Tid Bits for Turkey Day

Warning: This blog entry is a series of random events that have occurred as of late. Or, things that would never happen in the States.

To begin: the other night I was sitting on my living room couch, talking to a friend after a hard days work. Suddenly, like a trail of black dust blowing past, I see a large rat silently scurry across my floor, coming from the Master bedroom headed towards its apparent refuge under my refrigerator. I didn’t scream, I just pulled my feet up under myself and waited for the “Rassie” (Rat + Lassie, named by my friend Cappy due to its polite nature and intelligence at having avoided thus far the poison I’d placed for it) to return to the place from whence it came. My constant exposure to cockroaches, ants, and flying insects must have dulled my fear of critters over these past three months.

Today I was teaching a makeup class for my Drama students outdoors. The breeze was just right and the sun shone bright and nourishing. One of those days where I wonder to myself: “Wait, what month is it? November? Where am I?” I’m giving instructions to my class for a group project when a large, gorgeous black and white spotted butterfly lands directly on my left hand, which was formerly gesticulating to make a point. My whole body stopped, looked, and smiled at the stunning creature. My students echoed an “Awwwww, Miss! So cute!” as I stared, dumbly transfixed by the sheer joy of that moment. Then, just as nonchalantly, the butterfly wandered off. A.Mazing.

Later, I’m at my desk reading a 20 year old girl’s journal during a tutoring session and notice that she used the term “youngsters” and “youths” a few times each. Being quite "youthful" and naive herself, I had to chuckle at the word choice.

On to even more unrelated topics: the other day I was asked to attend a meeting. Some sort of Indonesian Secretariat was going to visit my University to monitor the “Native” teachers currently employed at BU from other countries. At the initial meeting with the Rector’s Assistant to discuss this upcoming visit, the Japanese and Korean lecturers show up to also talk about what will happen the next day when the government officials come to ensure the international agreements between our bosses and Brawijaya are up-to-date and kosher. Having never met before, we introduce ourselves, and the Japanese instructor looks at me and goes, “So, how many classes do you teach?” I replied, “Four”. He burst out laughing for what seemed like five minutes. “Four? Really? What a waste of resources!! Ah ha ha ha!” I did not think this was particularly funny. I replied, somewhat reluctantly, that I also privately tutor my writing students 6 hours a week, and have other responsibilities outside of the classroom (and that my contract limits my teaching time to 12 hours per week in order to make room for cultural activities and outside speaking engagements). I then ask him, “How many do you teach?” He shrugs and pretends to be cavalier, “Oh, 12 or 14 maybe”. I inquired as to how that’s even possible, and he says, “Well, that’s what I’m planning to ask the Monitors tomorrow. Ah ha ha ha!” In that moment, I’m quite thankful I hail from a country where sanity and “me time” are priorities.

The next day the meeting with these said “officials” (two women about my age) goes well, albeit the 45 minutes I spent sitting there while they all spoke Bahasa (which I still don’t) and then turned to me and said (in perfect English), “We already know about your program, and your documents are up to date. All we want to know is if you teach private lessons outside of the classroom?” I replied: “My contract states I cannot, therefore, no, I don’t.” They smiled, “That’s the answer we wanted to hear. Thank you.” Why I had to sit there for almost an hour to answer that one question, I don’t know. That’s Indo for you...efficiency is not their forte.

To switch gears again: while riding to school this week, I’ve been passing temporary holding pens housing multiple goats. These goats are being gathered and in preparation for Eidul-Adha, the Feast of Sacrifice. On Friday the 27th, all of these goats will be slaughtered to symbolize the sacrifice of Abraham’s son Ismael. One third of the meat from each goat will be donated to the homeless (the other two thirds typically go to family and friends of the person responsible for the slaughter). Every time I drive past the poor creatures, I want to run towards them, throw open the gates, and shout for them to run free. Now, I know I’m not a vegetarian, but I try to stay away from more exotic meat like veal. It’s wonderful that homeless individuals will not have to worry about where to find food this weekend, however, I cannot imagine the amount of blood that will flow two days from today. Right after Thanksgiving. Which I will miss for the first time in 31 years. Ouch. I’d much rather be on my Grandmother’s farm with my Aunt, cousin, the llama, chickens, puppies and a turkey...

