Sometimes I can't really connect with the fact that I was alive in the seventies. Ok, only for the last couple years. And I was obviously too small to engage with the realities of 1970's America very deeply. But still.
It seems to me that everything was somehow more authentic then. It seems like that was the real America. I mean, we had the method actors, De Niro and Kaitel and Streep, we had Coppola and Scorcese at their peaks. Sure they're all still around, but when I look at Meet the Fockers, hell, when I look at Charlie Sheen... it's hard not to think that those were the good old days.
Vietnam was there, I mean the war, the cause. The dawn of health food in California was a joke for a Woody Allen film. The TV was big and convex. There were woods all around my suburban town, enough for my uncle to have a salt lick for deer in his backyard. The bad economy. The population explosion. Crime-ridden NYC. Lines for gasoline. And big cars! Why does all that sound so great? And not just great, but somehow more durable and tangible than anything I can say about life now?
As for London, I guess London was full of wooden buses and buck teeth, bad plumbing and bad food. Jellied eels and the like. Right? I don't have the references for the UK that I have for America. Obviously. I mean I have a skeletal framework. But basically London didn't exist before 1997 as far as I'm concerned. When I arrived there, on my twentieth birthday, I expected it to be like Ab Fab. That's why I was there darling.
I wonder if my kids will look at old pictures and laugh at my haircuts, as I did. ("That was the style!" my mom insisted.) I wonder if they will be disappointed that I haven't done some of the things or been in some of the "scenes" that they will later come to associate with the nineties and the first decade of the 21st century, just as I never forgave my parents for living in upstate New York in 1969 and not going to Woodstock.
I wonder how long this retrolicious, all the past is for sale, hey remember when, I love 19childhood-memory-of-our-target-market thing will go on? I feel like buying up everything about the seventies before they run out of stock. I feel like connecting with the reality of the decade of my birth- which is clearly impossible, and exactly what some man in a board room came up with, smoking and laughing evilly, circa 1986.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
what’s happening to me?
There’s quite a lot of variables you see. Let’s look for a moment at the constellation that is now. I'm listening to a song which is stylistically locused in 1970’s America, but it might just be a very convincing pastiche. Browsing the web I find a page for the Catholic school I attended from ages 5 – 12. The uniforms are the same and two of my teachers are still there, as is the school nurse, who must be in her sixties by now. I look at the map on the wall, and realize how far away I am from the world that made me. I scan the school calendar- “Saturday February 10, ziti dinner!” And even more heartbreaking- “Friday February 9, set up for ziti dinner.” So many layers of nostalgia, like the most sorrowful filo pastry in the world. I guess that would be a burnt one, or one with a not-so-tasty filling.
It's hard to define that suburban American world, which I left ten years ago now, on what sometimes feels like an extended vacation from my real life. Impossibly cozy and mildly oppressive. There's a certain brand of feel-good philosophy which is ceaselessly forwarded like a garbled e-greeting-card, willfully upbeat. It's the kind of world where, when faced with difficult news on the television, one only smiles gently and says “I just don’t like to believe that things like that really happen.”
There’s my laptop, which I have named and personified, and feel attached to. I feel like she (Periwinkle) is an individual, that she is different from other Compaq Presarios, and if something (god forbid) should happen to her, I would not only feel a distressing sense of disconnection to the world, but I would not be able to replace her. She’s different because she’s mine.
There is the kitchenette in the corner of my apartment in the East of Turkey. In an apartment building erected 50 or 60 years ago, it has the feel of an even older apartment in the States. One that an old person has been living in for an awfully long time, without making any changes. I like to think that, like Neal Cassidy in the beginning of On the Road, I’m living in a “cold water flat.” Of course there is a hot shower, but the other taps are indeed cold water only. And my shower at the moment is cold, too. I’ve run out of gas and I’ve forgotten to order another canister. Ok... I didn’t forget. It’s just I don’t know how to say canister in Turkish, and I don’t want to sound like a fool.
