tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13881399225960221222024-03-19T05:26:32.646-07:0037 Seconds...well used, is a lifetime.Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.comBlogger116125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-70119843623000975862015-03-28T07:44:00.000-07:002015-06-24T11:15:12.156-07:00On Volunteering Abroad <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i style="line-height: 1.38;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">If you don't care about my opinion- great! Don't take my word for it! </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">You can read from aid workers and former volunteers who think volunteering abroad isn't so great </span><a href="http://pippabiddle.com/2014/02/18/the-problem-with-little-white-girls-and-boys/" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">here,</a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and </span><a href="https://aidspeak.wordpress.com/2014/07/26/once-more-from-the-top/" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">here </a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">and </span><a href="https://aidleap.wordpress.com/2015/03/09/voluntary-service-the-best-method-for-creating-new-aid-workers/" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">here</a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Also </span><a href="http://www.whydev.org/debunking-4-common-arguments-favour-voluntourism/" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">here,</a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><a href="http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2011/12/whole-can-of-worms-at-glance.html" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">here,</a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><a href="http://www.missionfrontiers.org/issue/article/projecting-poverty-where-it-doesnt-exist" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">here </a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">and</span><a href="http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2010/nov/14/orphans-cambodia-aids-holidays-madonna" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> here</a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">. (Oh wait and </span><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/daniela-papi/voluntourism_b_1525532.html" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">here,</a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><a href="http://www.whydev.org/where-are-the-children-orphanage-voluntourism-in-ghana/" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">here </a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">and </span><a href="http://www.whydev.org/why-we-dev-with-j-part-1-getting-aid-right/" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">here</a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">.) (Oh and this </span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/theguardian/videos/10153347487061323/?fref=nf" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">right here</a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and </span><a href="http://www.psmag.com/business-economics/instagrammingafrica-narcissism-global-voluntourism-83838" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">this here</a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and a slightly different one </span><a href="http://www.craiggreenfield.com/blog/2015/3/4/stop-calling-it-short-term-missions" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">here</a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">). </span></b></i><br />
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<i style="font-weight: bold;">TL;DR - Untrained volunteers abroad can be a problem. Do your research.</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">If you want to volunteer abroad, it’s probably because you are someone with a kind heart, compassion for others, and a taste for adventure - that’s awesome. The world desperately needs people like you! In fact, without people like you, without your passion and love and kindness and courage to leave your comfort zone, the world would crumble away.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But even with all of the compassion and kindness in the world, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>volunteering abroad is tricky.</b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Making sure that you are going with a trustworthy program and engaging in actions that are ethical, efficient and sustainable can be hard, especially when you are going to a place you’re not familiar with. In fact, many experts think that going abroad as an untrained volunteer is a really bad idea. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Maybe that sounds crazy - volunteering is always a good thing, right? - so let me give a few examples. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I went on a short term volunteer trip to Peru. We helped build a community center - but we soon realized that a lot of the work was beyond our skill level. The local Peruvians had to fix what we were doing, and they could have done the work much quicker and more skillfully than us! We also realized that the organization we went through wasn’t paying our host families enough. Instead of helping this community, we had become a burden. We could have used the money spent flying us down there to hire local workers, thus completing the center more quickly and creating jobs. We didn’t think of that. Selfishly, it was all about the adventure we wanted to have. I went from a “it’s all good” approach to volunteering (which you can probably tell if you poke around my blog enough) to realizing that not all was what it seemed. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">An example on a larger scale is volunteering in orphanages. A lot of people are moved by the plight of orphans and street children and they want to volunteer in an orphanage abroad - but they can actually make the problem worse! And it’s not just me saying this, UNICEF, the UN program for the protection of children, discourages volunteering in orphanages. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://www.thinkchildsafe.org/en/content/tip4/qna.html">Think Child Safe, a coalition supported by UNICEF, says it best:</a></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Many orphanages rely almost entirely on donations from visitors to survive. Thus directors may purposefully maintain poor living conditions for children to secure funds from tourists. Children who appear underserved may come across as a cry for help more than children who appear well fed and cared for. This of course places guilt on tourists if they do not help immediately. By visiting orphanages and making a donation you may be fuelling a system that exploits children.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Check out<a href="http://www.thinkchildsafe.org/thinkbeforevisiting/index.html"> their website </a>for more research and resources on the topic. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s awesome that you want to help people - but what if the program you want to volunteer with is causing harmful side effects and creating tensions that you had no idea existed? </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m an anthropologist and an international development student. I study culture and how best to help people - it gets pretty academic and deep into theory and economics, but the long and short of it is that we ask questions and think critically.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Whenever we try to help people, we ask- what is most efficient? What is effective? Who are the powerful and who are the powerless? Who is making the decisions? What actions will respect the people we seek to help?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>I think those are important questions to ask even for a short term volunteer trip! </b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, a lot of development professionals, veterans in international work and former volunteers are really against volunteering abroad (or “voluntourism” as it’s often called - meaning a trip that pairs travel/fun/vacation with service/volunteering/aid work). You can read from aid workers and former volunteers who think volunteering abroad isn't so great <a href="http://pippabiddle.com/2014/02/18/the-problem-with-little-white-girls-and-boys/">here,</a> and <a href="https://aidspeak.wordpress.com/2014/07/26/once-more-from-the-top/">here </a>and <a href="https://aidleap.wordpress.com/2015/03/09/voluntary-service-the-best-method-for-creating-new-aid-workers/">here</a>. Also <a href="http://www.whydev.org/debunking-4-common-arguments-favour-voluntourism/">here,</a> <a href="http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2011/12/whole-can-of-worms-at-glance.html">here,</a> <a href="http://www.missionfrontiers.org/issue/article/projecting-poverty-where-it-doesnt-exist">here </a>and<a href="http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2010/nov/14/orphans-cambodia-aids-holidays-madonna"> here</a>. (Oh wait and <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/daniela-papi/voluntourism_b_1525532.html">here,</a> <a href="http://www.whydev.org/where-are-the-children-orphanage-voluntourism-in-ghana/">here </a>and <a href="http://www.whydev.org/why-we-dev-with-j-part-1-getting-aid-right/">here</a>.) (Oh and this <a href="https://www.facebook.com/theguardian/videos/10153347487061323/?fref=nf">right here</a> and <a href="http://www.psmag.com/business-economics/instagrammingafrica-narcissism-global-voluntourism-83838">this here</a> and a slightly different one <a href="http://www.craiggreenfield.com/blog/2015/3/4/stop-calling-it-short-term-missions">here</a>). </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A lot of these experts think that untrained volunteers coming into help a community is always wrong, all the time. I recently interviewed an executive director of an international NGO who said she has discontinued all group volunteer trips and only allows single volunteers if they can stay more than a month - she believes that not only do the short trips harm the community relations, but are giving the volunteers a one dimensional, shallow view of the communities and mistakenly teaching them that life is about short term solutions. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I don’t want to be a downer, but it’s important to listen to these guys. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>You wouldn’t start a new diet or exercise routine if you knew that a lot of fitness experts had doubts about it, would you?</b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nope. You’re too smart for that. You would at least take the time to hear what the fitness experts had to say. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>(Note: all of these articles are all talking about your average untrained volunteer, not about people like doctors, nurses, or licensed teachers volunteering abroad) </i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Why are so many aid workers, development professionals </b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>and others so against volunteering abroad? </b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>To sum up, it can do more harm than good. </b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It can mess with the local economy, use resources unwisely, cause tension and dependency, and even mess up local government checks and balances. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Please make sure to check out the linked articles for more examples and insights!</i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Think of it this way - what if some outside people came into your community, knowing little to nothing about it, didn’t speak your language, and just built a doggy daycare. Well, that’s nice, but your community really needed a school instead, but they just used up the resources for the doggies. Also, the daycare took away jobs from people who were dog sitting, so then they were unemployed. And what if there had been a recent spate of rabies and bringing dogs together might be a bad idea but the foreigners didn’t know? What if they weren’t actually trained to work with dogs at all? And what if you couldn’t explain it to the kind, smiling people who ran the doggy daycare because they didn’t speak your language? This is a silly example yes, but not too outlandish. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Once during my work in Latin America I suddenly had a Latin American colleague (who spoke Spanish, which I speak proficiently) open up to me and tell me that some of the local NGO’s were run poorly, and weren’t treating workers well, and weren’t meeting the most pressing needs of the community. She spoke non-stop for almost an hour, with great emotion, and then stopped and said, “I always wanted to tell volunteers that but most of them couldn’t understand me.” It was heartbreaking. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Wanting to help others in need around the world is a worthy and beautiful goal</b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">- we need that compassion and love!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><i>But if we really care for others, we have to make sure we care for them well. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We have to be ready to listen, to be humble, to learn. We need to be ready to change our expectations so as to respect their needs and desires. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Do your homework</b></span></div>
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<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Research the program, the work you will be doing, and the area. Read from multiple NGO perspectives, talk to former volunteers, check out websites like </span><a href="http://www.guidestar.org/Home.aspx" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Guide Star</a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">and look at everything with a critical eye. Does the program have a good reputation? Is it accountable and does it practice transparency? Is this work really useful? Is it using resources wisely? Is it respecting the community? </span></li>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> 2. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Know the context</b></span></div>
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<li><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This kinda fits under number 1, but it’s so huge. In the place where you are heading, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>what is the bigger picture? </b></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What drives the economy? Where are the jobs? Is what you’re doing going to harm the local economy? Is there a bad history of tense relations with tourists and foreigners? Do your governments have tension? That may seem way bigger than necessary for just a week trip helping with kids camp, but believe me, those can come into play. Or else you’ll find out the hard way when people react strongly to where you’re from. “Ah, you’re from the USA? They staged a coup here you know.” Yep. Also, know the culture - is it ok to wear shorts? Is it alright to take photographs? What are the rules around gift-giving? I’ve made so many cultural faux pas in my day! Don’t make the same mistakes! </span></li>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">3. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Be honest and be humble </b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is the hardest one. After doing all this research ask one final question - </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Is this trip going to do good? </b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Are you, with whatever talents and training you have, in whatever limited time the trip gives you, able to help in a way that is respectful, sustainable, and effective? What are your motivations for this trip?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But looking at other volunteer experiences, the answer was yes! I could and did help in small and large ways such as helping manage a fair trade art shop and communicating with the English speaking tourists, preparing volunteer orientation guides, running social media and writing blog posts, fundraising and more. A lot of it wasn’t the Facebook worthy, glamorous photos with adorable children type of stuff. Instead, it was me typing on the computer. Or me helping overworked teachers create tests and grade papers. Me babysitting kids for their parents. But it was needed. It was my respectful and humble contributions to larger projects that I knew were good things. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To you, prospective volunteer, I say that your </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">wonderful compassion, that courage and desire to change the world, are all valuable, beautiful, and desperately needed</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">So go forth - ask the tough questions and act with compassion! </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">PS: If you want to learn more on the topic of aid and volunteering effectiveness, I would suggest picking up the book <a href="http://www.beyondgoodintentions.com/">Beyond Good Intentions</a> as a great starting point! Also, feel free to ask me any questions or get in touch! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">PPS. This blog post stuck with every day, practical aspects of volunteering. There are a whole host of ethical/philosophical/academic arguments on development and volunteering that I did not touch on. See James Ferguson's work for some great handling of the subject. </span><br />
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Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-48673389662437108502015-03-25T15:47:00.000-07:002015-03-26T11:42:57.928-07:00London <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I haven't written in a very long time. I have let this blog go - intentionally. I'm in graduate school and my school work takes up most of my time. This blog was started when I was so young and naive and went to study in Peru - now it feels like a cute little hobby I once loved and still remember fondly. Like making friendship bracelets or coloring with crayons.<br />
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I live in London now and up until a few weeks ago, I really didn't like it.<br />
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No one should ever move from New Orleans to London. (Unless you hate New Orleans, then by all means, go.) New Orleans is loud and hot - with street music constantly, and parades all the time, and strangers ask about your day, and the food is spicy, the air is humid, the booze flowing. The culture is Caribbean and French and African and Spanish. You can eat alligator hot dogs on a balcony while a brass band plays below and an impromptu dance party breaks out on the street. You go to parades and shout and sing and dance until you're hoarse.<br />
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I went to a parade in London once. It was silent.<br />
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I am completely freaked out by how quiet Londoners can be in large groups. 30 Londoners shuffle down a tube station in the morning with not a peep. No one even breathes. And I'm not the only one that finds it strange - Bill Bryson, the travel writer, commented on it, calling the London commuters "characters from <i>Night of the Living Dead" </i>but also praising them for how polite they all are.<br />
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No strangers ask how you are in London. That would be rude. There is very little street music. I've never seen anyone dance in the street, the food is mostly bland (to me), the booze is to be drunk from 5 to 11 and then it all shuts down, good luck finding late night dancing that isn't hugely expensive or creepy and crowded.<br />
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I was miserable. It got worse when winter came. Gray, gray, gray for days. A spot of sun -and I was blinded. March, and there is sleet. The city streets feel claustrophobic to me. They aren't straight for miles like in New York City, the buildings aren't low enough to let you see a lot of sky like in New Orleans and DC. Gray and closed in.<br />
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It's gotten better. I'm learning to like London. Partly because Spring is coming, and partly because I'm actually getting to know her better. Graduate school keeps me locked up in the library most days and it has been frustrating to feel like I'm living in a place I barely know.<br />
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I don't think I will ever love London how I love other cities. I can't stand the "negative politeness" author and researcher Kate Fox speaks about in her book <i>Watching the English, </i>where chatting with people you don't know, even smiling, is considered very rude. I can't stand the silent parade watching and the lack of music and dance in the streets.<br />
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But there is such great history here. There is art and long canals and secret corners. I could like this city. We could be amicable. New Orleans is my love, but London and I, we could be colleagues and buddies and hopefully, close friends, the friendship that allows you to sit in silence together, comfortably.<br />
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I have five more months here. Let's be friendly, London.<br />
