All That Glitters

Last week in my General English classes, we did a lesson on metrosexuality.  This lesson was Unit 10 in the workbook I am required to teach out of, and needless to say was among the more interesting topics we've discussed this semester.  After three weeks of skits, presentations and writing assignments about global warming and alternative energies, I think everyone was ready for something a little ... spicier.  Having to interact with the word "sex" in any written or oral form already throws my students into mild hysterics, so I was pretty excited to see what came of this lesson.  After reading and discussing a brief text outlining the definition of metrosexuality and doing some vocabulary and grammar activities, I had my students write and perform short skits with the intention of exploring the definition of the quintessential "metrosexual man."  As I suspected might happen, many of the skits devolved quickly into parodies of queeny gay men, so I wrapped up the class with a serious discussion about the different meanings of the terms metrosexual, heterosexual, homosexual and bisexual, and about the significance of labeling people in general (gotta be responsible about terminology, dontchaknow).  

Wanting to milk this for all it was worth, however, for their short response assignment that week I asked them to write two paragraphs about whether they thought labeling people was a good thing or bad thing (and why?), as well as what label they would make up to describe their own lifestyle.  Obviously this assignment was crafted partially to give them a relevant venue in which to practice their written English skillz (which they get every week), and mostly to provide me with hilarious reading material (which I do not get every week).  Sadly for me, most of my students responded with some variation on the theme "I would label my lifestyle 'casual lifestyle' because I am casual, I just like to have fun."  (It seems my students are leading lives ALMOST as interesting as mine!)  However, there were a few gems scattered among the rest, which I will now share with you:

GENERAL ENGLISH GEMSTONES ROUND TWO

"If I had to make up a label in my own lifestyle, I will label myself is pinky girl, why?  Because as a girl I prefer pink color than other."

"And I think I don't have any label for my own lifestyle, because I'm very usual.  I like to go to the café and chat with my friends.  I'm not really care about style and fashion.  I like to read a book and doing a crazy thing when I got stress."

"If I have to make a label which is indicates my own style, maybe I will choose word 'UnManiac Heterosexual,' because I love opposite gender, but I'm not a maniac."

"Maybe my name's label is funcosexual, it is concise of funny and cool."

Don't you wish you, too, could have a funcosexual lifestyle?  I know I do.  And since I know that now I've piqued your appetites for General English Gemstones, fear not -- I'm giving them another chance to spin straw into gold with their final paper, the topic for which is "My Life in 20 Years."  I can't wait.

Time is Funny

Last Monday, November 16th, marked the day I would have left Spain, if this had been my study-abroad semester in Spain and not my work-abroad year in Indonesia.  That is to say, when I studied abroad in Madrid during the fall of my junior year at Princeton, I left the country 3 months and 14 days after I arrived -- and November 16th was the day that heralded the 3-month-and-14-day mark after I arrived in Indonesia.  That is to say, if this adventure abroad had been intended to last the same amount of time as that other adventure abroad, it would have been over 6 days ago.

What is interesting to me about this personal benchmark is how relative time becomes in the face of it.  Everything that Spain was to me -- all of the books and poems and friends and travels and hunks of cheese and bottles of wine -- happened within a span of time that then seemed so expansive, but now seems so short.  When I left Spain, looking back on everything I had learned and all the ways in which I had changed, I felt as if an entire lifetime had occurred within those three and a half months.  (This became complicated when I returned to Princeton for the spring semester, and couldn't figure out how it was somehow still the 2007-2008 school year.  Surely Europe did not exist in a time warp, and just as many years had passed back here in the United States?)  Now, however, looking back on these past three and half months in Indonesia, I feel like I'm still at the beginning -- or if not the beginning, at least still within sight of the starting line.  I'm still somehow fooling my students into believing I know what I'm doing at the front of the classroom.  My Indonesian is fledgling, at best.  While I'm definitely more skilled at The Art of Crossing the Street than I was in August, I have yet to master it -- a fact of which I, along with half the motorcyclists in Yogya, am more than well aware.

