teach the standardized test 'skill' of line-by-line editing or analyzing a short, stand-alone text. Those who don't take time out of their actual instruction to teach these 'skills' will be faced with lower test scores and lower evaluations. Let us be clear: they will be judged as less effective teachers because they choose to teach writing composition or authentic reading rather than test prep. This is neither fair to the teachers, nor fair to the low-income students who will forced to learn useless skills to help improve their own test scores and their teachers' evaluations. In addition, low-income students traditionally score far below middle class students on standardized tests, regardless of the teacher they have. If test scores become a major part of teacher evals, even fewer teachers will choose to teach low-income students. Those who do stay will be confronted annually with discouraging reviews, even in years where they feel they make significant progress because the test scores may not reflect their hard work. Low-income students will continue to be given the least experienced, least mobile teachers. The plan to hold teachers accountable for their students' test scores will not improve the quality of teachers who serve low-income students. In fact, it will make it worse.

Reason #3: Teachers should not be evaluated based primarily on their students' test scores. Instead, they should be held accountable in a range of more authentic ways. True, these ways are more complicated and less politically expedient, but they would be better for students and teachers. Currently, Obama's plan "Race to the Top" requires that standardized test scores provide no less than 50% of the teacher's evaluation (many states are weighing these scores more heavily). The remaining 50% (or less) will be based on five classroom evaluations by administrators throughout the school year. (This in itself is interesting because many public school teachers are evaluated just once a year. Maybe. Public school principals are as overworked as teachers. Who is going to carefully observe 50-100 teachers 5x/year?) Instead of basing teacher evaluations on just two indicators (one deeply flawed, one practically impossible), I think teachers should be evaluated based on the ways they help our schools become what we all agree they should be: places where authentic learning happens; where students feel safe and eager to be; where instruction is based on the standards as they are written, not as they are tested. (Every state has writing application standards. These standards set the bar for actual writing instruction in each grade level. Yet they are not tested.) Most of all (and this is where teachers can make a huge difference), schools should serve all students equally. Therefore, teachers should be evaluated on their students' writing and reading growth over time. This can be represented in a portfolio of student writing and reading projects (determined by the standards, but actually representing authentic skills). Teachers should be evaluated by students and parents based on a state-sponsored evaluation or a pre-approved questionnaire set by individual schools. Teachers should be evaluated by their colleagues on their grade level team or department based on their contribution to helping build a community for all students. Teachers should be observed by both master teachers and administrators to evaluate their instructional prowess. Teachers should be evaluated on their long-term plans, which can be submitted as easily as test scores, though it will take more work to assess them. If the state insists, test scores can be a slice of the evaluation pie, but it will be just a slice. The sum of these evaluations will paint an accurate picture of the teacher as a professional, an instructor, a member of a school community and of someone who is being trusted with the education of children for nine months out of the year. It's fair and it's encouraging. It will accurately evaluate teachers on their commitment and skill regardless of where and who they teach.

Conclusion: Obama will be doing the teachers and students of America a great disservice to base teacher evaluations primarily on their students' test scores. The tests themselves are nearly meaningless measurement of student knowledge, especially in reading and writing. The evaluation policy will put low-income students and those who teach them at a particular disadvantage. Finally, teachers can--and should be--evaluated in a variety of authentic ways.

'Nuf said.

Beware the byky menace...

Ahhh...February in Abu Dhabi. Since mid-November, the temperatures have fallen steadily to livable levels. The cool morning air lingers and longer as 'winter' progresses until the whole day is sunny and breezy, ideal for being outside.

But this winter has brought a menace to Abu Dhabi, along with the clear skies and perfect beach days. They appeared suddenly on the Corniche, Abu Dhabi's main promenade along the Gulf. It seemed to happen over night, though it surely must have been more gradual than that. One day the Corniche was a pristine walking path, large enough for two families, complete with strollers, to walk side by side, with room for a vanguard of mid-sized kids running out in front and a collection of grandmothers gossiping in the rear. The next it was infested with vehicles that swooped around at ankle level, piloted by a population who should never be behind any type of wheel. They competed with the vanguard, threatened the strollers and sent the grandmothers running for cover (not to mention K and me).

What were these pests of the promenade?

Bykys. A cross between a bike and a pedal-yourself go-cart with the lines of a small motor scooter and the manueverability of a large ox.

