An empty health clinic. Writers of Grey’s Anatomy, a job well done. You successfully dramatized a superstition. It may not even be traditional medicinal folklore; however, one out of two American households learned a slow surgical board foreshadows a 2-hour post-superbowl rating booster. Who knew a WWII rocket launched in a man’s chest cavity could threaten the lives of Seattle’s finest surgeons? I surely did not.
I arrive to work with steps of vigor and ambition. I feel as if I was about to crunch out hours of Biochemistry and Organic Chemistry. Both require a high level of liveliness and self-petition to compete with the Saturday beer barbeque babel sailing up to my window. What was the payoff? By the end I would know how the liver transformed colorless flammable organic compound into usable materials --major turn on.
I crawl out of the taxi, pat my shirt flat, take in some air and begin an uplifting gait. Today, with vigor and ambition, I would defy all odds and complete more than an hour of work. An explanation must be painted for the normative lackluster production for I would consider this atypical personal behavior. Ugandans have very little concept of time. To be culturally sound, Ugandans have a different approach to time.
To compare, an honest American day of work translates to eight hours of number crunching, Wall Street transacting, table turning, nose-to-the-grind work. An internal ribbon message repeats in our psychological framework over and over and over: Money is time and time is money.... Money is time and time is money.... Money is time and time is money. If an hour remains, it is spent at lunch and/or canoodling amongst your cohort of methodic bees. 9 hour, 5 days a week workdays can easily translate into work evenings or--if boss Jane or John deem--Saturdays of hell.
An honest Ugandan workday is the exact opposite. Time in the day is alloted in three sections: soft spoken introductions, excessive eatings and well-being conversations usually pertaining to the formers.
I have yet to participate in a full fledge introduction. My inflicted eardrums typically miss the soft spoken introductions. In fact, I am 60% sure they have no idea what is said in the exchange. Instead they intermix four phrases with exclamations to hit any possible relevant answer. Gyebala, Hmm. Kale, mm, Olyota Hmm, Gendi mm. English translation: Well done, I am not too sure. Thank-you, delicious. How are you?, I am not too sure. Fine, delicious. Women typically bow to men and young women bow to their female elders. Kinesthetic movement and my 20/20 eyesight increase the my probability of participating in introductory rituals.
The second and third sections of the day are entwined with each other.
A Conversation on Hunger
“You have breakfast?”
“Yes, my host mom fed me breakfast.”
“We cook you breakfast.”
“No, it’s alright I am not hungry. I had a HUGE---simultaneously, the puppet show begins as hands expand to either side---breakfast. I had TWO---flashy peace sign---eggs, potatoes, toast, carrots, cucumbers. It was quite delicious.”
Her head cocks to the side eyes paint a ghostly face. More than likely, the bird like arm extensions distracted verbal communication. For the cherry on top of my American ignorant sundae, I rub my tummy. “No need for more food.”
Long sigh. “I don’t get you.”
They exit the conversation, not waiting to hear another word.
“I...I...” am left speechless.
15 to 30 minutes following, I have three scoops of starch and pieces of mystery cafeteria mystery meat in front of me. Perhaps chicken. There were three in the coup yesterday, two together. I probe the specimen. Yes, chicken.
“You eat.”
A Conversation on Vegetarianism
I hesitate for moment. Should I really attempt to cross this bridge?
“I am a vegetarian.” The words slip out before reaching a thought out decisions. Word vomit.
“Huh?”
“A vegetarian.” I repeat as if defining the word. Let’s re-try, “I do not eat meat.”
“You don’t eat meat?!” Her face was of a confused, slightly angry child just told the fabrication of Santa Claus. He doesn’t exist?!
“Correct. I do not eat meat.”
She glares at the food. Mystified, she looks back at me, points at the plate. “No meat.”
“Right, I do not eat meat.”
“No, no. No meat.” She rattles the plate.
We must be looking at different plates. Plain in front of me: a dark, oozing, hunky chunk of chicken. Impossible to miss. I point: “Meat here!” I overemphasize: “chicken!”
She is unsatisfied. “Chicken is not meat. Chicken is bird.” She flaps her arms up and down. A tablet of my own medicine. I encouraged this behavior. Eyes and palm open to the coup: “You know a chicken?”
My stomach sinks. “Yes, of course, I know what a chicken is.” Nervously unsure of the result of this game of charades, I end it: “I do not eat meat, beef, chicken, bird, cow, pig, pork (now struggling to think of edible animals), mice, moose (overkill).
“Ahhhh.” Head nod. “I see.” She now understands I do not eat any animal. Eye brows drop in, nostrils flare concern. She does not understand why I do not eat animals. “I don’t get you.”
She walks away.
The chicken clucks on my plate.
After plucking and scattering the muscles strands off the bone making it less obvious I did not eat the meat, I escape to the computer room. The past hour exhausted my levels of vigor and ambition. To replenish the lost energy, I set a goal: open Microsoft Access and create database. Having never heard of the software, the goal instantly becomes quite lofty. If the future is a cyclical repetition of history, the outlook is bleak. Technology and I have a shaky past. I am too forgiving. Technology is the devil.
Day 1: Dan vs. PC Laptop
Dan: Sets up powerpoint presentation for lesson, connects computer to LCD Projector.
Technology: Works.
Dan: After two successful classes, puts technology on hibernation for lunch break.
Technology: Sleeps.
Dan: Bell rings, shakes technology up. Students enter.
Technology: Computer dies.
Dan: Screwed.
Technology-1, Dan-0
Day 2: Dan vs. LCD Apple converter
Dan: Buys new computer.
Technology: Works.
Dan: After two successful classes, puts technology on hibernation for lunch break.
Technology: Sleeps.
Dan: Bell rings, shakes technology up. Students enter.
Technology: LCD connection dies.
Dan: Screwed.
Technology-2, Dan-0
Day 3: Dan vs. MacBook
Dan: Buys new LCD connector.
Technology: Works.
Dan: After two successful classes, eats lunch with technology.
Technology: Works.
Dan: After three successful classes, leaves to go to office, comes back to class.
Technology: Cracked, bleeding screen.
Dan: Screwed.
Technology is the devil.
Motivation, ambition and positivity muster movement to the computer room door.
Turn the knob,
push the door,
flick the light,
lights on,
breathe in.
Step into room.
Light flicks,
look up.
Lights off,
Power outage.
I turn and glance at the COWESER property, not a person in sight, dead and dusty land. I smell failure on the day. While thinking of my next steps, my feet coerce me to an empty clinic. My morning rounds saw a toddler with malaria leave the clinic healthy--a success.
As I am approaching the clinic hall, a young boy and his mother enter ten meters ahead. Ten bucks on malaria. I pass by the patient check in room, peek through the door crack to find the same pair. The boy’s toes rhythmically and anxiously bounce up and down. When in his shoes I disliked the doctor’s office as well. The sugar sucker is never worth the needle piercing my muscle. COWESER has no sugar suckers. He had his head down, one hand between his bone-thin thighs, the other lightly stroking the brilliantly pink scarf wrapped around his head.
The scarf instantly reminds me of my sister. She would love that scarf. When she was a young toddler, mercilessly screaming at the world, my parents would bring her to the pink tile scaffolded bathroom. Pink threw up in it and my sister soaked it up. She would always stop crying in the bathroom, she took comfort in shade of pink. This boy wrestles to find tranquility in his pink scarf.
The mother’s eyes catch mine. Caught, my muscles freeze, unsure of her reaction to my probing eyes. I offer a non-threatening smile. She hesitates then smiles lightly, slightly dipping her head in. Her eyes return to mine. My smile turns to a grin, eyes soften as I bow my head slightly and return to her eyes. A brief, but true bond of human acceptance blind to race, sex, and culture. Connection. A warm feeling emanates from my core as I desperately grasp this moment of purity. She continues her discussion with the nurse.
I zip to the nurse preparation room. Eve, a third year nursing student who has an crush on me, explodes with news. At COWESER, I have spent the most time with Eve. Unfortunately, her English is poor and most of our time is exhaustingly spent in attempts of communication. She blurts out, “Circumcision!” My eyes widen as her smile grows. I know the word. No wonder the boy was grasping into his scarf.
Two Conversations on Circumcision
One:
“Is the boy getting a circumcision?”
She looks at me with her mouth open not knowing I just asked a question.
Charades begins. “The boy.” Rapidly jerks finger to the check-in room. “Circumcision.” I tuck my arm into my sleeve, my free hand acting as scissors cuts the foreskin of my model.
She giggles and repeats my gesture. Her eyes widen, head nods up, “Ya.”
“Are you in the procedure?”
Blank stare.
Give me a break.
“You.” Point to her. My shirt model reappears. “Do the cutting.”
She giggles and repeats my gesture. Her eyes widen, head nods up, “Ya.”
Aside, “Oh, wow that is going to be fun.”
“Wha?”
