Guilty as charged

While interviewing with Teach for America, I professed great passion for social justice.  I sought the proper balance of humility and pride as I spoke of spending each of my college spring breaks on volunteer trips.  I believed in these ideals as I discussed them, and I hope that I still do.

But the evidence is piling up against me.  I’m living in a poor country, yet I avoid looking too closely at the terrible poverty and suffering that afflict Ecuador.  I’ve hardened myself to the unbelievably dirty street children who want to shine my running shoes or sell me gum.  On the way to work, I intentionally avoid looking at the dilapidated houses on our route.  I keep my nose in a book, preferring to think about the problems of fictional characters than those of the ageless, hunched-over woman peddling fruit between the lanes at streetlights.

I spent hours this weekend reading my students’ “diaries.”  I adore these kids, but their entries often revealed the extent of their privilege.  They eat at Ecuador’s best restaurants.  They call chauffeurs to pick them up from the movies.  They travel to other countries just to see concerts.  I should also mention, however, that some students wrote deeply empathetic, nearly tear-inducing entries about Haiti.  Reading both types of entries, I felt guilty.  Guilty on one hand for being part and parcel to such exclusivity.  And guilty again for being unable to muster such heartfelt, innocent sadness about the tragedy in Haiti.

Luckily, in the midst of these attacks of conscience, I opened the diary of the candy-obsessed student I wrote about last entry.  True to form, he nicknamed his diary “potato” and spent one entry describing the different colored lollipops he won at tennis practice.  He also included a biography on the back, referring to himself as an “Ecuatorian” writer with a “stress full but good life.”  This calmed me down somehow.   It reminded me that, on balance, I’m still doing a good thing by teaching these kids.

Student vs. lollipops, jaguars

Picture a typical 8th grade boy.  Got it?  Now picture him a little young looking, more like a 6th grader really.  He’s got shaggy brown hair that falls in a tangled mess down his forehead.  Usually he has some kind of bright-colored, lollipop-induced stain around his mouth, occasionally spreading to his cheeks.  He lugs around a huge backpack and plops it on his desk each day like Sisyphus finally getting his boulder all the way up the hill.

He’s one of my students, a kid whose likability quotient is surpassed only by his daily sugar intake.  He can’t be more than 90 pounds; I have no idea where all the food goes.  The other day, at 11:00 A.M, he was having a love affair with an ice cream sandwich.  At 11:45, after a five-minute break from class, he returned with a Snickers and a Coke.  At 12:15, while working on a Sparta vs. Athens writing assignment, he unearthed a bag of cereal from his bag and ripped it open like a castaway.  At 12:40, I saw him in the cafeteria.  His tray was loaded down with juice, a heap of rice, a chunk of meat, and a gelatinous piece of cheesecake.  By my count, that’s about 3,000 calories in about two hours.  This didn’t seem to faze him.

Please don’t confuse my tone here.  I really enjoy this student and I just happen to find his quirks hysterical.  A few other quick anecdotes, same student.

-He walked in with a massive paint stain on his right elbow.  I asked him if he got in a fight with a paint can.  He looked down at his elbow and shrugged.  The next day he wore the same stain proudly, having made little or no effort to clean it.

-His pants are grass-stained almost every day.  During lunch, he usually runs around with a candy bar in one hand, using his free limb to tackle people or being tackled himself.  When he goes down, he holds up the candy bar to keep it from hitting the ground when he does.  When I see him after lunch, I often ask him if he was just attacked by a jaguar.  He looks at his tattered clothing, shrugs, and sits down.

-Other students sometimes throw little pieces of candy on the floor just to watch him scramble after it madly.  He’s been known to do this even for a single piece of Nerd candy.  Not a box of Nerds, a single little Nerd sugar globule.

-Every time we review for a test he asks the same question – “What if I don’t study?”  I tell him that’s his choice but that I recommend he study.  “I never study,” he always responds.  He does fine too, usually getting high B’s or low A’s on our tests.

That’s all I’ve got for now, but I may post some short updates for particularly memorable moments.

Picture unrelated - Brothers w/ girlfriends in Banos

The three-quarter mark

I’ve now been back at school for nearly three full weeks, meaning that I’m almost exactly halfway through the teaching year and three-quarters finished with my time in Ecuador.  I often end up quantifying time and various commitments in these mathematical terms.  At this point in the experience, I’ve become somewhat complacent.  I’m less motivated to seek out new adventures – quite content to spend the weekends reading, cooking, watching sports, exercising, grading and ending up at restaurants I already know well.  I like the routine.  But sometimes I feel lazy or unimaginative when there are other colonial churches to visit, bars to frequent, sleepy towns I’ve yet to visit, and mountains to climb (literally).  Around this time last year, a student teacher, Wes, reinvigorated me with his energy and hunger to see as much as he could in his short time here.