I'm not even sure how the word is supposed to be pronounced (I'm going with bike-ee), but bykys are the latest trend to hit Abu Dhabi, and they've brought out the curmudgeon in me. Nowadays, a pleasant stroll along the Corniche has, at some hours, turned into an obstacle course. Bykys come in three sizes, heaven help us, and each size offers its own particular menace.
There is the family size--the Cadillac of bykys, if you will. Usually pedaled and piloted by Dad, it is weighed down by Mom and the kids, resulting in significant momentum, but limited steering capacity. You can usually hear them coming, though it's best to get out of the way before Dad realizes the path isn't big enough to steer around you and the fleet of two-seater bykys fast approaching in the opposite direction. (I found this picture on Google, but it is a picture of a Cadillac byky right on the Corniche in Abu Dhabi! Note how much of the wide promenade is takes up. Note also the two-seater in the background...)

Speaking of the two-seater, this model is favored by anyone who has sports car fantasies (boys). It has much better manueverability, which is completely offset by the lack of judgment of those behind the wheel. It also comes in a one-seater model (pictured above). Run like the wind...

Finally, there is the mini byky, a tricycle alternative for the under five set. Fast, sleek, so much cooler than a Big Wheel, parents stand in line for hours to rent one for their future Formula One driver. Thus encouraged, the kids really go for it, chasing the two-seaters and trailing along after the family mobiles. Anywhere else, it'd be a lawsuit waiting to happen.

None of the bykys seem to come with brakes in any meaningful sense of that word, which implies the ability to stop at will, suddenly if necessary. Instead, the Corniche has become a trail of dodges, swerves and close calls. As K and I dash to the railing on one side or step into the narrow bike path (not big enough for the bykys) to avoid the Mario Andrettis of the Emirates, we wonder, quite seriously, how long it will be before a Cadillac rams a mini with tragic consequences. Or do we have over protective Western eyes that whince at the lack of helmets, safety padding and adult supervision?

Only time will tell...until then, we're walking well away from the bykys.

Perhaps this byky training course is the answer...

Those who forget the past...

Our brains are disturbingly malleable, as psychology experiments through the years have shown. In the most famous, suburbanites turn into vicious sadists when given the power to administer lethal electric shocks to people they've never seen. College students morph into cruel prison guards, and blue eyed children discriminate against friends with brown eyes simply because the Blue Eyes came to school one morning and were told they were superior.

We read about these studies and can't help imagining ourselves as participants. Surely, we would be the exceptions to the rule. After all, we could never be fooled into torture and oppression. We are sophisticated and educated, empathetic and savvy. Someone else might be a psychology student's dream guinea pig, but we would not be fooled.

Or would we? I'm not so sure.

Last year, I wrote about a powerful social studies lesson that involved using access to junk food to illustrate the class conflict between the patricians and plebeians in ancient Rome. In this lesson, a small, arbitrarily selected group of students (the Pats) are given the privilege of bossing around their classmates, then relaxing with a can of Pringles while the rest of the kids struggle to complete a mind-numbing task. (See January 2009 "Friends, Romans, Pringles" entry for a full explanation of the lesson.) It's a brilliant way of bringing the frustrations of the plebeians home to pre-teens (who have a strong developmental bias toward fair play), but it is also a genuine, if temporary, mind-fuck. The entire lesson is designed to drive students crazy with real outrage, incite a rebellion born of actual frustration and force negotiations with the Pats, just like the real plebeians did in ancient Rome.

And the kids get it. Boy, do they get it. The first time I taught this lesson, I was frankly awed by its effectiveness and power. For better or worse, I have come across very few lessons that teach a complex issues as...viscerally. I wish I could take credit, but it's included our history curriculum.

I taught it again this week. Its effectiveness hasn't faded, but its psychological aspects were much more noticeable this year. This might be because I've been reading Naomi Klein, who writes powerfully about economic injustice and the way the world's wealthy (whether they be people, corporations or nations) are able to dominate, rob and oppress the world's poorer groups, often with their implied consent. Or rather with all of our implied consent, since the planet isn't burning like a Hollywood armageddon movie, which it should be, given the depth and violence of injustice going on out there. Last week, I finished Klein's book No Logo (recommended by K), which traces the exploitation of sweatshop labor to Western corporations' obsession with creating brands as opposed to products; amorphous "lifestyle choices" rather than objects made by real people to be used in the real world. Money spent on pumping up brands with advertising and market research leave corporations little money for (or interest in) actual workers, factories and products. Better to outsource those old-fashioned little issues in order to focus more closely on what really matters: copyrighting Michael Jordan's jump shot or designing Barbie's dream world.

Or rather, what really matters is messing with people's minds until they believe that they're not buying Nike shoes, but athletic prowess, success and stardom. Starbucks might sell coffee, but it actually spends money on the idea of cuddling up to a $3.00 latte with a loved one on a lazy Saturday afternoon.