I redirect the statement at her “Gives you something fun to do.”
“Wha?”
“It is pretty dead around....,” face of confusion, “...forget it.”
“Wha?”
“Forget it.” I wave my hands motioning an X and shake my head. She takes amusement in my hand gestures.
Two:
Dr. Sam, the resident doctor, enters smiling.
I break the silence, “So a circumcision today, huh?”
“Yea, you handle blood?”
Startled and puzzled by his question, “uh, I think so...”
“First time I saw blood, I feared it. Now it doesn’t bother me.”
“So, how long is this procedure?”
“About 15 minutes.”
“Not bad.” It was at this point that I had absolutely no idea what an actual circumcision entailed. I had visions off a contraption similar to a cigar cutter and clipping the edge of a cigar, a miniature guillotine. A quick snip, quick stitch. My body shivered.
“How long will it take the little guy to recover.” I point to the check-in room.
Dr. Sam giggles at my question. “I will check the little guy in 10-14 days.” I unknowingly created a penis joke. Great. Thoroughly embarrassed, I bid Eve and Dr. Sam farewell and head back to my lightless computer room.
Sitting and staring at the computer my heart surges. Is he asking me to join him? Am I really going to watch a circumcision? Could I handle the blood? Visions of one of my students passing out in the middle of the class while discussing the contents of blood overwhelm my mind. I have no interest in losing consciousness. A nurse breaks my thoughts. “Dan, the circumcision!”
“Ya, and...”
She grasps my arm. “Come. Come, quickly.”
I stare at her death grab. A frog croaks in my throat. This nauseatingly familiar frog always prevented me from successful slumber parties. There is no going home today. I jump from my seat and follow her to the clinic. Answers to my concerning questions would unfold in the next 15 minutes.
My guide ushers me to the surgical theatre. My adrenaline pumps. My extremities tingle. Stop. Although meant figuratively, a flash of pink crosses my path, I physically stop and stare into the nurse holding room. I see the boy’s scarf hanging on a peg. Looking further, I see the little boy laying on the table. The head nurse is tending to lacerations an inch above his right eye. She threads through his facial skin and pulls tight.
Suddenly I find myself, about the same age as the boy laying down on cold table. I am blinded by the bright light above me. The outline of a curly black haired man tells me we are almost done. A tear crawls down my cheek as I fall into dreams. Wait. Was not he the patient undergoing a circumcision? Who is getting the circumcision? What else did Eve not...?
“Dan!” Eve exclaimed. Back to reality.
“Dan, come put this on.” She spins and dresses me in a white coat. “You need to wear this coat before you go in.”
“Where is your coat?”
“I cannot go.”
“What? Why? Eve who is getting a circum...” She pushes me into the door and turns the knob.
The room jumps as one. Dr. Sam lunges forward to cover the patient, all eyes fire at me. I turn pale and light headed. My sense of sound proliferates. I swallow waiting for someone to make a move. The room stands painstaking still for 5 seconds, feels like a day. Door hits me in the butt.
“We thought it was one of the girls,” one of the male nurses calls. Muscles relax and the doctor uncovers the patient.
In the room there are others: Dr. Sam, two male nursing students and a man in his 30s.
“Women are not allowed?” I half heartily reply.
The patient’s fierce eyebrows throw me back.
The doctor replies, “This patient is a man. No women allowed.” As he finished his short explanation, he lays the patient down simultaneously calming him, unbuttons a portion of the plastic green blanket and exposes the man’s penis.
The doctor explains the procedure piece by piece to the patient and the nurses. Following, he looks at me and repeats his steps in English.
Steps to Dr. Sam’s Circumcision
Inject in between the skin and tissue of the penis with local anesthetic at varies points.
-The nurse injects. Failure. Dr. Sam, annoyed, steals in the needle and injects the patient himself.
*The patient squeals as he watches the nurse ineffectively numb his penis. He starts speaking in a nervous tone to the surgical team. He glances at me to receive empathy.
^My thoughts are racing. I wince at the patient’s squeal and instantly show facial expressions of empathy. I am so glad I had this done at birth.
Squeeze the penis from the base up to check numbness.
-Doctor squeezes.
*Patient nods.
^I gulp.
Place your index and middle fingers together at the base of the corona. Use razor make a thin circumference cut at the below lower finger.
-Doctor places his fingers and cuts accordingly. This serves as a baseline.
*The patient watches on with intrigue.
^I discover my index-middle finger combination is much thinner than the doctor’s and wonder the significance.
Using scissors, start at the tip of the foreskin and begin to cut down to the base of the penis.
-Doctor begins his incision while instructing the nurse to hold the penis up for support. He makes an attempt at the initial cut. Fail. A fly gets in his view, swat. It takes the doctor makes several attempts before the skin breaks. He cuts down the foreskin to the base of the corona.
*Patient looks up at the ceiling unable to watch the initial cut, nervous of the effectiveness of the anesthesia. He lets out a sigh of relief as he hears the splitting foreskin. He continues to watch.
^I see blood. Have a passed out? Does the patient feel it? Is this a fly? Are the windows supposed to be open? Are those scissors sharp? What’s next?
Fold the foreskin over and make an incision at the base of the corona.
-Doctor instructs nurse to fold back the foreskin. He makes cut at the base of the corona. His hand flinches slightly as he looks at the patient. The nurse takes more local anesthetic and injects at the base of corona. Doctor cautiously reattempts his cut.
*Patient screams in pain. “Ssebo, Ssebo, Ssebo!” sir, sir, sir. His eyes roll to the back of head and he lays his head back down and expels a burst of oxygen.
^My eyes dart to the patient’s pain of anguish. Shock, what? I involuntarily hold my breath.
Cut down to and then around razor baseline.
-Doctor works his scissors down to the baseline. Doctor adjusts places one hand on the top hole of the scissors and the the second in the second. Unhappy of his positioning, he switches locations with the nurse and positions his hands around the scissors again. Sweat pouring down his cheek, his breathing rate increases as success of cutting through the skin fluctuates.
*Patient rejoins the surgery watching his skin poorly slicing in two.
^Early in October, I spent a day teaching students how to create a foldable study guide. The outcome of the foldable is strictly dependent on your ability to neatly fold and cleanly cut. To my dismay, their scissor manipulative skills ran congruently with their low reading ability. For an unfortunate few, this was the beginning of a short lived relationship between hand and scissor. Watching the doctor ply through this man’s skin mirrored poor Miles cutting through paper.
Starting from the base, peel skin off remaining tissue, clean off tissue and search for severed blood vessels, suture when necessary.
-Doctor places his scissors down and wipes the beads of water from his forehead. He instructs the nurse to simultaneously hold the base and corona of the penis. He turns to the patient and asks a question in Lugandan. He peels back the skin, exposing the bloody tissue. The doctor turns to me, “He is married with 8 children.” The nurse applies cotton balls to the gooey bloody mess. He clamps severed blood vessels. The doctor sutures.
*Patient answers doctor. His eyes and mouth slowly enlarge as he watches the doctor peel away his skin exposing his bare penis. His faces freezes.
^8 kids. Huh, does anyone follow family planning in this...” Holy hell! He just skinned the penis. Oddly enough, the corona looks as if he has a red cape. What would its hero name be? Rocket Man. Superpower? Creation of life.
Cut around the base of the corona and remove skin.
Doctor jaggedly cuts the skin, removes the skin and plops it in the pool of blood below the penis. The nurse cleans and continues on his search for severed blood vessels.
*Patient’s face returns to normal. He lays back down and looks up at the ceiling.
^Pigs in a blanket, a delicious super bowl snack. If you wrapped a normal hot dog in a croissant, held it like corn-on-the-cob, ate away the middle part leaving croissant on either end, and saturated the exposed hot dog with ketchup you may come close to the image burning in my memory.
Pull up the skin at the base of the penis and make several sutures attaching to the skin at the base of the corona.
-Doctor attaches the skins with first suture, second suture, third suture, fourth suture, fifth! The doctor and nurse sharply look at the patient. “I need to put in at least 3 more sutures. I am sorry we have no more anesthetic. He slowly threads the needle through the skin, pauses, slowly threads again, pulls tight and knot. Twice more.
*Patient’s thoracic cavity launches forward. “Ssebo, Ssebo, Ssebo!!!” Distressing eyes, he did not like the doctor’s reply. He clinches his teeth and air sucks in and out.
^Almost done. The penis takes normal shape again. I jump. I am one of the jumpiest people. I become so involved in what is happening in front of me that any slight deviance causes such a shocking uprise--an inconvenient habit. There is no more anesthesia? Can that really just happen? Oh, Uganda.
As the man pulls up his pants, the doctor and nurse clean the surrounding area. The nurse wipes the table of blood with the cover sheet and the doctor collects all the metal tools. The nurse leaves the theatre with the sheet and metal tools in hand. The doctor walks over the patient.
“Do you have the balance?” the doctor asks.
