Ways of winding down

I started this post a few days ago, and it was very different. I was in a cranky mood and was tempted to blame other people (select colleagues, administrators--the typical teacher bugaboos) for my angst. In truth, it wasn't their fault. All I wanted to do was share some reflections of my first school year here, now that it is winding down. What happened was that I started acting like one of my students. I'll call him Joe.

Like many 6th graders, Joe wants things done The Right Way. You follow the rules (classroom and social). You do what you're supposed to. And you act normal, as defined by 12-year-old sensibilities. The thing with Joe is that when kids step off what he considers the "right" path, he has something to say about it, usually clever and mean. The clever part makes him popular with his classmates. The mean part gets him called to the carpet by his teachers.

The latest incident was about a month ago. Joe was swearing in his native language at other kids behind my and Ocanada's back. (Multiple languages add a special wrinkle to discipline at an international school.) When we called him on it, he 'fessed up immediately. The closest thing he offered to an excuse was this, "But so-and-so wasn't doing anything right. I had to say something."

Basically, the kid was annoying Joe because he was being a goofball. The thing was, Goofball wasn't actively messing with Joe. The kid was just being goofy in Joe's general vicinity. (Said kid is often goofy--it's part of his charm.) But Joe was impatient because Goofball wasn't following the "rules" so Joe took it upon himself to "punish" him the way kids punish each other.

Of course, Ocanada and I explained that cursing was a no-no in this case (and, really, in all cases). We understood his feelings, and he was welcome to have them, but he couldn't just go around swearing in the language/dialect of his choice at every goofball out there, especially when the goofball was just being himself. After all, everyone has a right to be his/herself without fear of being oppressed or cursed at.

Joe has curbed his tongue (both native and in English) ever since. I, on the other hand, started writing my end-of-the-year post and realized I was in a situation much like Joe's. I had A LOT to say about people I've experienced as world-class goofballs (or worse) this school year. But when I thought about it, they were just being themselves. I was just annoyed because their Right Way wasn't the same as mine.

And I expected it to be! That was my mistake! That's what caused the bulk of the vitriol of the now-discarded post. It sounds utterly ridiculous to put it into words, but I honestly thought that all teachers had the same Right Way. When I arrived last August, I was eager to learn how to tone this Way down a bit before it turned me into a column of ash. I wanted to find teachers who had learned how to live with our Way in peace and harmony.

I never expected to find other Ways. Lots and lots of other Ways, but not many that matched my own. I looked high and low. I listened and took notes. I even attempted to sit at the metaphorical knee of a few colleagues, hungry for advice. But I couldn't find anyone who had what I was looking for. Here in Abu Dhabi, only K shares my Way. Ocanada and I connect in some Ways, but not in others. Almost everyone else is on a different path, perhaps in a different teaching solar system. That's how I've felt sometimes this year. Like a stray comet with a now-whacked out orbit sling-shotting around an alien teaching sun. It's no one's fault but my own. My colleagues are nice people. My students are precious pumpkins. My school pursues best practices, serves the kids it has and does its best for teachers. Everything I've said about it all year is true. And yet, with one more day left, I have finally realized that my principal and colleagues aren't going to start acting normal (as defined by my educational sensibilities) and it's time for me to stop expecting that they will. For awhile this made me crazy with frustration. But being cranky is not going to help me any more than Joe's cursing helped him.

What will help is taking a deep breath (a cure all frequently suggested by my college chaplain) and examining my Way on my own. Even if I don't have many fellow travelers, I am blessed with much more time. There may be lots I can learn once I stop grinding my teeth at what I'm not seeing.

One thing that hasn't occurred to me is to abandon my Way. This might sound pigheaded to you non-teachers, especially since I'm talking about how nice my colleagues are. Why not be more adaptable? Who do I think I am? But I'm not talking about techniques and lesson ideas here. I have learned a ton about unit planning and using computers in the classroom at this school. But that's not part of my teaching Way. A teaching Way is a fundamental orientation toward kids, curriculum and the work of educating.

Example of a Way #1: Teachers should do what they say they are going to do.

Example of a Way #2: The job of a teacher is to teach, so if a kid comes into class without a skill they "should know by now," it's my job to help them get there.

