Spring Break! Phase I

Dating a college student comes with a unique set of complications. While other women get hurt and huffy when their menfolk work 'til 5:30 or 6 (primarily because dinner's gotten cold), my Mr Right is in class until 10:30 in the evening at least twice a week. Other days, he's home before noon but barricaded into a corner by Statics & Structures, The Physics of Soil Composition, and fifteen volumes of Basic Real Estate Law. Leaving work at "the office" is a laughable impossibility. When he does make an honest attempt to get everything done at the library, he ends up in the library until midnight. If he brings it home, he spends all day Saturday hunched over the my Mac typing papers or doing the infamous CAPA problems. In short, it's not really the boozin' good time that I remember college being. This isn't exactly Boyfriend's fault. Given that he's completing six years worth of study in four years worth of all-nighters, he does a pretty remarkable job of managing a cumbersome load of responsibility, but he does stray precariously close to the All-Work-No-Play Zone on a regular basis.

Just when I think I can't take it anymore, he gets his Spring Break.



Spring break is a time-honored festival for high school and college students alike. They shake off the winter doldrums, go to Cancun, and spend a week throwing back shots of tequila diet Cokes*, listening to Jimmy Buffet, and getting sun-burned.

At least, that's my idea of a proper spring break, especially when it's still snowing in Michigan at the end of March. (Curse you, Global Climate Change! shaking fist at ozone layer)

Of course, Boyfriend's idea of a proper spring break is 180° different from mine. He insists on spending the week on the side of a snow-covered mountain, with brief but frequent breaks to play poker and drink brewskies. Nothing about this strikes me as "springy", but I go along anyway because I'm a pretty respectable poker player and I really do love to ski.



The fine art of downhill skiing is a new addition to my little Bag'o'Tricks. I went for the first time last year, but I haven't gotten in much practice this season due to the lingering effects of The Sickness. In the last couple of months, I've finally been feeling 100% and hearing the sweetly tempting call of The Slopes.

Skiing is the perfect sport because in it one finds the delicate balance between ecstasy and terror. On the one hand, you zip downhill with the wind in your hair and the snow crunching under your skis, all your being focused on carving your sassy way down the mountain. On the other hand, you could be killed or maimed at any moment. For a rookie skier, every run presents at least a dozen obstacles that might lend themselves to your untimely demise. If I had known how awesome it was, I wouldn't have waited so long to try it.

It's my duty to report that on this particular trip, I conquered my first Double Black Diamond -- a steep, narrow run lined by trees and littered with jumps (both excellent candidates for bringing Death and/or Maiming). I am told that I have chutzpah. Fortunately, Boyfriend and I both managed to cheat Fate and return home with all appendages attached, brains safely stashed in skulls, and only a few bumps and bruises.



After his brief sabbatical into the Land of the Living, Boyfriend is now buried back under his pile of books, and I'm packing my bags again. Next week, I head to Florida for my actual spring break, and I'm looking forward to some much-needed face time with Mr Sunshine.


*Part of my continuing campaign to be a positive role model for the impressionable youth. How am I doing?

The Daily Grind

Every job has its perks and its quirks. In college, I managed a little coffee bar and had the delightful privilege -- nay, the duty -- of starting my day with a free 20 oz. latte. Every day. This was important because as I sat at the register drinking my cup of joe, I demonstrated to the passing populous that I believed in the quality of our product. It also served as the "test run" to insure that the machine was working properly and that the grind was up to a Goldie Lockean standard of excellence.

On the other hand, my coworkers insisted on watching Dawson's Creek from 10 to 12 every morning. The only thing about that show that I ever enjoyed was the time that Jen's dying wish was for Joey to make up her frickin' mind!!!



*ahem*

You don't often see those moments of raw honesty in teen dramas.

Speaking of teen drama...

(Wasn't that a good segue? I knew you'd like it.)



Teaching high school is a bit like being in a very bad spin-off series of Dawson, but with fewer moments of inane personal reflection and more hip-hop. Regardless of the official curriculum, every group of students is an entirely fresh experience, so while I should have only two preps (that's teacher talk for two different courses), I actually have four. This year, I am inadvertently teaching the following courses:

Writing in the Hood -- In Writing in the Hood, we explore what it means to string two or more sentences together coherently in an attempt to convince the tax-payers that American public education is not an utter charade. Please do not be offended when I tell you that "You be trippin'" is not grammatically correct. I do respect your culture; it's just that you're about to graduate, and I want you to be able to get a job that doesn't involve a funny little hat.