And now I’ve met another student teacher, this one sharing my classroom.  In this case, it’s his recommendations (Uncle Tupelo, “Breaking Bad,”) that have been a pleasant surprise.  He’ll begin taking over some lessons next week.  But, he did already catch me making a mistake while I was teaching grammar (sorry dad) so I think he’ll do well in the classroom.  Hopefully his teaching will allow me more time to enjoy the charming idiosyncrasies of some of my students.  The girl trying to raise $5,000 so that she can attend a two-week marine biology camp this summer.  The boy who pours glue on his hands so he can enjoy peeling off the dry flakes for the rest of the class period.  The kid who never knows where we are when reading and so always ends up singing little pieces of Toto and Foreigner songs as “punishment.”  I gloss over all these things during class, because there’s always the feeling of more content to cover, more pages to read, more vocabulary words to define and use.  But, as an observer, I’m hoping to just soak in the feel of the classroom and the students.

On another note, I’ve made a tentative return to running, equipped with a brace on my left knee and band on my right.  Over the past month, I’ve done thousands of repetitions of simple leg lifts to strengthen my inner thigh and hopefully move my patella back to where it belongs.  It’s wonderful to run again and I can only hope that I won’t be back in an orthopedist’s office anytime soon.  According to Christopher McDougall, in his amazing book Born to Run, up to 8 out of 10 runners are sidelined with running-related injuries every year.  That’s a sad, sad statistic.  Even more so when coupled with the irony that McDougall’s book makes me want to run all the time — filled as it is with true-life characters who elevate running to nothing less than a religion.  I don’t ever plan on (or even want to) reach that all-night-running level of discipleship, but I’m thrilled just to be back inside the church.

Going home

Paella foreground, family and friends background

Reunion

After each trip to Colorado, it’s hard not to repeat the same entry upon my return.  I associate being home with specific things, and I seek out a usual set of experiences when I’m there.  Slow breakfasts over The Denver Post, which has been almost completely gutted and filled with bylines from other papers.  Trips to the local recreation center with my family.  Chipotle and Qdoba.  Nuggets games.  Beers and conversations with high school friends at Old Chicago.  Ping-pong games.  Dinners and games with my family.  Trips to Target, Barnes and Noble, The Gap. These were not cornerstone activities for me in high school, with the exception of Chipotle.  But they are much of what time in Colorado has now become.

This trip, however, I had scarce time for the normal errands on my list.  Guests filled our house nearly the whole time, including my friends Shane, Bret and Tara.  Shane lives in China and I hadn’t seen him in more than two years.  As seems a hallmark in any great friendship, we picked up just as easily as if we were relaxing on a lazy Sunday back at USC.  Their visit, and the entire vacation, ended, of course, too quickly.

Returning to Ecuador was less ideal.  A tight connection in Miami meant that my bags missed the plane.  I spent thirty frustrating minutes, already exhausted, climbing over heaps of chaotically piled bags in the Quito airport, searching for mine.  Thankfully, my bags arrived the next day and spared me the humiliation of wearing the very dregs of my wardrobe back to work today.  And it’s the first day back that’s always the hardest; the memory of recreation-filled days still so vivid and alive.  But even today went down smoothly enough, eased by seeing students that I enjoy so much.

Teaching teaching

Officially, our first semester ends tomorrow.  But for all practical purposes it’s already over.  Students’ finals, after seven arduous hours of grading, are all corrected.  I see my classes tomorrow, and then I’ll return to Colorado on Wednesday.  For the next ten days, friends and family will besiege my parents’ home.  My older brother is coming with his wife and two friends.  My uncle will be in town with his wife and two young sons.  I have three friends arriving around New Year’s.  It will be a hectic, animated holiday season.  It hasn’t even started, yet I can already feel it passing too quickly.

When I return in January, I’ll be mentoring a student teacher coming from a U.S university.  I was a bit hesitant to accept the opportunity, mostly because I don’t think my 3.5 years of classroom experience qualify me to give meaningful advice.  During my time at Wilmington, there were always people in my classroom offering well-intentioned criticism and commentary.  School administrators, graduate school mentors, Teach for America program directors, colleagues.  These days it’s mostly just my students and me.  I like the world I share with them.  I enjoy the fast-pace and variety of a day filled with 8^th grade personalities.  I like the jokes that come after having known the kids for a year and a half.  I like the constant interplay between the academic and non-academic.

It will feel strange to have another adult in the room for four months.  Will it make me self-conscious?  With only students around, I’m rarely afraid to embarrass myself and to embrace the goofy side of the job.  As a chaperone at the middle school dance, I danced with less restraint than I ever have around people my own age.  And it will feel equally bizarre when the student teacher takes over and I’m reduced to the role of passive observer behind a desk.  These uncertainties, however, are the exact same reasons that it’s an interesting opportunity.  Come April, I will know much more about my own tendencies as a teacher.  I will be reminded how it feels to be a student, so often relegated to squirming silence while someone drones on in front of you about something you never asked to hear about in the first place.  And hopefully all of us – student teacher, students, and under-qualified mentor teacher – will emerge intact on the other side.