And finally, last week, I almost had a roommate. I was pulled into the Dean’s office Monday afternoon after just returning from a weekend in Central Java with the other Fellows, when I was informed that a visiting lecturer from Australia (she’s Indonesian but received her PhD in Oz) was returning to BU for three months and was going to move in with me. That day. I was asked to hand over my house keys to make copies, and was told that I would have to move my clothes out of the ONE closet in the house and move my personal papers from the ONE desk to a different location as soon as possible. Stunned to say the least, I asked the Dean if RELO (“Regional Location Officer”, aka, my boss) knew about this, and she replied that no, they did not, but if I wanted to call them and inform them of this change, I could. I walked out of her office stunned at the complete and utter professional disrespect that was just shown to me, and called my boss’s assistant in Jakarta. She assured me that she would look into this right away, and apologized for the very un-Indonesian manner in which this situation was handled. For the next 24 hours my counterpart, my co-teachers, and my friends went to the Dean on my behalf and explained that when it says, “private accommodation” in my contract, it means I ought to live alone. Apparently, I was told, the Dean chuckled and responded, “She has a key to her bedroom, that’s private enough. Besides, that house is too large for one woman to be living in by herself”. When I heard this, my claws came out. I’ve been living independently for 13 years, and when I’ve had roommates, I’ve chosen them. They have not been plopped down into my house by an outsider who knows diddly squat about me or my history, completely out of the blue, with no warning whatsoever.

Thankfully, my boss’s assistant in Jakarta, Dian, is a rock star and solved this issue by the following afternoon. Because the Dean did not sign my contract (in fact, I learned later, refused to) and because the house I live in belongs to the Rector of the University, she technically has no right to “assign” me roommates (especially not ones 25 years my senior). Her “misunderstanding” of the term private was egregious, and a formal complaint was filed against her with the Department of Cultural Affairs. I was informed, by the Rector himself (a very kind and generous man) that his “extra” house was to be used by me and me alone for the duration of my contract, and that he was sorry that I was put in such a position. I thanked him profusely.

The copied set of “my” house keys were eventually returned to me, four days later, by the Rector’s assistant, only after the Dean approached me and told me she wanted to “destroy” them, to which I informed her that my counterpart should actually have them in case of an emergency, to which she told me she had to “check with the Rector” before she could agree to “not destroying them” because they “should never have been made in the first place”. Precisely.

Seriously... Only in Indo...

Temple of my Familiar

Two months ago, had you told me I’d be doing the Cha Cha with a Indonesian man in his fifties while his ten year old son circled us on his scooter, I would have suggested you see a doctor. Lo and behold, yours truly is learning to ballroom dance. And cook. As I type this I’m enjoying a meal of grilled eggplant, onions, green beans, and chicken breast, soaked in lemon, extra virgin olive oil, oregano and garlic (while drinking a San Miguel and listening to Billy Idol). Earlier today I showed my “slow” Writing class the “Yes We Can” music video/Obama speech as an example of persuasive writing, and they walked out of class singing “We want change! I want change! Yes. We. Can!” To top it all off, I rode to my dance instructor’s house this evening without getting lost. Didn’t have to turn around once. That is the first time this has happened in two weeks. It’s been a darn good day.

My previous hours since my last entry have been rough. Hence, my lack of updates. I simply refuse to blog if I’m going to be a Debbie Downer, thus, my waiting patiently for a day like today to shine on me. Flashback to last week...

The education system here is set up like a construction site without a blue print. You have an idea in your head, but no standards, albeit some extra wood and maybe a few nails. Perhaps, there are a few people willing to build something, when they get around to it. In the end, you might get a structure that stands upright, with a roof, and perhaps a door, but it don’t keep ya dry.

I teach three sections of Writing 4 (and one section of Drama 2). That’s the highest level of writing offered for undergraduates studying English. Our task is the argumentative essay. Each class averages 30 students. Each class meets ONCE a week for 100 minutes. Each class usually has only one teacher, who also has 7 other classes, over 200 students, a family, and administrative responsibilities (that is not an exaggeration). There is no one on one interaction or tutoring unless the student finds the teacher, on a good day, and takes 10 minutes of their time...which means a student’s chances at improving are slim to none.

Now consider that Writing 1, 2, and 3 are prerequisites for not only Writing 4, but also for most other classes students needed to graduate on time. Which means, if they are held back in writing, they are held back from most other required courses. There are no standards for grading: each teacher has their own rules. There is no set curriculum, and there are no text books (but plenty of photocopies...which the STUDENTS have to copy themselves...when they can afford to). ‘You tube’ is banned on campus. The wireless network at my University will not allow you to see it. Back in the States, I used you tube weekly as a teaching tool, and had text books galore, for free, from the publishers. All supplemental “handouts” were made by me, for free, and given to the students in class. Not here. I try to make copies for my students and the other teachers click their tongues at me and tell me I’ll go broke if I keep doing favors the kiddies. I tell them, where I come from, students are broke. They shake their heads and remind me in Indonesia students live with their parents and get monthly allowances. Right. Silly me.

