Linguistically hoping

As many of you know, I am deeply geeky. I put up a good front most of the time, but, in my heart, I happily roll with the Trekkies and the grammar nerds. I genuinely enjoy sci-fi. I like knowing useless bits of information, the more esoteric the better. I understand that admitting this throws my mainstream credentials as a literary person into question. A friend of my mom's, a former university president, visibly winces when I mention the unique and valuable lens sci-fi provides to society today. He'd rather talk about the other books I've read. You know, the normal ones.

So with this disclaimer, I want to tell you about a book I read recently that set my geeky heart singing. It's a normal book about a truly nerdy subject. See, something for everyone!

If you haven't read In the Land of Invented Languages by linguist Arika Okrent, go out and get it this minute. It is a fascinating overview of the concept, history and reasons behind the world's invented languages. You've probably heard of Esperanto, but did you know that medieval nun Hildegard of Bingen was the first to invent her own language back in the 12th century? Since then, people (mostly really geeky guys) have been giving it a go for a wealth of reasons. During the Enlightenment, it was about controlling the illogical, irregular beast of language, taming it into a more orderly, scientific creature. In the 19th century, Esperanto and many other less famous attempts were meant to heal the violent rifts caused by the rise of nationalism. Today, language inventing is as popular as ever, but folks do it for artistic reasons. They craft languages in the shape of their own worldviews or for worlds of their own creation. JRR Tolkein, who essentially wrote Lord of the Rings to provide a home for his several invented Elvish languages, is considered the founding father of this era.

But what brings language inventors of all eras together is an abiding desire to change the world through one of its most fundamental mediums. These are people who think big. They understand that language shapes thought, expression, reason and emotion, along with culture, so they want to shape the ultimate shaper. And all of them seek to do so for exclusively constructive reasons: they want to improve clarity of thought; they want to bring peace; they want to express themselves more fully; they want to create community; they think it's incredibly fun. And they do it on the level of grammar, syntax, even phonemes. The work involves total submersion into language as a concept and a concrete tool. The fact that most of these people are amateurs doesn't stop them from professional-level study of what makes communication work at its most basic level.

So what, you might be saying. Why bother? Who actually speaks an invented language? Who has even heard of someone who does? (Actually, I took Esperanto lessons in the summer between 6th and 7th grade, not that I remember any of it.) But that is another cool thing about Okrent's book. She opens the doors of the invented language subcultures and invites us in. We get to meet the people, quirky and quixotic, who insist on doing this work despite raised eyebrows and open ridicule.

We meet the small but passionate Esperanto culture that exists to this day, and which includes its own rock music, literature, poetry and a very small number of native speakers (children raised by Esperantists). We hang out with speakers of Klingon, uber geeks even by Trekkie standards, who have translated Hamlet into a language invented for a TV show about an alien race that doesn't exist. (At least not in the way the writers of Star Trek envisioned.) We see how a pictographic language called Blissymbols changed the lives of children living with celebral palsy. We witness real people engaging in a kind of escapism, yes, but a kind of escapism that results in actual transformation. The invented becomes concrete through the actions of real people in the real world.

In this way, it's not fantasy; it's the opposite of fantasy. Fantasy is looking at a Vogue cover model or that cherry-red Ferrari in the window. Though these two "ideals" are real, they will never enter your reality. Klingons don't exist, but their language does because people have brought it into being. I will never walk the red carpet at the Oscars in the latest by Chanel. But I can speak Klingon, if I care to learn. (I don't, but I love that some people do.) I can change the real world by making something invented my own. In this way, something as "normal" as the contents of People magazine becomes the true exercise in bizarre wish fulfillment. At least learning Klingon is possible.