Man pulls out schillings and replies, “We agreed upon 40,000 Ugandan schillings. Here is 20,000 now and then remaining will be given at the check up.”
“Hmmm.” Slightly disgruntled, the doctor accepts the cash.
*Note: The original conversation was in Lugandan. The doctor translated per my request after the patient left the theatre.
40,000 Lugandan shillings roughly converts to $20 US. Twenty bucks for Rocket Man to loss his cape. To paraphrase the sassy super hero fashion designer spawned from Vera Wang in The Incredibles, many super heroes have died because of their capes. One became a victim on a plane engine and another a victim of tripping. Capes are a safety hazard.
There is a growing trend of circumcisions in older men and male newborns in Uganda. For the young, spilling the blood contaminates their purity. This prevent them from becoming victims of theft and subsequent cutlery. When one of the main highways was built between Masaka and Kampala, local witch doctors prescribed pure baby blood for the project’s success. My brother laughed as he described the sudden drop of infant population during the project. “So many baby pieces underneath the pavement!”
The rise of circumcisions in older men is a result growing support in the positive correlation between contracting HIV and foreskin. My internet access is too slow to research references; so, at this point I can only take their word. The cartoon fashionista seemed to know her stuff: capes = death.
I left the surgical theatre repeatedly replaying and reprocessing the previous 20 minutes. How is it done in the US? was the only thing that came to mind (it competed with the hotdog image). Perhaps tools would be sharper, local anesthetic in full stock, no winged insects interruptions, closed/windowless rooms, antiseptics. Maybe I am making too many assumptions.
I passed into a buzzing ward, among several new patients being escorted to their rooms, followed by a steady stream of family members. Ten bucks on malaria. I cracked a smile. The world around seemed to move a little bit slower. The ward was in full operation. I walked down the corridor reenergized, ambition and vigor revived.
Maybe Grey’s Anatomy writers were correct... minus the WWII rocket...
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
Taxi Ride
It was if being in a clown car with 10 other Ugandans was not enough of a challenge. Sandwiched between and the driver, my right leg pinched between the gear shift and the driver’s hand, my right upper appendage crossed holding for dear life to the plastic handle. A horn blowing into the African air beckoning for more passengers--if there was still room in the taxi to breathe, there was room for another customer. Cars swerving in and out of traffic, avoiding gas tankers, vehicles traveling too slow for the crazed taxi, pot holes, boda boda drivers, human beings...
As I walked down the path from COWESER, Uncle, Mister, etc. Dick taught me the word goodbye, Weeraba. I practiced several times aloud, followed by whispered and then again several times in my head. Weeraba, weeraba... weeraba. I challenged myself not to forget this word, although the only word I had no problem memorizing was tugende, “we go.” As you may suspect, it has not gotten me too far.
We stopped at the road ahead. Mr. Dick wished a good day to the lady standing five feet away. Poor Uncle Dick, in his late 30s he stilled lived with his mother and had no prospects for a wife. Although we reveled together about the freedom of the single life with no concern of others, the conversation between us ended in a sigh--the type of sigh indicating we did not believe a word we just spoke about. Around women, Uncle Dick gave off quite the scent. The I am desperate pheromonal spray unavoidable by any culture or sex.
Sadly, I knew exactly what was going on in each of their minds. Uncle Dick: Need sex, children, a companion... a wife. (Most likely in this exact order) Woman: this man is just trying too hard. How can I dangle the goods just out of his reach? To no avail, Uncle Dick failed in his attempt to secure her affection. The woman: “Weeraba, sebo.” Goodbye sir. Unconcerned for Uncle Dick’s failure to woo the stranger, I was elated at my ability to recognize and retain the phrase.
Mister Dick turned to me with a haphazard smile, in an attempt to save his dignity and pride. It’s alright Uncle Dick, it happens to the best of us. He immediately switched topics to my plans for arrival tomorrow. Coupled with my quizzical glance, he went about his meticulous directions. Meticulous directions often included movable objects like: “slope up at the black and white goat eating the pile of garbage” or “turn left at the bushes on the corner of the road,” hoping the family who owns the goat has plenty to eat and the owner of the bush does not feel the shrubbery has taken over his front plot. I nod my head instinctively, distracted at the Boda Bodas zipping by--drivers screaming out for passengers. I am sure I will figure it out later. In retrospect, this technique has caused a myriad of long-term problems; but, the short term problem of translating Mr. Dick’s broken English was going to take too much energy.
“Drivers are so wreckless.” I tuned Mr. Dick back in. I decide to contribute, “I hear it is the leading cause of death in...” Uganda tailed off as a white box-on-wheels approach Dick, myself and sprinting woman on the street. Mr. Dick slings his body around, looks me square in the eye stating, “You shall sit in the front.” I stared at the taxi. I glanced at the seemingly occupied front seat. I turn back at Dick with a concerned half smile on my face. Do I really have to get on this thing? Pretty much the exact same look a small girl wearing a pink tutu makes as she rotates her torso back to mom, Do I really have to grow up now?...Response: “It’ll be alright. I will be back this afternoon to pick you up. Go have fun at school--make friends.” Make friends. Parents always equated friend making with molding a snowman out of a ball of clay at snack time, as if it was ever that easy. Dick just shooed me off and bid me farewell, “Weeraba!”
I equate driving in this country to being on an unrestrictive, unpredictable roller coaster. When riding on a roller coaster you can almost prepare your body for the twists and turns it will encounter, countering any potential force you may feel. For example, by moving your body slightly to the left as the roller coaster turns right to combat the changing circulating acceleration. Additionally you have straps across your lap, perhaps even bars over your shoulders, uncomfortably gluing you to the plastic seat.
In an unrestrictive, unpredictable roller coaster, you have no idea where the roller coaster will turn. In your best defense you relax your muscles and allow the ride to freely move you, hoping the frictional force of butt to seat will result in minimal movement. Luckily--if one could consider this luck--Ugandan taxis, by nature, provide extra frictional forces keeping all but one or two in their seats. Not only do you have gravitational forces pressing you down, but the additional weight of the young man or woman sitting on your lap, the extra shoulder blade digging into your right pectoral muscle, a left leg entangled around your right thigh--flesh and bone seat belt.
Honk-shift-flash, a ritualistic mating call between taxi and potential customer--a classic romantic comedy. A man walks up to a woman in a bar in the very least saying, “hello;” or, throws out some embarrassing line to catch the potential of his mate. Embarrassing to the unfortunate souls sitting around the couple having to listen to the banter. After his one-liner, he moves closer to the woman, a sense of intimacy, a test to see if she takes his bait. If it works, he follows up with some sort of joke to seal the deal perhaps knocking on some chump at the bar trying to do the same as him or some fashion faux pa three seats down, taking pleasures in others’ pain--shaudefreude at it’s finest.
Honk. The driver blows his horn at every potential customer (a three year old shirtless child is not to be discriminated against). Shift. He guides his vehicle towards the side of the road. Flash. He clicks his beams on and off. The customer walks up to the side of the vehicle, discusses fare and destination. If a match, the door opens and the customer finds room in the vehicle--on a lap, on the floor, with the driver--she will squeeze herself in and the clown car clunks onward.
It is approximately 40 kilometers traveling from Kinoni to Masaka. 40 kilometers traveling on dirt road in a rickety metal clunker, clanking with each rotational tire spin. I attempt to see how long I could hold my breath. I developed, practiced and mastered this game as a young child. Often having to accompany my mother to various consignment shops and thrift stores, I also encountered the most particular scents. By particular, I mean scents that stung your nose hairs and caused the most disturbing visceral reaction. The type that made you rethink if the leftover onion, mushroom and anchovy pizza was a good choice of lunch. As Darwin would have it, I adapted to the situation. Trying to stay home evoked loss of dessert. A temper tantrum resulted in public humiliation, a week’s worth of dessert and a smack to the back of the head. These two options would not suffice, holding your breath became the premier option.
The taxi ride became long and keeping my breath, arduous. Between passenger exchanges I would drop off carbon dioxide and pick up oxygen. Each breath in carried in a thick scent of body odor, fruity perfume and clothing detergent.
For brief moment, I was alone in the front seat of the car. There were five people in the back and I am confident no one wanted to sit next to me, the Muzungu. I took this as a blessing and enjoyed the extra personal space. Four kilometers back read a sign Masaka 15 kilometers.
My taxi driver spotted three women with shopping bags. Honk-shift-flash. The trunk door opened and the ladies placed their shopping bags in the back. The left back door opened, the Ugandans squeezed. The front door opened and I was greeted with a woman in her early 30s. We exchanged nervous hellos as I placed my bag on my lap. I made the conscious decision of keeping my bag on my lap was the smartest choice I could make. If our car crashes, head on collision, my bag would be the first to break the windshield; and, if physics prevails and I am propelled correctly, the bag would be the first to touch ground, my feet angled up in the air. The force between the bag and dirt road would serve as a brake and the rest of my body would come to a slowed stop, feet gently touching the ground. Some one would catch the whole thing on tape and I would claim my 15 minutes of fame, maybe an episode of Oprah.
