I will be in Sofia all next week, working hard, without kids. Hope you all have a great week and get to spend time with friends. Take care!
27 November 2005
mini-vacation
I will be in Sofia all next week, working hard, without kids. Hope you all have a great week and get to spend time with friends. Take care!
25 November 2005
bones, jewels and massacre
Yes, I’m a nerd but this stuff is really interesting… The archeologist who is conducting this dig has to have bodyguards because he helped convict a bunch of grave robbers and now they want to kill him.
Mass grave yields Mayan secrets
A grisly discovery deep in the Guatemalan jungle may cast new light on one of the ancient world's most beguiling mysteries - the collapse of the Mayan civilisation. A grave containing some 50 bodies, buried in royal finery and bearing the marks of a vicious death, has been perplexing experts since it was unearthed earlier this year.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/4450528.stm
well, at least I have a better life than maegen...
| This Is My Life, Rated | |
| Life: |  6.4 |
| Mind: | 6.3 |
| Body: |  8.6 |
| Spirit: |  5.4 |
| Friends/Family: |  3.3 |
| Love: |  2.1 |
| Finance: | 6.1 |
| Take the Rate My Life Quiz | |
And the worse part is what they kick you when you are down...
"Your love score is very low, indicating trouble. There is love out there for you. Seek the advice of wise people on how to go about finding it. Do not lose hope. " I wasn't losing hope till I took your stupid quiz, assh-le. What the Hell did I do wrong to make them say "Your life score leaves room for improvement "? Damn, I need to stop spending so much time on the internet...
24 November 2005
happy thanksgiving, bulgarian stylin'
Today is Thanksgiving Day. For someone far away from home, in a country where they don’t even know what Thanksgiving is, today could seem like a downer. But fortunately today I was able to experience what Thanksgiving is all about: people coming together and helping each other, not because they have to, or because they are seeking some kind of payment, but simply because they want to.
This week has been a rough week for me. I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep, my classes were exceptionally unruly and yesterday I lost a great colleague because the 13th grade doesn’t want to show up for class. So yesterday and today the last thing I wanted to do was host a huge party for Thanksgiving. Today all I wanted to do was teach my classes at school, teach my classes at the prison and take the evening off and relax. Instead, I invited everyone I saw to a big party at my apartment to celebrate a day that few knew about.
To throw a wrench into the works, I had classes until 1:30, I had to be at the prison from 3:00 to 6:00 and people were coming over at 7:00. That gave me about two hours to bake banana bread, cook mashed potatoes, squash, deviled eggs, dip, salad, prepare a meat and cheese dish and, of course, buy all the ingredients for all that. I knew I had a lot to do, but I believed, like I do all too often, that I could do it all by myself. Luckily, my counterpart here, Galya, offered to come over with her sister after my lessons at the prison and help.
They picked me up after my lessons and drove me to my apartment. They gave me a huge bag of goodies too, canned fruit, vegetables, sauces, things that you absolutely must have in Bulgaria to get through the winter. As soon as we arrived at my apartment we got to work. After five minutes, a teacher from another school in town arrived, and five minutes after that, two of my students arrived*. Like an army they converged on my tiny kitchen. They didn’t question why, they only asked what they could do. Wielding knives and derogatory comments about my masculine culinary skills, they peeled potatoes, diced onions, mixed salads, boiled squash and beat eggs. By the time my other guests arrived, I actually had things on the table and it almost had the feeling of a real Bulgarian “Na Gosti.”
At first I was ashamed that here were five supposed guests working in my own personal sweatshop. But I soon realized that they didn’t see anything wrong with this. I have heard again and again, after experiencing incredible acts of generosity here, that I needn’t worry about it, that’s how people are here. And yet still I resisted that. How can people who work all summer preparing canned fruits and vegetables for the winter, give them to me like they were nothing? How can people who make about $120 a month, buy me lunches, dinners, coffees without blinking an eye? How can people who work all day, go visit someone else’s home, roll up their sleeves, and work as hard as if they were the hosts?
I don’t know why they are like that here but they are. They humble me. I have money here, the Peace Corps certainly doesn’t let me starve, but the Bulgarians I have met give and give and give till they have nothing left. They have a great sense of what it means to look after ones neighbor. If you need help they are there, with a hammer, some homemade tea, Rakia, or whatever you need. And the only expectation they have is some vague notion that if they were in the same situation, someone would be there to help them.
Tonight, on Thanksgiving, I am thankful to be learning this: to give without expecting. It goes beyond that though, this giving is more than just redistribution of commodities, it is really sharing love. So for all my friends and family stateside, I love you and miss you. Eat some turkey and drink some eggnog for me and be happy knowing that I am loved here.
*When my students arrived I felt like I had to make some excuse for the craziness that was my apartment. I welcomed them and said “it’s a crazy house!” One of my students smiled at me and said simply, “but it’s happy.”
This week has been a rough week for me. I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep, my classes were exceptionally unruly and yesterday I lost a great colleague because the 13th grade doesn’t want to show up for class. So yesterday and today the last thing I wanted to do was host a huge party for Thanksgiving. Today all I wanted to do was teach my classes at school, teach my classes at the prison and take the evening off and relax. Instead, I invited everyone I saw to a big party at my apartment to celebrate a day that few knew about.
To throw a wrench into the works, I had classes until 1:30, I had to be at the prison from 3:00 to 6:00 and people were coming over at 7:00. That gave me about two hours to bake banana bread, cook mashed potatoes, squash, deviled eggs, dip, salad, prepare a meat and cheese dish and, of course, buy all the ingredients for all that. I knew I had a lot to do, but I believed, like I do all too often, that I could do it all by myself. Luckily, my counterpart here, Galya, offered to come over with her sister after my lessons at the prison and help.
They picked me up after my lessons and drove me to my apartment. They gave me a huge bag of goodies too, canned fruit, vegetables, sauces, things that you absolutely must have in Bulgaria to get through the winter. As soon as we arrived at my apartment we got to work. After five minutes, a teacher from another school in town arrived, and five minutes after that, two of my students arrived*. Like an army they converged on my tiny kitchen. They didn’t question why, they only asked what they could do. Wielding knives and derogatory comments about my masculine culinary skills, they peeled potatoes, diced onions, mixed salads, boiled squash and beat eggs. By the time my other guests arrived, I actually had things on the table and it almost had the feeling of a real Bulgarian “Na Gosti.”
At first I was ashamed that here were five supposed guests working in my own personal sweatshop. But I soon realized that they didn’t see anything wrong with this. I have heard again and again, after experiencing incredible acts of generosity here, that I needn’t worry about it, that’s how people are here. And yet still I resisted that. How can people who work all summer preparing canned fruits and vegetables for the winter, give them to me like they were nothing? How can people who make about $120 a month, buy me lunches, dinners, coffees without blinking an eye? How can people who work all day, go visit someone else’s home, roll up their sleeves, and work as hard as if they were the hosts?
I don’t know why they are like that here but they are. They humble me. I have money here, the Peace Corps certainly doesn’t let me starve, but the Bulgarians I have met give and give and give till they have nothing left. They have a great sense of what it means to look after ones neighbor. If you need help they are there, with a hammer, some homemade tea, Rakia, or whatever you need. And the only expectation they have is some vague notion that if they were in the same situation, someone would be there to help them.