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Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-70514502741204871772014-11-04T07:32:00.001-08:002014-11-06T01:20:22.302-08:00Slow Down, You Move Too Fast<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i style="background-color: white; color: #4d555a; font-family: Abel, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 26px;"> </i><i style="background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial; border: 0px; color: navy; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.7999992370605px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Today’s article is written for the Reach To Teach<b style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> <a href="http://www.reachtoteachrecruiting.com/blog/teach-abroad-blog-carnival/" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #326da4; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank"><span style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: navy; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Teach Abroad Blog Carnival</span></a></b>, a monthly series that focuses on providing helpful tips and advice to ESL teachers around the globe. The host for this month is <a href="http://travelingvanillabean.com/1/post/2014/11/blog-carnival-what-are-the-benefits-of-slow-travel-for-you.html">Heather Richards</a>, here you can find other similar articles. I’ll be posting a new ESL related article to this blog on the 5th of every month. Check back for more articles, and if you’d like to contribute to next month’s Blog Carnival, please get in touch with Dean at <a href="mailto:dean@reachtoteachrecruiting.com" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank"><span style="background: rgb(255, 255, 204); color: #222222;">dean</span>@<wbr></wbr>reachtoteachrecruiting.com</a>, and he’ll let you know how you can start participating!</i><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial;">Slow travel is the best travel to me. It's hard to come by, and I think any travel is better than none, but to me, a quick week in Istanbul or a few days in Athens is so unsatisfactory. I'm left with some good times, great photos, and a yearning to learn so much more. </span><br />
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Slow travel gives you a chance to be acquainted. You get a favorite little shop, and routes that you walk. You get a routine. If you are volunteering or teaching, you have responsibilities and deadlines and a work schedule. This might sound like the opposite of travel - all of the terrible daily regular life stuff that you were running from. But in a new country these little slices of "regular" life feel fresh and different. You name all your favorite stray animals. You know which store sells the cheapest eggs or which restaurant won't make you sick. </div>
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<b>I travel to know the culture just as much as to see the sights.</b> To me, coming away with an experience with local culture is far more important than a selfie in front of Big Ben (though I've definitely done that and I am not ashamed at all).</div>
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A week in a place teaches nothing cultural except perhaps how people react to lost tourists. <i>(Unofficial Observations: Yerevan is really friendly, but they don't usually speak English. In the Dominican Republic they will help you and then make you pay them by using guilt or persistence.) </i></div>
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I think my love of slow travel is connected to the <b><i>anthropologist</i></b> in me. <i>(Full disclosure: I'm in graduate school for anthropology right now!)</i> Anthropologists have to spend two years in a different community and get at least one disease. They stay for around two years so they may see situations repeated - New Year's Celebrations, birthday parties, harvest rituals. They get a disease so they can have bragging rights. <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.co.uk/2013/04/the-great-dominican-hospital-adventure.html">(Check!)</a> They study traditions and religion, local economies and kinship, gender relations and agriculture. The point is that the anthropologist, while always an outsider, should be so familiar to everyone as to be almost invisible. A part of the landscape. This familiarity allows them to understand and have access to the culture in a way which would not be possible for a tourist or distinguished guest.</div>
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The familiarity of schedule can do the same. It is only through routine and repetition that you as the traveler start to see patterns. I learned when my neighbors burned trash and when the preachers led revivals. I literally timed my evening walks by when the cows came home (have you tried to take a walk through a herd of cows? It's not pleasant). </div>
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<i><b>The benefit of slow travel is that you come away knowing something</b>. </i>You don't come away with just a fun story and a new profile picture, you don't come away with just a whirlwind idea of old churches and sweeping landscapes, you come away with knowledge, <b>knowledge that changes you and your perceptions.</b></div>
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Maybe the knowledge changes you because you've realized that how you do things isn't "normal" or "natural", it's cultural. Maybe the great scope of a history and people that you never knew about humbles you. Maybe knowing your neighbor's story shifts your priorities. Maybe you discover new passions from learning of art or music you never knew about. Maybe your heart breaks a little, and maybe it rejoices. </div>
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My professor once told me a story about how World Bank officials, who make huge decisions about foreign aid, will be sent to stay in the place they may be allocating aid to. The length of that stay? Usually around three days. <i>Three days.</i></div>
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In three days, you might be able to pick up several new facts and five new misconceptions about the people you are staying with. In three months, all of your preconceived notions and outsider biased misconceptions are shattered (hopefully) and through experience and relationship and study, you actually know a little about what that place and that community is about</div>
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Why I love anthropology is because it is firmly against outsider arrogance. Anthropologists don't claim to know a place until they have been there for years. And even after years, they would never presume to truly understand what living in that culture means. They are always aware of outsider bias.</div>
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We praise travel as a means to destroy prejudice, but "quick" travel can build it as well as destroy it. What does someone who spends a week in Port-au-Prince, Haiti actually know about the Haitian lived experience? What do they know from a week spent in museums Paris or Shanghai about the culture and values? Nothing probably, but now they think they know something.</div>
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<b> Assumed knowledge is more dangerous than self-aware ignorance.</b></div>
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<i>(It's also just obnoxious. I know. I was almost that person.) </i></div>
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I could give examples of times when assumed knowledge was dangerous - from historical colonial rule or anthropology or recent international development, but then you would be depressed. </div>
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I lived for six months in Peru, four months in Georgia and another four in the Dominican Republic. I do not presume to fully know the lived experience of being Peruvian or Georgian or Dominican. But through study, reading, immersion, and really just <b>time</b>, time spent in long, slow days sitting on stoops and around kitchen tables, I did come away with knowledge that changed me. The sense of healing from violence and connections with the land in Peru, the ancient depth of history and pride in Georgia, the constant hustle and social intensity in the Dominican Republic. I don't know much, but I know something. And I know far more than from my whirlwind trips through Istanbul, the Greek isles and Armenia.</div>
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<b>Quick travel can be amazing.</b> It can be fun and life changing. It can be a needed escape or relaxation or mind-shift. It can raise questions about what you are seeing and experiencing, but remember, you aren't always getting answers. You aren't always getting depth of knowledge. <b>I'll always choose quick travel if the alternative is no travel</b>, and often those are the choices. But slow travel memories are my favorites. Slow travel is what made me who I am. </div>
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Maybe you don't care about cultural insights, or culture at all. Maybe you really do just want to see sights and nothing more. Well, I think you are entirely missing the point and also missing out on a lot of fun, embarrassing stories, friendships and changes to grow. But you probably think I'm an overly academic weirdo who probably made up their field <i>(anthropology, what??)</i>, so I guess we're even. </div>
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Maybe you would love to experience slow travel and gain cultural insights, but don't have the time. Often, life is too fast for slow travel - or even slow travel might not feel like enough time. How do we slow our travel down enough to garner meaningful cultural insights and come away with some local knowledge?</div>
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Some slowness tips:</div>
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1. <b>Read.</b> Get a novel or an in-depth non-fiction account about the place you are visiting. NOT a travel guide - those are well and good, but I'm talking about an in-depth cultural study. Get something by a local author if possible. Or maybe the book that every school kid is required to read while there, whatever the locals find essential reading. Read it before you go if you can, as it will open your eyes to phenomenon you otherwise might overlook. I read <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Bread-And-Ashes-Through-Mountains/dp/0099437872">Bread and Ashes</a> while in Georgia, and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/In_the_Time_of_the_Butterflies">In the Time of the Butterflies </a>and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Feast_of_the_Goat">Feast of the Goat</a> after my time in the Dominican Republic (I couldn't find them in country - but after is better than nothing!). </div>
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2. <b>Have a free day. </b>If you are only passing through, but have a little extra time, build in a non-scheduled day. If you are there for a few months but are kept super busy, clear your calendar for a day. Don't sight see, don't go on a tour, don't call home. Just wander. Sit in the square. Take a walk. Talk to vendors. Read that book in a plaza. Run a few small errands. </div>
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3. <b>Study the language. </b>This is touted all of the time, and it's true that you cannot understand a culture without understanding a language. Study before you go and while you are there. Even just a few phrases will help. Slow down by having a slow, stilted, grammatically erroneous conversation with a local. </div>
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4.<b> Ask a local AND do the tourist stuff. </b>Sometimes, locals never get around to their own tourist sights (I've done that...), but they might know the very best little pub. Tourists sights are usually popular for a reason and bring insights of their own (here's looking at you Hagia Sophia - you blew my mind.) Try to do both. </div>
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So take it slow. Sip your tea. Chat with your neighbor if that's culturally appropriate. Read books. Be open to change.<br />
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Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-24824573908929264812014-09-04T20:49:00.001-07:002014-09-05T15:17:05.183-07:00Chemi Megobari (My Friend) <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #444444; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><i>Today’s article is written for the Reach To Teach Teach Abroad Blog Carnival, a monthly series that focuses on providing helpful tips and advice to ESL teachers around the globe. The host for this month is <u><span style="color: red; line-height: normal;"><a href="http://theaccidentalnomad.me/2014/09/05/september-reach-to-teach-blog-carnival/">Jamie Phillips</a></span></u>. I'll be posting a new ESL-related article on my blog at the start of every month, and the carnival is always published on the 5th by that month's host. Check back for more articles, and if you'd like to contribute to next month's Blog Carnival, please contact Dean at <a href="mailto:dean@reachtoteachrecruiting.com" style="color: #0068cf; font-weight: inherit;" target="_blank">dean@<wbr></wbr>reachtoteachrecruiting.com</a>, <wbr></wbr>and he will let you know how you can start participating!</i></span><br />
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<span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans, sans-serif;">Friendships on the road are interesting things. Everything is moving quickly, and the person who was a stranger one second survives a careening bus nearly slamming into your shared taxi the next and you are suddenly best friends! But these friendships can sometimes fade away just as quickly, when after a night of wine and deep conversation in the hostel your new friend leaves for Istanbul in the morning and you head to Yerevan.</span><br />
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<span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans, sans-serif;">Longer term stays abroad give you more time for building friendships. They also give you more time to build up immunity to blatant staring, mistranslations, and exciting animal parts for breakfast. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans, sans-serif;">My best friend when I lived in the <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/p/georgia-eastern-europe.html">country of Georgia</a> is someone I'll call James. Her name isn't actually James (and she is actually a female) but the Georgians called her something like that, so we'll go with it. James and I roomed together during our teacher training, were assigned to villages not far apart, and used our little Nokia phones to talk every single day. You would think we didn't have enough news to talk every single day, but we did. Chickens fought, teachers tried to marry us off to their sons, confusion arose. She came over to my host family's house for my 23rd birthday, when we had only arrived a week before, barely spoke Georgian and had no idea how to act. We were awkward together. We went to Batumi, the city on the Black Sea coast and got hopelessly lost and still managed to have a lovely time. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans, sans-serif;">James is from a small town in the northern mid-west and she's traveled almost every where. She saved cats in Guatemala and studied hallucinogenic drugs in Peru and went to math class in Germany. At least, that's how I remember the stories. James didn't take crap from nobody, and that's the kind of person you want to travel with.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans, sans-serif;">We exchanged <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2012/10/texts-from-georgia.html">ridiculous text </a><a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2012/11/texts-from-georgia-2.html"><span id="goog_1609547121"></span>messages t<span id="goog_1609547122"></span></a>o get us through hour long supras (the toasting feasts of abundant alcohol). She took it in stride when shirtless Russian men approached us, or when she had to travel solo to meet us far in the mountains. James was a mastermind behind the great <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2013/10/once-upon-hostel.html">Mattress Carrying Caper</a>. James stayed calm at all kinds of border crossings. James rejected the hands of Georgian suitors. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans, sans-serif;">During my time in Georgia, I also fell head over heels for a foreign mountain man and spent the majority of my time traveling with him and James. He and I were one of those obnoxious couples, but James was always chill about it. James gave us our space without rolling her eyes and cut our hair in a hostel in Armenia. The three of us did Christmas together in Istanbul and then just James and I went on to <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/search?q=Greece">Greece,</a> while Mountain Man returned to wandering mountains. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans, sans-serif;">We grabbed a bus into Athens and then found ourselves outside the bus stop, no Euros in our pocket and no place to exchange our money anywhere in sight. We were in the gray, asphalt wastelands of what I term the Athens Bus Desert, a place that chills the most Greek-loving soul. James remained calm and some kindly Greek people helped us. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans, sans-serif;">We took photos of each other at the Parthenon and made our way to Santorini, one of the Greek Islands. We took a hundred photos from the ferry and had a small giggling, squeal fest when we were actually on the shuttle up the cliffside. And we aren't the giggly types. We reveled in our inexpensive, gloriously clean hotel room and the views of the ocean. The next day we were stranded by the unreliable island bus system, and left to walk for hours along the road until we were picked up by a nice man who spoke to us about rabbit hunting. We ate octopus by the sea. We saw waterspouts weaving through the ocean. I remember Santorini for its strange off-season abandoned feeling, the smell of the sea, and the beauty so striking it stung. </span></div>
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It rained during one of our walks around the island, but James was prepared with an umbrella. </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans, sans-serif;">James may get upset with Georgian manners and capricious children, but the only time I saw her truly angry was New Years Eve, which we celebrated in an Irish Pub in Athens with a bunch of Canadians. We followed the Canadians to a club and it was a terrible, crowded expensive place and James was angry. Rightly so, James.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans, sans-serif;">We had to say goodbye the next day, I feeling sickly and exhausted, heart aching from loss of the Mountain Man, boarded a long bus to Istanbul and then Tbilisi. James prepared to travel solo to </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; line-height: 22px;">Thessaloniki where she met a Peruvian man and they got married. That last part isn't true, but I would have been only slightly shocked.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans, sans-serif;">There are some people that come to define a time in your life. James was my person for my four months in the Caucuses. We drank wine in chilly nights in the mountains, stayed in countless hostels together, and forgave each other for lack of showering. James rapped Kanye's "Gold Digger" in the streets of Yerevan around midnight. It was oddly inspiring. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Mountain Man came and went in my life, but it's James who I still send weird articles to about Georgia. And when I think of those months in the villages, I see myself walking down my town's main road, kicking up leaves and hoping a dog doesn't chase me, talking on my little Nokia phone to James. We were probably discussing our scores on the Snake game or planning our next trip. We were also likely complaining about strange food, cold bedrooms, and tummy troubles. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">I miss those days. </span></span></div>
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Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-32424973265526099412014-07-03T09:00:00.002-07:002014-07-06T08:39:55.573-07:00Why ESL Teaching? <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>"Decision making process: how and why you decided to become an ESL teacher?" </b></h3>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><i> </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.799999237060547px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Today’s article is written for the <span style="background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial;">Reach</span> To Teach <span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">Teach</span> Abroad <span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">Blog</span> <span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">Carniv<wbr></wbr>al</span>, a monthly series that focuses on providing helpful tips and advice to ESL teachers around the globe. The host for this month is ‘<a href="http://lasarahgoestokorea.blogspot.kr/2014/07/reach-to-teach-blog-carnival-making.html">Sarah Steinmetz<b>‘,</b></a> here you can find other similar articles. I’ll be posting a new ESL related article to this <span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">blog</span> on the 5th of every month. Check back for more articles, and if you’d like to contribute to next month’s <span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">Blog</span> <span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">Carnival</span>, please get in touch with me at <a href="mailto:dean@reachtoteachrecruiting.com" target="_blank">dean@<wbr></wbr>reachtoteachrecruiting.com</a>, and I’ll let you know how you can start participating!'</i></span></span><br />
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Honestly, my primary reason to teach English abroad was because I wanted to travel. I wanted an adventure and an ESL job could get me there. <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2014/04/realism-idealism-and-teaching-abroad.html">This article </a>talks about how wrong that is as a driving force. But it wasn't my only driving force - I was very interested in international education and study abroad and, at the time, my goal was to become a study abroad adviser. Teaching English abroad seemed a good way to get my foot in the door with international education, and I had a lot of experience being a teacher and camp counselor with kids. I could see myself in a little study abroad office in some prestigious college, the nicely dressed young professional, helping excited college students choose a destination as we discussed programs in Peru, China and France. I could live vicariously through them, I could help mold young minds by facilitating their adventures, I could maybe use my job as a means to visit those countries! </div>