I thought my plan to be brilliant; although, I once flew off a snow ramp with all intentions of holding onto my inner tube. The wind current beneath me was too strong, I propelled too quickly, the inner tube was ripped from me hands. Once again, I realized I was not Peter Pan. The result of my accidental snow flight was a compressed chest and a sudden loss of breath, much different than the potential implications of a frontal taxi collision.
As the taxi driver urged the third woman to enter the packed car, I began noticing a crowd of people emerging from a path. The woman refused, the driver infuriated, he muddled something under his breath. Everyone giggled, but the woman sitting next to me. Her eyes became enraged, she glared directly at the taxi driver. I am pretty sure he was aware and feared his soul being burned by her firing eyes or possibly being turned to stone. My dad can produce a similar look. I had to cal the fire department on my soul several times. Facial expressions and reactions are not bound by culture.
The put the car into gear and crossed back onto the road. The crowd ahead approaching us, a trend among the people developed: Every third or fourth person glanced at the edge of the dirt road. My eyes followed theirs, and I saw a pile of clothes. Why are these people pointing at clothes? Is it on fire? Roadside fires were quite common in Uganda, they would not take time to stare at a fire.
The car pressed on. The woman beside me, now a bit more calm, began to take note of the situation ahead. She muddled something in Lugandan, I turned my head to listen, her eyes widened, mouth dropped ever so slightly and she began to shake her head. I jerked my head back to the scene. The image took better shape. 20 meters. The heap of clothes transformed into roadkill. 10 meters. Roadkill turned into a human being. I blinked convinced my eyes were lying. What I saw and what my brain could process were completely different entities.
In the first week of school I taught my students the difference between observation, inference and prediction. An observation is gathered by your five senses. What are you able to see, touch, feel, taste. I put up a picture of a the recent earthquake in China. My students rattled off what they could see: a building broken in half, a construction crew, the road separated in two, a woman holding her child crying.
An inference is a conclusion one can reach based on observations. My students rattled off their inferences: an earthquake has taken place, they are trying to find people, they are trying to clean up, the woman is sad.
A prediction is an educated guess of future events based on observations and inferences. My students came up with predictions: the construction crew will rescue three people, one of those people will be the woman’s lover and baby daddy. The woman’s husband ends up dying, no--getting crushed by the building and the rescue team only finds his brains! The woman is really happy because she can now marry her baby’s daddy. You have to admire their creativity.
My observations: a human being laying still, flat, face down on the ground, right leg contorted unnaturally upward to right side of his body, left leg bent at the knee making a four with where his right leg should be, his pants are pulled down, his naked butt pointed towards the sun, half a pool of blood on his right side, neck untwisted, head in mixture of dirt and blood, people walking past the body, people looking at the body and continuing their walk, people in conversation.
My inferences: hit and run, the man is dead, victim struck below butt shattering the right femur, the force of the car dragged the man along the dirt road, some observers care, some observers do not care, all observers have seen this before, no one is calling for help.
My prediction: The victim will remain on the ground until some one decides to drag the body off, the victim will be burned, a mother some where will still be waiting for her son to return home.
I closed my eyes the rest of the drive. The other passengers spoke to one another. I sat in silence. I was left to my thoughts, my nauseous stomach and my inability to look at the road. I felt like puking. I suppose if I had upchucked my lunch I would made circumstances much worse. I swallowed the increased production of saliva and thought of a happy place. The only image coming to mind was the young man on the road, lying their dead, gone, not able to breathe in air, run, jump, laugh, skip a rock, kiss, learn, dream, inspire....love.
What did he live for?
What do you live for?
Sandwiched between and the driver, my right leg pinched between the gear shift and the driver’s hand. I can feel. My right upper appendage crossed holding for dear life to the plastic handle. I can move. A horn blowing into the African air beckoning for more passengers. I can hear. If there was still room in the taxi to breathe, there was room for another customer. I can breathe. Cars swerving in and out of traffic, avoiding gas tankers, vehicles traveling too slow for the crazed taxi, pot holes, boda boda drivers, human beings... I am alive.
Weeraba sebo.
As I walked down the path from COWESER, Uncle, Mister, etc. Dick taught me the word goodbye, Weeraba. I practiced several times aloud, followed by whispered and then again several times in my head. Weeraba, weeraba... weeraba. I challenged myself not to forget this word, although the only word I had no problem memorizing was tugende, “we go.” As you may suspect, it has not gotten me too far.
We stopped at the road ahead. Mr. Dick wished a good day to the lady standing five feet away. Poor Uncle Dick, in his late 30s he stilled lived with his mother and had no prospects for a wife. Although we reveled together about the freedom of the single life with no concern of others, the conversation between us ended in a sigh--the type of sigh indicating we did not believe a word we just spoke about. Around women, Uncle Dick gave off quite the scent. The I am desperate pheromonal spray unavoidable by any culture or sex.
Sadly, I knew exactly what was going on in each of their minds. Uncle Dick: Need sex, children, a companion... a wife. (Most likely in this exact order) Woman: this man is just trying too hard. How can I dangle the goods just out of his reach? To no avail, Uncle Dick failed in his attempt to secure her affection. The woman: “Weeraba, sebo.” Goodbye sir. Unconcerned for Uncle Dick’s failure to woo the stranger, I was elated at my ability to recognize and retain the phrase.
Mister Dick turned to me with a haphazard smile, in an attempt to save his dignity and pride. It’s alright Uncle Dick, it happens to the best of us. He immediately switched topics to my plans for arrival tomorrow. Coupled with my quizzical glance, he went about his meticulous directions. Meticulous directions often included movable objects like: “slope up at the black and white goat eating the pile of garbage” or “turn left at the bushes on the corner of the road,” hoping the family who owns the goat has plenty to eat and the owner of the bush does not feel the shrubbery has taken over his front plot. I nod my head instinctively, distracted at the Boda Bodas zipping by--drivers screaming out for passengers. I am sure I will figure it out later. In retrospect, this technique has caused a myriad of long-term problems; but, the short term problem of translating Mr. Dick’s broken English was going to take too much energy.
“Drivers are so wreckless.” I tuned Mr. Dick back in. I decide to contribute, “I hear it is the leading cause of death in...” Uganda tailed off as a white box-on-wheels approach Dick, myself and sprinting woman on the street. Mr. Dick slings his body around, looks me square in the eye stating, “You shall sit in the front.” I stared at the taxi. I glanced at the seemingly occupied front seat. I turn back at Dick with a concerned half smile on my face. Do I really have to get on this thing? Pretty much the exact same look a small girl wearing a pink tutu makes as she rotates her torso back to mom, Do I really have to grow up now?...Response: “It’ll be alright. I will be back this afternoon to pick you up. Go have fun at school--make friends.” Make friends. Parents always equated friend making with molding a snowman out of a ball of clay at snack time, as if it was ever that easy. Dick just shooed me off and bid me farewell, “Weeraba!”
I equate driving in this country to being on an unrestrictive, unpredictable roller coaster. When riding on a roller coaster you can almost prepare your body for the twists and turns it will encounter, countering any potential force you may feel. For example, by moving your body slightly to the left as the roller coaster turns right to combat the changing circulating acceleration. Additionally you have straps across your lap, perhaps even bars over your shoulders, uncomfortably gluing you to the plastic seat.
In an unrestrictive, unpredictable roller coaster, you have no idea where the roller coaster will turn. In your best defense you relax your muscles and allow the ride to freely move you, hoping the frictional force of butt to seat will result in minimal movement. Luckily--if one could consider this luck--Ugandan taxis, by nature, provide extra frictional forces keeping all but one or two in their seats. Not only do you have gravitational forces pressing you down, but the additional weight of the young man or woman sitting on your lap, the extra shoulder blade digging into your right pectoral muscle, a left leg entangled around your right thigh--flesh and bone seat belt.
Honk-shift-flash, a ritualistic mating call between taxi and potential customer--a classic romantic comedy. A man walks up to a woman in a bar in the very least saying, “hello;” or, throws out some embarrassing line to catch the potential of his mate. Embarrassing to the unfortunate souls sitting around the couple having to listen to the banter. After his one-liner, he moves closer to the woman, a sense of intimacy, a test to see if she takes his bait. If it works, he follows up with some sort of joke to seal the deal perhaps knocking on some chump at the bar trying to do the same as him or some fashion faux pa three seats down, taking pleasures in others’ pain--shaudefreude at it’s finest.
Honk. The driver blows his horn at every potential customer (a three year old shirtless child is not to be discriminated against). Shift. He guides his vehicle towards the side of the road. Flash. He clicks his beams on and off. The customer walks up to the side of the vehicle, discusses fare and destination. If a match, the door opens and the customer finds room in the vehicle--on a lap, on the floor, with the driver--she will squeeze herself in and the clown car clunks onward.