The obvious result of this “system” is that 50% of my students cannot write their way out of a paper bag. Nor can they express themselves to me verbally. Nor have they EVER written creatively. I’ve been tutoring students (54 to be exact) for about a month now and some of them even plagiarized their JOURNAL entries. They did not understand that journals are about freedom of expression (ie: there are no rules aside from stick to the topic given). What? No thesis statements?? But Teacher, I don’t get it...

After realizing quite quickly there was a problem here, I met with my three team teachers and explained that I would need their help. It’s physically impossible for me to meet the needs of my entire class with such varied degrees of ability, thus, they were going to have to give up a few hours a week to asses the students who are below level and work with me on finding some sort of solution. The first meeting went well. The subsequent meetings have been me sitting at my desk, waiting for the other teachers to show up, and then watching them walk out of our meeting when their cell phones rang, not to mention them asking me what exactly it was I wanted them to “do” with the students once they made tutoring appointments with them. Insert me banging my head against a map of Indonesia here.

However, there are diamonds hidden in every dark cave. I had a student come to me last week who is one of my rare exceptions. Her writing is brilliant; her ideas are critical, accurate, and well crafted. Since she’s stellar, I told her she could move ahead of the pack, and so she came to me with a journal about schizophrenia. It started out with her talking about the film “A Beautiful Mind”, and moved to her admitting she is a schizophrenic. She then proceeded to advise her reader on how one can be a motivated, positive, and healthy mentally ill individual living and thriving in “normal” society. This woman is Moslem (like 85% of my students), and as she read her words out loud to me, her jillbob (the head covering) clung tightly around her face, neck, and hair. It was all I could do to not weep with elation and relief. FINALLY! Someone direct, shrewd, honest, and brave. Someone who is willing to stand alone, to stare normality in the face and tell it how very boring it can be.

I cannot wait to see her again.

This leads to me follow up on my Halloween Party. It happened, finally. My rookie mistake (as Momma Goose would say) was to expect anyone to show up during the first hour it was scheduled. I’d forgotten that Friday is a very holy day, and Indonesians must eat rice before they can eat chocolate, and so, I sat alone, with the Tech guy, for 45 minutes...feeling quite small and neglected by my students who had told me they were coming dressed up like Balinese monsters. One by one, a little head peeked around the door frame, giggles filled the hallway, and I see my students clustered in a smiling bunch. I beaconed for them to enter, and they shook their heads fiercely, leaving me quite puzzled. I hadn’t even started the scary movie, what on earth was their problem? The one student in the room with me at that time informed me that these girls could not actually come inside the room without their friends next to them. They move in a group. Always. And that’s how it began. People waiting in the hallway, coming in with another girl’s hand attached to their forearm, bowing slightly to me as they passed. Hence my flood gates of affection towards my schizophrenic dare devil willing to brake the mold.

I suppose I have my hands full (and now I know why they sent me to this island). But I’m learning to ride my motorbike to the store, the coffee shop, my friend’s houses, the gym...alone. In traffic. On streets with no name or names I cannot possibly pronounce while passing ojeks and oncots (public modes of transport). Maps are useless to me as I need to see the places where I turn as opposed to memorize road names, so I'm learning, week by week, how to get myself where I need to go. It feels good to grow out of the toddler stage of culture shock and enter a level of autonomy...

I did visit some temples this weekend from the 10th and 14th centuries, and bathed in outdoor pools of crystal clear water before meditating with my Hindu friends over incense inside dark, cool enclosures against well worn stones smoothed over by centuries of hope and prayer. I’ve met some lovely people and now know I’m not the only white woman in Malang. I bought patio furniture so that I may eat my meals under the orange moon, or with the morning birds and my cup of instant coffee (surprisingly tasty).

I’m adjusting. Colors are no longer striking dissonant chords in my brain, nor am I simply walking to and from but not actually going anywhere. I am here now. And with that presence comes a letting go of my former life, of the past in general. Which is why, as I sat in that first temple this weekend and placed my hands palm up on bent knees, my eyes spilled over with a mixture of grief and gratitude.