Example of a Way #3 (and this is a big one): All kids have the potential to shine and should not be defined by past performance. There are no "C students" or "A students."

These are three things I'm not going to change about the way I teach, but they are not Ways all teachers share, as I have discovered this year.

So where does this leave me? 1) I will stop mourning that my Way is not totally supported at my current school by cattily predicting how long some of my colleagues would last at my former school (The record is one day. The average is 5 minutes.) My former school fully supported what I believe most about teaching, but didn't leave much time to figure out how to walk that Way in a survivable manner. There is still work to do. 2) I will do my best to live my Way next year, being more understanding that others have a different Way and 3) I will look forward to landing once again in a more familiar solar system.

Small town living

Being in "The Music Man" has me thinking about small town life in more ways than one. Of course, the whole show takes place in an archetypal Midwestern town where shared triumphs and shameless back-biting are par for the course. As one song puts it, "But we'll give you our shirt. And the back to go with it, if your crops should happen to die." Which is immediately followed by, "But what the heck, you're welcome. Glad to have you with us. Even though we may not ever mention it again." The message is loud and clear: living in a place where people know you well is both a blessing and a curse. But never as idyllic as the picket fences and clapboard shutters make it appear.

There are no picket fences in Abu Dhabi. The place is low on clapboard, too, and big on apartment buildings between six and 15 stories that line almost every street in town. The park across the street from my place is one of the few green spaces in the city. The rest is nothing but concrete and glass hives full of people, each in their anonymous niche. But that's part of the reason people move to cities, right? To break free of the ancestral pressures and penetrating stares in a dense sea of strangers. Abu Dhabi, home of two million people on an island no larger than San Francisco, should be the antithesis of River City, Iowa, the mythical town in "The Music Man." Right?

Wrong. Abu Dhabi is a very small town, and it has gotten smaller since my circle of acquaintences expanded to include the cast of the musical. Understand, this is a new phenomenon for me. I taught in San Francisco for five years. Most of my students and I lived less than a mile from school--and I ran into a kid maybe three times the entire time I taught there. Three times. In five years. In a big city you simply do not run into people you know very often. In Abu Dhabi, I see kids, parents and colleagues almost every time I go to the grocery store. I run into them in restaurants, bookstores, and Ikea. And for every child I see, there are those I don't see, but who see me, and announce the fact at school the next day. "Ms. R, I saw you buying a Krispy Kreme/looking at lingerie/picking your nose." Well, maybe not that bad. But these kids are everywhere. It reminds me of my childhood in small-town California. Even then, though, I can remember running into teachers only a few times. I lived across the street from my 4th grade teacher and hardly saw the woman! (That was the year half the kids on the block were in her class, so I don't blame her. But still...)

On the surface, there is an easy explanation, but I think it's too easy. It goes like this: in Abu Dhabi, people go to malls. It's what they do. If there are a limited number of malls in town, I can expect to see people I know if I, too, am at the mall. Not only that, but many restaurants are located in malls. Not just food court places but actual sit-down restaurants. Furthermore, Westerners tend to congregate in familiar places (like the malls) where 1) the customs and norms align most closely to their own and 2) the air conditioning functions beautifully. If I choose to frequent those places, then I have no one but myself to blame for bumping into half the faculty and most of the student body on a regular basis. (An artsy rendition of the mall near my apartment building. It doesn't twinkle like this, even at night...)

But it's not that simple. It can't be. Abu Dhabi has 2 million people. San Francisco has less than a million. San Francisco has two malls. Abu Dhabi has three big ones. True, I'm at the mall a lot more in Abu Dhabi than I was in SF because the grocery store is there, but I run into people while not at the mall as well. Not only that, I know by sight (ie: to wave and say Hi to) about 50% fewer people in Abu Dhabi than I know in San Francisco. Maybe even 60% fewer. I've lived in Abu Dhabi about 10 months. I lived in San Francisco about 10 years. As a San Francisco resident, I never left the house expecting to run into someone I knew. Occasionally, I would bump into someone, but I never expected it. When I leave the house in Abu Dhabi, I actually think about who I may run into. It's closer to the mentality I had living in Batie, my village in Cameroon, where I would avoid high-traffic times if I was feeling especially introverted. Batie had about 600 families. Abu Dhabi has about 600,000.