Just Trying to Make it to May -- The students in the Just Trying to Make it to May course skim dutifully over the surface of many interesting pieces of literature. We can't be expected to remember to do work outside of class, but in class we will not protest to doing copious amounts of reading and grammar exercises. Occasionally a fiery discussion of some kind will spring up, reassuring the instructor that all pulses are still pumping. We're not really here to learn, but we don't mind if it happens accidentally.

Modern Women for a Matriarchal Utopia -- Extra credit assignments in this course consist of such lofty aspirations as "Create World Peace in Seven Steps or Fewer" and "Become the Supreme Ruler of the Earth Using only the Internet and Four AA Batteries". The name is not deceiving -- this group of students is, by some fluke of scheduling, 100% female. I estimate that the probability of one of these young women actually becoming a world leader is about 7:1 for. Not only does this course cover the required federal, state, and College Board material for both eleventh grade English and AP Language & Comp, but discussions very often branch into the realms of philosophy, international politics, religion, and art, as well as the finer points of linguistics. For example, the other day a student quite astutely observed that the word "of" sounds like "uv". I responded with a somewhat brief explanation of the concept of voiced and unvoiced sounds (in this case, fricatives). This blossomed resplendently into an intricate exploration of the evolution of language in general and English in specific, including -- but by no means limited to -- Indo-European roots, the Battle of Hastings, and why we shouldn't be so quick to judge those who say "aks" instead of "ask". In a normal classroom of 16/17 year olds, I'd have lost them at "fricative" (Hu hu! She said "frick!"), but my Modern Women were on the edges of their seats, all attention riveted on the discussion, every voice chiming in to confirm that they really did a) understand and b) care.

and

I Think I'm Smart & My Mom Says I'm Special -- The title of this fourth and final course really says it all. This course was originally supposed to have the same material as the Modern Women course, but as I said, no two groups of students are the same. The major flaw in the I Think I'm Smart & My Mom Says I'm Special class is that sometimes there just isn't enough Smart and Special to go around. When Student X receives some Smart in the form of the instructor saying "Yes, X, that's correct," Students A-W universally resent Student X, feel it necessary to defame and slander Student X behind his/her back, and may eventually make Student X feel so uncomfortable that he/she refuses to speak up in class again. It's important to note that Student X is not one particular student -- simply whichever student has answered the question correctly. The equal distribution of Special is also cause for malice and unrest, but this is aimed particularly at students who have long-standing relationships with me, the instructor and Highly-Qualified Distributor of Smart and Special. These unwitting victims include students who had me last year, students who participate in a club that I advise, students whose brothers or sisters are friends of mine, and my second-cousin-once-removed who simply can't help coming from a long line of literary geniuses.

With a day as colorful as this, who would want any other job?




Okay, I do kind of miss the free coffee...

And the Oscar for Psychic Powers Goes to...

One of my odd flukes is that I don't own a TV. I have absolutely no place in my life for one, as I find most television shows utterly useless and my Macca is more than sufficient for watching an occasional film and keeping up with the news. This lack of TV typically ensures that I'm never so much as grazed by the avant garde of mainstream pop culture, and all the things I do watch, read, or listen to come from only two sources: the recommendations of trusted colleagues and the raw pull of my own splangkna.

About a week and a half ago, I was wandering aimlessly through a video store balancing precariously on the edge of despair when I saw a cover that had a guy with a guitar on it. I generally like guys with guitars, so I picked it up, skimmed the back, and decided to rent it. I'd never heard of "Once" before that, but I fell instantly in love with it and started recommending it to everybody I knew. None of them had heard of it either. I also recommended it to you and posted my favorite song -- "Falling Slowly" -- right here on my blog. (See previous entry.)

Well, folks, I'm proud to tell you that only moments ago, "Falling Slowly" was awarded this year's Oscar for Best Original Song. Did I call that or what?

How to Date American Guys: A User's Guide

The footloose Citizen of the World faces many confounding conundrums when circumnavigating the globe and delving into other cultures. Among the most famous are the language barriers, the variances in decorum, and of course, the gender politics.