This is also exactly the reason I'm a geek. I love it when people go against the grain to create alternative realities because the one we're living in leaves much to be desired. It's weird, but it's hopeful. It's creative in the strictest sense of the word. (NB: In most invented languages, I would not have to draw your attention, as I just did, to the shades of meaning in the word creative. There would be a separate word for creative meaning original and innovative, and creative meaning relating to the process of creation.) It's not that I long for an alternative to the languages we have. After all, they were invented, too, by all of us over the centuries, and they get the job done, more or less. It's just that there is something so fascinating about striking new ground in a realm we take for granted, for having the will to break out of the mold in such a fundamental way. Some of the most interesting conversations I've had in the past year have been with K about what it's like to walk the rocky road to fluency in a second or third language, as they have. It is not a road I've traveled very far along, despite my best efforts over the years (starting with Esperanto and moving on from there). But there is no doubt about the power of the experience. From what I can tell, it becomes impossible to look at meaning and self expression in quite the same way. Imagine, then, attempting to express your world view as an invented language, where the goal is not the journey to fluency but the creation of a whole new expressive realm.

Unsurprisingly, as Okrent writes, it becomes the life work of most who attempt it. You could argue there are more important tasks to spend time and energy on. Or you could be thankful, as I am, there still is a small space in the world for linguistic Don Quixotes and their dictionary-sized dreams.

Chaperoning wonderland

Last week, I chaperoned my first middle school dance. You might be wondering how I could have taught this age group for nine years and only just found myself standing, arms folded, in a dimly-lit cafeteria full of blaring music and runaway hormones. Well, two of those years I was in Cameroon, which has a cute youth day once a year (sort of a talent show on steroids), but no dances. Then I taught at a school with a lot on its mind, but busting a move did not rank high. We did have a dance at one point, but I somehow escaped monitoring duties. I recall being incredibly relieved. Even last year here in Abu Dhabi, I managed to elude the call when the dance I was scheduled to watch was canceled. Not this year. This year, I was stationed on the sidelines for Winter Wonderland 2009.

It was in the cafeteria, which is a windowless cavern-like room underneath the gym. The student council had hung strings of lights and gotten their hands on some stand-alone strobes that flashed different colors at irregular intervals. The kids were instructed to wear all white, snowflakes being a universal cause for celebration (as opposed to any one religion's winter colors). It made them easy to see. My fellow chaperones and I took our places along the edges of the dance floor. The principal and student council adviser guarded the door. A gaggle of parents sold food coupons while others distributed KFC Twisters, ice cream sandwiches and tiny cans of Sprite

Middle school dances haven't changed much since you were 13, in case you're wondering. There was lots of giggling, running around, the casting of meaningful looks (that may or may not have been noticed) and more giggling. In addition to separating by gender, the kids divided by grade level. Imagine the rectangular, low-ceiled cafeteria divided into thirds (8th on the left, 6th in the middle, 7th on the right). Each third was, of course, split into a boy huddle and a girl huddle. The 8th graders mixed the most; the 6th graders the least. In fact, the 6th grade boys soon took refuge behind the speakers while the 6th grade girls joined hands and spun around together, ring-around-the-rosy style, to most songs. The 7th graders at one point looked like they were playing an unintentional game of Red Rover. They stood in two lines facing each other (one made up of girls, one of boys). Though they kept strictly to their third of the cafeteria, occasionally one girl or one boy would "come on over" to the opposite 7th grade line, have what looked like a drive-by conversation, and scoot on back.

We chaperones spent a lot of time talking about how glad we were to be decades distant from our middle school years, especially during the one slow song where a total of two 8th grade couples danced (along with the twirling 6th grade girls). What we didn't do was spend a lot of time worrying about sex and drugs amid the rock n roll (or Euro-style techno and R&B). Senorita C, one of the chaperones, talked about patrolling the darkest corners at her former school, breaking up make-out sessions and discouraging bootie shaking on the dance floor. The closest we came to that was when the PE teacher (a hilarious Brit) started making faces over the shoulders of the two slow-dancing duos, surely scarring them for life.

At 9 p.m. sharp, we turned on the lights, cleared the floor (mostly of the 6th grade Energizer bunnies, who could have gone for another three hours) and sent the kids into the cars of their waiting parents.

My middle school dances took place in the Boys and Girls Club of the small beach town where I grew up. This was fortunate because it meant I could attend, even though I didn't go to the local junior high, which hosted the events. The dances weren't held in the gym (which was large and roomy). Rather, they cleared the floor of the "club" area, normally home to pool, air hockey and Foozball tables. It was packed with kids (boys on one side, girls on other other). The year was 1987. I remember wearing my first miniskirt, white pantyhoes and an Espirt top, and hanging close to the girls from my street. I slow-danced with BrianB to "Crazy for You" by Madonna, and all I could think about were all the people who were looking at me. The horror. I wish I had enjoyed it more. And I'm relieved (to this day) that the PE teacher wasn't making faces over my shoulder.