But maybe that's what Abu Dhabi is, a huge village made up of little villages where people, unbeknownst to even themselves, establish orbits around their culturally chosen "town squares" and congregate there whether they plan to or not. The closest grocery store to my apartment is frequented by Abu Dhabi's rainbow nation. It's truly not a Westerners-only joint, as one look at the produce section will prove. Yet maybe it is part of the Western expat orbit I've somehow gravitated into without being aware of it. It makes me curious about the other villages in town I'm unaware of. Maybe next year I'll try to break out. I'll know it's working if I suddenly stop seeing my students everywhere I look, and start feeling as though I'm truly living in the big city.

No small parts

Christopher Guest's send-up of community theater in the mockumentary Waiting for Guffman includes his usual cast of eccentric archetypes. There's the local diva, the director with connections to off-off-off Broadway, the Method actor stuck playing a walk-on role. While Guest's satire is rarely cruel, it is so funny because we suspect a sizable nugget of truth behind the over-the-top characterizations. I don't think any of us will watch a dog show the same way after seeing Best in Show (Guest's most widely acclaimed movie). Knowing what I'd learned from Waiting for Guffman, I wasn't sure what to expect from Abu Dhabi's community theater group when I joined the cast of "The Music Man" last month.

I shouldn't have worried. There are a few Brits who crack corny jokes and drink too much beer during rehearsal, a gaggle of teenagers who would like very much to be divas and a Scottish woman who looks exactly like Helen Mirren. But that's as eccentric as it gets. There are no egos, disputes over stage position or illusions of stardom. There is, however, a universal willingness to give an enormous amount of time to seeing the production through. I've come to understand the true meaning of the phrase 'there are no small parts' in a show where everyone is involved in painting the sets, setting up the stage and arranging the costumes. Not to mention arriving two hours before each performance to put on full stage makeup (eek!), get into costume and warm up. Even me, Townsperson #8, has to look the part.

And look it I do, as you can see. Before you even get started, Ocanada and I had to endure multiple comments about our true age relative to our stage age, from actual teenagers insisting we must be seniors at a nearby international school to adult castmates refusing outright to believe we were teachers, even after a month and a half of seeing us in our street clothes at rehearsal. Fortunately, there were two of our actual students in the cast who could vouch for us. (Ocanada and I in our Act I outfits)

Since I joined up late, I felt a bit disconnected from my fellow thespians during rehearsals. They seemed like a nice bunch, but I didn't have much time to talk to anyone. However, this weekend of performances has definitely hooked me into the scene. (No pun intended.) There's nothing like being jammed in a room backstage with a bunch of people in greasepaint and turn-of-the-century outfits to really help with bonding. We are doing the show in a small, dinner-theater-sized room attached to the local British Club (a complex of sports facilities, pools and restaurants that look like an old 1950s resort in the Catskills). Because there are no "wings" to speak of, we gather in a room behind the theater with two air-conditioning units working triple overtime and one large fan. When it's time for our scene, we brave the searing heat of Abu Dhabi in late May and walk across a small alley onto the stage. While we are all dressed like Iowans circa 1912, we come from all over the world. There are cast members from Kerala, India, Belgium, South Africa, Lebannon and Japan, as well as the usual Anglophone suspects (England, Scotland, Canada, Australia, New Zealand and the States). In fact, some of the most authentic bits of acting have been the American accents folks have adopted. (Here I am with my onstage family: brother, dad, and mom.)

Speaking of acting, the reviews are in, and they've been glowing so far. Which is another advantage of community theater, in that most of the audience already know at least one member of the cast and presumably like them enough to buy a ticket. It helps that in this particular show, the leads are both excellent, and the main supporting cast knows how to turn it on. In fact, most of our amateur theater moments happen between scenes, with loudly crashing sets, dropped props and people getting tangled in the curtains. Once we're all in place (whew), we manage to pull it off most of the time.