Compression

According to a note attached to my MRI (just $11 here in Ecuador), I’ve been diagnosed with something called syndrome de hiperpresion rotuliana bilateral, or lateral hyperpressure syndrome of the patella.  It may also be called patellar compression syndrome, I’m not entirely sure.  Regardless, most of these words mean little to anyone without an M.D.  My Internet searches mostly yielded abstracts of medical journal articles.  From what I can deduce, my patella is somewhat off track and out of proper alignment.  Most likely, it’ll necessitate a minor surgery.  I’ll know much more after yet another doctor appointment tomorrow afternoon, this time with a knee specialist.

I’m finding the whole thing quite discouraging.  Chasing down information in a language I don’t know perfectly, resting my knee, icing my knee, and waking up early to do strengthening exercises.  And still no clear idea of when I’ll be able to return to running and full athletic activity.

I love running for many reasons.  Foremost among them, however, is the clarity it provides.  So often, as I go about whatever I’m doing, there’s a secondary conversation running through my mind.  Is this the best use of my time?  Is this fun?  Is this productive? That nagging analysis, constantly weighing the benefits of a given activity or moment.  Running blocks out that voice like few other things I’ve found.  And, as I wait out this injury, I’m not too sure where to look to replicate that soothing mental silence.  At times I’ve found it in writing, and maybe I now will again.

Monday morning matador

El Juli dedicating the bull before beginning

This Monday, my students were animatedly discussing Sunday’s bullfight much the way my 8^th grade classmates and I would dissect the Super Bowl on the first Monday of football offseason.  Arguments, re-enactments, digital cameras pulled from pockets to show pictures, frustration for those who hadn’t been there in person and pride and relief for those who had.

I numbered among the live witnesses, though I mostly stayed out of the conversation.  El Juli, a preeminent Spanish fighter, took the sixth bull of the day and the last bull of the nine-day, 54 bull event.  He’d already dispatched his two bulls for the afternoon, graceful and polished but not spectacular.  However, an Ecuadorian fighter had been gored in the wrist and was unable to return for his second bull.

El Juli took complete advantage of the opportunity.  I’ll try to avoid the superlatives, but he seemed to have this bull on an invisible rope.  They were in absolute harmony, and the crowd was enraptured.  Normally, spectators begin to filter out the exits on the sixth bull.  No one moved.  No one spoke, except to whisper unbelieving compliments to those beside them.  The bull earned its freedom for its exceptional performance and bravery.  El Juli earned two ears and a tail, (from a bull killed earlier in the day) the highest possible honor.  The bullfight staff hoisted him on their shoulders to carry him out the exit.  Kids jumped into the ring to snap cell phone photos from the closest possible point.

Outside the ring, we walked past a meager protest crowd, shouting complaints and indictments of our complicity to torture, to murder.  Part of me agrees with them, yes.  But we’d seen something nearly magical in there, something impossibly difficult and beautiful.  And, for the moment, their hoarse voices did nothing to break the spell we were all under.

Raising up

The set up

Injury Updates

Two or three times a week, I check out the injury reports for my fantasy football team.  Next to each player’s name, there’s a link with the most recent updates.  I’ve paid close attention to Cedric Benson’s hip and Brian Westbrook’s concussions.  And it’s a bizarre thing, these injuries becoming commodities, only dimly and distantly associated with an actual human body.  When Michael Jordan returned to play for the Wizards, he received clandestine treatment for knee pain.  He guarded his doctor visits like national security secrets, scared that opponents would try to exploit the injury.  Tom Brady’s knee surgery last year became one of the bigger stories of the year.  Same with Kevin Garnett’s undisclosed knee problems in the playoffs last year.  These joints take on a life of their own, become a story separate from the athlete.  And it must feel strange to have your pain, your recovery, and your ongoing treatment become matters of such intense public interest.

Knee pain has been of particular interest to me recently.  I’ve completed six sessions of physical therapy, submitting my knee to heat, ice, analgesic rub, electrodes, and some sort of hollow tubing around my knees – not entirely sure of the purpose of that one.  Best-case scenario, I’ll make a gradual return to running by late next week.  Worst-case, I’ll try to run and feel the same pain that brought me to physical therapy in the first place.  If that happens, I’ll be back for more tests and more treatment.  Throughout the day, my thoughts turn to my knee.  Often subconsciously, I reach down to feel my knee as if I can understand the mysteries contained there with a few pokes.  Today, while reading the myth of Perseus aloud, one student asked me why I kept shaking out my left leg.  I sidestepped the question, brought us back to Andromeda’s rescue and Perseus’ killing spree with Medusa’s severed head.  These characters certainly had bigger problems than mine, but for a few rare moments there my students were more interested in the content than me.