I did call the water company. I’m an old hand at that, since I was in Istanbul. Most people in Turkey order these big containers of water for their homes, about the size that go in water coolers in offices. But here, instead of a stand, you have a handy pump which you stick into the cooler, like a straw for a really big, really thirsty person. Of course it’s nearly impossible to gage the amount of pressure needed to fill a small glass of water without overflowing. But it's become a kind of game.
I called them up and delivered my lines: “Good evening. I’d like one container of water please.” The man here replied just as they do in Istanbul- “Buyurun,” which means lots of things, like “go ahead,” or “help yourself,” or “can I help you?” I gave him my four digit code. I'm pretty sure I said all this correctly. And yet because of the speed, maybe because of the accent, the man stopped me and said “new teacher?”
“Yes,” I said. There was a silence, words in the background, and then a new voice on the phone.
“Hello. Gutten’tag.”
“Hello,” I said.
“Specken zie deutsche?”
“No.”
Silence.
“My number,” I said slowly, “is 6 4 2 7.”
“2?”
“6…..4…..2…..7”
Then I listened while the two men I had given my number to compared notes in the background. Satisfied with the non-falsifiability of their results, the second man got back on the phone.
“Ok!” he said.
“Ok!” I said.
What pleasure every mundane yet successful transaction of life can bring! I’m not feeling waves of melancholoy anymore; maybe it’s the upbeat nature of the song I’m listening to now, or the knowledge that I’m about to launch this little reflection onto my blog, where everyone can read my thoughts, and I can feel validated. God Bless My Blog. And you my friends. And you strangers; or should I say "friends I haven't met yet"? I’m off now. I’ll be tucking myself in bed to reflect on my dog-eared copy of "Chicken Soup for the Soul."
It's hard to define that suburban American world, which I left ten years ago now, on what sometimes feels like an extended vacation from my real life. Impossibly cozy and mildly oppressive. There's a certain brand of feel-good philosophy which is ceaselessly forwarded like a garbled e-greeting-card, willfully upbeat. It's the kind of world where, when faced with difficult news on the television, one only smiles gently and says “I just don’t like to believe that things like that really happen.”
There’s my laptop, which I have named and personified, and feel attached to. I feel like she (Periwinkle) is an individual, that she is different from other Compaq Presarios, and if something (god forbid) should happen to her, I would not only feel a distressing sense of disconnection to the world, but I would not be able to replace her. She’s different because she’s mine.
There is the kitchenette in the corner of my apartment in the East of Turkey. In an apartment building erected 50 or 60 years ago, it has the feel of an even older apartment in the States. One that an old person has been living in for an awfully long time, without making any changes. I like to think that, like Neal Cassidy in the beginning of On the Road, I’m living in a “cold water flat.” Of course there is a hot shower, but the other taps are indeed cold water only. And my shower at the moment is cold, too. I’ve run out of gas and I’ve forgotten to order another canister. Ok... I didn’t forget. It’s just I don’t know how to say canister in Turkish, and I don’t want to sound like a fool.
I did call the water company. I’m an old hand at that, since I was in Istanbul. Most people in Turkey order these big containers of water for their homes, about the size that go in water coolers in offices. But here, instead of a stand, you have a handy pump which you stick into the cooler, like a straw for a really big, really thirsty person. Of course it’s nearly impossible to gage the amount of pressure needed to fill a small glass of water without overflowing. But it's become a kind of game.
I called them up and delivered my lines: “Good evening. I’d like one container of water please.” The man here replied just as they do in Istanbul- “Buyurun,” which means lots of things, like “go ahead,” or “help yourself,” or “can I help you?” I gave him my four digit code. I'm pretty sure I said all this correctly. And yet because of the speed, maybe because of the accent, the man stopped me and said “new teacher?”
“Yes,” I said. There was a silence, words in the background, and then a new voice on the phone.
“Hello. Gutten’tag.”
“Hello,” I said.