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But every single study abroad job wanted two years of experience or a Masters. Oh the dreaded combination - I see it as a formula guarding the door to every "entry level" position "2yrs experience or MS = job". I applied for study abroad and teaching abroad jobs simultaneously, spreading the net wide. I finally found a study abroad related job that was actually entry level and made it to the final round of interviews - I lost out to the other person because I had less international experience. Well, teaching abroad it was then. </div>
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My plan was always to graduate college, work/volunteer/travel abroad and then head back to grad school for international education/non-profit management/international development/anthropology (I wasn't quite sure yet - the years abroad were supposed to help with that). I initially wanted to teach in South America, but their semester started in July and I had a great summer internship I didn't want to leave. I also didn't have much money and wanted a program that paid for flights or visa fees or SOMETHING so I didn't arrive broke. Leaving broke was one thing, arriving broke was just too sad. So where was the program that started in August, paid for some expenses and smacked of adventure and the unknown? </div>
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In my intensive research (really, I spent hours every day) I stumbled upon a program in the country of Georgia. I had never heard much about this country. It was obscure. It was tiny. It was apparently full of moonshine and dancing with swords and really beautiful alphabet. (You can read about my <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2012/08/a-georgia-peach-in-other-georgia.html">pre-travel impressions here</a>.) They paid for your flight, you didn't need a visa, and you got a small but livable salary. I started learning Georgian phrases and mentally packing my bags. I read every blog on Georgia and ESL teaching I could find. I flew through the interviews riding my enthusiasm, got an offer, accepted the offer, and started actually packing all within a few weeks. My parents were supportive, only adding the caveat to "please don't marry some Eastern European man who we can't communicate with at all". I assured them I would only marry someone who at least spoke basic English. </div>
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My plan at the time went something like - Go to Georgia for a semester. Teach English. Go to South America. Teach English and improve Spanish. Either get a better job teaching or with a non-profit and apply to graduate schools for the yet-to-be-determined awesome program which I will definitely be accepted to because I will have all of this international experience.</div>
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Strangely and unexpectedly enough, my plan worked. I went to Georgia and <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/p/georgia-eastern-europe.html">it blew my mind.</a> I adventured, I was humbled, I had a whirlwind romance, I traveled and yes, I drank a lot of moonshine and danced. I also<a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2012/09/first-week-of-school.html"> taught English</a> to the best of my ability, swapping strategies with my fellow ESL teachers and researching games and activities. I loved (most) of my students and (most) of my co-teachers and it was a grand experience. I then headed off to the <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/p/dominican-republic.html">Dominican Republic</a> which started with teaching English preschool and then turned into teaching Spanish elementary school and adult English and working as a non-profit assistant. Flexibility is key. I then found a job in<a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2014/02/a-love-letter-to-new-orleans.html"> New Orleans</a> with a larger non-profit that I love, decided on international development AND anthropology as my Masters, and was accepted into my top-choice program.</div>
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It still blows my mind that I'm following the plan that my senior college self made over mojitos with my roommates. </div>
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So for me, teaching abroad was a great way to enter (what was then) my career of choice, and a path to travel and adventure. I didn't end up going into education, but I don't regret my time spent as a teacher. I would recommend anyone who is seriously interested in teaching or education and desires an adventure to look into ESL teaching abroad. As long as you enter it with the right attitude, humbly, open-minded, and ready to work hard, it can change your life. </div>
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Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-72382886451608671672014-06-05T07:44:00.001-07:002014-06-05T07:45:54.662-07:00Mistake Making <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; line-height: 23.799999237060547px;">Today’s article is written for the Reach To Teach</span><span style="border: 0px; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.799999237060547px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: black; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> </span><span style="color: #444444;"><i>Teach Abroad Blog Carnival</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; line-height: 23.799999237060547px;"><span style="color: black;">, a monthly series that focuses on providing helpful tips and advice to ESL teachers around the globe. The host for this month is </span><b><span style="color: red;"><a href="https://vrlonghorn.wordpress.com/2014/06/05/reach-to-teach-blog-carnival/">Vanessa Long</a></span></b></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic; line-height: 23.799999237060547px;">, here you can find other similar articles. I’ll be posting a new ESL related article to this blog on the 5th of every month. Check back for more articles, and if you’d like to contribute to next month’s Blog Carnival, please get in touch with me at <a href="mailto:dean@reachtoteachrecruiting.com" rel="nofollow" shape="rect" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">dean@<wbr></wbr>reachtoteachrecruiting.com</a>, and I’ll let you know how you can start participating!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I made so many daily little mistakes in the different countries I have taught in - cultural faux pas, language mishaps, that time I accidentally <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2013/09/anecdotes-from-abroad.html">dropped all my underwear</a> in my neighbors yard... </span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">In the classroom, I'm sure I made just as many mistakes. I made the mistake in the country of Georgia of doing an English "tournament". Well, I'm not sure if it was a mistake or not - the kids loved games, but those that were good at English were so absolutely devastated if they did not win. I thought the tournament would be fun for everyone and give the students who weren't the best at English a chance to win small prizes along with the better students. Instead, I had a bunch of crying children - the good students who usually aced the tests- who hadn't been quick enough on the games and were now sobbing over it. I felt terrible. Maybe they didn't have the concept of "just for fun" competition over there? Lesson learned was to ask more if they had ever had a precedent of that sort of thing, and make sure to explain how it was for fun only, and not a reflection of how smart my students were. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">In the Dominican Republic, I was thrown into a Creole speaking pre-school classroom where I not only taught English, but Spanish, writing, and math. I had no idea what I was doing (I had signed up to be an English teacher in an immersion school, but that had fallen through). I came expecting it to be like Georgia, where I had support from other teachers and was told what were the classroom rules to follow, etc. Instead, my very first day there I was told to stand up and teach with no preamble at all. My mistake was not stopping right then and there and asking "what are the rules? What form of discipline do you use? Can I watch others teach for a day?" I should have been bolder and asked more questions at the beginning, instead of letting myself be rushed along. I struggled with classroom management every day and felt that I couldn't ask questions because now it may reflect badly on my organization. When I finally did ask questions everyone was happy to help - but I should have been asking from the beginning. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">So just ask a lot of questions. About everything, all the time. Take the risk of being that annoying foreigner, because in the end, that's what will set you up for success. </span></div>
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Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-44868512547554398252014-04-04T08:42:00.003-07:002014-04-08T08:09:38.966-07:00Realism, Idealism and Teaching Abroad<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #373737; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 24.375px;">Today’s article is written for the </i><i style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 24.375px;"><span style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.reachtoteachrecruiting.com/blog/travel-myths-debunked/">Reach To Teach Blog Carnival</a></span><b style="color: #373737;"> </b><span style="color: #373737;">, a monthly series that focuses on providing helpful tips and advice to ESL teachers around the globe. The host for this month is ‘Reach To Teach’, here you can find other similar articles. I’ll be posting a new ESL related article to this blog on the 5th of every month. Check back for more articles, and if you’d like to contribute to next month’s Blog Carnival, please get in touch with Dean at </span><a href="mailto:dean@reachtoteachrecruiting.com" style="border: 0px; color: #1982d1; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank">dean@<wbr></wbr>reachtoteachrecruiting.com</a><span style="color: #373737;">, and he’ll let you know how you can start participating!</span></i></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I did
a lot of research on teaching English abroad during my senior year in college.
I read tons of personal blogs from young people teaching around the world. I
read advice columns on where to apply, how to apply, what to bring, how to
prepare. I researched online TEFL courses, I connected with friends of friends
who had taught abroad. I lived and breathed the search for an English teaching
position in a foreign country where I could do my work well, learn a new
language and experience a different culture. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A lot
of myths were addressed and discarded in all of this reading material, but one
myth that was somewhat pervasive, and not often addressed, was the often underlying idea of a<a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2012/03/the-white-savior-industrial-complex/254843/"> “savior complex”. </a><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;">Let
me explain – most people I know who go to teach English abroad go because they
want to travel and they like to teach. <b>And that’s about it</b>. Not some deep, subconscious
desire for greatness or heroic deeds. A lot of people do it to make money, like
any job, and they look at jobs in China or South Korea. But when it comes to the
jobs labeled “volunteer” or the jobs in developing countries, underlying much
of the promotional material and idealistic applicants is this idea of swooping
in as a hero, of somehow<b> “saving” the poor students </b>from whatever educational
morass they have fallen into. The savior complex is found at some point in just
about every volunteer opportunity, both local and abroad. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">I
came across<a href="http://www.whydev.org/volunteering-to-teach-english-is-the-new-volunteering-in-an-orphanage/"> this article recently that argues that volunteering to teach English abroad is problematic.</a></span> </span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I</span><b style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> disagree</b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> with it for many reasons, mostly
because I was an English teacher and most of my fellow teachers were </span><b style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">qualified</b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">,
</span><b style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">serious</b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> about teaching,</span><b style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> seeking to improve,</b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> and </span><b style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">devoted </b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">enough to talk advanced
grammar points over beers. </span><i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Also, even if the English teacher is
under-qualified, isn't it better than having no English teacher?) (Also, why
<b>not</b> mix work and play/teaching and travel? Don’t we all choose jobs and schools
based on other factors, such as location or if they have awesome hang gliding/ice
skating/whatever-your-hobby-is opportunities?) (Ok, maybe I need a whole post
to refute this article.)</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Let me say it again,<b> I THINK GOING TO TEACH ENGLISH
ABROAD IS A GREAT THING AND AWESOME OPPORTUNITY!</b> But I think the existence of
the article speaks to the fact that the myth of being an English teaching “savior”
still exists. Unqualified, starry-eyed hopefuls are still going out there not
because they want to be good teachers, and not (I think) just because they want
to travel, but because they have an idea of “changing the world” (read: save
the poor little children). </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We hope to
encourage kids to break out of their tiny village and go on to bigger and
better (read: our idea of better) things. We want to turn the school around,
get the parents more involved and make the other teachers as idealistic and
pumped as we are. Those are good things. But we don’t need to save someone. We
don’t need to come in to change people, we need to come in open and humble
enough to allow ourselves to be changed, and brave and bold enough to try new
things, teach new things and sometimes be the “new thing” that broadens
perspective.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Changing the world is not
a myth, I’m still a believer enough to say that. But the idea that the students
we teach need a foreign English-speaking hero to save them from something is,
indeed, mythological. They <b>DO</b> need good teachers doing good work, who encourage
and believe in them and get them excited about learning, and I think foreign teachers
can fill that role! We might not be able to, or even need to, “save” anyone,
but we can open their eyes to different ways of being, to different countries
and customs. We <b>can</b> change one child's world by sparking their interest in a new language and giving them confidence to learn! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">I was proud of the
work I did in the country of Georgia.<b> I didn't save anyone,</b> I didn't change the entire culture of the school (cheating was still pervasive) or instill a deeper
regard for education among the population of the town. But I <b>did</b> teach some
students that English could be fun, even the grammar parts. I <b>did</b> take some of
the weight off the local English teachers by making tests, doing grading and
stepping in as substitute. In the Dominican Republic, I helped my adult
students, mostly Haitian vendors, get more business opportunities by adding
English phrases to their repertoire. And those are all good things. That was
what I was supposed to do. I was paid (in the case of Georgia) to help the
local teachers and introduce games and activities. I volunteered (in the case
of the DR) to widen opportunities for Haitian immigrants. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The myth of coming in
as “savior” can be harmful, because it 1. Puts way too much pressure on us as teachers
2. It focuses so much on what<b> WE</b> should do or want to change and <b>closes us off
</b>from what the locals have to teach us or what they want and 3. If we are coming
in as savior, it’s going to be really hard to<i><b> just be.</b></i> To just live. To make
friends.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">So get rid of that
myth. <b>Take that load off.</b> Do your research, learn everything you can, pay
attention in your training sessions. <b>Be the very best teacher you can possibly be.</b>
Travel. Learn. Grow. And yes, in your own personal, small way, <b>change the
world. </b></span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-43234129483269807772014-02-10T09:37:00.001-08:002014-02-14T14:45:05.410-08:00A Love Letter to New Orleans <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Today’s article is written for the Reach To Teach<b> Teach Abroad Blog Carnival</b>, a monthly series that focuses on providing helpful tips and advice to ESL teachers around the globe. I'll be posting a new ESL related article on my blog on the 5th (ish) of every month. </span><span style="font-size: small;">Read others' love letters to their favorite places <a href="http://internationallyindebt.com/2014/02/08/reach-to-teach-blog-carnival-love-letters-3/">here</a>! </span></i></h3>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Dear New Orleans, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">We met
only a few months ago, but I love you tremendously. I'm still new. I can't get the accent down - no one can say "beybee" quite like a
local can - slow and low, it makes you feel wrapped in a hug, but never
condescended against. But I'm getting some of the vocabulary: We
"make" groceries and I'll "make" 25 at my next birthday. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">"Gutter punks" hold their drum circles in the "neutral ground", </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I
don't live in the 9th ward, I "stay" in the 9th ward, where I can ask
about "mom-en-em" and eat "prawleens". </span><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Lagniappe</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> , a little
something extra, is your own word and it’s everywhere. I'm a child of the
South, but New Orleans, you are entirely your own place. A New France baby, an
explosion of cultures like none other in the US of A. In fact, you aren't
really part of the USA, you exist outside of it in an ethereal atmosphere
swathed in bayou fog and brass band music.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Don't be wooed away by
those one-night stand tourists, they only want your drinks and your parties,
but I know there is so much more to you. Your food, whose names sound like a
song – jambalaya, gumbo, Andouille sauce. From the elegant restaurants to the
hole in the wall 8th ward fried chicken joints, you fill my stomach and heart
up with spice and grease and everything nice. Red beans and rice on a Monday,
King Cake starting in January, food seeps into all of your seasons and
traditions and keeps us spinning on. Your traditions and history are the richest I've found in our young country: your social
clubs, voodoo followers, krewes, Mardi Gras Indians. You started jazz! You invented bounce music
and twerking! On one street I could find a jazz club, an experimental
theater group, a tattooed hipster artist, a brass band on the corner and an award-winning
restaurant. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Second lines epitomize
what you are. Spontaneous, people driven, bottom up authority. You don't need a
government to tell you when to throw a parade, you will just make you own
parade where you please. You are so welcoming New Orleans, you invite everyone
to come and be a part of your never ending family block party, full bar in the
back of a truck, brass band in the thick of it, people dancing on streets,
porches, sidewalks, railings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">You have your own
special laws, with your go-cups and drive through daiquiris</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> and your
one-of-a-kind drivers that race down Tchoupitoulas, Melpomene, Calliope, St.
Charles, St. Claude, St. Joseph – bumping over potholes and past Virgin Mary’s.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">And Mardi Gras - it
will be my first this year. I already know that you are so much more than Bourbon
street and drunken tourists, and that Mardi Gras isn't <i>their</i> holiday. Mardi Gras is also New Orleans Family Time, the spirit of the krewes come to
play, all the history and grandeur and fun of a city that knows how to let good
times roll. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I was raised in
Georgia and formed in Washington, DC with stints in New York, Eurasia and Latin
America. I loved them all, but you, New Orleans, have something that draws me
stronger than all of them. You, New Orleans, are the Anti-New York. While New York
challenges and dares you, it says if, <i>IF</i>, you can make it here, New Orleans
says hey, come chill. Grab a beer. Eat some crawfish. Listen to this brass
band. What do you mean, make it? Make what? Music? Art? Groceries? You don't
have to make anything. Do what you wanna.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">New Orleans, I came to
you with a broken heart. I came to you beat bloodied by a year of leave-taking.