Three updates

CHIVA

Our ride

 

It’s a bizarre tradition, but Ecuadorians and tourists alike love to pile onto trucks, blare music in the streets, drink heavily, and be driven around with no set destination.  These party buses resemble booze cruises on land, and they’re called “chivas.”

I’ve seen and heard many chivas, but I’d never been aboard one until last weekend.  It feels like a combination of a public bus and a crowded dance club.  Everyone stands up, holds onto a rope with one hand, puts a drink in the other, and tries to dance while on a moving vehicle.  Immediately upon entering the chiva, you receive a plastic cup attached to a string so you can wear it as a necklace.  You also receive a whistle.  Unfortunately, our group proved more whistle-happy than NBA referees, often drowning out the music.  The chiva comes with attendants who both serve drinks and hop out occasionally to guide the truck through particularly narrow streets.  A fun night, certainly.  And it’s almost equally fun to imagine this tradition transplanted to Denver or another U.S city.  Just picture a rickety, wooden truck driving through 16^th Street Mall, thumping with the heavy bass of Ecuadorian chart-topping hits, boozy passengers shouting while leaning out of the sides.

On board

ECUADORIAN HEALTHCARE

Last year, I went the whole year without visiting a doctor.  My health held up, and I avoided having to navigate medical appointments in a foreign country.  But that streak has ended in a big way, mostly due to nagging knee pain.  In the last two weeks, I’ve seen a general practitioner, a specialist, a radiologist, several pharmacists, and a physical therapist.  I have a copy of my own knee x-ray sitting on my bookshelf, and I have a standing appointment for physical therapy for two more weeks.  Unbelievably, ten sessions of knee rehabilitation will cost only $32.  I’m hopeful that I’ll be running again soon.  Nothing serious seems wrong, no structural damage or tearing.  And I’ve been pleasantly surprised with the care I’ve received, both in quality and cost.

BANDILLEROS

El Fandi

 

 

Fiestas de Quito, a ten-day party that spans the entire city, kicked off this weekend.  The main parade marches down our street.  We ate cereal Saturday morning while staring out our window at cheerleaders, parade floats, drummers, and soldiers lining up in formation.  We also attended the bullfight, the first of nine consecutive fights held at noon each day.  It was Miriam’s first bullfight.  She left ambivalent, though she enjoyed parts of it.  I remain captivated by the fights, despite understanding and agreeing with many of the objections.

El Fandi, often ranked in the top five worldwide, was the main attraction.  A knowledgeable fan told me that El Fandi receives between $80,000 – $100,000 for each fight.  He fights nearly 100 times a year.  He’s exceptional with the bandilleras, metal spikes driven into the bull’s neck in the fight’s second act.  Most matadors leave this to other members of their team, but not El Fandi.  He successfully planted two bandilleras with one hand, letting the horns pass just underneath his arm.  And likely those words will mean very little, but I can assure that if you saw it happen your heart would race and your mouth would drop.

The follow through

Brand New, but not always better

Brand New and Say Anything have already provided more than I could reasonably expect from any band.  Each group has a nearly flawless record (Deja Entendu and …. Is a Real Boy, respectively) that cracks my top-ten most-frequently played list and has stayed there for years.  Their most recent efforts, however, are beyond disappointing.

I don’t want to ask artists to simply replicate the same book, the same song, or the same show over and over.  But that can be hard when you’re especially attached to something they’ve done.  I’ve listened to the newest Say Anything only twice and I don’t ever want to hear it again.  They sound like a parody of themselves.  The lyrics are overwrought, too consciously designed for a reaction and for controversy.  The songs lack a melody and all feel a minute longer they actually are.  Were this some random band, I could dismiss them easily.  But I can’t listen to these new songs without being reminded of the old songs, thereby multiplying the inferiority of songs with titles like “Death for my Birthday.”

Brand New is a different case.  They’re still making intriguing music.  Their evolution suggests a desire to continually try new things, rather than water down their music to sell to each new generation of angst-plagued teenagers.  But I’ve simply stopped enjoying their new direction.  The Devil and God are Raging Inside Me contained some standout tracks, but much of it was dark and tuneless.  And their latest, Daisy, seems both joyless and hookless.  “Noro” continually shouts out the refrain, “I’m on my way to Hell.”  And it really feels like you’re being pulled right along with them – the discordant guitar fuzz, the metallic noise of loosening rage and chaos.  Interesting and expressive perhaps, but decidedly unpleasant.

Hard as it is to imagine, there must be others out there who love these albums as fully I love those others.  But for me these 2009 releases served only to highlight the difficulty of making a great record.