Of the many grooves I had to get back into when I returned to the States, the groove of American guys was one of the trickiest. They aren't like all the Australians I'd been bumming about with or the Brit I'd been dating, and they certainly weren't like the Japanese guys I was constantly surrounded by at work and at home.

You see, Australian guys are incredibly easy to get along with. The secret is playing along with whatever harebrained schemes they concoct. They want to go drink and smoke pot down by the river like vagabonds? Great idea! They want to spend the first half of a night watching Bruce Lee flicks and the second half kung fu-ing each other’s asses? Wonderful! They want to freak out Japanese people by jogging up the “down” escalators? Brilliant! They want to run blindly through rows of speeding cars? Well, what are we waiting for?!

All an Australian really wants to know is that you’re down with his shenanigans and that he can be himself without fear of criticism from you. As an added bonus, hanging with Aussies will release your own inhibitions as well. You’ll probably find you rather enjoy running through traffic.


Aussie D getting stabbed by one of his mates in a bar. "There's always shenanigans."

A Brit is a more complicated animal. For a British guy – especially a well-educated, cultured British guy – wit is like currency. If you don’t appreciate life's little ironies, you might as well expect him to buy you diamonds with his belly button lint. You are doomed before you've even begun. However, if you are blessed with a natural knack for the drier brand of banter, you’ll probably find that most British guys are f*cking hilarious (or "focking hilarious" if they're from the north of England). All you need do to encourage them is throw a clever quip back, and you’ll be getting on like a proverbial house on fire in no time.

The only advice I've ever gotten about dating Japanese guys is: "Don't date Japanese guys." Students used to tell me this pretty frequently, but even on this side of the pond, I still hear it. Just a few days ago, I was talking to my friend K-ko about her sarari man husband, and she shook her and said, "Never marry a Japanese man." This seems a bit harsh, but the problem with Japanese husbands is that between the long hours they put in at work and the long nights they put in at the izakaya, you never actually see them. It's sort of how I imagine dating a ninja would be, but with less stealth and more abandonment issues.



Before I moved to Japan, I'd only really dated two guys: a soldier and a musician. The Soldier was an idiot and The Musician, like most musicians, was married to The Band. Dating a musician is easy. Simply acknowledge the supremacy of The Band. All things revolve around said Band, at least in so far as The Band or its members don't infringe on the blessed sanctity of The Music, from which all hope and happiness doth spring.

I was under the näive impression that this was particular to my American Musician, but having recently seen the film "Once", I realize it's actually true of musicians worldwide. The scenes at the recording studio gave me particularly strong déjà vu with just a hint of nostalgia.

"Once" is my recommended film of the month, by the way. Here's a little taste:




The first date that I went on after returning from Japan was with a guy called Mike. I consider Mike an "average" American, so he makes a good case study for our purposes here. Mike is typical of many American guys in the following ways:

1. He has been out of the country a handful of times and considers himself "well-traveled," even though all the places he's been are tourist traps and he was completely hammered or a mile high 93% of the time he was there.
   
   
2. He has an unhealthy obsession with the NFL. He has long ago passed out of the realm of Team Spirit and into the kingdom of Rabid Fanaticism, where Peyton Manning reigns supreme and pisses Bud Lite down onto the fawning masses. (I don't really like football, by the way.)
   
   
3. He is NOT funny. The jokes he tells aren't funny. The movies he watches aren't funny. The only thing funny about him is the way he constantly nods like a bobble-head doll, and that is the bad kind of funny. The bobble-head thing is unique to Mike, but the un-funnyness is like a plague in American guys.
   
   
4. He speaks in The Tone. This is not a characteristic of most American guys, but it's reasonably common. The Tone is that particular voice used by people who think they are smarter than you. Now, I've never been stupid, so I don't know how it feels to be spoken to this way by someone who's actually smarter than I am. Maybe it doesn't bother stupid people. I can tell you that it bothers smart people a lot. What's more, it's normally accompanied by a quarrelsome streak a mile wide. That amounts to a guy spewing the most ignorant, close-minded rubbish you've ever heard, then insisting he's merely playing the "Devil's Advocate" and telling you that you need a better sense of humor. Ha!

In short, Mike is kind of a douchebag.



After one dinner with Mike, I was ready to pack my bags and leave the country again. Then I met MJ.