Tonight, on Thanksgiving, I am thankful to be learning this: to give without expecting. It goes beyond that though, this giving is more than just redistribution of commodities, it is really sharing love. So for all my friends and family stateside, I love you and miss you. Eat some turkey and drink some eggnog for me and be happy knowing that I am loved here.
*When my students arrived I felt like I had to make some excuse for the craziness that was my apartment. I welcomed them and said “it’s a crazy house!” One of my students smiled at me and said simply, “but it’s happy.”
21 November 2005
democracy, calf stomach and cheap wine
I always considered myself anti-capitalist. I hate the idea that we live in a society where seemingly the most important thing is our ability to make money. It makes me sick when I think that people measure each other’s worth by the car they drive, the clothes they wear, the computer they have or the size of their TV. Naturally, because I am so anti-capitalist I was drawn to “the other side”; I thought “hey, maybe communism isn’t really that bad.” A conversation I recently had shed some light on something I thought I wanted.November 10th was the 16th anniversary of the fall of communism in Bulgaria. On that day a colleague asked me if I wanted to go to the local механа (Bulgarian tavern) for some wine and шкембе чорба (tripe soup). Never one to pass up wine and stomach soup, of course I said “да.” We dug into the soup and the cheap wine “Меча Кръв (Bear Blood)” and the conversation turned to the state of Bulgaria and how the kids in our school are absolutely crazy. I asked my colleague how things were like during communist times and whether he liked things better now or then (my reasoning was that one thing a dictatorship is supposed to be good at is maintaining order). He smiled and said “now. I like freedom.” He went on to say, with hand gestures mimicking a horse with blinders on, that when he was my age he only could do what the communists wanted him to do. (I like this man, but I am afraid he thinks I understand Bulgarian only accompanied with extravagant hand gestures…)
The difference between now and then is that even though things were more orderly during Communist times, it was only because everything was controlled by others. If he wanted to visit a family member in Петрич, a town located near the border with Greece, he had to ask permission from the Communist party and receive signed papers stating it was ok. My colleague studied economics in school. He wasn’t allowed to freely study Adam Smith, Keynes, or Ricardo; students in economics learned about them but only in the context that they were completely wrong. Not only travel and education, but even personal habits were controlled. As my colleague described it, if you had long hair, you went to jail! Bell-bottoms, jail! Beatles records, jail!
I was shocked by this. Of course, I had known that Soviet-style communism had strict controls on everything but to hear this from a man who had spent most his life without choosing what to study, how to wear his hair, even what he could listen to, made me very sad. But he also made me very proud. I asked him what was the first thing he did when freedom came to Bulgaria. He told me ran for mayor of his village and won. After 50 years of being told by a bureaucrat in Sofia who was in charge of his village, this man took advantage of democracy and became the village’s first freely elected mayor. Something so simple, in his voice, took on the proportions of being elected president of the United States. He also went back to school and relearned economics, this time learning what he wanted. He now runs the Junior Achievement Program in our school teaching young people how capitalism works in the real world.
I still am not in love with capitalism, but I have found a renewed appreciation of democracy. Sure it may be messy, and every once in a while we elect an idiot, and all too often the majority thinks they are the only ones that matter, still there is something to say for freedom. Freedom to listen to what we want, read what we want and go where we want. I felt very lucky to find appreciation in these little things. For once, the conversation was more interesting then the soup.
19 November 2005
the democrats finally get a backbone
“I like guys who got five deferments and (have) never been there and send people to war, and then don't like to hear suggestions about what needs to be done.”
John Murtha (Democrat Congressman from Pennsylvania, and decorated Vietnam Veteran) responding to Vice- president Dick Cheney’s claims that those who question the presence of US troops in Iraq are unpatriotic. The “five deferments” comment refers to the fact that Vice-president Cheney received 5 deferments during the Vietnam War which allowed him to stay at home in the United States while others were required to fight.
John Murtha (Democrat Congressman from Pennsylvania, and decorated Vietnam Veteran) responding to Vice- president Dick Cheney’s claims that those who question the presence of US troops in Iraq are unpatriotic. The “five deferments” comment refers to the fact that Vice-president Cheney received 5 deferments during the Vietnam War which allowed him to stay at home in the United States while others were required to fight.
just like new hampshire...
First snow in Bobov Dol! I am happy to report I woke up this morning to about an inch of snow on the ground. As this picture from my terrace shows it is very beautiful right now. I am glad that the snow has come because that means that snowboarding can't be that far behind! 
15 November 2005
one part tea, three parts ракия. repeat.
My senior thesis advisor was a big Medical Anthropologist. He has devoted his life into studying the way cultures react to illnesses. If you ever get a chance to read any medical anthropology work you should, it is fascinating to see how differently groups of people can react to the same set of diseases. These last couple of days have showed me a little insight into the way Bulgarians react when their crazy little American gets a cold.
First I’ll explain what I had in American terms. I had a cold. I figured I got sick from either my students or Friday night when I went to the Disco. I had a huge headache, the chills, sore throat, a whole lotta mucous, I lost my appetite, an awful hacking cough and was very tired. I could feel the cold beginning on Friday night, I didn’t eat anything on Saturday, felt worse Saturday night and then Sunday morning, the cold broke and I thought I was going to die. On Monday, I was feeling better but called into work because I needed more sleep and a day without students. I took a couple Ibuprofen, some tea with honey and lemon juice, and some decongestants. I didn’t check my temperature because I figured, “what difference would it make? I would treat it exactly the same way.” My plan of attack was to just wait it out. I thought it would pass. And it did. I did not call a doctor.
Now for the Bulgarian response. It seems that my friends believe that colds come from cold temperatures. Colds can come from changing temperatures or simply from being cold and wet. Neighbors asked me when I was underdressed, and some thought it was from my long, cold walks to school. Another neighbor said it was from Friday night when I went to visit her and only wore a t-shirt. Another neighbor said that I should keep all my doors within my apartment open so that the whole place will be one temperature and I won’t have to go from a hot living room to a cold kitchen. This could get me sick. One of my 24 year old neighbors, however, saw me looking half dead and laughed, saying, “имаш ново гадже, нали? (Well, you got a new girlfriend, don’t you?).” At the time, I was not in the mood for joking. But now I realize that his comment may suggest another concept of the cause of illness: having a new girlfriend, and kissing her, can give you an illness. Maybe he and his generation are thinking of colds in a different way. Of course, I don’t have a new girlfriend, but that was part of the joke too. Now that I think of it, he’s a pretty mean guy.
Treatments for colds vary greatly. Most often it is something social. As an American, I am accustomed to being left alone when I am sick. I figure all I need is some rest, relaxation and peace. Not here. I think I was more active this weekend than any other time. I went over two neighbors, had coffee with a Bulgarian colleague in a café, and had four guests over to my place. Guests brought sweets, hot milk mixtures, two dinners (on the same night), and tea with cognac and honey (twice). Though I didn’t feel like it, we talked and talked and talked until I felt like I was going to pass out.