Aren't you glad you're not in middle school anymore?

Breaking news: it is #@&$ pouring here

I think of this blog as more Harper's than CNN, but I have to interrupt this in-depth feature vibe with some breaking news: it has been raining here for the last 48 hours! (This street looks a lot like the one right outside my window!)

The streets are flooded. The ceilings are leaking. The kids practically had to wade to their lockers in several hallways today. The gutters sent sheets of water onto the pavement and yards. The fields are drowning and the server room (of all places) shorted out. As of right now (7:30 p.m., Sunday, Dec. 13) the parking lot outside my building is a lake, and the clouds still haven't cleared.

No one expects rain here. Which explains the lack of street drainage and the pitiful state of the roofs. And you can't really point any fingers when 365 days of the year for years on end, there might be an inch or two of precipitation. The heaviest recorded rainfall in UAE history is 77 mm in one day back in 1967. I wouldn't be surprised if we broke that today. Stay tuned... (A classic Abu Dhabi taxi--not slowing down for anything...)

Blowin' by the wind

There is a Polish expression that roughly translates as: look where the wind has blown us. K and her mom used it with smiles on their faces during a recent road trip to Oman. It's handy phrase for moments like that, when you look around and think, 'Wow. Here we are--imagine that!' The nearest English equivalent I can think of is, 'We're not in Kansas anymore.' But the Polish phrase implies much more amazement, even gratitude. Look where the wind has blown us! Isn't it cool?

I thought of the phrase last night at the annual school choir concert. It was impressive and well done, as these things often are. The last number was a beautiful medley sung by the high school, middle school and elementary choirs about peace on earth. As the kids stood up in the soft glow of the spotlights, they represented about 45 different countries and half as many languages. It was a poignant moment that made me feel the sheer chance of being in Abu Dhabi at this moment in time with this particular group of students singing so sweetly.

I have been trying to characterize the community at my school for over a year now. It has proven elusive. Students and teachers are friendly and seem comfortable and well adjusted. There is very little tension or other strong emotions. On the surface, it appears stable, healthy and secure. Yet there is not a particular sense of closeness or deep bonds. The congeniality is not false--it's just not deeply rooted. But why should this be with so many genuine people gathered in one place?

Then it came to me. Almost every single person in Abu Dhabi, from grocery store clerk to CEO, is windblown, swept into town by choice or by chance. We live in a city of leaves, not trees, despite the emirate's attempt to green the desert. People arrive, they work, they look around, perhaps amazed and grateful for the opportunity, and then after awhile, they blow away. Back to where they came from or onto the next adventure. The school is the same. The choirs that sung last night will never sing together again (several students are leaving at the end of December, and more will be arriving). The same could be said for almost every quarter of the school at every level. The wind blows in, the wind blows out, and the community sways, swirls, reconfigures and moves on.

This week I officially decided to catch the wind back to the States this June. At the end of the day, my decision to leave Abu Dhabi after two years is related, in part, to the ephemeral nature of the place. I have a need to sink roots into a school where colleagues and students are committed to a common mission. For me, that mission needs to involve serving students who need it most, standing side by side with colleagues who feel the same way. I knew how important the first part was to me before I left. I didn't realize until I came here that the second part is just as crucial. As I've mentioned before in this blog (see several of the June 2009 entries), uniting with the adults in the community to care for children is one of the most powerful functions of education (and human experience, really). Being anchored by a common goal helps create this dynamic. Being windblown doesn't, especially when the children involved are grounded instead in families that can happily provide for their needs.

I will always be grateful for blowing over here for so many reasons (which I will write about in subsequent posts). And I always knew I'd leave eventually (as should be obvious from reading the paragraph above). In the meantime, I'm looking forward to swirling around for a few more months in the city of leaves.