“Specken zie deutsche?”
“No.”
Silence.
“My number,” I said slowly, “is 6 4 2 7.”
“2?”
“6…..4…..2…..7”
Then I listened while the two men I had given my number to compared notes in the background. Satisfied with the non-falsifiability of their results, the second man got back on the phone.
“Ok!” he said.
“Ok!” I said.
What pleasure every mundane yet successful transaction of life can bring! I’m not feeling waves of melancholoy anymore; maybe it’s the upbeat nature of the song I’m listening to now, or the knowledge that I’m about to launch this little reflection onto my blog, where everyone can read my thoughts, and I can feel validated. God Bless My Blog. And you my friends. And you strangers; or should I say "friends I haven't met yet"? I’m off now. I’ll be tucking myself in bed to reflect on my dog-eared copy of "Chicken Soup for the Soul."
Monday, February 19, 2007
yah spring term!
Today is the first day of the new term. I've spent the last two weeks reflecting on methodology , creative ideas for presenting material, content, and assessment. I've cut and cut again the texts on my syllabuses, and I still think it's too much. The funny thing about the literature students I'm teaching is they don't seem to like reading much. I have come up with a lot of ideas to cajole, trick, tempt, and force them into engaging with literature, and I was looking forward to trying them out.
My approach for the first class of the term- this morning, Monday, 8am- was to use a clip from "Apocalypse Now" as a lead-in to Conrad's "Heart of Darkness," which was the loose basis for the film. In TEFL terms, this is known as "generating interest." My mistake last term was to assume that an interest in literature is already present in my students' hearts and minds. But a few weeks was enough to alert me that this is not the case.
In secondary education in Turkey, students and teachers dwell in the dark shadow of a standard university entrance exam of massive significance. Students must choose the subject questions they will answer on the exam, which generally means the ones they can get the highest scores in. Students list the universities they would like to attend, and the subjects they would like to study; this is based on what is presumed feasible for them, with lots of direction from their secondary school teachers and parents. If students have the potential to score high enough to study the prestigious subjects like science and engineering, you can be sure this is where their future lies. Incidentally, English and Literature subjects are at the low end of the scale.
Test results determine where they go and what they study. Thus, questions like "Why did you choose to come to this university?" or "Why did you choose to study this subject?" usually generate the standard reply, "Because my test scores were enough to come here."
Add to this the "mixed" nature of the degree program at this university- a heady blend of linguistics, teaching methodology, language skills, and literature, plus a moderate dose of Turkish history, and you get my students, who just want to pass the degree so they can be teachers, and seem to resent the intrusion of dense texts like "Heart of Darkness" in their already heavy hearts.
But these reflections have all been spurred on by the unexpected denoument of this, my first class of the term. I set up the projector, arranged my notes, and was feeling positive. I looked out over the empty seats in front of me, just arranged in neat rows, like a freshly-dug seed bed. I cued the film clip. I had a sip of water. I looked over my notes again. And the students did not come. I sat in the empty classroom for half an hour, going over possible explanations in my mind. I decided they had mutinied.
I questioned one of my colleagues, who assured me that this is normal. Students have gone to their home towns for the month-long winter break. And they usually don't come back until Tuesday. Another example of what is proving to be a common theme to life in Turkey- you get information when it comes up- why would you need it before?
My approach for the first class of the term- this morning, Monday, 8am- was to use a clip from "Apocalypse Now" as a lead-in to Conrad's "Heart of Darkness," which was the loose basis for the film. In TEFL terms, this is known as "generating interest." My mistake last term was to assume that an interest in literature is already present in my students' hearts and minds. But a few weeks was enough to alert me that this is not the case.
In secondary education in Turkey, students and teachers dwell in the dark shadow of a standard university entrance exam of massive significance. Students must choose the subject questions they will answer on the exam, which generally means the ones they can get the highest scores in. Students list the universities they would like to attend, and the subjects they would like to study; this is based on what is presumed feasible for them, with lots of direction from their secondary school teachers and parents. If students have the potential to score high enough to study the prestigious subjects like science and engineering, you can be sure this is where their future lies. Incidentally, English and Literature subjects are at the low end of the scale.