But New Orleans, you know much greater tragedy, and you never stopped playing
your music or throwing a block party or walking in a second line. You don't run
from your problems or your past, you face it, you work through it, and you still
leave time to catch the Rebirth Brass band play a Tuesday night at the Maple
Leaf. There is no better place to nurse a broken heart than here. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> I could walk
under your live oaks all day, Spanish moss swinging down to say hello, wander
your cemeteries, wonder at your history, float away into your bayous. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">New Orleans, I love
you. I know I'm not born & raised, and maybe this is a little too soon. Maybe we aren't at this point in our relationship. But we've come through some rough times, and it may be new love, but it's true.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> I love you despite your problems, your violence, your poverty, your
potholes. I love your soul food, soul music, soul art, soul dance,
hard-pressed-not-crushed, forever-creating soul. I love you because you love
me. I will sink into your swampy ground, cover myself in Mardi Gras beads and sweet
tea, heal myself with a nap, rise again to call you blessed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I still have a lot to learn about you, and I don’t know where life might call me, but no matter what, I’ll
come back to you. And New Orleans, I’ll always be proud to call you home. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Love,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mary Ellen </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">PS be my <a href="http://nolavalentines.com/second-line/">Valentine</a>? </span><br />
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Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-83032386720496392014-01-08T20:18:00.002-08:002014-01-08T20:18:20.976-08:00An Unimportant Anthropological Rant <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It is exhausting to realize that the culture you spent your formative years in was different from the culture you grew up in and different from the culture your friends spent their formative years in and also different from the cultures you went through some huge life events in (near death, first major love) and all of these cultures are different from the culture you now live in. And your old friends and family don't understand the multiple cultures you have journeyed through since you left your Growing Up culture and even though all the cultural differences may seem small they still add up to misunderstandings and changes in world-view and you end up sitting all alone on your mish-mash cultural island clutching your old anthropology text books.<br />
<br />
And it's very lonely.<br />
<br />
Being an anthropologist means being a bridge between cultures, sometimes in a very small way, sometimes as a mediator for huge influxes of cultural change. Either way, you're a bridge. Being a thoughtful and immersive traveler often means the same thing. People talk about "Third Culture Kids", such as the children of missionaries who no longer are a part of their sending culture, but aren't a part of the culture they live in- they have created their own culture. Or the children of immigrants, constantly serving as go-between from their parents' culture and the culture they live in. But even if you haven't traveled or been raised in a different country or by immigrant parents there are often many cultural forces at play in your life. The difference is, most people decide on one culture, settle in one place, accept the values as their own, and go about their life. Even the Third Culture Kids have that Third Culture Club to embrace and be a part of. <br />
<br />
But what about the bridges? The missionaries or anthropologists or travelers who go back and forth and back and forth and don't settle in just one? Does the tension tear them apart?<br />
<br />
I think it's even worse when the different cultures you are trying to bridge seem so similar on the surface, so that even explaining confusion and misunderstandings is hard. If I was trying to bridge rural Peruvian culture and suburban American culture during some version of an afternoon break, when Americans have coffee and Peruvians chew coca leaves, it would be very obvious by dress, language, location that these are different cultures. I would tell the Americans of the kintu, the blowing of the essence of the coca leaves to the mountain apus (spirits). I would tell the Peruvians of office culture, of 9 - 5 work and coffee breaks for rejuvenation.<br />
<br />
It's harder when trying to explain the differences in groups that aren't so far apart, groups that might dress or look the same. Say a group from a city in the northeast and a group from a suburb in the midwest. They like the same music and movies and food, but there are underlying perspectives that pop up in how they speak and the jokes they share and assumptions they make.<br />
<br />
It's difficult to explain world views between the groups I worked and lived with during the formative years of college and travel and the friends from back home. Often, both groups immediately think they know exactly what those differences are and that they are bad. No one wants to hear about the reasons or thought processes behind the differences. Each side speaks condescendingly about the other while being unwilling to try a new perspective. I love and am frustrated by my friends from each group. Both groups have made me who I am, and I refuse to claim only one of the cultures and settle down forever as that person. I often agree and disagree with both, depending on the issue, the lifestyle, the belief.<br />
<br />
And it's weird when everyone you speak to assumes you are from their cultural group and do everything the same way.<br />
<br />
I think most Americans have a little cultural island to an extent, from the migratory lives we live. You find all the transplants in DC, NYC, New Orleans discussing the differences in their accents or pizza preferences. I guess when you've studied anthropology too much you think about it a lot though, and you notice when you accidentally use the wrong vocabulary in a situation and someone's face squinches at you, or when you make a reference in the crowd that doesn't get it, you over think why and you want to discuss it and sit everyone down to hash out a working theory on subtle mainstream American code-switching. <br />
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Maybe if we just keep sharing Buzzfeed articles about "43 Things Only a Michigander/Biology Major/Short person/Tea Drinking Yellow Pants Wearing Lover of Cats Will Understand" complete with hilarious .gif sets, we'll all be experts on the small cultural differences within our nation and no one will be surprised when we constantly hop cultural fences, build or burn bridges, and keep our bags packed for the move.<br />
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Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-38851603909632551212013-12-04T10:26:00.003-08:002015-03-26T18:19:09.383-07:00First Grade<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>პირველი კლასის</i></span></span><br />
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Today’s article is written for the Reach To Teach<b> Teach Abroad Blog Carnival</b>, a monthly series that focuses on providing helpful tips and advice to ESL teachers around the globe. I'll be posting a new ESL related article on my blog on the 5th of every month. </i><br />
<br />
When I was teaching <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2013/01/tales-from-school.html">elementary school</a> in the country of
<a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/p/georgia-eastern-europe.html">Georgia</a> I was always accompanied by a co-teacher. Our program strictly dictated
that we did not teach a class without a Georgian teacher in the room – but in
the realities of Georgia this didn’t always happen. Time was fluid there, and
schedules, and electricity and appropriate alcohol consumption and…many things.
One day I went into my 1<sup>st</sup> grade classroom and waited for my
co-teacher to show up with the lesson plan. But she didn’t. It was ten minutes
past the start of class time and 25 tiny people sat in their desks and stared
at me eagerly. I wasn’t allowed to be in here alone. But I couldn’t very well
leave a gaggle of 6-year olds while I went on a wild goose chase for a teacher
that could understand my broken Georgian enough to help me out. I didn’t have a
plan, I was still new, and the little ones looked at me with expectant faces,
wiggling in their chairs. Mutiny would brew if I didn’t move quickly.<br />
<br />
So I
taught my very first 1<sup>st</sup> grade class.<br />
<br />
We did hand motions, we sang
songs, we drew with chalk. We had no common language but everyone was attentive
and still alive and actually learning something! No one ate their eraser or hit
another kid or started an impromptu and rowdy drum circle (which had happened
in other classes).</div>
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I never actually found out what happened to my co-teacher,
but from then on, 1<sup>st</sup> grade was my very own class. A Georgian
faculty member would sit in the back reading or looking on, but I taught the
class. I used wiggle breaks and stickers and smiley faces and songs and those
little tiny things, with no knowledge of reading or writing or English at all,
learned their alphabet and numbers and colors and Wheels on the Bus and how to
draw hand turkeys. I worked hard in all
my classes (I taught through the 6<sup>th</sup> grade) but 1<sup>st</sup> grade
was my very own and I was so proud of them.<br />
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Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-70768678321576963372013-11-04T08:17:00.002-08:002013-11-05T07:24:48.015-08:00What I've Learned in the ESL Classroom<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333969116211px; line-height: 18px;">Today’s article is written for the Reach To Teach<b> Teach Abroad Blog Carnival</b>, a monthly series that focuses on providing helpful tips and advice to ESL teachers around the globe. I'll be posting a new ESL related article on my blog on the 5th of every month. Check back for more articles, and if you'd like to contribute to next month's Blog Carnival please get in touch with me in the comments, and I'll let you know how you can start participating! You can read other blogger's posts from the carnival <a href="http://appetiteodysseys.wordpress.com/2013/11/05/teaching-and-learning-are-hand-in-hand/">here!</a></i><br />
<br />
I taught English to 1st through 6th graders in the country of Georgia, in a <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2013/01/tales-from-school.html">small town school</a> that was often without electricity but did have a computer lab. From there I went to the <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2013/03/my-new-home.html">Dominican Republic</a>, where I taught pre-schooler - 2nd grade in a one room, tin-roofed school house in a Haitian batey, where the heat gave you a headache by around noon. I also taught adults in the evening. Let me tell you, a lot was learned during this year. Now, I could go on about how inspired I was by my students, and I often was, and this could get really touchy-feely really fast - but I want this space to be an honest one, to tell it to ya straight. ESL can be hard, cultural differences are hard, and teaching was often one of the most difficult things I ever did. So with no softening, here are some lessons I learned in the ESL classroom.<br />
<br />
1. how to break up fights<br />
<br />
In Georgia, play fighting was normal and smiled upon, but it could get out of hand really fast. I had co-teachers that weren't supposed to leave me alone with the kids, but inevitably something would come up and it would be up to me to stop the escalating play shoving. In the DR, my little ones would fight over crayons. Distraction is key and also, being able to lift at least 50 pounds. Make sure you always have enough supplies for everyone and it makes things easier if they are all the same (like little bags of crayons for each kid with the same colors in them).<br />
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2. cultural push-back - sometimes you can't assimilate<br />
<br />
In the Dominican Republic, parents would come by our open-door school house and if they saw children being rowdy they would tell me to hit the kids. No. I know that in that Haitian immigrant community it was normal and expected for parents and relatives to hit their children and often for teachers to do the same. I wasn't going to start a campaign for different disciplinary methods, but I certainly wasn't going to join in. Aside from my own ethical issues with teachers hitting kids, it would have been very, very inappropriate for a visiting, foreign teacher to do so. This was one cultural rule I was not going to follow. I stood my ground and parents looked at me askance, but there was no way I would lay a hand on a child in a violent manner. (Except once when I thought one of them was choking on a crayon...but he was ok!). While this was an extreme circumstance, I learned that cultural immersion doesn't always mean "just going with the flow", sometimes you have to make a stand for what is right for you and your work in the community.<br />
<br />
But do learn the vocabulary that teachers use to tell their students to sit, stand, be quiet, etc. I didn't speak Georgian when I came to Georgia, or Haitian Creole when I went to live in an immigrant community. But I certainly learned command words fast!<br />
<br />
Still I tried not to yell commands often, and instead of shouting and hitting, I used...<br />
<br />
3. the power of smiley faces and stickers<br />
<br />
My Georgian kids would do anything for the little smiley face I would draw on their papers if they did well. The better the work, the better the smiley face. I would also write little English phrases (great job! Good work!) that they would compare. Stickers also worked wonders to have the little ones behave - taking a sticker away from a 1st grader that won't sit down when you ask is a powerful deterrent.<br />
<br />
4. energy, energy, energy<br />
<br />
I think the only time my Haitian pre-schoolers were really engaged was when I was running around the concrete floor, over-heated classroom singing about baby sharks. It was exhausting. We played a lot of running games in our tiny space and a lot of "find the red card!" which I would hide around the room. I taught half the day (and worked in a shop the rest of the day, then taught in the evenings) and still needed a lunchtime siesta.<br />
<br />
They expected a slightly more sedate classroom in Georgia, but those kids had just as much energy. So with my Georgian 1st graders I did "wiggle breaks" where we would all stand by our desks and wiggle. "Head, shoulders, knees and toes" and the "wheels on the bus" were also favorites. The more energy I could bring to the table, the better class went. And while this was most apparent with kids, it stood true for adult classes too!<br />
<br />
5. be sassy<br />
<br />
This is especially true for adult classes. My very first time teaching adults I stood up in front of 20 young Haitian men, a few who were probably there just to get a glimpse of "la gringa flaca", and was shaking inside. But outside, I was firm. I demanded respect. I kicked one young man out of class for listening to his ipod, telling him that if his music was more important than what I was saying, he could go. When the young guys kept asking for ways to pick up women in English I told them I would not help them get a girlfriend and to stop shouting at gringas. After they understood that I wasn't the little skinny white girl who could be pushed around, we had a great time! I set the standard for behavior, and the class picked up on it - if you got teased for being late, you stopped being late. If everyone called you out for talking over me, you stopped talking over me. My adult class was my favorite ESL experience and I truly enjoyed my students.<br />
<br />
6. you will make mistakes. It will be ok.<br />
<br />
Oh man, the mistakes that were made! I would come home berating myself for not planning better, not realizing that activity wouldn't work, for forgetting some materials, etc etc. Mistakes will happen. Be flexible, be gentle with yourself. Teaching ESL is scary and you are human. Do what is best for you and best for your class and go home at the end of the day, have a good cry if you need it, and try again tomorrow.<br />
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7. dance<br />
<br />
I love dancing. Guess what? So do most kids, especially when they are still young enough to not be self-conscious. Dance breaks got me through a lot of pre-school classes. Turn on some English songs and dance with your students. You'll feel better, they'll feel better.<br />
<br />
9. be super flexible<br />
<br />
I don't mean yoga. I would plan for class every day, and every day it would end up being different. Either my kids hadn't grasped the last lesson, or my adults felt it was more pressing to learn clothing related words than weather related words. Listen to them. You are there for them. I always held my plans loosely, and was ok giving up half the lesson for review. If they don't get the basics well, what is the point of me being there anyway? This lesson has carried over well into my current non-ESL life - make your plans, but don't hold them tightly.<br />
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So break up fights, navigate culture with a firm stance, bring energy, bring stickers, bring dancing, forgive yourself and keep it loose.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-52687146333016876482013-10-30T18:13:00.000-07:002013-10-30T18:13:15.484-07:00The Helpless Traveler <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">უმწეო</span><br />
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<br />
This is a story about helplessness.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I keep meaning to write more fun and exciting stories about hiking in the Andes or trekking around the Amazon or busing through Greece, but instead this is the story that keeps rattling around in my head. It's not very happy. </span><br />
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I lived with a host family in the country of Georgia. They spoke Georgian. I spoke English. Misunderstandings and frustrations abounded - but they were kind and patient with me, fed me well, gave me gifts and were hospitable and polite to a fault. In Georgia hospitality is very important and so is family. Married couples often live with the husband's parents (something a co-teacher of mine complained about). My host family had a grandmother who lived with us. I was forever unsure if she was my host dad's mom or his grandma or maybe a great-aunt, but it didn't really matter. She lived with us and they were terrible to her. She had her own little stove outside in the garage, instead of being able to use our kitchen. Her room, as far as I could tell, was a cot in the dining room where clothing was stored and the kids would often bust in, shouting. She either was not allowed to sit on the regular chairs or chose not to for some reason. She sat on tiny wooden stools. She was never offered the coffee or treats I or other guests were. She was ignored completely in fact, except when she was sometimes shouted at. I couldn't fathom what was happening - my host family was so kind to me, so hospitable with their neighbors, even the cane-hitting older neighbor was always being offered chocolates and coffee. Why would they treat this grandmotherly relation this way? </div>
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A friend suggested maybe she had been a really evil person before and now no one wanted her. Scrooge without the revelatory ghosts and life change.</div>
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One weekend I stayed home, sick with strep throat, when my host family went to a baby baptism. Many Georgians don't believe in germs, and my family was no exception, so it took tears and pleading and calling up a translator to get them to allow me to stay home in bed. Finally, the house was quiet. I dragged myself to the kitchen to eat some of the kinkalli my host mom had left and there was my host grandma, sneaking bread. Did they not feed her, ever? How did she get food?</div>
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She looked worried about me. She went off to her little stove in the garage and brought me her tiny pan of fried potatoes. She would come up to my bed and check on me a few times a day. She got our neighbor to check on me too. For the first time since I met her, she was moving around more and speaking and seemed so happy to be doing anything. When my family returned, she went back to being silent.</div>
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I made a point to offer her my seat or a bit of whatever snack I was eating. My family only spoke to her angrily, even my host sister. </div>
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How do you protest something like this, that you don't understand? I was the foreigner, a guest (even if I paid rent). I didn't know what was going on - it not only seemed to go against my family's nature, but against Georgian culture. All I knew was that I couldn't stand to keep seeing the grandmother so sad.</div>
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So I thought, I will buy her a chair and see how my family reacts. I could just imagine it - trouble would certainly erupt, but I felt like it was worth it. Although all my anthropology training told me to stay out of what I didn't understand, I did understand pain. And I wasn't going to (literally) sit by quietly in my nice warm corner of the sofa while a lady of 70 had to steal bread and sit in a stool in the corner. </div>
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Then one day after I formulated this plan, a sister of my host dad appeared, smiling and quiet, and took the grandma away. No one said goodbye to her. They continued steadily ignoring her presence to the end. </div>
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I hope she went somewhere better. </div>
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My family continued to be unfailingly kind, patient and inclusive of me. We parted ways with sadness, and a promise to come to my wedding supra. I miss them still.</div>
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What would you have done in a situation like this? </div>