The obvious question thus arises: how can three and a half months both entirely encapsulate one life-changing experience, and constitute only the first few laps of another?  How can this fixed length of time have the ability to be both the whole of something, and just a piece of something else?  How, after living only this long in Spain, could I ever have been ready to leave?

Quite conveniently for the philosophers among you, there exists in Indonesia a concept known as jam karet -- literally, rubber time. Here, time is neither linear nor rigid.  Rather, it stretches and snaps with an elasticity that would make most Americans nervous, and I'm not just talking about the Type A ones.  Conversations initiated with the intention of obtaining one small piece of information can go on for hours; the act of stepping out to run a quick errand will inevitably become a meandering adventure that takes most of the day.  If someone tells you they will do something tomorrow, it might mean they will do it on the day that immediately follows this one, but it could just as easily mean that they will do it on any day that might follow this one at any point in the future.  It could also just as easily mean that they will never do it, ever.

Living in a society where time is likened more accurately to a rubber band than a ruler has the general effect of slowing one down.  If Time isn't in a rush to get on with its day, why should people be in a rush to get on with theirs? They shouldn't, of course -- and in Indonesia, they aren't.  The Art of Slowing Down is one that (like The Art of Crossing the Street) I have been practicing continuously since my arrival in Indonesia, but one particularly noteworthy example occurred earlier this week when, to fill our afternoon off, Luna and I decided to pay a visit to the Affandi Museum.  

Affandi, a famous West Javanese expressionist painter who died in 1990, lived in Yogya in a self-designed Gaudí-esque compound of buildings on the banks of the Gajah Wong river that now functions as a museum to display his paintings.  After touring the museum's three small galleries, admiring the three-dimensional paintings Affandi created by squeezing tubes of paint directly onto the canvas in a style he has acknowledged is "similar to Vincent Van Gogh" (thanks, Wikipedia), and exploring the grounds of Affandi's old digs, Luna and I found ourselves pretty much Affandi-ed out with the whole afternoon still ahead of us. 

What to do?  Seeing that the museum's cafe had a small collection of board games up for grabs, we decided it was time for some Snakes-and-Ladders.  We passed another happy half an hour thus, reliving the golden days climbing up ladders and sliding down snakes while being taught important moral lessons that all children should know, such as if you do something bad (we couldn't understand the Indonesian for this one) you will fall down the body of a snake to the sad world of a gameboard square where you do not have any friends ("Tak punya teman").  Tragic.

After I won the game and received my congratulatory pat on the back, Luna and I found ourselves pretty much Snakes-and-Ladders-ed out with the whole afternoon still still ahead of us.  What to do?  Hearing our tummies beginning to rumble, we decided it was time for some makan siang (lunch) and took our leave of the Affandi museum, heading over to an Acehnese restaurant that Luna knew about for some North Sumatran food.  While we were en route to lunch, it started to rain.  (It should be noted here that, since my last blog, rainy season seems to have arrived in Indonesia.  This means that it more or less monsoons every afternoon, giving me one more reason to arrive at any given location looking like I have recently exited a large body of water -- however, in this case, it is because I actually have.  The large body of water being, of course, the one that begins to fall from the sky everyday between noon and 3PM, and doesn't cease for several hours.)  Needless to say, we arrived at the restaurant a little worse for the wear, but figured we'd have time to dry off while we ate.  While we did indeed dry off (for the most part) while enjoying our duck curry and spicy beef noodles, however, the rain continued, and after finishing our meal Luna and I found ourselves pretty much makan siang-ed out with much of the afternoon, as well as the second half of a monsoon thunderstorm, still (still still) ahead of us.  What to do?  Well, wait.

Waiting for the rain is a phenomenon of jam karet (and of equatorial weather patterns) that might warrant its own blog, so suffice it to say that on our afternoon off, Luna and I made ample use of the rubberiness of time.  (For the record, there was still enough time later that day to sit around in the house for a good long while while, do an hour of yoga, go out to dinner, procure 3 delicious doughnuts from Dunkin Doughnuts, and spend a good 45 minutes singing along to Youtube music videos of Disney classics.)  Such is life in Indonesia.  