Before this weekend, I hadn't been in front of an audience since I played Anybodies in the 1988 Crane School production of Westside Story. After this weekend, I don't feel the siren song of the theater pounding in the depths of my heart, but I do think I have what it takes to join a community theater cast, if the opportunity ever presents itself again. I like to dress up. I like to sing and dance. I don't mind looking silly. I have honed a whole range of theatrical gasps: excited, horrified and shocked. I already have an American accent. I can carry a tune in a bucket, lug props and apply my own stage makeup (my most recently acquired skill). Maybe next year, I'll even get a line.

Philosophical Chinese soup for the preteen soul

The only history lesson I knew I was going to teach this year (and gleefully anticipated) was one my former colleague Schaef has perfected over the years. We are teaching the same 6th grade curriculum, which is a hands-on overview of the ancient world that should come with acting lessons and a costume bag. For the teacher, that is. Schaef, everyone's #1 go-to guy, has, in fact, invested in a wide array of costumes over the years. (His Socrates regularly brings down the house), but this lesson requires nothing but a whistle, a ruler and the spirit of your favorite drill sergeant.

It goes like this: in order to teach the finer points of the ancient Chinese philosophy of Legalism, the teacher is instructed to blow a whistle, line the kids up, march them into the classroom, and make them sit in rows and read the textbook silently while s/he prowls the aisles smacking a ruler in his/her hand with vigor, if not outright menace. After not enough time, the kids close their books and are peppered with questions. They must stand up to answer and look straight ahead (to look the teacher in the eye would be insubordination). They are rewarded if they answer correctly (praised and allowed to sit down) and punished if they get the answer wrong (I made them stay standing). After about 10 minutes of this charade (which the kids know is a put-on, but at that age it still packs a punch), we all take a deep breath and debrief.

Now, regular readers might be getting the idea that this curriculum is designed to traumatize kids into learning history (see the post "Friends, Romans, Pringles" (January 2009) about how pitting kids against each other based on access to junk foods provided an excellent look at class conflict in ancient Rome). But lest you think it's all Machiavellian drama, we did have a very different lesson the day before the Legalist whistle and ruler.

Another ancient philosophy the kids learn about is Daoism. In that lesson, kids are allowed to express their knowledge of the material any way they choose. They can draw, write stories, or act out any of the elements of this balanced and peaceful philosophy. Though some kids stuck with the workbook, others drew yin and yang symbols and scenes of forests and flowing streams. One boy wrote a poem, another girl did an interpretive dance. (It was too cute, but definitely one of those bite-your-cheek-to-keep-from-laughing moments.) All I did was draw on the board and ignored everyone. We debriefed that lesson informally. The kids were taken aback that no one had to raise his/her hand. Not even once. I know the lesson sunk in when I started getting reports from other teachers that this particular class was requesting Daoist lessons, please. A colleague who is also a parent of one of my students told me her daughter couldn't stop talking about her "meditative bubble" (a phrase that came up during our debrief to describe the Daoist sense of peace and oneness with nature).

We also did Confucianism, of course, though that lesson is a little less memorable. Kids liked the philosophy itself, though, and pointed out that much of the structure (including the teacher/student and parent/child relationships) are a major part of their lives. I've never thought about how Confucian a child's experience is, but they live in a hierarchy of relationships that we adults have forgotten about.

It was cool talking with the kids about how all three philosophies came about in reponse to the chaos of the Warring States period of Chinese history (as I'm sure you recall). They were amazed that philosophers would have such different ways of looking at the same issue. "Why didn't they just combine the best parts of all three?" the kid who wrote the Daoist poem asked. Why not indeed. This comment led to a discussion about how some people prefer more structure and some people less. People who need more structure would love Legalism, while those who didn't need/want as much would be happy as Daoists. This led to yet another tangent about how comfortable Legalism was for some in the class, while others hated it. It wasn't long before someone pointed out that it was a matter of personal preference--yet if one person had a lot of power, then everyone would have to live with his/her preference. In addition to providing a perfect segue into the next chapter of Chinese history (Emperor Qin was definitely a structure aficionado), it also made kids aware of the heart of philosophy (for lack of a better term); philosophy as an examination of the human condition stemming from indivdual human experience, and as a reflection of the way the world works or could work. Not bad for a lesson that didn't even need a costume.