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Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-90307151170950885422013-10-04T17:51:00.000-07:002013-10-30T18:12:08.128-07:00Once Upon a Hostel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333969116211px;">Today’s article is written for the Reach To Teach<b> Teach Abroad <span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #ffffcc; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;">Blog</span> <span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #ffffcc; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;">Carnival</span></b>, a monthly series that focuses on providing helpful tips and advice to ESL teachers around the globe. I'll be posting a new ESL related article on my <span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #ffffcc; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;">blog</span> on the 5th of every month. Check back for more articles, and if you'd like to contribute to next month's<span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #ffffcc; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;">Blog</span> <span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #ffffcc; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;">Carnival</span>, please get in touch with me in the comments, and I'll let you know how you can start participating! </i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I spent Christmas in Istanbul, which is weird. The only signs that much of the world was currently celebrating were some lights and a lot of very creepy Santa robots. Christmas Eve my friends and I found a mass in Turkish, English and Italian. We exchanged gifts on Christmas day and ran around the city looking for peppermint, which we never found...not even in Turkish Delight. It was my first ever Christmas away from home and I was a little disappointed, missing my family, and sad about the upcoming goodbye from my then boyfriend. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We decided to go to bed early as we all had buses to catch the next day. We met our hostel roommates, a West African, a Frenchman and an American who was The Hostel Guy (every hostel has one...a guy who came and just never left so now they work there). In our rickety metal bunks we all tried to shut out the bar music and settle in to our over-heated room. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Around 3 am we were rudely woken up by a returning resident - he loudly and drunkenly slammed into his bed, fell over, finally climbed up to his top bunk and collapsed. We tried to still our startled hearts and return to sleep. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fifteen minutes later we heard the sound of a chainsaw being used within the sticky mud of a swamp. And by this I mean the drunk man was loudly, moistly snoring. He would pause for a few moments and then reach deep into his chest and pull a loud rumble through his mucus filled sinuses and deliver it to us all. Then he would seem to stop breathing for much longer than anyone should, until he hacked his way back to the land of the living with a grunt that shook the walls. Five minutes into this and my bunk-mate was giggling. Five minutes more and we were all becoming worried that the next snore would be his last. "Maybe we should turn him over?" I suggested.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Hostel Guy, who was in the bunk under him, stood up in only his undies, rake-thin and bearded, and nudged Drunk Guy. "What the bloody 'ell?" Drunk Guy pontificated. "Uhm...you're snoring a lot dude..." "Yeh, well, ok."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ten minutes later we were all wishing the man would just snort up his nasal passages and be done with it. Instead Hostel Guy skipped the waking up part and just flipped Drunk Guy on his back so we could all stop worrying about him choking to death. This made absolutely no change. My Travel Buddy nudged his feet a few times to wake him back up. He muttered some curses. Nothing we were trying worked and in the sort of telepathic conferences that sometimes happen when random groups of people meet in dire circumstances, we all came to the consensus that we wouldn't be sleeping that night unless Something Was Done. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Maybe we could just move his mattress out into the hall?" Someone suggested. I don't remember who, but it wasn't me. My Travel Buddy spearheaded the effort - "lets just all pick up his mattress and move it! Come on!" She carefully climbed down from her bunk. The Hostel Guy was in. Frenchman stood up, also only in white-tighties, but no one was complaining about his near nudity at the moment (or probably at any other moment, in fact). My then boyfriend (fully clothed) climbed down to help. The West African refused to get involved, stating that he thought it was a bad idea, and I stood by as witness.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, moving a sleeping/drunk man without his consent is probably a bad idea. However, you take people that are frustrated and sleep-deprived enough and they will find a solution to a noise problem, no matter how ethically ambiguous it is. The Intrepid Problem Solvers placed themselves around the mattress, their shoulders just coming to the bunk bed frame. They slowly eased the mattress from the frame, pausing when Drunk Guy snorted particularly loud. Finally it was off the bed frame - I snapped a photo and almost died of asphyxiation from trying not to laugh. The Problem Solvers carried the still sleeping man and the mattress to the doorway and realized - it wouldn't fit. They slowly lowered it to the floor and stared down at the Man. Now what? </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Suddenly, the Manager arrived.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"What is going on here?!" He whisper-yelled. The Problem Solvers looked like kids caught stealing. "Uhmmm..." French guy spoke up, "He was snoring so loud and we thought..."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The full weight of how bad of an idea this was fell on all of us.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Would you like it if someone did this to you!?" The manager actually yelled. Drunk Guy woke up. "Waazzz happening?" </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"You tell him!" The manager glared at the group. The most awkward silence I have ever encountered followed.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Hey man," Hostel Guy took one for the team. "You were snoring really loudly and we thought you could just...sleep somewhere else...so we thought we could move you..."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Yeah ok." Drunk Guy got up. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"How would you feel if someone did this to you?" The manager asked us again, glaring. Then he left, the Drunk Guy swaying after him. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All was quiet. And in our shared crime, our diverse little group had bonded and we went on to traipse across EurAsia together. Well, not the last part, but there was a real bond.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you enjoyed this bit of frivolity, check out other stories from the Reach to Teach series by following this<a href="http://internationallyindebt.wordpress.com/2013/10/05/reach-to-teach-blog-carnival-story-time-edition/"> link here!</a></span></div>
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Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-32644012601466921602013-09-30T20:01:00.001-07:002013-10-08T20:08:29.066-07:00Anecdotes From Abroad <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>I'm starting a new series, for those random little stories I've never told but that still make me laugh, or shudder or wonder. Enjoy! </i><br />
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My host family's house in the country of Georgia had a balcony sort of thing - concrete steps led up another bit of concrete that jutted out from the second story. It often held corn drying in the sun and it had the much coveted clothes line, the one that was somewhat protected from the elements by an awning.<br />
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I hadn't packed much when I went to Georgia - a whole suitcase less than most people. I was told Georgians re-wore their clothes, often the exact same outfit for a few days (which is true). I was told they wouldn't care what you wore (not true) and that they didn't like bright colors (also not true). I had to do laundry a lot to try to look half-way decent. My host family had a washer (such wonders! fast forward to the DR where I washed everything in a bucket...) and then I would hang my clothes out to dry. I enjoyed this little chore, feeling more adult than when they wouldn't even let me wash my plate.<br />
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Past of the clothes line on the balcony hung over our neighbor's yard. For a long time I thought the old woman who lived there was my grandmother, because she was in our house so often and entered at odd hours without knocking. I also thought she was kinda mean, since she yelled at me and sometimes hit me with her cane. The first thought was wrong (no relation), the second was right (I could see the disappointment in her eyes...). She also had a son, who I wrote about <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2012/09/100th-blog-post-mary-ellen-and.html">way back when</a>. The mysterious and silent Zaza, who walked by with bags of grass for no reason I could ever figure out since he didn't own any live-stock except chickens. Bedding?<br />
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But back to the clothes line - it hung over their yard and I sometimes chuckled as I clothes pinned my undies and socks to that corner (since it was a weaker corner of the line - light stuff!). How silly if my underwear fell into their yard!<br />
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But then one day, I came to get said undies, and they were gone. Sure enough, they had fallen into the neighbor's yard, the shadowy, muddy dwelling place of silent men and cane-wielding grannies. Oh, what to do?!<br />
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I crept down to the gate that divided our yard and eased it open, making sure not to let any chickens out. As quietly as possible I picked up the fallen, brightly colored under-things. One of them was a little too far for me to reach, having fallen behind some sort of shed. I reached my arm, jumping at every noise, I thought I heard someone approaching, I reached harder, grabbed my now filthy panties and bolted out of there. I and my lady briefs were safe!<br />
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And all was well.<br />
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Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-55198115828499040722013-09-30T19:27:00.002-07:002013-10-03T12:48:43.774-07:00Dance Your Pants Off<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>A Love Letter to Dancing </b></div>
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"Pop it!" Screamed the Zumba instructor "Now get low! Faster!" Our troop of would-be dancers popped it, we locked it, we got low, twerked, skipped, merengued and salsa-ed across the dance floor. It was all ladies, and one awesome older bearded man with a camo hat and a shirt that said "I'm doing work" who stood at the front of the room and shook his hips with the rest of us. But in that group of (mostly) women was every demographic - high school to grandmotherly, soccer moms and college kids, all races, all body types and all looking as sexy as all get out.<br />
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Because that's what happens when you let go and dance. We weren't dancing to look hot for men, for the "ubiquitous male gaze", we were dancing for ourselves, for our very own bodies - to get fit, get happy and shake our tooshies just because we can! Every time I step into a zumba class I feel that same magic; sure it seems like just another work out fad, but the power of women, and a few brave men, being comfortable with themselves, loving their bodies and shaking them hips, freely and expressively, is beautiful. One of the last songs we did tonight was a jungle-sounding beat, we had to stomp and swing our arms wildly and probably looked completely ridiculous, and it was that song that got the most applause and shouts at the end. </div>
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Dancing is power. In Peru, arriving with little Spanish, I made friends by dancing - showing up to the party, trying my best at salsa, teaching them some American style pop. In the country of Georgia, with no Georgian language skills at all, I wooed my entire neighborhood by attempting traditional Georgian steps. I was a <a href="http://teachandlearnwithgeorgia.wordpress.com/2012/10/27/supra-survival-tips/">supra</a> super star! Georgians don't care too much about your skill - everyone dances, young and old, drunk and sober, no worries, just stomp those feet. This is wonderful. How I wish the good ol' USA had this relationship with dancing. </div>
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Dancing is so often vilified here - and I get it, it can be over sexualized. So are tv shows and <a href="http://shine.yahoo.com/parenting/walmart-yanks-scandalous-kids-costume-after-uproar-174050085.html">children's Halloween costumes</a>. And then there are all those people who "only dance with a few drinks in me". Ok, fine, but you are missing the point. No one "can't dance". As a man much wiser than me once said <a href="http://www.ted.com/talks/ken_robinson_says_schools_kill_creativity.html">"everybody has a body don't they?"</a> Little kids dance all the time, to any sort of music. It's only when we start getting older and all embarrassed that the dancing stops, and I think Anglo-Saxon cultures have "I'm too embarrassed to dance"-itis worse than anybody. (Especially a lot of white straight men, I've noticed. Guys, you're missing out!) </div>
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I grew up with a dancing family - a mom and aunt who were dance teachers, and a whole passel of relatives who love to break it down on the dance floor. Anytime we had an excuse, especially weddings, we were grooving. We're even known to start at an impromptu dance party after Thanksgiving dinner. One of my favorite photos ever is a picture of my 88-year old Gran having a dance off with my little brother, surrounded by her grandchildren. </div>
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Here in New Orleans I'm learning how to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MH2eRRh4Bls">zydeco</a> dance! Washboards and Louisiana French and songs about swamps and alligators and octogenarians swinging past us. I went to check it out with a friend of mine and had numerous older couples telling us exactly how it was done. It was hard and I wasn't very good at it and I'm so glad I went. Next we're checking out some swing dancing at D.B.A.'s on Frenchman, and eventually I hope to try salsa at Mojitos. </div>
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Because dance (or lack there-of) is another puzzle piece of the culture. Music, food, language, kinship, dancing. It's all part of it. And dancing is a very powerful part. So shake it. Don't break it. Took your mama nine months to make it. </div>
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Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-7044904482227803692013-09-25T20:47:00.002-07:002013-10-03T12:49:18.221-07:00On Turning 24<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2012/09/turning-23.html">last birthday</a> was spent in the country of Georgia, eating way too much cake and being sung to like: "Happy Birrrday to youuuu....Happy Birrrday...Uh...." (and then switching into Georgian) "bidnieri dabedebes dghes!" Thus far my birthday week, for so I deem it, has been pure New Orleans - music at the Davenport lounge at the Ritz-Carlton, complete with fried green tomatoes. Wine on my porch as we watched the sunset over the train tracks of the 9th ward. Tomorrow, local Vietnamese food and Friday over to Tipatina's for a "James Brown Get Down" funk/groove/jazz/bounce dance party. Life is sweet.<br />
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I wrote the above on my birthday eve, and I was correct in thinking that my birthday week would be "pure New Orleans" - it was, but not exactly in the way I had imagined. In fact, it was so intensely ridiculous and exhausting of a week that it took me awhile to get back to this post. I'd like to preface this by quoting something a friend said to me once: " a lot of things seem to happen to you."<br />
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Yes, yes they do. Not big things, but the things do seem to find a way of piling up.<br />
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On my birthday I got a flat tire while driving in the Bywater, a trendy hipster neighborhood. A man popped out of an unmarked door in the wall and offered his hidden, classy bar as a shady respite. He then said he was sending a friend of his to help me, a friend who was "kinda crackedy, but a good guy". The crackedy friend was either completely drunk or coming off something but he did get my tire changed.<br />
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The next day my car died in the middle of the street in the 9th ward. I stood there, in my cute little high waist skirt, desperately calling a friend, when a nice young man stopped to help. He then snatched my wallet and ran away. I spent the day in auto shops and talking to Anthony at the Bank to cancel my card. I ate my Vietnamese birthday lunch left overs while sitting in Advanced Auto.<br />
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Instead of Tipatina's on Friday all I could muster was some quiet drinks with some girlfriends. I felt a bit beat up. But Saturday night was the Hi Ho Lounge, with the famous DJ Soul Sister residing, and it was a wonderful break-it-down, dance-your-heart-out mix of ages and jams and people having a good time.<br />
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My 23rd year was insane. Hospitals and heartbreaks and Caribbean Island and snow-capped mountains insane. This year I feel like I have a little more space to breath, at least when I'm not battling car troubles and sneaky robbers. Perhaps here I can find a little stability to let me sort out some priorities.<br />
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So I've made some goals, 25 of them in fact, 25 before 25. I won't tell you all of them and they are flexible as I find new things to love or realize my priorities shift. Still, having goals is fun - I am consistently amazed by how blessed I am to complete goals. At age eight I wanted to go to Machu Picchu. And I did. Twice. I wanted to go to England, to act in Shakespeare, to work for the Smithsonian, to see the Amazon, to dance with good-looking foreign men, and I've done it all. I can't really claim my own strength here, except for my bull-headed stubborness in believing that if I want it bad enough and ignore other things enough (like, you know, budgeting and practical people) it's going to happen.<br />
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Here are a few of my goals I believe won't change:<br />
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1. Spanish.<br />
Yeah, I can hold a conversation, but I'm no where near where I want to be!<br />
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2. Reading the classics.<br />
Reading is a priority in my life. And finally accepting that as an ok thing is good. I'm part of a New Orleans book club and we meet at coffee shops and delight in our love of words!<br />
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3. 5k<br />
Running is not my thing. It is hard. It is boring. It is not dancing. You cannot stop running when your favorite Beyonce song comes on and start dancing. At least, not when you are on busy track in a city park. But I will learn to persevere and do some running!<br />
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4. Publish online<br />
I love to write, but I never seem to do anything with my stuff...<br />
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5. Travel somewhere new OR return to my roots.<br />
Being practical here - I spend a lot of time planning fake trips, most recently to Alaska or back to the DR or to Haiti. But I haven't been back to South Carolina in ages...I haven't hiked the Appalachians... I haven't fished with my Grandpa. So that would be awesome too.<br />
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Some of the most liberating advice I've read on one of the million "advice for 20somethings" articles that I've read (SERIOUSLY - EVERYONE has advice for 20somethings. Even other 20somethings.) was "be ok with spending time and money on what you love and what makes you a better person". I can be pretty frugal and don't like to spend money on stuff that could do me good - but now I'm prioritizing more, and for me that's zumba and books. I'm buying some books I've always meant to read and I signed up for local zumba classes to get me happy and healthy!<br />
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23 was good, in its own crazy way. 24 will be good too. But I still feel the pain of time passing. I remember being around eight years old and feeling it then, realizing one afternoon that my parents would die one day, that my pets have such short life spans, that my body wouldn't always allow me to play tag and climb trees. It's the feeling of the sunset on a Sunday, the sudden realization of done-ness. How do we humans cope? So many babies that aren't babies any more. So many small moments that are so precious, lost and forgotten. So many that have gone.<br />
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Not to end it on a downer, but contemplations must be contemplated, and where else to air them but on a silly little blog? </div>
Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-78286603187109591622013-09-04T10:49:00.000-07:002013-10-03T12:49:41.004-07:00How Living Abroad Makes You a Better Person <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Today’s article is written for the Reach To Teach<b> Teach Abroad Blog Carnival</b>, a monthly series that focuses on providing helpful tips and advice to ESL teachers around the globe. I'll be posting a new ESL related article on my blog on the 5th of every month. Check back for more articles, and if you'd like to contribute to next month's Blog Carnival, please get in touch with me at dingleym@gmail.com, and I'll let you know how you can start participating! </i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #222222;">"What is my life?"</span></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I asked myself that a lot when I was abroad - not in an
existential "meaning of life" sort of way but in a "how did I
end up riding in a purple van down a country road in Eastern Europe with a
bunch of drunk and singing locals at 2 am on a Wednesday" sort of way. The
happy, the awful, the ridiculous, it all piled together into bright colors and
voices and the smells of city streets, cow poop, homemade wine, ocean breeze,
coca tea. I wondered what my life was, and how I would tell these stories. I
didn't wonder, not nearly as often as I should have, who I was. Who I was
becoming, the person I was creating by choosing this life of travel. But it has
shaped me, for better or worse, and I think mostly better. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I am a huge advocate of travel, for everyone. Whether it be the
next town over or the next continent, travel teaches us about humanity. Not to
pull an "AP essay trick" but I'm about to quote a famous but mostly
noncontroversial American author- Mark Twain once said:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #181818;">“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry,
and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts.
Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by
vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.”</span></b><b><span style="color: #181818;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #181818;">More specifically than just traveling, bopping around through
hostels or booking a vacation once a year, living abroad can truly change you.
Some people say it's not living abroad unless you are there for a year. I think
it's being anywhere for a month or more where it's not vacation - somewhere you
have a job, get a paycheck, have responsibilities, habits, daily schedules,
connections. When you budget down to your very last peso to make it until your
next payday and know exactly which colmado has the cheapest black beans, when
you pick which path to take back from school depending on whether or not the
cows are being herded yet or you spotted that crazy neighbor on her porch.
Certainly, the longer you stay the more living you did. But living isn't only counted in time.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I've gained a number of strange quirks from traveling, and I
certainly have not exorcised all my bad habits (like talking about myself too
much - oh wait, I have a blog...helpful redirection or indulgence?) but I
believe I have become a better person by living abroad, and I'm sure many other
travelers would back that up. Some ways that I believe living abroad makes us
all better - <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>1. Humility </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When you are in a culture you don't fully understand, speaking a
language not your own (or not speaking it), you might as well be five years
old. It's humbling (and sometimes humiliating) to be spoken to like a toddler,
left out of decisions because you won't understand, depending on the goodness
of others for even the smallest of tasks. This came out the most when I lived
with host families, first in Peru, then in the country of Georgia. They held my
hand to cross the street, did all the talking for me, told me to change clothes
when it was cold and chuckled at my attempts to assert my maturity. It's worse
in places where you don't speak the language, you can't argue your point,
defend or explain yourself or give any retort when they look at you with a face
of condescension and pity. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Even harder though was having things that were respected back
home get nothing but a shrug. Did my neighbors in the Dominican Republic care
that I had traveled, did well in university, held competitive internships?
Nope. They just looked down on me for not being able to cook traditional
Dominican food, not growing out my hair and not having a man. Feminism,
independence, degrees and my tricky swing dance moves that got me invites to parties
back home meant nothing to them. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The most humbling was when I argued with <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2012/09/turning-23.html">my host family in Georgia about being sick</a>. They didn't believe in germs, didn't listen to my
warnings about spreading my throat infection, told me it was due to me
showering at night, thought I was ridiculous for missing a party when I was
shaking with fever and ignored my attempt at "I told you so" when
they got sick from sharing unwashed water glasses. So even my elementary grasp
of basic science leads to nothing but derision? How's a girl to get respect around
here other than marrying the next door neighbor who wears Bill Cosby sweaters
and making lots of Georgian babies?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> But it isn't all <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2012/09/100th-blog-post-mary-ellen-and.html">frustrating cultural stories</a> - staring up
at <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2012/11/to-mountains.html">snow-capped mountains</a>, wandering in perfectly built <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2011/06/machu-picchu-take-2.html">ancient cities</a>, feeling
lost in the majesty of the Hagia Sophia or in the midst of chanting in a tiny
chapel - this is humbling. Realizing the plethora of music, poetry, art that I
have never even heard of, the great stories I have never known. My stories,
culture, childhood is just another among billions – nothing says that more than
a foreign country, proud in its ancient history of conquests and kingdoms, that
can’t care less that you do things differently. Opening up to their story
is humbling in a healthy way. We are one of many, and many have gone
before. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>2. Resourcefulness</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Living abroad, whether it's in a posh apartment in Paris or in a
hut in South America, draws on your resourcefulness. You must be resourceful in
communicating, in doing all that pesky visa paperwork, in making new friends
cross-culturally. I spent a lot of time in Georgia communicating via broken
Georgian, hand-motions, google translate, photographs and random Italian and
Spanish words. Long conversations were exhausting. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
Throw in a developing economy and somewhat shaky infrastructure and
resourcefulness multiplies. We built a "sofa" in the DR out of
mattresses and old sheets. One of my culinary creations was from Ramen noodles,
onion, and beef jerky snacks someone gave me. (When you are on a budget...)
(The Haitian kids I taught were even more amazing - creating toys out of
discarded suitcases, old tin cans, scraps of wood.) Living abroad draws on
sources of creativity that you never had to tap into before. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>3. Independence</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Living abroad, especially at first, you are often totally
dependent on the goodwill of those around you. But at times you must strike out
on your own without the support system you are used to, often without the
language you are used to, the cultural standards you are used to and definitely
not the traffic rules you are used to. Living abroad helps you be independent
in many ways, and figuring out transportation, whether to cross borders
or just get across town, required the most independence I've ever had to muster.
By the time I could use the Tbilisi metro without checking the map fifty times
I was so proud I could burst. (Don't worry, I was humble again when I realized
I had been taking the wrong marshutka, the one that required me to walk half an
hour home, for a month. I could have been dropped off nearly at my door).
Figuring out Peruvian micros and mototaxis, Georgian marshutkas, Dominican
carritos - it all took a huge leap of faith, and a lot of getting lost and
asking total strangers for help. But now, as I have just moved to a new city I
feel confident enough to drive around, get lost, attempt the buses, explore.
Public transportation isn't for the faint of heart, especially when you can't
even fully pronounce your destinations name, but it will breed in you a feeling
of freedom and independence like no other. If you can figure out how to get
around, then you're free. You can come and go as you like and no matter how
much of a child you feel in your Georgian village, a wide world awaits you and
no one can stop you from going. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Living abroad forces independence on you, taking you far from
your support system and throwing you straight into the jungle. And that
independence has to hold too - the support network may be waiting back home,
but they will never truly understand your experiences when you return a
different person. And to me the first step to independence is getting on that
grimy, half-broken piece of machinery they call a bus and taking it where you
will. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>5. Skills</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Maybe you would say skills don't make you a better person - then
I would say, ok, but if you were stuck on a desert island who would be the
better person, the really nice guy or the guy who knew how to make fish hooks
out of his toenails? Who would be saving the lives then, huh? While you might
not learn life saving techniques abroad, you will pick up skills, some that you
might have never known you needed. The skills I can add to my Resume of Life
(which is <i>waaaay</i> more interesting than my Resume of Work) are Traditional
Georgian dancing, cooking rice the Haitian way, hand washing bedding in a
bucket, rejecting men in various cultural contexts, chasing away dogs, chickens
and (gently) children, drinking wine out of a ram's horn and looking good
without much opportunity to bathe. And if nothing else, you pick up great stories
to tell at parties.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> But seriously, living abroad gives you many skills, such
as language skills and, really just as important, the ability to perceive
cross-culturally, to live in multiple perspectives. The history of the world is
littered with tragedies from interactions in which different perspectives and
cultures were cast aside like so much garbage. And I'm not just talking that
whole "we don't believe entire continents have a legitimate culture"
tragedy from our sordid past, but more recently, when swaths of my own country
can't speak to each other, or even about each other, without being spitting mad
because no one can sit down, stew for a bit in a culture different from
there's, pick up some new rhetoric and perspective, and start a different sort
of conversation. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Being able to live cross-culturally is something that many
people come across the hard way, perhaps growing up on the move, or being children
of immigrants - "third culture kids" feeling like they don't entirely
belong. But they are also blessed, as we all can be, by the ability to lift
themselves out of one culture and into another, the ability to be on the inside
or on the outside and to understand multiple viewpoints. That can make better
people of us all. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><b>4. Courage</b></span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">We could all use an extra dose of bravery - to intervene in that
awkward situation, to stand up to that intimidating person, to speak out from a
place of vulnerability. I know I gained most of any courage I do have from
living abroad. Because it's scary. Danger scary, like riding in careening
marshutkas or hiking down a Peruvian canyon in the night in a thunderstorm. Socially
scary, standing up in front a bunch of kids who you can't understand and they
can't understand you. Coming down to try to talk to your host family when you
would rather hide in your room. Reaching out to people who may not want to
befriend you because of your foreign accent. Taking a risk. Getting up to
dance. Stepping on that plane. </span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">I returned home from the Dominican Republic shell-shocked. I had
been <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-great-dominican-hospital-adventure.html">very sick</a>, and I retreated inside myself into a small space where I felt
forced to go from the stares, the shouts from strange men, the poverty I felt
helpless against, the sickness I couldn't stop. I went long days without
talking. I avoided crowded areas. I was pushed back out of my shell when I went
to my summer job in <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2013/08/sherman.html">Texas </a>and I found that I wasn't so scared as I once had
been, no matter the situation my demanding job often threw me in. I have ten
minutes to come up with an activity for a group of forty kids to last two hours?
Hey, at least they speak English – bring it on. And now, facing a new life in
New Orleans, feeling like I've bitten off a bit much, I'm not afraid. The end
is never really the end, and when I feel scared I remember being lost in
Istanbul, stranded by the road in Greece, shaking in a Dominican hospital, in a
wrong mototaxi in the wrong side of town in the most violent city in Peru. I'm
not saying those were places where I showed remarkable courage, but I learnt
courage. Those were places where the kindness of people and, I believe, the
kindness of God, kept me safe. Strangers pointed me in the right direction,
gave me rides, fed me soup. </span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">Yes, I can say, when the going is tough "I survived <u>x
event</u>, so I can survive this!" and nothing is wrong with
taking courage from memories of my own tenacity. But I can also say that there is great
kindness in the world. And these both give me courage, and that serves me well
every day. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">So go. Travel. Live abroad - for a summer, a season, a year.
Work odd jobs and be bad at them. Work great jobs and be fabulous. Live with
intensity, but also just live - with bills and habits and routine. When I felt
bored and <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2011/06/gloomin-it-up-on-gloomy-day.html">restless in Lima</a> was when I really knew I lived there. Live with
friends whose language you once barely spoke and who now you can guess their
next words. Live with a favorite corner store and bus drivers you
recognize. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">Live so that when you are ancient, you remember a hushed
afternoon buried in winter's first snow up in the Caucuses and it fills you
with peace. Peace and courage and humility and all of the bits and pieces of
other places and people you have picked up. So go. </span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222;">
</span>
</span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222;">
</span>
</div>
Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-32427737830354989472013-08-19T08:18:00.000-07:002015-07-31T16:37:11.571-07:00First Year Out<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;"><b>"August arrives, hot and breathless and full of all the things you held on to too tightly. and all the places that defined summer start to melt together, the sand that got stuck in your hair, and the bug bites you picked at too much, and the taste of every sunset that slipped through the open car window. somehow each summer is its own lifetime, we love and eat; and the sun will spin around us without fail." </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;">I have no idea who wrote that quote. I've searched, and I just keep coming up with anonymous. So, dear anonymous (who, according to Virginia Woolf, was a woman) thanks for that. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;">Each summer has always felt like it's own lifetime. I have always defined my life in summers - "what year was that? Oh that was the summer I went to nerd camp/theater camp/New York social justice program/Oxford film program/DC internship/was a camp counselor/studied abroad". During high school, anything exciting that ever happened to me happened in summer, usually at one of the myriad of programs I went to. Summer meant travel and learning and adventure and a summer crush. The end of summer left me nostalgic and a little bit heartbroken for the new friends I left behind. In college, summer was a welcome respite, but I wasn't quite so sad when it ended - leaving behind huts in the woods for my air-conditioned university apartment wasn't the most difficult transition after months of bug bites, porta-potties and screaming children. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;">August now doesn't mark just the end of summer, it marks the end of the craziest year of my life. I spent this year in the rolling hills of the country of Georgia in Eastern Europe, on the beaches of the Dominican Republic, in the heat of Texas and sleeping it all off in my home state of Georgia. In one year I have been to five different countries (six, if you count Texas...). I have ridden buses and boats and airplanes and marshutkas and carritos and donkey carts. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;">I have jumped into cold mountain pools and been carried across flooded mountain roads. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;">I have fallen in and out of love. I have slept in terrible hostel beds and taken bucket showers and used outhouses and made friends with lizards and spiders and Georgian grandmothers who hit me with their canes. I have sang '90s karaoke at a bar filled with smoke and cowboy hats and Texas two-stepping. I have walked through blizzards, burned myself on motorcycles, and prayed in tiny mountain chapels, large city mosques, and dangerously foggy roads. I have felt rich and luxurious as I ate delicious meals in Greece, and hungry and poor as I found yet another can of beans full of maggots in the Dominican. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;">I have been lazy and bitter and discouraged and scared. At times I have not acted, not connected, not reached out. I've been humbled and I've been humiliated. I've been blissfully happy. I have learned the art of silence. I have relearned the art of dancing with new friends. I have counted people as friends, real friends, when all we could use was my few words of Georgian or Haitian Creole, dancing feet and smiles. I have been <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-great-dominican-hospital-adventure.html">very sick</a> and maybe near death. I have had family members pass away. I have marveled in the rain and in the sunset and at the ocean and the mountains and at the grape harvest and at my students all full of the glory and wonder of the Creator. And I have wondered, while holding a skinny, bruised child, at the plans of the Creator. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;">I have been humbled by the kindness of strangers and felt unworthy and it was true and right to know I was unworthy and to accept the kindness anyway. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;">I have been very angry. And it was sometimes pride and cultural differences, and it was sometimes valid, raw anger.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;">I have had more awkward moments then should be allowed in anyone's lifetime. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;">This was my first year out - outside of an institution, outside of the protection of family or school system or university. And what a year it was. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;">There is an image in my mind, more like a five second movie clip, of a little boy in the Dominican, my neighbor, four years old, wearing nothing but dirty yellow undies, running down the street with his arms spread like wings in the sunshine, laughing his head off. And for some reason when I try to package my past year this clip always comes to mind.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;"> I have not done anything terribly different (a lot of new graduates teach abroad) and I have not done anything terribly conventional. But somehow I know, after all the great times and the hard times and the awkward times, that I did what I was meant to do. There were things I needed to learn and to see and to live. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;">And so August arrives. And so August goes, and in My Personal Calender it is the start of another year. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-line;"><br /></span></div>
Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-56906759354659465632013-08-14T11:05:00.000-07:002013-10-03T13:08:23.137-07:00Sherman<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
<b>A very unscientific semi-anthropological sort of study of Sherman, Texas</b></h3>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<i>Disclaimer: 'tis only a silly little blog post on my opinions of a very cursory view of one small town. The people all seemed lovely, it just wasn't my cup of tea. </i><br />
<br />
I spent two months working in Sherman, Texas. My job was fun and challenging and I loved it. For Sherman, however, I had a totally unfounded and irrational hatred mixed with intense interest, which has now faded into a dim sort of nostalgia. Somewhat like my irrational hatred for fig newtons or using the descriptor "sweet" on a person. Except that neither of these is nostalgic. Don't give me fig newtons or call me sweet.<br />
<br />