Test results determine where they go and what they study. Thus, questions like "Why did you choose to come to this university?" or "Why did you choose to study this subject?" usually generate the standard reply, "Because my test scores were enough to come here."
Add to this the "mixed" nature of the degree program at this university- a heady blend of linguistics, teaching methodology, language skills, and literature, plus a moderate dose of Turkish history, and you get my students, who just want to pass the degree so they can be teachers, and seem to resent the intrusion of dense texts like "Heart of Darkness" in their already heavy hearts.
But these reflections have all been spurred on by the unexpected denoument of this, my first class of the term. I set up the projector, arranged my notes, and was feeling positive. I looked out over the empty seats in front of me, just arranged in neat rows, like a freshly-dug seed bed. I cued the film clip. I had a sip of water. I looked over my notes again. And the students did not come. I sat in the empty classroom for half an hour, going over possible explanations in my mind. I decided they had mutinied.
I questioned one of my colleagues, who assured me that this is normal. Students have gone to their home towns for the month-long winter break. And they usually don't come back until Tuesday. Another example of what is proving to be a common theme to life in Turkey- you get information when it comes up- why would you need it before?
Saturday, February 17, 2007
stories from Cairo
So I recently went to Cairo and it was amazing. Because I have what I generally refer to as "a 35mm camera" (a description of which some have questioned the aptness of, but nevermind), and I don't know of any scanners I can use, sadly I can't post any photos right now, maybe in future. But I have some stories...
Cairo Story 1:
I was in a taxi with three other women, on the way to an American diplomat's house, to attend a reception in the evening after a day of conferences at the American University. The taxi driver didn't speak English, but due to my very little grasp of Arabic, I was nominated speaker of the car. I gave him the address, he nodded, and we set off. We learned that a taxi ride in Cairo really takes the word "ride" seriously- as the man in charge of the Scrambler at the travelling fair says: "Hold on tight!" Cars weave in and out of traffic; lanes are fluid and seem to play with the gaps, fissures, and problematic attempts at boundaries which characterize the text that is the road. Horns are used liberally and with great fervor.
At some point, the driver seemed to ask for the address again. I told him the address; someone else showed him the paper, which was written in English and therefore of no use to him. He pulled off to the side of the road and, without a word, got out of the car.
We looked at each other, and occasionally surveyed the shops and little alleys which fanned out in the direction our driver had gone walking.
After about five minutes, a man came up to our car and peered in the window.
"The driver?" he asked. I guess he could tell we weren't locals.
"We don't know," we said. The man looked at us, looked at the car, then opened the driver's side door, reached in and put the car in neutral. Then he proceeded to move the car forward, steering the wheel to the right. "Uh..." we all said to each other. "What's he doing?" "I don't know!" "Wait, wait!" I said to the man. "No problem! Thank you!" The man shrugged, put the car back in park and walked off.
After a few more minutes, our driver returned with three men. One of them eyed us through the crack in the window and said "Hello, where you going?" We carefully explained the address, and named a landmark.
"Oh!" he said loudly, with a big smile. "I know. Big house for Americans?"
"Yes," we whispered.
So we went on our way, and had a pleasant evening eating American food, which is shipped all over the world to those in the foreign service. I mean everything, including lettuce. The diplomat's apartment was furnished with Middle-eastern carpets, wall-hangings, cushions, etc. And yet the life of the diplomat and family, in the middle of the Egyptian megalopolis was so... American. Interesting window into a strange world, but I much preferred the taxi ride.