Sheikh Zayed on a keychain

The end of November is a special time in the UAE. The date palms sway in the breeze, the sun smiles gently from the sky, and the workers of Abu Dhabi begin weaving long tubes of twinkly lights into decorative shapes and displaying them at regular intervals along the roadside. The shops fill with celebratory items, and most houses and cars are awash in red, green--and black. Yes, black. It's not Christmas being celebrated with such enthusiasm. It's the UAE national days on Dec. 2 and 3.

I was going to name this post "Pimp My Emirate" but I thought it'd be a little much. It would also be descriptive. The UAE goes crazy with national pride as the beginning of December approaches. This year our favorite federation of Gulfside city-states turns 38. If it's not a number to be proud of, don't tell that to my neighbor whose car is festooned with Emerati flags and plastered with stickers of Sheikh Zayed and sons. The aforementioned roadside light displays proclaim the birthday number every 10 feet or so, alongside the magic number seven, representing the seven emirates that make up the nation. In my favorite grocery store, one can buy Sheikh Zayed posters, tea towels, mouse pads, buttons and key chains, along with UAE-themed sweat bands, sundresses, scarves, bracelets, necklaces and several varieties of hat, including those super-tall baseball caps like they wear at Hotdog on a Stick. Only in red, green and black, of course.

Buildings get in on the act as well. My gym has the UAE flag in lights along the outer wall, and twinkly strands snaking up the palm trees in the parking lot. The skyscrapers downtown turn their floodlights to green and red. One enterprising organization projects a slideshow of UAE history 15 stories high. Featured prominently is everyone's favorite sheikh and photos of the fishing villages of Dubai and Abu Dhabi in the goat-hair-hut days of yore.

Or 38 years ago, whichever you prefer. Happy birthday, UAE!

Rain, rain, come and stay...

As most of you know, I just spent a week with the whole 6th grade touring the ancient Greek and Roman ruins near Selcuk, Turkey. It is a fantastic experience by any standards and meshes perfectly with the social studies curriculum. Kids learn the history and then they see it first hand. They even do in-depth research on a particular site, be it a temple, amphitheater, fountain, triumphal arch or stadium.

This year, however, the desert flowers of Abu Dhabi experienced a lot more than the wonders of the ancient world. They lived through a week of honest-to-goodness weather. And it was hard to tell which excited them more.

It all started back at school when we were preparing for the trip.

"It might rain," I said, in the tone of voice teachers use when delivering bad news.

"Yeeeeeessssss!" they all replied, to a kid, sounding like a nest of enthusiastic snakes and making the Jim Carrey fist pump.

I was a bit surprised. Rainy field trips, as both a teacher and a student, have all the appeal of a soggy sandwich.

"It may also get cold," I continued.

"Yeeessssssssssssss." More fist pumps. Some kids even slapped each other high fives.

"Will it snow?" piped up a kid from Norway.

Haven't you had enough snow? I wondered. "Probably not in Selcuk," I admitted.

"Awwwwwwwwwww."

"So, you want it to rain," I said, finally getting a clue, but not quite believing it.

"Totally/oh my gosh/how can you even ask?/yes/of course/duh," replied the kids. I heard a few whisper to each other about umbrellas and ponchos.

"It never rains here," a Korean kid explained. "So when it rains, it's special."

"It's wet," I pointed out. "And damp."

"Yeeesssssssssss."

Then we got to Turkey, and the first few days it was perfect. Sunny, warm, at least 80 degrees. We went to the beach. We frolicked among columns, Doric, Ionic and Corinthian. One of the drama classes did their play under the dome of the sky, like the ancient Greeks intended. We got back to the hotel every night, hot and sweaty.

What did we hear from the kids? Whine, whine, whine.

"I thought you said it was going to rain?" "When am I going to be able to wear my jacket?" "Isn't it autumn here?" "Why isn't it cold?"

Be careful what you wish for, kids.

The next day it poured. Buckets. It thundered and lightning. It wasn't that cold, but, boy, was it wet. And no one was prepared because when we left the hotel, it looked like another sunny day. I had left my rain jacket in my room. So had almost everyone else.

No sooner had the bus pulled into the parking lot, then it started.

"Ms. R, can we go outside?" "Can we play in the rain?" "Can I splash in the puddles." "Do you want to share my umbrella?" One kid even had one of those umbrella hats, honest to god, and his classmates thought it was the coolest thing they had ever seen in their entire lives. The kid looked like a grandpa at a golf tournament, but everyone was green with envy over his umbrella hat. He couldn't wait to try it out.