Anything but dead, Jim

I figure I have about 10 minutes. That's how much longer it will be cool to be a Trekkie, following the unprecedented success of the latest movie, titled simply Star Trek (what more do you need?). The previously geeky few have been joined by the temporarily-geeky masses on a multimillion-dollar, blockbusting bandwagon. Even the chronically snarky movie site Rotten Tomatoes awarded the newest Trek a whopping 96% rating. 'Who knew?' the site's blog proclaimed as the glowing reviews poured in.

Well, some of us knew.

But this is not where I stand up and act all righteous about liking the trend of the moment long before the creator of Lost decided to gussy it up. This is about why I am a dyed-in-the-wool, second-generation Trekkie who literally watched re-runs of the original series at her mother's knee and was such a purist at the ripe old age of 13 that I almost didn't give the Next Generation a chance.

Sure, time travel conundrums, world-saving heroics, creative costuming, and the humor contained in one, well-timed raised eyebrow make great entertainment. But that's not why I love Star Trek. I love Star Trek because it is...wait for it...a literary geek's dream show. Yes, folks, that's right. Star Trek is not just for the pocket-protector set. This show has something for every geek out there, even those of us who couldn't calculate our way out of the inner solar system.

Where else in the Hollywood galaxy do whole plots revolve around references to Sherlock Holmes, Beowulf, Greek mythology and the epic Gilgamesh? When was the last time your favorite character quoted Shakespeare or spoke Latin? How about your favorite villain? (Both do on a regular basis in the Trekverse.) Some of you may know the language of the Klingons, perhaps Star Trek's best known alien race, has its own dictionary. But did you know someone sat down--at the request of the show's producers--and came up with Klingon grammar, which makes it possible for there to be a Klingon translation of Hamlet and the Bible? In my favorite episode ever, the phrase "mytho-historic" is uttered four times in reference to a race of aliens who speak exclusively in cultural allusion and metaphor. I am not making this up. Abraham Lincoln turns up in one show, Mark Twain and Jack London in another. As the characters are realigning the warp core and setting phasers on stun, they are also pondering what it means to be human or free or faithful to one's cultural beliefs. The series is widely known for its 1960s hippie ideals, but its progressive lens has been aimed at the heart of more than one era. Although the social commentary can get heavy handed, it is just as often prophetic, as episodes on the psychological effects of torture or the dangers of religious fanaticism show. Star Trek has been going in some form for 43 years now. Given the success of its latest iteration, it has a least a few more decades left.

And it'll need them because, thanks to several plot twists in the new movie, the Trek timeline we all know and love--the one that encompasses the 10 previous movies to say nothing of four television series--has been completely wiped out. Dontcha hate it when that happens? Nonetheless, I count myself among the fans who are OK with it. Because the characters remain--as emotive, logical, curmudgeonly, earnest, classy, goofy and universal as always and consistently at the heart of the whole narrative. Despite galatic disasters, a fresh batch of foes and the constant pitfalls of the human experience, they presumably will go on to inspire generations to come, in a parallel/alternative timeline and in this one. I look forward to watching them prosper.

Native dress

As regular readers know, I'm preparing for my Arabian debut as Townsperson #8 in a local production of "The Music Man." As opening night approaches, my fellow cast members and I have been bombarded with emails from the makeup/costume maven with detailed instructions on how to turn our modern selves into small-town Iowans circa 1912.

It's amazing how well Americans from the Midwest at the turn of the century complied with current standards of modesty in the Gulf. As a River City teenager, I will be wearing white tights, Mary Janes and a dress almost to the ankles with long sleeves and a high neck. My hair won't be covered, but it will be pulled back and topped with a big white bow. My face and hands will be the only skin exposed, and I've been instructed (along with the other 'teenagers' in the cast) to cover my mouth in either shock or glee as much as possible.

True, "The Music Man" takes place before the Roaring 20s, but living here in the Middle East has given me perspective on how shocking it must have been for hemlines to creep knee-ward, after so many years of petticoats, bustles, sweeping trains and billowing sleeves.

Speaking of billowing, Madame L was educating me recently on the abeyya fashion of the modern Gulf woman. This is a topic I never tire of, probably because I grew up in a California beach town and, to my grandmother's everlasting horror, never willingly wore anything other than shorts and t-shirts for most of my childhood. Seeing women sashaying along the oceanfront in long, black robes glittering with sparkles and sequins never ceases to fascinate me. It is commonly known, and confirmed by Madame L, that Emerati women wear the abeyya by choice, for the most part, which explains the wild variation in the ways they choose to veil.