It is approximately 40 kilometers traveling from Kinoni to Masaka. 40 kilometers traveling on dirt road in a rickety metal clunker, clanking with each rotational tire spin. I attempt to see how long I could hold my breath. I developed, practiced and mastered this game as a young child. Often having to accompany my mother to various consignment shops and thrift stores, I also encountered the most particular scents. By particular, I mean scents that stung your nose hairs and caused the most disturbing visceral reaction. The type that made you rethink if the leftover onion, mushroom and anchovy pizza was a good choice of lunch. As Darwin would have it, I adapted to the situation. Trying to stay home evoked loss of dessert. A temper tantrum resulted in public humiliation, a week’s worth of dessert and a smack to the back of the head. These two options would not suffice, holding your breath became the premier option.
The taxi ride became long and keeping my breath, arduous. Between passenger exchanges I would drop off carbon dioxide and pick up oxygen. Each breath in carried in a thick scent of body odor, fruity perfume and clothing detergent.
For brief moment, I was alone in the front seat of the car. There were five people in the back and I am confident no one wanted to sit next to me, the Muzungu. I took this as a blessing and enjoyed the extra personal space. Four kilometers back read a sign Masaka 15 kilometers.
My taxi driver spotted three women with shopping bags. Honk-shift-flash. The trunk door opened and the ladies placed their shopping bags in the back. The left back door opened, the Ugandans squeezed. The front door opened and I was greeted with a woman in her early 30s. We exchanged nervous hellos as I placed my bag on my lap. I made the conscious decision of keeping my bag on my lap was the smartest choice I could make. If our car crashes, head on collision, my bag would be the first to break the windshield; and, if physics prevails and I am propelled correctly, the bag would be the first to touch ground, my feet angled up in the air. The force between the bag and dirt road would serve as a brake and the rest of my body would come to a slowed stop, feet gently touching the ground. Some one would catch the whole thing on tape and I would claim my 15 minutes of fame, maybe an episode of Oprah.
I thought my plan to be brilliant; although, I once flew off a snow ramp with all intentions of holding onto my inner tube. The wind current beneath me was too strong, I propelled too quickly, the inner tube was ripped from me hands. Once again, I realized I was not Peter Pan. The result of my accidental snow flight was a compressed chest and a sudden loss of breath, much different than the potential implications of a frontal taxi collision.
As the taxi driver urged the third woman to enter the packed car, I began noticing a crowd of people emerging from a path. The woman refused, the driver infuriated, he muddled something under his breath. Everyone giggled, but the woman sitting next to me. Her eyes became enraged, she glared directly at the taxi driver. I am pretty sure he was aware and feared his soul being burned by her firing eyes or possibly being turned to stone. My dad can produce a similar look. I had to cal the fire department on my soul several times. Facial expressions and reactions are not bound by culture.
The put the car into gear and crossed back onto the road. The crowd ahead approaching us, a trend among the people developed: Every third or fourth person glanced at the edge of the dirt road. My eyes followed theirs, and I saw a pile of clothes. Why are these people pointing at clothes? Is it on fire? Roadside fires were quite common in Uganda, they would not take time to stare at a fire.
The car pressed on. The woman beside me, now a bit more calm, began to take note of the situation ahead. She muddled something in Lugandan, I turned my head to listen, her eyes widened, mouth dropped ever so slightly and she began to shake her head. I jerked my head back to the scene. The image took better shape. 20 meters. The heap of clothes transformed into roadkill. 10 meters. Roadkill turned into a human being. I blinked convinced my eyes were lying. What I saw and what my brain could process were completely different entities.
In the first week of school I taught my students the difference between observation, inference and prediction. An observation is gathered by your five senses. What are you able to see, touch, feel, taste. I put up a picture of a the recent earthquake in China. My students rattled off what they could see: a building broken in half, a construction crew, the road separated in two, a woman holding her child crying.
An inference is a conclusion one can reach based on observations. My students rattled off their inferences: an earthquake has taken place, they are trying to find people, they are trying to clean up, the woman is sad.
A prediction is an educated guess of future events based on observations and inferences. My students came up with predictions: the construction crew will rescue three people, one of those people will be the woman’s lover and baby daddy. The woman’s husband ends up dying, no--getting crushed by the building and the rescue team only finds his brains! The woman is really happy because she can now marry her baby’s daddy. You have to admire their creativity.
My observations: a human being laying still, flat, face down on the ground, right leg contorted unnaturally upward to right side of his body, left leg bent at the knee making a four with where his right leg should be, his pants are pulled down, his naked butt pointed towards the sun, half a pool of blood on his right side, neck untwisted, head in mixture of dirt and blood, people walking past the body, people looking at the body and continuing their walk, people in conversation.
My inferences: hit and run, the man is dead, victim struck below butt shattering the right femur, the force of the car dragged the man along the dirt road, some observers care, some observers do not care, all observers have seen this before, no one is calling for help.
My prediction: The victim will remain on the ground until some one decides to drag the body off, the victim will be burned, a mother some where will still be waiting for her son to return home.
I closed my eyes the rest of the drive. The other passengers spoke to one another. I sat in silence. I was left to my thoughts, my nauseous stomach and my inability to look at the road. I felt like puking. I suppose if I had upchucked my lunch I would made circumstances much worse. I swallowed the increased production of saliva and thought of a happy place. The only image coming to mind was the young man on the road, lying their dead, gone, not able to breathe in air, run, jump, laugh, skip a rock, kiss, learn, dream, inspire....love.
What did he live for?
What do you live for?
Sandwiched between and the driver, my right leg pinched between the gear shift and the driver’s hand. I can feel. My right upper appendage crossed holding for dear life to the plastic handle. I can move. A horn blowing into the African air beckoning for more passengers. I can hear. If there was still room in the taxi to breathe, there was room for another customer. I can breathe. Cars swerving in and out of traffic, avoiding gas tankers, vehicles traveling too slow for the crazed taxi, pot holes, boda boda drivers, human beings... I am alive.
Weeraba sebo.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Uganda
Uganda.
I have been here for about two weeks--beginning in the capital, peeing at the equator and landing in the city Masaka. To begin, cities here are more like large towns. The image many of you chose to represent "city" is a misrepresentation. Masaka, Uganda consists of three main roads, unlike a Ugandan town having only one; 5 bars, unlike a Ugandan town having only one; a health clinic, daily food market and several other small businesses. A Ugandan town may or may not have any of these fixtures.
The rest of this post, in the strictest sense, will be informational in a strong effort to give you some factual background. This factual background may or may not help support some of the stories to come in the future.
My host family:
Agnes and Joseph: Agnes is a housewife and Joseph is in local politics and supposedly some photography work on the side, though i have yet to see any. Men frequent our house looking for him--i am pretty sure he is important. Agnes and Joseph have 8 children, four of which have been in the house since I have been here, two are here for the summer and another for as long as her job keeps her here. The youngest is in boarding school and not home and the rest are working in Kampala, the capital. The youngest is (I think) around age 16. John is 19, and about to enter Kampala University on a Governor's Scholarship (full ride) studying civil engineering. Joseph is going into his 2nd or 3rd year at the same university studying some sort of economics. Barbara is 22, just finished with Uni with a social sciences degree. She has a part time job, who seem to love her and her work. The family also raises and sells pigs. The pigs remind you of their existence about every half hour.
My host organization:
I am working with an organization called Community Welfare Services (COWESER). It was started and founded in 1996 by a doctor and his wife. They still run the place and it runs quite smoothly. Everything, including the buildings, they have built together. It currently has a in/out patient clinic where they treat malaria, pneumonia, asthma, etc. Their ward consists of about 10 rooms, about 5 of which have been in rotation since i have been with the organization. Today, I learned they also preform some surgical procedures and child birth. For example, i learned the procedure for a circumcision today. In conjunction with the clinic is a self run nursing school. It is a three year program with about 50 students total.
COWESER also has a medicinal garden, community sensitivity training for HIV/AIDS, free HIV testing and community outreach sanitation and nutrition programs.
I do not know of my project yet--have 4 more days of host orientation to decide, but have some ideas brewing.
I think thats about all the factual info. The rest of the blogs will be in story form. The first is of a my first Ugandan taxi ride....
I have been here for about two weeks--beginning in the capital, peeing at the equator and landing in the city Masaka. To begin, cities here are more like large towns. The image many of you chose to represent "city" is a misrepresentation. Masaka, Uganda consists of three main roads, unlike a Ugandan town having only one; 5 bars, unlike a Ugandan town having only one; a health clinic, daily food market and several other small businesses. A Ugandan town may or may not have any of these fixtures.
The rest of this post, in the strictest sense, will be informational in a strong effort to give you some factual background. This factual background may or may not help support some of the stories to come in the future.