We stomped around the site in the pouring rain. It got colder. It got damper. The kids had enough of the water-from-the-sky thing after their shoes soaked through and their hair started to drip down their backs. But they were troopers, and didn't complain at all. Not like they had about the brilliant sunshine and balmy Mediterranean breeze of the day before.

"At least we're experiencing the rain," Umbrella Hat said solemnly, in the same tone you or I would say, 'At least we're experiencing these ancient monuments, which we may never see again.' It amounted to much the same thing.

The next day, it rained again, but got much colder. This time, the kids were prepared. Out came the hats, mittens, scarves and boots--clothes that spend months in the back of the closet until a ski holiday or perhaps a trip north for Christmas finally saw the light of day. We had a bright orange poncho, the kind for camping ("Don't you have a raincoat?" "No, why would I?") and a panda bear-inspired hat (complete with little ears) with a built-in scarf with matching mittens. Everyone wanted to wear it, but it lasted about 10 seconds in a real downpour. ("I guess it's not really waterproof." "No, honey, it isn't." "But it's cute, huh?")

When we got back to school and reconvened this week, kids talked about the rain as hardened vets recounting battle stories. Unfortunately, the 7th graders were having none of it. In their part of Turkey, it had snowed.

"Whoa!/Cool!/That is so incredible!/Can you believe it?/Oh my gosh," came the chorus from the 6th grade as they heard about the below freezing temps, piles of slush, stuck buses and frigid hikes of the 7th grade trip to Cappadocia.

And then the inevitable question, "Do you think we'll be that lucky next year?"

(I have purposely chosen photos from our trip that are somewhat blurry and that don't show the kids' faces clearly. But you definitely can get the idea of what it was like to tour in the pouring rain (in Ephesus) and in the beautiful sunshine (in Priene).)

Turkey cool

Last week, I once again skipped down the Road to Ruins with 70 6th graders, assorted chaperones and two excellent guides. We clambered over broken columns in Priene and watched the drama class perform in the great theater of Miletus (frequented by Pythagorus and mentioned by Homer). We braved rain and inclement weather to tiptoe around the Tetrapylon of Aphrodisias and gape at the library of Celsus in Ephesus (pictured left). On the last warm day of fall, we played on the beach of the Aegean. On the first chilly day of winter, we visited a Turkish school that had prepared a fantastic program for our kids (to be nice, and so their kids could practice English). As the seasons changed before our eyes, we saw some of the best of what Turkey has to offer.

I've now been to Turkey three times: twice as a teacher and once as a tourist. I've been to Istanbul, Cappadocia and the Izmir region (aka: the road to ruins). I've seen three of the coolest places in the country--but certainly not all the coolness there is to be seen. Nonetheless, in honor of turkey day, fast approaching, I feel totally qualified to offer the following list of Turkey cool.

Apple tea: Go anywhere in Turkey and you will be offered apple tea. Fall in love with the sweet, apple-y flavor, tarter than apple juice but not as thick and cloying as apple cider. Then buy some, take it home and just try to get it to taste like it did in the grand bazaar in Istanbul or across from the Ephesus Museum in Selcuk. I've tried and tried, and failed and failed. It just doesn't taste the same. It might be that I lack the curvaceous Turkish tea glass or the nerve to add the heaps of sugar no doubt required. Either way, apple tea is one of the most fabulous things about Turkey that can only be truly experienced within its borders.

Really cool pottery: This is not your grandmother's mountain mug. Turkish pottery and design is world renown, of course. You would recognize the vivid patterns and brilliant colors. In Turkey, you can go to a workshop and watch master potters spin out bowls, thin-necked vases, egg cups and pitchers without breaking a sweat. Painters likewise brush on vines, tulips and flourishes with about as much effort as it takes normal people to draw a stick figure. Go to Topkapi Palace (or the Sheikh Zayed Mosque in Abu Dhabi) and see whole walls adorned with tiles. Go to the local market and bargain for a bowl in any color of the rainbow. It might be machine made or it might be handpainted, but it's super cool nonetheless.