He was a different type of American guy.

MJ was a Roles-Royce of a boyfriend. He looked like a rock star all the time, he had top-shelf taste in everything from films to footwear, and there was an actual orchestra playing in my head every time he kissed me. Okay, sometimes just a string quartet, but still, impressive. He was also intelligent and interesting to talk to. When we met, he'd just returned from backpacking in Europe, and we spent our first several hours together pouring over photographs.



Of course, he was not without his quirks. He was physically incapable of showering in fewer than forty-five minutes. Most men I know shower, shave, and dress in under fifteen, so at first I was a bit put off by MJ's uncommonly involved grooming rituals. Then he stepped out of the shower, and I realized: some things are worth waiting for.

But MJ's most dominant quirk by far was his profound and unfettered love of cars. While this love manifest itself primarily in the care and keeping of his own car, it also extended into anything else with wheels and an engine. Especially anything shiny with wheels and an engine. On one occasion, he took me on a "date" to the NAIAS, and he spent about five hours explaining to me how the whole evolution of mankind has come to glorious fruition in the flawless machine that is the automobile. I'm not much of a car person myself, so I was pretty skeptical going in, but as you can see from the photos, the whole show is designed to make cars look as sexy as possible. Combine that with MJ's impassioned commentary, and it ended up being a pretty memorable day after all.



After MJ moved to LA, I spent time with several different American guys and began to pick up on certain patterns among them. Douchebags of the Mikean variety often give them a bad rap, but I've found that on the whole, American guys are pretty cool. They're fairly laid back and easy to get along with, though you may occasionally find yourself suckered into watching "Dances with Wolves" or a Nicholas Cage movie. Generally, they seem to drink less -- not less often, but in smaller quantities -- leading to the delightful change of having a date who's coherent when you get home from the bar/club/concert/auto exhibition.

The key to an American guy is finding the One Thing in his life that he cares about more than anything else. If it's something you hate (football, for example), then kiss him on the head and walk away because otherwise you'll spend the rest of your relationship arguing with him about it. He is just not the guy for you. However, if his One Thing is something you like or something you could learn to like (perhaps cars), then make his day by asking him about it. Watch in amazement as he lights up like the Hindenburg. You'll soon discover that while they may seem low-key, American guys are intense, wildly passionate, and once settled into something they care about, deeply devoted to its pursuit.

El Tacuacin

Inquiring minds often ask me if I was frightened by the prospect of moving to Japan by myself. I had never been there before and spoke the language about as well as your average house cat ties a shoelace. I admit I was overwhelmed -- and for the first few days, I suspected I'd made a pretty terrible mistake -- but I would never describe myself as "afraid" of any of it. Only somewhat jittery, and that was as much excitement as nerves.

The reason for this uncommon boldness probably stems from the myriad of bizarre travel ordeals I had been through long before I went to Asia. Occasionally, when my high school students are being particularly well-behaved, I regale them with the tales of my exotic adventures. Yesterday, we got to talking about the summer I spent working at an orphanage in Honduras when I was seventeen. That inspired me to flip through some of my old journals -- an enlightening experience, to say the least.

Officially, this blog is centered on issues of culture between the US and Japan, but actually, it's about my journey as a Citizen of the World, and therefore an excerpt from one of my first major stays abroad seems appropriate. Enjoy!

***********************

Honduras, 2000

Carlitos has a pet chicken that he named Santa Teresa Marquez de la Mer. He calls her “la Santa” for short. When he first adopted her out of the henhouse, Sister Yolanda protested, but since la Santa continues laying eggs without fail, Sister has given up scolding Carlitos and resorted to simply shooing him out of the buildings whenever he has the dusty bird in his arms.

Early one afternoon, Sister Yoyo shoos Carlitos and la Santa out of the dining hall, and he wanders over to where I am sitting in the shade of the building, bouncing Moises on my lap. The day is so sweltering that Moises has long since wiggled out of his rompers. I chirrup the "William Tell Overture" while I bob him up and down. He throws his head back and laughs the toothless laugh of a child in pure ecstacy.