My host family:
Agnes and Joseph: Agnes is a housewife and Joseph is in local politics and supposedly some photography work on the side, though i have yet to see any. Men frequent our house looking for him--i am pretty sure he is important. Agnes and Joseph have 8 children, four of which have been in the house since I have been here, two are here for the summer and another for as long as her job keeps her here. The youngest is in boarding school and not home and the rest are working in Kampala, the capital. The youngest is (I think) around age 16. John is 19, and about to enter Kampala University on a Governor's Scholarship (full ride) studying civil engineering. Joseph is going into his 2nd or 3rd year at the same university studying some sort of economics. Barbara is 22, just finished with Uni with a social sciences degree. She has a part time job, who seem to love her and her work. The family also raises and sells pigs. The pigs remind you of their existence about every half hour.
My host organization:
I am working with an organization called Community Welfare Services (COWESER). It was started and founded in 1996 by a doctor and his wife. They still run the place and it runs quite smoothly. Everything, including the buildings, they have built together. It currently has a in/out patient clinic where they treat malaria, pneumonia, asthma, etc. Their ward consists of about 10 rooms, about 5 of which have been in rotation since i have been with the organization. Today, I learned they also preform some surgical procedures and child birth. For example, i learned the procedure for a circumcision today. In conjunction with the clinic is a self run nursing school. It is a three year program with about 50 students total.
COWESER also has a medicinal garden, community sensitivity training for HIV/AIDS, free HIV testing and community outreach sanitation and nutrition programs.
I do not know of my project yet--have 4 more days of host orientation to decide, but have some ideas brewing.
I think thats about all the factual info. The rest of the blogs will be in story form. The first is of a my first Ugandan taxi ride....
Monday, October 19, 2009
"Blumpkin the Cat"
hilarious story. wanted to die laughing. here goes:
One of my students, Christine, is this overly plump child who is 2 or 3 years behind where she needs to be is OBSESSED with getting a class pet. When I met her parents... well let's just say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
Christine has been on my case about getting all sorts of odd pets, which makes me wonder what sort of creatures she has living at home. Last Thursday, I had them draw a cell and label its parts, etc. Naturally, Christine was off task and attempted to grasp onto my ear to riddle off all of the creatures she lives with including her brother. I am visibly annoyed. She can tell. I ask her to continue her drawing. I can see her boiling up... oh dear, she is going to say something... Finally, with a burst of energy she shouts out, "My cat's name is BLUMPKIN."
The class gets a little silent, a few students sort of look our way with estranged looks... more of a "why is this girl shouting interjections in class" than a "omg she just said blumpkin!" kind of looks. I whip around and almost die. As in holding my stomach muscles so tight. Immediately I had a visual... a really nasty visual I could not get rid of.
I turn around and face her: "Do you know what that means?" My flashback continues to the Friars Club Office on a random Tuesday my sophomore year as a inappropriate--yet fascinating--discussion develops on the kinky sexual fantasy many have (more than I would ever think) on receiving a blumpkin.
"Yes Veronica I know what that means."
"My brother named it that. Its disgusting. My brother is immature."
I almost keeled over in laughter. I was amazed at my capacity to avoid rolling around on the floor laughing.
As for Veronica, I responded, "Yes that is inappropriate for the classroom... why don't you pack up your stuff and get ready for the bell to ring"
One of my students, Christine, is this overly plump child who is 2 or 3 years behind where she needs to be is OBSESSED with getting a class pet. When I met her parents... well let's just say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
Christine has been on my case about getting all sorts of odd pets, which makes me wonder what sort of creatures she has living at home. Last Thursday, I had them draw a cell and label its parts, etc. Naturally, Christine was off task and attempted to grasp onto my ear to riddle off all of the creatures she lives with including her brother. I am visibly annoyed. She can tell. I ask her to continue her drawing. I can see her boiling up... oh dear, she is going to say something... Finally, with a burst of energy she shouts out, "My cat's name is BLUMPKIN."
The class gets a little silent, a few students sort of look our way with estranged looks... more of a "why is this girl shouting interjections in class" than a "omg she just said blumpkin!" kind of looks. I whip around and almost die. As in holding my stomach muscles so tight. Immediately I had a visual... a really nasty visual I could not get rid of.
I turn around and face her: "Do you know what that means?" My flashback continues to the Friars Club Office on a random Tuesday my sophomore year as a inappropriate--yet fascinating--discussion develops on the kinky sexual fantasy many have (more than I would ever think) on receiving a blumpkin.
"Yes Veronica I know what that means."
"My brother named it that. Its disgusting. My brother is immature."
I almost keeled over in laughter. I was amazed at my capacity to avoid rolling around on the floor laughing.
As for Veronica, I responded, "Yes that is inappropriate for the classroom... why don't you pack up your stuff and get ready for the bell to ring"
Friday, October 16, 2009
keep breathing
This one is going to be a long one and the time line of events might be a little off; but, I am just going to roll with it and hopefully you will do the same. Shannon just reminded me that since I have started this blog I probably cannot mention the specific names of things... oh the internet--- got to watch out for yourself. So I apologize if I am vague at any point. Know that I am doing it to not get my poor social servant self sued.
I have just decided to swap names of people I know with my students' names.
I am going to start with my favorite lesson learned so far:
In the moment, I did not think it this was funny; but now as I am reflecting on my day I can't seem to stop laughing or playing the event over and over in my head.
Here goes, enjoy:
Mike, a low performing student in my calm, cool and collected 3rd period class did not come to class prepared today. I figured this out about a 1/4 through the vocab lesson when I saw that he was not writing anything down. I asked him why he was not on task and to no avail!, (yet again) no pencil today. I told him to ask those around him for a pencil, for I did not have one to give him in that exact moment. I continued on with the lesson as I saw him turning to his fellow students.
Five minutes later, out of the corner of my eye I see Dan, a well behaved student with illegible cursive handwriting, conversing with Mike, both with their backs turned towards me. I stopped speaking turned around and reminded Danto go back to his seat. He turns to me and says, "Fine, but Mike it spitting up blood."
It felt as if a shock wave had hit me and my students as they all proceeded to turn their bug-eyes over to their left side. I calmly walked over to Mike expecting blood to be spewing from his mouth (i had a very vivid image flashback of watching an episode of House). He instead had something in his hand and seemed quite thrilled.
My panic subsided as there was no apparent projectile blood. I looked at him then looked at the ground to a puddle of blood. Perplexed, I asked, "Mike what happened?"
He smiled and plainly stated that he had ripped out his last baby tooth and he had to spit the blood out. I cocked my head ever so slightly to the side and responded, "but why would you do that in the middle of class?"
"Well, I couldn't find a pencil."
Lesson learned: always supply children with a pencil.
A Night I will always remember in LA:
While in La, I spent the least amount of time in LA. My free time was allotted to roadtrips around the area (San Diego for pride, Huntington Beach/Newport Beach for the Surfing Open...etc.). I found LA to be spread out and a daily headache.
I will never forget the night I went out in LA.
Set the scene... I was dressed in baby blue sweater, express dark blue jeans with my irish cap on my head. Matt was meeting up with a friend in west hollywood and I decided to tag along. Up to that point I felt I avoided anything LA and this was just unfair.
Matt and I met his friend at a bar where he was going t play a track or two. I walked into this swanky place and immediately felt out of place. chaise couches, multiple fake fire pits, cocktails of various colors with pinkies out, designer outfits with a perfect blend of accessories, everyone with a drink in hand and no sign of a bar anywhere. I felt as if I entered the twilight zone (and there was no Edward!). Matt looked a little confused as well... once we finally found the bar and ordered a drink things were a tiny bit better. When I sat down I immediately started staring at pretentious that surrounded me, trying pry my eyes into the insecurities they hid behind.
There was a 50 year old women to my left drinking her clear cocktail make-up caked, her hands on a 30 year old gentleman who looked as if his long time dog was just shot.
There was a couple of men, on a chaise lounge in front of me, gay (I determined this by there outrageous method of staring at our table.... one of the guys even gave me a head nod. at which point I decided not to stare anymore.(1, 2,... look away).
All those around were in some form of exaggerated conversation. I was loving it. Finally, I understood the term, "So LA."
We left this place after matt's friend finished spinning his tracks.
In conversation, it had come out that I have this slight fear of Drag queens. Something about being displayed on stage during a drag show really spawned this uncomfortable feeling of nausea and sweating palms when I find myself close to them. Naturally, they took me to a Drag Bar.
It was located in Korea town on a roof top of some building. One of these bars... one of these bars if you didn't know where you were going you would have no idea it existed. We climb the couple flights of stairs and 3 young drag queens are there to greet us.
We walked in and my mouth hit the floor. I walked into a "what the fuck party" (for those of you who do not know what a "wtf" party is... the goal is wear an absurd outfit so the company around will say "what the fuck are you wearing?"