Tea with honey, lemon and cognac or brandy was an often repeated remedy. So was a kind of compress to put on your throat. It involves homemade brandy, crushed olives, scarves, boiled and applied to the throat. One person who told me this, even though she was suggesting it, didn’t know exactly why it worked. Sounds very much like Western Culture: we always suggest some medicine but do we really know how aspirin works? Another suggestion was one I had never heard of: fill up a bucket with very very hot water and a handful of salt. Then you stick your feet in it and wait till you get very chilly. I don’t understand this one but I think I missed something in the translation…
Here, people take a more cautious approach to sickness. It is a much bigger deal. If you are sick, you are always treated like you are dying. You must see the doctor, you must go to the hospital. You must go home and rest. Take plenty of medicine. Take plenty of time off from work. I was hesitant about taking Monday off, but everyone was expecting me to take Tuesday, or even Wednesday off too. My first period class didn’t show up today because they were sure I would not come in.
So I got sick and now I am better. Who has a better explanation and treatment? I don’t know. But I do know that I was underdressed Friday at my neighbors place and on Friday I was freezing after taking a very cold shower. And maybe I should have taken today off because I still have a nasty cough, and I nearly feel asleep in the teachers room between classes. And maybe that tea with brandy really did work…
First I’ll explain what I had in American terms. I had a cold. I figured I got sick from either my students or Friday night when I went to the Disco. I had a huge headache, the chills, sore throat, a whole lotta mucous, I lost my appetite, an awful hacking cough and was very tired. I could feel the cold beginning on Friday night, I didn’t eat anything on Saturday, felt worse Saturday night and then Sunday morning, the cold broke and I thought I was going to die. On Monday, I was feeling better but called into work because I needed more sleep and a day without students. I took a couple Ibuprofen, some tea with honey and lemon juice, and some decongestants. I didn’t check my temperature because I figured, “what difference would it make? I would treat it exactly the same way.” My plan of attack was to just wait it out. I thought it would pass. And it did. I did not call a doctor.
Now for the Bulgarian response. It seems that my friends believe that colds come from cold temperatures. Colds can come from changing temperatures or simply from being cold and wet. Neighbors asked me when I was underdressed, and some thought it was from my long, cold walks to school. Another neighbor said it was from Friday night when I went to visit her and only wore a t-shirt. Another neighbor said that I should keep all my doors within my apartment open so that the whole place will be one temperature and I won’t have to go from a hot living room to a cold kitchen. This could get me sick. One of my 24 year old neighbors, however, saw me looking half dead and laughed, saying, “имаш ново гадже, нали? (Well, you got a new girlfriend, don’t you?).” At the time, I was not in the mood for joking. But now I realize that his comment may suggest another concept of the cause of illness: having a new girlfriend, and kissing her, can give you an illness. Maybe he and his generation are thinking of colds in a different way. Of course, I don’t have a new girlfriend, but that was part of the joke too. Now that I think of it, he’s a pretty mean guy.
Treatments for colds vary greatly. Most often it is something social. As an American, I am accustomed to being left alone when I am sick. I figure all I need is some rest, relaxation and peace. Not here. I think I was more active this weekend than any other time. I went over two neighbors, had coffee with a Bulgarian colleague in a café, and had four guests over to my place. Guests brought sweets, hot milk mixtures, two dinners (on the same night), and tea with cognac and honey (twice). Though I didn’t feel like it, we talked and talked and talked until I felt like I was going to pass out.
Tea with honey, lemon and cognac or brandy was an often repeated remedy. So was a kind of compress to put on your throat. It involves homemade brandy, crushed olives, scarves, boiled and applied to the throat. One person who told me this, even though she was suggesting it, didn’t know exactly why it worked. Sounds very much like Western Culture: we always suggest some medicine but do we really know how aspirin works? Another suggestion was one I had never heard of: fill up a bucket with very very hot water and a handful of salt. Then you stick your feet in it and wait till you get very chilly. I don’t understand this one but I think I missed something in the translation…
Here, people take a more cautious approach to sickness. It is a much bigger deal. If you are sick, you are always treated like you are dying. You must see the doctor, you must go to the hospital. You must go home and rest. Take plenty of medicine. Take plenty of time off from work. I was hesitant about taking Monday off, but everyone was expecting me to take Tuesday, or even Wednesday off too. My first period class didn’t show up today because they were sure I would not come in.
So I got sick and now I am better. Who has a better explanation and treatment? I don’t know. But I do know that I was underdressed Friday at my neighbors place and on Friday I was freezing after taking a very cold shower. And maybe I should have taken today off because I still have a nasty cough, and I nearly feel asleep in the teachers room between classes. And maybe that tea with brandy really did work…
14 November 2005
goin guesting!
I have yet to understand the exact etiquette for visiting friends or hosting guests here in Bulgaria. I have mentioned it before but as a Anthropology student, I am very interested in common day culture like this. This part of life in Bulgaria is very important. In Bulgarian, people “ходи на гости” which means they “go guesting.” When you visit someone you are always offered something to eat and drink. The drinks can vary from coffee and tea to beer and homemade “ракия (brandy).” The food can also range from anything from a few sweets to a whole dinner that doesn’t end until you raise your hand and say “стига, преядох! (Stop, I ate too much!).” I am never quite sure what I will get when I visit someone. Most of the time the visit lasts 3 or 4 hours and by the time I leave can barely walk from the food and brandy. Other times I am counting on the food and after 4 hours go back to my empty apartment and cook chicken nuggets.
I think that the level of food and drink you get is based on how far in advance things are planned. If someone asks you to come over to see them on Sunday and it is Thursday, you had better not eat anything all Sunday because you are gonna get stuffed. But if someone calls you and asks you to come over now, you should grab a bite of something first because most likely you are just gonna get some coffee. Under all occasions, when you visit someone, you should bring something. This can be almost anything from a few sweets from the local store, to some coke, to a homemade apple cobbler that takes you all day to bake.
Hosting guests is the trickiest thing. Being a single, young man here I feel a little weird inviting people to my apartment. I am not a very good cook. These people who I go visit cook phenomenal meals. I am not kidding. Everything is made with fresh vegetables, meats, and cheeses loaded up with plenty of oil and spices. I am afraid that they will come over and I will cook a tuna noodle casserole and they will think, “damn, I’m not having this chump over again. He couldn’t cook his way out of a wet paper bag!” I also do not have a TV. This is another big part of hosting people. Putting on the TV and sitting down and eating and drinking. Most often the TV is turned on either to Bulgarian pop folk or soccer. Also, there is a tendency not to show up. I’ll invite people over for something and then they just won’t show up. I never know what to in this situation. Should I call them? Next time I see them what do I say?
I also have a tendency to either overreact or under react when people come over.