My curiosity this time was prompted by advertisements here that feature women in abeyyas and head scarves with their bangs peeking out. Now it's one thing to be at the mall and have your veil slip a bit. No one in the UAE is going to think twice. It's another thing entirely to have bangs in a Burger King ad, which has been produced to the exact specifications of some marketing drone. And then there's the matter of the women, mostly young, who wear their abeyyas open, or only half buttoned. Their cute outfit is clearly on display, and their abeyya is billowing behind them, more like a sparkly cape with sleeves than a garment intended to preserve modesty. When I see those girls, I think, 'OK, now, why bother?' My capris and pashmina cover more skin.

So, I asked Madame L what the deal was. Either you don't want strangers to see your hair or you do. Either you go out in public in a shapeless (though expensively be-dazzled) black overcoat to hide your potentially alluring feminine figure, or you don't. After all, my "Music Man" alter ego wouldn't dream of sporting a tank top at the ice cream social or flashing some ankle while dancing the "Shipoopi."

Apparently, many Emerati women, and especially the young ones, wear the abeyya as a badge of cultural pride and are not thinking a bit about religious or historical codes of modesty, any more than you or the average Iowan would today. The only gals inspired by religion are those who wear the full burqa, complete with gloves. A small percentage of Emerati women do walk around in what looks to me like widows' weeds from the 1890s: Miss Havisham-wear, complete with a full black veil that covers the face, but is made of the gauze-like equivalent of a one-way mirror. The woman can see out (undoubtedly everything looks a bit hazy) but no one can see in. (This is NOT to say that unveiled women don't value their faith or take it seriously; only that there is an explicit religious connection with women who are fully covered. The Quran doesn't require women to veil, and many devout Muslim women choose not to cover at all.)

Seeing the variety in dress among women here makes me wonder when and if the "Roaring 20s" will hit the UAE, or if abeyyas are here to stay, the billowy black line keeping Abu Dhabi from turning completely into a clone of Houston or Miami. If I were them, I'd keep the abeyya, sparkles and all. It beats a big white hair bow any day.

Time keeps on ticking

I'm experiencing a new phenomenon this year as we slide ever deeper into May. It's something that has never happened to me before, and it is this: I'm aware that the last day of school is coming. It's a good four weeks away, yet there it is, on my radar. This might not strike you non-teachers as noteworthy, but for me it is highly symbolic of how much my time horizon has expanded since I moved to Abu Dhabi.

At my former school, my immediate time horizon was about an hour into the future. I had a vague understanding of how the day or week would unfold, but what I thought about was usually the next 60-90 minutes. By the time the last day of school rolled around, I was frankly a bit surprised. Not only could I not anticipate it, I couldn't conceive of it. It was simply not on the right side of the horizon. Now, I can easily glimpse an event four weeks away, and even see past it into summer. Lots of people are talking about it, counting down days. Ocanada even writes the number on her board each day. And because it's everywhere, I find myself thinking about it more and more. It's what we all do as the school year draws to a close, right? We did it as kids, and it's not a big shocker that we do it as teachers.

But it has changed my rhythm in a way that makes me a little sad. I feel drifty and rootless, as if my anchor to this school year has come loose and I'm already floating away.

Now, here's when I'm tempted to write the disclaimatory sentence about how even though I'm a little off-kilter, I'm really glad that I have more mental space to contemplate the final days of my first school year here. But if I'm going to be truthful, I have to say that I don't love this anchorless, when-will-this-year-end feeling at all. It's a weird way to end a time that has been mostly positive--it cheapens it somehow.

And it pulls my mind back to the question I've been contemplating all year: how can my life be more like a fulcrum and less like a seesaw.

So, here's something I've figured out. I don't want what I do to be "gotten over with" even if there are many wonderful weeks of vacation stretching beyond the horizon (because this is surely not to cheapen the need for rest either!) It's nice to look beyond lunchtime, but there is a middle ground, and countdowns aren't it.