For those who witnessed my outfit for "wtf" junior year, I promise you everyone in this bar was much worse. To my left there was a a group of gentleman (?) one with his face painted half black, with a nun's cap and this drape piece of garb over his body, another was in a short mini shirt sparkling shirt with roller blades on, another with a torn orange shirt and some form of shorts on that I really have no words for. I had entered a freak show. I was loving it. I was a tad bit in shock, trying to absorb the situation as quickly as possible.
The drag show began. Due to my condition, we stood a real solid distance away from the stage. The first act was a real woman and a terrible singer. I took a sip of my drink finally beginning to adjust to the situation. The stage music began. Sounds of pigs oinking and splashing in the mud. I looked at Matt and his friend, perplexed. From where we stood, there was no sign of anyone on stage. We instinctively moved closer to the stage. I found myself head tilted, eyebrows in, nostril up, with a smirk of dumbfound. There were two man on stage rolling around in their boxer briefs, with a pair of pig ears and pig noses. Just as my brain was attempting to place the image in a box, a clap of thunder struck the stage. I nearly jumped, looked up and saw a 300 pound bald greased man dressed in a corset and long flowing hippy dress. He looked like the Michelin tire fluffy man gone really really wrong. I was frozen, staring at the performance. Half in shock... mostly in shock not a muscle moved. A marilyn manson-esk melody about swines filled the club. An animalistic, dominatrix performance was playing out in front of me.. and i had first row tickets. I began to uncomfortably laugh, Matt began to uncomfortably laugh. The man was now rolling around on stage, the pigs were on top of him, oil everywhere. The corset busted open, the dressed flew out in the crowd. Matt turned around and left the room. I did not think it was possible.
This image in my head has permanently tatooed itself to the core of my being. If I ever have children, they will never hear the tale of "the three little pigs."
I am mentally exhausted after telling that story... I'll post about school and my kids later.
Dan
I have just decided to swap names of people I know with my students' names.
I am going to start with my favorite lesson learned so far:
In the moment, I did not think it this was funny; but now as I am reflecting on my day I can't seem to stop laughing or playing the event over and over in my head.
Here goes, enjoy:
Mike, a low performing student in my calm, cool and collected 3rd period class did not come to class prepared today. I figured this out about a 1/4 through the vocab lesson when I saw that he was not writing anything down. I asked him why he was not on task and to no avail!, (yet again) no pencil today. I told him to ask those around him for a pencil, for I did not have one to give him in that exact moment. I continued on with the lesson as I saw him turning to his fellow students.
Five minutes later, out of the corner of my eye I see Dan, a well behaved student with illegible cursive handwriting, conversing with Mike, both with their backs turned towards me. I stopped speaking turned around and reminded Danto go back to his seat. He turns to me and says, "Fine, but Mike it spitting up blood."
It felt as if a shock wave had hit me and my students as they all proceeded to turn their bug-eyes over to their left side. I calmly walked over to Mike expecting blood to be spewing from his mouth (i had a very vivid image flashback of watching an episode of House). He instead had something in his hand and seemed quite thrilled.
My panic subsided as there was no apparent projectile blood. I looked at him then looked at the ground to a puddle of blood. Perplexed, I asked, "Mike what happened?"
He smiled and plainly stated that he had ripped out his last baby tooth and he had to spit the blood out. I cocked my head ever so slightly to the side and responded, "but why would you do that in the middle of class?"
"Well, I couldn't find a pencil."
Lesson learned: always supply children with a pencil.
A Night I will always remember in LA:
While in La, I spent the least amount of time in LA. My free time was allotted to roadtrips around the area (San Diego for pride, Huntington Beach/Newport Beach for the Surfing Open...etc.). I found LA to be spread out and a daily headache.
I will never forget the night I went out in LA.
Set the scene... I was dressed in baby blue sweater, express dark blue jeans with my irish cap on my head. Matt was meeting up with a friend in west hollywood and I decided to tag along. Up to that point I felt I avoided anything LA and this was just unfair.
Matt and I met his friend at a bar where he was going t play a track or two. I walked into this swanky place and immediately felt out of place. chaise couches, multiple fake fire pits, cocktails of various colors with pinkies out, designer outfits with a perfect blend of accessories, everyone with a drink in hand and no sign of a bar anywhere. I felt as if I entered the twilight zone (and there was no Edward!). Matt looked a little confused as well... once we finally found the bar and ordered a drink things were a tiny bit better. When I sat down I immediately started staring at pretentious that surrounded me, trying pry my eyes into the insecurities they hid behind.
There was a 50 year old women to my left drinking her clear cocktail make-up caked, her hands on a 30 year old gentleman who looked as if his long time dog was just shot.
There was a couple of men, on a chaise lounge in front of me, gay (I determined this by there outrageous method of staring at our table.... one of the guys even gave me a head nod. at which point I decided not to stare anymore.(1, 2,... look away).
All those around were in some form of exaggerated conversation. I was loving it. Finally, I understood the term, "So LA."
We left this place after matt's friend finished spinning his tracks.
In conversation, it had come out that I have this slight fear of Drag queens. Something about being displayed on stage during a drag show really spawned this uncomfortable feeling of nausea and sweating palms when I find myself close to them. Naturally, they took me to a Drag Bar.
It was located in Korea town on a roof top of some building. One of these bars... one of these bars if you didn't know where you were going you would have no idea it existed. We climb the couple flights of stairs and 3 young drag queens are there to greet us.
We walked in and my mouth hit the floor. I walked into a "what the fuck party" (for those of you who do not know what a "wtf" party is... the goal is wear an absurd outfit so the company around will say "what the fuck are you wearing?"
For those who witnessed my outfit for "wtf" junior year, I promise you everyone in this bar was much worse. To my left there was a a group of gentleman (?) one with his face painted half black, with a nun's cap and this drape piece of garb over his body, another was in a short mini shirt sparkling shirt with roller blades on, another with a torn orange shirt and some form of shorts on that I really have no words for. I had entered a freak show. I was loving it. I was a tad bit in shock, trying to absorb the situation as quickly as possible.
The drag show began. Due to my condition, we stood a real solid distance away from the stage. The first act was a real woman and a terrible singer. I took a sip of my drink finally beginning to adjust to the situation. The stage music began. Sounds of pigs oinking and splashing in the mud. I looked at Matt and his friend, perplexed. From where we stood, there was no sign of anyone on stage. We instinctively moved closer to the stage. I found myself head tilted, eyebrows in, nostril up, with a smirk of dumbfound. There were two man on stage rolling around in their boxer briefs, with a pair of pig ears and pig noses. Just as my brain was attempting to place the image in a box, a clap of thunder struck the stage. I nearly jumped, looked up and saw a 300 pound bald greased man dressed in a corset and long flowing hippy dress. He looked like the Michelin tire fluffy man gone really really wrong. I was frozen, staring at the performance. Half in shock... mostly in shock not a muscle moved. A marilyn manson-esk melody about swines filled the club. An animalistic, dominatrix performance was playing out in front of me.. and i had first row tickets. I began to uncomfortably laugh, Matt began to uncomfortably laugh. The man was now rolling around on stage, the pigs were on top of him, oil everywhere. The corset busted open, the dressed flew out in the crowd. Matt turned around and left the room. I did not think it was possible.
This image in my head has permanently tatooed itself to the core of my being. If I ever have children, they will never hear the tale of "the three little pigs."
I am mentally exhausted after telling that story... I'll post about school and my kids later.
Dan
LA trick
i attached the last email just in case some of you didn't get it.
oh to describe the last couple of weeks....
to put it shortly: I am living life and have never felt so good doing it.
Business: my address is
1130 3rd Avenue Apartment#308
oakland, ca 94606
To begin I will start off with the make up of the apartment and oakland. I live in a 17 story apartment complex with a ton of young professionals and families. About 7 of us live here from TFA and we have been moving in quite slowly. There are about 5 of us here now! I started out sleeping on the floor and now share a bed with who ever will take me in. Oakland is an up and coming city. According to some random man on the BART (public transportation) it has been up and coming since the 1940s. His comedic timing was effortless and perfect. Tangent: The best part of west coast has been the random conversations I have be in. Example: I was wearing my Providence College grey T and some random man stopped me on the streets of SF. Our circular conversation rolled around east living and providence and then finally shot out to what we were doing on the west coast. he had a one-man street puppetry show that he was taking up to Seattle and then cross country to RISD (rhode island school of design) in Providence. It was only then I realized he looked as if he hadn't showered in a good couple of weeks (day 5 OBX style). We parted ways and I immediatley found myself in another conversation with a young blonde woman about the BART patterns whcih lead into who i was and who she was. Sadly our delightful encouter ended abruptly when I completely forgot what I was doing and my body nearly sliced in two by the closing subway doors.