I don’t know whether to lay out a big spread with dinner, drinks and dessert or whether to just put out some coffee and biscuits. Take today for example. Two teachers from school texted me on my cell phone and told me they were coming over because I was sick from work. I cut up a couple apples, salami, cheese, put out bread and nutella, and got ready to make some coffee and tea. I put out plates, and forks and was ready. They showed up with some sweets and I thought everything was going according to plan. But they barely ate anything! I ate almost everything! I guess this was one of those “just coffee and biscuits” time. This is such a huge part of Bulgarian life that I feel like an idiot if I get it wrong. I think they were happy though. And for the most part, people know I’m an American and have no idea what I’m doing…
On a personal note, though I was sure I did have it, I did not have Bird Flu. I am a little disappointed by this. I am a glutton for sympathy and attention and I can think of no better way to get the level of attention I desire then to be the first person to contract bird flu in Bulgaria. But alas, I am okay and I will go on.
I think that the level of food and drink you get is based on how far in advance things are planned. If someone asks you to come over to see them on Sunday and it is Thursday, you had better not eat anything all Sunday because you are gonna get stuffed. But if someone calls you and asks you to come over now, you should grab a bite of something first because most likely you are just gonna get some coffee. Under all occasions, when you visit someone, you should bring something. This can be almost anything from a few sweets from the local store, to some coke, to a homemade apple cobbler that takes you all day to bake.
Hosting guests is the trickiest thing. Being a single, young man here I feel a little weird inviting people to my apartment. I am not a very good cook. These people who I go visit cook phenomenal meals. I am not kidding. Everything is made with fresh vegetables, meats, and cheeses loaded up with plenty of oil and spices. I am afraid that they will come over and I will cook a tuna noodle casserole and they will think, “damn, I’m not having this chump over again. He couldn’t cook his way out of a wet paper bag!” I also do not have a TV. This is another big part of hosting people. Putting on the TV and sitting down and eating and drinking. Most often the TV is turned on either to Bulgarian pop folk or soccer. Also, there is a tendency not to show up. I’ll invite people over for something and then they just won’t show up. I never know what to in this situation. Should I call them? Next time I see them what do I say?
I also have a tendency to either overreact or under react when people come over.
I don’t know whether to lay out a big spread with dinner, drinks and dessert or whether to just put out some coffee and biscuits. Take today for example. Two teachers from school texted me on my cell phone and told me they were coming over because I was sick from work. I cut up a couple apples, salami, cheese, put out bread and nutella, and got ready to make some coffee and tea. I put out plates, and forks and was ready. They showed up with some sweets and I thought everything was going according to plan. But they barely ate anything! I ate almost everything! I guess this was one of those “just coffee and biscuits” time. This is such a huge part of Bulgarian life that I feel like an idiot if I get it wrong. I think they were happy though. And for the most part, people know I’m an American and have no idea what I’m doing…On a personal note, though I was sure I did have it, I did not have Bird Flu. I am a little disappointed by this. I am a glutton for sympathy and attention and I can think of no better way to get the level of attention I desire then to be the first person to contract bird flu in Bulgaria. But alas, I am okay and I will go on.
13 November 2005
jeezus, iz eenglish krazee! or why i am amazed by non-native english speakers
It’s 5:00 a.m. here in Bulgaria. I’m sick. My throat has swollen to the size of a grain of rice and I am afraid because tomorrow my only form of communication will be written notes, in Bulgarian. I hate writing in Bulgarian.
It’s not that the Bulgarian alphabet is hard. Just the opposite. Unlike English, each letter corresponds to a different sound and that sound is always represented by the same letter. It’s a novel concept to most native English speakers. The problem is that after learning English for 23 years, my ability to differentiate sounds has been shot to Hell. Let me explain.
In Bulgarian, there are 3 letters that always give me problems: с,з, and ц. The Bulgarian letter “с” sounds like our “s” as in “Sally.” The letter “з” sounds like our “z” as in “zebra.” And the letter “ц” sounds like “ts” as in “pizza.” But to me, these sounds often sound alike. Say them out loud and you’ll see what I mean. A native Bulgarian speaker can pick out the difference in a second. My friend Maegen lives in a town called “Разлог (Razlog).” I am always calling the town “Raslog” apparently because whenever I say what I think is “Razlog” to someone and they look at me funny. I will repeat it again, and get another strange look. Then I will say it one more time, very slowly, and they will say “oh, RaZlog!” and I then I will say “да!” and then they will laugh. At me. Another word that gives me trouble is “медицински (meditsinski)” which means medical. I am just realizing now, considering the shape I am in now, how sick is God’s sense of humor.
But who can blame me for this inability to match sounds to letters when we take a look at English spelling. Consider these three sounds: “s,z, and ts.” (I will leave out “c” so I don’t put my fist through my monitor). It is true that usually when we write “s” and “z,” we say “s” and “z.” But as I am learning every day I teach, “there are exceptions.” We right “season” but we say “seezon.” When we write “pizza,” we say “pitsa” but when we write “pizzazz,” we say “pizaz.” We write “nose” when we say “noze.” “These” = “theez.” We write about the famous leader “Cortez” but we always talk about “Cortes.” Right now, I could go for some homemade “delishus cookiz,” but when I write to Mom I tell her I want some “delicious cookies.” Try telling a bunch of 7th graders, that “Mary has a sheep, but hazent any goats.”
We all know, unfortunately, that this is the very tip of the iceberg (or “izberg” depending on where you are from). This is why I both am amazed by non-native speakers and hate spelling in Bulgarian. Since we learn as babies how to do this stuff we forget how difficult it is. We also learn not to differentiate between certain sounds. I call myself “Andy” with a long vowel sound for “A” but when my friends in Ireland or here call me “Andy” with a short vowel sound, I don’t notice. When we are thrown into a language that actually has a set of rules and follows them, we are screwed. We end up saying “Raslog,” and “medisinski” and dying from a horrible sinus infection because no one understood that we wanted to see a “medical sister” and not their sister named “Medisinka.” Or maybe that’s just me…
It’s not that the Bulgarian alphabet is hard. Just the opposite. Unlike English, each letter corresponds to a different sound and that sound is always represented by the same letter. It’s a novel concept to most native English speakers. The problem is that after learning English for 23 years, my ability to differentiate sounds has been shot to Hell. Let me explain.
In Bulgarian, there are 3 letters that always give me problems: с,з, and ц. The Bulgarian letter “с” sounds like our “s” as in “Sally.” The letter “з” sounds like our “z” as in “zebra.” And the letter “ц” sounds like “ts” as in “pizza.” But to me, these sounds often sound alike. Say them out loud and you’ll see what I mean. A native Bulgarian speaker can pick out the difference in a second. My friend Maegen lives in a town called “Разлог (Razlog).” I am always calling the town “Raslog” apparently because whenever I say what I think is “Razlog” to someone and they look at me funny. I will repeat it again, and get another strange look. Then I will say it one more time, very slowly, and they will say “oh, RaZlog!” and I then I will say “да!” and then they will laugh. At me. Another word that gives me trouble is “медицински (meditsinski)” which means medical. I am just realizing now, considering the shape I am in now, how sick is God’s sense of humor.
But who can blame me for this inability to match sounds to letters when we take a look at English spelling. Consider these three sounds: “s,z, and ts.” (I will leave out “c” so I don’t put my fist through my monitor). It is true that usually when we write “s” and “z,” we say “s” and “z.” But as I am learning every day I teach, “there are exceptions.” We right “season” but we say “seezon.” When we write “pizza,” we say “pitsa” but when we write “pizzazz,” we say “pizaz.” We write “nose” when we say “noze.” “These” = “theez.” We write about the famous leader “Cortez” but we always talk about “Cortes.” Right now, I could go for some homemade “delishus cookiz,” but when I write to Mom I tell her I want some “delicious cookies.” Try telling a bunch of 7th graders, that “Mary has a sheep, but hazent any goats.”