Cairo Story 1:
I was in a taxi with three other women, on the way to an American diplomat's house, to attend a reception in the evening after a day of conferences at the American University. The taxi driver didn't speak English, but due to my very little grasp of Arabic, I was nominated speaker of the car. I gave him the address, he nodded, and we set off. We learned that a taxi ride in Cairo really takes the word "ride" seriously- as the man in charge of the Scrambler at the travelling fair says: "Hold on tight!" Cars weave in and out of traffic; lanes are fluid and seem to play with the gaps, fissures, and problematic attempts at boundaries which characterize the text that is the road. Horns are used liberally and with great fervor.
At some point, the driver seemed to ask for the address again. I told him the address; someone else showed him the paper, which was written in English and therefore of no use to him. He pulled off to the side of the road and, without a word, got out of the car.
We looked at each other, and occasionally surveyed the shops and little alleys which fanned out in the direction our driver had gone walking.
After about five minutes, a man came up to our car and peered in the window.
"The driver?" he asked. I guess he could tell we weren't locals.
"We don't know," we said. The man looked at us, looked at the car, then opened the driver's side door, reached in and put the car in neutral. Then he proceeded to move the car forward, steering the wheel to the right. "Uh..." we all said to each other. "What's he doing?" "I don't know!" "Wait, wait!" I said to the man. "No problem! Thank you!" The man shrugged, put the car back in park and walked off.
After a few more minutes, our driver returned with three men. One of them eyed us through the crack in the window and said "Hello, where you going?" We carefully explained the address, and named a landmark.
"Oh!" he said loudly, with a big smile. "I know. Big house for Americans?"
"Yes," we whispered.
So we went on our way, and had a pleasant evening eating American food, which is shipped all over the world to those in the foreign service. I mean everything, including lettuce. The diplomat's apartment was furnished with Middle-eastern carpets, wall-hangings, cushions, etc. And yet the life of the diplomat and family, in the middle of the Egyptian megalopolis was so... American. Interesting window into a strange world, but I much preferred the taxi ride.
Friday, February 16, 2007
helpful phrases for women
Greetings my friends and family and strange roving members of the public.
As I'm sure I'm not the only woman out there who sometimes feels herself at a loss of what to say, I am posting this helpful guide I recently came across:
"The following exclamations all have approximately the same meaning. They are generally used by women and express surprise, astonishment, fear, or consternation.
Heavens! Heaven forbid!
Goodness! My goodness!
Good heavens! For goodness sake!
Heaven help us! For goodness sakes!
For heaven's sake! Mercy!
For heaven's sakes! Mercy me!
Land sakes!
Other exclamations frequently used by women:
My! (said in surprise or admiration)
Oh, my! (said in surprise, admiration, or a worried fashion)
My, my! (said in surprise or in a worried fashion)
My word! (said in surprise or astonishment)
Well, I never! (said in amazement)
Eeek! (said when the speaker is frightened by a mouse or is in a similar frightening predicament)
Oh dear! (said in worry or consternation) "
From: Dobson, Julia. Effective Techniques for English Conversation Groups. OELP: Washington, DC, 2005.
At least now I know what to do in those awkward pauses.
As I'm sure I'm not the only woman out there who sometimes feels herself at a loss of what to say, I am posting this helpful guide I recently came across:
"The following exclamations all have approximately the same meaning. They are generally used by women and express surprise, astonishment, fear, or consternation.
Heavens! Heaven forbid!
Goodness! My goodness!
Good heavens! For goodness sake!
Heaven help us! For goodness sakes!
For heaven's sake! Mercy!
For heaven's sakes! Mercy me!
Land sakes!
Other exclamations frequently used by women:
My! (said in surprise or admiration)
Oh, my! (said in surprise, admiration, or a worried fashion)
My, my! (said in surprise or in a worried fashion)
My word! (said in surprise or astonishment)
Well, I never! (said in amazement)
Eeek! (said when the speaker is frightened by a mouse or is in a similar frightening predicament)
Oh dear! (said in worry or consternation) "
From: Dobson, Julia. Effective Techniques for English Conversation Groups. OELP: Washington, DC, 2005.
At least now I know what to do in those awkward pauses.
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