Small towns and the people who live in them have always interested me in a passing way. As in, "I am going to only pass through because there is nothing here but I am very interested to know why you live here and what you do with your time." As an anthropologist, I'm always wanting to know why people do what they do. Why do people live in small towns and never leave? Why do small towns appear to be a breeding ground for gossip and scandal? I have two great friends, one from a small town in South Dakota and another from one in Virginia and I would grill them to no end about what growing up in their respective tiny towns was like. Their stories of affairs and family legacies and having the whole town watching how you did on the basketball court seemed the stuff of cheesy beach reads or Disney channel original movies.<br />
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Now, technically, I grew up in a small town. However, my small town was being steadily engulfed by the slow flood that is metro Atlanta. It was an easy jaunt into the city for shows, museums and baseball games, there were tons of theaters, parks and restaurants around, and it really came down to being able to choose exactly how small town you wanted to be. Want to just hang out with high school or church friends and never leave a 10 mile radius? Go ahead. Want to go into the city every weekend and bop around the mountains other days? You can do that too. I know affairs and gossip etc etc happened where I grew up, just as it did in my friend's small towns, but you didn't have to hear about it if you didn't want to.<br />
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I thought I liked small towns. I spent wonderful summer days in a small town in the mountains with my grandmother and it seemed like a great place to grow up. I decided to go to college in a small town. It was the most boring year of my life. Apparently, I was much more a suburbanite/city girl than a small towner. I moved to DC as soon as I could and never looked back.<br />
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I don't think small towns are evil. I just don't get them. I don't understand their ways. Like how I don't understand the pull of Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream. But I would like to. So Sherman seemed like an exciting case study.<br />
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Here is what I learned about Sherman from my very unscientific study of wandering around during my one day off a week and chatting with locals:<br />
1. Sherman is supposedly the meth capital of Texas. I can neither confirm nor deny this and neither can Google it seems.<br />
2. Sherman has two operating bars. One is connected to a bowling alley.<br />
3. In Sherman, chivalry isn't dead. Or, looking at it another way, sexism isn't. Either way you dice it, I got a lot of free drinks.<br />
4. There are some great thrift stores in Sherman. Way more than seems necessary in fact.<br />
5. People are curious and friendly and also appear very open and interested in different people.<i> (I HATE the stereotyping of the south, and let me just say this - the karaoke bar I frequented had a very diverse clientele and everyone was mingling and friendly to each other. Of course, this doesn't prove much beyond that this one bar attracted an awesome crowd, but I had to throw it out there.)</i><br />
6. Old ladies are pretty awesome everywhere, including in Sherman.<br />
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I constantly had to stop myself from walking up to young-ish people in the bars and asking "what do you DO in Sherman?" What we did in Sherman was go to a karaoke bar, sing fun tunes, and sometimes get into arm-wrestling matches. I kid you not, some of the males on staff were arm wrestling and a local came up to challenge them. He set down his beer, but not his cigarette which he continued to smoke, and defeated one of our guys in the midst of the smokey, cowboy-hat filled room. I felt like we were in an old movie. But this outing was something that only happened maybe four times, when groups of us had time off. Otherwise I played tennis and went to Walmart. <br />
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I got a lot of questions when I would thrift shop with friends. "Y'all must not be from the South!" We were asked once. But we all were - Georgia, Texas, South Carolina. What the comment should have been was, "Y'all must not be from a small town in the South." All of us non-Shermanites looked at and spoke of Shermanites with awe. What mysterious people they seemed, as I'm sure we seemed to them. Why did they approach us in Walmart and talk for five minutes without breathing? Why did a woman named Sunshine offer to make us necklaces (which was very kind of her)? What was a bearcat and why were they all so excited about it? And the kicker, what did they do with their time?<br />
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I did not like Sherman, though, again, my dislike was mostly unfounded. I do not dislike the South, or Texas (I love the South- and I would love to return and visit San Antonio and Austin and some national parks!). In fact, I think I could really love Texas - the glimpses I saw of it in the people and the smoky karaoke and the long sunflower fields told me there was definitely something more to discover.<br />
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Someday, I think I might live in a small town. Probably in the Appalachians. Maybe with a family. Maybe with cats and half-written novels. Maybe then I will un-puzzle the puzzle that is small towns to me.<br />
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With all my forays into Sherman - bars, tennis courts, doctor's offices, shopping centers, a church and a tattoo parlor, I still never felt like I got to the heart of the place. And I didn't, of course. Maybe if I lived there with family and friends and bartenders that I knew and a weekly tennis team and church ladies that made great casseroles then I would love it. But probably not, because that's not who I am. It's who other people are though, and it's those other people, the Shermanites of the world, who I am interested in.<br />
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If any Shermanites, or small town lovers, are reading this, tell me about yourself and your town. I'd love to hear. </div>
Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-24088153297955503042013-05-24T08:57:00.000-07:002013-05-24T08:57:05.720-07:00Official Announcement<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Dear Readers,<br />
<br />
If you are passionate about the <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2013/03/still-shocked-thoughts-on-human-rights.html">human rights issues surrounding women and girls</a>, I'm now blogging over at <a href="http://wellbroughtupwomen.wordpress.com/">Well Brought Up Women</a>. I post articles, comics and news items on these pervasive human rights issues. Check it out!<br />
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Abrazos,<br />
Mary Ellen<br />
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Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-25812218151116801982013-05-22T12:08:00.000-07:002013-10-03T13:08:50.299-07:00Why Your Local Thrift Shop is More Than Just a Great Song <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Where your money goes is important. <a href="http://science.time.com/2013/04/29/fast-cheap-dead-shopping-and-the-bangladesh-factory-collapse/">This article</a> is just one example of many of how your local department store might be using unsafe and unjust labor practices. Do you really want to be funding that? Do you want your hard earned thirty bucks that you spend on some fancy blouse to be funding little Sara's 10 hour days? Is that an unfair and strangely anecdotal question? Maybe, but the example stands.<br />
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The above article is good, but it doesn't go far enough. Put pressure on your favorite brands? Yeah, ok, that can do <i>some</i> good perhaps, as <a href="http://www.foxbusiness.com/industries/2013/05/14/wal-mart-to-tighten-inspection-standards-at-bangladesh-factories-provide-full/">Walmart said it will "tighten inspection standards</a>". But come on, even <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EgXbHJ-_6io">Ellen is making fun of Abercrombie and Fitch</a> and I don't see them going out of business anytime soon. (To their credit, they said they would too <a href="http://www.foxbusiness.com/industries/2013/05/16/abercrombie-agrees-to-sign-bangladesh-accord-to-improve-worker-conditions/">"improve worker conditions"</a> in Bangladesh, though how much does that really mean, and how can a regular consumer know if that's true?)<br />
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I can be a pretty lazy person, so I'm not going to spend my afternoons researching where a shirt came from to make sure whoever made it isn't in mortal danger and/or gets lunch breaks. Instead, I'm just trying not to put my money in ANY store where said money could be potentially funding unsafe and unfair labor. <br />
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It's not that hard. It's just called thrifting.<br />
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The money you pay to thrift stores/consignment shops can go to a charity, a church, or just to their own local business needs. Goodwill provides job training and employs tons of people who have a hard time getting jobs due to tough life circumstances. Plato's Closet employs tons of people who have a hard time getting jobs due to prominent facial piercing.<br />
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By shopping at a thrift store, I can feel confident that my money isn't going towards something I'm morally against (unless those sweet church ladies that tell me their thrift store funds a homeless shelter are secretly running a meth lab, which is entirely possible). <br />
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Thrift stores are also great because:<br />
1. You won't show up to a party wearing the same thing as someone else (see <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QK8mJJJvaes">Macklemore)</a><br />
2. You are recycling, which we all know is an automatic gold star<br />
3. You can be seen as artsy and original<br />
4. Thrift stores are called "op shops" in New Zealand, which is cute<br />
5. You can "fight the power" by bucking big corporations and consumerism!<br />
6. It's so. much. cheaper.<br />
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And if thrift stores aren't fulfilling your clothing needs, check out Free Stores (or free store events) or Clothing Swaps (usually to be found in major cities - I know NYC has some!) I have gotten some of my <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2012/02/death-of-pants.html">very favorite clothes</a> at free stores.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCYLS-9SMCgQATDl7lvtcbumgPsC2yeH2ihA4yz1ecHE_EoODKcKMFtpaE7DTgfhAYRHaUS5pZc-ihQNB4lK87AGGwYQuqxwdARVDgkr1TcTUMw05I2dAzoP-s4XKOncflFphvPzJHScc/s1600/SANY5686.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCYLS-9SMCgQATDl7lvtcbumgPsC2yeH2ihA4yz1ecHE_EoODKcKMFtpaE7DTgfhAYRHaUS5pZc-ihQNB4lK87AGGwYQuqxwdARVDgkr1TcTUMw05I2dAzoP-s4XKOncflFphvPzJHScc/s400/SANY5686.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Some bros check out a belt at a Free Store Event I held at GWU</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz45RSSijXvL7dhIqDlvscHzuDUGcloutrgqyNf3vM8VYTpxSfINaNx1hsnceDz81VPiFEu9f3UsyKaEeak8T8YyMMOsuRM-VYxGhAr8tkyNKD8Vgt3stsCuiJRfkNJOKYjA0aVX4KYo0/s1600/SANY5689.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz45RSSijXvL7dhIqDlvscHzuDUGcloutrgqyNf3vM8VYTpxSfINaNx1hsnceDz81VPiFEu9f3UsyKaEeak8T8YyMMOsuRM-VYxGhAr8tkyNKD8Vgt3stsCuiJRfkNJOKYjA0aVX4KYo0/s400/SANY5689.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Oh hey, cute tops</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibmmrZiE_U9oH9nelg97tlt1KYiOVJ_Zf_2vpH8J92IwSkCgTWynKaxDpz5RL876RZwWT7BSleL8O_51LdOCgzYc7sWeYtWdzxhzI_GtW3Dgi998nhE-z-6D-s25cbMdKl0xZ9kICE8Do/s1600/SANY5699.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibmmrZiE_U9oH9nelg97tlt1KYiOVJ_Zf_2vpH8J92IwSkCgTWynKaxDpz5RL876RZwWT7BSleL8O_51LdOCgzYc7sWeYtWdzxhzI_GtW3Dgi998nhE-z-6D-s25cbMdKl0xZ9kICE8Do/s400/SANY5699.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i>Free and Thrift stores have all sorts of treasure! </i></div>
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And you can always go with the traditional hand-me-downs. Don't turn up your noise at your mama's old '80s blouses - in a few years they'll be vintage and you can be all hipster.<br />
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So <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">fight that power</span>, be a <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">responsible consumer</span>, be as <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">hip</span> as Macklemore and have a lot more <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">extra cash</span> to do more important things like travel or buy late night Waffle House.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-7-Ge6MLKH3UUhpl7DLq-Zry6o8l6uBxmkQqE6Okep4EBvMZ-8Lcmdsqqh85cpTEdncOvmLuRX1rzjgwzClai-UwqX7fHL-DQLHiRbNIsJ9UCoyhkt0JKGvkSJOgzXHRzPh6xZcHvcAs/s1600/DSCN0351.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-7-Ge6MLKH3UUhpl7DLq-Zry6o8l6uBxmkQqE6Okep4EBvMZ-8Lcmdsqqh85cpTEdncOvmLuRX1rzjgwzClai-UwqX7fHL-DQLHiRbNIsJ9UCoyhkt0JKGvkSJOgzXHRzPh6xZcHvcAs/s400/DSCN0351.JPG" width="300" /></a></span></div>
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<i>Here's me rocking a fully thrift store/hand-me-down outfit</i></div>
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<i>(except for the shoes) for my first day of school </i></div>
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<i>in the other Georgia </i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxy_-kka06-IlLP-e8y7MvBA-FKfWNgdxX-fwi1fjkCgElAI478_y10trtwRKYiF4IY6s6SX0vFvZc9QU8tcYNai2sLpKVChAsdCUpQ5ohF1fsPBo3pXY6xUO7SAZmDzWAweu8JH60M_0/s1600/DSCN2972.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxy_-kka06-IlLP-e8y7MvBA-FKfWNgdxX-fwi1fjkCgElAI478_y10trtwRKYiF4IY6s6SX0vFvZc9QU8tcYNai2sLpKVChAsdCUpQ5ohF1fsPBo3pXY6xUO7SAZmDzWAweu8JH60M_0/s400/DSCN2972.JPG" width="300" /></a></span></div>
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<i>Completely thrift, other than the scarf. (The deck was also bought new, I believe.) </i></div>
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Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-83373580284867603012013-05-19T15:40:00.000-07:002013-05-19T15:42:36.416-07:00The Best (and Most Horrifying) Book Pretty Much Ever<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.” C.S. Lewis </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm agreeing with C.S. Lewis as I sip some green tea and eat lemon shortbread, watching the summer rain fall. I am also wearing an oversized gray sweater and listening to soft, jazz-like music. But before you think I'm super bookish, nerdily adorable, or a hipster, I must inform you that I spent the last 10 minutes looking at funny gifs, already managed to have an awkward encounter with my own mother, and I'm going absolutely stir crazy. I can take about 2 days of rain and reading before I need sunshine and social time. I can only go about five minutes before I give into the temptation to use alliteration. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But as it is raining, and I do have tea and soft music, this is a perfect time to write a book review, mostly on one of the BEST BOOKS EVER, <u>Blindness</u> by José Saramago. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The older I get, the harder it is for me to find a book (a fictional book, anyway) that can grip me in its plot <i>and</i> impress me with its writing. I remember staying up way past my bedtime to read books as a kid. I would hide the book under my shirt and pretend I was going to the bathroom, where I would crouch on the (closed) toilet to find out what was happening to Jo March or Anne of Green Gables, or whatever historical fiction girl cross-dressing as a soldier or dragon fighting wizard I was reading about. (I liked the strong female leads and fantasy books.) Back then, it seemed like I found some new and exciting book at each of our weekly trips to the library. Now, I might find a fun or exciting plot, but the writing is second-rate. Or the writing is beautiful and profound, but the story itself drags. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Blindness-Jose-Saramago/dp/0151002517">Blindness</a> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">kept me up until 3 am. I even braved the wrath of my 88 year old grandmother just to keep reading, and that is no small thing. Translated from Portuguese, <u>Blindness </u> is a sort of post-apocalyptic drama, but with less sci-fi and more depth. I found the book in our favorite second-hand book shop up in the Appalachians. For $2 I was plunged into a horrifying, gripping story of a world struck blind. And it <i>was</i> horrifying - I was almost in tears at points, and even clutched my hands to my chest like a dramatic movie star from the '40s. Not only was the plot gripping, but the writing was astounding. If you ever read <u>The Shipping News</u> (which I highly recommend), it was like the opposite of that novel - <u>The Shipping News</u> uses only fragments through out, while Saramago wrote his book in nearly Dickens-length sentences, making much use of commas. When he does use a short sentence it's like you can finally take a breath again. But that writing style somehow creates the world of blindness and confusion and futility. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">This book is not for the squeamish or faint of heart. I would give it a rated R for graphic imagery and sex. And if you or someone close to you has been a victim of sexual assault, it might be too hard of a read. But what it shows (never tells!) is not gratuitous, but simply true to the story. In a landscape of sudden disease, criminal elements would likely hold power, as they do in this novel. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">So, it's a must read for modern literature loves. If you're not convinced yet, know that Saramago won the Nobel Prize for literature and that a movie starring Mark Ruffalo and Julianne Moore was made based on <u>Blindness</u> (I don't know if I can watch it, even though I love those actors - that just might be too much for me to see the events described acted out). </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">I just discovered that <u>Blindness</u> has a sequel, <u>Seeing</u>. The next time I have a free 24 hours straight, I'm definitely getting it! </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">I also wanted to mention my thoughts on </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Snow-Orhan-Pamuk/dp/0375706860">Snow</a> by Orhan Pamuk. Like I mentioned <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2013/03/what-im-reading.html">here</a>, I was waiting to get my hands on that book and I finally found it at my not-so-local library (my local library is seriously lacking). I was sadly not gripped by this plot...at least, not for very long. <u>Snow</u> falls into the category of beautifully written but dragging plot book. Pamuk's prose is gorgeous, gorgeous enough that I kept reading even when I was feeling a little underwhelmed. But the story just dragged, as he reiterated and reiterated already covered themes and feelings, about how his protagonist was sad and writing poetry and liked the snow. Still, I would say this book is worth a shot and gives a lot of insight into modern Turkey. I was really into it for the first third, then had to kinda force myself along for the rest. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Also, I finally got around to reading <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mountains-Beyond-Quest-Farmer-Would/dp/0812973011">Mountains Beyond Mountains</a> by Tracy Kidder. Tons of my friends read this in university and it had been on my to-read list for ages. I especially wanted to read it after working in a Haitian community as majority of the book is set in Haiti. This book is non-fiction and follows the work of Dr. Paul Farmer. I enjoyed the book immensely and definitely think it's a must read for anyone interested in international development. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Summary: <u>Blindness</u> is a 10 out of 10, <u>Snow</u> is about a 7, and <u>Mountains Beyond Mountains </u>a 9. Get reading! </span><br />