We all know, unfortunately, that this is the very tip of the iceberg (or “izberg” depending on where you are from). This is why I both am amazed by non-native speakers and hate spelling in Bulgarian. Since we learn as babies how to do this stuff we forget how difficult it is. We also learn not to differentiate between certain sounds. I call myself “Andy” with a long vowel sound for “A” but when my friends in Ireland or here call me “Andy” with a short vowel sound, I don’t notice. When we are thrown into a language that actually has a set of rules and follows them, we are screwed. We end up saying “Raslog,” and “medisinski” and dying from a horrible sinus infection because no one understood that we wanted to see a “medical sister” and not their sister named “Medisinka.” Or maybe that’s just me…
12 November 2005
my new boss
Well, apartment 17 has a new resident. I would like to introduce everyone to "кралица (princess)" or "крали" for short. Her name is pronounced like "Krali" for all you non-Cyrillic readers. I wasn't sure if I wanted the responsibility of a little kitten. One of my neighbors, though found this rascal in the coal celler, all alone and cold and the sap that I am, I couldn't say no. Here's us this morning. We'll see how this works out...
11 November 2005
a captive class
Today I attended a play here in Bobov Dol. There were several differences between this show and others I have seen. For one, I wasn’t allowed to go in with my identity card or my cell phone. Another difference was that there were no female actors, only a bunch of men, two of which were in drag. Also, the theater was patrolled by 10 guards. But I must say the biggest difference was that I was surrounded by about 80 convicted killers.
As odd as it may sound, I have begun to rely on a prison to keep me from going insane. Twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I teach English to a small group of prisoners here in town. Before my classes with these prisoners, I teach a small group of prison personal who also want to learn English. We don’t have textbooks, I usually get hassled by the guards before I go inside, and I always feel like I am gonna do something stupid and get shot, but these four hours remind me that teaching can make you feel good.
I don’t know what these men were like in the outside world. I don’t know what crimes they committed. And though, I am curious, I know that it is better that I don’t know. I learn during my lessons some details surrounding their imprisonment. One guy, Boris, is in there because he was caught in the Czech Republic by INTERPOL and extradited to Bulgaria. Another guy, Kiril, wrote during an exercise that he likes to drink blood for breakfast. I asked in Bulgarian, „кръв? (blood)” and he said, “well I am a killer.” The rest of the class laughed; I slowly backed away.
I do know the kind of men they are in my class though. They like talking about women, and sex, and alcohol. They talk about loneliness and missing their families. They study hard. They listen well and they get bored if I go too slow. But they are patient. When I used BINGO as an activity and it ended up becoming an agonizing 30 minutes of me saying “B17, O2, N9…” they didn’t complain or whine. If they don’t understand something they ask for more explanations and more work. There is one prisoner, George, who is my age. I thought that he didn’t like my class, and didn’t understand much. But he asked at the end of one class if there was someway I could help him with spelling. So the next week, we had a lesson on phonetics and he couldn’t have looked happier.
And they learn. After 2 months, I am teaching most of the classtime in English. One prisoner, Hristo, works in the employee cafeteria of the prison. He has invited me to eat dinner there, and so now I have plans to eat there after every class rather than going home and eating by myself. When I went there today to see the play, I got there early to have lunch with the prison psychologist (who is also a student, though in my class for employees) and Hristo, asked what my order was in English, and took it in English, even explaining what was in everything.
I know these men have done bad things in their lives, and I know that they have hurt many people. I also know the respect with which they treat me. I consider myself very fortunate to be able to teach these men.
The play was great, by the way. Three of my students were in it. It was all in Bulgarian of course, and there were no microphones, or stage lights. But between my weak Bulgarian and the psychologist explaining the plot in between scenes (of course, again in Bulgarian), I got the gist. A very special play from a group of special students.
As odd as it may sound, I have begun to rely on a prison to keep me from going insane. Twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I teach English to a small group of prisoners here in town. Before my classes with these prisoners, I teach a small group of prison personal who also want to learn English. We don’t have textbooks, I usually get hassled by the guards before I go inside, and I always feel like I am gonna do something stupid and get shot, but these four hours remind me that teaching can make you feel good.
I don’t know what these men were like in the outside world. I don’t know what crimes they committed. And though, I am curious, I know that it is better that I don’t know. I learn during my lessons some details surrounding their imprisonment. One guy, Boris, is in there because he was caught in the Czech Republic by INTERPOL and extradited to Bulgaria. Another guy, Kiril, wrote during an exercise that he likes to drink blood for breakfast. I asked in Bulgarian, „кръв? (blood)” and he said, “well I am a killer.” The rest of the class laughed; I slowly backed away.
I do know the kind of men they are in my class though. They like talking about women, and sex, and alcohol. They talk about loneliness and missing their families. They study hard. They listen well and they get bored if I go too slow. But they are patient. When I used BINGO as an activity and it ended up becoming an agonizing 30 minutes of me saying “B17, O2, N9…” they didn’t complain or whine. If they don’t understand something they ask for more explanations and more work. There is one prisoner, George, who is my age. I thought that he didn’t like my class, and didn’t understand much. But he asked at the end of one class if there was someway I could help him with spelling. So the next week, we had a lesson on phonetics and he couldn’t have looked happier.
And they learn. After 2 months, I am teaching most of the classtime in English. One prisoner, Hristo, works in the employee cafeteria of the prison. He has invited me to eat dinner there, and so now I have plans to eat there after every class rather than going home and eating by myself. When I went there today to see the play, I got there early to have lunch with the prison psychologist (who is also a student, though in my class for employees) and Hristo, asked what my order was in English, and took it in English, even explaining what was in everything.
I know these men have done bad things in their lives, and I know that they have hurt many people. I also know the respect with which they treat me. I consider myself very fortunate to be able to teach these men.
The play was great, by the way. Three of my students were in it. It was all in Bulgarian of course, and there were no microphones, or stage lights. But between my weak Bulgarian and the psychologist explaining the plot in between scenes (of course, again in Bulgarian), I got the gist. A very special play from a group of special students.
aww, george, you're such a joker!
From BBC this morning. This is actually funny…
PRESIDENTIAL SUIT
European suspicions about George W were briefly confirmed then pleasantly confounded when the president of the European Commission, Jose Manuel Barroso, visited Washington. When president met president the discussion somehow turned to suits, and how nice George's W's attire was. Po-faced, he said, "God told me to wear it". Adding after a couple of beats: "That's a joke."
PRESIDENTIAL SUIT
European suspicions about George W were briefly confirmed then pleasantly confounded when the president of the European Commission, Jose Manuel Barroso, visited Washington. When president met president the discussion somehow turned to suits, and how nice George's W's attire was. Po-faced, he said, "God told me to wear it". Adding after a couple of beats: "That's a joke."