However, I'd like to think that there's more to jam karet than just making use of the stretching hours of the afternoon to fit in a game of Snakes-and-Ladders.  If time is flexible, maybe its expansions and contractions aren't just random -- after all, it didn't matter that Luna and I had to sit around for an extra 40 minutes to wait out the rain, because we didn't have anywhere to rush off to.  Maybe, as it turns out, time expands and contracts according to how we view our relationship with it -- maybe we're given exactly as much time as we need.  Or maybe, on the flip side, we unconsciously shape our expectations for our experiences based on the time we have available to us.  If that is the case, then it makes sense that three and a half months in Spain was enough for it to feel complete -- it had to be enough.  Three and a half months never would have been enough for me here, because I knew I could have more (and with jam karet, who even knows how much more).  The whole metaphorical afternoon, it seems, is still (still still still) ahead, which is fine by me.  As long as it includes at least one more game of Snakes-and-Ladders.  Or two.

Pretty, or Perspiring?

Yesterday, after work, I went down to the parking lot to find the following note in Maurice's basket:

(Please note the smiley face and heart followed by a question mark.  So cryptic.  So enticing.)

Now, there are several ways to interpret this correspondence from an apparently secret admirer.  The mature, realistic portion of my brain immediately recognized the note as a cute joke, and, after administering a swift kick in the pants to the moony, 13-year-old portion of my brain that dared for one hot second to wonder if the note could be serious, went to work narrowing the possibilities for who the author might be.  (I should clarify that the reason this note could never ever in a million years be serious is that I ride Maurice to school every day in 85ºF heat with 900% humidity, which means I show up to the office appearing to have recently exited a large body of water.  Hot, but not sexy.  Not sexy at all.)  The mature, realistic portion of my brain soon identified three main suspects:

1. Queeny, one of my housemates who also teaches at Atma Jaya.

2. Mabel, my other housemate who also teaches at Atma Jaya.

3. One of my students.

By evening, it had been confirmed that neither Queeny nor Mabel were guilty of this crime of passion.  (The handwriting on the note was even compared to a lesson plan of Mabel's, just for verification purposes.)  I was starting to get excited at the prospect that one of my students might have a secret crush on me (because, after all, who doesn't want to be secretly crushed on by their students?) but then I remembered Talcon, a friend of mine from my Indonesian class, who would both be able to recognize Maurice as my bicycle, and be adorable enough to write me said note.  Plus, when I think about it, it actually does kind of look like her handwriting, which I've been sitting next to in class for four hours a day, five days a week for the past two months.  I haven't yet confronted her about it, and although it seems pretty likely that she is indeed the mysterious author, until I know for sure I am choosing to sustain the fantasy that one of my students might think I am the prettiest teacher at Atma Jaya.  I mean, when the way I generally present myself to the Indonesians I interact with on a daily basis includes panting, dripping, soaking wet hair and sweat stains the size of the Bali Sea, I'm going to take advantage of my ignorance, embrace all possibilities, and choose to see the glass as half full (of ice water).  Can you blame me?

Turtles, Tattoos, and the Joys of Teaching

Last Friday, in the spirit of the idea that learning a new language should be a culturally immersive experience, my school threw a Halloween party.  Halloween is not traditionally celebrated in Indonesia, obviously, but everyone figured this would be a great excuse to get some kids to practice their English while wearing face paint and trying not to step on coconut jack-o'-lanterns.  The "party" was actually an English competition, for which students were invited to write original ghost stories and perform them, in full costume, before a panel of native English speaking judges -- including, of course, yours truly.  It was a very enjoyable evening on the whole, as any evening spent observing Indonesian college students dressed up in white sheets and fake blood running around screaming "IT IS GHOST! AHHH!" while one's own colleagues, dressed all in black, giggle on the sidelines in full white face make-up should be.