People who genuinely, honest-to-goodness like children: Imagine it's 3:30 a.m. You have stayed up all night for your flight from Abu Dhabi to Istanbul. You get to the gate, coffee in hand, only to find 70 12 year olds and 14 of their minders already there, buzzing with excitement. You wouldn't be a terrible person if your face fell and you turned back into the terminal to purchase an eye mask and some ear plugs. Now imagine you are a flight attendant on the same flight. The 12 year olds come thumping down the jetway in vibrating packs of pre-teen energy. It's 3:30 a.m. and you're heading back to Istanbul, back to your home port and your family. What would you consider a reasonable reaction? The flight attendants on Turkish Airlines flight 1167 from Abu Dhabi to Istanbul at 3:30 a.m. on Wednesday, Oct. 28, straightened their caps, adjusted their name tags and smiled as if nothing pleased them more than to host the whole 6th grade. Once airborne, they trundled out 70--yes, 70--plastic packages filled with inflatable airplanes and plastic airplane binoculars. The kids were thrilled, said thank you and proceeded to use the toys as pillows as one by one they fell asleep. Not a single stewardess brow was furrowed. Not a single voice was raised. The kids got freebies and smiles from their Turkish hosts. The same was true wherever we went. The staff at the small, family owned hotel where we stay in Selcuk made 70 sack lunches for six days straight. They cooked pasta, French fries and chocolate pudding. They checked in with the kids who weren't eating, made sure there was an option for our four vegetarians. They laughed at the clowns and fixed special teas for the homesick. I would recommend the Hotel Kalehan to anybody--but not the week we were there, and I work with kids every day. It's not that we were unruly--the kids were great, but there were 70 of them. All in one place. Yet the hotel staff seemed genuinely perplexed that an inquiring German couple turned down the one free room remaining. Who wouldn't want to be surrounded by such charming children? For these Turks--and for the flight attendants on TK1167--it was a no brainer.

Ancient ruins to suit nearly all tastes: You like ancient Greek? Roman? Ottoman? Maybe a little earlier? How about Minoan or even Assyrian? Name an empire, major invasion or cultural trend in pretty much all of human history, and the land of modern Turkey was somehow involved. Alexander the Great passed through on his way to India. Centuries later, Genghis Khan came the other direction headed for the gates of Vienna. The Assyrians rolled over and left a few ruins and the cult of Ishtar that morphed into the worship of Aphrodite once the Greeks arrived. The Romans loved the place, many of the choicest ruins from their old empire are located in Turkey. Not to mention that the whole empire moved to Constantinople after the hordes sacked Rome. After the Holy Roman Empire moved west the Ottomans picked up the slack and ruled the whole Middle East for centuries. It's no surprise that modern-day Turks are torn about where exactly their roots lie. Some are clamoring to join the European Union, while others want to forge closer ties to the Middle East. But whatever your geopolitical preference, Turkey has something for everyone.

A totally portrait-genic founding father: Spend two minutes in Turkey and you will see a painting, poster, statue or bust of Ataturk, the founding father of modern Turkey, the man who swept away the final corruption of the Ottoman Empire and ushered in an era of Western-style secularism and modernity. If most Turks don't love him, they at least agree to display his likeness almost everywhere, not to mention offering it for sale on plates, magnets, flags and rugs. Thank goodness he was such a striking guy. George Washington, Abe Lincoln have nothing on Ataturk. In some pictures, he is chiseled and determined with a marble jaw and crystalline eyes. In others, he is almost grandfatherly. And in the last (and possibly coolest) category, he looks a little like Bela Lugosi without the fangs, a dashing, if slightly cheesy, archetype in a long, black coat suggestive of a cape. My personal favorite (I even own the magnet) is Ataturk leering over a glass of what looks like milk. It would make a great Got Milk? advertisement, except I was told that the white stuff in the glass is a Turkish liquor and that Ataturk died of cirrhosis (a skim through Wikipedia confirms this). Oh well. Regardless of the manner of his death, the portraits of him in life are a daily highlight of any trip to Turkey.

And speaking of highlights, feel free to add your own Turkey must-sees and must-dos here. Either way, I hope you think of the country of Turkey as you eat your turkey later this month, perhaps with a glass of apple tea.