And it works. Boy, does it work. Our minds, being what they are, fall for it. Willingly. Happily. It's as easy as giving thoughtful, well-meaning children a can of Pringles and watching them--in the space of 10 minutes--become power-hungry patricians who refuse to give up any of their power

At the end of the day, that's what it comes down to: power. A concept that is disturbingly hard to deconstruct. As Klein points out, it's hard for people (savvy, well-educated people) to analyze the ways they are being manipulated by the media. It's perhaps even more difficult for the poor and oppressed to envision a world where they could have a say in their own lives.

In ancient Rome, it all turned out OK, and least from the perspective of a fair-minded 12 year old. The real patricians were forced to share power. The plebs staged a walk out, perhaps the first non-violent collective action in history, camped on a hill outside of the city and compelled the Pats to pay attention to their demands. In other words, justice triumphed, more or less, even if it did take over 200 years to iron out the power-sharing details of the Roman Republic.

Real life is a little more complex, but still contains meaningful lessons, as my students and I discovered this week--and as Klein reminds us on every page of her book.

This year, in one class, the Plebs refused to rebel at all. I set the exercise in motion, and no one moved. They were too "afraid" of the Pats (their friends and classmates) and were nervous about the risks involved in rebellion. They spent the time blaming themselves for not making it into the arbitrary group ("I should have worn a darker colored shirt today!") and accepting their lot in life. Two boys tried to start a movement, but backed down when no one followed them.

Now, one of my roles as teachers is to set the scene with the Pats in charge, but another role involves giving the Plebs tacit permission to rebel. As contradictory as it sounds, it works with 6th graders. But it didn't work this time. By the time I started muttering things like "There're more of you than there are of them" and "You guys shouldn't take this from those Pats," the Plebs had absorbed the mentality of the oppressed. It took about seven minutes.

When questioned about it later, kids were surprised, then chagrined. They are typically not a group of shrinking violets. When asked why they didn't rebel they said things like, "Well, the Pats were in charge./They were above us." When asked why the Pats were above them, they answered,"They got to sit on the cushions./They didn't have to work." Everyone agreed it wasn't fair. Everyone understood why the Roman plebeians rebelled. We also understood--in a very real way--why it took them so long to get up the courage to walk out and voice their demands.

The kids also may have learned (though, unfortunately, I was not on my toes enough to draw this comparison explicitly) that just because people aren't actively protesting doesn't mean injustice has been eradicated. That, of course, is Klein's point exactly. Just because Nike offers 15% more than the going wage in Indonesia, doesn't mean it's OK for a multibillion dollar corporation to pay human beings 25 cents an hour. Just because Starbucks spends a small portion of its budget on Fair Trade coffee, doesn't mean it's not also paying the environmentally disastrous megafarms throughout South America and Africa.

In my other class, the Plebs staged a classic rebellion. One kid led the charge and others followed (though, as always, a few kids kept on working). In response, the Pats in this class starting shoving chips into their mouths in anticipation of coming reforms. If they weren't going to get the Pringles, no one was going to get the Pringles. After we had settled the labor dispute (equal work, equal access to what was left of the Pringles), and I'd come clean on the point of the lesson, the kids who had been the Pats felt more than a little guilty. "I don't know what got into me," said a girl, who is normally so approachable and friendly that she is chosen to orient new students to the school. "It was like I became a different person."

We talked about how hard it is for people in power to give it up. If even Guilty Girl could morph into a Pringle-hogging Pat, we could all imagine how the real patricians might have reacted when the plebeians first voiced their demands.

Although the two classes acted very differently this time around (and very differently than last year's students), my refrain was the same to both sets of kids: Yes, you may have done things you're not proud of, but next time you are confronted by a situation like this, what will you do differently?

Teacher, instruct thyself! Klein's book and both classes this year taught me how powerful an exercise like this is, and how many different lessons it has for 12 year olds studying history, but also for all of us in the world today. What I will do differently the next time I teach this lesson (and I will teach it again--it is way too good), is attempt to draw more explicit parallels to our modern lives. History can provide us all, even 6th graders, with such useful tools. Rather than having a class discussion and moving on (as we did this week), there are ways of making this lesson sink in beyond the Pringle level.

And before anyone thinks I'm pushing an agenda on kids (my own or Klein's) let me say that not drawing these parallels is also pushing an agenda, one that the Gap and, sadly, most Western governments would prefer not be made. Because it's glaringly obvious once the emotions calm down and the extra can of Pringles appears that everyone can share: justice can be achieved, but that it takes a concerted effort, a lot of time, a 12 year old's sense of fair play and unwavering understanding that power always, always, always corrupts--even the nicest girl in class.

History provides us with such useful tools. These are lessons we all need to keep in mind.