09 November 2005
lies about kathy lee gifford and other stuff
You ever say something which you don’t know exactly why you are saying it but you realize after you say it what a stupid thing it was to say? I mean like when you see a girl you know somewhere and before you know what is happening you blurt out something like “Wow you look so nice today, like Kathy Lee Gifford before she got all scary looking.” And sometime between the incredibly shocked gasp that escapes her mouth and the defensive “what?” that you shoot out as a desperate screen, you hear in your head “dude, why’d you say that?”
Of course, if you are like me you don’t have the sense to immediately fall to your knees and beg forgiveness for the stupid thing you said. Rather, once the limp “what?” fails to soothe the anger and insult, you – or more specifically – I instead try to justify the comment with the first thing that pops into my head: “I mean you look really nice.” Then the attempted logic is challenged: “If you thought I looked nice why didn’t you say that? Why’d you add all that Kathy Lee Gifford crap?” Me: “Because she is really… good looking? Yeah she is hot!” But even the fake enthusiasm can’t hide that lie. And before I know it, I am telling this girl that I have always liked Kathy Lee Gifford and have had fantasies about her since I first realized the difference between girls and boys. Of course they are all lies. Hopefully, in this case. The reason I throw out all these lies is because I desperately don’t want to hurt this girl. She probably does look like Kathy Lee Gifford before she got all scary looking. But instead I lie and end up sounding like an idiot. And now the girl knows that not only am I a liar but I have a skewed sexual attraction to a woman who puts the “ee” in “Scareey.”
I was recently and painfully made aware of this personal flaw of mine (the saying-things-and-then-lying-to-cover-it-up part not the Kathy-Lee-Gifford-fantasy part) because I said something very stupid and hurtful to a friend of mine. This girl and I have been close friends for some time now and we were moving towards a romantic relationship when for some reason or another I decided that this wasn’t the route I wanted this relationship to take. Instead of telling her that, I told her that I had asked this other girl if she had romantic feelings for me and was relieved that she had said no because “now I was free to go after the (the first girl).” That was stupid. And hurtful. At the time I didn’t know why I was telling her that. I thought she would be happy that I was happy and relieved. Of course, subconsciously, I was saying this to avoid a big confrontation. That was stupid too. But the worst part was that I proceeded to try to cover up my original intent with lies. Instead of coming out and telling the truth I spun a web of so many lies that I can’t even remember what I said. I think some of it had to do with, yeah nevermind I can’t even remember it.
The moral of the story is don’t say stupid things. But if you do, like we all do, don’t lie about it. Even if you are talking to a nitwit, the lies will trip you up eventually and the pain will be 100 times worse, for you and the person you hurt.
The story doesn’t have a happy ending. The girl is now talking to me, which is good. But I know I have a long way to go to get her trust back. If I ever can.
Of course, if you are like me you don’t have the sense to immediately fall to your knees and beg forgiveness for the stupid thing you said. Rather, once the limp “what?” fails to soothe the anger and insult, you – or more specifically – I instead try to justify the comment with the first thing that pops into my head: “I mean you look really nice.” Then the attempted logic is challenged: “If you thought I looked nice why didn’t you say that? Why’d you add all that Kathy Lee Gifford crap?” Me: “Because she is really… good looking? Yeah she is hot!” But even the fake enthusiasm can’t hide that lie. And before I know it, I am telling this girl that I have always liked Kathy Lee Gifford and have had fantasies about her since I first realized the difference between girls and boys. Of course they are all lies. Hopefully, in this case. The reason I throw out all these lies is because I desperately don’t want to hurt this girl. She probably does look like Kathy Lee Gifford before she got all scary looking. But instead I lie and end up sounding like an idiot. And now the girl knows that not only am I a liar but I have a skewed sexual attraction to a woman who puts the “ee” in “Scareey.”
I was recently and painfully made aware of this personal flaw of mine (the saying-things-and-then-lying-to-cover-it-up part not the Kathy-Lee-Gifford-fantasy part) because I said something very stupid and hurtful to a friend of mine. This girl and I have been close friends for some time now and we were moving towards a romantic relationship when for some reason or another I decided that this wasn’t the route I wanted this relationship to take. Instead of telling her that, I told her that I had asked this other girl if she had romantic feelings for me and was relieved that she had said no because “now I was free to go after the (the first girl).” That was stupid. And hurtful. At the time I didn’t know why I was telling her that. I thought she would be happy that I was happy and relieved. Of course, subconsciously, I was saying this to avoid a big confrontation. That was stupid too. But the worst part was that I proceeded to try to cover up my original intent with lies. Instead of coming out and telling the truth I spun a web of so many lies that I can’t even remember what I said. I think some of it had to do with, yeah nevermind I can’t even remember it.
The moral of the story is don’t say stupid things. But if you do, like we all do, don’t lie about it. Even if you are talking to a nitwit, the lies will trip you up eventually and the pain will be 100 times worse, for you and the person you hurt.
The story doesn’t have a happy ending. The girl is now talking to me, which is good. But I know I have a long way to go to get her trust back. If I ever can.
cheney runs the country
More news about how democracy and freedom of information was ignored in the run-up to the war in Iraq. I wish I didn’t have to put this disgraceful news about my country on my site where my Bulgarian friends can read it, but unfortunately this is the state of America and people must know.
http://www.slate.com/id/2129686/?nav=ais
http://www.slate.com/id/2129686/?nav=ais
08 November 2005
warriors are we...
I never understood why my big brother is so careless with his travel plans. I’ve traveled with him twice outside the states. Once was for two weeks in Austria and Germany and the second time was when he came to visit me in Ireland for a week. We had no plans when we arrived in Austria and since I didn’t know any German I left everything up to him. I guess ignorance truly is bliss because I thought he had everything under control. While except for the first day when his insistence that we didn’t need travelers cheques backfired and we didn’t have any money. That was about the same time I learned that the human body can survive on beer and sausages for a surprisingly long time. I had a great time with my brother for those two weeks, however, and consider it a defining experience in my life.
When he came to visit me in Ireland, however, I learned that my brother abhors planning. In fact, I learned how absolutely reckless he is when it comes to traveling. I learned that he was arriving in Ireland shortly after he arrived in Ireland. In true Nathan style, he came across the ocean without being bothered by a little thing like my phone number. He also arrived without any firm plans of what he wanted to do, how we were going to get around or how long he was staying. It was like seeing the wizard behind the curtain and releasing he is just a guy with an airplane ticket, passport, and a jar of nutella.
I am starting to realize that my brother is more than a nitwit. He is an adventurer. He is a challenger. He likes the thrill of the hunt and he doesn’t like doing anything the easy way (or sometimes the most intelligent way). And I have always liked that about my brother. But I now know it is more than an admirable trait. It is a survival trait. As humans, we have to be tough. We have to be prepared for battles in our lives. We must not seek comfort in our life, because we will never find it. It is a big lie in our lives that if we work hard and sacrifice and do everything right we will find comfort. It is a lie that we are working for a rest. We toil and suffer because this is the nature of the beast. This is the nature of the world we live in.
Everyone who is reading this is a fighter. The fact that you have made it this far in your life is a great testimony. You have not given up, you have not thrown in the towel. And there are many of you, who have even done better than that. You have not only not given up, you have fought back. You have done what so many of us wish we could do. You have been a warrior.