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Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-84349514922338175582013-05-06T14:53:00.003-07:002013-05-06T15:00:25.214-07:00Attention Deficit <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b><i>On reverse culture shock and not being the center of attention </i></b><br />
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A friend of mine asked me what sort of reverse culture shock I thought I might have. I haven't spent even a week in the USA for 8 months. I have been working in two very different cultures </div>
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and in two very different living situations.</div>
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At first I told her I didn't think I would have reverse culture shock, just reverse living standard shock. It's been four months of bucket showers, no fridge, iffy electricity, lots of bugs, hand washing clothes, and taking dirty public transportation. A car, a fridge, hot water? What is this?</div>
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But then I thought, no, the biggest difference will be not being the center of attention anymore.</div>
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I'm not arrogant enough to think that I was the super exciting movie star of my Georgian or Dominican town - but I definitely had to deal with attention in a very different way than I ever have, or will have, to handle in the USA. That's just a part of travel: learning to deal with the sometimes flattering, often unwanted attention brought on by being foreign.</div>
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A case study of two very different situations and the attention they garnered.</div>
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This is me in Sakartvelo (the country of Georgia), </div>
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on a rainy winter's day, heading into church (thus the head covering). </div>
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This is me in the Dominican Republic, wearing a shirt my Dominican neighbor gave me</div>
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because mine apparently wasn't tight enough. </div>
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These photos encapsulate a bit of the cultural differences in these two countries,</div>
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and also the differences I took on as a person. </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Fashion Aside:</span> in Georgia, the young ladies can be very stylish, but there is still a lot of black and dark colors worn, and everything is <i>always</i> modest. In the DR, it's what my friend called <b>"bright and tight"</b> (or see-through, or low-cut...). Bright colors, big jewelry, and skin-tight to show off them curves. Couldn't be more different! </div>
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I was really good at the Shy Little Georgian Teacher thing, </div>
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but I never quite got the Sassy Dominicana down...no matter how I tried. </div>
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I refused to grow out my hair, get my nails done, wear skin tight jeans </div>
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or "find myself a man". </div>
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So it just wasn't happening. </div>
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I blended in in Georgia, because I look Georgian. No one gave me a second glance as I meandered about Tbilisi or sat in a marshutka. Even in my own town, people would stop me to ask for directions and not believe me when I said I didn't speak Georgian. When other foreign friends and I went out to dinner they were handed English menus and I was given Georgian ones. The funniest was when I traveled with my then boyfriend, a blonde bearded, blue eyed New Zealander. The looks of "bro-ship" approval from the Georgian men and the "why you take our women?" from the Georgian ladies was priceless. </div>
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But when I was in school in Georgia, where everyone new I was the "Amerikelli", or at <a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2012/09/turning-23.html">supras</a> or neighborhood gatherings, then I got plenty of attention. Lots of stares, muttered conversations about me, constant questions on my opinion on the country, the food, and the men. I often felt I was brought to supras or to coffee with the ladies as a conversation piece. The best and worst part of supras was the dancing. I love to dance, and I love Georgian music. But somedays I felt like the "dancing bear". I wasn't pressured to dance like my host brother was, because he was a trained, amazing dancer. Or like my host mom, because she was a hilarious crowd pleaser. I was asked to dance because I was American, and it was amusing to watch me fumble the steps.</div>
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Some days, I didn't mind. I held my own dancing with a professional Georgian dancer, surrounded by 30 Georgians clapping and cheering and it was fun! A way for me to feel part of the celebration.</div>
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Some days I was tired and didn't want to be a spectacle any more.</div>
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Dancing with a neighbor</div>
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In the DR, and especially in my Haitian community, I didn't have a choice about being a spectacle. </div>
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I couldn't blend in no matter what I wore. I'm just too white. </div>
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I mostly hated the attention there - that attention was often overly aggressive tour guides or vendors, or creepy men shouting at me on the street. Sometimes it was just curious little kids shouting my name, wanting me to play with them in my yard. Either way, I couldn't leave my house without some sort of attention and it was exhausting. I liked when I felt part of the community, when I walked to the nearby colmado (tiny store) and neighbors said hello and little ones ran up to show off their baby siblings. I didn't like when it was men I didn't know approaching me or tour guides pointing me out to other foreigners. Sometimes I went to stores further away just to avoid them. </div>
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Right now, I'm sitting in a coffee shop in my hometown. </div>
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No one notices me, not even with my incredibly old laptop and kids notebook with Transformers on the cover. Not even after having sat here for almost four hours (<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">hey, I've been working!</span>). </div>
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I went to church yesterday, and had the usual "hello! What country were you in this time?" exchanges. </div>
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But that's a one time deal, a little re-entry interrogation. </div>
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Now I'm just a Southerner, a 20-something, a fellow American.</div>
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They don't notice that I now get lost driving around my own town, or that I still pull pesos out of my wallet first, or that I say "permiso" to try to get past someone.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Ok, maybe they notice that last one. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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It's weird. But nice. Nice and weird. </div>
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Being "home" is nice and weird. </div>
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I think from now on, that's how it will be. It will never feel quite as comfortable </div>
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as felt when I lived here, but it will always be a home. </div>
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Maybe one of many, but the first among many. </div>
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Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-76990457387086072282013-04-25T19:20:00.001-07:002013-04-26T14:18:03.319-07:00The Great Dominican Hospital Adventure <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i><b>In which our heroine confronts curiosity, impractical underwear, and terrible nurses. </b></i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<i>Disclaimer: This happened a few weeks ago, and I am feeling much better now! Except that I climb hills like a weak old lady and am in desperate need of pizza. </i></div>
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Do you know what Dominican public hospitals are like? </div>
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<br /></div>
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I do, because I had a lovely two-day visit in which I
experienced the exciting sights, sounds and smells of a former cholera ward and
its friendly workers and inhabitants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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<br />
Probably the highlight was when I was hit on by the male nurse. I was hit on,
by the nurse, while wearing an adult diaper. After two days in the hospital, no
shower, I WAS HIT ON WHILE WEARING A DIAPER. I’m not sure if this is the
greatest compliment I have ever received, or a testimony to the incredibly
sexualized and often sexist culture here. I think the latter. </div>
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<br /></div>
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My Great Hospital Adventure began when my neighbor found me
losing all of my fluids from both ends in the bathroom. I was starting to lose
consciousness and shouting for help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She helped clean me up, put on my first of many diapers, and ran to
change her own clothes so we could get to the hospital. I waited from the
safety of the floor for her to return. And waited. And waited. Finally she
appeared with her make up done, her Dominican “bright and tight” uniform on
(bright blue skin-tight jeans, low cut red top, sparkly red shoes) and her
weave on. Now we were ready to go. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not even extreme diarrhea will make a Dominican go into
public looking a mess. </div>
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She helped me walk to the carrito. I sank down to the side
of the road to wait for it, realized everyone could probably see my diaper and
the ridiculously impractical lacy undies my neighbor had provided, decided I
was dying and didn’t care, and vomited everywhere. Finally we got a vomit bag
and me into the carrito where my neighbor proceeded to tell all of the other
riders the story of my discovery in the bathroom. </div>
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<br /></div>
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We arrived at the hospital, where the triage was a young man
in a preppy polo with a night stick. (Is that what you call those sticks
policemen use?). Luckily for us, the combined powers of my curvy neighbor and
my inability to stand up got us moved to the front of the line in no time. A
doctor asked me what was wrong.</div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yo nesecito un
IV!” (I need an IV!) </div>
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“Ok, we’ll get you one…”</div>
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“I need an IV! I need an IV!”</div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kept
repeating this command until I found myself on a plastic, uncovered narrow bed
with a nurse poking all over me trying to find a vein. He found it, but my body
decided that it was going to keep pushing out my weight in fluids, so a second
IV was added.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Where is her mother?” asked a concerned Dominican man. I
must have been the only gringa in the hospital because soon a crowd of locals
was around my bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“She needs to
call her mother.” “Where is her family? What is she doing here?”</div>
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“She has no one but me,” my neighbor responded with not a
little dramatic flair. “I found her in the bathroom….” And the story began
again. I vomited up the few Gatorade sips I had taken. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I spent that night on a narrow high bed with my towel as a
pillow being visited by a nurse named Pablo. He was a nice one: he invited me
to church, instead of asking why I didn’t have a boyfriend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was all alone in a big open room, no
curtains, open windows. My neighbor warned me to put my valuables under my head
so they wouldn’t get stolen in the night. Great – not only did I have to focus
on not vomiting, but also not getting robbed. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The next day visitors were in and out – two fellow teachers
from my school, my roommate, my neighbor again, a coworker. Random locals who
had been at the scene the day before came in to ask how I was doing and comment
on my dramatic arrival. “She was really bad yesterday!” one Dominican man I
didn’t recognize commented to my nurse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When my roommate came to ask about the white girl who arrived the day
before, the woman at the front desk said “Oh, Mari?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A lot of people in this day and age get fifteen minutes of
fame by going viral on the internet. I got mine by being the only white girl in
a Dominican hospital. Unfortunately, other than the curious visitors, there
weren’t any perks.</div>
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<br /></div>
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My second night I had a pillow, but I also had sickly
neighbors, a nurse who refused to turn out the lights until midnight, and only
one mattress (that morning I had been yelled at for stealing an extra mattress
the night before). All of my bones hurt. I was on my last diaper. I had had
nothing but Gatorade and some hastily snuck crackers. The creeper nurse kept
calling me “dear” and trying to speak English with me. I wanted to punch him,
but my hands were both swollen and slightly green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The water was shut off some time in the night, and there was
blood in the shower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This glamour
of this whole “famous in the hospital” thing had worn off quickly. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The next day a friend was supposed to pick me up, but for
some reason the number wasn’t working and after multiple tries I gave up and
decided to just get to the carrito myself. I packed up all of the goodies my
roommate had brought me – two pillows, multiple books, extra clothes, and a
going-out dress. (The last one was my neighbor’s idea – no surprise
there.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A young Haitian guy who
had been there for my arrival (and had handily placed a trash can to catch my
Gatorade spray) popped up and offered to help me carry everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So maybe there were perks to this fame
after all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we walked to the
stop he asked me if I knew Jesus. I said yes and we walked in silence for a
bit. Then he said, “he loves you” but I misheard and thought he said “I love
you” and everything was a bit awkward after that. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I finally made it into the carrito and slumped against the
window, my arms bruised and bandaged. “You’re not doing so great, uh?” the
large man next to me asked. I was a little sorry my neighbor wasn’t there to
tell the whole story and satisfy Dominican curiosity. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Finally I was home, and I spent the next few days showering
the hospital off me, eating homemade soup and relaxing. That is only half a lie
– the shower was a bucket, the soup was Ramen and visitors constantly
interrupted my relaxation. My roommate said he couldn’t leave the house without
the entire batey asking how his “mujer” (woman) was, and recommending something
for a special tea. “This won’t be a tea much longer, this will be a sancocho
(stew)!” He exclaimed, as he bravely took on bouncer duties, telling visitors I was
sleeping or too tired to talk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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I like to call myself a traveler, to carry this as my brand.
This means that any experience I had was of course a “breathtaking” “insightful”
“life-changing” one, and this hospital stay was no exception. Except for the fact that none
of those adjectives are applicable, unless you call “not dying” life changing. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe it was a little. After the doctors said that if I had
waited two more hours to seek treatment I could have died, I sat and grinned
for three hours. Yes, while in the loud, uncomfortable, sea-foam green painted former cholera ward.
Just me, grinning like a fool and giggling when I thought of the absurd yellow
lacy panties I had been given for my diarrhea crisis, or the looks on the faces
of everyone in the emergency room when I came stumbling through the door. I
grinned until I fell asleep, because life is a lovely thing and travel is still
worth it. </div>
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Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1388139922596022122.post-35843607739269345242013-04-02T19:16:00.001-07:002013-04-25T20:56:14.954-07:00Stuff My Roommate Says<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I live with a Spanish/Italian man who is one of the most easygoing, helpful and sassy roommates I have ever had the pleasure of killing spiders with. He came all the way from the north of Spain to teach little ones and regale me with his stories and zumba moves. He's fluent in English, Spanish and Italian and enjoys sharing his insights with me as we sit around eating our rice and beans. And now, I share them with you.<br />
<br />
"They are always eating me with their eyes"<br />
<i>(about the local women)</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
me - "look at the stars! Doesn't it make you want to go camping?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
him- "to me, this is camping."</div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
"A poop and a beer are the best things"<br />
<i>(I mean, it's the developing world...<a href="http://thirtyseven37.blogspot.com/2012/10/texts-from-georgia.html">bowel movements</a>, and all that.) </i><br />
<br />
"You're welcome for the pearl of wisdom. I always make pearl of wisdom."<br />
"Pearls of wisdom. Plural"<br />
"No, just one. It is a very big pearl. With all the wisdom."<br />
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<br />
About a man hitting on me on the beach<br />
"He didn't actually want you to teach him how to swim... how to swim in bed, maybe."<br />
<br />
me - "this door is like a barn door..I'm like a horse"<br />
him - "a whore! hahhahaah!"<br />
me - "that's not that funny..."<br />
him - "to me, yes."<br />
<br />
<i>(As we tried to eradicate a certain smell using my perfume)</i><br />
"Now it smells like sweet poops. This is what poops a princess."<br />
"What?"<br />
"This is what a princess poop like. Oooh, I made a poop! Oooh, it so sweet!"<br />
<br />
<i>(On free time and Americans)</i><br />
"It is only for holidays, and they start to drink! You can't handle free time, you just start thinking and are like, ahhhh! Three hours of free time and you start making strange hobbies, like frisbee in the winter on the beach."<br />
<br />
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Mary Ellenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13472072515949650200noreply@blogger.com1