The heat makes Carlitos sluggish and fussy, and he plops down next to me with a dramatic sigh. La Santa squawks and flits out of his grasp, but once free, she settles herself down in the dust by his feet. My leg is growing sore anyway, so I plop my little vaquero onto the ground next to me, pick up a stray chip of blue chalk, and start scratching on the sidewalk. Carlitos perks up instantly at the sign of his favorite game and eagerly snatches the chalk when I offer it. Underneath where I’ve written, “¿Como estas, Carlitos?” he slowly etches a frowning face with a v-shaped furrowed brow. He’s aching to tell me why, so I ask obligingly. In his quick childish Spanish he complains that la Santa is hot but Sister Yoyo won’t let him bring her inside where it’s cool. ¡Ay, que lastima! I sympathize. Poor Santa.

At that moment, a shout comes up from the back corner of the yard where some of the men are tearing down a rickety old shed. “Ah! Mira!” “What was that?!” They call to each other in mingled Spanish and English, and there is a general commotion around one corner of the shed as they gather to peer into a gaping hole in the wall. For several months now, Sister Yolanda had been pulling her hair out over a pest of some kind – she suspected a rat – that had been breaking into the orphanage pantry and stealing food. Apparently, the men had found the culprit’s lair. From across the yard, we can hear an argument rising. Carlitos is halfway to the shed before I’ve collected Moises and gotten up to follow.

“That’s the biggest frickin’ rat I’ve ever seen!”

“It’s not a rat!”

“It looked like a rat! A huge one!”

“Mira, just because you’re in Honduras doesn’t mean there are giant rats. It’s not a rat. It’s a tacuacin.” This insight comes from Melena, who has stepped back from the others to survey the scene with a general air of calm rationality.

“Mele, what’s a tacuacin?” I join in as I approach them, bending down to snag Carlitos by the hand before he gets too close to the tangle of shattered boards and rusted nails.

Mele screws her mouth into a little knot while she searches for the word. “I think it’s a... possum?” She turns to me and quickly describes the creature in Spanish. It has a long, bare tail like a rat, but it’s bigger, it has a long nose, and it climbs trees. I assure her that “possum” is the right word. Mele is from Acapulco, so whatever language she is speaking has that little Mexican lilt to it, like she’s reciting something she learned deep in her childhood. This is how I learned to speak Spanish – in the singsong rhythms of Mexico – and I understand Mele at least ten times more easily than any of the Hondurans we’ve been working with.

The men fold their arms over their chests solemnly and begin contemplating aloud what’s to be done with the thing. Josh picks up a thick stick and starts sharpening the tip on a nearby cinderblock. Manuel picks up a hammer. The others arm themselves with similar implements, and I attempt in vain to convince Carlitos that we should go back to our chalk-drawing game. He stands stalwart, hypnotized by the way the men gather their weapons and plot battle in low voices. I can’t persuade him to look away. Moises is gurgling to himself and fiddling happily with a curl of my hair, oblivious to the impending violence.

There is a smash of splintering wood, shouting, and in a moment, the beast is hemmed in along the garden wall and the struggle ends quickly.

Daniel skewers the corpse with a makeshift spear and moves to toss it into the great stone incinerator with the rest of the scrap from the dilapidated shed. Suddenly, he starts and stares awestruck at the thing. Through the bloodied fur, a tiny pink nose makes its way apprehensively into the world. It’s followed by a miniscule pair of eyes, still covered in a thin, pink veil. Two ears, two delicate front feet, and the infant creature tumbles from its mother. Before it hits the ground, another nose emerges, and another, and another. A half dozen of them are in a wriggling pile and more on the way when Daniel blinks, looks at the incinerator, and tosses the whole gruesome spectacle in. His fellows hesitate only a moment before they go after los tacuacinitos on the ground with sticks, hammers, boots. Melena looks ill and turns away.

The bit of blue chalk is lying forgotten on the ground next to Carlitos. He watches the men with his mouth hanging open slightly, his bottom lip trembling. He doesn’t resist when I gather him up with my free arm and begin walking back toward the house. Before we get there, the ordeal is over and the men are back to work on the shed, but Carlitos’s eyes remain riveted on the flames in the incinerator.

I set him down on the sidewalk where his hen is still sitting patiently. Moises is quiet and frowns down at Carlitos, understanding that he has missed something but unsure what. Without taking his eyes off the red glow on the other side of the yard, Carlitos scoops la Santa Teresa Marquez de la Mer up into his lap. He stares silently for a moment longer, then drops his face into her dusty feathers, and weeps.