I’m not talking about some homicidal maniac who thinks the terrorists are just around every 7-11, and carries around a concealed gun, “because damnit, you don’t know who is trying to get you!” No I mean people who have a warrior spirit. Those who don’t give in when all those voices in their heads are telling them they can’t do it. These are the warriors of our world, those who fight and fight and fight and who know that the battle will only end when they die, still fighting. I want to be like that.
My brother is a warrior. In fact, I come from a family of warriors. I always knew my father was a warrior. He was a marine, then a police officer, and the toughest man I’ve ever known. My brother followed in my father’s footsteps and became a police officer too. Like my father, he is a tough MF. My mother, too, is a warrior though I am sure she hates being called one. I always knew that teaching was a hard job and that she was tired at the end of the day from work, but I didn’t know it was from fighting. While she wasn’t fighting literal bad guys like my brother and father, she was fighting the bad guys known as ignorance, apathy, and skewed priorities. Like me she is a teacher. Now I know why she is tired from fighting that battle everyday for 20 years.
I want to be a warrior. I have always wanted to be a warrior, but I thought the life of a warrior was different. I thought it was about fighting and finding relief. Far from it, the life of a warrior is a fight. Until we die. It isn’t about glory. It is about surviving. It isn’t about taking an easy way out. It is about attacking the problem head on and having faith that when the going really gets bad, when you are outnumbered, when you run out of ammunition, that you will find the strength to continue or that the cavalry will arrive. I am learning this everyday. And I am slowly accepting this Truth. I will not live a valiant life by looking for an easy way out. I will not become a warrior by booking my trip months ahead and filling out an itinerary line by line. I will only succeed by hopping on that plane and hoping that my brother will somehow meet me there at the airport
When he came to visit me in Ireland, however, I learned that my brother abhors planning. In fact, I learned how absolutely reckless he is when it comes to traveling. I learned that he was arriving in Ireland shortly after he arrived in Ireland. In true Nathan style, he came across the ocean without being bothered by a little thing like my phone number. He also arrived without any firm plans of what he wanted to do, how we were going to get around or how long he was staying. It was like seeing the wizard behind the curtain and releasing he is just a guy with an airplane ticket, passport, and a jar of nutella.
I am starting to realize that my brother is more than a nitwit. He is an adventurer. He is a challenger. He likes the thrill of the hunt and he doesn’t like doing anything the easy way (or sometimes the most intelligent way). And I have always liked that about my brother. But I now know it is more than an admirable trait. It is a survival trait. As humans, we have to be tough. We have to be prepared for battles in our lives. We must not seek comfort in our life, because we will never find it. It is a big lie in our lives that if we work hard and sacrifice and do everything right we will find comfort. It is a lie that we are working for a rest. We toil and suffer because this is the nature of the beast. This is the nature of the world we live in.
Everyone who is reading this is a fighter. The fact that you have made it this far in your life is a great testimony. You have not given up, you have not thrown in the towel. And there are many of you, who have even done better than that. You have not only not given up, you have fought back. You have done what so many of us wish we could do. You have been a warrior.
I’m not talking about some homicidal maniac who thinks the terrorists are just around every 7-11, and carries around a concealed gun, “because damnit, you don’t know who is trying to get you!” No I mean people who have a warrior spirit. Those who don’t give in when all those voices in their heads are telling them they can’t do it. These are the warriors of our world, those who fight and fight and fight and who know that the battle will only end when they die, still fighting. I want to be like that.
My brother is a warrior. In fact, I come from a family of warriors. I always knew my father was a warrior. He was a marine, then a police officer, and the toughest man I’ve ever known. My brother followed in my father’s footsteps and became a police officer too. Like my father, he is a tough MF. My mother, too, is a warrior though I am sure she hates being called one. I always knew that teaching was a hard job and that she was tired at the end of the day from work, but I didn’t know it was from fighting. While she wasn’t fighting literal bad guys like my brother and father, she was fighting the bad guys known as ignorance, apathy, and skewed priorities. Like me she is a teacher. Now I know why she is tired from fighting that battle everyday for 20 years.
I want to be a warrior. I have always wanted to be a warrior, but I thought the life of a warrior was different. I thought it was about fighting and finding relief. Far from it, the life of a warrior is a fight. Until we die. It isn’t about glory. It is about surviving. It isn’t about taking an easy way out. It is about attacking the problem head on and having faith that when the going really gets bad, when you are outnumbered, when you run out of ammunition, that you will find the strength to continue or that the cavalry will arrive. I am learning this everyday. And I am slowly accepting this Truth. I will not live a valiant life by looking for an easy way out. I will not become a warrior by booking my trip months ahead and filling out an itinerary line by line. I will only succeed by hopping on that plane and hoping that my brother will somehow meet me there at the airport
07 November 2005
do kids want to learn?
Today I am frustrated. I really want to do well here. Before I came here to Bulgaria, I imagined that I would show up, start teaching and everyone would love me. I thought from my first class I would get up in front of the class and the kids would be eager to learn. I thought I would know exactly what to do and my lessons would be fun and exciting and kids would be fighting each other to get into my classes. I have slowly realized this is not quite the case.
I am beginning to doubt many things. I always thought that every kid deep down inside really wants to learn. Maybe this is because I was a nerd as a kid. I had boring classes of course. Especially math. God, I hated math. But I always tried. I always did my homework and asked questions and even though I hated every moment of it, I tried. I tried because I wanted to get good grades, I wanted to have a bright future, and I wanted to be proud of myself. Being here though, I am beginning to doubt that. Maybe there are just some kids who don’t want to learn. Geez, I really hate saying that, but maybe it’s true. Maybe kids in my class aren’t interested in what I am saying. They don’t care about grades, or their future or taking pride in their accomplishments.
I can’t help feeling like this is just a huge cop-out. “Man, these kids aren’t paying attention in class, they talk amongst themselves, they call me ‘Mrs.’, they refuse to write down anything I write on the blackboard. I give up, it’s their fault, not mine.” I hate the sound of that. I absolutely hate to think that 13, 14, 15 year olds have given up. But everyday I think like that more and more. When I arrived here, some colleagues told me not to get frustrated, these kids aren’t interested in learning, it is “a school for the masses.” Another colleague told me to teach only to those who pay attention, forget the others. I remember hearing that, cringing, and thinking, “it’s only because no one is paying attention to those kids!”
Now I go into class with a lesson plan that took me an hour to prepare, with pictures, matchbox cars, games and photocopies of worksheets (that I paid 10 stotinki each for!) and I can’t get the kids to pay attention. They would rather talk amongst themselves, try to get me to tell them how old I am, or how many girlfriends I have. Then if I get them quiet (with a big IF…) some student from another class opens the door and runs, or worse comes into the class, inviting me to a party with Shakira. At the beginning I thought it was because the material was way over the kids heads. The first lesson out of the book was about using the Present Perfect Tense with “from” and “for,” while the kids couldn’t even introduce themselves. So I throw out the book and started from the very beginning. But the kids still refuse to participate.