While I had been plugging the "Goshy Skits Competition" hard in all of my classes over the preceding few weeks, only one out of the twelve groups who performed were made up of students of mine.   (Also, I never quite figured out how the misspelling of "ghosty" as "goshy" made it all the way from the initial draft of the flier to the ten-foot banner hung behind the stage ... but hey, who's counting?)  Clearly this was the Dream Team, however, as became apparent once the two other judges and I tallied up our scores at the end of the competition to identify the winning group as ... my students.  (And before you skeptics start wondering if I stacked the cards, let me be quite clear: this group received the highest number of points from both me and one of the other judges, and the second highest number of points from the third judge.  So when we added it all up -- well, you can do the math.)  Recognizing that it might look a little weird if my own students received first place, I briefly considered suggesting to my fellow judges that we dismiss the numeric score and award them second place instead, but then I figured -- screw that, they earned it.  It's not my fault if I have the best damn students in the whole damn school, now is it?

NOT stacking the cards turned out to the be right choice.  After the winners were announced and the prizes were awarded and the lights came up and everyone felt they could finally rub their eyes without worry of mussing their face paint, I went over to my students to congratulate them, and found that they were positively beaming.  They were giddy and golden and falling all over themselves trying to express to me how excited they were to have won first place, how much of a long shot they had considered it to be.  One of the girls even had tears in her eyes.  It was like they'd just won an Olympic gold medal, and suddenly this haphazard and handmade language competition in an old conference room on the third floor of a little university building in Indonesia became a huge deal, the winning of which was something to be seriously proud of, and something to remember for a long time.  As I posed for the requisite photos-with-the-teacher, it was all I could do to hold my own tears in check.  Jeez LOUISE these kids are great.

This sentiment was confirmed tenfold this past Monday, when, a few minutes before our General English class was due to start, three of these students came in to the classroom carrying a black plastic bag and informed me that, "Miss Fiona, we have a present for you!"  Aw, a thank-you present.  Could this get any more adorable?  Actually, it could.  I opened the bag and proceeded to (literally) shriek with delight.  Turtles.  Two tiny turtles in a little tiny turtle tank.  Actually, it just did.

The turtles, it seems obvious, are a reference to my tortoise shell tattoo, which has been a continuous source of intrigue for my students over these first few months of teaching.  (I made sure to wear a long-sleeve shirt to the first meeting of each of my classes -- gotta establish the teacher-student dynamic, dontchaknow -- but noticed that for the first few classes after I started wearing my sleeves rolled up, I could literally trace some of my students' eye movements as matched exactly the movement of my right forearm.  Hilarious.)  I can't remember if I've mentioned to these particular students the meaning behind my tattoo and why the desert tortoise, specifically (but also turtles in general) are my favorite animal, but either way, it was among the more sweet and thoughtful gifts I've ever received. I love my students.  I love my students.  I love my students.

The gift of a house pet, however, is a gift that comes with much responsibility, and after giving the issue some serious thought, I realized that I pretty much have my hands full caring for just one form of animal life (i.e. my own) and that at this point I'm not sure I could really take on two more.  (The sight of these little guys in their little tank also unsettles me and makes me vaguely sad, but that is neither here nor there.)  Anyway, it took me exactly twenty-four hours to find the turtles a new home -- my housemate Queeny, who teaches Chinese at an elementary school, is going to bring them to her kids to be their class pets.  Adorable.  And while it makes me kind of sad to see my turtles go, I know that what I appreciate most about having received them is the meaningful gesture from my students, and that's the part I plan to hold on to -- I don't need to keep two little animals in a cage to remind me of that.  Besides, there's a classroom full of seven-year-olds who will be wanting their very first communal reptiles.

What is really special to me about turtles/tortoises -- and the idea that is behind my tattoo -- is the concept of home. The concept of carrying one's home on one's back is very sacred to me, and is, in my view, something to aspire to. To carry your home with you wherever you go means that you will always BE at home.  And while I don't yet feel that Indonesia is home -- and, realistically, may not ever get to that point -- I do recognize and embrace that it is my home for now, because I am here.  By virtue of being where I am, in other words, in a certain way, I'm home.  At least, that's how I'm choosing to look at it.

And also, for the record, I have the best damn students in the whole damn school.