So oakland, up and coming... right... I live right on Lake Merritt which is a nice place in Oakland. We have already found ourselves at a movie theatre in an old opera house and a hip chic wine bar(where we received comp. glass of champagne and a "welcome to the neighborhood discount"). To be perfectly transparent, there are extremely dangerous parts of Oakland and you have to be careful in certain areas. As long as we use our heads and curb the wanderings to a minimum we should be fine. This may be more difficult for some (me) but I will be paying extra attention to my local activities.
Another nice feature of the location of my apt is the hop-skip-and-a-jump it takes to get into the city ("into the city" is SF). It takes abotu a 10 minute walk to ta BART and a 12 minute ride on the BART into the city. It took me a good 10 minutes to figure out how to buy a ticket (to which I managed to make a complete fool of myself in fron tof several people). In this week alone I have been to the city 4 or 5 times for leisurely strolls, Scooter appointments (yes I am in negotiations with Jaun to purchase his 2008 scooter), to all out crazy nights swapping spit with the mexican mafia (i am almost positiive I will be receiving a phone call this week asking me to fly down to mexico--a good kiss goes a long way).
I also have a friend who has a house in Healdsburg, CA in sonoma county. For those of you who are not wine enthusiasts, Sonoma country is a huge producer of wine. I found myself tanked about midday on friday galavanting around the wineries and vineyards, dirnking wine in caves, stopping the car by a grape wine and ripping the fresh grapes off. My friends house is a million dollar ranch overlooking the valley with a gorgeous in ground pool, zen den and a built in hot tub. We forgot our camera that night so no evidence of this place as of now but I will be back. we are planning on heading back to go to the crystal clear lake and camp with the wild boar and dear next week. speaking of pictures, hopefulyl will be loading them soon. features include: san deigo zoo, pictures of the new apt and a model shoot on the beaches of santa barbara (where i want to retire).
To conclude on the non-teaching aspects of life, CA has been everything I have been looking for and more. every day proves itself to be a new adventure.
On teaching, summer school was an absolute blast aside from the constant stress. It wasn't hard. I just needed five more hours in the day to complete everything I needed to do. Anywho, I survived and have never learned so much in a short period of time. My kids were amazing. Constantly testing and pushing the boundaries. we are there to pass their tests. they need us to pass their tests. for more inspiration on teaching, go here: he is a def jam poet. REAL cool. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tpog1_NFd2Q
I taught 8th grade physical science (mostly basic conceptual physics). My kids did everythigng from "sex"ting (sending nude/half nude pics of themselves to others (sylvia, i need a funny text... what do you say..)). it caused huge drama yadda yadda i loved it. its kind of hilarious.
It would have been funny if this happened:
me: What is your favorite holiday?
student: 4/20
me: oh man I got so high last 4/20. iate pot brownies and melted into my seat. it was HILARIOUS. baller times
student: Mr. O lets hit after class
What actually happened:
me: what is your favorite holiday?
student: 4/20 haha
me: I know what that is. thats inappropriate
student: how do u know what that is?
me: i wasn't born yesterday. answer it again.
While playing a game i call the "speed dating game" where I have one group of students moving around completing problems on one side of the desk and another rotating on the opposite inner circle a male student (chad) , when sitting opposite me (yes I play the game as well to check their work) questions: you call this is speed dating game right? answer: yes statement: well mister, no offense but your not really my type. recall: laughter.
It has been an absolute blast teachign summer school, learning a ltitle bit about teaching and the new challenges each day brought.
oh, so i think i am going to start a blog. it will be so much more easy to do then continuously e-mail people over and over again. i will keep you all updated.
Love and miss you all!!! Please come visit!!! we have space in the apartment and Jacob wants as many visitors as possible. Just let me know when your coming so i don't plan on camping or some random adventure that weekend or week (or maybe you'll just have to brave the woods with me (miss mitchell I think this would be a ton of fun for you).
Dan
oh to describe the last couple of weeks....
to put it shortly: I am living life and have never felt so good doing it.
Business: my address is
1130 3rd Avenue Apartment#308
oakland, ca 94606
To begin I will start off with the make up of the apartment and oakland. I live in a 17 story apartment complex with a ton of young professionals and families. About 7 of us live here from TFA and we have been moving in quite slowly. There are about 5 of us here now! I started out sleeping on the floor and now share a bed with who ever will take me in. Oakland is an up and coming city. According to some random man on the BART (public transportation) it has been up and coming since the 1940s. His comedic timing was effortless and perfect. Tangent: The best part of west coast has been the random conversations I have be in. Example: I was wearing my Providence College grey T and some random man stopped me on the streets of SF. Our circular conversation rolled around east living and providence and then finally shot out to what we were doing on the west coast. he had a one-man street puppetry show that he was taking up to Seattle and then cross country to RISD (rhode island school of design) in Providence. It was only then I realized he looked as if he hadn't showered in a good couple of weeks (day 5 OBX style). We parted ways and I immediatley found myself in another conversation with a young blonde woman about the BART patterns whcih lead into who i was and who she was. Sadly our delightful encouter ended abruptly when I completely forgot what I was doing and my body nearly sliced in two by the closing subway doors.
So oakland, up and coming... right... I live right on Lake Merritt which is a nice place in Oakland. We have already found ourselves at a movie theatre in an old opera house and a hip chic wine bar(where we received comp. glass of champagne and a "welcome to the neighborhood discount"). To be perfectly transparent, there are extremely dangerous parts of Oakland and you have to be careful in certain areas. As long as we use our heads and curb the wanderings to a minimum we should be fine. This may be more difficult for some (me) but I will be paying extra attention to my local activities.
Another nice feature of the location of my apt is the hop-skip-and-a-jump it takes to get into the city ("into the city" is SF). It takes abotu a 10 minute walk to ta BART and a 12 minute ride on the BART into the city. It took me a good 10 minutes to figure out how to buy a ticket (to which I managed to make a complete fool of myself in fron tof several people). In this week alone I have been to the city 4 or 5 times for leisurely strolls, Scooter appointments (yes I am in negotiations with Jaun to purchase his 2008 scooter), to all out crazy nights swapping spit with the mexican mafia (i am almost positiive I will be receiving a phone call this week asking me to fly down to mexico--a good kiss goes a long way).
I also have a friend who has a house in Healdsburg, CA in sonoma county. For those of you who are not wine enthusiasts, Sonoma country is a huge producer of wine. I found myself tanked about midday on friday galavanting around the wineries and vineyards, dirnking wine in caves, stopping the car by a grape wine and ripping the fresh grapes off. My friends house is a million dollar ranch overlooking the valley with a gorgeous in ground pool, zen den and a built in hot tub. We forgot our camera that night so no evidence of this place as of now but I will be back. we are planning on heading back to go to the crystal clear lake and camp with the wild boar and dear next week. speaking of pictures, hopefulyl will be loading them soon. features include: san deigo zoo, pictures of the new apt and a model shoot on the beaches of santa barbara (where i want to retire).
To conclude on the non-teaching aspects of life, CA has been everything I have been looking for and more. every day proves itself to be a new adventure.
On teaching, summer school was an absolute blast aside from the constant stress. It wasn't hard. I just needed five more hours in the day to complete everything I needed to do. Anywho, I survived and have never learned so much in a short period of time. My kids were amazing. Constantly testing and pushing the boundaries. we are there to pass their tests. they need us to pass their tests. for more inspiration on teaching, go here: he is a def jam poet. REAL cool. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tpog1_NFd2Q
I taught 8th grade physical science (mostly basic conceptual physics). My kids did everythigng from "sex"ting (sending nude/half nude pics of themselves to others (sylvia, i need a funny text... what do you say..)). it caused huge drama yadda yadda i loved it. its kind of hilarious.
It would have been funny if this happened:
me: What is your favorite holiday?
student: 4/20
me: oh man I got so high last 4/20. iate pot brownies and melted into my seat. it was HILARIOUS. baller times
student: Mr. O lets hit after class
What actually happened:
me: what is your favorite holiday?
student: 4/20 haha
me: I know what that is. thats inappropriate
student: how do u know what that is?
me: i wasn't born yesterday. answer it again.
While playing a game i call the "speed dating game" where I have one group of students moving around completing problems on one side of the desk and another rotating on the opposite inner circle a male student (chad) , when sitting opposite me (yes I play the game as well to check their work) questions: you call this is speed dating game right? answer: yes statement: well mister, no offense but your not really my type. recall: laughter.
It has been an absolute blast teachign summer school, learning a ltitle bit about teaching and the new challenges each day brought.
oh, so i think i am going to start a blog. it will be so much more easy to do then continuously e-mail people over and over again. i will keep you all updated.
Love and miss you all!!! Please come visit!!! we have space in the apartment and Jacob wants as many visitors as possible. Just let me know when your coming so i don't plan on camping or some random adventure that weekend or week (or maybe you'll just have to brave the woods with me (miss mitchell I think this would be a ton of fun for you).
Dan
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