My mom, also a teacher, told me to find out what interests these kids, but how we talk about discos, Bulgarian pop folk, and football, if they refuse to learn the present simple forms of “To be”? If anyone has any ideas I am listening…
I am beginning to doubt many things. I always thought that every kid deep down inside really wants to learn. Maybe this is because I was a nerd as a kid. I had boring classes of course. Especially math. God, I hated math. But I always tried. I always did my homework and asked questions and even though I hated every moment of it, I tried. I tried because I wanted to get good grades, I wanted to have a bright future, and I wanted to be proud of myself. Being here though, I am beginning to doubt that. Maybe there are just some kids who don’t want to learn. Geez, I really hate saying that, but maybe it’s true. Maybe kids in my class aren’t interested in what I am saying. They don’t care about grades, or their future or taking pride in their accomplishments.
I can’t help feeling like this is just a huge cop-out. “Man, these kids aren’t paying attention in class, they talk amongst themselves, they call me ‘Mrs.’, they refuse to write down anything I write on the blackboard. I give up, it’s their fault, not mine.” I hate the sound of that. I absolutely hate to think that 13, 14, 15 year olds have given up. But everyday I think like that more and more. When I arrived here, some colleagues told me not to get frustrated, these kids aren’t interested in learning, it is “a school for the masses.” Another colleague told me to teach only to those who pay attention, forget the others. I remember hearing that, cringing, and thinking, “it’s only because no one is paying attention to those kids!”
Now I go into class with a lesson plan that took me an hour to prepare, with pictures, matchbox cars, games and photocopies of worksheets (that I paid 10 stotinki each for!) and I can’t get the kids to pay attention. They would rather talk amongst themselves, try to get me to tell them how old I am, or how many girlfriends I have. Then if I get them quiet (with a big IF…) some student from another class opens the door and runs, or worse comes into the class, inviting me to a party with Shakira. At the beginning I thought it was because the material was way over the kids heads. The first lesson out of the book was about using the Present Perfect Tense with “from” and “for,” while the kids couldn’t even introduce themselves. So I throw out the book and started from the very beginning. But the kids still refuse to participate.
My mom, also a teacher, told me to find out what interests these kids, but how we talk about discos, Bulgarian pop folk, and football, if they refuse to learn the present simple forms of “To be”? If anyone has any ideas I am listening…
06 November 2005
mccain does it again
Senator John McCain once again stands up for what is right even though many in his own party are against him. The former POW promises to include a ban on torture on every piece of legislation that comes through the senate until the ban is passed. I can not believe that this is even a question. How can America not have a law banning the torture of prisoners?
http://www.azcentral.com/news/articles/1105mccain-torture05.html
http://www.azcentral.com/news/articles/1105mccain-torture05.html
the lil chapel
This is a little chapel that I see on the top of a hill every morning when I walk to school. It’s all very dramatic, the way this singular little building comes into view. A combination of early morning fog and coal smoke lay lazily amongst the hills around Bobov Dol. As I turn a corner, there it is, a blinding figure reflecting the rising sun. The only white patch in a quilt of grays. I am thinking of this chapel now because from the first time I saw it, I felt an instant connection to it. In my mind I was that little chapel. My name forgotten, flung out into the wilds, destined to keep a lonely vigil of service to a city that doesn’t even recognize me. During the summer I walked to school nearly everyday and when I made that turn and saw the chapel, my heart would lighten and I’d smile. My partner in loneliness.
Of course, now I am coming up on four months in Bobov Dol and I don’t feel like that anymore. I am not unknown. People I meet on the street always say здрасти! even though it is more often followed by the title господине, than by Andy. And I do have friends; though I don’t always know what they are saying, I have laughed so hard I have hurt, and I have comforted when the laughs turn to tears. I like this town. Despite the coal, and the filth, and the howling street dogs at night, I like Bobov Dol and even refer to it as home.
But still I am lonely. And I have begun to realize that it’s not something that will go away. I am alone because of God. While there are definitely times I am lonely for human smiles, touches, and words, more often I suffer from an inconsolable loneliness of the soul. No matter how many people I see in a day, how many smiles, hugs and coffees I share with others, when I go back to my apartment and have a moment to myself, I am alone.
I am alone because my soul aches to be one with my creator. And yet, because of my weaknesses, I am too afraid to even try. I am afraid of what I will have to forgo and lose. Top on this list is my individualism. I have grown up thinking that I am the most important part of my life and that I am in charge of myself. I have thought that if I work hard enough, am friendly enough, kind enough, strong enough, someday I will find my own happiness and comfort. Yet by finally accepting God I have learned that this is a hollow dream. I can not find peace alone.
So again I find myself like the little chapel. Waiting and keeping vigil alone for God. Unlike the chapel, I am afraid that when He shows me his plan and the path to joy and love, I will not be strong to take the first step. I envy the chapel, as it made of cement and mortar, while I am only flesh and bones.
05 November 2005
anyone looking for a really big fence?
As some of you may know, I majored in Anthropology in college. I intend to go into a PhD program when I finish with the Peace Corps. I am especially interested in Border culture and issues of security, identity and nationalism at international borders. So when I find interesting things having to do with borders I will post it. Here’s article from the BBC in regards to a US Representative trying to erect a fence across the whole Mexican-US border. In case you’re interested, and you too want to have a 2000 mile fence, it’s only $8 million. If you’ve ever had neighbors like my family has, you would not think that’s such a bad price…
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/4407558.stm
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/4407558.stm
a house and a bride?! what a boon!
If anyone wants to buy a house and have a bride thrown in too, EBay is accepting bids. Of course, you hafta live in Denver.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/4409364.stm
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/4409364.stm
Ah, that crazy Saddam!
My friend Jessica sent me this website. It is hilarious, check it out: www.rockpapersaddam.com
some ground rules...
So I finally sold out and started a Blog. "But why, Andy, why would you go and do a thing like that? You know you are only fueling the whole narcissistic look-at-me-I'm-special culture that is permeating society. I thought I knew you Andy." Don't worry friends, I still feel that way. Even now I feel like I need to take a shower. But I figured I would try to expand my horizons and at least give this whole thing a try. And hopefully, I can create something that isn't a blatant indulgence of ME. The scholar in me hopes maybe people can even learn something. So here I go... But first some ground rules for this thing:
1. Besides the first sentence, you will not find the B-word on here. That word isn't even a real word. Instead, this will be a set of dispatches. Dispatch is a real word. The B-word is fu-fu.
2. I am lazy and will not write everyday. I admit it now. Please do not base your life on the regular publication of these dispatches.
3. There will be no attacks whatsoever on me. I am the Tsar. I control everything that is published here. Sorry, thems the brakes. If somehow, you are technically savvier than me and sneak something on here, I will hunt you down. I promise.
4. There will be no nice things said about the NY Yankees. Infact, there is another phrase that is banned. From now on, if you wish to refer to that team, please use the new term "sissy-babies who can't beat the Red Sox even though they are the highest paid team in baseball."
5. Please watch your language here. My parents are going to read this. And if you were scared by the threat in #3, wait till you tick off my parents!
6. This is a serious set of dispatches. There will be no humor. Okay thanks and hope you come again!
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